404 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[June 19, 1884. 



pinnated grouse. The latter flew with all the swiftness of 

 which fear rendered it capable, yet the hawk, with apparent 

 ease, flapping those broad wings steadily bnt in a leisurely 

 manner, followed close behind, gradually shortening the 

 distance that separated him from his victim. For more than 

 a mile the race continued, and at last, the grouse, overcome 

 by either fatigue or fear, came to the ground, and the hawk 

 followed immediately. They were by this time so distant 

 that I could not see' the final result, but I had little doubt 

 that the quarry proved an easy victim and served for many 

 a fine repast, 1 had not previously credited the hawk with 

 so much courage, and I think his* prowess is not generally 

 appreciated. 



With the first approach of spring, not the "ethereal mild- 

 ness" of the past, but the stormy, disagreeable early spring 

 of practical life, the prairie takes a still more uninviting ap- 

 pearance. There was something grand, almost sublime, in 

 the vast, unbroken, dazzling whiteness of the typical winter 

 landscape, but this now gives place to a dirty, dismal, muddy 

 expanse, which calls forth neither the sadly-pleasant reveries 

 ©f autumn nor the joyful vivacity of the late spring time. 

 The snow melts and stands in pools in the level prairie, and 

 swells the "sloughs" and little ponds of the more rolling 

 country into vast shallow sluggish rivers, and cold, dark, 

 silent lakes. Even the birds seem to have left for more 

 pleasant scenes, and for a few days a fertile soil has the 

 dreary visage of a desert. 



But in a day all is changed . What seemed the fit abode 

 of death now teems with life. Ducks of a dozen species 

 throng the ponds, and geese, brant, and cranes stalk about 

 on the higher grounds. Pintails and mallards, in flocks of 

 hundreds or even thousands, visit the last year's corn and 

 oat fields, literally blackening the ground as they feed and 

 the air as they rise. An occasional blue heron (Ariea herodias) 

 flies silently over the water courses, the brown bittern skulks 

 among the'slough grass and dwarfed willows, the Wilson 

 snipe spiings in erratic flight on every side, and the shrill 

 whistle of the curlew breaks anon upon the almost audible 

 silence that yesterday pervaded the very atmosphere. 



All this is but a transition scene, in a few weeks these 

 welcome visitors have retired to their summer haunts, but in 

 their places there are others who arc not visitors merely, but 

 residents come to spend the entire summer. And how differ- 

 ent is the face with which nature greets them from that which 

 of late she wore. All now is smiles and gladness. The ponds 

 and sloughs have returned to their wonted limits, the upland 

 is dry and its coat of dusky brown has given place to one of 

 loveliest green, sprinkled here and there with golden butter- 

 cups and subdued by the exquisite purple of the pasque 

 flowers and violets. ' Now, indeed, does the face of nature 

 smile as one who wakes gladly from a peaceful sleep. Her 

 creatures of the prairie, though less varied in kind than those 

 of the woodland, are sufficiently abundant to lend animation 

 to the enchanting scene. Spermophiles, our most typical 

 prairie mammals, whisk gayly here and there, or viewing us 

 suspiciously from their door-sill, prepare to dive into the 

 bowels of the earth at our nearer approach. Little sparrows, 

 most conspicuous among which is the yellow-winged, make 

 the air vibrate with their ditty, while the ubiquitous black- 

 throat buntings chant their clinking strain on every side. 



And there, stalking so gracefully, with that slender neck 

 responding to each motion of the body, or floating along 

 with broad wings tremulously vibrating in a manner that 

 marks him unmistakably, is our most characteristic upland 

 bird of summer, the Bartramian tattler. A little shy and 

 reserved he was at 'first, but now the very embodiment of 

 confiding trust, and at all times a model of gentle graceful- 

 ness aud meekness. Knowing the characteristics of the 

 family to which he belongs, and watching him individually, 

 one would not suspect him of having any other notes than 

 the melodious, undulating chuckle which he usually utters 

 as he takes wing. But he has others, nevertheless, and his 

 song — for such it really deserves to be called — is the wild- 

 est, shrillest sound to be heard on the prairies. It is not like 

 a bird note, and, in fact, I think of nothing in nature which 

 it resembles save the shrieking of a gale; and a poet, not 

 seeing the bird, would doubtless attribute the sound to the 

 prairie wind sporting among the clouds, for the tattler gives 

 birth to his thrilling strain only while suspended high in air. 

