122 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Sept. 6, 1888. 



AMresss all communications to the Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 



THE SINGING MOUSE.-II. 



BY E. HOUGH. 



THE Singing Mouse came out and sat on my knee. It 

 fixed its little red eye on me, and lifted up its tiny 

 paws so thin I could see the firelight through them. 

 And it sang. . . . Like the voice of some night-wander- 

 ing bird of melody, hid miles high in the upper realms 

 of darkness, came' faint sweet notes to me. And then, if 

 you can think it, out of the deep air above, out of the 

 wide air around, came dropping and drifting small links 

 of silken steel, gentle and strong, of some sort I know 

 not of. And so I listened and I saw. 



* * * # ,#v ^£ .* * ,* 

 There were low, round rolling hills, crowned and 

 covered with thick growth of hazel brush and stubby 

 oaks. Between these hills ran long strips of green, 

 strung on tiny threads of silver. And as these threads 

 thickened and braided themselves together, the cotton- 

 woods halted in their march, the box-alders, and maples, 

 and water-elms, and walnuts, and such big trees, swept 

 grandly in with waving banners, and wound on and on 

 in their long procession, even down to the two blue dis- 

 tant hills set at the edge of the world, unpassed guard- 

 ians of a land of dreams. Ah me! Ah me! I look back 

 at those two blue hills now, and the land of dreams lies 

 beyond them, on the other side, back there, where I can't 

 get again; back there, up along that murmuring, crystal 

 mystery of the little stream I knew when I was young. . . . 



Oh, little river, little river, but I am coming back to 

 you ! I'm coming back to push away the swinging 

 boughs and the long grass, and look into your face again. 

 I'm coming back to dabble my bare feet again, and scoop 

 up my straw hat full and watch the water run out in tiny 

 streams. I'm coming back to stand again, bare and white 

 and trembling, on the bank, wondering if I can swim 

 across the "big hole" to the other side. And — say! little 

 river, I'm going to cut the pole at the old place up on the 

 hill, and I'm going to hurry on down, running the last 

 quarter of a mile in sheer expectation, but tying on the 

 line all the time; and I'm going to pull a handful of 

 worms out of that same old pocket; and I'm going to 

 cast my float on that same swinging, thitnpling, gentle 

 eddy, and let it swim in under that bank, and — No ! Can 

 it be i Have I again in my hands that strange and won- 

 derful creature, the gift of the little stream? Is this its 

 form, utterly lovable? Is this its coat, wrought of cloth 

 of gold and silver ? Are these diamonds its eyes ? . . . . 

 Oh, little river, little river, I'd give all I've got, and more 

 than I'll ever have, if you'd just give me back that little 

 shiner to keep by me all the time. I've hunted him, be- 

 lieve me. I've hunted him hard and faithful in many 

 a place, but he isn't there — he is isn't there any more, I 

 tell you. . . . But this is he ! This, in my hands here, is 

 my first, my grand, glorious, iridescent, radiant prize ! 

 He has cleft long dark waters and come back to me ! 

 Well, well, well, I didn't expect this. Well, well. 



And now out of the gray hazy hazels of the past, steps 

 a form and comes down to the bank by me, and by that 

 light which is not now on land nor sea, on hill nor stream 

 any more, we sit and fish together. ... I pray, Minging 

 Mouse, turn on that light a little stronger. 



I know that form and face. Every day, grave and 

 quiet. I saw it over the big Bible. Every meal, grave and 

 pleasant, at the head of the table. Once, grave and stern, 

 in hours of sore trials, but yet the lighthouse and the tower 

 of all our hopes. Grave and kindly, on each Saturday, 

 interceding at the right place for permission for me to go 

 fishing. And at rare and happy times coming fishing too, 

 and sitting, as now, on the bank beside me; wi;h handB 

 idle, sometimes, and blue eyes dreaming, whether of the 

 past or future I know not. They say that youth has a 

 melancholy of its own. Is there a melancholy that comes 

 of watching youth? There might well be. 



"Supreme foolishness — fishing away the time!" Ay, 

 foolishness; grand and glorious foolishness! Too glorious, 

 too supreme for you down below there, you little fellow, 

 you pedant Wagner out of the Faust story. You can't 

 fish — you! But let us be here, beside this strange and 

 magic stream, myself and the form from out the hazels. 

 For I do love thee well, my first friend. If my eyes be 

 dry or running wet, I do love thee well. 



