Spotted Sandpiper’s NestSpotted Sandpiper’s Nest
The weather turned cold,—and how glad we were to find relief! After breakfast we started out in search of anything of interest, and while walking down the beach we noticed many little fine tracks on the sand; three toes in front cleft to the base indicated immediately that the maker belonged to the order of waders (Limicolæ), and was about the sizeof the little spotted sandpiper (Actitis macularia), which builds its nest just along the edge of sparsely-clustered bushes. Taking the trail, we followed, scanning carefully every likely place, and when we were within a few feet of her the little hen bird left in great excitement, twittering and flapping her wings as she fluttered along the ground, evidently trying to feign a crippled condition to draw our attention from the nest. Thiswas built on the sand; just a very shallow hole and a few small sticks and pieces of bark; the four little cream-colored eggs with their liver-colored spots rested in the center of the nest, with a bunch of green leaves for the background.
Merganser’s NestMerganser’s Nest
Going a little farther down the beach we found the footprints of another bird on the sands. The trail was scarcely deeper, but quite different. At first sight we recognized the track as made by a member of the order of swimmers (Lamellirostres), for the full palmated feet left their plain imprint, with the three toes pressed a little deeper in the sand than was the web, and with the lobate toe leaving its delicate touch. We followed the trail to a large white birch which was partly undermined by the spring freshet, leaving its mass of roots hanging down to the sand. Getting down on my knees and looking closely I saw a few feathers, and by a long and careful straining of the eye could make out the mother bird on the nest. She was so well concealed it was absolutely impossible to get a photograph of her in occupation of the nest, so we proceeded to pull some of the roots away and even touched her in doing so; still she did not move from her position; but before we got the pictureshe left the nest with a “quack, quack,” her neck extended and wings beating the sand. The nest belonged to a family of red-breasted mergansers (Merganser serrator), and contained seven plain cream-colored eggs (size 2.50” × 1.70”); it was built of a few small sticks and lined with down from the breast of the duck. We visited the nest several times afterwards, but believe it was abandoned. At the upper end of the island we pitched our tent, possibly half a mile from the nest, intending to make a midnight visit for the purpose of getting a flash-light picture if possible. Before evening the birds couldbe seen a long way off taking in the situation from the distance, but as the evening approached they drew nearer and nearer and then darkness enshrouded the landscape. Although we could not see their flight over our tent, we could frequently hear the whirr of their wings long into the night as they passed up and down, frightened and unable to settle peacefully under the roots of the old birch. The instinct for the protection of her young is very strongly developed in the merganser, and she will resort to everypossible ruse to conceal them, coaxing them into good cover, and, when once they are concealed, leading you away in another direction.
Nest of Wilson’s ThrushNest of Wilson’s Thrush
In the early dawn, when the dew was glistening on the vegetation and wild life was full of activity, from underfoot glided a Wilson’s thrush (Hylocichla fuscescens). As I looked carefully in the direction whence it came, a small opening in a clump of sticks and grass disclosed a beautifully constructed nest of moss lined with rootlets and coarser grass, embedded in a small hillock. In the nest were three delicate greenish-blue eggs (0.90” × 0.65”). We spent a great deal of time making the acquaintance of the mother bird, while the old man perched on a distant limb, and at our approach seemed to give warning by calling “chip, chip,” so that, no matter how stealthily we drew near, the female was aware of our approach and had left the nest before we were in sight. That she had only just gone was apparent from the warmth of the eggs. We visited the nest many times until finally she became very tame.
What a contrast to the nervous, excited titlark which had built its nest on the ground near a stump! The more we visited the nest of the latter the wilder she became, and aftermany attempts to photograph her we had to give up in despair. By the time evening came we were quite well acquainted, and when night set in we tried to take a flash-light picture of the thrush, using an electric lamp to attract attention until the flash went off. The instant of the flash she would glide gently out of the nest, to return again in a few minutes after we left. We made the attempt many times, and finally she became so accustomed to it that she would not leave the nest when the flash went off.
