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diff --git a/22101-h/22101-h.htm b/22101-h/22101-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d31519b --- /dev/null +++ b/22101-h/22101-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5033 @@ +<!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> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wood Folk at School, by William J. Long. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + a {text-decoration:none; color:blue;} + a:visited {color:gray;} + body {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%;} + h1,h2,h3 {text-align: center; clear: both;} + h2+p {text-indent:0;} + h3 {margin-bottom:0;} + hr {width: 65%; margin:2em auto 2em auto; clear:both;} + hr.minor {width: 45%; margin:1em auto 1em auto; clear:both;} + p {margin-top:.75em; text-align:justify; margin-bottom:.75em; text-indent:1.5em;} + p.noin {text-indent:0;} + table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + ul.off {list-style-type:none;} + ul.hi li {margin-left: 2em; text-indent:-2em;} + .ad {margin-top:2em; border-top:1px dotted; border-bottom:1px dotted;} + .b {font-weight:bold;} + .bbox {border:solid 1px; padding:0.5em; margin-top:2em;} + .c {text-align: center;} + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-size:75%;} + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin: 1em 1em 1em 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin: 1em 0 1em 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + .i {font-style: italic;} + .lc {text-transform:lowercase;} + .mt2 {margin-top:2em;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 95%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right; text-indent:0;} + .ralign {position:absolute; right:20%; text-align:right;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + .sf75 {font-size:75%;} + .sf50 {font-size:50%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Wood Folk at School, by William J. Long + +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: Wood Folk at School + +Author: William J. Long + +Release Date: July 19, 2007 [EBook #22101] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WOOD FOLK AT SCHOOL *** + + + + +Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, LN Yaddanapudi and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_Cover" id="Page_Cover">[Cover]</a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 409px;"> +<img src="images/ill-cover.jpg" width="409" height="600" alt="Cover Page" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></p> +<h1 class='i'>Wood Folk at School</h1> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p002.png" width="400" height="189" +alt="Wood Folk at School" title="" /></div> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="FRONTISPIECE" id="FRONTISPIECE"></a><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 418px;"><a name="HUGE_BEAR" id="HUGE_BEAR"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p005.jpg" width="418" height="600" +alt="“THERE AT A TURN IN THE PATH, NOT TEN YARDS AHEAD, STOOD A HUGE BEAR.”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“THERE AT A TURN IN THE PATH, NOT TEN YARDS AHEAD, STOOD A HUGE BEAR.”</span></div> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></p> +<h1>WOOD FOLK AT SCHOOL<br /> + +<span class='sf50'>BY</span><br /> + +<span class='sf75'>WILLIAM J. LONG</span></h1> + +<p class='b c i mt2 noin'>WOOD FOLK SERIES<br /> +BOOK FOUR</p> + +<p class='b c mt2 noin'>GINN & COMPANY<br /> +<span class='sf50'>BOSTON · NEW YORK · CHICAGO · LONDON</span></p> + +<p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></p> +<p class='b c mt2 noin sc'>Entered at Stationers' Hall<br /> + +COPYRIGHT, 1902, 1903<br /> +by WILLIAM J. LONG<br /> + +<span class='lc'>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</span></p> + +<p class='b c mt2 noin'>The Athenæum Press<br /> +<span class='sf75'>GINN & COMPANY · CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS</span></p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></p> +<h2>PREFACE</h2> + +<p>It may surprise many, whose knowledge of wild animals is gained from +rare, fleeting glimpses of frightened hoof or wing in the woods, to +consider that there can be such a thing as a school for the Wood Folk; +or that instruction has any place in the life of the wild things. +Nevertheless it is probably true that education among the higher order +of animals has its distinct place and value. Their knowledge, however +simple, is still the result of three factors: instinct, training, and +experience. Instinct only begins the work; the mother’s training +develops and supplements the instinct; and contact with the world, with +its sudden dangers and unknown forces, finishes the process.</p> + +<p>For many years the writer has been watching animals and recording his +observations with the idea of determining, if possible, which of these +three is the governing factor in the animal’s life. Some of the results +of this study were published last year in a book called “School of the +Woods,” which consisted of certain studies of animals from life, and +certain theories in the form of essays to account for what the writer’s +eyes had seen and his own ears heard in the great wilderness among the +animals.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span> +A school reader is no place for theories; therefore that part of the +book is not given here. The animal studies alone are reproduced in +answer to the requests from many teachers that these be added to the +Wood Folk books. From these the reader can form his own conclusions as +to the relative importance of instinct and training, if he will. But +there is another and a better way open: watch the purple martins for a +few days when the young birds first leave the house; find a crow’s nest, +and watch secretly while the old birds are teaching their little ones to +fly; follow a fox, or any other wild mother-animal, patiently as she +leaves the den and leads the cubs out into the world of unknown sights +and sounds and smells,—and you will learn more in a week of what +education means to the animals than anybody’s theories can ever teach +you.</p> + +<p>These are largely studies of individual animals and birds. They do not +attempt to give the habits of a class or species, for the animals of the +same class are alike only in a general way; they differ in interest and +intelligence quite as widely as men and women of the same class, if you +but watch them closely enough. The names here given are those of the +Milicete Indians, as nearly as I can remember them; and the incidents +have all passed under my own-eyes and were recorded in the woods, from +my tent or canoe, just as I saw them.</p> + +<p class="noin" style="text-align: right;">WILLIAM J. LONG.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Stamford, Conn.,</span> March, 1903.</p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></p> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + +<ul class='off sc'> +<li><span class="ralign">Page</span><br /></li> +<li><a href="#WHAT_THE_FAWNS_MUST_KNOW">What the Fawns must know</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#A_CRY_IN_THE_NIGHT">A Cry in the Night</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#ISMAQUES_THE_FISHHAWK">Ismaques the Fishhawk</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#A_SCHOOL_FOR_LITTLE_FISHERMEN">A School for Little Fishermen</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#WHEN_YOU_MEET_A_BEAR">When you meet a Bear</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#QUOSKH_THE_KEEN_EYED">Quoskh the Keen Eyed</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#UNK_WUNK_THE_PORCUPINE">Unk Wunk the Porcupine</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#A_LAZY_FELLOWS_FUN">A Lazy Fellow’s Fun</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#THE_PARTRIDGES_ROLL_CALL">The Partridges’ Roll Call</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_134">134</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#UMQUENAWIS_THE_MIGHTY">Umquenawis the Mighty</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></span></li> +<li><a href="#AT_THE_SOUND_OF_THE_TRUMPET">At the Sound of the Trumpet</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></span></li> +<li style='margin-top:0.5em;'><a href="#GLOSSARY_OF_INDIAN_NAMES">Glossary of Indian Names</a> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></span></li> +</ul> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></p> +<h2><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +<ul class='off'> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#HUGE_BEAR">“There at a Turn in the Path, not Ten Yards ahead, stood a Huge Bear”</a></span> <span class="i ralign"><a href="#FRONTISPIECE">Frontispiece</a></span></li> +<li><span class="ralign sf75 sc">Facing Page</span><br /></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#WHITE_FLAG">“The White Flag showing like a Beacon Light as she jumped away”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></span></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#HER_EYES">“Her Eyes all ablaze with the Wonder of the light”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></span></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#SOME_ANIMAL">“Presently they began to swoop fiercely at some Animal”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></span></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#GRIPPING_FISH">“Gripping his Fish and <span style="font-variant:normal; font-style:italic;">pip-pipping</span> his Exultation”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></span></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#FISHER_JUMPED">“A Dozen Times the Fisher jumped, filling the Air with Feathers”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_104">104</a></span></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#BOTHERS_PORCUPINE">“Bothers and irritates the Porcupine by flipping Earth at him”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_118">118</a></span></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#TURN_HEADS">“They would turn their Heads and listen intently”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></span></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#GREAT_ENGINE">“Plunging like a Great Engine through Underbrush and over Windfalls”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_152">152</a></span></li> +<li><span class="sc"><a href="#MIGHTY_SPRING">“A Mighty Spring of his Crouching Haunches finished the Work”</a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></span></li> +</ul> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter" style="width: 400px; font-family:cursive;"> +<a name="WHAT_THE_FAWNS_MUST_KNOW" id="WHAT_THE_FAWNS_MUST_KNOW"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p014.png" width="400" height="206" +alt="What the Fawns Must Know" title="" /></h2> + +<p>To this day it is hard to understand how any eyes could have found them, +they were so perfectly hidden. I was following a little brook, which led +me by its singing to a deep dingle in the very heart of the big woods. A +great fallen tree lay across my path and made a bridge over the stream. +Now, bridges are for crossing; that is plain to even the least of the +wood folk; so I sat down on the mossy trunk to see who my neighbors +might be, and what little feet were passing on the King’s highway.</p> + +<p>Here, beside me, are claw marks in the moldy bark. Only a bear could +leave that deep, strong imprint. And see! there is where the moss +slipped and broke beneath his weight. A restless tramp is Mooween, who +scatters his records over forty miles of hillside on a summer day, when +his lazy mood happens to leave him for a season. Here, on the other +side, are the bronze-green petals of a spruce cone, chips from +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> a +squirrel’s workshop, scattered as if Meeko had brushed them hastily from +his yellow apron when he rushed out to see Mooween as he passed. There, +beyond, is a mink sign, plain as daylight, where Cheokhes sat down a +little while after his breakfast of frogs. And here, clinging to a stub, +touching my elbow as I sit with heels dangling idly over the lazy brook, +is a crinkly yellow hair, which tells me that Eleemos the Sly One, as +Simmo calls him, hates to wet his feet and so uses a fallen tree or a +stone in the brook for a bridge, like his brother fox of the +settlements.</p> + +<p>Just in front of me was another fallen tree, lying alongside the stream +in such a way that no animal more dangerous than a roving mink would +ever think of using it. Under its roots, away from the brook, was a +hidden and roomy little house with hemlock tips drooping over its +doorway for a curtain. “A pretty place for a den,” I thought; “for no +one could ever find you there.” Then, as if to contradict me, a stray +sunbeam found the spot and sent curious bright glintings of sheen and +shadow dancing and playing under the fallen roots and trunk. +“Beautiful!” I cried, as the light fell on the brown mold and flecked it +with white and yellow. The sunbeam went away again, but seemed to leave +its brightness behind it;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> +for there were still the gold-brown mold +under the roots and the flecks of white and yellow. I stooped down to +see it better; I reached in my hand—then the brown mold changed +suddenly to softest fur; the glintings of white and yellow were the +dappled sides of two little fawns, lying there very still and +frightened, just where their mother had hidden them when she went away.</p> + +<p>They were but a few days old when I found them. Each had on his little +Joseph’s coat; and each, I think, must have had also a magic cloak +somewhere about him; for he had only to lie down anywhere to become +invisible. The curious markings, like the play of light and shadow +through the leaves, hid the little owners perfectly so long as they held +themselves still and let the sunbeams dance over them. Their beautiful +heads were a study for an artist,—delicate, graceful, exquisitely +colored. And their great soft eyes had a questioning innocence, as they +met yours, which went straight to your heart and made you claim the +beautiful creatures for your own instantly. Indeed, there is nothing in +all the woods that so takes your heart by storm as the face of a little +fawn.</p> + +<p>They were timid at first, lying close without motion of any kind. The +instinct of obedience—the first and strongest instinct of every +creature born into this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> +world—kept them loyal to the mother’s command +to stay where they were and be still till she came back. So even after +the hemlock curtain was brushed aside, and my eyes saw and my hand +touched them, they kept their heads flat to the ground and pretended +that they were only parts of the brown forest floor, and that the spots +on their bright coats were but flecks of summer sunshine.</p> + +<p>I felt then that I was an intruder; that I ought to go straight away and +leave them; but the little things were too beautiful, lying there in +their wonderful old den, with fear and wonder and questionings dancing +in their soft eyes as they turned them back at me like a mischievous +child playing peekaboo. It is a tribute to our higher nature that one +cannot see a beautiful thing anywhere without wanting to draw near, to +see, to touch, to possess it. And here was beauty such as one rarely +finds, and, though I was an intruder, I could not go away.</p> + +<p>The hand that touched the little wild things brought no sense of danger +with it. It searched out the spots behind their velvet ears where they +love to be rubbed; it wandered down over their backs with a little wavy +caress in its motion; it curled its palm up softly under their moist +muzzles and brought their tongues out instantly for the faint suggestion +of salt that was in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> +it. Suddenly their heads came up. All deception was +over now. They had forgotten their hiding, their first lesson; they +turned and looked at me full with their great, innocent, questioning +eyes. It was wonderful; I was undone. One must give his life, if need +be, to defend the little things after they had looked at him just once +like that.</p> + +<p>When I rose at last, after petting them to my heart’s content, they +staggered up to their feet and came out of their house. Their mother had +told them to stay; but here was another big, kind animal, evidently, +whom they might safely trust. “Take the gifts the gods provide thee” was +the thought in their little heads; and the salty taste in their tongues’ +ends, when they licked my hand, was the nicest thing they had ever +known. As I turned away they ran after me, with a plaintive little cry +to bring me back. When I stopped they came close, nestling against me, +one on either side, and lifted their heads to be petted and rubbed +again.</p> + +<p>Standing so, all eagerness and wonder, they were a perfect study in +first impressions of the world. Their ears had already caught the deer +trick of twitching nervously and making trumpets at every sound. A leaf +rustled, a twig broke, the brook’s song swelled as a floating stick +jammed in the current, and instantly the fawns were all alert. Eyes, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +ears, noses questioned the phenomenon. Then they would raise their eyes +slowly to mine. “This is a wonderful world. This big wood is full of +music. We know so little; please tell us all about it,”—that is what +the beautiful eyes were saying as they lifted up to mine, full of +innocence and delight at the joy of living. Then the hands that rested +fondly, one on either soft neck, moved down from their ears with a +caressing sweep and brought up under their moist muzzles. Instantly the +wood and its music vanished; the questions ran away out of their eyes. +Their eager tongues were out, and all the unknown sounds were forgotten +in the new sensation of lapping a man’s palm, which had a wonderful +taste hidden somewhere under its friendly roughnesses. They were still +licking my hands, nestling close against me, when a twig snapped faintly +far behind us.</p> + +<p>Now, twig snapping is the great index to all that passes in the +wilderness. Curiously enough, no two animals can break even a twig under +their feet and give the same warning. The <i>crack</i> under a bear’s foot, +except when he is stalking his game, is heavy and heedless. The hoof of +a moose crushes a twig, and chokes the sound of it before it can tell +its message fairly. When a twig speaks under a deer in his passage +through the woods, the sound is sharp, dainty, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> alert. It suggests the +<i>plop</i> of a raindrop into the lake. And the sound behind us now could +not be mistaken. The mother of my little innocents was coming.</p> + +<p>I hated to frighten her, and through her to destroy their new +confidence; so I hurried back to the den, the little ones running close +by my side. Ere I was halfway, a twig snapped sharply again; there was a +swift rustle in the underbrush, and a doe sprang out with a low bleat as +she saw the home log.</p> + +<p>At sight of me she stopped short, trembling violently, her ears pointing +forward like two accusing fingers, an awful fear in her soft eyes as she +saw her little ones with her archenemy between them, his hands resting +on their innocent necks. Her body swayed away, every muscle tense for +the jump; but her feet seemed rooted to the spot. Slowly she swayed back +to her balance, her eyes holding mine; then away again as the danger +scent poured into her nose. But still the feet stayed. She could not +move; could not believe. Then, as I waited quietly and tried to make my +eyes say all sorts of friendly things, the harsh, throaty <i>K-a-a-a-h! +k-a-a-a-h!</i> the danger cry of the deer, burst like a trumpet blast +through the woods, and she leaped back to cover.</p> + +<p>At the sound the little ones jumped as if stung, and plunged into the +brush in the opposite direction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +But the strange place frightened them; +the hoarse cry that went crashing through the startled woods filled them +with nameless dread. In a moment they were back again, nestling close +against me, growing quiet as the hands stroked their sides without +tremor or hurry.</p> + +<p>Around us, out of sight, ran the fear-haunted mother, calling, calling; +now showing her head, with the terror deep in her eyes; now dashing +away, with her white flag up, to show her little ones the way they must +take. But the fawns gave no heed after the first alarm. They felt the +change; their ears were twitching nervously, and their eyes, which had +not yet grown quick enough to measure distances and find their mother in +her hiding, were full of strange terror as they questioned mine. Still, +under the alarm, they felt the kindness which the poor mother, +dog-driven and waylaid by guns, had never known. Therefore they stayed, +with a deep wisdom beyond all her cunning, where they knew they were +safe.</p> + +<p>I led them slowly back to their hiding place, gave them a last lick at +my hands, and pushed them gently under the hemlock curtain. When they +tried to come out I pushed them back again. “Stay there, and mind your +mother; stay there, and follow your mother,” I kept whispering. And to +this day I have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +a half belief that they understood, not the word but +the feeling behind it; for they grew quiet after a time and looked out +with wide-open, wondering eyes. Then I dodged out of sight, jumped the +fallen log to throw them off the scent should they come out, crossed the +brook, and glided out of sight into the underbrush. Once safely out of +hearing I headed straight for the open, a few yards away, where the +blasted stems of the burned hillside showed faintly through the green of +the big woods, and climbed, and looked, and changed my position, till at +last I could see the fallen tree under whose roots my little innocents +were hiding.</p> + +<p>The hoarse danger cry had ceased; the woods were all still again. A +movement in the underbrush, and I saw the doe glide out beyond the brook +and stand looking, listening. She bleated softly; the hemlock curtain +was thrust aside, and the little ones came out. At sight of them she +leaped forward, a great gladness showing eloquently in every line of her +graceful body, rushed up to them, dropped her head and ran her keen nose +over them, ears to tail and down their sides and back again, to be sure +that they were her own little ones and were not harmed. All the while +the fawns nestled close to her, as they had done a moment before to me, +and lifted their heads to touch her sides +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> with their noses, and ask in +their own dumb way what it was all about, and why she had run away.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 418px;"><a name='WHITE_FLAG' id='WHITE_FLAG'></a> +<img src="images/ill-p023.jpg" width="418" height="600" +alt="“THE WHITE FLAG SHOWING LIKE A BEACON LIGHT AS SHE JUMPED AWAY”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“THE WHITE FLAG SHOWING LIKE A BEACON LIGHT AS SHE JUMPED AWAY”</span></div> + +<p>Then, as the smell of the man came to her from the tainted underbrush, +the absolute necessity of teaching them their neglected second lesson +before another danger should find them swept over her in a flood. She +sprang aside with a great bound, and the hoarse <i>K-a-a-a-h! k-a-a-a-h!</i> +crashed through the woods again. Her tail was straight up, the white +flag showing like a beacon light as she jumped away. Behind her the +fawns stood startled a moment, trembling with a new wonder. Then their +flags went up too, and they wabbled away on slender legs through the +tangles and over the rough places of the wood, bravely following their +leader. And I, watching from my hiding, with a vague regret that they +could never again be mine, not even for a moment, saw only the crinkling +lines of underbrush and here and there the flash of a little white flag. +So they went up the hill and out of sight.</p> + +<p>First, lie still; <span class="figright" style="width: 119px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p025.png" width="119" height="78" alt="" title="" /> +</span>and second, follow the white flag. When I saw them +again it needed no danger cry of the mother to remind them of these two +things that every fawn must know who would live to grow up in the big +woods.</p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter i" style="width: 400px;"> +<a name="A_CRY_IN_THE_NIGHT" id="A_CRY_IN_THE_NIGHT"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p026.png" width="400" height="286" +alt="A Cry in the Night" title="" /></h2> + +<p>This is the rest of the story, just as I saw it, of the little fawns +that I found under the mossy log by the brook. There were two of them, +you remember; and though they looked alike at first glance, I soon found +out that there is just as much difference in fawns as there is in folks. +Eyes, faces, dispositions, characters,—in all things they were as +unlike as the virgins of the parable. One of them was wise, and the +other was very foolish. The one was a follower, a learner; he never +forgot his second lesson, to follow the white flag. The other followed +from the first only his own willful head and feet, and discovered too +late that obedience is life. Until the bear found him, I have no doubt +he was thinking, in his own dumb, foolish way, that obedience is only +for the weak and ignorant, and that government is only +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> an unfair +advantage which all the wilderness mothers take to keep little wild +things from doing as they please.</p> + +<p>The wise old mother took them both away when she knew I had found them, +and hid them in a deeper solitude of the big woods, nearer the lake, +where she could the sooner reach them from her feeding grounds. For days +after the wonderful discovery I used to go in the early morning or the +late afternoon, while mother deer are away feeding along the +watercourses, and search the dingle from one end to the other, hoping to +find the little ones again and win their confidence. But they were not +there; and I took to watching instead a family of mink that lived in a +den under a root, and a big owl that always slept in the same hemlock. +Then, one day when a flock of partridges led me out of the wild berry +bushes into a cool green island of the burned lands, I ran plump upon +the deer and her fawns lying all together under a fallen treetop, dozing +away the heat of the day.</p> + +<p>They did not see me, but were only scared into action as a branch, upon +which I stood looking for my partridges, gave way beneath my feet and +let me down with a great crash under the fallen tree. There, looking +out, I could see them perfectly, while Kookooskoos himself could hardly +have seen me. At the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +first crack they all jumped like Jack-in-a-box +when you touch his spring. The mother put up her white flag—which is +the snowy underside of her useful tail, and shows like a beacon by day +or night—and bounded away with a hoarse <i>Ka-a-a-a-h!</i> of warning. One +of the little ones followed her on the instant, jumping squarely in his +mother’s tracks, his own little white flag flying to guide any that +might come after him. But the second fawn ran off at a tangent, and +stopped in a moment to stare and whistle and stamp his tiny foot in an +odd mixture of curiosity and defiance. The mother had to circle back +twice before he followed her, at last, unwillingly. As she stole back +each time, her tail was down and wiggling nervously—which is the sure +sign, when you see it, that some scent of you is floating off through +the woods and telling its warning into the deer’s keen nostrils. But +when she jumped away the white flag was straight up, flashing in the +very face of her foolish fawn, telling him as plain as any language what +sign he must follow if he would escape danger and avoid breaking his +legs in the tangled underbrush.</p> + +<p>I did not understand till long afterwards, when I had watched the fawns +many times, how important is this latter suggestion. One who follows a +frightened deer and sees or hears him go bounding off +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> at breakneck pace +over loose rocks and broken trees and tangled underbrush; rising swift +on one side of a windfall without knowing what lies on the other side +till he is already falling; driving like an arrow over ground where you +must follow like a snail, lest you wrench a foot or break an +ankle,—finds himself asking with unanswered wonder how any deer can +live half a season in the wilderness without breaking all his legs. And +when you run upon a deer at night and hear him go smashing off in the +darkness at the same reckless speed, over a tangled blow-down, perhaps, +through which you can barely force your way by daylight, then you +realize suddenly that the most wonderful part of a deer’s education +shows itself, not in keen eyes or trumpet ears, or in his finely trained +nose, more sensitive a hundred times than any barometer, but in his +forgotten feet, which seem to have eyes and nerves and brains packed +into their hard shells instead of the senseless matter you see there.</p> + +<p>Watch the doe yonder as she bounds away, wigwagging her heedless little +one to follow. She is thinking only of him; and now you see her feet +free to take care of themselves. As she rises over the big windfall, +they hang from the ankle joints, limp as a glove out of which the hand +has been drawn, yet seeming to wait and watch. One hoof touches a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> twig; +like lightning it spreads and drops, after running for the smallest +fraction of a second along the obstacle to know whether to relax or +stiffen, or rise or fall to meet it. Just before she strikes the ground +on the down plunge, see the wonderful hind hoofs sweep themselves +forward, surveying the ground by touch, and bracing themselves, in a +fraction of time so small that the eye cannot follow, for the shock of +what lies beneath them, whether rock or rotten wood or yielding moss. +The fore feet have followed the quick eyes above, and shoot straight and +sure to their landing; but the hind hoofs must find the spot for +themselves as they come down and, almost ere they find it, brace +themselves again for the push of the mighty muscles above.</p> + +<p>Once only I found where a fawn with untrained feet had broken its leg; +and once I heard of a wounded buck, driven to death by dogs, that had +fallen in the same way never to rise again. Those were rare cases. The +marvel is that it does not happen to every deer that fear drives through +the wilderness.</p> + +<p>And that is another reason why the fawns must learn to obey a wiser head +than their own. Till their little feet are educated, the mother must +choose the way for them; and a wise fawn will jump squarely in her +tracks. That explains also why deer, even after +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> they are full grown, +will often walk in single file, a half-dozen of them sometimes following +a wise leader, stepping in his tracks and leaving but a single trail. It +is partly, perhaps, to fool their old enemy, the wolf, and their new +enemy, the man, by hiding the weakling’s trail in the stride and hoof +mark of a big buck; but it shows also the old habit, and the training +which begins when the fawns first learn to follow the flag.</p> + +<p>After that second discovery I used to go in the afternoon to a point on +the lake nearest the fawns’ hiding place, and wait in my canoe for the +mother to come out and show me where she had left her little ones. As +they grew, and the drain upon her increased from their feeding, she +seemed always half starved. Waiting in my canoe I would hear the crackle +of brush, as she trotted straight down to the lake almost heedlessly, +and see her plunge through the fringe of bushes that bordered the water. +With scarcely a look or a sniff to be sure the coast was clear, she +would jump for the lily pads. Sometimes the canoe was in plain sight; +but she gave no heed as she tore up the juicy buds and stems, and +swallowed them with the appetite of a famished wolf. Then I would paddle +away and, taking my direction from her trail as she came, hunt +diligently for the fawns until I found them.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +This last happened only two or three times. The little ones were already +wild; they had forgotten all about our first meeting, and when I showed +myself, or cracked a twig too near them, they would promptly bolt into +the brush. One always ran straight away, his white flag flying to show +that he remembered his lesson; the other went off zigzag, stopping at +every angle of his run to look back and question me with his eyes and +ears.</p> + +<p>There was only one way in which such disobedience could end. I saw it +plainly enough one afternoon, when, had I been one of the fierce +prowlers of the wilderness, the little fellow’s history would have +stopped short under the paw of Upweekis, the shadowy lynx of the burned +lands. It was late afternoon when I came over a ridge, following a deer +path on my way to the lake, and looked down into a long narrow valley +filled with berry bushes, and with a few fire-blasted trees standing +here and there to point out the perfect loneliness and desolation of the +place.</p> + +<p>Just below me a deer was feeding hungrily, only her hind quarters +showing out of the underbrush. I watched her awhile, then dropped on all +fours and began to creep towards her, to see how near I could get and +what new trait I might discover. But at the first motion (I had stood at +first like an old stump on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +the ridge) a fawn that had evidently been +watching me all the time from his hiding sprang into sight with a sharp +whistle of warning. The doe threw up her head, looking straight at me as +if she had understood more from the signal than I had thought possible. +There was not an instant’s hesitation or searching. Her eyes went direct +to me, as if the fawn’s cry had said: “Behind you, mother, in the path +by the second gray rock!” Then she jumped away, shooting up the opposite +hill over roots and rocks as if thrown by steel springs, blowing +hoarsely at every jump, and followed in splendid style by her watchful +little one.</p> + +<p>At the first snort of danger there was a rush in the underbrush near +where she had stood, and a second fawn sprang into sight. I knew him +instantly—the heedless one—and knew also that he had neglected too +long the matter of following the flag. He was confused, frightened, +chuckle-headed now; he came darting up the deer path in the wrong +direction, straight towards me, to within two jumps, before he noticed +the man kneeling in the path before him and watching him quietly.