FOOTNOTES:
[2] Note.—Further to the west and extending at least to Wisconsin, the following list of early woodland flowers may take the place of the above, blooming in the order given: Erigenia (or harbinger of spring), hepatica, bloodroot, and dog-tooth violet, or perhaps the dicentra (Dutchman's breeches) may come before the last.
The skunk cabbage, which is not a woodland flower, and therefore not included in the above list, is the first flower probably in all New England and the northern states.
[3] Note.—In the West several conspicuous flowers, particularly the pretty hepatica, precede the cowslip.
THE NASHVILLE WARBLER.
(Helminthophila rubricapilla.)
LYNDS JONES.
THE Nashville warbler is common during the migrations in many parts of the country, but seems to be scarce or entirely wanting locally. Thus, in Lorain county, Ohio, as well as in Poweshiek county, Iowa, it is always one of the commonest warblers during the first and second weeks of May, and again during the second and third weeks of September, while it is not reported from Wayne county, Ohio, by Mr. Harry C. Oberholser in his "List of the Birds of Wayne county, Ohio." There are other instances of its rarity or absence from restricted localities. Its range extends from the Atlantic ocean west to eastern Nebraska, and north into Labrador and the fur countries, occasionally wandering even to Greenland. It winters in the tropics south of the United States.
In the northward migration it reaches Texas about the third week in April and Manitoba near the end of the first week in May, thus passing completely across the country in about three weeks. A careful computation proves that the average rate at which this warbler traveled across the country, in the spring of 1885, was nearly forty miles a day. A single year, however, might show a considerable departure from the normal rate of migration. This instance is given to show any who may not be familiar with the phenomena of bird migration that small birds, at least, do not perform their whole migration in a single flight, but rest a good deal by the way.
The migrating Nashville warblers, in my experience, prefer the outskirts of the larger woods, but may be found anywhere in the smaller woods, preferring the middle branches, rarely ascending to the tree-tops, not seldom gleaning near the ground in the underbrush, or even among the leaves on the ground. They are by no means confined to the woods, but glean as boldly and sing as cheerfully among the fruit and shade trees in town, but they are more numerous in the woods.
The song has been compared to that of the chestnut-sided warbler and the chipping sparrow combined. To my ear the Nashville warbler's song is enough unlike the song of any other bird to be easily recognized after a single hearing. Rev. J. H. Langille's rendering: "Ke tsee, ke tsee, ke tsee, chip ee, chip ee, chip ee, chip," is a close approximation, but seems somewhat lacking in the true expression of the first part of the song. My note book renders it thus: "K tsip, k tsip, k tsip, k tsip, chip ee, chip ee, chip ee, chip." The first part of the song is thus halting, with a considerable pause between the phrases, while the last part is uttered more rapidly and with little effort. This song, issuing from the trees in every direction, is always closely associated in the writer's mind with the early morning hours, the dripping trees and the sweet incense of the flower-decked woods and bursting buds.
While feeding, these warblers often gather into groups of a dozen or twenty individuals, and may be associated with other species, thus forming a considerable company. The warbler student is familiar with the waves of warblers and other small birds which range through the woods, now appearing in a bewildering flutter of a hundred wings, now disappearing in their eager quest for a lunch of insects.
The breeding-range of this warbler extends as far south as Connecticut in the East, and Michigan and Minnesota, if not northern Iowa in the West, and north to the limit of its range. In common with the other members of this genus, the Nashville warbler nests on the ground, usually in a spot well protected by dried grasses and other litter of the previous year's growth, often in a tangle of shrubs, ferns and bushes. The nest is sometimes sunk flush with the surface, and is composed of grasses, mosses, pine needles, strips of bark and leaves, lined with finer material of the same sort and with hair-like rootlets, the composition varying with the locality. The eggs are pure white or creamy-white, marked with spots and dots of reddish-brown and the usual lilac shell-markings, which are grouped more or less around the larger end. They are four or five in number, and average about .61 × .48 of an inch.
The spring males may readily be recognized in the bush by their small size, by the bright yellow underparts, by their ashy heads and back, and by their habit of feeding in the middle branches of the trees down to the underbrush. The concealed rufous spot on the crown, from which the bird takes its scientific specific name, can rarely be seen in the live bird, no doubt chiefly because the bird is perpetually above you.
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| FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES. | NASHVILLE WARBLER. Life-size. | COPYRIGHT 1899, NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO. |
CHIEF SIMON POKAGON.
C. C. MARBLE.
Gather him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay
Beneath the verdure of the plain,
The warrior's scattered bones away.
—Bryant.
THE subject of this brief sketch died, January —, 1899, at an advanced age. He was a full-blood Indian, and a hereditary chief of the Pottowattomies. As author of "The Red Man's Greeting," a booklet made of white birch bark and entitled by the late Prof. Swing, "The Red Man's Book of Lamentations," he has been called the "Red-skin poet, bard, and Longfellow of his race." He himself said that his object in having the book printed on the bark of the white birch tree was out of loyalty to his people, and "gratitude to the Great Spirit, who in his wisdom provided for our use for untold generations this remarkable tree with manifold bark used by us instead of paper, being of greater value to us as it could not be injured by sun or water." Out of the bark of this wonderful tree were made hats, caps, and dishes for domestic use, "while our maidens tied with it the knot that sealed their marriage vow." Wigwams were made of it, as well as large canoes that out-rode the violent storms on lake and sea. It was also used for light and fuel at the Indian war councils and spirit dances. Originally the shores of the northern lakes and streams were fringed with it and evergreen, and the "white charmingly contrasted with the green mirrored from the water was indeed beautiful, but like the red man, this tree is vanishing from our forests." He quotes the sad truth:
"Alas for us! Our day is o'er,
Our fires are out from shore to shore;
No more for us the wild deer bounds—
The plow is on our hunting grounds.
