Birds and Nature, Vol. 10 No. 4 [November 1901]

“‘Dishrag!’ I echoed.

“‘Yes, they grows dishrags on ’em,’ he answered. Then, pulling off one of the funny gourds, he cut it in two and showed me the matted fibers inside. It seems when these halves are dried in the sun, that they become something like a tough sponge.

“He seemed very proud of the fact that his wife had used one for a whole year, and asked, in a tone half of pity and half of disgust, ‘Does you all hab ter use er rag?’ He was pitying me just as I was sorry for him! It was too funny to see him hobble off, shaking his head and laughing at a white woman who ‘neber knowed nothin’ ’bout dishrag vines!’”

“Will you bring me one next winter, aunt?” Margie asked.

“Do you want to wash my dishes with it?”

“N-no. I’d rather hem cloths, I b’lieve: but I’d like to try it on my doll dishes.”

Lee McCrae.

A SNOW-FLAKE

Once he sang of summer,Nothing but the summer;Now he sings of winter,Of winter bleak and drear:Just because there’s fallenA snow-flake on his forehead,He must go and fancy’Tis winter all the year!– Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

NEIGHBORING WITH NATURE

We were at breakfast one morning, when a loitering breeze from the woods filled the room with delicious aroma. The graceful spring flowers and the wild fruit trees were just beginning a life of promise.

“There’s sweet smelling fern in that,” exclaimed Charley, sniffing critically.

“I think it’s from the crab-apple trees by the chalybeate spring,” said grandma.

“No, it’s the chicksaw plums by the creek,” cried Margaret.

“It ’mells ’ike ’bacco moss to me,” murmured Pearl, touching the tip of her nose with her dainty forefinger.

“I know what it is,” asserted Grace; “it’s the wild cherry tree; it’s full of blossoms.”

“There’s Ginseng in it somewhere,” laughingly commented papa.

“Ginseng?” cried the children. “What’s that?”

“The name of a plant in the wood. The word is supposed to be of Chinese origin. The Iroquois called the root garentoqucu, literally, legs and thighs separated. The plant belongs to the genus Pauax, and it is a great medicine with the Chinese. We export it in large quantities, but northern Asia grows it as well as we.”

“And there is some in our wood?”

“Yes, I saw some yesterday near the tobacco-plant bed.”

“Can we go for some as soon as we have finished breakfast?”

“Yes, and I will go with you. A walk through the wood will be good for us; I feel like I had slept a hundred years and been one of Tennyson’s characters in The Day Dream.”

“And I,” said the artist, “will take my pencil and sketching block.”

Six plants were found, all having good long roots.

“What you have now would cost you a quarter of a dollar if you were buying it,” said papa.

“One could live very well then, by gathering Ginseng to sell,” commented practical Charley.

“Why, yes, you remember old Uncle Baskett, the colored doctor?”

“Yes,” said Margaret. “He cured toothache by hanging a rabbit’s foot about your neck.”

“And fits with a four-leafed clover,” cried Gracie.

“He made his living,” went on papa, “after he was freed, by collecting the roots of Ginseng, Calamus and other medicinal plants, and it was then, too, he gained his almost marvelous knowledge of herbs, becoming famous, even among the white people, for his success in curing certain diseases.”

“I think this leaf and root are accurate,” said the artist presenting the sketch.

“To a ‘T,’” cried the children. “You must go with us every walk we take.”

Sallie Margaret O’Malley.Gaunt shadows stretch along the hill;Cold clouds drift slowly west;Soft flocks of vagrant snow flakes fillThe redwing’s empty nest.– Thomas Bailey Aldrich, “Landscape.”

THE CAROLINA WREN

(Thryothorus ludovicianus.)

This little brown bird is sufficiently hardy to remain throughout the year a resident of the localities which it frequents. This is true except in the northern part of its range, which covers the eastern United States as far north as the states of Wisconsin and Connecticut.

The Carolina Wren does not enjoy the society of men and unlike its relative, the house wren, does not seek “the cozy nooks and corners about the house of man,” but rather the distant shrubbery and the forest. Here it hides and is more often heard than seen. In spite of this show of timidity it is not so shy and retiring as it would seem. It loves the privacy and seclusion of the forest yet it will frequently visit the garden and explore outhouses. “If we attempt to penetrate its hidden resorts” it hurries away into deeper recesses with a low fluttering near the ground, or scrambling and hopping from one bush to another, very likely mocking us with its rollicking song as soon as it feels perfectly secure.

