CHAPTER XIII.

Some natural history notes--Our feathered pets--“The poor Canada bird”--The Canadian mocking-bird--The black squirrel--The red squirrel--The katydid and cricket--A rural graveyard--The whip-poor-will--The golden plover--The large Canada owl--The crows’ congress--The heron--The water-hen.

If one would see our feathered pets in all their abundant numbers and luxuriant beauty nowadays in Ontario, he must get away from the towns and villages and centres of dense population. At various times I have explored portions of our province that lie far back from the Great Lakes and the more densely populated areas, and have then enjoyed some good opportunities of observing our summer visitants. The “poor Canada bird,” as the song-sparrow is locally called, is one that we cannot but value, seeing that his notes really lengthen and become more charming as the season advances and the weather becomes more boisterous. Even when the nights have become quite chilly, though the days are warm and sunshiny, one gets his varied song-notes if he will only listen. Especially will the song-sparrow pipe up of an evening, just as the sun is setting, and all nature is about to be hushed to rest. He leaves us with the light, after giving us a pleasant chant from his brown throat. The triplet of notes that he gives us, and which we interpret as “Can-a-da, Can-a-da,” is in some localities interpreted as “Van-i-ty, Van-i-ty,” and of course any suitable word of three syllables may be associated with the well-known song of this small bird.

As for the common sparrow, so prevalent in our towns and cities, there is no doubt he has robbed us of a large part of the pleasures of our summer life, for where he is the song-bird is not. The change has so gradually stolen over us that we do not realize that we have lost our most charming birds through the advent of the pugnacious sparrow. Go once away from where he is and the change is so very apparent that one cannot fail to notice it. In the forests away from sparrows there are at least ten times as many birds, and it is plainly the duty of every one, especially of lovers of nature, to aid in exterminating the sparrow in every way possible.

The Canadian mocking-bird is, of course, a catbird, and although he cannot, perhaps, copy as many notes or voices as his American brother can, yet he’s our mocking-bird, and a charmer as well. He is about done with us for this season (fall), and his imitations are not now heard as frequently as they were, but yet he is with us and one can hear him occasionally. Stand near a thicket, a copse, or a “spinney,” as, perhaps, they would say in England, and let there be some water near, and you’ll get the calls from him. Sometimes he is pleasant, and in turn descends to the disagreeable, coming back again to the pleasant and enchanting, and so one may listen by the hour, and every few minutes get something entirely new from him.

The Canadian black squirrel, so exceedingly plentiful when most of us were boys, just able to be the proud possessor of a poor gun, is now nearly extinct in Ontario. Speaking of gunning in our boyhood days reminds me of the off Saturdays from school, when every other Saturday was a holiday, and of the day’s trudge with the old gun for the alert black squirrel, safely ensconced among the tallest tree-tops during the sunny hours of the short fall days. And one had to get up a little, too, at marksmanship, for he was ever on the move, and you seldom got a good shot at him while quietly at ease. The boy’s heart that would not thrill at a day’s black squirrel shooting must indeed be more obdurate than most Ontario boys’ hearts are, as one followed him, always looking up, as he jumped from tree to tree, almost falling to the ground when he made some exceedingly long jumps, but quite recovering himself and never by any possibility falling. Most exceedingly do I regret the gradual extinction of this squirrel--the real squirrel of Canada--and, besides, he’s such an intelligent fellow and so easily tamed and becomes such a pet. The days were when, in his tin revolving cage, he was one of the means of diversion at many a household; and for a stew he had no superior, feeding as he always did upon the choicest nuts to be found in the forests, and he was so scrupulously clean in his habits.

The common red squirrel is still very common, as he chatters away, half way up some forest tree, perched upon a limb. He’s a very valiant fellow, indeed, as he saucily chit-chats, with a guttural noise; but drive him up the tree once, and keep him there you can’t. His first care will be to get down to the ground again and scamper away; and get down he will, unless one be specially alert and active. He will rest upon the tree trunk, head downwards, with his great eyes watching your every motion, and should the least chance present itself for escape he’s down along the opposite side of the trunk of the tree where one is standing, if it be a considerable one, and is away in a twinkling.

Birds gather in flocks at about this time of the year, affording to us who watch a sure admonition that summer is nearly past, and fall close upon us. I saw the first flock of blackbirds on the 4th of September, and my recollection is, from past seasons, that many others are quickly seen after the first flock of any kind of birds is about.

Another sure sign that fall approaches is evidenced by the call of the cricket and other kindred insect life in our midst as the sun sinks behind the heavens. The noises of the evenings just now are particularly observable, and almost rival--or perhaps, if not rival, measurably approach--the choruses of Nature during a tropical night. Those of us who recall our first impression of our stay in the tropics can, at this season in Ontario, get quite a simile at home, and it’s charming too; and our air is so delightful that mere physical existence becomes dreamy and a positive luxury.

The katydid is now at his best, and delivers himself of his “crackling sing” as he descends on the wing, bat-like, among the tree branches, to the ground. Our katydid is never heard during the early part of the summer, and just now, since he is our guest for a short time, it would richly repay our boys to catch him and examine him at leisure. One cannot help admiring him, for he’s a fine fellow; but the great trouble with him is that he’s so plainly a member of the locust family that we fear his congeners might come and devour our beautiful Ontario for us. We are assured, however, by those naturalists supposed to be able to know, that there can possibly be no danger of a locust pest in our humid, cool, Ontario climate, and so we bless our stars that our lines have fallen in such pleasant places. Ontario to-day, the golden grain-burdened, with its hill and dale and copses interspersed, is beautiful beyond compare.

Walk out any one of the fine evenings in July, grandest of all months, just when the sun is leaving us, far away in the north-west, amidst an amber sky, with not a vestige of cloud above, and just as he finally dips, the strong probability is that you will be startled at first, and then delighted, with the quick cry of the “whip-poor-will.”

Stand in your tracks and back again and again will come to you in quick succession for eight or ten times the distinct words, “whip-poor-will,” and then as quickly the cry will cease.

Right away from an exactly opposite side of the landscape, from about a coppice of thick bushes, with some large trees growing in it and protruding far above them, will come the answer to the challenge, “whip-poor-will,” and so the words will be bandied back and forth until the shades of night have fallen in real earnest, giving you, perhaps, the most enjoyable and natural concert one can be treated to in our own country.

As to the bird itself, it is very seldom seen, its color being so nearly like that of brown leaves, or the ordinary color of the carpeted bases of trees in the forest, that he is scarcely distinguishable. Once in a while you will come on him, however, in your rambles, when he spreads his brown wings, of a foot’s distension at least, and alights a few rods on, as before, upon some fallen tree trunk, or as likely as not upon the ground. He stays with us as long as our summer really lasts, and of all the birds that sing, his call is the clearest and most distinctive. The “whip-poor-will” has been celebrated by one of the best of our Canadian poets, Charles Sangster. He says:

“Last night I heard the plaintive whip-poor-will, And straightway sorrow shot his swiftest dart; I know not why, but it has chilled my heart Like some dread thing of evil. All night long My nerves were shaken, and my pulse stood still And waited for a terror yet to come, To strike harsh discords through my life’s sweet song. Sleep came--an incubus that filled the sum Of wretchedness with dreams so wild and chill The sweat oozed out from me like drops of gall; An evil spirit kept my mind in thrall, And rolled my body up like a poor scroll, On which is written curses that the soul Shrinks back from when it sees some hellish carnival.”

To us who are not so sensitive the mournful cry of the nightly whip-poor-will is not so depressing, but I am sure we are all glad to get this gleaning of a poet’s feelings when he hears the uncanny bird.

The golden plover in July is nesting and watching along by the margin of our streams. By chance I happened at one time upon the nest of one situated about half-way under the end of an old log. The nest had been built without any preparation at all as to nest building. During the previous season grass had grown rank and tall about this old log, and the parent bird had simply trodden down the dry and sere grass, and formed an almost level space for the nest. There was but little attempt to hollow the nest even in a concave, as one would naturally suppose, to hold the eggs. Four little ploverets rewarded my gaze, and such ridiculous things they were, too. Scarcely any feathers yet, but just down, as it were, and great long legs, which appeared to be so far out of proportion to their wants that their appearance was absurd, indeed. They essayed to walk away, but it would seem that a plover must learn to balance himself, like a rope-walker. At this stage they grotesquely tipped forward mostly every time. They arose upon their feet, sometimes, but not so often, backwards.

