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ETS Sets ae eee ta ott pe ar te ee ee Se as Seetee = precies ere: ne Fe eee me = ee i < < eeetatece = paar r SS Se Sc a a ee en So a er ee re ae rs == ¥ : La a a a in a a Sn no : ; : Seen I a Shee fi mR ea ote ace spot raee Sree : - eae Ea pel aetetera Rete Ree ee a a ot F Reanieht roo ee Retreats ae et = fn een - ee SS a Se a rer pete Saat ap et eer Soon CORINEEE REN DAVE RSaey LIBRARY LABORATORY OF ORNITHOLOGY LIBRARY Gift of Vg) — Ch dhe f//-C aa | Cornell University Library i roductions of 31924 022 538 65 DATE DUE “All music is what awakens from vou when vou are reminded by the instruments.” — Whitman. age ee THE SONG OF THE RIVER “The river Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice In its own being.” —Brvant. Music of the Wild With Reproductions of the Performers, Their Instruments and Fes- tival Halls By Gene Stratton-Porter GARDEN City, New Yorx« DoUBLEDAY, PAGE AND COMPANY 1911 “It touched the wood bird’s folded wing, And said,‘O bird, awake and sing !’” —Longfellow. Copyright, 1910, by Jennings and Graham “Thou art only a grav and sober dove, But thine eve is faith and thy wing is love.” Lanier. Books by (zene Stratton-Porter Wuatr | Wave Done Weir Birps Arrur Foor or THE Rainnow A Girt or ‘tHE LIMBERLOST Tur Sone or THE CARDINAL Tue Music or THE WILD Birps oF THE BIBLE FRECKLES Contents PART I The Chorus of the Forest, 2 a 3 PART II Songs of the Fields, 2 = 165 PART III The Music of the Marsh, - - - 323 List of Illustrations Forest SPRING, - - - 2 = : Tue Sone or THe River, - = £ - Forest Roap, - = = a = = Rassrr Leaving Burrow, a 2 = s Broopine Dove, - : - 2 z Tree Toap, - - = = : 2 : Karypip, - - g . e : = Pusuic Roan, - 2 g 2 5 ie cs Youna Larks~ - - s s B a a YounG FLycaTcHErs, - 2 2 2 s Brr or Mars, - z : 7 a Tue Forest, - - 3 = z 5 z Tue Primary Music Crass, = 3 - Tue Roap To THE Forest, - 5 = z BLooprooT, - - = 2 3 3 THe Gateway, - - é : . 3 Facing Page 10 14 16 19 20 99 24 28 32 List of Illustrations BER Tue Tree Harps, - = - - : = = 36 THe Gioves THE Foxes Wrar, - - - - - 40 Tue Locust’s Finnie, - - - - - - 44 A Crow Soto, - - - - - - < = 48 Tue Wuire Croup, - - - - - - 52 Morus or THE Moon, - - - 2 . = 56 Dusky Fatcon, - - - - - - : 60 Hawk Face—Wuart Does He Say? - - = = 64 A Beecu Tree Harp, - - - - = = 68 ProresstonaL ‘* Warers,’’ - - - - - = 2 Papaw Broom, - - - - - - - 76 Papaws AND SUNSHINE - - - - - - 80 BaneBerry AND MaIpeNuHaIR, - - - - - 84 Cricket Music, - - - - - - - - 88 Esonymus AMERICANUS, - - - - = - 92 A Grounp Musician, - - - - - - - 96 Tat. Biue BELLFLower, - = = = - - 100 Tue Crown or THe Forest Kine, - - - - 104 Biack Haw Buioom, - Ss - - - - 108 Brack Haws, - - - - = = - eetD. Tue TrREEs, - - - = = = E 2 116 Youne Bats, — - - - = : s S ~ 120 Wuere tue Woops Brain, - - - - < 124 Frost FLowers, - - S - - f 7 = 198 SYCAMORE, - - = = - 2 = : 139 Tue Appies or May, - - - - < e = 136 Smoke Howse, = - - - = < e 140 Tue Deserted Caspr, =) = = = = - 144 Puaraon’s CHICKENS, = = = - < - 148 Hor Tree Music, Ss - - = = - = 152 Nicut Music on a Forest River « « < . 156 Op Log, - - = o = 5 : - 160 12 List of Illustrations Facing Page Katypip, - - - - = = z E 162 SWALLows, = = E = = = = - 164 DanpvELion, - - - = = = = 166 One oe My Farms, - = si - = = - 170 Frietp Daisies, - = Ss = = = 174 A Cxioup Musician, = - - - Bs - Ss - 178 ELECAMPANE, - - - a e 2 - s 182 Tue Home or tHe Hop Toap, - - - - - 186 Hop Toap, - 7 - 2 2 = a - 190 Moonseep Ving, - - = - - = = - 194 My Oart-Fietp, - - - - = = A 198 ““Branps or THE Noontipe Beam,’’ - - - - 202 Tue Lanptorp or THE FreLps, = - - - 206 Brearp Toneug, - = e = 3S S = - 210 Mo.tty Corton, - - - - - - = 214 Burnine Busy, - - - = - - = - 218 Tatt Meapow Rus, - - - - = = 222 Wiip SaFFRON, - - - = - = e - 226 Green Pastures, - - = = s = = 230 Sue_terep, Warerep Pasture, - - - - - 234 Biazine Star, - = = = = = 3 238 WILLows, - - - - - - = = - 242 Buckeye Brancu, - - - . = “ = 246 An Oxp OrcuHarD, - - = = - = - 250 Moruer Rosin, - - - = = = = 954 Tue Orcuarp Motu, - - - é - = - 258 Royalty IN THE ORCHARD, = = = = = 262 Scarier Haw Btoom, - = = - - - 266 Screecu Ow ., - - - - - - = 270 Tue Sone or THE Roap, - - = - = =D 74 Mate Go.pFrincH AND YOUNG, - - = - - 278 MILKWEED, - ~ = = - - - = - 282 13 List of [lustrations Ligurnine Riven Oak, - = = Tuer Sone or tHE Limperwost, - - - Broopina Dove, - - = = = On THE Banks or THE WaspasH IN WINTER, Rep Bup, - = = 3 2 . KINGFISHER, - - - 7 3 z River MaLLows, — - - - = = Tue Sone or THE River, - = - Country Roan, - = 2 & “ Gop’s Flower GARDEN, - - e Z Tree Toaps’ Duet, = = z = Tur Resurrection, — - S = e a Tue Roap To THE Marsn, - - - Marsu Liutks, - - = - = = A Marsu Garpben, - = = = = Tue Nose Twister, - = = = y Tue Morn or THE Marsu, - - - Dragon Fry, - - - - z = Wuire Water Litigs, - - z i Marsu Bereamor, - - = e . Sitky CorneL, - = = 2 2 Witpv Rice, - - 7 2 eo a A PLover QuaRTETTE, - - - - A Queen Moruer, - - - = ss Tue Marsu Brook, - - £ s Tue Herarp or Dawn, s e = s Tue Fincu Cotor Scueme, - - = Tue Wuire Sian or Ho.tness, - - - Tue Leaves, - - - = 7 2 Tue Hett-Diver, = é a a a Tue Biur Frac, - = = = = Fryine Goup, - = = 2 = 14 Ww Ww wn NO iS W Ww w NO ow nN Ow Ww aD List of Illustrations Pacing Pase THe Marsu Rowpy, : = . : é = 406 Water Hyacinrus, — - = . e = = = ATO Wuere THE Loon Laucus, - - = : = 414 Tue Drum-Masor, - = = = = es - 418 Tue Drum, - = 3 3 3 = 2 2 499 Wuere Marsn ann Foresr Merv, = = : - 426 Corpuroy Bringer In Marsu, - - - 5 - 428 Leaving THE Marsu, - = - 3 = : - 430 Ca Miles Fuller Porter PART I The Chorus of the Forest “IT thought the sparrow’s note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brought him home, in his nest, at even; He sings the song, but it pleases not now, For I did not bring home the river and skv ; He sang to my ear,—thev sang to mp eve.” —Emerson, ‘uosdwuoy J _ouldyd 40 spaom 40f Buoi7s OO swaod uajz7dM SDY POH aay Mouy J Jaungy sp puos6 pup Goib sp saaoi6 uy “uabul pub yan, S6ujy) pjyM asayM Mouy T,, LSaduvOd AHL THE PRIMARY MUSIC CLASS The Chorus of the Forest INCE the beginning the forest has been singing its song, but few there are who have cared to learn either the words or the melody. Its chorus differs from that of any other part of the music of nature, and the price that must be paid to learn it is higher. The forest is of such gloomy and forbidding aspect that int- mate acquaintance is required in order to learn to love it truly. So only a few peculiar souls, caring for solitude and far places, and oblivious to bodily discomfort, have answered this wildest of calls, and gone to the great song carnival among the trees. The forest always has been compared rightly with a place of worship. Its mighty trees, some- times appearing as if set in aisles, resemble large pillars, and the canopy formed by their over- arching branches provides the subdued light con- ducive to worship. The dank, pungent air arises 23 Forest Notes Music of the Wild as incense around you. Sunlight, streaming in white shafts through small interstices, suggests candles. Altars are everywhere, carpeted with velvet mosses, embroidered with lichens, and dec- orated with pale-faced flowers, the eternal symbol of purity and holiness. Its winds forced among overlapping branches sing softly as harps, roar and wail as great organs, and scream and sob as psalters and hautboys. Its insect, bird, and ani- mal life has been cradled to this strange music until voices partake of its tones, so that they har- monize with their tree accompaniment, and _ all unite in one mighty volume, to create the chorus of the forest. I doubt if any one can enter a temple of wor- ship and not be touched with its import. Neither can one go to primal forests and not feel closer the spirit and essence of the Almighty than any- where else in nature. In fact, God is in every form of creation; but in the fields and marshes the work of man so has effaced original conditions that he seems to dominate. ‘The forest alone raises a chorus of praise under natural conditions. Here you can meet the Creator face to face, if anywhere on earth. Yet very few come to make His acquaintance. The reason lies in the discomfort; the gloomy, forbidding surroundings. It may be that there yet lingers in the hearts of us a touch of that fear 24 THE ROAD TO THE FOREST “And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes.” Percival, The Chorus of the Forest inherited from days when most of the beasts and many of the birds were larger and of greater strength than man, so that existence was a daily battle. Then the forest is ever receding. As we approach, it retreats, until of late years it has be- come difficult to find, and soon it is threatened with extinction. As yet, it is somewhere, but pa- tience and travel are required to reach it. I found the forest here pictured after a journey by rail, water, and a long road so narrow that it seemed as if every one traveling it went in the morning and returned at night, but none ever passed on the way. Such a narrow little road, and so sandy that it appeared like a white ribbon stretched up gen- tle hill and down valley! On each side I saw evi- dence that lately it had been forest itself; else the way would not have been so very narrow, the sides impassable, and bordered with trees so mighty and closely set as to dwarf it to the vanishing point long within the range of vision. The very flowers were unusual, the faint musky perfume creeping out to us, a touch of the forest greeting our ap- proach. The road ran long and straight, and where it ended the work of man ceased and the work of nature began. The forest was surrounded by a garden, where sunlight and warmth encouraged a growth not to be found inside. Here in early spring daintiest 27 The Road to the Forest The Forest Fence Music of the Wild flowers had flourished: anemones and_ violets. Bloodroot had lifted bloom waxen-pure and white, and its exquisitely cut and veined slivery, blue- green leaves, set on pink coral stems, were yet thrifty. Now there were flowers, fruits, berries, and nuts in a profusion the fields never know, and with few except the insects, birds, butterflies, and squirrels to feast upon them. You could produce a rain of luscious big blackberries by shaking a branch. There were traces of a straggling snake-fence in one place, on top of which the squirrels romped and played. This could not have extended far, because the impenetrable swamp that soon met the forest stretched from sight. Then the Almighty made the work of man un- necessary by inclosing the forest in a fence of His design, vastly to my liking. First was found a tangle of shrubs that wanted their feet in the damp earth and their heads in the light. Beneath them I stopped to picture tall, blue bellflower, late blue- bells, and spiderwort, with its peculiar leafage and bloom. ‘There was the flame of foxfire, the laven- der and purple of Joe-Pye weed, ironwort, and asters Just beginning to show color, for it was mid- dle August, and late summer bloom met early fall. There were masses of yellow made up of golden- rod beginning to open, marigold, yellow daisies, and cone-flowers. BLOOD-ROOT It has blood in its root and a waxen white face, Coral stems and silver leaves of wonderful grace. The Chorus of the Forest But the real fence inclosing the forest was a hedge of dogwood, spicebrush, haw, hazel, scrub oak, maple, and elm bushes. At bloom time it must have been outlined in snowy flowers; now nuts and berries were growing, and all were inter- laced and made impenetrable by woodbine, wild- grape, clematis, and other stoutly growing vines. «At first we could not see the gateway, but after a little searching it was discovered. Once found, it lay clear and open