May 14, 1885.1 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



307 



enable them to reach the head of the valleys by a round- 

 about route, so as not to disturb the animals to no purpose. 



As soon as they were nil lost; to sight, Salami and 1 set 

 forth upon our travels again. By this time some experienee 

 had made me clever in frustrating the ill designing traps of 

 the, road, and as the men and dogs had yet far to go before 

 reaching their working ground, and dawn was still lingering 

 somewhere down in Persia, hurry was out of the question. 

 But steadily on kept this involved guide of mine, nor made 

 the way short by being other than silent company. Happily 

 we had" not far to go, for 1 was begiuning to grow something 

 weary of communing only with stars and earth, and it was 

 not an unwelcome sight,' therefore, to see Salami suddenly 

 pull up in his impetuous career, and hear him greet me with 

 the announcement that Ave had at last reached our lair. lie 

 Lad stopped at a ruined well, long since barren as the hills 

 around, whose envious enmity had choked its thirsty throat 

 with wind-drifted saud and splinters from their overhanging 

 crags. Its crumbling walls of brickwork promised, how- 

 ever, the needful screen, and so into the tumbling remnant 

 of "better days" we clambered, and butlt ourselves rude 

 chairs from stones whereon the pitchers of Leahs and Bach- 

 els had perchance, one time rested. 



Here then amid these weird surroundings were we to keep 

 our midnight vigil. And a lonely and silent vigil it was too, 

 for the sense of the glen's solitude was appalling, and our 

 murmured conversation sounded like sacrilege to its silence. 

 How slowly the minutes seemed to pass. Time, who dies 

 all too readily in his natural death, makes a brave fight 

 against his would-be killer, and when weary of watching 

 you nod, tilts the run-out hour glass up again. So it was 

 with me, and I was trying inanely to answer self-invented 

 mental riddles, when suddenly Salami aroused my dormant 

 faculties by saying, "Listen, howaga." 1 could hear noth- 

 ing and told Intn so. "The howaga had better be ready, 

 Salami can hear the dogs." I needed no second advice, but 

 from my ruined well eagerly listened lor the sounds which 

 my keen companion heard, and strained my eyes peering 

 forth into the dark, but could hear nothing and only make 

 out the dim outlines of the three valleys, and some hundred 

 yards of moon-checkered, rock-bestrewn ground arouud me. 

 However, my hopes were awakened now, and I kept open 

 ears and eyes, until presently a long, deep baying sounclod 

 down the glen — then silence again. Five minutes more and 

 a distant babel of shouts and barking sets the wild echoes 

 flying, growing subdued once more, to break forth in fitful 

 yells and yelps. Nothing moving ; oh for the eyes of an owl 

 or the vision of an Oberon ! Salami is by my side searching 

 the shadows, as quiet as the stone he leans against. How 

 fast the air sleeps. "Ah, Salami, what's that, a rock? see it 

 moves; no, it's down again; what is it, a shadow?" Sud- 

 denly it moves. A giunt, another, "Aiwah, aiwah, kan- 

 seer;*" up goes the rifle — bang, and the shadow tumbles from 

 a ledge into the moonlight, where it moves a moment and 

 then is still, while far up into every cave and hollow of the 

 hills the startled silence hurries off in rumbling echoes. 



Then follows quiet, broken by the occasional cries of the 

 men and dogs wno are out upon the hillsides, and for awhile 

 nothing visits our lurking place. My companion is gazing 

 away from the place from wheuce the boars should come, 

 and whispers that he heard a stone fall among the others in 

 that quarter. Can he make out. anytbiug? No, not for cer- 

 tain; but in the dark shadow underneath that big rock there 

 lies a darker. Can 1 see it? Which rock; point it out! 

