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THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
FRONTISPIECE BY 
 WALTER KING STONE 
 
 «tffi)«s 
 
 *?^>fc 
 
 !<K§fe» 
 
 THE LOG 
 
 OF THE SUN 
 
 A Chronicle of Nature s Year 
 By WILLIAM BEEBE 
 
 s ERieS 
 
 GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC. 
 
 GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK 
 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1906, 
 
 BY 
 
 3ENBY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED Ilf THE 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
TO MY 
 iHotfjer anli jfatfjer 
 
 WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT AND SYMPATHY 
 GAVE IMPETUS AND PURPOSE TO 
 A BOY'S LOVE OF NATURE 
 
 f*a« %'Jf^ifZd * 
 
PREFACE 
 
 IN the fifty-two short essays of this volume I 
 have presented familiar objects from unusual 
 points of view. Bird's-eye glances and insect 's- 
 eye glances, at the nature of our woods and fields, 
 will reveal beauties which are wholly invisible 
 from the usual human view-point, five feet or 
 more above the ground. 
 
 Who follows the lines must expect to find 
 moods as varying as the seasons; to face storm 
 and night and cold, and all other delights of what 
 wildness still remains to us upon the earth. 
 
 Emphasis has been laid upon the weak points 
 in our knowledge of things about us, and the 
 principal desire of the author is to inspire enthu- 
 siasm in those whose eyes are just opening to 
 the wild beauties of God's out-of-doors, to gather 
 up and follow to the end some of these frayed- 
 out threads of mystery. 
 
 Portions of the text have been published at 
 various times in the pages of "Outing," "Rec- 
 reation," "The Golden Age," "The New York 
 Evening Post," and "The New York Tribune." 
 
 C. W. B. 
 
 rii 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 JANUARY 
 
 PAGP 
 
 Biids op the Snow 3 
 
 Winter Mabvels 10 
 
 Ced^b Birds and Berries .......... 16 
 
 Dark Days of Insect Life 20 
 
 Chameleons in Fur and Feather ...... 25 
 
 FEBRUARY 
 
 February Feathers 33 
 
 * Fish Life . . , , . 39 - 
 
 Tenants of Winter Birds' Nests 46 
 
 Winter Holes 50 
 
 MARCH 
 
 Feathered Pioneers . 
 
 The Ways of Meadow Mice 
 •Problems of Bird Life 
 » Dwellers in the Dust 
 
 APRIL 
 
 Spring Songsters ...... 
 
 The Simple Art of Sapsucking 
 
 Wild Wings 
 
 The Birds in the Moon 
 
 MAY 
 
 High Tide of Bird Ltee 
 * Animal Fashions 
 Polliwog Problems 
 Insect Pirates and Submarines 
 The Victory of the Nighthawk 
 
 50 
 65 
 69* 
 75' 
 
 81 
 87 
 91 
 94 
 
 99 
 105 ' 
 110 
 113 
 117 
 
 JUNE 
 
 The Gala Days of Birds 123 
 
 Turtle Traits „ 128 
 
 A Half-hour in a Marsh 134"** 
 
 Secrets of the Ocean 139 . 
 
 Sx 
 
TABLE OF CONTEXTS 
 
 JULY 
 
 Birds in a City .... 
 Night Music of the Swamp . 
 
 • TnE Coming of Max . 
 
 • The Silent Language of Animals 
 Insect Music 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 165 
 
 172 
 179 
 132 
 
 ]88 
 
 AUGUST 
 
 Gray Days of Birds 195 
 
 Lives of the Lantern Bearers 202 
 
 A Starfish and a Daisy 205 
 
 The Dream of the Yellow-throat 209 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 The Passing of the Flocks 215 
 
 Ghosts of the Earth 220 
 
 Muskrats 223 
 
 Nature's Geometricians 226 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 Autumn Hunting with a Field Glass 
 
 A Woodchuck and a Grebe 
 •The Voice of Animals .... 
 » The Names of Animals, Frogs, and Fish 
 
 235 
 241 
 245 
 252 
 
 The Dying Year 264 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 November's Birds of the Heavens 269 
 
 A Plea for the Skunk 275 
 
 The Lesson of the Wave 278 
 
 We Go A-sponging 282 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 New Thoughts about Nests . 
 • Lessons from an English Sparrow 
 -The Personality of Trees 
 
 An Owl of the North 
 
 291 
 297 
 303 
 319 
 
A fiery mist and a planet, 
 
 A crystal and a cell ; 
 A jelly fish and a saurian, 
 
 And the caves where the cave men dwell; 
 Then a sense of law and beauty 
 
 And a face turned from the clod, 
 Some call it evolution, 
 
 And others call it God. 
 
 W. H. CaerutHo 
 

JANUAHY 
 
BIRDS OF THE SNOW 
 
 NO fact of natural history is more interesting, 
 or more significant of the poetry of evolu- 
 tion, than the distribution of birds over the entire 
 surface of the world. They have overcome count- 
 less obstacles, and adapted themselves to all con- 
 ditions. The last faltering glance which the Arctic 
 explorer sends toward his coveted goal, ere he 
 admits defeat, shows flocks of snow buntings 
 active with warm life; the storm-tossed mariner 
 in the midst of the sea, is followed, encircled, by 
 the steady, tireless flight of the albatross; the 
 fever-stricken wanderer in tropical jungles listens 
 to the sweet notes of birds amid the stagnant 
 pools ; while the thirsty traveller in the desert is 
 ever watched by the distant buzzards. Finally 
 when the intrepid climber, at the risk of life and 
 limb, has painfully made his way to the summit 
 of the most lofty peak, far, far above him, in the 
 blue expanse of thin air, he can distinguish the 
 form of a majestic eagle or condor. 
 
 At the approach of winter the flowers and 
 insects about us die, but most of the birds take 
 wing and fly to a more temperate climate, while 
 their place is filled with others which have spent 
 the summer farther to the north. Thus without 
 stirring from our doorway we may become 
 
 3 
 
 - „ ■■«» t. a&ir 
 
4 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 acquainted with many species whose summer 
 homes are hundreds of miles away. 
 
 No time is more propitious or advisable for the 
 
 amateur bird lover to begin his studies than the 
 first of the year. Bird life is now reduced to its 
 simplest terms in numbers and species, and the 
 absence of concealing foliage, together with the 
 usual tameness of winter birds, makes identifica- 
 tion an easy matter. 
 
 In January and the succeeding month we have 
 with us birds which are called permanent resi- 
 dents, which do not leave us throughout the entire 
 year; and, in addition, the winter visitors which 
 have come to us from the far north. 
 
 In the uplands we may flush ruffed grouse from 
 their snug retreats in the snow ; while in the weedy 
 fields, many a fairy trail shows where bob-white 
 has passed, and often he will announce his own 
 name from the top of a rail fence. The grouse 
 at this season have a curious outgrowth of horny 
 scales along each side of the toes, which, acting 
 as a tiny snowshoe, enables them to walk on soft 
 snow with little danger of sinking through. 
 
 Few of our winter birds can boast of bright 
 colours; their garbs are chiefly grays and browns, 
 but all have some mark or habit or note by which 
 they can be at once named. For example, if you 
 see a mouse hitching spirally up a tree-trunk, a 
 closer look will show that it is a brown creeper, 
 seeking tiny insects and theit eggs in the crevices 
 
BIRDS OF THE SNOW 6 
 
 of the trunk. He looks like a small pieee of the 
 roughened bark which has suddenly become ani- 
 mated. His long tail props him up and his tiny 
 feet never fail to find a foothold. Our winter 
 birds go in flocks, and where we see a brown 
 creeper we are almost sure to find other birds. 
 
 Nuthatches are those blue-backed, white or 
 rufous breasted little climbers who spend their 
 lives defying the law of gravity. They need no 
 supporting tail, and have only the usual number 
 of eight toes, but they traverse the bark, up or 
 down, head often pointing toward the ground, 
 as if their feet were small vacuum cups. Their 
 note is an odd nasal nyehl nyeh! 
 
 In winter some one- species of bird usually pre- 
 dominates, most often, perhaps, it is the black- 
 capped chickadee. They seem to fill every grove, 
 and, if you take your stand in the woods, flock 
 after flock will pass in succession. What good 
 luck must have come to the chickadee race during 
 the preceding summer? Was some one of their 
 enemies stricken with a plague, or did they show 
 more than usual care in the selecting of their 
 nesting holes? Whatever it was, during such a 
 year, it seems certain that scores more of chicka- 
 dee babies manage to live to grow up than is 
 usually the case. These little fluffs are, in their 
 way, as remarkable acrobats as are the nut- 
 hatches, and it is a marvel how the very thin legs, 
 with their tiny sliver of bone and thread of tendon, 
 
6 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 can hold the body of the bird in almost any posi- 
 tion, while the vainly hidden clusters of insect 
 eggs are pried into. Without ceasing a moment 
 in their busy search for food, the fluffy feathered 
 members of the flock call to each other, "Chick-a- 
 chick-a-dee-dee!" but now and then the heart of 
 some little fellow bubbles over, and he rests an 
 instant, sending out a sweet, tender, high call, a 
 "Phoe-be!" love note, which warms our ears in 
 the frosty air and makes us feel a real affection 
 for the brave little mites. 
 
 Our song sparrow is, like the poor, always with 
 us, at least near the coast, but we think none the 
 less of him for that, and besides, that fact is true 
 in only one sense. A ripple in a stream may be 
 seen day after day, and yet the water forming it 
 is never the same, it is continually flowing onward. 
 This is usually the case with song sparrows and 
 with most other birds which are present summer 
 and winter. The individual sparrows which flit 
 from bush to bush, or slip in and out of the brush 
 piles in January, have doubtless come from some 
 point north of us, while the song sparrows of our 
 summer walks are now miles to the southward. 
 Few birds remain the entire year in the locality 
 in which they breed, although the southward 
 movement may be a very limited one. "When birds 
 migrate so short a distance, they are liable to be 
 affected in colour and size by the temperature 
 and dampness of their respective areas; and so 
 
BIRDS OF THE SNOW 7 
 
 we find that in North America there are as many 
 as twenty-two races of song sparrows, to each of 
 which has been given a scientific name. When you 
 wish to speak of our northeastern song sparrow 
 in the latest scientific way, you must say 
 Melospiza cinerea melodia, which tells us that it 
 is a melodious song finch, ashy or brown in colour. 
 
 Our winter sparrows are easy to identify. The 
 song sparrow may, of course, be known by the 
 streaks of black and brown upon his breast and 
 sides, and by the blotch which these form in the 
 centre of the breast. The tree sparrow, which 
 comes to us from Hudson Bay and Labrador, 
 lacks the stripes, but has the centre spot. This is 
 one of our commonest field birds in winter, not- 
 withstanding his name. 
 
 The most omnipresent and abundant of all our 
 winter visitors from the north are the juncos, or 
 snowbirds. Slate coloured above and white below, 
 perfectly describes these birds, although their dis- 
 tinguishing mark, visible a long way off, is the 
 white V in their tails, formed by several white 
 outer feathers on each side. The sharp chirps of 
 juncos are heard before the ice begins to form, 
 and they stay with us all winter. 
 
 We have called the junco a snowbird, but this 
 name should really be confined to a black and 
 white bunting which comes south only with a mid- 
 winter ? s rush of snowflakes. Their warm little 
 bodies nestle close to the white crystals, and they 
 
8 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 seek cheerfully for the seeds which nature has 
 provided for them. Then a thaw comes, and they 
 disappear as silently and mysteriously as if they 
 had melted with the flakes; but doubtless they are 
 far to the northward, hanging on the outskirts of 
 the Arctic storms, and giving way only when every 
 particle of food is frozen tight, the ground cov- 
 ered deep with snow, and the panicled seed clus- 
 ters locked in crystal frames of ice. 
 
 The feathers of these Arctic wanderers are 
 perfect non-conductors of heat and of cold, and 
 never a chill reaches their little frames until 
 hunger presses. Then they must find food and 
 quickly, or they die. "When these snowflakes first 
 come to us they are tinged with gray and brown, 
 but gradually through the winter their colours 
 become more clear-cut and brilliant, until, when 
 spring comes, they are garbed in contrasting 
 black and white. With all this change, however, 
 they leave never a feather with us, but only the 
 minute brown tips of the feather vanes, which, by 
 wearing away, leave exposed the clean new 
 colours beneath. 
 
 Thus we find that there are problems innumer- 
 able to verify and to solve, even when the tide of 
 the year's life is at its lowest ebb. 
 
 From out the white and pulsing storm 
 
 I hear the snowbirds calling; 
 The sheeted winds stalk o'er the hills, 
 
 And fast the snow is falling. 
 
BIRDS OF THE SNOW 
 
 On twinkling wings they eddy past, 
 
 At home amid the drifting-. 
 Or seek the hills and weedy fields 
 
 Where fast the snow is sifting. 
 
 Their coats are dappled white and brown 
 
 Like fields in winter weather, 
 But on the azure sky they float 
 
 Like snowflakes knit together. 
 
 I've heard them on the spotless hills 
 Where fox and hound were playing. 
 
 The while I stood with eager ear 
 Bent on the distant baying. 
 
 The unmown fields are their preserves, 
 Where weeds and grass are seeding; 
 
 They know the lure of distant stacks 
 Where houseless herds are feeding. 
 
 John Burroughs. 
 
WINTER MARVELS 
 
 LET us suppose that a heavy snow has fallen 
 J and that we have been a-birding in vain. 
 For once it seems as if all the birds had gone the 
 way of the butterflies. But we are not true bird- 
 lovers unless we can substitute nature for bird 
 whenever the occasion demands; specialisation is 
 only for the ultra-scientist. 
 
 There is more to be learned in a snowy field 
 than volumes could tell. There is the tangle of 
 footprints to unravel, the history of the pastimes 
 and foragings and tragedies of the past night 
 writ large and unmistakable. Though the sun now 
 shines brightly, we can well imagine the cold dark- 
 ness of six hours ago; w T e can reconstruct the 
 whole scene from those tiny tracks, showing fran- 
 tic leaps, the indentation of two wing-tips, — a 
 speck of blood. But let us take a bird's-eye view 
 of things, from a bird's-head height; that is, lie 
 flat upon a board or upon the clean, dry crystals 
 and see what wonders we have passed by all our 
 lives. 
 
 Take twenty square feet of snow with a stream- 
 let through the centre, and we have an epitome of 
 geological processes and conditions. With chin 
 
 upon mittens and mittens upon the crust, the eye 
 
 10 
 
WINTER MARVELS 11 
 
 opens upon a new world. The half -covered rivu- 
 let becomes a monster glacier-fed stream, rushing 
 down through grand canyons and caves, hung with 
 icy stalactites. Bit by bit the walls are under- 
 mined and massive icebergs become detached and 
 are whirled away. As for moraines, we have them 
 in plenty; only the windrows of thousands upon 
 thousands of tiny seeds of which they are com- 
 posed, are not permanent, but change their form 
 and position with every strong gust of wind. And 
 with every gust too their numbers increase, the 
 harvest of the weeds being garnered here, upon 
 barren ground. No wonder the stream will be 
 hidden from view next summer, when the myriad 
 seeds sprout and begin to fight upward for light 
 and air. 
 
 If we cannot hope for polar bears to complete 
 our Arctic scene, we may thrill at the sight of a 
 sinuous weasel, winding his way among the 
 weeds; and if we look in vain for swans, we at 
 least may rejoice in a whirling, white flock of snow 
 buntings. 
 
 A few flakes fall gently upon our sleeve and 
 another world opens before us. A small hand- 
 lens will be of service, although sharp eyes may 
 dispense with it. Gather a few recently fallen 
 flakes upon a piece of black cloth, and the lens will 
 reveal jewels more beautiful than any ever 
 fashioned by the hand of man. Six-pointed crys- 
 tals, always hexagonal, of a myriad patterns, 
 
12 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 leave us lost in -wonderment when we look out over 
 the white landscape and think of the hidden beauty 
 of it all. The largest glacier of Greenland or 
 Alaska is composed wholly of "just such crystals 
 whose points have melted and which have become 
 ice. 
 
 We may draw or photograph scores of these 
 beautiful crystals and never duplicate a figure. 
 Some are almost solid and tabular, others are 
 simple stars or fern-branched. Then we may 
 detect compound forms, crystals within crystals, 
 and, rarest of all, doubles, where two different 
 forms appear as joined together by a tiny pillar. 
 In all of these we have an epitome of the crystals 
 of the rocks beneath our feet, only in their case 
 the pressure has moulded them into straight col- 
 umns, while the snow, forming unhindered in mid- 
 air, resolves itself into these exquisite forms and 
 floral designs. Flowers and rocks are not so very 
 unlike after all. 
 
 Few of us can observe these wonderful forms 
 without feeling the poetry of it all. Thoreau on 
 the fifth day of January, 1856, writes as follows : 
 . . . "The thin snow now driving from the north 
 and lodging on my coat consists of those beauti- 
 ful star crystals, not cottony and chubby spokes 
 as on the 13th of December, but thin and partly 
 transparent crystals. They are about one tenth 
 of an inch in diameter, perfect little wheels with 
 six spokes, without a tire, or rather with six per- 
 
 ! 
 
WINTER MARVELS 13 
 
 feet little leaflets, fern-like, with a distinct, 
 straight, slender midrib raying from the centre. 
 On each side of each midrib there is a transparent, 
 thin blade with a crenate edge. How full of the 
 creative genius is the air in which these are gen- 
 erated ! I should hardly admire more if real stars 
 fell and lodged on my coat. Nature is full of 
 genius, full of the divinity, so that not a snow- 
 flake escapes- its fashioning hand. Nothing is 
 cheap and coarse, neither dewdrops nor snow- 
 flakes. Soon the storm increases (it was already 
 very severe to face), and the snow becomes finer, 
 more white and powdery. 
 
 " Who knows but this is the original form of all 
 snowflakes, but that, when I observe these crystal 
 stars falling around me, they are only just gen- 
 erated in the low mist next the earth. I am nearer 
 to the source of the snow, its primal auroral, and 
 golden hour of infancy ; commonly the flakes reach 
 us travel-worn and agglomerated, comparatively, 
 without order or beauty, far down in their fall, 
 like men in their advanced age. As for the cir- 
 cumstances under which this occurs, it is quite 
 cold, and the driving storm is bitter to face, though 
 very little snow is falling. It comes almost hori- 
 zontally from the north. ... A divinity must 
 have stirred within them, before the crystals did 
 thus shoot and set : wheels of the storm chariots. 
 The same law that shapes the earth and the stars 
 shapes the snowflake. Call it rather snow star. 
 
1 1 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 As surely as the petals of a flower are numbered, 
 each of these countless snow stars comes whirling 
 to earth, pronouncing thus with emphasis the 
 number six, order, xoa(io$. This was the begin- 
 ning of a storm which reached far and wide, and 
 elsewhere was more severe than here. On the 
 Saskatchewan, where no man of science is present 
 to behold, still down they come, and not the less 
 fulfil their destiny, perchance melt at once on the 
 Indian's face. What a world we live in, where 
 myriads of these little discs, so beautiful to the 
 most prying eye, are whirled down on every 
 traveller's coat, the observant and the unobserv- 
 ant, on the restless squirrel's fur, on the far- 
 stretching fields and forests, the wooded dells and 
 the mountain tops. Far, far away from the haunts 
 of men, they roll down some little slope, fall over 
 and come to their bearings, and melt or lose their 
 beauty in the mass, ready anon to swell some little 
 rill with their contribution, and so, at last, the 
 universal ocean from which they came. There 
 they lie, like the wreck of chariot wheels after a 
 battle in the skies. Meanwhile the meadow mouse 
 shoves them aside in his gallery, the schoolboy 
 casts them in his ball, or the woodman's sled 
 glides smoothly over them, these glorious 
 spangles, the sweepings of heaven's floor. And 
 they all sing, melting as they sing, of the mysteries 
 of the number six ; six, six, six. He takes up the 
 waters of the sea in his hand, leaving the salt ; he 
 
 
WINTER MARVELS 15 
 
 disperses it in mist through the skies; he re-col- 
 lects and sprinkles it like grain in six-rayed snowy 
 stars over the earth, there to lie till he dissolves 
 its bonds again." 
 
 But here is a bit of snow which seems less pure, 
 with grayish patches here and there. Down again 
 to sparrow-level and bring the glass to bear. 
 Your farmer friend will tell you that they are 
 snow-fleas which are snowed down with the flakes ; 
 the entomologist will call them Achorutes nivicola 
 and he knows that they have prosaically wiggled 
 their way from the crevices of bark on the nearest 
 tree-trunk. One's thrill of pleasure at this unex- 
 pected discovery will lead one to adopt sparrow- 
 views whenever larger game is lacking. 
 
