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A BY-PATH.
SHORT CUTS

AND BY-PATHS

BY
HORACE LUNT

AUTHOR OF

“Across Lots”

BOSTON
D LOTHROP COMPANY

WASHINGT ‘ON STREE T OPPOSITE BROMFIELD
COPYRIGHT, 1891,
BY

D. Lotarop Company.
TO THE MEMORY OF
Hlisabeth Hunt PcLntive

WHOSE SOUND PRACTICAL SENSE, BENEVOLENCE
AND EXALTED CHARACTER GAVE TO HER
WOMANHOOD A LASTING INFLUENCE

This volume is most reverently and gratefully
dedicated by the Author
PREFACE.

HE papers contained in this book, with the excep-
tion of those entitled Trees in Undress, and
Leaves in Winter Quarters, respectively published in
The Christian Union and The Independent, and a few
sketches in the Garden and Forest, Cottage Hearth,
and Golden Days, have never before appeared in
print.

The author is aware that not much of scientific
value has been demonstrated in these pages, and that
there have been few wonders in animal or plant life
described, which have escaped the sharp eyes of the
specialist.

If, however, he has transmitted to his lines any of
the enthusiasm which he himself felt while beholding
these scenes, such as may lead the young folks, or the
general reader, to draw the curtain aside and see more
of Nature, his object has been accomplished.

HORACE LUNT.

Boston, 1891.
CONTENTS.

I.
A FORWARD MARCH :
IT.
APRIL AWAKENING
III,
THROUGH LEAFY PATHS
IV.
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS .
Vv.
BY THE SEA. 3 :
VI.
FLIES ’ . 5
VII.
TREES IN UNDRESS .
VIII.
LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS .
IX.
HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY
XxX.

WINTER SKETCHES . .

FAGE

23

39

St

101

145

159

173

187
A FORWARD MARCH.
SHORT CUTS AND BY-PATHS.

A FORWARD MARCH.

Tue March of 1889 seemed not like ordinary
Marches. He came into the world playful and
bleating, like the lambs; with purling, flowing
sounds, in harmony with the bluebird’s note, as
if he no longer cared to herald war with his trum-
pet blast and stentorian lungs, but played on the
low, sweet flute instead. On the very first day
of his reign, the tiny snowdrop bells, in sheltered
gardens, were swung on their slender pedicels by
troops of fairy zephyrs — strangely gentle legions
for the god of war to be marching in. For a
week or more this clement administration con-
tinued. The moths, ephemerze and blue-bottles
came out to enjoy the warm air and sheen. The
catkins of the pussy willows gleamed in the sun

9
IO A FORWARD MARCH.

like bits of white wool, and the grasses, in warm,
springy places, lifted up to the first call of the
sun their fervent, impetuous blades. How prom-
ising and hopeful are these firstlings! It seems
irreverent to kill or pluck them now, they are so
exultant. The most sensitive hylodes, I dare say,
were allured from their hibernacles by the bland-
ishments of the weather, to strike the keynote of
Spring.

Not only are the first days of March bright,
but the nights also are resplendent with millions
of suns! Each evening a new picture is painted
on the screen of the western sky, with variety of
cloud designs and changing colors. No sooner
does “Old Sol” hide his face behind the curvature
of earth than he begins to throw up the rich hues
and dash the vapors with gorgeous tints. Scarlet,
rose, orange and purple scraps of mist are lined
with shining gold. Long before the grand illu-
mination has paled in mellow twilight, the faithful
ranger shoots his beams of light across to Venus
that goes careering down the sky after her lord
and master. How radiant and full-blown is her
beauty! ‘Like some fair lady in her casement,”
she turns her sparkling eye down to view her
sister’s earth-piodding children.

To-day (the 20th), groups of people are gathered
at the street corners to catch a glimpse of the lit-
tle planet, as did Atneas the Trojan prince, and
A FORWARD MARCH. Il

his followers, more than two thousand years ago.
She is sufficiently near to us now to be seen by
daylight, shining softly out of the dome. It is not
easy for us to realize that this speck of silver, this
pearly dot, set in the blue, is a vast globe of rock
and gravel, dirt and soil, swinging in “its eternal
circle” around the central fire. Are there star-
gazers in the streets of its cities looking out to-day
through twenty millions of miles of space, to see
our shining disk ?

If the axiliary inclination of Venus nearly cor-
responds with that of earth, as is the opinion of
some of our learned modern astronomers, it is
reasonable to suppose that her northern and
southern regions at least are habitable, and agree
in climate and condition with those of our torrid
and temperate zones. Plants, then, must be grow-
ing there! Birds, perchance, are trooping up the
curvature to their nesting-places, northward, and
insects are zigzagging and buzzing in the light of
a larger sun. How we burn with extravagant
curiosity in our desire to view her landscapes, to
compare the families, genera and species of her
flora and fauna with those of our native revolver!

But in the ethereal ocean the splendid world
sails on, till, like a ship in its course, it comes
again in daylight eye-hailing distance, and then
recedes as before, without giving answer to our
vaulting questions, or throwing out one longed-for
12 A FORWARD MARCH.

signal. The rambler, however, need not fly to
other worlds for entertainment. Nature is here.
Her catalogue of beauties and wonders is not
soon exhausted, and the book is held up at every
step, for him to read.

March, after a short bluster, settles into good
temper again. Even the sunny spirit and humor
of May shines into many of his latter days. The
revival of the year has already been announced by
the sweet voices of the red-wings. Ah! the soft,
mellow contralto of this gay, epauletted starling
is the very expression of mild spring weather.
When he strikes the right key-note, and does not
slip into cracked, discordant tones, as he is apt
to do at the slightest cause, not even the blue-
coated poet himself surpasses him in tender, elys-
ian melody. In the sunshine I sit entranced at
the sound of an unusually persistent sweet singer.
He reminds me of the veery when the spell is on
him. ‘QOg-a-lu-e-e-e! Ol-eagle!” he says, rolling
the mellifluous notes out of his throat and over
his tongue, as if he liked the taste of them. It is
the music of the purling ripples of a clear, cool
brook to the thirsty, way-worn traveler. For a
half-hour he continues to pour forth his delicious
strains that melt in the ear as the richest con-
fections dissolve on the tongue. As far as seen,
there are no females in this flock. Each one has
his red-gold fringed shoulder-ornament sharply
A FORWARD MARCH. 13

defined against the black. Do the sexes fly in
separate flocks while on their southern wander-
ing? Probably they do not. When the migra-
tory impulse northward is felt, the males, which I
believe are permanently mated — the older ones, at
least — have a day when they leave their spouses
and perhaps the younger males behind. If so,
how curious is this habit of holding conventions
near the time of their departure, agreeing to meet
again in certain localities hundreds of miles to the
north!

Looking over this swamp, where the red-wings
are singing, I imagine what wonders the sun will
work in it, during the coming months. What
beautiful color he will paint it with his pencils
of light, and what miracles he will perform, in
resurrecting from egg and pupa and hibernacles,
insects and reptiles, now lying dumb and qui-
escent within their tombs. These brown cat-tail
stems are like thousands of distaffs standing
uprightly along the reedy plain. The tow that
was tied to them last Summer is ravelled out by
the Spring breezes, and appears like bits of wool
on sheep that feed in scrubby pastures. How
prolific are these plants! It would be an almost
endless task to count the fruit, grown on a single
head. One is interested in seeing how abundantly
Nature has provided the means by which the
seeds are dispersed. I count twenty-five plumous
14 A FORWARD MARCH.

bristles attached to one of the minute, long-
stalked nutlets, scarcely larger or heavier than
one of these downy wings. How far away they
must be blown, farther than Boreas travels or the
south-wind flies. They are the sport of every
gale or zephyr. Eastward, westward, hither and
thither, like shuttle-cocks, they go, the winds
playing battledore with them.

The old war-god, on the twenty-ninth day of
his supremacy, orders his batteries into the armory,
“the cave of the winds,” and welcomes his sub-
jegts at his morning’s door with a calm and smil-
ing face. People everywhere are praising his
extraordinary good nature. The young inhabit-
ants inquire of the oldest ones if they remember
seeing such a mild March. Passers-by, instead
of asking the usual question, salute each other
by complimenting the weather, and take it for
granted that all who are out, inhaling the tonic
air, are well, or on the road to health.

Such a beautiful spring-tide morning brings to
us waves of birds. The air is full of bluebird
music wreath-notes, and the song sparrow dis-
courses pleasantly. A party of red polls are lisp-
ing in the alders by the stream. They cling to the
twigs almost invariably with their backs downward,
and nod and cant their heads, and peer between
the thick, black woody scales of the last year’s fer-
tile catkins, as if they were considering the best
A FORWARD MARCH. Is

method of extracting the seeds. They are of a
grayish ash color and variously streaked with
white. Their tails, which are spread out like fans
when they are in the inverted position but closed
when they are upright, are deeply notched, and
their crowns are ornamented with a large, dark,
blood-red patch, while the breasts and flanks of a
few individuals are tinged with carmine, like the
males of the purple finches.

How hearty are these feathered mites! Alder
seeds are evidently their favorite dish in winter.
They had come from the high northern latitudes
where the dwarf birches and alders form clumps
and thickets, by the streams that flow into the
Arctic Seas and Hudson’s Bay. Perchance this
greedy fellow, who turns his pretty, watchful eye
toward me, between his prying and pecking, has
seen the swarthy Chippeway or the Esquimaux
within a month, and will line his nest next Sum-
mer with the hairs of the Marten or the Caribou.

These hardy visitors, in their journeyings, had
met by chance their southern cousins, the song
sparrows, in Massachusetts, where they exchanged
congratulations, sang of the weather, and talked
of the prospects of the seed crop another year.

It is certainly uncommon to see so early in the
season so many bridge pewees, or Phoebe birds
together. Five or six of them are flying about
the “pudding stone” quarry, alighting on the
16 A FORWARD MARCH.

rocks, flirting their tails, and peering into crev-
ices, as though the gallant husbands, coming on
before their wives, were prospecting for building
sites.

Not only has the sun quickened the blood and
put the songs in the throats of the early birds,
but it is sending the beams into every cranny,
chink and rift, and resurrecting the butterflies.
Several are started up as I walk along the sunny,
wooded slope. They alight on the dead leaves,
slowly opening and shutting their ornamented
wings, and appear to suck the moisture with their
siphon-like tongues. What splendid hues has this
insect! Where in the world did it get that gold
paint, and what artist designed and executed such
delicate gilding, such elegant marking?

Besides the antiopa I spy another specimen in
the genus Vanessa that has come out to try the
air. It is a size smaller, with angular, bright ful-
vous wings which harmonize nicely in color and
shape with certain rusty, damp, oak leaves that
rest partly on their edges, so that the light shines
on them. It has the action of its brother, but is
more easily alarmed. How readily these insects
see you! Although I approach it with the great-
est caution, it does not allow me to come within
ten feet of it, and flutters away, like a scrap of
brown paper blown off by the wind. Sunlight, air
and dew only seem to be their tenuous nourish-
A FORWARD MARCH, 17

ment, so soon after their resuscitation, and yet
how vigorous, nimble and. full of life they are!
What prevented these delicate creatures from
freezing outright, during the cold winter days?
The frosts, when the ground is bare, must have
easily invaded their slight hibernacles, yet in some
mysterious way the small spark of life within the
dorsal vessel or heart must be always glowing.
Caterpillars, grasshoppers and spiders are quite
often seen moving about even in the mild winter
weather, showing how quickly the sun’s rays pene-
trate their lodgings and stir their vital embers
into flame.

This is also a real field and gala day with the
crows. Over the high hill yonder, a large flock
of them are holding a kind of love-making carousal
and jollification. Such queer, magpie-ish actions,
such aerial gymnastics and lofty tumbling, afford
a genuine entertainment. How their black backs
glisten in the sunlight, as they shear and curve in
the air! With hanging legs they hover over the
cedars, and in the very spirit of fun, try to light
on the tip of the slender main sprigs, which under
their weight bend over in the shape of bows; yet
they cling to them for a moment and flap their
wings, or extend them as artists sometimes rep-
resent “the spread eagles” on flags and armorial
bearings; then they all take flight again and
play “tag” in the air, amidst a general chorus
18 A FORWARD MARCH.

of laughter and vociferation. Their cawing now
is the very expression of rejoicing and frolic,
very different in tone from their harsh, queru-
lous clamor while tormenting the hawks. It is
astonishing what variety of feeling and emotion
these birds can express in that single word.
After a half hour or so of merriment, they fly off,
one after another, in a sober way to the woods,
as though they had suddenly recalled to mind
some important business enterprise that ought to
be attended to, and soon all is silence over the
hilltop.

I like these crows, they are such characteristic
birds and so intelligent withal. No doubt they
can distinguish a gun, at a long shot distance,
from a cane or spy-giass. Farmers say that they
can smell the powder in the barrel. Why should
not the wisest, oldest heads among them, the half-
century living ones, at least those that have been
so long associated with the prejudiced world and
its firearms, learn from experience to nicely dis-
criminate between the observer who walks abroad
without reserve, and him that stealthily creeps up
to wall and tree with a murderous fowling-piece in
his hand?

Mr. Trowbridge, in his humorous poem ‘“ Watch-
ing the Crows,” after telling the story of how the
farmers outwitted these “cute” birds by firing
from an ambush, makes the neighbor’s boy say :
A FORWARD MARCH, 19g

“You're as knowing a bird as I know;
But there are things a little too deep for a crow;
Just add one to one, and what’s the amount ?
You’re mighty cute creatures, but then you can’t count.”

But is it altogether fanciful to suggest that as
mental evolution in animals goes on, these saga-
cious fowls, by ‘‘a protracted series of experien-
ces,” may not in the future have the faculty of
determining in some way the true situation of
affairs behind the screen, and so will not be
deceived by any such artful dodges as “Jack Has-
kell” practiced? At any rate, these shrewd,
clear-sighted individuals seen to-day overhead,
within an hour's flight of the Charles River, “the
Classic Shades,” and the gilded “hub,” are on the
high road to learning; for they already are pro-
nouncing their names in Latin — “ Cor-Corvus-
Cor,” almost as plainly ‘as Linnzeus did when he
gave to the crows their family titles.

The twenty-ninth of the month was, after all, a
«weather breeder.’’ The crow antics, bird songs,
butterfly waverings, and the balmy air and light
were hatching a storm. On the last day, from
their cloud nests overhead, the snow flakes came
flying down to earth; first in thé form of little
woolly pellets; then in broad, white slices and
feathers; and later, in the last hours of his rule,
March went out in a storm of tears.
APRIL AWAKENING.

21
IL.
APRIL AWAKENING.

THE lover of Nature will feast on the peculiar
dainties which the gracious days of April are
offering. One cannot afford to miss her flowers,
her odors and her sounds, for there is in these
something delightfully fresh and tender and deli-
cate, that cannot be enjoyed at other seasons of
the year. The earth now appears promising and
youthful ; yet, as there are special characteristics
in gentle childhood corresponding to those of mel-
low age, so there are certain aspects in the first
blush of the month—lights lingering over the
woods and hills—that have the semblance of
Autumn.

The hasty, almost premature work of trimming
the bare branches of the early trees and shrubs
with flower tassels, plumes and clusters, is curious.
What brilliant crimson knots appear on the young
swamp maples! How pretty the catkins are!

28
24 APRIL AWAKENING,

The poplars have thrown out a profusion of plush
necklaces. The hazel bush, viewed against the
sun, “snatches a grace beyond the reach of art.”
Its minute, fertile flowers, excreted from the tip
of the scaly, bud-like catkins, are of a rich car-
mine hue, and when disposed along the shoots,
in the midst of the pale yellow, drooping aments,
present to the rambler, beautiful specimens of
Nature’s festooning.

Long before the bough trinkets have disap-
peared, the concerts have begun in the lowlands.
The hylas peep. What a pure, delicate sound is
that which comes from the reeking mire! It is
the signal trumpet for the frog band to awake and
tune their instruments for the Spring jubilee.
The leopard frogs hear it and come out of the
black mud, dressed in bright green coats, faced
with gold and jet. As evening approaches, they
are marshaled along the shores of the pond, and
in the shallow places, to hear the call of their
leader. At first a few faint whistles are sounded,
in perfect measure, from under the green alge;
then the nearest members chime in and play a
brief overture—a kind of aquatic ditty, before
the real opera begins. A small glee club, in
front of their water-grass music-racks, sing an
Easter carol. Soon the band strikes up in good
earnest. The waters are fairly alive with chirps
and trills, flute and fife notes, that are as musical
APKIL AWAKENING, 25

as those of the robin-who has caught the spirit
of the occasion in yonder maple. Almost every
individual member seems to play on a different
instrument. There are ocorina and bag-pipe, pic-
colo and cymbal players among them. Occasion-
ally a big brother with his protuberant eyes and
wide mouth above the green scum, tries to per-
form a base accompaniment on his trombone, but
it is, at the best, a discordant croak. At inter-
vals the toads strike in, and splash the chorus
with trills and quavers, which give a pleasant vari-
ety to the music of the swamps. Long after the
robin has given up his song and gone to sleep,
these water-loving minstrels continue the enter-
tainment; for it is a real serenade to the female
batrachians, who utter faint peeps of approval, or
sit in silence at their star-reflecting windows, far
into the night.

By the pond one is interested in watching the
movements of the numerous aquatic creatures.
A gentle stamp will cause, as if by an electric
touch, hundreds of small circular ripples over the
surface. These are produced by the water boat-
men and beetles that skurry quickly to the bot-
tom. It shows how sensitive they are to the
slightest surrounding disturbances. The skaters
jumping about and gliding on the water are very
curious, with wherry-shaped bodies and long legs.
As one drifts by I see six indentations which it
ae

26 APRIL AWAKENING.

makes with its feet. The water bends only under
its slight weight, as jelly might under the tread of
a mouse. Its under parts are densely covered
with fine, grayish hairs which form a perfect
waterproof vestment. It has sucking mouth-parts
and preys on other insects by catching and _ hold-
ing them with its forelegs, which are especially
formed for the purpose.

The shells of fresh water bivalves, scattered
along the shore, are also objects of interest. How
fragile they are, compared with those of the sea-
shore, or the salt-river bottoms! The rays of the
light, when they are held before the eye, are
transmitted as readily as through a fine piece of
porcelain.

The muskrats who have burrows in the banks,
evidently indulged in a clam supper last night, as
a change of diet. But few of the shells are
broken, and lie unhinged, with the rounded sides
down, showing the delicate bluish-white lining and
the beautiful iridescent hues. The platters have
been licked very clean, and the question is sug-
gested, How have these rodents, with no special
tools for the purpose, managed to open the tightly
closed valves so neatly? Jt appears that the
remarkable intelligence of the creatures directed
them to place these mollusks on the dry banks
and wait till the valves begin to yawn for their
native beds, when the acute furry fishers pull
APRIL AWAKENING. 27

them further apart with their claws and devour
the contents.

The perch and bream feel the influence of the
April sun, and are having a kind of dumb carousal
in this little sea, by splashing, “cutting eggs,” and
rumpling the smooth surface into a thousand rip-
ples. In the shallows, little schools of min-
nows ruffle the face of the pond, like cat-paw
breezes. It is curious to see how cautiously they
wriggle toward the shore in the warmer water.
They are so watchful of danger, that the least
movement or jarring sound sets them instantly
shooting off into greater depths. The blasting of
a ledge, half a mile away, is like a slight electric
shock to them. Simultaneously, they frizzle the
water in numerous spots and streaks, which seem
like the wind-puffs shooting over the pond.

The earliest of the arum spathes advertise
themselves to the wild bees: “Our doors are
open to-day to all who want bread, and it can be
had, by calling on us early.” The wise insects
read this in the air, as they peep from their winter
lodges and rub their antennz. So the pollen
gatherers lend humming wings to swell the April
melody.

’ That low slender sedge (carer Pennsylvanica),
in company with the early rock saxifrage, is now
in full bloom, on the dry, wooded hillsides. The
hairlike stems and leaves of this species would be
28 APRIL AWAKENING.

quite inconspicuous, were it not for the sudden
appearance of those Jarge yellow anthers, which
are in such striking contrast to the brown-purple
spikes.

Nature has been as painstaking in devising
means for the reproduction of this funny plant, as
she has for that of the towering pine tree. How
delicately adjusted on the fine, pliant stylus are
the long pollen cases, now stuffed full and burst-
ing open! The slightest breeze swings them to
and fro and scatters the fertilizing grains on the
pistillate flowers which are on separate heads,
situated just below them on the same culm.
The stigmas that have pushed themselves out
between the maroon scales, appear like tiny
feathers when viewed with the magnifier, and the
little vegetable tentacles, with which they are
thickly beset, will catch any chance pollen grain
that comes within their reach,

How different is the growth and fructification of
these common “horse-tails,” growing in the sandy
soil, by the stone wall, farther down the hill!
Hundreds of pale, succulent fruiting stems of
these curious plants are springing up from the
grass, like sprouts from the potato pen. They
have been lifted from the ground very quickly bf
the genial sun. No sign of them was visible a
week ago, and in a few days they will disappear as
suddenly as they came. Though not brilliant in
APRIL AWAKENING. 29

color, they readily attract attention by their odd
appearance, and are interesting to consider.

These singular cone-crowned shoots which pre-
cede the barren stems or branches, growing so
abundantly all through the summer, are the only
flowers that such plants have. Pluck the tallest
one and notice the grooves along its length and
the whorls of dark brown teeth which surround
the joints at regular intervals. Examine the
cone-like spike; it is composed of shield-shaped
scales which indeed, at first might be mistaken
for those kinds of flowers that are found in the
catkins of birches and alders, but look beneath
them carefully and you can see neither stamens
nor pistils. There are only thin, yellowish white
membranes, each one of which is folded not unlike
a toy paper whirligig, in six even folds. These
are the spore sacks, some of which have already
opened and discharged their contents on the
ground; others are yet closed, but when shaken
and ruptured, tiny clouds of dust are seen, for an
instant, floating in the air.

If you drop some of this dust on a glass plate:
and view it with a microscope you will see that
each one of these minute grains is a quite large,
globular, roughened body, at the base of which
are attached four long threads or hairs which
are extended when moist but as soon as they
become dry they are tightly coiled about the
30 APRIL AWAKENING.

spore. These filaments no doubt serve as kinds
of hooks or fingers, by which the spores are
entangled, thus preparing them for fertilization.
As soon as they sink in the moist ground they
push out irregular cellular roots or sprouts, on
the lobes of some of which, are developed certain
organs, that are allied to the anthers of common
blossoms, which contain curious minute spiral fila-
ments and perform the same offices as those of
ordinary pollen grains. On other sprouts are
organs which may be compared to the stigmas and
ovaries of flowering plants. At a certain stage of
growth these anther-like cells burst open and the
singular threads begin to wriggle like worms, and
are not at rest until by the aid of rain or dew-
drops, they have been carried to the ovule-like
sacks, when, in a mysterious way, fertilization is
effected. It is by some such method as this that
all flowerless plants or cryptogams, as they are
called, are reproduced.

By the streams and low-lands the bird vanguard
instinctively halt to bathe and obtain a greater
supply of Jarval and seed food. A flock of fox-
sparrows alight in the wooded swamp. They
appear, this year, in the role of April singers.
They perch on the low boughs and herald their
good fortune with sweet-toned bugles. Their
introductory notes are clear and prolonged, like a
diminished prelude to the bugler'’s reveille. Three
APRIL AWAKENING. 31

or four mimic blasts at first are sounded, then
the tune is continued to the end in a series of
crotchets, minims and trills, which no human
performer can imitate. Their instruments are
louder than those of the song sparrows, yet their
chant is much the same. Indeed there appears
to be a similarity of chirp and twitter in all
species of these plainly dressed birds. They
seem to have many words in common. As vari-
ous races of men pronounce nearly alike special
words, so this group has attained, by inheritance,
certain accents and inflections that, no doubt,
once belonged to a remote ancestor. The swamp
sparrow tells us in his song, how closely he is
related to Melospiza, and the bay-wing bunting
gives us a brief genealogical history at his vesper
service. Yet each of these birds has variations
peculiarly its own. Good music runs in the blood
of the finch family.

The trim, clean-cut figure of a pigeon hawk
gracefully sailing “head on” toward a tall beech
near where I am sitting, readily attracts my
attention. Perhaps a minute before the bird had
made up his mind to alight on this tree. If so, we
were probably the only creatures on earth, at the
time, that were regarding it. How easily he lifts
himself on his pliant wings and settles down on
a branch, as if he were only a bunch of feathers
lodged there by the breeze. After fixing his long
32 APRIL AWAKENING.

pinions carefully over his back, he casts quick, wist-
ful glances down to the stream as though he longed
to play a good talon and beak on a plump frog or
mouse. But he only sees game too large for him,
with which he dare not “enter the list,” and soon
hustles off toward the oak woods, the next station
on his air line, where refreshments are likely to be
procured.