</p> + +<p>At the startling discovery he stopped short, seeming to shrink smaller +and smaller before my eyes. Then he edged sidewise to a great stump, hid +himself among the roots, and stood stock-still,—a beautiful picture of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +innocence and curiosity, framed in the rough brown roots of the spruce +stump. It was his first teaching, to hide and be still. Just as he +needed it most, he had forgotten absolutely the second lesson.</p> + +<p>We watched each other full five minutes without moving an eyelash. Then +his first lesson ebbed away. He sidled out into the path again, came +towards me two dainty, halting steps, and stamped prettily with his left +fore foot. He was a young buck, and had that trick of stamping without +any instruction. It is an old, old ruse to make you move, to startle you +by the sound and threatening motion into showing who you are and what +are your intentions.</p> + +<p>But still the man did not move; the fawn grew frightened at his own +boldness and ran away down the path. Far up the opposite hill I heard +the mother calling him. But he heeded not; he wanted to find out things +for himself. There he was in the path again, watching me. I took out my +handkerchief and waved it gently; at which great marvel he trotted back, +stopping anon to look and stamp his little foot, to show me that he was +not afraid.</p> + +<p>“Brave little chap, I like you,” I thought, my heart going out to him as +he stood there with his soft eyes and beautiful face, stamping his +little foot. “But what,” my thoughts went on, “had happened to you +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> ere +now, had a bear or lucivee lifted his head over the ridge? Next month, +alas! the law will be off; then there will be hunters in these woods, +some of whom leave their hearts, with their wives and children, behind +them. You can’t trust them, believe me, little chap. Your mother is +right; you can’t trust them.”</p> + +<p>The night was coming swiftly. The mother’s call, growing ever more +anxious, more insistent, swept over the darkening hillside. “Perhaps,” I +thought, with sudden twinges and alarms of conscience, “perhaps I set +you all wrong, little chap, in giving you the taste of salt that day, +and teaching you to trust things that meet you in the wilderness.” That +is generally the way when we meddle with Mother Nature, who has her own +good reasons for doing things as she does. “But no! there were two of +you under the old log that day; and the other,—he’s up there with his +mother now, where you ought to be,—he knows that old laws are safer +than new thoughts, especially new thoughts in the heads of foolish +youngsters. You are all wrong, little chap, for all your pretty +curiosity, and the stamp of your little foot that quite wins my heart. +Perhaps I am to blame, after all; anyway, I’ll teach you better now.”</p> + +<p>At the thought I picked up a large stone and sent it crashing, jumping, +tearing down the hillside straight<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +at him. All his bravado vanished +like a wink. Up went his flag, and away he went over the logs and rocks +of the great hillside; where presently I heard his mother running in a +great circle till she found him with her nose, thanks to the wood wires +and the wind’s message, and led him away out of danger.</p> + +<p>One who lives for a few weeks in the wilderness, with eyes and ears +open, soon finds that, instead of the lawlessness and blind chance which +seem to hold sway there, he lives in the midst of law and order—an +order of things much older than that to which he is accustomed, with +which it is not well to interfere. I was uneasy, following the little +deer path through the twilight stillness; and my uneasiness was not +decreased when I found on a log, within fifty yards of the spot where +the fawn first appeared, the signs of a big lucivee, with plenty of +fawn’s hair and fine-cracked bones to tell me what he had eaten for his +midnight dinner.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Down at the lower end of the same deer path, where it stopped at the +lake to let the wild things drink, was a little brook. Outside the mouth +of this brook, among the rocks, was a deep pool; and in the pool lived +some big trout. I was there one night, some two weeks later, trying to +catch some of the big trout for my next breakfast.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +Those were wise fish. It was of no use to angle for them by day any +more. They knew all the flies in my book; could tell the new Jenny Lind +from the old Bumble Bee before it struck the water; and seemed to know +perfectly, both by instinct and experience, that they were all frauds, +which might as well be called Jenny Bee and Bumble Lind for any sweet +reasonableness that was in them. Besides all this, the water was warm; +the trout were logy and would not rise.</p> + +<p>By night, however, the case was different. A few of the trout would +leave the pool and prowl along the shores in shallow water to see what +tidbits the darkness might bring, in the shape of night bugs and +careless piping frogs and sleepy minnows. Then, if you built a fire on +the beach and cast a white-winged fly across the path of the firelight, +you would sometimes get a big one.</p> + +<p>It was fascinating sport always, whether the trout were rising or not. +One had to fish with his ears, and keep most of his wits in his hand, +ready to strike quick and hard when the moment came, after an hour of +casting. Half the time you would not see your fish at all, but only hear +the savage plunge as he swirled down with your fly. At other times, as +you struck sharply at the plunge, your fly would come +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> back to you, or +tangle itself up in unseen snags; and far out, where the verge of the +firelight rippled away into darkness, you would see a sharp wave-wedge +shooting away, which told you that your trout was only a musquash. +Swimming quietly by, he had seen you and your fire, and slapped his tail +down hard on the water to make you jump. That is a way Musquash has in +the night, so that he can make up his mind what queer thing you are and +what you are doing.</p> + +<p>All the while, as you fish, the great dark woods stand close about you, +silent, listening. The air is full of scents and odors that steal abroad +only by night, while the air is dew-laden. Strange cries, calls, +squeaks, rustlings run along the hillside, or float in from the water, +or drop down from the air overhead, to make you guess and wonder what +wood folk are abroad at such unseemly hours, and what they are about. So +that it is good to fish by night, as well as by day, and go home with +heart and head full, even though your creel be empty.</p> + +<p>I was standing very still by my fire, waiting for a big trout that had +risen and missed my fly to regain his confidence, when I heard cautious +rustlings in the brush behind me. I turned instantly, and there were two +great glowing spots, the eyes of a deer, flashing +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> out of the dark +woods. A swift rustle, and two more coals glow lower down, flashing and +scintillating with strange colors; and then two more; and I know that +the doe and her fawns are there, stopped and fascinated on their way to +drink by the great wonder of the light, and by the witchery of the +dancing shadows that rush up at timid wild things, as if to frighten +them, but only jump over them and back again, as if inviting them to +join the silent play.</p> + +<p>I knelt down quietly beside my fire, slipping on a great roll of birch +bark which blazed up brightly, filling the woods with light. There, +under a spruce, where a dark shadow had been a moment agone, stood the +mother, her eyes all ablaze with the wonder of the light; now staring +steadfastly into the fire; now starting nervously, with low questioning +snorts, as a troop of shadows ran up to play hop-scotch with the little +ones, which stood close behind her, one on either side.</p> + +<p>A moment only it lasted. Then one fawn—I knew the heedless one, even in +the firelight, by his face and by his bright-dappled Joseph’s coat—came +straight towards me, stopping to stare with flashing eyes when the fire +jumped up, and then to stamp his little foot at the shadows to show them +that he was not afraid.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 416px;"><a name='HER_EYES' id='HER_EYES'></a> +<img src="images/ill-p040.jpg" width="416" height="600" +alt="“HER EYES ALL ABLAZE WITH THE WONDER OF THE LIGHT”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“HER EYES ALL ABLAZE WITH THE WONDER OF THE LIGHT”</span></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +The mother called him anxiously; but still he came on, stamping +prettily. She grew uneasy, trotting back and forth in a half circle, +warning, calling, pleading. Then, as he came between her and the fire, +and his little shadow stretched away up the hill where she was, showing +how far away he was from her and how near the light, she broke away from +its fascination with an immense effort: <i>Ka-a-a-h! ka-a-a-h!</i> the hoarse +cry rang through the startled woods like a pistol shot; and she bounded +away, her white flag shining like a wave crest in the night to guide her +little ones.</p> + +<p>The second fawn followed her instantly; but the heedless one barely +swung his head to see where she was going, and then came on towards the +light, staring and stamping in foolish wonder.</p> + +<p>I watched him a little while, fascinated myself by his beauty, his +dainty motions, his soft ears with a bright oval of light about them, +his wonderful eyes glowing like burning rainbows kindled by the +firelight. Far behind him the mother’s cry ran back and forth along the +hillside. Suddenly it changed; a danger note leaped into it; and again I +heard the call to follow and the crash of brush as she leaped away. I +remembered the lynx and the sad little history written on the log above. +As the quickest way<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +of saving the foolish youngster, I kicked my fire +to pieces and walked out towards him. Then, as the wonder vanished in +darkness and the scent of the man poured up to him on the lake’s breath, +the little fellow bounded away—alas! straight up the deer path, at +right angles to the course his mother had taken a moment before.</p> + +<p>Five minutes later I heard the mother calling a strange note in the +direction he had taken, and went up the deer path very quietly to +investigate. At the top of the ridge, where the path dropped away into a +dark narrow valley with dense underbrush on either side, I heard the +fawn answering her, below me among the big trees, and knew instantly +that something had happened. He called continuously, a plaintive cry of +distress, in the black darkness of the spruces. The mother ran around +him in a great circle, calling him to come; while he lay helpless in the +same spot, telling her he could not, and that she must come to him. So +the cries went back and forth in the listening night,—<i>Hoo-wuh</i>, “come +here.” <i>Bla-a-a, blr-r-t</i>, “I can’t; come here.” <i>Ka-a-a-h, ka-a-a-h!</i> +“danger, follow!”—and then the crash of brush as she rushed away +followed by the second fawn, whom she must save, though she abandoned +the heedless one to prowlers of the night.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +It was clear enough what had happened. The cries of the wilderness all +have their meaning, if one but knows how to interpret them. Running +through the dark woods his untrained feet had missed their landing, and +he lay now under some rough windfall, with a broken leg to remind him of +the lesson he had neglected so long.</p> + +<p>I was stealing along towards him, feeling my way among the trees in the +darkness, stopping every moment to listen to his cry to guide me, when a +heavy rustle came creeping down the hill and passed close before me. +Something, perhaps, in the sound—a heavy, though almost noiseless +onward push which only one creature in the woods can possibly +make—something, perhaps, in a faint new odor in the moist air told me +instantly that keener ears than mine had heard the cry; that Mooween the +bear had left his blueberry patch, and was stalking the heedless fawn, +whom he knew, by the hearing of his ears, to have become separated from +his watchful mother in the darkness.</p> + +<p>I regained the path silently—though Mooween heeds nothing when his game +is afoot—and ran back to the canoe for my rifle. Ordinarily a bear is +timid as a rabbit; but I had never met one so late at night before, and +knew not how he would act<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +should I take his game away. Besides, there +is everything in the feeling with which one approaches an animal. If one +comes timidly, doubtfully, the animal knows it; and if one comes swift, +silent, resolute, with his power gripped tight, and the hammer back, and +a forefinger resting lightly on the trigger guard, the animal knows it +too, you may depend. Anyway, they always act as if they knew; and you +may safely follow the rule that, whatever your feeling is, whether fear +or doubt or confidence, the large and dangerous animals will sense it +instantly and adopt the opposite feeling for their rule of action. That +is the way I have always found it in the wilderness. I met a bear once +on a narrow path—but I must tell about that elsewhere.</p> + +<p>The cries had ceased; the woods were all dark and silent when I came +back. I went as swiftly as possible—without heed or caution; for +whatever crackling I made the bear would attribute to the desperate +mother—to the spot where I had turned back. Thence I went on +cautiously, taking my bearings from one great tree on the ridge that +lifted its bulk against the sky; slower and slower, till, just this side +a great windfall, a twig cracked sharply under my foot. It was answered +instantly by a grunt and a jump beyond the windfall—and then the +crashing rush of a bear up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +the hill, carrying something that caught and +swished loudly on the bushes as it passed, till the sounds vanished in a +faint rustle far away, and the woods were still again.</p> + +<p>All night long, from my tent over beyond an arm of the big lake, I heard +the mother calling at intervals. She seemed to be running back and forth +along the ridge, above where the tragedy had occurred. Her nose told her +of the bear and the man; but what awful thing they were doing with her +little one she knew not. Fear and questioning were in the calls that +floated down the ridge and across the water to my little tent.</p> + +<p>At daylight I went back to the spot. I found without trouble where the +fawn had fallen; the moss told mutely of his struggle; and a stain or +two showed where Mooween grabbed him. The rest was a plain trail of +crushed moss and bent grass and stained leaves, and a tuft of soft hair +here and there on the jagged ends of knots in the old windfalls. So the +trail hurried up the hill into a wild, rough country where it was of no +use to follow.</p> + +<p>As I climbed the last ridge on my way back to the lake, I heard +rustlings in the underbrush, and then the unmistakable crack of a twig +under a deer’s foot. The mother had winded me; she was now following +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +and circling down wind to find out whether her lost fawn were with me. +As yet she knew not what had happened. The bear had frightened her into +extra care of the one fawn of whom she was sure. The other had simply +vanished into the silence and mystery of the great woods.</p> + +<p>Where the path turned downward, <span class="figleft" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p047.png" width="300" height="271" alt="" title="" /> +</span>in sight of the lake, I saw her for a +moment plainly, standing half hid in the underbrush, looking intently at +my old canoe. She saw me at the same instant and bounded away, +quartering up the hill in my direction. Near a thicket of evergreen that +I had just passed, she sounded her hoarse <i>K-a-a-h, k-a-a-h!</i> and threw +up her flag. There was a rush within the thicket; a sharp <i>K-a-a-h!</i> +answered hers. Then the second fawn burst out of the cover where she had +hidden him, and darted along the ridge after her, jumping like a big red +fox from rock to rock, rising like a hawk over the windfalls, hitting +her tracks wherever he could, and keeping his little nose hard down to +his one needful lesson of following the white flag.</p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter" style="width: 400px; font-variant: small-caps;"> +<a name="ISMAQUES_THE_FISHHAWK" id="ISMAQUES_THE_FISHHAWK"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p048.png" width="400" height="157" alt="Ismaques, the Fishhawk" title="" /></h2> + +<p><i>Whit, whit, ch’wee? Whit, whit, whit, ch’weeeeee!</i> over my head went +the shrill whistling, the hunting cry of Ismaques. Looking up from my +fishing I could see the broad wings sweeping over me, and catch the +bright gleam of his eye as he looked down into my canoe, or behind me at +the cold place among the rocks, to see if I were catching anything. +Then, as he noted the pile of fish,—a blanket of silver on the black +rocks, where I was stowing away chub for bear bait,—he would drop lower +in amazement to see how I did it. When the trout were not rising, and +his keen glance saw no gleam of red and gold in my canoe, he would +circle off with a cheery <i>K’weee!</i> the good-luck call of a brother +fisherman. For there is no envy nor malice nor any uncharitableness in +Ismaques. He lives in harmony with the world, and seems glad when you +land a big one, even though he be hungry himself, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> and the clamor from +his nest, where his little ones are crying, be too keen for his heart’s +content.</p> + +<p>What is there in going a-fishing, I wonder, that seems to change even +the leopard’s spots, and that puts a new heart into the man who hies him +away to the brook when buds are swelling? There is Keeonekh the otter. +Before he turned fisherman he was probably fierce, cruel, bloodthirsty, +with a vile smell about him, like all the other weasels. Now he lives at +peace with all the world and is clean, gentle, playful as a kitten and +faithful as a dog when you make a pet of him. And there is Ismaques the +fishhawk. Before he turned fisherman he was probably hated, like every +other hawk, for his fierceness and his bandit ways. The shadow of his +wings was the signal for hiding to all the timid ones. Jay and crow +cried <i>Thief! thief!</i> and kingbird sounded his war cry and rushed out to +battle. Now the little birds build their nests among the sticks of his +great house, and the shadow of his wings is a sure protection. For owl +and hawk and wild-cat have learned long since the wisdom of keeping well +away from Ismaques’ dwelling.</p> + +<p>Not only the birds, but men also, feel the change in Ismaques’ +disposition. I hardly know a hunter who will not go out of his way for a +shot at a hawk; but they send a hearty good-luck after this winged +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +fisherman of the same fierce family, even though they see him rising +heavily out of the very pool where the big trout live, and where they +expect to cast their flies at sundown. Along the southern New England +shores his coming—regular as the calendar itself—is hailed with +delight by the fishermen. One state, at least, where he is most +abundant, protects him by law; and even our Puritan forefathers, who +seem to have neither made nor obeyed any game laws, looked upon him with +a kindly eye, and made him an exception to the general license for +killing. To their credit, be it known, they once “publikly reeprimanded” +one Master Eliphalet Bodman, a son of Belial evidently, for violently, +with powder and shot, doing away with one fishhawk, and wickedly +destroying the nest and eggs of another.</p> + +<p>Whether this last were also done violently, with powder and shot, by +blowing the nest to pieces with an old gun, or in simple boy-fashion by +shinning up the tree, the quaint old town record does not tell. But all +this goes to show that our ancestors of the coast were kindly people at +heart; that they looked upon this brave, simple fisherman, who built his +nest by their doors, much as the German village people look upon the +stork that builds upon their chimneys, and regarded his coming as an +omen of good luck and plenty to the fisher folk.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +Far back in the wilderness, where Ismaques builds his nest and goes +a-fishing just as his ancestors did a thousand years ago, one finds the +same honest bird, unspoiled alike by plenty or poverty, that excited our +boyish imagination and won the friendly regard of our ancestors of the +coast. Opposite my camp on the lake, where I tarried long one summer, +charmed by the beauty of the place and the good fishing, a pair of +fishhawks had built their nest in the top of a great spruce on the +mountain side. It was this pair of birds that came daily to circle over +my canoe, or over the rocks where I fished for chub, to see how I fared, +and to send back a cheery <i>Ch’wee! chip, ch’weeee!</i> “good luck and good +fishing,” as they wheeled away. It would take a good deal of argument +now to convince me that they did not at last recognize me as a +fellow-fisherman, and were not honestly interested in my methods and +success.</p> + +<p>At first I went to the nest, not so much to study the fishhawks as to +catch fleeting glimpses of a shy, wild life of the woods, which is +hidden from most eyes. The fishing was good, and both birds were expert +fishermen. While the young were growing there was always an abundance in +the big nest on the spruce top. The overflow of this abundance, in the +shape of heads, bones and unwanted remnants, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> was cast over the sides of +the nest and furnished savory pickings for a score of hungry prowlers. +Mink came over from frog hunting in the brook, drawn by the good smell +in the air. Skunks lumbered down from the hill, with a curious, hollow, +bumping sound to announce their coming. Weasels, and one grizzly old +pine marten, too slow or rheumatic for successful tree hunting, glided +out of the underbrush and helped themselves without asking leave. +Wild-cats quarreled like fiends over the pickings; more than once I +heard them there screeching in the night. And one late afternoon, as I +lingered in my hiding among the rocks while the shadows deepened, a big +lucivee stole out of the bushes, as if ashamed of himself, and took to +nosing daintily among the fish bones.</p> + +<p>It was his first appearance, evidently. He did not know that the feast +was free, but thought all the while that he was stealing somebody’s +catch. One could see it all in his attitudes, his starts and listenings, +his low growlings to himself. He was bigger than anybody else there, and +had no cause to be afraid; but there is a tremendous respect among all +animals for the chase law and the rights of others; and the big cat felt +it. He was hungry for fish; but, big as he was, his every movement +showed that he was ready to take to his heels before the first little +creature<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +that should rise up and screech in his face: "This is mine!" +Later, when he grew accustomed to things and the fishhawks’ generosity +in providing a feast for all who might come in from the wilderness +byways and hedges, he would come in boldly enough and claim his own; but +now, moving stealthily about, halting and listening timidly, he +furnished a study in animal rights that repaid in itself all the long +hours of watching.</p> + +<p>But the hawks themselves were more interesting than their unbidden +guests. Ismaques, honest fellow that he is, mates for life, and comes +back to the same nest year after year. The only exception to this rule +that I know is in the case of a fishhawk, whom I knew well as a boy, and +who lost his mate one summer by an accident. The accident came from a +gun in the hands of an unthinking sportsman. The grief of Ismaques was +evident, even to the unthinking. One could hear it in the lonely, +questioning cry that he sent out over the still summer woods; and see it +in the sweep of his wings as he went far afield to other ponds, not to +fish, for Ismaques never fishes on his neighbor’s preserves, but to +search for his lost mate. For weeks he lingered in the old haunts, +calling and searching everywhere; but at last the loneliness and the +memories were too much for him. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +left the place long before the time +of migration had come; and the next spring a strange couple came to the +spot, repaired the old nest, and went fishing in the pond. Ordinarily +the birds respect each other’s fishing grounds, and especially the old +nests; but this pair came and took possession without hesitation, as if +they had some understanding with the former owner, who never came back +again.</p> + +<p>The old spruce on the mountain side had been occupied many years by my +fishing friends. As is usually the case, it had given up its life to its +bird masters. The oil from their frequent feastings had soaked into the +bark, following down and down, checking the sap’s rising, till at last +it grew discouraged and ceased to climb. Then the tree died and gave up +its branches, one by one, to repair the nest above. The jagged, broken +ends showed everywhere how they had been broken off to supply the hawks' +necessities.</p> + +<p>There is a curious bit of building lore suggested by these broken +branches, that one may learn for himself any springtime by watching the +birds at their nest building. Large sticks are required for a +foundation. The ground is strewed with such; but Ismaques never comes +down to the ground if he can avoid it. Even when he drops an unusually +heavy fish, in his flight above the trees, he looks after it +regretfully, but never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +follows. He may be hungry, but he will not set +his huge hooked talons on the earth. He cannot walk, and loses all his +power there. So he goes off and fishes patiently, hours long, to replace +his lost catch.</p> + +<p>When he needs sticks for his nest, he searches out a tree and breaks off +the dead branches by his weight. If the stick be stubborn, he rises far +above it and drops like a cannon ball, gripping it in his claws and +snapping it short off at the same instant by the force of his blow. +Twice I have been guided to where Ismaques and his mate were collecting +material by reports like pistol shots ringing through the wood, as the +great birds fell upon the dead branches and snapped them off. Once, when +he came down too hard, I saw him fall almost to the ground, flapping +lustily, before he found his wings and sailed away with his four-foot +stick triumphantly.</p> + +<p>There is another curious bit of bird lore that I discovered here in the +autumn, when, much later than usual, I came back through the lake. +Ismaques, when he goes away for the long winter at the South, does not +leave his house to the mercy of the winter storms until he has first +repaired it. Large fresh sticks are wedged in firmly across the top of +the nest; doubtful ones are pulled out and carefully replaced, and the +whole structure made shipshape for stormy weather. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> This careful repair, +together with the fact that the nest is always well soaked in oil, which +preserves it from the rain, saves a deal of trouble for Ismaques. He +builds for life and knows, when he goes away in the fall, that, barring +untoward accidents, his house will be waiting for him with the quiet +welcome of old associations when he comes back in the spring. Whether +this is a habit of all ospreys, or only of the two on Big Squatuk +Lake—who were very wise birds in other ways—I am unable to say.</p> + +<p>What becomes of the young birds is also, to me, a mystery. The home ties +are very strong, and the little ones stay with the parents much longer +than most other birds do; but when the spring comes you will see only +the old birds at the home nest. The young come back to the same general +neighborhood, I think; but where the lake is small they never build nor +trespass on the same waters. As with the kingfishers and sheldrakes, +each pair of birds seem to have their own pond or portion; but by what +old law of the waters they find and stake their claim is yet to be +discovered.</p> + +<p>There were two little ones in the nest when I first found it; and I used +to watch them in the intervals when nothing was stirring in the +underbrush near my hiding place. They were happy, whistling, little +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +fellows, well fed and contented with the world. At times they would +stand for hours on the edge of the nest, looking down over the slanting +tree-tops to the lake, finding the great rustling green world, and the +passing birds, and the glinting of light on the sparkling water, and the +hazy blue of the distant mountains marvelously interesting, if one could +judge from their attitude and their pipings. Then a pair of broad wings +would sweep into sight, and they would stretch their wings wide and +break into eager whistlings,—<i>Pip, pip, ch’wee? chip, ch’weeeeee?</i> “did +you get him? is he a big one, mother?” And they would stand tiptoeing +gingerly about the edge of the great nest, stretching their necks +eagerly for a first glimpse of the catch.</p> + +<p>At times only one of the old birds would go a-fishing, while the other +watched the nest. But when luck was poor both birds would seek the lake. +At such times the mother bird, larger and stronger than the male, would +fish along the shore, within sight and hearing of her little ones. The +male, meanwhile, would go sweeping down the lake to the trout pools at +the outlet, where the big chub lived, in search of better fishing +grounds. If the wind were strong, you would see a curious bit of sea +lore as he came back with his fish. He would never fly straight against +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +wind, but tack back and forth, as if he had learned the trick from +watching the sailor fishermen of the coast beating back into harbor. +And, watching him through your glass, you would see that he always +carried his fish endwise and head first, so as to present the least +possible resistance to the breeze.</p> + +<p>While the young were being fed, you were certain to gain new respect for +Ismaques by seeing how well he brought up his little ones. If the fish +were large, it was torn into shreds and given piecemeal to the young, +each of whom waited for his turn with exemplary patience. There was no +crowding or pushing for the first and biggest bite, such as you see in a +nest of robins. If the fish were small, it was given entire to one of +the young, who worried it down as best he could, while the mother bird +swept back to the lake for another. The second nestling stood on the +edge of the nest meanwhile, whistling good luck and waiting his turn, +without a thought, apparently, of seizing a share from his mate beside +him.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Just under the hawks a pair of jays had built their nest among the +sticks of Ismaques’ dwelling, and raised their young on the abundant +crumbs which fell from the rich man's table. It was curious and +intensely interesting to watch the change +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> which seemed to be going on +in the jays’ disposition by reason of the unusual friendship. Deedeeaskh +the jay has not a friend among the wood folk. They all know he is a +thief and a meddler, and hunt him away without mercy if they find him +near their nests. But the great fishhawks welcomed him, trusted him; and +he responded nobly to the unusual confidence. He never tried to steal +from the young, not even when the mother bird was away, but contented +himself with picking up the stray bits that they had left. And he more +than repaid Ismaques by the sharp watch which he kept over the nest, and +indeed over all the mountain side. Nothing passes in the woods without +the jay’s knowledge; and here he seemed, for all the world, like a +watchful terrier, knowing that he had only to bark to bring a power of +wing and claw sufficient to repel any danger. When prowlers came down +from the mountain to feast on the heads and bones scattered about the +foot of the tree, Deedeeaskh dropped down among them and went dodging +about, whistling his insatiable curiosity. So long as they took only +what was their own, he made no fuss about it; but he was there to watch, +and he let them know sharply their mistake, if they showed any desire to +cast evil eyes at the nest above.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;"> +<a name="SOME_ANIMAL" id="SOME_ANIMAL"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p061.jpg" width="417" height="600" +alt="“PRESENTLY THEY BEGAN TO SWOOP FIERCELY AT SOME ANIMAL”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“PRESENTLY THEY BEGAN TO SWOOP FIERCELY AT SOME ANIMAL”</span></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +Once, as my canoe was gliding along the shore, I heard the jays’ +unmistakable cry of danger. The fishhawks were wheeling in great circles +over the lake, watching for the glint of fish near the surface, when the +cry came, and they darted away for the nest. Pushing out into the lake, +I saw them sweeping above the tree-tops in swift circles, uttering +short, sharp cries of anger. Presently they began to swoop fiercely at +some animal—a fisher, probably—that was climbing the tree below. I +stole up to see what it was; but ere I reached the place they had driven +the intruder away. I heard one of the jays far off in the woods, +following the robber and screaming to let the fishhawks know just where +he was. The other jay sat close by her own little ones, cowering under +the shadow of the great dark wings above. And presently Deedeeaskh came +back, bubbling over with the excitement, whistling to them in his own +way that he had followed the rascal clear to his den, and would keep a +sharp watch over him in future.</p> + +<p>When a big hawk came near, or when, on dark afternoons, a young owl took +to hunting in the neighborhood, the jays sounded the alarm, and the +fishhawks swept up from the lake on the instant. Whether Deedeeaskh were +more concerned for his own young than for the young fishhawks I have no +means of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +knowing. The fishermen’s actions at such times showed a +curious mixture of fear and defiance. The mother would sit on the nest +while Ismaques circled over it, both birds uttering a shrill, whistling +challenge. But they never attacked the feathered robbers, as they had +done with the fisher, and, so far as I could see, there was no need. +Kookooskoos the owl and Hawahak the hawk might be very hungry; but the +sight of those great wings circling over the nest and the shrill cry of +defiance in their ears sent them hurriedly away to other hunting +grounds.