 I walked erstwhile upon tby frozen waves, 
 
 And heard the streams amid thy ice-locked caves; 
 
 I peered down thy crevasses blue and dim, 
 
 Standing in awe upon the dizzy rim. 
 
 Beyond me lay the inlet still and blue, 
 
 Behind, the mountains loomed upon the view 
 
 Like storm-wraiths gathered from the low-hung sky. 
 
 A gust of wind swept past with heavy sigh, 
 
 And lo ! I listened to the ice-stream's song 
 
 Of winter when the nights grow dark and long, 
 
 And bright stars flask above thy fields of snow, 
 
 The cold waste sparkling in the pallid glow. 
 
 Charles Keeler. 
 
CEDAR BIRDS AND BERRIES 
 
 KEEP sharp eyes upon the cedar groves in 
 mid-winter, and sooner or later you will sea 
 the waxwings come, not singly or in pairs, but by 
 dozens, and sometimes in great flocks. They will 
 well repay all the watching one gives them. The 
 cedar waxwing is a strange bird, with a very pro- 
 nounced species-individuality, totally unlike any 
 other bird of our country. When feeding on their 
 favourite winter berries, these birds show to great 
 advantage; the warm rich brown of the upper 
 parts and of the crest contrasting with the black, 
 scarlet, and yellow, and these, in turn, with the 
 dark green of the cedar and the white of the snow. 
 
 The name waxwing is due to the scarlet orna- 
 ments at the tips of the lesser flight feathers and 
 some of the tail feathers, which resemble bits of 
 red sealing wax, but which are really the bare, 
 flattened ends of the feather shafts. Cherry-bird 
 is another name which is appropriately applied to 
 the cedar waxwing. 
 
 These birds are never regular in their move- 
 ments, and they come and go without heed to 
 weather or date. They should never be lightly 
 passed by, but their flocks carefully examined, lest 
 among their ranks may be hidden a Bohemian 
 
 16 
 
CEDAR BIRDS AND BERRIES 17 
 
 chatterer — a stately waxwing larger than com- 
 mon and even more beautiful in hue, whose large 
 size and splashes of white upon its wings will 
 always mark it out. 
 
 This bird is one of our rarest of rare visitors, 
 breeding in the far north ; and even in its nest and 
 eggs mystery enshrouds it. Up to fifty years ago, 
 absolutely nothing was known of its nesting 
 habits, although during migration Bohemian chat- 
 terers are common all over Europe. At last Lap- 
 land was found to be their home, and a nest has 
 been found in Alaska and several others in Labra- 
 dor. My only sight of these birds was of a pair 
 perched in an elm tree in East Orange, New Jer- 
 sey; but I will never forget it, and will never 
 cease to hope for another such red-letter day. 
 
 The movements of the cedar waxwings are as 
 uncertain in summer as they are in winter; they 
 may be common in one locality for a year or two, 
 and then, apparently without reason, desert it. At 
 this season they feed on insects instead of berries, 
 and may be looked for in small flocks in orchard 
 or wood. The period of nesting is usually late, 
 and, in company with the goldfinches, they do not 
 begin their house-keeping until July and August. 
 Unlike other birds, waxwings will build their nests 
 of almost anything near at hand, and apparently 
 in any growth which takes their fancy, — apple, 
 oak, or cedar. The nests are well constructed, 
 however, and often, with their contents, add 
 
18 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 another background of a most pleasing harmony 
 of colours. A nest composed entirely of pale 
 green hanging moss, with eggs of bluish gray, 
 spotted and splashed with brown and black, 
 guarded by a pair of these exquisite birds, is a 
 sight to delight the eye. 
 
 When the young have left the nest, if alarmed 
 by an intruder, they will frequently, trusting to 
 their protective dress of streaky brown, freeze 
 into most unbird-like attitudes, drawing the 
 feathers close to the body and stretching the neck 
 stiffly upward, — almost bittern-like. Undoubtedly 
 other interesting habits which these strangely 
 picturesque birds may possess are still awaiting 
 discovery by some enthusiastic observer with a 
 pair of opera-glasses and a stock of that ever 
 important characteristic — patience. 
 
 Although, during the summer months, myriads 
 of insects are killed and eaten by the cedar wax* 
 wings, yet these birds are pre-eminently berry 
 eaters, — choke-cherries, cedar berries, blueber- 
 ries, and raspberries being preferred. Watch a 
 flock of these birds in a cherry tree, and you will 
 see the pits fairly rain down. We need not place 
 our heads, a la Newton, in the path of these falling 
 stones to deduce some interesting facts, — indeed! 
 to solve the very destiny of the fruit. Many whole 
 cherries are carried away by the birds to be de- 
 voured elsewhere, or we may see parent waxwing* 
 
CEDAR BIRDS AND BERRIES 19 
 
 filling their gullets with ten or a dozen berries and 
 carrying them to the eager nestlings. 
 
 Thus is made plain the why and the wherefore 
 of the coloured skin, the edible flesh, and the hid- 
 den stone of the fruit. The conspicuous racemes 
 of the choke-cherries, or the shining scarlet globes 
 of the cultivated fruit, fairly shout aloud to the 
 birds — "Come and eat us, we're as good as we 
 look!" But Mother Nature looks on and laughs 
 to herself. Thistle seeds are blown to the land's 
 end by the wind; the heavier ticks and burrs are 
 carried far and wide upon the furry coats of pass- 
 ing creatures ; but the cherry could not spread its 
 progeny beyond a branch 's length, were it not for 
 the ministrations of birds. With birds, as with 
 some other bipeds, the shortest way to the heart 
 is through the stomach, and a choke-cherry tree 
 in full blaze of fruit is always a natural aviary. 
 Where a cedar bird has built its nest, there look 
 some day to see a group of cherry trees; where 
 convenient fence-perches along the roadside lead 
 past cedar groves, there hope before long to see 
 a bird-planted avenue of cedars. And so the mar- 
 vels of Nature go on evolving, — wheels within 
 wheels. 
 

 THE DARK DAYS OF INSECT LIFE 
 
 SOMETIMES by too close and confining study 
 of things pertaining to the genus Homo, we 
 perchance find ourselves complacently wondering 
 if we have not solved almost all the problems of 
 this little whirling sphere of water and earth. Our 
 minds turn to the ultra questions of atoms and 
 ions and rays and our eyes strain restlessly up- 
 ward toward our nearest planet neighbour, in 
 half admission that we must soon take up the 
 study of Mars from sheer lack of earthly conquest. 
 
 If so minded, hie you to the nearest grove and, 
 digging down through the mid -winter's snow, 
 bring home a spadeful of leaf-mould. Examine 
 it carefully with hand-lens and microscope, and 
 then prophesy what warmth and light will bring 
 forth. Watch the unfolding life of plant and ani- 
 mal, and then come from your planet-yearning 
 back to earth, with a humbleness born of a realisa- 
 tion of our vast ignorance of the commonest things 
 about us. 
 
 Though th-e immediate mysteries of the seed and 
 the egg baffle us, yet the most casual lover of 
 God's out-of-doors may hopefully attempt to solve 
 the question of some of the winter homes of 
 insects. Think of the thousands upon thousands 
 
 20 
 
 
THE DARK DAYS OF INSECT LIFE 21 
 
 of eggs and pupae which are hidden in every 
 grove; what catacombs of bug mummies yonder 
 log conceals, — mummies whose resurrection will 
 be brought about by the alchemy of thawing sun- 
 beams. Follow out the suggestion hinted at above 
 and place a handkerchief full of frozen mould or 
 decayed wood in a white dish, and the tiny uni- 
 verse which will gradually unfold before you will 
 provide many hours of interest. But remember 
 your responsibilities in so doing, and do not let 
 the tiny plant germs languish and die for want 
 of water, or the feeble, newly-hatched insects 
 perish from cold or lack a bit of scraped meat. 
 
 Cocoons are another never-ending source of 
 delight. If you think that there are no unsolved 
 problems of the commonest insect life around us, 
 say why it is that the moths and millers pass the 
 winter wrapped in swaddling clothes of densest 
 textures, roll upon roll of silken coverlets ; while 
 our delicate butterflies hang uncovered, suspended 
 only by a single loop of silk, exposed to the cold 
 blast of every northern gale ? Why do the cater- 
 pillars of our giant moths — the mythologically 
 named Cecropia, Polyphemus, Luna, and Prome- 
 theus — show such individuality in the position 
 which they choose for their temporary shrouds? 
 Protection and concealment are the watchwords 
 held to in each case, but how differently they are 
 achieved ! 
 
 Cecropia — that beauty whose wings, fully six 
 
22 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 inches across, will flap gracefully through the 
 summer twilight — weaves about himself a half 
 oval mound, along some stem or tree-trunk, and 
 becomes a mere excrescence — the veriest un- 
 edible thing a bird may spy. Polyphemus wraps 
 miles of finest silk about his green worm-form 
 (how, even though we watch him do it, we can only 
 guess) ; weaving in all the surrounding leaves he 
 can reach. This, of course, before the frosts come, 
 but when the leaves at last shrivel, loosen, and 
 their petioles break, it is merely a larger brown 
 nut than usual that falls to the ground, the kernel 
 of which will sprout next June and blossom into 
 the big moth of delicate fawn tints, feathery 
 horned, with those strange isinglass windows in 
 his hind wings. 
 
 Luna — the weird, beautiful moon-moth, whose 
 pale green hues and long graceful streamers make 
 us realise how much beauty we miss if we neglect 
 the night life of summer — when clad in her 
 temporary shroud of silk, sometimes falls to the 
 ground, or again the cocoon remains in the tree 
 or bush where it was spun. 
 
 But Prometheus, the smallest of the quartet, 
 has a way all his own. The elongated cocoon, 
 looking like a silken finger, is woven about a leaf 
 of sassafras. Even the long stem of the leaf is 
 silk-girdled, and a strong band is looped about the 
 twig to which the leaf is attached. Here, when 
 all the leaves fall, he hangs, the plaything of 
 
 
THE DARK DAYS OF INSECT LIFE 23 
 
 every breeze, attracting the attention of all the 
 hungry birds. But little does Prometheus care. 
 Sparrows may hover about him and peck in vain ; 
 chickadees may clutch the dangling finger and 
 pound with all their tiny might. Prometheus is 
 "bound," indeed, and merely swings the faster, 
 up and down, from side to side. 
 
 It is interesting to note that when two Prome- 
 theus cocoons, fastened upon their twigs, were 
 suspended in a large cageful of native birds, it 
 took a healthy chickadee just three days of hard 
 pounding and unravelling to force a way through 
 the silken envelopes to the chrysalids within. 
 Such long continued and persistent labour for so 
 comparatively small a morsel of food would not 
 be profitable or even possible out-of-doors in win- 
 ter. The bird would starve to death while forcing 
 its way through the protecting silk. 
 
 These are only four of the many hundreds of 
 cocoons, from the silken shrouds on the topmost 
 branches to the jugnecked chrysalis of a sphinx 
 moth — offering us the; riddle of a winter's shelter 
 buried in the cold, dark earth. 
 
 Is everything frozen tight? Has Nature's frost 
 mortar cemented every stone in its bed? Then 
 cut off the solid cups of the pitcher plants, and 
 see what insects formed the last meal of these 
 strange growths,— ants, flies, bugs, encased in 
 ice like the fossil insects caught in the amber sap 
 which flowed so many thousands of years ago. 
 
24 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 When the fierce northwestern blast 
 Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
 Thou already slumberest deep; 
 "Woe and want thou canst outsleep. 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 UN** mxr 
 
CHAMELEONS IN FUR AND FEATHER 
 
 THE colour of things in nature has been the 
 subject of many volumes and yet it may be 
 truthfully said that no two naturalists are wholly 
 agreed on the interpretation of the countless hues 
 of plants and animals. Some assert that all alleged 
 instances of protective colouring and mimicry are 
 merely the result of accident ; while at the oppo- 
 site swing of the pendulum we find theories, pro- 
 tective and mimetic, for the colours of even the 
 tiny one-celled green plants which cover the bark 
 of trees ! Here is abundant opportunity for any 
 observer of living nature to help toward the solu- 
 tion of these problems. 
 
 In a battle there are always two sides and at its 
 finish one side always runs away while the other 
 pursues. Thus it is in the wars of nature, only 
 here the timid ones are always ready to flee, while 
 the strong are equally prepared to pursue. It is 
 only by constant vigilance that the little mice can 
 save themselves from disappearing down the 
 throats of their enemies, as under cover of dark- 
 ness they snatch nervous mouthfuls of grain in 
 the fields, — and hence their gray colour and their 
 large, watchful eyes; but on the other hand, the 
 baby owls in their hollow tree would starve if the 
 
 25 
 
26 THi: LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 parents were nc vqy able to swoop down in the 
 darkness and surprise a mouse now and then, — - 
 hence the gray plumage and great eyes of the 
 parent owls. 
 
 The most convincing proof of the reality of pro- 
 tective coloration is in the change of plumage or 
 fur of some of the wild creatures to suit the sea- 
 son. In the far north, the grouse or ptarmigan, 
 as they are called, do not keep feathers of the 
 same colour the year round, as does our ruffed 
 grouse ; but change their dress no fewer than three 
 times. When rocks and moss are buried deep 
 beneath the snow, and a keen-eyed hawk appears, 
 the white-feathered ptarmigan crouches and be- 
 comes an inanimate mound. Later in the year, 
 with the increasing warmth, patches of gray and 
 brown earth appear, and simultaneously, as if its 
 feathers were really snowflakes, splashes of brown 
 replace the pure white of the bird's plumage, and 
 equally baffle the eye. Seeing one of these birds 
 by itself, we could readily tell, from the colour of 
 its plumage, the time of year and general aspect 
 of the country from which it came. Its plumage 
 is like a mirror which reflects the snow, the moss, 
 or the lichens in turn. It is, indeed, a feathered 
 chameleon, but with changes of colour taking place 
 more slowly than is the case in the reptile. 
 
 "We may discover changes somewhat similar, 
 but furry instead of feathery, in the woods about 
 our home. The fiercest of all the animals of our 
 
CHAMELEONS IN FUR AND FEATHER 27 
 
 continent still evades the exterminating inroads 
 of man; indeed it often puts his traps to shame, 
 and wages destructive warfare in his very midst. 
 I speak of the weasel, — the least of all his family, 
 and yet, for his size, the most bloodthirsty and 
 widely dreaded little demon of all the country- 
 side. His is a name to conjure with among all the 
 lesser wood-folk; the scent of his passing brings 
 an almost helpless paralysis. And yet in some 
 way he must be handicapped, for his slightly 
 larger cousin, the mink, finds good hunting the 
 year round, clad in a suit of rich brown ; while the 
 weasel, at the approach of winter, sheds his sum- 
 mer dress of chocolate hue and dons a pure white 
 fur, a change which would seem to put the poor 
 mice and rabbits at a hopeless disadvantage. 
 Nevertheless the ermine, as he is now called 
 (although wrongly so), seems just able to hold his 
 own, with all his evil slinking motions and blood- 
 thirsty desires ; for foxes, owls, and hawks take, 
 in their turn, heavy toll. Nature is ever a repeti- 
 tion of the " House that Jack built''; — this is 
 the owl that ate the weasel that killed the mouse, 
 and so on. 
 
 The little tail-tips of milady's ermine coat are 
 black; and herein lies an interesting fact in the 
 coloration of the weasel and one that, perhaps, 
 gives a clue to some other hitherto inexplicable 
 .spots and markings on the fur, feathers, skin, and 
 scales of wild creatures. Whatever the season, 
 
28 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 and whatever the colour of the weasel's coat, — 
 brown or white, — the tip of the tail remains 
 always black. This would seem, at first thought, 
 a very bad thing for the little animal. Knowing 
 so little of fear, he never tucks his tail between 
 his legs, and, when shooting across an open 
 expanse of snow, the black tip ever trailing after 
 him would seem to mark him out for destruction 
 by every observing hawk or fox. 
 
 But the very opposite is the case as Mr. Witmer 
 Stone so well relates. "If you place a weasel in 
 its winter white on new-fallen snow, in such a 
 position that it casts no shadow, you will find that 
 the black tip of the tail catches your eye and holds 
 it in spite of yourself, so that at a little distance 
 it is very difficult to follow the outline of the rest 
 of the animal. Cover the tip of the tail with snow 
 and you can see the rest of the weasel itself 
 much more clearly; but as long as the black 
 point is in sight, you see that, and that only. 
 
 "If a hawk or owl, or any other of the larger 
 hunters of the woodland, were to give chase to a 
 weasel and endeavour to pounce upon it, it would 
 in all probability be the black tip of the tail it 
 would see and strike at, while the weasel, darting 
 ahead, would escape. It may, morever, serve as 
 a guide, enabling the young weasels to follow their 
 parents more readily through grass and brambles. 
 
 "One would suppose that this beautiful white 
 fur of winter, literally as white as the snow, might 
 
CHAMELEONS IN FUR AND FEATHER 29 
 
 prove a disadvantage at times by making its owner 
 conspicuous when the ground is bare in winter, 
 as it frequently is even in the North ; yet though 
 weasels are about more or less by day, you will 
 seldom catch so much as a glimpse of one at such 
 times, though you may hear their sharp chirrup 
 close at hand. Though bold and fearless, they 
 have the power of vanishing instantly, and the 
 slightest alarm sends them to cover. I have seen 
 one standing within reach of my hand in the sun- 
 shine on the exposed root of a tree, and while I 
 was staring at it, it vanished like the flame of a 
 candle blown out, without leaving me the slightest 
 clue as to the direction it had taken. All the 
 weasels I have ever seen, either in the woods or 
 open meadows, disappeared in a similar manner. ' ' 
 To add to the completeness of proof that the 
 change from brown to white is for protection, — 
 in the case of the weasel, both to enable it to 
 escape from the fox and to circumvent the rabbit, 
 — the w T easels in Florida, where snow is unknown, 
 do not change colour, but remain brown through- 
 out the whole year. 
 

 
 
 
FEBRUARY 
 

FEBRUARY FEATHERS 
 
 FEBRUARY holes are most interesting places 
 and one never knows what will be found in 
 the next one investigated. It is a good plan, in 
 one's walks in the early fall, to make a mental 
 map of all the auspicious looking trees and holes, 
 and then go the rounds of these in winter — as a 
 hunter follows his line of traps. An old, neg- 
 lected orchard may seem perfectly barren of life ; 
 insects dead, leaves fallen, and sap frozen; but 
 the warm hearts of these venerable trees may 
 shelter much beside the larvse of boring beetles, 
 and we may reap a winter harvest of which the 
 farmer knows nothing. 
 
 Poke a stick into a knot-hole and stir up the 
 leaves at the bottom of the cavity, and then look 
 in. Two great yellow eyes may greet you, glaring 
 intermittently, and sharp clicks may assail your 
 ears. Reach in with your gloved hand and bring 
 the screech owl out. He will blink in the sun- 
 shine, ruffling up his feathers until he is twice his 
 real size. .The light partly blinds him, but toss 
 him into the air and he will fly without difficulty 
 and select with ease a secluded perch. The instant 
 he alights a wonderful transformation comes over 
 him. He stiffens, draws himself as high as pos- 
 
 33 
 
34 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 sible, and compresses his feathers until he seems 
 naught but the slender, broken stump of 
 some bough, — ragged topped (thanks to his 
 " horns "), gray and lichened. It is little short 
 of a miracle how this spluttering, saucer-eyed, 
 feathered cat can melt away into woody fibre 
 before our very eyes. 
 
 We quickly understand why in the daytime the 
 little owl is so anxious to hide his form from pub- 
 lic view. Although he can see well enough to fly 
 and to perch, yet the bright sunlight on the snow 
 is too dazzling to permit of swift and sure action. 
 All the birds of the winter woods seem to know 
 this and instantly take advantage of it. Spar- 
 rows, chickadees, and woodpeckers go nearly wild 
 with excitement when they discover the little owl, 
 hovering about him and occasionally making darts 
 almost in his very face. We can well believe that 
 as the sun sets, after an afternoon of such excite- 
 ment, they flee in terror, selecting for that night's 
 perch the densest tangle of sweetbrier to be found. 
 