The following day we heard a whistling noise overhead,—a female American golden-eye (Glaucionetta clangula americana) was in full flight, disturbing the air with her laboring short wings. Away over yonder in a burned clearing stood an old birch tree stump, gaunt and white with the constant beating of the weather against it. Some thirty feet from the ground was a large hole in the stump, and as the duck passed by we noticed that she hesitated as though about to enter, but at the same instant she must have seen us, for she continued her vigorous flight up the river as far as we could see. We decided she had her nest in the old tree-top, and by concealing ourselves, gave her to believe we had gone. In a short time wesaw the duck return and pitch into the hole. When she was once in her protected home it was impossible to get her out. We hammered the tree with stones and logs and threw many stones into the opening; in fact, we did everything we could to make her come out, but to no avail. We then cut two long trees and leaned them against the top of the stump, and my guide proceeded to make rungs by binding rope around them until he had a fairly good ladder to the top. Then he climbed up and looked into the hole, but could not see the duck; she had built her nest in the hollow branch and not in the main trunk. The old stump began to sway from a breeze that sprang up, so the guide became nervous and hastened down for fear it would fall. Taking his ax he decided to cut the tree down, but when he was half way through I persuaded him that the mother and young would be killed by the fall, and at my suggestion he let the old stump stand.
Learning to SwimLearning to Swim
Several days later the young were transported to the water by the old ducks, and about the time the last duckling was placed on the water, we arrived on the scene.[1]It wasvery interesting to see them trying to dive; they were only able to stick their heads under the water, exposing their white under tail-coverts. As our little boat advanced quietly over the water, the mother bird, in her excited efforts to get them concealed, swam now this way, now that way, and made many attempts at turning into an apparent shelter, only to come out again. After many such zig-zag efforts she decided to take to the open water with her brood. In the meantime we were approaching nearer andnearer and when we separated them the mother disappeared in the direction of the open lake and the ducklings were forced towards the sandy beach. Thus separated we were able to guide them up and down the shore according to our liking, being careful to keep them along the sandy beach where they could not find any cover to conceal themselves. We followed them for several hours.
[1]Some authorities say that the mother duck carries the young to the water in her bill. Whether this or some other means is adopted, seems to be as yet a mooted question.
[1]Some authorities say that the mother duck carries the young to the water in her bill. Whether this or some other means is adopted, seems to be as yet a mooted question.
Out for ThemselvesOut for Themselves
Learning to WalkLearning to Walk
This little family had not received many lessons in the way of providing for itself, and when we cut the ducklings off from their mother, fear was uppermost in all theiractions. The instinct of fear gradually left them and in its place the instinct of hunger evidently gained the ascendancy. In the beginning they would swim and paddle over the water in great alarm, calling with a faint “quack, quack,” trying to dive and distance their pursuers. Occasionally they would walk a little on the shore and then take to the water again. We followed them up and down until they finally seemed to pay little attention to us, and how interesting it was to watch them diving in the water for bugs and minnows to satisfy their hunger! Severaltimes we saw them bring their prey, small minnows or mollusca, to the surface and swallow it. When we first met in the morning they could scarcely dive under the surface of the water. In the afternoon they would disappear for quite a while at a time, and as each in turn would appear and disappear they kept us guessing as to the duration and depth of their dives. Thus we left them.
ReflectionsReflections
As we floated leisurely along, the trees skirting the edge of the forest cast upon the surface of the lake their long reflections ofgreen, mingled with the red, blue, and purple of the sun’s rays. We heard the harsh notes of the kingfisher (Ceryle alcyon) as it skimmed gracefully over the water and, ascending with a quick movement, perched on an old dead limb. With the field-glasses could be distinctly seen her belted markings of white, her ashy blue and rufous color, and her elevated occipital crest. She remained for some time motionless, according to her characteristic habit, when like a flash, with a rapid movement of her long, pointed wings, she made a plunge, disappeared for an instant, and then with a small fish made a graceful flight to her sylvan retreat. Here she delights to build her nest in a perpendicular bank washed at the base by a swift current, a protection from intruders. Quietly the canoe entered the mouth of a little creek and at an abrupt bend there was almost a collision between the man in the boat and the kingfisher returning to its home. With a series of rattles, backing of pedals, and evolutions in the air, the frightened bird, naturally timid and of secluded habits, hastened away.
