LIBRARY ANNEX | Cornell Mniversity Library BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME FROM THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF ~ Henry W. Sage 1891 AlT@S54¢. |... 2315/0. 1248 Cornell University Libra 771 234 ms 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:/Awww.archive.org/details/cu31924024771234 WILD LIFE NEAR HOME “The feast is finished and the games are on.” Udild Life Wear bome Hy Dallas Lore Sharp With Mustrations By Bruce horstall NEW YORK The Century Co. 1901 Copyright, 1901, by THE CENTURY Co. Copyright, 1897, by Tux J. B. Lirpincorr Co. Copyright, 1897, by Perry Mason & Co. Copyright, 1898, by Franx Lesiin’s Pusuisuine House, Published October, 1901, TO MY WIFE CONTENTS In PERSIMMON-TIME . : ‘ ‘ 2 ad BIRDS’ WINTER BEDS : : : . 31 SoME SNUG WINTER BEDS : : . AT A BIRD OF THE DARK : ‘ . . 65 THE PINE-TREE SWIFT ; 2 ‘ . 29 In THE OCTOBER Moon. ; : . 95 FEATHERED NEIGHBORS . ‘ ; . 111 “MUS’RATTIN’” . ‘ , és ‘ . 169 A Srupy In Brrp Morats . : . 185 RaBBit ROADS . ; A 4 ; . 207 BRICK-TOP . : : . F 5 . 233 SECOND CRoPs . i : i ‘ . 247 WOOD-PUSSIES . : : : ; . 277 From RIVER-00OZE TO TREE-TOP : . 295 A BUZZARDS’ BANQUET. . ; . 321 Up HERRING RUN : : , : . 341 Iwish to thank the editors of ‘‘ Lippincott’s Magazine,” “‘ Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly,” “ Zion’s Herald,” and the ‘‘ Youth’s Companion” for allowing me to reprint here the chapters of “Wild Life Near Home”’ that first appeared in their pages. [ xi ] Darras Lore Saarp. ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE The feast is finished and the games are on Frontispiece Ripe and rimy with November’s frosts . : . 6 Swinging from the limbs by their ee ee sile tails . - : « Under such conditions is sistas quite like a ‘fore. cious beast. 4 * . < . 10 Filing through the aoeatae: : : . 13 Here on the fence we waited . 5 ‘ : . 16 He had stopped for a meal on his way out . . 20 Playing possum . ‘ Z ‘ ‘ ‘ . 22 She was standing off a doe i , 26 The cheerful little ees that ‘bend the dried ragweeds_ . ‘ 37 There she stood in the snow with fies high lis- tening anxiously . : ‘ ‘ . 45 And — dreamed . ; ; 46 I shivered as the icy flakes fell fiicker i — 52 The meadow-mouse . : F ‘ . x . 55 It was Whitefoot . : 60 From his leafless mers he es ti into the Hollow . . : : 3 . 63 It caught at the fisecta in thee air . . : . 71 [ xiii] PAGE Unlike any bird of thelight . : i i . 77 They peek around the tree-trunks . ‘ : . 83 The sparrow-hawk searching the fences for them 88 In October they are building their winter lodges 103 The glimpse of Reynard in the moonlight . . 106 They probe the lawns most diligently for worms. 117 Even he loves a listener . i ‘ Fi : . 118 She flew across the pasture. ; : . . 121 Putting things to rightsin hishouse . - . 122 A very ordinary New England ‘‘corner” . . 124 They are the first to returnin the spring. . 127 Where the dams are hawking for flies . ‘ . 1380 They cut across the rainbow . : F ‘i 135 The barn-swallows fetch the summer . : 137 From the barn to the orchard . ‘ ‘ . 138 Across the road, in an saa built a pair of redstarts . ‘ . . 140 Gathered half the gray hairs of a dandelion into her beak . . % - . 143 In the tree next to the shebesa was a brood of robins. The crude nest was wedged carelessly into the lowest fork of the tree, so that the cats and roving boys could i themselves without trouble. z . 145 I soon spied him on the wires en a te naphaiee 148 He will come if May comes. F . 151 Within a few feet of me oe the elonely hgh ened quail ‘ . 152 On they gotoafence-stake . 3 é : . 154 [xiv ] PAGE It wasalove-song . : . 156 But the pair kept on ieacthee seine brightly 161 In a dead yellow birch . ‘ i : i . 163 So close I can look directly into it . : . . 164 Uncle Jethro limbered his stiffened knees and went chuckling down the bank . ; : . 170 The big moon was rising over the meadows . . 173 Section of muskrat’s house. 4 : . 174 The snow has drifted over their house till only a tiny mound appears. ‘ 7 é ‘ 177 They rubbed noses . A ‘s A ‘ a . 179 Two little brown creatures washing calamus . 180 She melted away among the dark ai like a shadow . . . 186 She called me every wicked thing tint oy sola think of . ; . 189 It was one of those aiid like ee : . 