 "There, there; quick, howaga, the smaller shadow is creeping 

 off." Ye gods ot daylight, roll your sun here a moment, for 

 my eyes are mortal and 1 cannot see the quarry caught in this 

 tangled web of black and silver. Is it yet there? ~Yes, and 

 motionless again. Now, hold your arm out in the direc- 

 tion— what, in that big shadow shaped like a camel? His 

 answer is drowned by a furious barking on the distant hills, 

 and in a moment that camel's neck has left the body and is 

 up and trotting across the glen, all innocent of our hiding so 

 near. Suspense proves itself bad for the nerves, for my hand 

 shakes as I fire, and I hear the thud of the bullet 

 striking on a rock in front of the runaway. For 

 an instant the hog comes to a standstill, uncertain of 

 the whereabouts of the danger so rudely announced, and 

 I see his ugly tusks glisten in the moonlight, but apparently 

 deciding that he had best flee from the dogs on the hill, he 

 gives an angry grunt and comes briskly down the glen to- 

 ward the well. This makes it difficult to see him clearly 

 among the rocks, but chancing the second barrel at what I 

 take to be his shoulder, down on his knees he topples. He 

 is only wounded it seems, however, for staggering to his 

 short legs, he savagely grunts and looks round him for an 

 enemy. His small dark eyes glitter like glow worms in the 

 sand, when be turns his shaggy head to me, and presage ill- 

 luck for us should he discover our whereabout, before we are 

 ready. Bah, why won't the empty cartridge case come out, 

 hasty fingers make least speed. There, it's out at last, 

 and two others in. As 1 close the rifle breech he hears the 

 click, and turning his fierce head sharply toward us, rushes 

 forward with a quavering uncertain gait, straight for our 

 low mud wall. Now for a steady and cool hand, for those 

 tusks look better white than red, and two's company and 

 three's none, even in a ruined fountain. Into the shade, into 

 the light; over the rock, and down the path; seventy paces, 

 fifty, thirty, bang, and with a tottering rush he falls, rises, 

 and falls as quiet as his shroud of shadow. 



After this incident quiet again reigns for a time. Once or 

 twice we think we hear the expostulations of retreating kan- 

 seers, and the sounds of trotting feet among the stones; but 

 distance and darkness (for the moon has well nigh disap- 

 peared) screen their proteges faithfully. The cries of tne 

 men and dogs seem to come from the third and last valley, 

 but they are so varying andwill-o'-the-wisp-iike, that we can- 

 not be certain even of this. Dawn should be breaking soon, 

 for the air bites shrewdly with that eager nippingness which 

 heralds morning on the desert, and which so troubled Ham- 

 let on the turret walls of Elsinore. I hope that this deserted 

 well is not the home of some eastern ghost, to appear and 

 say in sepulchral tones, "follow me"; no Undine protector- 

 ess of the glen to arise in misty draperies and carry me off 

 to those fair watery palaces of Gothic myth. Perhaps at an- 

 other time I could reconcile myself to the latter fate, but 

 just now I have other business in hand — business which 

 stirely a golden-tressed, blue-eyed nymph can take no heed 

 of, nor for which she could upbraid me. If she spoke at 

 all, it should be like the lispings of some falling fountain 

 that— why ! what a voice she has ; listen Salami, for all the 

 world it's like the squeaking of young pigs, clamoring be- 

 cause — 'kawam, howaga, kauseei"— ah! reveries, there you 

 go again; it is pigs that I hear, thank Juno, and not Undine, 

 and the faithful Salami has got hold of a considerable portion 

 ot my arm under tbe impression that it's my coat, and is 

 wildly persuading me to be ready. Ready I I should think 



I was; just hear those squealers, there must be a whole 

 family of them. It's so dark that I can barely see sixty 

 yards ahead in the gloom, but Salami and 1 arc all ears and 

 eyes. What a commotion the frightened little ones are 

 makiug, aud how angry the old mother is, to judge by the 

 deep grunts with which she chides her offspring every now 

 aud then. They ought to be in sight in a moment— yes, 

 there they are, one big black object and six or seven lesser 

 black objects, hurrying down the glen to the encouraging 

 strain of a runuing full-choral ditty. It would be a misfor- 

 tune to waste a shot, yet I dread to risk losing the chance 

 they are giving me, so up goes my rifle, a moment more and 

 —no, gallantry forbids, and the old lady passes on all uncon- 

 scious of her danger. Not so her eldest son, for youthful 

 piggy will be welcome in to-morrow's camp, and with a 

 mild utterance of reproof he falls to the first barrel. Then 

 such a rush and skurry and $aV/!)& qvi petit. The members 

 of the family being divided in council flee pell mell in every 

 direction, the mother disappearing up the slope of the bill 

 grunting anxiously to her scattered litter, and the little ones 

 answering her from all quarters with frightened squeaks 

 and porcine sobs. But no longer can they say that "we are 

 seven," for near the dead body of the elder brother lies an- 

 other pathetic little corpse beyond the need of squeaking, a 

 victim to the second barrel. Poor betrayed animals! ill- 

 starred innocents! forgive a Herod whose camp is hungry. 



