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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14701-0.txt b/14701-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..356219a --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2597 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14701 *** + +[Transcriber's Note: In this text, the spelling _racoon_ is used +consistently instead of _raccoon_. I have kept this and any other unusual +spellings, retaining the character of the original.] + + + + +Roof and Meadow + +By Dallas Lore Sharp + +Author of "A Watcher in the Woods" + +With Illustrations By Bruce Horsfall + +SCHOOL EDITION + + + +[Illustration] + +NEW YORK + +The Century Co. + +1911 + + + + +Copyright, 1903, 1904, by THE CENTURY CO. + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. + +Copyright, 1903, by THE CHAPPLE PUBLISHING CO. (Ltd.). + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by W.W. POTTER CO. (Ltd.). + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by PERRY MASON COMPANY + +_Published April, 1904._ + + + + +TO + +MY MOTHER + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF 1 +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK 19 +THREE SERMONS 31 +THE MARSH 45 +CALICO AND THE KITTENS 77 +THE SPARROW ROOST 91 +"MUX" 107 +RACOON CREEK 121 +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE 147 + + + + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF + + + + +[Illustration] + +ROOF AND MEADOW + + + + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF + + +I laid down my book and listened. It was only the choking gurgle of a +broken rain-pipe outside: then it was the ripple and swish of a meadow +stream. To make out the voices of redwings and marsh-wrens in the rasping +notes of the city sparrows behind the shutter required much more +imagination. But I did it. I wanted to hear, and the splash of the water +helped me. + +The sounds of wind and water are the same everywhere. Here at the heart of +the city I can forget the tarry pebbles and painted tin whenever my +rain-pipes are flooded. I can never be wholly shut away from the open +country and the trees so long as the winds draw hard down the alley past +my window. + +But I have more than a window and a broken rain-pipe. Along with my five +flights goes a piece of roof, flat, with a wooden floor, a fence, and a +million acres of sky. I couldn't possibly use another acre of sky, except +along the eastern horizon, where the top floors of some twelve-story +buildings intercept the dawn. + +With such a roof and such a sky, when I must, I can, with effort, get well +out of the city. I have never fished nor botanized here, but I have been +a-birding many times. + + Stone walls do not a prison make, + +nor city streets a cage--if one have a roof. + +A roof is not an ideal spot for bird study. I would hardly, out of +preference, have chosen this with its soot and its battlement of gaseous +chimney-pots, even though it is a university roof with the great gilded +dome of a state house shining down upon it. One whose feet have always +been in the soil does not take kindly to tar and tin. But anything open to +the sky is open to some of the birds, for the paths of many of the +migrants lie close along the clouds. + +Other birds than the passing migrants, however, sometimes come within +range of my look-out. The year around there are English sparrows and +pigeons; and all through the summer scarcely an evening passes when a few +chimney-swallows are not in sight. + +With the infinite number and variety of chimneys hedging me in, I +naturally expected to find the sky alive with swallows. Indeed, I thought +that some of the twenty-six pots at the corners of my roof would be +inhabited by the birds. Not so. While I can nearly always find a pair of +swallows in the air, they are surprisingly scarce, and, so far as I know, +they rarely build in the heart of the city. There are more canaries in my +block than chimney-swallows in all my sky. + +The swallows are not urban birds. The gas, the smoke, the shrieking +ventilators, and the ceaseless sullen roar of the city are hardly to their +liking. Perhaps the flies and gnats which they feed upon cannot live in +the air above the roofs. The swallows want a sleepy old town with big +thunderful chimneys, where there are wide fields and a patch of quiet +water. + +Much more numerous than the swallows are the night-hawks. My roof, in +fact, is the best place I have ever found to study their feeding habits. +These that flit through my smoky dusk may not make city nests, though the +finding of such nests would not surprise me. Of course a night-hawk's +_nest_, here or anywhere else, would surprise me; for like her cousin, the +whippoorwill, she never builds a nest, but stops in the grass, the gravel, +the leaves, or on a bare rock, deposits her eggs without even scratching +aside the sticks and stones that may share the bed, and in three days is +brooding them--brooding the stones too. + +It is likely that some of my hawks nest on the buildings in the +neighborhood. Night-hawks' eggs have occasionally been found among the +pebbles of city roofs. The high, flat house-tops are so quiet and remote, +so far away from the noisy life in the narrow streets below, that the +birds make their nests here as if in a world apart. The twelve-and +fifteen-story buildings are as so many deserted mountain heads to them. + +None of the birds build on my roof, however. But from early spring they +haunt the region so constantly that their families, if they have families +at all, must be somewhere in the vicinity. Should I see them like this +about a field or thicket in the country it would certainly mean a nest. + +The sparrows themselves do not seem more at home here than do these +night-hawks. One evening, after a sultry July day, a wild wind-storm burst +over the city. The sun was low, glaring through a narrow rift between the +hill-crests and the clouds that spread green and heavy across the sky. I +could see the lower fringes of the clouds working and writhing in the +wind, but not a sound or a breath was in the air about me. Around me over +my roof flew the night-hawks. They were crying peevishly and skimming +close to the chimneys, not rising, as usual, to any height. + +Suddenly the storm broke. The rain fell as if something had given way +overhead. The wind tore across the stubble of roofs and spires; and +through the wind, the rain, and the rolling clouds shot a weird, +yellow-green sunlight. + +I had never seen a storm like it. Nor had the night-hawks. They seemed to +be terrified, and left the sky immediately. One of them, alighting on the +roof across the street, and creeping into the lee of a chimney, huddled +there in sight of me until the wind was spent and a natural sunlight +flooded the world of roofs and domes and spires. + +Then they were all awing once more, hawking for supper. Along with the +hawking they got in a great deal of play, doing their tumbling and +cloud-coasting over the roofs just as they do above the fields. + +Mounting by easy stages of half a dozen rapid strokes, catching flies by +the way, and crying _peent-peent_, the acrobat climbs until I look a mere +lump on the roof; then ceasing his whimpering _peent_, he turns on bowed +wings and falls--shoots roofward with fearful speed. The chimneys! Quick! + +Quick he is. Just short of the roofs the taut wings flash a reverse, there +is a lightning swoop, a startling hollow wind-sound, and the rushing bird +is beating skyward again, hawking deliberately as before, and uttering +again his peevish nasal cry. + +This single note, the only call he has besides a few squeaks, is far from +a song; farther still is the empty-barrel-bung-hole sound made by the air +in the rushing wings as the bird swoops in his fall. The night-hawk, alias +"bull-bat," does not sing. What a name bull-bat would be for a singing +bird! But a "voice" was never intended for the creature. Voice, beak, +legs, head--everything but wings and maw was sacrificed for a mouth. What +a mouth! The bird can almost swallow himself. Such a cleft in the head +could never mean a song; it could never be utilized for anything but a +fly-trap. + +We have use for fly-traps. We need some birds just to sit around, look +pretty, and warble. We will pay them for it in cherries or in whatever +they ask. But there is also a great need for birds that kill insects. And +first among these are the night-hawks. They seem to have been designed for +this sole purpose. Their end is to kill insects. They are more like +machines than any other birds I know. The enormous mouth feeds an enormous +stomach, and this, like a fire-box, makes the power that works the +enormous wings. From a single maw have been taken eighteen hundred winged +ants, to say nothing of the smaller fry that could not be identified and +counted. + +But if he never caught an ant, never one of the fifth-story mosquitos that +live and bite till Christmas, how greatly still my sky would need him! His +flight is song enough. His cry and eery thunder are the very voice of the +summer twilight to me. And as I watch him coasting in the evening dusk, +that twilight often falls--over the roofs, as it used to fall for me over +the fields and the quiet hollow woods. + +There is always an English sparrow on my roof--which does not particularly +commend the roof to bird-lovers, I know. I often wish the sparrow an +entirely different bird, but I never wish him entirely away from the roof. +When there is no other defense for him, I fall back upon his being a +bird. Any kind of a bird in the city! Any but a parrot. + +A pair of sparrows nest regularly in an eaves-trough, so close to the roof +that I can overhear their family talk. Round, loquacious, familiar Cock +Sparrow is a family man--so entirely a family man as to be nothing else at +all. He is a success, too. It does me good to see him build. He tore the +old nest all away in the early winter, so as to be ready. There came a +warm springish day in February, and he began. A blizzard stopped him, but +with the melting of the snow he went to work again, completing the nest by +the middle of March. + +He built for a big family, and he had it. Not "it" indeed, but _them_; for +there were three batches of from six to ten youngsters each during the +course of the season. He also did a father's share of work with the +children. I think he hated hatching them. He would settle upon the roof +above the nest, and chirp in a crabbed, imposed-upon tone until his wife +came out. As she flew briskly away, he would look disconsolately around at +the bright busy world, ruffle his feathers, scold to himself, and then +crawl dutifully in upon the eggs. + +I knew how he felt. It is not in a cock sparrow to enjoy hatching eggs. I +respected him; for though he grumbled, as any normal husband might, still +he was "drinking fair" with Mrs. Sparrow. He built and brooded and foraged +for his family, if not as sweetly, yet as faithfully, as his wife. He +deserved his blessed abundance of children. + +Is he songless, sooty, uninteresting, vulgar? Not if you live on a roof. +He may be all of this, a pest even, in the country. But upon my roof, for +weeks at a stretch, his is the only bird voice I hear. Throughout the +spring, and far into the summer, I watch the domestic affairs in the +eaves-trough. During the winter, at nightfall, I see little bands and +flurries of birds scudding over and dropping behind the high buildings to +the east. They are sparrows on the way to their roost in the elms of an +old mid-city burial-ground. + +I not infrequently spy a hawk soaring calmly far away above the roof. Not +only the small ones, like the sharp-shinned, but also the larger, wilder +species come, and winding up close to the clouds, circle and circle there, +trying apparently to see some meaning in the maze of moving, intersecting +lines of dots below yonder in the cracks of that smoking, rumbling blur. + +In the spring, from the trees of the Common, which are close, but, except +for the crown of one noble English elm, are shut away from me, I hear an +occasional robin and Baltimore oriole. Very rarely a woodpecker will go +over. The great northern shrike is a frequent winter visitor, but by ill +chance I have not been up when he has called at the roof. + +One of these fiend birds haunts a small court only a block away, which is +inclosed in a high board fence, topped with nails. He likes the court +because of these nails. They are sharp; they will stick clean through the +body of a sparrow. Sometimes the fiend has a dozen sparrows run through +with them, leaving the impaled bodies to flutter in the wind and finally +fall away. + +In sight from my roof are three tiny patches of the harbor; sometimes a +fourth, when the big red-funneled liner is gone from her slip. Down to +the water of the harbor in flocks from the north come other winter +visitors, the herring and black-backed gulls. Often during the winter I +find them in my sky. + +One day they will cross silently over the city in a long straggling line. +Again they will fly low, wheeling and screaming, their wild sea-voices +shrill with the sound of storm. If it is thick and gray overhead, the +snow-white bodies of the herring-gulls toss in the wind above the roofs +like patches of foam. I hear the sea--the wind, the surf, the wild, fierce +tumult of the shore--whenever the white gulls sail screaming into my +winter sky. + +I have never lived under a wider reach of sky than that above my roof. It +offers a clear, straight, six-minute course to the swiftest wedge of wild +geese. Spring and autumn the geese and ducks go over, and their passage is +the most thrilling event in all my bird calendar. + +It is because the ducks fly high and silent that I see them so rarely. +They are always a surprise. You look, and there against the dull sky they +move, strange dark forms that set your blood leaping. But I never see a +string of them winging over that I do not think of a huge thousand-legger +crawling the clouds. + +My glimpses of the geese are largely chance, too. Several times, through +the open window by my table, I have heard the faint, far-off honking, and +have hurried to the roof in time to watch the travelers disappear. One +spring day I was upon the roof when a large belated flock came over, +headed north. It was the 20th of April, and the morning had broken very +warm. I could see that the geese were hot and tired. They were barely +clearing the church spires. On they came, their wedge wide and straggling, +until almost over me, when something happened. The gander in the lead +faltered and swerved, the wedge lines wavered, the flock rushed together +in confusion, wheeled, dropped, then broke apart, and honking wildly, +turned back toward the bay. + +It was instant and complete demoralization. A stronger gander, I think, +could have led the wedge unbroken over the city to some neighboring pond, +where the weakest of the stragglers, however, must have fallen from sheer +exhaustion. + +Scaling lower and lower across the roofs, the flock had reached the +center of the city and had driven suddenly into the roar and confusion of +the streets. Weary from the heat, they were dismayed at the noise, their +leader faltered, and, at a stroke, the great flying wedge went to pieces. + +There is nothing in the life of birds quite so stirring to the imagination +as their migration: the sight of gathering swallows, the sudden appearance +of strange warblers, the call of passing plovers--all are suggestive of +instincts, movements, and highways that are unseen, unaccountable, and +full of mystery. Little wonder that the most thrilling poem ever written +to a bird begins: + + Whither, midst falling dew, + While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, + Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue + Thy solitary way? + +The question, the mystery in that "certain flight" I never felt so vividly +as from my roof. Here I have often heard the reed-birds and the water-fowl +passing. Sometimes I have heard them going over in the dark. One night I +remember particularly, the sky and the air were so clear and the geese so +high in the blue. + +Over the fields and wide silent marshes such passing is strange enough. +But here I stood above a sleeping city of men, and far above me, so far +that I could only hear them, holding their northward way through the +starlit sky, they passed--whither? and how guided? Was the shining dome of +the State House a beacon? Did they mark the light at Marblehead? + + + + +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK + + ... the chylde may Rue that ys vn-born, it wos the mor pitte. + + +There was murder in my heart. The woodchuck knew it. He never had had a +thought before, but he had one now. It came hard and heavily, yet it +arrived in time; and it was not a slow thought for a woodchuck, +either--just a trifle better, indeed, than my own. + +This was the first time I had caught the woodchuck away from his hole. He +had left his old burrow in the huckleberry hillside, and dug a new hole +under one of my young peach-trees. I had made no objection to his +huckleberry hole. He used to come down the hillside and waddle into the +orchard in broad day, free to do and go as he pleased; but not since he +began to dig under the peach-tree. + +I discovered this new hole when it was only a foot deep, and promptly +filled it with stones. The next morning the stones were out and the cavity +two feet deeper. I filled it up again, driving a large squarish piece of +rock into the mouth, tight, certainly stopping all further work, as I +thought. + +There are woodchucks that you can discourage and there are those that you +can't. Three days later the piece of rock and the stones were piled about +the butt of the tree and covered with fresh earth, while the hole ran in +out of sight, with the woodchuck, apparently, at the bottom of it. + +I had tried shutting him out, now I would try shutting him in. It was +cruel--it would have been to anything but a woodchuck; I was ashamed of +myself for doing it, and went back the following day, really hoping to +find the burrow open. + +Never again would I worry over an imprisoned woodchuck; but then I should +never again try to destroy a woodchuck by walling up his hole, any more +than Br'er Fox would try to punish the rabbit by slinging him a second +time into the brier-patch. + +The burrow was wide open. I had stuffed and rammed the rocks into it, and +buried deep in its mouth the body of another woodchuck that my neighbor's +dog had killed. All was cleared away. The deceased relative was +gone--where and how I know not; the stones were scattered on the farther +side of the tree, and the passage neatly swept of all loose sand and +pebbles. + +Clearly the woodchuck had come to stay. I meant that he should move. I +could get him into a steel trap, for his wits are not abiding; they come +only on occasion. Woodchuck lives too much in the ground and too +constantly beside his own door to grow very wise. He can always be +trapped. So can any one's enemy. You can always murder. But no gentleman +strikes from behind. I hate the steel trap. I have set my last one. They +would be bitter peaches on that tree if they cost the woodchuck what I +have seen more than one woodchuck suffer in the horrible jaws of such a +trap. + +But is it not perfectly legitimate and gentlemanly to shoot such a +woodchuck to save one's peaches? Certainly. So I got the gun and +waited--and waited--and waited. Did you ever wait with a gun until a +woodchuck came out of his hole? I never did. A woodchuck has just sense +enough to go into his hole--and stay in. + +There were too many woodchucks about and my days were too precious for me +to spend any considerable part of my summer watching with a gun for this +one. Besides, I have been known to fire and miss a woodchuck, anyway. + +So I gave up the gun. It was while thinking what I could do next that I +came down the row of young peach-trees and spied the woodchuck out in the +orchard, fifty yards away from his hole. He spied me at the same instant, +and rose upon his haunches. + +At last we were face to face. The time had come. It would be a fight to +the finish; and a fair fight, too, for all that I had about me in the way +of weapons was a pair of heavy, knee-high hunting-boots, that I had put +on against the dew of the early morning. All my thought and energy, all my +hope, centered immediately in those boots. + +The woodchuck kept his thoughts in his head. Into his heels he put what +speed he had; and little as that was, it counted, pieced out with the +head-work. + +Back in my college days I ran a two-mile race--the greatest race of the +day, the judges said--and just at the tape lost two gold medals and the +glory of a new intercollegiate record because I didn't use my head. Two of +us out of twenty finished, and we finished together, the other fellow +twisting and falling forward, breaking the string with his side, while I, +pace for pace with him--didn't think. + +For a moment the woodchuck and I stood motionless, he studying the +situation. I was at the very mouth of his burrow. It was coming to sure +death for him to attempt to get in. Yet it was sure death if he did not +get in, for I should run him down. + +Had you been that woodchuck, gentle reader, I wonder if you would have +taken account of the thick-strewn stones behind you, the dense tangle of +dewberry-vines off on your left, the heavy boots of your enemy and his +unthinking rage? + +I was vastly mistaken in that woodchuck. A blanker, flabbier face never +looked into mine. Only the sudden appearance of death could have brought +the trace of intelligence across it that I caught as the creature dropped +on all fours and began to wabble straight away from me over the area of +rough, loose stones. + +With a jump and a yell I was after him, making five yards to his one. He +tumbled along the best he could, and, to my great surprise, directly away +from his hole. It was steep downhill. I should land upon him in half a +dozen bounds more. + +On we went, reckless of the uneven ground, momentum increasing with every +jump, until, accurately calculating his speed and the changing distance +between us, I rose with a mighty leap, sailed into the air and came +down--just an inch too far ahead--on a round stone, turned my ankle, and +went sprawling over the woodchuck in a heap. + +The woodchuck spilled himself from under me, slid short about, and +tumbled off for home by way of the dewberry-patch. + +He had made a good start before I was righted and again in motion. Now it +was steep, very steep, uphill--which did not seem to matter much to the +woodchuck, but made a great difference to me. Then, too, I had counted on +a simple, straightaway dash, and had not saved myself for this lap and +climbing home-stretch. + +Still I was gaining,--more slowly this time,--with chances yet good of +overtaking him short of the hole, when, in the thick of the +dewberry-vines, I tripped, lunged forward three or four stumbling strides, +and saw the woodchuck turn sharp to the right in a bee-line for his +burrow. + +I wheeled, jumped, cut after him, caught him on the toe of my boot, and +lifting him, plopped him smoothly, softly into his hole. + +It was gently done. And so beautifully! The whole feat had something of +the poetic accuracy of an astronomical calculation. And the perfectly +lovely dive I helped him make home! + +I sat down upon his mound of earth to get myself together and to enjoy it +all. What a woodchuck! Perhaps he never could do the trick again; but, +then, he won't need to. All the murder was gone from my heart. He had +beaten the boots. He had beaten them so neatly, so absolutely, that simple +decency compelled me then and there to turn over that Crawford peach-tree, +root and stem, to the woodchuck, his heirs and assigns forever. + +By way of celebration he has thrown out nearly a cart-load of sand from +somewhere beneath the tree, deepening and enlarging his home. My Swedish +neighbor, viewing the hole recently, exclaimed: "Dose vuudshuck, I t'ink +him kill dem dree!" Perhaps so. As yet, however, the tree grows on without +a sign of hurt. + +But suppose the tree does die? Well, there is no certainty of its bearing +good fruit. There was once a peddler of trees, a pious man and a Quaker, +who made a mistake, selling the wrong tree. Besides, there are other trees +in the orchard; and, if necessary, I can buy peaches. + +Yes, but what if other woodchucks should seek other roof-trees in the +peach row? They won't. There are no fashions, no such emulations, +out-of-doors. Because one woodchuck moves from huckleberries to a +peach-tree is no sign that all the woodchucks on the hillside are going to +forsake the huckleberries with him. Only humans are silly enough for that. + +If the woodchucks should come, all of them, it would be extremely +interesting--an event worth many peaches. + + + + +THREE SERMONS + + + + +[Illustration] + +THREE SERMONS + + +I + + Thou shalt not preach. + +The woods were as empty as some great empty house; they were hollow and +silent and somber. I stood looking in among the leafless trees, heavy in +spirit at the quiet and gloom, when close by my side spoke a tiny voice. I +started, so suddenly, so unexpectedly it broke into the wide December +silence, so far it echoed through the empty forest halls. + +"What!" I exclaimed, turning in my tracks and addressing a small +brown-leafed beech. "What! little Hyla, are you still out? You! with a +snow-storm brewing and St. Nick due here to-morrow night?" And then from +within the bush, or on it, or under it, or over it, came an answer, _Peep, +peep, peep!_ small and shrill, dropping into the silence of the woods and +stirring it as three small pebbles might drop into the middle of a wide +sleeping pond. + +It was one of those gray, heavy days of the early winter--one of the +vacant, spiritless days of portent that wait hushed and numb before a +coming storm. Not a crow, nor a jay, nor a chickadee had heart enough to +cheep. But little Hyla, the tree-frog, was nothing daunted. Since the last +week in February, throughout the spring and the noisy summer on till this +dreary time, he had been cheerfully, continuously piping. This was his +last call. + +_Peep, peep, peep!_ he piped in February; _Peep, peep, peep!_ in August; +_Peep, peep, peep!_ in December. But did he? + +"He did just that," replies the scientist, "and that only." + +"Not at all," I answer. + +"What authority have you?" he asks. "You are not scientific. You are +merely a dreaming, fooling hanger-on to the fields and woods; one of those +who are forever hearing more than they hear, and seeing more than they +see. We scientists hear with our ears, see with our eyes, feel with our +fingers, and understand with our brains--" + +"Just so, just so," I interrupt, "and you are a worthy but often a pretty +stupid set. Little Hyla in February, August, and December cries _Peep, +peep, peep!_ to you. But his cry to me in February is _Spring, spring, +spring!_ And in December--it depends; for I cannot see with my eyes alone, +nor hear with my ears, nor feel with my fingers only. You can, and so +could Peter Bell. To-day I saw and heard and felt the world all gray and +hushed and shrouded; and little Hyla, speaking out of the silence and +death, called _Cheer, cheer, cheer!_" + + +II + +It is not because the gate is strait and the way narrow that so few get +into the kingdom of the Out-of-Doors. The gate is wide and the way is +broad. The difficulty is that most persons go in too fast. + +If I were asked what virtue, above all others, one must possess in order +to be shown the mysteries of the kingdom of earth and sky, I should say, +there are several; I should not know which to name first. There are, +however, two virtues very essential and very hard to acquire, namely, the +ability to keep quiet and to stand still. + +Last summer a fox in two days took fifteen of my chickens. I saw the +rascal in broad day come down the hill to the chicken-yard. I greatly +enjoy the sight of a wild fox; but fifteen chickens a sight was too high a +price. So I got the gun and chased about the woods half the summer for +another glimpse of the sinner's red hide. I saw him one Sunday as we were +driving into the wood road from church; but never a week-day sight for all +my chasing. + +Along in the early autumn I got home one evening shortly after sundown. I +had left several cocks of hay spread out in the little meadow, and though +it was already pretty damp, I took the fork, went down, and cocked it up. + +Returning, I climbed by the narrow, winding path through the pines, out +into the corner of my pasture. It was a bright moonlight night, and +leaning back upon the short-handled fork, I stopped in the shadow of the +pines to look out over the softly lighted field. + +Off in the woods a mile away sounded the deep, mellow tones of two +foxhounds. Day and night all summer long I had heard them, and all summer +long I had hurried to this knoll and to that for a shot. But the fox +always took the other knoll. + +The echoing cries of the dogs through the silent woods were musical. Soon +they sounded sharp and clear--the hounds were crossing an open stretch +leading down to the meadow behind me. As I leaned, listening, I heard near +by a low, uneasy murmuring from a covey of quails sleeping in the brush +beside the path, and before I had time to think what it meant, a fox +trotted up the path I had just climbed, and halted in the edge of the +shadows directly at my feet. + +I stood as stiff as a post. He sniffed at my dew-wet boots, backed away, +and looked me over curiously. I could have touched him with my fork. Then +he sat down with just his silver-tipped brush in the silver moonlight, to +study me in earnest. + +The loud baying of the hounds was coming nearer. How often I had heard it, +and, in spite of my lost chickens, how often I had exclaimed, "Poor little +tired fox!" But here sat "poor little tired fox" with his tongue in his +head, calmly wondering what kind of stump he had run up against this time. + +I could only dimly see his eyes, but his whole body said: "I can't make it +out, for it doesn't move. But so long as it doesn't move I sha'n't be +scared." Then he trotted to this side and to that for a better wind, +somewhat afraid, but much more curious. + +His time was up, however. The dogs were yelping across the meadow on his +warm trail. Giving me a last unsatisfied look, he dropped down the path, +directly toward the dogs, and sprang lightly off into the thicket. + +The din of their own voices must have deafened the dogs, or they would +have heard him. Round and round they circled, giving the fox ample time +for the study of another "stump" before they discovered that he had +doubled down the path, and still longer time before they crossed the wide +scentless space of his side jump and once more fastened upon his trail. + + +III + +Back in my knickerbocker days I once went off on a Sunday-school picnic, +and soon, replete with "copenhagen," I sauntered into the woods alone in +quest of less cloying sport. I had not gone far when I picked up a dainty +little ribbon-snake, and having no bag or box along, I rolled him up in my +handkerchief, and journeyed on with the wiggling reptile safely caged on +top of my head under my tight-fitting hat. + +After a time I began to feel a peculiar movement under the hat, not +exactly the crawling of a normal snake, but more like that of a snake with +legs. Those were the days when all my soul was bent on the discovery of a +new species--of anything; when the whole of life meant a journey to the +Academy of Natural Sciences with something to be named. For just an +instant flashed the hope that I had found an uncursed snake, one of the +original ones that went on legs. I reached for the hat, bent over, and +pulled it off, and, lo! not a walking snake. Just an ordinary snake, but +with it a live wood-frog! + +This, at least, was interesting, the only real piece of magic I have ever +done. Into my hat had gone only a live snake, now I brought forth the +snake and a live frog. This was a snake to conjure with; so I tied him up +again and finally got him home. + +The next Sunday the minister preached a temperance sermon, in which he +said some dreadful things about snakes. The creatures do seem in some +dark, horrible way to lurk in the dregs of strong drink: but the minister +was not discriminating; he was too fierce and sweeping, saying, among +other things, that there was a universal human hatred for snakes, and that +one of the chief purposes of the human heel was to bruise their scaly +heads. + +I was not born of my Quaker mother to share this "universal human hatred +for snakes"; but I did get from her a wild dislike for sweeping, general +statements. After the sermon I ventured to tell the preacher that there +was an exception to this "universal" rule; that all snakes were not adders +and serpents, but some were just innocent snakes, and that I had a +collection of tame ones which I wished he would come out to see. + +He looked astonished, skeptical, then pained. It was during the days, I +think, of my "probation," and into his anxious heart had come the thought, +Was I "running well"? But he dismissed the doubt and promised to walk over +in the morning. + +His interest amazed me. But, then, preachers quite commonly are different +on Monday. As we went from cage to cage, he said he had read how +boa-constrictors eat, and wouldn't I show him how these snakes eat? + +We had come to the cage of the little ribbon-snake from the picnic grove, +and had arrived just in time to catch him crawling away out of a hole that +he had worked in the rusty mosquito-netting wire of the cover. I caught +him, put him back, and placed a brickbat over the hole. + +I knew that this snake was hungry, because he had had nothing to eat for +nearly a week, and the frog which appeared so mysteriously with him in my +hat was the dinner that he had given up that day of his capture in his +effort to escape. + +The minister looked on without a tremor. I took off the brick that he +might see the better. The snake was very long and small around and the +toad, which I had given him, was very short and big around, so that when +it was all over there was a bunch in the middle of the snake comparable to +the lump a prime watermelon would make in the middle of a small boy if +swallowed whole. + +While we were still watching, the snake, having comfortably (for a snake) +breakfasted, saw the hole uncovered and stuck out his head. We made no +move. Slowly, cautiously, with his eye upon us, he glided out, up to the +big bunch of breakfast in his middle. This stuck. Frantically he squirmed, +whirled, and lashed about, but in vain. He could not pull through. He had +eaten too much. + +There was just one thing for him to do if he would be free: give up the +breakfast of toad (which is much better fare according to snake standards +than pottage according to ours), as he had given up the dinner of frog. +Would he sell his birthright? + +Perhaps a snake cannot calculate; perhaps he knows no conflict of +emotions. Yet something very like these processes seemed to go on within +the scaly little reptile. He ceased all violent struggle, laid his length +upon the netting, and _seemed_ to think, to weigh the chances, to count +the cost. + +Soon he softly drew back into the cage. A series of severe contortions +followed; the obstructing bunch began to move forward, up, farther and +farther, until at last, dazed, squeezed, and half smothered, but entirely +alive and unhurt, the toad appeared and once more opened his eyes to the +blessed light. + +The snake quickly put his head through the hole, slipped out again, and +glided away into his freedom. He had earned it. The toad deserved his +liberty too, and I took him into the strawberry-patch. + +The minister looked on at it all. Perhaps he didn't learn anything. But I +did. + + + + +THE MARSH + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE MARSH + + And breathe it free, and breathe it free, + By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. + +I + + +It was a late June day whose breaking found me upon the edge of the great +salt-marshes which lie behind East Point Light, as the Delaware Bay lies +in front of it, and which run in a wide, half-land, half-bay border down +the cape. + +I followed along the black sandy road which goes to the Light until close +to the old Zane's Place,--the last farm-house of the uplands,--when I +turned off into the marsh toward the river. The mosquitos rose from the +damp grass at every step, swarming up around me in a cloud, and streaming +off behind like a comet's tail, which hummed instead of glowed. I was the +only male among them. It was a cloud of females, the nymphs of the +salt-marsh; and all through that day the singing, stinging, smothering +swarm danced about me, rested upon me, covered me whenever I paused, so +that my black leggings turned instantly to a mosquito brown, and all my +dress seemed dyed alike. + +Only I did not pause--not often, nor long. The sun came up blisteringly +hot, yet on I walked, and wore my coat, my hands deep down in the pockets +and my head in a handkerchief. At noon I was still walking, and kept on +walking till I reached the bay shore, when a breeze came up, and drove the +singing, stinging fairies back into the grass, and saved me. + +I left the road at a point where a low bank started across the marsh like +a long protecting arm reaching out around the hay-meadows, dragging them +away from the grasping river, and gathering them out of the vast undrained +tract of coarse sedges, to hold them to the upland. Passing along the bank +until beyond the weeds and scrub of the higher borders, I stood with the +sky-bound, bay-bound green beneath my feet. Far across, with sails +gleaming white against the sea of sedge, was a schooner, beating slowly up +the river. Laying my course by her, I began to beat slowly out into the +marsh through the heavy sea of low, matted hay-grass. + +There is no fresh-water meadow, no inland plain, no prairie with this +rainy, misty, early morning freshness so constant on the marsh; no other +reach of green so green, so a-glitter with seas of briny dew, so +regularly, unfailingly fed: + + Look how the grace of the sea doth go + About and about through the intricate channels that flow + Here and there, + Everywhere, + Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, + And the marsh is meshed with a million veins! + +I imagine a Western wheat-field, half-way to head, could look, in the dew +of morning, somewhat like a salt-marsh. It certainly would have at times +the purple-distance haze, that atmosphere of the sea which hangs across +the marsh. The two might resemble each other as two pictures of the same +theme, upon the same scale, one framed and hung, the other not. It is the +framing, the setting of the marsh that gives it character, variety, tone, +and its touch of mystery. + +For the marsh reaches back to the higher lands of fences, fields of corn, +and ragged forest blurs against the hazy horizon; it reaches down to the +river of the reedy flats, coiled like a serpent through the green; it +reaches away to the sky where the clouds anchor, where the moon rises, +where the stars, like far-off lighthouses, gleam along the edge; and it +reaches out to the bay, and on, beyond the white surf-line of meeting, on, +beyond the line where the bay's blue and the sky's blue touch, on, far on. + +Here meet land and river, sky and sea; here they mingle and make the +marsh. + +A prairie rolls and billows; the marsh lies still, lies as even as a +sleeping sea. Yet what moods! What changes! What constant variety of +detail everywhere! In The Marshes of Glynn there was + + A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, + Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, + +but not in these Maurice River marshes. Here, to-day, the sun was blazing, +kindling millions of tiny suns in the salt-wet blades; and instead of +waist-high grass, there lay around me acres and acres of the fine rich +hay-grass, full-grown, but without a blade wider than a knitting-needle or +taller than my knee. It covered the marsh like a deep, thick fur, like a +wonderland carpet into whose elastic, velvety pile my feet sank and sank, +never quite feeling the floor. Here and there were patches of higher +sedges, green, but of differing shades, which seemed spread upon the grass +carpet like long-napped rugs. + +Ahead of me the even green broke suddenly over a shoal of sand into tall, +tufted grasses, into rose, mallow, and stunted persimmon bushes, foaming, +on nearer view, with spreading dogbane blossoms. Off toward the bay +another of these shoals, mole-hill high in the distance, ran across the +marsh for half a mile, bearing a single broken file of trees--sentinels +they seemed, some of them fallen, others gaunt and wind-beaten, watching +against the sea. + +These were the lookouts and the resting-places for passing birds. During +the day, whenever I turned in their direction, a crow, a hawk, or some +smaller bird was seen upon their dead branches. + +Naturally the variety of bird life upon the marsh is limited; but there is +by no means the scarcity here which is so often noted in the forests and +wild prairies of corresponding extent. Indeed, the marsh was birdy--rich +in numbers if not in species. Underfoot, in spots, sang the marsh-wrens; +in larger patches the sharp-tailed sparrows; and almost as wide-spread and +constant as the green was the singing of the seaside sparrows. Overhead +the fish-hawks crossed frequently to their castle nest high on the top of +a tall white oak along the land edge of the marsh; in the neighborhood of +the sentinel trees a pair of crows were busy trying (it seemed to me) to +find an oyster, a crab--something big enough to choke, for just one +minute, the gobbling, gulping clamor of their infant brood. But the dear +devouring monsters could not be choked, though once or twice I thought by +their strangling cries that father crow, in sheer desperation, had brought +them oysters with the shells on. Their awful gaggings died away at dusk. +Besides the crows and fish-hawks, a harrier would now and then come +skimming close along the grass. Higher up, the turkey-buzzards circled all +day long; and once, setting my blood leaping and the fish-hawks screaming, +there sailed over, far away in the blue, a bald-headed eagle, his snowy +neck and tail flashing in the sunlight as he careened among the clouds. + +In its blended greens the marsh that morning offered one of the most +satisfying drinks of color my eyes ever tasted. The areas of different +grasses were often acres in extent, so that the tints, shading from the +lightest pea-green of the thinner sedges to the blue-green of the rushes, +to the deep emerald-green of the hay-grass, merged across their broad +bands into perfect harmony. + +As fresh and vital as the color was the breath of the marsh. There is no +bank of violets stealing and giving half so sweet an odor to my nostrils, +outraged by a winter of city smells, as the salty, spray-laden breath of +the marsh. It seems fairly to line the lungs with ozone. I know how +grass-fed cattle feel at the smell of salt. I have the concentrated thirst +of a whole herd when I catch that first whiff of the marshes after a +winter, a year it may be, of unsalted inland air. The smell of it +stampedes me. I gallop to meet it, and drink, drink, drink deep of it, my +blood running redder with every draught. + + +II + +I had waded out into the meadow perhaps two hundred yards, leaving a dark +bruised trail in the grass, when I came upon a nest of the long-billed +marsh-wren. It was a bulky house, and so overburdened its frail sedge +supports that it lay almost upon the ground, with its little round doorway +wide open to the sun and rain. They must have been a young couple who +built it, and quite inexperienced. I wonder they had not abandoned it; +for a crack of light into a wren's nest would certainly addle the eggs. +They are such tiny, dusky, tucked-away things, and their cradle is so deep +and dark and hidden. There were no fatalities, I am sure, following my +efforts to prop the leaning structure, though the wrens were just as sure +that it was all a fatality--utterly misjudging my motives. As a rule, I +have never been able to help much in such extremities. Either I arrive too +late, or else I blunder. + +I thought, for a moment, that it was the nest of the long-billed's cousin, +the short-billed marsh-wren, that I had found--which would have been a gem +indeed, with pearly eggs instead of chocolate ones. Though I was out for +the mere joy of being out, I had really come with a hope of discovering +this mousy mite of a wren, and of watching her ways. It was like hoping to +watch the ways of the "wunk." Several times I have been near these little +wrens; but what chance has a pair of human eyes with a skulking four +inches of brownish streaks and bars in the middle of a marsh! Such birds +are the everlasting despair of the naturalist, the salt of his earth. The +belief that a pair of them dwelt somewhere in this green expanse, that I +might at any step come upon them, made me often forget the mosquitos. + +When I reached the ridge of rose and mallow bushes, two wrens began +muttering in the grass with different notes and tones from those of the +long-billed. I advanced cautiously. Soon one flashed out and whipped back +among the thick stems again, exposing himself just long enough to show me +_stellaris_, the little short-billed wren I was hunting. + +I tried to stand still for a second glimpse and a clue to the nest; but +the mosquitos! Things have come to a bad pass with the bird-hunter, whose +only gun is an opera-glass, when he cannot stand stock-still for an hour. +His success depends upon his ability to take root. He needs light feet, a +divining mind, and many other things, but most of all he needs patience. +There are few mortals, however, with mosquito-proof patience--one that +would stand the test here. Remembering a meadow in New England where +stellaris nested, I concluded to wait till chance took me thither, and +passed on. + +This ridge of higher ground proved to be a mosquito roost--a thousand +here to one in the deeper, denser grass. As I hurried across I noted with +great satisfaction that the pink-white blossoms of the spreading dogbane +were covered with mosquito carcasses. It lessened my joy somewhat to find, +upon examination, that all the victims were males. Either they had drunk +poison from the flowers, or else, and more likely, they had been unable to +free their long-haired antennæ from the sticky honey into which they had +dipped their innocent beaks. Several single flowers had trapped three, and +from one blossom I picked out five. If we could bring the dogbane to brew +a cup which would be fatal to the females, it might be a good plant to +raise in our gardens along with the eucalyptus and the castor-oil plants. + +Everywhere as I went along, from every stake, every stout weed and topping +bunch of grass, trilled the seaside sparrows--a weak, husky, monotonous +song, of five or six notes, a little like the chippy's, more tuneful, +perhaps, but not so strong. They are dark, dusky birds, of a grayish +olive-green hue, with a conspicuous yellow line before the eye, and +yellow upon the shoulder. + +There seems to be a sparrow of some kind for every variety of land between +the poles. Mountain-tops, seaside marshes, inland prairies, swamps, woods, +pastures--everywhere, from Indian River to the Yukon, a sparrow nests. Yet +one can hardly associate sparrows with marshes, for they seem out of place +in houseless, treeless, half-submerged stretches. These are the haunts of +the shyer, more secretive birds. Here the ducks, rails, bitterns, +coots,--birds that can wade and swim, eat frogs and crabs,--seem naturally +at home. The sparrows are perchers, grain-eaters, free-fliers, and +singers; and they, of all birds, are the friends and neighbors of man. +This is no place for them. The effect of this marsh life upon the flight +and song of these two species was very marked. Both showed unmistakable +vocal powers which long ago would have been developed under the stimulus +of human listeners; and during all my stay (so long have they crept and +skulked about through the low marsh paths) I did not see one rise a +hundred feet into the air, nor fly straight away for a hundred yards. +They would get up just above the grass, and flutter and drop--a puttering, +short-winded, apoplectic struggle, very unbecoming and unworthy. + +By noon I had completed a circle and recrossed the lighthouse road in the +direction of the bay. A thin sheet of lukewarm water lay over all this +section. The high spring tides had been reinforced by unusually heavy +rains during April and May, giving a great area of pasture and hay land +back, for that season, to the sea. Descending a copsy dune from the road, +I surprised a brood of young killdeers feeding along the drift at the edge +of the wet meadow. They ran away screaming, leaving behind a pair of +spotted sandpipers, "till-tops," that had been wading with them in the +shallow water. The sandpipers teetered on for a few steps, then rose at my +approach, scaled nervously out over the drowned grass, and, circling, +alighted near where they had taken wing, continuing instantly with their +hunt, and calling _Tweet-tweet, tweet-tweet_, and teetering, always +teetering, as they tiptoed along. + +If perpetual motion is still a dream of the physicist, he might get an +idea by carefully examining the way the body of till-top is balanced on +its needle legs. If till-tops have not been tilting forever, and shall not +go on tilting forever, it is because something is wrong with the mechanism +of the world outside their little spotted bodies. Surely the easiest, +least willed motion in all the universe is this sandpiper's teeter, +teeter, teeter, as it hurries peering and prying along the shore. + +Killdeers and sandpipers are noisy birds; and one would know, after half a +day upon the marsh, even if he had never seen these birds before, that +they could not have been bred here. For however + + candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free + +the marsh may seem to one coming suddenly from the wooded uplands, it will +not let one enter far without the consciousness that silence and secrecy +lie deeper here than in the depths of the forest glooms. The true birds of +the marsh, those that feed and nest in the grass, have the spirit of the +great marsh-mother. The sandpiper is not her bird. It belongs to the +shore, living almost exclusively along sandy, pebbly margins, the margins +of any, of almost every water, from Delaware Bay to the tiny bubbling +spring in some Minnesota pasture. Neither is the killdeer her bird. The +upland claims it, plover though it be. A barren, stony hillside, or even a +last year's corn-field left fallow, is a better-loved breast to the +killdeer than the soft brooding breast of the marsh. There are no +grass-birds so noisy as these two. Both of them lay their eggs in pebble +nests; and both depend largely for protection upon the harmony of their +colors with the general tone of their surroundings. + +I was still within sound of the bleating killdeers when a rather large, +greenish-gray bird flapped heavily but noiselessly from a muddy spot in +the grass to the top of a stake and faced me. Here was a child of the +marsh. Its bolt-upright attitude spoke the watcher in the grass; then as +it stretched its neck toward me, bringing its body parallel to the ground, +how the shape of the skulker showed! This bird was not built to fly nor to +perch, but to tread the low, narrow paths of the marsh jungle, silent, +swift, and elusive as a shadow. + +It was the clapper-rail, the "marsh-hen." One never finds such a +combination of long legs, long toes, long neck and bill, with this long +but heavy hen-like body, outside the meadows and marshes. The grass ought +to have been alive with the birds: it was breeding-time. But I think the +high tides must have delayed them or driven them elsewhere, for I did not +find an egg, nor hear at nightfall their colony-cry, so common at dusk and +dawn in the marshes just across on the coast about Townsend's Inlet. There +at sunset in nesting-time one of the rails will begin to call--a loud, +clapping roll; a neighbor takes it up, then another and another, the +circle of cries widening and swelling until the whole marsh is a-clatter. + +Heading my way with a slow, labored stroke came one of the fish-hawks. She +was low down and some distance away, so that I got behind a post before +she saw me. The marsh-hen spied her first, and dropped into the grass. On +she came, her white breast and belly glistening, and in her talons a big +glistening fish. It was a magnificent catch. "Bravo!" I should have +shouted--rather I shouldn't; but here she was right over me, and the +instinct of the boy, of the savage, had me before I knew, and leaping out, +I whirled my cap and yelled to wake the marsh. The startled hawk jerked, +keeled, lifted with a violent struggle, and let go her hold. Down fell the +writhing, twisting fish at my feet. It was a splendid striped bass, +weighing at least four pounds, and still live enough to flop. + +I felt mean as I picked up the useless thing and looked far away to the +great nest with its hungry young. I was no better than the bald eagle, the +lazy robber-baron, who had stolen the dinner of these same young hawks the +day before. + +Their mother had been fishing up the river and had caught a tremendous +eel. An eel can hold out to wriggle a very long time. He has no vitals. +Even with talon-tipped claws he is slippery and more than a clawful; so +the old hawk took a short cut home across the railroad-track and the +corner of the woods where stands the eagle tree. + +She could barely clear the tree-tops, and, with the squirming of the eel +about her legs, had apparently forgotten that the eagle lived along this +road, or else in her struggle to get the prize home she was risking the +old dragon's being away. He was not away. I have no doubt that he had been +watching her all the time from some high perch, and just as she reached +the open of the railroad-track, where the booty would not fall among the +trees, he appeared. His first call, mocking, threatening, commanding, shot +the poor hawk through with terror. She screamed; she tried to rise and +escape; but without a second's parley the great king drove down upon her. +She dropped the fish, dived, and dodged the blow, and the robber, with a +rushing swoop that was glorious in its sweep, in its speed and ease, +caught the eel within a wing's reach of me and the track. + +I did not know what to do with my spoil. Somewhat relieved, upon looking +around, to find that even the marsh-hen had not been an eye-witness to my +knightly deed, I started with the fish and my conscience toward the +distant nest, determined to climb into it and leave the catch with the +helpless, dinnerless things for whom it was intended. + +I am still carrying that fish. How seldom we are able to restore the bare +exaction, to say nothing of the fourfold! My tree was harder to climb than +Zacchæus's. Mine was an ancient white oak, with the nest set directly upon +its dead top. I had stood within this very nest twelve years before; but +even with the help of my conscience I could not get into it now. Not that +I had grown older or larger. Twelve years do not count unless they carry +one past forty. It was the nest that had grown. Gazing up at it, I readily +believed the old farmer in the Zane's house who said it would take a pair +of mules to haul it. He thought it larger than one that blew down in the +marsh the previous winter, which made three cart-loads. + +One thinks of Stirling and of the castles frowning down upon the Rhine as +he comes out of the wide, flat marsh beneath this great nest, crowning +this loftiest eminence in all the region. But no château of the Alps, no +beetling crag-lodged castle of the Rhine, can match the fish-hawk's nest +for sheer boldness and daring. Only the eagles' nests upon the fierce +dizzy pinnacles in the Yosemite surpass the home of the fish-hawk in +unawed boldness. The aery of the Yosemite eagle is the most sublimely +defiant of things built by bird, or beast, or man. + +A fish-hawk will make its nest upon the ground, or a hummock, a stump, a +buoy, a chimney--upon anything near the water that offers an adequate +platform; but its choice is the dead top of some lofty tree where the +pathway for its wide wings is open and the vision range is free for miles +around. + +How dare the bird rear such a pile upon so slight and towering a support! +How dare she defy the winds, which, loosened far out on the bay, come +driving across the cowering, unresisting marsh! She is too bold sometimes. +I have known more than one nest to fall in a wild May gale. Many a nest, +built higher and wider year after year, while all the time its dead +support has been rotting and weakening, gets heavy with the wet of winter, +and some night, under the weight of an ice-storm, comes crashing to the +earth. + +Yet twelve years had gone since I scaled the walls and stood within this +nest; and with patience and hardihood enough I could have done it again +this time, no doubt. I remember one nest along Maurice River, perched so +high above the gums of the swamp as to be visible from my home across a +mile of trees, that has stood a landmark for the oystermen this score of +years. + +The sensations of my climb into this fish-hawk's nest of the marsh are +vivid even now. Going up was comparatively easy. When I reached the forks +holding the nest, I found I was under a bulk of sticks and corn-stalks +which was about the size of an ordinary haycock or an unusually large +wash-tub. By pulling out, pushing aside, and breaking off the sticks, I +worked a precarious way through the four feet or more of debris and +scrambled over the edge. There were two eggs. Taking them in my hands, so +as not to crush them, I rose carefully to my feet. + +Upright in a hawk's nest! Sixty feet in the air, on the top of a gaunt old +white oak, high above the highest leaf, with the screaming hawks about my +head, with marsh and river and bay lying far around! It was a moment of +exultation; and the thrill of it has been transmitted through the years. +My body has been drawn to higher places since; but my soul has never +quite touched that altitude again, for I was a boy then. + +Nor has it ever shot swifter, deeper into the abyss of mortal terror than +followed with my turning to descend. I looked down into empty air. Feet +foremost I backed over the rim, clutching the loose sticks and feeling for +a foothold. They snapped with the least pressure; slipped and fell if I +pushed them, or stuck out into my clothing. Suddenly the sticks in my +hands pulled out, my feet broke through under me, and for an instant I +hung at the side of the nest in the air, impaled on a stub that caught my +blouse as I slipped. + +There is a special Providence busy with the boy. + +This huge nest of the fish-hawks was more than a nest; it was a castle in +very truth, in the sheltering crevices of whose uneven walls a small +community of purple grackles lived. Wedged in among the protruding sticks +was nest above nest, plastering the great pile over, making it almost +grassy with their loose flying ends. I remember that I counted more than +twenty of these crow-blacks' nests the time I climbed the tree, and that +I destroyed several in breaking my way up the face of the structure. + +Do the blackbirds nest here for the protection afforded by the presence of +the hawks? Do they come for the crumbs which fall from these great +people's table? Or is it the excellent opportunity for social life offered +by this convenient apartment-house that attracts? + +The purple grackles are a garrulous, gossipy set, as every one knows. They +are able-bodied, not particularly fond of fish, and inclined to seek the +neighborhood of man, rather than to come out here away from him. They make +very good American rooks. So I am led to think it is their love of +"neighboring" that brings them about the hawk's nest. If this surmise is +correct, then the presence of two families of English sparrows among them +might account for there being only eight nests now, where a decade ago +there were twenty. + +I was amused--no longer amazed--at finding the sparrows here. The seed of +these birds shall possess the earth. Is there even now a spot into which +the bumptious, mannerless, ubiquitous little pleb has not pushed himself? +If you look for him in the rain-pipes of the Fifth Avenue mansions, he is +there; if you search for him in the middle of the wide, silent salt-marsh, +he is there; if you take--but it is vain to take the wings of the morning, +or of anything else, in the hope of flying to a spot where the stumpy +little wings of the English sparrow have not already carried him. + +There is something really admirable in the unqualified sense of ownership, +the absolute want of diffidence, the abiding self-possession and coolness +of these birds. One cannot measure it in the city streets, where everybody +jostles and stares. It can be appreciated only in the marsh: here in the +silence, the secrecy, the withdrawing, where even the formidable-looking +fiddler-crabs shy and sidle into their holes as you pass; here, where the +sparrows may perch upon the rim of a great hawk's nest, twist their necks, +ogle you out of countenance, and demand what business brought you to the +marsh. + +I hunted round for a stone when one of them buttonholed me. He wasn't +insolent, but he was impertinent. The two hawks and the blackbirds flew +off as I came up; but the sparrows stayed. They were the only ones in +possession as I moved away; and they will be the only ones in possession +when I return. If that is next summer, then I shall find a colony of +twenty sparrow families around the hawk's nest. The purple grackles will +be gone. And the fish-hawks? Only the question of another year or so when +they, too, shall be dispossessed and gone. But where will they go to +escape the sparrows? + + +III + +From a mile away I turned to look back at the "cripple" where towered the +tall white oak of the hawks. Both birds were wheeling about the castle +nest, their noble flight full of the freedom of the marsh, their piercing +cries voicing its wildness. And how free, how wild, how untouched by human +hands the wide plain seemed! Sea-like it lay about me, circled southward +from east to west with the rim of the sky. + +I moved on toward the bay. The sun had dropped to the edge of the marsh, +its level-lined shafts splintering into golden fire against the curtained +windows of the lighthouse. It would soon be sunset. For some time there +had been a quiet gurgling and lisping down in the grass, but it had meant +nothing, until, of a sudden, I heard the rush of a wave along the beach: +the tide was coming in. And with it came a breeze, a moving, briny, +bay-cooled breeze that stirred the grass with a whisper of night. + +Once more I had worked round to the road. It ran on ahead of me, up a +bushy dune, and forked, one branch leading off to the lighthouse, the +other straight out to the beach, out against the white of the breaking +waves. + +The evening purple was deepening on the bay when I mounted the dune. Bands +of pink and crimson clouded the west, a thin cold wash of blue veiled the +east; and overhead, bayward, landward, everywhere, the misting and the +shadowing of the twilight. + +Between me and the white wave-bars at the end of the road gleamed a patch +of silvery water--the returning tide. As I watched, a silvery streamlet +broke away and came running down the wheel track. Another streamlet, +lagging a little, ran shining down the other track, stopped, rose, and +creeping slowly to the middle of the road, spread into a second gleaming +patch. They grew, met--and the road for a hundred feet was covered with +the bay. + +As the crimson paled into smoky pearl, the blue changed green and gold, +and big at the edge of the marsh showed the rim of the moon. + +Weird hour! Sunset, moonrise, flood-tide, and twilight together weaving +the spell of the night over the wide waking marsh. Mysterious, sinister +almost, seemed the swift, stealthy creeping of the tide. It was +surrounding and crawling in upon me. Already it stood ankle-deep in the +road, and was reaching toward my knees, a warm thing, quick and moving. It +slipped among the grasses and into the holes of the crabs with a smothered +bubbling; it disturbed the seaside sparrows sleeping down in the sedge and +kept them springing up to find new beds. How high would it rise? Behind me +on the road it had crawled to the foot of the dune. Would it let me +through to the mainland if I waited for the flood? + +It would be high tide at nine o'clock. Finding a mound of sand on the +shore that the water could hardly cover, I sat down to watch the +tide-miracle; for here, surely, I should see the wonder worked, so wide +was the open, so full, so frank the moon. + +In the yellow light I could make out the line of sentinel trees across the +marsh, and off on the bay a ship, looming dim in the distance, coming on +with wind and tide. There were no sounds except the long regular wash of +the waves, the stir of the breeze in the chafing sedges, and the creepy +stepping of the water weaving everywhere through the hidden paths of the +grass. Presently a night-hawk began to flit about me, then another and +another, skimming just above the marsh as silent as the shadows. What was +that? Something moved across the moon. In a moment, bat-like and huge +against the great yellow disk, appeared a marsh-owl. He was coming to look +at me. What was I that dared remain abroad in the marsh after the rising +of the moon? that dared invade this eery realm, this night-spread, +tide-crept, half-sealand where he was king? How like a goblin he seemed! I +thought of Grendel, and listened for the splash of the fen-monster's steps +along the edge of the bay. But only the owl came. Down, down, down he +bobbed, till I could almost feel the fanning of his wings. How silent! His +long legs hung limp, his body dangled between those soft wide wings within +reach of my face. Yet I heard no sound. Mysterious creature! I was glad +when he ceased his ghostly dance about me and made off. + +It was nine o'clock. The waves had ceased to wash against the sand, for +the beach was gone; the breeze had died away; the stir of the water in the +grass was still. Only a ripple broke now and then against my little +island. The bay and the marsh were one. + + How still the plains of the waters be! + The tide is in his ecstasy. + The tide is at his highest height: + And it is night. + + + + +CALICO AND THE KITTENS + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CALICO AND THE KITTENS + + +One spring day I found myself the sole help of two blind, naked +infants--as near a real predicament as a man could well get. What did it +matter that they had long tails and were squirrels? They were infants just +the same; and any kind of an infant on the hands of any mere man is a real +tragedy. + +As I looked at the two callow things in the grass, a dismay and weak +helplessness quite overcame me. The way they squirmed and shivered and +squeaked worked upon me down even to my knees. I felt sick and foolish. +Both of their parents were dead. Their loose leaf-nest overhead had been +riddled with shot. I had climbed up and found them; I had brought them +down; I must--feed them! The other way of escape were heathen. + +But how could I feed them? Nipples, quills, spoons--none of them would fit +these mites of mouths. What a miserable mother I was! How poorly equipped +for foundlings! They were dying for lack of food; and as they pawed about +and whimpered in my hands I devoutly wished the shot had put them all out +of misery together. I was tempted to turn heathen and despatch them. + +Unhappy but resolute, I started homeward, determined to rear those +squirrels, if it could be done. On my way I remembered--and it came to me +with a shock--that one of my neighbor's cats had a new batch of kittens. +They were only a few days old. Might not Calico, their mother, be induced +to adopt the squirrels! + +Nothing could be more absurd. The kittens were three times larger than the +squirrels. Even had they been the same size, did I think the old +three-colored cat could be fooled? that she might not know a kitten of +hers from some other mother's--squirrel? I was desperate indeed. Calico +was a hunter. She had eaten more gray squirrels, perhaps, than I had ever +seen. She would think I had been foraging for her--the mother of seven +green kittens!--and would take my charges as titbits. Still I was +determined to try. + +My neighbor's kittens were enough and to spare. One of Calico's last +year's lot still waited a good home; and here were seven more to be cared +for. Might not two of these be spirited away, far away; the two squirrels +substituted, and the old cat be none the wiser? + +I went home by way of my neighbor's, and found Calico in the basement +curled up asleep with her babies. She roused and purred questioningly as +we bent over the basket, and watched with concern, but with no anxiety, as +two of her seven were lifted out and put inside a hat upon a table. She +was perfectly used to having her kittens handled. True, strange things had +happened to them. But that was long ago; and there had been so very many +kittens that no one mother could remember about them all. She trusted +us--with an ear pricked and eyes watchful. But they were safe, and in a +prideful, self-conscious, young-mother way she began to wash the five. + +Some one stood between her and the hat when the kittens were lifted out +and the squirrels were put in their place. Calico did not see. For a time +she thought no more about them; she was busy washing and showing the +others. By and by it began to look as though she had forgotten that there +were more than five. She could not count. But most mothers can _number_ +their children, even if they cannot count, and soon Calico began to +fidget, looking up at the hat which the hungry, motherless squirrels kept +rocking. Then she leaped out upon the floor, purring, and bounded upon the +table, going straight to the young squirrels. + +There certainly was an expression of surprise and mystification on her +face as she saw the change that had come over those kittens. They had +shrunk and faded from two or three bright colors to a single pale pink. +She looked again and sniffed them. Their odor had changed, too. She turned +to the watchers about the table, but they said nothing. She hardly knew +what to think. She was half inclined to leave them and go back to the +basket, when one of the squirrels whimpered--a genuine, universal baby +whimper. That settled it. She was a mother, and whatever else these things +in the hat might be, they were babies. That was enough, especially as she +needed just this much baby here in the hat to make good what was lacking +in the basket. + +With a soft, caressing purr she stepped gently into the hat, took one of +the squirrels by the neck, brought it to the edge of the table, and laid +it down for a firmer hold; then sprang lightly to the floor. Over to the +basket she walked and dropped it tenderly among her other babies. Then, +having brought the remaining one and deposited that with the same +mother-care, she got into the basket herself and curled down +contentedly--her heart all whole. + +And this is how strange a thing mother-love is! The performance was +scarcely believable. Could she be so love-blind as not to see what they +were and not eat them? But when she began to lick the little interlopers +and cuddle them down to their dinner as if they were her own genuine +kittens, there could be no more doubt or fear. + +The squirrels do not know to this day that Calico is not their real +mother. From the first they took her mother's milk and mother's love as +rightfully and thanklessly as the kittens, growing, not like the kittens +at all, but into the most normal of squirrels, round and fat and +splendid-tailed. + +Calico clearly recognized some difference between the two kinds of +kittens, but _what_ difference always puzzled her. She would clean up a +kitten and comb it slick, then turn to one of the squirrels and wash it, +but rarely, if ever, completing the work because of some disconcerting +un-catlike antic. As the squirrels grew older they also grew friskier, and +soon took the washing as the signal for a frolic. As well try to wash a +bubble. They were bundles of live springs, twisting out of her paws, +dancing over her back, leaping, kicking, tumbling as she had never seen a +kitten do in all her richly kittened experience. + +I don't know why, but Calico was certainly fonder of these two freaks than +of her own normal children. Long after the latter were weaned she nursed +and mothered the squirrels. I have frequently seen them let into the +kitchen when the old cat was there, and the moment they got through the +door they would rush toward her, dropping chestnuts or cookies by the way. +She in turn would hurry to meet them with a little purr of greeting full +of joy and affection. They were shamefully big for such doings. The +kittens had quit it long ago. Calico herself, after a while, came to feel +the impropriety of mothering these strapping young ones, and in a weak, +indulgent way tried to stop it. But the squirrels were persistent and +would not go about their business at all with an ordinary cuff. She would +put them off, run away from them, slap them, and make believe to bite; but +not until she did bite, and sharply too, would they be off. All this +seemed very strange and unnatural; yet a stranger thing happened one day, +when Calico brought in to her family a full-grown gray squirrel which she +had caught in the woods. She laid it down on the floor and called the +kittens and squirrels to gather around. They came, and as the squirrels +sniffed at the dead one on the floor there was hardly a mark of +difference in their appearance. It might have been one of Calico's own +nursing that lay there dead, so far as any one save Calico could see. And +with her the difference, I think, was more of smell than of sight. But she +knew her own; and though she often found her two out among the trees of +the yard, she never was mistaken, nor for an instant made as if to hurt +them. + +Yet they could not have been more entirely squirrel had their own squirrel +mother nurtured them. Calico's milk and love went all to cat in her own +kittens, and all to squirrel in these that she adopted. No single hair of +theirs turned from its squirrel-gray to any one of Calico's three colors; +no single squirrel trait became the least bit catlike. + +Indeed, as soon as the squirrels could run about they forsook the +clumsy-footed kittens under the stove and scampered up back of the +hot-water tank, where they built a nest. Whenever Calico entered the +kitchen purring, out would pop their heads, and down they would come, +understanding the mother language as well as the kittens, and usually +beating the kittens to the mother's side. + +So far from teaching them to climb and build nests behind water-tanks, +their foster-mother never got over her astonishment at it. All they needed +from her, all they needed and would have received from their own squirrel +mother, was nourishment and protection until their teeth and legs grew +strong. Wits were born with them; experience was sure to come to them; and +with wits and experience there is nothing known among squirrels of their +kind that these two would not learn for themselves. + +And there was not much known to squirrels that these two did not know, +apparently without even learning. As they grew in size they increased +exceedingly in naughtiness, and were banished shortly from the kitchen to +an ell or back woodshed. They celebrated this distinction by dropping some +hickory-nuts into a rubber boot hanging on the wall, and then gnawing a +hole through the toe of the boot in order to extract the hidden nuts. Was +it mischief that led them to gnaw through rather than go down the top? Or +did something get stuffed into the top of the boot after the nuts were +dropped in? And did the squirrels _remember_ that the nuts were in there, +or did they _smell_ them through the rubber? + +One woodshed is big enough only for two squirrels. The family moved +everything out but the wood, and the squirrels took possession for the +winter. Their first nest had been built behind the hot-water tank. They +knew _how_ to build without any teaching. But knowing how is not all there +is to know about building; knowing _where_ is very important, and this +they had to learn. + +Immediately on coming to the woodshed the squirrels began their winter +nest, a big, bulky, newspaper affair, which they placed up in the +northwest corner of the shed directly under the shingles. Here they slept +till late in the fall. This was the shaded side and the most exposed +corner of the whole house; but all went well until one night when the +weather suddenly turned very cold. A strong wind blew from the northwest +hard upon the squirrels' nest. + +The next day there was great activity in the woodshed--a scampering of +lively feet, that began early in the morning and continued far toward +noon. The squirrels were moving. They gathered up their newspaper nest +and carried it--diagonally--across the shed from the shaded northwest to +the sunny southeast corner, where they rebuilt and slept snug throughout +the winter. + +Calico did not teach them this; neither would their own squirrel mother +have taught them. They knew how, to begin with. They knew _where_ after +one night of experience, which in this case had to be a night of shivers. + + + + +THE SPARROW ROOST + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE SPARROW ROOST + + +An early December twilight was settling over Boston, a thick foggy murk +that soaked down full of smoke and smell and chill. The streets were oozy +with a wet snow which had fallen through the afternoon and had been +trodden into mud; and draughty with an east wind, that would have passed +unnoticed across the open fields, but which drew up these narrow flues and +sent a shiver down one's back in spite of coats. It was half-past five. +The stores were closing, their clerks everywhere eddying into the noisy +streams of wheels and hoofs still pouring up and down. The traffic tide +had turned, but had not yet ebbed away. + +And this was evening! the coming night! I moved along with the crowd, +homesick for the wideness and quiet of the country, for the soughing of +the pines, the distant bang of a barn door, the night cry of guineas from +some neighboring farm, when, in the hurry and din, I caught the cry of +bird voices, and looking up, found that I had stumbled upon a bird +roost--at the very heart of the city! I was in front of King's Chapel +Burial Ground, whose half-dozen leafless trees were alive with noisy +sparrows. + +The crowd swept on. I halted behind a waste-barrel by the iron fence and +forgot the soughing pines and clacking guineas. + +Bird roosts of this size are no common find. I remember a huge fireplace +chimney that stood near my home, into which a cloud of swallows used to +swarm for a few nights preceding the fall migration; I lived some years +close to the pines at the head of Cubby Hollow, where great flocks of +crows slept nightly throughout the winter; but these, besides now and +again a temporary resting-place, a mere caravansary along the route of the +migrants, were all I had happened upon. Here was another, bordering a city +street, overhanging the street, with a blazing electric light to get into +bed by! + +Protected by the barrel from the jostle on the sidewalk, I waited by the +ancient graveyard until the electric lights grew bright, until every +fussing sparrow was quiet, until I could see only little gray balls and +blurs in the trees through the misty drizzle that came down with the +night. Then I turned toward my own snug roost, five flights up, next the +roof, and just a block away, as the sparrows fly, from this roost of +theirs. I was glad to have them so near me. + +The windows of my roost look out over roofs of slate, painted tin, and +tarry pebbles, into a chimney-fenced plot of sky. Occasionally, during the +winter, a herring-gull from the harbor swims into this bit of smoky blue; +frequently a pigeon, sometimes a flock, sails past; and in the summer +dusk, after the swallows quit it, a city-haunting night-hawk climbs out of +the forest of chimney-pots, up, up above the smoke for his booming +roofward swoop. But winter and summer, save along through June, the +sparrows, as evening falls, cut across the sky field on their way to the +roost in the old burial-ground. There go two, there twoscore in a +whirling, scudding flurry, like a swift-blown bunch of autumn leaves. For +more than an hour they keep passing--till the dusk turns to darkness, till +all are tucked away in bed. + +One would scarcely recognize the birds as they sweep past in these +flurries, their flight is so unlike their usual clumsy scuttle as they get +out of one's way along the street. They are lumpish and short-winged on +the street; they labor and lumber off with a sidewise twist to their +bodies that reminds one of a rheumatic old dog upon the trot. What +suggestion of grace or swiftness about them upon the ground? But watch +them in their evening flight. It is a revelation. They rise above the +houses and shoot across my sky like a charge of canister. I can almost +hear them whizz. Down by the cemetery I have seen them dash into view high +up in the slit of sky, dive for the trees, dart zigzag like a madly +plunging kite, and hurl themselves, as soft as breaths, among the +branches. + +This is going to bed with a vengeance. I never saw any other birds get to +roost with such velocity. It is characteristic, however; the sparrow never +does anything by halves. The hurry is not caused by any mite of anxiety or +fear, rather from pure excess of spirit; for after rearing three broods +during the summer, he has such a superabundance of vim that a winter of +foraging and fighting is welcome exercise. The strenuous life is his kind +of life. When the day's hunt is over and he turns back to his bed, why not +race it out with his neighbors? And so they come--chasing, dodging, +tagging neck and neck, all spurting to finish first at the roost. + +We may not love him; but he has constitution and snap. And these things do +count. + +One April morning, the 6th, I went down to the roost at three o'clock. The +sparrows were sleeping soundly. It was yet night. Had the dawn been +reaching up above the dark walls that shut the east away from the high +tree-tops, the garish street light would have kept it dim. The trees were +silent and stirless, as quiet as the graves beneath them--more quiet; in +fact; for there issued from a grated hole among the tombs the sound of an +anvil, deep down and muffled, but unmistakably ringing, as if Governor +Winthrop were forging chains in his vault. Then came a rush, a deadened +roar, and an emanation of dank gaseous breath, such as the dead alone +breathe. + +It was only the passing of a tool-car in the subway underneath the +cemetery, and the hammering of a workman at a forge in a niche of the +tunnel. But, rising out of the tombs, it was gruesome and unearthly in the +night-quiet. + +The sparrows did not mind the sound. Maybe it ascended as a pleasant +murmur to them and shaped their dreams, as dream-stuff drifts to their +sweet-voiced cousins in the meadows with the lap and lave of the streams. +A carriage rolled by. The clank of hoofs disturbed none of them. Some one +slammed the door of an apothecary-shop across the street, and hurried off. +Not a sparrow stirred. + +I was trying to see whether the birds slept with their heads beneath their +wings. Apparently they did, for I could not make out a head, though some +of the sleepers hung over the street within ten feet of the lamp-post. But +they were all above the light, with only their breasts out of the shadows, +and to be certain I must make a bird move. Finding that the noises were +not likely to arouse them, I threw a stick against one of the laden limbs. +There were heads then, plenty of them, and every one, evidently, had been +turned back and buried in the warm wing-coverts. + +My stick hit very near the toes of one of the sparrows, and he flew. There +was a twitter, then a stir all over the tree; but nothing further +happening, they tucked in their heads again and went back to bed. + +I waited. At four o'clock they still slept. The moon had swung out from +behind the high buildings and now hung just above the slender spire of +Park Street Church, looking down into the deep, narrow street gulch. A cat +picked her way among the graves, sprang noiselessly to the top of a flat +tomb beneath the sparrows, and watched with me. The creature brought the +wilderness with her. After all, this was not so far removed from the +woods. In the empty street, beneath the silent, shuttered walls, with +something still of the mystery of the night winds in the bare trees, the +scene, for an instant, was touched with the spell of the dark and the +untamed. + +After a swift warming walk of fifteen minutes I returned to the roost. +There were signs of waking now: a flutter here, a twitter there, then +quiet again, with no general movement until half-past four, when the city +lights were shut off. Then, instantly, from a dozen branches sounded loud, +clear chirps, and every sparrow opened his eyes. The incandescent bulbs +about the border of the roost were moon and stars to them, lights in the +firmament of their heaven to divide the night from the day. When they +blazed forth, it was evening--bedtime; when they went out, it was +morning--the time to wake up. + +The softness of dusk, how unknown to these city dwellers! and the fresh +sweet beauty of the dawn! + +Morning must have begun to break along near four o'clock, for the cold +gray across the sky was already passing into pearl. The country birds had +been up half an hour, I am sure. However, the old cemetery was wide enough +awake now. There was chirping everywhere. It grew louder and more general +every moment, till shortly the six thousand voices, and more, were raised +in the cheerful din--the matin, if you please, for as yet only a few of +the birds were fighting. + +But the fight quickly spread. It is the English sparrow's way of waking +up; his way of whetting his appetite for breakfast; his way of digesting +his dinner; his way of settling his supper--his normal waking way. + +To the clatter of voices was added the flutter of wings; for the birds had +begun to shift perches, and to exchange slaps as well as to call +names--the movement setting toward the tree-tops. None of the sparrows had +left the roost. The storm of chatter increased and the buzz of wings +quickened into a steady whir, the noise holding its own with that of the +ice-wagons pounding past. The birds were filling the top-most branches, a +gathering of the clans, evidently, for the day's start. The clock in +Scollay Square station pointed to five minutes to five, and just before +the hour struck, two birds launched out and spun away. + +The exodus had commenced. The rest of Boston was not stirring yet. It was +still early; hardly a flush of warmth had washed the pearl. But the +sparrows had many matters to attend to before all the milkmen and bakers +got abroad: they must take their morning dust-bath, for one thing, in the +worn places between the cobble-stones, before the street-sprinkler began +its sloppy rounds. + +There was a constant whirl out of the tree-tops now. Occasionally a bird +flew off alone, but most of them left in small flocks, just as I should +see them return in the evening. Doubtless the members of these flocks were +the birds belonging to certain neighborhoods, those that nested and fed +about certain squares, large door-yards, and leafy courts. They may indeed +have been families that were hatched last summer. + +The birds that left singly went away, as a rule, over the roofs toward the +denser business sections of the city, while the bands, as I had noticed +them come in at night, took the opposite course, toward Cambridge and +Charlestown. Not more than one in a hundred flew south across the city. + +Of course there are sparrows all over Boston. There is no street too +narrow, too noisy, too dank with the smell of leather for them. They seem +as numerous where the rush of drays is thickest as in the open +breathing-places where the fountains play. They are in every quarter, yet +those to the east and south of the old burial-ground do not belong to the +roost. Perhaps they have graveyards of their own in their sections, though +I have been unable to find them. So far as I know, this is the only roost +in or about Boston. And this is the stranger since so few of the total +number of the Boston sparrows sleep here. A careful estimate showed me +that there could not have been more than six or seven thousand in the +roost. One would almost say there were as many millions in Boston. And +where do these millions sleep? For the most part, each one alone behind +his sign-board or shutter near his local feeding-grounds. + +Now, why should the sparrows of the roost prefer King's Chapel Burial +Ground to the Old Granary, a stone's throw up the street? I passed the +Old Granary yard on my way to the roost and found the trees empty. I +searched the limbs with my glass; there was not a sparrow to be seen. +Still, the Granary is the less exposed of the two. It may not formerly +have been so; but at present high sheltering walls bend about the trees +like a well. Years ago, perhaps, when the sparrows began to roost in the +trees at King's Chapel, the Old Granary elms were more open to the winds, +and now force of habit and example keep the birds returning to the first +lodge. + +Back they come, no matter what the weather. There are a thousand cozy +corners into which a sparrow might creep on a stormy night, where even the +winds that know their way through Boston streets could not search him out. +But the instinct to do as he always has done is as strong in the sparrow, +in spite of his love for pioneering, as it is in the rest of us. He was +brought here to roost as soon as he could fly, when the leaves were on and +the nights delicious. If the leaves go and the nights change, what of +that? Here he began, here he will continue to sleep. Let it rain, blow, +snow; let the sleet, like a slimy serpent, creep up the trunk and wrap +around the twigs: still he will hold on. Many a night I have seen them +sleeping through a driving winter rain, their breasts to the storm, their +tails hanging straight down, shedding every drop. If a gale is blowing, +and it is cold, they get to the leeward of the tree, as close to the trunk +as possible, and anchor fast, every bill pointing into the wind, every +feather reefed, every tail lying out on the flat of the storm. + +As I watched the bands starting from the tree-tops of the roost I wondered +if they really crossed the river into Cambridge and Charlestown. A few +mornings later I was again up early, hastening down to the West Boston +Bridge to see if I could discover the birds going over. As I started out I +saw bunches moving toward the river with a free and easy flight, but +whether I reached the bridge too late, or whether they scattered and went +over singly, I do not know. Only now and then did a bird cross, and he +seemed to come from along the shore rather than from above the house-tops. + +I concluded that the birds of the roost were strictly Bostonians. One +evening, however, about a week later, as I was upon this bridge coming +from Cambridge, a flock of sparrows whizzed past me, dipped over the rail +to the water, swung up above the wall of houses, and disappeared toward +the roost. They were on their way from Cambridge, from the classic elms of +Harvard campus, who knows, to the elms of the ancient burial-ground. + +It was five that April morning when the first sparrow left the roost. By +half-past five the trees were empty, except for the few birds whose +hunting-ground included the cemetery. By this time the city, too, had +yawned, and rubbed its eyes, and tumbled out of bed. + + + + +"MUX" + +[Illustration] + + + + +"MUX" + + +No, "Mux" is not an elegant name--not to to be compared with Ronald or +Claudia, for instance; and I want to say it is not the name of one of my +children, though its owner was once a member of my household. Mux was a +tame half-grown coon, with just the ordinary number of rings around his +tail, but with the most extraordinary amount of mischief in his little +coon soul. Perhaps he had no real soul, and I should have located his +mischief somewhere else. If so, then I should say in his feet. I never saw +any other feet so expressive. The essence of the little beast seemed +concentrated in his lore paws. If they made trouble, whose fault was it? +They were designed for trouble. You could see this purpose in them as +plainly as you could see the purpose in a swallow's wings. Whenever Mux +ran across the yard these paws picked up trouble out of the turf, just as +if the grass were trouble-filings, and Mux a kind of four-footed magnet. +He never went far before they clogged and stopped him. + +One day, the first day that Mux was given the liberty of the yard, who +should he run foul of but Tom! The struggle had to come sometime, and it +was just as well that it came thus early, while Tom and Mux were on an +equal footing as to size, for Mux was young and growing. + +Tom was boss of the yard. Every farmer's dog that went to town by our gate +knew enough to pass by on the other side. Tom had grown a little lordly +and opinionated. He was sleeping in the sun on the shed-step as Mux ambled +up. At sight of the coon Tom rose in more than his usual feline mightiness +and cast such a look of surprise, scorn, and annihilating intent upon the +interloper as ought to have struck terror to the stoutest heart. But Mux +hardly seemed to understand. On he came, right into certain destruction, a +very lamb of innocence and meekness. O you unsuspecting little stranger! +Don't you see this awful monster swelling, swelling into this hideous +hump? No, Mux did not see him. Tom was raging. His teeth gleamed; his eyes +blazed green; his claws worked in a nervous way that made my flesh creep. +He was vanishing, not, like the Cheshire Cat, into a long lovely grin, but +vanishing from a four-legged cat into a yellow, one-legged hump. All that +was left of him now was hump. + +Mux was only a few feet away. Tom began to advance, not directly, but just +a trifle on the bias, across Mux's bows so to speak, as if to give him a +broadside. They were within range. Tom was heaving to. I trembled for the +young coon. Suddenly there was a hiss, a flash of yellow in the air, +and--a very big surprise awaiting Thomas! That little coon was no stupid +after all. He had not rolled up his sleeves, nor doubled up his fists, nor +put a chip upon his shoulder; but he knew what was expected of him, just +the same. He snapped instantly upon his back, received the cat with all +four of his feet, and gave Mr. Tom such a combing down that his golden fur +went flying off like thistle-down in autumn. + +It was all over in less than half a minute. I think Tom must have made a +new record for himself in the running high jump when he broke away from +his ring-tailed antagonist. He struck out across the yard and landed +midway up the clothes-post with a single bound. And Mux? He ambled on +around the yard, as calm and unconcerned as if he had only stopped to +scratch himself. + +Much of this unconcern, however, was a quiet kind of swagger. When he +thought no one fiercer than a chicken or the humbled Mr. Tom was looking, +he would shuffle across the yard with his coat collar turned up, his hat +over his eye, his elbows angled--just as if he had been born and bred on +the Bowery instead of in the Bear Swamp. He was king of the yard, but I +could see that he wore his crown uneasily. He kept a bold front, accepted +every challenge, and even went out of his way to pick a quarrel; yet he +quaked at heart continually. He feared and hated the noises of the yard, +particularly the crowing of our big buff cochin rooster and the screaming +of the guineas. This was one of the swamp-fears that he had brought with +him and could not outlive. It haunted him. If he had a conscience, its +only warnings were of coming noises great and terrible. + +But Mux had no conscience, unless it was one that troubled him only when +he was out of mischief. His face was never so long and so solemn as when I +had caught him in some questionable act or spoiled some wayward plan. + +Mux, however, was possessed by a much stubborner spirit than this +interesting mischief-devil. Upon one point he was positively demented--the +only four-footed maniac I ever knew. He had gone crazy on the subject of +dirt, mad to wash things, especially his victuals. + +He was not particular about what he ate; almost anything that could be +swallowed would do, provided that it could be washed, and washed by +himself, after his own approved fashion. + +If I gave him half of my apple, he would squat down by his wash-tub and +begin to hunt for dirt. He would look the apple over and over, pick +around the blossom end, inspect carefully, then pull out the stem, if +there happened to be a stem, dig out the seeds and peek into the core, +then douse it into the water and begin to wash. He would rub with might +and main for a second or two, then rinse it, take a bite, and douse it +back again for more scrubbing, until it was scrubbed and chewed away. + +Even when the water was thick with mud, this crazy coon persisted in +washing his clean cake and cabbage therein. Indeed, the muddier the water, +the more vigorously would he wash. The habit was a part of him, as real a +thing in his constitution as the black ring in his fur. It was a very +dirty habit, here in captivity, even if it went by the name of washing. Of +course Mux could not be blamed for his soiled wash-water. That was my +fault; only I couldn't be changing it every time he soaked up a fistful of +earth in his endeavor to wash something to eat out of it. No; he was not +at fault, altogether, for the mud in his tub. Out in the Bear Swamp, the +streams that wandered about under the great high-spreading gums, and lost +their way in the shadows, were crystal-clear and pure; and out there it +was intended that he should dwell, and in those sweet streams that he +should wash. But what a modicum of wit, of originality the little beast +had, that, because he was born a washer, wash he must, though he washed in +mud, nay, though he washed upon the upturned bottom of his empty tub!