Part 4

Their homes are big baskets of nests made of twigs as large as a man's finger, closely intermeshed. From year to year they use the same nest or build over it until it has two or three stories or more and is bigger than a bushel basket. There are probably two dozen nests in the dozen cottonwood trees, some of the larger trees having three or four or even six away up in their tops where the branches seem scarcely strong enough to bear such heavy burdens. From the top of the bluff one can look down into the nests and in early March see the big blue eggs, almost as large as hens' eggs, reposing like amethysts in their rough brown setting. Some authors state that not over three eggs are laid, but I have seen four about as often as three and, on one occasion, five in a nest.

From their high-placed towers the herons watch the small fry in the river below and make forays among the young trout, pike and catfish and the frogs. They listen to the complaining voices in the twilight and in the morning give them cause for still further complainings. They keep in terror the big wood rats whose homes in the clumps of elder berries below surpass in size those of the herons. And the gophers and field mice of the grain fields never know at what moment an ungainly shadow shall fall upon them and end their harvestings. There was a conceited young frog who sang loud and shrill at sunset on the edge of the river and who had an ambition to be, not an ox like the one in the fable, but a Patti. And she had her wish after a fashion, for that connoisseur, the heron who dwelt on the farthest branch over the water, attracted by her vocal abilities, sought her out, and the little herons thought her the nicest _paté de foie gras_ they had ever eaten.

There they dwell, this ancient race of high-born philosophers, stalking the shallows of sunny baylets, or dreaming in the breeze of the tree-tops of traditions old as the sequoias. What an authority would you and I be if we could read the unwritten history of their race!

Charles Elmer Jenny.

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Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the Book of Nature Getteth short of leaves. --Hood, "The Seasons."

THE PRONG-HORNED ANTELOPE.

(_Antilocapra americana._)

The antelope family comprises many of the most beautiful and graceful species among horned animals. When we behold the curiously twisted horns of the sasin, the long, sharp horns of the pasan, the large, spiral horns of the koodoo and the shorter horns of the eland, not to mention the graceful bodies and limbs of these animals, we are led to wonder at the extravagance of nature in furnishing such a variety of appendages to these creatures.

By far the larger number of species of this family live in Africa and Asia, where they have reached the highest development of structure. They are not, like some families of mammals, confined to any one particular locality, but are found on the plains and high up on the mountains; in a country sparsely covered with vegetation and in the thick forests; in marshes and bogs. In fact, they seem to inhabit all varieties of country. While the family is thus diversified in habitat, the different species are by no means so widely distributed, for while some species, like the sasin, live only on the open plains, others, like the chamois, live high up on the mountains, frequently above the snow-line.

The subject of our sketch, the Prong-horned antelope (Antilocapra americana), is not as large nor so strikingly horned as the other animals which have been mentioned. In fact, so different is its structure, having hollow, pronged horns which do not increase by continuous growth, as do those of the true antelopes, but are shed like those of the deer family, and having a somewhat different structure of feet and different texture of hair, that a family has been made for it known as Antilocapridae.

The Prong-horn ranges throughout the western part of North America from the Missouri river to the Pacific ocean, and from the Saskatchewan river south to the Rio Grande. It is not confined to the plains, but has been found in the wild valleys of the Rocky mountains to a height of over eight thousand feet above sea level.

The daily life of this interesting animal is thus described by Canfield, who made an exhaustive study of them and who also kept them in captivity: "From the first of September to the first of March one always sees them in larger groups composed of bucks, does and yearlings. Shortly afterward the does individually retire from these herds and give birth to their young. After a short interval they again unite with other suckling does and their little calves, possibly with a view to common defense against the wolf and coyotes. The adult bucks roam about singly or two together, leaving the mothers with their latest progeny to their fate, the young Prong-horns in the meantime gathering in groups of their own apart from the older animals. Apparently tired of the world and bored by society the old bucks wander about for one or two months, frequenting localities in which they are not ordinarily seen. Two or three months subsequently the adolescent bucks again join the old does and their calves, and finally the old bucks also put in an appearance, so that one can observe herds, numbering hundreds, or sometimes even thousands, after the first of September. A herd never leaves its native locality or roams over more than a few miles of range. In dry summer weather they seek water and go to drink regularly once a day or twice in three days; but if the grass is fresh and green, as is the case during the greater part of the year, the Prong-horns do not drink at all."

The food of the antelope consists to a great extent of the short, succulent herbage of the prairie, of moss, and also, to a limited extent, of the young and tender branches of trees. Like many other ruminants, this animal is passionately fond of salt and they will remain about saline deposits for many hours, satisfying themselves by licking the salty ground.

The antelope is the swiftest runner of any animal in North America, though perhaps less agile and speedy than some of its relatives in the old world. It has been said by competent observers that so swiftly do they run that it is absolutely impossible to distinguish their limbs.

The senses of the antelope are unusually developed. Their sight is exceedingly keen and their hearing very acute. Their sense of smell is so well developed that no danger can possibly approach from the windward side. When a herd is feeding, sentinels are placed on the outskirts to scent any impending danger, and to give due warning to the herd. Their curiosity is one of their most peculiar qualities and seems to overshadow every other sense.

For a number of years this graceful animal has been considered royal game for the sportsman and a good round-up of antelopes is considered a great achievement among hunters. Mr. G. O. Shields, in his interesting book, "Hunting in the Great West," very vividly describes a hunt for antelopes, and we cannot better illustrate the peculiarities of the animal than by giving his pen sketch:

"We had heard from some ranchmen along the way that the buffalo herd was at this time grazing about fifteen to twenty miles up the Big Porcupine, and knowing that antelopes are nearly always found hanging on the outskirts of every large herd of bison, we were on the look-out for them, for it would not seem at all strange to find them near the stage trail on which we were traveling. We scanned the country closely with the field glass and were finally rewarded by seeing a number of small white spots on the dead grass away up the Porcupine, that seemed to be moving. We rode toward them at a lively trot for perhaps a mile, and then stopped to reconnoitre again. From this point we could plainly distinguish them, though they looked to be about the size of jack rabbits. We again put the rowels to our donkeys and rode rapidly up to within about a mile of them, when we picketed our animals in a low swale, took out our antelope flag--a piece of scarlet calico about half a yard square--attached it to the end of my wiping stick, and were ready to interview the antelopes.

"I crawled to the top of a ridge within plain view of the game, and planted my flag. The breeze spread it out, kept it fluttering, and it soon attracted their attention. They were then near the bank of the river, grazing quietly, but this bit of colored rag excited their curiosity to a degree that rendered them restive, anxious, uneasy, and they seemed at once to be seized with an insatiable desire to find out what it was. An antelope has as much curiosity as a woman, and when they see any object that they don't quite understand, they will travel miles and run themselves into all kinds of danger to find out what it is. They have been known to follow an emigrant or freight wagon with a white cover several miles, and an Indian brings them within reach of his arrow by standing in plain view wrapped in his red blanket. Some hunters "flag" them by lying down on their back, holding one foot as high as possible, and swinging it to and fro. A piece of bright tin or a mirror answers the same purpose on a clear day. Almost any conspicuous or strange-looking object will attract them, but the most convenient, as well as the most reliable at all times, is the little red flag, such as we employed in this instance.

"Huffman went to the top of another ridge, to my right and some distance in advance, and Jack crawled into a hollow on the left, and well in advance, we three forming a half circle, into which it was our intention if possible to decoy the game. When they first discovered our flag they moved rapidly toward it, sometimes breaking into a trot, but when they had covered half the distance between us and their starting point, they began to grow suspicious and stopped. They circled around, turned back, walked a few steps, and then paused and looked back at the, to them, mysterious apparition. But they could not resist its magic influence. Again they turned and came toward it, stopped, and gazed curiously at it. The old buck who led the herd stamped impatiently, as if annoyed at being unable to solve the mystery. Then they walked cautiously toward us again, down an incline into a valley, which took them out of our sight, and out of sight of the flag. This of course rendered them still more impatient, and when they again came in sight on the next ridge, they were running. But as soon as their leader caught sight of the flag, he stopped, as did the others in their turn when they reached the top of the ridge. There were seven in the herd, two bucks, three does and two fawns. They were now not more than a hundred yards from me, and still less from the other two of our party. Their position was everything we could wish, and though we might possibly have brought them a few yards nearer, there was a possibility of their scenting us, even across the wind, which, of course, we had arranged to have in our favor, and I decided that rather than run the risk of this and the consequent stampede, I would shoot while I had a good chance. It had been arranged that I was to open the ball, so I drew my peep and globe sights down very finely, taking the white breast of the old buck for my bull's-eye, and pulled. Huffman's Kennedy and Jack's carbine paid their compliments to the pretty visitors at almost the same instant, and for about two or three minutes thereafter we fanned them about as vigorously as ever a herd got fanned under similar circumstances. The air was full of leaden missiles; the dry dust raised under and around the fleeing herd as it does when a team trots over a dusty road. Clouds of smoke hung over us, and the distant hills echoed the music of our artillery until the last white rump disappeared in the cottonwoods on the river bank.