</p> + +<p>There was only one enemy that ever seriously troubled the fishhawks; and +he did it in as decent a sort of way as was possible under the +circumstances. That was Cheplahgan the eagle. When he was hungry and had +found nothing himself, and his two eaglets, far away in their nest on +the mountain, needed a bite of fish to vary their diet, he would set his +wings to the breeze and mount up till he could see both ospreys at their +fishing. There, sailing in slow circles, he would watch for hours till +he saw Ismaques catch a big fish, when he would drop like a bolt and +hold him up at the point of his talons, like any other highwayman. It +was of no use trying to escape. Sometimes Ismaques would attempt it, but +the great dark wings would whirl around him and strike down a sharp and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +unmistakable warning. It always ended the same way. Ismaques, being +wise, would drop his fish, and the eagle would swoop down after it, +often seizing it ere it reached the water. But he never injured the +fishhawks, and he never disturbed the nest. So they got along well +enough together. Cheplahgan had a bite of fish now and then in his own +high-handed way; and honest Ismaques, who never went long hungry, made +the best of a bad situation. Which shows that fishing has also taught +him patience, and a wise philosophy of living.</p> + +<p>The jays took no part in these struggles. Occasionally they cried out a +sharp warning as Cheplahgan came plunging down out of the blue, over the +head of Ismaques; but they seemed to know perfectly how the unequal +contest must end, and they always had a deal of jabber among themselves +over it, the meaning of which I could never make out.</p> + +<p>As for myself, I am sure that Deedeeaskh could never make up his mind +what to think of me. At first, when I came, he would cry out a danger +note that brought the fishhawks circling over their nest, looking down +into the underbrush with wild yellow eyes to see what danger threatened. +But after I had hidden myself away a few times, and made no motion to +disturb either the nest or the hungry prowlers that +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> came to feast on +the fishhawks’ bounty, Deedeeaskh set me down as an idle, harmless +creature who would, nevertheless, bear watching. He never got over his +curiosity to know what brought me there. Sometimes, when I thought him +far away, I would find him suddenly on a branch just over my head, +looking down at me intently. When I went away he would follow me, +whistling, to my canoe; but he never called the fishhawks again, unless +some unusual action of mine aroused his suspicion; and after one look +they would circle away, as if they knew they had nothing to fear. They +had seen me fishing so often that they thought they understood me, +undoubtedly.</p> + +<p>There was one curious habit of these birds that I had never noticed +before. Occasionally, when the weather threatened a change, or when the +birds and their little ones had fed full, Ismaques would mount up to an +enormous altitude, where he would sail about in slow circles, his broad +vans steady to the breeze, as if he were an ordinary hen hawk, enjoying +himself and contemplating the world from an indifferent distance. +Suddenly, with one clear, sharp whistle to announce his intention, +he would drop like a plummet for a thousand feet, catch himself in +mid-air, and zigzag down to the nest in the spruce top, whirling, +diving, tumbling, and crying aloud the while in wild, ecstatic +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +exclamations,—just as a woodcock comes whirling, plunging, twittering +down from a height to his brown mate in the alders below. Then Ismaques +would mount up again and repeat his dizzy plunge, while his larger mate +stood quiet in the spruce top, and the little fishhawks tiptoed about +the edge of the nest, <i>pip-pipping</i> their wonder and delight at their +own papa’s dazzling performance.</p> + +<p>This is undoubtedly one of Ismaques’ springtime habits, by which he +tries to win an admiring look from the keen yellow eyes of his mate; but +I noticed him using it more frequently as the little fishhawks’ wings +spread to a wonderful length, and he was trying, with his mate, by every +gentle means to induce them to leave the nest. And I have +wondered—without being able at all to prove my theory—whether he were +not trying in this remarkable way to make his little ones want to fly by +showing them how wonderful a thing flying could be made to be.<span class="figright" style="width: 250px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p066.png" width="250" height="135" alt="" title="" /></span></p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter" style="width: 400px; font-family:cursive;"> +<a name="A_SCHOOL_FOR_LITTLE_FISHERMEN" id="A_SCHOOL_FOR_LITTLE_FISHERMEN"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p067.png" width="400" height="284" +alt="A School for Little Fishermen" title="" /></h2> + +<p>There came a day when, as I sat fishing among the rocks, the cry of the +mother osprey changed as she came sweeping up to my fishing +grounds,—<i>Chip, ch’wee! Chip, chip, ch’weeeee?</i> That was the +fisherman’s hail plainly enough; but there was another note in it, a +look-here cry of triumph and satisfaction. Before I could turn my head, +for a fish was nibbling, there came other sounds behind it,—<i>Pip, pip, +pip, ch’weee! pip, ch’wee! pip, ch’weeee!</i> a curious medley, a hail of +good-luck cries; and I knew without turning that two other fishermen had +come to join the brotherhood.</p> + +<p>The mother bird—one can tell her instantly by her greater size and +darker breast markings—veered in as I turned to greet the newcomers, +and came directly over my head, her two little ones flapping lustily +behind her. Two days before, when I went down to another lake on an +excursion after bigger trout, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +young fishhawks were still standing +on the nest, turning a deaf ear to all the old birds’ assurances that +the time had come to use their big wings. The last glimpse I had of them +through my glass showed me the mother bird in one tree, the father in +another, each holding a fish, which they were showing the young across a +tantalizing short stretch of empty air, telling the young in fishhawk +language to come across and get it; while the young birds, on their +part, stretched wings and necks hungrily and tried to whistle the fish +over to them, as one would call a dog across the street.</p> + +<p>In the short interval that I was absent mother wiles and mother patience +had done their good work. The young were already flying well. Now they +were out for their first lesson in fishing, evidently; and I stopped +fishing myself, letting my bait sink into the mud—where an eel +presently tangled my hooks into an old root—to see how it was done. For +fishing is not an instinct with Ismaques, but a simple matter of +training. As with young otters, they know only from daily experience +that fish, and not grouse and rabbits, are their legitimate food. Left +to themselves, especially if one should bring them up on flesh and then +turn them loose, they would go straight back to the old hawk habit of +hunting the woods, which is much easier. To catch fish, therefore, they +must be taught from the first<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +day they leave the nest. And it is a +fascinating experience for any man to watch the way they go about it.</p> + +<p>The young ospreys flew heavily in short irregular circles, scanning the +water with their inexperienced eyes for their first strike. Over them +wheeled the mother bird on broad, even wings, whistling directions to +the young neophytes, who would presently be initiated into the old sweet +mysteries of going a-fishing. Fish were plenty enough; but that means +nothing to a fishhawk, who must see his game reasonably near the surface +before making his swoop. There was a good jump on the lake, and the sun +shone brightly into it. Between the glare and the motion on the surface +the young fishermen were having a hard time of it. Their eyes were not +yet quick enough to tell them when to swoop. At every gleam of silver in +the depths below they would stop short and cry out: <i>Pip!</i> “there he +is!” <i>Pip, pip!</i> “here goes!” like a boy with his first nibble. But a +short, clear whistle from the mother stopped them ere they had begun to +fall; and they would flap up to her, protesting eagerly that they could +catch that fellow, sure, if she would only let them try.</p> + +<p>As they wheeled in over me on their way down the lake, one of the +youngsters caught the gleam of my pile of chub among the rocks. <i>Pip, +ch’weee!</i> he whistled, and down they came, both of them, like rockets. +They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +were hungry; here at hand were fish galore; and they had not +noticed me at all, sitting very still among the rocks. <i>Pip, pip, pip, +hurrah!</i> they piped as they came down.</p> + +<p>But the mother bird, who had noted me and my pile of fish the first +thing as she rounded the point, swept in swiftly with a curious, +half-angry, half-anxious chiding that I had never heard from her +before,—<i>Chip, chip, chip! Chip! Chip!</i>—growing sharper and shriller +at each repetition, till they heeded it and swerved aside. As I looked +up they were just over my head, looking down at me now with eager, +wondering eyes. Then they were led aside in a wide circle and talked to +with wise, quiet whistlings before they were sent back to their fishing +again.</p> + +<p>And now as they sweep round and round over the edge of a shoal, one of +the little fellows sees a fish and drops lower to follow it. The mother +sees it too; notes that the fish is slanting up to the surface, and +wisely lets the young fisherman alone. He is too near the water now; the +glare and the dancing waves bother him; he loses his gleam of silver in +the flash of a whitecap. Mother bird mounts higher, and whistles him up +where he can see better. But there is the fish again, and the youngster, +hungry and heedless, sets his wings for a swoop. <i>Chip, chip!</i> “wait, +he’s going<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +down,” cautions the mother; but the little fellow, too +hungry to wait, shoots down like an arrow. He is a yard above the +surface when a big whitecap jumps up at him and frightens him. He +hesitates, swerves, flaps lustily to save himself. Then under the +whitecap is a gleam of silver again. Down he goes on the instant,—<i>ugh! +boo!</i>—like a boy taking his first dive. He is out of sight for a full +moment, while two waves race over him, and I hold my breath waiting for +him to come up. Then he bursts out, sputtering and shaking himself, and +of course without his fish.</p> + +<p>As he rises heavily the mother, who has been circling over him whistling +advice and comfort, stops short with a single blow of her pinions +against the air. She has seen the same fish, watched him shoot away +under the plunge of her little one, and now sees him glancing up to the +edge of the shoal where the minnows are playing. She knows that the +young pupils are growing discouraged, and that the time has come to +hearten them. <i>Chip, chip!</i>—“watch, I’ll show you,” she +whistles—<i>Cheeeep!</i> with a sharp up-slide at the end, which I soon grow +to recognize as the signal to strike. At the cry she sets her wings and +shoots downward with strong, even plunge, strikes a wave squarely as it +rises, passes under it, and is out on the other side gripping a big +chub. The little ones follow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +her, whistling their delight, and +telling her that perhaps now they will go back to the nest and take a +look at the fish before they go on with their fishing. Which means, of +course, that they will eat it and go to sleep perfectly satisfied with +the good fun of fishing; and then lessons are over for the day.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 414px;"><a name='GRIPPING_FISH' id='GRIPPING_FISH'></a> +<img src="images/ill-p073.jpg" width="414" height="600" +alt="“GRIPPING HIS FISH AND PIP-PIPPING HIS EXULTATION”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“GRIPPING HIS FISH AND <i>PIP-PIPPING</i> HIS EXULTATION”</span></div> + +<p>The mother, however, has other thoughts in her wise head. She knows that +the little ones are not yet tired, only hungry; and that there is much +to teach them before the chub stop shoaling and fishhawks must be off to +the coast. She knows also that they have thus far missed the two things +she brought them out to learn: to take a fish always as he comes up; and +to hit a wave always on the front side, under the crest. Gripping her +fish tightly, she bends in her slow flight and paralyzes it by a single +blow in the spine from her hooked beak. Then she drops it back into the +whitecaps, where, jumping to the top of my rock, I can see it +occasionally struggling near the surface.</p> + +<p><i>Cheeeep!</i> “try it now,” she whistles.</p> + +<p><i>Pip, pip!</i> “here goes!” cries the little one who failed before; and +down he drops, <i>souse!</i> going clear under in his impatient hunger, +forgetting precept and example and past experience.</p> + +<p>Again the waves race over him; but there is a satisfied note in the +mother’s whistle which tells me that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +she sees him, and that he is doing +well. In a moment he is out again with a great rush and sputter, +gripping his fish and <i>pip-pipping</i> his exultation. Away he goes in low +heavy flight to the nest. The mother circles over him a moment to be +sure he is not overloaded; then she goes back with the other neophyte +and ranges back and forth over the shoal’s edge.</p> + +<p>It is clear now to even my eyes that there is a vast difference in the +characters of young fishhawks. The first was eager, headstrong, +impatient; the second is calmer, stronger, more obedient. He watches the +mother; he heeds her signals. Five minutes later he makes a clean, +beautiful swoop and comes up with his fish. The mother whistles her +praise as she drops beside him. My eyes follow them as, gossiping like +two old cronies, they wing their slow way over the dancing whitecaps and +climb the slanting tree-tops to the nest.</p> + +<p>The day’s lessons are over now, and I go back to my bait-catching with a +new admiration for these winged members of the brotherhood. Perhaps +there is also a bit of envy or regret in my meditation as I tie on a new +hook to replace the one that an uneasy eel is trying to rid himself of, +down in the mud. If I had only had some one to teach me like that, I +should certainly now be a better fisherman.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +Next day, when the mother came up the lake to the shoal with her two +little ones, there was a surprise awaiting them. For half an hour I had +been watching from the point to anticipate their coming. There were some +things that puzzled me, and that puzzle me still, in Ismaques’ fishing. +If he caught his fish in his mouth, after the methods of loon and otter, +I could understand it better. But to catch a fish—whose dart is like +lightning—under the water with his feet, when, after his plunge, he can +see neither his fish nor his feet, must require some puzzling +calculation. And I had set a trap in my head to find out how it is done.</p> + +<p>When the fishermen hove into sight, and their eager pipings came faintly +up the lake ahead of them, I paddled hastily out and turned loose a +half-dozen chub in the shallow water. I had kept them alive as long as +possible in a big pail, and they still had life enough to fin about near +the surface. When the fishermen arrived I was sitting among the rocks as +usual, and turned to acknowledge the mother bird’s <i>Ch’wee?</i> But my +deep-laid scheme to find out their method accomplished nothing; except, +perhaps, to spoil the day’s lesson. They saw my bait on the instant. One +of the youngsters dove headlong without poising, went under, missed his +fish, rose, plunged again. He got<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +him that time and went away +sputtering. The second took his time, came down on a long swift slant, +and got his fish without going under. Almost before the lesson began it +was over. The mother circled about for a few moments in a puzzled sort +of way, watching the young fishermen flapping up the slope to their +nest. Something was wrong. She had fished enough to know that success +means something more than good luck; and this morning success had come +too easily. She wheeled slowly over the shallows, noting the fish there, +where they plainly did not belong, and dropping to examine with +suspicion one big chub that was floating, belly up, on the water. Then +she went under with a rush, where I could not see, came out again with a +fish for herself, and followed her little ones to the nest.</p> + +<p>Next day I set the trap again in the same way. But the mother, with her +lesson well laid out before her, remembered yesterday’s unearned success +and came over to investigate, leaving her young ones circling along the +farther shore. There were the fish again, in shallow water; and +there—too easy altogether!—were two dead ones floating among the +whitecaps. She wheeled away in a sharp turn, as if she had not seen +anything, whistled her pupils up to her, and went on to other fishing +grounds.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +Presently, above the next point, I heard their pipings and the sharp, +up-sliding <i>Cheeeep!</i> which was the mother’s signal to swoop. Paddling +up under the point in my canoe, I found them all wheeling and diving +over a shoal, where I knew the fish were smaller and more nimble, and +where there were lily pads for a haven of refuge, whither no hawk could +follow them. Twenty times I saw them swoop only to miss, while the +mother circled above or beside them, whistling advice and encouragement. +And when at last they struck their fish and bore away towards the +mountain, there was an exultation in their lusty wing beats, and in the +whistling cry they sent back to me, which was not there the day before.</p> + +<p>The mother followed them at a distance, veering in when near my shoal to +take another look at the fish there. Three were floating now instead of +two; the others—what were left of them—struggled feebly at the +surface. <i>Chip, ch’weee!</i> she whistled disdainfully; "plenty fish here, +but mighty poor fishing." Then she swooped, passed under, came out with +a big chub, and was gone, leaving me only a blinding splash and a +widening circle of laughing, dancing, tantalizing wavelets to tell me +how she catches them.</p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter i" style="width: 378px;"> +<a name="WHEN_YOU_MEET_A_BEAR" id="WHEN_YOU_MEET_A_BEAR"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p079.png" width="378" height="174" +alt="When You Meet a Bear" title="" /></h2> + +<p>There are always two surprises when you meet a bear. You have one, and +he has the other. On your tramps and camps in the big woods you may be +on the lookout for Mooween; you may be eager and even anxious to meet +him; but when you double the point or push into the blueberry patch and, +suddenly, there he is, blocking the path ahead, looking intently into +your eyes to fathom at a glance your intentions, then, I fancy, the +experience is like that of people who have the inquisitive habit of +looking under their beds nightly for a burglar, and at last find him +there, stowed away snugly, just where they always expected him to be.</p> + +<p>Mooween, on his part, is always looking for you when once he has learned +that you have moved into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +his woods. But not from any desire to see you! +He is like a lazy man looking for work, and hoping devoutly that he may +not find it. A bear has very little curiosity—less than any other of +the wood folk. He loves to be alone; and so, when he goes hunting for +you, to find out just where you are, it is always with the creditable +desire to leave you in as large a room as possible, while he himself +goes quietly away into deeper solitudes. As this desire of his is much +stronger than your mere idle curiosity to see something new, you rarely +see Mooween even where he is most at home. And that is but another bit +of the poetic justice which you stumble upon everywhere in the big +woods.</p> + +<p>It is more and more evident, I think, that Nature adapts her gifts, not +simply to the necessities, but more largely to the desires, of her +creatures. The force and influence of that intense desire—more intense +because usually each animal has but one—we have not yet learned to +measure. The owl has a silent wing, not simply because he needs it—for +his need is no greater than that of the hawk, who has no silent +wing—but, more probably, because of his whole-hearted desire for +silence as he glides through the silent twilight. And so with the +panther’s foot; and so with the deer’s eye, and the wolf’s nose, whose +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +one idea of bliss is a good smell; and so with every other strongly +marked gift which the wild things have won from nature, chiefly by +desiring it, in the long years of their development.</p> + +<p>This theory may possibly account for some of Mooween’s peculiarities. +Nature, who measures her gifts according to the desires of her +creatures, remembers his love of peace and solitude, and endows him +accordingly. He cares little to see you or anybody else; therefore his +eyes are weak—his weakest point, in fact. He desires ardently to avoid +your society and all society but his own; therefore his nose and ears +are marvelously alert to discover your coming. Often, when you think +yourself quite alone in the woods, Mooween is there. The wind has told +your story to his nose; the clatter of your heedless feet long ago +reached his keen ears, and he vanishes at your approach, leaving you to +your noise and inquisitiveness and the other things you like. His gifts +of concealment are so much greater than your powers of detection that he +has absolutely no thought of ever seeing you. His surprise, therefore, +when you do meet unexpectedly is correspondingly greater than yours.</p> + +<p>What he will do under the unusual circumstances depends largely, not +upon himself, but upon you.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +With one exception, his feelings are +probably the reverse of your own. If you are bold, he is timid as a +rabbit; if you are panic-stricken, he knows exactly what to do; if you +are fearful, he has no fear; if you are inquisitive, he is instantly +shy; and, like all other wild creatures, he has an almost uncanny way of +understanding your thought. It is as if, in that intent, penetrating +gaze of his, he saw your soul turned inside out for his inspection. The +only exception is when you meet him without fear or curiosity, with the +desire simply to attend to your own affairs, as if he were a stranger +and an equal. That rare mental attitude he understands perfectly—for is +it not his own?—and he goes his way quietly, as if he had not seen you.</p> + +<p>For every chance meeting Mooween seems to have a plan of action ready, +which he applies without a question or an instant’s hesitation. Make an +unknown sound behind him as he plods along the shore, and he hurls +himself headlong into the cover of the bushes, as if your voice had +touched a button that released a coiled spring beneath him. Afterwards +he may come back to find out what frightened him. Sit perfectly still, +and he rises on his hind legs for a look and a long sniff to find out +who you are. Jump at him with a yell and a flourish the instant he +appears, and he will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +hurl chips and dirt back at you as he digs his +toes into the hillside for a better grip and scrambles away whimpering +like a scared puppy.</p> + +<p>Once in a way, as you steal through the autumn woods or hurry over the +trail, you will hear sudden loud rustlings and shakings on the hardwood +ridge above you, as if a small cyclone were perched there for a while, +amusing itself among the leaves before blowing on. Then, if you steal up +toward the sound, you will find Mooween standing on a big limb of a +beech tree, grasping the narrowing trunk with his powerful forearms, +tugging and pushing mightily to shake down the ripe beechnuts. The +rattle and dash of the falling fruit are such music to Mooween’s ears +that he will not hear the rustle of your approach, nor the twig that +snaps under your careless foot.</p> + +<p>If you cry aloud now to your friends, under the hilarious impression +that you have Mooween sure at last, there is another surprise awaiting +you. And that suggests a bit of advice, which is most pertinent: don’t +stand under the bear when you cry out. If he is a little fellow, he will +shoot up the tree, faster than ever a jumping jack went up his stick, +and hide in a cluster of leaves, as near the top as he can get. But if +he is a big bear, he will tumble down on you before you know what has +happened. No slow climbing for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +him; he just lets go and comes down by +gravitation. As Uncle Remus says—who has some keen knowledge of animal +ways under his story-telling humor—“Brer B’ar, he scramble ’bout +half-way down de bee tree, en den he turn eve’ything loose en hit de +groun’ <i>kerbiff</i>! Look like ’t wuz nuff ter jolt de life out’n ’im.”</p> + +<p>Somehow it never does jolt the life out of him, notwithstanding his +great weight; nor does it interfere in any way with his speed of action, +which is like lightning, the instant he touches the ground. Like the +coon, who can fall from an incredible distance without hurting himself, +Mooween comes down perfectly limp, falling on himself like a great +cushion; but the moment he strikes, all his muscles seem to contract at +once, and he bounds off like a rubber ball into the densest bit of cover +at hand.</p> + +<p>Twice have I seen him come down in this way. The first time there were +two cubs, nearly full-grown, in a tree. One went up at our shout; the +other came down with such startling suddenness that the man who stood +ready with his rifle, to shoot the bear, jumped for his life to get out +of the way; and before he had blinked the astonishment out of his eyes +Mooween was gone, leaving only a violent nodding of the ground spruces +to tell what had become of him.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +All these plans of ready action in Mooween’s head, for the rare +occasions when he meets you unexpectedly, are the result of careful +training by his mother. If you should ever have the good fortune to +watch a mother bear and her cubs when they have no idea that you are +near them, you will note two characteristic things. First, when they are +traveling—and Mooween is the most restless tramp in all the woods—you +will see that the cubs follow the mother closely and imitate her every +action with ludicrous exactness, sniffing where she sniffs, jumping +where she jumps, rising on their hind legs, with forearms hanging +loosely and pointed noses thrust sharp up into the wind, on the instant +that she rises, and then drawing silently away from the shore into the +shelter of the friendly alders when some subtle warning tells the +mother’s nose that the coast ahead is not perfectly clear. So they learn +to sift the sounds and smells of the wilderness, and to govern their +actions accordingly. And second, when they are playing you will see that +the mother watches the cubs’ every action as keenly as they watched hers +an hour ago. She will sit flat on her haunches, her fore paws planted +between her outstretched hind legs, her great head on one side, noting +every detail of their boxing and wrestling and climbing, as if she had +showed them once how it ought to be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +done and were watching now to see +how well they remembered their lessons. And now and then one or the +other of the cubs receives a sound cuffing; for which I am unable to +account, except on the theory that he was doing something contrary to +his plain instructions.</p> + +<p>It is only when Mooween meets some new object, or some circumstance +entirely outside of his training, that instinct and native wit are set +to work; and then you see for the first time some trace of hesitation on +the part of this self-confident prowler of the big woods. Once I +startled him on the shore, whither he had come to get the fore quarters +of a deer that had been left there. He jumped for cover at the first +alarm without even turning his head, just as he had seen his mother do, +a score of times, when he was a cub. Then he stopped, and for three or +four seconds considered the danger in plain sight—a thing I have never +seen any other bear imitate. He wavered for a moment more, doubtful +whether my canoe were swifter than he and more dangerous. Then satisfied +that, at least, he had a good chance, he jumped back, grabbed the deer, +and dragged it away into the woods.</p> + +<p>Another time I met him on a narrow path where he could not pass me and +where he did not want to turn back, for something ahead was calling him +strongly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +That short meeting furnished me the best study in bear nature +and bear instinct that I have ever been allowed to make. And, at this +distance, I have small desire to repeat the experience.</p> + +<p>It was on the Little Sou’west Mirimichi, a very wild river, in the heart +of the wilderness. Just above my camp, not half a mile away, was a +salmon pool that, so far as I know, had never been fished. One bank of +the river was an almost sheer cliff, against which the current fretted +and hissed in a strong deep rush to the rapids and a great silent pool +far below. There were salmon under the cliff, plenty of them, balancing +themselves against the arrowy run of the current; but, so far as my +flies were concerned, they might as well have been in the Yukon. One +could not fish from the opposite shore—there was no room for a back +cast, and the current was too deep and swift for wading—and on the +shore where the salmon were there was no place to stand. If I had had a +couple of good Indians, I might have dropped down to the head of the +swift water and fished, while they held the canoe with poles braced on +the bottom; but I had no two good Indians, and the one I did have was +unwilling to take the risk. So we went hungry, almost within sight and +sound of the plunge of heavy fish, fresh run from the sea.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +One day, in following a porcupine to see where he was going, I found a +narrow path running for a few hundred yards along the side of the cliff, +just over where the salmon loved to lie, and not more than thirty feet +above the swift rush of water. I went there with my rod and, without +attempting to cast, dropped my fly into the current and paid out from my +reel. When the line straightened I raised the rod’s tip and set my fly +dancing and skittering across the surface to an eddy behind a great +rock. In a flash I had raised and struck a twenty-five pound fish; and +in another flash he had gone straight downstream in the current, where +from my precarious seat I could not control him. Down he went, leaping +wildly high out of water, in a glorious rush, till all my line buzzed +out of the reel, down to the very knot at the bottom, and the leader +snapped as if it had been made of spider’s web.</p> + +<p>I reeled in sadly, debating with myself the unanswerable question of how +I should ever have reached down thirty feet to gaff my salmon, had I +played him to a standstill. Then, because human nature is weak, I put on +a stronger, double leader and dropped another fly into the current. I +might not get my salmon; but it was worth the price of fly and leader +just to raise him from the deeps and see his terrific rush +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> downstream, +jumping, jumping, as if the witch of Endor were astride of his tail in +lieu of her broomstick.</p> + +<p>A lively young grilse plunged headlong at the second fly and, thanks to +my strong leader, I played him out in the current and led him +listlessly, all the jump and fight gone out of him, to the foot of the +cliff. There was no apparent way to get down; so, taking my line in +hand, I began to lift him bodily up. He came easily enough till his tail +cleared the water; then the wiggling, jerky strain was too much. The fly +pulled out, and he vanished with a final swirl and slap of his broad +tail to tell me how big he was.</p> + +<p>Just below me a bowlder lifted its head and shoulders out of the +swirling current. With the canoe line I might easily let myself down to +that rock and make sure of my next fish. Getting back would be harder; +but salmon are worth some trouble; so I left my rod and started back to +camp for the stout rope that lay coiled in the bow of my canoe. It was +late afternoon and I was hurrying along the path, giving chief heed to +my feet in the ticklish walking, with the cliff above and the river +below, when a loud <i>Hoowuff!</i> brought me up with a shock. There at a +turn in the path, not ten yards ahead, stood a huge bear, calling +unmistakable halt, and blocking me in as completely as if the mountain +had toppled over before me.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +There was no time to think; the shock and scare were too great. I just +gasped <i>Hoowuff!</i> instinctively, as the bear had shot it out of his deep +lungs a moment before, and stood stock-still, as he was doing. He was +startled as well as I. That was the only thing that I was sure about.</p> + +<p>I suppose that in each of our heads at first there was just one thought: +“I’m in a fix; how shall I get out?” And in his training or mine there +was absolutely nothing to suggest an immediate answer. He was anxious, +evidently, to go on. Something, a mate perhaps, must be calling him up +river; else he would have whirled and vanished at the first alarm. But +how far might he presume on the big animal’s timidity who stood before +him blocking the way? That was his question, plainly enough. Had I been +a moment sooner, or he a moment later, we would have met squarely at the +turn; he would have clinched with me in sudden blind ferocity, and that +would have been the end of one of us. As it was he saw me coming +heedlessly and, being peaceably inclined, had stopped me with his sharp +<i>Hoowuff!</i> before I should get too near. There was no snarl or growl, no +savageness in his expression; only intense wonder and questioning in the +look which fastened upon my face and seemed to bore its way through, to +find out just what I was thinking.