ALBERT R. MANN
LIBRARY
AT
CORNELL UNIVERSITY

eo. University Library
QL 81.M

ALOU

id forest; the an

Cornell University

Library

The original of this book is in
the Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu381924001573611

YOUNG FOXES.

Painted by F. Schuyler Mathews from a photograph by W. Lyman Underwood.

FAMILIAR LIFE IN| FIELD
AND FOREST

SS % ¥%
THE - ANIMALS - BIRDS
FROGS : AND - SALAMANDERS

a
FY SCHUYLER MATHEWS

AUTHOR OF FAMILIAR FLOWERS OF FIELD AND GARDEN,
FAMILIAR TREES AND THEIR LEAVES, FAMILIAR FEATURES
OF THE ROADSIDE, THE BEAUTIFUL FLOWER GARDEN, ETC.

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY
THE AUTHOR, AND PHOTOGRAPHS FROM
NATURE BY W. LYMAN UNDERWOOD

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1898

D

CopYrRIcHT, 1898,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

/4 349 O

PREFACE.

Terre are few things more gratifying to the
lover of Nature than those momentary glimpses of
wild life which he obtains while passing through the
field or forest. Wild animals do not confine them-
selves exclusively to the wilderness; quite frequently
they venture upon the highway, and we are apt to
regard the meeting with one of them there as a rare
and fortunate occurrence.

The daisy and the wild rose appear in their ap-
pointed places on the return of summer, and the song
sparrow sings in the same tree he frequented the year
before; but the woodchuck, the raccoon, and the deer
are not so often found exactly where we think they
belong. To seek an interview with such wild folk is
like taking a chance in a lottery: there are numerous
blanks and but few prizes.

But because wild life is not in constant evidence,
like the wild flower, is no proof that it is uncommon.

To those who keep in touch with Nature it becomes
i

iv FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

a very familiar thing, and to live a while where the
wild creatures make their homes is to cross their
paths continually. I have not failed to meet that
much-slandered animal, the skunk, every summer for
seven years past, yet with no unhappy results; I have
haunted a fox’s hole the better part of one season,
and have evidently crossed his freshly made tracks,
but with not one lucky chance at the sight of him;
yet when I had no thought of Reynard and was
searching the woods for the Cypripedium, there he
was! On another occasion he was unexpectedly en-
countered in the open pasture by some of the mem-
bers of the household, and still later he was seen
seated on the highway not very far from the pet cat.

One can never tell at what moment some surpris-
ing demonstration of wild life will occur at one’s very
doorstep. What with two deer, nine weasels, and a
performing bear, all of which appeared in one day
last summer close to my studio, I concluded that our
tame mountain retreat had relapsed again to the wild
and happy conditions of the primitive forest. But I
was forced to change my mind a few days after, when
an Italian with his organ ground out “Johnny, get
your gun” within forty feet of the spot where the
wild deer had stood.

It may be largely a matter of good fortune if one
catches a glimpse of some wild creature of the woods

PREFACE, v

in the way I have just described; but in the forest it
unquestionably depends upon the skillful movements
and quiet demeanor of the observer that he can see
without being seen. The wild animals never become
familiar to one who is heedless and impatient. The
waggle of a leaf or the snapping of a twig sends the
timid burrower to the depths of his hole, and it
requires more than the patience of Job to await his
reappearance. It is necessary to count time by
heart-throbs rather than seconds when one enters
the woodland; indeed, it is possibly better to take
no account of it at all, but lavish it generously upon
chances. Perhaps such an apparent waste of time
would be called loafing; if so, then Thorean was a
magnificent loafer. But loafers do not bequeath to us
a world of woodland knowledge such as Thoreau did.

We are at fault because we do not enter the
wood and do a little thinking on our own account.
Perhaps if we did we would discover that the deer,
the marten, the loon, and the bear were not half so
uncommon as we thought they were. Nor can we
rely wholly upon what the books say. Audubon,
Wilson, Rymer Jones, and Elliott Coues are all well
enough in their way, but they smack somewhat of
ancient history. The development of natural history
_in this country is of very recent date; one naturalist’
has informed me that up to about ten years ago one

vi FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

of the most remarkable and typical little mammals
of Florida, a water rat (Microtus neofiber allenia),
had absolutely no record whatever. Ina pamphlet en-
titled The Land Mammals of Florida, by Mr. Outram
Bangs (1898), of seventy-three forms described, seven-
teen are new. When Wilson wrote, in 1812, he knew
positively nothing at all of the songs of the nightin-
gale of America—the hermit thrush—and the veery,
the thrush named for him! Even in so late a book
as The Fur-bearing Animals of Elliott Coues, the
European ermine is confused with two of our Ameri-
can weasels. Such an error as that in these days of
greater light would be deemed inexcusable.

It is to some of the younger students of Nature
that we are indebted for a more concise knowledge
of the relationship of animals—in other words, the
exact identification of distinct species and varieties.
Dr. Merriam makes this fact plain in the following
tribute to the work of Mr. Bangs. He says: “ Until
very recently the group of weasels has been in a state
of chaos, but now, thanks to Mr. Outram Bangs’s ex-
cellent paper entitled A Review of the Weasels of
Eastern North America, the obscurity that has so
long surrounded our Eastern species has been cleared
away.” *

* Vide United States Department of Agriculture, Division of
Ornithology and Mammals. Bulletin No. 11, June, 1896.

PREFACE. wi

There is more in a mame in natural history than
one would suppose. The change, in these latter days,
of a Latin name generally means that the exact na-
ture of the beast is at last discovered. For instance,
the flying squirrel, Sciwropterus sabrinus, is a large,
and in winter a distinctly yellow-tinged, gray-coated
creature, whose white chest fur, if you blow it, is
lead-colored at the base. The commoner species,
Sciuropterus volans volans, is a different animal,
whose under fur is quite white. Not many years
ago these two squirrels were not distinguished apart
and therefore were known by one name. To-day
the old name for the Virginia deer, Cariacus wir-
ginvanus, is displaced by the newer one, Odocoileus
vorgintanus.* The recent change means that until
this last winter (1898) this particular species has not
been properly distinguished apart from other species.

But I can not lightly pass the old and inestima-
bly valuable works of Audubon, Wilson, and Elliott .
Coues without a tribute to their excellence. These
great naturalists were pioneers, and all they have to
say is worthy of the closest study; consequently I
have freely quoted such passages from their works as
I considered would throw a strong light on the sub-

*Vide Proceedings of the Biological Society of Washington,
p. 99, 1898,

vill FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

ject. Regarding Dr. Clinton Hart Merriai’s Ani-
mals of the Adirondacks, I can only add that I con-
sider it a classic, and until some writer shall exceed
its simple and attractive presentation of important
facts, it must be regarded, as far as it goes, as the
best biography of American animals which we to-day
possess.

It should be borne in mind that the times change,
a scientific knowledge of animals grows, and the wild
creatures themselves shift their position over the
land. What was supposed to be uncommon or ex-
tinct twenty years ago can not be regarded so to-day.
The borders of abandoned farms are constantly—not
rarely—invaded by animals who were not supposed
to live within miles of the old places. Occasionally
an otter, a lynx, a deer, or a bear turns up most un-
expectedly, and immediately all the country turns out
to hunt the creature down.

Unfortunately, we have no proper appreciation of
the inherent good in a wild animal; one would think,
by the way men acted, that it had no right to live.
There is no logical reason why we should slay a
snake, skunk, fox, weasel or raccoon unless it be-
comes a public nuisance and we are compelled to
put an end to its depredations.

There is something satisfactory in the feeling of
our own harmlessness in the presence of some poor

PREFACE. ix

frightened creature whose wild eyes betray the fear
that we are a deadly enemy; and with what comfort-
ing assurance we hasten to say, “ No, you are greatly
mistaken, I bear you no ill; I am your friend.” If
only the poor thing could know that, how much hap-
pier the world would wag on!

One feels just a bit of exultant pleasure when one
sees the little wild thing approach, timidly accept a
proffered nut or a crust of bread, and actually eat it
within reaching distance. I recall with no small
feeling of satisfaction the time when, idly paddling

my canoe beside the river bank, I met

a great blue heron slow- ly strolling

along the sandy margin, and
remained beside him for fully
twenty minutes an acceptable com-
panion. Nor do I forget the time \ a
when I approached, softly whistling the
while, a brown heron standing motion-
less on the meadow, and got so near him
that I could see the round shape of his eye as plain-
ly as I have drawn it here. There is a certain
charm in music for the wild animals. I have whis-
tled by the half hour to the hermit thrush and have
received an appreciative and cordial response ; the
veery grows quite excited if I imitate his spiral
song; the red squirrel sits transfixed if I play for

x FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

him on an insignificant ten-cent harmonicon. One
time I noticed a particularly vociferous fellow sub-
side, cross his hands on his breast, and listen respect-
fully to the soothing strains of “ Home, sweet home.”
All this goes to prove that the wild life of the
woods is not unapproachable. It may be difficult to
cultivate its friendship, but it responds. It is an
easy matter to pick a daisy and carelessly throw it
away; but when we have persuaded a wild bird or a
squirrel to eat from our hand, we never throw the
memory of that away: it abides with us forever!
Guns and traps are all very well in their way, but
a conscience void of offense to the animal world is
better. There never was a world more peculiarly
beset with enemies of all kinds and degrees than the
wild animal world; it has to make a fight of life,
anyway; and then there is the common enemy, man,
to reckon with, who crushes the snake, hunts the fox
and bear, worries the woodchuck, shoots the bird, traps
the marten, kills the deer, and makes war generally
upon all wild life without discrimination. One of these
days, when the cutworm, the grasshopper, the field
mouse, the army worm, and the gypsy moth devour the
farm, house and all, we will wonder what has become
of the beneficent skunk, weasel, and snake. Per-
haps we have yet time enough to give these poor crea-
tures a chance to learn we are friends, and not enemies.

PREFACE, xi

I have no excuse for these imperfect records of
my own experience with wild animals except the one
that I have lived long enough among them to respect
their rights of life and speak a good word for them
when occasion offers. There is only one creature I
know of who seems to be a thoroughly ugly char-
acter, afflicted with a most uncontrollable and vicious
temper—that is, the Injun Devil, or wild cat (Lynx
canadensis). Fortunately, he rarely appears this side
of the Canadian border; when he does, the hunter
gives him no peace, for there zs no peace where he
exists.

I wish to add, that without the valuable assistance
of Prof. Samuel Garman, Mr. Outram Bangs, and
Mr. Samuel Henshaw, which I most gratefully ac-
knowledge, I never would have been able to gather
together the latest scientific facts regarding the ani-
mals. Also, the book would have lost much without
Mr. W. Lyman Underwood’s contribution of photo-
graphs from Nature. But the fact is, two heads are
always better than one; and consequently the book,
which is not the selfish outcome of one man’s
thoughts, escapes at least one fault—it is not one-

sided. z
F. Scuuyiter Matuews.

Ex Furerpis, Buarr, Campron, N. H.,
May, 1898.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
J.—EARLY VOICES OF SPRING . . . . .

II.—THE CROAKERS . ? Z ;
III.—SonGLEss BATRACHIANS : 5 ‘ ‘ 3
IV.—OwvR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN ‘ ‘
V.— ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS . ‘ ; .
VI.—STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES

VII. FuRRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS. ‘

VIII.—Fur-cLaD FIGHTERS . . : i :
IX.—Two FAMOUS SWIMMERS ‘ ‘ . ‘ ;

_--. X.—TuAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER ‘ : ‘

XI.—THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS . x

XII.—A MISCHIEVOUS NEIGHBOR . F : i ‘

XIIL—TuHE FARMER’S SLY NEIGHBOR

XIV.—A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS
XV.—A SEMIANNUAL SLEEPER AND A NIGHTLY PROWLER

XVI—SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. ,
xiii

LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

ree

Young foxes . : A é ‘ : . Frontispiece
The muskrat 2
Pickering’s hyla 6
The bullfrog 31
The home of the red salamander. 47

The banks of the Pemigewasset, the home of the black-
billed cuckoo 85
The yellowhammer . 87
The bittern 98

The Pemigewasset River, at Blair’s bridge, and the Shel-
drake—Merganser serrator 105
The wolverene. 114
The mink 149
The otter. 157
“A particularly clever skunk” 172
At the twilight hour, Mt. Chocorua, White Mountains 183
Black bear 191
The raccoon 203
“Out of harm’s way, treed”. 207

xv

xyj FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

“On the whole he is a good-natured beast”

A glimpse of a family of foxes

Young foxes

Young deer

Deer in Blue Mountain Park, Newport, N. H.
The poreupine.

“Tt was not difficult for him to climb a tree”
The gray rabbit

Chipmunk

FACING
PAGE

210

FAMILIAR LIFE
IN FIELD AND FOREST.

CHAPTER I.

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING.
The Hyla, Acris, Chorophilus, and Bufo.

Tue path that follows the course of the stream
through the meadow is bordered with miniature
leaflets which are growing rapidiy in the sunbeams
of early April. The young fuzzy leaves of the liver-
wort (Hepatica triloba) at our feet are in company
with a few promising buds, but the old brown leaves
that have survived the winter snows are still reluc-
tant to give up life and let the younger generation
earry it forward. The brook is rushing tumultuously
toward the river, with no time to linger now in the
pebbly depths where last August all was quiet, and
the lazy trout scarcely moved his tail to keep his
place under the sheltering bank. Farther along
where the brook widens at the level of the river, in
a snarl of freshet-dragged alders and willows, there

yy) FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

is a muskrat busily engaged in gnawing a tender
twig, all impatience and hurry; possibly the creature
is building a nest. As we wander along a little far-
ther a little green snake in the new grass glides out
of our path. But we pass on; we must reach the
hollow in the meadow where strange, shrill voices
are piping in a chorus more deafening than the ves-
per hymn of the million sparrows which congregate
on the bare twigs of the trees in the old graveyard
of King’s Chapel, in Boston, at five in the afternoon.

At last we reach the grassy margin of a shallow
pool, only to find—nothing! And somehow we have
succeeded in silencing the innumerable voices. Ap-
parently there is nothing to do but to sit down on
the end of a neighboring log and patiently wait.
Soon a venturesome peeper begins again; then an-
other, and another, until in about ten minutes the
chorus is going again full blast. It proceeds from a
hundred little throats of frogs less than an inch long,
all but invisible in the shallow pool.

Hyla pickeringii—for this is the name of the
noisy creature—is a familiar representative of the
HTylide family, and is the earliest piper of spring in
the cold bogs and meadows of the hill country. Far-
ther south the rattling note of the cricket frog is
heard quite as early, and even that of the common
toad. But Pickering’s Zyla starts in with emphatic

THE MUSKRAT.

FIBER ZIBETHICUS,

“Busily engaged in gnawing
a tender twig.”

Photographed from life by
W. Lyman Underwood.

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 3

insistence on the fact that spring is here, notwith-
standing the patches of meadow snow and ice which
still linger on the shadowy borders. The more
southern pipers do not have to brave these last foot-
prints of the winter king so continually, and I can
not therefore consider them the earliest of all spring
singers.

It is a most remarkable circumstance that Picker-
ing’s Hyla is always heard, but is seldom seen. He
has a disappointing way of
submerging himself to his

very eyelids in the chilly bog.
- With the mercury at fifty de-
grees he will pipe up at about
four or five in the afternoon. If
we wish to catch him in the act
we must choose a warmer day,
when the mercury stands at sixty Sotiae Bespek
degrees, sit patiently and immova- yn aera ey
bly on the log for a good half hour,

and scan the surface of the pool near the margin with
an opera glass. Here we will be sure to see the bulgy
eyes and the tip of the nose just appearing above
the water, and if we are fortunate, we may see one
of the tiny ocher-yellow creatures perched on some
withered cat-tail leaf, singing his song in plain view
through the glass. Such a tremendous effort he

4 PAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

makes to throw out the liquid whistle, no wonder it
can be heard on a still afternoon nearly a quarter of
a mile away! Beneath his chin the skin is swelled
out like a brownish-white bubble half the size of his
whole body. Imagine a man swelling his throat
thus until it took a balloon shape fully three feet in
diameter, and then letting the thing collapse with a
deafening scream that could be heard fully eighteen
miles! Yet this, supposing the Hyla’s size and voice
could be proportionately increased, is exactly what
would happen.

The muscular effort which the tiny creature
makes to empty his lungs seems not only to collapse
the “bubble,” but most of the body, so that when
he has let out one shrill whistle there is apparently
nothing left but his back, head, and legs. But in
another instant he has swelled again, and the per-
formance goes on with no evidence that even the
smallest blood-vessel will burst. Different individu-
als answer each other in different tones, but the
dominant one is E slurred to F, in the highest
octave on the piano, =e ee and the song
is pitched — by a = slight effort

of the imagination 4 —in the key

of F minor. Other individuals with larger throats

disturb this key by singing thus, and still
others exasperatingly out of time and tune

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 5

sing either sharp or flat. So the whole effect is shrill
rather than melodic, notwithstanding the fact that
the F is constantly suggesting the finale of a plaintive
melody.

But that is just like Nature—she is ever suggest-
ing, and leaving all beyond to our imagination. A
close examination of the body of the

little frog emphasizes this fact.
There is a strong suggestion of a
Saint Andrew’s cross on his ocher-
colored* back, unmistakably defined
in narrow lines, and a narrow dark
line extends from the tip of the nose

to the eye. The X is quite suffi-

ciently plain to prevent any con- * Spring Peeper,

; showing the St. An-
fusion in the identification of Hy- drew’s cross on

the back.

la pickeringit with young tree
toads (Hyla versicolor), or with other frogs of simi-
lar size and color, for no other small frog is marked
with a cross. .

This Hyla is a characteristic tree frog, who with
his padded toes ascends the tallest trees with ease,
and takes to the water only for a brief time in

spring, which is his nuptial season. When the

* It may be slightly green, as the frog possesses to a certain
degree the power of color change.

6 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

breeding season is over, about the first of July,* he
may still be found—but rarely—among the damp,
fallen leaves of the woods, or even in cellars. How
the creatures manage to keep themselves so com-
pletely out of sight in spring and summer is always
aiystery. It is not until the latter part of August
that they ascend the trees, and only once in a long
while have I heard the plaintive but unmistakably
clear whistle of one in the woods toward the close of
September. Prof. E. D. Cope speaks of the autum-
nal voice of this frog thus: “ When the wind is cast-
ing the first frosted leaves to the ground, a whistle,
weaker than the spring cry, is heard repeated at in-
tervals during the day, from one part of the forest
to another, bearing considerable resemblance to the
note of the purple finch (Carpodacus purpureus)
uttered while it is flying.”

The geographical distribution of Pickering’s Hyla
is extensive. He is found from east of the Central
Plains to the Atlantic, and from Canada to Florida
and Texas.

The form of this Hyla approaches that of a
more southern genus called Chorophilus, one species

* Tt is a remarkable fact that this 7yla is apt to choose tempo-
rary pieces of water in the hollows of the meadow for its breeding
places, because, as the season advances and the water evaporates,
whole colonies of its tadpoles dry up and miserably perish in the
hot sun.

Ce t

“wii

a
a lal

4 (lt

Fy.

-_— "iy il oon
Ml (il |

SSS i {

PICKERING’S HYLA.
HYLA PICKERINGII.

“In the latter part of August
they ascend the trees.”

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 4

of which I describe farther on, but it has larger
“foot pads.”

The cricket frog, or Savannah cricket (Acris gryl-
dus), a little creature a trifle over an inch long, com-
monly found as far north as southern New York, is
the only known representative of this genus. In
more southern marshes — those, for instance, of
New Jersey—we may happen to hear both Pick-
ering’s Hyla and the cricket frog singing in com-
pany.

But Acris gryllus has a distinct voice of his own.
He does not whistle an uninterrupted note, but
breaks into musical crepitations some-

what resembling the broken tone of
a rattle whistle. His voice has the
same character as that of the
common toad, but its quality is
more nearly like that of the tree
cricket. More than one natural-
ist has suggested its likeness to
the rapid striking together of two

Savannah Cricket
(Acris gryllus).

pebbles, but to my ear the pebbles are not musical
enough ; impart to them some of the cheery jin-

gle of sleighbells and then I will admit the simili-
0.4272

tude. [p= —ereeeeee]
/ —
In appearance the cricket frog altogether differs

8 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

from the Zyla; there are no distinct pads on the
toes,* and consequently he seldom if ever ascends
trees or bushes. His general color is variable. With
the tree toad (/Zyla versicolv) he possesses a cer-
tain power of color change, or metachrosis, and
while he may be dull green in an environment of
green leaves, among dead ones he is quite as like-
ly to be brown. There is a very characteristic
blackish, triangular patch between the eyes, the
apex of which is directed backward. This is
margined by a light color, sometimes greenish,
sometimes rusty, and as often dull white. This
marginal color of the triangle is continued in a
dorsal stripe to the end of the body. The ex-
treme northeasterly limit of this frog is New Haven,
Conn.

But there are two varieties of this Acr?s, differ-
ing slightly in form and appearance from the species
proper; one of northern distribution is called Acris
grytlus erepitans, and another of southern distribu-
tion (from North Carolina to Florida and Louisiana)
is called Acris gryllus gryllus. With the latter we
have nothing to do, as it is south of our range; but
the former is likely to engage our attention in the

* These are furnished, however, with very slightly enlarged
disks.

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 9

West as far north as Illinois, and also in the East in
southern Pennsylvania.*

William Hamilton Gibson has made a most truth-
ful drawing of the Acris gryllus crepitans to ac-
company his article in Harper’s Young People for
March 25, 1890. Dr. Abbott also frequently refers
to Aeris crepitans,t but I question whether either
he or Mr. Gibson actually heard this species. It is
far more likely that they heard the Aeris gryllus ;
still, I have no means of positively knowing this.
According to Professor Cope, Acris
gryllus crepitans has no record east of
Carlisle, Pa.

The subspecies Acris gryllus
crepitans has three oblique blotches’ on

the sides, which are very prominent,
i Savannah Cricket
and the limbs are muscular and well (cris gryttus

crepitans).

developed. {
The note of this species, it is said, may be ex-

* More particularly in Carlisle, Cumberland County.

+ Vide Outings at Odd Times, pages 107, 108; also Days Out of
Doors, pages 34-37. I doubt very much though, whether the Acris
can whistle and crepitate too. This would be contrary to Nature,
for reasons which are too many for me to explain.

+ Professor Cope also gives the following anatomical defini-
tion of this subspecies: “ Acris gryllus crepitans. Hinder foot, not
including the tarsus (that part of the foot above the instep), less
than half the length of head and body combined; skin tubercles
larger; posterior femoral (hind leg) stripe less distinct.”

10 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

actly imitated by striking two marbles together, first
slowly, then faster and faster, for a succession of
about twenty or thirty beats. The noise can not be
heard at a very great distance.

The little frog is prominently marked on the
back with green, and has the same dark triangle on
the crown as that described for the species proper.
He remains in the tall grass around the marsh, and
seldom if ever ascends a tree or bush. When pur-
sued he leaps extraordinary distances and invariably
makes for the water, into which he disappears just
as we reach the margin after much clumsy slumping
through the bog and vain grabbing at the unattain-

able. Only one who has lost a frog this
way knows anything about the sudden men-
tal activity of the baffled pursuer as he
stands gazing at the mocking ripples.
The genus Acris is distinguished for
its swimming powers. Look at my draw-
— ing of the hind leg and note the webbed
crepitans). toes; now compare this with the hind leg
of Chorophilus triseriatus (page 11), and it will be
seen that the latter can not be much of a swimmer.

The Chorophilus triseriutus, another singer in
early spring, about the same size as the cricket frog,
may be heard in the West, and in the East as far
north as central New Jersey. This frog is ash-gray

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 11

striped with three brown lines, or sometimes fawn
color with the brown stripes broader; the yellow-
white beneath is distinctly granulated.
Professor Cope says, “It delights in
those small and often temporary pieces
of water which are inclosed in the
densest thickets of spiny Smilaw and

Fubus, with serub oaks, and sur-

rounded by the water-loving Ceph- marie Serta
adlanthus, where no shade interrupts = ‘*""*
the full glow of sunlight. Here the little frogs may
be heard in the hottest part of the day, accompanied
by a few Acres gryllus, or rarely a Hyla picheringit
.... As they scarcely swim, when surprised they
seek refuge in the edge of the water, with so little
movement that their capture is no easy matter.”

In southwestern New Jersey the swamps
resound with the rattling notes of these
frogs throughout the spring and sometimes
in the summer. They sing not only in
the evening but at midday, just as the com-
mon toad does. The music is extremely

is soft—rising, swelling, and subsiding like

Hindleg
(C. triseri- the waves of the seashore. I can best

atus). :
represent the song of a single singer

thus: -g——=="""o, The crepitations are not so

loud BS #1 as those of the Acris, nor

12 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

have they the same ringing, sleigh-bell quality. The
tone is also of a much lower pitch, and it very
slightly approaches in quality the bleating tone of the
tree toad.

According to Professor Cope, this frog is com-
mon in Gloucester County, N. J., and Chester Coun-
ty, Pa.; but since the time in which he wrote (1889)
I am inclined to think that the frog has found his
way farther to the northeast, and he ought to be
heard now in Staten Island and the vicinity. I have
certainly heard his voice in the pine barrens not far
from Lakewood, N. J.

I can not sufficiently emphasize the fact that
every species of living thing has its own particular
voice. When once we have heard a single Picker-
ing’s Hyla, we have heard the characteristic voice of
that species, and it is not to be confused for one
moment with that of any other species. The com-
mon frog’s droning note can not be mistaken for the
rattling note of the Chorophalus, or the ringing,
jingling note of the Acris; nor is the quality * of
the note of any one of these species I have named
like that of the bubbly-bleaty note of the tree toad.

* This, in music, we call “timbre.” When I change my tenor
voice and sing a falsetto note, and thus imitate the soprano voice,
I have altered the timbre of the note; although it may still be A,
its quality is no longer the same.

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 13

I can imitate Hyla pickeringi by shrilly whistling
E slurred to F in the highest octave on the piano;
I need a bass viol to imitate the bullfrog (ana
catesbiana); I am sure I do not know how to copy
the tree toad’s note, unless by making a bleating
sound with the lips; I must have a rattle whistle to
imitate the Acris; and I must hum one note and
whistle another to approximate the droning note of
the toad. A big chorus of the Hyla and Acris
sounds like jingling sleighbells; a medley of the
larger batrachians’ voices is like the “tuning up” of
a string orchestra.

Quite nearly related to the genus Chorophilus is
the genus Hyla,* one species of which (Hyla picker-
ingit) I have already noticed. There are but two
other Hyle whose range extends north of North
Carolina: one is Hyla versicolor (of the same range
as Hyla pickeringit), and the other is Hyla ander-

* The genus Hyla includes fully one half of the large Hylidae
family, which seems to have been created to inhabit the leafy part
of the world—especially the tropical part—for the special purpose
of holding in check the prolific insect life which might otherwise
do an inestimable amount of injury to vegetation. It is the case,
therefore, that in those regions where vegetable life abounds there
is a proportional increase in the number of species. I question
very much whether one could conscientiously kill a toad or a frog
who had a full knowledge of the immense number of insects it
devoured within a year’s time, and the extent of harm that these
might have worked on vegetation.

14 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

sonéi, an extremely rare frog found from New Jer-
sey to Georgia. As only three individuals of this
last species had been found up to 1889, we must pass
it as an unfamiliar phase of

swamp life, and turn our
attention to the very com-
mon Lyla versicolor.
This is the frog fa.
miliarly known as the
tree toad, which inhabits
every hedgerow and tree-
0 | girt marsh throughout the
s country. Professor Verrill
records this species as being
found at Norway, Me.,
which is considered the most easterly point of its
range; but at Campton, N. H., scarcely sixty-three
miles west of Norway, I have found this frog, if not
common, at least so plentiful that I have heard him
sing ervry season for the last ten years. It would
seem reasonable, then, to move his easterly limit still
farther east than Norway. Wherever there are
woodlands bordering a marsh or pond, there he will
be sure to be heard, at least in June; and I have
no doubt but that his voice may be a familiar one

Tree Toad (Hyla vesicolor).

in some of the wooded swamps near Portland.
This remarkable tree toad has a compact, squat-

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 15

looking figure, the outline of which at all points
might easily touch the circumference of a circle.
The head is broader than it is long. The back of
the creature is generally ashen gray, with strange
blotches of green here and there; but we must not
forget that he can change color, and in an envi-
ronment of leaves and grass he is decidedly green.
Again, on a lichen-covered log he is quite likely to
be brown-gray, and on the rough trunk of the swamp
maple (Acer rubrum) an uncompromising brown.
In fact he possesses the power of metachrogis (color
change) to a wonderful degree; hence his specific
title versicolor. This change, however, is not accom-
plished quickly. His back is covered with warty
excrescences ; beneath his body, on the lighter skin,
are distinct granulations; and a characteristic loose
fold extending across the chest indicates that he does
not “fit his clothes.”

The eggs of Ayla versicolor are laid in small
packets on blades of grass, slender sticks, and the
stems of weeds, in shallow pools. All through the
breeding season, in May or June, the bleating note
of this frog may be heard after the sun goes down,
in different parts of the swamp, one voice respond-
ing to another, or perhaps both mingling. I have
counted about eight notes given out in one second
and a half. This is a fair average utterance of one

16 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

individual. Intervals of about four seconds and a
half occur with indifferent regularity. One can not
quite depend on the tree toad for synchronous
effect; it is a sort of go-as-you-please musical con-
versation which he keeps up, very often confused
by two or three speaking at the same time; but the
winning little voices are pleasing and entertaining,
and the “word” that is passed around is reassuring.

There are rarely more than three or four of these
frogs congregated in one spot, and it may often be
quite a distance to the next assembly. The voices
are strung along in the dusk of evening somewhat
thus:

(al ae 160 aor, yale Qnd.. 3rd. 4th.
| Sy AAD 0 ECR SGT T | T

eee r eer et tt

' iy? POPP Pr Pr cope ep
Se

By the time No. 4 begins No. 1 breaks in again,
and we have a duet; then comes No. 2 alone;
then No. 3 accompanied by No. 4; and presently, in
the irregularity of the succession, we have a trio.
Imagine a few tiny lambs bleating thus: “ Tur-r-r-r-t,
Tre-t-t-t-t,” and the simile is as complete as I can
make it. Later in the season these voices come from
the hedges and the orchards; the frogs have left their
aquatic retreats. A Mr. Geismar, who kept several
in his vivarium, has recorded a remarkable instance
of their domestication. Both window and vivarium

&

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 17

being left open during part of the day the frogs
would leave the house and establish themselves on
the trees in the orchard, where their
voices could be heard throughout the
evening. During the night they would
return to the house, and would appear
in their usual places in the morning.
Hyla versicolor is not only remark-

able for his change of color and his

. . : a The
winning voice, but also for his “foot «¢oot-paas” of

the Tree Toad.

pads,” my drawing of which will show
their high development. Not-

x a OE ing these strange little
disks on the tips
of the toes, which
closely adhere to
the surface on
which the crea-
ture stands, the
fact will not ap-
pear so surprising
that he can stand near-
ly upside down! It is

Common Toad.

perfectly plain, too, by
the webbed feet, that the little acrobat is a fair
swimmer.

Last, but by no means least among the batrachian
8

18 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

singers of spring, comes the common toad (Bufo
americanus). The poor, brown, warty creature
which is so repulsive in appearance, and which one
shudders to touch, possesses one of the sweetest,
voices of spring—a dreamy, lulling, musical voice,
well fitted to sing the slumber song of Nature, and
transport every living thing in woodland and mead-
ow to the mysterious land of dreams. The birds, it
is true, may be thus sung to sleep, but not so with all
the rest of the animal creation; most of it delights
to prowl about all night long, just as Robert Louis
Stevenson says, and none of it cares a straw for an

accompanying nocturne:

“ The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,
The howling dog by the door of the house,
The bat that lies in bed at noon,

All love to be out by the light of the moon.”

By moonlight the song of the toad seems even
more entrancing; but cat and weasel, coon and
skunk, fox and bat—all are intent on prey, and our
lullaby singers make some of it.

Every dweller in the country is familiar with the
voice of Bufu umericanus. In the breeding season,
from April to June, the toad resorts to the swampy
parts of the meadow, and there winds his horn for
the delectation of his mate. The sound is a some-

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING. 19

what cricketlike but prolonged “ Wur-r-r-r-r-r,”
which can be closely imitated by humming and soft-
ly whistling the following notes together :

In a large congregation of toads the

fat

AF

“a
chorus, by no means shrill or noisy, is FSi

. on Ti

remarkable for its effect of harmony. FE?

Although the note is sustained, it is
broken by exceedingly rapid crepitations which it is
impossible for the ear to follow. The “ locust,”
which, years ago, boys used to construct from a
soda-bottle neck, a piece of kid glove, a woven bit
of horsehair, and a stick, produced a very similar but
less musical sound. In singing, the toad swells his
throat to a whitish, bubblelike form, which collapses
when the sound ceases; then after two or three
movements of the lips, as though to pucker them
for another effort, he swells up again, and continues
for the space of about seven seconds more. He re-
peats this performance an indefinite number of times,
and finally, upon a slight and sudden movement of
the observer, disappears among the weeds on the
border of the pond. So much for his “ Liebeslied.”
In some secluded part of the pond the female de-
posits the eggs, which are inclosed in a long, thick-
walled tube of transparent albumen, in the water.
These tubes lie in long spiral strings on the bottom,
and the dark-colored young hatch out quite early.

20 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Finally, after the consummation of the metamorpho-
sis, they appear in a completed form (tinier than that
of the Lyle at the same age) along the margin of
the water—veritable pygmy toads.

In midsummer the toad takes up his abode under
one’s doorstep, and issues forth in the early evening
to secure his insect food. I havea great admiration
for a certain big fellow who frequents my garden
during the night season and makes way with an im-
mense number of insects. He is not disturbed by
my presence in the cool of the evening when I water
the flowers, and hops about in and out among the
poppies and nasturtiums with full confidence that his
presence there is welcome. I know exactly where
his home is (under the front steps) and can tell pretty
nearly at what time he will sally out in the gloaming.
He is undoubtedly a creature of systematic habits,
and possesses but one fault: he strays beyond the
garden limits, and establishes himself about 10 p. .
on the plank walk outside. Here he is in constant
danger of being stepped upon with others of his kind
who will not stay in the grass.

If one has not an unconquerable aversion to toads
it is worth while to corner a big fellow and scratch
him on the back. If he is scratched on the right
side he will lean over that way, just as a cat does
whose cheek is rubbed; if scratched on the left side

EARLY VOICES OF SPRING, a1

he Jeans to the left; if scratched on both sides he
squats with content, and, I imagine, an expression
of satisfaction settles in his fishy eye.

I do not suppose a toad has any parasite to bite
his tough, warty back; the frog, though, does unfor-
tunately have a certain low parasitic form of life
which inhabits his blood.* About every creature
in the world, however, is likely to furnish another
smaller world for yet smaller creatures to live in, and
the frog is no exception to the rule. There is more
truth than nonsense in the suggestive doggerel that
runs:

“ Little fleas have lesser fleas upon their backs to bite ’em,
And these fleas have lesser fleas, ad infinitum.
Great fleas have greater fleas upon their backs to go on,
And these fleas have greater fleas and greater fleas, and
so on!”

* There have been certain sausagelike parasites discovered in
the blood of Rana esculenta. Dr. Gaule found in this frog’s red
blood-corpuscles, mobile corpuscles, elongate, and pointed at the
extremities. These issued from the cells, which they could drag
after them for some time, but after a while became motionless, and
finally died and disappeared.

CHAPTER IL.

THE CROAKERS.

Familiar Members of the Tribe Rana.

We have already considered the soloists of the
batrachian orchestra, and now the musicians who
represent the ’cello and the bass viol must engage
our notice. A hundred croaking voices reach our
ears from the vicinity of the frog pond, and many of
them possess a distinct individuality. The “croaks”
are not all alike: there is the basso profundo of the
bullfrog, the barytone of the green frog, and several
other strange tones of still stranger batrachians, all
of which are easily distinguished apart.

The genus Lana,* to which these croakers be-
long, is an extensive division of the large family
Ranide. Tt includes no less than one hundred and

* The frogs belonging to the genus Rana are well protected
from their enemies by an extremely acrid secretion of the skin.
Cats and dogs avoid them as a rule, not, however, without excep-
tions; but snakes appear to differ in their tastes, and the great
number of frogs they swallow in the springtime is beyond calcu-
lation.— Cope.

9

5)
22

THE CROAKERS. 293

eight species, according to Mr. Boulanger, but of
these only six are common enough in our northeast-
ern States to attract our notice. These are:

1. Rana virescens virescens, the leopard frog; a
subspecies of Lana virescens (Lana halecina, of other
authors), a bright-green frog found along our seacoast
and the adjacent country.

2. Rana palustris, a light-brown frog found in
cold springs and streamlets.

3. Rana septentrionalis, a round-spotted frog
found in northern New York and the northwest.

4. Rana clamata, the green frog, common every-
where.

5. Rana catesbiana, the bullfrog, the largest spe-
cies of all, also common.

6. Rana sylvatica, the wood frog, common every-
where in our woodlands.

The prettiest fellow of them all is
the leopard frog, Rana virescens
worescens, about two and a
half inches long. A
bright copper - col-
ored line begins at
his nose and ends
at his eye; a sec-
ond line of yellow-

P * Leopard Frog
ish white reaches (Rana virescens virescens).

94 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

from the nose to the shoulder. The eyes are large
and prominent, the nose is pointed, and the general
color of the body above is yellowish green marked
with oval spots of’ olive margined with bright yellow,
These spots are arranged in two rows on the back,
and in two others less distinct on the sides. Under-
neath, the body is silver-white at the mouth and yel-
low-white at the abdomen. There is a characteristic
longitudinal band on the front of the thigh.

This species is found in great numbers in the
swamps that border the creeks and rivers of the At-
lantic coast; but inland, except in the Mississippi
Valley, it is rather rare. According to Professor
Cope, with the Acris gryllus it is the first species
heard in spring, and although a single voice is not
loud, the noise produced by thousands of them close
at hand is deafening, and can be heard many miles
away. This frog “clucks” almost exactly like a hen,
and in about the same key; 4.72 —
but the noise of a large ees
number sounds more like a

number of ducks quacking, but not without a de-
cidedly musical ring. I can not, of course, indicate
what difference there may be between the voices of
the species proper (Rana virescens or Rana halecini)
and this subspecies, but Iam inclined to believe that
there is none.

THE CROAKERS. 25

Rana palustris is a frog of the same size as
Rana virescens virescens, but of entirely different
color and tune. His voice is hoarse, and his note is a
long, low croak, resembling, as Professor Cope says,
the tearing of some coarse material; I should suggest
burlap, and add that the tone is anywhere ===
from F to A below middle C on the piano.

This frog lives around cold streams and springs,
and is very commonly seen in the grass. In habit

he is not gregarious like Rana virescens

virescens, but on the contrary is rather
solitary. He is the most abun-
dant frog in the Alleghany
Mountains, but is com-
mon throughout all
the States east of
the Mississippi
River. In agility

SAT he is only excelled

Brown Frog
(Rana palustris).

by the wood frog
(Rana sylvatica),
which he slightly resembles in point of color, lacking,
however, the dash of black behind the eye. With
one long, graceful leap this athletic batrachian covers
the ground with the ease of a deer, and leaves his
pursuer far in the rear. He has rather a disagree-
able odor.

96 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

The nose of this species is more obtuse than that
of Rana virescens virescens, and the general color of
the back is light brown, well covered with oblong
spots of dark brown regularly arranged on either
side. Between these spots and another similar series
lower down on the side is a bright yel-

low line. The wood frog’s color is
generally tan brown, but he is

without conspicuous spots.
The northern frog
(Rana septentrionalis),
which is the least
familiar one of my
group, is distin-
guished for its dis-
agreeable odor. It

has a somewhat broad,

Northern Frog

(Rana septentrionalis). stout body, a narrow

head, and a rough but
not tuberculated skin. The color above is light
olive, covered on the lower half of the back with
lurge, nearly ctrculur blotches of brown. The legs
have a few blotches, but no bands. Beneath, the
color is a uniform dull whitish yellow. Compared
with Rane clumata,* the species next described, this

* Vide Batrachia of North America, E. D. Cope.