"When the smoke of battle cleared away, and we looked over the field, we found that we had not burned our powder in vain. Five of the little fellows, the two bucks and three does, had fallen victims to their curiosity. The two fawns had, strangely enough, escaped, probably only because they, so much smaller than their parents, were less exposed."

The antelope have a curious way of protecting their young, when on the open prairie. This is accomplished by placing a ring of sharp-pointed cacti about a spot which has been beaten smooth by their hoofs. Inside this ample protection the animal cares for its young and secures ingress and egress for itself by jumping over the ring of cacti. This serves to protect them from the majority of their foes, which inhabit the open country.

The antelope does not thrive well in captivity, the older ones soon killing themselves in their attempts to escape. The young taken soon after their birth generally die early, unless very special care is bestowed upon them, and even if they survive the juvenile state, they are very likely to die when three or four months old, from pyaemic sores or inflammation of the limbs.

PLANT PROTECTION.

In the last number of this journal it was shown how plants seek to avoid the visits of unsuitable insects to their flowers. This is one means of protection, but there are many others which are even more striking and vital. It is supposed by many that plants are helpless beings, which must submit to all sorts of unfavorable conditions which come upon them. This is far from true, for while plants as a rule are fixed and unable to escape from danger by flight, still they have very many ways of helping themselves.

Prominent among the dangers which come to active green plants are those which arise from too intense light, which may destroy the delicate working substances. Since the leaves are the great working organs in the manufacture of food, they are especially equipped for protection. Those leaves which must work in exposed places have many details of structure which are evidently for guarding them against the ill effects of too intense light. The most striking adaptations, however, are those which have to do with protective positions. Under ordinary circumstances leaves are placed so that their flat faces are exposed to the most intense light. In some cases this is so great a danger that the leaves are set edgewise, the edges being directed upwards and downwards. When a plant assumes this habit, the leaves are said to be in a profile position, and the plants are sometimes called "compass plants." The latter name has come from the fact that such leaves usually point north or south, and once it was assumed that this position was in response to some mysterious magnetic influence. It is found, however, that it is merely an effort on the part of the plant to protect its leaves from the intense light of midday, and at the same time to expose them to the morning and evening rays of much less intensity. If a leaf is to be placed with its edge upwards and its flat faces east and west, it follows of necessity that it will point either north or south.

Some leaves, however, have the power of shifting their position according to their needs, directing their flat surfaces toward the light, or more or less inclining them according to the danger. Perhaps the most completely adapted leaves of this kind are those of the "sensitive plants," whose leaves respond to various external influences by changing their positions. The sensitive plants abound in dry and hot regions, and one of the best known is represented in our illustration. It will be noticed that the leaves of this Mimosa are divided into very numerous small leaflets, which stretch in pairs along the leaf branches. When the time of intense light and dryness approaches some of the pairs of leaflets fold together, slightly reducing the surface exposure. As the unfavorable condition continues, more leaflets fold together, then still others, until finally all the leaflets may be folded together, and the leaves themselves may bend against the stem. It is like a sailing vessel gradually taking in sail as a storm approaches, until finally nothing is exposed, and the vessel weathers the storm by presenting only bare poles. These are but a few illustrations of the very numerous devices for escaping too intense light and the dangers which accompany it.

