ua THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF Carle ton Shay "All music is what awakens from you when you are reminded by the instruments." — Whitman. THE SONG OF THE RIVER "The river Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice In its own being." —Bryant. Music of the Wild . With Reproductio?is of the Performers, \eir Instruments and Fes- tival Halls e St rat ton -Porter CINCINNATI:. JENNINGS AND G R A H A M NEW YORK: EATON AND MAINS "It touched the wood bird's folded wing. And said, 'O bird, awake and sing !'" —Longfellow. Copyright, 1910, by Jennings and Graham "Thou art only a gray and sober dove, But thine eye is faith and thy wing is love." Lanier. Books by Gene Stratt on -Porter WHAT I HAVE DONE WITH BIRDS AT THE FOOT or THE RAINBOW A GIRL OF THE LOIBERLOST THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL THE Music OF THE WILD BIRDS OF THE BIBLE FRECKLES Contents PART I The Chorus of the Forest, PART II Songs of the Fields, PART III The Music of the Marsh, • 23 165 323 List of Illustrations FOREST SPRING, - THE SONG OF THE RIVER, FOREST ROAD, RABBIT LEAVING BURROW, BROODING DOVE, TREE TOAD, - KATYDID, - PUBLIC ROAD, - YOUNG LARKS YOUNG FLYCATCHERS, BIT OF MARSH, - THE FOREST, - THE PRIMARY Music CLASS, THE ROAD TO THE FOREST, BLOODROOT, THE GATEWAY, 22 24 28 32 11 List of Illustrations Facing Faff* THE TREE HARPS, - 36 THE GLOVES THE FOXES WEAK, - - - - 40 THE LOCUST'S FIDDLE, - - 44 A CROW SOLO, --------48 THE WHITE CLOUD, 52 MOTHS OF THE MOON, ------ 56 DUSKY FALCON, --__-__ £0 HAWK FACE— WHAT DOES HE SAY? - - 64 A BEECH TREE HARP, - 68 PROFESSIONAL " W'AILERS," 72 PAPAW BLOOM, 76 PAPAWS AND SUNSHINE 80 BANEBERRY AND MAIDENHAIR, ----- 84 CRICKET Music, --------88 EBONYMUS AMERICAN us, ------ 92 A GROUND MUSICIAN, ------ - 96 TALL BLUE BELLFLOWER, - 100 THE CROWN OF THE FOREST KING, - 104 BLACK HAW BLOOM, - 108 BLACK HAWS, - - 112 THE TREES, 116 YOUNG BATS, - - - - - 120 WHERE THE WOODS BEGIN, - 124 FROST FLOWERS, - - 128 SYCAMORE, - 132 THE APPLES OF MAY, - - 136 SMOKE HOUSE, - ,. 140 THE DESERTED CABIN, ........ 144 PHARAOH'S CHICKENS, - - - 148 HOP TREE Music, - 152 NIGHT Music ON A FOREST RIVER - 156 OLD Loo, - --..»„. 16Q 12 List of Illustrations Facing Page KATYDID, - - 162 SWALLOWS, --______ 154 DANDELION, ----__._ 166 ONE OF MY FARMS, ---_.__ 170 FIELD DAISIES, - 174 A CLOUD MUSICIAN, ------- 178 ELECAMPANE, - ______ 182 THE HOME OF THE HOP TOAD, - - - - 186 HOP TOAD, - 190 MOONSEED VINE, - ______ 194 MY OAT- FIELD, 198 BRANDS OF THE NOONTIDE BEAM," - 202 THE LANDLORD OF THE FIELDS, 206 BEARD TONGUE, - 210 MOLLY COTTON, _______ 214 BURNING BUSH, - - - - - - - -218 TALL MEADOW RUE, - 222 WILD SAFFRON, -_-----_ 226 GREEN PASTURES, 230 SHELTERED, WATERED PASTURE, ----- 234 BLAZING STAR, - _____ 238 WILLOWS, ------- _ 242 BUCKEYE BRANCH, ------- 246 AN OLD ORCHARD, - - 250 MOTHER ROBIN, ------- 254 THE ORCHARD MOTH, - 258 ROYALTY IN THE ORCHARD, ----- 262 SCARLET HAW BLOOM, -___-_ 266 SCREECH OWL, 270 THE SONG OF THE ROAD, ----- 274 MALE GOLDFINCH AND YOUNG, ----- 278 MILKWEED, - _______ 282 13 List of Illustrations Facing Page LIGHTNING RIVEN OAK, - 286 THE SONG OF THE LIMBERLOST, 290 BROODING DOVE, ON THE BANKS OF THE WABASH IN WINTER, 298 RED BUD, 302 KINGFISHER, - - 306 RIVER MALLOWS, 310 THE SONG OF THE RIVER, 314 COUNTRY ROAD, - - 319 GOD'S FLOWER GARDEN, - - 320 TREE TOADS' DUET, 322 THE RESURRECTION, 324 THE ROAD TO THE MARSH, 328 MARSH LILIES, 332 A MARSH GARDEN, - 336 THE NOSE TWISTER, 340 THE MOTH OF THE MARSK, - 344 DRAGON FLY, - - - - - 351 WHITE WATER LILIES, 350 MARSH BERGAMOT, - - - - 354 SILKY CORNEL, 358 WILD RICE, - - 362 A PLOVER QUARTETTE, 366 A QUEEN MOTHER, 370 THE MARSH BROOK, 374 THE HERALD OF DAWN, 378 THE FINCH COLOR SCHEME, 382 THE WHITE SIGN OF HOLINESS, 386 THE LEAVES, - - 390 THE HELL-DIVER, - - 394 THE BLUE FLAG, 398 FLYING GOLD, ____... 4Q2 14 List of Illustrations THE MARSH ROWDY, WATER HYACINTHS, WHERE THE LOO.N LAUGHS, THE DRUM-MAJOR, THE DRUM, WHERE MARSH AND FOREST MEET, CORDUROY BRIDGE IN MARSH, - LEAVING THE MARSH, - 406 410 414 418 422 426 428 - 430 m PART I The Chorus of the Forest "I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brought him home, in his nest, at even; He sings the song, but it pleases not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky ; He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye." — Emerson, > Hi »^'iS I 2 Q)< P §3£ t » - N*£W THE PRIMARY MUSIC CLASS The Chorus of the Forest SIXCE the beginning the forest has been singing its song, but few there are who have cared to learn either the words or the Forest melody. Its chorus differs from that of any other Notes part of the music of nature, and the price that must be paid to learn it is higher. The forest is of such gloomy and forbidding aspect that inti- mate acquaintance is required in order to learn to love it truly. So only a few peculiar souls, caring for solitude and far places, and oblivious to bodily discomfort, have answered this wildest of calls, and gone to the great song carnival among the trees. The forest always has been compared rightly with a place of worship. Its mighty trees, some- times appearing as if set in aisles, resemble large pillars, and the canopy formed by their over- arching branches provides the subdued light con- ducive to worship. The dank, pungent air arises 23 Music of the Wild as incense around you. Sunlight, streaming in white shafts through small interstices, suggests candles. Altars are everywhere, carpeted with velvet mosses, embroidered with lichens, and dec- orated with pale-faced flowers, the eternal symbol of purity and holiness. Its winds forced among overlapping branches sing softly as harps, roar and wail as great organs, and scream and sob as psalters and hautboys. Its insect, bird, and ani- mal life has been cradled to this strange music until voices partake of its tones, so that they har- monize with their tree accompaniment, and all unite in one mighty volume, to create the chorus of the forest. I doubt if any one can enter a temple of wor- ship and not be touched with its import. Neither can one go to primal forests and not feel closer the spirit and essence of the Almighty than any- where else in nature. In fact, God is in every form of creation; but in the fields and marshes the work of man so has effaced original conditions that he seems to dominate. The forest alone raises a chorus of praise under natural conditions. Here you can meet the Creator face to face, if anywhere on earth. Yet very few come to make His acquaintance. The reason lies in the discomfort; the gloomy, forbidding surroundings. It may be that there yet lingers in the hearts of us a touch of that fear 24 THE ROAD TO THE FOREST " And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves ; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes." —PercivaL The Chorus of the Forest inherited from days when most of the beasts and many of the birds were larger and of greater strength than man, so that existence was a daily battle. Then the forest is ever receding. As we approach, it retreats, until of late years it has be- come difficult to find, and soon it is threatened with extinction. As yet, it is somewhere, but pa- tience and travel are required to reach it. I found the forest here pictured after a journey by rail, water, and a long road so narrow that it seemed as if every one traveling it went in the morning and returned at night, but none ever passed on the way. Such a narrow little road, and so sandy that it appeared like a white ribbon stretched up gen- tle hill and down valley! On each side I saw evi- The dence that latelv it had been forest itself; else the Roald ' t to the way would not have been so very narrow, the sides Forest impassable, and bordered with trees so mighty and closely set as to dwarf it to the vanishing point long within the range of vision. The very flowers were unusual, the faint musky perfume creeping out to us, a touch of the forest greeting our ap- proach. The road ran long and straight, and MThere it ended the work of man ceased and the work of nature began. The forest was surrounded by a garden, where sunlight and warmth encouraged a growth not to be found inside. Here in early spring daintiest 27 Music of the Wild flowers had flourished: anemones and violets. Bloodroot had lifted bloom waxen-pure and white, and its exquisitely cut and veined slivery, blue- green leaves, set on pink coral stems, were yet thrifty. Now there were flowers, fruits, berries, and nuts in a profusion the fields never know, and with few except the insects, birds, butterflies, and squirrels to feast upon them. You could produce a rain of luscious big blackberries by shaking a branch. There were traces of a straggling snake-fence The in one place, on top of which the squirrels romped Forest ancj p^yed. This could not have extended far, because the impenetrable swamp that soon met the forest stretched from sight. Then the Almighty made the work of man un- necessary by inclosing the forest in a fence of His design, vastly to my liking. First was found a tangle of shrubs that wanted their feet in the damp earth and their heads in the light. Beneath them I stopped to picture tall, blue bellflower, late blue- bells, and spiderwort, writh its peculiar leafage and bloom. There was the flame of foxfire, the laven- der and purple of Joe-Pye weed, ironwort, and asters just beginning to show color, for it was mid- dle August, and late summer bloom met early fall. There were masses of yellow made up of golden- rod beginning to open, marigold, yellow daisies, and cone-flowers. 28 BLOOD-ROOT It has blood in its root and a waxen white face, Coral stems and silver leaves of wonderful grace. The Chorus of the Forest But the real fence inclosing the forest was a hedge of dogwood, spicebrush, haw, hazel, scrub oak, maple, and elm bushes. At bloom time it must have been outlined in snowy flowers; now nuts and berries were growing, and all were inter- laced and made impenetrable by woodbine, wild- grape, clematis, and other stoutly growing vines. At first we could not see the gateway, but after a little searching it was discovered. Once found, it lay clear and open to all. The posts were slen- The der, mastlike trunks shooting skyward; outside Gateway deep golden sunshine you almost thought you could handle as fabric, inside merely a few steps to forest darkness. Near the gateway a tiny tree was wag- ing its battle to reach the sky, and a little far- ther a dead one wras compelled to decay leaning against its fellows, for they were so numerous it could not find space to lie down and rest in peace. This explained at once that there would be no logs. All the trees would lodge in falling, and decay in that position, and their bark and fiber would help to make uncertain walking. At the gate is the place to pause and consider. The forest issues an universal invitation, but few there be who are happy in accepting its hospitality. If you carry a timid heart take it to the fields, where you can see your path before you and fa- miliar sounds fall on your ears. If you carry a sad heart the forest is not for you. Xature places 31 Music of the Wild gloom in its depths, sobs among its branches, cries from its inhabitants. If your heart is blackened with ugly secrets, better bleach them in the heal- ing sunshine of the fields. The soul with a secret is always afraid, and fear was born and has estab- lished its hiding place in the forest. You must ig- nore much personal discomfort and be sure you are free from sadness and fear before you can be at home in the forest. But to all brave, happy hearts I should say, "Go and learn the mighty chorus." Somewhere in The ^ie depths of the forest you will meet the Creator. Creator's The place is the culmination of His plan for men Gift to Men a(iown the ages, a material thing proving how His work evolves, His real gift to us remaining in nat- ural form. The fields epitomize man. They lay as he made them. They are artificial. They came into existence through the destruction of the forest and the change of natural conditions. They prove how man utilized the gift God gave to him. But in the forest the Almighty is yet housed in His handiwork and lives in His creation. Therefore step out boldly. You are with the Infinite. Earth that bears trees from ten to four- teen feet in circumference, from forty to sixty to the branching, and set almost touching each other, will not allow you to sink far. You are in little danger of meeting anything that is not more frightened at your intrusion than you are at it. 32 THE GATEWAY "To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky." — Smith. The Chorus of the Forest Cutting your path before you means clearing it of living things as well as removing the thicket of undergrowth. A hundred little creatures are fleeing at your every step, and wherever you set foot you kill without your knowledge; for earth, leaves, and mosses are teeming with life. You need only press your ear to the ground and lie still to learn that a volume of sound is rising to heaven from the creeping, crawling, voiceless creatures of earth, the minor tone of all its music. The only way to love the forest is to live in it until you have learned its pathless travel, growth, and inhabitants as you know the fields. You must The begin at the gate and find your road slowly, else See forgiven the supposition that with these, material was exhausted. I think the truth is that these good folk kept to the fence or turned back at the gateway, and never penetrated to the heart of the forest. Things infinitely more beau- tiful than those that have been used are waiting to be discovered and familiarized. Finding almost a tree for size ladened with velvety big green fruit made me think of studiies of papaw bloom that I had made early in the season. 79 Music of the Wild Botanists and farmers may know the flower; do others? And does some one ask what it has to do with music? I am coming to that. Early in the season, when the smooth gray-green stems are pulsing with sap, when the tender yellow-green leaves are just unsheathing and not over an inch in length, the papaw lilies blow. I never heard any one else call them lilies, but I will persist in it; they are lilies, and most exquisite ones. The flowers hang lily fashion, their petals are thick, of velvety lily texture, and look at their formation! Those outside are beautifully veined and curled, of the loveliest wine-red; the inside smaller, slightly lighter in color, and set across the meeting of the outer ones, and a yellow-green pistil, pollen dusted in the heart. I can say almost positively that Japan does not produce this tree. If she did, long ago her artists would have seized upon its magnificent possibili- ties for decoration. The height of simplicity so loved by them can be found in the smooth stems, the long, tender golden leaves, and the tinkling wine-colored lilies nodding in clusters over bushes so large that, where undisturbed in the forest, they attain the size of trees. Sometimes the flowers hang singly, sometimes in pairs, and most often from four to six grow in a head, so that by crowd- ing their faces are upturned, and their full beauty displayed in wondrous fashion. They are of sweet 80 PAPAWS AND SUNSHINE Leaf hidden are the frosty green papaws, In their jackets snugly rolled, But the sun sifts down 'til he finds them, And mellows their hearts to gold. The Chorus of the Forest odor, and the bees come swarming around them, with their low, bumbling, humming music, from early morning until dark. If only I were a poet, how glad I would be to transcribe for them the song that they awake in my heart! Its name should be, "Where the Papaw Lilies Blow." I would tinge the sky with the purple of red bud, fill the air with the golden haze of tree The bloom, and perfume it with the subtle odor of tree Song .°.f pollen. In deep shadow the earth should lie cov- ered with a crust of late snow, and in the sun with the whiter snow of bloodroot bloom. The velvety maroon-colored lilies should distil their perfume as the wind rocked them, and among the branches the slender, graceful, bronze-backed cuckoo should prophesy April showers as he searched for food. From a nearby pool with crazy laughter a flock of loons that had paused in migration for a drink should arise from the water and plow the north- ward air with their sharp beaks; and an opossum should nose among the leaves for frozen persim- mons. And he who breathed this enchanted air and saw these things should learn that in all nature he would find no greater treat than to linger where the papaw lilies blow. I offer this gratis to any one who has the genius to use it rightly. With the falling of the flowers the artistic pos- sibility of the plant only begins, for there follow large leaves of varied shadings, prominently veined 83 Music of the Wild and finely shaped for conventionalizing, and in clusters beneath them the papaws, that must be seen to know how beautiful they are. Five and six to a cluster they hang, when young the skin a cold blue-green; with ripeness they take on a pale yellow shading, and the "bloom" of the fruit be- comes like frosted velvet. The pulp is bright yel- low and good to eat if you are fond of rich sweets. The seeds are large, black, and resemble those of the melon. If not gathered, the fruit hangs until winter, turns to the purple wine color of ripe Con- cord grapes, falls to the ground, and in the spring the seeds sprout and produce new plants. Sometimes when taking pictures I get more than I intend. In making this study of papaw A Ray of leaves and fruit a ray of sunshine crept through Sunshine an interstice of the forest and fell across my sub- ject. So long as the picture lasts the sunbeam lives. A lens loves bright colors and sets them on a photographic plate with peculiar brilliancy. It would be a fine thing if we could get a focus on life's sunshine and reproduce it indelibly on our hearts as stored warmth for gray days, just as the lens caught this ray of light streaming across the face of the papaw study. The truth is we do not appreciate the sunshine we have in our lives. Even more, many of us never know that we are having bright days until we are plunged into the depths of trouble and darkness ; and when we grope 84 The Chorus of the Forest to find our way, and struggle to realize our con- dition, we suddenly learn that our sunshine is gone and life is gray monotony. The largest open space we found underfoot was on the side of a hill or incline facing east. The trees appeared quite as large and closely set, but Baneberry for some reason the earth was not covered with .and shrubs and bushes, as was the rule. We had found two places where trees had been cut so long ago that the decayed stumps crumbled at a touch, and there was a third not as old. Close beside it I found beauty to gladden the heart of musician, poet, or painter. It began with a white baneberry of marvelous grace. The plant was all of three and a half feet in height, a smooth stem, upright as the trees around it, and, like them, branching. Its finely cut, lacy leaves, beautifully veined and notched, grew in clusters of three. On a single stem, borne high above the leaves, shone a big bunch of china-white berries, three dozen by count ; the stems red, each berry having a purple-black eye-spot. Close by grew a near relative, very sim- ilar except that its berries were red. The flowers of both are a pyramidal cluster made up of a mass of small white blooms. Xow just in front of the baneberry grew the most graceful of all ferns, the plumy maidenhair, and because of this wet season it had attained un- usual size for our climate. On wiry two-foot stems 87 Music of the Wild waved leaves a foot and a half across. I was ac- customed to stems of from six to nine inches in length and leaves of eight-inch diameter. As a finishing touch, beneath the fern, with fuzzy leaf of peculiar shape that could not be called round because it was wider than long, and deeply cut where the stem joined, and with bell-shaped, ma- roon-colored cup blooming so close the root that I had to remove the dry leaves to earth to find the flower, grew wild ginger. I examined this partic- ularly because I know a writer who has the hardi- hood to compare this grimy little burrower of the soil with papaw bloom, that has six artistically cut petals, each of which is of much richer color and texture, and large enough to make a perfect ginger flower. In removing dry leaves around the ferns and digging out the ginger I unearthed a music-box, The and learned a lesson. I always had thought the Song of cricket a sort of domesticated insect, beginning with "The Cricket on the Hearth" and ending with one that sang for the greater part of last winter in our basement. A few weeks earlier I had learned in an oat field many miles away that there were more big black crickets under an oat sheaf where it lay in a low, damp place than I ever had seen elsewhere in all my field work. Now the forest taught me that the cricket in my cabin was a prisoner, lost from home and friends, and 88 The Chorus of the Foivst those beneath the oats scouts searching for food; the army was around decaying WIHH! and Mow deep layers of leaves on the tloor of the forest. In a glittering black mass they poured out by the thousand when disturbed; some in their haste leaped upon the backs of those in front and ran over them. Of course, 1 know there are differing species of the cricket family that choose suitable locations. I am merely stating that the largest, most prosperous branch in the whole world lives in the forest. When I made this study grasshoppers sang around the fence, and many strayed to the interior, so that their notes came almost constantly; but by close listening you could distinguish fractions of a second when their voices were silent. Many katy-dids homed there and boasted much of the prowess of their ancestors. Locusts answered each other in rapid succession, but you could separate the call from the answer. To the "Chirr-r-r-r-r!" of the crickets there was no beginning and never the bint of an ending. Millions of these shining, black-coated little musicians sang in concert and unceasingly. There was no question but their voices formed the dominant insect note of the forest. Crickets are not compatible with good house- keeping because they cut fabrics, lint of all in- sects people tolerate them most. One little piece 91 Music of the Wild of exquisite writing has made life easier for the family. A cricket walks unharmed where a heavy The foot crushes a grasshopper or locust. The cricket Cricket on one liearth has made a welcome for all crickets, Hearth and the home boasting one that will sing late in the season feels that it has materialized evidence of good cheer. I know how vainglorious we were over a cabin cricket that once homed with us, how all other sound ceased when he began to sing, and how we never failed to call the attention of vis- itors to him, and how disappointed wre were if he did not perform when we were expecting he would. A cricket makes fine, cheery music, the natural ac- companiment to the snapping crackle of an open wood-fire, which is the only rational source of heat in a real home. I could write a larger book than this on fire forms, flame colors, and the different tints of smoke ascending from logs of various trees as they burn in my fireplace. If my dreams as I watch the flames materialized on my library shelves instead of ascending the chimney with the smoke, no one would produce so many fine volumes as I. The cricket is so a part of the dreams that a tone of his happy song should run through all of them. The wings are the musical instruments, and with these crickets obtain so closely to the sound of a voice that people always speak and write of them as "singing," though they really are instru- 92 EBONYMUS AMERICANUS "This is not solitude; 't is but to hold Converse with nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled." — Byron. The Chorus of the Forest mental performers, the same as the grasshopper, locust, and katy-did. » These wings are attached back of the shoulders and are so short they cover not more than the mid- dle third of the body. They are so very small, music must be their greatest use. I do not believe they would bear the weight of the insects in flight, but by spreading and beating them they might as- sist in long leaps. The remainder of their anat- omy is complicated. Our cabin cricket was smaller and lighter brown than its big, forest relatives, but they appeared quite similar. Their outer covering encases them as armor. Their eyes are prominent and glittering, and help to give them a cheerful, alert appearance. I noticed that when traveling undisturbed they lightly touched objects before them with their long hair-fine antennae as if feel- ing their way. On each side of the front section of the bodies are a series of three short legs used for walking, and just back of these the large, long leg for leaping. On the floor, pottering over cricket history, close to the fence, where the light was strong, I made a new acquaintance. Botanists may know it well, but I am unable to place it in any of many valuable works I own. This may be because I found it in the fall, at berry-bearing time, and they would describe it in bloom. But I have small trouble in identifying other plants at any season. 