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ft KIPLING

Carnell University Library
Sthaca, New York

BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE

SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND

THE GIFT OF

HENRY W. SAGE

1891

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Cornell University

Library

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

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

http:/Awww.archive.org/details/cu31924031236908

RAMBLES OF A
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CONTENTS

AN OPENING WorD . * . . . a . I
Tue SPIRIT OF SPRING . . 3 & a : 3
THE SKUNK CABBAGE . . * ‘ é 3 é 6
Tue PITCHER PLANT : - ‘ F : : 7 8
BIRDS OF THE SEASON . P . . . . . Ir
UNAPPRECIATED FLOWERS . . ‘ a $ - 14
Nature’s REVIVAL . « . 2 z . . a9
A SUBURBAN RAMBLE. ‘ . : ; * + 21
DIMINUTIVE BEAVERS ‘ r < % * : + 25
THE AMERICAN MERGANSERS . is < ‘ a - 28
THe AWAKENING YEAR . F % F a é - 31
THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE . < a * - 34
THE BLOOD-ROOT . . .
“Ya HONK! YA HONK! YA HONK!” . ‘ a » 39
SuppEN SUMMER . . . ‘ : . ‘ - 42
A Sonc oF THE NicHT . F ‘ + . . - 45
AN INDOLENT RIVER R , . a “ » 48
A SEASON OF GROWTH . : , . * « - 452
As THE YEAR GRows . . . * * . 55
THE DANDELION . é . ‘ . % - 59
A Summer RESIDENT . ;: a é ‘ * - 62
Tue NIGHT-HAWK . ’ . * s * . - 65
Nature’s BENEFICENCE .- : * ‘ . . Py (°)
Don’t Piucx It _ . . : . * : ¥ + 7
A RECORD OF TIME : : . : 5 3 - 77
A Day IN JUNE. . . . a . . - 80
MELODRAMA AND TRAGEDY . . e . . - 8&4

AN UNFORTUNATE MOURNING Dove . - ‘ - 87
Tue Lire of A MoTH . . . . . ° + go
PopuLaR TYRANTS . ‘ ’ . . ° - 04

SPOTTED SANDPIPERS . . . ° . * - 98
In A SULTRY SWAMP. . a . . a + or
A SUCCESSFUL PRETENDER . . . . . + 105
BeLow NIAGARA. . . % . . ‘ + 109
As THEY TAKE THEIR FLIGHT . . . . ’ + 193

vi CONTENTS

PAGE
‘Tse Great NorTHERN Diver. P : 3 . . 116
Tae Powpber Post BEETLE . ‘é 5 7 F - 120
A Froatine IsLanpD ‘ . 3 3 > * - 123
AcTIve GLEANERS . F ‘ 5 : ~ 7 . 126
FLockInG ALREADY ! « S " F ‘3 . - 130

WHEN THE SWALLOWS—— . : F P ‘ - 133
THE FASCINATION OF LIGHT . . . rs . - 136
THE CANADIAN MockING-BIRD e : ‘ % - 139
THe OLD SporT . : Z F 3 r . - 142
A MIGRATING BUTTERFLY ‘ é s i ‘ » 145
Tse GREAT BLUE HERON ‘ ; F 3 3 - 149
FLOWERS OF THE SEASON P é . ‘ 4 ~ 152
Tue PassING OF SUMMER 3 : F ‘ ‘ » 55
‘THe WANING YEAR ‘ P é 5 ‘ ‘ » 158

Tse WitcH Haze ‘ é F ‘ ‘ Fe - 161
Tue Tussock Motu : ‘ ‘ : * 3 » 165
EPIPACTIS VIRIDIFLORA . 5 : ‘ , - 69
DEPARTING SUMMER VISITORS . 7 . : : + 172
Wair-Poor-WILL 2 ‘ ; ‘ . . + 176
Brrps OF PASSAGE . : G i . 7 - 179
THe HAUNT OF THE COOT 5 ; ‘ . . . 182
A LONELY WANDERER. ‘ $ : . F . 185

THe AUTUMN PANORAMA % ; 3 ‘ 5 . 188
Tae Deap LEAVES FALL i . . - . - IQt
WEATHER PROPHETS 3 s x : . 2 - 194

As THE YEAR PASSES : F cs & 3 , - 198
PREPARING FOR SPRING . : s % _ c + 201
EarLy WINTER ‘ ‘ F : ‘ ‘ e - 204
Some WINTER VISITORS . . * ‘ « . + 207
WINTER Bups - j . . . ‘ . + 211
BITTERSWEET . ‘ . . _ . . . + 214
INSPIRED BY THE SNOW . 7 . . . ; + 217
AN EVENING REVELLER . é . . * : + 220
THE GreaT HoRNED OWL. . - : 2 + 223
Muskrats . - 7 . . . ‘ ‘ + 226
Last Day oF DANGER . . . . . ; + 230
THe BEACH IN WINTER .« . . . s * + 233
Narture’s DREAMS . ‘ i . . . 5 + 236
INDEX . ‘ : 2 . . . . . + 243

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MonarcH BUTTERFLY—KING BILLy
WintTer’s Rosin

vii

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Frontispiece
Facing page 36

go
100:
144
226

RAMBLES OF A CANADIAN
NATURALIST

AN OPENING WORD

LITTLE straggling patches of shrubbery and lingering
trees that hide timidly in the shadow of a great city,
streams destined for imprisonment in long dungeons
beneath the paved and crowded streets, marshes
striving in richness of verdure to convert each year’s
decay into new and healthy life, all tempt the rambler
to push his way about and linger over the intricate
and changing panorama.

The few miles that bound a morning’s ramble seem
so limited and circumscribing, and yet so vast—so
crowded with an infinitude of nature’s activities.
Let us look, let us listen, let us breathe the enriched
air. Myriad forms of the mystery of life crowd upon
the senses made keen by the silence. Rambles merge
imperceptibly into ramblings, and the little clumps
of brushwood seem peopled with the wild things that
have long since taken their departure to the secluded
shades of the distant and retreating wilderness.

This is not that blending of fact and fancy which
A

2 AN OPENING WORD

pains the conscientious naturalist, but simply a
mental assimilation of sights and sounds. What is
seen and heard—things revealed to the eye and ear—
may awaken a delighted interest, but our thoughts
and fancies, stirred by what is partly revealed, have
a deeper charm. Following these suburban rambles
may yield the keen pleasure of observations verified.
And perhaps in the wayward ramblings a community
of fancy may be discovered more pleasant and more
fraternal than the kindred joy of disclosing nature’s
guarded secrets.

i

WHEN the long, grey mornings of spring renew their
invitation they cannot be denied. Snow lingers in
secluded corners and frost is still in the ground,
but spring is awaiting a welcome. Robins are house-
hunting among the naked trees. Red-winged Black-
birds are perching on the dead reeds, displaying their
glossy uniforms and scarlet epaulets, or trying their
shrill voices from the higher perches in the willows.
The Song Sparrow is here, his familiar call an earnest
of the new life awakening on every hand. The Blue-
bird is displaying his finest colours, and seems
tempted by his vanity to choose the open fields
and solitary, leafless trees, where he can compel the
admiration of all observers. The Fox Sparrow is shy
and retiring, but his spring song brings a world of
delight, although he is hidden in the thicket. The
pussies on the Willow twigs are pushing their little
grey noses from under their reddish brown hoods.
The long catkins on the Alders are showing signs of

3

4 THE SPIRIT OF SPRING

life. A broken Sassafras twig fills the air with one
of the most delightful of forest odours. It is hard to
resist the boyish impulse to cut a Maple and taste
the sap. But it is no more tempting than the perfume
of a growing twig of Black Birch, broken where the
winter buds are swelling. Nature has been dreaming
under the white mantle that has just been drawn
aside. Moss is melting holes for itself through the
ice. The Wintergreen is all about in profusion,
carpeting the ground with rich green leaves, dotted
here and there with bright red berries. It has
defied the frost, the snow and the ice of winter, and
now offers up its tempting berries, pleasant in flavour
and odour as they are beautiful in colour and contrast.

The Trailing Arbutus, too, has a vitality that
defies the winter, and its green leaves are showing
above the litter of last year’s vegetation. Those who
are robbing the suburban woods of this flower have
a great sin to answer for, but the temptation also
is so great that one cannot but forgive them. The
flowers are already formed and the pinky white is
protruding from the little green buds. In a day they
will be opened, the sweet perfume leading to their
destruction by revealing their hiding places under
the dead leaves. The man or woman who can pass a
Trailing Arbutus in flower and not pluck it is as
near to perfection as it is possible for weak humanity
to approach. Down by the swampy margin the ice is

THE SPIRIT OF SPRING 5

receding from the shore, and the Watercress is there
fresh and green, showing that the stream has been
but dreaming all winter. The Skunk Cabbage, that
beautiful and malodorous flower, is already raising
its variegated hood from the black mud. It is deter-
mined to be first among the wild flowers. On the
shore there are some small Sassafras trees completely
girdled at the ground and doomed to die. The Cotton-
tail is at once suspected, which shows the evil of a
bad name. But there are Muskrat houses suspiciously
near, and many evidences of amphibious activity
in the half-frozgen mud. Have the Muskrats been
guilty of these depredations’ The multitude of tiny
wounds show that the culprit was the little Shore
Mouse with the formidable name, Arvicola riparius.
The leaves of the Hepatica are frozen solidly in the
ice high up on the bank, but alive and well withal,
and destined for a life of usefulness throughout the
summer, What wonderful egotists we must have been
to think the three-lobed leaf of the Hepatica was
shaped to intimate that it could cure certain
human ills. As if our little ills were sufficient
to move the mighty indifference of nature! The
Hepatica is as indifferent to our petty needs as the
Downy Woodpecker sounding his gong on the
resonant oak limb or the Lordly Crow moving with
steady strength across the colourless sky.

THE SKUNK CABBAGE

ALonc the oozy margins of swampy streams, where
spring seems to detach the sluggish ice from the
softening mud, the Skunk Cabbage is boldly announc-
ing nature’s revival. Handsome, vigorous, and
strong, richly coloured in purple, with delicate and
sometimes obscure markings of yellow, it rises clean
and unspotted from the weedy mud, a pointed, bulb-
like flower as large as a lemon. Its twisted, oval
contour and smooth-coloured surface suggest an
overgrown shell. But its chief claim to recognition
is its eagerness to greet the spring. In fact, it never
waits for the reviving warmth, nor even for the
inspiring spirit of the season of nature’s renewal. In
late autumn it rises from the black or mossy damp-
ness to live safely under the snow and be first in
spring’s revival. The great, round bud sitting com-
fortably on the thawing ooze or rising through the
lifted ice is not only a promise of spring, but an
assurance of nature’s perpetual activity.

The bulb-like flower is soon attended by an
adjacent green cone, formed by a closely-folded leaf.
But before the leaf develops, the handsome purple
shell, which is thick and fleshy, withers and falls,

THE SKUNK CABBAGE f

revealing the enclosed spike on which the real seed-
producing flowers are clustered. The leaves develop
later in the season, when they give some of the
marshy hollows a distinctly tropical aspect. Large,
oval, and pale green, often more than two feet in
length, they rise from the buried root-stalks that
bore the flowers in early spring.

The Skunk Cabbage deserves its quite uncompli-
mentary name, for even its devoted admirers, who
seek it as the earliest of all the awakening flowers,
feel constrained to apologise for the odour it exhales.
It generally escapes the indiscriminate destroyers
of flowers, for its attractive colours begin to fade
before they are abroad. It chooses inaccessible places
where the treacherous mud is a safe protection. Its
odour, too, is a means of defence. And its great,
fleshy, tropical richness and strong colouring seem
quite disappointing when taken from their natural
surroundings. Sometimes a rubber-booted boy is
seen walking proudly through a swamp or along a
footpath with the prize in his hand, carried by the
invariably short stalk, and suggestive of the utility
of fruit or vegetables rather than the ornamentation
of flowers. The perennial root-stalk, deeply buried,
insures the perpetuation of the Skunk Cabbage.
And with each returning spring its favourite hiding-
places will be sought by all who long for the earliest
news of the great awakening.

THE PITCHER PLANT

THERE is a human interest in this peculiar inhabitant
of swamps and bogs. Its pitcher-like leaves,
mysteriously full of water, graceful in form, and
delicately marked with purple, red, and brown, its
carnivorous habits, its round, rich, purple-red
flowers nodding on their tall and solitary stalks, all
serve to give it character and make a visit to its
favourite haunts a memorable event. The sphagnum
swamp which a utilitarian age would desecrate by
transformation into briquettes of peat fuel, the swamp
where the Pink Lady’s Slipper grows, where the
carnivorous Sundew is found, and the Pyrola and
Lady’s Tresses perfume the air, where the elastic,
spongy carpet of moss is so yielding that a visitor
feels impelled to keep on the move, while a heavy
tread shakes the neighbouring Tamaracks—there is
the home of the Pitcher Plant.

The Pitchers are now thawing loose from the
surrounding snow and ice, but the frozen water has
not burst the yielding leaves. They will survive the
early summer and sustain the flowers until a new set
bursts through close to the roots, when the older
Pitchers dry up and return to the swampy soil. These

THE PITCHER PLANT 9

plants draw sustenance from many insects enticed
into the Pitchers by their honeyed lips. Once inside,
the venturesome invader is doomed, for the throat
is armed with a formidable coating of sharp spines,
pointing downward. These facilitate the descent,
but make return to the open air impossible. The
struggling victim, in his futile efforts, is caught on
one of the sharp spines and thrown into the water,
where he speedily succumbs, nourishing the plant
that enticed him to his fate.

The water in the Pitchers has a digestive effect,
and the plant draws nutriment from the insects
dissolved in it. But the resources of the insect world
are infinite, and some diminutive visitors contrive
to make of the threatening death-trap a comfortable
dwelling. When a mass of undigested wings, legs,
and armour plates of the invading insects accumulates
in the bottom of a Pitcher an enterprising fly of the
genus Sarcophaga finds in the refuse a suitable
habitation for her coming brood. She enters without
any trouble, deposits her eggs, and, by a strange
dexterity, makes her escape again. When her young
brood hatch out, the larve feed on the accumulated
remains, and in due time make their escape, regardless
of the barbs that threaten to impale them.

These sojourners are harmless and perhaps
beneficial to the plant, but another tenant, a small
moth, lives at the expense of her habitation. She goes

10 THE PITCHER PLANT

in and out without the least difficulty and lays her
eggs on the inside of the open lip, in free defiance of
its array of concealed weapons. When the young
larve come out they feed on the inner lining of their
Pitcher, working around with a delicacy and care
that suggests a knowledge of their imminent danger.
They eat away a ring of the inner surface, clearing
off the dangerous spines that would throw them down
into the water, and all the time spinning a carpet of
silk to afford themselves a secure footing. After a
while the weakened lip shrivels and collapses, thus
making a comfortable habitation in which the young
moths sleep through the pupa stage of their existence.
They then emerge from the shrunken covering to seek
in other Pitchers a home for the next generation.
There is also an insect of the Hymenoptera order
that makes a home in this charnel-house of her
relatives. This enticing death-trap is found to be
hospitable to at least three visitors from the insect
world. Perhaps it is this natural blending of what
we call good and what we call evil that awakens the
deep human interest in the cluster of curved, open
Pitchers nestling in the moss and trailing a few
roots down to the unseen water.

Ii

BIRDS OF THE SEASON

EARLY messengers of spring are all the more welcome
through the season’s wearying delay. The Robin we
all know, for the city’s vapours have no terrors for
him. Sometimes he loiters quietly about all winter,
showing himself occasionally to awaken delusive
hopes of spring. The noisy, vigorous, and showy
Jays remain through the winter, gathering food from
many sources, and sometimes appealing to the kind-
ness of suburban residents. Woodpeckers never
desert us, and the Shrikes and Owls we have always
with us. The hasty Snowbirds seek the open spaces
in irregular flocks, searching for scattered seeds
on the black ridges of naked earth. But when the
timidly confiding Bluebird displays his rich colours
in the suburban orchards and fields it is a material
sign that the spirit of spring is in the air. A pair
found their way to a favoured valley recently, and
sought out the most tempting southern slope, where
the high, curving bank tried to concentrate and retain
the rays of the afternoon sun. There were patches
of naked earth, where the atmosphere quivered with
the reviving warmth and blurred the outline of
the open shrubbery in the close background. The

12 BIRDS OF THE SEASON

melting snows revealed the litter of the past season’s
vegetation. The uncovered ground was thawing in
exposed places; and the root leaves of the Asters
showed bright and green under the receding edges of
the icy covering.

But this did not seem a satisfying assurance of
spring to the new arrivals. They perched restlessly
on the dead Mullen stalks, and flew timidly back
and forth among the entangled thickets of Oak and
Hawthorn. The rich blue of their plumage contrasted
alternately with the broad expanse of snow and the
patches of naked ground on the hillside. Bright sun-
light deepened the dull red of their breasts. The
spirit of spring seemed struggling for recognition,
but they would not respond with a single note. The
sun beamed on them, and traced distinct shadows on
the dazzling snow, but they refused the slightest
responsive sound. A whistled call they treated with
absolute indifference. Evidently their day of song was
away in the future. But, silent and dissatisfied, they
were still welcome, and fancy supplied the song that
will be heard in the suburban orchards and along the
country roads when the season fulfills its mission.

More responsive is the Horned Lark, for he often
remains throughout the winter. His vocal notes may
be heard as he makes his undulating way over the
snow-covered fields. Like the Bluebird, he is midway
in size between the Sparrow and the Robin, but

BIRDS OF THE SEASON 13

the colours, seen as he runs persistently along the
ground in front of an intruder, are uniformly dull and
grey. He is lighter on the breast, with pale yellow
and black toward the neck, and the small projecting
points of feathers over his eyes have given him his
name. The black tail is a conspicuous mark of
identification for both males and females. The
Horned Lark nests on the ground, sometimes even
choosing a sheltered spot on the roadside. In spite
of this open confidence, and his apparent indifference,
at a respectful distance, he does not become, like the
Bluebird, tolerant of familiarity on longer acquaint-
ance. His suspicions can never be set at rest, and
when he runs ahead along the ground no seductive
coaxing can induce him to permit a nearer approach.
But he calls so early in the spring and attends so
willingly to his own affairs that he can be forgiven
for even the deplorable offence of suspicion.

14

UNAPPECIATED FLOWERS

WHILE the obdurate frost still holds the bulbs and
roots of early flowers in its rigid grasp, many trees
seem determined to respond to the promptings of
the season. In and about the city the flower buds of
the Soft Maple are freely opening and studding the
intricacy of twigs with bristling tufts and bunches.
Where the tracery of small branches was free and
open a few days ago the view is now obstructed by
the accumulation of small, unappreciated flowers.
But they are real flowers, and that brings them into
fellowship with the season of awakening life. Flowers
are associated in our minds with the richest textures,
and with colours surpassing fancy in their effulgence
and delicacy. But the sturdy branches overhead have
a floral richness of their own, modest and unadorned,
yet claiming a place in the scheme of perpetual trans-
mission. In spite of the forbidding aspect of the
season, the Soft Maple flowers have already unfolded,
the more vigorous and eager male trees defying the
chilling reception of lingering snow. The female
trees are more reluctant and hesitating, content to
come forth only in the most favoured localities. This
exclusive arrangement is by no means universal with

UNAPPRECIATED FLOWERS 15

the Soft Maples, for the male and female flowers are
sometimes seen on adjacent branches of the same
tree. And on rare occasions a little bunch of co-eds
will appear, surrounded on all sides by their vigorous,
crowding brothers. Although these Maples scatter
their seeds and germinate before summer dries the
ground, the bud scales strewn about do not indicate
that the flowers have fulfilled their mission. Early
birds have missed the delicacies usually provided by
the season, and have turned in their extremity to the
unpalatable buds.

Elm flowers are also opening in favoured localities.
They are shy blossoms, and, like some of the most
elusive warblers of summer, prefer to remain partly
hidden in the tops. There the swollen buds are now
visible against the cold grey sky, and occasionally
on a more ambitious limb the rough, uneven clusters
show where the flowers have actually unfolded. If
their delicate stigmas do not succumb to the cold
they will soon be strewing the ground with round-
winged seeds.

Alders by the suburban streams are bringing a far
different variety of floral offerings. The rigid catkins
that were as hard and lifeless as thorns through the
winter seem suddenly to have thawed out with the
return of spring. They have become large, loose,
elongated, and flexible, and as they sway about with
every passing wind, the bright, yellow pollen shakes

16 UNAPPRECIATED FLOWERS

out from a multitude of openings in their sides. The
pussies on the Willows have come out confidingly in
many places, but seem to have been chilled and dis-
couraged by the lingering winter. These, too, are
flowers, greeting the returning sunshine with all the
eagerness of new life. In a short time the male and
female trees will be easily distinguished as the catkins
turn yellow or red. And as the season advances and
the yellow catkins fall to the ground, the fertile trees
will bear bundles of diminutive pods, bursting with
the airy, cottony wings that carry the seed away on
the passing breeze. The spirit of new life among the
flowering trees is struggling in the tenacious hold of
winter, and sympathetic nature feels already the thrill
of its certain emancipation.

Wem) Semin
<i Tue spirit of spring is in the
had air. Not the hopefully delusive
im promise so often overshadowed
by delays and disappointments, but the real spirit
that breathes life to all animated Nature. There
is something universally contagious in the awaken-
ing of Nature. The piping call of a Robin, or
even the silent opening of a bud, awakens the
insistent thrill of fellowship in the mystery of
life. The solitary messengers of a week ago have
been followed by advancing flocks, and some have
already assumed their old aspect of familiarity.
Robins are hurrying up the valleys and over the
adjacent hills, active and energetic, but obdurately
silent. Fences, trees, and shrubbery, roads, lanes,
and open fields—every available resting place is
tried in impatient succession, but through the
active communal life of the new arrivals there is an
uneasy suspicion of human intruders. The com-
munism of the gathering flocks will soon be lost in
17 B

18 NATURE’S REVIVAL

the song of the builders as they prepare their several
domestic establishments. We regret the departure
of the Robins, when great flocks assemble in
the suburban woods. But their southern journey-
ing absolves them from the taint of continuous
domestication.

A scattered community of Bluebirds has appeared
close to the city, moving about with a quiet com-
placency that befits their rich attire. Unlike the
Robins, they do not crowd together and follow a
restless leader, still they keep within easy call.
Familiar habitations of last year in orchards and
woods, abandoned excavations of the woodpeckers,
hollow branches and decayed trunks, all are sought
again by the quiet stragglers. Their call is the voice
of spring, but they linger, reluctant to desert the
flock. Horned Larks gather in flocks, feeding where
the snow has melted from the strewn fields. Enticing
notes are in the air, and already the successful
wooers are separating from the flock with their mates,
and seeking convenient nesting-places on the exposed
ground. The Horned Lark is a model of domestic
attention, and his bright, ecstatic song, as he circles
and rises above his hidden mate, often reveals the
carefully located nest.

There are other spring voices in the air. A Purple
Finch announces his arrival from a sheltered perch,
and a Kildeer cries from the sandy shore by the

NATURE'S REVIVAL 19

marsh. This returning wanderer should be welcomed
for the great range of his travels. Not content with
seeking a comfortable climate for the winter, his
restless spirit impels him to go on southward
through Mexico and along the isthmus into South
America, and across the equator to where the months
of northern winter bring a rising temperature. The
insatiable energy shown in his swift, eager run along
the shore, his cries of alarm when taking wing, his
unending calls and sustained flights reveal the spirit
that prompts his long southern journey.

Spring recalls the peculiar ways of our migrating
visitors. We have some that travel in an indifferent
way, varying their habits with the season’s tempera-
ture. They merely grow less numerous toward the
north in winter, while appearing in greater numbers
in the warmer zone. Excessively cold winters bring
down the Purple and Evening Grosbeaks, the Canada
Jay, and Snowy Owl from their northern retreats.
Some, like the Robin, leave an occasional straggler
behind all winter, while the majority spend the
season in the Southern States. There are Plover that
go to the extreme limit of Patagonia, returning in
response to the same strange impulse to breed within
the arctic circle. There are Waders that migrate with
a regularity that would suggest a personally conducted
tour or some kind of systematic organisation. Some
aquatic birds have very irregular habits, depending

20 NATURE’S REVIVAL

largely on the accidents of a food supply. But the
returning pilgrims are always welcome. The spirit
of nature’s renewing is in their voices. The joy that
thrills in an endless multitude of tones proclaims the
universal fellowship and kinship of life.

ar

A SUBURBAN RAMBLE

THE call of spring is irresistible. Many who never
see the snow-laden Spruces and naked Maples
fixed in the crystalline atmosphere of winter, when
silence broods over nature’s white coverlet and her
sleep is undisturbed, awake with the call of the Crows
and the happy greetings of the Robins to a knowledge
of the great out-of-doors. Suburban ravines and
wooded spots that escape destruction in the shadow
of the city welcome again the eager visitors, happy
in effecting a momentary escape from noise and
turmoil. Robins are happily announcing their hopes
and prospects. Crows are passing overhead with
steady flight, heralding the arrival of spring, or
alighting to discuss prospective domestic affairs. A
Downy Woodpecker pounds on a resonant limb, as
if his scarlet crest and mottled wings were not enough
without boasting his industry to the coy little bunch
of feathers beyond the Cedars. The Song Sparrow
is everywhere. He comes more than half-way to greet
the suburban wanderer. When the Thrushes come
we will sympathise with their coyness and subtler
melodies, but for the strong and virile spring we must
have the Song Sparrow, perched on the highest

22 A SUBURBAN RAMBLE

branch he can find, looking up into the sunshine and
pouring out the ecstasy of a glad heart. Though
abundant everywhere and profuse with his melody
the Song Sparrow is always welcome as the spring.
No other songster so well interprets the spirit of the
season.

Some less familiar visitors are active in the
suburban brushwood. The Junco, dull and darkly
grey, is yet conspicuous among the naked branches.
He is singing now, and his low warble has the charm
of rarity, though but a modest musical performance.
The Junco’s light brown beak seems an odd contrast
with his dull colours, and he makes an enlivening
display of white feathers as he flits into the Ever-
greens. Nuthatches are creeping about on the Oaks,
picking out the cocoons that are ready to awaken
with the returning warmth—the brightest of the
winter residents, who draw near in pity with the
advent of spring.

Among the scattered decay of the past year there
is abundant evidence of nature’s foresight. The
ground leaves of the Asters have sustained their
vitality under the snow through the long frosts, and
are showing signs of renewed youth. The Winter-
green has not even condescended to droop a leaf or
stem, and its scarlet berries are shown in contrast
against its rich green leaves. The Pipsissewa is also
strong and erect, as bright as its melodious Indian

A SUBURBAN RAMBLE 23

name. The Hepaticas come out as if they had
enjoyed the winter. Their characteristic leaves are
full of vitality, although their stems may droop. And
in the centre among the stems the rising woolly
bunches are reaching up, preparing to unfold the
delicate flowers already impatient for the early sun.
The Trailing Arbutus is still more eager, though .
advancing more quietly under the dead Oak leaves.
Where an occasional leaf shows only a hard vitality, a
careful search close to the moist ground will disclose
flowers already open, showing delicate white and
pink and enriching the air with perfume.

Rich red patches on the Silver Birch show where
vandals have robbed the trees of their beauty. The
sublime egotism of the human name, at which the
greatest of all egotists in modern literature marvelled,
is seen in the initial letters with which the bark is
defaced. More stirring to the fancy is a cabalistic
design cut with care and regularity in the white bark,
It is not the insignia of any secret order, inscribed in
the enthusiastic faith of a neophyte. There is no
clue to the intent or purpose of the strange marks.
They are hidden away in the loneliest spot, in
contrast with the conspicuously displayed initials.
Fancy and speculation are dampened by the multi-
plicity of influences that prompt humanity to action.
In the nibbled bark of a broken limb we see where the
Field Mice, driven from home by the recent floods,

24 A SUBURBAN RAMBLE

have been forced to live on coarser food. Holes
drilled by a Woodpecker in search of insect food are
of obvious purpose. Throughout all the activities
of the lower orders we see the regular sequence
of cause and effect. In the distant forest a mark
on a tree will show where a deer has rubbed the
withered velvet from his horns. But who would
attempt to fathom the multitudinous impulses
that have prompted a lonely wayfarer to carve with
evident care a peculiar design on a Silver Birch in
the most secluded hollow of the suburban woods?

hh
= DIMINUTIVE BEAVERS.

THE drawing of winter’s curtain always reveals a
multitude of silent activities. Nature has not been
dead nor yet sleeping, but has been quietly active
through the long months of snow. The root leaves
of Asters and Goldenrods are green and vigorous.
The Evening Primrose has withstood the frost. The
Dandelion is green with promise. All the evergreens
are awaiting a welcome. But the revelations of
animal activity are far more interesting. Ramified
burrows of the little Field Mice and Shore Mice are
still preserved in the melting masses of icy snow
lingering in shaded hollows. These little fellows are
not really Mice, but they are so diminutive that it
seems ridiculous to call them by the aggressive name
“ Arvicola.” They are closely related to the Beaver,
and during the long winter have made an unusual
attempt to imitate the ways of their big, industrious
cousin. They have not been content, as usual, with
girdling the small trees under the snow. In many
places they have cut down shrubs as thick as the

25

26 DIMINUTIVE BEAVERS

finger and cut them up into irregular lengths, as if
contemplating the construction of a dam.

The destructive industry revealed by the melting
snow is phenomenal. The Sassafras has been one
of the chief sufferers, its aromatic bark being a special
temptation to the little marauders. Many promising
young trees are completely girdled, and the deep
abrasions extend in irregular patches up their
trunks to the winter snow line. These mutilations
show countless diminutive tooth-marks and tell of
the voracious energy of the tireless rodents. They
have not been content with gnawing at the odorous
bark of the Sassafras. The white wood of the Alder
shows in irregular girdling patches, contrasting with
the smooth black bark. The Sumach, too, an unusual
article of diet, has served for much feasting under the
snow. The smaller branches, buried within reach,
have been cut up into irregular short lengths and lie
about in careless piles. All the bark has been eaten
from these little logs, and the wood is often gnawed
away to the soft pith. Where the piles lie in the dead
grass there are well-preserved remains of comfortable
nests under the snow, and regular runways are still
clearly marked in the frozen ground. The Wild
Raspberry is a still more unusual article of diet, and
suggests a world of trouble over the problem of a
food supply during the long winter. Many of the
bushes have been cut down, and the bark and even

DIMINUTIVE BEAVERS 27

the thorns freely eaten. The branches selected have
been cut into lengths of two or three inches, and each
heap shows the location of a permanent camp.

The long winter has been a severe trial for the
little world out of doors; and the debris of so much
industry naturally prompts a feeling of pity for the
workers struggling with the problem of problems.
But sympathy is generally misplaced. It may be
that the great depth of snow was an assurance of
safety and comfort, allowing them to remain quietly
in their little camps while the great barking and
sniffing disturbers rushed noisily over their heads.
An energetic dog, running about on the snow, can
keep a whole multitude of these rodents on the move
in their burrows. The permanent camps of the past
winter may reveal a season of exceptional comfort
and leisure, with no intrusion from the meddlesome
world that moves in the daylight above the snow.