****»### 

 In those low, round hills strange creatures dwell. Birds 

 of brown plumage and wondrous, soul-startling burst of 

 wing. Large gray creatures, a foot long or longer, with 

 fight tread on the leaves, and long ears which go a-peak 

 when you whistle to them to wait till you get ready to 

 shoot. Were ever such things seen before? Was ever a 

 boy of such bravery before, to put copious tallow on his 

 copper-toed boots, to shoulder a shotgun, to insist that he 

 should carry the lunch in his game bag — a world too large 

 for his young form — and to tramp out all day over the 

 low, round hills, over the country, almost to the Delect- 

 able Mountains themselves? Following that same tall, 

 striking figure with the grave and kindly face. Wonder- 

 ing and wondering how he loaded that gun so fast with 

 that deft ramrod. Wondering at the superhuman skill 

 which brought ten out of the dozen of those brown light- 

 ning balls whirling down. Rejoicing to hold up over the 

 snow the first rabbit bowled over by that unfailing hand. 

 Rejoicing beyond all count or measure at the first lepine 

 murder committed by himself from a rest on a forked 

 tree. Groaning in spirit at the great weight of that awful 

 gun before night came. Wincing a little, mayhap, when 

 the stiff boots were pulled off that night by the kitchen 

 stove: but happy, oh! so happy, holding up the "one he 

 killed all by himself." 



* # * * * # * 

 Now, as we walk down the banks of the magic river, 

 tell me, am 1 mi-taken, or is that familiar form bent a- 

 little? Is the quick eye less bright? Did it— was it, now 

 was it a twig flew up and hit him in the face and made 

 him miss that last mallard? There weren't many twigs 

 out there in the grass either. And say, do we like these 

 breechloaders as well as the old muzzleloaders? And 

 tell me, do I imagine it, or is old Rex getting a touch 

 of rheumatism? Don't he range as he used to? Don't 

 he break the ice as quick and go in after the mallards? 



Does he keep closer at heel? Does he look up once in a 

 while mournfully, with a dimmer eye, at an eye getting 

 dimmer, walking there slower by a step which is not 

 quite so fast? Does he look up? My God! Is there 

 melancholy in a dog'B eye, too? 



Say, these are ghosts! I cannot endure it! O, Singing 

 Mouse, you are cruel! In pity's name let me awake — 

 let me awake and go to work! " 



DEATH OF "CROWLEY." 



"/^ROWLEY," the chimpanzee, which for several 



\J years has been on exhibition at the Central Park 

 menagerie, died Aug. 30. He was brought to this 

 country as a tiny baby in June, 1884, by Mr. W. H. 

 Smyth, U. S. Minister to Liberia, who purchased him in 

 Sierra Leone, Africa, just before starting to this country. 

 From Liverpool, "Crowley" and his owner sailed in the 

 Cunard steamer Gallia, and the little chimpanzee was an 

 object of great interest to all the passengers. Often when 

 the weather was fine he would be brought on deck and 

 receive in the most engaging manner the petting of the 

 lady passengers. At this time he was very small, and 

 though his body was covered with fine soft hair his face 

 was naked and his hands nearly so. He was very gentle 

 and affectionate and enjoyed receiving attention. Oranges 

 were Ins delight, and on receiving one, he would quickly 

 tear off the rind and throw it on deck, and after eating 

 the pulp as quickly as possible, would look around as if 

 expecting another one to be offered to him. If none was 

 forthcoming he would get down on deck, pick up each 

 piece of rejected peel and look- it over with the utmost 

 care to see if any bits of pulp still adhered to it. In ap- 

 pearance and actions he is reported to have been very 

 like a negro baby of two or three years old. At this time 

 he was said by Mr. Smyth to be about nine months old. 

 When the Gallia reached New York, Remus, as he was 

 called by Mr. Smyth, was turned over to Superintendent 

 Conklin, of the Central Park, and was given in charge of 

 Jake Smith, a keeper who thereafter, up to the time of 

 his death, had the exclusive care of him. 



Each winter since he came to New York "Crowley" 

 has had a severe attack of pneumonia, and it has only 

 been by the utmost care and devotion on the part of his 

 keepers that his life has been saved. The attack of last 

 winter left him much weakened, and it was evident that 

 these continued attacks had not been without their effect 

 On his vital organs. Recently he . has had attacks of 

 chills and fever, and his liver has been out of order. 

 About two weeks ago he was again attacked by pneu- 

 monia, and at length after much suffering died at 11:40 

 A.M. on Friday last. 



Some time before his death when in fairly good condi- 

 tion "Crowley" stood 4ft. 9in. high and weighed I041bs. 