95 Music of the Wild No nature-lover has described this as I found it, and no decorator has conventionalized it ; yet surely A New Ac- the berries stand close the head of the beauty class. quaintance Brilliant color of Chinese-red and coral-pink at- tracted me, and on investigation I found a plant of half bush, half vining habit, close two feet in height, its stems straight, round, slender, faintly bluish-green, its leaves shaped much like and re- sembling in veining and color those of some plum trees I know. It had seeded in a burr, shaped and toothed outside like that of a beechnut, but almost four times larger, and of warm coral-pink color. These burrs hung over the plant profusely from very long, fine threads of stems, and being ripe, had burst open, revealing four partitions covered by a thin Chinese-red membrane. In some this had opened in a straight line down the middle, drawing back each way, and evicting at the four points of the pink burr a bright-red berry fastened by an extremely short stem. These were really a seed, of pearl color, oval, and a little ob- long in shape, one end touched with flecks of red like a bird's egg, and enveloped in a red, pulpy cover. I have found this plant only four times in all my life afield, and for brilliant color and com- plicated arrangement of seeding I do not remem- ber its equal. Ebony mus Americanus is its re- sounding scientific name. If it is sufficiently well known to have a common one I can not find it. 96 The Chorus of the Forest While I photographed it a rustling among the deep leaves called my attention to the typical bird of the forest floor, but this was not our first meet- A Ground ing; in fact, we were old acquaintances, and one Musician box of negatives in my closet at home recorded all of its nesting history that I could secure with a camera. Studies of this bird are unusual, at least I am fairly well informed along this line, and I never have seen any published. It is typical of the forest floor. It not only builds and raises its young on earth, but finds food there, scratching like an exemplary hen, with feet working alter- nately, and also surpassing her by using both feet at once, in a manner she never learned. It has scratched and scratched until from much scratching its length of toe and nail has developed into its most conspicuous part. On the same prin- ciple, but in different members, the heron has evolved its long legs by wading among the reeds. Because constant flight keeps them useless, two of a kingfisher's toes are yet grown together and do not separate as do those of perching birds. You only have to notice the feet of this family group to observe the extraordinary length of toe and nail, even in the young. I suspect you are wrondering why I do not tell their name. There is no necessity. The bird pre- fers to introduce itself. Indeed, there is every probability you have heard it do so many times, 99 Music of the Wild while you never have seen the vocalist, for it keeps close earth in damp, dark places, although social and a constant talker. It mounts to a high choir- loft to sing its song. The cricket's is the dominant insect note of the forest in August, the crow's the bird voice of the treetops ; this is the busybody and the unceasing musician of earth. Pairs remain together after family cares are over, and their conversation consists of a question and an answer. "Che-wink?" inquires the male, with strong interrogative inflection on the last syl- lable. "Che-wee!" exclaims the female, in reply, as if she were delighted to say so. "Che-wink?" he asks again, with his next breath. "Che- wee!" she gurgles, as if she were telling him something "perfectly splendid" for the first time. This call of the male supplies the species with a common name. On his part it means, "Where are you?"- and her answer is, "Here!" But as it is delivered I think, from the spontaneity of the reply, that it means a shade more — "Safely here!" "Happily here!" or "Glad to be here!" I am sure this is true, because in work close chewink nests I have had much acquaintance with them. If a male calls and does not get instant reply, he repeats the notes with perceptibly higher tone and stronger inflection. If there is no an- swer to this he flies to a bush and begins a per- fect clamor of alarm cries, and hurries around the 100 The Chorus of the Forest location, keeping up and increasing the excitement until the straying female hears him and comes home. Where many of these birds nest undis- turbed their notes are more noticeable than any other feathered folk of earth. The chewink is a finch, large as a rose-breasted grosbeak, and often mistaken for one on account of the black coat and cowl worn by both. The The chewink is far the more elegant and graceful bird, while the grosbeak is the better musician. Mr. Chewink wears a black coat, with the sleeves and tail touched with white, a black headdress and broad black collar. His shirt is creamy white and his vest a bright Venetian-red. Mrs. Chewink's headdress and collar are a brownish-tan color, the back and sleeves of her suit the same color with the white touches. Her waist front is a dark creamy white, and her toilet is completed with a Zouave jacket of red, a shade darker than Mr. Chewink's vest. All her colors are richer in sub- dued tones and more artistic than his, for where he sharply contrasts she harmonizes exquisitely. Both birds have long tails, longer legs than others of their genus, and the feet and toes as described, from much scratching. They are the noisiest birds of the forest floor. They desire to search the earth for tiny bugs and worms, and the fallen leaves make a deep cov- ering everywhere. So they alight on a place that 103 Music of the Wild they select in a manner known to themselves; at times I have seen them stand motionless, with one side of the head turned toward the ground, as robins do, and appear to listen, so that I have thought it possible that they hear insect sounds, as we may if we bring our ears close earth. When a spot is chosen they jump upon it with toes wide- spread, and sink their sharp nails deeply into the leaves; then with half -lifted wings, to aid the leg and body muscles, they spring as far forward as they can and drop their load. In this manner I have seen them at one effort clear a space as large as a breakfast plate, on which to scratch for food. Once as I crouched, covered by a tan crava- nette exactly the color of the leaves, beside a stump A Lost in the forest, a male bird came within six feet of Study me anc[ severa] times uncovered the earth by this method. In each operation he appeared to listen before he selected a spot to work upon. Once my sense of humor spoiled a fine study of his mate. She was approaching the nest to feed the young, when he attempted to lift a large layer of leaves. He must have gripped securely a fine, thread-like root that lifted for a few inches and then became taut. The shock whirled him sidewrise and rolled him over. He did not know what had happened, and he appeared so astonished and cried out so indignantly that I laughed and helped increase his fright. He dashed from the thicket uttering 104 THE CROWN OF THE FOREST KING " What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his! There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss! Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring." —Lowell. The Chorus of the Forest alarm cries that scared his mate out of focus, so I lost a picture. Their habit is to build on the earth beneath the protection of a gnarled root or fallen limb, but once I found a nest in a tangle of bushes ten inches above ground. The female slipped from it, hopped away, and trailed a wing that appeared to be broken, and squealed as if wounded. I never saw a killdeer play " 'possum" more naturally. Chewinks build of leaves and coarse grass, and line with finer material. The eggs are white, touched with brown. Aside from that tribal call from which they take their names, they sing a sustained song of several notes, much more promising in the beginning than in the ending, that seems so un- necessarily abrupt as to cause one to wish to enter protest. The song opens with a sweet, clear whis- tle, and then slides off without at all fulfilling the expectation it inspired. But where many musi- cians mount the bushes and sing, accompanied by the endless leaf rustle of their mates, the music forms one of the most pleasing parts of the forest chorus. They mount still higher and sing with more abandon quite late, for birds, in the evening ; or else their notes sound particularly well at that time on account of the peculiarity of their vocal- izing neighbors who are just running scales to clear their voices for the night performance. You never can say you really belong in the f or- 107 Music of the Wild est unless you have remained for so many all-night concerts that you are familiar with the parts of The all the musicians. At night only a few grasshop- Midnight pers are vocalizing, the crickets never cease, and 6 the katy-dids tune up for their star performance. Daytime feathered singers as a rule tuck their heads and go to sleep early, and the absence of the wavering accompaniment of their varied voices gives peculiar pause and tonal color to ensuing notes that are of themselves sufficiently emphatic and startling. Almost always the wind drops on summer evenings, and a great silence so deep it enwraps you as a garment and fills your soul with awe seems to creep from the very heart of the for- est. When not dominated by tree and bird music, insect voices ring out shrill and high, and the whip- poor-will finds truly artistic pause and setting for its remarkable vocal performance. No other bird of all ornithology lifts its voice and in such clear and distinct English enunciates what it has to say. Almost every naturalist and musician afield re- cording bird notes disagrees as to the utterance and inflection of some of our plainest talkers. There is no difference of opinion whatever about this bird. To every one it says too plainly to ad- mit questioning, "Whip-poor-will!" Near the same time the night hawk takes flight during the breeding season. After family cares are over I have seen bands of them come sweeping 108 The Chorus of the Forest from the forest and spread over lake and river as early as four o'clock in the afternoon. They are of tireless flight, darting here and there with mouths wide open for whatever they come across, as they take their food on wing. Especially dur- ing the breeding season the males do aerial stunts, possibly for the diversion of weary mates. They soar seventy-five or one hundred feet, spread the wings and tail widely, and drop toward earth, the wind passing between the stiff feathers causing the whistling, booming sound that earns for them the name of "night jar." This performance does jar the night somewhat, and might the nerves also, were it wise to allow ourselves such a luxury. I prefer the term to Jarring night hawk, since the birds are not nearly so much the Nl&ht creatures of night as they should be to merit dis- tinct designation by the name; neither are they hawks at all, but relatives of martins and swal- IOMTS. Aside from this instrumental performance on wing they utter a nice, cheerful scream that some peculiar folks insist upon disliking, but then there are people in this world who are forever rais- ing strong objections to the vocalizing of their human neighbors. Night jars have a third per- formance, half vocal, half pantomimic, that is most remarkable of all. When surprised close their nests, cornered, or slightly wounded, they lie on their backs, swell their facial and throat muscles 111 Music of the Wild to astonishing size, and hiss, with mouths wide open. So the ever-discerning French call them "flying toads," to commemorate the performance. I can not change the subject after this without saying for these birds that they are beautiful, in rich colors of blended black, gray, creamy white, several shades of brown, and the red that scientists designate "rufous;" combinations that render them especial colorative protection among the grasses, leaves, and on the earth or rocks upon which they nest. In monetary value they are almost priceless. They do not destroy anything of use to man, while they gather millions of grasshoppers that are cut- ting crops, and sift the air tirelessly for insect pests. On wing the white bands of the quills form a half-moon that distinguishes them from the whip- poor-will, for which they are often mistaken. When night envelopes the forest there travel its dusky aisles and dark mazes three creatures of silent soundless wing: great, exquisitely colored night Wings moths, owjSj and Dats. The moths are mostly con- fined to the months of May and June. Few peo- ple see and none ever hear them. Matured in a cocoon spun by a big caterpillar, performing all the functions of their lives under cover of the dark- ness of night, and spending their few days in the darkest places possible, never moving in the light except when disturbed, one would imagine they would be dark-gray, brown, and black in coloring. 112 BLACK HAWS As odd a thing as you ever saw Is the changing color of the black haw. All its berries hang china white; Jack Frost paints them black some October night; When the sun sees this ebon hue, He veils it in 'bloom' of silvery blue. The Chorus of the Forest I think most of the tints of the rainbow are repre- sented among them. Some are palest blue-green, decorated with straw color and lavender; others are cowslip-yellow, with touches of maroon; some are tan, with pink markings, and others terra cotta, with canary-colored spots and gray lines. Some are gray, with terra cotta half -moons; others are wine-red, with tan; all are of beautiful basic color, speckled, dotted, lined, striped, and spotted with bright harmonizing or contrasting designs on their wings of softest velvet down. Some have trans- parent ovals so clear that fine print can be read through them, set in their wings, and most moths are large as the average warbler. They sweep so close that your face is sensitive to the disturbance of air in their passing, but you hear no sound. Their flight is soft and perfectly noiseless. The owl can afford to be of silent wing, it so dominates the night with its voice. It would give me great satisfaction if I had some way of know- ing surely whether other birds sleep serenely dur- ing its vehement serenade either to the moon or to a coveted mate, or whether they are awake and shuddering with fear. I know how the heart of a frightened bird leaps and throbs in its small breast, and I would be glad to learn that they sleep soundly, but I doubt it. They are awake and fluttering through the dark- ness at such slight disturbance of other nature. 115 Music of the Wild There is no difficulty whatever in learning the status of owl music among people. Repulsion and shuddering greet it everywhere. I have been making an especial study of this, and I think I have learned how it began. The Bible contains our first authentic bird his- tory, but ornithologists before that time in other lands, and all of them everywhere since, are unan- imous in doing all in their power to discredit the vocal performance of the owl. I can not find a single reference to it in the Bible not expressly written for the purpose of inspiring fear and re- pulsion. Isaiah says in predicting the fall of Bab- ylon, "And their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwrell there, and satyrs shall dance there." Micah said he would "make a wrailing like the dragons and a mourning as the owls." When Da- The vid fell into trouble he became "like a pelican of Pariah of ^]ie wilderness and an owl of the desert." Such quotations constitute the entire Bible record of the bird, and taking their cue from these, — ornitholo- gists, nature writers, and even poets perpetuate such ideas. Proctor distinguished himself by a lengthy owl poem, from which I quote, — In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral owl doth dwell ; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he ' s abroad and well : 116 The Chorus of the Forest And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold, And she loveth the wood's deep gloom, And, with eyes like the shine of a moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom." The sentiment belongs to the poet, the italics are mine. Now, would you not think that the bride who is "fond and bold," and who "loveth" her home, might have just one line of whole-souled appreciation out of a lengthy poem? But she did not get it because the people who have written the volumes compiled owl history would make have forgotten to give one minute of consideration to the viewpoint of the bird. Do you suppose that to the owl her mate is "dull, hated, despised, spec- tral, ghastly," and only fit company for "doleful creatures, satyrs, and dragons?" If you ever had seen her nestle close to him, rub her head against him, stroke his feathers with her beak, and heard her jabber her love-story to him, you would change your mind speedily, if that is what you have been thinking. There is good excuse for other birds fearing the owl. It seems to be ordained by nature that the larger species prey upon the smaller for food, and they suffer from the law without being able to argue its justice. But people have nothing to fear and everything to enlist their sympathy. I think the truth is the shudder that greets the vo- calizing of the owl is not really for the bird at all, 119 Music of the Wild but a touch of fear of the forest at night, yet in the system. A taint of an inheritance from days when our ancestors battled there for existence, that be- comes manifest at unexpected sounds, the gleam- ing surfaces of pools, the wavering shafts of moonlight, the vibrant tree-rustle of the wind, the stealthy step of animals crossing the leafy floor, the gutteral scream of night-hunters fighting over prey. So because this bird of silent wing comes hooting from a place of which they stand a little in awe they vent their displeasure on its voice. Of all the scientists, ornithologists, and nature writers whose work graces my library shelves not The Owls' one goes on record with the fact that the owl ut- Serenade terance most loudly condemned is his love song, used in courting his mate, and when these writers shudder they do not explain that Mr. Horned Owl is throwing in especially intoned and emphatic sen- timent. He is imploring with all his might for the mate he covets to pair with him and record a title to the first location he finds suitable for their happy home. Just singing out his heart in the best and only serenade he knows. Because they are of night and silent flight, no doubt, bats are placed in the same class with owls — at the very foot. Most fastidious people imagine that they draw the line at a worm, but they do not. They draw it at a bat, and this, again, on account of the prejudicial history surrounding a 120 The Chorus of the Forest wonderful little creature, half bird, half beast. The poet Street wrote of it as "a wavering, sound- less blot." A bat in the face is considered just and sufficient cause for convulsions, yet the worst that possibly could result from it would be a tiny scratch of a bite, not nearly so annoying as that of a mosquito. Once I had a face-to- face acquaintance with a mother bat whose body bore the weight of three young that nursed at her breast and clung to her Bat while they slept. She had a very small face, Bi°g- shaped like that of a young pig, except that the ears were round instead of pointed. The male must have carried food, or else enough insects to sustain life flew her way, for she could not carry her burden on wing. With the exception of flight, I could not discover one attribute or characteristic of the feathered tribe. Her wings were not in the least birdlike. They resembled the half of a spread umbrella having a thin rubber cover. Each wing represented four ribs and three sections of cover, and these ribs centered in a joint like the long, bony fingers of a hand, with a little sharp hook of a thumb, by which the bat clung and helped bear her Mreight. She slept head down and was liveliest at night. Her fur was silken soft and fine, and of beautiful red-brown color. When fed milk with a small wooden paddle I could see her fine sharp teeth, but she did not offer to bite. 123 Music of the Wild When I had studied her all I desired and photo- graphed the family, she was replaced where she had been found. She appealed to me as a happy mother busy with affairs of momentous importance, for she was raising triplets instead of the usual twins of bat-land. A human touch that struck straight to my heart often occurred when the young finished nursing and crept over her body. They dug into her skin until she squealed such a sibilant, faint sound that it would have required multiplication by a million to raise one healthy note in the great chorus of the forest. I was reminded of a mother crying out when her baby hurts her. It would be well for every one to become sufficiently familiar with bats to handle them, and find out what they are doing, and why, and what their relation is to us. Having learned these things, people will be- come more in harmony with the scheme of crea- tion. They will respect the motherhood of this small winged animal, and recognize that in sifting the night air for noxious insects, as do swallows and martins by day, it is fulfilling a purpose in the plan of creation and being of inestimable value to us. If the pests exterminated by the flycatchers, swallows, martins, night hawks, and bats were al- lowed to multiply one season without being mo- lested, humanity then would be ready to raise a 124 III! 111! The Chorus of the Forest great chorus of praise concerning the work of these small creatures of silent wing. If I had a lifetime to live in the forest, inex- haustible plates, indestructible cameras, wells of ink, and pens of magic, I am sure that for each day — yes, every hour — I could find some interest- ing thing to picture and describe. But the de- mands of life will not allow this, and the forest ends all too soon in these days. You can locate the line where mere woods begin by robin talk. Here you find despoiled forest. It is easy to work, because in taking out valuable trees for com- merce men have cut roads that can be followed even Where in quite wild places. Often manv trees have been The Woods felled, and the strong light shining in has started Begin grasses growing. Men see in these open places tender, luxuriant pasture for stock, so when sal- able timber is taken out the next step is to kill all the shrubs and vines possible, burn the brush, and make grazing grounds. Of course the cleared fields come next, and as they march with inexorable force, they push back the woods farther and yet farther. I find that most of the trees are of little or no commercial value. They remain because they are of twisted growth, bent, soft wood, hollow, nut bearers, or too small to be felled with profit. So the woods belong to