The pale-man's sail skims o'er the floods;
Our pleasant springs are dry;
Our children look, by power oppressed,
Beyond the mountains of the west—
Our children go—to die."
The dedication of the little book is characteristic of the grateful appreciation of a man of lofty spirit, who was acquainted with the history and traditions of his race. It is: "To the memory of William Penn, Roger Williams, the late lamented Helen Hunt Jackson, and many others now in heaven, who conceived that noble spirit of justice which recognizes the brotherhood of the red man, and to all others now living defenders of our race, I most gratefully dedicate this tribute of the forest."
Chief Pokagon's father sold the site of Chicago and the surrounding country to the United States in 1833 for three cents an acre. Chief Simon was the first red man to visit Mr. Lincoln after his inauguration as president. In a letter written home at the time, he said: "I have met Lincoln, the great chief; he is very tall, has a sad face, but he is a good man; I saw it in his eyes and felt it in his hand-grasp. He will help us get payment for Chicago land." Soon after this visit to Washington a payment of $39,000 was made by the government.
In 1874 he visited President Grant, of whom he said: "I expected he would put on military importance, but he treated me kindly, gave me a cigar, and we smoked the pipe of peace together."
In 1893 the chief secured judgment against the United States for over $100,000, which still remained due on the sale of Chicago land by his father. This judgment was paid and the money divided pro rata among members of the tribe, who soon dissipated it, however, and became as great a charge upon the chief as ever.
Pokagon was honored on Chicago Day at the World's Fair by first ringing the new Bell of Liberty and speaking in behalf of his race to the greatest multitude, it is believed, ever assembled in one inclosure. After his speech, "Glory Hallelujah" was sung before the bell for the first time on the fair grounds. The little book, "The Red Man's Greeting," above referred to, was prepared for this occasion and read for the first time. It was well received, and many papers referred to it in terms of extravagance. It was undoubtedly full of eloquence characteristic of the aborigines.
Chief Pokagon's contributions to bird literature have been numerous and original. That he was a lover of nature is manifest through all his writings. And he was a humane man, like Johnny Appleseed, after quoting:
"An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that hath humanity, forewarn'd,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live."
"In early life," he says, "I was deeply mortified as I witnessed the grand old forests of Michigan, under whose shades my forefathers lived and died, falling before the cyclone of civilization as before the prairie fire. In those days I traveled thousands of miles along our winding trails, through the wild solitude of the unbroken forest, listening to the song of the woodland birds, as they poured forth their melodies from the thick foliage above and about me. Very seldom now do I catch one familiar note from those early warblers of the woods. They have all passed away, but with feelings of the deepest gratitude I now listen to the songs of other birds which have come with the advance of civilization. They are with us all about our homes and, like the wild-wood birds which our fathers used to hold their breath to hear, they sing in concert, without pride, without envy, without jealousy—alike in forest and field; alike before the wigwam and the castle; alike for savage and for sage; alike for beggar and for prince; alike for chief and for king."
Writing of the wild goose, he says: "I begged my father to try and catch me a pair of these birds alive, that I might raise a flock of them. He finally promised me he would try, and made me pledge myself to kindly care for them. He made me a stockade park to put them in, enclosing one-half acre of land. One corner ran into the lake, so as to furnish plenty of water for the prospective captives. He then made a brush box, three feet square, trimming it with rice straw from the lake and left it at the water's edge for future use. He then waded into the lake where geese were in the habit of feeding, finding the water nowhere above his chin. On the following morning a flock was seen feeding in the lake. We went quietly to the shore; father placed the box over his head and waded carefully into the water. Soon I could see only the box; it appeared to be floating and drifted by the wind toward the geese. At length it moved in among the great birds. I held my breath, fearing they would fly away. Soon I saw one disappear, then another, both sinking like lead into the water. Not a sound could I hear. The rice box began to slowly drift back. On nearing the shore father emerged from it with a live goose under each arm. They seemed the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen." The young chief in three years raised a fine flock of geese, which, he says, he treated as prisoners of war, and was as kind to as a mother to her children. He taught them to eat corn from his hand and each one to recognize a name given to it. After the first year he gave them their liberty, except in fall and spring, when they were determined to migrate. If he let them out with wings clipped, so they could not fly, they would start on the journey afoot for the south or northland according to the time of year.
It is believed that the old chief left behind him many interesting manuscripts. One of thirty thousand words is known to the present writer. It is autobiographical and historical of the Pottowattomie tribe of Indians, and will doubtless be printed, sooner or later, if not on white birch bark, then on good white paper.
NATURE AT FIRST HAND.
When beauty, blushing, from her bed
Arose to bathe in morning dew,
The sun, just lifting up his head,
The vision saw and back withdrew
Behind a cloud, with edges red:
"Till beauty," then he coyly said,
"Shall veil her peerless form divine
I may not let my glory shine."
