Part 1

BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.

ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.

VOL. VII. MAY, 1900. NO. 5.

CONTENTS.

Page MAY. 193 WE MAY HEAR THE BIRD SING. 193 UNCLE NICK ON FISHING. 194 THE MAGPIE. 197 A BUTTERFLY'S HISTORY. 197 THE DEAD BIRD. 199 THE FIELD DAISY. 199 A SUBMERGED FOREST. 200 RED-BREASTED NUTHATCH. 203 MIGRATORY BIRDS. 204 ACROSS THE WAY. 205 THE PURPLE MARTIN. 206 A GLIMPSE AT BEAUTIFUL PICTURES. 209 GOOSE PLANT IN BLOOM. 210 JOHNNY APPLESEED. 211 RING-NECKED DOVE. 212 THE RING-NECKED DOVE. 212 SOME EARLY RISERS. 212 THE YOUNG NATURALIST. 215 OPOSSUM. 218 SOMETHING ABOUT DOGS. 221 EASY LESSONS IN EVOLUTION. 222 THE CECROPIA MOTH. 223 THE GENISTA. 224 WHERE VEGETABLES CAME FROM. 227 BIRDS AND FARMERS. 228 FISH HAVE FAVORITE HAUNTS. 229 SILLIEST BIRD IN THE WORLD. 229 THYME. 230 A CURIOUS SURVIVAL. 233 THE RAVEN. 235 WILD FLOWERS OF MAY. 236 RICE PAPER. 239 GOOD UNCLE TO ANTS. 239 A FLOATING SNAIL. 240 EGYPTIAN TREES FOR AMERICA. 240 INDEX VOL. VII-JANUARY TO MAY 1900, INCLUSIVE. GENERAL INDEX VOLS. I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII. i

MAY.

The voice of one who goes before to make The paths of June more beautiful, is thine, Sweet May! Without an envy of her crown And bridal; patient stringing emeralds And shining rubies for the brows of birch And maple; flinging garlands of pure white And pink, which to their bloom add prophecy; Gold cups o'erfilling on a thousand hills And calling honey-bees; out of their sleep The tiny summer harpers with bright wings Awaking, teaching them their notes for noon-- O, May, sweet-voiced one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm, red wine Of life and passion--sweeter days are thine! --_H. H._

WE MAY HEAR THE BIRD SING.

NELLY HART WOODWORTH.

We may hear the bird sing but we cannot descry The heart of the singer; the great mystery Of the singing is hidden from sight, and the heart Of the sweet singing bird has a vision apart; We may listen intently to catch the sweet theme, But who can interpret the soul of the dream?

We may hear the bird sing, catch each generous note That pours to the air from its quivering throat, See the breast rent with ardors; unfathomed, deep-stirred Folded under the song lies the soul of the bird, Unsounded and soundless, too deep for our reach. Though we listen entranced to its musical speech; Who sees the lark's soul as it mounts from the sod, Who sees the clear soul has a vision of God!

UNCLE NICK ON FISHING.

IRWIN RUSSELL.

It alluz sets me laughin', when I happens to be 'roun,' To see a lot ob gemmen come a-fishin' frum de town: Dey waits tell arter breakfus', 'fo' dey ebber makes a start, An' den you sees 'em comin' in a little Jarsey kyart!

Now, Jarsey kyarts is springy, an,' to studdy up de seat, De gemmen's 'bliged to ballus' hit wid suffin good to eat; An' Jarsey kyarts is lighter run, de gemmen seems to think, By totin' long a demijohn ob suffin good to drink.

When dy gits at de fishin' place, it's 'stonishin' indeed! Such tricks to go a-fishin' wid _nobody_ nebber seed: Dey poles is stuck togedder wid a dozen jints ob tin, An' has a block-an'-teeckle for to win' de fishes in!

De gemmen makes a heap o'fuss, an skeers de fishes off, An' den dey takes an' sots de poles, some place de bank is sof, An' den dey hunts a shady place, an' settles on de grass, An' pruz'ntly heahs 'em: "Dat a spade? I has to pass!"

