Birds and All Nature, Vol. V, No. 4, April 1899

The aspects of nature change ceaselessly, by day and by night, through the seasons of the year, with every difference in latitude and longitude; and endless are the profusion and variety of the results which illustrate the operation of her laws. But, let the productions of different climes and countries be never so unlike, she works by the same methods; the spirit of her teachings never changes; nature herself is always the same, and the same wholesome, satisfying lessons are to be learned in the contemplation of any of her works. We may change our skies, but not our minds, in crossing the sea to gain a glimpse of that bird-life which finds its exact counterpart in our own woods and fields, at the very threshold of our own homes. —Coues.

The boy was right, in a certain sense, when he said that he knew nature when she passed. Alone, he had hunted much in the woods day and night. He knew the tall trees that were the coons' castles, and the high hills of the 'possum's rambles. He had a quick eye for the smooth holes where the squirrels hid or the leafy hammocks where they dozed the heated hours away. The tangles where the bob-whites would stand and sun themselves stood out to him at a glance, and when the ruffed grouse drummed he knew his perch and the screens to dodge behind as he crept up on him. —Baskett.

THE QUAILS' QUADRILLE

BY MRS. A. S. HARDY

ONE who loves the birds and is so much in sympathy with them as to make it appear sometimes that they have taken her into their "order," had a charming glimpse, a few years ago, of a covey of quails in one of their frolics. She described it as follows:

"I never hear the call of 'Ah, Bob White!' or catch a glimpse of those shy little vocalists, that I do not think of how I once surprised them in the prettiest dance I ever saw. I had heard of the games and the frolics of birds and have often watched them with delight, but I never saw any bird-play that interested me as this, that seemed like a quadrille of a little company of quails.

"They were holding their pretty carnival at the side of a country road along which I was slowly strolling, and I came in sight of them so quietly as to be for a time unobserved, although they had two little sentinels posted – one at each end of the company.

"Between these bright-eyed little watchers, always on the alert, a dozen or more birds were tip-toeing in a square. Every motion was with all the grace and harmony which are nature's own. At some little bird-signal which I didn't see, two birds advanced from diagonal corners of the square, each bird tripping along with short, airy and graceful steps, something like what we imagine characterized the old-time 'minuet.' Each bird, as the partners came near each other, bobbed its head in a graceful little bow, and both tripped back as they came to their places in the square. Immediately the birds from the two other corners advanced with the same airy grace, the same short, quick, and tripping steps, saluting and retreating as the others had done.

"A wagon driven along the road disturbed the band of dancers, who scudded away under leaves, through the fence, into the deep grass of the field beyond. When the team had passed out of sight and the ball-room was again their own, back came the pretty revelers stealthily, their brown heads uplifted as their bright eyes scanned the landscape. Seeing no intruder, they again took their places the same as before and began again the same quadrille – advancing, meeting, bowing, and retreating.

"It was the prettiest and most graceful little 'society affair' you can imagine! There was no music – no song that I could hear – yet every little bird in every turn and step while the dance was on, moved as to a measured harmony.

"Did the birds keep 'time – time, in a sort of runic rhyme' to melody in their hearts, or to a symphony, I could not hear, but which goes up unceasingly like a hymn of praise from nature's great orchestra? I longed to know.

"In my delight and desire to learn more of the bewitching bird-play, I half forgot I was a clumsy woman, and an unconscious movement betrayed my presence. The little sentinel nearest me quickly lifted his brown head, and spying me gave his signal – how, I could not guess, for not a sound was uttered; but all the dancers stretched their little necks an instant and sped away. In a moment the ground was cleared and the dancers came not back."

THE GRAPE

C. C. M

THE name grape is from the French grappe, a bunch of grapes; from the same root as gripe or grab, to grasp. It is one of the most valuable fruits, not only because of its use in the manufacture of wine, and is the source also from which brandy, vinegar, and tartaric acid are obtained, but because, both in a fresh and dried state, it forms not a mere article of luxury, but a great part of the food of the inhabitants of some countries.

The cultivation of the vine was introduced into England by the Romans, and of late years its cultivation has much increased in gardens, on the walls of suburban villas and of cottages, but chiefly for the sake of the fresh fruit, although wine is also made in small quantities for domestic use.