 A corruption of the sound may be brought to the mind of 

 one who has never heard it by whistling shrilly an imitation 

 of the sounds ''(cheep-cheer tcu-l,"- the first two syllables being- 

 very much prolonged. Beginning low in the scale, a grad- 

 ual ascent is made till a very high tone is reached, which is 

 caught up by the second syllable and the scale descended to 

 the point of commencement. These notes, like the boomings 

 of the grouse, are heard as distinctly, and seem as loud, at a 

 great distance as when near at hand ; but such is not the 

 case with a low, chuckling prelude which invariably pre- 

 cedes them but is often lost in the air. The tattler's return 

 to earth, when he has tired of repeating his wild strain, 

 reminds one of that of the shore lark, already described; buta 

 it is a little less bold and not absolutely perpendicular, th<r 

 wings being partly unfolded. 



We would gladly bid time pause at this season that wfe 

 might longer revel in the luxuriance of it? pleasures ; but * 

 cannot be. Spring shades gradually but all too quickly into 

 early summer, and the vivacity of Nature gives place to a 

 dreamy somnolence. Even the* birds are listless and forget to 

 sing, save the ever present black-throat bunting, whose chant, 

 breaking in upon the drowsy stillness, becomes monotonous 

 from frequent repetition. The vegetation is assuming some- 

 thing of a parched and withered hue. in keeping with the 

 golden sheen of the harvest fields. The sun's rays fall with 

 constantly increasing force. There is no shelter, and often 

 for a whole day not" a hand's breadth of cloud dots the clear 

 azure above. What wonder that the birds are silent? And 

 yet, but for the heat, what surroundings could be more in 

 harmony with poetic inspirations? An expanse of grass 

 sprinkled with golden rods and asters, bounded only by the 

 over-arching sky ; absolute silence, broken only by the hum 

 of insects, an 'all-pervading sense of vastness, of silent 

 grandeur, of sublime peacefulness— surely no spot, unless it 

 be the deep, primeval forest, could better engender a feeling 

 of contentment and rest, an appreciation of the force of a 

 dreamy, idealistic philosophy. 



But the summer days are also sped, and sadly, yet not 

 without pleasure of a somber kind, we note that the year is 

 dying. Our prairie now of itself has few charms; but the 

 stir and bustle among it inhabitants afford new scenes each 

 day for the observant eye. The more tender buds move off 

 to the south, and each day some new migrant appears from 

 the north to tarry for a few days or weeks before again 

 taking up its journey. The warm showers have been suc- 



The wildfowl appear again and animate the prairie as in the 

 spring time. A season of calm succeeds — the Indian sum- 

 mer — that smoky, quiet season when all is serene and peace- 

 ful, yet all suggestive of death, dreary, a change. And the 

 change is at hand. A sharper frost kills the last hardy 

 stems, and puts upon the water a coat that the wildfowl 

 cannot break; the chilly blast whistles unchecked across the 

 prairie, bringing the first scurrying snowfiakes; the last 

 goose honks his farewell for theseason, and the stillness of 

 the night, of winter settles over the scene. 

 Charles City, Iowa. 



THE COUESIAN PERIOD. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



The letter in your issue of the 12th inst., addressed to the 

 Chairman Section of Avian Anatomy, A. O. U., and signed 

 by "Amicus Socrates, amicus Plato, magis arnica Veritas," 'has 

 just been read by me. I beg leave to say to your corres- 

 pondent that notwithstanding "the fact that he informs me 

 that he is a member of the Union, this is no reason, nor can 

 he expect it. that I am called upon to answer an anonymous 

 letter. It is something I have never been guilty of, and I 

 do not intend to depart from my views upon such matters in 

 the present instance. I am prompted in writing this letter- 

 simply by the fact that I do not wish your correspondent to 

 think me so discourteous as not to take any cognizance of 

 his communication whatever, or much less that he has 

 written something that is unanswerable. So soon as he does 

 me this honor, and is manly enough to attach his proper 

 name to his views, it will give me pleasure to respond to 

 him and answer his questions to the best of my ability. I 

 am too old an ornithologist, to say nothing of my experience 

 in kindred matters, to be caught "gunning in the dark." 



B. W. Shttfei/DT. 



Washington, June 13, 1884. 



RODENTS AS CARNIVORES. 



MY acquaintance with the muskrat has been intimate for 

 some time. In the winter of 1822-31 saw a dead 

 horse thrown down the river bank against some trees. The 

 muskrats had a beaten path in the snow from a hole in the 

 bauk, some twenty feet distant, to the carcass, on which 

 they fed half the winter. The inference is, then, a fair one, 

 that they would gladly have added variety to their diet by 

 fishing, if circumstances favored, and this is certainly 

 strengthened by the fact that, in March of the present year, 

 a man, fishing through the ice for pickerel, after a hard 

 tussel with "a big one," drew out a muskrat on his hook. 

 The skill of this animal in opening bivalves is proverbial, 

 and yet he is often driven to straits for food in winter, as he 

 doesnot hibernate. I once caught one burrowing under the 

 snow, like a mouse or mole, gnawing grass roots from the 

 frozen ground. 