Their deaths was the last this night. Slowly the black 

 sky grew lighter, the stars faded, and across the east crept 

 the streak of gray which the Arabs call the "wolf's tail" or 

 "false dawn," and which precedes the real eastern sunrise. 

 This disappeared for another speli of darkness, to be suc- 

 ceeded by the breaking of tbe true morning in all its Syrian 

 colors, tinting the desert hills with golds and reds, binding 

 I he shades of night in sunlight; and tbe horses of Apollo 

 shake from their manes the day which rouses the birds, and 

 sends them crying through tbe air, to wake the sleepy world. 

 No more we dream amid the ruins of a Syrian well. Men, 

 dogs and day have joined us again, and while these allies 

 retrieve the slain, Salami shall lead us back to camp where 

 rest will be welcome to reader and J. B. A. 



Duktech, Scotland. 



<ffntw[ul l§i$toryi. 



THE BIRDS OF MICHIGAN. 



BY DR. MORRIS GIBBS. 



(Continued.) 



32. Protonotaria direct, (Bodd.) Baird. — Prothonotary 

 warbler, 



A rare, accidental straggler, only mentioned by one author- 

 ity in the State. I have never met with it and consider it as 

 merely an accidental visitor. 



38. Helmintfwtherus vermiwrus (Gmel.) Salo. and Godm. 

 Worm-eating warbler. 



First embraced by D. D. Hughes in 1868, who mentions it 

 as taken by a Mr. Hurd in June of that year. A. H. Boies, 

 in his "Birds of Southern Michigan," 1875, which in 

 fact is a list only of the birds of the southern counties of the 

 Lower Peninsula, and not of the entire southern peniu 

 sula, as one would infer, says of this species: "Summer 

 sojourner; breeds." Mr. Boies's inference that the species 

 breed is undoubtedly drawn from his knowledge of the fact 

 that the birds are found during the summer, for as yet no 

 one has offered observations of the nesting habits of this 

 species. A. B. Covert, in a list of the birds of Michigan, 

 187b (?), published in the Forest and Stream, includes 

 this bird and gives it as an accidental visitor. No other 

 collector has as yet reported the worm-eating warbler, and 

 we may consider it as a rare bird in Michigan, rarely, if ever, 

 taken north of 43° north latitude. 



34. Helminthophaga pinus (Linn.)Brd.— Blue-winged yel- 

 low warbler. 



A bird of local distribution, but not common in anv 

 section. Given as rare by all the lists at hand, except- 

 ing one. Jerome Trombley, of Monroe county, gives this 

 bird as a transient and very rare. He resides in the extreme 

 southeastern corner of the State, while Mr. Boies, living one 

 hundred miles west of him, reports it as a summer sojourner. 

 It may be called a rare bird in Michigan, and I prefer to think 

 that it rarely goes north of 44 a . It has been secured but once 

 in Kalamazoo county, about 42°. It is a species which will 

 undoubtedly appear in greater numbers as the country de- 

 velops, mere common at present in certain localities than is 

 generally supposed, but has been overlooked by the col- 

 lectors. 



35. Helminthophaga chrysoplera (Linn.) Baud.— Golden- 

 winged warbler. 



Our most common representative of the genus, and the 

 only one as yet known to nest with us. Abundant during 

 May, June and July north of 42°, and very common north of 

 44*. Reported from the southern counties, but is not as fre- 

 quent during summer as further north. A beautiful and 

 very interesting species known to nearly all coliectois in the 

 Southern Peninsula, but not as yet reported from the north- 

 ern, although undoubtedly a visitor to that region. 