to all. The posts were slen- der, mastlike trunks shooting skyward; outside deep golden sunshine you almost thought you could handle as fabric, inside merely a few steps to forest darkness. Near the gateway a tiny tree was wag- ing its battle to reach the sky, and a little far- ther a dead one was compelled to decay leaning against its fellows, for they were so numerous it could not find space to lie down and rest in peace. This explained at once that there would be no logs. All the trees would lodge in falling, and decay in that position, and their bark and fiber would help to make uncertain walking. At the gate is the place to pause and consider. The forest issues an universal invitation, but few there be who are happy in accepting its hospitality. If you carry a timid heart take it to the fields, where you can see your path before you and fa- miliar sounds fall on your ears. If you carry a sad heart the forest is not for you. Nature places 31 The Gateway The Creator’s Gift to Men Music of the Wild gloom in its depths, sobs among its branches, cries from its inhabitants. If your heart is blackened with ugly secrets, better bleach them in the heal- ing sunshine of the fields. The soul with a secret is always afraid, and fear was born and has estab- lished its hiding place in the forest. You must ig- nore much personal discomfort and be sure you are free from sadness and fear before you can be at home in the forest. But to all brave, happy hearts I should say, “Go and learn the mighty chorus.” Somewhere in the depths of the forest you will meet the Creator. The place is the culmination of His plan for men adown the ages, a material thing proving how His work evolves, His real gift to us remaining in nat- ural form. The fields epitomize man. 'They lay as he made them. They are artificial. They came into existence through the destruction of the forest and the change of natural conditions. They prove how man utilized the gift God gave to him. But in the forest the Almighty is yet housed in His handiwork and lives in His creation. Therefore step out boldly. You are with the Infinite. Earth that bears trees from ten to four- teen feet in circumference, from forty to sixty to the branching, and set almost touching each other, will not allow you to sink far. You are in little danger of meeting anything that is not more frightened at your intrusion than you are at it. 32 THE GATEWAY “To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky.” —Smith. The Chorus of the Forest Cutting your path before you means clearing it of living things as well as removing the thicket of undergrowth. A hundred little creatures are fleeing at your every step, and wherever you set foot you kill without your knowledge; for earth, leaves, and mosses are teeming with life. You need only press your ear to the ground and lie still to learn that a volume of sound is rising to heaven from the creeping, crawling, voiceless creatures of earth, the minor tone of all its music. The only way to love the forest is to live in it until you have learned its pathless travel, growth, and inhabitants as you know the fields. You must begin at the gate and find your road slowly, else you will not hear the Great Secret and see the Com- pelling Vision. There are trees you never before have seen; flowers and vines the botanists fail to mention; such music as your ears can not hear else- where, and never-ending pictures no artist can re- produce with pencil or brush. This forest in the summer of 1907 was a com- plete jungle. The extremely late spring had de- layed all vegetation, and then the prolonged and frequent rains fell during summer heat, forcing everything to unnatural size. Jewel-weed that we were accustomed to see attain a height of two feet along the open road, raised there that season to four, and in the shade of the forest overgrew a tall man; its pale yellow-green stems were like 35 The Secret and the Vision The Tree Harps Music of the Wild bushes, and its creamy cornucopias dangled the size of foxglove, freckled with much paler brown than in strong light. The white violets were as large as their cultivated blue relatives, and nodded from stems over a foot in length. Possibly it was because they formed such a small spot of color in that dark place, possibly they were of purer white than flowers of larger growth in stronger light; no matter what the reason, these deep forest vio- lets were the coldest, snowiest white of any flower I ever have seen. They made arrow-head lilies ap- pear pearl white and daisies cream white compared with them. Thinking of this caused me to notice the range of green colors also. The leaves and mosses near earth were the darkest, growing lighter through ferns, vines, bushes, and different tree leaves in never-ending shades. No one could have enumer- ated all of them. They were more variable and much more numerous than the grays. But in dim forest half-light all color appeared a shade paler than in mere woods. From the all-encompassing volume of sound I endeavored to distinguish the instruments from the performers. The water, the winds, and the trees combined in a rising and falling accompaniment that never ceased. The insects, birds, and animals were the soloists, most of them singing, while some were performing on instruments. Always there 36 ‘4Dajd Jno saulys uoIsiA Buljadwog ay ‘6Bul6ugq] 4abda Jo sada 07 aj1umM ‘apay Gpul nod Ja1vag JDALH § POH ‘qsa10f quabund ay ul daap-aauy SduVH WHUL AHL The Chorus of the Forest was the music of my own heart over some won- drous flower or landscape picture, or stirred to join in the chorus around me. The trees were large wind-harps, the trunks the framework, the branches the strings. These trunks always were wrapped in gray, but with each tree a differing shade. There were brown-gray, green-gray, blue-gray, dark- gray, light-gray, every imaginable gray, and many of them so vine-entwined and lichen-decorated it was difficult to tell exactly what color they were. The hickory was the tatterdemalion; no other tree was so rough and ragged in its covering. Oak, elm, walnut, and ash, while deeply indented with the breaks of growth, had more even surface. The poplar, birch, and sycamore had the smooth- est bark and showed the most color. The tall, straight birch did gleam “like silver,’ but to me the sycamore was more beautiful. The largest were of amazing size, whole branches a cream-white with big patches of green, and the rough bark of the trunks was a dirty yellow-gray. These trees always show most color in winter, but I do not know whether they really are brighter then, or whether the absence of the green leaves makes them appear so. Anywhere near the river the trees grew larger, and their uplifted branches caught the air and made louder music, while the unceasing song of the water played a minor accom- paniment. These big wind-harps were standing 39 The Abid- ing Place of the Al- mighty Music of the Wild so close I could focus six of them, the least large enough to be considered unusual in broken wood, on one small photographic plate. Where several sprang from a common base some of them were forced to lean, but the great average grew skyward straight as pines, and in the stillest hour the wind whispered among the interlaced branches, and in a gale roared to drown the voice of the thunder. Little trees beginning their upward struggle to reach the light caused me to feel that they were destroying pictures of great beauty. At last we found an elevation of some height and climbing it, secured the view that awaited us. As soon as we were level with the top of the undergrowth, that was a tangle in the most open spaces, not so dense where the trees grew closer together, it appeared to stretch away endlessly, making a vari- egated, mossy, green floor that at a little distance seemed sufficiently material to bear our weight. Knowing this to be an illusion, I sent my soul jour- neying, instead. Crowding everywhere arose the big, vine-entwined tree trunks, stretching from forty to seventy feet to their branching. The cool air of this enclosed space between the bush tops and the tree branches had a spicy fragrance. The carpet of green velvet below and the roof of green branches above formed a dominant emerald note; but it was mellowed with the soft grays of the tree trunks and tinted with the penetrant blue of the 40 ‘qubodig— «uns poo1g ay? JO 24D] 6 ay? ul JOU SWUoo]g SD Yyons ‘ajnnaq st 700d SIY2 1D P2]ISAQNY,, UVaM SHXOA FHL SHAOTIS AHL The Chorus of the Forest sky, so that the whole was a soft, blue-gray green, the most exquisite sight imaginable. All thought of the world outside vanished. The heart flooded with awe, adoration, and a great and holy peace. Here is the world’s most beautiful Cathedral, where the unsurpassed tree-harps accompany the singers in nature’s grandest anthem. This is the abiding-place of the Almighty in the forest. When we dared linger no longer and attempted to reach certain trees superb above their fellows, we found that a path must be cut before us for long distances, and then at times, for no appar- ent reason, we came into open spaces underfoot and thinner branching overhead. These were brown and gray-carpeted with the heaped dead leaves of many seasons, and glorified with flower color, but there were no grasses. It was in places such as these that the joy song of the human heart drowned all other music. On the rich brown floor, against the misty gray-green background, flashed the pale yellow of false foxglove, the loveliest and the typical flower of the forest. The tall, smooth stems were high as my head, the leaves sparse and tender, the bloom large and profuse, and of warm shades of light-yellow im- possible to describe, because they vary with age. The buds are a pure warm yellow, the flower cow- slip color on the first day, creamy white on the second, the fallen blooms showering the dark floor 43 The Gloves the Foxes Wear Music of the Wild almost white. ‘These are the gloves the foxes wear when they travel the forest softly. Cultivated rel- atives of the family are not nearly so beautiful as the wild species. I think this is true of the wild flowers, vines, and plants everywhere. Their hothouse relatives do not compare with them. Field and forest flow- ers are of more delicate color, they are simple and natural, and there is a touch of pure wildness in them akin to a streak in every heart. Of late peo- ple have been realizing this, and they have made efforts, not always agreeable to the plants, to re- move and set them around houses and in gardens. Such flowers usually die a lingering death because they can not survive out of their element. The foxglove enters a more vigorous protest than any. It is as if the old mother of the family feared that when we saw her glorious shade-children we would steal them from their damp, dark home; and so, with the cunning of her namesakes, the foxes, she taught all her family to reach down and find the roots of surrounding trees, twine around them, and grow fast, until they became veritable para- sites and not only clung for protection, but to suck life, so that they quickly withered and died if torn away. The effort to transplant foxglove always reminds me of an attempt to remove old people who have lived long on one spot and sent the roots of their affections clinging around things they 44, ‘06D sipad pupsnoy) ual Jo sajoN ‘mouy day? afi] ay7 40f asipad Jo squpyg9 ‘sOuls p4iig Giaaa Joy] Buos auips dsaa ay, s6ulm Oujujys siy uo sajppyf 3sn20] ayy, ATddIa S.LSQ000T AHL The Chorus of the Forest love. Then some change comes, and an effort is made to remove them to a different location and atmosphere. They end the same as deep forest flowers brought into the strong light of yard and