 His strength was very great, and it is thought that so far as 

 physical power goes, he would have been more than 

 a match for any ordinary man. 



An autopsy was held on Saturday last which showed 

 the chimpanzee to have been a physical wreck. His left 

 lung adhered to his side, the right lung and the pleura 

 were congested, the liver was filled with tubercles and his 

 heart was badly diseased. The immediate cause of death 

 was congestion of the lungs. 



The skeleton and skin of the chimpanzee will be 

 mounted for the American Museum of Natural History. 



THE PILEATED WOODPECKER. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



My attention was attracted to-day while sitting in my 

 office, which is situated on the bank of Sunflower River, 

 in the Mississippi bottom, by the notes of the pileated 

 woodpecker, on a tree in my back yard. By the aid of a 

 glass I perceived that the bird was eating the immature 

 berries that cluster on the Virginia creeper with which 

 the tree is abundantly robed. 



There are two points in natural history here exhibited 

 that appear to me to be worth attention.* First, the pile- 

 ated woodpecker, according to Audubon, inhabits the 

 hill country exclusively, while its congener, the ivory- 

 bill, is a denizen of the Mississippi bottom, and this is in 

 accordance with my own long observation of these birds. 

 But this place is in the heart of the delta, thirty or forty 

 miles from the nearest hills. The other point is, the fact 

 of its eating berries, whereas I had supposed both species 

 to be purely insectivorous. I have seen them tearing to 

 pieces dead trees and stumps, sending down fragments 

 two or three times their own size, in search of grubs and 

 larvae. 



These birds are the largest of our woodpeckers, being 

 about the size of a teal duck. The two species are very 

 much alike, being not readily distinguished at a little 

 distance except by their respective notes, which are very 

 dissimilar. The pileated variety, inhabitant of the hills, 

 is a very noisy fellow uttering a quick succession of 

 "quack-quacks" which sound very much like boisterous 

 laughter. This he does while flying from tree to tree, or 

 while hopping up and down a tree trunk, hammering at 

 the dead bark and looking for "a lead." When he has 

 found his mine he works energetically to develop his 

 "claim" without uttering a word, but makes his presence 

 manifest by the loud hammering and throwing down the 

 large chunks of "dead wood," which he has on the worms. 

 He is a cheerful and loquacious fellow, and when off duty 

 appears to enjoy a noisy "confab" with his companions. 

 His cousin, the ivory-bill, is a silent bird, who finds con- 

 geniality in the dark and sombre recesses of the cypress 

 brake. He rarely ever utters a note, except when calling 

 his mate, which he does by emitting a plaintive note at 

 short intervals, which sounds like the expression "puit, 

 putt," with the French accent. He probably learned this 

 from the Creoles in lower Louisiana, in which locality he 

 is most abundant. 



My recollections of childhood days have pleasant rem- 

 iniscences of the pileated woodpecker. I have in mind a 

 time when, being about eight years old, I went forth into 

 the woods early one morning, armed with a long single- 

 barreled gun, which my prudent father placed in my 

 hands saying that it was too long to admit of my shoot- 

 I ing myself, he having required that I should go alone, so 

 I that I could not shoot any one else. I was so much enam- 

 I ored of the woods that I wandered far, and did not return 



to the parental roof until 9 o'clock at night. I was much 

 abashed to find my mother lamenting my loss in bitter 

 tears, and I was afraid I should never be permitted to go 

 hunting again. But a diversion was created in my favor 

 when, after the excitement in the family circle subsided 

 somewhat, they began to question me about the day's 

 adventures, and especially as to what I did to appease the 

 gnawings of hunger. I told them I had killed two big 

 woodpeckers, and finding a log burning in the woods had 

 cooked one and eaten it. The other was in my bag, and 

 I produced it. It was of the pileated variety. 



"You didn't have any bread or salt?" oneof the children 

 asked. "No, I ate it without bread or salt." "How did 

 you clean it?" "I picked it, and cleaned it with a horse- 

 shoe nail I have to pick out hickory nuts with, and 

 washed it in a branch. Then I put it on the fire and 

 cooked it." "Was it good?" "Yes, it was first-class." 



I do not suppose that I would now relish a woodpecker 

 as I would a teal duck or a fat woodcock, but I certainly 

 enjoyed that impromptu dinner of my own killing on my 

 first adventurous hunt. Coahoma. 



