CHAPTER XI
AT HOME
Only a few men, comparatively speaking, lead their lives in the wilderness; only a few others, again speaking comparatively, are able to take their holidays in the shape of hunting trips in the wilderness. But all who live in the country, or who even spend a month now and then in the country, can enjoy outdoor life themselves, and can see that their children enjoy it in the hardy fashion which will do them good. Camping out, and therefore the cultivation of the capacity to live in the open, and the education of the faculties which teach observation, resourcefulness, self-reliance, are within the reach of all who really care for the life of the woods, the fields, and the waters. Marksmanship with the rifle can be cultivated with small cost or trouble; and if any one passes much time in the country he can, if only he chooses, learn much about horsemanship.
But aside from any such benefit, it is an incalculable added pleasure to any one’s sum of happiness if he or she grows to know, even slightly and imperfectly, how to read and enjoy the wonder-book of nature. All hunters should be nature lovers. It is to be hoped that the days of mere wasteful, boastful slaughter, are past, and that from now on the hunter will stand foremost in working for the preservation and perpetuation of the wild life, whether big or little.
RENOWN
From a photograph by Arthur Hewitt
The Audubon Society and kindred organizations have done much for the proper protection of birds and of wild creatures generally; they have taken the lead in putting a stop to wanton or short-sighted destruction, and in giving effective utterance to the desires of those who wish to cultivate a spirit as far removed as possible from that which brings about such destruction. Sometimes, however, in endeavoring to impress upon a not easily aroused public the need for action, they in their zeal overstate this need. This is a very venial error compared to the good they have done; but in the interest of scientific accuracy it is to be desired that their cause should not be buttressed in such manner. Many of our birds have diminished lamentably in numbers, and there is every reason for taking steps to preserve them. There are water birds, shore birds, game birds, and an occasional conspicuous bird of some other kind, which can only be preserved by such agitation. It is also most desirable to prevent the slaughter of small birds in the neighborhood of towns. But I question very much whether there has been any diminution of small-bird life throughout the country at large. Certainly no such diminution has taken place during the past thirty years in any region of considerable size with which I am personally acquainted. Take Long Island, for instance. During this period there has been a lamentable decrease in the waders—the shore-birds—which used to flock along its southern shore. But in northern Long Island, in the neighborhood of my own home, birds, taken as a whole, are quite as plentiful as they were when I was a boy. There are one or two species which have decreased in numbers, notably the woodcock; while the passenger pigeon, which was then a rarely seen straggler, does not now appear at all. Bobwhites are less plentiful. On the other hand, some birds have certainly increased in numbers. This is true, for instance, of the conspicuously beautiful and showy scarlet tanager. I think meadow larks are rather more plentiful than they were, and wrens less so. Bluebirds have never been common with us, but are now rather more common than formerly. It seems to me as if the chickadees were more numerous than formerly. Purple grackles are more plentiful than when I was a boy, and the far more attractive redwing blackbirds less so. But these may all be, and doubtless some must be, purely local changes, which apply only to our immediate neighborhood. As regards most of the birds, it would be hard to say that there has been any change. Of course, obvious local causes will now and then account for a partial change. Thus, while the little green herons are quite as plentiful as formerly in our immediate neighborhood, the white-crowned night herons are not as plentiful, because they abandoned their big heronry on Lloyd’s Neck upon the erection of a sand-mill close by. The only ducks which are now, or at any time during the last thirty years have been, abundant in our neighborhood are the surf-ducks or scoters, and the old-squaws, sometimes known as long-tailed or sou’-sou’-southerly ducks. From late fall until early spring the continuous musical clangor of the great flocks of sou’-sou’-southerlies, sounding across the steel-gray, wintry waves, is well known to all who sail the waters of the Sound.