--for +this is what Mux did sometimes. + +I never blamed Aunt Milly for insisting upon this rather ill-sounding name +of "Mux" for the little coon. She was standing by his cage, shortly after +his arrival, watching him eat cabbage. He washed every clean white piece +of it in his oozy tub before tasting it, coating the bits over with mud as +you do the lumps of fondant with chocolate in making "chocolate creams." +Aunt Milly looked at him for some time with scornful face and finally +exclaimed: + +"Umph! Dat animile am a dumb beast shu'! Rubbin' dirt right inter clean +cabbage! Sich muxin'! mux, mux, mux! Dat a coon? Dat ain't no coon. Dat's +a mux!" And she scuffed off to the house, mumbling, "De muxinest thing I +done evah seen." Hence his name. + +If there is one sweetmeat sweeter than all others to a coon, it is a +frog. It was not mere chance that Mux was born in the edge of the Bear +Swamp, close to the wide marshes that ran out to the river. This was the +great country of the frogs--the milk-and-honey country to the ring-tailed +family in the hollow gum. But Mux had never tasted frog. He had not been +weaned when I kidnapped him. One day, wishing to see if he knew what a +frog was, I carelessly offered him a big spotted fellow that I had caught +in the meadow. + +Did he know a frog? He fairly snatched the poor thing from me, killed it, +and started around the cage with it in his mouth, dancing like a cannibal. +His long, serious face was more thoughtful and solemn, however, than +usual. I was puzzled. I had heard of dancing at funerals. Either this was +such a dance, or else some wild orgy to propitiate the spirits that +preside over the destiny of coons. + +Throughout this gruesome rite Mux held the frog in his mouth, and I +watched, expecting, hoping every moment that he would swallow it. Suddenly +he stopped, sat down by his tub, pulled some dead grass out of it, +plunged the frog in, and began to scrub it--began to scrub the frog in the +oozy contents of that tub, when the poor amphibian had been soaking in +spring-water ever since it was a tadpole! + +No matter. The frog must be washed. And washed it was. It was scoured +first with all his might, then placed in the bottom of the tub, under +water, held down by one fore paw, until the maniac could get in with his +hind feet upon it, and then danced upon; from here it was laid upon the +floor of the cage and kneaded until as limp as a lump of dough; then +lifted daintily, it was shaken round and round in the water, rinsed and +wrung, and minutely inspected, and--swallowed. + +I felt justified in keeping this animal caged. He was not fit to run loose +even in the Bear Swamp. Perhaps I have done him wrong in this story of the +frog. Frogs may need washing, after all, despite the fact that they are +never out of the bath-tub long enough to dry off once in their whole +lives. Mux knew more about frogs than I, doubtless. But Mux insisted upon +washing oysters. + +Now there are few people clothed in sane minds who do not like raw +oysters. Mark this, however: when you see a person wash raw oysters, keep +out of his way; he has lost either his wits or his morals. The only two +creatures I ever knew to wash raw oysters were Mux and an oyster-dealer in +Cambridge Street, Boston. I saw this dealer take up a two-gallon can that +had just arrived at his store, and dump the dark salty shell-fish into a +great colander, stick the end of a piece of rubber hose in among them, +turn the water on? and stir and soak them. How white they got! How fat +they got! How their ghastly corpses swelled! + +Mux did not wash his to see them swell, but simply that he might take no +chances with dirt--or poison, for I used to think sometimes that he +thought I was trying to poison him. He was desperately fond of oysters. +But who could cast his pearls, or, to be scientifically and literally +correct, his mothers of pearls, before such a swine? Mux had just one +plateful of oysters while I was his keeper. They were nice plump fellows, +and when I saw the maniac soak one all stringy and tasteless I poured his +wash-water out. Was he to be balked that way! No, no. He took oyster +number two, flopped it into the empty tub, scoured it around on the muddy +bottom, looked it over as carefully as he had done stringy number one, and +swallowed sandy, muddy number two with just as much relish. + +This was too much. I cuffed him and took away the tub. This I suppose was +wrong, for I understand you must never oppose crazy persons. Well, Mux +helped himself to oyster number three. There was no water, no tub. But +what were oysters for if not to be washed? And who was he but _Procyon +lotor_--_Procyon_ "the washer"? Can the leopard change his spots or the +racoon his habits? Can he? Shall he? I could almost hear him muttering +under his breath, "To be, or not to be: that is the question." Then he +darted a triumphantly malicious glance at me, retreated to the back of his +cage, thrust his oyster out of sight beneath the straw of his bed, and +washed it--washed the oyster in the straw, washed it into a fistful of +sticks and chaff, and gloated as he swallowed it. + + + + +RACOON CREEK + + + + +[Illustration] + +RACOON CREEK + + Into the wode to her the briddes sing. + + +I + +Over the creek, and clearing it by a little, hung a snow-white, stirless +mist, its under surface even and parallel with the face of the water, its +upper surface peaked and billowed half-way to the tops of the +shore-skirting trees. + +As I dipped along, my head was enveloped in the cloud; but bending over +the skiff, I could see far up the stream between a mist-ceiling and a +water-floor, as through a long, low room. How deep and dark seemed the +water! And the trees how remote, aërial, and floating! as if growing in +the skies, with no roots' fast hold of the earth. Filling the valley, +conforming to every bend and stretch of the creek, lay the breath of the +water, motionless and sheeted, a spirit stream, hovering over the sluggish +current a moment, before it should float upward and melt away. It was +cold, too, as a wraith might be, colder than the water, for the June sun +had not yet risen over the swamp. + +At the bridge where the road crossed was a dam which backed the creek out +into an acre or more of pond. Not a particle of mud discolored the water; +but it was dark, and as it came tumbling, foaming over the moss-edged +gates it lighted up a rich amber color, the color of strong tea. In the +half chill of the dawn the old bridge lay veiled in smoking spray, in a +thin, rising vapor of spicy odors, clean, medicinal odors, as of the +brewing of many roots, the fragrance of shores of sedges, ferns, and +aromatic herbs steeped in the slow, soft tide. And faint across the creek, +the road, and the fields lay the pondy smell of spatter-docks. + +I pushed out from the sandy cove and lay with a reach of the lusty docks +between me and either shore. It was early morning. The yellow, dew-laid +road down which I came still slumbered undisturbed; the village cows had +not been milked, and the pasture slope, rounding with a feminine grace of +curve and form, lay asleep, with its sedgy fingers trailing in the water; +even the locomotive in the little terminal round-house over the hill was +not awake and wheezing. But the creek people were stirring--except the +frogs. They were growing sleepy. The long June night they had improved, +soberly, philosophically; and now, seeing nothing worth while in the dawn +of this wonder day, they had begun to doze. But the birds were alive, full +of the crisp June morning, of its overflow of gladness, and were telling +their joy in chorus up and down both banks of the creek. + + Hearkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe. + +Do you mean out in Finsbury Moor, Father Chaucer? They were sweet along +the banks of the Walbrook, I know, for among them "maken melodye" were the +skylark, ethereal minstrel! and the nightingale. But, Father Chaucer, you +should have heard the wood-thrushes, the orchard-orioles--this whole +morning chorus singing along the creek! No one may know how blissful, how +wide, how thrilling the singing of birds can be unless he has listened +when the summer mists are rising over Racoon Creek. + +There is no song-hour after sun rise to compare with this for spirit and +volume of sound. The difference between the singing in the dusk and in the +dawn is the difference between the slow, sweet melody of a dirge and the +triumphant, full-voiced peal of a wedding march. Even one who has always +lived in the country can scarcely believe his ears the first time he is +afield in June at the birds' awaking-hour. + +Robins led the singing along the creek. They always do. In New Jersey, +Massachusetts, Michigan,--everywhere it is the same,--they out-number all +rivals three to one. It is necessary to listen closely in order to +distinguish the other voices. This particular morning, however, the +wood-thrushes were all arranged up the copsy hillside at my back, and so +reinforced each other that their part was not overborne by robin song. One +of the thrushes was perched upon a willow stub along the edge of the +water, so near that I could see every flirt of his wings, could almost +count the big spots in his sides. Softly, calmly, with the purest joy he +sang, pausing at the end of every few bars to preen and call. His song was +the soul of serenity, of all that is spiritual. Accompanied by the lower, +more continuous notes from among the trees, it rose, a clear, pure, +wonderful soprano, lifting the whole wide chorus nearer heaven. + +Farther along the creek, on the border of the swamp, the red-shouldered +blackbirds were massed; chiming in everywhere sang the catbirds, +white-eyed vireos, yellow warblers, orchard-orioles, and Maryland +yellowthroats; and at short intervals, soaring for a moment high over the +other voices, sounded the thrilling, throbbing notes of the cardinal, +broken suddenly and drowned by the roll of the flicker, the wild, weird +cry of the great-crested flycatcher, or the rapid, hay-rake rattle of the +belted kingfisher. + +All at once a narrow breeze cut a swath through the mist just across my +bows, turned, spread, caught the severed cloud in which I was drifting, +and whirled it up and away. The head of the pond and the upper creek were +still shrouded, while around me only breaths of the white flecked the +water and the spatter-docks. The breeze had not stirred a ripple; the +current here in the broad of the pond was imperceptible; and I lay +becalmed on the edge of the open channel, among the rank leaves and golden +knobs of the docks. + +A crowd of chimney-swallows gathered over the pond for a morning bath. +Half a hundred of them were wheeling, looping, and cutting about me in a +perfect maze of orbits, as if so many little black shuttles had borrowed +wings and gone crazy with freedom. They had come to wash--a very proper +thing to do, for there are few birds or beasts that need it more. It was +highly fitting for sooty little Tom, seeing he had to turn into something, +to become a Water Baby. And if these smaller, winged sweeps of our +American chimneys are contemplating a metamorphosis, it ought to be toward +a similar life of soaking. + +They must have been particularly sooty this morning. One plunge apiece, so +far from sufficing, seemed hardly a beginning. They kept diving in over +and over, continuing so long that finally I grew curious to know how many +dips they were taking, and so, in order to count his dives, I singled one +out, after most of the flock had done and gone off to hawk. How many he +had taken before I marked him, and how many more he took after I lost him +among the other birds, I cannot say; but, standing up in the skiff, I +followed him around and around until he made his nineteenth splash,--in +less than half as many minutes,--when I got so groggy that his twentieth +splash I came near taking with him. + +The pond narrows toward the head, and just before it becomes a creek again +the channel turns abruptly through the docks in against the right shore, +where the current curls and dimples darkly under the drooping branches of +great red maple; then it horseshoes into the middle, coming down through +small bush-islands and tangled brush which deepen into an extensive swamp. + +June seemed a little tardy here, but the elder, the rose, and the panicled +cornel were almost ready, the button-bushes were showing ivory, while the +arrow-wood, fully open, was glistening snowily everywhere, its tiny flower +crowns falling and floating in patches down-stream, its over-sweet breath +hanging heavy in the morning mist. My nose was in the air all the way for +magnolias and water-lilies, yet never a whiff from either shore, so +particular, so unaccountably notional are some of the high-caste flowers +with regard to their homes. + +The skiff edged slowly past the first of the islands, a mere hummock about +a yard square, and was turning a sharp bend farther up, when I thought I +had a glimpse of yellowish wings, a mere guess of a bird shadow, dropping +among the dense maple saplings and elder of the islet. + +Had I seen or simply imagined something? If I had seen wings, then they +were not those of the thrasher,--the first bird that came to mind,--for +they slipped, sank, dropped through the bushes, with just a hint of +dodging in their movement, not exactly as a thrasher would have moved. + +Drifting noiselessly back, I searched the tangle and must have been +looking directly at the bird several seconds before cutting it out from +the stalks and branches. It was a least bittern, a female. She was +clinging to a perpendicular stem of elder, hand over hand, wren fashion, +her long neck thrust straight into the air, absolutely stiff and +statuesque. + +We were less than a skiff's length apart, each trying to outpose and +outstare the other. I won. Human eyes are none the strongest, neither is +human patience, yet I have rarely seen a creature that could outwait a +man. The only steady, straightforward eye in the Jungle was +Mowgli's--because it was the only one with a steady mind behind it. As +soon as the bird let herself look me squarely in the eye, she knew she was +discovered, that her little trick of turning into a stub was seen through; +and immediately, ruffling her feathers, she lowered her head, poked out +her neck at me, and swaying from side to side like a caged bear, tried to +scare me, glaring and softly growling. + +Off she flopped as I landed. The nest might be upon the ground or lodged +among the bushes; but the only ground space large enough was covered layer +over layer with pearly clam-shells, the kitchen-midden of some muskrat; +and the bushes were empty. I went to the other islets, searched bog and +tangle, and finally pulled away disappointed, giving the least bittern +credit for considerable mother-wit and woodcraft. How little wit she +really had appeared on my return down-creek that afternoon. + +I had now entered the high, overhanging swamp, where the shaggy trees, the +looping vines, and the rank, pulpous undergrowth grew thick on both sides, +reaching far back, a wet, heavy wilderness without a path, except for the +silent feet of the mink and the otter, and the more silent feet of the +creek, here a narrow stream winding darkly down through the shadows. + +Every little while along the rooty, hummocky banks of the creek I would +pass a muskrat's slide. Here was one at the butt of a tulip-poplar, its +platform wet and freshly trodden, its "dive" shooting sheer over a root +into the stream. Farther on stood a large tussock whose top was trampled +flat and covered with sedge-roots. I could not resist putting my nose down +for a sniff, so good is the smell of a fresh trail, so close are we to the +rest of the pack. In the thick of the swamp I stopped a moment to examine +the footprints of an otter at a shallow, shelving place along the bank, +where, opening through the skunk-cabbage and Indian turnip, and covered +almost ankle-deep with water, was the creature's runway. + +I had moved leisurely along, yet not aimlessly. The whole June day was +mine to waste; but it would not be well wasted if nothing more purposeful +than wasting were in mind. + +One does not often drift to a port. Going into the woods to see anything +is a very sure way of seeing little or nothing; and taking the path to +anywhere is certain to lead one nowhere in particular. Many interested, +nature-loving people fail to enjoy the out-of-doors simply because they +have no definite spot to reach, no flower, bird, or bug to find when they +enter the fields and woods. Going forth "to commune with nature" sounds +very fine, but it is much more difficult work than conversing with the +Sphinx. In order to draw near to nature I require a pole with a hook and +line on the end of it. While I watch the float and wait, if there is any +communion, it is nature who holds it with me through the medium of the +pole. I need to have an errand to do; some berries to pick, a patch of +potatoes to hoe (a very small patch); an engagement to keep, like +Thoreau, with a tree, if I hope to squander with profit even the laziest +summer day. + +I was heading up-stream toward a deep sandy-sided pool that was bottomed, +or rather unbottomed, by the shadows of overhanging beeches. The pool was +alive with racoon-perch. A few mornings before this, a boy from a +neighboring farm had come to fish here and had found a fisher ahead of +him. He was just about to cast, when back under the limbs of the beeches +the water broke, and a mink rose to the surface with a fine perch twisting +in her jaws. Straight toward the boy she swam till within reach of his +rod, when she recognized the human in him, turned a back-dive somersault, +and vanished. + +Would she be fishing again this morning? I hoped so. It was her hour--the +hour of the rising mist; visitors rarely found their way to the pool; and +I knew the appearance of the boy had given her no lasting alarm. + +Floating around the bend, I pulled in among the shore bushes by a bit of +grape-vine, and sitting down upon it, made my boat fast. I had planned +the trip with the hope of seeing this mink; so I waited, quite hidden, +though having the pool in full view. An hour passed, but no mink appeared. +Another hour, and the sun was breaking upon the beeches, and the mist was +gone; yet no mink came to fish. And what mink would? Of course you must +have it in mind to see a mink fish if you wish to see anything; but the +day you really catch the mink fishing will likely be the day you went out +to watch for muskrats. + +So an hour's waiting is rarely fruitless. The mink did not come, but +another and quite as expert a fisher did. All the way up the creek I had +been hearing the throaty _ghouw-bhouw_ of a great blue heron off in the +swamp. It was he that came for perch. + +The flapping of the great blue heron is a sight good for the soul--an +unheard-of motion these days, so moderate, unhurried, and time-contemning! +The wing-beats of this one, as he came dangling down upon the meadow +opposite me, have often given me pause since. If I could have the wings of +the great blue heron and flap to my fishing now and again! + +On alighting, however, he was instantly all nerve and tension. With the +utmost caution he came over the high sedges on his stilt-like legs to the +brink of the creek and posed. I doubt if a frog or a minnow could have +told he was a thing of life. Stiff as a stub, every muscle taut, all +alert, he stood, till--flash! and the long pointed bill pinned a perch, a +foot and a half beneath the water. He had quite made out a breakfast, +when, stepping upon a tall tussock, he stood face to face with me--a human +spectator! It was only for a moment that I could keep motionless enough to +puzzle him. Some muscle must have twitched, for he understood and leaped +into the air with a croak of mortal fright. + + +II + +The creek was roped off by the sagging fox grape-vines, and barred, from +this point on, by the alders, so that I gave up all attempt at farther +ascent. I had already given up the mink; yet I waited under the beeches. + +It was blazing overhead, growing hotter and closer all the time, with +hardly breeze enough to disturb the sleep of the leaf shadows on the +sleepy stream. A rusty, red-bellied water-snake, in a mat of briers near +by, relaxed and straightened slowly out,--and softly, that I might not be +attracted,--stretching himself to the warmth. I could have broken his back +with my paddle, and perhaps, by so doing, saved the nestlings of a pair of +Maryland yellowthroats fidgeting about near him. He had eaten many a young +bird of these bushes, I was sure--yet only circumstantially sure. Catching +him in the act of robbing a nest would have been different; I should have +felt justified then in despatching him. But to strike him asleep in the +sun simply because he was a snake would have robbed the spot of part of +its life and spirit and robbed me of serenity for the rest of the day. I +should not have been, able to enjoy the quiet again until I had said my +prayers and slept. + +And as between the hawks and other wild birds, we need not interfere. +While the water-snake was spreading himself, a small hawk, a +sharp-shinned, I think, came beating over the meadow and was met by a +vigilance committee of red-shouldered blackbirds. He did not stop to eat +any of them, but darted up, and they after him. On up he went, round and +round in a rapid, mounting spiral, till only one of the daring redwings +followed. I watched. Up they went, higher than I had ever seen a blackbird +venture before. And against such unequal odds! But the hawk was scared and +had not stopped to look back. He circled; the blackbird cut across inside +and caught him on almost every round. And still higher in pure bravado the +redwing forced him. I began to tremble for the plucky bird, when I saw him +turn, half fold his shining wings, and shoot straight down--a meteor of +jet with fire flying from its opposite sides--down, down, while I held my +breath. Suddenly the wings flashed, and he was scaling a steep incline; +another flash, a turn, and he was upon a slower plane--had thrown himself +against the air and settled upon the swaying top of a brown cattail. + +A quiet had been creeping over the swamp and meadow. The dry rasp of a +dragon-fly's wings was loud in the grass. The stream beneath the beeches +darkened and grew moody as the light neared its noon intensity; the +beech-leaves hung limp and silent; a catbird settled near me with dropped +tail and head drawn in between her shoulders, as mute as the leaves; the +Maryland yellowthroat broke into a sharp gallop of song at intervals,--he +would have to clatter a little on doomsday, if that day fell in June,--but +the intervals were far apart. The meadow shimmered. No part of the horizon +was in sight--only the sky overhanging the little open of grass, and this +was cloudless, though far from blue. + +Perhaps there was not a real sign of uneasiness anywhere except in my +boat; yet I felt something ominous in this silent, stifled noon. After +all, I ought to have scotched the rusty, red-bellied water-snake leering +at me now. The croak of the great blue heron sounded again; then far away, +mysterious and spirit-like, floated a soft _qua, qua, qua_--the cry of the +least bittern out of the heart of the swamp. + +I loosed the grape-vine, put in my paddle, and turned down-stream, with an +urgent desire to get out of the swamp, out where I could see about me. I +made no haste, lest the stream, the swamp, the something that made me +uneasy, should know. Not that I am superstitious, though I should have +been had I lived when the land was all swamp and wood and prairie; and I +should be now were I a sailor. My boat slipped swiftly along under the +thick-shadowing trees, and rounding a sharp bend, brought me to the open +pond, to the sky, and to a sight that explained my disquietude. The west, +half-way to the zenith, was green--the black-and-blue green of bruised +flesh. Out of it shot a fork of lightning, and behind it rumbled muffled +thunder. + +There was no time to descend the pond. I could already hear the wind +across the silence and suspense. It was one of the supreme moments of the +summer. The very trees seemed breathless and awe-struck. Pushing quickly +to the wooded shore, I drew out the boat, turned it over, and crawled +under it just as the leaves stirred with the first cool, wet breath. + +There was an instant's lull, a tremor through the ground; then the rending +and crunching of the wind monster in the oaks, the shriek of the forest +victim--and the wind was gone. The rain followed with fearful violence, +the lightning sizzled and cracked among the trees, and the thunder burst +just above the boat--all holding on to finish the wind's work. + +It was soon over. The leaves were dripping when I crept out of my shell; +the afternoon sun was blinking through a million gleaming tears, and the +storm was rumbling far away, behind the swamp. A robin lighted upon a +branch over me, and set off its load of drops, which rattled down on my +boat's bottom like a charge of shot. I glided into the stream. Down the +pond where I had seen the sullen clouds was now an indescribable freshness +and glory of shining hills and shining sky. The air had been washed and +was still hanging across the heavens undried. The maple-leaves showed +silver; the flock of chimney-swifts had returned, and among them, +twinkling white and blue and brown, were tree-swallows and barn-swallows +squeaking in their flight like new harness; a pair of night-hawks played +back and forth across the water, too, awakened, probably, by the thunder, +or else mistaken in the green darkness of the storm, thinking it the +twilight; and the creek up and down as far as I could hear was ringing +with bird-calls. + +There had been a perceptible rise and quickening of the current. It was +slightly roiled and carried a floatage of broken twigs, torn leaves, with +here and there a golden-green tulip-petal, like the broken wings of +butterflies. + +I was in no hurry now, in no disquietude. The swamp and the storm were at +my back. Before me lay the pond, the pastures, and the roofs of a human +village--all bathed in the splendor of the year's divinest hour. It had +not been a perfect day, but these closing hours were perfect, so perfect +that they redeemed the whole, and not that day only: they were perfect +enough to have redeemed the whole of creation travailing till then in +pain. + +Because I turned from all this sunset glory to find out what little bird +was making the very big fuss near by, and because, parting the foliage of +an arrow-wood bush, I looked with exquisite pleasure into the nest of a +white-eyed vireo, does it mean that I am still unborn as to soul? For some +reason it was a relief to look away from that west of vast and burning +color to the delicately dotted eggs in the tiny cradle--the same relief +felt in descending from a mountain-top to the valley; in turning from the +sweep of the sea to watch beach-fleas hopping over the sand; in giving +over the wisdom of men for the gabble of my little boys. + +How the vireo scolded! and her mate! He half sang his threat and defiance. +"Come, get out of this! Come; do you hear?" he cried over and over, as I +peeked into the nest. It was a thick-walled, exquisite bit of a basket, +rimmed round with green, growing moss, worked over with shredded bark and +fragments of yellow wood from a punky stump across the stream, and +suspended by spider-webs upon two parallel twigs about three feet above +the water. It was not consciously worked out by the birds, of course, but +the patch of yellow-wood fragments on the side of the nest exactly matched +the size and color of the fading cymes of arrow-wood blossoms all over the +bush, so that I mistook the little domicile utterly on first parting the +leaves. A crow or a snake would never have discovered it from that side. + +Paddling down, I was soon out of earshot of the scolding vireos, but the +little cock's vigorous, ringing song followed me to the head of the pond. +Flying heavily over from the meadows with folded neck and dangling legs +came a little green heron--the "poke." I spun round behind a big clump of +elder to watch him; but he saw me, veered, gulped aloud, and pulled off +with a rapid stroke up the creek. + +As I turned, my eye fell upon a soft, yellowish something in the +rose-bushes across the docks. I was slow to believe. It was too good to be +credited all at once. Within three paddle-lengths of my boat, in a patch +of dark that must be a nest, stood my least bittern. + +I sat still for several seconds, tasting the joy of my discovery and +anticipating the look into the nest. Then, upon my knees in the bow of the +skiff, I pulled up by means of the stout dock-leaves until almost able to +touch the bird, when she walked off down a dead stalk to the ground, +clucking and growling at me. + +It wasn't a nest to boast of; but she might boast of her eggs, for there +was more of eggs than of nest--a great deal more. A few sticks had been +laid upon the ends of the bending rose-bushes, and this flimsy, inadequate +platform was literally covered by the five dirty-white eggs. The hen had +to stand on the bushes straddling the nest in order to brood. How she ever +got as close to the nest as that without spilling its contents was hard to +see; for I took an egg out and had the greatest difficulty in putting it +back, so little room was there, so near to nothing for it to rest upon. + +Working back into the channel, I gave the skiff to the easy current and +drew slowly along toward the foot of the pond. + +The sun had gone down behind the hill; the flame had faded from the sky, +and over the rim of the circling slopes poured the soft, cool twilight, +with a breeze as soft and cool, and a spirit that was prayer. Drifting +across the pond as gently as the gray half-light fell a shower of lint +from the willow catkins. The swallows had left; but from the leafy +darkness of the copse in front of me, piercing the dreamy, foamy roar of +the distant dam, came the notes of a wood-thrush, pure, sweet, and +peaceful, speaking the soul of the quiet time. My boat grated softly on +the sandy bottom of the cove and swung in. Out from the deep shadow of the +wooded shore, out over the pond, a thin white veil was creeping--the +mist, the breath of the sleeping water, the spirit of the stream. And away +up the creek a distorted, inarticulate sound--the hoarse, guttural croak +of the great blue heron, the weird, uncanny cry of the night, the mock, +the menace of the tangled, untamed swamp! + + + + +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE + + +My path to Cubby Hollow ran along a tumbling worm-fence, down a gravelly +slope, and across a strip of swale, through which flowed the stream that +farther on widened into the Hollow. A small jungle of dog-roses, elder, +and blackberry tangled the banks of the stream, spreading into flanks of +cinnamon-fern that crept well up the hillsides. + +As I descended the gravelly slope, my path led through the ferns into a +tunnel of vines, to a rail over the water, and on up to the woods. By the +middle of June the tangle, except by the half-broken path, was almost +rabbit-proof. The rank ferns waved to my chin, and were so thick that +they left little trace of my passing until late in the summer. + +This bit of the swale from the lower edge of the gravelly slope to the +edge of the woods on the opposite slope was the lair of a dragon. My path +cut directly across it. + +Perhaps the dragon had been there ever since I had known the swale, and +summer after summer had allowed me to cross unchallenged. I do not know. I +only know that one day he rose out of the ferns before me--the longest, +ugliest, boldest beast that ever withstood me in the quiet walks about +home. + +It was a day in early July, hot and very close. I was wading the sunken +trail, much as one "treads water," my head not always above the surface of +the fronds, when, suddenly, close to my side the ferns in a single spot +were violently shaken. Instantly ahead of me they whirled again' and +before I could think, off across the path was another rush and whirl--then +stirless silence. + +I knew what it meant. These were not the sudden, startled leaps of three +animals, but the lightning movements of one. I had crossed the path of a +swamp black-snake, and judging from the speed and whirl, it was a snake of +uncommon size. + +The path, a few paces farther on, opened into a small patch of low grass. +Just as I was getting through the brake to this spot I stopped short with +a chill. In the ferns near me shrilled a hissing whistle, a weird, creepy +whistle that made me cold--a fierce, menacing sound, all edge, and so thin +that it slivered every nerve in me. And then, without a stir in the brake, +up out of the low grass in front of me rose a blue-black, glittering head. + +I have little faith in the spell of a snake's eye, yet for a moment I was +held by the subtle, masterful face that had risen so unexpectedly, so +coolly before me. It was lifted a foot out of the grass. The head upon its +lithe, round neck was poised motionless, but set as with a hair-spring. +The flat, pointed face was turned upon me, so that I could see a patch of +white upon the throat. Evidently the snake had just sloughed an old skin, +for the sunlight gleamed iridescent on the shining jet scales. It was not +a large head; it lacked the shovel-nose and the heavy, horrid jaws of the +rattle-snake. But it was clean-cut, with power in every line of jaw and +neck; with power and speed and certainty in the pose, so easy, ready, and +erect. There was no fear in the creature's eye, something rather of +aggressiveness, and of such evil cunning that I stood on guard. + +Afraid of a snake? of a black-snake! No. I think, indeed, there are few +persons who really do fear snakes. It is not fear, but nerves. I have +tamed more black-snakes than I have killed. I should not care a straw if +one bit me. Yet, for all of that, the meeting with any black-snake is so +unlocked for as always to be unnerving. But let a huge one whip about you +in the brake, chill you with an unearthly hissing whistle, then suddenly +rise in front of you, glittering, challenging, sinister! You will be +abashed. I was; and I shall never outgrow the weakness. + +It was a big snake. I had not been mistaken in its size. There is nothing +on earth that shrinks as a _dead_ snake; and this one, so far as I know, +is still alive; yet, allowing generously for my imagination, I am sure +the creature measured six feet. His neck, just behind the jaws, was nearly +the size of a broom-handle, which meant a long, hard length curved out in +the ferns behind. It was a male; I could tell by the peculiar musk on the +air, an odor like cut cucumbers. + +Fully a minute we eyed each other. Then I took a step forward. The +glittering head rose higher. Off in the ferns there beat a warning +tattoo--the loud whir of the snake's tail against a skunk-cabbage leaf. + +In my hand was a slender dogwood switch that I had been poking into the +holes of the digger-wasps up the hillside. If one thing more than another +will turn a snake tail to in a hurry it is the song of a switch. Expecting +to see this overbold fellow jump out of his new skin and lunge off into +the swale, I leaned forward and made the stick sing under his nose. But he +did not jump or budge. He only bent back out of range, swayed from side to +side, and drew more of his black length out into the low grass to better +his position. + +The lidless eyes and scale-cased face of a snake might seem incapable of +more than one set expression. Can hate and fear show there? They +certainly can, at least to my imagination. If ever hate and fear mantled a +face, they did this one in the grass. The sound of the switch only +maddened the creature. He had too long dictated terms in this part of the +swale to crawl aside for me. + +Nor would I give way to him. But I ceased switching, drew back a step, and +looked at him with more respect than I ever before showed a snake. + +The curved neck straightened at that, the glinting head swayed forward, +and shivering through me as the swish of a stick never shivered through a +snake, sounded that unearthly hissing whistle. For a second--for just the +fraction of a second that it takes to jump--I was, not scared, but +shocked; and I slipped on something underfoot. In three directions I +wallowed the ferns before I got to my feet to watch the snake again, and +by that time the snake was gone. + +I found myself somewhat muddy and breathing a little hard; but I was not +wholly chagrined. I had heard and seen a black-snake whistle. I had never +even known of the habit before. + +Since then I have seen one other snake do it, and I think I have heard +the sound three or four times. It is almost indescribable. The jaws were +closed as it was made, not even the throat moving, that I could see. The +air seemed to be blown violently through the nostrils, though sounding as +if driven through the teeth--a shrilling hiss, fine and piercing, which +one not so much hears as feels, crisping cold along his nerves. + +It may seem strange, but I believe this whistle is a mating-call. Even the +forked tongue (or maybe the nose) of a snake grows vocal with love. If +only the Sphinx had not possessed a heart of stone! No matter about its +lips; with a heart to know the "spring running" we should have heard its +story long ago. Perhaps, after all, the college sophomore was not mixing +his observations and Sunday-school memories when he wrote, describing the +dawn of a spring morning (I quote from his essay): "Beneath in the water +the little fishes darted about the boat; above the little birds twittered +in the branches; while off on a sunny log in the pond the soft, sibilant +croak of the mud-turtle was heard on the shore." If we could happen upon +the mud-turtle mad with love, I am sure we should find that he had a +voice--a "soft, sibilant croak," who knows? + +I had long known the tradition among the farmers of the black-snake's +trailing its mate, following her by scent through grass and brush, +persistent and sure as a sleuth-hound, until at last she is won. I had +been told of this by eyewitnesses over and over, but I had always put it +down as a snake story, for these same witnesses would also tell me the +hoop-snake story, only it was their grandfathers, always, who had seen +this creature take its tail in its mouth and roll, and hit and kill a +fifty-dollar apple-tree (the tree was invariably worth fifty dollars). I +had small faith in the trailing tale. + +One day, the summer after my encounter in the ferns, I was sitting upon a +harrow at the edge of the gravelly field that slopes to the swale, when a +large black-snake glided swiftly across the lane and disappeared in the +grass beyond. It had been gone perhaps a minute, when I heard another stir +behind me, and turning, saw high above the weeds and dewberry-vines the +neck and head of a second black-snake. + +He was coming swiftly, evenly, carrying his gleaming head over a foot from +the ground, and following hard upon the trail of the first snake. He hit +very near the smooth, flowing mark in the dust of the lane. Here she had +crossed. Here he was about to cross when he caught sight of me. + +For a startled instant he stiffened, threw himself on the defensive, and +showed a white patch under his chin, an ugly, blazing light in his eye, +and a peculiarly aggressive attitude that there was no mistaking. I had +seen this snake before. I knew him. He was the dragon of the swale. + +Only pausing, he whirled, struck the track, and sped on, his round black +body stretching from rut to rut of the lane. A hundred feet beyond in the +grass I saw his glittering head rise and sway with a swimming motion as he +trailed the long, lithe beauty that was leading him this lightning race +across the fields. + +This was not the last time he crossed my path. He never withstood me +again; but he thwarted me several times. Once as I was descending the +slope I saw him gliding down from a low cedar. The distressing cries of +two chippies told me what he had been doing in the tree; I did not need to +look at the half-dislodged nest. Then and there I vowed to kill him, but +from that moment I never set eyes on him again. His evil work, however, +went on. In a clump of briers across the stream was the nest of a pair of +redbirds that I was watching. One day just before the young could fly they +were carried off. I knew who did it. On the same side, up under the fence +by the woods, a litter of rabbits was destroyed. The snake killed them. It +was he, too, who ate the eggs of the bluebirds in the old apple-tree along +the fence in the adjoining field. + +There must be a dragon in the way, I suppose--in the way even of nature +study. There are unpleasant, perhaps unnecessary, and evil +creatures--snakes!--in the fields and woods, which we must be willing to +meet and tolerate for the love within us. Tick-seeds, beggar-needles, mud, +mosquitos, rain, heat, hawks, and snakes haunt all our paths, hindering us +sometimes, though never really blocking the way. + +But the dragon in the swale--ought I to tolerate him? No. There are +moments when I should be glad to kill him, yet I doubt if the swale would +be quite so wild and thrilling a spot if I knew there was no dragon to +meet me as I crossed. But the redbirds, bluebirds, rabbits? I see no +shrinking in their numbers because of the snake. A few of them breed as +they always have along the swale. There are worse enemies than the dragon, +though he is bad enough. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Roof and Meadow, by Dallas Lore Sharp + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14701 *** diff --git a/14701-h/14701-h.htm b/14701-h/14701-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e63f27 --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/14701-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2769 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Roof and Meadow, by Dallas Lore Sharp. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 10em;} + .poem span.i12 {display: block; margin-left: 12em;} + .poem span.i5 {display: block; margin-left: 5em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 6em;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:5%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14701 ***</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>Roof and Meadow</h1> + +<h2>By Dallas Lore Sharp</h2> + +<h2>Author of "A Watcher in the Woods"</h2> + +<h3>With Illustrations By Bruce Horsfall</h3> + +<h3>SCHOOL EDITION</h3> + + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img001" id="img001"></a> +<img src="images/img001.jpg" +alt="bird" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="center"><b>NEW YORK</b></p> + +<p class="center"><b>The Century Co.</b></p> + +<p class="center"><b>1911</b></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center">Copyright, 1903, 1904, by THE CENTURY CO.</p> + +<p class="center">Copyright, 1902, 1903, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.</p> + +<p class="center">Copyright, 1903, by THE CHAPPLE PUBLISHING CO. (Ltd.).</p> + +<p class="center">Copyright, 1902, 1903, by W.W. POTTER CO. (Ltd.).</p> + +<p class="center">Copyright, 1902, 1903, by PERRY MASON COMPANY</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Published April, 1904.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>TO</h2> +<h2>MY MOTHER</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p class="center"> + <a href="#BIRDS_FROM_A_CITY_ROOF"><b>BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THE_HUNTING_OF_THE_WOODCHUCK"><b>THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THREE_SERMONS"><b>THREE SERMONS</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THE_MARSH"><b>THE MARSH</b></a><br /> + <a href="#CALICO_AND_THE_KITTENS"><b>CALICO AND THE KITTENS</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THE_SPARROW_ROOST"><b>THE SPARROW ROOST</b></a><br /> + <a href="#MUXquot"><b>"MUX"</b></a><br /> + <a href="#RACOON_CREEK"><b>RACOON CREEK</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THE_DRAGON_OF_THE_SWALE"><b>THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE</b></a><br /> + </p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center">[<i><b>Transcriber's Note</b>: In this text, the spelling 'racoon' is used +consistently instead of 'raccoon'. I have kept this and any other unusual +spellings, retaining the character of the original.</i>]</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img009" id="img009"></a> +<img src="images/img009.jpg" +alt="Birds From a City Roof" title="" /> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>ROOF AND MEADOW</h1> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BIRDS_FROM_A_CITY_ROOF" id="BIRDS_FROM_A_CITY_ROOF" />BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>I laid down my book and listened. It was only the choking gurgle of a +broken rain-pipe outside: then it was the ripple and swish of a meadow +stream. To make out the voices of redwings and marsh-wrens in the rasping +notes of the city sparrows behind the shutter required <a name="Page_4" id="Page_4" />much more +imagination. But I did it. I wanted to hear, and the splash of the water +helped me.</p> + +<p>The sounds of wind and water are the same everywhere. Here at the heart of +the city I can forget the tarry pebbles and painted tin whenever my +rain-pipes are flooded. I can never be wholly shut away from the open +country and the trees so long as the winds draw hard down the alley past +my window.</p> + +<p>But I have more than a window and a broken rain-pipe. Along with my five +flights goes a piece of roof, flat, with a wooden floor, a fence, and a +million acres of sky. I couldn't possibly use another acre of sky, except +along the eastern horizon, where the top floors of some twelve-story +buildings intercept the dawn.</p> + +<p>With such a roof and such a sky, when I must, I can, with effort, get well +out of the city. I have never fished nor botanized here, but I have been +a-birding many times.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>Stone walls do not a prison make,</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>nor city streets a cage—if one have a roof.</p> + +<p>A roof is not an ideal spot for bird study. I would hardly, out of +preference, have chosen <a name="Page_5" id="Page_5" />this with its soot and its battlement of gaseous +chimney-pots, even though it is a university roof with the great gilded +dome of a state house shining down upon it. One whose feet have always +been in the soil does not take kindly to tar and tin. But anything open to +the sky is open to some of the birds, for the paths of many of the +migrants lie close along the clouds.</p> + +<p>Other birds than the passing migrants, however, sometimes come within +range of my look-out. The year around there are English sparrows and +pigeons; and all through the summer scarcely an evening passes when a few +chimney-swallows are not in sight.</p> + +<p>With the infinite number and variety of chimneys hedging me in, I +naturally expected to find the sky alive with swallows. Indeed, I thought +that some of the twenty-six pots at the corners of my roof would be +inhabited by the birds. Not so. While I can nearly always find a pair of +swallows in the air, they are surprisingly scarce, and, so far as I know, +they rarely build in the heart of the city. There are more canaries in my +block than chimney-swallows in all my sky.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6" />The swallows are not urban birds. The gas, the smoke, the shrieking +ventilators, and the ceaseless sullen roar of the city are hardly to their +liking. Perhaps the flies and gnats which they feed upon cannot live in +the air above the roofs. The swallows want a sleepy old town with big +thunderful chimneys, where there are wide fields and a patch of quiet +water.</p> + +<p>Much more numerous than the swallows are the night-hawks. My roof, in +fact, is the best place I have ever found to study their feeding habits. +These that flit through my smoky dusk may not make city nests, though the +finding of such nests would not surprise me. Of course a night-hawk's +<i>nest</i>, here or anywhere else, would surprise me; for like her cousin, the +whippoorwill, she never builds a nest, but stops in the grass, the gravel, +the leaves, or on a bare rock, deposits her eggs without even scratching +aside the sticks and stones that may share the bed, and in three days is +brooding them—brooding the stones too.</p> + +<p>It is likely that some of my hawks nest on the buildings in the +neighborhood. Night-hawks' eggs have occasionally been found <a name="Page_7" id="Page_7" />among the +pebbles of city roofs. The high, flat house-tops are so quiet and remote, +so far away from the noisy life in the narrow streets below, that the +birds make their nests here as if in a world apart. The twelve-and +fifteen-story buildings are as so many deserted mountain heads to them.</p> + +<p>None of the birds build on my roof, however. But from early spring they +haunt the region so constantly that their families, if they have families +at all, must be somewhere in the vicinity. Should I see them like this +about a field or thicket in the country it would certainly mean a nest.</p> + +<p>The sparrows themselves do not seem more at home here than do these +night-hawks. One evening, after a sultry July day, a wild wind-storm burst +over the city. The sun was low, glaring through a narrow rift between the +hill-crests and the clouds that spread green and heavy across the sky. I +could see the lower fringes of the clouds working and writhing in the +wind, but not a sound or a breath was in the air about me. Around me over +my roof flew the night-hawks. They were crying peevishly and skimming +close <a name="Page_8" id="Page_8" />to the chimneys, not rising, as usual, to any height.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the storm broke. The rain fell as if something had given way +overhead. The wind tore across the stubble of roofs and spires; and +through the wind, the rain, and the rolling clouds shot a weird, +yellow-green sunlight.</p> + +<p>I had never seen a storm like it. Nor had the night-hawks. They seemed to +be terrified, and left the sky immediately. One of them, alighting on the +roof across the street, and creeping into the lee of a chimney, huddled +there in sight of me until the wind was spent and a natural sunlight +flooded the world of roofs and domes and spires.</p> + +<p>Then they were all awing once more, hawking for supper. Along with the +hawking they got in a great deal of play, doing their tumbling and +cloud-coasting over the roofs just as they do above the fields.</p> + +<p>Mounting by easy stages of half a dozen rapid strokes, catching flies by +the way, and crying <i>peent-peent</i>, the acrobat climbs until I look a mere +lump on the roof; then ceasing his whimpering <i>peent</i>, he turns on bowed +wings and falls—shoots <a name="Page_9" id="Page_9" />roofward with fearful speed. The chimneys! Quick!</p> + +<p>Quick he is. Just short of the roofs the taut wings flash a reverse, there +is a lightning swoop, a startling hollow wind-sound, and the rushing bird +is beating skyward again, hawking deliberately as before, and uttering +again his peevish nasal cry.</p> + +<p>This single note, the only call he has besides a few squeaks, is far from +a song; farther still is the empty-barrel-bung-hole sound made by the air +in the rushing wings as the bird swoops in his fall. The night-hawk, alias +"bull-bat," does not sing. What a name bull-bat would be for a singing +bird! But a "voice" was never intended for the creature. Voice, beak, +legs, head—everything but wings and maw was sacrificed for a mouth. What +a mouth! The bird can almost swallow himself. Such a cleft in the head +could never mean a song; it could never be utilized for anything but a +fly-trap.</p> + +<p>We have use for fly-traps. We need some birds just to sit around, look +pretty, and warble. We will pay them for it in cherries or in whatever +they ask. But there is also a great need <a name="Page_10" id="Page_10" />for birds that kill insects. And +first among these are the night-hawks. They seem to have been designed for +this sole purpose. Their end is to kill insects. They are more like +machines than any other birds I know. The enormous mouth feeds an enormous +stomach, and this, like a fire-box, makes the power that works the +enormous wings. From a single maw have been taken eighteen hundred winged +ants, to say nothing of the smaller fry that could not be identified and +counted.</p> + +<p>But if he never caught an ant, never one of the fifth-story mosquitos that +live and bite till Christmas, how greatly still my sky would need him! His +flight is song enough. His cry and eery thunder are the very voice of the +summer twilight to me. And as I watch him coasting in the evening dusk, +that twilight often falls—over the roofs, as it used to fall for me over +the fields and the quiet hollow woods.</p> + +<p>There is always an English sparrow on my roof—which does not particularly +commend the roof to bird-lovers, I know. I often wish the sparrow an +entirely different bird, but I never wish him entirely away from the roof. +When <a name="Page_11" id="Page_11" />there is no other defense for him, I fall back upon his being a +bird. Any kind of a bird in the city! Any but a parrot.</p> + +<p>A pair of sparrows nest regularly in an eaves-trough, so close to the roof +that I can overhear their family talk. Round, loquacious, familiar Cock +Sparrow is a family man—so entirely a family man as to be nothing else at +all. He is a success, too. It does me good to see him build. He tore the +old nest all away in the early winter, so as to be ready. There came a +warm springish day in February, and he began. A blizzard stopped him, but +with the melting of the snow he went to work again, completing the nest by +the middle of March.</p> + +<p>He built for a big family, and he had it. Not "it" indeed, but <i>them</i>; for +there were three batches of from six to ten youngsters each during the +course of the season. He also did a father's share of work with the +children. I think he hated hatching them. He would settle upon the roof +above the nest, and chirp in a crabbed, imposed-upon tone until his wife +came out. As she flew briskly away, he would look disconsolately around at +the bright busy world, ruffle his <a name="Page_12" id="Page_12" />feathers, scold to himself, and then +crawl dutifully in upon the eggs.</p> + +<p>I knew how he felt. It is not in a cock sparrow to enjoy hatching eggs. I +respected him; for though he grumbled, as any normal husband might, still +he was "drinking fair" with Mrs. Sparrow. He built and brooded and foraged +for his family, if not as sweetly, yet as faithfully, as his wife. He +deserved his blessed abundance of children.</p> + +<p>Is he songless, sooty, uninteresting, vulgar? Not if you live on a roof. +He may be all of this, a pest even, in the country. But upon my roof, for +weeks at a stretch, his is the only bird voice I hear. Throughout the +spring, and far into the summer, I watch the domestic affairs in the +eaves-trough. During the winter, at nightfall, I see little bands and +flurries of birds scudding over and dropping behind the high buildings to +the east. They are sparrows on the way to their roost in the elms of an +old mid-city burial-ground.</p> + +<p>I not infrequently spy a hawk soaring calmly far away above the roof. Not +only the small ones, like the sharp-shinned, but also the larger, <a name="Page_13" id="Page_13" />wilder +species come, and winding up close to the clouds, circle and circle there, +trying apparently to see some meaning in the maze of moving, intersecting +lines of dots below yonder in the cracks of that smoking, rumbling blur.</p> + +<p>In the spring, from the trees of the Common, which are close, but, except +for the crown of one noble English elm, are shut away from me, I hear an +occasional robin and Baltimore oriole. Very rarely a woodpecker will go +over. The great northern shrike is a frequent winter visitor, but by ill +chance I have not been up when he has called at the roof.</p> + +<p>One of these fiend birds haunts a small court only a block away, which is +inclosed in a high board fence, topped with nails. He likes the court +because of these nails. They are sharp; they will stick clean through the +body of a sparrow. Sometimes the fiend has a dozen sparrows run through +with them, leaving the impaled bodies to flutter in the wind and finally +fall away.</p> + +<p>In sight from my roof are three tiny patches of the harbor; sometimes a +fourth, when the big red-funneled liner is gone from her slip.<a name="Page_14" id="Page_14" /> Down to +the water of the harbor in flocks from the north come other winter +visitors, the herring and black-backed gulls. Often during the winter I +find them in my sky.</p> + +<p>One day they will cross silently over the city in a long straggling line. +Again they will fly low, wheeling and screaming, their wild sea-voices +shrill with the sound of storm. If it is thick and gray overhead, the +snow-white bodies of the herring-gulls toss in the wind above the roofs +like patches of foam. I hear the sea—the wind, the surf, the wild, fierce +tumult of the shore—whenever the white gulls sail screaming into my +winter sky.</p> + +<p>I have never lived under a wider reach of sky than that above my roof. It +offers a clear, straight, six-minute course to the swiftest wedge of wild +geese. Spring and autumn the geese and ducks go over, and their passage is +the most thrilling event in all my bird calendar.</p> + +<p>It is because the ducks fly high and silent that I see them so rarely. +They are always a surprise. You look, and there against the dull sky they +move, strange dark forms that set your blood leaping. But I never see a +string of them <a name="Page_15" id="Page_15" />winging over that I do not think of a huge thousand-legger +crawling the clouds.</p> + +<p>My glimpses of the geese are largely chance, too. Several times, through +the open window by my table, I have heard the faint, far-off honking, and +have hurried to the roof in time to watch the travelers disappear. One +spring day I was upon the roof when a large belated flock came over, +headed north. It was the 20th of April, and the morning had broken very +warm. I could see that the geese were hot and tired. They were barely +clearing the church spires. On they came, their wedge wide and straggling, +until almost over me, when something happened. The gander in the lead +faltered and swerved, the wedge lines wavered, the flock rushed together +in confusion, wheeled, dropped, then broke apart, and honking wildly, +turned back toward the bay.</p> + +<p>It was instant and complete demoralization. A stronger gander, I think, +could have led the wedge unbroken over the city to some neighboring pond, +where the weakest of the stragglers, however, must have fallen from sheer +exhaustion.</p> + +<p>Scaling lower and lower across the roofs, the <a name="Page_16" id="Page_16" />flock had reached the +center of the city and had driven suddenly into the roar and confusion of +the streets. Weary from the heat, they were dismayed at the noise, their +leader faltered, and, at a stroke, the great flying wedge went to pieces.</p> + +<p>There is nothing in the life of birds quite so stirring to the imagination +as their migration: the sight of gathering swallows, the sudden appearance +of strange warblers, the call of passing plovers—all are suggestive of +instincts, movements, and highways that are unseen, unaccountable, and +full of mystery. Little wonder that the most thrilling poem ever written +to a bird begins:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5"><i>Whither, midst falling dew,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue</i><br /></span> +<span class="i5"><i>Thy solitary way?</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The question, the mystery in that "certain flight" I never felt so vividly +as from my roof. Here I have often heard the reed-birds and the water-fowl +passing. Sometimes I have heard them going over in the dark. One night I +re<a name="Page_17" id="Page_17" />member particularly, the sky and the air were so clear and the geese so +high in the blue.</p> + +<p>Over the fields and wide silent marshes such passing is strange enough. +But here I stood above a sleeping city of men, and far above me, so far +that I could only hear them, holding their northward way through the +starlit sky, they passed—whither? and how guided? Was the shining dome of +the State House a beacon? Did they mark the light at Marblehead?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img027" id="img027"></a> +<img src="images/img027.jpg" +alt="The Hunting of the Woodchuck" +title="The Hunting of the Woodchuck" /> +</div> + +<h2><a name="THE_HUNTING_OF_THE_WOODCHUCK" id="THE_HUNTING_OF_THE_WOODCHUCK" /><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18" /><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19" />THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<blockquote><p><i>... the chylde may Rue that ys vn-born, it wos the mor pitte.</i></p></blockquote> + + +<p>There was murder in my heart. The woodchuck knew it. He never had had a +thought before, but he had one now. It came hard and heavily, yet it +arrived in time; and it was not a slow thought for a woodchuck, +either—just a trifle better, indeed, than my own.</p> + +<p>This was the first time I had caught the woodchuck away from his hole. He +had left his old burrow in the huckleberry hillside, and dug a new hole +under one of my young peach-trees.<a name="Page_22" id="Page_22" /> I had made no objection to his +huckleberry hole. He used to come down the hillside and waddle into the +orchard in broad day, free to do and go as he pleased; but not since he +began to dig under the peach-tree.</p> + +<p>I discovered this new hole when it was only a foot deep, and promptly +filled it with stones. The next morning the stones were out and the cavity +two feet deeper. I filled it up again, driving a large squarish piece of +rock into the mouth, tight, certainly stopping all further work, as I +thought.</p> + +<p>There are woodchucks that you can discourage and there are those that you +can't. Three days later the piece of rock and the stones were piled about +the butt of the tree and covered with fresh earth, while the hole ran in +out of sight, with the woodchuck, apparently, at the bottom of it.</p> + +<p>I had tried shutting him out, now I would try shutting him in. It was +cruel—it would have been to anything but a woodchuck; I was ashamed of +myself for doing it, and went back the following day, really hoping to +find the burrow open.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23" />Never again would I worry over an imprisoned woodchuck; but then I should +never again try to destroy a woodchuck by walling up his hole, any more +than Br'er Fox would try to punish the rabbit by slinging him a second +time into the brier-patch.</p> + +<p>The burrow was wide open. I had stuffed and rammed the rocks into it, and +buried deep in its mouth the body of another woodchuck that my neighbor's +dog had killed. All was cleared away. The deceased relative was +gone—where and how I know not; the stones were scattered on the farther +side of the tree, and the passage neatly swept of all loose sand and +pebbles.</p> + +<p>Clearly the woodchuck had come to stay. I meant that he should move. I +could get him into a steel trap, for his wits are not abiding; they come +only on occasion. Woodchuck lives too much in the ground and too +constantly beside his own door to grow very wise. He can always be +trapped. So can any one's enemy. You can always murder. But no gentleman +strikes from behind. I hate the steel trap. I have set my last one. They +would be bitter <a name="Page_24" id="Page_24" />peaches on that tree if they cost the woodchuck what I +have seen more than one woodchuck suffer in the horrible jaws of such a +trap.</p> + +<p>But is it not perfectly legitimate and gentlemanly to shoot such a +woodchuck to save one's peaches? Certainly. So I got the gun and +waited—and waited—and waited. Did you ever wait with a gun until a +woodchuck came out of his hole? I never did. A woodchuck has just sense +enough to go into his hole—and stay in.</p> + +<p>There were too many woodchucks about and my days were too precious for me +to spend any considerable part of my summer watching with a gun for this +one. Besides, I have been known to fire and miss a woodchuck, anyway.</p> + +<p>So I gave up the gun. It was while thinking what I could do next that I +came down the row of young peach-trees and spied the woodchuck out in the +orchard, fifty yards away from his hole. He spied me at the same instant, +and rose upon his haunches.</p> + +<p>At last we were face to face. The time had come. It would be a fight to +the finish; and a fair fight, too, for all that I had about me in the way +of weapons was a pair of heavy, knee-high <a name="Page_25" id="Page_25" />hunting-boots, that I had put +on against the dew of the early morning. All my thought and energy, all my +hope, centered immediately in those boots.</p> + +<p>The woodchuck kept his thoughts in his head. Into his heels he put what +speed he had; and little as that was, it counted, pieced out with the +head-work.</p> + +<p>Back in my college days I ran a two-mile race—the greatest race of the +day, the judges said—and just at the tape lost two gold medals and the +glory of a new intercollegiate record because I didn't use my head. Two of +us out of twenty finished, and we finished together, the other fellow +twisting and falling forward, breaking the string with his side, while I, +pace for pace with him—didn't think.</p> + +<p>For a moment the woodchuck and I stood motionless, he studying the +situation. I was at the very mouth of his burrow. It was coming to sure +death for him to attempt to get in. Yet it was sure death if he did not +get in, for I should run him down.</p> + +<p>Had you been that woodchuck, gentle reader, I wonder if you would have +taken account of <a name="Page_26" id="Page_26" />the thick-strewn stones behind you, the dense tangle of +dewberry-vines off on your left, the heavy boots of your enemy and his +unthinking rage?</p> + +<p>I was vastly mistaken in that woodchuck. A blanker, flabbier face never +looked into mine. Only the sudden appearance of death could have brought +the trace of intelligence across it that I caught as the creature dropped +on all fours and began to wabble straight away from me over the area of +rough, loose stones.</p> + +<p>With a jump and a yell I was after him, making five yards to his one. He +tumbled along the best he could, and, to my great surprise, directly away +from his hole. It was steep downhill. I should land upon him in half a +dozen bounds more.</p> + +<p>On we went, reckless of the uneven ground, momentum increasing with every +jump, until, accurately calculating his speed and the changing distance +between us, I rose with a mighty leap, sailed into the air and came +down—just an inch too far ahead—on a round stone, turned my ankle, and +went sprawling over the woodchuck in a heap.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27" />The woodchuck spilled himself from under me, slid short about, and +tumbled off for home by way of the dewberry-patch.</p> + +<p>He had made a good start before I was righted and again in motion. Now it +was steep, very steep, uphill—which did not seem to matter much to the +woodchuck, but made a great difference to me. Then, too, I had counted on +a simple, straightaway dash, and had not saved myself for this lap and +climbing home-stretch.</p> + +<p>Still I was gaining,—more slowly this time,—with chances yet good of +overtaking him short of the hole, when, in the thick of the +dewberry-vines, I tripped, lunged forward three or four stumbling strides, +and saw the woodchuck turn sharp to the right in a bee-line for his +burrow.</p> + +<p>I wheeled, jumped, cut after him, caught him on the toe of my boot, and +lifting him, plopped him smoothly, softly into his hole.</p> + +<p>It was gently done. And so beautifully! The whole feat had something of +the poetic accuracy of an astronomical calculation. And the perfectly +lovely dive I helped him make home!</p> + +<p>I sat down upon his mound of earth to get myself together and to enjoy it +all. What a <a name="Page_28" id="Page_28" />woodchuck! Perhaps he never could do the trick again; but, +then, he won't need to. All the murder was gone from my heart. He had +beaten the boots. He had beaten them so neatly, so absolutely, that simple +decency compelled me then and there to turn over that Crawford peach-tree, +root and stem, to the woodchuck, his heirs and assigns forever.</p> + +<p>By way of celebration he has thrown out nearly a cart-load of sand from +somewhere beneath the tree, deepening and enlarging his home. My Swedish +neighbor, viewing the hole recently, exclaimed: "Dose vuudshuck, I t'ink +him kill dem dree!" Perhaps so. As yet, however, the tree grows on without +a sign of hurt.</p> + +<p>But suppose the tree does die? Well, there is no certainty of its bearing +good fruit. There was once a peddler of trees, a pious man and a Quaker, +who made a mistake, selling the wrong tree. Besides, there are other trees +in the orchard; and, if necessary, I can buy peaches.</p> + +<p>Yes, but what if other woodchucks should seek other roof-trees in the +peach row? They won't. There are no fashions, no such emulations, +out-of-doors. Because one woodchuck moves from <a name="Page_29" id="Page_29" />huckleberries to a +peach-tree is no sign that all the woodchucks on the hillside are going to +forsake the huckleberries with him. Only humans are silly enough for that.</p> + +<p>If the woodchucks should come, all of them, it would be extremely +interesting—an event worth many peaches.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img039" id="img039"></a> +<img src="images/img039.jpg" +alt="frog" title="" /> +</div> + +<h2><a name="THREE_SERMONS" id="THREE_SERMONS" /><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30" /><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31" />THREE SERMONS</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<blockquote><p><i>Thou shalt not preach.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>The woods were as empty as some great empty house; they were hollow and +silent and somber. I stood looking in among the leafless trees, heavy in +spirit at the quiet and gloom, when close by my side spoke a tiny voice. I +started, so suddenly, so unexpectedly it broke into the wide December +silence, so far it echoed through the empty forest halls.</p> + +<p>"What!" I exclaimed, turning in my tracks <a name="Page_34" id="Page_34" />and addressing a small +brown-leafed beech. "What! little Hyla, are you still out? You! with a +snow-storm brewing and St. Nick due here to-morrow night?" And then from +within the bush, or on it, or under it, or over it, came an answer, <i>Peep, +peep, peep!</i> small and shrill, dropping into the silence of the woods and +stirring it as three small pebbles might drop into the middle of a wide +sleeping pond.</p> + +<p>It was one of those gray, heavy days of the early winter—one of the +vacant, spiritless days of portent that wait hushed and numb before a +coming storm. Not a crow, nor a jay, nor a chickadee had heart enough to +cheep. But little Hyla, the tree-frog, was nothing daunted. Since the last +week in February, throughout the spring and the noisy summer on till this +dreary time, he had been cheerfully, continuously piping. This was his +last call.</p> + +<p><i>Peep, peep, peep!</i> he piped in February; <i>Peep, peep, peep!</i> in August; +<i>Peep, peep, peep!</i> in December. But did he?</p> + +<p>"He did just that," replies the scientist, "and that only."</p> + +<p>"Not at all," I answer.</p> + +<p>"<a name="Page_35" id="Page_35" />What authority have you?" he asks. "You are not scientific. You are +merely a dreaming, fooling hanger-on to the fields and woods; one of those +who are forever hearing more than they hear, and seeing more than they +see. We scientists hear with our ears, see with our eyes, feel with our +fingers, and understand with our brains—"</p> + +<p>"Just so, just so," I interrupt, "and you are a worthy but often a pretty +stupid set. Little Hyla in February, August, and December cries <i>Peep, +peep, peep!</i> to you. But his cry to me in February is <i>Spring, spring, +spring!</i> And in December—it depends; for I cannot see with my eyes alone, +nor hear with my ears, nor feel with my fingers only. You can, and so +could Peter Bell. To-day I saw and heard and felt the world all gray and +hushed and shrouded; and little Hyla, speaking out of the silence and +death, called <i>Cheer, cheer, cheer!</i>"</p> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>It is not because the gate is strait and the way narrow that so few get +into the kingdom of <a name="Page_36" id="Page_36" />the Out-of-Doors. The gate is wide and the way is +broad. The difficulty is that most persons go in too fast.</p> + +<p>If I were asked what virtue, above all others, one must possess in order +to be shown the mysteries of the kingdom of earth and sky, I should say, +there are several; I should not know which to name first. There are, +however, two virtues very essential and very hard to acquire, namely, the +ability to keep quiet and to stand still.</p> + +<p>Last summer a fox in two days took fifteen of my chickens. I saw the +rascal in broad day come down the hill to the chicken-yard. I greatly +enjoy the sight of a wild fox; but fifteen chickens a sight was too high a +price. So I got the gun and chased about the woods half the summer for +another glimpse of the sinner's red hide. I saw him one Sunday as we were +driving into the wood road from church; but never a week-day sight for all +my chasing.</p> + +<p>Along in the early autumn I got home one evening shortly after sundown. I +had left several cocks of hay spread out in the little meadow, and though +it was already pretty damp, I took the fork, went down, and cocked it up.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37" />Returning, I climbed by the narrow, winding path through the pines, out +into the corner of my pasture. It was a bright moonlight night, and +leaning back upon the short-handled fork, I stopped in the shadow of the +pines to look out over the softly lighted field.</p> + +<p>Off in the woods a mile away sounded the deep, mellow tones of two +foxhounds. Day and night all summer long I had heard them, and all summer +long I had hurried to this knoll and to that for a shot. But the fox +always took the other knoll.</p> + +<p>The echoing cries of the dogs through the silent woods were musical. Soon +they sounded sharp and clear—the hounds were crossing an open stretch +leading down to the meadow behind me. As I leaned, listening, I heard near +by a low, uneasy murmuring from a covey of quails sleeping in the brush +beside the path, and before I had time to think what it meant, a fox +trotted up the path I had just climbed, and halted in the edge of the +shadows directly at my feet.</p> + +<p>I stood as stiff as a post. He sniffed at my dew-wet boots, backed away, +and looked me over <a name="Page_38" id="Page_38" />curiously. I could have touched him with my fork. Then +he sat down with just his silver-tipped brush in the silver moonlight, to +study me in earnest.</p> + +<p>The loud baying of the hounds was coming nearer. How often I had heard it, +and, in spite of my lost chickens, how often I had exclaimed, "Poor little +tired fox!" But here sat "poor little tired fox" with his tongue in his +head, calmly wondering what kind of stump he had run up against this time.</p> + +<p>I could only dimly see his eyes, but his whole body said: "I can't make it +out, for it doesn't move. But so long as it doesn't move I sha'n't be +scared." Then he trotted to this side and to that for a better wind, +somewhat afraid, but much more curious.</p> + +<p>His time was up, however. The dogs were yelping across the meadow on his +warm trail. Giving me a last unsatisfied look, he dropped down the path, +directly toward the dogs, and sprang lightly off into the thicket.</p> + +<p>The din of their own voices must have deafened the dogs, or they would +have heard him. Round and round they circled, giving the fox <a name="Page_39" id="Page_39" />ample time +for the study of another "stump" before they discovered that he had +doubled down the path, and still longer time before they crossed the wide +scentless space of his side jump and once more fastened upon his trail.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>Back in my knickerbocker days I once went off on a Sunday-school picnic, +and soon, replete with "copenhagen," I sauntered into the woods alone in +quest of less cloying sport. I had not gone far when I picked up a dainty +little ribbon-snake, and having no bag or box along, I rolled him up in my +handkerchief, and journeyed on with the wiggling reptile safely caged on +top of my head under my tight-fitting hat.</p> + +<p>After a time I began to feel a peculiar movement under the hat, not +exactly the crawling of a normal snake, but more like that of a snake with +legs. Those were the days when all my soul was bent on the discovery of a +new species—of anything; when the whole of life meant a journey to the +Academy of Natural Sciences with something to be named. For just an +in<a name="Page_40" id="Page_40" />stant flashed the hope that I had found an uncursed snake, one of the +original ones that went on legs. I reached for the hat, bent over, and +pulled it off, and, lo! not a walking snake. Just an ordinary snake, but +with it a live wood-frog!</p> + +<p>This, at least, was interesting, the only real piece of magic I have ever +done. Into my hat had gone only a live snake, now I brought forth the +snake and a live frog. This was a snake to conjure with; so I tied him up +again and finally got him home.</p> + +<p>The next Sunday the minister preached a temperance sermon, in which he +said some dreadful things about snakes. The creatures do seem in some +dark, horrible way to lurk in the dregs of strong drink: but the minister +was not discriminating; he was too fierce and sweeping, saying, among +other things, that there was a universal human hatred for snakes, and that +one of the chief purposes of the human heel was to bruise their scaly +heads.</p> + +<p>I was not born of my Quaker mother to share this "universal human hatred +for snakes"; but I did get from her a wild dislike for sweeping, <a name="Page_41" id="Page_41" />general +statements. After the sermon I ventured to tell the preacher that there +was an exception to this "universal" rule; that all snakes were not adders +and serpents, but some were just innocent snakes, and that I had a +collection of tame ones which I wished he would come out to see.</p> + +<p>He looked astonished, skeptical, then pained. It was during the days, I +think, of my "probation," and into his anxious heart had come the thought, +Was I "running well"? But he dismissed the doubt and promised to walk over +in the morning.</p> + +<p>His interest amazed me. But, then, preachers quite commonly are different +on Monday. As we went from cage to cage, he said he had read how +boa-constrictors eat, and wouldn't I show him how these snakes eat?</p> + +<p>We had come to the cage of the little ribbon-snake from the picnic grove, +and had arrived just in time to catch him crawling away out of a hole that +he had worked in the rusty mosquito-netting wire of the cover. I caught +him, put him back, and placed a brickbat over the hole.</p> + +<p>I knew that this snake was hungry, because <a name="Page_42" id="Page_42" />he had had nothing to eat for +nearly a week, and the frog which appeared so mysteriously with him in my +hat was the dinner that he had given up that day of his capture in his +effort to escape.</p> + +<p>The minister looked on without a tremor. I took off the brick that he +might see the better. The snake was very long and small around and the +toad, which I had given him, was very short and big around, so that when +it was all over there was a bunch in the middle of the snake comparable to +the lump a prime watermelon would make in the middle of a small boy if +swallowed whole.</p> + +<p>While we were still watching, the snake, having comfortably (for a snake) +breakfasted, saw the hole uncovered and stuck out his head. We made no +move. Slowly, cautiously, with his eye upon us, he glided out, up to the +big bunch of breakfast in his middle. This stuck. Frantically he squirmed, +whirled, and lashed about, but in vain. He could not pull through. He had +eaten too much.</p> + +<p>There was just one thing for him to do if he would be free: give up the +breakfast of toad<a name="Page_43" id="Page_43" /> (which is much better fare according to snake standards +than pottage according to ours), as he had given up the dinner of frog. +Would he sell his birthright?</p> + +<p>Perhaps a snake cannot calculate; perhaps he knows no conflict of +emotions. Yet something very like these processes seemed to go on within +the scaly little reptile. He ceased all violent struggle, laid his length +upon the netting, and <i>seemed</i> to think, to weigh the chances, to count +the cost.</p> + +<p>Soon he softly drew back into the cage. A series of severe contortions +followed; the obstructing bunch began to move forward, up, farther and +farther, until at last, dazed, squeezed, and half smothered, but entirely +alive and unhurt, the toad appeared and once more opened his eyes to the +blessed light.</p> + +<p>The snake quickly put his head through the hole, slipped out again, and +glided away into his freedom. He had earned it. The toad deserved his +liberty too, and I took him into the strawberry-patch.</p> + +<p>The minister looked on at it all. Perhaps he didn't learn anything. But I +did.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img053" id="img053"></a> +<img src="images/img053.jpg" +alt="owl" title="" /> + +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="THE_MARSH" id="THE_MARSH" /><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44" /><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45" />THE MARSH</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>And breathe it free, and breathe it free,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>I</h3> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>It was a late June day whose breaking found me upon the edge of the great +salt-marshes which lie behind East Point Light, as the Delaware Bay lies +in front of it, and which run in a wide, half-land, half-bay border down +the cape.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48" />I followed along the black sandy road which goes to the Light until close +to the old Zane's Place,—the last farm-house of the uplands,—when I +turned off into the marsh toward the river. The mosquitos rose from the +damp grass at every step, swarming up around me in a cloud, and streaming +off behind like a comet's tail, which hummed instead of glowed. I was the +only male among them. It was a cloud of females, the nymphs of the +salt-marsh; and all through that day the singing, stinging, smothering +swarm danced about me, rested upon me, covered me whenever I paused, so +that my black leggings turned instantly to a mosquito brown, and all my +dress seemed dyed alike.