garden; only as a rule people pine and die more quickly. A few bees humming around the foxglove set me to watching for insect musicians. The pale flowers of deep forest were not attractive as was the growth outside. There was only an occasional butterfly. But there were millions of other insects singing everywhere around us, and the leaders were the locusts. Sometimes they flew so close, making music on wing, that we dodged and our ears rang. We caught several and examined them, and in- duced one to pose for us on a locust tree. They are an inch and a half in length, a rare green color with brown markings, and have large eyes, a stout, sharp tongue, silvery white legs, and long wing- shields, appearing as if cut from thinnest isinglass, the shorter true wing beneath. These wingshields are divided into small sec- tions by veins that hold the transparent parts se- curely, and the outer edge has a stout rim. Using these rims for their strings, the crisp space for sounding-boards, and the femur of the hind legs for bows, the locust amazed us by not singing at all, for he fiddled away gayly as he led the insect orchestra. As far as we could hear through the AT The Locust’s Fiddle A Crow Solo Music of the Wild forest his musicians followed his lead unceasingly, their notes rising and falling in volume, and they even played in flight. I could not see how they flew, and fiddled on the wingshields at the same time, but repeatedly I saw them do it. Watching above me to try to learn how this music of flight was made, I forgot the locusts and began considering the roof of the forest. The branches lapped and interlaced so closely that I felt, if I had power to walk inverted like a fly, I could cross them as a floor. There was constant music up there, and the dominant note was the crow’s, while the sweetest was the wood pewee’s. There were many places where in the stout branch- ing of tall trees the crows had built a sitting-room of a bushel of coarse twigs and lined it with finer material. Now all the families had moved out and gone picnicking among the trees. None of them evinced retiring dispositions. They appeared alike at that height, and all I could tell of them was that they were crows. Their mu- sic was constant and, where undisturbed by our presence, of most interesting character. I could distinguish three distinct calls. They frequently uttered a gutteral croak that seemed to translate “Al right!” Then there was a sharp, vehement “Caw! Caw! Caw!” warning those of the family farther away of the fact that there was something unusual in the forest. It was used at a time and 48 A CROW SOLO “The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended, and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by dap, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren.” — Shakespeare. The Chorus of the Forest in the manner of a human being crying, “Look out! Some one is coming!” Then there was a syllabi- cated cry, consisting of five notes, that was their longest utterance and was delivered with tucked tail, half-lifted wings, and bobbing head, as if to make the speech impressive by gesture as well as sentiment. It scarcely would do to write of this production as a song, perhaps it might be called a recitative, to give it a little musical color. In very truth it resembled plain conversation and was used at such times and in such manner as to lead me to believe that passing crows were remarking to their friends: “Everything is all right with me. How goes life with you?” I am rather fond of crows. They are so lov- ing to each other that they arouse sentiment in my breast. I believe they pair for life, and both of them defend their nests and young with reckless bravery. Good qualities, surely!) They are know- ing birds and early learn to distinguish a hoe from a gun. When they find you without firearms they become impudent and inquisitive, and allow you to approach very close. There is proof that they are individual birds because they are used constantly as the basis of comparison by men who call each other “wise as a crow,” “black as a crow,” “as sly,” and “as cunning.” Whether crows are all these things in freedom would be difficult to prove, since they scarcely ever 51 “*Black as a Crow ”’ Music of the Wild nest at a height of less than thirty-five feet, and from that up to fifty. At that distance it is not possible that male and female or different pairs can be told apart without strong glasses; where there is one family there are sure to be others close, and no matter how impudent a single crow may be when you are without a gun and meet him for- aging in your fields, he is a wary bird when you approach his nest. Tn captivity crows have been known to do many peculiar things of their own initiative, such as hid- ing food given them when they are not hungry. for use at another time, or rubbing against a stone a caterpillar to free it from spines. They can be taught to talk by splitting the tips of their tongues, and can repeat from two to six words distinctly and at appropriate times. In life they never are quite so black as they are painted, for the neck and back feathers have beautiful purplish bronze tints in strong light. These crows appeared to have a sense of humor, for when we left the forest with- out having interfered with them they seemed to imagine they had vanquished us and followed for a distance, crying something that sounded much more like, “Haw! Haw! Haw!” than “Caw!” T never have made an exhaustive study of crows, but I have penetrated their life history somewhat, enough to get all that can be learned by seeing and hearing; and that, come to think of it, OZ THE WHITE CLOUD Through the forest's darkening emerald, In the murky, pungent gloom, Shines a cloud of wondrous whiteness, Where He sets the dog-wood bloom. The Chorus of the Forest is all I want. In my wanderings afield I often find ornithologists killing and dissecting birds, bot- anists uprooting and classifying flowers, and lepi- dopterists running pins through moths yet strug- gling; each worker blind and deaf to everything save his own specialty, and delving in that as if life depended, as perhaps it does, on the amount of havoc and extermination wrought. Whenever I come across a scientist plying his trade I am al- ways so happy and content to be merely a nature- lover, satisfied with what I can see, hear, and re- cord with my cameras. Such wonders are lost by specializing on one subject to the exclusion of all else. No doubt it is necessary for some one to do this work, but I am so glad it is not my calling. Life has such varying sights and songs for the one who goes afield with senses alive to everything. I am positive I hear and see as much as any scientist can on the outside of objects, for I have recorded with my cameras a complete life history of many birds no one else ever photographed, and to prove it I can reproduce the pictures for the delight of humanity. Who ever was exhilarated by seeing a scientist measure the intestines and count the bones of any bird? I have sent the botanical masters flowers and vines not yet incorporated in their books, but I was very careful to confine myself to the least specimen that would serve their purpose. I have hatched the eggs, raised the caterpillars, 55 The Beauty and Song of Existence The Ex- cuse of Beauty Music of the Wild wintered the cocoons, and had the rarest moth of our country emerge beside my pillow, and sent by the hundred the eggs of mated pairs to scientific men who lacked personal experience with the spe- cies. I am not missing anything, and what I get is the palpitant beauty and pulsing song of exist- ence. ‘The happy, care-free method is to go to the forest in early spring, and with senses alive to everything and deliberately follow the changes of the season. One of the first sights to attract the attention will proclaim itself from afar: the flowering of the dogwood. Sometimes there is a real tree in undis- turbed forest, lifting to the hght a white head that makes a point of splendor. The bloom is a pecul- iar thing, resembling poinsettia in that the showy spathes, commonly called flowers, are merely a dec- oration surrounding the true bloom, which is small and insignificant. In reality what appears to be white flower petals are Just wrapping that all win- ter has screened the little flower bud from frost and storm, and the small dent in the top of each leaf is where the very tip blighted in severe weather. After a wonderful spring exhibition the dogwood ceases to attract attention and resembles its sur- roundings until fall. Then its leaves begin to color early and outdo almost all others in vivid tints, added to which are the ripened berries of bright Chinese-red. Dogwood is not rare, and 56 a MOON Pee AL E MOTHS OF THE ’T is Nature’s greatest secret, told as a priceless boon, In the forest I heard the night moth whispering to the moon: “Lend thy light for my courting, if thrice in thy glory I flv, Then, from estatic loving, of jov will I gladly die.” The Chorus of the Forest beauty is the excuse for its being, in this book at least. Really it seems as if that might be its best reason for appearing in the forest as well. The big delicate moth of deep wood must enter on the same ground, for no other among wood folk is so quiet. The only music it could be said to make is the chorus of delighted exclamation that greets its every appearance before humanity; music by proxy, as it were, for the moth is the stillest crea- ture. The exercising imago, walled in its cocoon, among the leaves of earth, makes more sound than the emerged moth. There is a faint noise of tearing as the inner case is broken and the tough cocoon cut for emergence. Once in the air and light, if those exquisite wings make a sound it is too faint for mortal ears to hear. June is the time for appreciative people to sing in praise of the moths, but sometimes they are double-brooded and specimens exact their share of worship in August, as did the beautiful pair I found clinging to a walnut tree in the forest. No other moth is so exquisitely shaped or of such deli- cate shades. The female is a little larger, her an- tennez are narrower, and her colors paler than the male’s. The white violet is not of purer white than his body; his crisp, long-trailed wings of a bluish pale-green, faintly edged with light yellow and set with small transparent markings, and his legs and feet and the heavy fore-rib of the front wings are 59 The Moth of the Moon Falcon Music Music of the Wild lavender. He was delicate and fragile as the bloom of a tropical orchid, and reminded me of one as he lightly hung to the rough walnut bark. They were only that day emerged, and their wings were not yet hardened sufficiently to bear their weight, so they clung wherever I placed them and posed in the most obliging manner. But the guide and IT made all the music. While I worked, over my head, all above the forest, and around the outskirts sailed the beauti- ful and graceful little dusky falcons. No charge of quietude can be made against them; they are really noisy, which can not be said of great hawks. Falcons are very handsome, and parade their beauty as if they realized it. They are by far the best-dressed members of the hawk family. The very light color of their breasts is delicately shaded, as is the bronze of their backs. Their cheek feath- ers are white to a narrow line above the eyes, and crossed by two parallel lines of black. They can erect a small crest, which is tinted with dull blue, and their long, graceful wing and tail feathers are tipped with white. Their beaks have the hawklike curved point for tearing. Their unusually large eyes wear a soft expression, giving to them a wise appearance. ‘They attack small birds occasionally, but live mostly on field mice, moles, grasshoppers, and moths; so they are in evidence in the fields, and people are familiar with them. They like to watch 60 DUSKY FALCON “T know a falcon swift and peerless As e’er was cradled in the pine; No bird had ever eve so fearless, Or wing so strong as this of mine.” —Lowell. The Chorus of the Forest grain fields from the vantage of a telephone wire, and their graceful downward sweep when they sight prey is a beautiful thing to see. They nest in hollow trees and bring off broods of five and six young, from their first feathering closely resembling the elders. These young are very social and make charming pets, becoming wholly domesticated in a few days. If not exactly the same, they are very similar to the falcons used by royal British women in the sport of hawking, and the small birds that we see in old prints and paintings perching on gauntlet or saddle-pommel must have been great pets with their owners. They are the musicians of the hawk and falcon families and have all their relatives talked into almost com- plete silence. ‘‘Ka-tic, a-tic, a-tic!’ they cry as they dash after moth or grasshopper, millions of which one pair will take from a field in a season, making them a great blessing to a farmer. Full- fed and happy they swing on the ever-present tele- phone wire and repeatedly sing in a liquid, run- ning measure entitled to be classed as very good music, “Tilly, tilly, tilly!’ By no stretch of imagination could the big hawks be coupled with melody. They are the kings of the treetops, but they use a sign language that all other birds readily translate. Their home in large trees is often founded on a crow’s last year’s nest. They use signals in courting, caress 63 A Bat- tle Cry Music of the Wild their young tenderly, and fearlessly attack any- thing threatening danger to them. So long as they are unmolested and happy they are silent: a strange reversal of the law of music in birdland. Almost without exception other birds sing in bubbling ec- stasy when they are happy, and mope in silence, broken only by a few pathetic notes of wailing, when in trouble. The hawk gives warning when angry by a stri- dent hiss, much like a vulture or eagle. When he really makes an attack, for the purpose of van- quishing an enemy, comes his one musical effort. His battle-hymn is a hair-raising scream: shrill, loud, and the wildest note of the forest. Small birds flee from it in utter consternation, and no doubt great ones quail, even if they remain to fight. Never a hawk-scream shivers through the treetops but a bedlam of crow-ealls answer, for they are sworn enemies. Of course the hawk by reason of greater strength and size must win in every battle it wages, but there is nothing to pre- vent crows from seeing how closely they can skim danger and raising all the excitement possible. No bird of field or forest has the force of ex- pression to be found on the face of a big hawk. There is character, dignity, defiance, and savagery combined. The eagle has a wicked, fierce appear- ance, and I never have seen its face express any- thing else. I can find no better terms than “dig- 6+ WHAT DOES HE Say @ “T shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau Lf birds confabulate or no. ’T ts clear that they were always able To hold discourse—at least in fable.” 5 —Cowper. The Chorus of the Forest and “defiance” to portray my conception of a hawk’s facial expression, and that is not very clear. Perhaps what I am striving to convey is the idea that some things might be too cruel for the hawk; the eagle appears inexorable. If he has any mercy it is never indicated in his face. The hawk suggests to the mind that he might at least consider mercy. Then in poise of flight that car- ries him across the heavens by the hour without per- ceptible wing motion he is the equal of the eagle and vulture, and in keenness of vision he slightly outclasses them. Perhaps if we had been com- pelled to strain our eyes for generations, from his heights, in order to find our food, we would de- velop sight as far-reaching as his. Serenely sailing the skies, the hawk suddenly comes darting earthward like a down-aimed arrow, in a marvelous exhibition of flight, and arises with a snake, rabbit, or bird in its claws, proving a range of vision far beyond ours. In his wonderful pow- ers of flight and sight, in his grace and royal bear- ing, in the dignity of his silence, and the strength of his cry, he is one of the finest birds that live, and the most beneficial to us. For while he occa- sionally takes a young chicken that we intended to eat, his steady diet is snakes, moles, field mice, and grasshoppers, all of which constantly menace the land owner. But in the evolution of nature, that seems to 67 > nity’ Hawk Protection The Wildest Note of the Forest Music of the Wild provide for even minutest details, the hawk has his place and his purpose. In order that he may not become a burden when he levies upon us, he is given only two nestlings, while we raise chickens by the hundred; and the game birds upon which he preys as a rule number from fifteen to twenty in a brood, like quail, rail, and ducks. There is further to be considered that a warning of the hawk’s descent is almost universal in field and for- est. If the scratching hen does not see him, a nearby cock does; and if wild mothers are busy searching for food there is the bluejay to tell on him, and so the strongest of his prey take to cover and he gets only the weakling, that is best re- moved from the brood for the sake of the health of those remaining or of young it might raise. There is not much to be said for hawk music, yet the voice of the forest would lose the charm of its wildest note were this great bird extinct, and it is because it is wild and different from sounds of every day that we love it. Then, as a picture seen from afar, the forest never would be complete without these birds of tireless wing hanging over it and reigning upon their thrones of air. So I hope earnest consideration will be given these points in favor of the royal bird before another of its kind is dropped from its high estate. Up where the hawk chants his battle-hymn, the crow chuckles, and the pewee wails, outlined clearly 68 , 4 {9 - + ies he oat Gee. A BEECH TREE HARP —“vou scarce would start, If from a beech’s heart A blue-eved Drvad, stepping forth, should say, ‘Behold me! Iam Mav!” —Timrod. The Chorus of the Forest against the sky could be seen the finely-toothed cutting and waxy gold-green leaf that only could mean beech, and I marveled. Could beech branches be waving there? That tree of low habit and spreading limb! I called my guide’s attention to it, and he made a road, and then cleared space for me to focus. Where trees were so numerous it was impossible to get away far enough to in- clude the entire subject. This mighty wind instru- ment of the forest was fourteen feet in circum- ference and fifty feet to the branching. We could secure no leaves, but they were large and appeared especially waxy. The trunk was the most beauti- ful I ever have seen save the purple beeches of Southern Indiana. Those are low, of widely- spreading branch, and their trunks are like pur- plish-gray moleskin. This forest beech had patches of moleskin, then gray and green spaces, the fore- runners of lichens, and then the lichens themselves in big circles with exquisite gradations of gray, white, and green colors. At its base grew a fern with fronds two feet long, and the mottled brown carpet spread beneath it was deep layers of dead leaves. Then we began to watch for its kindred through the forest, and found many, giants all of them. One thing we noted in particular. Not a beech ever leaned or curved, but in a noble column all of them aspired straight toward heaven, and among their stiff, 71 A Beech- Tree Harp A Pro- fessional ‘* Wailer ’’ Music of the Wild widely-spreading branches the wind sang in louder cadence than where limbs were more closely placed and of heavier leafage. There were maples of even greater circumfer- ence and height, but many of them leaned and twisted. Their bark was not so beautiful, and their leaves not of such fine texture, but they were more artistically cut; and as these trees flourished and grew old in this damp place, the lichens had covered them almost entirely, and so they were gay with gray and green. It is peculiar how in the forest one thing seems to lead to or bear some re- Jation to another. In examining the maples to see how far out the large branches the lichens ex- tended, I noticed what I easily might have mis- taken for a knot-hole if previous experience had not taught me to recognize the nest of the dis- tinctive bird of the forest; a nest that is a miracle, from which come birds to match it, and they sing a song that all ornithologists agree almost breaks the heart with its sadness. The professional “wailer” of the forest is the wood pewee; and I should like to engage him to “wail” at my funeral, I would ask no finer music. He is just a small olive-gray bird, touched with brown, his habitat high among the big crows, owls, and hawks, that comparatively must appear larger to him than an elephant does to us. Because he is evolved in God’s great scheme of things to work 72 ‘abpiuqnod I — ‘majy G4rpf{ oy) agnjyf D aind og « {420d jaan-ad j aamn-ad, ‘s40q]Q4as Qpan]s ay] “quinp aan faaupsso6 uapjob Jo poa.y) YW —‘“DaYy O72 ajOU BujouDsqUa ‘MNO] JDYL ‘s10]aSUNOD App4O] ‘SYIO]WAY AY T Madp aduazis JO aqot asquios AUT Q@pp ay] JD punogjjads buizipm pauaag {poojs sayo1ig ayy sO6bd4 400]18 UT ‘dpi6 pup payojpd § ybnoy) osnul fo pupy ay} f1 SV joyoof uayoaag uy ‘poom ay? Jo saoujid posvbbag ayrT —asam $7] 4Da]0 pud uaDdAIp HuOT,, ( SUT M ,, TVNOISSHAOUd aso] The Chorus of the Forest among the treetops he is provided with wisdom and preculiarly protected by nature. His coat is the color of bark, his location is a lichen-covered limb, his nest a small flat bowl of finest twigs, grass- lined, and shaped to reproduce exactly the knots on the trees around it, and then covered with lichens to match those closest. This covering 1s deftly bound with spider webs passing under the limb and around the nest securely. When the young emerge and feather, like separate seeds of the globe of a dandelion is the down that covers them, and in their nest or on the limb beside it, behold! they appear as lichens too. We noticed how inconspicuously colored the elders were, how they matched the treetops and the nest some time deserted, and how deft they were at twisting and turning on wing—real acrobats,—so that no other birds of field or forest are better protected or so sure to bring off a brood in safety. Then why this very mournful music recorded by every ornithologist who ever wrote of them? 