The gnarled and picturesque old birch, with its smooth white-spotted bark twisting and curling in every direction, covered withages of moss and lichen, spread its drooping limbs gracefully over the water. Among the slender twigs, with their long-pointed, triangular, saw-toothed leaves, were many redpolls (Acanthis linaria) feeding on the brown buds, clinging in all conceivable positions, like boys picking cherries.
The day was hot, and late in the afternoon a warmer stratum of air saturated with vapor was being driven up the mountain-side. We knew by the uniform gray tint that a nimbus cloud was forming and we could expect a heavy rain erelong. As we glided over the smooth water of the lake, looking anxiously for a good temporary camp site, large drops of rain, spreading a silvery spray over the surface as they struck it, hastened our progress. Heading our craft direct for shore, the oarsman plied the oars with full force, expecting to make a jump to beach as the bow neared shore, but just about the time he straightened up the boat struck a rock and away he went, head first, over the duffel and into the water. A hearty laugh, and we were tugging away at the boat, doing our utmost to get out the tent and save harmless our bed and board. Fortunately on the edge of the bank was a grassy spot large enough to spread a small wall tent. Havingour tent-poles with us, already cut, we formed a crotch by tying ropes around the ends. The center pole was thrown into the crotch, and while I steadied the frame Charley slashed four pins out of young saplings, the four corners of the tent were staked down, and in less time than it takes to write it we had a good shelter for the outfit.
The rain was increasing while we rustled the outfit to cover. With the woods appetite we hastened the frying pan onto the fire as the resinous smoke curled in rings gracefully away from the tent, and by the time the pan was hot and the solid chunks were aglow, speckled beauties, fresh from the riffles, were curling and drawing, but the rain-drops, sizzling and sputtering, marred their symmetry by making them stick to the pan. In the meantime the forked pole was punched into the soft soil until it leaned at an angle above the fire, and the coffee-pot was soon boiling over, adding its sweet aroma to the already fragrant atmosphere.
Radiant SplendorRadiant Splendor
It was evident that the weather was clearing up. Looking toward the purple foothills the air was rapidly taking up the vapor and mist, and the sun peeped out from its concealment, illuminating the lake with radiant splendor. We walked up the old lumber road, abandoned many years and almost covered with underbrush, to a deserted cabin, with its tumble-down roof and moss-grown sides. A small stream of pure, cold water gurgled as it disappeared under a decayed and broken corduroy bridge,—an ideal spot to cast for trout. A little beyond, the jack pines towered their heads high in the air, each vying with the other for supremacy over the light and sun. Close by stood a beautiful birch, which, after the manner of those who wear a band ofblack crape around the arm in respect for the memory of some dear one, wore a band of crape encircling its very trunk, in token of its own premature death. The work of a novice or the spirit of destruction was plainly evident, for the living cambium had been destroyed and pulled off with the bark. The wilful destruction of trees casts a sadness over me when I think how easy it is in a few moments to destroy that which it has taken the wise Creator years to develop. No wonder the spirit of conservation is spreading over the country!
A short cut through the woods disclosed timber in every stage of decay, from the tall, stately birch, frayed at the very top, like a bald-headed man, to the giant lying prostrate on the ground, uprooted by the wind years before and covered with moss and decaying leaves. As you step upon the moss, down you go to your knees into the rotten trunk, and it seems to say, “Dust thou art, to dust thou shalt return.”
When we arrived at camp several Canada jays (Perisoreus canadensis) were in evidence, examining every nook and corner and exercising their well-known powerful instinct in this respect; in fact, their curiosity is so overpowering that they have no fear of manand in a short time become very tame. They are well-known camp robbers, and carry away everything that strikes their fancy. In this instance they were busy toting away into an old tree-top remnants of trout, both cooked and uncooked.