Neither the birds nor the flowers are as numerous on Long Island, or at any rate in my neighborhood, as they are, for instance, along the Hudson and near Washington. It is hard to say exactly why flowers and birds are at times so local in their distribution. For instance, the bobolinks hardly ever come around us at Sagamore Hill. Within a radius of three or four miles of the house I do not remember to have ever seen more than two or three couples breeding. Sharp-tailed finches are common in the marsh which lies back of our beach; but the closely allied seaside finches and the interesting and attractive little marsh wrens, both of which are common in various parts of Long Island, are not found near our home. Similarly, I know of but one place near our house where the bloodroot grows; the may-flowers are plentiful, but among hillsides to all appearance equally favored, are found on some, and not on others. For wealth of bloom, aside from the orchards, we must rely chiefly upon the great masses of laurel and the many groves of locusts. The bloom of the locust is as evanescent as it is fragrant. During the short time that the trees are in flower the whole air is heavy with the sweet scent. In the fall, in the days of the aster and the golden-rod, there is no such brilliant coloring on Long Island as farther north, for we miss from among the forest hues the flaming crimsons and scarlets of the northern maples.
HIS FIRST BUCK
Among Long Island singers the wood thrushes are the sweetest; they nest right around our house, and also in the more open woods of oak, hickory, and chestnut, where their serene, leisurely songs ring through the leafy arches all day long, but especially at daybreak and in the afternoons. Baltimore orioles, beautiful of voice and plumage, hang their nests in a young elm near a corner of the porch; robins, catbirds, valiant kingbirds, song-sparrows, chippies, bright colored thistle-finches, nest within a stone’s throw of the house, in the shrubbery or among the birches and maples; grasshopper sparrows, humble little creatures with insect-like voices, nest almost as close, in the open field, just beyond the line where the grass is kept cut; humming-birds visit the honeysuckles and trumpet-flowers; chimney swallows build in the chimneys; barn swallows nest in the stable and old barn, wrens in the bushes near by. Downy woodpeckers and many other birds make their homes in the old orchard; during the migrations it is alive with warblers. Towhees, thrashers, and Maryland yellow-throats build and sing in the hedges by the garden; bush sparrows and dainty little prairie warblers in the cedar-grown field beyond. Red-wing blackbirds haunt the wet places. Chickadees wander everywhere; the wood-pewees, red-eyed vireos, and black-and-white creepers keep to the tall timber, where the wary, thievish jays chatter, and the great-crested fly-catchers flit and scream. In the early spring, when the woods are still bare, when the hen-hawks cry as they soar high in the upper air, and the flickers call and drum on the dead trees, the strong, plaintive note of the meadow lark is one of the most noticeable and most attractive sounds. On the other hand, the cooing of the mourning doves is most noticeable in the still, hot summer days. In the thick tangles chats creep and flutter and jerk, and chuckle and whoop as they sing; I have heard them sing by night. The cedar birds offer the most absolute contrast to the chats, in voice, manner, and habits. They never hide, they are never fussy or noisy; they always behave as if they were so well-bred that it is impossible to resent the inroads the soft, quiet, pretty creatures make among the cherries. One flicker became possessed of a mania to dig its hole in one corner of the house, just under the roof. It hammered lustily at boards and shingles, and returned whenever driven away; until at last we were reluctantly forced to decree its death. Oven-birds are very plentiful, and it seems to me that their flight song is more frequently given after dusk than in daylight. It is sometimes given when the whippoorwills are calling. In late June evenings, especially by moonlight, but occasionally even when the night is dark, we hear this song from the foot of the hill where the woods begin. There seems to be one particular corner where year after year one or more oven-birds dwell which possess an especial fondness for this night-singing in the air. It is a pity the little eared owl is called screech-owl. Its tremulous, quavering cry is not a screech at all, and has an attraction of its own. These little owls come up to the house after dark, and are fond of sitting on the elk antlers over the gable. When the moon is up, by choosing one’s position, the little owl appears in sharp outline against the bright disk, seated on his many-tined perch.