It is restless and curious like the other wrens. Perhaps it is even more inquisitive than its sister species, for it is certainly more active. Frightened from a favorite perch the Carolina Wren will return and, from a safe cover of foliage, slyly examine the cause that disturbed it, “peering from among the leaves with an inquisitive air, all the while teetering its body and performing odd nervous antics as if it were possessed with the very spirit of unrest.” When disturbed it seems to challenge the intruder with a chattering note that has a harsh and decidedly querulous tone.

It seems almost incredible that such a delicate and sprightly being should exhibit so much temper and resentment. Intrusion of its chosen territory by its own kind is resented even more vehemently.

The Carolina Wren possesses a wonderful vocabulary with appropriate notes for all occasions. It is highly musical. Its song is rich and sweet, voluble and melodious, loud and clear and seemingly as happily delivered in one season as in another. Mr. Chapman says: “He is sometimes called Mocking Wren, but the hundreds of birds I have heard were all too original to borrow from others. In addition to his peculiar calls he possesses a variety of loud, ringing whistles somewhat similar in tone to those of the tufted titmouse or cardinal and fully as loud, if not louder, than the notes of the latter.”

It is difficult to state its preference in regard to its choice of nesting sites, for it will select any place that suits its fancy. The hollow of a tree or a stump, a thickly branching shrub or a secluded nook in some unfrequented outhouse, perhaps with a knothole for a doorway – all these places are equally suitable and some one of them will meet the taste of this positive little bird.

The materials used in the construction of the bulky nests are any fibrous substance, sticks, leaves, fine grasses and “in fact trash of any kind.” The lining of the ball-like nest, which has a side entrance, is made of finer fibers, hair and grasses. In this cozy home are laid from four to six creamy white eggs which are “variously marked with reddish brown and lilac, in a wreath or cluster at the larger end.”

THANKSGIVING BY THE NINNESCAH

It was Thanksgiving Day in Kansas. The sun still shone warm over the yellow cornfields and the brown prairies, tho’ there was a hint of frost in the air, and the nearly bare trees stood as ominous tokens of the coming winter. The autumn wind blew a perfect gale from the southwest. Down in the valley by the river the sand was flying in stinging clouds, jerking the few remaining yellow leaves from the cottonwoods, ruffling the waters of the Ninnescah, beating the purple veil from the hedges where the autumn sun had tangled it, bending the long reeds, and drifting in little mounds beneath the wild-plum bushes.

On the uplands where the curly buffalo-grass spread its thick brown carpet, the whitened heads of the golden-rods bent before the wind, the sage-grass waved its long yellow stalks, and the sunflowers rattled their bare stems and brown heads together.

Behind the shelter of one of the sandhills beside the Ninnescah river a strange assembly of birds and beasts and creeping things had gathered.

A couple of rough-coated, sharp-eared gray coyotes were rolling and tumbling over one another in a good-natured scuffle.

A bunch of quails were picking up the seeds which the wind shook from the sunflower pods above them, while a few brown prairie chickens lay sunning themselves upon the sand.

A long-eared jackrabbit sat erect upon his haunches in solemn dignity, acting as umpire to the coyotes’ prize-fight; while his cousin, the little cotton-tail rabbit, nibbled at some tender twigs that grew near by.

A rattlesnake was curled up in the sunniest place to be found, and his companions, the cunning brown prairie dog and the little grey owl, sat near by.

Sand lizards flashed here and there beneath the plum bushes, and the guest of honor – a huge mountain lion – lay dozing within the shelter of the thicket.

Blue jays, blackbirds, brown thrushes, scarlet-coated redbirds, sparrows and yellowhammers flitted from bush to tree; meadow larks trilled their cheerful song; while up on the topmost twig of a tall cottonwood tree a mockingbird swung in the wind and poured his whole soul through his little throat in a wonderful stream of melody.