Whiskey Jack
Nest and Eggs of the White-Throated SparrowNest and Eggs of the White-Throated Sparrow
Towards evening, a dead stillness pervaded the air, broken occasionally by the “hoot, hoot” of an owl and the sharp smack of the beaver’s tail on the water as he was disturbed in his night prowlings. Through the stillness came to us the sweet notes of the white-throated sparrow (Zonotrichia albicollis) roosting among the fragrant boughs of the balsam fir. His song may have been inspired by the changed and refreshing atmosphere, orperhaps he was inquiring about the welfare of his little mate as she brooded over her four wee brown-speckled eggs carefully laid in the small arched house on a cushion of moss lined with fine grass and rootlets.
Arranging our bed of balsam boughs, we were just about ready to blow out the light, when my half-breed guide, who held the candle in his hand, suggested that he offer up a little prayer. I assented to his desire and he knelt on the boughs with the candle in his hand, while with face upturned he remained silent in this suppliant attitude for some time. The mellow light of the candle on his swarthy, upturned face, amidst the quiet solemnity of the night, was very impressive and turned my earnest thought to the higher things of life. It touched me very deeply. I thought if this simple child of the forest had so much to be thankful for, how much more we, a happy, prosperous people.
Just as the half-risen sun kissed the tips of the mountains, we pushed our little craft from the shore. Gently the current caught the stern, and like a magnet drew the boat towards the head of the Lower Humber,—gently at first, but faster and faster as we neared the rapids.
The woodman with his ax had been at work. Floating silently with the current were two large tree-trunks felled by the ax of the lumberman. The one, with grayish-brown bark, is known as the white spruce (Picea canadensis), a tree until recently of no value, its foliage nasty smelling, its wood soft and brittle. When burned it cracks and throws off sparks that eat holes in the wearing apparel of the camper-out. The other, with its white resinous bark, was the canoe birch (Betula papyrifera), which has given pleasure to man from time immemorial, and is used in so many ways by both Indian and white hunters. On the latter three white gulls, with their mantles of black, were standing with heads bowed, as though respectful mourners at the funeral of the noble birch that was moving faster and faster towards the rapids. About the time the log reached the brink of the boiling and seething waters the mourners left it to its fate. The current tossed and pitched it in every conceivable direction, and at last plunged it into the billows head-on, where it disappeared, and after being lost to sight for some time finally floated gracefully into an eddy not much the worse for wear and tear, turning around like an animate being,while the little voices of the forest seemed to unite in praise of their hero. The old spruce with its soft substance appeared tattered and torn—“unwept, unhonored, and unsung” by any except the new man—the pulp manufacturer.
At the head of the rapids we made a landing and walked through a beautiful strip of woods to select a camping-site. When we reached the foot of the rapids we found a place to our liking. I suggested to the half-breed that while he prepared a dwelling-place I would go and shoot the rapids with the boat. He positively refused to let me go, and in fact would not allow me to get in the boat for fear we should capsize, saying that several of those who had tried to run the river at this point had lost their lives. When I saw our little craft float the rapids like a duck and swing gracefully into the haven of safety, I naturally felt relieved. We pitched our tent on a grassy bank above the water where it surged back into an eddy, as though it was tired after its swift and tumultuous passage over the bowlders, and longed to tarry for a short time to enjoy the quiet and peaceful pool. We spent several days in this locality, roaming among the spruce and pines. Under the secluded spruce the bunchberries (Cornuscanadensis) love to grow and blossom. After the flowers fade, from the whorls come clusters of red berries that, mingling with the moss, work out fantastic patterns on the beautiful natural carpet.
BunchberriesBunchberries
Into the pool were brought many insects, larvæ, and frogs, which invited schools of speckled trout to enjoy the quiet waters where we took advantage of the natural haven for our little craft.
Toward evening a colony of tree swallows (Tachycineta bicolor) invaded the surrounding valley, feeding on the numerous insects. As we watched their flight the under whiteplumage looked like silver streaks. So rapid were their movements that the wings were scarcely perceptible, and when they skimmed the surface of the meadow and rose gracefully over the willows below us, the beautiful cerulean of their upper plumage so harmonized with the deep blue of a rainbow which spanned the heavens at that moment, that the air seemed to shimmer and sparkle with light and motion.