C. C. M.
AS TO the pleasures derived from pursuing the science of ornithology in nature's interminable range, there are delights the field ornithologist experiences quite unknown to his stay-at-home namesake. For instance, what a thrill of pride courses through him as he clings to the topmost branches of the tallest pine tree, making himself acquainted with the rude cradle of the sparrow-hawk; or when examining the beautiful and richly marked eggs of the windhover, laid bare and nestless in the magpie's old abode, some sixty feet or more in the branches of a towering oak. When, if ever, do our closet naturalists inspect these lovely objects in their elevated cradle? Again, how elated the field naturalist will feel when, after hours of patient watching, he gets a sight of a troop of timid jays, or the woodpecker, busy in his search for food on some noble tree! How elated when, scaling the cliff's rugged side in search of sea birds' eggs, or tramping over the wild and barren moor, he flushes the snipe or ring ousel from its heathery bed, or startles the curlew from its meal in the fathomless marsh! We might enlarge upon this subject ad infinitum, but to a field naturalist these pleasures are well known, and to the closet personage uncared for. Suffice it to say, that he who takes nature for his tutor will experience delights indescribable from every animate and inanimate object of the universe; from the tiny blade of grass to the largest forest tree—the tiniest living atom, seemingly without form or purpose, to its gigantic relation of much higher development. The pages of nature's mighty book are unrolled to the view of every man who cares to haunt her sanctuaries. The doctrine it teaches is universal, pregnant with truth, endless in extent, eternal in duration, and full of the widest variety: Upon the earth it is illustrated by endless forms beautiful and grand, and in the trackless ether above, the stars and suns and moons gild its immortal pages.—Rural Bird-Life in England.
The aspects of nature change ceaselessly, by day and by night, through the seasons of the year, with every difference in latitude and longitude; and endless are the profusion and variety of the results which illustrate the operation of her laws. But, let the productions of different climes and countries be never so unlike, she works by the same methods; the spirit of her teachings never changes; nature herself is always the same, and the same wholesome, satisfying lessons are to be learned in the contemplation of any of her works. We may change our skies, but not our minds, in crossing the sea to gain a glimpse of that bird-life which finds its exact counterpart in our own woods and fields, at the very threshold of our own homes.—Coues.
The boy was right, in a certain sense, when he said that he knew nature when she passed. Alone, he had hunted much in the woods day and night. He knew the tall trees that were the coons' castles, and the high hills of the 'possum's rambles. He had a quick eye for the smooth holes where the squirrels hid or the leafy hammocks where they dozed the heated hours away. The tangles where the bob-whites would stand and sun themselves stood out to him at a glance, and when the ruffed grouse drummed he knew his perch and the screens to dodge behind as he crept up on him.—Baskett.
THE QUAILS' QUADRILLE.
BY MRS. A. S. HARDY.
ONE who loves the birds and is so much in sympathy with them as to make it appear sometimes that they have taken her into their "order," had a charming glimpse, a few years ago, of a covey of quails in one of their frolics. She described it as follows:
"I never hear the call of 'Ah, Bob White!' or catch a glimpse of those shy little vocalists, that I do not think of how I once surprised them in the prettiest dance I ever saw. I had heard of the games and the frolics of birds and have often watched them with delight, but I never saw any bird-play that interested me as this, that seemed like a quadrille of a little company of quails.
"They were holding their pretty carnival at the side of a country road along which I was slowly strolling, and I came in sight of them so quietly as to be for a time unobserved, although they had two little sentinels posted—one at each end of the company.
"Between these bright-eyed little watchers, always on the alert, a dozen or more birds were tip-toeing in a square. Every motion was with all the grace and harmony which are nature's own. At some little bird-signal which I didn't see, two birds advanced from diagonal corners of the square, each bird tripping along with short, airy and graceful steps, something like what we imagine characterized the old-time 'minuet.' Each bird, as the partners came near each other, bobbed its head in a graceful little bow, and both tripped back as they came to their places in the square. Immediately the birds from the two other corners advanced with the same airy grace, the same short, quick, and tripping steps, saluting and retreating as the others had done.
"A wagon driven along the road disturbed the band of dancers, who scudded away under leaves, through the fence, into the deep grass of the field beyond. When the team had passed out of sight and the ball-room was again their own, back came the pretty revelers stealthily, their brown heads uplifted as their bright eyes scanned the landscape. Seeing no intruder, they again took their places the same as before and began again the same quadrille—advancing, meeting, bowing, and retreating.
"It was the prettiest and most graceful little 'society affair' you can imagine! There was no music—no song that I could hear—yet every little bird in every turn and step while the dance was on, moved as to a measured harmony.
"Did the birds keep 'time—time, in a sort of runic rhyme' to melody in their hearts, or to a symphony, I could not hear, but which goes up unceasingly like a hymn of praise from nature's great orchestra? I longed to know.
"In my delight and desire to learn more of the bewitching bird-play, I half forgot I was a clumsy woman, and an unconscious movement betrayed my presence. The little sentinel nearest me quickly lifted his brown head, and spying me gave his signal—how, I could not guess, for not a sound was uttered; but all the dancers stretched their little necks an instant and sped away. In a moment the ground was cleared and the dancers came not back."
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| PRESENTED BY LOUIS G. KUNZE. | . ⅔ Life-size. | COPYRIGHT 1899, NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO. |
THE GRAPE.
C. C. M.
THE name grape is from the French grappe, a bunch of grapes; from the same root as gripe or grab, to grasp. It is one of the most valuable fruits, not only because of its use in the manufacture of wine, and is the source also from which brandy, vinegar, and tartaric acid are obtained, but because, both in a fresh and dried state, it forms not a mere article of luxury, but a great part of the food of the inhabitants of some countries.
The cultivation of the vine was introduced into England by the Romans, and of late years its cultivation has much increased in gardens, on the walls of suburban villas and of cottages, but chiefly for the sake of the fresh fruit, although wine is also made in small quantities for domestic use.
The first attempt at the culture of the vine in the United States for wine-making was in Florida in 1564; and another was made by the British colonist in 1620. In Delaware wine was made from native grapes as early as 1648. In 1683 William Penn engaged in the cultivation of the vine near Philadelphia, but with only partial success. In 1825 the Catawba vine, a native of North Carolina, came into prominence; and it was afterward cultivated extensively near Cincinnati by Nicholas Longworth, who has been called the father of this culture in the United States. In 1858 the entire production of Catawba wine in Ohio amounted to 400,000 gallons. In the states east of the Rocky mountains the greatest extent of territory in vineyards occurs in Ohio, New York, Missouri, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Iowa, and Kansas, but at present they exist in nearly every state in the Union. Of all of the states, however, California is the most important for vine-growing. The vineyards were first cultivated there during the middle of the last century, the first grape planted being the Los Angeles, which was the only one grown till 1820.