pasturing stock, birds, ani- mals, and children. The lure of the unknown in 127 Music of the Wild the forest is not over the open wood, but it has great attractions of its own. To most people who fancy they are "roughing it" the woods are emi- nently satisfactory, and as far as they care to pen- etrate. In the woods you are sure to be close a road, and you know there are almost constant passers-by, in case anything annoys you. You can see your way far ahead, and walk on solid foothold, padded with thickly growing grass like a lawn. You can lie safely on a green couch with a tree for a back rest. For atmosphere you find a hint of forest pungency and coolness without the damp, mucky odor. The music of the woods is very different from the forest. The insects are much the same, but The widely scattered, so that their songs lack volume. Chorus j|s kjrcis are nQt of the same voice and habit, and Woods ^ homes other animals. Tree music is entirely dif- ferent. The density of the forest dissipates the force of even heavy wind, and the intricacy of the branches divides it into wailing, sobbing murmurs of sound. In the woods the winds can blow with might, and meet much less obstruction, so that the harp music is higher of tone, grander in sweep, longer in measure, with more of an instrumental swell. Nut trees are spared almost universally in clearing, so they are numerous and easy to find, 128 The Chorus of the Forest and chattering squirrels are plentiful around them. Hollow trees have no monetary value; they remain and furnish shelter for everything desiring either an upright or a prostrate home. I noticed in the woods that dead trees had sufficient space to lie down and decay at ease. The squirrels bark and race along the logs, coons sniff and shuffle in them, and the cotton-tails bound with a quick flash of white from covert to covert. The jays are kept busy guarding the woods. Orioles trail their bub- bling song along their chosen paths of air. Flam- ing cardinals chip among the bushes, and barn owls enliven the night. At no time are the woods ever so the property of any human being as in early spring they belong to the children. For the small people, it seems to Frost me, the flowers and birds are an especial inherit- Flowers ance from the Father. The Lord knew when He blanketed the earth with snowy white how children would walk long distances and overturn the dead leaves in their search for spring flowers, because of all others they love these most, — just the white anemones, pink-flushed spring beauties, blue vio- lets, and Dutchman's breeches. No bird note I ever have heard was quite so sweet as the voices of the children out for a first flower-hunt after the confinement of a long, cold winter. Without knowing what it is they love, they lift their heads, fill their lungs with the air 131 Music of the Wild cool with scarce melted snows, pungent with cat- kin pollen, tinged with the vague, subtle perfume from unsheathing leaves, and the bloom of forest trees, and answer to the call of nature. They hasten to the woods as cattle dry-fed for months race through pasture when first released, too crazed with joy to begin grazing at once. If the truth were told, I think this love of children for the spring flowers is almost as much craving for the intoxication of spring air and release from win- ter's bondage as it is appreciation of the blooms. What a shout the child sends up who finds the first flower! The one who secures a dogtooth vio- let is envied as men covet each other's gold. What matters it that the hot, close-grasping little hands will wither the delicate frost blooms hopelessly be- fore they can be presented so lovingly to mother and teacher? The children have had the joy of their outing, the fulfillment of their search, the pleasure of giving the precious gift; and where the earth lies blanketed with flowers until one must look closely to see that it is not yet snow-covered, what they take never will be missed, and the com- ing spring will bring as profuse bloom as the past. Later in the season, when the cardinal flower, foxfire, cowslip, bellflower, bluebell, and daisy bloom — flowers that are of rarer occurrence and that would be exterminated by such vigorous at- tacks— the children have become accustomed to 132 SYCAMORE "In the outskirts of the village, On the river's winding shores, Stand the Occidental plane-trees, Stand the ancient sycamores." — Whittier. The Chorus of the Forest freedom and out-door sports, and seldom go to the woods. I once knew an Irishman who, in reference to being greedy about anything, said it was always his way to "take a little and leave a little." I wish "Take a I could impress this splendid doctrine upon all flower hunters, especially city folk who go pleas- Little ure-driving through the country. Frequently while at my work in the fields and woods I meet them, and they never leave anything, not even the roots, unless it be wild rose, goldenrod, or some- thing so profuse they can not possibly take all. That is not the worst. They are not prepared to gather flowers. They see a lovely red, blue, or yellow bloom, and jump from their carriages long enough to drag up the plant by the roots. If the flower is a hardy annual, this means death. If a seedling, it is death also, for no seed remains to ripen. I hope that I may live to see the day when our wild flowers will be protected by law, the same as our birds. If the flowers had been created to furnish sweets for honey-gatherers and feeders only, all of them might as well have been green or have con- sisted merely of stamen and pistil. I never will believe that the gorgeously colored petals are only a signal to attract bees and butterflies. The the- ory is confounded in the beginning by the differ- ing colors and the fact that many brilliant flow- 135 Music of the Wild ers have no perfume whatever and are not visited by sweet-lovers. If color were only a signal to in- sects, it might as well be all red or yellow. If petals were solely an attraction to honey-gatherers, why call bees and butterflies to bloom having no sweetness? It is as sure as can be that flowers are not only for sweet-lovers, but for us, to give pleas- ure, to glorify the landscape, to set a joy-song singing in the soul. Flower forms are complicated, beautiful past describing, and their colors varied to suit every de- The gree of taste and circumstance of usage. The Patent- Lord gave the blossoms decorating the earth, as a Divinity masterstroke, a finishing touch, the patent-right of Divinity stamped upon the face of His work. Then surely it is an offense to Him ruthlessly to tear up plants by the root, and to kill them for the moment's gratification. Any one who wishes to preserve a proper spirit of gratitude to God for His gift of the flowers will cut a few carefully, and leave the plant to bloom another year, or ma- ture its seed. I think, further, that any person of refined taste not only will leave a plant alive, and a part of its bloom to mature seed ; but he also will leave some of its flowers for the next traveler of the road. The highway stretches endlessly, and human souls more sensitive than you would dream are upon it each hour. There is not always a song on every lip. The lines on some faces indicate wea- 136 The Chorus of the Forest riness, care, and deep sorrow. Flowers and bird songs are to cheer the way for all, and some need encouragement so sorely. Possibly the very next comer may be sad-hearted, and the bright blooms would offer cheer. Who are you, to monopolize any gift of the Lord merely because you happen to be the first to find it? The only way to make any diminution of the small spring flowers \vould be to plow and till the soil. But of the larger, later growths mentioned some are at present almost extinct. Ten years ago tall, blue bellflower waved in almost every fence- corner of my immediate territory. This summer vigorous search for just enough to fill an eight by ten photographic plate revealed it in only three places, widely separated. Another hunt disclosed foxfire in one location, and no cardinal flower. In the woods where mandrake formerly grew in half-acre patches, trampling cattle and rooting pigs, aided by ruthless flower-gatherers, have Apples played havoc with it until search is required to find of May a healthy, typical growth. Mandrake is a wonder- fully peculiar plant and, aside from its medicinal value, is beautiful and bears fruit. In early spring the tender leaves, wrapped around their stems like a folded umbrella, come pushing through the earth. The plants have one stalk, that branches at the height of ten or twelve inches, each branch sup- porting a big leaf made up of four or six sections, 139 Music of the Wild lobed to the base, so that they appear to be sepa- rated. The flower opens at the branching, a waxy, white cup that resembles a lily in texture and has six petals. Pollen-laden stamens surround the pistil, that is straight and heavy, and on the drop- ping of the leaves it develops the fruit. The flow- ers are oppressively fragrant, but many people admire them and are fond of the ripe apples. Country children gather them just at the turning to gold, and bury them in the bran barrel for a treat long after the wroods are bare. They are called "May-apples," and are entitled to be classed as the typical flower and fruit of the woods. Like many other species, extinction threatens them. Last season from early spring I had been watching a large bed of mandrake that I hoped would bloom profusely and give me a good study for this book. Passing the location one Sabbath afternoon, I planned to stop and learn if it would be ready for use on the morrow. From afar my hopes sank, for I could see a carriage standing at the place. When I arrived one man was holding the horse, and another with two women were com- ing from the woods. Each one of them carried as many mandrake stems as they possibly could grasp; every stem had an exquisite waxy flower at the top, shorn of all vestige of leaf. The bed was ruined, and the ground covered with roots and leaves. If those people had not torn up, they 140 SMOKE HOUSE Through cycles the sycamore lifted its head, Above savage and beast with stealthy feet, Now it stands by the old woodshed, And serves to cure the summer meat. The Chorus of the Forest had trampled down every plant; and the great bunches of bloom they carried would not live to reach the city, for mandrake is extremely delicate when gathered. You could have trailed the party from the woods by a milky way of petals already fallen, and no doubt the mass of flowers was dis- carded before ten miles had been traveled, so sen- sitive are these blooms to touch. It has been my fortune to find mandrake flourishing beneath or near oak trees so often that I have wondered if there could be an affinity. From the nature of the plant, I suppose not; but this I know: foxglove loves to twine its roots around those of oaks, and finer specimens flour- ish near them than anywhere else. And I have been told that more delicious truffles grow among oak roots than chestnut. The oak is a wonderful tree. It reaches unrecorded age, and is strong and hardy. It becomes such a giant that it is king of the forest, unsurpassed in the woods, and has no peer in the fields. The mellow bass notes of nature's tree music are played among its massive branches. There are many varieties that are used for furniture and wherever stout, unyielding tim- bers are required in a house or for ship-building. In commerce it is valuable for making furniture and musical instruments, and for certain purposes no other tree will take its place. Oak bark is very rough and deeply grooved 143 Music of the Wild with the cracks of growth, and where the tree is not crowded its shape is symmetrical, and its leaves are artistically cut. In the fall some species color with great brilliancy, crowning the king with flam- ing red. Its flowers are long, greenish-yellow tas- sels, pollen-covered, and their perfume is a part of that creeping, subtle odor that people struggle to define and can not, because they do not dream what produces it. I always find the bees, wild and domesticated, extremely busy over it, and so far as I can judge by my taste it is one of the kinds of pollen that tempers the sickening sweetness of pure flower honey so that it is edible. There are many attractive spring odors, but there is difficulty in tracing some of them to their The origin. Because they are fond of gathering cat- Bloom- kins every one knows that willows bloom and has Trees become familiar with the pollen. But they do not realize that in early spring forest, wood, and field trees are all covered with tiny flowers heavily la- dened with pollen, so that to the wind harping in the branches is added the music of millions of honey-gathering bees. Buckeye, walnut, hickory, hazel, chestnut, ash, elm, beech, oak, in fact every tree that bears nut, berry or seed is weighted with masses of small bloom. Oak flowers are not at all gaudy. They make no display worth mentioning in comparison with the fall coloring of the foliage. But the bursting 144 The Chorus of the Forest of white oak-leaf buds covers a tree with a pale, silvery pinkish effect that is lovely and very showy ; much more attractive than the flowers. All vari- eties of acorns are interesting with their shiny hulls, pointed tips, and flat bases that fit into their rough cups securely, until the nuts drop, or else at ma- turity are shaken out by the wind. Few of the cups fall until pushed off by the growth of the following spring. These little cups, clinging to a tree all winter, make it appear as if it might be a table spread for a fairies' tea party. The leaves of oak, and also beech, hang W7ith the same te- nacity, and in winter days of hoar-frost or drift- ing snow they form the most beautiful fringy and mossy sprays among the branches. There are two peculiarities about the oak that as yet science has failed to explain satisfactorily: why it is that all through the forest, field, and woods these big trees so frequently die in the very top branches — a death that too often spreads to the roots ; and why they are more frequently struck by lightning than any other tree. Government re- ports tell us they are, but they neglect to state the reason. These and other large trees of the forest some- times deceive the lumbermen who fell them by be- ing a mere shell, and so they are left where they are cut. But nothing is ever useless, and birds and animals are quick to take possession of anything U7 Music of the Wild men leave for them. Felled hollow trees are splen- did homes for the big black chickens of the woods Pharaoh's — the vultures. These birds find such trees very Chickens Sllitable, for in them are combined location, shel- ter, and building material. The deep inner coat- ing of decayed wood jars loose with the fall of the tree, and the homing bird only has to turn on the point of her breast a few times in it to make a hollow, and she is ready for housekeeping. She lays a pair of delicate pale-blue lusterless eggs, much the color of a cuckoo's, but heavily mot- tled, and splashed with dark chocolate. In these circumstances the nest is very beautiful. The de- cayed wrood runs the whole color scheme, from almost white through every shade of yellow, and then begins on tans and exhausts them, and then the browns. The big, speckled blue eggs are shaped like a hen's, but large as a turkey's. The young are out in a month, and are simply comical little creatures, having the sharp, hooked beak of the flesh-eater, a little old wrinkled face of leathery appearance, and a body that expands to three times its shell capacity on the first day of emergence. Their dress is of snowy white, fine as swan's down. They are so clumsy and helpless they must remain many weeks developing in the log before taking wing and sailing to the clouds. The old birds are relatives of Pharaoh's chick- ens of ancient Egypt, where they w^ere so bene- 148 The Chorus of the Forest ficial in their work of ridding camps, tenting families, villages, and cities of refuse and decay- ing matter, that in the heat bred plague and fever quickly, that one of the kings surpassed the stringent laws of his predecessors for the protec- tion of the birds by enacting a law inflicting the death penalty on any one killing a vulture. Fol- lowing this precedent, some of our Southern States impose a heavy fine as a means of protecting these birds. All over the South they are common, and at times become familiar and perch upon housetops and buildings, so contaminating the water supply that it is a question as to whether they are a bless- ing. In the North the birds are not numerous, but every year makes them more so. Their cousin, turkey-buzzard, is frequent. The old birds spend much of their time on wing, ranging the sky over miles of country searching for food. They are graceful and majestic in flight as any bird, not truly black, but shading from a reddish tinge to a rich dark-brown with blackish effects. I can not see that any bird presents a more at- tractive picture in the sky. It is not known how high they can soar; beyond our range of vision, Black that is sure. Their music resembles a guttural ™*™ jabber in love-making, most of which is done in sign language; and when angry or afraid, they hiss much like geese. In danger or anger they do 151 Music of the Wild not scream and fight with beak and feet, as the hawk or eagle, but content themselves with hissing and biting if cornered. They duck their heads, dodge rapidly, and are very dexterous in making their escape. While they appear anxious, they are not bold and will not attack you if you touch their young. Possibly this is because they consider a habit of theirs to be the best means of defense, and expect the young to protect themselves in the same manner. Their method of warfare is quite as unique and effective as that of the skunk. The staple food of these birds is carrion, and when angry or disturbed they present you with their par- tially digested dinners. The question whether birds have much sense of smell — above all, whether a vulture can smell itself — long has been discussed among scientists. No bird or animal is offensive to itself, but vultures must have some hazy knowl- edge that this act on their part is disgusting to mor- tals; else, why the inclination, even in the newly- hatched young? A great amount of flight and pa- tient searching is required to secure a vulture's chosen food; surely they would not be so ready to part with it if they did not know the act would secure for them the immunity it usually does. Vultures remain in the woods and fields until late in the fall, probably because their young need much practice before they have the strength and agility of wing for migration. Usually the leaves 152 The Chorus of the Forest have colored, and most of them fallen, before these birds migrate. They remain with us, as the larks, until frost and cold drive them away. After the young become self-supporting the family perches among the branches of a big tree for the night. This is cold, unattractive business by No- vember, for there is little shelter on any tree save among the dry leaves of oaks and beeches. There is a smaller tree that once deceived me into the belief that it was clinging to its dead leaves as do its larger fellows, but examination The Hop- proved that it was loaded with dry seed clusters. TreeDance It was a hop tree, and the seeds were very similar to those of the slippery elm. They are almost round in shape, flat, a small oval seed in the center, a thin dry rim around it, and a twig bears from forty to sixty in one cluster. Each seed hangs from a tough, slender stem. When the wind blows the hop tree is the greatest musician of the woods. But there is no sobbing, no wailing, no sadness in its notes. It plays a happy, clipping dance tune. From every side the wind catches the flat seed sur- faces and sets them shaking with an enlivening rustle, and when millions of them strike together, all the pixies, gnomes, and fairies come trooping to the hall of the woods and begin wildly dancing as the hop tree shakes its castanets. Before you know it you come to the end of the woods. When we stop to think, the earth as 155 Music of the Wild originally given to us was almost solid forest. Barring the oceans, a few places of desertness, the mountains and swamps, deep forest covered the greater portion of the remaining surface at the advent of man. A few feet of digging will un- cover the roots of extinct forests where some of our desert land now lies. What the character of the chorus of the for- est must have been in those days one can not imag- ine. The notes of our great tree harps were the first sacrificed. Before the advance of civilization the trees must fall to build homes, for fires, to clear space for cultivation, and to provide furni- ture and implements. As the trees vanished not only their music ceased, but the songs of all the inhabitants of their branches and the residents of the earth beneath them. The voice of the forest was hushed. So completely were the trees wiped out that not even decayed specimens, the big bass-drums, were left for the birds. Men saw many places where they could use a hollow tree, and save much time and expense. So the pump and the watering- trough were made of them. Also the bee-hive, smoke-house, ash hopper, hen's nest, sugar-water trough, feeding-troughs of all sizes, the dog ken- nel, bread tray, and first and most important of all should have been mentioned the cradle. Hol- low trees were used in ditches where we now place 156 Ill III C O-Q PI! The Chorus of the Forest tile, and for many other purposes, some of them very amusing. Wherever man takes possession of the gift of the Lord the forest and its music dis- appear. To be sure, new music springs up in the fields to take its place, but the substitute is very mild. On account of its wild, weird, appealing strain, The found nowhere else in nature, the chorus of the >Y1-1'?e8.t: of Music forest thrills the heart. It is the only place on earth where tree music can be had in perfection, and no other is like it. Great organs have been built and numerous wind and string instruments made, all in an effort to reproduce the sigh and the sob, the wrail and the roar of the forest, but they forever fall short of its grandeur and majesty. This incomparable tree harping can not be re- produced out of its element; it may be copied in parts so accurately that its tones can be recognized, but the real music of nature is when the waves of wind sweep among the boughs of trees. It is when crickets of the forest floor sing cheerily, when grasshoppers energetically play their fiddles, and locusts sow their notes on summer air. The leaf-rustle of the chewink on earth, the mournful Avail of the pewee in the treetops, the impudent chuckle of the crow, and the battle-cry of the hawk, are parts of it. The scream of the night jar, the command of the whip-poor-will, and the serenade of the courting owl combine their notes. 