 One hollow tree may yield a little gray owl, 
 while from the next we may draw a red one ; and 
 the odd thing about this is that this difference in 
 colour does not depend upon age, sex, or season, 
 and no ornithologist can say why it occurs. WTiat 
 can these little fellows find to feed upon these cold 
 nights, when the birds seek the most hidden and 
 sheltered retreats? We might murder the next 
 owl we come across ; but would any fact we might 
 
FEBRUARY FEATHERS 35 
 
 discover in his poor stomach repay us for the 
 thought of having needlessly cut short his life, 
 with its pleasures and spring courtships, and the 
 delight he will take in the half a dozen pearls over 
 which he will soon watch? 
 
 A much better way is to examine the ground 
 around his favourite roosting place, where we will 
 find many pellets of fur and bones, with now and 
 then a tiny skull. These tell the tale, and if at 
 dusk we watch closely, we may see the screech owl 
 look out of his door, stretch every limb, purr his 
 shivering song, and silently launch out over the 
 fields, a feathery, shadowy death to all small mice 
 who scamper too far from their snow tunnels. 
 
 When you feel like making a new and charming 
 acquaintance, take your way to a dense clump of 
 snow-laden cedars, and look carefully over their 
 trunks. If you are lucky you will spy a tiny gray 
 form huddled close to the sheltered side of the 
 bark, and if you are careful you may approach and 
 catch in your hand the smallest of all our owls, 
 for the saw-whet is a dreadfully sleepy fellow in 
 the daytime. I knew of eleven of these little gray 
 gnomes dozing in a clump of &ve small cedars. 
 
 The cedars are treasure-houses in winter, and 
 many birds find shelter among the thick foliage, 
 and feast upon the plentiful supply of berries, 
 when elsewhere there seems little that could keep 
 a bird's life in its body. When the tinkling of 
 breaking icicles is taken up by the wind and 
 
36 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 re-echoed from the tops of the cedars, you may 
 know that a flock of purple finches is near, and so 
 greedy and busy are they that you may approach 
 within a few feet. These birds are unfortunately 
 named, as there is nothing purple about their 
 plumage. The males are a delicate rose-red, while 
 the females look like commonplace sparrows, 
 streaked all over with black and brown. 
 
 There are other winter birds, whose home is in 
 the North, with a similar type of coloration. 
 Among the pines you may see a flock of birds, as 
 large as a sparrow, with strange-looking beaks. 
 The tips of the two mandibles are long, curved, 
 and pointed, crossing each other at their ends. 
 This looks like a deformity, but is in reality a 
 splendid cone-opener and seed-extracter. These 
 birds are the crossbills. 
 
 Even in the cold of a February day, we may, 
 on very rare occasions, be fortunate enough to 
 hear unexpected sounds, such as the rattle of a 
 belted kingfisher, or the croak of a night heron; 
 for these birds linger until every bit of pond or 
 lake is sealed with ice ; and when a thaw comes, a 
 lonely bat may surprise us with a short flight 
 through the frosty air, before it returns to its 
 winter's trance. 
 
 Of course, in the vicinity of our towns and cities, 
 the most noticeable birds at this season of the 
 year (as indeed at all seasons) are the English 
 sparrows and (at least near New York City) the 
 
FEBRUARY FEATHERS 37 
 
 starlings, those two foreigners which have 
 wrought such havoc among our native birds. 
 Their mingled flocks fly up, not only from garbage 
 piles and gutters, but from the thickets and fields 
 which should be filled with our sweet-voiced 
 American birds. It is no small matter for man 
 heedlessly to interfere with Nature. What may 
 be a harmless, or even useful, bird in its native 
 land may prove a terrible scourge when intro- 
 duced where there are no enemies to keep it in 
 check. Nature is doing her best to even matters 
 by letting albinism run riot among the sparrows, 
 and best of all by teaching sparrow hawks to nest 
 under our eaves and thus be on equal terms with 
 their sparrow prey. The starlings are turning 
 out to be worse than the sparrows. Already they 
 are invading the haunts of our grackles and red- 
 wings. 
 
 On some cold day, when the sun is shining, visit 
 all the orchards of which you know, and see if in 
 one or more you cannot find a good-sized, gray, 
 black, and white bird, which keeps to the topmost 
 branch of a certain tree. Look at him carefully 
 through your glasses, and if his beak is hooked, 
 like that of a hawk, you may know that you are 
 watching a northern shrike, or butcher bird. His 
 manner is that of a hawk, and his appearance 
 causes instant panic among small birds. If you 
 watch long enough you may see him pursue and 
 kill a goldfinch, or sparrow, and devour it. These 
 
38 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 birds are not even distantly related to the hawks, 
 but have added a hawk's characteristics and appe- 
 tite to the insect diet of their nearest relations. 
 If ever shrikes will learn to confine their attacks 
 to English sparrows, we should offer them every 
 encouragement. 
 
 All winter long the ebony forms of crows vibrate 
 back and forth across the cold sky. If we watch 
 them when very high up, we sometimes see them 
 sail a short distance, and without fail, a second 
 later, the clear "Caiu! cawl" comes down to us, 
 the sound-waves unable to keep pace with those 
 of light, as the thunder of the storm lags behind 
 the flash. These sturdy birds seem able to stand 
 any severity of the weather, but, like Achilles, they 
 have one vulnerable point, the eyes, — which, dur- 
 ing the long winter nights, must be kept deep 
 buried among the warm feathers. 
 
FISH LIFE 
 
 WE have all looked down through the clear 
 water of brook or pond and watched the 
 gracefully poised trout or pickerel; but have we 
 ever tried to imagine what the life of one of these 
 aquatic beings is really like! " Water Babies" 
 perhaps gives us the best idea of existence below 
 the water, but if we spend one day each month 
 for a year in trying to imagine ourselves in the 
 place of the fish, we will see that a fish-eye view 
 of life holds much of interest. 
 
 What a delightful sensation must it be to all 
 but escape the eternal downpull of gravity, to 
 float and turn and rise and fall at will, and all by 
 the least twitch of tail or limb,— for fish have 
 limbs, four of them, as truly as has a dog or horse, 
 only instead of fingers or toes there are many deli- 
 cate rays extending through the fin. These four 
 limb-fins are useful chiefly as balancers, while the 
 tail-fin is what sends the fish darting through the 
 water, or turns it to right or left, with incredible 
 swiftness. 
 
 If we were able to examine some inhabitant of 
 the planet Mars our first interest would be to 
 know with what senses they were endowed, and 
 these finny creatures living in their denser medi- 
 
 39 
 
40 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 inn, which after a few seconds would mean death 
 to us, excite the same interest. They see, of 
 course, having eyes, but do they feel, hear, and 
 smell 1 
 
 Probably the sense of taste is least developed. 
 When a trout leaps at and catches a fly he does 
 not stop to taste, otherwise the pheasant feather 
 concealing the cruel hook would be of little use. 
 When an animal catches its food in the water and 
 swallows it whole, taste plays but a small part. 
 Thus the tongue of a pelican is a tiny flap all but 
 lost to view in its great bill. 
 
 Water is an excellent medium for carrying mi- 
 nute particles of matter and so the sense of smell 
 is well developed. A bit of meat dropped into the 
 sea will draw the fish from far and wide, and a 
 slice of liver will sometimes bring a score 
 of sharks and throw; them into the greatest 
 excitement. 
 
 Fishes are probably very near-sighted, but that 
 they can distinguish details is apparent in the 
 choice which a trout exhibits in taking certain 
 coloured artificial flies. W 7 e may suppose from 
 what we know of physics that when we lean over 
 and look down into a pool, the fishy eyes which 
 peer up at us discern only a dark, irregular mass. 
 I have seen a pickerel dodge as quickly at a sudden 
 cloud-shadow as at the motion of a man wielding 
 a fish pole. 
 
 We can be less certain about the hearing of 
 
FISH LIFE 41 
 
 fishes. They have, however, very respectable 
 inner ears, built on much the same plan as in 
 higher animals. Indeed many fish, such as the 
 grunts, make various sounds which are plainly 
 audible even to our ears high above the water, and 
 we cannot suppose that this is a useless accom- 
 plishment. But the ears of fishes and the line of 
 tiny tubes which extends along the side may be 
 more effective in recording the tremors of the 
 water transmitted by moving objects than actual 
 sound. 
 
 Watch a lazy catfish winding its way along near 
 the bottom, with its barbels extended, and you 
 will at once realise that fishes can feel, this func- 
 tion being very useful to those kinds which search 
 for their food in the mud at the bottom. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Not a breath of air stirs the surface of the wood- 
 land pond, and the trees about the margin are 
 reflected unbroken in its surface. The lilies and 
 their pads lie motionless, and in and out through 
 the shadowy depths, around the long stems, float 
 a school of half a dozen little sunfish. They move 
 slowly, turning from side to side all at once as 
 if impelled by one idea. Now and then one will 
 dart aside and snap up a beetle or mosquito larva, 
 then swing back to its place among its fellows. 
 Their beautiful scales flash scarlet, blue, and gold, 
 and their little hand-and-foot fins are ever trem- 
 bling and waving. They drift upward nearer the 
 
42 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 surface, the wide round eyes turning and twist- 
 ing in their sockets, ever watchful for food and 
 danger. Without warning a terrific splash scat- 
 ters them, and when the ripples and bubbles cease, 
 five frightened sunfish cringe in terror among the 
 water plants of the bottom mud. Off to her nest 
 goes the kingfisher, bearing to her brood the 
 struggling sixth. 
 
 Later in the day, ;when danger seemed far off, 
 a double-pointed vise shot toward the little group 
 of "pumpkin seeds' ' and a great blue heron swal- 
 lowed one of their number. Another, venturing 
 too far beyond the protection of the lily stems and 
 grass tangle of the shallows, fell victim to a vora- 
 cious pickerel. But the most terrible fate befell 
 when one day a black sinuous body came swiftly 
 through the water. The fish had never seen its 
 like before and yet some instinct told them that 
 here was death indeed and they fled as fast as 
 their fins could send them. The young otter had 
 marked the trio and after it he sped, turning, 
 twisting, following every movement with never a 
 stop for breath until he had caught his prey. 
 
 But the life of a fish is not all tragedy, and the 
 two remaining sunfish may live in peace. In 
 spawning time they clear a little space close to 
 the water of the inlet, pulling up the young weeds 
 and pushing up the sandy bottom until a hollow, 
 bowl-like nest is prepared. Thoreau tells us that 
 here the fish "may be seen early in summer 
 
 1 
 
FISH LIFE 43 
 
 assiduously brooding, and driving away minnows 
 and larger fishes, even its own species, which 
 would disturb its ova, pursuing them a few feet, 
 and circling round swiftly to its nest again; the 
 minnows, like young sharks, instantly entering the 
 empty nests, meanwhile, and swallowing the 
 spawn, which is attached to the weeds and to the 
 bottom, on the sunny side. The spawn is exposed 
 to so many dangers that a very small proportion 
 can ever become fishes, for beside being the con- 
 stant prey of birds and fishes, a great many nests 
 are made so near the shore, in shallow water, that 
 they are left dry in a few days, as the river goes 
 down. These and the lampreys are the only fishes' 
 nests that I have observed, though the ova of some 
 species may be seen floating on the surface. The 
 sunfish are so careful of their charge that you may 
 stand close by in the water and examine them at 
 your leisure. I have thus stood over them half 
 an hour at a time, and stroked them familiarly 
 without frightening them, suffering them to nibble 
 my fingers harmlessly, and seen them erect their 
 dorsal fins in anger wiien my hand approached 
 their ova, and have even taken them gently out 
 of the water with my hand ; though this cannot be 
 accomplished by a sudden movement, however 
 dexterous, for instant warning is conveyed to 
 them through their denser element, but only by 
 letting the fingers gradually close about them as 
 they are poised over the palm, and with the 
 
M THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 utmost gentleness raising them slowly to the sur- 
 face. Though stationary, they kept up a constant 
 sculling or waving motion with their tins, which is 
 exceedingly graceful, and expressive of their 
 humble happiness ; for unlike ours, the element in 
 which they live is a stream which must be con- 
 stantly resisted. From time to time they nibble 
 the weeds at the bottom or overhanging their 
 nests, or dart after a fly or worm. The dorsal 
 fin, besides answering the purpose of a keel, with 
 the anal, serves to keep the fish upright, for in 
 shallow water, where this is not covered, they fall 
 on their sides. As you stand thus stooping over 
 the sunfish in its nest, the edges of the dorsal and 
 caudal fins have a singular dusty golden reflec- 
 tion, and its eyes, which stand out from the head, 
 are transparent and colourless. Seen in its native 
 element, it is a very beautiful and compact fish, 
 perfect in all its parts, and looks like a brilliant 
 coin fresh from the mint. It is a perfect jewel of 
 the river, the green, red, coppery, and golden 
 reflections of its mottled sides being the concen- 
 tration of such rays as struggle through the float- 
 ing pads and flowers to the sandy bottom, and in 
 harmony with the sunlit brown and yellow 
 pebbles. ,, 
 
 When the cold days of winter come and the ice 
 begins to close over the pond, the sunfish become 
 6luggish and keep near the bottom, half-hibernat- 
 ing but not unwilling to snap at any bit of food 
 
FISH LIFE 45 
 
 which may drift near them. Lying prone on the 
 ice we may see them poising with slowly undulat- 
 ing fins, waiting, in their strange wide-eyed sleep, 
 for the warmth which will bring food and active 
 life again. 
 
 3rd. Fish. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea. 
 1st. Fish. Why, as men do a-land: the great ones eat up 
 the little ones. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
TENANTS OF WINTER BIRDS' NESTS 
 
 WHEN we realise how our lives are hedged 
 about by butchers, bakers, and luxury- 
 makers, we often envy the wild creatures their in- 
 dependence. And yet, although each animal is 
 capable of finding its own food and shelter and of 
 avoiding all ordinary danger, there is much de- 
 pendence, one upon another, among the little 
 creatures of fur and feathers. 
 
 The first instinct of a gray squirrel, at the 
 approach of winter, is to seek out a deep, warm, 
 hollow limb, or trunk. Nowadays, however, these 
 are not to be found in every grove. The precepts 
 of modern forestry decree that all such unsightly 
 places must be filled with cement and creosote and 
 well sealed against the entrance of rain and snow. 
 When hollows are not available, these hardy squir- 
 rels prepare their winter home in another way. 
 Before the leaves have begun to loosen on their 
 stalks, the little creatures set to work. The crows 
 have long since deserted their rough nest of sticks 
 in the top of some tall tree, and now the squirrels 
 come, investigate, and adopt the forsaken bird's- 
 nest as the foundation of their home. The sticks 
 are pressed more tightly together, all interstices 
 filled up, and then a superstructure of leafy twigs 
 is woven overhead and all around. The leaves on 
 
 46 
 
TENANTS OF WINTER BIRDS' NESTS 47 
 
 these twigs, killed before their time, do not fall ; 
 and when the branches of the tree become bare, 
 there remains in one of the uppermost crotches a 
 big ball of leaves, — rain and snow proof, with a 
 tiny entrance at one side. 
 
 On a stormy mid-winter afternoon we stand 
 beneath the tree and, through the snowflakes 
 driven past by the howling gale, we catch glimpses 
 of the nest swaying high in air. Far over it 
 leans, as the branches are whipped and bent by 
 the wind, and yet so cunningly is it wrought that 
 never a twig or leaf loosens. We can imagine the 
 pair of little shadow-tails within, sleeping fear- 
 lessly throughout all the coming night. 
 
 But the sleep of the gray squirrel is a healthy 
 and a natural one, not the half-dead trance of 
 hibernation; and early next morning their sharp 
 eyes appear at the entrance of their home and 
 they are out and off through the tree-top path 
 which only their feet can traverse. Down the 
 snowy trunks they come with a rush, and with 
 strong, clean bounds they head unerringly for 
 their little caches of nuts. Their provender is 
 hidden away among the dried leaves, and when 
 they want a nibble of nut or acorn they make their 
 way, by some mysterious sense, even through 
 three feet of snow, down to the bit of food which, 
 months before, they patted out of sight among the 
 moss and leaves. 
 
 It would seem that some exact sub-conscious 
 
48 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 sense of locality would be a more probable solu- 
 tion of this feat than the sense of smell, however 
 keenly developed, when we consider that dozens 
 of nuts may be hidden or buried in close proximity 
 to the one sought by the squirrel. 
 
 Even though the birds seem to have vanished 
 from the earth, and every mammal be deeply 
 buried in its long sleep, no winter's walk need be 
 barren of interest. A suggestion worth trying 
 would be to choose a certain area of saplings and 
 underbrush and proceed systematically to fathom 
 every cause which has prevented the few stray 
 leaves still upon their stalks from falling with 
 their many brethren now buried beneath the snow. 
 
 The encircling silken bonds of Promethea and 
 Cynthia cocoons will account for some ; others will 
 puzzle us until we have found the traces of some 
 insect foe, whose girdling has killed the twig and 
 thus prevented the leaf from falling at the usual 
 time; some may be simply mechanical causes, 
 where a broken twig crotch has fallen athwart 
 another stem in the course of its downward fall. 
 Then there is the pitiful remnant of a last sum- 
 mer's bird's-nest, with a mere skeleton of a floor 
 all but disintegrated. 
 
 But occasionally a substantial ball of dead 
 leaves will be noticed, swung amid a tangle of 
 brier. No accident lodged these, nor did any 
 insect have aught to do with their position. 
 Examine carefully the mass of leaves and you 
 
TENANTS OF WINTER BIRDS' NESTS 49 
 
 will find a replica of the gray squirrel's nest, only, 
 of course, much smaller. This handiwork of the 
 white-footed or deer mouse can be found in almost 
 every field or tangle of undergrowth ; the nest of 
 a field sparrow or catbird being used as a founda- 
 tion and thickly covered over and tightly thatched 
 with leaves. Now and then, even in mid-winter, 
 we may find the owner at home, and as the weasel 
 is the most bloodthirsty, so the deer mouse is the 
 most beautiful and gentle of all the fur-coated folk 
 of our woods. With his coat of white and pale 
 golden brown and his great black, lustrous eyes, 
 and his timid, trusting ways, he is altogether 
 lovable. 
 
 He spends the late summer and early autumn 
 in his tangle-hung home, but in winter he gen- 
 erally selects a snug hollow log, or some cavity 
 in the earth. Here he makes a round nest of fine 
 grass and upon a couch of thistledown he sleeps 
 in peace, now and then waking to partake of the 
 little hoard of nuts which he has gathered, or he 
 may even dare to frolic about upon the snow in 
 the cold winter moonlight, leaving behind him no 
 trace, save the fairy tracery of his tiny footprints. 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', timorous beastie, 
 0, what a panic's in thy breastie! 
 Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
 
 Wi* bickering brattle ! 
 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 
 Wi* murd'ring prattle! 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
WINTER HOLES 
 
 THE decayed hollows which we have men- 
 tioned as so often productive of little owls 
 have their possibilities by no means exhausted by 
 one visit. The disturbed owl may take himself 
 elsewhere, after being so unceremoniously dis- 
 turbed; but there are roving, tramp-like charac- 
 ters, with dispositions taking them here and there 
 through the winter nights, to whom, at break of 
 day, a hole is ever a sought-for haven. 
 
 So do not put your hand too recklessly into an 
 owl hole, for a hiss and a sudden nip may show 
 that an opossum has taken up his quarters there. 
 If you must, pull him out by his squirming, naked 
 tail, but do not carry him home, as he makes a 
 poor pet, and between hen-house traps and irate 
 farmers, he has good reason, in this part of the 
 country at least, to be short tempered. 
 
 Of course the birds '-nests are all deserted now, 
 but do not be too sure of the woodpeckers' holes. 
 The little downy and his larger cousin, the hairy 
 woodpecker, often spend the winter nights snug 
 within deep cavities which they have hollowed out, 
 each bird for itself. I have never known a pair 
 to share one of these shelters. 
 
 Sometimes, in pulling off the loose bark from a 
 decayed stump, several dry, flattened scales will 
 
 50 
 
WINTER HOLES 51 
 
 fall out upon the snow among the debris of wood 
 and dead leaves. Hold them close in the warm 
 palm of your hand for a time and the dried bits 
 will quiver, the sides partly separate, and behold ! 
 you have brought back to life a beautiful 
 Euvanessa, or mourning-cloak butterfly. Lay it 
 upon the snow and soon the awakened life will 
 ebb away and it will again be stiff, as in death. If 
 you wish, take it home, and you may warm it into 
 activity, feed it upon a drop of syrup and freeze 
 it again at will. Sometimes six or eight of these 
 insects may be found sheltered under the bark of 
 a single stump, or in a hollow beneath a stone. 
 Several species share this habit of hibernating 
 throughout the winter. 
 