</p> + +<p>Only I did not pause—not often, nor long. The sun came up blisteringly +hot, yet on I walked, and wore my coat, my hands deep down in the pockets +and my head in a handkerchief. At noon I was still walking, and kept on +walking till I reached the bay shore, when a breeze came up, and drove the +singing, stinging fairies back into the grass, and saved me.</p> + +<p>I left the road at a point where a low bank started across the marsh like +a long protecting <a name="Page_49" id="Page_49" />arm reaching out around the hay-meadows, dragging them +away from the grasping river, and gathering them out of the vast undrained +tract of coarse sedges, to hold them to the upland. Passing along the bank +until beyond the weeds and scrub of the higher borders, I stood with the +sky-bound, bay-bound green beneath my feet. Far across, with sails +gleaming white against the sea of sedge, was a schooner, beating slowly up +the river. Laying my course by her, I began to beat slowly out into the +marsh through the heavy sea of low, matted hay-grass.</p> + +<p>There is no fresh-water meadow, no inland plain, no prairie with this +rainy, misty, early morning freshness so constant on the marsh; no other +reach of green so green, so a-glitter with seas of briny dew, so +regularly, unfailingly fed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>Look how the grace of the sea doth go</i><br /></span> +<span><i>About and about through the intricate channels that flow</i><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Here and there,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i10"><i>Everywhere,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>And the marsh is meshed with a million veins!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50" />I imagine a Western wheat-field, half-way to head, could look, in the dew +of morning, somewhat like a salt-marsh. It certainly would have at times +the purple-distance haze, that atmosphere of the sea which hangs across +the marsh. The two might resemble each other as two pictures of the same +theme, upon the same scale, one framed and hung, the other not. It is the +framing, the setting of the marsh that gives it character, variety, tone, +and its touch of mystery.</p> + +<p>For the marsh reaches back to the higher lands of fences, fields of corn, +and ragged forest blurs against the hazy horizon; it reaches down to the +river of the reedy flats, coiled like a serpent through the green; it +reaches away to the sky where the clouds anchor, where the moon rises, +where the stars, like far-off lighthouses, gleam along the edge; and it +reaches out to the bay, and on, beyond the white surf-line of meeting, on, +beyond the line where the bay's blue and the sky's blue touch, on, far on.</p> + +<p>Here meet land and river, sky and sea; here they mingle and make the +marsh.</p> + +<p>A prairie rolls and billows; the marsh lies <a name="Page_51" id="Page_51" />still, lies as even as a +sleeping sea. Yet what moods! What changes! What constant variety of +detail everywhere! In The Marshes of Glynn there was</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade,</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>but not in these Maurice River marshes. Here, to-day, the sun was blazing, +kindling millions of tiny suns in the salt-wet blades; and instead of +waist-high grass, there lay around me acres and acres of the fine rich +hay-grass, full-grown, but without a blade wider than a knitting-needle or +taller than my knee. It covered the marsh like a deep, thick fur, like a +wonderland carpet into whose elastic, velvety pile my feet sank and sank, +never quite feeling the floor. Here and there were patches of higher +sedges, green, but of differing shades, which seemed spread upon the grass +carpet like long-napped rugs.</p> + +<p>Ahead of me the even green broke suddenly over a shoal of sand into tall, +tufted grasses, into rose, mallow, and stunted persimmon bushes, <a name="Page_52" id="Page_52" />foaming, +on nearer view, with spreading dogbane blossoms. Off toward the bay +another of these shoals, mole-hill high in the distance, ran across the +marsh for half a mile, bearing a single broken file of trees—sentinels +they seemed, some of them fallen, others gaunt and wind-beaten, watching +against the sea.</p> + +<p>These were the lookouts and the resting-places for passing birds. During +the day, whenever I turned in their direction, a crow, a hawk, or some +smaller bird was seen upon their dead branches.</p> + +<p>Naturally the variety of bird life upon the marsh is limited; but there is +by no means the scarcity here which is so often noted in the forests and +wild prairies of corresponding extent. Indeed, the marsh was birdy—rich +in numbers if not in species. Underfoot, in spots, sang the marsh-wrens; +in larger patches the sharp-tailed sparrows; and almost as wide-spread and +constant as the green was the singing of the seaside sparrows. Overhead +the fish-hawks crossed frequently to their castle nest high on the top of +a tall white oak along the land edge of the marsh; in the neighborhood of +the sentinel trees a pair of <a name="Page_53" id="Page_53" />crows were busy trying (it seemed to me) to +find an oyster, a crab—something big enough to choke, for just one +minute, the gobbling, gulping clamor of their infant brood. But the dear +devouring monsters could not be choked, though once or twice I thought by +their strangling cries that father crow, in sheer desperation, had brought +them oysters with the shells on. Their awful gaggings died away at dusk. +Besides the crows and fish-hawks, a harrier would now and then come +skimming close along the grass. Higher up, the turkey-buzzards circled all +day long; and once, setting my blood leaping and the fish-hawks screaming, +there sailed over, far away in the blue, a bald-headed eagle, his snowy +neck and tail flashing in the sunlight as he careened among the clouds.</p> + +<p>In its blended greens the marsh that morning offered one of the most +satisfying drinks of color my eyes ever tasted. The areas of different +grasses were often acres in extent, so that the tints, shading from the +lightest pea-green of the thinner sedges to the blue-green of the rushes, +to the deep emerald-green of the hay-grass, merged across their broad +bands into perfect harmony.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54" />As fresh and vital as the color was the breath of the marsh. There is no +bank of violets stealing and giving half so sweet an odor to my nostrils, +outraged by a winter of city smells, as the salty, spray-laden breath of +the marsh. It seems fairly to line the lungs with ozone. I know how +grass-fed cattle feel at the smell of salt. I have the concentrated thirst +of a whole herd when I catch that first whiff of the marshes after a +winter, a year it may be, of unsalted inland air. The smell of it +stampedes me. I gallop to meet it, and drink, drink, drink deep of it, my +blood running redder with every draught.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>I had waded out into the meadow perhaps two hundred yards, leaving a dark +bruised trail in the grass, when I came upon a nest of the long-billed +marsh-wren. It was a bulky house, and so overburdened its frail sedge +supports that it lay almost upon the ground, with its little round doorway +wide open to the sun and rain. They must have been a young couple who +built it, and quite inexperienced. I wonder they had <a name="Page_55" id="Page_55" />not abandoned it; +for a crack of light into a wren's nest would certainly addle the eggs. +They are such tiny, dusky, tucked-away things, and their cradle is so deep +and dark and hidden. There were no fatalities, I am sure, following my +efforts to prop the leaning structure, though the wrens were just as sure +that it was all a fatality—utterly misjudging my motives. As a rule, I +have never been able to help much in such extremities. Either I arrive too +late, or else I blunder.</p> + +<p>I thought, for a moment, that it was the nest of the long-billed's cousin, +the short-billed marsh-wren, that I had found—which would have been a gem +indeed, with pearly eggs instead of chocolate ones. Though I was out for +the mere joy of being out, I had really come with a hope of discovering +this mousy mite of a wren, and of watching her ways. It was like hoping to +watch the ways of the "wunk." Several times I have been near these little +wrens; but what chance has a pair of human eyes with a skulking four +inches of brownish streaks and bars in the middle of a marsh! Such birds +are the everlasting despair of the naturalist, the salt of his earth.<a name="Page_56" id="Page_56" /> The +belief that a pair of them dwelt somewhere in this green expanse, that I +might at any step come upon them, made me often forget the mosquitos.</p> + +<p>When I reached the ridge of rose and mallow bushes, two wrens began +muttering in the grass with different notes and tones from those of the +long-billed. I advanced cautiously. Soon one flashed out and whipped back +among the thick stems again, exposing himself just long enough to show me +<i>stellaris</i>, the little short-billed wren I was hunting.</p> + +<p>I tried to stand still for a second glimpse and a clue to the nest; but +the mosquitos! Things have come to a bad pass with the bird-hunter, whose +only gun is an opera-glass, when he cannot stand stock-still for an hour. +His success depends upon his ability to take root. He needs light feet, a +divining mind, and many other things, but most of all he needs patience. +There are few mortals, however, with mosquito-proof patience—one that +would stand the test here. Remembering a meadow in New England where +stellaris nested, I concluded to wait till chance took me thither, and +passed on.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57" />This ridge of higher ground proved to be a mosquito roost—a thousand +here to one in the deeper, denser grass. As I hurried across I noted with +great satisfaction that the pink-white blossoms of the spreading dogbane +were covered with mosquito carcasses. It lessened my joy somewhat to find, +upon examination, that all the victims were males. Either they had drunk +poison from the flowers, or else, and more likely, they had been unable to +free their long-haired antennæ from the sticky honey into which they had +dipped their innocent beaks. Several single flowers had trapped three, and +from one blossom I picked out five. If we could bring the dogbane to brew +a cup which would be fatal to the females, it might be a good plant to +raise in our gardens along with the eucalyptus and the castor-oil plants.</p> + +<p>Everywhere as I went along, from every stake, every stout weed and topping +bunch of grass, trilled the seaside sparrows—a weak, husky, monotonous +song, of five or six notes, a little like the chippy's, more tuneful, +perhaps, but not so strong. They are dark, dusky birds, of a grayish +olive-green hue, with a conspicuous <a name="Page_58" id="Page_58" />yellow line before the eye, and +yellow upon the shoulder.</p> + +<p>There seems to be a sparrow of some kind for every variety of land between +the poles. Mountain-tops, seaside marshes, inland prairies, swamps, woods, +pastures—everywhere, from Indian River to the Yukon, a sparrow nests. Yet +one can hardly associate sparrows with marshes, for they seem out of place +in houseless, treeless, half-submerged stretches. These are the haunts of +the shyer, more secretive birds. Here the ducks, rails, bitterns, +coots,—birds that can wade and swim, eat frogs and crabs,—seem naturally +at home. The sparrows are perchers, grain-eaters, free-fliers, and +singers; and they, of all birds, are the friends and neighbors of man. +This is no place for them. The effect of this marsh life upon the flight +and song of these two species was very marked. Both showed unmistakable +vocal powers which long ago would have been developed under the stimulus +of human listeners; and during all my stay (so long have they crept and +skulked about through the low marsh paths) I did not see one rise a +hundred feet into the air, nor fly straight away for a <a name="Page_59" id="Page_59" />hundred yards. +They would get up just above the grass, and flutter and drop—a puttering, +short-winded, apoplectic struggle, very unbecoming and unworthy.</p> + +<p>By noon I had completed a circle and recrossed the lighthouse road in the +direction of the bay. A thin sheet of lukewarm water lay over all this +section. The high spring tides had been reinforced by unusually heavy +rains during April and May, giving a great area of pasture and hay land +back, for that season, to the sea. Descending a copsy dune from the road, +I surprised a brood of young killdeers feeding along the drift at the edge +of the wet meadow. They ran away screaming, leaving behind a pair of +spotted sandpipers, "till-tops," that had been wading with them in the +shallow water. The sandpipers teetered on for a few steps, then rose at my +approach, scaled nervously out over the drowned grass, and, circling, +alighted near where they had taken wing, continuing instantly with their +hunt, and calling <i>Tweet-tweet, tweet-tweet</i>, and teetering, always +teetering, as they tiptoed along.</p> + +<p>If perpetual motion is still a dream of the <a name="Page_60" id="Page_60" />physicist, he might get an +idea by carefully examining the way the body of till-top is balanced on +its needle legs. If till-tops have not been tilting forever, and shall not +go on tilting forever, it is because something is wrong with the mechanism +of the world outside their little spotted bodies. Surely the easiest, +least willed motion in all the universe is this sandpiper's teeter, +teeter, teeter, as it hurries peering and prying along the shore.</p> + +<p>Killdeers and sandpipers are noisy birds; and one would know, after half a +day upon the marsh, even if he had never seen these birds before, that +they could not have been bred here. For however</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>the marsh may seem to one coming suddenly from the wooded uplands, it will +not let one enter far without the consciousness that silence and secrecy +lie deeper here than in the depths of the forest glooms. The true birds of +the marsh, those that feed and nest in the grass, have the spirit of the +great marsh-mother.<a name="Page_61" id="Page_61" /> The sandpiper is not her bird. It belongs to the +shore, living almost exclusively along sandy, pebbly margins, the margins +of any, of almost every water, from Delaware Bay to the tiny bubbling +spring in some Minnesota pasture. Neither is the killdeer her bird. The +upland claims it, plover though it be. A barren, stony hillside, or even a +last year's corn-field left fallow, is a better-loved breast to the +killdeer than the soft brooding breast of the marsh. There are no +grass-birds so noisy as these two. Both of them lay their eggs in pebble +nests; and both depend largely for protection upon the harmony of their +colors with the general tone of their surroundings.</p> + +<p>I was still within sound of the bleating killdeers when a rather large, +greenish-gray bird flapped heavily but noiselessly from a muddy spot in +the grass to the top of a stake and faced me. Here was a child of the +marsh. Its bolt-upright attitude spoke the watcher in the grass; then as +it stretched its neck toward me, bringing its body parallel to the ground, +how the shape of the skulker showed! This bird was not built to fly nor to +perch, but to tread the low, narrow <a name="Page_62" id="Page_62" />paths of the marsh jungle, silent, +swift, and elusive as a shadow.</p> + +<p>It was the clapper-rail, the "marsh-hen." One never finds such a +combination of long legs, long toes, long neck and bill, with this long +but heavy hen-like body, outside the meadows and marshes. The grass ought +to have been alive with the birds: it was breeding-time. But I think the +high tides must have delayed them or driven them elsewhere, for I did not +find an egg, nor hear at nightfall their colony-cry, so common at dusk and +dawn in the marshes just across on the coast about Townsend's Inlet. There +at sunset in nesting-time one of the rails will begin to call—a loud, +clapping roll; a neighbor takes it up, then another and another, the +circle of cries widening and swelling until the whole marsh is a-clatter.</p> + +<p>Heading my way with a slow, labored stroke came one of the fish-hawks. She +was low down and some distance away, so that I got behind a post before +she saw me. The marsh-hen spied her first, and dropped into the grass. On +she came, her white breast and belly glistening, and in her talons a big +glistening fish. It was a <a name="Page_63" id="Page_63" />magnificent catch. "Bravo!" I should have +shouted—rather I shouldn't; but here she was right over me, and the +instinct of the boy, of the savage, had me before I knew, and leaping out, +I whirled my cap and yelled to wake the marsh. The startled hawk jerked, +keeled, lifted with a violent struggle, and let go her hold. Down fell the +writhing, twisting fish at my feet. It was a splendid striped bass, +weighing at least four pounds, and still live enough to flop.</p> + +<p>I felt mean as I picked up the useless thing and looked far away to the +great nest with its hungry young. I was no better than the bald eagle, the +lazy robber-baron, who had stolen the dinner of these same young hawks the +day before.</p> + +<p>Their mother had been fishing up the river and had caught a tremendous +eel. An eel can hold out to wriggle a very long time. He has no vitals. +Even with talon-tipped claws he is slippery and more than a clawful; so +the old hawk took a short cut home across the railroad-track and the +corner of the woods where stands the eagle tree.</p> + +<p>She could barely clear the tree-tops, and, with the squirming of the eel +about her legs, had <a name="Page_64" id="Page_64" />apparently forgotten that the eagle lived along this +road, or else in her struggle to get the prize home she was risking the +old dragon's being away. He was not away. I have no doubt that he had been +watching her all the time from some high perch, and just as she reached +the open of the railroad-track, where the booty would not fall among the +trees, he appeared. His first call, mocking, threatening, commanding, shot +the poor hawk through with terror. She screamed; she tried to rise and +escape; but without a second's parley the great king drove down upon her. +She dropped the fish, dived, and dodged the blow, and the robber, with a +rushing swoop that was glorious in its sweep, in its speed and ease, +caught the eel within a wing's reach of me and the track.</p> + +<p>I did not know what to do with my spoil. Somewhat relieved, upon looking +around, to find that even the marsh-hen had not been an eye-witness to my +knightly deed, I started with the fish and my conscience toward the +distant nest, determined to climb into it and leave the catch with the +helpless, dinnerless things for whom it was intended.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65" />I am still carrying that fish. How seldom we are able to restore the bare +exaction, to say nothing of the fourfold! My tree was harder to climb than +Zacchæus's. Mine was an ancient white oak, with the nest set directly upon +its dead top. I had stood within this very nest twelve years before; but +even with the help of my conscience I could not get into it now. Not that +I had grown older or larger. Twelve years do not count unless they carry +one past forty. It was the nest that had grown. Gazing up at it, I readily +believed the old farmer in the Zane's house who said it would take a pair +of mules to haul it. He thought it larger than one that blew down in the +marsh the previous winter, which made three cart-loads.</p> + +<p>One thinks of Stirling and of the castles frowning down upon the Rhine as +he comes out of the wide, flat marsh beneath this great nest, crowning +this loftiest eminence in all the region. But no château of the Alps, no +beetling crag-lodged castle of the Rhine, can match the fish-hawk's nest +for sheer boldness and daring. Only the eagles' nests upon the fierce +dizzy pinnacles in the Yosemite surpass the home of the fish-hawk <a name="Page_66" id="Page_66" />in +unawed boldness. The aery of the Yosemite eagle is the most sublimely +defiant of things built by bird, or beast, or man.</p> + +<p>A fish-hawk will make its nest upon the ground, or a hummock, a stump, a +buoy, a chimney—upon anything near the water that offers an adequate +platform; but its choice is the dead top of some lofty tree where the +pathway for its wide wings is open and the vision range is free for miles +around.</p> + +<p>How dare the bird rear such a pile upon so slight and towering a support! +How dare she defy the winds, which, loosened far out on the bay, come +driving across the cowering, unresisting marsh! She is too bold sometimes. +I have known more than one nest to fall in a wild May gale. Many a nest, +built higher and wider year after year, while all the time its dead +support has been rotting and weakening, gets heavy with the wet of winter, +and some night, under the weight of an ice-storm, comes crashing to the +earth.</p> + +<p>Yet twelve years had gone since I scaled the walls and stood within this +nest; and with patience and hardihood enough I could have done <a name="Page_67" id="Page_67" />it again +this time, no doubt. I remember one nest along Maurice River, perched so +high above the gums of the swamp as to be visible from my home across a +mile of trees, that has stood a landmark for the oystermen this score of +years.</p> + +<p>The sensations of my climb into this fish-hawk's nest of the marsh are +vivid even now. Going up was comparatively easy. When I reached the forks +holding the nest, I found I was under a bulk of sticks and corn-stalks +which was about the size of an ordinary haycock or an unusually large +wash-tub. By pulling out, pushing aside, and breaking off the sticks, I +worked a precarious way through the four feet or more of debris and +scrambled over the edge. There were two eggs. Taking them in my hands, so +as not to crush them, I rose carefully to my feet.</p> + +<p>Upright in a hawk's nest! Sixty feet in the air, on the top of a gaunt old +white oak, high above the highest leaf, with the screaming hawks about my +head, with marsh and river and bay lying far around! It was a moment of +exultation; and the thrill of it has been transmitted through the years. +My body has been drawn to higher places since; but my soul has <a name="Page_68" id="Page_68" />never +quite touched that altitude again, for I was a boy then.</p> + +<p>Nor has it ever shot swifter, deeper into the abyss of mortal terror than +followed with my turning to descend. I looked down into empty air. Feet +foremost I backed over the rim, clutching the loose sticks and feeling for +a foothold. They snapped with the least pressure; slipped and fell if I +pushed them, or stuck out into my clothing. Suddenly the sticks in my +hands pulled out, my feet broke through under me, and for an instant I +hung at the side of the nest in the air, impaled on a stub that caught my +blouse as I slipped.</p> + +<p>There is a special Providence busy with the boy.</p> + +<p>This huge nest of the fish-hawks was more than a nest; it was a castle in +very truth, in the sheltering crevices of whose uneven walls a small +community of purple grackles lived. Wedged in among the protruding sticks +was nest above nest, plastering the great pile over, making it almost +grassy with their loose flying ends. I remember that I counted more than +twenty of these crow-blacks' nests the time I climbed the <a name="Page_69" id="Page_69" />tree, and that +I destroyed several in breaking my way up the face of the structure.</p> + +<p>Do the blackbirds nest here for the protection afforded by the presence of +the hawks? Do they come for the crumbs which fall from these great +people's table? Or is it the excellent opportunity for social life offered +by this convenient apartment-house that attracts?</p> + +<p>The purple grackles are a garrulous, gossipy set, as every one knows. They +are able-bodied, not particularly fond of fish, and inclined to seek the +neighborhood of man, rather than to come out here away from him. They make +very good American rooks. So I am led to think it is their love of +"neighboring" that brings them about the hawk's nest. If this surmise is +correct, then the presence of two families of English sparrows among them +might account for there being only eight nests now, where a decade ago +there were twenty.</p> + +<p>I was amused—no longer amazed—at finding the sparrows here. The seed of +these birds shall possess the earth. Is there even now a spot into which +the bumptious, mannerless, ubiquitous little pleb has not pushed himself? +If you look <a name="Page_70" id="Page_70" />for him in the rain-pipes of the Fifth Avenue mansions, he is +there; if you search for him in the middle of the wide, silent salt-marsh, +he is there; if you take—but it is vain to take the wings of the morning, +or of anything else, in the hope of flying to a spot where the stumpy +little wings of the English sparrow have not already carried him.</p> + +<p>There is something really admirable in the unqualified sense of ownership, +the absolute want of diffidence, the abiding self-possession and coolness +of these birds. One cannot measure it in the city streets, where everybody +jostles and stares. It can be appreciated only in the marsh: here in the +silence, the secrecy, the withdrawing, where even the formidable-looking +fiddler-crabs shy and sidle into their holes as you pass; here, where the +sparrows may perch upon the rim of a great hawk's nest, twist their necks, +ogle you out of countenance, and demand what business brought you to the +marsh.</p> + +<p>I hunted round for a stone when one of them buttonholed me. He wasn't +insolent, but he was impertinent. The two hawks and the blackbirds flew +off as I came up; but the sparrows <a name="Page_71" id="Page_71" />stayed. They were the only ones in +possession as I moved away; and they will be the only ones in possession +when I return. If that is next summer, then I shall find a colony of +twenty sparrow families around the hawk's nest. The purple grackles will +be gone. And the fish-hawks? Only the question of another year or so when +they, too, shall be dispossessed and gone. But where will they go to +escape the sparrows?</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>From a mile away I turned to look back at the "cripple" where towered the +tall white oak of the hawks. Both birds were wheeling about the castle +nest, their noble flight full of the freedom of the marsh, their piercing +cries voicing its wildness. And how free, how wild, how untouched by human +hands the wide plain seemed! Sea-like it lay about me, circled southward +from east to west with the rim of the sky.</p> + +<p>I moved on toward the bay. The sun had dropped to the edge of the marsh, +its level-lined shafts splintering into golden fire against the curtained +windows of the lighthouse. It would <a name="Page_72" id="Page_72" />soon be sunset. For some time there +had been a quiet gurgling and lisping down in the grass, but it had meant +nothing, until, of a sudden, I heard the rush of a wave along the beach: +the tide was coming in. And with it came a breeze, a moving, briny, +bay-cooled breeze that stirred the grass with a whisper of night.</p> + +<p>Once more I had worked round to the road. It ran on ahead of me, up a +bushy dune, and forked, one branch leading off to the lighthouse, the +other straight out to the beach, out against the white of the breaking +waves.</p> + +<p>The evening purple was deepening on the bay when I mounted the dune. Bands +of pink and crimson clouded the west, a thin cold wash of blue veiled the +east; and overhead, bayward, landward, everywhere, the misting and the +shadowing of the twilight.</p> + +<p>Between me and the white wave-bars at the end of the road gleamed a patch +of silvery water—the returning tide. As I watched, a silvery streamlet +broke away and came running down the wheel track. Another streamlet, +lagging a little, ran shining down the other track, stopped, rose, and +creeping slowly to the middle <a name="Page_73" id="Page_73" />of the road, spread into a second gleaming +patch. They grew, met—and the road for a hundred feet was covered with +the bay.</p> + +<p>As the crimson paled into smoky pearl, the blue changed green and gold, +and big at the edge of the marsh showed the rim of the moon.</p> + +<p>Weird hour! Sunset, moonrise, flood-tide, and twilight together weaving +the spell of the night over the wide waking marsh. Mysterious, sinister +almost, seemed the swift, stealthy creeping of the tide. It was +surrounding and crawling in upon me. Already it stood ankle-deep in the +road, and was reaching toward my knees, a warm thing, quick and moving. It +slipped among the grasses and into the holes of the crabs with a smothered +bubbling; it disturbed the seaside sparrows sleeping down in the sedge and +kept them springing up to find new beds. How high would it rise? Behind me +on the road it had crawled to the foot of the dune. Would it let me +through to the mainland if I waited for the flood?</p> + +<p>It would be high tide at nine o'clock. Finding a mound of sand on the +shore that the water could hardly cover, I sat down to watch the +tide-<a name="Page_74" id="Page_74" />miracle; for here, surely, I should see the wonder worked, so wide +was the open, so full, so frank the moon.</p> + +<p>In the yellow light I could make out the line of sentinel trees across the +marsh, and off on the bay a ship, looming dim in the distance, coming on +with wind and tide. There were no sounds except the long regular wash of +the waves, the stir of the breeze in the chafing sedges, and the creepy +stepping of the water weaving everywhere through the hidden paths of the +grass. Presently a night-hawk began to flit about me, then another and +another, skimming just above the marsh as silent as the shadows. What was +that? Something moved across the moon. In a moment, bat-like and huge +against the great yellow disk, appeared a marsh-owl. He was coming to look +at me. What was I that dared remain abroad in the marsh after the rising +of the moon? that dared invade this eery realm, this night-spread, +tide-crept, half-sealand where he was king? How like a goblin he seemed! I +thought of Grendel, and listened for the splash of the fen-monster's steps +along the edge of the bay. But only the owl came. Down, down, <a name="Page_75" id="Page_75" />down he +bobbed, till I could almost feel the fanning of his wings. How silent! His +long legs hung limp, his body dangled between those soft wide wings within +reach of my face. Yet I heard no sound. Mysterious creature! I was glad +when he ceased his ghostly dance about me and made off.</p> + +<p>It was nine o'clock. The waves had ceased to wash against the sand, for +the beach was gone; the breeze had died away; the stir of the water in the +grass was still. Only a ripple broke now and then against my little +island. The bay and the marsh were one.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>How still the plains of the waters be!</i><br /></span> +<span><i>The tide is in his ecstasy.</i><br /></span> +<span><i>The tide is at his highest height:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i12"><i>And it is night.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img085" id="img085"></a> +<img src="images/img085.jpg" +alt="Calico and the Kittens" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="CALICO_AND_THE_KITTENS" id="CALICO_AND_THE_KITTENS" /><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76" /><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77" />CALICO AND THE KITTENS</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>One spring day I found myself the sole help of two blind, naked +infants—as near a real predicament as a man could well get. What did it +matter that they had long tails and were squirrels? They were infants just +the same; and any kind of an infant on the hands of any mere man is a real +tragedy.</p> + +<p>As I looked at the two callow things in the grass, a dismay and weak +helplessness quite overcame me. The way they squirmed and shivered and +squeaked worked upon me down even to my knees. I felt sick and foolish.<a name="Page_80" id="Page_80" /> +Both of their parents were dead. Their loose leaf-nest overhead had been +riddled with shot. I had climbed up and found them; I had brought them +down; I must—feed them! The other way of escape were heathen.</p> + +<p>But how could I feed them? Nipples, quills, spoons—none of them would fit +these mites of mouths. What a miserable mother I was! How poorly equipped +for foundlings! They were dying for lack of food; and as they pawed about +and whimpered in my hands I devoutly wished the shot had put them all out +of misery together. I was tempted to turn heathen and despatch them.</p> + +<p>Unhappy but resolute, I started homeward, determined to rear those +squirrels, if it could be done. On my way I remembered—and it came to me +with a shock—that one of my neighbor's cats had a new batch of kittens. +They were only a few days old. Might not Calico, their mother, be induced +to adopt the squirrels!</p> + +<p>Nothing could be more absurd. The kittens were three times larger than the +squirrels. Even had they been the same size, did I think the old +three-colored cat could be fooled? that <a name="Page_81" id="Page_81" />she might not know a kitten of +hers from some other mother's—squirrel? I was desperate indeed. Calico +was a hunter. She had eaten more gray squirrels, perhaps, than I had ever +seen. She would think I had been foraging for her—the mother of seven +green kittens!—and would take my charges as titbits. Still I was +determined to try.</p> + +<p>My neighbor's kittens were enough and to spare. One of Calico's last +year's lot still waited a good home; and here were seven more to be cared +for. Might not two of these be spirited away, far away; the two squirrels +substituted, and the old cat be none the wiser?</p> + +<p>I went home by way of my neighbor's, and found Calico in the basement +curled up asleep with her babies. She roused and purred questioningly as +we bent over the basket, and watched with concern, but with no anxiety, as +two of her seven were lifted out and put inside a hat upon a table. She +was perfectly used to having her kittens handled. True, strange things had +happened to them. But that was long ago; and there had been so very many +kittens that no one mother could remember <a name="Page_82" id="Page_82" />about them all. She trusted +us—with an ear pricked and eyes watchful. But they were safe, and in a +prideful, self-conscious, young-mother way she began to wash the five.</p> + +<p>Some one stood between her and the hat when the kittens were lifted out +and the squirrels were put in their place. Calico did not see. For a time +she thought no more about them; she was busy washing and showing the +others. By and by it began to look as though she had forgotten that there +were more than five. She could not count. But most mothers can <i>number</i> +their children, even if they cannot count, and soon Calico began to +fidget, looking up at the hat which the hungry, motherless squirrels kept +rocking. Then she leaped out upon the floor, purring, and bounded upon the +table, going straight to the young squirrels.</p> + +<p>There certainly was an expression of surprise and mystification on her +face as she saw the change that had come over those kittens. They had +shrunk and faded from two or three bright colors to a single pale pink. +She looked again and sniffed them. Their odor had changed, too. She turned +to the watchers about the table, but <a name="Page_83" id="Page_83" />they said nothing. She hardly knew +what to think. She was half inclined to leave them and go back to the +basket, when one of the squirrels whimpered—a genuine, universal baby +whimper. That settled it. She was a mother, and whatever else these things +in the hat might be, they were babies. That was enough, especially as she +needed just this much baby here in the hat to make good what was lacking +in the basket.</p> + +<p>With a soft, caressing purr she stepped gently into the hat, took one of +the squirrels by the neck, brought it to the edge of the table, and laid +it down for a firmer hold; then sprang lightly to the floor. Over to the +basket she walked and dropped it tenderly among her other babies. Then, +having brought the remaining one and deposited that with the same +mother-care, she got into the basket herself and curled down +contentedly—her heart all whole.</p> + +<p>And this is how strange a thing mother-love is! The performance was +scarcely believable. Could she be so love-blind as not to see what they +were and not eat them? But when she began to lick the little interlopers +and cuddle them down to their dinner as if they were her <a name="Page_84" id="Page_84" />own genuine +kittens, there could be no more doubt or fear.</p> + +<p>The squirrels do not know to this day that Calico is not their real +mother. From the first they took her mother's milk and mother's love as +rightfully and thanklessly as the kittens, growing, not like the kittens +at all, but into the most normal of squirrels, round and fat and +splendid-tailed.</p> + +<p>Calico clearly recognized some difference between the two kinds of +kittens, but <i>what</i> difference always puzzled her. She would clean up a +kitten and comb it slick, then turn to one of the squirrels and wash it, +but rarely, if ever, completing the work because of some disconcerting +un-catlike antic. As the squirrels grew older they also grew friskier, and +soon took the washing as the signal for a frolic. As well try to wash a +bubble. They were bundles of live springs, twisting out of her paws, +dancing over her back, leaping, kicking, tumbling as she had never seen a +kitten do in all her richly kittened experience.</p> + +<p>I don't know why, but Calico was certainly fonder of these two freaks than +of her own normal children. Long after the latter were <a name="Page_85" id="Page_85" />weaned she nursed +and mothered the squirrels. I have frequently seen them let into the +kitchen when the old cat was there, and the moment they got through the +door they would rush toward her, dropping chestnuts or cookies by the way. +She in turn would hurry to meet them with a little purr of greeting full +of joy and affection. They were shamefully big for such doings. The +kittens had quit it long ago. Calico herself, after a while, came to feel +the impropriety of mothering these strapping young ones, and in a weak, +indulgent way tried to stop it. But the squirrels were persistent and +would not go about their business at all with an ordinary cuff. She would +put them off, run away from them, slap them, and make believe to bite; but +not until she did bite, and sharply too, would they be off. All this +seemed very strange and unnatural; yet a stranger thing happened one day, +when Calico brought in to her family a full-grown gray squirrel which she +had caught in the woods. She laid it down on the floor and called the +kittens and squirrels to gather around. They came, and as the squirrels +sniffed at the dead one on the floor there was hardly a mark of +differ<a name="Page_86" id="Page_86" />ence in their appearance. It might have been one of Calico's own +nursing that lay there dead, so far as any one save Calico could see. And +with her the difference, I think, was more of smell than of sight. But she +knew her own; and though she often found her two out among the trees of +the yard, she never was mistaken, nor for an instant made as if to hurt +them.</p> + +<p>Yet they could not have been more entirely squirrel had their own squirrel +mother nurtured them. Calico's milk and love went all to cat in her own +kittens, and all to squirrel in these that she adopted. No single hair of +theirs turned from its squirrel-gray to any one of Calico's three colors; +no single squirrel trait became the least bit catlike.</p> + +<p>Indeed, as soon as the squirrels could run about they forsook the +clumsy-footed kittens under the stove and scampered up back of the +hot-water tank, where they built a nest. Whenever Calico entered the +kitchen purring, out would pop their heads, and down they would come, +understanding the mother language as well as the kittens, and usually +beating the kittens to the mother's side.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87" />So far from teaching them to climb and build nests behind water-tanks, +their foster-mother never got over her astonishment at it. All they needed +from her, all they needed and would have received from their own squirrel +mother, was nourishment and protection until their teeth and legs grew +strong. Wits were born with them; experience was sure to come to them; and +with wits and experience there is nothing known among squirrels of their +kind that these two would not learn for themselves.</p> + +<p>And there was not much known to squirrels that these two did not know, +apparently without even learning. As they grew in size they increased +exceedingly in naughtiness, and were banished shortly from the kitchen to +an ell or back woodshed. They celebrated this distinction by dropping some +hickory-nuts into a rubber boot hanging on the wall, and then gnawing a +hole through the toe of the boot in order to extract the hidden nuts. Was +it mischief that led them to gnaw through rather than go down the top? Or +did something get stuffed into the top of the boot after the nuts were +dropped in? And did the squirrels <i>remember</i> that the nuts <a name="Page_88" id="Page_88" />were in there, +or did they <i>smell</i> them through the rubber?</p> + +<p>One woodshed is big enough only for two squirrels. The family moved +everything out but the wood, and the squirrels took possession for the +winter. Their first nest had been built behind the hot-water tank. They +knew <i>how</i> to build without any teaching. But knowing how is not all there +is to know about building; knowing <i>where</i> is very important, and this +they had to learn.</p> + +<p>Immediately on coming to the woodshed the squirrels began their winter +nest, a big, bulky, newspaper affair, which they placed up in the +northwest corner of the shed directly under the shingles. Here they slept +till late in the fall. This was the shaded side and the most exposed +corner of the whole house; but all went well until one night when the +weather suddenly turned very cold. A strong wind blew from the northwest +hard upon the squirrels' nest.</p> + +<p>The next day there was great activity in the woodshed—a scampering of +lively feet, that began early in the morning and continued far toward +noon. The squirrels were moving. They <a name="Page_89" id="Page_89" />gathered up their newspaper nest +and carried it—diagonally—across the shed from the shaded northwest to +the sunny southeast corner, where they rebuilt and slept snug throughout +the winter.</p> + +<p>Calico did not teach them this; neither would their own squirrel mother +have taught them. They knew how, to begin with. They knew <i>where</i> after +one night of experience, which in this case had to be a night of shivers.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img099" id="img099"></a> +<img src="images/img099.jpg" +alt="The Sparrow Roost" title="" /> +</div> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="THE_SPARROW_ROOST" id="THE_SPARROW_ROOST" /><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90" /><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91" />THE SPARROW ROOST</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>An early December twilight was settling over Boston, a thick foggy murk +that soaked down full of smoke and smell and chill. The streets were oozy +with a wet snow which had fallen through the afternoon and had been +trodden into mud; and draughty with an east wind, that would have passed +unnoticed across the open fields, but which drew up these narrow flues and +sent a shiver down one's back in spite <a name="Page_94" id="Page_94" />of coats. It was half-past five. +The stores were closing, their clerks everywhere eddying into the noisy +streams of wheels and hoofs still pouring up and down. The traffic tide +had turned, but had not yet ebbed away.</p> + +<p>And this was evening! the coming night! I moved along with the crowd, +homesick for the wideness and quiet of the country, for the soughing of +the pines, the distant bang of a barn door, the night cry of guineas from +some neighboring farm, when, in the hurry and din, I caught the cry of +bird voices, and looking up, found that I had stumbled upon a bird +roost—at the very heart of the city! I was in front of King's Chapel +Burial Ground, whose half-dozen leafless trees were alive with noisy +sparrows.</p> + +<p>The crowd swept on. I halted behind a waste-barrel by the iron fence and +forgot the soughing pines and clacking guineas.</p> + +<p>Bird roosts of this size are no common find. I remember a huge fireplace +chimney that stood near my home, into which a cloud of swallows used to +swarm for a few nights preceding the fall migration; I lived some years +close to the pines at the head of Cubby Hollow, where great <a name="Page_95" id="Page_95" />flocks of +crows slept nightly throughout the winter; but these, besides now and +again a temporary resting-place, a mere caravansary along the route of the +migrants, were all I had happened upon. Here was another, bordering a city +street, overhanging the street, with a blazing electric light to get into +bed by!</p> + +<p>Protected by the barrel from the jostle on the sidewalk, I waited by the +ancient graveyard until the electric lights grew bright, until every +fussing sparrow was quiet, until I could see only little gray balls and +blurs in the trees through the misty drizzle that came down with the +night. Then I turned toward my own snug roost, five flights up, next the +roof, and just a block away, as the sparrows fly, from this roost of +theirs. I was glad to have them so near me.</p> + +<p>The windows of my roost look out over roofs of slate, painted tin, and +tarry pebbles, into a chimney-fenced plot of sky. Occasionally, during the +winter, a herring-gull from the harbor swims into this bit of smoky blue; +frequently a pigeon, sometimes a flock, sails past; and in the summer +dusk, after the swallows quit it, a city-haunting night-hawk climbs out of +the for<a name="Page_96" id="Page_96" />est of chimney-pots, up, up above the smoke for his booming +roofward swoop. But winter and summer, save along through June, the +sparrows, as evening falls, cut across the sky field on their way to the +roost in the old burial-ground. There go two, there twoscore in a +whirling, scudding flurry, like a swift-blown bunch of autumn leaves. For +more than an hour they keep passing—till the dusk turns to darkness, till +all are tucked away in bed.</p> + +<p>One would scarcely recognize the birds as they sweep past in these +flurries, their flight is so unlike their usual clumsy scuttle as they get +out of one's way along the street. They are lumpish and short-winged on +the street; they labor and lumber off with a sidewise twist to their +bodies that reminds one of a rheumatic old dog upon the trot. What +suggestion of grace or swiftness about them upon the ground? But watch +them in their evening flight. It is a revelation. They rise above the +houses and shoot across my sky like a charge of canister. I can almost +hear them whizz. Down by the cemetery I have seen them dash into view high +up in the slit of sky, dive for the trees, dart zigzag like <a name="Page_97" id="Page_97" />a madly +plunging kite, and hurl themselves, as soft as breaths, among the +branches.</p> + +<p>This is going to bed with a vengeance. I never saw any other birds get to +roost with such velocity. It is characteristic, however; the sparrow never +does anything by halves. The hurry is not caused by any mite of anxiety or +fear, rather from pure excess of spirit; for after rearing three broods +during the summer, he has such a superabundance of vim that a winter of +foraging and fighting is welcome exercise. The strenuous life is his kind +of life. When the day's hunt is over and he turns back to his bed, why not +race it out with his neighbors? And so they come—chasing, dodging, +tagging neck and neck, all spurting to finish first at the roost.</p> + +<p>We may not love him; but he has constitution and snap. And these things do +count.</p> + +<p>One April morning, the 6th, I went down to the roost at three o'clock. The +sparrows were sleeping soundly. It was yet night. Had the dawn been +reaching up above the dark walls that shut the east away from the high +tree-tops, the garish street light would have kept it dim. The trees were +silent and stirless, as quiet as the <a name="Page_98" id="Page_98" />graves beneath them—more quiet; in +fact; for there issued from a grated hole among the tombs the sound of an +anvil, deep down and muffled, but unmistakably ringing, as if Governor +Winthrop were forging chains in his vault. Then came a rush, a deadened +roar, and an emanation of dank gaseous breath, such as the dead alone +breathe.</p> + +<p>It was only the passing of a tool-car in the subway underneath the +cemetery, and the hammering of a workman at a forge in a niche of the +tunnel. But, rising out of the tombs, it was gruesome and unearthly in the +night-quiet.</p> + +<p>The sparrows did not mind the sound. Maybe it ascended as a pleasant +murmur to them and shaped their dreams, as dream-stuff drifts to their +sweet-voiced cousins in the meadows with the lap and lave of the streams. +A carriage rolled by. The clank of hoofs disturbed none of them. Some one +slammed the door of an apothecary-shop across the street, and hurried off. +Not a sparrow stirred.</p> + +<p>I was trying to see whether the birds slept with their heads beneath their +wings. Appa<a name="Page_99" id="Page_99" />rently they did, for I could not make out a head, though some +of the sleepers hung over the street within ten feet of the lamp-post. But +they were all above the light, with only their breasts out of the shadows, +and to be certain I must make a bird move. Finding that the noises were +not likely to arouse them, I threw a stick against one of the laden limbs. +There were heads then, plenty of them, and every one, evidently, had been +turned back and buried in the warm wing-coverts.</p> + +<p>My stick hit very near the toes of one of the sparrows, and he flew. There +was a twitter, then a stir all over the tree; but nothing further +happening, they tucked in their heads again and went back to bed.</p> + +<p>I waited. At four o'clock they still slept. The moon had swung out from +behind the high buildings and now hung just above the slender spire of +Park Street Church, looking down into the deep, narrow street gulch. A cat +picked her way among the graves, sprang noiselessly to the top of a flat +tomb beneath the sparrows, and watched with me. The creature brought the +wilderness with her. After all, this was not so <a name="Page_100" id="Page_100" />far removed from the +woods. In the empty street, beneath the silent, shuttered walls, with +something still of the mystery of the night winds in the bare trees, the +scene, for an instant, was touched with the spell of the dark and the +untamed.</p> + +<p>After a swift warming walk of fifteen minutes I returned to the roost. +There were signs of waking now: a flutter here, a twitter there, then +quiet again, with no general movement until half-past four, when the city +lights were shut off. Then, instantly, from a dozen branches sounded loud, +clear chirps, and every sparrow opened his eyes. The incandescent bulbs +about the border of the roost were moon and stars to them, lights in the +firmament of their heaven to divide the night from the day. When they +blazed forth, it was evening—bedtime; when they went out, it was +morning—the time to wake up.</p> + +<p>The softness of dusk, how unknown to these city dwellers! and the fresh +sweet beauty of the dawn!</p> + +<p>Morning must have begun to break along near four o'clock, for the cold +gray across the <a name="Page_101" id="Page_101" />sky was already passing into pearl. The country birds had +been up half an hour, I am sure. However, the old cemetery was wide enough +awake now. There was chirping everywhere. It grew louder and more general +every moment, till shortly the six thousand voices, and more, were raised +in the cheerful din—the matin, if you please, for as yet only a few of +the birds were fighting.</p> + +<p>But the fight quickly spread. It is the English sparrow's way of waking +up; his way of whetting his appetite for breakfast; his way of digesting +his dinner; his way of settling his supper—his normal waking way.</p> + +<p>To the clatter of voices was added the flutter of wings; for the birds had +begun to shift perches, and to exchange slaps as well as to call +names—the movement setting toward the tree-tops. None of the sparrows had +left the roost. The storm of chatter increased and the buzz of wings +quickened into a steady whir, the noise holding its own with that of the +ice-wagons pounding past. The birds were filling the top-most branches, a +gathering of the clans, evidently, for the day's start. The clock in +Scollay<a name="Page_102" id="Page_102" /> Square station pointed to five minutes to five, and just before +the hour struck, two birds launched out and spun away.</p> + +<p>The exodus had commenced. The rest of Boston was not stirring yet. It was +still early; hardly a flush of warmth had washed the pearl. But the +sparrows had many matters to attend to before all the milkmen and bakers +got abroad: they must take their morning dust-bath, for one thing, in the +worn places between the cobble-stones, before the street-sprinkler began +its sloppy rounds.</p> + +<p>There was a constant whirl out of the tree-tops now. Occasionally a bird +flew off alone, but most of them left in small flocks, just as I should +see them return in the evening. Doubtless the members of these flocks were +the birds belonging to certain neighborhoods, those that nested and fed +about certain squares, large door-yards, and leafy courts. They may indeed +have been families that were hatched last summer.</p> + +<p>The birds that left singly went away, as a rule, over the roofs toward the +denser business sections of the city, while the bands, as I had noticed +them come in at night, took the opposite <a name="Page_103" id="Page_103" />course, toward Cambridge and +Charlestown. Not more than one in a hundred flew south across the city.</p> + +<p>Of course there are sparrows all over Boston. There is no street too +narrow, too noisy, too dank with the smell of leather for them. They seem +as numerous where the rush of drays is thickest as in the open +breathing-places where the fountains play. They are in every quarter, yet +those to the east and south of the old burial-ground do not belong to the +roost. Perhaps they have graveyards of their own in their sections, though +I have been unable to find them. So far as I know, this is the only roost +in or about Boston. And this is the stranger since so few of the total +number of the Boston sparrows sleep here. A careful estimate showed me +that there could not have been more than six or seven thousand in the +roost. One would almost say there were as many millions in Boston. And +where do these millions sleep? For the most part, each one alone behind +his sign-board or shutter near his local feeding-grounds.</p> + +<p>Now, why should the sparrows of the roost prefer King's Chapel Burial +Ground to the Old<a name="Page_104" id="Page_104" /> Granary, a stone's throw up the street? I passed the +Old Granary yard on my way to the roost and found the trees empty. I +searched the limbs with my glass; there was not a sparrow to be seen. +Still, the Granary is the less exposed of the two. It may not formerly +have been so; but at present high sheltering walls bend about the trees +like a well. Years ago, perhaps, when the sparrows began to roost in the +trees at King's Chapel, the Old Granary elms were more open to the winds, +and now force of habit and example keep the birds returning to the first +lodge.</p> + +<p>Back they come, no matter what the weather. There are a thousand cozy +corners into which a sparrow might creep on a stormy night, where even the +winds that know their way through Boston streets could not search him out. +But the instinct to do as he always has done is as strong in the sparrow, +in spite of his love for pioneering, as it is in the rest of us. He was +brought here to roost as soon as he could fly, when the leaves were on and +the nights delicious. If the leaves go and the nights change, what of +that? Here he began, here he will con<a name="Page_105" id="Page_105" />tinue to sleep. Let it rain, blow, +snow; let the sleet, like a slimy serpent, creep up the trunk and wrap +around the twigs: still he will hold on. Many a night I have seen them +sleeping through a driving winter rain, their breasts to the storm, their +tails hanging straight down, shedding every drop. If a gale is blowing, +and it is cold, they get to the leeward of the tree, as close to the trunk +as possible, and anchor fast, every bill pointing into the wind, every +feather reefed, every tail lying out on the flat of the storm.</p> + +<p>As I watched the bands starting from the tree-tops of the roost I wondered +if they really crossed the river into Cambridge and Charlestown. A few +mornings later I was again up early, hastening down to the West Boston +Bridge to see if I could discover the birds going over. As I started out I +saw bunches moving toward the river with a free and easy flight, but +whether I reached the bridge too late, or whether they scattered and went +over singly, I do not know. Only now and then did a bird cross, and he +seemed to come from along the shore rather than from above the house-tops.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106" />I concluded that the birds of the roost were strictly Bostonians. One +evening, however, about a week later, as I was upon this bridge coming +from Cambridge, a flock of sparrows whizzed past me, dipped over the rail +to the water, swung up above the wall of houses, and disappeared toward +the roost. They were on their way from Cambridge, from the classic elms of +Harvard campus, who knows, to the elms of the ancient burial-ground.</p> + +<p>It was five that April morning when the first sparrow left the roost. By +half-past five the trees were empty, except for the few birds whose +hunting-ground included the cemetery. By this time the city, too, had +yawned, and rubbed its eyes, and tumbled out of bed.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img115" id="img115"></a> +<img src="images/img115.jpg" +alt="Mux" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="MUXquot" id="MUXquot" />"<a name="Page_107" id="Page_107" />MUX"</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + + + + +<p>No, "Mux" is not an elegant name—not to to be compared with Ronald or +Claudia, for instance; and I want to say it is not the name of one of my +children, though its owner was once a member of my household. Mux was a +tame half-grown coon, with just the ordinary number of rings around his +tail, but with the most extraordinary amount of mischief in his little +coon soul. Perhaps he had no real soul, and I should have located his +mischief somewhere else. If so, then I should say in his feet. I never saw +any other feet so expressive. The <a name="Page_110" id="Page_110" />essence of the little beast seemed +concentrated in his lore paws. If they made trouble, whose fault was it? +They were designed for trouble. You could see this purpose in them as +plainly as you could see the purpose in a swallow's wings. Whenever Mux +ran across the yard these paws picked up trouble out of the turf, just as +if the grass were trouble-filings, and Mux a kind of four-footed magnet. +He never went far before they clogged and stopped him.</p> + +<p>One day, the first day that Mux was given the liberty of the yard, who +should he run foul of but Tom! The struggle had to come sometime, and it +was just as well that it came thus early, while Tom and Mux were on an +equal footing as to size, for Mux was young and growing.</p> + +<p>Tom was boss of the yard. Every farmer's dog that went to town by our gate +knew enough to pass by on the other side. Tom had grown a little lordly +and opinionated. He was sleeping in the sun on the shed-step as Mux ambled +up. At sight of the coon Tom rose in more than his usual feline mightiness +and cast such a look of surprise, scorn, and annihilating intent upon the +interloper as ought to have struck terror to the <a name="Page_111" id="Page_111" />stoutest heart. But Mux +hardly seemed to understand. On he came, right into certain destruction, a +very lamb of innocence and meekness. O you unsuspecting little stranger! +Don't you see this awful monster swelling, swelling into this hideous +hump? No, Mux did not see him. Tom was raging. His teeth gleamed; his eyes +blazed green; his claws worked in a nervous way that made my flesh creep. +He was vanishing, not, like the Cheshire Cat, into a long lovely grin, but +vanishing from a four-legged cat into a yellow, one-legged hump. All that +was left of him now was hump.</p> + +<p>Mux was only a few feet away. Tom began to advance, not directly, but just +a trifle on the bias, across Mux's bows so to speak, as if to give him a +broadside. They were within range. Tom was heaving to. I trembled for the +young coon. Suddenly there was a hiss, a flash of yellow in the air, +and—a very big surprise awaiting Thomas! That little coon was no stupid +after all. He had not rolled up his sleeves, nor doubled up his fists, nor +put a chip upon his shoulder; but he knew what was expected of him, just +the same. He snapped instantly upon <a name="Page_112" id="Page_112" />his back, received the cat with all +four of his feet, and gave Mr. Tom such a combing down that his golden fur +went flying off like thistle-down in autumn.</p> + +<p>It was all over in less than half a minute. I think Tom must have made a +new record for himself in the running high jump when he broke away from +his ring-tailed antagonist. He struck out across the yard and landed +midway up the clothes-post with a single bound. And Mux? He ambled on +around the yard, as calm and unconcerned as if he had only stopped to +scratch himself.</p> + +<p>Much of this unconcern, however, was a quiet kind of swagger. When he +thought no one fiercer than a chicken or the humbled Mr. Tom was looking, +he would shuffle across the yard with his coat collar turned up, his hat +over his eye, his elbows angled—just as if he had been born and bred on +the Bowery instead of in the Bear Swamp. He was king of the yard, but I +could see that he wore his crown uneasily. He kept a bold front, accepted +every challenge, and even went out of his way to pick a quarrel; yet he +quaked at heart continually. He feared and <a name="Page_113" id="Page_113" />hated the noises of the yard, +particularly the crowing of our big buff cochin rooster and the screaming +of the guineas. This was one of the swamp-fears that he had brought with +him and could not outlive. It haunted him. If he had a conscience, its +only warnings were of coming noises great and terrible.</p> + +<p>But Mux had no conscience, unless it was one that troubled him only when +he was out of mischief. His face was never so long and so solemn as when I +had caught him in some questionable act or spoiled some wayward plan.</p> + +<p>Mux, however, was possessed by a much stubborner spirit than this +interesting mischief-devil. Upon one point he was positively demented—the +only four-footed maniac I ever knew. He had gone crazy on the subject of +dirt, mad to wash things, especially his victuals.</p> + +<p>He was not particular about what he ate; almost anything that could be +swallowed would do, provided that it could be washed, and washed by +himself, after his own approved fashion.</p> + +<p>If I gave him half of my apple, he would squat down by his wash-tub and +begin to hunt <a name="Page_114" id="Page_114" />for dirt. He would look the apple over and over, pick +around the blossom end, inspect carefully, then pull out the stem, if +there happened to be a stem, dig out the seeds and peek into the core, +then douse it into the water and begin to wash. He would rub with might +and main for a second or two, then rinse it, take a bite, and douse it +back again for more scrubbing, until it was scrubbed and chewed away.</p> + +<p>Even when the water was thick with mud, this crazy coon persisted in +washing his clean cake and cabbage therein. Indeed, the muddier the water, +the more vigorously would he wash. The habit was a part of him, as real a +thing in his constitution as the black ring in his fur. It was a very +dirty habit, here in captivity, even if it went by the name of washing. Of +course Mux could not be blamed for his soiled wash-water. That was my +fault; only I couldn't be changing it every time he soaked up a fistful of +earth in his endeavor to wash something to eat out of it. No; he was not +at fault, altogether, for the mud in his tub. Out in the Bear Swamp, the +streams that wandered about under the great high-spreading gums, and lost +their way <a name="Page_115" id="Page_115" />in the shadows, were crystal-clear and pure; and out there it +was intended that he should dwell, and in those sweet streams that he +should wash. But what a modicum of wit, of originality the little beast +had, that, because he was born a washer, wash he must, though he washed in +mud, nay, though he washed upon the upturned bottom of his empty tub!—for +this is what Mux did sometimes.</p> + +<p>I never blamed Aunt Milly for insisting upon this rather ill-sounding name +of "Mux" for the little coon. She was standing by his cage, shortly after +his arrival, watching him eat cabbage. He washed every clean white piece +of it in his oozy tub before tasting it, coating the bits over with mud as +you do the lumps of fondant with chocolate in making "chocolate creams." +Aunt Milly looked at him for some time with scornful face and finally +exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"Umph! Dat animile am a dumb beast shu'! Rubbin' dirt right inter clean +cabbage! Sich muxin'! mux, mux, mux! Dat a coon? Dat ain't no coon. Dat's +a mux!" And she scuffed off to the house, mumbling, "De muxinest thing I +done evah seen." Hence his name.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116" />If there is one sweetmeat sweeter than all others to a coon, it is a +frog. It was not mere chance that Mux was born in the edge of the Bear +Swamp, close to the wide marshes that ran out to the river. This was the +great country of the frogs—the milk-and-honey country to the ring-tailed +family in the hollow gum. But Mux had never tasted frog. He had not been +weaned when I kidnapped him. One day, wishing to see if he knew what a +frog was, I carelessly offered him a big spotted fellow that I had caught +in the meadow.</p> + +<p>Did he know a frog? He fairly snatched the poor thing from me, killed it, +and started around the cage with it in his mouth, dancing like a cannibal. +His long, serious face was more thoughtful and solemn, however, than +usual. I was puzzled. I had heard of dancing at funerals. Either this was +such a dance, or else some wild orgy to propitiate the spirits that +preside over the destiny of coons.</p> + +<p>Throughout this gruesome rite Mux held the frog in his mouth, and I +watched, expecting, hoping every moment that he would swallow it. Suddenly +he stopped, sat down by his tub, <a name="Page_117" id="Page_117" />pulled some dead grass out of it, +plunged the frog in, and began to scrub it—began to scrub the frog in the +oozy contents of that tub, when the poor amphibian had been soaking in +spring-water ever since it was a tadpole!</p> + +<p>No matter. The frog must be washed. And washed it was. It was scoured +first with all his might, then placed in the bottom of the tub, under +water, held down by one fore paw, until the maniac could get in with his +hind feet upon it, and then danced upon; from here it was laid upon the +floor of the cage and kneaded until as limp as a lump of dough; then +lifted daintily, it was shaken round and round in the water, rinsed and +wrung, and minutely inspected, and—swallowed.</p> + +<p>I felt justified in keeping this animal caged. He was not fit to run loose +even in the Bear Swamp. Perhaps I have done him wrong in this story of the +frog. Frogs may need washing, after all, despite the fact that they are +never out of the bath-tub long enough to dry off once in their whole +lives. Mux knew more about frogs than I, doubtless. But Mux insisted upon +washing oysters.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118" />Now there are few people clothed in sane minds who do not like raw +oysters. Mark this, however: when you see a person wash raw oysters, keep +out of his way; he has lost either his wits or his morals. The only two +creatures I ever knew to wash raw oysters were Mux and an oyster-dealer in +Cambridge Street, Boston. I saw this dealer take up a two-gallon can that +had just arrived at his store, and dump the dark salty shell-fish into a +great colander, stick the end of a piece of rubber hose in among them, +turn the water on? and stir and soak them. How white they got! How fat +they got! How their ghastly corpses swelled!</p> + +<p>Mux did not wash his to see them swell, but simply that he might take no +chances with dirt—or poison, for I used to think sometimes that he +thought I was trying to poison him. He was desperately fond of oysters. +But who could cast his pearls, or, to be scientifically and literally +correct, his mothers of pearls, before such a swine? Mux had just one +plateful of oysters while I was his keeper. They were nice plump fellows, +and when I saw the maniac soak one all stringy and tasteless I poured his +wash-water <a name="Page_119" id="Page_119" />out. Was he to be balked that way! No, no. He took oyster +number two, flopped it into the empty tub, scoured it around on the muddy +bottom, looked it over as carefully as he had done stringy number one, and +swallowed sandy, muddy number two with just as much relish.</p> + +<p>This was too much. I cuffed him and took away the tub. This I suppose was +wrong, for I understand you must never oppose crazy persons. Well, Mux +helped himself to oyster number three. There was no water, no tub. But +what were oysters for if not to be washed? And who was he but <i>Procyon +lotor</i>—<i>Procyon</i> "the washer"? Can the leopard change his spots or the +racoon his habits? Can he? Shall he? I could almost hear him muttering +under his breath, "To be, or not to be: that is the question." Then he +darted a triumphantly malicious glance at me, retreated to the back of his +cage, thrust his oyster out of sight beneath the straw of his bed, and +washed it—washed the oyster in the straw, washed it into a fistful of +sticks and chaff, and gloated as he swallowed it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img129" id="img129"></a> +<img src="images/img129.jpg" +alt="Racoon Creek" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="RACOON_CREEK" id="RACOON_CREEK" /><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120" /><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121" />RACOON CREEK</h2> + +<blockquote><p><i>Into the wode to her the briddes sing.</i></p></blockquote> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>Over the creek, and clearing it by a little, hung a snow-white, stirless +mist, its under surface even and parallel with the face of the water, its +upper surface peaked and billowed half-way to the tops of the +shore-skirting trees.</p> + +<p>As I dipped along, my head was enveloped in the cloud; but bending over +the skiff, I could see far up the stream between a mist-ceiling and a +water-floor, as through a long, low room. How deep and dark seemed the +water! And the <a name="Page_124" id="Page_124" />trees how remote, aërial, and floating! as if growing in +the skies, with no roots' fast hold of the earth. Filling the valley, +conforming to every bend and stretch of the creek, lay the breath of the +water, motionless and sheeted, a spirit stream, hovering over the sluggish +current a moment, before it should float upward and melt away. It was +cold, too, as a wraith might be, colder than the water, for the June sun +had not yet risen over the swamp.</p> + +<p>At the bridge where the road crossed was a dam which backed the creek out +into an acre or more of pond. Not a particle of mud discolored the water; +but it was dark, and as it came tumbling, foaming over the moss-edged +gates it lighted up a rich amber color, the color of strong tea. In the +half chill of the dawn the old bridge lay veiled in smoking spray, in a +thin, rising vapor of spicy odors, clean, medicinal odors, as of the +brewing of many roots, the fragrance of shores of sedges, ferns, and +aromatic herbs steeped in the slow, soft tide. And faint across the creek, +the road, and the fields lay the pondy smell of spatter-docks.</p> + +<p>I pushed out from the sandy cove and lay <a name="Page_125" id="Page_125" />with a reach of the lusty docks +between me and either shore. It was early morning. The yellow, dew-laid +road down which I came still slumbered undisturbed; the village cows had +not been milked, and the pasture slope, rounding with a feminine grace of +curve and form, lay asleep, with its sedgy fingers trailing in the water; +even the locomotive in the little terminal round-house over the hill was +not awake and wheezing. But the creek people were stirring—except the +frogs. They were growing sleepy. The long June night they had improved, +soberly, philosophically; and now, seeing nothing worth while in the dawn +of this wonder day, they had begun to doze. But the birds were alive, full +of the crisp June morning, of its overflow of gladness, and were telling +their joy in chorus up and down both banks of the creek.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>Hearkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Do you mean out in Finsbury Moor, Father Chaucer? They were sweet along +the banks of the Walbrook, I know, for among them "maken melodye" were the +skylark, ethereal minstrel! and the nightingale. But, Father Chaucer, you +<a name="Page_126" id="Page_126" />should have heard the wood-thrushes, the orchard-orioles—this whole +morning chorus singing along the creek! No one may know how blissful, how +wide, how thrilling the singing of birds can be unless he has listened +when the summer mists are rising over Racoon Creek.</p> + +<p>There is no song-hour after sun rise to compare with this for spirit and +volume of sound. The difference between the singing in the dusk and in the +dawn is the difference between the slow, sweet melody of a dirge and the +triumphant, full-voiced peal of a wedding march. Even one who has always +lived in the country can scarcely believe his ears the first time he is +afield in June at the birds' awaking-hour.</p> + +<p>Robins led the singing along the creek. They always do. In New Jersey, +Massachusetts, Michigan,—everywhere it is the same,—they out-number all +rivals three to one. It is necessary to listen closely in order to +distinguish the other voices. This particular morning, however, the +wood-thrushes were all arranged up the copsy hillside at my back, and so +reinforced each other that their part was not overborne by robin song. One +of the thrushes was perched upon a willow <a name="Page_127" id="Page_127" />stub along the edge of the +water, so near that I could see every flirt of his wings, could almost +count the big spots in his sides. Softly, calmly, with the purest joy he +sang, pausing at the end of every few bars to preen and call. His song was +the soul of serenity, of all that is spiritual. Accompanied by the lower, +more continuous notes from among the trees, it rose, a clear, pure, +wonderful soprano, lifting the whole wide chorus nearer heaven.</p> + +<p>Farther along the creek, on the border of the swamp, the red-shouldered +blackbirds were massed; chiming in everywhere sang the catbirds, +white-eyed vireos, yellow warblers, orchard-orioles, and Maryland +yellowthroats; and at short intervals, soaring for a moment high over the +other voices, sounded the thrilling, throbbing notes of the cardinal, +broken suddenly and drowned by the roll of the flicker, the wild, weird +cry of the great-crested flycatcher, or the rapid, hay-rake rattle of the +belted kingfisher.</p> + +<p>All at once a narrow breeze cut a swath through the mist just across my +bows, turned, spread, caught the severed cloud in which I was drifting, +and whirled it up and away. The head of <a name="Page_128" id="Page_128" />the pond and the upper creek were +still shrouded, while around me only breaths of the white flecked the +water and the spatter-docks. The breeze had not stirred a ripple; the +current here in the broad of the pond was imperceptible; and I lay +becalmed on the edge of the open channel, among the rank leaves and golden +knobs of the docks.</p> + +<p>A crowd of chimney-swallows gathered over the pond for a morning bath. +Half a hundred of them were wheeling, looping, and cutting about me in a +perfect maze of orbits, as if so many little black shuttles had borrowed +wings and gone crazy with freedom. They had come to wash—a very proper +thing to do, for there are few birds or beasts that need it more. It was +highly fitting for sooty little Tom, seeing he had to turn into something, +to become a Water Baby. And if these smaller, winged sweeps of our +American chimneys are contemplating a metamorphosis, it ought to be toward +a similar life of soaking.</p> + +<p>They must have been particularly sooty this morning. One plunge apiece, so +far from sufficing, seemed hardly a beginning. They kept diving <a name="Page_129" id="Page_129" />in over +and over, continuing so long that finally I grew curious to know how many +dips they were taking, and so, in order to count his dives, I singled one +out, after most of the flock had done and gone off to hawk. How many he +had taken before I marked him, and how many more he took after I lost him +among the other birds, I cannot say; but, standing up in the skiff, I +followed him around and around until he made his nineteenth splash,—in +less than half as many minutes,—when I got so groggy that his twentieth +splash I came near taking with him.</p> + +<p>The pond narrows toward the head, and just before it becomes a creek again +the channel turns abruptly through the docks in against the right shore, +where the current curls and dimples darkly under the drooping branches of +great red maple; then it horseshoes into the middle, coming down through +small bush-islands and tangled brush which deepen into an extensive swamp.</p> + +<p>June seemed a little tardy here, but the elder, the rose, and the panicled +cornel were almost ready, the button-bushes were showing ivory, while the +arrow-wood, fully open, was glistening snowily everywhere, its tiny flower +crowns fall<a name="Page_130" id="Page_130" />ing and floating in patches down-stream, its over-sweet breath +hanging heavy in the morning mist. My nose was in the air all the way for +magnolias and water-lilies, yet never a whiff from either shore, so +particular, so unaccountably notional are some of the high-caste flowers +with regard to their homes.</p> + +<p>The skiff edged slowly past the first of the islands, a mere hummock about +a yard square, and was turning a sharp bend farther up, when I thought I +had a glimpse of yellowish wings, a mere guess of a bird shadow, dropping +among the dense maple saplings and elder of the islet.</p> + +<p>Had I seen or simply imagined something? If I had seen wings, then they +were not those of the thrasher,—the first bird that came to mind,—for +they slipped, sank, dropped through the bushes, with just a hint of +dodging in their movement, not exactly as a thrasher would have moved.</p> + +<p>Drifting noiselessly back, I searched the tangle and must have been +looking directly at the bird several seconds before cutting it out from +the stalks and branches. It was a least bittern, a female. She was +clinging to a perpendicular <a name="Page_131" id="Page_131" />stem of elder, hand over hand, wren fashion, +her long neck thrust straight into the air, absolutely stiff and +statuesque.</p> + +<p>We were less than a skiff's length apart, each trying to outpose and +outstare the other. I won. Human eyes are none the strongest, neither is +human patience, yet I have rarely seen a creature that could outwait a +man. The only steady, straightforward eye in the Jungle was +Mowgli's—because it was the only one with a steady mind behind it. As +soon as the bird let herself look me squarely in the eye, she knew she was +discovered, that her little trick of turning into a stub was seen through; +and immediately, ruffling her feathers, she lowered her head, poked out +her neck at me, and swaying from side to side like a caged bear, tried to +scare me, glaring and softly growling.</p> + +<p>Off she flopped as I landed. The nest might be upon the ground or lodged +among the bushes; but the only ground space large enough was covered layer +over layer with pearly clam-shells, the kitchen-midden of some muskrat; +and the bushes were empty. I went to the other islets, searched bog and +tangle, and finally pulled away <a name="Page_132" id="Page_132" />disappointed, giving the least bittern +credit for considerable mother-wit and woodcraft. How little wit she +really had appeared on my return down-creek that afternoon.</p> + +<p>I had now entered the high, overhanging swamp, where the shaggy trees, the +looping vines, and the rank, pulpous undergrowth grew thick on both sides, +reaching far back, a wet, heavy wilderness without a path, except for the +silent feet of the mink and the otter, and the more silent feet of the +creek, here a narrow stream winding darkly down through the shadows.</p> + +<p>Every little while along the rooty, hummocky banks of the creek I would +pass a muskrat's slide. Here was one at the butt of a tulip-poplar, its +platform wet and freshly trodden, its "dive" shooting sheer over a root +into the stream. Farther on stood a large tussock whose top was trampled +flat and covered with sedge-roots. I could not resist putting my nose down +for a sniff, so good is the smell of a fresh trail, so close are we to the +rest of the pack. In the thick of the swamp I stopped a moment to examine +the footprints of an otter at a shallow, shelving place along the bank, +where, opening <a name="Page_133" id="Page_133" />through the skunk-cabbage and Indian turnip, and covered +almost ankle-deep with water, was the creature's runway.</p> + +<p>I had moved leisurely along, yet not aimlessly. The whole June day was +mine to waste; but it would not be well wasted if nothing more purposeful +than wasting were in mind.</p> + +<p>One does not often drift to a port. Going into the woods to see anything +is a very sure way of seeing little or nothing; and taking the path to +anywhere is certain to lead one nowhere in particular. Many interested, +nature-loving people fail to enjoy the out-of-doors simply because they +have no definite spot to reach, no flower, bird, or bug to find when they +enter the fields and woods. Going forth "to commune with nature" sounds +very fine, but it is much more difficult work than conversing with the +Sphinx. In order to draw near to nature I require a pole with a hook and +line on the end of it. While I watch the float and wait, if there is any +communion, it is nature who holds it with me through the medium of the +pole. I need to have an errand to do; some berries to pick, a patch of +potatoes to hoe (a very small <a name="Page_134" id="Page_134" />patch); an engagement to keep, like +Thoreau, with a tree, if I hope to squander with profit even the laziest +summer day.</p> + +<p>I was heading up-stream toward a deep sandy-sided pool that was bottomed, +or rather unbottomed, by the shadows of overhanging beeches. The pool was +alive with racoon-perch. A few mornings before this, a boy from a +neighboring farm had come to fish here and had found a fisher ahead of +him. He was just about to cast, when back under the limbs of the beeches +the water broke, and a mink rose to the surface with a fine perch twisting +in her jaws. Straight toward the boy she swam till within reach of his +rod, when she recognized the human in him, turned a back-dive somersault, +and vanished.</p> + +<p>Would she be fishing again this morning? I hoped so. It was her hour—the +hour of the rising mist; visitors rarely found their way to the pool; and +I knew the appearance of the boy had given her no lasting alarm.</p> + +<p>Floating around the bend, I pulled in among the shore bushes by a bit of +grape-vine, and sitting down upon it, made my boat fast. I had <a name="Page_135" id="Page_135" />planned +the trip with the hope of seeing this mink; so I waited, quite hidden, +though having the pool in full view. An hour passed, but no mink appeared. +Another hour, and the sun was breaking upon the beeches, and the mist was +gone; yet no mink came to fish. And what mink would? Of course you must +have it in mind to see a mink fish if you wish to see anything; but the +day you really catch the mink fishing will likely be the day you went out +to watch for muskrats.</p> + +<p>So an hour's waiting is rarely fruitless. The mink did not come, but +another and quite as expert a fisher did. All the way up the creek I had +been hearing the throaty <i>ghouw-bhouw</i> of a great blue heron off in the +swamp. It was he that came for perch.</p> + +<p>The flapping of the great blue heron is a sight good for the soul—an +unheard-of motion these days, so moderate, unhurried, and time-contemning! +The wing-beats of this one, as he came dangling down upon the meadow +opposite me, have often given me pause since. If I could have the wings of +the great blue heron and flap to my fishing now and again!</p> + +<p><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136" />On alighting, however, he was instantly all nerve and tension. With the +utmost caution he came over the high sedges on his stilt-like legs to the +brink of the creek and posed. I doubt if a frog or a minnow could have +told he was a thing of life. Stiff as a stub, every muscle taut, all +alert, he stood, till—flash! and the long pointed bill pinned a perch, a +foot and a half beneath the water. He had quite made out a breakfast, +when, stepping upon a tall tussock, he stood face to face with me—a human +spectator! It was only for a moment that I could keep motionless enough to +puzzle him. Some muscle must have twitched, for he understood and leaped +into the air with a croak of mortal fright.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>The creek was roped off by the sagging fox grape-vines, and barred, from +this point on, by the alders, so that I gave up all attempt at farther +ascent. I had already given up the mink; yet I waited under the beeches.</p> + +<p>It was blazing overhead, growing hotter and closer all the time, with +hardly breeze enough to <a name="Page_137" id="Page_137" />disturb the sleep of the leaf shadows on the +sleepy stream. A rusty, red-bellied water-snake, in a mat of briers near +by, relaxed and straightened slowly out,—and softly, that I might not be +attracted,—stretching himself to the warmth. I could have broken his back +with my paddle, and perhaps, by so doing, saved the nestlings of a pair of +Maryland yellowthroats fidgeting about near him. He had eaten many a young +bird of these bushes, I was sure—yet only circumstantially sure. Catching +him in the act of robbing a nest would have been different; I should have +felt justified then in despatching him. But to strike him asleep in the +sun simply because he was a snake would have robbed the spot of part of +its life and spirit and robbed me of serenity for the rest of the day. I +should not have been, able to enjoy the quiet again until I had said my +prayers and slept.</p> + +<p>And as between the hawks and other wild birds, we need not interfere. +While the water-snake was spreading himself, a small hawk, a +sharp-shinned, I think, came beating over the meadow and was met by a +vigilance committee of red-shouldered blackbirds. He did not stop <a name="Page_138" id="Page_138" />to eat +any of them, but darted up, and they after him. On up he went, round and +round in a rapid, mounting spiral, till only one of the daring redwings +followed. I watched. Up they went, higher than I had ever seen a blackbird +venture before. And against such unequal odds! But the hawk was scared and +had not stopped to look back. He circled; the blackbird cut across inside +and caught him on almost every round. And still higher in pure bravado the +redwing forced him. I began to tremble for the plucky bird, when I saw him +turn, half fold his shining wings, and shoot straight down—a meteor of +jet with fire flying from its opposite sides—down, down, while I held my +breath. Suddenly the wings flashed, and he was scaling a steep incline; +another flash, a turn, and he was upon a slower plane—had thrown himself +against the air and settled upon the swaying top of a brown cattail.</p> + +<p>A quiet had been creeping over the swamp and meadow. The dry rasp of a +dragon-fly's wings was loud in the grass. The stream beneath the beeches +darkened and grew moody as the light neared its noon intensity; the +beech-<a name="Page_139" id="Page_139" />leaves hung limp and silent; a catbird settled near me with dropped +tail and head drawn in between her shoulders, as mute as the leaves; the +Maryland yellowthroat broke into a sharp gallop of song at intervals,—he +would have to clatter a little on doomsday, if that day fell in June,—but +the intervals were far apart. The meadow shimmered. No part of the horizon +was in sight—only the sky overhanging the little open of grass, and this +was cloudless, though far from blue.</p> + +<p>Perhaps there was not a real sign of uneasiness anywhere except in my +boat; yet I felt something ominous in this silent, stifled noon. After +all, I ought to have scotched the rusty, red-bellied water-snake leering +at me now. The croak of the great blue heron sounded again; then far away, +mysterious and spirit-like, floated a soft <i>qua, qua, qua</i>—the cry of the +least bittern out of the heart of the swamp.