THE CROAKERS. 27

frog has a browner color, larger eyes, longer fingers,
and longer but less webbed feet. According to Pro-
fessor Cope, the variations of Rana septentrionalis
are greater than those of any other North American
species of this genus.

The northern frog is about two inches long in
maturity, and is found only in the north country
from Garrison’s Creek, near Sackett’s Harbor (Lake
Ontario), N. Y., northward to Canada, and westward
to Minnesota.

Dr. J. H. Garnier, who has given a detailed ac-
count of the habits of this species as observed by

him at Lucknow, Ontario, says it pos-
sesses the odor of the mink, and is

particularly offensive on
being handled. It is
a thoroughly aquat-
ic species, which
seeks its food—
insects and small
fishes —in the
water only. I
Green Frog (Rana clamata). e know nothing
of its voice.

The green frog (Rana clamata)—or the noisy
frog, as his Latin specific title would seem to sug-
gest (a very common batrachian, about three inches

98 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

long)—is the one whose familiar nasal “ gum-m-m ie
or “ chun-n-ng” is heard in every pool and frog pond
from one end of the country to the other. He gen-
erally waits on the margin until we approach within
a yard of his retreat, and then slumps into the pool
with a short and derisive “g-m-m” in C, one octave
below middle C on the piano, thus:

Often the note will be as high as E; Eee
but in any event it is not a noisy voice which one
hears, and the Latin name seems entirely misapplied,
more particularly as these frogs do not congregate in
large and clamorous assemblies like Hyla picheringit
or Lana virescens virescens. On the contrary, Rana
clamata lives alone or with one or more companions.
We will frequently see him seated on a lily pad or
on the shaded margin of the pond, where he occa-
sionally makes a gulping answer to a fellow frog over
on the other side.

In form ana clamata is rather stout, with a
head longer than it is broad, and very large ear
drums. The hind feet are strongly webbed, and the
skin of the back is more or less rough. In cvlor the
frog is decidedly green, the upper parts quite bright
and the lower parts deepening to a dull olive hue.
Beneath, the coloring is dull white merging into yel-
low under the chin; the hind legs are marked with
three or four transverse dark bands.

THE CROAKERS, 29

The next nearest relative of Pana clamata is the
bullfrog (Zana catesbiana), the largest of all the
American species; he frequently measures four and
a half inches from the nose to the end of the body.

He is the bass viol of the batrachian

orchestra, and the king of all the
croaking tribe of Rana, but
also a sort of canni-
bal into the bar-
gain, for he
is known to
feast on his

own tad-

‘» pole prog-

sail -eny. But

sn this is a bad

The Bullfrog ee es habit not wholly

confined to the
big Runa catesbiana. Any one who has fished for
frogs with a bit of red worsted tied to a fishhook
knows how the gaping, wide-mouthed creatures will
snap at anything that comes along without discrim-
ination ; in fact, a tadpole for bait will do almost as
well asa bit of red worsted. Apropos of this fact,
Dr. Abbott’s remarks about the voracity of frogs are
well worth repeating :
“While feeding an Anderson’s Hyla with flies a

30 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

few days ago, which it takes from my fingers, I was
startled by the on-rush of a little wood frog, which,
impatient for its own dinner, seriously attempted to
swallow both the tree toad and my fingers at one
mighty gulp... . With widely gaping jaws, which
were distended before the leap was made, the frog at-
tempted to scoop up the toad and swallow it, or get
such a hold as would make subsequent swallowing
an easy task; and yet the difference in size of the
two creatures was very little. As for the tree toad,
it took the whole proceeding as a matter of course,
not moving a muscle even when such great danger
was apparently imminent. The whole tribe of tail-
less batrachians is much alike in this respect, seem-
ingly taking it for granted that they were born to be
eaten, and stuff themselves until fate wills it that
they go to stuff others. . . . I have seen little fellows
just from the tadpole state in dangerous proximity
to patriarchal bullfrogs, which were then only wait-
ing for their appetites to return to swallow a halt
dozen of their own grandchildren !”

Rana catesbivna is much less green than Rana
elamata ; the color of the back is dull olive, some-
times marked with darker blotches or bands, the
positions of which are not always the same. The
head is usually yellowish olive-green, and the lower
part of the body much darker. Beneath, the crea-

THE BULLFROG.

RANA CATESBIANA,
“Tuneful scrapings on a
moonlight night.”

THE CROAKERS, B31

ture is yellowish white, much deeper in tone under
the chin. In different localities the frog is differ-
ently marked, and it is therefore impossible to define
any standard of color whereby the species may be
identified. The head is as broad as it is long, and
the hind feet are widely webbed. A characteristic
mark of this species is the fold in the skin, which
begins behind the eye, curves over the dark round
spot which is really the ear, and descends to a point
below the lower jaw, losing itself in the yellow skin
under the arm on the breast. This is the only fold
of skin on the frog, and it is inconspicuous beyond
the ear; but a sharp eye may easily detect its course
beyond that point.

Every one knows the bullfrog’s note; and that
his hoarse voice in the distance, so nearly resembling
the roar of a bull, should have occasioned his name,
goes without saying. Still, as I have remarked be-
fore, there is a musical tone to nearly every sound in
Nature’s world, and our bullfrog is not an exception
to the rule. He is the double bass of the midsum-
mer orchestra, and no stretch of the imagination is
required to hear his tuneful scrapings on a moonlight
night ranging through the following chords:

ee eee
- aE i 4 Sy
[ELH J ® [* i

Tat T tT +
: I? i
ae ae =

Rum jugorum: jugo' rum: morerum-o'rum morerum a'rum.

tH
+++

39 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

There are often as many discords as there are har-
monies, I will admit; but there, again, is Nature’s
suggestiveness. She simply suggests the harmony,
and we assimilate it; a little imagination does the
rest, and “jug o’ rum, jug o’ rum, more rum, more
rum” is quite a justifiable simile, although it reflects
on the character of the woodsman more than it does
on that of the batrachian. There is a humorous fit-
ting of tones to syllables often scraped on the bass
viol during an intermission of the string orchestra, run-
ning thus: -9 — +, Hum those tones to

bi 1¥

a musician Hoe geo and his response is

‘ Whet'll you h drink? +48
a smile of art youve te erm? yecognition ; they

suggest but one idea to the German mind—beer.
I am inclined to think the American woodsman is
responsible for the suggestive syllables connected
with the bullfrog’s sonorous croak.

The bullfrog prefers the larger bodies of water,
especially where these are surrounded by evergreen
forests, and he haunts the shores where thickets and
underbrush make his home inaccessible. The voice is
not heard until the arrival of warm weather, and it
continues through every evening during the sum-
mer; it may occasionally be heard for a distance of
two miles.

Dr. Garnier points out certain similar charac-
teristics of the three species, Rana septentrio-

THE CROAKERS. 33

nalis, Rana clamata, and Rana catesbiana, which I
copy:

1. They have no chant d’amour in sprig

2. They retire early to hibernate with the first
autumnal frost.

3. They live in the water and lie in wait for their
food, never hunting for it on land.

4. They poise the body on floating weeds, or sit
on the bank, or on any bit of stick or log that suits
their purpose. a

5. Their tadpoles require two years in which to
mature.

6. Their notes are produced by inflating the
throat pouch and suddenly expelling the air; where-
as in Rana virescens, ete.,

there is a pouch on either
side near the angle of
the jaws.

7. They are all
tinged with yellow-
ish green under the

chin.
The wood frog
(Rana sylvatica) is Wood Frog (Rana sylvatica).

a distinctly sylvan
character, he is frequently found among the dead

and moist leaves on the border of the brook which
4

34 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

finds its way among the ferny hollows of the hillside
forest. This frog is susceptible to the color of his
surroundings, and changes from the tan color of a
dead leaf to the green of a living one with consider-
able ease. In general his color is tan brown, and
his characteristic mark is a blackish patch extend-
ing from behind the eye to a point just over the
shoulder. Often his back will be strong buffish gray,
with a tinging of brown on either side. There are
three or four transverse dark bands across the thighs,
and a few scattered black spots will be found on the
sides.

The nose of this species is rather pointed, and the
limbs are long and slender, with the hind feet well
webbed. The frog is therefore a good swimmer;
but as a leaper he holds the record. When one
spies a dull brown, slender-legged frog among the
leaves around a woodland spring, or even in the re-
cesses of the forest where there is no water near, and
this frog takes a flying leap, disappearing entirely—
perhaps landing somewhere in the next county—one
may be pretty sure that it is none other than Rana
sylvatica.

In early April we may hear the spasmodic
and hoarse croak of the wood frog
near the eee pond, to which he resorts

in the short breeding season; but in the summer he

THE CROAKERS, 35

takes to the woods again, and remains there for the
rest of the year. His voice is pitched about an
octave below middle C, and it is really not often
heard after May ; in fact, this frog is the most silent
one of the genus Pana.

CHAPTER III.

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS.

The Salamanders.

Arter leaving the clamorous frogs, one experi-
ences a sense of relief in coming to the voiceless
salamander—lizard as he is wrongly called. Now
the lizard and the salamander belong to two separate
families of widely different character. The lizard is
covered with imbricated or granular scales; he is the
small relation of the alligator. The salamander is
smooth-skinned ; he is the elongated relation of the
frog. The lizard is a sauriun reptile, the principal
characteristics of which are the scales, the claws to
the toes, the undilated mouth, the toothed jaws, and
the egos with a hard shell or skin, the young from
which do net undergo a metamorphosis. The sala-
mander is a batrachian, with a skin as smooth as a
catfish, toes without claws, dilated mouth, and young
which are metamorphosed.

The salamander was credited with the most re-

markable attributes in days of old. His bite was
36

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS. 37

considered fatal, and anything which his saliva
touched was said to become poisonous. But the
principal absurdity connected with this generally
aquatic creature was that he could resist fire—in fact,
could extinguish it. Bacon says: “There is an an-
cient received tradition of the salamander that it liv-
eth in fire, and hath force also to extinguish the fire.”
And Shakespeare makes Falstaff say: “I have main-
tained that salamander of yours with fire any time
this two and thirty years; God reward me for it!”
Even in colonial times a superstitious connection of
salamanders with the fire on the kitchen hearth was
rife in the minds of simple folk, and old dying em-
bers were said to breed them.

But between fire and water the salamander chooses
the latter; and although some. of the species are ter-
restrial in habit, many of them are decidedly aquatic
—our little red salamander, for instance. Most of
the “lizards,” however, are found under the stones
on the margin of the brook or the ditch; but not a
few hide among the damp, withered leaves of the
forest floor.

One of the common batrachians of the West is
named Necturus maculatus—the spotted WVectwrus.
His back is crowded with whitish specks, which re-
duce the general brown color to a pattern in fine
lines. Along the back are also arranged superior

38 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

rows of dark brown spots. The branchial (gilled)
formations of this strange creature are very conspicu-
ous, the head and muzzle are flat,
the body is proportionally short,
and there are but four
toes to each foot.

le)
He is entirely
aquatic.
That still stranger-looking creature, common on
the bottoms of rivers in Ohio, called the hellbender
(Cryptobranchus

Spotted Necturus (Necturus maculatus).

alleghentensts
’

Cope *),

is horrible in name
only, but yet far from

“Teese being agreeable in ap-
The Hellbender S
(Cryptobranchus allegheniensis). Pearance. He is a rep-

tile, every inch. The
head is flat and broad, the tail is half as long as
the head and body together, the mouth is wide, and
the legs are short, with an extensive fold of skin

* Also called Protonopsis horridus,

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS, 89

between the armpit and the extremity of the outer
“finger.”

This harmless reptile is a pale leaden color with
indistinct brown spots on the back. Both this and
the preceding species have a more eellike than lizard-
like appearance. They are about a foot long.

The hellbender is distributed from western New
York to Georgia and Louisiana, and westward to
Iowa. He is entirely aquatic in his habits, and is
frequently “hooked” by fishermen on the
Ohio River.

A more lizardlike and attractive crea-
ture than the hellbender is the salaman-
der named Amblystoma punctatum, dis-

tinguished for a smooth
skin pitted
with pores
which are
most numerous
about the tail,
and for the milky juice which exudes from the darker
colored portions of it. The general color of this sala-
mander is leaden black, and on each side of the back
are a series of circular, or nearly circular, regularly
arranged yellow spots about as large as the eye. On
the sides, and beneath, are some scattered specks
of bluish white on a lighter leaden-colored ground,

Violet Salamander (Amblystoma punctatum).

40 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

which impart a somewhat plum-colored hue to the
creature.

The eggs of this species are surrounded by large
masses of albuminous matter, which are deposited in
pools, ditches, and streamlets. Upon a closer exami-
nation these masses will be found to consist of a num-
ber of hollow spheres about a quarter of an inch in
diameter, connected together by a transparent jelly.
Within each sphere is the embryo of a young sala-
mander. In due season the half-developed, fishlike
creature, freed from the gelatinous envelope, com-
pletes its growth in the quiet water, and finally de-
velops four legs, which sprout from the body and ter-
minate first with three, then four, and

finally five toes. This salaman-
der is common
from New York
westward and south-
ward. The length
of an average specimen at
‘ maturity is about six inches.
Tiger-spotted Salamander Another closely allied
(Amblystoma. tigrinum).
species is the Amblystoma
tigrinuin, sometimes ten inches in length, but gener-
ally not more than seven. The color of this species
is leaden black of a brownish tone; on the upper

parts, generally on the sides of the tail and limbs, are

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS., Al

sharply defined yellow spots about the size of the
eye, less symmetrically arranged than those of Am-
blystoma punctatum ; beneath, the dull white color is
sometimes, but not always, blotched with yellow. The
head is proportionally small, the body thick and wide,
and the legs stout and short.

The young of this species are said to be very
abundant in all still water in the far West. They
are exceedingly voracious and bite at the hook read-
ily. Late in the summer they complete their meta-
morphoses and take to the land, where they hide in
the holes of woodchucks, badgers, ete. Professor
Cope describes a captive salamander of this species
(it came from New Jersey) which occupied a burrow
in the soil of his fernery for several weeks. The
burrow had two openings, and from one of these the
head of the creature could usually be seen, with
the little eyes intently watching what was going on
in the outer world. I had two such salamanders in
captivity in my own fernery for about a year. They
became perfectly tame, and ate from my hand. It
was amusing to watch the little heads deliberately
turn for a better view of some interesting object.

Amblystoma tigrinum is common from southern
New York southward and westward, and is especially
abundant near Beasley’s Point, between Cape May
and Atlantic City, N. J. A specimen is even re-

49 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

corded from Ottawa, so it is apparent that its geo-
graphical distribution is very wide.

The most elongated and slender native species
of salamander is the Plethodon cinereus, whose body
and tail, cylindrical throughout, meas-
ure about four inches in

Plethodon cinereus.

length ; the tail is sometimes considerably longer than
the head and body. The color above is dark brown,
and below it is dull white, so thickly sprinkled with
mottled brown that the general appearance is like
that of ‘‘ pepper and salt.”

This little fellow is characteristically sylvan. His
habits are exclusively terrestrial; he is never found
(even in the larval stage) in the water. Te hides
under the stones and fallen trunks in the forests
everywhere, and never strays to the open fields. The
eggs are laid in a little package beneath a stone
in a damp place; when the young emerge they are
provided with branchie (gills of a fringelike appear-
ance), but these soon vanish, and very small speci-
mens are often found without them. I do not recol-
lect that I have ever found this salamander in New
England; but in the woodlands of southern New

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS. 43

York he is far from uncommon. That, however, is a
matter of personal experience. Professor Cope says
that this species, found throughout the United States
east of the Mississippi River, is apparently more
abundant in the Middle States than elsewhere, and
that its northern range is central Maine, Ontario, and
Michigan.

A very common variety of this species is the red-
backed salamander (Plethodon cinereus erythrono-

tus). There is prac- tically no difference be-

and characteristics of this
of Plethodon

tween the proportions

sub-species and those

cinereus. In ap-
pearance there is a
difference; the back
of Plethodon cinereus r
erythronotus is marked Red-backed Salamander

with a broad red stripe is aad
which begins at the neck and finishes at the tip of the
tail. There is a mottled appearance at the middle
of the stripe which does not affect this color. The
stripe is also variable in tone; sometimes it is brick-

BO Ne

red, occasionally it is pinkish, and at other times it

is pale orange.*

* When it is this color we are liable to confuse it with the spe-
cies Desmognathus ochrophea, but the body of the latter is stouter,
and its under parts are never yellow.

44 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

This species is common on the west side of Lake
Champlain, in Essex County, N. Y., in southern New
England, in the southern Catskills (at Pine Hill), and
in New Jersey, at least according to my experience
and that of several others. Its distribution, however,
is quite parallel with that of Plethodon cinereus. At
his home in New Jersey, Dr. Abbott once shook one
from a stick of wood which he was about to place on
the fire, and the creature, instead of supporting its
reputation of being a “‘fire-eater,” scampered away
from the hearth in frantic alarm.

Another species closely allied to the above, but
stouter in figure, called Plethodon glutinosus, the

Plethodon giutinosus. p\

sticky salamander, has a wide range from Maine to
Texas. Professor Cope says he found it more abun-
dant in Pennsylvania and New York than in south-
western Virginia. It is also said to be common in
Massachusetts and Maine.* The skin of this sala-
mander is everywhere lined with little glands which

* Vide Batrachia of North America. Cope.

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS. 45

secrete a milky juice; these glands are largest on the
upper surface of the tail, and more scattered on the
under parts.

The head of the sticky salamander is broad, the
eyes are large and prominent, and the toes are slight-
ly swollen at the ends. The color of the back is
leaden black, and on the sides are tiny silvery gray
specks. The back is sometimes entirely without spots,
or they are exceedingly minute. This salamander is
also terrestrial in his habits. He is found most com-
monly in the mountainous districts of the North and
South, and his favorite haunts are the crevices of
rocky ledges and the hollows in decaying logs. His
total length is a little less than six inches.

This species is distinguished from Plethodon cine-
reus by its broader figure, larger limbs, less webbed
toes, and silvery side spots.

The next salamanders which should engage our
attention belong to the genus Spelerpes, which is re-

Two-striped yellow Salamander (Spelerpes bilineatus).

markable for its bright colors, usually red or yellow.
The two-striped salamander (Spelerpes bilineatus) is
yellow, with a slightly brownish tinge on the back, and

46 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

two dark brown lines, one on either side. The under
parts are a spotless citron yellow. The pretty little
creature is scarcely more than three inches in length ;
his tiny legs are terminated by the slenderest of toes,
and his small figure is altogether dainty and attractive.
Very probably he is the salamander to which Dr.
Abbott refers in Days Out of Doors, thus: “ Deeper
in the drifted mass, where the trickling waters of a
little spring had formed a shallow pool, were numbers
of long, lithe yellow salamanders, which I had not
found before, and so had held were not to be included
in our fauna. I forgot for the time that others might
have been more fortunate, as was the case.” Yes,
these amber-yellow salamanders, even if they are not
common in New Jersey, are somewhat common in
New York-—in the southern Catskills, for instance—
and in Pennsylvania. The northern range of the
species is extended with decreasing numbers to the
borders of Maine, and, although specimens may not
be common, perhaps, in New Hampshire, I have found
one as far north as Squam Lake. Southwardly and
westwardly this species is found in Florida and Ohio.
The yellow salamander is aquatic to a certain extent,
and frequents shallow brooks, stony swamps, and cold
springs; but I have also found the little fellow
among the weeds that border the brook. He is a

sprightly creature, and wriggles away from the hand

THE HOME OF THE RED

SALAMANDER.

A

RUBR

ELERPES

sP

BROOK,

NN

THE MCCA
CAMPTON,

N. H,

SONGLESS: BATRACHIANS. 47

which captures him with the slightest opportunity
that is offered.

A far commoner type of Spelenpes is the red sala-
mander (Spelerpes rubra), which is found in almost
every mountain
in the north
This is the fa-
miliar, so-called “red

tarn or brook

country.

lizard,” perhaps five incheslong

at most, whose brilliant coloring in
the green setting of the hillside
spring is an unexpected and de-

lightful surprise to one who gazes

upon it for the first time. In habits
this creature is decidedly aquatic, as

Red aalaraandee
(Spelerpes rubra).
he never goes beyond the precincts

of the brook except in rainy weather. On a very
rainy day last summer one made his appearance on
the back-door step of my cottage in the White
Mountains, evidently after straying from the spring
a hundred feet behind the house; but wet days are
the only ones for salamanders to travel in. There
is no fear of “drying up” en route, and the wide
world, however wet, is more interesting than the
stony environment of the brook; so I captured the
adventurous salamander and gave him a view of
life in my studio from the confines of a fish globe.

48 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

But he proved very uninteresting. He did not favor
me with his mysterious song, which I had read so
much about, and he ate nothing that was set before
him. In fact, his existence proved to be a very mo-
notonous one from my point of view, so I gave him
his liberty.

He came on a rainy day, and I let him go on an-
other. There is nothing like bemg consistent. It is
well not to forget that it occasionally rains frogs and
salamanders, according to the dictum of some simple-
minded people, and it is wisest to choose a wet day,
and thus not shake the faith of a believer! But there
is a very strange thing connected with the little red
salamander, which is the more remarkable because
there seems to be but one record of it. I refer to the
vice ascribed to the creature. It seems very doubtful
whether he has any voice.* Possibly I am the most
unreasonable of skeptics in this matter, but I have a
lingering idea that the salamandert which John

*TI have referred the matter to Professor Garman, of Cam-
bridge, and he is also very skeptical about the salamander’s voice.
As Professor Garman is one of our leading authorities on batrachi-
ans, and as he has never heard a salamander sing, 1 am inclined
to accept his opinion as final.

t “ For years I have been trying to ascertain for a certainty the
author of that fine plaintive peeping to be heard more or less fre-
quently, according to the weather, in our summer and autumn
woods. It is a note that much resembles that of our small marsh
frog in spring—the Hyla. It is not quite so clear and assured,

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS, 49

Burroughs heard was a scamp and a base deceiver.
He must have been swelling his throat “for the fun
of it,” while some Pickering’s Hyla was piping near
by; but Burroughs not only says he saw and heard
this particular salamander sing, but adds that “it
makes more music in the woods in autumn than any
bird.”

Now, in all the time I have known the red sala-
mander—from boyhood—I have never heard him
make any kind of noise. Still, this proves nothing.
He may sing, and all these years I may have missed
the song; but on Staten Island, in Putnam County,
in the Adirondacks, in the Catskills, and in New
England, I have frequently seen him early and late

but otherwise much the same. On a very warm October day I
have heard the woods vocal with it; it seemed to proceed from
every stump and tree about one. Ordinarily it is heard only at
intervals throughout the woods. Approach never so cautiously
the spot from which the sound proceeds and it instantly ceases.
... ‘ls it a frog, I said, ‘the small tree frog, the piper of the
marshes, repeating his spring note?’ .. . Doubtless it is, yet I
must see him in the very act. ...I heard the sound proceed
from beneath the leaves at my feet. Keeping entirely quiet, the
little musician presently emerged, and, lifting himself up on a
small stick, his throat palpitated, and the plaintive note again
came forth... . No, it was no frog or toad at all, but the small
red salamander, commonly called lizard. This was the mysteri-
ous piper, then, heard from May till November through all our
woods, sometimes on trees, but usually on or near the ground. It
makes more music in the woods in autumn than any bird.”—Pe-
pacton, Chapter V, John Burroughs.
5

50 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

in the year, yet never have heard him sing. Still,
this again proves nothing; there are other places and
times that he might have sung, and not every one
could le the fortunate listener. But let me draw to-
gether some facts which have a favorable bearing on
the salamander’s voice, and then leave the reader free
to form his own opinion.

Professor Cope says of a Western batrachian,
Amphiuma means, that it resembles the species of
Desmognathus in the possession of a chirrup or
whistle (!). Then he continues, “I do not know of
another American salamander which possesses a
voice.” Also, in an addenda to the work from which
I quote,* he says: “Dr. Charles C. Abbott informs
me that Spelerpes rubra has a distinct whistlelike
voice, and states that John Burroughs has also
heard it.”

Dr. Abbott says, in Outings at Odd Times: “It
was only after a hard chase that I captured it” [a red
salamander], “and, holding it in my hand until rested,
I endeavored to induce it to squeak, for ¢t is une
of the very few that has a voice; but it was not to
be coaxed. It suffered many indignities in silence,
and so shamed me by its patience that I gently
placed it in the brook.”

* The Batrachia of North America.

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS, 51

William Hamilton Gibson, in an article entitled
Autumn Whistlers, published in Harper’s Young
People,* also quotes from John Burroughs the same
account of the red salamander’s voice which I have
given in the accompanying footnote; but he does
not cite any instance where he heard the voice and
saw the singer Aemsel/’.

In a letter contributed to Nature I find Professor
Eimer relates his experience connected with a lizard’s
voice. He remarks that one which he observed on
the rocks of Capri had a peculiar voice which is
ascribed among reptiles to geckoes and chameleons
alone. This lizard, he says, made a peculiarly soft pip-
ing sound on being captured, and uttered repeatedly,
in quick succession, a series of very sharp tones sound-
ing like “ Bschi,’ and reminding one of the hoarse
piping of a mouse or young bird. I suppose this liz-
ard must have been one of the same species which I
saw when wandering through the deserted streets of
the ancient city of Pompeii. There seemed to be a
lizard partly hidden in every nook and cranny of the
walls on either hand. Once in a while one scam-
pered with lifted tail across the rough pavement out
of my way. Upon capturing two or three, I found
they resented handling by squirming about and giv-

* Also published in a volume entitled Sharp Hyes.

52 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

ing a vicious nip at one’s fingers, but they never
squeaked.

Now this evidence, such as it is, proves but one
thing: that a certain lizard and a salamander or two
do have voices; but these, it seems, are rarely heard.
We have no testimony regarding the voice of Spe-
lerpes rubra except that given by Burroughs. The
very fact that he mentions the strange voices as com-
monly occurring in the woods from May until No-
vember, suggests the possibility that he may have
heard the Lyla, who do sing scatteringly in the woods
during this season. Moreover, the fact remains that
Spelerpes rubra is distinctively aquatic. He has no
business to be plaintively “peeping” on trees or on
the ground, especially when it is mot a rainy day.
Indeed, if we should care to look for a red salaman-
der on a fine duy we would better go to the spring or
brook at once. He is, as I have intimated, an at-
tractive little creature whose quiet habits are worth
study. In appearance he is far from positive red.
His color is rather a translucent dull orange red, and
sometimes he matches a brick quite perfectly. Along
his back are blackish specks which are more or less
conspicuous in different individuals. In immature
specimens these are not distinct, and in some they are
scarcely perceptible.

The red salamander is generally found beneath a

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS, 53

stone in a cold spring, or oftener in a hollow beside
the stone. He swims with considerable activity, and
is not easily caught as he glides through the water
with limbs pressed against the body and tail undulat-
ing rapidly; but once on land he is at the mercy of
his pursuer. His efforts at locomotion are neither
graceful nor rapid. The food of this species con-
sists of insects.

Still another even more common salamander, per-
haps the most abundant one in North America, is
found in the hillside spring. This is Desmognathus

Susca, a little mud-colored character scarcely
more than four inches long, which

burrows under the pebbles and
stones, and whose dark
brown color ad-

Desmognathus fusca.
Section of keel-shaped tail at A.

oe

mirably protects it from enemies. The
tail of this species is characterized by finlike and
keellike extensions which narrow toward the tip.
Among: the wet blackish roots and stones of the
brook the little creature is not easily distinguished
from his surroundings, consequently he escapes our
notice; but turn over a half-dozen stones on the
border of some shallow pool, and the agile move-

BA FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

ments of one or two wriggling so-called lizards will
betray their presence.

I have found this salamander quite plentiful in
the shallow brooks of Campton, N. H., particularly
where these run through stony, boggy places charac-
terized by blackish mud, and perhaps shaded by the
feathery boughs of the hemlock. But the species is
common throughout the country, although its eastern
limit is probably Essex County, Mass.

The ocher-colored salamander, Desmognathus
ochrophiea, is an allied species of more local interest,
which is found in Essex County, N. Y., and in the
Alleghany Mountains. It is abundant in the Black
Mountains of North Carolina and northern Pennsyl-
vania. Its color is brownish yellow above, with a
dorsal row of spots in darker yellowish color, and on
either side of it, lower down, a band of the same color
which extends to the tip of the tail. Beneath, it is
without spots.

This small species, not more than three inches
long, and rarely exceeding half the size of Desmogna-
thus fusca, resembles the red-backed salamander, but
its figure is stouter. Its tail is rounded, in which re-
spect it differs from Desmognathus fusca, and it also
differs from the other species of the genus Desmog-
nathus in its thoroughly terrestrial habits. Instead
of hiding under the stones of the brook, it frequents

SONGLESS BATRACHIANS. 55

the damp places of the woods where decaying leaves
and tree trunks are plenty, particularly those of the
hemlock. Professor Cope says he never saw one in
the water of streams and river banks.

Desmognathus nigra, another allied species, is a
black salamander about six and a half inches long,
which is found in the Alleghany Mountains from
Pennsylvania southward. It is particularly common
in Virginia. This creature is aquatic, and, like Des-
mognathus fusca, inhabits only shallow stony brooks
and cold springs in the remote parts of the mountains
which afford cool and shady retreats.

Iam wholly unable to account for the paragraph
which I have quoted on a previous page from Cope’s
Batrachia of North America. The professor makes
no further remark about the Desmognathus possess-
ing a whistle. I certainly know éwo of the species of
this genus well, but Iam not aware that either pos-
sesses a voice. Years ago I used to spend hours
hunting through the brooks of New Jersey and New
Hampshire for salamanders, and these I carried to
my home in the city by the dozen—that was my boy-
ish pleasure; but never have I heard one whistle.
The creatures were apparently voiceless. It seems
as though after twenty years of acquaintance with
them I ought to have heard one sing; but I have
not, and I shall leave it now for my readers to dis-

56 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

cover that rare and mysterious music of the so-called
“lizard,” which, when it is heard, will prove beyond
a shadow of doubt that these batrachians are not
songless.

CHAPTER IV.

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN.*
Snakes.

A reptitet+ in the fullest sense of the term, the
snake glides through the grass and across the road,
the most unfortunate and repellent representative of
his class. I think Ruskin hit upon the true reason of
our aversion to snakes when he said that the creature
glided “a bit one way, a bit another, and some of him
not at all.” That is the one characteristic of the
snake—his circumventive motion—which we most
dislike ; regardless of his reptilian looks, it is suffi-
cient to know that he skims over the ground in so
sinuous a way that we can not keep an eye on him.
Any attempt to trace his course meets with failure,
and before one realizes it, one is stupidly staring at
the spot where the creature was/ We do not like to
be tricked this way; such an insidious method of
locomotion is a species of deceit indicative of the
treacherous character of the beast, so we count him

* From épféiov, a serpent. + From the Latin repo, to crawl.
57

58 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

an evil thing to wreak vengeance upon—a sort of
scapegoat for the sins of all creation !

Ever since that unfortunate incident in the gar-
den of Eden the serpent has had heaped upon his
back the abiding enmity of the human race ; but this
is a mere trifle xo far as the cvwse of the ill feeling
toward the reptile is concerned ; the real truth is, we
do not like his appearance or his ways, and we kill
him upon any and all occasions regardless of his his-
torical associations.

Now this is all wrong; we must learn to let the
snake alone, or else in the long run we will be the
sufferers. In this eastern part of the country we
have only two venomous snakes, the rattlesnake and
the copperhead ; all the rest are absolutely harmless.
As for these two dangerous reptiles, their venomous
character has been greatly overestimated, and a great
deal of sensational nonsense has been unnecessarily
connected with them through the credulity of the
ignorant. Not more than two dogs in nine die who
have been bitten by the rattlesnake.* The copper-
head is by far a less venomous reptile than the other,
but to-day both are so rarely met with that they
scarcely deserve attention at all as familiar animals.

The rattlesnake still lives in some of the remote

* The Poison of Serpents. S. Weir Mitchell. The Century
Magazine, 1889, p. 514.

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN, 59

wildernesses of the northeastern States. In the
vicinity of Lake George, on one of the shores of
Lake Champlain, and perhaps in the southern Cats-
kills, he is occasionally found; but in the Adiron-
dack and White Mountains I believe he does not ex-
ist. In all the years that I have traveled among
these northern hills I have never met one, and I am
of the opinion that few, if any, are to be found to-
day even in those localities where they were once
reported to be plentiful.

Of the other harmless snakes, the racer, the water
snake, and the blowing adder are the most formidable
so far as appearances are concerned; but they are
only aggressive, and fight without doing much dam-
age when angered. Not one of them can bite as
hard as the red squirrel, and they are not large
enough to seriously constrict a person. The racer
might possibly choke a child if he set about the task,
but I have only read of one instance where the rep-
tile had sufficient courage to attempt anything on
quite so large a scale. As for our innocent little
green snake, he is the mildest and most defenseless
little animal on the face of the earth; the ringdove,
who is a creature to dread among the small birds, is a
monster compared with him.

Yet it is a fact only too familiar to us all that the
ery of “Snake!” on the highway is the immediate sig-

60 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

nal for war on the reptile with whatever weapons are
handy—stones, pitchforks, clubs, sticks, or heels.
Every man does his duty in the fray, and when the
poor mutilated creature squirms at that part where
he is not quite smashed, somebody remarks: “ Oh, it
isn’t of any use to hit it any more; you know snakes
never die until after sundown” ; and we think s0, or
believe we do, and proceed on our way satisfied that
the country is rid of one more big and dangerous
reptile.

But what is the truth? The farmer has lost one
of his best friends; in proof of which, open the big
snake’s stomach and see what is there—mice, insects,
grubs, slugs, rats, or moles, as the case may be; all
the worst enemies of the farmer. The very habits of
the reptile are sufficient proofs of his harmless and
beneficent character. He is never out at night, and
in the spring he haunts the plowed fields and garden
patches, ever on the alert for mice, or, best of all,
grubs, cutworms, grasshoppers, and slugs. Yet in
spite of all this the garden hoe is an ever-ready
weapon with which to chase the poor thing from the
field, if not to eventually make mince-meat of him.

It is a most curious fact that the greatest igno-
rance exists among many intelligent people regarding
snakes. One would scout at believing such absurd
things about any other kind of a creature, yet there

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. 61

are many who think the snake exerts a sort of charm

over its prey; that a frightened mother_snake ~

temporarily swallows her young in time of danger;
and that the forked tongue of the creature is its:
deadly sting. Then one is told that a certain terrible
serpent of Africa rolls itself up like a hoople, chases
a man, and strikes him dead with its horny, spiked
tail. Also one is told that a snake never dies before
sunset ; that it always licks its prey all over with its
forked tongue preparatory to swallowing it, so that it
will “slip down easily”; and that when its fangs are
extracted it lives an indefinite length of time on the
stimulus of its own poison, and without food, and so
on—ad absurdum !

But, as opposed to all this nonsense, I can cite a
number of facts not less remarkable and curious.
Snakes, for instance, are strangely tenacious of life;
some can and do live a while without their brains or
without their heart. The body decapitated for a cer-
tain length of time continues to move and coil, and
the separated head will dart out the tongue, or even
try to bite ;* but I am not aware that these automatic
and convulsive movements are in any way checked by

* And more than this: Dr. 8. Weir Mitchell says, “If we cut
off a snake’s head and then pinch its tail, the stump of the neck
returns and with some accuracy hits the hand of the experimenter
—if he has the nerve to hold on!”—Century Magazine, August,
1889, p. 507.

63 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

the setting of the sun. When the last lingering rem-
nants of life are fled the snake is dead, that is all.
As for the tongue—that delicate and marvelously
sensitive organ—it is absurd to think so soft a thing
is a sting, and ridiculous to suppose it is adapted to
licking; the snake is dull of sight and hearing, and
this dainty tongue makes up for the deficiency by
pursuing investigations by touch.

Snakes are, as a rule, remarkably prolific, and bear
anywhere from seven to one hundred or more young.
Sometimes the eggs of certain species hatch in the
oviduct; hence the term ovoviviparous. It is easy to
understand, therefore, that some ignorant person cut-
ting open a snake in the early spring, and unaware of
the true position of the stomach, should think that the
creature had swallowed the young. But there are
those who have very vague ideas of diseases as well as
stomachs, and I remember a backwoodsman who
during the greater part of one hot summer suffered
terribly, according to his own account, from cholera
infantum !

As for the swallowing process of the snake, that
has a length which words can only inadequately
measure. It is something like Milton’s “linked
sweetness long drawn out,” without the sweetness.
As a matter of fact, when one’s teeth spread over
one’s palate it can not be expected that one’s taste

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. 63

should escape being impaired. So it is with the
snake: he may have a liking for birds, mice, and
frogs, but that he can taste them is quite a different
thing. A cobra in the London “Zoo” one time
made a mistake and swallowed her blanket instead of
arabbit. It is true she was partially blind, as it was
just before she should shed her skin,* but that fact in
no wise affected her taste. It is therefore perfectly
plain she could not distinguish the difference in flavor
between rabbit fur and a blanket! To the average
American snake a sleek young mouse .is no more ac-
ceptable as a tidbit than a rank, acrid-skinned frog of
the genus Rana.t

But the way the frog is swallowed is something

* At the time of sloughing, or casting the skin, snakes are par-
tially blinded by the dull old skin which also covers the eye. It
must be remembered that the ophidia do not possess eyelids.

+ Even a snake is food for a snake. Here is a remarkable in-
stance of such cannibalism. M. Leon Vaillant, in a paper read
before the Académie des Sciences de Paris, says: “ In a menagerie
of the museum of the Jardin des Plantes, a French viper (Pelias be-
rus) had to be put in the same cage with a horned viper (Cerastes).
As the individuals, although they belonged to different species,
were about the same size, it was supposed that they would live
peaceably together. It was a mistake. During the night that fol-
lowed the Cerastes swallowed the Pelzas, and, in order to accom-
modate himself to his huge prey, his body was distended so that
the scales which touched each other laterally and even lapped in his
normal condition, were now so spread apart that between the lon-
gitudinal rows a bare space equal in size to the scales was left.
Digestion went on regularly, however, and the Cerastes did not
appear to suffer."—The American Naturalist, March, 1893.

64 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

appalling. It is one of those “ ways” of the snake
which, as I have already said, we do not like. Now
we sometimes facetiously remark on the facility with
which a small boy “ gets around” a large piece of pie.
The expression, however, more exactly fits the case
of the snake; he truly gets around his prey with a
courageous disregard for its formidable dimensions.
His head is searcely half an inch thick, yet down
goes the frog between his distended jaws, and yet it
measured not a whit less than an inch and a half in
diameter. Now the simple fact is, the bones of the
serpent are held together by elastic ligaments, and
the reptile’s capacity is correspondingly elastic. The
teeth, too, are set with a backward curve, and by
slightly working the jaws* the kicking frog is
worried down by slow degrees in spite of a slippery
hide which, were it not for those tiny, sharp, re-
curved teeth, might assist him in the struggle for
freedom. But he is doomed, and in less than ten
minutes his toes disappear, and he proceeds on a
lumpy course to the stomach of the reptile, smoth-
ered. Immediately after swallowing the frog the
snake gives a ghastly wide-mouthed gasp or two, as if
choking to death. But no such thing! he is merely

* These are formed of no less than four sections, two above
and two below, each of which is worked more or less independ-
ently.

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. 65

working his jaws back to a state of repose, and gulp-
ing down a few breaths to make up for the time just
past when breathing was somewhat difficult.

Like the batrachians, the snakes sleep all winter,
waking up after a seven or eight months’ nap under
the vivifying influence of spring sunshine, and with a
sharpened appetite for frogs, mice, and the like. At
this time, too, the snake discards his dull skin and
arrays himself in a resplendent coat of iridescent
colors. The skin is shed complete, inside out, and
scraped off by the contact with bushes, rough ground,
and dead leaves.

Now the method of a snake’s locomotion is as
curious as its habit of hibernation. Watch one move,
and it is hard to tell Aow he moves. We may think
it is entirely by lateral pressure against every blade
of grass and every grain of sand; but that is not all.
The lithe creature does something more than push
himself along. Every rib is employed in a measure
as a leg would be, and with careful observation one
may detect a certain undulation in wavelike intervals
beneath the skin, which is due to the contraction and
expansion of the ribs as the snake moves. Thus a
snake can, if he chooses, move in almost a straight
line and over rather slippery surfaces.

The constricting power of some snakes is also a
marvel. oe lightninglike rapidity the reptile will

66 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

throw himself about the body of his victim and
tighten his hold as one might tighten the cord about
a bundle by pulling the string ends. But the squeez-
ing of our American snakes is a more serious matter
for mice than men, so we will pass that, and devote
our attention to the snakes themselves.