191 They were watching me . , : : é . 192 A triumph of love and duty over fear . : 199 He wants to know whereI am and what Iam about 203 In the agony of death F : ‘ ‘ ‘ . 205 Calamity is hot on histrack . : ‘ : . 212 Bunny, meantime, is watching just inside the next brier-patch . F i : ‘ 3 . 215 The squat is a cold place . : : : ; . 217 The limp, lifeless one hanging over the neck of that fox . F j § ; : ‘ ‘ . 220 His drop is swift and certain . . : ‘ . 225 Seven young ones in the nest . 4 , e . 231 [xv ] PAGE - The land ofthe mushroom . : : : . 239 Witch-hazel ‘ ; F ‘ is : : . 244 I knew it suited exactly . ‘ : . 252 With tail up, head cocked, very much denned, and commenting vooiforously u ‘ ‘ . 254 In a solemn row upon the wire fence. . 257 Young flying-squirrels . F e ‘ : . 258 The sentinel crows are posted ‘ : . 260 She turned and fixed her big black eyes hand on me . 265 Wrapped up > lilke little Eskimos : : : . 266 It is no longer a sorry forest of battered, sunken stumps . . . 269 Even the Rncceueet isa iging iting of ivy . 272 A family of seven young skunks . : : . 284 The family followed . 5 ; ‘ ‘ - . 289 “Spring! spring! spring!” . : : ‘ . 800 A wretched little puddle . : : ‘ 5; . 803 He was trying to swallow something . : . 307 In a state of soured silence. P : ; . 822 Ugliness incarnate . : : . : : . 825 Sailing over the pines. ‘ : 2 . . 328 A banquet this sans toasts and cheer. ‘ . 333 Floating without effort among the clouds. . 337 From unknown regions of the ocean. : . 845 A crooked, fretful little stream : ‘ . 346 Swimming, jumping, flopping, ora up he comes! . . : ‘ : : 3 . 349 Here again hungry enemies await ‘on : . 855 [xvi] IN PERSIMMON-TIME WILD LIFE NEAR HOME & IN PERSIMMON-TIME HE season of ripe persimmons in the pine- barren region of New Jersey falls during the days of frosty mornings, of wind-strewn leaves and dropping nuts. Melancholy days these may be in other States, but never such here. The robin and the wren—I am not sure about all of the wrens—are flown, just as the poet says; but the jay and the crow are by no means the only birds that remain. Bob White calls from the swales and “cut-offs”; the cardi- nal sounds his clear, brilliant whistle in the thickets; and the meadow-lark, scaling across [3] the pastures, flirts his tail from the fence-stake and shouts, Can you see-e me? These are some of the dominant notes that still ring through the woods and over the fields. Nor has every fleck of color gone from the face of the out-of- doors. She is not yet a cold, white body wrapped in her winding-sheet. The flush of life still lingers in the stag-horn sumac, where it will burn brighter and warmer as the short- ening days darken and deaden; and there is more than a spark—it is a steady glow—on the hillsides, where the cedar, pine, and holly stand, that will live and cheer us throughout the winter. What the-soil has lost of life and vigor the winds have gained; and if the birds are fewer now, there is a stirring of other ani- mal life in the open woods and wilder places that was quite lost in the bustle of summer. And yet! it is a bare world, in spite of the snap and crispness and the signs of harvest every- where ; a wider, silenter, sadder world, though I cannot own a less beautiful world, than in sum- mer. The corn is cut, the great yellow shocks standing over the level fields like weather- beaten tepees in deserted Indian villages ; frosts [4] have mown the grass and stripped the trees, so that, from a bluff along the creek, the glistening Cohansey can be traced down wiles of its course, and through the parted curtains, wide vistas of meadow and farm that were entirely hidden by the green foliage lie open like a map. This is persimmon-time. Since most of the leaves have fallen, there is no trouble in finding the persimmon-trees. They are sprinkled about the woods, along the fences and highways, as “ Ripe and rimy with November's frosts.” naked as the other trees, but conspicuous among them all because of their round, dark-red fruit. What a season of fruit ours is! Opening down in the grass with the wild strawberries of May, and continuing without break or stint, to close high in the trees with the persimmon, ripe and rimy with Novembei’s frosts! The persimmon [5] is the last of