Still winter holds the frozen ground and fast the streams with ice are bound,There’s many a dreary week to come before the flowers bloom;Though everything were lost in snow yet Nature’s heart beats warm belowAnd Spring will build her palace gay on hoary Winter’s tomb.—George Gee.
Still winter holds the frozen ground and fast the streams with ice are bound,
There’s many a dreary week to come before the flowers bloom;
Though everything were lost in snow yet Nature’s heart beats warm below
And Spring will build her palace gay on hoary Winter’s tomb.
—George Gee.
DOVEKIE.(Alle alle.)⅔ Life-size.FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
DOVEKIE.(Alle alle.)⅔ Life-size.FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
This little bird, often called the Sea Dove, belongs to the family of auks (Alcidæ). The range of the Dovekie is quite limited. While the marble murrelet, a related bird, is confined to the northern Pacific coast of North America, this little bird frequents only the “coast and islands of the north Atlantic and eastern Arctic Oceans; in North America south in winter to New Jersey.” It breeds only in the northern part of its range. It has been observed as far west as the state of Michigan, but its appearance there was, without doubt, accidental, for it prefers the wild sea coast, where the storm and waves bring to it an abundant supply of food.
It is said to be a rare visitor on the coasts of the British Islands and it has been reported as common as far to the northward as Spitzbergen. In Greenland, where it is commonly found a close companion of the black-billed auk, the native Greenlanders call the Dovekie the Ice Bird, as they consider it a harbinger of ice.
Though the wings of the Dovekie are small in proportion to the size of its body it flies well and rapidly. One writer states that it will move its wings almost as rapidly as will a humming-bird. It is an expert diver and while swimming or resting on the water it will frequently dip its bill into the water. On the land it is much more graceful and walks better than nearly all the other members of the family of auks.
It feeds chiefly on small fish, crustacea and mollusks and will become very fat during a prolonged stormy season when the waves wash up an abundant supply of crabs and fish.
The Dovekie builds a simple nest usually in the crevices of rocky cliffs bordering the sea coast. It lays one or two bluish white eggs which are about the size of the pigeon’s.
Mr. Saunders in speaking of the habits of the Dovekie says: “On the approach of a vessel this bird has a peculiar way of splashing along the surface of the water, as if unable to fly, and then diving through the crest of an advancing wave; it swims rather deep and very much by the stern.”
The Dovekie is sometimes called a little auk to distinguish it from the larger species of the family. The flightless great auk, which at one time was common along the north Atlantic coast, belongs to this family. No living representative of the great auk has been reported since the year 1842. Unable to protect itself by flight it was ruthlessly exterminated by the zeal of hunters and fishermen who sought it for food, for its feathers and for the oil that could be extracted from its flesh.
As flying ever westward Night’s shadows swiftly glide,The sunrise at the dawning illumes the countryside.The stars in quick succession in ether melt away,Until the brightest planet is lost in glowing day.—George Gee.
As flying ever westward Night’s shadows swiftly glide,
The sunrise at the dawning illumes the countryside.
The stars in quick succession in ether melt away,
Until the brightest planet is lost in glowing day.
—George Gee.
Naturalists tell us that of all creatures below man, the largest animal brain in proportion to the size of the body is found in horses and song-birds. Whatever sense beyond instinct the little creature of whom we write may have had, something, at least, told it that it could obtain help at human hands.
A little sparrow the past season entered the kitchen of one of our country homes, and perched upon the window-sill in evident distress. Its feathers were ruffled, and its head ever and anon turned curiously around and up, as if looking at something out of the house and above the window.
In and out it continued to hop, without intermission, regardless of all offers of food, until the shutters were closed at twilight, and various were the surmises as to the cause of its strange conduct.
Through the course of the following day the same scene was enacted, without any clue appearing as to the cause of its distress.
At length, on the third morning, the mute petition for aid still continuing, one of the family, bethinking herself of the bird’s curious upturning of the head, caught a new idea from it. Perhaps she might have a nest in the ivy that encircled the window, and something might be amiss with its little household.
Going to the second story and looking down, the cause of the trouble was at once manifest. A thick limb of the ivy had become loosened by the wind, and fallen directly across the petitioner’s nest. It was too heavy for the bird to remove, and offered an insuperable difficulty in the way of her getting in to feed her young—now almost lifeless.
The branch was quickly removed, when the mother-bird, pausing only for a brief inspection of her brood, was on the wing in search of food. Her mate soon joined her, and both were busy as quick wings, worked by hearty good will, could make them.
Once only did the mother pause in her work—as if desirous to give expression to her gratitude, she reappeared upon the window-seat, and poured forth a sweet and touching song, as of thankfulness to her benefactors.
She returned three successive seasons, to be noticed and fed at the same spot where her acquaintance and familiarity with man first commenced.
We will add another similar incident, which is also absolutely true.
The correctness is vouched for by Mr. George Babbitt, late captain on Gen. Gresham’s staff, of which he himself was a witness.
During the fierce cannonading in one of the battles of the Civil War, a small bird came and perched upon the shoulder of an artilleryman—the man designated, we believe, as “No. 1,” whose duty it is to force down the charge after the ammunition is put in the gun. The piece was a “Napoleon,” which makes a very loud report, and the exact scene of this occurrence was at a place called “Nickajack.” The bird perched itself upon this man’s shoulder and could not be driven from its position by the violent motions of the gunner. When the piece was discharged, the poor little thing would run its beak and head up under the man’s hair at the back of the neck, and when the report died away would resume its place upon his shoulder. Captain Babbitt took the bird in his hand, but when released it immediately resumed its place on the shoulder of the smoke-begrimed gunner. The singular and touching scene was witnessed by a large number of officers and men. It may be a subject of curious inquiry, what instinct led this bird to thus place itself. Possibly, frightened at the violent commotion caused by the battle, and not knowing how to escape or where to go, some instinct led it to throw itself upon the gunner as a protector. But, whatever the cause, the incident was a most beautiful and pleasing one to all who witnessed it.