How light and easy his flight is compared with
that of the crow! He carries more sail in propor-
tion to his weight and size, while that long, broad
tail helps to buoy him up, as he wheels and dips
and rolls on the aerial ocean. As he inclines to
one side, like a graceful yacht sailing on the wind
under full press of canvas, I can make out with a
glass his ashy-blue wings, marked with black and
white.

It was not long before that this same robber
was seen in the character of a bushranger. He
flew down like a rocket from an oak near by into
an elder bush for some small birds which had
been feeding on the ground amongst the shrub-
bery, but which, as they became aware of the
hawk’s presence, immediately huddled themselves
together at the foot of a thick bush to protect
themselves. The highwayman made three unsuc-
cessful attempts to capture a dinner; each time
rising about two feet above the bush and then
darting down, swiftly as an arrow shot from a
APRIL AWAKENING. 33

bow, into the snaggy shrub that threw out its
numerous pointed wooden spikes above him in
all directions, like a Cheval-de-frise. The white
throats, song sparrows and bay-wings, although
frightened and screaming with all their might,
were too cunning this time for the artful robber,
who flew away directly, as if ashamed of his blun-
ders and disgusted with his calling in life. Prob-
ably he had fallen in with these finches while
migrating, and followed them northward, taking
every opportunity to waylay them and practice
his rapacious tricks in the clumps and thickets
along the route.

How he managed to save those long wings and
come out of the dense bush barricade with a
whole skin, remains a mystery to me. Nature has
given him this facility of flight, as she has to
many other birds that are often seen playing
games of tag in the woods, and that zigzag here
and there through the interstices of the thick
undergrowth with marvelous rapidity. Quickness
of sight and dexterity of wing are required
to clear the thousand obstructions that grow in
their pathway; yet there are times, no doubt,
when accidents occur, and their gambols end in
disaster.

April has no fresher or more invigorating
sounds than the clear, ringing laughter of the
northward flying wild geese. It is the tonic or
34 APRIL AWAKENING,

keynote which generates, as it were, the music of
the month’s jubilee. How heartily and exultantly
the trumpet notes are thrown down to us, as the
winged trains go sweeping by! Our eyes and
ears are now on the alert, and we would have the
latest news from the South, by the air-line.
Hark! did we hear a faint mellow honk from
somewhere out of the southern sky? Yes, the
arrow-headed elevated express is surély approach-
ing. That peculiar baritone call from the engi-
neer, ahead, and the response of the tenor voices
in the rear, are unmistakable. Straight on they
come, as if by an aerial track, a laughing vocifer-
ous troop of passengers indeed. We half expect
the papers, from Vera Cruz or New Orleans, will
be thrown down to us. “Halloo!’’ they call,
“have you studied your geography? How far off
are the great lakes, the Labradors and the New-
foundland coasts? Ha! ha! honk, honk!’’

As the train moves down the curve, we listen
to the melodious babbling, as we would listen to
the dulcet strains of a retreating band, till, the
last muffled note steals on the ear, and the pleas-
ant murmurings of the jovial, hopeful crew are
silenced by the distance.

So April’s melody, the sweet prelude to the
concert of the year, is heard. The constant sun
is the performer. With his magic rays, he
touches deftly the minor keys, from which issue
APRIL AWAKENING. 35

tones to which the human ear can not respond.
The ephemerz dance; the sap flows through
millions of stems, and the earliest leaves and _ pet-
als unfold at last, that the “fickle month” may
be adorned, to welcome the arrival of her merry
sister May.
THROUGH LEAFY PATHS.

37
IIT.
THROUGH LEAFY PATHS.

WHEN the army of white-throats and Savannah
sparrows, in their migrations, have flown further
northward, and the ‘“‘chippies”’ have become more
abundant; when a few “chebecs”’ and ‘“‘towhees”’
are heard introducing themselves to the passers-
by, just before the bobolinks and orioles arrive,
it may be called the misty season in the woods.
You can name no special date when it is at its
height, for it comes from the buds so gradually
and ends in the larger, coarser spray with such
slowly measured growth; but while it lasts the
view of the young foliage, lingering on the
tangled network of twig and branch, like variously
colored scraps of vapor is, indeed, charming.

No system of color language can describe
accurately the various shades of the early dresses
of the trees. Many of the hues are softened
and subdued, in contrast to the gaudy colors of
autumn. Green, in its many tints, is from the

39
40 THROUGH LEAFY PATHS.

first put on numerous species. How becoming
are the Alders and the Birches in their fresh new
trimming! The leaves of the Oak’, Maples and
Hickories, just unfolding from the buds and fleck-
ing the sky with the mellow stains of yellows,
reds and browns, are especially attractive. The
conditions and surroundings of the trees have
much to do in painting the foliage before the
chlorophyll has dyed it for its summer’s work.
The saplings and sprouts of the White Oak are
decked with scraps of maroon velvet cut into the
regular established patterns, while the leaves of
older trees of the same species, on higher ground,
are often the color of amber or of half-ripe lemons.
The evenly plicated leaves of the Wild Cherry
shine like bronze in the sun. Here and there
the Large-Toothed Aspens have arrayed them-
selves in white silky-wool attire, and, as they rise
like clouds in fleecy masses amid the early spring
foliage of the hard-wood trees, form conspicuous
objects in the forest.

How exquisitely tender and transparent is the
new leaf of the American Basswood! I can
hardly bear to look through it at the sun. When
it is closely laid on paper, writing can easily be
seen through it. Viewed in the light, it assumes a
yellowish cast, and you not only see the slender
forked veins, extended at regular intervals from
the midrib, but hundreds of gossamer cross-lines,
THROUGH LEAFY PATHS. 41

like those of spiders’ webs, which form the frame-
work of the delicate structure. Its shape is
beautiful, with sweeps and curves, and its edges
are fringed with the finest teeth. What special
wood fairy has been appointed to give it such ele-
gant proportions, and to cut all of the leaves of
the 7Zi/zacee into the peculiar oblique, heart-
shaped pattern? The largest lobes at the bases
are invariably placed toward the young shoots,
and the leaves are arranged upon them so as to
secure the greatest amount of light and air.

The Beeches answer to the call of the sun a
few days later than the Basswoods. A _ copse
yonder on the hill-side is just beginning to put
out its broidery. Little mouse-ears of leaves,
clothed with silken hairs, are unfolding from the
brown, rusty scales and lengthened buds; yet,
curiously enough, the leaves on the twigs of a few
saplings that touch the boles of the larger trees
are already more than half grown! Was it the
partial shelter in which the buds were placed
during the winter that caused them to gain such
a start? The Beech-leaves are formed into the
most elegant designs. How fresh and beautiful
these premature ones appear against the smooth,
ashen-gray bark of the old trunks. They are
ovals, pointed and evenly scalloped. The straight,
prominent veins on the under surfaces, running
out to the very tips of the salient teeth, are drawn
42 THROUGH LEAFY PATHS.

as with a rule. The arrangement of these ribs,
however, is inclined to vary. In some specimens
these nerves are opposite along the basal half of
the midrib, but become alternate toward the point.
Some are alternate at the base, but become oppo-
site half way up, while on other leaves the ribs
are alternate or opposite throughout the entire
length.

The Dogwoods, or Cornels, too, are putting out.
There is a peculiar physiognomy about the leaves
of the species, though it can hardly be described,
which at once shows to the observing rambler
their Cornus blood. All of them have entire mar-
gins and are oval-shaped and pointed.

Along the swampy shore of a pond, where on
one side rises abruptly a rocky slope studded with
tall, straight Chestnut-trunks, I have paused to
note a small tree among the boulders which is not
very common in the northern and middle New
England woods. It is the flowering Dogwood,
Cornus florida, a big brother to the dwarf Bunch-
berry. With the exception of its humble relative
it is the only species here that has its flowers in
close heads. These heads are surrounded by four
large snow-white, corolla-like, heart-shaped leaves
that appear sometime before the little greenish
yellow flowers open, and, when viewed amidst the
young foliage or against the gray background of
boles, ledges and the dead leaves of the forest-
THROUGH LEAFY PATHS, 43

floor, present a very striking appearance. It is a
notable example of those kinds of plants that
throw out their signal flags to the honey-gathering
insects. It knows the importance of showy
advertisement. Were it not for these conspicuous
flyers the early bees and moths would pass them
by unnoticed, and thus, by the neglect of cross
fertilization, render the seeds and fruit less healthy
and vigorous. But how quickly the leaf-builders
work. Before May has ended many of the leaves
have attained their full growth and spread them-
selves along the branchlets in huge green flakes
and slanting pinnacles that swing in the breeze as
if they delighted in their luxuriousness; every
shrub and tree yields foliage after its kind. There
are patterns of hearts, rounds, ovals, spattels,
spears and shields. Some are smooth and _pol-
ished, others hairy and crimpled, some with their
edges entire or cut into hundreds of different
pretty borders; each species of plant taking on
the form, size and texture of leaf according to its
“peculiar structure and organization, habits and
requirements.”

As the foliage grows, the birds look aeub them
for building sites. How they delight in the
leaves! They afford covers for their roofless
houses and shelter from the scorching rays of the
sun. They are screens and curtains for them,
and form thousands of little crypts, lurking-holes
44 THROUGH LEAFY PATHS.

and back-stair retreats. A warbler, flying into a
thick-leaved maple or beegh for safety, is as com-
pletely concealed as the loon that dives in the
lake. In the early spring, it is curious to see the
sparrows, feeding in the open field, instinctively
take to the bare trees and bushes along the bor-
ders, for protection; their habit of flying to their
natural hiding-places has become so strongly fixed.
Yet, if they stopped to consider, they would be
more effectually hidden in the russet stubble lands.

How interesting now is the ceremony of the
woods, and how inspiring to worship in “the
temple not made with hands.” “Let us open
morning service by reading the leaves,’’ says the
hairy woodpecker, as he gives a few taps upon a
beechen trunk. Immediately a rustling is heard
among the oaks and maples, as in the congre-
gation when the minister announces a hymn.
The pines and hemlocks wave their branchlets in
perfect time, as they sing in undertones. The
brook plays the organ, and the thrushes, as they
flit through the aisles, chant psalms in mellow

oices:
voices es

“The things that be
Are verily
More than — more than — you see.”

It is a large auditorium and there are many
pleasant vestibules, chancels and cloisters, with
THROUGH LEAFY PATHS. 45

pillars trimmed with vines and perfumed with
the incense of mint and balm; where the flies are
trying their tuning-forks, the bees are humming
busy, contented airs, and the gay butterflies are
zigzagging with noiseless wings through the leafy
ways. Here are rocks and failen trunks for pews,
softly cushioned with mosses, lichens and liver-
worts. Who has ever seen richer or more beauti-
ful upholstery ?

If the worshiper is observing, he will find
many of the leaves are real folios on which are
nicely mounted many a curious little knob, rosette
and spangle, which are prepared by the sylphs
and gnomes of the woods. Perchance he may
read a most interesting page on caterpillar weav-
ing, with a living, moving illustration before his
eyes. A naked larva has feasted well on the
green pulp and now, as it feels the pupal sleep
approaching, is busy in making its bed. Through
the fine, transparent web the little worker regu-
larly moves to and fro, its magic shuttles drawing
out and fastening to the leaf yards of the delicate
silken thread, as white and as lustrous as new
silver.

Everywhere are seen grayish-white blotches
and crooked trails, on the oak leaves, that are
quite conspicuous objects against a dark-green
background. These are made by a tiny leaf
miner, the larva of a delicate little “Micro,”
46 THROUGH LEAFY PATHS,

named Lithocelletes. It is quite nearly related to
the destructive caterpillar of the clothes-moth, but
luckily for the housekeepers, it has taken to a
vegetable, instead of a woollen diet. As soon as
it is hatched from the egg, it begins to make a
home for itself by separating the upper cuticle of
the leaf, beneath which it is protected from the
greedy birds, and where it finds an excellent
larder. By what special sense does the little
moth, winging her way among the foliage, know
the difference between the leaves of the oaks and
those of the maples and hickories? If the stray
flutterer should by accident deposit her ova on
other kinds of leaves, it would be interesting to
know if her progeny would prosper. On the
under surface of this oak-leaf are several clusters
of black specks so minute that they appear, to
the unassisted eye, like blotches of granulated
powder. Under the magnifier, these specks are
seen to be little bottle-shaped eggs, finely pol-
ished like jet, and cemented to the leaf at regular
intervals. There is a whitish spot on the top of
each, like the scar on seeds, which, at a certain
stage of development, is ruptured and forms a
passage, through which the larva escapes.

The insect that deposits these eggs is a most
singular hemipterous “bug.” Its abdomen, tho-
rax and head above are entirely covered with thin
gray scales, netted, veined and margined with
THROUGH LEAFY PATHS. 47

sharp spines. It is not over an eighth of an inch
long, and appears like an animated bit of dry leaf,
as it slowly crawls along, and seems unwilling to
quit its roof.

Here is a hickory leaf rolled up as regularly as
a cigarette by a leaf-rolling caterpillar! The
inhabitant after a long spell of feasting fell asleep
and then woke up to find itself with wings, to
make a part of the summer’s day. Its parent
deposited a single egg in the expanding bud,
early in the season. As soon as the young larva
appeared, it became necessary for it to eat; but it
must eat in safety. So nature, knowing its needs
beforehand, provided the means. Under its skin
were placed two long pockets (silk glands) stuffed
full of the needed material. With its curious
spinneret, which is really its under-lip formed into
a short tube, it began, like a conjurer, to draw
from its mouth line after line of the silken thread,
and glued it at intervals along the edges of the
young tender leaf. All the guys being stretched
and in their proper places, the little work-worm
took its position midway along them, and per-
formed a series of contortions—pulling, wrenching
and jerking until the leaf was furled as neatly as a
sprit-sail. Then the little glutton, hungry after
its labors, gorged itself with the green pulp. The
curled leaf, after awhile, appeared with almost as
many holes as a grater, but before the little
48 THROUGH LEAFY PATHS.

inhabitant ate itself quite out of its home, it
secured another leaf growing by its side which it
rolled up in the same manner. So it continued
to roll leaf after leaf, until it had reached its full
measure of caterpillarhood, and was ready to take
its pupal nap. How well it had managed to pro-
tect itself from the sharp-eyed birds, which have
not yet learned all the tricks and designs of the
cunning moths!
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

49
IV

THE CITY OF THE BIRDS,

“HALF our May’s so awfully like mayn’t!”
sings “Hosea Biglow.” If the pastoral poet had
written this line in regard to the uncertainty of
New England’s spring weather in the year 1888,
he might with aptness, if not with good measure,
have said three-quarters instead of half, for the
pleasant days were the exception. But now the
month of ‘perfect days” has come. It really
seems as if the arbitrary line between Spring and
Summer, so long established by man, had at last
become a veritable material boundary, and June,
standing within the limit of her tenure, had with
sunny face and sweet breath and uplifted voice,
exclaimed against her predecessor, ‘“ Depart! blow
not your cold winds and rains upon the world.”

June is the month well adapted for the repro-
duction of the birds, and in New England, at
least, many of the species lay their eggs, hatch
them and feed the young during her reign.

51
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 53

now more than ever inspired and glowing with the
master passion.

On a road that crosses a swampy wooded tract
I have suddenly halted to listen to a full, round,
mellow warble, sounded almost overhead high up
in the branches of an old willow. For a long
time the singer remains there, repeating his
roundelay at half-minute intervals, but he is so
hidden by the thick foliage that it is impossible to
obtain a good view of him. What skillful min-
strel is this, playing upon such a silver-toned
trumpet? Surely I have never heard the like
before. In what colors is he dressed? Is he a
straggler from the South or West, ranging these
woods to surprise the natives? These questions
I try to answer by various manceuverings, when a
small bird emerges from the thick leaves, and
with wavy flight wings his way to the top of a
white birch, a short distance off. He is so full of
music that before he has fairly reached his next
perch some of the liquid notes have drifted from
his bill into the air. From this angle of vision,
and in a good light, he is caught at last. A bird
with black cheeks bordered above with light gray,
a yellow throat, an olive back and a rounded tail.
Why, it is the Maryland yellow-throat, after all!
Who would have suspected that he could have
learned such delicious strains, or that the habit of
this humble warbler of bush and brake could
54 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

become so entirely transformed? Truly a change,
and the cause of his unusual hilarity is the tender
sympathy he has for his spouse, down there on
her nest in some sedge tussock by the stream,
who, perchance, with nice discernment, compares
its laughing ripples with those of her devoted
mate above her, in the topmost boughs.

A half dozen lively salutes from as many
yellow-throats greet me as I walk along the edge
of the wood, but the supplemental song, such as
that just listened to, is not heard. May there not
be among the Oscines, as in persons, particular
individuals with glottis and larynx peculiarly
formed by accident, which make them exception-
ally good singers? One frequently comes upon
song-sparrows, distinguished by having an extra
prolonged trill in the midst of their tunes, and
many of the towhees shake out, for effect, a few
additional quavers after introducing themselves.
Observers have given interesting accounts of the
supplemental serenade of the Oven-bird (Szzras
Auricapillus) a brother to the wag-tail that feeds
by the streams earlier in the season. Mr. Bur-
roughs says, ‘He launches into the air and bursts
into a perfect ecstasy of song, clear, ringing, copi-
ous.”’ One suspects, however, that these extraor-
dinary singers are comparatively rare, and the
additional performance is given only by certain
few individuals, who know their musical powers.
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 55

Through a colonnade in Birdsville flows a beau-
tiful stream. It has many phases and _ tones.
Here, where it slips over flat, moss-covered rocks,
are whispering and purling sounds. Further on,
hollow laughter is heard, as the water runs under
mimic caverns. Smiles ripple over the transpar-
ent faces of little pools, then the waters break
forth in high glee and skip along on their journey.
Suddenly there comes to you a sound as of the
clapping of myriads of tiny hands, as the merry
drops splash on the boulders and go dancing and
whirling in winding column to the Charles.

On the banks of this stream, half hidden in an
alder clump, I often linger to watch the bathers.

The different species of finches and thrushes
are confident and bold in their approach to the
bath, but many of the wood warblers draw near
with the greatest caution, flitting like shadows
amongst the shrubbery, and peering at me with
many graceful turnings of their pretty heads, and
daintily choosing steps of every convenient little
twig, in their descent to the stream.

There are, however, in some species exceptions
to this rule. The black-and-white creeper, for
example, hops along the bank till he finds a suit-
able place, where he plunges in, and seems to be
as cool a bather as the common song-sparrow.

After following the course of the stream, I
turned to walk across an old pasture, toward a
56 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

swamp fringed with sedge hummocks, and over-
grown with brier and arrow-wood. It is the haunt
of several kinds of birds, in one of which I am
especially interested.

Drawing near, I hear again the song, which is
expressive of alarm; not an outcry of terror, but a
forcible, impetuous note, rather calling to arms for
defense. One is reminded at first of the startled
note of the wood-thrush, or the cat-bird in some of
his fantastic moods.

Chip-cher-we-e-e-er ! blows the bugler, among the
leaves of a young white birch. Notwithstanding
his clear and vehement challenge he takes precious
care to hide himself.

For a while he is silent, during which I move
cautiously, on hands and knees, to a position from
where every interstice of leaf and twig is closely
examined; but still no signs of the bird. It is a
game of hide-and-seek, in which the singer has
thus far the advantage.

‘Just as the would-be interviewer is about to
relieve his cramped limbs, the bugle is sounded
again from an arrow-wood bush some _ yards
away.

How the musician got there without being
observed, is a mystery. Yet there he is, piping as
loudly as ever, but this time on a different key as if
another kind of tactics was to be adopted —chum-
we-e-e-er-chu-which ! a solo full of trills, quavers
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 57

and vibrations, admirably performed and repeated
at half-minute intervals.

Resolved to know the trumpeter, however
annoying this selfish, ill:mannered peeping may be
to him, I settled myself to await developments.

At last, a glint of ash and white, borne on dark
wings, comes out from among the leaves; but
again vanishes like a shade, a mere tuft of feath-
ers, blown rapidly past, and only seen for an
instant.

The bird strikes up another kind of tune, not
heard before, in a shrub twenty feet away. It is
so full of demiquavers and sudden transitions,
corresponding to his violent emotions, that it
is impossible to write it in syllables.

The squall of the cat-bird is introduced, as if he
had just caught it from his neighbors, and used it
as a means to frighten one away.

After much turning of neck and head, the min-
strel is seen. A dark-green bird, nearly the shade
of the leaves, with ashen breast, white underparts,
light-yellow sides, and a marking of dark yellow
on the frontal feathers and along the cheeks.

The iris of the eye is white, and gleams like a
fifer’s as he shakes the fragments of notes from
his throat. The curious white circle which sur-
rounds the pupil is an exception to the general
color of the eyes of birds.

In the majority of perchers, at least, the iris is
58 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

dark. So this is the key that enables me to
unlock the mystery. It is the white-eyed vireo
—a stranger which I have often heard, but have
never seen before.

So different is he from other members of the
family, in song and action, that his relationship
was not at first suspected. Most of the vireos
have soft, pleasant voices, but this little species,
scarcely five inches long, is so noisy and harsh at
times as to lead one to believe, if the bird is not
seen, that the sound comes from a much larger
throat.

No wonder that he appears anxious, for right
below where he is now piping is his home—a
miniature gunny-sack, suspended from the fork of
a slender wild-rose twig, not more than two feet
from the ground.

It is a large, deep nest for so small a bird, and
strongly lashed to the bush with tough roots and
grass spears. On the outside are bits of moss
and a small scrap of newspaper, on which is
printed “Rooms to Let’’—as if the builder had
given notice to the cow blackbirds—and withes
of sedge, drawn tightly round and crossed as
bands, to keep the nest in the proper shape.

Within the cavity, which seems to be lined
with no softer substance than fine grasses, are
four white, brown-dotted eggs.

I look upon them with feelings akin to those of
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 59

the miner, who finds his nuggets of gold after
long and weary searching, and yet as treasures
that must not be taken away.

Here is the very essence of the bird’s life con-
centrated in this little nest; the result of a thou-
sand miles’ journey, and much sharp searching
for this particular fork; the cause of exultation
and song, and weeks of watching and anxious
concern.

Now that I have discovered the home, the
mother — who, by-the-way, resembles her mate,
and sings as well as he—makes no effort to
conceal herself, but hops about the bushes near
by, uttering a series of exclamations and ahs /
much in the tone of the mother who forbids her
child handling any costly or easily-broken article.
There is an expression in her tone and action
hard to resist, and, as I withdraw, she immedi-
ately flits to the edge, looks down on her precious
casket of pearls, and finally settles upon them, for
the incubating fever has evidently taken posses-
sion of her.

In how short a time the eggs are hatched, and
how quickly the nestlings grow! Hardly a fort-
night has passed since these little white-eyes were
lying quiet and dumb, and exquisitely arranged
within the nest.

Nature, though she has made a thousand ene-
mies that prey on just such defenseless house-
60 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

holds, has also provided means for their protection,
not only in the consummate skill of hiding their
nests, but in the rapid development of their
young.

They must not remain too long in the same
locality, however well concealed they may be, for
the prowlers would be sure to find them out at
last. So they are brought into the world at
the time when crawling and flying insects most
abound, that the little gluttons may be generously
fed, and hastened into strength of body and wing
necessary for escape.

It is a notable picture that I see on the rose
twig under the arrow-wood. A flower has blos-
somed near the doorstep, and the anxious mother
stands transfixed at the edge of her nest, as if
some taxidermist had prepared and wired her to
the spot; yet her unwinking eye, with its odd
white circle round the pupil, gleams with the light
of parental solicitude which a round bit of painted
glass could not send forth.

It is evident that the bird is remaining thus
motionless, and trusting to her harmonizing colors
for concealment, for it is not till I have drawn
near enough to have touched her, and just when
my attention for an instant is given to a dozen
blood-thirsty mosquitoes, that she flies off to
begin her scolding.

None of the young birds are missing. Four
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 61

voracious, wide-open mouths are upturned to
receive the insect morsels.

Their necks are hardly strong enough yet to
support the large, heavy, shot-eyed heads, that, in
their strained, ill-balanced positions, wobble about
blindly for a moment, and then sink down in the
bottom of the nest, an exhausted and palpitating
mass.