'The answer is, there is no sadness in their song. In all of a long and varied acquaintance with them I have found them particularly jolly small birds, safe above the average, much closer heaven than any other of their size. They are not of doleful disposition, and no inconsolable grief is theirs. They are true children of the forest, and in its solemn silences, in the slow wail of its winds, in 75 ‘True Forest Notes Music of the Wild the sucking sobs of its rocking branches they have composed a song in harmony with their surround- ings; but to our ears this music contains the notes with which we express solitude, silence, and heart- break. But the pewee knows nothing of this. All day he sings, and all of the season, which proves him a particularly happy bird, not dependent upon the intoxication of the mating fever or encouraging a brooding mate with his notes. He sings as the poet, because there is an all-the-time song in his heart. In the great forest his notes fell to us slowly and serenely; why should he bubble and gur- gle like a bobolink? He of the majesty and soli- tude of the forest! He of the high choir in the house of the Almighty! Long-drawn, clear, ach- ing with melody, through the solemn silence of the forest, high above you comes his “Pee-a-wee,” and just when you are wondering if that is all, he adds. “Peer!” It is rather a stretch of the imagination to call these notes a song; cry would seem closer, but they are the sustained utterance of the bird. His variations consist in repetition, with different modulation and in unequal measure. I could detect that in the morning he hastened a little, as if the business of life were too pressing for the usual wait between notes. At noon, when all other birds were drowsy with heat and scarcely a song was heard, he broke the silence: and in the 76 ‘nojg sail] nodvd ay? asayn sy 41DJ Os 10d8 Ou SspjoYy YJ4DAa IDY] sNouy ‘moj6p syaayo pup audy{p sada YILM “41D paquDYoUa AY] SAaYy]DAIG OYM AL WOOTH MV¥d¥d The Chorus of the Forest evening, when others were singing vespers, he stood on tiptoes, and reaching his limit for his highest note with which to surpass them, in a posi- tively lazy manner slid sobbingly down the scale to his last clear utterance. At the instant we mis- guided mortals were shuddering over the heart- break in these wailing, long-drawn notes the little rascal was turning somersaults in the air, darting here and there after a fly, his sharp mandibles clipping together when he missed until the sound came to us on the ground far below. He was the happiest little creature of song and dance that wore a feathered coat. Beside his tree grew another that made me wonder why, since from the inception of art dec- orators, designers, and painters have gone to the forest for copy, they did not use this. From the frequency with which our artists work over de- signs of fern, violet, goldenrod, and sweet brier, one might be forgiven the supposition that with these, material was exhausted. JI think the truth is that these good folk kept to the fence or turned back at the gateway, and never penetrated to the heart of the forest. Things infinitely more beau- tiful than those that have been used are waiting to be discovered and familiarized. Finding almost a tree for size ladened with velvety big green fruit made me think of studies of papaw bloom that I had made early in the season. 79 Artin the Forest Music of the Wild Botanists and farmers may know the flower; do others? And does some one ask what it has to do with music? JI am coming to that. Early in the season, when the smooth gray-green stems are pulsing with sap, when the tender yellow-green leaves are just unsheathing and not over an inch in length, the papaw lilies blow. I never heard any one else call them lilies, but I will persist in it; they are lilies, and most exquisite ones. The flowers hang lily fashion, their petals are thick, of velvety lily texture, and look at their formation! Those outside are beautifully veined and curled, of the loveliest wine-red; the inside smaller, slightly lighter in color, and set across the meeting of the outer ones, and a yellow-green pistil, pollen dusted in the heart. I can say almost positively that Japan does not produce this tree. If she did, long ago her artists would have seized upon its magnificent possibili- ties for decoration. The height of simplicity so loved by them can be found in the smooth stems, the long, tender golden leaves, and the tinkling wine-colored lilies nodding in clusters over bushes so large that, where undisturbed in the forest, they attain the size of trees. Sometimes the flowers hang singly, sometimes in pairs, and most often from four to six grow in a head, so that by crowd- ing their faces are upturned, and their full beauty displayed in wondrous fashion. They are of sweet 80 PAPAWS AND SUNSHINE Leaf hidden are the frosty green papaws, In their jackets snugly rolled, But the sun sifts down ’til he finds them, 6 And mellows their hearts to gold. The Chorus of the Forest odor, and the bees come swarming around them, with their low, bumbling, humming music, from early morning until dark. If only I were a poet, how glad I would be to transcribe for them the song that they awake in my heart! Its name should be, “Where the Papaw Lilies Blow.” I would tinge the sky with the purple of red bud, fill the air with the golden haze of tree bloom, and perfume it with the subtle odor of tree pollen. In deep shadow the earth should lie cov- ered with a crust of late snow, and in the sun with the whiter snow of bloodroot bloom. The velvety maroon-colored lilies should distil their perfume as the wind rocked them, and among the branches the slender, graceful, bronze-backed cuckoo should prophesy April showers as he searched for food. From a nearby pool with crazy laughter a flock of loons that had paused in migration for a drink should arise from the water and plow the north- ward air with their sharp beaks; and an opossum should nose among the leaves for frozen persim- mons. And he who breathed this enchanted air and saw these things should learn that in all nature he would find no greater treat than to linger where the papaw lilies blow. I offer this gratis to any one who has the genius to use it rightly. With the falling of the flowers the artistic pos- sibility of the plant only begins, for there follow large leaves of varied shadings, prominently veined 83 The Song of the Lilies A Ray of Sunshine Music of the Wild and finely shaped for conyentionalizing, and in clusters beneath them the papaws, that must be seen to know how beautiful they are. Five and six to a cluster they hang, when young the skin a cold blue-green; with ripeness they take on a pale yellow shading, and the “bloom” of the fruit be- comes like frosted velvet. The pulp is bright yel- low and good to eat if you are fond of rich sweets. The seeds are large, black, and resemble those of the melon. If not gathered, the fruit hangs until winter, turns to the purple wine color of ripe Con- cord grapes, falls to the ground, and in the spring the seeds sprout and produce new plants. Sometimes when taking pictures I get more than I intend. In making this study of papaw leaves and fruit a ray of sunshine crept through an interstice of the forest and fell across my sub- ject. So long as the picture lasts the sunbeam lives. A lens loves bright colors and sets them on a photographic plate with peculiar brilliancy. It would be a fine thing if we could get a focus on life’s sunshine and reproduce it indelibly on our hearts as stored warmth for gray days, just as the lens caught this ray of light streaming across the face of the papaw study. The truth is we do not appreciate the sunshine we have in our lives. Even more, many of us never know that we are having bright days until we are plunged into the depths of trouble and darkness; and when we grope 84. ‘24yO6nvd} Gay) yoYyM SDM poy Jo aaoj ay) 40.7 ‘2y6noy] Jo Qy]4OMN UOSSa] D Culyodas “1D paunfiad ay] ul Saada] 410Y) palbuly AiOYyUap) DU 7]D]7 PUD Aa7Z1YM AisaqauvDg UIVHNAGIVIN GNV AYNAEANVEA a aT Te) The Chorus of the Forest to find our way, and struggle to realize our con- dition, we suddenly learn that our sunshine is gone and life is gray monotony. The largest open space we found underfoot was on the side of a hill or incline facing east. ‘The trees appeared quite as large and closely set, but for some reason the earth was not covered with shrubs and bushes, as was the rule. We had found two places where trees had been cut so long ago that the decayed stumps crumbled at a touch, and there was a third not as old. Close beside it I found beauty to gladden the heart of musician, poet, or painter. It began with a white baneberry of marvelous grace. The plant was all of three and a half feet in height, a smooth stem, upright as the trees around it, and, like them, branching. Its finely cut, lacy leaves, beautifully veined and notched, grew in clusters of three. On a single stem, borne high above the leaves, shone a big bunch of china-white berries, three dozen by count; the stems red, each berry having a purple-black eye-spot. Close by grew a near relative, very sim- ilar except that its berries were red. The flowers of both are a pyramidal cluster made up of a mass of small white blooms. Now just in front of the baneberry grew the most graceful of all ferns, the plumy maidenhair, and because of this wet season it had attained un- usual size for our climate. On wiry two-foot stems 87 Baneberry and Maidenhair The Song of the Cricket Music of the Wild waved leaves a foot and a half across. I was ac- customed to stems of from six to nine inches in length and leaves of eight-inch diameter. As a finishing touch, beneath the fern, with fuzzy leaf of peculiar shape that could not be called round because it was wider than long, and deeply cut where the stem joined, and with bell-shaped, ma- roon-colored cup blooming so close the root that I had to remove the dry leaves to earth to find the flower, grew wild ginger. I examined this partic- ularly because I know a writer who has the hardi- hood to compare this grimy little burrower of the soil with papaw bloom, that has six artistically cut petals, each of which is of much richer color and texture, and large enough to make a perfect ginger flower. In removing dry leaves around the ferns and digging out the ginger I unearthed a music-box, and learned a lesson. J always had thought the cricket a sort of domesticated insect, beginning with “The Cricket on the Hearth” and ending with one that sang for the greater part of last winter in our basement. A few weeks earlier I had learned in an oat field many miles away that there were more big black crickets under an oat sheaf where it lay in a low, damp place than I ever had seen elsewhere in all my field work. Now the forest taught me that the cricket in my cabin was a prisoner, lost from home and friends, and 88 “4a1UDT— wlls Bulag JO Adar § JAYIMI IY] $17, ‘ADAT —1Yyb6noy) ajdiys siy uO 2Y61D4L]8 $]]2] JOYILI AY L,, OISNIN LAMOTHO The Chorus of the Forest those beneath the oats scouts searching for food; the army was around decaying wood and below deep layers of leaves on the floor of the forest. In a glittering black mass they poured out by the thousand when disturbed; some in their haste leaped upon the backs of those in front and ran over them. Of course, I know there are differing species of the cricket family that choose suitable locations. I am merely stating that the largest, most prosperous branch in the whole world lives in the forest. When I made this study grasshoppers sang around the fence, and many strayed to the interior, so that their notes came almost constantly; but by close listening you could distinguish fractions of a second when their voices were silent. Many katy-dids homed there and boasted much of the prowess of their ancestors. Locusts answered each other in rapid succession, but you could separate the call from the answer. To the “Chirr-r-r-r-r!” of the crickets there was no beginning and never the hint of an ending. Millions of these shining, black-coated little musicians sang in concert and unceasingly. There was no question but their voices formed the dominant insect note of the forest. Crickets are not compatible with good house- keeping because they cut fabrics. But of all in- sects people tolerate them most. One little piece 91 The Cricket on my Hearth Music of the Wild of exquisite writing has made life easier for the family. A cricket walks unharmed where a heavy foot crushes a grasshopper or locust. ‘The cricket on one hearth has made a welcome for all crickets, and the home boasting one that will sing late in