FOREST AND STREAM 
1193 
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From a Door-step || 
THE WONDER LIFE OF 
NATURE THAT MAY BE 
SEEN ALL AROUND US 
By Osceola. 1| 
| | 
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H OW much more is life to the one who can 
see attractions and beauties at every step 
and turn? A railroad detention is but a 
delightful opportunity to hunt out new and at¬ 
tractive birds; a cold Norther gives him keen 
relish for reviewing Nature only a little more 
hurried than before, as he strolled along coat 
on arm. 
Good thoughts are truly the best of friends. 
The old Latin adage puts it—“In solitary places 
be unto thyself good company”—and we all 
might do better in that line, perhaps. 
We have been passing through a heated spell 
here, and this evening has been more comfort¬ 
able—the sun somewhat weakened in power by a 
hazy cloud effect. The breezes from the Gulf 
are generally refreshing when one can keep out 
of the direct sunshine. In this respect our cli¬ 
mate seems to differ materially from a North¬ 
ern hot summer and then we rarely have hot 
enervating nights. 
Just now, with a distant thunder-cloud in 
evidence, the cooling breeze is not from the 
water, but is nevertheless invigorating. 
My range of view is quite restricted; a strip 
of fine woods comes on the east, bordering an 
open lot or field perhaps one hundred and fifty 
yards from my house at the nearest point, and 
swinging back of me at about the same distance, 
crosses the railroad, which passes but a few 
yards from me on the westward; beyond the 
railroad a few scattered houses with trees and 
bushes shut out my view at a less distance than 
I have to the East. 
Down at the end of the opening—meadow, I 
like to call it in memory of somewhat similar 
stretches long ago known—the river flows not a 
half-mile distant, rising and falling with chang¬ 
ing tides, yet ever moving to the sea, but shut 
out from my view by other trees and buildings. 
My meadow, as I shall call it, belongs to my 
neighbor and lies open to the public, as does 
most of the land all about us, be it pine woods, 
marsh or hummock. On this meadow, besides 
the changing, grazing stock, come many birds 
with the varying seasons. In early spring I 
can see snipe and plover, sandpipers and herons. 
Recently three of the rare bartrarnian sand 
pipers came seemingly exhaused to a pool, not 
one hundred yards from where I now sit, and 
fed for some time. 
On this same stretch in winter come from 
far northward, pipits running over the grass 
searching for food; the dainty palm warblers 
come all about my yard and other travelers find 
here a resting place from wearied flights. We 
are fortunate in having a thick dense turf over 
our open lands here, making the sun’s effect 
far less oppressive and giving good nourishment 
for the ranging stock. 
A road passes down through my meadow, 
parallel with the railroad but on the eastern 
side midway to the woods. Automobiles have 
now become frequent visitors to our ancient but 
primitive settlement. The fame of our fishing 
and oysters, no doubt, bring us callers from the 
outside world and our numerous springs, while 
not always pleasing in taste to strangers are 
believed to aid some of the ills of mankind 
and the accustomed user soon learns to enjoy 
the clear, cool drink. 
I am brought back to my meadow view by 
seeing two mocking birds flit across the open, 
down towards the few clustered houses of our 
village. Another comes to a post top at the 
edge of my yard near where I sit, and spies 
for a morsel on the ground. These birds are 
not in tune now; the nesting season is past. 
Shrikes are now in evidence on the wires by 
the railroad, and dropping to the ground for a 
lunch on some fat beetle, active lizard, snake or 
grasshopper. With quite a bit in common, 
these two birds—shrike and mocker—are yet so 
far apart, in seng that it seems a fault to bring 
them into contrast. 
The sweet love notes of the mocking bird 
from top of house or bush ring clear and true 
to his mate while they nest. The poor squeak 
of the shrike, let us hope, may fall on ears 
attuned; with us his efforts are surely lost, 
Our southern blue jays I can hear calling from 
the large pecan tree just across the railroad in 
my neighbor’s yard. I suspect they are already 
taking toll from the nuts, not yet half grown. 
The crows and jays together play sad havoc 
with the delicious crop from these trees, as 
the birds are numerous and we have but few 
of the bearing trees. 