The male, that was so brave at first, is now not
seen —a mean, worthless fellow, thus to fly away
at the least sign of danger! Indeed, I believe
this ignoble trait is a characteristic of the vireo
husbands —very attentive in the honeymoon, to-
be-sure, but taking no part in the house-building,
and leaving the trial of incubation and the care
and support of the young entirely to the devoted
mothers.

His near relative, the red-eyed vireo, is strongly
suspected of this irresponsible manner of getting
through the season. His low, contented fre ree,
pre re-0, pre r-e-e-e, high up in the branches of the
trees, is heard, as though he had not a thought
even of his hungry wife, now confined to her
eggs, down there in the willow.

Within the cool shade of the hemlock wood,
where among the needle-leaved branches overhead
the light breezes play weird tunes, and through
the skylights moving shreds and blotches of sun-
light are here and there thrown on the moss-
62 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

covered ledges that form the steep acclivity of
the forest floor, I pause awhile to listen to the
pathetic piping of the veery, the drowsy song of
the black-throated green warbler that has lodged
his nest somewhere in these dim arches; or to
watch the gray squirrels as they scamper from
tree to tree and disturb the solemn service of the
temple with strange, unorderly barkings.

Here on a slope, in a narrow niche of ledge
where a drift of dead leaves has blown in, I dis-
cover by mere accident the nest of the black-and-
white creeping warbler. The bird is on and does
not stir, though I stand within three feet of her.
How still she is, and what bravery and hardihood
shines out of her full black eye! She does not
even wink, and in breathing I can not see a
feather move. She might be mistaken for the
various lights and shades on the ground, or a bit
of gray ledge projecting from the leaves.

Nature has been wise and far-seeing in giving
to ground-nesting birds the colors which nearly
simulate their surroundings, and the instinct of
remaining quiet on their nests when danger is
near. If the mother birds fluttered off at the
approach of every footstep or wing shadow, how
quickly their homes would be discovered by the
numerous enemies that are lurking above and
below for a stray dish of omelette, or a mess of
well-picked, fresh young fowl! At last, when
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 63

every contrivance that Nature has provided, with
the exception of wings, has failed her, she takes
to them for protection, flitting away as silently as
a shadow.

It seems as if the bird, with well-considered
forethought, located her nest where the common
biped or quadruped stroller would not be likely to
tread upon it. How exquisitely the little cavity
is formed in the side of the sloping drift of leaves,
as if a small cannon-ball had been pressed into the
mass, leaving there a nicely-moulded hollow! On
the highest side of the incline the builder has, with
much skill and sagacity, pulled out from beneath
the solid heap many of the leaves, so that a half
roof or gablet is formed, and one looking down,
directly above the nest, can not see it. The
leaves within are broken into fine bits and well
packed and trimmed with breast and wing, and
neatly arranged around the rim. To make her
bed more elastic, and also to keep the leaf-scraps
in place, the careful little architect has woven in
and glued to them, in the most ingenious way, a
number of black and white horse hairs, as if she
had chosen these particular colors to suit her own.
Where did she find them? Not in the stables or
city streets nor open fields, for she is rarely or
never seen in such places. Not in these woods,
for no kind of cattle visit them. On distant wood
roadsides and scrub pasture-lands, perhaps, she has
64 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

flown and searched sharply for them, in places
where dull-sighted mortals could not have found
a single spear in a month.

In this admirably wrought spring mattress, are
four eggs, three of which are small, oval, cream-
tinted and marked with quite large, chestnut-
colored blotches. The fourth is disproportion-
ately larger, and so unsuited to the character of
the tiny nest that, though dumb and quiescent, it
plainly tells a story of uncivil intrusion and ill
breeding. Ah! this is the egg of that uninvited
guest, the cow blackbird, a veritable tramp and
parasite among the birds. She never takes the
pains to build a house of her own, nor shows any
signs of maternal love, but skulks here and there
about the woods and fields, invariably choosing
the nests of birds smaller than herself in which to
practice her impositions, and trusts to luck for a
successful issue. Notwithstanding her lawless,
vagabond ways, she is very cunning, and knows
that if she lays more than one egg in a single
nest the enterprise would prove disastrous. The
brothers or sisters to this shelled scapegrace that
appears before me, helpless and innocent enough,
perhaps lie in four or five other nests.

The red-start and Maryland yellow-throat, down
there in the swamp, have one apiece to take care
of. The lesser fly-catcher takes the responsibil-
ity under protest, and the vireos, in their good-
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 65

natured, sweet-songed, contented ways of life, are
sure to be imposed upon by this shameless inter-
loper. It would be interesting to know how she
had found this half-concealed nest; whether she
had watched, with her large eyes, from a distance,
the progress of building and the deposition of a
certain number of eggs before she ventured near,
or had come upon it by accident.

How curious is this aberrant habit of the cow-
bird! Perhaps the ancestors of these blackbird
tramps were, as Mr. Darwin suggests of the cuck-
oos of Europe, once legitimate builders, but in the
course of time they found out by occasionally
laying eggs in the homes of other species, that
they “profited by it, through being able to migrate
earlier, or some other cause”; the young thus
reared would be apt to follow by inheritance the
habits of their mother, till at last these birds have
lost the art of nest-building altogether, and shifted
the labor of rearing their young on distant, well-
disposed relations.

For a week all went well with my sitting bird,
but one morning, when I had determined to visit
her ledge and relieve it of the alien egg before it
should become a big gormandizer, thus starving
out the rightful owners, I was grieved by seeing
the mourning weeds and cypress about the door,
and a deserted nest. Some keen-scented foot-pad
squirrel or weasel, a crow or jay highwayman, had
66 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

passed along and eaten the luckless creeper out of
house and home.

In the neighborhood, the presumable head of the
bereaved household is flying hither and thither,
perching on the boughs, lifting his head and open-
ing and shutting his slender mandibles, like the
movement of a pair of delicate scissors, as he cuts
the air with his sharp insect-like voice. Whether
this is meant as an imprecation, a cry of lamenta-
tion, or a song of hopefulness, I cannot say. It is
likely the mother-bird will set about at once to
prospect for another building site. How interest-
ing it would be to follow her various methods and
attitudes of investigation, her final decision in
choosing a locality and her way of making such a
dainty home. But there are so many things to
hide her when she is on private business, that one
can not expect to be entertained by such a delight-
ful peep-show.

The fact that birds, when their nests have been
rifled, should immediately lay a new set of eggs,
strikes one as very curious. If all had gone well
with this creeper, more than a month would have
passed before the mother would think. of raising
another family, or perhaps she would be content
with only one brood for the season. But no
sooner has the accident occurred when, by the will
of the mother, other imperfect ova are rapidly
developed and ready for deposition by the time a
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 67

new nest is built. The female golden-winged
woodpecker offers a remarkable example of evolv-
ing immature ova at pleasure, and if robbed of her
treasures will continue to produce several success-
ive litters, appearing as inexhaustible as the con-
jurer’s hat. Nature has made this special provi-
sion with the birds generally, knowing full well
how many of the children, in their greediness,
are disinclined to remember the sixth and eighth
commandments.

A few days after this tragedy I chanced to find
another creeper’s nest, but it told the same old
story; a fraudulent cow-bird had been playing
her tricks again. There within the exquisitely-
moulded cavity, lay the young tramp in creeper’s
skin, nearly fledged, and four reddish, blotched,
cream-tinted eggs, still unhatched. Evidently
the credulous mother is tired of sitting, and
devotes her time in feeding the roguish little glut-
ton, who, with eyes wide open, looks up, I fancy,
in a kind of cow-birdish way, as if half ashamed to
be seen in such a place. The deluded creeper’s
acting is a phenomenon of great interest, and
under the circumstances has in it a kind of
pathetic humor. How hard she tries to entice
me from the nest that is profaned! How well
she assumes the character of a wounded bird —
the creeping, limping step and the trailing wing
are almost perfect. It is curious, after she has
68 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

dragged herself out of sight, as she thinks, to
observe how quickly she drops the part she has
been playing. She flys on the trees and scampers,
sprightly enough, along the branches and up and
down the trunks, manifesting her solicitude in the
natural way, after her character performance has
failed in its purpose. When and how did these
mother birds learn to impersonate so perfectly?
They seem to understand clearly that people
think they are pretty and wish to get nearer to
them, or hold them in their hands, and so, from
some unaccountable source, they have conceived
the idea of adopting this artifice to tempt one to
follow them, whenever their nests are in danger
of being discovered.

Considering how wise they are in this respect,
one would suppose they could not be played upon
so easily by the cunning cow-bird.

It was my intention to be present when the
young scapegrace should leave the nest, and to
ascertain, if possible, whether the foster mother
still continued to feed it; but its development had
been so rapid that it escaped, probably a short
time previous to my return to the spot, the next
day. Although the little impostor could not be
found, I am quite confident that the creeper knew
where it was and had an occasional eye and worm
for it, for she was seen flitting here and there
above the trees in the neighborhood, but with the
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 69

air of a bird, I imagined, that was beginning to
think there was something wrong.

What were her feelings when her suspicions
became fully aroused? Anger and disappoint-
ment? ‘Or was she a little stoic, submitting
without a sorrowful or querulous “czp” to the
inevitable?

The circumstances connected with the final
misfortune of this ill-fated nest-hold are curious.
Nature, after all, appears to have been in league
with the indolent, though by no means shiftless,
mother cow-bird, and encouraged her in her art-
ful, knavish habits. Her egg, laid in this nest,
evidently required a shorter period of incuba-
tion, and when it was hatched, the poor deluded
mother, who was no doubt surprised to find a
nestling stirring beneath her so soon, immediately
began to feed it, thus leaving her own eggs, now
in a critical condition, to spoil. The embryos
within the legitimate eggs, now deserted and
chilled, were scarcely more than half grown, and
had become decayed.

Here in the open upland woods I saunter in
little by-paths to admire the zigzag course of a
tiny moth whose wings are painted with the hue
of the hepatica, and the quick, jerky motion of
that large black and yellow butterfly — Papzlio
Turnus —that wanders everywhere as if in search
of something it never finds. The remarkable
7O THE CITY OF THE BIRDS,

skill that all these kinds of insects possess of
changing their course in flight so quickly every
instant, and of hiding themselves so suddenly, has
been given them for the purpose of protection.

Along the green and brown forest floor are
scattered, like brilliant figures on a dusky and
rumpled carpet, little plots of partridge berry blos-
soms, into each tube of which has been stuffed
a bit of pink wool, redolent with the odor of
Mitchella) Here is a pod of a starflower, in
which is a round dozen of angular, rough, white-
coated seeds. How compactly and neatly Nature
stows away her grains until she wishes to sow
them !

But the rarest thing shown to me in this ram-
ble, is the very interesting and characteristic nest
of the golden crown thrush. As I pass by a
drift of dry leaves lodged in a scanty growth of
whortleberry bushes, the mother bird shoots out
from the brown mass, and appears for an instant,
like a dark, tremulous streak along the ground,
and then disappears amidst the foliage of the sur-
rounding shrubbery. A thorough search among
the various little bosses and hummocks brings to
light, at last, after much peering and prying, a
house built by a pair of these ingenious archi-
tects. A miniature Dutch oven it seems on
the exterior! A perfect little bird hut, with a
roof made of several layers of dry leaves well
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 71

cemented together. On the summit of the dome
has been placed longitudinally a number of weed
stalks, stripped midribs and pine needles, as a
kind of finishing touch to the work. Altogether
it is not unlike the thatched roof of an African
hut, or a “cap” that farmers place over their
shocks of wheat and corn to protect them from
the weather. Besides, the leaf-tent has been well
lashed down with hairs and fine roots, close
around the edge of the real nest, which, as I peer
into the small opening left for the entrance and
exit of the builders, I can see is lodged in a
hollow, so that the brim is even with the sur-
face of the ground. It is so dark within, and
the cavity so deep, that the contents can not be
seen. Accordingly, half ashamed of intruding
and prying into the affairs of their private his-
tory, I gently insert my finger within the oven
and feel four or five tiny eggs, which will soon be
done, no doubt, into as many golden crowns.
Singularly enough, the birds do not scold me for
my indecorous conduct, but the male, as I hurry
away from the spot, utters his “/cacher, teacher,
teacher,’ in a suppressed tone, as if half afraid of
being heard, but yet not entirely able to withhold
an expression of glad relief from the brief but
severe season of anxiety.

Day by day the mystic spell of incubation took
firmer hold of the mother. My few subsequent
72 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS,

visits near the charmed spot during the critical
period, never disturbed her. Once I stopped
directly in front of her house and saw just a patch
of her yellowish olive-green wing through the
door, but who would have suspected that it was
a part of a living bird in that mass of dead leaves?
Not even the squirrel scampering along the
branches over her head knows it, nor have those
sharp-eyed, black odlogists, the crows, that are
stalking about dangerously near, taken the hint.
Every day I trembled for her amidst so many per-
ils. When heavy showers descended and beat
upon the leafy dome, I thought of her steadfast-
ness and sublime devotion. News soon came from
the nursery that all but one of the little golden
crowns had strayed from the parental roof. One
child, however, seeing a loose end of a horse hair,
had, in his greediness, no doubt, mistaken it for a
worm, and in trying to swallow it, it had stuck
fast in his throat. The other end was so
strongly woven within the nest mass that it was
impossible for the little fellow to free himself. A
wonder, indeed, that the crows had not stolen a
march, and made mince-meat of him long ago.
What a fever of excitement the old birds were in,
as I drew near and saw the situation of affairs!
They threw themselves at my feet and trailed
their wings and snapped their bills, and uttered
such loud cries of distress that they brought every
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 73.

small bird within the neighborhood to see what
was the matter. The veery chirped peevishly
near by; the chewink left his scratching for a
while to see if he could offer any assistance; of
course the vireos came to gratify their curiosity ;
a black-throated green warbler spun out a fine
note of sympathy, from alow limb. Madam Cat-
bird spread her fan and rustled her feathers
in high temper and scolded from her window,
« Such a disgraceful proceeding, carried on in our
city!”

The fledgling’s plumage was the exact shade of
the dry leaves around him. There were to be
seen no traces yet of the golden feathers that
would crown him later in life. His wide gape
was edged with yellow, and his legs of the same
bright color seemed almost as long and stout as
those of the full-grown birds. As I held him in
my hand to sever the last cord that bound him to
his home, I pondered on the subject of his first
migration, and the difficulties that would beset
him on every wing. In how short a time this
awkward weakling must gather strength to jour-
ney through the trackless air, far Southward, over
mountains, rivers, lakes and seas, to Central
America, the West Indies or Bermuda Islands,
where these kinds of birds are seen in the Winter!

It was while walking in this bird metropolis
that I first became acquainted with the field-spar-
74 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

row. Perhaps I had seen him a hundred times
before, and carelessly passed him by, thinking
him to be our familiar little chippy, which he so
much resembles; but now as he is scolding me so
hard, I pause to look him straight in the face with
the glass, and find, to my great interest and satis-
faction, that he is not the hair bird at all, but his
brother; a sparrow, as Mr. Minot truthfully says,
not so well known as he deserves to be. Now
that I have been introduced to him I can readily
discern the characteristic differences which the
scientific classifier has pointed out. He has no
clearly-defined light lines about his chestnut
crown, he lacks the black forehead and eye stripe,
his bill is reddish brown, not black, as is that of
the chippy, while his tail is longer, not having
such a deep notch at the end. Besides these
special dissimilarities, there are certain peculiari-
ties of habit and temper, a something in his
actions, easily seen, but difficult to describe, that
distinguishes him from his near relation.

Chippy always, I believe, builds either in the
shrubs or on the lower branches of the trees, but
his brother often chooses a building site on the
ground, under a juniper, or in some low bush.
Chippy’s eggs are bright bluish green, thickly
scrawled and dotted with dark purple, while the
field-sparrow’s are smaller, grayish white and
sparsely marked with brown blotches.
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 75

On the corner of awild cherry clump and bram-
ble patch, Mrs, Chestnut-sided Warbler sits all
day long, guarding her jewels by a curtained
window. What a time for quiet bird contempla-
tion! Perhaps she thinks of the bees buzzing
over her head among the raspberry blooms, for
nectar, or the soft rustling of scores of moths and
butterflies’ wings; wings as white as snow-flakes,
as blue as the June sky; sooty, flame-colored and
yellow wings, rising and falling aslant or flutter-
ing ‘topsy turvy’’ down through the thick leaves
close to her nest. Sometimes a breeze sweeps
through the bushes, and rocks her house “from
pillar to post,” but she understands the riotous
wind and clings the closer. If it were possible
for a hand to shake her tiny structure in such a
way, how quickly she would fly from it. But she
is a sturdy little bird, and it is only when you
have carefully lifted up the last leaf that conceals
her back that you hear her slip away through the
thickly-growing stems, out of sight.

The cup-like nest, composed of tough grasses,
fine bark strips and weed stalks, is securely lashed
on one side to a raspberry shoot and on the other
side to a small choke-cherry sapling, while a num-
ber of slender under-growing stems beneath, help
to support it. Madam is an excellent designer,
but looking at the nest at first, one might suppose
she slighted her work, after the frame had been
76 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

put up. She is not such a good chinser as her
near relation, the yellow warbler. Beside the
trusses and girders, there is a lining of hair and
fine roots, so sparingly laid on the inner side of
the south-western walls, that one can easily
see through them. It would seem, however, that
this side of the nest was left unfinished for a pur-
pose, and not through any lack of faithfulness of
the builder. In the few nests of this bird
observed by me, a thin spot in walls has always
been noticed. Evidently the peculiar physical
condition of the young of the chestnut-sides
demands a good ventilation while they are being
hovered.

In the nest are five tiny white eggs, somewhat
abruptly tapered and marked with dark purple
spots and blotches around the larger end. How
curious are the hieroglyphic characters that have
been traced on the eggs of the warblers! They
are speckled, scrawled, brindled and clouded with
the various shades of browns and reds. Strangely
enough, in the majority of cases, the crowns of the
eggs are more thickly blotched and spotted! In
reading the descriptions of the different eggs of
this family of birds, I came upon the following
phrases: “With reddish spots or blotches around
the larger end.” “Marked around the larger end
with a wreath.” ‘Grouped in a ring about the
crown.” ‘Clouded delicately at the larger end
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 77

with purple and lilac,” etc. Who has questioned
nature closely enough to know how and why she
has pictured them so? From what mysterious
vesicle has she mixed her colors, or in what port-
folio does the magic pencil lie?

As I sit here, where the sunlight scarcely breaks
in through the thick evergreens, listening to the
various sounds, and looking at the little clusters
of red and yellow toad-stools that have sprung up
as if by magic through the mosses, and the pretty
scalloped water pennywort leaves, some of which
are as white as snow, but quite fresh, and grow-
ing like the green ones, my eye chances to fall
on a bird, perched on a low, small limb near a
tall, decayed birch stump, in which a pair of tit-
mice or chickadees had chiseled out a home. The
door is quite conspicuous and appears like a
round, black spot painted on the white, gleaming
background. It is evident that a family of young
birds are within, for the mother, with a fat span-
ner in her beak, now flits down through the leaves
and eyes me suspiciously. It is interesting to
watch all her ways, her bright, strategic plans, and
her little games of deception in trying to enter
her door-way without being seen. Finding me
unwilling to stir from my post of observation, she
flies away, making a wide circuit among the thick
branches, and approaches the nest from another
direction. There is a struggle in her plump
78 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

breast between the maternal affection and the
worm appetite, but the love for her children con-
quers. In her beak she still holds the tasteful
caterpillar, the ends of which dangle as she turns
her head again to sce what frightful robber of
the woods she has to deal with.

Again she moves away with short, mincing
flight, as though she had not a chick in the world
to care for, and pretends to hunt among the
boughs for food. It is amusing, and a subject for
much reflection to observe the art this little “tit”
displays, in assuming a half-hearted, careless role,
that is so different from her real feelings. Where
and when did she learn to act so well?

At last, when it becomes painful for me to
longer keep her away from her hungry children, I
turn my face from her, when she instantly flies
back to the door and goes in.

It is a breach of good manners thus to intrude
on her privacy, but curiosity conquers civility and
leads me up to the very portal. I peer into the
darkness, but nothing can be seen; then I am
ungracious enough to listen, by placing my ear
close to the entrance. This proves too much for
the bird’s equanimity, and she protests against
such conduct with a contemptuous hiss, which
sounds in the echoing cavity like the discharge of
a boy’s pop-gun. The fact that the small singing
birds are capable of firing off such squibs is
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 79

entirely new to me. That this spitting, hissing
sound, as an expression of contempt or rage,
should be resorted to by all animals, from the
low reptiles to even man himself, is something
curious.

Have not the birds, generation after generation,
gradually acquired much of their cleverness of
invention and knowledge of the world, we may
say, through the training of many centuries?
Their skill in hiding their nests, their assumption
of the character of crippled birds whenever they
are approached, and their different methods of dis-
sembling, seem to indicate a pretty good under-
standing of the over-curious, inquiring human.
The other day I came upon two clear cases of
bird trickery! The performers were the females
of the indigo bird and the bobolink. The former,
as I regarded her, lighted in full view on a bush,
and began suddenly to whisk her fulvous tail and
turn her body this way and that, with that quick,
alert motion which only birds are capable of.
She canted her head and looked at me. Allto-
gether it was a double-faced proceeding, but very
amusing, and pardonable under the circumstances.
After beating about the bush in this manner for a
while, she began another little piece of acting, by
pretending to watch for a favorable opportunity to
dive into another thick shrub, which, with strict
attention to all the details of the action of a shy
80 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

and discreet mother, she gave me to understand
was, to her, the dearest of all places in the world.
At the proper moment, she disappeared among
the leaves, and, no doubt, when she was at a safe
distance and saw me pushing aside the branches
and searching for her nest, she laughed in her
wing, or in some other bird way, at the success of
her counterfeit presentment.

The other actress was in the meadow, where it
was probable I passed quite near her nest. At
first she flew overhead, as the redwings do when-
ever their homes are approached, evidently much
distressed, and sounded notes similar to those
birds. Then she alighted on the ground, quite
near, and pretended to be busy with the grass
heads, but always keeping a sharp lookout for her
interviewer. She soon wearied of this kind of
by-play, however, when she saw how well it was
received, and, as if she had just thought of a more
effective ruse, she suddenly lifted herself on her
wings and flew far away over the waving daisy
and buttercup heads, out of sight. Doubtless she
came back again, in five minutes, and said to
herself, ‘‘ There are some things even too cute for
these humans.”

It would be curious to know if these birds
would have acted in just this way if a crow, jay
or other low-nest robber had been in my place.
Or did they consider the greater intelligence of
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 81

man, and so were more painstaking in the per-
formance of their little monodramas ?

Many of the scratchers have a peculiar adroit-
ness in concealing their nests, which they well
stand in need of. How cunning even is the
domestic biddie when she yields to a wild instinct
and privately stalks forth across the field to the
nearest woods, with the intention of stealing a
_round dozen of eggs from her owner! She half
suspects that some one may be watching her, and
so she appears particularly absorbed in the pursuit
of worms and grasshoppers; but, by indirect paths
and many circuits she reaches the wood at the
appointed time, and hastens, like a miser, to her
secret casket, to gloat over her treasures. It is a
chance if they are found, till some fine morning,
Madam Speckle, with her responsible c/uck, brings
out a motley brood of downy balls, that go bounc-
ing along through the leaves and grass culms, as
they are slowly driven home.

Perhaps there are no scratchers’ nests more
difficult to find than those of the quails. Though
the meadow and shrub-land hereabout now are
fairly jubilant with the crowing and whistling of
the male birds, their wives, the silent partners,
have well learned by experience the knack of
secreting their jewels in many a leafy and briery
drawer and recess, which the eyes of weasels and
men are very apt to overlook.
82 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

It was rare good fortune that directed me one
day to visit the Arboretum, and to be shown a
quail’s nest which the mowers had recently dis-
covered by accident in the border of the meadow.
The deep cavity was most daintily and ingeniously
lodged in an oblique or sloping direction amidst
the twisting, snaggy roots of an old stump, over-
grown with golden rod and steeple bush. It
seemed as if the end of a smoothly-shaven, round-
topped post, six or seven inches in diameter, had
been pressed into a mass of dry grasses and weed
stalks and then carefully removed after the stems
and culms had been well moulded into the proper
shape. How neatly the bird had packed her lit-
tle store-house with a “baker’s dozen’”’ of clear,
white, bright eggs! It must indeed have seemed
a precious lot to her. This remarkable produc-
tiveness is natural with her, as with all of the
scratchers. As soon as the young are free from
their prison shells, they can run about and pick
up many an insect and seed tidbit which their
mothers know nothing about; so they can afford’
to have a larger brood than the smaller birds
whose nestlings lie helpless for many days in
their cradles, and must depend on their parents to
supply them with whatever food they have.