159 Music of the Wild It is in the bleating of the fawn, the howl of the wolf, and the gutteral growl of the bear. Every voice of each living creature lifted in joy, curi- osity, pain, or anger, with the leaf-rustle or cy- clonic agony of the trees, the murmur of waters, the whisper of winds, and the song of humanity plays a part. All these unite to form one great and throbbing anthem, and if you once learn this wildest of music it will become so sacred to you that its call will be with you always, and when it is most insistent you will find peace only in the forest. PART II Songs of the Fields " While round pour bed, o'er fern and blade, Insects in green and gold arrayed, The sun's gay tribes have lightly strayed; And sweeter sounds their humming wings Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings." —Howitt. KATY-DID "Did Katy love a naughty man, Or kiss more cheeks than one? I warrant Katy did no more Than many a Kate has done." —Holmes. Songs of the Fields IF the forest is the Temple of God, the fields are the amphitheater of man. When spring arouses a sleeping earth they are painted in Field one great, ever-shifting panorama that stretches Music beyond our vision, and the world is filled with the songs of nature. Because we love this music above all other we rejoice that a few old-fashioned fields remain to be flooded with such melody in its proper environment. Here, dotted with wild trees and outlined with lichen and vine-covered old snake- fences, every corner of which is filled with shrubs and bushes sheltering singing birds and insects, the great song festival of the fields is held. Here the old-time content with life is voiced from cabin homes, and the forest towering high above affords shelter and protection, and balances the forces of nature. These old farms, forest-guarded, walled by growth and moisture, resounding with bird- song and trampled with scudding feet, — all of these have two owners. One is the man who pays 165 Music of the Wild the taxes and keeps up the fences; the other is the woman with the camera, who coolly lays down en- closures and trespasses where fancy leads. Every such farm on the face of earth is mine, also the birds, moths, and animals that it attracts. It is undying glory to own these old cabins, the orchards that surround them, the gardens, stable lots, wood-yards, truck patches, grain fields, pastures, creeks, ponds, little hints that remind you of real forest, stretches of river, thickets, and all the insects, bird, and animal life. These farmers do not know there is another claimant to their land. They think the title is clear. No one has taught them, innocent souls as they are, that they are monopolizing all the beauty to be found in the land- scape, and that beauty "lies in the eye of the be- holder," and therefore it is the property of all who see and claim it for their own. My old fields lay stretched in warm spring sunshine, mellowing slowly; for in the shelter of Old- the forest they have not frozen and thawed repeat- e(^y* as w^ien unprotected, so the wheat crop is sure. Among last year's stubble great velvety mul- leins stretch soft green leaves, and thistles prove how hardy they are. The pasture shows living green all over, and as soon as it is firm enough to bear the weight of stock the cattle that bellow dis- consolately in the barnyard on dry feed will race to it like mad things. 166 Songs of the Fields Northward bound wild geese dot the river bank with excrement as they pause for a short rest in their migration. The bees rim the water-trough and drink greedily, the guineas clatter, the old Shanghai rooster thrashes all his male progeny into submission, and the turkey cock wears off the tips of his wings with much strutting. The breath of earth, ice-tinged, rises to commingle with the breath of heaven, pollen-laden, and all nature be- comes intoxicated with the combination. Later the sun drives the ice chill from the air, and bloom- time comes, with almost cloying sweetness. Of the ground flowers perhaps the sweet wil- liam is most fragrant, the locust of trees, and the wild crab among shrubs, so they attract the musi- cians and are the best choir-lofts. Xot only is the wild crab of such delightful odor that it long has been grown for the perfume of commerce, but it is more beautiful of flower than wild plum, cherry, or any of the haws. Its blossoms are not closely grouped, but hang from long, graceful stems, a few7 in a cluster. They have more color than any white tree bloom, being a strong red up to the day of opening. The unfolded flowers are a delicate salmon-pink inside, and retain the red on the outside. Their perfume calls wild and do- mesticated bees, bumblebees, wasps, and hornets, sweat bees, and every insect that ever paused at pollen and honey for a treat. 169 Music of the Wild Much has been written about field flowers, and many poets and nature-lovers have celebrated their The favorites. I sing for dandelions. If we had to Lion's import them and they cost us five dollars a plant, all of us would grow them in pots. Because they are the most universal flower of field and wood, few people pause to see how lovely they are. In the first place, the plant is altogether useful. The root is a fine blood-purifier. To a less extent the leaves partake of the same property, and they are beautiful; long and slender, reminding some sci- entist of the ragged teeth of a lion — "dent de leon" — dandelion. They are of dark green color when full-grown, pale yellow-green at half growth, and if at all sheltered, almost white when young. Properly cooked, there is nothing better to eat. The bloom is a flat, round, thickly-petaled head of gold, dusted with pollen that the bees gather, and it gives a delicious tang to honey. After a few days of bloom the flowers draw into tightly-closed heads, and stand maturing the seed. At the same time the stems rapidly lengthen, to lift the heads high where the wind can have free play upon them. Then at a touch, always when we are not looking, the heads open into perfect balls of misty white. These stand like crystal globes for a short time, ripening, and then the wind harvests the seed and sows it broadcast, so that the dandelion is the most universal flower that 170 Songs of the Fields grows and the most democratic. Watch the won- derful provision of nature in this rapid lengthen- ing of the flower stems so the wind may scatter the seeds far and wide, and doubt the providence of God if you can. The flowers show a creamy, pale yellow in the forest, darker colors and strong green leaves in the swamps, deep yellow and thrifty around the fields, over every hill, and in every hollow. Dan- delions creep into gardens and barn lots, and bloom along the roads to the very wheel tracks, every- where developing as their environment will allow; but wherever placed, by some miracle making suf- ficient growth to mature a golden head and per- petuate their family. Just this yellow of dande- lion is the most beautiful color in all the world. It is like strong sunshine, without which our world soon would congeal. Perhaps it is the color God loves best, for He has made the most of His flowers yellow. And He so has arranged the pro- cession that it marches through the season domi- nating other colors wherever it goes, and it travels everywhere. Yellow covers the breast of earth in dainty sor- rel, violets, six or seven species of cinquefoil, and adder's tongue. It lifts its gold banner high in orchis, crested and fringed; ladies' tresses, and lady's slippers. It waves high in the well-known saffron, mullein, goldenrod of many varieties, sev- 173 Music of the Wild eral marigolds, and foxglove. At half that height glow buttercups, cowslips, black-eyed susans, beg- The Gold gar's lice, snapdragons, jewel flowers, and touch- of God me_nots. There are several yellow lilies of the field and two of the water. Large spaces are cov- ered with wild mustard, while sunflowers and tansy grow all along the roadside. Then there is the less-known water plantain and crowfoot, several poppies, and golden cory- dalis, twro species of water cress, saxifrage, and goat's beard. There is yellow avens, wild indigo, rattle-box, and at least two varieties of clover. Also wild senna, partridge pea, yellow flax, and yellow mallow. There must be a dozen species of St. John's-wort; and frostweed, seedbox, and sun- drops. That is an exquisite name, and should be applied to all yellow flowers, to indicate that the sun has dropped of her gold to paint their faces. There are several differing parsnips and loose strife. Also butterfly weed, which seems a contra- diction of terms; toad flax, yellow rattle, wild honeysuckle, yellow asters, elecampane, and arti- choke to end with, in the fear of growing tiresome; but this is not nearly a complete list of the gold of God, for it does not even touch the rarest ex- hibition that He gives. This comes at the time of the blooming of the forest, in the mist and shimmer of early spring. Then every tree that bears nut, berry, or seed 174 Songs of the Fields blooms profusely. These flowers, as a rule, are not attractive singly. They are a little golden- green cluster or a fringe something like a willow When catkin in shape, only longer, arid each is covered theTrees with such tiny blooms so thickly placed that it re- quires a glass to analyze them correctly. A single bloom or a bunch of bloom or a branch is not much; but an entire forest- — no, more than that — a world of it, is a different matter. This bloom comes at a time when our sense of color is sated with the grays and whites of win- ter and our lungs are starved with the stuff y ar- tificial heating of most of our homes. It opens when the season is breaking and our hearts are mellowed with the change. The trees flower when the leaves are just beginning to unfold. Few of them are an inch long, and they are nearly as bright with yellow, pink, and silvery white as they are with green ; and all their green is more strongly tinged with yellow at that time than ever again until they change color in the fall. So when all the trees of earth are covered sparsely with golden-green leaves, and hung closely with bloom of gold, powdered deeply with dust of gold, the color is in the very air. All the world is sprinkled with it. If from some elevation you can reach a level with the top of the forest you will behold a sea of gold washing gently under waves of enchanted air, for the touch of ice still 177 Music of the Wild lingers, and it is perfumed with the pungent fra- grance of these blossoms. Then the dormant bees awake and come pouring from hollow tree and hive to their great festival. No insects are play- ing or singing to rival the swarming gold and black performers; the birds have not yet returned to drown undulant humming with floods of song. The "little busy bee" comes down to the footlights and captures an appreciative audience. But the bee cares nothing for the generous applause that always greets his first appearance. Dishevelled with backing from flower clusters, his head and wings powdered with gold, his burden-bearing legs high piled with gold, he goes humming on his way. If there is anything in the idea of coloration by association, he appears to be striped with the dark- ness of his hollow-tree home and the gold of the pollen in which he constantly immerses himself. His mumbling, humming bumble opens the great song festival of the fields. After a day or two, when the blossoms are ripe, the pollen dust loosens. It sifts over the fields, burnishes the breast of lake and pond with a sheet of gold, and sails on the surface of the river. Throughout the summer season nature revels in gold, but now it submerges her. She is covered from head to foot. She breathes it, she bathes in it. No wonder the coats of the bees that live upon pollen are striped with it! So beneficent is the in- 178 Songs of the Fields fluence of this gold bath that all creation has be- come intoxicated with it for centuries. Poets sing it, artists paint it, and natural historians wrestle with it — thus. It appeals to me that this would be a fine time to celebrate the Xew Year. Why should we call the first of January the "Xew Year?" There is The New nothing new about a continuation of the same New'Year dead, shut-in winter season. Why go around cry- ing, "Happy Xew Year!" when nothing is new and people are least happy of all their lives? But when winter flees at the awakening of spring, when March winds arouse us, when earth thrusts up tender growrth to signal us that she is ready for seed-bearing, when nature is given a new robe, the sky pure air; when the birds come home, animals creep from hibernation, and the Almighty showers His gold, — everything is refreshed, even the oldest hearts of us. Just for the sake of con- sistency the year should be new when the earth awakens, when human as well as bird, insect, and animal hearts are glad, when the soul is uplifted, when for a few days all nature is rich enough lit- erally to bathe in gold. Among the few musicians that have arrived at this time in birdland the skylark soars pre-eminent. Xot that he is more beautiful than his fellows, although he comes in time to stripe his head and cover his heart with the choicest of the gold. The 181 Music of the Wild brightness of his crown is emphasized by alter- nating dark stripes, and his breastplate becomes Cloud radiant in contrast with a dark collar. His back Musicians COVering is a mixture of dark-brown, gray, and gray -brown. The wings are the same, touched with white, and the middle feathers of the tail are sim- ilar, the shorter outer ones tipped with white. His habitat appears to be heaven, and his home earth, which certainly seems contradictory. But it is true. He is a bird of as constant flight as the kingfisher, and of such exalted height that he is often lost to our vision above the clouds. The kingfisher sel- dom rises above the treetops, the lark scarcely ever falls below. He is the oracle of high places, and sings from greater altitude than any other bird. That very fact may give distinction to him. His notes, syllabicated as well as possible in the words that of all others seem most appropriate, "Spring o' ye-ar!" is the best-loved bird-song in our country, and the more he slurs it and rings in the half plaintive tone that characterizes it, the more it is appreciated. There is a lark out in the center of this country that greatly surpasses ours in song, although it appears and acts very similar. The difference in the character of the notes is de- tected instantly by travelers. The bird of the Ne- braska alfalfa fields has the same slurring modu- lations, but his song is several measures longer. He sings, "Come here! Spring o' ye-ar!" an on lan(J owned by the company, just inside the fence enclosing rather deep woods, a mile or two below the village of Ceylon, beside the 202 Songs of the Fields Long farm. This season, when a study of them was wanted in their prime, the cameras were loaded, and the trip made in all confidence— not a lily was to be found, nor the ghost of a lily. Even more, the embankment next the woods was cut away at least a foot in depth, and leveled. Then began a search all over my country for a large bed of them, with no results. A week had not helped matters, when my critic came from a drive and announced that beside the railroad, half way to Bryant, was a superb growth of lilies that, she thought, was just what I wanted. She brought one for a sam- ple, and she was not mistaken. So great was the fear that flower hunters might gather them or railroad employees mow the land that the trip was made in the rain. A glance showed what had happened. The railroad com- pany had cut down the embankment beside the Long farm and filled in a low place near the Lim- berlost crossing with the earth. In so doing they had transplanted my lilies, and greatly to the ad- vantage of the flowers; for here they were in a moist location, and were shaded all the long, hot afternoons. As a result these lilies prove that they grew in closer clusters, taller, and with blooms very nearly twice the size of the average wild lily. After the studies were secured and the flowers were needed no longer, they peeped at me from several fence corners around the Limberlost, Can- 205 Music of the Wild oper, and Valley of the Wood Robin, just beyond which lay my finest field of oats. The bees and all kinds of flies and insects were attracted to it by the blooms along the fence ; birds Grain-field of every field family sought the insects, the ber- Vocahsts r|es Qf fae bushes, and water. Lift a shock of oats, and thousands of black field crickets poured from under it. Touch any weed or swaying clover head, and a grasshopper sprang from it as if shot from a catapult, while the chorus of those scat- tered over the field made a constant minor to louder notes. So the oats field had more than a fair share of inhabitants, and almost without exception they were musicians that joined the choir, and sang and played incomparably. Grasshoppers are extremely interesting. They are good-natured, clean, and industrious. They must be naturally musical, for they need not sing all day and half the night unless they choose. At least one would not think their notes compulsory, and the production of them appears to be work. Grasshoppers seem to be enclosed in a coat of mail, so firm and hard is the striped, glassy cov- ering. They make music with the stiff wing- shields by half raising and rubbing them at the base. The notes are a queer "Zerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" of a sound, increasing in volume for a few sec- onds, and then falling away in three slow, distinct notes, "Tink, tink, tink." 206 THE LANDLORD OF THE FIELDS "Thou dost drink and dance and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All the summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plow, Farmer he, and landlord thou!" — Anacrecn. Songs of the Fields They are cleanly, else they would not be wash- ing forever. It almost appears at times as if they must carry a Lady Macbeth curse, that they try The Field to wash away. They wash their antennae, heads, " bodies, wings, each of their four small feet, and then the long, springboard legs and larger feet. After a few bites of pollen, plant- juice, or any dead insects upon which they may happen, they wash again. They are the genuine "water babies" of the fields, and the most insistent musicians. Sometimes they like the open fields, but a little search among the grasses and flowers around the old snake- fences will prove hoppers even more nu- merous there. This may be because the rails and bushes afford protection from bird enemies. The unusually wet season of 1907 did many queer things afield, none more amazing than the growth it made possible among some flowers of low habit. Botanists tell you that beard-tongue (Pentstemon pubescens) grows from one foot to a foot and a third. At that height to the casual observer it is almost lost among the grasses and undergrowth. This season many people called my attention to a delicately colored, lacy, exquisite flower they never before had seen. It was beard- tongue, growing all through the Limberlost, along Canoper way, in Rainbow Bottom, and around the fields, to the height of the top of seven-rail fences. It sprang up a smooth, thrifty stalk, grew slender 14 209 Music of the Wild green leaves, and unusually large pale lavender flowers of much grace and beauty. The blooms are a trumpet-shaped corolla, with two escallops turning up and three down. There Beard- is a stamen, covered with long hairs, and fertilized tongue by tne p0uen it gathers from the down of visiting butterflies and bees. From this organ the plant takes its name, beard-tongue. Many people un- acquainted with a natural growth gathered and were enthusiastic over it at the height of a fence. It was very beautiful bordering grain fields, no- where more so than around the oats where this study was made. While birds and insects hover over these old snake-fences, the squirrels race along them and frightened cotton-tails sail between the rails like skilled acrobats. Rabbits burrow their nests in grain fields and pastures, and beside the fences under the cover of bottom rails and stumps of dead trees. Close harvest time their young appear. Mere youth and helplessness make its appeal. The nestlings of song birds are ugly, naked little creatures, blind, and agape. But again, some ground builders — the quail, rail, and many water birds — are able to travel on leaving their shells, and are irresistible balls of fluff. Newly-born rabbits and squirrels are blind and unattractive, but when led forth to support themselves are beautiful and trustingly innocent. A few days' contact with the 210 BEARD-TONGUE "There 's beard on pour tongue!" laughed the lily, As she tossed her head with wild grace. "Laugh all you choose!" said Pentstemon, "There 's freckles all over your face!" Songs of the Fields world teaches them so many painful lessons they become wild and shy as their elders. When this young cotton-tail no longer felt the need of the blanket his mother had raked her sides to furnish, he trustingly came out to the big Molly world and on a strip of bank posed for many Cotton studies. He greedily nibbled leaves, washed his face when he finished, with all the care of a grass- hopper, and then stretched himself for a sunbath. When his pictures were taken he was put with the remainder of his family at the edge of the oats. It must be that rabbits escape their natural ene- mies with much skill, or else they breed in untold numbers, for every fall and winter men slaughter them without mercy, and each succeeding fall they seem to be quite as numerous. Hunters say that despite speed in running they are silly creatures, and often sit perfectly still, trusting to the resemblance of their fur to sur- rounding dry grass and weeds to protect them, un- til they are killed. Xot being a hunter, I can tell little about these animals when pursued. If hunted with a camera that is concealed and focused on the mouth of their burrow, and a feMr apples, pieces of cabbage or carrots, of which they are especially fond, left around, they tame rapidly and take many interesting poses. It is doubtful if there is anything so wild that it is not susceptible to judi- cious friendly advances. We read in the Book of 213 Music of the Wild James, "For every kind of beasts, and of birds, and of serpents, and of things in the sea, is tamed, and hath been tamed of mankind." In most cases this word "tamed" should be changed to "broken." When birds and beasts are Caging trapped in their wild estate, caged and starved or the Wild beaten mt0 non-resistance or through familiarity endure the presence of men without signs of fear, they are said to be "tamed." In fact, they are heart-broken for home, starving for natural diet, and crazed for lack of space, so that they are slowly dying, and too desolate to resist. Think of a bird that has ranged the heavens from Canada to Patagonia reduced to the hop from perch to perch and the folded wing estate of a two by three foot cage — and that is considered unusually large. Or of a beast that has roamed the forest and marsh for miles being confined inside bars where it can not turn without touching steel. Is it any wonder these "tamed" creatures kill when they have op- portunity? Our laws provide for the taming of "wild" men in the same manner, and it is notice- able that they, too, kill at the slightest chance for escape, if they do not lose their reason and mur- der the first person they meet. There is a shrub frequenting many of my fence corners that has escaped art and that decora- tors do not know. I think it has great possibilities. It grows to the average height of fence-corner 214 Songs of the Fields shrubs such as papaw and alder, and, if it had op- portunity, no doubt would make a medium-sized tree. The stems are smooth and round, quite deeply The Bum- indented in places with the strain of growth. The ing Bush leaves are large, nobly shaped, and variable in shades of color ; rather thick for a leaf, and pulpy. The blooms are little clusters of white florets, not at all remarkable. The shrub takes its name from the seed pods. These pods are scattered sparsely over a bush, hang from long, graceful stems, and are divided into three or four sections, the shape of which can be seen in the picture, the color coral-pink. Each of these thirds or quarters, as the case may be, con- tains a seed. When the seed is ripe the section opens, forcing the triangles apart and displaying the flame-colored inside. This interior color is the crowning glory and beauty of the bush, for which it is named. There is no doubt at all but the sci- entist who classified it thought of Moses and the "burning bush," and so gave that name to the shrub. This burning bush, to my knowledge, flourishes in half a dozen different soils and locations, mak- ing me believe it would be particularly adaptive for lawn ornamentation. These seed pods cling after the leaves fall, and give a touch of brilliant color to their location that would be particularly appreciated, for most of the bushes we buy of our 217 Music of the Wild florists are a cluster of bare twigs in winter. When the pods open, the membranes incasing the seed are bright carmine, exactly the shade of the inner lining of Ebony mus Americanus. The shrubs and bushes beside these old fences are tenanted from leaf to ground with life, and What did a volume of sound arises constantly from earth in Katy do ? |-ne summer time. The clearest emmciator and the handsomest insect of all is the katy-did. What a very, very delightful thing it must have been that Katy did! How her descendants rejoice in telling it over and over. It of necessity had to be some- thing wonderfully fine. In all the world there is not enough rancor to sing of an evil deed adown all time since the morning of creation. But this charming thing that Katy did has been celebrated from the beginning, and will be to the end. Surely it was something big and broad, beneficial to all her race, and the wide world as well — else why are her minstrels forever celebrating her act? It had to be something obvious, too; for while they con- stantly affirm the deed, they never specify just what was done, and this neglect must arise from the fact that they suppose all of us know. I be- lieve Katy was the first of her family to discover sound and teach all of her relatives to voice the fullness of their joy in life on their fiddles in such exquisite measure and inflection that they deceive most of us into thinking it song. To have given 218 BURNING BUSH They thought how the Lord spoke to Moses, When they saw its glowing flame, And so they said to each other, "Burning bush " shall be its name. Songs of the Fields to her kin their medium of self-expression, that would have entitled Katy to the immortality she has earned. "Katy did!" triumphs one of her admirers, as if it were a fact just discovered. "Katy did it!" emphasizes another worshiper. "Katy did!" corroborates a friend in the next bush. "Katy did it!" iterates the first, with all assur- ance; and the manner in which these exquisite in- sects can emphasize their notes is marvelous. Not a bird of ornithology can speak plainer, better- accented English than they, not even the whip- poor-will; and no insects can approach them. Compared with their clean-cut, distinctly enunci- ated syllables, all the remainder of their insect rel- atives are mere scrapers, buzzers, and hummers. The remarkable thing about it is that the speech is made by the contact of the glassy plates How at the base of the wings, and in much the same Katydldlt manner as the grasshopper produces his strident buzz. Because the fields seem to be the true home of the katy-did does not prevent the family from scattering widely. There are a few in the forest, many in the marshes, and from the fields they come close country homes. Most of their music is made in August and September, when they are matured, mating, and depositing their eggs. No insect of their species is so beautiful as 221 Music of the Wild they. The adult is a solid green of pale color, yel- lowish in faint tints in some lights, a dainty bluish Katyys in others. The faceplate and wide "choker" ap- Costume pear to ^e of tne same glassy coat of mail as those of the grasshopper. The legs are very long, and the hind pair has claspers. The wings resemble deeply veined and grooved leaves, the musical plates showing at the bases. The insect is very narrow of body, but quite deep, and the back and abdomen are sharp ridges. The antennae are al- most twice the length of the body, and so hair-fine that a camera focused on a katy-did does not re- cord their full extent. With these they explore their path, lightly touching objects before them to find footing and avoid danger. Their greatest protection lies in their close resemblance to tender green leaves. They have what appears to be a stubby little tail turning up at the back. This is the instru- ment with which they insert their eggs between the layers of a green leaf in the fall. The leaf drops, and lies during the winter, and the next summer the egg develops into a tiny katy-did, that emerges and sets to work foraging on the under side of foliage. All that is accomplished by growth in this insect is to become larger, as they are always shaped much the same; possibly the young ones are of a more tender, yellowish green, that changes to a bluish cast as they reach maturity. 222 Songs of the Fields Katy-dids are immaculately clean, dainty in- sects. No other member of the "hopper" group moves with such calm deliberation. They have all the time there is, and seem to know it. They never hurry and are wholly lacking in the nervous energy of the grasshopper, cricket, and locust. So very deliberate are they that there is a possibility, fos- tered by their constant wetting of the feet with a mucus they eject, that walking is a difficult mat- ter for them, and one to be accomplished only with great caution. To my mind the katy-did is the handsomest, the best musician, and the most inter- esting of all insects anywhere near its family. From the frequent overflowing of the river, that not only decays but washes away rails, one side of my oat field is profaned by a short stretch The of wire fence. This is to be forgiven only be- ^nake ° . J Fence cause, as can be seen so clearly, it is necessary. Then, too, it is in such a damp, shaded place that no harm whatever results. The vines and bushes almost cover the wire, and queer long-legged water birds tilt and rock when they try to perch on it. Where it escapes the river the old rail fence still stands, and every year clothes it with richer beauty and brings it — alas! like all the remainder of the world — nearer the end. I have cause for quarrel with scientists who named many of our flowers and vines. It seems at times as if they tried themselves, as witness: 15 225 Music of the Wild monkey flower, butterfly weed,, jewelweed, toad- flax, and carrion vine. Of all the decorations that incon- entwine these old fences none is more beautiful gruous than the carrion vine. But what a name ! Enough Flower Names to prejudice any one. All because the ball of greenish-yellow bloom has a faint pungent odor that impressed Linnaeus, or some other early writer, as slightly disagreeable. It can not be so very noxious, either, for the bees should know their busi- ness, and they gather its pollen eagerly. God put that pungent, almost sour odor in some flowers to cut the cloying sweetness of others, and make honey edible. So this beautiful vine is disgraced, and there are so many more appropriate names it might have borne quite as well. It is difficult to understand why a slightly unusual odor of the flower should have been emphasized, while the exquisite cutting and texture of the leaves is overlooked. They are heart-shaped at the base, curving off to a long lance-point, of delicate texture, and of lovely shades of green that vary as the light falls on them. So why not name it "lance leaf" or "golden globe," either of which is quite as appropriate as carrion vine and not suggestive of anything objectionable. Another common, but peculiar vine of my ter- ritory is wild yam, the dried seed pods of which form nature's best rattlebox. Dioscorea villosa is a great beauty. Its leaves are a perfect heart- 226 WILD SAFFRON "Lavish my gold on the earth," cried the Lord: "Color the stately saffron head, Paint the dandelion and lily cup, And burnish the marsh flower bed!" Songs of the Fields shape as a heart is conventionalized, and so deeply veined that their golden-green surfaces catch the light in hills and hollows. Where the vine grows in bright sunlight along the road these leaves are so closely set they overlap like the scales on a fish. Its bloom is insignificant, the male flowers droop- ing clusters, the female spike-like heads. The seeds are small triangles, and a number of them are placed on a long stem. When these are dry and shaken by winter winds they make as good music as the hop tree. Another old snake fence corner pet of mine, that flourishes in cultivation, and that is dignified and an artistic plant, is wild saffron. It bears Wild transplanting well, and if its location and soil are Saffron at all congenial, in a few years it grows into a most attractive bush. It reaches from three to four feet in height, many shoots upspringing from the same root. The stems are round, smooth, and even, with a slight yellow tint to their green, that extends to the leaves also. These are set at different places, and point in all directions. They are very grace- ful, as each is made up of twenty small leaves set on a midrib. Approaching the top, the last nine or ten have a small spray of bloom branch- ing from their bases. These little bloom-sprays and the large crown of the plant are masses of small individual yellow flowers having five cuppy petals of unequal length, 229 Music of the Wild and anthers so dark-brown as to be mistaken for black at a casual glance. Both the leaves and the bloom-clusters help to give it a delicate, lacy appearance. I can not so describe the flowers as to paint an adequate idea of their richness. The separate sprays at the leaf bases appear lighter yellow than the massive head and show the indi- vidual flowers better. The crown is a conical mist of gold accented by touches of almost black. Saf- fron is a stately and distinguished plant of great beauty in the fence corners, where it has a strug- gle to preserve its individuality among the masses of growth around it. On a lawn its every feature of distinction would be enhanced. One point that should be of especial interest to those who wish to try the cultivation of wild flowers and trees on their premises, is the range of color in the mid-summer and fall species. Many people relying on cultivated shrubs and flowers grow a mass of spring and early summer bloom, and have bare shrubs and leafless vines in fall and winter. The field flowers are a blaze of color all summer until frost, and there are several vines, bushes, and trees that are brilliant with seeds and berries throughout the winter. Few words of our language are more suggest- Green ive of peace and comfort than "pasture." Pasto- Pastures rem^ & green feeding-ground, according to the old Latins. And wherever there is a green feeding- 230 Songs of the Fields ground you may be very sure you will find the shade of trees and bushes, and frequently there is running water. Wherever you locate these you hear a swelling bird and insect chorus. From the dawn of history men in travel and in burden-bear- ing have been very dependent on their beasts, and so have sought to make suitable provision for them. This setting off a space of growing food for stock is without date, and over and over the chroniclers of the Bible made use of the comparison of the care of men for their flocks with the care of God for men. "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters." The bodily comfort we give to our beasts made the basis of a comparison with the spiritual com- fort God gives us, in one of the most beautiful ex- pressions ever portrayed in language, "He mak- eth me to lie down in green pastures." Before the eye rises the picture of a lush, green meadow sprin- kled with daisies and dotted with buttercups; the lark overhead, and the full-fed cattle lying — pic- tures of contentment in the shade of the newly- leafing trees that ring with the songs of courting birds. The thought of a pasture is in some way connected with spring; perhaps because, as at no other time, the cattle cry for it, and beg piteously to be released to natural food. At that time the pastures are green; later they may not be. Then 233 Music of the Wild the cattle, dry-fed during the long winter, graze and graze until they become so fat the milk they give grows richer, and housewives make what they call "clover" butter. When man treats the beasts that sustain and enrich him with the consideration he would like A Sign were he a beast, we have one of the very highest of God in sjgns of the grace of God in the human heart. This study was made at almost four o'clock in the afternoon, when the cattle, after a day of grazing, were lying in fullfed content. It was so early in the season that hickory and late-leafing trees were bare, but already the stock sought for their resting- place the shade afforded by maple and elms. There was no real necessity for shelter. The heat was not sufficient to worry them, but the in- clination to lie in the shade was instinctive. Scat- tered around this pasture and in almost every fence corner there grows a tree for the express pur- pose of providing comfort for the stock and a choir-loft for field musicians. How the cattle ap- preciate this can be seen by their gathering to lie in the strip of light shade in the early spring! If they seek a sheltered spot when they really do not need it, what would become of them in the burn- ing heat of July and August without it? How the birds love it they tell you in their notes of bubbling ecstasy. Not far from this pasture are the grazing lands 234 «e ( II I! II Songs of the Fields of some "progressive" farmers. These fields are enclosed in straight wire fences, guiltless of a leaf for shelter, so they offer migrant musicians no in- Songless ducement to locate there. All the season tortured Pastures horses and cattle graze in early morning and even- ing, and at noontime stand in restless groups, striv- ing to drive away the flies, and find shelter from each other's bodies ; for neither cattle nor horses lie wrhen they have finished grazing unless there is shade. To rest in the open would be to place them- selves between two fires — the reflected heat from the earth and the direct heat from the sun. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures," I quoted, when passing such a field on a scorching August day. "He sendeth His rain to the just as well as to the unjust," quoted my critic, in reply. "You know if I were He, I would not. I would send rain only to pastures with trees in them, and burn all the remainder." So we agreed to keep watch as we drove across the country, making these illustrations, and see how much we could learn of the disposition of the farmers by the manner in which they provided for their stock and their birds. Soon it became ap- parent that the man who stripped a pasture of every tree treated his family with no greater con- sideration. There was scarcely a tree anywhere on his premises. In one place we counted four big 237 Music of the Wild stumps, all within a few rods of the house that the felled trees had shaded •from noon until sunset. These trees had been cut within the past two years, and the house had stood for many. There was not a growth anywhere around it except a few scrub cedars, and not a bird note. It was bared to the burning heat. What would it have meant to the women and children of that stopping-place, for there was no A Road- sign of home around it, to have had the tight pal- side Dream mg_ fence torn away from the few yards immedi- ately surrounding the house; the shelter of those big trees, with an easy seat beneath them, and a hammock swinging betM-een? I dreamed those trees were growing again and filled with bird notes, that fence down, a coat of fresh paint on the house, the implements standing in the barn lot sheltered, and one day's work spent in arranging the prem- ises. Into the dream would come a vision of open doors and windows, the sound of the voices of con- tented women, the shouts of happy children, and the chirping of many birds. Some farms belong to men my critic calls a "tight-wad." That is not a classic expression; but if you saw the lands from which every tree had been sold, the creeks and ponds dried and plowed over, the fields inclosed in stretches of burning wire fence to allow cultivation within a few inches of it, not a bird note sounding, — you w^ould un- 238 BLAZING STAR "Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers And, blindly groping above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers." — Lowell. Songs of the Fields derstand why the term is suitable as none other. Even if the Almighty did give the earth to the children of men, it scarcely seems fair to Him to Nature's efface every picture and hush all song. It is dim- cult to realize just what would happen were most men farming by this method. But we still have left some degree of comfort because there are so many of nature's gentle men: men who see the pictures, hear the songs, and wish to perpetuate them for their children. I know a farm that has been for three genera- tions in the same family, passing from father to son. The home — mark the word — is on a little hill in the middle of the land, obscured by surround- ing trees from the road and its dust and travel. The quaint old house is a story and a half, and a porch extends the length of the front and both sides. That home even turns its back to the road. The front porch and door face the orchard in the center of the land, "where father always sat when he rested, so that he could hear the birds and bees sing," the son told me. There are old beehives under the trees, and the grass is long and fine. One could look at that orchard in mid-winter and tell to a certainty just what music would swell there in June. The blue- bird would claim the hollow apple tree, the catbird the plum thicket, the robin, jay, and dove the ap- ple trees, and the ground sparrow the earth. The 16 241 Music of the Wild hens would mother broods there, the turkeys slip around warily, and the guineas clatter in the grass. Martins and swallows homing under the barn eaves would sail above the trees, and black- birds from the creek would build on high branches. But no dream could encompass all the music that would swell there throughout the summer. Any lover of sunshine, bird song, and orchard pictures almost could see the old man who finished his day's work and then rested himself with music, sitting beneath his trees, worshiping God in na- ture. I have known many men like him, and all of them had bodies as strong as their trees, music in their hearts if the birds failed to sing, and faces serene as summer skies. The garden lies on one side of the dooryard, the barn lot on the other. The garden is a quaint An Old- commingling of use and beauty. There are rasp- ashionod ^gj.^ currant, and gooseberry bushes along the sides and across the foot, but on either hand at the front gate are flowers. Large clusters of white lilies grow by each post, and cinnamon pink, lark- spur, ragged robin, and many sweet, old-fashioned blooms overflow the beds. Straight down the cen- ter is another big flower-bed, and at each side of it squares of radishes, onions, lettuce, salsify, spinach, strawberries, — everything edible, and all flower- bordered. In each corner is a peach tree, and there are others scattered here and there. 242 WILLOWS "Give fools their gold, and knaves their power, Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all." — Whittier. Songs of the Fields The dooryard is filled with pear, plum/ apple, and some fine, big walnut trees. The barn is of logs; and at the door and all around the well and watering-trough are beds of crushed stone. Across the end of the house, facing the road, "father" built a schoolroom. It was fifteen feet wide and twenty long. There he taught the neighbors' chil- dren in winter and dried fruit in summer. Just back of the house a large meadow, tree-sprinkled, stretches down to the road, and in the corner next to the barn grow three willows so mighty that they called me to them, — and so I discovered a home, and "father" and "mother." In a little dip in the meadow near the barn "father" planted those three willows thirty years ago. When they had grown to sufficient size to Comfort make enough shade, because the barn was low and for Stock hot, he built this big feed-trough under them, and then he carried corn and grain to it. The trough is six feet wide, eighteen long, and six inches deep. One of the trees is nine feet in circumference, one twelve, and one fourteen; and "all the birds of the heaven make their nests" in these boughs, while the trees sing unceasingly. The watering-trough, that father always kept filled, stands along the side of the yard fence next the barn. There must be forty acres. of woods, from which trees have been taken only for fuel and to let in enough light to make the grass grow for pasture. 245 Music of the Wild I never saw "father" and "mother." They were gone before the willows called me. Her son "Father" told me that "mother had big brown eyes and and white hair, and her cheeks were always a little Mother" . .«_. • pink. Of course they were. .Like the cinnamon pinks of her garden. So by the lilies and the rag- ged robins and her porch, facing from the dust and turmoil of travel, we know "mother." And by the schoolhouse he built with his hands, by the cultivation of beauty and music all around his home and entire farm, by the neatness of his barns and outbuildings, by the trees he spared and the trees he planted, we know "father." By these things we know where "father" is to-day. So when the last book is written and the last picture made, if I have done my work nearly so well as "father" did his, perhaps we will have a happjr meeting. I should love to tell him that his work lives as an example to his neighbors; how his wrillows have grown, and that they called me from afar, and I put them into a book for thousands to see, that they might learn of his great-hearted humanity. I shall want to tell him how many hours I have lain on the grass under the big pear tree at the corner of his house, of all the lunches I have eaten on the front porch looking into the orchard, of the cotton-tails that yet scampered there unafraid, and how one season a little red-eyed vireo built on a branch of the apple tree swaying across 246 Songs of the Fields the end of the porch just above where "mother" always sat with her mending. Heaven is heaven because it will allow me to tell "father" and "mother" these things. One of the beautiful trees this man spared for decorative purposes was the buckeye. I wonder if it was so named from the resemblance of the The rich dark-brown nut to the eye of the deer. The Buckeye trees grow more rapidly than some others, flourish- ing on upland, slightly sandy soil. The buds are large and open, to display vivid streaks of red and yellow in the spring. The colors are very rich. The flower is a long tassel, covered by tiny florets of greenish yellow. The leaves are oblong, deeply veined, and grow in clusters of four to the stem. The fruit is a round nut, encased in a pulpy hull, dotted with warts of a bright tan-yellow in the fall. The nuts and hulls sometimes drop to- gether, and sometimes the hull opens and the nut falls alone. The nuts are a rich dark-red ma- . hogany, and in them lies the one objection to the tree. To some children they are poisonous, and also to grazing stock. Where these dangers can be avoided they are beautiful trees for ornament- ing lawns. Of all my country none is so truly mine as the old orchards. On almost every farm of the present day there is a deserted orchard. These trees are 249 Music of the Wild worthless commercially, but at times they bear fruit that can be used for cider at least; so their Old Or- lives are spared. In some of these orchards the chards cabin of tne father or grandfather who first wres- tled with the forest yet stands. In many of them the home has fallen to decay or been torn down for firewood, but the apple trees remain even in plowed fields and amidst growing grain. These trees are monuments to a deeply-rooted objection to cutting a fruit tree, in spite of the fact that they produce small, sour, blighted, and wormy apples. Almost without exception the old snake-fences surround them, weighted with loads of growing shrubs and vines, and on and under them home field mice, moles, rabbits, chipmunks, lizards, birds of low habit, night moths, and bugs and insects of innumerable species. The grass grows long, rank, and so silken fine it is delightful to lie and thread it through the fingers, and recite those exquisite lines of Walt Whitman's, — I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, Out of hopeful green stuff woven." Nearly all the old orchards are on the highest spot of a farm and near the center of the land. These pioneers had the English plan of an estate, with the residence in the middle, away from the annoyance of travel and the dust of the highway. 