Part 5 (2/2)
Around timber-line in summer one may hear the happy song of the white-throated sparrow. Here and above lives the leucosticte. Far above the vanguard of the brave pines, where the brilliant flowers fringe the soiled remnants of winter's drifted snow, where sometimes the bees hum and the painted b.u.t.terflies sail on easy wings, the broad-tailed hummingbird may occasionally be seen, while still higher the eagles soar in the quiet bending blue. On the heights, sometimes nesting at an alt.i.tude of thirteen thousand feet, is found the ptarmigan, which, like the Eskimo, seems supremely contented in the land of crags and snows.
Of all the birds on the Rockies, the one most marvelously eloquent is the solitaire. I have often felt that everything stood still and that every beast and bird listened while the matchless solitaire sang. The hermit thrush seems to suppress one, to give one a touch of reflective loneliness; but the solitaire stirs one to be up and doing, gives one the spirit of youth. In the solitaire's song one feels all the freshness and the promise of spring. The song seems to be born of ages of freedom beneath peaceful skies, of the rhythm of the universe, of a mingling of the melody of winds and waters and of all rhythmic sounds that murmur and echo out of doors and of every song that Nature sings in the wild gardens of the world. I am sure I have never been more thoroughly wide awake and hopeful than when listening to the solitaire's song. The world is flushed with a diviner atmosphere, every object carries a fresher significance, there are new thoughts and clear, calm hopes sure to be realized on the enchanted fields of the future. I was camping alone one evening in the deep solitude of the Rockies. The slanting sun-rays were glowing on St. Vrain's crag-crowned hills and everything was at peace, when, from a near-by treetop came the triumphant, hopeful song of a solitaire, and I forgot all except that the world was young. One believes in fairies when the solitaire sings. Some of my friends have predicted that I shall some time meet with an accident and perish in the solitudes alone. If their prediction should come true, I shall hope it will be in the summer-time, while the flowers are at their best, and that during my last conscious moments I shall hear the melody of the solitaire singing as I die with the dying day.
I sat for hours in the woods one day, watching a pair of chickadees feeding their young ones. There were nine of these hungry midgets, and, like nine small boys, they not only were always hungry, but were capable of digesting everything. They ate spiders and flies, green worms, ants, millers, dirty brown worms, insect-eggs by the dozen, devil's-darning-needles, woodlice, bits of lichen, gra.s.shoppers, and I know not how many other things. I could not help thinking that when one family of birds destroyed such numbers of injurious insects, if all the birds were to stop eating, the insects would soon destroy every green tree and plant on earth.
One of the places where I used to camp to enjoy the flowers, the trees, and the birds was on the sh.o.r.e of a glacier lake. Near the lake were eternal snows, rugged gorges, and forests primeval. To its sh.o.r.e, especially in autumn, came many bird callers. I often screened myself in a dense clump of fir trees on the north sh.o.r.e to study the manners of birds which came near. To help attract and detain them, I scattered feed on the sh.o.r.e, and I spent interesting hours and days in my hiding-place enjoying the etiquette of birds at feast and frolic.
I was lying in the sun, one afternoon, just outside my fir clump, gazing out across the lake, when a large black bird alighted on the sh.o.r.e some distance around the lake. ”Surely,” I said to myself, ”that is a crow.” A crow I had not seen or heard of in that part of the country. I wanted to call to him that he was welcome to eat at my free-lunch counter, when it occurred to me that I was in plain sight.
Before I could move, the bird rose in the air and started flying leisurely toward me. I hoped he would see, or smell, the feed and tarry for a time; but he rose as he advanced, and as he appeared to be looking ahead, I had begun to fear he would go by without stopping, when he suddenly wheeled and at the same instant said ”Hurrah,” as distinctly as I have ever heard it spoken, and dropped to the feed.
The clearness, energy, and unexpectedness of his ”Hurrah” startled me. He alighted and began to eat, evidently without suspecting my presence, notwithstanding the fact that I lay only a few feet away.
Some days before, a mountain lion had killed a mountain sheep; a part of this carca.s.s I had dragged to my bird table. Upon this the crow, for such he was, alighted and fed ravenously for some time. Then he paused, straightened up, and took a look about. His eye fell on me, and instantly he squatted as if to hurl himself in hurried flight, but he hesitated, then appeared as if starting to burst out with ”Caw” or some such exclamation, but changed his mind and repressed it. Finally he straightened and fixed himself for another good look at me. I did not move, and my clothes must have been a good shade of protective coloring, for he seemed to conclude that I was not worth considering.
He looked straight at me for a few seconds, uttered another ”Hurrah,”
which he emphasized with a defiant gesture, and went on energetically eating. In the midst of this, something alarmed him, and he flew swiftly away and did not come back. Was this crow a pet that had concluded to strike out for himself? Or had his mimicry or his habit of laying hold of whatever pleased him caused him to appropriate this word from bigger folk?
Go where you will over the Rockies and the birds will be with you. One day I spent several hours on the summit of Long's Peak, and while there twelve species of birds alighted or pa.s.sed near enough for me to identify them. One of these birds was an eagle, another a hummingbird.
[Ill.u.s.tration: PTARMIGAN]
On a June day, while the heights were more than half covered with winter's snow, I came across the nest of a ptarmigan near a drift and at an alt.i.tude of thirteen thousand feet above sea-level. The ptarmigan, with their home above tree-line, amid eternal snows, are wonderfully self-reliant and self-contained. The ouzel, too, is self-poised, indifferent to all the world but his brook, and showing an appreciation for water greater, I think, than that of any other landsman. These birds, the ptarmigan and the ouzel, along with the willow thrush, who sings out his melody amid the shadows of the pines, who puts his woods into song,--these birds of the mountains are with me when memory takes me back a solitary visitor to the lonely places of the Rockies.