The quail is like the barn fowl that wanders
away and steals her nest. Now that is found, she
silently submits, and does not appear at all anxious
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 83

about her treasures, as the finches, starlings and
warblers do, whenever their homes are approached.
Not a hide or feather of her is seen, though sev-
eral males are heard whistling as merrily as ever
in the neighboring copse. If one is quite near
them he hears in addition to the usual “Bod
White,” a few introductory notes, as though the
birds were clearing their throats, and the last
word, “w*zte,” or “wet,” is uttered with a hissing
sound, like the ‘‘swish” of a whip-lash, when it is
forced rapidly through the air.

On the second visit to the rare spot, I found
another egg had been added to the store, and all
had been differently arranged. They were now
carefully piled, one above the other, in a single
layer, quite high against the walls of the nest, so
that the cavity appeared paved or embossed with
enormous pearls. It would have been a most
interesting sight to have seen just how madam,
with her claws’and beak and wings, managed to
set her house in such regular order. Evidently
She had prepared it for the sitting season, and was
looking forward to the time when her treasures
would take to themselves legs and run away.

When I called again on her ladyship I stood
before a deserted house. Alas! it is with birds as
with mice and men, their best-laid plans

“Aft gang a glae.”
84 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

Quails sometimes ‘‘count their chickens before
they are hatched,” and it happened so in this case.
Her possession had indeed departed, but they
went away too soon, and on feet that belonged not
to those of the partridge family.

Nicely lodged in a patch of “bear bed’’ by the
edge of a young growth of oaks and birches, is the
home of the towhee bunting. A low blueberry
bush spreads its leaves over the roofless house
and a sprig or two of prince’s pine grows before
the door. The dry fallen leaves immediately sur-
rounding the nest appeared to have been pressed
down and glued together, and the odds and ends
close to the finely finished rim are well fastened
with saliva, as though the bird liked to have every-
thing trim and tidy around her dwelling. In the
quite deep, exquisitely-turned cavity, lined with
pine “spills” and old fruiting moss stems, lie
four eggs, so thickly covered with light pinkish
specks, that the dirty, white ground-color is
scarcely distinguishable unless the shell is closely
examined. *

The female is sitting, and so firmly does the
strange spell of incubation hold her that a very
near approach is necessary to compel her to break
it. If your foot passes beyond a certain boundary
_line, however, she considers the act a violation of
the towhee law, and so leaves you alone in tres-
passes and sin, by gliding through the saplings,
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 85

lifting her wings over her back and faintly pro-
testing “tow-he-c-c, tow-he-c-e,’ after she is con-
cealed among the leaves. But as you move off
again she is instantly down to her eggs, as if they
were so many magnets. How closely she hugs
the nest! Though you may be near her, it is not
until you have become quite used to the spot, that
you can distinguish the outlines of her brown
back from the shadows, the various moss tufts and
the leaves that surround her. Her long, dark tail,
perked up from the nest can readily be taken for
a dead twig, stuck at an angle in the ground. If
that whortleberry bush had eyes and ears what
interesting scenes it could witness, what curious
towhee talk it might hear! One is almost desir-
ous, at times, to take on the form of a rock or
bush or tree that he may learn all the secrets of
the birds about him. Where does the male sta-
tion himself at night? Does he feed his mate
while she sits? While gathering pieces of this
hair cap moss for lining material, how did she
manage to break the quite tenacious fibres from
the leafy stems? Did she rest at night on the
nest, before the incubating season? I would that
this enchanted shrub might communicate to me
the full history of the towhee couple, since they
first decided to locate their home under its
branches.

The male now has various moods. Sometimes
86 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

he is inclined to be silent whenever his nest
is approached, and one can not see a hide or
feather of him. Perhaps the next day he takes it
in his head to be talkative and tells you in plain
English, his name, over and over again, so many
times that the monotonous refrain becomes weari-
some and dull. Again he is over confident. He
assumes a jaunty, free and easy air, as though the
object of his affections was not within a hundred
yards of him. He perches on the limb of a
neighboring tree, in full view, and reels off from
his throat quite a long string of notes, as if he had
been taking lessons of the grosbeak. It is amus
ing to hear him, he tries so hard to oversing him-
self, to strain a point and pass beyond the limits
of the piece of music which Nature had composed
for him. Then, as if all his celestial thoughts had
suddenly departed, he descends to the ground in a
kind of serrated, angular flight, as though tripping
down an aerial stairway, to engage in the more
earthly pursuit of worms and bugs.

On the fourteenth day after the discovery of
the nest, there were young in it. How curi-
ous is this law of incubation! That a certain
degree of heat on the egg, without any apparent
development of the young, for a special duration
of time, should be so efficacious in calling forth
life, seems indeed like a miracle. A few hours
ago these twisting, gaping, weak-necked, short-
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 87

eyed little towhees were as snugly packed within
the round shells, as the leaves were in the buds.
For a brief period while they were breaking
through their prison walls, it became necessary
for them to breathe, so in some mysterious way,
a little air cell in the end of each egg had been
previously formed for this particular purpose.
How much they had grown since they had been
released! Through the dark plumbeous shocks of
down which sparsely beset their pot-shaped bodies
the skin appears as if it were tanned, and is only a
shade or two duller than the color of the feathers
on the flanks of the old birds. But one can not
linger long over the young family, for they are
shivering, and appear to be in need of sheltering
wings; besides, the father and mother are in a
world of distress as they flit from bush to bush,
almost within reach. Both the male and female
now utter the same notes, “ You shaw’t have —
towhee-e-e.’ The introductory words of this asser-
tion come from their sharp-pointed tongues in
creaking discordant tones, which almost sets the
teeth on edge, they are so harsh, while the last
note has a kind of dismal, pathetic intonation.
Nature has given to the birds the power of elo-
quently expressing their strong emotion. Human
parents could not express with a more effect-
ing voice their anxiety for their children, than
do these towhees for their nestlings. But as I
88 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

move off again the mother is relieved and sets
about at once trimming her feathers, which no
doubt have been much neglected during the long
confinement. After a little combing and brush-
ing she seems to search for tender spanners
among the leaves for the hungry little throats,

With the exception of the brown thrasher, the
song and Wilson’s thrush— whose vespers and
matins I often attend as I would a band concert
or a sweet human singer—the purple finch is the
most tuneful of our sylvan minstrels. There is
such a rich, clear intonation to his voice, such an
unmistakable expression of joy and delight in his
prolonged warble, that it is sure to hold the list-
ener spellbound, whenever he happens within the
charmed precincts.

Moving away from a thrasher’s nest, through
the cedars and oaks, interspersed here and there
with thrifty pines, whose thousands of light-yellow
sterile catkins are now shining out from the deep
green bushes of the needle leaves, all exhaling the
fragrance of fzmus and scattering innumerable
pollen grains, that appear, when shaken by the
breezes, like clouds of resin smoke, curling out
from the branches, I come full upon the purple
songster. Through the rifts in the spray I see
him perched sideways, one foot above the other,
seventy feet from the ground, on the topmost
young shoot of a pine. His position seems to be
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 89

a very uncomfortable one, yet he remains in it
a long time, discoursing the lines of his pleasant
pastorale at quarter-minute intervals. While he
is performing, the parting in the center of his
breast is like a deep, narrow, longitudinal gash
which closes and expands with every throb and
quaver, until it appears in danger of bursting, and
thus spilling the music from his cheerful little
heart. Frequently in the pauses he bends _ his
head to examine with his conical beak the parting
for parasites, or stretches out his neck and half
opens his wings, as if about to fly away, when
other birds come near him, but finally he thinks
better of it and begins his serenade again. His
weed and root house is somewhere about these
evergreens, but the secret of the particular locality
is his own, and I trust safe, although it would be
delightful to just look in upon him, if he should
be so gracious as to give me a special invitation.

I am suddenly impressed with the diversity of
styles of architecture adopted by the different
species of the birds, and the various locations in
which their nests are placed. This mere bunch of
sticks lodged in the branches of a scraggy haw-
thorn by a pair of grosbeaks, and the swinging
hammock of the oriole on the slender drooping
twigs of the elm across the way, suggest the
question: What is it in the nature of these two
kinds of birds that has caused them to build so
go THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

differently? The nest of birds belonging to the
same genus, even, have their peculiar places and
mode of construction which can be quite readily
distinguished by the practiced observer. The
yellow, the chestnut-sided and the black-throated
green warblers, for example, so common in the
vicinity of Boston, and brothers, we may say, in
the extensive genus Dendroica, have special ways
of turning out their cups. That even these little
woven masses of down, weed and grass-strips,
hairs and caterpillars’ webs, show in their con-
struction specific differences almost as plainly as
do the markings and colors on each of these birds,
and generally can be as easily identified by the
specialist, is something strange and interesting to
contemplate. What was it in her life experience
that taught the yellow warbler to build a deeper
and more substantial nest than that of the chest-
nut-sided, and why has the black-throated green
taken it into her head to fix her tiny home in the
branches of the pine and hemlock trees, so much
higher than those of her near relatives? The
influences that induced the barn swallow to place
its nest on the beams and rafters, that caused the
cousin, the cliff swallow, to fasten its mud retort
under the outside eaves, or told still another
cousin to burrow like the chipmucks in the sand-
bank for a nest, are certainly too curious and sub-
tle for even the little birds to tell us about them.
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. gI

It would be indeed a most interesting ornitho-
logical history that could give the year when the
“republican” swallow fixed her nest under the
eaves, or could treat of the circumstances and
conditions in her life that led her to abandon her
native cliff fora barn. There was a day when a
specially observing and intelligent female, as she
was skimming over the field of some early set-
tler, “canted her bullet head” up to the shelter-
ing eaves and thought, “Ah! there is a good
place fora nest. I will prospect at once.” And
what a curious book on bird lore it would be that
could discourse on the law that compelled the war-
bling vireo to hang her purse-like home high on
the elm, or told her sister, the white-eye, to fix
hers to the lowest brier! What prompted the
golden-crown thrushes to form such perfect roofs
over their houses? Minot says they do not inva-
riably build so. But those individuals with anti-
quated notions, that model after their ancient
ancestors, only neglect to form the necessary
covering, for it is pretty safe to conclude that
this pine needle and leaf tiling is comparatively
a modern style of architecture among the major-
ity of these wise birds. Had they not learned
by sad experience during the past ages that
a roof protected them much better than an
open nest from the weather and their numerous
enemies ?
92 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

Many other birds, of ground-building habits,
have partly learned the roofing trade. The
meadow lark is fairly a good mechanic in this
respect; the Maryland yellow-throats that take
to the swamps and lowlands are necessarily sub-
stantial foundation builders, and sometimes arch
their nests, and the black and white creepers pay
more or less attention in making a kind of gablet
over their homes. One often wonders why these
last-named birds, that pass most of their time in
climbing about the high trees in the wood, should
be so terrestrial in their nesting habits. Why do
they not, like the brown creepers and titmice,
whose ways of life theirs otherwise much resem-
ble, choose some deserted woodpecker’s tenement,
or a hollow bough or trunk, for a building site?
A close observer of the birds says they do rarely
build in the holes of the trees. Perhaps those
that locate in such exceptional places are still the
followers of an old custom, or it may be they area
few representatives that are beginning to find out
that log cabins are safer to raise families in than
ordinary unshielded nests under foot. The spar-
row and bunting ground-builders, although most
skillful architects, have evidently never thought of
making roofs. That they are more likely to suf-
fer from the thieving snakes, weasels and crows
in consequence, can not be doubted. Yet after
all there is some protective, maintaining power at
THE CITY OF ‘THE BIRDS. 93

work among these finches that makes fhem a well
represented successful family.

Speaking of certain characteristics shown in the
make-up of nests of several species of warblers,
and the way they have of sometimes departing
from the usual style of building, I am reminded to
describe a bit of bird architecture which puzzled
me for along time. This nest, nearly a foot from
the ground, is lodged among and supported by the
stout culms of a dense tussock of herd’s grass,
over which hangs a sheltering branch of a cornel
bush. The quite bulky outside structure is clum-
sily put together and is composed of coarse pieces
of grass and weed stalks, with dead leaves woven
in or glued here and there about the walls; but
the builder gradually refined her work as she
approached the inner nest. With wings for cal-
lipers, a bill for a shuttle, and her body and eye
for line and rule, the bird, with finer, more
flexible material, wove and pressed it into a per-
fect circle, till the cup-like cavity, two and three-
fourths inches in depth, and the same in diameter,
is, at last, exquisitely finished and finely uphol-
stered with elastic grass strips and horse hairs.
In this dainty hollow rest three pink-tinted eggs,
marked with a wreath of reddish brown blotches
about the crown, and with spots of the same
color sparsely distributed over the entire surface.
The nest seems not to be made on the Dendroica
94 THE CITY OF THE BIRDS.

plan, or on*that of any of our common warblers.
It has certain distinctive features which are
almost as plainly exhibited as the peculiarity of
colors, toes and tarsi of the builder herself, if she
were stretched upon a dissecting board for our
inspection. Yet it is beyond a doubt the work of
some member of the family Sy/vicolide. Which
one? I asked, as I sat watching, half concealed
behind a neighboring bush. It is evidently a
timid and suspicious one, at least, for an hour
passes and still the bird can not be named. Once
or twice I hear a sharp “chzp,” a violent bird
oath, which clearly and forcibly expresses alarm
and displeasure at seeing such an uncivil intruder ;
and catch just the glint of a pair of wings, as
they flutter between me and the glare of the
sunlight, amidst the thick foliage of the shrubs.
How surely blood tells, even with the birds!
The majority of our common species have come
to understand mankind, and are quite used to his
ways. The chestnut-sided yesterday stuck like a
little Trojan to her nest, as I bent over her, and
no doubt I could have fed her with flies, as Mr.
Torrey did his white-eyed vireo; but this tiny
feathered recluse, whatever her name, has the
true wildness of Nature running in her veins.
She does not like to be interviewed, and “there is
a kind of magic in her actions which stupefies
your powers of observation.” Patient waitings
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 95

seem to be of no avail. They always end in
imperfect or dazzling views and scoldings. Even
the surroundings appear to be charmed, and in
league with the bird. Every thing is arranged
in the proper order for her concealment at the
shortest notice, and however cautiously her house
is approached, or whether the calls are made
in or out of season, she is always on the watch
and invariably slips like a wee shadow from the
back door.

However, in two or three fortunate seasons,
from several visits, were gathered two or three
important facts about my unsociable little hermit,
namely: She is a small bird, darkish above with
no conspicuous markings on the crown or wings,
and has a deep yellow throat, as if it had been
dyed with the inner bark of the barberry stems.
These colors, together with the shape and mark-
ing of the eggs, and the character of the nest,
are taken home in the mind, and with but a single
exception are found to agree with the “Manual”
description of the Nashville warbler. The nests
of this last-named species have been described by
several writers, and all agree in saying that they
are placed on the ground and sunken so that the
rims are level with the surface. Be that as it
may, perhaps there are individuals, I said to my-
self, that occasionally depart, as those in other
species do, from the usual method of locating
96 THE CITY OF TIIE BIRDS.

their nests. But one day, when the young fledg-
lings had fluttered from their home, and the par-
ents had become less shy and flew out from the
thick-leaved shrubbery, so that the true color and
form were plainly seen, I found that I had been
completely deceived. . My precious bird was none
other than the female Maryland yellow-throat.
The declining sun lengthens the shadows of the
spires of the evergreens on the eastward slopes
with many a streak and dash —a map of the clos-
ing day. Shadows are deepening in the City of
the Birds. On brook and copse avenues, are
many cathedrals, and the vesper services have
already begun. A mellow note wavers down
from the leafy gallery, as you walk along the
carpeted aisles and take your seat. It is a musical
celebrity who sings to-night, Turdus Fuscescens,
the star tenor of the woods. There is some-
thing in his nature which makes him love the
quiet twilight hour and give it voice. Listen
now to the elevating, soul-calming music. Plu-re-
re-c-€-e, sphere-r, sphere-e-e, ale-c-or, cher, cheery.
The pure, sweet tone is the very expression of
shady woodland ways, of trusting joy, content-
ment and peace. His fine trills, which usually
prelude his hymn, and which are always sprink-
led, as it were, between the words, remind you of
waterdrops falling in echoing cisterns, of tiny
bells of the purest metal, tinkling in the trees, or
 

 

 

AT THE VESPER SERVICE,
THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 97

of silver coins scattered on marble slabs; and yet
they are not like those sounds, for the real life
and thrush spirit are lacking in them. The noted
melodist, however, is chary of his music; he
becomes instantly reserved, or his song at once
relapses into an irritable, peevish chirp, if he has
the least suspicion that you are regarding him.
These are his halcyon twilights, and his melliflu-
ous notes, in the season of his honeymoon, are
the overflowing of his blissful moods, or are
intended only to soothe and comfort his wife, who
is now hatching another brood of songs down
there in the bush.

. Now he makes a willow his chantry and begins
to-sing his mass. But when he discovers that
he is entertaining strangers unawares, he abruptly
pauses, gives two or three chirps like those of a
lost chicken, and flits like a shadow, a rufous
ghost of a bird, through the leaves down to the
edge of the brook. Is he lingering there a
moment to get once more the key-note from the
water that ripples over certain pebbles?
BY THE SEA.
V.
BY THE SEA.

A view of the sea-shore, such as can be had
from the summit of Mount Agamenticus, in York,
Maine, is indeed attractive. From the dim shores
of Massachusetts, along eighteen miles of the
New Hampshire coast, far down on the Maine
sea-board, the assisted eye follows the long, sin-
uous line, where the land and ocean meet. Riv-
ers stretch their broad ribbons of silver far
inland. BoonIsland is a mere speck on the sea.
The Isles of Shoals, nine miles from the shore,
appear to be separated from it only by a narrow
strait, and the broad Atlantic lies below you, like
a huge piece of rumpled blue silk, upon which
numerous crafts, in miniature, sail slowly by, as in
a diorama.

But as delightful as a bird’s-eye view of this
vast, serpentine track appears, with its surround-
ings, a ramble on any of the beaches, where the
tide-waves for ages have advanced and retreated,

Iot
102 BY THE SEA.

presents to the observer phenomena no less won-
derful and entertaining.

To Norwood’s bluffs, or the long stretch of
sandy beach, I go to study the wonders of the
shore in detail, and to obtain a nearer view of
the ocean’s wrinkled face. It has character — its
face is sterner and more imposing and expres-
sive than the face of an inland sea. Its voice is
“The eternal bass in nature’s anthem,” and its
breath has a healthful savoriness, a briny flavor,
as refreshing to the scent as the perfume of flow-
ers is to the homeward-bound sea voyager.

The winds play with it till it becomes impatient
and beats itself against the rocks. Its plastic lips
are wrought into a thousand gnarls and convolu-
tions, as they curl through the fissures and cav-
erns, while its foamy tongues, licking the stony
bluffs as they recede, leave behind them many
pretty cascades that flow gently down the slopes,
till the waters mingle again with the incoming
waves.

As there are lulls in the wind on a breezy day,
so at intervals, as if exhausted with its fury, the
sea by the shore becomes suddenly almost calm.
Only gurgling, purling sounds are heard for a
minute or two, as the wavelets lap the edges
of the rocks. But it is gathering strength for
another onslaught. Tar out, the seas are running
high again. A long procession of them swell up
BY THE SEA. 103

from the waters and roll toward the shore at the
rate of four hundred feet in thirty seconds. I
watch the leader rising higher and concaving as it
comes rapidly on. Its crest undulates and throws
up streamers of spray, like the flying hairs on the
mane of a galloping horse. Now the climax is
reached. The sharp edge bends in graceful curves,
tumbles over and breaks with dull, heavy roar into
a long line of foam, that shoots swiftly up the
steep, shingly beach; then, as it retreats, rolls
back a thousand stones, which, as they strike
against each other, make a cracking, rattling
sound, like the snapping of musket caps by a
regiment of soldiers.

The observing rambler while walking along the
shores is impressed with the view of the regular
alternation of jagged cliffs, and the gracefully-
curved shingle beaches. The latter, which invari-
ably front swamps or low tracts of land, that
were ancient coves and arms of the sea, are
arranged in a succession of shelves or terraces,
the highest of which are often twenty feet above
low water level.

Here the mills of the Ocean “grind slowly, but
grind exceeding small.” The surf is continually
undermining the rocky abutments on the outer
points, and the frosts and rains breaking off
rough, angular fragments, which the waves take
between their rollers, fashioning them into lap-
104 BY THE SEA.

stones, ovals, small, round pebbles, grave] and
finally into sand and mud, as they are whirled over
and over again toward the coves,

Occasionally one picks up pebbles rounded like
marbles or eggs, that belong to other kinds of
rocks than those from the adjacent ledges.

Here is a piece of white quartz which, perhaps,
the waves have broken off from some protruding
dike, miles away, and after a long process of rasp-
ing and scouring, have at last formed into a per-
fect oval, and, in a storm, have flung high on the
beach for a curiosity, or a decoy for some over-
credulous bird. At Donnell’s cove I discovered
innumerable small grains of garnet that glistened
almost like rubies amidst the dull-colored pebbles.
Who could tell how far they had traveled or from
what part of the coast they had come? Were
they the remains of the crystals from the heart of
some decayed granite boulder, or had they been
washed ashore from distant beds of iron ore,
where this kind of mineral is often found?

While climbing over the rocks I came upon
a most remarkable example of conglomerate.
Large fragments of granite and other light-colored
stones had been firmly cemented in a mass of the
dark, gray ledge; the surface of which, worn
smooth by the action of the waves, suggested a
huge piece of nut caramel with its cut edge
turned up to view. This would scem to prove
BY THE SEA. 105

that the ledges here, which now form such a solid
sea-wall, were once a soft bed of mud and sand,
in which the small boulders, by some means, had
been deposited; in the long course of ages, the
plastic layers had gradually become hardened and
raised up bodily out of the sea.

The shingle beaches are the seashore barrens.
Excepting in times of high winds, when the waves
pull up from the ocean’s bed, and roll on the ter-
raced ridges huge wads of various sea weeds, no
species of marine animal or plant life are found on
them. The germs could not fasten themselves or
live on the ever-shifting, moving boulders. But
in comparatively sheltered places, between tides,
where the ledges are thickly padded with wracks
and mosses; in pools and crevices, and close to
the water, where the rocks, between the last ebb-
ing and the first flowing tide, remain uncovered
but a short time, the brown line is fairly swarm-
ing with life, and affords a rich harvest field for
the naturalist.

In the tide pools, or close to low-water mark,
I am sure to find amongst the eel-grass, rock-
weeds, etc., marks of fine pinkish threads, tangled
and dripping with the shining drops as I hold a
bunch of these sea-plants up to the light. A
frond or two placed in water in a glass jar, and the
fine threads no longer entirely cling to the coarse
weeds to which they are attached at the base, but
106 BY THE SEA.

float and swing out free into the transparent fluid,
and appear at first like delicate mosses, with small
stems, that give off numerous smaller branches.
Indeed, it is a wonder of the sea, among the many
grotesque figures which the mermaids and Nep-
tune hand to me from the watery depths.

Viewed with the magnifier, I find here is an
animal whose body is stationary, and formed much
like the herbs growing in the fields; with stem
and branches protected by a horny transparent
bark, through which one can see tiny drops of
sea water and chyme —the only kind of blood it
has — flowing swiftly along the numerous chan-
nels. Arranged on the hair-like branches, as_ber-
ries and pods are on the twigs and stalks of certain
shrubs and herbs, are little, bell-shaped cells, in
which are mouths, provided with a wreath of
minute tentacles, stretched to their full length,
and apparently feeling in the water for any
nutritive atom that may chance to come their
way.

This creature is one of the many Hydras of old
ocean, and has even more heads and mouths than
the fabulous monster of the marshes of Argolis.
Although but a step higher than the sponges in
the scale of creation, it appears to be governed by
a certain amount of intelligence. At the slightest
tap on the glass jar, the little zodids or polypite
berries instantaneously draw their slender feelers
BY THE SEA. 107

within the cells. This natural movement of self-
protection is not so remarkable, perhaps, but when
they seem to wait for the danger to pass, and then
slowly and cautiously push out their delicate tenta-
cles, one after the other, as if they remembered
the warning, and were watching with the greatest
prudence to see how the water lies, it is, to say
the least, an interesting instinctive action.