There are two distinct groups or families of our
snakes, one of which includes the poisonous rattle-
snake and copperhead, and the other all the non-
poisonous snakes. Here they are as defined by Prof.
8. F. Baird :

Crotatip#£: Erectible poisonous fangs in front;
few teeth in the upper jaw; pupil of eye vertical ;
deep pit on the side of the face between the eye and
nostril.

Cotuprip£: No poisonous fangs; pupil of eye
round; no pit, and both jaws fully provided with
teeth.

According to Prof. Samuel Garman, there are at
least four species of rattlesnakes east of the Missis-
sippi River ; but with one only will we have to do as
a barely common object of familiar life. This is the
Northern rattlesnake (Crotalus horridus).* Length,
forty to sixty inches; dark brown above, blotched
with brown, black, and tan somewhat diagonally ;

* The nomenclature in every case is that of E. D. Cope, 1892.
Vide Proc. U.S. Nat. Mu., vol. xiv, p. 589.

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. 67

yellow beneath, blotched; contracted neck; carinated
(keeled) dorsal scales in twenty-three to twenty-five
rows. The fangs recline against the roof of the
mouth protected by an elastic membrane. They are
the only teeth on the maxillaries. These fangs when
broken off or re-
moved are re-
placed by oth-
ers. The ven-
om may or may
not be ejected
by the serpent.*
Like the skunk,

the creature is The rattlesnake coiled to strike : showing the flat-
tening of the body against the ground.

chary about dis-
pensing what he seems to consider a valuable product
not to be wasted on any account. The snake can only
strike a distance equal to half the length of his body,
and he is by no means aggressive, as the passer-by is
unmolested if he does not begin hostilities. The
snake need not necessarily be coiled to strike, either.
He will throw himself right or left as far as the posi-
tion of his body allows him to reach. The noise of
the rattle is extremely like a rapid stridulation of the
cone-headed grasshopper (Conocephalus ensiger), with

* Samuel Garman.

68 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

about eleven hundred vibrations to a minute, instead
of two hundred and eighty-eight as in the case of the
grasshopper.* .<13g Because a serpent may
possess half a pidaaaddg dozen sections to his
rattle it by no means indicates that he
is six years old. More than one section may be added
in a year’s time, and frequently one is broken off by
accident.

The copperhead (Ancestrodon cuntortriz). Length,
thirty-six inches ; light rusty brown above, with
darker blotches and a coppery cast to the head;
A-shaped brown marks on sides; yellowish beneath ;
fangs like the rattlesnake’s. An extremely rare but
dangerous reptile, with a pointed, horny tail but with
no warning rattle.

The familiar members of the non-poisonous family
Colubride are as follows:

The ground snake (Curphophiops amenus).
Length, twelve inches; opalescent color; chestnut
brown above, salmon beneath ; head very small, not
wider than the neck; thirteen dorsal rows;+ found

*In the American Naturalist for March, 1893, somebody
gives the vibrations of the rattle a tempo of one hundred and
ten per minute. This is a great error, which may be proved
at once by setting the metronome at one hundred and twelve
—adagio.

+ By this I mean that the scales on the back are arranged in
thirteen rows.

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. 69

under dry logs and stones in the mountains. Massa-
chusetts to Louisiana and Ilinois.

The worm snake *
(Carphophiops
Length, twelve

vermis).
inches ;
black above,
neath ; colors about

lustrous purple
flesh color be-
half and half ;
than the neck ;

sourl, Kan- Groundsnake, gas, and southern Ili-
12 inches.

head very small, not wider
thirteen dorsal rows. Mis-

nois only.
The chain snake (Ophibolus getulus getulus).
Length, forty-eight inches; handsome and inoffen-

sive; black, crossed by narrow,

continuous yellow- white rings
the flanks ;
on the back
are large
black hexa-
gons ; blotched with black

beneath ; head scarcely wider

which bifurcate on

than the neck. Cope says that

Chain snake, 48 inches.

certain tamed chain snakes be-
longing once to his little daughter drank milk from
asaucer. The chain snake is a great enemy to other

* Carphophis amenus, var. vermis, Samuel Garman.

40 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

snakes. Common in the South, and occasionally
found on Long Island, N. Y.; southern New York
to Florida and Louisiana.

The king snake (Ophibolus getulus sayz). Length,
forty-eight inches; black above, with a yellow spot on
each scale; the effect of these spots is to form sixty
transverse lines across the back; yellowish-white be-
neath, with black blotches. West of the Alleghanies,
north to Illinois and Wisconsin (Hoy).

Milk snake, spotted adder, 48 inches.

The spotted adder, milk, or house snake (Ophi-
bolus doliatus triangulus).* Length, forty-eight
inches; handsome; pale brown or ash-gray above,
with about fifty dorsal, transverse, triangular choco-
late blotches edged with black; other lateral ones;
yellowish-white beneath, checkered with square black
blotches; small eye; twenty-one dorsal rows. It is
said to be fond of milk, and to frequent the floors of
dairies and cellars of houses. I killed one at least
thirty-eight inches long last summer in a vegetable

* He has even more names—viz., chicken snake, thunder and
lightning snake, checkered adder, etc.

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. 1

garden, much against my will, but in deference to a
person who had a mortal antipathy to snakes. The
poor creature was absolutely harmless, and

never showed fight under the heavy blows
of aclub. This was the first, and it will
be the last, harmless snake I shall accom-

modatingly kill for another—transeat in
exemplum ! The milk snake is com-
mon from Maine to Virginia and
westward to Iowa and Wisconsin.

The ring-necked snake (Diadophis
punctatus). Length, fifteen inches; a
beauty, and dressed tastefully; violet-
black above, orange beneath, edged by
black spots ; yellow-white ring or collar
around the neck; fifteen dorsal rows;
food, beetles, slugs,-and grasshoppers ;
found beneath fallen logs and stones.
Common in the mountains of Penn-
sylvania and Virginia, Maine to Wis-
consin, and the Southern States.

The green or grass snake (Liopeltis
vernalis ; Cyclophis vernalis of other Ring sscked
authors). Length, eighteen inches; beau- ae:
tiful; bright green above, yellowish be-
neath ; fifteen dorsal rows; small head; very smooth
scales ; food, insects, grubs, ete. Very common, and

49 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

exceedingly gentle, frequenting wet meadows and
sometimes climbing the alder bushes. My Manx
cat frequently brought the pretty green creatures
into my studio; they never showed the slightest hos-
tility on being so roughly handled by the
cat. Maine to Virginia and Wisconsin.

Another similar species (Cyclophis
estivus),* length, twenty-seven inches,
has seventeen dorsal rows, the verte-
bral ones strongly keeled ; a long,
slender Southern

green snake. North
to New Jersey and
southern []linois.
The fox snake (Coluber vulpinus). Length, sixty
inches; light brown above, with sixty dorsal, trans-
verse chocolate blotches margined with black; one
or two lateral rows; yellowish-white beneath; the
four lateral rows of scales smooth. Massachusetts to

| x

Green snake, 18 inches.

Kansas and northward.

The pilot snake, or mountain black snake (Coluber
obsoletus obsoletus). Length, sixty inches; graceful,
inoffensive, and mild; uniform silky brown or black
above, with a few of the scales narrowly edged with
white, slaty black beneath, with chin and throat yel-

* Phyllophilophis estivus. Samuel Garman,

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. "3

lowish ; twenty-seven dorsal rows, the seven outer
ones smooth. Resembles the racer, or black snake,
in color only. Mt. Tom, Mass., to Texas; abundant
in southern Ilinois.

The pine, or bull snake (Pityophis melanoleu-
cus). Length, sixty inches; very harmless; tan and
buff; from twenty-seven to thirty-three dorsal
blotches, brown margined with black; three series
of lateral blotches; brownish-white beneath; twenty-
nine dorsal rows. An exceedingly shy snake, fre-
quenting sandy pine forests near the coast, and disap-
pearing in a hole in the ground upon being
surprised. Common south of the Ohio
River, and found from New Jersey to
South Carolina and Michigan (Gibbs).

The black snake, or
racer (Bascanium con-
strictor). Length, forty-
eight to eighty inches ;
lustrous black above, greenish
or slaty-black beneath ; chin
and throat dull white; seven- Black snake, racer,
teen dorsal rows. An ugly ers
customer when angered, but a harmless and cowardly
one; remarkable for the speed with which it “covers
the ground,” and hence called “the racer.” He
frequents wild ground where there is water, climbs

74 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

trees with ease, and has a special penchant for birds
and their eggs. He has no mean power of constric-
tion also, and wins in a fight with the rattlesnake.
Elliot Coues relates an instance in which he witnessed
one of the frequent combats between the black snake
and the rattlesnake, when the former, in less time than
it takes to tell it, snapped the latter asunder by wind-
ing the anterior and posterior parts of his body around
the neck and tail of the rattlesnake and suddenly pull-
ing himself taut. The food of this snake is mainly
rats, mice, frogs, toads, and birds. Not uncommon
throughout the country east of the Missouri River.
The striped, or ribbon snake (Hutenia saurita).*
Length, twenty-eight inches; light, bright choco-
late above, with three yellow stripes; greenish-white
beneath; nineteen dorsal rows; large eyes; slender
and graceful figure, agile; found on the edge of the
woods or near the water. A mild-tempered creature,
which, should it happen to bite, pricks one’s finger as
a pin might. Common throughout the east, and
abundant in the Alleghany mountains. ,
The western garter, or striped snake (Autenca
radix). Length, twenty inches ; brownish or green-
ish-black above, with three narrow yellow stripes, and
six series of black spots, sometimes obscure; pale

* These striped or garter snakes emit an offensive odor.

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. 5

greenish tone beneath, marked black; nineteen dor-
sal rows, sometimes less. Common in central Western
States to Lake Michigan and Oregon.

The common garter snake (Hutenia sirtalis sir-
talis). Length, thirty to forty inches; olive-brown
above, sometimes nearly black, with

three narrow light-yellow stripes en-
croached upon by the three series of
small black spots on sides; greenish
white beneath ; nineteen dorsal rows;
dorsal scales keeled; body somewhat
stout; food, frogs, toads, mice, etc.;
stouter than LHutenia saurita. This
snake is commoner in New York
than any other species. It is found
from Essex County to Westchester
County, and I remember it as the
most familiar snake about Lake
Mahopac, Putnam County. It
frequents wet meadows, and is
generally found near the water.
The female bears a great number Garter snake, 30 inches.
of young; she is ovoviviparous.

Professor Baird says he has killed one with no less
than eighty-three little ones about six inches long.
It is a disagreeable snake to handle, as it emits a
fetid odor. Common through the United States, ex-

76 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

cepting’ the Pacific coast; but I have not yet seen
one in the White Mountain region ; it evidently pre-
fers a warmer climate. It is abundant, however, in
Illinois.

Still another species of the garter snake (Hutania
sirtalis dorsalis) is common throughout the United
States. This species is brownish olive above, with
three broad green-white stripes, dark spots on the
sides, and greenish white beneath.

The brown, or spotted snake (Storeria dekayi).
Length

twelve inches; ash or chestnut-brown
above, with a clay-colored dorsal band,

dotted along the margin two scales
apart; gray-white beneath; a dark
patch on either side of the back of the
head; seventeen dorsal rows; food, in-
sects, etc. Exceedingly common in New
York and Massachusetts; abundant on
the shores of Lake Champlain. Maine
to Wisconsin, Florida, and Texas.

The red-bellied snake (Storeriu oc-
cipitomaculata). Length, twelve inches;
pretty ; ash, chestnut, or even olive-
brown above, with three distinct light-
colored irregular spots behind the head;
a beautiful reddish-salmon beneath ; fif-

Red-bellied
snake, 12inches. teen dorsal rows; dorsal scales keeled;

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN,. var)

food, insects, etc. Very abundant everywhere on
meadows and grassy ground, and associated with
Storeria dekayt. Maine to Florida and Texas.
Kirtland’s snake (Clonophis kirtlandi ; Tropido-
clonium hirtlandi of other authors). Length, six-
teen inches; a beauty; light, ruddy brown above,
with three alternating series of round
black spots, the central ones of which are
indistinct and the smallest; reddish or

perhaps yellowish beneath, with a row

of small black spots on either side; nine-

teen dorsal rows; body stout. It will
flatten its body and remain motionless to
escape detection. A Western snake.
Ohio to Illinois.

The water snake or water adder
(Natria fasciata sipedon; Nerodia
stpedon of other authors). Length,
forty-eight inches; dull bronze
brown above, redder on the
sides ; transverse light irregu-
lar bands margined with black ; seers
yellowish to reddish beneath; Water snake, 48 inches.
twenty-three dorsal rows; head
narrow and long; strongly carinated scales. This
snake frequents marshes, overflowed meadows, and
the shores of streams and ponds, climbs among the

“8 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

bushes, coils there, and slips into the water when
alarmed; it is a good swimmer, and a great fighter
when enraged, but it is perfectly harmless. It is
the cast skin of this reptile which that interesting
woodland bird, the crested flycatcher (J/ycarchus
crinitus), is so fond of as a lining for her nest.*
The food of the water adder is
frogs, small fish, salamanders, ete.

Common from Massachusetts to Wis-
consin and Georgia. In
the South it is called
the water moccasin.
Another species of water
snake, sometimes called the
queen snake (Matrix lebe-
ris; LEeegina leberis of other
Queen snake, 23 inches. authors), length, twenty-
three inches, also common
in the East, is differently marked ; the color above
is chestnut- or chocolate-brown, with a lateral yel-
low band and three narrow black dorsal stripes; yel-
lowish beneath; nineteen dorsal rows; dorsal scales
carinated. Frequents the banks of streams, and shal-
low water where there are loose stones. Common

* The nest is usually in a hole fifteen feet up in a tree, and it
is lined with bits of roots, grasses, and snake’s skin.

OUR ANCIENT ENEMY THE OPHIDIAN. 19

from New York to Wisconsin; abundant in the
mountains of Pennsylvania and Ohio.

The blowing or deaf adder or hognose (Heterodon
platyrhinus). Length, thirty inches; yellow-gray
and sepia-brown above, checkered with about thirty
dark dorsal blotches; yellowish beneath ; a dark band
across the forehead, and a pug nose; strongly cari-
nated scales back of the head; twenty-five dorsal
rows. This beggar has a threatening aspect when we
approach him, but he is perfectly harmless; he is “all
bark and no bite,” flattening his head and body out
until he looks twice as big as he really is, and hissing
like a steam engine, with an effect of fearful malig-
nancy. He is the creature, too, who, so hard of hear-
ing, was the occasion of that familiar and suggestive

Hognose snake, blowing adder, 30 inches.

saying, “as deaf as an adder.” Heis common through
the Eastern and Southern States, is rare in New
York, and probably is not found at all in New Eng-
land.

The hognose snake (Heterodon simus). Length,

80 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

twenty-six inches; stouter and smaller than 4. pla-
tyrhinus; light brown-yellow, with a dorsal series
of thirty-five transverse black blotches ; sides with one
to three smaller series; yellowish beneath; twenty-
three to twenty-seven dorsal rows; a decided pug
nose, evidently of great use in burrowing through the
soil. Common in the West and South.

CHAPTER V.

ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS.
The Robin, Hermit Thrush, Veery, Redstart, Wood

Pewee, ete.

Aut the strange world of wild life offers no
greater contrast than that between the snake and the
bird. The latter is a true musician; the former is as
mum as the brown leaf under which he hides. Who
has heard the robin’s note and failed to recognize the
fact that the bird is a musician ?

I do not make a random selection of the robin
(Merula migratoria) among the long list of singing
birds, and intimate that he is a musician beyond the
rest. Many a woodland bird is a better singer; but
to every thrush’s song we will hear a score of robins’
songs, and some one of the robins will most likely be
an accomplished vocalist, just like the one whose
music I have interpreted a little farther on.

We respond to the musical side of Nature only in
proportion to the development of our “ear for music.”

It must be admitted that this very common expres-
7 81

89 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

sion implies that there are those who have zo ear for
music—those, in other words, who are tone-deaf.
But tone-deafness is simply a qualifying term, and
we are forced to admit that the person without an ear
for music is to a certain extent deaf. Now, a par-
tially deaf person will hardly be able to distinguish
apart the songs of two different robins, one of which
is much more musical than the other. So I must
appeal to the imagination of the unmusical as well
as the musical mind in order to have my bird songs
understood ; they must not be taken too literally.*

I have said that we respond to the music of Na-
ture according to the degree of our musical percep-
tion; but it only needs a little cultivation of our sense
of hearing to be able to intelligently grasp the mu-
sical idea which Nature is constantly suggesting.

Thus a musical robin last June sang the following mel-
allegretto

ody, more OF Ls ea li ¢. Te T,. F 1
less perfectly : igyye snares esen were cee coe

* Without imagination it would be difficult, if not impossible,
to understand a wild bird’s song. One has not only to hear all
the notes with an attentive ear, but sort them out, so to speak,
and transmute them to truer and better conditions. Thus, what
is doubtfully A in a bird’s song must be positively A in the hear-
ev’s mind; and u musical fifth which is off a quarter or halfa
tone must be considered—not a bit off! In music we allow only
tones and half-tones—for instance, C and D; between the two is
C sharp, the half-tone. The bird is very apt to sing a quarter-
tone, that is something halfway between C and C sharp.

ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS. 83

But this song was suggestive rather than positive;
the robin produced all the melody, but it was a vague
melody. One could not be quite positive that every
turn was meant to be just what the musical mind de-
manded that it owght to be.

Nature is always suggesting, but never complet-
ing; she does not commit herself to measured tones
and exact musical phrases any more than she does to
exact primary colors. It is invariably that vagueness
of purport that renders her work fascinating, and in-
spires the artist to take hold of it and make the mean-
ing plain.

There is no doubt in my mind that the robin tried
to touch as many tones of regular intervals as he
could. Certainly he had more excuse for errors
than the unmusical man who vowed that he could
always distinguish “My country, ’tis of thee,” from
“Yankee Doodle.” But who, pray, would call the
robin unmusical that could produce such a melody as
that I have transcribed? Without interpretation, his
song, although jerky, agitated, and vague in meaning,
would still be perfectly musical. I have taken no
liberties with his triplets.

But here is another specimen from a sprightly
musician who sang in a maple tree for a few min-
utes one day last June, just before my studio win-
dow (in Campton, N. H.), and then disappeared

84 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST,

never to return. 7

bee —— 4+ 4 =+
It was a Baltimore HOt tethers
I _mf 04 s # are =

oriole (Icterus gal-

bula), and his simple musical phrase was absolutely
true in pitch, differing in this respect from my
robin’s song. But the most remarkable thing about
a really musical oriole—one may not happen to be as
melodic as another—is the way he syncopates. Now
syncopation in music is equivalent to the dropping of
an important note; one of accent or emphasis. Who
has not heard in the streets the shrill fife and drum
with the measured boom of the bass drum, and who
does not remember the turn the latter makes at the
end of a musical phrase? It sounds as though the
next to the last “boom” was dropped in the street,
and the drummer, stooping to pick it up, lost a little
time and then hurriedly made it up thus: Boom!
boom! boom! boom! boom! boom! boom !——
boom-boom !

This is a perfect syncope, and it is exactly what
the whistling oriole is continually doing. Here is a
second instance of dropped notes in a little song I
once heard in the Harvard Botanical Garden, Cam-
bridge, in May.

Det this oan e EE

am + i — yy il

was not quite so musical as the one I heard in Camp-
ton, N. H.

THE BANKS
OF THE

PEMIGEWASSET,
THE HOME OF THE
BLACK-BILLED CUCKOO.

coceyzZus
ERYTHROPHUTHALMUS.

ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS. 85

I have long since learned who plays the “ kettle-
drum” of the bird orchestra; he is the black-billed
cuckoo (Coccyzus erythrophthalmus) a long, lithe,
pigeonlike creature, who is subject to nervous attacks
after a prolonged silence, and lets off the following :

poco vitard. ~~ But the black - billed
cuckoo does not confine

a. oT . .
Cuc-ueveve-00-00 00-0 covocoat himself to exactly this ar-

rangement of his two notes. Sometimes he sings thus:

It is also not quite fair to

ime a aa | 1y } 1 ee a I ‘
jee eee eet liken him to a noisy drum-
* Cuc-uerue cuck-a0 cuck-00! er His note is more res-
onant than that of the tubby kettledrum, and as a
musician he is the soul of accuracy in his musical
thirds and fourths. But the mention of this reminds
me of the musical attempts of the crow. I wonder

fy.
pi

how many of us have caught the crow in the act of
coughing up a number of musical tones! It is the
most absurd performance in all the category of wild
music. The crow when he sings is nothing short of
a clown. He ruffles his feathers, stretches his neck
like a cat with a fishbone in her throat, and with a
most tremendous effort delivers a series of henlike

squawks double fortissimo, thus : oer
What he means by the call ced
i eT

it is difficult to say, unless it has “S
some connection with the general “caucus” which

86 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

is sure to be in full session at no great distance down
in the copse on the meadow border. But the crow
is not unmusical after all.

His “caw” is a note

of decisive emphasis
which can not be justly
slighted in the grand
orchestra of Nature. The
tone of it has that wood-
en, reedlike quality which

is best represented by the oboe,
an instrument of a singularly pastoral
nature. Haydn fully appreciated this
fact, and in his oratorio of The Seasons
gave it a very prominent position not
only in a fine adagzo, but in a long
The musical Crow. solo imitating the crowing of a rooster.
Notice how nicely the notes follow

the last part of the “crow” by sliding down the
chromatic scale.
Here is a case

where a great
musician followed the suggestion of Nature very
closely; and I could enumerate several others in
which Nature’s intention was most admirably carried
out. However, I can only record one extreme in-
stance, which is as pathetic as it is interesting ; and

SU ame

i
Af

THE YELLOWHAMMER,
COLAPTES AURATUS,

“On the wooded border of a meadow.”

ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS. 87

whenever I hear the golden-winged woodpecker’s
(yellow-hammer’s) nasal and monotonous voice, I re-
member how much Beethoven made of it in his Pas-
toral Symphony. In the summer of 18238, long after
the great composer had become “stone deaf,” he was
walking with his friend Schindler on the wooded
border of a meadow not far from Vienna. “Seating
himself on the grass,” says Schindler, “and leaning
against an elm, Beethoven asked me if any yellow-
hammers were to be heard in the tree above us.
But all was still. He then said, ‘This is where I
wrote The Scene by the Brook,* while the yellow-
hammers were singing above me, and the quails,
nightingales, and cuckoos calling all around” I
asked why the yellow-hammer did not appear in
the movement with the others; on which he seized
his sketchbook and wrote the following phrase:
‘There’s the little composer,’ said
he, ‘and you'll find that he plays
a more important part than the

others, for they were nothing but a joke.’ ”

Well, the power of a musician’s imagination to
transmute a few tones is illimitable, for the notes
above are not those of the yellow-hammer at all.
But, as I have already intimated, imagination is neces-

* Die Scene am Bach, the second movement of the sixth (Pas-
toral) symphony.

88 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

sary on the part of the hearer to understand the mu-
sical drift of Nature. So Beethoven gives his imag-
ination full play, and constructs a part of his sym-
phony not from the yellow-hammer’s monotonous

oe 99
kee-er, kee-er” alone, _ Ppt Se

but from the association |

of these vigorous tones
with the milder ascending tones of still another bird
—the nightingale, perhaps.

To my mind Beethoven’s six notes and others
like them of constant recurrence in The Scene by
the Brook are remarkably suggestive of the hermit
thrush (Zurdus aonalaschke pallasti), our most
gifted American songster—the prima donna of the
orchestra. The notes of this bird always fly upward
with bounding emphasis to some extremely high point,
and after a short interval these three very high notes

7 succeed, followed by a whispered “ wee-
mgt chee-weechee” too attenuated for me to
record by musical signs.

Much has been written about the music
of the hermit thrush, but I have found nothing which
treats the bird with justice except the remarkably
faithful records jotted down by Mr. Simeon Pease
Cheney.* It is almost exclusively to this gifted mu-

* Author of Wood Notes Wild; he died May 10th, 1890.

ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS. 89

sician, who has lived among the birds in the green
hills of Vermont, that we are indebted for any scien-
tific knowledge of bird music.

In a previous volume* I have devoted some at-
tention to the songs of the thrushes, and have given
a song of the hermit thrush which is almost identical
with one reported by Mr. Cheney. It is character-
ized by thirds and triplets. Here is a portion of it:

LO) i je on i }
But this is only one phase, although a very common
one, of the hermit’s music. He can do even

better than that, and be- sides a num-

ber of most extraordinarily i elear _ sil-

subdued,

NAN

very whistles, he gives us a Tags
reedlike series of pianissimo
tones which I can only liken
to those of a f

om =~

harmonicon.
It is very
likely that this peculiar na-
ture of these pianissemo notes—
they can not be heard more than
forty feet away—suggested to The Hermit Thrush.

* Familiar Features of the Roadside.

90 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Burroughs the hymnlike quality of the hermit’s song
which he so often mentions. I must quote what he
says: “A strain has reached my ears from out the
depths of the forest that to me is the finest sound in
nature—the song of the hermit thrush. . . . It ap-
peals to the sentiment of the beautiful in me, and
suggests a serene religious beatitude as no other
sound in nature does. It is perhaps more of an
evening than a morning hymn, though I hear it at
all hours of the day. It is very simple, and I can
hardly tell the secret of its charm. ‘O spheral,
spheral!’ he seems to say; ‘O holy, holy! O clear
away, O clear away!’ interspersed with the finest
trills and the most delicate preludes.”

But this is the sentiment of the song; what of the
song itself? That I can only describe with musical
annotations. There is first a prolonged tone, prob-
ably A; this is succeeded by another shorter one a
third above, another a fifth above, and still another
an octave above the A. Interspersed are several very
short notes, which are undoubtedly some of Bur-
roughs’s “ fine trills and delicate preludes.” Here is

the music: se But we will
notice that z the song does
not end “ = — “with the high

note; there are still three more which glide down-
ward, finishing at the original A; these have that

ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS. 91

harmonicon quality of which I have spoken. So
pronounced is this final harmonic tone that it might

well be expressed thus: >
Now, this is but one ruses of six musical
phrases which a single bird sang. An-

other, but a less gifted musician, sang a similar phrase.

But, of all the singers, not one,
ramemeeaene however clear - voiced, equaled
in dexterity and precision the

bird I heard last summer, which sang the following:
The distinctness and

1)
a mere
Aa == Sse eonaeee
O10 ee ee ee Se

J

rapidity of the last six

short notes was simply
phenomenal; they furnished a fitting cadenza to a
long song of certainly eight or nine passages not one
other. After
his solo—in a

of which was like an-
the bird finished
maple tree

not ten yards
from where I sat
yy —he fluttered silent-

ly away to a neigh-
boring brook to “wet his
whistle.”

‘Wholly unlike the her-
mit’s music is that of the skulking veery (Zurdus
Juscescens), who haunts the shrubbery by the river’s
brink, and leaves the hillside grove entirely to his

The Veery.

99 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

more accomplished musician cousin. Still, the veery’s
song is the most romantic and suggestive one of the
twilight hour in spring. His notes are characterized
by a reedlike quality, which I will liken again to the
tones of a harmonicon. No other bird has a voice
like his; it can best be imitated by humming a low
tone and whistling a high one; and it sounds as
though the little owner was being swung in four suc-
cessive circles through the air. Somebody has com-
pared its character to that of a spiral line. Notice
after the preliminary grace notes the unbroken flow
of the four clusters which follow :

allegredte Cae?
legato Ft

wa: “Exo |

| 7 4

rs ta bp om» 1

Pa et fee
—=—

ar Aan a ae 8 zi
a peel —|

——a

Lt i
O... vee-ry..vee-Ty--vee -Ty.. vee-Ty.

No hermit could do that sort of thing as well; he
would not have breath enough. But there is also
another than spiral effect to this musician’s song.
Sometimes a rare individual sings whose sonorous

tones vibrate be- , sr-sitgy shoe

tween thirds and —& F
fifths, thus: stauamegiosse=:
And in a chorus of veeries such as I heard last spring

his notes stand out by contrast with the others in a
most refreshing way ; let one’s ear be never s0 subtle
at following a musical cadence, it can not be quick
enough to catch the full beauty of the last notes of

ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS. 93

this eccentric singer; they must be heard over and
over again to be remembered. They remind one of
the weird effect of an eolian harp or a singing tele-
graph pole,* but they are twice as mysterious.

But the most mysterious singer of the woodland
is the chipper and restless little redstart (Setophaga
ruticilla), whose jet- black
head and orange shoul-
ders are continually
perking out from the
bordering green of the

highway, and surprising: one a
& J» i 8 The Redstart.

by a sudden and transient

glimpse of bright color. This little fellow does not
perch on the tree-top like the indigo bird and the
song sparrow when he sings; he evades the public
eye, and chirrups on the other side of the tree from
the inquisitive observer. His song, much more
sprightly than that of the veery, and much less seri-
ous, runs thus: aiaieeet at oe He is ever
on the alert for an in-
sect, and never US Gene cewewenenewes- hesitates to

cut his song short when a tempting mouthful meets
his eye in the shape of some “crawly bug” on a

* In extremely cold weather, if one’s ear is placed against the
telegraph pole one will hear a remarkable harmonic vibration of
the wires, like that of an wolian harp.

94 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

leaf near by. The “ching a-wee, cher-wee, wee—!”
quite as often ends abruptly as otherwise, and there
is one less insect in the shrubbery.

A still more mysterious singer in the wildwood,
one who sings along with the hermit thrush and

who has ever evaded my watchful eyes,

Zh 7 wood pewee (Contopus virens).
*{ I have seen fifty thrushes to one
pewee, and yet have heard both
singing at the same time and in
the same wood. At last, in the

> ee past season, I saw the pewee: a

tas Wood plainly attired little creature, with
i Pewee. rusty black back and gray-white
breast. There he was, on a sprig of the gray birch,

calling his mate, as usual, with “Sally, come here!

fal a
H- ae but musically,

Te!” thus: J

Sally aye Here!

It is the most musical of calls, full of suggestive-
ness, and quite as much a part of the spring orchestra
as the peep of the Hyla. But the most remarkable
part of it is the long-drawn-out “ H-e-r-e!” which
might just as well be translated “Whi-e-e-eu!” It is
a whistle rapidly descending the scale, precisely like
the whistle of painful surprise one makes when one’s
“best corn” is trodden on. In the case of the bird

ACCOMPLISHED VOCALISTS. 95

the prolonged note of surprise is, I am always think-
ing, an indication of his unbounded amazement at
the unnecessary delay in obeying his peremptory
summons. He keeps up this whistling for his wife
all summer long; the only answer he seems to get
comes from the borders of a neighboring field. It is
the call of the chickadee:

me
ny
ths
bd
hd

* ail i
abs ie

Pe-wee, Fiddl’de de.

CHAPTER VI.

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES.
The Bittern, Owl, Loon, ete.

A sTRANGE sound comes from the meadow swamp
down by the pond—* (-chug, g-chug, g-chug. It is
the uncanny voice of the bittern or stake-driver (Bo-
taurus lentiginosxus), and if we could see him making
the noise we would exclaim at once, “That bird is
beastly ill!” Such a remarkable performance one
never witnessed ; the distressing musical attempt of
the crow recorded in the preceding chapter is not a
circumstance to this convulsive proceeding of the bit-
tern. He “hiccoughs” wildly several times, and then
is apparently seized with a most violent fit of nausea,
producing with each convulsion a hollow “booming”
noise which on most occasions sounds like somebody
driving a stake in the ground. This charming music
I suppose the naturalist would call the love-song of
the bird; it is certainly most common in April, and
its continuance for half an hour or more is perhaps

accounted for by the indifference of the female, who
96

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES. 97

possibly considers the noise too unattractive for a
prompt response. Indeed, it is on record that the
bird has “pumped” for an hour. The sucking sound
of a pump, I might explain, is considered by some
the nearest approach to this strange creature’s un-
musical notes.

If we are near enough to the swamp where the
bittern stands, we will see a bird, about twenty-four
inches high, with a slate-gray head and neck—the
latter black-streaked—and a brown back, standing
upright and motionless. It really takes quite a sharp
eye to separate the bird from his surroundings.
When he moves, his deliberate and stealthy steps are
hardly perceptible; but as soon as he opens his bill
to speak his strange actions attract our notice and
enlist our sympathy.

His crop is seemingly distended with air which he
has swallowed in a most noisy fashion; every time he
takes a gulp of it the head is thrown upward and then
forward, the body is violently convulsed, and, with
every feather puffed out, one imagines the wretched
creature is at his last gasp with a torturing fishbone
in his throat.

But no; he is only singing his chant @amouwr, or
amusing himself with a bit of everyday vocal ath-
letics. Mr. William Brewster, of Cambridge, de-

scribes the sound as a trisyllabic one, thus: Pump-er-
8

98 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

unk, pump-cr-lunk, ete. Evidently his bird was a
“pumper’’; but all the bitterns that I have heard
were “stake-drivers,” and sang thus, ee
the second syllable closely resembling ect
the resounding thwack of a woodman’s

axe as it drives some stout stake in the ground.

The bird begins operations by raising his head and
stretching his neck until the bill is pointed up in the
air; then with three or four preliminary snaps of the
bill, which can be heard fully five hundred feet away,
off he goes on his g-chug, g-chug, g-chug, g-chug,
from four to eight times, when he tires of it and takes
a minute to rest; then—da capo.

Thoreau alludes to this remarkable bird thus:
“The stake-driver is at it again on his favorite
meadow. I followed the sound and at last got within
two rods. When thus near, I heard some lower
sounds at the beginning like striking on a stump or a
stake, a dry, hard sound, and then followed the gur-
gling, pumping notes. . . . I went to the place, but
could see no water.” It seems Thoreau, like a good
many others, imagined that the bird made the noise
with the help of water—by partly submerging his
bill. But all who know the stake-driver and his
strange performance now agree that water has noth-
ing to do with the case.

I have heard and seen the bird on the river

THE BITTERN.
BOTAURUS LENTIGINOSUS,

“The stake-driver is at it again on
his favorite meadow.”

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES. 99

meadows of Grafton County, N. H., and I know that
he makes the noise when there is not a bit of water
in his vicinity. Bradford
Torrey records a most inter-
esting performance of a bit-
tern which he witnessed in
company with Mr. Walter
Faxon,* and he declares that
the bird was perched on
the dry remnants of an old
haystack. He furthermore
says the sounds are not en- es ny!
tirely caused by an exertion Bh )
of the vocal organs, but are
connected in some way with
the distention of the crop
and the drawing in of the
breath, not the throwing of
it out after the crop is full.

In the dim twilight suc-

The Great Homed Owl.

ceeding a warm day in spring

another strange but familiar note comes across the
meadow from the edge of the bordering wood, and
we recognize at once the hoot of an owl. It is a
barytone note, and from its depth and freedom from

* The Auk, vol. vi, p. 1.

100 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

a quivering, weird quality (familiar in the screech-
owl’s notes), we can be sure it comes from one of the
larger owls. It is, in fact, the voice of the great
horned owl (Bubo virginianus), a big, brown-and-
ocher-colored bird, mottled with black, and remark-
able for his tufted ears, the conspicuous feathers on
which stand out fully two inches beyond the contour
of his head.

Mr. Frank M. Chapman calls this owl, just as
many another ornithologist does, “a tiger among
birds.” The creature is a terror to small birds, poul-
try, squirrels, mice, and rabbits. But he is not quite
so destructive to the inmates of the henhouse as he is
made out to be. On the average, not more than one
owl in four steals a chicken; all the others feed on
mice, moles, and other such harmful creatures which
live on the farm.

One of the first voices of spring is that of the
horned owl; it is not a cheerful one, but it is a pre-
sage of warm days to come, and is therefore welcome.
Here are the notes of an owl

T
if
a
a

I heard hooting in May last : E

——
There is but one domi- Hoo, 03 OS,
nant tone to the song; my grace-notes, of course,
only indicating a certain modulation of the voice, do
not indicate a second tone. One of the most extreme

instances of modulation in a bird’s voice is mani-

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES. 101

fested in that of the loon (Urinator imber), whose
sliding note resembles that outrageous invention
called a “siren” whistle, which one may hear any
time in the harbor of New York. Ido not mean to
imply by this comparison that the loon when he calls
sprawls all over the chromatic scale, as the above-
mentioned whistle does; he does not; the screech
owl comes far nearer that sort of thing. But the

loon does modulate his “ O-ho-oo!” SP
in a wild, fortissimo way so nearly like =
the “siren” that the comparison, to my Yan herot

mind, is a very natural one. Mr. Cheney’s render-
ing of the three notes is different ;
but all birds do not sing alike.

I quote what Mr. J. H. Langille
says of the loon’s voice. ‘ Beginning on the fifth
note of the scale, the voice slides through the eighth
to the third of the scale above in loud, clear, sonorous
tones, which on a dismal evening before a thunder-

ff.

storm—the lightning already playing along the inky
sky—are anything but musical.” Here they are:
“ He has also another but rather soft and
ee pleasing utterance, sounding like ‘ Who-
who-who-who,’ the syllables being so
rapidly pronounced as to sound almost like a shake of

the voice—a sort of weird laughter.”
This last calmer but still strong cry is usually ut-

102 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

tered while the bird is on the wing; it runs thus:
Many years ago the weird
song was a very familiar

Tavsnoeehaoeoooe 00°? one to me at the twilight
hour in the wilderness of the Adirondacks. I do not
know whether the loon to-day frequents the lakes,
which thirty years ago were his favorite haunts; I
do not think he does. The changes in the woods are
radical, and civilization has introduced numberless
fashionable and elaborate “camps,” which prove
most conclusively that there is less venison, trout,
and loon music there than there used to be in the
“ sixties.”

The loon is a retiring character, who avoids all
contact with the civilized world and lives in the se-
clusion of the wilderness. In 1887 Mr. Simeon Pease
Cheney found ample opportunity to study the loon at
Trout Lake, St. Lawrence County, N. Y., about
twenty-five miles northwest of Paul Smith's. <Ac-
cording tu his account, the nest of a certain loon he
saw was simply a cavity in some dry muck on the
ruins of an old muskrat house. The female, he ex-
plains, shoved herself on it very much as she pushed
herself into the water, and did not, as Wilson says,
approach it on the wing by darting obliquely and
falling securely in it. Loons never lay more than
two grayish, olive-brown eggs speckled with black,

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES. 1038

and these are nearly as large (three and a half inches
long) as those of a goose.

The loon is a big bird, anywhere from twenty
to thirty-two inches long from Dill to tail, and so
characteristically

aquatic
that he
is absolutely helpless
and clumsy on land ;
the legs are too far
back to be of any
service in walking,
and when on the
shores of a lake he
shoves himself for-
ward partly on his
breast. I have heard
sportsmen say that it
was next to impos- ;
sible to shoot one
of the creatures; he Pion
must be struck in

the head or not at all, as the feathers on the body
are so thick and close that the shot is effectually
checked by them ; besides that, as an escaping diver
the bird is without an equal. He disappears upon
the slightest provocation, swims under the water an

104 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

extraordinary distance, and reappears far away, on
the other side of the Jake, perhaps, quite out of gun-
shot. The following is Mr. Cheney’s description of
an alarmed loon’s method of progression on the sur-
face of the water: “Suddenly there was a furious
dashing and splashing just behind us, and in a mo-
ment more one of them rushed by very near us, both
flying and swimming, with wings in the air and feet
in the water. He swept by us with a noise like a
steamboat, but no boat could equal his speed. At
every stroke of his wings he smote the water as well
as the air.”

But aquatic birds are always a source of surprise
to us when we see the rapidity of their progression
through the water. Last June, when the Pemige-
wasset River, New Hampshire, had swollen to an
enormous and resistless flood after a long rain, and I
was watching the seething water sweeping beneath
the bridge with fearful rapidity, I was much sur-
prised to witness the successful efforts of a red-
breasted sheldrake (Alerganser serrator) making up-
stream with no inconsiderable amount of speed. I
shouted and clapped my hands, and the bird, taking
immediate alarm, flapped his wings and shot over the
surface of the flying water like an express train. I
calculated at the time he was making fully thirty
miles an hour, although relatively with the river bank

THE PEMIGEWASSET RIVER,
AT BLAIR’S BRIDGE, AND
THE SHELDRAKE.
MERGANSER SERRATOR,
“He slyly proceeds
up stream.”