* * * 
I have been interrupted in my jottings and 
now it comes towards eventide. Nighthawks 
flit high overhead, darting in quick turns for an 
evening meal of our many winged pests. Drag¬ 
onflies are about, hunting at a much lower 
level for the same prey, li our thoughtless 
children—old and young—would only realize the 
mighty value of these two friends and cease to 
persecute them we would soon have far less 
distress from insect attacks. 
A pair of kingbirds are yet nesting, quite 
late for them, in a nearby pine tree, and I can 
hear the sharp call of one. Occasionally it 
comes within my view and perches on the wire 
whence it pursues mocker or shrike or jay. * * * 
Now it is quite sunset and darkening early, 
as the clouds gather in the western sky. Far 
eastward, just over the pines a rolling, billowy 
thunderhead L brilliantly alight from the sink¬ 
ing sun, now below the horizon. The cloud was 
quite golden and quickly changes to silvery- 
yellow. The lighter, nearer, clouds above are 
clear pink and change to pale rose. The lower, 
heavier cloud, darkens to blue with yellow 
shadings and settles behind the pines. We will 
have no storm from that quarter. 
The nighthawks in their circuit have returned, 
a dozen or more, and now they are lower, now 
higher, rising, falling in their helpful toil. A 
single bat comes on the scene to glean after 
the birds and he too aids in the good work. 
A far away owl asks: "Whoo-whoo-ah hoo — 
Whoo-whoo-ak hoo ah f” And the day is done. 
PROTECT THE BLACK BEAR. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Somewhere along in the middle eighties the 
undersigned, through the medium of Forest and 
Stream, advocated the protection of the black 
bear at certain seasons, with a perpetual close 
season for juvenile bears, but received mighty 
little encouragement from any quarter—in fact, 
did receive a letter from the editor advising 
him that if he wished to do any missionary 
work in the bear protection line there was an 
excellent field for such work in that portion of 
Maine where bears are suspected of making 
free with the farmers’ pumpkins and occasion¬ 
ally dining on mutton. The letter likewise 
hinted that the reception accorded the mission¬ 
ary would be warm and cheerful, more or less. 
This advice to “Go East, young man,” however 
excellent it may have been, was not followed, 
but I have since continued to study the bear 
question and have learned nothing to cause me 
to recede from the position taken fifteen years 
ago, and am still an advocate of the protection 
of that finest of all game mammals, the black 
bear, and, moreover, am willing to wager a big 
red apple that I can show you a single county 
in this state where more sheep are annually 
destroyed by dogs than are killed by bears in 
all New York and New England combined. 
This, however, is no reason why all dogs 
should- be put out of the way. 
I should not, in all probability, have broken 
loose on the bear subject at this time but for 
a picture entitled “What is the Answer to This 
Month’s Lesson?” that appeared in this month’s 
issue of Forest and Stream, which picture tells 
its own story, and no words are needed to 
convey its pathos to the mind of- the humane 
and intelligent reader. Could every baby bear 
picture of this sort be accompanied by a com¬ 
panion piece showing the man who provided the 
material for the picture intensely interested in 
the pursuit of geological knowledge within the 
inclosed premises of some well conducted peni¬ 
tentiary—one run on strictly business lines, it 
would in a degree lessen the desire on the part 
of humane people to use “cuss” words. 
To me it is inconceivable that a creature that 
has such great economic value, both as to flesh 
and fur, and at the same time one of the grandest 
game animals that this continent is possessed 
of, should be ruthlessly destroyed at all times, 
in any manner and at any stage of its existence. 
To my dull comprehension it seems not only a 
wanton destruction of the “gamiest sort of 
game,” but at the same time a wilful waste of 
much valuable food and fur, for surely neither 
the mother of a litter of week-old bear cubs 
nor her helpless progeny could have any value 
as an item of food, even if the dam’s pelt might 
bring a few dollars. 
If we were to name a half dozen of the most 
desirable game mammals on this continent, we 
would find the name of Ursus americanus oc¬ 
cupying a high place on the list; or if to name 
a half dozen of the most valued fur-bearing 
animals in the order of their value, our friend 
the black bear would not be found at the foot 
of the class by any means. 
Next to the head of the lordly moose, what 
trophy of the Eastern game fields can be com¬ 
pared to a fine, glossy bear rug, the acquiring 