</p> + +<p>I loosed the grape-vine, put in my paddle, and turned down-stream, with an +urgent desire to get out of the swamp, out where I could see about me. I +made no haste, lest the stream, the swamp, the something that made me +uneasy, <a name="Page_140" id="Page_140" />should know. Not that I am superstitious, though I should have +been had I lived when the land was all swamp and wood and prairie; and I +should be now were I a sailor. My boat slipped swiftly along under the +thick-shadowing trees, and rounding a sharp bend, brought me to the open +pond, to the sky, and to a sight that explained my disquietude. The west, +half-way to the zenith, was green—the black-and-blue green of bruised +flesh. Out of it shot a fork of lightning, and behind it rumbled muffled +thunder.</p> + +<p>There was no time to descend the pond. I could already hear the wind +across the silence and suspense. It was one of the supreme moments of the +summer. The very trees seemed breathless and awe-struck. Pushing quickly +to the wooded shore, I drew out the boat, turned it over, and crawled +under it just as the leaves stirred with the first cool, wet breath.</p> + +<p>There was an instant's lull, a tremor through the ground; then the rending +and crunching of the wind monster in the oaks, the shriek of the forest +victim—and the wind was gone. The rain followed with fearful violence, +the lightning sizzled and cracked among the trees, and the <a name="Page_141" id="Page_141" />thunder burst +just above the boat—all holding on to finish the wind's work.</p> + +<p>It was soon over. The leaves were dripping when I crept out of my shell; +the afternoon sun was blinking through a million gleaming tears, and the +storm was rumbling far away, behind the swamp. A robin lighted upon a +branch over me, and set off its load of drops, which rattled down on my +boat's bottom like a charge of shot. I glided into the stream. Down the +pond where I had seen the sullen clouds was now an indescribable freshness +and glory of shining hills and shining sky. The air had been washed and +was still hanging across the heavens undried. The maple-leaves showed +silver; the flock of chimney-swifts had returned, and among them, +twinkling white and blue and brown, were tree-swallows and barn-swallows +squeaking in their flight like new harness; a pair of night-hawks played +back and forth across the water, too, awakened, probably, by the thunder, +or else mistaken in the green darkness of the storm, thinking it the +twilight; and the creek up and down as far as I could hear was ringing +with bird-calls.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142" />There had been a perceptible rise and quickening of the current. It was +slightly roiled and carried a floatage of broken twigs, torn leaves, with +here and there a golden-green tulip-petal, like the broken wings of +butterflies.</p> + +<p>I was in no hurry now, in no disquietude. The swamp and the storm were at +my back. Before me lay the pond, the pastures, and the roofs of a human +village—all bathed in the splendor of the year's divinest hour. It had +not been a perfect day, but these closing hours were perfect, so perfect +that they redeemed the whole, and not that day only: they were perfect +enough to have redeemed the whole of creation travailing till then in +pain.</p> + +<p>Because I turned from all this sunset glory to find out what little bird +was making the very big fuss near by, and because, parting the foliage of +an arrow-wood bush, I looked with exquisite pleasure into the nest of a +white-eyed vireo, does it mean that I am still unborn as to soul? For some +reason it was a relief to look away from that west of vast and burning +color to the delicately dotted eggs in the tiny cradle—the same relief +felt in descending from a mountain-<a name="Page_143" id="Page_143" />top to the valley; in turning from the +sweep of the sea to watch beach-fleas hopping over the sand; in giving +over the wisdom of men for the gabble of my little boys.</p> + +<p>How the vireo scolded! and her mate! He half sang his threat and defiance. +"Come, get out of this! Come; do you hear?" he cried over and over, as I +peeked into the nest. It was a thick-walled, exquisite bit of a basket, +rimmed round with green, growing moss, worked over with shredded bark and +fragments of yellow wood from a punky stump across the stream, and +suspended by spider-webs upon two parallel twigs about three feet above +the water. It was not consciously worked out by the birds, of course, but +the patch of yellow-wood fragments on the side of the nest exactly matched +the size and color of the fading cymes of arrow-wood blossoms all over the +bush, so that I mistook the little domicile utterly on first parting the +leaves. A crow or a snake would never have discovered it from that side.</p> + +<p>Paddling down, I was soon out of earshot of the scolding vireos, but the +little cock's vigorous, ringing song followed me to the head of the <a name="Page_144" id="Page_144" />pond. +Flying heavily over from the meadows with folded neck and dangling legs +came a little green heron—the "poke." I spun round behind a big clump of +elder to watch him; but he saw me, veered, gulped aloud, and pulled off +with a rapid stroke up the creek.</p> + +<p>As I turned, my eye fell upon a soft, yellowish something in the +rose-bushes across the docks. I was slow to believe. It was too good to be +credited all at once. Within three paddle-lengths of my boat, in a patch +of dark that must be a nest, stood my least bittern.</p> + +<p>I sat still for several seconds, tasting the joy of my discovery and +anticipating the look into the nest. Then, upon my knees in the bow of the +skiff, I pulled up by means of the stout dock-leaves until almost able to +touch the bird, when she walked off down a dead stalk to the ground, +clucking and growling at me.</p> + +<p>It wasn't a nest to boast of; but she might boast of her eggs, for there +was more of eggs than of nest—a great deal more. A few sticks had been +laid upon the ends of the bending rose-bushes, and this flimsy, inadequate +platform was literally covered by the five dirty-white eggs.<a name="Page_145" id="Page_145" /> The hen had +to stand on the bushes straddling the nest in order to brood. How she ever +got as close to the nest as that without spilling its contents was hard to +see; for I took an egg out and had the greatest difficulty in putting it +back, so little room was there, so near to nothing for it to rest upon.</p> + +<p>Working back into the channel, I gave the skiff to the easy current and +drew slowly along toward the foot of the pond.</p> + +<p>The sun had gone down behind the hill; the flame had faded from the sky, +and over the rim of the circling slopes poured the soft, cool twilight, +with a breeze as soft and cool, and a spirit that was prayer. Drifting +across the pond as gently as the gray half-light fell a shower of lint +from the willow catkins. The swallows had left; but from the leafy +darkness of the copse in front of me, piercing the dreamy, foamy roar of +the distant dam, came the notes of a wood-thrush, pure, sweet, and +peaceful, speaking the soul of the quiet time. My boat grated softly on +the sandy bottom of the cove and swung in. Out from the deep shadow of the +wooded shore, out over the pond, a thin white <a name="Page_146" id="Page_146" />veil was creeping—the +mist, the breath of the sleeping water, the spirit of the stream. And away +up the creek a distorted, inarticulate sound—the hoarse, guttural croak +of the great blue heron, the weird, uncanny cry of the night, the mock, +the menace of the tangled, untamed swamp!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img155" id="img155"></a> +<img src="images/img155.jpg" +alt="The Dragon of the Swale" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="THE_DRAGON_OF_THE_SWALE" id="THE_DRAGON_OF_THE_SWALE" /><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147" />THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>My path to Cubby Hollow ran along a tumbling worm-fence, down a gravelly +slope, and across a strip of swale, through which flowed the stream that +farther on widened into the Hollow. A small jungle of dog-roses, elder, +and blackberry tangled the banks of the stream, spreading into flanks of +cinnamon-fern that crept well up the hillsides.</p> + +<p>As I descended the gravelly slope, my path led through the ferns into a +tunnel of vines, to a rail over the water, and on up to the woods. By the +middle of June the tangle, except by the half-broken path, was almost +rabbit-proof. The <a name="Page_150" id="Page_150" />rank ferns waved to my chin, and were so thick that +they left little trace of my passing until late in the summer.</p> + +<p>This bit of the swale from the lower edge of the gravelly slope to the +edge of the woods on the opposite slope was the lair of a dragon. My path +cut directly across it.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the dragon had been there ever since I had known the swale, and +summer after summer had allowed me to cross unchallenged. I do not know. I +only know that one day he rose out of the ferns before me—the longest, +ugliest, boldest beast that ever withstood me in the quiet walks about +home.</p> + +<p>It was a day in early July, hot and very close. I was wading the sunken +trail, much as one "treads water," my head not always above the surface of +the fronds, when, suddenly, close to my side the ferns in a single spot +were violently shaken. Instantly ahead of me they whirled again' and +before I could think, off across the path was another rush and whirl—then +stirless silence.</p> + +<p>I knew what it meant. These were not the sudden, startled leaps of three +animals, but the <a name="Page_151" id="Page_151" />lightning movements of one. I had crossed the path of a +swamp black-snake, and judging from the speed and whirl, it was a snake of +uncommon size.</p> + +<p>The path, a few paces farther on, opened into a small patch of low grass. +Just as I was getting through the brake to this spot I stopped short with +a chill. In the ferns near me shrilled a hissing whistle, a weird, creepy +whistle that made me cold—a fierce, menacing sound, all edge, and so thin +that it slivered every nerve in me. And then, without a stir in the brake, +up out of the low grass in front of me rose a blue-black, glittering head.</p> + +<p>I have little faith in the spell of a snake's eye, yet for a moment I was +held by the subtle, masterful face that had risen so unexpectedly, so +coolly before me. It was lifted a foot out of the grass. The head upon its +lithe, round neck was poised motionless, but set as with a hair-spring. +The flat, pointed face was turned upon me, so that I could see a patch of +white upon the throat. Evidently the snake had just sloughed an old skin, +for the sunlight gleamed iridescent on the shining jet scales. It was not +a large head; it <a name="Page_152" id="Page_152" />lacked the shovel-nose and the heavy, horrid jaws of the +rattle-snake. But it was clean-cut, with power in every line of jaw and +neck; with power and speed and certainty in the pose, so easy, ready, and +erect. There was no fear in the creature's eye, something rather of +aggressiveness, and of such evil cunning that I stood on guard.</p> + +<p>Afraid of a snake? of a black-snake! No. I think, indeed, there are few +persons who really do fear snakes. It is not fear, but nerves. I have +tamed more black-snakes than I have killed. I should not care a straw if +one bit me. Yet, for all of that, the meeting with any black-snake is so +unlocked for as always to be unnerving. But let a huge one whip about you +in the brake, chill you with an unearthly hissing whistle, then suddenly +rise in front of you, glittering, challenging, sinister! You will be +abashed. I was; and I shall never outgrow the weakness.</p> + +<p>It was a big snake. I had not been mistaken in its size. There is nothing +on earth that shrinks as a <i>dead</i> snake; and this one, so far as I know, +is still alive; yet, allowing generously for <a name="Page_153" id="Page_153" />my imagination, I am sure +the creature measured six feet. His neck, just behind the jaws, was nearly +the size of a broom-handle, which meant a long, hard length curved out in +the ferns behind. It was a male; I could tell by the peculiar musk on the +air, an odor like cut cucumbers.</p> + +<p>Fully a minute we eyed each other. Then I took a step forward. The +glittering head rose higher. Off in the ferns there beat a warning +tattoo—the loud whir of the snake's tail against a skunk-cabbage leaf.</p> + +<p>In my hand was a slender dogwood switch that I had been poking into the +holes of the digger-wasps up the hillside. If one thing more than another +will turn a snake tail to in a hurry it is the song of a switch. Expecting +to see this overbold fellow jump out of his new skin and lunge off into +the swale, I leaned forward and made the stick sing under his nose. But he +did not jump or budge. He only bent back out of range, swayed from side to +side, and drew more of his black length out into the low grass to better +his position.</p> + +<p>The lidless eyes and scale-cased face of a snake might seem incapable of +more than one set <a name="Page_154" id="Page_154" />expression. Can hate and fear show there? They +certainly can, at least to my imagination. If ever hate and fear mantled a +face, they did this one in the grass. The sound of the switch only +maddened the creature. He had too long dictated terms in this part of the +swale to crawl aside for me.</p> + +<p>Nor would I give way to him. But I ceased switching, drew back a step, and +looked at him with more respect than I ever before showed a snake.</p> + +<p>The curved neck straightened at that, the glinting head swayed forward, +and shivering through me as the swish of a stick never shivered through a +snake, sounded that unearthly hissing whistle. For a second—for just the +fraction of a second that it takes to jump—I was, not scared, but +shocked; and I slipped on something underfoot. In three directions I +wallowed the ferns before I got to my feet to watch the snake again, and +by that time the snake was gone.</p> + +<p>I found myself somewhat muddy and breathing a little hard; but I was not +wholly chagrined. I had heard and seen a black-snake whistle. I had never +even known of the habit before.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155" />Since then I have seen one other snake do it, and I think I have heard +the sound three or four times. It is almost indescribable. The jaws were +closed as it was made, not even the throat moving, that I could see. The +air seemed to be blown violently through the nostrils, though sounding as +if driven through the teeth—a shrilling hiss, fine and piercing, which +one not so much hears as feels, crisping cold along his nerves.</p> + +<p>It may seem strange, but I believe this whistle is a mating-call. Even the +forked tongue (or maybe the nose) of a snake grows vocal with love. If +only the Sphinx had not possessed a heart of stone! No matter about its +lips; with a heart to know the "spring running" we should have heard its +story long ago. Perhaps, after all, the college sophomore was not mixing +his observations and Sunday-school memories when he wrote, describing the +dawn of a spring morning (I quote from his essay): "Beneath in the water +the little fishes darted about the boat; above the little birds twittered +in the branches; while off on a sunny log in the pond the soft, sibilant +croak of the mud-turtle was <a name="Page_156" id="Page_156" />heard on the shore." If we could happen upon +the mud-turtle mad with love, I am sure we should find that he had a +voice—a "soft, sibilant croak," who knows?</p> + +<p>I had long known the tradition among the farmers of the black-snake's +trailing its mate, following her by scent through grass and brush, +persistent and sure as a sleuth-hound, until at last she is won. I had +been told of this by eyewitnesses over and over, but I had always put it +down as a snake story, for these same witnesses would also tell me the +hoop-snake story, only it was their grandfathers, always, who had seen +this creature take its tail in its mouth and roll, and hit and kill a +fifty-dollar apple-tree (the tree was invariably worth fifty dollars). I +had small faith in the trailing tale.</p> + +<p>One day, the summer after my encounter in the ferns, I was sitting upon a +harrow at the edge of the gravelly field that slopes to the swale, when a +large black-snake glided swiftly across the lane and disappeared in the +grass beyond. It had been gone perhaps a minute, when I heard another stir +behind me, and turning, saw high above the weeds and dewberry-<a name="Page_157" id="Page_157" />vines the +neck and head of a second black-snake.</p> + +<p>He was coming swiftly, evenly, carrying his gleaming head over a foot from +the ground, and following hard upon the trail of the first snake. He hit +very near the smooth, flowing mark in the dust of the lane. Here she had +crossed. Here he was about to cross when he caught sight of me.</p> + +<p>For a startled instant he stiffened, threw himself on the defensive, and +showed a white patch under his chin, an ugly, blazing light in his eye, +and a peculiarly aggressive attitude that there was no mistaking. I had +seen this snake before. I knew him. He was the dragon of the swale.</p> + +<p>Only pausing, he whirled, struck the track, and sped on, his round black +body stretching from rut to rut of the lane. A hundred feet beyond in the +grass I saw his glittering head rise and sway with a swimming motion as he +trailed the long, lithe beauty that was leading him this lightning race +across the fields.</p> + +<p>This was not the last time he crossed my path. He never withstood me +again; but he thwarted me several times. Once as I was descending the +<a name="Page_158" id="Page_158" />slope I saw him gliding down from a low cedar. The distressing cries of +two chippies told me what he had been doing in the tree; I did not need to +look at the half-dislodged nest. Then and there I vowed to kill him, but +from that moment I never set eyes on him again. His evil work, however, +went on. In a clump of briers across the stream was the nest of a pair of +redbirds that I was watching. One day just before the young could fly they +were carried off. I knew who did it. On the same side, up under the fence +by the woods, a litter of rabbits was destroyed. The snake killed them. It +was he, too, who ate the eggs of the bluebirds in the old apple-tree along +the fence in the adjoining field.</p> + +<p>There must be a dragon in the way, I suppose—in the way even of nature +study. There are unpleasant, perhaps unnecessary, and evil +creatures—snakes!—in the fields and woods, which we must be willing to +meet and tolerate for the love within us. Tick-seeds, beggar-needles, mud, +mosquitos, rain, heat, hawks, and snakes haunt all our paths, hindering us +sometimes, though never really blocking the way.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159" />But the dragon in the swale—ought I to tolerate him? No. There are +moments when I should be glad to kill him, yet I doubt if the swale would +be quite so wild and thrilling a spot if I knew there was no dragon to +meet me as I crossed. But the redbirds, bluebirds, rabbits? I see no +shrinking in their numbers because of the snake. A few of them breed as +they always have along the swale. There are worse enemies than the dragon, +though he is bad enough.</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14701 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/14701-h/images/img001.jpg b/14701-h/images/img001.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7a9b27d --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img001.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img009.jpg b/14701-h/images/img009.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bbe669d --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img009.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img027.jpg b/14701-h/images/img027.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c77603 --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img027.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img039.jpg b/14701-h/images/img039.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bfaa2ad --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img039.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img053.jpg b/14701-h/images/img053.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c661e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img053.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img085.jpg b/14701-h/images/img085.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef942cb --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img085.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img099.jpg b/14701-h/images/img099.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..89ecc33 --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img099.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img115.jpg b/14701-h/images/img115.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1fd846e --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img115.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img129.jpg b/14701-h/images/img129.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..88bdd89 --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img129.jpg diff --git a/14701-h/images/img155.jpg b/14701-h/images/img155.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec37c28 --- /dev/null +++ b/14701-h/images/img155.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..484d0ca --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #14701 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14701) diff --git a/old/14701-8.txt b/old/14701-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f0dc0b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14701-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2985 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Roof and Meadow, by Dallas Lore Sharp + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Roof and Meadow + +Author: Dallas Lore Sharp + +Release Date: January 16, 2005 [EBook #14701] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROOF AND MEADOW *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +[Transcriber's Note: In this text, the spelling _racoon_ is used +consistently instead of _raccoon_. I have kept this and any other unusual +spellings, retaining the character of the original.] + + + + +Roof and Meadow + +By Dallas Lore Sharp + +Author of "A Watcher in the Woods" + +With Illustrations By Bruce Horsfall + +SCHOOL EDITION + + + +[Illustration] + +NEW YORK + +The Century Co. + +1911 + + + + +Copyright, 1903, 1904, by THE CENTURY CO. + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. + +Copyright, 1903, by THE CHAPPLE PUBLISHING CO. (Ltd.). + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by W.W. POTTER CO. (Ltd.). + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by PERRY MASON COMPANY + +_Published April, 1904._ + + + + +TO + +MY MOTHER + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF 1 +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK 19 +THREE SERMONS 31 +THE MARSH 45 +CALICO AND THE KITTENS 77 +THE SPARROW ROOST 91 +"MUX" 107 +RACOON CREEK 121 +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE 147 + + + + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF + + + + +[Illustration] + +ROOF AND MEADOW + + + + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF + + +I laid down my book and listened. It was only the choking gurgle of a +broken rain-pipe outside: then it was the ripple and swish of a meadow +stream. To make out the voices of redwings and marsh-wrens in the rasping +notes of the city sparrows behind the shutter required much more +imagination. But I did it. I wanted to hear, and the splash of the water +helped me. + +The sounds of wind and water are the same everywhere. Here at the heart of +the city I can forget the tarry pebbles and painted tin whenever my +rain-pipes are flooded. I can never be wholly shut away from the open +country and the trees so long as the winds draw hard down the alley past +my window. + +But I have more than a window and a broken rain-pipe. Along with my five +flights goes a piece of roof, flat, with a wooden floor, a fence, and a +million acres of sky. I couldn't possibly use another acre of sky, except +along the eastern horizon, where the top floors of some twelve-story +buildings intercept the dawn. + +With such a roof and such a sky, when I must, I can, with effort, get well +out of the city. I have never fished nor botanized here, but I have been +a-birding many times. + + Stone walls do not a prison make, + +nor city streets a cage--if one have a roof. + +A roof is not an ideal spot for bird study. I would hardly, out of +preference, have chosen this with its soot and its battlement of gaseous +chimney-pots, even though it is a university roof with the great gilded +dome of a state house shining down upon it. One whose feet have always +been in the soil does not take kindly to tar and tin. But anything open to +the sky is open to some of the birds, for the paths of many of the +migrants lie close along the clouds. + +Other birds than the passing migrants, however, sometimes come within +range of my look-out. The year around there are English sparrows and +pigeons; and all through the summer scarcely an evening passes when a few +chimney-swallows are not in sight. + +With the infinite number and variety of chimneys hedging me in, I +naturally expected to find the sky alive with swallows. Indeed, I thought +that some of the twenty-six pots at the corners of my roof would be +inhabited by the birds. Not so. While I can nearly always find a pair of +swallows in the air, they are surprisingly scarce, and, so far as I know, +they rarely build in the heart of the city. There are more canaries in my +block than chimney-swallows in all my sky. + +The swallows are not urban birds. The gas, the smoke, the shrieking +ventilators, and the ceaseless sullen roar of the city are hardly to their +liking. Perhaps the flies and gnats which they feed upon cannot live in +the air above the roofs. The swallows want a sleepy old town with big +thunderful chimneys, where there are wide fields and a patch of quiet +water. + +Much more numerous than the swallows are the night-hawks. My roof, in +fact, is the best place I have ever found to study their feeding habits. +These that flit through my smoky dusk may not make city nests, though the +finding of such nests would not surprise me. Of course a night-hawk's +_nest_, here or anywhere else, would surprise me; for like her cousin, the +whippoorwill, she never builds a nest, but stops in the grass, the gravel, +the leaves, or on a bare rock, deposits her eggs without even scratching +aside the sticks and stones that may share the bed, and in three days is +brooding them--brooding the stones too. + +It is likely that some of my hawks nest on the buildings in the +neighborhood. Night-hawks' eggs have occasionally been found among the +pebbles of city roofs. The high, flat house-tops are so quiet and remote, +so far away from the noisy life in the narrow streets below, that the +birds make their nests here as if in a world apart. The twelve-and +fifteen-story buildings are as so many deserted mountain heads to them. + +None of the birds build on my roof, however. But from early spring they +haunt the region so constantly that their families, if they have families +at all, must be somewhere in the vicinity. Should I see them like this +about a field or thicket in the country it would certainly mean a nest. + +The sparrows themselves do not seem more at home here than do these +night-hawks. One evening, after a sultry July day, a wild wind-storm burst +over the city. The sun was low, glaring through a narrow rift between the +hill-crests and the clouds that spread green and heavy across the sky. I +could see the lower fringes of the clouds working and writhing in the +wind, but not a sound or a breath was in the air about me. Around me over +my roof flew the night-hawks. They were crying peevishly and skimming +close to the chimneys, not rising, as usual, to any height. + +Suddenly the storm broke. The rain fell as if something had given way +overhead. The wind tore across the stubble of roofs and spires; and +through the wind, the rain, and the rolling clouds shot a weird, +yellow-green sunlight. + +I had never seen a storm like it. Nor had the night-hawks. They seemed to +be terrified, and left the sky immediately. One of them, alighting on the +roof across the street, and creeping into the lee of a chimney, huddled +there in sight of me until the wind was spent and a natural sunlight +flooded the world of roofs and domes and spires. + +Then they were all awing once more, hawking for supper. Along with the +hawking they got in a great deal of play, doing their tumbling and +cloud-coasting over the roofs just as they do above the fields. + +Mounting by easy stages of half a dozen rapid strokes, catching flies by +the way, and crying _peent-peent_, the acrobat climbs until I look a mere +lump on the roof; then ceasing his whimpering _peent_, he turns on bowed +wings and falls--shoots roofward with fearful speed. The chimneys! Quick! + +Quick he is. Just short of the roofs the taut wings flash a reverse, there +is a lightning swoop, a startling hollow wind-sound, and the rushing bird +is beating skyward again, hawking deliberately as before, and uttering +again his peevish nasal cry. + +This single note, the only call he has besides a few squeaks, is far from +a song; farther still is the empty-barrel-bung-hole sound made by the air +in the rushing wings as the bird swoops in his fall. The night-hawk, alias +"bull-bat," does not sing. What a name bull-bat would be for a singing +bird! But a "voice" was never intended for the creature. Voice, beak, +legs, head--everything but wings and maw was sacrificed for a mouth. What +a mouth! The bird can almost swallow himself. Such a cleft in the head +could never mean a song; it could never be utilized for anything but a +fly-trap. + +We have use for fly-traps. We need some birds just to sit around, look +pretty, and warble. We will pay them for it in cherries or in whatever +they ask. But there is also a great need for birds that kill insects. And +first among these are the night-hawks. They seem to have been designed for +this sole purpose. Their end is to kill insects. They are more like +machines than any other birds I know. The enormous mouth feeds an enormous +stomach, and this, like a fire-box, makes the power that works the +enormous wings. From a single maw have been taken eighteen hundred winged +ants, to say nothing of the smaller fry that could not be identified and +counted. + +But if he never caught an ant, never one of the fifth-story mosquitos that +live and bite till Christmas, how greatly still my sky would need him! His +flight is song enough. His cry and eery thunder are the very voice of the +summer twilight to me. And as I watch him coasting in the evening dusk, +that twilight often falls--over the roofs, as it used to fall for me over +the fields and the quiet hollow woods. + +There is always an English sparrow on my roof--which does not particularly +commend the roof to bird-lovers, I know. I often wish the sparrow an +entirely different bird, but I never wish him entirely away from the roof. +When there is no other defense for him, I fall back upon his being a +bird. Any kind of a bird in the city! Any but a parrot. + +A pair of sparrows nest regularly in an eaves-trough, so close to the roof +that I can overhear their family talk. Round, loquacious, familiar Cock +Sparrow is a family man--so entirely a family man as to be nothing else at +all. He is a success, too. It does me good to see him build. He tore the +old nest all away in the early winter, so as to be ready. There came a +warm springish day in February, and he began. A blizzard stopped him, but +with the melting of the snow he went to work again, completing the nest by +the middle of March. + +He built for a big family, and he had it. Not "it" indeed, but _them_; for +there were three batches of from six to ten youngsters each during the +course of the season. He also did a father's share of work with the +children. I think he hated hatching them. He would settle upon the roof +above the nest, and chirp in a crabbed, imposed-upon tone until his wife +came out. As she flew briskly away, he would look disconsolately around at +the bright busy world, ruffle his feathers, scold to himself, and then +crawl dutifully in upon the eggs. + +I knew how he felt. It is not in a cock sparrow to enjoy hatching eggs. I +respected him; for though he grumbled, as any normal husband might, still +he was "drinking fair" with Mrs. Sparrow. He built and brooded and foraged +for his family, if not as sweetly, yet as faithfully, as his wife. He +deserved his blessed abundance of children. + +Is he songless, sooty, uninteresting, vulgar? Not if you live on a roof. +He may be all of this, a pest even, in the country. But upon my roof, for +weeks at a stretch, his is the only bird voice I hear. Throughout the +spring, and far into the summer, I watch the domestic affairs in the +eaves-trough. During the winter, at nightfall, I see little bands and +flurries of birds scudding over and dropping behind the high buildings to +the east. They are sparrows on the way to their roost in the elms of an +old mid-city burial-ground. + +I not infrequently spy a hawk soaring calmly far away above the roof. Not +only the small ones, like the sharp-shinned, but also the larger, wilder +species come, and winding up close to the clouds, circle and circle there, +trying apparently to see some meaning in the maze of moving, intersecting +lines of dots below yonder in the cracks of that smoking, rumbling blur. + +In the spring, from the trees of the Common, which are close, but, except +for the crown of one noble English elm, are shut away from me, I hear an +occasional robin and Baltimore oriole. Very rarely a woodpecker will go +over. The great northern shrike is a frequent winter visitor, but by ill +chance I have not been up when he has called at the roof. + +One of these fiend birds haunts a small court only a block away, which is +inclosed in a high board fence, topped with nails. He likes the court +because of these nails. They are sharp; they will stick clean through the +body of a sparrow. Sometimes the fiend has a dozen sparrows run through +with them, leaving the impaled bodies to flutter in the wind and finally +fall away. + +In sight from my roof are three tiny patches of the harbor; sometimes a +fourth, when the big red-funneled liner is gone from her slip. Down to +the water of the harbor in flocks from the north come other winter +visitors, the herring and black-backed gulls. Often during the winter I +find them in my sky. + +One day they will cross silently over the city in a long straggling line. +Again they will fly low, wheeling and screaming, their wild sea-voices +shrill with the sound of storm. If it is thick and gray overhead, the +snow-white bodies of the herring-gulls toss in the wind above the roofs +like patches of foam. I hear the sea--the wind, the surf, the wild, fierce +tumult of the shore--whenever the white gulls sail screaming into my +winter sky. + +I have never lived under a wider reach of sky than that above my roof. It +offers a clear, straight, six-minute course to the swiftest wedge of wild +geese. Spring and autumn the geese and ducks go over, and their passage is +the most thrilling event in all my bird calendar. + +It is because the ducks fly high and silent that I see them so rarely. +They are always a surprise. You look, and there against the dull sky they +move, strange dark forms that set your blood leaping. But I never see a +string of them winging over that I do not think of a huge thousand-legger +crawling the clouds. + +My glimpses of the geese are largely chance, too. Several times, through +the open window by my table, I have heard the faint, far-off honking, and +have hurried to the roof in time to watch the travelers disappear. One +spring day I was upon the roof when a large belated flock came over, +headed north. It was the 20th of April, and the morning had broken very +warm. I could see that the geese were hot and tired. They were barely +clearing the church spires. On they came, their wedge wide and straggling, +until almost over me, when something happened. The gander in the lead +faltered and swerved, the wedge lines wavered, the flock rushed together +in confusion, wheeled, dropped, then broke apart, and honking wildly, +turned back toward the bay. + +It was instant and complete demoralization. A stronger gander, I think, +could have led the wedge unbroken over the city to some neighboring pond, +where the weakest of the stragglers, however, must have fallen from sheer +exhaustion. + +Scaling lower and lower across the roofs, the flock had reached the +center of the city and had driven suddenly into the roar and confusion of +the streets. Weary from the heat, they were dismayed at the noise, their +leader faltered, and, at a stroke, the great flying wedge went to pieces. + +There is nothing in the life of birds quite so stirring to the imagination +as their migration: the sight of gathering swallows, the sudden appearance +of strange warblers, the call of passing plovers--all are suggestive of +instincts, movements, and highways that are unseen, unaccountable, and +full of mystery. Little wonder that the most thrilling poem ever written +to a bird begins: + + Whither, midst falling dew, + While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, + Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue + Thy solitary way? + +The question, the mystery in that "certain flight" I never felt so vividly +as from my roof. Here I have often heard the reed-birds and the water-fowl +passing. Sometimes I have heard them going over in the dark. One night I +remember particularly, the sky and the air were so clear and the geese so +high in the blue. + +Over the fields and wide silent marshes such passing is strange enough. +But here I stood above a sleeping city of men, and far above me, so far +that I could only hear them, holding their northward way through the +starlit sky, they passed--whither? and how guided? Was the shining dome of +the State House a beacon? Did they mark the light at Marblehead? + + + + +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK + + ... the chylde may Rue that ys vn-born, it wos the mor pitte. + + +There was murder in my heart. The woodchuck knew it. He never had had a +thought before, but he had one now. It came hard and heavily, yet it +arrived in time; and it was not a slow thought for a woodchuck, +either--just a trifle better, indeed, than my own. + +This was the first time I had caught the woodchuck away from his hole. He +had left his old burrow in the huckleberry hillside, and dug a new hole +under one of my young peach-trees. I had made no objection to his +huckleberry hole. He used to come down the hillside and waddle into the +orchard in broad day, free to do and go as he pleased; but not since he +began to dig under the peach-tree. + +I discovered this new hole when it was only a foot deep, and promptly +filled it with stones. The next morning the stones were out and the cavity +two feet deeper. I filled it up again, driving a large squarish piece of +rock into the mouth, tight, certainly stopping all further work, as I +thought. + +There are woodchucks that you can discourage and there are those that you +can't. Three days later the piece of rock and the stones were piled about +the butt of the tree and covered with fresh earth, while the hole ran in +out of sight, with the woodchuck, apparently, at the bottom of it. + +I had tried shutting him out, now I would try shutting him in. It was +cruel--it would have been to anything but a woodchuck; I was ashamed of +myself for doing it, and went back the following day, really hoping to +find the burrow open. + +Never again would I worry over an imprisoned woodchuck; but then I should +never again try to destroy a woodchuck by walling up his hole, any more +than Br'er Fox would try to punish the rabbit by slinging him a second +time into the brier-patch. + +The burrow was wide open. I had stuffed and rammed the rocks into it, and +buried deep in its mouth the body of another woodchuck that my neighbor's +dog had killed. All was cleared away. The deceased relative was +gone--where and how I know not; the stones were scattered on the farther +side of the tree, and the passage neatly swept of all loose sand and +pebbles. + +Clearly the woodchuck had come to stay. I meant that he should move. I +could get him into a steel trap, for his wits are not abiding; they come +only on occasion. Woodchuck lives too much in the ground and too +constantly beside his own door to grow very wise. He can always be +trapped. So can any one's enemy. You can always murder. But no gentleman +strikes from behind. I hate the steel trap. I have set my last one. They +would be bitter peaches on that tree if they cost the woodchuck what I +have seen more than one woodchuck suffer in the horrible jaws of such a +trap. + +But is it not perfectly legitimate and gentlemanly to shoot such a +woodchuck to save one's peaches? Certainly. So I got the gun and +waited--and waited--and waited. Did you ever wait with a gun until a +woodchuck came out of his hole? I never did. A woodchuck has just sense +enough to go into his hole--and stay in. + +There were too many woodchucks about and my days were too precious for me +to spend any considerable part of my summer watching with a gun for this +one. Besides, I have been known to fire and miss a woodchuck, anyway. + +So I gave up the gun. It was while thinking what I could do next that I +came down the row of young peach-trees and spied the woodchuck out in the +orchard, fifty yards away from his hole. He spied me at the same instant, +and rose upon his haunches. + +At last we were face to face. The time had come. It would be a fight to +the finish; and a fair fight, too, for all that I had about me in the way +of weapons was a pair of heavy, knee-high hunting-boots, that I had put +on against the dew of the early morning. All my thought and energy, all my +hope, centered immediately in those boots. + +The woodchuck kept his thoughts in his head. Into his heels he put what +speed he had; and little as that was, it counted, pieced out with the +head-work. + +Back in my college days I ran a two-mile race--the greatest race of the +day, the judges said--and just at the tape lost two gold medals and the +glory of a new intercollegiate record because I didn't use my head. Two of +us out of twenty finished, and we finished together, the other fellow +twisting and falling forward, breaking the string with his side, while I, +pace for pace with him--didn't think. + +For a moment the woodchuck and I stood motionless, he studying the +situation. I was at the very mouth of his burrow. It was coming to sure +death for him to attempt to get in. Yet it was sure death if he did not +get in, for I should run him down. + +Had you been that woodchuck, gentle reader, I wonder if you would have +taken account of the thick-strewn stones behind you, the dense tangle of +dewberry-vines off on your left, the heavy boots of your enemy and his +unthinking rage? + +I was vastly mistaken in that woodchuck. A blanker, flabbier face never +looked into mine. Only the sudden appearance of death could have brought +the trace of intelligence across it that I caught as the creature dropped +on all fours and began to wabble straight away from me over the area of +rough, loose stones. + +With a jump and a yell I was after him, making five yards to his one. He +tumbled along the best he could, and, to my great surprise, directly away +from his hole. It was steep downhill. I should land upon him in half a +dozen bounds more. + +On we went, reckless of the uneven ground, momentum increasing with every +jump, until, accurately calculating his speed and the changing distance +between us, I rose with a mighty leap, sailed into the air and came +down--just an inch too far ahead--on a round stone, turned my ankle, and +went sprawling over the woodchuck in a heap. + +The woodchuck spilled himself from under me, slid short about, and +tumbled off for home by way of the dewberry-patch. + +He had made a good start before I was righted and again in motion. Now it +was steep, very steep, uphill--which did not seem to matter much to the +woodchuck, but made a great difference to me. Then, too, I had counted on +a simple, straightaway dash, and had not saved myself for this lap and +climbing home-stretch. + +Still I was gaining,--more slowly this time,--with chances yet good of +overtaking him short of the hole, when, in the thick of the +dewberry-vines, I tripped, lunged forward three or four stumbling strides, +and saw the woodchuck turn sharp to the right in a bee-line for his +burrow. + +I wheeled, jumped, cut after him, caught him on the toe of my boot, and +lifting him, plopped him smoothly, softly into his hole. + +It was gently done. And so beautifully! The whole feat had something of +the poetic accuracy of an astronomical calculation. And the perfectly +lovely dive I helped him make home! + +I sat down upon his mound of earth to get myself together and to enjoy it +all. What a woodchuck! Perhaps he never could do the trick again; but, +then, he won't need to. All the murder was gone from my heart. He had +beaten the boots. He had beaten them so neatly, so absolutely, that simple +decency compelled me then and there to turn over that Crawford peach-tree, +root and stem, to the woodchuck, his heirs and assigns forever. + +By way of celebration he has thrown out nearly a cart-load of sand from +somewhere beneath the tree, deepening and enlarging his home. My Swedish +neighbor, viewing the hole recently, exclaimed: "Dose vuudshuck, I t'ink +him kill dem dree!" Perhaps so. As yet, however, the tree grows on without +a sign of hurt. + +But suppose the tree does die? Well, there is no certainty of its bearing +good fruit. There was once a peddler of trees, a pious man and a Quaker, +who made a mistake, selling the wrong tree. Besides, there are other trees +in the orchard; and, if necessary, I can buy peaches. + +Yes, but what if other woodchucks should seek other roof-trees in the +peach row? They won't. There are no fashions, no such emulations, +out-of-doors. Because one woodchuck moves from huckleberries to a +peach-tree is no sign that all the woodchucks on the hillside are going to +forsake the huckleberries with him. Only humans are silly enough for that. + +If the woodchucks should come, all of them, it would be extremely +interesting--an event worth many peaches. + + + + +THREE SERMONS + + + + +[Illustration] + +THREE SERMONS + + +I + + Thou shalt not preach. + +The woods were as empty as some great empty house; they were hollow and +silent and somber. I stood looking in among the leafless trees, heavy in +spirit at the quiet and gloom, when close by my side spoke a tiny voice. I +started, so suddenly, so unexpectedly it broke into the wide December +silence, so far it echoed through the empty forest halls. + +"What!" I exclaimed, turning in my tracks and addressing a small +brown-leafed beech. "What! little Hyla, are you still out? You! with a +snow-storm brewing and St. Nick due here to-morrow night?" And then from +within the bush, or on it, or under it, or over it, came an answer, _Peep, +peep, peep!_ small and shrill, dropping into the silence of the woods and +stirring it as three small pebbles might drop into the middle of a wide +sleeping pond. + +It was one of those gray, heavy days of the early winter--one of the +vacant, spiritless days of portent that wait hushed and numb before a +coming storm. Not a crow, nor a jay, nor a chickadee had heart enough to +cheep. But little Hyla, the tree-frog, was nothing daunted. Since the last +week in February, throughout the spring and the noisy summer on till this +dreary time, he had been cheerfully, continuously piping. This was his +last call. + +_Peep, peep, peep!_ he piped in February; _Peep, peep, peep!_ in August; +_Peep, peep, peep!_ in December. But did he? + +"He did just that," replies the scientist, "and that only." + +"Not at all," I answer. + +"What authority have you?" he asks. "You are not scientific. You are +merely a dreaming, fooling hanger-on to the fields and woods; one of those +who are forever hearing more than they hear, and seeing more than they +see. We scientists hear with our ears, see with our eyes, feel with our +fingers, and understand with our brains--" + +"Just so, just so," I interrupt, "and you are a worthy but often a pretty +stupid set. Little Hyla in February, August, and December cries _Peep, +peep, peep!_ to you. But his cry to me in February is _Spring, spring, +spring!_ And in December--it depends; for I cannot see with my eyes alone, +nor hear with my ears, nor feel with my fingers only. You can, and so +could Peter Bell. To-day I saw and heard and felt the world all gray and +hushed and shrouded; and little Hyla, speaking out of the silence and +death, called _Cheer, cheer, cheer!_" + + +II + +It is not because the gate is strait and the way narrow that so few get +into the kingdom of the Out-of-Doors. The gate is wide and the way is +broad. The difficulty is that most persons go in too fast. + +If I were asked what virtue, above all others, one must possess in order +to be shown the mysteries of the kingdom of earth and sky, I should say, +there are several; I should not know which to name first. There are, +however, two virtues very essential and very hard to acquire, namely, the +ability to keep quiet and to stand still. + +Last summer a fox in two days took fifteen of my chickens. I saw the +rascal in broad day come down the hill to the chicken-yard. I greatly +enjoy the sight of a wild fox; but fifteen chickens a sight was too high a +price. So I got the gun and chased about the woods half the summer for +another glimpse of the sinner's red hide. I saw him one Sunday as we were +driving into the wood road from church; but never a week-day sight for all +my chasing. + +Along in the early autumn I got home one evening shortly after sundown. I +had left several cocks of hay spread out in the little meadow, and though +it was already pretty damp, I took the fork, went down, and cocked it up. + +Returning, I climbed by the narrow, winding path through the pines, out +into the corner of my pasture. It was a bright moonlight night, and +leaning back upon the short-handled fork, I stopped in the shadow of the +pines to look out over the softly lighted field. + +Off in the woods a mile away sounded the deep, mellow tones of two +foxhounds. Day and night all summer long I had heard them, and all summer +long I had hurried to this knoll and to that for a shot. But the fox +always took the other knoll. + +The echoing cries of the dogs through the silent woods were musical. Soon +they sounded sharp and clear--the hounds were crossing an open stretch +leading down to the meadow behind me. As I leaned, listening, I heard near +by a low, uneasy murmuring from a covey of quails sleeping in the brush +beside the path, and before I had time to think what it meant, a fox +trotted up the path I had just climbed, and halted in the edge of the +shadows directly at my feet. + +I stood as stiff as a post. He sniffed at my dew-wet boots, backed away, +and looked me over curiously. I could have touched him with my fork. Then +he sat down with just his silver-tipped brush in the silver moonlight, to +study me in earnest. + +The loud baying of the hounds was coming nearer. How often I had heard it, +and, in spite of my lost chickens, how often I had exclaimed, "Poor little +tired fox!" But here sat "poor little tired fox" with his tongue in his +head, calmly wondering what kind of stump he had run up against this time. + +I could only dimly see his eyes, but his whole body said: "I can't make it +out, for it doesn't move. But so long as it doesn't move I sha'n't be +scared." Then he trotted to this side and to that for a better wind, +somewhat afraid, but much more curious. + +His time was up, however. The dogs were yelping across the meadow on his +warm trail. Giving me a last unsatisfied look, he dropped down the path, +directly toward the dogs, and sprang lightly off into the thicket. + +The din of their own voices must have deafened the dogs, or they would +have heard him. Round and round they circled, giving the fox ample time +for the study of another "stump" before they discovered that he had +doubled down the path, and still longer time before they crossed the wide +scentless space of his side jump and once more fastened upon his trail. + + +III + +Back in my knickerbocker days I once went off on a Sunday-school picnic, +and soon, replete with "copenhagen," I sauntered into the woods alone in +quest of less cloying sport. I had not gone far when I picked up a dainty +little ribbon-snake, and having no bag or box along, I rolled him up in my +handkerchief, and journeyed on with the wiggling reptile safely caged on +top of my head under my tight-fitting hat. + +After a time I began to feel a peculiar movement under the hat, not +exactly the crawling of a normal snake, but more like that of a snake with +legs. Those were the days when all my soul was bent on the discovery of a +new species--of anything; when the whole of life meant a journey to the +Academy of Natural Sciences with something to be named. For just an +instant flashed the hope that I had found an uncursed snake, one of the +original ones that went on legs. I reached for the hat, bent over, and +pulled it off, and, lo! not a walking snake. Just an ordinary snake, but +with it a live wood-frog! + +This, at least, was interesting, the only real piece of magic I have ever +done. Into my hat had gone only a live snake, now I brought forth the +snake and a live frog. This was a snake to conjure with; so I tied him up +again and finally got him home. + +The next Sunday the minister preached a temperance sermon, in which he +said some dreadful things about snakes. The creatures do seem in some +dark, horrible way to lurk in the dregs of strong drink: but the minister +was not discriminating; he was too fierce and sweeping, saying, among +other things, that there was a universal human hatred for snakes, and that +one of the chief purposes of the human heel was to bruise their scaly +heads. + +I was not born of my Quaker mother to share this "universal human hatred +for snakes"; but I did get from her a wild dislike for sweeping, general +statements. After the sermon I ventured to tell the preacher that there +was an exception to this "universal" rule; that all snakes were not adders +and serpents, but some were just innocent snakes, and that I had a +collection of tame ones which I wished he would come out to see. + +He looked astonished, skeptical, then pained. It was during the days, I +think, of my "probation," and into his anxious heart had come the thought, +Was I "running well"? But he dismissed the doubt and promised to walk over +in the morning. + +His interest amazed me. But, then, preachers quite commonly are different +on Monday. As we went from cage to cage, he said he had read how +boa-constrictors eat, and wouldn't I show him how these snakes eat? + +We had come to the cage of the little ribbon-snake from the picnic grove, +and had arrived just in time to catch him crawling away out of a hole that +he had worked in the rusty mosquito-netting wire of the cover. I caught +him, put him back, and placed a brickbat over the hole. + +I knew that this snake was hungry, because he had had nothing to eat for +nearly a week, and the frog which appeared so mysteriously with him in my +hat was the dinner that he had given up that day of his capture in his +effort to escape. + +The minister looked on without a tremor. I took off the brick that he +might see the better. The snake was very long and small around and the +toad, which I had given him, was very short and big around, so that when +it was all over there was a bunch in the middle of the snake comparable to +the lump a prime watermelon would make in the middle of a small boy if +swallowed whole. + +While we were still watching, the snake, having comfortably (for a snake) +breakfasted, saw the hole uncovered and stuck out his head. We made no +move. Slowly, cautiously, with his eye upon us, he glided out, up to the +big bunch of breakfast in his middle. This stuck. Frantically he squirmed, +whirled, and lashed about, but in vain. He could not pull through. He had +eaten too much. + +There was just one thing for him to do if he would be free: give up the +breakfast of toad (which is much better fare according to snake standards +than pottage according to ours), as he had given up the dinner of frog. +Would he sell his birthright? + +Perhaps a snake cannot calculate; perhaps he knows no conflict of +emotions. Yet something very like these processes seemed to go on within +the scaly little reptile. He ceased all violent struggle, laid his length +upon the netting, and _seemed_ to think, to weigh the chances, to count +the cost. + +Soon he softly drew back into the cage. A series of severe contortions +followed; the obstructing bunch began to move forward, up, farther and +farther, until at last, dazed, squeezed, and half smothered, but entirely +alive and unhurt, the toad appeared and once more opened his eyes to the +blessed light. + +The snake quickly put his head through the hole, slipped out again, and +glided away into his freedom. He had earned it. The toad deserved his +liberty too, and I took him into the strawberry-patch. + +The minister looked on at it all. Perhaps he didn't learn anything. But I +did. + + + + +THE MARSH + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE MARSH + + And breathe it free, and breathe it free, + By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. + +I + + +It was a late June day whose breaking found me upon the edge of the great +salt-marshes which lie behind East Point Light, as the Delaware Bay lies +in front of it, and which run in a wide, half-land, half-bay border down +the cape. + +I followed along the black sandy road which goes to the Light until close +to the old Zane's Place,--the last farm-house of the uplands,--when I +turned off into the marsh toward the river. The mosquitos rose from the +damp grass at every step, swarming up around me in a cloud, and streaming +off behind like a comet's tail, which hummed instead of glowed. I was the +only male among them. It was a cloud of females, the nymphs of the +salt-marsh; and all through that day the singing, stinging, smothering +swarm danced about me, rested upon me, covered me whenever I paused, so +that my black leggings turned instantly to a mosquito brown, and all my +dress seemed dyed alike. + +Only I did not pause--not often, nor long. The sun came up blisteringly +hot, yet on I walked, and wore my coat, my hands deep down in the pockets +and my head in a handkerchief. At noon I was still walking, and kept on +walking till I reached the bay shore, when a breeze came up, and drove the +singing, stinging fairies back into the grass, and saved me. + +I left the road at a point where a low bank started across the marsh like +a long protecting arm reaching out around the hay-meadows, dragging them +away from the grasping river, and gathering them out of the vast undrained +tract of coarse sedges, to hold them to the upland. Passing along the bank +until beyond the weeds and scrub of the higher borders, I stood with the +sky-bound, bay-bound green beneath my feet. Far across, with sails +gleaming white against the sea of sedge, was a schooner, beating slowly up +the river. Laying my course by her, I began to beat slowly out into the +marsh through the heavy sea of low, matted hay-grass. + +There is no fresh-water meadow, no inland plain, no prairie with this +rainy, misty, early morning freshness so constant on the marsh; no other +reach of green so green, so a-glitter with seas of briny dew, so +regularly, unfailingly fed: + + Look how the grace of the sea doth go + About and about through the intricate channels that flow + Here and there, + Everywhere, + Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, + And the marsh is meshed with a million veins! + +I imagine a Western wheat-field, half-way to head, could look, in the dew +of morning, somewhat like a salt-marsh. It certainly would have at times +the purple-distance haze, that atmosphere of the sea which hangs across +the marsh. The two might resemble each other as two pictures of the same +theme, upon the same scale, one framed and hung, the other not. It is the +framing, the setting of the marsh that gives it character, variety, tone, +and its touch of mystery. + +For the marsh reaches back to the higher lands of fences, fields of corn, +and ragged forest blurs against the hazy horizon; it reaches down to the +river of the reedy flats, coiled like a serpent through the green; it +reaches away to the sky where the clouds anchor, where the moon rises, +where the stars, like far-off lighthouses, gleam along the edge; and it +reaches out to the bay, and on, beyond the white surf-line of meeting, on, +beyond the line where the bay's blue and the sky's blue touch, on, far on. + +Here meet land and river, sky and sea; here they mingle and make the +marsh. + +A prairie rolls and billows; the marsh lies still, lies as even as a +sleeping sea. Yet what moods! What changes! What constant variety of +detail everywhere! In The Marshes of Glynn there was + + A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, + Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, + +but not in these Maurice River marshes. Here, to-day, the sun was blazing, +kindling millions of tiny suns in the salt-wet blades; and instead of +waist-high grass, there lay around me acres and acres of the fine rich +hay-grass, full-grown, but without a blade wider than a knitting-needle or +taller than my knee. It covered the marsh like a deep, thick fur, like a +wonderland carpet into whose elastic, velvety pile my feet sank and sank, +never quite feeling the floor. Here and there were patches of higher +sedges, green, but of differing shades, which seemed spread upon the grass +carpet like long-napped rugs. + +Ahead of me the even green broke suddenly over a shoal of sand into tall, +tufted grasses, into rose, mallow, and stunted persimmon bushes, foaming, +on nearer view, with spreading dogbane blossoms. Off toward the bay +another of these shoals, mole-hill high in the distance, ran across the +marsh for half a mile, bearing a single broken file of trees--sentinels +they seemed, some of them fallen, others gaunt and wind-beaten, watching +against the sea. + +These were the lookouts and the resting-places for passing birds. During +the day, whenever I turned in their direction, a crow, a hawk, or some +smaller bird was seen upon their dead branches. + +Naturally the variety of bird life upon the marsh is limited; but there is +by no means the scarcity here which is so often noted in the forests and +wild prairies of corresponding extent. Indeed, the marsh was birdy--rich +in numbers if not in species. Underfoot, in spots, sang the marsh-wrens; +in larger patches the sharp-tailed sparrows; and almost as wide-spread and +constant as the green was the singing of the seaside sparrows. Overhead +the fish-hawks crossed frequently to their castle nest high on the top of +a tall white oak along the land edge of the marsh; in the neighborhood of +the sentinel trees a pair of crows were busy trying (it seemed to me) to +find an oyster, a crab--something big enough to choke, for just one +minute, the gobbling, gulping clamor of their infant brood. But the dear +devouring monsters could not be choked, though once or twice I thought by +their strangling cries that father crow, in sheer desperation, had brought +them oysters with the shells on. Their awful gaggings died away at dusk. +Besides the crows and fish-hawks, a harrier would now and then come +skimming close along the grass. Higher up, the turkey-buzzards circled all +day long; and once, setting my blood leaping and the fish-hawks screaming, +there sailed over, far away in the blue, a bald-headed eagle, his snowy +neck and tail flashing in the sunlight as he careened among the clouds. + +In its blended greens the marsh that morning offered one of the most +satisfying drinks of color my eyes ever tasted. The areas of different +grasses were often acres in extent, so that the tints, shading from the +lightest pea-green of the thinner sedges to the blue-green of the rushes, +to the deep emerald-green of the hay-grass, merged across their broad +bands into perfect harmony. + +As fresh and vital as the color was the breath of the marsh. There is no +bank of violets stealing and giving half so sweet an odor to my nostrils, +outraged by a winter of city smells, as the salty, spray-laden breath of +the marsh. It seems fairly to line the lungs with ozone. I know how +grass-fed cattle feel at the smell of salt. I have the concentrated thirst +of a whole herd when I catch that first whiff of the marshes after a +winter, a year it may be, of unsalted inland air. The smell of it +stampedes me. I gallop to meet it, and drink, drink, drink deep of it, my +blood running redder with every draught. + + +II + +I had waded out into the meadow perhaps two hundred yards, leaving a dark +bruised trail in the grass, when I came upon a nest of the long-billed +marsh-wren. It was a bulky house, and so overburdened its frail sedge +supports that it lay almost upon the ground, with its little round doorway +wide open to the sun and rain. They must have been a young couple who +built it, and quite inexperienced. I wonder they had not abandoned it; +for a crack of light into a wren's nest would certainly addle the eggs. +They are such tiny, dusky, tucked-away things, and their cradle is so deep +and dark and hidden. There were no fatalities, I am sure, following my +efforts to prop the leaning structure, though the wrens were just as sure +that it was all a fatality--utterly misjudging my motives. As a rule, I +have never been able to help much in such extremities. Either I arrive too +late, or else I blunder. + +I thought, for a moment, that it was the nest of the long-billed's cousin, +the short-billed marsh-wren, that I had found--which would have been a gem +indeed, with pearly eggs instead of chocolate ones. Though I was out for +the mere joy of being out, I had really come with a hope of discovering +this mousy mite of a wren, and of watching her ways. It was like hoping to +watch the ways of the "wunk." Several times I have been near these little +wrens; but what chance has a pair of human eyes with a skulking four +inches of brownish streaks and bars in the middle of a marsh! Such birds +are the everlasting despair of the naturalist, the salt of his earth. The +belief that a pair of them dwelt somewhere in this green expanse, that I +might at any step come upon them, made me often forget the mosquitos. + +When I reached the ridge of rose and mallow bushes, two wrens began +muttering in the grass with different notes and tones from those of the +long-billed. I advanced cautiously. Soon one flashed out and whipped back +among the thick stems again, exposing himself just long enough to show me +_stellaris_, the little short-billed wren I was hunting. + +I tried to stand still for a second glimpse and a clue to the nest; but +the mosquitos! Things have come to a bad pass with the bird-hunter, whose +only gun is an opera-glass, when he cannot stand stock-still for an hour. +His success depends upon his ability to take root. He needs light feet, a +divining mind, and many other things, but most of all he needs patience. +There are few mortals, however, with mosquito-proof patience--one that +would stand the test here. Remembering a meadow in New England where +stellaris nested, I concluded to wait till chance took me thither, and +passed on. + +This ridge of higher ground proved to be a mosquito roost--a thousand +here to one in the deeper, denser grass. As I hurried across I noted with +great satisfaction that the pink-white blossoms of the spreading dogbane +were covered with mosquito carcasses. It lessened my joy somewhat to find, +upon examination, that all the victims were males. Either they had drunk +poison from the flowers, or else, and more likely, they had been unable to +free their long-haired antennæ from the sticky honey into which they had +dipped their innocent beaks. Several single flowers had trapped three, and +from one blossom I picked out five. If we could bring the dogbane to brew +a cup which would be fatal to the females, it might be a good plant to +raise in our gardens along with the eucalyptus and the castor-oil plants. + +Everywhere as I went along, from every stake, every stout weed and topping +bunch of grass, trilled the seaside sparrows--a weak, husky, monotonous +song, of five or six notes, a little like the chippy's, more tuneful, +perhaps, but not so strong. They are dark, dusky birds, of a grayish +olive-green hue, with a conspicuous yellow line before the eye, and +yellow upon the shoulder. + +There seems to be a sparrow of some kind for every variety of land between +the poles. Mountain-tops, seaside marshes, inland prairies, swamps, woods, +pastures--everywhere, from Indian River to the Yukon, a sparrow nests. Yet +one can hardly associate sparrows with marshes, for they seem out of place +in houseless, treeless, half-submerged stretches. These are the haunts of +the shyer, more secretive birds. Here the ducks, rails, bitterns, +coots,--birds that can wade and swim, eat frogs and crabs,--seem naturally +at home. The sparrows are perchers, grain-eaters, free-fliers, and +singers; and they, of all birds, are the friends and neighbors of man. +This is no place for them. The effect of this marsh life upon the flight +and song of these two species was very marked. Both showed unmistakable +vocal powers which long ago would have been developed under the stimulus +of human listeners; and during all my stay (so long have they crept and +skulked about through the low marsh paths) I did not see one rise a +hundred feet into the air, nor fly straight away for a hundred yards. +They would get up just above the grass, and flutter and drop--a puttering, +short-winded, apoplectic struggle, very unbecoming and unworthy. + +By noon I had completed a circle and recrossed the lighthouse road in the +direction of the bay. A thin sheet of lukewarm water lay over all this +section. The high spring tides had been reinforced by unusually heavy +rains during April and May, giving a great area of pasture and hay land +back, for that season, to the sea. Descending a copsy dune from the road, +I surprised a brood of young killdeers feeding along the drift at the edge +of the wet meadow. They ran away screaming, leaving behind a pair of +spotted sandpipers, "till-tops," that had been wading with them in the +shallow water. The sandpipers teetered on for a few steps, then rose at my +approach, scaled nervously out over the drowned grass, and, circling, +alighted near where they had taken wing, continuing instantly with their +hunt, and calling _Tweet-tweet, tweet-tweet_, and teetering, always +teetering, as they tiptoed along. + +If perpetual motion is still a dream of the physicist, he might get an +idea by carefully examining the way the body of till-top is balanced on +its needle legs. If till-tops have not been tilting forever, and shall not +go on tilting forever, it is because something is wrong with the mechanism +of the world outside their little spotted bodies. Surely the easiest, +least willed motion in all the universe is this sandpiper's teeter, +teeter, teeter, as it hurries peering and prying along the shore. + +Killdeers and sandpipers are noisy birds; and one would know, after half a +day upon the marsh, even if he had never seen these birds before, that +they could not have been bred here. For however + + candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free + +the marsh may seem to one coming suddenly from the wooded uplands, it will +not let one enter far without the consciousness that silence and secrecy +lie deeper here than in the depths of the forest glooms. The true birds of +the marsh, those that feed and nest in the grass, have the spirit of the +great marsh-mother. The sandpiper is not her bird. It belongs to the +shore, living almost exclusively along sandy, pebbly margins, the margins +of any, of almost every water, from Delaware Bay to the tiny bubbling +spring in some Minnesota pasture. Neither is the killdeer her bird. The +upland claims it, plover though it be. A barren, stony hillside, or even a +last year's corn-field left fallow, is a better-loved breast to the +killdeer than the soft brooding breast of the marsh. There are no +grass-birds so noisy as these two. Both of them lay their eggs in pebble +nests; and both depend largely for protection upon the harmony of their +colors with the general tone of their surroundings. + +I was still within sound of the bleating killdeers when a rather large, +greenish-gray bird flapped heavily but noiselessly from a muddy spot in +the grass to the top of a stake and faced me. Here was a child of the +marsh. Its bolt-upright attitude spoke the watcher in the grass; then as +it stretched its neck toward me, bringing its body parallel to the ground, +how the shape of the skulker showed! This bird was not built to fly nor to +perch, but to tread the low, narrow paths of the marsh jungle, silent, +swift, and elusive as a shadow. + +It was the clapper-rail, the "marsh-hen." One never finds such a +combination of long legs, long toes, long neck and bill, with this long +but heavy hen-like body, outside the meadows and marshes. The grass ought +to have been alive with the birds: it was breeding-time. But I think the +high tides must have delayed them or driven them elsewhere, for I did not +find an egg, nor hear at nightfall their colony-cry, so common at dusk and +dawn in the marshes just across on the coast about Townsend's Inlet. There +at sunset in nesting-time one of the rails will begin to call--a loud, +clapping roll; a neighbor takes it up, then another and another, the +circle of cries widening and swelling until the whole marsh is a-clatter. + +Heading my way with a slow, labored stroke came one of the fish-hawks. She +was low down and some distance away, so that I got behind a post before +she saw me. The marsh-hen spied her first, and dropped into the grass. On +she came, her white breast and belly glistening, and in her talons a big +glistening fish. It was a magnificent catch. "Bravo!" I should have +shouted--rather I shouldn't; but here she was right over me, and the +instinct of the boy, of the savage, had me before I knew, and leaping out, +I whirled my cap and yelled to wake the marsh. The startled hawk jerked, +keeled, lifted with a violent struggle, and let go her hold. Down fell the +writhing, twisting fish at my feet. It was a splendid striped bass, +weighing at least four pounds, and still live enough to flop. + +I felt mean as I picked up the useless thing and looked far away to the +great nest with its hungry young. I was no better than the bald eagle, the +lazy robber-baron, who had stolen the dinner of these same young hawks the +day before. + +Their mother had been fishing up the river and had caught a tremendous +eel. An eel can hold out to wriggle a very long time. He has no vitals. +Even with talon-tipped claws he is slippery and more than a clawful; so +the old hawk took a short cut home across the railroad-track and the +corner of the woods where stands the eagle tree. + +She could barely clear the tree-tops, and, with the squirming of the eel +about her legs, had apparently forgotten that the eagle lived along this +road, or else in her struggle to get the prize home she was risking the +old dragon's being away. He was not away. I have no doubt that he had been +watching her all the time from some high perch, and just as she reached +the open of the railroad-track, where the booty would not fall among the +trees, he appeared. His first call, mocking, threatening, commanding, shot +the poor hawk through with terror. She screamed; she tried to rise and +escape; but without a second's parley the great king drove down upon her. +She dropped the fish, dived, and dodged the blow, and the robber, with a +rushing swoop that was glorious in its sweep, in its speed and ease, +caught the eel within a wing's reach of me and the track. + +I did not know what to do with my spoil. Somewhat relieved, upon looking +around, to find that even the marsh-hen had not been an eye-witness to my +knightly deed, I started with the fish and my conscience toward the +distant nest, determined to climb into it and leave the catch with the +helpless, dinnerless things for whom it was intended. + +I am still carrying that fish. How seldom we are able to restore the bare +exaction, to say nothing of the fourfold! My tree was harder to climb than +Zacchæus's. Mine was an ancient white oak, with the nest set directly upon +its dead top. I had stood within this very nest twelve years before; but +even with the help of my conscience I could not get into it now. Not that +I had grown older or larger. Twelve years do not count unless they carry +one past forty. It was the nest that had grown. Gazing up at it, I readily +believed the old farmer in the Zane's house who said it would take a pair +of mules to haul it. He thought it larger than one that blew down in the +marsh the previous winter, which made three cart-loads. + +One thinks of Stirling and of the castles frowning down upon the Rhine as +he comes out of the wide, flat marsh beneath this great nest, crowning +this loftiest eminence in all the region. But no château of the Alps, no +beetling crag-lodged castle of the Rhine, can match the fish-hawk's nest +for sheer boldness and daring. Only the eagles' nests upon the fierce +dizzy pinnacles in the Yosemite surpass the home of the fish-hawk in +unawed boldness. The aery of the Yosemite eagle is the most sublimely +defiant of things built by bird, or beast, or man. + +A fish-hawk will make its nest upon the ground, or a hummock, a stump, a +buoy, a chimney--upon anything near the water that offers an adequate +platform; but its choice is the dead top of some lofty tree where the +pathway for its wide wings is open and the vision range is free for miles +around. + +How dare the bird rear such a pile upon so slight and towering a support! +How dare she defy the winds, which, loosened far out on the bay, come +driving across the cowering, unresisting marsh! She is too bold sometimes. +I have known more than one nest to fall in a wild May gale. Many a nest, +built higher and wider year after year, while all the time its dead +support has been rotting and weakening, gets heavy with the wet of winter, +and some night, under the weight of an ice-storm, comes crashing to the +earth. + +Yet twelve years had gone since I scaled the walls and stood within this +nest; and with patience and hardihood enough I could have done it again +this time, no doubt. I remember one nest along Maurice River, perched so +high above the gums of the swamp as to be visible from my home across a +mile of trees, that has stood a landmark for the oystermen this score of +years. + +The sensations of my climb into this fish-hawk's nest of the marsh are +vivid even now. Going up was comparatively easy. When I reached the forks +holding the nest, I found I was under a bulk of sticks and corn-stalks +which was about the size of an ordinary haycock or an unusually large +wash-tub. By pulling out, pushing aside, and breaking off the sticks, I +worked a precarious way through the four feet or more of debris and +scrambled over the edge. There were two eggs. Taking them in my hands, so +as not to crush them, I rose carefully to my feet. + +Upright in a hawk's nest! Sixty feet in the air, on the top of a gaunt old +white oak, high above the highest leaf, with the screaming hawks about my +head, with marsh and river and bay lying far around! It was a moment of +exultation; and the thrill of it has been transmitted through the years. +My body has been drawn to higher places since; but my soul has never +quite touched that altitude again, for I was a boy then. + +Nor has it ever shot swifter, deeper into the abyss of mortal terror than +followed with my turning to descend. I looked down into empty air. Feet +foremost I backed over the rim, clutching the loose sticks and feeling for +a foothold. They snapped with the least pressure; slipped and fell if I +pushed them, or stuck out into my clothing. Suddenly the sticks in my +hands pulled out, my feet broke through under me, and for an instant I +hung at the side of the nest in the air, impaled on a stub that caught my +blouse as I slipped. + +There is a special Providence busy with the boy. + +This huge nest of the fish-hawks was more than a nest; it was a castle in +very truth, in the sheltering crevices of whose uneven walls a small +community of purple grackles lived. Wedged in among the protruding sticks +was nest above nest, plastering the great pile over, making it almost +grassy with their loose flying ends. I remember that I counted more than +twenty of these crow-blacks' nests the time I climbed the tree, and that +I destroyed several in breaking my way up the face of the structure. + +Do the blackbirds nest here for the protection afforded by the presence of +the hawks? Do they come for the crumbs which fall from these great +people's table? Or is it the excellent opportunity for social life offered +by this convenient apartment-house that attracts? + +The purple grackles are a garrulous, gossipy set, as every one knows. They +are able-bodied, not particularly fond of fish, and inclined to seek the +neighborhood of man, rather than to come out here away from him. They make +very good American rooks. So I am led to think it is their love of +"neighboring" that brings them about the hawk's nest. If this surmise is +correct, then the presence of two families of English sparrows among them +might account for there being only eight nests now, where a decade ago +there were twenty. + +I was amused--no longer amazed--at finding the sparrows here. The seed of +these birds shall possess the earth. Is there even now a spot into which +the bumptious, mannerless, ubiquitous little pleb has not pushed himself? +If you look for him in the rain-pipes of the Fifth Avenue mansions, he is +there; if you search for him in the middle of the wide, silent salt-marsh, +he is there; if you take--but it is vain to take the wings of the morning, +or of anything else, in the hope of flying to a spot where the stumpy +little wings of the English sparrow have not already carried him. + +There is something really admirable in the unqualified sense of ownership, +the absolute want of diffidence, the abiding self-possession and coolness +of these birds. One cannot measure it in the city streets, where everybody +jostles and stares. It can be appreciated only in the marsh: here in the +silence, the secrecy, the withdrawing, where even the formidable-looking +fiddler-crabs shy and sidle into their holes as you pass; here, where the +sparrows may perch upon the rim of a great hawk's nest, twist their necks, +ogle you out of countenance, and demand what business brought you to the +marsh. + +I hunted round for a stone when one of them buttonholed me. He wasn't +insolent, but he was impertinent. The two hawks and the blackbirds flew +off as I came up; but the sparrows stayed. They were the only ones in +possession as I moved away; and they will be the only ones in possession +when I return. If that is next summer, then I shall find a colony of +twenty sparrow families around the hawk's nest. The purple grackles will +be gone. And the fish-hawks? Only the question of another year or so when +they, too, shall be dispossessed and gone. But where will they go to +escape the sparrows? + + +III + +From a mile away I turned to look back at the "cripple" where towered the +tall white oak of the hawks. Both birds were wheeling about the castle +nest, their noble flight full of the freedom of the marsh, their piercing +cries voicing its wildness. And how free, how wild, how untouched by human +hands the wide plain seemed! Sea-like it lay about me, circled southward +from east to west with the rim of the sky. + +I moved on toward the bay. The sun had dropped to the edge of the marsh, +its level-lined shafts splintering into golden fire against the curtained +windows of the lighthouse. It would soon be sunset. For some time there +had been a quiet gurgling and lisping down in the grass, but it had meant +nothing, until, of a sudden, I heard the rush of a wave along the beach: +the tide was coming in. And with it came a breeze, a moving, briny, +bay-cooled breeze that stirred the grass with a whisper of night. + +Once more I had worked round to the road. It ran on ahead of me, up a +bushy dune, and forked, one branch leading off to the lighthouse, the +other straight out to the beach, out against the white of the breaking +waves. + +The evening purple was deepening on the bay when I mounted the dune. Bands +of pink and crimson clouded the west, a thin cold wash of blue veiled the +east; and overhead, bayward, landward, everywhere, the misting and the +shadowing of the twilight. + +Between me and the white wave-bars at the end of the road gleamed a patch +of silvery water--the returning tide. As I watched, a silvery streamlet +broke away and came running down the wheel track. Another streamlet, +lagging a little, ran shining down the other track, stopped, rose, and +creeping slowly to the middle of the road, spread into a second gleaming +patch. They grew, met--and the road for a hundred feet was covered with +the bay. + +As the crimson paled into smoky pearl, the blue changed green and gold, +and big at the edge of the marsh showed the rim of the moon. + +Weird hour! Sunset, moonrise, flood-tide, and twilight together weaving +the spell of the night over the wide waking marsh. Mysterious, sinister +almost, seemed the swift, stealthy creeping of the tide. It was +surrounding and crawling in upon me. Already it stood ankle-deep in the +road, and was reaching toward my knees, a warm thing, quick and moving. It +slipped among the grasses and into the holes of the crabs with a smothered +bubbling; it disturbed the seaside sparrows sleeping down in the sedge and +kept them springing up to find new beds. How high would it rise? Behind me +on the road it had crawled to the foot of the dune. Would it let me +through to the mainland if I waited for the flood? + +It would be high tide at nine o'clock. Finding a mound of sand on the +shore that the water could hardly cover, I sat down to watch the +tide-miracle; for here, surely, I should see the wonder worked, so wide +was the open, so full, so frank the moon. + +In the yellow light I could make out the line of sentinel trees across the +marsh, and off on the bay a ship, looming dim in the distance, coming on +with wind and tide. There were no sounds except the long regular wash of +the waves, the stir of the breeze in the chafing sedges, and the creepy +stepping of the water weaving everywhere through the hidden paths of the +grass. Presently a night-hawk began to flit about me, then another and +another, skimming just above the marsh as silent as the shadows. What was +that? Something moved across the moon. In a moment, bat-like and huge +against the great yellow disk, appeared a marsh-owl. He was coming to look +at me. What was I that dared remain abroad in the marsh after the rising +of the moon? that dared invade this eery realm, this night-spread, +tide-crept, half-sealand where he was king? How like a goblin he seemed! I +thought of Grendel, and listened for the splash of the fen-monster's steps +along the edge of the bay. But only the owl came. Down, down, down he +bobbed, till I could almost feel the fanning of his wings. How silent! His +long legs hung limp, his body dangled between those soft wide wings within +reach of my face. Yet I heard no sound. Mysterious creature! I was glad +when he ceased his ghostly dance about me and made off. + +It was nine o'clock. The waves had ceased to wash against the sand, for +the beach was gone; the breeze had died away; the stir of the water in the +grass was still. Only a ripple broke now and then against my little +island. The bay and the marsh were one. + + How still the plains of the waters be! + The tide is in his ecstasy. + The tide is at his highest height: + And it is night. + + + + +CALICO AND THE KITTENS + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CALICO AND THE KITTENS + + +One spring day I found myself the sole help of two blind, naked +infants--as near a real predicament as a man could well get. What did it +matter that they had long tails and were squirrels? They were infants just +the same; and any kind of an infant on the hands of any mere man is a real +tragedy. + +As I looked at the two callow things in the grass, a dismay and weak +helplessness quite overcame me. The way they squirmed and shivered and +squeaked worked upon me down even to my knees. I felt sick and foolish. +Both of their parents were dead. Their loose leaf-nest overhead had been +riddled with shot. I had climbed up and found them; I had brought them +down; I must--feed them! The other way of escape were heathen. + +But how could I feed them? Nipples, quills, spoons--none of them would fit +these mites of mouths. What a miserable mother I was! How poorly equipped +for foundlings! They were dying for lack of food; and as they pawed about +and whimpered in my hands I devoutly wished the shot had put them all out +of misery together. I was tempted to turn heathen and despatch them. + +Unhappy but resolute, I started homeward, determined to rear those +squirrels, if it could be done. On my way I remembered--and it came to me +with a shock--that one of my neighbor's cats had a new batch of kittens. +They were only a few days old. Might not Calico, their mother, be induced +to adopt the squirrels! + +Nothing could be more absurd. The kittens were three times larger than the +squirrels. Even had they been the same size, did I think the old +three-colored cat could be fooled? that she might not know a kitten of +hers from some other mother's--squirrel? I was desperate indeed. Calico +was a hunter. She had eaten more gray squirrels, perhaps, than I had ever +seen. She would think I had been foraging for her--the mother of seven +green kittens!