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES. 105

his speed did not count for so much. At ordinary
times, when the river is low, I have seen this wild
duck propel himself noisily through the water with a
rapidity that would rival the best effort of a Harvard
oarsman.

On being alarmed the sheldrake utters a melan-
choly, hoarse “quonk,” usually in the key of OC.
fs His voice is often heard late in

the afternoon, when with his fel-

Mone wore-one-oke-K? Jows he shyly proceeds upstream

in quest of the little fish that abound in the river.

He pursues and captures his prey under the water,

and, like the loon, dives upon the slightest disturb-
ance which occurs near his retreat.

Merganser serrator is a red-breasted sheldrake,
whose white-ringed neck and broad band of rust
color on the upper breast, black streaked, distinguish
him from the other species, Merganser americanus,
whose breast is white tinged with salmon.

A group of sheldrakes on a quiet bit of the river
is an interesting gathering to stir up. Occasionally
one or two individuals make some passing remark
—probably on the possible presence of an observer in
the vicinity. The ducks keep a sharp lookout both
for fish and men ; suddenly some one springs out of
the neighboring thicket with an abrupt shouting and
clapping of hands ; instantly the river in the vicinity

106 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

of the ducks is a scene of wildest turmoil and con-
fusion, the ducks flee, and the water is rapidly
churned up for a quarter of a mile downstream. In
less than a minute after all is quiet again, and no one
would think there was a duck within a hundred miles
of the spot.

So we turn from the lonesome river brink and
direct our footsteps to the wood on the hillside;
hardly have we stepped within its shade when there
is the greatest commotion ainong the ferns and the
dead leaves, where a hen and her chickens have been
hiding ; they scatter in all directions. But it was a
partridge hen, and she has as much trouble in collect-
ing her faculties as her “ chicks,” for we can still hear
her excited, nervous clucks in the distance. I once
came upon such a brood so suddenly and noiselessly
that one of the little things was nearly beneath my foot
before my intrusion was discovered. With an experi-
mental turn of mind I immediately began to chirp
like a lost chicken, and in an instant the distracted
mother came tearing back to the rescue; for a few
moments she stood directly before me in the most
anxious attitude, and, making the most distressful
clucks and cries, tried to regain her lost chick. But
she was shortly convinced that I was a base deceiver,
and left as hurriedly as she came.

The partridge (Bonasa wybellus) is responsible

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES. 107

for some of the strangest noises that break the still-
ness of the mountain forest. The female is always
clucking and quirping on the approach of an intrud-

ing footstep, and she never seems to discov-

er it until it is within a couple of
treat. I should

not only from this

yards of her re-
imagine,
stance but from the
fact that the male
bird makes such a rum-

circum-

_ pus in spring when he
' calls his mate, that she isa
the Partridge. bit deaf. One almost treads
upon the tail of a partridge
before it occurs to the creature to get out of the
way; then there is a fearful whér-r-r-r-r, violent
and startling enough to set one’s heart beating, and
the bird is gone, not, however, without making the
following vocal exclamation, Sfphe a=
whistled in a variety of tones Ratt eeess

i.

as shrill and explosive as some —~ Whiew-whiew-eweweweu!
of the remarks of the red squirrel. I always imagine
the bird saying, “ Why in thunder didn’t you say you
were coming ? it’s a shocking surprise! ”

But this chick-o’-the woods is no fool; he knows
he can make noise enough to rattle the sportsman,
shake his nerves, and spoil his aim, so he does not

108 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

hurry himself to move off. His mottled brown
colors are amply protective, and if he “lies low ” he
can save himself
the trouble of an
arduous retreat on
the wing. Par-
tridges do not care
to fly if they can

avoid it. Indeed, a

Wing of the partridge.

glance at my draw-
ing of the wing shows that it is not the best shape
for flying. Compared with the pigeon’s wing ™ it is
short and stumpy, although handsome.

The strangest noise the partridge makes may be
heard in the spring; then the male bird mounts an old
stump or a log and begins his “crow” in the usual
way, but his voice is silent. He beats his wings ex-
actly as the rooster does, but with an expert’s ability,
and does no more. Thump, thump, thump, thump,
thump, thump, th-ur-r-r-r-1-7-7-7-7 [

SnanRORECM MOM OW oy ae a ee a a
Thump-ump-ump-ump-p thr-r-r-r-r-r

The tone is that of a muffled snare drum. He is un-
questionably the drummer of Nature’s orchestra.

* The carrier pigeon has been known to fly one hundred miles
in an hour.

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES. 109

The great question among naturalists has always
been how he made the noise. I think the question
has not long since been answered by more than one
observer, and one of the best of these answers has
come from Mr. Cheney. I quote what he says: “It
is now plainly to be seen that the performer stood
straight up, like a junk bottle, and brought his wings
in front of him with quick, strong strokes, smiting
nothing but the air, not even his ‘own proud breast,’
as one distinguished observer has suggested... .
The first two or three thumps are soft and compara-
tively slow, then they increase rapidly in force and
frequency, rushing onward into a furious whir, the
whir subsiding in a swift but graduated diminish.
The entire power of the partridge must be thrown
into this exercise. His appearance immediately after-
ward affirms it as strongly as does the volume of
sound, for he drops into the forlornest of attitudes,
looking as if he would never move again. In a few
minutes, however—perhaps five—he begins to have
nervous motions of the head; up, up, it goes, and his
body with it, till he is perfectly erect—legs, body,
neck, and all. Then for the thunder once more.”

I can add nothing to this perfect description of
the performance. The noise és made, just as has been
stated, by the wings beating the air with furious ra-
pidity. There should be no doubt whatever abvut

110 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

that, and all I need to produce a convincing proof of
the fact is a machine that will vibrate a pair of wings,
which I have before me as I write, at the rate of five
hundred times a minute. Hollow the hands and then
clap them rapidly together a number of times, and a
somewhat similar sound will be produced, which will
show how much the air has to do with the case.

The food of the partridge consists of berries,
seeds, buds, catkins, insects, and wild fruit. In the
autumn he will occasionally visit the orchard, and I
have often discovered him beneath some wild apple
tree in a copse by the river picking at the fallen fruit.
In winter the bird still finds ample nourishment
in the wild woods of the northern mountains, and
what with wintergreen (Gaultheria procumbens), his
own berry—partridge berry (Jlctchella repens)
—creeping snowberry (Chiogenes serpylla-

folia), and an abundance of evergreen
leaves, he is far from starving; all
these he gets by scratching and
burrowing in the snow. But it is eS
undoubtedly the case that many a

young bird perishes with its first ex-

The partridge’s

. ef ’ ,
perience of the winter’s severe cold. Rates

In the Northern woods the par-
tridge will burrow to the interior of a snowdrift and
pass the nights of intense cold there. The hardy

STRANGE CREATURES WITH STRANGE VOICES. 111

little creature is also provided with snowshoes, a curi-
ous fringe of stout, bristly growths arranged along
the toes, which greatly assist him in walking over the
snow. This growth begins to show itself on the foot
by the middle of October, and by the end of March
it has completely disappeared.

The flesh of the partridge, in my estimation, is
incomparably superior to that of the quail, and the
amount of it on the breast of a plump bird is sur-
prising. A bird should be kept in the ice chest at
least three days before it is eaten.

Partridge berry.

CHAPTER VII.

FURRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS.
The Wolverene, Fisher, and Marten or Sable.

Ir is a question whether we are justified in con-
sidering the strange wolverene a furry frend. From
one point of view he és, as his splendid coat furnishes
us with one of the finest and most beautiful furs of
the country. But he is certainly not a familiar crea-
ture among the northern woods in these days; long
years ago he was practically extinct in the northeast-
ern States.*

Dr. Clinton Hart Merriam writes that several were
caught at Raquette Lake, in the Adirondacks, as late
as 1842. Elliott Coues mentions the fact that a Dr.
Z. Thomson, writing in 1853, states that the animal
was then extremely rare in Vermont; and Mr. Allen
asserts that as late as 1870 it still lingered among
the Hoosac hills in Massachusetts. At the present

* His most southerly range is about latitude 42° for the east-
ern portion of the continent.
112

FURRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS. 113

day all the skins which are brought into the market
come from the far West and Northwest.

But we can not afford to pass the wolverene, or
glutton, as he is sometimes called (Gulo luscus), with
only a nod of recognition; he is entirely too in-
teresting. His Latin name means “glutton,” and
his record in literature in this connection is quite
unique.* He is the first and largest if not the most
important member of the Mustelide family, that
splendid furry tribe whose skins have such a high
market value. He is also the most remarkable
member of the subfamily J/ustelinw, which includes
the long-bodied, short-legged martens, weasels, ferret,
and mink, The skunk, badger, and otter are his
more distant relatives, and it certainly would be
inexcusably partial to consider these, and not the
wolverene.

This strange animal is from two to three feet long
—less than that, so far as general appearances go—
with a chunky figure like that of a bear’s cub. His
coat is shaggy and blackish or dark brown, with light

* We find it gravely stated that this brute will feast upon the
carcass of some large animal until his belly is swollen as tight as
a drum, and then get rid of its burden by squeezing himself be-
tween two trees, in order that it may return to glut itself anew—
an alleged climax of gluttony to which no four-footed beast at-
tains, and for the parallel of which we must refer to some of the
most noted gormandizers of the Roman Empire.—f'ur-bearing
Animals. Liliott Coues,

9

114 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

chestnut bands, which begin at either shoulder, ex-
tend down the flanks, and meet at the root of the
tail; this is short, bushy, and characterized by long
drooping hairs. His back is high and arched, and
his head and tail are carried low. The forehead is
a light gray color, and beneath the throat is another
patch of the same pale tint. The head is broad and
rounded, the muzzle pointed, the beadlike eyes are
small, and the rounded ears (well furred on both
sides) are set low, and scarcely extend beyond the
fur in their vicinity. The feet are large and black-
ish, with sharp, curved, whitish claws about an inch
long.

The wolverene, like others of its tribe, possesses
anal glands which secrete a disgustingly nauseous, yel-
low-brown fluid, which is discharged by the usual
nipplelike duct terminations situated just within the
anus; the odor is ten times as bad as that of the
skunk. But amore serious characteristic of this ani-
mal is his propensity to steal and hide things. He
annoys the Northern trappers by upsetting their
traps, stealing the bait, and sometimes killing and de-
vouring the martens which are caught.

A Mr. Ross relates the following: “ An instance
occurred within my own knowledge in which a hunt-
er and his family having left their lodge unguarded
during their absence, on their return found it com-

Fu ING CE %
foe

0
1

=

THE WOLVERENE.
GULO LUSCUS.
“A strange animal with a chunky figure.”

FURRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS. 115

pletely gutted—the walls were there, but nothing else.
Blankets, guns, kettles, axes, cans, knives, and all the
other paraphernalia of a trapper’s tent had vanished,
and the tracks left by the beast showed who had been
the thief. The family set to work, and by carefully
following up all his paths, recovered, with some tri-
fling exceptions, the whole of the lost property.”

The most extraordinary habit of this strange ani-
mal is thus recounted by Elliott Cones: “We need
not go beyond strict facts to be impressed with the
wit of the beast, whom all concede to be ‘as cunning as
the very devil.’ . . . It is said that if one only stands
still, even in full view of an approaching carcajou”
—the Indian name for the wolverene—“ he will come
within fifty or sixty yards, provided he be to the
windward, before he takes alarm. . . . On these and
similar occasions he has a singular habit, one not
shared, so far as I am aware, by any other beast what-
ever: he sits on his haunches and shades his eyes
with one of his fore paws, just as a human being
would do in scrutinizing a distant object. The carca-
jou, then, in addition to his other and varied accom-
plishments, is a perfect skeptic, to use this word in
its original signification. A skeptic, with the Greeks,
was simply one who would shade his eyes to see more
clearly.

The handsome fur of the wolverene brings a high

116 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

price among the furriers, the finest skins being valued
at four dollars and the coarser ones at two dollars.
It is said that the Indians and Esquimaux use the
fur for fringing their garments, as they do that of
the wolf, the skin being cut into strips for this pur-
pose.

Another member of the dJ/usteline tribe, and one
which approaches the long-bodied, short-legged form
of the tribe more nearly than the wolverene, is the
fisher, or Pennant’s marten (Dustela* pennanti),
often called the pecan, and rarely the black cat or
black fox. There are two American species of mar-
ten which are distinguished apart by the following
characteristics, according to Elliott Coues :

Mustela pennanti: Length, two feet or more;
tail, a foot or more ; ears low, wide and semicircular ;
color blackish, lighter on fore upper parts and head ;
darkest below ; no light throat patch.

Mustela americuna; Length, less than two feet;
tail, less than a foot long and uniformly bushy ; ears
high, subtriangular; color brown, ete., not darker
below than above ; usually a large yellowish or tawny
throat patch.

* The name mustela means a kind of weasel. “Its adjective
derivative, mustelinus, refers primarily to general weasellike qual-
ities, and secondarily to the peculiar tawny color of most species
of weasels in summer. For example, the tawny thrush of Wilson
is called Turdus mustelinus.”— Elliott Coues.

FURRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS. 117

These species form the connecting link between
the wolverene and the weasels, which is somewhat
evidenced by a more heavily haired, stouter body
than that of the sinuous weasel, and a slenderer figure
than that of the wolverene. Of the two martens the
fisher is by far the largest, as may be seen by Dr.
Coues’s description above ; indeed, according to Dr.
Merriam, the average length of the animal is three
feet and a half from nose to tip of tail.

The fisher.

The prey of the fisher is mostly mice, squirrels,
partridges, small birds, frogs, fish, and sometimes
hares and even raccoons. Strangely enough, he does
not hesitate to attack the well-armored porcupine,
which be kills by biting in the belly—so says Sir
John Richardson. But I copy from Dr. Merriam’s
account of the animal the indubitable proofs of the
fisher’s liking for porcupine flesh, and whether he at-
tacks the porcupine in a vulnerable spot or not, it is
perfectly plain he does not have an easy time of it.
“The intestine of one was lined with rows of porenu-

118 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

pine’s quills arranged like papers of needles through-
out its length, but they did not penetrate the sides.
Many were imbedded in the neck muscles, and in the
head, chest, back, and legs, but no inflammation was
caused. The needles were about two and a half
inches long.”

The fisher is an inhabitant of the wilderness, and
in the northern woods he is occasionally seen prowl-
ing about the vicinity of lonesome ponds and ever-
green swamps. Dr. Merriam states that the fisher
has been found of late years in the Adirondack
woods, and to my certain knowledge he still exists in
the secluded forests of northern New Hampshire and
Maine. Besides the few furs which come into the
market from the northeastern States, there are a
large number which come from the vicinity of Lake
Superior, Canada, the Northwest, and the Pacific
coast. The parallel of 35° is considered by Elliott
Coues the fisher’s southern limit.

The name of the animal is somewhat misapplied,
as he does no fishing for himself unless it is on the
borders of the pond. On the whole the fisher is most
decidedly: arboreal; he spends a great deal of his
time exploring the trees for his prey. He is agile
and muscular to a degree almost exceeding the ath-
letic accomplishments of the cat tribe, and it is said
that he can make a descending bound of forty feet,

FURRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS. 119

never failing at the end to secure his prey. He is,
in fact, the expert climber of the family to which he
belongs. In a race with the raccoon the latter’s
heels are not lively enough to save his hide; the
poor coon has not a ghost of a chance. I copy what

“ He spends a great deal of
his time exploring the
trees for his prey.”

Mr. Peter Reid, of Washington County, New York,
has said long years ago on that point: “ While hunt-
ing early one winter I found the carcass of a freshly
killed sheep, and by the tracks around it in the light
show perceived that a fisher had surprised a raccoon
at the feast. A hard chase had ensued, the raccoon
tacking at full speed to avoid his pursuer, the fisher
outrunning and continually confronting his intended

120 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

victim. I saw where at length the fisher had made
an assault, and where a bloody contest had evidently
ensued. The raccoon, worsted in the encounter, had
again broken away and the chase was resumed, but
with diminished energy on the part of the raccoon ;
the animal had been soon overtaken again, and a still
more desperate encounter had taken place. The
coon had failed fast, and it had at last become mere-
ly a running fight, when both animals had entered
a swamp where it was impossible for me to trace
them further; but I have no doubt the coon was
killed.”

It is said that the nest of the fisher is usually in
a hollow, standing tree, from thirty to forty feet
from the ground. The female bears from two to
four young ones about the Ist of May.

The fisher’s skin was evidently not very valuable
when De Kay wrote, in 1842, thus: “The hunting
season for the fisher, in the northern part of the
State (New York), commences about the 10th of
October and lasts to the middle of May, when the
furs are not so valuable. The ordinary price is a
dollar and a half per skin.” Such a low figure as this
would not hold good nowadays, for the least expen-
sive Eastern skin of the poorest gvlity brings that
price, and the most expensive one nine dollars. The
average price of a good pelt is seven dollars and a

FURRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS, 121

half. Excepting that of the two otters, the fisher’s
fur is the most expensive of any belonging to the
members of the Mustelidw family. Its prevailing
color is an admixture of brownish and grayish tints,
gradually darkening into blackish brown at the hind
quarters, tail, and legs. The real beauty of the skin
lies in its rich, smoky brown tone.

American Sable.

The fur of the other, smaller marten, sometimes
called the pine marten or American sable (Mustela
americana), is almost as expensive as that of the
larger species. It is by far the commoner fur of the
two, and in many respects is quite as handsome. This
smaller marten is one of the most beautiful of our
little American animals, and is common yet among
the evergreen forests of the North. His environment
is properly the trackless mountain wilderness where
the fir and the spruce cast their mingled shade over
the tangled undergrowth of ferns, lycopodiums, shiny

122 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

wintergreen, and gold thread, and the wild, troubled
mountain stream bordered by lichen-painted rocks
and gnarled, moss-covered roots. Here we may see
his lithe, gliding body appear through the shadows, a
bright bit of warm color set in the sober green of the
forest. But the little animal is nocturnal in his habits,
and one gets a glimpse of him only once in a lifetime;
if it is early spring, one may chance to catch sight of
the female in search of food for her young. Not in-
frequently she will be seen traversing the limbs of
the trees hunting for the nests of the thrush and
vireo. Martens are strictly arboreal in their habits,
and they are not known to attack poultry. Their
diet is usually mice in particular, and partridges,
birds, eggs, frogs, and the larger insects in general;
they are expert climbers, and go bird’s-nesting with
great success. As the whole group of Mustelide is
characteristically carnivorous, I have grave doubts
about this animal eating nuts and berries, as some
writers aver.

I have said that it was a pretty little animal; at
the same time I can not give a description of one in-
dividual which will do for all. There is such a great
variety of color in the fur, due to season, age, and other
conditions, that a single marten’s appearance is no
criterion for that of the genus. The particular ani-
mal which I remember best of all was tawny brown,

FURRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS. 123

not a reddish color like that of a fox, but a soft tone
nearly like that of a lion, but darker. The feet and
tail were darker, and the head lighter than the back.
Mr. B. R. Ross describes the color of the marten
thus: “In a large heap of skins which I have ex-
amined minutely there exists a great variety of shades
darkening from the rarer yellowish white and bright
orange into a variety of orange-browns considerably
clouded with black on the back and belly, and ex-
hibiting on the flanks and throat more of an orange
tint. The legs and paws, as well as the top of the
tail, are nearly pure black. The claws are white and
sharp. The ears are invariably edged with a yellow-
ish white, and the cheeks are generally of the same
hue. The forehead is of a light brownish gray, dark-
ening toward the nose, but in some specimens it is
nearly as dark as the body. The yellowish marking
under the throat (considered a specific distinction of
the pine marten) is in some cases well defined and
of an orange tint, while in others it is almost perfect-
ly white. It also varies much in extent, reaching to
the fore legs in some instances; in others consisting
of merely a few spots, and in still others being en-
tirely wanting.”

The fur is variable, of course, according to season ;
in November it is in prime condition, and in winter
it still continues full and soft, about an inch or so

124 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

deep, and with a great number of large black hairs
interspersed.

The pine marten is an agreeable little creature
when tamed, and is almost entirely without the un-
pleasant odor which is characteristic of the family to
which he belongs. But he has a pugnacious disposi-
tion, and quarrels with any part of the animal world
he rubs against. He fights and kills the weaker ro-
dents, and is a terror to the woodland birds. He isa
sworn enemy of the red squirrel, as we may see by
the following account of Mr. G. 8. Miller, Jr.: “At
Nipigon” [Ontario] “a trapper told me that the mar-
tens, wherever they occur in sufficient numbers, so
terrorize the red squirrels by constant persecutions
that the noisy rodents, learning that silence is their
best protection, stop chattering. Hence an abundance
of silent squirrels is, according to my informant at
least, a certain indication that marten fur is plenti-
ful.”

The little animal is somewhat shy, and retreats to
the seclusion of the deep woods upon the advancing
settlement of the country. I recollect that as early
as the year 1867 the marten was plentiful in the Adi-
rondack woods. The early French settlers, in fact,
named one of the rivers having its rise in these
northern woods for him—the Ausable River. He is
still common in the evergreen woods of that region,

FURRY FRIENDS WITH FINE SKINS. 125

and hundreds are trapped there every year for their
valuable fur. In Maine he is also common in the
vicinity of Lake Umbagog, and he frequently appears
in the spruce forests of northern New Hampshire.
Notwithstanding his shyness, he is a bit inquisitive,
and trappers say that if one should meet him and
begin to whistle, his curiosity will overcome his pru-
dence, and he will allow himself to be approached
near enough to be’easily shot. When he is trapped,
if any one draws very near he will raise his hair,
arch his back, show his teeth, and growl and hiss
like a cat. If attacked by a dog, he will fasten on
his nose if he can, and bite so severely that the dis-
tracted dog will frequently let go his game and suffer
it to escape.

The female makes her nest in the hollow of a
log, or rarely in some secluded spot on the ground,
and bears from four to six young ones in early
April. The animal when full grown is about the
size of a cat, but slenderer and much shorter legged.
The tail, hairs and all, is nearly a foot long, bushy,
and in this respect quite the reverse of that of the
pecan. The head is rather triangular and conical,
and the eyes are set obliquely at the point where the
muzzle begins to contract.

The finest marten furs come from the country
north of Lake Superior, and from Labrador and

126 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Alaska. These are quoted at from five to seven
dollars each, while those coming from New York
and New England rarely bring more than two
dollars.

CHAPTER VIII.

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS.
The Weasels.

Wer may consider the weasels furry friends, if
we look at the matter from an unprejudiced .stand-
point, and do the creatures the justice to admit that
they are remarkably serviceable, not so much in the
form of a muff ora collar as in the capacity of just
and effective destroyers of vermin. If the wolverene
is a friend on account of his fur, then the weasel is a
better friend, because he can beat the record of the
best-trained terrier in rat-killing. The sight of a
weasel just issuing from a rat hole licking his chops
after a good day’s work, prompts one to call him a
glorious fighter; the animal deserves our congratula-
tions, and he gets them. But when he comes out of
the henhouse and leaves thirty or forty bedraggled
corpses behind him which are not rats, but chickens,
then we reach for the gun and pay him in his own
coin. In the latter case J should properly introduce

him hors de combat and physically exhausted, as the
127

128 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

celebrated chicken-killer who has done his best! It
altogether depends upon what he happens to have
done whether we shall consider him as a friend or
a foe.

Now, the next relatives of the martens are the
little and larger weasels, the latter being the most
bloodthirsty little rascal, taking size into considera-
tion, of all animal creation. This seems a sweeping
assertion, but I shall presently gather together suffi-
cient data to establish the charge beyond refutation.

The little brown weasel (Putorius* cicognani—
Putorius vulgaris, of Merriam) is a long-bodied ani-
mal scarcely larger than a rat. He lives along water
courses, in swamps, and under rocky ledges, and his
prey comprises a variety of small creatures, such as
mice, moles, birds and their eggs, insects, and frogs.
He is reputed to be an enemy of chickens, but there
is no doubt whatever that some confusion exists be-
tween him and the larger weasel in the minds of the
farmers. The latter is really the destroyer who en-
ters the poultry yard, and not the little brown weasel.

The following are the principal points of distinc-
tion between the two species:

Little brown weasel (Putorius cicognant) ; length
of body without tail, six to eight inches; tail short,

* From the Latin putor, a stench, in allusion to the putrid
odor of some members of the genus,

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 129

cylindrical, black at the tip; color of under parts
buff-white, sharply defined in nearly a straight line

Little brown Weasel.

beside the brown ; feet white beneath; always turns
white on the approach of winter.*

Larger weasel in his summer coat.

Larger weasel (Putorius noveboracensis— Puto-
rius erminea, of Coues); length of body without tail,
eight to eleven, or oftener nine to ten, inches; tail
at all seasons bushy, conspicuously black-tipped for
about one third of its total length. Color of under

*In Connecticut P. cteognani always turns white in winter,
while P, noveboracensis never does,
10

130 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

parts buff-white irregularly defined against the brown ;
feet brown; turns white only in the northern part of
its range. The male of this species is much larger
than the female.

In respect to the general color both weasels are
the same. But Elliott Coues makes an emphatic
point of distinction between the
two species, which is obvious in a
comparison of the tails. He says:
“This member is both absolutely
and relatively shorter in the weasel
than in the ermine. . . . In the
weasel the tail is without the slight-
est bushy enlargement, and in most
of the specimens I have seen there
is no black whatever at the end of

Weasels’ tails. the tail; on the contrary, the end is
1. P. rixosus; “ “ ‘
2. P. cicognant ; frequently tipped with a few white

3. P. noviboracensis. : :
hairs.* In other specimens, how-

ever, the tail is dusky, while in one from Oregon the
tip is quite blackish.” He furthermore says, speak-
ing of the skins which he had seen (from British
America) of the whole animal, that “they were about
six inches long, and also somewhat peculiar in the
intensity of a liver-brown shade.” Now Dr. Coues

* He evidently refers to the northern or Arctic species called
the least weasel (Putortus rixosus), which is not found in the East.

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 131

has recorded the common color of the weasel as a
variable mahogany brown, and he cites this peculiar
liver color as an exception to the rule; but I must
say that the weasels which I was fortunate enough to
see last summer in broad daylight (at ten o’clock in
the morning) were an unmistakable seal brown of a
lightish tone, or liver brown—i. e., a color produced
by mixing six parts sepia with one part crimson lake.
But a mahogany-colored weasel I have never seen.
The weasel is an inquisitive little animal, cease-
lessly active, and ever on the scent of his prey; this,
it is said, he pursues with the intelligence of a hound.
Mr. Thomas Bell describes the
weasel’s hunt as follows: “In
pursuing a rat or a mouse it

not only follows it as long as it
remains within sight, but con- Head of little brown wea-
tinues the chase after it has dis- Se! Showing the narrow form
adapted to the exploration of
appeared, with the head raised small animals’ homes under-
ground.
a little above the ground, fol-
lowing the exact track recently taken by its destined
‘prey. Should it lose the scent, it returns to the
point where it was lost, and quarters the ground with
great diligence till it has recovered it; thus, by dint
of perseverance, it will ultimately hunt down a
swifter and even a stronger animal than itself. But

this is not all: in the pertinacity of its pursuit it

132 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

will readily take the water, and swim with great ease
after its prey.”

The female weasel, a much smaller animal than
the male, brings forth four, or more frequently five,
young, and has two or three litters in a year. The
nest is composed of leaves and herbage, and is warm
and dry; usually it is built in a hole under some
river bank or in the hollow of a tree.

As arule the little brown weasel will most likely
be seen in the woody borders of the meadow, not far
from the river. Last June, during a most unpre-
cedented flood of the Pemigewasset River, N. H.,
caused by violent rains, the weasels were driven from
the river banks to the higher land at the foot of the
hills. To my unspeakable surprise, I saw, one morn-
ing while weeding the garden bed in front of the
house, a number of weasels traveling Indian file
down the brick walk directly toward me. The baby
{aged three) stood on the bricks, and as I handed
him a bachelor’s button in compliance with his re-
quest, I noticed that he seemed a trifle disturbed by
something near his feet. No wonder! there were a
number of long-necked, ratlike creatures plodding
slowly along, within six inches of his toes, and grunt-
ing discomposedly like little pigs. On they came,
the queer, dark-brown, bold-faced things, apparently
with no thought except that the brick walk was the

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 133

proper thoroughfare to the gate, and that we were in
the way. I never saw so strange a sight. We stood
—the baby and I—within four
feet of the wide-open
rustic gate, which with
the surrounding coun-

try seemed entirely too
public to the weasels’
minds. I was still more
amazed, a moment later,
while three or four of the
animals were endeavoring
to insert themselves between
the boards of the plank walk
set scarcely an inch apart, just
beside the gate, to notice one
of the individuals return a few
feet, saucily stare us in the face,
and with a variety of hisses and
grunts show his disapproval of our
presence. Still another, much both-
ered by the publicity of the meeting,
took refuge beneath a neighboring sun-
flower, and, after squeaking and grunting
his dissatisfaction a moment longer, con-
cluded to join his fellows under the plank walk.
After a while, with a good deal of scrambling and

134 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

squeezing, they all succeeded in getting there. Then
the place looked déserted. But presently the regi-
ment reappeared—Indian file again—down by the
horse block on the road, at the foot of the terrace;
here I had a chance to count them as they marched
riverward across the road and disappeared in the
shrubbery on the other side—there were no less than
nine. Ihave not the remotest idea why so many of
them had congregated in the vicinity of the cottage,
unless the refuse tub around in the rear was the at-
traction. Truth to tell, on the borders of the wilder-
ness more wild animals (and tame ones, too, for I
must include the itinerant cow) visit one’s refuse
tub than may be found in a city menagerie !

I have often met the weasel, and he never im-
pressed me with any shyness of disposition; but
others have had a contrary experience ; for instance,
Dr. Abbott relates the following: “The careless
snapping of a twig may not startle you, but it tele-
graphs your whereabouts to creatures many a rod
away... Not long since I was watching a weasel
as it tripped along the rough rails of an old worm
fence. It was intently engaged, following the trail
of a ground squirrel, perhaps. Suddenly, as if shot,
it stood in a half-erect posture, turned its head quick-
ly from one side to the other, then rested one ear on
or very near the rail, as I thought ; then reassumed a

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 135

semi-erect position, gave a quick, barklike cry, and
disappeared. There was no mistaking the meaning
of every movement. The animal had heard a sus-
picious sound, and recognizing it as fraught with dan-
ger, promptly sought safety.

“Extremely curious myself to learn what the
weasel had heard—for I was sure it was the sound of
an approaching object—TI sat perfectly still
awaiting coming events: the j

mystery was
quickly solved—a man drew

The assurance of the
however, in the pres-
ence of his prey is
unbounded. He
throws himself on
the unsuspecting
victim like a
panther, and

a mouse

Ue ge rN
weal if’ ‘oval Sivek
or a Weasel and a rat. squirrel 2g

it one bite on the head,
piercing the brain and thus killing the creature in
an instant. His lithe, sinuous form enables him to

136 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

bend himself in the most extraordinary way and seize
his prey at the greatest possible advantage.

The weasel climbs trees with perfect ease, and
rifles a bird’s nest of its occupants or eggs, as the case
may be. In the barn, among the grain stacks and
hayricks, he is an invaluable friend to the farmer,
for he will quickly rid the premises of all mice and
rats.

According to Mr. Outram Bangs, the range of this
weasel extends nearly across the continent, through
the forest belt; his range has been positively fixed
from Long Island and Connecticut northward to Lab-
rador, and westward at least to Fort Snelling, Minn.
He turns white in winter throughout this range; the
hindquarters are tinged with sulphur yellow. The
skin of this weasel has no especial market value.

The larger weasel, mistakenly called the ermine or
stoat (Putorius noveboracensis—Putorius erminea of
Coues), is not identical with the European species,
which is considered so valuable for its white fur.*
As a bloodthirsty character he has no parallel among
the mammals; this seems to be a universal opinion
among those who know the remarkable little crea-

* Elliott Coues, in Fur-bearing Animals, makes no distinction
between the European ermine and this larger weasel. The differ-
ences, however, are very great, and more than sufficient to induce
me to adopt the conclusions of later authors,

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 137

ture well, and there are apparently records enough
of his murderous deeds to amply justify such an
opinion.

One would never think, though, to see the pretty
little animal in confinement, that he was such a dis-
reputable character; but when I search among his
records I find substantially the same old story every-
where. Audubon, William Macgillivray (who de-
scribes the European ermine), Elliott Coues, John
Burroughs, Dr. Merriam, and J. A. Allen all tell
equal tales of the creature’s relentless passion for de-
struction. Even E. P. Roe does not let him pass
without a just “dab” in Nature’s Serial Story, and I
find the tale repeated there of his killing “ fifty chick-
ens in one night ” out of “ pure cussedness ” has gone
the rounds of the creature’s most recent biographers.
It is apparently unnecessary for me to add anything
of a like nature to these woeful tales, but I think I
shall be justified in telling one, the finale of which
will relieve the series from a character of monotony.
But first let us have some of that data about the
so-called ermine’s bloodthirsty character which was
promised on a previous page.

Audubon says: “ Yet, with all these external at-
tractions, this weasel is fierce and bloodthirsty, pos-
sessing an intuitive propensity to destroy every ani-
mal and bird within its reach, some of which—

138 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

such as the American rabbit, the ruffed grouse, and
domestic fowl—are ten times its own size. It is a
notorious and hated depredator of the poultry house,
and we have known forty well-grown fowls” [later
accounts make it fifty] “to have been killed in one
night by a single ermine. Satiated with the blood
of probably a single fowl, the rest, like the flock
slaughtered by the wolf in the sheepfold, were de-
stroyed in obedience to a law of Nature, an instinctive
propensity to kill. . . . We have observed an ermine,
after having captured a hare, . . . first behead it and
then drag the body some twenty yards over the fresh
fallen snow, beneath which it was concealed and the
snow lightly pressed down over it.”

Now let us hear what Elliott Coues has to say:
“ Swift and surefooted, he makes open chase and runs
down his prey; .. . he assails it not only upon the
ground, but under it, and on trees and in the water.
Keen of scent, he tracks it and makes the fatal spring
upon it unawares; lithe, and of extraordinary slen-
derness of body, he follows the smaller creatures
through the intricacies of their hidden abodes, and
kills them in their homes; and if he does not kill for
the simple love of taking life, in gratification of super-
lative bloodthirstiness, he at any rate kills instinctive-
ly more than he can possibly require for his support.
I know not where to find a parallel among the larger

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 139

earnivora. ... A glance at the physiognomy of the
weasels would suffice to betray their character. The
teeth are almost of the highest known raptorial ”
[preying] “character ; the jaws are worked by enor-
mous masses of muscles covering all the side of the
skull. The forehead
is low, and the nose
is sharp; the eyes
are small, penetrating,
cunning, and glitter
with an angry green
light. There is some-

Face of a Western Weasel
(Putorius nigripes).

thing peculiar, more-
over, in the way that
this fierce face surmounts a body extraordinarily wiry,
lithe, and muscular. It ends a remarkably long and
slender neck in such a way that it may be held at
right angles with the axis of the latter. When the
creature is glancing around, with the neck stretched
up and flat, triangular head bent forward, swaying
from one side to the other, we catch the likeness in
a moment—it is the image of a serpent!” *

It seems as if this uncompromising, unqualified
exposure of bad character was sufficiently convincing
to go no further; but I must repeat what John Bur-

* Fur-bearing Animals.

140 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

roughs’ has said also. Arter telling of the manifold
perils of a bird’s life, he says:

‘One day last summer my attention was arrested
by the angry notes of a pair of brown thrashers that
were flitting from bush to bush along an old stone
row in a remote field. Presently I saw what it was
that excited them—three large, red weasels or ermines
coming along the stone wall and leisurely and half
playfully exploring every tree that stood near it.
They had probably robbed the thrashers. They
would go up the trees with greatest ease and glide
serpentlike out upon the main branches. When they
descended the tree they were unable to come straight
down like a squirrel, but went around it spirally.
How boldly they thrust their heads out of the wall
and eyed and sniffed me as I drew near—their round,
thin ears, their prominent, glistening, beadlike eyes,
and the curving, snakelike motions of the head and
neck being very noticeable. They looked like blood-
suckers and egg-suckers. They suggested something
extremely remorseless and eruel. One could under-
stand the alarm of rats when they discover one of
these fearless, subtle, and circumventing creatures
threading their holes. To flee must be like trying to
escape death itself.”

Very true, the rats are undoubtedly struck with
mortal terror on the approach of this their deadliest

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 141

enemy.* But the rat makes some show of fight not-
withstanding the desperate odds against him, and
sometimes he “turns the tables.” Now for my story.

Not long ago, in a comfortable old farmhouse
familiar to me from childhood, but one much the
worse for the company of rats, a weasel appeared
around the kitchen way, evidently seeking for some
ingress to the partitions. At last he found the desired
rat-hole, and entered. In less time than it takes to tell
it, there was the dickens to pay inside the walls of the
old house ; such desperate scrambling, rushing, squeak-
ing, and shrieking were never heard there before!
Truly speaking—

“You heard as if an army muttered ;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling ;

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ;
And out of the house the rats came tumbling.”

There was grim death in the path of the destroyer for

* “ We once placed a half-domesticated ermine in an outhouse
infested with rats, shutting up the holes on the outside to prevent
their escape. The little animal soon commenced his work of de-
struction; the squeaking of the rats was heard throughout the
day. In the evening it came out licking its mouth, and seemed
like a hound after a long chase, much fatigued. A board of the
floor was raised to enable us to ascertain the result of our experi-
ment, and an immense number of rats were observed, which, al-
though they had been killed in different parts of the building,
had been dragged together, forming a compact heap. The ermine,
then, is of immense benefit to the farmer. We are of the opinion
that it has been over-hated and too indiscriminately persecuted.”
—Quadrupeds of North America, Audubon.

149 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

a considerable space of time; then, in a tumultuous
scramble, he reappeared in the kitchen in a desperate
encounter with several rodents, and surprising as it
may seem, exhausted and torn by the violence of the
conflict. The rats were too many for him; he was
worsted ; and in two minutes more he was “as dead
as a doornail,” with a significant and appropriate sur-
rounding of disjecta membra.

Dr. Merriam remarks that the weasel is ever vic-
torious; but here is an instance of something quite
the contrary, and although one’s sympathies are not
often enlisted on the rat’s side, one can not help feel-
ing like complimenting the old rodents which on this
occasion broke the record.

The weasel, as a rule, does not eat the flesh of his
victim when game is plenty; instead, he devours the
brains, sucks the blood, and, when finished, goes for
the next and the next victim, until, after a most ter-
rifie slaughter, he stops through sheer exhaustion.
Relying on his strong, muscular jaws he springs upon
his game, and “brains” it with a single bite. Hunt-
ing day and night, climbing trees with perfect ease,
and entering the burrows of the rodents, he is a ter-
ror to all animal creation. Even the dog does not
get the best of him without a tough tussle, for he will
grab his nose if he gets a chance and hold on with
the grip of a vise. Fortunately, he does not very

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 143

often enter the chicken house; but when he does, it
is good-by to the hens! In the field, or among the
grain stacks, like the little brown weasel he is the best
friend of the farmer, for mice, rats, and rabbits are
his favorite game.

The range of this weasel is from southern Maine
and Vermont South to North Carolina, and West to
Indiana and Illinois.

In late summer, autumn, and winter the weasel’s
coat is remarkably beautiful. The change from dark
brown in summer to white in winter is perhaps the
most remarkable thing about the little animal. There
is an irregular line of demarcation between the upper
brown and the lower buff-white color in summer;
this line begins at the mouth, and continues low down
on the sides to the tail; all around the latter and
over the paws is the same color as the back, but the
tip of the tail is black.

According to Elliott Coues, the latitudes in which
the change occurs in this country include the north-
ern tier of States and the entire region northward.
In this area, he says, the change is regular, complete,
and universal; but, Audubon says, “in specimens
received from Virginia the colors of the back had
undergone no change in January.”

Regarding the cause of the color change, about
which there is much conflicting opinion, to those who,

144 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

like myself, have observed the animal only in the
North, it would seem as though Dr. Merriam’s theory,
recently expressed, is the one which is

correct.
My experi-
ence inclines
me to believe that
the change from
brown to white occurs
altogether too suddenly, 5, hic winter coat, 12 Many in-
stances, to admit of any other ex-
planation than that which Dr. Merriam gives, quoted
below.