the fruits. Long before November the apples are gathered —even the “grindstones” are buried by this time; the berries, too, have disappeared, except for such seedy, juiceless things as hang to the cedar, the dogwood, and greenbrier ; and the birds have finished the scat- tered, hidden clusters of racy chicken-grapes. The persimmons still hold on; but these are not for long, unless you keep guard over the trees, for they are marked: the possums have counted every persimmon. You will often wonder why you find so few persimmons upon the ground after a windy, frosty night. Had you happened under the trees just before daybreak, you would have seen a possum climbing about in the highest branches, where the frost had most keenly nipped the fruit. You would probably have seen two or three up the trees, if persimmons were scarce and possums plentiful in the neighborhood, swinging from the limbs by their long prehensile tails, and reaching out to the ends of the twigs to gather in the soft, sugary globes. Should the wind be high and the fruit dead ripe, you need not look into the trees for the marauders; they will be [6] upon the ground, nosing out the lumps as they fall. A possum never does anything for him- self that he can let the gods do for him. Your tree is perhaps near the road and an old rail-pile. Then you may expect to find your per- simmons rolled up in possum fat among the rails ; for here the thieves are sure to camp through- out the persimmon season, as the berry-pickers camp in the pines during huckleberry-time. Possums and persimmons come together, and Uncle Jethro pronounces them “‘bofe good fruit.” He is quite right. The old darky is not alone in his love of possums. To my thinking, he shows a nice taste in preferring November possum to chicken. It is a common thing, in passing through Mount Zion or Springtown in the winter, to see what, at first glance, looks like a six-weeks’ pig hanging from an up-stairs window, but which, [7] “Swinging from the limbs by their long prehensile tails.” on inspection, proves to be a possum, scalded, scraped, and cleaned for roasting, suspended there, out of the reach of dogs and covetous neighbors, for the extra flavor of a freezing. Now stuff it and roast it, and I will swap my Thanksgiving turkey for it as quickly as will Uncle Jethro himself. Though the possum is toothsome, he is such a tame, lumbering dolt that few real sportsmen care for the sorry joy of killing him. Innumer- able stories have been told of the excitement of possum-hunting ; but after many winters, well sprinkled with moonlight tramps and possums, I can liken the sport to nothing more thrilling than a straw-ride or a quilting-party. There is the exhilarating tramp through the keen, still night, and if possum-hunting will take one out to the woods for such tramps, then it is quite worth while. No one could hunt’ possums except at night. It would be unendurably dull by daylight. The moon and the dark lend a wonderful largeness to the woods, transforming the familiar day- scenes into strange, wild regions through which it is an adventure merely to walk. There is [8] magic in darkness. However dead by day, the fields and woods are fully alive at night. We stop at the creaking of the bare boughs over- head as if some watchful creature were about to spring upon us; every stump and bush is an animal that we have startled into sudden fixed- ness; and out of every shadow we expect a live thing to rise up and withstand us. The hoot of the owl, the bark of the fox, the whinny of the coon, send shivers of excitement over us. ‘We jump at a mouse in the leaves near by. Helped out by the spell of moonlight and the collusion of a ready fancy, it is possible to have a genuine adventure by seizing a logy, grinning possum by the tail and dragging him out of a stump. Under such conditions he looks quite like a ferocious beast, grunting and hissing with wide-open mouth; and you may feel just a thrill of the real savage’s joy as you sling him over your shoulder. But never go after possums alone, nor with a white man. If you must go, then go with Uncle Jethro and Calamity. I remember particularly one night’s hunt with Uncle Jethro. I had come upon him in the evening out on the kitchen steps [9] “Under such conditions he