George Bancroft Griffith.
The old stone farm-house in which my grandmother lived had beneath it what I thought a very interesting cellar. The floor was plastered and whitewashed like the walls, to ensure the place from rats and other intruders, as well as to keep it cool. From the walls, flat stones projected, serving as shelves on which the butter and milk were kept. For years the milk had had a shelf to itself near the window.
One summer morning, while Grandma and I were sitting on the porch waiting for breakfast, the little colored servant came to us with wide-open eyes, saying: “La, Missy, jes look at dis milk-pan!” We looked, and saw, to our disgust, that the inside of the pan was covered with sand and grime, while the milk, which usually was coated with rich, thick cream, was thin and poor. “Why, Janey,” said Grandma, “you didn’t put milk away in a pan like that, did you?” “La, no, Missy,” said Janey, “nobody wouldn’t nebber put milk away in a dirty pan.” “This is very strange,” said Grandma. “You will have to throw the milk away, Janey, and be especially careful to have the pan clean this evening.” “Yes’m,” said Janey, “I will.”
The following morning, however, the milk had to be thrown away again, as the pan was in a worse condition than on the preceding morning. “I don’t understand it,” said Grandma. “It can’t be rats, nor mice, for there is no way for them to come in.” “They couldn’t climb into a tin pan eight inches high, at any rate,” I said, “and if they jumped in they would drown.” Janey shook her head knowingly and said, “It’s witches, Missy, dat’s jes what it is.” A light board was placed over the milk that evening, but we found that the marauder pushed it off in the night. We felt that we must come to Janey’s conclusion about the witches, if the mystery were not solved soon.
In the afternoon of the third day of these experiences we were sitting on the back porch with our sewing, both of us half asleep, when chancing to look up I saw a rat go scudding across the yard. Straight to the cellar window he went, and, approaching one corner, thrust his nose under the sash. He gave a mighty tug, pushed one paw under, and soon, by pushing and pulling with nose and with paws, he crept through the window. From my position on the porch I could see all that was happening in the cellar. He jumped to the milk shelf, turned around, raised himself on his forepaws, and clasped the edge of the milk pan with his hind ones.
He then threw his tail into the pan, whisked it rapidly over the milk, coating it with cream, and licked it. This he repeated until he had a full meal, or at least until he had skimmed all the cream.
He started homeward then, and I was so much amazed that I didn’t attempt to stop him. On the following morning he was caught in the steel trap set just inside the window for him.
Elizabeth Roberts Burton.
The genus of Beavers (Castor) is apparently represented by a single living species. By some authorities the American form is considered a distinct species and is given the technical name Castor canadensis, while the European form is called Castor fiber. In external characteristics the two resemble each other very closely, and it is in the study of the structure of the skeleton that the differences appear. However, though there is this diversity of opinion, it is sufficient for the reader to look upon the two forms as merely geographical races of the same species, and that the Beaver is a native of the greater part of the northern hemisphere. Though its home covered this extensive area, it has disappeared from the larger number of localities that it once frequented. Speaking of its range as a whole, it may now be considered rare except in certain isolated localities. This extermination is due to the advance of civilization upon its natural haunts, and the commercial zeal that has stimulated the hunter to greater efforts to effect its capture. Within recent years the Beaver was common in some of the Gulf States. In 1876 it was reported as abundant in Virginia. It is evident from an examination of the numerous writings regarding its distribution that the Beaver formerly existed in great numbers not only in the Atlantic States, but also to the westward as far as the Pacific coast.
The Beaver is a member of that large order of gnawing mammals called the Rodentia, from the Latin word meaning to gnaw. In this order are classed all those animals that have those peculiar long incisor teeth which are constantly renewed by growth from the roots and as constantly worn to a chisel edge, at the outer end, by gnawing. Such animals are squirrels, the gophers, the mice, the rats, the muskrats, the porcupines, the hares and the rabbits.
The habits of the Beaver are very interesting. Several years are required before its growth is fully attained, and it will increase in size after the teeth are fully mature. “Two-year-old Beavers generally weigh about thirty-five to forty pounds, while very old ones occasionally attain a weight of upwards of sixty. Morgan records the capture of one which weighed sixty-three pounds. The increase in the size of the skull seems to continue nearly through life; in old age the skull not only acquires larger dimensions, but the weight is relatively greater in consequence of the increased thickness and density of the bones. The ridges for the attachment of muscles also become more strongly developed in old age.”
The general color of the back of the Beaver is a reddish brown. The shade varies both with the seasons and with the geographical location. Those found farther to the northward are usually darker. Albinos, either pure white, nearly white or with white blotches, have been observed.
“The fur consists of an exceedingly thick, flaky, woolly coat of silky softness and a thin, long outer coat composed of strong, stiff, shining hair, short on the head and rear part of the back and over two inches long on the rest of the body.” The tail, which is rounded at the base, much flattened and very broad, bears horny, dark-colored scales.
The fore legs are short and the feet are unwebbed. The hind legs are much stronger, the feet are fully webbed and they, alone, are used, with the aid of the tail, to propel the Beaver through the water. In the water it is graceful in its motions, but on the land, like nearly all animals that are fitted for a partially aquatic life, it is clumsy and awkward and its motions are neither rapid nor uniform.
BEAVER.(Castor fiber.)⅕ Life-size.FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
BEAVER.(Castor fiber.)⅕ Life-size.FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
Usually it is only in those districts that are remote from the habitations of man that the Beaver lives in colonies, consisting of several families, and builds its “lodges.” Nearer civilization it lives in burrows or tunnels. In the building of their homes, as well as in the storing of a supply of food, the female is the most active and is the practical builder, while the male assists.