The cultivation of the vine varies much in different countries. In the vineries of Britain the vines are carefully trained in various ways so as most completely to cover the walls and trellises and to turn the whole available space to the utmost account. The luxuriant growth of the plant renders the frequent application of the pruning-knife necessary during the summer. The bunches of grapes are generally thinned out with great care, in order that finer fruit may be produced. By such means, and the aid of artificial heat, grapes are produced equal to those of the most favored climates, and the vine attains to a large size and a great age. The famous vine at Hampton Court has a stem more than a foot in circumference, one branch measuring one hundred and fourteen feet in length, and has produced in one season two thousand two hundred bunches of grapes, weighing on an average one pound each, or in all about a ton.
About 250 years ago Dr. Power attributed the fly's locomotive power to "a furry kind of substance like little sponges with which she hath lined the soles of her feet, which substance is also repleated with a whitish viscous liquor, which she can at pleasure squeeze out, and so sodder and be-glue herself to the place she walks on, which otherwise her gravity would hinder, especially when she walks in those inverted positions." Scientific men refused to believe this explanation, and taught that the bottom of a fly's foot resembled the leather sucker used by boys to lift stones, and that this formation enabled it to move back downwards. However it has been proved that Dr. Power was right in every point but the sticky nature of the liquid that exudes from the fly's foot. This substance is not sticky, and the attachment which it causes is brought about by capillary attraction.
PROSE POEMS OF IVAN TURGENIEF.
I DREAMED that I stepped into a vast, subterranean, highly arched hall. A brilliant light illuminated it. In the middle of this hall was seated the majestic figure of a woman, clothed in a green robe that fell in many folds around her. Her head rested upon her hand; she seemed to be sunk in deep meditation. Instantly I comprehended that this woman must be nature herself, and a sudden feeling of respectful terror stole into my awed soul. I approached the woman, and, saluting her with reverence, said:
"O mother of us all, on what dost thou meditate? Thinkest thou, perchance, on the future fate of humanity, or of the path along which mankind must journey in order to attain the highest possible perfection—the highest happiness?"
The woman slowly turned her dark, threatening eyes upon me. Her lips moved and, in a tremendous, metallic voice she replied:
"I was pondering how to bestow greater strength upon the muscles of the flea's legs, so that it may more rapidly escape from its enemies. The balance between attack and flight is deranged; it must be readjusted."
"What!" I answered, "is that thy only meditation? Are not we, mankind, thy best-loved and most precious children?"
The woman slightly bent her brows and replied: "All living creatures are my children; I cherish all equally, and annihilate all without distinction."
"But Virtue, Reason, Justice!" I faltered.
"Those are human words," replied the brazen voice. "I know neither good nor evil. Reason to me is no law. And what is justice? I gave thee life; I take it from thee and give it unto others; worms and men are all the same to me.... And thou must maintain thyself meanwhile, and leave me in peace."
I would have replied, but the earth quaked and trembled, and I awoke.
I was returning from hunting, and walking along an avenue of the garden, my dog running in front of me.
Suddenly he took shorter steps, and began to steal along as though tracking game.
I looked along the avenue, and saw a young sparrow, with yellow about its beak and down on its head. It had fallen out of the nest (the wind was violently shaking the birch trees in the avenue) and sat unable to move, helplessly flapping its half-grown wings.
My dog was slowly approaching it, when, suddenly darting from a tree close by, an old dark-throated sparrow fell like a stone right before his nose, and all ruffled up, terrified, with despairing and pitiful chirps, it flung itself twice towards the open jaws of shining teeth. It sprang to save; it cast itself before its nestling, but all its tiny body was shaking with terror; its note was harsh and strange. Swooning with fear, it offered itself up!
What a huge monster must the dog have seemed to it! And yet it could not stay on its high branch out of danger.... A force stronger than its will flung it down.
My Tresor stood still, drew back.... Clearly he, too, recognized this force.
I hastened to call off the disconcerted dog, and went away full of reverence.
Yes; do not laugh. I felt reverence for that tiny heroic bird for its impulse of love.
Love, I thought, is stronger than death or the fear of death. Only by it, by love, life holds together and advances.
THE BLUEBIRD.
Soft warbling note
From azure throat,
Float on the gentle air of spring;
To my quick ear
It doth appear
The sweetest of the birds that sing.
—C. C. M.
A bit of heaven itself.—Spofford.
The bluebird carries the sky on his back.—Thoreau.
Winged lute that we call a bluebird.—Rexford.
The bluebird is the color-bearer of the spring brigade.—Wright.
A wise bluebird
Puts in his little heavenly word.
—Lanier.
The bluebird, shifting his light load of song
From post to post along the cheerless fence.
—Lowell.
It is his gentle, high-bred manner and not his azure coat which makes the bluebird.—Torrey.
How can we fail to regard its azure except as a fragment from the blue of the summer noonday arch?—Silloway.
The bluebird always bears the national colors—red, white, and blue—and in its habits is a model of civilized bird-life.—Dr. Cooper.
At the first flash of vernal sun among the bare boughs of his old home he hies northward to greet it with his song, and seems, unlike the oriole, to help nature make the spring.—Baskett.
As he sits on a branch lifting his wings there is an elusive charm about his sad, quivering tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly. Ignoring our presence, he seems preoccupied with unfathomable thoughts of field and sky.—Merriam.
And yonder bluebird, with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky tinge on his back, did he come down out of heaven on that bright March morning when he told us so softly and plaintively that if we pleased, spring had come?—Burroughs.