The tiger swallow-tail butterflies (Papilio turnus) were very plentiful. The cook had thrown on the shore the heads and entrails of fish and by some unknown method the butterflies were able to ascertain its location. During the afternoon some twenty-four butterflies actually collected around the refuse and with their antennæ sensed the dainties—shall I say?—that seemed to appeal to their taste. When one approached too close, all would take wing and the air was filled with yellow fancies as they scattered in all directions. They soon returned and seemed to bring their friends and neighbors with them, for at each flush they were more numerous than before.
The "Steady"The “Steady”
The Humber looked calm and peaceful in the big “steady.” How serene and beautiful the mountain appeared in Nature’s mirror!How charmingly all the natural colors were reproduced in the reflection on the placid lake! Even the purple foothills displayed their beauty as they clung to the weeping willows along the shore-line. Here and there the water was broken occasionally by the jumping of the salmon and trout on the way to the spawning-waters. The little brook, now full, came tossing, plunging, and pitching with a great noise down the mountain, and at its mouth, gracefully idling away the time, were thousands of trout jumping and splashing in the spray, waiting to strike and dart awaywith any larvæ or bug that was caught by the onrush of the water. Under such conditions the angler could gather a rich harvest, for the trout takes the bait just as soon as it touches the water, and darts away, making the line “sizz” as it cuts through, breaking again and again until after a desperate struggle he gives up to the inevitable and is landed safely in the boat. Man is not the only creature familiar with this condition and the feeding habits of the fish. At the mouth of every stream the merganser loiters with her family to take toll; the kingfisher makes its morning call along the route; the loon, swimming gracefully around the projecting willows that quiver in the gentle current, disappears like a flash, and another is added to the tally; the osprey soaring through the air takes a dive beneath the surface and brings up one of the finny tribe, then makes a true line to the top of the old dead tree stump, where the young are waiting with stretched necks and open mouths to receive their allotment.
SolitudeSolitude
While we anchored to an old snag that had drifted with the current into an eddy, there appeared from the depths the head of a muskrat, moving gracefully around in a semicircle and throwing off little wavelets thatbroadened as they approached the shore. The cast of the fly frightened His Majesty, and with a “whack” of his tail on the water he disappeared, but erelong again came to the surface. What a contrast in the disposition of the muskrat and its cousin, the beaver! The latter loves solitude and builds its lodge in the most inaccessible places that can be found in the fastness of the uninhabited mountains and along some stream where the foot of man seldom treads. The other colonizes near civilization in some old dam or waterway thrown up by man. Under the protectionof the law, beaver are becoming more plentiful, and occasionally at the mouths of little creeks can be seen limbs of birch and willow freshly peeled; if the winding course of the stream is followed, you are sure to come upon a dam, lately completed by a pair that have of their own accord left the old lodge to seek their fortune in a new home. The dam is usually constructed first and then the lodge a short distance above, and wonderful in the building of the dam and lodge is the skill of this little animal, known as the King of the Rodents.
Breakfast Head on the Humber RiverBreakfast Head on the Humber River
A little way below, the waters separated around an acreage of island that afforded protection for the homes of numerous gulls and fish ducks. The undergrowth was very dense out to the edge of the perpendicular wall rock. The mergansers constructed on the ledge their shallow nests encircled with a ring of down. When approached they sailed gracefully along a descending plain a hundred yards beyond, closed their wings, skimmed elegantly over the water several yards and then floated about, perfect pictures of grace, beauty, and ease combined. Seal Cove loomed up in the distance with its two sides of perpendicular reddish sandstone. The gently sloping water front was the breeding-ground for quite a few harbor seals. They are naturally gregarious, and as we approached them one by one they slid into the water. In a few seconds, noiselessly a shiny black object resembling the head of a dog would come in sight some distance away, and scarcely a ripple of the displaced water marked the spot where the seal emerged. Again and again it appeared and disappeared until a mere speck in the distance. Climbing the rocks we saw remnants of numerous white woolly suits discarded by the newly-born baby seals before they took to the water, where with their brand-new spotted sealskin coats they could be seen sporting and playing before the big bulging, affectionate eyes of the mother. Seals love to spend a great deal of their time resting, sleeping, and sunning themselves on the rocks. Their hearing is not very acute and they can be approached easily by stalking. They are very tenacious of life and when shot must be killed instantly or they will slide into the water and disappear. My Indian guide shot a large bull around the region of the heart, and it would have reached the water although mortally wounded if the Indian had not caught hold of its flippers and pulled back with all his strength. All the time the bull was snappingviciously at him just like a dog. The northern seal is much prized by the natives for its economic value, its flesh, fat, and skin being in great demand. Seal hunting in these waters has been a great industry for years. The Newfoundlanders are a hardy race, and when hunting seal on the ice floes must endure great privations.
