CHAPTER XXVI.
Spring at the West.—"Sugar Days."—Performances of the Cattle.—April.—Advent of the Blue-Jays and the Crows.—The Bluebirds, Phebes, and Robins.—April and its Inspiring Days.—The Frogs and their Concerts.—Gophers, Squirrels, Ants; Swallows, Brown-Threshers, and Blackbirds.—The Swallows, the Martins, and the Advent of May.
Spring opens in the western wilds with great pomp and beauty. After our winter had passed, accompanied with few out-door amusements, how inspiring were her first footsteps! February slowly gave way to March, the sun each day rolled higher and higher, and the heavens grew bluer and bluer. Then came the still, clear, cold nights, when the stars flashed like diamonds, and the still, warm days, that flooded the lakes and streams. Here and there a bird would appear—one of the more hardy sort—a kind of courier, that had been sent out by his fellows, lonely, like the dove from the ark, to spy out the land, and report its condition. These couriers, who I supposed were birds that were with us the preceding year, rummaged around the woods, like a family who had just returned to a long deserted mansion. They flew from tree to tree, eyed the knot-holes, examined everything, shivered a few nights on a snowy limb, and then hurried back to make their report. The outside birds who were thus represented, and who were so anxious to "come on," were like a press at the theatre, before the hour had arrived to hoist the curtain.
These March days were "sugar days." Puddleford was, of course, in confusion; men, women, and children turned out with kettles and pans, into the "bush;" and one would have supposed, from the clouds of smoke that rolled over the tops of the trees, that a tribe of gypsies had camped there. The girls, dressed in linsey-woolsey, were boisterous; the boys, uproarious; and a whole army of dogs, full of the spirit of the occasion, stormed around, barking at every deer track, and tore all the rotten logs in pieces. Then came a long, warm, still rain—and the frogs shouted to each other their melancholy music—and the grass and the roots that were soaking in the marshes sent out their sweetness—the bud began to swell on the willow—the geese gathered in a procession, with some pompous gander at its head, and marched to the river—and the barn-yard fowls climbed up into trees, on top of the sheds and stacks, and cackled, and crowed, and clucked, and chatted together, like so many guests at a party.
The cattle congregated, and wandered away off to an open plain, and went through certain exercises, the significance of which was known only to themselves. One old cow of mine, whose reputation was good, and whose frosty bones had scarcely moved during the winter, and who was present at this celebration, suddenly wheeled out of the ranks, rolled her tail over her back, put herself on a circuitous canter, cutting as many capers as a French dancing-master, and brought up, at last, with a bellowing blast that was quite terrific.
At a distance stood another of the herd, frothing at the mouth, lashing herself with her tail, and throwing clouds of sand on high with her fore feet. Away, in another quarter, were a couple of very thoughtful looking animals, fencing with their horns. Every little while some good or evil spirit would take possession of them, and the whole company would fling their tails aloft, and with a great noise go off in a stampede that made the ground tremble.
As April approached, or rather the reflected light from her distant wheels, the voice of the birds changed into a mellower tone. The blue-jay, whose harsh scream had so long grated on my ear, grew softer, and he blew once in a while one of his spring pipes (for he is a great imitator, and has many), which, after all, sounded rather husky and winter-like. His heart grew warmer, too. He would sit on a dry tree close to the eaves of my house, and peer through the windows, to see what was going on inside, jump down, and bow himself up on the door-steps, to remind us, in the best way he could, of the sunshine outside.
Soon the crows began to sweep solemnly through the air with their caw! caw! They sailed round and round, now lighting on some tree, now on the ground, then away they went into the heavens again. They seemed to be taking a very thorough examination of the premises, making out the lines of occupation, and acquiring a new possession of the same, for the use of themselves and those they represented. Sometimes a body of them, lazily winging their way over my house, and looking down from their height upon my diminutive form, would shower upon my head ten thousand Ca's! as if in utter contempt of both me and mine. I occasionally fired a shot at them, and the only answer I got was a quick "Ca-Ca!"—as much as to say, "Try it again! Try it again? Who cares?"
Then came the bluebird. I threw up my window amid the latter days of March, one sunshiny morning, and there she sat on a maple, blowing her flute. Banks of snow were scattered here and there, but the ground smelled moist and spring-like. Where did that little piece of melody come from? Where was she the day before? Her song was a little poem about south-west winds, and violets, and running brooks—perhaps she was a preacher, sent out by the daisies to herald their coming—perhaps her song was only a prayer—for she went round from place to place, on this tree and that, in her little cathedral, as priests do in theirs, and erected her altar, and made her offering. She had a great deal to say, and a great many persons and things to deliver her message to; for in a little while she went, rising and falling as though she were riding billows of air, to the roof of my neighbor's house, where she sang the same song again; and after thus spending an hour or two about the neighborhood, she crossed the river, and dashed into the woods.
