CHAPTER XV.
Venison Styles again.—Sermon on Nature.—Funeral Songs of the Birds.—Their Flight and Return.—His Theory of Government.—Sakoset.—The Indians.
Venison Styles, rough and rugged as he was, had acquired much knowledge in a wild way, and could, in that way, stagger a philosopher. No man had a nicer insight into nature. Birds and brooks, hills and valleys, trees and flowers, were all his study. He had no faith in science, except just so far as it came within his own experience. "Book larnin'," he said, "was all very well; but lookin' natur' in the face, and listening to what she said, was a deal better." I remember one of his sermons, which he delivered to me one bright October afternoon, when the woods were all russet and gold, the squirrels chattering in the trees, the nuts dropping, the partridges whirring and drumming, and the soft autumnal light was faintly struggling along the aisles of the forest. "You see," said Venison, "how all natur' is talkin', and if you will only listen, can tell enymost what she says. There," he continued, "just hear that robin pecking away on that ere coke bush. Hear him pipe away so melancholy-like—'All goin'! all goin'!' he says. How low and fine that yaller-bird sings—a kinder fun'ral song. The jay is sad-like, and acts just as though he felt winter comin'. That crow, sailin' through the air, croaks awful gloomy-like and holler—and all these ere crickets and insects jine in so sad and downcast. 'Tain't their spring song. They are down onter another key now. They begin to feel frost inter their bones. They know what's comin'."
"Know!" said I; "what do birds know about winter, till it comes." I wanted to draw the old philosopher out.
"Know! know!" continued Venison. "Birds think and talk—yes, they do—they know. I've heerd 'em talk to one another, from tree-top to tree-top, across these woods many a time—lay plans many a day. What makes 'em flockin' around us to-day, and soarin' around in companies, if they don't understand each other? They go round and round for a week or two, visit this wood and that, jabber, and fret, and fume, pick up a straggler here, 'nother there, and when they get a good ready, and are flock'd, off they go, travellin' south. Hain't they got col'nels, captins, and laws?—they are jest as much of a body as our school de-strict is, and every bird knows what he is about, what he is going to do, and how, too."
"Why don't all the blackbirds go into one flock, Venison?" said I.
"There 'tis! there 'tis!" replied Venison; "if 'twas all chance, they would. But it jest ain't chance. Natur' has 'lowed them to fix it. There," he continued, "goes a flock now—they've got a captin among 'em, leading 'em on—he knows every one under him—and they are jest around visitin' their friends before goin' off—that's all."
"Do you think they will come back again, Venison?" I inquired.
"Back again! back again!" he exclaimed, looking up to me with surprise. "Why, man, this is their home—they were born 'here. This is their ground, hereabouts. They know every tree, and mash, and river for miles 'round. You'll hear 'em chatterin' and gabblin' by next April 'gain."