Outings at Odd Times

by Charles C. Abbott

About what time the summer birds have arrived, and golden-club blooms in the tide-water creeks, gilding the mud-flats that have so long been bare, the turtles, or three at least of our eight aquatic species, begin “sunning” themselves, as it is usually said, but they continue the practice through rainy and cloudy days. Every projecting stump, stranded fence-rail or bit of lumber capable of bearing any weight is sure to be the resting-place of one, and if there is room, of a dozen turtles. I once counted seventeen on a fence-rail, and thirty-nine on a raft-log that the freshets had stranded on the meadows. Why, at such a time, should these creatures be so timid? They certainly have no enemies about here, and their horny shields would effectually protect them if fishing mammals like the mink and otter should acquire aldermanic tastes; and yet, so far as I can determine by experimentation, there is scarcely an animal more timid than the painted or spotted water-turtle. Fear, with nothing to be afraid of, is a contradiction, and I am led to suggest that the timidity is hereditary. Something over two centuries ago the Delaware Indians hunted and fished these meadows without ceasing; and there can still be gathered the bones of such animals as they ate from the ashes of their camp-fires. Turtle-bones almost equal in number those of our larger fishes. Have we a clew here to the mystery? Do the turtles of to-day inherit a fear of man? This may seem an absurdity, or verging toward it, but it is not. A critic at my elbow—a plague upon their race!—reminds me that I once commented upon the tameness of the turtles at Lake Hopatcong, in northern New Jersey, and adds, aggravatingly, that that region was a favorite resort of the Indians. If this stricture holds, then I can suggest for the Delaware Valley turtles that it is a fear, born with each generation, of the railway cars that hourly rumble over an elastic road-bed, and cause the whole meadows to tremble. Terror may seize the turtles when they feel their world shake beneath them, and this disturbance they may attribute to man’s presence. This is not so rational, and I do know that turtles distinguish between men and domestic animals. They are not afraid of cows; of this I have abundant proof, although I do not accept as true the remark of Miles Overfield: “Afeard o’ cattle? Not much. Why, I’ve seen tortles line a cow’s back, when she stood flank-deep in the water.”

I had noticed that the narrow, tube-like channel of the obliterated ditch grew less defined as I dug in one direction, so I paced off a rod in advance and made a cross-section. Here it could not be traced, but a half-dozen very small openings, circular in outline, could be seen, and through some of these the water slowly trickled. I found a single mole-cricket, and attribute to it and others of its kind these little tunnels. Certainly more persistent burrowers do not exist, and I have known them to cause mischief to a mill-dam which was attributed to musk-rats. “They are,” says Prof. Riley, “the true moles of the insect world, and make tortuous galleries, destroying everything that comes in their way, cutting through roots, and eating the fine underground twigs, as well as the worms and grubs, which they meet with during their burrowings.”

A volume would not suffice to enumerate the invertebrate or insect-like life that lived in this dark passage-way beneath the sod; nor do we wonder at finding such low forms groping in utter darkness; but why higher animals that are found, and far more frequently, in the open air and sunlit waters should delight to crowd these same gloomy quarters, is a problem not so easily solved. We are left to conjecture, and invariably do so, and are often overwhelmed when an army of objections confront our theories. Notwithstanding this, there is a pleasure in reopening an obliterated ditch, in letting in the light upon a hidden highway, for by so doing we also let in light upon ourselves, seeing with clearer vision the wonderful world about us.

Weathercocks.

During a six-mile drive, recently, I passed by eleven barns, upon nine of which were weathercocks. No two, I am positive, pointed in the same direction, and only one was very near to being right. Such, at least, was the conclusion, testing them by the compass, the movement of the clouds, and the wetted fingers which my companion and myself held up. Alas! I and my friend were at odds so far as the last test was concerned. It is little wonder that weather-prophets are so apt to be at loggerheads, if the direction of the wind admits of discussion. Could the various shapes of these weathercocks have had to do with the matter, assuming that the nine we saw were in working order? If so, what is a reliable pattern? I remember a remarkable wooden Indian with one foot raised as if the fellow was hopping, and with an impossible bow so held as to indicate that an arrow was about to be discharged. This wooden man obediently twirled to and fro in every passing breeze; but you were left in a quandary as to whether the wind’s direction was indicated by the uplifted foot or by the bow and arrow; for they pointed in opposite directions. “That is the merit of the vane,” once said the owner of the barn over which this “shapeless sculpture” towered; “you can use your own judgment.” Of the weathercocks seen on our ride there were one deer, two fishes, three arrows, a wild goose, and two gilded horses at full gallop. Only the wild goose told the truth, or almost told it. Now, as each farmer judges the weather of the day by the direction of the wind, think of bringing the owners of these nine differing weathercocks together! Each puts implicit faith in his own vane, and we all know what subject is first broached when two or twenty men are gathered together. Something like this would be the classification of the unhappy nine: Two positive clear-weather folk, two hopefully ditto, and five that predicted rain before night. Put it in another way: Four men would think, if they did not call, five men fools; and, all being equally obstinate, there would be the same division whatever was discussed. So, at least, the world wags in one section of our country.