All the delegates of the animal world being at last assembled, the jackrabbit – in consideration of his dignity – was made master of ceremonies, and called the assembly to order in the following words:

“My honorable friends, the birds and beasts and reptiles of Kansas: We have assembled here today to hold a sort of Thanksgiving service.

“Once every year men gather themselves together to count over the good things that have come to them, and to congratulate one another over the evils they have missed.

“It may occur to some of you that we birds and beasts have little for which to be thankful in these days when dogs and men are so numerous, and when life is attended with so many privations and dangers. But, upon careful thought, I think each one present will be able to add an item to our list of blessings of the past year that will encourage us through the winter days so near at hand.

“Our friend and guest, the mountain lion, will please to address us.”

The mountain lion opened his fierce eyes, stretched his huge paws, rose slowly to his feet, and shook the sand from his rough coat.

In spite of the truce of the occasion, the smaller animals eyed him with evident terror, and the prairie chickens fluttered their wings as if ready to fly away from so dangerous a neighbor.

“What have I to be thankful for?” the lion asked in harsh tones. “I am thankful that I have come through the year with a whole hide in spite of dogs and guns and men. I am thankful that dogs are afraid of me, and that men dare not attack me single-handed. I am thankful that after all my wanderings from the solitudes of the Indian Territory mountains, I have found this comparatively safe retreat among these sandhills and plum thickets. Calves, and pigs, and chickens – and rabbits – have been abundant; so I have no cause to complain of poor living. Kansas would be paradise if it contained neither dogs nor men.” He ground out the last sentence with a growl which would have caused both dogs and men to tremble if they had heard it, then lay down and resumed his nap beneath the bushes.

A respectful silence had fallen over the assembly; for “Who shall follow the king?”

As soon as the jackrabbit had gotten over that terrible reference to rabbits enough to steady his voice, he called upon the coyotes for remarks. Both sprang briskly to their feet, and as neither one would give way to the other, they addressed the assembly in alternate barks:

“I am thankful that I am so swift a runner that no dog can catch me.”

“And I am thankful because I can scare almost any dog that tries to catch me. How they do run and howl when I turn on them!”

“Chickens and ducks and geese are plentiful; and though the chickens learn to fear us and roost high, ducks and geese are always on the ground and can neither fly nor run.”

“This has been a fine season for young pigs, and I also caught several lambs that made tender eating.”

“There are such delightful thickets along the rivers and streams, that coyotes have plenty of safe hiding places. I have made good burrows beside the Ninnescah and Arkansas rivers, the Cowskin and Honey creeks, and I go back and forth at pleasure. Yes, Kansas is a pretty good country for coyotes – barring the dogs and men.”

“Yes, barring the dogs and men.”

Both coyotes sat down and the little cotton-tail spoke:

“Life is hard and dangerous for a rabbit at best. There are so many enemies to fear, and even our swift flight often fails to save us. I have fared well this year. I found a place where the farmer keeps no dogs and owns no gun. To be sure, he had woven-wire fences around his garden and his young orchard, but I found a cunning little hole in the fence behind one of the grapevines that was just made for a door for a poor little rabbit, and I tell you I have lived high. Such peas and lettuce and cabbage as that man did have! Enough for twenty rabbits like me. Then for a change I nibbled the tender shoots on the grapevines, and now am expecting to get my living this winter by gnawing the bark from several hundred young fruit trees which he has set out. I have already found a hole under the fence. So I have cause to be thankful to-day.”

The little prairie dog sat up stiffly and tried to look dignified as he addressed the assembly.

“Life has been full of ups and downs for me and for my friends, the rattlesnakes and owls. We had made a fine burrow in a broad pasture, and all last year we lived there in peace. This year the man who owned it concluded to plow it up for a cornfield; and the first thing he did, he turned the water from a slough right into our beautiful prairie dog town and flooded all our carefully dug homes. Many of my brothers and cousins were drowned or rushed out of their holes only to be slain by the dreadful dogs and men.

“I was more fortunate, because I had run one of my tunnels in an uphill direction for fear that water might some time trouble us. When the flood came I retreated to this high point and saved myself, altho the water almost reached me, and I was obliged to stay there for several days before I could make my way out.

“Now I have a pleasant home here among the sandhills, and I have been careful to dig a good upper story with an opening through which I can escape in time of need. The rattlesnake and the owl share my humble home, and we live in peace together.”