He is "true blue," which is as rare a color among birds as it is among flowers. He is the banner-bearer of bird-land also, and loyally floats the tricolor from our trees and telegraph wires; for, besides being blue, is he not also red and white?—Coues.
THE FIRST BLUEBIRD.
Jest rain and snow! and rain again!
And dribble! drip! and blow!
Then snow! and thaw! and slush! and then
Some more rain and snow!
This morning I was 'most afeared
To wake up—when, I jing!
I seen the sun shine out and heerd
The first bluebird of spring!
Mother she'd raised the winder some;
And in acrost the orchard come,
Soft as an angel's wing,
A breezy, treesy, beesy hum,
Too sweet fer anything!
The winter's shroud was rent apart—
The sun burst forth in glee—
And when that bluebird sung, my heart
Hopped out o' bed with me!
—Riley.
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| FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES. | SWIFT FOX. ¼ Life-size. | COPYRIGHT 1899, NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO. |
THE KIT FOX.
C. C. M.
ONE of the smallest of the foxes is the kit fox (Vulpes velox), sometimes called the swift fox and also the burrowing fox, getting the latter name for the ability and rapidity with which it digs the holes in the ground in which it lives. It is an inhabitant of the northwestern states and of the western Canadian provinces, covering the region from southeastern Nebraska northwest to British Columbia. Its length is about twenty inches, exclusive of the tail, which is about twelve inches long. The overhair is fine, the back is a pure gray, the sides yellow, and the under parts white. The ears are small and covered with hair and the soles are also hairy. The kit fox is much smaller in size than either the gray or red fox, but has proportionately longer limbs than either of them.
Reynard, of all animals, in spite of the fact that he is accepted as the emblem of cunning, slyness, deceit, and mischief, is praised by proverb and tradition, and the greatest of German poets, Goethe, made him the subject of an epic. Pechuel-Loesche says:
"The fox of tradition and poetry and the fox in real life are really two very different animals. Whoever observes him with an unprejudiced mind fails to discover any extraordinary degree of that much-praised presence of mind, cleverness, cunning, and practical sense, or even an unusually keen development of the senses. In my opinion he is by no means superior in his endowments to other beasts of prey, especially the wolf. The most that can be truly said in his praise is to admit that, when he is pursued, he knows how to adapt himself to the surrounding circumstances, but scarcely more so than other sagacious animals. Like many other animals, including the harmless species, some old foxes may have their wits unusually sharpened by experience, but every huntsman who has had much to do with foxes will admit that there are a great many which are not ingenious, and some which may even be called stupid, and this refers not only to young, inexperienced foxes, but also to many old ones. The fox is a rascal and knows his trade, because he has to make a living somehow. He is impudent, but only when driven by hunger or when he has to provide for his little family; and in bad plights he shows neither presence of mind nor deliberation, but loses his head completely. He is caught in clumsy traps, and this even repeatedly. In the open country he allows a sled to approach him within gunshot; he permits himself to be surrounded in a hunt in spite of the noise and shots, instead of wisely taking to his heels; in short, this animal, which is more relentlessly pursued than any other inhabitant of the woods, still has not learned to see through all the tricks of men and shape his actions accordingly."
All of which may be literally true, nevertheless Reynard is the hero of a hundred stories and pictures and he will continue to be regarded as a remarkably clever and interesting animal.
The coat of the fox corresponds closely to his surroundings. Those species living on plains and deserts show the similarity of their color with that of the ground; the southern fox differs considerably from the northern and the fox of the mountains from that of the plains.
The fox usually selects his home in deep hollows, between rocks covered with branches, or between roots of trees. Whenever he can avoid doing so he does not dig a burrow himself, but establishes himself in some old, deserted badger's hole, or shares it with the badger in spite of the latter's objections. If it is possible, the fox excavates his burrows in mountain walls, so that the conduits lead upwards, without running close to the surface. In his prowlings he regards his security as paramount to every other consideration, according to fox hunters. He is suspicious, and only the pangs of hunger can goad him into reckless actions. Then he becomes bold. Once a fox, which was being hunted by hounds and had twice heard the shot whizzing by, seized a sick hare in his flight and carried it with him a considerable distance. Another was surrounded in a field; he came out, attacked a wounded hare, killed it before the eyes of the huntsmen, rapidly buried it in the snow, and then fled directly through the line formed by the sportsmen.
Litters of young foxes are born about the end of April or the beginning of May. Their number varies between three and twelve.
Lenz had a tame female fox which he received just as she was beginning to eat solid food, but had already become so vicious and so much addicted to biting that she always growled when eating her favorite food and bit right and left into straw and wood, even when nobody was disturbing her. Kind treatment soon made her so tame that she would allow him to take a freshly-killed rabbit out of her bloody mouth and insert his fingers instead. Even when grown up she liked to play with him, was demonstrative in her joy when he visited her, wagged her tail, whined, and jumped around. She was just as much pleased to see a stranger, and she distinguished strangers at a distance of fifty paces, when they were turning the corner of the house, and with loud cries would invite them to come up to her, an honor which she never accorded either to him or his brother, who usually fed her, probably because she knew they would do so anyway.
Reynard has been known to attack and kill young calves and lambs, and if the seashore is near will revel in oysters and shellfish. A group of rabbits are feeding in a clover-patch. He'll crawl along, nibbling the juicy flowers until near enough to make a grab. He'll stalk a bird, with his hind legs dragging behind him, until near enough to spring. How farmers dread his inroads in the poultry yard! Fasten the yard up tight and he will burrow a winding passage into the ground beneath and suddenly appear among the drowsy chickens and stupid geese, whose shrill and alarmed cries arouse the farmer from his bed to sally forth, finding all safe. Then the fox will sneak back and pack away with the plumpest pullet or the fattest goose.
