Part 6

But what of the creek, the one-time Big-Bird Creek of the Delaware Indians? With ill-timed strokes we pulled our languid oars, and passed many a tree, jutting meadow, or abandoned wharf worthy of more than a moment’s contemplation. But, lured by the treasure still beyond our reach, we went on and on, until the trickling waters of a hillside spring proved too much for us, and, turning our prow landward, we stopped to rest.

Among old trees that afforded grateful shade, a spring that bubbled from an aged chestnut’s wrinkled roots, a bit of babbling brook that too soon reached the creek and was lost, and, beyond all, wide-spreading meadows, boundless from our point of view—what more need one ask? To our credit, be it said, we were satisfied, except, perhaps, that here, as all along our course, polliwogs were perverse. Birds, however, considerately came and went, and even the shy cuckoo deigned to reply when we imitated his dolorous clucking. A cardinal grosbeak, too, drew near and whistled a welcome, and once eyed us with much interest as we sat lunching on the grass. What did he think of us? Eating, with him, is so different a matter, and perhaps he could give us a few useful hints. The trite remark, “Fingers came before forks,” has a significance in the woods, if not in the town. While eating we listened, and I heard the voices of nine different birds. Some merely chirped in passing, it is true, but the marsh-wrens in the cat-tail thicket just across the creek were not silent for a moment. Here in the valley of the Delaware, as I recently found them on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, the wrens are quite nocturnal, and I would have been glad to have heard them sing in the moonlight again; for our enthusiasm would have been strengthened by a few such glimpses of the night side of Nature.

No bird is so welcome to a mid-day camp as the white-eyed vireo, and we were fortunate in having one with us while we tarried at the spring. Not even ninety degrees in the shade has any effect upon him, and this unflagging energy reacts upon the listener. We could at least be so far alive as to give him our attention. Mid-day heat, however, does affect many a song-bird, and now that nesting is well-nigh over, the open woods are deserted for hidden cool retreats, where the songster takes its ease, as we, far from town, are taking ours. There is much in common between birds and men.

How, as we lingered over our glasses, counting the lemon-seeds embedded in sugar, we would have enjoyed a wood-thrush’s splendid song or a rose-breasted grosbeak’s matchless melody! but the _to-whee_ of the pipilo scratching among dead leaves, the plaint of an inquisitive cat-bird threading the briers, the whir of a humming-bird vainly seeking flowers,—these did not pass for nothing; and yet there was comparative silence that suggested a sleeping rather than a wakeful, active world.

Here let me give him who loves an outing a useful hint: be not so anxious for what may be that you overlook that which is spread before you. More than once to-day our discussion of the “silence” of a midsummer noontide drowned the voices of singing-birds near by.

How often it has been intimated to us that "two’s company and three’s a crowd"! but to really see and hear what transpires in the haunts of wild life, _one_ is company and _two’s_ a crowd. We cannot heed Nature and fellow-man at the same moment; and as to the comparative value of their communications, each must judge for himself.

Certainly the human voice is a sound which animals are slow to appreciate. How often have I stood in silence before birds and small animals and they have shown no fear! A movement of my arms would put them on guard, perhaps; but a word spoken, and away they sped. Not a bird, I have noticed, is startled by the bellow of a bull or the neigh of a horse, and yet my own voice filled them with fear. Even snakes that knew me well and paid no attention to my movements were startled at words loudly spoken. It is a bit humiliating to think that in the estimation of many a wild animal our bark is worse than our bite.

A midsummer noontide has surely some merit, and when I failed to find fish, frog, or salamander for my young friend, it became necessary to point to some feature of the spot that made it worth a visit. To my discomfiture, I could find nothing. Trees have been talked of overmuch, and there were no wild flowers. The August bloom gave, as yet, only a hint of what was coming. I had hit upon a most unlucky interim during which no man should go upon a picnic. In despair and empty-handed, we took to our boat and started up the creek. It was a fortunate move, for straightway the waters offered that which I had vainly sought for on shore. Here were flowers in abundance. The pickerel-weed was in bloom, the dull-yellow blossoms of the spatterdock dotted the muddy shores, bind-weed here and there offered a single flower as we passed by, and never was golden-dodder more luxuriant. Still, it is always a little disappointing when Flora has the world to herself, and while we were afloat it was left to a few crows and a single heron to prove that she had not quite undisputed sway.