Brehm writes interestingly regarding the Beaver. He says: “After mature deliberation the animals select a stream or pool, the banks of which afford them ample provender and seem specially adapted for the construction of their ‘lodges.’ Those which live singly dwell in simple subterranean burrows, after the manner of otters; societies, which generally consist of families, as a rule construct houses and, if there should be a necessity for it, dams, in order to hold back the water and preserve it at a uniform height. Some of these dams are from four hundred and fifty to six hundred feet long, from six to nine feet high, from twelve to eighteen feet thick at the base and from three to six feet at the top. They consist of logs varying in size from the thickness of an arm to that of a thigh and from three to six feet long. One end of the log or stake is thrust in the ground, the other stands upright in the water; the logs are fastened together by means of thin twigs and made tight with reeds, mud and earth, in such a way that one side presents a nearly vertical, firm wall to the stream, while the other side is sloped. From the ponds rising above the dams, canals are constructed to facilitate the carrying or floating of the necessary construction materials and food. Beavers do not forsake a settlement they have founded unless the direst necessity compels them to do so. Beavers’ lodges, the origin of which dates very far back, are often found in lonely woods.”
The Beaver usually feeds upon the bark of the younger branches of trees and shrubs and upon their leaves. It will also strip the older branches, in a very skillful manner, and eat the inner tender portion of the bark. During the fall and early winter months they work constantly in preparing and storing, in the neighborhood of their lodges, the winter’s supply of food. “Each cabin has its own magazine, proportioned to the number of its inhabitants, who have all a common right to the store and never pillage their neighbors.”
The American Indians look upon the Beaver with great respect. They believe that it is possessed of a degree of intelligence second only to that of man. Some Indians even assert that it possesses an immortal soul. Its sagacity is certainly very strong and it will easily adapt itself to changed environments. Unlike the other rodents, it seems to reason before acting and will build its habitations in the form that the surrounding conditions demand for the construction of the most durable home.
The Beaver, especially when young, is quite easily domesticated. Various writers speak of finding tame Beavers in Indian villages, where they seemed to be perfectly at home and contented. They were allowed full liberty. “They seemed to feel quite comfortable in the society of the Indian women and children; they grew restless in their absence and showed much pleasure on their return.”
The young, which number from two to three, are born blind, but are covered with fur. They usually obtain their sight in from eight to ten days, and are then led to the water by the mother.
Early in the nineteenth century Dr. George Shaw wrote as follows regarding the habits of the Beaver: “They collect in September their provisions of bark and wood; after which they enjoy the fruits of their labors, and taste the sweets of domestic happiness. Knowing and loving one another from habit, from the pleasures and fatigues of a common labor, each couple join not by chance, nor by the pressing necessities of nature, but unite from choice and from taste. They pass together the autumn and the winter. Perfectly satisfied with each other, they never separate. At ease in their cabins, they go not out but upon agreeable or useful excursions, to bring in supplies of fresh bark, which they prefer to what is too dry or too much moistened with water.”
Over rock and over river,Through bush, and brake, and forest,Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis;Like an antelope he bounded,Till he came unto a streamletIn the middle of the forest,To a streamlet still and tranquil,That had overflowed its margin,To a dam made by the beavers,To a pond of quiet water,Where knee-deep the trees were standing,Where the water-lilies floated,Where the rushes waved and whispered.On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,On the dam of trunks and branches,Through whose chinks the water spouted,O’er whose summit flowed the streamlet.From the bottom rose the beaver,Looked with two great eyes of wonder,Eyes that seemed to ask a question,At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis.On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet,Flowed the bright and silvery water,And he spake unto the beaver,With a smile he spake in this wise:“O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver,Cool and pleasant is the water;Let me dive into the water,Let me rest there in your lodges;Change me, too, into a beaver!”Cautiously replied the beaver,With reserve he thus made answer:“Let me first consult the others,Let me ask the other beavers.”Down he sank into the water,Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks,Down among the leaves and branches,Brown and matted at the bottom.On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet,Spouted through the chinks below himDashed upon the stones beneath himSpread serene and calm before him,And the sunshine and the shadowsFell in flecks and gleams upon him,Fell in little shining patches,Through the waving, rustling branches.From the bottom rose the beavers,Silently above the surfaceRose one head and then another,Till the pond seemed full of beavers,Full of black and shining faces.To the beavers Pau-Puk-KeewisSpake entreating, said in this wise:”Very pleasant is your dwelling,O my friends! and safe from danger;Can you not with all your cunning,All your wisdom and contrivance,Change me, too, into a beaver?”“Yes!” replied Ahmeek, the beaver,He the king of all the beavers,“Let yourself slide down among us,Down into the tranquil water.”Down into the pond among themSilently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis;Black became his shirt of deer-skin,Black his moccasins and leggins,In a broad black tail behind himSpread his fox-tails and his fringes;He was changed into a beaver.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Song of Hiawatha.”
Over rock and over river,
Through bush, and brake, and forest,
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis;
Like an antelope he bounded,
Till he came unto a streamlet
In the middle of the forest,
To a streamlet still and tranquil,
That had overflowed its margin,
To a dam made by the beavers,
To a pond of quiet water,
Where knee-deep the trees were standing,
Where the water-lilies floated,
Where the rushes waved and whispered.
On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,
On the dam of trunks and branches,
Through whose chinks the water spouted,
O’er whose summit flowed the streamlet.
From the bottom rose the beaver,
Looked with two great eyes of wonder,
Eyes that seemed to ask a question,
At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis.