AMONG ANIMALS.
The deer really weeps, its eyes being provided with lachrymal glands.
Ants have brains larger in proportion to the size of their bodies than any other living creature.
There are three varieties of the dog that never bark—the Australian dog, the Egyptian shepherd dog and the "lion-headed" dog of Tibet.
The insect known as the water boatman has a regular pair of oars, his legs being used as such. He swims on his back, as in this position there is less resistance to his progress.
Seventeen parcels of ants' eggs from Russia, weighing 550 pounds, were sold in Berlin recently for 20 cents a pound.
The peacock is now kept entirely, it would seem, for ornament—for the ornament of garden terraces (among old-fashioned and trim-kept yew hedges he is specially in place)—in his living state, and for various æsthetic uses to which his brilliant plumage and hundred-eyed tailfeathers are put when he is dead or moulting. But we seldom eat him now, though he used to figure with the boar's head, the swan and the baron of beef on those boards which were beloved by our forefathers, more valiant trenchermen than ourselves. Yet young peahen is uncommonly good eating, even now, at the end of the nineteenth century, and in the craze that some people have for new birds—Argus pheasants, Reeve's pheasants, golden pheasants and what not—to stock their coverts, it is a wonder that some one has not tried a sprinkling of peacocks.
SPRING FASHIONS.
ELLA GILBERT IVES.
EVEN in birddom some of the styles come from Paris, where the rouge gorge smartens up his red waistcoat as regularly as the spring comes round. Our staid American robin tries to follow suit, though he never can equal his old-world models. Even the English redbreast excels him in beauty and song. I must tell the truth, as an honest reporter, though I am not a bit English, and would not exchange our Merula migratoria for a nightingale; for beauty is but feather-deep, and when our robin shines up his yellow bill—a spring fashion of his own—the song that comes from it is dearer than the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. That little relative of his whom our forefathers called the "blue robin," has the same rufous color in his waistcoat, though it stops so short it always seems as if the stuff must have given out. No Parisian or London dandy set the style for his lovely coat. If ever a fashion came down from heaven, that did; and it came to the fresh, new world and stopped here. No blue-coats perch on the rails in old England; perhaps because there is never clear sky enough to spare for a bird's back. We have so much on this continent, that half a dozen birds dress in the celestial hue; some of them, like the jay, all the year round.
But indigo bunting, whose summer coat and vest seem interwoven of blue sky and a thunder cloud, and then dipped in a sea-wave of foamy green, is not so lavish of his beauty. His plain wife and children, who dress almost like common sparrows, have only shreds and patches of blue in their attire, and indigo pater puts on the same dull shade for his winter overcoat. But in spring, what a spruce old beau he is!—and how he does like to show off in the tasseled oaks! So beautiful is his changeable silk that one half suspects him of borrowing from the peacock's wardrobe. A grain of that lordly fowl's disposition may have mixed with the dye; for if there is a pointed spruce tree near, indigo is sure to perch on the tip-top and sing until you look at him. Still, he loves beauty for beauty's sake, and is not really vain like the tanager.
That gorgeous bird actually sings, "Here pretty, pretty here!" with variations, as if all loveliness focused in his feathers. He arrives just when the tender young foliage of May will half veil his vivid scarlet coat; and as it is less dependent on light than the indigo's, he does not affect tree-tops, but perches under a spray of golden oak leaves or the delicate green of an elm, and shines like a live coal in a bed of leaves. If he were a British trooper he could not be more resplendent in scarlet and black. Tanager is uniformed first for conquest, then for guard duty. He wears his bright trappings during courting and nesting time, and the rest of the year doffs his scarlet and wears olive-green like that of his modest mate. He still carries black wings and tail, however, to mark his sex.
So does gay little goldfinch, bird of winsome ways and a happy heart. He, too, dresses up for courting; and how do you think he does it? All winter long he has worn an olive-brown coat, as subdued as any finch's needs to be; but when the willows begin to hint at the fashionable spring color, and the spice bush breathes its name, and the dandelions print the news on the grass and the forsythia emblazons it on every lawn, and the sunset sky is a great bulletin board to announce it—then this dainty bird peels off his dull winter overcoat, each tiny feather dropping a tip, and lo! underneath a garb that a Chinese Chang might covet. To match his wings and tail, he puts on a black cap, and then you never saw a more perfect "glass of fashion and mold of form"—at least that is Mme. Goldfinch's opinion.
"No dis-pu-ting a-bout tastes!" chirps chipping sparrow. He prefers a dress of sober tints and thinks nothing so durable as gray and black and brown. Though not a slave to fashion, he does freshen up a bit in the spring and puts on a new cap of chestnut, not to be too old fogyish. But he believes in wearing courting clothes all the year round. Young chippies put on striped bibs until they are out of the nursery, but the old folks like a plain shirt front.
No such notion has the barn-swallow. He believes in family equality, even in the matter of clothes; and having been born in a pretty and becoming suit, wears it all the time. When the cinquefoil fingers the grass, you may look for his swallow-tailed coat in the air; and if the April sun strikes its steel-blue broadcloth, and discloses the bright chestnut muffler and the pale-tinted vest, you will rejoice that old fashions prevail in swallow-land. These swift-flying birds have something higher to think about than changing their clothes.