The owl nodded his wise head, and the snake shook his rattles in approval of this address which included themselves, and made it unnecessary for them to add their voices to the speechmaking.

A little green lizard roused himself from his warm place in the sun and added his squeaky voice to the general conference:

“I know nothing about dogs and men. My brothers and I live here upon the sandhills where insects are plenty and enemies are few. We spend hours in basking in the delightfully hot sun, and if any noise alarms us dart to our hiding places beneath the roots of the bushes or under some rotten log or tree. We are of several colors, gray, green, yellow or brown, and when we lie still upon the sand or on logs or under leaves it is hard for any beast or bird or man to see us. We may have few blessings, as the world goes, but we at least have nothing of which to complain.”

The prairie chickens were next called upon for an account of themselves, and answered:

“We are the sole representatives of the great coveys of birds of our kind that used to make their homes upon these prairies. Their drumming could be heard within the thickets, and the swift whirring of their brown wings as they beat the air in their diagonal flight. Life was a pleasure to prairie chickens in those good old days before we were born.

“Now it is different. Men learned to consider our flesh a delicacy and hunted us down. They even grudged us the grain that we gathered from their broad wheat and corn fields and treated us as common robbers. Now only a few of us are left, and we dare not call our lives our own. We have learned to be very shy and to hide in the most solitary places. Still, life is not all trouble. The winters in Kansas are short and usually mild, there are plenty of good warm thickets and hedges, and there is always plenty for birds to eat, unless the snow is uncommonly heavy. So we manage to be happy and take each day as it comes.”

The quails trooped forward as the prairie-chickens ceased speaking.

“We are the farmer’s friends,” said they, “and therefore the farmer is friendly to us. We eat the bugs and worms that would destroy his crop. We take a little of his grain now and then, but we more than repay the damage by our warfare upon the bugs.

“We have been so fortunate as to find a farmer who appreciates us, and will allow no one to shoot us. So our year has been peaceful, and we have been bountifully fed.”

An ungainly toad hopped forward as the quails ceased speaking:

“I do not look much like a quail, and can neither fly nor run nor sing; but I also am the farmer’s friend, and am always ready to seize my opportunities when they come in the shape of flies and bugs. I may not be beautiful, to some unappreciative eyes, but I am at least useful.”

The birds having selected the chattering jay to speak for them, he raised his voice as follows:

“My friends desire me to say that our lives are lived above most of the things that annoy the rest of you. Floods and dogs and fences do not trouble us: still, we have dangers enough of our own. There are snakes that climb to our nests and destroy our young. There are prowling cats, and pouncing hawks, and boys with bean-shooters, and men with guns, all of whom are lying in wait for our lives. We are so common and so numerous that men fail to appreciate what we do for them. We make their groves bright by our brilliant plumage, and gay with our cheerful songs. We eat millions of caterpillars and bugs and worms. To be sure, we eat some of the grain and peck the ripest fruit, but then that should be looked upon as our just reward for our labors in men’s behalf. Some of us will soon be taking our flight to southern climes, but many of us will remain here in the friendly shelter of the thickets until spring comes again.”

What more the blue jay might have said was cut short by a great crackling of the bushes, which startled all the birds and smaller animals, and caused even the mountain lion to raise his head and sniff suspiciously.

Their alarm was quieted by the appearance of an old white horse who looked around upon the assembly and asked:

“What is all this? How does it come that coyotes and rabbits, birds and lizards and insects and lions” – very respectfully – “are associating in peace together?”

The object of the meeting was explained to him, and he was asked to add his word to the Thanksgiving service.

“What have I to be thankful for? Look at my bones almost sticking through my skin, my knees strained and my eyes almost blinded by pulling too heavy loads, my wind broken by hard driving, my skin scarred by cruel blows. Life has been all hard work, with scanty food and little rest. What have I to be thankful for? I do not know, unless it is that my cruel master died last night, and can never beat and curse and starve me any more. This is scanty pasture here among the sandhills, but it is better than a full manger, and curses and abuse therewith. Often the best thing that can happen to a horse is to have his master die. And so I am duly thankful.”