The birds of the Rockies, as well as the bigger folk who live there, have ways of their own which distinguish them from their kind in the East. They sing with more enthusiasm, but with the same subtle tone that everywhere tells that all is right with the world, and makes all to the manner born glad to be alive.
Nothing delights me more than to come across a person who is interested in trees; and I have long thought that any one who appreciates trees or birds is one who is either good or great, or both. I consider it an honor to converse with one who knows the birds and the trees, and have more than once gone out of my way to meet one of those favored mortals. I remember one cold morning I came down off the mountains and went into a house to get warm. Rather I went in to sc.r.a.pe an acquaintance with whomsoever could be living there who remembered the birds while snow and cold prevailed,--when Nature forgot. To get warm was a palpable excuse. I was not cold; I had no need to stop; I simply wanted to meet the people who had, on this day at least, put out food and warm water for the birds; but I have ever since been glad that I went in, for the house s.h.i.+elded from the cold a family whom it is good to know, and, besides making their acquaintance, I met ”Bob” and heard her story.
Every one in the house was fond of pets. Rex, a huge St. Bernard, greeted me at the door, and with a show of satisfaction accompanied me to a chair near the stove. In going to the chair some forlorn s...o...b..rds, ”that Sarah had found nearly frozen while out feeding the birds this morning,” hopped out of my way. As I sat down, I noticed an old sack on the floor against the wall before me. All at once this sack came to life, had an idea, or was bewitched, I thought. Anyway it became so active that it held my attention for several seconds, and gave me a little alarm. I was relieved when out of it tumbled an aggressive rooster, which advanced a few steps, flapped, and crowed l.u.s.tily. ”He was brought in to get thawed out; I suppose you will next be wondering where we keep the pig,” said my hostess as she advanced to stir the fire, after which she examined ”two little cripples,”
birds in a box behind the stove.
I moved to a cooler seat, by a door which led into an adjoining room.
After I had sat down, ”Bob,” a pet quail, came from somewhere, and advanced with the most serene and dignified air to greet me. After pausing to eye me for a moment, with a look of mingled curiosity and satisfaction, she went under my chair and squatted confidingly on the floor. Bob was the first pet quail I had ever seen, and my questions concerning her brought from my hostess the following story:--
”One day last fall a flock of quail became frightened, and in their excited flight one struck against a neighbor's window and was badly stunned. My husband, who chanced to be near at the time, picked up the injured one and brought it home. My three daughters, who at times had had pet horses, snakes, turtles, and rats, welcomed this shy little stranger and at once set about caring for her injuries. Just before ”Bob” had fully recovered, there came a heavy fall of snow, which was followed by such a succession of storms that we concluded to keep her with us, provided she was willing to stay. We gave her the freedom of the house. For some time she was wild and shy; under a chair or the lounge she would scurry if any one approached her. Plainly, she did not feel welcome or safe in our house, and I gave up the idea of taming her. One day, however, we had lettuce for dinner, and while we were at the table Sarah, my eldest daughter, who has a gift for taming and handling wild creatures, declared that Bob should eat out of her hand before night. All that afternoon she tempted her with bits of lettuce, and when evening came, had succeeded so well that never after was Bob afraid of us. Whenever we sat down for a meal, Bob would come running and quietly go in turn to each with coaxing sounds and pleading looks, wanting to be fed. It was against the rules to feed her at meals, but first one, then another, would slip something to her under the table, trying at the same time to appear innocent. The girls have always maintained that their mother, who made the rule, was the first one to break it. No one could resist Bob's pretty, dainty, coaxing ways.
”She is particularly fond of pie-crust, and many a time I have found the edge picked off the pie I had intended for dinner. Bob never fails to find a pie, if one is left uncovered. I think it is the shortening in the pie-crust that gives it the delicious flavor, for lard she prefers above all of her many foods. She cares least of all for grain.
My daughters say that Bob's fondness for graham gems accounts for the frequency of their recent appearances on our table.
”After trying many places, Bob at last found a roosting-place that suited her. This was in a leather collar-box on the bureau, where she could nestle up close to her own image in the mirror. Since discovering this place she has never failed to occupy it at night.
She is intelligent, and in so many ways pleasing that we are greatly attached to her.”
Here I had to leave Bob and her good friends behind; but some months afterward my hostess of that winter day told me the concluding chapters of Bob's life.
”Bob disliked to be handled; though pleasing and irresistibly winsome, she was not in the least affectionate, and always maintained a dignified, ladylike reserve. But with the appearance of spring she showed signs of lonesomeness. With none of her kind to love, she turned to Rex and on him lavished all of her affection. When Rex was admitted to the house of a morning, she ran to meet him with a joyful cackle,--an utterance she did not use on any other occasion,--and with soft cooing sounds she followed him about the house. If Rex appeared bored with her attentions and walked away, she followed after, and persisted in tones that were surely scolding until he would lie down.
Whenever he lay with his huge head between his paws, she would nestle down close to his face and remain content so long as he was quiet.
Sometimes when he was lying down she would climb slowly over him; at each step she would put her foot down daintily, and as each foot touched him there was a slight movement of her head and a look of satisfaction. These climbs usually ended by her scratching in the long hair of his tail, and then nestling down into it.
<script>