Kitabı oku: «Birds and all Nature, Vol. V, No. 1, January 1899», sayfa 5
THE WHIPPOORWILL
WHAT farm boy has not heard this birdless voice echoing from the ghostly shades of the thicket close at hand, or scarcely audible in the distance? Perhaps you have heard it as you have passed between the wood and the hill over there, coming clear from the wood but reëchoing from the hill only the shrill last syllable. Farther away on the distant hill-top you may have taken this last syllable for the piping of the salamander. The "whippoorwill" song belongs with the early May moonlit balmy nights, before the blossoms have lost their best perfume and before farm work has become a mere drudgery.
It vividly recalls the merry May-basketing frolics, apparently so necessary to existence on the farm; the fresh green fields and woodland blossoms; the planting season with all its hidden promises. There is, in the warble of the bluebird, glad promise of returning spring; and in the animated whistle of the phœbe reiteration of the earlier promise; but the whippoorwill tells of that delightful season realized. His is not a complaint groaned forth, but a glad announcement of joy fully come.
My early home nestled in one of those gems of woodland that dot the rolling Iowa prairies. One of my earliest memories of this old home is the twilight choruses of the whippoorwills in the door-yard. They often ventured upon the door-step and sang for minutes at a time, apparently oblivious of the members of the family seated just inside the open door. On more than one occasion more than one bird occupied the door-step at the same time, all the while apparently trying to drown each others' voices in a continuous flow of song. At such times the delightful mellowness which one hears, with the birds in the distance, gives place to an almost painful, penetrating shrillness. The more deliberately uttered song is invariably preceded by a strongly guttural sound not unlike that produced by striking an inflated rubber bag. The near-by song, to my ear, sounds like "qui ko wee," the first syllable with a strong "q" sound. I have never heard them sing later than 11 o'clock in the evening nor earlier than 3 in the morning.
It is well-nigh impossible to creep upon a singing bird in the woods, even if it could be seen in the dim light, but it was not unusual, at my old home, for the birds to playfully fly round and round anyone who might be standing out in the yard at twilight. The birds often came so close that the wings seemed to brush the face. The flight is so utterly noiseless that the object of their sport is aware of the presence before he can fully realize what it is.
The whippoorwill inhabits the eastern portion of the United States, west to eastern North and South Dakota and Nebraska, western Kansas, Indian Territory and Texas; north to southern Canada, into Nova Scotia and Manitoba; and south in winter into eastern Mexico and Guatemala. It breeds in the northern and central parts of its range, and rarely to Florida.
The nest is made late in May or early in June, in the Northern states. The eggs are two in number, light gray or white, with brown and lilac markings often arranged in scratchings and pencilings besides the spots and blotches. There is usually scarcely more of a nest than the leaves lying on the ground; rarely nothing but the bare ground.
THE EAGLE
(Continued from page 25.)
Eagles are sometimes caught by placing a large cage on edge so it will fall when a string is pulled. A live hen and her chickens are tied to the cage so they may run under when the eagle comes at them. As they run into the cage to escape the eagle, he follows them, the string is pulled, and the eagle finds himself alone in the trap, for the hen and her chickens easily get out between the bars which are too close together to allow him to do the same.
An eagle once attacked a weasel. This little animal is very fierce, and will not give up its life easily. Finding itself in the grasp of the bird, the weasel turned and fastened its teeth in the throat of the eagle. It was lucky for the eagle that the weasel did not cut his throat, but the little animal never let go. Its teeth were locked into the flesh of the eagle so they could not be torn open. Years afterwards the eagle was shot, and it had on its neck a queer locket, the skull of the weasel hanging there by the teeth. Sometimes the weasel cuts a vital part in the bird that picks it up, and then the weasel enjoys the life-blood of his enemy.
We have a gold coin that is named after the eagle. It is worth ten dollars. In fact it is ten dollars in gold. The first one was made in 1792. Half-eagles, quarter-eagles, and double-eagles have also been made of gold at our nation's mints.
In some countries besides America it has been the national bird. When the army of Rome first tried to land in England the men feared the fierce English soldiers. One soldier had an Eagle with him in the boat. He jumped into the sea with his eagle and called to his friends to follow him. They soon put the enemy to flight, and the eagle was praised for helping them win.
The eagle is fond of capturing such birds as the swan. When he finds a swan flying so high that it cannot get to the water and dive out of his reach the eagle flies against the swan from below with such force that the breath is knocked out of the swan in an instant. As the swan falls lifeless to the ground the eagle invites his mate to meet him at the spot and they have a great feast.
