Chapter 3

A shepherd, whose flocks were in the high pastures on the Grampian Hills, took with him one day his little boy who was about three years of age. They had gone some distance, when he found it necessary, for some reason or other, to ascend the summit of one of the hills. He thought it would be too fatiguing for the child to go up; so he left him below with the dog, telling the little fellow to stay there till he returned, and charging the good and faithful dog to watch over the boy.

Scarcely had the shepherd reached the summit, before there came up one of those very thick fogs which are common among these mountains. These heavy mists often come up so suddenly and so thick that it is like a dark night--you can see absolutely nothing.

The unhappy father hurried down the mountain to his little boy; but, from fright and from the utter darkness, lost the way.

The poor shepherd for many hours sought his child among the treacherous swamps, the roaring cataracts and the steep precipices.

No little boy, no faithful dog could he see or hear. At length, night came on, and the wretched father had to return to his cottage, and to the mother of his child, and say the sad words, "He is lost. My faithful dog is gone too, or he might help me find the boy."

That was a sad night for the poor cottagers. At break of day, the shepherd, with his wife and his neighbors, set out to look for the child. They searched all day long, in every place where it seemed possible that lie could be, but all in vain. No little boy could they find. The night came on, and again the poor shepherd and his wife came home without their child.

On their return home, they found that the dog had been there; and, on receiving a piece of oatmeal cake, had instantly gone off with it. The next day and the day after, the shepherd renewed the search for his child. On each day when they returned, they heard that the dog had been to the house, taken his piece of cake, and immediately disappeared. The shepherd determined to stay at home the next day and watch his dog. He had a hope in his heart that the dog would lead him to his child.

The dog came the next day, at the same hour, took his piece of cake, and ran off. The shepherd followed him. He led the way to a cataract at some distance from the place where the father had left the child.

The bank of the cataract was steep and high, and the abyss down which the water rushed was terrific. Down the rugged and almost perpendicular descent, the dog, without any hesitation, began to make his way. At last, he disappeared into a cave, the mouth of which was almost on a level with the cataract.

The shepherd, with great difficulty, followed. What were his emotions, who can tell his joy, when he beheld his little boy eating, with much satisfaction, the piece of cake which the faithful animal had just brought? The dog stood by, eying his young charge with the utmost complacence.

The child had doubtless wandered from the place where he was left by his father; had fallen over the precipice; had been caught by the bushes near the cave, and scrambled into it. The dog had either followed or found him by the scent, and had since prevented him from starving by giving to him every day his own food.

The faithful, loving creature had never left the child day or night, except to get the piece of oaten cake; and then the dog went at full speed, neither stopping by the way, or apparently reserving any of the cake for himself.

Shall we not, all of us, learn love, fidelity and self-forgetfulness from such an affectionate and faithful creature?

"I don't believe I could be as good as that dog," said Frank.

"I know I could not," said Harry. "How the shepherd and his wife must have loved him! If I had been in their place, I should have treated him like the little boy's brother, and kept him always in the parlor."

"I dare say they did," said Mrs. Chilton.

There is an anecdote I have lately read, which shows that dogs have compassion for other dogs, and will help a fellow in distress.

When the ice suddenly melted on a river in Germany, a little dog was seen on a small piece of ice in the middle of the river. It was not known how he got into that situation. He set up the most piteous cries. A large dog who saw him dashed into the river, soon reached the poor spaniel, seized him by the neck, and brought him safe to shore, amidst the shouts and praises of the spectators.

Animals, when treated kindly, attach themselves to human beings. Birds build their nests near the habitations of men. In the wild, distant woods all is still. One hears no song of birds. In England, where the robin is courted and made much of, he comes into the house and takes his food from the table.

In many parts of Europe storks build their nests on the roofs. Swallows, martins, sparrows and wrens often make their nests under our roofs. They confide in us, and trust in our friendship and care. Let us never, my boys, betray or abuse their confidence.

There is a kind of birds who travel all over the United States. They go from South to North, from North to South. They have not, like the martins, the bob-o'-links, and some others, regular times for going and coming; but travel more to obtain food than to escape the winter, and, when once settled in a place with enough suitable food and water, remain there till it is exhausted, and then take flight to some other place.

"Are you telling us a made-up story, Mother?" said Harry.