28

THE AMERICAN MERGANSERS

THERE is a steady purpose and untiring energy in the
flight of Wild Ducks, whether they move in dotted
alignment against the distant sky or stare in suspicion
as they pass low, with straightened necks and stiff
rapid wings. Their full, heavy bodies and small,
pointed wings make flight a serious effort, quite
unlike the indolent soarings of the Gulls, the steady
undulations of the Herons, or the restless irregularity
of the inhabitants of the woods. They freely range
the continent from the arctic shores to the tropics,
making homes, according to their varied inclinations,
on the rocky shores, in the concealing marshes, in
trees, by hidden streams, and on the open prairie.
Most conspicuous in this varied family are the
American Mergansers, and a small detachment have
already arrived in search of summer quarters. Their
narrow-toothed bills indicate a fish diet, and this has
saved them from pursuit, but the conspicuous beauty
of their plumage and the graceful curves of their
changing attitudes are temptations to the predatory.
They swim about the edges of the weakening ice,
their red bills reflecting rich tints in the sunlight,
their heads of dark metallic green glistening like

THE AMERICAN MERGANSERS 29

burnished metal, and the creamy white of their long
necks and full shoulders showing in varying outlines.
- Such a profusion of white in the bright glow of a
lengthening day is a conspicuous reminder of the
return of spring.

The leader of this small advance guard was attended
by two sombrely attired females following faithfully
in close alignment. He looked suspiciously at the
open water in the marsh, where many noisy Gulls
had congregated, but was not inclined to alight. As
he turned toward the open water of the lake, passing
low over the sandbar, the faint red glow of his breast
seemed a reflection from the sun’s rays struggling
through the clouds rather than an actual tint in the
shield of white. Out over the lake the rapidly
diminishing forms of the trio showed the speed of
their retreat, but their course was a great circle, which
brought them again to the open water of the bay.
The detour had given them confidence, for they
settled easily to the surface, checking their speed
with expanded wing and trailing, splashing feet. There
must be concerted action or a wide response to local
attraction among the migrants. The three were
scarcely settled in the water when three more, all
males in full plumage, came along the eastern shore
line in earnest haste. With scarcely a hesitating curve
they pitched down beside the earlier arrivals. These
Mergansers are uncertain migrants, and seem more

30 THE AMERICAN MERGANSERS

eager for safety than for the remoteness of the north.
They have been known to nest about the big lake in
happier times, and they still find safe concealment on
some of the sheltered rocky shores of the inland
waters. In early spring, when the lingering ice gives
an aspect of contrast and relief to the life of the
awakening year, these graceful swimmers in rich and
full plumage appeal for respite in the eager work of
destruction.

31

THE AWAKENING YEAR

Tue darting and hilariously erratic flight of the
Swallows is an assurance that spring is really awake.
Other arrivals have promised and predicted, but the
Swallows have made an actual announcement. The
Meadow Lark, with sweetly modulated whistle, has
announced the good news from the south, and has
tip-toed in the stubble, displaying his yellow breast.
The Flicker has cackled his loud and long alarm, and
the Robin has varied his noisy piping with sweet
and restful melody. The Bluebird has chirped in mild
exhilaration, and the Blackbird with scarlet epaulets
has brought life back to the withered marsh with his
keen-edged, penetrating call. The melody of the
Song Sparrow has overflowed everywhere in rich
abundance, and the Vesper Sparrow has followed to
take possession of the fields. All these are promises
and forecasts, and they have been strengthened and
supported by renewed activity on the part of the
Juncoes, Downy Woodpeckers, Brown Creepers,
Nuthatches, Kinglets, and other hardy winter
residents. But the real announcement of the actual
awakening is the darting flight of the light and swift-
winged gleaners from the air.

32 THE AWAKENING YEAR

The high bluffs of clay and sand, with their happily
preserved but threatened fringe of woods, seem to
attract the early arrivals among the Swallows and
Flycatchers. Perhaps it is there that the lengthening
rounds of the slowly mounting sun have greatest
force in prompting an early awakening of the
ephemeral life on which these sojourners must subsist,
Where the absorbent sand dries the surface and the
still air grows warm and quivers under the steady glow
of sunshine, the insect life awakens from its strange
torpor. This response to the new invitation is revealed
by the daring swallows pursuing the multitudinous
population of the air over the warming fields beside
the fringe of woods. These new arrivals are the
pioneers of the coming migration. Two Barn
Swallows, the most beautiful of the family, display
their glossy steel-blue mantles in the sun, their long
and deeply forked tails bending gracefully as they
chase their invisible prey. Their reddish breasts
make a contrast to the white breast of the one Tree
Swallow that accompanies them. His blue-green
mantle shines like burnished steel with every curve
and turn, but even in the distance his shorter and less
deeply forked tail distinguishes him from his com-
panions. All the birds of day respond to the sunshine,
which seems to multiply their numbers, for they
remain unseen on their quiet perches when the sun
is hidden by discouraging clouds. These swallows,

THE AWAKENING YEAR 33

joying and glorying in the sun that is sustaining
the hope of their long southern vacation, make the
welcome announcement that the air at last is filled
with the swarming life that responds to renewing
influence of the sun.

34

THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE

IN the city kindly nature dulls the hearing, that an
infinite medley of jarring noises cannot torture
and distract the long-term prisoners beyond the
bounds of endurance. The great jumble becomes
inaudible, like the roar of Niagara to dwellers in its
vicinity. But once beyond the screaming of trolleys,
the pulsating thunder of locomotives, and the sub-
dued din of industrial life, the senses awaken and the
many voices of the woods grow distinct. Although
every bird-call blends naturally and harmoniously
with its surroundings, it comes clearly to the ear,
bringing a message of conscious life, separate and
distinct, but still a part of an all-pervading, har-
monious sound. The spirit of growth is in the air.
Do we hear the rustle of its countless vibrations
newly-awakened or only feel the throbbing energy
of its presence? Perhaps it steals upon us through
senses far more subtle and mysterious. The silent
Robin on the naked limb seems listening to the sap
surging through the solid trunk beside him. But
along comes a Sap-sucker with spasmodic flight and
dispels the delusion by going to work in a most
methodical way. His membership in the Wood-

THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE 35

pecker family is apparent, but instead of seeking a
dead trunk for wood-borers he digs for the sap in a
healthy, vigorous limb. Perhaps he uses the sap to
tempt insects. There he plies his noisy trade, while
the inconceivable power that forces the juice
through the solid fibre of the wood is exerted in
perfect silence. Not even the Robin’s ear, said to
discern the moving of an angleworm, can detect
the sound of the flowing sap.

Put an ear to the trunk and listen, for the close,
attentive effort makes the sound of surrounding
growth discernible. There are blended tones that
serve as a grey, indistinct background for the rapping
of the Woodpecker signalling to his mate or pursuing
his unromantic vocation, for the twittering of the
acrobatic Nuthatch, or the almost inaudible plaint
of the Wood Pewee. There seems a mysterious sound
in the silence, and it may not be altogether fanciful
to regard it as the sound of growth. On the Soft
Maple thousands of buds are opening, and their
strong scales are not turned back without the jarring
of minute resistance. Is it really the ear that discerns
a many-toned rustle? Some of the scales and buds
are already dropping to the ground, heavy with the
saturating shower. The Elm buds, too, are bursting
open, and making their activity felt or heard, and the
elongated catkins on the Willows are throwing off
the coverings that sheltered them through the winter.

36 THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE

Hard scales on the Dogwood buds are starting and
yielding reluctantly to the swelling pressure. The
enfolded vegetation that lay dormant through the
winter is awakening to life and throwing aside its
manifold coverings. A thousand closely and com-
pactly wrapped cones of leaves are forcing their
way upward to the moist air, cracking and bursting
the unyielding earth and pushing all obstructions
out of their way. These myriad perforations can
scarcely be made without an audible disturbance,
especially in the spring, when even deliberate
growth is impelled to haste by the spirit of renewing
life. The sound of growth cannot be entirely a
delusion. Growth itself may be absolutely silent. But
the slow crowding aside of myriads of obstructions,
the perforation and disturbance of last year’s leaves,
the cracking and opening of hardened bark, with
the enlarging layers of new vegetation, the bursting
of inelastic scales and husks —all these unite in a
blended rustle of reviving life, through which the
faintest squeak of the Brown Creeper or the twitter
of a Kinglet comes clear and distinct. Listen !

Fagains edragpes bf
srg erage

ot foodrool
aches
there_you Were nursed.

obin bout Jogging road,
- Phistles Come tome’
pring. fas found themaple grove
ae ۤap is ranning free
Kill the winds of sin

call the ploughing rain

ke the flower and tary the hour
wm ~ anh kiss your [ove again” ex

BLOODROOT

37

THE BLOOD-ROOT

THERE is no richness in colour more appealing to
the lover of the woods than these frail blossoms of
pure white, scattered like stars over the dark, shaded
ground, or looking out from among the lingering
remains of last season’s decay. The starry appearance
is heightened when, shrinking from the cold or the
threat of rain, they close into timid globes of white,
without any green covering or protection. With the
smile of sunshine they open again into eight-rayed
stars, light and delicate, with yellow centres, timidly
displayed to close admirers. The Blood-root has
many charms. The flower that rises unprotected
and temptingly delicate comes up through the earth
enfolded in a single leaf. As soon as this leaf has
carried the fragile treasure through the hard ground
it begins to unfold, showing its rich, fleshy texture,
dainty tracery of veins, and fine regularity of outline.
Deeply and evenly lobed in a symmetrically rounded
outline, it seems as beautiful and rich in life as the
flower that passes from its folds up to the open
daylight.

We cannot have the fine delicacy of the Blood-root
without the weakness that allows only a brief span of
life. The plucked flower droops, wilts, and sheds

38 THE BLOOD-ROOT

the white petals that botanists call sepals, almost
before it can be brought from its natural elements
into the harsh sunshine of the open roads. When
unmolested it may have two or three days of life, or
an adverse wind may scatter its white rays among
the fallen leaves in a few hours. It is tolerant of
transplanting, and when taken from its natural sur-
roundings will live its allotted time in a shady
garden. Under favourable conditions it will reappear
with each returning spring as regularly as the yellow
warblers that hurry invisibly among the opening
leaves on the Elms and Chestnuts. If the thick, rough
rootstock is wounded it bleeds freely, and the bright
red juice which gives the flower its name makes a
lasting stain. The Indians used it to heighten their
colour, and after the influences of civilisation brought
quieter tastes in personal adornment it was used in
decorating baskets and ornaments of straw, Birch
bark, and peeled Ash. Most of the original inhabi-
tants have now degenerated to the use of aniline
dyes, but the bright stain of the Blood-root is still
admired. After the flowers fall the leaves grow large
and strong, but never coarse, and the pods fill with
rich, brown, glossy seeds. The more showy flowers
of early summer are then abroad, but none can surpass
the charm of the timid, inquiring Blood-root that
rises carefully robed and folds back its mantle to come
forth daintily into the dawn of the year.

39

“YA HONK! YA HONK! YA HONK!”

THE supreme indifference of the Canada Goose to the
cities and other slight blemishes on the continent he
noisily surveys in spring and fall makes his passing
doubly impressive. Sometimes in the multitude of
noises against which the sense of hearing fortifies
itself he brings his aligned flock quite near before
his advance is detected, but he holds the entranced
gaze until he has vanished slowly into the clear sky
or thin horizon clouds, while the ear is still strained,
hungry for the faint, fading, yet penetrating resonance
of inspiring calls. He has grown more wary as man
has grown more eagerly destructive, and instead of
conveniently encompassing the continent and widely
varying his summer residence and southern tours he
moves determinedly in spring to the remote north,
nesting by the interior waters of Labrador or the
region west of Hudson Bay.

These magnificent birds yield reluctantly to man’s
encroachment. They still make bold to assert their
prior claim to the prairie sloughs where the plough
is relentlessly encroaching. In the warm, sheltered
mountain lakes on the Pacific slope they still take
advantage of the free choice of location afforded by

40 YA HONK!

an equable climate. Beside the recently advanced
prairie railway a newly arrived flock from the south
will crane their glossy black necks and display their
broad, white throat-bands as the noisy locomotive
charges past with its burden. The belching smoke
is a hint to move another stage northward before
disbanding to locate their summer homes.

The picture of a passing flock is indelibly
impressed. They flew conveniently low over the
tortuous hills, the leader holding his place at the
head of the broad “V” with nineteen aligned
on his right, and twenty-five on his left. There was
a magnificent aspect of determination in those forty-
five necks strained rigidly forward toward the new
home in the remote north. Calls of encouragement
were frequently sounded and answered, and near the
leader the steady flapping was varied by an occasional
change of position. They passed so low that every
distended pinion could be distinctly seen. Their
heavy bodies and sturdy wings rapidly grew less
distinct, and soon blended into a dark, wavy line
against the low, thin clouds above the horizon.

The sun was still high and the atmosphere clear.
Their calls did not seem to grow faint as rapidly as
their outlines diminished. Soon in the concealing
distance they faded and reappeared until they could
not be distinguished from the shaded edges of the
horizon clouds, As their calls still came back fancy

YA HONK! 41

followed them to the nests by the northern ponds,
where they could carefully guard and conceal their
precocious broods, where, helpless in the moulting
season, many would fall easy victims of hungry
Esquimaux and Indians, and where, with renewed
strength, they would respond again to the strong call
of the land of perpetual summer.

THE impatient wild flowers have
come rushing and crowding to
greet their friends after a pro-
tracted separation. Spring was
so long unkind that they grew
restive under her restraints, and
now, with the first relaxation, they
have hurried forth to display the
profusion of their charms. The
impressed order and decorum of the debutantes
has been cast aside in their spontaneous haste
for recognition. We look for the Hepatica to
raise its woolly flower stems from among the
surviving bunches of last season’s leaves and dis-
play its delicate tints of pink, purple, or blue
long before the single leaf of the Blood-root unfolds
from the white flower it clasps and guards with
42

SUDDEN SUMMER 43

tender care. We expect the Trillium to remain
modestly folded awaiting her turn, and the Dog-
tooth Violet to be content with the faint suggestions
of colour on its delicately mottled leaves. The
Spring Beauty, too, though among the earliest, is
generally content to await its due order, and the
Trailing Arbutus, reclining cosily among the leaves
and litter of the past year, may open its hidden buds
at any time, according to the whims and fancies of
the season. But now the favourites have all come
forth at once. Long ago, as the flower season runs,
the Skunk Cabbage, glorying in its lusty strength,
pushed its way up through the lingering ice in the
thawing bogs, regardless of the spring’s delay. But
this vigorous leader was not followed by the usual
timid procession. Delay and disappointment marked
the unfolding of the year until restraint became
intolerable and the vigour of quickening life threw
it off.

Where the sloping hillside seems to quiver in the
reviving warmth of awakened spring the Hepaticas
are relieving the dark dull ground with touches of
delicate colour, from white and the palest of pink
through many varying shades to pale blue. Trilliums
are wide awake, too, not at all disconcerted by the
general departure from established orders of prece-
dence. The dainty sprays of the Spring Beauty
appear like a belated sprinkling of snow on the leaf-

44 SUDDEN SUMMER

strewn ground. On a nearer approach the apparent
white gives place to a faint or decided pink. The pure
white stars of the Blood-root have come out, and the
hillside reveals them one by one, like the fading grey
vault of the sky in advancing evening. There is
another and another ! Each star has come forth from
an enfolding leaf of many graceful lobes and rich,
green, fleshy, vegetable texture. This flower may last
but a day, yet it is not always so short-lived. A cold
night will close the white star into a firm bud, and in
an uncertain spring a flower may open and close
several times before the wind scatters its fragile
petals. The leaves of the Dog-tooth Violet are freely
unfolding, and here and there a spot of golden yellow
reveals a flower bending over and glowing toward
the earth from which it has just arisen. The Scented
White Violet is peeping timidly from the shade of a
depression in the hillside. There is a human interest
in these offerings of spring, delayed so long and
now crowding forward together. They appeal for
protection. They cannot endure molestation, and,
if plucked, will immediately wither and die in an
appealing protest against such wanton aggression.
Their mission is to adorn the earth that has nourished
them into life.

SHRILL, tremulous, and wonder-
fully sustained, the cry of the
awakened Toad proclaims to
the listening night the great re-
newal of life. It seems a tireless
cry, but the eager ear continues
longing after the delayed lapse
into silence. Another voice is
raised in answering tremolo, and
another and another join from
varied distances until the whole
night seems vibrant with the
voice of spring. The shrunken
and belated moon looks slowly over the city-covered
ridge and lights up the weedy pond. Diminutive
ripples and irregular disturbances can be dimly
discerned where the heralds of the new inspiration
raise their heads above the glistening surface. The
joy of new life after the long sleep of winter in the
concealing, muddy bottom finds satisfying expression
in these insistently mingled and musical voices.

“Ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.’’

45

46 A SONG OF THE NIGHT

Shakespeare never could have thought of the Toad
as ugly or venomous had he known whose voice it
was that told of spring to the silent earth under the
belated moon. The jewel is a happy tradition.
When a Toad sheds his skin, which, being a great
economist, he invariably swallows, patches of new
skin, generally on the head, present a surface of glassy
smoothness. These, accidentally seen at a favourable
angle in the moonlight, glisten like crystals of ice.
As we know the Toads better and learn that their
jewels are unreal we also learn to appreciate them for
what they are. They are neither ugly nor venomous,
and if they are not adorned with jewels they are
gifted to charm the ear of spring with the sweetest
of night voices.

There are other voices calling in the loneliness of
the great awakening. The Leopard Frog must be a
most impatient suitor, for his harsh, brief, colloquial
baritone seems intolerant of delay. It is passing
strange that a Frog so handsome in form and colour
should find expression in such hard, aggressive tones.
The little Hylas are almost forgotten in the loud and
varied chorus. They are diminutive members of the
family, but their persistence forces recognition. That
shrill, gurgling “ preep! preep!”’ repeated again
and again in indifference to other expanding night
sounds, tells where they are floating among the weeds,
inflating and emptying their little vibrant throats.

A SONG OF THE NIGHT 47

Soon these varied callers will leave the ponds and
nature’s warmth will hatch their jelly-covered eggs
into black, wriggling multitudes of Polly-wogs.
These will in turn discard their gills for lungs and
their tails for legs, and will be prepared to settle
into the oozy mud for the long sleep of winter. Now,
from the moonlit, weedy pond, they invite the world
to share in the joy of emancipation.

THERE is a restful sense of com-
panionship in a delightfully lazy
and indolent river. It shows no
trace of that troublesome, dis-
quieting energy which betokens
an object in view. It never suggests the necessity
of being somewhere at a certain time. Its art is
not marred by a purpose. The vice of industry
is foreign to it, and it lingers in the serenity of
contentment. The Poet of Democracy sees national
perfection ‘‘ where none is industrious or respect-
able,”” and he might have found along this loitering
river a perfect retreat to loaf and invite his soul.
There are no straightened channels, no drained
marshes, no landscaped banks, nor other manifesta-
tions of oppressive respectability, and the drowsy
water lingers among winding banks of vegetation,
where the remotest thought of industry would
pass out in the sleep of satisfaction, The rushes
grow lusty and indolent, purifying the decay of
each succeeding season. The Dodder comes abund-
antly from the ground in the spring and clasps the
growing Golden-rod, shaking loose its hold on the
48

AN INDOLENT RIVER 49

ground and climbing up, a parasite, on the sturdy
herbage that will splash the shores with brilliant
colours in the fall. The Scented Water Lily, in all its
glory, appears on the floating carpet of leaves in
every pool banked off from the winding channel.
The Yellow Lily, more vigorous and less dainty,
challenges admiration by rising above the surface
where matted leaves give a deceptive aspect of
solidity. Smooth, worn portages at every curve show
how these ponds are invaded by flower-gatherers,
but Water Lilies defy extermination. Sometimes in
early morning baby-like footprints and long, trailing
grooves show where the Muskrats have passed over
the canoe portages during the night. Helplessly
diminutive footprints of the river mice are also seen
in the soft mud. The familiar Marsh Marigold, the
Water Arum, and the graceful leaves and fragile,
white-yellow flowers of the Arrowhead stand in the
shallow margins of the pools. On firmer ground the
rich blue loops of the Closed Gentian hide in the
marsh grass, and all the more confiding flowers
come eagerly forward for recognition. The stream
moves leisurely back and forth, touching the high
banks with regular alternations, and rounding off
marshy flats with quiet pools, where the flowers grow.
Its own margins have no floral adornments — it is
sufficient in itself.

Wild life lingers by the river, finding protection

D

50 AN INDOLENT RIVER

in the shadow of the busy city. The Mink, hunted
everywhere for his handsome coat, finds a respite
from persecution and grows fat and saucy at his ease.
The slender Weasel sometimes comes out to ask the
business of a passing canoe. The Skunk and Wood-
chuck excavate their cave dwellings in the high banks.
The Red Fox sometimes braves the fate threatened by
a bad reputation, and Squirrels and Chipmunks make
the general quiet more subduing by contrast with
their industry. The wary Blue Heron often rests in
the shallow marshes, his white neck outlined against
the dense banks of green. But he is mistrustful of
man, and on the least threat of approach springs
struggling into the air and takes his steady course
to more remote haunts. The Bittern hides, invisibly
seen, in the dense shelter, and sometimes rises with
a fluttering rush from almost under the foot of a
startled intruder. Rails and Gallinules chatter noisily
in the marsh, and Blackbirds attend to their domestic
affairs among the tall rushes. The Oriole finds an
ideal swing on the drooping branch of an Elm, and
the Flicker excavates a home in the decayed trunk of a
Willow. The tiny Red-start moves like a live coal
through the dense green shades. And when night
closes in and the canoe moves imperceptibly with the
silent water, the Fireflies come out and draw threads
of light through the tall Rushes that bound the
narrowed horizon. Frogs set up their weird chorus.

AN INDOLENT RIVER 51

The Screech Owl flutters steadily across from one
invisible tree to another. Bats dart, silent and swift,
after the abundant swarms of gnats that float up
from the marshes. All about is the quietness of
nature, so impressive that the dull roar of a train,
the far-away shriek of a whistle, and even the happy
laughter from a lagging canoe, seem to blend and lose
themselves in the inaudible noise that fills and
soothes the ear of night.

THIs is a time of unfolding.
Every tree presents from day to
day a newer and fuller aspect.
The responsive Maples seem to
have made their toilet in a day.
It is surprising that they could draw their rich, green
mantles about them so hastily and come forth
adorned in such perfect taste. The necwork of
branches has been changed into thickening banks
of foliage, blending and contrasting their many
distinctive hues of green. The wind seems delighted
to find leaves on the trees, and sports with them in
renewed joy. It is a time when the great out-of-
doors is an all-inclusive invitation. The devoted wor-
shippers of early spring who sought the first greeting
of the Hepatica, the Trailing Arbutus and the Skunk
Cabbage who listened for the earliest Song Sparrow
from the south, are now joined by the less enthusi-
astic crowd who feel the call of the young summer.
Caterpillars are pitching their tents in the Black
Cherry trees. The Hermit Thrush is hiding quietly
in the shrubbery. The Kingbird sits erect on a
52

A SEASON OF GROWTH 53

conspicuous bough, ready to dart out after a wander-
ing moth or butterfly. The Oven-bird sounds its
familiar crescendo. The Veery, the most passionate
and joyful singer of the woods, is announcing the
arrival of summer. His call is indescribable, and
leaves an impression of wonder at the power of a few
connected notes. He seems to be churning his song
in a resonant shell, and with each dash there is a
swift outpouring of melody. Quiet indifference is his
best safeguard, and while he is filling the shrubbery
with his song and the listeners seek him in every
direction, he is sitting on an exposed twig, his
blotched breast and neutral colours blending im-
perceptibly with the background of opening foliage.
The Red-start, too, brings a pledge of returning
summer, winning a welcome with his open confi-
dence, cheerful note, and handsome plumage. As he
disappears in the underbrush the crescents of bright
salmon on wings and tail make a sharp contrast with
his coat of black.

The Huckleberry bushes appear green and new,
the little cup-like flowers giving promise of a treat
for boys and birds as the summer advances, The
trees and shrubs show a varied yielding to the
season’s influence. The rough, repellent Hickory has
great, swollen buds ready to release the enfolded
leaves. The Oaks are scarcely willing to yield at all.
Half-grown, spoon-shaped leaves are out on the

54 A SEASON OF GROWTH

Witch-hazel, contrasting oddly with the empty cases
of last year’s seeds. It now bears not only young
leaves, but embryo seeds from last season’s blossoms,
and the rough, hardened outer shells of the seeds
discharged last fall. As the summer advances the
nut-like seeds will develop in the shade of leaves, and
after the foliage withers there will come a rich pro-
fusion of yellow blossoms. In spite of all these
strange and irregular habits it responds to the
inspiring impulse of the season of growth.

> Summer’s glow is in the air, and the
. leaves are unfolding and expanding

with easy freedom. Cramped and

confined so long in the inert winter
buds, they enter into the joy of the season, and
spread out, in rich, restful profusion, their many
shades of tender green. The open tracery of a
week ago that revealed the passing clouds or the
outlines of roofs and chimneys is filled in with
myriad dots of growing green that make the
trees assume their characteristic outlines. The
unfolding of flowers on the branches overhead
prolongs the atmosphere of spring. The Sycamore
Maple is now covered with clusters of blossoms, filling
and rounding off its outlines so completely that it
seems to be in perfect leaf. But the leaves are more
backward, just unfolding their diminutive forms
from the elongated scales of the buds that enclosed
them with the flowers throughout the winter. These
yellow-green clusters are now fulfilling their fruitful
55

56 AS THE YEAR GROWS

mission, and will be transformed into drooping and
swaying bunches of winged seeds as the leaves
develop. The Soft Maple and Silver Maple flowers
fell several weeks ago, and the seeds are already
developing. Elms flowered still earlier, and some of
their seed is ready to be cast on the wind. But their
flowering and seeding in the upper branches have
passed unnoticed, except for the scales of the buds
strewn on the pavement. The young leaves are
unfolding from the flower clusters of the Horse-
chestnut. The glistening, brown, thorn-like buds of
the beech are elongating and giving in their changing
tints a promise of coming foliage. Even the reluctant
Oaks unfold their lobed and half-formed leaves to
dangle their pendent flowers in the fertilising breeze,
while the branches retain some clinging bunches of
lasc year’s leaves. The Basswood refuses absolutely
to display a trace of the richest of all greens concealed
in its dark-red buds. Among the evergreen tassels of
the White Pine the flowers appear as bristling tails
of lighter green. They will fill the air and the sluggish
water with their pollen, perpetuating the childish
belief that sulphur comes down in thunderstorms.
Feathered visitors from the south found the trees
entirely unprepared. They looked about as if they
had arrived in the house-cleaning season. A pair of
Robins braved the embarrassment and annoyance
of a passing crowd of spectators and built their nest

AS THE YEAR GROWS 57

on the still naked limb of a Horse-chestnut. Another
pair chose the matted Vines around a bay window.
The Yellow Warbler is already calling from the tre-
tops, where there is not sufficient yellow-green
foliage to afford his usual concealment. But out in
the suburban woods the birds have brought the
summer with them. Meadow Larks sail over the fields
with pendent, tremulous wings, or stand erect on
the rising ground, displaying the black crescents on
their yellow breasts. Woodpeckers sound their loud.
alarm, each in his own peculiar way. Thrushes flit
silently among the lower branches. The Sparrows,
that suffer through the reputation of their English.
cousin, have come back. The Bluebird is already
familiar. And the Brown Thrasher, the most inspir--
ing singer of the woods, is here, proclaiming in.
melody the renewal of nature’s perpetual youth.
The boy’s description of “ a long-tailed, light brown.
Robin flying low through the bushes ” fits him well..
But when the inspiration of song takes hold of h.m.
he abandons his lowly habits and mounts the highest
branch of some convenient tree, pointing his bill to.
the sky, showing in careless abandon the spotted.
markings on his white breast, and offering up the
joyful spirit of the season in rich, varied, spontaneous.
melody. The ecstasy of his song is irresistible.
However familiar, it is always new. Sometimes
he closes his bill, swells his throat, and exhales a.

58 AS THE YEAR GROWS

ventriloquial melody that eludes and mystifies the
listener. It puts the eye and ear at variance. “ It
cannot be that bird, for the song comes from else-
where.” Now it is in the Pine overhead, again in the
impenetrable Cedar just behind, and still again it
seems to come from the surrounding atmosphere.
But there sits the musical ventriloquist on the
slender limb, clearly outlined against the sky.
Suddenly he throws off the disguise, opens his
bill and pours his song out to the sunshine, to
blend with the spontaneous life of the growing
woods.

AparT from its rich glowing colour, its eagerness to
greet the spring, and its contented gladdening of
latest autumn, the Dandelion can be loved for the
enemies it has made. It is the enemy of the all-
destroying grass that obtrudes in every suburban
wood, relentlessly killing off the delicate wild
flowers and transforming the varying labyrinth
into monotonous sod. No one can watch the grass
year after year slowly killing off the spring beauty,
the Blood-root, the Bellwort, and other varied
delicacies of the new season, without feeling a
vindictive pleasure when the Dandelion comes along
and elbows a conspicuous place for itself. Grass is
to many an object of solicitude bordering on venera-
tion. To a still wider circle it is a thing to keep off,
and few regard it with complete indifference. To
walk on a white man’s grass is as great an affront as
to cast your shadow on a Hindoo’s food. Children
are enjoined from playing upon it, and its proper
59

60 THE DANDELION

and perfect condition is maintained with unceasing
care. But along comes the iconoclastic Dandelion,
takes up its abode in the most treasured spot, and
glares defiance at the most solicitous attendants on
the venerated herbage. It comes to avenge that
hidden tragedy—the smothering of the delicate wood
children in the shade of the surviving trees. Those
children need the fostering care of mother nature.
The mantle of leaves is a covering in winter and a
nourishing support in spring. If these are gathered
up and burned, the way is opened for the encroaching
grass. But there would be a break in nature’s perfec-
tion if there was no Dandelion to come in its aggressive
strength and avenge the weak and defenceless.

The Dandelion is among the earliest flowers of
spring and the latest to bloom in the fall. It does not
enjoy the woods, but prefers the more strenuous life
of meadows, roadsides, and lawns. It glows bright
and yellow under the first touches of awakening
warmth, and with the persuasion of a few days of
spring it spangles the fields and lawns with brilliant
points of gold. The green sward in grey morning
seems lit by myriads of glowing stars. The scattered
flowers expand as cheerfully in the inhospitable
grass of the lawn as out among the sedges, where the
dew makes the matted cobwebs visible and forms in
crystal globules in the lupine leaves. The man who
suffers through seeing Dandelions glowing in his

THE DANDELION 61

lawn must have been made for suffering. The flower
soon changes into the round, airy ‘‘ seven-he-loves,””
and then the passing breeze or the play of children
(of any age) scatters the seed on its way to new
victories over the defences of the grass. The Dan-
delion’s life is a perpetual spring. Throughout the
advancing summer it expands and glows with all the
intensity of the opening season. And when the leaves
have withered and the grass is weakening with its own
weight, when the root-leaves of next season’s flowers
are tracing their distinctive patterns on the ground,
the brilliant rosettes of the Dandelion come out
with all the rich warmth of early spring. There is
a happy informality about this appearance in late
autumn that makes it doubly welcome. Through
the winter the root-leaves survive under the snow,
an earnest of complete and perfect naturalisation, and
a happy solution of the problem of perpetual life.

’ SUMMER
RESIDENT

IN the lingering evening the clear, mellow song of the
Robin is a refreshing reminder of early spring. For
many weeks it has been missed from the meagre
strains of the small band of wandering minstrels that
invade the city. The Robin has not been silent. His
sharp note of interrogation has been incessant. His
loud alarm has been frequently sounded to announce
a hasty journey under the leafy branches. He has
called in many tones, announcing himself to his
friends. But the melodious, romantic evening song
has been hushed—silenced by the pressing cares and
duties of domestic life. Now that the burdensome
and importunate progeny have gone their ways with
the hereditary ingratitude of nature, there is an
interval of leisure and the song of evening is renewed.
Robins are so familiar that imagination has no scope
for endowing them with the wily, intricate virtues
and vices of humanity. They are classed among

the earliest of spring visitors, because a few remain
62

A SUMMER RESIDENT 63

with us all winter. If visited in the suburban woods
they do not show the eager activity of the Snowbirds,
Chickadees, and Juncoes, who wrestle incessantly
with the problem of a food supply, but perch quietly
and rather cheerlessly in the close shades of the
Cedars, as if awaiting the return of a more kindly
season. A wayfarer, looking anxiously for the
swelling of winter buds on the Birches, sees one fly
into a closer shade and announces the first Robin of
the season. The discovery is none the less welcome
that the bird has been within call throughout the year.
Farther south these stragglers become more frequent,
but the great flocks congregate about the Gulf of
Mexico.