Elliott Coues says: “As Mr. Bell contends, tem-
perature * is the immediate controlling agent. This
is amply proved in the fact that the northern animals
always change; that in those from intermediate lati-

tudes the change is incomplete, while those from far-

* We may safely conclude that if the requisite temperature is
experienced at the periods of renewal of the coat, the new hairs
will come out of the opposite color; if not, they will appear of
the same color and change afterward; that is, the change may or
may not be coincident with shedding. That it is ordinarily not
so coincident seems shown by the greater number of specimens in
which we observe white hairs brown tipped.—Fur-Bearing Ant-
mals, page 1.23, E. Coues.

FUR-CLAD FIGHTERS. 145

ther south do not change at all... . The design or
final cause of this remarkable alteration is evident in
the screening of the animal from observation by as-
similation of its color to that of its surroundings. It
is shielded not only from its enemies, but from its
prey as well.”

Now I quote in substance what Dr. Merriam says
to the contrary: “Temperature,” he states, “time of
change, and fact of change have little to do with the
case. In the Adirondacks the ermine never turns
white until after the first snow. In late October or
early November, forty-eight hours after a snowstorm,
regardless of temperature, the coat has assumed a pied
appearance, often systematically marked and striking-
ly handsome; the change continues with great rapid-
ity. By early spring the process is reversed; the
change will even occur in a warm room indoors, al-
though the transition is tardy; but it is really occa-
sioned by the inevitable influence of hereditary
habit.”

In northern New Hampshire, among the great
hills, the temperature frequently falls to 20°, and even
12°, between September 20th and November 10th.
Yet, until the snow comes, the weasel remains brown.
There is no lack of continued cold, either, between
these dates, for almost every night in the latter part

of October the mercury drops to the freezing point,
11

146 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

and frequently far below it. The larger weasel is by
no means rare in this part of the country, and there
is sufficient opportunity for a trapper to study his
change of coat in early winter. The nest of the little
animal will be found snugly tucked away in the hol-
low of some old stump, or in the sheltered nook be-
tween an old moss-covered log and a shelving rock.
In early May the female bears from four to six
young, which, it is said, remain in the vicinity of the
nest all summer.

The white fur of the ermine seems to have gone
out of fashion so completely that I can tind no quota-
tion of its value in the American list.

CHAPTER IX.

TWO FAMOUS SWIMMERS.
The Mink and Otter.

Tue mink (Putorius visor) is the next relation
of the weasel. Larger and heavier in figure, in some
respects he resembles the marten ; like this animal, he
has a large bushy tail, but, wn/¢ke him, the ears are
small and low, scarcely extending beyond the fur in the
vicinity; they are rounded, and well furred on both
sides. The feet are somewhat pointed and small, and
the legs are short. Over the snow the tracks of the
mink are mingled in one regular and rather deep fur-
row, quite different in this respect from the rhyth-
mical tracks of the marten. On the sandy river beach
the tracks are also a trifle mixed, and are easily recog-
nized on this account.

The mink is a handsome animal, with a beautiful,
long, very dark-brown or blackish fur, and black,
bushy tail; beneath, his body is irregularly patched
with white. He is tolerably abundant in the Adiron-

dack woods; occasionally he is found on the borders
147

148 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

of the woodland lakes of northern New Hampshire,
and rarely he is met with in the wilder parts of
Massachusetts.

The prey of this thoroughly aquatic mammal,
which, somewhat web-footed, swims and dives like a
fish, consists of mice, rats, muskrats, birds, eggs, fish,

The Mink.

frogs, crayfish, and fresh-water mussels. He is, like
the weasel, the particular enemy of the rat, who, it
is said, gives no battle, but yields at once; the mink
severs the main blood-vessels of the neck so skillfully
that the deed is scarcely observable.* Occasionally
the animal enters the henhouse or the poultry yard
and makes away with a number of chickens and ducks;
but, unlike the weasel, he does not proceed to wan-
ton murder. He takes one chicken at a time, and
most likely devours it, flesh, bones, and all; then, if
he feels like it, he helps himself to another. When,

* Fur-bearing Animals. Elliott Coues.

THE MINK.
PUTORIUS VISOR.

“THe even captures the speckled beauty
of the mountain stream.”

TWO FAMOUS SWIMMERS. 149

however, food is plenty he is a bit wasteful, One
winter a mink tunneled a passage under the snow to
the troughs of the State Fish Hatchery, at Livermore
Falls, N. H., where he captured and destroyed num-
berless trout, the remains of which were discovered,
when the snow disappeared in the spring, in and about
his nest. He is decidedly nocturnal in his habits, and
consequently is not as often caught in his depreda-
tions on the poultry inclosure as the fox or the weasel ;
but he generally frequents the margins of rivers and
lakes both night and day. The only one I ever saw
in the wild state was busily occupied in the middle of
a summer morning devouring either a mouse or a frog
on the sandy border of a mountain lake. Dr. Mer-
riam says he once saw three on the banks of the out-
let of Seventh Lake (Adirondacks), and many times
has met them in summer and winter about the water
courses of northern New York. The little animal
often prowls about the lakes of the Adirondack wil-
derness, he further says, and devours the remains of
fish left on the shore near the camps. As a swimmer
the mink is not excelled by any other similar small
animal. He can remain a long time under water, and
pursues fish by following them under logs and shelter-
ing rocks. He even captures the speckled beauty of
the mountain stream, for Audubon relates that he saw
a mink catch a trout upward of a foot long. Exceed-

150 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

ingly strong for so small an animal, and sagacious to
a surprising degree, it is on record that he has dragged
a mallard duck more than a mile to reach his hole
and share the game with his mate. The writer* says:
“As we followed the line we could easily trace the
wide trail of the mallard as it was dragged bodily
along over the fresh snow, and the deep penetration
of its claws into the new ice spoke volumes of the
force exerted by the small animal in the completion
of so severe an undertaking.”

When the mink is caught young, and tamed, he
makes not only a good ratter but an interesting pet,
although he resents any careless stepping on his feet
or tail by using his sharp teeth with decisive effect.
In his native wilds he is not a very timid animal, as
may be inferred from the experience of Dr. Abbott.t

* An anonymous writer in Forest and Stream.

+ “It was past noon, and rest was the order of the hour. What
creatures I saw moved with great leisure, as if annoyed that they
had to move at all. The mink crept along the prostrate log as
though stiff in every joint, but when at the end of his short journey
I whistled shrilly, with what animation he stood erect and stared
in the direction of the sound! Half concealed as I was, the mink
saw nothing to arouse his suspicions; he was merely curious or
puzzled ; he was thinking. ... He did not move a muscle, but
stared at me. Then I commenced whistling in a low tone, and
the animal became more excited; he moved his head from side to
side, as if in doubt, and needed but a slight demonstration on my
part to convert this doubting into fear. I whistled more loudly,
and moved my arms; in an instant the mink disappeared.”—Out-
ings at Odd Times. C. C. Abbott.

TWO FAMOUS SWIMMERS. 151

Elliott Coues describes the animal in its wild state,
however, as being anything but amiable: “One who
has not taken a mink in a steel trap* can scarcely
form an idea of the terrible expression the animal’s
face assumes as the captor approaches. It has always
struck me as the most nearly diabolical of anything
in animal physiognomy. A sullen stare from the
crouched, motionless form gives way to a new look
of surprise and fear, accompanied with the most vio-
lent contortions of the body, with renewed champ-
ing of the iron till breathless, with heaving flanks
and open mouth dribbling saliva, the animal settles
again, and watches with a look of concentrated
hatred mingled with impotent rage and frightful
despair. The countenance of the mink—its broad,
low head, short ears, small eyes, piggish snout, and for-
midable teeth—is always expressive of the lower and
more brutal passions, all of which are intensified at
such times. As may well be supposed, the creature
must not be incautiously dealt with when in such a
frame of mind.”

Unfortunately, too, the mink has a pair of anal
glands which secrete a fluid of disgustingly fetid and
offensive odor, which is pretty sure to be emitted
when the animal is trapped. Dr. Merriam says of it:

* When caught in a trap by the leg the mink is very apt to
gnaw the member in a manner most painful to witness.

159 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

“It is the most execrable smell with which my nos-
trils have as yet been offended ; in some individuals
it is only more powerful and offensive than it is in
others.”

According to my experience, the close-set, bristly
fur is never without some remnant of the bad smell
in spite of all proper precautions in curing it. In wet,
winter weather, and in contact with the natural mois-
ture and heat of one’s neck, the “minky™ smell is in
strong evidence. To me the odor of the creature is far
more unpleasant than that of the skunk; yet Elliott
Coues does not seem to think it is distressingly bad.
He says: “No animal of this country, except the skunk,
possesses so powerful, penetrating, and lasting an
effluvium. . . . It lelongs to the class of musky (!)
odors, which in minute quantities are not disagree-
able to most persons.

Of course, /e gustibus non disputandum ; I ecan-
didly admit that I can not quite agree with Elliott
Coues either with regard to the musky quality or the
mild offensiveness of the perfume. Perhaps I expe-
rienced too much of it on a particular occasion long
since.

The nest of the mink is made of dried leaves piled
together about the thickness of an inch or more, and
rounded in a snug hollow lined with fur and feathers.
It is generally found in either a hollow log or a bur-

TWO FAMOUS SWIMMERS. 153

row. There are from four to six young produced
in the latter part of April or early in May. But one
litter is raised in a year. By nature the mink is not
a good burrower, and often the female avails herself
of the hole of a muskrat in which to build her nest.

Thirty years ago the fur began to increase steadily
in value until the price of a single pelt reached five,
and even ten, dollars. Dr. Merriam says he caught
one whose skin sold for fourteen dollars; but to-day
the highest price quoted for the dark Nova Scotia
and Labrador skins is two dollars; those from New
York and New England bring about a dollar and
a half; and of the more southern and western furs,
those from northern New Jersey to Wisconsin bring
from a dollar and a quarter to thirty cents; and those
from Ohio to Florida and Texas, from a dollar and
twenty cents to twenty cents, according to color—the
darkest fur bringing the most money.

Now the mink is the last member of the sub-
family Mustelinw, which is an important and large
division of the general family Mustelidw. The next
subfamily is that of the skunks, Mephitine, only one
member of which, the common skunk (Mephitis me-
phitica), is found northeast of the Mississippi, and
consequently concerns us. But the skunk is so com-
mon and important an individual that, a little fur-
ther on, I have devoted a whole chapter to his odor-

154 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

iferous niajesty, and thus have taken him out of his
proper position in the family just here. So for the
present we will give the skunk a wide berth and pass
on to his next relative; this is the badger (Zaaidea
americana), of the next subfamily Jfelinw, another
Western animal, whose eastern limit is Wisconsin and
Jowa. It must not be inferred that this animal is
one of the swimmers indicated in the heading of this
chapter; he only happens to be sandwiched between
the two swimmers by reason of his relationship. He
isa burrower. But this incorrigible burrower, whose
hole on the Western plains has broken more than one
horse’s leg and given more than one rider’s scalp to the
Indians, this miserable, broad-backed beast of secret
and unknown habits, is too distinctively Western to
command our attention ; still, we will listen to a word
about him from Elliott Coues, and then pass on. He
says: “I have found badgers in countless numbers
nearly throughout the region of the upper Missouri
River and its tributaries. I do not see how they could
well be more numerous anywhere. In some favorite
stretches of sandy, sterile soil, their burrows are
everywhere. . . . In ordinary journeying one has to
keep a constant lookout lest his horse suddenly goes
down under him, with a fore leg deep in a badger hole;
and part of the training of a Western horse is to make
him Jook out for and avoid these pitfalls.”

TWO FAMOUS SWIMMERS. 155

Leaving the badger, we next come to the sub-
family Lutrinw, which is represented by the single
North American species of this genus, the otter. He
~ is not very familiar through the well-settled parts of
the eastern country, but is still to be found in the wild
woods, on the borders of those charming lakes in the
wildernesses of northern New York, New Hampshire,
and Maine.
The beautiful otter (Lutra canadensis)—which is
a splendid swimmer and a great frequenter of moun-
tain streams and lakes in the dense spruce
lock forests of the North—
is yet reported from Lake

and hem-

Umbagog, Maine, and
the lake regions
farther north-
east, the
lakes in

The Otter.

the Adirondack wilderness, the northern shore of
Lake Superior, and Bayfield, Wisconsin. In the

156 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

South he is common in the wilds of Tennessee,
North Carolina, and West Virginia.

The otter is amphibious in the largest sense of the
word; he can remain under water as long as a loon,
and can swim a quarter of a mile without reappearing
at the surface. His prey generally consists of fish and
crayfish, but he also has a taste for frogs, muskrats,
wild duck, and poultry. He is an expert swimmer;
he can overtake almost any fish, not excepting the
trout, of which he is very fond, and in captivity he is
partial to boiled beef. Dr. Merriam also says he is
remarkably fond of crayfish (Cumbarus), incredible
quantities of which he destrovs during the summer.

Otters are most restless creatures, traveling from
lake to lake and river to river, and pursuing either a
continuous or a devious course, ‘‘ just as it happens.” *
They travel great distances in winter, and are with
considerable difficulty overtaken by the hunter, so
rapidly do they progress. They propel themselves
over the slippery ice and snow with their hind legs,
and, doubling the fore legs under, slide downhill and
over snowy ridges in a most rapid and comical fash-
ion. With the impetus gained by several rapid
jumps on the ice they manage to cover the ground
quicker than a swift runner on snowshoes.

* Animals of the Adirondacks. Dr. Clinton Hart Merriam.
Transactions of the Linnwan Society, vol. i.

nr

wags

4,

\
i

THE OTTER.
LUTRA CANADENSIS OR LUTRA HUDSONICA,

“The animal apparently enjoys a
regular sort of toboggan slide.”

TWO FAMOUS SWIMMERS, 157

This remarkable propensity for sliding is one of
the strangest habits of the otter. That the animal
should apparently enjoy a regular sort of toboggan
slide is almost past one’s comprehension. But such is
undoubtedly the case.

Audubon says: “The otters ascend the bank at a
place suitable for their diversion, and sometimes where
it is very steep, so that they are obliged to make quite
an effort to gain the top. They slide down in rapid
succession where there are many at a sliding place.
On one occasion we were resting ourselves on the
bank of Canoe Creek, a small stream near Henderson,
which empties into the Ohio, when a pair of otters
made their appearance, and, not observing our prox-
imity, began to enjoy their sliding pastime. .. We
counted each one making twenty-two slides before we
disturbed their sportive occupation.”

“The borders of lakes and streams in the Adiron-
dacks,” says Dr. Merriam, “show numerous examples
of their slides, and also wallowing places in which
they play and roll. May’s Lake, a small and secluded
body of water abounding in trout, is fairly surround-
ed by them.” *

The otter is an intelligent animal, of an easy and
playful disposition that easily fits it for domestication.

* Vide Animals of the Adirondacks.

158 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Audubon tells of otters which he had seen so perfectly
tamed and trained that they never failed to come like
dogs when whistled for, crawling slowly and with ap-
parent humility toward their master. He also recites
his own experience in taming several otters, which
eventually he had the pleasure of romping with in his
study. They were captured when quite young, and
became as gentle as puppies in two or three days ;
they preferred milk and boiled Indian meal to fish
or meat, and would not touch these last until they
were several months old. The animals are not only
easily tamed and domesticated, but it is said that they
are taught to catch and bring home fish to their
masters; they are taught to fetch and carry exactly
as dogs are, and in the beginning a leather fish stuffed ~
with wool is employed for the purpose; they are
afterward exercised with a dead fish, and chastised if
they disobey or attempt to tear it; finally
~~ they are sent into the water after a live

” one.*
The peculiar formation of the nose

The Otter’s pad, about an inch long in full-grown
nose pad. ‘

otters, is the admirable means whereby

the animal is enabled to dive and swim under water

without inconvenience to the breathing organs. I

* Bell’s Quadrupeds.

TWO FAMOUS SWIMMERS. 159

quote what Elliott Coues says of it: “In general
shape it is an equilateral pentagon, with one side
inferior, horizontal, and straight across, and the other
side on either hand irregular, owing to the shape
of the nasal apertures, the two remaining sides com-
ing together obliquely above to a median acute angle
high above a line drawn across the tops of the nos-
trils. It somewhat resembles the ace of spades.” In
a word, this nose pad is a valve which closes over the
nostrils and prevents the water
from entering while the animal
is diving or swimming. The
otter in other respects is much
like its congeners; the body is

long and columnar, about two

The Otter’s webbed foot.

feet or more from the tip of
the nose to the root of the tail; the head is globose,
the muzzle very obtuse, the eyes and ears are very
small, the broad feet well furred and webbed, and
the tail about a foot long and slightly flattened—
i.e., elliptical in transverse section.

The nest of the otter is built under some shelving
rock or uprooted tree, and sometimes in the hollow of
anoldstump. The young are brought forth about the
middle of April, and there are usually two, or rarely
three, in a litter. The mother and young generally
remain together through the summer and autumn.

160 FAMILIAR LIFE 1N FIELD AND FOREST.

The skin of the otter is usually taken from the
body without being opened lengthwise, and is in a
prime condition in November. The fur is seal brown,
with beautiful lustrous Jong hairs, and thick, close
under hairs of a rich but lighter hue. It is the most
valuable fur of the J/ustelidw family, excepting that
of the sea otter, which in its prime condition brings
from four to five hundred dollars for one skin. The
otter’s skin is worth from three to ten dollars, ac-
cording to color, the darkest fur bringing the most
money. The best skins come from Canada, New
England, Lake Superior, and the Northwest. Open
skins have a decreased value of twenty per cent on
the prices quoted.

CHAPTER X.

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER,
The Skunk.

Wuen the twilight wanes, and trees, bushes, and
fences become vaguely outlined in the gathering
dusk, a strange little animal, somewhat resembling
a black-and-white cat, ventures from his daytime
hiding place, and we are aware of his presence
in our immediate vicinity by a pungent and offensive
odor. So, with bated breath and the suggestive whis-
per of “Skunk!” we quicken our footsteps and warily
peer into the shadows on either hand; but alas for
the luckless one who stumbles wpon the little creature
in the hasty effort to evade it! Nothing short of a
Turkish bath and a complete change of clothing will
ever enable him to regain his self-respect. He is an
outcast from society, and, like the leper of old, must
consider himself exiled from all the world.

The skunk (Mephitis mephitica),* another mem-

* The Latin name means a foul-smelling foul smeller.
12 161

162 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

ber of the Mustelidw family, belonging to the group
Mephitine, is one of those few wild animals with
which no one is anxious to make even a “scraping
acquaintance.” “Distance,” I cautiously remarked

The Skunk,

one time to a skunk which appeared directly in my
path, “lends enchantment to the view; you may
have the right of way, and the path, too!” So I
gave him a wide berth, beat an ignominious retreat,
and breathed again when the atmosphere regained its
purity. One always feels secure at ten yards, but
within that distance, notwithstanding the fact that
competent authorities set the line of safety at seateen
and « hulf feet, one is excusably nervous.

But, putting all prejudice aside, the skunk is not
only a much-abused animal, but one whose usefulness
can not be overestimated. Let us see what he feeds

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 163

upon : mice, salamanders, grasshoppers, beetles, larva,
grubs, and caterpillars.* This is not a bad list, and,
taking into consideration the fact that he makes away
with a vast number of mice and grasshoppers, besides
those insects which are peculiarly destructive to the
hopvine, it is not surprising that the Legislature of
the State of New York seriously considered a bill
many years ago for his protection. Truth to tell, he
eats more insects than any other mammal,t if we are
to believe the testimony of at least three eminent
naturalists, and it follows that he must be of great
service to the farmer.

Some years ago I came to the conclusion, based
upon a few observations, that the skunk was not only
an interesting and useful animal, but a very beautiful
one, so far as his coat was concerned, and that s0-
ciety in general, particularly drawing-room society,
was not paying him the attention he deserved. To
be sure, the skunk may not be an appropriate topic
for the drawing-room, nevertheless his name is often
whispered there, for the reason that his domain is
now undoubtedly encroached upon by the outposts of
refined civilization. The refuse tub of more than one

*T admit that he unfortunately robs the henroost at times.

+ The excrement of the skunk consists almost wholly of the in-
digestible parts of insects, such as the black shells of beetles, legs
of grasshoppers, ete.; it is remarkably black.

164 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

modern stately colonial residence has been visited by
him, and the evidence of his presence has wafted in
the open window of the parlor during a warm sum-
mer evening and changed the countenance of many
astickler for propriety. Now, if the hostess should
remonstrate with the intrusive skunk, and the latter
could speak, he would undoubtedly reply with some
assurance, “If you do not like my neighborhood and
kind of perfumery you should not have located on
my territory; your drawing-room, like a weed, is a
thing out of place!” The greater part of the coun-
try has always been the skunk’s, and the site of one
of our great cities (Chicago) * was once his favorite
stamping ground. But, as I shall attempt to prove, he
deserves more attention and less evasion ; perhaps if
we knew more about him his character would grow
in our estimation, and we might cease to consider him
the “most disgusting thing in all creation.” Interest
in so remarkable an animal, therefore, induced me to
search through his record and find some naturalist
who would know ail about him. It must be confessed
that there is some difficulty in picking up knowledge
about an animal which one does not dare to approach
nearer than ten yards. To bridge over that ten yards
by another’s experience, instead of pursuing investi-

* The Indian name Chicago means the place of the skunk.

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 165

gations at close range, would promise at least to be a
method of procedure involving no expense in the
matter of clothing. At last I found a man who had
at different times no less than ten pet skunks—one
for each of my ten yards. “Bravo!” I said; “Dr.
Clinton Hart Merriam has built the bridge. Any
man who has had the pluck to tame ten skunks
undoubtedly knows the animal better than all the
rest of the wise heads put together.” And so it
proved.

But before we look at the skunk through the eyes
of the scientist, we will steal a glance at him in broad
daylight—a somewhat difficult thing to do, as he is
nocturnal in his habits, sleeps all day, and is rarely
seen before the sun goes down. He is about as large
as a small cat (I must not be taken too literally, for
skunks greatly vary in size). The head is small, the
snout pointed—something like that of the European
badger—and the long-clawed fore legs, which he uses
to dig with, are disproportionately short. In figure he
is not a bit graceful, and his walk or hop is decidedly
awkward. His coat is black, long-haired, and with
little or no white markings in some cases, while in
others it is traced over the back with two distinct
white stripes, which gradually merge into one at
the neck. The crown is usually white, and the fore-
head marked with a narrow white stripe. His tail is

166 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

large, bushy, long-haired, black, and terminates in a
buff-white tuft.

He is the most deliberate little beast that ever
prowled along the highway. A moonlit night is
apparently his delight, and if we meet

him then he is more easily recognized
by his measured tread and cat-like fig-
ure than by his color.
Even when frightened
he does not break into
much more than a hob-
bling gallop, and a horse
at an easy trot would
outstrip him.* Not
infrequently he is run TH Si, sowing ie wt mars
down in crossing a
road, and then—well, the country is perfumed within
a circle a mile in circumference. As for the horse
and wagon, they might as well be buried on the spot.
The skunk is not only slow, but remarkably curi-
ous. I observed one once, on a moonlit night, in-
vestigate a box trap which I had made for squirrels ;
he scanned it cautiously first on one side, then on the
other, peeped inside, and sniffed along the edges in
the same manner asa dog. At length, after appear-

* One night last summer one followed beside my horse at a
slow trot for some distance without making himself disagreeable.

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 167

ing to meditate for a moment, he apparently came to
the conclusion it was “no good,” and marched off.
Later on in the season, his visits to the cottage prov-
ing too numerous to be interesting, he was caught in
a steel trap and shot—an ill-advised way,

as I shall hereafter show, of disposing of
him. Dr. Mer-
riam, in his ad-

mirable mono-
graph on the
skunk,* tells of one
which peeped in the
door of his museum, slimiecd
up on the sill, scrutinized aoe,

him with the keenest of black

eyes, and then began to stamp and scold saucily,
finally backing out and into a beech tree near by,
which so surprised him that he whirled about tail
up, growled excitedly, and scampered off among the
bushes.

The skunk makes frequent visits to the farmhouse,
around by the kitchen way, but usually at seasons
when insects, particularly grasshoppers and beetles,
are scarce. I never knew him to attack a rat, but I
have seen frequent evidences of his destruction of field

* Vide Transactions of the Linnean Society, vol. i.

168 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

mice and their nests. These he digs out with his long
claws, and whole families go to make up his evening
meal. He prowls around the wood pile, evidently
after mice, and Dr. Abbott* relates an incident
humorous enough to bear repetition here.

“The old wood pile was not infrequently the hid-
ing place of one or more of these ‘ varmints,’ which
raided the henroost, kept the old dog in a fever of
excitement, and bafiled the trapping skill of the oldest
‘hands’ upon the farm. . . . With what glee do I re-
call an autumn evening years ago, when the unusually.
furious barking of the old mastiff brought the whole
family to the door. In the dim twilight the dog could
be seen dashing at and retreating from the wood pile,
and at once the meaning of the hubbub was appar-
ent: some creature had taken refuge there. A lan-
tern was brought, and, as every man wished to be the
hero of the hour, my aunt held the light. The wood.
pile was surrounded, every stick was quickly over-
turned, and finally a skunk was dislodged. Confused,
or attracted by the light,... the ‘varmint’ made
straightway for the ample skirts of the old lady, fol-
lowed by the dog, and, in a second, skunk, dog, lady,
and lantern were one indistinguishable mass! My
aunt proved the heroine of the evening, nor did the

* Outings at Odd Times. Dr. C. C. Abbott.

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 169

men object. I often pause at the very spot, and
fancy that ‘the scent of the roses’ doth ‘hang round
it still.’ ”

‘The home of the skunk is usually in some corner
of the pasture, or perhaps on the shrubby border of
the road sloping toward the streamlet on the meadow.
Frequently he accepts a new clearing as a convenient
home, and digs a hole for his nest under an old stump,
The hole is small, cleanly cut, and is generally
without the slightest odor—but that depends. Prob-
ably, if a large family—say, from six to nine mem-
bers—remains in one domicile all winter, there is an
appreciable odor in the vicinity. But it is a mistake
to suppose the animal is not cleanly; the adults are
very careful in the employment of their weapon of
defense, and they do not use it except when they are
in a dilemma. This is my conclusion, based upon
considerable observation; and the fact that I have
often met the strange little creature without having
experienced any disastrous consequences, inclines me
to believe that he is not aggressive. Give him a wide
berth, and avoid a surprise or anything like a sudden
movement, and he will not put himself on the defen-
sive. Dr. Merriam is of the same opinion. He says
that not one skunk in twenty will smell when caught
in a steel trap, and that a person may drag both trap
and skunk by the chain without danger if he proceeds

170 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

very slowly and without making a sudden move;
“but,” he adds, “a young one squirts upon insufhi-
cient provocation ”’—a dubious fact which, to say the
least, is disconcerting to the inexperienced, who can
not be expected to “size up” a skunk in a jiffy and
run if it should prove “ower young!”

The skunk is so common an animal all over the
country that his unique method of defense is thereby
proved to be quite as effective as any other means of
protection common in animal life. I do not know of
any animal that preys upon the skunk. Other crea-
tures, however well provided with means of defense,
find their match; even the porcupine, in spite of his
quills, falls a prey to his arch enemy, the fisher; but
all creation seems to ‘draw the line” at the skunk,
and he lives a comparatively unmolested life. The
miserable dog who has had an experience rolls him-
self in the grass or dirt, resorts to the pond, looks
quite crestfallen for the rest of the day, and shows
by an evasive eye that he has lost every atom of his
self-respect.

Having perfect confidence in his means of defense,
the skunk is perhaps the least timid of all the smaller
animals except the weasels, whose audacity and calm
assurance are simply unparalleled. But the skunk
and weasel are not overconfident; there is everything
to justify one’s self-confidence when the world flees

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 171

before one’s presence. If we meet a skunk, we run;
it is the hereditary habit of a skunk from the time
he is born to feel sure we would run. Just so with
the weasel: he is apparently born with the conscious-
ness that the first rat he meets will shriek in terror
and flee for his life. But the superior mind of man
is more than the skunk can cope with; consequently
the poor unsuspecting creature: falls not only into
every trap that is set for him, but into every trap set
for another animal; and if there is anything exasper-
ating about trapping, it is the discovery of a skunk in
one’s fox trap. Dr. Merriam relates how a number
of these animals can be easily captured, somewhat
thus: * “In winter the hunter treads down the snow
from the entrance of the skunk’s hole into a narrow
path, and sets a number of steel traps at certain inter-
vals along the route; at nightfall, when the mother
comes out the young ones follow her lead, single file,
down the path; the first trap near the hole catches
number one; the others climb over the obstruction
and move on until a second trap snaps on another ;
then the third trap catches still another, and so on
until the whole family is taken in a single night.”

* My quotations are not taken verbatim, because a slight con-
densation here and there became necessary to save the limited
amount of space at my command; but in each case I have rigidly
adhered to every important point.

172 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

This seems rather stupid of the skunk, but it is sim-
ply the logical result of his dependence upon a special
means of defense; a trap is a machination of man
with which he can not reckon, but with man himself
he will reckon when he comes around for the trap.
In this respect his method of warfare is not unlike
that of the primitive Chinese, who threw among the
enemy vessels called “stink pots ” filled with noxious
and suffocating fumes, which cleared the field quite as
effectively as shot and shell.

But now, for the scientific point of view regarding
this interesting animal, we must turn to Dr. Merriam.*
He had at different times ten live skunks in confine-
ment, all quite young and consequently small—from
four to ten inches long. From some of these he re-
moved the scent pouches, but the greater number
were left in a state of nature; these, he says, never
emitted any odor. A particularly clever skunk from
whom he had removed the scent pouches proved to be
a great pet, sleeping in his pocket while he was driv-
ing about on his professional duties, and walking close
at his heels when he took an occasional stroll after
supper. If he walked too fast, the little creature
would stop, scold, and stamp with his fore feet; if he
persisted in his rapid walk, he would turn about and

* Vide Transactions of the Linnean Society, vol. i,

‘poomsepug uvurd'y ‘Ay Aq ounyeu woay poydes130}04g
‘yunys 1aaap> Apvpnoyied y,,

4G

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 173

make off in the opposite direction; but if he stopped
and called him, he would return at an ambling pace
and soon catch up. Frequently the doctor walked to
a certain meadow where grasshoppers were plenty,
and there the little fellow would revel in his favorite
food. When the grasshoppers jumped he would jump
after them, and frequently he would have as many as
three in his mouth and two under his fore paws at a
time; in fact, he would often eat so many that his
distended stomach would drag on the ground. When
young, the courageous little creature would often
tackle a horned beetle, and he got many a nip in
consequence. When he caught a mouse he would
devour it all, and grow] and stamp his feet if any one
came near while he was thus engaged. He was a
playful animal, and the doctor records a curious habit
that he had of clawing at his trousers for fun, and
then scampering off with the hope of a chase.
Regarding the skunk’s most dreaded perfume, the
doctor gives us the following concise account: “ His
chief weapon of defense lies in the secretion of a pair
of anal glands that lie on either side of the rectum
and are imbedded in a dense, gizzardlike mass of
muscle, which serves to compress them so forcibly
that the contained liquid may be ejected to the dis-
tance of from thirteen to sixteen and a half feet.
Each pouch is furnished with a single duct that leads

174 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

into a prominent nipplelike papilla that is capable of
being protruded from the anus, and by means of
which the direction of the jet is governed. The secre-
tion is a clear fluid, amber or gold-yellow in color,
has an intensely acid reaction, and in the evening is
slightly luminous. On standing in a bottle, a floecu-
lent whitish precipitate separates and falls to the bot-
tom. The fluid sometimes shows a greenish cast, and
it always possesses an odor that is characteristic and
in some respects unique. Its all-pervading, penetrat-
ing, and lasting properties are too well known to re-
quire more than a passing comment. A well-closed
house in winter became permeated by the scent with-
in five minutes’ time after a skunk had been killed at
a distance of nearly twenty rods. The more humid
the air is and the higher the temperature, the farther
the scent is discernible and the longer it lasts. Un-
der favorable conditions it is certainly distinctly rec-
ognizable at the distance of a mile. De Kay quotes a
statement from the Medical Repository that a Dr.
Wiley, of Block Island, distinctly perceived the smell
of a skunk although the nearest land was twenty
miles distant.

“The marked difference in the intensity of the
scent in different skunks is chiefly due to the age of
the particular animal from which it emanates. It
is quite overpowering when there has been no dis-

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 175

charge for some time and it seems to have become
concentrated. When recently ejected the fumes are
suffocatingly pungent, extremely irritating to the
air passages, and, I have no doubt, are capable of
producing cedema of the glottis, as are the fumes of
strong ammonia; and when inhaled without a large
admixture of atmosphere, the victim loses conscious-
ness, breathing becomes stertorous, the temperature
falls, the pulse slackens, and if the inhalation is pro-
longed the result doubtlessly proves fatal.” *

Dr. Merriam does not consider the perfume of
the skunk one tenth as disagreeable and disgustingly
nauseating as the secretions from the corresponding
glands of many other members of the Mustelide,
particularly the weasel and mink. NordoI. There
is nothing putrid about the smell of the skunk; it is
undoubtedly pungent and suffocating at times, but it
is never sickening.

The skunk is a hibernating animal, but he does
not sleep all winter long; during the greater part of

* There is a case on record where mischievous schoolboys
forced one of their number to inhale from a two-ounce vial a
large quantity of skunk perfume with somewhat serious conse-
quences. The victim became unconscious, muscular relaxation
followed, the temperature fell to 94°, the pulse to 65, and the ex-
tremities grew cold. The patient was unconscious for an hour,
but finally recovered after the administration of hot pediluvia
and stimulants.— Vide Virginia Medical Monthly, vol. vivi, No. 5,
August, 1881.

176 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

January and February he keeps in his hole, especially
if the weather is severe; but upon the first appear-
ance of a genuine thaw in March, just about maple-
sugar time, he is abroad again. Dr. Merriam states
that he has seen skunks scampering over the snow in
midwinter when the mercury stood at 20°. He also
says that they have large families—from six to ten

young:
hole until spring, but that not more than two adult

all the members of which remain in the same

skunks have ever been found in a hole at any one
time.

It is not generally known, perhaps, that the fur of
the skunk is quite long, thick, glossy black, and there-
fore valuable. The wholesale price of the finest skins,
which come from New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio,
is from eighty-five to ninety cents each ; the poorest,
or fourth-grade skins, are worth only ten cents. The

fur eventually “made up”

goes by any other name
than skunk—generally Alaska sable and black marten.

Of course thousands of the little animals are killed
each year for the sake of their skins, and it is a fact,
as Dr. Merriam explains, that no one knows how to
kill them. His method is so simple and sure that I
think it should be given a place here. “The skunk’s
back,” he says, “must be broken by a smart blow froma
heavy stick,” and he adds: “ If the animal is in a trap,

approach cautiously and slowly ; if you go too fast he

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 177

will elevate his tail, present his rear, and assume an
uncomfortably suspicious attitude. Give him a little
time, and he will about face and peer at you again
with his little, keen, black eyes. Now advance a little
nearer, be sure of your aim, and when yon strike,
strike hard. The main thing is to keep cool and not
strike too soon, On receiving the blow his hinder
parts settle helplessly upon the ground, and the tail,
which was carried high over the back, now straightens
out behind, limp and powerless. As a rule, the head
soon droops and the skunk expires.”

A heavy blow on the back given by a pole (not
too long), the doctor further explains, injures the
spine and thus produces paralysis, or a complete loss
of power in the muscles supplied by those nerves
which radiate from the spinal column just below its
point of injury. By shooting or decapitating the ani-
mal the ensuing death struggle inevitably brings
about a discharge of the scent. Audubon, however,
testifies to the contrary; nevertheless, my own expe-
rience teaches me that Dr. Merriam is right and Au-
dubon is wrong. If there are those who wish to
satisfy themselves on this point, let them practice on
the skunk with a revolver, and escape the perfume if
possible. Also, it is not true that the animal limits
himself to one discharge; he is quite equal to several,

if there are sufficiently serious provocations.
13

178 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

There seems to be a universal and absurd theory
that the skunk scatters the scent with his tail; this
is an altogether mistaken and ridiculous notion scarce-
ly worthy of passing comment, for it is evident that
he elevates the tail not only from cleanly motives,
but because it would seriously interfere with his aim.

There is one more fallacious idea connected with
the skunk, and that is that his bite is attended by a
species of rabies—Pabies mephitica,* as it has been
called. This is all nonsense, and absurdly contrary
to the “germ theory” of disease which meets univer-
sal acceptance among physicians to-day. A skunk
bitten by a dog or any animal afflicted with rabies
might transmit that disease again by his bite; but
without such an occurrence the bite of the skunk will
be a d¢te, and nothing more. It is true that his teeth
are sharp and that they can inflict severe wounds, but
nothing more unless he is diseased.

Probably there are few of us who could imagine
the flesh of the skunk furnishing a dainty and choice
dish for one’s dinner; but, according to Dr. Merriam,
it is far more delicate than the tenderest chicken. I
quote what he has to say on the subject with the same

* This strange theory was not only exhaustively treated in an
article in Forest and Stream (vide vol. xvi, No. 24, page 478) by
the Rev. Mr. Hovey, but was seriously considered by Elliott Coues
in a later writing; see his Fur-bearing Animals.

THAT FAMOUS ESSENCE PEDDLER. 179

confidence in his judgment and admiration for his
bravery that I have already expressed. He says: “I
am able to speak on this point from ample personal
experience, having eaten its flesh cooked in a variety
of ways—boiled, broiled, roasted, fried, and fricasseed
—and am prepared to assert that a more “toothsome
bit” than a broiled skunk is hard to get, and rarely
finds its way to the table of the epicure.”

Hee olim meminisse juvabit ; but the next time
we meet a skunk it will be just as well for us—now
we have learned of his superior character but still
lack that confidence which it ought to inspire—to def-
erentially step aside at least sixteen and a half feet!

CHAPTER XI.

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS.
The Black Bear.

Tue king of the wilderness, if the term has a rea-
sonable application to any one of our wild animals, is
undoubtedly the black bear (Ursus americanus). He

The Bear.

is a humorous creature withal, from a certain restrict-
ed point of view, and his dignity suffers in conse-
quence. At the very mention of a bear we are in-

clined to be amused and interested, and it depends
180

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 181

upon circumstances whether we smile or feel our hair
stand on end. Most likely the latter happens when,
without.a rifle, we accidentally meet him in the wilds
of the evergreen forest; here he is every inch a
king, but, alas! an arrant coward—that is, under
all ordinary conditions.
In captivity his humorous nature comes to the
front. Not long ago, when I visited a certain wild
animal “show,” every beast, except-
ing those in the monkey

cage, appeared to take life

most seriously; but when I
stood before two black bears
all appearance of serious-
ness came to an end.
Here a jolly couple
were thumping
about their narrow
quarters, apparent-
ly trying to swal-

low each other

| FS crosswise, and
A jolly couple. evidently enjoy-

ing the sport

with as much gusto as college students do the rush
in a game of football. Later on they subsided to the
milder amusement of swallowing huge slices of bread ;

182 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

but even this was done playfully, as though they
didn’t care a rap for such stuff.

But even in his native wilds the black bear is ex-
tremely interesting, and not without some irresistibly
amusing traits of character, for if he should happen
to visit the Jumberman’s camp while the latter is
abroad, he will handle the jug of molasses he may
find there with as much ease as a tuper handles a jug
of rum. Indeed,
he is particular-
ly partial to mo-
lasses and pork,
and his visits to
camp are far
from rare.

The _ black
bear is quite

common in many

The Black Bear in the woods. of the wilder-
nesses North
and South from Maine to Mississippi. He is yet
frequently found in the evergreen forests of the
White, Green, Adirondack, and Catskill Mountains.
As recently as last summer, at a house not far from
my cottage in the White Mountain region, I had the
pleasure of feeding a young one in captivity with
a pocketful of ginger snaps, which he took very

‘SNIVLNOQOW ALIHM ‘VNYOOOHD LNNOW
‘UNOH LHOITIML AHL LV

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 183

respectfully and carefully in his mouth, never offer-
ing to grab. Dr. Merriam states that in 1883 many
bears dwelt in an evergreen forest in Lewis County,
New York, twenty miles west of the border of the
Adirondack wilderness; in the autumn tley were
in the habit of crossing the intervening valley and
entering the Adirondack region, passing quite near
the town of Leyden, his home. Here, within six
miles of his residence, nine bears were killed in
October, 1877.* Bears frequent the woods in the
vicinity of Mount Chocorua, in the White Mountains,
and they still haunt those giant peaks of the Sandwich
range which overlook the pleasant valley of the Bear-
camp Water.