Up the creek with many a turn and twist, and now on a grassy knoll we land again, where a wonderful spring pours a great volume of sparkling water into the creek. Here at last we have an object lesson that should bear fruit when we recall the day. Not a cupful of this clear cold water could we catch but contained a few grains of sand, and for so many centuries has this carrying of sand grains been in progress that now a great ridge has choked the channel where once rode ships at anchor. An obscure back-country creek now, but less than two centuries ago the scene of busy industry. Perhaps no one is now living who saw the last sail that whitened the landscape. Pages of old ledgers, a bit of diary, and old deeds tell us something of the place; but the grassy knoll itself gives no hint of the fact that upon it once stood a warehouse. Yet a busy place it was in early colonial times, and now utterly neglected.

It is difficult to realize how very unsubstantial is much of man’s work. As we sat upon the grassy slope, watching the outgoing tide as it rippled and broke in a long line of sparkling bubbles, I rebuilt, for the moment, the projecting wharf, of which but a single log remains, and had the quaint shallops of pre-Revolutionary time riding at anchor. There were heard, in fact, the cry of a heron and the wild scream of a hawk; but these, in fancy, were the hum of human voices and the tramp of busy feet.

The scattered stones that just peeped above the grass were not chance bowlders rolled from the hill near by, but the door-step and foundation of the one-time warehouse. The days of buying, selling, and getting gain came back, in fancy, and I was more the sturdy colonist than the effeminate descendant. But has the present no merit? We had the summer breeze that came freighted with the odors gathered from the forest and the stream, and there were thrushes rejoicing in our hearing that the hill-sides were again as Nature made them. It meant much to us to tarry in the shade of venerable trees spared by the merchants that once collected here, whose names are now utterly forgotten. Stay! there are two reminders of ancient glory. A beech that overhangs the brook has its bark well scarred, and, now beyond decipherment, there are initials of many prominent naturalists of Philadelphia. A few rods up-stream is another beech that has remained unchanged. On it can be seen the initials T. A. C., 1819; those of the celebrated paleontologist, Conrad, born near here in 1803.

The shadows lengthen; the cooler hours of eventide draw on; the languid thrushes are again abroad; music fills the air. We are homeward bound and hurrying down-stream. Our minds are not so receptive as when we started. How shrunken to a few rods is every mile! Trees, flowers, and birds are scarcely heeded; but the good gathered as we went up the creek we bring away, and, once again in the dusty village street, we realize that we have but to turn our back upon the town to find the world a picture.

CHAPTER EIGHTH

_A WINTER-NIGHT’S OUTING_

Not long since I was asked—and not for the first time—if I could date the beginning of my taste for natural history pursuits or give any incident that appeared to mark a turning-point in my career.

It did not seem possible to do this, on first consideration; but a recent living over of days gone by recalled an incident which happened before I was eleven years old, and, as it was almost my first regular outing that smacked of adventure, it is probable that it impressed me more forcibly than any earlier or, indeed, later events.

Heavy and long-continued rains had resulted in a freshet, and then three bitter cold days had converted a wide reach of meadows into a frozen lake. Happier conditions could not have occurred in the small boy’s estimation, and, with boundless anticipation, we went skating.

After smooth ice, the foremost requirement is abundant room, and this we had. There was more than a square mile for each of us. The day had been perfect and the approaching night was such as Lowell so aptly describes, “all silence and all glisten.”

As the sun was setting we started a roaring fire in a sheltered nook, and securely fastening our skates without getting at all chilled, started off. Then the fun commenced. We often wandered more than a mile away, and it was not until the fire was reduced to a bed of glowing coals that we returned to our starting-point.

Here a great surprise awaited us. The heat had drawn from the wooded hill-side near by many a meadow-mouse that, moved by the warmth or by curiosity, ventured as near as it dared. These mice were equally surprised at seeing us, and scampered off, but, it seemed to me, with some show of reluctance, as if a chance to warm themselves so thoroughly should not be missed.

We freshened the fire a little and fell back a few paces, but stood near enough to see if the mice would return. This they did in a few minutes, and, to our unbounded surprise and amusement, more than one sat up on its haunches like a squirrel. They seemed to be so many diminutive human beings about a camp-fire.

It was a sight to give rise to a pretty fairy tale, and possibly our Indians built up theirs on just such incidents. These mice were, to all appearances, there to enjoy the warmth. There was little running to and fro, no squeaking, not a trace of unusual excitement, and, although it was so cold, we agreed to wait as long as the mice saw fit to stay.

This resolution, however, could not hold. We were getting chilled, and so had to draw near. As we did this, there was a faint squeaking which all noticed, and we concluded that sentinels had been placed to warn the congregated mice of our approach.