On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,
O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet,
Flowed the bright and silvery water,
And he spake unto the beaver,
With a smile he spake in this wise:
“O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver,
Cool and pleasant is the water;
Let me dive into the water,
Let me rest there in your lodges;
Change me, too, into a beaver!”
Cautiously replied the beaver,
With reserve he thus made answer:
“Let me first consult the others,
Let me ask the other beavers.”
Down he sank into the water,
Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks,
Down among the leaves and branches,
Brown and matted at the bottom.
On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,
O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet,
Spouted through the chinks below him
Dashed upon the stones beneath him
Spread serene and calm before him,
And the sunshine and the shadows
Fell in flecks and gleams upon him,
Fell in little shining patches,
Through the waving, rustling branches.
From the bottom rose the beavers,
Silently above the surface
Rose one head and then another,
Till the pond seemed full of beavers,
Full of black and shining faces.
To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis
Spake entreating, said in this wise:
”Very pleasant is your dwelling,
O my friends! and safe from danger;
Can you not with all your cunning,
All your wisdom and contrivance,
Change me, too, into a beaver?”
“Yes!” replied Ahmeek, the beaver,
He the king of all the beavers,
“Let yourself slide down among us,
Down into the tranquil water.”
Down into the pond among them
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis;
Black became his shirt of deer-skin,
Black his moccasins and leggins,
In a broad black tail behind him
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes;
He was changed into a beaver.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Song of Hiawatha.”
What rosy pearls, bright zoned or striped!What freckled surface, iris-dyed!Fluted and grooved, with iv’ry lips,Spotted like panthers, peacock-eyed!
What rosy pearls, bright zoned or striped!
What freckled surface, iris-dyed!
Fluted and grooved, with iv’ry lips,
Spotted like panthers, peacock-eyed!
Look closer, as the angels can,And you will see the fairy work—The ruby specks, the azure veins,That in the tiniest hollow lurk.—Walter Thornbury, “Shells.”
Look closer, as the angels can,
And you will see the fairy work—
The ruby specks, the azure veins,
That in the tiniest hollow lurk.
—Walter Thornbury, “Shells.”
Many of my readers have doubtless spent some of the vacation months at the sea shore and have wandered over the beach at low tide picking up shells and other objects left by the receding ocean. They have also, I am sure, peered into the little pools of water left on the beach and have watched with interest the captives imprisoned therein, hermit crabs, fiddler crabs, sea anemones, sea worms and snail shells. It is with the latter that the present article will deal.
The stretch of beach which is uncovered twice a day by the receding of the water is called “between tides,” and is inhabited by a host of animate creatures, chief among which are the mollusks. The marine snails outnumber all of those which we discussed in the last article, and their shells are far more beautiful, those found in the tropics having the most gaudy colors imaginable. The animals are formed on the same plan as those of the fresh-water snails, although each family has some peculiarity not shared by its relatives. All live in the water and breathe air through that medium by means of gills, similar to the second class of fresh water snails mentioned in the last number. They are found in all parts of the world, those of the tropics, however, being the most brilliantly colored. While the majority of species live either between tides or near low water, there are not a few which live in the abysses of the ocean, and have been dredged from the bottom of the sea at a depth of two thousand, seven hundred and forty fathoms, or, to put it more plainly, over three miles. The average depth at which mollusks are found in any number is about one thousand fathoms. The variability of marine snails is so great that we shall be able to call attention to but a limited number of typical forms.
Among the best known of the marine snails are the Tritons, a family of mollusks living in tropical seas. Their shells are generally large and highly-colored and variously ornamented with short spines and knobs. One species, the Triton tritonis, is among the largest of mollusks, measuring eighteen inches in length. One of the smaller Tritons is pictured on the plate. Another shell familiar to those who have visited Florida is the Fasciolaria or banded snail, which attains a length of three inches and is very prettily banded and dashed with color. A near relative of this species is the giant banded shell (Fasciolaria gigantea), which is the largest of all marine snails, growing to a length of nearly two feet. This species is found plentifully on the southern Atlantic coast of the United States, being particularly abundant about the coral reefs of the Florida Keys.
A genus of mollusks with light horn colored shells, and inhabiting the cold waters of the Arctic seas, is the Buccinum, or whelk. In various parts of Great Britain it is known as “buckie” and “mutlog.” The Buccinum delights to burrow in the sand, like the moon shells (Natica), and frequently nothing but the end of the siphon can be seen, the latter protruding from the sand to enable the water to enter the animal to furnish the necessary oxygen. The whelk is used economically, both for food and bait. One ingenious method of catching them is to fasten a dead fish of good size in a wire basket and to allow it to rest on the bottom for a short time; when taken up it is covered with large, fat whelks. This fishery in Great Britain is fully as valuable as our oyster fishery, the annual income from this industry reaching to thousands of pounds sterling. The animal is also one of the principal baits used in cod fishing. A related genus, the neptune shells (Neptunea), is also eaten by the poorer people and makes a good codfish bait. The two kinds of whelk (Buccinum and Neptunea), are termed, the first the white whelk and the second the red or almond whelk, probably on account of the colors of the two shells. In the Shetland Islands the red whelk is used as a lamp, being suspended by strings from a nail, the mouth placed uppermost and filled with oil.
MARINE SHELLS.FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
MARINE SHELLS.FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.
The basket shells or dog-whelks are among the most numerous in individuals of all the marine snail shells, the common black whelk (Nassa obsoleta) being the most common of all the mollusks. The writer has seen a mud flat at low water literally paved with the shells of this snail, there being millions of the little creatures crawling about. The shells of this family are frequently very handsome, being latticed by the crossing of lateral and longitudinal lines. They are mostly of small size, scarcely exceeding an inch in length, many of them being much under these dimensions. The animal is very rapid in movement and leaves a distinct track in the mud, which will frequently end at a little pellet of mud, which, upon examination, will disclose the little animal nicely concealed beneath.