--and would take my charges as titbits. Still I was +determined to try. + +My neighbor's kittens were enough and to spare. One of Calico's last +year's lot still waited a good home; and here were seven more to be cared +for. Might not two of these be spirited away, far away; the two squirrels +substituted, and the old cat be none the wiser? + +I went home by way of my neighbor's, and found Calico in the basement +curled up asleep with her babies. She roused and purred questioningly as +we bent over the basket, and watched with concern, but with no anxiety, as +two of her seven were lifted out and put inside a hat upon a table. She +was perfectly used to having her kittens handled. True, strange things had +happened to them. But that was long ago; and there had been so very many +kittens that no one mother could remember about them all. She trusted +us--with an ear pricked and eyes watchful. But they were safe, and in a +prideful, self-conscious, young-mother way she began to wash the five. + +Some one stood between her and the hat when the kittens were lifted out +and the squirrels were put in their place. Calico did not see. For a time +she thought no more about them; she was busy washing and showing the +others. By and by it began to look as though she had forgotten that there +were more than five. She could not count. But most mothers can _number_ +their children, even if they cannot count, and soon Calico began to +fidget, looking up at the hat which the hungry, motherless squirrels kept +rocking. Then she leaped out upon the floor, purring, and bounded upon the +table, going straight to the young squirrels. + +There certainly was an expression of surprise and mystification on her +face as she saw the change that had come over those kittens. They had +shrunk and faded from two or three bright colors to a single pale pink. +She looked again and sniffed them. Their odor had changed, too. She turned +to the watchers about the table, but they said nothing. She hardly knew +what to think. She was half inclined to leave them and go back to the +basket, when one of the squirrels whimpered--a genuine, universal baby +whimper. That settled it. She was a mother, and whatever else these things +in the hat might be, they were babies. That was enough, especially as she +needed just this much baby here in the hat to make good what was lacking +in the basket. + +With a soft, caressing purr she stepped gently into the hat, took one of +the squirrels by the neck, brought it to the edge of the table, and laid +it down for a firmer hold; then sprang lightly to the floor. Over to the +basket she walked and dropped it tenderly among her other babies. Then, +having brought the remaining one and deposited that with the same +mother-care, she got into the basket herself and curled down +contentedly--her heart all whole. + +And this is how strange a thing mother-love is! The performance was +scarcely believable. Could she be so love-blind as not to see what they +were and not eat them? But when she began to lick the little interlopers +and cuddle them down to their dinner as if they were her own genuine +kittens, there could be no more doubt or fear. + +The squirrels do not know to this day that Calico is not their real +mother. From the first they took her mother's milk and mother's love as +rightfully and thanklessly as the kittens, growing, not like the kittens +at all, but into the most normal of squirrels, round and fat and +splendid-tailed. + +Calico clearly recognized some difference between the two kinds of +kittens, but _what_ difference always puzzled her. She would clean up a +kitten and comb it slick, then turn to one of the squirrels and wash it, +but rarely, if ever, completing the work because of some disconcerting +un-catlike antic. As the squirrels grew older they also grew friskier, and +soon took the washing as the signal for a frolic. As well try to wash a +bubble. They were bundles of live springs, twisting out of her paws, +dancing over her back, leaping, kicking, tumbling as she had never seen a +kitten do in all her richly kittened experience. + +I don't know why, but Calico was certainly fonder of these two freaks than +of her own normal children. Long after the latter were weaned she nursed +and mothered the squirrels. I have frequently seen them let into the +kitchen when the old cat was there, and the moment they got through the +door they would rush toward her, dropping chestnuts or cookies by the way. +She in turn would hurry to meet them with a little purr of greeting full +of joy and affection. They were shamefully big for such doings. The +kittens had quit it long ago. Calico herself, after a while, came to feel +the impropriety of mothering these strapping young ones, and in a weak, +indulgent way tried to stop it. But the squirrels were persistent and +would not go about their business at all with an ordinary cuff. She would +put them off, run away from them, slap them, and make believe to bite; but +not until she did bite, and sharply too, would they be off. All this +seemed very strange and unnatural; yet a stranger thing happened one day, +when Calico brought in to her family a full-grown gray squirrel which she +had caught in the woods. She laid it down on the floor and called the +kittens and squirrels to gather around. They came, and as the squirrels +sniffed at the dead one on the floor there was hardly a mark of +difference in their appearance. It might have been one of Calico's own +nursing that lay there dead, so far as any one save Calico could see. And +with her the difference, I think, was more of smell than of sight. But she +knew her own; and though she often found her two out among the trees of +the yard, she never was mistaken, nor for an instant made as if to hurt +them. + +Yet they could not have been more entirely squirrel had their own squirrel +mother nurtured them. Calico's milk and love went all to cat in her own +kittens, and all to squirrel in these that she adopted. No single hair of +theirs turned from its squirrel-gray to any one of Calico's three colors; +no single squirrel trait became the least bit catlike. + +Indeed, as soon as the squirrels could run about they forsook the +clumsy-footed kittens under the stove and scampered up back of the +hot-water tank, where they built a nest. Whenever Calico entered the +kitchen purring, out would pop their heads, and down they would come, +understanding the mother language as well as the kittens, and usually +beating the kittens to the mother's side. + +So far from teaching them to climb and build nests behind water-tanks, +their foster-mother never got over her astonishment at it. All they needed +from her, all they needed and would have received from their own squirrel +mother, was nourishment and protection until their teeth and legs grew +strong. Wits were born with them; experience was sure to come to them; and +with wits and experience there is nothing known among squirrels of their +kind that these two would not learn for themselves. + +And there was not much known to squirrels that these two did not know, +apparently without even learning. As they grew in size they increased +exceedingly in naughtiness, and were banished shortly from the kitchen to +an ell or back woodshed. They celebrated this distinction by dropping some +hickory-nuts into a rubber boot hanging on the wall, and then gnawing a +hole through the toe of the boot in order to extract the hidden nuts. Was +it mischief that led them to gnaw through rather than go down the top? Or +did something get stuffed into the top of the boot after the nuts were +dropped in? And did the squirrels _remember_ that the nuts were in there, +or did they _smell_ them through the rubber? + +One woodshed is big enough only for two squirrels. The family moved +everything out but the wood, and the squirrels took possession for the +winter. Their first nest had been built behind the hot-water tank. They +knew _how_ to build without any teaching. But knowing how is not all there +is to know about building; knowing _where_ is very important, and this +they had to learn. + +Immediately on coming to the woodshed the squirrels began their winter +nest, a big, bulky, newspaper affair, which they placed up in the +northwest corner of the shed directly under the shingles. Here they slept +till late in the fall. This was the shaded side and the most exposed +corner of the whole house; but all went well until one night when the +weather suddenly turned very cold. A strong wind blew from the northwest +hard upon the squirrels' nest. + +The next day there was great activity in the woodshed--a scampering of +lively feet, that began early in the morning and continued far toward +noon. The squirrels were moving. They gathered up their newspaper nest +and carried it--diagonally--across the shed from the shaded northwest to +the sunny southeast corner, where they rebuilt and slept snug throughout +the winter. + +Calico did not teach them this; neither would their own squirrel mother +have taught them. They knew how, to begin with. They knew _where_ after +one night of experience, which in this case had to be a night of shivers. + + + + +THE SPARROW ROOST + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE SPARROW ROOST + + +An early December twilight was settling over Boston, a thick foggy murk +that soaked down full of smoke and smell and chill. The streets were oozy +with a wet snow which had fallen through the afternoon and had been +trodden into mud; and draughty with an east wind, that would have passed +unnoticed across the open fields, but which drew up these narrow flues and +sent a shiver down one's back in spite of coats. It was half-past five. +The stores were closing, their clerks everywhere eddying into the noisy +streams of wheels and hoofs still pouring up and down. The traffic tide +had turned, but had not yet ebbed away. + +And this was evening! the coming night! I moved along with the crowd, +homesick for the wideness and quiet of the country, for the soughing of +the pines, the distant bang of a barn door, the night cry of guineas from +some neighboring farm, when, in the hurry and din, I caught the cry of +bird voices, and looking up, found that I had stumbled upon a bird +roost--at the very heart of the city! I was in front of King's Chapel +Burial Ground, whose half-dozen leafless trees were alive with noisy +sparrows. + +The crowd swept on. I halted behind a waste-barrel by the iron fence and +forgot the soughing pines and clacking guineas. + +Bird roosts of this size are no common find. I remember a huge fireplace +chimney that stood near my home, into which a cloud of swallows used to +swarm for a few nights preceding the fall migration; I lived some years +close to the pines at the head of Cubby Hollow, where great flocks of +crows slept nightly throughout the winter; but these, besides now and +again a temporary resting-place, a mere caravansary along the route of the +migrants, were all I had happened upon. Here was another, bordering a city +street, overhanging the street, with a blazing electric light to get into +bed by! + +Protected by the barrel from the jostle on the sidewalk, I waited by the +ancient graveyard until the electric lights grew bright, until every +fussing sparrow was quiet, until I could see only little gray balls and +blurs in the trees through the misty drizzle that came down with the +night. Then I turned toward my own snug roost, five flights up, next the +roof, and just a block away, as the sparrows fly, from this roost of +theirs. I was glad to have them so near me. + +The windows of my roost look out over roofs of slate, painted tin, and +tarry pebbles, into a chimney-fenced plot of sky. Occasionally, during the +winter, a herring-gull from the harbor swims into this bit of smoky blue; +frequently a pigeon, sometimes a flock, sails past; and in the summer +dusk, after the swallows quit it, a city-haunting night-hawk climbs out of +the forest of chimney-pots, up, up above the smoke for his booming +roofward swoop. But winter and summer, save along through June, the +sparrows, as evening falls, cut across the sky field on their way to the +roost in the old burial-ground. There go two, there twoscore in a +whirling, scudding flurry, like a swift-blown bunch of autumn leaves. For +more than an hour they keep passing--till the dusk turns to darkness, till +all are tucked away in bed. + +One would scarcely recognize the birds as they sweep past in these +flurries, their flight is so unlike their usual clumsy scuttle as they get +out of one's way along the street. They are lumpish and short-winged on +the street; they labor and lumber off with a sidewise twist to their +bodies that reminds one of a rheumatic old dog upon the trot. What +suggestion of grace or swiftness about them upon the ground? But watch +them in their evening flight. It is a revelation. They rise above the +houses and shoot across my sky like a charge of canister. I can almost +hear them whizz. Down by the cemetery I have seen them dash into view high +up in the slit of sky, dive for the trees, dart zigzag like a madly +plunging kite, and hurl themselves, as soft as breaths, among the +branches. + +This is going to bed with a vengeance. I never saw any other birds get to +roost with such velocity. It is characteristic, however; the sparrow never +does anything by halves. The hurry is not caused by any mite of anxiety or +fear, rather from pure excess of spirit; for after rearing three broods +during the summer, he has such a superabundance of vim that a winter of +foraging and fighting is welcome exercise. The strenuous life is his kind +of life. When the day's hunt is over and he turns back to his bed, why not +race it out with his neighbors? And so they come--chasing, dodging, +tagging neck and neck, all spurting to finish first at the roost. + +We may not love him; but he has constitution and snap. And these things do +count. + +One April morning, the 6th, I went down to the roost at three o'clock. The +sparrows were sleeping soundly. It was yet night. Had the dawn been +reaching up above the dark walls that shut the east away from the high +tree-tops, the garish street light would have kept it dim. The trees were +silent and stirless, as quiet as the graves beneath them--more quiet; in +fact; for there issued from a grated hole among the tombs the sound of an +anvil, deep down and muffled, but unmistakably ringing, as if Governor +Winthrop were forging chains in his vault. Then came a rush, a deadened +roar, and an emanation of dank gaseous breath, such as the dead alone +breathe. + +It was only the passing of a tool-car in the subway underneath the +cemetery, and the hammering of a workman at a forge in a niche of the +tunnel. But, rising out of the tombs, it was gruesome and unearthly in the +night-quiet. + +The sparrows did not mind the sound. Maybe it ascended as a pleasant +murmur to them and shaped their dreams, as dream-stuff drifts to their +sweet-voiced cousins in the meadows with the lap and lave of the streams. +A carriage rolled by. The clank of hoofs disturbed none of them. Some one +slammed the door of an apothecary-shop across the street, and hurried off. +Not a sparrow stirred. + +I was trying to see whether the birds slept with their heads beneath their +wings. Apparently they did, for I could not make out a head, though some +of the sleepers hung over the street within ten feet of the lamp-post. But +they were all above the light, with only their breasts out of the shadows, +and to be certain I must make a bird move. Finding that the noises were +not likely to arouse them, I threw a stick against one of the laden limbs. +There were heads then, plenty of them, and every one, evidently, had been +turned back and buried in the warm wing-coverts. + +My stick hit very near the toes of one of the sparrows, and he flew. There +was a twitter, then a stir all over the tree; but nothing further +happening, they tucked in their heads again and went back to bed. + +I waited. At four o'clock they still slept. The moon had swung out from +behind the high buildings and now hung just above the slender spire of +Park Street Church, looking down into the deep, narrow street gulch. A cat +picked her way among the graves, sprang noiselessly to the top of a flat +tomb beneath the sparrows, and watched with me. The creature brought the +wilderness with her. After all, this was not so far removed from the +woods. In the empty street, beneath the silent, shuttered walls, with +something still of the mystery of the night winds in the bare trees, the +scene, for an instant, was touched with the spell of the dark and the +untamed. + +After a swift warming walk of fifteen minutes I returned to the roost. +There were signs of waking now: a flutter here, a twitter there, then +quiet again, with no general movement until half-past four, when the city +lights were shut off. Then, instantly, from a dozen branches sounded loud, +clear chirps, and every sparrow opened his eyes. The incandescent bulbs +about the border of the roost were moon and stars to them, lights in the +firmament of their heaven to divide the night from the day. When they +blazed forth, it was evening--bedtime; when they went out, it was +morning--the time to wake up. + +The softness of dusk, how unknown to these city dwellers! and the fresh +sweet beauty of the dawn! + +Morning must have begun to break along near four o'clock, for the cold +gray across the sky was already passing into pearl. The country birds had +been up half an hour, I am sure. However, the old cemetery was wide enough +awake now. There was chirping everywhere. It grew louder and more general +every moment, till shortly the six thousand voices, and more, were raised +in the cheerful din--the matin, if you please, for as yet only a few of +the birds were fighting. + +But the fight quickly spread. It is the English sparrow's way of waking +up; his way of whetting his appetite for breakfast; his way of digesting +his dinner; his way of settling his supper--his normal waking way. + +To the clatter of voices was added the flutter of wings; for the birds had +begun to shift perches, and to exchange slaps as well as to call +names--the movement setting toward the tree-tops. None of the sparrows had +left the roost. The storm of chatter increased and the buzz of wings +quickened into a steady whir, the noise holding its own with that of the +ice-wagons pounding past. The birds were filling the top-most branches, a +gathering of the clans, evidently, for the day's start. The clock in +Scollay Square station pointed to five minutes to five, and just before +the hour struck, two birds launched out and spun away. + +The exodus had commenced. The rest of Boston was not stirring yet. It was +still early; hardly a flush of warmth had washed the pearl. But the +sparrows had many matters to attend to before all the milkmen and bakers +got abroad: they must take their morning dust-bath, for one thing, in the +worn places between the cobble-stones, before the street-sprinkler began +its sloppy rounds. + +There was a constant whirl out of the tree-tops now. Occasionally a bird +flew off alone, but most of them left in small flocks, just as I should +see them return in the evening. Doubtless the members of these flocks were +the birds belonging to certain neighborhoods, those that nested and fed +about certain squares, large door-yards, and leafy courts. They may indeed +have been families that were hatched last summer. + +The birds that left singly went away, as a rule, over the roofs toward the +denser business sections of the city, while the bands, as I had noticed +them come in at night, took the opposite course, toward Cambridge and +Charlestown. Not more than one in a hundred flew south across the city. + +Of course there are sparrows all over Boston. There is no street too +narrow, too noisy, too dank with the smell of leather for them. They seem +as numerous where the rush of drays is thickest as in the open +breathing-places where the fountains play. They are in every quarter, yet +those to the east and south of the old burial-ground do not belong to the +roost. Perhaps they have graveyards of their own in their sections, though +I have been unable to find them. So far as I know, this is the only roost +in or about Boston. And this is the stranger since so few of the total +number of the Boston sparrows sleep here. A careful estimate showed me +that there could not have been more than six or seven thousand in the +roost. One would almost say there were as many millions in Boston. And +where do these millions sleep? For the most part, each one alone behind +his sign-board or shutter near his local feeding-grounds. + +Now, why should the sparrows of the roost prefer King's Chapel Burial +Ground to the Old Granary, a stone's throw up the street? I passed the +Old Granary yard on my way to the roost and found the trees empty. I +searched the limbs with my glass; there was not a sparrow to be seen. +Still, the Granary is the less exposed of the two. It may not formerly +have been so; but at present high sheltering walls bend about the trees +like a well. Years ago, perhaps, when the sparrows began to roost in the +trees at King's Chapel, the Old Granary elms were more open to the winds, +and now force of habit and example keep the birds returning to the first +lodge. + +Back they come, no matter what the weather. There are a thousand cozy +corners into which a sparrow might creep on a stormy night, where even the +winds that know their way through Boston streets could not search him out. +But the instinct to do as he always has done is as strong in the sparrow, +in spite of his love for pioneering, as it is in the rest of us. He was +brought here to roost as soon as he could fly, when the leaves were on and +the nights delicious. If the leaves go and the nights change, what of +that? Here he began, here he will continue to sleep. Let it rain, blow, +snow; let the sleet, like a slimy serpent, creep up the trunk and wrap +around the twigs: still he will hold on. Many a night I have seen them +sleeping through a driving winter rain, their breasts to the storm, their +tails hanging straight down, shedding every drop. If a gale is blowing, +and it is cold, they get to the leeward of the tree, as close to the trunk +as possible, and anchor fast, every bill pointing into the wind, every +feather reefed, every tail lying out on the flat of the storm. + +As I watched the bands starting from the tree-tops of the roost I wondered +if they really crossed the river into Cambridge and Charlestown. A few +mornings later I was again up early, hastening down to the West Boston +Bridge to see if I could discover the birds going over. As I started out I +saw bunches moving toward the river with a free and easy flight, but +whether I reached the bridge too late, or whether they scattered and went +over singly, I do not know. Only now and then did a bird cross, and he +seemed to come from along the shore rather than from above the house-tops. + +I concluded that the birds of the roost were strictly Bostonians. One +evening, however, about a week later, as I was upon this bridge coming +from Cambridge, a flock of sparrows whizzed past me, dipped over the rail +to the water, swung up above the wall of houses, and disappeared toward +the roost. They were on their way from Cambridge, from the classic elms of +Harvard campus, who knows, to the elms of the ancient burial-ground. + +It was five that April morning when the first sparrow left the roost. By +half-past five the trees were empty, except for the few birds whose +hunting-ground included the cemetery. By this time the city, too, had +yawned, and rubbed its eyes, and tumbled out of bed. + + + + +"MUX" + +[Illustration] + + + + +"MUX" + + +No, "Mux" is not an elegant name--not to to be compared with Ronald or +Claudia, for instance; and I want to say it is not the name of one of my +children, though its owner was once a member of my household. Mux was a +tame half-grown coon, with just the ordinary number of rings around his +tail, but with the most extraordinary amount of mischief in his little +coon soul. Perhaps he had no real soul, and I should have located his +mischief somewhere else. If so, then I should say in his feet. I never saw +any other feet so expressive. The essence of the little beast seemed +concentrated in his lore paws. If they made trouble, whose fault was it? +They were designed for trouble. You could see this purpose in them as +plainly as you could see the purpose in a swallow's wings. Whenever Mux +ran across the yard these paws picked up trouble out of the turf, just as +if the grass were trouble-filings, and Mux a kind of four-footed magnet. +He never went far before they clogged and stopped him. + +One day, the first day that Mux was given the liberty of the yard, who +should he run foul of but Tom! The struggle had to come sometime, and it +was just as well that it came thus early, while Tom and Mux were on an +equal footing as to size, for Mux was young and growing. + +Tom was boss of the yard. Every farmer's dog that went to town by our gate +knew enough to pass by on the other side. Tom had grown a little lordly +and opinionated. He was sleeping in the sun on the shed-step as Mux ambled +up. At sight of the coon Tom rose in more than his usual feline mightiness +and cast such a look of surprise, scorn, and annihilating intent upon the +interloper as ought to have struck terror to the stoutest heart. But Mux +hardly seemed to understand. On he came, right into certain destruction, a +very lamb of innocence and meekness. O you unsuspecting little stranger! +Don't you see this awful monster swelling, swelling into this hideous +hump? No, Mux did not see him. Tom was raging. His teeth gleamed; his eyes +blazed green; his claws worked in a nervous way that made my flesh creep. +He was vanishing, not, like the Cheshire Cat, into a long lovely grin, but +vanishing from a four-legged cat into a yellow, one-legged hump. All that +was left of him now was hump. + +Mux was only a few feet away. Tom began to advance, not directly, but just +a trifle on the bias, across Mux's bows so to speak, as if to give him a +broadside. They were within range. Tom was heaving to. I trembled for the +young coon. Suddenly there was a hiss, a flash of yellow in the air, +and--a very big surprise awaiting Thomas! That little coon was no stupid +after all. He had not rolled up his sleeves, nor doubled up his fists, nor +put a chip upon his shoulder; but he knew what was expected of him, just +the same. He snapped instantly upon his back, received the cat with all +four of his feet, and gave Mr. Tom such a combing down that his golden fur +went flying off like thistle-down in autumn. + +It was all over in less than half a minute. I think Tom must have made a +new record for himself in the running high jump when he broke away from +his ring-tailed antagonist. He struck out across the yard and landed +midway up the clothes-post with a single bound. And Mux? He ambled on +around the yard, as calm and unconcerned as if he had only stopped to +scratch himself. + +Much of this unconcern, however, was a quiet kind of swagger. When he +thought no one fiercer than a chicken or the humbled Mr. Tom was looking, +he would shuffle across the yard with his coat collar turned up, his hat +over his eye, his elbows angled--just as if he had been born and bred on +the Bowery instead of in the Bear Swamp. He was king of the yard, but I +could see that he wore his crown uneasily. He kept a bold front, accepted +every challenge, and even went out of his way to pick a quarrel; yet he +quaked at heart continually. He feared and hated the noises of the yard, +particularly the crowing of our big buff cochin rooster and the screaming +of the guineas. This was one of the swamp-fears that he had brought with +him and could not outlive. It haunted him. If he had a conscience, its +only warnings were of coming noises great and terrible. + +But Mux had no conscience, unless it was one that troubled him only when +he was out of mischief. His face was never so long and so solemn as when I +had caught him in some questionable act or spoiled some wayward plan. + +Mux, however, was possessed by a much stubborner spirit than this +interesting mischief-devil. Upon one point he was positively demented--the +only four-footed maniac I ever knew. He had gone crazy on the subject of +dirt, mad to wash things, especially his victuals. + +He was not particular about what he ate; almost anything that could be +swallowed would do, provided that it could be washed, and washed by +himself, after his own approved fashion. + +If I gave him half of my apple, he would squat down by his wash-tub and +begin to hunt for dirt. He would look the apple over and over, pick +around the blossom end, inspect carefully, then pull out the stem, if +there happened to be a stem, dig out the seeds and peek into the core, +then douse it into the water and begin to wash. He would rub with might +and main for a second or two, then rinse it, take a bite, and douse it +back again for more scrubbing, until it was scrubbed and chewed away. + +Even when the water was thick with mud, this crazy coon persisted in +washing his clean cake and cabbage therein. Indeed, the muddier the water, +the more vigorously would he wash. The habit was a part of him, as real a +thing in his constitution as the black ring in his fur. It was a very +dirty habit, here in captivity, even if it went by the name of washing. Of +course Mux could not be blamed for his soiled wash-water. That was my +fault; only I couldn't be changing it every time he soaked up a fistful of +earth in his endeavor to wash something to eat out of it. No; he was not +at fault, altogether, for the mud in his tub. Out in the Bear Swamp, the +streams that wandered about under the great high-spreading gums, and lost +their way in the shadows, were crystal-clear and pure; and out there it +was intended that he should dwell, and in those sweet streams that he +should wash. But what a modicum of wit, of originality the little beast +had, that, because he was born a washer, wash he must, though he washed in +mud, nay, though he washed upon the upturned bottom of his empty tub!--for +this is what Mux did sometimes. + +I never blamed Aunt Milly for insisting upon this rather ill-sounding name +of "Mux" for the little coon. She was standing by his cage, shortly after +his arrival, watching him eat cabbage. He washed every clean white piece +of it in his oozy tub before tasting it, coating the bits over with mud as +you do the lumps of fondant with chocolate in making "chocolate creams." +Aunt Milly looked at him for some time with scornful face and finally +exclaimed: + +"Umph! Dat animile am a dumb beast shu'! Rubbin' dirt right inter clean +cabbage! Sich muxin'! mux, mux, mux! Dat a coon? Dat ain't no coon. Dat's +a mux!" And she scuffed off to the house, mumbling, "De muxinest thing I +done evah seen." Hence his name. + +If there is one sweetmeat sweeter than all others to a coon, it is a +frog. It was not mere chance that Mux was born in the edge of the Bear +Swamp, close to the wide marshes that ran out to the river. This was the +great country of the frogs--the milk-and-honey country to the ring-tailed +family in the hollow gum. But Mux had never tasted frog. He had not been +weaned when I kidnapped him. One day, wishing to see if he knew what a +frog was, I carelessly offered him a big spotted fellow that I had caught +in the meadow. + +Did he know a frog? He fairly snatched the poor thing from me, killed it, +and started around the cage with it in his mouth, dancing like a cannibal. +His long, serious face was more thoughtful and solemn, however, than +usual. I was puzzled. I had heard of dancing at funerals. Either this was +such a dance, or else some wild orgy to propitiate the spirits that +preside over the destiny of coons. + +Throughout this gruesome rite Mux held the frog in his mouth, and I +watched, expecting, hoping every moment that he would swallow it. Suddenly +he stopped, sat down by his tub, pulled some dead grass out of it, +plunged the frog in, and began to scrub it--began to scrub the frog in the +oozy contents of that tub, when the poor amphibian had been soaking in +spring-water ever since it was a tadpole! + +No matter. The frog must be washed. And washed it was. It was scoured +first with all his might, then placed in the bottom of the tub, under +water, held down by one fore paw, until the maniac could get in with his +hind feet upon it, and then danced upon; from here it was laid upon the +floor of the cage and kneaded until as limp as a lump of dough; then +lifted daintily, it was shaken round and round in the water, rinsed and +wrung, and minutely inspected, and--swallowed. + +I felt justified in keeping this animal caged. He was not fit to run loose +even in the Bear Swamp. Perhaps I have done him wrong in this story of the +frog. Frogs may need washing, after all, despite the fact that they are +never out of the bath-tub long enough to dry off once in their whole +lives. Mux knew more about frogs than I, doubtless. But Mux insisted upon +washing oysters. + +Now there are few people clothed in sane minds who do not like raw +oysters. Mark this, however: when you see a person wash raw oysters, keep +out of his way; he has lost either his wits or his morals. The only two +creatures I ever knew to wash raw oysters were Mux and an oyster-dealer in +Cambridge Street, Boston. I saw this dealer take up a two-gallon can that +had just arrived at his store, and dump the dark salty shell-fish into a +great colander, stick the end of a piece of rubber hose in among them, +turn the water on? and stir and soak them. How white they got! How fat +they got! How their ghastly corpses swelled! + +Mux did not wash his to see them swell, but simply that he might take no +chances with dirt--or poison, for I used to think sometimes that he +thought I was trying to poison him. He was desperately fond of oysters. +But who could cast his pearls, or, to be scientifically and literally +correct, his mothers of pearls, before such a swine? Mux had just one +plateful of oysters while I was his keeper. They were nice plump fellows, +and when I saw the maniac soak one all stringy and tasteless I poured his +wash-water out. Was he to be balked that way! No, no. He took oyster +number two, flopped it into the empty tub, scoured it around on the muddy +bottom, looked it over as carefully as he had done stringy number one, and +swallowed sandy, muddy number two with just as much relish. + +This was too much. I cuffed him and took away the tub. This I suppose was +wrong, for I understand you must never oppose crazy persons. Well, Mux +helped himself to oyster number three. There was no water, no tub. But +what were oysters for if not to be washed? And who was he but _Procyon +lotor_--_Procyon_ "the washer"? Can the leopard change his spots or the +racoon his habits? Can he? Shall he? I could almost hear him muttering +under his breath, "To be, or not to be: that is the question." Then he +darted a triumphantly malicious glance at me, retreated to the back of his +cage, thrust his oyster out of sight beneath the straw of his bed, and +washed it--washed the oyster in the straw, washed it into a fistful of +sticks and chaff, and gloated as he swallowed it. + + + + +RACOON CREEK + + + + +[Illustration] + +RACOON CREEK + + Into the wode to her the briddes sing. + + +I + +Over the creek, and clearing it by a little, hung a snow-white, stirless +mist, its under surface even and parallel with the face of the water, its +upper surface peaked and billowed half-way to the tops of the +shore-skirting trees. + +As I dipped along, my head was enveloped in the cloud; but bending over +the skiff, I could see far up the stream between a mist-ceiling and a +water-floor, as through a long, low room. How deep and dark seemed the +water! And the trees how remote, aërial, and floating! as if growing in +the skies, with no roots' fast hold of the earth. Filling the valley, +conforming to every bend and stretch of the creek, lay the breath of the +water, motionless and sheeted, a spirit stream, hovering over the sluggish +current a moment, before it should float upward and melt away. It was +cold, too, as a wraith might be, colder than the water, for the June sun +had not yet risen over the swamp. + +At the bridge where the road crossed was a dam which backed the creek out +into an acre or more of pond. Not a particle of mud discolored the water; +but it was dark, and as it came tumbling, foaming over the moss-edged +gates it lighted up a rich amber color, the color of strong tea. In the +half chill of the dawn the old bridge lay veiled in smoking spray, in a +thin, rising vapor of spicy odors, clean, medicinal odors, as of the +brewing of many roots, the fragrance of shores of sedges, ferns, and +aromatic herbs steeped in the slow, soft tide. And faint across the creek, +the road, and the fields lay the pondy smell of spatter-docks. + +I pushed out from the sandy cove and lay with a reach of the lusty docks +between me and either shore. It was early morning. The yellow, dew-laid +road down which I came still slumbered undisturbed; the village cows had +not been milked, and the pasture slope, rounding with a feminine grace of +curve and form, lay asleep, with its sedgy fingers trailing in the water; +even the locomotive in the little terminal round-house over the hill was +not awake and wheezing. But the creek people were stirring--except the +frogs. They were growing sleepy. The long June night they had improved, +soberly, philosophically; and now, seeing nothing worth while in the dawn +of this wonder day, they had begun to doze. But the birds were alive, full +of the crisp June morning, of its overflow of gladness, and were telling +their joy in chorus up and down both banks of the creek. + + Hearkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe. + +Do you mean out in Finsbury Moor, Father Chaucer? They were sweet along +the banks of the Walbrook, I know, for among them "maken melodye" were the +skylark, ethereal minstrel! and the nightingale. But, Father Chaucer, you +should have heard the wood-thrushes, the orchard-orioles--this whole +morning chorus singing along the creek! No one may know how blissful, how +wide, how thrilling the singing of birds can be unless he has listened +when the summer mists are rising over Racoon Creek. + +There is no song-hour after sun rise to compare with this for spirit and +volume of sound. The difference between the singing in the dusk and in the +dawn is the difference between the slow, sweet melody of a dirge and the +triumphant, full-voiced peal of a wedding march. Even one who has always +lived in the country can scarcely believe his ears the first time he is +afield in June at the birds' awaking-hour. + +Robins led the singing along the creek. They always do. In New Jersey, +Massachusetts, Michigan,--everywhere it is the same,--they out-number all +rivals three to one. It is necessary to listen closely in order to +distinguish the other voices. This particular morning, however, the +wood-thrushes were all arranged up the copsy hillside at my back, and so +reinforced each other that their part was not overborne by robin song. One +of the thrushes was perched upon a willow stub along the edge of the +water, so near that I could see every flirt of his wings, could almost +count the big spots in his sides. Softly, calmly, with the purest joy he +sang, pausing at the end of every few bars to preen and call. His song was +the soul of serenity, of all that is spiritual. Accompanied by the lower, +more continuous notes from among the trees, it rose, a clear, pure, +wonderful soprano, lifting the whole wide chorus nearer heaven. + +Farther along the creek, on the border of the swamp, the red-shouldered +blackbirds were massed; chiming in everywhere sang the catbirds, +white-eyed vireos, yellow warblers, orchard-orioles, and Maryland +yellowthroats; and at short intervals, soaring for a moment high over the +other voices, sounded the thrilling, throbbing notes of the cardinal, +broken suddenly and drowned by the roll of the flicker, the wild, weird +cry of the great-crested flycatcher, or the rapid, hay-rake rattle of the +belted kingfisher. + +All at once a narrow breeze cut a swath through the mist just across my +bows, turned, spread, caught the severed cloud in which I was drifting, +and whirled it up and away. The head of the pond and the upper creek were +still shrouded, while around me only breaths of the white flecked the +water and the spatter-docks. The breeze had not stirred a ripple; the +current here in the broad of the pond was imperceptible; and I lay +becalmed on the edge of the open channel, among the rank leaves and golden +knobs of the docks. + +A crowd of chimney-swallows gathered over the pond for a morning bath. +Half a hundred of them were wheeling, looping, and cutting about me in a +perfect maze of orbits, as if so many little black shuttles had borrowed +wings and gone crazy with freedom. They had come to wash--a very proper +thing to do, for there are few birds or beasts that need it more. It was +highly fitting for sooty little Tom, seeing he had to turn into something, +to become a Water Baby. And if these smaller, winged sweeps of our +American chimneys are contemplating a metamorphosis, it ought to be toward +a similar life of soaking. + +They must have been particularly sooty this morning. One plunge apiece, so +far from sufficing, seemed hardly a beginning. They kept diving in over +and over, continuing so long that finally I grew curious to know how many +dips they were taking, and so, in order to count his dives, I singled one +out, after most of the flock had done and gone off to hawk. How many he +had taken before I marked him, and how many more he took after I lost him +among the other birds, I cannot say; but, standing up in the skiff, I +followed him around and around until he made his nineteenth splash,--in +less than half as many minutes,--when I got so groggy that his twentieth +splash I came near taking with him. + +The pond narrows toward the head, and just before it becomes a creek again +the channel turns abruptly through the docks in against the right shore, +where the current curls and dimples darkly under the drooping branches of +great red maple; then it horseshoes into the middle, coming down through +small bush-islands and tangled brush which deepen into an extensive swamp. + +June seemed a little tardy here, but the elder, the rose, and the panicled +cornel were almost ready, the button-bushes were showing ivory, while the +arrow-wood, fully open, was glistening snowily everywhere, its tiny flower +crowns falling and floating in patches down-stream, its over-sweet breath +hanging heavy in the morning mist. My nose was in the air all the way for +magnolias and water-lilies, yet never a whiff from either shore, so +particular, so unaccountably notional are some of the high-caste flowers +with regard to their homes. + +The skiff edged slowly past the first of the islands, a mere hummock about +a yard square, and was turning a sharp bend farther up, when I thought I +had a glimpse of yellowish wings, a mere guess of a bird shadow, dropping +among the dense maple saplings and elder of the islet. + +Had I seen or simply imagined something? If I had seen wings, then they +were not those of the thrasher,--the first bird that came to mind,--for +they slipped, sank, dropped through the bushes, with just a hint of +dodging in their movement, not exactly as a thrasher would have moved. + +Drifting noiselessly back, I searched the tangle and must have been +looking directly at the bird several seconds before cutting it out from +the stalks and branches. It was a least bittern, a female. She was +clinging to a perpendicular stem of elder, hand over hand, wren fashion, +her long neck thrust straight into the air, absolutely stiff and +statuesque. + +We were less than a skiff's length apart, each trying to outpose and +outstare the other. I won. Human eyes are none the strongest, neither is +human patience, yet I have rarely seen a creature that could outwait a +man. The only steady, straightforward eye in the Jungle was +Mowgli's--because it was the only one with a steady mind behind it. As +soon as the bird let herself look me squarely in the eye, she knew she was +discovered, that her little trick of turning into a stub was seen through; +and immediately, ruffling her feathers, she lowered her head, poked out +her neck at me, and swaying from side to side like a caged bear, tried to +scare me, glaring and softly growling. + +Off she flopped as I landed. The nest might be upon the ground or lodged +among the bushes; but the only ground space large enough was covered layer +over layer with pearly clam-shells, the kitchen-midden of some muskrat; +and the bushes were empty. I went to the other islets, searched bog and +tangle, and finally pulled away disappointed, giving the least bittern +credit for considerable mother-wit and woodcraft. How little wit she +really had appeared on my return down-creek that afternoon. + +I had now entered the high, overhanging swamp, where the shaggy trees, the +looping vines, and the rank, pulpous undergrowth grew thick on both sides, +reaching far back, a wet, heavy wilderness without a path, except for the +silent feet of the mink and the otter, and the more silent feet of the +creek, here a narrow stream winding darkly down through the shadows. + +Every little while along the rooty, hummocky banks of the creek I would +pass a muskrat's slide. Here was one at the butt of a tulip-poplar, its +platform wet and freshly trodden, its "dive" shooting sheer over a root +into the stream. Farther on stood a large tussock whose top was trampled +flat and covered with sedge-roots. I could not resist putting my nose down +for a sniff, so good is the smell of a fresh trail, so close are we to the +rest of the pack. In the thick of the swamp I stopped a moment to examine +the footprints of an otter at a shallow, shelving place along the bank, +where, opening through the skunk-cabbage and Indian turnip, and covered +almost ankle-deep with water, was the creature's runway. + +I had moved leisurely along, yet not aimlessly. The whole June day was +mine to waste; but it would not be well wasted if nothing more purposeful +than wasting were in mind. + +One does not often drift to a port. Going into the woods to see anything +is a very sure way of seeing little or nothing; and taking the path to +anywhere is certain to lead one nowhere in particular. Many interested, +nature-loving people fail to enjoy the out-of-doors simply because they +have no definite spot to reach, no flower, bird, or bug to find when they +enter the fields and woods. Going forth "to commune with nature" sounds +very fine, but it is much more difficult work than conversing with the +Sphinx. In order to draw near to nature I require a pole with a hook and +line on the end of it. While I watch the float and wait, if there is any +communion, it is nature who holds it with me through the medium of the +pole. I need to have an errand to do; some berries to pick, a patch of +potatoes to hoe (a very small patch); an engagement to keep, like +Thoreau, with a tree, if I hope to squander with profit even the laziest +summer day. + +I was heading up-stream toward a deep sandy-sided pool that was bottomed, +or rather unbottomed, by the shadows of overhanging beeches. The pool was +alive with racoon-perch. A few mornings before this, a boy from a +neighboring farm had come to fish here and had found a fisher ahead of +him. He was just about to cast, when back under the limbs of the beeches +the water broke, and a mink rose to the surface with a fine perch twisting +in her jaws. Straight toward the boy she swam till within reach of his +rod, when she recognized the human in him, turned a back-dive somersault, +and vanished. + +Would she be fishing again this morning? I hoped so. It was her hour--the +hour of the rising mist; visitors rarely found their way to the pool; and +I knew the appearance of the boy had given her no lasting alarm. + +Floating around the bend, I pulled in among the shore bushes by a bit of +grape-vine, and sitting down upon it, made my boat fast. I had planned +the trip with the hope of seeing this mink; so I waited, quite hidden, +though having the pool in full view. An hour passed, but no mink appeared. +Another hour, and the sun was breaking upon the beeches, and the mist was +gone; yet no mink came to fish. And what mink would? Of course you must +have it in mind to see a mink fish if you wish to see anything; but the +day you really catch the mink fishing will likely be the day you went out +to watch for muskrats. + +So an hour's waiting is rarely fruitless. The mink did not come, but +another and quite as expert a fisher did. All the way up the creek I had +been hearing the throaty _ghouw-bhouw_ of a great blue heron off in the +swamp. It was he that came for perch. + +The flapping of the great blue heron is a sight good for the soul--an +unheard-of motion these days, so moderate, unhurried, and time-contemning! +The wing-beats of this one, as he came dangling down upon the meadow +opposite me, have often given me pause since. If I could have the wings of +the great blue heron and flap to my fishing now and again! + +On alighting, however, he was instantly all nerve and tension. With the +utmost caution he came over the high sedges on his stilt-like legs to the +brink of the creek and posed. I doubt if a frog or a minnow could have +told he was a thing of life. Stiff as a stub, every muscle taut, all +alert, he stood, till--flash! and the long pointed bill pinned a perch, a +foot and a half beneath the water. He had quite made out a breakfast, +when, stepping upon a tall tussock, he stood face to face with me--a human +spectator! It was only for a moment that I could keep motionless enough to +puzzle him. Some muscle must have twitched, for he understood and leaped +into the air with a croak of mortal fright. + + +II + +The creek was roped off by the sagging fox grape-vines, and barred, from +this point on, by the alders, so that I gave up all attempt at farther +ascent. I had already given up the mink; yet I waited under the beeches. + +It was blazing overhead, growing hotter and closer all the time, with +hardly breeze enough to disturb the sleep of the leaf shadows on the +sleepy stream. A rusty, red-bellied water-snake, in a mat of briers near +by, relaxed and straightened slowly out,--and softly, that I might not be +attracted,--stretching himself to the warmth. I could have broken his back +with my paddle, and perhaps, by so doing, saved the nestlings of a pair of +Maryland yellowthroats fidgeting about near him. He had eaten many a young +bird of these bushes, I was sure--yet only circumstantially sure. Catching +him in the act of robbing a nest would have been different; I should have +felt justified then in despatching him. But to strike him asleep in the +sun simply because he was a snake would have robbed the spot of part of +its life and spirit and robbed me of serenity for the rest of the day. I +should not have been, able to enjoy the quiet again until I had said my +prayers and slept. + +And as between the hawks and other wild birds, we need not interfere. +While the water-snake was spreading himself, a small hawk, a +sharp-shinned, I think, came beating over the meadow and was met by a +vigilance committee of red-shouldered blackbirds. He did not stop to eat +any of them, but darted up, and they after him. On up he went, round and +round in a rapid, mounting spiral, till only one of the daring redwings +followed. I watched. Up they went, higher than I had ever seen a blackbird +venture before. And against such unequal odds! But the hawk was scared and +had not stopped to look back. He circled; the blackbird cut across inside +and caught him on almost every round. And still higher in pure bravado the +redwing forced him. I began to tremble for the plucky bird, when I saw him +turn, half fold his shining wings, and shoot straight down--a meteor of +jet with fire flying from its opposite sides--down, down, while I held my +breath. Suddenly the wings flashed, and he was scaling a steep incline; +another flash, a turn, and he was upon a slower plane--had thrown himself +against the air and settled upon the swaying top of a brown cattail. + +A quiet had been creeping over the swamp and meadow. The dry rasp of a +dragon-fly's wings was loud in the grass. The stream beneath the beeches +darkened and grew moody as the light neared its noon intensity; the +beech-leaves hung limp and silent; a catbird settled near me with dropped +tail and head drawn in between her shoulders, as mute as the leaves; the +Maryland yellowthroat broke into a sharp gallop of song at intervals,--he +would have to clatter a little on doomsday, if that day fell in June,--but +the intervals were far apart. The meadow shimmered. No part of the horizon +was in sight--only the sky overhanging the little open of grass, and this +was cloudless, though far from blue. + +Perhaps there was not a real sign of uneasiness anywhere except in my +boat; yet I felt something ominous in this silent, stifled noon. After +all, I ought to have scotched the rusty, red-bellied water-snake leering +at me now. The croak of the great blue heron sounded again; then far away, +mysterious and spirit-like, floated a soft _qua, qua, qua_--the cry of the +least bittern out of the heart of the swamp. + +I loosed the grape-vine, put in my paddle, and turned down-stream, with an +urgent desire to get out of the swamp, out where I could see about me. I +made no haste, lest the stream, the swamp, the something that made me +uneasy, should know. Not that I am superstitious, though I should have +been had I lived when the land was all swamp and wood and prairie; and I +should be now were I a sailor. My boat slipped swiftly along under the +thick-shadowing trees, and rounding a sharp bend, brought me to the open +pond, to the sky, and to a sight that explained my disquietude. The west, +half-way to the zenith, was green--the black-and-blue green of bruised +flesh. Out of it shot a fork of lightning, and behind it rumbled muffled +thunder. + +There was no time to descend the pond. I could already hear the wind +across the silence and suspense. It was one of the supreme moments of the +summer. The very trees seemed breathless and awe-struck. Pushing quickly +to the wooded shore, I drew out the boat, turned it over, and crawled +under it just as the leaves stirred with the first cool, wet breath. + +There was an instant's lull, a tremor through the ground; then the rending +and crunching of the wind monster in the oaks, the shriek of the forest +victim--and the wind was gone. The rain followed with fearful violence, +the lightning sizzled and cracked among the trees, and the thunder burst +just above the boat--all holding on to finish the wind's work. + +It was soon over. The leaves were dripping when I crept out of my shell; +the afternoon sun was blinking through a million gleaming tears, and the +storm was rumbling far away, behind the swamp. A robin lighted upon a +branch over me, and set off its load of drops, which rattled down on my +boat's bottom like a charge of shot. I glided into the stream. Down the +pond where I had seen the sullen clouds was now an indescribable freshness +and glory of shining hills and shining sky. The air had been washed and +was still hanging across the heavens undried. The maple-leaves showed +silver; the flock of chimney-swifts had returned, and among them, +twinkling white and blue and brown, were tree-swallows and barn-swallows +squeaking in their flight like new harness; a pair of night-hawks played +back and forth across the water, too, awakened, probably, by the thunder, +or else mistaken in the green darkness of the storm, thinking it the +twilight; and the creek up and down as far as I could hear was ringing +with bird-calls. + +There had been a perceptible rise and quickening of the current. It was +slightly roiled and carried a floatage of broken twigs, torn leaves, with +here and there a golden-green tulip-petal, like the broken wings of +butterflies. + +I was in no hurry now, in no disquietude. The swamp and the storm were at +my back. Before me lay the pond, the pastures, and the roofs of a human +village--all bathed in the splendor of the year's divinest hour. It had +not been a perfect day, but these closing hours were perfect, so perfect +that they redeemed the whole, and not that day only: they were perfect +enough to have redeemed the whole of creation travailing till then in +pain. + +Because I turned from all this sunset glory to find out what little bird +was making the very big fuss near by, and because, parting the foliage of +an arrow-wood bush, I looked with exquisite pleasure into the nest of a +white-eyed vireo, does it mean that I am still unborn as to soul? For some +reason it was a relief to look away from that west of vast and burning +color to the delicately dotted eggs in the tiny cradle--the same relief +felt in descending from a mountain-top to the valley; in turning from the +sweep of the sea to watch beach-fleas hopping over the sand; in giving +over the wisdom of men for the gabble of my little boys. + +How the vireo scolded! and her mate! He half sang his threat and defiance. +"Come, get out of this! Come; do you hear?" he cried over and over, as I +peeked into the nest. It was a thick-walled, exquisite bit of a basket, +rimmed round with green, growing moss, worked over with shredded bark and +fragments of yellow wood from a punky stump across the stream, and +suspended by spider-webs upon two parallel twigs about three feet above +the water. It was not consciously worked out by the birds, of course, but +the patch of yellow-wood fragments on the side of the nest exactly matched +the size and color of the fading cymes of arrow-wood blossoms all over the +bush, so that I mistook the little domicile utterly on first parting the +leaves. A crow or a snake would never have discovered it from that side. + +Paddling down, I was soon out of earshot of the scolding vireos, but the +little cock's vigorous, ringing song followed me to the head of the pond. +Flying heavily over from the meadows with folded neck and dangling legs +came a little green heron--the "poke." I spun round behind a big clump of +elder to watch him; but he saw me, veered, gulped aloud, and pulled off +with a rapid stroke up the creek. + +As I turned, my eye fell upon a soft, yellowish something in the +rose-bushes across the docks. I was slow to believe. It was too good to be +credited all at once. Within three paddle-lengths of my boat, in a patch +of dark that must be a nest, stood my least bittern. + +I sat still for several seconds, tasting the joy of my discovery and +anticipating the look into the nest. Then, upon my knees in the bow of the +skiff, I pulled up by means of the stout dock-leaves until almost able to +touch the bird, when she walked off down a dead stalk to the ground, +clucking and growling at me. + +It wasn't a nest to boast of; but she might boast of her eggs, for there +was more of eggs than of nest--a great deal more. A few sticks had been +laid upon the ends of the bending rose-bushes, and this flimsy, inadequate +platform was literally covered by the five dirty-white eggs. The hen had +to stand on the bushes straddling the nest in order to brood. How she ever +got as close to the nest as that without spilling its contents was hard to +see; for I took an egg out and had the greatest difficulty in putting it +back, so little room was there, so near to nothing for it to rest upon. + +Working back into the channel, I gave the skiff to the easy current and +drew slowly along toward the foot of the pond. + +The sun had gone down behind the hill; the flame had faded from the sky, +and over the rim of the circling slopes poured the soft, cool twilight, +with a breeze as soft and cool, and a spirit that was prayer. Drifting +across the pond as gently as the gray half-light fell a shower of lint +from the willow catkins. The swallows had left; but from the leafy +darkness of the copse in front of me, piercing the dreamy, foamy roar of +the distant dam, came the notes of a wood-thrush, pure, sweet, and +peaceful, speaking the soul of the quiet time. My boat grated softly on +the sandy bottom of the cove and swung in. Out from the deep shadow of the +wooded shore, out over the pond, a thin white veil was creeping--the +mist, the breath of the sleeping water, the spirit of the stream. And away +up the creek a distorted, inarticulate sound--the hoarse, guttural croak +of the great blue heron, the weird, uncanny cry of the night, the mock, +the menace of the tangled, untamed swamp! + + + + +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE + + +My path to Cubby Hollow ran along a tumbling worm-fence, down a gravelly +slope, and across a strip of swale, through which flowed the stream that +farther on widened into the Hollow. A small jungle of dog-roses, elder, +and blackberry tangled the banks of the stream, spreading into flanks of +cinnamon-fern that crept well up the hillsides. + +As I descended the gravelly slope, my path led through the ferns into a +tunnel of vines, to a rail over the water, and on up to the woods. By the +middle of June the tangle, except by the half-broken path, was almost +rabbit-proof. The rank ferns waved to my chin, and were so thick that +they left little trace of my passing until late in the summer. + +This bit of the swale from the lower edge of the gravelly slope to the +edge of the woods on the opposite slope was the lair of a dragon. My path +cut directly across it. + +Perhaps the dragon had been there ever since I had known the swale, and +summer after summer had allowed me to cross unchallenged. I do not know. I +only know that one day he rose out of the ferns before me--the longest, +ugliest, boldest beast that ever withstood me in the quiet walks about +home. + +It was a day in early July, hot and very close. I was wading the sunken +trail, much as one "treads water," my head not always above the surface of +the fronds, when, suddenly, close to my side the ferns in a single spot +were violently shaken. Instantly ahead of me they whirled again' and +before I could think, off across the path was another rush and whirl--then +stirless silence. + +I knew what it meant. These were not the sudden, startled leaps of three +animals, but the lightning movements of one. I had crossed the path of a +swamp black-snake, and judging from the speed and whirl, it was a snake of +uncommon size. + +The path, a few paces farther on, opened into a small patch of low grass. +Just as I was getting through the brake to this spot I stopped short with +a chill. In the ferns near me shrilled a hissing whistle, a weird, creepy +whistle that made me cold--a fierce, menacing sound, all edge, and so thin +that it slivered every nerve in me. And then, without a stir in the brake, +up out of the low grass in front of me rose a blue-black, glittering head. + +I have little faith in the spell of a snake's eye, yet for a moment I was +held by the subtle, masterful face that had risen so unexpectedly, so +coolly before me. It was lifted a foot out of the grass. The head upon its +lithe, round neck was poised motionless, but set as with a hair-spring. +The flat, pointed face was turned upon me, so that I could see a patch of +white upon the throat. Evidently the snake had just sloughed an old skin, +for the sunlight gleamed iridescent on the shining jet scales. It was not +a large head; it lacked the shovel-nose and the heavy, horrid jaws of the +rattle-snake. But it was clean-cut, with power in every line of jaw and +neck; with power and speed and certainty in the pose, so easy, ready, and +erect. There was no fear in the creature's eye, something rather of +aggressiveness, and of such evil cunning that I stood on guard. + +Afraid of a snake? of a black-snake! No. I think, indeed, there are few +persons who really do fear snakes. It is not fear, but nerves. I have +tamed more black-snakes than I have killed. I should not care a straw if +one bit me. Yet, for all of that, the meeting with any black-snake is so +unlocked for as always to be unnerving. But let a huge one whip about you +in the brake, chill you with an unearthly hissing whistle, then suddenly +rise in front of you, glittering, challenging, sinister! You will be +abashed. I was; and I shall never outgrow the weakness. + +It was a big snake. I had not been mistaken in its size. There is nothing +on earth that shrinks as a _dead_ snake; and this one, so far as I know, +is still alive; yet, allowing generously for my imagination, I am sure +the creature measured six feet. His neck, just behind the jaws, was nearly +the size of a broom-handle, which meant a long, hard length curved out in +the ferns behind. It was a male; I could tell by the peculiar musk on the +air, an odor like cut cucumbers. + +Fully a minute we eyed each other. Then I took a step forward. The +glittering head rose higher. Off in the ferns there beat a warning +tattoo--the loud whir of the snake's tail against a skunk-cabbage leaf. + +In my hand was a slender dogwood switch that I had been poking into the +holes of the digger-wasps up the hillside. If one thing more than another +will turn a snake tail to in a hurry it is the song of a switch. Expecting +to see this overbold fellow jump out of his new skin and lunge off into +the swale, I leaned forward and made the stick sing under his nose. But he +did not jump or budge. He only bent back out of range, swayed from side to +side, and drew more of his black length out into the low grass to better +his position. + +The lidless eyes and scale-cased face of a snake might seem incapable of +more than one set expression. Can hate and fear show there? They +certainly can, at least to my imagination. If ever hate and fear mantled a +face, they did this one in the grass. The sound of the switch only +maddened the creature. He had too long dictated terms in this part of the +swale to crawl aside for me. + +Nor would I give way to him. But I ceased switching, drew back a step, and +looked at him with more respect than I ever before showed a snake. + +The curved neck straightened at that, the glinting head swayed forward, +and shivering through me as the swish of a stick never shivered through a +snake, sounded that unearthly hissing whistle. For a second--for just the +fraction of a second that it takes to jump--I was, not scared, but +shocked; and I slipped on something underfoot. In three directions I +wallowed the ferns before I got to my feet to watch the snake again, and +by that time the snake was gone. + +I found myself somewhat muddy and breathing a little hard; but I was not +wholly chagrined. I had heard and seen a black-snake whistle. I had never +even known of the habit before. + +Since then I have seen one other snake do it, and I think I have heard +the sound three or four times. It is almost indescribable. The jaws were +closed as it was made, not even the throat moving, that I could see. The +air seemed to be blown violently through the nostrils, though sounding as +if driven through the teeth--a shrilling hiss, fine and piercing, which +one not so much hears as feels, crisping cold along his nerves. + +It may seem strange, but I believe this whistle is a mating-call. Even the +forked tongue (or maybe the nose) of a snake grows vocal with love. If +only the Sphinx had not possessed a heart of stone! No matter about its +lips; with a heart to know the "spring running" we should have heard its +story long ago. Perhaps, after all, the college sophomore was not mixing +his observations and Sunday-school memories when he wrote, describing the +dawn of a spring morning (I quote from his essay): "Beneath in the water +the little fishes darted about the boat; above the little birds twittered +in the branches; while off on a sunny log in the pond the soft, sibilant +croak of the mud-turtle was heard on the shore." If we could happen upon +the mud-turtle mad with love, I am sure we should find that he had a +voice--a "soft, sibilant croak," who knows? + +I had long known the tradition among the farmers of the black-snake's +trailing its mate, following her by scent through grass and brush, +persistent and sure as a sleuth-hound, until at last she is won. I had +been told of this by eyewitnesses over and over, but I had always put it +down as a snake story, for these same witnesses would also tell me the +hoop-snake story, only it was their grandfathers, always, who had seen +this creature take its tail in its mouth and roll, and hit and kill a +fifty-dollar apple-tree (the tree was invariably worth fifty dollars). I +had small faith in the trailing tale. + +One day, the summer after my encounter in the ferns, I was sitting upon a +harrow at the edge of the gravelly field that slopes to the swale, when a +large black-snake glided swiftly across the lane and disappeared in the +grass beyond. It had been gone perhaps a minute, when I heard another stir +behind me, and turning, saw high above the weeds and dewberry-vines the +neck and head of a second black-snake. + +He was coming swiftly, evenly, carrying his gleaming head over a foot from +the ground, and following hard upon the trail of the first snake. He hit +very near the smooth, flowing mark in the dust of the lane. Here she had +crossed. Here he was about to cross when he caught sight of me. + +For a startled instant he stiffened, threw himself on the defensive, and +showed a white patch under his chin, an ugly, blazing light in his eye, +and a peculiarly aggressive attitude that there was no mistaking. I had +seen this snake before. I knew him. He was the dragon of the swale. + +Only pausing, he whirled, struck the track, and sped on, his round black +body stretching from rut to rut of the lane. A hundred feet beyond in the +grass I saw his glittering head rise and sway with a swimming motion as he +trailed the long, lithe beauty that was leading him this lightning race +across the fields. + +This was not the last time he crossed my path. He never withstood me +again; but he thwarted me several times. Once as I was descending the +slope I saw him gliding down from a low cedar. The distressing cries of +two chippies told me what he had been doing in the tree; I did not need to +look at the half-dislodged nest. Then and there I vowed to kill him, but +from that moment I never set eyes on him again. His evil work, however, +went on. In a clump of briers across the stream was the nest of a pair of +redbirds that I was watching. One day just before the young could fly they +were carried off. I knew who did it. On the same side, up under the fence +by the woods, a litter of rabbits was destroyed. The snake killed them. It +was he, too, who ate the eggs of the bluebirds in the old apple-tree along +the fence in the adjoining field. + +There must be a dragon in the way, I suppose--in the way even of nature +study. There are unpleasant, perhaps unnecessary, and evil +creatures--snakes!--in the fields and woods, which we must be willing to +meet and tolerate for the love within us. Tick-seeds, beggar-needles, mud, +mosquitos, rain, heat, hawks, and snakes haunt all our paths, hindering us +sometimes, though never really blocking the way. + +But the dragon in the swale--ought I to tolerate him? No. There are +moments when I should be glad to kill him, yet I doubt if the swale would +be quite so wild and thrilling a spot if I knew there was no dragon to +meet me as I crossed. But the redbirds, bluebirds, rabbits? I see no +shrinking in their numbers because of the snake. A few of them breed as +they always have along the swale. There are worse enemies than the dragon, +though he is bad enough. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Roof and Meadow, by Dallas Lore Sharp + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROOF AND MEADOW *** + +***** This file should be named 14701-8.txt or 14701-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/7/0/14701/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Roof and Meadow + +Author: Dallas Lore Sharp + +Release Date: January 16, 2005 [EBook #14701] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROOF AND MEADOW *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>Roof and Meadow</h1> + +<h2>By Dallas Lore Sharp</h2> + +<h2>Author of "A Watcher in the Woods"</h2> + +<h3>With Illustrations By Bruce Horsfall</h3> + +<h3>SCHOOL EDITION</h3> + + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img001" id="img001"></a> +<img src="images/img001.jpg" +alt="bird" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="center"><b>NEW YORK</b></p> + +<p class="center"><b>The Century Co.</b></p> + +<p class="center"><b>1911</b></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center">Copyright, 1903, 1904, by THE CENTURY CO.</p> + +<p class="center">Copyright, 1902, 1903, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.</p> + +<p class="center">Copyright, 1903, by THE CHAPPLE PUBLISHING CO. (Ltd.).</p> + +<p class="center">Copyright, 1902, 1903, by W.W. POTTER CO. (Ltd.).</p> + +<p class="center">Copyright, 1902, 1903, by PERRY MASON COMPANY</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Published April, 1904.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>TO</h2> +<h2>MY MOTHER</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p class="center"> + <a href="#BIRDS_FROM_A_CITY_ROOF"><b>BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THE_HUNTING_OF_THE_WOODCHUCK"><b>THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THREE_SERMONS"><b>THREE SERMONS</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THE_MARSH"><b>THE MARSH</b></a><br /> + <a href="#CALICO_AND_THE_KITTENS"><b>CALICO AND THE KITTENS</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THE_SPARROW_ROOST"><b>THE SPARROW ROOST</b></a><br /> + <a href="#MUXquot"><b>"MUX"</b></a><br /> + <a href="#RACOON_CREEK"><b>RACOON CREEK</b></a><br /> + <a href="#THE_DRAGON_OF_THE_SWALE"><b>THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE</b></a><br /> + </p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center">[<i><b>Transcriber's Note</b>: In this text, the spelling 'racoon' is used +consistently instead of 'raccoon'. I have kept this and any other unusual +spellings, retaining the character of the original.</i>]</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img009" id="img009"></a> +<img src="images/img009.jpg" +alt="Birds From a City Roof" title="" /> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>ROOF AND MEADOW</h1> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BIRDS_FROM_A_CITY_ROOF" id="BIRDS_FROM_A_CITY_ROOF" />BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>I laid down my book and listened. It was only the choking gurgle of a +broken rain-pipe outside: then it was the ripple and swish of a meadow +stream. To make out the voices of redwings and marsh-wrens in the rasping +notes of the city sparrows behind the shutter required <a name="Page_4" id="Page_4" />much more +imagination. But I did it. I wanted to hear, and the splash of the water +helped me.</p> + +<p>The sounds of wind and water are the same everywhere. Here at the heart of +the city I can forget the tarry pebbles and painted tin whenever my +rain-pipes are flooded. I can never be wholly shut away from the open +country and the trees so long as the winds draw hard down the alley past +my window.</p> + +<p>But I have more than a window and a broken rain-pipe. Along with my five +flights goes a piece of roof, flat, with a wooden floor, a fence, and a +million acres of sky. I couldn't possibly use another acre of sky, except +along the eastern horizon, where the top floors of some twelve-story +buildings intercept the dawn.</p> + +<p>With such a roof and such a sky, when I must, I can, with effort, get well +out of the city. I have never fished nor botanized here, but I have been +a-birding many times.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>Stone walls do not a prison make,</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>nor city streets a cage—if one have a roof.</p> + +<p>A roof is not an ideal spot for bird study. I would hardly, out of +preference, have chosen <a name="Page_5" id="Page_5" />this with its soot and its battlement of gaseous +chimney-pots, even though it is a university roof with the great gilded +dome of a state house shining down upon it. One whose feet have always +been in the soil does not take kindly to tar and tin. But anything open to +the sky is open to some of the birds, for the paths of many of the +migrants lie close along the clouds.</p> + +<p>Other birds than the passing migrants, however, sometimes come within +range of my look-out. The year around there are English sparrows and +pigeons; and all through the summer scarcely an evening passes when a few +chimney-swallows are not in sight.</p> + +<p>With the infinite number and variety of chimneys hedging me in, I +naturally expected to find the sky alive with swallows. Indeed, I thought +that some of the twenty-six pots at the corners of my roof would be +inhabited by the birds. Not so. While I can nearly always find a pair of +swallows in the air, they are surprisingly scarce, and, so far as I know, +they rarely build in the heart of the city. There are more canaries in my +block than chimney-swallows in all my sky.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6" />The swallows are not urban birds. The gas, the smoke, the shrieking +ventilators, and the ceaseless sullen roar of the city are hardly to their +liking. Perhaps the flies and gnats which they feed upon cannot live in +the air above the roofs. The swallows want a sleepy old town with big +thunderful chimneys, where there are wide fields and a patch of quiet +water.</p> + +<p>Much more numerous than the swallows are the night-hawks. My roof, in +fact, is the best place I have ever found to study their feeding habits. +These that flit through my smoky dusk may not make city nests, though the +finding of such nests would not surprise me. Of course a night-hawk's +<i>nest</i>, here or anywhere else, would surprise me; for like her cousin, the +whippoorwill, she never builds a nest, but stops in the grass, the gravel, +the leaves, or on a bare rock, deposits her eggs without even scratching +aside the sticks and stones that may share the bed, and in three days is +brooding them—brooding the stones too.</p> + +<p>It is likely that some of my hawks nest on the buildings in the +neighborhood. Night-hawks' eggs have occasionally been found <a name="Page_7" id="Page_7" />among the +pebbles of city roofs. The high, flat house-tops are so quiet and remote, +so far away from the noisy life in the narrow streets below, that the +birds make their nests here as if in a world apart. The twelve-and +fifteen-story buildings are as so many deserted mountain heads to them.</p> + +<p>None of the birds build on my roof, however. But from early spring they +haunt the region so constantly that their families, if they have families +at all, must be somewhere in the vicinity. Should I see them like this +about a field or thicket in the country it would certainly mean a nest.</p> + +<p>The sparrows themselves do not seem more at home here than do these +night-hawks. One evening, after a sultry July day, a wild wind-storm burst +over the city. The sun was low, glaring through a narrow rift between the +hill-crests and the clouds that spread green and heavy across the sky. I +could see the lower fringes of the clouds working and writhing in the +wind, but not a sound or a breath was in the air about me. Around me over +my roof flew the night-hawks. They were crying peevishly and skimming +close <a name="Page_8" id="Page_8" />to the chimneys, not rising, as usual, to any height.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the storm broke. The rain fell as if something had given way +overhead. The wind tore across the stubble of roofs and spires; and +through the wind, the rain, and the rolling clouds shot a weird, +yellow-green sunlight.</p> + +<p>I had never seen a storm like it. Nor had the night-hawks. They seemed to +be terrified, and left the sky immediately. One of them, alighting on the +roof across the street, and creeping into the lee of a chimney, huddled +there in sight of me until the wind was spent and a natural sunlight +flooded the world of roofs and domes and spires.</p> + +<p>Then they were all awing once more, hawking for supper. Along with the +hawking they got in a great deal of play, doing their tumbling and +cloud-coasting over the roofs just as they do above the fields.</p> + +<p>Mounting by easy stages of half a dozen rapid strokes, catching flies by +the way, and crying <i>peent-peent</i>, the acrobat climbs until I look a mere +lump on the roof; then ceasing his whimpering <i>peent</i>, he turns on bowed +wings and falls—shoots <a name="Page_9" id="Page_9" />roofward with fearful speed. The chimneys! Quick!</p> + +<p>Quick he is. Just short of the roofs the taut wings flash a reverse, there +is a lightning swoop, a startling hollow wind-sound, and the rushing bird +is beating skyward again, hawking deliberately as before, and uttering +again his peevish nasal cry.</p> + +<p>This single note, the only call he has besides a few squeaks, is far from +a song; farther still is the empty-barrel-bung-hole sound made by the air +in the rushing wings as the bird swoops in his fall. The night-hawk, alias +"bull-bat," does not sing. What a name bull-bat would be for a singing +bird! But a "voice" was never intended for the creature. Voice, beak, +legs, head—everything but wings and maw was sacrificed for a mouth. What +a mouth! The bird can almost swallow himself. Such a cleft in the head +could never mean a song; it could never be utilized for anything but a +fly-trap.</p> + +<p>We have use for fly-traps. We need some birds just to sit around, look +pretty, and warble. We will pay them for it in cherries or in whatever +they ask. But there is also a great need <a name="Page_10" id="Page_10" />for birds that kill insects. And +first among these are the night-hawks. They seem to have been designed for +this sole purpose. Their end is to kill insects. They are more like +machines than any other birds I know. The enormous mouth feeds an enormous +stomach, and this, like a fire-box, makes the power that works the +enormous wings. From a single maw have been taken eighteen hundred winged +ants, to say nothing of the smaller fry that could not be identified and +counted.</p> + +<p>But if he never caught an ant, never one of the fifth-story mosquitos that +live and bite till Christmas, how greatly still my sky would need him! His +flight is song enough. His cry and eery thunder are the very voice of the +summer twilight to me. And as I watch him coasting in the evening dusk, +that twilight often falls—over the roofs, as it used to fall for me over +the fields and the quiet hollow woods.</p> + +<p>There is always an English sparrow on my roof—which does not particularly +commend the roof to bird-lovers, I know. I often wish the sparrow an +entirely different bird, but I never wish him entirely away from the roof. +When <a name="Page_11" id="Page_11" />there is no other defense for him, I fall back upon his being a +bird. Any kind of a bird in the city! Any but a parrot.</p> + +<p>A pair of sparrows nest regularly in an eaves-trough, so close to the roof +that I can overhear their family talk. Round, loquacious, familiar Cock +Sparrow is a family man—so entirely a family man as to be nothing else at +all. He is a success, too. It does me good to see him build. He tore the +old nest all away in the early winter, so as to be ready. There came a +warm springish day in February, and he began. A blizzard stopped him, but +with the melting of the snow he went to work again, completing the nest by +the middle of March.</p> + +<p>He built for a big family, and he had it. Not "it" indeed, but <i>them</i>; for +there were three batches of from six to ten youngsters each during the +course of the season. He also did a father's share of work with the +children. I think he hated hatching them. He would settle upon the roof +above the nest, and chirp in a crabbed, imposed-upon tone until his wife +came out. As she flew briskly away, he would look disconsolately around at +the bright busy world, ruffle his <a name="Page_12" id="Page_12" />feathers, scold to himself, and then +crawl dutifully in upon the eggs.</p> + +<p>I knew how he felt. It is not in a cock sparrow to enjoy hatching eggs. I +respected him; for though he grumbled, as any normal husband might, still +he was "drinking fair" with Mrs. Sparrow. He built and brooded and foraged +for his family, if not as sweetly, yet as faithfully, as his wife. He +deserved his blessed abundance of children.</p> + +<p>Is he songless, sooty, uninteresting, vulgar? Not if you live on a roof. +He may be all of this, a pest even, in the country. But upon my roof, for +weeks at a stretch, his is the only bird voice I hear. Throughout the +spring, and far into the summer, I watch the domestic affairs in the +eaves-trough. During the winter, at nightfall, I see little bands and +flurries of birds scudding over and dropping behind the high buildings to +the east. They are sparrows on the way to their roost in the elms of an +old mid-city burial-ground.</p> + +<p>I not infrequently spy a hawk soaring calmly far away above the roof. Not +only the small ones, like the sharp-shinned, but also the larger, <a name="Page_13" id="Page_13" />wilder +species come, and winding up close to the clouds, circle and circle there, +trying apparently to see some meaning in the maze of moving, intersecting +lines of dots below yonder in the cracks of that smoking, rumbling blur.</p> + +<p>In the spring, from the trees of the Common, which are close, but, except +for the crown of one noble English elm, are shut away from me, I hear an +occasional robin and Baltimore oriole. Very rarely a woodpecker will go +over. The great northern shrike is a frequent winter visitor, but by ill +chance I have not been up when he has called at the roof.</p> + +<p>One of these fiend birds haunts a small court only a block away, which is +inclosed in a high board fence, topped with nails. He likes the court +because of these nails. They are sharp; they will stick clean through the +body of a sparrow. Sometimes the fiend has a dozen sparrows run through +with them, leaving the impaled bodies to flutter in the wind and finally +fall away.</p> + +<p>In sight from my roof are three tiny patches of the harbor; sometimes a +fourth, when the big red-funneled liner is gone from her slip.<a name="Page_14" id="Page_14" /> Down to +the water of the harbor in flocks from the north come other winter +visitors, the herring and black-backed gulls. Often during the winter I +find them in my sky.</p> + +<p>One day they will cross silently over the city in a long straggling line. +Again they will fly low, wheeling and screaming, their wild sea-voices +shrill with the sound of storm. If it is thick and gray overhead, the +snow-white bodies of the herring-gulls toss in the wind above the roofs +like patches of foam. I hear the sea—the wind, the surf, the wild, fierce +tumult of the shore—whenever the white gulls sail screaming into my +winter sky.</p> + +<p>I have never lived under a wider reach of sky than that above my roof. It +offers a clear, straight, six-minute course to the swiftest wedge of wild +geese. Spring and autumn the geese and ducks go over, and their passage is +the most thrilling event in all my bird calendar.</p> + +<p>It is because the ducks fly high and silent that I see them so rarely. +They are always a surprise. You look, and there against the dull sky they +move, strange dark forms that set your blood leaping. But I never see a +string of them <a name="Page_15" id="Page_15" />winging over that I do not think of a huge thousand-legger +crawling the clouds.</p> + +<p>My glimpses of the geese are largely chance, too. Several times, through +the open window by my table, I have heard the faint, far-off honking, and +have hurried to the roof in time to watch the travelers disappear. One +spring day I was upon the roof when a large belated flock came over, +headed north. It was the 20th of April, and the morning had broken very +warm. I could see that the geese were hot and tired. They were barely +clearing the church spires. On they came, their wedge wide and straggling, +until almost over me, when something happened. The gander in the lead +faltered and swerved, the wedge lines wavered, the flock rushed together +in confusion, wheeled, dropped, then broke apart, and honking wildly, +turned back toward the bay.</p> + +<p>It was instant and complete demoralization. A stronger gander, I think, +could have led the wedge unbroken over the city to some neighboring pond, +where the weakest of the stragglers, however, must have fallen from sheer +exhaustion.</p> + +<p>Scaling lower and lower across the roofs, the <a name="Page_16" id="Page_16" />flock had reached the +center of the city and had driven suddenly into the roar and confusion of +the streets. Weary from the heat, they were dismayed at the noise, their +leader faltered, and, at a stroke, the great flying wedge went to pieces.</p> + +<p>There is nothing in the life of birds quite so stirring to the imagination +as their migration: the sight of gathering swallows, the sudden appearance +of strange warblers, the call of passing plovers—all are suggestive of +instincts, movements, and highways that are unseen, unaccountable, and +full of mystery. Little wonder that the most thrilling poem ever written +to a bird begins:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5"><i>Whither, midst falling dew,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue</i><br /></span> +<span class="i5"><i>Thy solitary way?</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The question, the mystery in that "certain flight" I never felt so vividly +as from my roof. Here I have often heard the reed-birds and the water-fowl +passing. Sometimes I have heard them going over in the dark. One night I +re<a name="Page_17" id="Page_17" />member particularly, the sky and the air were so clear and the geese so +high in the blue.</p> + +<p>Over the fields and wide silent marshes such passing is strange enough. +But here I stood above a sleeping city of men, and far above me, so far +that I could only hear them, holding their northward way through the +starlit sky, they passed—whither? and how guided? Was the shining dome of +the State House a beacon? Did they mark the light at Marblehead?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img027" id="img027"></a> +<img src="images/img027.jpg" +alt="The Hunting of the Woodchuck" +title="The Hunting of the Woodchuck" /> +</div> + +<h2><a name="THE_HUNTING_OF_THE_WOODCHUCK" id="THE_HUNTING_OF_THE_WOODCHUCK" /><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18" /><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19" />THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<blockquote><p><i>... the chylde may Rue that ys vn-born, it wos the mor pitte.</i></p></blockquote> + + +<p>There was murder in my heart. The woodchuck knew it. He never had had a +thought before, but he had one now. It came hard and heavily, yet it +arrived in time; and it was not a slow thought for a woodchuck, +either—just a trifle better, indeed, than my own.</p> + +<p>This was the first time I had caught the woodchuck away from his hole. He +had left his old burrow in the huckleberry hillside, and dug a new hole +under one of my young peach-trees.