looks quite like a ferocious beast.” watching the rim of the rising moon across the dark, stubby corn-field. It was November, and the silver light was spreading a plate of frost over the field and its long, silent rows of corn-shocks. When Uncle Jethro studied the clouds or the moon in this way, it meant a trip to the mea- dows or the swamp ; it was a sure sign that geese had gone over, that the possums and coons were running. I knew to-night—for I could smell the per- fume of the ripe persimmons on the air—that down by the creek, among the leafless tops of the persimmon-trees, Uncle Jethro saw a possum. “Ts it Br’er Possum or Br’er Coon, Uncle Jethro?” Lasked, slyly, just as if I did not know. “Boosh! boosh!” sputtered the old darky, terribly scared by my sudden appearance. “Wat yo’ ’xplodin’ my cogitations lak dat fo’? W’at I know ’bout any possum? Possum, boy? Possum? W’at yo’ mean?” “Don’t you sniff the ’simmons, Uncle Jeth?” Instinctively he threw his nose into the air. “G way, boy; g’’wayfum yhere! Tain’t seen no possum. I ’s thinkin’ ’bout dat las’ camp- meetin’ in de pines”; and he began to hum: [11 } “Lawd, I wunda, who kilt John Henry, In de la-ane, in de lane.” Half an hour later we were filing through the corn-stubs toward the ereek. Uncle Jethro carried his long musket under his arm ; I had a stout hickory stick and a meal-sack ; while ahead of us, like a sailor on shore, rolled Calamity, the old possum-dog. If in June come perfect days, then perfect nights come in November. There is one thing, at least, as rare as a June day, and that is a clear, keen November night, enameled with frost and set with the hunter’s moon. Uncle Jethro was not thinking of last summer’s camp-meeting now; but still he crooned softly a camp-meeting melody : “Sheep an’ de goats a- Gwine to de pastcha, Sheep tell de goats, ‘ Ain’t yo’ Walk a leetle fasta?’ “TLawd, I wunda, who kilt John Henry, In de la-ane, in de lane. “Coon he up a gum-tree, Possum in de holla; Coon he roll hi’self in ha’r, Possum roll in talla. “Lawd, I wunda—” [12] until we began to skirt Cubby Hollow, when he suddenly brought himself up with a snap. It was Calamity “‘talkim’ in one of her tongues.” The short, sharp bark came down from the fence at the brow of the hill. Unele Jethro listened. “Piling through the corn-stubs.”” “Jis squirrel-talk, dat. She ’ll talk possum by-wm-bit, she will. Ain’t no possum-dog in des diggin’s kin talk possum wid C’lamity. An’ wen she talk possum, o? man possum gotter listen. Sell C’lamity? Dat dog can’t be bought, she can’t.” [13] As we came under the persimmon-trees at the foot of Lupton’s Pond, the moon was high enough to show us that no possum had been here yet, for there was abundance of the luscious, frost- nipped fruit upon the ground. In the bare trees the persimmons hung like silver beads. We stopped to gather a few, when Calamity woke the woods with her cry. “Dar he is! C’lamity done got ol’ man pos- sum now! Down by de bend! Dat ’s possum- talk, big talk, fat talk!” And we hurried after the dog. We had gone half a mile, and Uncle Jethro had picked himself up at least three times, when I protested. “Unele Jeth!” I cried, “that ’s an awfully long-legged possum. He ’ll run all his fat off before we catch him.” “Dat ’s so, boy, shw’ ’nough! W’at dat ol’ fool dog tree a long-legged possum fo’, nohow? Yer, Clamity, ’lamity, yer, yer!” he yelled, as the hound doubled and began to track the rabbit back toward us. We were thoroughly cooled before Calamity appeared. She was boxed on the ear and sent [14] © off again with the command to talk possum next time or be shot. She was soon talking again. This time it must be possum-talk. There could be no mis- take about that long, steady, placid howl. The dog must be under a tree or beside a stump wait- ing for us. As Uncle Jethro heard the cry he chuckled, and a new moon broke through his dusky countenance. “Yhear dat? Dat ’s possum-talk. C’lamity done meet up wid de ol’ man dis time, shu’.” And so she had, as far as we could see. She was lying restfully on the bank of a little stream, her head in the air, singing that long, lonesome strain which Uncle Jethro called her possum- talk. It was a wonderfully faithful reproduction of her master’s camp-meeting singing. One of his