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +I met his eyes squarely with mine and held them, which was perhaps the +most sensible thing I could have done; though it was all unconscious on +my part. In the brief moment that followed I did a lot of thinking. +There was no escape, up or down; I must go on or turn back. If I jumped +forward with a yell, as I had done before under different circumstances, +would he not rush at me savagely, as all wild creatures do when +cornered? No, the time for that had passed with the first instant of our +meeting. The bluff would now be too apparent; it must be done without +hesitation, or not at all. On the other hand, if I turned back he would +follow me to the end of the ledge, growing bolder as he came on; and +beyond that it was dangerous walking, where he had all the advantage and +all the knowledge of his ground. Besides, it was late, and I wanted a +salmon for my supper.</p> + +<p>I have wondered since how much of this hesitation he understood; and how +he came to the conclusion, which he certainly reached, that I meant him +no harm, but only wanted to get on and was not disposed to give him the +path. All the while I looked at him steadily, until his eyes began to +lose their intentness. My hand slipped back and gripped the handle of my +hunting knife. Some slight confidence came with the feel of the heavy +weapon; though I would certainly have gone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +over the cliff and taken my +chances in the current, rather than have closed with him, with all his +enormous strength, in that narrow place. Suddenly his eyes wavered from +mine; he swung his head to look down and up; and I knew instantly that I +had won the first move—and the path also, if I could keep my nerve.</p> + +<p>I advanced a step or two very quietly, still looking at him steadily. +There was a suggestion of white teeth under his wrinkled chops; but he +turned his head to look back over the way he had come, and presently he +disappeared. It was only for a moment; then his nose and eyes were poked +cautiously by the corner of rock. He was peeking to see if I were still +there. When the nose vanished again I stole forward to the turn and +found him just ahead, looking down the cliff to see if there were any +other way below.</p> + +<p>He was uneasy now; a low, whining growl came floating up the path. Then +I sat down on a rock, squarely in his way, and for the first time some +faint suggestion of the humor of the situation gave me a bit of +consolation. I began to talk to him, not humorously, but as if he were a +Scotchman and open only to argument. “You’re in a fix, Mooween, a +terrible fix,” I kept saying softly; “but if you had only stayed at home +till twilight, as a bear ought to do, we should be happy now, both of +us. You have put me in a fix, too,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> + you see; and now you’ve just got to +get me out of it. I’m not going back. I don’t know the path as well as +you do. Besides, it will be dark soon, and I should probably break my +neck. It’s a shame, Mooween, to put any gentleman in such a fix as I am +in this minute, just by your blundering carelessness. Why didn’t you +smell me anyway, as any but a fool bear would have done, and take some +other path over the mountain? Why don’t you climb that spruce now and +get out of the way?”</p> + +<p>I have noticed that all wild animals grow uneasy at the sound of the +human voice, speaking however quietly. There is in it something deep, +unknown, mysterious beyond all their powers of comprehension; and they +go away from it quickly when they can. I have a theory also that all +animals, wild and domestic, understand more of our mental attitude than +we give them credit for; and the theory gains rather than loses strength +whenever I think of Mooween on that narrow pass. I can see him now, +turning, twisting uneasily, and the half-timid look in his eyes as they +met mine furtively, as if ashamed; and again the low, troubled whine +comes floating up the path and mingles with the rush and murmur of the +salmon pool below.</p> + +<p>A bear hates to be outdone quite as much as a fox does. If you catch him +in a trap, he seldom growls<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +or fights or resists, as lynx and otter and +almost all other wild creatures do. He has outwitted you and shown his +superiority so often that he is utterly overwhelmed and crushed when you +find him, at last, helpless and outdone. He seems to forget all his +great strength, all his frightful power of teeth and claws. He just lays +his head down between his paws, turns his eyes aside, and refuses to +look at you or to let you see how ashamed he is. That is what you are +chiefly conscious of, nine times out of ten, when you find a bear or a +fox held fast in your trap; and something of that was certainly in +Mooween’s look and actions now, as I sat there in his path enjoying his +confusion.</p> + +<p>Near him a spruce tree sprang out of the rocks and reached upward to a +ledge far above. Slowly he raised himself against this, but turned to +look at me again sitting quietly in his own path—that he could no +longer consider his—and smiling at his discomfiture as I remember how +ashamed he is to be outdone. Then an electric shock seemed to hoist him +out of the trail. He shot up the tree in a succession of nervous, jerky +jumps, rising with astonishing speed for so huge a creature, smashing +the little branches, ripping the rough bark with his great claws, +sending down a clattering shower of chips and dust behind him, till he +reached the level of the ledge above and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +sprang out upon it; where he +stopped and looked down to see what I would do next. And there he +stayed, his great head hanging over the edge of the rock, looking at me +intently till I rose and went quietly down the trail.</p> + +<p>It was morning when I came back to the salmon pool. Unlike the mossy +forest floor, the hard rock bore no signs to tell me—what I was most +curious to know—whether he came down the tree or found some other way +over the mountain. At the point where I had stood when his deep +<i>Hoowuff!</i> first startled me I left a big salmon, for a taste of which +any bear will go far out of his way. Next morning it was gone; and so it +may be that Mooween, on his next journey, found another and a pleasanter +surprise awaiting him at the turn of the trail.<span class="figright" style="width: 151px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p095.png" width="151" height="110" alt="" title="" /> +</span></p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter i" style="width: 400px;"> +<a name="QUOSKH_THE_KEEN_EYED" id="QUOSKH_THE_KEEN_EYED"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p096.png" width="400" height="270" +alt="Quoskh the Keen Eyed" title="" /></h2> + +<p>Sometimes, at night, as you drift along the shore in your canoe, sifting +the night sounds and smells of the wilderness, when all harsher cries +are hushed and the silence grows tense and musical, like a great +stretched chord over which the wind is thrumming low suggestive +melodies, a sudden rush and flapping in the grasses beside you breaks +noisily into the gamut of half-heard primary tones and rising, vanishing +harmonics. Then, as you listen, and before the silence has again +stretched the chords of her Eolian harp tight enough for the wind’s +fingers, another sound, a cry, comes floating down from the +air—<i>Quoskh? quoskh-quoskh?</i> a wild, questioning call, as if the +startled night were asking who you are. It is only a blue heron, wakened +out of his sleep on the shore<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +by your noisy approach, that you thought +was still as the night itself. He circles over your head for a moment, +seeing you perfectly, though you catch never a shadow of his broad +wings; then he vanishes into the vast, dark silence, crying <i>Quoskh? +quoskh?</i> as he goes. And the cry, with its strange, wild interrogation +vanishing away into the outer darkness, has given him his most +fascinating Indian name, Quoskh the Night’s Question.</p> + +<p>To many, indeed, even to some Indians, he has no other name and no +definite presence. He rarely utters the cry by day—his voice then is a +harsh croak—and you never see him as he utters it out of the solemn +upper darkness; so that there is often a mystery about this voice of the +night, which one never thinks of associating with the quiet, patient, +long-legged fisherman that one may see any summer day along the borders +of lonely lake or stream. A score of times I have been asked by old +campers, “What is that?” as a sharp, questioning <i>Quoskh-quoskh?</i> seemed +to tumble down into the sleeping lake. Yet they knew the great blue +heron perfectly—or thought they did.</p> + +<p>Quoskh has other names, however, which describe his attributes and +doings. Sometimes, when fishing alongshore with my Indian at the paddle, +the canoe would push its nose silently around a point, and I +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> would see +the heron’s heavy slanting flight already halfway up to the tree-tops, +long before our coming had been suspected by the watchful little mother +sheldrake, or even by the deer feeding close at hand among the lily +pads. Then Simmo, who could never surprise one of the great birds +however silently he paddled, would mutter something which sounded like +<i>Quoskh K’sobeqh</i>, Quoskh the Keen Eyed. At other times, when we noticed +him spearing frogs with his long bill, Simmo, who could not endure the +sight of a frog’s leg on my fry pan, would speak of him disdainfully in +his own musical language as Quoskh the Frog Eater, for my especial +benefit. Again, if I stopped casting suddenly at the deep trout pool +opposite a grassy shore, to follow with my eyes a tall, gray-blue shadow +on stilts moving dimly alongshore in seven-league-boot strides for the +next bog, where frogs were plenty, Simmo would point with his paddle and +say: “See, Ol’ Fader Longlegs go catch-um more frogs for his babies. +Funny kin’ babies dat, eat-um bullfrog; don’ chu tink so?”</p> + +<p>Of all his names—and there were many more that I picked up from +watching him in a summer’s outing—“Old Father Longlegs” seemed always +the most appropriate. There is a suggestion of hoary antiquity about +this solemn wader of our lakes and streams. Indeed, of all birds he is +the nearest to those ancient,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +uncouth monsters which Nature made to +people our earth in its uncouth infancy. Other herons and bitterns have +grown smaller and more graceful, with shorter legs and necks, to suit +our diminishing rivers and our changed landscape. Quoskh is also, +undoubtedly, much smaller than he once was; but still his legs and neck +are disproportionately long, when one thinks of the waters he wades and +the nest he builds; and the tracks he leaves in the mud are startlingly +like those fossilized footprints of giant birds that one finds in the +rocks of the Pliocene era, deep under the earth’s surface, to tell what +sort of creatures lived in the vast solitudes before man came to +replenish the earth and subdue it.</p> + +<p>Closely associated with this suggestion of antiquity in Quoskh’s +demeanor is the opposite suggestion of perpetual youth which he carries +with him. Age has no apparent effect on him whatsoever. He is as old and +young as the earth itself is; he is a March day, with winter and spring +in its sunset and sunrise. Who ever saw a blue heron with his jewel eye +dimmed or his natural force abated? Who ever caught one sleeping, or saw +him tottering weakly on his long legs, as one so often sees our common +wild birds clinging feebly to a branch with their last grip? A Cape Cod +sailor once told me that, far out from land, his schooner +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> had passed a +blue heron lying dead on the sea with outstretched wings. That is the +only heron that I have ever heard of who was found without all his wits +about him. Possibly, if Quoskh ever dies, it may suggest a solution to +the question of what becomes of him. With his last strength he may fly +boldly out to explore that great ocean mystery, along the borders of +which his ancestors for untold centuries lived and moved, back and +forth, back and forth, on their endless, unnecessary migrations, +restless, unsatisfied, wandering, as if the voice of the sea were +calling them whither they dared not follow.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Just behind my tent on the big lake, one summer, a faint, woodsy little +trail wandered away into the woods, with endless turnings and twistings, +and without the faintest indication anywhere, till you reached the very +end, whither it intended going. This little trail was always full of +interesting surprises. Red squirrels peeked down at you over the edge of +a limb, chattering volubly and getting into endless mischief along its +borders. Moose birds flitted silently over it on their mysterious +errands. Now a jumping, smashing, crackling rush through the underbrush +halts you suddenly, with quick beating heart, as you climb over one of +the many windfalls across your path. A white flag +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> followed by another +little one, flashing, rising, sinking and rising again over the fallen +timber, tells you that a doe and her fawn were lying behind the +windfall, all unconscious of your quiet approach. Again, at a turn of +the trail, something dark, gray, massive looms before you, blocking the +faint path; and as you stop short and shrink behind the nearest tree, a +huge head and antlers swing toward you, with widespread nostrils and +keen, dilating eyes, and ears like two trumpets pointing straight at +your head—a bull moose, <i>sh!</i></p> + +<p>For a long two minutes he stands there motionless, watching the new +creature that he has never seen before; and it will be well for you to +keep perfectly quiet and let him surrender the path when he is so +disposed. Motion on your part may bring him nearer to investigate; and +you can never know at what slight provocation the red danger light will +blaze into his eyes. At last he moves away, quietly at first, turning +often to look and to make trumpets of his ears at you. Then he lays his +great antlers back on his shoulders, sticks his nose far up ahead of +him, and with long, smooth strides lunges away over the windfalls and is +gone.</p> + +<p>So every day the little trail had some new surprise for you,—owl, or +hare, or prickly porcupine rattling his quills, like a quiver of arrows, +and proclaiming his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +Indian name, <i>Unk-wunk! Unk-wunk!</i> as he loafed +along. When you had followed far, and were sure that the loitering trail +had certainly lost itself, it crept at last under a dark hemlock; and +there, through an oval frame of rustling, whispering green, was the +loneliest, loveliest little deer-haunted beaver pond in the world, where +Quoskh lived with his mate and his little ones.</p> + +<p>The first time I came down the trail and peeked through the oval frame +of bushes, I saw him; and the very first glimpse made me jump at the +thought of what a wonderful discovery I had made, namely, that little +herons play with dolls, as children do. But I was mistaken. Quoskh had +been catching frogs and hiding them, one by one, as I came along. He +heard me before I knew he was there, and jumped for his last frog, a big +fat one, with which he slanted up heavily on broad vans—with a hump on +his back and a crook in his neck and his long legs trailing below and +behind—towards his nest in the hemlock, beyond the beaver pond. When I +saw him plainly he was just crossing the oval frame through which I +looked. He had gripped the frog across the middle in his long beak, much +as one would hold it with a pair of blunt shears, swelling it out at +either side, like a string tied tight about a pillow. The head and short +arms were forced up at one side, the limp legs dangled down on +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> the +other, looking for all the world like a stuffed rag doll that Quoskh was +carrying home for his babies to play with.</p> + +<p>Undoubtedly they liked the frog much better; but my curious thought +about them, in that brief romantic instant, gave me an interest in the +little fellows which was not satisfied till I climbed to the nest, long +afterwards, and saw them, and how they lived.</p> + +<p>When I took to studying Quoskh, so as to know him more intimately, I +found a fascinating subject; not simply because of his queer ways, but +also because of his extreme wariness and the difficulties I met in +catching him doing things. Quoskh K’sobeqh was the name that at first +seemed most appropriate, till I had learned his habits and how best to +get the weather of him—which happened only two or three times in the +course of a whole summer.</p> + +<p>One morning I went early to the beaver pond and sat down against a gray +stump on the shore, with berry bushes growing to my shoulders all about +me. “Now I shall keep still and see everything that comes,” I thought, +“and nothing, not even a blue jay, will see me.”</p> + +<p>That was almost true. Little birds, that had never seen a man in the +woods before, came for the berries and billed them off within six feet +of my face before<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> +they noticed anything unusual. When they did see me +they would turn their heads so as to look at me, first with one eye, +then with the other, and shoot up at last, with a sharp <i>Burr!</i> of their +tiny wings, to a branch over my head. There they would watch me keenly, +for a wink or a minute, according to their curiosity, then swoop down +and whirr their wings loudly in my face, so as to make me move and show +what I was.</p> + +<p>Across a little arm of the pond, a stone’s throw away, a fine buck came +to the water, put his muzzle into it, then began to fidget uneasily. +Some vague, subtle flavor of me floated across and made him uneasy, +though he knew not what I was. He kept tonguing his nostrils, as a cow +does, so as to moisten them and catch the scent of me better. On my +right, and nearer, a doe was feeding unconcernedly among the lily pads. +A mink ran, hopping and halting, along the shore at my feet, dodging in +and out among roots and rocks. Cheokhes always runs that way. He knows +how glistening black his coat is, how shining a mark he makes for owl +and hawk against the sandy shore; and so he never runs more than five +feet without dodging out of sight; and he always prefers the roots and +rocks that are blackest to travel on.</p> + +<p>A kingfisher dropped with his musical <i>K’plop!</i> into the shoal of +minnows that were rippling the water in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +their play just in front of me. +Farther out, a fishhawk came down heavily, <i>Souse!</i> and rose with a big +chub. And none of these sharp-eyed wood folk saw me or knew that they +were watched. Then a wide, wavy, blue line, like a great Cupid’s bow, +came gliding swiftly along the opposite bank of green, and Quoskh hove +into sight for his morning’s fishing.</p> + +<p>Opposite me, just where the buck had stood, he folded his great wings; +his neck crooked sharply; his long legs, which had been trailed +gracefully behind him in his swift flight, swung under him like two +pendulums as he landed lightly on the muddy shore. He knew his ground +perfectly; knew every stream and frog-haunted bay in the pond as one +knows his own village; yet no amount of familiarity with his +surroundings can ever sing lullaby to Quoskh’s watchfulness. The instant +he landed he drew himself up straight, standing almost as tall as a man, +and let his keen glance run along every shore just once. His head, with +its bright yellow eye and long yellow beak glistening in the morning +light, veered and swung over his long neck like a gilded weather-vane on +a steeple. As the vane swung up the shore toward me I held my breath, so +as to be perfectly motionless, thinking I was hidden so well that no eye +could find me at that distance. As it swung past me slowly I +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> chuckled, +thinking that Quoskh was deceived. I forgot altogether that a bird never +sees straight ahead. When his bill had moved some thirty degrees off my +nose, just enough so as to bring his left eye to bear, it stopped +swinging instantly.—He had seen me at the first glance, and knew that I +did not belong there.</p> + +<p>For a long moment, while his keen eye seemed to look through and through +me, he never moved a muscle. One could easily have passed over him, +thinking him only one of the gray, wave-washed roots on the shore. Then +he humped himself together, in that indescribably awkward way that all +herons have at the beginning of their flight, slanted heavily up to the +highest tree on the shore, and stopped for a longer period on a dead +branch to look back at me. I had not moved so much as an eyelid; +nevertheless he saw me too plainly to trust me. Again he humped himself, +rose high over the tree-tops and bore away in strong, even, graceful +flight for a lonelier lake, where there was no man to watch or bother +him.</p> + +<p>Far from disappointing me, this keenness of Quoskh only whetted my +appetite to know more about him, and especially to watch him, close at +hand, at his fishing. Near the head of the little bay, where frogs were +plenty, I built a screen of boughs under the low thick branches of a +spruce tree, and went away to watch other wood folk.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +Next morning he did not come back; nor were there any fresh tracks of +his on the shore. This was my first intimation that Quoskh knows well +the rule of good fishermen, and does not harry a pool or a place too +frequently, however good the fishing. The third morning he came back; +and again the sixth evening; and then the ninth morning, alternating +with great regularity as long as I kept tabs on him. At other times I +would stumble upon him far afield, fishing in other lakes and streams; +or see him winging homeward, high over the woods, from waters far beyond +my ken; but these appearances were too irregular to count in a theory. I +have no doubt, however, that he fished the near-by waters with as great +regularity as he fished the beaver pond, and went wider afield only when +he wanted a bit of variety, or bigger frogs, as all fishermen do; or +when he had poor luck in satisfying the clamorous appetite of his +growing brood.</p> + +<p>It was on the sixth afternoon that I had the best chance of studying his +queer ways of fishing. I was sitting in my little blind at the beaver +pond, waiting for a deer, when Quoskh came striding along the shore. He +would swing his weather-vane head till he saw a frog ahead, then stalk +him slowly, deliberately, with immense caution; as if he knew as well as +I how watchful the frogs are at his approach, and how quickly +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> they dive +headlong for cover at the first glint of his stilt-like legs. Nearer and +nearer he would glide, standing motionless as a gray root when he +thought his game was watching him; then on again more cautiously, +bending far forward and drawing his neck back to the angle of greatest +speed and power for a blow. A quick start, a thrust like lightning—then +you would see him shake his frog savagely, beat it upon the nearest +stone or root, glide to a tuft of grass, hide his catch cunningly, and +go on unincumbered for the next stalk, his weather-vane swinging, +swinging in the ceaseless search for frogs, or possible enemies.</p> + +<p>If the swirl of a fish among the sedges caught his keen eye, he would +change his tactics, letting his game come to him instead of stalking it, +as he did with the frogs. Whatever his position was, both feet down or +one foot raised for a stride, when the fish appeared, he never changed +it, knowing well that motion would only send his game hurriedly into +deeper water. He would stand sometimes for a half hour on one leg, +letting his head sink slowly down on his shoulders, his neck curled +back, his long sharp bill pointing always straight at the quivering line +which marked the playing fish, his eyes half closed till the right +moment came. Then you would see his long neck shoot down, hear the +splash and, later,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +the whack of his catch against the nearest root, to +kill it; and watch with curious feelings of sympathy as he hid it in the +grass and covered it over, lest Hawahak the hawk should see, or Cheokhes +the mink smell it, and rob him while he fished.</p> + +<p>If he were near his last catch, he would stride back and hide the two +together; if not, he covered it over in the nearest good place and went +on. No danger of his ever forgetting, however numerous the catch! +Whether he counts his frogs and fish, or simply remembers the different +hiding places, I have no means of knowing.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, when I surprised him on a muddy shore and he flew away +without taking even one of his tidbits, I would follow his back track +and uncover his hiding places to see what he had caught. Frogs, fish, +pollywogs, mussels, a baby muskrat,—they were all there, each hidden +cunningly under a bit of dried grass and mud. And once I went away and +hid on the opposite shore to see if he would come back. After an hour or +more he appeared, looking first at my tracks, then at all the shore with +greater keenness than usual; then he went straight to three different +hiding places that I had found, and two more that I had not seen, and +flew away to his nest, a fringe of frogs and fish hanging at either side +of his long bill as he went.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +He had arranged them on the ground like the spokes of a wheel, as a fox +does, heads all out on either side, and one leg or the tail of each +crossed in a common pile in the middle; so that he could bite down over +the crossed members and carry the greatest number of little frogs and +fish with the least likelihood of dropping any in his flight.</p> + +<p>The mussels which he found were invariably, I think, eaten as his own +particular tidbits; for I never saw him attempt to carry them away, +though once I found two or three where he had hidden them. Generally he +could crack their shells easily by blows of his powerful beak, or by +whacking them against a root; and so he had no need (and probably no +knowledge) of the trick, which every gull knows, of mounting up to a +height with some obstinate hardshell and dropping it on a rock to crack +it.</p> + +<p>If Quoskh were fishing for his own dinner, instead of for his hungry +nestlings, he adopted different tactics. For them he was a hunter, sly, +silent, crafty, stalking his game by approved still-hunting methods; for +himself he was the true fisherman, quiet, observant, endlessly patient. +He seemed to know that for himself he could afford to take his time and +be comfortable, knowing that all things, especially fish, come to him +who waits long enough; while for his little ones +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> he must hurry, else +their croakings from too long fasting would surely bring hungry, +unwelcome prowlers to the big nest in the hemlock.</p> + +<p>Once I saw him fishing in a peculiar way, which reminded me instantly of +the chumming process with which every mackerel fisherman on the coast is +familiar. He caught a pollywog for bait, with which he waded to a deep, +cool place under a shady bank. There he whacked his pollywog into small +bits and tossed them into the water, where the chum speedily brought a +shoal of little fish to feed. Quoskh meanwhile stood in the shadow, +where he would not be noticed, knee-deep in water, his head drawn down +into his shoulders, and a friendly leafy branch bending over him to +screen him from prying eyes. As a fish swam up to his chum he would +spear it like lightning; throw his head back and wriggle it head-first +down his long neck; then settle down to watch for the next one. And +there he stayed, alternately watching and feasting, till he had enough; +when he drew his head farther down into his shoulders, shut his eyes, +and went fast asleep in the cool shadows,—a perfect picture of fishing +indolence and satisfaction.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>When I went to the nest and hid myself in the underbrush to watch, day +after day, I learned more of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +Quoskh’s fishing and hunting. The nest was +in a great evergreen, in a gloomy swamp,—a villainous place of bogs and +treacherous footing, with here and there a little island of large trees. +On one of these islands a small colony of herons were nesting. During +the day they trailed far afield, scattering widely, each pair to its own +particular fishing grounds; but when the shadows grew long, and night +prowlers stirred abroad, the herons came trailing back again, making +curious, wavy, graceful lines athwart the sunset glow, to croak and be +sociable together, and help each other watch the long night out.</p> + +<p>Quoskh the Watchful—I <span class="figleft" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p112.png" width="400" height="490" alt="" title="" /></span> +could tell my great bird’s mate by sight or +hearing from all others, either by her greater size or a peculiar double +croak she had—had hidden her nest in the top of a great green hemlock. +Near<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +by, in the high crotch of a dead tree, was another nest, which she +had built, evidently, years before and added to each successive spring, +only to abandon it at last for the evergreen. Both birds used to go to +the old nest freely; and I have wondered since if it were not a bit of +great shrewdness on their part to leave it there in plain sight, where +any prowler might see and climb to it; while the young were securely +hidden, meanwhile, in the top of the near-by hemlock, where they could +see without being seen. Only at a distance could you find the nest. When +under the hemlock, the mass of branches screened it perfectly, and your +attention was wholly taken by the other nest, standing out in bold +relief in the dead tree-top.</p> + +<p>Such wisdom, if wisdom it were and not chance, is gained only by +experience. It took at least one brood of young herons, sacrificed to +the appetite of lucivee or fisher, to teach Quoskh the advantage of that +decoy nest to tempt hungry prowlers upon the bare tree hole where she +could have a clear field to spear them with her powerful bill and beat +them down with her great wings before they should discover their +mistake.</p> + +<p>By watching the birds through my glass as they came to the young, I +could generally tell what kind of game was afoot for their following. +Once a long snake hung from the mother bird’s bill; once it was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> a bird +of some kind; twice she brought small animals, whose species I could not +make out in the brief moment of alighting on the nest’s edge,—all these +besides the regular fare of fish and frogs, of which I took no account. +And then, one day while I lay in my hiding, I saw the mother heron slide +swiftly down from the nest, make a sharp wheel over the lake, and plunge +into the fringe of berry bushes on the shore after some animal that her +keen eyes had caught moving. There was a swift rustling in the bushes, a +blow of her wing to head off a runaway, two or three lightning thrusts +of her javelin beak; then she rose heavily, taking a leveret with her; +and I saw her pulling it to pieces awkwardly on the nest to feed her +hungry little ones.</p> + +<p>It was partly to see these little herons, the thought of which had +fascinated me ever since I had seen Quoskh taking home what I thought, +at first glance, was a rag doll for them to play with, and partly to +find out more of Quoskh’s hunting habits by seeing what he brought home, +that led me at last to undertake the difficult task of climbing the huge +tree to the nest. One day when the mother had brought home some unknown +small animal—a mink, I thought—I came suddenly out of my hiding and +crossed over to the nest. It had always fascinated me. Under it, at +twilight, I had heard the mother heron croaking softly to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> her little +ones—a husky lullaby, but sweet enough to them—and then, as I paddled +away, I would see the nest dark against the sunset with Mother Quoskh +standing over it, a tall, graceful silhouette against the glory of +twilight, keeping sentinel watch over her little ones. Now I would solve +the mystery of the high nest by looking into it.</p> + +<p>The mother, alarmed by my sudden appearance,—she had no idea that she +had been watched,—shot silently away, hoping I would not notice her +home through the dense screen of branches. I climbed up with difficulty; +but not till I was within ten feet could I make out the mass of sticks +above me. The surroundings were getting filthy and evil-smelling by this +time; for Quoskh teaches the young herons to keep their nest perfectly +clean by throwing all refuse over the sides of the great home. A dozen +times I had watched the mother birds of the colony push their little +ones to the edge of the nest to teach them this rule of cleanliness, so +different from most other birds.</p> + +<p>As I hesitated about pushing through the filth-laden branches, something +bright on the edge of the nest caught my attention. It was a young +heron’s eye looking down at me over a long bill, watching my approach +with a keenness that was but thinly disguised by the half-drawn eyelids. +I had to go round the tree<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +at this point for a standing on a larger +branch; and when I looked up, there was another eye watching down over +another long bill. So, however I turned, they watched me closely getting +nearer and nearer, till I reached up my hand to touch the nest. Then +there was a harsh croak. Three long necks reached down suddenly over the +edge of the nest on the side where I was; three long bills opened wide +just over my head; and three young herons grew suddenly seasick, as if +they had swallowed ipecac.</p> + +<p>I never saw the inside of that home. At the moment I was in too much of +a hurry to get down and wash in the lake; <span class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p116.png" width="400" height="333" alt="" title="" /></span>and after that, so large were +the young birds, so keen and powerful the beaks, that no man or beast +might expect to look over the edge of the nest, with hands or paws +engaged in holding on, and keep his eyes for a single instant. It is +more dangerous to climb for young herons<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +than for young eagles. A heron +always strikes for the eye, and his blow means blindness or death, +unless you watch like a cat and ward it off.