"No, Harry, it is really and truly the wild pigeon of America of which I am speaking. Indeed, if it were not for their great power of flight, they must, many of them, starve to death. A proof of their swiftness is the fact that a pigeon has been killed in the neighborhood of New York, with rice in his crop that he must have swallowed in the fields of Georgia or Carolina."

"How could any one know that?" asked Harry.

"By remembering the fact that in one of those states is the nearest spot at which the bird could have found rice growing. It is a well ascertained fact that their power of digestion is so great, that their food is in the course of twelve hours so entirely changed, that one cannot know what it was. Now the distance of the rice fields from New York--that is, the number of miles travelled in twelve hours--is such that the pigeon must have flown at the rate of about a mile in a minute; so that if he pleased he might go to England in two days; but, Frank, if you will give me that pamphlet that lies on the table, I will read the account of the wild pigeon of America from the book itself."

"It was written by the celebrated Audubon, who resided a great many years in America, and who most faithfully watched the birds he described."

After giving an account of the speed of the pigeon, he goes on to say, "This great power of flight is seconded by as great a power of vision, which enables them, as they travel at that great rate, to view objects below, and so discover their food with facility. This I have proved to be the case by observing the pigeons, as they were passing over a barren part of the country, keep high in the air, and present such an extensive front as to enable them to observe hundreds of acres at once."

"If, on the contrary, the land is richly covered with food, or the trees with mast, (the fruit of the oak and beech trees,) the birds fly low, in order to discover the portion of woods most plentifully supplied, and there they alight. The form of body of these swift travellers is an elongated (lengthened) oval steered by a long, well-plumed tail,"--just as you know, Harry, you steer your boat by the rudder in the great tub of water; "they are furnished with extremely well set muscular wings. If a single bird is seen gliding through the woods and close by, it passes apparently like a thought, and the eye, on trying to see it again, searches in vain--the bird is gone."

The multitudes of pigeons in our woods are astonishing; and, indeed, after having for years viewed them so often, under so many circumstances, and I may add in many different climates, I even now feel inclined to pause and assure myself that what I am going to relate is fact.

In the autumn of 1813, I left my house in Henderson, on the banks of the Ohio, on my way to Louisville. Having met the pigeons flying from north-east to south-west in the barrens or natural wastes, a few miles beyond Hardensburgh, in greater apparent numbers than I had ever seen them before, I felt an inclination to count the flocks that would pass within the reach of my eye in one hour. I dismounted, and, seating myself on a little eminence, took my pencil to mark down what I saw going by and over me; and I made a dot for every flock which passed. Finding, however, that this was next to impossible, and feeling unable to record the flocks as they multiplied constantly, I arose, and counting the dots already put down, discovered that one hundred and sixty-three had been made in twenty-one minutes.

I travelled on, and still met more flocks the farther I went. The air was literally filled with pigeons. The light of noonday became dim as during an eclipse. The continued buzz of wings over me had a tendency to incline my senses to repose.

Whilst waiting for my dinner at Young's Inn, at the confluence of Salt River with the Ohio, I saw, at my leisure, immense legions still going by, with a front reaching far beyond the Ohio on the west, and the beech wood forest directly on the east of me. Yet not a single bird would alight, for not a nut or acorn was that year to be seen in the neighborhood.

The pigeons flew so high that different trials to reach them with a capital rifle proved ineffectual, and not even the report disturbed them in the least. A black hawk now appeared in their rear. At once like a torrent, and with a thunder-like noise, they formed themselves into almost a solid, compact mass, all pressing towards the centre.

In such a solid body, they zigzagged to escape the murderous falcon, now down close over the earth sweeping with inconceivable velocity, then ascending perpendicularly like a vast monument, and, when high up, wheeling and twisting within their continuous lines, resembling the coils of a gigantic serpent.

Before sunset, I reached Louisville, fifty-five miles distant from Hardensburgh. The pigeons were still passing, and continued for three days. The banks of the river were crowded with men and children, for here the pigeons flew rather low passing the Ohio.

The whole atmosphere, during the time, was full of the smell belonging to the pigeon species. It is extremely curious to see flocks after flocks follow exactly the same evolutions when they arrive at the same place. If a hawk, for instance, has chanced to charge a portion of the army at a certain spot, no matter what the zigzags, curved lines, or undulations might have been during the affray, all the following birds keep the same track; so that if a traveller happens to see one of these attacks, and feels a wish to have it repeated, he may do so by waiting a short time.

It may not perhaps be out of place to attempt an estimate of the number of pigeons contained in one flock, and of the quantity of food they daily consume.