weird, wordless melodies seemed to have passed into the old dog’s soul. But what was she calling us for? As we came up we looked around for the tree, the stump, the fallen log; but there was not a splinter in sight. Uncle Jethro was getting nervous. Calamity rose, as we approached, and pushed her muzzle into a muskrat’s smooth, black hole. This was [15] “Here on the fence we waited.” a too much. She saw it, and hung her head, for she knew what was coming. “Took yhere, yo’ obtuscious ol’ fool. W’at yo’ ’sociatin’ wid a low-down possum as takes UV mus’rats’ holes? W’at I done tol’ yo’ ’bout dis? Go ’long home! Go ’long en talk de moon up a tree.” And as Uncle Jethro dropped upon his knees by the hole, Calamity slunk away through the brush. I held up a bunch of freshly washed grass- roots. “Unele Jeth, this must be a new species of possum; he eats roots like any muskrat,” I said innocently. It was good for Calamity not to be there just then. Uncle Jethro loved her as he would have loved a child ; but he vowed, as he picked up his gun: “De nex’ time dat no-’count dog don’t talk possum, yo’ ll see de buzzard ’bout, yo’ will.” We tramped up the hill and on through the woods to some open fields. Here on the fence we waited for Calamity’s signal. “Did you say you would n’t put any price on Calamity, Uncle Jethro?” I asked as we waited. There was no reply. [16] “Going to roast this possum, are n’t you?” Silence. “Am I going to have an invite, Uncle Jeth?” “Hush up, boy! How we gwine yhear w’at dat dog say?” “Calamity? Why, did n’t you tell her to go home?” The woods were still. A little screech-owl off in the trees was the only creature that dis- turbed the brittle silence. The owl was flitting from perch to perch, coming nearer us. “W’at dat owl say?” whispered Uncle Jethro, starting. ‘‘ ‘No possum’? ‘no possum’? ‘no pos- sum’? Come ’long home, boy,” he commanded aloud. “W’en ol’ Miss Owl say ‘No possum,’ C’lamity herself ain’t gwine git none.” And sliding to the ground, he trudged off for home. We were back again in the corn-field with an empty sack. The moon was riding high near eleven o’clock. From behind a shock Calamity joined us, falling in at the rear like one of our shadows. Of course Uncle Jethro did not see her. He was proud of the rheumatic old hound, and‘a night like this nipped his pride as the first frosts nip the lima-beans. 2 [17] It was the owl’s evil doing, he argued all the way home. ‘W’en ol’ Miss Owl say ‘Stay in’— no use: ?Simmons sweet, ’simmons red, Ain’t no possum leave his bed. All de dogs in Mount Zion won't fin’ no pos- sum ‘out dis night.” No; it was not Calamity’s fault: it was Miss Owl’s. We were turning in back of the barn when there came a sudden yelp, sharp as a pistol-shot, and Calamity darted through Uncle Jethro’s legs, almost upsetting him, making straight for the yard. At the same moment I caught sight of a large creature hurrying with a wabbly, uncertain gait along the ridge-pole of the hen- house. It was a possum—as big as a coon. He was already half-way down the side of the coop ; but Calamity was below him, howling like mad. Unele Jethro nearly unjointed himself. Be- fore the frightened animal had time to faint, the triumphant hunter was jouncing him up and down inside the sack, and promising the bones and baking-pan to Calamity. [18] “Wat dat yo’ mumblin’, boy? Gwine ax yo’self a’ invite? @ ’way; g’ way; yo’ don’ lak possum. W’at dat yo’ sayin’ ’g’in’ C’lamity? Yo’ ’s needin’ sleep, chil’, yo’ is. Ain’t I done to? yo’ dat dog gwine talk possum by-um-bit? Wat dem ‘flections ’g’in’ ol’ Miss Owl? Boosh, boy! Dat all fool-talk, w’at ol? Miss Owl say. We done been layin’ low jis s’prise yo’>, me an’ C’lamity an’ ol’ Miss Owl has.” And as he placed the chopping-block upon the barrel to keep the possum safe till morning, he began again : “Coon he up a gum-tree, Possum in de holla; Coon he roll hi’self in ha’r, Possum roll in talla. “Lawd, I wunda, who kilt John Henry, In de la-ane, in de lane.” The next morning Uncle Jethro went to get his possum. But the possum was gone. The chopping-block lay on the woodshed floor, the cover of the barrel was pushed aside, and the only trace of the animal was a bundle of seed- corn that he had: pulled from a nail overhead and left half eaten on the