the season feels that it has materialized evidence of good cheer. I know how vainglorious we were over a cabin cricket that once homed with us, how all other sound ceased when he began to sing, and how we never failed to call the attention of vis- itors to him, and how disappointed we were if he did not perform when we were expecting he would. «A cricket makes fine, cheery music, the natural ac- companiment to the snapping crackle of an open wood-fire, which is the only rational source of heat in a real home. I could write a larger book than this on fire forms, flame colors, and the different tints of smoke ascending from logs of various trees as they burn in my fireplace. If my dreams as I watch the flames materialized on my library shelves instead of ascending the chimney with the smoke, no one would produce so many fine volumes as I. The cricket is so a part of the dreams that a tone of his happy song should run through all of them. The wings are the musical instruments, and with these crickets obtain so closely to the sound of a voice that people always speak and write of them as “singing,” though they really are instru- 92 a J EBONYMUS AMERICANUS “This is not solitude; ‘tis but to hold Converse with nature’s charms, and view her stores unrolled.” —Bopron. The Chorus of the Forest mental performers, the same as the grasshopper, locust, and katy-did. These wings are attached back of the shoulders and are so short they cover not more than the mid- dle third of the body. They are so very small, music must be their greatest use. I do not believe they would bear the weight of the insects in flight, but by spreading and beating them they might as- sist in long leaps. The remainder of their anat- omy is complicated. Our cabin cricket was smaller and lighter brown than its big, forest relatives, but they appeared quite similar. Their outer covering encases them as armor. Their eyes are prominent and glittering, and help to give them a cheerful, alert appearance. I noticed that when traveling undisturbed they lightly touched objects before them with their long hair-fine antenne as if feel- ing their way. On each side of the front section of the bodies are a series of three short legs used for walking, and just back of these the large, long leg for leaping. On the floor, pottering over cricket history, close to the fence, where the light was strong, I made a new acquaintance. Botanists may know it well, but I am unable to place it in any of many valuable works I own. This may be because I found it in the fall, at berry-bearing time, and they would describe it in bloom. But I have small trouble in identifying other plants at any season. 95 A New Ac- quaintance Music of the Wild No nature-lover has described this as I found it, and no decorator has conventionalized it; yet surely the berries stand close the head of the beauty class. Brilliant color of Chinese-red and coral-pink at- tracted me, and on investigation I found a plant of half bush, half vining habit, close two feet in height, its stems straight, round, slender, faintly bluish-green, its leaves shaped much like and re- sembling in veining and color those of some plum trees I know. It had seeded in a burr, shaped and toothed outside like that of a beechnut, but almost four times larger, and of warm coral-pink color. These burrs hung over the plant profusely from very long, fine threads of stems, and being ripe, had burst open, revealing four partitions covered by a thin Chinese-red membrane. In some this had opened in a straight line down the middle, drawing back each way, and evicting at the four points of the pink burr a_ bright-red berry fastened by an extremely short stem. These were really a seed, of pearl color, oval, and a little ob- long in shape, one end touched with flecks of red like a bird’s egg, and enveloped in a red, pulpy cover. I have found this plant only four times in all my life afield, and for brilliant color and com- plicated arrangement of seeding I do not remem- ber its equal. Hbonymus Americanus is its re- sounding scientific name. If it is sufficiently well known to have a common one I can not find it. 96 « AUIMN-0Y) ,, S171 puy ‘ouipu siy nod syaz ary / ¥u1Y2 nod op IDYM NVIDISQW GNNOUD V The Chorus of the Forest While I photographed it a rustling among the deep leaves called my attention to the typical bird of the forest floor, but this was not our first meet- ing’; in fact, we were old acquaintances, and one box of negatives in my closet at home recorded all of its nesting history that I could secure with a camera. Studies of this bird are unusual, at least I am fairly well informed along this line, and I never have seen any published. It is typical of the forest floor. It not only builds and raises its young on earth, but finds food there, scratching like an exemplary hen, with feet working alter- nately, and also surpassing her by using both feet at once, in a manner she never learned. It has scratched and scratched until from much scratching its length of toe and nail has developed into its most conspicuous part. On the same prin- ciple, but in different members, the heron has evolved its long legs by wading among: the reeds. Because constant flight keeps them useless, two of a kingfisher’s toes are yet grown together and do not separate as do those of perching birds. You only have to notice the feet of this family group to observe the extraordinary length of toe and nail, even in the young. I suspect you are wondering why I do not tell their name. There is no necessity. The bird pre- fers to introduce itself. Indeed, there is every probability you have heard it do so many times, 99 A Ground Musician Music of the Wild while you never have seen the vocalist, for it keeps close earth in damp, dark places, although social and a constant talker. It mounts to a high choir- loft to sing its song. The cricket’s is the dominant insect note of the forest in August, the crow’s the bird voice of the treetops; this is the busybody and the unceasing musician of earth. Pairs remain together after family cares are over, and their conversation consists of a question and an answer. “Che-wink?” inquires the male, with strong interrogative inflection on the last syl- lable. “Che-wee!” exclaims the female, in reply, as if she were delighted to say so. “Che-wink?” he asks again, with his next breath. ‘““Che-wee!” she gurgles, as if she were telling him something “perfectly splendid” for the first time. This call of the male supplies the species with a common name. Qn his part it means, “Where are you?”— and her answer is, “Here!” But as it is delivered I think, from the spontaneity of the reply, that it means a shade more—‘Safely here!” “Happily here!” or “Glad to be here!” I am sure this is true, because in work close chewink nests I have had much acquaintance with them. If a male calls and does not get instant reply, he repeats the notes with perceptibly higher tone and stronger inflection. If there is no an- swer to this he flies to a bush and begins a per- fect clamor of alarm cries, and hurries around the 100 YIU — ,4adpid 0} 11/09 VW yjobull 1aQa puDd ‘splay ay) Ul YIDGqVGY SoOYvy “ip Buisspd ay] uo awnfiad $]] $]]07 PUY ylabuims JDYI Jaq [D4O]{ YODA ‘SYHNOY PI41IIS10]I YIDAN,, ,, YAMOTATTAD ANTE TIVL 2 y= — The Chorus of the Forest location, keeping up and increasing the excitement until the straying female hears him and comes home. Where many of these birds nest undis- turbed their notes are more noticeable than any other feathered folk of earth. The chewink is a finch, large as a rose-breasted grosbeak, and often mistaken for one on account of the black coat and cowl worn by both. The chewink is far the more elegant and graceful bird, while the grosbeak is the better musician. Mr. Chewink wears a black coat, with the sleeves and tail touched with white, a black headdress and broad black collar. His shirt is creamy white and his vest a bright Venetian-red. Mrs. Chewink’s headdress and collar are a brownish-tan color, the back and sleeves of her suit the same color with the white touches. Her waist front is a dark creamy white, and her toilet is completed with a Zouave jacket of red, a shade darker than Mr. Chewink’s vest. All her colors are richer in sub- dued tones and more artistic than his, for where he sharply contrasts she harmonizes exquisitely. Both birds have long tails, longer legs than others of their genus, and the feet and toes as described, from much scratching. They are the noisiest birds of the forest floor. They desire to search the earth for tiny bugs and worms, and the fallen leaves make a deep cov- ering everywhere. So they alight on a place that 103 The Chewink Wardrobe A Lost Study Music of the Wild they select in a manner known to themselves; at times I have seen them stand motionless, with one side of the head turned toward the ground, as robins do, and appear to listen, so that I have thought it possible that they hear insect sounds, as we may if we bring our ears close earth. When a spot is chosen they Jump upon it with toes wide- spread, and sink their sharp nails deeply into the leaves; then with half-lifted wings, to aid the leg and body muscles, they spring as far forward as they can and drop their load. In this manner I have seen them at one effort clear a space as large as a breakfast plate, on which to scratch for food. Once as I crouched, covered by a tan crava- nette exactly the color of the leaves, beside a stump in the forest, a male bird came within six feet of me and several times uncovered the earth by this method. In each operation he appeared to listen before he selected a spot to work upon. Once my sense of humor spoiled a fine study of his mate. She was approaching the nest to feed the young, when he attempted to lift a large layer of leaves. He must have gripped securely a fine, thread-like root that lifted for a few inches and then became taut. The shock whirled him sidewise and rolled him over. He did not know what had happened, and he appeared so astonished and cried out so indignantly that I laughed and helped increase his fright. He dashed from the thicket uttering 104 THE CROWN OF THE FOREST KING “What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his! There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss! Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring.” —Lowell. The Chorus of the Forest alarm cries that scared his mate out of focus, so I lost a picture. Their habit is to build on the earth beneath the protection of a gnarled root or fallen limb, but once I found a nest in a tangle of bushes ten inches above ground. ‘The female slipped from it, hopped away, and trailed a wing that appeared to be broken, and squealed as if wounded. I never saw a killdeer play “possum” more naturally. Chewinks build of leaves and coarse grass, and line with finer material. The eggs are white, touched with brown. Aside from that tribal call from which they take their names, they sing a sustained song of several notes, much more promising in the beginning than in the ending, that seems so un- necessarily abrupt as to cause one to wish to enter protest. The song opens with a sweet, clear whis- tle, and then slides off without at all fulfilling the expectation it inspired. But where many musi- cians mount the bushes and sing, accompanied by the endless leaf rustle of their mates, the music forms one of the most pleasing parts of the forest chorus. They mount still higher and sing with more abandon quite late, for birds, in the evening; or else their notes sound particularly well at that time on account of the peculiarity of their vocal- izing neighbors who are just running scales to clear their voices for the night performance. ‘You never can say you really belong in the for- 107 The Midnight Serenade Music of the Wild est unless you have remained for so many all-night concerts that you are familiar with the parts of all the musicians. At night only a few grasshop- pets are vocalizing, the crickets never cease, and the katy-dids tune up for their star performance. Daytime feathered singers as a rule tuck their heads and go to sleep early, and the absence of the wavering accompaniment of their varied voices gives peculiar pause and tonal color to ensuing notes that are of themselves sufficiently emphatic and startling. Almost always the wind drops on summer evenings, and a great silence so deep it enwraps you as a garment and fills your soul with awe seems to creep from the very heart of the for- est. When not dominated by tree and bird music, insect voices ring out shrill and high, and the whip- poor-will finds truly artistic pause and setting for its remarkable vocal performance. No other bird of all ornithology lifts its voice and in such clear and distinct English enunciates what it has to say. Almost every naturalist and musician afield re- cording bird notes disagrees as to the utterance and inflection of some of our plainest talkers. There is no difference of opinion whatever about this bird. 