Bill was a fellow to go on his own hook—particularly in a time of imminent peril, like the present. Evidently paying no attention to me, he cast one glance at the eagle, and leaping from the branch, came down upon the wind. The eagle swept over him as he fell, and striking his talons into his brimless beaver, bore it away in triumph—dropping it however at a short distance. As Bill struck the ground on his feet, I immediately saw that he was safe. After sitting a moment to recover his breath, he put his hand to his head, and finding that his hat was gone, exclaimed, “There, the critter’s got my clamshell—why didn’t you fire, Bob?”
The hat was soon found, and after a little while Bill discovered the success of the eagle’s first attack upon his person; but although some blood was shed, the incident was not considered serious, and we proceeded in our ramble.
We had not advanced far, when, on passing through some bushes near a heap of rocks, I heard a rustling in the leaves. Turning my eye in the direction of the sound, I saw a black snake, covered by leaves except his head and about two feet of his body. He was directly in my path, and, brandishing his tongue, seemed determined to oppose my progress. Bill had my gun, but I called to him, and he soon appeared. I pointed out the snake, but, refusing to fire, he approached the creature with a bold front; who, seeing that he could gain nothing by his threats, turned and fled through the leaves with amazing speed. Bill followed upon his trail, and came up with him just as he was seeking shelter in the crevice of a rock. He had buried about two feet of his length, when Bill seized his tail, and, holding fast, prevented his farther progress. We then both of us took hold and tried to pull him out—but as he had coiled himself around the protuberances of the rock within, he resisted all our efforts.
Bill now directed me to bend down to him a pretty stout walnut sapling that was growing near. I complied with the command, and my companion, taking a piece of rope from his pocket, doubled the tail of the snake, and firmly lashed it to the top of the young tree. This being done—“We’ll let go now,” said Bill, “and see which will hold on the longest.” So, loosing our hold of the tree and serpent, we stood by to see the result. The snake was so firmly tied as to render it impossible for him to escape, and the sapling pulled with a vigor and patience that were likely to prevail at last. We waited at the place for nearly an hour, when the serpent slowly yielded, and the sapling jerked him into the air. There he hung, dangling and writhing, and thrusting out his tongue, but all to no purpose. Taking a fair aim with the gun, Bill now fired, and cut the reptile in twain.
We pursued our ramble until late in the day, when, on our return, we saw a gray squirrel leaping about upon the ground at some distance. The appearance of this animal in its native woods is singularly imposing. Its long, bushy tail imparts to it an appearance of extraordinary size, and renders its wonderful agility a matter of surprise. In the present instance, as the squirrel saw us from a distance, he ran to a tree, ascended the trunk, and flew along its branches. From these it leaped to those of another tree, seeming actually to move like a spirit of the air. At last it reached a large oak, and disappeared in a hole in the trunk.
Bill’s jacket was off in an instant, and almost as nimbly as the squirrel himself he ascended to its retreat. I stood below with my gun, ready to fire if the creature should attempt to escape. At last Bill, peeping into the hole, and saying, in a subdued voice, “I see the varmint!” thrust his hand into the place. It was but a moment before he hauled him out, and holding him forth with one hand, while he held on to the tree with the other, he exclaimed, “Fire, Bob—fire—he bites like—like a sarpent!” Accustomed to obey orders, I immediately fired, and the squirrel dropped dead to the ground. At the same time I saw Bill snapping his fingers, as if some stray shot had peppered them. He soon descended, and showed me that one of the little leaden missiles had passed through the ball of his thumb; he only remarked, however, “I should think, Bob, you might kill a squirrel without shooting a friend!”
Such are the adventures of a day in my youth; and such, or similar, no doubt, have been the experiences of many a Yankee youth before. I record them here, partly for the satisfaction of reviewing the sweet memories of the past, and partly to point the moral of this chapter—that youth is a portion of life to which, in after years, we usually look back with fond regard, as the happiest, if not the most useful, part of our existence. Let my youthful friends mark the observation, and not be unmindful of their present privileges. Let them enjoy their young days, with thankfulness and moderation, and not be too sanguine of that future, which will disclose the melancholy truth that life is a journey, which affords the cares and toils and dangers of travel, without a resting-place. A resting-place is indeed found, but it is only given as life ceases. While we live we are journeying; there is no fixed habitation for man on the earth: he is an emigrant to another country, and not a settler here. Let us, in attempting to make our journey as cheerful as we may, still be careful that the place to which we migrate, and where we must abide, be in a happy country.
The Humming-Birds.
These little fairies of the feathered race—the smallest of birds, and perhaps the most brilliant—belong exclusively to our American continent and the adjacent islands. Most of them dwell in the warm climates, where flowers are ever in bloom, and where spring or summer hold perpetual sway. One species alone visits our chill New England climate—the little fellow of the ruby throat. He comes to us in May, and makes himself familiar with our gardens and trellices, sports amid the flowers, and holds companionship only with the “flush and the fair.” His stay is short, for early in September he is gone to more genial lands.
It is only in tropical countries that the several species of humming-birds are seen in their abundance, variety, and glory. The islands that stud the ocean between Florida and the main land of South America, literally swarm with them. In the wild and uncultivated parts they inhabit the magnificent forests overhung with parasitical plants, whose blossoms hardly yield in beauty to the sparkling tints of these tenants of the air. In the cultivated portions, they abound in the gardens, and seem to delight in society, becoming familiar and destitute of fear, hovering often on one side of a shrub or plant while the fruit is plucked on the other.