1 have known it to appear as early as April 26. while one 

 seasou it did not reach us until May 11. About May 1 is the 

 usual time for the males to arrive, the females appearing a 

 few days later, Soon after arriving, the males make their 

 presence known by their peculiar notes, which can scarcely 

 be termed a song, although the little fellows make a great 

 effort in their anxiety to appear musical, and, like the con- 

 ceited yellow-winged sparrow, keep up the refrain in evident 

 admiration of their own effort. The ordinary note or notes 

 may be best described by a long-drawn Z-io-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e, or 

 often more like W-h e-e-e-e-s-e-e-e-e-e. The sound is quite 

 penetrating, and can be heard at a considerable distance, it 

 has a peculiarity which makes the listener quite uncertain as 

 to the exact locality of the performer. The notes often ap- 

 pear to come from beneath our feet, when in reality the 

 singer is twenty or thirty rods away. Again we are led to 

 believe that the bird is at a distance, while he is overhead in 

 a tree or is flushed before we walk a rod. The note is 

 always long-drawn out, and is pleasing from its very oddity. 

 Sometimes, more often while the female is sitting, we hear 

 the song modified to Whe-zee-zee-zee-ze, and there are vari- 

 ous changes occasionally heard, all of them variations of 

 its common song, I think. There are also some low call 

 notes common to both sexes, which are heard from the birds 

 as they skip among the weeds and low bushes. 



The females are rarely seen after the first week with us, 

 and are difficult to secure as specimens, as they remain con- 

 cealed during the entire summer. The only ones I have 



taken were birds flushed near or from the nest, or during 

 migration. The males on the contrary are often seen; but 

 during the nesting season are rarely taken because of their 

 extieme wariness. The nesting habits of the blue and gold 

 beauties, therefore, are but little known. There are not a 

 dozen recorded instances of nest discovery in the State. 



One sultry afternoon, June 5, 1876, while hunting for a 

 nest of the yellowthroat in a partially cleared tract, sur- 

 rounded by low basswood and elm forest, a female goldwiug 

 was flushed at my feet, aud feeling satisfied from her actions 

 that a nest was near, she was dropped from a neighboring 

 bush in order to identify her with certainty. Judge of my 

 disappointment, after a few minutes' search, on discovering 

 that five young birds occupied the well-concealed nest. Leav- 

 ing the motherless creatures to their fate, the trip was con- 

 tinued with caution, as many males were heard along the 

 edge of the woods. In a short time another bird was flushed, 

 this time a male, which shows that both sexes perform the 

 duties of incubation. I was also led to hope from this in- 

 stance of the male's attention to domestic affairs, that the 

 helpless nestlings before mentioned would be properly cared 

 for. The second nest contained five eggs, which were so 

 far advanced in incubation as to make very poor specimens 

 This nest like the first was placed on the ground, and was 

 supported by small shoots and dried grass of last year's 

 growth. In make up, the structure resembles in no way the 

 nest of any bird with which I am acquainted, unless it be 

 that of the Maryland yellowthroat. Tite body of the nest is 

 composed of coarse leaves and grasses, with plenty of grape- 

 vine bark intermingled to give it strength and form. The 

 lining is of fine roots. The whole is a very bulky structure, 

 large for the size of the bird. 



The eggs are white, covered more or less thickly, mostly 

 at the larger end, with tine reddish dots. They are exceed- 

 ingly fragile. Average dimensions .65s. 54 of an inch. No 

 more nests were found, although a number of males were 

 seen, and a few females observed in the long grass. The 

 indications are that the species breeds in isolated scattered 

 colonies. The following year a thorough search was made 

 in the same quarter, but not a trace of the birds was dis- 

 covered, probably from the fact that all of the weeds and 

 tail grasses usual to a new clearing had been burned, allow- 

 ing no chance for the seclusion which the species seems to 

 favor. 



The goldenwing evidently prefers low sections of land, 

 and appears most at home in quarters where deep woods 

 surround marshy tracts. I have yet to meet with the birds 

 in very high localities, although they are occasionally seen 

 in elevated swampy lands if beech aud maple, or elm and 

 basswood forests adjoin the marsh. I have never found tne 

 birds in oak or hickory lands or in sandy districts. 