<a name="Page_22" id="Page_22" /> I had made no objection to his +huckleberry hole. He used to come down the hillside and waddle into the +orchard in broad day, free to do and go as he pleased; but not since he +began to dig under the peach-tree.</p> + +<p>I discovered this new hole when it was only a foot deep, and promptly +filled it with stones. The next morning the stones were out and the cavity +two feet deeper. I filled it up again, driving a large squarish piece of +rock into the mouth, tight, certainly stopping all further work, as I +thought.</p> + +<p>There are woodchucks that you can discourage and there are those that you +can't. Three days later the piece of rock and the stones were piled about +the butt of the tree and covered with fresh earth, while the hole ran in +out of sight, with the woodchuck, apparently, at the bottom of it.</p> + +<p>I had tried shutting him out, now I would try shutting him in. It was +cruel—it would have been to anything but a woodchuck; I was ashamed of +myself for doing it, and went back the following day, really hoping to +find the burrow open.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23" />Never again would I worry over an imprisoned woodchuck; but then I should +never again try to destroy a woodchuck by walling up his hole, any more +than Br'er Fox would try to punish the rabbit by slinging him a second +time into the brier-patch.</p> + +<p>The burrow was wide open. I had stuffed and rammed the rocks into it, and +buried deep in its mouth the body of another woodchuck that my neighbor's +dog had killed. All was cleared away. The deceased relative was +gone—where and how I know not; the stones were scattered on the farther +side of the tree, and the passage neatly swept of all loose sand and +pebbles.</p> + +<p>Clearly the woodchuck had come to stay. I meant that he should move. I +could get him into a steel trap, for his wits are not abiding; they come +only on occasion. Woodchuck lives too much in the ground and too +constantly beside his own door to grow very wise. He can always be +trapped. So can any one's enemy. You can always murder. But no gentleman +strikes from behind. I hate the steel trap. I have set my last one. They +would be bitter <a name="Page_24" id="Page_24" />peaches on that tree if they cost the woodchuck what I +have seen more than one woodchuck suffer in the horrible jaws of such a +trap.</p> + +<p>But is it not perfectly legitimate and gentlemanly to shoot such a +woodchuck to save one's peaches? Certainly. So I got the gun and +waited—and waited—and waited. Did you ever wait with a gun until a +woodchuck came out of his hole? I never did. A woodchuck has just sense +enough to go into his hole—and stay in.</p> + +<p>There were too many woodchucks about and my days were too precious for me +to spend any considerable part of my summer watching with a gun for this +one. Besides, I have been known to fire and miss a woodchuck, anyway.</p> + +<p>So I gave up the gun. It was while thinking what I could do next that I +came down the row of young peach-trees and spied the woodchuck out in the +orchard, fifty yards away from his hole. He spied me at the same instant, +and rose upon his haunches.</p> + +<p>At last we were face to face. The time had come. It would be a fight to +the finish; and a fair fight, too, for all that I had about me in the way +of weapons was a pair of heavy, knee-high <a name="Page_25" id="Page_25" />hunting-boots, that I had put +on against the dew of the early morning. All my thought and energy, all my +hope, centered immediately in those boots.</p> + +<p>The woodchuck kept his thoughts in his head. Into his heels he put what +speed he had; and little as that was, it counted, pieced out with the +head-work.</p> + +<p>Back in my college days I ran a two-mile race—the greatest race of the +day, the judges said—and just at the tape lost two gold medals and the +glory of a new intercollegiate record because I didn't use my head. Two of +us out of twenty finished, and we finished together, the other fellow +twisting and falling forward, breaking the string with his side, while I, +pace for pace with him—didn't think.</p> + +<p>For a moment the woodchuck and I stood motionless, he studying the +situation. I was at the very mouth of his burrow. It was coming to sure +death for him to attempt to get in. Yet it was sure death if he did not +get in, for I should run him down.</p> + +<p>Had you been that woodchuck, gentle reader, I wonder if you would have +taken account of <a name="Page_26" id="Page_26" />the thick-strewn stones behind you, the dense tangle of +dewberry-vines off on your left, the heavy boots of your enemy and his +unthinking rage?</p> + +<p>I was vastly mistaken in that woodchuck. A blanker, flabbier face never +looked into mine. Only the sudden appearance of death could have brought +the trace of intelligence across it that I caught as the creature dropped +on all fours and began to wabble straight away from me over the area of +rough, loose stones.</p> + +<p>With a jump and a yell I was after him, making five yards to his one. He +tumbled along the best he could, and, to my great surprise, directly away +from his hole. It was steep downhill. I should land upon him in half a +dozen bounds more.</p> + +<p>On we went, reckless of the uneven ground, momentum increasing with every +jump, until, accurately calculating his speed and the changing distance +between us, I rose with a mighty leap, sailed into the air and came +down—just an inch too far ahead—on a round stone, turned my ankle, and +went sprawling over the woodchuck in a heap.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27" />The woodchuck spilled himself from under me, slid short about, and +tumbled off for home by way of the dewberry-patch.</p> + +<p>He had made a good start before I was righted and again in motion. Now it +was steep, very steep, uphill—which did not seem to matter much to the +woodchuck, but made a great difference to me. Then, too, I had counted on +a simple, straightaway dash, and had not saved myself for this lap and +climbing home-stretch.</p> + +<p>Still I was gaining,—more slowly this time,—with chances yet good of +overtaking him short of the hole, when, in the thick of the +dewberry-vines, I tripped, lunged forward three or four stumbling strides, +and saw the woodchuck turn sharp to the right in a bee-line for his +burrow.</p> + +<p>I wheeled, jumped, cut after him, caught him on the toe of my boot, and +lifting him, plopped him smoothly, softly into his hole.</p> + +<p>It was gently done. And so beautifully! The whole feat had something of +the poetic accuracy of an astronomical calculation. And the perfectly +lovely dive I helped him make home!</p> + +<p>I sat down upon his mound of earth to get myself together and to enjoy it +all. What a <a name="Page_28" id="Page_28" />woodchuck! Perhaps he never could do the trick again; but, +then, he won't need to. All the murder was gone from my heart. He had +beaten the boots. He had beaten them so neatly, so absolutely, that simple +decency compelled me then and there to turn over that Crawford peach-tree, +root and stem, to the woodchuck, his heirs and assigns forever.</p> + +<p>By way of celebration he has thrown out nearly a cart-load of sand from +somewhere beneath the tree, deepening and enlarging his home. My Swedish +neighbor, viewing the hole recently, exclaimed: "Dose vuudshuck, I t'ink +him kill dem dree!" Perhaps so. As yet, however, the tree grows on without +a sign of hurt.</p> + +<p>But suppose the tree does die? Well, there is no certainty of its bearing +good fruit. There was once a peddler of trees, a pious man and a Quaker, +who made a mistake, selling the wrong tree. Besides, there are other trees +in the orchard; and, if necessary, I can buy peaches.</p> + +<p>Yes, but what if other woodchucks should seek other roof-trees in the +peach row? They won't. There are no fashions, no such emulations, +out-of-doors. Because one woodchuck moves from <a name="Page_29" id="Page_29" />huckleberries to a +peach-tree is no sign that all the woodchucks on the hillside are going to +forsake the huckleberries with him. Only humans are silly enough for that.</p> + +<p>If the woodchucks should come, all of them, it would be extremely +interesting—an event worth many peaches.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img039" id="img039"></a> +<img src="images/img039.jpg" +alt="frog" title="" /> +</div> + +<h2><a name="THREE_SERMONS" id="THREE_SERMONS" /><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30" /><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31" />THREE SERMONS</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<blockquote><p><i>Thou shalt not preach.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>The woods were as empty as some great empty house; they were hollow and +silent and somber. I stood looking in among the leafless trees, heavy in +spirit at the quiet and gloom, when close by my side spoke a tiny voice. I +started, so suddenly, so unexpectedly it broke into the wide December +silence, so far it echoed through the empty forest halls.</p> + +<p>"What!" I exclaimed, turning in my tracks <a name="Page_34" id="Page_34" />and addressing a small +brown-leafed beech. "What! little Hyla, are you still out? You! with a +snow-storm brewing and St. Nick due here to-morrow night?" And then from +within the bush, or on it, or under it, or over it, came an answer, <i>Peep, +peep, peep!</i> small and shrill, dropping into the silence of the woods and +stirring it as three small pebbles might drop into the middle of a wide +sleeping pond.</p> + +<p>It was one of those gray, heavy days of the early winter—one of the +vacant, spiritless days of portent that wait hushed and numb before a +coming storm. Not a crow, nor a jay, nor a chickadee had heart enough to +cheep. But little Hyla, the tree-frog, was nothing daunted. Since the last +week in February, throughout the spring and the noisy summer on till this +dreary time, he had been cheerfully, continuously piping. This was his +last call.</p> + +<p><i>Peep, peep, peep!</i> he piped in February; <i>Peep, peep, peep!</i> in August; +<i>Peep, peep, peep!</i> in December. But did he?</p> + +<p>"He did just that," replies the scientist, "and that only."</p> + +<p>"Not at all," I answer.</p> + +<p>"<a name="Page_35" id="Page_35" />What authority have you?" he asks. "You are not scientific. You are +merely a dreaming, fooling hanger-on to the fields and woods; one of those +who are forever hearing more than they hear, and seeing more than they +see. We scientists hear with our ears, see with our eyes, feel with our +fingers, and understand with our brains—"</p> + +<p>"Just so, just so," I interrupt, "and you are a worthy but often a pretty +stupid set. Little Hyla in February, August, and December cries <i>Peep, +peep, peep!</i> to you. But his cry to me in February is <i>Spring, spring, +spring!</i> And in December—it depends; for I cannot see with my eyes alone, +nor hear with my ears, nor feel with my fingers only. You can, and so +could Peter Bell. To-day I saw and heard and felt the world all gray and +hushed and shrouded; and little Hyla, speaking out of the silence and +death, called <i>Cheer, cheer, cheer!</i>"</p> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>It is not because the gate is strait and the way narrow that so few get +into the kingdom of <a name="Page_36" id="Page_36" />the Out-of-Doors. The gate is wide and the way is +broad. The difficulty is that most persons go in too fast.</p> + +<p>If I were asked what virtue, above all others, one must possess in order +to be shown the mysteries of the kingdom of earth and sky, I should say, +there are several; I should not know which to name first. There are, +however, two virtues very essential and very hard to acquire, namely, the +ability to keep quiet and to stand still.</p> + +<p>Last summer a fox in two days took fifteen of my chickens. I saw the +rascal in broad day come down the hill to the chicken-yard. I greatly +enjoy the sight of a wild fox; but fifteen chickens a sight was too high a +price. So I got the gun and chased about the woods half the summer for +another glimpse of the sinner's red hide. I saw him one Sunday as we were +driving into the wood road from church; but never a week-day sight for all +my chasing.</p> + +<p>Along in the early autumn I got home one evening shortly after sundown. I +had left several cocks of hay spread out in the little meadow, and though +it was already pretty damp, I took the fork, went down, and cocked it up.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37" />Returning, I climbed by the narrow, winding path through the pines, out +into the corner of my pasture. It was a bright moonlight night, and +leaning back upon the short-handled fork, I stopped in the shadow of the +pines to look out over the softly lighted field.</p> + +<p>Off in the woods a mile away sounded the deep, mellow tones of two +foxhounds. Day and night all summer long I had heard them, and all summer +long I had hurried to this knoll and to that for a shot. But the fox +always took the other knoll.</p> + +<p>The echoing cries of the dogs through the silent woods were musical. Soon +they sounded sharp and clear—the hounds were crossing an open stretch +leading down to the meadow behind me. As I leaned, listening, I heard near +by a low, uneasy murmuring from a covey of quails sleeping in the brush +beside the path, and before I had time to think what it meant, a fox +trotted up the path I had just climbed, and halted in the edge of the +shadows directly at my feet.</p> + +<p>I stood as stiff as a post. He sniffed at my dew-wet boots, backed away, +and looked me over <a name="Page_38" id="Page_38" />curiously. I could have touched him with my fork. Then +he sat down with just his silver-tipped brush in the silver moonlight, to +study me in earnest.</p> + +<p>The loud baying of the hounds was coming nearer. How often I had heard it, +and, in spite of my lost chickens, how often I had exclaimed, "Poor little +tired fox!" But here sat "poor little tired fox" with his tongue in his +head, calmly wondering what kind of stump he had run up against this time.</p> + +<p>I could only dimly see his eyes, but his whole body said: "I can't make it +out, for it doesn't move. But so long as it doesn't move I sha'n't be +scared." Then he trotted to this side and to that for a better wind, +somewhat afraid, but much more curious.</p> + +<p>His time was up, however. The dogs were yelping across the meadow on his +warm trail. Giving me a last unsatisfied look, he dropped down the path, +directly toward the dogs, and sprang lightly off into the thicket.</p> + +<p>The din of their own voices must have deafened the dogs, or they would +have heard him. Round and round they circled, giving the fox <a name="Page_39" id="Page_39" />ample time +for the study of another "stump" before they discovered that he had +doubled down the path, and still longer time before they crossed the wide +scentless space of his side jump and once more fastened upon his trail.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>Back in my knickerbocker days I once went off on a Sunday-school picnic, +and soon, replete with "copenhagen," I sauntered into the woods alone in +quest of less cloying sport. I had not gone far when I picked up a dainty +little ribbon-snake, and having no bag or box along, I rolled him up in my +handkerchief, and journeyed on with the wiggling reptile safely caged on +top of my head under my tight-fitting hat.</p> + +<p>After a time I began to feel a peculiar movement under the hat, not +exactly the crawling of a normal snake, but more like that of a snake with +legs. Those were the days when all my soul was bent on the discovery of a +new species—of anything; when the whole of life meant a journey to the +Academy of Natural Sciences with something to be named. For just an +in<a name="Page_40" id="Page_40" />stant flashed the hope that I had found an uncursed snake, one of the +original ones that went on legs. I reached for the hat, bent over, and +pulled it off, and, lo! not a walking snake. Just an ordinary snake, but +with it a live wood-frog!</p> + +<p>This, at least, was interesting, the only real piece of magic I have ever +done. Into my hat had gone only a live snake, now I brought forth the +snake and a live frog. This was a snake to conjure with; so I tied him up +again and finally got him home.</p> + +<p>The next Sunday the minister preached a temperance sermon, in which he +said some dreadful things about snakes. The creatures do seem in some +dark, horrible way to lurk in the dregs of strong drink: but the minister +was not discriminating; he was too fierce and sweeping, saying, among +other things, that there was a universal human hatred for snakes, and that +one of the chief purposes of the human heel was to bruise their scaly +heads.</p> + +<p>I was not born of my Quaker mother to share this "universal human hatred +for snakes"; but I did get from her a wild dislike for sweeping, <a name="Page_41" id="Page_41" />general +statements. After the sermon I ventured to tell the preacher that there +was an exception to this "universal" rule; that all snakes were not adders +and serpents, but some were just innocent snakes, and that I had a +collection of tame ones which I wished he would come out to see.</p> + +<p>He looked astonished, skeptical, then pained. It was during the days, I +think, of my "probation," and into his anxious heart had come the thought, +Was I "running well"? But he dismissed the doubt and promised to walk over +in the morning.</p> + +<p>His interest amazed me. But, then, preachers quite commonly are different +on Monday. As we went from cage to cage, he said he had read how +boa-constrictors eat, and wouldn't I show him how these snakes eat?</p> + +<p>We had come to the cage of the little ribbon-snake from the picnic grove, +and had arrived just in time to catch him crawling away out of a hole that +he had worked in the rusty mosquito-netting wire of the cover. I caught +him, put him back, and placed a brickbat over the hole.</p> + +<p>I knew that this snake was hungry, because <a name="Page_42" id="Page_42" />he had had nothing to eat for +nearly a week, and the frog which appeared so mysteriously with him in my +hat was the dinner that he had given up that day of his capture in his +effort to escape.</p> + +<p>The minister looked on without a tremor. I took off the brick that he +might see the better. The snake was very long and small around and the +toad, which I had given him, was very short and big around, so that when +it was all over there was a bunch in the middle of the snake comparable to +the lump a prime watermelon would make in the middle of a small boy if +swallowed whole.</p> + +<p>While we were still watching, the snake, having comfortably (for a snake) +breakfasted, saw the hole uncovered and stuck out his head. We made no +move. Slowly, cautiously, with his eye upon us, he glided out, up to the +big bunch of breakfast in his middle. This stuck. Frantically he squirmed, +whirled, and lashed about, but in vain. He could not pull through. He had +eaten too much.</p> + +<p>There was just one thing for him to do if he would be free: give up the +breakfast of toad<a name="Page_43" id="Page_43" /> (which is much better fare according to snake standards +than pottage according to ours), as he had given up the dinner of frog. +Would he sell his birthright?</p> + +<p>Perhaps a snake cannot calculate; perhaps he knows no conflict of +emotions. Yet something very like these processes seemed to go on within +the scaly little reptile. He ceased all violent struggle, laid his length +upon the netting, and <i>seemed</i> to think, to weigh the chances, to count +the cost.</p> + +<p>Soon he softly drew back into the cage. A series of severe contortions +followed; the obstructing bunch began to move forward, up, farther and +farther, until at last, dazed, squeezed, and half smothered, but entirely +alive and unhurt, the toad appeared and once more opened his eyes to the +blessed light.</p> + +<p>The snake quickly put his head through the hole, slipped out again, and +glided away into his freedom. He had earned it. The toad deserved his +liberty too, and I took him into the strawberry-patch.</p> + +<p>The minister looked on at it all. Perhaps he didn't learn anything. But I +did.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img053" id="img053"></a> +<img src="images/img053.jpg" +alt="owl" title="" /> + +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="THE_MARSH" id="THE_MARSH" /><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44" /><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45" />THE MARSH</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>And breathe it free, and breathe it free,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>I</h3> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>It was a late June day whose breaking found me upon the edge of the great +salt-marshes which lie behind East Point Light, as the Delaware Bay lies +in front of it, and which run in a wide, half-land, half-bay border down +the cape.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48" />I followed along the black sandy road which goes to the Light until close +to the old Zane's Place,—the last farm-house of the uplands,—when I +turned off into the marsh toward the river. The mosquitos rose from the +damp grass at every step, swarming up around me in a cloud, and streaming +off behind like a comet's tail, which hummed instead of glowed. I was the +only male among them. It was a cloud of females, the nymphs of the +salt-marsh; and all through that day the singing, stinging, smothering +swarm danced about me, rested upon me, covered me whenever I paused, so +that my black leggings turned instantly to a mosquito brown, and all my +dress seemed dyed alike.</p> + +<p>Only I did not pause—not often, nor long. The sun came up blisteringly +hot, yet on I walked, and wore my coat, my hands deep down in the pockets +and my head in a handkerchief. At noon I was still walking, and kept on +walking till I reached the bay shore, when a breeze came up, and drove the +singing, stinging fairies back into the grass, and saved me.</p> + +<p>I left the road at a point where a low bank started across the marsh like +a long protecting <a name="Page_49" id="Page_49" />arm reaching out around the hay-meadows, dragging them +away from the grasping river, and gathering them out of the vast undrained +tract of coarse sedges, to hold them to the upland. Passing along the bank +until beyond the weeds and scrub of the higher borders, I stood with the +sky-bound, bay-bound green beneath my feet. Far across, with sails +gleaming white against the sea of sedge, was a schooner, beating slowly up +the river. Laying my course by her, I began to beat slowly out into the +marsh through the heavy sea of low, matted hay-grass.</p> + +<p>There is no fresh-water meadow, no inland plain, no prairie with this +rainy, misty, early morning freshness so constant on the marsh; no other +reach of green so green, so a-glitter with seas of briny dew, so +regularly, unfailingly fed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>Look how the grace of the sea doth go</i><br /></span> +<span><i>About and about through the intricate channels that flow</i><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Here and there,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i10"><i>Everywhere,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>And the marsh is meshed with a million veins!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50" />I imagine a Western wheat-field, half-way to head, could look, in the dew +of morning, somewhat like a salt-marsh. It certainly would have at times +the purple-distance haze, that atmosphere of the sea which hangs across +the marsh. The two might resemble each other as two pictures of the same +theme, upon the same scale, one framed and hung, the other not. It is the +framing, the setting of the marsh that gives it character, variety, tone, +and its touch of mystery.</p> + +<p>For the marsh reaches back to the higher lands of fences, fields of corn, +and ragged forest blurs against the hazy horizon; it reaches down to the +river of the reedy flats, coiled like a serpent through the green; it +reaches away to the sky where the clouds anchor, where the moon rises, +where the stars, like far-off lighthouses, gleam along the edge; and it +reaches out to the bay, and on, beyond the white surf-line of meeting, on, +beyond the line where the bay's blue and the sky's blue touch, on, far on.</p> + +<p>Here meet land and river, sky and sea; here they mingle and make the +marsh.</p> + +<p>A prairie rolls and billows; the marsh lies <a name="Page_51" id="Page_51" />still, lies as even as a +sleeping sea. Yet what moods! What changes! What constant variety of +detail everywhere! In The Marshes of Glynn there was</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade,</i><br /></span> +<span><i>Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade,</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>but not in these Maurice River marshes. Here, to-day, the sun was blazing, +kindling millions of tiny suns in the salt-wet blades; and instead of +waist-high grass, there lay around me acres and acres of the fine rich +hay-grass, full-grown, but without a blade wider than a knitting-needle or +taller than my knee. It covered the marsh like a deep, thick fur, like a +wonderland carpet into whose elastic, velvety pile my feet sank and sank, +never quite feeling the floor. Here and there were patches of higher +sedges, green, but of differing shades, which seemed spread upon the grass +carpet like long-napped rugs.</p> + +<p>Ahead of me the even green broke suddenly over a shoal of sand into tall, +tufted grasses, into rose, mallow, and stunted persimmon bushes, <a name="Page_52" id="Page_52" />foaming, +on nearer view, with spreading dogbane blossoms. Off toward the bay +another of these shoals, mole-hill high in the distance, ran across the +marsh for half a mile, bearing a single broken file of trees—sentinels +they seemed, some of them fallen, others gaunt and wind-beaten, watching +against the sea.</p> + +<p>These were the lookouts and the resting-places for passing birds. During +the day, whenever I turned in their direction, a crow, a hawk, or some +smaller bird was seen upon their dead branches.</p> + +<p>Naturally the variety of bird life upon the marsh is limited; but there is +by no means the scarcity here which is so often noted in the forests and +wild prairies of corresponding extent. Indeed, the marsh was birdy—rich +in numbers if not in species. Underfoot, in spots, sang the marsh-wrens; +in larger patches the sharp-tailed sparrows; and almost as wide-spread and +constant as the green was the singing of the seaside sparrows. Overhead +the fish-hawks crossed frequently to their castle nest high on the top of +a tall white oak along the land edge of the marsh; in the neighborhood of +the sentinel trees a pair of <a name="Page_53" id="Page_53" />crows were busy trying (it seemed to me) to +find an oyster, a crab—something big enough to choke, for just one +minute, the gobbling, gulping clamor of their infant brood. But the dear +devouring monsters could not be choked, though once or twice I thought by +their strangling cries that father crow, in sheer desperation, had brought +them oysters with the shells on. Their awful gaggings died away at dusk. +Besides the crows and fish-hawks, a harrier would now and then come +skimming close along the grass. Higher up, the turkey-buzzards circled all +day long; and once, setting my blood leaping and the fish-hawks screaming, +there sailed over, far away in the blue, a bald-headed eagle, his snowy +neck and tail flashing in the sunlight as he careened among the clouds.</p> + +<p>In its blended greens the marsh that morning offered one of the most +satisfying drinks of color my eyes ever tasted. The areas of different +grasses were often acres in extent, so that the tints, shading from the +lightest pea-green of the thinner sedges to the blue-green of the rushes, +to the deep emerald-green of the hay-grass, merged across their broad +bands into perfect harmony.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54" />As fresh and vital as the color was the breath of the marsh. There is no +bank of violets stealing and giving half so sweet an odor to my nostrils, +outraged by a winter of city smells, as the salty, spray-laden breath of +the marsh. It seems fairly to line the lungs with ozone. I know how +grass-fed cattle feel at the smell of salt. I have the concentrated thirst +of a whole herd when I catch that first whiff of the marshes after a +winter, a year it may be, of unsalted inland air. The smell of it +stampedes me. I gallop to meet it, and drink, drink, drink deep of it, my +blood running redder with every draught.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>I had waded out into the meadow perhaps two hundred yards, leaving a dark +bruised trail in the grass, when I came upon a nest of the long-billed +marsh-wren. It was a bulky house, and so overburdened its frail sedge +supports that it lay almost upon the ground, with its little round doorway +wide open to the sun and rain. They must have been a young couple who +built it, and quite inexperienced. I wonder they had <a name="Page_55" id="Page_55" />not abandoned it; +for a crack of light into a wren's nest would certainly addle the eggs. +They are such tiny, dusky, tucked-away things, and their cradle is so deep +and dark and hidden. There were no fatalities, I am sure, following my +efforts to prop the leaning structure, though the wrens were just as sure +that it was all a fatality—utterly misjudging my motives. As a rule, I +have never been able to help much in such extremities. Either I arrive too +late, or else I blunder.</p> + +<p>I thought, for a moment, that it was the nest of the long-billed's cousin, +the short-billed marsh-wren, that I had found—which would have been a gem +indeed, with pearly eggs instead of chocolate ones. Though I was out for +the mere joy of being out, I had really come with a hope of discovering +this mousy mite of a wren, and of watching her ways. It was like hoping to +watch the ways of the "wunk." Several times I have been near these little +wrens; but what chance has a pair of human eyes with a skulking four +inches of brownish streaks and bars in the middle of a marsh! Such birds +are the everlasting despair of the naturalist, the salt of his earth.<a name="Page_56" id="Page_56" /> The +belief that a pair of them dwelt somewhere in this green expanse, that I +might at any step come upon them, made me often forget the mosquitos.</p> + +<p>When I reached the ridge of rose and mallow bushes, two wrens began +muttering in the grass with different notes and tones from those of the +long-billed. I advanced cautiously. Soon one flashed out and whipped back +among the thick stems again, exposing himself just long enough to show me +<i>stellaris</i>, the little short-billed wren I was hunting.</p> + +<p>I tried to stand still for a second glimpse and a clue to the nest; but +the mosquitos! Things have come to a bad pass with the bird-hunter, whose +only gun is an opera-glass, when he cannot stand stock-still for an hour. +His success depends upon his ability to take root. He needs light feet, a +divining mind, and many other things, but most of all he needs patience. +There are few mortals, however, with mosquito-proof patience—one that +would stand the test here. Remembering a meadow in New England where +stellaris nested, I concluded to wait till chance took me thither, and +passed on.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57" />This ridge of higher ground proved to be a mosquito roost—a thousand +here to one in the deeper, denser grass. As I hurried across I noted with +great satisfaction that the pink-white blossoms of the spreading dogbane +were covered with mosquito carcasses. It lessened my joy somewhat to find, +upon examination, that all the victims were males. Either they had drunk +poison from the flowers, or else, and more likely, they had been unable to +free their long-haired antennæ from the sticky honey into which they had +dipped their innocent beaks. Several single flowers had trapped three, and +from one blossom I picked out five. If we could bring the dogbane to brew +a cup which would be fatal to the females, it might be a good plant to +raise in our gardens along with the eucalyptus and the castor-oil plants.</p> + +<p>Everywhere as I went along, from every stake, every stout weed and topping +bunch of grass, trilled the seaside sparrows—a weak, husky, monotonous +song, of five or six notes, a little like the chippy's, more tuneful, +perhaps, but not so strong. They are dark, dusky birds, of a grayish +olive-green hue, with a conspicuous <a name="Page_58" id="Page_58" />yellow line before the eye, and +yellow upon the shoulder.</p> + +<p>There seems to be a sparrow of some kind for every variety of land between +the poles. Mountain-tops, seaside marshes, inland prairies, swamps, woods, +pastures—everywhere, from Indian River to the Yukon, a sparrow nests. Yet +one can hardly associate sparrows with marshes, for they seem out of place +in houseless, treeless, half-submerged stretches. These are the haunts of +the shyer, more secretive birds. Here the ducks, rails, bitterns, +coots,—birds that can wade and swim, eat frogs and crabs,—seem naturally +at home. The sparrows are perchers, grain-eaters, free-fliers, and +singers; and they, of all birds, are the friends and neighbors of man. +This is no place for them. The effect of this marsh life upon the flight +and song of these two species was very marked. Both showed unmistakable +vocal powers which long ago would have been developed under the stimulus +of human listeners; and during all my stay (so long have they crept and +skulked about through the low marsh paths) I did not see one rise a +hundred feet into the air, nor fly straight away for a <a name="Page_59" id="Page_59" />hundred yards. +They would get up just above the grass, and flutter and drop—a puttering, +short-winded, apoplectic struggle, very unbecoming and unworthy.</p> + +<p>By noon I had completed a circle and recrossed the lighthouse road in the +direction of the bay. A thin sheet of lukewarm water lay over all this +section. The high spring tides had been reinforced by unusually heavy +rains during April and May, giving a great area of pasture and hay land +back, for that season, to the sea. Descending a copsy dune from the road, +I surprised a brood of young killdeers feeding along the drift at the edge +of the wet meadow. They ran away screaming, leaving behind a pair of +spotted sandpipers, "till-tops," that had been wading with them in the +shallow water. The sandpipers teetered on for a few steps, then rose at my +approach, scaled nervously out over the drowned grass, and, circling, +alighted near where they had taken wing, continuing instantly with their +hunt, and calling <i>Tweet-tweet, tweet-tweet</i>, and teetering, always +teetering, as they tiptoed along.</p> + +<p>If perpetual motion is still a dream of the <a name="Page_60" id="Page_60" />physicist, he might get an +idea by carefully examining the way the body of till-top is balanced on +its needle legs. If till-tops have not been tilting forever, and shall not +go on tilting forever, it is because something is wrong with the mechanism +of the world outside their little spotted bodies. Surely the easiest, +least willed motion in all the universe is this sandpiper's teeter, +teeter, teeter, as it hurries peering and prying along the shore.</p> + +<p>Killdeers and sandpipers are noisy birds; and one would know, after half a +day upon the marsh, even if he had never seen these birds before, that +they could not have been bred here. For however</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>the marsh may seem to one coming suddenly from the wooded uplands, it will +not let one enter far without the consciousness that silence and secrecy +lie deeper here than in the depths of the forest glooms. The true birds of +the marsh, those that feed and nest in the grass, have the spirit of the +great marsh-mother.<a name="Page_61" id="Page_61" /> The sandpiper is not her bird. It belongs to the +shore, living almost exclusively along sandy, pebbly margins, the margins +of any, of almost every water, from Delaware Bay to the tiny bubbling +spring in some Minnesota pasture. Neither is the killdeer her bird. The +upland claims it, plover though it be. A barren, stony hillside, or even a +last year's corn-field left fallow, is a better-loved breast to the +killdeer than the soft brooding breast of the marsh. There are no +grass-birds so noisy as these two. Both of them lay their eggs in pebble +nests; and both depend largely for protection upon the harmony of their +colors with the general tone of their surroundings.</p> + +<p>I was still within sound of the bleating killdeers when a rather large, +greenish-gray bird flapped heavily but noiselessly from a muddy spot in +the grass to the top of a stake and faced me. Here was a child of the +marsh. Its bolt-upright attitude spoke the watcher in the grass; then as +it stretched its neck toward me, bringing its body parallel to the ground, +how the shape of the skulker showed! This bird was not built to fly nor to +perch, but to tread the low, narrow <a name="Page_62" id="Page_62" />paths of the marsh jungle, silent, +swift, and elusive as a shadow.</p> + +<p>It was the clapper-rail, the "marsh-hen." One never finds such a +combination of long legs, long toes, long neck and bill, with this long +but heavy hen-like body, outside the meadows and marshes. The grass ought +to have been alive with the birds: it was breeding-time. But I think the +high tides must have delayed them or driven them elsewhere, for I did not +find an egg, nor hear at nightfall their colony-cry, so common at dusk and +dawn in the marshes just across on the coast about Townsend's Inlet. There +at sunset in nesting-time one of the rails will begin to call—a loud, +clapping roll; a neighbor takes it up, then another and another, the +circle of cries widening and swelling until the whole marsh is a-clatter.</p> + +<p>Heading my way with a slow, labored stroke came one of the fish-hawks. She +was low down and some distance away, so that I got behind a post before +she saw me. The marsh-hen spied her first, and dropped into the grass. On +she came, her white breast and belly glistening, and in her talons a big +glistening fish. It was a <a name="Page_63" id="Page_63" />magnificent catch. "Bravo!" I should have +shouted—rather I shouldn't; but here she was right over me, and the +instinct of the boy, of the savage, had me before I knew, and leaping out, +I whirled my cap and yelled to wake the marsh. The startled hawk jerked, +keeled, lifted with a violent struggle, and let go her hold. Down fell the +writhing, twisting fish at my feet. It was a splendid striped bass, +weighing at least four pounds, and still live enough to flop.</p> + +<p>I felt mean as I picked up the useless thing and looked far away to the +great nest with its hungry young. I was no better than the bald eagle, the +lazy robber-baron, who had stolen the dinner of these same young hawks the +day before.</p> + +<p>Their mother had been fishing up the river and had caught a tremendous +eel. An eel can hold out to wriggle a very long time. He has no vitals. +Even with talon-tipped claws he is slippery and more than a clawful; so +the old hawk took a short cut home across the railroad-track and the +corner of the woods where stands the eagle tree.</p> + +<p>She could barely clear the tree-tops, and, with the squirming of the eel +about her legs, had <a name="Page_64" id="Page_64" />apparently forgotten that the eagle lived along this +road, or else in her struggle to get the prize home she was risking the +old dragon's being away. He was not away. I have no doubt that he had been +watching her all the time from some high perch, and just as she reached +the open of the railroad-track, where the booty would not fall among the +trees, he appeared. His first call, mocking, threatening, commanding, shot +the poor hawk through with terror. She screamed; she tried to rise and +escape; but without a second's parley the great king drove down upon her. +She dropped the fish, dived, and dodged the blow, and the robber, with a +rushing swoop that was glorious in its sweep, in its speed and ease, +caught the eel within a wing's reach of me and the track.</p> + +<p>I did not know what to do with my spoil. Somewhat relieved, upon looking +around, to find that even the marsh-hen had not been an eye-witness to my +knightly deed, I started with the fish and my conscience toward the +distant nest, determined to climb into it and leave the catch with the +helpless, dinnerless things for whom it was intended.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65" />I am still carrying that fish. How seldom we are able to restore the bare +exaction, to say nothing of the fourfold! My tree was harder to climb than +Zacchæus's. Mine was an ancient white oak, with the nest set directly upon +its dead top. I had stood within this very nest twelve years before; but +even with the help of my conscience I could not get into it now. Not that +I had grown older or larger. Twelve years do not count unless they carry +one past forty. It was the nest that had grown. Gazing up at it, I readily +believed the old farmer in the Zane's house who said it would take a pair +of mules to haul it. He thought it larger than one that blew down in the +marsh the previous winter, which made three cart-loads.</p> + +<p>One thinks of Stirling and of the castles frowning down upon the Rhine as +he comes out of the wide, flat marsh beneath this great nest, crowning +this loftiest eminence in all the region. But no château of the Alps, no +beetling crag-lodged castle of the Rhine, can match the fish-hawk's nest +for sheer boldness and daring. Only the eagles' nests upon the fierce +dizzy pinnacles in the Yosemite surpass the home of the fish-hawk <a name="Page_66" id="Page_66" />in +unawed boldness. The aery of the Yosemite eagle is the most sublimely +defiant of things built by bird, or beast, or man.</p> + +<p>A fish-hawk will make its nest upon the ground, or a hummock, a stump, a +buoy, a chimney—upon anything near the water that offers an adequate +platform; but its choice is the dead top of some lofty tree where the +pathway for its wide wings is open and the vision range is free for miles +around.</p> + +<p>How dare the bird rear such a pile upon so slight and towering a support! +How dare she defy the winds, which, loosened far out on the bay, come +driving across the cowering, unresisting marsh! She is too bold sometimes. +I have known more than one nest to fall in a wild May gale. Many a nest, +built higher and wider year after year, while all the time its dead +support has been rotting and weakening, gets heavy with the wet of winter, +and some night, under the weight of an ice-storm, comes crashing to the +earth.</p> + +<p>Yet twelve years had gone since I scaled the walls and stood within this +nest; and with patience and hardihood enough I could have done <a name="Page_67" id="Page_67" />it again +this time, no doubt. I remember one nest along Maurice River, perched so +high above the gums of the swamp as to be visible from my home across a +mile of trees, that has stood a landmark for the oystermen this score of +years.</p> + +<p>The sensations of my climb into this fish-hawk's nest of the marsh are +vivid even now. Going up was comparatively easy. When I reached the forks +holding the nest, I found I was under a bulk of sticks and corn-stalks +which was about the size of an ordinary haycock or an unusually large +wash-tub. By pulling out, pushing aside, and breaking off the sticks, I +worked a precarious way through the four feet or more of debris and +scrambled over the edge. There were two eggs. Taking them in my hands, so +as not to crush them, I rose carefully to my feet.</p> + +<p>Upright in a hawk's nest! Sixty feet in the air, on the top of a gaunt old +white oak, high above the highest leaf, with the screaming hawks about my +head, with marsh and river and bay lying far around! It was a moment of +exultation; and the thrill of it has been transmitted through the years. +My body has been drawn to higher places since; but my soul has <a name="Page_68" id="Page_68" />never +quite touched that altitude again, for I was a boy then.</p> + +<p>Nor has it ever shot swifter, deeper into the abyss of mortal terror than +followed with my turning to descend. I looked down into empty air. Feet +foremost I backed over the rim, clutching the loose sticks and feeling for +a foothold. They snapped with the least pressure; slipped and fell if I +pushed them, or stuck out into my clothing. Suddenly the sticks in my +hands pulled out, my feet broke through under me, and for an instant I +hung at the side of the nest in the air, impaled on a stub that caught my +blouse as I slipped.</p> + +<p>There is a special Providence busy with the boy.</p> + +<p>This huge nest of the fish-hawks was more than a nest; it was a castle in +very truth, in the sheltering crevices of whose uneven walls a small +community of purple grackles lived. Wedged in among the protruding sticks +was nest above nest, plastering the great pile over, making it almost +grassy with their loose flying ends. I remember that I counted more than +twenty of these crow-blacks' nests the time I climbed the <a name="Page_69" id="Page_69" />tree, and that +I destroyed several in breaking my way up the face of the structure.</p> + +<p>Do the blackbirds nest here for the protection afforded by the presence of +the hawks? Do they come for the crumbs which fall from these great +people's table? Or is it the excellent opportunity for social life offered +by this convenient apartment-house that attracts?</p> + +<p>The purple grackles are a garrulous, gossipy set, as every one knows. They +are able-bodied, not particularly fond of fish, and inclined to seek the +neighborhood of man, rather than to come out here away from him. They make +very good American rooks. So I am led to think it is their love of +"neighboring" that brings them about the hawk's nest. If this surmise is +correct, then the presence of two families of English sparrows among them +might account for there being only eight nests now, where a decade ago +there were twenty.</p> + +<p>I was amused—no longer amazed—at finding the sparrows here. The seed of +these birds shall possess the earth. Is there even now a spot into which +the bumptious, mannerless, ubiquitous little pleb has not pushed himself? +If you look <a name="Page_70" id="Page_70" />for him in the rain-pipes of the Fifth Avenue mansions, he is +there; if you search for him in the middle of the wide, silent salt-marsh, +he is there; if you take—but it is vain to take the wings of the morning, +or of anything else, in the hope of flying to a spot where the stumpy +little wings of the English sparrow have not already carried him.</p> + +<p>There is something really admirable in the unqualified sense of ownership, +the absolute want of diffidence, the abiding self-possession and coolness +of these birds. One cannot measure it in the city streets, where everybody +jostles and stares. It can be appreciated only in the marsh: here in the +silence, the secrecy, the withdrawing, where even the formidable-looking +fiddler-crabs shy and sidle into their holes as you pass; here, where the +sparrows may perch upon the rim of a great hawk's nest, twist their necks, +ogle you out of countenance, and demand what business brought you to the +marsh.</p> + +<p>I hunted round for a stone when one of them buttonholed me. He wasn't +insolent, but he was impertinent. The two hawks and the blackbirds flew +off as I came up; but the sparrows <a name="Page_71" id="Page_71" />stayed. They were the only ones in +possession as I moved away; and they will be the only ones in possession +when I return. If that is next summer, then I shall find a colony of +twenty sparrow families around the hawk's nest. The purple grackles will +be gone. And the fish-hawks? Only the question of another year or so when +they, too, shall be dispossessed and gone. But where will they go to +escape the sparrows?</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>From a mile away I turned to look back at the "cripple" where towered the +tall white oak of the hawks. Both birds were wheeling about the castle +nest, their noble flight full of the freedom of the marsh, their piercing +cries voicing its wildness. And how free, how wild, how untouched by human +hands the wide plain seemed! Sea-like it lay about me, circled southward +from east to west with the rim of the sky.</p> + +<p>I moved on toward the bay. The sun had dropped to the edge of the marsh, +its level-lined shafts splintering into golden fire against the curtained +windows of the lighthouse. It would <a name="Page_72" id="Page_72" />soon be sunset. For some time there +had been a quiet gurgling and lisping down in the grass, but it had meant +nothing, until, of a sudden, I heard the rush of a wave along the beach: +the tide was coming in. And with it came a breeze, a moving, briny, +bay-cooled breeze that stirred the grass with a whisper of night.</p> + +<p>Once more I had worked round to the road. It ran on ahead of me, up a +bushy dune, and forked, one branch leading off to the lighthouse, the +other straight out to the beach, out against the white of the breaking +waves.</p> + +<p>The evening purple was deepening on the bay when I mounted the dune. Bands +of pink and crimson clouded the west, a thin cold wash of blue veiled the +east; and overhead, bayward, landward, everywhere, the misting and the +shadowing of the twilight.</p> + +<p>Between me and the white wave-bars at the end of the road gleamed a patch +of silvery water—the returning tide. As I watched, a silvery streamlet +broke away and came running down the wheel track. Another streamlet, +lagging a little, ran shining down the other track, stopped, rose, and +creeping slowly to the middle <a name="Page_73" id="Page_73" />of the road, spread into a second gleaming +patch. They grew, met—and the road for a hundred feet was covered with +the bay.</p> + +<p>As the crimson paled into smoky pearl, the blue changed green and gold, +and big at the edge of the marsh showed the rim of the moon.</p> + +<p>Weird hour! Sunset, moonrise, flood-tide, and twilight together weaving +the spell of the night over the wide waking marsh. Mysterious, sinister +almost, seemed the swift, stealthy creeping of the tide. It was +surrounding and crawling in upon me. Already it stood ankle-deep in the +road, and was reaching toward my knees, a warm thing, quick and moving. It +slipped among the grasses and into the holes of the crabs with a smothered +bubbling; it disturbed the seaside sparrows sleeping down in the sedge and +kept them springing up to find new beds. How high would it rise? Behind me +on the road it had crawled to the foot of the dune. Would it let me +through to the mainland if I waited for the flood?</p> + +<p>It would be high tide at nine o'clock. Finding a mound of sand on the +shore that the water could hardly cover, I sat down to watch the +tide-<a name="Page_74" id="Page_74" />miracle; for here, surely, I should see the wonder worked, so wide +was the open, so full, so frank the moon.</p> + +<p>In the yellow light I could make out the line of sentinel trees across the +marsh, and off on the bay a ship, looming dim in the distance, coming on +with wind and tide. There were no sounds except the long regular wash of +the waves, the stir of the breeze in the chafing sedges, and the creepy +stepping of the water weaving everywhere through the hidden paths of the +grass. Presently a night-hawk began to flit about me, then another and +another, skimming just above the marsh as silent as the shadows. What was +that? Something moved across the moon. In a moment, bat-like and huge +against the great yellow disk, appeared a marsh-owl. He was coming to look +at me. What was I that dared remain abroad in the marsh after the rising +of the moon? that dared invade this eery realm, this night-spread, +tide-crept, half-sealand where he was king? How like a goblin he seemed! I +thought of Grendel, and listened for the splash of the fen-monster's steps +along the edge of the bay. But only the owl came. Down, down, <a name="Page_75" id="Page_75" />down he +bobbed, till I could almost feel the fanning of his wings. How silent! His +long legs hung limp, his body dangled between those soft wide wings within +reach of my face. Yet I heard no sound. Mysterious creature! I was glad +when he ceased his ghostly dance about me and made off.</p> + +<p>It was nine o'clock. The waves had ceased to wash against the sand, for +the beach was gone; the breeze had died away; the stir of the water in the +grass was still. Only a ripple broke now and then against my little +island. The bay and the marsh were one.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>How still the plains of the waters be!</i><br /></span> +<span><i>The tide is in his ecstasy.</i><br /></span> +<span><i>The tide is at his highest height:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i12"><i>And it is night.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img085" id="img085"></a> +<img src="images/img085.jpg" +alt="Calico and the Kittens" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="CALICO_AND_THE_KITTENS" id="CALICO_AND_THE_KITTENS" /><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76" /><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77" />CALICO AND THE KITTENS</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>One spring day I found myself the sole help of two blind, naked +infants—as near a real predicament as a man could well get. What did it +matter that they had long tails and were squirrels? They were infants just +the same; and any kind of an infant on the hands of any mere man is a real +tragedy.</p> + +<p>As I looked at the two callow things in the grass, a dismay and weak +helplessness quite overcame me. The way they squirmed and shivered and +squeaked worked upon me down even to my knees. I felt sick and foolish.<a name="Page_80" id="Page_80" /> +Both of their parents were dead. Their loose leaf-nest overhead had been +riddled with shot. I had climbed up and found them; I had brought them +down; I must—feed them! The other way of escape were heathen.</p> + +<p>But how could I feed them? Nipples, quills, spoons—none of them would fit +these mites of mouths. What a miserable mother I was! How poorly equipped +for foundlings! They were dying for lack of food; and as they pawed about +and whimpered in my hands I devoutly wished the shot had put them all out +of misery together. I was tempted to turn heathen and despatch them.</p> + +<p>Unhappy but resolute, I started homeward, determined to rear those +squirrels, if it could be done. On my way I remembered—and it came to me +with a shock—that one of my neighbor's cats had a new batch of kittens. +They were only a few days old. Might not Calico, their mother, be induced +to adopt the squirrels!</p> + +<p>Nothing could be more absurd. The kittens were three times larger than the +squirrels. Even had they been the same size, did I think the old +three-colored cat could be fooled? that <a name="Page_81" id="Page_81" />she might not know a kitten of +hers from some other mother's—squirrel? I was desperate indeed. Calico +was a hunter. She had eaten more gray squirrels, perhaps, than I had ever +seen. She would think I had been foraging for her—the mother of seven +green kittens!—and would take my charges as titbits. Still I was +determined to try.</p> + +<p>My neighbor's kittens were enough and to spare. One of Calico's last +year's lot still waited a good home; and here were seven more to be cared +for. Might not two of these be spirited away, far away; the two squirrels +substituted, and the old cat be none the wiser?</p> + +<p>I went home by way of my neighbor's, and found Calico in the basement +curled up asleep with her babies. She roused and purred questioningly as +we bent over the basket, and watched with concern, but with no anxiety, as +two of her seven were lifted out and put inside a hat upon a table. She +was perfectly used to having her kittens handled. True, strange things had +happened to them. But that was long ago; and there had been so very many +kittens that no one mother could remember <a name="Page_82" id="Page_82" />about them all. She trusted +us—with an ear pricked and eyes watchful. But they were safe, and in a +prideful, self-conscious, young-mother way she began to wash the five.</p> + +<p>Some one stood between her and the hat when the kittens were lifted out +and the squirrels were put in their place. Calico did not see. For a time +she thought no more about them; she was busy washing and showing the +others. By and by it began to look as though she had forgotten that there +were more than five. She could not count. But most mothers can <i>number</i> +their children, even if they cannot count, and soon Calico began to +fidget, looking up at the hat which the hungry, motherless squirrels kept +rocking. Then she leaped out upon the floor, purring, and bounded upon the +table, going straight to the young squirrels.</p> + +<p>There certainly was an expression of surprise and mystification on her +face as she saw the change that had come over those kittens. They had +shrunk and faded from two or three bright colors to a single pale pink. +She looked again and sniffed them. Their odor had changed, too. She turned +to the watchers about the table, but <a name="Page_83" id="Page_83" />they said nothing. She hardly knew +what to think. She was half inclined to leave them and go back to the +basket, when one of the squirrels whimpered—a genuine, universal baby +whimper. That settled it. She was a mother, and whatever else these things +in the hat might be, they were babies. That was enough, especially as she +needed just this much baby here in the hat to make good what was lacking +in the basket.</p> + +<p>With a soft, caressing purr she stepped gently into the hat, took one of +the squirrels by the neck, brought it to the edge of the table, and laid +it down for a firmer hold; then sprang lightly to the floor. Over to the +basket she walked and dropped it tenderly among her other babies. Then, +having brought the remaining one and deposited that with the same +mother-care, she got into the basket herself and curled down +contentedly—her heart all whole.</p> + +<p>And this is how strange a thing mother-love is! The performance was +scarcely believable. Could she be so love-blind as not to see what they +were and not eat them? But when she began to lick the little interlopers +and cuddle them down to their dinner as if they were her <a name="Page_84" id="Page_84" />own genuine +kittens, there could be no more doubt or fear.</p> + +<p>The squirrels do not know to this day that Calico is not their real +mother. From the first they took her mother's milk and mother's love as +rightfully and thanklessly as the kittens, growing, not like the kittens +at all, but into the most normal of squirrels, round and fat and +splendid-tailed.</p> + +<p>Calico clearly recognized some difference between the two kinds of +kittens, but <i>what</i> difference always puzzled her. She would clean up a +kitten and comb it slick, then turn to one of the squirrels and wash it, +but rarely, if ever, completing the work because of some disconcerting +un-catlike antic. As the squirrels grew older they also grew friskier, and +soon took the washing as the signal for a frolic. As well try to wash a +bubble. They were bundles of live springs, twisting out of her paws, +dancing over her back, leaping, kicking, tumbling as she had never seen a +kitten do in all her richly kittened experience.</p> + +<p>I don't know why, but Calico was certainly fonder of these two freaks than +of her own normal children. Long after the latter were <a name="Page_85" id="Page_85" />weaned she nursed +and mothered the squirrels. I have frequently seen them let into the +kitchen when the old cat was there, and the moment they got through the +door they would rush toward her, dropping chestnuts or cookies by the way. +She in turn would hurry to meet them with a little purr of greeting full +of joy and affection. They were shamefully big for such doings. The +kittens had quit it long ago. Calico herself, after a while, came to feel +the impropriety of mothering these strapping young ones, and in a weak, +indulgent way tried to stop it. But the squirrels were persistent and +would not go about their business at all with an ordinary cuff. She would +put them off, run away from them, slap them, and make believe to bite; but +not until she did bite, and sharply too, would they be off. All this +seemed very strange and unnatural; yet a stranger thing happened one day, +when Calico brought in to her family a full-grown gray squirrel which she +had caught in the woods. She laid it down on the floor and called the +kittens and squirrels to gather around. They came, and as the squirrels +sniffed at the dead one on the floor there was hardly a mark of +differ<a name="Page_86" id="Page_86" />ence in their appearance. It might have been one of Calico's own +nursing that lay there dead, so far as any one save Calico could see. And +with her the difference, I think, was more of smell than of sight. But she +knew her own; and though she often found her two out among the trees of +the yard, she never was mistaken, nor for an instant made as if to hurt +them.</p> + +<p>Yet they could not have been more entirely squirrel had their own squirrel +mother nurtured them. Calico's milk and love went all to cat in her own +kittens, and all to squirrel in these that she adopted. No single hair of +theirs turned from its squirrel-gray to any one of Calico's three colors; +no single squirrel trait became the least bit catlike.</p> + +<p>Indeed, as soon as the squirrels could run about they forsook the +clumsy-footed kittens under the stove and scampered up back of the +hot-water tank, where they built a nest. Whenever Calico entered the +kitchen purring, out would pop their heads, and down they would come, +understanding the mother language as well as the kittens, and usually +beating the kittens to the mother's side.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87" />So far from teaching them to climb and build nests behind water-tanks, +their foster-mother never got over her astonishment at it. All they needed +from her, all they needed and would have received from their own squirrel +mother, was nourishment and protection until their teeth and legs grew +strong. Wits were born with them; experience was sure to come to them; and +with wits and experience there is nothing known among squirrels of their +kind that these two would not learn for themselves.</p> + +<p>And there was not much known to squirrels that these two did not know, +apparently without even learning. As they grew in size they increased +exceedingly in naughtiness, and were banished shortly from the kitchen to +an ell or back woodshed. They celebrated this distinction by dropping some +hickory-nuts into a rubber boot hanging on the wall, and then gnawing a +hole through the toe of the boot in order to extract the hidden nuts. Was +it mischief that led them to gnaw through rather than go down the top? Or +did something get stuffed into the top of the boot after the nuts were +dropped in? And did the squirrels <i>remember</i> that the nuts <a name="Page_88" id="Page_88" />were in there, +or did they <i>smell</i> them through the rubber?</p> + +<p>One woodshed is big enough only for two squirrels. The family moved +everything out but the wood, and the squirrels took possession for the +winter. Their first nest had been built behind the hot-water tank. They +knew <i>how</i> to build without any teaching. But knowing how is not all there +is to know about building; knowing <i>where</i> is very important, and this +they had to learn.</p> + +<p>Immediately on coming to the woodshed the squirrels began their winter +nest, a big, bulky, newspaper affair, which they placed up in the +northwest corner of the shed directly under the shingles. Here they slept +till late in the fall. This was the shaded side and the most exposed +corner of the whole house; but all went well until one night when the +weather suddenly turned very cold. A strong wind blew from the northwest +hard upon the squirrels' nest.</p> + +<p>The next day there was great activity in the woodshed—a scampering of +lively feet, that began early in the morning and continued far toward +noon. The squirrels were moving. They <a name="Page_89" id="Page_89" />gathered up their newspaper nest +and carried it—diagonally—across the shed from the shaded northwest to +the sunny southeast corner, where they rebuilt and slept snug throughout +the winter.</p> + +<p>Calico did not teach them this; neither would their own squirrel mother +have taught them. They knew how, to begin with. They knew <i>where</i> after +one night of experience, which in this case had to be a night of shivers.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img099" id="img099"></a> +<img src="images/img099.jpg" +alt="The Sparrow Roost" title="" /> +</div> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="THE_SPARROW_ROOST" id="THE_SPARROW_ROOST" /><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90" /><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91" />THE SPARROW ROOST</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>An early December twilight was settling over Boston, a thick foggy murk +that soaked down full of smoke and smell and chill. The streets were oozy +with a wet snow which had fallen through the afternoon and had been +trodden into mud; and draughty with an east wind, that would have passed +unnoticed across the open fields, but which drew up these narrow flues and +sent a shiver down one's back in spite <a name="Page_94" id="Page_94" />of coats. It was half-past five. +The stores were closing, their clerks everywhere eddying into the noisy +streams of wheels and hoofs still pouring up and down. The traffic tide +had turned, but had not yet ebbed away.</p> + +<p>And this was evening! the coming night! I moved along with the crowd, +homesick for the wideness and quiet of the country, for the soughing of +the pines, the distant bang of a barn door, the night cry of guineas from +some neighboring farm, when, in the hurry and din, I caught the cry of +bird voices, and looking up, found that I had stumbled upon a bird +roost—at the very heart of the city! I was in front of King's Chapel +Burial Ground, whose half-dozen leafless trees were alive with noisy +sparrows.</p> + +<p>The crowd swept on. I halted behind a waste-barrel by the iron fence and +forgot the soughing pines and clacking guineas.</p> + +<p>Bird roosts of this size are no common find. I remember a huge fireplace +chimney that stood near my home, into which a cloud of swallows used to +swarm for a few nights preceding the fall migration; I lived some years +close to the pines at the head of Cubby Hollow, where great <a name="Page_95" id="Page_95" />flocks of +crows slept nightly throughout the winter; but these, besides now and +again a temporary resting-place, a mere caravansary along the route of the +migrants, were all I had happened upon. Here was another, bordering a city +street, overhanging the street, with a blazing electric light to get into +bed by!</p> + +<p>Protected by the barrel from the jostle on the sidewalk, I waited by the +ancient graveyard until the electric lights grew bright, until every +fussing sparrow was quiet, until I could see only little gray balls and +blurs in the trees through the misty drizzle that came down with the +night. Then I turned toward my own snug roost, five flights up, next the +roof, and just a block away, as the sparrows fly, from this roost of +theirs. I was glad to have them so near me.</p> + +<p>The windows of my roost look out over roofs of slate, painted tin, and +tarry pebbles, into a chimney-fenced plot of sky. Occasionally, during the +winter, a herring-gull from the harbor swims into this bit of smoky blue; +frequently a pigeon, sometimes a flock, sails past; and in the summer +dusk, after the swallows quit it, a city-haunting night-hawk climbs out of +the for<a name="Page_96" id="Page_96" />est of chimney-pots, up, up above the smoke for his booming +roofward swoop. But winter and summer, save along through June, the +sparrows, as evening falls, cut across the sky field on their way to the +roost in the old burial-ground. There go two, there twoscore in a +whirling, scudding flurry, like a swift-blown bunch of autumn leaves. For +more than an hour they keep passing—till the dusk turns to darkness, till +all are tucked away in bed.</p> + +<p>One would scarcely recognize the birds as they sweep past in these +flurries, their flight is so unlike their usual clumsy scuttle as they get +out of one's way along the street. They are lumpish and short-winged on +the street; they labor and lumber off with a sidewise twist to their +bodies that reminds one of a rheumatic old dog upon the trot. What +suggestion of grace or swiftness about them upon the ground? But watch +them in their evening flight. It is a revelation. They rise above the +houses and shoot across my sky like a charge of canister. I can almost +hear them whizz. Down by the cemetery I have seen them dash into view high +up in the slit of sky, dive for the trees, dart zigzag like <a name="Page_97" id="Page_97" />a madly +plunging kite, and hurl themselves, as soft as breaths, among the +branches.</p> + +<p>This is going to bed with a vengeance. I never saw any other birds get to +roost with such velocity. It is characteristic, however; the sparrow never +does anything by halves. The hurry is not caused by any mite of anxiety or +fear, rather from pure excess of spirit; for after rearing three broods +during the summer, he has such a superabundance of vim that a winter of +foraging and fighting is welcome exercise. The strenuous life is his kind +of life. When the day's hunt is over and he turns back to his bed, why not +race it out with his neighbors? And so they come—chasing, dodging, +tagging neck and neck, all spurting to finish first at the roost.</p> + +<p>We may not love him; but he has constitution and snap. And these things do +count.</p> + +<p>One April morning, the 6th, I went down to the roost at three o'clock. The +sparrows were sleeping soundly. It was yet night. Had the dawn been +reaching up above the dark walls that shut the east away from the high +tree-tops, the garish street light would have kept it dim. The trees were +silent and stirless, as quiet as the <a name="Page_98" id="Page_98" />graves beneath them—more quiet; in +fact; for there issued from a grated hole among the tombs the sound of an +anvil, deep down and muffled, but unmistakably ringing, as if Governor +Winthrop were forging chains in his vault. Then came a rush, a deadened +roar, and an emanation of dank gaseous breath, such as the dead alone +breathe.</p> + +<p>It was only the passing of a tool-car in the subway underneath the +cemetery, and the hammering of a workman at a forge in a niche of the +tunnel. But, rising out of the tombs, it was gruesome and unearthly in the +night-quiet.</p> + +<p>The sparrows did not mind the sound. Maybe it ascended as a pleasant +murmur to them and shaped their dreams, as dream-stuff drifts to their +sweet-voiced cousins in the meadows with the lap and lave of the streams. +A carriage rolled by. The clank of hoofs disturbed none of them. Some one +slammed the door of an apothecary-shop across the street, and hurried off. +Not a sparrow stirred.</p> + +<p>I was trying to see whether the birds slept with their heads beneath their +wings. Appa<a name="Page_99" id="Page_99" />rently they did, for I could not make out a head, though some +of the sleepers hung over the street within ten feet of the lamp-post. But +they were all above the light, with only their breasts out of the shadows, +and to be certain I must make a bird move. Finding that the noises were +not likely to arouse them, I threw a stick against one of the laden limbs. +There were heads then, plenty of them, and every one, evidently, had been +turned back and buried in the warm wing-coverts.</p> + +<p>My stick hit very near the toes of one of the sparrows, and he flew. There +was a twitter, then a stir all over the tree; but nothing further +happening, they tucked in their heads again and went back to bed.</p> + +<p>I waited. At four o'clock they still slept. The moon had swung out from +behind the high buildings and now hung just above the slender spire of +Park Street Church, looking down into the deep, narrow street gulch. A cat +picked her way among the graves, sprang noiselessly to the top of a flat +tomb beneath the sparrows, and watched with me. The creature brought the +wilderness with her. After all, this was not so <a name="Page_100" id="Page_100" />far removed from the +woods. In the empty street, beneath the silent, shuttered walls, with +something still of the mystery of the night winds in the bare trees, the +scene, for an instant, was touched with the spell of the dark and the +untamed.</p> + +<p>After a swift warming walk of fifteen minutes I returned to the roost. +There were signs of waking now: a flutter here, a twitter there, then +quiet again, with no general movement until half-past four, when the city +lights were shut off. Then, instantly, from a dozen branches sounded loud, +clear chirps, and every sparrow opened his eyes. The incandescent bulbs +about the border of the roost were moon and stars to them, lights in the +firmament of their heaven to divide the night from the day. When they +blazed forth, it was evening—bedtime; when they went out, it was +morning—the time to wake up.</p> + +<p>The softness of dusk, how unknown to these city dwellers! and the fresh +sweet beauty of the dawn!</p> + +<p>Morning must have begun to break along near four o'clock, for the cold +gray across the <a name="Page_101" id="Page_101" />sky was already passing into pearl. The country birds had +been up half an hour, I am sure. However, the old cemetery was wide enough +awake now. There was chirping everywhere. It grew louder and more general +every moment, till shortly the six thousand voices, and more, were raised +in the cheerful din—the matin, if you please, for as yet only a few of +the birds were fighting.</p> + +<p>But the fight quickly spread. It is the English sparrow's way of waking +up; his way of whetting his appetite for breakfast; his way of digesting +his dinner; his way of settling his supper—his normal waking way.</p> + +<p>To the clatter of voices was added the flutter of wings; for the birds had +begun to shift perches, and to exchange slaps as well as to call +names—the movement setting toward the tree-tops. None of the sparrows had +left the roost. The storm of chatter increased and the buzz of wings +quickened into a steady whir, the noise holding its own with that of the +ice-wagons pounding past. The birds were filling the top-most branches, a +gathering of the clans, evidently, for the day's start. The clock in +Scollay<a name="Page_102" id="Page_102" /> Square station pointed to five minutes to five, and just before +the hour struck, two birds launched out and spun away.</p> + +<p>The exodus had commenced. The rest of Boston was not stirring yet. It was +still early; hardly a flush of warmth had washed the pearl. But the +sparrows had many matters to attend to before all the milkmen and bakers +got abroad: they must take their morning dust-bath, for one thing, in the +worn places between the cobble-stones, before the street-sprinkler began +its sloppy rounds.</p> + +<p>There was a constant whirl out of the tree-tops now. Occasionally a bird +flew off alone, but most of them left in small flocks, just as I should +see them return in the evening. Doubtless the members of these flocks were +the birds belonging to certain neighborhoods, those that nested and fed +about certain squares, large door-yards, and leafy courts. They may indeed +have been families that were hatched last summer.</p> + +<p>The birds that left singly went away, as a rule, over the roofs toward the +denser business sections of the city, while the bands, as I had noticed +them come in at night, took the opposite <a name="Page_103" id="Page_103" />course, toward Cambridge and +Charlestown. Not more than one in a hundred flew south across the city.</p> + +<p>Of course there are sparrows all over Boston. There is no street too +narrow, too noisy, too dank with the smell of leather for them. They seem +as numerous where the rush of drays is thickest as in the open +breathing-places where the fountains play. They are in every quarter, yet +those to the east and south of the old burial-ground do not belong to the +roost. Perhaps they have graveyards of their own in their sections, though +I have been unable to find them. So far as I know, this is the only roost +in or about Boston. And this is the stranger since so few of the total +number of the Boston sparrows sleep here. A careful estimate showed me +that there could not have been more than six or seven thousand in the +roost. One would almost say there were as many millions in Boston. And +where do these millions sleep? For the most part, each one alone behind +his sign-board or shutter near his local feeding-grounds.</p> + +<p>Now, why should the sparrows of the roost prefer King's Chapel Burial +Ground to the Old<a name="Page_104" id="Page_104" /> Granary, a stone's throw up the street? I passed the +Old Granary yard on my way to the roost and found the trees empty. I +searched the limbs with my glass; there was not a sparrow to be seen. +Still, the Granary is the less exposed of the two. It may not formerly +have been so; but at present high sheltering walls bend about the trees +like a well. Years ago, perhaps, when the sparrows began to roost in the +trees at King's Chapel, the Old Granary elms were more open to the winds, +and now force of habit and example keep the birds returning to the first +lodge.</p> + +<p>Back they come, no matter what the weather. There are a thousand cozy +corners into which a sparrow might creep on a stormy night, where even the +winds that know their way through Boston streets could not search him out. +But the instinct to do as he always has done is as strong in the sparrow, +in spite of his love for pioneering, as it is in the rest of us. He was +brought here to roost as soon as he could fly, when the leaves were on and +the nights delicious. If the leaves go and the nights change, what of +that? Here he began, here he will con<a name="Page_105" id="Page_105" />tinue to sleep. Let it rain, blow, +snow; let the sleet, like a slimy serpent, creep up the trunk and wrap +around the twigs: still he will hold on. Many a night I have seen them +sleeping through a driving winter rain, their breasts to the storm, their +tails hanging straight down, shedding every drop. If a gale is blowing, +and it is cold, they get to the leeward of the tree, as close to the trunk +as possible, and anchor fast, every bill pointing into the wind, every +feather reefed, every tail lying out on the flat of the storm.</p> + +<p>As I watched the bands starting from the tree-tops of the roost I wondered +if they really crossed the river into Cambridge and Charlestown. A few +mornings later I was again up early, hastening down to the West Boston +Bridge to see if I could discover the birds going over. As I started out I +saw bunches moving toward the river with a free and easy flight, but +whether I reached the bridge too late, or whether they scattered and went +over singly, I do not know. Only now and then did a bird cross, and he +seemed to come from along the shore rather than from above the house-tops.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106" />I concluded that the birds of the roost were strictly Bostonians. One +evening, however, about a week later, as I was upon this bridge coming +from Cambridge, a flock of sparrows whizzed past me, dipped over the rail +to the water, swung up above the wall of houses, and disappeared toward +the roost. They were on their way from Cambridge, from the classic elms of +Harvard campus, who knows, to the elms of the ancient burial-ground.</p> + +<p>It was five that April morning when the first sparrow left the roost. By +half-past five the trees were empty, except for the few birds whose +hunting-ground included the cemetery. By this time the city, too, had +yawned, and rubbed its eyes, and tumbled out of bed.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img115" id="img115"></a> +<img src="images/img115.jpg" +alt="Mux" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="MUXquot" id="MUXquot" />"<a name="Page_107" id="Page_107" />MUX"</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + + + + +<p>No, "Mux" is not an elegant name—not to to be compared with Ronald or +Claudia, for instance; and I want to say it is not the name of one of my +children, though its owner was once a member of my household. Mux was a +tame half-grown coon, with just the ordinary number of rings around his +tail, but with the most extraordinary amount of mischief in his little +coon soul. Perhaps he had no real soul, and I should have located his +mischief somewhere else. If so, then I should say in his feet. I never saw +any other feet so expressive. The <a name="Page_110" id="Page_110" />essence of the little beast seemed +concentrated in his lore paws. If they made trouble, whose fault was it? +They were designed for trouble. You could see this purpose in them as +plainly as you could see the purpose in a swallow's wings. Whenever Mux +ran across the yard these paws picked up trouble out of the turf, just as +if the grass were trouble-filings, and Mux a kind of four-footed magnet. +He never went far before they clogged and stopped him.</p> + +<p>One day, the first day that Mux was given the liberty of the yard, who +should he run foul of but Tom! The struggle had to come sometime, and it +was just as well that it came thus early, while Tom and Mux were on an +equal footing as to size, for Mux was young and growing.</p> + +<p>Tom was boss of the yard. Every farmer's dog that went to town by our gate +knew enough to pass by on the other side. Tom had grown a little lordly +and opinionated. He was sleeping in the sun on the shed-step as Mux ambled +up. At sight of the coon Tom rose in more than his usual feline mightiness +and cast such a look of surprise, scorn, and annihilating intent upon the +interloper as ought to have struck terror to the <a name="Page_111" id="Page_111" />stoutest heart. But Mux +hardly seemed to understand. On he came, right into certain destruction, a +very lamb of innocence and meekness. O you unsuspecting little stranger! +Don't you see this awful monster swelling, swelling into this hideous +hump? No, Mux did not see him. Tom was raging. His teeth gleamed; his eyes +blazed green; his claws worked in a nervous way that made my flesh creep. +He was vanishing, not, like the Cheshire Cat, into a long lovely grin, but +vanishing from a four-legged cat into a yellow, one-legged hump. All that +was left of him now was hump.</p> + +<p>Mux was only a few feet away. Tom began to advance, not directly, but just +a trifle on the bias, across Mux's bows so to speak, as if to give him a +broadside. They were within range. Tom was heaving to. I trembled for the +young coon. Suddenly there was a hiss, a flash of yellow in the air, +and—a very big surprise awaiting Thomas! That little coon was no stupid +after all. He had not rolled up his sleeves, nor doubled up his fists, nor +put a chip upon his shoulder; but he knew what was expected of him, just +the same. He snapped instantly upon <a name="Page_112" id="Page_112" />his back, received the cat with all +four of his feet, and gave Mr. Tom such a combing down that his golden fur +went flying off like thistle-down in autumn.</p> + +<p>It was all over in less than half a minute. I think Tom must have made a +new record for himself in the running high jump when he broke away from +his ring-tailed antagonist. He struck out across the yard and landed +midway up the clothes-post with a single bound. And Mux? He ambled on +around the yard, as calm and unconcerned as if he had only stopped to +scratch himself.</p> + +<p>Much of this unconcern, however, was a quiet kind of swagger. When he +thought no one fiercer than a chicken or the humbled Mr. Tom was looking, +he would shuffle across the yard with his coat collar turned up, his hat +over his eye, his elbows angled—just as if he had been born and bred on +the Bowery instead of in the Bear Swamp. He was king of the yard, but I +could see that he wore his crown uneasily. He kept a bold front, accepted +every challenge, and even went out of his way to pick a quarrel; yet he +quaked at heart continually. He feared and <a name="Page_113" id="Page_113" />hated the noises of the yard, +particularly the crowing of our big buff cochin rooster and the screaming +of the guineas. This was one of the swamp-fears that he had brought with +him and could not outlive. It haunted him. If he had a conscience, its +only warnings were of coming noises great and terrible.</p> + +<p>But Mux had no conscience, unless it was one that troubled him only when +he was out of mischief. His face was never so long and so solemn as when I +had caught him in some questionable act or spoiled some wayward plan.</p> + +<p>Mux, however, was possessed by a much stubborner spirit than this +interesting mischief-devil. Upon one point he was positively demented—the +only four-footed maniac I ever knew. He had gone crazy on the subject of +dirt, mad to wash things, especially his victuals.</p> + +<p>He was not particular about what he ate; almost anything that could be +swallowed would do, provided that it could be washed, and washed by +himself, after his own approved fashion.</p> + +<p>If I gave him half of my apple, he would squat down by his wash-tub and +begin to hunt <a name="Page_114" id="Page_114" />for dirt. He would look the apple over and over, pick +around the blossom end, inspect carefully, then pull out the stem, if +there happened to be a stem, dig out the seeds and peek into the core, +then douse it into the water and begin to wash. He would rub with might +and main for a second or two, then rinse it, take a bite, and douse it +back again for more scrubbing, until it was scrubbed and chewed away.</p> + +<p>Even when the water was thick with mud, this crazy coon persisted in +washing his clean cake and cabbage therein. Indeed, the muddier the water, +the more vigorously would he wash. The habit was a part of him, as real a +thing in his constitution as the black ring in his fur. It was a very +dirty habit, here in captivity, even if it went by the name of washing. Of +course Mux could not be blamed for his soiled wash-water. That was my +fault; only I couldn't be changing it every time he soaked up a fistful of +earth in his endeavor to wash something to eat out of it. No; he was not +at fault, altogether, for the mud in his tub. Out in the Bear Swamp, the +streams that wandered about under the great high-spreading gums, and lost +their way <a name="Page_115" id="Page_115" />in the shadows, were crystal-clear and pure; and out there it +was intended that he should dwell, and in those sweet streams that he +should wash. But what a modicum of wit, of originality the little beast +had, that, because he was born a washer, wash he must, though he washed in +mud, nay, though he washed upon the upturned bottom of his empty tub!—for +this is what Mux did sometimes.</p> + +<p>I never blamed Aunt Milly for insisting upon this rather ill-sounding name +of "Mux" for the little coon. She was standing by his cage, shortly after +his arrival, watching him eat cabbage. He washed every clean white piece +of it in his oozy tub before tasting it, coating the bits over with mud as +you do the lumps of fondant with chocolate in making "chocolate creams." +Aunt Milly looked at him for some time with scornful face and finally +exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"Umph! Dat animile am a dumb beast shu'! Rubbin' dirt right inter clean +cabbage! Sich muxin'! mux, mux, mux! Dat a coon? Dat ain't no coon. Dat's +a mux!" And she scuffed off to the house, mumbling, "De muxinest thing I +done evah seen." Hence his name.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116" />If there is one sweetmeat sweeter than all others to a coon, it is a +frog. It was not mere chance that Mux was born in the edge of the Bear +Swamp, close to the wide marshes that ran out to the river. This was the +great country of the frogs—the milk-and-honey country to the ring-tailed +family in the hollow gum. But Mux had never tasted frog. He had not been +weaned when I kidnapped him. One day, wishing to see if he knew what a +frog was, I carelessly offered him a big spotted fellow that I had caught +in the meadow.</p> + +<p>Did he know a frog? He fairly snatched the poor thing from me, killed it, +and started around the cage with it in his mouth, dancing like a cannibal. +His long, serious face was more thoughtful and solemn, however, than +usual. I was puzzled. I had heard of dancing at funerals. Either this was +such a dance, or else some wild orgy to propitiate the spirits that +preside over the destiny of coons.</p> + +<p>Throughout this gruesome rite Mux held the frog in his mouth, and I +watched, expecting, hoping every moment that he would swallow it. Suddenly +he stopped, sat down by his tub, <a name="Page_117" id="Page_117" />pulled some dead grass out of it, +plunged the frog in, and began to scrub it—began to scrub the frog in the +oozy contents of that tub, when the poor amphibian had been soaking in +spring-water ever since it was a tadpole!</p> + +<p>No matter. The frog must be washed. And washed it was. It was scoured +first with all his might, then placed in the bottom of the tub, under +water, held down by one fore paw, until the maniac could get in with his +hind feet upon it, and then danced upon; from here it was laid upon the +floor of the cage and kneaded until as limp as a lump of dough; then +lifted daintily, it was shaken round and round in the water, rinsed and +wrung, and minutely inspected, and—swallowed.</p> + +<p>I felt justified in keeping this animal caged. He was not fit to run loose +even in the Bear Swamp. Perhaps I have done him wrong in this story of the +frog. Frogs may need washing, after all, despite the fact that they are +never out of the bath-tub long enough to dry off once in their whole +lives. Mux knew more about frogs than I, doubtless. But Mux insisted upon +washing oysters.