The Nassas of France are very destructive to the oyster beds of that nation, an adult “borer” being able to perforate the shell of a large oyster in a single night. So numerous are these pests that a single acre has yielded over a thousand individuals. As a result of these depredations the French oystermen carry on a relentless war against the Nassa, destroying thousands of animals annually. With all this persecution the mollusk still exists and even increases in numbers. The dead shells of this genus are a favorite home for the hermit crabs of small size, and it is to be suspected sometimes that other than dead shells are appropriated. We fear that a sort of piracy is resorted to by the hermit crab, resulting in a kind of “walk-the-plank” end for the mollusk, before the new tenant takes possession of the “home.”
Of the many varieties of tropical shells, few exceed the Volutes, or bat shells, in beauty or variety of coloration. They are found in most parts of the world, although strangely enough none are now living in the seas of Europe, but they are most abundant and more highly colored in the tropics and subtropics. The animal is carnivorous, and the long, fang-shaped teeth are certainly suggestive of predaceous habits. The shells are variously colored, some being mottled, some with zigzag or lightning-like markings, while others have spirally arranged dots and lines. One species (Voluta musica, figured on the plate), has received its name from a more or less fanciful resemblance of the surface of the shell to a musical staff, the spiral lines being grouped in sets of four or five and the dots being arranged as notes. In some specimens this resemblance is quite close. The smooth and polished shell of some volutes is due to the fact that the greater portion is covered by a reflected part of the large foot.
On the sandy shores of subtropical beaches certain graceful and polished animals bury themselves from sight in the sand. These are the olive shells (Oliva) whose bright colors and highly polished surfaces rival even the gaudy Volute in beauty. The foot may be described as plough-shaped and is admirably adapted for digging rapidly in the sand, so that the shell may be hidden from sight on the approach of enemies. The long siphon is thrust up through the canal in the anterior part of the shell and its end protrudes above the sand. The high polish of the surface is due to the shell being enveloped in the voluminous foot; hence it has no epidermis. The aperture is so narrow that it is difficult to understand how the animal gets in and out. The olives are very numerous in individuals; when one is found hundreds are sure to reward a patient search.
Probably no more distinct family of mollusks exists than the Conidae, the family of cones, their beautifully decorated shells and the large number of species making them a favorite with collectors. The shell is in the form of an inverted cone, gracefully rounded, the aperture being but a narrow slit extending nearly the whole length of the shell. The colors of the cones are always very brilliant, although when they are alive the shell is not brilliantly polished as the olives, on account of the presence of an epidermis. About three hundred species are known, living principally in tropical seas. They love to conceal themselves in holes in the rocks and among the branches of corals. The animal is predaceous, boring into the shells of other mollusks and extracting the juices from the bodies. The teeth of Conus are hollow and very sharp and have a barb on the end. A poison gland is said to be present in this genus and bites from the animal are very painful, although notdangerous, the large Conus marmoreus being able to inflict a severe wound. The cone is quite pugnacious and will immediately bite the hand when picked up, a veritable reptile of the ocean.
The ne plus ultra of mollusks to the collector is without doubt the genus Cypraea, comprising the cowry shells. So eagerly have they been sought by wealthy collectors that the price of rarities has gone up to an astonishing degree, some specimens being sold at several hundred dollars each. The shell is highly polished, owing to the fact that two lobes of the voluminous mantle are turned back over the shell and meet in the middle of the back. The foot is very large and spreading, the mantle beset with curious little tentacular-like organs and the eyes are placed on small swellings near the base of the long, cylindrical tentacles. The color-patterns of the shell vary to a wonderful degree. The young shell has a thin epidermis, a sharp lip to the aperture and a more or less prominent spire, the rolled over and toothed lip and polished surface not being acquired until fully adult. No more beautiful sight can be imagined than one of these gorgeous animals, as seen through the clear water, crawling over the sandy bottom or on the branch of some coral.
Several of the cowries have a curious economic value. Thus, Cypraea aurantia, the orange cowry, was used as an insignia of royalty by the chiefs of the Friendly Islands, and for a long time the only specimens obtainable were those which had been bored and used. The money cowry (Cypraea moneta) has been used as money by the natives of Western Africa, and many tons of this small shell were annually imported to England to be used in barter by the African traders. The shell is of a yellowish or whitish color, does not exceed an inch in length, and is very common in the Pacific and Indian Oceans. It is still used as a medium of barter in parts of Africa, although other things have pretty generally taken its place.
Cameos were at one time quite in the fashion, both as ornaments for the person in the way of brooches, and as bric-a-brac about the room. These shell-cameos are made from the genus Cassis, the helmet shells. These are well adapted for this purpose, as the shell is made up of several differently colored layers, making a bas relief figure not only possible but very effective. The black helmet (Cassis madagascariensis) is one of the best for this purpose, the figure being carved from the white, outer layer of shell, which stands out very clearly against the black background of the second layer. When a cameo is desired simply as a brooch or for any other form of personal adornment, a piece of the shell is cut out and shaped into the required form and size—oval, square or other shape—and cemented to a block of wood. The figure is then traced on the shell with a pencil and finally carefully worked out with sharp, pointed steel instruments, of delicate size and form. The same process is resorted to in working out a bas relief on the entire shell, only the latter is placed in a vice or other object to hold it firmly. The home of this industry is Genoa and Rome, Italy, although some are produced in France; these latter, however, are of a poorer quality. Several thousand people are employed in this trade. Many beautiful examples of this work were exhibited at the World’s Columbian Exposition, in Chicago, in 1893.
The cameo shells are among the largest of sea snails, several of them measuring eight or ten inches in length and weighing several pounds. They are found only in tropical and subtropical seas, living in comparatively shallow waters on a sandy bottom. They are voracious eaters, living principally on bivalve mollusks.
