NATURAL HISTORY. 



THE PEWEE. 



ANSON EVANS. 



The dusty highway gradually descended 

 the wooded hill until suddenly wheeling 

 around a copse of witch hazel, in the centre 

 of which stood a stooping dogwood tree, 

 it dipped down a rather abrupt bit of quiet 

 heather and then crawled across a tidy iron 

 bridge that spanned the creek at this point. 

 A hundred yards or so below, to which an 

 old road bed led, occasionally almost 

 wholly obliterated by rich clusters of black- 

 berry briers, but which had at one time 

 been the pride of the entire neighborhood, 

 the creek crept under an old fashioned 

 puncheon bridge, long since reeking with 

 mould. A portion of the flooring had fallen 

 away, exposing the more endurable girders, 

 now showing streaks of decay across their 

 surface, like the wrinkles on an old man's 

 brow. The log abutments had slipped 

 somewhat, owing to the weakness of the 

 mud-sills, and where the abutting banks 

 grinned, the buckberry bushes spread their 

 matted mantle. Banisters that had once 

 done duty as rustic seats for love sick 

 swains, still stretched athwart the bridge 

 on either side, but now grown feeble with 

 senility. 



On the high banks just above, an old 

 beech tree, on whose bark had been carved 

 the name of numerous country celebrities, 

 had succumbed to the storms and had 

 toppled over. In its dirt-meshed roots a 

 cunning mink had reared its young, mak- 

 ing frequent nocturnal incursions to the 

 poultry houses of neighboring farmers. 

 The trunks of some of the once mighty 

 monarchs of the forest lay along the water 

 side, offering a suitable place for the slimy 

 turtle to enjoy a noon siesta, while from 

 the marshy tanglewood a bee martin would 

 occasionally dart forth and snap at the 

 dragon flies that lilted over the water on 

 wings of gossamer. The sharp breaking of 

 a dry twig, echoing preternaturally loud on 

 the dense stillness that pervaded every- 

 where throughout the wooded glen, was 

 the signal for some myopic owl to give vent 

 to wing and flap awkwardly away to more 

 secure cover. 



The occasional whisk of the languid 

 breeze as it came tiptoeing through the lazy 

 foliage of pawpaw and young hickory, 

 drove tiny ripples across the surface of the 

 water, whereat the green coated frog, the 

 leading basso of the aquatic orchestra, 

 winked his eyes in lazy delight. 



The brown busked wren, with the smart- 

 est of tails, frisked in and out from the most 

 inconceivable of places, flashing its beady 

 black eyes at the bees that were ham- 

 mocked in the red haw boughs above, while 



the low coo of the dove, scarcely breaking 

 in upon the stillness, was hushed almost to 

 a sigh by the shrilling of a passing hawk, 

 circling in the furzy sky. The kingfisher 

 arrayed in a blue-gray coat, with an oc- 

 casional black stripe, flew in seesaw glides, 

 keeping near the water, and once in awhile 

 giving vent to a short sharp treble sadly 

 lacking in rythm. 



It was a very quiet place. Seldom did a 

 song bird of note ever enliven its precincts 

 by its silvery melody. Yet I loved to hie 

 away to this quiet nook and spend an after- 

 noon angling for the pretty sun-perch that 

 abounded in the deep holes of the creek. 

 Times I have remarked the presence of a 

 grayish colored bird, large and alert, with 

 beautiful brown eyes, who broke forth in 

 song as musical as that of the brown thrush; 

 but scarcely would he tune his voice ere he 

 lapsed into desuetude, and winged himself 

 away. He was very shy, never permitting 

 any familiarity, and I am still wholly igno- 

 rant of his name. He had a fawn-colored 

 breast, and was in size about the equal of 

 the thrush, whose silvery melodies were 

 occasionally intoned from the top twig of 

 some far away poplar, falling almost in- 

 audibly in the peaceful valley. 



While sitting rod in hand on one of the 

 tree trunks by the brookside, awaiting a 

 nibble from some member of the finny 

 tribe, I frequently noticed a dove-colored 

 bird, with white breast, dash out from 

 covert, seize a mosquito slowly rising from 

 the stagnant water, and fly to some nearby 

 reed, on which he would perch himself and 

 eye me impudently. He was a very ordi- 

 nary looking individual, possessing no at- 

 traction, save that his feathery locks looked 

 rather smart combed up in a neat psyche 

 on the top of his head. This humble bird, 

 whose few notes cannot be said to ap- 

 proach the dignity of song, was the pewee 

 or phoebe bird (Contopus vireus). 



The pewee is an idler. He does not seem 

 to have any particular aim in life, yet 

 he seems to enjoy himself in his own pe- 

 culiar way. From his retiring disposition 

 he evidently is aware of the fact that he can- 

 not hope to compete with a single neighbor 

 in the field of song. He will sit for an hour 

 on the top of a swaying iron-weed without 

 essaying a single note, all interest seeming 

 to have gone out of his life. Suddenly will 

 break forth in a querulous voice his quaint 

 two-syllable song: " Pee-wee! pee-wee! 

 pee- wit! " Poor fellow! try hard as he 

 may he utterly fails to go farther in his 

 musical vocabulary. He must be a dullard 

 indeed! 



Under the old dilapidated bridge, plas- 

 tered to a girder with mud, is the pewee's 

 nest. A few tendrils of poison ivy creep 



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