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118" />Now there are few people clothed in sane minds who do not like raw +oysters. Mark this, however: when you see a person wash raw oysters, keep +out of his way; he has lost either his wits or his morals. The only two +creatures I ever knew to wash raw oysters were Mux and an oyster-dealer in +Cambridge Street, Boston. I saw this dealer take up a two-gallon can that +had just arrived at his store, and dump the dark salty shell-fish into a +great colander, stick the end of a piece of rubber hose in among them, +turn the water on? and stir and soak them. How white they got! How fat +they got! How their ghastly corpses swelled!</p> + +<p>Mux did not wash his to see them swell, but simply that he might take no +chances with dirt—or poison, for I used to think sometimes that he +thought I was trying to poison him. He was desperately fond of oysters. +But who could cast his pearls, or, to be scientifically and literally +correct, his mothers of pearls, before such a swine? Mux had just one +plateful of oysters while I was his keeper. They were nice plump fellows, +and when I saw the maniac soak one all stringy and tasteless I poured his +wash-water <a name="Page_119" id="Page_119" />out. Was he to be balked that way! No, no. He took oyster +number two, flopped it into the empty tub, scoured it around on the muddy +bottom, looked it over as carefully as he had done stringy number one, and +swallowed sandy, muddy number two with just as much relish.</p> + +<p>This was too much. I cuffed him and took away the tub. This I suppose was +wrong, for I understand you must never oppose crazy persons. Well, Mux +helped himself to oyster number three. There was no water, no tub. But +what were oysters for if not to be washed? And who was he but <i>Procyon +lotor</i>—<i>Procyon</i> "the washer"? Can the leopard change his spots or the +racoon his habits? Can he? Shall he? I could almost hear him muttering +under his breath, "To be, or not to be: that is the question." Then he +darted a triumphantly malicious glance at me, retreated to the back of his +cage, thrust his oyster out of sight beneath the straw of his bed, and +washed it—washed the oyster in the straw, washed it into a fistful of +sticks and chaff, and gloated as he swallowed it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img129" id="img129"></a> +<img src="images/img129.jpg" +alt="Racoon Creek" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="RACOON_CREEK" id="RACOON_CREEK" /><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120" /><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121" />RACOON CREEK</h2> + +<blockquote><p><i>Into the wode to her the briddes sing.</i></p></blockquote> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>Over the creek, and clearing it by a little, hung a snow-white, stirless +mist, its under surface even and parallel with the face of the water, its +upper surface peaked and billowed half-way to the tops of the +shore-skirting trees.</p> + +<p>As I dipped along, my head was enveloped in the cloud; but bending over +the skiff, I could see far up the stream between a mist-ceiling and a +water-floor, as through a long, low room. How deep and dark seemed the +water! And the <a name="Page_124" id="Page_124" />trees how remote, aërial, and floating! as if growing in +the skies, with no roots' fast hold of the earth. Filling the valley, +conforming to every bend and stretch of the creek, lay the breath of the +water, motionless and sheeted, a spirit stream, hovering over the sluggish +current a moment, before it should float upward and melt away. It was +cold, too, as a wraith might be, colder than the water, for the June sun +had not yet risen over the swamp.</p> + +<p>At the bridge where the road crossed was a dam which backed the creek out +into an acre or more of pond. Not a particle of mud discolored the water; +but it was dark, and as it came tumbling, foaming over the moss-edged +gates it lighted up a rich amber color, the color of strong tea. In the +half chill of the dawn the old bridge lay veiled in smoking spray, in a +thin, rising vapor of spicy odors, clean, medicinal odors, as of the +brewing of many roots, the fragrance of shores of sedges, ferns, and +aromatic herbs steeped in the slow, soft tide. And faint across the creek, +the road, and the fields lay the pondy smell of spatter-docks.</p> + +<p>I pushed out from the sandy cove and lay <a name="Page_125" id="Page_125" />with a reach of the lusty docks +between me and either shore. It was early morning. The yellow, dew-laid +road down which I came still slumbered undisturbed; the village cows had +not been milked, and the pasture slope, rounding with a feminine grace of +curve and form, lay asleep, with its sedgy fingers trailing in the water; +even the locomotive in the little terminal round-house over the hill was +not awake and wheezing. But the creek people were stirring—except the +frogs. They were growing sleepy. The long June night they had improved, +soberly, philosophically; and now, seeing nothing worth while in the dawn +of this wonder day, they had begun to doze. But the birds were alive, full +of the crisp June morning, of its overflow of gladness, and were telling +their joy in chorus up and down both banks of the creek.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span><i>Hearkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Do you mean out in Finsbury Moor, Father Chaucer? They were sweet along +the banks of the Walbrook, I know, for among them "maken melodye" were the +skylark, ethereal minstrel! and the nightingale. But, Father Chaucer, you +<a name="Page_126" id="Page_126" />should have heard the wood-thrushes, the orchard-orioles—this whole +morning chorus singing along the creek! No one may know how blissful, how +wide, how thrilling the singing of birds can be unless he has listened +when the summer mists are rising over Racoon Creek.</p> + +<p>There is no song-hour after sun rise to compare with this for spirit and +volume of sound. The difference between the singing in the dusk and in the +dawn is the difference between the slow, sweet melody of a dirge and the +triumphant, full-voiced peal of a wedding march. Even one who has always +lived in the country can scarcely believe his ears the first time he is +afield in June at the birds' awaking-hour.</p> + +<p>Robins led the singing along the creek. They always do. In New Jersey, +Massachusetts, Michigan,—everywhere it is the same,—they out-number all +rivals three to one. It is necessary to listen closely in order to +distinguish the other voices. This particular morning, however, the +wood-thrushes were all arranged up the copsy hillside at my back, and so +reinforced each other that their part was not overborne by robin song. One +of the thrushes was perched upon a willow <a name="Page_127" id="Page_127" />stub along the edge of the +water, so near that I could see every flirt of his wings, could almost +count the big spots in his sides. Softly, calmly, with the purest joy he +sang, pausing at the end of every few bars to preen and call. His song was +the soul of serenity, of all that is spiritual. Accompanied by the lower, +more continuous notes from among the trees, it rose, a clear, pure, +wonderful soprano, lifting the whole wide chorus nearer heaven.</p> + +<p>Farther along the creek, on the border of the swamp, the red-shouldered +blackbirds were massed; chiming in everywhere sang the catbirds, +white-eyed vireos, yellow warblers, orchard-orioles, and Maryland +yellowthroats; and at short intervals, soaring for a moment high over the +other voices, sounded the thrilling, throbbing notes of the cardinal, +broken suddenly and drowned by the roll of the flicker, the wild, weird +cry of the great-crested flycatcher, or the rapid, hay-rake rattle of the +belted kingfisher.</p> + +<p>All at once a narrow breeze cut a swath through the mist just across my +bows, turned, spread, caught the severed cloud in which I was drifting, +and whirled it up and away. The head of <a name="Page_128" id="Page_128" />the pond and the upper creek were +still shrouded, while around me only breaths of the white flecked the +water and the spatter-docks. The breeze had not stirred a ripple; the +current here in the broad of the pond was imperceptible; and I lay +becalmed on the edge of the open channel, among the rank leaves and golden +knobs of the docks.</p> + +<p>A crowd of chimney-swallows gathered over the pond for a morning bath. +Half a hundred of them were wheeling, looping, and cutting about me in a +perfect maze of orbits, as if so many little black shuttles had borrowed +wings and gone crazy with freedom. They had come to wash—a very proper +thing to do, for there are few birds or beasts that need it more. It was +highly fitting for sooty little Tom, seeing he had to turn into something, +to become a Water Baby. And if these smaller, winged sweeps of our +American chimneys are contemplating a metamorphosis, it ought to be toward +a similar life of soaking.</p> + +<p>They must have been particularly sooty this morning. One plunge apiece, so +far from sufficing, seemed hardly a beginning. They kept diving <a name="Page_129" id="Page_129" />in over +and over, continuing so long that finally I grew curious to know how many +dips they were taking, and so, in order to count his dives, I singled one +out, after most of the flock had done and gone off to hawk. How many he +had taken before I marked him, and how many more he took after I lost him +among the other birds, I cannot say; but, standing up in the skiff, I +followed him around and around until he made his nineteenth splash,—in +less than half as many minutes,—when I got so groggy that his twentieth +splash I came near taking with him.</p> + +<p>The pond narrows toward the head, and just before it becomes a creek again +the channel turns abruptly through the docks in against the right shore, +where the current curls and dimples darkly under the drooping branches of +great red maple; then it horseshoes into the middle, coming down through +small bush-islands and tangled brush which deepen into an extensive swamp.</p> + +<p>June seemed a little tardy here, but the elder, the rose, and the panicled +cornel were almost ready, the button-bushes were showing ivory, while the +arrow-wood, fully open, was glistening snowily everywhere, its tiny flower +crowns fall<a name="Page_130" id="Page_130" />ing and floating in patches down-stream, its over-sweet breath +hanging heavy in the morning mist. My nose was in the air all the way for +magnolias and water-lilies, yet never a whiff from either shore, so +particular, so unaccountably notional are some of the high-caste flowers +with regard to their homes.</p> + +<p>The skiff edged slowly past the first of the islands, a mere hummock about +a yard square, and was turning a sharp bend farther up, when I thought I +had a glimpse of yellowish wings, a mere guess of a bird shadow, dropping +among the dense maple saplings and elder of the islet.</p> + +<p>Had I seen or simply imagined something? If I had seen wings, then they +were not those of the thrasher,—the first bird that came to mind,—for +they slipped, sank, dropped through the bushes, with just a hint of +dodging in their movement, not exactly as a thrasher would have moved.</p> + +<p>Drifting noiselessly back, I searched the tangle and must have been +looking directly at the bird several seconds before cutting it out from +the stalks and branches. It was a least bittern, a female. She was +clinging to a perpendicular <a name="Page_131" id="Page_131" />stem of elder, hand over hand, wren fashion, +her long neck thrust straight into the air, absolutely stiff and +statuesque.</p> + +<p>We were less than a skiff's length apart, each trying to outpose and +outstare the other. I won. Human eyes are none the strongest, neither is +human patience, yet I have rarely seen a creature that could outwait a +man. The only steady, straightforward eye in the Jungle was +Mowgli's—because it was the only one with a steady mind behind it. As +soon as the bird let herself look me squarely in the eye, she knew she was +discovered, that her little trick of turning into a stub was seen through; +and immediately, ruffling her feathers, she lowered her head, poked out +her neck at me, and swaying from side to side like a caged bear, tried to +scare me, glaring and softly growling.</p> + +<p>Off she flopped as I landed. The nest might be upon the ground or lodged +among the bushes; but the only ground space large enough was covered layer +over layer with pearly clam-shells, the kitchen-midden of some muskrat; +and the bushes were empty. I went to the other islets, searched bog and +tangle, and finally pulled away <a name="Page_132" id="Page_132" />disappointed, giving the least bittern +credit for considerable mother-wit and woodcraft. How little wit she +really had appeared on my return down-creek that afternoon.</p> + +<p>I had now entered the high, overhanging swamp, where the shaggy trees, the +looping vines, and the rank, pulpous undergrowth grew thick on both sides, +reaching far back, a wet, heavy wilderness without a path, except for the +silent feet of the mink and the otter, and the more silent feet of the +creek, here a narrow stream winding darkly down through the shadows.</p> + +<p>Every little while along the rooty, hummocky banks of the creek I would +pass a muskrat's slide. Here was one at the butt of a tulip-poplar, its +platform wet and freshly trodden, its "dive" shooting sheer over a root +into the stream. Farther on stood a large tussock whose top was trampled +flat and covered with sedge-roots. I could not resist putting my nose down +for a sniff, so good is the smell of a fresh trail, so close are we to the +rest of the pack. In the thick of the swamp I stopped a moment to examine +the footprints of an otter at a shallow, shelving place along the bank, +where, opening <a name="Page_133" id="Page_133" />through the skunk-cabbage and Indian turnip, and covered +almost ankle-deep with water, was the creature's runway.</p> + +<p>I had moved leisurely along, yet not aimlessly. The whole June day was +mine to waste; but it would not be well wasted if nothing more purposeful +than wasting were in mind.</p> + +<p>One does not often drift to a port. Going into the woods to see anything +is a very sure way of seeing little or nothing; and taking the path to +anywhere is certain to lead one nowhere in particular. Many interested, +nature-loving people fail to enjoy the out-of-doors simply because they +have no definite spot to reach, no flower, bird, or bug to find when they +enter the fields and woods. Going forth "to commune with nature" sounds +very fine, but it is much more difficult work than conversing with the +Sphinx. In order to draw near to nature I require a pole with a hook and +line on the end of it. While I watch the float and wait, if there is any +communion, it is nature who holds it with me through the medium of the +pole. I need to have an errand to do; some berries to pick, a patch of +potatoes to hoe (a very small <a name="Page_134" id="Page_134" />patch); an engagement to keep, like +Thoreau, with a tree, if I hope to squander with profit even the laziest +summer day.</p> + +<p>I was heading up-stream toward a deep sandy-sided pool that was bottomed, +or rather unbottomed, by the shadows of overhanging beeches. The pool was +alive with racoon-perch. A few mornings before this, a boy from a +neighboring farm had come to fish here and had found a fisher ahead of +him. He was just about to cast, when back under the limbs of the beeches +the water broke, and a mink rose to the surface with a fine perch twisting +in her jaws. Straight toward the boy she swam till within reach of his +rod, when she recognized the human in him, turned a back-dive somersault, +and vanished.</p> + +<p>Would she be fishing again this morning? I hoped so. It was her hour—the +hour of the rising mist; visitors rarely found their way to the pool; and +I knew the appearance of the boy had given her no lasting alarm.</p> + +<p>Floating around the bend, I pulled in among the shore bushes by a bit of +grape-vine, and sitting down upon it, made my boat fast. I had <a name="Page_135" id="Page_135" />planned +the trip with the hope of seeing this mink; so I waited, quite hidden, +though having the pool in full view. An hour passed, but no mink appeared. +Another hour, and the sun was breaking upon the beeches, and the mist was +gone; yet no mink came to fish. And what mink would? Of course you must +have it in mind to see a mink fish if you wish to see anything; but the +day you really catch the mink fishing will likely be the day you went out +to watch for muskrats.</p> + +<p>So an hour's waiting is rarely fruitless. The mink did not come, but +another and quite as expert a fisher did. All the way up the creek I had +been hearing the throaty <i>ghouw-bhouw</i> of a great blue heron off in the +swamp. It was he that came for perch.</p> + +<p>The flapping of the great blue heron is a sight good for the soul—an +unheard-of motion these days, so moderate, unhurried, and time-contemning! +The wing-beats of this one, as he came dangling down upon the meadow +opposite me, have often given me pause since. If I could have the wings of +the great blue heron and flap to my fishing now and again!</p> + +<p><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136" />On alighting, however, he was instantly all nerve and tension. With the +utmost caution he came over the high sedges on his stilt-like legs to the +brink of the creek and posed. I doubt if a frog or a minnow could have +told he was a thing of life. Stiff as a stub, every muscle taut, all +alert, he stood, till—flash! and the long pointed bill pinned a perch, a +foot and a half beneath the water. He had quite made out a breakfast, +when, stepping upon a tall tussock, he stood face to face with me—a human +spectator! It was only for a moment that I could keep motionless enough to +puzzle him. Some muscle must have twitched, for he understood and leaped +into the air with a croak of mortal fright.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>The creek was roped off by the sagging fox grape-vines, and barred, from +this point on, by the alders, so that I gave up all attempt at farther +ascent. I had already given up the mink; yet I waited under the beeches.</p> + +<p>It was blazing overhead, growing hotter and closer all the time, with +hardly breeze enough to <a name="Page_137" id="Page_137" />disturb the sleep of the leaf shadows on the +sleepy stream. A rusty, red-bellied water-snake, in a mat of briers near +by, relaxed and straightened slowly out,—and softly, that I might not be +attracted,—stretching himself to the warmth. I could have broken his back +with my paddle, and perhaps, by so doing, saved the nestlings of a pair of +Maryland yellowthroats fidgeting about near him. He had eaten many a young +bird of these bushes, I was sure—yet only circumstantially sure. Catching +him in the act of robbing a nest would have been different; I should have +felt justified then in despatching him. But to strike him asleep in the +sun simply because he was a snake would have robbed the spot of part of +its life and spirit and robbed me of serenity for the rest of the day. I +should not have been, able to enjoy the quiet again until I had said my +prayers and slept.</p> + +<p>And as between the hawks and other wild birds, we need not interfere. +While the water-snake was spreading himself, a small hawk, a +sharp-shinned, I think, came beating over the meadow and was met by a +vigilance committee of red-shouldered blackbirds. He did not stop <a name="Page_138" id="Page_138" />to eat +any of them, but darted up, and they after him. On up he went, round and +round in a rapid, mounting spiral, till only one of the daring redwings +followed. I watched. Up they went, higher than I had ever seen a blackbird +venture before. And against such unequal odds! But the hawk was scared and +had not stopped to look back. He circled; the blackbird cut across inside +and caught him on almost every round. And still higher in pure bravado the +redwing forced him. I began to tremble for the plucky bird, when I saw him +turn, half fold his shining wings, and shoot straight down—a meteor of +jet with fire flying from its opposite sides—down, down, while I held my +breath. Suddenly the wings flashed, and he was scaling a steep incline; +another flash, a turn, and he was upon a slower plane—had thrown himself +against the air and settled upon the swaying top of a brown cattail.</p> + +<p>A quiet had been creeping over the swamp and meadow. The dry rasp of a +dragon-fly's wings was loud in the grass. The stream beneath the beeches +darkened and grew moody as the light neared its noon intensity; the +beech-<a name="Page_139" id="Page_139" />leaves hung limp and silent; a catbird settled near me with dropped +tail and head drawn in between her shoulders, as mute as the leaves; the +Maryland yellowthroat broke into a sharp gallop of song at intervals,—he +would have to clatter a little on doomsday, if that day fell in June,—but +the intervals were far apart. The meadow shimmered. No part of the horizon +was in sight—only the sky overhanging the little open of grass, and this +was cloudless, though far from blue.</p> + +<p>Perhaps there was not a real sign of uneasiness anywhere except in my +boat; yet I felt something ominous in this silent, stifled noon. After +all, I ought to have scotched the rusty, red-bellied water-snake leering +at me now. The croak of the great blue heron sounded again; then far away, +mysterious and spirit-like, floated a soft <i>qua, qua, qua</i>—the cry of the +least bittern out of the heart of the swamp.</p> + +<p>I loosed the grape-vine, put in my paddle, and turned down-stream, with an +urgent desire to get out of the swamp, out where I could see about me. I +made no haste, lest the stream, the swamp, the something that made me +uneasy, <a name="Page_140" id="Page_140" />should know. Not that I am superstitious, though I should have +been had I lived when the land was all swamp and wood and prairie; and I +should be now were I a sailor. My boat slipped swiftly along under the +thick-shadowing trees, and rounding a sharp bend, brought me to the open +pond, to the sky, and to a sight that explained my disquietude. The west, +half-way to the zenith, was green—the black-and-blue green of bruised +flesh. Out of it shot a fork of lightning, and behind it rumbled muffled +thunder.</p> + +<p>There was no time to descend the pond. I could already hear the wind +across the silence and suspense. It was one of the supreme moments of the +summer. The very trees seemed breathless and awe-struck. Pushing quickly +to the wooded shore, I drew out the boat, turned it over, and crawled +under it just as the leaves stirred with the first cool, wet breath.</p> + +<p>There was an instant's lull, a tremor through the ground; then the rending +and crunching of the wind monster in the oaks, the shriek of the forest +victim—and the wind was gone. The rain followed with fearful violence, +the lightning sizzled and cracked among the trees, and the <a name="Page_141" id="Page_141" />thunder burst +just above the boat—all holding on to finish the wind's work.</p> + +<p>It was soon over. The leaves were dripping when I crept out of my shell; +the afternoon sun was blinking through a million gleaming tears, and the +storm was rumbling far away, behind the swamp. A robin lighted upon a +branch over me, and set off its load of drops, which rattled down on my +boat's bottom like a charge of shot. I glided into the stream. Down the +pond where I had seen the sullen clouds was now an indescribable freshness +and glory of shining hills and shining sky. The air had been washed and +was still hanging across the heavens undried. The maple-leaves showed +silver; the flock of chimney-swifts had returned, and among them, +twinkling white and blue and brown, were tree-swallows and barn-swallows +squeaking in their flight like new harness; a pair of night-hawks played +back and forth across the water, too, awakened, probably, by the thunder, +or else mistaken in the green darkness of the storm, thinking it the +twilight; and the creek up and down as far as I could hear was ringing +with bird-calls.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142" />There had been a perceptible rise and quickening of the current. It was +slightly roiled and carried a floatage of broken twigs, torn leaves, with +here and there a golden-green tulip-petal, like the broken wings of +butterflies.</p> + +<p>I was in no hurry now, in no disquietude. The swamp and the storm were at +my back. Before me lay the pond, the pastures, and the roofs of a human +village—all bathed in the splendor of the year's divinest hour. It had +not been a perfect day, but these closing hours were perfect, so perfect +that they redeemed the whole, and not that day only: they were perfect +enough to have redeemed the whole of creation travailing till then in +pain.</p> + +<p>Because I turned from all this sunset glory to find out what little bird +was making the very big fuss near by, and because, parting the foliage of +an arrow-wood bush, I looked with exquisite pleasure into the nest of a +white-eyed vireo, does it mean that I am still unborn as to soul? For some +reason it was a relief to look away from that west of vast and burning +color to the delicately dotted eggs in the tiny cradle—the same relief +felt in descending from a mountain-<a name="Page_143" id="Page_143" />top to the valley; in turning from the +sweep of the sea to watch beach-fleas hopping over the sand; in giving +over the wisdom of men for the gabble of my little boys.</p> + +<p>How the vireo scolded! and her mate! He half sang his threat and defiance. +"Come, get out of this! Come; do you hear?" he cried over and over, as I +peeked into the nest. It was a thick-walled, exquisite bit of a basket, +rimmed round with green, growing moss, worked over with shredded bark and +fragments of yellow wood from a punky stump across the stream, and +suspended by spider-webs upon two parallel twigs about three feet above +the water. It was not consciously worked out by the birds, of course, but +the patch of yellow-wood fragments on the side of the nest exactly matched +the size and color of the fading cymes of arrow-wood blossoms all over the +bush, so that I mistook the little domicile utterly on first parting the +leaves. A crow or a snake would never have discovered it from that side.</p> + +<p>Paddling down, I was soon out of earshot of the scolding vireos, but the +little cock's vigorous, ringing song followed me to the head of the <a name="Page_144" id="Page_144" />pond. +Flying heavily over from the meadows with folded neck and dangling legs +came a little green heron—the "poke." I spun round behind a big clump of +elder to watch him; but he saw me, veered, gulped aloud, and pulled off +with a rapid stroke up the creek.</p> + +<p>As I turned, my eye fell upon a soft, yellowish something in the +rose-bushes across the docks. I was slow to believe. It was too good to be +credited all at once. Within three paddle-lengths of my boat, in a patch +of dark that must be a nest, stood my least bittern.</p> + +<p>I sat still for several seconds, tasting the joy of my discovery and +anticipating the look into the nest. Then, upon my knees in the bow of the +skiff, I pulled up by means of the stout dock-leaves until almost able to +touch the bird, when she walked off down a dead stalk to the ground, +clucking and growling at me.</p> + +<p>It wasn't a nest to boast of; but she might boast of her eggs, for there +was more of eggs than of nest—a great deal more. A few sticks had been +laid upon the ends of the bending rose-bushes, and this flimsy, inadequate +platform was literally covered by the five dirty-white eggs.<a name="Page_145" id="Page_145" /> The hen had +to stand on the bushes straddling the nest in order to brood. How she ever +got as close to the nest as that without spilling its contents was hard to +see; for I took an egg out and had the greatest difficulty in putting it +back, so little room was there, so near to nothing for it to rest upon.</p> + +<p>Working back into the channel, I gave the skiff to the easy current and +drew slowly along toward the foot of the pond.</p> + +<p>The sun had gone down behind the hill; the flame had faded from the sky, +and over the rim of the circling slopes poured the soft, cool twilight, +with a breeze as soft and cool, and a spirit that was prayer. Drifting +across the pond as gently as the gray half-light fell a shower of lint +from the willow catkins. The swallows had left; but from the leafy +darkness of the copse in front of me, piercing the dreamy, foamy roar of +the distant dam, came the notes of a wood-thrush, pure, sweet, and +peaceful, speaking the soul of the quiet time. My boat grated softly on +the sandy bottom of the cove and swung in. Out from the deep shadow of the +wooded shore, out over the pond, a thin white <a name="Page_146" id="Page_146" />veil was creeping—the +mist, the breath of the sleeping water, the spirit of the stream. And away +up the creek a distorted, inarticulate sound—the hoarse, guttural croak +of the great blue heron, the weird, uncanny cry of the night, the mock, +the menace of the tangled, untamed swamp!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="img155" id="img155"></a> +<img src="images/img155.jpg" +alt="The Dragon of the Swale" title="" /> +</div> + + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<h2><a name="THE_DRAGON_OF_THE_SWALE" id="THE_DRAGON_OF_THE_SWALE" /><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147" />THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p>My path to Cubby Hollow ran along a tumbling worm-fence, down a gravelly +slope, and across a strip of swale, through which flowed the stream that +farther on widened into the Hollow. A small jungle of dog-roses, elder, +and blackberry tangled the banks of the stream, spreading into flanks of +cinnamon-fern that crept well up the hillsides.</p> + +<p>As I descended the gravelly slope, my path led through the ferns into a +tunnel of vines, to a rail over the water, and on up to the woods. By the +middle of June the tangle, except by the half-broken path, was almost +rabbit-proof. The <a name="Page_150" id="Page_150" />rank ferns waved to my chin, and were so thick that +they left little trace of my passing until late in the summer.</p> + +<p>This bit of the swale from the lower edge of the gravelly slope to the +edge of the woods on the opposite slope was the lair of a dragon. My path +cut directly across it.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the dragon had been there ever since I had known the swale, and +summer after summer had allowed me to cross unchallenged. I do not know. I +only know that one day he rose out of the ferns before me—the longest, +ugliest, boldest beast that ever withstood me in the quiet walks about +home.</p> + +<p>It was a day in early July, hot and very close. I was wading the sunken +trail, much as one "treads water," my head not always above the surface of +the fronds, when, suddenly, close to my side the ferns in a single spot +were violently shaken. Instantly ahead of me they whirled again' and +before I could think, off across the path was another rush and whirl—then +stirless silence.</p> + +<p>I knew what it meant. These were not the sudden, startled leaps of three +animals, but the <a name="Page_151" id="Page_151" />lightning movements of one. I had crossed the path of a +swamp black-snake, and judging from the speed and whirl, it was a snake of +uncommon size.</p> + +<p>The path, a few paces farther on, opened into a small patch of low grass. +Just as I was getting through the brake to this spot I stopped short with +a chill. In the ferns near me shrilled a hissing whistle, a weird, creepy +whistle that made me cold—a fierce, menacing sound, all edge, and so thin +that it slivered every nerve in me. And then, without a stir in the brake, +up out of the low grass in front of me rose a blue-black, glittering head.</p> + +<p>I have little faith in the spell of a snake's eye, yet for a moment I was +held by the subtle, masterful face that had risen so unexpectedly, so +coolly before me. It was lifted a foot out of the grass. The head upon its +lithe, round neck was poised motionless, but set as with a hair-spring. +The flat, pointed face was turned upon me, so that I could see a patch of +white upon the throat. Evidently the snake had just sloughed an old skin, +for the sunlight gleamed iridescent on the shining jet scales. It was not +a large head; it <a name="Page_152" id="Page_152" />lacked the shovel-nose and the heavy, horrid jaws of the +rattle-snake. But it was clean-cut, with power in every line of jaw and +neck; with power and speed and certainty in the pose, so easy, ready, and +erect. There was no fear in the creature's eye, something rather of +aggressiveness, and of such evil cunning that I stood on guard.</p> + +<p>Afraid of a snake? of a black-snake! No. I think, indeed, there are few +persons who really do fear snakes. It is not fear, but nerves. I have +tamed more black-snakes than I have killed. I should not care a straw if +one bit me. Yet, for all of that, the meeting with any black-snake is so +unlocked for as always to be unnerving. But let a huge one whip about you +in the brake, chill you with an unearthly hissing whistle, then suddenly +rise in front of you, glittering, challenging, sinister! You will be +abashed. I was; and I shall never outgrow the weakness.</p> + +<p>It was a big snake. I had not been mistaken in its size. There is nothing +on earth that shrinks as a <i>dead</i> snake; and this one, so far as I know, +is still alive; yet, allowing generously for <a name="Page_153" id="Page_153" />my imagination, I am sure +the creature measured six feet. His neck, just behind the jaws, was nearly +the size of a broom-handle, which meant a long, hard length curved out in +the ferns behind. It was a male; I could tell by the peculiar musk on the +air, an odor like cut cucumbers.</p> + +<p>Fully a minute we eyed each other. Then I took a step forward. The +glittering head rose higher. Off in the ferns there beat a warning +tattoo—the loud whir of the snake's tail against a skunk-cabbage leaf.</p> + +<p>In my hand was a slender dogwood switch that I had been poking into the +holes of the digger-wasps up the hillside. If one thing more than another +will turn a snake tail to in a hurry it is the song of a switch. Expecting +to see this overbold fellow jump out of his new skin and lunge off into +the swale, I leaned forward and made the stick sing under his nose. But he +did not jump or budge. He only bent back out of range, swayed from side to +side, and drew more of his black length out into the low grass to better +his position.</p> + +<p>The lidless eyes and scale-cased face of a snake might seem incapable of +more than one set <a name="Page_154" id="Page_154" />expression. Can hate and fear show there? They +certainly can, at least to my imagination. If ever hate and fear mantled a +face, they did this one in the grass. The sound of the switch only +maddened the creature. He had too long dictated terms in this part of the +swale to crawl aside for me.</p> + +<p>Nor would I give way to him. But I ceased switching, drew back a step, and +looked at him with more respect than I ever before showed a snake.</p> + +<p>The curved neck straightened at that, the glinting head swayed forward, +and shivering through me as the swish of a stick never shivered through a +snake, sounded that unearthly hissing whistle. For a second—for just the +fraction of a second that it takes to jump—I was, not scared, but +shocked; and I slipped on something underfoot. In three directions I +wallowed the ferns before I got to my feet to watch the snake again, and +by that time the snake was gone.</p> + +<p>I found myself somewhat muddy and breathing a little hard; but I was not +wholly chagrined. I had heard and seen a black-snake whistle. I had never +even known of the habit before.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155" />Since then I have seen one other snake do it, and I think I have heard +the sound three or four times. It is almost indescribable. The jaws were +closed as it was made, not even the throat moving, that I could see. The +air seemed to be blown violently through the nostrils, though sounding as +if driven through the teeth—a shrilling hiss, fine and piercing, which +one not so much hears as feels, crisping cold along his nerves.</p> + +<p>It may seem strange, but I believe this whistle is a mating-call. Even the +forked tongue (or maybe the nose) of a snake grows vocal with love. If +only the Sphinx had not possessed a heart of stone! No matter about its +lips; with a heart to know the "spring running" we should have heard its +story long ago. Perhaps, after all, the college sophomore was not mixing +his observations and Sunday-school memories when he wrote, describing the +dawn of a spring morning (I quote from his essay): "Beneath in the water +the little fishes darted about the boat; above the little birds twittered +in the branches; while off on a sunny log in the pond the soft, sibilant +croak of the mud-turtle was <a name="Page_156" id="Page_156" />heard on the shore." If we could happen upon +the mud-turtle mad with love, I am sure we should find that he had a +voice—a "soft, sibilant croak," who knows?</p> + +<p>I had long known the tradition among the farmers of the black-snake's +trailing its mate, following her by scent through grass and brush, +persistent and sure as a sleuth-hound, until at last she is won. I had +been told of this by eyewitnesses over and over, but I had always put it +down as a snake story, for these same witnesses would also tell me the +hoop-snake story, only it was their grandfathers, always, who had seen +this creature take its tail in its mouth and roll, and hit and kill a +fifty-dollar apple-tree (the tree was invariably worth fifty dollars). I +had small faith in the trailing tale.</p> + +<p>One day, the summer after my encounter in the ferns, I was sitting upon a +harrow at the edge of the gravelly field that slopes to the swale, when a +large black-snake glided swiftly across the lane and disappeared in the +grass beyond. It had been gone perhaps a minute, when I heard another stir +behind me, and turning, saw high above the weeds and dewberry-<a name="Page_157" id="Page_157" />vines the +neck and head of a second black-snake.</p> + +<p>He was coming swiftly, evenly, carrying his gleaming head over a foot from +the ground, and following hard upon the trail of the first snake. He hit +very near the smooth, flowing mark in the dust of the lane. Here she had +crossed. Here he was about to cross when he caught sight of me.</p> + +<p>For a startled instant he stiffened, threw himself on the defensive, and +showed a white patch under his chin, an ugly, blazing light in his eye, +and a peculiarly aggressive attitude that there was no mistaking. I had +seen this snake before. I knew him. He was the dragon of the swale.</p> + +<p>Only pausing, he whirled, struck the track, and sped on, his round black +body stretching from rut to rut of the lane. A hundred feet beyond in the +grass I saw his glittering head rise and sway with a swimming motion as he +trailed the long, lithe beauty that was leading him this lightning race +across the fields.</p> + +<p>This was not the last time he crossed my path. He never withstood me +again; but he thwarted me several times. Once as I was descending the +<a name="Page_158" id="Page_158" />slope I saw him gliding down from a low cedar. The distressing cries of +two chippies told me what he had been doing in the tree; I did not need to +look at the half-dislodged nest. Then and there I vowed to kill him, but +from that moment I never set eyes on him again. His evil work, however, +went on. In a clump of briers across the stream was the nest of a pair of +redbirds that I was watching. One day just before the young could fly they +were carried off. I knew who did it. On the same side, up under the fence +by the woods, a litter of rabbits was destroyed. The snake killed them. It +was he, too, who ate the eggs of the bluebirds in the old apple-tree along +the fence in the adjoining field.</p> + +<p>There must be a dragon in the way, I suppose—in the way even of nature +study. There are unpleasant, perhaps unnecessary, and evil +creatures—snakes!—in the fields and woods, which we must be willing to +meet and tolerate for the love within us. Tick-seeds, beggar-needles, mud, +mosquitos, rain, heat, hawks, and snakes haunt all our paths, hindering us +sometimes, though never really blocking the way.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159" />But the dragon in the swale—ought I to tolerate him? No. There are +moments when I should be glad to kill him, yet I doubt if the swale would +be quite so wild and thrilling a spot if I knew there was no dragon to +meet me as I crossed. But the redbirds, bluebirds, rabbits? I see no +shrinking in their numbers because of the snake. A few of them breed as +they always have along the swale. There are worse enemies than the dragon, +though he is bad enough.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Roof and Meadow, by Dallas Lore Sharp + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROOF AND MEADOW *** + +***** This file should be named 14701-h.htm or 14701-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/7/0/14701/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Roof and Meadow + +Author: Dallas Lore Sharp + +Release Date: January 16, 2005 [EBook #14701] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROOF AND MEADOW *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +[Transcriber's Note: In this text, the spelling _racoon_ is used +consistently instead of _raccoon_. I have kept this and any other unusual +spellings, retaining the character of the original.] + + + + +Roof and Meadow + +By Dallas Lore Sharp + +Author of "A Watcher in the Woods" + +With Illustrations By Bruce Horsfall + +SCHOOL EDITION + + + +[Illustration] + +NEW YORK + +The Century Co. + +1911 + + + + +Copyright, 1903, 1904, by THE CENTURY CO. + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. + +Copyright, 1903, by THE CHAPPLE PUBLISHING CO. (Ltd.). + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by W.W. POTTER CO. (Ltd.). + +Copyright, 1902, 1903, by PERRY MASON COMPANY + +_Published April, 1904._ + + + + +TO + +MY MOTHER + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF 1 +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK 19 +THREE SERMONS 31 +THE MARSH 45 +CALICO AND THE KITTENS 77 +THE SPARROW ROOST 91 +"MUX" 107 +RACOON CREEK 121 +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE 147 + + + + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF + + + + +[Illustration] + +ROOF AND MEADOW + + + + +BIRDS FROM A CITY ROOF + + +I laid down my book and listened. It was only the choking gurgle of a +broken rain-pipe outside: then it was the ripple and swish of a meadow +stream. To make out the voices of redwings and marsh-wrens in the rasping +notes of the city sparrows behind the shutter required much more +imagination. But I did it. I wanted to hear, and the splash of the water +helped me. + +The sounds of wind and water are the same everywhere. Here at the heart of +the city I can forget the tarry pebbles and painted tin whenever my +rain-pipes are flooded. I can never be wholly shut away from the open +country and the trees so long as the winds draw hard down the alley past +my window. + +But I have more than a window and a broken rain-pipe. Along with my five +flights goes a piece of roof, flat, with a wooden floor, a fence, and a +million acres of sky. I couldn't possibly use another acre of sky, except +along the eastern horizon, where the top floors of some twelve-story +buildings intercept the dawn. + +With such a roof and such a sky, when I must, I can, with effort, get well +out of the city. I have never fished nor botanized here, but I have been +a-birding many times. + + Stone walls do not a prison make, + +nor city streets a cage--if one have a roof. + +A roof is not an ideal spot for bird study. I would hardly, out of +preference, have chosen this with its soot and its battlement of gaseous +chimney-pots, even though it is a university roof with the great gilded +dome of a state house shining down upon it. One whose feet have always +been in the soil does not take kindly to tar and tin. But anything open to +the sky is open to some of the birds, for the paths of many of the +migrants lie close along the clouds. + +Other birds than the passing migrants, however, sometimes come within +range of my look-out. The year around there are English sparrows and +pigeons; and all through the summer scarcely an evening passes when a few +chimney-swallows are not in sight. + +With the infinite number and variety of chimneys hedging me in, I +naturally expected to find the sky alive with swallows. Indeed, I thought +that some of the twenty-six pots at the corners of my roof would be +inhabited by the birds. Not so. While I can nearly always find a pair of +swallows in the air, they are surprisingly scarce, and, so far as I know, +they rarely build in the heart of the city. There are more canaries in my +block than chimney-swallows in all my sky. + +The swallows are not urban birds. The gas, the smoke, the shrieking +ventilators, and the ceaseless sullen roar of the city are hardly to their +liking. Perhaps the flies and gnats which they feed upon cannot live in +the air above the roofs. The swallows want a sleepy old town with big +thunderful chimneys, where there are wide fields and a patch of quiet +water. + +Much more numerous than the swallows are the night-hawks. My roof, in +fact, is the best place I have ever found to study their feeding habits. +These that flit through my smoky dusk may not make city nests, though the +finding of such nests would not surprise me. Of course a night-hawk's +_nest_, here or anywhere else, would surprise me; for like her cousin, the +whippoorwill, she never builds a nest, but stops in the grass, the gravel, +the leaves, or on a bare rock, deposits her eggs without even scratching +aside the sticks and stones that may share the bed, and in three days is +brooding them--brooding the stones too. + +It is likely that some of my hawks nest on the buildings in the +neighborhood. Night-hawks' eggs have occasionally been found among the +pebbles of city roofs. The high, flat house-tops are so quiet and remote, +so far away from the noisy life in the narrow streets below, that the +birds make their nests here as if in a world apart. The twelve-and +fifteen-story buildings are as so many deserted mountain heads to them. + +None of the birds build on my roof, however. But from early spring they +haunt the region so constantly that their families, if they have families +at all, must be somewhere in the vicinity. Should I see them like this +about a field or thicket in the country it would certainly mean a nest. + +The sparrows themselves do not seem more at home here than do these +night-hawks. One evening, after a sultry July day, a wild wind-storm burst +over the city. The sun was low, glaring through a narrow rift between the +hill-crests and the clouds that spread green and heavy across the sky. I +could see the lower fringes of the clouds working and writhing in the +wind, but not a sound or a breath was in the air about me. Around me over +my roof flew the night-hawks. They were crying peevishly and skimming +close to the chimneys, not rising, as usual, to any height. + +Suddenly the storm broke. The rain fell as if something had given way +overhead. The wind tore across the stubble of roofs and spires; and +through the wind, the rain, and the rolling clouds shot a weird, +yellow-green sunlight. + +I had never seen a storm like it. Nor had the night-hawks. They seemed to +be terrified, and left the sky immediately. One of them, alighting on the +roof across the street, and creeping into the lee of a chimney, huddled +there in sight of me until the wind was spent and a natural sunlight +flooded the world of roofs and domes and spires. + +Then they were all awing once more, hawking for supper. Along with the +hawking they got in a great deal of play, doing their tumbling and +cloud-coasting over the roofs just as they do above the fields. + +Mounting by easy stages of half a dozen rapid strokes, catching flies by +the way, and crying _peent-peent_, the acrobat climbs until I look a mere +lump on the roof; then ceasing his whimpering _peent_, he turns on bowed +wings and falls--shoots roofward with fearful speed. The chimneys! Quick! + +Quick he is. Just short of the roofs the taut wings flash a reverse, there +is a lightning swoop, a startling hollow wind-sound, and the rushing bird +is beating skyward again, hawking deliberately as before, and uttering +again his peevish nasal cry. + +This single note, the only call he has besides a few squeaks, is far from +a song; farther still is the empty-barrel-bung-hole sound made by the air +in the rushing wings as the bird swoops in his fall. The night-hawk, alias +"bull-bat," does not sing. What a name bull-bat would be for a singing +bird! But a "voice" was never intended for the creature. Voice, beak, +legs, head--everything but wings and maw was sacrificed for a mouth. What +a mouth! The bird can almost swallow himself. Such a cleft in the head +could never mean a song; it could never be utilized for anything but a +fly-trap. + +We have use for fly-traps. We need some birds just to sit around, look +pretty, and warble. We will pay them for it in cherries or in whatever +they ask. But there is also a great need for birds that kill insects. And +first among these are the night-hawks. They seem to have been designed for +this sole purpose. Their end is to kill insects. They are more like +machines than any other birds I know. The enormous mouth feeds an enormous +stomach, and this, like a fire-box, makes the power that works the +enormous wings. From a single maw have been taken eighteen hundred winged +ants, to say nothing of the smaller fry that could not be identified and +counted. + +But if he never caught an ant, never one of the fifth-story mosquitos that +live and bite till Christmas, how greatly still my sky would need him! His +flight is song enough. His cry and eery thunder are the very voice of the +summer twilight to me. And as I watch him coasting in the evening dusk, +that twilight often falls--over the roofs, as it used to fall for me over +the fields and the quiet hollow woods. + +There is always an English sparrow on my roof--which does not particularly +commend the roof to bird-lovers, I know. I often wish the sparrow an +entirely different bird, but I never wish him entirely away from the roof. +When there is no other defense for him, I fall back upon his being a +bird. Any kind of a bird in the city! Any but a parrot. + +A pair of sparrows nest regularly in an eaves-trough, so close to the roof +that I can overhear their family talk. Round, loquacious, familiar Cock +Sparrow is a family man--so entirely a family man as to be nothing else at +all. He is a success, too. It does me good to see him build. He tore the +old nest all away in the early winter, so as to be ready. There came a +warm springish day in February, and he began. A blizzard stopped him, but +with the melting of the snow he went to work again, completing the nest by +the middle of March. + +He built for a big family, and he had it. Not "it" indeed, but _them_; for +there were three batches of from six to ten youngsters each during the +course of the season. He also did a father's share of work with the +children. I think he hated hatching them. He would settle upon the roof +above the nest, and chirp in a crabbed, imposed-upon tone until his wife +came out. As she flew briskly away, he would look disconsolately around at +the bright busy world, ruffle his feathers, scold to himself, and then +crawl dutifully in upon the eggs. + +I knew how he felt. It is not in a cock sparrow to enjoy hatching eggs. I +respected him; for though he grumbled, as any normal husband might, still +he was "drinking fair" with Mrs. Sparrow. He built and brooded and foraged +for his family, if not as sweetly, yet as faithfully, as his wife. He +deserved his blessed abundance of children. + +Is he songless, sooty, uninteresting, vulgar? Not if you live on a roof. +He may be all of this, a pest even, in the country. But upon my roof, for +weeks at a stretch, his is the only bird voice I hear. Throughout the +spring, and far into the summer, I watch the domestic affairs in the +eaves-trough. During the winter, at nightfall, I see little bands and +flurries of birds scudding over and dropping behind the high buildings to +the east. They are sparrows on the way to their roost in the elms of an +old mid-city burial-ground. + +I not infrequently spy a hawk soaring calmly far away above the roof. Not +only the small ones, like the sharp-shinned, but also the larger, wilder +species come, and winding up close to the clouds, circle and circle there, +trying apparently to see some meaning in the maze of moving, intersecting +lines of dots below yonder in the cracks of that smoking, rumbling blur. + +In the spring, from the trees of the Common, which are close, but, except +for the crown of one noble English elm, are shut away from me, I hear an +occasional robin and Baltimore oriole. Very rarely a woodpecker will go +over. The great northern shrike is a frequent winter visitor, but by ill +chance I have not been up when he has called at the roof. + +One of these fiend birds haunts a small court only a block away, which is +inclosed in a high board fence, topped with nails. He likes the court +because of these nails. They are sharp; they will stick clean through the +body of a sparrow. Sometimes the fiend has a dozen sparrows run through +with them, leaving the impaled bodies to flutter in the wind and finally +fall away. + +In sight from my roof are three tiny patches of the harbor; sometimes a +fourth, when the big red-funneled liner is gone from her slip. Down to +the water of the harbor in flocks from the north come other winter +visitors, the herring and black-backed gulls. Often during the winter I +find them in my sky. + +One day they will cross silently over the city in a long straggling line. +Again they will fly low, wheeling and screaming, their wild sea-voices +shrill with the sound of storm. If it is thick and gray overhead, the +snow-white bodies of the herring-gulls toss in the wind above the roofs +like patches of foam. I hear the sea--the wind, the surf, the wild, fierce +tumult of the shore--whenever the white gulls sail screaming into my +winter sky. + +I have never lived under a wider reach of sky than that above my roof. It +offers a clear, straight, six-minute course to the swiftest wedge of wild +geese. Spring and autumn the geese and ducks go over, and their passage is +the most thrilling event in all my bird calendar. + +It is because the ducks fly high and silent that I see them so rarely. +They are always a surprise. You look, and there against the dull sky they +move, strange dark forms that set your blood leaping. But I never see a +string of them winging over that I do not think of a huge thousand-legger +crawling the clouds. + +My glimpses of the geese are largely chance, too. Several times, through +the open window by my table, I have heard the faint, far-off honking, and +have hurried to the roof in time to watch the travelers disappear. One +spring day I was upon the roof when a large belated flock came over, +headed north. It was the 20th of April, and the morning had broken very +warm. I could see that the geese were hot and tired. They were barely +clearing the church spires. On they came, their wedge wide and straggling, +until almost over me, when something happened. The gander in the lead +faltered and swerved, the wedge lines wavered, the flock rushed together +in confusion, wheeled, dropped, then broke apart, and honking wildly, +turned back toward the bay. + +It was instant and complete demoralization. A stronger gander, I think, +could have led the wedge unbroken over the city to some neighboring pond, +where the weakest of the stragglers, however, must have fallen from sheer +exhaustion. + +Scaling lower and lower across the roofs, the flock had reached the +center of the city and had driven suddenly into the roar and confusion of +the streets. Weary from the heat, they were dismayed at the noise, their +leader faltered, and, at a stroke, the great flying wedge went to pieces. + +There is nothing in the life of birds quite so stirring to the imagination +as their migration: the sight of gathering swallows, the sudden appearance +of strange warblers, the call of passing plovers--all are suggestive of +instincts, movements, and highways that are unseen, unaccountable, and +full of mystery. Little wonder that the most thrilling poem ever written +to a bird begins: + + Whither, midst falling dew, + While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, + Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue + Thy solitary way? + +The question, the mystery in that "certain flight" I never felt so vividly +as from my roof. Here I have often heard the reed-birds and the water-fowl +passing. Sometimes I have heard them going over in the dark. One night I +remember particularly, the sky and the air were so clear and the geese so +high in the blue. + +Over the fields and wide silent marshes such passing is strange enough. +But here I stood above a sleeping city of men, and far above me, so far +that I could only hear them, holding their northward way through the +starlit sky, they passed--whither? and how guided? Was the shining dome of +the State House a beacon? Did they mark the light at Marblehead? + + + + +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE HUNTING OF THE WOODCHUCK + + ... the chylde may Rue that ys vn-born, it wos the mor pitte. + + +There was murder in my heart. The woodchuck knew it. He never had had a +thought before, but he had one now. It came hard and heavily, yet it +arrived in time; and it was not a slow thought for a woodchuck, +either--just a trifle better, indeed, than my own. + +This was the first time I had caught the woodchuck away from his hole. He +had left his old burrow in the huckleberry hillside, and dug a new hole +under one of my young peach-trees. I had made no objection to his +huckleberry hole. He used to come down the hillside and waddle into the +orchard in broad day, free to do and go as he pleased; but not since he +began to dig under the peach-tree. + +I discovered this new hole when it was only a foot deep, and promptly +filled it with stones. The next morning the stones were out and the cavity +two feet deeper. I filled it up again, driving a large squarish piece of +rock into the mouth, tight, certainly stopping all further work, as I +thought. + +There are woodchucks that you can discourage and there are those that you +can't. Three days later the piece of rock and the stones were piled about +the butt of the tree and covered with fresh earth, while the hole ran in +out of sight, with the woodchuck, apparently, at the bottom of it. + +I had tried shutting him out, now I would try shutting him in. It was +cruel--it would have been to anything but a woodchuck; I was ashamed of +myself for doing it, and went back the following day, really hoping to +find the burrow open. + +Never again would I worry over an imprisoned woodchuck; but then I should +never again try to destroy a woodchuck by walling up his hole, any more +than Br'er Fox would try to punish the rabbit by slinging him a second +time into the brier-patch. + +The burrow was wide open. I had stuffed and rammed the rocks into it, and +buried deep in its mouth the body of another woodchuck that my neighbor's +dog had killed. All was cleared away. The deceased relative was +gone--where and how I know not; the stones were scattered on the farther +side of the tree, and the passage neatly swept of all loose sand and +pebbles. + +Clearly the woodchuck had come to stay. I meant that he should move. I +could get him into a steel trap, for his wits are not abiding; they come +only on occasion. Woodchuck lives too much in the ground and too +constantly beside his own door to grow very wise. He can always be +trapped. So can any one's enemy. You can always murder. But no gentleman +strikes from behind. I hate the steel trap. I have set my last one. They +would be bitter peaches on that tree if they cost the woodchuck what I +have seen more than one woodchuck suffer in the horrible jaws of such a +trap. + +But is it not perfectly legitimate and gentlemanly to shoot such a +woodchuck to save one's peaches? Certainly. So I got the gun and +waited--and waited--and waited. Did you ever wait with a gun until a +woodchuck came out of his hole? I never did. A woodchuck has just sense +enough to go into his hole--and stay in. + +There were too many woodchucks about and my days were too precious for me +to spend any considerable part of my summer watching with a gun for this +one. Besides, I have been known to fire and miss a woodchuck, anyway. + +So I gave up the gun. It was while thinking what I could do next that I +came down the row of young peach-trees and spied the woodchuck out in the +orchard, fifty yards away from his hole. He spied me at the same instant, +and rose upon his haunches. + +At last we were face to face. The time had come. It would be a fight to +the finish; and a fair fight, too, for all that I had about me in the way +of weapons was a pair of heavy, knee-high hunting-boots, that I had put +on against the dew of the early morning. All my thought and energy, all my +hope, centered immediately in those boots. + +The woodchuck kept his thoughts in his head. Into his heels he put what +speed he had; and little as that was, it counted, pieced out with the +head-work. + +Back in my college days I ran a two-mile race--the greatest race of the +day, the judges said--and just at the tape lost two gold medals and the +glory of a new intercollegiate record because I didn't use my head. Two of +us out of twenty finished, and we finished together, the other fellow +twisting and falling forward, breaking the string with his side, while I, +pace for pace with him--didn't think. + +For a moment the woodchuck and I stood motionless, he studying the +situation. I was at the very mouth of his burrow. It was coming to sure +death for him to attempt to get in. Yet it was sure death if he did not +get in, for I should run him down. + +Had you been that woodchuck, gentle reader, I wonder if you would have +taken account of the thick-strewn stones behind you, the dense tangle of +dewberry-vines off on your left, the heavy boots of your enemy and his +unthinking rage? + +I was vastly mistaken in that woodchuck. A blanker, flabbier face never +looked into mine. Only the sudden appearance of death could have brought +the trace of intelligence across it that I caught as the creature dropped +on all fours and began to wabble straight away from me over the area of +rough, loose stones. + +With a jump and a yell I was after him, making five yards to his one. He +tumbled along the best he could, and, to my great surprise, directly away +from his hole. It was steep downhill. I should land upon him in half a +dozen bounds more. + +On we went, reckless of the uneven ground, momentum increasing with every +jump, until, accurately calculating his speed and the changing distance +between us, I rose with a mighty leap, sailed into the air and came +down--just an inch too far ahead--on a round stone, turned my ankle, and +went sprawling over the woodchuck in a heap. + +The woodchuck spilled himself from under me, slid short about, and +tumbled off for home by way of the dewberry-patch. + +He had made a good start before I was righted and again in motion. Now it +was steep, very steep, uphill--which did not seem to matter much to the +woodchuck, but made a great difference to me. Then, too, I had counted on +a simple, straightaway dash, and had not saved myself for this lap and +climbing home-stretch. + +Still I was gaining,--more slowly this time,--with chances yet good of +overtaking him short of the hole, when, in the thick of the +dewberry-vines, I tripped, lunged forward three or four stumbling strides, +and saw the woodchuck turn sharp to the right in a bee-line for his +burrow. + +I wheeled, jumped, cut after him, caught him on the toe of my boot, and +lifting him, plopped him smoothly, softly into his hole. + +It was gently done. And so beautifully! The whole feat had something of +the poetic accuracy of an astronomical calculation. And the perfectly +lovely dive I helped him make home! + +I sat down upon his mound of earth to get myself together and to enjoy it +all. What a woodchuck! Perhaps he never could do the trick again; but, +then, he won't need to. All the murder was gone from my heart. He had +beaten the boots. He had beaten them so neatly, so absolutely, that simple +decency compelled me then and there to turn over that Crawford peach-tree, +root and stem, to the woodchuck, his heirs and assigns forever. + +By way of celebration he has thrown out nearly a cart-load of sand from +somewhere beneath the tree, deepening and enlarging his home. My Swedish +neighbor, viewing the hole recently, exclaimed: "Dose vuudshuck, I t'ink +him kill dem dree!" Perhaps so. As yet, however, the tree grows on without +a sign of hurt. + +But suppose the tree does die? Well, there is no certainty of its bearing +good fruit. There was once a peddler of trees, a pious man and a Quaker, +who made a mistake, selling the wrong tree. Besides, there are other trees +in the orchard; and, if necessary, I can buy peaches. + +Yes, but what if other woodchucks should seek other roof-trees in the +peach row? They won't. There are no fashions, no such emulations, +out-of-doors. Because one woodchuck moves from huckleberries to a +peach-tree is no sign that all the woodchucks on the hillside are going to +forsake the huckleberries with him. Only humans are silly enough for that. + +If the woodchucks should come, all of them, it would be extremely +interesting--an event worth many peaches. + + + + +THREE SERMONS + + + + +[Illustration] + +THREE SERMONS + + +I + + Thou shalt not preach. + +The woods were as empty as some great empty house; they were hollow and +silent and somber. I stood looking in among the leafless trees, heavy in +spirit at the quiet and gloom, when close by my side spoke a tiny voice. I +started, so suddenly, so unexpectedly it broke into the wide December +silence, so far it echoed through the empty forest halls. + +"What!" I exclaimed, turning in my tracks and addressing a small +brown-leafed beech. "What! little Hyla, are you still out? You! with a +snow-storm brewing and St. Nick due here to-morrow night?" And then from +within the bush, or on it, or under it, or over it, came an answer, _Peep, +peep, peep!_ small and shrill, dropping into the silence of the woods and +stirring it as three small pebbles might drop into the middle of a wide +sleeping pond. + +It was one of those gray, heavy days of the early winter--one of the +vacant, spiritless days of portent that wait hushed and numb before a +coming storm. Not a crow, nor a jay, nor a chickadee had heart enough to +cheep. But little Hyla, the tree-frog, was nothing daunted. Since the last +week in February, throughout the spring and the noisy summer on till this +dreary time, he had been cheerfully, continuously piping. This was his +last call. + +_Peep, peep, peep!_ he piped in February; _Peep, peep, peep!_ in August; +_Peep, peep, peep!_ in December. But did he? + +"He did just that," replies the scientist, "and that only." + +"Not at all," I answer. + +"What authority have you?" he asks. "You are not scientific. You are +merely a dreaming, fooling hanger-on to the fields and woods; one of those +who are forever hearing more than they hear, and seeing more than they +see. We scientists hear with our ears, see with our eyes, feel with our +fingers, and understand with our brains--" + +"Just so, just so," I interrupt, "and you are a worthy but often a pretty +stupid set. Little Hyla in February, August, and December cries _Peep, +peep, peep!_ to you. But his cry to me in February is _Spring, spring, +spring!_ And in December--it depends; for I cannot see with my eyes alone, +nor hear with my ears, nor feel with my fingers only. You can, and so +could Peter Bell. To-day I saw and heard and felt the world all gray and +hushed and shrouded; and little Hyla, speaking out of the silence and +death, called _Cheer, cheer, cheer!_" + + +II + +It is not because the gate is strait and the way narrow that so few get +into the kingdom of the Out-of-Doors. The gate is wide and the way is +broad. The difficulty is that most persons go in too fast. + +If I were asked what virtue, above all others, one must possess in order +to be shown the mysteries of the kingdom of earth and sky, I should say, +there are several; I should not know which to name first. There are, +however, two virtues very essential and very hard to acquire, namely, the +ability to keep quiet and to stand still. + +Last summer a fox in two days took fifteen of my chickens. I saw the +rascal in broad day come down the hill to the chicken-yard. I greatly +enjoy the sight of a wild fox; but fifteen chickens a sight was too high a +price. So I got the gun and chased about the woods half the summer for +another glimpse of the sinner's red hide. I saw him one Sunday as we were +driving into the wood road from church; but never a week-day sight for all +my chasing. + +Along in the early autumn I got home one evening shortly after sundown. I +had left several cocks of hay spread out in the little meadow, and though +it was already pretty damp, I took the fork, went down, and cocked it up. + +Returning, I climbed by the narrow, winding path through the pines, out +into the corner of my pasture. It was a bright moonlight night, and +leaning back upon the short-handled fork, I stopped in the shadow of the +pines to look out over the softly lighted field. + +Off in the woods a mile away sounded the deep, mellow tones of two +foxhounds. Day and night all summer long I had heard them, and all summer +long I had hurried to this knoll and to that for a shot. But the fox +always took the other knoll. + +The echoing cries of the dogs through the silent woods were musical. Soon +they sounded sharp and clear--the hounds were crossing an open stretch +leading down to the meadow behind me. As I leaned, listening, I heard near +by a low, uneasy murmuring from a covey of quails sleeping in the brush +beside the path, and before I had time to think what it meant, a fox +trotted up the path I had just climbed, and halted in the edge of the +shadows directly at my feet. + +I stood as stiff as a post. He sniffed at my dew-wet boots, backed away, +and looked me over curiously. I could have touched him with my fork. Then +he sat down with just his silver-tipped brush in the silver moonlight, to +study me in earnest. + +The loud baying of the hounds was coming nearer. How often I had heard it, +and, in spite of my lost chickens, how often I had exclaimed, "Poor little +tired fox!" But here sat "poor little tired fox" with his tongue in his +head, calmly wondering what kind of stump he had run up against this time. + +I could only dimly see his eyes, but his whole body said: "I can't make it +out, for it doesn't move. But so long as it doesn't move I sha'n't be +scared." Then he trotted to this side and to that for a better wind, +somewhat afraid, but much more curious. + +His time was up, however. The dogs were yelping across the meadow on his +warm trail. Giving me a last unsatisfied look, he dropped down the path, +directly toward the dogs, and sprang lightly off into the thicket. + +The din of their own voices must have deafened the dogs, or they would +have heard him. Round and round they circled, giving the fox ample time +for the study of another "stump" before they discovered that he had +doubled down the path, and still longer time before they crossed the wide +scentless space of his side jump and once more fastened upon his trail. + + +III + +Back in my knickerbocker days I once went off on a Sunday-school picnic, +and soon, replete with "copenhagen," I sauntered into the woods alone in +quest of less cloying sport. I had not gone far when I picked up a dainty +little ribbon-snake, and having no bag or box along, I rolled him up in my +handkerchief, and journeyed on with the wiggling reptile safely caged on +top of my head under my tight-fitting hat. + +After a time I began to feel a peculiar movement under the hat, not +exactly the crawling of a normal snake, but more like that of a snake with +legs. Those were the days when all my soul was bent on the discovery of a +new species--of anything; when the whole of life meant a journey to the +Academy of Natural Sciences with something to be named. For just an +instant flashed the hope that I had found an uncursed snake, one of the +original ones that went on legs. I reached for the hat, bent over, and +pulled it off, and, lo! not a walking snake. Just an ordinary snake, but +with it a live wood-frog! + +This, at least, was interesting, the only real piece of magic I have ever +done. Into my hat had gone only a live snake, now I brought forth the +snake and a live frog. This was a snake to conjure with; so I tied him up +again and finally got him home. + +The next Sunday the minister preached a temperance sermon, in which he +said some dreadful things about snakes. The creatures do seem in some +dark, horrible way to lurk in the dregs of strong drink: but the minister +was not discriminating; he was too fierce and sweeping, saying, among +other things, that there was a universal human hatred for snakes, and that +one of the chief purposes of the human heel was to bruise their scaly +heads. + +I was not born of my Quaker mother to share this "universal human hatred +for snakes"; but I did get from her a wild dislike for sweeping, general +statements. After the sermon I ventured to tell the preacher that there +was an exception to this "universal" rule; that all snakes were not adders +and serpents, but some were just innocent snakes, and that I had a +collection of tame ones which I wished he would come out to see. + +He looked astonished, skeptical, then pained. It was during the days, I +think, of my "probation," and into his anxious heart had come the thought, +Was I "running well"? But he dismissed the doubt and promised to walk over +in the morning. + +His interest amazed me. But, then, preachers quite commonly are different +on Monday. As we went from cage to cage, he said he had read how +boa-constrictors eat, and wouldn't I show him how these snakes eat? + +We had come to the cage of the little ribbon-snake from the picnic grove, +and had arrived just in time to catch him crawling away out of a hole that +he had worked in the rusty mosquito-netting wire of the cover. I caught +him, put him back, and placed a brickbat over the hole. + +I knew that this snake was hungry, because he had had nothing to eat for +nearly a week, and the frog which appeared so mysteriously with him in my +hat was the dinner that he had given up that day of his capture in his +effort to escape. + +The minister looked on without a tremor. I took off the brick that he +might see the better. The snake was very long and small around and the +toad, which I had given him, was very short and big around, so that when +it was all over there was a bunch in the middle of the snake comparable to +the lump a prime watermelon would make in the middle of a small boy if +swallowed whole. + +While we were still watching, the snake, having comfortably (for a snake) +breakfasted, saw the hole uncovered and stuck out his head. We made no +move. Slowly, cautiously, with his eye upon us, he glided out, up to the +big bunch of breakfast in his middle. This stuck. Frantically he squirmed, +whirled, and lashed about, but in vain. He could not pull through. He had +eaten too much. + +There was just one thing for him to do if he would be free: give up the +breakfast of toad (which is much better fare according to snake standards +than pottage according to ours), as he had given up the dinner of frog. +Would he sell his birthright? + +Perhaps a snake cannot calculate; perhaps he knows no conflict of +emotions. Yet something very like these processes seemed to go on within +the scaly little reptile. He ceased all violent struggle, laid his length +upon the netting, and _seemed_ to think, to weigh the chances, to count +the cost. + +Soon he softly drew back into the cage. A series of severe contortions +followed; the obstructing bunch began to move forward, up, farther and +farther, until at last, dazed, squeezed, and half smothered, but entirely +alive and unhurt, the toad appeared and once more opened his eyes to the +blessed light. + +The snake quickly put his head through the hole, slipped out again, and +glided away into his freedom. He had earned it. The toad deserved his +liberty too, and I took him into the strawberry-patch. + +The minister looked on at it all. Perhaps he didn't learn anything. But I +did. + + + + +THE MARSH + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE MARSH + + And breathe it free, and breathe it free, + By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. + +I + + +It was a late June day whose breaking found me upon the edge of the great +salt-marshes which lie behind East Point Light, as the Delaware Bay lies +in front of it, and which run in a wide, half-land, half-bay border down +the cape. + +I followed along the black sandy road which goes to the Light until close +to the old Zane's Place,--the last farm-house of the uplands,--when I +turned off into the marsh toward the river. The mosquitos rose from the +damp grass at every step, swarming up around me in a cloud, and streaming +off behind like a comet's tail, which hummed instead of glowed. I was the +only male among them. It was a cloud of females, the nymphs of the +salt-marsh; and all through that day the singing, stinging, smothering +swarm danced about me, rested upon me, covered me whenever I paused, so +that my black leggings turned instantly to a mosquito brown, and all my +dress seemed dyed alike. + +Only I did not pause--not often, nor long. The sun came up blisteringly +hot, yet on I walked, and wore my coat, my hands deep down in the pockets +and my head in a handkerchief. At noon I was still walking, and kept on +walking till I reached the bay shore, when a breeze came up, and drove the +singing, stinging fairies back into the grass, and saved me. + +I left the road at a point where a low bank started across the marsh like +a long protecting arm reaching out around the hay-meadows, dragging them +away from the grasping river, and gathering them out of the vast undrained +tract of coarse sedges, to hold them to the upland. Passing along the bank +until beyond the weeds and scrub of the higher borders, I stood with the +sky-bound, bay-bound green beneath my feet. Far across, with sails +gleaming white against the sea of sedge, was a schooner, beating slowly up +the river. Laying my course by her, I began to beat slowly out into the +marsh through the heavy sea of low, matted hay-grass. + +There is no fresh-water meadow, no inland plain, no prairie with this +rainy, misty, early morning freshness so constant on the marsh; no other +reach of green so green, so a-glitter with seas of briny dew, so +regularly, unfailingly fed: + + Look how the grace of the sea doth go + About and about through the intricate channels that flow + Here and there, + Everywhere, + Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, + And the marsh is meshed with a million veins! + +I imagine a Western wheat-field, half-way to head, could look, in the dew +of morning, somewhat like a salt-marsh. It certainly would have at times +the purple-distance haze, that atmosphere of the sea which hangs across +the marsh. The two might resemble each other as two pictures of the same +theme, upon the same scale, one framed and hung, the other not. It is the +framing, the setting of the marsh that gives it character, variety, tone, +and its touch of mystery. + +For the marsh reaches back to the higher lands of fences, fields of corn, +and ragged forest blurs against the hazy horizon; it reaches down to the +river of the reedy flats, coiled like a serpent through the green; it +reaches away to the sky where the clouds anchor, where the moon rises, +where the stars, like far-off lighthouses, gleam along the edge; and it +reaches out to the bay, and on, beyond the white surf-line of meeting, on, +beyond the line where the bay's blue and the sky's blue touch, on, far on. + +Here meet land and river, sky and sea; here they mingle and make the +marsh. + +A prairie rolls and billows; the marsh lies still, lies as even as a +sleeping sea. Yet what moods! What changes! What constant variety of +detail everywhere! In The Marshes of Glynn there was + + A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, + Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, + +but not in these Maurice River marshes. Here, to-day, the sun was blazing, +kindling millions of tiny suns in the salt-wet blades; and instead of +waist-high grass, there lay around me acres and acres of the fine rich +hay-grass, full-grown, but without a blade wider than a knitting-needle or +taller than my knee. It covered the marsh like a deep, thick fur, like a +wonderland carpet into whose elastic, velvety pile my feet sank and sank, +never quite feeling the floor. Here and there were patches of higher +sedges, green, but of differing shades, which seemed spread upon the grass +carpet like long-napped rugs. + +Ahead of me the even green broke suddenly over a shoal of sand into tall, +tufted grasses, into rose, mallow, and stunted persimmon bushes, foaming, +on nearer view, with spreading dogbane blossoms. Off toward the bay +another of these shoals, mole-hill high in the distance, ran across the +marsh for half a mile, bearing a single broken file of trees--sentinels +they seemed, some of them fallen, others gaunt and wind-beaten, watching +against the sea. + +These were the lookouts and the resting-places for passing birds. During +the day, whenever I turned in their direction, a crow, a hawk, or some +smaller bird was seen upon their dead branches. + +Naturally the variety of bird life upon the marsh is limited; but there is +by no means the scarcity here which is so often noted in the forests and +wild prairies of corresponding extent. Indeed, the marsh was birdy--rich +in numbers if not in species. Underfoot, in spots, sang the marsh-wrens; +in larger patches the sharp-tailed sparrows; and almost as wide-spread and +constant as the green was the singing of the seaside sparrows. Overhead +the fish-hawks crossed frequently to their castle nest high on the top of +a tall white oak along the land edge of the marsh; in the neighborhood of +the sentinel trees a pair of crows were busy trying (it seemed to me) to +find an oyster, a crab--something big enough to choke, for just one +minute, the gobbling, gulping clamor of their infant brood. But the dear +devouring monsters could not be choked, though once or twice I thought by +their strangling cries that father crow, in sheer desperation, had brought +them oysters with the shells on. Their awful gaggings died away at dusk. +Besides the crows and fish-hawks, a harrier would now and then come +skimming close along the grass. Higher up, the turkey-buzzards circled all +day long; and once, setting my blood leaping and the fish-hawks screaming, +there sailed over, far away in the blue, a bald-headed eagle, his snowy +neck and tail flashing in the sunlight as he careened among the clouds. + +In its blended greens the marsh that morning offered one of the most +satisfying drinks of color my eyes ever tasted. The areas of different +grasses were often acres in extent, so that the tints, shading from the +lightest pea-green of the thinner sedges to the blue-green of the rushes, +to the deep emerald-green of the hay-grass, merged across their broad +bands into perfect harmony. + +As fresh and vital as the color was the breath of the marsh. There is no +bank of violets stealing and giving half so sweet an odor to my nostrils, +outraged by a winter of city smells, as the salty, spray-laden breath of +the marsh. It seems fairly to line the lungs with ozone. I know how +grass-fed cattle feel at the smell of salt. I have the concentrated thirst +of a whole herd when I catch that first whiff of the marshes after a +winter, a year it may be, of unsalted inland air. The smell of it +stampedes me. I gallop to meet it, and drink, drink, drink deep of it, my +blood running redder with every draught. + + +II + +I had waded out into the meadow perhaps two hundred yards, leaving a dark +bruised trail in the grass, when I came upon a nest of the long-billed +marsh-wren. It was a bulky house, and so overburdened its frail sedge +supports that it lay almost upon the ground, with its little round doorway +wide open to the sun and rain. They must have been a young couple who +built it, and quite inexperienced. I wonder they had not abandoned it; +for a crack of light into a wren's nest would certainly addle the eggs. +They are such tiny, dusky, tucked-away things, and their cradle is so deep +and dark and hidden. There were no fatalities, I am sure, following my +efforts to prop the leaning structure, though the wrens were just as sure +that it was all a fatality--utterly misjudging my motives. As a rule, I +have never been able to help much in such extremities. Either I arrive too +late, or else I blunder. + +I thought, for a moment, that it was the nest of the long-billed's cousin, +the short-billed marsh-wren, that I had found--which would have been a gem +indeed, with pearly eggs instead of chocolate ones. Though I was out for +the mere joy of being out, I had really come with a hope of discovering +this mousy mite of a wren, and of watching her ways. It was like hoping to +watch the ways of the "wunk." Several times I have been near these little +wrens; but what chance has a pair of human eyes with a skulking four +inches of brownish streaks and bars in the middle of a marsh! Such birds +are the everlasting despair of the naturalist, the salt of his earth. The +belief that a pair of them dwelt somewhere in this green expanse, that I +might at any step come upon them, made me often forget the mosquitos. + +When I reached the ridge of rose and mallow bushes, two wrens began +muttering in the grass with different notes and tones from those of the +long-billed. I advanced cautiously. Soon one flashed out and whipped back +among the thick stems again, exposing himself just long enough to show me +_stellaris_, the little short-billed wren I was hunting. + +I tried to stand still for a second glimpse and a clue to the nest; but +the mosquitos! Things have come to a bad pass with the bird-hunter, whose +only gun is an opera-glass, when he cannot stand stock-still for an hour. +His success depends upon his ability to take root. He needs light feet, a +divining mind, and many other things, but most of all he needs patience. +There are few mortals, however, with mosquito-proof patience--one that +would stand the test here. Remembering a meadow in New England where +stellaris nested, I concluded to wait till chance took me thither, and +passed on. + +This ridge of higher ground proved to be a mosquito roost--a thousand +here to one in the deeper, denser grass. As I hurried across I noted with +great satisfaction that the pink-white blossoms of the spreading dogbane +were covered with mosquito carcasses. It lessened my joy somewhat to find, +upon examination, that all the victims were males. Either they had drunk +poison from the flowers, or else, and more likely, they had been unable to +free their long-haired antennae from the sticky honey into which they had +dipped their innocent beaks. Several single flowers had trapped three, and +from one blossom I picked out five. If we could bring the dogbane to brew +a cup which would be fatal to the females, it might be a good plant to +raise in our gardens along with the eucalyptus and the castor-oil plants. + +Everywhere as I went along, from every stake, every stout weed and topping +bunch of grass, trilled the seaside sparrows--a weak, husky, monotonous +song, of five or six notes, a little like the chippy's, more tuneful, +perhaps, but not so strong. They are dark, dusky birds, of a grayish +olive-green hue, with a conspicuous yellow line before the eye, and +yellow upon the shoulder. + +There seems to be a sparrow of some kind for every variety of land between +the poles. Mountain-tops, seaside marshes, inland prairies, swamps, woods, +pastures--everywhere, from Indian River to the Yukon, a sparrow nests. Yet +one can hardly associate sparrows with marshes, for they seem out of place +in houseless, treeless, half-submerged stretches. These are the haunts of +the shyer, more secretive birds. Here the ducks, rails, bitterns, +coots,--birds that can wade and swim, eat frogs and crabs,--seem naturally +at home. The sparrows are perchers, grain-eaters, free-fliers, and +singers; and they, of all birds, are the friends and neighbors of man. +This is no place for them. The effect of this marsh life upon the flight +and song of these two species was very marked. Both showed unmistakable +vocal powers which long ago would have been developed under the stimulus +of human listeners; and during all my stay (so long have they crept and +skulked about through the low marsh paths) I did not see one rise a +hundred feet into the air, nor fly straight away for a hundred yards. +They would get up just above the grass, and flutter and drop--a puttering, +short-winded, apoplectic struggle, very unbecoming and unworthy. + +By noon I had completed a circle and recrossed the lighthouse road in the +direction of the bay. A thin sheet of lukewarm water lay over all this +section. The high spring tides had been reinforced by unusually heavy +rains during April and May, giving a great area of pasture and hay land +back, for that season, to the sea. Descending a copsy dune from the road, +I surprised a brood of young killdeers feeding along the drift at the edge +of the wet meadow. They ran away screaming, leaving behind a pair of +spotted sandpipers, "till-tops," that had been wading with them in the +shallow water. The sandpipers teetered on for a few steps, then rose at my +approach, scaled nervously out over the drowned grass, and, circling, +alighted near where they had taken wing, continuing instantly with their +hunt, and calling _Tweet-tweet, tweet-tweet_, and teetering, always +teetering, as they tiptoed along. + +If perpetual motion is still a dream of the physicist, he might get an +idea by carefully examining the way the body of till-top is balanced on +its needle legs. If till-tops have not been tilting forever, and shall not +go on tilting forever, it is because something is wrong with the mechanism +of the