</p> + +<p>When I saw the young again they were taking their first lessons. A +dismal croaking in the tree-tops attracted me, and I came over +cautiously to see what my herons were doing. The young were standing up +on the big nest, stretching necks and wings, and croaking hungrily; +while the mother stood on a tree-top some distance away, showing them +food and telling them plainly, in heron language, to come and get it. +They tried it after much coaxing and croaking; but their long, awkward +toes missed their hold upon the slender branch on which she was +balancing delicately—just as she expected it to happen. As they fell, +flapping lustily, she shot down ahead of them and led them in a long, +curving slant to an open spot on the shore. There she fed them with the +morsels she held in her beak; brought more food from a tuft of grass +where she had hidden it, near at hand; praised them with gurgling croaks +till they felt some confidence on their awkward legs; then the whole +family started up the shore on their first frogging expedition.</p> + +<p>It was intensely interesting for a man who, as a small boy, had often +gone a-frogging himself—to catch big ones for a woodsy corn roast, or +little ones<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +for pickerel bait—to sit now on a bog and watch the little +herons try their luck. Mother Quoskh went ahead cautiously, searching +the lily pads; the young trailed behind her awkwardly, lifting their +feet like a Shanghai rooster and setting them down with a splash to +scare every frog within hearing, exactly where the mother’s foot had +rested a moment before. So they went on, the mother’s head swinging like +a weather-vane to look far ahead, the little ones stretching their necks +so as to peek by her on either side, full of wonder at the new world, +full of hunger for things that grew there, till a startled young frog +said <i>K'tung!</i> from behind a lily bud, where they did not see him, and +dove headlong into the mud, leaving a long, crinkly, brown trail to tell +exactly how far he had gone.</p> + +<p>A frog is like an ostrich. When he sees nothing, because his head is +hidden, he thinks nothing can see him. At the sudden alarm Mother Quoskh +would stretch her neck, watching the frog’s flight; then turn her head +so that her long bill pointed directly at the bump on the muddy bottom, +which marked the hiding place of Chigwooltz, and croak softly as a +signal. At the sound one of the young herons would hurry forward +eagerly; follow his mother’s bill, which remained motionless, pointing +all the while; twist his head till he saw the frog’s back in the mud, +and then lunge<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +at it like lightning. Generally he got his frog, and +through your glass you would see the unfortunate creature wriggling and +kicking his way into Quoskh’s yellow beak. If the lunge missed, the +mother’s keen eye followed the frog’s frantic rush through the mud, with +a longer trail this time behind him, till he hid again; whereupon she +croaked the same youngster up for another try, and then the whole family +moved jerkily along, like a row of boys on stilts, to the next clump of +lily pads.</p> + +<p>As the young grew older and stronger on their legs, I noticed the +rudiments, at least, of a curious habit of dancing, which seems to +belong to most of our long-legged wading birds. Sometimes, sitting +quietly in my canoe, I would see the young birds sail down in a long +slant to the shore. Immediately on alighting, before they gave any +thought to frogs or fish or carnal appetite, they would hop up and down, +balancing, swaying, spreading their wings, and hopping again round about +each other, as if bewitched. A few moments of this crazy performance, +and then they would stalk sedately along the shore, as if ashamed of +their ungainly levity; but at any moment the ecstasy might seize them +and they would hop again, as if they simply could not help it. This +occurred generally towards evening, when the birds had fed full +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> and +were ready for play or for stretching their broad wings in preparation +for the long autumn flight.</p> + +<p>Watching them, one evening, I remembered suddenly a curious scene that I +had stumbled upon when a boy. I had seen a great blue heron sail +croaking, croaking, into an arm of the big pond where I was catching +bullpouts, and crept down through dense woods to find out what he was +croaking about. Instead of one, I found eight or ten of the great birds +on an open shore, hopping ecstatically through some kind of a crazy +dance. A twig snapped as I crept nearer, and they scattered in instant +flight. It was September, and the instinct to flock and to migrate was +at work among them. When they came together for the first time some dim, +old remembrance of generations long gone by—the shreds of an ancient +instinct, whose meaning we can only guess at—had set them to dancing +wildly; <span class="figright" style="width: 311px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p120.png" width="311" height="322" alt="" title="" /> +</span>though I doubted at the time whether they understood much what +they were doing.</p> + +<p>Perhaps I was wrong in this. Watching the young birds at their +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> ungainly +hopping, the impulse to dance seemed uncontrollable; yet they were +immensely dignified about it at times; and again they appeared to get +some fun out of it—as much, perhaps, as we do out of some of our +peculiar dances, of which a visiting Chinaman once asked innocently: +"Why don’t you let your servants do it for you?"</p> + +<p>I have seen little green herons do the same thing in the woods at mating +time; and once, in the Zoölogical Gardens at Antwerp, I saw a +magnificent hopping performance by some giant cranes from Africa. Our +own sand-hill and whooping cranes are notorious dancers; and undoubtedly +it is more or less instinctive with all the tribes of the cranes and +herons, from the least to the greatest. But what the instinct +means—unless, like our own dancing, it is a pure bit of +pleasure-making, as crows play games and loons swim races—nobody can +tell.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Before the young were fully grown, and while yet they were following the +mother to learn the ways of frogging and fishing, a startling thing +occurred which made me ever afterwards look up to Quoskh with honest +admiration. I was still-fishing in the middle of the big lake, one late +afternoon, when Quoskh and her little ones sailed over the trees from +the beaver<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +pond and lit on a grassy shore. A shallow little brook stole +into the lake there, and Mother Quoskh left her young to frog for +themselves, while she went fishing up the brook under the alders. I was +watching the young herons through my glass when I saw a sudden rush in +the tall grass near them. All three humped themselves, heron fashion, on +the instant. Two got away safely; the other had barely spread his wings +when a black animal leaped out of the grass for his neck and pulled him +down, flapping and croaking desperately.</p> + +<p>I pulled up my killick on the instant and paddled over to see what was +going on, and what the creature was that had leaped out of the grass. +Before my paddle had swung a dozen strokes I saw the alders by the brook +open swiftly, and Mother Quoskh sailed out and drove like an arrow +straight at the struggling wing tips, which still flapped spasmodically +above the grass. Almost before her feet had dropped to a solid landing +she struck two fierce, blinding, downward blows of her great wings. Her +neck curved back and shot straight out, driving the keen six-inch bill +before it, quicker than ever a Roman arm drove its javelin. Above the +<i>lap-lap</i> of my canoe I heard a savage cry of pain; the same black +animal leaped up out of the tangled grass, snapping for the neck; and a +desperate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +battle began, with short gasping croaks and snarls that made +caution unnecessary as I sped over to see who the robber was, and how +Quoskh was faring in the good fight.</p> + +<p>The canoe shot up behind a point where, looking over the low bank, I had +the arena directly under my eye. The animal was a fisher—black-cat the +trappers call him—the most savage and powerful fighter of his size in +the whole world, I think. In the instant that I first saw him, quicker +than thought he had hurled himself twice at the towering bird’s breast. +Each time he was met by a lightning blow in the face from Quoskh’s +stiffened wing. His teeth ground the big quills to pulp; his claws tore +them into shreds; but he got no grip in the feathery mass, and he +slipped, clawing and snarling, into the grass, only to spring again like +a flash. Again the stiff wing blow; but this time his jump was higher; +one claw gripped the shoulder, tore its way through flying feathers to +the bone, while his weight dragged the big bird down. Then Quoskh +shortened her neck in a great curve. Like a snake it glided over the +edge of her own wing for two short, sharp down-thrusts of the deadly +javelin—so quick that my eye caught only the double yellow flash of it. +With a sharp screech the black-cat leaped away and whirled towards me +blindly. One eye was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +gone; an angry red welt showed just over the +other, telling how narrowly the second thrust had missed its mark.</p> + +<p>A shiver ran over me as I remembered how nearly I had once come myself +to the black-cat’s condition, and from the same keen weapon. I was a +small boy at the time, following a big, good-natured hunter that I met +in the woods, one day, from pure love of the wilds and for the glory of +carrying the game bag. He shot a great blue heron, which fell with a +broken wing into some soft mud and water grass. Carelessly he sent me to +fetch it, not caring to wet his own feet. As I ran up, the heron lay +resting quietly, his neck drawn back, his long keen bill pointing always +straight at my face. I had never seen so big a bird before, and bent +over him wondering at his long bill, admiring his intensely bright eye.</p> + +<p>I did not know then—what I have since learned well—that you can always +tell when the rush or spring or blow of any beast or bird—or of any +man, for that matter—will surely come by watching the eye closely. +There is a fire that blazes in the eye before the blow comes, before +ever a muscle has stirred to do the brain’s quick bidding. As I bent +over, fascinated by the keen, bright look of the wounded bird, and +reached down my hand to pick him up, there was a flash deep +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> in the eye, +like the glint of sunshine from a mirror, and I dodged instinctively. +Well for me that I did so. Something shot by my face like lightning, +opening up a long red gash across my left temple from eye-brow to ear. +As I jumped I heard a careless laugh. "Look out, Sonny, he may bite +you—Gosh! what a close call!" And with a white, scared face, as he saw +the ugly wound that the heron’s beak had opened, he dragged me away as +if there had been a bear in the water grass.</p> + +<p>The black-cat had not yet received punishment enough. He is one of the +largest of the weasel family, and has a double measure of the weasel’s +savageness and tenacity. He darted about the heron in a quick, nervous, +jumping circle, looking for an opening behind; while Quoskh lifted her +great torn wings as a shield and turned slowly on the defensive, so as +always to face the danger. A dozen times the fisher jumped, filling the +air with feathers; a dozen times the stiffened wings struck down to +intercept his spring, and every blow was followed by a swift javelin +thrust. Then, as the fisher crouched snarling in the grass, off his +guard for an instant, I saw Mother Quoskh take a sudden step forward, +her first offensive move—just as I had seen her twenty times at the +finish of a frog stalk—and her bill shot down with the whole power +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +of her long neck behind it. A harsh screech of pain followed the swift +blow; then the fisher wobbled away with blind, uncertain jumps towards +the shelter of the woods.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 531px;"><a name='FISHER_JUMPED' id='FISHER_JUMPED'></a> +<img src="images/ill-p126.jpg" width="531" height="600" +alt="“A DOZEN TIMES THE FISHER JUMPED, FILLING THE AIR WITH FEATHERS”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“A DOZEN TIMES THE FISHER JUMPED, FILLING THE AIR WITH FEATHERS”</span> +</div> + +<p>And now, with her savage enemy in full flight, a fierce, hot anger +seemed to flare within the mother heron, burning out all the previous +cool, calculating defense. Her wings heaved aloft, as the soldiers of +old threw up their shields in the moment of victory; while her whole +frame seemed to swell with power, like a hero whose fight is won. She +darted after the fisher, first on the run, then with heavy wing beats, +till she headed him and with savage blows of pinion and beak drove him +back, seeing nothing, guided only by fear and instinct, towards the +water. For five minutes more she chevied him hither and yon through the +trampled grass, driving him from water to bush and back again, jabbing +him at every turn; till a rustle of leaves invited him, and he dashed +blindly into thick underbrush, where her broad wings could not follow. +Then with marvelous watchfulness she saw me standing near in my canoe; +and without a thought, apparently, for the young heron lying so still in +the grass close beside her, she spread her torn wings and flapped away +heavily in the path of her more fortunate younglings.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +I followed the fisher’s trail into the woods and found him curled up in +a hollow stump. He made slight resistance as I pulled him out. All his +ferocity was already lulled to sleep in the vague, dreamy numbness which +Nature always sends to her stricken creatures. He suffered nothing, +apparently, though he was fearfully wounded; he just wanted to be let +alone. Both eyes were gone, and there was nothing left for me except to +finish mercifully what little Quoskh had left undone.<span class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p129.png" width="500" height="457" alt="" title="" /> +</span></p> + +<p>When September came, and family cares were over, the colony beyond the +beaver pond scattered widely, returning each one to the shy, wild, +solitary life that Quoskh likes best. Almost anywhere, in the loneliest +places, I might come upon a solitary heron stalking frogs, or chumming +little fish, or treading the soft mud expectantly, like a clam digger, +to find where the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +mussels were hidden by means of his long toes; or +just standing still to enjoy the sleepy sunshine till the late afternoon +came, when he likes best to go abroad.</p> + +<p>They slept no more on the big nest, standing like sentinels against the +twilight glow and the setting moon; but each one picked out a good spot +on the shore and slept as best he could on one leg, waiting for the +early fishing. It was astonishing how carefully even the young birds +picked out a safe position. By day they would stand like statues in the +shade of a bank or among the tall grasses, where they were almost +invisible by reason of their soft colors, and wait for hours for fish +and frogs to come to them. By night each one picked out a spot on the +clean open shore, off a point, generally, where he could see up and +down, where there was no grass to hide an enemy, and where the bushes on +the bank were far enough away so that he could hear the slight rustle of +leaves before the creature that made it was within springing distance. +And there he would sleep safe through the long night, unless disturbed +by my canoe or by some other prowler. Herons see almost as well by night +as by day, and their ears are keen as a weasel’s; so I could never get +near enough to surprise them, however silently I paddled. I would hear +only a startled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +rush of wings, and then a questioning call as they +sailed over me before winging away to quieter beaches.</p> + +<p>If I were jacking, with a light blazing brightly before me in my canoe, +to see what night folk I might surprise on the shore, Quoskh was the +only one for whom my jack had no fascination. Deer and moose, foxes and +wild ducks, frogs and fish,—all seemed equally charmed by the great +wonder of a light shining silently out of the vast darkness. I saw them +all, at different times, and glided almost up to them before timidity +drove them away from the strange bright marvel. But Quoskh was not to be +watched in that way, nor to be caught by any such trick. I would see a +vague form on the far edge of the light’s pathway; catch the bright +flash of either eye as he swung his weather-vane head; then the vague +form would slide into the upper darkness. A moment’s waiting; then, +above me and behind, where the light did not dazzle his eyes, I would +hear his night cry—with more of anger than of questioning in it—and as +I turned the jack upward I would catch a single glimpse of his broad +wings sailing over the lake. Nor would he ever come back, like the fox +on the bank, for a second look to be quite sure what I was.</p> + +<p>When the bright, moonlit nights came, there was uneasiness in Quoskh’s +wild breast. The solitary life<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +that he loves best claimed him by day; +but at night the old gregarious instinct drew him again to his fellows. +Once, when drifting over the beaver pond through the delicate witchery +of the moonlight, I heard five or six of the great birds croaking +excitedly at the heronry, which they had deserted weeks before. The +lake, and especially the lonely little pond at the end of the trail, was +lovelier than ever before; but something in the south was calling him +away. I think that Quoskh was also moonstruck, as so many wild creatures +are; for, instead of sleeping quietly on the shore, he spent his time +circling aimlessly over the lake and woods, crying his name aloud, or +calling wildly to his fellows.</p> + +<p>At midnight of the day before I broke camp, I was out on the lake for a +last paddle in the moonlight. The night was perfect,—clear, cool, +intensely still. <span class="figleft" style="width: 250px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p133.png" width="250" height="343" alt="" title="" /> +</span>Not a ripple broke the great burnished surface of the +lake; a silver pathway stretched away and away over the bow of my +gliding canoe, leading me on to where the great forest stood, silent, +awake, expectant, and flooded through all its dim, mysterious arches +with marvelous light. The wilderness never sleeps. If it grow silent, it +is to listen. To-night the woods were tense as a waiting fox, watching +to see what new thing would come out of the lake, or what strange +mystery would be born under their own soft shadows.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +Quoskh was abroad too, bewitched by the moonlight. I heard him calling +and paddled down. He knew me long before he was anything more to me than +a voice of the night, and swept up to meet me. For the first time after +darkness fell I saw him—just a vague, gray shadow with edges touched +softly with silver light, which whirled once over my canoe and looked +down into it. Then he vanished; and from far over on the edge of the +waiting woods, where the mystery was deepest, came a cry, a challenge, a +riddle, the night’s wild question which no man has ever yet +answered—<i>Quoskh? quoskh?</i></p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<a name="UNK_WUNK_THE_PORCUPINE" id="UNK_WUNK_THE_PORCUPINE"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p134.png" width="400" height="271" +alt="UNK WUNK THE PORCUPINE" title="" /></h2> + +<p>A rustling in the brakes just outside my little tent roused me from a +light slumber. There it was again! the push of some heavy animal trying +to move noiselessly through the tangle close at hand; while from the old +lumber camp in the midst of the clearing a low gnawing sound floated up +through the still night. I sat up quickly to listen; but at the slight +movement all was quiet again. The night prowlers had heard me and were +on their guard.</p> + +<p>One need have no fear of things that come round in the night. They are +much shyer than you are, and can see you better; so that, if you blunder +towards them, they mistake your blindness for courage, and take to their +heels promptly. As I stepped out there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +was a double rush in some bushes +behind my tent, and by the light of a half-moon I caught one glimpse of +a bear and her cub jumping away for the shelter of the woods.</p> + +<p>The gnawing still went on behind the old shanty by the river. “Another +cub!” I thought—for I was new to the big woods—and stole down to peek +by the corner of the camp, in whose yard I had pitched my tent the first +night out in the wilderness.</p> + +<p>There was an old molasses hogshead lying just beyond the log camp, its +mouth looking black as ink in the moonlight, and the scratching-gnawing +sounds went on steadily within its shadow. “He’s inside,” I thought with +elation, “scraping off the crusted sugar. Now to catch him!”</p> + +<p>I stole round the camp, so as to bring the closed end of the hogshead +between me and the prize, crept up breathlessly, and with a quick jerk +hove the old tub up on end, trapping the creature inside. There was a +thump, a startled scratching and rustling, a violent rocking of the +hogshead, which I tried to hold down; then all was silent in the trap. +“I’ve got him!” I thought, forgetting all about the old she-bear, and +shouted for Simmo to wake up and bring the ax.</p> + +<p>We drove a ring of stakes close about the hogshead, weighted it down +with heavy logs, and turned in to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +sleep. In the morning, with cooler +judgment, we decided that a bear cub was too troublesome a pet to keep +in a tent; so I stood by with a rifle while Simmo hove off the logs and +cut the stakes, keeping a wary eye on me, meanwhile, to see how far he +might trust his life to my nerve in case the cub should be big and +troublesome; for an Indian takes no chances. A stake fell; the hogshead +toppled over by a push from within; Simmo sprang away with a yell; and +out wobbled a big porcupine, the biggest I ever saw, and tumbled away +straight towards my tent. After him went the Indian, making sweeping +cuts at the stupid thing with his ax, and grunting his derision at my +bear cub.</p> + +<p>Halfway to the tent Unk Wunk stumbled across a bit of pork rind, and +stopped to nose it daintily. I caught Simmo’s arm and stayed the blow +that would have made an end of my catch. Then, between us, Unk Wunk sat +up on his haunches, took the pork in his fore paws and sucked the salt +out of it, as if he had never a concern and never an enemy in the wide +world. A half hour later he loafed into my tent, where I sat repairing a +favorite salmon fly that some hungry sea-trout had torn to tatters, and +drove me unceremoniously out of my own bailiwick in his search for more +salt.</p> + +<p>Such a philosopher, whom no prison can dispossess of his peace of mind, +and whom no danger can deprive<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> +of his simple pleasures, deserves more +consideration than the naturalists have ever given him. I resolved on +the spot to study him more carefully. As if to discourage all such +attempts and make himself a target for my rifle, he nearly spoiled my +canoe the next night by gnawing a hole through the bark and ribs for +some suggestion of salt that only his greedy nose could possibly have +found.</p> + +<p>Once I found him on the trail, some distance from camp, and, having +nothing better to do, I attempted to drive him home. My intention was to +share hospitality; to give him a bit of bacon, and then study him as I +ate my own dinner. He turned at the first suggestion of being driven, +came straight at my legs, and by a vicious slap of his tail left some of +his quills in me before I could escape. Then I drove him in the opposite +direction, whereupon he turned and bolted past me; and when I arrived at +camp he was busily engaged in gnawing the end from Simmo’s ax handle.</p> + +<p>However you take him, Unk Wunk is one of the mysteries. He is a +perpetual question scrawled across the forest floor, which nobody +pretends to answer; a problem that grows only more puzzling as you study +to solve it.</p> + +<p>Of all the wild creatures he is the only one that has no intelligent +fear of man, and that never learns, either<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> +by instinct or experience, +to avoid man’s presence. He is everywhere in the wilderness, until he +changes what he would call his mind; and then he is nowhere, and you +cannot find him. He delights in solitude, and cares not for his own +kind; yet now and then you will stumble upon a whole convention of +porcupines at the base of some rocky hill, each one loafing around, +rattling his quills, grunting his name <i>Unk Wunk! Unk Wunk!</i> and doing +nothing else all day long.</p> + +<p>You meet him to-day, and he is timid as a rabbit; to-morrow he comes +boldly into your tent and drives you out, if you happen to be caught +without a club handy. He never has anything definite to do, nor any +place to go to; yet stop him at any moment and he will risk his life to +go just a foot farther. Now try to drive or lead him another foot in the +same direction, and he will bolt back, as full of contrariness as two +pigs on a road, and let himself be killed rather than go where he was +heading a moment before. He is perfectly harmless to every creature; yet +he lies still and kills the savage fisher that attacks him, or even the +big Canada lynx, that no other creature in the woods would dare to +tackle.</p> + +<p>Above all these puzzling contradictions is the prime question of how +Nature ever produced such a creature, and what she intended doing with +him; for he seems<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +to have no place nor use in the natural economy of +things. Recently the Maine legislature has passed a bill forbidding the +shooting of porcupines, on the curious ground that he is the only wild +animal that can easily be caught and killed without a gun; so that a man +lost in the woods need not starve to death but may feed on porcupine, as +the Indians sometimes do. This is the only suggestion thus far, from a +purely utilitarian standpoint, that Unk Wunk is no mistake, but may have +his uses.</p> + +<p>Once, to test the law and to provide for possible future contingencies, +I added Unk Wunk to my bill of fare—a vile, malodorous suffix that +might delight a lover of strong cheese. It is undoubtedly a good law; +but I cannot now imagine any one being grateful for it, unless the stern +alternative were death or porcupine.</p> + +<p>The prowlers of the woods would eat him gladly enough, but that they are +sternly forbidden. They cannot even touch him without suffering the +consequences. It would seem as if Nature, when she made this block of +stupidity in a world of wits, provided for him tenderly, as she would +for a half-witted or idiot child. He is the only wild creature for whom +starvation has no terrors. All the forest is his storehouse. Buds and +tender shoots delight him in their season; and when the cold becomes +bitter in its intensity, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +the snow packs deep, and all other +creatures grow gaunt and savage in their hunger, Unk Wunk has only to +climb the nearest tree, chisel off the rough, outer shell with his +powerful teeth, and then feed full on the soft inner layer of bark, +which satisfies him perfectly and leaves him as fat as an alderman.</p> + +<p>Of hungry beasts Unk Wunk has no fear whatever. Generally they let him +severely alone, knowing that to touch him would be more foolish than to +mouth a sunfish or to bite a Peter-grunter. If, driven by hunger in the +killing March days, they approach him savagely, he simply rolls up and +lies still, protected by an armor that only a steel glove might safely +explore, and that has no joint anywhere visible to the keenest eye.</p> + +<p>Now and then some cunning lynx or weasel, wise from experience but +desperate with hunger, throws himself flat on the ground, close by Unk +Wunk, and works his nose cautiously under the terrible bur, searching +for the neck or the underside of the body, where there are no quills. +One grip of the powerful jaws, one taste of blood in the famished throat +of the prowler—and that is the end of both animals. For Unk Wunk has a +weapon that no prowler of the woods ever calculates upon. His broad, +heavy tail is armed with hundreds of barbs, smaller but more deadly than +those on his back; and he swings this weapon with the vicious +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> sweep of +a rattlesnake. It is probably this power of driving his barbs home by a +lightning blow of his tail that has given rise to the curious delusion +that Unk Wunk can shoot his quills at a distance, as if he were filled +with compressed air—which is, of course, a harmless absurdity that +keeps people from meddling with him too closely.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, when attacked, Unk Wunk covers his face with this weapon. +More often he sticks his head under a root or into a hollow log, leaving +his tail out ready for action. At the first touch of his enemy the tail +snaps right and left quicker than thought, driving the hostile head and +sides full of the deadly quills, from which there is no escape; for +every effort, every rub and writhe of pain, only drives them deeper and +deeper, till they rest in heart or brain and finish their work.</p> + +<p>Mooween the bear is the only one of the wood folk who has learned the +trick of attacking Unk Wunk without injury to himself. If, when very +hungry, he finds a porcupine, he never attacks him directly,—he knows +too well the deadly sting of the barbs for that,—but bothers and +irritates the porcupine by flipping earth at him, until at last Unk Wunk +rolls all his quills outward and lies still. Then Mooween, with immense +caution, slides one paw under him and with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> a quick flip hurls him +against the nearest tree, and knocks the life out of him.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 514px;"><a name='BOTHERS_PORCUPINE' id='BOTHERS_PORCUPINE'></a> +<img src="images/ill-p142.jpg" width="514" height="549" +alt="“BOTHERS AND IRRITATES THE PORCUPINE BY FLIPPING EARTH AT HIM”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“BOTHERS AND IRRITATES THE PORCUPINE BY FLIPPING EARTH AT HIM”</span> +</div> + +<p>If he find Unk Wunk in a tree, he will sometimes climb after him and, +standing as near as the upper limbs allow, will push and tug mightily to +shake him off. That is usually a vain attempt; for the creature that +sleeps sound and secure through a gale in the tree-tops has no concern +for the ponderous shakings of a bear. In that case Mooween, if he can +get near enough without risking a fall from too delicate branches, will +wrench off the limb on which Unk Wunk is sleeping and throw it to the +ground. That also is usually a vain proceeding; for before Mooween can +scramble down after his game, Unk Wunk is already up another tree and +sleeping, as if nothing had happened, on another branch.</p> + +<p>Other prowlers, with less strength and cunning than Mooween, fare badly +when driven by famine to attack this useless creature of the woods, for +whom Nature nevertheless cares so tenderly. Trappers have told me that +in the late winter, when hunger is sharpest, they sometimes catch a +wild-cat or lynx or fisher in their traps with his mouth and sides full +of porcupine quills, showing to what straits he had been driven for +food. These rare trapped animals are but an indication of many a silent +struggle that only the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +trees and stars are witnesses of; and the +trapper’s deadfall, with its quick, sure blow, is only a merciful ending +to what else had been a long, slow, painful trail, ending at last under +a hemlock tip with the snow for a covering.</p> + +<p>Last summer, in a little glade in the wilderness, I found two skeletons, +one of a porcupine, the other of a large lynx, lying side by side. In +the latter three quills lay where the throat had once been; the shaft of +another stood firmly out of an empty eye orbit; a dozen more lay about +in such a way that one could not tell by what path they had entered the +body. It needed no great help of imagination to read the story here of a +starving lynx, too famished to remember caution, and of a dinner that +cost a life.</p> + +<p>Once also I saw a curious bit of animal education in connection with Unk +Wunk. Two young owls had begun hunting, under direction of the mother +bird, along the foot of a ridge in the early twilight. From my canoe I +saw one of the young birds swoop downward at something in the bushes on +the shore. An instant later the big mother owl followed with a sharp, +angry <i>hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!</i> of warning. The youngster dropped into the +bushes; but the mother fairly knocked him away from his game in her +fierce rush, and led him away silently into the woods. I went +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> over on +the instant, and found a young porcupine in the bushes where the owl had +swooped, while two more were eating lily stems farther along the shore.</p> + +<p>Evidently Kookooskoos, who swoops by instinct at everything that moves, +must be taught by wiser heads the wisdom of letting certain things +severely alone.</p> + +<p>That he needs this lesson was clearly shown by an owl that my friend +once shot at twilight. There was a porcupine quill imbedded for nearly +its entire length in his leg. Two more were slowly working their way +into his body; and the shaft of another projected from the corner of his +mouth like a toothpick. Whether he were a young owl and untaught, or +whether, driven by hunger, he had thrown counsel to the winds and +swooped at Unk Wunk, will never be known. That he should attack so large +an animal as the porcupine would seem to indicate that, like the lynx, +hunger had probably driven him beyond all consideration for his mother's +teaching.