But this is not the only rodent that has outraged "classifi- 

 cation," and eaten forbidden fruit. During my sojourn 

 among the mountains the past summer, a young woodchuck 

 fell into our hands, and was in many respects a petted favor- 

 ite. My brother had already paid $5 bounty on dead ones, 

 to save "his clover fields from damage, but here was an inno- 

 cent prisoner, and of course he was not killed but fed. 



All through July, August and September, he was at meal 

 times "a regular boarder," pulling at my clothing until sup- 

 plied. Bread, milk and cooked potatoes constituted his favor- 

 ite diet, and he manifested a decided preference for cake. 

 For this food he abandoned clover entirely. 



In October he dug a hole and foraged promiscuously upon 

 any light cotton or muslin fabric for a nest. I found him 

 dragging a large pillow into his hole, and stopped the busi- 

 ness by placing armsful of rowen hay at the entrance. 

 This soon disappeared, and hie visits to the table were less 

 frequent. Early in November he closed the blinds, pulled 

 down the curtains, and we saw him no more. 



Late in March of the present year, he came out in fair 

 condition, resuming at once his place in the household and 

 demanding the rations of the former year. One day we 

 passed him sitting bolt upright holding half a sucker in his 

 hands, just caught. He was biting off large pieces and eat- 

 ing with all the seeming relish of an otter. Soon the season 

 of family arrangements came on, and he left for a mate, per- 

 haps to return, but most likely to meet his death at a stranger 

 hand. 



Nor is the squirrel family, preeminently "nut crackers, 

 exempt from the same, charge. 1 once set one at liberty in 

 my laboratory to play hide and seek among boxes and speci- 

 mens, but his partiality for bird meat, aDd ignorance of the 

 physical effects of arsenic soon cost him his life. 



B. HOKSFOKD. 



Springfield, Mass. 



""" FISH AND SNAKES. 



THE writer, who has fished more or less each season for 

 many years, has long been aware of this habit of snakes 

 taking fish,* and after careful observation I am firmly con- 

 vinced that fish furnish a great source of diet to a large por- 

 tion of the snake family. 



On Saturday last, the writer with a companion was fishing 

 for pickerel in the outlet of a pond near this city, and while 

 thus engaged we were treated to a very remarkable exhibi- 

 tion of this habit among snakes. As our boat was slowly 

 paddled along the shore among the lily pads, the writer, who 

 wielded the rod, noticed a large striped perch alarmed at 

 our approach, dart into a small cove, and the next instant 

 there followed a great commotion in the water. As our boat 

 was moved slightly so as to obtain a better view, we saw a 

 large snake holding the struggling perch iu its mouth above 

 the water and making its way slowly to the shore. Scarcely 

 had it reached the bank with its victim when there rushed 

 from some hidden retreat among the bushes another snake at 

 least a foot longer than the other, and instantly a terrible strug- 

 gle took place between them for the fish . O ver each other they 

 rolled and writhed upon the ground. One instant both would 

 be tugging at the fish, then the fish would lie upon the 

 ground, and over his struggling form the snakes would roll 

 in battle in a desperate struggle for the mastery. At last by 

 a mighty effort the larger beat off the smaller, seized the fish 

 in its mouth and glided into the water, whereupon the 

 smaller became the attacking party and another terrible 

 struggle took place in the water. At last, as though becom- 

 ing tired of the unequal combat, the smaller one disengaged 

 itself from the frav, and with a slow, tired motion, swam 

 slowly ashore among the bushes. The other, holding his 

 ill-gotien prey aloft, at least a foot above the water, went 



view the fight) we cast them at his snakeship, and he was 

 soon dead. 



The perch was a fine specimen, eight inches in length, was 

 in good condition, gills bright red, and had the luster in ap- 

 pearance that denoted a healthy condition; it was quite ex- 

 hausted by the rough treatment and from being out of the 

 water so long, but after we returned it to the stream, after a 

 few erratic movements it slowly swam out into deeper water. 



The snakes were both bluish black in color on back and 

 sides, belly was a deep bloody orange color, and the one we 

 killed was four feet and ten inches in length. Hemlock. 



Lowell, Mass. 



[These snakes were no doubt the common black water- 

 snake (Tropidonalus sipidori).] 



Bound to Raise a Family. — Early in May a pair of 

 robins built their nest in a cedar tree close to my bedroom 

 window and soon three eggs were laid. Men working at a 

 fence close by disturbed the birds and they shifted their 

 home into the branches of an elderberry bush twenty yards 

 away. A week after their removal 1 observed an English 

 sparrow in the old nest, throwing out an egg, and in a few 

 days more they had all disappeared . When their second batch 

 of eggs was partly incubated the proverbial bad boy "poked" 

 the nest down, to the utter dismay of the mother robin. 