One of the most abundant of mollusks is the violet sea snail (Ianthina communis), which spends its life floating in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. The shell is very delicate, resembling in form some of the land snails, and has but two colors, both shades of violet, a deep color on the under side (which, by the way, is always turned upward when the animal is floating in the water), and a lighter shade on the upper side. So fragile is the shell that it seems as if a breath would break it. The most interesting fact in connection with this mollusk is the wonderful float or “raft” which is secreted by the foot, and to the under side of which theeggs are attached. The latter are not all in the same condition. Nearest to the animal they are more or less fresh; those in the middle of the float contain embryos and fully formed young, while those on the outer end are empty, the young having escaped into the water. The genus is gregarious and may be found in almost countless numbers. After a severe storm they are sometimes cast upon the beaches in vast numbers, where they soon die under the fierce rays of the sun.
We have thus far been dealing with snails whose shells were formed in a spiral coil. Quite a number of mollusks are not protected by such a shell, its place being taken by a flat, shield-like disk, or several distinct plates placed side by side. The most familiar of the first is the limpet or Patella, which is a depressed, conical, oval disk, looking not unlike a miniature shield. They live on rocks, to which they cling with great tenacity. The animal seems to have a pretty clear idea of local geography, for it invariably returns to the same place after its excursions for food and the rock in some localities has been hollowed out to a considerable depth by the continuous dwelling thereon of the limpet. The large foot is very strong and it is almost impossible to dislodge the shell from the rock when the animal becomes alarmed and is aware that danger is near. While grazing along the sides of a rock covered with fine sea-weed, it will leave a track like a worm and will clean off quite an area in a very short space of time.
Another species is the key-hole limpet (Fissurella), distinguished by having a slit or foramen in the apex of the shell. The shells of Fissurella are generally rougher than those of Patella, and as a rule they live in warmer seas. In the limpet we find a departure from the general form of both animal and shell, both being bilaterally symmetrical, that is, having both sides alike. In the mollusks which have been presented thus far, the body has been twisted in the form of a spiral, making one side different from the other and causing the organs of one side to become atrophied. In the limpets the organs are paired, as they are supposed to have been in the ancestors of the living mollusks.
The most peculiar of all the mollusks, so peculiar, indeed, that they constitute a separate order (Polyplacophora) are the Chitons, or coat-of-mail shells. The shell is made up of eight separate pieces or plates, each locking with the other, the whole supported by and buried in a coriaceous mantle which forms a margin all the way around. This must not be confounded with the true mantle of the animal, for it is only a part of the shell. It is beset with bristles, spines or hairs, which add much to the peculiar appearance of this mollusk.
The Chitons live for the most part on rocks at low water and are said to be nocturnal in habit, feeding only at night. Their movements are slow and they appear to be very sluggish in all their actions. When detached and taken from their rocky homes they have the provoking (to the collector) habit of rolling up and are sometimes very difficult to straighten out again. There are about two hundred and fifty living species, found in all parts of the world.
In the foregoing pages we have called attention to a few types of marine snails, and what has been written has hardly more than touched upon this vast field. There are thousands of different species even more interesting than those which have been mentioned. There are the beautiful ear shells, or Abalones, the little periwinkle, so largely used as an article of food in Europe, besides a host of others too numerous to mention. The brief notes and the figures on the plate will convince the reader, it is hoped, that these inhabitants of the deep are not only beautiful and worthy of our attention and study, but are also of much practical and economical use to man.
Frank Collins Baker.
In 1636 an English report on the affairs of the navy gravely remarked that “the use of lemon is a precious medicine and well tried. Take two or three spoonfuls each morning and fast after it two hours.” The value of the fruit for certain disorders of the system seems to have received an early recognition. This was especially true with regard to scurvy, which in earlier days caused widespread mortality among seafaring men. Hawkins, in 1593, made the statement that more than ten thousand men had succumbed to the malady within the limits of his naval experience. The Crusaders under Louis IX. were severely attacked by scurvy, owing to their abstinence from fresh meat during Lent, and the history of the disease shows that it is occasioned by a lack of fresh meat and fruits. The efficacy of lemon juice was recognized by Drake, Davy, Cavendish, Dampier and many others years ago, and time has but added to the value of the fruit, while it has made it accessible to everyone. While Pomona is generally credited with having devoted her entire attention to the cultivation of the apple, it is stated on authority of an old Greek myth, that she gave considerable thought to the development of the Lemon and the orange. It appears that Pomona inclined not her ear to the supplications of her many admirers until Vertumnus, discerning her vulnerable point, presented the fair gardener with a grafting, which, under her skillful cultivation, developed into a lemon tree, and, as a reward, the favor of the wood-nymph was bestowed upon the youth.
Whether or not such was the origin of the Lemon, the fact remains that the fruit is most useful and the tree exceedingly attractive. Originally a native of Asia, it has become widely distributed in Europe, Africa and America, and although far more susceptible to injury from frosts than the orange, the trees are successfully cultivated under many conditions. Doubtless the best results in this country have been obtained in California. Thousands of acres around San Diego are planted with lemon trees while large districts in the Ojai Valley, Ventura, Santa Barbara, Pomona and Los Angeles counties are devoted to its cultivation. The tree is remarkable for beauty, and while it seldom attains large proportions, its pale green leaves, loosely-hanging branches, showy and fragrant flowers, together with the fruit that is found in all stages of development, produce a pleasing and highly ornamental effect. While the best crop of Lemons is generally gathered between December and April, the fruit should be picked every month for ten months of the year, in order to retain the best results. As a rule, the trees yield from one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and forty boxes of the fruit to the acre, about the sixth year, but this number is increased to four hundred boxes when the groves reach an age of ten years.