'To every one it says too plainly to ad- mit questioning, “Whip-poor-will!” Near the same time the night hawk takes flight during the breeding season. After family cares are over I have seen bands of them come sweeping 108 ‘saad] ay? fo way? 4ay1v6 nod puy ‘Qaams pud Jos aid s]jpqmous Aaununs ‘azaal{ siabuy Anoad ayou uazfo day ‘PpADY PUD PjOI ald S]]DgMOUsS 43]ULA WOOTH MVH MOVIE The Chorus of the Forest from the forest and spread over lake and river as early as four o’clock in the afternoon. They are of tireless flight, darting here and there with mouths wide open for whatever they come across, as they take their food on wing. Especially dur- ing the breeding season the males do aerial stunts, possibly for the diversion of weary mates. They soar seventy-five or one hundred feet, spread the wings and tail widely, and drop toward earth, the wind passing between the stiff feathers causing the whistling, booming sound that earns for them the name of “night jar.” This performance does jar the night somewhat, and might the nerves also, were it wise to allow ourselves such a luxury. I prefer the term to night hawk, since the birds are not nearly so much creatures of night as they should be to merit dis- tinct designation by the name; neither are they hawks at all, but relatives of martins and swal- lows. Aside from this instrumental performance on wing they utter a nice, cheerful scream that some peculiar folks insist upon disliking, but then there are people in this world who are forever rais- ing strong objections to the vocalizing of their human neighbors. Night jars have a third per- formance, half vocal, half pantomimic, that is most remarkable of all. When surprised close their nests, cornered, or slightly wounded, they lie on their backs, swell their facial and throat muscles 111 Jarring the Night Silent Wings Music of the Wild to astonishing size, and hiss, with mouths wide open. So the ever-discerning French call them “flying toads,” to commemorate the performance. I can not change the subject after this without saying for these birds that they are beautiful, in rich colors of blended black, gray, creamy white, several shades of brown, and the red that scientists designate “rufous;” combinations that render them especial colorative protection among the grasses, leaves, and on the earth or rocks upon which they nest. In monetary value they are almost priceless. They do not destroy anything of use to man, while they gather millions of grasshoppers that are cut- ting crops, and sift the air tirelessly for insect pests. On wing the white bands of the quills form a half-moon that distinguishes them from the whip- poor-will, for which they are often mistaken. When night envelopes the forest there travel its dusky aisles and dark mazes three creatures of soundless wing: great, exquisitely colored night moths, owls, and bats. ‘The moths are mostly con- fined to the months of May and June. Few peo- ple see and none ever hear them. Matured in a cocoon spun by a big caterpillar, performing all the functions of their lives under cover of the dark- ness of night, and spending their few days in the darkest places possible, never moving in the light except when disturbed, one would imagine they would be dark-gray, brown, and black in coloring. 112 BLACK HAWS As odd a thing as you ever saw Is the changing color of the black haw. All its berries hang china white; Jack Frost paints them black some October night; When the sun sees this ebon hue, He veils it in ‘bloom’ of silvery blue. The Chorus of the Forest I think most of the tints of the rainbow are repre- sented among them. Some are palest blue-green, decorated with straw color and lavender; others are cowslip-yellow, with touches of maroon; some are tan, with pink markings, and others terra cotta, with canary-colored spots and gray lines. Some are gray, with terra cotta half-moons; others are wine-red, with tan; all are of beautiful basic color, speckled, dotted, lined, striped, and spotted with bright harmonizing or contrasting designs on their wings of softest velvet down. Some have trans- parent ovals so clear that fine print can be read through them, set in their wings, and most moths are large as the average warbler. They sweep so close that your face is sensitive to the disturbance of air in their passing, but you hear no sound. Their flight is soft and perfectly noiseless. The owl can afford to be of silent wing, it so dominates the night with its voice. It would give me great satisfaction if I had some way of know- ing surely whether other birds sleep serenely dur- ing its vehement serenade either to the moon or to a coveted mate, or whether they are awake and shuddering with fear. I know how the heart of a frightened bird leaps and throbs in its small breast, and I would be glad to learn that they sleep soundly, but I doubt it. They are awake and fluttering through the dark- ness at such slight disturbance of other nature. 115 The Pariah of the Forest Music of the Wild There is no difficulty whatever in learning the status of owl music among people. Repulsion and shuddering greet it everywhere. I have been making an especial study of this, and I think I have learned how it began. The Bible contains our first authentic bird his- tory, but ornithologists before that time in other lands, and all of them everywhere since, are unan- imous in doing all in their power to discredit the vocal performance of the owl. I can not find a single reference to it in the Bible not expressly written for the purpose of inspiring fear and re- pulsion. Isaiah says in predicting the fall of Bab- ylon, “And their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there.” Micah said he would “make a wailing like the dragons and a mourning as the owls.” When Da- vid fell into trouble he became “like a pelican of the wilderness and an owl of the desert.” Such quotations constitute the entire Bible record of the bird, and taking their cue from these,—ornitholo- gists, nature writers, and even poets perpetuate such ideas. Proctor distinguished himself by a lengthy owl poem, from which I quote,— In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral ow] doth dwell ; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he’s abroad and well: 116 ‘sajpb4id 40f way) 7nd uaaa Gay] ‘sybno1) puo saajyaag ‘sdund 10f way) yno dayy ‘SajpD] PUD SdOOdS ‘SayDdA ‘S]NDW 404 ‘sooudf PUD 8a]qDIs ‘sulgDd 4of way] Jno day The Chorus of the Forest And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold, And she loveth the wood’s deep gloom, And, with eyes like the shine of a moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom.’’ The sentiment belongs to the poet, the italics are mine. Now, would you not think that the bride who is “fond and bold,” and who “loveth” her home, might have just one line of whole-souled appreciation out of a lengthy poem? But she did not get it because the people who have written the volumes compiled owl history would make have forgotten to give one minute of consideration to the viewpoint of the bird. Do you suppose that to the owl her mate is “dull, hated, despised, spec- tral, ghastly,” and only fit company for “doleful creatures, satyrs, and dragons?” If you ever had seen her nestle close to him, rub her head against him, stroke his feathers with her beak, and heard her jabber her love-story to him, you would change your mind speedily, if that is what you have been thinking. There is good excuse for other birds fearing the owl. It seems to be ordained by nature that the larger species prey upon the smaller for food, and they suffer from the law without being able to argue its justice. But people have nothing to fear and everything to enlist their sympathy. I think the truth is the shudder that greets the vo- calizing of the owl is not really for the bird at all, 119 The Owls’ Serenade Music of the Wild but a touch of fear of the forest at night. yet in the system. WVdd ACILNOON WHHL 4O SANVUE, Songs of the Fields Long farm. This season, when a study of them was wanted in their prime, the cameras were loaded, and the trip made in all confidence—not a lily was to be found, nor the ghost of a lily. Kven more, the embankment next the woods was cut away at least a foot in depth, and leveled. Then began a search all over my country for a large bed of them, with no results. A week had not helped matters, when my critic came from a drive and announced that beside the railroad, half way to Bryant, was a superb growth of lilies that, she thought, was just what I wanted. She brought one for a sam- ple, and she was not mistaken. So great was the fear that flower hunters might gather them or railroad employees mow the land that the trip was made in the rain. ce I come from haunts of coot and hern,’ sang Tennyson of his. My Limberlost comes from the same haunts, and nothing can convince me that any running water on the face of earth is more interesting or more beautiful. I have read of the streams that flow over India’s golden sands, down Italy’s mountains, through England’s mead- ows; but none of them can sing sweeter songs or have more interest to the inch than the Limberlost. It is born in the heart of swampy wood and thicket, flows over a bed of muck or gravel, the banks are grass and flower-lined, its waters cooled and shaded by sycamore, maple, and willow. June drapes it in misty white, and November spreads a blanket of scarlet and gold. In the water fish, turtle, crab, muskrat, and water puppy disport themselves. Along the shores the sandpiper, plover, coot, bittern, heron, and crane take their pleasure and seek their food. Above it the hawk se 289 The Song of the Limberlost What the Limberlost Knows Music of the Wild and vulture wheel, soar, and sail in high heaven, and the kingfisher dashes in merry rattling flight between the trees, his reflection trailing after him across sunlit pools. The quail leads her chickens from the thicket to drink, and the wild ducks con- verse among the rushes. In it the coon carefully washes the unwary frog caught among the reeds, and the muskrat furrows deeper ripples than the stones. The lambs play on the pebbly banks and drink eagerly, the cattle roll grateful eyes as they quench their thirst and stand belly-deep for hours lazily switching their tails to drive away flies. Little children come shouting to wade in the cool waters, and larger ones solemnly sit on the banks with apple-sucker rods, wrapping twine lines and bent pin hooks, supporting their