During the winter of 1873 several bears were
killed in the vicinity of the Twin Mountain House,
White Mountains; and I recollect a young one, tame
and intelligent, a great pet with the guests of the
hotel in the succeeding summer, whose special delight
was a bit of maple sugar or a slice of cake. Most of
the afternoon he circumambulated about the heavy
stake to which he was chained, and occasionally took
a sitz bath in the tub provided for his comfort. One
of his favorite performances was to balance himself
crosswise on the edge of the tub with three paws,

* Vide Transactions of the Linnean Society, vol. i. Animals
of the Adirondacks. By Clinton Hart Merriam, M.D.

184 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

and claw a stick out of the water with the remain-
ing one.

Of late years it is probable that extremely few
bears have been found in the Catskill woods; but I
remember as a boy a great sportsman’s resort on the
eastern slope of the hills not far from Cairo, called
Barney Butts’s, where bearskins and tame bears years
ago were almost as common as chipmunks are now.
One unfortunate young
bruin which I remember
better than the others
had lost a paw in a

steel trap; it was said
that he had gnawed
it off (a not uncom-
mon thing for a

Caught in a trap.

trapped bear to do),
escaped, and was recaptured after tracing his blood-
stained tracks over the frozen snow. The limb
eventually healed quite perfectly, and he managed
by the following summer to do as well with three
legs as most of his kind did with four. But I never
could forget the picture which my imagination con-
jured up of poor bruin hobbling in anguish over the
icy snow, a wretched victim of man’s inhumanity;
so he was regaled with cakes and lumps of sugar, the
best way of showing him my boyish sympathy. The

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 185

last news I got of him in the fall was that he had
knocked the spigot out of a barrel of molasses some-
where in the neighborhood, and that particular part
of the country was very sticky.

Besides having a most extraordinarily sweet tooth,
bruin is decidedly omnivorous; his food is commonly
mice, turtles, frogs, fish, ants and their eggs, bees and
honey, wild cherries, blackberries, blueberries—in
fact, berries of every kind—fruits, vegetables, roots,
and not infreyuently sheep, pigs, and poultry. If
you try him with a kitchen diet his taste is quite as
comprehensive; it includes cake, bread, muftins, pie
and pudding, butter and eggs, ham, hominy, sweet-
meats, crackers and milk, pork and beans, corncake,
gingerbread—in fact, excepting pickles, I doubt
whether he would refuse anything contained in the
larder. In his native wilds he will tear old stumps
to pieces to find ants and bees, dig out the nests of
white-faced hornets and yellow-jackets, and, caring
little for stings, devour the grubs with great relish ;
scoop out the honeycomb from bees’ nests, regardless
of the army of furious insects; tear down the branches
of the beech for the sweet beechnut; strip the black
cherry of its prussic-acid-flavored fruit (which is his
great delight), and clean out a blueberry patch of
every berry, ripe or green, without greatly disturbing
the foliage. Besides the huckleberry, the beautiful

186 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

china-white snowberry, and the common wintergreen
(Gaultheria procumbens), to all of which the bear is
partial, there is another mountain berry actually
named for him, the bearberry (Avretostaphylos Uva-
Ursi), of which he is said to be
particularly fond. But he does
not always confine himself to
the wilderness in his search for
sustenance: he is a great rover,
especially in autumn, and not

infrequently he comes down

the mountain side and plun-

Bearberry.

ders the orchard of its fruit;
he will even enter the barnyard, and his presence
there is the immediate signal for an uproarious com-
motion among the animals. It is a great pity one
can not persuade the horse that the bear is quite as
much of a coward as himself. Indeed, two such cow-
ards it would be difficult to find the like of through-
out the animal kingdom. I have rarely heard of a
black bear attacking any creature larger than a calf,
and in the presence of a bear a horse loses his head,
shies, jumps, trembles like an aspen, and bolts if he
getsachance. For that matter, the keen-scented horse
will smell a bear through a two-inch pine board, and
the intervening side of a barn is, of course, far from
reassuring to him. Last summer an itinerant French-

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS, 187

man, with a performing bear—a remarkably large
and handsome one, of the cinnamon species—stopped
before my mountain home one warm day and put the
great hulking creature through a variety of perform-
ances, to the infinite delight of the children. He was
the best of bears, good-natured—if ever there was one
that could be called so—and exceedingly mild-eyed ;
he ate the cold muffins we gave him with a “that’s-
not-half-bad” expression, and hugged the pail of wa-
ter as though it were a gift never to be parted with;
yet, after he had gone as peacefully as he had come,
he innocently spread terror among the horses he
passed along the highway just above, near the Profile
House ; and not long after I heard that our friend
the Frenchman was in durance vile as a disturber of
the peace—of horses !

Now, the black bear is as shrewd and cunning as
he is cowardly. The hunter knows this, and has to
take the greatest precautions to get to the leeward of
him, and ultimately within rifle range. Bruin is re-
markably keen-scented, and the first whiff he gets of
“aman in the air” prompts him to take to his heels
at so rapid a pace that the college athlete would be no
match for him in a race through the forest. I wit-
nessed for an instant a fair exhibition of his running
power several years ago in Waterville, on the western
slope of one of the great southern ridges of the White

188 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Mountains, named Sandwich Dome. It was the latter
part of September, and I was one of a small party
making the ascent of the mountain. We had come
suddenly upon the verge of a ravine, and there, less
than a hundred yards ahead of us, directly on the
path, was the huge

black form of bruin
beating a precipi-
tate retreat and
never favoring us
with so much as a
“parting glance. There
+> was a moment’s rustling

aA

On the run through the snow. and swaying of leaves, a

sharp crackling of twigs,
then nothing—his sylvan majesty had fled, and the
woods were as silent and deserted as if they had seen
no live thing since the birds sang in June. There
is a solemn silence in the forest, anyway, just before
the leaves begin to fall, but after that bear disap-
peared the stillness seemed dramatic, if not actually
oppressive.

Not many years ago a black bear was seen by a
sportsman while he was fishing in the east branch of
the Pemigewasset River in the White Mountain re-
gion. The great creature was standing on his hind
legs reaching for the ripe fruit of a black cherry; he

a

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 189

sniffed the air suspiciously after a few moments, and
then made off in a direction opposite to that of the
fisherman in the greatest haste.

In February, 1878, three Adirondack hunters
while on a panther hunt came across prints in the
snow of a large female bear; she was traced to her
den, but was found already frozen in so she could
not get out. After she was shot three cubs about
three weeks old were taken from the den, but they
were too young to raise, and soon died. In April
of the same year another den was found in a swamp
near Fourth Lake, Fulton Chain. The
den, which was in the side of a knoll,
was discovered by the proximity of
the young cubs, who were playing
outside and did not know enough
to “go in” when the hunters ap-
peared. The mother bear again
could not get out, and was easily
killed. In the following June a
very young besr was shot by Dr. ;
Bagg, also in the vicinity of Fourth °°
Lake ; it weighed about ten pounds,
and its stomach was filled with old beechnuts. The
poor little creature had evidently lost its mother ;
and Dr. Bagg, hearing a strange squealing like that
of a pig, imitated the sound with such success that

i Cubs.

1990 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

the lost cub came running toward him, but, alas! to
its death.

In the summer of 1882 the signal station camp of.
the Adirondack Survey, in charge of Mr. Verplanck
Colvin, was visited by a bear in the absence of the
campers and turned topsy-turvy by the mischievous
brute; the tent was torn down, and blankets, books,
and instruments were strewn about in great disorder.
The footprints of bruin were found later, and Mr.
Colvin, catching sight of him, fired at and wounded
him, but did not succeed in effecting his capture.
Dr. Merriam states that the average number of bears
annually killed in the Adirondacks up to 1882 was
thirty or more.* In the wildernesses of the White
Mountains scarcely a season passes without ten or
more being killed, and in the fastnesses of the great
forests of Maine the shooting of a dozen bears in
one season may be considered a mild amount of sport.
In the Red Rock district of New Brunswick in 1879
eighteen bears were killed, only two of which were
fully grown. This part of the country is sparsely set-
tled, and it is said that, through the depredations
of bears during the year mentioned, the farmers lost
more than seventy head of stock, which included even
horned cattle.

*de Transactions of the Linnean Society. Animals of
the Adirondacks.

BLACK BEAR.

URSUS AMERICANUS.

“A large black bear was seen standing
on the verge of a precipice.”

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 191

In the summer of 1881 the little propeller Ganou-
skie, which traveled through Lake George at that
time, while passing the mountain point known as An-
thony’s Nose, ran down a large bear which was swim-
ming across the lake (nearly a mile wide at this part),
and one of the passengers dispatched him with a
blow from an axe.

The bear, if he is in good condition, is an excel-
lent swimmer, and a matter of a mile or so is no
arduous undertaking. When he is fat his specific
gravity is not much greater than that of water ; there-
fore he can confine his efforts to propulsion. Several
years later than the occurrence just related, while the
steamer Horicon was passing the rocky ridge which
borders the lake at the foot of Black Mountain (at
that time burned bare by forest fires), a large black
bear was seen by the passengers standing on the
verge of a precipice; he immediately disappeared on
the nearer approach of the steamboat.

The time when bears den up for the winter de-
pends entirely upon the mildness or severity of the
season; the long winter nap, however, is not pro-
found. Bruin is not overparticular about the char-
acter of his retreat, provided it offers sufficient
shelter from wind and weather. A big hole scooped
out with his ponderous paws beneath some fallen
tree, a rocky cave on a mountain knoll, or even a

192 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

broad hollow stump—if it is big enough—is quite to
lis mind. When he is ready to “turn in,” his fur is
at its best, and it is then that the hunter prepares for
his big game. When bruin reappears—probably dur-
ing the first warm days of March—he is not the
handsome beast that he was; a long fast and an un-
kempt coat make him look a bit the worse for wear,
so he is uninolested if he keeps clear of the farmyard.
Again, the time of his hibernation is almost entirely
dependent upon the condition of the food supply. If
food is scarce and the cold is severe, he retires about
the first of December; but if beechnuts are plenty
and the weather is mild he will prowl about all win-
ter, and the female will den only before the period
of bringing forth her young. So long as the male
can find enough to eat he will not den, be the weather
never so severe. In the Yellowstone Park, which is
the largest game preserve in the world, the black
and grizzly bears are so tame and plentiful that
they have become quite a nuisance by their frequent
visits during winter to the garbage dumps in the
vicinity of the hotels on the reservation. Dr. Mer-
riam states that it is perfectly evident bruin does
not den to escape either cold or snow, but to bridge
over that period when, if active, he would be unable
to procure sufficient food. The females also remain
out until the maternal instinct prompts them to seek

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 193

shelter for their prospective offspring, and in the
Adirondacks they have been found traveling as late
as the middle of January. Their dens do not amount
to much, and are often hastily scooped out beneath
the upturned roots of a fallen tree or a pile of logs;
the nest is frequently made of bits of brush and dried
leaves, without so much as a bit of moss to soften it.
In severe weather, however, madam makes a much
better bed, and frequently remains snowed under and
walled up in it until April or May. The den is some-
times revealed by a small opening in the snow which
has been melted by the animal’s breath.

Mr. Frank J. Thomson has published an inter-
esting account of baby bears born in the Zodlogical
Garden at Cincinnati,* the substance of which I
copy: “About the middle of January the female
bear refused to come out of her den, and would not
let her mate approach her; she was at once supplied
with hay, which she used to make her nest comfort-
able and warm, and was then closed in. On Janu-
ary 26th the young were born, but they were not
seen until the third day after, as she would not allow
the keeper to enter the den; then, by feeding her
with bread held high above her head, she sat upon her
haunches and thus exposed her babies to view. Ap-

* Vide Forest and Stream for September 4, 1879, p. 605.
14

194 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

parently they were not more than six inches long,
dirty white in color, and quite hairless. After ten
days their coats began to show, first grayish and then
a variety of shades, which finally terminated in
brownish black. In forty days their eyes were open;
thirty-one days later they followed their mother to the
bars of the cage where she was fed; but she did not
approve of this, and led them back; the second time
they followed her she euffed them back. After a
few more days she allowed them to wander at will, if
no one was immediately in front of the cage; but if
a visitor appeared they were promptly driven within
the den and kept there until the intruder disappeared.
As the young cubs grew older they climbed all over
the cage and had regular sparring bouts, ending
in a clinch and a rough-and-tumble fight, when the
mother would interfere and knock both completely
out of time.”

The black bear has commonly from two to three
cubs, rarely four, and it is doubtful whether she has
more than one litter in two years. It would seem
very unlikely that the young cubs could fall a prey to
the fox, panther, or fisher, but such is the case ; and
Mr. Charles C. Ward cites an instance* where an
Indian hunter, who knew of two litters of cubs which

* Vide The Century Magazine for March, 1882, p. 719.

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 195

he intended to capture as soon as they were old
enough to be taken from their mother, was antici-
pated in one instance by a fisher and in the other
by a fox. Of course the marauders entered the
dens when mother bear was not at home, but out
on the search for food; however, in the case of
the fox, who was not sufficiently sagacious to time
himself for his work, the bear arrived home sooner
than was expected and tore the base intruder into
shreds.

It is a surprising fact, not without pathetic inter-
est, that the bear rears her young in late winter when
food is so scarce that one wonders where the poor
mother finds sufficient to keep herself alive.

Bruin suffers most at the hand of man, and is
hunted to death in a greater variety of ways than
I have space here to describe. When he can not
be persuaded to leave his den by any other means,
and he is inaccessible, a fire of moss and pine boughs
is started at the entrance and he is smoked out;
but he will frequently issue forth in great rage and
trample the fire out. In a quaint old manuscript
of Paul Dudley, dated 1718, there is an amusing de-
scription of a bear hunt, which I will quote in part:
“Dog scents them & Barks. then they come ont.
But if snow be deep they wont stir: they then put
fire in Hole of a Tree then the Bear will come

196 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Thundering out whether they are asleep or only
mope for they easily wake.” *

On the whole, it is not to be
regretted that the black bear is a
good deal of a coward, for, on
occasions when he is thoroughly
aroused, there
is usually-some

terrific execu-

Fore paw and hind paw G £ 2
of the black bear, tion with his
showing the planti- sharp -clawed

grade character.

fore paws and
his formidable canine teeth. A
casual glance at his thick shoul-
ders, however, reveals the true
point of his strength; and _ his
method of attack shows how
completely he relies upon the big
muscles of his forearm. He
does not seize his prey with his
teeth, but strikes a most terrible
downward blow with his fore paw,
which tears flesh and bone asunder. The sharp
claws are like steel hooks, and nothing can with-
stand the power which lies behind them. For some

cf
cae
Bruin’s autograph.

* Vide Forest and Stream for December 26, 1878.

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 197

unexplained reason bruin exercises claws and teeth
on the bark of trees as he passes through the forest,
and thus leaves his autograph, which, sometimes to
his misfortune, serves as a guide for the hunter.
These tree marks have several times been noticed
in the wilderness which surrounds Slide Mountain
in the southern Catskills. The bear rises on his
hind legs, and, embracing the trunk with his fore
legs, tears the bark with tooth and claw for sev-
eral minutes, and then proceeds on his rambles. Mr.
James Gordon, writing on Bear-Hunting in the
South,* records his guide’s remarks on these bear
scratches (they are always made by the male) as
follows: “ Look close, and you will see the tallest
marks are the freshest. A young b’ar, feeling very
large all by himself, wrote his name thar fust. The
way he does it, he places his back ag’in’ the tree ” (a
position which does not seem to correspond with that
described by Audubont), “and, turning his head,
bites the bark as high as he can reach, which means,
in b’ar lingo, ‘I’m boss of the woods: beware how
you trespass on my domains.’ The next b’ar that
comes along takes the same position and tries to out-
reach the first. Now this old fellow has written in
bear hieroglyphics a foot higher, ‘Mind your eye,

* Vide The Century Magazine for October, 1881.
+ Vide Quadrupeds of North America.

198 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

young un, you’re a very small potato; Z’m the boss
that claims pre emption rights to these pastures,’
Another reason for thinking it is a he-b’ar is that the
shes have young about the third week in January,
and it’s about that time. We hunt them in February
by examining the cypress trees, where they have left
their marks climbing to their dens.”

The black bear is a good climber, but he is too
heavy to ascend into the tree tops. Often when
hunted by dogs he takes to the tree, and then it is all
up with him. A pack of dogs trained to hunt bears
in the South is comprised of the most “or’nary-
looking” curs, with pedigrees of confessedly vile
mongrel strains. A few rough-haired terriers, active
and plucky, to fight in front, some medium-sized
dogs to fight on all sides, and a few large active curs
to pinch bruin’s hind quarters are all that are re-
quired to make a well-trained pack, which will only
seize hold in a body when one of its number is
caught ; then it boldly charges to the rescue of the
comrade, and, as soon as he is freed, it lets go and
runs. Finally, gathering around the bear again, the
dogs worry him until he climbs a tree.

If bruin is captured when he is very young he
becomes quite tame, provided he is carefully and sys-
tematically trained ; but it is wisest to keep a sharp
and vigilant eye on him, as he is not altogether trust-

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 199

worthy as a pet.* Mr. Ward confesses that his own
efforts to tame young bears have not always been re-
warded with perfect success, and he mildly writes
that it is an unpleasant experience to return home
from a journey and find the house surrounded by
neighbors armed with pitchforks and muskets, the
family shut up in the dining-room, and the pet bear,
in a ferocious temper, having things all his own way.
“ Nevertheless,” adds Mr. Ward, “if one is willing
to endure that sort of thing, a vast amount of amuse-

ment can be got out of a tame bear.”
The black bear is remarkable for its magnificent
fur, which, when properly dressed, possesses great
softness and luster combined with dura-

bility. At the close of autumn,
when bruin has had plenty to
eat, and he is sleek and fat
with the rich mast gathered
from the beech forest, he is
jet-black excepting his muzzle,
Brsilets prctily which is fawn color at the nose
deepening to tan color near the

eyes; over each eye there is a spot of tan brown.
The profile of the black bear’s face is characterized
by a delicate convex line from nose to forehead ; the

* Read Bret Hart’s charming story of Baby Sylvester, in the
St. Nicholas for July, 1874, vol. i.

900 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

eyes are small, black, and intelligent, and the ears are
somewhat rounded in outline; on the whole, his face
is not an unkind one, and it has a certain canine
suggestion both gentle and reassuring ; but hunted
down and in a desperate encounter with a hunter,
bruin assumes an expression of countenance sinister
in the extreme. Mr. W. W. Thomas describes a
close and dangerous meeting with a wounded bear
thus: * “TI see the beast leaping on all fours, hind
quarters high, fore shoulders low, head down and
askew, snout turned to the right, lip curled up like a
snarling dog, teeth chattering, and black eyes gleam-
ing with a devilish light. On comes the monster
with his vibrating, grunting growl, Knar-r-r-r-r!_ As
the gun swings up to my face I glance along the
barrels, and see the snapping teeth of the leaping
brute within four feet of my gun muzzle. I fire.
The beast falls forward with a heavy thud at my
feet!”

Bruin’s voice is far from musical. After a queer
sniff made by drawing in the breath there is a gut-
tural growl, which sounds like a prolonged Gnar-r-r-
r-r-r-r! far deeper-toned and more threatening than
the warning growl of an angry mastiff. But in cap-
tivity the black bear rarely exhibits any symptoms of

* Vide A Weck in a Dug-out, Harper's Magazine, vol. lxiii,
1881, p. 830.

THE KING OF THE WILDERNESS. 201

a ferocions disposition, and his growls are few and
far between. Not so when he is on the rampage in
the forest during the rutting season ; at that time he
scours the wilderness with a number of his fellows,
indulging in continual snarling and fighting. The
collision of two such creatures in a regular up-and-
down fight is a sight which impels one to keep ata
respectful distance. I recollect a certain bear fight
in a “Zoo,” one time, which demoralized the whole
establishment for the space of several minutes ; dur-
ing that time the earth trembled, and what with the
blood-curdling growls and thumping blows of the
hulking creatures, the rest of the animals concluded
the end of all things was at hand, and their cries were
proportionally energetic.

The flesh of the bear is quite good in flavor if the
animal happens to be in prime condition, otherwise it
is rather tough. I can testify, however, to the un-
qualified excellence of bear steak taken from a young
and fat animal.

CHAPTER XIL.

A MISCHIEVOUS NEIGHBOR.
The Raccoon.

A near relative of the bear, and, like him possess-
ing a humorous side to his character, abundant in all
parts of the country, and constantly getting into mis-
chief in his nightly visits to the barnyard and corn-
field, the raccoon is one of those interesting wild ani-
mals whose appearance brings guns, traps, and dogs
into immediate requisition; and the poor beast,
hunted for his life, usually ends with his skin tacked
on the barn door and his dismembered body in the
pot. Alas for the coon! But he happens to fur-
nish a very savory dish for the table, and he is re-
puted to rob the henroost ; two excellent reasons for
demanding his life—at least so argues the farmer.

Now the raccoon (Prvcyon lotor *) is by no means

* The name is significant : it is derived from mporuéy (procyon),
one who snarls like a dog; the specific Zofor, Linnaeus added, be-
cause the animal has a habit of dipping its food in water before
eating.

202

THE RACCOON,

PROCYON LOTOR.
“We is abroad at all hours of the night,
and often on cloudy days.”

Photographed from life by
W. Lyman Underwood.

A MISCHIEVOUS NEIGHBOR. 203

»

an enemy to farming interests; what he may happen
to steal in the way of corn and chickens is greatly

overbalanced by the number of

mice and in- sects which he de-

stroys. His depredations
are therefore insignifi-
cant compared with
the havoc he makes
among the homes of
creatures injurious to
the farm. Beetles, mice,
and even rats, he hunts with
iq’ ~—-«Ceaseless activity during all hours
of the night, and it is impossible to
“" estimate the extent of his services in this
direction.

The é ri .
Raccoon. But he is omnivorous, like the bear; he

feeds on mice, rats, moles, turtles, toads,

frogs, fish, insects, nuts, fruit,* corn, birds and their

eggs, and sometimes poultry. He is abroad at all
hours of the night, and often on cloudy days.

There is no question about the abundance of life

* Dr. Abbott tells of a coon he once saw in a tree whose mouth
was apparently reeking with gore, but upon a closer view of the
animal and his environment he found that he had been indulging
his taste for wild grapes. The tree was draped with the vines,
and the coon had liberally helped himself to the ripe fruit, which
had stained his jaws red.

904 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

in the woods and fields; there are evidences of it in
every direction when we are strolling through the
country highways and byways. It only needs a
watchful eye to discern the unmistakable traces of
creatures, both great and small, at our feet, within
reach of our hands, and over our heads. I do not
allude now to the ubiquitous toad, the occasional
snake, the familiar squirrel, and the still more famil-
iar sparrow : these are always in evidence. But the
woodchuck’s hole is not far off, if we will look for it
the salamander’s tracks are traced in the sand around
every other stone on the margin of the brook, the
marks of the porcupine’s teeth are on the corner of
the woodshed, the tattooing of the sap sucker deco-
rates the trunk of the apple tree, the weasel’s home is
under the decaying log, the fox leaves feathers and
bony relies at the threshold of his burrow, the raccoon
leaves his footprints in the muddy margin of the
pond, the turtle trails a curious pattern on the sandy
shore of the river, and strange paws mark the black
mud around the spring in the mountain forest.

Not only are the homes and haunts of many fa-
miliar creatures around about us, but also the evi-
dences of many a tragedy. Here, just under the
bushes beside the road, is a dead chipmunk ; a glance
at the place where his head ought to be is sufficient
to identify the murderer; he was undoubtedly a

A MISCHIEVOUS NEIGHBOR. 2905

weasel. There are some spots of red on the clover
beside a tiny hole in the meadow grass; here was the
home of a field mouse who was cap-
tured last night, perhaps by a coon.
There is the daintiest kind of a foot-
print in the soft earth near by; it is
like a miniature hand pressed lightly
on the ground ; whose is it? Look

at a coon’s fore paw and the ques-

The Coon’s paw.

tion is answered.

Tn the coon we have another animal which, like the
cat, loves to be out by
the light of the moon.
If we desire to meet
this nocturnal prowl-
er, we must prowl
also up.to a late hour
at night. Of course it
will be good luck if we
catch a single glimpse
of him after prowling
about through out-
rageously late hours

during every night

The moonlight prowler.

throughout the sum-
mer! Notwithstanding we see evidences of his pres-
ence in the vicinity, he does not appear; but set a

906 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

trap with a chicken leg or a bit of toasted codfish,
and ‘there he is the next morning, poor frightened
beast, with a sinister expression on
his pretty face. There is nothing
in all Nature so striking as the black
setting of his eyes with the sur-
rounding ring of white. There is
an appealing look in the creature’s
face, despite his threatening aspect. Who is cold-
blooded enough to kill bim ?

Coon-hunting in the South, however, by moonlight,
seems to be a regular institution. When the corn is
ripe in September, “‘ Marse Coon ” steps into the field
as the shades of evening have deepened and helps

Coon’s face.

himself to a few choice ears, stripping them of their
husks with his dainty fore paws quite as well as a
pretty girl with deft fingers does at

a corn-husking. He is very
fond of the succulent,
milky kernels, and very
handy with his paws ; but,
alas! he is so preoccupied

with his feasting that the ~~
wretched dogs are soon upon his

Coon eating corn.

scent, and close upon his heels
before he has realized his danger. He runs for his
life, but one of the dogs is at him, and in an instant

“Out of harm’s way,
treed.”

Photographed from life by
W. Lyman Underwood.

A MISCIIIEVOUS NEIGHBOR. 207

there is a snarling scuffle, too vaguely outlined in the
light of the moon to enable one to determine the
issue ; but the dog evidently knows more about coons’
teeth than to his liking, and Marse Coon escapes.
Again other dogs catch up, and there is a big scrap
this time just under a gum tree; but by some quick
work with his teeth the coon precures a stay of pro-
ceedings, in the midst of which he makes a dart like
lightning for the trunk of the tree and gains it with-
out another encounter. Up he goes spirally, and soon
is lodged in a crotch out of harm’s way— treed.”
There is instantly more bark — dogs’ bark — around
that tree than ever was known before in all its his-
tory! The coon was more than a match for the
dogs. But along comes the hunter with his gun;
and who, however brave, is a match for the gun ?
The coon is a fair climber, as a glance at his claws
will amply testify ; but he is no match in tree-climb-
ing for the members of the Mustelide family—the
martens and the weasels—nor for the red squirrel.
Indeed, he is not arboreal, in the strict sense of the
term, and I very much doubt whether he can be in-
cluded among the enemies of the birds without posi-
tive injustice to his character. He does not pursue
his prey among the tree tops, and is rarely seen in a
tree above some crotch in the lower branches. His
home, it is true, may be well up in the hollow of a

908 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

dead limb, but his hunting expeditions are mostly
made on terra firma.

Remarkably bright and winning in manners when
tamed, the coon enjoys special privileges as a pet.
He is frequently given the freedom of the house, as
he never attempts to run away ; but the consequences
of his freedom are sometimes disastrous to the house-
keeper. He is the very soul of mischief, and his
curiosity has no bounds; nothing within reach is safe
from his meddlesome fingers, and woe unto the
kitchen pantry which he enters! Like his cousin the
black bear, he is especially fond of “sweets.” Mo-
lasses, sugar, preserves, and cake—everything, he
samples them all with intinite satisfaction, and scat-
ters the remains of his feast with a noble disregard
for consequences. Sugar, milk, lard, butter, and
broken eggs cover the shelves and mix together in
such generous quantities that only the hot oven is
needed to convert the mess into some nameless kind
of cake! It is not an agreeable sight for the house-
keeper to enter the pantry and surprise the pet coon
seated in the sugar barrel and oozing molasses at the
tip of every hair.

But I do not exaggerate: he is on record as having
done all these things. It does not make much differ-
ence where he is, his propensity for mischief finds a
sufficient means for exercise. The last coon I made

A MISCHIEVOUS NEIGHBOR. 219

the acquaintance of was chained to keep him out of
trouble. He was the pet of the proprietor of a to-
bacco shop, and before he was chained he took it into
his head, one Sunday, to sample the cigars. “ My
stars!” said the salesman who told me of the inci-
dent, “ you just oughter ’uv seen this shop 0’ Monday
mornin’! Sech a sight! Boxes o’ Henry Clays upsot
over the floor ; the best Havanas all chawed up and
spit out—not one or two, but scores o’ em; tobacky
jars knocked down and smashed ; ‘Dill’s best’ all
dragged outen de boxes, an’ de best Carolina mixed
sprinkled over the floor like sawdust; and when I
looked aroun’, there sot that coon in the corner lickin’
his chops kinder apologizin’ like, and seemin’ to say,
‘T had ad 1 of a time yesterday, young feller, try-
in’ to find somethin’ fit to eat’. An’ I reckon J’d a
worse time that day clearin’ up. Since then we kep

im chained. He’s young, but he ain’t no fool, and
he’s beggin’ now for a lump o’ sugar—here, you
young rascal!”—and he gave him one. While my
informant talked the coon dodged his head about,
turned a few somersaults, clawed at the man’s trou-
fers, and by other unmistakable means showed that
he would relish some kind of a tidbit not in the line
of tobacco.

I made several sketches of him on the spot, the

results of which appear in these pages. Most of the
15

910 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

day he seemed to sleep, coiled up in a corner, but
about four o’clock he roused himself and solicited a
little attention.

The coon’s voice is not a musical one; he has a
sharp, snarling cry, not very loud, and a discordant,
growling Gnar-r-r-r! when he is angered; but

on the ine . whole he is a good-natured
"¢ ‘ iB beast, who likes compan
fea Lipp * of
it Fi fi» : maar
\ a Y vs whether he is in the
it

wild state or do-
mesticated. It is
rarely the case

y that a coon
chooses to

ia
UY é .
ef /« live in a

GA hyg

ty particular
part of
the coun-

try quite alone; he goes in company on his foraging
expeditions, and it is said that several members of a
single family will live together in amity and make
their excursions together, leaving the nest for several
days at a time.

The female bears from four to six young about
the middle of April, and these stay with the mother
throughout the year. They hibernate during the
severe part of the winter, and reappear, according to

‘poomiapug weUsT “AM 4q jl] wos} poydesZ0j0qg
oe JSBOQ, painyeu-pood @ SI oy e[OyM 94} UC,,

A MISCHIEVOUS NEIGHBOR. 911

the abatement of the cold, from February to March.
Truth to tell, the coon does not fancy cooling his heels
in the snow any more than comfort-loving puss; and
the retirement of the chimney corner, in his state of
domesticity, is far more to his taste. But his heredi-
tary habits are such that when he stirs himself into
activity, about five in the afternoon, it is wise to keep
the pantry door closed, or he will make a night of
it. There are records of his having drawn corks
from bottles, removed the covers from butter tubs,
lifted latches, and even turned door knobs.

So clever an animal ought not to be so easily
trapped; yet he is. I recollect two suinmers ago
that my neighbor and right-hand man, the esteemed
guardian of my mountain home, remarked one day
that a coon had appeared the night before in his
dooryard. “Tl have him to-morrow,” he added;
and he did. The trap was set that night, and the
unsuspicious coon made the fatal error of trusting too
much in the harmlessness of things in general and
man in particular. We both of us had coon stew for
dinner shortly afterward, and the pelt of the poor
trusting creature decorated the barn door, as might
be expected.

The flesh of a young coon is tender and delicately
flavored, if it is properly cooked; but, as in the case
of any other animal, it is tough and unsavory if the

912 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

creature is old. On the whole, between young rab-
bit, coon, frog’s legs, and chicken, each “done to a
turn,” give me the chicken last. It is a great mistake
to cook any meat whatever from an animal freshly
killed; an interval of three days at least, and the
temperature of a refrigerator, are absolutely requisite
to bring flesh to the proper point of tenderness.

The fur of the coon is thick, long, and pepper-
and-salt gray ; the tail is strikingly ringed with black,
and the face is strongly marked. Occasionally there
are individuals caught which are nearly all black;
the pelts of these bring as much as two dollars each.
Coons from New York, New England, Ohio, Iowa,
Michigan, and the Northwest have the finest fur, and
these skins bring from twenty to eighty cents, accord-
ding to quality. Skins from the Southern States and
south Indiana and Illinois bring from fifteen to sev-
enty cents.

CIIAPTER XIII.

THE FARMER’S SLY NEIGHBOR.
The Red Fox.

He is a much-abused creature, this red fox ( Vul-
pes pennsylvanicus), and the reputation he has un-
fortunately acquired 4 through his incur-
sions on the hen-

roost is not an en-
viable one in the
But as a robber
deeds are not a cir-

animal world.
and a thief his
cumstance

compared with those of
the weasel; the latter
seems to delight in pure

murder, without rhyme or
reason, but the fox takes
what he needs and leaves
all else—to be sure, not with- 7 aa
out an eye for the immediate 4 youthful Pane
future, as one may frequently =
find him returning for a second or third tempting

hen, and the relics surrounding his hole show that his
213

914 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

disposition is not an improvident one. On the whole,
however, an impartial examination into his account
with the henroost shows a surprisingly small percent-
age of loss to the latter through his subtractions.
And again, I doubt very much whether the chickens
which Reynard captures are taken from the poultry
yard; a thrifty farmer with a well-ordered henroost
is not bothered much by foxes. Reynard lurks on
the outskirts of the farm and picks up, night and
day, those lawless rovers which a slovenly fence in-
vites to the freedom of a boundless world beyond.

No one but a farmer knows what a trial the roam-
ing cow and hen are. If Reynard would only pluck
up courage enough to worry the hind legs of wander-
ing cattle and somehow or other head them for home,
I am sure the farmer would gladly concede to him
the itinerant hen. Without doubt the farm hand
wastes more time hunting cows than listening to gos-
sip in the country store. As for the roving and de-
structive hen, the expense of chicken-yard wire-fenc-
ing, and the depredations of half a dozen or more
escaped fowls in the newly sowed garden beds—these
are sufficiently exasperating to make one wish for a
stray fox to administer condign punishment.

We can spare a few chickens for Reynard’s sake ;
he will not take many, and he is so thoroughly inter-
esting himself that he will amply repay us for the

THE FARMER'S SLY NEIGHBOR. 215

loss of a few bothersome hens, if we will take the
trouble to study his marvelously sagacious character.
He has little to depend upon in the struggle for ex-
istence beyond his wits; he is thoroughly carnivorous,
and must catch what he can without risking a fight
with creatures more fully equipped with means of de-
fense than himself. Consequently his prey is com-
prised of only those animals which can make the least
show of resistance. The skunk he will catch un-
awares, if he can; at most it

will only be a conflict

between sharp teeth, if
Reynard can clinch
with him before
there is a chance
for a bombardment.” “\,
Then, among the ro- Se be
dents there are musk- Fox asleep (showing the warmth and
protection of the bushy tail).
rats, woodchucks,
hares, squirrels, and mice. Birds, poultry, and eggs
he is, of course, especially addicted to; frogs, and
even fish, he does not disdain, and I have known him
to make away with the carcass of a horse in the winter
season. It is even recorded by more than one au-
thority that he is partial to wild grapes and strawber-
ries ; but I have no knowledge of his vegetarian pro-
clivity, and I doubt whether fruit of any description

916 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

would tempt him so long as there was a bird or a
mouse to be found.

Our red fox is by no means the same animal as
the English fox (Vulpes vulpes). The latter lacks
the soft color of the former, the fur is harsher and
not nearly so fine, the head is broader, the muzzle
less pointed and shorter, and there is less black on
the legs. I do not suppose, however, that the two
animals differ very greatly in character, as the Ameri-
can fox is quite equal to his English cousin in an
ability to hold his own on the very ground of his
arch-enemy, man; and in this country, where fox-
hunting has not yet become common, the fox needs all
his clever wits to evade the cruel traps of the relent-
less trapper who means business and not sport. It is
a fair fight, though, between the fox and the trapper ;
but the fox-hunter’s childish sport offers the fox no
chance; it is all rank injustice ; he must run to his
death and make a holiday for idle men and a pack
of dogs.

In spite of his adversaries the sagacious fox still
retains his place throughout the wilder parts of the
country, and given some proper consideration he will
continue to live without making serious inroads on
the shiftless farmer’s defenseless chicken roost. It is
doubtful whether he ever gets a chance to rob a man
of thrift. Our failure to recognize the common

THE FARMER’S SLY NEIGHBOR. O17

rights of life among the animals often blinds us to
the fact that wild creatures are really beneficent

servants in one way or an- other, and
man is generally the one benefited.
It is quite natural to picture
the fox with a be-

draggled hen
in his mouth;
but, as a matter
of fact, he de-
stroys a score of
such creatures as
rats, woodchucks,

“With a bedraggled hen.”

rabbits, and moles,
to every single hen. I know this by experience, for
a casual examination of the vicinity of a fox’s hole
last summer revealed the truth beyond a doubt; but
to be quite candid, I must admit that another fox’s
retreat revealed more chicken’s feathers than would
guarantee my proportion of one to twenty.
“ But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together

To make up a year

And a sphere,”
and it happened that this particular fox took up his
residence within a convenient distance of two shift-
less-looking farms.

918 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Not only are we apt to lose sight of the beneficent
phase of wild life, but we are quite as prone to for-
get that it possesses any joy. We think the fox
struggles for existence. What does he know about
struggling for food and shelter? It is a joy to him
to creep stealthily and noiselessly upon his victim, to
gain his dinner by his wits, and to feel the satisfac-
tion of an appeased hunger. <A glimpse of a family
of foxes reveals anything but the serious side of
life. Nothing in the wide world is more attractive-
ly bright than the face of a young fox, and three or
four of the little creatures at play are even jollier and
prettier than as many kittens.

But when he is hunted by dogs the fox’s struggle
has begun in earnest, for it is a desperate and hopeless
one. He leads the dog a chase over hill and dale to
utter exhaustion, and at the end uses his needlelike
teeth to no purpose; after facing each other for a
brief space with panting jaws, the dog makes a lunge
at the fox, seizes him by the throat, perhaps gives
him one shake, and all is over.

When Reynard is trapped, a very moderate but
sharp blow on the muzzle with a heavy stick finishes
him with equal dispatch; at best one can not help
feeling a bit remorseful after the deed is done, be-
cause it was so easily accomplished. But what a
beauty he is! The ears and the long hairs of the

‘| Phy
ats

Spiess i
Aly Se Mi
yori

THE RED FOX.

VULPES PENNSYLVANICUS.
“A glimpse of a family of foxes.”

THE FARMER’S SLY NEIGHBOR. 919

tail are tipped with black; the fur is thick and
warm ; the tone along the line of the back is a pale
burnt sienna; the tail is bushy and long, and the
gradation of color from the back to the stomach
through ruddy ocher to buff and cream is beautiful
beyond expression.

Reynard is not easily trapped, however ; his keen
scent discovers the touch of a hand and the tracks of
a foot at once, and he will not approach a trap. It
is often the case that the fox’s aversion to water is the
means of his being entrapped by shrewd hunters.
The method of setting the trap is this: The bait is
placed conspicuously on a stone out in the shallow
water just beyond reach of the fox; halfway be-
tween this and the shore the set trap is sunken, and
over it is placed, slightly above water, a lump of turf ;
the fox then, to avoid wetting his feet, steps on the
insecure turf, the trap snaps, and he is caught.

Ido not know how common the red fox now is
over the country from East to West, but forty odd
years ago he was to be found almost anywhere. Dr.
Abbott writes that in the vicinity of Trenton, N. J.,
the fox could be considered as extinct eight years ago,
although at that time he appeared together with the
wild-cat at long intervals. But-in the Pemigewas-
set and Merrimac valleys, New Hampshire, he is
certainly very common indeed; only last summer I

990 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

found the retreats of four wily individuals who lived
within a radius of three miles in the valley first
named. One of them visited a neighboring farm one
morning very early, before the family appeared, and
was seen complacently sitting in the middle
of the road not far from the pet white %
cat. Puss did not seem in the least

disconcerted by the strange visitor
although he sat not ten yards
away; undoubtedly he

would have found his on

Altes

match in the cat if
he had dared to
attack her.
Reynard’s proper
environment is the
hillside pasture that
borders the wood;
here he is seen—if
one is lucky enough
to catch a glimpse
of him—at the best
advantage ; his bushy tail, his splendid coat, and his

In the hillside pasture.

vigilant eye are not eclipsed by the leafy under-
growth of the half-lit woods; and, what is best of
all, one has a good chance to see his nimble legs beat
a hasty retreat. There is nothing doglike in his ap-

THE FARMER’S SLY NEIGHBOR. 991

pearance except it be his pointed ears; but even these
have a certain unmistakable foxy air about them, and
in a flash, when Reynard is gone, one’s first impres-
sion that the strange creature was a dog is promptly
dismissed. No dog ever had a tail like that, nor was
there ever one so lithe and agile in his movements.
Reynard appears and reappears in and out among the
sweet fern with scarcely the rustle of a leaf or the
waving of a fern frond; that is his way. We could
trace any clumsy dog’s course by the agitation he cre-
ated among the leaves; but Reynard is accustomed
to steal noiselessly after his prey; the motion of a
fern might cost him his dinner.