The spirit of adventure was now upon us, and our skates were but the means to other ends than mere sport. What, we thought, of the gloomy nooks and corners where thickets stood well above the ice? We had shunned these heretofore, but without open admission that we had any fear concerning them. Then, too, the gloomy gullies in the hill-side came to mind. Should we skate into such darkness and startle the wild life there?

The suggestion was made, and not one dared say he was afraid.

We thought of the fun in chasing a coon or skunk over the ice, and bravely we ventured, feeling our way where we knew the ice was thin and rough.

At a bend in the little brook, where a large cedar made the spot more dark and forbidding, we paused a moment, not knowing just how to proceed.

The next minute we had no time for thought. A loud scream held us almost spellbound, and then, with one dash, we sought the open meadows.

Once there, we breathed a little freer. We could see the fast-fading light of the fire, and at last could flee in a known direction if pursued. Should we hurry home? We debated this for some time, but were more fearful of being laughed at than of facing any real danger, and therefore concluded, with proper caution, to return.

Keeping close together, we entered the ravine again, stopped near the entrance and kindled a fire, and then, by its light, proceeded farther. It was a familiar spot, but not without strange features as we now saw it.

Again we were startled by the same wild cry, but for a moment only. A barn owl, I think it was, sailed by, glaring at us, as we imagined, and sought the open meadows.

We turned and followed, though why, it would be hard to say. The owl flew slowly and we skated furiously, trying to keep it directly overhead. Now we were brave even to foolhardiness, and sped away over the ice, indifferent to the direction taken. To this day I have credited that owl with a keen sense of humor.

On we went, over the meadows to where the swift but shallow creek flowed by, and then, when too late, we knew where we were. The ice bent beneath us, then cracked, and in an instant we were through it, our feet well in the mud and the water about our necks. Just how we got out I never knew, but we did, and the one dry match among us was a veritable treasure. It did not go out at the critical moment, but started ablaze the few twigs we hastily gathered, and so saved us from freezing. As we dried our clothes and warmed our benumbed bodies, I, for one, vowed never again to chase an owl on skates, but to go at it more soberly. From that eventful night the country has been attractive by reason of its wild life. It was there I became—if indeed I ever have become—a naturalist.

CHAPTER NINTH

_WILD LIFE IN WATER_

“The antelope has less reason to fear the lion than has the minnow to dread the pike. We think of timid antelopes and roaring lions, but the former has good use of its limbs, and so a fighting chance for its life; but the minnows have little advantage in the struggle for existence, and none at all when the predatory fishes are in pursuit of them.”

This was written in a note-book more than thirty years ago, and I let it stand as evidence of how easy it is to be in error in matters of natural history.

When I went to school there was but one teacher of the five that knew anything about such matters, and he had the old-time views. Then a fish was a mere machine so far as intelligence was concerned. We were told of the cunning of foxes and the instinct of ants and bees, but never a word of fishes.

The truth is, I might very properly speak of wild “wit” in the water instead of “life,” for there can be not the shadow of a doubt but that many of our fishes are really cunning. We need but watch them carefully to be readily convinced of this. How else could they escape danger?

The pretty peacock minnows throng the grassy beach at high tide, playing with their fellows in water just deep enough to cover them, and are, when here, very tame and careless. They even get stranded upon the airy side of floating leaves, and enjoy the excitement. They realize, it would seem, that where they are no pike can rush down upon them, no snake work its way unseen among them, no turtle crawl into their playground; but as the tide goes out and these minnows are forced nearer to the river’s channel, they lose their carelessness and are suspicious of all about them.

To call this instinctive fear and result of heredity sounds well; but the naturalist is brought nearer to the wild life about him when he credits them simply with common sense. The charm of watching such “small deer” vanishes if we lean too much on the learned and scientific solutions of the comparative psychologist, and possibly, too, we wander further from the truth. All I positively know is, that when danger really exists the minnows are aware of it; when it is absent they throw off the burden of this care, and life for a few hours is a matter of pure enjoyment.

Brief mention should be made of the protective character of the coloring of certain fishes. If such are fortunate enough to be protectively colored, there is little to be said; but are they conscious of this? Does a fish that is green or mottled green and gray keep closely to the weeds, knowing that it is safer there than when in open water or where the bottom is covered with white sand and pebbles? This may be a rather startling question, but there is warrant for the asking. Float half a day over the shallows of any broad pond or stream, study with care and without preconception the fishes where they live, and you will ask yourself not only this question, but many a stranger one. If fish are fools, how is it that the angler has so generally to tax his ingenuity to outwit them? How closely Nature must be copied to deceive a trout!