The eagle flies swifter than a railway train, but one was once caught by a train before it could rise and get out of the way. The "cannon-ball" train on the Georgia Railway was late. In making up time it swung round a curve in a cut at full speed. A bald eagle was seen on the track by the fireman, who was looking out of the window. The pilot of the engine was upon the bird before he could rise. It struck him, tumbled him upon the frame, and fastened one of his claws into a wooden beam.
Before the eagle had time to get back his senses the fireman climbed along the foot-rail to the pilot. He caught the great bird, and a fierce struggle followed. The bird fought for freedom and the fireman fought for a prize.
The train was going at the rate of forty-five miles an hour. It was hard for the man to keep himself on the engine with one hand on the rail and the other holding the eagle, which tore at him wildly as the engine swung to and fro upon the rails.
The man's clothing was torn to shreds and his hands were bleeding. But he worked his way back to the cab where the engineer assisted him in tying the eagle so he could not get away. But the tying was not easy for two men, for the bird made good use of his great beak and claws.
When spread out on the car floor he measured seven feet from tip to tip of his wings. He was not injured, and is now kept as a splendid prisoner, the king of American birds.
MIGRATORY BIRDS
IN the New World the birds of the temperate zone are rather perplexing in their migratory habits. Many of those which go north to Canada and Alaska in the summer pass the winter in Mexico, Panama, and even South Columbia; while others, as well as a number of migrants from the United States, go over to the West Indies. One of the most wonderful instances of migration is that of the tiny flame-breasted humming-bird (Selasphorus rufus), which breeds on the west coast of America as far north as Alaska and Bering Island, and winters in Lower California and Mexico. Thus, with unerring instinct, this diminutive bird, scarcely two inches long, flies twice a year the astounding distance of over 3,000 miles. The birds which belong to the second class – those which breed in the Arctic regions – comprise the swans, many of the waders, and a considerable number of ducks and geese. In Europe these birds spend the winter in all the countries from England south to the Mediterranean and Black seas, some even going as far south as the upper reaches of the Nile. In Asia most of the waders, such as snipe, woodcock, sandpipers, and plovers, as well as the ducks and the geese, spend the winter in India and South China. In America the Arctic birds migrate to the Southern United States and Mexico.
The partial migrants, which form the third class, are rather more puzzling in their movements, for among them we find birds whose motives for wandering are very diverse. Some are unwilling slaves —i. e., they get mixed up in the big flights of true migratory birds, and are irresistibly hurried along with them; such are the rooks, starlings, robins, etc., which are so frequently seen in Heligoland in the midst of a flock of swallows, warblers, and other genuine migrants. Another lot of these partial migrants are those which, perhaps, most justly deserve this name; viz., such birds as larks, pipits, titmice, etc., which, although resident with us all the year round, at times greatly diminish in numbers, owing to more than half the individuals changing their abode. For instance, those which breed in Scotland and England wander in the winter over to France, but, unlike the true migrant, always leave some of their number behind. —Walter Rothschild, The Nineteenth Century.
HOW BIRDS CARRY SEEDS
DR. HOWARD, the new secretary of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, writing of the manner in which seeds are carried to a great distance by birds, recited an experiment of Darwin, which had a curious result. Adhering to the leg of a wounded partridge, Darwin found a ball of earth weighing six and a half ounces. From the seeds contained in this ball he raised thirty-two plants belonging to five distinct species.
THE SHIP OF THE DESERT
THE pack camel travels very slowly, and until you are sufficiently reconciled to the motion to be able to doze on its back, you are constantly tempted to get off and walk. If you want speed, you must buy a racing camel. This seems to belong to a different creation. It is much taller, more alert and more intelligent. It can accomplish 150 miles in sixteen hours without undue effort, and, in the matter of price, compares with the pack camel as the thoroughbred does with the cab horse.
THE SNAPPING-TURTLE
BY reason of the ferocity of disposition of this curious animal, the snapping-turtle (Chelydra serpentina) is rather formidable, not only to the smaller creatures which inhabit the same localities, but also to man, its bite causing very severe wounds. It is found in America from Canada to Ecuador, and there are few localities where it is not met with frequently. Swimmers in small lakes are sometimes attacked by it, the habits of the animal both in the water and on land being the same. It is bold as well as fierce, often suffering itself to be lifted from the ground by the object which it has grasped rather than to let go its hold. If attacked, the reptile's long reach and strong jaws enable it to defeat any ordinary foe. The elongated tail of the snapping-turtle has given rise to the popular name, alligator turtle and, being appended to the small, comparatively thin shell, giving an elongated appearance to the body, the specific name serpentina resulted.