In the morning and in the evening, in May and
in October, in summer and even in midwinter, we
can hear his short, sharp, nervous, rasping bark ; so
strange is it that I scarcely know what to liken it to.
Perhaps it resembles the stridulous, rasping sneeze
of an old backwoodsman, or the harsh tones of a
parrot, uttered fortissimo. For the sake of a clearer
idea of the kind of a bark the fox makes, I may as
well show how it can be rendered by musical notes:

Be The setter dog has quite a dif-
eenesersesoee ferent tone and, like all dogs,
he gives a series of short barks,

each one of which may be fairly represented by a
single note with an introductory grace note. The

999 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

fox’s bark, however, is one short, suddenly loud
squall, bearing not the remotest resemblance to the
bark of a setter. The terrier’s bark may be a great
deal nearer in pitch, but it is quite as far off in qual-
ity of tone. Indeed, between the dog and the fox
there is, after all, very little similitude:

Reynard’s burrow is usually on

infrequently he resorts to safer Sa
retreats beneath the broken rocks a
which have fallen from the steep #2 eis
ledges of some mountain. He is a x

his home is consequently not without
a characteristic odor, all the more
apparent in the dampness of
asummer evening. The fe-
male bears her young
anywhere from the
middle of March to «Gis,
the middle of April. Reynard’s ae.

She has from four

to eight little ones, with the prettiest faces imagin-
able. They make famous pets when captured early
in life, but unfortunately turn out treacherous and
sly in the end.

3QRulseull saovy ysoryqerd yy, ,,

“SQOINVATASNNGd Sd TOA
‘SaXOdA ONNOA

THE FARMER'S SLY NEIGHBOR. 993

The largest and finest red fox skins come from
Canada, Labrador, Michigan, and Minnesota; these
sell for a dollar and a half or a dollar and eighty-five
cents, according to quality and size.

The gray fox (Urocyon cinereo-argenteus) is rare-
ly if ever found in New England nowadays.* He

The Gray Fox.

is small, and it is said that he has been driven out by
the Jarger red fox. But in the middle West he is still
common from southern Michigan to western New
York, and from northern Indiana to South Carolina
and Tennessee. His coarse fur, which is stiff and
long haired, is blackish mixed with silver-gray, behind
and beneath the ears is a rusty tinge, and the upper
part of the tail is very dark, characterized by long
black hairs. The skin is worth about sixty-five cents.

* According to Prof. J. A. Allen, his most Northern range is not
much beyond the parallel of 42°.

9924 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

The so-called “silver” fox of the far West is valued
for his remarkably beautiful skin, which brings no less
than one hundred and twenty-five dollars if it is in its
prime. The handsomest
skins come from the ex-
treme Northwest. But
I must draw attention

to the fact that there
= are but two species

Silver-gray Fox. of foxes common in
the country east of
the Mississippi Valley: one is Vulpes pennsylvani-
cus, and the other is Urucyon cinereo-argenteus. The
former species, usually called the common or red fox,
is now considered the one species which must include
the so-called “silver” fox (Vulpes argentatus), the
so-called “cross” fox* ( Vulpes decussatus), and the
so-called Western fox (Vulpes macrurus),
The generally accepted opinion that the color of a
fox decides the species, is thrown to the winds by

* The ‘‘eross” fox is more or less frequent as far south as
northern New York and northein New England, and throughout
the more elevated portions of the great. Rocky Mountain plateau,
where it constitutes a large proportion of the representatives of
the so-called Vulpes macrurus, More rarely the black or so-called
silver fox is met with in the same regions, becoming frequent in
the higher parts of the Rocky Mountains and northward.—d/. A.
Allen. Bulletin of the United States Geographical Survey, vol.
tt, No. 4, Washington.

THE FARMER’S SLY NEIGHBOR. 925

Prof. J. A. Allen, who is an unquestionably high au-
thority in the definition of species. Here is what he
has to say about the common fox: “In the common
fox we meet with a range of color variation irrespec-
tive of locality, somewhat akin to that seen in the
wolf (Canis lupus). The prevalent tendency, how-
ever, is toward melanism,* which tendency is much
more strongly developed in the colder than in the
warmer latitudes. Frequently individuals of the me-
lanistic type occur in litters of the common variety.
The varying degrees of melanism occurring in this
species have given rise to several commercial vari-
eties, which have received at the hands of naturalists
systematic designation, and have been regarded more
or less commonly as valid species. Generally these
melanistic varieties are more fully furred and have
larger and heavier tails than the common form. The
difference in the fineness and softness of the fur is
recognized to such an extent by furriers as to greatly
affect the price of the skins; the so-called ‘silver’
and ‘cross’ furs being considered far more valuable
than the fulvous type.

“With this tendency to great variability in color,
we meet, as usual in such cases, a great variation in

* Melanism, or melanosis, from peAdywors, which means a be-
coming black,
16

996 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

size. In the present case the variation in color may
be properly regarded as geographical through an in-
creasing tendency to melanism northward. The vari-
ation in size is also chiefly of the same character, the
size uniformly increasing toward the North. The
largest specimens come from the Aleutian Islands
and Alaska, and the smallest from Essex County,
New York.

“The foxes of the colder regions, it is true, have a
fuller and softer pelage, a greater tendency to mela-
nism, shorter muzzles, and are larger; yet these differ-
ences are so inconstant—especially the differences of
color—and so insensibly intergrade that any attempt
at their subspecific recognition seems impracticable,
the most diverse varieties in color occurring at the
same localities and even among individuals of the
same litter.”

So it appears that the particular foxes called red,
black, silver, and cross are all one species, with a com-
mercial difference ; that is all. But that difference
expressed in dollars and cents is quite considerable.
I find that the dearest red fox skin is quoted at a
dollar and eighty-five cents, and the cheapest at fifty
cents; the dearest “cross” skin at nine dollars, and
the cheapest at seventy-five cents. The dark “silver”
is quoted at from one hundred and twenty-five to ten
dollars, and the pale at from fifty to five dollars.

THE FARMER’S SLY NEIGHBOR. 927

The “cross” fox is so named because a dark band
between the shoulders is crossed by another extend-
ing over the shoulders. The muzzle and under parts
with the legs are black, and the remainder of the
body is a tawny color.

CHAPTER XIV.

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS.
The Virginia Deer.

To “run like a deer” means to run like the fleet-
est-footed member of that highest division of animal
life in the world called

Mammalia. Now the
term Mammalia is a

y significant one with a

world of meaning in it
' which few, perhaps, fully
appreciate.* It means that
the closest possible relationship
exists between the mother and
her young. And perhaps one
Head of a Deerabout five of the most beautiful examples

years old.
of a mother and her young

among the animals is the soft-eyed deer and her
dainty, snow-spotted fawn.

* The essential character of a creature belonging to the great

group called Wammalia is that it is wholly dependent upon its
228

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR {N THE WOODS. 229

The Virginia deer (Cartacus virginianus) is not
only the fleetest but the most sympathetically attract-
ive animal of this great group. One who

has once looked, (=) into the liquid eyes of a

young fawn and its mother, and after-
ward has aimed

other with in-

a gun at one or the

eA om
SIS

lowing up the in-

tent to destroy, fol-

tent with its accom- '(\
plishment, burdens his ‘Wyi
conscience with a sort
of questionable guilt for
the rest of his days.
To slay such beautiful | (ates

Mii Wn fil

aL Nps M6 ite
Virginia Deer.

th ia

creatures seems some-
wt “e be

thing not far short of “"’”
murder; but there is

the venison to be considered, and as that is the meat
of the epicure one’s conscience must be smothered.

It would seem as if I stretched a point to include
this rare animal in my list of familiar life; but I do
not. Times have changed and the deer is not as rare
as he was. Last summer there were many complaints

mother for nourishment during the helpless period of its infancy.
The Mammaiia, in a word, are animals which suckle their young ;
the term is derived from the Latin, mamma, meaning “the breast.”
Thus, we undoubtedly have sufficient reason to believe the endear-
ing name mamma had its origin with the Latin word.

930 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

coming from the farmers in Vermont and New
Hampshire because the animal had made some havoc
in their cornfields. I do not know how much of an
excuse such complaints were to secure a modification

in the strict game laws of both
States, but I
A suspect the
i) average farm-

—

pa “BAN lt er was anx-

ious to get a
better chance at a
deer. At pres-
ent the laws are
ia Ns s0 comprehen-
Yee sive and effect-
Two young Deer at El Fureidis. ual that the deer
has a chance at
the farmer! a fact of such slight consequence that
I think we have no sufficient reason to regret it.
Thrice, last summer, three deer made their appearance
within a quarter of a mile of my hillside studio, and
once two young ones appeared close by the pasture
fence on the border of the wood, not more than fifty
feet from the piazza rails. Repeatedly deer had been
seen on the highway in the spring, and once one was
chased on the track by a passing train.
In 1867 when, as a child, I was taken on a tour

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS. 9231

through the Adirondack woods, there was not much
choice of meat either at Paul Smith’s, Bartlett’s, or
the guide’s camp; it was pork or venison—which
would we have? I need not say which we always
chose, and as a consequence the bill of fare was like
a delightful “theme with variations,” thus: Break-
fast, venison—roast, broiled, or fried. Dinner, veni-
son—fried, broiled, or roast. Supper, da capo.
Twenty years after, when I went over exactly the
same extended route, I looked in vain for a sports-
man with his antlered game; and at the table an elab-
orate menu, with a picture of a deer at the top, was
handed to me to choose my dinner from—alas for
the wilderness! it was no more. There was no such
word as venison on the card.*

But of late years the game laws are beginning to
bear fruit, and the deer is again on the increase in
New York, Vermont, and New Hampshire. On
what does he subsist in the snowbound forests of the
North? How does he endure the cold? These are
questions not so difficult to answer. As soon as the
fall comes his hair grows twice as thick as it was in
midsummer, so thick, in fact, that it helps to float

* Up to 1882 from five hundred to eight hundred deer were
killed annually for the preceding ten years; that would make a
fair estimated total of six thousand five hundred slain in this
decade; no wonder venison was scarce in 1887!

932 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

him in water; by December it is like a door mat, but
not quite so coarse. He sheds his coat gradually
twice a year, in June and September, and it changes
in color from red-brown in summer f

Lycopodium obscurum. Lycopodium clavatum.

to gray in winter. For food he has young twigs—
those of the black birch he especially relishes—the
foliage of the arbor vite (Thuja occidentalis),* hem-
lock, and fir; digging through the snow with his

* The margins of some of the Adirondack lakes are thickly
overhung with the branches of the arbor vite; these are often
stvipped off for a distance of five fect up the trunks of the trees,
the result of the feeding of deer which have wintered in the vi-
cinity.

YOUNG DEER.

CARIACUS VIRGINIANUS, OR
ODOCOILEUS VIRGIN(ANUS.

“He works his way toward the

shore of the lake.”

Photographed from nature by W. Lyman Underwood.

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS. 933

hoofs he feeds upon the wintergreen (Gaultheria
procumbens), the lycopodiums, and many other green
things, like mosses and lichens. Early in the spring
he gradually works his way toward the shores of the
lakes, and finds there pickerel weed, lily pads, and
spatter-dock ; as the season advances he approaches
the outskirts of civilization and crops the

new meadow grasses near the farms; he
even ventures as far as the pasture bars,
not infrequently feeding in company with

Lycopodium complanatum. Pickerel Weed.
the cows; but the latter are inclined to be suspicious
of the strangers and sometimes move off to another
part of the field.

934 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

From spring to autumn his food consists of nu-
merous herbs, grasses, aquatic plants, leaves of shrubs
and trees, and the berries of the mountain ash and
dwarf cornel. When beech nuts are plenty—the trees
bear in alternate years—these constitute a large por-
tion of his fare. By the middle of September the
deer in the Adirondack
region desert the water
courses and retire to the
more secluded parts of the
forest.* Here they congre-
gate during the deep snows
of winter in what are called

deer yards ; these are certain

Bunchberry.

sheltered localities where
the heavy snow is trampled down and pathways lead
in all directions toward promising food supplies, and
where under thickets of spruce and fir the animals
find sufficiently comfortable beds. Mr. Verplanck
Colvin, speaking of one of these deer yards, describes
it as resembling a sheep yard in winter.+

The deer is not a strictly nocturnal animal, al-
though he haunts the shores of the Adirondack lakes

* Vide Transactions of the Linnean Society. Animals of the
Adirondacks. Dr. C. H. Merriam.

+ Vide Report of the Adirondack Survey for 1880. Ver-
planck Colvin.

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS. 933

through all hours of the night ; he is also frequently
seen browsing in the grassy glades of the forest dur-
ing the afternoon hours, and when I saw the two
animals near our cottage in the White Mountains,
last summer, it was as late as eight o’clock in the
I stirred
who was

morning. On another occasion 4 |
up a deer shortly after midday * y
quietly feeding in a 4 J
forest opening on a *
mountain side. Dr.

Merriam, however, — ke:
says that it is the
habit of Adiron-
dack deer to visit ;

oe

the water at

night and retire M¢ -
to the depths Wi ‘he

rg i
of the forest
“Quietly feeding ina forest opening.”
at break of

day. Unquestionably different individuals are timid

| i
ath qs ae d sy on a; eal

a Wwe

to a greater or less degree ; that is perfectly plain in
their conduct. One will not venture abroad in full
daylight, and another has not only been browsing in
the open during the greater part of the day, but has
joined company with the cows at four o’clock in the
afternoon, attracted, perhaps, by the little trough
containing salt for the cattle lodged close beside the

936 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

pasture bars. A glance at a timid deer shows that
all his faculties are on the alert: the head is erect,
the broad ears are turned in the direction of danger,
the eyes intently peer at a single leaf that wageles
in a passing zephyr, the nostrils are distended and in
motion, of and an uneasy fore foot is poised

for a run. When the animal is
at last satistied that

Running Deer (from a photograph).

his safety is threatened, the spindlelike legs are
raised, there are a few graceful bounds rather than
steps over the intervening ferns and lichen-covered
stones, and the creature is gone. But in a swift run
he covers the ground like an india-rubber ball, touch-
ing it only at every sixteen feet maybe.

The beautiful antlers of the deer are shed and re-
newed each year—the so-called “spike horn,” or ant-
lers without any branches, belong to an animal about

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS. 937

a year old. The two-branched horn belongs to a
deer three years old, and so on. Very rarely indeed
a female will develop a spike horn covered with vel-
vet. This velvety covering of the antlers when they

SP

The spike horn. Antlers four years old. Antlers three years old.

first appear is a most remarkable part of the develop-
ment of the horns. I quote in part what Dr. Mer-
riam has to say regarding it: “The new horns of a
deer in the Adirondacks are first seen about the mid-
dle of May; they appear like
soft, dark-colored excrescences
which, as they rapidly elongate,
harden from below upward.
By the time the growth, which
is accomplished in about three
months, is completed, all but
the tips is well ossified; the
soft, velvetlike skin now begins

‘‘ The skin now begins to peel

oe ies
peel off in irregular shreds, “} es ipfegelng chieda

and by the first or middle of
September the horns are generally clean. This vel-
vet does not come away of itself, but the animal rubs

938 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

it off against small trees, as if the antlers itched.”
Judge Caton, of Ottawa, says: ‘‘ The evidence which
I have derived from a great number of observations
made through a course of years is conclusive that
Nature prompts the animal to denude its antlers of
their covering at a certain period of growth, while
yet the blood has as free access to it as it ever had.”

Four months after the antlers have fully matured
they fall off again. The largest and handsomest horns
come from middle-aged deer ; those with few prongs
come from young or very old animals, and sometimes
from a very ill-conditioned or sickly one.

The rutting season of the deer is in November;
during this month the bucks rush wildly about and

1 ERS. 2 SS
“The bucks fight like troopers.”

fight like troopers. As a consequence, that mag-
nificent game park established by the late Austin
Corbin in the wild and picturesque region of Suna-
pee, N. H., has to be closed to all visitors. I am told
that it is not safe to meet a deer on the grounds while
he is in this pugnacious state of mind ; it is not infre-

*ppom oq} ur syred ores 4so3.18] 94 JO 9uO

‘HN ‘LUOdMIN ‘NIGUOO NILSAV FLVI AHL JO TLVISH
“MUVd NIVLNNOW 3N1d NI Yaad

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS. 239

quently the case that he will attack a man and do
some fearful work with horns and sharp hoofs. In-
deed, the wild and rampant creature at this time for-
feits all claim to that mild and attractive disposition
which is his usual attribute ; his neck is greatly en-
larged, he fights furiously with his fellow bucks, and
sometimes loses his life in a desperate encounter
through the locking of the antlers. When this hap-
pens in the wild woods the animals can not separate,
and both miserably perish of exhaustion and starva-
tion. What a strange tragedy of Nature! Dr. Mer-
riam says that his father possessed. a set of locked ant-
lers which he found on the frozen carcasses of two
deer which had perished on the ice in Pine Creek,
N.Y. Audubon also states that he once saw three
pairs of antlers interlocked, and remarks upon the
pathetic sight the owners must have made as they
slowly starved in the midst of plenty. But Audubon
did not take into account the fact that exhaustion
shortened the animals’ lives, and mercifully, there-
fore, the period of their starvation.

As a rule, the female deer bears two fawns—one
is quite the exception—and these are born in the
month of May; they are quick at making use of their
slender, long legs. The little fawn is prettiest when
he is about a month and a half old; the sides are
spotted with white, the face is delicately graded with

940 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

deeper and paler color, and the eyes are unusually
large and expressive. The dainty creature is the
very embodiment of gracefulness in move-

ment as well as ap-

pearance; nothing is

more charming than the airiness of

his little leaps
over the uneven turf,
and he is perfectly sure-
footed; I doubt wheth-
er any one ever saw a
young deer stumble.

little animal too, con- #1"

He is an inquisitive

tip nentYy
hace i

Female Deer.

stantly mixing his ex-

treme timidity with an overwhelming curiosity to
know what a strange-looking object is made of, and
trusting to his agile
legs to escape if
it should prove

dangerous. He is
also omnivorous, like
the goat, and eats
anything that comes
along. There is a
record of one young
fawn who was reckless enough to devour a paper of
chewing tobacco which happened to come within his

; 4 AYR A i

SS ANS SS ikl

A young Fawn.

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS. 941

reach; but he paid the penalty of his rashness with
his life the next day.

Very young fawns bleat like little lambs, and the
voice of a doe is a high-pitched and tremulous whistle
orsqueal. It is said that a buck when he is surprised
and frightened utters a sharp, shrill whistle. But he
is far from a coward, like the bear, and he runs only
when he is persuaded that his horns and hoofs are
not equal to the emergency.

If the deer meets a rattlesnake in the woods he
considers it a deadly enemy and jumps upon it with
“all fours,” cutting it to pieces with his sharp hoofs ;
indeed, he is quite capable of kicking a man into un-

“Swimming across the lake.”

consciousness by springing upon him with his sharp-
hoofed fore feet. When he is swimming across a lake
the rash and unsophisticated hunter who is sufficiently
near to grab him by the antlers, does so at the risk of
a broken arm, for still the active ‘limbs are ready to

inflict a stunning blow. The only way to seize a deer
17

949 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

in the water is by the tail—an unreachable member;
for the animal is an expert and swift swimmer, who
learned the art when he was but three or four months
old, and now that he is older his legs are by no means
hampered by so light a task.

Contending for half the year with the severities of
a hard climate where the mercury frequently drops
thirty degrees below zero; chased not infrequently by
his deadliest enemy, the panther

(Felis concolor) ;
hunted night By
and day by

another _agsg 4
SAT iy % ys Mae
4 Ne vee ly T i
A Al ‘¢ ii fl ia
a lie sie i ax Ai (Ne ( A

Two young Female Deer.

not less deadly enemy, man, the wonder is that the
Virginia deer survives in the face of such terrific
odds. But, given a fair chance, he holds his own in
the wilderness, and with the protection of admirably
effective game laws, there is no reason why he should
not increase.

In the Adirondacks there have been three ways
in common practice of hunting the deer: The first is
by shooting him at night, as he feeds on the margin

A FLEET-FOOTED NEIGHBOR IN THE WOODS. 9243

of the lake, with the aid of a “ jack ” light—a sort of
reflector lantern which casts all its light ahead from
the bow of a boat in which the hunter is concealed by
the darkness. This method takes advantage of the in-
ordinate curiosity of the animal, and he loses his life
by allowing the mysterious light to approach too
near. The second is by driving—that is, by chasing
him with hounds in daytime, and driving him into the
lake, on the shore of which the sportsman is posted
with his boat, so that he can easily pursue and shoot
him. And the third is by still-hunting—that is, by
following his tracks over the snow in winter and
shooting him after a prolonged chase in his forest
home, perhaps under some fallen tree top where he
has taken refuge. A wounded deer is not usually
followed, but tracked by his prints and blood stains
several hours, or perhaps the next day, after he is
shot. The reason is quite obvious, for experienced
hunters say that a deer will run several miles when
he is severely wounded. Judge Caton says that he
has known of one that ran a mile and a half after he
was shot through both lungs with a 0.44-caliber rifle
ball.

In the State of New Hampshire hunting the deer
by hounds is contrary to law, and in the season al-
lowed for shooting the sportsman must get his deer
the best way he can by means of his gun. This is

944 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

the fairest kind of sport, for the deer has an equal
chance with the hunter; the latter must. still-hunt
and prove his skill as a marksman by bringing down
his game by a single well-directed shot, or else, with
less success, he must make up his mind to follow
the tracks of the wounded creature several miles over
the snow-clad hills the next day.

Not long ago, a fine deer, weighing one hundred
and fifty-four pounds, was shot near my cottage by
the “fair-play ” means of still-hunting, and my sports-
man neighbor,* ever a good shot at a partridge,
brought down his game with unerring aim.

The flesh of the deer is the most juicy and pala-
table of all meats, and it is also the most easily di-
gested. The hide not only makes excellent heavy
driving gloves and moccasins, but, when it is well
dressed and neatly lined, it makes a handsome chair
rug. It is in the best condition in November.

* Whose name is James McCann, a true man of the woods,
whose knowledge of Nature, from the humblest. flower to the giant
trees of the forest, including all the animals great and small that
live under their shade, I have found to be like an interesting vol-
ume—but one not yet published.

CHAPTER XV.
A SEMIANNUAL SLEEPER AND A NIGHTLY
PROWLER.
The Woodchuck and Porcupine.

Ir one could shake a red and a gray squirrel to-
gether in a bag until they merged into one individual
with a coat neither red nor gray, then blow the thing
up with the bellows into

thrice its former size,
jam the face togeth-
er, trim down the 4
ears, enlarge
the paws, ~@
chop off half
the tail, and finish

by knocking just half

The Woodchuck.

the life out of it, one would have a fair imitation
of the woodchuck or marmot (Arctomys monas),*
that grave and indefatigable old burrower who in-
habits the field on every farm in the country—or

* His Indian name is Wenusk.
245

946 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

nearly every farm, for his range extends from the
Carolinas to Canada, and from the seaboard to Mis-
souri, Iowa, and Minnesota.

The names of this familiar American animal are
both significant and appropriate; Arctomys comes
from the Latin arcto, meaning to draw close together,
in allusion to the habit of the animal of gathering
himself together in a ball for a long winter’s nap.
The specific mona means a monk, also remarkably
appropriate, for the animal generally lives quite by
himself in the deepest seclusion. As for the plain
Yankee name of “ woodchuck,” whatever may be its
serious import, there used to be a legend connected
with it of expressive interest, which deserves repeti-
tion here.

In olden times—probably the time of AZsop—the
lesser animals used to live in one happy country with
a judge over them—the dog. One day a rabbit,
whose burrow adjoined that of a marmot, complained
to the latter that the little rabbits’ eyes were contin-
ually filled with the dirt which he carelessly threw
out of his burrow. However, the marmot paid no
heed to the remonstrance, and the rabbit was com-
pelled to appeal to the judge; he immediately sent
word to the offender that he must be more careful in
the future. But the insolent marmot, notorious for
his incivility and indifference, replied to the messen-

A SEMIANNUAL SLEEPER. 947

ger that he would chuck his dirt where he d d
pleased! That settled it; the dog has been hunting
for the gross offender ever since, and the name
“woodchuck ” stuck to the whole tribe.

The general appearance of the animal is not irre-
sistibly attractive ; he is grizzly brown over the back
and chestnut color beneath ;* his body is about thir-

teen and the tail four inches long; he is so loosely
“hung” that apparently he has less bones in his
anatomy than a cat. But who does not know the
woodchuck well, and what country dog has not soiled
his nose in enlarging the endless burrow all to no
purpose? He seems to be an cncumbrance on the
farm, without attraction or interest cxcept for the
small boy and the dog.

Not many years ago the farmers of New Hamp-
shire, finding the woodchuck an unmitigated bore,
demanded of the State Legislature some measure to
relieve them from the impositions of the beast. Alas
for the woodchuck! a bounty of ten cents was placed
upon his devoted head, and he could venture to stick
his whiskers beyond the confines of his burrow in
safety only on Sunday, because on that day, if his
body fell into the hands of the enemy, the devout
Legislature refused to allow the bounty.

* Melanistic—that is, black—phases of the woodchuck’s coat
are not uncommon.

943 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

But the chairman of the committee appointed to
inquire into the moral status of the woodechuck—Mr.
C. R. Corning—was too wise a man not to see the
anomalous character of his task. So he turned ina
report worthy of a gifted humorist, whose pleasant-
ries are instinct with keen wit and harmless satire.
Indeed, he most ingeniously aimed over the wood-
chuck’s shoulder and threw the clown’s cap on the
farmer’s head. So the ‘‘ beastie” came off easy with
the following uncomplimentary comments on his per-
gon: “ Your committee finds the woodchuck destitute
of any interesting qualities. . . . The casual observer
is not attracted by the brilliancy of his colors... .
The family was evidently designed and brought forth
under conditions of severe simplicity. . . . The crea-
ture’s only purpose in venturing forth during the
day is to get a good ‘lay of the land.’ Like the bear,
the gait of the thing under consideration is plan-
tigrade ; but in order occasionally to exercise its
toes, it climbs small trees and shrubs ; then, perfectly
satisfied that its pedal extremities are in good work-
ing trim, it descends to the ground and again resumes
its monotonous waddle. The woodchuck, despite its
deformities of both mind and body, possesses some of
the amenities of a higher civilization. It cleans its
face after the manner of a squirrel, and licks its fur
after the manner of a cat; your committee is too

A SEMIANNUAL SLEEPER. 249

wise, however, to be deceived by this purely super-
ficial observance of better habits... . The wood-
chuck is not only a nuisance but a bore; it burrows
beneath the soil and then chuckles to see a mowing
machine, man and all, slump into one of these holes
and disappear!”

Now this most uninteresting animal is a strict
vegetarian ; his home is usually on the border of a
fertile field where food is
consists of succulent grasses

plenty ; this

and herbs, roots, vege-
tables, and es-
pecially red
clover. Of
the last he
is particular-
ly fond, and
wherever there

1 Bh

: ts GNU Zac ‘
Sy ay

1 Uw RAN ; ;

See Me Pt mi

“On the border of a fertile field.”

is a red-clover field one is pretty sure to see either a
woodchuck or his burrow.

Digging out a woodchuck’s hole with the expec-
tation of finding the occupant, is an undertaking too
arduous to find a fit expression in words. The gal-
lery slopes off at an angle of about twenty-three de-
grees for a length of four feet; then, at a depth of
three--sometimes only two—feet below the surface,
it inclines upward in no settled direction and con-

950 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

tinues for about ten feet, but divided perhaps into
two galleries, each of which leads to a circular cham-
ber a foot in diameter ; in this there Is a snug nest
made of dried grasses, leaves, etc. Here the creature
dwells with his fields of plenty directly over his head,
and one would think that, like the squirrels, when in
the midst of abundance he would set by a store of
good things for the winter; but not at all. He is no
hand at providing for the future ;* the very nature of
his food is perishable, and it is a question whether it
would outlast the cold even of a protecting burrow.
Very soon after the autumnal equinox the improvi-
dent animal retires to his hole which he has now dug
on the sheltering margin of the wood, and he does
not venture forth again until the arrival of the spring
equinox, which is sometimes coincidental with the so-
called “ woodchuck’s day.” + If the weather is still
too cold to be springlike, his day—-which weather-
wise folk always insist is a forerunner of six weeks’
sunshine—will be postponed.

*T actually found in Brehm’s Life of Animals—a very good
Natural History, by the way—the absurdly incorrect statement
that the woodchuck in the fall occupies himself in collecting
provender for the coming winter!

+ In different localities the times of the woodchuck are also
different; farther south, he reappears about the middle of March,
and in the valley of the Connecticut he remains out until No-
vember.

A SEMIANNUAL SLEEPER. 251

He is the most remarkable of all hibernating ani-
mals; no other creature sleeps so profoundly or so
long. Only the little flying squirrel is at all like him.
The gray squirrel sleeps exclusively through the se-
verest part of winter; the chipmunk wakes up to
partake of his plentiful stores, and quite frequently
takes a peep at the outside worid, and the chickaree
is abroad all winter except when it is violently cold.
But the woodchuck is a sleeper. All the preparation
he makes for the cold and foodless winter is an inor-
dinate stuffing of himself with red clover in the latter
part of September. He enters his hole, therefore,
with excessively sleek and fat sides, and somehow or
other lives on his accumulated fat through the long
season of ice and snow. In his dormant state the
heart action is greatly slackened and respiration is
only detected by an instrument designed for the pur-
pose, which must be very delicately adjusted. He can
be rolled about like a ball without seeming to be in
the slightest way inconvenienced or disturbed; he
will awaken in a warm room, but goes to sleep
again without an effort. Of course, with warm sur-
roundings and plenty of food he will not sleep as
he does in a state of Nature; but his hereditary
habit is strong, and he can never be called thor-
oughly awake in midwinter under the best of cir-

cumstances.

959 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

In September the woodchuck sits by his hole the
perfect image of listlessness ; he is as absolutely mo-
tionless as a “bump on a log.” Possibly he medi-
tates upon the changing aspect of Nature, at any rate
he does not move a muscle, and it is doubtful whether

his mind works. Approach him never so

silently and cautiously and he pops
in without a prelimi-
nary movement. On
one occasion, though,

ye A
ih My dil
ie / I did actually see

i
; him change his po-
’ sition before he dis-
A appeared. At first
* he was upright, then
on my nearer ap-
“The perfect inage of listlessness.” proach he dropped
horizontally, and when

I got to within ten feet of him he was gone. Pres-
ently I took a harmonicon from my pocket and
played softly upon it; being highly susceptible to
the sweet influences of music he reappeared at his
doorstep, and, with a slight expression of disturbance
on his usually dull countenance, eyed me with some
curiosity and disapproval. J imagined if he pos-
sessed the power of speech he would have said,
“This may be quite a clever performance, sir, but

A NIGHTLY PROWLER, 253 -

on the whole I'd thank you not to disturb my
autumn reverie.”

When the woodchuck is tamed he is not uninter-
esting, and there are numerous stories told of his
strange habits which are quite amusing. Dr. Kel-
logg, in the American Naturalist,* tells of a tame
marmot he had which was allowed to sit at table with
the family in one of the children’s chairs. This he
did with all possible decorum ; but when he smelled
the sweet cake and other tempting viands, he forgot
his manners and manifested his pleasure by singing a
purring kind of a song, during the performance of
which his lips and nostrils appeared to be slightly agi-
tated. When the woodchuck is unexpectedly startled
by an approaching footstep he utters a sharp, tremu-
lous whistle which reminds one of the agitated voice
of the red squirrel.

The female bears from four to six young about
the end of April or the first of May; these remain
with the mother until the latter part of the summer,
when they shift for themselves, digging their own
holes and hibernating in the winter quite alone. But
one adult woodchuck with his mate inhabits a bur-
row, not more.

Quite unlike him in both appearance and habits,

* Vide American Naturalist for June, 1872, vol. vi.

254 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

the poreupine (Erethizon dorsatus) * nevertheless
strongly resembles this meadow burrower in one par-
ticular, he is ; unqualifiedly stupid,

LEZ stupid than any
beast of the

far more

Oe ihe on the march.

field. But he can afford to be, for he has few ene-
mies; all creatures except the fisher and the panther
let him alone. Tis fearful quills, which have an
awkward way of sticking fast in everything they
touch (excepting his own hide), are formidable things
to deal with when
one wants to seize
him by the back.
There it is! his

back is simply prohibitive ; he can carry it with un-

The quills.

concern as slowly as he pleases, for a more effective
armor is not to be found outside of the navy!

The porcupine can not even boast of a pleasing
countenance. ‘To look one square in the face is to

* Another significant name, from epe@:(w, erethizo, to irritate
or provoke, and from dorsum, a back, Very wrongly the animal
is often called a hedgehog.

*poomiepuy, aemdéy “MM AQ OSI moJy poeydeis0joyd
‘aalziqiyoid Ajduns st yowq sip,
‘SQLVSHOd NOZIBLAYA
“ANIGNOWOd AHL

6“

A NIGHTLY PROWLER. 255

realize the fact that Nature has somehow or other
made a botch of it; its expression is as grotesque as
that which characterizes Mr. Tenniel’s Jabberwock in
Alice in Wonderland. No wonder then, when we
surprise him in the wood shed, his uncanny appear-
ance and sluggish movements give us a sort of men-
tal shock. He is like some old,
suspicious-looking tramp who
is always seen at dusk haunt-
ing the outskirts of the farm
buildings and scaring people
more by his looks than his
deeds. When he appears in
the daytzme he is usually en
lodged high up on the limb

of a tree; but, as a rule, he remains within his den

somewhere beneath a neighboring rocky ledge during
the day, and issues forth only at night, when he may
be heard gnawing away at the foundations of the old
wood shed. He is a nocturnal prowler of the worst
kind, doing his deeds of darkness—never anything
worse than the gnawing of wood—in the immediate
vicinity of the farmhouse. But he sometimes has a
bad habit of girdling and thus ruining the forest
trees, especially the spruce.

He has a most inordinate appetite for salt, and
will devour, in time, the whole floor of the wash shed

936 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

if he is given the chance, for the simple reason that
it has been well seasoned with salt water from the
ice-cream freezer. He does not hibernate like the
woodchuck, but goes abroad both winter and summer
on the coldest and hottest nights. He is also a strict

vegetarian, feeding on succulent
bark, the foliage and twigs of °
trees, buds, and beechnuts;

-~ but he is always ready to
gnaw a house down if it con-
tains a grain of salt; and in
the dead of the night he at-
tacks the woodshed door
with the vim of a rat and
ten times as much assur-

ance, for he can not be
“ He is always 7

ready to gnaw
a house down.”

driven away with the
thundering clatter of old
boots and sticks of wood
against the partition. Nine times in ten he will
continue to gnaw until some one opens the door
and clubs him away with a respectable-sized piece of
cord wood; there is but one thing he heeds, all else
fails, that is the firecracker! Of this mysterious in-
vention of a refined civilization he is suspicious;
probably the fiery spluttering more than the noise
awakens in his dull mind some sense of a danger

A NIGHTLY PROWLER. 257

from which his quills afford no protection, so he
moves off.

I once captured one in my wood shed, which had
busied himself for several nights previous by altering
the contours of the house and the ice-cream freezer.
It was night, I had no heart to kill the creature, so he
was left till morning under an inverted wash tub.
The next day, after furnishing the family with some
entertainment by his enticing looks, queer whining
noises (he had a shrill cry), and loudly chattering
teeth, he was invited to move on with the aid of a
shovel and was dispatched by the farm hand. He
weighed fully sixteen pounds. His back was broad,
his tail flattened and heavy, and his feet naked like a
bear’s. His claws were large and curved, and these
with his peculiar tail showed very plainly that it
was not difficult for him to climb a tree. This pon-
derous tail of his is capable of dealing a tremendous
stinging blow laterally ; when he hits a dog with it
there is an immediate cessation of hostilities, the dog
retires with howls of pain, and then, while one de-
votes one’s attention to extracting the quills in his
mouth, the porcupine gets away. These quills * un-
der a microscope are minutely rough with a sort of

* They are artistically used by the Indians in the Northwest
for the decoration of birch-bark boxes, buckskin moccasins, leg-
gings, etc.; often they are dyed a variety of colors.

18

958 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

bearded formation which points backward ; thus they
continually work deeper into the flesh unless immedi-
ately withdrawn. On the poreupine’s back they in-
cline backward, and are raised by a special layer of
muscle ; but they are never shot from the hide of the
creature, as some people ignorantly assert; the idea ig
too absurd to receive a moment’s notice, yet there are
many who persist in believing in it.

The porcupine’s nest is sometimes in a hollow log,
but oftener under the strewn rocks in the forest.
The female bears two—rarely three—young about
the first of May ; they are relatively twenty-five times
as large as the young of the bear at birth.

eR

= i '

oe

“Tt was not difficult for him to

climb a tree.”
W. Lyman Underwood.

Photographed from life by

CHAPTER XVI.

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET.

The Gray Rabbit, Northern Varying Hare, and the
Squirrels.

Tue little gray rabbit (Lepus transitionalis*)
which often goes by the soubriquet of Mollie Cotton-
tail, is a most remarkably prolific animal; that
is the first thing of interest about the creature.
The next thing is, that its favorite food unfor-
tunately is the buds, young shoots, and bark
of apple or peach trees—especially those new
kinds which one has set out in the orchard.

When the moon is shining full over the glit-
tering snow, and the winter night is full
of witchery and charm, the esthetic side
mis, of Nature appeals to one’s highest and
ao best thoughts. But let the two ears of
oftwoears. bunny appear silhouetted against the
silvery light, and there is another side

of Nature revealed which is not quite so charming.
To the artist the picture is not only still beautiful,

* Formerly Lepus sylvaticus.
259

960 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

but the accent of those two black ears is just one
more charm which rounds out the “moonlight
monotone” to its fuliest perfection.

But to the man who owns the apple orchard,
the picture ceases to be beautiful; his eye is ob-
scured with the black whisperings of vengeance,
and thinking only of the danger threatening his
new trees, he reaches for his gun, and sallies forth
into the night with the intention of making a red
mark just under the two black ears.

Lepus transitionalis, a rabbit of the woods, is quite
as frequently a rabbit of the orchard ; and the amount
of damage he is capable of doing there is in-

calculable. He girdles the trees, gnaws
the lower twigs, and even climbs
into the environing shrubbery
to reach the higher ones and
denude them of bark and
hes buds. But besides the
ae a al apple tree, he feeds on the
briers, sumachs, _ hazels,
black birches, hickories, and shrubbery in general
which he finds on the roadside and in the garden. He
has also other enemies than man, chief among which
are the fox, ermine, eagle, and great horned owl;
besides these he is subject to attacks by the snowy
owl, the larger hawks, the marten, and the mink.

THE GRAY RABBIT.
LEPUS TRANSITIONALIS.

“The moonlight monotone.”

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. 961

The readiness, however, with which he can escape
from a pursuer in an open chase saves him from easy
destruction. For any swift-footed
animal to catch a rabbit on the
ran is a rare thing; one glance at
my sketch of the agile creature’s
footprints in the snow will show
what the nature
of his flight is.
Evidently it is a

series of extraor-
Footprints in the snow.

dinary leaps, with
almost all of the force of propulsion f,
exerted by the hind feet. The hind ~
legs of a rabbit move together as per- *
fectly as if they were joined; the thrust
is sudden, and so wide that the hind hace a
legs overlap the fore legs, striking the

snow just beyond and outside of them. In watch-
ing the leaps of my pet Manx cat, whose hind legs

were remarkably long and well developed, I

always noticed that
he ran like a
rabbit, and =“
aT .
rime Mts

P pare hey eh he het ee Upto

those run- “ i the run.”