While at Bay of Islands an old sailer came into port with a young man aboard, penniless and very sick. He lived in the interior and the captain was trying to raise money to send him on the train to his home. The lad knew he was going to die and was anxious to reach home to make amends to his old father and mother for seeking, against their wishes, a life on the seas. Passengers contributed the money and sent word to the captain, but before the train arrived the poor boy died.
The train pulled in, not in due time, but several hours late. The conductor shouted “All aboard!” and as it slowly left the bay my thoughts turned homeward. It is then I begin to feel anxious about the folks at home and wonder if all is well.
Having many times tried with indifferent success to photograph the rabbit in his native fields and woods, I cast about for a means of stalking him at close range, and had for some time cherished the idea of taking a hunt with my kodak in a good tracking snow. Thus intent, I jumped from a passenger coach one day in the late fall, equipped with an Eastman twelve-shooter and ammunition enough to make a big bag.
I had left the station scarcely more than a couple of hundred yards behind along the public road, when I leaped a stake and rider fence, crossed a stubble field, bound for the bottom land. A field covered with tall, dry grass, right at the edge of a brier patch, looked a very likely place for cottontail. Just as I reached the little creek covered with ice, save where here and there the rippling water crossed the shallow, pebbly places,I struck a fresh trail. Carefully examining the footprints in the snow, which had fallen early the preceding day, I reached the conclusion, from the trodden condition of the ground and the little round brownish excrement lying here and there on the surface of the snow, that this was his playground and I must look elsewhere for the quarry. So I began a large circle around the brier patch to catch the trail to his bed. After passing several times around the thicket, I finally discovered the latest trail out. Bunny usually travels by long jumps from the time he makes up his mind to retire for the day. The trail followed what seemed the most cautious route—under an old fallen tree, then two long jumps and into an abandoned ground-hog hole. I cut a pole with the intention, if possible, of routing Bunny from his quarters. About the time the pole was half way in, out he popped from an unexpected direction like a flash, made a dash for a brush heap nearby, and disappeared even before I could get the camera into action.
When a rabbit is once driven out of a hole, it seldom re-enters unless hard pressed by the dogs. I have trailed them in the snow for hours, reading the story from the footprints as they ran, now hopping alongleisurely, now doubling and following old tracks under, through, and over logs. In one instance Br’er Rabbit showed considerable ingenuity in making a long side jump to a board fence and squatting where the color of fence and rabbit was almost the same, by this simple ruse eluding his pursuers.
Color BlendingColor Blending
Later I accidentally came upon some fellows who had put a ferret into a hole. In a short time he stuck his nose out, sniffing the air for the scent of the quarry, circling the open for the lost trail. When the owner made a slight movement towards him heinstantly disappeared into the hole. For fully an hour the men tried in vain to catch him as he appeared alternately at either end of the tunnel. Grass had grown around the entrance, and the ferret was busy trying to carry enough into the hole to make a comfortable bed and take up his abode there, unceremoniously abandoning the snug quarters in his master’s pocket. Several times they almost succeeded in getting hold of him by taking a bunch of grass and poking it towards him. This he would grab, hold until his owner had pulled him out almost far enough to catch him, then let go, sniffing as he scurried back out of reach. Finally they were obliged to try a new scheme, and one of them was sent to a neighboring house for a piece of fresh meat. They tied a string to the meat and lowered it into the hole; whereupon the ferret instantly snatched it, and forgetting his late resolve, held on so tenaciously that the hunter soon had him back into the bag.