</p> + +<p>Unk Wunk, on his part, knows so very little that it may fairly be +doubted whether he ever had the discipline of the school of the woods. +Whether he rolls himself into a chestnut bur by instinct, as the possum +plays dead, or whether that is a matter of slow learning is yet to be +discovered. Whether his dense stupidity, Which disarms his enemies and +brings him safe out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> +a hundred dangers where wits would fail, is, +like the possum’s blank idiocy, only a mask for the deepest wisdom; or +whether he is quite as stupid as he acts and looks, is also a question.</p> + +<p>More and more I incline to the former possibility. He has learned +unconsciously the strength of lying still. A thousand generations of fat +and healthy porcupines have taught him the folly of trouble and rush and +worry in a world that somebody else has planned, and for which somebody +else is plainly responsible. So he makes no effort and lives in profound +peace. But this also leaves you with a question which may take you +overseas to explore Hindu philosophy. Indeed, if you have one question +when you meet Unk Wunk for the first time, you will have twenty after +you have studied him for a season or two. His paragraph in the woods’ +journal begins and ends with a question mark, and a dash for what is +left unsaid.</p> + +<p>The only indication of deliberate plan and effort that I have ever noted +in Unk Wunk was in regard to teaching two young ones the simple art of +swimming,—which porcupines, by the way, rarely use, and for which there +seems to be no necessity. I was drifting along the shore in my canoe +when I noticed a mother porcupine and two little ones, a prickly pair +indeed, on a log that reached out into the lake. She had +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> brought them +there to make her task of weaning them more easy by giving them a taste +of lily buds. When they had gathered and eaten all the buds and stems +that they could reach, she deliberately pushed both little ones into the +water. When they attempted to scramble back she pushed them off again, +and dropped in beside them and led them to a log farther down the shore, +where there were more lily pads.</p> + +<p>The numerous hollow quills floated them high in the water, like so many +corks, and they paddled off with less effort than any other young +animals that I have ever seen in the water. But whether this were a +swimming lesson, or a rude direction to shift and browse for themselves, +is still a question. With the exception of one solitary old genius, who +had an astonishing way of amusing himself and scaring all the other wood +folk, this was the only plain bit of fore-thought and sweet +reasonableness that I have ever found in a porcupine.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p148.png" width="300" height="115" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<a name="A_LAZY_FELLOWS_FUN" id="A_LAZY_FELLOWS_FUN"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p149.png" width="400" height="241" +alt="A LAZY FELLOW’S FUN" title="" /></h2> + +<p>A new sound, a purring rustle of leaves, stopped me instantly as I +climbed the beech ridge, one late afternoon, to see what wood folk I +might surprise feeding on the rich mast. <i>Pr-r-r-r-ush, pr-r-r-r-ush!</i> a +curious combination of the rustling of squirrels’ feet and the soft, +crackling purr of an eagle’s wings, growing nearer, clearer every +instant. I slipped quietly behind the nearest tree to watch and listen.</p> + +<p>Something was coming down the hill; but what? It was not an animal +running. No animal that I knew, unless he had gone suddenly crazy, would +ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +make such a racket to tell everybody where he was. It was not +squirrels playing, nor grouse scratching among the new-fallen leaves. +Their alternate rustlings and silences are unmistakable. It was not a +bear shaking down the ripe beechnuts—not heavy enough for that, yet too +heavy for the feet of any prowler of the woods to make on his stealthy +hunting. <i>Pr-r-r-r-ush, swish! thump!</i> Something struck the stem of a +bush heavily and brought down a rustling shower of leaves; then out from +under the low branches rolled something that I had never seen before,—a +heavy, grayish ball, as big as a half-bushel basket, so covered over +with leaves that one could not tell what was inside. It was as if some +one had covered a big kettle with glue and sent it rolling down the +hill, picking up dead leaves as it went. So the queer thing tumbled past +my feet, purring, crackling, growing bigger and more ragged every moment +as it gathered up more leaves, till it reached the bottom of a sharp +pitch and lay still.</p> + +<p>I stole after it cautiously. Suddenly it moved, unrolled itself. Then +out of the ragged mass came a big porcupine. He shook himself, +stretched, wobbled around a moment, as if his long roll had made him +dizzy; then he meandered aimlessly along the foot of the ridge, his +quills stuck full of dead leaves, looking +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> big and strange enough to +frighten anything that might meet him in the woods.</p> + +<p>Here was a new trick, a new problem concerning one of the stupidest of +all the wood folk. When you meet a porcupine and bother him, he usually +rolls himself into a huge pincushion with all its points outward, covers +his face with his thorny tail, and lies still, knowing well that you +cannot touch him anywhere without getting the worst of it. Now had he +been bothered by some animal and rolled himself up where it was so steep +that he lost his balance, and so tumbled unwillingly down the long hill; +or, with his stomach full of sweet beechnuts, had he rolled down lazily +to avoid the trouble of walking; or is Unk Wunk brighter than he looks +to discover the joy of roller coasting and the fun of feeling dizzy +afterwards?</p> + +<p>There was nothing on the hill above, no rustle or suggestion of any +hunting animal to answer the question; so I followed Unk Wunk on his +aimless wanderings along the foot of the ridge.</p> + +<p>A slight movement far ahead caught my eye, and I saw a hare gliding and +dodging among the brown ferns. He came slowly in our direction, hopping +and halting and wiggling his nose at every bush, till he heard our +approach and rose on his hind legs to listen. He gave a great jump as +Unk Wunk hove into sight,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +covered all over with the dead leaves that +his barbed quills had picked up on his way downhill, and lay quiet where +he thought the ferns would hide him.</p> + +<p>The procession drew nearer. Moktaques, full of curiosity, lifted his +head cautiously out of the ferns and sat up straight on his haunches +again, his paws crossed, his eyes shining in fear and curiosity at the +strange animal rustling along and taking the leaves with him. <span class="figright" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p152.png" width="300" height="433" alt="" title="" /> +</span>For a moment wonder held him as still as the stump beside him; then he bolted +into the bush in a series of high, scared jumps, and I heard him +scurrying crazily in a half circle around us.</p> + +<p>Unk Wunk gave no heed to the interruption, but yew-yawed hither and yon +after his stupid nose. Like every other porcupine that I have followed, +he seemed to have nothing whatever to do, and nowhere in the wide world +to go. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +loafed along lazily, too full to eat any of the beechnuts +that he nosed daintily out of the leaves. He tried a bit of bark here +and there, only to spit it out again. Once he started up the hill; but +it was too steep for a lazy fellow with a full stomach. Again he tried +it; but it was not steep enough to roll down afterwards. Suddenly he +turned and came back to see who it was that followed him about.</p> + +<p>I kept very quiet, and he brushed two or three times past my legs, +eyeing me sleepily. Then he took to nosing a beechnut from under my +foot, as if I were no more interesting than Alexander was to Diogenes.</p> + +<p>I had never made friends with a porcupine,—he is too briery a fellow +for intimacies,—but now with a small stick I began to search him +gently, wondering if, under all that armor of spears and brambles, I +might not find a place where it would please him to be scratched. At the +first touch he rolled himself together, all his spears sticking straight +out on every side, like a huge chestnut bur. One could not touch him +anywhere without being pierced by a dozen barbs. Gradually, however, as +the stick touched him gently and searched out the itching spots under +his armor, he unrolled himself and put his nose under my foot again. He +did not want the beechnut; but he did want +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> to nose it out. Unk Wunk is +like a pig. He has very few things to do besides eating; but when he +does start to go anywhere or do anything he always does it. Then I bent +down to touch him with my hand.</p> + +<p>That was a mistake. He felt the difference in the touch instantly. Also +he smelled the salt in my hand, for a taste of which Unk Wunk will put +aside all his laziness and walk a mile, if need be. He tried to grasp +the hand, first with his paws, then with his mouth; but I had too much +fear of his great cutting teeth to let him succeed. Instead I touched +him behind the ears, feeling my way gingerly through the thick tangle of +spines, testing them cautiously to see how easily they would pull out.</p> + +<p>The quills were very loosely set in, and every arrowheaded barb was as +sharp as a needle. Anything that pressed against them roughly would +surely be pierced; the spines would pull out of the skin, and work their +way rapidly into the unfortunate hand or paw or nose that touched them. +Each spine was like a South Sea Islander’s sword, set for half its +length with shark’s teeth. Once in the flesh it would work its own way, +unless pulled out with a firm hand spite of pain and terrible +laceration. No wonder Unk Wunk has no fear or anxiety when he rolls +himself into a ball, protected at every point by such terrible weapons.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +The hand moved very cautiously as it went down his side, within reach of +Unk Wunk’s one swift weapon. There were thousands of the spines, rough +as a saw’s edge, crossing each other in every direction, yet with every +point outward. Unk Wunk was irritated, probably, because he could not +have the salt he wanted. As the hand came within range, his tail snapped +back like lightning. I was watching for the blow, but was not half quick +enough. At the rustling snap, like the voice of a steel trap, I jerked +my hand away. Two of his tail spines came with it; and a dozen more were +in my coat sleeve. I jumped away as he turned, and so escaped the quick +double swing of his tail at my legs. Then he rolled into a chestnut bur +again, and proclaimed mockingly at every point: “Touch me if you dare!”</p> + +<p>I pulled the two quills with sharp jerks out of my hand, pushed all the +others through my coat sleeve, and turned to Unk Wunk again, sucking my +wounded hand, which pained me intensely. “All your own fault,” I kept +telling myself, to keep from whacking him across the nose, his one +vulnerable point, with my stick.</p> + +<p>Unk Wunk, on his part, seemed to have forgotten the incident. He +unrolled himself slowly and loafed along the foot of the ridge, his +quills spreading and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +rustling as he went, as if there were not such a +thing as an enemy or an inquisitive man in all the woods.</p> + +<p>He had an idea in his head by this time and was looking for something. +As I followed close behind him, he would raise himself against a small +tree, survey it solemnly for a moment or two, and go on unsatisfied. A +breeze had come down from the mountain and was swaying all the tree-tops +above him. He would look up steadily at the tossing branches, and then +hurry on to survey the next little tree he met, with paws raised against +the trunk and dull eyes following the motion overhead.</p> + +<p>At last he found what he wanted,—two tall saplings growing close +together and rubbing each other as the wind swayed them. He climbed one +of these clumsily, higher and higher, till the slender top bent with his +weight towards the other. Then he reached out to grasp the second top +with his fore paws, hooked his hind claws firmly into the first, and lay +there binding the tree-tops together, while the wind rose and began to +rock him in his strange cradle.</p> + +<p>Wider and wilder he swung, now stretched out thin, like a rubber string, +his quills lying hard and flat against his sides as the tree-tops +separated in the wind; now jammed up against himself as they came +together again, pressing him into a flat ring with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> spines sticking +straight out, like a chestnut bur that has been stepped upon. And there +he swayed for a full hour, till it grew too dark to see him, stretching, +contracting, stretching, contracting, as if he were an accordion and the +wind were playing him. His only note, meanwhile, was an occasional +squealing grunt of satisfaction after some particularly good stretch, or +when the motion changed and both trees rocked together in a wide, wild, +exhilarating swing. Now and then the note was answered, farther down the +ridge, by another porcupine going to sleep in his lofty cradle. A storm +was coming; and Unk Wunk, who is one of the wood’s best barometers to +foretell the changing weather, was crying it aloud where all might hear.</p> + +<p>So my question was answered unexpectedly. Unk Wunk was out for fun that +afternoon, and had rolled down the hill for the joy of the swift motion +and the dizzy feeling afterwards, as other wood folk do. I have watched +young foxes, whose den was on a steep hill side, rolling down one after +the other, and sometime varying the programme by having one cub roll as +fast as he could, while another capered alongside, snapping and worrying +him in his brain-muddling tumble.</p> + +<p>That is all very well for foxes. One expects to find such an idea in +wise little heads. But who taught<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +Unk Wunk to roll downhill and stick +his spines full of dry leaves to scare the wood folk? And when did he +learn to use the tree-tops for his swing and the wind for his motive +power?</p> + +<p>Perhaps—since most of what the wood folk know is a matter of learning, +not of instinct—his mother teaches him some things that we have never +yet seen. If so, Unk Wunk has more in his sleepy, stupid head than we +have given him credit for, and there is a very interesting lesson +awaiting him who shall first find and enter the porcupine school.<span class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p158.png" width="200" height="174" alt="" title="" /> +</span></p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<a name="THE_PARTRIDGES_ROLL_CALL" id="THE_PARTRIDGES_ROLL_CALL"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p159.png" width="400" height="149" +alt="THE PARTRIDGES’ ROLL CALL" title="" /></h2> + +<p>I was fishing, one September afternoon, in the pool at the foot of the +lake, trying in twenty ways, as the dark evergreen shadows lengthened +across the water, to beguile some wary old trout into taking my flies. +They lived there, a score of them, in a dark well among the lily pads, +where a cold spring bubbled up from the bottom; and their moods and +humors were a perpetual source of worry or amusement, according to the +humor of the fisherman himself.</p> + +<p>For days at a time they would lie in the deep shade of the lily pads in +stupid or sullen indifference. Then nothing tempted them. Flies, worms, +crickets, redfins, bumblebees,—all at the end of dainty hair leaders, +were drawn with crinkling wavelets over their heads, or dropped gently +beside them; but they only swirled sullenly aside, grouty as King Ahab +when he turned his face to the wall and would eat no bread.</p> + +<p>At such times scores of little fish swarmed out of the pads and ran riot +in the pool. Chub, shiners,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +"punkin-seeds," perch, boiled up at your +flies, or chased each other in savage warfare through the forbidden +water, which seemed to intoxicate them by its cool freshness. You had +only to swing your canoe up near the shadowy edge of the pool and draw +your cast once across the open water to know whether or not you would +eat trout for breakfast. If the small fish chased your flies, then you +might as well go home or study nature; you would certainly get no trout. +But you could never tell when the change would come. With the smallest +occasion sometimes—a coolness in the air, the run of a cat’s-paw +breeze, a cloud shadow drifting over—a transformation would sweep over +the speckled Ahabs lying deep under the lily pads. Some blind, unknown +warning would run through the pool before ever a trout had changed his +position. Looking over the side of your canoe you would see the little +fish darting helter-skelter away among the pads, seeking safety in +shallow water, leaving the pool to its tyrant masters. Now is the time +to begin casting; your trout are ready to rise.</p> + +<p>A playful mood would often follow the testy humor. The plunge of a +three-pound fish, the slap-dash of a dozen smaller ones would startle +you into nervous casting. But again you might as well spare your +efforts, which only served to acquaint the trout with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> the best frauds +in your fly book. They would rush at Hackle or Coachman or Silver +Doctor, swirl under it, jump over it, but never take it in. They played +with floating leaves; their wonderful eyes caught the shadow of a +passing mosquito across the silver mirror of their roof, and their broad +tails flung them up to intercept it; but they wanted nothing more than +play or exercise, and they would not touch your flies.</p> + +<p>Once in a way there would come a day when your study and patience found +their rich reward. The slish of a line, the flutter of a fly dropping +softly on the farther edge of the pool—and then the shriek of your +reel, buzzing up the quiet hillside, was answered by a loud snort, as +the deer that lived there bounded away in alarm, calling her two fawns +to follow. But you scarcely noticed; your head and hands were too full, +trying to keep the big trout away from the lily pads, where you would +certainly lose him with your light tackle.</p> + +<p>On the afternoon of which I write the trout were neither playful nor +sullen. No more were they hungry. The first cast of my midget flies +across the pool brought no answer. That was good; the little fish had +been ordered out, evidently. Larger flies followed; but the big trout +neither played with them nor let them alone. They followed cautiously, a +foot<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +astern, to the near edge of the lily pads, till they saw me and +swirled down again to their cool haunts. They were suspicious clearly; +and with the lower orders, as with men, the best rule in such a case is +to act naturally, with more quietness than usual, and give them time to +get over their suspicion.</p> + +<p>As I waited, my flies resting among the pads near the canoe, curious +sounds came floating down the hillside—<i>Prut, prut, pr-r-r-rt! +Whit-kwit? whit-kwit? Pr-r-rt, pr-r-rt! Ooo-it, ooo-it? Pr-r-reeee</i>! +this last with a swift burr of wings. And the curious sounds, half +questioning, half muffled in extreme caution, gave a fleeting impression +of gliding in and out among the tangled underbrush. “A flock of +partridges—ruffed grouse,” I thought, and turned to listen more +intently.</p> + +<p>The shadows had grown long, with a suggestion of coming night; and other +ears than mine had heard the sounds with interest. A swifter shadow fell +on the water, and I looked up quickly to see a big owl sail silently out +from the opposite hill and perch on a blasted stub overlooking the pool. +Kookooskoos had been sleeping in a dark spruce when the sounds waked +him, and he started out instantly, not to hunt—it was still too +bright—but to locate his game and follow silently to the roosting +place, near which he would hide and wait till the twilight fell darkly. +I could see<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +it all in his attitude as he poised forward, swinging his +round head to and fro, like a dog on an air trail, locating the flock +accurately before he should take another flight.</p> + +<p>Up on the hillside the eager sounds had stopped for a moment, as if some +strange sixth sense had warned the birds to be silent. The owl was +puzzled; but I dared not move, because he was looking straight over me. +Some faint sound, too faint for my ears, made him turn his head, and on +the instant I reached for the tiny rifle lying before me in the canoe. +Just as he spread his wings to investigate the new sound, the little +rifle spoke, and he tumbled heavily to the shore.</p> + +<p>“One robber the less,” I was thinking, when the canoe swung slightly on +the water. There was a heavy plunge, a vicious rush of my unheeded line, +and I seized my rod to find myself fast to a big trout, which had been +watching my flies from his hiding among the lily pads till his +suspicions were quieted, and the first slight movement brought him up +with a rush.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later he lay in my canoe, where I could see him plainly to +my heart’s content. I was waiting for the pool to grow quiet again, when +a new sound came from the underbrush, a rapid <i>plop, lop, lop, lop, +lop</i>, like the sound in a sunken bottle as water pours in and the air +rushes out.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +There was a brook near the sounds, a lazy little stream that had lost +itself among the alders and forgotten all its music; and my first +thought was that some animal was standing in the water to drink, and +waking the voice of the brook as the current rippled past his legs. The +canoe glided over to find out what he was, when, in the midst of the +sounds, came the unmistakable <i>Whit-kwit?</i> of partridges—and there they +were, just vanishing glimpses of alert forms and keen eyes gliding among +the tangled alder stems. When near the brook they had changed the soft, +gossipy chatter, by which a flock holds itself together in the wild +tangle of the burned lands, into a curious liquid sound, so like the +gurgling of water by a mossy stone that it would have deceived me +completely, had I not seen the birds. It was as if they tried to remind +the little alder brook of the music it had lost far back among the +hills.</p> + +<p>Now I had been straitly charged, on leaving camp, to bring back three +partridges for our Sunday dinner. My own little flock had grown a bit +tired of trout and canned foods; and a taste of young broiled grouse, +which I had recently given them, had left them hungry for more. So I +left the pool and my fishing rod, just as the trout began to rise, to +glide into the alders with my pocket rifle.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +There were at least a dozen birds there, full-grown and strong of wing, +that had not yet decided to scatter to the four winds, as had most of +the coveys which one might meet on the burned lands. All summer long, +while berries are plenty, the flocks hold together, finding ten pairs of +quiet eyes much better protection against surprises than one frightened +pair. Each flock is then under the absolute authority of the mother +bird; and one who follows them gets some curious and intensely +interesting glimpses of a partridge’s education. If the mother bird is +killed, by owl or hawk or weasel, the flock still holds together, while +berries last, under the leadership of one of their own number, more bold +or cunning than the others. But with the ripening autumn, when the birds +have learned, or think they have learned, all the sights and sounds and +dangers of the wilderness, the covey scatters; partly to cover a wider +range in feeding as food grows scarcer; partly in natural revolt at +maternal authority, which no bird or animal likes to endure after he has +once learned to take care of himself.</p> + +<p>I followed the flock rapidly, though cautiously, through an interminable +tangle of alders that bordered the little stream, and learned some +things about them; though they gave me no chance whatever for a rifle +shot. The mother was gone; their leader was a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> foxy bird, the smallest +of the lot, who kept them moving in dense cover, running, crouching, +hiding, inquisitive about me and watching me, yet keeping themselves +beyond reach of harm. All the while the leader talked to them, a curious +language of cheepings and whistlings; and they answered back with +questions or sharp exclamations as my head appeared in sight for a +moment. Where the cover was densest they waited till I was almost upon +them before they whisked out of sight; and where there was a bit of +opening they whirred up noisily on strong wings, or sailed swiftly away +from a fallen log with the noiseless flight that a grouse knows so well +how to use when the occasion comes.</p> + +<p>Already the instinct to scatter was at work among them. During the day +they had probably been feeding separately along the great hillside; but +with lengthening shadows they came together again to face the wilderness +night in the peace and security of the old companionship. And I had +fortunately been quiet enough at my fishing to hear when the leader +began to call them together and they had answered, here and there, from +their feeding.</p> + +<p>I gave up following them after a while—they were too quick for me in +the alder tangle—and came out of the swamp to the ridge. There I ran +along a deer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +path and circled down ahead of them to a thicket of cedar, +where I thought they might pass the night.</p> + +<p>Presently I heard them coming—<i>Whit-kwit? pr-r-r, pr-r-r, prut, +prut!</i>—and saw five or six of them running rapidly. The little leader +saw me at the same instant and dodged back out of sight. Most of his +flock followed him; but one bird, more inquisitive than the rest, jumped +to a fallen log, drew himself up straight as a string, and eyed me +steadily. The little rifle spoke at his head promptly; and I stowed him +away comfortably, a fine plump bird, in a big pocket of my hunting +shirt.</p> + +<p>At the report another partridge, questioning the unknown sound, flew to +a thick spruce, pressed close against the trunk to hide himself, and +stood listening intently. Whether he was waiting to hear the sound +again, or was frightened and listening for the call of the leader, I +could not tell. I fired at his head quickly, and saw him sail down +against the hillside, with a loud thump and a flutter of feathers behind +him to tell me that he was hard hit.</p> + +<p>I followed him up the hill, hearing an occasional flutter of wings to +guide my feet, till the sounds vanished into a great tangle of +underbrush and fallen trees. I searched here ten minutes or more in +vain, then listened in the vast silence for a longer period; but the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +bird had hidden himself away in some hole or covert where an owl might +pass by without finding him. Reluctantly I turned away toward the swamp.</p> + +<p>Close beside me was a fallen log; on my right was another; and the two +had fallen so as to make the sides of a great angle, their tops resting +together against the hill. Between the two were several huge trees +growing among the rocks and underbrush. I climbed upon one of these +fallen trees and moved along it cautiously, some eight or ten feet above +the ground, looking down searchingly for a stray brown feather to guide +me to my lost partridge.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the log under my feet began to rock gently. I stopped in +astonishment, looking for the cause of the strange teetering; but there +was nothing on the log beside myself. After a moment I went on again, +looking again for my partridge. Again the log rocked, heavily this time, +almost throwing me off. Then I noticed that the tip of the other log, +which lay balanced across a great rock, was under the tip of my log and +was being pried up by something on the other end. Some animal was there, +and it flashed upon me suddenly that he was heavy enough to lift my +weight with his stout lever. I stole along so as to look behind a great +tree—and there on the other log, not twenty feet away, a big bear was +standing, twisting himself uneasily,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +trying to decide whether to go on or go back on his unstable footing.</p> + +<p>He discovered me at the instant that my face appeared behind the tree. +Such surprise, such wonder I have seldom seen in an animal’s face. For a +long moment he met my eyes steadily with his. Then he began to twist +again, while the logs rocked up and down. Again he looked at the strange +animal on the other log; but the face behind the tree had not moved nor +changed; the eyes looked steadily into his. With a startled movement he +plunged off into the underbrush, and but for a swift grip on a branch +the sudden lurch would have sent me off backward among the rocks. As he +jumped I heard a swift flutter of wings. I followed it timidly, not +knowing where the bear was, and in a moment I had the second partridge +stowed away comfortably with his brother in my hunting shirt.</p> + +<p>The rest of the flock had scattered widely by this time. I found one or +two and followed them; but they dodged away into the thick alders, where +I could not find their heads quick enough with my rifle sight. After a +vain, hasty shot or two I went back to my fishing.</p> + +<p>Woods and lake were soon quiet again. The trout had stopped rising, in +one of their sudden moods. A vast silence brooded over the place, +unbroken by any buzz of my noisy reel, and the twilight shadows were +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +growing deeper and longer, when the soft, gliding, questioning chatter +of partridges came floating out of the alders. The leader was there, in +the thickest tangle—I had learned in an hour to recognize his peculiar +<i>Prut, prut</i>—and from the hillside and the alder swamp and the big +evergreens his scattered flock were answering; here a <i>kwit</i>, and there +a <i>prut</i>, and beyond a swift burr of wings, all drawing closer and +closer together.</p> + +<p>I had still a third partridge to get for my own hungry flock; so I stole +swiftly back into the alder swamp. There I found a little game path and +crept along it on hands and knees, drawing cautiously near to the +leader’s continued calling.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 427px;"><a name='TURN_HEADS' id='TURN_HEADS'></a> +<img src="images/ill-p171.jpg" width="427" height="600" +alt="“THEY WOULD TURN THEIR HEADS AND LISTEN INTENTLY”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“THEY WOULD TURN THEIR HEADS AND LISTEN INTENTLY”</span> +</div> + +<p>In the midst of a thicket of low black alders, surrounded by a perfect +hedge of bushes, I found him at last. He was on the lower end of a +fallen log, gliding rapidly up and down, spreading wings and tail and +budding ruff, as if he were drumming, and sending out his peculiar call +at every pause. Above him, in a long line on the same log, five other +partridges were sitting perfectly quiet, save now and then, when an +answer came to the leader’s call, they would turn their heads and listen +intently till the underbrush parted cautiously and another bird flitted +up beside them. Then another call, and from the distant hillside a faint +<i>kwit-kwit</i> and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +a rush of wings in answer, and another partridge would +shoot in on swift pinions to pull himself up on the log beside his +fellows. The line would open hospitably to let him in; then the row grew +quiet again, as the leader called, turning their heads from side to side +for the faint answers.</p> + +<p>There were nine on the log at last. The calling grew louder and louder; +yet for several minutes now no answer came back. The flock grew uneasy; +the leader ran from his log into the brush and back again, calling +loudly, while a low chatter, the first break in their strange silence, +ran back and forth through the family on the log. There were others to +come; but where were they, and why did they tarry? It was growing late; +already an owl had hooted, and the roosting place was still far away. +<i>Prut, prut, pr-r-r-reee!</i> called the leader, and the chatter ceased as +the whole flock listened.</p> + +<p>I turned my head to the hillside to listen also for the laggards; but +there was no answer. Save for the cry of a low-flying loon and the snap +of a twig—too sharp and heavy for little feet to make—the woods were +all silent. As I turned to the log again, something warm and heavy +rested against my side. Then I knew; and with the knowledge came a swift +thrill of regret that made me feel guilty and out of place in the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +silent woods. The leader was calling, the silent flock were waiting for +two of their number who would never answer the call again.</p> + +<p>I lay scarcely ten yards from the log on which the sad little drama went +on in the twilight shadows, while the great silence grew deep and +deeper, as if the wilderness itself were in sympathy and ceased its +cries to listen. Once, at the first glimpse of the group, I had raised +my rifle and covered the head of the largest bird; but curiosity to know +what they were doing held me back. Now a deeper feeling had taken its +place; the rifle slid from my hand and lay unnoticed among the fallen +leaves.</p> + +<p>Again the leader called. The flock drew itself up, like a row of +gray-brown statues, every eye bright, every ear listening, till some +vague sense of fear and danger drew them together; and they huddled on +the ground in a close group; all but the leader, who stood above them, +counting them over and over, apparently, and anon sending his cry out +into the darkening woods.</p> + +<p>I took one of the birds out of my pocket and began to smooth the rumpled +brown feathers. How beautiful he was, how perfectly adapted in form and +color for the wilderness in which he had lived! And I had taken his +life, the only thing he had. Its beauty and something deeper, which is +the sad mystery of all life, were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +gone forever. All summer long he had +run about on glad little feet, delighting in nature’s abundance, calling +brightly to his fellows as they glided in and out in eager search +through the lights and shadows. Fear on the one hand, absolute obedience +to his mother on the other, had been the two great factors of his life. +Between them he grew strong, keen, alert, knowing perfectly when to run +and when to fly and when to crouch motionless, as danger passed close +with blinded eyes. Then when his strength was perfect, and he glided +alone through the wilderness coverts in watchful self-dependence—a +moment’s curiosity, a quick eager glance at the strange animal standing +so still under the cedar, a flash, a noise; and all was over. The call +of the leader went searching, searching through the woods; but he gave +no heed any more.