Mr. Jerome Trombley, of Monroe country, writes me that 

 a favorite location for a nest as selected by this species is a 

 low group of spice bush sprouts, Lindera benzoin, he has also 

 taken nests in thickets of hazel and briers, but the nests are 

 always on the ground or within three or four inches of it, 

 and invariably in low seclious of land. 



After the nesting season is over the males become nearly 

 silent, and the song is but rarely heard. I have been unable 

 to satisfy myself as to the date of their departure because of 

 their being so rarely seen in late summer. The goldenwing 

 is rarely if ever seen in villages or thickly settled localities, 

 and unlike the Nashville and Tennessee warblers which 

 invade the hearts of the cities in quest of trees and bushes 

 during migration, they keep in dense brambles or in marshes 

 at the edges of wooded tracts. 



NEW YORK AND SCIENCE. 



A N interesting address was recently delivered by T>r. C. 

 xjL H. Men iam at the dinner given by the LinDsean Society, to 

 Mr J. A. Allen on the occasion of his coming to New York 

 to assume the curatorship of birds and mammals at the Cen- 

 tral Park Museum. In the course of his remarks, Dr. Mer- 

 riam alluded to scientific work in JSiew York early in its his- 

 toiy, and to the fact that uaturalists and scholars who have 

 labored here failed to receive that support from the people 

 which is so essential to permanent progress Continuing he 

 said: "That this cannot be attributed to lack of ability, en- 

 thusiasm and earnestness on the part of the workers them- 

 selves is clear from their character and writings. Among 

 the founders and early members of the Philosophical Society, 

 and of the Lyceum of Natural History, we are proud to 

 enumerate such names as those of DeWitt Clinton, Samuel 

 Mitchell, N. F. Moore, John Terry, J. LeConte, John An- 

 thony, James DeKay, Issachar Cozzens, Joseph Delaflelcl, 

 Julian Yerplank, George Catlin, H. 0. DeRbam, Asa Gray, 

 George N. Lawrence, James Giraud, James G Chilton, Mar- 

 tin Zabriskie. Of these but one naturalist remains, the 

 veteran ornithologist, Mr. George N. Lawreuce, who has 

 spent a fruitful lifetime within the precincts of this city. 

 His name and labors are known and honored all over 

 Europe, and yet but few of our citizens are aware of the 

 extent and importance of his writings. He has outlived his 

 comrades, and for many years has toiled alone, away from 

 the stimulus and support of sympathetic associates. It is 

 impossible to disguise the fact that these men — men whose 

 untiring labors have left a lastiug impress upon the science of 

 the nineteenth century — have been unappreciated by their 

 fellow-citizens. The city and the times were not ^et ready. 

 The first great effort to convert New York into a center of 

 learning and culture failed. The Philosophical Society has 

 long since passed out of existence, and the old Lyceum of 

 Natural History has been transformed into the present 

 Academy, which is devoted chiefly to the physical sciences. 

 Leaving out of consideration the more or less constant 

 progress that has been made in the physical sciences, litera- 

 ture and the tine arts, and confining ourselves to the branches 

 of knowledge commonly spoken of under the somewhat in- 

 definite heading, Natural History,' it may be said that the 

 first period of activity reached its maximum development 

 about fifty years ago, when the Lyceum was in its 

 most flourishing condition, and that the second period 

 of activity began with the organization of the Lin- 

 noean Society in March, 1878. Between the two was 

 an interval of general inactivity, broken only by the labors 

 of Torrey, Lawrence, Prime, Sanderson Smith, and that dis- 

 tinguished explorer and naturalist, Professor John S. New- 

 berry, now one of the most eminent of living geologists and 

 palaeontologists, who for the past nineteen years has honored 

 our city by his presence. For some time Professor Whitfield 

 has been ac work upon the fossil invertebrates in the Ameri- 

 can Museum of Natural History of this city, and has pub- 

 lished several valuable bulletins containing the results of his 

 labors. This museum has long been in possession of mammals 

 and birds of great value, including the Prince of Wied's 

 birds, among which are many types and other unique 