The first attempt at the culture of the vine in the United States for wine-making was in Florida in 1564; and another was made by the British colonist in 1620. In Delaware wine was made from native grapes as early as 1648. In 1683 William Penn engaged in the cultivation of the vine near Philadelphia, but with only partial success. In 1825 the Catawba vine, a native of North Carolina, came into prominence; and it was afterward cultivated extensively near Cincinnati by Nicholas Longworth, who has been called the father of this culture in the United States. In 1858 the entire production of Catawba wine in Ohio amounted to 400,000 gallons. In the states east of the Rocky mountains the greatest extent of territory in vineyards occurs in Ohio, New York, Missouri, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Iowa, and Kansas, but at present they exist in nearly every state in the Union. Of all of the states, however, California is the most important for vine-growing. The vineyards were first cultivated there during the middle of the last century, the first grape planted being the Los Angeles, which was the only one grown till 1820.

The cultivation of the vine varies much in different countries. In the vineries of Britain the vines are carefully trained in various ways so as most completely to cover the walls and trellises and to turn the whole available space to the utmost account. The luxuriant growth of the plant renders the frequent application of the pruning-knife necessary during the summer. The bunches of grapes are generally thinned out with great care, in order that finer fruit may be produced. By such means, and the aid of artificial heat, grapes are produced equal to those of the most favored climates, and the vine attains to a large size and a great age. The famous vine at Hampton Court has a stem more than a foot in circumference, one branch measuring one hundred and fourteen feet in length, and has produced in one season two thousand two hundred bunches of grapes, weighing on an average one pound each, or in all about a ton.

About 250 years ago Dr. Power attributed the fly's locomotive power to "a furry kind of substance like little sponges with which she hath lined the soles of her feet, which substance is also repleated with a whitish viscous liquor, which she can at pleasure squeeze out, and so sodder and be-glue herself to the place she walks on, which otherwise her gravity would hinder, especially when she walks in those inverted positions." Scientific men refused to believe this explanation, and taught that the bottom of a fly's foot resembled the leather sucker used by boys to lift stones, and that this formation enabled it to move back downwards. However it has been proved that Dr. Power was right in every point but the sticky nature of the liquid that exudes from the fly's foot. This substance is not sticky, and the attachment which it causes is brought about by capillary attraction.

PROSE POEMS OF IVAN TURGENIEF

I DREAMED that I stepped into a vast, subterranean, highly arched hall. A brilliant light illuminated it. In the middle of this hall was seated the majestic figure of a woman, clothed in a green robe that fell in many folds around her. Her head rested upon her hand; she seemed to be sunk in deep meditation. Instantly I comprehended that this woman must be nature herself, and a sudden feeling of respectful terror stole into my awed soul. I approached the woman, and, saluting her with reverence, said:

"O mother of us all, on what dost thou meditate? Thinkest thou, perchance, on the future fate of humanity, or of the path along which mankind must journey in order to attain the highest possible perfection – the highest happiness?"

The woman slowly turned her dark, threatening eyes upon me. Her lips moved and, in a tremendous, metallic voice she replied:

"I was pondering how to bestow greater strength upon the muscles of the flea's legs, so that it may more rapidly escape from its enemies. The balance between attack and flight is deranged; it must be readjusted."

"What!" I answered, "is that thy only meditation? Are not we, mankind, thy best-loved and most precious children?"

The woman slightly bent her brows and replied: "All living creatures are my children; I cherish all equally, and annihilate all without distinction."

"But Virtue, Reason, Justice!" I faltered.

"Those are human words," replied the brazen voice. "I know neither good nor evil. Reason to me is no law. And what is justice? I gave thee life; I take it from thee and give it unto others; worms and men are all the same to me… And thou must maintain thyself meanwhile, and leave me in peace."

I would have replied, but the earth quaked and trembled, and I awoke.

I was returning from hunting, and walking along an avenue of the garden, my dog running in front of me.

Suddenly he took shorter steps, and began to steal along as though tracking game.