 Look carefully in old, deserted sheds, in half- 
 sheltered hollows of trees, or in deep crevice- 
 caverns in rocks, and you may some day spy one 
 of the strangest of our woodfolk. A poor little 
 shrivelled bundle of fur, tight-clasped in its own 
 skinny fingers, with no more appearance of life 
 in its frozen body than if it were a mummy from 
 an Egyptian tomb; such is the figure that will 
 meet your eye when you chance upon a bat in the 
 deep trance of its winter's hibernation. Often 
 you will find six or a dozen of these stiffened 
 forms clinging close together, head downward. 
 
 As in the case of the sleeping butterfly, carry 
 one of the bats to your warm room and place him 
 in a bird-cage, hanging him up on the top wires 
 
52 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 by his toes, with his head downward. The inverted 
 position of these strange little beings always 
 brings to mind some of the experiences of Gulliver, 
 and indeed the life of a bat is more wonderful 
 than any fairy tale. 
 
 Probably the knowledge of bats which most of 
 us possess is chiefly derived from the imagina- 
 tions of artists and poets, who, unlike the Chinese, 
 do not look upon these creatures with much 
 favour, generally symbolising them in connection 
 with passages and pictures which relate to the 
 infernal regions. All of which is entirely unjust. 
 Their nocturnal habits and our consequent igno- 
 rance of their characteristics are the only causes 
 which can account for their being associated with 
 the realm of Satan. In some places bats are called 
 flittermice, but they are more nearly related to 
 moles, shrews, and other insect-eaters than they 
 are to mice. If we look at the skeleton of an ani- 
 mal which walks or hops we will notice that its 
 hind limbs are much the stronger, and that the 
 girdle w T hich connects these with the backbone is 
 composed of strong and heavy bones. In bats a 
 reverse condition is found; the breast girdle, or 
 bones corresponding to our collar bones and 
 shoulder blades, are greatly developed. This, as 
 in birds, is, of course, an adaptation to give sur- 
 face for the attachment of the great propelling 
 muscles of the wings. 
 
 Although the hand of a bat is so strangely' 
 
WINTER HOLES 53 
 
 altered, yet, as we shall see if we look at our cap- 
 tive specimen, it has five fingers, as we have, four 
 of which are very long and thin, and the webs, ol 
 which we have a very noticeable trace in our own 
 hands, stretch from finger-tip to finger-tip, and to 
 the body and even down each leg, ending squarely 
 near the ankle, thus giving the creature the absurd 
 appearance of having on a very broad, baggy pair 
 of trousers. 
 
 When thoroughly warmed up, our bat will soon 
 start on a tour of inspection of his cage. He steps 
 rapidly from one wire to another, sometimes hook- 
 ing on with all five toes, but generally with four 
 or three. There seems to be little power in these 
 toes, except of remaining bent in a hooked posi- 
 tion; for when our bat stops and draws up one 
 foot to scratch the head, the claws are merely 
 jerked through the fur by motions of the whole 
 leg, not by individual movements of the separate 
 toes. In this motion we notice, for the first time, 
 that the legs and feet grow in a kind of i ' spread 
 eagle" position, making the knees point backward, 
 in the same direction as the elbows. 
 
 We must stop a moment to admire the beautiful 
 soft fur, a golden brown in colour, with part of 
 the back nearly black. The tiny inverted face is 
 full of expression, the bead-like eyes gleaming 
 brightly from out of their furry bed. The small 
 moist nostrils are constantly wrinkling and snif- 
 fling, and the large size of the alert ears shows 
 
54 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 how much their owner depends upon them for 
 information. If we suddenly move up closer to 
 the wires, the bat opens both wings owl-like, in a 
 most threatening manner; but if we make still 
 more hostile motions the creature retreats as 
 hastily as it can, changing its method of progress 
 to an all-fours, sloth-like gait, the long free thumb 
 of each hand grasping wire after wire and doing 
 most of the leverage, the hind legs following 
 passively. 
 
 When at what he judges a safe distance he again 
 hangs pendent, bending his head back to look 
 earnestly at us. Soon the half-opened wings are 
 closed and brought close to the shoulders, and in 
 this, the usual resting position, the large claws of 
 the thumbs rest on the breast in little furrows 
 which they have worn in the fur. 
 
 Soon drowsiness comes on and a long elaborate 
 yawn is given, showing the many small needle- 
 like teeth and the broad red tongue, which curls 
 outward to a surprising length. Then comes the 
 most curious process of all. Drawing up one leg, 
 the little creature deliberately wraps one hand 
 with its clinging web around the leg and under 
 the arms, and then draws the other wing straight 
 across the body, holds it there a moment, while it 
 takes a last look in all directions. Then lifting its 
 fingers slightly, it bends its head and wraps all in 
 the full-spread web. It is most ludicrously like a 
 tragedian, acting the death scene in "Julius 
 
WINTER HOLES 55 
 
 Caesar," and it loses nothing in repetition; for 
 each time the little animal thus draws its winding 
 sheet about its body, one is forced to smile as he 
 thinks of the absurd resemblance. 
 
 But all this and much more you will see for 
 yourself, if you are so fortunate as to discover the 
 hiding-place of the hibernating bat. 
 
 Our little brown bat is a most excellent mother, 
 and when in summer she starts out on her noc- 
 turnal hunts she takes her tiny baby bat with 
 her. The weird little creature wraps his long 
 fingers about his mother's neck and off they go. 
 When two young are born, the father bat is said 
 sometimes to assume entire control of one. 
 
 After we come to know more of the admirable 
 family traits of the fledermaus—its musical 
 German name— we shall willingly defend it from 
 the calumny which for thousands of years has been 
 heaped upon it. 
 
 Hibernation is a strange phenomenon, and one 
 which is but little understood. If we break into 
 the death-like trance for too long a time, or if we 
 do not supply the right kind of food, our captive 
 butterflies and bats will perish. So let us soon 
 freeze them up again and place them back in the 
 care of old Nature. Thus the pleasure is ours of 
 having made them yield up their secrets, without 
 any harm to them. Let us fancy that in the spring 
 they may remember us only as a strange dream 
 which has come to them during their long sleep. 
 
MARCH 
 
11 
 
 1 1 
 
FEATHERED PIONEERS 
 
 IN the annual war of the seasons, March is the 
 time of the most bitterly contested battles. 
 But we — and very likely the birds — can look ahead 
 and realise what the final outcome will invariably 
 be, and, our sympathies being on the winning side, 
 every advance of spring's outposts gladdens our 
 hearts. But winter is a stubborn foe, and some- 
 times his snow and icicle battalions will not give 
 way a foot. Though by day the sun's fierce 
 attack may drench the earth with the watery 
 blood of the ice legions, yet at night, silently 
 and grimly, new reserves of cold repair the 
 damage. 
 
 Our winter visitors are still in force. Amid the 
 stinging cold the wee brown form of a winter wren 
 will dodge round a brush pile — a tiny bundle of 
 energy which defies all chill winds and which 
 resolves bug chrysalides and frozen insects into 
 a marvellous activity. Other little birds, as small 
 as the wren, call to us from the pines and cedars — 
 golden-crowned kinglets, olive-green of body, 
 while on their heads burns a crest of orange and 
 gold. 
 
 "When a good-sized brown bird flies up before 
 you, showing a flash of white on his rump, you 
 
 60 
 
60 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 may know him for the flicker, the most unwood- 
 pecker-like of his family. He is more or less 
 deserting the tree-climbing method for ground 
 feeding, and if you watch him you will see many 
 habits which his new mode of life is teaching him. 
 
 Even in the most wintry of Marches some warm, 
 thawing days are sure to be thrown in between 
 storms, and nothing, not even pussy willows and 
 the skunk cabbage, yield more quickly to the mel- 
 lowing influence than do the birds — sympathetic 
 brethren of ours that they are. Hardly has the 
 sunniest icicle begun to drop tears, when a song 
 sparrow flits to the top of a bush, clears his throat 
 with sharp chirps and shouts as loud as he can: 
 ' ' Hip ! Hip ! Hip ! Hurrah — ! ' ' Even more boreal 
 visitors feel the new influence, and tree and fox 
 sparrows warble sweetly. But the bluebird's note 
 will always be spring's dearest herald. When this 
 soft, mellow sound floats from the nearest fence 
 post, it seems to thaw something out of our ears ; 
 from this instant winter seems on the defensive ; 
 the crisis has come and gone in an instant, in a 
 single vibration of the air. 
 
 Bright colours are still scarce among our birds, 
 but another blue form may occasionally pass us, 
 for blue jays are more noticeable now than at any 
 other time of the year. Although not by any 
 means a rare bird, with us jays are shy and wary. 
 In Florida their southern cousins are as familiar 
 as robins, without a trace of fear of mankind. 
 
FEATHERED PIONEERS 61 
 
 What curious notes our blue jays have — a creak- 
 ing, wheedling, rasping medley of sounds coming 
 through the leafless branches. At this time of 
 year they love acorns and nuts, but in the spring 
 " their fancy turns to thoughts of " eggs and young 
 nestlings, and they are accordingly hated by the 
 small birds. Nevertheless no bird is quicker to 
 shout and scream " Thief! Bobber !" at some 
 harmless little owl than are these blue and white 
 rascals. 
 
 You may seek in vain to discover the first sign 
 of nesting among the birds. Scarcely has winter 
 set in in earnest, you will think, when the tiger- 
 eyed one of the woods — the great horned owl — 
 will have drifted up to some old hawk's nest, and 
 laid her white spheres fairly in the snow. When 
 you discover her " horns" above the nest lining of 
 dried leaves, you may find that her fuzzy young 
 owls are already hatched. But these owls are an 
 exception, and no other bird in our lattitude cares 
 to risk the dangers of late February or early 
 March. 
 
 March is sometimes a woodpecker month, and 
 almost any day one is very likely to see, besides 
 the flicker, the hairy or downy woodpecker. The 
 latter two are almost counterparts of each other, 
 although the downy is the more common. They 
 hammer cheerfully upon the sounding boards 
 which Nature has provided for them, striking slow 
 or fast, soft or loud, as their humour dictates. 
 
62 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 Near New York, a day in March — I have found 
 it varying from March 8 to March 12 — is "crow 
 day." Now the winter roosts apparently break 
 up, and all day flocks of crows, sometimes thou- 
 sands upon thousands of them, pass to the north- 
 ward. If the day is quiet and spring-like, they 
 fly very high, black motes silhouetted against the 
 blue, — but if the day is a "March day," with 
 whistling, howling winds, then the black fellows 
 fly close to earth, rising just enough to clear 
 bushes and trees, and taking leeward advantage 
 of every protection. For days after, many crows 
 pass, but never so many as on the first day, when 
 crow law, or crow instinct, passes the word, we 
 know not how, which is obeyed by all. 
 
 For miles around not a drop of water may be 
 found; it seems as if every pool and lake were 
 solid to the bottom, and yet, when we see a large 
 bird, with goose-like body, long neck and long, 
 pointed beak, flying like a bullet of steel through 
 the sky, we may be sure that there is open water 
 to the northward, for a loon never makes a mis- 
 take. When the first pioneer of these hardy birds 
 passes, he knows that somewhere beyond us fish 
 can be caught. If we wonder where he has spent 
 the long winter months, we should take a steamer 
 to Florida. Out on the ocean, sometimes a hun- 
 dred miles or more from land, many of these birds 
 make their winter home. When the bow of the 
 steamer bears down upon one, the bird half 
 
 
FEATHERED PIONEERS 63 
 
 spreads its wings, then closes them quickly, and 
 sinks out of sight in the green depths, not to reap- 
 pear until the steamer has passed, when he looks 
 after us and utters his mocking laugh. Here he 
 will float until the time comes for him to go north. 
 We love the brave fellow, remembering him in his 
 home among the lakes of Canada ; but we tremble 
 for him when we think of the terrible storm waves 
 which he must outride, and the sneering sharks 
 which must sometimes spy him. What a story he 
 could tell of his life among the phalaropes and 
 jelly-fishes ! 
 
 Meadow larks are in flocks in March, and as 
 their yellow breasts, with the central crescent of 
 black, rise from the snow-bent grass, their long, 
 clear, vocal " arrow' ' comes to us, piercing the air 
 like a veritable icicle of sound. When on the 
 ground they are walkers like the crow. 
 
 As the kingfisher and loon appear to know long 
 ahead when the first bit of clear water will appear, 
 so the first insect on the wing seems to be antici- 
 pated by a feathered flycatcher. Early some 
 morning, when the wondrous Northern Lights are 
 still playing across the heavens, a small voice 
 may make all the surroundings seem incongruous. 
 Frosty air, rimmed tree-trunks, naked branches, 
 aurora — all seem as unreal as stage properties, 
 when phce-be! comes to our ears. Yes, there is 
 the little dark-feathered, tail-wagging fellow, 
 hungry no doubt, but sure that when the sun 
 
64 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 warms up, Mother Nature will strew his aerial 
 breakfast-table with tiny gnats, — precocious, but 
 none the less toothsome for all that. 
 
 Hark 'tis the bluebird's venturous strain 
 
 High on the old fringed elm at the gate — 
 
 Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, 
 Alert, elate, 
 
 Dodging the fitful spits of snow, 
 New England's poet-laureate 
 
 Telling us Spring has come again! 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 
 
THE WAYS OF MEADOW MICE 
 
 DAY after day we may walk through the 
 woods and fields, using our eyes as best we 
 can, searching out every moving thing, following 
 up every sound, — and yet we touch only the coars- 
 est, perceive only the grossest of the life about 
 us. Tramp the same way after a fall of snow and 
 we are astonished at the evidences of life of which 
 we knew nothing. Everywhere, in and out among 
 the reed stems, around the tree-trunks, and in 
 wavy lines and spirals all about, runs the delicate 
 tracery of the meadow mice trails. No leapers 
 these, as are the white-footed and jumping mice, 
 but short-legged and stout of body. Yet with all 
 their lack of size and swiftness, they are untiring 
 little folk, and probably make long journeys from 
 their individual nests. 
 
 As far north as Canada and west to the Plains 
 the meadow or field mice are found, and every- 
 where they seem to be happy and content. Most 
 of all, however, they enjoy the vicinity of water, 
 and a damp, half -marshy meadow is a paradise 
 for them. No wonder their worst enemies are 
 known as marsh hawks and marsh owls; these 
 hunters of the daylight and the night well know 
 where the meadow mice love to play. 
 
 These mice are resourceful little beings and 
 
 65 
 
66 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 when danger threatens they will take to the water 
 without hesitation; and when the muskrat has 
 gone the way of the beaver, our ditches and ponds 
 will not be completely deserted, for the little 
 meadow mice will swim and dive for many years 
 thereafter. 
 
 Not only in the meadows about our inland 
 streams, but within sound of the breakers on the 
 seashore, these vigorous bits of fur find bountiful 
 living, and it is said that the mice folk inhabiting 
 these low salt marshes always know in some mys- 
 terious way when a disastrous high tide is due, 
 and flee in time, so that when the remorseless 
 ripples lap higher and higher over the wide 
 stretches of salt grass, not a mouse will be 
 drowned. By some delicate means of perception 
 all have been notified in time, and these, among 
 the least of Nature's children, have run and scur- 
 ried along their grassy paths to find safety on 
 the higher ground. 
 
 These paths seem an invention of the meadow 
 mice, and, affording them a unique escape from 
 danger, they doubtless, in a great measure, 
 account for the extreme abundance of the little 
 creatures. "When a deer mouse or a chipmunk 
 emerges from its hollow log or underground tun- 
 nel, it must take its chances in open air. It may 
 dart along close to the ground or amid an im- 
 penetrable tangle of briers, but still it is always 
 visible from above. On the other hand, a mole, 
 
THE WAYS OF MEADOW MICE 67 
 
 pushing blindly along beneath the sod, fears no 
 danger from the hawk soaring high overhead. 
 
 The method of the meadow mice is between 
 these two : its stratum of active life is above the 
 mole and beneath the chipmunk. Scores of sharp 
 little incisor teeth are forever busy gnawing and 
 cutting away the tender grass and sprouting 
 weeds in long meandering paths or trails through 
 the meadows. As these paths are only a mouse- 
 breadth in width, the grasses at each side lean 
 inward, forming a perfect shelter of interlocking 
 stems overhead. Two purposes are thus fulfilled : 
 a delicious succul :nt food is obtained and a way 
 of escape is kept ever open. These lines intersect 
 and cross at every conceivable angle, and as the 
 meadow mice clan are ever friendly toward one 
 another, any particular mouse seems at liberty 
 to traverse these miles of mouse alleys. 
 
 In winter, when the snow lies deep upon the 
 ground, these same mice drive tunnels beneath it, 
 leading to all their favourite feeding grounds, to 
 all the heavy-seeded weed heads, with which the 
 bounty of Nature supplies them. But at night 
 these tunnels are deserted and boldly out upon the 
 snow come the meadow mice, chasing each other 
 over its gleaming surface, nibbling the toothsome 
 seeds, dodging, or trying to dodge, the owl- 
 shadows; living the keen, strenuous, short, but 
 happy, life which is that of all the wild meadow 
 folk. 
 

 68 
 
 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 That wee bit heap o ? leaves an' stibble 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
 An' weary winter comin' fast, 
 An' cosey here, beneath the blast, 
 
 Thou thought to dwell. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 ! 
 
 
PROBLEMS OF BIRD LIFE 
 
 THE principal problems which birds, and 
 indeed all other creatures, have to solve, 
 have been well stated to be — Food, Safety, and 
 Reproduction. In regard to safety, or the art of 
 escaping danger, we are all familiar with the rav- 
 ages which hawks, owls, foxes, and even red squir- 
 rels commit among the lesser feathered creatures, 
 but there are other dangers which few of us 
 suspect. 
 
 Of all creatures birds are perhaps the most 
 exempt from liability to accident, yet they not 
 infrequently lose their lives in most unexpected 
 ways. Once above trees and buildings, they have 
 the whole upper air free of every obstacle, and 
 though their flight sometimes equals the speed of 
 a railroad train, they have little to fear when well 
 above the ground. Collision with other birds 
 seems scarcely possible, although it sometimes 
 does occur. When a covey of quail is flushed, 
 occasionally two birds will collide, at times meet- 
 ing with such force that both are stunned. Fly- 
 catchers darting at the same insect will now and 
 then come together, but not hard enough to injure 
 either bird. 
 
 Even the smallest and most wonderful of all 
 
 69 
 
70 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 flyers, the hummingbird, may come to grief in acci- 
 dental ways. I have seen one entangled in a bur- 
 dock burr, its tiny feathers fast locked into the 
 countless hooks, and again I have found the body 
 of one of these little birds with its bill fastened in 
 a spiral tendril of a grapevine, trapped in some 
 unknown way. 
 
 Young phcebes sometimes become entangled in 
 the horsehairs which are used in the lining of 
 their nest. When they are old enough to fly and 
 attempt to leave, they are held prisoners or left 
 dangling from the nest. When mink traps are set 
 in the snow in winter, owls frequently fall victims, 
 mice being scarce and the bait tempting. 
 
 Lighthouses are perhaps the cause of more acci- 
 dents to birds than are any of the other obstacles 
 which they encounter on their nocturnal migra- 
 tions north and south. Many hundreds of birds 
 are sometimes found dead at the base of these 
 structures. The sudden bright glare is so confus- 
 ing and blinding, as they shoot from the intense 
 darkness into its circle of radiance, that they are 
 completely bewildered and dash headlong against 
 the thick panes of glass. Telegraph wires are 
 another menace to low-flying birds, especially 
 those which, like quail and woodcock, enjoy a 
 whirlwind flight, and attain great speed within a 
 few yards. Such birds have been found almost 
 cut in two by the force with which they struck the 
 wire. 
 
PROBLEMS OF BIRD LIFE 71 
 
 The elements frequently catch birds unaware 
 and overpower them. A sudden wind or storm 
 will drive coast-flying birds hundreds of miles out 
 to sea, and oceanic birds may be blown as far 
 inland. Hurricanes in the West Indies are said to 
 cause the death of innumerable birds, as well as 
 of other creatures. From such a cause small 
 islands are known to have become completely de- 
 populated of their feathered inhabitants. Vio- 
 lent hailstorms, coming in warm weather without 
 warning, are quite common agents in the destruc- 
 tion of birds, and in a city thousands of English 
 sparrows have been stricken during such a storm. 
 After a violent storm of wet snow in the middle 
 "West, myriads of Lapland longspurs were once 
 found dead in the streets and suburbs of several 
 villages. On the surface of two small lakes, a 
 conservative estimate of the dead birds was a mil- 
 lion and a half ! 
 