Putting in the FerretPutting in the Ferret
On the second day out, the snow was fast disappearing from the open under the influence of a bright sunshine, though it was still quite deep in the woods and on the northerly slopes of the high hills. While looking for tracks I succeeded in gaining the confidence of another party of rabbit hunters who had a good dogand a “long pole,” as they called it, and directly I obtained an invitation to accompany them as they hunted for signs of the little cottontail. I accepted with some hesitation, determined to take a few observations of the operations of modern “game hogs.” Soon we heard the short, sharp bark of the old hound, indicating that a start had been made; and about the same time a shout rent the air, “Here he goes!” as the little white tail dodged in and out from one cover to another, disappearing in the distance with the old hound in hot pursuit and baying atevery jump. Presently, in the language of the coon-hunter, the dogs tongued “Treed,” which in the dialect of the rabbit hunter is “Holed,” and erelong the law breakers gathered around the hole at the root of the tree. I was hoping the tree was hollow and that the little rabbit who had made such a good long run for his life had climbed the tree and would be safe from the ferret, but my hopes soon vanished when I heard the rumbling noise, first faint in the depths, then coming nearer and nearer as he approached the opening. A hasty scramble by the man on his knees, a muffled “d——”, a wish expressed that he had used his net, and the little rabbit was away again in a race for his life, minus a tail taken by the ferret and a patch of skin and hair taken from his back by the big fellow at the hole. Then follows a long chase during which the old dog overleaps a little bunch of gray as it squats in the grass. For, knowing that the enemy is fleet of foot and is likely to pass hurriedly by, overlooking in his haste the clod of color that blends with the dry grass, he crouches low and gains an opportunity to double on his tracks. His ruse misleads the pursuer for a short time at least and requires a halt in the chase, which gives the fugitive anopportunity to reach some oft-frequented harbor of refuge.
Again he is tracked to his hiding-place, and again the little bloodthirsty creature is turned loose to drive him from cover. Bunny, always on the alert, makes a bolt for his life with the ferret at his back and the old hound waiting at the other end of the hole to crush his life out. He stops a moment at the entrance as the dog makes a vicious snap at him, returns to meet his arch enemy, lets out a pitiful squeal, and meekly allows his life blood to be sucked without further resistance. His courage and dash are gone and he quietly submits to his cruel fate at the hands of the lawless “game hogs.” After the entrance is dug out a long arm is extended into the hole and Bunny is slowly dragged forth with the ferret hanging on like grim death.
Again the biggest “game hog” of the party could be heard shouting to the dogs, “Whoop her up, Dan,” urging them on the trail of another innocent little rabbit that has a slim chance for life.
While hunting for fresh signs we ran across a little cottontail hanging by his head, caught in a snare set by another type of hunters who bag their game by means of knife, twine, andapple. A nibble at the apple, the trap is sprung, and the noose tightens around his neck, dangling little cottontail in the air just low enough for his hind feet to touch the ground, and slow strangulation continues until life is extinct. In the morning when the trapper reaches his snare he finds the rabbit frozen stiff, with tongue protruding and eyes bulging from their sockets. Surely he is not without a pang of conscience as he gathers up his catch.
His Last NibbleHis Last Nibble
I was startled out of my contemplation by the sound of the old dog giving tongue, and the bang of the musket echoing in the tree-tops. Listening, I could hear the dogs baying on the trail some distance from wherethe shot was fired,—plainly a clean miss. In a short time the language of the hound again announced “Holed,” and the gathering of the heartless around the spot told the same old story. At my suggestion, “Give the rabbit a chance,” the dog was removed from the hole, when out popped the rabbit. The dog in hot pursuit soon overtook him, but failed to pick him up. Twice the little fellow fooled the dog, but the third time his doom was sealed. The dog returned with the rabbit kicking in his mouth, and laid it at the feet of his master as a trophy worthy of the chase, occasionally nosing it to see if any life remained. Truly this cannot be sport.