When the snapper elevates itself for the attack, with half-open mouth and sullen eyes, there is said to be something fiery and defiant in its attitude, though it is so slow and awkward in recovering itself after missing its point of attack that it presents a most ludicrous appearance. These turtles are remarkably strong. The elder Agassiz states that he observed one bite off a piece of plank more than an inch thick. They also attain considerable size, being the largest inland representative of the order, specimens not infrequently exceeding three feet in length. It is carnivorous in its habits, and is very destructive of fish, small quadrupeds, birds, and reptiles. Many have been the water-fowl which have ventured too close to their voracious enemy. Its appetite is said to be so great that it will even catch young alligators, and devour them in spite of their teeth and struggles.
The flesh of the snapping-turtle is delicate, tender, and of rich flavor. Every fisherman knows that it will take almost any kind of bait, provided it be of animal substance. It, however, prefers fish, and cannot resist a hook so baited.
In the northern United States, from the tenth to the twentieth of June, it has been observed, the female, at early morning, leaves the water and crawls to a sandbank, digs a small cavity with its hind leg, into which the small, round eggs are deposited to the number of twenty-five or thirty, when the sand is drawn over them, the surface smoothed down, and the animal is soon back in the water, the entire operation not lasting over twenty minutes. This method is different from that of our other land turtles. Nothing but sand will suit the purpose of the snapping-turtle. In order to find a suitable spot for the burial of her eggs, the female is often forced to traverse a considerable distance. The sand must be quite dry and exposed to the full rays of the sun. The little ones are hatched in July. The young run by instinct into the water.
Remarkable stories are told of the longevity of the turtle and of its tenacity of life. That they live to near a century is well authenticated. After the head is severed from the body the head will open and shut the mouth and roll the eyes. In one case a stick was held between the open jaws, which closed upon it with violence, and kept hold of it. Meanwhile the headless body was crawling on the ground.
An allied form (Macrochelys lacertina) inhabits the tributaries of the Mexican Gulf, extending northward in the Mississippi as far as Missouri.
THE STORY OF LITTLE BILLEE
CAROLINE CROWNINSHIELD BASCOM
IN THE March number of the Cosmopolitan of 1894, I read a most interesting article about a tame humming-bird. I know a number of people who enjoyed it as much as I, so I feel sure all lovers of pets, especially of birds, will be interested in my story of "Little Billee." I have always been passionately fond of animals and would like to make pets of them all. I have cared the least for birds, (except out of doors) and have known very little about them.
I have been ill many months, and my family and friends have done all they could to make the days pass as quickly as possible for me. Early in June my mother found a little brown bird which could not have been more than two weeks old. Thinking it might amuse me she brought him up stairs done up in her handkerchief, and I took him inside the bed. After an hour he seemed very happy and not at all afraid. I looked him over carefully, but found him uninjured. I took him to the open window expecting to see him try to fly away, but he did not seem to have the slightest intention of doing so. From that day to this he has been perfectly devoted to me and my constant companion. At this minute he is sitting on the back of my neck dressing his feathers.
The first day I could not get him to eat anything until night, when he drank milk from an after-dinner coffee spoon. After that he took little pieces of bread soaked in milk from my tongue or lip. I fed him in that way for several days, then he would take it out of my fingers. He lived on bread and milk for two weeks. Now he eats almost everything that I do. All kinds of vegetables, mushrooms, and ice cream. He likes to sit on my hand or shoulder and take them from my fork.
I have some kind of nourishment every two hours and Little Billee knows very well when my maid comes into my room with a salver that there is something on it to eat or drink, and he is wild until he gets on my hand or shoulder. He drinks milk from my tumblers and will not drink water out of anything but my medicine glass. When Little Billee sees me sit down in the morning with an orange on a plate, he flies upon his cage, then over into my lap, and sits on the first finger of my left hand and eats the orange from my spoon. At first he could not crack his own seeds and as he was very fond of them I used to do it for him. Now he can crack them himself, but he prefers eating them outside his cage, and his hemp seed he always brings over and eats on the rug in front of my bed.
Little Billee is very fond of little orange blossom biscuits. I keep some in a tin box under a table by the side of my bed. For several days every time I would reach out of bed and tap on the box Little Billee would come running for a piece. One day I was visiting with a friend and we forgot all about the bird. Soon we heard rap, tap, tap, pop, pop, pop, and there was Little Billee standing by the box waiting for a piece. Since then he comes many times a day. If I send him away with a small piece he returns directly for a large one.