 The routes which birds follow in migrating 
 north and south sometimes extend over consider- 
 able stretches of water, as across the Caribbean 
 Sea, but the only birds which voluntarily brave 
 the dangers of the open ocean are those which, 
 from ability to swim, or great power of flight, can 
 trust themselves far away from land. Not infre- 
 quently a storm will drive birds away from the 
 land and carry them over immense distances, and 
 this accounts for the occasional appearance of 
 land birds near vessels far out at sea. Overcome 
 
72 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 with fatigue, they perch for hours in the rigging 
 before taking flight in the direction of the nearest 
 land, or, desperate from hunger, they fly fear- 
 lessly down to the deck, where food and water are 
 seldom refused them. 
 
 Small events like these are welcome breaks in 
 the monotony of a long ocean voyage, but are soon 
 forgotten at the end of the trip. 
 
 Two of these ocean waifs were once brought to 
 me. One was a young European heron which flew 
 on board a vessel when it was about two hundred 
 and five miles southeast of the southern extremity 
 of India. A storm must have driven the bird sea- 
 ward, as there is no migration route near this 
 locality. 
 
 The second bird was a European turtle dove 
 which w r as captured not less than seven hundred 
 and fifty miles from the nearest land — Ireland. 
 When caught it was in an exhausted condition, 
 but it quickly recovered and soon lost all signs of 
 the buffeting of the storm. The turtle dove 
 migrates northward to the British Islands about 
 the first of May, but as this bird was captured on 
 May 17th, it was not migrating, but, caught by a 
 gust of wind, was probably blown away from the 
 land. The force of the storm would then drive it 
 mile after mile, allowing it no chance of controll- 
 ing the direction of its flight, but, from the very 
 velocity, making it easy for the bird to maintain 
 its equilibrium. 
 
PROBLEMS OF BIRD LIFE 73 
 
 Hundreds of birds must perish when left by 
 storms far out at sea, and the infinitely small 
 chance of encountering a vessel or other resting- 
 place makes a bird which has passed through such 
 an experience and survived, interesting indeed. 
 
 In winter ruffed grouse have a habit of burrow- 
 ing deep beneath the snow and letting the storm 
 shut them in. In this warm, cosey retreat they 
 spend the night, their breath making its way out 
 through the loosely packed crystals. But when a 
 cold rain sets in during the night, this becomes a 
 fatal trap, an impenetrable crust cutting off their 
 means of escape. 
 
 Ducks, when collected about a small open place 
 in an ice-covered pond, diving for the tender roots 
 on which they feed, sometimes become confused 
 and drown before they find their way out. They 
 have been seen frozen into the ice by hundreds, 
 sitting there helplessly, and fortunate if the sun, 
 with its thawing power, releases them before they 
 are discovered by marauding hawks or foxes. 
 
 In connection with their food supply the 
 greatest enemy of birds is ice, and when a winter 
 rain ends with a cold snap, and every twig and 
 seed is encased in a transparent armour of ice, 
 then starvation stalks close to all the feathered 
 kindred. Then is the time to scatter crumbs and 
 grain broadcast, to nail bones and suet to the tree- 
 trunks and so awaken hope and life in the shiver- 
 ing little forms. If a bird has food in abundance, 
 
74 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 it little fears the cold. I have kept parrakeets out 
 through the blizzards and storms of a severe win- 
 ter, seeing them play and frolic in the snow as if 
 their natural home were an arctic tundra, instead 
 of a tropical forest. 
 
 A friend of birds once planted many sprouts of 
 wild honeysuckle about his porch, and the follow- 
 ing summer two pairs of hummingbirds built their 
 nests in near-by apple trees; he transplanted 
 quantities of living woodbine to the garden fences, 
 and when the robins returned in the spring, after 
 having remained late the previous autumn feeding 
 on the succulent bunches of berries, no fewer than 
 ten pairs nested on and about the porch and yard. 
 
 So my text of this, as of many other weeks is, — 
 study the food habits of the birds and stock your 
 waste places with their favourite berry or vine. 
 Your labour will be repaid a hundredfold in song 
 and in the society of the little winged comrades. 
 
 Worn is the winter rug of white, 
 And in the snow-bare spots once more, 
 Glimpses of faint green grass in sight, — 
 Spring's footprints on the floor. 
 Spring here — by what magician's touch? 
 ? Twas winter scarce an hour ago. 
 And yet I should have guessed as much, — 
 Those footprints in the snow! 
 
 Frank Dempster Sherman. 
 
DWELLERS IN THE DUST 
 
 TO many of us the differences between a rep- 
 tile and a batrachian are unknown. Even if 
 we have learned that these interesting creatures 
 are well worth studying and that they possess 
 few or none of the unpleasant characteristics 
 usually attributed to them, still we are apt to 
 speak of having seen a lizard in the water at the 
 pond's edge, or of having heard a reptile croak- 
 ing near the march. To avoid such mistakes, one 
 need only remember that reptiles are covered with 
 scales and that batrachians have smooth skins. 
 
 Our walks will become more and more interest- 
 ing as we spread our interest over a wider field, 
 not confining our observations to birds and mam- 
 mals alone, but including members of the two 
 equally distinctive classes of animals mentioned 
 above. The batrachians, in the northeastern 
 part of our country, include the salamanders 
 and newts, the frogs and toads, while as reptiles 
 we number lizards, turtles, and snakes. 
 
 Lizards are creatures of the tropics and only 
 two small species are found in our vicinity, and 
 these occur but rarely. Snakes, however, are more 
 abundant, and, besides the rare poisonous copper- 
 head and rattlesnake, careful search will reveal a 
 
 75 
 
76 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 dozen harmless species, the commonest, of course, 
 being the garter snake and its near relative the 
 ribbon snake. 
 
 About this time of the year snakes begin to feel 
 the thawing effect of the sun's rays and to stir in 
 their long winter hibernation. Sometimes we will 
 come upon a ball of six or eight intertwined 
 snakes, which, if they are still frozen up, will lie 
 motionless upon the ground. But when spring 
 finally unclasps the seal which has been put upon 
 tree and ground, these reptiles stretch themselves 
 full length upon some exposed stone, where they 
 lie basking in the sun. 
 
 The process of shedding the skin soon begins ; 
 getting clear of the head part, eye-scales and all, 
 the serpent slowly wriggles its way forward, 
 escaping from the old skin as a finger is drawn 
 from a glove. At last it crawls away, bright and 
 shining in its new scaly coat, leaving behind it a 
 spectral likeness of itself, which slowly sinks and 
 disintegrates amid the dead leaves and moss, or, 
 later in the year, it may perhaps be discovered by 
 some crested flycatcher and carried off to be added 
 to its nesting material. 
 
 When the broods of twenty to thirty young 
 garter snakes start out in life to hunt for them- 
 selves, then woe to the earthworms, for it is upon 
 them that the little serpents chiefly feed. 
 
 Six or seven of our native species of snakes lay 
 eggs, usually depositing them under the bark of 
 
DWELLERS IN THE DUST 77 
 
 rotten logs, or in similar places, where they are 
 left to hatch by the heat of the sun or by that of 
 the decaying vegetation. It is interesting to gather 
 these leathery shelled eggs and watch them hatch, 
 and it is surprising how similar to each other 
 some of the various species are when they emerge 
 from the shelL 
 
APRIL 
 

SPRING SONGSTERS 
 
 EARLY April sees the last contest which win- 
 ter wages for supremacy, and often it is a 
 half-hearted attempt; but after the army of the 
 North has retreated, with its icicles and snow- 
 drifts, spring seems dazed for a while. Victory 
 has been dearly bought, and April is the season 
 when, for a time, the trees and insects hang lire — ■ 
 paralysed — while the chill is thawing from their 
 marrow. Our northern visitors of the bird world 
 slip quietly away. There is no great gathering 
 of clans like that of the tree swallows in the fall, 
 but silently, one by one, they depart, following the 
 last moan of the north wind, covering winter's 
 disordered retreat with warbles and songs. 
 
 One evening we notice the juncos and tree spar- 
 rows in the tangled, frost-burned stubble, and the 
 next day, although our eye catches glints of white 
 from sparrow tails, it is from vesper finches, not 
 from juncos, and the weed spray which a few 
 hours before bent beneath a white-throat's weight, 
 now vibrates with the energy which a field spar- 
 row puts into his song. Field and chipping spar- 
 rows, which now come in numbers, are somewhat 
 alike, but by their beaks and songs you may know 
 them. The mandibles of the former are flesb- 
 
 81 
 
82 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 coloured, those of the latter black. The sharp 
 chip I chip! is characteristic of the "chippy," but 
 the sweet, dripping song of the field sparrow is 
 charming. No elaborate performance this, but a 
 succession of sweet, high notes, accelerating to- 
 ward the end, like a coin of silver settling to rest 
 on a marble table — a simple, chaste vespers which 
 rises to the setting sun and endears the little 
 brown singer to us. 
 
 We may learn much by studying these homely 
 little frequenters of our orchards and pastures; 
 each has a hundred secrets which await patient 
 and careful watching by their human lovers. In 
 the chipping sparrow we may notice a hint of the 
 spring change of dress which ;warblers and tan- 
 agers carry to such an extreme. When he left us 
 in the fall he wore a dull-streaked cap, but now 
 he comes from the South attired in a smart head- 
 covering of bright chestnut. Poor little fellow, 
 this is the very best he can do in the way of espe- 
 cial ornament to bewitch his lady love, but it 
 suffices. Can the peacock's train do more? 
 
 This is the time to watch for the lines of ducks 
 crossing the sky, and be ready to find black ducks 
 in the oddest places — even in insignificant rain 
 pools deep in the woods. In the early spring the 
 great flocks of grackles and redwings return, 
 among the first to arrive as they were the last to 
 leave for the South. 
 
 Before the last fox sparrow goes, the hermit 
 
SPRING SONGSTERS 83 
 
 thrush comes, and these birds, alike in certain 
 superficialities, but so actually unrelated, for a 
 time seek their food in the same grove. 
 
 The hardier of the warblers pass us in April, 
 stopping a few days before continuing to the 
 northward. We should make haste to identify 
 them and to learn all we can of their notes and 
 habits, not only because of the short stay which 
 most of them make, but on account of the vast 
 assemblage of warbler species already on the 
 move in the Southern States, which soon, in pan- 
 oply of rainbow hues, will crowd our groves and 
 wear thin the warbler pages of our bird books. 
 
 These April days we are sure to see flocks of 
 myrtle, or yellow-rumped warblers, and yellow 
 palm warblers in their olive-green coats and chest- 
 nut caps. The black-and-white creeper will always 
 show himself true to his name — a creeping bundle 
 of black and white streaks. When we hear of the 
 parula warbler or of the Cape May warbler we 
 get no idea of the appearance of the bird, but when 
 we know that the black-throated green warblers 
 begin to appear in April, the first good view of 
 one of this species will proclaim him as such. 
 
 We have marked the fox sparrow as being a 
 great scratcher among dead leaves. His habit is 
 continued in the spring by the towhee, or che- 
 wink, who uses the same methods, throwing both 
 feet backward simultaneously. The ordinary call 
 note of this bird is a good example of how diffi- 
 
84 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 cult it is to translate bird songs into human words. 
 Listen to the quick, double note coming from the 
 underbrush. Now he says "toivhee'!" the next 
 time " cliewinlc' ! " You may change about at will, 
 and the notes will always correspond. Whatever 
 is in our mind at the instant, that will seem to 
 be what the bird says. This should warn us of 
 the danger of reading our thoughts and theories 
 too much into the minds and actions of birds. 
 Their mental processes, in many ways, corres- 
 pond to ours. When a bird expresses fear, hate, 
 bravery, pain or pleasure, we can sympathise 
 thoroughly with it, but in studying their more 
 complex actions we should endeavour to exclude 
 the thousand and one human attributes with 
 which we are prone to colour the bird's mental 
 environment. 
 
 John Burroughs has rendered the song of the 
 black-throated green warbler in an inimitable way, 
 
 as follows: " V !" When we have 
 
 once heard the bird we will instantly recognise 
 the aptness of these symbolic lines. The least 
 flycatcher, called minimus by the scientists, well 
 deserves his name, for of all those members of 
 his family which make their home with us, he is 
 the smallest. These miniature flycatchers have a 
 way of hunting which is all their own. They sit 
 perched on some exposed twig or branch, motion- 
 less until some small insect flies in sight. Then 
 they will launch out into the air, and, catching 
 
SPRING SONGSTERS 85 
 
 the insect with a snap of their beaks, fly back to 
 the same perch. They are garbed in subdued 
 grays, olives, and yellows. The least flycatcher 
 has another name which at once distinguishes him 
 ^— chebec'. As he sits on a limb, his whole body 
 trembles when he jerks out these syllables, and his 
 tail snaps as if it played some important part in 
 the mechanism of his vocal effort. 
 
 When you are picking cowslips and hepaticas 
 early in the month, keep a lookout for the first 
 barn swallow. Nothing gives us such an impres- 
 sion of the independence and individuality of 
 birds as when a solitary member of some species 
 arrives days before others of his kind. One fork- 
 tailed beauty of last year's nest above the hay- 
 mow may hawk about for insects day after day 
 alone, before he is joined by other swallows. Did 
 he spend the winter by himself, or did the heim- 
 weh smite his heart more sorely and bring him 
 irresistibly to the loved nest in the rafters ! This 
 love of home, which is so striking an attribute of 
 birds, is a wonderfully beautiful thing. It brings 
 the oriole back to the branch where still swings 
 her exquisite purse-shaped home of last summer ; 
 it leads each pair of fishhawks to their particular 
 cartload of sticks, to which a few more must be 
 added each year ; it hastens the wing beats of the 
 sea-swallows northward to the beach which, ten 
 months ago, was flecked with their eggs — the 
 shifting grains of sand their only nest. 
 
86 
 
 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 This love of home, of birthplace, bridges over a 
 thousand physical differences between these 
 feathered creatures and ourselves. We forget 
 their expressionless masks of horn, their feath- 
 ered ringers, their scaly toes, and looking deep 
 into their clear, bright eyes, we know and feel a 
 kinship, a sympathy of spirit, which binds us all 
 together, and we are glad. 
 
 Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, 
 And these fair sights of its sunny days, 
 
 Are only sweet when we fondly listen, 
 And only fair when we fondly gaze. 
 
 There is no glory in star or blossom 
 
 Till looked upon by a loving eye; 
 There is no fragrance in April breezes 
 
 Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 
 
 William Cullen Bbyant. 
 
THE SIMPLE AET OF SAPSUCKING 
 
 THE yellow-bellied sap sucker is, at this time 
 of year, one of our most abundant wood- 
 peckers, and in its life we have an excellent 
 example of that individuality which is ever crop- 
 ping out in Nature — the trial and acceptance of 
 life under new conditions. 
 
 In the spring we tap the sugar maples, and 
 gather great pailf uls of the sap as it rises from its 
 winter resting-place in the roots, and the sap- 
 sucker likes to steal from our pails or to tap the 
 trees for himself. But throughout part of the 
 year he is satisfied with an insect diet and chooses 
 the time when the sap begins to flow downward 
 in the autumn for committing his most serious 
 depredations upon the tree. It was formerly 
 thought that this bird, like its near relatives, the 
 downy and hairy woodpeckers, was forever bor- 
 ing for insects ; but when we examine the regular- 
 ity and symmetry of the arrangement of its holes, 
 we realise that they are for a very different pur- 
 pose than the exposing of an occasional grub. 
 
 Besides drinking the sap from the holes, this 
 bird extracts a quantity of the tender inner bark 
 of the tree, and when a tree has been encircled 
 for several feet up and down its trunk by these 
 
 87 
 
88 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 numerous little sap wells, the effect becomes ap- 
 parent in the lessened circulation of the liquid 
 blood of the tree ; and before long, death is certain 
 to ensue. So the work of the sapsucker is inju- 
 rious, while the grub-seeking woodpeckers confer 
 only good upon the trees they frequent. 
 
 And how pitiful is the downfall of a doomed 
 tree! Hardly has its vitality been lessened an 
 appreciable amount, when somehow the word is 
 passed to the insect hordes who hover about in 
 waiting, as wolves hang upon the outskirts of a 
 herd of buffalo. In the spring, when the topmost 
 branches have received a little less than their 
 wonted amount of wholesome sap and the leaves 
 are less vigorous, the caterpillars and twig- 
 girdlers attack at once. Ichneumen flies and bor- 
 ing beetles seem to know by signs invisible to us 
 that here is opportunity. Then in the fall come 
 again the sapsuckers to the tree, remorselessly 
 driving hole after hole through the still untouched 
 segments of its circle of life. When the last sap- 
 channel is pierced and no more can pass to the 
 roots, the tree stands helpless, waiting for the 
 end. Swiftly come frost and rain, and when the 
 April suns again quicken all the surrounding 
 vegetation into vigorous life, the victim of the 
 sapsuckers stands lifeless, its branches reaching 
 hopelessly upward, a naked mockery amid the 
 warm green foliage around. Insects and fungi 
 and lightning now set to work unhindered, and 
 
THE SIMPLE ART OF SAPSUCKING 89 
 
 the tree falls at last, — dust to dust — ashes to 
 ashes. 
 
 A sapsucker has been seen in early morning to 
 sink forty or fifty wells into the bark of a moun- 
 tain ash tree, and then to spend the rest of the 
 day in sidling from one to another, taking a sip 
 here and a drink there, gradually becoming more 
 and more lethargic and drowsy, as if the sap 
 actually produced some narcotic or intoxicating 
 effect. Strong indeed is the contrast between such 
 a picture and the same bird in the early spring, — 
 then full of life and vigour, drawing musical re- 
 verberations from some resonant hollow limb. 
 
 Like other idlers, the sapsucker in its deeds of 
 gluttony and harm brings, if anything, more in- 
 jury to others than to itself. The farmers well 
 know its depredations and detest it accordingly, 
 but unfortunately they are not ornithologists, and 
 a peckerwood is a peckerwood to them; and so 
 while the poor downy, the red-head, and the hairy 
 woodpeckers are seen busily at work cutting the 
 life threads of the injurious borer larvae, the 
 farmer, thinking of his dying trees, slays them all 
 without mercy or distinction. The sapsucker is 
 never as confiding as the downy, and from a safe 
 distance sees others murdered for sins which are 
 his alone. 
 
 But we must give sapsucker his due and admit 
 that he devours many hundreds of insects 
 throughout the year, and though we mourn the 
 
90 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 death of an occasional tree, we cannot but admire 
 his new venture in life,— his cunning in choosing 
 only the dessert served at the woodpeckers ' 
 feasts, — the sweets which flow at the tap of a 
 beak, leaving to his fellows the labour of search- 
 ing and drilling deep for more substantial courses. 
 
WILD WINGS 
 
 THE ides of March see the woodcock hack in 
 its northern home, and in early April it pre- 
 pares for nesting. The question of the nest itself 
 is a very simple matter, being only a cavity, 
 formed by the pressure of the mother's body, 
 among the moss and dead leaves. The formalities 
 of courtship are, however, quite another thing, 
 and the execution of interesting aerial dances 
 entails much effort and time. 
 
 It is in the dusk of evening that the male wood- 
 cock begins his song, — plaintive notes uttered at 
 regular intervals, and sounding like peent! peentf 
 Then without warning he launches himself on a 
 sharply ascending spiral, his wings whistling 
 through the gloom. Higher and higher he goes, 
 balances a moment, and finally descends abruptly, 
 with zigzag rushes, wings and voice both aiding 
 each other in producing the sounds, to which, let 
 us suppose, his prospective mate listens with 
 ecstasy. It is a weird performance, repeated 
 again and again during the same evening. 
 
 So pronounced and loud is the whistling of the 
 wings that we wonder how it can be produced by 
 ordinary feathers. The three outer primaries 
 of the wing, which in most birds are usually like 
 
 91 
 
92 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 the others, in the woodcock are very stiff, and 
 the vanes are so narrow that when the \ ing is 
 spread there is a wide space between each one. 
 When the wing beats the air rapidly, the wind 
 rushes through these feather slits, — and we have 
 the accompaniment of the love-song explained. 
 
 The feather-covered arms and hands of birds 
 are full of interest; and after studying the wing 
 of a chicken which has been plucked for the table, 
 we shall realise how wonderful a transformation 
 has taken place through the millions of years past. 
 Only three stubby fingers are left and these are 
 stiff and almost immovable, but the rest of the 
 forearm is very like that of our own arm. 
 