After the days and evenings of song that celebrate
the return to their northern home they settle down
assiduously to the serious purposes of life. There
are no more devoted parents than the Robins. Those
gaping beaks rising above the mud-thatched nest,
showing the yellow tints of immaturity, seem to have
unlimited capacity. Every lawn and open space is
searched continuously for food. Keen senses guide
them to where the venturesome worms approach the
surface. There is something comical in the attitude
of an anxious mother Robin with her head turned
to one side, so as to bring an eye to bear directly on
the ground. A rigid stare—a quick, darting blow—
and the attenuated worm is pulled out of its burrow.

64 A SUMMER RESIDENT

‘Then it is pounded on the ground, tied neatly in a
bundle, and carried speedily to the nest to fill those
gap-ng, yellow throats. After the greedy progeny
leave the nest and learn to cry out for food the
parents become still more assiduous. The biggest
and fattest of the brood cry out the loudest, and as
a consequence get the most food. Sometimes after
one lusty-throated little gourmand has been fed into
temporary quietness with half a dozen worms, a little,
attenuated twin-brother, sitting unobserved in the
shadow of a limb, is given an unattached worm,
which he swallows in silent thankfulness. When the
demands of the brood seem almost insatiable the
weary and overworked parents suddenly decide to go
on strike. There is an outburst of indignation on the
part of the full-grown progeny. They seem to feel
grievously wronged. They dart at the idling parents
as if to drive them off in search of food. They chase
them from place to place in vain. The elders submit
to everything but a return to parental serfdom. Ina
day the importunate juniors realise that their support
has been withdrawn and learn to get along without
it. Now they are making their own way in the world,
and for a time the mellow songs of early spring are
renewed. Soon the cares and delights of a second
brood will supplant the joys of the interval of song.

65

THE NIGHT-HAWK

NIGHT-HAWES are here. Their busy, buzzing notes
come down into the dusty, noisy, electric-lighted
crevices we call streets to tell us that it is really
summer. The Night-hawk whistles as if he held a
live bee in his bill and was calling friends to par-
take of the repast. It is passing strange that these
birds never become thoroughly reconciled to a city,
though they return and invade it again and again.
Its gases and other exhalations, its swarming bipeds,
its hideous wires, glaring lights, and torturing noises
that drive out even nature herself, do not repel these
airy visitors. They renounce the free life open before
them and go down among our clean-shaven lawns,
trimmed shade trees, smoking chimneys, and dusty
roofs, trying by the force of example to lead us into
better ways. Birds are not self-sufficient, idealistic,
colonising reformers, retiring from the by-law-ridden
world to live a perfect life apart. They are aggressive
agitators, forcing their offensively perfect ways into
the factory-made life they pity but cannot elevate.
Why do they not shake the dust of the city from their
wings? But so many things are strangely at variance

with the universal love of ease and ownership !
E

66 THE NIGHT-HAWK

The Sparrows we have always with us. They are
like ourselves. They build hideous habitations
beyond their needs, and willingly endure the taints
of civilisation for the sake of fighting over its few good
things. The Sparrow has descended to the level of
civilised man, and his power and influence amongst
us is gone forever. The Swallow or Swift is a summer
boarder in the city, too much inclined to adopt our
ways. He brings with him the lively freshness of
nature, yet after a few days’ sojourning he chatters
over the morning news, brushes the dust off his coat
and goes about his daily affairs with the dull fidelity
of his neighbours. But the Night-hawk never takes
up the white man’s burden. He is a missionary from
the great outer world—in the city, but not of it. His
name is as ill-applied as it is ill-omened, for he is not
connected with the Hawks by consanguinity,sympathy,
or unity of purpose. He has a grace of flight peculiarly
his own, turning, wheeling, and darting hither and
thither without apparent effort, or circling on easily
extended pinions. The conspicuous white spot under
each wing looks like a hole, and may have suggested
the modern idea of ventilating yacht sails. Nature
paints with a careful touch, and the great spots,
bands, and patches carelessly displayed by birds in
white, black, or colour are laid on the exposed webs
or tips, one feather at a time, so that a plucked
quill would be as irregular and meaningless as a

THE NIGHT-HAWK 67

fragment from a mosaic. The white spot on a Night-
hawk’s wing runs through feather after feather,
but comes out in a strikingly regular pattern that
shows when he is high in the evening air to best
advantage.

This bird has a mouth that may be called ridiculous,
and his little, insignificant beak is but the handle to it.
When darting at insects he opens his mouth and
conceals himself behind it. Truly it is a mouth to
wonder at. If you undertake to open the diminutive
beak you will fancy that the bird has been cut in two
horizontally. The Eel Fly or Mosquito which sees
that mouth approaching never lives to hum the tale.
It may be that the Night-hawk is ashamed of the
cavernous receptacle with which he has been endowed,
for he feeds at higher levels during early evening,
and does not descend till night draws her sheltering
mantle about his hideous disfigurement. Late into
the night, and even till daylight, he continues to
blow his whistle among the chimney-tops and
telephone poles, sometimes startling the electric-
lighted street with the giant shadows of his flapping
wings ; or chasing a beetle over the heads of some
eager crowd, reminding them of eager pursuits other
than their own.

The whistle is his chief recreation, and it often
cheers the belated city straggler ; but he has another
game as solitary as golf, though far more animated.

68 THE NIGHT-HAWK

It consists in partly closing his wings, spreading his
tail, and resigning himself to gravitation and fate. He
comes toward the earth head-foremost with accelerat-
ing speed, but as the sluggish human mind is thinking
of borrowing a spade to dig him out he catches his
wings full of air and, with a loud whirring noise, turns
sharply upward from the threatening roof or fence.
He plays this game with great zest. The object is
evidently to turn as close to some obstruction as
possible without striking it.

When alight the Night-hawk seems a silent, surly,
be-whiskered little barbarian, with none of the
graceful or endearing ways displayed on the wing.
On a limb he sits lengthwise, rests his tail, doubles
up his insignificant legs, and poses as a knot or mal-
formation. On a roof he looks like an indolent, over-
grown swallow, twisting his head suspiciously about
as if he were a stranger in the city. In her domestic
establishment the mother Night-hawk impresses the
needed lesson of simplicity. She does not build a
nest, but merely lays her eggs on the ground. City
Night-hawks nest in the suburbs, but an enterprising
pair, to show their lack of prejudice, will sometimes
establish quarters on a gravel roof. The Night-hawk
is a messenger not of peace and good-will but of the
great predatory life of the free world. He shows us
that the ambitions, struggles, and desires that absorb
our life and strength are but atoms in the great

THE NIGHT-HAWK 69

renewing and destructive conflict of nature. But
the man who can pause in a city street to inter-
pret the message of the Night-hawk from above the
electric glare can never be thoroughly abandoned
to civilisation.

70

NATURE'S BENEFICENCE

FELLOWSHIP with nature is not denied to dwellers
in the city. Though it may seem far away and lost
in impossible distance, it is really crowding in on
every hand. Some animals may have long since
departed, the wisest being first to go. The Beaver
leaves with the earliest indications of permanent
human settlement, as a prudent man foreseeth the
evil and hideth himself, One by one his forest friends
depart, as wisdom gives them understanding, until a
few degenerates like the Muskrat and the Skunk fall
into habits of domestication. Birds may avoid the
city, with its fumes and exhalations, as a place
unclean. Still the inviting fellowship is at our doors.
In every neglected field, in every swampy indentation,
under every clump of Witch-hazel or Dogwood,
among the seedling Oaks, Maples, and Elms, by
every muddy stream not yet diverted to a culvert,
and even along the open roadways, the varied colours
and fantastic shapes of the wild flora show that
nature’s lamp still holds out to burn. It is not neces-
sary to make a long pilgrimage to the primeval forest,
nor to envy those blessed with the privilege of a
private audience with the spirit of solitude in her

NATURE’S BENEFICENCE qi

own home. Almost within the street car and pave-
ment radius, the whole growing year, from the first
revival of spring life till the white coverlet is spread
over the sleeping earth, may be enlivened by the
beauty in which the great world renews her youth,
The flowers remain, and, while the boldest bedeck
the fields and roadsides, the timid look eagerly for
recognition from every secluded nook and shady
corner. They seem to find protection in the shadow
of the city, for while the thrifty farmer prides
himself on the devastation of every square foot of
his broad acres, there is a respite in the neglected
suburbs, and the mystery of growth is spontaneously
unfolded.

A suburban ramble will always disclose, in the
margin of forest life which seems to have escaped
between the builder on the one side and the farmer
on the other, enticing little spots where the proximity
of a great aggregation of struggling humanity can be
forgotten, and a few hours of real life can be enjoyed
in peace. In these places the wild flowers seem to call
the stroller away from the cities and summer resorts.
They have new attractions to present daily. The
delicate blossoms of early spring, the Hepaticas and
Dog-tooth Violets, the Squirrel-corn, Blood-root,
Spring-beauty, and that whole train of early debu-
tantes have disappeared, but a more vigorous and
more aggressively handsome company have taken

72 NATURE’S BENEFICENCE

their places. The Downy Convolvulus, with its great,
delicate white bell and sturdily-leafed stalk is now
in flower. The yellow blossoms of the Rock Rose,
the rich, blue lobes of the Gentians, the blue stars of
the Chicory, the delicate pink flowers and pretty
foliage of the Dogbane, the imposing hues of the
Wild Orange Lily, the tall, pink-purple spires of
the Great Willow Herb, are now among the com-
mon offerings of suburban fields, while a score of
more retiring flowers, are waiting quietly in out-
of-the-way nooks to greet their inquiring friends.
The Golden-rod is already showing its distinctive
hue, and the Loose-strife, intricately handsome in
foliage and flower, is marking the courses of the rush-
choked streams. The Dogwoods are shedding their
white masses of large-petalled flowers, and the yellow
spangles are disappearing from the Bush Honey-
suckles. The rewards of an hour in the suburbs are
infinite, and the invitation is for ever open.

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ramble. The healthy and growing
interest in the great out-of-doors
cannot be contemplated without a shudder at the
destruction of plant life it seems to entail. A
childish delight in the brilliant or delicate tints
of a flower, in its enticing perfume, and its spirit
of renewing life, prompts the ready little hand
to reach and pluck. There is no more delightfu
sight than a child with cheeks and eyes aglow
and hands filled with the rich and dainty trea-
sures gathered from the deep shades of the woods.
But the speedily wilted and faded masses must
inspire a feeling of regret, and perhaps of pity, even
in the childish mind, for the fruitless destruction that
has been wrought. Wild flowers unresistingly wither
and die when plucked and brought out into the bright
sunshine, a most appealing protest against their
destruction. Their place is in the shades of wooded
hillsides, along damp, swampy ravines, or nestling
among ungainly roots, where the trunks of an older
73

74 DON’T PLUCK IT

generation have settled into long mounds of moss and
lichens. There the floral treasures are to be found,
and there they should be left to live out their lives,
emblematic of the joy that lingers where all seems
shadowy and dark.

There are flowers that can fight their way among
the grasses of the hills and fields, and give a happy
and defiant invitation to all who seek them. The ox-
eye Daisies of summer may be gathered in armfuls.
The Cone Flower, too, seems to thrive in spite of its
rich attractiveness. The Asters of advancing summer
and the Golden-rods of autumn are also of the
composites that thrive in spite of inconsiderate
collecting. Jo Pie Weed, tall and vigorous, displays
its purple crown of flowers and four-leaved whirls
of green where marsh and land vegetation meet.
It perpetuates the name and fame of an Indian
medicine man.. But there are so many flowers that
suffer and are threatened with local extermination
that their friends are warranted in appealing to the
public to spare them. The beautiful blue of the
Fringed Gentian is seen less frequently than hereto-
fore. It isan annual and unless its flowers are allowed
to fill their mission and produce seed it cannot
survive. The deeper ultramarine and lighter shades
of the Lobelia are also growing more scarce by
the choked and sluggish streams, and the Cardinal
Lobelia, the brightest of all the sisterhood of flowers,

DON’T PLUCK IT 5

has been driven out into the wilderness. One of the
earliest debutantes of spring, the Trailing Arbutus, is
disappearing. Its early arrival, its rich perfume, and
seductive habit of nestling and hiding among last
year’s leaves give it an irresistible charm. The
trailing stem has but a weak hold on the ground, and
as it is extremely tough it is often carelessly torn up.
All who must pluck the flower should be careful to cut
off as little of the stem as can satisfy them, and not
tear up the tender roots.

The Hepatica, with its succeeding generations of
flowers and leaves, is surviving the hands of the
spoilers. The Blood-root dies so soon that it is
frequently overlooked, and the Spring Beauty withers
so helplessly in protest that there is but little tempta-
tion to pluck its spray of delicate pink. A weary
stroller with a bunch of wilted Trilliums is a lament-
able spectacle. The drooping of their white or
painted petals is a silent appeal that should be heeded.
Leave them where they grow. The Harebell, with
its frail and delicate cups of blue, seems able to defy
the encroaching grass and to flower through the
whole summer ; but it should not be forced to fight
the encroachment of man as well. Many of our wild
Orchids are blessed with a fatal beauty. The Showy
Orchis is growing rare, and the Fringed Orchis still
rarer. The Northern Calypso, with a delicacy of form
and tint that always eludes the artist, is, indeed, a

76 DON’T PLUCK IT

rarity, almost as much so as the flower-lover who can
find it and leave it unmolested. The Yellow Lady’s
Slipper is still found, but so rare as to appeal, too
often in vain, for mercy. The Showy and the Pink
Lady’s Slippers are comparatively safe away in the
sphagnum swamps, as are the Arethusa and the
Snake’s Mouth, but even there they are now pursued
with threatening persistency. The more familiar
the woods and flowers, the less desire is there to
profane the treasures by bringing them into the
uncongenial atmosphere of the city. Let all lovers of
flowers learn the generous selfishness of renunciation.

77

A RECORD OF TIME

ON the bank of a derelict river, within the city limits,
is a mine of interesting information. It was not
excavated originally for that purpose, neither is it
now worked for any such product. The face of the
towering hill has been cut away, and the cavern of
dizzy depth and impressive extent scooped out, in
gathering material to make brick for the cave-dwellers
of the city. But the diggers have unearthed a record
that lets in a flood of light on the history of this
continent. Byron halted in awe when treading on an
empire’s dust. But empires are merely the momen-
tary lights and shadows across the path of world-
progress laid bare in this excavation. The story
begins to grow interesting where the cutting reaches
the Hudson River rock, which bears the imprint of
the varied transitions of animal life in its lower forms.
Time has effected many transformations, but the
casts of the shells are plain and distinct where the
yielding mud has been changed to imperishable stone.
There is the track of a slug-shaped creature that
moved by corrugating his body and using the ridges
as feet. The trail where he hurried across the mud
has escaped obliteration by the rain, and now the firm

78 A RECORD OF TIME

rock bears testimony that he was here and lived his
life and fought the ceaseless fight for existence.

Then the record tells of cold too intense for animal
or vegetable life. For ages a continent of ice, seem-
ingly immovable but for ever moving, ground the
rugged fragments of rock into symmetrical boulders.
These are imbedded in hard clay, the accumulation
of a long era of glacial action. That the continent of
ice moved is shown by the worn and pulverised rocks
as well as by the continuous motion of the glacial ice
still remaining elsewhere. That it yielded to a warmer
era is shown by the abundance of animal and vege-
table remains in the supervening gravel and sand.
Here the shells are still preserved, and the remains
of some fifty species have been collected. Many are
remarkably perfect.

The great majority of these species are now extinct,
but some of the Clams still survive, an evidence
of the limit of subsequent destruction. The climate
was milder than any that has been experienced in
this region during the present geological era. The
Osage Orange and other trees now indigenous to the
Mississippi and Ohio valleys are found in abundance,
A good-sized tree-trunk taken out was cut up and
used by a cabinetmaker, the few hundred thousand
years it had lain there under water, ice, and dry
earth, having served to improve rather than injure
it. The discovery of a Fish’s head was a new revela-

A RECORD OF TIME 79

tion, for it showed that the vertebrates lived in this
warm era between the ages of ice. The treasure
was sent to Washington for identification, but was
unfortunately lost. The broken story was resumed
by the discovery of part of an Elk’s antler, showing
that not only the lower vertebrates but land mammals
lived in this region between the glacial periods.

This scene of fertility and active animal life is
covered up with another immense bed of boulder
clay, revealing the slow intensity of another accumu-
lated continent of ice. Again the fragments of rock
are worn round and smooth, and imbedded in the
clay—the slow deposit of ages. But this second
continent of ice obeyed the perpetual law of change,
and above the bed of boulder clay that records its
existence are the changing deposits and the water-
washed sand and gravel of the bottom of the lake that
covered the land where this city now stands. Again
come the evidences of marine life, shells and other
remains being modern and easily identified. Con-
templating that record of inconceivable time, the
transient growth of Oak, Pine, and Birch on the top
of the hill seems as presumptuous as man’s usurping
institutions. But a few years—few as time is recorded
in that cavernous pit and excavated hill—and the
continent may sleep again in the long oblivion of a
glacial era.

80

A DAY IN JUNE

Ir seems in all-including motherly kindness that
the trees are spreading their great, umbrageous leaves
over the hot, tired earth. The brooding shade is ever
cool and inviting. There is a soothing quietness in
it that lulls the most restless into placid waking
sleep and day dreams. The inspiriting panorama
of spring has passed. The transient feathered
visitors who lent the charm of melody to the joyful
season have departed for their northern homes.
The happy excitement of their visit is over, and they
have left the calmness of a pleasant memory and the
satisfying hope of renewals. Those who have come
to spend the summer have quietly settled down to the
serious affairs of life. Many do not sing as in the
earlier days. Their joy has not departed, but has
found new fields of expression. It is manifested in
the lively happiness of domestic life. There is a fuller
joy beaming in the bright eye of the Robin, hastening
with a battered worm to its importunate fledgling,
than in the sweetest melody that filled the early dusk
of even ngs in spring. The feathered bipeds find a
joy in all the shifting scenes of life. A few continue
their song through the sultry season, and seem to

A DAY IN JUNE 81

have a double portion of the delights of existence.
The song of the Veery, the churning, dashing, burst-
ing melody that reveals a spontaneous gladness, is
still heard among the leafy shades. Much has been
said and written of the Veery’s song, but only to
reveal the poverty of words in its description. It is a
part of the gladness of nature, to be absorbed and
enjoyed in its own spirit. Other songsters, with their
own peculiar charms, are still carrying the spirit of
spring on into summer. Perhaps that is the mission
of all songsters. The Yellow Warbler still sings as
happily as in the days of his courtship, and his note
has a distinctness lent by the silence of so many of
his feathered relatives. The Oven Bird’s penetrating
repetitions come along under the branches, and the
Brown Thrasher still sings to the sun from a lofty
perch. There is just enough melody through the
shady branches to make their quietness more
somnolent.

A glimpse of yellow and white shows where a
Flicker curves and undulates through the open spaces
to the broken shaft of an old, dead Willow. The
brown-grey back, almost invisible against the bark,
disappears, and after a long, patient wait, with no
sign of the alert head on the other side, the temptation
becomes irresistible. There is a nest. Just below the
broken limb a hole has been picked in the decaying

wood, but it is a false one. One would like to think it
F

82 A DAY IN JUNE

was made to deceive or distract attention, but chilling,
disagreeable fact suggests that the wood was found
too hard. The successful excavation is higher up,
and there she is already, alarmed at the stealthy
approach, looking down with bright, round, startled
eyes at the great, threatening intruder. A
moment, and the staring spell is broken—she glides
boldly out and wings her irregular course beyond
the sheltering Maples in the crowding foreground.
A slender arm can explore the rough tunnel in the
wood, and down at the bottom is a little, solitary
egg. The tiny object of her solicitude is brought
forth to the light. It is pure white—so pure and
translucent in the sun’s rays that the yelk within
gives it an elusive yellow tint, but in the shade its
clear whiteness returns. With a care that even the
startled bird could not surpass it is replaced, and with
apologies unexpressed the intruders retire. Again
the passing flash of yellow and white shows how
anxiously and carefully she has been watching. She
enters eagerly, and, after an anxious half-minute,
comes forth again, happily satisfied in the safety of
her treasure.

The Indigo Bunting is among the pleasant summer
songsters, but it is only by an accidental meeting in a
shady spot that his handsome colour can be appreci-
ated. In the warmth of summer even little Chippie,
with his chattering trill, has a place among the

A DAY IN JUNE 83

favourites. The industry of these little friends,
brightened by an occasional song, blends with the
atmosphere of life and growth pervading the season
of fruition, an atmosphere that steals upon the
senses more seductive and inspiring than the subtle
fumes and vapours distilled from the drugs of the
somnolent East.

A SUDDEN fluttering almost under
foot, and slow, reluctant flight close
to the ground revealed the location of a Song
Sparrow’s nest. In open and unwarranted con-
fidence it was placed on the ground, though built
with care and compactly rounded. The five eggs
were carefully and regularly placed with their
small ends downward. They were pale, almost
white, with the rich brown spots crowding and
clustering on the larger ends as if they were freckled
by exposure to the sun. It seemed a tempting of the
fates thus to risk the depredations of thoughtless
boys and vagrant cats. Sometimes the Song Sparrow
builds near the ground in a bush, but this one had
risked the level surface. Three days later good
fortune and assiduous devotion to parental duties
had combined to reward the mother with three nest-
lings, their big, round eyes still unopened, but their
gaping throats revealing a misplaced confidence in
the bounty of intruders. On the following day there
was a genuine surprise. Crowding the three nestlings
and the two unhatched eggs was a half - fledged
intruder from another family. How did it get there?
84

MELODRAMA AND TRAGEDY 85

Its naked wings and weak, tender feet showed that it
could not have wriggled or fluttered along from some
other nest. No boys were in the neighbourhood. The
mysterious intruder was not an English Sparrow, for
he had the more slender bill of his foster parents,
though not sufficiently fledged for identification.

He might afford an imaginative naturalist material
for a pathetic story of a faithless Song Sparrow who
had deserted his home and family and was pursued
by them to his new surroundings. The possibilities
of domestic complications in such a situation are
infinite. Triumph, revenge, retribution, and disgrace
could play their several parts. The romantic naturalist
could picture the warning fate that follows upon the
breaking of promises and the neglect of duties, but
the ordinary observer can merely watch and wait.
The strangely mixed family must have been a serious
burden to the little mother, but did not seem to
occasion any distress or annoyance. The next
visit showed that tragedy had usurped the sphere
of melodrama. The young stranger’s life in his
new home had been cut short, evidently by a
predatory cat, and one of the little nestlings was also
missing. There was no evidence that the mother had
rejected her foster fledgling. The family without
the mysterious stranger and depleted was far less
interesting, still its fortunes were watched with
sympathetic diligence. But the cat fulfilled its

86 MELODRAMA AND TRAGEDY

proverbial predilection by coming back. Next day
the nest was empty, and two somewhat uneasy Song
Sparrows inan adjacent Willow seemed tobe consider-
ing ways and means for a new domestic venture. The
ways of feathered life are strange and often mysterious.
With ample precautions against the blending of ob-
servation and imagination much may be discovered
and disclosed to strengthen human sympathetic
interest. The unfolding of a strange family history
may be cut short by the depredations of a feline
enemy. The little glimpse of a life under peculiar
circumstances, mysterious in origin and uncertain
in its untimely end, seems a reflection of the calls
that come down out of the night from passing
strangers as they follow their mysterious courses from
zone to zone.

LP

A STARTLED flutter in the shrub-
bery and a glimpse of white and
neutral colours curving and disappearing among
the bushes revealed the secret of a Mourning
Dove. With maternal instinct she followed a low
and concealed course, but her rustling strokes de-
clared her identity. They made a marked contrast
with the silent flight of a recently disturbed Whip-
Poor-Will. The trees had been cleared away three
years before, and the second growth rising at will
among the stumps and struggling for supremacy
with a vagrant entanglement of Raspberry bushes
made an ideal nesting-place. A rambling, sluggish
depression held sufficient weed-clogged water to cover
the mossy roots and leave an opening where the
Muskrats swam and waded by turns or surveyed an
intruder with unfriendly looks before disappearing
for their submerged tunnels. On the higher ground
the few stumps that had not been curtained by the
bushes made comfortable resting places for the lazy

Woodchucks basking in the sun. Squirrels chirred
87

88 AN UNFORTUNATE MOURNING DOVE

and clucked from easily concealed perches, and Jays
called harshly from the surviving wood lot close by.
The nesting-place was menaced by other enemies,
for crows called and circled about where the Pines
rose above the crowding Elms, Maples, and Beeches.

The clump of shrubbery where the Dove took
flight was the second growth from a much older
stump, partly concealed, naked of bark, and rapidly
softening and decaying. In the mossy centre a seed-
ling Elm had taken parasitic root, and close beside
it in a slight depression lay the twin white eggs.
There was no attempt at concealment, and from one
direction they could be seen plainly at a distance of
twenty feet. It seemed strange that these tempting
eggs should be thus freely exposed when Squirrels,
Jays, and Crows, the three most inveterate nest
robbers, were noisily active all about. There was only
a bare apology for a nest. A few fine twigs and roots,
all dead and dry, had been laid promiscuously across
the slight hollow and had been settled down by the
pressure of the bird’s body, affording merely a resting
place where the eggs would not roll. It seemed the
tempting of fate to leave them thus conspicuously
exposed, but it was impossible to aid their natural
guardian in protecting them.

Next morning the knowledge gained permitted a
more stealthy approach from a point where the open
bushes afforded a view of the sitting Dove, but she

AN UNFORTUNATE MOURNING DOVE 89

had become more cautious and timid. The sudden
flutter and curving rise showed that a familiar view
would not be tolerated. This strange mother seemed
more anxious about her own safety than the protection
of her expected nestlings. On the third morning, with
still greater stealth, the sheltered stump was ap-
proached, but peering, halting, and advancing revealed
the discouraging truth that the eggs were gone. A
Dove, probably the bereaved mother, flew past and
beyond the adjacent woods, showing no inclination
to return to the scene of her domestic tragedy. As
there was no collector in the neighbourhood, the
marauder was probably a Squirrel, although the Jays
and Crows were not free from suspicion. The
Mourning Dove, whose soft, cooing tones always
attract attention, 1s sometimes mistaken for the
doubtless extinct Wild Pigeon. Its long pointed tail,
showing white when expanded, is a conspicuous mark.
Its slaty brown and buff are relieved by the neck
adornment of iridescent green, and there is a dark
spot below either ear. This careless nesting habit
makes it a prey to many enemies, but is not so
jeopardising as the gregarious domestic life that made
the Wild Pigeon an easy victim of the most relentless
devourer.

go

THE LIFE OF A MOTH

IF one manifestation of nature’s ways can be more
marvellous than another the chief distinction must
be given to the transformations of the insect world.
The beautiful Promethea Moth emerging from a grey
silken cocoon that has been lying inert on the desk for
weeks cannot fail to appeal to the spirit of wonder.
A ripping, cutting sound is the first indication of
awakening life, as the knives with which the shoulders
of the coming insect are armed are used to make a
passage through the hard, tough covering. Soon
the head, with its feathery antenne, comes forth,
and the queer, misshapen, elongated insect vigorously
extricates itself from its shell. It misses the Lilac
bush, where, in its previous incarnation, it went to
sleep last fall. It runs eagerly about hunting for some
point of suspension, for without the aid of gravitation
those bulbs on its shoulders would never develop into
perfect wings. A book leaning against a shelf affords
the needed perch, and there the process of transforma-
tion goes on with strange celerity. The attenuated
body begins to enlarge and shorten and to take on its
normal texture and rich colours. One joint after
another from the thorax rounds out into shape.

PROMETHEA MOTH

THE LIFE OF A MOTH gI

While this process is going on the bulbs on the
shoulders are forming into wings. The change
commences near the body, and the pulpy mass is
gradually transformed into beautifully marked,
velvety wings. The process continues until the pulp
is but a marginal band on the wings, but this is still
capable of considerable extension before the thin
membranes are completed. Then the Promethea
poses and surveys a new and strange world, while
the newly-formed wings, four inches across, are
moved gently and timidly as if to make sure of
their existence.

This large and beautiful Moth is the mature
female development of the great, thick Worm that
crawled about last summer and nibbled the leaves
of the Lilac. Then it feasted leisurely, a crawling
Worm. Now it is beautifully equipped for flight,
but can no longer eat, and its life mission will be
fulfilled perhaps within the coming night. This
Moth can scarcely be regarded as the Worm trans-
formed, for she excretes in fluid form all the vital,
internal organs of her larval existence. Before
lapsing into the inert pupa state she casts off, with
her outer covering, her legs and all external organs,
including even her head. There is a deepening of the
mystery of identity in this casting off of all the parts
of a previous existence. When the Promethea larva
decided to retire for the winter, she selected a con-

92 THE LIFE OF A MOTH

venient Lilac leaf and began by winding silk in-
dustriously around the twig where it grew. From
this foundation she proceeded down the stem of the
leaf, winding around and about and thus spinning a
tenacious silk cord. On reaching the leaf she began
to fold it about herself, drawing it in gradually at
various points until it became a closely enfolding
overcoat. Within this covering the exuded thread of
silk was wound and wound until it formed a complete
and strong cocoon cemented securely to the enfolding
leaf. Thus protected the inert chrysalis slept through
the winter, oblivious to frost, snow, and rain. Some
day we shall discover a means of dissolving the gum
with which our Canadian Moths cement the silk
of their cocoons, and then we shall have the raw
material for a silk industry.

With the approach of evening the Promethea
begins to manifest great activity, trembling and
pulsating with abundant life. Her beauty is not
destined to perish unappreciated, for the closing
darkness brings several suitors to the open window.
The males are darker and of different form, and live
but to fulfil their reproductive mission. Away goes
the beautiful lady with dizzy, irregular flight, perhaps
to fall a victim to the Night-hawk calling out of
the darkness overhead, but more likely to sparingly
distribute her eggs on the Lilac, Witch-hazel, and
Choke-cherry trees for many miles along her noc-

THE LIFE OF A MOTH 93

turnal course. That purpose achieved, her transient
life goes out. But every egg that escapes the parasitic
insects and nimble warblers gleaming among the
leaves hatches out a perfect larva, to complete the
same strange metamorphosis.

94

POPULAR TYRANTS

THE season of woodland song has merged imper-
ceptibly into the drowsy fullness of summer. The
varied carols that enlivened the woods in the time
of nature’s renewing are silenced. Occasionally a
Yellow Warbler may raise a cheerful call, as if
determined to make his life a perpetual spring. The
Robin in the evening may forget the passing of the
seasons and break forth in varied melodies. These are
but interludes in the silence, otherwise unbroken,
save by the agitated chirp of an anxious parent
alarmed at the threatened invasion of her nest, or
the importunate calls of selfish fledglings demanding
more food from tired but industrious providers. But
the season of fruition has its own peculiar charm,
for it brings out the varied characteristics of all our
summer residents.