There is much more stress laid upon the direction of the wind, in this matter of the weather, than is warranted by the facts. Those deadly statistics, that are gall and wormwood to the weather-wise, prove this. Even a northeast wind may blow for three days without one drop of rain. When this happens, we hear of a “dry storm”—curious name for bright, clear days, perhaps with a cloudless sky, that, by virtue of the cool breeze, from the east, are well-nigh perfect. Or we are told that the moon held back the water and the next storm will be doubly wet. Ay! even that Jupiter or Mars had a finger in the pie and disturbed the proper order of wind and rain. It is painful to think that so many thousands still believe that not only ourselves, but even the poor weather, is under the domination of the moon and stars. How little the planets must have to do, to trouble themselves about our little globe! “I don’t like to see that star so shiny,” a wiseacre recently remarked, pointing to Venus; “it’s a bad sign”; but of what, the simpleton could not or would not tell. And as to comets, or even meteors, if they are more numerous than usual, they make hundreds miserable. The truth is, that the valuable treatises upon weather, the outcome of patient study and scientific method, still go a-begging, while the crudities of weather-cranks find ready credence. And the day is still distant, I believe, when it will be otherwise.

What can not be said of weathercocks as symbols of disappointment? To how many a country-bred boy has fallen the unhappy lot of being storm-bound when a fishing frolic has been planned! My initial grief was that an April day proved stormy that should have been clear as crystal. The time, the tide, the moon, all the essential and unessential requirements of shad-fishing in Crosswicks Creek, were favorable, and to-morrow, Saturday, I was to be one of the party. A mere onlooker, to be sure, but what mattered that? I had heard of shad-fishing all winter long, and now, being seven years old, was allowed to be one of the party. O tedious Friday! Would school never be dismissed? O endless Friday night! Had the sun forgotten to rise? And all Saturday it rained! That horrid wooden Indian, of which we have heard, fairly grinned with fiendish delight as it faced the leaden east and received the driving rain with open arms. It never moved an inch from dawn to sunset. Yes, once it moved. During a lull I slipped out-of-doors, and bribed an older lad to stone the obstinate vane. One sharp pebble mutilated the head-dress and sent the Indian spinning about, regardless of wind or weather; but when at rest again the face was looking eastward. O pestiferous weathercocks that point to the east on Saturday!

Why vanes should have been so generally shaped like a crowing chanticleer as to give rise to the more common name of “weathercocks” is not easily determined. Of a few explanations seen or heard, none had a modicum of common sense. When and where, too, the first vane was set up, whether cock or arrow, is an unsolvable problem. Possibly it is necessary to grope backward into prehistoric times; although Rütimeyer does not give the common fowl as one of the birds found in the débris beneath the ancient lake-dwellings of Switzerland. It may be added, too, that chickens are not weather prophets, as are geese and peacocks; notwithstanding they figure somewhat conspicuously in all animal weather-lore, and have done so since 250 B. C., if not earlier. Aratus, in his Diosemeia, or Prognostics, for instance, claims that a cock, when unusually restless or noisy, foretells a coming storm, and this nonsense is believed to-day by a fair proportion of our rural population. Of course, modifications of this are well-nigh innumerable, and one of them, when a small boy, I found useful. If a cock came to the open kitchen door, company was coming—such was the firm conviction of a trio of aunts who ruled the household. Now, company-coming meant pie or pudding, and to a small boy this means a great deal. Acting upon it, the crowing of a cock was faithfully practiced in the woods, and then, while my brother singled out a rooster and drove it to the door, I crowed lustily from behind the lilac-bushes; and the ruse brought pie and pudding more than once, but not too often to weaken these credulous women’s faith.

I have mentioned a dry storm with the wind due east. There was one such at the close of the first week in April, 1889. The air was exasperatingly chilly. Even the frogs in the marshes were silent, and humanity was ill-natured and despondent. While standing on the lee side of an old oak I chanced upon a glorious weathercock—one that would shame the despairing thoughts of any reasonable man. That prince of winter birds, a crested tit, sat long upon a leafless twig facing the cruel east wind, sat there and sang, clinging, as for dear life, to the swaying branch, T’sweet here! T’sweet here! the burden of its song; the ever-hopeful story of this incomparable bird. What if the east wind did blow? Was there not, here and there, a trembling violet in the woods; a filmy veil of white where the whitlow grasses bloomed; a flashing of the maple’s ruddy fire where the fitful sunshine fell? All these gave promise to the brave-hearted bird, of spring as coming, if not quite here. Let me take the hint. Give me just such a weathercock for each day of the year.

Apple-Blossoms.