On the next morning the bluebird came again, and brought a phebe with him, and the two sang a kind of duet for my benefit. Their harmony was perfect—for "there is no discord in nature." On the following day, at dawn, before the sun arose, I heard the robin rolling off her mellow notes. I looked out and saw a little flock running along on the ground, and picking at the fresh earth, evidently for the purpose of determining its condition. This same flock, I am sure, remained upon my premises during the summer, and had, in fact, possession of them for many years previous. For they appeared every day or two, and grew more and more inquisitive, and examined more closely. A couple finally took possession of this tree, and a couple of that. They commenced "cleaning house." They flitted about from limb to limb, balanced themselves on the dry twigs, as if trying their strength and elasticity, ran themselves away down into the joints, and dissected the crotches, picked up and cast away the dead moss and leaves, and made as much bustle and stir as a woman on May-day.
As I was watching a couple of them one day, while they were busy at work, they seemed quite annoyed at my presence. They flirted off from the tree to a fence near by, with a mellow cry—saying, plainly enough, as they bobbed around, "What! what!" "Any-thing-wrong? Any-thing-wrong?" "Please-go-away—ha-ha-please-go-away."
Some four weeks later, these birds began to build. They went sailing through the air with the timbers of their castle in their mouths. This timber was selected with great care. Straw after straw, and sprig after sprig, was picked up and cast away before the right one was found. They remained with me during their stay north, and returned each succeeding year to the same tree, until the woods all about me were felled, when they deserted me for other quarters.
April shone out at last. Away down in the wild meadows the cowslip pushed up its green head into the sunshine, and along the warm hill-sides the wind-flowers were strewn. How they came there, I cannot tell. The day before it was all bleak, and chilly, and flowerless there. They must have been scattered by the morning rays of light. A melting bank of snow frowned down upon them, close by. Soon the shade-tree sent out its blossoms of lilac, and the dog-wood burst into a pile of snow. The hard, gray, leafless trees stood up sternly around these first daughters of spring, arrayed in their garments of pomp, and looked, as well as inanimate things can look, jealous and uneasy. All over the aisles of the forest lay enormous trunks of trees, like columns about an unfinished temple, thickly coated with a heavy green moss; and there was a smell of bark, and swelling twigs, and struggling roots—such a smell as only the early spring days give out—as though the earth and the forest were just gaping and stretching with a decayed last year's breath, before rousing up to the duties of this.
Then the rivulets began to get into tune. The one that ran tumbling through the woods seemed to be in a very great hurry, and shot around its islands of moss and promontories of tree-roots with great zeal. It had unwound from its reel of light and moisture a green ribbon, that lay along its shores miles and miles away in the wilderness; and the birds slyly bathed themselves in its waters; and now and then a small fish came rushing down with the speed of an arrow, just returning from his winter quarters to the river, probably to enter his name upon the great piscatorial roll preparatory to summer service.
In a basin, just below a little fall of this brook, two or three wood-ducks were ploughing round and round. These wood-ducks are hermits, and secrete themselves in ponds and watery thickets, where silence and shadows prevail. On one of these mornings, ruminating on its banks, sat Venison Styles, his gun resting on the ground, apparently in a profound study. I looked at the old hunter a long time, and his figure was as fixed and immovable as if he were a part of the landscape, and had grown there like the trees about him. What can the old man be dreaming about? thought I. Perhaps he already hears the approaching footsteps of dancing May, her head crowned with flowers, and the music of the thousand birds that supported her train. It was already spring—summer—in his soul. He was thinking of the sports of the coming year, and the light and pomp of the seasons passed before his imagination like the gorgeous pictures of a panorama.
These April days were inspiring. Occasionally a bleak squall of rain or snow obscured the sky, and silenced the music of Nature; but the heavens looked bluer, and the birds sang more lustily, after it passed away. In the latter part of the month the ground became settled, and the frogs, towards evening, and sometimes during the moist, smoky afternoons, sent up their melancholy wailing from the wide wastes of marsh that stretched themselves through the woods and along the river banks. Some of these marshes were ten miles long, and two or three broad; and such a concert of voices as congregated there was never equalled by anything else. I had, and still have, notions of my own about these vocalists. I am sure that they sang under discipline and system—that they performed on different kinds of instruments. Some of them seemed to be blowing a flageolet; others drew their bows across their violins; some played the fife; while here and there might be heard grum twangs, like the twanging of bass-viol strings. He who listened long and closely might detect delicate vibrations of almost every tone in art or nature. Sometimes their voices sounded like the dying echoes of ten thousand bells, all of a different key, yet the tangled melody was an entanglement of chords and discords, and it rolled away, and expired in waves of pure harmony; again, it was like a choir of human voices performing an anthem. I thought I could hear syllables, too—the articulation of words—something like a psalm. Then the words and sounds appeared to change, and, by the aid of the imagination, one would have supposed that the whole community were shouting—delivering political harangues—or that its members had got on a "bust," and were rattling off all kinds of nonsense in a drunken frolic.