world outside their little spotted bodies. Surely the easiest, +least willed motion in all the universe is this sandpiper's teeter, +teeter, teeter, as it hurries peering and prying along the shore. + +Killdeers and sandpipers are noisy birds; and one would know, after half a +day upon the marsh, even if he had never seen these birds before, that +they could not have been bred here. For however + + candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free + +the marsh may seem to one coming suddenly from the wooded uplands, it will +not let one enter far without the consciousness that silence and secrecy +lie deeper here than in the depths of the forest glooms. The true birds of +the marsh, those that feed and nest in the grass, have the spirit of the +great marsh-mother. The sandpiper is not her bird. It belongs to the +shore, living almost exclusively along sandy, pebbly margins, the margins +of any, of almost every water, from Delaware Bay to the tiny bubbling +spring in some Minnesota pasture. Neither is the killdeer her bird. The +upland claims it, plover though it be. A barren, stony hillside, or even a +last year's corn-field left fallow, is a better-loved breast to the +killdeer than the soft brooding breast of the marsh. There are no +grass-birds so noisy as these two. Both of them lay their eggs in pebble +nests; and both depend largely for protection upon the harmony of their +colors with the general tone of their surroundings. + +I was still within sound of the bleating killdeers when a rather large, +greenish-gray bird flapped heavily but noiselessly from a muddy spot in +the grass to the top of a stake and faced me. Here was a child of the +marsh. Its bolt-upright attitude spoke the watcher in the grass; then as +it stretched its neck toward me, bringing its body parallel to the ground, +how the shape of the skulker showed! This bird was not built to fly nor to +perch, but to tread the low, narrow paths of the marsh jungle, silent, +swift, and elusive as a shadow. + +It was the clapper-rail, the "marsh-hen." One never finds such a +combination of long legs, long toes, long neck and bill, with this long +but heavy hen-like body, outside the meadows and marshes. The grass ought +to have been alive with the birds: it was breeding-time. But I think the +high tides must have delayed them or driven them elsewhere, for I did not +find an egg, nor hear at nightfall their colony-cry, so common at dusk and +dawn in the marshes just across on the coast about Townsend's Inlet. There +at sunset in nesting-time one of the rails will begin to call--a loud, +clapping roll; a neighbor takes it up, then another and another, the +circle of cries widening and swelling until the whole marsh is a-clatter. + +Heading my way with a slow, labored stroke came one of the fish-hawks. She +was low down and some distance away, so that I got behind a post before +she saw me. The marsh-hen spied her first, and dropped into the grass. On +she came, her white breast and belly glistening, and in her talons a big +glistening fish. It was a magnificent catch. "Bravo!" I should have +shouted--rather I shouldn't; but here she was right over me, and the +instinct of the boy, of the savage, had me before I knew, and leaping out, +I whirled my cap and yelled to wake the marsh. The startled hawk jerked, +keeled, lifted with a violent struggle, and let go her hold. Down fell the +writhing, twisting fish at my feet. It was a splendid striped bass, +weighing at least four pounds, and still live enough to flop. + +I felt mean as I picked up the useless thing and looked far away to the +great nest with its hungry young. I was no better than the bald eagle, the +lazy robber-baron, who had stolen the dinner of these same young hawks the +day before. + +Their mother had been fishing up the river and had caught a tremendous +eel. An eel can hold out to wriggle a very long time. He has no vitals. +Even with talon-tipped claws he is slippery and more than a clawful; so +the old hawk took a short cut home across the railroad-track and the +corner of the woods where stands the eagle tree. + +She could barely clear the tree-tops, and, with the squirming of the eel +about her legs, had apparently forgotten that the eagle lived along this +road, or else in her struggle to get the prize home she was risking the +old dragon's being away. He was not away. I have no doubt that he had been +watching her all the time from some high perch, and just as she reached +the open of the railroad-track, where the booty would not fall among the +trees, he appeared. His first call, mocking, threatening, commanding, shot +the poor hawk through with terror. She screamed; she tried to rise and +escape; but without a second's parley the great king drove down upon her. +She dropped the fish, dived, and dodged the blow, and the robber, with a +rushing swoop that was glorious in its sweep, in its speed and ease, +caught the eel within a wing's reach of me and the track. + +I did not know what to do with my spoil. Somewhat relieved, upon looking +around, to find that even the marsh-hen had not been an eye-witness to my +knightly deed, I started with the fish and my conscience toward the +distant nest, determined to climb into it and leave the catch with the +helpless, dinnerless things for whom it was intended. + +I am still carrying that fish. How seldom we are able to restore the bare +exaction, to say nothing of the fourfold! My tree was harder to climb than +Zacchaeus's. Mine was an ancient white oak, with the nest set directly upon +its dead top. I had stood within this very nest twelve years before; but +even with the help of my conscience I could not get into it now. Not that +I had grown older or larger. Twelve years do not count unless they carry +one past forty. It was the nest that had grown. Gazing up at it, I readily +believed the old farmer in the Zane's house who said it would take a pair +of mules to haul it. He thought it larger than one that blew down in the +marsh the previous winter, which made three cart-loads. + +One thinks of Stirling and of the castles frowning down upon the Rhine as +he comes out of the wide, flat marsh beneath this great nest, crowning +this loftiest eminence in all the region. But no chateau of the Alps, no +beetling crag-lodged castle of the Rhine, can match the fish-hawk's nest +for sheer boldness and daring. Only the eagles' nests upon the fierce +dizzy pinnacles in the Yosemite surpass the home of the fish-hawk in +unawed boldness. The aery of the Yosemite eagle is the most sublimely +defiant of things built by bird, or beast, or man. + +A fish-hawk will make its nest upon the ground, or a hummock, a stump, a +buoy, a chimney--upon anything near the water that offers an adequate +platform; but its choice is the dead top of some lofty tree where the +pathway for its wide wings is open and the vision range is free for miles +around. + +How dare the bird rear such a pile upon so slight and towering a support! +How dare she defy the winds, which, loosened far out on the bay, come +driving across the cowering, unresisting marsh! She is too bold sometimes. +I have known more than one nest to fall in a wild May gale. Many a nest, +built higher and wider year after year, while all the time its dead +support has been rotting and weakening, gets heavy with the wet of winter, +and some night, under the weight of an ice-storm, comes crashing to the +earth. + +Yet twelve years had gone since I scaled the walls and stood within this +nest; and with patience and hardihood enough I could have done it again +this time, no doubt. I remember one nest along Maurice River, perched so +high above the gums of the swamp as to be visible from my home across a +mile of trees, that has stood a landmark for the oystermen this score of +years. + +The sensations of my climb into this fish-hawk's nest of the marsh are +vivid even now. Going up was comparatively easy. When I reached the forks +holding the nest, I found I was under a bulk of sticks and corn-stalks +which was about the size of an ordinary haycock or an unusually large +wash-tub. By pulling out, pushing aside, and breaking off the sticks, I +worked a precarious way through the four feet or more of debris and +scrambled over the edge. There were two eggs. Taking them in my hands, so +as not to crush them, I rose carefully to my feet. + +Upright in a hawk's nest! Sixty feet in the air, on the top of a gaunt old +white oak, high above the highest leaf, with the screaming hawks about my +head, with marsh and river and bay lying far around! It was a moment of +exultation; and the thrill of it has been transmitted through the years. +My body has been drawn to higher places since; but my soul has never +quite touched that altitude again, for I was a boy then. + +Nor has it ever shot swifter, deeper into the abyss of mortal terror than +followed with my turning to descend. I looked down into empty air. Feet +foremost I backed over the rim, clutching the loose sticks and feeling for +a foothold. They snapped with the least pressure; slipped and fell if I +pushed them, or stuck out into my clothing. Suddenly the sticks in my +hands pulled out, my feet broke through under me, and for an instant I +hung at the side of the nest in the air, impaled on a stub that caught my +blouse as I slipped. + +There is a special Providence busy with the boy. + +This huge nest of the fish-hawks was more than a nest; it was a castle in +very truth, in the sheltering crevices of whose uneven walls a small +community of purple grackles lived. Wedged in among the protruding sticks +was nest above nest, plastering the great pile over, making it almost +grassy with their loose flying ends. I remember that I counted more than +twenty of these crow-blacks' nests the time I climbed the tree, and that +I destroyed several in breaking my way up the face of the structure. + +Do the blackbirds nest here for the protection afforded by the presence of +the hawks? Do they come for the crumbs which fall from these great +people's table? Or is it the excellent opportunity for social life offered +by this convenient apartment-house that attracts? + +The purple grackles are a garrulous, gossipy set, as every one knows. They +are able-bodied, not particularly fond of fish, and inclined to seek the +neighborhood of man, rather than to come out here away from him. They make +very good American rooks. So I am led to think it is their love of +"neighboring" that brings them about the hawk's nest. If this surmise is +correct, then the presence of two families of English sparrows among them +might account for there being only eight nests now, where a decade ago +there were twenty. + +I was amused--no longer amazed--at finding the sparrows here. The seed of +these birds shall possess the earth. Is there even now a spot into which +the bumptious, mannerless, ubiquitous little pleb has not pushed himself? +If you look for him in the rain-pipes of the Fifth Avenue mansions, he is +there; if you search for him in the middle of the wide, silent salt-marsh, +he is there; if you take--but it is vain to take the wings of the morning, +or of anything else, in the hope of flying to a spot where the stumpy +little wings of the English sparrow have not already carried him. + +There is something really admirable in the unqualified sense of ownership, +the absolute want of diffidence, the abiding self-possession and coolness +of these birds. One cannot measure it in the city streets, where everybody +jostles and stares. It can be appreciated only in the marsh: here in the +silence, the secrecy, the withdrawing, where even the formidable-looking +fiddler-crabs shy and sidle into their holes as you pass; here, where the +sparrows may perch upon the rim of a great hawk's nest, twist their necks, +ogle you out of countenance, and demand what business brought you to the +marsh. + +I hunted round for a stone when one of them buttonholed me. He wasn't +insolent, but he was impertinent. The two hawks and the blackbirds flew +off as I came up; but the sparrows stayed. They were the only ones in +possession as I moved away; and they will be the only ones in possession +when I return. If that is next summer, then I shall find a colony of +twenty sparrow families around the hawk's nest. The purple grackles will +be gone. And the fish-hawks? Only the question of another year or so when +they, too, shall be dispossessed and gone. But where will they go to +escape the sparrows? + + +III + +From a mile away I turned to look back at the "cripple" where towered the +tall white oak of the hawks. Both birds were wheeling about the castle +nest, their noble flight full of the freedom of the marsh, their piercing +cries voicing its wildness. And how free, how wild, how untouched by human +hands the wide plain seemed! Sea-like it lay about me, circled southward +from east to west with the rim of the sky. + +I moved on toward the bay. The sun had dropped to the edge of the marsh, +its level-lined shafts splintering into golden fire against the curtained +windows of the lighthouse. It would soon be sunset. For some time there +had been a quiet gurgling and lisping down in the grass, but it had meant +nothing, until, of a sudden, I heard the rush of a wave along the beach: +the tide was coming in. And with it came a breeze, a moving, briny, +bay-cooled breeze that stirred the grass with a whisper of night. + +Once more I had worked round to the road. It ran on ahead of me, up a +bushy dune, and forked, one branch leading off to the lighthouse, the +other straight out to the beach, out against the white of the breaking +waves. + +The evening purple was deepening on the bay when I mounted the dune. Bands +of pink and crimson clouded the west, a thin cold wash of blue veiled the +east; and overhead, bayward, landward, everywhere, the misting and the +shadowing of the twilight. + +Between me and the white wave-bars at the end of the road gleamed a patch +of silvery water--the returning tide. As I watched, a silvery streamlet +broke away and came running down the wheel track. Another streamlet, +lagging a little, ran shining down the other track, stopped, rose, and +creeping slowly to the middle of the road, spread into a second gleaming +patch. They grew, met--and the road for a hundred feet was covered with +the bay. + +As the crimson paled into smoky pearl, the blue changed green and gold, +and big at the edge of the marsh showed the rim of the moon. + +Weird hour! Sunset, moonrise, flood-tide, and twilight together weaving +the spell of the night over the wide waking marsh. Mysterious, sinister +almost, seemed the swift, stealthy creeping of the tide. It was +surrounding and crawling in upon me. Already it stood ankle-deep in the +road, and was reaching toward my knees, a warm thing, quick and moving. It +slipped among the grasses and into the holes of the crabs with a smothered +bubbling; it disturbed the seaside sparrows sleeping down in the sedge and +kept them springing up to find new beds. How high would it rise? Behind me +on the road it had crawled to the foot of the dune. Would it let me +through to the mainland if I waited for the flood? + +It would be high tide at nine o'clock. Finding a mound of sand on the +shore that the water could hardly cover, I sat down to watch the +tide-miracle; for here, surely, I should see the wonder worked, so wide +was the open, so full, so frank the moon. + +In the yellow light I could make out the line of sentinel trees across the +marsh, and off on the bay a ship, looming dim in the distance, coming on +with wind and tide. There were no sounds except the long regular wash of +the waves, the stir of the breeze in the chafing sedges, and the creepy +stepping of the water weaving everywhere through the hidden paths of the +grass. Presently a night-hawk began to flit about me, then another and +another, skimming just above the marsh as silent as the shadows. What was +that? Something moved across the moon. In a moment, bat-like and huge +against the great yellow disk, appeared a marsh-owl. He was coming to look +at me. What was I that dared remain abroad in the marsh after the rising +of the moon? that dared invade this eery realm, this night-spread, +tide-crept, half-sealand where he was king? How like a goblin he seemed! I +thought of Grendel, and listened for the splash of the fen-monster's steps +along the edge of the bay. But only the owl came. Down, down, down he +bobbed, till I could almost feel the fanning of his wings. How silent! His +long legs hung limp, his body dangled between those soft wide wings within +reach of my face. Yet I heard no sound. Mysterious creature! I was glad +when he ceased his ghostly dance about me and made off. + +It was nine o'clock. The waves had ceased to wash against the sand, for +the beach was gone; the breeze had died away; the stir of the water in the +grass was still. Only a ripple broke now and then against my little +island. The bay and the marsh were one. + + How still the plains of the waters be! + The tide is in his ecstasy. + The tide is at his highest height: + And it is night. + + + + +CALICO AND THE KITTENS + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CALICO AND THE KITTENS + + +One spring day I found myself the sole help of two blind, naked +infants--as near a real predicament as a man could well get. What did it +matter that they had long tails and were squirrels? They were infants just +the same; and any kind of an infant on the hands of any mere man is a real +tragedy. + +As I looked at the two callow things in the grass, a dismay and weak +helplessness quite overcame me. The way they squirmed and shivered and +squeaked worked upon me down even to my knees. I felt sick and foolish. +Both of their parents were dead. Their loose leaf-nest overhead had been +riddled with shot. I had climbed up and found them; I had brought them +down; I must--feed them! The other way of escape were heathen. + +But how could I feed them? Nipples, quills, spoons--none of them would fit +these mites of mouths. What a miserable mother I was! How poorly equipped +for foundlings! They were dying for lack of food; and as they pawed about +and whimpered in my hands I devoutly wished the shot had put them all out +of misery together. I was tempted to turn heathen and despatch them. + +Unhappy but resolute, I started homeward, determined to rear those +squirrels, if it could be done. On my way I remembered--and it came to me +with a shock--that one of my neighbor's cats had a new batch of kittens. +They were only a few days old. Might not Calico, their mother, be induced +to adopt the squirrels! + +Nothing could be more absurd. The kittens were three times larger than the +squirrels. Even had they been the same size, did I think the old +three-colored cat could be fooled? that she might not know a kitten of +hers from some other mother's--squirrel? I was desperate indeed. Calico +was a hunter. She had eaten more gray squirrels, perhaps, than I had ever +seen. She would think I had been foraging for her--the mother of seven +green kittens!--and would take my charges as titbits. Still I was +determined to try. + +My neighbor's kittens were enough and to spare. One of Calico's last +year's lot still waited a good home; and here were seven more to be cared +for. Might not two of these be spirited away, far away; the two squirrels +substituted, and the old cat be none the wiser? + +I went home by way of my neighbor's, and found Calico in the basement +curled up asleep with her babies. She roused and purred questioningly as +we bent over the basket, and watched with concern, but with no anxiety, as +two of her seven were lifted out and put inside a hat upon a table. She +was perfectly used to having her kittens handled. True, strange things had +happened to them. But that was long ago; and there had been so very many +kittens that no one mother could remember about them all. She trusted +us--with an ear pricked and eyes watchful. But they were safe, and in a +prideful, self-conscious, young-mother way she began to wash the five. + +Some one stood between her and the hat when the kittens were lifted out +and the squirrels were put in their place. Calico did not see. For a time +she thought no more about them; she was busy washing and showing the +others. By and by it began to look as though she had forgotten that there +were more than five. She could not count. But most mothers can _number_ +their children, even if they cannot count, and soon Calico began to +fidget, looking up at the hat which the hungry, motherless squirrels kept +rocking. Then she leaped out upon the floor, purring, and bounded upon the +table, going straight to the young squirrels. + +There certainly was an expression of surprise and mystification on her +face as she saw the change that had come over those kittens. They had +shrunk and faded from two or three bright colors to a single pale pink. +She looked again and sniffed them. Their odor had changed, too. She turned +to the watchers about the table, but they said nothing. She hardly knew +what to think. She was half inclined to leave them and go back to the +basket, when one of the squirrels whimpered--a genuine, universal baby +whimper. That settled it. She was a mother, and whatever else these things +in the hat might be, they were babies. That was enough, especially as she +needed just this much baby here in the hat to make good what was lacking +in the basket. + +With a soft, caressing purr she stepped gently into the hat, took one of +the squirrels by the neck, brought it to the edge of the table, and laid +it down for a firmer hold; then sprang lightly to the floor. Over to the +basket she walked and dropped it tenderly among her other babies. Then, +having brought the remaining one and deposited that with the same +mother-care, she got into the basket herself and curled down +contentedly--her heart all whole. + +And this is how strange a thing mother-love is! The performance was +scarcely believable. Could she be so love-blind as not to see what they +were and not eat them? But when she began to lick the little interlopers +and cuddle them down to their dinner as if they were her own genuine +kittens, there could be no more doubt or fear. + +The squirrels do not know to this day that Calico is not their real +mother. From the first they took her mother's milk and mother's love as +rightfully and thanklessly as the kittens, growing, not like the kittens +at all, but into the most normal of squirrels, round and fat and +splendid-tailed. + +Calico clearly recognized some difference between the two kinds of +kittens, but _what_ difference always puzzled her. She would clean up a +kitten and comb it slick, then turn to one of the squirrels and wash it, +but rarely, if ever, completing the work because of some disconcerting +un-catlike antic. As the squirrels grew older they also grew friskier, and +soon took the washing as the signal for a frolic. As well try to wash a +bubble. They were bundles of live springs, twisting out of her paws, +dancing over her back, leaping, kicking, tumbling as she had never seen a +kitten do in all her richly kittened experience. + +I don't know why, but Calico was certainly fonder of these two freaks than +of her own normal children. Long after the latter were weaned she nursed +and mothered the squirrels. I have frequently seen them let into the +kitchen when the old cat was there, and the moment they got through the +door they would rush toward her, dropping chestnuts or cookies by the way. +She in turn would hurry to meet them with a little purr of greeting full +of joy and affection. They were shamefully big for such doings. The +kittens had quit it long ago. Calico herself, after a while, came to feel +the impropriety of mothering these strapping young ones, and in a weak, +indulgent way tried to stop it. But the squirrels were persistent and +would not go about their business at all with an ordinary cuff. She would +put them off, run away from them, slap them, and make believe to bite; but +not until she did bite, and sharply too, would they be off. All this +seemed very strange and unnatural; yet a stranger thing happened one day, +when Calico brought in to her family a full-grown gray squirrel which she +had caught in the woods. She laid it down on the floor and called the +kittens and squirrels to gather around. They came, and as the squirrels +sniffed at the dead one on the floor there was hardly a mark of +difference in their appearance. It might have been one of Calico's own +nursing that lay there dead, so far as any one save Calico could see. And +with her the difference, I think, was more of smell than of sight. But she +knew her own; and though she often found her two out among the trees of +the yard, she never was mistaken, nor for an instant made as if to hurt +them. + +Yet they could not have been more entirely squirrel had their own squirrel +mother nurtured them. Calico's milk and love went all to cat in her own +kittens, and all to squirrel in these that she adopted. No single hair of +theirs turned from its squirrel-gray to any one of Calico's three colors; +no single squirrel trait became the least bit catlike. + +Indeed, as soon as the squirrels could run about they forsook the +clumsy-footed kittens under the stove and scampered up back of the +hot-water tank, where they built a nest. Whenever Calico entered the +kitchen purring, out would pop their heads, and down they would come, +understanding the mother language as well as the kittens, and usually +beating the kittens to the mother's side. + +So far from teaching them to climb and build nests behind water-tanks, +their foster-mother never got over her astonishment at it. All they needed +from her, all they needed and would have received from their own squirrel +mother, was nourishment and protection until their teeth and legs grew +strong. Wits were born with them; experience was sure to come to them; and +with wits and experience there is nothing known among squirrels of their +kind that these two would not learn for themselves. + +And there was not much known to squirrels that these two did not know, +apparently without even learning. As they grew in size they increased +exceedingly in naughtiness, and were banished shortly from the kitchen to +an ell or back woodshed. They celebrated this distinction by dropping some +hickory-nuts into a rubber boot hanging on the wall, and then gnawing a +hole through the toe of the boot in order to extract the hidden nuts. Was +it mischief that led them to gnaw through rather than go down the top? Or +did something get stuffed into the top of the boot after the nuts were +dropped in? And did the squirrels _remember_ that the nuts were in there, +or did they _smell_ them through the rubber? + +One woodshed is big enough only for two squirrels. The family moved +everything out but the wood, and the squirrels took possession for the +winter. Their first nest had been built behind the hot-water tank. They +knew _how_ to build without any teaching. But knowing how is not all there +is to know about building; knowing _where_ is very important, and this +they had to learn. + +Immediately on coming to the woodshed the squirrels began their winter +nest, a big, bulky, newspaper affair, which they placed up in the +northwest corner of the shed directly under the shingles. Here they slept +till late in the fall. This was the shaded side and the most exposed +corner of the whole house; but all went well until one night when the +weather suddenly turned very cold. A strong wind blew from the northwest +hard upon the squirrels' nest. + +The next day there was great activity in the woodshed--a scampering of +lively feet, that began early in the morning and continued far toward +noon. The squirrels were moving. They gathered up their newspaper nest +and carried it--diagonally--across the shed from the shaded northwest to +the sunny southeast corner, where they rebuilt and slept snug throughout +the winter. + +Calico did not teach them this; neither would their own squirrel mother +have taught them. They knew how, to begin with. They knew _where_ after +one night of experience, which in this case had to be a night of shivers. + + + + +THE SPARROW ROOST + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE SPARROW ROOST + + +An early December twilight was settling over Boston, a thick foggy murk +that soaked down full of smoke and smell and chill. The streets were oozy +with a wet snow which had fallen through the afternoon and had been +trodden into mud; and draughty with an east wind, that would have passed +unnoticed across the open fields, but which drew up these narrow flues and +sent a shiver down one's back in spite of coats. It was half-past five. +The stores were closing, their clerks everywhere eddying into the noisy +streams of wheels and hoofs still pouring up and down. The traffic tide +had turned, but had not yet ebbed away. + +And this was evening! the coming night! I moved along with the crowd, +homesick for the wideness and quiet of the country, for the soughing of +the pines, the distant bang of a barn door, the night cry of guineas from +some neighboring farm, when, in the hurry and din, I caught the cry of +bird voices, and looking up, found that I had stumbled upon a bird +roost--at the very heart of the city! I was in front of King's Chapel +Burial Ground, whose half-dozen leafless trees were alive with noisy +sparrows. + +The crowd swept on. I halted behind a waste-barrel by the iron fence and +forgot the soughing pines and clacking guineas. + +Bird roosts of this size are no common find. I remember a huge fireplace +chimney that stood near my home, into which a cloud of swallows used to +swarm for a few nights preceding the fall migration; I lived some years +close to the pines at the head of Cubby Hollow, where great flocks of +crows slept nightly throughout the winter; but these, besides now and +again a temporary resting-place, a mere caravansary along the route of the +migrants, were all I had happened upon. Here was another, bordering a city +street, overhanging the street, with a blazing electric light to get into +bed by! + +Protected by the barrel from the jostle on the sidewalk, I waited by the +ancient graveyard until the electric lights grew bright, until every +fussing sparrow was quiet, until I could see only little gray balls and +blurs in the trees through the misty drizzle that came down with the +night. Then I turned toward my own snug roost, five flights up, next the +roof, and just a block away, as the sparrows fly, from this roost of +theirs. I was glad to have them so near me. + +The windows of my roost look out over roofs of slate, painted tin, and +tarry pebbles, into a chimney-fenced plot of sky. Occasionally, during the +winter, a herring-gull from the harbor swims into this bit of smoky blue; +frequently a pigeon, sometimes a flock, sails past; and in the summer +dusk, after the swallows quit it, a city-haunting night-hawk climbs out of +the forest of chimney-pots, up, up above the smoke for his booming +roofward swoop. But winter and summer, save along through June, the +sparrows, as evening falls, cut across the sky field on their way to the +roost in the old burial-ground. There go two, there twoscore in a +whirling, scudding flurry, like a swift-blown bunch of autumn leaves. For +more than an hour they keep passing--till the dusk turns to darkness, till +all are tucked away in bed. + +One would scarcely recognize the birds as they sweep past in these +flurries, their flight is so unlike their usual clumsy scuttle as they get +out of one's way along the street. They are lumpish and short-winged on +the street; they labor and lumber off with a sidewise twist to their +bodies that reminds one of a rheumatic old dog upon the trot. What +suggestion of grace or swiftness about them upon the ground? But watch +them in their evening flight. It is a revelation. They rise above the +houses and shoot across my sky like a charge of canister. I can almost +hear them whizz. Down by the cemetery I have seen them dash into view high +up in the slit of sky, dive for the trees, dart zigzag like a madly +plunging kite, and hurl themselves, as soft as breaths, among the +branches. + +This is going to bed with a vengeance. I never saw any other birds get to +roost with such velocity. It is characteristic, however; the sparrow never +does anything by halves. The hurry is not caused by any mite of anxiety or +fear, rather from pure excess of spirit; for after rearing three broods +during the summer, he has such a superabundance of vim that a winter of +foraging and fighting is welcome exercise. The strenuous life is his kind +of life. When the day's hunt is over and he turns back to his bed, why not +race it out with his neighbors? And so they come--chasing, dodging, +tagging neck and neck, all spurting to finish first at the roost. + +We may not love him; but he has constitution and snap. And these things do +count. + +One April morning, the 6th, I went down to the roost at three o'clock. The +sparrows were sleeping soundly. It was yet night. Had the dawn been +reaching up above the dark walls that shut the east away from the high +tree-tops, the garish street light would have kept it dim. The trees were +silent and stirless, as quiet as the graves beneath them--more quiet; in +fact; for there issued from a grated hole among the tombs the sound of an +anvil, deep down and muffled, but unmistakably ringing, as if Governor +Winthrop were forging chains in his vault. Then came a rush, a deadened +roar, and an emanation of dank gaseous breath, such as the dead alone +breathe. + +It was only the passing of a tool-car in the subway underneath the +cemetery, and the hammering of a workman at a forge in a niche of the +tunnel. But, rising out of the tombs, it was gruesome and unearthly in the +night-quiet. + +The sparrows did not mind the sound. Maybe it ascended as a pleasant +murmur to them and shaped their dreams, as dream-stuff drifts to their +sweet-voiced cousins in the meadows with the lap and lave of the streams. +A carriage rolled by. The clank of hoofs disturbed none of them. Some one +slammed the door of an apothecary-shop across the street, and hurried off. +Not a sparrow stirred. + +I was trying to see whether the birds slept with their heads beneath their +wings. Apparently they did, for I could not make out a head, though some +of the sleepers hung over the street within ten feet of the lamp-post. But +they were all above the light, with only their breasts out of the shadows, +and to be certain I must make a bird move. Finding that the noises were +not likely to arouse them, I threw a stick against one of the laden limbs. +There were heads then, plenty of them, and every one, evidently, had been +turned back and buried in the warm wing-coverts. + +My stick hit very near the toes of one of the sparrows, and he flew. There +was a twitter, then a stir all over the tree; but nothing further +happening, they tucked in their heads again and went back to bed. + +I waited. At four o'clock they still slept. The moon had swung out from +behind the high buildings and now hung just above the slender spire of +Park Street Church, looking down into the deep, narrow street gulch. A cat +picked her way among the graves, sprang noiselessly to the top of a flat +tomb beneath the sparrows, and watched with me. The creature brought the +wilderness with her. After all, this was not so far removed from the +woods. In the empty street, beneath the silent, shuttered walls, with +something still of the mystery of the night winds in the bare trees, the +scene, for an instant, was touched with the spell of the dark and the +untamed. + +After a swift warming walk of fifteen minutes I returned to the roost. +There were signs of waking now: a flutter here, a twitter there, then +quiet again, with no general movement until half-past four, when the city +lights were shut off. Then, instantly, from a dozen branches sounded loud, +clear chirps, and every sparrow opened his eyes. The incandescent bulbs +about the border of the roost were moon and stars to them, lights in the +firmament of their heaven to divide the night from the day. When they +blazed forth, it was evening--bedtime; when they went out, it was +morning--the time to wake up. + +The softness of dusk, how unknown to these city dwellers! and the fresh +sweet beauty of the dawn! + +Morning must have begun to break along near four o'clock, for the cold +gray across the sky was already passing into pearl. The country birds had +been up half an hour, I am sure. However, the old cemetery was wide enough +awake now. There was chirping everywhere. It grew louder and more general +every moment, till shortly the six thousand voices, and more, were raised +in the cheerful din--the matin, if you please, for as yet only a few of +the birds were fighting. + +But the fight quickly spread. It is the English sparrow's way of waking +up; his way of whetting his appetite for breakfast; his way of digesting +his dinner; his way of settling his supper--his normal waking way. + +To the clatter of voices was added the flutter of wings; for the birds had +begun to shift perches, and to exchange slaps as well as to call +names--the movement setting toward the tree-tops. None of the sparrows had +left the roost. The storm of chatter increased and the buzz of wings +quickened into a steady whir, the noise holding its own with that of the +ice-wagons pounding past. The birds were filling the top-most branches, a +gathering of the clans, evidently, for the day's start. The clock in +Scollay Square station pointed to five minutes to five, and just before +the hour struck, two birds launched out and spun away. + +The exodus had commenced. The rest of Boston was not stirring yet. It was +still early; hardly a flush of warmth had washed the pearl. But the +sparrows had many matters to attend to before all the milkmen and bakers +got abroad: they must take their morning dust-bath, for one thing, in the +worn places between the cobble-stones, before the street-sprinkler began +its sloppy rounds. + +There was a constant whirl out of the tree-tops now. Occasionally a bird +flew off alone, but most of them left in small flocks, just as I should +see them return in the evening. Doubtless the members of these flocks were +the birds belonging to certain neighborhoods, those that nested and fed +about certain squares, large door-yards, and leafy courts. They may indeed +have been families that were hatched last summer. + +The birds that left singly went away, as a rule, over the roofs toward the +denser business sections of the city, while the bands, as I had noticed +them come in at night, took the opposite course, toward Cambridge and +Charlestown. Not more than one in a hundred flew south across the city. + +Of course there are sparrows all over Boston. There is no street too +narrow, too noisy, too dank with the smell of leather for them. They seem +as numerous where the rush of drays is thickest as in the open +breathing-places where the fountains play. They are in every quarter, yet +those to the east and south of the old burial-ground do not belong to the +roost. Perhaps they have graveyards of their own in their sections, though +I have been unable to find them. So far as I know, this is the only roost +in or about Boston. And this is the stranger since so few of the total +number of the Boston sparrows sleep here. A careful estimate showed me +that there could not have been more than six or seven thousand in the +roost. One would almost say there were as many millions in Boston. And +where do these millions sleep? For the most part, each one alone behind +his sign-board or shutter near his local feeding-grounds. + +Now, why should the sparrows of the roost prefer King's Chapel Burial +Ground to the Old Granary, a stone's throw up the street? I passed the +Old Granary yard on my way to the roost and found the trees empty. I +searched the limbs with my glass; there was not a sparrow to be seen. +Still, the Granary is the less exposed of the two. It may not formerly +have been so; but at present high sheltering walls bend about the trees +like a well. Years ago, perhaps, when the sparrows began to roost in the +trees at King's Chapel, the Old Granary elms were more open to the winds, +and now force of habit and example keep the birds returning to the first +lodge. + +Back they come, no matter what the weather. There are a thousand cozy +corners into which a sparrow might creep on a stormy night, where even the +winds that know their way through Boston streets could not search him out. +But the instinct to do as he always has done is as strong in the sparrow, +in spite of his love for pioneering, as it is in the rest of us. He was +brought here to roost as soon as he could fly, when the leaves were on and +the nights delicious. If the leaves go and the nights change, what of +that? Here he began, here he will continue to sleep. Let it rain, blow, +snow; let the sleet, like a slimy serpent, creep up the trunk and wrap +around the twigs: still he will hold on. Many a night I have seen them +sleeping through a driving winter rain, their breasts to the storm, their +tails hanging straight down, shedding every drop. If a gale is blowing, +and it is cold, they get to the leeward of the tree, as close to the trunk +as possible, and anchor fast, every bill pointing into the wind, every +feather reefed, every tail lying out on the flat of the storm. + +As I watched the bands starting from the tree-tops of the roost I wondered +if they really crossed the river into Cambridge and Charlestown. A few +mornings later I was again up early, hastening down to the West Boston +Bridge to see if I could discover the birds going over. As I started out I +saw bunches moving toward the river with a free and easy flight, but +whether I reached the bridge too late, or whether they scattered and went +over singly, I do not know. Only now and then did a bird cross, and he +seemed to come from along the shore rather than from above the house-tops. + +I concluded that the birds of the roost were strictly Bostonians. One +evening, however, about a week later, as I was upon this bridge coming +from Cambridge, a flock of sparrows whizzed past me, dipped over the rail +to the water, swung up above the wall of houses, and disappeared toward +the roost. They were on their way from Cambridge, from the classic elms of +Harvard campus, who knows, to the elms of the ancient burial-ground. + +It was five that April morning when the first sparrow left the roost. By +half-past five the trees were empty, except for the few birds whose +hunting-ground included the cemetery. By this time the city, too, had +yawned, and rubbed its eyes, and tumbled out of bed. + + + + +"MUX" + +[Illustration] + + + + +"MUX" + + +No, "Mux" is not an elegant name--not to to be compared with Ronald or +Claudia, for instance; and I want to say it is not the name of one of my +children, though its owner was once a member of my household. Mux was a +tame half-grown coon, with just the ordinary number of rings around his +tail, but with the most extraordinary amount of mischief in his little +coon soul. Perhaps he had no real soul, and I should have located his +mischief somewhere else. If so, then I should say in his feet. I never saw +any other feet so expressive. The essence of the little beast seemed +concentrated in his lore paws. If they made trouble, whose fault was it? +They were designed for trouble. You could see this purpose in them as +plainly as you could see the purpose in a swallow's wings. Whenever Mux +ran across the yard these paws picked up trouble out of the turf, just as +if the grass were trouble-filings, and Mux a kind of four-footed magnet. +He never went far before they clogged and stopped him. + +One day, the first day that Mux was given the liberty of the yard, who +should he run foul of but Tom! The struggle had to come sometime, and it +was just as well that it came thus early, while Tom and Mux were on an +equal footing as to size, for Mux was young and growing. + +Tom was boss of the yard. Every farmer's dog that went to town by our gate +knew enough to pass by on the other side. Tom had grown a little lordly +and opinionated. He was sleeping in the sun on the shed-step as Mux ambled +up. At sight of the coon Tom rose in more than his usual feline mightiness +and cast such a look of surprise, scorn, and annihilating intent upon the +interloper as ought to have struck terror to the stoutest heart. But Mux +hardly seemed to understand. On he came, right into certain destruction, a +very lamb of innocence and meekness. O you unsuspecting little stranger! +Don't you see this awful monster swelling, swelling into this hideous +hump? No, Mux did not see him. Tom was raging. His teeth gleamed; his eyes +blazed green; his claws worked in a nervous way that made my flesh creep. +He was vanishing, not, like the Cheshire Cat, into a long lovely grin, but +vanishing from a four-legged cat into a yellow, one-legged hump. All that +was left of him now was hump. + +Mux was only a few feet away. Tom began to advance, not directly, but just +a trifle on the bias, across Mux's bows so to speak, as if to give him a +broadside. They were within range. Tom was heaving to. I trembled for the +young coon. Suddenly there was a hiss, a flash of yellow in the air, +and--a very big surprise awaiting Thomas! That little coon was no stupid +after all. He had not rolled up his sleeves, nor doubled up his fists, nor +put a chip upon his shoulder; but he knew what was expected of him, just +the same. He snapped instantly upon his back, received the cat with all +four of his feet, and gave Mr. Tom such a combing down that his golden fur +went flying off like thistle-down in autumn. + +It was all over in less than half a minute. I think Tom must have made a +new record for himself in the running high jump when he broke away from +his ring-tailed antagonist. He struck out across the yard and landed +midway up the clothes-post with a single bound. And Mux? He ambled on +around the yard, as calm and unconcerned as if he had only stopped to +scratch himself. + +Much of this unconcern, however, was a quiet kind of swagger. When he +thought no one fiercer than a chicken or the humbled Mr. Tom was looking, +he would shuffle across the yard with his coat collar turned up, his hat +over his eye, his elbows angled--just as if he had been born and bred on +the Bowery instead of in the Bear Swamp. He was king of the yard, but I +could see that he wore his crown uneasily. He kept a bold front, accepted +every challenge, and even went out of his way to pick a quarrel; yet he +quaked at heart continually. He feared and hated the noises of the yard, +particularly the crowing of our big buff cochin rooster and the screaming +of the guineas. This was one of the swamp-fears that he had brought with +him and could not outlive. It haunted him. If he had a conscience, its +only warnings were of coming noises great and terrible. + +But Mux had no conscience, unless it was one that troubled him only when +he was out of mischief. His face was never so long and so solemn as when I +had caught him in some questionable act or spoiled some wayward plan. + +Mux, however, was possessed by a much stubborner spirit than this +interesting mischief-devil. Upon one point he was positively demented--the +only four-footed maniac I ever knew. He had gone crazy on the subject of +dirt, mad to wash things, especially his victuals. + +He was not particular about what he ate; almost anything that could be +swallowed would do, provided that it could be washed, and washed by +himself, after his own approved fashion. + +If I gave him half of my apple, he would squat down by his wash-tub and +begin to hunt for dirt. He would look the apple over and over, pick +around the blossom end, inspect carefully, then pull out the stem, if +there happened to be a stem, dig out the seeds and peek into the core, +then douse it into the water and begin to wash. He would rub with might +and main for a second or two, then rinse it, take a bite, and douse it +back again for more scrubbing, until it was scrubbed and chewed away. + +Even when the water was thick with mud, this crazy coon persisted in +washing his clean cake and cabbage therein. Indeed, the muddier the water, +the more vigorously would he wash. The habit was a part of him, as real a +thing in his constitution as the black ring in his fur. It was a very +dirty habit, here in captivity, even if it went by the name of washing. Of +course Mux could not be blamed for his soiled wash-water. That was my +fault; only I couldn't be changing it every time he soaked up a fistful of +earth in his endeavor to wash something to eat out of it. No; he was not +at fault, altogether, for the mud in his tub. Out in the Bear Swamp, the +streams that wandered about under the great high-spreading gums, and lost +their way in the shadows, were crystal-clear and pure; and out there it +was intended that he should dwell, and in those sweet streams that he +should wash. But what a modicum of wit, of originality the little beast +had, that, because he was born a washer, wash he must, though he washed in +mud, nay, though he washed upon the upturned bottom of his empty tub!--for +this is what Mux did sometimes. + +I never blamed Aunt Milly for insisting upon this rather ill-sounding name +of "Mux" for the little coon. She was standing by his cage, shortly after +his arrival, watching him eat cabbage. He washed every clean white piece +of it in his oozy tub before tasting it, coating the bits over with mud as +you do the lumps of fondant with chocolate in making "chocolate creams." +Aunt Milly looked at him for some time with scornful face and finally +exclaimed: + +"Umph! Dat animile am a dumb beast shu'! Rubbin' dirt right inter clean +cabbage! Sich muxin'! mux, mux, mux! Dat a coon? Dat ain't no coon. Dat's +a mux!" And she scuffed off to the house, mumbling, "De muxinest thing I +done evah seen." Hence his name. + +If there is one sweetmeat sweeter than all others to a coon, it is a +frog. It was not mere chance that Mux was born in the edge of the Bear +Swamp, close to the wide marshes that ran out to the river. This was the +great country of the frogs--the milk-and-honey country to the ring-tailed +family in the hollow gum. But Mux had never tasted frog. He had not been +weaned when I kidnapped him. One day, wishing to see if he knew what a +frog was, I carelessly offered him a big spotted fellow that I had caught +in the meadow. + +Did he know a frog? He fairly snatched the poor thing from me, killed it, +and started around the cage with it in his mouth, dancing like a cannibal. +His long, serious face was more thoughtful and solemn, however, than +usual. I was puzzled. I had heard of dancing at funerals. Either this was +such a dance, or else some wild orgy to propitiate the spirits that +preside over the destiny of coons. + +Throughout this gruesome rite Mux held the frog in his mouth, and I +watched, expecting, hoping every moment that he would swallow it. Suddenly +he stopped, sat down by his tub, pulled some dead grass out of it, +plunged the frog in, and began to scrub it--began to scrub the frog in the +oozy contents of that tub, when the poor amphibian had been soaking in +spring-water ever since it was a tadpole! + +No matter. The frog must be washed. And washed it was. It was scoured +first with all his might, then placed in the bottom of the tub, under +water, held down by one fore paw, until the maniac could get in with his +hind feet upon it, and then danced upon; from here it was laid upon the +floor of the cage and kneaded until as limp as a lump of dough; then +lifted daintily, it was shaken round and round in the water, rinsed and +wrung, and minutely inspected, and--swallowed. + +I felt justified in keeping this animal caged. He was not fit to run loose +even in the Bear Swamp. Perhaps I have done him wrong in this story of the +frog. Frogs may need washing, after all, despite the fact that they are +never out of the bath-tub long enough to dry off once in their whole +lives. Mux knew more about frogs than I, doubtless. But Mux insisted upon +washing oysters. + +Now there are few people clothed in sane minds who do not like raw +oysters. Mark this, however: when you see a person wash raw oysters, keep +out of his way; he has lost either his wits or his morals. The only two +creatures I ever knew to wash raw oysters were Mux and an oyster-dealer in +Cambridge Street, Boston. I saw this dealer take up a two-gallon can that +had just arrived at his store, and dump the dark salty shell-fish into a +great colander, stick the end of a piece of rubber hose in among them, +turn the water on? and stir and soak them. How white they got! How fat +they got! How their ghastly corpses swelled! + +Mux did not wash his to see them swell, but simply that he might take no +chances with dirt--or poison, for I used to think sometimes that he +thought I was trying to poison him. He was desperately fond of oysters. +But who could cast his pearls, or, to be scientifically and literally +correct, his mothers of pearls, before such a swine? Mux had just one +plateful of oysters while I was his keeper. They were nice plump fellows, +and when I saw the maniac soak one all stringy and tasteless I poured his +wash-water out. Was he to be balked that way! No, no. He took oyster +number two, flopped it into the empty tub, scoured it around on the muddy +bottom, looked it over as carefully as he had done stringy number one, and +swallowed sandy, muddy number two with just as much relish. + +This was too much. I cuffed him and took away the tub. This I suppose was +wrong, for I understand you must never oppose crazy persons. Well, Mux +helped himself to oyster number three. There was no water, no tub. But +what were oysters for if not to be washed? And who was he but _Procyon +lotor_--_Procyon_ "the washer"? Can the leopard change his spots or the +racoon his habits? Can he? Shall he? I could almost hear him muttering +under his breath, "To be, or not to be: that is the question." Then he +darted a triumphantly malicious glance at me, retreated to the back of his +cage, thrust his oyster out of sight beneath the straw of his bed, and +washed it--washed the oyster in the straw, washed it into a fistful of +sticks and chaff, and gloated as he swallowed it. + + + + +RACOON CREEK + + + + +[Illustration] + +RACOON CREEK + + Into the wode to her the briddes sing. + + +I + +Over the creek, and clearing it by a little, hung a snow-white, stirless +mist, its under surface even and parallel with the face of the water, its +upper surface peaked and billowed half-way to the tops of the +shore-skirting trees. + +As I dipped along, my head was enveloped in the cloud; but bending over +the skiff, I could see far up the stream between a mist-ceiling and a +water-floor, as through a long, low room. How deep and dark seemed the +water! And the trees how remote, aerial, and floating! as if growing in +the skies, with no roots' fast hold of the earth. Filling the valley, +conforming to every bend and stretch of the creek, lay the breath of the +water, motionless and sheeted, a spirit stream, hovering over the sluggish +current a moment, before it should float upward and melt away. It was +cold, too, as a wraith might be, colder than the water, for the June sun +had not yet risen over the swamp. + +At the bridge where the road crossed was a dam which backed the creek out +into an acre or more of pond. Not a particle of mud discolored the water; +but it was dark, and as it came tumbling, foaming over the moss-edged +gates it lighted up a rich amber color, the color of strong tea. In the +half chill of the dawn the old bridge lay veiled in smoking spray, in a +thin, rising vapor of spicy odors, clean, medicinal odors, as of the +brewing of many roots, the fragrance of shores of sedges, ferns, and +aromatic herbs steeped in the slow, soft tide. And faint across the creek, +the road, and the fields lay the pondy smell of spatter-docks. + +I pushed out from the sandy cove and lay with a reach of the lusty docks +between me and either shore. It was early morning. The yellow, dew-laid +road down which I came still slumbered undisturbed; the village cows had +not been milked, and the pasture slope, rounding with a feminine grace of +curve and form, lay asleep, with its sedgy fingers trailing in the water; +even the locomotive in the little terminal round-house over the hill was +not awake and wheezing. But the creek people were stirring--except the +frogs. They were growing sleepy. The long June night they had improved, +soberly, philosophically; and now, seeing nothing worth while in the dawn +of this wonder day, they had begun to doze. But the birds were alive, full +of the crisp June morning, of its overflow of gladness, and were telling +their joy in chorus up and down both banks of the creek. + + Hearkneth thise blisful briddes how they singe. + +Do you mean out in Finsbury Moor, Father Chaucer? They were sweet along +the banks of the Walbrook, I know, for among them "maken melodye" were the +skylark, ethereal minstrel! and the nightingale. But, Father Chaucer, you +should have heard the wood-thrushes, the orchard-orioles--this whole +morning chorus singing along the creek! No one may know how blissful, how +wide, how thrilling the singing of birds can be unless he has listened +when the summer mists are rising over Racoon Creek. + +There is no song-hour after sun rise to compare with this for spirit and +volume of sound. The difference between the singing in the dusk and in the +dawn is the difference between the slow, sweet melody of a dirge and the +triumphant, full-voiced peal of a wedding march. Even one who has always +lived in the country can scarcely believe his ears the first time he is +afield in June at the birds' awaking-hour. + +Robins led the singing along the creek. They always do. In New Jersey, +Massachusetts, Michigan,--everywhere it is the same,--they out-number all +rivals three to one. It is necessary to listen closely in order to +distinguish the other voices. This particular morning, however, the +wood-thrushes were all arranged up the copsy hillside at my back, and so +reinforced each other that their part was not overborne by robin song. One +of the thrushes was perched upon a willow stub along the edge of the +water, so near that I could see every flirt of his wings, could almost +count the big spots in his sides. Softly, calmly, with the purest joy he +sang, pausing at the end of every few bars to preen and call. His song was +the soul of serenity, of all that is spiritual. Accompanied by the lower, +more continuous notes from among the trees, it rose, a clear, pure, +wonderful soprano, lifting the whole wide chorus nearer heaven. + +Farther along the creek, on the border of the swamp, the red-shouldered +blackbirds were massed; chiming in everywhere sang the catbirds, +white-eyed vireos, yellow warblers, orchard-orioles, and Maryland +yellowthroats; and at short intervals, soaring for a moment high over the +other voices, sounded the thrilling, throbbing notes of the cardinal, +broken suddenly and drowned by the roll of the flicker, the wild, weird +cry of the great-crested flycatcher, or the rapid, hay-rake rattle of the +belted kingfisher. + +All at once a narrow breeze cut a swath through the mist just across my +bows, turned, spread, caught the severed cloud in which I was drifting, +and whirled it up and away. The head of the pond and the upper creek were +still shrouded, while around me only breaths of the white flecked the +water and the spatter-docks. The breeze had not stirred a ripple; the +current here in the broad of the pond was imperceptible; and I lay +becalmed on the edge of the open channel, among the rank leaves and golden +knobs of the docks. + +A crowd of chimney-swallows gathered over the pond for a morning bath. +Half a hundred of them were wheeling, looping, and cutting about me in a +perfect maze of orbits, as if so many little black shuttles had borrowed +wings and gone crazy with freedom. They had come to wash--a very proper +thing to do, for there are few birds or beasts that need it more. It was +highly fitting for sooty little Tom, seeing he had to turn into something, +to become a Water Baby. And if these smaller, winged sweeps of our +American chimneys are contemplating a metamorphosis, it ought to be toward +a similar life of soaking. + +They must have been particularly sooty this morning. One plunge apiece, so +far from sufficing, seemed hardly a beginning. They kept diving in over +and over, continuing so long that finally I grew curious to know how many +dips they were taking, and so, in order to count his dives, I singled one +out, after most of the flock had done and gone off to hawk. How many he +had taken before I marked him, and how many more he took after I lost him +among the other birds, I cannot say; but, standing up in the skiff, I +followed him around and around until he made his nineteenth splash,--in +less than half as many minutes,--when I got so groggy that his twentieth +splash I came near taking with him. + +The pond narrows toward the head, and just before it becomes a creek again +the channel turns abruptly through the docks in against the right shore, +where the current curls and dimples darkly under the drooping branches of +great red maple; then it horseshoes into the middle, coming down through +small bush-islands and tangled brush which deepen into an extensive swamp. + +June seemed a little tardy here, but the elder, the rose, and the panicled +cornel were almost ready, the button-bushes were showing ivory, while the +arrow-wood, fully open, was glistening snowily everywhere, its tiny flower +crowns falling and floating in patches down-stream, its over-sweet breath +hanging heavy in the morning mist. My nose was in the air all the way for +magnolias and water-lilies, yet never a whiff from either shore, so +particular, so unaccountably notional are some of the high-caste flowers +with regard to their homes. + +The skiff edged slowly past the first of the islands, a mere hummock about +a yard square, and was turning a sharp bend farther up, when I thought I +had a glimpse of yellowish wings, a mere guess of a bird shadow, dropping +among the dense maple saplings and elder of the islet. + +Had I seen or simply imagined something? If I had seen wings, then they +were not those of the thrasher,--the first bird that came to mind,--for +they slipped, sank, dropped through the bushes, with just a hint of +dodging in their movement, not exactly as a thrasher would have moved. + +Drifting noiselessly back, I searched the tangle and must have been +looking directly at the bird several seconds before cutting it out from +the stalks and branches. It was a least bittern, a female. She was +clinging to a perpendicular stem of elder, hand over hand, wren fashion, +her long neck thrust straight into the air, absolutely stiff and +statuesque. + +We were less than a skiff's length apart, each trying to outpose and +outstare the other. I won. Human eyes are none the strongest, neither is +human patience, yet I have rarely seen a creature that could outwait a +man. The only steady, straightforward eye in the Jungle was +Mowgli's--because it was the only one with a steady mind behind it. As +soon as the bird let herself look me squarely in the eye, she knew she was +discovered, that her little trick of turning into a stub was seen through; +and immediately, ruffling her feathers, she lowered her head, poked out +her neck at me, and swaying from side to side like a caged bear, tried to +scare me, glaring and softly growling. + +Off she flopped as I landed. The nest might be upon the ground or lodged +among the bushes; but the only ground space large enough was covered layer +over layer with pearly clam-shells, the kitchen-midden of some muskrat; +and the bushes were empty. I went to the other islets, searched bog and +tangle, and finally pulled away disappointed, giving the least bittern +credit for considerable mother-wit and woodcraft. How little wit she +really had appeared on my return down-creek that afternoon. + +I had now entered the high, overhanging swamp, where the shaggy trees, the +looping vines, and the rank, pulpous undergrowth grew thick on both sides, +reaching far back, a wet, heavy wilderness without a path, except for the +silent feet of the mink and the otter, and the more silent feet of the +creek, here a narrow stream winding darkly down through the shadows. + +Every little while along the rooty, hummocky banks of the creek I would +pass a muskrat's slide. Here was one at the butt of a tulip-poplar, its +platform wet and freshly trodden, its "dive" shooting sheer over a root +into the stream. Farther on stood a large tussock whose top was trampled +flat and covered with sedge-roots. I could not resist putting my nose down +for a sniff, so good is the smell of a fresh trail, so close are we to the +rest of the pack. In the thick of the swamp I stopped a moment to examine +the footprints of an otter at a shallow, shelving place along the bank, +where, opening through the skunk-cabbage and Indian turnip, and covered +almost ankle-deep with water, was the creature's runway. + +I had moved leisurely along, yet not aimlessly. The whole June day was +mine to waste; but it would not be well wasted if nothing more purposeful +than wasting were in mind. + +One does not often drift to a port. Going into the woods to see anything +is a very sure way of seeing little or nothing; and taking the path to +anywhere is certain to lead one nowhere in particular. Many interested, +nature-loving people fail to enjoy the out-of-doors simply because they +have no definite spot to reach, no flower, bird, or bug to find when they +enter the fields and woods. Going forth "to commune with nature" sounds +very fine, but it is much more difficult work than conversing with the +Sphinx. In order to draw near to nature I require a pole with a hook and +line on the end of it. While I watch the float and wait, if there is any +communion, it is nature who holds it with me through the medium of the +pole. I need to have an errand to do; some berries to pick, a patch of +potatoes to hoe (a very small patch); an engagement to keep, like +Thoreau, with a tree, if I hope to squander with profit even the laziest +summer day. + +I was heading up-stream toward a deep sandy-sided pool that was bottomed, +or rather unbottomed, by the shadows of overhanging beeches. The pool was +alive with racoon-perch. A few mornings before this, a boy from a +neighboring farm had come to fish here and had found a fisher ahead of +him. He was just about to cast, when back under the limbs of the beeches +the water broke, and a mink rose to the surface with a fine perch twisting +in her jaws. Straight toward the boy she swam till within reach of his +rod, when she recognized the human in him, turned a back-dive somersault, +and vanished. + +Would she be fishing again this morning? I hoped so. It was her hour--the +hour of the rising mist; visitors rarely found their way to the pool; and +I knew the appearance of the boy had given her no lasting alarm. + +Floating around the bend, I pulled in among the shore bushes by a bit of +grape-vine, and sitting down upon it, made my boat fast. I had planned +the trip with the hope of seeing this mink; so I waited, quite hidden, +though having the pool in full view. An hour passed, but no mink appeared. +Another hour, and the sun was breaking upon the beeches, and the mist was +gone; yet no mink came to fish. And what mink would? Of course you must +have it in mind to see a mink fish if you wish to see anything; but the +day you really catch the mink fishing will likely be the day you went out +to watch for muskrats. + +So an hour's waiting is rarely fruitless. The mink did not come, but +another and quite as expert a fisher did. All the way up the creek I had +been hearing the throaty _ghouw-bhouw_ of a great blue heron off in the +swamp. It was he that came for perch. + +The flapping of the great blue heron is a sight good for the soul--an +unheard-of motion these days, so moderate, unhurried, and time-contemning! +The wing-beats of this one, as he came dangling down upon the meadow +opposite me, have often given me pause since. If I could have the wings of +the great blue heron and flap to my fishing now and again! + +On alighting, however, he was instantly all nerve and tension. With the +utmost caution he came over the high sedges on his stilt-like legs to the +brink of the creek and posed. I doubt if a frog or a minnow could have +told he was a thing of life. Stiff as a stub, every muscle taut, all +alert, he stood, till--flash! and the long pointed bill pinned a perch, a +foot and a half beneath the water. He had quite made out a breakfast, +when, stepping upon a tall tussock, he stood face to face with me--a human +spectator! It was only for a moment that I could keep motionless enough to +puzzle him. Some muscle must have twitched, for he understood and leaped +into the air with a croak of mortal fright. + + +II + +The creek was roped off by the sagging fox grape-vines, and barred, from +this point on, by the alders, so that I gave up all attempt at farther +ascent. I had already given up the mink; yet I waited under the beeches. + +It was blazing overhead, growing hotter and closer all the time, with +hardly breeze enough to disturb the sleep of the leaf shadows on the +sleepy stream. A rusty, red-bellied water-snake, in a mat of briers near +by, relaxed and straightened slowly out,--and softly, that I might not be +attracted,--stretching himself to the warmth. I could have broken his back +with my paddle, and perhaps, by so doing, saved the nestlings of a pair of +Maryland yellowthroats fidgeting about near him. He had eaten many a young +bird of these bushes, I was sure--yet only circumstantially sure. Catching +him in the act of robbing a nest would have been different; I should have +felt justified then in despatching him. But to strike him asleep in the +sun simply because he was a snake would have robbed the spot of part of +its life and spirit and robbed me of serenity for the rest of the day. I +should not have been, able to enjoy the quiet again until I had said my +prayers and slept. + +And as between the hawks and other wild birds, we need not interfere. +While the water-snake was spreading himself, a small hawk, a +sharp-shinned, I think, came beating over the meadow and was met by a +vigilance committee of red-shouldered blackbirds. He did not stop to eat +any of them, but darted up, and they after him. On up he went, round and +round in a rapid, mounting spiral, till only one of the daring redwings +followed. I watched. Up they went, higher than I had ever seen a blackbird +venture before. And against such unequal odds! But the hawk was scared and +had not stopped to look back. He circled; the blackbird cut across inside +and caught him on almost every round. And still higher in pure bravado the +redwing forced him. I began to tremble for the plucky bird, when I saw him +turn, half fold his shining wings, and shoot straight down--a meteor of +jet with fire flying from its opposite sides--down, down, while I held my +breath. Suddenly the wings flashed, and he was scaling a steep incline; +another flash, a turn, and he was upon a slower plane--had thrown himself +against the air and settled upon the swaying top of a brown cattail. + +A quiet had been creeping over the swamp and meadow. The dry rasp of a +dragon-fly's wings was loud in the grass. The stream beneath the beeches +darkened and grew moody as the light neared its noon intensity; the +beech-leaves hung limp and silent; a catbird settled near me with dropped +tail and head drawn in between her shoulders, as mute as the leaves; the +Maryland yellowthroat broke into a sharp gallop of song at intervals,--he +would have to clatter a little on doomsday, if that day fell in June,--but +the intervals were far apart. The meadow shimmered. No part of the horizon +was in sight--only the sky overhanging the little open of grass, and this +was cloudless, though far from blue. + +Perhaps there was not a real sign of uneasiness anywhere except in my +boat; yet I felt something ominous in this silent, stifled noon. After +all, I ought to have scotched the rusty, red-bellied water-snake leering +at me now. The croak of the great blue heron sounded again; then far away, +mysterious and spirit-like, floated a soft _qua, qua, qua_--the cry of the +least bittern out of the heart of the swamp. + +I loosed the grape-vine, put in my paddle, and turned down-stream, with an +urgent desire to get out of the swamp, out where I could see about me. I +made no haste, lest the stream, the swamp, the something that made me +uneasy, should know. Not that I am superstitious, though I should have +been had I lived when the land was all swamp and wood and prairie; and I +should be now were I a sailor. My boat slipped swiftly along under the +thick-shadowing trees, and rounding a sharp bend, brought me to the open +pond, to the sky, and to a sight that explained my disquietude. The west, +half-way to the zenith, was green--the black-and-blue green of bruised +flesh. Out of it shot a fork of lightning, and behind it rumbled muffled +thunder. + +There was no time to descend the pond. I could already hear the wind +across the silence and suspense. It was one of the supreme moments of the +summer. The very trees seemed breathless and awe-struck. Pushing quickly +to the wooded shore, I drew out the boat, turned it over, and crawled +under it just as the leaves stirred with the first cool, wet breath. + +There was an instant's lull, a tremor through the ground; then the rending +and crunching of the wind monster in the oaks, the shriek of the forest +victim--and the wind was gone. The rain followed with fearful violence, +the lightning sizzled and cracked among the trees, and the thunder burst +just above the boat--all holding on to finish the wind's work. + +It was soon over. The leaves were dripping when I crept out of my shell; +the afternoon sun was blinking through a million gleaming tears, and the +storm was rumbling far away, behind the swamp. A robin lighted upon a +branch over me, and set off its load of drops, which rattled down on my +boat's bottom like a charge of shot. I glided into the stream. Down the +pond where I had seen the sullen clouds was now an indescribable freshness +and glory of shining hills and shining sky. The air had been washed and +was still hanging across the heavens undried. The maple-leaves showed +silver; the flock of chimney-swifts had returned, and among them, +twinkling white and blue and brown, were tree-swallows and barn-swallows +squeaking in their flight like new harness; a pair of night-hawks played +back and forth across the water, too, awakened, probably, by the thunder, +or else mistaken in the green darkness of the storm, thinking it the +twilight; and the creek up and down as far as I could hear was ringing +with bird-calls. + +There had been a perceptible rise and quickening of the current. It was +slightly roiled and carried a floatage of broken twigs, torn leaves, with +here and there a golden-green tulip-petal, like the broken wings of +butterflies. + +I was in no hurry now, in no disquietude. The swamp and the storm were at +my back. Before me lay the pond, the pastures, and the roofs of a human +village--all bathed in the splendor of the year's divinest hour. It had +not been a perfect day, but these closing hours were perfect, so perfect +that they redeemed the whole, and not that day only: they were perfect +enough to have redeemed the whole of creation travailing till then in +pain. + +Because I turned from all this sunset glory to find out what little bird +was making the very big fuss near by, and because, parting the foliage of +an arrow-wood bush, I looked with exquisite pleasure into the nest of a +white-eyed vireo, does it mean that I am still unborn as to soul? For some +reason it was a relief to look away from that west of vast and burning +color to the delicately dotted eggs in the tiny cradle--the same relief +felt in descending from a mountain-top to the valley; in turning from the +sweep of the sea to watch beach-fleas hopping over the sand; in giving +over the wisdom of men for the gabble of my little boys. + +How the vireo scolded! and her mate! He half sang his threat and defiance. +"Come, get out of this! Come; do you hear?" he cried over and over, as I +peeked into the nest. It was a thick-walled, exquisite bit of a basket, +rimmed round with green, growing moss, worked over with shredded bark and +fragments of yellow wood from a punky stump across the stream, and +suspended by spider-webs upon two parallel twigs about three feet above +the water. It was not consciously worked out by the birds, of course, but +the patch of yellow-wood fragments on the side of the nest exactly matched +the size and color of the fading cymes of arrow-wood blossoms all over the +bush, so that I mistook the little domicile utterly on first parting the +leaves. A crow or a snake would never have discovered it from that side. + +Paddling down, I was soon out of earshot of the scolding vireos, but the +little cock's vigorous, ringing song followed me to the head of the pond. +Flying heavily over from the meadows with folded neck and dangling legs +came a little green heron--the "poke." I spun round behind a big clump of +elder to watch him; but he saw me, veered, gulped aloud, and pulled off +with a rapid stroke up the creek. + +As I turned, my eye fell upon a soft, yellowish something in the +rose-bushes across the docks. I was slow to believe. It was too good to be +credited all at once. Within three paddle-lengths of my boat, in a patch +of dark that must be a nest, stood my least bittern. + +I sat still for several seconds, tasting the joy of my discovery and +anticipating the look into the nest. Then, upon my knees in the bow of the +skiff, I pulled up by means of the stout dock-leaves until almost able to +touch the bird, when she walked off down a dead stalk to the ground, +clucking and growling at me. + +It wasn't a nest to boast of; but she might boast of her eggs, for there +was more of eggs than of nest--a great deal more. A few sticks had been +laid upon the ends of the bending rose-bushes, and this flimsy, inadequate +platform was literally covered by the five dirty-white eggs. The hen had +to stand on the bushes straddling the nest in order to brood. How she ever +got as close to the nest as that without spilling its contents was hard to +see; for I took an egg out and had the greatest difficulty in putting it +back, so little room was there, so near to nothing for it to rest upon. + +Working back into the channel, I gave the skiff to the easy current and +drew slowly along toward the foot of the pond. + +The sun had gone down behind the hill; the flame had faded from the sky, +and over the rim of the circling slopes poured the soft, cool twilight, +with a breeze as soft and cool, and a spirit that was prayer. Drifting +across the pond as gently as the gray half-light fell a shower of lint +from the willow catkins. The swallows had left; but from the leafy +darkness of the copse in front of me, piercing the dreamy, foamy roar of +the distant dam, came the notes of a wood-thrush, pure, sweet, and +peaceful, speaking the soul of the quiet time. My boat grated softly on +the sandy bottom of the cove and swung in. Out from the deep shadow of the +wooded shore, out over the pond, a thin white veil was creeping--the +mist, the breath of the sleeping water, the spirit of the stream. And away +up the creek a distorted, inarticulate sound--the hoarse, guttural croak +of the great blue heron, the weird, uncanny cry of the night, the mock, +the menace of the tangled, untamed swamp! + + + + +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE DRAGON OF THE SWALE + + +My path to Cubby Hollow ran along a tumbling worm-fence, down a gravelly +slope, and across a strip of swale, through which flowed the stream that +farther on widened into the Hollow. A small jungle of dog-roses, elder, +and blackberry tangled the banks of the stream, spreading into flanks of +cinnamon-fern that crept well up the hillsides. + +As I descended the gravelly slope, my path led through the ferns into a +tunnel of vines, to a rail over the water, and on up to the woods. By the +middle of June the tangle, except by the half-broken path, was almost +rabbit-proof. The rank ferns waved to my chin, and were so thick that +they left little trace of my passing until late in the summer. + +This bit of the swale from the lower edge of the gravelly slope to the +edge of the woods on the opposite slope was the lair of a dragon. My path +cut directly across it. + +Perhaps the dragon had been there ever since I had known the swale, and +summer after summer had allowed me to cross unchallenged. I do not know. I +only know that one day he rose out of the ferns before me--the longest, +ugliest, boldest beast that ever withstood me in the quiet walks about +home. + +It was a day in early July, hot and very close. I was wading the sunken +trail, much as one "treads water," my head not always above the surface of +the fronds, when, suddenly, close to my side the ferns in a single spot +were violently shaken. Instantly ahead of me they whirled again' and +before I could think, off across the path was another rush and whirl--then +stirless silence. + +I knew what it meant. These were not the sudden, startled leaps of three +animals, but the lightning movements of one. I had crossed the path of a +swamp black-snake, and judging from the speed and whirl, it was a snake of +uncommon size. + +The path, a few paces farther on, opened into a small patch of low grass. +Just as I was getting through the brake to this spot I stopped short with +a chill. In the ferns near me shrilled a hissing whistle, a weird, creepy +whistle that made me cold--a fierce, menacing sound, all edge, and so thin +that it slivered every nerve in me. And then, without a stir in the brake, +up out of the low grass in front of me rose a blue-black, glittering head. + +I have little faith in the spell of a snake's eye, yet for a moment I was +held by the subtle, masterful face that had risen so unexpectedly, so +coolly before me. It was lifted a foot out of the grass. The head upon its +lithe, round neck was poised motionless, but set as with a hair-spring. +The flat, pointed face was turned upon me, so that I could see a patch of +white upon the throat. Evidently the snake had just sloughed an old skin, +for the sunlight gleamed iridescent on the shining jet scales. It was not +a large head; it lacked the shovel-nose and the heavy, horrid jaws of the +rattle-snake. But it was clean-cut, with power in every line of jaw and +neck; with power and speed and certainty in the pose, so easy, ready, and +erect. There was no fear in the creature's eye, something rather of +aggressiveness, and of such evil cunning that I stood on guard. + +Afraid of a snake? of a black-snake! No. I think, indeed, there are few +persons who really do fear snakes. It is not fear, but nerves. I have +tamed more black-snakes than I have killed. I should not care a straw if +one bit me. Yet, for all of that, the meeting with any black-snake is so +unlocked for as always to be unnerving. But let a huge one whip about you +in the brake, chill you with an unearthly hissing whistle, then suddenly +rise in front of you, glittering, challenging, sinister! You will be +abashed. I was; and I shall never outgrow the weakness. + +It was a big snake. I had not been mistaken in its size. There is nothing +on earth that shrinks as a _dead_ snake; and this one, so far as I know, +is still alive; yet, allowing generously for my imagination, I am sure +the creature measured six feet. His neck, just behind the jaws, was nearly +the size of a broom-handle, which meant a long, hard length curved out in +the ferns behind. It was a male; I could tell by the peculiar musk on the +air, an odor like cut cucumbers. + +Fully a minute we eyed each other. Then I took a step forward. The +glittering head rose higher. Off in the ferns there beat a warning +tattoo--the loud whir of the snake's tail against a skunk-cabbage leaf. + +In my hand was a slender dogwood switch that I had been poking into the +holes of the digger-wasps up the hillside. If one thing more than another +will turn a snake tail to in a hurry it is the song of a switch. Expecting +to see this overbold fellow jump out of his new skin and lunge off into +the swale, I leaned forward and made the stick sing under his nose. But he +did not jump or budge. He only bent back out of range, swayed from side to +side, and drew more of his black length out into the low grass to better +his position. + +The lidless eyes and scale-cased face of a snake might seem incapable of +more than one set expression. Can hate and fear show there? They +certainly can, at least to my imagination. If ever hate and fear mantled a +face, they did this one in the grass. The sound of the switch only +maddened the creature. He had too long dictated terms in this part of the +swale to crawl aside for me. + +Nor would I give way to him. But I ceased switching, drew back a step, and +looked at him with more respect than I ever before showed a snake. + +The curved neck straightened at that, the glinting head swayed forward, +and shivering through me as the swish of a stick never shivered through a +snake, sounded that unearthly hissing whistle. For a second--for just the +fraction of a second that it takes to jump--I was, not scared, but +shocked; and I slipped on something underfoot. In three directions I +wallowed the ferns before I got to my feet to watch the snake again, and +by that time the snake was gone. + +I found myself somewhat muddy and breathing a little hard; but I was not +wholly chagrined. I had heard and seen a black-snake whistle. I had never +even known of the habit before. + +Since then I have seen one other snake do it, and I think I have heard +the sound three or four times. It is almost indescribable. The jaws were +closed as it was made, not even the throat moving, that I could see. The +air seemed to be blown violently through the nostrils, though sounding as +if driven through the teeth--a shrilling hiss, fine and piercing, which +one not so much hears as feels, crisping cold along his nerves. + +It may seem strange, but I believe this whistle is a mating-call. Even the +forked tongue (or maybe the nose) of a snake grows vocal with love. If +only the Sphinx had not possessed a heart of stone! No matter about its +lips; with a heart to know the "spring running" we should have heard its +story long ago. Perhaps, after all, the college sophomore was not mixing +his observations and Sunday-school memories when he wrote, describing the +dawn of a spring morning (I quote from his essay): "Beneath in the water +the little fishes darted about the boat; above the little birds twittered +in the branches; while off on a sunny log in the pond the soft, sibilant +croak of the mud-turtle was heard on the shore." If we could happen upon +the mud-turtle mad with love, I am sure we should find that he had a +voice--a "soft, sibilant croak," who knows? + +I had long known the tradition among the farmers of the black-snake's +trailing its mate, following her by scent through grass and brush, +persistent and sure as a sleuth-hound, until at last she is won. I had +been told of this by eyewitnesses over and over, but I had always put it +down as a snake story, for these same witnesses would also tell me the +hoop-snake story, only it was their grandfathers, always, who had seen +this creature take its tail in its mouth and roll, and hit and kill a +fifty-dollar apple-tree (the tree was invariably worth fifty dollars). I +had small faith in the trailing tale. + +One day, the summer after my encounter in the ferns, I was sitting upon a +harrow at the edge of the gravelly field that slopes to the swale, when a +large black-snake glided swiftly across the lane and disappeared in the +grass beyond. It had been gone perhaps a minute, when I heard another stir +behind me, and turning, saw high above the weeds and dewberry-vines the +neck and head of a second black-snake. + +He was coming swiftly, evenly, carrying his gleaming head over a foot from +the ground, and following hard upon the trail of the first snake. He hit +very near the smooth, flowing mark in the dust of the lane. Here she had +crossed. Here he was about to cross when he caught sight of me. + +For a startled instant he stiffened, threw himself on the defensive, and +showed a white patch under his chin, an ugly, blazing light in his eye, +and a peculiarly aggressive attitude that there was no mistaking. I had +seen this snake before. I knew him. He was the dragon of the swale. + +Only pausing, he whirled, struck the track, and sped on, his round black +body stretching from rut to rut of the lane. A hundred feet beyond in the +grass I saw his glittering head rise and sway with a swimming motion as he +trailed the long, lithe beauty that was leading him this lightning race +across the fields. + +This was not the last time he crossed my path. He never withstood me +again; but he thwarted me several times. Once as I was descending the +slope I saw him gliding down from a low cedar. The distressing cries of +two chippies told me what he had been doing in the tree; I did not need to +look at the half-dislodged nest. Then and there I vowed to kill him, but +from that moment I never set eyes on him again. His evil work, however, +went on. In a clump of briers across the stream was the nest of a pair of +redbirds that I was watching. One day just before the young could fly they +were carried off. I knew who did it. On the same side, up under the fence +by the woods, a litter of rabbits was destroyed. The snake killed them. It +was he, too, who ate the eggs of the bluebirds in the old apple-tree along +the fence in the adjoining field. + +There must be a dragon in the way, I suppose--in the way even of nature +study. There are unpleasant, perhaps unnecessary, and evil +creatures--snakes!--in the fields and woods, which we must be willing to +meet and tolerate for the love within us. Tick-seeds, beggar-needles, mud, +mosquitos, rain, heat, hawks, and snakes haunt all our paths, hindering us +sometimes, though never really blocking the way. + +But the dragon in the swale--ought I to tolerate him? No. There are +moments when I should be glad to kill him, yet I doubt if the swale would +be quite so wild and thrilling a spot if I knew there was no dragon to +meet me as I crossed. But the redbirds, bluebirds, rabbits? I see no +shrinking in their numbers because of the snake. A few of them breed as +they always have along the swale. There are worse enemies than the dragon, +though he is bad enough. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Roof and Meadow, by Dallas Lore Sharp + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROOF AND MEADOW *** + +***** This file should be named 14701.txt or 14701.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/7/0/14701/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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