One common danger in temperate regions comes from the lowering of the temperature each night, which sometimes may chill the living substances to the danger point. This is particularly dangerous to seedlings, whose tender structures have not yet developed the ordinary protective coats. In the spring the seed leaves of numerous seedlings may be seen at the approach of night to rise upward and come together, just as the palms of the hand may be placed together over one's head. This reduces the surface of exposure and the danger of chill at least one-half. Darwin experimented upon these seedlings, and discovered that by preventing some of the seed leaves from moving, the seedlings were seriously injured. The leaves of very many plants assume a peculiar night position which tends to meet the danger of loss of heat. Often the three leaflets of the common clover, if growing in an exposed place, may be observed to fold together into a sort of tent-like arrangement.

Many plants are also observed to protect themselves against rain, as it is necessary for leaves to avoid becoming wet. If the water is allowed to soak in, the work of the leaves is at once interfered with. Hence it will be noticed that most leaves are able to shed water, partly by their position, partly by their structure. In many plants the leaves are so arranged that the water runs off toward the stem; in other plants the rain is shed outwards as from the eaves of a house. Some of the structures which prevent the rain from soaking in are a smooth epidermis, layers of cuticle, hairy coverings, etc. Interesting experiments may be performed with different leaves to test their power of shedding water. If a gentle spray be allowed to play upon different plants it will be observed that the water glances off at once from the surfaces of some leaves, runs off more slightly from others, and may be more or less retained by others.

Perhaps the most general preparation for protection in our region is that which is made for the coming of the winter's cold. In many cases plants do not attempt to protect their delicate structures from the severity of winter, but disappear entirely, leaving only well-protected seeds to carry them over into the next growing season. This results in the so-called "annual habit," which has been learned by many plants in order to escape a season of danger. Other plants do not disappear so completely, but everything above the surface of the ground dies, while the plant continues in the form of underground bulbs, tubers, or various thickened structures. This habit of seeking a subterranean retreat at the approach of some dangerous season is a very good one, and is found in many of our early spring plants. This subterranean habit has a great advantage over the annual habit, since a seed is very slow in bringing the plant back again, while a bulb can produce its plant very rapidly.

Still other plants preserve more of their structures than either the annuals or the ground-loving plants. For example, most of our trees have cultivated what is known as the deciduous habit, that is, they merely drop their leaves, which are the endangered structures, at the approach of the unfavorable season, and renew them again when the favorable conditions return. It should be remarked that these leaves do not fall because they are broken off, but that in a certain sense it is a process of growing off, which is carefully prepared for. One of the most prominent features associated with the deciduous habit is the autumnal coloration. The vivid colors which appear in the leaves of many trees just before the time of falling have attracted a great deal of attention, but although it is so prominent, the causes for it are very obscure. It will be noticed that this autumnal coloration consists in the development of various shades of two typical colors, yellow and red. It is known that the yellow is due to the breaking down of the green substances, so that it simply indicates a post mortem change, as may be noticed in connection with the blanching of celery in which the leaves and upper part of the stem may be green, the green may shade gradually into yellow, and finally into the pure white of complete blanching. The red coloring matter, however, is very different. Certain experiments upon plant colors have indicated that the presence of the red slightly increases the temperature by absorbing more heat. It is suggested that the red color may be a slight protection to the living substance which is ceasing to work, and which is in danger of exposure to cold. If this be true, it may be that the same explanation will cover the case of the red flush so conspicuous in buds and young leaves in early spring. It must not be supposed that the need of protection has developed the coloring, but since it is developed it may be of some such service to the plant. Even the conditions which determine autumnal coloration have not been made out certainly.

It is instructive to notice how differently the so-called evergreens, as pines, spruces, etc., have answered the problem of protection against the cold of winter. The evergreens, instead of dropping their leaves, have undertaken to protect them, giving them a small surface and very heavy walls. In this way protection has been secured at the expense of working power during the season of work. Reduced surface and thick walls are both obstacles to leaf work. On the other hand, the deciduous trees have developed the working power of their leaves to the greatest extent, giving them large surface exposure and comparatively delicate walls. It is out of the question to protect such an amount of surface during the winter, and hence the deciduous habit. The evergreens are saved the annual renewal of leaves, but lose in working power; the deciduous trees must renew their leaves annually, but gain greatly in working power.