St. Petah wuz a fisherman, an' un'erstood his trade: He sot an' watched his cork, instid ob lazin' in de shade! De gemmen isn't copyin' arter him--dey bettah be!-- Or--_I_'s a science fisherman--'t'd do to copy _me_.

When _I_ goes out a-fishin', I puts on my ol'est clo'es: (Dey age's putty tol'able, you'd nat'rally suppose!) I gits up in de moh'nin', long afore de sun is riz, An' grabbles wums, _I_ tell you! like de yurly bird I is.

I's alluz berry 'ticlar 'bout de season ob the moon; De dark ob hit is fishin'-time--an' time for huntin' coon; An' den its mighty 'portant, too, as notus shed be tuk Ob varis' little sarcumstances bearin' on de luck:

You has to spit upon de bait afore you draps it in; Den keep yo' cork a-bobbin', des as easy as you kin; Ef someone steps acrost de pole, you knows yo' luck is broke, Widout dey steps it back agin afore a word is spoke.

Don't nebber, not for nuffin, think ob countin' ob yo' string; 'Kase ef you do, you ain't a-gwine to cotch anoder thing; But ef a sarpent-doctor bug sh'd 'light upon de pole, You knows you's good for cotchin' all de fishes in de hole.

Dah! now you has de science what a fisherman sh'd know; So, any time yo' ready, all you has to do's to go, An' toiler dem instruckshuns--ef you does it, to de notch, Good marster! won't it s'prise de folks to see de mess you cotch!

THE MAGPIE.

(_Pica pica hudsonica._)

This is a rare winter visitor and not much known. Its nest is a very bulky and somewhat remarkable structure, composed exteriorly of sticks of various sizes, forming a spherical mass, the upper portion of which forms a canopy to the nest proper, the entrance being through one side. The eggs are usually six in number, but often as many as nine, and are of a pale olive or grayish white color, thickly speckled with olive-brown.

The magpie can be taught to talk, is intelligent and inquisitive, and has many of the characteristics of the raven.

A BUTTERFLY'S HISTORY.

(_The Troilus._)

ELLA F. MOSBY.

The _Troilus_ belongs to the knights or chevaliers, and is a beautiful creature. His front wings are velvety black, spotted with yellow; his hind wings blue, elegantly scalloped, with a long streamer at the end, and when he lifts his wings, the under side is also lovely in marking and color. His double tongue forms a tube for sucking honey from deep flower cups, and may also be coiled up like a lasso when not used. His knobbed antennæ are supposed to be organs of scent by which he detects the perfume of blossoms or of other butterflies. For butterflies have distinct odors; the mountain silver spot smells like sandalwood, and other butterflies have the delicate fragrance of jasmine, thyme, balsam or violets. The anosia butterfly has a faint smell of honey. The sight of the butterfly, in spite of his single and compound eyes, the latter made up of many shining facets like cut gems, is not believed to be very keen. It is thought that while he perceives color in mass, he has little perception of form, and is easily deceived. The white butterflies, for instance, alight on the white-veined and spotted leaves in a garden, while seeking white blossoms. No organs of hearing have ever been discovered, and, for the most part, the movements of the butterfly are noiseless as drifting snow-flakes, the only exception being a slight click from a sudden closing of the wings, or in rapid flight.

The whole structure of the creature is for movement. He has no brain, only a cluster of nerves somewhat like one; no heart, only a segmented tube, in which a white blood circulates; no distinct lungs, but air-chambers throughout the whole body, so that it is easily poised amid the aerial waves, as he glides, or flutters securely above the earth. There are many muscles, two or three pairs of legs, and about five pairs of hooked arrangements called pro-legs; and his glory lies in his four broad wings of radiant colors, covered with silvery and shining plumes of softest texture. These wings are to him as the knight's steed, bearing him proudly in his circling combats with his rivals, or in his sportive ascents with his mate, or on his gay journeys with a crowd of winged comrades along the aerial highroads. He need not _seek_ adventures, for when he is a butterfly he has already passed through wonderful experiences.

His life begins with a tiny egg, the size of a pin-head, laid singly on the _under_ side of a leaf for protection. Every species of butterfly has its own special food-plants, and will feed from no others; but do not imagine that the pastures of our _Troilus_ are limited. He feeds upon two of the largest and most beautiful tree families--the _Rosaceæ_ and the _Lauraceæ_--beautiful for fruit, flower, foliage and fragrance. With the rose family alone the range is immense, embracing, as it does, not only the rose, but the hawthorn, the meadow-sweet, the mountain ash, the strawberry, the cherry, apple and all the lovely orchard trees, while with the other family we find the glossy and shining leaf of the magnolia tribe, and the aromatic odors of sassafras and spice-wood. The butterfly eggs are marvels of color, pale green or white at first, changing to all sorts of iridescent tints as the life inside matures, and also of form, for they mimic the delicate sea-fashions of urchin and coral, the richness of oriental mosques, and the intricacy of design in Gothic windows.

Let us fancy the egg of our _Troilus_ fastened--a fairy cradle, indeed--on the leaf of a wild cherry tree that has tossed its sprays of feathery white bloom, and its rustling leaves all June long in sunshine and wind and twinkling shower beneath a summer sky. When the shell is broken, what a strange thing creeps forth!--well-named a larva or _mask_, for it is a disguise that has no trace of a winged nature. The lover of the butterfly shrinks with loathing from this hideous creature, dragging itself slowly along in quest of the food which it greedily devours--the fresh, sweet leaves of the tree that has sheltered it! But unless it eats and grows there will be no butterfly, and sometimes the skin is cast off as many as five or six times, even the inner lining as well as the outside skin, to give its growth free play. If the caterpillar were large it would be terrible, for it protects itself, being soft-skinned and often helpless, by a mimicry of rage, pawing the ground, lashing its head furiously from one side to another, as a lion lashes its tail, rearing itself up menacingly in a sphinx-like attitude, grinding its mandibles with a grating sound. Its color is at first usually green like the leaf it feeds on, but it afterwards develops bright hues in some species. The _Troilus_ caterpillar is green with a yellow stripe on each side, and row of blue dots, while its under side and feet are reddish. These varied colors show little, however, on the tree, for the leaves of fruit-trees, especially, quickly assume a yellow tint, and are streaked and spotted. Caterpillars protect themselves in many ways; some make a tent of a leaf near their feeding-ground, turning over an edge under which they creep, or weaving the different corners of the leaf closely together with silken threads. Even the petals of a blossom may be secured by a filmy web. If the caterpillar must spend the winter as a caterpillar, it makes of the leaf a winter-house, which it covers with wood-colored silk, and weaves the thread securely to the skin. These nests resemble closely the buds of the tree.

After the caterpillar stage of humiliation and danger, comes the strange period of sleep or seeming death, when the cocoon or chrysalid appears. The name _pupa_ or babe is also used, from the likeness to an infant in swaddling bands. The caterpillar was always liable to curious fits of drowsiness or stupor; this stage of the pupa is a prolonged stupor, and it prepares for it by rolling off the garment of skin, and leaving it underfoot in the silken shroud or cell. Sometimes it sleeps in the earth, sometimes in a rock crevice, sometimes hangs like our _Troilus_ looped up by a thread to a tree. The case has knobs or horns to protect the sleeper when the wind blows it against anything. It is sensitive to light, and swings towards or from it, according to need. At last comes the resurrection. From a narrow slit emerges a crumpled, wrinkled thing. If the struggles are long, dare not aid even by a touch! The butterfly is of such delicate texture that outside help means mutilation. Let it alone. Soon are the wings smoothed--I saw one hang himself up, and lengthen and lengthen, until he was about twice as long as at first--then he spreads them in flight, a glorious and joyous creature of the sunshine! He likes companions, and quickly will he find himself greeted by a Jason or splendid Ajax, or encounter a flock of his own kind, with whom he may feast by roadside puddle or beds of opening flowers.

Marvelous care is shown in the provision for the awakening from its long slumber. The threads are woven so loosely near the place of opening that they are easily broken, even in his first feebleness. The old garment, rolled in a heap at his feet, cannot impede or entangle him. He is now the _imago_--"image in full of his species,"--and, like the fairy, Ariel, he will follow summer as it flies, and swing "under the blossom that hangs on the bough"--an airy spirit of joy!

THE DEAD BIRD.

NELLY HART WOODWORTH.

Hark to the beating at the lattice!--sure It is some winged creature asks for room Within my walls. Shall I deny its quest, Refuse a welcome to the homeless guest? Who could the rigor of such night endure? Nay, open wide the window. Come, oh, come,

And share my shelter! All the air was stirred By the mysterious pulsing of the wings In useless haste, until their murmurings Grew faint and fainter; now they pulse-less lay. Again they found the light--my eyes were blurred With tears of pity. "Here upon my breast Thou shalt have rest. Rest thee, dear bird, I pray!"

And as the bird's throat trembles when the song Throbbing for wings pours to the generous air, So my heart throbbed with pity and my hand Went quivering as I held the stranger there.

The velvet wings dropped heavy. O'er the eyes There came a mist, like hoary mists that roll Far up the mountain, blotting out the skies And leaving scars upon the lonely soul; The stars were blurred, the hilltops canopied, The valleys lost, the little bird was dead.

THE FIELD DAISY.

JENNY T. RUPRECHT.

Nomadic queen with softly petaled face, Thine is a beauteous throne where'er thou art, And thine a reign triumphant from the start; And though thy throne were in half-desert place, Or where thou may'st behold the brooklets race, Or just above the sleepy valley's heart, Or higher up the grasses tall to part-- Queen of the fields! thou reign'st with witching grace. If shine, 'tis well; if shade, thou murmur'st not, For thou hast learned of nature patient trust-- Glad of the cloudless light all golden wrought, Nor sad if shadows fall, as shadows must-- All these shall flee before thy floral reign, And leave fresh charms throughout thy wide domain.

A SUBMERGED FOREST

Many years ago, even so far back that the traditions of the oldest Siwash extend not thereto, there was some vast upheaval of mother earth on the shores of Lake Samamish that sent a portion of the big Newcastle hill sliding down into the lake, with its tall evergreen forest intact, and there it is to this day. About this time of the year the waters of the lake are at their lowest, and then the tops of the tallest of these big submerged trees are out of the water, but never more than ten or twelve inches.

Unfortunately for the curiosity seeker and traveling public generally the submerged forest is on the opposite side of the lake from the railroad and the station of Monohon, and very few people ever see the phenomenon unless they take the time and pains necessary to reach it.

Sam Coombs, the pioneer, has just been over to view the submerged forest, and he is very enthusiastic concerning its beauties and mystery. He talks Chinook fluently, but with all his quizzing of the red-skinned inhabitants he has never learned anything that will throw any light on the history of the forest under water. The waters of the lake are very deep, and the bluffs back of the beach very precipitous, so that the only explanation of the freak is that either by an earthquake or some other means a great slide has been started in early times, and it went down as a mass until it found lodgment at the bottom of the lake. At this time one can see down into the glassy, mirror-like depths of the lake for thirty feet or more. Near the banks the forest trees are interlaced at various angles and in confusion, but further out in the deep water they stand straight, erect, and limbless and barkless, 100 feet tall. They are not petrified in the sense of being turned to stone, but they are preserved and appear to have stood there for ages. They are three feet through, some of them, and so firm in texture as to be scarcely affected by a knife blade. The great slide extended for some distance, and it would now be a dangerous piece of work for a steamer to attempt passage over the tops of these tall trees. Even now the water along shore is very deep, and a ten-foot pole would sink perpendicularly out of sight ten feet from shore line.

All over this country are found strata of blue clay, which in the winter season are very treacherous, and, given the least bit of opportunity will slide away, carrying everything above with them. This is the theory of the submerged forest of Lake Samamish. It probably was growing above one of these blue earth strata, and heavy rains, or probably an earthquake, set it moving. The quantity of earth carried down was so great that the positions of the trees on the portion carried away were little affected. It is hardly to be believed that the earth suddenly sank down at this point and became a portion of the beautiful lake.

Few such places exist. There is a place in the famous Tumwater Cañon, on the line of the Great Northern, near Leavenworth, which is in some respects similar. At some early time a portion of the great mountain side came rushing down and buried itself at the bottom of the cañon. Now there is a considerable lake, and in the center stand tall, limbless trees, different in species from those growing along the cañon.

At Green Lake, near Georgetown, Colo.--a lake which is 10,000 feet above sea level--is a submerged forest of pine trees, some hundred feet tall, but not so numerous as in Lake Samamish. This same theory explains their presence as given above.

RED-BREASTED NUTHATCH. (_Sitta canadensis._)

BY LYNDS JONES.

It is doubtful if any bird has been more persistently overlooked or more universally confounded with a closely allied species than the subject of this sketch. His superficial resemblances to the white-breasted nuthatch, either in color or voice, are not striking, certainly not so much so as with other species which are not so confused, yet it is certainly true that but a small proportion of the laity are aware that there are two nuthatches roaming the woods, the one a migrant in the Middle and Southern States, the other resident wherever it is found. What, then, are the marked differences between them? The red-breast is decidedly smaller than his cousin, his breast is tinged with red or brown instead of the immaculate white, and there is a black line running through the eye to the back of the head, separating the white line above it from the white throat; the cry is a nasal, long drawn 'yank, yank,' very different from the brisk, crisp, business-like utterance of the white-breast. Moreover, he is a traveled gentleman who spends the winters in the South and his summers mostly north of the United States, while we have the white-breast with us during the entire year. So much for differences.

The habit of climbing head downward, sidewise, or any way, is common to all nuthatches. They feed upon the insects and their eggs and larvæ which inhabit the bark crevices, but also sometimes vault into the air in pursuit of a flying insect, after the manner of the flycatchers. In the North, where the red-breast sometimes tarries well into the winter, rarely remaining all winter long, they fasten nuts and seeds in cracks or crevices and hatch them with the beak, eating the meat, of course. It is this habit of 'hatching' nuts that gives the group its English name.

The red-breast is a bird of the whole of the United States and at least southern Canada, but can be called common only locally and occasionally. Some seasons it may not appear at all at some stations in its migration routes, and again be common for a short period, especially in the autumn. In most central localities it may be expected during the last two weeks of April and the first week of May, and again from September well into the winter months, if not all winter long.

The nest is placed in some dead stub in a hole excavated by the birds, usually several feet from the ground--as high as twelve feet sometimes. The nest material is some soft substance like fine grass and rootlets. The excavation is usually shallow, scarcely more than six inches down the stub, with other even shallower holes in other trees in the vicinity used as roosting-places for the male during incubation. In beginning the excavation, the birds drill small holes in a circle in the bark, then take out the center piece. In several instances the bark about the entrance to the nest cavity was coated with pitch in which were sticking the red-breast feathers of the architects. This pitching of the entrance to their home does not seem to be a habit common to all members of the species, however, for few collectors mention the pitch, as they certainly would if it were present.

While birds of the woods, neither the red-breast nor the white-breast are strictly confined to the woods during the seasons when they are not rearing a brood. The red-breast is frequently seen on the fences and out in the open, gleaning from weed-stalks, during his southward journey. He also seems very fond of orchards and the ornamental trees in the yard where he does excellent service for the next season's fruit and foliage. He is, perhaps, a little less inquisitive than his white-breasted cousin, but his small size and drawling voice make him a pleasant fellow to meet.

MIGRATORY BIRDS.

B. W. JONES.

"The stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed times; and the crane, and the turtle, and the swallow observe the time of their coming."--_Jer. 8: 7._