BIRD NOTES FROM THE CUMBERLANDS, 



NOVEMBER. 



I like the woods in early winter. The 

 wind slaps one in the face and boxes his 

 ears with the energy born of long so- 

 journ in the Far North ; there are rust- 

 ling leaves as in "the good old summer 

 time," but they are underfoot, not over- 

 head ; the trees stand out, each in his 

 own individuality, instead of losing 

 themselves in the forest. 



Summer buries the senses under an 

 avalanche of sensations, colors, sounds, 

 odors ; winter makes one hunt for them, 

 and he feels all the better for his effort 

 when his search is crowned with success. 

 The lone oak that has kept its leaves in 

 spite of frost and wind can be studied 

 better now that his competitors for at- 

 tention have lost theirs. The bit of 

 blackberry vine with its green and red 

 leaves- peeping up^ through the first 

 snowfall is all the prettier for his dainty 

 background ; the wild rose with red seed 

 vessels still adhering waves its slender 

 arms in the wind, secure in the belief 

 that there are no rivals to be feared at 

 this season of the year. 



The birds, too, are not so confusing 

 as in the warmer months. If one has 

 passed the first stage of the ornitho- 

 logical infection ; if the itch for numbers 

 has given way to the steady glow of en- 

 thusiasm and one has come to study the 

 birds themselves ; the reduction in the 

 number of species will prove only a 

 tonic. The coming of the cold tests the 

 ornithologists, sifting out the sheep from 

 the goats with unerring accuracy ; it de- 

 cides definitely whether one's enthusi- 

 asrn is the real article or is a by-product 

 of spring fever, so to speak. 



In 1903 winter settled down over the 

 continent much earlier than usual. 

 Even in the Cumberland region of East- 

 ern Kentucky where the ground seldom 

 freezes hard enough to support one's 

 weight till after Christmas, winter, real 

 winter came soon after the middle of 



November. Beginning with November 

 14, for five consecutive weeks I gave 

 one forenoon out of seven to the study 

 of a certain little valley and its life. It 

 was a very ordinary valley as valleys 

 go in that part of the Appalachians, and 

 I assure you that they are numerous 

 enough to suit the most exacting 

 throughout the foothills of the Cumber- 

 lands ; a creek. Red River the natives 

 call it, formed the center of attraction ; 

 on both banks growing almost down to 

 the water's edge was an almost impene- 

 trable tangle of river birch, alders, wil- 

 low and Cottonwood. On both sides of 

 this narrow strip of bottom land rose 

 the hills forest clad to their summits, 

 thickets of haw and crabapple scattered 

 here and there among the larger growth, ' 

 oaks, maples, beeches, chestnuts and 

 poplars. 



Toward this little valley I set my face 

 that morning in mid-November. In the 

 weed patches near the stream j uncos, 

 the ''snow bird" of a large portion of 

 our country were very plentiful. The 

 havoc that they were working in the 

 weed patch prophesied an easy time for 

 the farmer next year in his struggle 

 with the weeds; if they work like this 

 for any length of time there won't be 

 enough seeds left to propagate the spe- 

 cies. Here and there on the border of 

 the bottom lands are clumps of smilax 

 still green and smiling if the frosts have 

 been hard and frequent. Distance lends 

 enchantment to the view ; this particu- 

 lar variety of smilax, sometimes called 

 horse-nettle, is armed with strong thorns 

 that scratch and tear the shoes of all 

 who venture into their midst. 



Leaving the lowlands I climbed the 

 hill opposite, not stopping till I came to 

 a terrace half way to the summit. This 

 shelf is covered with a fine persimmon 

 grove; already the elements and the 

 wild creatures have done their work 

 among the little amber globes, but here 



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