We shall take, for example, a column, one mile in breadth, which is far below the average size, and suppose the birds to pass over us, without interruption, for three hours, at the rate we have mentioned, of one mile in a minute. This will give us a line one hundred and eighty miles long by one broad, and covering one hundred and eighty square miles. Now, allowing two pigeons to the square yard, we have one billion, one hundred and fifteen million, one hundred and thirty-six thousand pigeons in one flock. As every pigeon consumes fully half a pint of food a day, the quantity required to feed such a flock for one day must be eight million, seven hundred and twelve thousand bushels.

As soon as these birds discover a sufficiency of food to entice them to alight, they fly round in circles, reviewing the country below, and, at this time, exhibit all the beauty of their plumage. Now they display a large glistening sheet of bright azure, by exposing their back to view. Suddenly turning, they exhibit a mass of rich, deep purple.

Now they pass lower over the forest and are lost among the foliage, for a moment, but reappear as suddenly above. Now they alight, and then, as if affrighted, the whole again take to wing with a roar equal to loud thunder, and wander swiftly through the forest as if to see if danger is near.

Hunger, however, soon brings them all to the ground, and then they are seen industriously throwing up the fallen leaves to seek for every beech nut or acorn. The last ranks continually pass over and alight in front, in such quick succession that the whole still has the appearance of being on the wing. The quantity of ground thus harvested (moissonee) is astonishing, and so clean is the work that no gleaners think it worth while to follow where the pigeons have been.

During the middle of the day, after the repast is finished, the whole settle on the trees to enjoy rest, and digest the food; but, as the sun sinks, the army departs in a body for the roosting place, not unfrequently hundreds of miles off. This has been ascertained by persons keeping account of the arrival at, and departure from the curious roosting places, to which I must now conduct the reader.

To one of these general nightly rendezvous, not far from the banks of the Green River, in Kentucky, I paid repeated visits. The place chosen was in a portion of the forest where the trees were of great height with little under-wood. I rode over the ground lengthwise upwards of forty miles, and crossed it in different parts, ascertaining its average width to be a little more than three miles.

My first view of this spot was about a fortnight after the birds had chosen it. I arrived there nearly two hours before sunset. Few pigeons were then to be seen, but a great number of persons with horses and wagons, guns and ammunition, had already established different camps on the borders.

Many trees two feet in diameter I observed were broken at no great distance from the ground, and the branches of many of the largest and tallest so much so that the desolation already exhibited equalled that of a furious tornado. The sun was lost to our view, yet not a pigeon had arrived. All on a sudden, I heard a general cry of, "Here they come!"

The noise which they made, though distant, reminded me of a hard gale at sea passing through the rigging of a close-reefed vessel. As the birds arrived and passed over me, I felt a current of air that surprised me. The stream of birds still kept increasing. Fires were lighted, and many people had torches, and a most magnificent, as well as wonderful and terrifying sight was before me.

The pigeons, coming in by millions, alighted every where, one on the top of another, until masses of them, resembling hanging swarms of bees as large as hogsheads were formed on every tree. These heavy clusters were seen to give way as the supporting branches, breaking down with a crash, came to the ground, killing hundreds of birds beneath, forcing down other equally large and heavy groups, and rendering the whole a scene of uproar and distressing confusion.

I found it quite useless to speak, or even to shout to those persons nearest me. Even the reports of the guns were seldom heard, and I knew only of their going off by seeing their owners reload them. It was past midnight before I perceived a decrease in the numbers arriving.

The uproar continued, however, the whole night; and, as I was anxious to know to what distance the sound reached, I sent off a man, who told me afterwards, that at three miles he heard the sound distinctly. Towards the approach of day, the noise rather subsided; but long ere objects were at all distinguishable, the pigeons began to move off in a direction quite different from that from which they had arrived the day before.

The place they choose for building their nests, is very unlike the scene of confusion the roosting place presents. There you see the tenderest affection. The birds find some forest where the trees are very high and large, and at a convenient distance from the water. To this place myriads of pigeons fly. There, in harmony and love, they build their nests with parental care. Fifty or a hundred nests, made of a few dried sticks, crossed in different ways, and supported by suitable forks in the branches, may be seen on the same tree. The two birds take turns to sit on the eggs; but the mother sits the longest. The male feeds her from his bill with the greatest tenderness, takes care of her, and does every thing he can to please her.

Now it is bed-time, so good night!"