250 Songs of the Fields But the inclination of their children seems to be to see how close to the road they can live. In- deed, many men owning several hundred acres of land covered with a half dozen valuable building sites, elevations that would insure a dry cellar, san- itary surroundings, all the breeze passing, and the seclusion that is due a family, build their homes solely with an eye to living on the road. If they are fond of surface water in their wells, which breeds typhoid fever, dust, heat, and constant tres- pass of travelers, no one can interfere, and the re- sult is splendid for the birds and for me. The farther away from the old orchard the new home is builded the surer am I of finding among the trees shy doves from river thickets, The brown thrashers, warblers, and bright-eyed vireos, Hymn in addition to the catbirds, bluebirds, kingbirds, orchard robins, and screech owls that habitually home there. Also the long grass invites the larks and ground sparrows to join the chorus. And what a song it is! The rough bark of old apple trees is a table spread for larvee seekers, and the masses of bloom a far call to insect hunters, so that from earliest spring these beautiful old orchards are the veri- table choir-loft of the Lord, and from them arises one constant volume of joyful praise and thanks- giving. Even in the night the orioles nestle con- tentedly on their perches, and you can hear them talk about the goodness of God in their sleep. 253 Music of the Wild Fifteen feet high in the branches of one of these old apple trees a robin built her nest before A True leafage in the wet, cold April of 1907. There Mother were two eggs when one morning found the cradle filled with snow, and I thought she would desert it, but later she returned. Surely brooding bird never had a more uncomfortable time. The tree had borne apples the previous year, and of course she thought it alive and expected protection from the leaves. It was quite dead, and never a sign of bloom or leaf appeared. The weather changed abruptly each day. With no shelter whatever she sat through freezing nights, snowy days, sleet, rain, and flashes of hot sunshine. When she had four babies almost ready to leave the nest, a terrific cold rain began on Saturday morning. By afternoon it poured, and she pointed her bill skyward and gasped for breath. I fully expected that she would desert the nest and seek shelter before morning, but she remained, although drenched and half dead. That rain continued all of Sunday, pouring at times, until Monday morn- ing. Although I watched by the hour, not once from the time it began until rifts of sunlight showed Monday morning did I see her leave her nest or feed the young, or her mate bring her a morsel of food. For an hour at a stretch, several times a day, I thought she would drown. My lad- der had been erected for some time before her lo- 254 Songs of the Fields cation, and by noon Monday I resumed a series of pictures of her nesting history. There were sev- eral dozen of them, representing every phase of her home life, the one I use here being especially individual. Both birds attended the young alternately, with the difference that when the father fed them he removed a faeces and flew away. When the mother arrived she performed the same operation, and then, setting her breast feathers on end, slowly moved over the young, who thrust their heads against her breast, and she brooded them until the male returned. I loved to see the young move toward her and watch the sudden swell of the feathers to admit them. Several times I was tempted to record it, but thought the act was too fast for my lens. However, as I had almost every- thing else, I decided to try, and that morning as I detected the impulse to lift the feathers with the snuggling of the young, I snapped. The bird that disdained shelter and kept his head out when the mother moved over the nest, left it before the day was done. Robins are true orchard birds, wonderfully friendly, and great worm consumers; in fact such fabulous numbers are fed to young robins that The Value many times over one is repaid for the few apples of a Robm and cherries they pick later. They are invaluable aids in agriculture, and every robin nest a farmer 17 257 Music of the Wild finds in his dooryard or orchard is worth five dol- lars to him above all the birds possibly can destroy, and the music they make, especially the song they sing in the rain, should be above price. Robins are the alarm clocks of the fields, for almost without exception they wake the morning and all birds with their glad cry, "Cheer up!" These old orchards home many big night moths, one that reminds me of the robin. The caterpillar An feeds on apple leaves, and its cocoons frequently Orchard are Spun on o](i trees either on a water sprout at the base or high among the branches. The pre- dominant color of this moth is the steel-gray of the robin, shading darker and lighter, and it has prominent markings, half-moon shaped, on its wings, almost the color of the robin's breast. It is more gaudy than the bird, however, for it also has lines of white, faint lines of black, wider ones of tan, and dark-blue circles. It is the commonest of all large moths, and is around almost every coun- try home at night, and frequents cities as well; but because it is a creature of darkness, many peo- ple live a lifetime where it is oftenest found and never make its acquaintance. Of all the birds that frequent orchards near Majesty homes, and those rarer ones that settle in my de- serte^ orchards, the kingbird is most appropriately named; for he is king, and his mate is queen, and the apple tree they select is a palace, and the nest 258 THE ORCHARD MOTH When the sun has gone to rest, And the moon rears her shining crest, The night moth courts in orchard glade, To the screech owl's wavering serenade. Songs of the Fields is their throne-room. So ably do they defend it that never in all my life have I seen a pair con- quered or their nest despoiled. The king is not such a large bird — smaller than a robin, of robin- gray, with a white throat and black tail having a white tip ; but he is stoutly built, plump, and pugil- istic, and of truly remarkable agility on wing. He has a smoky, black, rounding crest, and wings of the same color. Kingbirds give their young the worms that feed on grass blades, small flies, and moths that flutter close to the ground. They per- form a variety of acrobatics on wing in search of food, poising over orchard and meadow hunting prey, and darting after it in headlong flight, with indescribable turnings and twistings of tireless wings. This habit of food-catching in air prepares them for the battles they wage on wing, for so agile are they, so hardy, and of such unfaltering courage, that they attack anything threatening their nests. I have seen them chase crows, dusky falcons, and in one case a large hawk, in pell-mell flight across the sky, and their deft twistings en- abled them to escape unharmed, while they darted savagely at heads and eyes and put their enemies completely to rout. With any bird close their own size — a mewling catbird or a jay wanting a newly- hatched nestling for desert — they make quick dis- posal. 261 Music of the Wild There is very little art in their nests, but their eggs are beautifully decorated. The young are colored similar to their elders, the families large and so cunning as to be irresistible. No bird is more useful in an orchard, unless, indeed, it be a cuckoo, which is of great value because it eats cat- erpillars. In protecting an orchard from jays, hawks, and crows, such a pair of fighters saves you dozens of more gentle timid birds that carry worms and bugs by the million from fruit trees. In con- sideration of this you should acknowledge their royalty and offer them every encouragement to reign over your premises. As we regard harmony, the kingbird is the least musical resident of the orchard. Tilting on a Titled lookout from the top of the tree in which his nest \ace^ he uses w}ia^ to me SOUnds like, "Ka-tic, a-tic, a-tic," for a tribal call and means of com- munication between pairs. His sustained song, if song it may be called, appeals to me as "Ka-tic, a-tic, querr, kerrr, kerrr!" but it is not composed of either mellow or musical tones, and is at all times inflected as if it were a continued call of de- fiance; so that the good folk who attribute to him a "sweet musical song, softly warbled," are the veriest romancers. The picture here given showrs a nest nearly fif- teen feet high in one of these old orchards, around which I worked until the story of what I did with 262 ROYALTY IN THE ORCHARD The apple-tree becomes a Palace, When the Queen-bird builds her throne, And a doughty soldier the King-bird \ As he stoutly guards his own. Songs of the Fields these birds would sound like romance of another variety, did I not have a picture just as good as this to prove every statement I make. Not a leaf of the location was touched, but as it was a sec- ond nesting for the season, and in July, the heat was so intense that despite the shade of her chosen location the mother bird often lolled on the nest, as in this picture. The wonderful thing about it is that after a few days I placed the camera on the top of a ladder opposite the nest and near enough to secure reproductions of this size. The old birds were so convinced of my good intentions that I obtained dozens of poses as good as this, and even better, of each of them. I took their young from the nest and photographed them every day for the last four days before they left home, replaced them, and they remained even a day and a half after I had finished. It is a truth that I can prove amply by reli- able people who watched the performance from afar, that both old birds sat in the top of their tree and never took flight or made a sound while the young were away from the nest, and at once went on feeding them when they were replaced. Of course, I handled those young from the time they were little pin-feathered things, and they had no fear of me. If they had cried, I fancy the old ones would have been alarmed. But that birds of their universally admitted pugnacious charac- 265 Music of the Wild ter would permit me to handle their young, and even remove them from the nest for a half hour at a time, proves they know enough to distinguish friends from foes. It shows that even the wildest creatures can be tamed to your will by persistent kindness and unlimited patience in approaching them. These birds are never more beautiful and in- teresting than when on wing, food-hunting. The waving grass of the orchard is one ground for them; the shrubs covering the fence, another. Other writers have expatiated at length on the wild rose, alder, and goldenrod that grow along these old fences; I wish to call attention to the bloom of the scarlet haw. The kingbirds taught me to notice.it. I followed them to learn what insect they hunted there. I found several differ- ing flies and gnats, and sometimes a bee was snapped up. The scarlet haw does not bloom in crowded clus- ters, as does its cousin, the red haw. I have found The Scarlet eight blooms to a cluster, again four or five, and Haw Choir j-en ^mes as often six, thus establishing an average and preserving detail. Each blossom has five ex- quisitely cut and cupped petals, dainty stamens and pistil, and long enough stem to display the full beauty of the flower without pushing it into the others. Neither are these clusters crowded on the bush so closely as to lose their individuality, and 266 Songs of the Fields they bloom so late that while the leaves are vet tender and of paler green than later in the season, many of them are full size and dark enough in color to form a background that emphasizes the daintiness and purity of the blooms and makes them the beauties of the entire haw family. The fruit is scarlet in color and not good to eat. The flowers will set the joy-song singing in any appreciative heart, and their perfume calls up a choir of half-intoxicated, nectar-loving in- sects. I have seen night hawks soaring late in the evening above old orchards, and heard whip-poor- wills cry there, but I think they only settled in Night flight for a time, as they might in any secluded Music growth of trees. The night bird that really homes, orchard breeds, and lives there summer and winter is the screech owl. It would be the funniest thing in ornithology to see a plucked screech owl or parrot. Small owls are such comical creatures in their feathers, such caricatures of their great horned relatives of the forest! Most familiar in the orchards are the little brown screechers, and slightly larger ones of a cool gray, tan, brown, and black coloring. I am very fond of them because I know so well how happy they are, how unusually secure in the hol- low apple tree, and how successful their hunting. I believe they have Jess cause than many other birds 269 Music of the Wild to be unhappy over anything, and so, of course, their songs are of love and contentment. The owl has been shuddered at for a sufficient length of time. Now for a change I wish to sug- The Owls' gest that the people who write further history of Serenade j-^ puj. themselves in the bird's place and describe his song as it is sung,, and not as it appeals to the interpreter's fancy. I love to hear a screech owl screech. It means that he is having a hilarious time. His heart is bubbling over with the joy of cool, dim night life in the orchard, or throbbing with the exultation of the mating fever. He is a friendly, social bird. Every winter he comes around the cabin hunting food, and he will answer my repetition of his calls until I become uncom- fortable and close the window. Every time he lifts his voice he is either locating his mate, happy enough to talk about it or pleading for a wife and home. He is the most contented bird of the orchard and almost without exception its only night singer. A hollow apple tree is his favorite home, and from four to six the number of his children. I doubt if the anatomy of any bird contains a mem- ber more wonderful than the eye of an owl. The organ of vision is fixed in a socket so that the bird turns its head instead of its eyes, and they are sur- rounded by a reflector of fine, closely set feathers, while the composition of the ball is so intricate as 270 SCREECH OWL The screech owl screeches when courting, Because it 's the best he can do, If you couldn't court without screeching, Why, then, I guess you 'd screech too. Songs of the Fields to merit a volume by itself. The owl can enlarge the retina, in order to see more clearly as he en- ters darker places. The Almighty did few things more wonderful than to evolve the eye of an owl. I love all the music of nature, but none is dearer to the secret places of my heart than the Song of the Road. The highways are wonderful. They appear to flow between the fields, climbing hills The Song without effort, sliding into valleys, and stretching of theRoad across plains farther than the eye or lens can fol- low7. All of my roads have three well-defined wheel tracks. There are two strongly marked that every vehicle makes, and another only slightly out- lined, made by those passing on the way. Tiny flowers of yellow sorrel, rank fennel, grass, dande- lion, smartweed, and catnip grow to the fence cor- ners, and these are filled with tall meadow rue, milkweed, poke berry, goldenrod, asters, thistle, saffron, teazel, and sumac sprouts. There are wild roses, alders, maple, oak, and elm shrubs, and the straggling old snake- fences are bound together and upheld by bittersweet, wild grape, honeysuckle, and moonseed. I love the morning road, when the air is yet tinged with the dampness and mystery of night, Chants when the foliage is sharply outlined against the reddening sky, and every bird sings his chant as if he just had mastered it for a sublime offertory to a sun that never arose before. Hope is so high 18 273 Music of the Wild in the morning. You are going to succeed where you failed yesterday. You are going to advance so far beyond anything already achieved. God is good to give to men a world full of beauty and ringing with music, and scarcely realizing it you resolve to be good as well. So you add your voice, and travel the long road in the morning with a light heart. But after all the evening road is better, for it leads back to home and friends, and it is quite true that there is "no place like home." In the red glory of the setting sun there is the promise of light for another day; the peaceful fields appear satisfied with their growth; the birds sing vespers with a depth of harmony altogether devotional; the hermit thrush and the wood robin make your heart ache with the holy purity of their notes. And if the high hopes of the morning did not all come true, the peace of evening brings the consoling thought that perhaps you have grown enough dur- ing the day to accomplish them on the morrow; or perhaps it is best after all that success did not come. Intangible, but springing from everywhere, creeps the dark and the time of mystery; the screech owl and the whip-poor-will raise their quav- ering night songs, and without urging your horse lifts his tired head and breaks into a swifter trot, for night is coming, and he too is on the home road. 274 THE SONG OF THE ROAD 'Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Strong and content I travel the open road." — Whitman. Songs of the Fields Many volumes could be filled with the history of old snake-fences, their inhabitants, and environ- ment. Some of our rarest birds home in the shrub- filled corners or swing from branches above, and flowers of unusual beauty are found growing in them and all along the wayside. If you do not believe the birds are social and love the company of human beings, compare the number of oriole nests you can find in deep forest or open wood with those in fields, orchards, and along roads. In my country I always learn after the leaves fall that orioles in greater number than anywhere else to be found have swung over the road above my head in their pendant bags of hair and lint through- out the summer. Of all the myriad flowers that distil sweets and call many insects to join in the song of the road none are more beautiful than blazing star. The Blaz- stems, if not bent by pushing against something ing Star unyielding, grow straight toward heaven to a height of from two to three feet where the soil is dry, and by swampy and damper roads attain to four, and during the season of 1907 even five. The leaves are slender and sparsely set, alternat- ing, and the blooms are exquisite. It is difficult to name their shade, because it fluctuates with the amount of moisture, exposure to sun. and the length of time the flower has been open, but it runs from pale violet to deep magenta-purple. 277 Music of the Wild The bloom, sometimes an inch across, is a head of fine petals, and reminds one of a painter's brush, filled with exquisite color. Each little flower is folded separately, and at maturity opens, one at a time, around the outer rim until the whole is a mass of shaggy, delicately colored petals. The seed slightly, resembles larch fruit or Norwegian pine cones, on account of being similar in shape and covered with scales, but these are purplish-red. One of these plants bears stamens, and another pistils, so that they are unable to reproduce them- selves: and were it not for the work of the bees and butterflies in cross-fertilizing, they would become extinct. They have enough stamens and pollen to give a golden glow to the base of the petals, and are of sufficient perfume to attract bees and butterflies. Archippus, Crenia, and Troilus do the work necessary in carrying pollen back and forth between plants. The most exquisite roadside bird of which I ever have succeeded in making a series of studies The is the goldfinch, commonly known in the country Finct as the "wild canaiT'" the "lettuce" and "seed bird.'" These are almost our latest migrants, wait until July to build, and bring off but one brood in a sea- son. The nest is a dainty affair of intricate con- struction, and takes longer to complete than that of any other bird I know. I have seen a pair of orioles build their nest in three days; but the goldfinches 278 MALE GOLDFINCH AND YOUNG In a milkweed cradle, rocked by harvest winds, Hungry Goldfinch nestlings crowd and cry. "Put seed in 'em! Put seed in 'em! " Sing the old birds as they fly. Songs of the Fields work for a week, and sometimes longer. They use quantities of plant fiber stripped from last year's dead, dry weeds, and line copiously with thistle and milkweed down. Why such deliberate and dainty architecture is not conducive to neater home- life is difficult to say; for these exquisite little birds are the filthiest housekeepers I know intimately. Nearly all songsters — almost every bird, in fact — with its bill removes from the young the excrement, carrying and dropping it far from the nest. The goldfinches have cradles filled to over- flowing, five and six young to the brood, and the elders pay no attention to this feature of parent- hood, so that in a short time their nests are as white outside with a rain of droppings as they are inside with milkweed down. The females are olive-green and yellow birds, and the males are similar in winter. In summer they don a nuptial dress, that with the pure, bub- bling melody of their song must make them irre- sistible. They wear a black cap and sleeves, have a tail touched with black and white, and a pure lemon-yellow waistcoat. They frequent gardens, deserted orchards, and roadsides. Their song is of such bubbling spontaneity that they can not re- main on a perch to sing it, but go darting in waves of flight over fields and across the road before you, sowing notes broadcast as the wind scatters the seed they love. They have a tribal call that can 281 Music of the Wild be imitated so they answer it readily. The male cries, "Pt'seet!" and the female answers, "Pt'see!" The continuous song that they sow on the air with an abandon approaching the bubbling notes of the bobolink, and really having more pure glee in it, to my ears syllabicates, "Put seed in it! Put seed in it!" Possibly I thought of this because they are always putting seed into themselves. Mustard, thistle, lettuce, oyster plant, millet, and every gar- den vegetable and wild weed that produces a seed, in time will bear a goldfinch singing as it sways and feasts. One of the commonest plants of the wayside, dignified and attractive in bloom, and wholly ar- Milk- tistic in seedtime, is the milkweed. This plant is weed and inseparably connected in my mind with the gold- JJittcrs'wcct finch, that depends upon it for most of its nesting material, and with the monarch butterfly, the cat- erpillar of which feeds upon the leaves. Any plant that blankets a goldfinch family and nourishes a butterfly is an aristocrat of the first order. In touch of it grows our best-loved climber. Because of its elegant leaves, its stout, twining stem, and brilliant and long clinging berries, the bittersweet is the very finest vine of the roadside. In winter it outshines all others, because the hulls of the yellow clusters open in four divisions and expose a bright-red berry divided sometimes into 282 MILKWEED Proudly the milkweed lifts its head, And bears its pods on high, For it lines the dainty goldfinch nest, And fosters a butterfly. Songs of the Fields three, and again four parts, each containing a small oblong seed. The elegant vines cover fences, trees, climb poles, and spread over bushes all along the road. The berries retain their brilliant color dur- ing winter, so that on gray days they lighten the gloom, and on white ones they contrast with a bril- liancy that is equaled only by the scarlet heads of the mountain ash. Such pictures and music are the natural ac- companiment of the old snake-fences. Whenever I come into country abounding in them my heart The always begins softly to sing, "Praise the Lord!" Music For where these old fences are replaced by wire the farmers always make a clean sweep to the road- side, and not the ghost of a picture or the echo of a song is left to me. There are times when my disappointment is so great it is difficult to avoid a feeling of childish resentment. Sometimes I stop my horse and attempt to preach timber conserva- tion and the laws of attraction as applied to mois- ture; but what has a passing woman to tell a lord of creation busily improving his field? He is pro- viding a few more feet of space for corn and po- tatoes and enlarging his egotism over greater per- sonal possessions. I notice that in making a field most men exhibit a sense of creation. It is where their work is made manifest. Yes, even to a greater degree than they realize, for sometimes when they arrogantly dismiss me and my theories 285 Music of the Wild I smile as a summer storm sweeps unbroken over their field to emphasize my assertions. Then men must seek shelter and stand helpless while a stout hickory they thought could weather such conditions alone is wrung to ribbons. The great oak left because of its value is stripped of its heart, their stock falls dead, their barns and homes ascend in smoke or their crops are beaten down with the storm or carried away with the wind, and their buildings demolished. Blest and benefi- cent is most of the music of nature. But when there is a storm, and the earth trembles, the heavens appear to open before our eyes; wrhen the wind- harps shriek, and the big bass-drum rolls its thun- der,— all other notes are hushed and forgotten. When nature presses the bass pedal and plays for- tissimo we acknowledge the grandeur and irresist- ible power of the storm. And we see its beauty also. No other picture equals the splendor of mountains of black massing clouds, the white flare of electricity, the falling sheets of glistening water. Most of us enjoy a storm with palpitant exulta- tion, although it is one musical performance that seldom gets an encore. But there are times when it teaches man that if he had left a few acres of for- est in the middle of his land, and a border of trees around the edge deep enough for a wind-break, he would have saved his summer's labor, his home, and provided music and shade for the highway. 