OF SERPENTS. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



As it is now the season when we see and hear snake 

 stories of a more or less sensational character, I feel in- 

 clined to relate my observations concerning these creat- 

 tures, and to say a few words in their defense. Having 

 made surveying a specialty, for nearly half a century 

 surveyed in every county in the State, and in more than 

 fifty towns, besides spending two years in other States, 

 in which I traversed many towns, I think I have had 

 rare opportunities for making snakes a study. I know of 

 nothing else which has life that is the subject of so much 

 misconception, misrepresentation and downright false- 

 hood. 



In the earliest history of our race the serpent got a bad 

 name, but I cannot conceive how the Satanic power of 

 that original serpent can have been transmitted to all the 

 little innocent snakes known in New England at the 

 present time. I have heard statements in regard to them 

 that I could not believe, and so expressed myself when 

 the relator would say,"then you believe I lie!" or he might 

 say that a reliable person, who would not lie. was an eye 

 witness to it. My reply would be, "I do not necessarily 

 believe they lie, but simply say they are mistaken." I 

 have heard witnesses, perfectly reliable for truth, under 

 oath, testify to facts which they saw, which by the 

 natural laws of the universe could not be true. They 

 were mistaken, but believed what they said. 



The commonly entertained and expressed opinions 

 about serpents are such that I expect criticism, and I 

 welcome it. 



The utter horror produced in almost every one at the 

 sight of a snake I conceive to be the result of education. 

 From my earliest recollection, when going into a bush 

 pasture for the cows or for beriies, my good mother 

 would caution me to "look out for snakes," or "don't let 

 the snakes catch you;" and during those early years I 

 heard awful stories about snakes, which created a fear of 

 them from which I have suffered much, and I suppose 

 that has been the experience of the average New England 

 boy. Now I earnestly protest against that kind of educa- 

 tion, as it proves an element of great discomfort to chil- 

 dren in after life. Snakes are perfectly harmless (excepting 

 the venomous species) and as timid as buds, and children 

 should be taught so; and they should no more be allowed 

 to be cruel to a snake than to a frog or a turtle. "When 

 young I heard the maxim, "If you kill the first snake you 

 see, it is a sign you conquer your enemies." And also. 

 "Break the first brake and kill the first snake, and it will 

 insure good luck for the year." Unnecessary cruelty to 

 anything that has life should be censured. A cen- 

 tury and a half ago Jenyns wrote, "I know no right 

 we have to shoot a bear on an inaccessible inland 

 of ice, or an eagle on the mountain's top, whose 

 lives cannot injure nor deaths procure us benefit. 

 We are unable to give life and therefore ought not 

 wantonly to take it away from the meanest insect with- 

 out sufficient reason. They all receive it from the same 

 benevolent hand as ourselves, and have therefore an 

 equal right to enjoy it." Fifty years later Wm. Cow- 

 per wrote: 



"I would not enter on rny list of friends 



(Though grac'd with polish'd maaner and firm sense, 



Yet wanting sensibility) the man 



Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 



An inadvertent step may crush the snail 



That crawls at evening in the public path; 



But he that has humanity forewarned 



Will tread aside and let the reptile live. 



3t ' -♦* * * * * * 



The meanest things that are 



Are free to live and enjoy that life. 



As God was free to form them at the first, 



Who in bis sovereign wisdom made them all." 



It is now to me a pitiful sight to see a man turn aside 

 to pursue a little innocent snake, as harmless as a fly and 

 not half so annoying, as though some dire calamity was 

 to be averted by his success in destroying it. Although 

 I must confess to having done the same thing and prac- 

 ticed much cruelty toward them, it was simply the result 

 of education; and now, since I have thoroughly made 

 their acquaintance, I feel disposed in some small meas- 

 ure to atone for my past indiscretions. In youth I was 

 taught to regard toads with disgust, no less than the 

 snake, but not with the same peculiar dread. I was told 

 that to handle them would cause my hands to be covered 

 with warts, etc. I have since known people who were 

 fond of playing with them, and I now call to mind a lady 

 of culture and refinement who would catch a toad and 

 pet it, tell it what pretty eyes it had, call it one of God'g 

 beautiful, beautiful creatures, and lay it against her face 

 as a child would a pet bird. Toads and sna kes are equally 

 harmless, but neither of them have any attraction forme; 

 still I can be merciful toward them. 



In the fall of 1873, having seen published something of 

 that foolish old story of snakes swallowing their young 

 for protection, I left a short article at the office of the 

 Hartford Times, stating in substance that some species 

 of snakes lay eggs, and many people suppose they all do; 

 whereas with some the young are matured in the mother's 

 body; and when persons not informed in this regard have 

 captured a snake, and found its body to contain young 

 ones, the presumption with them was that the mother 