Having said so much of small fishes, what now of the larger ones that prey upon them? A pike, for instance? Probably many more people have studied how to catch a pike than have considered it scientifically. It is tiresome, perhaps, but if a student of natural history really desires to know what a fish actually is, he must watch it for hours, being himself unseen.

At one time there were several large pike in my lotus pond. Under the huge floating leaves of this splendid plant they took refuge, and it was difficult to catch even a glimpse of them. At the same time the schools of minnows seemed to enjoy the sunlight and sported in the open water. More than once, however, I saw a pike rush out from its cover, and finally learned that it systematically lay in wait for the minnows; and I believe I am justified in adding that the minnows knew that danger lurked under the lotus leaves.

The situation was not so hap-hazard a one as might appear at first glance, and hours of patient watching convinced me that there was a decided exercising of ingenuity on the part of both the pike and the minnows; the former ever on the lookout for a victim, the latter watchful of an ever-present danger. Day long it was a tragedy where brute force counted for little and cunning for a great deal.

Another very common fish in my pond was likewise very suggestive in connection with the subject of animal intelligence. I refer to the common “sunny,” or “pumpkin-seed.” A shallow sand-nest had been scooped near shore and the precious eggs deposited. A school of silvery-finned minnows had discovered them, and the parent fish was severely taxed in her efforts to protect them.

So long as this school of minnows remained together, the sunfish, by fierce rushes, kept them back; but soon the former—was it accident or design?—divided their forces, and as the parent fish darted at one assaulting party, the other behind it made a successful raid upon the nest. This continued for some time, and the sunfish was getting quite weary, when, as if a sudden thought struck it, its tactics changed, and it swam round and round in a circle and sent a shower of sand out into the space beyond the nest. This effectually dazed the minnows.

Little incidents like this are forever occurring and effectually set aside the once prevalent idea that fish are mere living machines. Look a pike in the eye and you will detect something very different from mere instinctive timidity.

But fish are not the only creatures that live in the water; there are one snake and several species of turtles, and frogs, mollusks, and insects innumerable. These are too apt to be associated with the land, and, except the two latter forms, are usually thought of as taking to the water as a place of refuge, but really living in the open air. This is a great mistake. There is a lively world beneath the surface of the water, and the tragedy of life is played to the very end, with here and there a pretty comedy that wards off the blues when we look too long and see nothing but the destruction of one creature that another may live.

Here is an example of cunning or wit in a water-snake. A friend of mine was recently sitting on the bank of a little brook, when his attention was called to a commotion almost at his feet. Looking down, he saw a snake holding its head above the water, and in its mouth struggled a small sunfish. Now, what was the snake’s purpose? It knew very well that the fish would drown in the air, and not until it was dead could it be swallowed with that deliberation a snake loves. The creature was cunning enough to kill by easy means prey that would otherwise be difficult to overcome, for while crosswise in the snake’s mouth it could not be swallowed, and if put down for an instant the chances of its recapture would be slight.

To suppose that a turtle, as you watch it crawling over the mud, has any sense of humor in its horny head seems absurd; yet naturalists have recorded their being seen at play, and certainly they can readily be tamed to a remarkable degree. Their intelligence, however, shows prominently only in the degree of cunning exhibited when they are in search of food. The huge snapper “lies in wait,” and truly this is a most suggestive and comprehensive phrase. I believe, too, that this fierce turtle buries surplus food, and so gives further evidence of intellectual activity.

To realize what wild life in the water really is it must be observed where Nature has placed it. It is perhaps not so much set forth by exceptional incidents that the student happens to witness as by that general appearance of common sense which is so unmistakably stamped upon even the most commonplace movements. Writers upon animal intelligence do not need to be constantly on the lookout for special exhibitions of cunning in order to substantiate the claims they make in favor of life’s lower forms. It is plainly enough to be seen if we will but patiently watch whensoever these creatures come and wheresoever they go and the manner of their going and coming.

Do not be so intent upon watching for the marvellous that ordinary incidents are not seen. In studying wild life everywhere, and perhaps more particularly in the water, to be rightly informed we must see the average individual amid commonplace surroundings. Doing this, we are not misinformed nor led to form too high an opinion. It is as in the study of humanity. We must not familiarize ourselves with the mountebank, but with man.

CHAPTER TENTH

_AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN_