Our descent was rapid and amusing. We plunged downward from tree to tree with long strides and slides, sometimes falling, often coasting faster and farther than we wished. Three more flocks of crossbills, many dozens of siskins, and a scattering of nuthatches gladdened us as we pushed down the slopes. A hawk, too, came quite near to us, soaring at last so as to clear the mountain’s crest. He was rather small, and very quick and jerky in his wing motions. He circled from left to right in small curves.
MOUNT CHOCORUA AND THE LAKE IN WINTER
While walking home on the railway we were fortunate enough to call to us a small flock of pine grosbeaks, five or six only, and having no red birds in their number so far as I could see. Red squirrels were ubiquitous. I think we saw, or heard the chattering of, at least twenty during the day. I have been told so often that chipmunks keep closely housed in winter that when one squealed at me from his hole near the track I did not trust either my own ears or those of my friend. Seeing is believing, however, and a dozen or two rods farther on another chipmunk stayed on his log long enough for us to count his stripes and wish him a merry Christmas.
We reached home at about half past four, just as the western sky was filled with rosy light by a sun already set. Venus, close to the dark rim of Passaconaway, and Jupiter, in the higher sky, summoned the stars to their posts, and encouraged us to beg for supper.
IN THE PAUGUS WOODS.
Just opposite our house, which stood on the north side of the road, facing south towards Paugus, was a black forest of spruces. Into this we plunged on Tuesday morning, not knowing what might lie within. The silence of the gloom was broken by the sound of falling bits of ice and drops of melting snow. Bird notes, too, could be heard, and now and then a red squirrel chattered. The trunks of the trees stood closely together, and thousands of small dead branches radiated from the trunks and interlaced, opposing our progress. The crashing of these twigs as we broke through them, accompanied by the crunching of the snow-crust under our feet, noisily announced our coming. At intervals we found masses of fallen timber, the wreck of fierce storms, and brooks covered with thin ice and misleading snow, through which we slumped into cold water beneath. Every few paces rabbit tracks dotted the soft film of snow which lay upon the crust. If the tracks which we crossed during our three or four mile walk could have been measured in all their meanderings, I think the aggregate of miles traversed by the rabbits of that locality would have been found to rival the railway mileage of New Hampshire. From time to time we stopped to call birds to us by the aid of my whistles. I think I called eight or nine times, and in each instance birds appeared promptly. Usually pine finches came first, whirling through the upper air like burnt paper driven by the wind. As they passed over us, they would catch the sound of the whistles more distinctly and begin a series of undulatory circles. Then one or two would drop straight down into a leafless tree, or upon the tips of the spruces, and the rest would follow them, sometimes twenty going into one tree. Their sweet queryings filled the air, and drew other birds to the focus of sound, among others a number of purple finches and a white-bellied nuthatch. Kinglets came very near to us when we were well hidden; so near that the brilliant color on their dainty heads could be seen with perfect distinctness. There were more chickadees in these woods than in the other places we had visited, and I examined them all with great care, hoping to find a Hudson Bay titmouse. Two flocks of the common species came, and produced no northern birds, but at a third rally of nuthatches, finches, and kinglets, a strange voice made itself heard. I knew it for something different from a chickadee at once, and yet it was titmouse language. Squeaking vigorously, I called the stranger down to me. At first I thought it was a chickadee; then he sputtered out his “dee-dee” and showed his brownish head and great chestnut patch on his flank, and I knew he was from Hudson Bay. Three others joined him and gave me ample chance to inspect their points. I had the feeling that they had less character and spirit than our blackcap titmouse. Their voices were weaker and more petulant and their general appearance less positive and aggressive.
Once I caught a glimpse of a big white hare bounding away from us through a jungle of young spruces. He was so nearly the color of the snow that my eyes found it difficult to follow him.
After going rather more than two miles through the spruce tangle, we entered an old logging road much used by rabbits, foxes, and grouse, and, following it northward, we made our way home.
About 3.30 P. M. the baying of a hound attracted our notice, and I walked up the road to see what he was doing. He soon appeared at the edge of the spruce woods, and I followed him into their dark shades. After a moment’s hesitation he took the back track and was soon almost out of earshot on a hot scent. Not long after, my friend left the house and, crossing Swift River by the railway bridge, followed the rails northward through the forest. Soon he heard the hound baying to the eastward, down river. Then a snapping of branches and crunching of crust came to his ears, and a moment later a deer broke through the bushes, dashed up the embankment, and, turning at right angles, came in weary leaps towards him. My friend stood perfectly still, too much astonished to move. The deer came to within twelve paces of him, then saw him, and with a bound left the track and plunged into the woods on the western side. A few moments later the hunters came up and my friend demanded what they were doing, and whether the hound was their dog, in so severe a tone that the poachers denied their interest in the dog and made off into the woods. Meanwhile, I wandered southward through the spruces, now hearing the hound, now losing his melancholy baying. No small birds were to be seen or heard. They had vanished to their night abiding-places. Two grouse rose noisily and went into the tops of the trees. Red squirrels continued to bustle about until after dusk. As light faded in the sky, the forest grew very dark, and fallen trees, stumps, and bushes rearranged themselves into weird shapes which seemed to move against the vague background of the snow. The silence of the cold black and white woods became oppressive, and the chill of night increased moment by moment. The baying of the hound, lost to the eastward, had come again from the north, and finally moved over towards the west. It was after five o’clock, and the dog had followed his chase since eleven. Standing still, listening to the hound, and peering into the trees in search of the grouse, I began to grow drowsy, and to long to sink down upon the soft snow and go to sleep. It required a strong effort of will to rouse myself and to start my benumbed feet upon their homeward way. As soon as I moved, the grouse, which had been budding in a high maple, flew away deeper into the gloom, and then utter silence settled down upon the deserted forest.