floor. He had stopped for a meal on his way out. [19] Uncle Jethro, with Uncle Remus, gives Br’er Rabbit the wreath for craft; but in truth the laurel belongs to Br’er Possum. He is an eter- nal surprise. Either he is the most stupidly wise animal of the woods, or the most wisely “ He had stopped for a meal on his way out.” stupid. He is a puzzle. Apparently his one unburied talent is heaviness. Joe, the fat boy, was not a sounder nor more constant sleeper, nor was his mental machinery any slower than the possum’s. The little beast is utterly want- ing in swiftness and weapons, his sole hope and defense being luck and indifference. To luck and indifference he trusts life and happiness. And who ean say he does not prosper—that he does not roll in fat? I suppose there once were deer and otter in [20] the stretches of wild woodland along the Cohan- sey ; but a fox is rare here now, and the coon by no means abundant. Indeed, the rabbit, even with the help of the game laws, has a hard time. Yet the possum, unprotected by law, slow of foot, slower of thought, and worth fifty cents in any market, still flourishes along the creek. A greyhound must push to overtake a rabbit, but I have run down a possum with my winter boots on in less than half-way across a clean ten-acre field. He ambles along like a bear, swinging his head from side to side to see how fast you are gaining upon him. When you come up and touch him with your foot, over he goes, grunting and grinning with his mouth wide open. If you nudge him further, or bark, he will die—but he will come to life again when -you turn your back. Some scientifically minded people believe that this “playing possum” follows as a physio- logical effect of fear ; that is, they say the pulse slackens, the temperature falls, and, as a result, instead of a pretense of being dead, the poor possum actually swoons. [21] A physiologist in his laboratory, with stetho- scope, sphygmoscope, thermometer, and pneu- monometer, may be able to scare a possum into a fit—I should say he might; but I doubt if a plain naturalist in the woods, with only his two eyes, a jack-knife, and a bit of string, was ever able to make the possum do more than “play possum.” We will try to believe with the laboratory investigator that the possum does genuinely faint. However, it will not be rank heresy to run over this leaf from my diary. It records a faithful diagnosis of the case as I observed it. The statement does not claim to be scientific ; I mean that there were no ’meters or ’scopes of any kind used. It is simply what I saw and have seen a hundred times. Here is the entry: POSSUM-FAINT Cause. My sudden appearance before the patient. Symptoms. A backing away with open mouth and unpleasant hisses until forcibly stopped, when the patient falls on one side, limp and helpless, a long, unearthly smile overspreading the face; the off eye closed, the near eye just ajar ; no muscular twitching, but most decided attempts to get up and run as soon as my back is turned. Playing possum. Treatment. My non-interference. Note. Recovery instantaneous with my removal ten feet. This whole performance repeated twelve times in as many minutes, December 26, 1893. I have known the possum too long for a ready faith in his extreme nervousness, too long to believe him so hysterical that the least surprise can frighten him into fits. He has a reasonable fear of dogs; no fear at all of cats; and will take his chances any night with a coon for the possession of a hollow log. He will live in the same burrow with other possums, with owls,— with anything in fact,—and overlook any bear- able imposition; he will run away from every- thing, venture anywhere, and manage to escape from the most impossible situations. Is this an epileptic, an unstrung, flighty creature? Pos- sibly ; but look at him. He rolls in fat; and how long has obesity been the peculiar accom- paniment of nervousness? It is the amazing coolness of the possum, however, that most completely disposes of the scientist’s pathetic tale of unsteady nerves. A creature that will deliberately walk into a trap, [23 ] spring it, eat the bait, then calmly lie down and sleep until the trapper comes, has no nerves. I used to catch a possum, now and then, in the box-traps set for