Fly-catchers are among the most interesting and
individually distinctive of all the visitors who find
our summer shade congenial. Their marked family
characteristics do not efface the striking personality
of the various members, and each sustains his
dignity in his own peculiar way. They have been
called tyrants and will never escape from the name,

POPULAR TYRANTS 95

although their many friends protest that it is un-
deserved. The Kingbird is responsible for both the
name and the reputation it carries, and he has won
it by his fierce, spectacular, and vindictive attacks
on that dull, unimaginative nest-robber, the Crow.
A Kingbird pursuing and torturing the big black
marauder, keeping close to his side and almost under
his wing, darting at him with savage persistence, and
driving him here and there among the trees, is one
of the most exciting scenes in the whole summer
panorama. “ As the crow flies,” becomes a deceptive
measurement, for he turns, twists, whirls, and flaps
hither and thither in wild alarm, struggling to get
away from the pursuing tyrant. Other birds dart at the
black Ishmaelite and drive him off, but the King-
bird gives him no quarter.

When the tyrant returns to his perch on a con-
spicuous bough in the bright sunshine, sitting erect
and dignified, as become his family and position,
he might naturally be regarded as one of the most
kindly and tolerant of birds. His dark coat and white
vest make a conspicuous contrast ; his tail is tipped
with white, and his black, erect crest conceals some
bright red that is never seen except when the outer
feathers are parted with the fingers. He sits upright,
occasionally turning his head from side to side, his
bright black eye——-._ Away he darts, interrupting a
spectator’s description, leaving the perch shaking

96 POPULAR TYRANTS

behind him, and the snap of his bill can be distinctly
heard as it closes on an unsuspecting Eel Fly. See
how happily he completes the circle, and how
leisurely he returns to his conspicuous perch !

The Great Crested Fly-catcher is larger than the
Kingbird and of lighter colouring, showing, when
hurrying through the naked branches of the tallest
trees in spring, a blending of light brown, grey, and
pale yellow. His crest is a conspicuous mark, and
his whistled call, repeated at intervals, is loud and
penetrating. It suggests a Robin trying his voice.
Now he is silent. It is a rare experience to see him
in the summer woods. The Olive-sided Fly-catcher
is similarly decked in summer tints, but is smaller
than the Kingbird and more retiring in disposition.

Every one knows our little Phoebe, the pet of the
family. Her colours are of the plainest, but she
chooses the naked limbs in orchards and shade trees,
and the most conspicuous posts by the roadside, her
free confidence winning many friends. The Wood
Pee-wee prefers more secluded places, and can be
known by her pale yellow breast and high, thin,
plaintive notes. The Chebec is the smallest member
of the family, and she pronounces her name so
distinctly that she seems vain of it. Her pale breast
and white wing bars are points of distinction. She
sustains the family dignity in her upright poise and
conspicuous crest, and is true to its traditions in her

POPULAR TYRANTS 97

eager and certain pursuit of passing insects. Tyrants
are welcome when they serve our purpose, and
so this well-poised family are praised most highly
because they prey upon the insects which have
escaped our fumes and poisons in their larval stage
of development.

98

SPOTTED SANDPIPERS

IN spite of the invading sand pumps, the dusty
procession of scavenger carts, and the drifting cans
and kegs that make their way over the weedy water,
Spotted Sandpipers continue to make their homes
along the sandy barricade of the marsh. It is their
ancient habitation, and they simply ignore the im-
pertinence of the other bipeds who have invaded
it in a swarming half million. There must be a
fascination in the sand-girt marsh, for the shore-
waders never fail to rest for a few days on their long
journey to arctic or inland summer homes. Through-
out the entire season vagrant Kildeer, Black-hearts,
and Stints are coming and going. But the Spotted
Sandpiper comes to stay and make his home. Among
the rounded and water-washed pebbles of the shore
he would often be invisible but for the perpetual
tilting motion of his body. Whether feeding in the
soft mud or posing on a sandy ridge outlined against
the mingling and uneasy waves his restless energy
keeps up the same untiring motion. His body seems
to partake of the ceaseless impulse that urges the
water, even when the air is still, to rise and fall against
every confining margin, These birds give a touch of

SPOTTED SANDPIPERS 99

animation to every shore in the continent from the
Gulf to the Arctic Sea. They are at home by the
great lakes and by the drying ponds and failing
streams, also along the coasts, by mountain lakes,
forest-bordered rivers, and the sloughs of the open
prairie. They seem in fancy to have become imbued
with the moving restlessness of the untiring attack
of the water upon the land. When they fly in a short
detour their quivering wings seem divided into four
by long white marks across the feathers. Although
they indulge in long night flights from the perpetual
summer of the Isthmus, they locate freely from the
Gulf to the northern limit of their range. Like all the
feathered migrants, they have long known the sus-
taining power of the evening and the night air, and
human inventors with their awkward imitations have
become equally wise. Night flights have given an air
of mystery to bird migrations, but there has been a
gradual revelation of their secrets.

On the sandbar Spotted Sandpipers have nested
with familiar confidence in spite of the city’s
aggression. A startled noisy dash, when fear over-
comes the maternal instinct, reveals the cause of
alarm and anxiety—a nest hollowed in the sand
and carelessly lined with weeds and grasses. Four
unnaturally large and dusky eggs, blotched with
brown, lie snugly with their small ends together, the
pride of the distressed mother, now running appeal-

100 SPOTTED SANDPIPERS

ingly over the sand and turning back frequently with
frightened stare. Continued nesting from the end of
May to the first week of July suggests the possibility
of a second brood. As soon as the young are hatched
they leave the nest and run over the sand, little
helpless balls of grey down. But their wing quills
grow rapidly, and soon the careful mother is free
for her southward journey. When night makes the
more subdued sounds of the marsh audible the Sora
Rail cackles distinctly in the dense rushes, and the
whistle of the invisible Night-hawk reveals the active
life of the upper air. A subduing pause is broken
by the close, sharp, repeated note of the Spotted
Sandpiper, intolerant of intrusion even on the moon-
lit reaches of the sandy shore.

in
n

!

SHOWY

we
oN NU EWA! he
IN ic SULTRY SWAMP

THE growing, living odour of matted Sphagnum moss
makes even the sultry moisture of the entangled
swamp an irresistible attraction. That perpetually
damp and spongy moss growing up in tinted, spread-
ing domes and hollows, while dying at the roots,
slowly converting ancient ponds into peat bogs and
nourishing a heterogeneous gathering of seedlings
into elbowing, struggling trees, seems a perpetual
fountain of vegetable life. The charm of renewal
that makes the call of spring irresistible where the
early flowers look up for recognition seems to last
throughout the growing year where this yielding
moss continues its endless transformation of death
into life. The seedlings nursed by its moisture and
fed by its continuous fertilising growth interlace
their roots below the changing surface, and mingle
their aggressive branches in the struggle upward
toward the excluded light. The bristling Tamarac
is a favourite, and seems to delight in obstructing

and closing every possible avenue. The conical
IOI

102 IN A SULTRY SWAMP

Cedars spread their closely layered branches down to
the surface of the Moss, and the Spruces crowd so
close that their lower branches shrivel to brittle,
noisy obstructions. Poplars still struggle against the
slower and more persistent aggression of the Ever-
greens, and sometimes a Silver Birch can find a
breathing space. The feathered Hemlock, with large
trunk and sturdy roots, rises above the jostling crowd
toward the needed sunlight, its green sprays decorated
with the small, brown cones of the past year. Near
the borders the Alders and Witch-hazels quietly seek
admission. The moss that encroached upon the
ancient pond and gave the trees a foothold is still
youthfully ready to receive them when they have
lived their allotted time. It climbs over the dead
and decaying trunks as it covers and nourishes the
living roots, and some trees that once reached up
successfully above their fellows toward the coveted
sunlight are now merely long, irregular mounds of
Sphagnum.

Birds selfishly enjoy the seclusion provided by
the almost impenetrable shrubbery. The Maryland
Yellow-throat sings from a close but invisible perch
until his audacious curiosity can no longer be denied.
The Black and White Warbler, always on the move,
is indifferent toward an invader, and scarcely halts
long enough to sound his linked repeated notes. The
noisy Crows scold uneasily, but are unwilling to

IN A SULTRY SWAMP 103

alight while they cannot see what peculiar creature is
moving through the dense underbush. The Veery
and Song Sparrow blend their familiar notes. The
attractive seclusion must tempt these little home-
makers, but there is no immunity from their natural
dangers. The harsh Jay flies above the trees and
sends his threatening shadow through the interlaced
branches, warning the inhabitants of the menace of
a nest-robber. The Catbird in the lower branches
varies the sweetest gurgling melody with the threaten-
ing call that has given him so peculiar a name, and
the Brown Thrasher, a rival in song, sings from the
pointed top of a Cedar.

The usual marsh vegetation is enriched by flowers
that only the Sphagnum can sustain. The Sun-dew
lays down its leaves like open hands ready to clasp
and hold any unwary fly, and there is abundance of
insect life for its carnivorous propensities. The
richest treasure of the Sphagnum swamp is the
Showy Lady’s Slipper, the most beautiful of our
wild Orchids. Deep in the secluded and protected
recesses, where stooping, climbing, and straining
overcome the barriers of interlaced branches, these
flowers hide the beauty that threatens their destruc-
tion. Their sturdy, leafy stems bear large, rich
moccasins, waxy white with dainty markings of pink.
This is a beauty of nature that no cultivation
could improve, and when discovered repays the

104. IN A SULTRY SWAMP

sustained effort of a day of search where nature
struggles to repel invaders. Only the ardent lover
of the Sphagnum swamp and its treasures can
appreciate to the full this abundant fruition of a
year’s expectancy.

callow, overgrown Cow-
bird, fed by a diminutive pair of
industrious and attentive Chipping
Sparrows, is the most palpable fraud of the summer
season. The over-burdened foster parents have to
stand on tip-toe to reach the open beak of the hungry
pretender, who has turned out their own progeny
to die helplessly beside the parental nest. How
importunate he is ! If they fly across the field he flies
after them, as if he were angry at the freedom they
presumed to take, and determined by force, if neces-
sary, to make them more assiduous and attentive.
But they do not shirk the burden that fate and
intentional deception have imposed on them. They
skurry about in the edge of the grain field and along
the roadside, picking up every insect in sight and
returning in haste to the big, indolent impostor
sitting on the rail with bill readily agape.

He seems to have a phenomenal capacity for
swallowing. No matter how frequent the visits of his
little foster parents, he is ever ready to demand more.
His insatiable appetite seems to puzzle and worry

105

106 A SUCCESSFUL PRETENDER

them greatly, but they manifest no reluctance, nor
do they show any suspicion of the fraud that has been
perpetrated or the tragedy that has robbed them of
their natural offspring. This thankless gourmand is
all that is left to them after the hopes, joys, cares,
worries, and trials of their domestic life. The parents
of the impostor have evaded their natural responsi-
bilities and are away with a gay crowd of kindred
spirits enjoying themselves in the distant cow
pasture. There they gather on the ground and flit
about as if it were the season of migration, quite
unmindful of the parental duties they have unfeelingly
shifted to others.

The little Chipping Sparrows found one day an
extra egg in their nest, larger than their own,
and with a white instead of a blue ground for
its even, cinnamon-brown markings. They marvelled
greatly at the unexpected addition to their treasures,
and held many serious discussions as to whether the
strange gift was a piece of good or bad fortune.
Some birds revolt against the gratuitous intrusion of
the Cowbird, and occasionally the gift is regarded
with such aversion that another floor is built in the
nest above it, and it is left to its fate. But the Chippies
accepted the foundling and warmed it into life.
Then the stranger began to manifest the greedy
aggression which seems a natural heritage from
parents shamelessly neglectful. The rightful heirs

A SUCCESSFUL PRETENDER 107

to all that loving care and sprightly industry were
thrust aside, crowded, and crushed. The one
ravenous gape was always open as the parents came
again and again with caterpillars and other insects.
The weaker nestlings were starved and crushed until
they gave up the futile struggle. Then they were
pushed out of the nest to drop unheeded to the ground.
The big impostor grew till he lazily filled the nest,
his portly body stolidly immovable, but his soft beak
ever open for food.

When he outgrew the nest and fluttered to an
adjacent fence the Chippies were more puzzled than
proud over their strange, prodigious ward. He was
so much bigger than themselves, so obviously able
to care for himself, and yet so eager and importunate
to be fed. He called to them, demanded of them, and
followed them about whenever they made any lengthy
excursion in search of the ever-wanted Caterpillars.
His mother had left the indifferent flock only long
enough to lay the egg in the Chippies’ nest and
return ; and now the young pretender has fastened
himself on his little guardians, living upon their
industry, though in every way able to support
himself. He will never leave them till their deluded
parental feelings are strained beyond endurance, and
they refuse longer to submit to the imposition. Then
he will assume the black plumage of his kind and
take himself away to join the band of vagabonds to

108 A SUCCESSFUL PRETENDER

which he naturally belongs. All summer they move
about in small flocks, frequenting woods and open
fields while other birds are busy with domestic
duties. Their black and rusty plumage is incon-
spicuous, the females being lighter than the males.
Though naturally despised and avoided by other
birds, they sometimes find favour with the English
Sparrows. These pugnacious little fellows are
ignorant or broadly tolerant of the Cowbird’s
reputation, and they accept him in open and gener-
ous friendship. It may be that no bird “is useless
while he has a friend.”

109

BELOW NIAGARA

A GREAT confusion of gigantic rocks tossed and piled
promiscuously together can scarcely be designated
“flats,” and the modern name “ Niagara Glen”
seems more appropriate for this fascinating touch of
nature’s hand than the local name “ Foster’s Flats.”
In cutting the deep channel from Queenston to the
present site of the falls the waters of Niagara have
sported and gambolled in wild caprices, and below
the present whirlpool on the Canadian side they have
left most delightful mementoes of their savage joy.
With ceaseless rush and roar they tore away the lower
strata of the rocks, while one by one the great irregular
masses of the higher levels broke away with their own
weight and settled into the loud, foaming current.
Here at one time there was the cataract, its ceaseless
strength concentrated on the widening gorge. After
it had worked its way backward there was a magni-
ficent whirlpool, and this made for itself a deeper
channel on the eastern side, leaving the great abraded
masses of rock on the sloping, shelving ledges where
they fell. Then in her tireless energy nature set to
work to cover the irregular rocks with verdure,
choosing many of her most daintily appropriate

TIO BELOW NIAGARA

decorations. Pines, Hemlocks, Cedars, Elms, Maples,
and Oaks now rise in the giant strength of permanent
possession, but the rich and delicate floral decorations
of the passing seasons are everywhere abundant.

The history of nature’s handiwork is lying open.
In the stratified rocks that tower overhead, or are
piled about in picturesque irregularity, the marks of
marine animal life show that the strata were deposited
when Niagara was reached by an arm of the Atlantic.
Then comes the wearing and abrasion of the cataract,
which searched out and bored into every soft or
yielding crevice. The “ pot-holes ’’ drilled in the
rock seem almost to imply human agency and the
use of accurate machinery. The threatening ‘‘ Great
Eastern’s stern ’’ hangs ominously over the irregular
paths. It has been rounded and formed on good lines
by the whirling currents that cut farther and farther
beneath it, but found an easier and lower outlet
before the great projecting mass was sufficiently
weakened to break away from the cliff. Caves and
shelters are abundant, and paths are made between
rocks that meet overhead in natural arches.

The varied profusion of vegetation among the
rocks is seldom equalled. The place is a natural
nursery for Ferns and Lichens. Almost every rock is
coated and covered, and the graceful, wavy fronds
rise from every crevice and recess. The Walking
Fern, that reaches out one long, graceful leaf to send

BELOW NIAGARA III

down a root from its point and produce a dependent
offspring, climbs up on the moss-covered rocks in
all kinds of inaccessible places. The delicate little
Pellaea prefers the high, overhanging face of the cliff,
where it secures a footing in the little holes bored by
the cataract in earlier days. The Bulbed Fern, with
its interesting, seed-like appendages, is quite common,
and the tall, imposing Goldiana has found a habita-
tion in the perpetual rocky shade. The Maiden-hair
Fern demands admiration, and many other varieties,
rare and common, enrich the hollows and crevices
with almost tropical profusion. An Indigo Bunting’s
nest hanging in the fronds of a fern was an interesting
discovery. The anxious father came around in his.
handsome blue coat and chirped excitedly while the
mother hid in the Witch-hazel bushes ; but only one
of the four nestlings was sufficiently confiding to
raise his open bill for food. All the wild flowers
of the district, from Hepatica to Golden-rod, grow
confidingly, the sturdy Painted Trillium and the
delicate Herb-Robert being most abundant. Nature’s.
dominion is supreme in the glen, and her handi-
work is there, from salt water molluscs to conifer
trees. Vegetation is splendidly neglected and at the
same time safely protected from landscape gardeners.
and other vandals.

II2

AS THEY TAKE THEIR FLIGHT

THERE is something pathetic in the eagerness of
pent-up humanity to escape from the city into the
open world, where all nature is glowing in the life-
giving rays of the sun. A sudden appreciation of the
charms of this surrounding richness has come just
as they have begun to recede and disappear. In
earlier days, when the forest, with its endless variety
of life crowded in and about on every hand, the joy
of a great presence was felt unconsciously. Children
called from the clearings in answer to the plaintive
cry of the Wolverine that came as the infantile voice
of the forest. In following the uncertain sound of the
Cowbell they gained an instinctive perception that
led them safely through the tangled underbrush of
trackless woods. The Loon laughed and called on
the Cedar-girt lake. Every night the long howl of the
wolves impressed on receptive minds the cruelty of
nature’s warfare. The Owl cried out in startled sad-
ness. There were no bonfires built, but the family
gathered around the potash kettle and watched the
sparks rising among the invisible branches, and the
glowing, breaking, tumbling coals, as the red-hot
“ melt ’? emitted its tiny blue flames, or glowed, a

AS THEY TAKE THEIR FLIGHT 113

solid, silent mass of blinding heat. Trees existed only
to be cut down, and logs were an encumbrance on the
ground, to be reduced to ashes. Animals lived but to
be shot and trapped, and devoted to a multitude of
uses.

There was no study of nature in those days, for
the growth of knowledge was as imperceptible as the
expanding of the leaves. The Snowbirds, Chicka-
dees, Crossbills, and Grosbeaks were welcome and
entertaining visitors during the winter, but the grouse
was treated as a domestic fowl, especially when the
food supply was short. The silent coursing of the
sap was the first awakening of spring, and troughs,
pails, buckets, and kettles were called into requisition.
Then came the swelling of the buds on the Basswood,
the earliest fodder for the weakened cattle; and
through the entire year life was a struggle toward
harmony with nature’s inexorable routine. Every
sound that reached the ear had a meaning. Every
track, cut, and abrasion was seen and recognised.
The atmosphere was instinct with life and rich with
the blended odours of the woods.

It would be a great mistake to say that all this world
of natural life was not appreciated. It was more than
appreciated ; it was lived. Now we must be content
to effect an escape from the busy haunts in the full-
ness of summer, and regain for a few days the blessing

of liberty. Nature always holds out a welcome. She
H

114 AS THEY TAKE THEIR FLIGHT

takes the scales from eyes which have been mercifully
deprived of sight, lest the crowding multitude of
objects in the streets excite a wearied brain to dis-
traction. Once the lost sense is restored, the trail of
the Muskrat, the print of the Squirrel’s foot on the
sandy bank of the creek, the scars where the Porcu-
pine gnawed the Beech, or the Deer rubbed the
velvet from his horns, the nimble disappearance of
Creepers and Warblers, and the many traces of
nature’s activity are seen with all their old distinctness.

In the abomination of city vapours nature has
dulled the sense of smell, but it is restored with the
blended odours of the Pine, the Birch, the Sassafras,
and the Balm-of-Gilead. The myriad noises jarring
on the ear have caused a happy deadening of the sense
of hearing, but out in the heart of the woods the old
discernment is restored, and the liquid notes of the
Hermit Thrush away in the distance arrest and hold
the keenest attention. Every sense is on the alert,
that none of nature’s manifold gifts be wasted. All
her aspects are studied with the closest interest.
Every tree and every flower becomes a new revelation.
We feel that the great treasure-house is gone, but
prize all the more highly the remnants of wealth that
remain. Even the suburban ravines, marshes, and
woods, where wild life, driven from former habita-
tions, finds shelter in the indifference of a city, take
on the charm of the primeval forest. There we can

AS THEY TAKE THEIR FLIGHT 115

close our ears to the rumbling of the locomotive,
the discordant shrieking of steam whistles, and the
clanging reminders of the tyranny of time, and feel
all the inspiration of a world of growth where “ the

oe 9P
Ss

great heart of existence beats for ever like a boy’s.

116

THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER

Out of the night comes the weird, long call or the
shrill, demoniacal laugh, telling of the sleepless
activity of the Loon, or Great Northern Diver. The
Whip-Poor-Will in the adjacent shrubbery seems
companionable, and there is a friendly spirit in the
short, shrill tremolo of the Night-hawk from the
invisible sky. Even the plaint of the Screech-owl
has a tone of human sympathy. But the dreary
cadence of the Loon is the voice of the inhospitable
night, repelling every thought of human association.
It does not entreat, it does not warn; yet there is a
fascination in its expressionless strength. Over the
black water, under the lowering sky, or through the
bright, still moonlight the same unfeeling tone fills
the ear of night. And sometimes, when the lingering
moon sheds a broad trail of light along the still waters
of the lake, the graceful swimmer will glide across
and disappear in the darkness, breaking the bright
reflection into a multitude of chasing, quivering,
trailing threads of silver. Throughout the day, where
the Cedars come down to meet their shadows in the
dark water, he swims ceaselessly about, sitting low,
with black, glossy neck gracefully curved and dis-

THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER ) 117

playing its delicate white markings. Sometimes he
stretches himself wearily, flapping his wings and
displaying his white breast and the handsome, showy
markings of his sides. Though wary and aloof, and
without a trace of animation in his loud, penetrating
cries, he shows his kinship by the scrupulous care
with which he preens his handsome feathers—even
lying on his back in the water to comb out and
smooth his glossy white breast.

A hurried cry from overhead may unexpectedly
reveal the presence of a pair of Loons in another
element, and it is always fascinating to watch their
steady, strained, energetic flight above the tops of the
pines, generally to curve down to some more attractive
expanse in the Cedar-girt lake. For the water is
the Loon’s natural element. There is an amusing
deliberateness in his graceful, silent dive. He does
not make the hurried dip of his smaller cousin, the
Grebe, but more calmly curves both neck and body,
disappearing under the surface in a graceful arch.
Settling down and swimming with only head and neck
exposed is an evidence of suspicion, and is generally
followed by a long dive, with a belated reappearance
in some remote part of the lake.

When the mother Loon takes her two offsprings
out for a swim it is a big event in the domestic circle.
The outing is announced by prolonged and unusual
repetitions of the laughing call. For half an hour the

118 THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER

echoes of the lake are kept alive with sounds por-
tentous of new departures in the Loon world. Then
a peculiar object is seen to emerge from the marshy
bay and cross under the shadowy Cedars toward the
open water. A field-glass shows it to be the mother
Loon and her two offsprings, the three huddled so
closely together that they are almost indistinguishable.
The mother is unceasing in her care and attention.
She strokes the backs of the young birds with her
bill, playing and fussing around and close to them, as
if they could not exist without her constant attention.
Now and then she leans over and lifts a broad, black,
webbed foot out of the water, holding it up distended,
as if to endorse the modern theory that the parent
Loon teaches her young to swim. They cling to each
other and cling to her, as if afraid of being lost in
the great expanse of water to which they have been
so recently introduced.

A short distance away the father swims about in
lordly indifference, diving occasionally and regaling
himself on unsuspecting fish. A boat comes out from
the shore, rowed by an industrious guide, with an
angler, picturesquely protected by a mosquito net,
sitting in the stern. The mother Loon pushes and
urges her indolent pair in the direction of safety.
How slow they must seem as she hurries and en-
courages them! The trio moves at a snail’s pace
compared with her ordinary speed, and they show no

THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER 119

inclination to dive out of harm’s way. Their clinging,
crowding tendency serves but to incommode and
obstruct her. And where is the male protector ¢
Alas for the romance of chivalry! When the boat
comes near he deliberately dives, and, after the usual
protracted wait, reappears in another part of the lake,
away from the danger that alarms and threatens
the defenceless trio. But the mother remains and
urges the encumbering young things to speed.
They do make some headway, though slowly,
toward the marshy bay from which they recently
emerged with so much loud, wild laughter. The
indifference of the fisherman and the guide do not
reassure them, and they never cease their entangled
struggle till lost to sight in the winding lagoon.

120

THE POWDER POST BEETLE

Just as we begin to congratulate ourselves on the
growing usefulness of our abundant hardwood
timber, a persistent little pest comes on the scene to
disturb our complacency. He does not attack the
forest trees nor the newly-cut logs, but waits till the
lumber is well seasoned in the yard or made up into
furniture, carriages, mouldings, and interior fittings.
Hickory, ask, and oak are his favourites, and, although
he does not like paint, varnish, or other finishes, he
is not always dissuaded by them. A little fine powder
scattered on the ground or the floor is often the only
warning, but it may indicate that the spoke of a
carriage or the leg of a chair is so completely bored
and riddled that it will scarcely sustain more than its
own weight. Perhaps there is no intimation until
some part of an apparently solid piece of furniture
is shattered into dust and splinters with a light blow.
The little beetle responsible for all this mischief has
long been a source of vexation and annoyance in
Britain, but his recent depredations on this continent
have been sufficient to prompt a vigorous pursuit
by the Washington authorities. Already he stands
convicted of occasioning a fatal railway accident by

THE POWDER POST BEETLE I2I

destroying the timbers in a bridge. As he leaves no
external marks of his operations except the fine brown
powder he scatters about and the pin-holes through
which he enters and emerges, the weakened condition
of the wood he has perforated is not readily discerned.

A slender Beetle, less than a quarter of an inch
long, can penetrate rough or even finished hardwood
without leaving any conspicuous marks. The eggs
are laid in the wood, and when the minute white
grubs are hatched they burrow in and through the
wood in all directions, feeding and growing until
ready for the inert sleep of the pupa stage. For this
transformation each diminutive grub forms a cell
at the end of its burrow. When its legs and wings
are fully developed it awakes to new life and bores
its way out, a perfect beetle ready to transmit the
destructive life it has inherited. The dry, hard
woodwork of carriages, the handles of tools, the
material of finished interiors, old furniture, hard-
wood floors, joists, and frames are the strangely
acceptable diet of this dangerous intruder. But he
fortunately confines himself almost exclusively to the
sap wood. All wood from the heart of the tree is
virtually safe. With our abundance of hardwood there
is no excuse for using the vulnerable part and thus
providing costly food and lodging for this pest. If
we are sufficiently parsimonious or dishonest to use
sap wood we will be courting punishment.

122 THE POWDER POST BEETLE

Each female deposits many eggs, and a number will
attack a single piece of furniture. The numerous
progeny making their winding burrows through the
wood completely destroy the interior fibre, reducing
it to a mass of fine powder. If the destruction is not
accomplished by the first attack, the process is con-
tinued by subsequent generations until a thin outer
shell is the only solid fibre remaining. The drier and
older the wood the more attractive does it become,
and the beetle has a special fondness for floors,
joists, frames, and material that has lain undisturbed
for several years. Steaming, dry heat, and a liberal
application of kerosene or benzine are among the
recommended methods of destruction. Sap wood
should be rejected for all purposes, and all wood in
which the pest has found a lodgment should be
destroyed. Carriage woodwork and antique furniture
frequently suffer. Look for the light brown, mealy
powder and the pin-holes. They are signs which
reveal one of the wonderful concentrations of
destructive power in the insect world.

123

A FLOATING ISLAND

WHEN a buoyant, matted entanglement of Bulrush
roots is undermined and loosened from its feeble hold
by the swollen water of the marsh the wind takes hold
of the multitude of fluttering green sails, and the
unstable island moves almost imperceptibly toward
other shores or anchorages. Where the water is clear
and open the wind, tugging at the tall, crowded
rushes, moves the island steadily along, making
panoramic changes in the confining and reflected
vegetation. In a mass of submerged weeds it is
retarded so gradually that its movement ceases
imperceptibly. It has all the features of the solid
islands and shores adjacent, and shows no evidence of
the fact that it is merely waiting for a change of wind
to seek other and less obstructed routes of travel.
The inhabitants seem perfectly satisfied with their
itinerancy. A Gallinule clucks familiarly and con-
tentedly in his safe concealment, quite unmindful
of his wanderings. He even ventures out to the float-
ing margin, stepping daintily among the yielding
roots, and picking the small snails and larve that
cling to the sunken rushes. The bright red of his bill
and frontal plate relieve his funereal colours as he

124 A FLOATING ISLAND

swims out into the sunlight. With long, distended,
slender toes he is a poor swimmer, but does not seem
eager to increase his speed. Leisurely idling on the
clogged water, he seems a natural inhabitant of a
floating island. His indolence suddenly ends with a
fluttering, splashing rush into the floating haven, and
the cause of his sudden alarm is seen in the careless
approach of a canoe.

Marsh Wrens dart about among the waving rushes,
scolding the invaders and creating a continuous
disturbance. Sora Rails chatter loudly, as if deter-
mined to make the protest more effectual, but the
hiding Gallinule is discreetly silent. Two globular
nests of the Marsh Wrens are neighbourly adjacent
in the suspending rushes, but these little atoms of
industry often build more nests than they require.
A Redwing’s nest, from which the brood has no doubt
departed, is also supported by the new vegetation.
The inhabitants of the marsh are in no way reluctant
to choose so uncertain a location, and as it floats
about they continue to hide and rear their young in its
friendly shelter. A Carolina Rail, with long bill and
awkwardly pendent legs, rises from the rushes as if
he were about to desert his unstable home, but after
a short, slow flight over the waving green blades he
drops again out of sight. A little Bittern, with folded
neck and trailing legs, rises less irresolute and flies
over the open water to the more permanent vegeta-

A FLOATING ISLAND 125

tion of the shore. This is not the beginning of an
exodus, for through the growing dusk some wander-
ing Redwings turn abruptly from their course and
settle among the tall green blades. As night settles
down and the stars come out the wind that moved
the island against the weedy shallow is stilled. The
tallest Rushes stand limp and motionless. The Sora
Rails chatter in continuous alarm, while all the other
inhabitants are silent. After the impressive pause of
the end of day a long line of dark ripples extends
over the open water. The Rushes begin to quiver
and tremble in the mild ebb of the silent air. The
island remains where it was stopped by the weeds,
but soon a change of position can be discerned. The
returning air currents pull with gentle persistence.
Soon it becomes apparent that the floating island,
with its concealed inhabitants, is slowly drifting out
toward the close horizon of the night.

126

ACTIVE GLEANERS

ADVANCING summer brings a period of silence in the
Bird world. The happy notes of the Song Sparrow
still enliven the woods. The vigorous but less
melodious call of the Yellow Warbler is still heard,
and a few other perpetual singers keep the spirit alive.
But in contrast with the chorus of early spring
the woods are silent, relieved mainly by the dis-
tressed calling of hungry fledglings, impatient at
the delay of their tired parents in distributing food.
Young birds that have left the nest but are still in a
dependent position are a serious problem to parents,
struggling energetically to keep all wants supplied
and silence all turbulent outcries. The quiet of the
season affords an opportunity to watch the ceaseless
activity of the little gleaners. The Warblers in bright
and varied colours are skimming about over leaves
and twigs, picking off every insect that has found
a lodgment there. The Yellow Warbler is perhaps
the most industrious and most familiar, although his
fondness for the close-leaved tops of trees, where the
sun strengthens the yellow tints of the green, often
shields him from observation, He is revealed by

ACTIVE GLEANERS 127

his perpetual energy and the occasional hurried call,
given out without pausing in his work.

The insect world may hold itself in check by the
parasitism that besets every species. Perpetual
warfare holds, controls, and restrains a possibility
of reproduction sufficient to devour the world’s
vegetation. The balance of contending forces has
swayed but little during the comparatively brief
period covered by human observation ; and a lazy
summer hour watching the ceaseless activity of the
birds reveals their important part in the struggle
that holds insect life in check. They are indis-
criminate, it is true, feeding as freely on the useful
parasite as on the injurious leaf-eater; but they
are an established element in the perpetual conflict,
and cannot be destroyed or removed without grave
danger.

Birds destroy insect life in all its forms. Nowhere
are the insects safe. Woodcock, Snipe, and other
shore birds bore for them in the mud and sand.
Robins pluck them from the hard earth. Thrushes
turn over the leaves in search of them, Woodpeckers
bore into the trees for them. They are caught on the
wing by Kingbirds, Pheebes, Night-hawks, Swallows,
and even Warblers and Sparrows. Nuthatches and
Creepers search every crevice in the bark for them.
The nimble little Warblers go swiftly and patiently
aver every branch, twig, and leaf, as if determined

128 ACTIVE GLEANERS

that no insect should be left alive, and birds of less
regular habits pick them up indiscriminately wherever
they can be found. Where bird activity is unmolested
it seems almost strange that any insects escape. All
are devoured at sight. Even the obnoxious Potato
Beetle, once regarded as enjoying immunity, is food
for the Whip-Poor-Will. When the nestlings are first
demanding attention the greatest destruction occurs.

Although parent birds may show a preference
for fruit and other delicacies, the young demand an
insect diet. That accounts for the insectivorous
activity of the Catbird, the Brown Thrasher, the
Robin, and other birds which show an epicurean
weakness for fruit in season. The crusade against all
kinds of insects is joined by the Blackbird and other
grain-eaters. Even such marauders and outlaws as
the Crow and the English Sparrow like to treat their
young to an insect feast. The Ruby-throated Hum-
ming-bird, dainty enough to subsist on the nectar of
flowers, is a plebeian feeder on Gnats, Ants, Flies,
and minute parasitic Wasps. The Sparrow-hawk
lives largely on Grasshoppers, but more formidable
members of the family do not descend to insect food.
Partridge, Quail, and Prairie Chickens, destructive
grain and bud-eaters as they are, feed their young
on Grasshoppers, Beetles, Cutworms, Caterpillars,
Maggots, Chinch Bugs, and similar delicacies.
Although this destruction goes on by night as well

ACTIVE GLEANERS 129

as by day, although the winter residents are gleaning
insect food perpetually, and the great feast of the
nesting season is held when the ephemeral swarms
are most freely exposed, the strange mutations of
life in the insect world go on from year to year, a
triumph of the all-pervading instinct of perpetuation.

130

FLOCKING ALREADY !

Wuen the rich abundance of summer vegetation
prompts a reposeful wish for the perpetuation of the
season, a flock of Blackbirds hurrying across the open
sky between the rounded oak tops give a hasty
reminder of the universal law of change. They are
flocking already, and the summer seems to have
scarcely yet arrived. Their diminutive and dis-
reputable cousins, the Cowbirds, have been flocking
all the year. They shirk the responsibilities of life and
shift the care of their offspring to others. Through-
out the spring, when other birds are building nests
and perfecting their domestic establishments with
ardent, happy industry, these little outlaws are
congregating in flocks and loitering idly about the
pastures. Now and then a solitary female will skulk
away from the flock to deposit an egg in the nest of a
Sparrow, Finch, or Warbler, returning again to the
vagabondia of her kind. This flocking merely betokens
parasitic idleness, but the flocking of the large
Blackbirds, early and unwelcome as usual, tells of
the passing of another season of growth. Unlike their
little cousins, they are models of domestic virtue.
As soon as they arrive they proceed at once with the

FLOCKING ALREADY ! 131

selection of a locality for nesting and rearing their
brood. The work of building absorbs all their
attention, and they are quite indifferent to the less
weighty problems of Blackbird life. They never
wander far from the nest, not even when the young,
importunate brood make extravagant demands for
food. They gather delicacies all day long, never
venturing far afield, but gleaning from the adjacent
swamps and bogs. The conduct of the Blackbird at
this time is most exemplary, even from a selfish,
human point of view, for he provides a bill of fare
consisting largely of insects.

As soon as the cares of the household are thrown off
and the young brood are able to battle with the world
the Blackbird becomes the most sociable of all the
summer residents. Then the sudden appearance of a
hurrying flock gives a disquieting reminder of the
passing of summer. The new flock lacks organisation
or purpose, and seems too happy to think of the
pursuit of pleasure. The restraints of a season of
domestic care are forgotten in the glad abandon of a
new life. This is the time for raids and depredations.
The fields of ripening grain are an irresistible tempta-
tion. The flock scurries here and there, settling for a
moment to gather a few grains of Wheat, and rising
in response to an irregular impulse, to disappear
among the crowding Maples. There is no leadership
among the hurrying marauders as they move about

132 FLOCKING ALREADY !

with rapid hesitancy. That may be why the flock
is so crowded and compact, with scarcely room for
uninterrupted flight. In this eager flocking the
peculiarly deliberate antics of the solitary bird in
the spring marsh are entirely lost.

Away they go out of sight behind the low treetops,
but their passing has brought vividly to mind the
ceaseless transformations of animated nature. We
may long for a period of repose or for the permanence
of the richness of summer, but the same inexorable
law of change, of death and resurrection, is relentlessly
unfolded. The unexpected flocking of the birds is
but one of many evidences of transition. High up on
a sturdy Elm the foliage on a solitary branch is taking
on a yellow tint. Here and there a Maple is touching
the dainty tips of its leaves with colour. The Golden-
rod is unfolding its rich and brilliant plumes. The
richest of the Purple Asters are glowing through the
interlaced green. And in the air there is that vague,
chill feeling of loss that seems an anticipation of the
inevitable decline of all that fills the season with joy
and satisfaction.

“ll

WHEN/CHE SWALLOWS-|

IT is to be regretted that so much
of the migration that courses over
the continent is carried on at night. The sky
seldom reveals the strange wanderings from zone
to zone. The welcome arrival, the indifferent
passing to and from remote homes and haunts, as
well as the affecting departure, are all shrouded in
darkness. Sometimes a flock of Wild Geese may pass
high and distinct against the clear day. Ducks in
angled lines, more hurried and more near, may court
the daylight. Even in the night a familiar note may
come from the upper darkness announcing the route
of some passing traveller. But the swarms that move
between tropical retreats and northern breeding
grounds prefer the secrecy of night and lose the wider
sympathy that would come from a free disclosure of
their routes and journeyings. Swallows are now
gathering in large flocks and making ready for
the great journey. The marshes are favourite
places of assembly, and when they crowd the
wires in thousands one is apt to wonder how they
managed to organise preparatory meetings before
electrical inventions furnished resting-places. Some-
133

134 WHEN THE SWALLOWS—

times they declare their independence by perching
on the dense, strong vegetation of the marshes, but
the wires are favourite roosts. This shows a ready
adaptability. As the Swift, easily distinguished by
its round tail and dull, sooty plumage, adopted
chimneys in preference to hollow trees, so the
Swallows, also feeders on the minute insects of the
air, prefer the wires to their old and natural perches.

The Bank Swallows organise the most conspicuous
flocks. As is their custom, the place where they
swarmed noisily in the evening, filling the air with
their disturbed chattering and scarcely leaving room
in the air for their insect food, will be left in the
morning silent and deserted. Their plumage is dull,
dark above and light below, and the dark breast band
makes a conspicuous mark as they line up on the
wires. They are industrious burrowers, and have
reared their young in holes in the many favourable
banks furnished by cliffs and ravines. The Barn
Swallows, the most gaily decorated of the family,
have already begun to leave for the south, but a few
remain and will probably join the flocks of their
relatives. Reddish breasts, glittering blue-green
backs, and deeply-forked tails spotted with white,
distinguish them from the other swift chatterers that
pursue the insects rising from the marshes. They
are good masons, and attach nests of mud to the
rafters and eaves of barns. The Tree Swallow is

WHEN THE SWALLOWS—— 135

generally early in flocking, but inclined to linger as
long as food is abundant. Metallic blue-green above
and pure white beneath, the white and colour meeting
at a distinct line from the bill—this Swallow is
readily distinguished and always admired. The Cliff
Swallows are less familiar and seem to be decreasing
in numbers. They have the mud-building habits
and also the metallic blue-green plumage of the
Barn Swallows. Reddish patches on the neck and
above the tail are marks of identification. The big
Black Swallow or Purple Martin is also becoming less
common, and is said to show a growing inclination
toward passing the summer in its southern home.
The gathering of the flocks is a reminder of the passing
of summer, Even in the oppressive and close evenings
their chattering and crowding announce the distant
approach of the frost king from the north. They will
not wait for his blighting touch, but will seek the
freedom of perpetual summer before the first chill of
his approach.

136

THE FASCINATION OF LIGHT

LicuT has a strange fascination which takes hold
of all animated creatures, and commands a subtle
devotion that cannot be set forth in a confession of
faith. The delight of a boy in a bonfire is a breath
of the heaven that is about us in our infancy. Though
it be but a heap of rubbish, revealed by the removal
of the mantle of snow, lighting up with flickering,
changing glow a rectangular door yard, the children
stand and gaze into the dancing flame, their vast,
distorted, ghostlike shadows lost in the night, their
faces reflecting every evanescent glare. and their
spirits charmed by the same spell that took form in
the fire-worship of their ancestors. How they delight
in stirring up the embers and sending up a fountain
spray of sparks! What joy in seeing the big sticks
break into glowing coals, darting out new tongues
of flame to lick up the escaping embers !

Fire is one of nature’s universal fascinations. The
wildest and most wary animals approach and gaze
at it in the night, and though it sometimes warns
them off, it always holds them bya spell. The night
migrating birds perish in scores against the plate
glass of coast lighthouses, swerving from the control
of the all-powerful migratory instinct toward the
fascinating glare that is their destruction. It is not
sportsmanlike to hang a lantern in the marsh and

THE FASCINATION OF LIGHT 137

shoot the ducks that gather under it. But the night,
the silent marsh, and the lantern have charms that
the sportsman, with his legal and mechanical para-
phernalia, can never understand. Fish are devoted
fire-worshippers, and that boy who has never speared
by a jack-light is an object of compassion.

The earth and the waters under the earth have no
more fascinating sight than the grey, silent form of
a Pike, moving and motionless in the shallow water,
a shadow more tangible than himself thrown by a
jack-light on the mottled yellow rocks and sands of
the bottom. A passing breath of wind, even the
slightest motion of the punt, breaks every shadow and
indentation into myriad fleeting ripples and waves of
light, transforming the slender, silent fish into a sheaf
of wriggling glimmers. With the stilling of the
surface the waiting Pike and all the shadows and
lights of the bottom grow once more still and distinct.
There floats the greatest cannibal of the fishes,
paying his devotion to the flame, and above him
stands the greatest cannibal of all created beings
pointing his deadly spear.

There is no moon. The stars cannot penetrate the
thickening clouds. The bay is still and its shores
invisible, the distant light of a farmhouse only serving
to intensify the lonely silence. The savage joy of that
moment repays the boy for all his laborious prepara-
tions. He brought two boards down the river from

138 THE FASCINATION OF LIGHT

the mill, and toiled at them with all the tools in the
woodshed till the ends and edges were made smooth.
He collected lumber from all available sources for
the ends and bottom, fastening them on with a
miscellaneous collection of nails and sprigs. Then he
patiently picked an old piece of tarred rope into
oakum, and calked it into the seams with a sharpened
gate-hinge. He notched a Pine tree, gathered the gum
and boiled it into pitch to make the joints tight.
That extraordinary pair of oars he sawed, chopped,
and whittled from an old plank. The spear is a family
relic which he dug up and fitted with a white-ash
pole, and the anchor is a long stone, tied by the slack
of a clothes-line. The jack is a basket made of old
pail-hoops, and fastened to an upright stick to hold
the burning pine knot. Yet we wonder why it is
always the country boy who succeeds in the city.
Will he, too, be lured by the seductive glimmer ¢
Will he turn away from the conquest of nature and
embark in the conquest of his fellow-mortals ¢ Will
he go to a resort for his fishing and a preserve for his
shooting ¢ Will that bunch of hair protruding from
under his hat be worn thin and grey in scrambling
after the delights of the vain and the covetous?
Will he devote his superb strength of body and mind
to outstripping and circumventing his fellows in the
pursuit of that transient glimmer, that all-alluring
ignis fatuus which the Babylon world calls success ¢

139

THE CANADIAN MOCKING-BIRD

THIS most versatile, and perhaps most musical, of all
our feathered singers is enjoying the inspiration of
the season and contributing to the melody of the
lengthening evenings. His sombre coat of slaty grey,
darker on the head and tail, lends aid to his naturally
secluded habits, for he likes to move about among the
low thickets, where his disappearing form may some-
times be mistaken for a Robin. The under tail covert
of chestnut or dark red is a distinguishing mark
which sometimes aids identification. But the Catbird,
as he is more familiarly called, is generally recognised
by his varied accomplishments. The decided,
colloquial mew, as of a vagrant cat, coming from the
Alder, Dogwood, and Hazel bushes, is often the first
intimation of his presence. He does not long adhere
to the disquieting feline sounds, but breaks out into
an answering melody, sweet, clear, and of wonderful
compass. The shrillest trebles alternate so quickly
with the richest altos in the bird register that a
listener is easily deluded into fancying that two birds
are singing together. Then the cat mews again, and
the singing seems scarcely interrupted.

Throughout the entire day the thickets are en-
livened by an occasional strain from the hidden
singer, but as evening advances and the sunlight

140 THE CANADIAN MOCKING-BIRD

withdraws to the hilltops he abandons himself to the
sustained ectasy of song. Then he forsakes the deeper
shadows and comes up into the open branches, where
his nimble and varied antics amuse, while his song
sustains its melodious charm. For a moment his long
bill will energetically vibrate to the shrill prestissimo,
then it will close, and from his inflated throat will
come the deceptive, ventriloquial notes that seem to
proceed from the recesses of the woods. The cat-
call will follow, as if he were tuning his vocal chords,
and again the melody flows forth uninterrupted.
There are many imitations in his song, for he borrows
freely from the Warblers and Thrushes. But he gives
forth his own spirit so abundantly that all his pilferings
are forgiven.

Though keeping to the low thickets, the Catbird
is by no means unfriendly. Once assured of the good
intentions of a visitor, he comes out quite freely and
in ready confidence. A friendly, trusting pair will
even nest in the vicinity of a suburban house if the
people are properly appreciative. The nest is a big,
straggling affair, and the birds seem to take delight
in using a number of abnormally large and unneces-
sary sticks and broken roots. The large mass of
building material fastened in a low thicket serves the
purpose of concealment, and is less noticeable than a
compact, regular nest. The three, four, or five eggs
resemble those of the Robin in colour, but are much

THE CANADIAN MOCKING-BIRD 141

smaller, and the anxious mother is terribly distressed
if an intruder ventures near.

These summer residents vary their diet with the
changing seasons. On their first arrival they explore
the naked thickets and evergreens, and hurry over
the ground and among the leaves in search of insects.
Beetles, Spiders, Worms, Ants, Grasshoppers, in fact
all kinds of insects, are eagerly gathered. The birds
often pause to sing at their work or to perform some
extravagant antics for the entertainment of a visitor.
When the young nestlings demand food the mother is
unceasing in the pursuit of insects, and is said to be so
energetic that she will assist in feeding the young in
other nests. If the Mulberries ripen sufficiently early
the nestlings are treated to their full share of the new
delicacies, and as the season advances and the fruit
becomes more tempting the insect diet is almost
entirely abandoned. Then the valuable service of
the earlier season is forgotten, and the Catbird is in-
considerately declared a thief and a vagabond. But
friendship and affection are superior alike to the evil
reports of busy tongues and the deliberate condemna-
tion of the gravest judges. Friends who have listened
to the varied songs of the Catbird in the evenings of
early spring or watched his amusing activity in the
naked shrubbery will freely forgive his depredations
and reserve for him a favoured place among the guests
of summer.

AN
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BOK Ro “awl

Witx the Dog Star low in the south-eastern sky and
the crescent moon rising to peer through obscuring
clouds, the silence of morning commands a subdued
respect almost akin to reverence. Slowly moving
forms, distorted by the uncertain light that outlines
them against the still water, seem to make the hush
more oppressive. The air is still, and there is not even
a tremulous motion among the tallest rushes that rise
above the impenetrable and entangled growths of the
marsh. Clouds hang low, as if festooning the great
invisible dome. The grandest temple that man can
rear is weak and insignificant compared with the vast
solemnity of the open, lingering night. This all-
enshrouding temple is suddenly profaned by a swift,
red flash followed by a harsh, explosive report. Flash
and report follow again and again in close irregularity,
some near and some dulled and almost invisible in
the distance, where the long, extending shore is still
curtained by the night. Answering reports come in
rapid succession from the concealed reaches of the
marsh, and before there is a trace of day in the east
142

THE OLD SPORT 143

the solemnity of night is transformed into the keen
activity of a fusilade of destruction. The shore
waders that have been feeding and fattening under
the protection of the law are exposed to the yearly
attack.

Two great Herons aroused by the unusual sights
and sounds rise with inquisitive croak and fly low
from the outer shore toward the rush-protected
water. Flashes and reports along their course seem
to confuse them, and the usual grace of their steady
strokes gives place to momentary awkward turnings
as they pass close from the invisible to the invisible.
The first hurried flight of the hunted is seen reflected
in a long, shallow lagoon imprisoned by a stretch of
sandy beach. The birds are invisible against the
background of Willows and Rushes, but in the
natural mirror of the Lagoon the light from the moon-
lit clouds reflects their passing forms. They are
Ring-necks and small Sandpipers, bunched close with
quivering wings, and their mirrored forms seem to
shudder rather than swerve at a startlingly near
report. The fusilade continues wherever the uncertain
light reveals the location of the restless and startled
waders. It grows more noisily aggressive as the
advancing sunlight blots out the Dog Star and the
faint crescent. Flashes are no longer visible, but the
noise increases as the disturbed and hunted flocks
scurry along the shore in a helpless, eager search for

145

A MIGRATING BUTTERFLY

THis is the season to watch for the migration of the
orange and black Butterfly, familiarly known as the
Monarch—to his intimate friends, the Anosia
plexippus. In the insect world, the world of myriad
wonders, this familiar dweller among the nectar-
laden flowers is the only migrant. And why should
insects come or depart with the changing seasons?
Ephemeral atoms in the great sea of life, at one time
crawling on the earth like reptiles, at another flying
in the air like birds or swimming in the water like
fish, again burrowing in the ground like moles, and
relapsing into inert forms that sustain, like seeds, the
mystery of life through the fiercest northern frosts,
sometimes eating voraciously and again sustaining
a life of activity without food, they change with the
passing seasons, dancing in the summer sun or
congealing in the frozen earth in winter. But the
Monarch Butterfly, familiar in his dizzy, undulating
flight among the chimney tops or feasting daintily
on the nectar of the Clover, is impelled to go from
zone to zone in the fulfilment of his life mission. In
the middle of the big lake his indolent, irregular flight

seems purposeless and indifferent. He seems to heed
K

146 A MIGRATING BUTTERFLY

the passing steamer no more than the passing of time.
In his giddy flopping there is no apparent progress,
and one wonders how he traverses the length of the
continent to spend the season among tropical flowers,
howhe crosses the Gulf of Mexico toa still more attrac-
tive climate, and how, a few years ago, he crossed from
the southern extremity of this continent and invaded
our sister colony Australia. Around Toronto these
Butterflies generally move westward, and, although
they are sometimes encountered over the lake, it is
thought that the flock or swarm from this part of the
country crosses at Niagara. It is only three or four
days after their departure that they are tasting the
nectar of the flowers in Florida and other States
around the gulf.

With their migrating habits there is a resourceful-
ness that other insects do not possess. The greater
part of their life is spent not in the inert chrysalis
state, like so many of their class, but in the highest
activity of perfect development. Their wings must
be protected for the long flight. When their delicate
scales are threatened by a storm of rain they hide
under the little twigs of the Willow, where they hang
back downward, their wings closed flatly together
below them in the position they often assume when
resting on the flowers. Sometimes they seem to
forget their usual caution in a shower and fly excitedly
about, hither and thither, rising higher and higher

A MIGRATING BUTTERFLY 147

in an apparent effort to get above the rain. But that
is only an occasional folly, for they generally antici-
pate the storm and suspend themselves carefully
out of harm’s way. The young generation, ready to
try their beautiful, untarnished wings in the long
southern journey, will not have the guidance of
experience. That is a means of progress and advance-
ment denied in the insect world, for each generation
passes with the fulfilment of its procreative mission.
As long, black and white crawling larve they have
been feeding voraciously on the leaves of the Milk-
weed, a plant named after Asclepias, whose know-
ledge of medicinal herbs was so profound as to excite
the envy of Jove himself and thus led to his undoing.
And the Butterfly larve, whose preference for the
Milkweed is no doubt more wise than the medicinal
faith of the earlier generation, have also inherited the
name.

A short time ago they ceased devouring the Milk-
weed. leaves, curled themselves up for a brief nap as
inert pupz, then burst from the shroud of their own
weaving as winged insects, their jaws discarded for
long tubular tongues to draw the nectar from the
nodding flowers above the leaves they so lately dis-
figured. They have changed from the Caterpillar
to the Butterfly and turned from the leaf to the
flower. Their long southern migration is merely a
climatic necessity. They will come back again in the

148 A MIGRATING BUTTERFLY

spring, meagre and ravenous, their wings worn and
battered by the long flight. They will probe the horn
of the Columbine, the slender tubes of the Honey-
suckle, and every flower that promises them nectar.
The exuding sap of the Maple or Birch will be a rich
repast, and they will revel for a time in the luxuriance
of our northern land. Soon they will seek their mates,
like the returning Swallows, and give up their lives
in the fulfilment of the law of perpetuation, the first
law of nature.

DELIBERATE, strong, steady, and
regular, the Great Blue Heron
moves through the upper air, now
outlined against the deep and
limitless azure, and now seeming
intent on burying himself in the
suspended folds and undulations
of fleecy cloud. He has travelled
from the warm, vapoury, and im-
penetrable marshes of the south,
and is breasting the clear, in-
vigorating northern air toward
his summer home in the forest. The city, with its
offensive odours, is but a small and trifling deface-
ment on the great continent he freely regards as his
own. The swamps are still solid with the lingering
ice. The Frogs and Snails that must provide his food
are still in the long sleep of winter. Fish that might
fall victims to his darting beak have not begun to
ascend the creeks and rivers. Yet, indifferent to the
season’s delay, he pursues his northward course with
slow, unvaried strokes, his head drawn back and
resting on his closely curved neck, and his long legs
149

150 THE GREAT BLUE HERON

trailing rigidly behind. It seems a strange hope that
impels him where the persistent grip of the frost
is stronger and stronger, for the slowly awakening
landscape over which he is passing is not yet prepared
to serve his many needs. The eye follows him as his
great, distended wings grow smaller, and he seems in
the deceiving perspective to gradually descend toward
the northern horizon. On and on he goes, responding
to the impelling urge until he becomes an uncertain
spot on the darkening grey into which he slowly
vanishes.

The varied panorama of his life passes in fancy as
he disappears in the northern distance. The months of
indolent ease he spent among the rich verdure of the
southern swamps, protected from intrusion by their
impenetrable growths and the poisons of their vapour
and their ephemeral life. There in the richness of
solitude, wading slowly through the stagnant water,
his long white neck made a clear outline against the
dark green of the perpetual shades either in the grace-
ful curve of repose or the tall, strained rigidity of
alarm. The narrow, pendent feathers of his breast,
reaching the surface of the water as he wades, are
supposed to attract the fish and amphibians on which
he feeds. But whether these victims are attracted or
fascinated, there is death in the swift stroke of that
great, powerful yellow beak. There is no more
graceful bird than the Blue Heron, and nature seems

THE GREAT BLUE HERON 151

to have made a special effort to harmonise the form,
colour, and movements of the bird with the tall, rich
vegetation of the marshes.

With the awakening of the far and hushed north
the Heron moves to his summer home, but does not
feel impelled to seek the distant regions beyond the
invasion of man. Wherever tall trees reasonably
remote from inquisitive human meddling afford a
nesting-place he may decide to locate. If left un-
molested he will come season after season to the same
locality, repairing such damage as the passing storms
may have done to the lofty platform of lodged sticks
that serves him as a nest. A heron family grows in
noisy importunity as the time for leaving the nest
approaches. Though the brood may remain silent
while the mother is abroad gathering a supply of Fish
or Frogs, perhaps occasionally putting forth a long
neck to look around over the treetops, every return
is greeted with a harsh and rasping uproar that seems
almost to profane the stillness of the forest. The
parents make long excursions to distant marshes, and
when the young, fully grown, but immature in
plumage and colour, pass from parental care they
make their way leisurely southward from marsh to
marsh and from swamp to swamp. They seem
reluctant to leave, but take alarm when the noisy
slaughter of the game birds disturbs the quiet of their
favourite haunts.

152

FLOWERS OF THE SEASON

THERE is something akin to waywardness in the
habits of the wild flowers. They choose their
favourite haunts, their quiet resting-places and open
promenades, with apparent unconcern, but with re-
markable fidelity and persistence. Their preferences
seem most unreasonable, but that is the way of most
preferences. Not only have they favourite climes and
latitudes, favourite conditions and surroundings, but
favourite nooks, ravines, ponds, and hillsides, where
they are certain to be at home in due season to their
intimate friends and admirers. The Twin-flower
will often choose its own favourite shaded hillside,
leaving the opposite slope to its more vigorous
companion, the Partridge-berry. There they live their
lives, responding to the spirit of the passing seasons,
vivifying the spring, strengthening with the fruitful-
ness of summer, and varying the pattern of the
carpet of autumn leaves. Even through inhospitable
mid-winter, under the dense covering of snow, their
rich green leaves can still be found, full and healthy,
an earnest of nature’s perpetual youth. Gold is
generally found where it is least expected ; but the
floral treasures have their favourite haunts. Their

FLOWERS OF THE SEASON 153

ways and habits, their likes and dislikes, lend zest
to the familiarity that grows with the years.

The northern lakes and streams are specially
favoured in advancing summer by the Cardinal
Lobelia, the brightest and most intensely coloured of
all the wild flora, and by the Scented Water Lily,
a younger sister of the White Water Lily, familiar
on the quiet waters along the lake. The Cardinal
Lobelia often shows a glowing spot of colour on a
beaver meadow. It can never be mistaken, for no
other flower can rival it in intensity and brilliance.

The nodding flower of the Pitcher-plant seems dull
in comparison, and even the brilliant tufts of the
Painted-cup, which disappeared earlier in the season,
lacked the bright vitality of colour. Along the
streams it stands forth as nature’s proudest decoration.
It arises from the black, boggy earth, standing boldly
among the naked branches of a long-fallen Cedar or
stretching above the marsh grasses that would veil it
from the sun. Often it grows in abundance, making
many splashes of scarlet where some narrow stream
reaches the dense underbrush about the feet of
towering Maples.

The Scented Water Lily has a fragrance that
lingers in the memory and comes back with every
thought of the shallow bays in the irregular lakes
of the north. These flowers seem diminutive repro-
ductions of big white Water Lilies, which the

154 FLOWERS OF THE SEASON

unappreciative pronounce odourless, in addition to
having unfortunately missed their fleeting charm of
fragrance. The leaves of the Scented Water Lily are
small, round, and daintily cleft to the centre, and are
never so abundant as to cover the surface of the water
with a matted carpet of vegetation. The stems of the
leaves are slender, and the eye delights in following
their graceful yellow spirals through the still, clear
water to the sandy ridges of the bottom. This quiet,
almost retiring, sister of the Lilies seems to prefer the
more remote waters where only the most ardent
votaries of nature will seek her. It may be that she
has been driven away from the haunts of civilisation
by the destructive eagerness of the thoughtless to
grasp and possess.

155

THE PASSING OF SUMMER

SPLASHES of red, brown, and gold across the Maples,
and the careless strewing of withered leaves that the
trees seem still able to spare, mark the turning of the
wheel of change. The suburban ravines have changed
their decorative traceries in harmony with the passing
season. The Asters and Golden-rods are coming to
their kingdom, but nature never waits. Familiar
nestling and shrunken leaves recall the earliest
greetings of spring, but above them rise the tall,
picturesque stalks of the Blue Lobelia, enriching the
damp shades with their abundance of colour. Some-
times a stalk for no apparent reason will shade off
even to a pale pink, but rich blue is the popular colour,
the blossoms crowding with greater profusion as the
tints grow richer and deeper. The Jewel-weed is
shoulder high in the oozy, swampy hollows, rising in
masses out of proportion to the extreme delicacy of
its leaves and stems. The higher branches are still
adorned with rich orange-yellow Cornucopias that
wither almost as they are plucked, but the older seed
pods are ready to snap and shrivel between inquisitive
fingers, vindicating the popular name ‘ Touch-me-
not.” The white spikes of the Ladies’ Tresses rise

156 THE PASSING OF SUMMER

from the drier margins and banks. These modest
members of the Orchid family were blossoming in
June, encouraged by the warm dampness of un-
frequented swamps. But in the marshy hollows and
the drier soil of suburban ravines they choose a later
season. The delicate white of their long, compact, and
twisted spikes of flowers and the dainty perfume that
is often lost in the blending of marsh odours give this
flower a place among the favourites of advancing
summer.

Blotches of white show where the Turtle-head is
rising among the marsh grass. The lips of this flower
always wear a broad smile, so quiet and complacent
as to be positively irritating. There is a complacency
that comes with a universal sympathy and under-
standing, with a perception of the beneficent relation-
ship of all things mundane, a complacency that bears
the bawling and the din, that walks calmly in the
midst of disputations, that admits all philosophies.
This is the complacency that sees one grand perfec-
tion in the myriad seeming antagonisms confusing
and distracting the short-sighted—that waits on the
working out of the law of existence a year, a century, a
hundred centuries. It is manifested in the seer whose
creed “invites no one, promises nothing, sits in
calmness and light, is positive and composed, knows
no discouragement.”

There is also the complacency of the narrowly

THE PASSING OF SUMMER 157

positive, who treat what they do not know as if it
did not exist, who could manage perfectly if in the
place of any one else, and can tell just what every one
should do on all occasions. It is achieved by obliterat-
ing the sympathies and closing the eyes of under-
standing. It brings peace and satisfaction where it
holds possession, all the peace and satisfaction that
could there find a dwelling-place. Is it the universal
or the narrow complacency that parts the white lips
of the Turtle-head with a still, calm smile’ The
Evening Primrose bears a part in the season’s scheme
of decoration. The utility of its floral adornment is
tather obvious, for it insists on crowding the large,
coarse buds and seed pods about the slender-necked
yellow flowers as they open to the settling clouds or
the close of day. It is a pleasant surprise to see the
tall, coarsely budded and weedy stem put forth a few
graceful yellow flowers to enrich the evening air with
a delicate perfume. These flowers do not survive the
morning, but the bristling stalk has many in reserve
and will continue to bring them forth night after
night. That which in the sunlight seems the coarsest
roadside weed has an evening beauty and fragrance
awaiting the discerning.

158

THE WANING YEAR

Summer’s fullness is scarcely realised when the
Sugar Maple flashes the signal of the passing year.
Against the solid masses of varied green a bright
splash of red glows unexpectedly in the sun, a
reminder of perpetual change even in the richest
abundance of growth. In the inspiring atmosphere
of spring there is the spirit of evanescence. Hope and
promise leave no room for thoughts of permanence
and stability. But in the rich abundance of summer’s
meridian, when every tree is a bank of foliage, and
the stroller wades through an entanglement of Sweet
Clover, with promising Asters and Golden-rods,
when every sluggish stream is stifled with Rushes
or spread with a carpet of Water Lily leaves, when
swamps and marshes are rich with luxuriant vegeta-
tion and breathe a warm odour of life and growth,
when the familiar early flowers have given place to
ripe or ripening berries and seeds, and nature’s full
fruition is all about, the longing hope of permanence
steals on imperceptibly. The impatience of spring
is gone, Summer is at its best, and why should its
perfection not endure ¢ Long preparation has brought
forth nature’s masterpiece. Is there no pause for the

THE WANING YEAR 159

enjoyment of its message ¢ The question is mocked
by the solitary limb that has stained its leaves with
the brightest tints of autumn, and is ready to cast
them to the first determined wind.