286 LIGHTNING-RIVEN OAK "One bears a scar Where the quick lightning scored its trunk, yet still It feels the breath of Spring." —Bryant. Songs of the Fields The roads run systematically across the face of earth, singing the song of travel and commerce. Then there is a far sweeter song, sung by little The Song streams of water, wandering as they will, in be- °* the neficent course, quenching the thirst of the earth, enhancing its beauty, and lulling us with their melody. Any one of these little streams is typical of all, but each nature-lover has his own particu- lar brook that to him is most beautiful. I come from haunts of coot and hern," sang Tennyson of his. My Limberlost comes from the same haunts, and nothing can convince me that any running water on the face of earth is more interesting or more beautiful. I have read of the streams that flow over India's golden sands, down Italy's mountains, through England's mead- ows; but none of them can sing sweeter songs or have more interest to the inch than the Limberlost. It is born in the heart of swampy wood and thicket, flows over a bed of muck or gravel, the banks are grass and flower-lined, its waters cooled and shaded by sycamore, maple, and willow. June drapes it in misty white, and November spreads a blanket of scarlet and gold. In the water fish, turtle, crab, muskrat, and water puppy disport themselves. Along the shores the sandpiper, plover, coot, bittern, heron, and crane take their pleasure and seek their food. Above it the hawk 19 289 Music of the Wild and vulture wheel, soar, and sail in high heaven, and the kingfisher dashes in merry rattling flight between the trees, his reflection trailing after him across sunlit pools. The quail leads her chickens from the thicket to drink, and the wild ducks con- verse among the rushes. In it the coon carefully washes the unwary frog caught among the reeds, and the muskrat furrows deeper ripples than the stones. The lambs play on the pebbly banks and drink eagerly, the cattle roll grateful eyes as they quench What the their thirst and stand belly-deep for hours lazily Limberlost switching their tails to drive away flies. Little children come shouting to wade in the cool waters, and larger ones solemnly sit on the banks with apple-sucker rods, wrapping twine lines and bent pin hooks, supporting their families by their indus- try, if the gravity of their faces be token of the importance of their work. Sweethearts linger beside the stream and surprise themselves with a new wonder they just have discovered — their se- cret ; but the Limberlost knows, and promises never to tell. Perhaps that is what it chuckles about while slipping around stones, over fallen trees, and whis- pering across beds of black ooze. The Limberlost is a wonderful musician, singing the song of run- ning water throughout its course. Singing that low, somber, sweet little song that you must get 290 I* Songs of the Fields very close earth to hear, because the creek has such mighty responsibility it hesitates to sing loudly lest it appear to boast. All these creatures to feed and water; all these trees and plants to nourish! The creek is so happy that it can do all this, and if it runs swiftly other woods, thickets, fields, and meadows can be watered. Then the river must be reached as soon as possible, for there are factory wheels to be turned, boats to be carried, and the creek has heard that some day it is to be a part of the great ocean. When the Limberlost thinks of that its song grows a little more exultant and proud, bends are swept with swifter measure, louder notes are sung, and every bird, bee, insect, man, and child along the banks joins in the accom- paniment. All the trees rustle and whisper, shak- ing their branches to shower it with a baptism of gold in pollen time. The rushes and blue flags murmur together, and the creek and every sound belonging to it all combine in the song of the Lim- berlost. Sometimes it slips into the thicket, as on the Bone farm; for it is impartial, and perhaps feels more at home there than in the meadows, surely The more than in cultivated fields, where the banks often are stripped bare, the waters grow feverish and fetid, its song is hushed, and its spirit broken. But in the thicket the birds gather very low above the surface, the branches dip into the friendly 293 Music of the Wild floods, and it nourishes such an abundance of rank growth as men scarcely can penetrate. Then the Limberlost and the thicket hold a long conversa- tion, to tell each other how very content and happy they are. The bed of the Limberlost in the thicket is ooze and muck, so the water falls silent while slipping over the velvet softness, with only a whis- per to the birds and trees ; not so loud as the song of the flags, rushes, and water hyacinths that grow on the banks. The many trees and masses of shrubs lower their tones to answer the creek, and he who would know their secret must find for him- self a place on the bank and be very quiet, for in the thicket the stream will sing only the softest lullaby, just the merest whisper song. The big turtles in the water are quiet folk. So are the sinous black snakes sunning on the bushes, and the muskrats homing along the banks. As if loth to break the dark, damp stillness with louder notes, the doves coo softly; for they, too, have a secret, the greatest of any bird in all the world. Xo wonder they keep together and live so lovingly, and coo and coo softly; those wild, ten- der, and — above all other — loving birds. One would think they would warble from the treetops and soar with the eagle, had not long years taught that modesty and tenderness are their most promi- nent characteristics. For this is their secret. They are the chosen 294 Songs of the Fields bird of Omnipotence. It was a dove that carried the news of release to the prisoners in the ark, and it was in the form of a dove that the Spirit of The Bird God is said to have materialized and hovered over of God the head of Jesus when He was baptized in the Jordan. What other bird bears honors high as these? Yet doves home in the thicket, on a few rough twigs they place their pearly, opalescent eggs, and in trembling anxiety brood and raise a pair of young that go modestly and lovingly through life, exactly the same as their parents. Nowhere else in all nature does the softly-uttered coo of a dove so harmonize with the environment as over a stream in a thicket; and no accompani- ment to the murmuring voice of the Limberlost is quite so melodious as the love-song of this bird. The thicket seems a natural home for almost every feathered creature. This because there are trees, bushes, and shrubs, with their berries, nuts, and fruits; vines and weeds bearing seed; every variety of insect and worm, and water with its sup- ply of food, thus providing things to eat in a small space for almost every species. In spring and sum- mer the birds have full sway; but in the fall, after the first black frost, come rugged country boys and girls and village children in search of fruit and nuts. To some there is nothing so delicious as the black haw — white until almost ripe, then a day of 297 Music of the Wild mottled estate, and then such a luscious, shining black berry it has no equal; and if the birds get any they must be ahead of the boys and girls. The opossums must be before the boys at the persim- mon tree, for few are left when they finish. The robins love wild grapes, and cedar birds the poke berries, and squirrels, hazelnuts. Hazel bushes are beautiful. The leaf is some- thing like the elm in shape, though the hazel is of finer cutting. They are nearly the same size, deeply grooved on top, and heavily veined under- neath. The nuts grow from two to six in a cluster and are sheltered in a leafy, pulpy green cover with fringed edges, most artistic and, I should think, of great benefit to the decorator searching for an un- hackneyed subject. There are many places where they could be used with fine effect in leather work, especially as the ripe nut is a good leather color. But the boy who reaches the hazel bushes before the squirrels gets up very early in the morning, and then only too often to find that the worms have been ahead of him ; for when green the shells of hazelnut and chestnut are so very soft that bee- tles bore into them and deposit eggs that hatch, and the worm develops inside the shell, that hard- ens later. This explains why so often you crack a perfectly sound nut and find a wormy kernel. When the Limberlost leaves the thicket and comes into the open again it does not spread, as 298 •8" * • ^ ^§ •Sg^aS »j 5! •*: 5> S-^t. ^ S ^ulW V ^ ~ a 1 S«fv; -2 o"" «) 8lpl tf S'C « g^JS ;tl* •§ o a § w ^9-i fc S^SII <5 ^^ t * |||:5 x?; c: 13 ~« y <& v . E §'§5| C/3 c t: §j^2 5^;^^ the coot screams — a deep, guttural cry, most unpleasant, and music that can be avoided easily; for he will not perform it unless you trample on his rights and provoke him. The coot appears to be the connecting link be- tween the wading and the swimming birds. It is a queer compound, having the compact body of the grain-eater, the long, bare legs of the wader, and the lobed feet of a swimmer. It is a true marsh bird, avoiding lakes and running water, breeding and pleasuring among the reeds and rushes, and swimming in the open pools. It is al- most as expert a diver as the grebe, but the lobed feet that make it such a splendid swimmer are slightly awkward on land; and though a fairly good runner, it is not nearly so agile as the rail. Perhaps this watchman, who for centuries has announced to the marsh the first red peep of com- ing day, has tinged his coat by long contact with The the black muck and water. Aside from the mourn- Sefr.al.d!s ing of the crow, and the brighter black lit by Robe iridescent gleams of the blackbird, the coot is the most somber-robed musician of the marsh. He wears a suit of dark steel-gray, shading to black on the wings and tail. The head-feather- ing is fine to the touch as moleskin, and of vel- 377 Music of the Wild vety blackness. He has full brilliant eyes, and a beak by which he can be identified. The mandi- bles are close the length of a duck's, but pointed and rather sharp, of a beautiful white, with opal- escent tints of pale pink and salmon. The nos- trils are long and sharply cut, and a narrow, rufous band bridges the upper part, lapping on each side of the lower. His make-up displays two unusual and comical attempts at decoration. At the base of the upper mandible the coot wears a large frontal plate of bright chestnut, and the under side of the short tail is lined with white. Aside from these, in his dark robe and black cowl he is in dress the plainest resident of the marsh. During the breeding season the male bird lines off his nesting location and swims around close Young his mate, guarding, and keeping her company. Trum- YVToe to any bjrci thaj. encroaches on the invisible boundary! Coots nest beside the water in the tall marsh grasses, and lay from six to ten large, yel- lowish-brown eggs, heavily dotted with darker spots on the larger end. The young, hatched after three weeks' brooding, take to the water as soon as their down is dry. In an unexpectedly short time they become self-supporting, and, with the addition of their baby chatter to the swelling vol- ume of their elders', form a conspicuous feature of marsh music. No doubt your boat has shot past 378 The Music of the Marsh small bays and screened pools often, and as the chatter of old and young commingled in the music of a coot party you have said, "That scarcely sounds like ducks." I have seen coots running throughout a season in this swampy corner of a marsh, and it is as nearly typical of their location as any I know. The The muck of such places is alive with worms, the Indi8°- ,,,. , ,, T . i Bird's Nest grasses with insects, and the surrounding vines and bushes bear seed. It seems that birds of any habit might flourish there, and indeed I often have seen a little red-eyed vireo so busy in these bushes that I am sure there was a nest and family, and when I landed and worked my way into the marsh I scared up a female Indigo finch, and soon found her nest in a thicket of blackberry and wild grape. Both were in bloom and growing so closely around the little cup with its four delicate white eggs that the brooding bird could have sat on her nest and snapped up flies and gnats attracted by the sweets of the flowers. The nest was securely woven and placed in a perfect picture of loveliness, the eggs appearing as pure and white as the berry blooms, but I doubt if the brood came off safely. That location was the most unfortunate I ever knew an Indigo finch to choose. As I stood be- side the nest I seemed to see big black water snakes, weasels, coons, foxes, and a whole flock of bird 381 Music of the Wild enemies stealing up to destroy it. I did not enter the thicket again, so its fate is unknown. But that a vireo and a finch should be homing in such a place proves how universally birds as well as flowers are distributed. Brilliant color attracts bird and insect musicians not only to the water's edge, but over it to the depth of the longest white water lily stem, which ranges from three feet to a specimen I once pulled that was sixteen. The five typical flowers growing in the water at the outer edge of all other vegetation are the Water arrowhead lily, blue flag, yellow lily, water hya- Flowers cmth, white water lily, and differing members of their families. They are all beautiful plants of fine leaf and exquisite bloom; and there are some who will prefer one, and some another. My choice is the arrowhead, not only of marsh flowers, but among any; it ranks well toward first with me. I love a red flower in the fields; it appears so vital, so full of life, it excites the imagination and warms the cockles of the heart; for red is love's own color. A red flower or fruit or leaf appears to be a consummation of something worth while; the fields have done a perfect work, now I must busy myself and produce results to prove what I am attempting. Any day my faith weakens, a bed of foxfire or cardinal flower waving salutation can renew my courage and urge me on with fresh zeal ; and if a cardinal bird just then comes winging 382 The Music of the Marsh across my way, singing "Good cheer! Good cheer!" I immediately feel so full of power that I dream I can accomplish something worth doing. Red is the love color, but white is the holy one ; and above all other white flowers the lily is em- blematic of the holy of holies. Of all lilies not the proud ascension nor the lowly lily of the valley is so serenely, pearly pure as the arrowhead lifting its jewels above the mire of the marsh. If only I were a poet and had the gift of rhyming, or meas- uring stately periods, I know the story well enough. There are many things in nature that bring the same thought to every heart. The com- pilers of the Bible knew that when they epito- mized the very Spirit of God in a dove and com- pared the Prince of Peace with the white lily. Above all else, white, unspotted white, is the em- blem of truth, purity, and holiness; so this is the song a poet should sing. The lordly ascension lily was set high in the fields as a perpetual reminder to men that Christ gave His life, and ascended to heaven to inter- cede for them with God the Father. The humble lily of the valley was placed low among the grasses of untraveled ways that any wanderer there might see the emblem, so precious that it wras said of Jesus, "I am the lily of the valley." Then to the muck and mire of the marsh the Almighty gave the whitest and sweetest lily of all, that any lost and 25 385 Music of the Wild sinking soul again might see with his latest vision the white sign of holiness. There is music all the day among the rushes rustling with each breeze, and where they harp the purest note of God these white lilies grow. Their stems and buds are round, and the leaves wonder- ful. They are a fine arrow-shape, and some in this study were almost two feet in length, having a stout midrib, grooved on the upper surface, with deep veins on the under. Both bloom and leaf stems are round, and the bud is a perfect little globe, the sign of the earth. The lilies open with three simple petals that spread widely and curve with indescribable grace, so that light and shadow are caught on the face of the same bloom. No other white flower I know has the fineness of tex- ture of the arrowhead petals; similar to pearls is the only comparison. Then they have a heart of gold, for the anthers are yellow, which adds rich- ness to the petals. Each stalk bears six clusters of bloom. The flowers are set on stems of sufficient length to dis- play their beauty fully without crowding. Three blooms are placed at equal distances in a circle around the stem, and three inches above another circle, each stalk terminating in a cluster of four blooms: three around the stem, and one on the tip. The fragile, ethereal whiteness of the bloom is further enhanced by the surroundings. The back- 386 The Music of the Marsh ground is almost invariably graceful flowers, dark- green cattail leaves, and the golden-green, round, aspiring stems of the bulrush. These are genuine pointers; they are the signboards of earth direct- ing man toward heaven. Water shallow enough to grow these lilies always shows the black muck of its bed, and this further emphasizes their ap- pearance of purity. Worship is their due, and they receive it; for no mortal with senses alive to beauty can see them without having the joy song awakened in its most holy form in the heart. Around them flit the sweet-lovers of the marsh with music-breeding wings, and in pursuit, equally musical, the dragon fly. At their feet the water folk are busy with the affairs of life, and among the lilies and between their slender stems dart the chattering grebes. These small musicians can be shrill of voice and active with their bills in the fright of captiv- ity; but at home in the marsh, filled with domestic The solicitude, they make their location charming with sweet, tender, low-voiced cheepings and chatter as they dart around, caring for their young. Grebe babies will thrill any normal human heart with tenderness. For a nest the mothers pull weeds from the marsh bed and stack them on a bit of morass, a grassy tuft, or drift-covered brush. They cover their eggs on leaving them, and when 380 Music of the Wild the little ones are hatched their down is scarcely dry before they take to the water. How cunning they are! Sitting like an auk, where you would expect a tail to be, yet it is not; tiny yellow feet, not webbed like a duck's, but the webbing in escallops on the outside of each flat toe; small, armlike wings; a bill that is sharp for a water bird ; round, bright-irised eyes ; plump, full breasts of finest snow-white velvet; backs striped much like those of young quail, and the baby not larger than your thumb. On land they are the most helpless birds imag- inable. They can not fly until almost fullgrown, and their legs are so far back they are unable to lift the weight of their bodies. They rise on their feet, launch themselves forward, with the tips of their wings breaking the fall on their breasts, and thus, like uncouth four-foocea things, go sprawl- ing until they reach the water. One can see their comic relief and the deep breath they draw as they reach their native ele- Expert ment. What a transformation! The prince of Swimmers swimmers js the baby grebe. Like lightning play the tiny escalloped feet. It fairly seems to glide over the surface, not infrequently distancing its elders. When tired or ready to sleep these com- ical baby birds often climb upon the back of their mother, making a picture delightful to see. The diving of the grown grebe is so nearly 390 THE LEAVES " Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms, Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms, Ye ministers meet for each passi in that grieves, Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves. As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air, Pray me a myriad prayer." — Lanier. The Music of the Marsh without parallel that in many localities it is called the helldiver, on account of striking so deep and remaining so long that it is supposed to have ample The time to reach the lower region and return before HfH' again seeing the surface. A grebe does dive deep E and long ; but do you understand the trick to which it resorts ? Heading shoreward it comes up among driftwood or rushes, lifting above water just enough of the small, sharp bill to enable it to breathe, and with film-covered eyes and water- proof coat comfortably awaits the passing of dan- ger, while pursuers are crediting it with wonderful ability in deep diving. From babyhood the structural formation of the grebe remains unchanged. The wing feathers are almost spineless, and appear more like fringe than quills. Yet, being migratory, it must be able to make a strong flight. After reaching a chosen lo- cation, however, and beginning housekeeping, it will not take wing again until time to migrate. It will suffer itself to be picked up and killed before resorting to flight. For this reason it is the easiest prey imaginable for feather hunters. A grebe very seldom leaves the water. When it does it propels the body with feet and wings, just as in young days, sits erect like an auk, or lies sun- ning in the same position taken in swimming. It is a rare thing to catch a grebe attempting to bear the weight of its body on the feet. The attitude 393 Music of the Wild assumed in so doing is distinctive, and not at all like the position taken by a duck or goose in standing. The breast is lifted so high there ap- pears to be imminent danger of toppling back- ward. The color is some shade of brown over the back, and whether you know what it is or not, you Grebe are familiar with the breast of the grebe. When Millinery vou see a woman with a band of white plumage tinted almost invisibly with blue and green, and more strongly with golden brown, ornamenting her hat, know that from one to six of these harm- less, lovable, sweet-voiced birds were stripped from chin to vent to supply it. When you see that other woman wearing a cape, the collar of which reaches