I looked along the avenue, and saw a young sparrow, with yellow about its beak and down on its head. It had fallen out of the nest (the wind was violently shaking the birch trees in the avenue) and sat unable to move, helplessly flapping its half-grown wings.

My dog was slowly approaching it, when, suddenly darting from a tree close by, an old dark-throated sparrow fell like a stone right before his nose, and all ruffled up, terrified, with despairing and pitiful chirps, it flung itself twice towards the open jaws of shining teeth. It sprang to save; it cast itself before its nestling, but all its tiny body was shaking with terror; its note was harsh and strange. Swooning with fear, it offered itself up!

What a huge monster must the dog have seemed to it! And yet it could not stay on its high branch out of danger… A force stronger than its will flung it down.

My Tresor stood still, drew back… Clearly he, too, recognized this force.

I hastened to call off the disconcerted dog, and went away full of reverence.

Yes; do not laugh. I felt reverence for that tiny heroic bird for its impulse of love.

Love, I thought, is stronger than death or the fear of death. Only by it, by love, life holds together and advances.

THE BLUEBIRD

Soft warbling noteFrom azure throat,Float on the gentle air of spring;To my quick earIt doth appearThe sweetest of the birds that sing.– C. C. M.

A bit of heaven itself. —Spofford.

The bluebird carries the sky on his back. —Thoreau.

Winged lute that we call a bluebird. —Rexford.

The bluebird is the color-bearer of the spring brigade. —Wright.

A wise bluebirdPuts in his little heavenly word.– Lanier.The bluebird, shifting his light load of songFrom post to post along the cheerless fence.– Lowell.

It is his gentle, high-bred manner and not his azure coat which makes the bluebird. —Torrey.

How can we fail to regard its azure except as a fragment from the blue of the summer noonday arch? —Silloway.

The bluebird always bears the national colors – red, white, and blue – and in its habits is a model of civilized bird-life. —Dr. Cooper.

At the first flash of vernal sun among the bare boughs of his old home he hies northward to greet it with his song, and seems, unlike the oriole, to help nature make the spring. —Baskett.

As he sits on a branch lifting his wings there is an elusive charm about his sad, quivering tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly. Ignoring our presence, he seems preoccupied with unfathomable thoughts of field and sky. —Merriam.

And yonder bluebird, with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky tinge on his back, did he come down out of heaven on that bright March morning when he told us so softly and plaintively that if we pleased, spring had come? —Burroughs.

He is "true blue," which is as rare a color among birds as it is among flowers. He is the banner-bearer of bird-land also, and loyally floats the tricolor from our trees and telegraph wires; for, besides being blue, is he not also red and white? —Coues.

THE FIRST BLUEBIRD

Jest rain and snow! and rain again!And dribble! drip! and blow!Then snow! and thaw! and slush! and thenSome more rain and snow!This morning I was 'most afearedTo wake up – when, I jing!I seen the sun shine out and heerdThe first bluebird of spring!Mother she'd raised the winder some;And in acrost the orchard come,Soft as an angel's wing,A breezy, treesy, beesy hum,Too sweet fer anything!The winter's shroud was rent apart —The sun burst forth in glee —And when that bluebird sung, my heartHopped out o' bed with me!– Riley.

THE KIT FOX

C. C. M

ONE of the smallest of the foxes is the kit fox (Vulpes velox), sometimes called the swift fox and also the burrowing fox, getting the latter name for the ability and rapidity with which it digs the holes in the ground in which it lives. It is an inhabitant of the northwestern states and of the western Canadian provinces, covering the region from southeastern Nebraska northwest to British Columbia. Its length is about twenty inches, exclusive of the tail, which is about twelve inches long. The overhair is fine, the back is a pure gray, the sides yellow, and the under parts white. The ears are small and covered with hair and the soles are also hairy. The kit fox is much smaller in size than either the gray or red fox, but has proportionately longer limbs than either of them.