As all had now been represented, the jackrabbit said:

“My friends, the reports have now all been made. We have heard many pleasant things, and many things which make us sad. I think, however, that each one has found some cause for thanksgiving, even though his life is hard and filled with danger. All of us have learned that there are troubles and difficulties in the lives of others, many of which do not afflict us, and for this we should be duly thankful. From lions to lizards is a long step in the animal world, but there is a chain of common experience all the way through, binding us together.

“Let us remember through all the year to come, that there is no life without trial and privation, without hope and blessing, without cause for thanksgiving. Let us sympathize more with one another, think less of our own trials, and look oftener at the bright spots that come into our lives.

“The Thanksgiving Assembly for the year Nineteen Hundred and One is now adjourned.”

Mary McCrae Culter.Wildly round our woodland quarters,Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;Thickly down these swelling watersFloat his fallen leaves.Through the tall and naked timber,Column-like and old,Gleam the sunsets of November,From their skies of gold.O’er us, to the southland heading,Screams the gray wild-goose;On the night-frost sounds the treadingOf the brindled moose.Noiseless creeping, while we’re sleeping,Frost his task-work plies;Soon, his icy bridges heaping,Shall our log-piles rise.– John Greenleaf Whittier, “The Lumberman.”

THE BLACK-POLL WARBLER

(Dendroica striata.)

Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? Ah, why,Thou, too, whose song first told us of the spring,Whither away?– Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Few birds have a wider and more extended range than the Black-poll Warbler. Wintering in the southern United States, Central America and the northern part of South America, they move northward in the spring, reaching Greenland and Alaska in June. Their range extends to the westward as far as the Rocky Mountains. Their breeding range is nearly confined to the regions north of the United States.

This little bird which travels so extensively is a little later than many of the warblers in arriving at its summer home, but it seems to waste little time on the journey, as it flies rapidly and stops but little to search for food. These words of the poet, truthfully illustrate the flight of the Black-poll in its spring migration.

“And warblers, full of life and song —All moving swiftly on their way,”

This species exhibits habits similar to those of the flycatchers and “may be considered as occupying an intermediate station between the flycatchers and warblers, having the manner of the former and the bill partially of the latter.” There is no better illustration of the saying that “The nice gradations by which nature passes from one species to another, even in this department of the great chain of beings, will forever baffle all the artificial rules and systems of man.”

The Black-polls are at home not only in the woods but also in the tops of the tallest trees. They prefer those forests that border on water courses or swamps where, flying from branch to branch they quickly catch the winged insects with a snap of their bills not unlike that of the flycatchers. Like the flycatchers, too, the color of their plumage is beautifully adapted to obscuring them in their dark green foliage retreats.

Standing on the very tip of some evergreen tree, “the chaste little figure striped in half mourning and capped in jet-black,” will burst out in a happy song and then quickly fly into the dark recesses of the forest.

The female shows a strong attachment for her nest and exhibits great anxiety on the approach of any being, “beating her wings along the branches in the utmost distress, or one may still hear her sharp chipping note of alarm as she disappears in the almost impenetrable growth of small black spruce.”

The nest is interesting. It is usually placed on a large branch at its junction with the trunk of the tree. A cone-bearing tree is selected and the spruce is preferred, as in it the nest is more perfectly obscured. The Black-poll’s house is not the delicate structure that one would expect to find as the home of so dainty a bird. This bulky structure is usually placed not higher than six or eight feet from the ground. It is constructed from the fine twigs and sprays of the evergreen trees and fine roots woven with weeds, moss, lichens and vegetable and animal hairs. The lining consists of fine grass and feathers. Though the external diameter of the nest is fully five inches, the internal diameter seldom measures over two inches.

Mr. Langille has beautifully described the song of the Black-poll. He says, “That song, though one of the most slender and wiry in all our forests, is as distinguishable as the hum of the cicada or the shrilling of the katydid. Tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree-tree, rapidly uttered, the monotonous notes of equal length, beginning very softly, gradually increasing to the middle of the strain and then as gradually diminishing, thus forming a fine musical swell – may convey a fair idea of the song. There is a peculiar soft and tinkling sweetness in this melody, suggestive of the quiet mysteries of the forest and sedative as an anodyne to the nerves.”