It was the old story. I was seeing too much. Had I not kept in the background, the day would have teemed with adventure, but I should have been less of a hermit. It was hard to single out some one small bird among a hundred. I turned from white-throats to kinglets, from woodpeckers in the trees to chewinks on the ground, but everywhere there was no end of bustle, if not confusion. Silent woods, indeed! No city could have shown a busier thoroughfare than the interlocking branches of the trees. The Stock Exchange was never noisier than when a crowd of grakles came rushing from the outer world and settled in a little cluster of white pines. Here seemed the opportunity of a lifetime, yet I was puzzled to know what to do. To merely catalogue the species as they came in view would have been absurd; to say that a flock of this or that species was feeding in the tree tops is equally uncalled for. Would there never come some startling incident? It came that moment. A swift-winged hawk dashed through the trees. I fancied I felt the fanning of his wings upon my face. But, better than all, I saw something of the swifter tactics of threatened birds. Their darting earthward was simply, marvelous; their clinging to the under side of branches was wonderful; but, above all, the instantaneous recognition of danger and promptness to find a safe shelter struck me. After all, the sense of danger was ever present with these happy-go-lucky birds. Unless there was such a sense controlling them their movements could not have been so efficacious and so wholly free from confusion. Here is no loose interpretation that profound critics love to dwell upon. One has but to see a host of birds, and if of several species so much the better, to recognize how busily their brains keep working that the dangers really ever in attendance shall not rob them of all comfort.
Never shall I forget one tiny kinglet that squatted upon the blanket at my feet. Its wings were outspread, and, looking directly up, it seemed in utter despair; but the shadow passed as quickly as it came, and when I innocently stooped to pick up and soothe the kinglet, it was too much itself again, and sped away as cheerily as though nothing had happened.
“What next?” I asked after a moment’s quiet; for the kaleidoscopic effect of ever-shifting flocks of busy birds soon became monotonous. I longed for hawks at the rate of one every ten minutes at least; so firmly fixed is one’s desire for adventure. But the hawks came not. Instead, that matchless songster of sweet summer days appeared, and made the woods ring with his sharp metallic “click.” How I longed for his May-day melodies! But no, he chirped and teazed; and then, as if ashamed, warbled a few faultless notes, and away he sped. The whole host of finches caught the magic of that song, and every white throat whistled at his best. Up from the woods rose a swelling volume of sweet sound that should have bid murder pause. It only brought destruction upon their heads again. A rush of wings, a dark streak across the sky, and every bird was silent. But their plans varied in this. When the danger had passed they seemed of one accord too insecure at this spot, and left me to my meditations. Here again was a noticeable feature of bird life. Either each group had its leader, or every individual was at the same moment impelled by a like thought to seek safety, and all in one direction. This is improbable, and certainly the fact of like species flocking indicates that they find good in association and have means of communication, for, without some sort of language, flocking would be a source of danger. This has been shown, however, time and again. Birds have language and an abundance of forethought, and so are better worth study than some would have us believe.
The woods were now, for the first time, really silent. I listened for several minutes, but could detect no sound, and was delighted at last when the wind sprang up and rustled the dead leaves. Then a faint chirp was heard, and a chickadee came within arm’s reach. Its busy search for food reminded me that I had brought food with me, and I sat down to eat. Tossing the crumbs before me, they were scrutinized by the little bird, but not closely, and I was myself more the object of its curiosity. How I longed for it to perch upon me! But it would not, and my opportunity for a pretty story was lost. Birds do not like solitude. Where there is one chickadee, rest assured another is not far off; and soon there were two before me. And now I would that some critical know-all would tell us the meaning of such an action as this: these chickadees came together; they faced each other, twittered faintly in each other’s ears, then looked directly toward me; then came nearer, and, alighting on a branch not three feet from my head, looked down at me, twittering all the while. Would they have done this had I been a stump? Were they not discussing me? He who says they were not may be a “thorough naturalist,” but he is something besides—no matter what.
And the chickadees passed by.
But the woods proved not an aviary only. I have spoken of squirrels. There were rabbits, mice, and a stray mink, also, there, and what host of hidden creatures, furred and feathered, we shall never know. The heyday of the wood’s wild life, however, was well-nigh over. It was past noon, and rest was the order of the hour. What creatures I saw moved with great leisure, as if annoyed that they had to move at all. The mink crept along a prostrate log as though stiff in every joint, but when at the end of his short journey I whistled shrilly, with what animation it stood erect and stared in the direction of the sound! How evident that this feature of the sense of direction is well developed! Half concealed as I was, the mink saw nothing to rouse its suspicions; it was merely curious or puzzled; it was thinking. Here was an occurrence beyond the range of its experience. What did it mean? The mink did not move a muscle, but stared at me. Then I commenced whistling in a low tone, and the animal became more excited; it moved its head from side to side, as if in doubt, and needed but a slight demonstration upon my part to convert this doubting into fear. I whistled more loudly, and moved my arms. In an instant the mink disappeared. There was not in this case a single act upon the part of the animal that differed from a timid and at the same time inquisitive child, and however much others may demur, I consider the mental activity the same in each.
Long before sunset the sky became clouded, the shadows in the wood were deepened, and wild life was better heard than seen. Then the resounding rain-drops striking the crisp leaves dulled all other sounds, and bade me seek refuge. I had not long to search, and, without hesitation, pushed through a jagged opening into a huge hollow maple. It is seldom that such convenient shelters are unoccupied; certainly this one was not.
Spiders in that hollow tree,
How they came and glared at me!
On trembling bridges overhead