Outings at Odd Times

by Charles C. Abbott

It is the unexpected that happens—a remark, by the way, that dates B. C.—when the rambler has no particular quest in mind. I had almost forgotten that birds were in existence, when a large one ran along the pebbly beach, not more than a rod before me. It was a king-rail. With the thoughtlessness characteristic of a half fool, I hurled a stone after it, with the usual result of frightening it and so losing a golden opportunity to observe a rather rare bird at a most unusual season. Why will people be such ninnies? If a companion had been with me and attempted this, I would have prevented him; yet, nine times in ten, I give way to the unfortunate impulse to capture, if not destroy, the rarer creatures I meet. Had I been born without arms, I would by this time have become a naturalist. This tendency is due, without doubt, to our non-human ancestry, but will we never outgrow it?

The king-rail is a noble bird, and a few haunt the marshes all summer long, nesting where the tall grass is too rank and tangled even to tempt a restless cow. Perhaps they have in mind the danger of meddlesome mankind, and dwell in such spots accordingly. Taking the whole range of bird life into consideration, it certainly would appear that birds give a good deal of attention to such matters. And, before leaving the subject, I will add that, to be intelligible in discussing birds’ ways, one must assume that they have minds akin to ours; and this leads to the suspicion on the part of some, and conviction in my own case, that the birds’ mind and that of man are too closely akin to warrant much distinction.

Birds, then, as usual, trooped to the fore as I rambled down the river. I saw nothing else, yet not a bird was in view. The old histories came to mind, and closed my eyes to other than an inner vision. “Greate stores of swannes, geese, and ducks, and huge cranes, both blue and white.” Is it not exasperating to think of the change wrought in two centuries? A mile-wide river, and banks of old-time wildness still remaining, yet not a feather rests upon the one or shadow of a walking bird falls upon the other. Far and near, up and down, and high overhead I scan the country for a glimpse of some one bird, but in vain. The crows nowadays have the river to themselves, and none of these were about to-day.

The day has been a marked one for its emptiness. Tracing the river’s shore for miles ought to yield rich results, but here, at my journey’s end, I am empty-handed. What little I have seen has but soured my temper. It is most unwise to be ever mourning over the unrecoverable past, but how can one avoid it? Such a walk, productive of nothing worth recording, may not, I hope, be in vain. It at least provokes me to say, Can not wild life, or what little remains of it, be effectually protected? Can not swans, geese, and ducks be induced to return? They can never prove an obstruction to navigation, so why should legislation on this point be, as at present, a mere farce? The day will never come, perhaps, when people who prefer a living to a dead bird will be acknowledged as having a claim to the wild life that would appear to be no man’s peculiar property. By an overwhelming majority, mankind hold, if a creature is good to eat, it must be killed. But the insignificant minority still feel they have a claim. I would walk twenty miles to see a wild swan on the Delaware; my neighbor would walk forty if sure of shooting it.

Water birds are safe on the Back Bay in Boston, and seem to know it. I have watched them with delight, morning after morning, while dressing; but here, miles from town, you may pass a week and see no trace of even a duck. A few come and go, but there are men with guns lying in wait, both day and night. Time was when there were wild fowl and to spare—not so now; and the day is quickly coming when geese even will rank with the great auk and the dodo.

It is probably not difficult to prove that a return ramble is less suggestive, even if more objects cross our path than when we were outward bound. At the close of a long day, we are, without suspecting it, brain-weary, as well as physically tired. What interested us in the morning falls flat in the evening; the mingled voices of many birds roused enthusiasm at sunrise, and proved irritating at sunset. It was so to-day. My one thought was to reach home, but not without lazily thinking, as I retraced my steps. I discussed with myself, as often before, that important question—how to see. Then, again, I have often been asked the same question by various people. On one occasion, I replied, “With your wits as well as your eyes.” But this does not cover the ground. After all, how is a person to recognize a thrush from a sparrow among birds, or a perch from a minnow among fishes? When the question was last put, I found that I had but one course to pursue—to admit that I could not tell. The occurrence was somewhat mortifying, and I have, time and time again since then, endeavored to discuss, upon paper, this very interesting subject.

The result, to date, is flat failure; but a history of nugatory effort may prove of some value. Can it be done? Is there a secret, through knowledge of which a young person or an inexperienced adult can be taught to intelligently observe and correctly interpret the course of nature? Are not those, in truth, who do see to advantage, and quickly comprehend the purport of what they see, born with a faculty that can not be acquired through any course of training? I believe this to be true.

But, on the other hand, there are those who, though less favored, have their interest aroused whenever out of doors; and these are spurred to the acquisition of knowledge, however toilsome, because of the demands of that interest. Such find the pursuit of natural knowledge far from easy, but are compensated by the fact that “the play is worth the candle.” With due modesty, I speak now from experience.

“How am I to know,” asked my friend, “that the bird I see or hear is what it is?” I, for one, can not solve the problem. Certainly, even if our language was adequate to describe the appearance, voice, and habits of a bird, for instance, so accurately that it would instantly be recognized, it is not to be expected that any one, save a professional naturalist, will know our ornithology by heart; and even he falls very short of that. In hopes of simplifying the matter, I have been endeavoring to recall my own experiences; not that I am a trained observer, but because I can not remember when I did not know the more common objects of wild life that I met with. This knowledge—a life-long source of pleasure—was acquired at an early age, probably because I had a naturalist-mother, who correctly explained the little mysteries that perplexed me, and, above all, taught me to be considerate toward and respect the rights of every living creature. So it happened that I came to love even every creeping thing; and with love came knowledge. But the names of things! Until he knew its name, Thoreau looked upon a flower, however beautiful, as a stranger, and held aloof. Certainly one feels a great lift in his pursuit of knowledge as soon as he learns the name of an object; and until then, however interesting that object may be, it baffles him. Let the observer, if an adult, remember, and the child be assured, that every creature has a name, and that it can sooner or later be determined; and now what remains is to so closely examine it that, when opportunity affords to describe it to a specialist, or a description is found in a book, the creature will at once be recognized.

Years before I had access to Audubon’s or Wilson’s American Ornithology, I was delighted, one summer day, with a large bird that played bo-peep with me in the orchard. I watched it carefully, studied to repeat its cries, and then attempted to describe it. The bird was pronounced a creation of my imagination, and my labors rewarded with a lecture on romancing; but long afterward I recognized the bird in a museum, and found that I had seen a rare straggler from the Southern States. But nothing of all this bears much, if any, upon my friend’s question, and no definite conclusion has, perhaps, been reached; so I put myself in my friend’s place, and ask, Will some one give me the information required? The more the question, as originally put, is conned over, the more it is like unto asking, How do we learn to talk? Let there be a desire for knowledge, and the problem will solve itself. And as to natural history, the earnest observer will invent names for objects, which will serve his purpose until he learns those, as in time he will, by which they have been recognized by others and are in common use. He who does this will have taken the first and most important step, and all that follows will be pleasure rather than toil.