 See how many facts we can accumulate about 
 wings, by giving special attention to them, when 
 watching birds fly across the sky. How easy it 
 is to identify the steady beats of a crow, or the 
 more rapid strokes of a duck; how distinctive is 
 the frequent looping flight of a goldfinch, or the 
 longer, more direct swings of a woodpecker ! 
 
 Hardly any two birds have wings exactly 
 similar in shape, every wing being exquisitely 
 adapted to its owner's needs. The gull soars or 
 flaps slowly on his long, narrow, tireless pinions, 
 while the quail rises suddenly before us on short, 
 rounded wings, which carry it like a rocket for a 
 short distance, when it settles quickly to earth 
 again. The gull would fare ill were it compelled 
 to traverse the ocean with such brief spurts of 
 
WILD WINGS 93 
 
 speed, while, on the other hand, the last bob-white 
 would shortly vanish, could it escape from fox 
 or weasel only with the slow flight of a gull. How 
 splendidly the sickle wings of a swift enable it 
 to turn and twist, bat-like, in its pursuit of 
 insects ! 
 
 You may be able to identify any bird near your 
 home, you may know its nest and eggs, its song 
 and its young; but begin at the beginning again 
 and watch their wings and their feet and their 
 bills and you will find that there are new and 
 wonderful truths at your very doorstep. Try 
 bringing home from your walk a list of bill-uses 
 or feet-functions. Eemember that a familiar 
 object, looked at from a new point of view, will 
 take to itself unthought-of significance. 
 
 Whither midst falling dew, 
 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way? 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
THE BIRDS IN THE MOON 
 
 THE lover of birds who lias spent the day in 
 the field puts away his glasses at nightfall, 
 looking forward to a walk after dark only as 
 a chance to hear the call of nocturnal birds or to 
 catch the whirr of a passing wing. But some 
 bright moonlight night in early May, or again in 
 mid September, unsheath your glasses and tie 
 them, telescope-fashion, to a window-ledge or rail- 
 ing. Seat yourself in an easy position and focus 
 on the moon. Shut out all earthly scenes from 
 your mind and imagine yourself wandering amid 
 those arid wastes. What a scene of cosmic desola- 
 tion! What vast deserts, and gaping craters of 
 barren rock! The cold, steel-white planet seems 
 of all things most typical of death. 
 
 But those specks passing across its surface? 
 At first you imagine they are motes clogging the 
 delicate blood-vessels of the retina; then you 
 wonder if a distant host of falling meteors could 
 have passed. Soon a larger, nearer mote ap- 
 pears ; the moon and its craters are forgotten and 
 with a thrill of delight you realise that they are 
 birds — living, flying birds — of all earthly things 
 typical of the most vital life! Migration is at its 
 height, the chirps and twitters which come from 
 
 94 
 
THE BIRDS IN THE MOON 95 
 
 the surrounding darkness are tantalising hints 
 telling of the passing legions. Thousands and 
 thousands of birds are every night pouring north- 
 ward in a swift, invisible, aerial stream. 
 
 As a projecting pebble in mid-stream blurs the 
 transparent water with a myriad bubbles, so the 
 narrow path of moon-rays, which our glass re- 
 veals, cuts a swath of visibility straight through 
 the host of birds to our eager eyes. How we hate 
 to lose an instant's opportunity! Even a wink 
 may allow a familiar form to pass unseen. If we 
 can use a small telescope, the field of view is much 
 enlarged. Now and then we recognise the flight 
 of some particular species, — the swinging loop of 
 a woodpecker or goldfinch, or the flutter of a 
 sandpiper. 
 
 It has been computed that these birds some- 
 times fly as much as a mile or more above the sur- 
 face of the earth, and when we think of the tiny, 
 fluttering things at this terrible height, it takes 
 our breath away. What a panorama of dark 
 earth and glistening river and ocean must be 
 spread out beneath them! How the big moon 
 must glow in that rarefied air ! How diminutive 
 and puerile must seem the houses and cities of 
 human fashioning ! 
 
 The instinct of migration is one of the most 
 wonderful in the world. A young bob-white and 
 a bobolink are hatched in the same New England 
 field. The former grows up and during the fall 
 
9G THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 and winter forms one of the covey which is con- 
 tent to wander a mile or two, here and there, in 
 search of good feeding grounds. Hardly has the 
 bobolink donned his first full dress before an irre- 
 sistible impulse seizes him. One night he rises 
 up and up, ever higher on fluttering wings, sets 
 his course southward, gives you a glimpse of him 
 across the moon, and keeps on through Virginia 
 to Florida, across seas, over tropical islands, far 
 into South America, never content until he has 
 put the great Amazon between him and his far 
 distant birthplace. 
 
 He who, from zone to zone, 
 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
MAY 
 
THE HIGH TIDE OF BIRD LIFE 
 
 FOR abundance and for perfection of song 
 and plumage, of the whole year, May is the 
 month of birds. Insects appear slowly in thb 
 spring and are numerous all summer; squirrels 
 and mice are more or less in evidence during all 
 the twelve months; reptiles unearth themselves 
 at the approach of the warm weather, and may 
 be found living their slow, sluggish life until late 
 in the fall. In eggs, cocoons, discarded bird's- 
 nests, in earthen burrows, or in the mud at the 
 bottom of pond or stream, all these creatures have 
 spent the winter near where we find them in the 
 spring. But birds are like creatures of another 
 world ; and, although in every summer 's walk we 
 may see turtles, birds, butterflies, and chipmunks, 
 all interweaving their life paths across one an- 
 other's haunts, yet the power of extended flight 
 and the wonderful habit of continental migration 
 set birds apart from all other living creatures. 
 A bird during its lifetime has almost twice the 
 conscious existence of, say, a snake or any hiber- 
 nating mammal. And now in early May, when 
 the creatures of the woods and fields have only 
 recently opened their sleepy eyes and stretched 
 their thin forms, there comes the great world- 
 
 99 
 
100 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 wide army of the birds, "whose bright eyes peer at 
 us from tree, thicket, and field, whose brilliant 
 feathers and sweet songs bring summer with a 
 leap — the height of the grand symphony, of which 
 the vernal peeping of the frogs and the squirrels' 
 chatter were only the first notes of the prelude. 
 
 Tantalus-like is the condition of the amateur 
 bird-lover, who, book in hand, vainly endeavours 
 to identify the countless beautiful forms which 
 appear in such vast numbers, linger a few days 
 and then disappear, passing on to the northward, 
 but leaving behind a goodly assemblage which 
 spends the summer and gives abundant opportu- 
 nity for study during the succeeding months. In 
 May it is the migrants which we should watch, 
 and listen to, and "ogle" with our opera glasses. 
 Like many other evanescent things, those birds 
 which have made their winter home in Central 
 America — land yet beyond our travels — and 
 which use our groves merely as half-way houses 
 on their journey to the land of their birth, the 
 balsams of Quebec, or the unknown wastes of 
 Labrador, seem most precious, most worthy at 
 this time of our closest observation. 
 
 More confusing — albeit the more delightful — 
 is a season when continued cold weather and chilly 
 rains hold back all but the hardiest birds, until — 
 like the dammed-up piles of logs trembling with 
 the spring freshets — the tropic winds carry all 
 before them, and all at once winter birds which 
 
THE HIGH TIDE OF BIRD LIFE 101 
 
 have sojourned only a few miles south of us, 
 summer residents which should have appeared 
 weeks ago, together with the great host of Ca- 
 nadian and other nesters of the north, appear 
 within a few days' time. 
 
 A backward season brings strangers into close 
 company for a while. A white-throat sings his 
 clear song of the North, and a moment later is 
 answered by an oriole's melody, or the sweet 
 tones of a rose-breasted grosbeak — the latter one 
 of those rarely favoured birds, exquisite in both 
 plumage and song. 
 
 The glories of our May bird life are the wood 
 warblers, and innumerable they must seem to one 
 who is just beginning his studies; indeed, there 
 are over seventy species that find their way into 
 the United States. Many are named from the 
 distribution of colour upon their plumage — the 
 blue-winged yellow, the black-throated blue, chest- 
 nut-sided, bay-breasted, and black poll. Perhaps 
 the two most beautiful — most reflective of bright 
 tropical skies and flowers — are the magnolia and 
 the blackburnian. The first fairly dazzles us with 
 its bluish crown, white and black face, black and 
 olive-green back, white marked wings and tail, 
 yellow throat and rump, and strongly streaked 
 breast. The blackburnian is an exquisite little 
 fellow, marked with white and black, but with the 
 crown several patches on the face, the throat 
 and breast of a rich warm orange that glows 
 
102 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 amid the green foliage like a living coal of fire. 
 The black poll warbler is an easy bird to identify; 
 but do not expect to recognise it when it returns 
 from the North in the fall. Its black crown has 
 disappeared, and in general it looks like a dif- 
 ferent bird. 
 
 At the present time when the dogwood blossoms 
 are in their full perfection, and the branches and 
 twigs of the trees are not yet hidden, but their 
 outlines only softened by the light, feathery foli- 
 age, the tanagers and orioles have their day. 
 Nesting cares have not yet made them fearful of 
 showing their bright plumage, and scores of the 
 scarlet and orange forms play among the 
 branches. 
 
 The flycatchers and vireos now appear in force 
 — little hunters of insects clad in leafy greens and 
 browns, with now and then a touch of brightness 
 — as in the yellow-throated vireo or in the crest 
 of the kingbird. 
 
 The lesser sandpipers, both the spotted and the 
 solitary, teeter along the brooks and ponds, and 
 probe the shallows for tiny worms. Near the 
 woody streams the so-called water thrushes 
 spring up before us. Strange birds these, in ap- 
 pearance like thrushes, in their haunts and in 
 their teetering motion like sandpipers, but in 
 reality belonging to the same family as the tree- 
 loving wood warblers. A problem not yet solved 
 by ornithologists is : what was the mode of life of 
 
THE HIGH TIDE OF BIRD LIFE 103 
 
 the ancestor of the many warblers? Did he cling 
 to and creep along the bark, as the black-and- 
 white warbler, or feed from the ground or the 
 thicket as does the worm-eating? Did he snatch 
 flies on the wing as the necklaced Canadian war- 
 bler, or glean from the brook's edge as our water 
 thrush? The struggle for existence has not been 
 absent from the lives of these light-hearted little 
 fellows, and they have had to be jack-of -all-trades 
 in their search for food. 
 
 .The gnats and other flying insects have indeed 
 to take many chances when they slip from their 
 cocoons and dance up and down in the warm sun- 
 light ! Lucky for their race that there are millions 
 instead of thousands of them; for now the swifts 
 and great numbers of tree and barn swallows 
 spend the livelong day in swooping after the 
 unfortunate gauzy-winged motes, which have 
 risen above the toad's maw upon land, and beyond 
 the reach of the trout's leap over the water. 
 
 It would take an article as long as this simply 
 to mention hardly more than the names of the 
 birds that we may observe during a walk in May ; 
 and with bird book and glasses we must see for 
 ourselves the bobolinks in the broad meadows, 
 the cowbirds and rusty blackbirds, and, pushing 
 through the lady-slipper marshes, we may sur- 
 prise the solitary great blue and the little green 
 herons at their silent fishing. 
 
 No matter how late the spring may be, the great 
 
104 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 migration host will roach its height from the 
 tenth to the fifteenth of the month. From this 
 until June first, migrants will be passing, but in 
 fewer and fewer numbers, until the balance comes 
 to rest again, and we may cease from the strenu- 
 ous labours of the last few weeks, confident that 
 those birds that remain will be the builders of 
 the nests near our homes — nests that they know 
 so well how to hide. Even before the last day of 
 May passes, w r e see many young birds on their 
 first weak-winged flights, such as bluebirds and 
 robins ; but June is the great month of bird homes, 
 as to May belong the migrants. 
 
 Robins and mocking birds that all day long 
 Athwart straight sunshine weave cross-threads of song. 
 
 Sidney Lanier. 
 
ANIMAL FASHIONS 
 
 WARM spring days bring other changes than 
 thawing snowbanks and the swelling buds 
 and leaves, which seem to grow almost visibly. It 
 is surprising how many of the wild folk meet 
 the spring with changed appearance — beautiful, 
 fantastic or ugly to us ; all, perhaps, beautiful to 
 them and to their mates. 
 
 As a rule we find the conditions which exist 
 among ourselves reversed among the animals; 
 the male "blossoms forth like the rose," while 
 the female's sombre winter fur or feathers are 
 reduplicated only by a thinner coat for summer. 
 The "spring opening" of the great classes of 
 birds and animals is none the less interesting be- 
 cause its styles are not set by Parisian modistes. 
 
 The most gorgeous display of all is to be found 
 among the birds, the peacock leading in con- 
 spicuousness and self -consciousness. What a con- 
 trast to the dull earthy-hued little hen, for whose 
 slightest favour he neglects food to raise his Ar- 
 gus-eyed fan, clattering his quill castanets and 
 screaming challenges to his rivals ! He will even 
 fight bloody battles with invading suitors; and, 
 after all, failure may be the result. Imagine the 
 feelings of two superb birds fighting over a win- 
 some browny, to see her — as I have done — walk 
 
 105 
 
106 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 off with a spurless, lialf-plumaged young cock! 
 
 The males of many birds, such as the scarlet 
 tanager and the indigo bunting, assume during 
 the winter the sombre green or brown hue of the 
 female, changing in spring to a glorious scarlet 
 and black, or to an exquisite indigo colour re- 
 spectively. Not only do most of the females of 
 the feathered world retain their dull coats 
 throughout the year, but some deface even this 
 to form feather beds for the precious eggs and 
 nestlings, to protect which bright colours must 
 be entirely foregone. 
 
 The spring is the time when decorations are 
 seen at their best. The snowy egret trails his 
 filmy cloud of plumes, putting to shame the stiff 
 millinery bunches of similar feathers torn from 
 his murdered brethren. Even the awkward and 
 querulous night heron exhibits a long curling 
 plume or two. And what a strange criterion of 
 beauty a female white pelican must have ! To be 
 sure, the graceful crest which Sir Pelican erects 
 is beautiful, but that huge, horny "keel" or 
 "sight" on his bill! What use can it subserve, 
 aesthetic or otherwise? One would think that 
 such a structure growing so near his eyes, and 
 day by day becoming taller, must occupy much of 
 his attention. 
 
 The sheldrake ducks also have a fleshy growth 
 on the bill. A turkey gobbler, when his vernal 
 wedding dress is complete, is indeed a remarkable 
 
ANIMAL FASHIONS 107 
 
 sight. The mass of wattles, usually so gray and 
 shrunken, is now of most vivid hues — scarlet, blue, 
 vermilion, green, — the fleshy tassels and swollen 
 knobs making him a most extraordinary creature. 
 
 Birds are noted for taking exquisite care of 
 their plumage, and if the feathers become at all 
 dingy or unkempt, we know the bird is in bad 
 health. 
 
 What a time the deer and the bears, the squir- 
 rels and the mice, have when changing their 
 dress ! Eags and tatters ; tatters and rags ! One 
 can grasp a handful of hair on the flank of a 
 caribou or elk in a zoological park, and the whole 
 will come out like thistledown; while underneath 
 is seen the sleek, short summer coat. A bear will 
 sometimes carry a few locks of the long, brown 
 winter fur for months after the clean black hairs 
 of the summer 's coat are grown. What a boon to 
 human tailors such an opportunity would be — to 
 ordain that Mr. X. must wear the faded collar 
 or vest of his old suit until bills are paid ! 
 
 It is a poor substance, indeed, which, when cast 
 aside, is not available for some secondary use in 
 Nature 's realm ; and the hairs that fall from ani- 
 mals are not all left to return unused to their 
 original elements. The sharp eyes of birds spy 
 them out, and thus the lining to many a nest is 
 furnished. I knew of one feathered seeker of 
 cast-off clothing which met disaster through try- 
 ing to get a supply at first hand — a sparrow was 
 
108 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 found dead, tangled in the hairs of a pony's tail. 
 The chickadee often lights on the backs of domes- 
 tic cattle and plucks out hair with which to line 
 some snug cavity near by for his nest. Before 
 the cattle came his ancestors were undoubtedly 
 in the habit of helping themselves from the deer's 
 stock of "ole do's," as they have been observed 
 getting their building material from the deer in 
 zoological parks. 
 
 Of course the hair of deer and similar animals 
 falls out with the motions of the creatures, or 
 is brushed out by bushes and twigs ; but we must 
 hope that the shedding place of a porcupine is at 
 a distance from his customary haunts; it would 
 be so uncomfortable to run across a shred of 
 one's old clothes — if one were a porcupine! 
 
 The skin of birds and animals wears away in 
 small flakes, but when a reptile changes to a new 
 suit of clothes, the old is shed almost entire. A 
 frog after shedding its skin will very often turn 
 round and swallow it, establishing the frog maxim 
 1 ' every frog his own old clothes bag ! ' ' 
 
 Birds, which exhibit so many idiosyncrasies, 
 appear again as utilizers of old clothes ; although 
 when a crested flycatcher weaves a long snakeskin 
 into the fabric of its nest, it seems more from the 
 standpoint of a curio collector — as some people 
 delight in old worn brass and blue china ! There 
 is another if less artistic theory for this peculi- 
 arity of the crested flycatcher. The skin of a 
 
ANIMAL FASHIONS 109 
 
 snake — a perfect ghost in its completeness — 
 would make a splendid " bogie." We can see that 
 it might, indeed, be useful in such a way, as in 
 frightening marauding crows, who approach with 
 cannibalistic intentions upon eggs or young. 
 Thus the skin would correspond in function to 
 the rows of dummy wooden guns, which make a 
 weak fort appear all but invincible. 
 

 POLLIWOG PROBLEMS 
 
 THE ancient Phoenicians, Egyptians, Hindus, 
 Japanese, and Greeks all shared the belief 
 that the whole world was hatched from an egg 
 made by the Creator. This idea of development 
 is at least true in the case of every living thing 
 upon the earth to-day; every plant springs from 
 its seed, every animal from its egg. And still 
 another sweeping, all-inclusive statement may be 
 made, — every seed or egg at first consists of but 
 one cell, and by the division of this into many 
 cells, the lichen, violet, tree, worm, crab, butter- 
 fly, fish, frog, or other higher creature is formed. 
 A little embryology will give a new impetus to 
 our studies, whether we watch the unfolding 
 leaves of a sunflower, a caterpillar emerging from 
 its egg 9 or a chick breaking through its shell. 
 
 The very simplest and best way to begin this 
 study is to go to the nearest pond, where the 
 frogs have been croaking in the evenings. A 
 search among the dead leaves and water-soaked 
 sticks will reveal a long string of black beads. 
 These arc the eggs of the toad; if, however, the 
 beads are not in strings, but in irregular masses, 
 then they are frogs' eggs. In any case take home 
 a tumblerful, place a few, together with the thick, 
 
 transparent gelatine, in which they are encased, 
 
 no 
 
POLLIWOG PROBLEMS 111 
 
 in a saucer, and examine them Garefully under 
 a good magnifying glass, or, better still, through 
 a low-power microscope lens. 
 
 You will notice that the tiny spheres are not 
 uniformly coloured but that half is whitish. If 
 the eggs have been recently laid the surface will 
 be smooth and unmarked, but have patience and 
 watch them for as long a time as you can spare. 
 Whenever I can get a batch of such eggs, I never 
 grudge a whole day spent in observing them, for 
 it is seldom that the mysterious processes of life 
 are so readily watched and followed. 
 
 Keep your eye fixed on the little black and white 
 ball of jelly and before long, gradually and yet 
 ■with never a halt, a tiny furrow makes its way 
 across the surface, dividing the egg into equal 
 halves. When it completely encircles the sphere 
 you may know that you have seen one of the 
 greatest wonders of the world. The egg which 
 consisted of but one cell is now divided into two 
 exactly equal parts, of the deepest significance. 
 Of the latter truth we may judge from the fact 
 that if one of those cells should be injured, only 
 one-half a polliwog would result, — either a head 
 or a tail half. 
 
 Before long the unseen hand of life ploughs an- 
 other furrow across the egg, and we have now 
 four cells. These divide into eight, sixteen, and so 
 on far beyond human powers of numeration, until 
 the beginnings of all the organs of the tadpole 
 
112 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 are formed. While we cannot, of course, follow 
 this development, we can look at our egg every 
 day and at last see the little iciggle heads or polli- 
 wogs (from pol and iciggle) emerge. 
 