The varieties of Lemons are distinguished chiefly by their size and form, and may be roughly classified as egg-shaped with blunt nipples and oblong lemons with large nipples. The sweet lemon and thin-rind Poncine and Naples belong to the first class, while the second includes such forms as the imperial, the Gaëta and the wax. The principal varieties grown in California are the Lisbon, Eureka and the Villa-Franca. Of these, the Eureka originated in California, while the Villa-Franca was imported from Europe. Besides the grateful quality of the juice, the expressed oil of the rind is used in the arts and has an intense odor of lemon, and the Pundits of Benares, quote a Sanskrit work, written about 1354, in which the oil is described as a valuable medicine. The acid pulp of the Lemon, after rasping off the rind, is pressed for citric acid, while the ottos of the Lemon, orange and bergamot, the preparation of which forms the chief industry of Sicily, are leading ingredients in the preparation of “Lisbon Water” and “Eau de Portugal.”
—Charles S. Raddin.
LEMON.(Citrus limonum.)PRESENTED BY LOUIS KUNZE.
LEMON.(Citrus limonum.)PRESENTED BY LOUIS KUNZE.
The house wren is one of Nature’s illuminated successes. It has been said that there is no second spring, yet to-day (July 20th) this bird is in the full glory of spring-time melody. He sings from the top of a telegraph pole, the song caught up and repeated by some country cousin in the grove, a musical argument carried on all day long and left at night in the same unsettled state in which morning found it. Whether they are discussing the relative merit of their respective claims, a town residence or a country seat, I am unable to decide; it is certain, however, that the concessions of neither party infringe upon domestic dignity.
Their speech is a revelation of supreme content, a liquid, flexible measure with ripples and cascades bubbling through and over, a dash of pure color amid July’s neutral tinted emotions.
The day may be dark and threatening, the sun concealed in gloomy banks of cloud, rain falling, or thick mists obscuring the valley; each and all are powerless to dampen his ardor or to effect his extreme optimism. He clings to his creed with persistent closeness, asserting valiantly the ecstasy of finding one’s self alive and emphasizing the statement by a perfect wave of melodious argument.
There are hours when he sings with such force that his whole little body catches the key-note and natural rhythm; the melody becomes compounded of his very substance, body of his body and soul of his soul. It is an inundation of musical notes, cascadic, cataclysmic, the tide of song rising till it drowns his personality; he is no longer a bird but an animated song.
My little neighbor is a pattern of husbandly devotion, a lover-husband over whom coming events are already casting tender shadows before, the special event in this instance being located in a crevice beneath the eaves of the house.
Wren babies had not left the first nest when Jenny Wren’s husband was hard at work upon a second house, which was ready for occupancy before the first family were self-supporting. This was an admirable arrangement in the way of time-saving, as eggs are often laid in the second nest before the first is vacated.
Though the new house lacked the freshness of coloring and the picturesqueness of the swing of a nest in the sunshine, Jenny Wren made no complaint of being cooped up in the darkness, and as to her husband, he was quite as well pleased with the glamor and wonder of its art as if it had been wound with blossoms and sprinkled with star-dust. A bird with different tastes might have urged that it was only a little hole in the house-jet, yet everything in life depends upon the point of view from which you regard it. Judged from the wren standpoint, it was considered admirably adapted to the family needs, nor could the most critical observer fail to see here a literal illustration of that familiar truth: Happiness is from within.
Standing upon a ladder I counted eight eggs as my eyes became gradually accustomed to the partial darkness within the nest; the dark, vinaceous spots laid on so thickly as to conceal or obliterate the original color, thus helping to hide them more securely. In the long brooding days, when Jenny’s little answering heart is preoccupied and silent, the hours are sometimes long and lonely to her mate. At these times he has been known to devote his spare moments to building a nest simply for his own pleasure. Many instances of this remarkable habit are recorded of the English wren, the explanation offered being that the odd nests arefor the purpose of deceiving the parasitical cuckoo.
There is also a supposition that the bird’s active nature finds relief in work, being urged on by the increasing lonesomeness. This wren-trait reaches a climax in the marsh wrens, with whom the building habit becomes a passion.
Nor is it restricted to the wren family, many instances being recorded where other species have beguiled the waiting days by an imitative housekeeping.
The house phoebe has been known to build a second nest while its mate was brooding. To all appearances this was an instance of over-developed domestic tastes. Nor did the experiment end with the completion of the duplicate nest upon which the male bird sat regularly for several hours daily.
Wrens do not take kindly to double houses, their warlike nature seeming to revolt against living friendly with near neighbors. A pair of wrens that was well established in an unoccupied martin house made it very uncomfortable for the later arrivals. While the martins were abroad after material for the nest the wrens sallied forth in an utterly vindictive spirit and scratched out all their neighbors had constructed. After singing a triumphant song with much parade they wisely retired to their own domicile to be on the defensive.
Wiser wrens, with an instinctive knowledge that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, are known to have the forethought when the box in which they build contains two compartments, to fill up one of them, thus avoiding the risk of troublesome neighbors. Wrens have been known to nest in a human skull. Others with less questionable taste, have gone to housekeeping in an old boot, a watering pot, a coat sleeve; in gourds and baskets, jars and water pipes, while another pair made a nest in the lower part of a stone vase in the garden. There was a hole for drainage in the bottom of the vase, and through this hole they found, beneath some shavings, a circular space just suited for a nest. The vase was not filled with plants until the domestic affairs of the wren family were happily concluded.
The delicate swaying hammock of the oriole is sometimes used for a second nesting.