 Nothing daunted, however, the couple seem bent on raising 

 a family, and have again taken possession of their first 

 quarters. This morning I noticed two eggs in their nest. A. 

 pair of robins have brought out two broods each year in this 

 same cedar tree, the last two seasons, and I am inclined to 

 think that this couple are my former visitors. — Post 

 (Yonkers, N. Y., June 14). 



Late Goose.— Saw a wild goose fly in a northwesterly 

 direction toward evening on the 8th inst. This is the latest 

 straggler I have ever observed. — Post (Yonkers. N. Y., June 

 12). 



ceeded by chilling rains; the gentle breezes by cold, cutting quickly ashore. 



winds ■ floats nip the vegetation and crust the ponds at night, It was now time for us to show our hand, and Peking up 



though the sun still gives at midday resuscitating warmth. J a stone each (for we had previously landed so as to better 



\nv\t §ag m\A 



THE WHITE DEER. 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. 



A PHANTOM there is in the far Northwest 

 -^*- A shade of a deer that flees forever; 

 It never stops and 'tis never at rest. 

 But onward it speeds over mountain and river: 



From the blue Coast Range to Sierras' heights, 

 Through the forests deep and by intricate ways: 



On the stormiest days, in the darkest nights, 

 'Neath the suhriest suns of the summer's blaze: 



From Shasta's baye to his dome of snow, 

 Around Lassen's zone and a hundred lakes — 



Where thundering torrents incessantly flow, 

 And nothing may follow the course it lakes. 



The dogs start up from the hunter's Are, 



And madly spring to a midnight chase: 

 They baffled return after venting their ire, 



In baying the phantom that vanished in space. 



The hunter halts, where he steals along— 



And his rifle flames at a bounding deer— 

 At a mighty stag wiih many a prong, 



He fires again— aud he shakes with fear; 



For the deer bounds on with never a wound, 

 Though the mark was fair and the aim was true, 



And its heavy weight fairly shook the ground, 

 As with miraculous leaps it evanished front view. 



The phantom will be when the men are gone, 



For 'twill never be slain by a mortal's might, 

 And onward 'twill speed, forever on, 

 The deer is a spirit and snowy white. Esat . 



Shasta, Cal. 



A SUNDAY DEER. 



BY D. ». BANTA. 



SEVEN years ago last summer I made my first visit to 

 the Twin Lakes in Montmorency county, Michigan. 

 With my two boys, then mere lads, and a young preacher 

 fresh from Princeton, I had been on the Au Sable a couple 

 of weeks or so, having all the sport with the grayling of 

 which I was at the time capable. How often in memory do 

 I recur to those red-letter days! The Au Sable was popu- 

 lous with a fish that has afforded trie more real pleasure in 

 the taking than any other fish 1 ever met with. And besides 

 that, the navigation of the Au Sable in the summer weather, 

 was replete with every fluviatile enjoyment. The crooked, 

 winding, spring cold waters, now dashing impetuously down 

 the Huron slope beneath arboreal arches and between foreftt- 

 fringed banks, and anon widening out into a broad, deep, 

 sluggish stream, with low banks, whose timber was burned 

 and blackened bv former fires, presented a succession of pic- 

 tures that never failed to charm even those least loving the 

 wilderness. I hsve made eight voyages down that river in 

 as many years, and as I sit by my coal fire and look out of 

 the window at the fleecy flakes of this March snowstorm I 

 hear in fancv the rippling of the Au Sable's stream, and I 

 know that a brown hackle dropped lightly upon thesuriace 

 of yonder dark pool, beneath the overhanging cedars, will 

 be followed by a splash that will tingle every nerve of my 

 body and I want to make the journey once more. 



Ball had quite recently built a cabin on the river about 

 seven miles below the north branch— the only occupied cabin 

 for forty miles up and down the river— and he was loud in 

 his praise of the Twin Lake region as a profitable place lo- 

 go for hunting and fishing. Of both we could have a surfeit 

 by sticking to the river, but "Man never is, but always to, 

 be blest," "and so we listened with sharpened ears to the 

 glowing' stories told of the Twin Lake country. Ball had 

 never been there himself, nor had Pancake Jack, a trapper 

 staying at his cabin, but both had talked with land-lookers 

 and trappers who had, and it was made manifest to us that 

 the sportsman's paradise lay at the Twin Lake.«. 



The map showed that it *was twelve miles to the lakes in a 

 straight line; how far in a crooked one it remained for us to 

 find but. A hay road had been cut out half the distance, 

 and both Ball "and Pancake thought we would strike the 

 plains shortly alter passing the end of the road, and bo have 

 unobstructed traveling most of the way. 



Bob Greaves, a Canadian, who had drifted out to Roscom- 

 mon and was able to own a wagon and team, happening in, 