</p> + +<p>The hand had grown suddenly very tender as it stroked his feathers. I +had taken his life; I must try to answer for him now. At the thought I +raised my head and gave the clear <i>whit-kwit</i> of a running partridge. +Instantly the leader answered; the flock sprang to the log again and +turned their heads in my direction to listen. Another call, and now the +flock dropped to the ground and lay close, while the leader drew himself +up straight on the log and became part of a dead stub beside him.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +Something was wrong in my call; the birds were suspicious, knowing not +what danger had kept their fellows silent so long, and now threatened +them out of the black alders. A moment’s intent listening; then the +leader stepped slowly down from his log and came towards me cautiously, +halting, hiding, listening, gliding, swinging far out to one side and +back again in stealthy advance, till he drew himself up abruptly at +sight of my face peering out of the underbrush. For a long two minutes +he never stirred so much as an eyelid. Then he glided swiftly back, with +a faint, puzzled, questioning <i>kwit-kwit?</i> to where his flock were +waiting. A low signal that I could barely hear, a swift movement—then +the flock thundered away in scattered flight into the silent, friendly +woods.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later I was crouched in some thick underbrush looking up +into a great spruce, when I could just make out the leader standing by +an upright branch in sharp silhouette against the glowing west. I had +followed his swift flight, and now lay listening again to his searching +call as it went out through the twilight, calling his little flock to +the roosting tree. From the swamp and the hillside and far down by the +quiet lake they answered, faintly at first, then with clearer call and +the whirr of swift wings as they came in.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +But already I had seen and heard enough; too much, indeed, for my peace +of mind. I crept away through the swamp, the eager calls following me +even to my canoe; first a plaint, as if something were lacking to the +placid lake and quiet woods and the soft beauty of twilight; and then a +faint question, always heard in the <i>kwit</i> of a partridge, as if only I +could explain why two eager voices would never again answer to roll call +when the shadows lengthened.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p177.png" width="400" height="237" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter i" style="width: 400px;"> +<a name="UMQUENAWIS_THE_MIGHTY" id="UMQUENAWIS_THE_MIGHTY"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p178.png" width="400" height="297" +alt="Umquenawis The Mighty" title="" /></h2> + +<p>Umquenawis the Mighty is lord of the woodlands. None other among the +wood folk is half so great as he; none has senses so keen to detect a +danger, nor powers so terrible to defend himself against it. So he fears +nothing, moving through the big woods like a master; and when you see +him for the first time in the wilderness pushing his stately, silent way +among the giant trees, or plunging like a great engine through +underbrush and over windfalls, his nose up to try the wind, his broad +antlers far back on his mighty shoulders, while the dead tree that +opposes him cracks and crashes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> +down before his rush, and the alders +beat a rattling, snapping tattoo on his branching horns,—when you see +him thus, something within you rises up, like a soldier at salute, and +says: "Milord the Moose!" And though the rifle is in your hand, its +deadly muzzle never rises from the trail.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 471px;"><a name='GREAT_ENGINE' id='GREAT_ENGINE'></a> +<img src="images/ill-p180.jpg" width="471" height="600" +alt="“PLUNGING LIKE A GREAT ENGINE THROUGH UNDERBRUSH AND OVER WINDFALLS”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“PLUNGING LIKE A GREAT ENGINE THROUGH UNDERBRUSH AND OVER WINDFALLS”</span> +</div> + +<p>That great head with its massive crown is too big for any house. Hung +stupidly on a wall, in a room full of bric-a-brac, as you usually see +it, with its shriveled ears that were once living trumpets, its bulging +eyes that were once so small and keen, and its huge muzzle stretched out +of all proportion, it is but misplaced, misshapen ugliness. It has no +more, and scarcely any higher, significance than a scalp on the pole of +a savage’s wigwam. Only in the wilderness, with the irresistible push of +his twelve-hundred pound, force-packed body behind it, the crackling +underbrush beneath, and the lofty spruce aisles towering overhead, can +it give the tingling impression of magnificent power which belongs to +Umquenawis the Mighty in his native wilds. There only is his head at +home; and only as you see it there, whether looking out in quiet majesty +from a lonely point over a silent lake, or leading him in his terrific +rush through the startled forest, will your heart ever jump and your +nerves tingle in that swift thrill which stirs the sluggish blood to +your very finger tips,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> +and sends you quietly back to camp with your +soul at peace—well satisfied to leave Umquenawis where he is, rather +than pack him home to your admiring friends in a freight car.</p> + +<p>Though Umquenawis be lord of the wilderness, there are two things, and +two things only, which he sometimes fears: the smell of man, and the +spiteful crack of a rifle. For Milord the Moose has been hunted and has +learned fear, which formerly he was stranger to. But when you go deep +into the wilderness, where no hunter has ever gone, and where the bang +of a rifle following the roar of a birch-bark trumpet has never broken +the twilight stillness, there you may find him still, as he was before +fear came; there he will come smashing down the mountain side at your +call, and never circle to wind an enemy; and there, when the mood is on +him, he will send you scrambling up the nearest tree for your life, as a +squirrel goes when the fox is after him. Once, in such a mood, I saw him +charge a little wiry guide, who went up a spruce tree with his snowshoes +on; and never a bear did the trick quicker, spite of the four-foot webs +in which his feet were tangled.</p> + +<p>We were pushing upstream, late one afternoon, to the big lake at the +headwaters of a wilderness river. Above the roar of rapids far behind, +and the fret of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +the current near at hand, the rhythmical <i>clunk</i>, +<i>clunk</i> of the poles and the <i>lap</i>, <i>lap</i> of my little canoe as she +breasted the ripples were the only sounds that broke the forest +stillness. We were silent, as men always are to whom the woods have +spoken their deepest message, and to whom the next turn of the river may +bring its thrill of unexpected things.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, as the bow of our canoe shot round a point, we ran plump upon +a big cow moose crossing the river. At Simmo’s grunt of surprise she +stopped short and whirled to face us. And there she stood, one huge +question mark from nose to tail, while the canoe edged in to the lee of +a great rock and hung there quivering, with poles braced firmly on the +bottom.</p> + +<p>We were already late for camping, and the lake was still far ahead. I +gave the word at last, after a few minutes’ silent watching, and the +canoe shot upward. But the big moose, instead of making off into the +woods, as a well-behaved moose ought to do, splashed straight toward us. +Simmo, in the bow, gave a sweeping flourish of his pole, and we all +yelled in unison; but the moose came on steadily, quietly, bound to find +out what the queer thing was that had just come up river and broken the +solemn stillness.</p> + +<p>“Bes’ keep still; big moose make-um trouble sometime,” muttered Noel +behind me; and we dropped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +back silently into the lee of the friendly +rock, to watch awhile longer and let the big creature do as she would.</p> + +<p>For ten minutes more we tried every kind of threat and persuasion to get +the moose out of the way, ending at last by sending a bullet <i>zipping</i> +into the water under her body; but beyond an angry stamp of the foot +there was no response, and no disposition whatever to give us the +stream. Then I bethought me of a trick that I had discovered long before +by accident. Dropping down to the nearest bank, I crept up behind the +moose, hidden in the underbrush, and began to break twigs, softly at +first, then more and more sharply, as if something were coming through +the woods fearlessly. At the first suspicious crack the moose whirled, +hesitated, started nervously across the stream, twitching her nostrils +and wigwagging her big ears to find out what the crackle meant, and +hurrying more and more as the sounds grated harshly upon her sensitive +nerves. Next moment the river was clear and our canoe was breasting the +rippling shallows, while the moose watched us curiously, half hidden in +the alders.</p> + +<p>That is a good trick, for occasions. The animals all fear twig snapping. +Only never try it at night, with a bull, in the calling season, as I did +once unintentionally. Then he is apt to mistake you for his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> tantalizing +mate and come down on you like a tempest, giving you a big scare and a +monkey scramble into the nearest tree before he is satisfied.</p> + +<p>Within the next hour I counted seven moose, old and young, from the +canoe; and when we ran ashore at twilight to the camping ground on the +big lake, the tracks of an enormous bull were drawn sharply across our +landing. The water was still trickling into them, showing that he had +just vacated the spot at our approach.</p> + +<p>How do I know it was a bull? At this season the bulls travel constantly, +and the points of the hoofs are worn to a clean, even curve. The cows, +which have been living in deep retirement all summer, teaching their +ungainly calves the sounds and smells and lessons of the woods, travel +much less; their hoofs, in consequence, are generally long and pointed +and overgrown.</p> + +<p>Two miles above our camp was a little brook, with an alder swale on one +side and a dark, gloomy spruce tangle on the other—an ideal spot for a +moose to keep her little school, I thought, when I discovered the place +a few days later. There were tracks on the shore, plenty of them; and I +knew I had only to watch long enough to see the mother and her calf, and +to catch a glimpse, perhaps, of what no man has ever yet seen clearly; +that is, a moose teaching her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +little one how to hide his bulk; how to +move noiselessly and undiscovered through underbrush where, one would +think, a fox must make his presence known; how to take a windfall on the +run; how to breast down a young birch or maple tree and keep it under +his body while he feeds on the top,—and a score of other things that +every moose must know before he is fit to take care of himself in the +big woods.</p> + +<p>I went there one afternoon in my canoe, grasped a few lily stems to hold +the little craft steady, and snuggled down till only my head showed +above the gunwales, so as to make canoe and man look as much like an +old, wind-blown log as possible. It was getting toward the hour when I +knew the cow would be hungry, but while it was yet too light to bring +her little one to the open shore. After an hour’s watching, the cow came +cautiously down the brook. She stopped short at sight of the floating +log; watched it steadily for two or three minutes, wigwagging her ears; +then began to feed greedily on the lily pads that fringed all the shore. +When she went back I followed, guided now by the crack of a twig, now by +a swaying of brush tops, now by the flip of a nervous ear or the push of +a huge dark body, keeping carefully to leeward all the time and making +the big, unconscious creature guide me to where she had hidden her +little one.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +Just above me, and a hundred yards in from the shore, a tree had fallen, +its bushy top bending down two small spruces and making a low den, so +dark that an owl could scarcely have seen what was inside. “That’s the +spot,” I told myself instantly; but the mother passed well above it, +without noting apparently how good a place it was. Fifty yards farther +on she turned and circled back, below the spot, trying the wind with +ears and nose as she came on straight towards me.</p> + +<p>“Aha! the old moose trick,” I thought, remembering how a hunted moose +never lies down to rest without first circling back for a long distance, +parallel to his trail and to leeward, to find out from a safe distance +whether anything is following him. When he lies down, at last, it will +be close beside his trail, but hidden from it; so that he hears or +smells you as you go by. And when you reach the place, far ahead, where +he turned back he will be miles away, plunging along down wind at a pace +that makes your snowshoe swing like a baby’s toddle. So you camp where +he lay down, and pick up the trail in the morning.</p> + +<p>When the big cow turned and came striding back I knew that I should find +her little one in the spruce den. But would she not find me, instead, +and drive me out of her bailiwick? You can never be sure what +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> a moose +will do if she finds you near her calf. Generally they run—always, in +fact—but sometimes they run your way. And besides, I had been trying +for years to see a mother moose teaching in her little school. Now I +dropped on all fours and crawled away down wind, so as to get beyond ken +of the mother’s inquisitive nose if possible.</p> + +<p>She came on steadily, moving with astonishing silence through the +tangle, till she stood where I had been a moment before, when she +started violently and threw her head up into the wind. Some scent of me +was there, clinging faintly to the leaves and the moist earth. For a +moment she stood like a rock, sifting the air in her nose; then, finding +nothing in the wind, she turned slowly in my direction to use her ears +and eyes. I was lying very still behind a mossy log by this time, and +she did not see me. Suddenly she turned and called, a low bleat. There +was an instant stir in the spruce den, an answering bleat, and a moose +calf scrambled out and ran straight to the mother. There was an unvoiced +command to silence that no human sense could understand. The mother put +her great head down to earth—“Smell of that; mark that, and remember,” +she was saying in her own way; and the calf put his little head down +beside hers, and I heard him sniff-sniffing the leaves. Then the mother +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> +swung her head savagely, bunted the little fellow out of his tracks, and +drove him hurriedly ahead of her away from the place—“Get out, hurry, +danger!” was what she was saying now, and emphasizing her teaching with +an occasional bunt from behind that lifted the calf over the hard +places. So they went up the hill, the calf wondering and curious, yet +ever reminded by the hard head at his flank that obedience was his +business just now, the mother turning occasionally to sniff and listen, +till they vanished silently among the dark spruces.</p> + +<p>For a week or more I haunted the spot; but though I saw the pair +occasionally, in the woods or on the shore, I learned no more of +Umquenawis’ secrets. The moose schools are kept in far-away, shady +dingles beyond reach of inquisitive eyes. Then, one morning at daylight +as my canoe shot round a grassy point, there were the mother and her +calf standing knee-deep among the lily pads. With a yell I drove the +canoe straight at the little one.</p> + +<p>Now it takes a young moose or caribou a long time to learn that when +sudden danger threatens he is to follow, not his own frightened head, +but his mother’s guiding tail. To young fawns this is practically the +first thing taught by the mothers; but caribou are naturally stupid, or +trustful, or burningly inquisitive, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> according to their several +dispositions; and moose, with their great strength, are naturally +fearless; so that this needful lesson is slowly learned. If you surprise +a mother moose or caribou with her young at close quarters and rush at +them instantly, with a whoop or two to scatter their wits, the chances +are that the mother will bolt into the brush, where safety lies, and the +calf into the lake or along the shore, where the going is easiest.</p> + +<p>Several times I have caught young moose and caribou in this way, either +swimming or stogged in the mud, and after turning them back to shore +have watched the mother’s cautious return and her treatment of the lost +one. Once I paddled up beside a young bull moose, half grown, and +grasping the coarse hair on his back had him tow me a hundred yards, to +the next point, while I studied his expression.</p> + +<p>As my canoe shot up to the two moose they did exactly what I had +expected; the mother bolted for the woods in mighty, floundering jumps, +mud and water flying merrily about her; while the calf darted along the +shore, got caught in the lily pads, and with a despairing bleat settled +down in the mud of a soft place, up to his back, and turned his head to +see what I was.</p> + +<p>I ran my canoe ashore and approached the little fellow quietly, without +hurry or excitement. Nose,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +eyes, and ears questioned me; and his fear +gradually changed to curiosity as he saw how harmless a thing had +frightened him. He even tried to pull his awkward little legs out of the +mud in my direction. Meanwhile the big mother moose was thrashing around +in the bushes in a terrible swither, calling her calf to come.</p> + +<p>I had almost reached the little fellow when the wind brought him the +strong scent that he had learned in the woods a few days before, and he +bleated sharply. There was an answering crash of brush, a pounding of +hoofs that told one unmistakably to look out for his rear, and out of +the bushes burst the mother, her eyes red as a wild pig’s, and the long +hair standing straight up along her back in a terrifying bristle. “Stand +not upon the order of your mogging, but mog at once—<i>eeeunh! unh!</i>” she +grunted; and I turned otter instantly and took to the lake, diving as +soon as the depth allowed and swimming under water to escape the old +fury’s attention. There was little need of fine tactics, however, as I +found out when my head appeared again cautiously. Anything in the way of +an unceremonious retreat of the enemy satisfied her as perfectly as if +she had been a Boer general. She went straight to her calf, thrust her +great head under his belly, hiked him roughly out of the mud, and then +butted him ahead of her into the bushes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> +It was stern, rough discipline; but the youngster needed it to teach him +the wisdom of the woods. From a distance I watched the quivering line of +brush tops that marked their course, and then followed softly. When I +found them again, in the twilight of the great spruces, the mother was +licking the sides of her calf, lest he should grow cold too suddenly +after his unwonted bath. All the fury and harshness were gone. Her great +head lowered tenderly over the foolish, ungainly youngster, tonguing +him, caressing him, drying and warming his poor sides, telling him in +mother language that it was all right now, and that next time he would +do better.</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>There were other moose on the lake, all of them as uncertain as the big +cow and her calf. Probably most of them had never seen a man before our +arrival, and it kept one’s expectations on tiptoe to know what they +would do when they saw the strange two-legged creature for the first +time. If a moose smelled me before I saw him, he would make off quietly +into the woods, as all wild creatures do, and watch from a safe +distance. But if I stumbled upon him unexpectedly, when the wind brought +no warning to his nostrils, he was fearless, usually, and full of +curiosity.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> +The worst of them all was the big bull whose tracks were on the shore +when we arrived. He was a morose, ugly old brute, living apart by +himself, with his temper always on edge ready to bully anything that +dared to cross his path or question his lordship. Whether he was an +outcast, grown surly from living too much alone, or whether he bore some +old bullet wound to account for his hostility to man, I could never find +out. Far down the river a hunter had been killed, ten years before, by a +bull moose that he had wounded; and this may have been, as Noel +declared, the same animal, cherishing his resentment with a memory as +merciless as an Indian’s.</p> + +<p>Before we had found this out I stumbled upon the big bull one afternoon, +and came near paying the penalty of my ignorance. I had been +still-fishing for togue (lake trout), and was on my way back to camp +when, doubling a point, I ran plump upon a bull moose feeding among the +lily pads. My approach had been perfectly silent,—that is the only way +to see things in the woods,—and he was quite unconscious that anybody +but himself was near.</p> + +<p>He would plunge his great head under water till only his antler tips +showed, and nose around on the bottom till he found a lily root. With a +heave and a jerk he would drag it out, and stand chewing it +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> endwise +with huge satisfaction, while the muddy water trickled down over his +face. When it was all eaten he would grope under the lily pads for +another root in the same way.</p> + +<p>Without thinking much of the possible risk, I began to steal towards +him. While his head was under I would work the canoe along silently, +simply “rolling the paddle” without lifting it from the water. At the +first lift of his antlers I would stop and sit low in the canoe till he +finished his juicy morsel and ducked for more. Then one could slip along +easily again without being discovered.</p> + +<p>Two or three times this was repeated successfully, and still the big, +unconscious brute, facing away from me fortunately, had no idea that he +was being watched. His head went under water again—not so deep this +time; but I was too absorbed in the pretty game to notice that he had +found the end of a root above the mud, and that his ears were out of +water. A ripple from the bow of my canoe, or perhaps the faint brush of +a lily leaf against the side, reached him. His head burst out of the +pads unexpectedly; with a snort and a mighty flounder he whirled upon +me; and there he stood quivering, ears, eyes, nose,—everything about +him reaching out to me and shooting questions at my head with an +insistence that demanded instant answer.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +I kept quiet, though I was altogether too near the big brute for +comfort, till an unfortunate breeze brushed the bow of my canoe still +nearer to where he stood, threatening now instead of questioning. The +mane on his back began to bristle, and I knew that I had but a small +second in which to act. To get speed I swung the bow of the canoe +outward, instead of backing away. The movement brought me a trifle +nearer, yet gave me a chance to shoot by him. At the first sudden motion +he leaped; the red fire blazed out in his eyes, and he plunged straight +at the canoe—one, two splashing jumps, and the huge velvet antlers were +shaking just over me and the deadly fore foot was raised for a blow.</p> + +<p>I rolled over on the instant, startling the brute with a yell as I did +so, and upsetting the canoe between us. There was a splintering crack +behind me as I struck out for deep water. When I turned, at a safe +distance, the bull had driven one sharp hoof through the bottom of the +upturned canoe, and was now trying awkwardly to pull his leg out from +the clinging cedar ribs. He seemed frightened at the queer, dumb thing +that gripped his foot, for he grunted and jumped back and thrashed his +big antlers in excitement; but he was getting madder every minute.</p> + +<p>To save the canoe from being pounded to pieces was now the only pressing +business on hand. All other<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +considerations took to the winds in the +thought that, if the bull’s fury increased and he leaped upon the canoe, +as he does when he means to kill, one jump would put the frail thing +beyond repair, and we should have to face the dangerous river below in a +spruce bark of our own building. I swam quickly to the shore and +splashed and shouted and then ran away to attract the bull’s attention. +He came after me on the instant—<i>unh! unh! chock, chockety-chock!</i> till +he was close enough for discomfort, when I took to water again. The bull +followed, deeper and deeper, till his sides were awash. The bottom was +muddy and he trod gingerly; but there was no fear of his swimming after +me. He knows his limits, and they stop him shoulder deep.</p> + +<p>When he would follow no farther I swam to the canoe and tugged it out +into deep water. Umquenawis stood staring now in astonishment at the +sight of this queer man-fish. The red light died out of his eyes for the +first time, and his ears wigwagged like flags in the wind. He made no +effort to follow, but stood as he was, shoulder deep, staring, +wondering, till I landed on the point above, whipped the canoe over, and +spilled the water out of it.</p> + +<p>The paddle was still fast to its cord—as it should always be in trying +experiments—and I tossed it into the canoe. The rattle roused +Umquenawis from his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> +wonder, as if he had heard the challenging clack of +antlers on the alder stems. He floundered out in mighty jumps and came +swinging along the shore, <i>chocking</i> and grunting fiercely. He had seen +the man again and knew it was no fish—<i>Unh! unh! eeeeeunh-unh!</i> he +grunted, with a twisting, jerky wriggle of his neck and shoulders at the +last squeal, as if he felt me already beneath his hoofs. But before he +reached the point I had stuffed my flannel shirt into the hole in the +canoe and was safely afloat once more. He followed along the shore till +he heard the sound of voices at camp, when he turned instantly and +vanished in the woods.</p> + +<p>A few days later I saw the grumpy old brute again in a curious way. I +was sweeping the lake with my field glasses when I saw what I thought +was a pair of black ducks near a grassy shore. I paddled over, watching +them keenly, till a root seemed to rise out of the water between them. +Before I could get my glasses adjusted again they had disappeared. I +dropped the glasses and paddled faster. They were diving, perhaps—an +unusual thing for black ducks—and I might surprise them. There they +were again; and there again was the old root bobbing up unexpectedly +between them. I whipped my glasses up—the mystery vanished. The two +ducks were the tips of Umquenawis’<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> +big antlers; the root that rose +between them was his head, as he came up to breathe.</p> + +<p>It was a close, sultry afternoon; the flies and mosquitos were out in +myriads, and Umquenawis had taken a philosophical way of getting rid of +them. He was lying in the water, over a bed of mud, his body completely +submerged. As the swarm of flies that pestered him rose to his head he +would sink it slowly, drowning them off. Through my glass, as I drew +near, I could see a cloud of them hovering above the wavelets, or +covering the exposed antlers. After a few moments there would be a +bubbling grumble down in the mud, as Umquenawis blew the air from his +great lungs. His head would come up lazily to breathe among the popping +bubbles; the flies would settle upon him like a cloud, and he would +disappear again, blinking sleepily as he went down, with an air of +immense satisfaction.</p> + +<p>It seemed too bad to disturb such comfort; but I wanted to know more +about the surly old tyrant that had treated me with such scant courtesy; +so I stole near him again, running up when his head disappeared, and +lying quiet whenever he came up to breathe. He saw me at last when I was +quite near, and leaped up with a terrible start. There was fear in his +eyes this time. Here was the man-fish again, the creature that lived on +land or water, and that could approach him so +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> silently that the senses +in which he had always trusted gave him no warning. He stared hard for a +moment; then as the canoe glided rapidly straight towards him without +fear or hesitation he waded out, stopping every instant to turn, and +look, and try the wind, till he reached the fringe of woods beyond the +grasses. There he thrust his nose up ahead of him, laid his big antlers +back on his shoulders, and plowed straight through the tangle like a +great engine, the alders snapping and crashing merrily about him as he +went.</p> + +<p>In striking contrast was the next meeting. I was out at midnight, +jacking, and passed close by a point where I had often seen the big +bull’s tracks. He was not there, and I closed the jack and went on along +the shore, listening for any wood folk that might be abroad. When I came +back, a few minutes later, there was a suspicious ripple on the point. I +opened the jack, and there was Umquenawis, my big bull, standing out +huge and magnificent against the shadowy background, his eyes glowing +and flashing in fierce wonder at the sudden brightness. He had passed +along the shore within twenty yards of me, through dense underbrush,—as +I found out from his tracks next morning,—yet so silently did he push +his great bulk through the trees, halting, listening, trying the ground +at every step for telltale twigs ere he put his weight down, that I had +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +heard no sound, though I was listening intently in the dead hush that +was on the lake.</p> + +<p>It may have been curiosity, or the uncomfortable sense of being watched +and followed by the man-fish, who neither harmed nor feared him, that +brought Umquenawis at last to our camp to investigate. One day Noel was +washing some clothes of mine in the lake when some subtle warning made +him turn his head. There stood the big bull, half hidden by the dwarf +spruces, watching him intently. On the instant Noel left the duds where +they were and bolted along the shore under the bushes, calling me loudly +to come quick and bring my rifle. When we went back Umquenawis had +trodden the clothes into the mud, and vanished as silently as he came.</p> + +<p>The Indians grew insistent at this, telling me of the hunter that had +been killed, claiming now, beyond a doubt, that this was the same bull, +and urging me to kill the ugly brute and rid the woods of a positive +danger. But Umquenawis was already learning the fear of me, and I +thought the lesson might be driven home before the summer was ended. So +it was; but before that time there was almost a tragedy.</p> + +<p>One day a timber cruiser—a lonely, silent man with the instincts of an +animal for finding his way in the woods, whose business it is to go over +timber lands to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> +select the best sites for future cutting—came up to +the lake and, not knowing that we were there, pitched by a spring a mile +or two below us. I saw the smoke of his camp fire from the lake, where I +was fishing, and wondered who had come into the great solitude. That was +in the morning. Towards twilight I went down to bid the stranger welcome +and to invite him to share our camp, if he would. I found him stiff and +sore by his fire, eating raw-pork sandwiches with the appetite of a +wolf. Almost at the same glance I saw the ground about a tree torn up, +and the hoof marks of a big bull moose all about.—</p> + +<p>“Hello! friend, what’s up?” I hailed him.</p> + +<p>“Got a rifle?” he demanded, with a rich Irish burr in his voice, paying +no heed to my question. When I nodded he bolted for my canoe, grabbed my +rifle, and ran away into the woods.</p> + +<p>“Queer Dick! unbalanced, perhaps, by living too much alone in the +woods,” I thought, and took to examining the torn ground and the bull’s +tracks to find out for myself what had happened.</p> + +<p>But there was no queerness in the frank, kindly face that met mine when +the stranger came out of the bush a half hour later.—</p> + +<p>“Th’ ould baste! he’s had me perrched up in that three there, like a +blackburrd, the last tin hours; an’<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> +niver a song in me throat or a bite +in me stomach. He wint just as you came—I thought I could returrn his +compliments wid a bullet,” he said, apologetically, as he passed me back +the rifle.</p> + +<p>Then, sitting by his fire, he told me his story. He had just lit his +fire that morning, and was taking off his wet stockings to dry them, +when there was a fierce crashing and grunting behind him, and a bull +moose charged out of the bushes like a fury. The cruiser jumped and +dodged; then, as the bull whirled again, he swung himself into a tree +and sat there astride a limb, while the bull grunted and pushed and +hammered the ground below with his sharp hoofs. All day long the moose +had kept up the siege, now drawing off cunningly to hide in the bushes, +now charging out savagely as the timber cruiser made effort to come down +from his uncomfortable perch.<span class="figleft" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p203.png" width="300" height="338" alt="" title="" /> +</span></p> + +<p>A few minutes before my approach a curious thing happened; which seems +to indicate, as do many other things in the woods, that certain +animals—perhaps all animals, including man—have at times an unknown +sixth sense, for which there is no name and no explanation. I was still +half a mile or more away, hidden by a point and paddling silently +straight into the wind. No possible sight or sound or smell of me could +have reached any known sense of any animal; +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> yet the big brute began to +grow uneasy. He left his stand under the tree and circled nervously +around it, looking, listening, wigwagging his big ears, trying the wind +at every step, and setting his hoofs down as if he trod on dynamite. +Suddenly he turned and vanished silently into the brush. McGarven, the +timber cruiser, who had no idea that there was any man but himself on +the lake, watched the bull with growing wonder and distrust, thinking +him possessed of some evil demon. In his long life in the woods he had +met hundreds of moose, but had never been molested before.