The large Canada owl will be found hatching or sitting in July. This is the owl which is so very white during the winter months, but, like the rabbit, changes his coat during the summer, when he becomes somewhat gray or brown. Of all our birds of prey, the owl is perhaps the most predatory in his persistence in waylaying about a farmer’s poultry yard, and it is no trouble at all for him nor any tax upon his powers to carry off an ordinary hen. Recently I happened to walk along the bank of a stream partly wooded, and in the top of a cedar stump, about ten feet from the ground, I found this great bird’s nest. Three owlets were there, with their great staring eyes nearly as large as those of the parent bird’s, while their bodies were covered with down so thick and so long that it seemed almost like a coat of wool. Perhaps the best way to describe them would be to say they were just fuzzy. Around the sides of their nest, which was made of small sticks, were some small bones, apparently those of mice and rats, but not of fowls, so far as I could see. Even if the owl does destroy some fowls, I could not find it in my heart to hurt the fuzzy little owlets, and I let them remain, fully believing that their parent entirely squares the account by the great quantity of mice and rats which he is daily securing from our fields. Before leaving the owl’s nest I want to say that one day, just as winter set in, an immense number of crows--I should say 3,000 at least--were congregated about the tops of some pine trees not far from my residence--trees about forty feet high. Furiously and persistently did those crows caw, and fly, and hop about, producing such a din as to attract persons a mile away during a still day. The cawing kept up so long that I seized my breech-loader and resolved to investigate the cause of the crows’ congress, as such gatherings are usually called. Cautiously I approached the feathered multitude, wondering what could possibly be up, but no such caution was at all needed, for they heeded me not. Backwards and forwards the more adventurous ones apparently darted into the top of one particular pine, giving at the, same time a tremendous yell. Following with my eye their line of flight, I discovered an enormous white owl perched upon a limb, the object of attack of the more desperate of the whole 3,000 or so crows thus assembled. For many minutes I quietly witnessed this unequal contest, in my curiosity actually forgetting to fire, and found that the old owl was a match, as he sat upon the limb, for them all. Sometimes the crows will gather just the same in congress about a black squirrel, in the top of some high forest tree, but I have yet to learn that they ever succeed in inflicting any punishment upon either owl or squirrel.

The blue heron nests and hatches with us, although many persons think that he goes far away from the haunts of man for the purpose of nesting. I do not know if he be really the blue heron of the naturalist, but he is a heron to all intents and purposes, and his color is mainly correctly described in his name. He is crested, too, and is withal a most magnificent bird. Not infrequently he stands five feet high, and the spread of his wings is six or seven feet. Any one who will quietly watch beside any of our marshes can easily, this time of the year, find his nest, as he alights unerringly in the same spot. His nest is only the marsh grass pressed down beside some hillock in the bogs, where it is dry. As yet I do not know for a certainty how many young the hen bird produces at a sitting, but I have never seen any more than two in any nest. Speaking of the plover with his long legs being awkward and absurd reminds me to say that perhaps the young heron is the most ridiculous of all birds which frequent our province. His legs are so very abnormally long that they seem almost a malformation, but when one comes to consider the use he makes of them afterwards, as he wades for food, one can see that he is properly formed. But at the same time he is the most absurd, awkward, homely and ill-looking, when young, of all the feathered tribe incubating in Ontario. You must pardon me, reader, for daring to presume to differ from great naturalists when they tell us that he never alights upon trees, for I have seen him alight. Not very far from my residence stands a very large towering water elm. So tall, indeed, is this elm that at night it far overshadows all other trees of the forests about, and among the branches of this elm, being an obstruction, as it would appear, is the herons’ line of flight. I have myself frequently seen them alight, and have tried to get a shot at them when upon the perch. So far as my observation goes, however, they do not long remain upon the perch.

Since the law now protects ducks from being food for the guns of boys, they now, generally on Saturdays and holidays, walk in groups, guns in hand, along our streams and marshes, always ready to take a pot shot at anything. The water-hen--generally called hell-diver--gets most of the shots which the boys can spare. This fowl can generally accommodate the boys to all the fun they want, in the shooting line, and with but little danger to itself. Its anatomical form is so peculiar and its sense of sight and hearing so acute that it can, nine times out of ten, dodge the shots from the boys’ guns from the time of explosion of the charge to the driving of it home. Outwardly it is formed very much like the duck, and is about the size of our ordinary wood duck. Its feet, however, are placed far back in its body, like the great auk. From this fact it is a most expert swimmer, and is also enabled to dive as quickly as powder and shot explode. It is not at all uncommon for this fowl to dive to avoid the shot from a gun and swim under water, wholly out of sight, ten rods from the place where it went down.

In reality it is a species of duck, but since it feeds mostly upon small fishes, its flesh is rank, oily, and not palatable for the table. When August comes around it is no uncommon sight to see the mother water-hen swimming around followed by her brood of six to ten young water-hens about as big as cricket-balls. Wonderfully tame, too, they get when they are not daily molested, and one can spend a very pleasant half hour or so in watching the brood as they float along with the mother, every few minutes diving for food.