 In a few days they develop a fin around the tail, 
 and from now on it is an easy matter to watch 
 the daily growth. There is no greater miracle in 
 the world than to see one of these aquatic, water- 
 breathing, limbless creatures transform before 
 your eyes into a terrestrial, four-legged frog or 
 toad, breathing air like ourselves. The humble 
 polliwog in its development is significant of far 
 more marvellous facts than the caterpillar chang- 
 ing into the butterfly, embodying as it does the 
 deepest poetry and romance of evolution. 
 
 Blue dusk, that brings the dewy hours, 
 Brings thee, of graceless form in sooth. 
 
 Edgar Fawcett. 
 
INSECT PIRATES AND SUBMARINES 
 
 FAR out on the ocean, when the vessel is labo- 
 riously making her way through the troughs 
 and over the crests of the great waves, little birds, 
 black save for a patch of white on the lower back, 
 are a common sight, flying with quick irregular 
 wing-beats, close to the surface of the troubled 
 waters. When they spy some edible bit floating 
 beneath them, down they drop until their tiny 
 webbed feet just rest upon the water. Then, 
 snatching up the titbit, half-flying, they patter 
 along the surface of the water, just missing being 
 engulfed by each oncoming wave. Thus they have 
 come to be named petrels — little Peters — because 
 they seem to walk upon the water. Without aid 
 from the wings, however, they would soon be im- 
 mersed, so the walking is only an illusion. 
 
 But in our smallest ponds and brooks we may 
 see this miracle taking place almost daily, the 
 feat being accomplished by a very interesting 
 little assemblage of insects, commonly called 
 water skaters or striders. Let us place our eyes 
 as near as possible to the surface of the water 
 and watch the little creatures darting here and 
 there. 
 
 We see that they progress securely on the top 
 
 113 
 
114 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 of the water, resting upon it as if it were a sheet 
 of ice. Their feet are so adapted that the water 
 only dimples beneath their slight weight, the ex- 
 tent of the depression not being visible to the eye, 
 but clearly outlined in the shadows upon the bot- 
 tom. In an eddy of air a tiny fly is caught and 
 whirled upon the water, where it struggles vigor- 
 ously, striving to lift its wings clear of the surface. 
 In an instant the water strider — pirate of the pond 
 that he is — reaches forward his crooked fore 
 legs, and here endeth the career of the unfortu- 
 nate flv. 
 
 In the air, in the earth, and below the surface 
 of the water are hundreds of living creatures, but 
 the water striders and their near relatives are 
 unique. No other group shares their power of 
 actually walking, or rather pushing themselves, 
 upon the surface of the water. They have a little 
 piece of the world all to themselves. Yet, al- 
 though three fifths of the earth's surface consists 
 of water, this group of insects is a small one. A 
 very few, however, are found out upon the ocean, 
 where the tiny creatures row themselves cheer- 
 fully along. It is thought that they attach their 
 eggs to the floating saragassum seaweed. If only 
 we knew the whole life of one of these ocean 
 water striders and all the strange sights it must 
 see, a fairy story indeed would be unfolded to us. 
 
 However, all the Lilliputian craft of our brooks 
 are not galleys; there are submarines, which, in 
 
INSECT PIRATES AND SUBMARINES 115 
 
 excellence of action and control, put to shame all 
 human efforts along the same line. These are the 
 water boatmen, stout boat-shaped insects whose 
 hind legs are long, projecting outward like the 
 oars of a rowboat. They feather their oars, too, 
 or rather the oars are feathered for them, a fringe 
 of long hairs growing out on each side of the 
 blade. Some of the boatmen swim upside down, 
 and these have the back keeled instead of the 
 breast. Like real submarine boats, these insects 
 have to come up for air occasionally; and, again 
 like similar craft of human handiwork, their prin- 
 cipal mission in life seems to be warfare upon the 
 weaker creatures about them. 
 
 Upon their bodies are many short hairs that 
 have the power of enclosing and retaining a good- 
 sized bubble of air. Thus the little boatman is 
 well supplied for each submarine trip, and he does 
 not have to return to the surface until all this 
 storage air has been exhausted. In perfectly pure 
 Water, however, these boatmen can remain almost 
 indefinitely below the surface, although it is not 
 known how they obtain from the water the oxygen 
 which they usually take from the air. 
 
 All of these skaters and boatmen thrive in small 
 aquariums, and if given pieces of scraped meat 
 will live in perfect health. Here is an alluring 
 opportunity for anyone to add to our knowledge 
 of insect life; for the most recent scientific books 
 admit that we do not yet know the complete life 
 
11G 
 
 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 history of even one of these little brothers of the 
 pond. 
 
 Clear and cool, clear and cool, 
 
 By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; 
 
 Cool and clear, cool and clear, 
 
 By shining shingle, and foaming weir. 
 
 CHARLES KlXGSLETe 
 
THE VICTORY OF THE NIGHTHAWK 
 
 THE time is not far distant when the bottom 
 of the sea will be the only place where 
 primeval wildness will not have been denied or 
 destroyed by man. He may sail his ships above, 
 he may peer downward, even dare to descend a 
 few feet in a snit of rubber or a submarine boat, 
 or he may scratch a tiny furrow for a few yards 
 with a dredge : but that is all. 
 
 "When that time comes, the animals and birds 
 which survive will be only those which have found 
 a way to adapt themselves to man's encroaching, 
 all-pervading civilisation. The time was when 
 our far-distant ancestors had, year in and year 
 out, to fight for very existence against the wild 
 creatures about them. They then gained the 
 upper hand, and from that time to the present 
 the only question has been, how long the wild 
 creatures of the earth could hold out. 
 
 The wolf, the bison, the beaver fought the bat- 
 tle out at once to all but the bitter end. The 
 crow, the muskrat, the fox have more than held 
 their own, by reason of cunning, hiding or quick- 
 ness of sight; but they cannot hope for this to 
 last. The English sparrow has won by sheer 
 audacity; but most to be admired are those crea- 
 tures which have so changed their habits that 
 
 117 
 
118 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 some product of man's invention serves them as 
 well as did their former wilderness home. The 
 eave swallow and barn swallow and the chimney 
 swift all belie their names in the few wild haunts 
 still uninvaded by man. The first two were origi- 
 nally cliff and bank haunters, and the latter 's 
 home was a lightning-hollowed tree. 
 
 But the nighthawks which soar and boom above 
 our city streets, whence come they? Do they 
 make daily pilgrimages from distant woods? The 
 city furnishes no forest floor on which they may 
 lay their eggs. Let us seek a wide expanse of flat 
 roof, high above the noisy, crowded streets. Let 
 it be one of those tar and pebble affairs, so un- 
 pleasant to walk upon, but so efficient in shedding 
 water. If we are fortunate, as we walk slowly 
 across the roof, a something, like a brownish bit 
 of wind-blown rubbish, will roll and tumble ahead 
 of us. It is a bird with a broken wing, we say. 
 How did it ever get up here ? We hasten forward 
 to pick it up, when, with a last desperate flutter, 
 it topples off the edge of the roof; but instead of 
 falling helplessly to the street, the bird swings 
 out above the house-tops, on the white-barred pin- 
 ions of a nighthawk. Now mark the place where 
 first we observed the bird, and approach it care- 
 fully, crawling on hands and knees. Otherwise 
 we will very probably crush the two mottled bits 
 of shell, so exactly like pebbles in external ap- 
 pearance, but sheltering two little warm, beating 
 
THE VICTORY OF THE NIGHTHAWK 119 
 
 hearts. Soon the shells will crack, and the young 
 nighthawks will emerge, — tiny fluffs, — in colour 
 the very essence of the scattered pebbles. 
 
 In the autumn they will all pass southward to 
 the far distant tropics, and when spring again 
 awakens, the instinct of migration will lead them, 
 not to some mottled carpet of moss and rocks deep 
 in the woods, but to the tarred roof of a house in 
 the very heart of a great city. 
 
JUNE 
 
THE GALA DAYS OF BIRDS 
 
 MIGRATION is over, and the great influx of 
 birds which last month filled every tree and 
 bush is now distributed over field and wood, from 
 our dooryard and lintel vine to the furthermost 
 limits of northern exploration; birds, perhaps, 
 having discovered the pole long years ago. Now 
 every feather and plume is at its brightest and 
 full development; for must not the fastidious 
 females be sought and won? 
 
 And now the great struggle of the year is at 
 hand, the supreme moment for which thousands 
 of throats have been vibrating with whispered 
 rehearsals of trills and songs, and for which the 
 dangers that threaten the acquisition of bright 
 colours and long, inconvenient plumes and orna- 
 ments have been patiently undergone. Now, if all 
 goes well and his song is clear, if his crest and 
 gorgeous splashes of tints and shades are fresh 
 and shining with the gloss of health, then the 
 feathered lover may hope, indeed, that the little 
 brown mate may look with favour upon dance, 
 song, or antic — and the home is become a reality. 
 In some instances this home is for only one short 
 season, when the two part, probably forever; but 
 in other cases the choice is for life. 
 
 123 
 
124, THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 But if his rival is stronger, handsomer, and — 
 victorious, what then? Alas, the song dies in his 
 throat, plumes hang crestfallen, and the discon- 
 solate creature must creep about through tangles 
 and brush, watching from a distance the nest- 
 building, the delights of home life which fate has 
 forbidden. But the poor bachelor need not by 
 any means lose hope; for on all sides dangers 
 threaten his happy rival — cats, snakes, jays, 
 hawks, owls, and boys. Hundreds of birds must 
 pay for their victory with their lives, and then the 
 once discarded suitors are quickly summoned by 
 the widows; and these step-fathers, no whit 
 chagrined at playing second fiddle, fill up the 
 ranks, and work for the young birds as if they 
 were their own offspring. 
 
 There is an unsolved mystery about the trage- 
 dies and comedies that go on every spring. 
 Usually every female bird has several suitors, of 
 which one is accepted. When the death of this 
 mate occurs, within a day or two another is 
 found ; and this may be repeated a dozen times in 
 succession. Not only this, but when a female bird 
 is killed, her mate is generally able at once some- 
 where, somehow, to find another to take her place. 
 AVhy these unmated males and females remain 
 single until they are needed is something that has 
 never been explained. 
 
 The theme of the courtship of birds is marvel- 
 lously varied and comparatively little understood. 
 
THE GALA DAYS OF BIRDS 125 
 
 Who would think that when our bald eagle, of 
 national fame, seeks to win his mate, his ardour 
 takes the form of an undignified galloping dance, 
 round and round her from branch to branch! 
 Hardly less ridiculous — to our eyes — is the 
 elaborate performance of our most common wood- 
 pecker, the flicker, or high-hole. Two or three 
 male birds scrape and bow and pose and chatter 
 about the demure female, outrageously undigni- 
 fied as compared with their usual behaviour. They 
 do everything save twirl their black moustaches ! 
 
 In the mating season some birds have beauties 
 which are ordinarily concealed. Such is the male 
 ruby-crowned kinglet, garbed in gray and green, 
 the two sexes identical, except for the scarlet 
 touch on the crown of the male, which, at courting 
 time, he raises and expands. Even the iris of 
 some birds changes and brightens in colour at the 
 breeding season; while in others there appear 
 about the base of the bill horny parts, which in a 
 month or two fall off. The scarlet coat of the 
 tanager is perhaps solely for attracting and hold- 
 ing the attention of the female, as before winter 
 every feather is shed, the new plumage being of 
 a dull green, like that of its mate and its young. 
 
 As mystery confronts us everywhere in nature, 
 so we confess ourselves baffled when we attempt 
 to explain the most wonderful of all the attributes 
 of bird courtship — song. Birds have notes to call 
 to one another, to warn of danger, to express 
 
126 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 anger and fear; but the highest development of 
 their vocal elYorts seems to be devoted to charm- 
 ing the females. If birds have a love of music, 
 then there must be a marvellous diversity of taste 
 among them, ranging all the way from the shriek- 
 ing, strident screams of the parrots and macaws 
 to the tender pathos of the wood pewee and the 
 hermit thrush. 
 
 If birds have not some appreciation of sweet 
 sounds, then we must consider the many different 
 songs as mere by-products, excess of vitality 
 which expresses itself in results, in many cases, 
 strangely aesthetic and harmonious. A view mid- 
 way is indefinable as regards the boundaries 
 covered by each theory. How much of the pea- 
 cock's train or of the thrush's song is appreciated 
 by the female! How much is by-product merely? 
 
 In these directions a great field lies open to the 
 student and lover of birds ; but however we decide 
 for ourselves in regard to the exact meaning and 
 evolution of song, and what use it subserves 
 among the birds, we all admit the effect and pleas- 
 ure it produces in ourselves. A world without the 
 song of birds is greatly lacking — such is a desert, 
 where even the harsh croak of a raven is melody. 
 
 Perhaps the reason why the songs of birds give 
 more lasting pleasure than many other things is 
 that sound is so wonderfully potent to recall days 
 and scenes of our past life. Like a sunset, the 
 
THE GALA DAYS OF BIRDS 127 
 
 vision that a certain song brings is different to 
 each one of us. 
 
 To me, the lament of the wood pewee brings to 
 mind deep, moist places in the Pennsylvania back- 
 woods; the crescendo of the oven bird awakens 
 memories of the oaks of the Orange mountains; 
 when a loon or an olive-sided flycatcher or a white- 
 throat calls, the lakes and forests of Nova Scotia 
 come vividly to mind; the cry of a sea-swallow 
 makes real again the white beaches of Virginia; 
 to me a cardinal has in its song the feathery 
 lagoons of Florida's Indian River, while the 
 shriek of a macaw and its antithesis, the silvery, 
 interlacing melodies of the solitaire, spell the 
 farthest barrancas of Mexico, with the vultures 
 ever circling overhead, and the smoke clouds of 
 the volcano in the distance. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes, 
 The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; 
 
 So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes, 
 The plover's piping note, now here, now there. 
 
 Nora Perry. 
 
TURTLE TRAITS 
 
 A TURTLE, waddling his solitary way along 
 some watercourse, attracts little attention 
 apart from that aroused by his clumsy, grotesque 
 shape; yet few who look upon him are able to 
 give offhand even a bare half-dozen facts about 
 the humble creature. Could they give any infor- 
 mation at all, it would probably be limited to two 
 or three usages to which his body is put — such as 
 soup, mandolin picks, and combs. 
 
 In the northeastern part of our own country we 
 may look for no fewer than eight species of turtles 
 which are semi-aquatic, living in or near ponds 
 and streams, while another, the well-known box 
 tortoise, confines its travels to the uplands and 
 woods. 
 
 There are altogether about two hundred differ- 
 ent kinds of turtles, and they live in all except 
 the very cold countries of the world. Australia 
 has the fewest and North and Central America 
 the greatest number of species. Evolutionists 
 can tell us little or nothing of the- origin of these 
 creatures, for as far back in geological ages as 
 they are found fossil (a matter of a little over ten 
 million years), all are true turtles, not half turtles 
 and half something else. Crocodiles and alliga- 
 tors, with their hard leathery coats, come as near 
 
 128 
 
TURTLE TRAITS 129 
 
 to them as do any living creatures, and when we 
 see a huge snapping turtle come out of the water 
 and walk about on land, we cannot fail to be 
 reminded of the fellow with the armoured back. 
 
 Turtles are found on the sea and on land, the 
 marine forms more properly deserving the name 
 of turtles ; tortoises being those living on land or 
 in fresh water. "We shall use the name turtle as 
 significant of the whole group. The most natural 
 method of classifying these creatures is by the 
 way the head and neck are drawn back under the 
 shell; whether the head is turned to one side, or 
 drawn straight back, bending the neck into the 
 letter S shape. 
 
 The skull of a turtle is massive, and some have 
 thick, false roofs on top of the usual brain box. 
 
 The "house" or shell of a turtle is made up of 
 separate pieces of bone, a central row along the 
 back and others arranged around on both sides. 
 These are really pieces of the skin of the back 
 changed to bone. Our ribs are directly under the 
 skin of the back, and if this skin should harden 
 into a bone-like substance, the ribs would lie flat 
 against it, and this is the case with the ribs of 
 turtles. So when w T e marvel that the ribs of a 
 turtle are on the outside of its body, a second 
 thought will show us that this is just as true of 
 us as it is of these reptiles. 
 
 This hardening of the skin has brought about 
 some interesting changes in the body of the turtle. 
 
130 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 In all the higher animals, from fishes up to man, 
 a backbone is of the greatest importance not only 
 in carrying the nerves and blood-vessels, but in 
 supporting the entire body. In turtles alone, the 
 string of vertebra) is unnecessary, the shell giving 
 all the support needed. So, as Nature seldom 
 allows unused tissues or organs to remain, these 
 bones along the back become, in many species, 
 reduced to a mere thread. 
 
 The pieces of bone or horn which go to make up 
 the shell, although so different in appearance from 
 the skin, yet have the same life-processes. Occa- 
 sionally the shell moults or peels, the outer part 
 coming off in great flakes. Each piece grows by 
 the addition of rings of horn at the joints, and 
 (like the rings of a tree) the age of turtles, except 
 of very old ones, can be estimated by the number 
 of circles of horn on each piece. The rings are 
 very distinct in species which live in temperate 
 climates. Here they are compelled to hibernate 
 during the winter, and this cessation of growth 
 marks the intervals between each ring. In tropi- 
 cal turtles the rings are either absent or indis- 
 tinct. It is to this mode of growth that the spread- 
 ing of the initials which are cut into the shell is 
 due, just as letters carved on the trunks of trees 
 in time broaden and bulge outward. 
 
 The shell has the power of regeneration, and 
 when a portion is crushed or torn away the in- 
 jured parts are gradually cast off, and from the 
 
TURTLE TRAITS 131 
 
 surrounding edges a new covering of horn grows 
 out. One third of the entire shell has been known 
 to be thus replaced. 
 
 Although so slow in their locomotion and 
 actions, turtles- have well-developed senses. They 
 can see very distinctly, and the power of smell is 
 especially acute, certain turtles being very dis- 
 criminating in the matter of food. They are also 
 very sensitive to touch, and will react to the least 
 tap on their shells. Their hearing, however, is 
 more imperfect, but as during the mating season 
 they have tiny, piping voices, this sense must be 
 of some use. 
 
 Water tortoises can remain beneath the surface 
 for hours and even days at a time. In addition 
 to the lungs there are two small sacs near the tail 
 which allow the animal to use the oxygen in the 
 water as an aid to breathing. 
 
 All turtles lay eggs, the shells of which are white 
 and generally of a parchment-like character. They 
 are deposited in the ground or in the sand, and 
 hatch either by the warmth of the decaying vege- 
 tation or by the heat of the sun. In temperate 
 countries the eggs remain through the winter, and 
 the little turtles do not emerge until the spring. 
 The eggs of turtles are very good to eat, and the 
 oil contained in them is put to many uses. In all 
 the countries which they inhabit, young turtles 
 have a hard time of it ; for thousands of them are 
 devoured by storks, alligators, and fishes. Even 
 
132 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 old turtles have many enemies, not the least 
 strange being jaguars, which watch for them, turn 
 them on their backs with a flip of the paw, and 
 eat them at leisure — on the half shell, as it were! 
 
 Leathery turtles — which live in the sea — have 
 been reported weighing over a thousand pounds ! 
 This species is very rare, and a curious circum- 
 stance is that only very large adults and very 
 small baby individuals have been seen, the turtles 
 of all intermediate growths keeping in the deep 
 ocean out of view. 
 
 Snapping turtles are among the fiercest crea- 
 tures in the world. On leaving the egg their first 
 instinct is to open their mouths and bite at some- 
 thing. They feed on almost anything, but when 
 in captivity they sometimes refuse to eat, and 
 have been known to go a year without food, show- 
 ing no apparent ill effects. One method which 
 they employ in capturing their food is interesting. 
 A snapping turtle will lie quietly at the bottom of 
 a pond or lake, looking like an old water-soaked 
 log with a branch — its head and neck — at one end. 
 From the tip of the tongue the creature extrudes 
 two small filaments of a pinkish colour which 
 wriggle about, bearing a perfect resemblance to 
 the small round worms of which fishes are so fond. 
 Attracted by these, fishes swim up to grasp the 
 squirming objects and are engulfed by the cruel 
 mouth of the angler. Certain marine turtles have 
 
TURTLE TRAITS 133 
 
 long-fringed appendages on the head and neck, 
 which, waving about, serve a similar purpose. 
 
 The edible terrapin has, in many places, become 
 very rare ; so that thousands of them are kept and 
 bred in enclosed areas, or "crawls," as they are 
 called. This species is noted for its curious dis- 
 position, and it is often captured by being 
 attracted by some unusual sound. 
 