In Hot PursuitIn Hot Pursuit
Picked UpPicked Up
Crossing the hill we caught a view from the distance of a beautiful meadow flanked on one side by an old orchard, which long needed pruning and was grown up with blackberry briers. On the other side was a thicket of locust, sumac, and elder, which had been cleared several years before and the debris piled on the stone heaps ready for the match that had never been applied. Here and there were stretches of stake and rider fence; in fact, it was an old farm neglected for many years owing to the death of the owner and continued litigation among the heirs for the possession of the land,—an ideal home for the cottontail.
Crossing the meadow the dogs started a rabbit which had been basking in the sun, coiled up in a bed built in the middle of a bunch of dry swamp grass. The little fellow had remained perfectly quiet, although one of the party passed within two feet without seeing him, so well did his color harmonize with the surroundings. He remained unobserved until one of the dogs passing by started him and warned the other dogs, whereupon away they went in full chase. Through the orchard, down along the old fence, sped the fugitive, the dogs close behind, tonguing at every jump. Into the thicket he plunged, safe for the time being. The dogs began to circle, caught the trail on the opposite side, and followed it into another cover, where Bunny squatted and presently we saw him returning on his own trail. I made a run to head him off so that I could get a snap-shot, but observing me he stopped in the middle of a wheat field. In the meantime the dogs had gathered enough information and were working their way back over the track until the leader came on to him, and away they went. The quarry returned towards the other dogs and was picked up before cover could be reached.
Down the Old FenceDown the Old Fence
Again the dogs were urged to hunt the old orchard. A start was made and away wenta rabbit across the meadow on the far side of which he darted into a burrow. The ferret was put into a hole and out popped three rabbits, one on the heels of the other. Each dog followed one, but soon returned, evidently unable to keep the trails, for they all crisscrossed around the orchard. In the meantime every effort was made to get the ferret, without success, when finally one of the unfeeling suggested shooting a bird. I protested against shooting a song bird and suggested an English sparrow, whereuponhe promised to go down to the barn for a sparrow. However, upon returning he handed over a song sparrow (Melospiza fasciata), with its long tail and brownish-streaked body beautiful even in death. Charity impels me to believe the man was ignorant rather than willful. Pulling a piece of twine from his hunting-coat pocket, he tied fast the bird, a double hitch after hitch, so that the ferret could not loose the bait and carry it into the hole. When properly secured the bird was thrown to the ferret, and instantly seized. Each began to pull, when off went the head into the hole. Returning promptly for the body the ferret made another grab and was finally coaxed out of the hole and caught by the owner.
The Dog Listening to the Last SoundThe Dog Listening to the Last Sound
The dogs began to work the trails and again had a rabbit crossing the meadow for dear life, they following close behind. He went into a hole among the roots of an old tree, to escape from his enemies, as he hoped, but alas, only to a cruel fate! “Put in the long pole,” said one of the boys kneeling at the hole. The other started the ferret on its death-dealing mission. In a few minutes we could hear the smothered “Wah, wah, wah” of cottontail, and a curse from the heartless, not out of sympathy for poor littlebunny, but because he knew the rabbit would not make another attempt to reach the opening and the ferret would stay there for days. Fainter and fainter grew the pitiful moans, until finally they ceased forever. One of the men went for an ax to cut a way down to the ferret. The hole took a downward course into an old root, and by cutting through they found the hole, reached in and pulled out the dead rabbit. It was sickening to see the condition of its head. The owner of the ferret had a cruel heart, but even it wassoftened a little at the sight, for he threw the murderous creature away from him. Instantly the big dog made a jump, grabbed the ferret, and tossed him into the air several feet before his master could interfere. A feeling of satisfaction came over me when I saw the toss, and I said to myself, “That was your last kill.” But landing on his feet he humped his back and at the same time hissing through his teeth made several vicious snaps at the dog and sought protection by running towards his master. Fortunately for him his master had thesack open and the ferret hastened into it to safety.