What gigantic species of hydras may be writh-
ing with their long arms in the unfathomed caves!
The dredge of the Challenger, several years ago,
brought up from the bottom of the sea the largest
hydroid that has ever been discovered. ‘It meas-
ured seven feet, four inches in height, and was
provided with a crown of non-retractile tentacles
nine inches across from tip to tip.’ If some wise
mammal of the seas, some manatee naturalist, had
been especially created to roam through the deep
like its lord, and had written about its wonders as
the persevering investigators have written on the
wonders of the shore, we should probably have
read the descriptions of even greater marvels than
this among the Hydrozoa.

Ah! “the sea is His and He made it,” and
when He made it, He created millions of odd, fan-
tastic creatures to dwell therein, which the zodlo-
gist has never dreamed of, and which, if he could
behold them, would appear as strange to him,
as seem to me these few living curiosities that I
108 BY THE SEA.

have chanced to collect while strolling by the
ocean’s edge.

What grotesque, outlandish forms there are
among the small crustaceans that can be picked
up almost anywhere in the tide pools and under
the rank sea-weed! Here are countless barnacles
incrusting the rocks that lay far above low-water
mark, waiting patiently for the incoming tide
to submerge them and bring them food again.
Those in the higher places, with valves tightly
closed, have fasted for many hours in the eye of
the blazing sun. How curious it is that such
water-loving creatures can flourish here! What
has prevented them from perishing outright, fixed
as they are on the hot, dry rocks?

Four or five months ago, many of these mol-
lusk-like crustaceans were young, free, swimming
little creatures which looked like the so-called
‘fleas’? in our fresh ponds and ditches. For a
while they skipped lively enough through the
rising and falling tides, but there came a time
when their roving life ended. Instinctively they
all swam toward the rocks and fastened themselves
upon them. Wherever there was space for build-
ing, even on the shells of past generations of bar-
nacles they settled, and began the construction of
their lime-stone houses. Day after day the strange
transformation went on till the marvelous struc-
tures were completed. The shell which encloses
BY THE SEA. 109

them is composed of several pieces, nicely joined
and fitted together, with an opening lid on the top
of the cone-shaped house, through which the little
anchorite thrusts his hairy fingers to take the food
which the overwhelming and bountiful waters
bring him. At extreme high-water mark the
specimens are quite small and impoverished in
consequence of the brief periods in which they
can feed and perform that wonderful operation of
secreting lime from the sea water.

Accidentally I found another species of these
curious crustaceans, much rarer on this part of
the coast. It is the “Goose Barnacle,” and looks
more like certain mollusks than even the rock
species. It had drifted to the shore on a sprig
of sea-weed, and was attached to a frond by its
stout peduncle, more than a half inch long. At
first it resembled a tiny dam with its siphon
extended from its delicately-marked and porcelain-
like shells; but as soon as it was dropped into the
jar it opened its valves and pushed out its six
pairs of legs, which together suggested a double-
fingered, finely-fringed hand, and commenced a
series of grasping motions. It appeared to be
clutching at nothing but teemless water, but
doubtless each time it cast its net many tasteful
minute sea animals were swept within the meshes,
besides by this movement supplying it with fresh
currents of water for breathing. If the water
TIO BY THE SEA.

began to lose its vitality, it would at intervals
thresh itself about almost furiously, as if impa-
tient at receiving such meagre fare, or swing by
its muscular stalk from the pendulous to a hori-
zontal position, in which it would remain for some
time, clawing among the zoophytes that were
attached to the floating fragments of sea-weeds.
One is constantly in a pleasant state of expect-
ancy while rambling over this wondrous boundary
line between earth and ocean. He knows not
what marvels may come to him at any instant,
and his senses are all agog in his ardent desire to
examine them. He peers and pries into every
hole and corner. The stones that have sermons
in them, also often have exceedingly interesting
memoirs, discourses and riddles beneath them,
and he eagerly turns over the ponderous tomes
to read and study what may be written on the
nether cover. Who would expect to find here
worms with scales on their backs? Yet here
is one crawling slowly along and trying to hide
among the rock-weed. It is nearly two inches
long, and has twelve pairs of round, dark-brown
felt-like plates which are placed opposite to each
other and regularly imbricated. When it is
touched it immediately rolls itself into a ring, as
do certain caterpillars and myriapods, but it soon
uncoils as it is placed in the jar. The under
parts of this curious, mud-loving sca-worm appear

~
BY THE SEA, III

to be clad in a thin armor of pearl, which, when
viewed in certain lights, sends forth all the
colors of the rainbow, like the inner lining of
muscle and fresh-water clam-shells. It is beset
with numerous bristles by which it moves, and
which it uses as weapons of defense whenever
the greedy cunners, at high water, push their
sharp noses in its crevice-home, and nibble too
closely at its prickly sides.

In the salty pools another minute species of
sea-worm lives in a solid limestone tube, which
resembles a miniature powder-horn glued to the
fronds of various tangles. The crooked little
house has a trap-door (operculum) which the
inhabitant lifts up for food or freer respiration,
and pushes out a delicate wreath of branchiz or
gills that looks like a tiny plume. Indeed, it is a
veritable ‘“ Jack-in-the-Box,” excepting that the
method of appearing and disappearing is in reverse
order. It puts its head out slowly, but at the
least movement of the water, or even at a passing
shadow, it springs back into its case quicker than
the eye can follow it, and closely shuts the lid.

How many sea Jacks there are in coats of mail
in different patterns and colors, scattered all about
here, that the fishes will be playing with again in
a few hours! Millions of shore snails of many
species are lying on the wrack or lodge in the
crevices of the rocks, waiting for the tide. Some
T12 BY THE SEA;

of them are vegetable feeders, while others are
flesh eaters, and sharp-toothed ones! Verrill says
that the Lwnatia heros, “and other species of its
tribe, drill round holes through the sides of vari-
ous bivalve shells, by means of flinty teeth on its
lingual ribbon which acts like a rasp, and having
made an opening, it inserts its proboscis and
sucks out the contents.” It is said that fishes
also often dig up and devour many kinds of clams
and wrinkles— a mode of operation that would be
most interesting to witness. How necessary it is
that the soft bodies of these worms and mollusks
should be protected by thick armors of lime; for
besides the attacks of their numerous enemies,
they must be often beaten, or knocked about by
the fury of the waves.

Now that I look on one of these univalves I am
suddenly impressed with this wondrous miracle of
shell-making. What magic had the little creature,
that lives within, to construct such a beautiful,
nicely-turned shield? From the food it swal-
lowed, say the books. In the food was carbonate
of lime, and the lime in small particles was
pressed through the mantle or tender skin, form-
ing on the outside a thin covering at first, but
gradually becoming thicker and harder until a sub-
stantial house was made.

Notwithstanding these explanations, no one, I
believe, has yet been sent to tell us exactly how
BY THE SEA. 113

the shells are produced, or how the cases in
which the various species live, have been moulded
into such a variety of curious and grotesque
shapes, so brightly polished and so exquisitely
marked and colored.

But there are, on these rocky bottoms, certain
kinds of mollusks, without even a trace of arm-
orial bearing, that appear to thrive very well, not-
withstanding the heavy beating and rolling of the
waves. Turning over a rock which is fairly bris-
tling with the short filaments of hydroids, and
painted with numerous circular, closely-adherent
purple patches of sea-scurf, I discovered in one
of the little depressions what appeared to be a
small lump of flesh. As soon, however, as it was
placed in a jar, this shapeless mass at once came
to life and revealed its real nature. It was a
naked mollusk or sea-slug and one of the most
conspicuous species found on this coast. Its pink
foot stretched to its full length was narrow, and
as it slowly glided along the glass sides, its edges
were constantly curving inward as if perplexed
with the strange surface on which it moved. On
its mottled, dark-purple back, were arranged two
rows of branchia or gills, resembling miniature
trees or shrubs, which swayed in the water, like
branches in the wind. The pair nearest the feel-
ers or antennz, which were also branched, were
much stouter and more upright than the others,
114 BY THE SEA.

which gradually diminished in length as they
approached the hinder parts of the body.

Nature has chosen the sea, in which she may
especially indulge her wayward, fanciful, almost
humorous moods. Such grotesque, aberrant forms
of life as are at times fished from her watery
cabinet; such “Quips and cranks” as are shown
in her various hydras, cyclops, hermaphrodites,
sphinxes and other odd conceits, not only amaze
but amuse us.

It is interesting to compare, on this wonderful
boundary line, the forms of marine animal life
with those that live and move just beyond the
reach of the waves. Indeed, in a few species of
mollusks and crustaceans, the difference in cast
and mould between the water inhabiters and the
air breathers, is slight. The “sow bugs,” for
example (which, by the way, are not bugs at all,
but members of the crustacean family, like the
shrimps, etc., living under damp stones beyond
high-water mark), can hardly be distinguished,
except by microscopic examination, from the grib-
bles, sea slaters and other allied species that are
content to live only in the water, or in places
where the tide flows over them at least twice a
day.

It is a matter of much interest, also, to consider
the plant life peculiar to the sea-shore; the spe-
cies that are found on the littoral picket-line and
BY THE SEA. 115

never in other places; the floral vedettes that
come down on the rocks and sand and delight in
occasional sprinklings of salty spray, and to snuff
the saline breath from old ocean’s swelling breast.
Sea blight, sea lovage, beach pear, sea plantain,
sea milkworts, sea rockets, one species of the
golden-rod, solidago sempervirens, all members
of different families, have for some reason taken
into their yellow and purple heads, to plant them-
selves on this border-land, and from watch-tower
and signal-post make their bows, and wave their
thick, fleshy leaves in response to the swaying
fronds of algee below them.

Within a few feet of the highest wave-mark on
the shingle at Long Beach, I came full upon
another of these sea warders softly ringing its
chimes of tiny bells in Neptune's ear. Its name
is mertensta maritima, or sea lung wort, a distant
and infrequent relation to the forget-me-not. The
flowers, which are hung on slender pedicels in
clusters, have creases around the tubes just above
the calyx teeth, as if the finest threads, tightly
drawn, had girded them. They are of the pecul-
iarly beautiful hue of their famous second-cousins,
and clearly show their borage blood in the deep
four-lobed ovaries at the base of the single styles.
It was remarkable what pains the plant had taken
to grow here. How far the succulent roots had
wormed themselves down among the coarse gravel,
116 BY THE SEA.

till the slender tips at length could reach just a
pinch of common earth and sand on which to
thrive and spread their broad mats of leaves and
stems on the smooth, water-washed rocks above!
«Sea-coast, on rocks and sand, Cape Cod to Maine
and northward; scarce,” says Gray’s Manual; so
on account of its rarity, it is regarded with more
than ordinary interest. One is at once seized
with a desire to know its history. For a mile —
how much further I know not— East or West of
this limited area where a few mats of it grow, not
a single sprig can be found. What were the
agencies that brought the seeds from a distant
beach and planted them here in one spot only,
below the stones?

The various tribes of birds that alight on the
sands, or wade in the shallow wavelets, or swim
among the rocks at low water and half-tide in
search of fish dinners, present numerous inviting
and attractive scenes to the sea-shore rambler.
The song-sparrows, bay-wings and blackbirds that
have taken up their abode in the adjacent swamps
and meadows, often fly down to this border-land
to pick up the sand fleas and other small, juicy
crustacea that the waves have thrown in. Even
the kingbirds, with their habits of woods and
fields reversed, come here for a change of diet,
In absence of posts of observation, they accept
the conditions with good grace and alight at once
BY THE SEA. I17

on the bare, level sands, to watch patiently for a
passing hopper, or awkwardly flutter along to cap-
ture it. They appear at times to stare curiously
at the plovers and sandpipers that run among
them so easily, and wonder why they can not do
the same thing. How long since did these birds
resort to such localities for food, or learn the trick
of obtaining shore meals that their far-inland rela-
tives know nothing of?

But the plovers and sandpipers are to the
manner born, They know the habit and nature of
the sea by heart. How adroitly they elude the
tumbling surf! Now running out before the
retreating waves to capture some billsome morsel ;
now daintily picking their way along the sinuous
line of the advancing wavelets, or simultaneously
displaying a white and gray line of fluttering
wings as they rise before the incoming sea, amid
a general chorus of tittering which might be com-
pared to the screams and laughter of distant bath-
ers, as the showery spray falls on their backs.
How much their voices are like the peeping of
the frogs. Their soft, sweet, treble piping is in
response to the sub-bass of the tumbling waves ;
the sounding of the highest notes in nature's
psalmody, with the deep profundo of the rolling
surf.

On the shore, by the edge of a lodged mass of
sea-weed, where the waves are taking it back again
118 BY THE SEA.

bit by bit into the water, a flock of spotted sand-
pipers are running hither and thither, turning
their heads this way and that, and making little
tacks in pursuing the nimble fleas and shrimps
that have escaped from the tangled fronds.
There is no lack of food here, yet these little
waders, strange as it may appear, have quick,
fiery tempers, and often quarrel around the well-
spread table. It is one of the oddest sights in
the world to see the sandpipers fight. They
spread their short tails and stretch up their necks,
and turn their heads sideways like turkeys, then
bow and courtesy to each other for a long time.
If at length one attempts to move off, its antago-
nist suddenly dives at it with lifted wings and
wide-open beak, At times a quarrelsome snipe
seems to glide along toward some imagined
offender, with tail tipped up and its finely-streaked
breast grazing the sea-weed. After a brief clash
of bills and wings both fall to watching each other
as_ before, until one, tired of the affair, creeps
stealthily away, like a cat. Although they are
crotchety and ill-tempered while feeding, they are
perfectly harmonious and orderly in flight. At a
signal given by the leader, the flock rises up and
moves through the air as one bird. How alert
and attentive each one must be to the movements
or the bugle call of their chief, as they together
change their course; now wheeling and counter-
BY THE SEA, 119

flying, now all at the same time showing their
under-parts, as white as the sea foam, or turning
their backs, as gray as the rocks, toward you as
they fly aslant over the swelling waters. But for
some reason this well-drilled flock is easily scat-
tered and soon broken into squads and pairs. As
I walk further along I see a lone bird standing
motionless on a bare rock off the shore, appar-
ently watching the incoming waves. Will he
answer to the roll-call to-night at the bivouac
among the rifts of the ledges, or fly inland to
roost by the margin of some pond or stream to
give ear again to the plaintive piping of the frogs,
which he has learned to imitate so well?

From the shores of Labrador and the Hudson’s
Bay Country, various sea ducks, after the breed-
ing season has ended, appear on the Eastern New
England coast as early as the last week in August,
to ply their fishing trades. ‘Dippers,” “Old
Squaws,”” “Black Scoters,” white-winged and
skunk-head “Coots” are seen singly, in pairs
and in large flocks, paddling their boat-like bodies
over the waves, or coasting along the weedy rocks,
when the tide is out, in search of limpets, wrin-
kles, small crabs and other dainty flesh-pots, with
which such places abound.

There is something peculiarly interesting in
the sight of these ocean wanderers, they are so
self-reliant, so wild and free, so hardy and suc-
120 BY THE SEA.

cessful in life’s race. They are born for. the sea.
With their boat-like bodies, powerful wings and
paddle feet, they care not for its angry mood, and
actually laugh in its contorted face. It is worth
a journey of many miles to watch the ‘old salts”
as I do to-day! <A flock of “Scoters” are swim-
ming along within three hundred yards of the
shore, apparently under the guide of a captain.
They are a busy crew, and are continually diving
to capture the small fry beneath them. Practice
gives them wonderful facility and grace in per-
forming their “headers.’’ Just how the bird dis-
appears so quickly beneath the surface is difficult
to explain. A tilt of the tail, a sudden dip of the
bill, a certain twist of the propellers, and the thing
is done! Only a swirl appears on the water,
where the duck was an instant before. For more
than a minute it is out of sight, then like a sunken
buoy, disentangled from the submerged sea-weeds,
it rises without any apparent struggle for breath,
and rests lightly on the rocking waves. Now it
lifts its under parts free from the water and flaps
its wings to shake off the briny drops and, set-
tling down again, adjusts them carefully over its
back. Sometimes, without even the aid of the
wings, it raises its body and sits for a moment
almost uprightly on the water, as the grebes do on
the shore. How it does this, without the support
of its wings, and with only the water as a fulcrum,
BY THE SEA. 121

is a mystery which the duck, if it knows, has not
been sent to reveal. In what way do these surf
ducks and other birds, that wander over the
ocean’s waste for weeks and months together,
obtain fresh water to slake their thirst? Proba-
bly the rain-clouds often pour it down to them.
If the clouds fail, they must depend on their great
powers of enduring thirst, and the juicy nature of
their food.

An old sea captain gives a very interesting
account of a flock of sea birds that he saw drink-
ing far from the land. He said: “They were
hovering around and under a storm cloud, clatter-
ing like ducks on a hot day at a pond, and drink-
ing in the drops of rain as they fell.” The same
observer says: ‘They will smell a rain squall a
hundred miles, or even further off, and scud for it
with almost inconceivable swiftness.”

On an outlying rock, left bare by the receding
tide, a solitary old drake is preening his dress in
the sun. His entire plumage is deep black, in
great contrast to the large, bright, orange-yellow
knob at the base of the upper mandible, which
gleams like a living spark as it moves among
the sable feathers. How much he appears now
like a domestic hybrid mallard that has strayed
from the door-yard, as he stands there, turning
and rubbing his flexible neck on every part of his
body! The oil tanks which he always carries
122 BY THE SEA.

with him, are placed astern over the tail bones,
and are constantly supplied with the necessary
lubricant. He must often resort to this oiling
process, for it makes his craft slip easier through
the water, and gives imperviousness to his feather-
plated armor. His wild nature is soon apparent.
He depends on no human hand for his food.
Would he pick up corn or refuse from the table,
even if it were thrown to him? As I slowly
approach, he lifts his head and eyes me suspi-
ciously, then turns to waddle down the slippery
rock and gracefully launches his boat into the sea.
He is, indeed, a pretty sight; this bird so alert
and trim, as he rises and falls on the waves, and
sidles off from the shore, like a graceful yacht
sailing on the wind. But he soon returns when I
am concealed behind the ledges. It is curious to
see him manage his craft among the breakers.
He swims into the eddy and under the shelter of
the lee-wall formed by the rock on the shoreward
side, and waits, as the fishermen do with their
wherries, for the rising waves to lift him high and
dry again on this basking and preening place
which he seems to like so well.

But the day among these delightful wonders of
the sea is nearly ended. From Cape Race, along
the coast south-westward, as the great sun dips
below the horizon, the numerous beacons, with
their pencils of light, have been for an hour, one
BY THE SEA. 123

after another, dotting the shores and recording
the time of his setting. The “Nubble” light-
house has just reported and throws against the
eastern sky a fixed red light, which glows like
Mars, as if Old Sol had left behind in its lantern
a coal from his fiery furnace. Immediately a
splendid silvery orb, like Venus, shines over Boon
Island, nine miles out to sea. Further west the
watch-tower on the Isles of Shoals is on time,
and begins to flash its cautionary signals to the
harbor-bound vessels.

As the fire at last was kindled in that highest
and most steadfast beacon, the Polar Star, I rode
up through the fragrant pasture lane to the Hill-
side Farm, with the sweet content of a day well
spent. A few of the “sea-born treasures” were
confined and brought home in a jar —

“But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore,
With the sun and sand and the wild uproar.”
FLIES.

125
VI.
FLIES,

Amone the many orders in the insect world,
none-are more curious and interesting in their
lives, habits and the history of their development,
than that of the azprera, or the two-winged insects
popularly known as flies.

The most familiar example, the house fly, how-
ever common a vagabond and pest it may be con-
sidered, nevertheless presents a most remarkable
appearance when viewed with the magnifier, as it
washes, combs and brushes its legs and wings, by
the half hour, in a sunny spot. It is a cleanly
insect and works hard to rid itself of dust and the
parasites with which its body is often infested.
How it bends its head, until it seems the nape
must be twisted off by such contortions! How
rapidly it rubs its feet together, as one would rid
this hands of soil; and with what skill it lifts the
hind legs over its back, and brushes the upper and
under surface of the delicate wings, that they may
be free and unimpeded!

127
128 FLIES,

If one notes carefully this dainty bit of wing
structure, he will be well repaid for his trouble,
by seeing the beautiful, ingenious contrivances
which strengthen and sustain the gauze-like tex-
ture of the wings and render them suitable for the
performance of flight. Here is a wonderful sys-
tem of venation; a framework with all its pieces
nicely joined together, like the whalebone ribs of
an umbrella. From the four main trunks, at the
base of the wings, branch out six supporting limbs,
at different angles and with various curves, length-
wise over the soft, almost transparent surface.
These are called longitudinal veins, and are con-
nected by large and small cross-veins at different
places. These supporting ribs are stouter and
more rigid along the front part of the wing than
those on the posterior part.

One is fascinated in examining the manifold
patterns and diagrams that Nature has drawn on
the wings of flies! It is by studying the various
designs, that the many families and genera are
identified. How many species there are to be
interested in, that never visit the houses, except
as stragglers! Their haunts are in the deep
woods, along streams and ponds, in sedgy swamps,
grassy fields and wild-flower patches, and it is to
these localities one must go, if he would study
their actions and curious life histories.

If one walks across the fields in April or May
FLIES. 129

he will, perchance, scare up myriads of those
mosquito-like flies, the daddy-long-legs, belonging
to the crane-fly family, that flutter along ahead
and again settle in the grass, or cling to the
bushes or the lowermost leaves of the trees. The
manner in which they take hold on the edges of
leaves with their fore claws, allowing the body to
dangle in the air, is very curious.

There is one little yellowish green species
in this family —a modest fork-fly—so retiring,
indeed, that it loves to hide itself from your admir-
ing gaze. It does not hang and swing, as many
other kinds do, but sets firmly its six feet on the
under surfaces of the leaves and begins to vibrate
rapidly, as if its long, slender legs were full of
spiral springs. If not disturbed, it continues to
dance in this manner for a long time. Is not this
the method it has adopted for its protection?
Besides the general color harmonizing so nicely
with the spray of plants, has it not further resorted
to this ingenious trick of deceiving the insect-
eating birds, by feigning death or by counterfeit-
ing a half-withered bit of leaf or twig, caught by a
caterpillar’s or spider’s web, that trembles in the
breeze?

Under the barberry bush, by the stone wall, a
distinguished collector has established his cabinet,
and a number of very dry, but quite rare speci-
mens are seen mounted on his winding shelves.
130 FLIES.

Some of the species captured are exceedingly
minute, but the human spider, like the arachnidan
specialist, counts nothing lost that comes to his
net; so all these little winged motes have per-
chance been seen before, have classical names
many times longer than themselves, and,-as if
they were the largest creatures on earth, are hon-
ored with stately descriptions in the books.

Mr. Theridon, the proprietor, is modest and
retiring in his habits, when visitors come to his
museum. In his absence, I have purloined a
brownish oddity, belonging to this same crane-fly
family. Curiously enough its wings are quite
thickly covered with long, fine hairs or wool. Its
surname is evzoptera (wool wing) and this singu-
larity, together with the peculiar curve of the last
longitudinal vein, which converges toward and
almost touches the one above it, are the distinct-
ive characteristics of the genus to which it
belongs.

What is this singular insect that, as you search
among the sedges of the bog, rises up, moving
slowly through the air, or rolling along over the
tall spears so oddly that one is almost in doubt
whether it is an insect at all, or some strange non-
descript, produced by the chemistry of the putrid
water and rank vegetation? Its flight is remarka-
bly like the aimless drifting of the dandelion pap-
pus on the light zephyrs, Indeed it resembles, at
FLIES, 131

a distance, some little composite seed, winged
with long variegated bristles, and radiating from
all parts of it, so as to form a loose globular body.
If you are successful in capturing one of these
apparitions, and if you place it under the glass,
you will find it has materialized into a crane-fly ;
another species, called Jdzttacomorpha clavipes,
generically, because it is in shape much like a
slender neuropterous insect, named dz¢/acus ; and
specifically, because the first joint of the foot is
swollen or thickened, and resembles a club. It is
an aberrant form, sure enough, of this long-legged
family. Its silvery white head in front, in con-
trast to the velvety, jet-black thorax; the legs
painted in sharply-defined bands of black and
bright white; the antennz, narrow hyaline wings,
and the long, slender abdomen, explain why it
presents such a striking appearance when flying.
These curious flies are found floating over bogs,
where there are shallow, stagnant pools, in
which they lay their eggs, and where their larvee
live.