I had quite a time teaching him to stay in his cage. The first day I put him in I was afraid he would die of fright. I left the cage on the floor for two days before he ventured in. After he had been going in and out for some time, I closed the door, but he was frightened quite as much as at first, and he would not go near the cage the rest of the day. Finally I tried taking the cage on my lap and shutting him in; he did not seem afraid then and now he does not mind being shut up in the morning when I am in my dressing-room, but he much prefers going in and out at his own sweet will. If I leave him shut up in his cage and go back to bed, he is frantic until he is let out and gets in the bed with me. For the first two weeks he was not happy if he was not on me somewhere. He would stay in bed with me for hours at a time, but now he plays on the floor, with a little piece of paper, cotton, or ribbon, and eats his seeds and biscuit.
I dress my hair high and it is Little Billee's special delight to sit on the top of my twist while I walk about my room. During the first few weeks if I put him on the floor when he had been in bed with me, he would hop back and forth on the rug in front of my bed, and beg to be taken, or he would fly straight up. I would put down my hand, he would hop upon my finger and in a second be back inside the bed. If I was sitting in a chair and put him down on the floor, he would climb right up from my feet to my neck, put his little bill in my mouth and chirp with glee. One day he was on the floor and did not see me go back to bed, but saw my wrapper over a chair (which stood about a yard from my bed). He supposed I was inside of it, but when he reached the top and found no mouth to put his bill into, he gave several very mournful peeps, but as soon as I spoke to him he chirped and it did not take him long to fly over to me. The next day when I put him down on the floor I was anxious to see what he would do. After teasing for some time for me to take him, he went to a chair, climbed up on the wrapper until he reached the top, then flew over to me. Ever after he came that way when I refused to take him.
One day I left Little Billee on the rug in front of the bed and went into my dressing room. While I was gone my mother came in and sat down. He was much frightened. Every time she spoke to him he ran under the bed, stuck his little head out from under the valance and peeped for me to come to him. When I spoke he answered, but was too much afraid to pass mother to come to me. When I came out he ran quickly to me and flew onto the back of a very low chair. I bent down and he flew up on my shoulder, chirping as loud as he could. No little child could have shown more joy in getting back to its mother. I do not suppose he remembers any other mother, and thinks all little birds have just such good mothers as I.
I have a magnificent big tiger cat named Taffy, so I thought Little Billee would be a very good name for my wee bird. It seems a very appropriate name too, as he spends a great deal of his time dressing himself and manicuring his nails. When he struts about with his head held high you can plainly see the long coat, high collar, high hat, and umbrella and can easily imagine the original Little Billee is before you. But I fear Taffy and my Little Billee will never go walking arm and arm together. Taffy has already caught Little Billee twice, but I have rescued him from the jaws of death before any harm was done. I am trying my best to get them to live contentedly together. I do not allow Little Billee to go out into the hall for fear he will fly down stairs and be caught by Taffy before anyone can reach him. Before the door into the hall is a small rug and he thinks flying over that a great feat, but when I say, "Little Billee, come right home," he returns instantly.
He goes to bed at eight o'clock in a little basket which I put on the top of some hanging shelves so there will be no danger from Taffy in the dark. Taffy sleeps on my bed every night, and very often on the outside when Little Billee is inside, and it seems like the lion and the lamb lying down together. Little Billee will usually be contented in his basket until 7 o'clock in the morning, then I take him into the bed with me where he lies quietly on my arm, neck, or palm until I get up at 9 o'clock. He never makes a peep unless I speak to him, then he chirps away like a happy child. On fine evenings I sat before an open window from 7 o'clock until 8 with Little Billee on my finger listening to the birds. When he became sleepy he tucked his little head under his wing, in a few minutes crawled into the palm of my hand and went sound asleep, ready for his basket.
When the hot wave came I went down-stairs at 7 o'clock, shutting him up in his cage.
The second night I had hard work to catch him. He ran into the hall and would not come when I called to him. The third night, when he saw me making preparations to dress, he acted like mad. He hopped all around me, put out his tiny wings, and tried to fly onto me, opened his bill, but not a sound came out. As I stood in front of my dressing table he flew to the top of his cage (which stood on the floor) to the back of a chair (which was near me), then up to my shoulder, chirping away so merrily that I knew he was saying: "Please take me with you." Of course, after that it is needless to say I took him down-stairs, and he has gone down every night since, where he remains until 8 o'clock, then is put into his basket, and I hear no more from him until morning.