rabbits. It is a delicate task to take a rabbit from such a trap ; for, give him a crack of chance and away he bolts to freedom. Open the lid carefully when there is a possum inside, and you will find the old fellow curled up with a sweet smile of peace on his face, fast asleep. Shake the trap, and he rouses yawn- ingly, with a mildly injured air, offended at your rudeness, and wanting to know why you should wake an innocent possum from so safe and com- fortable a bed. He blinks at you inquiringly and says: “Please, sir, if you will be so kind as to shut the door and go away, I will finish my nap.” And while he is saying it, before your very eyes, off to sleep he goes. Is this nervousness? What, then, is it—stu- pidity or insolence? Physically as well as psychologically the pos- sums are out of the ordinary. As every one knows, they are marsupials; that is, they have a pouch or pocket on the abdomen in which they carry the young. Into this pocket the young [24] are transferred as soon as they are born, and were it not for this strange half-way house along the journey of their development they would perish. At birth a possum is little more than formed— the least mature babe among all of our mam- mals. It is only half an inch long, blind, deaf, naked, and so weak and helpless as to be unable to open its mouth or even cry. Such babies are rare. The smallest young mice you. ever saw are as large as possums at their birth. They weigh only about four grains, the largest of them, and are so very tiny that the mother has to fasten each to a teat and force the milk down each wee throat—for they cannot even swallow. They live in this cradle for about five weeks, by which time they can creep out and climb over their mother. They are then about the size of full-grown mice, and the dearest of wood babies. They have sharp pink noses, snapping black eyes, gray fur, and the longest, barest tails. I think that the most interesting picture I ever saw in the woods was an old mother possum with eleven little ones clinging to her. She was standing off a dog as I came up, and every one of the eleven [25] was peeking out, immensely enjoying this first adventure. The quizzing snouts of six were poked out in a bunch from the cradle-pouch, while the other five mites were upon their mother’s back, where they had been playing Jack-and-the-beanstalk up and down her tail. Historically, also, the possum is a conundrum. He has not a single relative on this continent, Davee loner “She was standing off a dog.” except those on exhibition in zoédlogical gardens. He left kith and kin behind in Australia when he came over to our country. How he got here, and when, we do not know. Clouds hang heavy over the voyages of all the discoverers of Amer- [26] ica. The possum was one of the first to find us, and when did he land, I wonder? ~ «2% How long before Columbus, and Leif, son hy % of Eric? Bee a In his appetite the possum is ‘a no way peculiar, except, per- haps, that he takes the seasons’ menus entire. Between persimmon- times he eats all sorts of animal food, and is a much better hunter than we usually give him eredit for. Considering his slowness, too, he manages to plod over an amazing amount of territory in the course of his evening rambles. He starts out at dusk, and wanders around all night, planning his hunt so as to get back to his lair by dawn. Sometimes at -,| (a daybreak he is a long way from home. Not f har] being able to see well in the light, and rather | than run into needless danger, he then crawls |), into the nearest hole or under the first rail-pile WY f r he comes to; or else he climbs a tree, and, V4, y wrapping his tail about a limb, settles 4 KF himself comfortably in a forked branch quite out of sight, and sleeps till dark- ness comes again. Aa On these expeditions he picks up frogs, fish, eggs, birds, mice, corn, and in winter a chicken here and there. In the edge of a piece of woods along the Cohansey there used to stand a large hen-coop surrounded by a ten-foot fence of wire netting. One winter several chickens were missing here, and though rats and other prowlers about the pen were caught, still the chickens continued to disappear. One morning a possum was seen to descend the wire fence and enter the coop through the small