How Nature has ornamented and tricked up
these two-winged insects! Sapphires, amethysts,
rubies and emeralds, such as no jeweler has in
stock. There are green, brown and japanned
specimens. Some shine on the green leaves like
blue bits of polished steel; purple and gold mites,
on glassy wings that glisten in the sunlight as
132 FLIES.

they hover over and lap up the sweet juices of the
flowers.

The disguises worn by many species of flies,
for protection, are very interesting to consider.
The members of the family syrpiide@ have taken
to the ways of the bees and wasps, in color of
dress and manner of flight, and are the gayest
uniformed soldiers in the army of the dzptera.
Watch this species on a flower, its wings extended
ready to dart away: like an electric spark; its
purple eyes so large that they touch on the top of
the crown, in gorgeous contrast to the rich golden
front and antenne, the short, oval joints of which
droop over its visor, like gilded tassels. Look at
the burnished corslet, the yellow legs, and striped
body that throbs and palpitates and appears to
make ready to stab you at the least provocation ;
but it has no rapier, and you need not be alarmed.
It is only skillfully acting the part of the “yellow
jacket,” without the weapons. What is it that
gives this insect such bright colors and sends it
out to assume the character of the hornet? Nat-
ural selection, answer the scientists; that the fly
may be guarded against the attacks of its various
enemies. The wasp devours many species of the
diptera, but coming upon this, and other kinds
that mimic it so faithfully, it would be likely to be
deceived, and therefore passes them by unharmed.
Many of the birds have respect for the armed
‘

FLIES. 133

insects, and not being very good entomologists,
are deluded by the false appearance of these gay
deceivers, and so give them a “wide berth.”
Thus Nature, through the operation of her laws,
has painted and given to these harmless flies
mimetic forms, that they may win in the great
struggle for existence.

What curious life histories have many of the
flies! The eggs of the different species are laid
in all kinds of situations, so that when the larvz
are hatched, each may find its own peculiar food
already at hand, on which it immediately begins
to eat and grow. Some kinds of maggots are
born in the nests of bees, and fed on the fat,
tender flesh of the bee larve, that are carefully
tucked away in the cell cradles. The fly that
dares to enter such perilous places to deposit its
ova, must be dressed in bee’s clothing, that the
little busybodies may not suspect that an inter-
loper is in their camp. On sunny days, quite
early in the Spring, if you are looking out for
such intruders, you will be most likely to find a
curious species darting here and there among the
cud-weed and first cinque-foil blossoms, . keeping
its conspicuously-colored wings extended, as it
hovers over a flower, as though it had learned the
trade of the humming-bird. This is a bee-nest
hunter. If it chances to alight, and you can cap-
ture it, you will see that its body is densely
134 FLIES,

covered with yellowish brown hairs. The honey-
yellow legs are quite slender, the hinder pair-
being much longer and more thickly beset with
bristles. The compound eyes are large and full,
and the head is armed with a proboscis nearly as
long as the thorax and abdomen. The base and
front of the wings are brownish, while the lower
halves are nearly transparent, clouded on the
cross-veins and curves. The venation, especially
on the front edge, is large and rigid, showing how
well adapted it is for rapid flight.

This species, I am convinced, is particularly
fond of invading the homes of the sand bees, for
I have seen it playing up and down over a flour-
ishing borough, evidently searching for some
unguarded tunnel.

Some of the boldest and most impudent of the
diptera actually glue their eggs on the abdomen of
the adult wasp, and the larva, as soon as hatched,
begins to eat its way between the segments, and
there lives for several days on the juices of these
armed insects.

There is a species of fly called syrphys politus,
so cunning and accomplished, as its specific name
would imply, that it hunts for yards or groups of
plant-lice, and in the midst of them it lays a
single egg. The little green and purple larva
wakes up to find itself surrounded by a swarm of
sweet-meated aphids, and immediately it stretches
FLIES. 135

out its extensile body, to seize the nearest, and
extract the honey-dew. After it has drank its fill
and grown to full size, it suddenly wraps itself up
in a blanket of glutinous secretion, and in a pupal
state, goes to sleep on the same leaf or stem from
which it has fed.

The eggs of many of the diptera are hidden
away in toad-stools, decayed wood, moss and the
like. Some are deposited in the water, and the
maggots have curious devices by which they
breathe the air.

A gaily-uniformed fly, with spined shield, a
green coat, spotted and banded with black, yellow
legs and purple eyes, searches the shores of ponds
and slowly-running streams, and fastens its eggs
on the aquatic plants. In due time the little foot-
less grub is launched into the world of waters, and
by the aid of a bubble, which it forms at the
breathing pore by means of a whorl of bearded
hairs, is kept afloat; or if it sinks, it carries with
it this supply of air, from which to draw while
beneath the surface. Here it feeds on the prey
that comes within its reach, until it has grown to
the full measure of maggothood. As it assumes
its pupal character, it gradually decreases in bulk,
till at last it is so contracted that it occupies half
of its larval skin only, which it now uses as a boat
and sails about on an aimless voyage, waiting for
the sunny days when it shall cast away its swad-
136 FLIES.

dling clothes and mount on airy wings, a perfect
insect.

There are many species of bot or breeze flies
that are curious in their breeding habits. Each
kind chooses its own type of animal on which to
leave its larvae. They are found on rats, squir-
rels, rabbits, in the nostrils of sheep, even on
frogs, in large tumors on the backs of cattle, and
in the stomachs of horses. The peculiar instinct
of the species that infests this last-named animal,
is especially interesting. What is it that directs
this insect to glue its eggs on the very places
where Dobbin is most likely to nibble, thus intro-
ducing them into the receptacle that is necessary
for their development ?

There are large robber flies that swoop upon
other insects, and fly off with them, as hawks do
with chickens and small birds. Many species in
this family are seen flying about the sandy shores
of ponds and rivers. They never crawl about, but
if undisturbed, remain a long time in one place,
turning around quickly and flirting their wings
like the wasps whenever any thing passes over
them. All have very long, sharp claws; the spe-
cies in one genus, in addition to these, have on
their forelegs stout hooked spines, which are used
as birds of prey use their talons. To this group
belongs that remarkably rapacious and quick-
winged species, the bee killer. It is a veritable
FLIES, 137

pirate among the flies, lying in wait for and cap-
turing the home-bound honey-laden worker, tear-
ing open the nectarious sacks, and devouring
the contents. Mr. Charles Riley, a curious and
expert entomologist, says that it has been known
to kill “a hundred and forty-one bees in a day.”

What singular forms there are among the adp-
tera that have deviated from the typical flies!
There are degraded races that have no wings and
have taken to the ways of the mites, living as
parasites on various birds and animals. Their
bodies are hard and scale-like, fitting them to live
under the hair and feathers and gorge themselves
with blood. The sheep tick is a familiar exam-
ple of this group. There are also the spider-flies
that closely imitate the little saltzcus familiaris
(the familiar leaping spider), that trips about on
its light, fantastic legs, half crawling and half
jumping along in the hot sunshine after prey.

In a botanical ramble, I happened once on a
dipterous oddity that fairly electrified me with
surprise. Walking by an old slough-bed, where
the water had evaporated and left the half aquatic
plants to grow luxuriantly in the mire, I plucked
a specimen of bur-reed, just then in bloom, and
with a glass was about to examine the stamens,
when I observed a grotesque appearing insect, a
cross, apparently, between the grasshopper and
fly, crawling slowly over the dense spherical
138 FLIES.

heads. The protuberant compound eyes, the hind
pair of legs much longer than the others, with
the femora swollen and thicker, and the long
antennz extending straight out from the some-
what receding front, ali gave it, superficially con-
sidered, the appearance of a small grasshopper.
In analyzing it, however, the peculiarities belong-
ing to the two-winged insects could readily be
seen. Its general color was a chestnut-brown.
Six acorn strips, broken by narrower whitish
hoary markings, adorned the top and sides of
the thorax, and the clouded wings, which it did
not attempt to use, were folded closely over the
rather slender abdomen.

With  self-congratulations I hastened home,
elated with the thought that I had discovered a
new and extraordinary species, but in searching
the books, I saw that the specialist had been before
me. It was recorded and described in good set
terms, under the imposing name of Sepedon fusct-
pennis.| Evidently it is rare, for whenever I go
for specimens, the search is in vain for another
of these winged marvels, although other members
of the family, not so singular in appearance, are
often found. As far as noticed, all of them are
seen among the grass and bushes in damp situa-
tions, and are quite sluggish in their motions.

1 Clouded-winged crawling fly.
FLIES. 139

There is another most interesting family of
flies, called the gall gnats. They may be gener-
ally known by their slender bodies, hairy wings,
with only two or three longitudinal veins, and
iong antenne, jointed and beaded like a necklace,
each bead surrounded by a whorl of bristles.
Although the majority of the species are extremely
delicate and minute, they perform greater won-
ders than any other kind of diptera.

With few exceptions, the food and home of
their larvee is in the living tissue of plants, and it
is also a curious fact that the different species of
the perfect fly visit exclusively a certain kind of
herb, bush, fruit or flower, on which to lay their
eggs.

The peculiar irritating, poisonous nature of
these maggots, as soon as they are hatched, and
have penetrated a leaf or stem, produces various
and oftentimes fantastic deformations, which are
sure to arrest the attention of those who have
eyes to see the curious things in nature. On the
leaves of many kinds of trees and shrubs, these
galls appear in the forms of knobs, buttons, blis-
ters, cockscombs, etc., frequently covered with a
pubescence or short, soft down, like that of the
peach, and of various colors. The premature pur-
ple of the gooseberry, and the red of the currant,
sometimes is the work of a single little gall-fly
maggot lodged within, and living on the putrid
140 FLIES.

pulp. Occasionally, in his rambles over dry wood-
lands in the early summer, one sees racemes of
the delicate bell blossoms of the low blueberry,
transformed into a clump of tough, leathery pend-
ants, each distorted and swollen to four or five
times its natural size. This is the result of the
ovipositor of a particular species that visits only
this kind of flower.

On the leaves of young oaks there is a fly that
makes a most extraordinary gall. It resembles a
ball of white plush, ornamented with pinkish spots
of delicate tint, and placed at regular intervals, as
if by artificial design. Indeed this singular accre-
tion, frequently met with, suggests the humor or
caprice of a party of fair, gay picnickers that have
visited the woods and stitched here and there on
the twigs specimens of rosettes and tassels, from
their millinery trappings.

Occasionally, in my Winter walks along the
sunny side of stone walls, where huge wads of
dead leaves have been rolled up by the wind, I
notice swarms of small gnat-like insects out in the
sunshine to try their wings. They play up and
down over particular spots, as if some unseen
fairy magician was having a game of cup and ball
with them. They are not mosquitoes at all, nor
those small flies with feathered antenna, seen so
often hovering over damp places in the early
Spring, but a species of the daddy-long-legs family
FLIES, 141

(hair-horn Winter crane-fly). When viewed with
the common magnifier it is easily identified by the
peculiar seventh longitudinal vein. This is short
and strongly bowed or incurved toward the lower
edge of the wing, and is a mark, say the entomol-
ogists, unlike those of other species in the genus!
The borders of the transparent wings are fringed
with the finest hairs, and most curious of all,
their full, compound eyes are covered with a
downy substance, like that seen on certain leaves
and stems. Pubescent eyes! What is the pur-
pose of Nature in thus enveloping the visual
organs with such strange pilose bandages ?

The larvae of these flies live in heaps of decay-
ing vegetation, and in favorable conditions, burst
through their masks to sport in their odd, see-saw
fashion above their tombs. How wonderful that
such tiny fragile bits of life can survive the rigors
of our Northern Winters, for, as Mr. Fitch says,
«Even when the temperature is below the freez-
ing point, and the cold so severe as to confine
every other insect within its covert, it may be met
with, abroad on the wing.”
TREES IN UNDRESS.

143
VIL
TREES IN UNDRESS.

ALTHOUGH the winds and rains have suddenly
extinguished the flaming maples, the gold-illu-
mined elms, and hickories, birches and beeches,
the glowing sumachs and tupeloes, and left all the
hard-wood trees bare of leaves early in November,
still there is a charm in the woodlands, which the
lover of Nature will not lose sight of. The
boughs, now dismantled of foliage, describe a
thousand varieties of curves and angles, and each
species of tree has its ingrained habit of throwing
up its signal mark, and writing on the cerulean
page, in many figures, fine lines and dashes, its
own peculiar autograph.

What a graceful flourisher is the elm! How
many sweeping strokes, deflections and cranes’-
necks among its boughs, and how regularly dimin-
ished the branch lines, curving outward from
the trunk to the smallest twig, as if they were

145
146 TREES IN UNDRESS.

measured and proportioned to sustain a certain
weight of leaf and wood!

The signatures of the long-lived, Promethian
oaks have much character to them, especially if
they stand apart where the winds and weather
make them strong-willed and deep-rooted. What
firm, vigorous lines the red oaks draw against
the sky! Their branches are crooked, and the
spray is stiff and coarse, as if for the purpose of
supporting the heavy foliage. Is not the stumpy,
thick-set spray characteristic of most trees that
bear heavy burdens?

The apple and pear trees write their names in a
cramped and crabbed style, and, if entirely wild
and untrained, the branch lines grow into snags
and thorns, so peculiar to the family.

The shag-bark hickory is another curious wood-
land scribbler. Its trunk is seldom forked, but
the numerous boughs grow out laterally, often
describing short, downward curves close to the
bole. The twigs are bowed, and are more inclined
to spread out sideways from the branchlets than
to spring upward. The shaft, often rising seventy
or eighty feet, as if grown by a plumb-line, is cov-
ered with a dark granite-gray bark, giving it a still
more monumental appearance, while the singular
exfoliation of the rind, hanging in loose, irregular
flakes, like weather-beaten shingles on an old
building, is the plaited and foliated work, the hie-
TREES IN UNDRESS. 147

roglyphics which the boys and squirrels easily
read, notifying them where are to be found the
thinnest-shelled and the fullest, sweetest-meated
nuts. No other tree in the genus Carya has such
individuality, or is so characteristic in the lines
and strokes of its sign manual, as the shell-bark.

What odd, fantastic sky-markers are the button-
woods, when denuded of their leaves! They are
made especially conspicuous in our northern
woods, and along the roadside, by the action of
the frosts, or by some kind of disease which has
of late years attacked the young shoots at the
extremities of some of the winding and twisting
boughs, so that they appear at a distance like
immense, rigid serpents, stayed in their contor-
tions while rearing their heads toward the light.
To give these trees a still more striking appear-
ance, as if they were struggling to thrive, thick
clusters of young sprigs are pushed out at irregu-
lar intervals along the sides of the branches, while
on some of those shoots of older growths hang the
long, pendulous racemes of button-balls, full of
small, seed-like nutlets. The peduncles on which
these persistent balls are suspended are jointed,
and await the warmer sun and the flowing sap to
dislocate them, when they fall to the ground.

The round tassels are then soon raveled out,
and the seeds, on the under parts of which are
attached fine, tawny hairs, are by these means
148 TREES IN UNDRESS.

taken up and scattered everywhere by the winds.
With the exception of the alder, no other decidu-
ous tree hangs out its seed receptacles so conspic-
uously through the Winter.

The mention of the alders reminds one that
these shrubs belong to a family of graceful
writers. The birches, as Coleridge says, ‘are the
ladies of the woods,” and the running, flowing,
sweeping lines they dash off, in variously-colored
inks, against the blue, are certainly elegant and
symmetrical, and add much beauty to the Winter
landscape.

Usually the white birches are seen in groups on
low, poor meadowlands and sandy soil. Their
slim, pliant trunks, leaning at every angle and in
different directions as if swaying in the dance, are
dressed in pearly satin gowns, that gleam in the
Winter’s sunshine like new silver, in striking con-
trast to the fine, dark-brown spray above.

The sisters to the fair white birchen nymphs
love to pose on higher, richer woodland soil, and
clothe themselves in robes of different color.
Lenta adorns herself in silken bronze, scented
with the fragrance of wintergreen, and Lutea, a
rarer, taller sister, is wrapped in a vestment of
lustrous yellowish silk, with skirts fringed, tucked
and ruffled into numerous flounces and furbelows,
and bedecked with lichen spangles. Her graceful
head, tricked out with purple and green ribbons,
TREES IN UNDRESS, 149

is seen lifted among those of the ashes and rock
maples, in whose company she often grows.

How peculiar is the bark of all these birches!
What has given them their color and sheen and
satin-like texture, and printed it with so many
dots and dashes? The young trees are smooth and
oddly marked, but as the trunks become older and
grow longer the outer covering bursts and is sepa-
rated from the inner fiber, in transverse bands
very different from the exfoliation of the bark of
the buttonwood and hickory. The thick, corky
skin beneath is cracked in almost regular checks
or plates, like the carapace of a tortoise, showing
how Nature has provided for these fast-growing
plants, as she has for the growth of the shelled
reptiles that do not shed their armor-plated coats.

The members of the birch family are always
trustful, in good heart and provident. Even in
the preceding summer they have formed young
amenta for the next spring blossoming, and all
through the cold season. They seem to grow
slowly. On some trees, by the last of March,
the staminate flowers are nearly two inches in
length, so anxious are they to be in season to
scatter the fertilizing dust to the winds before the
foliage puts forth to intercept and prevent it from
falling on the fertile catkin.

The black or sweet birch is especially prolific in
flowering, and the spray on its brush-like head is
150 TREES IN UNDRESS.

often tipped with large clusters of half-grown
fruiting tassels, rendering it very conspicuous
among the forest trees in Winter.

Jf the birches are the “ladies of the woods,”
the beeches are the grim, gray old foresters.
When growing somewhat apart from other trees,
their trunks are gnarled, and their feet and limbs
are twisted into every conceivable distortion, as if
they had for many years suffered from some kind
of ligneous rheumatism. The spray is short and
distant, describing many sharp angles, and the
tapering points of the twigs are painted and
varnished with a beautiful maroon, in contrast to
the light ash of the older bark. Along ‘the sides
and at the tips of the shining twigs are seen long,
sharp-pointed, spindle-shaped buds, which in Win-
ter distinguish them from other trees noticed.
The light-brown, polished scales are regularly
imbricated, closely set and numerous, to protect
the soft, silky, embryo leaves beneath.

With the exception of the special fruit-bearers,
perhaps there are no trees more attractive to those
who have a tooth or a tongue for early sweets
than the rock or sugar maples. Sometimes before
the last Winter month has gone out, on a pleasant
day, after a clear, frosty night, the farmer or his
boys are afoot to tap the most forward and prema-
ture penstocks, that grow in sheltered places and
sunny exposures, and quaff the sweet waters, the
TREES IN UNDRESS. I5i

first nectar of the season on draught, prepared in
Nature’s pharmacy for leaf and blossom.

But these, trees have also, for the lover of the
beautiful, sweets more delectable than their sac-
charine juice. It is the peculiar spirit and char-
acter of maples, adorning the hills and writing
their names above, that he delights to look upon
and contemplate, though he have not the power
to describe. Along the roadsides, in the edges of
woods and in open fields, are seen these “leaf
monuments,” throwing upward from their straight,
solid boles many tapering lines, that, with gradual
curvature, form almost regular pyramidal or hay-
stack heads. In the midst of forests, as if their
training had been neglected, and they had strug-
gled hard for life, their monograms are not so
well set or symmetrical, and are inclined to vary.
Sometimes one comes upon a gnarled and crooked
trunk, with limbs knock-kneed and covered with
wens and tumors. Frequently they rise straight
up without a bough, fifty or sixty feet, and then
show their traced crowns above the tops of other
trees.

The persistent life of the maples, notwithstand-
ing the constant bleeding, is something wonderful
and grand. Mr. George B. Emerson speaks of
them being tapped for many years in succession,
without injury, and Robinson mentions maple
stumps, in Essex County, Mass., whereon were
152 TREES IN UNDRESS.

drawn diagrams of four hundred circling years.
Think of it! They were saplings when Columbus
discovered the continent on which, they grew.
Indeed, it is the longevity of many trees that
gives them character and interest above that of
monoliths erected by man. They are Nature’s
living, growing pillars, that have stood for centu-
ries, and year after year have thrown out their
green, scarlet and golden banners, as it were, to
celebrate some important event in our country’s
history. With what emotion we stand to look on
some dignified and patriarchal maple, oak or elm,
that was in its prime when the Pilgrim Fathers
came, and in its nobleness, perhaps, sheltered the
Concord farmers in ’75!

Along the intervals, banks of rivers, low tracts
of rich, alluvial soil, and sometimes on higher
forest grounds, are often seen squadrons and
companies of stately ashes, with colors surren-
dered, but holding aloft thousands of spears,
which in old veteran troops appear shattered and
broken, as if they had battled bravely with many
a wind battery stationed on the surrounding hills.
The spray of these trees is not feathery and
drooping, but coarse and upright, and the numer-
ous yellowish-gray branches usually grow upward
from the trunks at very sharp angles. The bark
of the older stems has a potent medicinal appear-
ance, and is so peculiarly carved, in such curious
TREES IN UNDRESS. 153

oblique creases, furrows and ridges, that one,
even in the Winter, can readily distinguish the
genus to which they belong.

The wood of the ash is used by the craftsmen
for so many purposes that the tree has passed into
a proverb: “The ash for nothing ill.” No, “noth-
ing ill’’; for besides the good axles, oars and
baskets that are made from the wood, and the
healing properties that are ascribed to the leaf
and bark, they serve to delight the Winter ram-
bler, as he reads their special signets and crests on
the heavens. He is pleased to note and compare
these ashen boughs with those of other trees, and
to ask, while he looks on all this branch variation,
whence it has come about. What is the inherent
mysterious law that sends upward so gracefully,
with double and oftentimes with triple curvature,
the branches of the aspen, that twists and zigzags
those of the oak and beech, and spreads the arms
of the pine, the noblest of trees, horizontally from
the trunks?

It is also interesting to one who looks on the
woodlands in Winter to consider the origin and
growth of trees that shed their leaves at this
season, and how much they differ from the pines,
hemlocks, and other coniferous monarchs that
appear so warm in their garments of green.

No doubt, at one time, in the early period of
the earth’s existence, these monstrous plants, that
154 TREES IN UNDRESS.

are now throwing out their bare, gray branches,
were evergreens; but as the cold increased at the
poles, where they first grew with other types of
vegetation in all their luxuriance, they were grad-
ually modified and especially adapted to grow and
thrive in our north temperate zone, as the hardy
foxes, bears, owls and snow-buntings have been
fitted to live under the rigorous conditions of the
polar regions.

The few kinds of evergreens that still linger in
our forests are mostly of the pine family, and
probably have not changed materially from those
that grew in the Arctics before the tertiary period.
Their leaves are tough and needle-like, and conse-
quently suffer but little by the harsh wind of our
northern Winters. Others, of different genera
and species, bearing larger leaves, retreated before
the cold wave, and planted themselves in the
tropics. Some, it is believed, fell out of the race
southward, and were lost. A few, such as the
oaks, elms, maples, ashes, etc., lingered far to the
northward of the tropical goal, and have made
special arrangements to meet the buffetings of
a colder climate. From the first, Nature had
whispered to the leaves, “Boreas and King Frost
will be cruel to you. Your broad surfaces and
succulent flesh will be nipped and lacerated, and
you will be broken off by the million, and bled
profusely at every pore. Under such difficulties
TREES IN UNDRESS. 155

you can not perform the work of taking the car-
bon from the air; so, when you feel the breath
of Autumn withdraw the starches, sap and other
nutritive material from your tissues into the infant
bud you have guarded so tenderly through the
Summer under the base of each one of your stalks,
then die in all your glory, and drop off without a
struggle, as those that have done their duty well.
The young bud, in whose body your blood is
stored, is like the seed fallen in the soil, which
lies dormant during the wintry reign, but at the
first warm breath of Spring will burst forth to
produce another generation of leaves and twigs.”

But the season of rest in the deciduous trees is
brief. Hardly has the sun crossed the vernal
equinox when they begin to ‘show belief.” The
juices, confined all Winter in the wooden cells,
expand, and the veins of the topmost twigs are
charged with the colorless blood. The sweet
birch trunks and limbs are overflowing with the
exuberant sap, which drips on the dead leaves
below them. The white and red maples are
fountains sending up streams of delicious hydro-
mel, and bursting asunder the garnet blossom
buds, while the importunate bees, with their pollen
baskets, are early to their market, and garrulous
over the scarcity of bread-stuffs.