It seems otherwise with some birds of the meadow. That gay dandy, the bobolink, for instance, lays himself out to make a sensation in the breast of his fair one. When he started on his southern trip last autumn, he wore a traveling-suit of buff and brown, not unlike Mistress Bobolink's and the little Links'. No doubt he knew the danger lurking in the reeds of Pennsylvania and the rice-fields of Carolina, and hoped to escape observation while fattening there. In the spring, if fortunate enough to have escaped the gunner, he flies back to his northern home, "dressed to kill," in human phrase, happily not, in bird language. Robert o'Lincoln is a funny fellow disguised as a bishop. Richard Steele, the rollicking horse-guardsman, posing as a Christian hero, is a human parallel. With a black vest buttoned to the throat, a black cap and choker, bobolink's front is as solemn as the end-man's at a minstrel show. But what a coat! Buff, white and black in eccentric combination; and at the nape of the neck, a yellow posy, that deepens with the buttercups and fades almost as soon. Bobby is original, but he conforms to taste, and introduces no discordant color-tone into his field of buttercups and clover. In his ecstatic flight he seems to have caught a field flower on his back; and if a golden-hearted daisy were to speak, surely it would be in such a joyous tongue.
A red, red rose never blooms in a clover meadow, and the grosbeak does not go there for his chief spring adornment. Red roses do bloom all the year, though none so lovely as the rose of June; and so the grosbeak wears his distinctive flower at his throat the round year, but it is loveliest in early summer. I do not know a prettier fashion—do you?—for human kind or bird, than a flower over the heart. I fancy that a voice is sweeter when a breast is thus adorned. If ever the rich passion of a red, red rose finds expression, it is in the caressing, exultant love-song of the rose-breasted grosbeak. The one who inspires it looks like an overgrown sparrow; but grosbeak knows the difference, if you do not. If that wise parent should ever be in doubt as to his own son, who always favors the mother at the start, he has but to lift up the youngster's wings, and the rose-red lining will show at once that he is no common sparrow.
That pretty fashion of a contrast in linings is not confined to the grosbeak. The flicker, too, has his wings delicately lined with—a scrap of sunset sky. I do not know whether he found his material there or lower down in a marsh of marigolds; but when he flies over your head into the elm tree and plies his trade, you will see that he is fitly named, golden-winged woodpecker. He makes no fuss over his spring clothes. A fresh red tie, which, oddly enough, he wears on the back of his neck, a retinting of his bright lining, a new gloss on his spotted vest and striped coat, and his toilet is made. Madame Flicker is so like her spouse that you would be puzzled to tell them apart, but for his black mustache.
The flicker fashion of dressing alike may come from advanced notions of equality; whatever its source, the purple finch is of another mind. He sacrifices much, almost his own identity, to love of variety; and yet he is never purple. His name simply perpetuates a blunder for which no excuse can be offered. Pokeberry is his prevailing hue, but so variously is it intermingled with brown at different times and seasons and ages, that scarcely two finches look alike. The mother-bird wears the protective colors of the sparrow, while young males seem to be of doubtful mind which parent to copy; and so a purple finch family presents diversity of attire puzzling to a novice.
But why, pray, should a bird family wear a uniform, as if a charity school or a foundling hospital? The gay little warblers are not institutional to that degree. An example of their originality is redstart—another misnamed bird. He wears the colors of Princeton College, or rather, the college wears his; and a lordly male privilege it is, in both cases. His mate contents herself with pale yellow and gray, while the young male waits three years before putting on his father's coat. The first year he wears his mother's dress; the second, a motley betwixt and between; the third, he is a tree "candelita," or little torch, lighting up his winter home in a Cuban forest, and bringing Spanish fashions to New England with the May blossoms.
When dame nature in the spring
For her annual opening
Has her doors and windows washed by April showers;
When the sun has turned the key,
And the loosened buds are free
To come out and pile the shelving rocks with flowers;
When the maple wreathes her head
With a posy-garland red,
And the grass-blade sticks a feather in his cap;
When the tassels trim the birch,
And the oak-tree in the lurch
Hurries up to get some fringes for his wrap;
When the willow's yellow sheen
And the meadow's emerald green
Are the fashionable colors of the day;
When the bank its pledges old
Pays in dandelion gold,
And horse-chestnut folds its baby hands to pray—
Then from Cuba and the isles
Where a tropic sun beguiles,
And from lands beyond the Caribbean sea,
Every dainty warbler flocks
With a tiny music-box
And a trunk of pretty feathers duty-free.
And in colors manifold,
Orange, scarlet, blue, and gold,
Green and yellow, black, and brown and grays galore,
They will thread the forest aisles
With the very latest styles,
And a tune apiece to open up the score.
But they do not care to part
With their decorative art,
Which must always have the background of a tree;
And will surely bring a curse
To a grasping mind or purse,
Since God loves the birds as well as you and me.
BIRDS THAT DO NOT SING.
SINGING is applied to birds in the same sense that it is to human beings—the utterance of musical notes. Every person makes vocal sounds of some kind, but many persons never attempt to sing. So it is with birds. The eagle screams, the owl hoots, the wild goose honks, the crow caws, but none of these discordant sounds can be called singing.
With the poet, the singing of birds means merry, light-hearted joyousness, and most of us are poetic enough to view it in the same way. Birds sing most in the spring and the early summer, those happiest seasons of the year, while employed in nest-building and in rearing their young. Many of our musical singers are silent all the rest of the year; at least they utter only low chirpings.
Outside of what are properly classed as song birds there are many species that never pretend to sing; in fact, these far outnumber the musicians. They include the water birds of every kind, both swimmers and waders; all the birds of prey, eagles, hawks, owls, and vultures; and all the gallinaceous tribes, comprising pheasants, partridges, turkeys, and chickens. The gobble of the turkey cock, the defiant crow of the "bob-white," are none of them true singing; yet it is quite probable that all of these sounds are uttered with precisely similar motives to those that inspire the sweet warbling of the song-sparrow, the clear whistle of the robin, or the thrilling music of the wood-thrush.—Philadelphia Times.