April brought with it, too, flying showers and warm sunshine. The grass began to wake up, and scent the air with its sweetness. Along the watercourses the willows unfolded their leaves; the buds swelled in the forests; and the tree-tops were touched with a light shade of brown, and then a shade of green, which grew deeper and deeper each day. Large flocks of pigeons darkened the air, all moving from south to north,—from whence, or to where, I could not tell. A company would sometimes "hold up" for an hour or two, to "feed and rest," like a caravan at an oasis; but they soon took their wings again, and pursued their journey.
The tenants of the ground burst their tombs, and came up for duty. The gopher, and squirrel, and the ant went to work. I noticed a large community of ants who had commenced building a city. Their last year's metropolis was destroyed, and they were compelled to begin from the foundation; and such a stir and bustle was never exceeded. Hundreds of laborers were in the work up to their eyes. Here was one fellow with a grain of sand in his mouth—a rock to him, I suppose—climbing over twigs and dead grass, standing sometimes perpendicular with his load, and not unfrequently falling over backwards, yet struggling away, surmounting all obstacles, until he finally reached the place of deposit. Then there was a class of miners who shot up from their holes, dropped their speck of dirt, wheeled, and shot back again. Trains of them were continually ascending and descending. There was still another class—"blooded characters," most likely—possibly overseers—who did not do any work, but ran around from point to point, as if inspecting the rest, and giving to them directions. Once in a while a couple of workmen would run a-foul of each other, and get into a quarrel—a clinch—a fight—and the "tussle" lasted until they were parted. This colony, I will say, erected a large mound of earth in a very few weeks—gigantic to them as an Egyptian pyramid is to us—in which they lived and labored during the season.
Finally, the swallows, and brown-threshers, and blackbirds, and martins came—not all in a body, but straggling along. The blackbirds appeared first, and might be seen flying about from tree to tree, and fence to fence, near by the upturned furrows that the ploughman had left behind him. Such a saucy troop of pirates as they were! Flocks of them sat about in the oaks, showering a host of epithets upon the said ploughman; then a dozen or more darted down, staggered over the ground, picked up a worm, and dashed away into the oaks again. They scolded, and fretted, and coaxed, and threatened, and nettled about like a belle of sixteen. Some of them were dressed in a suit of glossy black, with a neckcloth of shifting green; others wore red epaulets on their wings; and a flock of them, darting through the air, had the appearance of braided streams of fire, or interlaced rainbows. Towards evening they all went down among the alders and willows by the river, and had a long chat among themselves. They bowed, and twitched, and stretched down one wing, and then the other; lit upon the little twigs, and see-sawed as they sung, and did many other things. They were evidently erecting themselves into some kind of a government for the year—holding a caucus—perhaps an election—deposing an old monarch, or elevating a new; for it was easy to hear them say what they would do, and what they wouldn't—that is, easy for one who has studied the blackbird language—and sometimes an awful threat might be detected, mixed with a great many wheedling words and gracious postures.
The brown-threshers came next, and they were just as full of chatter and life as they were the year before. Birds never grow old, it seems to me, nor have I ever been able to determine when or where they die. The hunter kills but a very few, and those few of a certain kind. What becomes of the rest? They breed every spring in great numbers; but how, when, and where do they die? We do not find dead birds in the woods; at any rate, very few. Yes, the brown threshers were as young as ever. They looked very shabby and mussed when I last saw them in the fall; but now their brown clothes shone as cleanly as a Quaker-girl's shawl. They took up Nature's music-book, and rattled off all the songs, and glees, and anthems in it—very often making a medley of it, mixing the notes of the birds that were chanting around all together—and they often closed the performance with an original strain of their own, composed on the spot.
When the swallows and the martins came, I knew that spring was fully established. They appeared suddenly during the night; for when the May sun arose, they were twittering and wheeling through the air, shooting up and plunging down in a kind of delicious rapture. Their music was set on the staff of blue skies, south-west winds, and flowers. There was not a note of winter in it. The woods, and streams, and fields seemed to have been waiting for their melody, for all Nature went to work, and was soon clad in beauty, and light, and song.