A jay is something more than a bird with blue feathers. October 23, 1889, it snowed violently for three hours, and the ground was white. Masses of snow, too, clung to the limp foliage that remained, and gave a curious aspect to the wooded hillsides. It was then that the jays were moved to unwonted activity, and I saw them at their best. The snow puzzled them, and, being intent upon their own affairs, they paid no heed to my proximity. “What does this mean?” was the question I fancied each asked of his comrade, and then a dozen would attempt explanation at the same time. Such a chattering! Although the air was thick with snow, it did not muffle the harsh sounds—noises as distracting as cracked sleigh-bells. A great company of these birds had been for a week in the hillside woods, sociably inclined but not intimately associated. The snow brought them together, and after an hour of vain discussion, as a compact flock, they left the woods and flew in a direct line for a cluster of cedars half a mile away. It appeared to me that some one of these birds made the suggestion that the cedars were a better protection than half-leaved oak woods, and all took up with it. At any rate, that is where the birds went and remained until the snow-squall was over. Of course, it might have been a mere coincidence, and all their chattering mere meaningless noise, and so, to the end of the chapter; but I am not disposed to view bird-life from such a stupid standpoint. It may suit the “feather-splitters,” as Burroughs aptly calls them, to look upon birds as mere conveniences for their nomenclatorial skill, but he is happy who escapes them and seeks directly of each bird he sees to know what thoughts well up from its little but lively brain. Now, I have never seen, but upon this occasion, a large number of blue jays, a dozen or more, fly in a compact flock. Here, on the home hillside, and I know nothing of them elsewhere, they wander about during the autumn in companies, but always in an independent manner, as if a very general knowledge of the company’s whereabouts was quite sufficient; but to-day such a method would have been impracticable. The air was too thick with snow, and therefore, predetermining the direction, they gathered upon the same tree, and then, when closer together than ever I saw red-winged blackbirds, off they flew. To say that this simple occurrence does not prove beyond question a wide range of mental faculties is to deny that two and two make four. Probably the unhappy growler who descants upon the all-essential importance of “the element of accuracy,” which no one denies, will find this incident contrary to the officially recorded conditions of jay life, and insist that I saw red-winged blackbirds and mistook them.
An ornithologist once wrote to me, “Some of your birds in New Jersey have strange ways,” but this is not true in the sense he intended. Birds about home are simply, here as elsewhere, wide-awake, cunning, quick to scent danger, and wise enough to suit themselves to their surroundings. This latter fact goes far to explain many a point, for it must be remembered that it is the country that decides the bird’s habits, and not that the latter are a stereotyped feature of the country. The same people may dwell among the hills and upon the sea-coast, but how different are the mountaineer and the ’long-shore man! Concerning birds, the difficulty lies in the fact that so many people, even naturalists, are too little concerned with birds’ ways, and rest content with a mere knowledge of their names. I once attended, with a prominent naturalist, an ornithological meeting. There were a score of bird-men present, and very soon they fell to egg-measuring! My companion fell asleep!
But what of the flock of blue jays?
They had not long to wait for clearing weather. Soon the sun shone brilliantly, and Nature for a brief hour wore a strange garb. Many a tree was yet green, many were brilliant with gold and crimson, and all were flecked with masses of glistening snow. It was a splendid spectacle, a swiftly fading pageant, that, like a glowing sunset, is remembered long after it has passed away. And how the lively blue jays rejoiced at the return of the sunshine! “Now for the oak woods again!” I could hear them scream, even though so far away; and sure enough, one after the other came trooping back to the same trees whereon they had sported when the snow commenced. How different now was their every movement from the time that they counseled together and took refuge in the cedar! Now, again, they are the blue jays that every country lad well knows; when I saw them but a short time ago, they were almost as strangers to me. It is something to have an outing during an October snow-storm; when the next comes, let me have blue jays again for company.
It was two weeks later when I next saw the same birds, and under widely different circumstances. November had accomplished much in the way of marring the fair face of Nature. Scarcely a leaf was left upon any tree except the oaks, and the damp mist that veils the meadows during November was never denser, gloomier, and more forbidding than on the 8th of the month. Long before sunrise I was out of doors, and not a bird greeted me until I came to the creek-bank, when out from gloomy depths came the shrill scream that of itself is hideous, but at such a time almost musical. I tried in vain to locate the sound, but could not while the fog lasted; but this mattered little. All other birds seemed depressed and moody. Not a sparrow chirped until the sun made the world a little more distinct; not even a robin, if there were any about, cared to salute such a sunrise. It was something then to have one brave heart making merry, and I shall long thank the jays for cheering a lonely traveler.
An hour later, the birds thought better of the day, and every hedge-row rang with merry music, but the pleasure of the earliest sounds I had heard was not forgotten, when their continuing screams marred the melody of red-birds and foxy finches. But why were they so persistently noisy, and so confined to one spot? My curiosity was aroused and I threaded a tangled brake to my sorrow. In a cluster of sassafras sprouts were several jays and all intent upon an object upon the ground. I hurried on, held back by green briers that were really my friends, and finally reached the spot. By mere accident I escaped a serious encounter with our most treacherous if not dangerous mammal. A skunk had caught a blue jay and scattered its feathers far and near. The victim’s companions were bemoaning its fate or berating the murderer, I know not which, nor did I pause to determine. I assumed the former as more creditable to them and so score another point in favor of these maligned birds.
What though there are violets still in the meadows, Nature is rugged now; and, among the gnarly branches of the oaks, better the shrill cry of the jay, as the north wind sweeps by, than the soothing melody of summer’s tuneful thrushes. November needs all the help that she can get to escape our malediction; and the cry of the blue jay prompts me, at least, to be charitable.
The Growth of Trees.
In the spring of 1835, a considerable number of white pines were planted about my residence. Of these fifteen are still standing, and are apparently in full vigor. My uncle, who planted these pines, states that they were of very uniform size, their trunks measuring about two and a half inches in diameter. At present the smallest of the series measures forty-three inches in circumference, four feet from the ground, and the largest seventy-nine inches. Nine of them vary from sixty-two to sixty-eight inches. The average circumference of the fifteen trees is sixty-two and a half inches.
These trees were not placed at uniform distances from each other, and some show the certain ill-effect of overcrowding. This is conspicuously the case with three of the pines, and these have suffered. Had the planting been done with greater reference to the future, and an equal chance given each tree, the average circumference would have been greater by at least three inches; the girth of the twelve largest being sixty-five inches. As it is, including the three somewhat stunted trees, the growth (circumferential measurement) has been sixty inches in fifty-four years; an annual increase of one and one ninth inches.[[1]]