There is ample room for more complete life histories of many small beasts that are common enough around our country homes; and fortunately the need is now being met by various good field naturalists. Just last summer, in mid-July, 1907, I had an entirely novel experience with foxes, which illustrates how bold naturally shy creatures sometimes are after nightfall. Some of the boys and I were camping for the night on the beach by the Sound, under a clay bluff, having gone thither in the dory and the two light rowing skiffs; it was about a quarter of a mile from the place where we had seen the big red fox four or five years previously. The fire burned all night, and one or other of the party would now and then rise and stand by it; nevertheless, two young foxes, evidently cubs of the year, came round the fire, within plain sight, half a dozen times. They were picking up scraps; two or three times they came within ten yards of the fire. They were very active, scampering up the bluffs; and when in the bushes made a good deal of noise, whereas a full-grown fox generally moves in silence even when in dead brush.
Small mammals, with the exception of squirrels, are so much less conspicuous than birds, and indeed usually pass their lives in such seclusion, that the ordinary observer is hardly aware of their presence. At Sagamore Hill, for instance, except at haying time I rarely see the swarming meadow mice, the much less plentiful pine mice, or the little mole-shrews, alive, unless they happen to drop into a pit or sunken area which has been dug at one point to let light through a window into the cellar. The much more graceful and attractive white-footed mice and jumping mice are almost as rarely seen, though if one does come across a jumping mouse it at once attracts attention by its extraordinary leaps. The jumping mouse hibernates, like the woodchuck; and so does the chipmunk, though not always. The other little animals just mentioned are abroad all winter, the meadow mice under the snow, the white-footed mice, and often the shrews, above the snow. The tell-tale snow, showing all the tracks, betrays the hitherto unsuspected existence of many little creatures; and the commonest marks upon it are those of the rabbit and especially of the white-footed mouse. The shrew walks or trots and makes alternate footsteps in the snow. White-foot, on the contrary, always jumps, whether going slow or fast, and his hind feet leave their prints side by side, often with the mark where the tail has dragged. I think white-foot is the most plentiful of all our furred wild creatures, taken as a whole. He climbs trees well; I have found his nest in an old vireo’s nest; but more often under stumps or boards. The meadow mice often live in the marshes, and are entirely at home in the water.
The shrew-mouse which I most often find is a short-tailed, rather thickset little creature, not wholly unlike his cousin the shrew-mole, and just as greedy and ferocious. When a boy I captured one of these mole-shrews and found to my astonishment that he was a bloodthirsty and formidable little beast of prey. He speedily killed and ate a partially grown white-footed mouse which I put in the same cage with him. (I think a full-grown mouse of this kind would be an overmatch for a shrew.) I then put a small snake in with him. The shrew was very active but seemed nearly blind, and as he ran to and fro he never seemed to be aware of the presence of anything living until he was close to it, when he would instantly spring on it like a tiger. On this occasion he attacked the little snake with great ferocity, and after an animated struggle in which the snake whipped and rolled all around the cage, throwing the shrew to and fro a dozen times, the latter killed and ate the snake in triumph. Larger snakes frequently eat shrews, by the way.
Once last summer, while several of us were playing on the tennis ground, a mole-shrew suddenly came out on the court. I first saw him near one of the side lines, and ran after him; I picked him up in my naked hand, whereupon he bit me, and I then took him in my handkerchief. After we had all looked at him I put him down, and he scuttled off among the grass and went down a little hole. We resumed our game, but after a few minutes the shrew reappeared, and this time crossed the tennis court near the net, while we gathered about him. He was an absurd little creature and his motion in running was precisely like that of one of those mechanical toys in the shape of mice or little bears which are wound up and run around on wheels. When we put our rackets before him he uttered little, shrill, long-continued squeals of irritation. We let him go off in the grass, and this time he did not reappear for the day; but next afternoon he repeated the feat.
My boys have at intervals displayed a liking for natural history, and one of them during some years took to trapping small mammals, discovering species that I had no idea existed in certain places; near Washington, but on the other side of the Potomac, he trapped several of those very dainty little creatures, the harvest mice.[[7]] One of my other boys—the special friend of Josiah the badger—discovered a flying-squirrel’s nest, in connection with which a rather curious incident occurred. The little boy had climbed a tree which is hollow at the top; and in this hollow he discovered a flying-squirrel mother with six young ones. She seemed so tame and friendly that the little boy for a moment hardly realized that she was a wild thing, and called down that he had “found a guinea pig up the tree.” Finally, the mother made up her mind to remove her family. She took each one in turn in her mouth and flew or sailed down from the top of the tree to the foot of another tree near by; ran up this, holding the little squirrel in her mouth; and again sailed down to the foot of another tree some distance off. Here she deposited her young one on the grass, and then, reversing the process, climbed and sailed back to the tree where the nest was; then she took out another young one and returned with it, in exactly the same fashion as with the first. She repeated this until all six of the young ones were laid on the bank, side by side in a row, all with their heads the same way. Finding that she was not molested she ultimately took all six of the little fellows back to her nest, where she reared her brood undisturbed.
[7]. A visit of this same small boy, when eleven years old, to John Burroughs, is described by the latter in “Far and Near,” in the chapter called “Babes in the Woods.”
Flying squirrels become very gentle and attractive little pets if taken into the house. I cannot say as much for gray squirrels. Once when a small boy I climbed up to a large nest of dry leaves in the fork of a big chestnut tree, and from it picked out three very young squirrels. One died, but the other two I succeeded in rearing on a milk diet, which at first I was obliged to administer with a syringe. They grew up absolutely tame and would climb all over the various members of the household; but as they grew older they grew cross. If we children did something they did not like they would not only scold us vigorously, but, if they thought the provocation warranted it, would bite severely; and we finally exiled them to the woods. Gray squirrels, I am sorry to say, rob nests just as red squirrels do. At Sagamore Hill I have more than once been attracted by the alarm notes of various birds, and on investigation have found the winged woodland people in great agitation over a gray squirrel’s assault on the eggs or young of a thrush or vireo; and once one of these good-looking marauders came up the hill to harry a robin’s nest near the house. Many years ago I had an extraordinary experience with a gray squirrel. I was in the edge of some woods, and, seeing a squirrel, I stood motionless. The squirrel came to me and actually climbed up me; I made no movement until it began to nibble at my elbow, biting through my flannel shirt. When I moved, it of course jumped off, but it did not seem much frightened and lingered for some minutes in view, about thirty yards away. I have never understood the incident.
Among the small mammals at Sagamore Hill the chipmunks are the most familiar and the most in evidence; for they readily become tame and confiding. For three or four years a chipmunk—I suppose the same chipmunk—has lived near the tennis court; and it has developed the rather puzzling custom of sometimes scampering across the court while we are in the middle of a game. This has happened two or three times every year, and is rather difficult to explain, for the chipmunk could just as well go round the court, and there seems no possible reason why he should suddenly run out on it while the game is in full swing. If we see him, we all stop to watch him, and then he may himself stop and look about; but we may not see him until just as he is finishing a frantic scurry across, in imminent danger of being stepped on.
AUDREY TAKES THE BARS
From a photograph, copyright, 1907, by Clinedinst