It is hard to avoid a twinge of regret at the un-
expected reddening of the leaves. The Maple is
generally first to give the warning, and the varied
richness of its new colours does not atone for the loss
of its contented uniformity. A single limb will some-
times take on the brilliant colouring of autumn, and
stand out day after day, a bright splash on the varied
greens of the background.

Where a lake, river, or open clearing exposes a
stretch of natural forest, and Maples, Elms, and
Beeches crowd up to the foreground, a branch here
and there will take on the richest of colours, as if
nature sought to warn the heedless world of an
inhospitable time at hand. The Golden-rod may have
given warning already by a few firm touches of bright
pure colour on its rising fronds. The earlier Asters
may also have held out at once a promise and a
warning of the coming autumnal glory. The yellow
trumpet of the Fox-glove may have blended another
tint with the colours of the advancing season. But
the distinctive flowers of autumn can never give the
chilling warning that comes with the first brilliant
markings in the foliage of the Maple. Sometimes a
small tree that has stood modest and unnoticed among

160 THE WANING YEAR

its more pretentious neighbours will glow forth in
the misty morning completely arrayed in the bright
colours of the passing year. If beauty is ever un-
welcome, it is in the varied tints of the autumn
leaves. But the feeling of rebellion passes in a moment.
The chill is transitory. The portent of the change is
forgotten in the infinite variety of tints and markings
revealed on closer investigation. And with the
momentary regret comes the sustaining thought that
the falling of the leaves and the passing of the season’s
vegetation are but phases of the perpetual life in
which nature renews her youth. ‘“ There is no death,
what seems so is transition.”

ee
ap

Not in the human family alone does eccentricity
win credit for unusual and transcendent talents.
Innumerable trees and plants have for years imposed
on a credulous and trusting world by means of
peculiarities in dress and habits. Prescriptions of the
present day are not like the medicine our mothers
used to make. And when a nauseating remembrance
of the horrible decoctions brings back the sinking,
vacant sensations of early childhood, the thought that
the ill-flavoured herbs were imposing on confiding
motherhood by their eccentricities provokes a feeling
of indignation. No wonder the present generation
delights in exposing the pretences of alleged medicinal
herbs whose reputations were sustained by unusual
habits alone. The memory of catnip tea, wormwood,
elecampane, senna, and other nauseating tastes on
the sensitive palate of early childhood can never be
effaced. And it is irritating to reflect that the faith

of our good grandmothers had no foundation except
161 L

162 THE WITCH HAZEL

in the peculiar ways and manners of the herbs they
gathered and prescribed.

The Witch Hazel, with its peculiar habit of burst-
ing into flower after shedding its leaves in the fall,
was naturally regarded as possessing unusual qualities.
Any tree or shrub that could afford to so far ignore
and disregard the established usages of the forest
was confidingly credited with extraordinary powers.
It is a shrub approaching the dignity of a tree,
sometimes reaching a height of twenty feet, and is
abundant wherever it has an opportunity in southern
Ontario. Its rich, green, pear-shaped or oval leaves
have wavy-toothed edges and are conspicuously
though not quite evenly divided by a depression
along the mid-rib. It bears some resemblance to the
leaf of the Hazel, and that accounts for its name.
People who see resemblances can never conceive of
the amount of trouble and confusion chargeable to
their account.

After the leaves fall the little globular buds which
have been forming in clusters during the summer
open suddenly into picturesque yellow flowers, each
with four long, narrow, crumpling petals forming an
irregular cross. Such handsome and striking adorn-
ment at so unusual a season has enabled the Witch
Hazel to achieve a place of distinction. Its attributes
are not only medicinal but esoteric. The Witch
Hazel not only effects a wide range of wonderful

THE WITCH HAZEL 163

cures, but reveals the location of subterranean springs
and hidden treasures.

There are few counties in Ontario that cannot boast
of a citizen qualified to work the divining rod, and,
incidentally, if the expression may be extended, the
people who contemplate the sinking of wells. A stout
fork of Witch Hazel, shaped like a letter “* A,” still
determines on many farms the place where the well
is to be dug. The operator grasps the lower ends of
the fork in his hands, and by twisting his wrists
bends them outward till they are horizontal. It
is difficult to hold a strong, springy fork in that
position, especially when walking over uneven ground.
And the esoteric influence of a subterranean spring,
coupled with the elasticity of the wood and the tiring
and weakening of the wrists, generally causes the
point of the fork to twist downward. Where it turns
the well is sunk, with perfect faith in the promised
abundant flow of water. If the water is not found the
turning of the rod is attributed to the proximity of
mines or treasures, thus proving the overmastering
and all-controlling power of faith. If the operator
carelessly allows the fork to spring inward his nose is
seriously endangered, and he may be rewarded with a
flow of “‘ purple tears.”

Sometimes the Witch Hazel blossoms unusually
early, and, although the leaves are still firm on the
trees, the yellow decoration becomes conspicuous in

164 THE WITCH HAZEL

many places. The strong, woody pods from last year’s
flowers mature beside the new flowers and soon they
noisily open to eject small, nutlike seeds. This
fusilade can be enjoyed beside the fire by placing a
spray loaded with mature pods in a warm place. In
a few minutes they will begin to pop open and eject
the nutlets in all directions, sometimes with surpris-
ing force. But in the silence of the autumn woods, in
the listening hush of falling leaves, this strange
reproductive effort seems most impressive. When
every tree and shrub seems saddened into silence by
the slowly-dying year, when the withered leaves give
back the strength and richness they borrowed from
the earth, when the air is still with the moist chill of
approaching winter, the snapping of a Witch Hazel
pod, sending the twin seeds on their mission with
the mystery of life, is a gladdening reminder of the
perpetual activity that brings new life out of the
year’s decay.

165

THE TUSSOCK MOTH

We seldom admire the beauty of a creeping insect.
The rich markings and glowing colours of Moths and
Butterflies may be appreciated while they sail dizzily
through the air or perch a moment among nectar-
laden flowers. But the creeping, crawling, leaf-eating
thing, with feet that hook, and clasp, with bristly
projections and abnormal rings and joints, is generally
looked upon with aversion. A few weeks ago the
Tussock Moths were crawling about with the
timidity of a persecuted race. Their picturesque
forms and gay contrasts of colour won no popular
admiration. Their rich markings in red, black,
yellow, and grey were chaste and delicate, even if they
did present an unfinished appearance. There is no
right way to stroke the Tussock Moth Caterpillar.
His long horns and tail suggest the most repellent
personage imaginable. The four diminutive paint-
brushes rising from his back, and moving with every
undulation of his lively, crawling body, seem an
unnecessary decoration, and while they may help to
win admiration they do not encourage familiarity.
There are handsome but repellent bushy tufts
of yellow hair along his sides, and these seem to

166 THE TUSSOCK MOTH

harmonise with his delicate and brilliant markings.
His head is a bright coral red, and there are dainty
touches and spots of the same colour on his back.
All these pretty and attractive patterns are combined
on an energetic and voracious little creeper about an
inch long, yet we generally admire it with our hands
folded behind our backs. Animals and birds invite
a caressing touch, but it requires the intimacy of a
perfect understanding to handle with kindness the
ephemeral representatives of the insect world, how-
ever beautiful they may be in form and colour.
These bristling and decorated larve have
almost entirely disappeared, and some of them
have reincarnated in forms strangely different and
unrecognisable. During their six or eight weeks of
active larval existence they crawled about and feasted
on the leaves of the Horse-chestnut, their favourite
tree. Though manifesting a strong preference, they
do not entirely reject other foliage. As crawling is
their only means of locomotion, they are not extensive
travellers. A few drop from the branches to the
ground, thus circumventing the schemes of those who
would restrict them with metal bands and other
devices. Others remain lazily in the tops of the trees,
showing no inclination to travel. Wherever they go
they are beset by parasites which lay eggs in their
soft, tender flesh. These hatch into minute destructive
larve that sap the vitality of the doomed protectors

THE TUSSOCK MOTH 167

and providers. As the Tussocks devour the leaves of
the shade trees, it is satisfactory to reflect that tiny
parasites are devouring them. Only a few will survive
to fulfil their life mission.

They grow by coming out of themselves — by
casting off their outer covering, head, legs, plumes,
and tufts of hair. From the inert larva thus cast off
another emerges, with new head, legs, tufts, decora-
tions, and markings, larger and brighter than the
outer form that surrounded it. This change takes place
two or three times during the few weeks of larval
existence, and then the full-grown Caterpillars spin
themselves grey, comfortable cocoons for the brief
sleep of their pupal state. Some find a comfortable
place in the cloth bands set about the trees to entrap
them; but of the pupz thus collected and burned
the great majority are already doomed to death by
parasites—the little beneficial insects thus mistakenly
destroyed. It is not in human affairs alone that we
injure ourselves and our friends by the pursuit of
our supposed enemies.

Some of the well-fed larve are too indolent to
descend the trees, and sleep in the upper branches,
but the more adventurous make a limited migration
from tree to tree. Females choose the trees which will
supply food for their next season’s brood, while the
males, rejoicing in the prospect of winged flight, are
satisfied with any crevice in a fence or wall. The

168 THE TUSSOCK MOTH

pupal state lasts but a week or ten days. The great
majority of them never awaken from it, but the
parasites which have fed on them come forth in due
time to attack the next brood. The females emerge
helpless, wingless, fragile, and delicate, in no way
resembling their former state of existence. They
have no “ new woman” proclivities, but seem con-
tent to live their lives on the little habitations in
which they spent their brief period of rest. The
males, equipped with handsome wings, fly gaily
about during the few hours of their life as perfectly
developed Moths. The females deposit their eggs on
the woolly cocoons in which they slept, carefully
covering them with a rough, white, waterproof coat-
ing. These coatings are conspicuous marks, and as
each encases some two hundred or three hundred
prospective larve they should be gathered and
destroyed.

Many species of insects pass the long winter as
inert pupz. Some survive in the larva form and some
in perfect development ; but the Tussock Moth is
of those which pass the winter in the egg state.
Farther south they sometimes produce two broods in
a season, but the white-coated egg masses appearing
on the trees in the fall will not awaken to new life
till next spring’s leaves are spread for a feast.

169

EPIPACTIS VIRIDIFLORA

EVEN in the world of flowers, rarity has a peculiar
charm, and dull, insignificant, colourless blossoms
may be the object of many a long and eager search.
This erect but unassuming member of the Orchid
family, not sufficiently familiar to enjoy a pet name,
has appeared in the vicinity of Toronto, Syracuse,
and Buffalo, but nowhere else on the continent. The
weakness of prizing rarity for its own sake lends to
every discovery a peculiar delight. This is enhanced
by the attendant weakness of honouring the common
and insignificant on account of distinguished family
connections. The Orchid family must be accorded a
place above all others in the floral world. The richest
blooms of the tropics make the name distinguished
and revered. Strange habits and ways, perching on
trees, breathing nutriment from the air—all these
tend to give the Orchid an honoured place and some-
times to surround it with an air of modern fashionable
mystery. An indulgent public has even been treated
to stories of wonderful extensions of the parasitic
habit, and weird tales have drifted about of un-
fortunate travellers falling victims to the relentless
tendrils of the devouring Orchid.

Naturally we respect and prize every member of

170 EPIPACTIS VIRIDIFLORA

so distinguished a family. Even in our own climate
the title to distinction is upheld by the Yellow
Moccasin Flower or Lady’s Slipper of the shady
woods and her more beautiful sisters of the Sphagnum
swamps, also by the Showy Orchis, the dainty and
delicate Calopogon, the Snake’s Mouth, the Northern
Calypso, and the white, stately, and fragrant Ladies’
Tresses. And when the charm of rarity is added to
the honour of distinguished connections the Epipactis
becomes a treasured friend.

It was a great source of satisfaction to find a solitary
plant growing in High Park beside the main drive
of the ravine. It stood unostentatiously, scarcely
more than a foot high, among some half-grown Elm-
leaved Goldenrod and Boneset. A dozen flowers
tipped their rounded seed-pods along the stem above
the leaves, but they seemed so inconspicuous and
colourless as to be worth scarcely a passing glance.
The mounted policeman was there, too, coming
leisurely along the road, and the penetrating look of
suspicion in his eye suggested an instinctive discern-
ment of the proximity of hidden treasure. It seemed
an age before he rounded the curve of the road, and
even then he came back and looked over the Witch-
hazel bushes to assure himself that nothing was in
danger. This flower has the three regular sepals
peculiar to the Orchid, and also the three petals, two
regular and one twisted and distorted. The twisted

EPIPACTIS VIRIDIFLORA 171

petal assumes a form strongly suggesting the Moccasin
of her beautiful and distinguished sisters. This
embryo Moccasin sometimes shows a suggestion of
pink, but it is so small and the colour so mild that it
lacks attractiveness. The Epipactis is distinguished
from the other plain members of the family by the
absence of a spur on the twisted petal and by a
microscopic box and lid for holding the pollen.

There is a little depression running down the side
of a steep, tree-covered hill by the Don valley where
the Epipactis grows. This small, transverse ravine
guides a rushing stream for a few days when the
snow is melting in the spring and the absorbent earth
is hard with frost, but all summer it is dry. Oak and
Maple leaves gather in it farther up the bank, and
these are gradually washed down in their slow return
to the soil. On the southern slope just above the
damp levels and under the open shade of a few small
Hemlocks is the scattered bed of these rare Orchids.
More than a dozen have opened their quiet, unat-
tractive flowers and are ripening their oval seed pods.
The first thought on discovering them is of the havoc
that would ensue if the botanist found a clue to their
whereabouts. But Orchids, like all the good things
of life, are for those who appreciate. Ownership and
possession are but trifling considerations, and they
who have the appreciation should be satisfied without
seeking more.

172

DEPARTING SUMMER VISITORS

Many feathered visitors that enlivened the spring
with their ecstatic melodies have clothed themselves
in quiet attire and are preparing for the southern
migration. Some of the gayest are coming back from
the north woods so modest and sombre that they seem
almost saddened by the passing season. But their
neutral shades are only a formal deference to the
quietness of autumn, for the sprightly activity and
eager delight of their transitory gatherings and
momentary sociability reveal a full measure of the
joy of living. The Scarlet Tanager, glowing with all
his intensity of colour in early spring, so bright as.
to make a day memorable throughout the year, can
scarcely be recognised in the timid, retiring bird of
subdued and sombre markings, seemingly anxious
to avoid attention till he can steal away under cover
of night. The Bobolink that poised fluttering over
the growing meadow in spring, showing a splendid
contrast of glossy black with white and pale yellow,
has also taken on the quiet tints and markings of his
mate.

The shades, colours, and markings of birds are
among the inviting problems. The struggle for

DEPARTING SUMMER VISITORS 173

existence all down the ages must lead to the survival
of types and forms best suited to their special
environments. Birds best adapted and equipped for
catching fish or for opening seed pods will get most
fish or most seeds, will grow strongest, and in the
inevitable struggle will drive off the less fit. But
whence the colours and markings that appear with
such wonderful regularity in various species? Each
feather in its place and order will show markings
that blend together into a pattern, and all will be
faithfully and minutely repeated in every specimen.
It is a problem as deep as that of the “ little flower of
the crannied wall.’””’ The Tanager does not moult
his brilliant colours and bring forth a covering more
suited to the advancing season. His feathers have
changed their colour with the passing of the spirit
that found expression in the love song warbled from
the high limb of a dead but defiant pine. The same
feathers that glowed scarlet in the spring sunshine
reflect only a dull, insignificant, yellowish green.
The most sociable and happy of our little transients
is the Wild Canary or Thistle Bird, sometimes called
the American Goldfinch. He seems quite as happy
and glad as in the season of brilliant plumage and
loud song. These little fellows are now hammering
the seeds out of the Wild Sunflower heads and
vigorously attacking the withered Asters. All seeds
are acceptable, for they even pry open the cones

174 DEPARTING SUMMER VISITORS

of the Birch and Pine, but the Thistle seems their
favourite.- The Dandelion heads that still retain
their seeds are eagerly torn open. In vacant fields,
where the picturesque, blue rosette of the Chicory
has been seen throughout the summer, they assemble
in small flocks to gather the harvest. There they
might easily be mistaken for English Sparrows, so
quiet is their colouring. It seems unreal to identify
that little industrious fellow, tearing out the dry seeds
of the Chicory, with the brilliant songster, with black
cap and wings and bright yellow jacket, perching on
the Thistle heads in early summer. But draw near, and
the whispered conversation of the little flock will
reveal their identity. When startled they display
the hurry and bustle of the city almost as eagerly
as the Sparrows. But once in the upper air they
assume their happy, undulating flight, fluttering up
and gliding down on fanciful waves of atmosphere.
They are indolent migrants, and do not hurry away,
even at the approach of winter. In fact, they are
indolent about all the important affairs of life, for
they do not undertake their domestic duties till late
in summer, when the more serious visitors have their
fledglings out in the world. And that seems to be their
way of solving the problem of perpetual happiness.
Their flight is the abandonment of joy. Up and down
they go, closing their wings after every spasmodic
flutter and calling out in the exuberance of delight.

DEPARTING SUMMER VISITORS 175

Their song suggests the tame Canary, less varied but
more full of spirit, and like the familiar call of the
Yellow Warbler, with a few concluding notes added
to complete a happy measure. Whether they herald
their arrival, linger over their departure, or remain
throughout the winter, the wild Canary radiates a
spirit of joy that is irresistible.

176

WHIP-POOR-WILL

WHEN feathered holiday-makers are away in their
crowded haunts and the remaining Warblers and
Finches in sombre attire are making their dilatory way
southward the insistent carol of a Whip-Poor-Will
seems to arrest the retreat of the passing year. Close
to the tent, with regular rhythm and wunvarying
interval, he sings away to the lonely night, without
the inspiration of the many voices that answered him
in spring and summer. A Screech-owl weirdly
disturbs the repose of the woods, and the endless
gurgling of the rapids is lost for a time in the long,
expressionless call of the Loon. Frogs that boomed
in resonant chorus from the long reach of the marsh
are silenced by the chill of a late September night.
The loud calls that make the interrupted silence more
weird seem an inspiration from the wakeful moon
struggling even to penetrate the dew-damp canvas
roof, but the Whip-Poor-Will’s note has a bright
levity, suggesting the open day and the protracted
summer in spite of its association with the lonely
shades of evening. Other swift gleaners of the air
have gone south, where insect activity is unceasing.
The hardy sojourners of the arctic shores are making

WHIP-POOR-WILL 17

their way toward the tropics by long, silent night
flights. Common summer residents have gathered
their families together and departed. Yet this frail,
delicate visitor of swift and silent flight not only
lingers beyond his time, but fills the night with the
melody of summer.

The Whip-Poor-Will is often heard but seldom
seen, his retiring ways contrasting strongly with the
conspicuous courses of the circling Night-hawk, to
whom he is closely related. He sits and sings in
the shade of the evening woods, always crouching
lengthwise on his perch, his weak and tiny feet being
incapable of supporting him in any other position.
His white necktie is the only relief in his dull brown
plumage, the fine and delicate markings of black
and grey being generally invisible. When he darts
silently after a passing insect the white on his outer
tail feathers becomes conspicuous, and these marks
distinguish him from his mate, whose equally dull
plumage is relieved by light buff. He pursues his
prey after the manner of the Kingbirds and other
flycatchers, but there is no resonant snap when his
enormous gape, with its imprisoning bristles, closes
upon a Moth or Beetle. He returns swiftly and
silently, not to a conspicuous and naked limb, like
the Flycatchers of the open day, but to a shaded
and sheltered branch, where the surrounding trees

intensify the deepening gloom. The wait may be
M

178 WHIP-POOR-WILL

enlivened by a strain of rhythmic melody, but when
his big black eye detects a tempting insect there is a
swift and silent flight and a hurried return to his
shaded perch. This lingering visitor of the northern
woods will soon be forced by the disappearance of
insect life to join his friends in the sultry warmth of
the tropics.

179

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

SPLASHES of yellow on the Maples and darkening red
on the Oaks are the signals along the great aerial
highway from the remote north. The broods of the
season, grown to maturity in the close bounds of their
habitations, nurtured and fed by attentive parents
who did not travel more than a few yards from home,
are now led and guided into a new and vast world
in response to the signals of a changing landscape.
In their long night flights the green and gold are
indistinguishable, and they see only the alternating
of land and water, with the feeble reaching up of
lights from the spots where restless humanity
congregates. But during the daily rest they hurry
among the changing and leisurely falling leaves of the
tall trees or settle down under the bright red feathers
of the Sumach, where the poison ivy in tints of flame
seeks to redeem its evil reputation.

White Throats in large numbers are passing over,
about, and through the city, busily gathering daily
supplies among the falling leaves. Some have the
three white lines on their heads clearly distinct, while
others show only a tawny promise of white in the
advancing season. All show the distinguishing white
throat and the eager, coy activity that gives them a

180 BIRDS OF PASSAGE

place among nature’s successes. Myrtle Warblers,
first in the northward migration in spring, are leading
their numerous relatives toward the land of perpetual
summer. The bright yellow rump is their con-
spicuous mark, the same colour on the crown and
sides of the breast being more difficult to discern.
In an unending hurry they gather minute insects
from limbs and twigs, preferring to glean among the
Willows and Rushes in the marsh. Some of the most
enterprising imitate Flycatchers by darting out and
capturing passing insects on the wing. The Warblers
will soon be passing in large numbers from their
northern nesting grounds. There they were protected
from invasion by the insect life on which they feed.
In a double sense they owe their preservation to the
Mosquitoes and black flies. Small size and fondness
for inaccessible regions both north and south also
help to save the Warblers from destruction and avert
the danger occasioned by their strikingly beautiful
plumage.

Golden-crowned Kinglets are gathering sociably
in flocks. Although the smallest of our birds, with
the exception of the Humming-birds, their activity
and flaming crests always attract attention. Their
short, whispered notes are generally the first indica-
tion of their presence, but they are not averse to
working freely under inspection. Though making
a distinct migration, a few remain throughout the

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 181

winter. They are not at all disturbed by the cold,
and their thin notes are often the only indications of
life in the close Cedars and among the tall, naked
branches of the Elms and Maples. The first arrivals
will probably move farther south, but there are
plenty in the northern woods to continue their
whispered conversation in the changing foliage. A
few Robins still linger about, but they have assumed
the serious air of the advancing season. Should one
be tempted by the unusual warmth to indulge in the
liquid song of spring there is no response, and he
soon desists, as if ashamed of his innocent mistake.
The harsh voice of the Jay is made more conspicuous
in the silence that seems to settle down with the
falling leaves. The Crow, too, is calling. Both these
hardy and noisy marauders will be content to remain
throughout the winter. The blue sky, where recently
the Swifts and Swallows darted after insect prey,
seems to feel their absence. Solitary Herring Gulls
pass from the inland waters to the increasing flocks
on the lake, and toward the horizon a steady moving
train of dots on the sky shows that the ducks are
assembling for the long migration. The silent
eagerness of passing flocks contrasts with the loud
awakening songs of the year’s morning, but the season
of silent desertion is a bridge from spring to spring,
and an earnest of the renewal of nature’s perpetual
youth.

= = «|

UNT OF THE COOT

AGGRESSIVE and inconsiderate human encroachment
does not seem to have robbed the city marsh of its
popularity as a place for assembling and organising
the southward journey. Swallows have gathered and
departed. The Plovers and Sandpipers have followed
in spite of the attacks that left them with depleted
numbers. Blackbirds are gathering, but the most
active sojourners are a few broods of Coots hiding
in the sheltering banks of Rushes and sometimes
freely feeding in the open water. The Coot is the
largest of the birds that spend the summer hiding in
the Rushes and swimming about over the clogged and
weedy marsh. It has the large body and small head
of its less conspicuous relatives, and its white bill
and wing bar distinguish it from the Florida Gallinule,
both being familiarly and fittingly known as Mud
Hens. Banks of dense Rushes, where both wading
and canoeing are impossible, afford the Coots a
comfortable home and safe retreat. They still nest
in the marsh occasionally, regardless of the city’s

encroaching population, and it is not till the inevitable
182

THE HAUNT OF THE COOT 183

fire removes the sheltering Rushes and the ice makes
all places easy of access that the habitations of the
previous summer are disclosed. The nests are large
and loosely woven in the half-solid banks of Rushes.
They show where families have been reared in easy
disregard of passing boats on the open water and
pedestrians on the solid ground.

The hiders are generally noisy, and their uproar
seems more in derision than alarm when curious eyes
seek in vain for the source of their varied clucks, calls,
and chatters. Coots make a good appearance in the
open water, where they move with heads elevated
after the manner of the Grebes. As their long toes
are equipped with scalloped lobes, they are good
swimmers, and they can also dive well if pursued
where no friendly sheltering Rushes are available.
They fly only when obliged to, but after the first
trailing efforts they make good speed. In steady flight
their stroke and outline suggest the Duck, but their
long legs cannot be gathered up out of sight. Against
the dark-green background of the Rushes or out over
the open water their dark slaty plumage seems black
as night, but strong sunlight brings out the lighter
shades. The Coots seem quite reasonable in their
migrations, following the opening season northward
and nesting freely throughout their range. There is
no eager quest of the arctic or the far south. They
locate on the marshes and sloughs, where shelter is

184 THE HAUNT OF THE COOT

secure and aquatic life supplies abundance of food.
The new broods join in the southern migration when
the first chills of night give a reminder of incessant
change. Some morning a quiet marsh will be trans-
formed into a scene of animation by the arrivals of
the previous night. Close to the ready shelter of the
Rushes, they swim contentedly about, darting their
short, sharp bills here and there among the floating
weeds and gathering the clinging snails and other
forms of aquatic life. Familiarity is resented by a
dignified and almost leisurely retirement into the
safe shelter. After a few days of loitering and re-
cuperation an evening of activity is followed by a
morning of silence. The deserted marsh seems
expressive in loneliness. It tells of a long journey
in the impenetrable darkness of the night sky, where
the secret way that baffled the prophet of old still
eludes man’s insatiable curiosity.

185

A LONELY WANDERER

THERE is a weird fascination in the full, round moon
when the moving dome of hurrying clouds gives the
silent orb the deceptive aspect of intrepid speed.
It seems to be driving through the crowding masses
of floating vapour that hurriedly disappear in the
uncertain light of the close horizon. It makes its
swift and luminous way, hiding a moment behind a
dense mass of impenetrable white, peering resolutely
through the more transparent fleeces of vapour, and
sailing out freely across the open spaces of clear
night sky. The illusion of a swiftly careering moon
in the great festooned dome seems as real as the
sensation of speed when forgetfully watching the
steady flow of a hurrying river. Such a night was
fixed in memory by a lofty wanderer. The passing
clouds were so fine and fleecy that the light of the
great white globe was undimmed. With the easy
persistence of open day it sought out even the
shadows and recesses, making all artificial illumina-
tions seem weak and helpless by contrast. Clouds,
too attenuated to unfold their shadows, moved
steadily from the north, assuming a circle of dainty
rainbow tint around the white globe that peered

186 A LONELY WANDERER

steadily through them. Orange was most persistent
in this prismatic circle, and it faded out imper-
ceptibly into yellow. Each passing cloud took up
the circle of delicate, transparent colour, holding it
around the moon with the accuracy and precision
of light’s established ways. With each momentary
clearing of the sky all colour was lost in the clear
white light from the furrowed face of the glowing
satellite. Then another transparent cloud took up the
tint of the outer circle of colour, the fading yellow
of the uncertain circumference holding its rich
gradations to the almost invisible blue close to the
inner ring of light.

On such nights in autumn a field-glass sometimes
reveals the small migrants trailing their lofty course
southward across the moon’s disk, but it was a
surprise to see a large Hawk making its steady way
over the city toward the west at midnight, moving
quite low, and its steady course could be followed
after it had passed the circle of light and colour.
These birds of prey are uncertain in size and colour,
but they have distinct family characteristics. It was
probably a Red-shouldered Hawk or a Red-tailed
Hawk, but colours and markings were lost in the
black outline against the moon’s light. It did not seem
large enough for a Goshawk, the predatory bird that
brings the family into disrepute, but size and distance
are uncertain on the brightest night when the horizon

A LONELY WANDERER 187

crowds down and every moving object passes quickly
from view. A few steady strokes and the lonely
wanderer was lost in the low, moving clouds. He
may have been tempted by the brightness of the
moonlight to cross the city, where feeble lights
reached helplessly upward in the great glow. Such
an apparition tempts a long vigil, but the bright and
steady effulgence that passed the zenith and followed
the lead of Mars and Saturn toward the west was
not again animated by a passing migrant.

188

THE AUTUMN PANORAMA

In a blaze of glory the growing season is passing
away, and the returning tints of autumn make the
suburban ravines as attractive as in spring. The moist
warmth that settles down among the half-denuded
trees seems filled with the spirit of completeness and
satisfaction. The crisp rustle of fallen leaves under-
foot becomes a whispered story of transition, There
is a noisy felicity in pushing the feet through the
gathered heaps under the Maples and scattering them
about. It seems a protest against the ever-insistent
spirit of sadness that comes with the passing of the
year, and will not be thrown off. At every point the
passing panorama presents a new scene. Against the
rising hill is a dark Cedar, with Virginia Creepers
twined around it, contrasting their vivid red with its
deep green. Beyond is a bare stretch of hillside,
with just a few trees at the top—sentinel Pines—
and, towering gaunt and skeleton-like above them,
the bare and blackened trunks of their long-dead
progenitors. Below is the bright Sumach and the
more sombre tints of denser shrubs and bushes.
The Beeches are half-denuded, and the picturesque
outlines of their smooth grey trunks and branches
stand out distinctly in the new landscape.

THE AUTUMN PANORAMA 189

This is a good beechnut season, and the satis-
faction of gathering and eating a few plump triangular
nuts is a proof that man was intended to satisfy his
own wants. The finest products of tropical countries
can never give the same satisfaction as the beechnuts
gathered from among the leaves with our own eager
fingers, or plucked from the branches after a laborious
climb. The Wild Plum hidden in the woods, the
Mandrake, the Ground Cherry, the Choke Cherry,
all have charms above the finest fruit of the orchard
to those who know their haunts and seek them in
their seasons. A gardener may supply Mushrooms
at any season, but he cannot give the relish that comes
from gathering them in the grey, misty twilight, when
the lingering dew forms in crystal globes in the
sunken leaves and delineates every thread in the
cobwebs on the grass. And when the double report
of a shotgun comes over from the marsh we must
temper our condemnation of the cruel, killing pro-
pensity with thoughts of the tempting satisfaction of
winning food from reluctant nature. The real enjoy-
ment of a Blue-bill or Whistle-wing is known only
to those who have seen it careen over the decoys.

Squirrels take special delight in mocking other
Beechnut gatherers. They scatter the shrunken,
unfilled nuts all about, and leer from the upper
branches at the disappointment of the bipeds under
the trees. Plump, full nuts they never throw down,

190 THE AUTUMN PANORAMA

although they strew the thin shells liberally among the
leaves to show that the harvest is abundant. The
Beech shelters those odd, interesting parasites, the
Beech Drops, supposed to draw nourishment from
its roots. Their flesh-coloured, leafless stems are
about a foot high and are studded with insignificant
flowers. We demand conformity in the vegetable
world as elsewhere, and when a plant grows without
leaves and has flowers that do not open it is naturally
regarded with suspicious aversion. Although the
Beech drops are abundant and are looked for under
every Beech tree, still they are not free from the
eerie significance attaching to the Corpse plant and
the Cancer root. These seem to suggest a parasitic
unwholesome life, in contrast to the glorious death
of the broad valley and rising hill, where autumn,
with her Midas touch, is turning the world to gold.