above her ears and the skirt to her elbows, and it is made of almost indiscernible, delicately- colored sections the size of your hand, know that each stands for the life of one of these charming marsh chatterers. The breast of the grebe is its curse. The feath- ers are so tiny and fine as to render adequate de- scription impossible. There are eight members of the family having this exquisite plumage, that varies in rarity with the different species. Crested grebes are killed without mercy for this small patch of rare feathering, and their marsh cousins do not escape. There is no bird slaughter for plumage more wanton, unless it be that practiced by the 394 The Music of the Marsh egret hunters, who take the life of the brooding bird for a few beautiful feathers found on the shoulders only at nesting-time, and leave the young to slow death from starvation. When plume-decked women chide you for tak- ing a moderate amount of game in season, tell them this egret story. Tell them, too, how the grebes are caught by hand, because they will not fly; and how the skin of the throat is cut with nip- pers and ripped to the vent of the living bird, which is then left to die as it may in its chosen location among the grasses, rushes, and blue flags of the marsh border. Here is a cloying sweetness that insures an un- usually strong insect chorus, attracted first to the blue flags. These flowers, borne singly upon slen- The der, upright stems, are of complicated arrangement Blue Flag in their hearts, so they were given a far-reaching sweetness that many visitors might be lured to them and thus accomplish their cross-fertilization. They have three curving, graceful petals curling back, of many tinted purplish shades; three up- right pale-blue ones inside them, much smaller in size, and a complicated arrangement of pistil and fringy anthers in their hearts, that touches the bloom with gold. These anthers are designed es- pecially to catch the pollen of their kind, carried on the' backs of bees, so that, even if the plants can not reach each other, their species is perpetu- 397 Music of the Wild ated. These complex parts in the hearts of flowers are their sex organism, and the honey they distil is the bribe offered bees and butterflies to con- summate conception for them. Nature is very frank, and these marvels are spread closely over her face for any one who cares to learn. I think those who really understand and appreciate these delicate processes among the flowers never again doubt that there is a Supreme Being. The Cre- ator said, "And a bow shall be set in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every liv- ing creature of all flesh that is upon the earth." So He evolved the rainbow. On the painted lily faces the botanists of early Greece saw repro- duced these wonderful colors, and so they named the plant "1/tW — the rainbow. Because the sky is blue, eternal, and never- changing, men have adopted this color to express True Blue friendship, which also should be eternal and never- changing. True blue is dear to all hearts and con- veys an express meaning; so again these wonder- ful flowers are baptized with truth. And as if no honor might be lacking, to the blue is added "flag." Never was other flower more highly honored in its naming. Sometimes beautiful plants and vines are insulted by scientists applying to them careless, contradictory, and incongruous terms. Here is one embarrassed by riches both in its scientific and 398 The Music of the Marsh common name. Think what his flag symbolizes to a man! It means so much that for it he severs the dearest ties of earth, leaves a home of comfort and faces untold hardships, exposes his body to sickness, wounds, and many forms of death. For it he sacrifices everything else on earth, yielding with smiling lips life itself. So when the slender, exquisite leaves of the iris waved on the free winds of the marsh with the abandon and grace of a flag, some one caught the resemblance, and to the symbol of eternal truth was added that of liberty, and the rainbow lily be- came the blue flag, the true flag. It is not alone in complicated arrangement of parts to facilitate cross- fertilization. Many marsh and swamp flowers have similar hearts, with much sweetness as a lure, so that not only wild bees and insects but many butterflies are constant visitors. Although this study was made on a roadside flower, the black swallow-tail is a true marsh but- terfly and beautiful above all others. The wing- A Butterfly sweep is from three and a half to four inches, and Aristocrat this is one of the few aristocrats of butterflydom, because it bears trailed wings. These wings are black above, with lines of yellow spots running across them. They are lemon-yellow below, with the row of spots showing through. The trailers are black, touched with a stroke of strong yellow, and the upper sides of the back pair of wings each 26 401 Music of the Wild have a spot of blue. In company with Troilus, Archippus, and Coenia, these handsomest of all marsh butterflies flutter slowly from flower to flower, providing most beautiful pictures where everything isva component part of one great, bril- liant panorama. What a quantity of gold there is in a marsh when it even takes wing and flies through the air! Pure Gold So many of the plants and flowers are yellow that in August the color predominates all around the borders; yes, and even more. It lifts above the water as well; for there is the yellow lily, the pur- est gold of all, sturdily erecting its unalloyed head above the murky surface. Its habitat is a short distance farther out than the arrowhead lily and the blue flag. It requires more water. The white pond lily leaf and bloom rests directly on the surface, the yellow raises its thick, woolly leaf and flower stems above. The blooms have six cuppy, deeply overlapping petals of purest gold at the tip, green at the base outside, and maroon of bright color inside. In the smallest species the inside maroon is almost red. The stigma is a deep yellow disk, very large; and as it ripens the stamens seem to peel from it and grow dusty with pollen, while the flower unfolds. On the first day of bloom the petals open so narrowly that any bee entering must of necessity trail the pollen adhering to its fuzz, across the 402 FLYING GOLD "As poised on vibrant wings. Where its sweet treasure swings The honey-lover clings To the red flowers." —Cooke. The Music of the Marsh stigma. When the bloom petals fall the disk grows rapidly into a large head with the appear- ance of having a lid. This pod is full of seed, that the Indians grind for one of their dainties at wed- ding feasts. These balls of gold, before they are fully open, resemble small fallen suns; and when we reflect that the sun stands for light and warmth, by which we live, yellow becomes our most pre- cious color. There is not so much sound on the yel- low lilies as on the white or blue, but there is a world of busy musicians all around them. A tea party of prima donnas would not reveal sweeter tones than the incessant vocalizing of a flock of wild ducks. They make entrancing music. The Orig- At one moment come notes of glad content over inal Quack motherhood, sunshine, and feasting; then an en- dearing call as they gather small ones close to them; then a warning lest a venturesome baby stray too far; then a word of satisfaction over a very luscious worm, and too often the high alarm cry when the water riffles with a big turtle or musk- rat coming their way. When a rival interferes with his love-making, a courting drake sends across the marsh a hair-raising scream, quite unlike that of his domesticated cousin. The marsh music of wild geese is almost of the same character, differing from the ducks only in tone and one tribal call. The "Honk! Honk!" of the old gander that leads his wedge-shaped flock 405 Music of the Wild in migration is a distinctive note, but it gives small idea of the vocal power he displays when he mar- shals his followers on the lakes and rivers of Canada. "Couk, couk, couk!" The cry of the sheitpoke is composed of enlivening notes, and rings with the The delight of boundless freedom. Coming unexpect- Jt is' to say the least' startlmS- Tne sheit- is of the heron family, and he is a bird that deserves sympathetic admiration, — he attends his own affairs so diligently and appears so absorbed in them. He goes about his business in such a "hammer and tongs" style that the heart warms to his independence. Rolling his jolly call, he comes slashing and splashing through muck and water, quite as frequently for mischief as in search of food — the veriest rowdy in the marsh. Soiled and dripping, he reaches a solid footing with a look half apologetic, half defiant, exactly as if he were saying, "Had a lot of fun doing that; but why in the world do you suppose I did it?" He is a warm-hearted, warm-headed, impulsive roustabout, yet at the first suspicious note intro- duced into his paradise he can slink like a cuckoo. His generous crest flattens until it appears pasted down; his oily, hairlike plumage hugs his body, and his eyes snap and pop. A frightened sheit- poke trying to decide in which direction to flee an unknown danger is an amusing spectacle. He is 406 The Music of the Marsh not an extremely handsome bird. An old male has a few beautiful iridescent feathers around the back of the neck and across the shoulders, the throat is narrowly striped with cream; but the general color is a dark, dull brown. He has smooth, scaled legs and feet of greenish yellow, full bright eyes, and quite a lively coloring on his elegantly shaped bill. He is a romping, mischievous, free, wild bird, and no marsh choir would be complete without his clear, ringing notes. If it be fair to laugh at anything that is young and helpless, then a baby sheitpoke is almost, if not quite, the most laughable specimen in birdland. A long, slender, yellow-tinted beak; long, slender neck; long, slender legs; long, slender body; big, popping eyes; an insatiable appetite, and vocal powers to proclaim it loudly around the marsh. Of the same location as the yellow lily are the water hyacinths. Their leaves lift above the sur- face, are near one-fourth the size of the yellow lily, Water and lance-shaped. They are a crisp dark-green Hyacinths and stiffly upstanding. The stems of the leaf and bloom are very similar to the yellow lily, except that the blooms rise on an average of six or eight inches higher and are a long head set with tiny bracts, in each of which blooms an exquisite little blue flower. Blooming begins at the base and slowly climbs to the tip, the lower flowers fading before the top are all open. The head is of pure 409 Music of the Wild blue and forms a rare and graceful addition to marsh flowers. I mean rare in the sense of rarely beautiful. The entire plant is artistic. It attracts bees and insects for its music; the waves come lip- ping around it, and birds that hunt food near are the feathered giants of the marsh, the real operatic high C singers — the bittern, loon, and blue heron. When the bittern booms, when the loon cries, when the blue heron screams, you hear the Calves Marsh and the Melbas of the marsh; but you must decide Pnma fQT yourself to which belongs the palm. The bit- tern and heron are of the same family. The bit- tern is plumper of body, shorter of beak and leg, with a handsome golden-brown back. A black line begins at each corner of the mouth, passes under the eye, and gradually widens until it meets the corresponding line at the back of the neck. The breast is of creamy white, beautifully outlined in shaded stripes of golden brown. Excepting the white heron, a bird of snow and surpassingly beau- tiful, the breast of the bittern is the most exquisite piece of feather-marking in the entire heron fam- ily. These birds nest on the ground, and their bony, long-billed babies are very interesting. Scientists are yet discussing whether the bittern When really booms. Actual contact with the birds, in- the Bit- stea(j of research in ancient authorities, would set- tern Booms . tie many a similar vexing question. Surely the bittern booms. Go live in the haunts of one long 410 The Music of the Marsh enough to become sufficiently familiar to photo- graph him, and by that time you will have learned for yourself. You also will find that his boom does closely resemble the low, distant rumble of an angry bull, and that, although partly nocturnal when breeding, and frequently throughout the en- tire season, he sometimes booms during the day, and is in evidence while bathing and fishing. We gravely are told by more than one old-school orni- thologist that he feeds only at night and booms only during the breeding season, always under cover of darkness. If he could not be heard fre- quently around the marsh during the summer, and pictured as he feeds at almost any hour of the day, this might be given credence. In fact hunters and fishers sometimes remark, "We must look out for a bull," when it is the rumbling "Umm-umm- umm" of the bittern they hear. It is on account of this boom that in backwood localities he is called the "thunder-pumper." The boom supplies the "thunder." The "pumper" The arises from the fact that he is supposed to have Thunder . Pumper an extra intestine running straight through his anatomy; he thrusts his beak into a small puddle he wishes to explore for worms, and with a "ca- chook! ca-chook!" pumps off the water and feasts at his leisure. There are places where this belief is so firm that it would be unwise to appear to think it amusing. The only method by which to 413 Music of the Wild convince any one of its untruth would be to dis- sect a bird and find the peculiar membrane in his windpipe that enables him to furnish this distinct- ive and most interesting marsh music. Xo doubt the organ would somewhat resemble the same for- mation at the base of the windpipe of a drake. The bittern is a fine, dignified specimen. He likes to have his beak and feet clean, and mani- fests his pride in his beautiful plumage by con- stantly dressing and keeping it immaculate. Com- pared with his cousin, shielpoke, he differs as the prince from the fishmonger. Xo slashing and splashing in marsh muck and dirty water for him. He selects a clear, clean spot having a slight cur- rent and, standing immovable, watches the bottom until he sees signs of a worm; and then, with a quick, neat nip he has it.' He is in every way a self-respecting bird. He moves with fine poise and dignity, and in flight he is strong and grace- ful. His vocalizing is almost as surprising as that of the loon, but quite different. The loon is a diver, and a relative of the grebe. As a rule loons are of the lakes and marshes of the The far Xorth, where their cries are considered dread- Laughter .puj k nervous people. In early spring, near nest- of the Loon . J . J ^ . • \ g . mg-time, their vocalization is startling, especially in a first experience. The morning call rolling across the water is not so unpleasant ; some eminent authorities confess a sneaking fondness for it, as 414 The Music of the Marsh if it were a thing for which to apologize. Perhaps they hesitate to admit it on account of the mourn- ful evening and night cry, which is a terror, re- sembling a rolling, melancholy, long-drawn "Ha, ha! week! Ha, ha! week." Poets have written of the laughing of the loon; but as this cry swells across the marsh, gathering force as it travels, un- til it comes reverberating from the forests and hills of the distance, it seems to awaken feelings simi- lar to those roused by the cries of a hungry panther. As loons occur only as straying migrants in my country, I am not sufficiently acquainted with them to know what act accompanies these cries, or why they are uttered. It is presumable that the loon is having just as good a time as any other bird, and no doubt his crazy laughter is uttered in calling a mate, in love-making, or to express the pure enjoyment of his life. After an experience with loon music it is al- most a relief to hear the rasping scream of a blue heron — "Ker-awk! ker-awk!" The entire family of cranes and herons are beautiful marsh birds. The blue heron is a fine specimen, at times over forty inches in height, with an immense beak; bright, steel-blue plumage, clearly marked with black, brown, and white; high crest, flowing beard, eyes that snap as the bird vaguely realizes an un- seen danger, and feathers sparkling with mist and dew from the wet rushes among which he feeds. Music of the Wild A heron's voice is at its best when he calls his mate; but even then those who all their lives have The Bat- studied bird notes under stress of different emo- tie-cryof tjOns have difficulty in deciding whether he says, the Heron * . o. Come, my love; this spot is propitious. Share a morning treat with your dearest!" or, "Better keep away, old skin and bones ; there 's danger around this frog pond!" But what he says when he de- fends his mate and young from intruders there is no trouble in understanding, and he emphasizes it with beak, wings, and feet. That is the hoarse, rasping battle-cry of the heron, and if you do not Avant to fight you had better run. Water carries sound so clearly and for such dis- tances the woodpeckers and flickers that choose The marsh drums for their performances outdo their Drum- feuow musicians of the land. Every hollow, vine- the Marsh covered tree stump of the marsh is a big bassdrum, and on it these drummers perform all day with never-ending vigor, while the breast of the water serves as their sounding-board. When they have drummed until they are tired clinging to their in- struments, they lean back and cry, "Kerr, kerr, kerr!" like the wailing notes of a fife, and then return to their drumming. To these performers of the day and partly of the night now are added other musicians, wholly nocturnal, that have arrived from the forest. When dusk creeps from the deep wood and in- 418 THE DRUM-MAJOR He wears a modest uniform Of gray, with black and white, He plays the fife till short of breath, Then drums with all his might. And when he can not beat his drum Another single note, He fifes out, "Kerr, Kerr, Kerr," again, Till he almost splits his throat. The Music of the Marsh closes the marsh there is short time for pause be- fore the singers of darkness lift their voices. The frogs begin with renewed energy. Before the The moon silvers the water and blackens the shadows Sere' comes the whip-poor-will's cry. It is not unmu- sical, but it comprises peculiar notes; they are enunciated so clearly, and with such insistence, and mingled always with the mystery of the dark. Not mystery because the moon looks on anything different from the sun, but because we are in darkness; and when we hear and can not see, we dread. Near the same time the night jar lifts his voice, and he is a veritable screamer. What a cry he can utter! We shudder involuntarily. But what of the mate he calls? Did you ever pause to think that to her perhaps the cry means: "Awake! Come, sail with me through the forest and over the marsh! Let us search for food and enjoy life!" Is there not more in that to arouse sympathy than repulsion in the human heart? The maestro of all night musicians is the great horned owl. The big hollow sycamores and the im- penetrable thickets around the marsh are his birth- right. His music echoes throughout the year and belongs to his location as the white mantle of win- ter and the green of summer. It is not that his cry is harsh or unmusical, but that coupled with 421 Music of the Wild darkness his notes are so startling. If a belated hunter was not acquainted with the bird when the deep-toned "Who, huh, whoo, who, waugh?" comes rolling out of the darkness, he well might wonder whether his imperative questioner used the voice of bird, beast, or devil. It is the marsh that furnishes the croakings, the chatter, the quackings, the thunder, the cries, The and the screams of birdland. These notes may al seem disagreeable as they are described, but they are not so in realization. At times we may think that Vie would be glad not to hear again the most discordant of these musicians, but they are all dear in their places, and were any one of them to be- come extinct, something of its charm would be taken from the damp, dark, weird marsh life that calls us so strongly. We have learned to know and understand them, and they have won our sym- pathy and our love. We would miss the strident rasp, the flapping of wings, and the vision of long-legged awkwardness as they rise from the rushes; for these are prominent parts of the at- tractions we go to seek. As the season advances the choir of the marsh is augmented, not only by the natural increase of its true residents, but also by swarms of birds lov- ing the water, seeds, and insects afforded ; and the moment they are free from other duties they come flocking here with their young. In early August 422 THE DRUM On the hollow vine-girt tree Old red-head beats, "Turn-turn!" Then to practice economy He keeps house inside his drum. The Music of the Marsh the rushes are weighted with bobolinks, and the air resounds with their sweet, liquid notes. A few days later the straying killdeer and upland plover return, and the blackbirds and tanagers sweep upon it in countless numbers. From then until fall migration marsh life is at its fullest and best, and if from its babel of voices comes an oc- casional rasping note, to counteract it there is an endless variety of exquisite tones to the heart of the music-lover most dear. To any man the call of the marsh is threefold. Whether he realizes it or no, his faith in all re- newal is strengthened in watching this yearly res- The nrrection. Dead as any death appears the marsh Three- J fold Lure of during winter s long sleep ; no other place so abun- the Marsh dant with life in summer. Most people dread the thought of annihilation. The marsh, that can die and yet return to life at the first breath of spring, seems each year to repeat anew to its lovers, "Though a man die, yet shall he live again." All men are cheered by that message, whether it comes by precept or impression. There is a visual call from the marsh. Men travel across continents and pay high prices to purchase the greatest reproductions of nature that have been painted. The marsh is the most won- derful picture nature herself has to offer. There is no sky to surpass these, for all skies drift over in answer to changing moods. There are no clouds 425 Music of the Wild so real as these, that are reality. There is no background so perfect as giants of the forest de- veloping from the beginning; no middle distance so beautiful as these plumes of wild rice sweeping the sky, these waving flags and rushes, this riot of red and yellow, white and blue flower faces; no foreground so rare as this mass of growing leaves and lily pads that shade off into the black, un- fathomable water. There is no still life to sur- pass in grandeur the upheavals of nature in a tem- pest. There are no subjects more picturesque than stilt-legged waders that stand motionless by the hour or rise on wide wings and with trailing legs make nature's picture complete by sailing slowly across it. And the breath of muck-ladened air, touched with the resin of pines, heavy with the perfume of pollen, pungent with the tang of mint, — this is atmosphere for hunger of which the nostrils may wither; but whose brush shall re- produce it? Always there is the call of the music; the best in the wide world, the spontaneous, day long, night long song of freedom and content. From a mil- lion gauze-winged musicians, from the entire aquatic orchestra singing to the accompaniment of the pattering rain, from the killdeer's call trailing across the silver night, from the coot waking the red morning, from the chattering blackbirds of golden noon, from the somber-robed performers of 426 The Music of the Marsh the gray evening, — comes the great call that above all others lures men to return again, and yet again, to revel in it; comes the sweetest note from the voice of the wild; comes the music of the marsh. 5 MAR 30 Form L9-2 University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. NON-REN g£p MAR 2 5 DUE 2 WKS FROM u WABLE 997 It KLbLlttO " 3H31 P83m