square door used by the fowls. We ran in; but there was no possum to be found. We thought we had searched everywhere until, finally, one of us lifted the lids off a rusty old stove that had been used to heat the coop the winter before, and there was the possum, with two companions, snug and warm, in a nest of feathers on the grate. Here were the remains of the lost chickens. These sly thieves had camped in this stove ever since autumn, crawling in and out through the stovepipe hole. During the day they slept quietly ; and at night, when the chickens were [28 ] at roost, the old rascals would slip out, grab the nearest one, pull it into the stove, and feast. Is there anything on record in the way of audacity better than that? [29] BIRDS’ WINTER BEDS BIRDS’ WINTER BEDS The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold. STORM had been raging from the north- east all day. Toward evening the wind strengthened to a gale, and the fine, icy snow swirled and drifted over the frozen fields. I lay a long time listening to the wild sym- phony of the winds, thankful for the roof over my head, and wondering how the hungry, home- less creatures out of doors would pass the night. Where do the birds sleep such nights as this? Where in this bitter cold, this darkness and storm, will they make their beds? The lark that broke from the snow at my feet as I crossed the pasture this afternoon— 3 [33] What comes o’ thee? Whar wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing, Av’ close thy e’e? The storm grew fiercer; the wind roared through the big pines by the side of the house and swept hoarsely on across the fields; the pines shivered and groaned, and their long limbs scraped over the shingles above me as if feeling with frozen fingers for a way in; the windows rattled, the cracks and corners of the old farm-house shrieked, and a long, thin line of snow sifted in from beneath the window across the garret floor. I fancied these sounds of the storm were the voices of freezing birds, crying to:be taken in from the cold. Once I thought I heard a thud against the window, a sound heavier than the rattle of the snow. Something seemed to be beating at the glass. It might be a bird. I got out of bed to look; but there was only the ghostly face of the snow pressed against the panes, half-way to the window’s top. I imagined that I heard the thud again; but, while listening, fell asleep and dreamed that my window was frozen fast, and that all the birds in the world were knocking at it, trying to get in out of the night and storm. [34] The fields lay pure and white and flooded with sunshine when I awoke. Jumping out of bed, I ran to the window, and saw a dark object on the sill outside. I raised the sash, and there, close against the glass, were two quails—frozen stiff in the snow. It was they I heard the night before fluttering at the window. The ground had been covered deep with snow for several days, and at last, driven by hunger and cold from the fields, they saw my light, and sought shelter from the storm and a bed for the night with me. Four others, evidently of the same covey, spent the night in the wagon-house, and in the morning helped themselves fearlessly to the chickens’ breakfast. They roosted with the chickens several nights, but took to the fields again as soon as the snow began to melt. It is easy to account for our winter birds dur- ing the day. Along near noon, when it is warm and bright, you will find the sparrows, chicka- dees, and goldfinches searching busily among the bushes and weeds for food, and the crows and jays scouring the fields. But what about them during the dark? Where do they pass the long winter nights? [35 ] Why, they have nests, yousay. Yes, they had nests in the summer, and then, perhaps, one of the parent birds may be said to have slept in the nest during the weeks of incubation and rearing of the young. But nests are cradles, not beds, and are never used by even the young birds from the day they leave them. Muskrats build houses, foxes have holes, and squirrels sleep in true nests ; but of the birds it can be said, ‘‘they have not where to lay their heads.” They sleep upon their feet in the grass, in hollow trees, and among the branches ; but, at best, such a bed is no more than aroost.