families by their indus- try, if the gravity of their faces be token of the importance of their work. Sweethearts linger beside the stream and surprise themselves with a new wonder they just have discovered—their se- cret; but the Limberlost knows, and promises never to tell. Perhaps that is what it chuckles about while slipping around stones, over fallen trees, and whis- pering across beds of black ooze. The Limberlost is a wonderful musician, singing the song of run- ning water throughout its course. Singing that low, somber, sweet little song that you must get 290 ‘]100 Oulppam day aapam vy ‘Sdad] UNA pj1M ay7 YyIDaU, sasnDad ays ‘a]DA SJUaUADE JDPIdg OY UT ‘PSOPAOQUIT ay? UMOP Sauod aun UuaYAA LSOTUAAWIT AHL AO DNOS AHL Songs of the Fields very close earth to hear, because the creek has such mighty responsibility it hesitates to sing loudly lest it appear to boast. All these creatures to feed and water; all these trees and plants to nourish! The creek is so happy that it can do all this, and if it runs swiftly other woods, thickets, fields, and meadows can be watered. Then the river must be reached as soon as possible, for there are factory wheels to be turned, boats to be carried, and the creek has heard that some day it is to be a part of the great ocean. When the Limberlost thinks of that its song grows a little more exultant and proud, bends are swept with swifter measure, louder notes are sung, and every bird, bee, insect, man, and child along the banks joins in the accom- paniment. All the trees rustle and whisper, shak- ing their branches to shower it with a baptism of gold in pollen time. The rushes and blue flags murmur together, and the creek and every sound belonging to it all combine in the song of the Lim- berlost. Sometimes it slips into the thicket, as on the Bone farm; for it is impartial, and perhaps feels more at home there than in the meadows, surely more than in cultivated fields, where the banks often are stripped bare, the waters grow feverish and fetid, its song is hushed, and its spirit broken. But in the thicket the birds gather very low above the surface, the branches dip into the friendly 293 The Whisper Song Music of the Wild floods, and it nourishes such an abundance of rank growth as men scarcely can penetrate. Then the Limberlost and the thicket hold a long conversa- tion, to tell each other how very content and happy they are. The bed of the Limberlost in the thicket is ooze and muck, so the water falls silent while slipping over the velvet softness, with only a whis- per to the birds and trees; not so loud as the song of the flags, rushes, and water hyacinths that grow on the banks. The many trees and masses of shrubs lower their tones to answer the creek, and he who would know their secret must find for him- self a place on the bank and be very quiet, for in the thicket the stream will sing only the softest lullaby, just the merest whisper sone. The big turtles in the water are quiet folk. So are the sinous black snakes sunning on the bushes, and the muskrats homing along the banks. As if loth to break the dark, damp stillness with louder notes, the doves coo softly; for they, too, have a secret, the greatest of any bird in all the world. No wonder they keep together and live so lovingly, and coo and coo softly; those wild, ten- der, and—above all other—loving birds. One would think they would warble from the treetops and soar with the eagle, had not long years taught that modesty and tenderness are their most promi- nent characteristics. For this is their secret. They are the chosen 294 ‘aadop ay) fo 009 ay} U] ad10a $}1 spulf IDYT ‘aao] Qn47 $17, ang ‘fa16 21 yulyz any HAOd ONIGOOUE <& Songs of the Fields bird of Omnipotence. It was a dove that carried the news of release to the prisoners in the ark, and it was in the form of a dove that the Spirit of The Bird God is said to have materialized and hovered over °f 64 the head of Jesus when He was baptized in the Jordan. What other bird bears honors high as these? Yet doves home in the thicket, on a few rough twigs they place their pearly, opalescent eggs, and in trembling anxiety brood and raise a pair of young that go modestly and lovingly through life, exactly the same as their parents. Nowhere else in all nature does the softly-uttered coo of a dove so harmonize with the environment as over a stream in a thicket; and no accompani- ment to the murmuring voice of the Limberlost is quite so melodious as the love-song of this bird. The thicket seems a natural home for almost every feathered creature. This because there are trees, bushes, and shrubs, with their berries, nuts, and fruits; vines and weeds bearing seed; every variety of insect and worm, and water with its sup- ply of food, thus providing things to eat in a small space for almost every species. In spring and sum- mer the birds have full sway; but in the fall, after the first black frost, come rugged country boys and girls and village children in search of fruit and nuts. To some there is nothing so delicious as the black haw—white until almost ripe, then a day of 297 Music of the Wild mottled estate, and then such a luscious, shining black berry it has no equal; and if the birds get any they must be ahead of the boys and girls. The opossums must be before the boys at the persim- mon tree, for few are left when they finish. The robins love wild grapes, and cedar birds the poke berries, and squirrels, hazelnuts. Hazel bushes are beautiful. The leaf is some- thing like the elm in shape, though the hazel is of finer cutting. They are nearly the same size, deeply grooved on top, and heavily veined under- neath. The nuts grow from two to six in a cluster and are sheltered in a leafy, pulpy green cover with fringed edges, most artistic and, I should think, of great benefit to the decorator searching for an un- hackneyed subject. There are many places where they could be used with fine effect in leather work, especially as the ripe nut is a good leather color. But the boy who reaches the hazel bushes before the squirrels gets up very early in the morning, and then only too often to find that the worms have been ahead of him; for when green the shells of hazelnut and chestnut are so very soft that bee- tles bore into them and deposit eggs that hatch, and the worm develops inside the shell, that hard- ens later. ‘This explains why so often you crack a perfectly sound nut and find a wormy kernel. When the Limberlost leaves the thicket and comes into the open again it does not spread, as 298 ‘UOSAOUL — « UAADOY JY) PUD “4dal4 ay? ‘SpooM puD sij1y saplET 41D paqiym ay? /7461]D 07 ataymou suiaas ‘spay ay] 42,0 Bujalip ‘pup ‘mous ay Saaudy ‘ays ay7 fo sjadwniz ay? 2D aq Paounouuy,, HHL NO UALNIM NI HSVE€Va aHL dO SHNVE Sones of the Fields it did on the bed of ooze; for in the firm clay soil of fields and meadows only a narrow channel is cut, and so with forces renewed by concentration it comes slipping across Bone’s woods pasture. Through his fields, always tree-shaded, it flows, and then crosses farms whose owners I am glad I do not know; for here my creek is robbed of shelter, and left to spread ineffectually, and to evaporate in fetid, unwholesome pools. ‘The trees are cut, and grazing stock by wading everywhere trample down the banks and fill the channel with soil; thus wantonly wasting water that in a few more years these land-owners will be digging ditches to reclaim. With broken heart it is dissi- pated by the sun, and a dry sob of agony is the only note raised as it painfully oozes across this land and beneath the road bridge. Here the creek reaches deep-shaded channel once more, and bursts into song crossing iArman- trout’s pasture; for it 1s partly shaded, though many large trees on the banks are being felled. iA happy song is sung on the Rayn farm, where it is sheltered by trees and a big hill. In full force it crosses the road again, slides below the railroad bridge, rounds the hill, chanting a requiem to the little city of the dead on its banks, flows through the upper corner of the old Limberlost swamp, hurries across the road once more, and so comes singing into Schaffer’s meadow. 301 Where the Creek Mourns The Creek Meets the River Music of the Wild The low, open meadow covered closely with cropped velvet grass, “green pastures,” where full- fed cattle lie in deep shade. Nowhere in its course to the river does the Limberlost “preen” and sing exultingly as when crossing this meadow. All the water babies travel with it, the kingfisher and the plover follow; the children play along the banks, and if it has any intuition at all, surely the creek can see gratitude in the eyes of the inhabitants of the meadow as they thrust their muzzles in the depths or stand cooling under trees. If the Lim- berlost loves admiration, here it receives a full share. ‘The banks are covered with enough trees and bushes to maxe almost continuous shade for the waters, and a thing of beauty it goes laughing on the way to the Wabash. In fact it is so close the river here that big fish come adventuring and to spawn, and their splash is part of the music that the family living on the banks hears daily. Mr. Schaffer says that he can stand on his back porch, bait a fish, turn, and drop it into the fry- ing-pan. This really could be done, but much as I have trespassed there I never have seen the fish on their way anywhere except to the river. Aside from the song of the creek and the birds that follow, there comes an occasional wild duck, sometimes a loon lost in migration or slightly wounded by a hunter, and every spring and fall migrating wild geese pay a visit and add strange 302 gSdva} pajujqz-yuld $71 daan puy ‘4aainb pnq-pad ay) pynoys dys, sipad Buisspd fo Gof ay? YIM “aay ay] umop sdaams bulidg uayM « qnd day Songs of the Fields voices to the running chorus. Through Grove’s meadow, adjoining, the creek is wilder and wider, and then gathering force in a last rush, with a glad song it goes hurrying to mingle with the Wabash. The river, when swollen with the flood of spring rains, sings a sweeping, irresistible measure that carries one’s thoughts by force; but this is its most monotonous production. There is little vari- ation, and the birds are the strongest accompanists. Later, when it falls into the regular channel, it sings its characteristic song and appears so much happier and more content. I believe the river loves and does not willingly leave its bed. When a strong, muddy current it sweeps the surface from valuable fields, drowns stock and washes away fences; it works as if forced, and I like to think the task is disagreeable. At times it seems to moan and sob, while sucking around big tree trunks and washing across meadows and fields. When it comes home again and runs in the proper channel it shouts and sings with glee the true song of the river. You can hear the water triumph as it swirls around great maple and syca- more roots, chuckle as it buffets against rocks, gurgle across shoals, and trill where it ripples over a pebbly floor. The muskrat weaves currents against its flow, the carp wallow in mucky pools, and the black bass leap in air as if too full of life to remain in their element. s 305 The Flood. Song God’s Rarest Color Music of the Wild The river is a liouse, the bed its floor, the sur- face its roof, and all the water-folk its residents. What a wonderful thing it would be if the water were transparent, that we might see the turtles, eels, and catfish busy with the affairs of life; bass, pickerel, and suckers maintaining the laws of su- premacy, and water puppies at play! When the purple tints on its banks fade, tree-bloom baptizes it with golden pollen, and a week later showers it with snowy petals of wild plum, thorne, crab, and haw.