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| CHICAGO COLORTYPE CO., CHIC. & NEW YORK. | HYACINTH. Life-size. | COPYRIGHT 1899, NATURE STUDY PUB. CO., CHICAGO. |
THE HYACINTH.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every hyacinth the garden wears
Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head.
—Omar Khayyam.
HYACINTH, also called Jacinth, is said to be "supreme amongst the flowers of spring." It was in cultivation before 1597, and is therefore not a new favorite. Gerard, at the above date, records the existence of six varieties. Rea, in 1676, mentions several single and double varieties as being then in English gardens, and Justice, in 1754, describes upwards of fifty single-flowered varieties, and nearly one hundred double-flowered ones, as a selection of the best from the catalogues of two then celebrated Dutch growers. One of the Dutch sorts, called La Reine de Femmes, is said to have produced from thirty-four to thirty-eight flowers in a spike, and on its first appearance to have sold for fifty guilders a bulb. Others sold for even larger sums. Justice relates that he himself raised several very valuable double-flowered kinds from seeds, which many of the sorts he describes are noted for producing freely.
It is said that the original of the cultivated hyacinth (Hyacinthus orientalis) is by comparison an insignificant plant, bearing on a spike only a few small, narrow-lobed, wash, blue flowers. So great has been the improvement effected by the florists that the modern hyacinth would hardly be recognized as the descendant of the type above referred to, the spikes being long and dense, composed of a large number of flowers; the spikes not infrequently measure six or seven inches in length and from seven to nine inches in circumference, with the flowers closely set on from bottom to top. Of late years much improvement has been effected in the size of the individual flowers and the breadth of their recurving lobes, as well as in securing increased brilliancy and depth of color. The names of hyacinths are now almost legion, and of all colors, carmine red, dark blue, lilac-pink, bluish white, indigo-blue, silvery-pink, rose, yellow, snow-white, azure-blue. The bulbs of the hyacinths are said to be as near perfection as can be; and if set early in well-prepared soil, free from all hard substances, given plenty of room, and mulched with leaves and trash, which should be removed in the spring, they will be even more beautiful than any description can indicate. When potted for winter bloom in the house, good soil, drainage, and space must be given to them and they must be kept moist and cool, as well as in the dark while forming roots preparatory to blooming. After they are ready to bloom they do best in rooms having a southern exposure, as they will need only the warmth of the sunlight to perfect them. The hyacinth does not tolerate gas and artificial heat.
There is a pretty legend connected with the hyacinth. Hyacinthus was a mythological figure associated with the hyacinthia, a festival celebrated by the Spartans in honor of Apollo of Amyclæ, whose primitive image, standing on a throne, is described by Pausanias. The legend is to the effect that Hyacinthus, a beautiful youth beloved by the god, was accidentally killed by him with a discus. From his blood sprang a dark-colored flower called after him hyacinth, on whose petals is the word "alas." The myth is one of the many popular representations of the beautiful spring vegetation slain by the hot sun of summer. The sister of Hyacinthus is Polyboca, the much-nourishing fertility of the rich Amyclæan valley; while his brother is Cynortas, the rising of the dog (the hot) star. But with the death of the spring is united the idea of its certain resuscitation in a new year. The festival took place on the three hottest days of summer, and its rites were a mixture of mourning and rejoicing.
C. C. M.
A QUARREL BETWEEN JENNY WREN AND THE FLYCATCHERS.
C. L. GRUBER,
State Normal School, Kutztown, Pa.
FOR a number of years a crested flycatcher has built his nest in a hole in an apple tree in my yard, about twenty feet from a house constructed for the habitation of the wrens. Jenny usually showed no animosity toward her neighbor; but one spring, while nest-building was in progress, she suddenly seemed to have decided that the flycatcher's abode was in too close proximity to her own domicile and deliberately invaded the flycatcher's domains and dumped the materials of his nest on the walk beneath the tree. When the flycatcher returned the air was filled with his protests, while the wren saucily and defiantly answered him from the roof of her own dwelling. The flycatcher immediately proceeded to build anew, but before he had fairly commenced, the pugnacious wren made another raid and despoiled his nest again. This happened a third time; then the flycatcher and his mate took turns in watching and building. While one went out in search of building material the other remained on guard just inside the door. The situation now became exceedingly interesting, and at times ludicrous. Jenny Wren is a born fighter, and can whip most birds twice her size, but she seemed to consider the flycatcher more than a match for her. The first few times after the flycatcher made it his business to stay on guard, the wren would fly boldly to the opening, but would flee just as precipitately on the appearance of the enemy from the inside. After each retreat there was a great deal of threatening, scolding, and parleying, and Jenny several times seemed fairly beside herself with rage, while the flycatcher coolly whistled his challenge on the other side of the line of neutrality. The wren now adopted different strategy. She flew to the tree from a point where the flycatcher could not see her, then hurried along the limb in which the flycatcher lay concealed and circled around the hole, all the time endeavoring to take a peep on the inside without herself being observed, in the vain hope that her enemy might not be at home. Suddenly there would be a flutter of wings and a brown streak through the air, followed by another as the flycatcher, shot like a bullet from the opening in the tree; but the active marauder was safely hidden amid the grapevines, and the baffled flycatcher returned to his picket line, hurling back epithets and telling Jenny that he would surely catch her next time. In this manner the strife continued for several days. Then a truce seemed to have been arranged. Certainly the flycatcher was still on guard, but the wrens went about their work and did not molest the flycatchers except at long intervals. I thought the flycatchers had conquered; but one morning when I came out, there on the walk were three broken, brown-penciled eggs, nest, snakeskin, and all. The flycatcher had put too much trust in the wren's unconcernedness, and came back to find himself once more without a nest. But Jenny seemed to have desired only one more stroke of revenge, and the flycatchers finally succeeded in raising their family in front of the home of Jenny Wren.