Reynard, of all animals, in spite of the fact that he is accepted as the emblem of cunning, slyness, deceit, and mischief, is praised by proverb and tradition, and the greatest of German poets, Goethe, made him the subject of an epic. Pechuel-Loesche says:

"The fox of tradition and poetry and the fox in real life are really two very different animals. Whoever observes him with an unprejudiced mind fails to discover any extraordinary degree of that much-praised presence of mind, cleverness, cunning, and practical sense, or even an unusually keen development of the senses. In my opinion he is by no means superior in his endowments to other beasts of prey, especially the wolf. The most that can be truly said in his praise is to admit that, when he is pursued, he knows how to adapt himself to the surrounding circumstances, but scarcely more so than other sagacious animals. Like many other animals, including the harmless species, some old foxes may have their wits unusually sharpened by experience, but every huntsman who has had much to do with foxes will admit that there are a great many which are not ingenious, and some which may even be called stupid, and this refers not only to young, inexperienced foxes, but also to many old ones. The fox is a rascal and knows his trade, because he has to make a living somehow. He is impudent, but only when driven by hunger or when he has to provide for his little family; and in bad plights he shows neither presence of mind nor deliberation, but loses his head completely. He is caught in clumsy traps, and this even repeatedly. In the open country he allows a sled to approach him within gunshot; he permits himself to be surrounded in a hunt in spite of the noise and shots, instead of wisely taking to his heels; in short, this animal, which is more relentlessly pursued than any other inhabitant of the woods, still has not learned to see through all the tricks of men and shape his actions accordingly."

All of which may be literally true, nevertheless Reynard is the hero of a hundred stories and pictures and he will continue to be regarded as a remarkably clever and interesting animal.

The coat of the fox corresponds closely to his surroundings. Those species living on plains and deserts show the similarity of their color with that of the ground; the southern fox differs considerably from the northern and the fox of the mountains from that of the plains.

The fox usually selects his home in deep hollows, between rocks covered with branches, or between roots of trees. Whenever he can avoid doing so he does not dig a burrow himself, but establishes himself in some old, deserted badger's hole, or shares it with the badger in spite of the latter's objections. If it is possible, the fox excavates his burrows in mountain walls, so that the conduits lead upwards, without running close to the surface. In his prowlings he regards his security as paramount to every other consideration, according to fox hunters. He is suspicious, and only the pangs of hunger can goad him into reckless actions. Then he becomes bold. Once a fox, which was being hunted by hounds and had twice heard the shot whizzing by, seized a sick hare in his flight and carried it with him a considerable distance. Another was surrounded in a field; he came out, attacked a wounded hare, killed it before the eyes of the huntsmen, rapidly buried it in the snow, and then fled directly through the line formed by the sportsmen.

Litters of young foxes are born about the end of April or the beginning of May. Their number varies between three and twelve.

Lenz had a tame female fox which he received just as she was beginning to eat solid food, but had already become so vicious and so much addicted to biting that she always growled when eating her favorite food and bit right and left into straw and wood, even when nobody was disturbing her. Kind treatment soon made her so tame that she would allow him to take a freshly-killed rabbit out of her bloody mouth and insert his fingers instead. Even when grown up she liked to play with him, was demonstrative in her joy when he visited her, wagged her tail, whined, and jumped around. She was just as much pleased to see a stranger, and she distinguished strangers at a distance of fifty paces, when they were turning the corner of the house, and with loud cries would invite them to come up to her, an honor which she never accorded either to him or his brother, who usually fed her, probably because she knew they would do so anyway.

Reynard has been known to attack and kill young calves and lambs, and if the seashore is near will revel in oysters and shellfish. A group of rabbits are feeding in a clover-patch. He'll crawl along, nibbling the juicy flowers until near enough to make a grab. He'll stalk a bird, with his hind legs dragging behind him, until near enough to spring. How farmers dread his inroads in the poultry yard! Fasten the yard up tight and he will burrow a winding passage into the ground beneath and suddenly appear among the drowsy chickens and stupid geese, whose shrill and alarmed cries arouse the farmer from his bed to sally forth, finding all safe. Then the fox will sneak back and pack away with the plumpest pullet or the fattest goose.

AMONG ANIMALS

The deer really weeps, its eyes being provided with lachrymal glands.

Ants have brains larger in proportion to the size of their bodies than any other living creature.

There are three varieties of the dog that never bark – the Australian dog, the Egyptian shepherd dog and the "lion-headed" dog of Tibet.