There was bitter disappointment in wren circles earlier in the season when, with the presumption of inexperience, the pump was filled regularly with coarse twigs, which were promptly dislodged at nightfall. Undiscouraged at this defeat, the morning hours were utilized for rebuilding with a persistency well worthy a more intelligent effort; they worked and sang, sang and worked, until a cigar box was nailed to a tree for their special accommodation. This was nearly full of twigs when they decided that the building-site was ineligible, a decision hastened by the fact that just at this opportune time a glass fruit can was left upon the piazza shelf. No sooner was this glass house seen than its possibilities were realized and plans were quickly made for a kind of crystal palace experiment. Under other circumstances this might have been a dangerous precedent, as certain unneighborly conduct toward their little brothers of the air had at various times fairly invited the throwing of stones. The can was half full of tiny fagots, and Jenny was thinking of settling upon the mattress of wood fibre when the thrifty housewife turned them adrift summarily, well aware that this kind of housekeeping, within easy range of neighboring cats, would not be successful. Before such supreme content, who could have the heart to undeceive them? And yet, the can was turned upside down before they could be made to understand the situation. Like Thoreau, they did not wish to practice self-denial unless it was quite necessary!
After the failure of this crystal scheme, it was a difficult matter for Jenny to make up her mind as to a further preference, but when she really decided it was with such entire good faith as left no doubt in her lover’s mind as to her judgment. This was more flattering as it was his own choice, their last year’s home thoroughly remodeled, to which he had repeatedly called her attention, vainly. So the hole in the house jet at least answered the question, “Where are the birds in last year’s nests?” for the wrens moved in regularly, the tenor having a perch upon a projecting bracket where Jenny joinedhim, a regular little termagant, scolding with all her might whenever the kittens looked that way.
Marsh wrens, small brown birds, with barred wings and tail, breed in or about the swamps and marshes of Lake Champlain.
They are intensely interesting from their habit of constructing several nests but one of which is utilized for housekeeping. After the real nest is made and the first egg laid, the male stays closely at home busying itself with building several nests, which are to all appearances entirely superfluous. In locating these he does not go beyond the immediate neighborhood of the true nest.
Some have thought that these sham nests are used as hiding places for the male, a Lilliputian watch tower or guard house, from which close watch is kept over the home property. Whether Mrs. Marsh Wren really needs such close watching, being more inclined to flirt than the ordinary feathered spouse, or because she is a better wife, so infinitely precious that she must be guarded from every side, is, as yet, an unsolved question. “Love holds the key to all unknown,” and though there is little to admire in a deportment made fine by compulsory measures, no doubt both parties understand the situation, which is quite enough for practical purposes. These nests, conspicuous from their size and exposed position, are securely attached to the upright swaying reeds, some of which penetrate their substance. They are lined with soft grasses and have an entrance at one side, often nearer the bottom than the top. Mr. Burroughs, who has found the marsh wren’s nest surrounded by half a dozen make-believes, says the gushing, ecstatic nature of the bird expresses itself in this way. It is simply so full of life and joy and of parental instinct that it gives vent to itself in constructing sham nests; the generous-hearted creature being willing to build and support more homes than can be furnished or utilized.
Entering the Lake Shore drive at St. Albans Bay, where dense tangles border the swamp beyond, you are sure to hear a song that is unmistakably wrennish. You have glimpses also of a small brown bird bubbling over with a nervous energy that betrays itself in every note he utters. Wait quietly and he approaches, but go one step in his direction and he recedes to the swamp where human foot may not follow.
Push your boat up the creek, the only avenue leading to his abode, that tantalizing song leading on meanwhile like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, though unlike the latter there is no disillusioning at the end. Red-winged blackbirds take wing as you enter the twilight of soft green and amber shade and the far-off music of their jangle-bells becomes less musical, the males striving “to recommend themselves by music, like some awkward youth who serenades his mistress with a jewsharp,” and using the air or the alder tops as a parade ground upon which to exhibit their musical evolutions. And yet you are witness to many a voluntary bit of sentiment that will increase your interest in this scarlet epauletted regiment, descendants of the dusky tribe that anchored long ago in this peaceful haven, going out and coming in with the tide until the legend of their coming is as vague and shadowy and misty as that of the golden-fleece voyageurs—the Argonauts. They ebbed and flowed with the stream; came at the proper time and season without knowing why; anchored and launched their ebony ships when it was time for sailing.
Here and there along this waterway the branches clasp hands above the creek, forming an arch of green within which vines sufficiently elegant to warrant exclusiveness cling in unaffected grace to the alders, without inquiring or caring as to the pedigree of their support. It is sufficient for them that the support is there.
A whole half mile along the stream and trees and bushes disappear, leaving a dense mass of reeds, the marsh wren’s “ain countrie,” out of which he is never at his best and to which he gives you no welcome.
Birds, like persons, have wonderful powers of concentration upon one topic, woe be to you if that topic happens to be yourself!
Every denizen of the swamp regards you with suspicion, watching each movementas closely as if you were a dangerous character traveling under an alias, and could not be trusted to sail upon this ruddy ocean in which their lordships have anchored their private yachts. Push your boat far in among the reeds and cat-tails, into the sea of shadows over which no sluggish current sends a ripple, and certain globular nests in the tangled reeds reward your search. Push your fingers within these nests and in one only, here and there, will you find from five to ten dark eggs, a rich reward for all your trouble.
Meanwhile the “neighbors,” and the marsh wren generally has numbers of them, have doubtless been charming you with their bubbling, gurgling song, always half the colony singing at once, or, one bird rising above the reeds gives the order, as it were, and the whole colony joins in the chorus. The song is quite beyond their control; they seem filled to overflowing with an inexhaustible supply of music, which trickles down the reeds, like gathered-up drops of water charged with music.
“Sometimes, like a mine of melody, it explodes within them and lifts them from the dark recesses of the flags into the air above.”
Nelly Hart Woodworth.