The elms have bloomed and gone to seed
almost before we know it. A mist of many hues
156 TREES IN UNDRESS.

lingers amidst the twigs and smaller branches.
Upon a thousand hills, and up the valleys, regi-
ments and brigades of stately sylvan giants, as if
possessed with living spirits, are marching, sway-
ing their arms and clapping their hands for joy,
and flinging out their colors against the azure
walls for the summer’s campaign.
LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS.

157
VII.
LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS.

WueEn the seed-eating birds, that linger with us
through the year, fly from their warm coverts on
Winter mornings to find their granaries on the
ground locked up by the frosts or snow, they have
been taught by keen senses to look up higher for
their breakfasts, on the tables of the shrubs and
trees. If there is in the neighborhood of their
bedrooms a plenty of sumach, cornel, privet or
barberry bushes spreading out dishes of crimson
and purple fruit, the birds are sure to visit them;
but if the scarcity of these puts them on short
allowance, the hardy grouse and quail, and the
self-reliant little finches, know of other condi-
ments on which to regale themselves.

Centuries and centuries ago—how many it
would be interesting to know, but long before the
botanists in the cold season began their investi-
gations —they discovered by the stress of circum-
stances, that the unexpanded buds which stud the

159
160 LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS.

twigs of trees and shrubs were as full of starch,
sugar and other nourishment as eggs are full of
meat.

So let us in this Winter’s walk, in lack of other
fare, like the partridges, have recourse to the
buds! It is a beautiful picture, this wooded
slope, bespangled with young twigs of the various
shrubs, painted in many shades of yellow and
brown, all brightly polished and glistening in the
sunlight, while the tall oaks, hickories and other
trees throw up their limbs in every direction and
mark the clear, blue dome with many curves
and angles. As one looks on all these fantas-
tic scrawls, he is led to inquire why they have
been traced so curiously against the sky, or on
the lower background. The question is partly
answered in one word—selfishness; for since
each branch started out from the bud it has been
struggling more or less with its neighbors for its
own interest; that is, trying to get all the sun-
shine possible! Here a lower branch is bent
down and kept under a more prosperous bough
above it. There a young shoot flourished for a
while, then in a vain effort to raise its head
directly to the light, declined in the shade and
grew to be a crooked, scraggy arm, no longer able
to push its thrifty fellows aside. Hundreds of
sprigs went to the wall to make way for the
sturdy, gracefully-curved limbs that lift their slen-
LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS. 161

der, shining spray high over all, to bask in the
sun.

Yet this is not the only cause of this curious
branch variation, seen among the different trees.
Within sight are two trees growing quite near
each other: the hickory and ash. Observe the
difference in the manner in which they draw their
lines. Why is it so? Examine closely the twigs
on each and notice the fashion they have adopted
in setting their buds. On the end of every shoot
of the shag-bark is placed a terminal bud, as it is
called, like a crown or bishop’s hat, while below
it, on the sides, are ranged alternately, sometimes
at almost regular intervals, as if measured with
line and rule, the smaller buds, which will make
the branchlets of another season. The ash you
will see, by some strange law unto itself, has
taken another method of putting out its shoots.
The little nodes from which the leaves spring, and
which determine the arrangement of the twigs,
are all opposite; the pair below being placed on
the stems at exactly right angles with the pair
above. This is the reason why we see in the top-
most spray of the ash, when it has had the full
light of the sun and uninterrupted growth, so
many forks and crosses or “vegetable weather-
vanes, with north and south and east and west
pointers, thrown out one above the other,” so
different from the cat’s-cradled, entangled tracery
162 LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS.

of the hickories, and many other trees that bear
alternate buds.

Look at the various shapes and sizes of these
leaf packages set in many ways! Spindles,
knobs, spurs, wrapped in scales, some half-buried
in the bark, all of them prepared the summer
before, and living through the cold winter, as the
seeds do that are in the ground; only more read-
ily than the seeds, do they unfold their leaves
and flowers at the first warm breath of spring.
Indeed some, like those of the elm and red maple,
spread out clusters of long, slender stamens and
crimson petals before the leaf buds expand at all.
The allspice bushes are decked with gold. Yel-
low caterpillars have climbed along the shoots of
the ‘“‘pussy willows,’’ and the alders by the run
hang out to the first April breezes their pretty
brown tassels weeks before the young leaves have
thought of rolling out of their furry blankets!

While we are speaking of the blossoms of the
alders and willows, it is interesting to notice the
different manner in which these two kinds of
shrubs bear their separate flower-buds. On any
Winter’s day in your walks just look at the alders.
How shining, vigorous and healthy they are.
“They have a cheery, hey-day appearance and
’ switch their long catkins in the very face of Win-
ter.” But these graceful plants have other less
conspicuous aments, which will be overlooked
LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS. 163

unless one is particularly observing. Above or
below the larger catkins on the same stalk, may
often be seen little purple mulberry-shaped bodies,
in clusters of threes and fours, keeping company
and growing with them. These contain the
immature female or pistillate blossoms, which in
the early spring will develop as soon as the male
flowers in the long, drooping spikes are ready to
discharge the abundant pollen grains, which, as
they escape, look like wreaths of yellow smoke
carried by the winds through the naked branches.
The small fruiting catkins are now covered with
little purple, wormlike stigmas, protruding from
the scales, which are thickly beset with hairs or
tentacles of delicate moist tissue. When the
pollen-dust is blown past some of these minute fin-
gers are sure to catch and hold on to a few of the
grains, which after a while push down tiny rootlets
or tubes in the soft flesh of the pistil, as seeds do
in the earth, till the little bottle-shaped bodies,
called the ovules, are reached, when a miracle is
performed which changes them to regular alder-
seeds, that in the Winter are found in those dark-
brown, woody cones of the previous season.

The pussy willows, too, love to grow in wet
meadows and beside streams, with the alders, and,
like them, have cheery hearts. Often in sheltered
places the catkin buds, like tiny, tailless mice
clothed with glossy hairs that gleam in the sun-
164 LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS.

light, peep out from beneath their black, smooth
covercles to sniff the mid-winter’s air, or prick up
their ears all too soon to catch the hum of the
early bees. As if Nature had foreseen that these
flower-buds would be impatient, she covers them
with only a single black scale, which is easily
parted or uplifted; yet with what consummate
skill she has wrapped them with the finest silken
robes, to protect them from the sudden changes
of the weather. Dissect one of them and see the
wonderful way in which hundreds of pink-tipped
scales are ranged round the long, slender recepta-
cle. From the inner side of these furry scales
grow two anthers or pollen cases, now scarcely
visible, even with the aid of a magnifier, but
which, in the warm spring days will push their
small, yellow heads through the floss and dis-
charge the fertilizing dust.

How different in outline are the fresh, warm
evergreens from the naked, hard-wood trees!
The firs, spruces and pines, when growing apart,
so that the light may have full play on the lower-
most branches, describe almost regular spires and
cones; as if they marked out to the rambler in
clear-cut, colored lines — “ We are the conifers or
cone-bearers.”” Look at the terminal shoot of
this young white pine, rising two feet above the
whorl of branches, like the spurred point of a
lightning-rod on a steeple! Almost its entire
LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS. 165

length is beset with long, needle-like leaves,
arranged in clusters, and bound together at the
base by bands formed of the delicate scales of the
tiny buds, like bristles in a brush. In some of
these fascicles are counted seven leaves, showing
how exuberant and full of resinous blood it is.
The usual number in each sheath on older trees
is only five.

However hardy and thrifty these evergreens
appear, they can not grow in the cold Winter, and
so have made special arrangements, like the
deciduous trees, in preparing other buds, wherein
lie dormant the shoots and foliage of the next
Spring. In a whorl at the tip of this strong,
healthy spur are placed six of these leaf nests,
with a larger terminal one in the center. Break
off one of them and view it with your magnifier.
It is in the form of a cone, like the growth of the
tree and the seed vessels of many members of the
pine family. With what exquisite workmanship
Nature has folded the tough, rusty brown scales
over each other, covering them with a thin coat
of pitch, and trimming their margins with fine,
woolly hairs, that not a drop of water, or a whiff
of frost may find their way to the tender baby
shoot within !

The order in which these buds are set explains
why the pines and spruces are inclined to grow
into such conoidal figures. That larger bud in
166 LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS.

the center of the whorl, always so vigorous and
persistent, which crowns the head of the tree, is
the cradle and swaddling clothes of the young
shoot, which is really the continuation of the main
trunk. As the Winter approached, the parent
pine wrapped it up, and lulled it to sleep by
the soft, melancholy music of its many zolian
harps. The next season it will awaken and spring
straight into the air, like the present growth,
while the ring of smaller buds, if undisturbed, will
form a circle of lateral branches, such as are seen
below. Thus the tree is disposed in whorls
throughout; a kind of irregular pile of wheels,
with the axles and hubs grown together, and grad-
ually increasing in diameter, while the series of
curved, radiating spokes, with needles and crosses
attached, are lengthened according to the growths
of years.

Besides the myriads of buds set in order, and
prepared in so many interesting ways on bush
and tree, their names are legion that are lurking
beneath the snow or underground. All stems do
not rise in the air, but are inclined to skulk in the
soil, as if humbled, and cared not to flaunt them-
selves, or cast graceful shadows and reflections on
fields and mirroring ponds. In the bogs, beneath
the russet uplands or Winter coverlet, are life and
health. Runners, root-stalks, tubers, corms and
bulbs, are only lowly, modified stems, gorged with
LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS. 167

starch and other plant food, stout and fleshy with
excessive feeding, and, like the aerial branches,
produce buds, ready to wake from their sleep at
the earliest call of the vernal sun.

How quickly the cat-tails, sweet-flags, and
flower-de-luces, by the streams and swamps, will
respond to the south-west winds, and wave from
their hidden arms millions of sword-like leaves!
In the rich woodlands, the Solomon’s-seals, Jack-
in-the-pulpits, and wake-robins are prompt to
accept the first invitation of the season, and give
discourse to the attentive rambler. “Behold the
lilies and arums of the field and wood, how
we grow!” The subterranean branches of such
kinds of plants are often mistaken for the roots;
but if one examine them closely, he will soon dis-
cover that the real roots are often disposed along
their sides. The stems of certain species do not
attain a great length, for after a time, the older
parts die away nearly as fast as the newer, bud-
ding end grows, But in places where the cat-tails
are, in asparagus beds, or in couch-grass plats, the
soil is bound through and through with a net-work
of string and rope-like shoots, yearly sending forth
leaves above, and small, fibrous roots below.

It is nearly like making a rapid journey two or
three degrees southward, to walk from the bleak
northern side of this hill to its southern, sunny
slope. Here already are peeping out of the crev-
168 LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS,

ices of the warm ledge the pretty scalloped leaves
of the columbines and rock-cresses, while the
saxifrages on the shallow soil are spreading out
tiny purple mats, as if invoking the sun to crown
them with the clustered cymes. Turther down in
the rich ground, beside old stumps, the first
leaves of the celandines, when bruised, exude
their creamy saffron-colored blood. Beside the
icy stream, at the foot of the hill, the bristly but-
tercups, with a fresh lease of life, are lying low to
listen to the first piping of the frogs; and the
ox-eyed daisies, so abundant in the fields beyond,
have woven little rugs close to the frozen ground,
and look as green and sound of bud and leaf as
the young, tender exotics of the conservatories.
What is it that keeps these plants so vigorous and
healthy through the Winter? Last Fall the stalks
withered and dropped down, but unlike the short-
lived annuals, a small part of the stem, fed by the
roots, with jelly, starch and sugar, remains full of
vitality through the season of frosts. Indeed the
leaves, so well set the Autumn before, and so
bountifully supplied with plant-food, seem to grow
very slowly in the milder days.

Let us look at this crowfoot (buttercup) that
has planted itself so trustingly in this cxposed
situation, and observe the way in which the naked
bud spends its winters. From the short stem
that joins the root has grown a whorl of leaves,
LEAVES IN WINTER QUARTERS. 169

with petioles or stalks of different lengths, wide
and concave at the bases, which forms a kind of
sheath. Into this curious vegetable crib, which
answers the purposes of scales in tree buds,
nestles the infant leaf. With the magnifier one
can see how nicely its tender lobes are folded and
the care that Nature has taken in clothing it with
a suit of long, bristly hairs. It only waits for the
sun to lift it upon its foot, when another will be
born, and still another, to grow below it. Every
leaf is planned and prepared beforehand, and
down somewhere in the short, thick stem lie hid-
den the germs of other leaves, which finally will
see the light; and last of all, when the king-cup
has reached its destined stature, June will bring
forth the golden crown, to adorn it with regal lus-
tre and glory.
HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY.

171
IX.
HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY.

Tue hillside yonder, studded with boles and the
rugged outcrops of pudding-stone which are dap-
pled with various lichen, now freshened and made
alive with color by the melting snows, presents a
most beautiful view to the rambler. As he draws
near and studies the picture in detail he finds
none but the commonest kinds of these curious
plants with their margins variously lobed and sin-
uated, fringed with fine hairs or entire, according
to the species. Some are thickly beset with
little dish-shaped apothecia, which are the recep-
tacles for the spores or seeds, while other speci-
mens, it may be of the same species, are entirely
free from them, but frequently covered with a
dense mass of minute warts or powdery cells,
the contents of which, as well as the true spores,
possess the power, it is said, of making new
plants, when the winds carry the fine grains to
suitable places for their germination. Here is

173
174 HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY.

an ash-colored rosette, so closely adherent to the
rock that it is impossible to remove it without
injury. It is curiously stamped with numerous
dimples or little shallow hollows, and the borders
are deeply divided into many long, narrow pin-
nately cleft lobes. Surely it is a pattern which
Flora with her looms and coarse needles devised
long ago. Indeed it is a kind of patchwork figur-
ing which must be cleaved from its substrate and
torn apart in order to examine the nature of the
fabric and the dye-stuff which stains it. The dis-
tinct, well-defined, bright white line along the rag-
ged edge of a scrap of it, catches the eye at once.
If it is viewed with a strong magnifier, it has the
appearance of the frayed borders of a thick piece
of white paper, with the alternate thread-like tis-
sues well woven together, and the broken ends
projecting in every direction. This is the pith or
marrow of the thallus; the layer of starchy fila-
ments, stored for the life and support of the plant.
The thin, under bark layer is black, varnished and
bristling with numerous fibers. As many as
thirty are counted on a bit not larger than a
large pin-head, so there must be on this single
patch no less than thirty thousand of those
attaching threads, which so admirably serve to
keep it in its place. That part of the central
layer immediately beneath the upper crust or bark
is stained with light bluish gray, owing to the
HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY. 175

disposition of many little germinating cells, called
gonidia, which are filled with a chlorophyll-like
coloring matter, and so minute that it requires a
powerful microscope to distinguish them. These
bodies, which are pushed through the closely-
woven threads of the upper bark layer, give it its
color.

It would be interesting to further read the
inscription, the curious letters and figures, on this
antique rock sampler. When did the lichen artist
begin to weave her threads here? She works
slowly on such looms, and in seasons of drought
lays by her shuttles altogether. Persons who
have had the curiosity to watch the progress of
certain specimens of the Parme/za1 for a quarter
of a century, say that they have remained in about
the same condition as when they first attracted
their attention. So this foliaceous web, that has
attained quite large dimensions, perchance could
have been seen by a wandering Natick, or had its
disk rubbed by the soft nose of the wild deer!

There is a singular genus of lichens, the com-
mon Cladonia,2 several species of which assume
peculiar, eccentric forms. The stalk-like eleva-
tions, called podetia, bearing fruit of various col-
ors, and rising from a mat of scale-like, half-erect
scalloped leaves of the thallus, which grows close

 

1« A small, round shield.”
2« A tender branch.”
176 HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY.

to the bark or earth, readily attracts the attention
of the rambler. They are in the shape of cups
and saucers, wine glasses and goblets, clubs and
spurs, and mimic shrubs, branched in many curi-
ous ways. The cardinal flowers by the stream in
Summer do not sooner catch the eye than the scar-
let apothecta of this cock-spur lichen growing at the
foot of old trees and around decayed stumps.
The bright-red heads mingled with the mosses, or

raised above the dull, ash-green mat, gleam like
. living coals and make many a niche and corner in
the old gray woods, to blossom like the rose.
This crumbling pine stump, fairly sparkling with
the lichen fire, is beautiful to look upon. Such a
gay color, among the prevailing drabs and browns,
stimulates the sight. One feasts his eyes upon it,
as he would feast on the red apples from the opened
hoard in the field in Spring, albeit there is better
fruit in the stalls, and as glowing colors in the
milliners’ windows. It is the wildness and earth-
iness of it that gives it its charm. It seems
almost irreverent to break the brilliant rosary on
which one could count his prayers, but like chil-
dren we can not suppress our desire to handle
the pretty beads and to see the inside of things.
Some of these thalline stalks bear no fruit, but
grow up like thorns, stout at the base, tapering to
quite a sharp point and somewhat curved, while
those having the scarlet heads are of irregular
HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY. 177

growth, covered with a kind of greenish blue meal,
and often beset with minute, scale-like leaves.
All of the stalks are hollow.

In what looms or wheels were the cup-bearing
Cladonias turned? How did the artificers of the
humid air contrive to weave so skillfully the cell
threads into cavities of such a variety of patterns?
Here are cups and chalices from which the bees
and early butterflies might feed. Dishes with
their edges entire or ornamented with small teeth,
or embossed with the minute nodes of the brown
apothecta, and goblets with irregularly cut rims
from which have grown a profusion of shoots,
crested with fruit caps! What is the purpose of
the little hollows and cavities? They are not the
receptacles of special bodies, as are the sessile
disk-shaped apothecia of some of the foliaceous
lichens, or like the capsules of the mosses. By
the way in which they are sometimes cut, and
their inclination to break up into clusters of fer-
tile branchlets, we may perhaps conclude they are
simply the precursory forms of the higher, much
branched, species, of which Cladonia rangtferina,
or the reindeer moss, growing abundantly on rocks
and sterile pastures, is a representative.

This last-named lichen and other closely allied
species, which we crush beneath our feet and con-
sider mere litter and rubbish, are really interest-
ing and beautiful, if we would pause to study
178 HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY.

them. They are the corals of the air ocean, as it
were, built up slowly by the atoms of moisture
and light, and heat, and are faithful in their duty
in making soil and preparing it for the growth of
higher plants. Pluck a specimen of this Cladonta
pungens, growing so commonly in shallows on the
ledges in pale, dense clumps. It is as slender
and fragile as spun glass when dry. How easily
it is separated from the earth, because it has
hardly the suggestion of a root. The horizontal
thallus, or mat of scale-like leaves, seen in many
other species, is here entirely absent. Into what
acurious entanglement of branches has this tuft
of hollow stalks been developed! It is a compact
thyrsus of branch tubes, grown together, a minia-
ture lichen banyan tree, without roots. The axils
or armpits of the branches are perforated as if
with pins, and the tips of the numerous little
forks and teeth at the extremities of the branch-
lets are colored brown. These are the sterile
summits, The fruitful ones, not so abundant and
usually found on separate tufts, are arranged at
the tips of certain stalks, in little clusters or
cymes. A pale, ash-colored, more loosely-branched
kind, with curved or drooping summits, and also a
species called Cladonia racemosa, with greener
ramified stalks, thickly beset with scales, is fre-
quently mingled with this lichen. All of them
are found, I believe, in high northern latitudes,
HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY. 179

both in Europe and America, where they grow
more luxuriantly than here, and on them the
reindeer and caribou feed in seasons of short
commons, ;
Particular species of lichens are found growing
in all parts of the world, and it is their cosmopoli-
tan habit that gives them a certain historical
interest. Lvernia furfuracea,| growing in erect
or pendulous tufts on trees in the Northern and
Southern United States, “has been found and
identified in the Egyptian coffins, having been
adopted, from its softness, to fill in the vacant
places.” My correspondent, Corinne Hoyt Cole-
man, who has a keen scent for the curious in
Nature, and sees things with inspired eyes, sends
me from the New Hampshire woods the Usnea
barbata,* a species said to have been described by
Theophrastus the Greek philosopher, more than
two hundred years before the Christian era, One
loves to call to his mental vision the old Athe-
nian and his companions, in white robes and
sandals, taking their walks along the Ilissus and
over the neighboring hills, as did the Concord
sage and his friends by the shores of Musketaquid
and Walden, the “Cliffs” and “Czesar’s Woods,”
to seek the company of the dryads, and to be
refreshed and inspired by the Great Spirit of

1 Lichens covered with a meal-like powder.
2 Bearded moss.
180 HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY.

Nature. In these walks through the Attic wood-
lands, this self-same Usnea, so curiously bearding
the trees, must have often invited his attention.
One can imagine him intently viewing it with his
“burning sphere,” — “the shrub-like,” glaucesent,
papillate thallus enclosing the medullary indurated
cord, and-still more perplexing “apotheke” with
large, pale, shield-shaped disk, margined with
fibres. Were not these his conclusions as he pro-
ceeded with the analysis? Had he not one day
spoken of it to Plato, his teacher, on their way to
the lyceum, or discoursed on its structure and
mode of growth to his pupils, while walking up
and down the porches or in the streets of Athens?
To examine this lichen, is almost like greeting the
philosopher who found time, amidst his other
works, to write on the science of plants more than
two thousand years ago. I look on it as one of
the old things of the world—an antique lichen,
done in bronze.

Had not the Athenian in his walks often
admired, as Thoreau did, that curious fungus-like
lichen named Beomyces rosaceus, found not rarely
growing in little plots on the naked soils, in shady
woods? At the foot of a hill, under the-~ black
birches, where the earth within a year or two has
been dug out and thrown in a heap, is a bed of
the fruit of this species. It has taken complete
possession of the mound, which is coated with the
HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY. 181

fine, granulated ash-green thallus that resembles
mould, and from it grow myriads of tiny balloon-
shaped stipes crowned with light-pink or flesh-
colored fruit heads, giving the whole a pretty
effect in delicate hues. It is a good illustration
of Nature’s watchfulness and the prompt way she
has of veiling the naked earth. She likes to con-
ceal the blemishes on her face. Even this spot of
gravel dirt she considered an ugly freckle, and so
readily enough invented a lichen mantle, with its
broidery and beads, as a temporary covering.

As the rambler becomes interested in the vari-
ous species in this low order of plants, he is
impressed with the plan and appearance of their
fruit-cases — apothecta. The apothecium is the
culminating, crowning point of the lichen, as the
rose is the superlative glory of the bush. It is
the anticipation or forerunner of the corolla of the
higher plants. As the inventor at first may
devise some comparatively clumsy implement, and
afterward improve his work, so Flora, it would
seem, from the mere fruit receptacle of the lichen,
at last evolved for us and the honey gatherers the
flowers, with stores of nectar and thousands of
beautiful designs. See the bits of color she has
from the first put into these fruit-cases, as if for
some reason it were a point especially to be
looked after! In the most instances they are dif-
ferent from, and brighter than the thallus, over
182 HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY.

which they are sprinkled, and to which they are
attached. Many of them are of various shades of
brown. Some are as black as jet, or bright white,
while others are red, scarlet or pink. Their
beauty is only skin deep, but if our eyes were
microscopic, we could see that the colored skin or
rind is composed of numerous tiny filaments, slen-
der at their bases and somewhat swollen and club-
shaped at their summits, and within the mass of
these erect threads are embedded certain small
membranous cells or bags which contain the
spores, not yet mature. What is the purpose of
this special coloring of the apothecia? Is it to
advertise themselves, as the flowers do to the
bees? Perhaps these insects gather the meal-like
substance for their bread, which many of the
lichens yield abundantly, though one can not con-
ceive how the plants in return are benefited
thereby. The winged busy-bodies are sharply
questioned, as they buzz here and there about the
stumps and ledges in the early sunny Spring days,
but they give no satisfactory answer; however,
one is inclined to believe they, like the caribou
and reindeer of the north, or the Nature-loving
rambler, sometimes go to a lichening when other
food is scarce.

These simple mats or expansions of starch cells,
seen almost everywhere on the ledges, or the pale
sulphur or ash-colored species on the earth, hav-
HUMBLE FAMILIES IN GRAY. 183

ing rough and crumbling surfaces, and so difficult
to identify, appear interesting only from associa-
tion. They are the representatives of the earliest
forms of vegetation, the copies and reprints of
Flora’s ancient drawing. After the rocks had
been lifted from the ancient seas, or a pinch of
gravel-dirt was formed, then the goddess began
her work. With cunning fingers she hastened to
mount the plants, without true stems, leaves,
flowers or roots, wherever there was a suitable
matrix. The lichens depend wholly on the mois-
ture for their increase, they are of necessity of
slow and interrupted growth, but capable of contin-
uing many years. Their starchy nature favors
hibernation. As the buried tubers and corms
wait for the sun to warm the earth that they may
germinate, so these humble plants, in seasons of
drought, wait patiently and without apparent suf-
fering, for the rain or the humid air to set their
laggard shuttles in motion again.
WINTER SKETCHES.