The insect known as the water boatman has a regular pair of oars, his legs being used as such. He swims on his back, as in this position there is less resistance to his progress.

Seventeen parcels of ants' eggs from Russia, weighing 550 pounds, were sold in Berlin recently for 20 cents a pound.

The peacock is now kept entirely, it would seem, for ornament – for the ornament of garden terraces (among old-fashioned and trim-kept yew hedges he is specially in place) – in his living state, and for various æsthetic uses to which his brilliant plumage and hundred-eyed tailfeathers are put when he is dead or moulting. But we seldom eat him now, though he used to figure with the boar's head, the swan and the baron of beef on those boards which were beloved by our forefathers, more valiant trenchermen than ourselves. Yet young peahen is uncommonly good eating, even now, at the end of the nineteenth century, and in the craze that some people have for new birds – Argus pheasants, Reeve's pheasants, golden pheasants and what not – to stock their coverts, it is a wonder that some one has not tried a sprinkling of peacocks.

SPRING FASHIONS

ELLA GILBERT IVES

EVEN in birddom some of the styles come from Paris, where the rouge gorge smartens up his red waistcoat as regularly as the spring comes round. Our staid American robin tries to follow suit, though he never can equal his old-world models. Even the English redbreast excels him in beauty and song. I must tell the truth, as an honest reporter, though I am not a bit English, and would not exchange our Merula migratoria for a nightingale; for beauty is but feather-deep, and when our robin shines up his yellow bill – a spring fashion of his own – the song that comes from it is dearer than the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. That little relative of his whom our forefathers called the "blue robin," has the same rufous color in his waistcoat, though it stops so short it always seems as if the stuff must have given out. No Parisian or London dandy set the style for his lovely coat. If ever a fashion came down from heaven, that did; and it came to the fresh, new world and stopped here. No blue-coats perch on the rails in old England; perhaps because there is never clear sky enough to spare for a bird's back. We have so much on this continent, that half a dozen birds dress in the celestial hue; some of them, like the jay, all the year round.

But indigo bunting, whose summer coat and vest seem interwoven of blue sky and a thunder cloud, and then dipped in a sea-wave of foamy green, is not so lavish of his beauty. His plain wife and children, who dress almost like common sparrows, have only shreds and patches of blue in their attire, and indigo pater puts on the same dull shade for his winter overcoat. But in spring, what a spruce old beau he is! – and how he does like to show off in the tasseled oaks! So beautiful is his changeable silk that one half suspects him of borrowing from the peacock's wardrobe. A grain of that lordly fowl's disposition may have mixed with the dye; for if there is a pointed spruce tree near, indigo is sure to perch on the tip-top and sing until you look at him. Still, he loves beauty for beauty's sake, and is not really vain like the tanager.

That gorgeous bird actually sings, "Here pretty, pretty here!" with variations, as if all loveliness focused in his feathers. He arrives just when the tender young foliage of May will half veil his vivid scarlet coat; and as it is less dependent on light than the indigo's, he does not affect tree-tops, but perches under a spray of golden oak leaves or the delicate green of an elm, and shines like a live coal in a bed of leaves. If he were a British trooper he could not be more resplendent in scarlet and black. Tanager is uniformed first for conquest, then for guard duty. He wears his bright trappings during courting and nesting time, and the rest of the year doffs his scarlet and wears olive-green like that of his modest mate. He still carries black wings and tail, however, to mark his sex.

So does gay little goldfinch, bird of winsome ways and a happy heart. He, too, dresses up for courting; and how do you think he does it? All winter long he has worn an olive-brown coat, as subdued as any finch's needs to be; but when the willows begin to hint at the fashionable spring color, and the spice bush breathes its name, and the dandelions print the news on the grass and the forsythia emblazons it on every lawn, and the sunset sky is a great bulletin board to announce it – then this dainty bird peels off his dull winter overcoat, each tiny feather dropping a tip, and lo! underneath a garb that a Chinese Chang might covet. To match his wings and tail, he puts on a black cap, and then you never saw a more perfect "glass of fashion and mold of form" – at least that is Mme. Goldfinch's opinion.