191

THE DEAD LEAVES FALL

ALTHOUGH the half-denuded woods are dampened
with a drizzling autumn rain, and the mingled yellows,
browns, and reds of the discarded leaves are blending
in a soft, damp carpet of neutral shade, it is a happy
thing to be abroad, where the pilgrims from the
northern woods loiter a moment in their long migra-
tion. The White-throat is making his way southward
and seems quite discouraged at the state of the
weather. But the Nuthatches, creeping up and down
the rough Oak trees, are as bright and energetic as in
summer. Birds are privileged of nature. They can
wear the most brilliant, rich, and glowing colours
without being vulgar, and can give way to ceaseless
industry without being offensive. Where the dry side
of a comfortable Oak makes an inviting shelter it is
pleasant to lean and watch the silent activity of the
little fellows as they search in the rough depressions
and probe for insects with their long bills. Against
the grey bark on the dry side of a Beech the Nuthatch
becomes almost invisible. But he is too active to be
hid, and his continuous motion stirs the atmosphere
of life in the silent dampness of the dripping woods.
He hops around to the wet side of the Beech, showing

192 THE DEAD LEAVES FALL

grey against a background of black. That is uncom-
fortable and apparently fruitless. Now he peeps out
from behind an Elm, so close that the round of his
bright, black eye can be clearly discerned. He moves
around out of sight, hides a moment, then flits away
behind a dense clump of Cedars. Again the damp
stillness settles down. It is strange how the departure
of such a tiny atom of life could have made such a
change.

A pea gall drops from a clinging leaf high amongst
the thinning branches and rolls over the wet ground.
The tiny insect that has constructed for itself this
little spherical habitation at the expense of the oak
leaf is prepared for a long hybernation. It will lie
among the fallen leaves all winter and will not
respond to the returning warmth of spring. Then
its pea-like habitation will have lost its fresh colour,
but will still contain the microscopic spark of life.
It will thus inertly survive the summer and the
succeeding winter, to come forth on the following
spring, mingling with the myriad insect life of the
woods.

The young hemlocks spread out like umbrellas,
making convenient resting-places during the inter-
mittent showers. In the darkest shade the matted
twigs and needles bear the record of a forest tragedy..
Tiny feathers are scattered about, tail and wing
quills, and lighter airy down that can scarcely be

THE DEAD LEAVES FALL 193

united. A weasel would not have devoured the
body so completely, and it has been evidently the
work of a vagrant cat. The bill and long tongue,
with a few clinging feathers, are left as if for pur-
poses of identification, and these, with the gathered
quills and lighter remnants, tell that the victim was
an oven bird. The cautious, retiring nature that
chose the low shrubbery and escaped the floberts and
catapults throughout the summer betrayed the little
fellow to his fate in the fall. In spring the woods
resounded to his ecstatic melody. Now there are
only a few scattered feathers to record the diminu-
tive tragedy of his end. In the records that strew
the woods, perpetually recurring and perpetually
covered up, we see the unfolding of nature’s plan.
Next spring the loud repeated call of the Oven-bird
will resound through the renewed shrubbery, and in
autumn the prowling vagrant will stalk its silent
victim.

194

WEATHER PROPHETS

THE odour of burning leaves is in the air. There is a
natural freshness about it that prompts the expansion
of the lungs. It seems an assurance of a wave of real
air in the midst of the sulphurous fumes of a thousand
chimneys and the penetrating dust of the abraded
streets. The smoke of the leaves seems but a
strengthening of the natural leafy smell that fills the
naked woods, where the scattered foliage is returning
again to the earth to enrich it for a new season’s
growth. There is no more satisfying forest odour
than the exhalations from the fallen leaves, when
they spread the moist, misty warmth of Indian
summer among the rugged trunks and naked
shrubbery. They seem to give forth again the breath
of life that made the spring an invitation. The season
is so complete that the active preparations of the
Muskrats in the marsh become almost annoying
in their persistent suggestions of coming change.
Smoke arises from the marsh and hangs in the
still atmosphere, showing that the natural processes
of decay are helped by juvenile destructiveness.
Primitive man worshipped fire, and the spell has
never been thrown off through centuries of civilisa-

WEATHER PROPHETS 195

tion. We still stand and gaze, fascinated by its glare
or lulled into dreamy forgetfulness by its easy, cease-
less, evanescent transformations. But some one may
be overtaken with a visitation for the idolatry of the
little fire-worshippers who are burning the dry
rushes in the marsh.

The active weather prophets who are putting up
their dark warning signals in the deep margins of the
open water or among the half-submerged banks of
rushes have no reason to fear, as the soaked vegetation
with which they build is perfectly fire-proof. They
have a great reputation for forecasting the weather,
and have managed to sustain it all down the years.
The man in doubt as to the nature of the coming
winter still turns to the Muskrats for advice, and if
their forecasts do not prove accurate they at least put
his mind at rest for a time and supply him with a
definite policy for root cellars and embankments.
With perfect confidence the fork handle is thrust into
the water beside the Muskrat house, and the depth is
accepted as an accurate indication of the severity of
the coming winter. If the winter is to be very cold
the Muskrat knows all about it, and selects deep
water so that the frost will not interfere with his
tunnelling operations. That Muskrat estimates vary
does not weaken popular faith or confidence. Their
reputation rests on the invariable longevity of a
successful prediction and the ephemeral life of all

196 WEATHER PROPHETS

mistakes. The dark brown houses rising from the
water or displaying their irregular domes among the
withered Rushes show all kinds of estimates for the
coming winter. Some of the builders have chosen a
deep spot, or, more probably, the top of a steep
mound rising close to the surface and giving the
impression of a house in deep water. Some have
chosen the shallow marshes, and others have built
on the shore, with the certainty of tunnelling through
frozen ground. Out of so many different predictions
some will certainly be verified, and they will be recalled
to sustain the reputation of the Muskrat as a weather
prophet.

Chickadees predict severe weather by their
abundance. All who admire their nimble, acrobatic
manceuvres as they search the twigs for food, or
who enjoy their sociable notes as they keep in touch
with their companions, do not necessarily share the
common faith in their ability to foretell the weather.
A more noteworthy visitor from the remote north is
the Purple or Pine Grosbeak. He seldom ventures
so far south except in the coldest winters, and some-
times he will let several years pass without paying
us avisit. This year a number of Grosbeaks have
already been seen in and about Toronto. They may
be hunting for the typical Canadian winter and unable
to locate it. They are almost as large as Robins, but
shorter and apparently stouter, the forked tail and

WEATHER PROPHETS 197

stout, conical bill being obvious distinguishing
marks. The male shows a uniform rich purple on
head, back, and breast, shading to dark slaty grey on
wings and tail, while the female is generally sombre,
with a washing of olive yellow on the breast and
upper tail covert. A pair were seen a week ago in the
Humber valley as attentive and sociable as Robins in
spring, but most of the visitors are in small, irregular
flocks, feasting greedily on the Mountain Ash berries,
of which they eat only the seeds. All who have faith
in their prophetic insight will look for the unusually
severe winter foretold by their early southern migra-
tion, and if the prediction is verified it will be many
times recalled.

NY
ne Nt N hin
“

id
yi Mee

THE crisp rustle of the leaves grows
more pleasing as the brown transi-
tory covering deepens in the hollows
and yields to the caprices of vagrant
winds. Where the Red Maple still
displays its foliage it is the most
brilliant of forest trees. Every leaf has a special
design in crimson, yellow, and green. Some are
daintily tipped with the richest hues, others vary
their brilliant reds with a tracery of pale yellow and
surviving green, while others show a uniform richness
of colour in every vein and fibre. When the sun looks
through and the wind pulls at the clinging foliage the
masses of colour glow and gleam in vivid intensity.
Oaks still cling to their rich and varied foliage, and
seem scarcely to miss their generous contribution
to the crisp covering on the ground. They like to
retain their leaves, and often a brown bunch will
remain here and there throughout the winter, gather-
ing a transient covering of snow from every storm.
In this they show a sympathy with some of their
198

AS THE YEAR PASSES 199

evergreen relatives in the south. Branches stand out
in more distinct outline as leaves are cast aside. The
Silver Birches are almost disrobed, and their clear,
graceful outlines lend distinction to the changing
landscape. Cedars, Spruces, and Hemlocks in their
perennial green become conspicuous in the fading and
disappearing foliage. Dense banks and masses of
verdure that blended with the surrounding woods
in the fullness of summer now stand out distinctly
among the half-denuded branches, and their shelter
invites the loitering feathered visitors on their
southern migration.

The Bluebird is making a passing visit, and his
voice has assumed the conversational tones of
autumn. It is so different from his familiar call in
spring, but seems to suit the passing mood and
season. A sad year is recalled when the Bluebirds
mysteriously disappeared. Their friends missed
them from the orchards, gardens, and shade trees,
where they had long been so familiar. Nothing had
occurred to account for their strange absence. Spring
did not seem like spring at all when not heralded by
the Bluebird’s cheering note, and the swelling buds
and opening leaves seemed to lack the element of life
familiarly supplied by his bright colours and happy
energy. There was no news of a disaster to the flock
during its wide winter migration, but the Bluebird’s
friends (and every bird has its friends) were filled

200 AS THE YEAR PASSES

with anxiety regarding his fate. Spring came without
his cheering call, and autumn passed without his
sociable activity. The next year was awaited with
anxiety, and the few eager announcements of actual
visits left the balance even between expectancy and
disappointment. Now our happy friend is as familiar
as ever, and his bright blue coat and dark red breast
are conspicuous among the leafless branches as he
lingers on his southern journey. The harsh voice of
the Jay calls a visitor to admire his beautiful display
of blue and white. He is a happy fellow, quite content
with the fare provided by the bleak woods throughout
the winter. The White Throat is among the most
interesting of the passing migrants—so full of song
that his music may overflow at any time, even in the
night. It sings away the days in its southern home
when other birds are silent, but has a wealth of spirit
in reserve for his love song in the northern woods.
Though many of the passing visitors lack the bright
plumage and inspiring songs of spring, there is a warm
sociability in their transient gatherings and a confident
familiarity that seem a compensation for the vanished
youth of the year.

201

PREPARING FOR SPRING

Wauere the Sedges wilt and wither, exposing the hard,
frozen earth, and where the leaves have been soaked
with the rain or carried away by the searching winds,
the elaborate preparations for a new season are freely
revealed. The Wintergreen pays no attention to the
penetrating frosts that congeal the moist earth about
its roots and solidify the lingering foliage of many
of its forest neighbours. Its scarlet and green, its
mild flavour and pleasant aroma remain as in summer.
But in the open spaces the artistic rosettes of fresh
leaves show a thoughtful regard for the coming season
of repose. The Evening Primrose spreads a most
handsome circle of pale green leaves, in no way
suggesting the tall, irregularly podded stalk and
perfumed yellow flowers of summer. The slender-
waisted and pointed leaves radiate from the deep,
fleshy root, making a circle sometimes a foot in
diameter. Each circle of leaves grows regularly
shorter, and there is a cluster of points in the centre,
the whole rosette lying flat and even on the ground,
prepared to sleep under the white coverlet till spring.
These recumbent circles of pointed leaves are among
the most decorative preparations for the season to

202 PREPARING FOR SPRING

come. They lend a charm even to the frozen ground
by their symmetrical outlines and torpid promise of
renewed life. In spring they will speedily wither as
the strong, coarse stalk rises from the ground. Some
of the outer points of the circles are already turning
brown.

There are other decorative rosettes nestling close
on the hard, frozen surface. The Viper’s Bugloss,
branded by an unsympathetic community as a
noxious weed, in spite of the bright picturesque
aspect of its blue, bristling spikes of flowers, appears
like dark green stars under the withered grass and
sedges. Its coarser and bristling texture distinguishes
it from the evening primrose. In summer it displays
a decorative scheme peculiarly its own, coarsely
picturesque, with unfolding spikes of small blue
tubular flowers relieved by pink buds and red pro-
truding stamens. The best time to study the wild
flowers is all the year round. The Shepherd’s Purse,
more conspicuous as a weed than as a flower, now
takes on a fine rosette form and lies close to the
ground, its deeply-lobed leaves in a less regular circle
presenting an excellent decorative effect. In summer
its little, two-lobed, purse-like seed pods will be more
conspicuous than its diminutive white flowers, Just
now it is at its best. The Saxifrage spreads a little
irregular bunch of leaves on the ground, seeming
eager for a chance to hide away under the snow.

PREPARING FOR SPRING 203

These leafy circles appear like hopeful claims staked
out for flowering spaces in the spring. The treasure
located there is the mystery of life. ‘“‘ In dark soil
and the silence of the seeds the robe of spring it
weaves.” Where it is not sustained in the vigorous
evergreens, the surviving circles of leaves, or the
hidden roots that endure the winter, it lives in the
inert seeds that have been scattered and hidden in
bewildering variety in every crack and wrinkle of the
receptive earth. It seems strange that every foot
of that solidly-frozen surface is instinct with life,
dormant for the moment, but ready to renew its
infinitude of activities with the changing seasons.

204

EARLY WINTER

TuHE cold quiet of the suburban woods intensifies
the charms of solitude. The life that shrank timidly
away from strollers and revellers in summer comes
forth with confiding indifference. The lone invader
is treated as a friend, no more dangerous than the
distorted roots that afford a comfortable resting-place.
In such silence the mild tapping of a Downy Wood-
pecker is a distinct and insistent disturbance. This
little fellow in boldly mottled black and white is one
of the most friendly perennial residents. He flits from
tree to tree, ignoring visitors, clinging to the bark
and using his tail for a support, chipping off the bored
and tunneled covering and reaching his long, barbed.
tongue after the hiding grubs and beetles. When
near, the scarlet crescent on his head shows quite
distinctly. It is an ornament which his mate does not
wear. Like most devotees to excessive activity, he
lacks thoroughness. A few taps here and there, a
cursory inspection while hurriedly hopping for a few
feet on the bark, and a tree is abandoned for another
adjacent. Thus as each tree furnishes its morsel
the quest goes on, never relieved by the discovery of
food in easy abundance. The Chickadee is another

EARLY WINTER 205

confiding friend of winter, never failing to welcome a
visitor. He announces himself and his small party by
a distinctive note, but does not pause in his search
among the twigs and buds. He is more thorough than
the Woodpeckers, and will deliberately swing under
a twig to reach secreted insects. This performance
often reveals his identity when in a naked tree-top
outlined against the sky. When familiarly near his
black hood and light breast, touched with colour on
the sides, are distinctive marks.

The Nuthatch is a silent friend in the winter woods,
neither tapping like the Woodpeckers nor calling like
the Chickadees. His short tail, slaty-blue mantle,
and black cap distinguish him from the Woodpeckers
as he clings to the bark, searching its rough intricacies
for food. He is far more nimble on the bark than the
Woodpeckers, and can cling or descend with head
downward, a feat no other bird can perform. The
brightness of the day encourages unusual activity,
and the life of the woods seems multiplied by
frequent passing and repassing. Another friend,
the smallest and brightest of all, has made his silent
way unseen until he returns the stare in round-
eyed surprise from a branch a few feet away. This is
a Golden-crowned Kinglet, and she bows low as if to
display her rich and contrasted band of yellow. Her
mate is still more brilliant, having the yellow intensi-
fied to red in the centre of his crown. Her plain olive

206 EARLY WINTER

mantle makes the gay patch of colour seem more
intense as she pursues the quest of small insects
among the buds. With the exception of the airy,
sunny Humming-birds, the Kinglets are the smallest
of our feathered visitors, yet the Golden-crown can
secure an easy living through the winter, and seems
to enjoy every day of its cold silence. From this
timid speck of living, restless beauty the eye is
almost rudely called by the hurried passing of a big
shadow as a Red-shouldered Hawk curves silently
among the trees to a conspicuously low perch in the
crowded Maples. One glance destroys his easy
confidence, for he has scarcely alighted when he
makes a hurried spring into the air, pursuing his
devious way out of sight among the trees with evident
haste and fear. The alarmed retreat of this suspected
and suspicious bird breaks in rudely on the happy
equanimity of a winter scene from the versatile drama
of bird life.

ae 4

Se
TQ

ADVANCING winter is shifting the
scenes in the active panorama of out-
door life. Along the shore, among the
naked branches, in the suburban ravines, over the
frozen ground, and through the withered remains of
the summer’s vegetation is the busy energy of
feathered visitors from the north. The hurried
fluttering of their wings seems a faint protest against
the impressive silence of the snow. In their cheerful
disregard for the severity of the season, their bright
communal fellowship, and spontaneous energy, there
iS compensation for the vanished romance of the
spring and the domestic life of full, round summer.
All birds break into melody in spring, when the very
atmosphere is a song and all nature is pervaded with
the spirit of new life. But the little visitors who can
be bright, cheerful, and entirely alive through the
bleak winter, as they gather the seeds of the withered
Golden-rod and Sweet Clover, have a message for
humanity distinctively their own.

207

208 SOME WINTER VISITORS

The little Redpolls are here, mancuvring in
comfortable flocks along the lake shore. They seem
scarcely able to remain still long enough to gather a
few clinging or scattered seeds. The quiet, cold
monotony of a sportsman’s wait for a flock of Bluebills
is suddenly broken by the fluttering of little wings.
The Redpolls have come out of nowhere. The flock
darts hither and thither in an inextricable entangle-
ment of changes, and settles into sudden stillness on
an adjacent clump of scrub Willows. But the still-
ness is only apparent, for their intricate activity on
the wing has been changed to a bright restlessness
among the concealing twigs near the ground. They
are apparently as modest in attire as the Sparrows,
for their purple-red crowns are scarcely visible on
account of their unceasing motion. The males have
also a scarcely noticeable pink tint on their breasts.
The light wing bar, forked tail, and sharp, conical
bill are distinctive features. Little flocks rise as
suddenly as they alighted, turn this way and that in
mixed unanimity, and scurry away as if an adverse
fate impended over the hindmost.

Snowbirds are careening along the shore, always
as joyful as children released from school. Hither
and thither, up and down, intoxicated by the joy of
aimless flight, the passing flock are intermingling
with bewildering irregularity. Suddenly they execute
a turning movement, mixing up and fluttering down

SOME WINTER VISITORS 209

in the greatest imaginable contrast to the well-drilled
flocks of Plover that sailed along the shore two months
ago. On the snow-sprinkled sand among the dead
weeds the Snowbird, with his profusion of white
and pale brown, becomes almost invisible. He walks
about quickly, but with a serious gait, sometimes
shaking the seeds from a withered pod, but generally
directing his attention to the ground. He moves
rapidly away if any familiarity is manifested. The
rise of the flock is as sudden as its descent. Where
only two or three could be seen walking about, a
score rise in the air, flitting up and down along the
shore as aimlessly as the inanimate snowflakes carried
past by the wind.

The Grosbeak came early and is making a long
visit, so long that he is losing his innocent confidence
in humanity. His trust has been so often abused that
he is growing suspicious, although he still prefers
the crowded city to the suburban woods. There is no
more leisurely and indulgent feaster than the Gros-
beak, and the way he regales himself on the seeds
of the Mountain-ash berries and small Crab-apples
without wiping his bill or regarding the cleanliness
of his feathers shows that the privations of his
northern home have cultivated a demoralising
appetite. It is hard to watch a Grosbeak on a Moun-
tain-ash tree for half an hour and retain a sincere

respect for him. But all the northern visitors are
ie)

210 SOME WINTER VISITORS

welcome in the winter season, whether they deliber-
ately feast and fatten on good things denied them in
their distant home, showing the steady joy of per-
sistent selfishness, or flit about like glad, inspiring
spirits of the frosty air, filling the wintry world with
their spontaneous joy.

ali

WINTER BUDS

WHEN the cold, steady north wind of autumn comes
down with the oppressive sweetness of a dirge, and
the withered leaves are torn away and hurried along
to their unknown lodgments in the furrowed ground,
it may soften the tragedy of their passing to reflect
that each leaf has been pushed aside and crowded off
in the active preparations of its coming successor.
Secure in all the protected angles, where the leaf
stems joined the twigs and smaller branches, the
little buds have been growing, carefully enclosing
in their diminutive forms an infinite variety of leaves
and flowers. That a tiny bud not as large as a pea
can contain a perfectly formed bunch of flowers
enfolded in equally perfect leaves is a revelation of
nature’s strange, resourceful ways. There are buds
holding only a single leaf or flower, others with only
a male or a female flower, still others with both leaves
and flowers enfolded together, perfect in their
microscopic development. Here and there in late
autumn a few lonely leaves will be found partly
withered but still clinging to a twig or branch. If
they are examined it will be found that for some reason
the little buds that were to crowd them off have
failed to develop, while all about the scars where other
leaves have clung are almost covered by the little
thatched habitations of next season’s foliage.

212 WINTER BUDS

The Beech is among the finest trees in winter. Its
smooth, grey, clean-looking trunk stands out almost
as distinct as the Silver-birch, and its sturdy aspect
is sustained through a ruggedly symmetrical ex-
pansion of grey branches, the entire outline touched
with the delicate reddish brown of the finely-encased
foliage. The buds are long, smooth, and so finely
pointed as to seem like formidable thorns, and
throughout the winter there is an earnest of life in
their rich, warm tints. Most of the buds are terminal
on the small twigs, but occasionally a lateral bud
standing out at an abrupt angle gives variety to a
graceful spray. These buds contain, carefully folded,
the diminutive, downy leaves, ready for the coming
season. The lighter markings of their overlapping
scales give promise of the familiar elongation of
spring, when the life within breaks through the inert
covering, and clothes the tree once more in rich waves
of green. On the higher branches are some shorter
buds, which will open at the same time to shed their
fertilising pollen, and still other buds, scarcely
distinguishable, till they expand as fertile flowers
and yield for the squirrels an ever-abundant feast
of Beech nuts.

The Soft Maple buds are round, and so closely
clustered as to be quite conspicuous and suggestive
of premature development. But the Maple is one
of the trees that can wait. The flower buds will open
first and strew the ground with scales, and the male

WINTER BUDS 213

flowers will fall before the leaf buds open. On the
Sugar Maple each terminal bud contains not only a
bunch of flowers, but several pairs of leaves folded
about them, the whole encased in compact scales and
thus securely guarded against the winter’s frosts. On
the sides of the twigs the more elongated buds hold
several pairs of leaves, and those more oval in form
hold bunches of flowers, to droop as they develop
and bring forth their familiar two-winged seeds.

The Silver Birch can rank with the Beech in the
delicate tracery of its budded sprays, and its aspiring
trunk is conspicuous even against a background of
snow. Some of last year’s empty seed cones are
always retained, and the male catkins for the coming
year, almost an inch in length, appear in conspicuous
bunches at the ends of the higher twigs. These
developed during the summer, but will remain
quiescent till next spring, when they will droop and
elongate, shedding their yellow pollen to the passing
wind. The fertile catkins are still snugly folded in the
rounded buds, ready to come forth with the leaves in
spring. The leaf buds are abundant and conspicuous
along the finer twigs. Each holds a pair of enfolded
leaves safely guarded from the winter and awaiting
the life-giving touch of spring. It is easily natural to
forget the passing of last year’s life and vigour in
contemplating the new growth that fulfills the per-
petual law of succession. The death of the past is
essential to the life of the present.

214

BITTERSWEET

Tus robust and sturdy climber gives the most
cheering manifestation of life and vigour in the
winter woods. Its bright scarlet and orange berries,
with their three-lobed pods standing carelessly open,
are indifferent to rain, snow, and frost. They do
not resent the importunities of admirers, and will
survive the winter as comfortably in a vase on a
parlour table as under the sheltering sprays of a
tolerant Cedar or exposed in the naked top of a
Maple or Wild Cherry. They will even submit to
an occasional washing, and will come out fresh and
glossy—relieved of accumulations of the inevitable
dust. These bunches of brilliant colour often relieve
the dark-green shades of the Cedar, a tree with which
the vine seems to take all manner of liberties. Each
berry has a showy, orange rind, that opens in three
parts like a half-peeled orange, displaying the bright
scarlet fruit. This has three minute ridges formed in
its efforts to open the divisions of the rind. When
the clustered berries wither on the Night-shade and
grow dull on the Mountain Ash with the advance of
winter, the bright colours of the Bittersweet seem to
grow more and more brilliant.

BITTERSWEET 215

Sometimes a vine will clasp a young tree and
vigorously strangle it to death, reaching out and up
into the tops that rise indifferently above its victim,
Elated by its success, it will grow larger than the
dead trunk around which it twines in a rapid spiral.
Often it takes but an indolent hold of a sturdy tree,
as if reluctant to admit its dependence. Occasionally
it swings clear of the sustaining trunk, holding only
by the branches as much as twenty feet from the
ground, and leaving the mystery of its wonderful
climbing feat unsolved. A few curves in the pendent
vine suggest a victim which has served its purpose and
passed away, for a trunk so soft and pliable might
loose the coils with which it strangled a supporting
tree. Hanging unsupported, it is as light and flexible
as a rope, and, when two or three inches in diameter,
an irresistible temptation to climb.

The berries have the reputation of being poisonous,
and a similar evil fame attaches to the wood, bark,
and roots. A European namesake deserves this bad
reputation, and our own artistic vine is not free from
the taint of suspicion. The inquisitive find the berries
mildly sweet and liquid, not at all disagreeable ; but
a taste is sufficient to satisfy curiosity. In spite of
their tempting and conspicuous colours, they are left
severely alone by the birds in fall and winter. The
inquisitive Grosbeaks often fly leisurely to a tree
where the bright tints are attractively displayed, but,

216 BITTERSWEET

after looking sagely about, start away after the more
satisfactory Thorn Apples or Mountain Ash berries.
The Bittersweet manifests a decided preference for
the Cedar, which it seldom strangles, but twines
about in a helpful way. Perhaps it is because the dark,
palm-like sprays of the evergreen afford the finest
contrasts for its glowing orange and scarlet. Nowhere
does it seem so well to deserve its common name
“ waxwork ”’ as when drooping between the shelving
foliage of a snow-decked Cedar. There it shows that
the season of fruition can reveal beauties rivalling the
bloom of spring, beauties unmarred by obtrusive
utility and free from the persistent and oppressive
sense of evanescence.

a ene

Bins

LIKE a boy, the Black Squirrel
delights in the new-fallen snow
—like a real boy, with red hands
as well as red cheeks, and an
\ automatic mechanism of bones

and muscles capable of all things except rest.
The first snow sends a thrill of joy through every fibre
of such a boy, and a thousand delights crowd into his
mind. The gliding, falling coasters on the hills, the
passing sleighs with nitches on the runners for his
feet, the flying snowballs, the sliding places, the
broad, tempting ice, all whirl through his mind in a
delightful panorama, and he hurries out to catch the
elusive flakes in his outstretched hands and shout
aloud in the gladness of his heart.

The Black Squirrel becomes a boy with the first
snow. What a pity he cannot shout! There is a
superabundant joy and life in his long, graceful
bounds, when his beautiful form, in its striking
contrast with the white snow, seems magnified to

twice its actual size. Perhaps there is vanity as well
217

"BY aaa

218 INSPIRED BY THE SNOW

as joy in his lithe, bounding motions among the
naked trees, for nature seems to have done her
utmost to provide a setting that would best display
his graces of form and motion.

When the falling snow clings in light, airy masses
on the Spruces and Pines, and festoons the naked
tracery and clustering winter buds of the Maples—
when the still air seems to fix every twig and branch
and clinging mass of snow in a solid medium of
crystal, the spell of stillness is broken by the silent
but joyful leaps of the hurrying Squirrel. How alive
he seems, in contrast with the silence of the snow, as
his outlines make changing silhouettes on its perfect
white ! His body curves and elongates with regular
undulations as he measures off the snow with twin
footprints. Away in the distance he is still visible
among the naked trunks, a moving patch of animated
blackness. His free regular footprints are all about,
showing where he has run hither and thither, with
no apparent purpose except to manifest his joy in life.

His red-haired cousin comes to a lofty opening in a
hollow tree and looks out with an expression of dis-
appointment on his face. He does not like the snow-
covered landscape spread out so artistically before
him. It makes him tired, and he has not enough
energy to scold an intruder, as he would in the
comfortable days of summer. No amount of coaxing
or tapping will tempt him from his lofty watch-tower,

INSPIRED BY THE SNOW 219

or win more recognition than a silent look of weary
discontent. Another cousin, the Chipmunk, no longer
displays his daintily-striped coat. Oblivious in his
burrow, he is sleeping away the days, and waiting for
a more congenial season.

Among the branches of an Elm the black Squirrel
is twitching from one rigid attitude to another,
electrified by the crisp atmosphere and the inspiration
of the snow. Again he is leaping over the white
surface to clamber up the repellent bark of a tall
hickory. Among the larger limbs he disappears.
As he never attempts to hide he must have retired
into his own dwelling to partake of the store laid by in
the season of plenty. Hickory nuts are his favourite
food, and the hard shells seem but an appetising
relish. He knows the value of frugality, and gathers
them before they are ripe, throwing down the
shrivelled and unfilled, that the boys may not annoy
him with stones and sticks. In winter he is the
happiest of all the woodland family. He does not
yield to the drowsy, numbing influence of the cold,
nor to the depression of a season of scanty fare, but
bounds along from tree to tree, meeting the challenge
of the frost king with overflowing joy.

220

AN EVENING REVELLER

IN the close, quiet Cedars of the suburban woods the
Screech-owl finds a comfortable home throughout the
winter. He is impervious to the vagaries of the
weather, for, like most members of the owl family,
he does not dissipate in foreign travel or otherwise
attempt to elude the changing seasons. All day he
perches silently in the deep shade of the Evergreens,
closing his eyes against the light that struggles
persistently through, poised as a sentinel, with ears
erect and seemingly alert to all the passing activities
of the winter woods. But that is merely an uncon-
scious pretence, for the little sentinel, no bigger than
a Robin, is almost as oblivious to his surroundings
as the dull grey limb he so closely resembles. Vagrant
Dogs may rush through the snow and sniff at the
hidden trails of the Field Mice, and he will scarcely
incline his head toward the noisy commotion. The
hunted Cotton-tail, leaping over the snow to his
burrow, with. wild-eyed memory of the Ferrets
underground and the Dogs and guns awaiting his
escape, passes and leaves his quadruple track un-
noticed. Chickadees swing under adjacent twigs
and feast on the clinging insects in the crevices of

AN EVENING REVELLER 221

the bark, but the strangely human-like eyes of the
Screech-owl do not discern them. This silent,
sleepy stupidity is his salvation, for he is helpless
against the attacks of small birds when blinded by the
glare of day. It also saves him from the marauding
bipeds who pass with guns and look at him again
and again without seeing him.

The Screech-owl makes a strange and interesting
departure from the almost universal rule of sameness
in species. Almost all other birds adhere strictly to
the fashions in style and colouring. Almost every
feather has its distinguishing marks and shades, and
these are repeated with wonderful fidelity. Males
may have distinctive markings and colourings, but
males of the same species are almost invariably alike.
The same is true of the females and of the young, and
when changes occur with the seasons all adhere
strictly to the prevailing modes. That accurate same-
ness in every species would be regarded as wonderful
were it not an almost universal rule. But the Screech-
owl has the rare distinction of being an exception.
Grey and brown specimens differ so widely that they
would naturally be regarded as distinct species, but
theyare of the same bone and flesh. Theydo not change
with the seasons, for a brown or a grey bird, male or
female, retains its colour through life. Young of both
colours are found in the same brood. This may
represent a formative stage in the development of a

222 AN EVENING REVELLER

species, and in the coming centuries the grey Screech-
owls may separate themselves from their brown
brethren, refuse to intermarry, and take on some
distinctive forms and characteristics. Although
specimens are found of intermediate colouring, the
tendency is toward the two distinctive types. It is
the accurate sameness, and not the variation in species,
that is yet to be explained.