</p> + +<p>With the rifle at full cock and his heart hot within him, he had +followed the trail, which stole away, cautiously at first, a long +swinging stride straight towards the mountain.—“Oh, ’tis the quare +baste he is altogether!” he said as he finished his story.</p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></p> +<h2 class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<a name="AT_THE_SOUND_OF_THE_TRUMPET" id="AT_THE_SOUND_OF_THE_TRUMPET"></a> +<img src="images/ill-p204.png" width="400" height="307" +alt="AT THE SOUND OF THE TRUMPET" title="" /></h2> + +<p>It was now near the calling season, and the nights grew keen with +excitement. Now and then as I fished, or followed the brooks, or prowled +through the woods in the late afternoon, the sudden bellow of a cow +moose would break upon the stillness, so strange and uncertain in the +thick coverts that I could rarely describe, much less imitate, the +sound, or even tell the direction whence it had come. Under the dusk of +the lake shore I would sometimes come upon a pair of the huge animals, +the cow restless, wary, impatient, the bull now silent as a shadow, now +ripping and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +rasping the torn velvet from his great antlers among the +alders, and now threatening and browbeating every living thing that +crossed his trail, and even the unoffending bushes, in his testy humor.</p> + +<p>One night I went to the landing just below my tent with Simmo and tried +for the first time the long call of the cow moose. He and Noel refused +absolutely to give it, unless I should agree to shoot the ugly old bull +at sight. Several times of late they had seen him near our camp, or had +crossed his deep trail on the nearer shores, and they were growing +superstitious as well as fearful.</p> + +<p>There was no answer to our calling for the space of an hour; silence +brooded like a living, watchful thing over sleeping lake and forest, a +silence that grew only deeper and deeper after the last echoes of the +bark trumpet had rolled back on us from the distant mountain. Suddenly +Simmo lowered the horn, just as he had raised it to his lips for a call.</p> + +<p>“Moose near!” he whispered.</p> + +<p>“How do you know?” I breathed; for I had heard nothing.</p> + +<p>“Don’ know how; just know,” he said sullenly. An Indian hates to be +questioned, as a wild animal hates to be watched. As if in confirmation +of his opinion, there was a startling crash and plunge across the +little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +bay over against us, and a bull moose leaped the bank into the +lake within fifty yards of where we crouched on the shore.</p> + +<p>“Shoot! shoot-um quick!” cried Simmo; and the fear of the old bull was +in his voice.</p> + +<p>For answer there came a grunt from the moose—a ridiculously small, +squeaking grunt, like the voice of a penny trumpet—as the huge creature +swung rapidly along the shore in our direction.</p> + +<p>“Uh! young bull, lil fool moose,” whispered Simmo, and breathed a soft, +questioning <i>Whooowuh?</i> through the bark horn to bring him nearer.</p> + +<p>He came close to where we were hidden, then entered the woods and +circled silently about our camp to get our wind. In the morning his +tracks, within five feet of my rear tent pole, showed how little he +cared for the dwelling of man. But though he circled back and forth for +an hour, answering Simmo’s low call with his ridiculous little grunt, he +would not show himself again on the open shore.</p> + +<p>I stole up after a while to where I had heard the last twig snap under +his hoofs. Simmo held me back, whispering of danger; but there was a +question in my head which has never received a satisfactory answer: Why +does a bull come to a call anyway? It is held generally—and with truth, +I think—that he comes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +because he thinks the sound is made by a cow +moose. But how his keen ears could mistake such a palpable fraud is the +greatest mystery in the woods. I have heard a score of hunters and +Indians call, all differently, and have sometimes brought a bull into +the open at the wail of my own bark trumpet; but I have never yet +listened to a call that has any resemblance to the bellow of a cow moose +as I have often heard it in the woods. Nor have I ever heard, or ever +met anybody who has heard, a cow moose give forth any sound like the +“long call” which is made by hunters, and which is used successfully to +bring the bull from a distance.</p> + +<p>Others claim, and with some reason, that the bull, more fearless and +careless at this season than at other times, comes merely to investigate +the sound, as he and most other wild creatures do with every queer or +unknown thing they hear. The Alaskan Indians stretch a skin into a kind +of tambourine and beat it with a club to call a bull; which sound, +however, might not be unlike one of the many peculiar bellows that I +have heard from cow moose in the wilderness. And I have twice known +bulls to come to the <i>chuck</i> of an ax on a block; which sound, at a +distance, has some resemblance to the peculiar <i>chock-chocking</i> that the +bulls use to call their mates from a distance.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +From any point of view the thing has contradictions enough to make one +wary of a too positive opinion. Here at hand was a “lil fool moose” who +knew no fear, and who might, therefore, enlighten me on the obscure +subject. I told Simmo to keep on calling softly at intervals while I +crept up into the woods to watch the effect.</p> + +<p>It was all as dark as a pocket beyond the open shore. One had to feel +his way along, and imitate the moose himself in putting his feet down. +Spite of my precaution a bush whispered; a twig cracked. Instantly there +was a swift answering rustle ahead as the bull glided towards me. He had +heard the faint message and was coming to see if it were not his +tantalizing mate, ready to whack her soundly, according to his wont, for +causing him so much worry, and to beat her out ahead of him to the open +where he could watch her closely and prevent any more of her hiding +tricks.</p> + +<p>I stood motionless behind a tree, grasping a branch above, ready to +swing up out of reach when the bull charged. A vague black hulk thrust +itself out of the dark woods, close in front of me, and stood still. +Against the faint light, which showed from the lake through the fringe +of trees, the great head and antlers stood out like an upturned root; +but I had never known that a living creature stood there were it not +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +for a soft, clucking rumble that the bull kept going in his throat,—a +ponderous kind of love note, intended, no doubt, to let his elusive mate +know that he was near.</p> + +<p>He took another step in my direction, brushing the leaves softly, a low, +whining grunt telling of his impatience. Two more steps and he must have +discovered me, when fortunately an appealing gurgle and a measured +<i>plop, plop, plop</i>—like the feet of a moose falling in shallow +water—sounded from the shore below, where Simmo was concealed. +Instantly the bull turned and glided away, a shadow among the shadows. A +few minutes later I heard him running off in the direction whence he had +first come.</p> + +<p>After that the twilight always found him near our camp. He was convinced +that there was a mate hiding somewhere near, and he was bound to find +her. We had only to call a few times from our canoe, or from the shore, +and presently we would hear him coming, blowing his penny trumpet, and +at last see him break out upon the shore with a crashing plunge to waken +all the echoes. Then, one night as we lay alongside a great rock in deep +shadow, watching the puzzled young bull as he ranged along the shore in +the moonlight, Simmo grunted softly to call him nearer. At the sound a +larger bull, that we had not suspected, leaped out of the bushes close +beside us with a sudden<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +terrifying plunge and splashed straight at the +canoe. Only the quickest kind of work saved us. Simmo swung the bow off, +with a startled grunt of his own, and I paddled away, while the bull, +mistaking us in the dim light for the exasperating cow that had been +calling and hiding herself for a week, followed after us into deep +water.</p> + +<p>There was no doubt whatever that this moose, at least, had come to what +he thought was the call of a mate. Moonlight is deceptive beyond a few +feet; so when the low grunt sounded in the shadow of the great rock he +was sure he had found the coy creature at last, and broke out of his +concealment resolved to keep her in sight and not to let her get away +again. That is why he swam after us. Had he been investigating some new +sound or possible danger, he would never have left the land, where alone +his great power and his wonderful senses have full play. In the water he +is harmless, as most other wild creatures are.</p> + +<p>I paddled cautiously just ahead of him, so near that, looking over my +shoulder, I could see the flash of his eye and the waves crinkling away +before the push of his great nose. After a short swim he grew suspicious +of the queer thing that kept just so far ahead, whether he swam fast or +slow, and turned in towards the shore whining his impatience. I followed +slowly, letting him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +get some distance ahead, and just as his feet +struck bottom whispered to Simmo for his softest call. At the sound the +bull whirled and plunged after us again recklessly, and I led him across +to where the younger bull was still ranging up and down the shore, +calling imploringly to his phantom mate.</p> + +<p>I expected a battle when the two rivals should meet; but they paid +little attention to each other. The common misfortune, or the common +misery, seemed to kill the fierce natural jealousy whose fury I had more +than once been witness of. They had lost all fear by this time; they +ranged up and down the shore, or smashed recklessly through the swamps, +as the elusive smells and echoes called them hither and yon in their +frantic search.</p> + +<p>Far up on the mountain side the sharp, challenging grunt of a master +bull broke out of the startled woods in one of the lulls of our exciting +play. Simmo heard and turned in the bow to whisper excitedly: “Nother +bull! Fetch-um Ol’ Dev’l this time, sartin.” Raising his horn he gave +the long, rolling bellow of a cow moose. A fiercer trumpet call from the +mountain side answered; then the sound was lost in the <i>crash-crash</i> of +the first two bulls, as they broke out upon the shore on opposite sides +of the canoe.</p> + +<p>We gave little heed now to the nearer play; our whole attention +was fixed on a hoarse, grunting roar— +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span><i>Uh, uh, uh! eeeyuh! +r-r-r-runh-unh!</i>—with a rattling, snapping crash of underbrush for an +accompaniment. The younger bull heard it; listened for a moment, like a +great black statue under the moonlight; then he glided away into the +shadows under the bank. The larger bull heard it, threw up his great +head defiantly, and came swinging along the shore, hurling a savage +challenge back on the echoing woods at every stride.</p> + +<p>There was an ominous silence up on the ridge where, a moment before, all +was fierce commotion. Simmo was silent too; the uproar had been +appalling, with the sleeping lake below us, and the vast forest, where +silence dwells at home, stretching up and away on every hand to the sky +line. But the spirit of mischief was tingling all over me as I seized +the horn and gave the low appealing grunt that a cow would have uttered +under the same circumstances. Like a shot the answer was hurled back, +and down came the great bull—smash, crack, <i>r-r-runh!</i> till he burst +like a tempest out on the open shore, where the second bull with a +challenging roar leaped to meet him.</p> + +<p>Simmo was begging me to shoot, shoot, telling me excitedly that “Ol’ +Dev’l,” as he called him, would be more dangerous now than ever, if I +let him get away; but I only drove the canoe in closer to the splashing, +grunting uproar among the shadows under the bank.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 413px;"><a name='MIGHTY_SPRING' id='MIGHTY_SPRING'></a> +<img src="images/ill-p213.jpg" width="413" height="600" +alt="“A MIGHTY SPRING OF HIS CROUCHING HAUNCHES FINISHED THE WORK”" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“A MIGHTY SPRING OF HIS CROUCHING HAUNCHES FINISHED THE WORK”</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +There was a terrific duel under way when I swung the canoe alongside a +moment later. The bulls crashed together with a shock to break their +heads. Mud and water flew over them; their great antlers clashed and +rang like metal blades as they pushed and tugged, grunting like demons +in the fierce struggle. But the contest was too one-sided to last long. +The big bull that had almost killed me, but in whom I now found myself +taking an almost savage pride, had smashed down from the mountain in a +frightful rage, and with a power that nothing could resist. With a quick +lunge he locked antlers in the grip he wanted; a twist of his massive +neck and shoulders forced the opposing head aside, and a mighty spring +of his crouching haunches finished the work. The second moose went over +with a plunge like a bolt-struck pine. As he rolled up to his feet again +the savage old bull jumped for him and drove the brow antlers into his +flanks. The next moment both bulls had crashed away into the woods, one +swinging off in giant strides through the crackling underbrush for his +life, the other close behind, charging like a battering-ram into his +enemy’s rear, grunting like a huge wild boar in his rage and exultation. +So the chase vanished over the ridge into the valley beyond; and silence +stole back, like a Chinese empress, into her disturbed dominions.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +From behind a great windfall on the point above, where he had evidently +been watching the battle, the first young bull stole out, and came +halting and listening along the shore to the scene of the conflict. “To +the discreet belong the spoils” was written in every timorous step and +stealthy movement. A low grunt from my horn reassured him; he grew +confident. Now he would find the phantom mate that had occasioned so +much trouble, and run away with her before the conqueror should return +from his chase. He swung along rapidly, rumbling the low call in his +throat. Then up on the ridge sounded again the crackle of brush and the +roar of a challenge. Rage had not made the victor to forget; indeed, +here he was, coming back swiftly for his reward. On the instant all +confidence vanished from the young bull’s attitude. He slipped away into +the woods. There was no sound; scarcely a definite motion. A shadow +seemed to glide away into the darker shadows. The underbrush closed +softly behind it, and he was gone.</p> + +<p>Next morning <span class="figleft" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p217.png" width="300" height="238" alt="" title="" /> +</span>at daybreak I found my old bull on the shore, a mile below; +and with him was the great cow that had hunted me away from her little +one. The youngster was well grown and sturdy now, but still he followed +his mother obediently; and the big bull had taken them both under his +protection. I left<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +them there undisturbed, with a thought of the mighty +offspring that shall some day come smashing down from the mountain to +delight the heart of camper or hunter and set his nerves a-tingle, when +the lake shall again be visited and the roar of a bark trumpet roll over +the sleeping lake and the startled woods. Let them kill who will. I have +seen Umquenawis the Mighty as he was before fear came, and am satisfied.</p> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></p> +<h2><a name="GLOSSARY_OF_INDIAN_NAMES" id="GLOSSARY_OF_INDIAN_NAMES"></a>GLOSSARY OF INDIAN NAMES</h2> + +<ul class='off hi'> +<li><b>Cheokhes</b>, <i>chē-ok-hĕś</i>, the mink.</li> + +<li><b>Cheplahgan</b>, <i>chep-lâh´gan</i>, the bald eagle.</li> + +<li><b>Ch’geegee-lokh-sis</b>, <i>ch’gee-geélock-sis</i>, the chickadee.</li> + +<li><b>Chigwooltz</b>, <i>chig-wooltź</i>, the bullfrog.</li> + +<li><b>Clóte Scarpe</b>, a legendary hero, like Hiawatha, of the Northern +Indians. Pronounced variously, Clote Scarpe, Groscap, Gluscap, etc.</li> + +<li><b>Commoosie</b>, <i>com-moo-sié</i>, a little shelter, or hut, of boughs and +bark.</li> + +<li><b>Deedeeaskh</b>, <i>dee-deéask</i>, the blue jay.</li> + +<li><b>Eleemos</b>, <i>el-eémos</i>, the fox.</li> + +<li><b>Hawahak</b>, <i>hâ-wâ-hăk´</i>, the hawk.</li> + +<li><b>Hukweem</b>, <i>huk-weem´</i>, the great northern diver, or loon.</li> + +<li><b>Ismaques</b>, <i>iss-mâ-queś</i>, the fishhawk.</li> + +<li><b>Kagax</b>, <i>kăg´ăx</i>, the weasel.</li> + +<li><b>Kakagos</b>, <i>kâ-kâ-gŏś</i>, the raven.</li> + +<li><b>K’dunk</b>, <i>k’dunk´</i>, the toad.</li> + +<li><b>Keeokuskh</b>, <i>kee-o-kusk´</i>, the muskrat.</li> + +<li><b>Keeonekh</b>, <i>keéo-nek</i>, the otter.</li> + +<li><b>Killooleet</b>, <i>kiĺloo-leet</i>, the white-throated sparrow.</li> + +<li><b>Kookooskoos</b>, <i>koo-koo-skooś</i>, the great horned owl.</li> + +<li><b>Koskomenos</b>, <i>kŏśkŏm-e-nŏś</i>, the kingfisher.</li> + +<li><b>Kupkawis</b>, <i>cup-ká̤wis</i>, the barred owl.</li> + +<li><b>Kwaseekho</b>, <i>kwâ-seek´ho</i>, the sheldrake.</li> + +<li><b>Lhoks</b>, <i>locks</i>, the panther.</li> + +<li><b>Malsun</b>, <i>măĺsun</i>, the wolf.</li> + +<li><b>Meeko</b>, <i>meek´ō</i>, the red squirrel.</li> + +<li><b>Megaleep</b>, <i>meg´â-leep</i>, the caribou.</li> + +<li><b>Milicete</b>, <i>miĺĭ-cete</i>, the name of an Indian tribe; written also +Malicete.</li> + +<li><b>Mitches</b>, <i>mit´chĕs</i>, the birch partridge, or ruffed grouse.</li> + +<li><b>Moktaques</b>, <i>mok-tâ´ques</i>, the hare.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></li> + +<li><b>Mooween</b>, <i>moo-ween´</i>, the black bear.</li> + +<li><b>Musquash</b>, <i>muśquâsh</i>, the muskrat.</li> + +<li><b>Nemox</b>, <i>nĕm´ox</i>, the fisher.</li> + +<li><b>Pekquam</b>, <i>pek-wăm´</i>, the fisher.</li> + +<li><b>Quoskh</b>, <i>quoskh</i>, the blue heron.</li> + +<li><b>Seksagadagee</b>, <i>sek´sâ-gā-dâ´gee</i>, the Canada grouse, or spruce +partridge.</li> + +<li><b>Skooktum</b>, <i>skook´tum</i>, the trout.</li> + +<li><b>Tookhees</b>, <i>tôk´hees</i>, the wood mouse.</li> + +<li><b>Umquenawis</b>, <i>um-que-nâ´wis</i>, the moose.</li> + +<li><b>Unk Wunk</b>, <i>unk´ wunk</i>, the porcupine.</li> + +<li><b>Upweekis</b>, <i>up-week´iss</i>, the Canada lynx.</li> +</ul> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/ill-p219.png" width="400" height="231" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr /><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></p> + +<h2>ANNOUNCEMENTS</h2> + +<div class='ad'><p class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></p> +<h2>WOOD FOLK SERIES<br /> + +<span class='sf50'>By WILLIAM J. LONG</span></h2> + +<p>The unique merit of this nature student rests in his fascinating style +of writing, which invariably interests young and old; for without this +element his pioneer work in the realm of nature would now be familiar +only to scientists. As it is, Long’s Wood Folk Series is in use in +thousands of schools the country over, has been adopted by many reading +circles, and is now on the library lists of six important states; thus +leading laymen, young and old, into the wonderland of nature hitherto +entirely closed to all.</p> + +<h3>WAYS OF WOOD FOLK</h3> + +<p class='c noin sf75'>205 pages. Illustrated. List price, 50 cents; mailing price, 60 cents</p> + +<p>This delightful work tells of the lives and habits of the commoner wood +folk, such as the crow, the rabbit, the wild duck. The book is profusely +illustrated by Charles Copeland and other artists.</p> + +<h3>WILDERNESS WAYS</h3> + +<p class='c noin sf75'>155 pages. Illustrated. List price, 45 cents; mailing price, 50 cents</p> + +<p>“Wilderness Ways” is written in the same intensely interesting style as +its predecessor, “Ways of Wood Folk.” The hidden life of the wilderness +is here presented by sketches and stories gathered, not from books or +hearsay, but from the author’s personal contact with wild things of +every description.</p> + +<h3>SECRETS OF THE WOODS</h3> + +<p class='c noin sf75'>184 pages. Illustrated. List price, 50 cents; mailing price, 60 cents</p> + +<p>This is another chapter in the shy, wild life of the fields and woods. +Little Toohkees, the wood mouse that dies of fright in the author’s +hand; the mother otter, Keeonekh, teaching her little ones to swim; and +the little red squirrel with his many curious habits,—all are presented +with the same liveliness and color that characterize the descriptions in +the first two volumes. The illustrations by Charles Copeland are +unusually accurate in portraying animal life as it really exists in its +native haunts.</p> + +<h3>WOOD FOLK AT SCHOOL</h3> + +<p class='c noin sf75'>186 pages. Illustrated. List price, 50 cents; mailing price, 60 cents</p> + +<p>The title of this new book suggests the central thought about which the +author has grouped some of his most fascinating animal studies. To him +"“ summer wilderness is one vast schoolroom in which a multitude of +wise, patient mothers are teaching their little ones the things they +must know in order to hold their place in the world and escape unharmed +from a hundred dangers.” This book, also, is adequately illustrated by +Charles Copeland.</p> + +<h3>A LITTLE BROTHER TO THE BEAR</h3> + +<p class='c noin sf75'>178 pages. Illustrated. List price, 50 cents; mailing price, 60 cents</p> + +<p>This latest book in the Wood Folk Series contains observations covering +a period of nearly thirty years. Some of the chapters represent the +characteristics of animals of the same species, and others show the +acute intelligence of certain individual animals that nature seems to +have lifted far above the level of their fellows. The book is well +illustrated and is the most noteworthy contribution to nature literature +during the past two years.</p></div> + +<p class='c noin'>GINN & COMPANY <span class="sc">Publishers</span></p> + +<div class='ad'><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> +<h2>NATURE STUDY</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td></td><td align='center'><i>List<br />price</i></td><td align='center'><i>Mailing<br />price</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>The Jane Andrews Books</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>The Seven Little Sisters</td><td align='right'>$0.50</td><td align='right'>$0.55</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Each and All</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.55</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Stories Mother Nature Told Her Children</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.55</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>My Four Friends</td><td align='right'>.40</td><td align='right'>.45</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Atkinson's First Studies of Plant Life</td><td align='right'>.60</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Beal's Seed Dispersal</td><td align='right'>.35</td><td align='right'>.40</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Bergen's Glimpses at the Plant World</td><td align='right'>.40</td><td align='right'>.45</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Burt's Little Nature Studies for Little People.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Vol. I. A Primer and a First Reader. +Vol. II. A Second Reader and a Third Reader each</td><td align='right'>.25</td><td align='right'>.30</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Burkett, Stevens, and Hill’s Agriculture for Beginners</td><td align='right'>.75</td><td align='right'>.80</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Comstock’s Ways of the Six-Footed</td><td align='right'>.40</td><td align='right'>.45</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Eddy’s Friends and Helpers</td><td align='right'>.60</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Frye’s Brooks and Brook Basins</td><td align='right'>.58</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Frye’s Child and Nature</td><td align='right'>.80</td><td align='right'>.88</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Gould’s Mother Nature’s Children</td><td align='right'>.60</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Hale’s Little Flower People</td><td align='right'>.40</td><td align='right'>.45</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Hardy’s Sea Stories</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Hodge’s Nature Study and Life</td><td align='right'>1.50</td><td align='right'>1.65</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Holden’s The Sciences</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.60</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Jefferies’ Sir Bevis</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.35</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Lane’s Oriole Stories</td><td align='right'>.28</td><td align='right'>.33</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Long’s Wood Folk Series:</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Ways of Wood Folk </td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.60</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Wilderness Ways</td><td align='right'>.45</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Secrets of the Woods</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.60</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Wood Folk at School</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.60</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Morley’s Little Wanderers</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.35</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Morley’s Insect Folk</td><td align='right'>.45</td><td align='right'>.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Porter’s Stars in Song and Legend</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.55</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Roth’s First Book of Forestry</td><td align='right'>.75</td><td align='right'>.85</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Stickney’s Study and Story Nature Readers:</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Earth and Sky, No. I</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.35</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Earth and Sky, No. II</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.35</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Pets and Companions</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.40</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Bird World</td><td align='right'>.60</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Strong's All the Year Round. +Part I, Autumn. +Part II, Winter. +Part III, Spring each</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.35</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Weed’s Seed-Travellers</td><td align='right'>.25</td><td align='right'>.30</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Weed’s Stories of Insect Life:</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>First Series</td><td align='right'>.25</td><td align='right'>.30</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Second Series. (Murtfeldt and Weed)</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.35</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p class='c noin'>GINN & COMPANY <span class="sc">Publishers</span></p> + +<div class='ad'><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> +<h2>TEXT-BOOKS IN ELEMENTARY SCIENCE</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td></td><td align='center'><i>List<br />price</i></td><td align='center'><i>Mailing<br />price</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Atkinson’s First Studies of Plant Life</td><td align='right'>$0.60</td><td align='right'>$0.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Ball’s Star-Land</td><td align='right'>1.00</td><td align='right'>1.10</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Beal’s Seed Dispersal</td><td align='right'>.35</td><td align='right'>.40</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Bergen’s Glimpses at the Plant World</td><td align='right'>.40</td><td align='right'>.45</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Blaisdell’s Child’s Book of Health</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.35</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Blaisdell’s How to Keep Well</td><td align='right'>.45</td><td align='right'>.55</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Blaisdell’s Our Bodies and How We Live</td><td align='right'>.65</td><td align='right'>.75</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Burkett, Stevens, and Hill’s Agriculture for Beginners</td><td align='right'>.75</td><td align='right'>.80</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Frye’s Elements of Geography</td><td align='right'>.65</td><td align='right'>.80</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Frye’s Grammar School Geography</td><td align='right'>1.25</td><td align='right'>1.45</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Frye’s Child and Nature</td><td align='right'>.80</td><td align='right'>.88</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Frye’s Brooks and Brook Basins</td><td align='right'>.58</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Gould’s Mother Nature’s Children</td><td align='right'>.60</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Hall’s Our World Reader, No. 1</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.60</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Hodge’s Nature Study and Life</td><td align='right'>1.50</td><td align='right'>1.65</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Holden’s The Sciences</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.60</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Newell’s Outlines of Lessons in Botany:</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Part I. From Seed to Leaf</td><td align='right'>.50</td><td align='right'>.55</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Part II. Flower and Fruit</td><td align='right'>.80</td><td align='right'>.90</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Newell’s Reader in Botany:</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Part I. From Seed to Leaf</td><td align='right'>.60</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Part II. Flower and Fruit</td><td align='right'>.60</td><td align='right'>.70</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Roth’s First Book of Forestry</td><td align='right'>.75</td><td align='right'>.85</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Shaler’s Story of Our Continent</td><td align='right'>.75</td><td align='right'>.85</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Weed’s Seed-Travellers</td><td align='right'>.25</td><td align='right'>.30</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Weed’s Stories of Insect Life:</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>First Series</td><td align='right'>.25</td><td align='right'>.30</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' style='text-indent:1em;'>Second Series. (Murtfeldt and Weed)</td><td align='right'>.30</td><td align='right'>.35</td></tr> +</table></div> +<p class='c noin'>GINN & COMPANY Publishers</p> + +<div class='ad'><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> +<h2>AGRICULTURE FOR BEGINNERS</h2> + +<p class='c noin'>By C. W. BURKETT, Professor of Agriculture; F. L. STEVENS, Professor of +Biology; and D. H. HILL, Professor of English in the North Carolina +College of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts</p> + +<p class='c noin'>12mo. Cloth. 267 pages. Illustrated. List price, 75 cents; mailing +price, 80 cents</p> + +<p>No book for common schools in recent years has aroused such widespread +interest and been so universally commended as this little volume. Its +adoption in two great states before its publication, and in still +another state immediately after its appearance, indicates the unusually +high merit of the work.</p> + +<p>The authors believe that there is no line of separation between the +science of agriculture and the practical art of agriculture, and that +the subject is eminently teachable. Theory and practice are presented at +one and the same time, so that the pupil is taught the fundamental +principles of farming just as he is taught the fundamental truths of +arithmetic, geography, or grammar.</p> + +<p>The work is planned for use in grammar-school classes. It thus presents +the subject to the pupil when his aptitudes are the most rapidly +developing and when he is forming life habits. It will give to him, +therefore, at the vital period of his life a training which will go far +toward making his life work profitable and delightful. The text is +clear, interesting, and teachable. While primarily intended for class +work in the public schools, it will no doubt appeal to all who desire a +knowledge of the simple scientific truths which lie at the foundation of +most farm operations.</p> + +<p>The two hundred and eighteen illustrations are unusually excellent and +are particularly effective in illuminating the text. The book is +supplied throughout with practical exercises, simple and interesting +experiments, and helpful suggestions. The Appendix, devoted to spraying +mixtures and fertilizer formulas, the Glossary, in which are explained +unusual and technical words, and the complete Index are important.</p> + +<p>In mechanical execution—in the attractive and durable binding, in the +clear, well-printed page, and in the illustrations—the book is easily +superior to any other elementary work on agriculture.</p></div> + +<p class='c noin'>GINN & COMPANY <span class="sc">Publishers</span></p> + +<div class='bbox mt2'> +<h3 style='margin-top:0;'>Transcriber’s Notes</h3> + +<p class="noin">The illustrations have been moved to the appropriate places in +the text.</p> + +<p class="noin">The following words occur in both hyphenated and unhyphenated forms +in the text.</p> + +<ul class='off'> +<li>“half-way” and “halfway”</li> +<li>“tree-top” and “treetop”</li></ul> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Wood Folk at School, by William J. 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