185
X.
WINTER SKETCHES.

Tuis flight of snow gives a zest, a relishing fla-
vor to the Winter, which has until now been with-
out its white covering; and I go forth to see the
earth in a different phase.

How effectually the snow has shifted the scenes
and masked her face! Every foot-fall is muffled;
every angle is now a curve. That sharp, ragged
ledge has been completely upholstered with the
white ermine showing a hundred plump shoulders,
pillows and bosses. The branch lines of the oaks
and maples, drawn in brown and white crayon,
are in beautiful relief against the sky, while the
tall, straight hickories on the hill in the distance
suggest to the mind a forest of ships’ masts, with
the white sails snugly clewed to the square yards
and stays. The slim, white birches appear actually
gray, when viewed against a snowy back-ground.

But the richness of the snow tracery and flour-
ish, on pilaster and capital, soon falls to dust and
skivers, for the Winter breezes are true icono-

187
188 WINTER SKETCHES,

clasts and can not rest. No sooner have these
pictures been finished, when out from the North
come sweeping through the arches irreverent
gusts that break the idols into millions of frag-
ments. Little imps of whirlwinds waltz through
the columns overhead and brush off handful after
handful of fleur-de-lis and bits of perfect moulding,
feather and spangle. In a day the uneasy wind
has made sad havoc with the decoration on the
hard-wood trees, and the forest floor is strewn
with the débris—odds and ends of ornaments
that have made little pits and dimples, like mice
and bird tracks, in the white carpet underfoot.

But the snow remains longer on the thick foli-
age of the evergreens, in the forms of cushions
and huge bears’ paws that furnish good, warm
roofs for the birds. Many a partridge and quail,
the hardy finches and merry chickadees, must
have taken shelter under them last night. The
protection that this kind of cold wool gives to the
Winter animal and plant life is an important func-
tion in the economy of Nature. The stick and
leaf house of the squirrel and deer-mouse in yon-
der tree was relieved of various uncomfortable
draughts and made much warmer by the snow
chinsing; while the green blood of the radical
leaves of hosts of venturous perennial plants is
quickened by the soft, white mantle, so tenderly
laid over them.
WINTER SKETCHES. 189

In my walk I have suddenly come upon a tab-
let, on which is a record in hieroglyphics of two
important events in the history of a pair of
winged creatures that fluttered about these woods
last season. The characters are indeed interest-
ing to translate.

There in a young sapling is a vireo’s nest,
stuffed and padded with the softest, whitest lin-
ing, which the mother builder and young, now
flown with the Summer, would have thought the
coldest comfort. How many hopes and fears for
this nest, how much love, were once centered on
this cheerless mass of fibrous roots and grasses!
Now the builder is far away, searching, perchance,
among the leaves of the palmetto and orange
trees of tropical or sub-tropical regions; yet some-
thing whispers to her in that distant land, to come
again to this identical wood! She simply waits
in her Winter retreat for the sun to bring forth
the foliage and proper food, when on those mar-
velous wings she will speed her way along the
invisible path to her real home, for it is only here,
in the coolest region of her migration, that her
maternal heart beats for the love of nestlings.

Above the anaglyph of this pretty chronicler is
chiseled, as it were, in bas-relief, another record.
A gay female butterfly, as she wavered by in her
crooked way, on liveried velvet wings, stopped
here to immortalize her name. On a slender twig
1g0 WINTER SKETCHES.

she has glued a cluster of tiny eggs, thimble.
shaped and finely ornamented with ribs and
furrows and arranged in almost regular order.
Whence had come to her little head that intelli-
gence, that conscious knowledge of the means
employed that certain ends may be attained —the
wonderful tact and foresight, manifested in this
scrap of light and shadow that flitted among the
underbrush last season? To this shoot she came
and reasoned, it would seem! “At the base of
this leaf stalk is a bud. I do not see it now, but
I know it is there. In the cold weather, when I
am dead, or have crawled into a snug crevice for
Winter quarters, this leaf will fade and drop away ;
then it will be seen plainly enough. From the
uncovered bud a knot of tender leaves will grow
next summer, and upon these my caterpillars love
to feed; so, just under this bud I will glue my
eggs, that when they are hatched, my weaklings
may have the proper food close at hand!”

From somewhere overhead comes down a finely-
spun Winter lyric, which faithfully expresses the
emotions of that valiant little singer, the chicka-
dee. At times his tune is not half played out, or
perhaps I do not catch the piping of the lower
notes. Perhaps, just here, there is a scarcity of
grub in the tall warehouses, or he sees a cluster
of spiders’ eggs in the crevices of the bark that
can not be had for a mere song. Yet he never
 

 

”

“THIS ATOM IN FULL BREATH.
WINTER SKETCHES. IgI

really complains. What character is wrapped up
in that tiny bit of feathers! What hardihood and
self-reliance! The vireo, that wove her hanging
cup in the sapling last Summer would soon perish.
But —

“ Here is this atom in full breath
Hurling defiance at vast death.”

And the voice of the crow yonder in the hem-
lock! However coarse and croaking his speech
may seem to the listener in the warmer season, it
is sent forth now through the Winter air clearly,
melodiously even, and gives a temper and health-
ful quality to these chilling, snowy woods. “Caw,
caw, caw!” he vociferates with as much earnest-
ness and enthusiasm as a person who cheers on
hearing of some extraordinary bit of good news.
He has a correct inflection, too, and clearly under-
stands the rules of pronunciation. His exclama-
tions and commas are as readily traced, as though
his discourse had been set up in plain “long
primer.” His note usually is only thrice repeated,
but at times, when he is particularly communica-
tive or excited, he gives tongue and sets the
tidings afloat in a half-score of caws, as if he
wished to impress on the mind of the listener the
importance of his assertions. ‘Hurrah, Huzza!
Hear all!’ says the woods-crier from the tree tops,
192 WINTER SKETCHES.

or when he blots the white page of the fields.
“Away with the doldrums! My coat is sombre,
but my spirits light.” In these Winter days he is
more than ever a vegetarian. He scours the
orchards for the stray ‘frozen thaws,” and has an
eye for brilliant berries on the shrubs. Sometimes
he finds in chinks and crevices of the ledges a
caterpillar, or a fat, ham-like cocoon pendent, on
walls and plants; or if he can spice his diet with
an occasional mouse or small bird, he counts it as
no sin, but the best of fortune, for in this season
of starvation, such viands act as a kind of cardiac
nutriment, which invigorates the heart and gives
strength and cheerfulness.

The rains have again carried off much of the
snow to the streams and ponds, and the fields and
pasture-lands are figured with irregular patches of
brown and white, as if “gigantic spotted hides
were stretched over them.” By the stream a
single male robin chirps in a subdued and pathetic
tone —in contrast to his manner, for he has all
the warm weather pomp and pretension. He has
come to the water to wash down his breakfast of
berries. He does not indulge in a bath, as he
would surely have done had the season been
further advanced. In this uncertain and “catch-
ing weather” he must take care to keep his plu-
mage as dry and polished as circumstances will
permit,
WINTER SKETCHES. 193

Many of the perennial plants are starting up by
the stream. Here are rosettes of water -cress
leaves, and one bud of the skunk cabbage, I see,
has pushed itself out of the ground three or four
inches. It grows where the running water is con-
tinually washing it, and has bleached the outer
leaf wrapper as white as ivory; the whole resem-
bling a large walrus tusk. How accurately Nature
has rolled together the tender lemon-colored leaves
within !

The earth that was nearly bare yesterday
appears this morning in a thin, wafer-like veneer-
ing of white, as if an immense army of colossal
confectioners with seven-leagued boots had been
busy through the night, striding over the hills and
hollows and spreading with sparing hand the huge
brown loaf with flaky frosting. After the army
had passed on, the “snow walkers’? came from
their coverts and wrote their names in bold, run-
ning foot, and imprinted the plastic covering with
pretty trails and records of their journeyings. By
the stream, that appears almost as black as ink
in contrast to the surrounding whiteness, are
the impressions of various filigrees, meshes and
chains, twisted and entangled in every conceivable
manner. What odd, roundabout, random errands
they were sent on in the darkness! Here in the
Autumn, the snow betrayed the course of that
nocturnal prowler, the skunk. He had visited the
194 WINTER SKETCHES.

foot of every tree in bis route in expectation of
finding, no doubt, a worm or myriapod morsel for
his empty stomach. What a pretty, innocent
trail he makes! His tread is plantigrade, and the
imprint of his feet is perfect. He takes short
steps as if his legs had been tied. Here he has
minced himself along by the wall and stopped
suddenly, then turned his course toward the low
ground, as if he thought that, after all, the best
feeding-place, or had seen or heard an approach-
ing danger.

What manner of creature is this whose trail in
the snow begins and ends so abruptly? That
takes such long leaps, and whose course is so
broken, and disjointed? Ah! The wings solve
the mystery. The animals possessing them have,
as it were, only stepped into another medium,
leaving zigzag veering marks on the aerial page,
if only our sight were keen enough to trace them.

I look with interest on the path of a bird, his
initiative and final step; his designs and line of
conduct, so clearly and neatly mapped out. Here
he set his feet firmly down like props as he
alighted, and made a few rear and side flourishes
in the snow with his wings and tail. The foot-
prints are about three inches apart, and regularly
alternate. Further on he evidently was startled,
for the clearly-cut tracks appear opposite with
some brush-marks behind. Along the edge of the
WINTER SKETCHES. 195

stream his foot slipped, as he reached out in the
water to spear some small mollusk or aquatic
larva. Suddenly the trail is discontinued, as if the
bird had fallen dead, and had drifted away with
the current.

The ponds are again sealed with thin ice, which
gives a dull reflection to the trees and shrubs on
the banks, while the polished surface here and
there, by the cunning fingers of refrigeration, are
ornamented with spangles, rays and flowers. The
fine green algze that floated on the water in places
yesterday, were caught in the crystalline veneer-
ing, and broken slices held to the light have
the appearance of stained glass. Frost fairies
thronged the wood-road in the witching hours and
covered every little pit and hollow there with thin
plates of pearly ice, which if tapped slightly
with the cane, send forth certain musical tones
like those from kettle-drums— chiming, clinking
sounds, or deep, hollow reverberations, according
to their area and depth. Perhaps a musician with
delicate ears could select special cavities on which
to express correctly the several notes in the scale.

How still the woods are! The crisp leaves, as
they are lifted on their edges by the passing zeph-
yrs, seem to admonish one in low sounds to listen :
“Hush! Hist!” they whisper, “you may hear
the fun and frolic of the dryads.”

The winged seed of an aster or golden rod flies
I 96 WINTER SKETCHES.

slowly by as if it were possessed of thought and
were searching among the crevices and openings
for some suitable spot in which to lodge and germ-
inate. What a delicate, tenuous mote it is! Yet
wrapped within the tiny kernel is the possibility
of a beautiful golden plume or a cyme of ame-
thyst that, next Autumn, shall feast the eyes of
some esthetic rambler.

This wood-road presents a most delightful per-
spective with its vista of warm evergreens in the
distance, the gray tangled branches of the oaks,
and the nearer rows of cornels and willows, with
their polished shoots of red, purple and yellow,
gleaming in the wintry sun. On such a day the
eye gratefully lingers on these colors. Beneath,
the brown border carpet, too, is beautiful with its
exquisitely-wrought figures of prince’s pine and
soft coats of dark-green moss. It feels like the
richest Axminster to the tread. One may walk
on it in soiled shoes, for, although it cost Nature
much time and trouble to weave it in her loom
and spread it here, she will not scold you for your
thoughtlessness. How fresh and full of verdant
blood this tuft of moss appears! Yet the shallow
mold in which it grows is frozen and the matted
stems are glistening with needles of frostwork.
Sink the nostrils deeply within the mass of deli-
cate leaves and inhale the earthy, woodsy, aro-
matic odors, It is as agreeable to the scent as
WINTER SKETCHES, 197

a sniff from your vase of potpourri, or from a
Lubin’s jar.

In what odd, unaccountable places do the
various species of these humble plants flourish !
They are the true followers of the lichens. They
grow on the gray boulders and ledges, in mats
and cushions, for the squirrels. Decayed tree
trunks are lined with their bright-green velvet.
They love to warm and brighten up the brown
and barren spots on the forest floor. How socia-
ble they are, and inclined to assemble in com-
panies, and grow leaf in leaf, in good fellowship
with each other. Here is a large colony of the
hair cap moss (Polytrichum commune), living
together without envy or rivalry. Each individ-
ual stem has reached a certain stature, prescribed
by law. Unlike a community of pines, they do
not resort to arms or try to raise their heads over
their fellows to get the sunlight. Indeed, they
seem to like the shadow and moisture somewhat
better than the broad glare of the sun. Pull up
a stalk and examine it. It is almost as hard to
break as hemp twine, its tissues and cell-walls are
so strong and firmly knit. The triangular, red-
dish-brown stem is loosely wrapped about with
the curious aerial root hairs, so thickly woven
together that the mass has the appearance of felt.
The leaves along the basal half of the stalk are
closely appressed and resemble small, brown scales,
198 WINTER SKETCHES.

while those on the upper half are abruptly larger,
scattered and spreading. The end of the sprig,
protected by a whorl of sheathing leaves from
which, next Summer, would have grown the pedi-
cel with its curious fruiting cup, is succulent and
packed with chlorophyll.

So these modest, unpretentious mosses are
humbly fulfilling their mission on the earth.
They are continually making new leaves, while
the old leaves are converted into rich mold, from
which in time will spring up an army of higher
plants, with their flourish of trumpets and their
flying colors. Here at the foot of a tree is a large
clump of moss with finer leaves and the thickly
matted stems more delicately spun. If a yard or
two of: yellowish green plush with long hirsute
pile had been carelessly spread out and conformed
to the general unevenness of the ground, it could
hardly have been distinguished, at a distance,
from this beautiful piece of Nature’s weaving.
The numerous awl-shaped, strongly-curved leaves
are arranged only on one side of the stem, as if
the heavy winds blowing constantly on them from
one direction had bent them, like grass-blades in
the meadows. From out this soft, mossy bed has
grown a mimic forest of brownish-yellow stems or
pedicels on which are attached tiny fruit-cups —
cornucopiz, arched or bent over like bows. A
month or two ago each one of these fruit-cases
WINTER SKETCHES. 199

was completely sealed by a ring of cells growing
between the rim of the orifice and cover, that the
vessels might be impervious to the weather dur-
ing the growth of the spores. As the cases
ripened, the cells were ruptured and the covers
then dropped off, and the spores or moss seeds
were poured out and sown by the Winter’s wind.

Many mosses blossom in Summer and ripen in
Winter. The broidery with which the margins of
these spore capsules are ornamented is wonder-
fully beautiful and delicate. The common mag-
nifier fails to bring out clearly the exquisite
workmanship and the exceedingly fine lines and
markings. The inner edge of these horns of
plenty is regularly fringed with a row of six-
teen amber-colored or dark purple translucent
teeth, closely articulated and split down about
midway; thus making thirty-two long filaments
above, which are evenly bent inward over the
top of the case. What is the purpose of these
teeth? They are the thickened parts of the lay-
ers of cells, which, as soon as the spore case
becomes ripe enough to shed their contents and
the covers are detached, appear in all their deli-
cate beauty, bending inward or outward, and thus
retaining or releasing the tiny fruit, according as
the amount of moisture in the air varies.

Around the outer edge, at the base of the teeth,
is a rectangular recess, cut as evenly as a turner
200 WINTER, SKETCHES.

could cut a groove with his chisel and lathe. It
is a “rabbet” that the mosses designed long
before the carpenters were born. What skillful
fingers fashioned these tiny case-covers? Look
at them lying here and there among the leaf tufts
in all kinds of positions, as if the elf-urchins had
hurriedly thrown their caps away and scampered
off to have a dance on some other soft, green car-
pet in the woods.

Many of the mosses are very sensitive to the
moisture, or dryness of the air. They love the
warm, wet weather. In favorable situations I dis-
cover, in my rambles, several other species that
have lifted up young fruit pedicels in these Win-
ter days, so wistful are they and quick to respond
to the sun. Here on the southern wooded slope
by the stone wall, are spread numerous mats of
the Polytrichum piliferum, a small brother to the
common “hair-cap.” To the unassisted eye there
appears a fine floss on these mats, as if a thin
mist were lingering over them. The magnifier at
once shows that the midrib in each of the lance-
shaped crowded leaves is prolonged into a toothed
awn or beard, which is bright white and in striking
contrast to the dark-green foliage below. From
the midst of these nappy whorls have sprung
many half-grown stems, each wearing its hairy
cap, of the general Robinson Crusoe pattern, well
pulled down and fastened over the young, tender
WINTER SKETCHES. 201

heads. Even these tiny stalks can not come forth
without their mother’s notice. The bright-green
velvet cushions of Cerdtodon,! as soft and almost
as regular in form as those in the boudoir, havea
pretty effect on the shelves of the gray rocks.
Some of them already are fairly bristling with
young pedicels and look as if they were closely
set with bright-red pins, with green, oblong heads.
Some of these tufts show no signs of fruiting.
Probably they are the sterile clumps; for all of
the mosses have two kinds of flowers, or organs,
analogous to those of the higher orders of plants.
Some kinds have their pollen-bearing flowers,
or antheridia, and the pollen-receiving flowers, or
pistilidia, on separate stems or tufts; while other
species have them on the same stem, but not on
the same receptacle. If one with the sharp and
searching eyes of the microscope should look well
in among the leaves of these apparently barren
cushions, he would no doubt see little club-shaped
ruptured sacs, from which have escaped certain
minute bodies, which are nearly related to the pol-
len grains in common anthers, and which fertil-
ized these succulent spore cases while they were
yet young, tender cell masses hidden among the
leaves, before they had lifted themselves on their
high pedicels. These are the only kinds of flow-

1A horn and tooth, in allusion to the teeth of the fruit-cups
which have little knots or lumps, like a goat’s horn.
202 WINTER SKETCHES.

ers that such plants have. The season of blos-
soming varies greatly in the different species.
Some blossom in Winter, in favorable situations,
as these cushion mosses have. Some tufts are
always in blossom and have the fruit cases in dif-
ferent stages of development, but the majority of
them flower either in the Summer or Autumn.
Many of the mats, now bristling with dry stalks,
and pouring out their fruit on the ground, were in
flower six or seven months ago. That it should
require so long a time for this extremely minute
moss fruit to ripen, seems to be remarkable.

If the attentive, discriminating rambler accepts
the invitation which these humble but cheerful
plants offer, he will be surprised to know how
many species will salute him, and impart to him
the various entertaining lessons in moss lore dur-
ing an ordinary woodland walk. Each kind takes
him by the button, as it were, and talks to him
ptivately of its special characters and peculiarities.

On a willow trunk bending low over the stream
are some creeping mosses, ‘which, superficially
considered, appear to be all alike, but really here
are two mats growing beside each other, that
belong to distantly related tribes. Close atten-
tion and a good magnifier are necessary, while
they converse with you in silent but potent lan-
guage about themselves. Says one: “Do you
notice, I wear my leaves in a different way from
WINTER SKETCHES. 203

my neighbor, who has also taken the liberty to
spread his mat here? See how clearly and regu-
larly they lie over my stems and_ branches.
Altogether I appear, I must confess, somewhat
depressed. The leaves of the feather moss are
more loosely worn, and are cut into longer taper-
ing points, while many of its branchlets are erect.
I dare not lift my arms so high. But it is by our
fruit-cups you shall know us best. Observe that
my neighbor’s are incurved and nodding and
crowned with a double row of teeth, while my
cups are upright and adorned only with a simple
coronet of spines, well set in below the edges
of the mouth. Besides, they are round, like
cylinders.”

But it would indeed require acute senses, even
of the bryologists, no doubt, to discover the law
which directs the mosses to grow in so many
different ways. What has caused the dry, slen-
der fruit-stems in this species to be twisted so reg-
ularly from left to right, or from right to left, like
candy sticks? Why do the stems of other kinds
assume a flexuous, snakelike form with heads
re-curved, while those on a different mat grow as
straight and rigid as bristles? One also longs to
know the artists who fashioned these moss-fruit
urns into so many curious and elegant designs,
and ornamented them with various markings and
sculpturing! Here is a vase, half emptied of its
204 WINTER SKETCHES.

fruit, which you must carry home and examine
under a powerful lens, if you would see the beau-
tiful etching on its sides. How delicately trans-
lucent are its cell walls! The central axis or
continuation of the pedicel, and the dark spore
grains within, are seen as plainly as grains of sand
through a thin porcelain urn. The leaves, too,
are peculiarly figured. Those colorless, elimpid
spaces, in such a variety of shapes, bounded by
the bright-green net-work of veins, are indeed curi-
ous, when viewed through the microscope. How
perfectly some of the lines are drawn, as if a pen
with the finest point, and dipped in chlorophyll ink,
had traced the tiny, shell-like leaves, and nicely
marked them into diamonds, hexagons, or narrow
wavy lines, according to the several species.
Besides this dainty marking, the leaves are often
bordered with fine teeth, or grooved lengthwise
into furrows or channels, or beset with knobs and
bosses.

Truly Nature’s soul is in her work. Diligent,
unwearied, but reserved and reticent, she is as
painstaking in forming a fruiting moss-stem, as in
building the tower-like trunk of the Sequoia. In
preparing the rich mold to nurture the higher
plants, she must needs indulge her fancy and zxs-
thetic taste. So with her eyes, as it were, to the
microscope, that not a fillet or thread shall be
misplaced, she weaves the beautiful green tapes-
WINTER SKETCHES. 205

try, and spreads it over the barren, unsightly
places. But —

“There is no great and no small
To the soul that maketh all.”

And she profusely scatters her marvels under our
feet and on every hand, whether we will see them
or not.

To-day, there is a Spring-like quality in the air,
and I catch an occasional whiff of earthy, woody
odors, and certain indescribable sweet scents, as
they are wafted by, suggestions and reminders of
the balmy seasons before us— migratory breaths
of incense exhaled, perchance by the sun further
south. Yet the air currents have a chilliness
about them and shut off in some degree the heat
rays from the world. In the road at high noon
the outlines of the boards, tree-trunks, and even
the slender fence pickets that intercepted the
rays in the morning, are sharply drawn in white
against the dark, thawing earth, showing a kind
of reverse shadow.

The most unusual event which I have to record
in this out-of-door chronicle appeared on the very
last day of Winter!

By the edge of the cat-tail swamp from one of
those soft, spongy spots where the water grasses
and other aquatic perennials are kept always fresh
and green, I started up a small bird, that perched
206 WINTER SKETCHES.

on a spike near by, and began to flirt its tail in a
nervous, uneasy way, as if confused or ashamed
of being seen in such lowly situations.

It soon flew down again, however, on the green
turfy hummocks, and began to search for food as
before. From my standpoint I could see, though
not plainly enough to identify the species with
unaided eyes, the little bunch of grayish feathers
half hopping, half flying along as if it disliked to
wet its feet. Moving back a short distance to
prepare my glass, I frightened the adventurous
little stranger away. It flew far over the tall
reeds and was lost to sight. It was too bad thus
to lose my treasure, but I was not long despond-
ent, for in a half hour afterward, while looking at
some catkins further on, my good fortune unex-
pectedly turned or flew up again and alighted on
the tip of a broken alder, not three rods away.
At first I thought it to be one of the early finches,
a bay-wing or a song-sparrow, but as I placed its
image on the object glass and viewed it closely I
found it was a true fly-catcher, the bridge pewee
or Phebe bird. The saucy, pugnacious head, the
black, slender, straight-edged bill, the dark-brown
wings and tail, and the general resemblance to
the tyrants, were unmistakable. What, then, were
the circumstances connected with his life, that
had brought this travel-stained wayfarer Here,
three or four weeks earlier than his chroniclers
WINTER SKETCHES. 207

say he is due? Had he been hovering about,
these three months, over the edge of Winter, eat-
ing berries as these birds sometimes do, when fly-
ing insects are scarce? I ask him the question,
but he does not condescend to reply. He only sits
there, acomplete little stoic, “and submits without
complaint to the unavoidable necessity by which
all things are governed”, sometimes in the fun-
niest way turning his searching eye down to the
brook, that in answer looks up and laughs, as it
runs by.

THE END.