With the closing in of night the Screech-owl shakes
off the lethargy of the day and rouses into open-eyed
wakefulness. Then the trembling, plaintive call that
his friends will linger in the night to hear fills the
still, pyramidal Cedars and floats away into the cloud-
like branches of the Pines. He starts across the open
space, his straight course outlined against the sky,
and the vigorous, rapid fluttering of his wings
strangely silent. His predatory nature is now awake,
and the eyes that blinked in the dazzling sunlight are
strained to discern any unfortunate bird or mouse
that chances in his vicinity. Again and again his
plaintive tremolo fills the woods. There are some
who shudder at its weird sadness, and hasten from
it to the sustaining companionship of artificial lights.
But the long, trembling note is music to the ear of
understanding. Its very weirdness brings a satis-
faction in the still evening. It is the voice of the
forest whispering to the stars.

223

THE GREAT HORNED OWL

Tus is the most human-looking of all the Owls.
There is something searching and penetrating in the
fixed stare of his great round eyes. The suddenness
of encountering him face to face, and the strangely
silent flapping of his great brown wings as he darts
and dodges away among the trees, seem to impress
the mesmeric weirdness of the woods. Such meetings
are, indeed, rare, for he shrinks from human intrusion,
and will face a score of feathered tormentors to avoid
an inquisitive invader of his retreat. His appearance
abroad is the signal for a general attack. All the birds
in the neighbourhood join the hue and cry. Foes are
for the time united. Robins and Blackbirds make
common cause. Kingbirds dart at him vindictively,
and even the Song Sparrows lend moral support to
the attacking force. Driven to a perch, his erect
attitude and impressive assumption of dignity do not
preserve him from the assaults of his persistent
enemies. Again and again they dart at him, as his
big, round head turns slowly and ponderously from
side to side. Despairing of peace, he once more
spreads his wings and hurries away in search of
deeper and more sheltering retreats. But the penalty

224. THE GREAT HORNED OWL

for venturing abroad in the sunlight is generally a day
of torture, for the commotion is certain to be con-
tinued by succeeding forces of assailants till evening
settles down and his dazzled eyes resume their strange
nocturnal discernment. Then, with ear-like tufts
erect, his attitude becomes alert and watchful, and
the predatory nature that makes him an object of
aversion throughout the woods is once more aroused.

This is one of the largest and strongest of the
Owls, and his bad reputation has unjustly tainted the
family name. He preys indiscriminately on birds
and small animals, and has been known to feast on a
diminutive member of his own race. The capacity of
his throat is astonishing, for a specimen taken in the
vicinity of Toronto was found to have swallowed a
half-grown Muskrat. Pigeons and Chickens are
frequent victims, but he pounces indiscriminately
on all the feathered tribe that roost in the woods at
night. Of late years all the birds of the forest have
had a fair trial by impartial jurors, and, wherever
possible, the benefit of the doubt has been given in
their favour. Almost all the Owls and most of the
Hawks, formerly outlawed and liable to be killed at
sight, have been pronounced friendly and beneficial.
They have been found to feed entirely on injurious
insects and vermin. But the reputation of the
Great Horned Owl has been blackened deeper and
deeper with every investigation. Every night his

THE GREAT HORNED OWL 225

savage hunger must be sated, and while he seems to
reject nothing that has life, the perching birds are his
most frequent victims. Even in winter he grows fat
through ceaseless depredations. To see him flying
at night across the disk of the full moon, his silent
wings sweeping through the naked branches of an
Elm, is an event to be remembered—even more rare
than a daylight meeting, face to face, in the close
shade of a Cedar swamp. His tremulous monotone
is the true voice of the woods. Weird it may be,
repeated again and again, expressive in its expression-
less evenness, and so oppressively spiritless that it
seems to breathe a pulsating spirit through the silence
that it cannot disturb,

BECAUSE the mild and silently indifferent Muskrat
continues to build his house of aquatic vegetation,
while club houses, mansions, cottages, grand stands,
and electric lights rise up about him, he is classed as
an invader. He is, in reality, the rightful heir refus-
ing to be dispossessed. With every approaching fall
Muskrats build along the lagoons of the Island and
the tortuous reaches of the marsh. Their houses are
not shown on the registered plans of the city,
although some of them are really imposing structures,
appearing at a distance like old and moss-covered
stumps spared by the wood-gatherers. These
builders treat the advances of civilisation with
calm, amphibious indifference, and even when their
building sites are turned into wharves and piers they
will take up their residence in holes and crannies,
degenerating into a condition of semi-domestication.
But it will be many years before Muskrats are driven
to flats, tenements, and temporary lodgings.

While the Beaver is first to retire before the invasion
of man, his little cousin stays until the hunter’s cabin

226

KosBIN

Ss

INTER’

W

MUSKRATS 227.

is succeeded by the pioneer settlement, and on
through all the mutations that culminate in the great
city. The Beaver is wise. The Muskrat has the happy
faculty of accepting every situation and calling it
good. When the sand-pump fills his favourite lagoon,
and his few human sympathisers have bidden him
good-bye, he comes next night and trails his glossy
tail over the fresh mound, crossing and recrossing it
in a labyrinth of straight and curved lines, and making
the new shores old with the countless indentations
of his nimble feet. Like ourselves, he becomes
nocturnal in his habits as urban growth advances
around him. Should he become inured to a civilisation
ancient as that of China he may be as indifferent as a
laundryman to the rising and setting of the sun in
ordering his hours of labour and repose.

The after-dark of early autumn, before the crescent.
moon has left the sky to the vigils of the stars, is the
time to commune with the Muskrats. The excuse
for being abroad, whether it be gun, fishing-rod, insect
net, or botanising case, must be laid aside, for there
is something imperious in the all-pervading hush
of evening that will not tolerate an interruption.
From the boat pushed well into the rushes the clear,
smooth lagoon stretches away toward its margins of
impenetrable shadow, so still that the mirrored stars:
do not even tremble. A black dot comes out of the
darkness straight across the silent water, leaving

228 MUSKRATS

behind two long, trailing ripples that steadily widen
and recede, shedding gleams of silver where the
water had been invisible in the shadows.

On he comes steadily, his head strained rigidly
forward and barely above the surface. Now he is so
close that his little, beady eyes can be seen in the
moonlight. Splash! The round of his back and his
snake-like tail appear for a moment above the surface
as he disappears, leaving the quivering ripples to seek
the black distance in widening and widening circles.

Another appears swimming steadily and smoothly
toward the irregular house that has just been erected
on the opposite shore. He seems to revel in the
stillness and the joy of being alive. On the shore his
saturated fur glistens in the moonlight. He mounts
the house, quietly enjoying a feeling of proprietorship.
A feast of clams has tempted him, for the sound of
the cracking shells comes across the lagoon. Mirrored
in the water and catching the faint light of the
sinking moon, what more ecstatic situation could any
creature discover or devise? It makes one long for
the fulfilment of the oriental faith in the transmigra-
tion of a spirit to taste the joy of the silent moonlight
on the glassy surface of the lagoon.

The Muskrat houses are a relief in the frozen
desolation of the marshes in winter. Rising from the
ice, rough, irregular piles of frozen weeds, catching
little drifts of light snow that fill up the open masses

MUSKRATS 229

of dead rushes, they seem at first to emphasise the
generally cold, deserted aspect. But look on the
sunny side of a house, and the white frost will show
the thin spot where the warmth of the little colony
has thawed the wall. That is the breathing-place, and
the air filtering through leaves soft hoar-frost on the
outside. With moccasins it is possible to approach
without disturbing the inmates and to hear them
moving inside. The sound of life in such a desolate
place is ample reward for an hour’s patience. The
least noise, an incautious step, or even the cracking
of the ice will send them scurrying down into their
burrows in the frozen mud or through the water
under the ice to safer quarters. The interior of the
house is a low, ice-lined dome, with a floor of open
water leading down into ramified burrows. In a house
recently visited near the city the water was crowded
with living mud-minnows, and the stains on the icy
walls gave suspicious proof that the occupants had
indulged in a fish diet. The Muskrat has an accommo-
dating nature and may degenerate into the common
life of a Sewer-rat. But so long as he adheres to the
trying ideal of living his own life and minding his own
business he should have at least an absolute immunity
from eviction while the ice is on the marsh.

As the harsh, aggressive ice closes in about the open
spaces in the bay the food problem grows more and
more difficult for lingering flocks. Red-heads, Blue-
bills, Coween, and a few Whistle-wings flaunt the cold
and defy the niggardliness of the frozen north in
covering up her few remaining stores of food. There
are a few roots and some worms for the more dainty
feeders, with here and there a bunch of pond grass
rising from the bottom, and the omnivorous Coween
find small fish in the open water. Snails lodged in the
green vegetation on submerged and decaying timbers
are not rejected. Still the food problem presses with
greater and greater intensity, and the small flocks
hurry back and forth between the ice-girt opening
in the bay and the broad, cold, turbulent expanse of
the lake. Their swift, quivering wings and steady,
lowering course as they seek the dull grey enshrouding
distance make a marked contrast to the leisurely
soaring Gulls, at home in all places and seasons,
pursuing seemingly purposeless courses and settling
down wherever the buoyant water carries an acci-
230

LAST DAY OF DANGER ‘231

dental morsel of food. The friendly association of the
gulls is quite irregular, and even a flock of many
score move along in seeming confusion, some high
in the air, others close to the water, and the leaders
and stragglers frequently changing positions. The
Ducks seem to have a serious purpose in life, and they
follow their straight courses in geometrical lines and
with regularity of movement.

The last day of the year is the last serious menace
of the human enemy, and although the legal truce
will be broken many times, open aggression will be
at an end. Among the ridges in the ice barriers on
the shore a few figures in white are struggling with
the problem of keeping warm and keeping still. A
bunch of floating decoys are gradually accumulating
rings of adhering ice that lessen their deceptive
resemblance to a feeding flock. In the restless water
the intense cold gradually enlarges these deforming
loads, still the wooden forms nodding on the waves
are sufficiently deceptive to bring an occasional flock
away from their usual course over the open gap. The
Ducks have abundant warning in the badly-concealed
boat, the ice on the decoys, and the waiting enemies
who must move to keep from freezing. But the eager
quest for food makes every prospect attractive.
Whenever a hungry flock curves within the uncertain
range every barrel is discharged. The flashes and
sharp detonations of the smokeless powder warn

232 LAST DAY OF DANGER

them off, and they lower away steadily into the
concealing horizon. The new year will bring a cessa-
tion of hostilities, and the lingering flocks will have
no open enemies, except the increasing cold and the
ice that shuts them from their submerged stores.

THERE is a fascination in the rage of the elements :
the wild roar of the winds, varying with savage
persistence ; the hoarse churning of broken ice
against white, stolid barriers on the shore, and the
high, tumultuous waves, with torn wreaths of foam,
coming out of the opacity of the driving snow and
spending their massive strength under the long,
undulating stretches of imprisoned ice. The expected
roar of the driving waves on the shallow slopes of
yielding sand is hushed under the long, slow rise
and fall of this crowded, floating load that seems
a strategic defence for the fantastic and solid ice
barriers that line the shore. Against the near horizon,
blurred by the flying needles of snow, wave after
wave rises in magnificent strength, shaking its mane
of foam loose to the impatient storm, and rushing
with mastering violence on the long defences. But
out at the margin the floating ice rises high to meet
every attack, and the force is slowly spent in a long,
diminishing undulation reaching toward the shallows,
233

234 THE BEACH IN WINTER

where rough fragments churn and grind in the
yielding sand. Though the spontaneous voice of the
breaking waves is hushed under the load of broken
tce, the loud tones of the wind are all the more
insistent and penetrating as they vary through the
Willows and Poplars or angrily resent the artificial
obstructions that men have presumed to erect. The
sand is mingled with the sharp needles of snow that
load the flying air, and it whisks across toward the
protected water in sudden clouds or piles up solidly
in long, irregular ridges.

There are many beautiful accidents in the patterns
traced by the wind in the sand, and the figures seem
strangely complacent in the bewildering hurry of
wind, waves, and cutting sleet. Some of the Scrub
Willows are almost buried under the drifts, and others
are so robbed of their supporting banks that bunched
roots are hanging from them like unhealthy or
parasitic growths. But the Willow is an accommodat-
ing tree or shrub, and any part buried will send roots
into the earth, while any part exposed will spread
leaves to the sun. Even if inverted it will accept the
situation. Out on the lighthouse piers, where there
is no protecting floats of ice, the waves break in
unabated fury, festooning the life-line and all the
framework with icicles, and surging over the cribwork
from the confining reach of the gap. After two or
three vain attempts a determined wave rises higher

THE BEACH IN WINTER 235

than its fellows and rushes across the spiked timbers,
threatening all obstructions with its weapons of loose
ice. Such a spectacle imitated painfully and incom-
pletely in tinsel would draw crowds of spectators.
But the lighthouse pier, the grand theatre of the
storm, where the only penalty is the bruises of the
icicled life-line and the wet of the breaking and
encircling waves, is alone and deserted. The storm-
loving Gulls call in shrill exhilaration, poising almost
motionless, defiantly breasting the pressure or
steadily rising to turn and curve swiftly downward
with the aerial current. One sign of life is ridiculous
in its insignificance. A Rat comes out from the snow
banked about a willow beside the dock, but in
surprise at seeing a traditional enemy abroad, returns
quickly to his shelter, leaving the imprint of his brief
excursion in the packed drift. While the elements
rage and the force of the storm is spent on the resisting
shore this little atom of life is making its way and
doing its part in the incomprehensible scheme of a
universe of wonders.

Nature has drawn her white coverlet and tucked
it carefully in around about her, calmly composed
for a sound, tranquil sleep. This is the casual and
quieting impression from an easy position above the
stream now showing as a smooth, winding hollow
in the unbroken whiteness of the field. A few
Willows and Alders almost buried on the opposite
bank seem like splashes of ink on a clean page, and
away toward the rising hill that leads to the dense,
dark green of the Spruces a black patch of hurrying
water shows that under the ice and snow the stream
is still alive. Is it the only evidence of life ¢ In front
the snow is unbroken in every direction, while behind .
the winding row of deep indentations tells how the
wayfarer may pursue a tortuous course while fondly
imagining his path straight. Immediately in front,
waiting to be obliterated with the next random step,
is a small hole in the snow as round and clear-cut as
if made by a walking cane. No pedestrian has been
near since the unbroken sheet of snow was spread so
236

NATURE'S DREAMS 237

carefully over field and stream. Could a weird nightly
visitor have careened on a broom over the distant
pines and across the field in the moonlight, pausing
to rest on the smooth rounding bank? A running
stream is an impassable barrier, and there the witch
may have paused to breathe out maledictions at the
fate that balked her evil designs. A short distance
away there is another hole in the smooth snow, and
now that the eye has begun an unconscious search
several more are discovered. Did the moon look down
on an unhallowed orgy of the terrible sisterhood,
arrested in their fell purpose by the mystic power of
the moving water under the snow? There is the
mark of their trailing garments. But the lines are
drawn in concentric circles with mathematical
accuracy, showing, perhaps, a cabalistic warning to
the unfortunate wayfarer who might wander, how-
ever innocently, over snow made baneful by their
machinations and the exhaled wickedness of their
sacrilegious rites. A mind in intellectual twilight,
filled with the strange fears that linger like mists on
the dawn of supernatural thought, could find in the
snow-covered field the premonitions of evil and the
signs of a vague and terrifying life, peopling earth
and air with its fantastic and distorted forms. Stimu-
lated by fear, it must have been easy and natural to
account for every trifling circumstance of unusual
aspect or momentary mystery by fancying the sur-

238 NATURE’S DREAMS

rounding universe alive with human activities. Did
the witches riding on their brooms alight for a
moment in their wild orgy ¢

All mysteries yield to investigation. Under the
surface these round holes become intricate and
winding burrows, where the Field Mice have been
enjoying the bracing climate. Every part of the field
has been crossed and recrossed by them. Their
winding course is seen wherever the snow is kicked
away. This explains the phenomenal activity of a
Dog that has covered the hillside close to the woods
with tracks, while no trace of his quarry appears on
the snow. He has been running the scent of intricate
winding trails underneath.

Over by the edge of the stream, where the snow-
covered ice reaches out on the black water, one of the
little burrowers has made his way to the surface. It
is probably a Shore Mouse, and his little tracks look
helplessly diminutive on the great waste of snow.
The wind toying with some broken Golden-rod stalks.
has described accurate circles in the snow before
twisting them off and whisking them away. It has
cleared the snow from a low Sassafras thicket,
showing where the destructive little excavators have
girdled the bark, leaving the young trees to die in the
spring.

Up the stream, where even the running water
seems a part of the dead landscape, a Muskrat comes

NATURE’S DREAMS 239

out from the margin of snow-covered ice, rises above
the surface more black than the black water, swims
directly across and sinks under the ice at the other
side. At once it is apparent that not only the white
mantle of snow, but the solid banks, are alive with
animal activity. Below the easy tunnelling of the Mice
in the snow the Muskrats are burrowing about in the
ground.

What life abounds where all things seemed so
dead! Nature is but dreaming. Kick away the light
crisp covering, and the waxy green leaves of the
Wintergreen, with its bright red berries, are found as
fresh and tempting as in early spring. The frozen
earth, under the snow, is congenial to this healthy
emblem of winter. A bunch of Hepatica leaves is
found, green and vigorous, and the Trailing Arbutus
is growing and budding in anticipation of the season
of awakening. The Ground Ivy, even when cased
in ice, seems as vigorous and aggressive as under the
June sun. Who would have expected to find so many
friends of spring and summer at home at this inhospi-
table seasons Around the dead and withered stalk
of an Aster the root leaves are preparing for spring.
The Golden-rod is also putting forth its leaves, and
the Pipsissewa shows the hardy vigour of summer.
The covering of snow merely conceals nature’s
activities. The Gold Thread, the Partridge Berry,
and the Twin Flower are easily discovered in their

240 NATURE'S DREAMS

familiar haunts among the now disconsolate and
naked trees.

A hesitating, discontented, but familiar chirp
comes from a closely-crowded bunch of Cedars half
way up the hillside. But a long and patient wait
does not induce the friend of summer to reveal him-
self. The Cedars must be slowly and steadily circled
so as not to disturb him. An opening appears above
a low-spreading branch, and there, with bunched
and huddled form outlined against the background
of snow, sits a solitary Robin who has preferred the
cold of the dense Evergreens to the gay surroundings
of the hospitable south. He will be of the first to
greet the returning spring. Both in sombre colour
and quiet demeanour he contrasts with the lively,
energetic, and sometimes noisy Blue Jay that has
flown out of the deeper woods. This gay disturber
is pulling energetically at a belated acorn that has
remained, like the bunches of last year’s leaves, on a
lofty branch of the white Oak. Although distressingly
industrious, and even vain of it, the Jay is easily
forgiven. When he stays through the winter he makes
the best of the situation and takes the white world as
he finds it, never sulking, grumbling, nor assuming
an air of dejection. He never huddles together in his
feathers to wait for summer, but lives his life day by
day, taking all the joy there is and shedding it about,
indifferent to all seasons. He is the mischievous child

NATURE’S DREAMS 241

of the woods. And who can resist a mischievous
child ¢

A cry, harsher than the most diabolical note of
the Blue Jay, comes from a group of naked Silver
Birches. It must be a conveniently cold winter that
has enabled the blue disturber’s rare cousin, the
Canada Jay, to travel so far south. The bleak plain
and naked trees must seem almost sultry to him as
he moves rapidly but solemnly about. The Canada
Jays are more serious than their gay-coloured
relatives, and they build their nests and rear their
young with the thermometer many degrees on the
wrong side of zero, just to teach the world contempt
for the weather. While watching the antics of the
Canada Jay a half score of purple Grosbeaks settle
in the Hemlock directly overhead and begin to pull
the cones to pieces. In their arctic home they have
learned nothing of human destructiveness, so a man
is not an object of fear or aversion. They come to
the lower limbs and look curiously into his eyes, but
seem to regard him as a rather unprofitable proposi-
tion. Nature is ever wise. Their confidence, even if
born of indifference, is refreshing in a world of doubt.
The Crows, wiser in their own generation, have a
sentinel outlined against the sky on the tall spiked
trunk of a dead pine, while they gather with their
friends and neighbours at a sumptuous feast in the
depth of the ravine.

Q

242 NATURE'S DREAMS

The mystery of unceasing life and growth is all
about, as persistent on the bleak plain and in the
naked woods of winter as in the season of crowding
foliage and many-tinted flowers. As if to more loudly
proclaim the all-pervading activity of winter, there
is a distressing commotion among the Chickadees
and Juncoes in the near Hemlocks. The Kinglets,
too, in the naked top of an Elm, are suddenly alarmed.
They cannot fear the Black Squirrel bounding over
the snow to shelter among the Spruces. The Hawk
circling away overhead does not account for their
trepidation. There is the enemy, a skulking but
determined and wicked-eyed Shrike, conspicuous
in black and white, flapping his course under the
lower branches and looking for his prey among the
hardy feathered inhabitants of the winter woods.
With perpetual life and growth comes its inseparable
complement, perpetual destruction.

INDEX

ALDERS, 3, 15, 26, 102

American goldfinch (or wild
canary or thistle bird), 173-
175

American mergansers, 28-30

Anosia __plexippus_ (monarch
butterfly), 145-148

Arethusa, 76

Arrowhead, 49

Arvicola riparius (shore mouse),
5, 25-27, 238

Aster, 12, 22, 25, 74, 132, 155,
159, 239

Balm-of-Gilead, 114

Barn swallow, 32

Basswood, 56, 113

Bat, 51

Beavers, 25, 70, 226, 227

Beech drops, 190

Beech nuts, 189

Beeches, 188, 211, 212

Bellwort, 59

Birches, 4, 63, 114, 159

Birds and struggle for existence,
172-173

Bittern, 50, 124

Bittersweet, 214-216

Black birch, 4

Blackbird, 3, 31, 50, 128, 130-
132, 182, 223

Black cherry, 52

Black-heart, 98

Black squirrel, 217-a19, 242

Black warbler, 102

Blood-root, 37, 38, 42, 44, 59,

7i, 75
Blue-bill, 189, 230

Bluebird, 3, 11, 12, 13, 18, 31,
57> 199

Blue heron, 50

Blue jay, 240

Bobolink, 172

Boneset, 170

Brown creeper, 31, 36

Brown thrasher, 57, 81, 103, 128

Bulbed fern, 111

Bulrushes, 123-125

Bush honeysuckle, 72

Calopogon, 170

Canada goose, 39-41

Canada jay, 241

Cancer root, 190

Cardinal lobelia, 74, 153

Carolina rail, 124

Catbird (or Canadian mocking-
bird), 103, 128, 139-141

Caterpillars, 52

Cedar, 21, 102, 110, 188, 199

Chebec, 96

Chickadee, 63, 113, 196, 204,
205, 220, 242

Chickory, 72

Chipmunk, 50, 219

Chipping sparrow “chinnid, 82,
105-108

Choke-cherry, 92, 189

Clams, 78

Closed gentian, 49

Cone flower, 74

Coot, 182-184

Cornucopia, 155

Corpse plant, 190

Cottontail, 5, 220

Cowbird, 105-108, 130

243

244

Coween, 230

Crossbills, 113

Crow, 5, 21, 88, 89, 95, 102, 128,
181, 241

Dandelion, 25, 59-61

Deer, 114

Divining rod, 163

Dodder, 48

Dogbane, 72

Dog-tooth violet, 43, 44, 71
Dogwood, 36, 70, 72

Downy convolvulus, 72

Downy woodpecker, 5, 21, 31,

204
Ducks, 28, 231

Eel fly, 67, 96

Elm, 15, 35, 56, 70, 110, 159
Epipactis viridiflora, 169-171
Evening grosbeaks, 19
Evening primrose, 25, 157, 201

Field mouse, 23, 25, 238
Firefly, 50

Fire, fascination of, 136, 194
Flicker, 31, 50, 81
Flycatcher, 32, 94, 96
Fossil remains, 77-79
Fox-glove, 159

Fox sparrow, 3

Fringed gentian, 74
Fringed orchis, 75

Frog, 50

Gallinule, 50, 123, 182

Gentians, 49, 72, 74

Golden-crowned kinglets, 180,
205, 206

Golden-rod, 25, 48, 72, 74, III,
132, 155, 159, 170, 239

Goldiana, 111

Gold thread, 239

Grass, 59

Great blue heron, 149-151

Great crested fly-catcher, 96

INDEX

Great horned owl, 223-225

Great northern diver (or loon),
112, 116-119, 176

Great willow herb, 72

Grebe, 117, 183

Grosbeaks, 19, 113, 196, 209,
215, 241

Ground cherry, 189

Ground ivy, 239

Gulls, 28, 29, 181, 230, 235

Harebell, 75

Hawk, 186, 206, 224, 242

Hawthorn, 12

Hemlock, 102, 192, 199

Hepatica, 5, 23, 42, 43) 52, 71»
75» III, 239

Herb-Robert, 111

Hermit-thrush, 52, 114
Herons, 28, 143, 149-151
Herring gulls, 181
Hickory, 53

High Park, 170

Horned lark, 12, 13, 18
Horse-chestnut, 56, 166
Huckleberry, 53

Hudson River rock, 77
Humming birds, 128, 206
Hylas, 46

Indigo bunting, 82, 111
Insectivorous birds, 126-129

Jays, 11, 19, 88, 89, 103, 181,
200, 240, 241

Jewel-weed, 155

Jo pie weed, 74

Juncoes, 22, 31, 63, 242

Kildeer, 18, 98

Kingbird, 52, 94, 95, 96, 177, 223

Kinglets, 31, 36, 180, 205, 200,
242

Lady’s slippers, 8, 76, 103
Lady’s tresses, 8, 155, 170

INDEX

Leopard frog, 46

Lilac, 90, 91, 92

Lobelia, 74, 153, 155

Loon (or great northern diver),
112, 116-119, 176

Loose-strife, 72

Lordly crow, 5

Maiden-hair fern, 111

Mandrake, 189

Maple, 4, 21, 52, 70, I10, 159,
188, 198, 212, 213

Marsh marigold, 49

Marsh wren, 124

Maryland yellow-throat, 102

Meadow lark, 31, 57

Medicinal herbs, 161

Migratory birds, 19, 179-181

Milkweed, 147

» 50

Monarch butterfly (Anosia plex-
ippus), 145-148

Moon, 185-187

Mosquito, 67

Moth, life of a, go-93

Mourning dove, 87-89

Mud hens (coot and Florida
gallinule), 182

Mullen, 12

Muskrat, 5, 49, 70, 87, 114, 194,
195, 226-229, 238

Myrtle warblers, 180

Niagara, 34, 109-111

Night-hawk, 65-69, 92, 100, 116,
127, 177

Northern Calypso, 75, 170

Nuthatch, 22, 31, 35, 127, 191,
205

Oak, 12, 22, 53, 56, 70, I10, 198
Olive-sided fly-catcher, 96
Ontario, 162, 163

Orchids, 169-171

Oriole, 50

Osage orange, 78

Oven-bird, 53, 81, 193

245

Owl, 11, 19, 51, 112, 116, 176,
220-222, 223-225
Ox-eye daisy, 74

Painted cup, 153

Painted trillium, 111

Partridge, 128

Partridge-berry, 152, 239

Pea gall, 192

Peat fuel, 8

Pellaea, 111

Phebe, 96, 127

Pike, 137

Pines, 110, 114, 188

Pink lady’s slipper, 8, 76

Pipsissewa, 22, 239

Pitcher plant, 8-10, 153

Plover, 19, 182, 209

Polly-wogs, 47

Porcupine, 114

Potato beetle, 128

Powder post beetle, 120-122

Prairie chicken, 128

Promethea moth, 90-93

Purple finch, 18

Purple grosbeak, 19, 241

Purple martin (or black swallow),
135

Pyrola, 8

Quail, 128

Rails, 50, 100, 124, 125

Red fox, 50

Red-heads, 230

Redpolls, 208

Red-shouldered hawk, 206

Red-start, 50, 53

Redwing, 124, 125

Red-winged blackbirds, 3

Ring-necks, 143

Robin, 3, 11, 12, 17, 18, 19, 21,
31, 34, 56, 62-64, 80, 94, 1275
128, 181, 223, 240

Rock rose, 72

pe ama humming-bird,
12

246

Sandpipers, 98-100, 143, 182

Sap-sucker, 34, 35

Sarcophaga, 9

Sassafras, 4, 5, 26, 114

Saxifrage, 202

Scarlet tanager, 172, 173

Scented water lily, 49, 153, 154

Scented white violet, 44

Screech owl, 51, 116, 176, 220-
222

Sedges, 201

Shepherd’s purse, 202

Shore mouse (Arvicola riparius),
5, 25-27, 238 |

Showy lady’s slipper, 76, 103

Showy orchis, 75, 170

Shrike, 11, 242

Silver birch, 23, 24, 102, 199,
212, 213

Silver maple, 56

Skunk, 50, 70

Skunk cabbage, 5, 6, 7, 43, 52

Snake’s mouth, 76, 170

Snipe, 127

Snowbird, 11, 63, 113, 208, 209

Snowy owl, 19

Soft maple, 14, 15, 35, 56,
212

Song sparrow, 3, 21, 22, 31, 52,
84-86, 103, 126, 223

Sora rail, 100, 124, 125

Sparrow, 15, 31, 57, 66, 108, 127,
128, 174

Sparrow-hawk, 128

Sphagnum, 8, 1or-104

Spotted sandpiper, 98-100

Spring, 17-20

Spring-beauty, 43, 71, 75

Spruces, 21, 102, 199

Squirrels, 50, 88, 89, 114, 189,
217-219, 242

Squirrel-corn, 71

Stints, 98

Sumach, 26, 179, 188

Sundew, 8, 103

Swallows, 31-33, 66, 127, 133-
135, 181, 182

INDEX

Swift, 66, 134, 181
Sycamore maple, 55

Tamaracks, 8, 101
Thistle bird (or American gold-
finch or wild canary), 173-

175
Thrush, 21, 52, 57, 114
Toad, 45, 46; Shakespeare on,

4

“ Touch-me-not,”” 155

Trailing arbutus, 4, 23, 43, 52,
75s 239

Tree swallow, 32

Trillium, 43, 75, I11

Turtle-head, 156, 157

Tussock moth, 165-168

Twin-flower, 152, 239

Waders, 19

Walking fern, 110

Warblers, 102, 180

Water arum, 49

Watercress, 5

Water-lily, 49, 153

Weasel, 50, 193

Weather prophets, 195-197

Whip-poor-Will, 87, 116, 128,
176-178

Whistle-wing, 189, 230

White pine, 56

White throat, 179, 191, 200

White warbler, 102

Wild canary (or American gold-
finch or thistle bird), 173-175

Wild duck, 28

Wild geese, 133

Wild orange lily, 72

Wild pigeon, 89

Wild plum, 189

Wild raspberry, 26

Willow, 3, 16, 35, 234

Wintergreen, 4, 22, 201, 239

Witch-hazel, 54, 70, 92, 102,
161-164

Wolverine, 112

INDEX 247

Woodchuck, 50, 87 Viper’s bugloss, 202
Woodcock, 127 Virginia creeper, 188
Woodpecker, 11, 18, 24, 35, 57,

127, 205 Yellow lady's slipper (or yellow
Wood pewee, 35, 96 moccasin flower), 76, 170

Yellow legs, 144

Veery, 53, 81, 103 Yellow lily, 49

esper Sparrow, 31 Yellow warbler, 57, 81, 94, 126,
Violets, 43, 44, 71 175

THE
TEMPLE PRESS LETCHWORTH
ENGLAND

IC a ner oneness ne eae Pepe pe mmee pepe
Se eae pee Te apap ae) Mie ane aera

———