Dt
whey

wee

962 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

ning horses in Mr. Muybridge’s extraordinary photo-
graphs; consequently he developed a speed not very
far short of that of the wild rabbit.

The gray rabbit burrows
in the earth and in the

hollows of decaying trees, and

winters in quite a snug retreat ; =
often he finds the deserted burrow of Sst
the woodchuck quite acceptable for “Doubled up.”
ahome. The prolific female bears

from four to six young, and she rears from three
to four families a year. She lines her nest with
soft leaves, grasses, and the fur from her own body.
In about thirty days the young rabbits are able to
shift for themselves. Like the other small animals
the rabbit forms regular

Very young Rabbit. Young Rabbit.

runways, and in these he is easily trapped. He is
so common in some localities that he may be seen
day and night skipping through the woods, although,
as a rule, he is supposed to be fairly nocturnal in his
habits.

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. 263

His greater relative who lives in the North,
more particularly among the mountains, is called the
American varying hare (Lepus ameri-

canus virginianus). This animal is
remarkable for his change of
color; in summer he is a
dark-red brown, and in
winter he is perfectly
white. Regarding the
nature of this change
I must repeat in sub- ee
Northern Varying Hare ; summer coat.
stance the opinions ex-
pressed by Dr. Merriam and Prof. J. A. Allen.
Dr. Merriam says that when the change occurs
in the fall, the fur lengthens and

blanches, the individual hairs
changing color after the
first fall of
“snow. Like

a majority of

f

VU ei Ve
. NIG the mammals
Dy av .
this hare has two = 7A\ YEE kinds of fur: an

under and soft kind b
parts of the body, and ~~" an upper, longer
and stiffer kind which is seattered through
it. This last, which is blackish in summer, becomes
in the fall white at the tips first, and fades down-

which covers all

964 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

ward. In spring the process is exactly reversed—the
exposed portions of the stiff fur become black by the
end of March, and while the animal is still white
hundreds of the blackish hairs appear scattered over
the back, some of which are white in the middle and
others white on the tips. In the course of time the
white fur loses its vitality, becomes brittle, and is
brushed off by the underwood of the forest.

Professor Allen says that while the change from
brown to white in the American varying hare is sup-
posed to be largely due to molt, it sometimes ap-
pears to take place so suddenly that it is popularly
thought to be due in some degree to the blanching of
the hair; but the real nature of the change is not
precisely agreed upon by naturalists, it is as yet a
matter of dispute.

We are at liberty, then, to accept any hypothesis
of this remarkable change of color which seems most
reasonable; and “who shall decide when doctors
disagree ?”

In summer this varying hare feeds upon leaves,
buds, berries, and succulent herbs and grasses. In
winter he has to content himself with the bark of
young poplars, birches, willows, and such berries as
the snow may leave uncovered; often, too, he gets
what he can in the vicinity of the farm by prowling
around at night. But his enemies are plenty—the

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. 265

same as those of the gray rabbit—and he is ever on
the alert for an unexpected attack.

He follows definite paths of his own making, like
the gray rabbit, but unlike him he does not inhabit a
burrow. His nest is the rather uncertain shelter of 2
fallen tree, or the covering of some hollowed log. In
this he remains most of the day and ventures out for
food at night. The female bears from four to six
young in the latter part of May.

This hare is very common in the North country,
and is sought in the early winter by sportsmen, who
consider his flesh the best of eating. Many of the
animals find their way to the Boston market, and a
well-conditioned one, which may weigh from four to
nearly five pounds, makes a savory stew fit for the
table of an epicure. In parts of northern Maine,
New Hampshire, and Vermont, this hare is abundant;
and in the vicinity of Nipigon, Ontario, during the
fall and winter, many of the poor things are killed
in the night by the passing trains of the Canadian
Pacific Railroad. Mr. G. S. Miller, Jr., writing of
the varying hare which he found plentiful just north
of Lake Superior, says that one was taken on the 5th
of October at Peninsular Harbor, the winter pelage
of which was just beginning to appear on the ears
and buttocks; but on certain others taken two weeks
later the winter coat was nearly complete.

966 FAMILIAR LIFZ IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Inhabiting the same wood with the varying hare,
but far more active than he is in every motion of the
body, the sauciest scamp in the forest glade, and a
notorious little villain for stealing a march on birds’
nests, the red squirrel, or chickaree (Sciurus hudsoni-
cus hudsonicus, Scturus hudsonius of Allen), is per-
haps the most familiar phase of wild life in the forest
or on the highway. But some of his tricks and man-
ners are not thoroughly well known.

He is a perfect nuisance to the trapper, as he
continually springs the traps set for martens and
minks, and quite often gets caught him-
self. But his hide is not
worth a cent, so the trap-

per is disgusted. As for his
habit of robbing birds’
nests, that is fairly
well known by every
one who lives in the

fren SES at ab country in June. Last

The Red Squirrel. 5 a .
spring a pair of robins
built their nest close to my cottage in a butternut
tree, around the trunk of which I had built a rustic
arbor, and all went on without disturbance until the
young birds were hatched, when, late one afternoon, a
red squirrel appeared, and in a very unconcerned way

began to ascend the tree ostensibly to see how the

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET, 967

butternuts were getting on. I knew very well what
he was after, however, and noticed how ‘slyly he
sprang to one of the lower limbs which led in the di-
rection of the nest. No sooner had he done this than
the father bird, who was at least thirty yards away
in a maple tree, made for him, and immediately there
was a great commotion among the butternut leaves.
In the midst of it the mother bird appeared with a
hard-shelled bug in her mouth, which she dropped,
and [ heard it rattle down the arbor roof. Up and
down, in and out among the leaves the birds chased
the little scamp, and still he tried to elude the sharp
bills, but vainly; it was perfectly plain that the
birds had the best of it, and that bunny’s agility was
no match for such a terrific winged onslaught. He
fled at last in great confusion; but the birds did not
desist, and in his frantic attempts to defend himself
he lost his hold and fell from limb to limb, until he
landed on the arbor roof. Before he could recover
himself the robins were at him again, and it was a
running fight all the way to the neighboring pasture
bars, where the birds gave up the chase and returned
to their tree. It was amusing directly after to see
the male bird station himself like a sentinel in a
maple that adjoined the butternut. But it was just
as well, for he had to defend the nest a third time
before the fledglings were flown.

968 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

The red squirrel is also a thief. He frequently
has an encounter with a chipmunk at the latter’s door-
step, and I have caught him in

the act of
stealing the
stores of his

The Chi k Idi 5
e Chipmunk scolding. more provi-

dent cousin. A chipmunk has his hole just beneath
a pine tree outside of my garden fence, and most of
the time the little creature
and forth between this 4

en door with his cheeks ‘

®

travels back
7 and the kitch-
bin (he has large

He full of prov-
qo while there

pouches in them) stuffed
ender. Every once in a
is a squabble under the
pine tree, and I well i!
know what it means /
—the red squirrel is “-/ #4
there, thieving, per-
haps. He is a good deal of

a bully, and when it suits his ie ‘OF QZ
fancy he attacks the hoards of 7%
the field mouse, which are care-
fully tucked away under some de-
caying stump, and, utterly regard-
less of the agitation he is creating “He attacks the

z hoards of the
among the proprietors, who survey field mouse.”

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. 969

his deeds with squealing disapproval, tears their home
asunder and eats their stores before their eyes, con-
temptuously scattering the beechnut shells and the
half-gnawed acorns over the snow under their very
noses.

In the autumn I have seen him among the top-
most branches of a butternut shaking the nuts down
and nipping at the stems of the more tenacious ones.
One day last October I heard the continuous thump,
thump, thump of the dropping nuts, and stepping out
of my studio to see why they should fall when there
was not a breath of air stirring, caught him at his
work; then I took a mean advantage of his industry,
and sent the children out to gather the nuts. He
surveyed their actions with the disapproval of a much-
abused but helpless owner, and scolded most vocifer-
ously. He is extraordinarily busy all through the
months of September and October, and the stores of
beechnuts, butternuts, acorns, and hazels he gathers
would, if they were all piled together, astonish one be-
yond measure. Why, when he gathers so much for
himself, he must needs steal from his neighbors, it is
difficult to understand. He has the keenest sense of
the exact locality of a nut, and I am certain that he -
is led to attack the nest of a mouse more by his
nostrils than his eyes. The keenness of his scent is
proved by a bit of calculation which he did one win-

970 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

ter in my closed-up cottage. A bushel basket filled
with butternuts was placed close against the surbase
in one of the rooms adjoining the attic. There was
no possible way for the squirrel either to enter or see
inside the room; yet he smelled those nuts, and en-
tering the attic, gnawed his way through the parti-
tion, and entered the room through the surbase ex-
actly at a point opposite the center of the basket!

His food in winter, though, is not wholly confined -
to nuts; he eats the buds of the maple, oak, and
birch, and any seeds or

: dried berries which he
ean find. He attacks the

‘are well protected with
slippery tin, effects an en-
trance and carries off the
grain. A careful examina-

“He will deftly handle a cone.”

tion of the kernel shows
that he eats the germ and leaves the rest. In the
evergreen forest he will deftly handle a pine cone,
and inverting it cut away scale after scale and devour
the seeds hidden between; in the same manner he
demolishes a spruce cone. He does not hibernate,
but keeps thus busy all winter long.

He is an excellent swimmer, and crosses the pond

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. 971

in midsummer when it is too troublesome to go
around. But I notice that he avoids the colder water
of the river. The forest he claims for his own, and
any one who dares to disturb its quiet and seclusion
he hails with a storm of chattering, whistling invec-
tive, the meaning of which may be fairly summed up
into two words—“ Get out!” His squeaky voice, not

very different in tone and quality

“The wrathful creature jerks fearfully.”

from the raspings of an old violin in the hands of
an amateur, strikes harshly upon the ear. All the
while the body of the wrathful creature jerks fear-
fully from head to tail !

The nest of the red squirrel is usually in the hole
of a tree; sometimes, farther South, it is constructed
of soft, shreddy bark, and hidden in the thick upper
branches of the spruce or the red cedar; in this case
it is spherical, and the opening is near the bottom.
The female bears from four to six young about the
first of April. She has few enemies to fear, the
owl and the hawk being the only ones of serious con-
sequence.

972 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

The red squirrel is reddish brown throughout the
summer; but twice in the year he sheds his hair, and
during the winter his aspect is much duller, and the
red is not nearly so pronounced. Beneath he is white,
and there is a dark line where this white meets the
red on the sides. In winter the white is toned with
brown gray, and the dark dividing line disappears.

The chipmunk (Zamias listerii, formerly Tumias
striatus) is the red squirrel’s cousin; but they have

little to do with each other, and

avoid all unnecessary meetings.
A Western species of
this genus, Tamius neg-
lectus,* which is com-

mon in northern Mich-

The Chipmunk.

igan, Wisconsin, and
Minnesota, is distinguished by the four stripes on
its back instead of the three which charactcrize the
more Eastern species status. The stripes, except
the black, dorsal one, are white in the middle and
bordered on either side with black. This Western
chipmunk only hibernates when his food supply is
cut off by the snow; he will remain out when the
temperature is as low as 15°. North Bay, Lake
Nipissing, Canada, is the most easterly point where
he has been found.

* Formerly Tamius guadrivitatus.

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET, 973

The Eastern chipmunk takes to his winter bed in
the ground as soon as the cold and frosty nights of
October come, and reappears again in March or
April. He is not a profound sleeper, however, and
often wakes up to “eat a bit.’ His abundant store
of nuts,* seeds, corn, and buckwheat is tucked away
underground where the red squirrel can not get at it,
and he passes the winter in peace and plenty, only
popping his nose above ground when the weather is
warm, to make sure that the world still “ wags on.”

The tail of this little fellow is insignificant, his
body is much less athletic in its lines than that of the
red squirrel, and in every way he shows himself not a
climber. If he is scared in the forest, and takes ref-
uge in a maple, he clings helplessly to the bark some-
where about fifteen feet above the ground, and waits
without a motion for the danger to pass, descending
again spirally.

He is not very timid, but I do not know that he is
very easily domesticated. He is constantiy about in
my garden while I am at work there’; he feeds on the
sunflower seeds in the autumn while J stand within
five feet of him, and the children frequently feed him
with crusts of bread and cake at a respectful but

*It is a matter of some surprise to me that he cares for the
clumsy big butternut ; but he often tackles one, and even carries
it to his hole. Asa rule, however, he prefers seeds to nuts.

19

974 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

moderate distance. He also hangs around the kitchen

way, and not infrequently enters the door in search
fallen crumbs. On all his excur-

his burrow, not far from the front
appears with his cheek
so stuffed out that his
eyes are half closed,

of a ae

sions to

gate, he
pouches

but on his return his
physiognomy has re-
sumed its normal propor-
ue tions.
He — meas sunflower He is quite the opposite of
the red squirrel in one re-
spect—he is quiet. Rarely he raises his voice above
a scolding murmur, which sounds like chip-chip-ur-
rr, chip-2-r-r-r-7,

8
The nest of the chip- ges

munk is in a hollow

chamber about as large as a
cocoanut at the end of a tunnel
about two feet long, and six-
teen inches below the surface

of the ground. The female

7 “The children frequently feed
bears from four to six young him with crusts of bread.”

about the latter part of April.
One of the prettiest of our squirrels is the little,
soft-eyed, velvet-coated flying squirrel (Seiwropterus

.

CHIPMUNK.
TAMIAS LISTERIL.

“He is the red squirrel’s
cousin.”

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. O15

volans volans, Sciuropterus volucella, Geoffroy) ;
but he is out only after sunset, and does not often

appear on the highway. His color is a

brownish gray, and his skin is so loose-
ly adjusted to his body that he
can spread it out in a wide ex-
panse and slide through the
air from tree to tree on
a flying leap of fully
fifty feet. It is said
that on extra occasions
he can stretch this dis-
tance to one hundred
and fifty feet; but 1 am confident of the fact that
this is merely a fall, after the fashion of a parachute.

Even the red squirrel can fall a matter of thirty feet

The Flying Squirrel.

with no inconvenience to his anat-

A flying leap.

omy, and there is no doubt but that a flying squirrel
can sail a hundred feet or so through the air with all
the semblance of a long leap, but in reality the dis-
tance covered laterally is not so very great. This

276 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

little creature is common all over the country, from
the East to the West, as far as the plains. I have
often seen him in Holderness, N. H., and he is com-
mon at Profile Lake, Franconia Notch, N. H.

The nest of the flying squirrel is in a hole in a
tree. The female bears from four to six young
about the first of April or later. When captured
and tamed the little ones make most charming pets.

(wa. Next to the woodchuek, the flying squirrel
KS
WX is one of the most profound

sleepers of all hibernating
animals. He retires to
his nest early in Novem-
ber, and does not reap-
pear until the latter part of
March.

— The big relative of the
Ewa red squirrel—an animal
La made of coarser clay—

is the Northern gray
squirrel (Sciurus carolinensts leucotis). This active
fellow, familiar in many of the city parks, hibernates
only when the weather is extremely cold, and then
for no great length of time. So long as the mercury
will stand above 16° the gray squirrel will venture out
in the cold; but when it drops below that, and the
chances of food on the snow-covered ground are

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. OTT

scarce, he seeks the warmth and seclusion of his
nest in the hollow of a tree, and stays there until
the weather moderates. He is undoubtedly the most
easily tamed of all our squirrels, and it takes only a
small amount of patient waiting and quiet behavior
to gain his confidence in the wild wood. A pocket-
ful of nuts is one of the surest means
of establishing an intimate acquaint-
ance with him; and if one is careful

not to move suddenly and noisily, he

Music!

will approach and take a nut from the

hand. He is also susceptible to the charms of music,
which may be amply proved by carrying a small
music-box in the pocket for his especial

entertainment.

The nest of the gray squirrel is usually
built in the crotch
of a tree or in the
hollow of a part-
ly decayed limb.
The female bears
from three to five
helpless little ones,
which are at first quite blind and hairless; they re-
main with the mother two months. Sometimes, far-
ther South, the female will raise two litters in a year.
The black squirrel is not a different species; his

978 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

darker fur is simply a phase or variation of the ani-
mal’s more common condition in life—this dark
color, in fact, is simply a case of melanism.

It is very important in the study of wild life that
we should recognize the exact relationship of the ani-
mals, just as it is of like importance that we should
know the affinities of plants. Without this knowl-
edge one studies Nature at an immense disadvantage.
It is a good beginning, for instance, to learn that we
have really but two species of the fox in this country,
and that there is an affinity between the little sundew
plant and the larger pitcher plant. At present, even
the botanists do not fully recognize the relationship
between these two insect-catching characters of the
vegetable world; but they will surely do so some
time in the future.

As for the animal world, naturalists have not yet
done with it, or at least with that part of it which is
on this side of the Atlantic. Our black squirrel and
gray squirrel are one species ; our weasels are none of
them the ermine; our black bear and cinnamon bear
are two of a kind—Ursus americanus—and our
Northern and Southern green snakes are unrelated
excepting in color.

To tell the truth, naturalists are still busily “sort-
ing things out,” and several of them say that they
have not yet nearly finished; but I have given the

SMALL FOLK WITH LIVELY FEET. 279

latest facts as I found them, and it is to be hoped
that some of the last names to come in will not leave
us before this book becomes ancient history! But
then— Tempvs est omnibus rebus.

INDEX.

Acer rubrum, 15.

Acris gryllus, 7, 11, 24.

Acris gryllus crepitans, 8.

Acris gryllus gryllus, 8.

Adder, Blowing, 59, 79.

Adder, Deaf, 79.

Adder, Spotted, 70.

Adder, Water, 77.

Adirondack Mountains, N. Y., 49, 59,
182.

Adirondack Wilderness or Woods,
102. 118, 124, 149, 155, 183, 231.

Alleghany Mountains, 55, 74.

Amblystoma punctatum, 39.

Amblystoma tigrinum, 40.

Amphiuma means, 50.

Ancistrodon contortrix, 68.

Antlers, Deer, 237.

Arbor vitee, 282.

Arctomys monax, 245.

Arctostaphylos Uva-Ursi, 186.

Atlantic City, N. J., 41.

Ausable River, 124.

Badger, 154,

Baltimore oriole, 84.

Barney Butts’s, Cairo. N. Y., 184.
Bartlett's, Adirondacks, 231.
Bascanium constrictor, 73.
Bayfield, Mo., 155.
Bearberry, 186.

Bear, Black, 180.

Bear, Cinnamon, 187, 278.
Bittern, 96.

Black cat, 116,

Black Mountain, Lake George, 191.
Black Mountains, N. C., 54.
Bonasa umbellus, 196.

Botaurus lentiginosus, 96.

Bubo virginianus, 100.

Bufo americanus, 18.

Bullfrog. 13, 23, 29.

Bunchberry, 234.

Cambarus, 156.

Cainpton, N. H., 14, 54, 83.

Canis lupus, 225.

Careajou, 115.

Cariacus virginianus, 229.

Carphophiops amoenus, 68.

Carphophiops vermis, 69.

Carpodacus purpureus, 6.

Catskill Mountains, N. Y., 44, 46, 49,
59, 182.

Chickadee, 95.

Chickaree, 251, 266.

Chiogenes serpyllifolia, 110.

Chipmunk, 204, 251, 268, 272.

Chorophilus triseriatus, 10.

Clonophis kirtlandi, 77.

Coccyzus erythrophthalmus, 85.

Colaptes auratus, opposite page 87.

Coluber obsoletus obsoletus, 72.

Coluber vulpinus, 72.

Conocephalus ensiger, 67.

Contopus virens, 94.

Crayfish, 156.

Crotalus horridus, 66.

Crow, 85.

Cryptobranchus peste 38.

989 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Cuckoo, Black-billed, 85.
Cyclophis cestivus, 72.
Cyclophis vernalis, 71.

Deer, Virginia, 228.
Desmognathus fusca, 53.
Desmognathus nigra, 55.
Desmognathus ochrophea, 54.
Diadophis punctatus, 71.

Erethizon dorsatus, 254.
EButeenia radix, 74.

Eutenia sauritu, 74.
Eutenia sirtalis dorsalis, 76.
Euteenia sirtalis sirtalis, 75.

Felis concolor, 242.

Fiber zibethicus, opposite page 2.

Field mouse, 204, 268.

Fisher, 116, 195.

Flycatcher, Crested, 78.

Fourth Lake, Adirondacks, 189.

Fox, Black, or Silver, or Silver Gray,
224, 226,

Fox, Cross, 224, 227.

Fox, English, 216.

Fox, Gray, 228.

Fox, Red, 195, 204, 213.

Fox, Western, 224.

Frog, Green, 23, 27.

Frog, Leopard, 23.

Frog, Northern, 26.

Frog, Savannah cricket, 2, 7.

Frog, Three-striped, 11.

Frog, Wood, 23, 26, 33.

teultheria procumbens, 110, 186, 233.
Grasshopper, Cone-headed, 67.
Green Mountains, 182.

Gulo luscus, 113.

Hare, American Varying, 263.

Harvard Botanical Garden, Cam-
bridge, 84.

Hellbender, 38.

Hepatica triloba, 1.

Heterodon platyrhinus, 79.

Heterodon simus, 79.

Holderness, N. H., 276.
Hoosac Hills, Mass., 112.
Hyla andersonii, 13.
Hyla, Anderson’s, 29.
Hyla pickeringiti. 2, 11, 28.
Hyla, Pickering’s, 2, 49.
Hyla versicolor, 5, 8, 14.

Icterus galbula, 84.

Lake Champlain, 44, 59, 76.

Lake George, 59, 191.

Lake Mahopac, N. Y., 75.

Lake Nipissing, Canada, 272.

Lake Superior, 118, 125, 155, 265.
Lake Umbagog, 125, 155.
Lakewood, N. J., 12.

Lepus americanus virginianus, 208.
Lepus sylvaticus, 258.

Lepus transitionalis, 259.

Leyden, N. Y., 183.

Liopeltis vernalis, 71.

Livermore Falls, N. H.. 149.
Liverwort, 1.

Loon, 101.

Lutra canadensis, 155.

Lutra hudsonica, opposite page 157.
Lycopodium clavatum, 232.
Lycopodium complanatum, 233.
Lycopodium obscurum, 222.

Manx cat, 72, 261.

Maple swamp, 15.

Marmot, 245.

Marten, Pennant’s, 116.

Marten, Pine, 121.

May's Lake, Adirondacks, 157.

Mephitis mephitica, 153, 161.

Merganser americanus, 105,

Merganser serrator, 104,

Merula migratoria, 81.

Mink, 147.

Mitehella repens, 110.

Mollie Cottontail, 259.

Mount Chocorua, White Mountains,
183.

Mount Tom, Mass., 73.

Muskrat, 2, 153. :

Mustela americana, 116, 121.

INDEX,

Mustela pennanti, 116.

Myiarchus crinitus, 78.

Natrix fasciata sipedon, 77.

Natriz leberis, 78.

Necturus maculatus, 37,

Necturus, Spotted, 37.

Nerodia sipedon, 77.

New Haven, Conn., 8.

Nipigon, Ontario, 124, 265.

Norway, Me., 14.

Odocoileus virginianus, opposite
page 233.

Ophibolus doliatus triangulus, 70.

Ophibolus getulus getulus, 69.

Otter, 155.

Owl, Great horned, 99, 260.

Owl, Sereech, 101.

Owl, Snowy, 260.

Panther, 242.

Partridge, 106.

Partridge berry, 110.

Paul Smith’s, Adirondacks, 281.

Pecan, 116.

Peeper, Spring, 2.

Pemigewasset River Valley, N. H.,
104, 182, 188, 219.

Peninsular Harbor, 265.

Pickerel weed, 233.

Pine Hill, N Y., 44.

Pityophis melanoleucus, 73.

Plethodon cinereus, 42.

Plethodon cinereus erythronotus, 43.

Plethodon glutinosus, 44.

Poreupine, 117, 204, 254.

Portland, Me., 14.

Procyon lotor, 202.

Profile Lake, Franconia Notch, N.H.,
276.

Purple finch, 6.

Putorius cicognani, 128.

Putorius erminea, 129, 136.

Putorius nigripes, 189.

Putorius noveboracensis, 129, 136.

Putorius rixosus, 130.

Putorius visor, 147.

Putorius vulgaris, 128.

283

Rabbit, Gray, 246, 259.

Raccoon, 119, 202.

Rana catesbiana, 18, 23, 29.

Rana clamata, 23, 27.

Rana halecina, 28, 24,

Rana palustris, 23, 25.

Rana septentrionalis, 28, 26.

Rana sylvatica, 28, 25, 33.

Rana virescens, 28, 24,

Rana virescens virescens, 23.

Raquette Lake, Adirondacks, 112.

Rattlesnake, Northern, 58, 66, 74, 241.

Red Rock, New Brunswick, Canada,
190.

Redstart, 93.

Regina leberis, 78.

Robin, 81.

Rooster’s crow. 86.

Sable, American, 121.

Salamander, Black, 55.

Salamander, Ocher-colored, 54.

Salamander, Red, 47.

Salamander, Red-backed, 43.

Salamander, Sticky, 44.

Salamander, Tiger-spotted, 40.

Salamander, Two-striped, 45,

Salamander, Violet, 39.

Sandwich Dome, White Mountains,
188,

Sapsucker, 204.

Sciuropterus volans volans, 275.

Sciuropterus volucella, 275.

Sciurus carolinensis leucotis, 276.

Scrurus hudsonius, 266;

Sciurus hudsonicus hudsonicus, 266.

Setophaga ruticilla, 93.

Seventh Lake, Adirondacks, 149.

Sheldrake, Red-breasted, 104.

Skunk, 153, 161.

Skunk perfume, 173.

Slide Mountain, Catskills, 197.

Snake, Black, 73.

Snake, Brown, 76.

Snake, Bull, 73.

Snake, Chain, 69.

Snake, Copperhead, 58, 68.

Snake, Fox, 72.

984 FAMILIAR LIFE IN FIELD AND FOREST.

Snake, Garter, 75.

Snake, Grass, 71.

Snake, Green, 59, 71.
Snake, Ground, 68.

Snake, Hognose, 79.
Snake, House, 70.

Snake, King, 70.

Snake, Kirtland’s, 77.
Snake, Milk, 70.

Snake, Mountain black, 72.
Snake, Pilot, 72.

Snake, Pine, 73.

Snake, Queen, 78.

Snake, Racer, 59, 73.
Snake, Rattle-, 58, 66, 74.
Snake, Red-bellied, 76.
Snake, Ribbon, 74.

Snake, Ring-necked, 71.
Snake, Southern green, 72.
Snake, Spotted, 76.

Snake, Striped, 74.

Snake, Water, 59, 77.
Snake, Western garter, 74.
Snake, Worm, 69.
Snowberry, Creeping, 110, 186.
Spelerpes bilineatus, 45,
Spelerpes rubra, 47.
Squam Lake, 46.

Squirrel, Black, 277.
Squirrel, Flying, 251, 274,
Squirrel, Ground, 134.

Squirrel, Northern gray, 251, 276.

Squirrel, Red, 208, 266,
Stake-driver, 96.

Stoat, 136.

Storeria dekayi, 76

Storeria occipitomaculata, 76.

Tamias listerii, 272.
Tamias neglectus, 272.
Tamias quardrivitatus, 272.
Tamias strictus, 272.
Taxidea americana, 154.

Thrush, Hermit, 88.

Thuja occidentalis, 232.

Toad, Common, 18.

Toad, Tree, 5, 8, 14.

Trenton, N. J., 219.

Tropidoclonium kirtlandi, 77.

Trout Lake, St. Lawrence County,
N. Y., 102.

Turdus wonalaschke pallasii, 88.

Turdus fuscescens, 91.

Turtle. 204.

Twin Mountain House, White Mour-
tains, 143.

Urinator imber, 101.
Urocyon cinereo-argenteus, 228,
Ursus americanus, 180.

Veery, 91.

Fulpes argentatus, 224.
Vulpes decussatus, 224.
Vulpes macrurus, 224.
Vulpes pennsylranicus, 213.
Vulpes vulpes, 216.

Waterville, N. H., 187.

Weasel, Larger, 129, 136.

Weasel, Little brown, 128, 204,

Wenusk, 245,

White Mountains, N. H., 47, 59, 182,
190, 285.

Wintergreen, 110, 186, 233.

Wolf, 225.

Wolverene, 113.

Woodchuck, 204, 245.

Woodchuck's day, 250.

Woodpecker, Golden-winged, 87.

Wood pewee, 94.

Yellow-hammer, 87.
Yellowstone Park, 192.

Zodlogical Garden, Cincinnati, 193.

THE END.

D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.

AMILIAR FLOWERS OF FIELD AND
GARDEN. By F. ScHuy_LER MATHEWS. Illustrated with
200 Drawings by the Author, and containing an elaborate Index
showing at a glance the botanical and popular names, family,
color, locality, environment, and time of bloom of several hun-
dred flowers. I2mo. Library Edition, cloth, $1.75 ; Pocket
Edition, flexible covers, $2.25.

In this convenient and useful volume the flowers which one finds in the fields are
identified, illustrated, and described in familiar language. Their connection with gar-
den flowers is made clear. Particular attention is drawn to the beautiful ones which
have come under cultivation, and, as the title indicates, the book furnishes a ready
guide to a knowledge of wild and cultivated flowers alike,

“T have examined Mr. Mathews’s little book upon ‘ Familiar Flowers of Field and
Garden,’ and | have pleasure in commending the accuracy and beauty of the drawings
and the freshness of the text” We have long needed some botany from the hand of an
artist, who sees form and color withuut the formality of the scientist. The book deserves
areputation.”—L. A. Bailey, Professor of Horticulture, Cornell University.

‘Tam much pleased with your ‘ Familiar Flowers of Field and Garden.’ It is a
useful and handsomely prepared handbook, and the elaborate index is an especially
valuable part of it. ‘laken in connection with the many carelul drawings, it would
seem as though your little volume thoroughly covers its subject.’"—Louis Prang.

‘The author describes in a most interestmg and charming manner many familiar
wild and cultivated plants, enlivening his remarks by crisp epigrams, and rendering
identification of the subjects described simple by means of some two hundred draw-
ings from Nature, made by his own pen. . . . The book will do much to more fully
acquaint the reader with those plants of field and garden treated upon with which he
may be but partly familiar, and go a long way toward correcting many popular
errors existing in the matter of colors of their flowers, a subject to which Mr. Mathews
has devoted much attention, and on which he is now a recognized authority in the
trade.”"—New York Florists Exchange.

* “A book of much value and interest, admirubly arranged for the student and the
lover of flowers. . . . The text is full of compact information, well selected and interest-
ingly presented. . . . It seems to us to be a most attractive handbook of its kind.”—
New York Sun.

“A delightful book and very useful. Its language is plain and familiar, and the
illustrations are dainty works of art. It is just the book for those who want to be
familiar with the well-known flowers, those that grow in the cultivated gardens as well
as those that blossom in the fields.””"— Newark Daily Advertiser.

‘‘Seasonable and valuable. The young botanist and the lover of flowers, who have

only studied from Nature, will be greatly aided by this work.”—Fittshurg Post.
_,(Charmingly written, and to any one who loves the flowers—and who does not ?—

will prove no less fascinating than instructive. It will open up in the garden and the
fields a new world full of curiosity and delight, and invest them with a new interest in
his sight.” —Christian Work. — ,

“ One need not be deeply read in floral lore to be interested in what Mr. Mathews
has written, and the more proficient one is therein the greater his satisfaction is likely
to be."—New Vork Mail and Express.

‘Mr. F. Schuyler Mathews’s careful description and graceful drawings of our
‘Familiar Flowers of Field and Garden’ are fitted to make them familiar even to those
who have not before made their acquaintance.” —New York Evening Post.

New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.

D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.

AMILIAR TREES AND THEIR LLAVES.
By F. Scuyier MATHEws, author of ‘‘ Familiar Flowers of
Field and Garden,” “The Beautiful Flower Garden,” etc. II-
lustrated with over 200 Drawings from Nature by the Author
t2mo. Cloth, $1.75.

6 Tt is not often that we find a book which deserves such unreserved commendation
Tt is commendable for several reasons: it is a book that has been needed for a long
time, it is written in a popular and attractive style, it is accurately and profusely illus-
trated, and it is by an authority on the subject of which it treats.”— Public Opinion,

“ Most readers of the book will find a world of information they never dreamed of
about leaves that have long been familiar with them. The study will open to them
new sources of pleasure in every tree around their houses, and prove interesting as well
as instructive.”—San “raucisco Call.

““A revelation of the sweets and joys of natural things that we are too apt to pass
by with but little or no thought. The book is somewhat more than an ordinary botan-
ical treatise on leaves and trees. It is a heart-to heart talk with Nature, a true appre-
ciation of the beauty and the real usefulness of leaves and trees.’’—Boston Courier,

“Has about it a simplicity and a directness of purpose that appeal at once to every
lover of Nature."—New York Matl and Express.

“Mr. Mathews’s book is just what is needed to open our eyes. His text is charm-
ing, and displays a loving and intimate acquaintance with tree life, while the drawings
of foliage are beautifully executed. We commend the volume asa welcome companion
in country walks.” —Philadelphia Public Ledger.

“‘The book is one to read, and then to keep at hand for continual reference.”—
Chicago Dial.

“(The unscientific lover of Nature will find this book a source of enjoyment as well
as of instruction, and it will be a valuable introuuction to the more scientific study of
the subject.” —Cleveland Plain Dealer.

“This book will be found most satisfactory. It is a book which is needed, written
by one who knows trees as he knows people.” —Minneajolis Fournal.

‘©A book of large value to the student. The reader gathers a wide and valuable
knowledge which will awaken new interest in every tramp through the forest.”"—CAi
cag) Inter-Ocean.

“A most admirable volume in many ways. It meets a distinct and widely felt
want; the work is excellently done ; its appearance is very timely. .. Written in a
clear and simple style, and requires no previous technical knowledge of botany to under
stand it.”—Baltimore News.

“‘ This very valuable book will be prized by all who love Nature.”—T7he Churchman,

“Of the many Nature books that are constantly inviting the reader to leave pave-
ment and wander in country bypaths, this one, with its scientific foundation, and its
simplicity and clearness of style, is among the most alluring." —S¢. Faud Pioneer-Press.

New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS,

AMILIAR FEATURES OF THE ROAD-
SIDE. By F, SCHUYLER MATHEWS, author of “ Familiar
Flowers of Field and Garden,” ‘‘ Familiar Trees and their
Leaves,” etc. With 130 Illustrations by the Author. 12mo.
Cloth, $1.75.

“A faithful guide-book for our roadsides. . . . Can be unhesitatingly commended
for summer strolls.” —New York Evening Post,

‘One who rides, drives, or walks into the country, particularly in these days of
bicycling, will find this book an invaluable and incessant source of elevating amuse-
ment.”—Philadelphia Press.

‘Deserves to be the guide-book Jar excellence of the familiar wayside. . . . His
book, taken as a whole, is a treasure.” —Vew York Times.

‘An admirable book for Nature lovers to take with them to the country, for it
reveals in a delightful way many mysteries of insect and floral life, and comes as an
exquisite refreshment and welcome instructor.’’— Boston Times.

« A delightful study of Nature in her manifold forms. . . . Take this trip on the road
with Mr. Mathews, for he is a very entertaining lecturer, and has personal acquaint-
ance with buds and flowers.” —-AZinneapolis Yournat.

“The book is certainly a charming one for all lovers of Nature, and can but inspire
a love of the waysides for any into whose hands it shall come.”—BSoston Saturday
Evening Gazette.

“Tt is such a book as will direct the attention of its readers to those features of
everyday life with which they are often unacquainted, because they have never stopped
to give them attention.” —Fersey City Evening Fournal.

‘A beautiful book, and as interesting and instructive as it is beautiful. . . . The
lessons of the book are enforced so pleasingly as to make every page fascinating.” —
Chicago Inter-Ocean.

“A book to carry through one’s summer wanderings, to quicken one’s appreciation
of common beauties.”--Philadelphia Public Ledger.

“A book that ought to be in the satchel of every one who takes a vacation; and
even stay-at-homes will find a new interest in their surroundings through its perusal,”
—Chicago Advance.

«A thoroughly charming book alike for the amateur naturalist and the lover of out-
door life.”’—Boston Beacon.

“It is impossible to express the fascination of such a book as this.”—New York
Commercial Advertiser.

“The book is one for people who are fond of the country. [tis not merely in-
structive, but is suggestive and stimulating, and helps people to use their own eyes to
advantage.” —Brooklyn Eagle.

‘An introduction to a boundless world for which every lover of Nature will be
deeply grateful—luminous, learned, appreciative. . . . A valuable and delightful
book.” —NMew Haven Leader.

“The book is most interesting and instructive. and will be found to impart useful
knowledge in a most entertaining manner.” — Hartford Post.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY’S PUBLICATIONS,

Db teenie A Guide to the Study of our Common
Birds. By Frank M. CHAPMAN, Assistant Curator of Mam-
malogy and Ornithology, American Museum of Natural His-
tory ; Author of “ Handbook of Birds of Eastern North Amer-
ica.” With 75 full-page Plates and numerous Text Drawings
by Ernest Seton Thompson. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75.

‘“ Bird-Life ’ is different trom other books. It deals with birds that are familiar, or
half familiar; it interests the ignorant reader at ouce, and it makes the relations between
birds and men seem more intimate. ‘Ihe economic value of birds will be better appre-
ciated after reading this book.””—Bvston Herald.

“Contains more information about birds, in the same space, attractively as well as
concisely stated, than can be found in any other book with which we are acquainted, .
.. A delightful, valuable, instiuctive, entertaining, beautiful book.” —Brooklyn

Standard-Union.

“Most heartily can ‘ Bird-Life’ be commended. It is by a practical ornithologist,
but it is simple and comprehensible. It is compact, pointed, clear... The work is
perfectly reliable. . . . ‘he author uses every line to give information. A straightfor-

ward and very compact guide-book to bird-land."—Aart/ord Post,

“‘ An intelligent consideration of the book will add to the reader's pleasure in his
walks in field and wood, quicken his ear, make him hear and see things which before
went unnoticed. . . . Gives the student an introduction to ornithology, which places
him on the threshold of the entrance to the innermost circles of bird-life.”—Boston
Times.

© Mr. Chapman's book ought to be as greatly in demand in the average household
as a history of one’s country." —Proeviaence Yournal,

“The illustrations are undoubtedly the best bird drawings ever produced in Amer-
ica.”"—Recreation. “

“A comprehensive book, one that is sufficient for all the ordinary needs of the
amateur ornithologist. It is satisfactory in every detail, and arranged with a care and
method that will draw praise from the highest sources. Every lover of outdoor life will
find this book a delightful companion and an invaluable aid." —Brfalo Enquirer.

“A volume exceptionally well adapted to the requirements of people who wish to
study common birds in the simplest and most profitable manner possible. ... Asa
readily intelligible and authoritative guide this manual has qualities that will commend
it at once to the attention of the discerning student.” —Boston Beaccn.

“Such a study as every intelligent reader will desire to make, even the busiest of
them. . . . ‘lhe author is in every way fitted for the task he has taken, and his book
abounds in its facts of value, and they are pleasingly and gracefully told.” —Chicago
dnter- Ocean.

“‘ An interesting mass of data collected through years of study and observation. . .

While accurate from a scientific point of view, it makes delightful reading for those who
will soon be among the flowers and the fields.” — Philadelphia Inquirer.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

: a 7

i ty
uh a

iH} rat
_ ae = i
Ht an TH
i | |
|
c a i ae aa Ht

i

_ : i
est .
oo |

7

A y
i
ae ah i:
Hanh Ht

a i
Halt cae f
Wit
o ttt .

H ia Hat eUHAt TEE

a Huh tity cit ae Hanan rit | a ce He 1 7 . He i
Sa _ . . 7 oo | ee
ae . ce ae a a Het _ _

Hh i NT Hit wk i i

a iit 7 i
TH iit

aa ae aii
ci a .
iH as

_

i a
i
Hi vt i He

i
{nite ut i Hh
vit He ae

a

ae Sate

a i oe

i

x i i
a ita
i it i

a

i ‘it
US a

iit

a i
. a
Sa

rts

TT

it tt oF i ou ‘i

ihe
etre)
Sti

mi
b i}
To
ae
i
i i a i
tt Hie
i

—

if Tui
Bea
RH

v
eit
sit

Hh
ft i

Bana