 The tortoise-shell of commerce is obtained from 
 the shell of the hawksbill turtle, the plates of 
 which, being very thin, are heated and welded to- 
 gether until of the required thickness. The age to 
 which turtles live has often been exaggerated, but 
 they are certainly the longest lived of all living 
 creatures. Individuals from the Galapagos Is- 
 land are estimated to be over four hundred years 
 old. When, in a zoological garden, we see one of 
 these creatures and study his aged, aged look, as 
 he slowly and deliberately munches the cabbage 
 which composes his food, we can well believe that 
 such a being saw the light of day before Colum- 
 bus made his memorable voyage. 
 
 He's his own landlord, his own tenant ; stay 
 Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. 
 Himself he boards and lodges; both invites 
 And feasts himself ; sleeps with himself o'nights. 
 He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure 
 Chattels; himself is his own furniture, 
 Knock when you will, — he's sure to be at home. 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
A HALF-HOUR IN A MARSH 
 
 THERE are little realms all around of which 
 many of us know nothing. Take, for 
 example, some marsh within a half -hour's trolley 
 ride of any of our cities or towns. Select one 
 where cat-tails and reeds abound. Mosquitoes 
 and fear of malaria keep these places free from 
 invasion by humankind; but if we select some 
 windy day we may laugh them both to scorn, and 
 we shall be well repaid for our trip. The birds 
 frequenting these places are so seldom disturbed 
 that they make only slight effort to conceal their 
 nests, and we shall find plenty of the beautiful 
 bird cradles rocking with every passing breeze. 
 
 A windy day will also reveal an interesting 
 feature of the marsh. The soft, velvety grass, 
 which abounds in such places, is so pliant and 
 yielding that it responds to every breath, and each 
 approaching wave of air is heralded by an advanc- 
 ing curl of the grass. At our feet these grass- 
 waves intersect and recede, giving a weird sensa- 
 tion, as if the ground were moving, or as if we 
 were walking on the water itself. Where the 
 grass is longer, the record of some furious gale is 
 permanently fixed — swaths and ripples seeming 
 to roll onward, or to break into green foam. The 
 simile of a "painted ocean" is perfectly carried 
 
 134 
 
A HALF-HOUR IN A MARSH 135 
 
 out. There is no other substance, not even sand, 
 which simulates more exactly the motions of wa- 
 ter than this grass. 
 
 In the nearest clump of reeds we notice several 
 red-winged blackbirds, chattering nervously. A 
 magnificent male bird, black as night, and with 
 scarlet epaulets burning on his shoulders, swoops 
 at us, while his inconspicuous brownish consorts 
 vibrate above the reeds, some with grubs, some 
 empty mouthed. They are invariable indexes of 
 what is below them. We may say with perfect 
 assurance that in that patch of rushes are two 
 nests, one with young; beyond are three others, 
 all with eggs. 
 
 We find beautiful structures, firm and round, 
 woven of coarse grasses inside and dried reeds 
 without, hung between two or three supporting 
 stalks, or, if it is a fresh-water marsh, sheltered 
 by long, green fern fronds. The eggs are worthy 
 of their cradles — pearly white in colour, with 
 scrawls and blotches of dark purple at the larger 
 end — hieroglyphics which only the blackbirds can 
 translate. 
 
 In another nest we find newly hatched young, 
 looking like large strawberries, their little naked 
 bodies of a vivid orange colour, with scanty gray 
 tufts of down here and there. Not far away is a 
 nest, overflowing with five young birds ready to 
 fly, which scramble out at our approach and start 
 boldly off; but as their weak wings give out, they 
 
136 THE LOG OE THE SUN 
 
 soon come to grief. "We catch one and find that 
 it has most delicate colours, resembling its mother 
 in being striped brown and black, although its 
 breast and under parts are of an unusually beau- 
 tiful tint — a kind of salmon pink. I never saw this 
 shade elsewhere in Nature. 
 
 Blackbirds are social creatures, and where we 
 find one nest, four or five others may be looked for 
 near by. The red-winged blackbird is a mormon 
 in very fact, and often a solitary male bird may 
 be seen guarding a colony of three or four nests, 
 each with an attending female. A sentiment of 
 altruism seems indeed not unknown, as I have 
 seen a female give a grub to one of a hungry nest- 
 ful, before passing on to brood her own eggs, yet 
 unhatched. 
 
 While looking for the blackbirds' nests we shall 
 come across numerous round, or oval, masses of 
 dried weeds and grass — mice homes we may think 
 them; and the small, winding entrance concealed 
 on one side tends to confirm this opinion. Several 
 will be empty, but when in one our fingers touch 
 six or eight tiny eggs, our mistake will be appar- 
 ent. Long-billed marsh wrens are the architects, 
 and so fond are they of building that frequently 
 three or four unused nests are constructed before 
 the little chocolate jewels are deposited. 
 
 If we sit quietly for a few moments, one of the 
 owners, overcome by wren curiosity, will appear, 
 clinging to a reed stalk and twitching his pert, 
 
A HALF-HOUR IN A MARSH 137 
 
 upturned tail, the badge of his family. Soon he 
 springs up into the air and, bubbling a jumble of 
 liquid notes, sinks back into the recesses of the 
 cat-tails. Another and another repeat this until 
 the marsh rings with their little melodies. 
 
 If we seat ourselves and watch quietly we may 
 possibly behold an episode that is not unusual. 
 The joyous songs of the little wrens suddenly give 
 place to cries of fear and anger; and this hub- 
 bub increases until at last we see a sinister ripple 
 flowing through the reeds, marking the advancing 
 head of a water snake. 
 
 The evil eyes of the serpent are bent upon the 
 nearest nest, and toward it he makes his way, fol- 
 lowed and beset by all the wrens in the vicinity. 
 Slowly the scaly creature pushes himself up on 
 the reeds; and as they bend under his weight he 
 makes his way the more easily along them to the 
 nest. His head is pushed in at the entrance, but 
 an instant later the snake twines downward to the 
 Water. The nest was empty. Again he seeks an 
 adjoining nest, and again is disappointed; and 
 now, a small fish attracting his attention, he goes 
 off in swift pursuit, leaving untouched the third 
 nest in sight, that containing the precious eggs. 
 Thus the apparently useless industry of the tiny 
 wrens has served an invaluable end, and the 
 tremulous chorus is again timidly taken up — little 
 hymns of thanksgiving we may imagine them now. 
 
 These and many others are sights which a half- 
 
138 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 hour's tramp, without even wotting our shoes, 
 may show as. Before we leave, hints of more 
 deeply hidden secrets of the marsh may perhaps 
 come to us. A swamp sparrow may show by its 
 actions that its nest is not far away; from the 
 depths of a ditch jungle the clatter of some rail 
 comes faintly to our ears, and the distant croak 
 of a night heron reaches us from its feeding- 
 grounds, guarded by the deeper waters. 
 
 And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods 
 
 stands high? 
 The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the 
 
 sky! 
 A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the 
 
 blade. 
 
 Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and terminal sea? 
 
 Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
 
 From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin. 
 
 Sidney Lanier. 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 
 
 WE are often held spellbound by the majesty 
 of mountains, and indeed a lofty peak 
 forever capped with snow, or pouring forth smoke 
 and ashes, is impressive beyond all terrestrial 
 things. But the ocean yields to nothing in its 
 grandeur, in its age, in its ceaseless movement, 
 and the question remains forever unanswered, 
 "Who shall sound the mysteries of the sea?" 
 Before the most ancient of mountains rose from 
 the heart of the earth, the waves of the sea rolled 
 as now, and though the edges of the continents 
 shrink and expand, bend into bays or stretch out 
 into capes, always through all the ages the sea 
 follows and laps with ripples or booms with 
 breakers unceasingly upon the shore. 
 
 Whether considered from the standpoint of the 
 scientist, the mere curiosity of the tourist, or the 
 keen delight of the enthusiastic lover of Nature, 
 the shore of the sea — its sands and waters, its 
 ever-changing skies and moods — is one of the most 
 interesting spots in the world. The very bottom 
 of the deep bays near shore — dark and eternally 
 silent, prisoned under the restless waste of waters 
 — is thickly carpeted with strange and many- 
 coloured forms of animal and vegetable life. But 
 the beaches and tide-pools over which the moon- 
 
 139 
 
140 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 urged lidos hold sway in their ceaseless rise and 
 fall, teem with marvels of Nature's handiwork, 
 and every day are restocked and replanted with 
 new living objects, both arctic and tropical offer- 
 ings of each heaving tidal pulse. 
 
 Here on the northeastern shores of our conti- 
 nent one may spend days of leisure or delightful 
 study among the abundant and ever changing 
 variety of wonderful living creatures. It is not 
 unlikely that the enjoyment and absolute novelty 
 of this new world may enable one to look on these 
 as some of the most pleasant days of life. I write 
 from the edge of the restless waters of Fundy, but 
 any rock-strewn shore will duplicate the marvels. 
 
 At high tide the surface of the Bay is unbroken 
 by rock or shoal, and stretches glittering in the 
 sunlight from the beach at one's feet to where the 
 New Brunswick shore is just visible, appearing 
 like a low bluish cloud on the horizon. At times 
 the opposite shore is apparently brought nearer 
 and made more distinct by a mirage, which inverts 
 it, together with any ships which are in sight. A 
 brig may be seen sailing along keel upward, in the 
 most matter-of-fact way. The surface may anon 
 be torn by those fearful squalls for which Fundy 
 is noted, or, calm as a mirror, reflect the blue sky 
 with an added greenish tinge, troubled only by 
 the gentle alighting of a gull, the splash of a king- 
 fisher or occasional osprey, as these dive for their 
 prey, or the ruffling which shows where a school 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 141 
 
 of mackerel is passing. This latter sign always 
 sends the little sailing dories hurrying out, where 
 they beat back and forth, like shuttles travelling 
 across a loom, and at each turn a silvery strug- 
 gling form is dragged into the boat. 
 
 A little distance along the shore the sandy beach 
 ends and is replaced by huge bare boulders, scat- 
 tered and piled in the utmost confusion. Back of 
 these are scraggly spruces, with branches which 
 have been so long blown landwards that they have 
 bent and grown altogether on that side, — perma- 
 nent weather-vanes of Fundy's storms. The very 
 soil in which they began life was blown away, and 
 their gnarled weather-worn roots hug the rocks, 
 clutching every crevice as a drowning man would 
 grasp an oar. On the side away from the bay two 
 or three long, thick roots stretch far from each 
 tree to the nearest earth-filled gully, sucking what 
 scanty nourishment they can, for strength to with- 
 stand the winter's gales yet another year or dec- 
 ade. Beach-pea and sweet marsh lavender tint 
 the sand, and stunted fringed orchids gleam in the 
 coarse grass farther inland. High up among the 
 rocks, where there is scarcely a handful of soil, 
 delicate harebells sway and defy the blasts, endur- 
 ing because of their very pliancy and weakness. 
 
 If we watch awhile we will see a line of blackish 
 seaweed and wet sand appearing along the edge of 
 the water, showing that the tide has turned and 
 begun to recede. In an hour it has ebbed a con- 
 
142 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 siderable distance, and if we clamber down over 
 lli<- great weather-worn rocks the hardy advance 
 guard of that wonderful world of life under the 
 water is seen. Barnacles whiten the top of every 
 rock which is reached by the tide, although the 
 water may cover them only a short time each day. 
 But they flourish here in myriads, and the shorter 
 the chance they have at the salt water the more 
 frantically their little feathery feet clutch at the 
 tiny food particles which float around them. These 
 thousands of tiny turreted castles are built so 
 closely together that many are pressed out of 
 shape, paralleling in shape as in substance the 
 inorganic crystals of the mineral kingdom. The 
 valved doors are continually opening and partly 
 closing, and if we listen quietly we can hear a per- 
 petual shuss ! shuss ! Is it the creaking of the tiny 
 hinges ? As the last receding wave splashes them, 
 they shut their folding doors over a drop or two 
 and remain tightly closed, while perhaps ten hours 
 of sunlight bake them, or they glisten ir the moon- 
 light for the same length of time, ready at the first 
 touch of the returning water to open wide and 
 welcome it. 
 
 The thought of their life history brings to mind 
 how sadly they retrogress as they grow, hatching 
 as minute free-swimming creatures like tiny lob- 
 sters, and gradually changing to this plant-like 
 life, sans eyes, sans head, sans most everything 
 except a stomach and a few pairs of feathery feet 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN iw 
 
 to kick food into it. A few pitiful traces of nerves 
 are left them. What if there were enough gan- 
 glia to enable them to dream of their past higher 
 life, in the long intervals of patient waiting! 
 
 A little lower down we come to the zone of mus- 
 sels, — hanging in clusters like some strange sea- 
 fruit. Each is attached by strands of thin silky 
 cables, so tough that they often defy our utmost 
 efforts to tear a specimen away. How secure these 
 creatures seem, how safe from all harm, and yet 
 they have enemies which make havoc among them. 
 At high tide fishes come and crunch them, shells 
 and all, and multitudes of carnivorous snails are 
 waiting to set their file-like tongues at work, which 
 mercilessly drill through the lime shells, bring- 
 ing death in a more subtle but no less certain 
 form. Storms may tear away the support of these 
 poor mollusks, and the waves dash them far out of 
 the reach of the tides, while at low water, crows 
 and gulls use all their ingenuity to get at their 
 toothsome flesh. 
 
 There are no ant-hills in the sea, but when we 
 turn over a large stone and see scores upon scores 
 of small black shrimps scurrying around, the 
 resemblance to those insects is striking. These 
 little creatures quickly hitch away on their sides, 
 getting out of sight in a remarkably short time. 
 
 The tide is going down rapidly, and following it 
 step by step novel sights meet the eye at every 
 turn, and we begin to realise that in this narrow 
 
144 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 strip, claimed alternately by sea and land, which 
 would be represented on a map by the finest of 
 hair-lines, there exists a complete world of ani- 
 mated life, comparing in variety and numbers 
 witli the life in that thinner medium, air. We 
 climb over enormous boulders, so different in ap- 
 pearance that they would never be thought to con- 
 sist of the same material as those higher up on 
 the shore. These are masses of wave-worn rock, 
 twenty or thirty feet across, piled in every im- 
 aginable position, and completely covered with a 
 thick padding of seaweed. Their drapery of algae 
 hangs in festoons, and if we draw aside these sub- 
 marine curtains, scenes from a veritable fairy- 
 land are disclosed. Deep pools of water, clear as 
 crystal and icy cold, contain creatures both hide- 
 ous and beautiful, sombre and iridescent, formless 
 and of exquisite shape. 
 
 The sea-anemones first attract attention, show- 
 ing as splashes of scarlet and salmon among the 
 olive-green seaweed, or in hundreds covering the 
 entire bottom of a pool with a delicately hued mist 
 of waving tentacles. As the water leaves these 
 exposed on the walls of the caves, they lose their 
 plump appearance and, drawing in their wreath 
 of tentacles, hang limp and shrivelled, resembling 
 pieces of water-soaked meat as much as anything. 
 Submerged in the icy water they are veritable 
 animal-flowers. Their beauty is indeed well 
 guarded, hidden by the overhanging seaweed in 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 145 
 
 these caves twenty-five feet or more below high- 
 water mark. 
 
 Here in these beautiful caverns we may make 
 aquariums, and transplant as many animal-flowers 
 as we wish. Wherever we place them their fleshy, 
 snail-like foot spreads out, takes tight hold, and 
 the creature lives content, patiently waiting for 
 the Providence of the sea to send food to its many 
 wide-spread fingers. 
 
 Carpeted with pink alga3 and dainty sponges, 
 draped with sea-lettuce like green tissue paper, 
 decorated with strange corallines, these natural 
 aquariums far surpass any of artificial make. Al- 
 though the tide drives us from them sooner or 
 later, we may return with the sure prospect of 
 finding them refreshed and perhaps replenished 
 With many new forms. For often some of the 
 deep-water creatures are held prisoners in the 
 lower tide-pools, as the water settles, somewhat as 
 when the glaciers receded northward after the Ice 
 Age there were left on isolated mountain peaks 
 traces of the boreal fauna and flora. 
 
 If we are interested enough to watch our 
 anemones we will find much entertainment. Let 
 us return to our shrimp colonies and bring a hand- 
 ful to our pool. Drop one in the centre of an 
 anemone and see how quickly it contracts. The 
 tentacles bend over it exactly as the sticky hairs 
 of the sun-dew plant close over a fly. The shrimp 
 struggles for a moment and is then drawn down- 
 
146 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 ward out of sight. The birth of an anemone is 
 well worth patient watching, and this may take 
 place in several different ways. We may see a 
 large individual with a number of tiny bunches 
 on the sides of the body, and if we keep this one 
 in a tumbler, before long these protuberances will 
 be seen to develop a few tentacles and at last 
 break off as perfect miniature anemones. Or 
 again, an anemone may draw in its tentacles with- 
 out apparent cause, and after a few minutes ex- 
 pand more widely than ever. Suddenly a move- 
 ment of the mouth is seen, and it opens, and one, 
 two, or even a half-dozen tiny anemones shoot 
 forth. They turn and roll in the little spurt of 
 water and gradually settle to the rock alongside 
 of the mother. In a short time they turn right 
 side up, expand their absurd little heads, and 
 begin life for themselves. These animal "buds" 
 may be of all sizes ; some minute ones will be much 
 less developed and look very unlike the parent. 
 These are able to swim about for a while, and 
 myriads of them may be born in an hour. Others, 
 as we have seen, have tentacles and settle down 
 at once. 
 
 Fishes, little and big, are abundant in the pools, 
 darting here and there among the leathery fronds 
 of "devils' aprons,' ' cavernous-mouthed angler 
 fish, roly-poly young lump-suckers, lithe butter- 
 fish, and many others. 
 
 Moving slowly through the pools are many 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 147 
 
 beautiful creatures, some so evanescent that they 
 are only discoverable by the faint shadows which 
 they cast on the bottom, others suggest animated 
 spheres of prismatic sunlight. These latter are 
 tiny jelly-fish, circular hyaline masses of jelly with 
 eight longitudinal bands, composed of many 
 comb-like plates, along which iridescent waves of 
 light continually play. The graceful appearance 
 of these exquisite creatures is increased by two 
 long, fringed tentacles streaming behind, drifting 
 at full length or contracting into numerous coils. 
 The fringe on these streamers is a series of living 
 hairs — an aquatic cobweb, each active with life, 
 and doing its share in ensnaring minute atoms of 
 food for its owner. "When dozens of these 
 ctenophores (or comb-bearers)' as they are called, 
 glide slowly to and fro through a pool, the sight is 
 not soon forgotten. To try to photograph them 
 is like attempting to portray the substance of a 
 sunbeam, but patience works wonders, and even a 
 slightly magnified image of a living jelly is 
 secured, which shows very distinctly all the de- 
 tails of its wonderfully simple structure; the 
 pouch, suspended in the centre of the sphere, 
 which does duty as a stomach; the sheaths into 
 which the long tentacles may be so magically 
 packed, and the tiny organ at the top of this living 
 ball of spun glass, serving, with its minute weights 
 and springs, as compass, rudder, and pilot to this 
 little creature, which does not fear to pit its 
 
148 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 muscles of jolly against the rush and might of 
 breaking waves. 
 
 Even the individual comb-plates or rows of oars 
 are plainly seen, although, owing to their rapid 
 motion, they appear to the naked eye as a single 
 band of scintillating light. This and other magni- 
 fied photographs were obtained by fastening the 
 lens of a discarded bicvele lantern in a cone of 
 paper blackened on the inside with shoe-blacking. 
 AVith this crude apparatus placed in front of the 
 lens of the camera, the evanescent beauties of 
 these most delicate creatures were preserved. 
 
 Other equally beautiful forms of jelly-fish are 
 balloon-shaped. These are Beroe^ fitly named 
 after the daughter of the old god Oceanus. They, 
 like others of their family, pulsate through the 
 water, sweeping gracefully along, borne on cur- 
 rents of their own making. 
 
 Passing to other inhabitants of the pools, we 
 find starfish and sea-urchins everywhere abun- 
 dant. Hunched-up groups of the former show 
 where they are dining in their unique way on un- 
 fortunate sea-snails or anemones, protruding 
 their whole stomach and thus engulfing their vic- 
 tim. The urchins strain and stretch with their 
 innumerable sucker-feet, feeling for something to 
 grasp, and in this laborious way pull themselves 
 along. The mouth, with the five so-called teeth, 
 is a conspicuous feature, visible at the centre of 
 the urchin and surrounded by the greenish spines. 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 149 
 
 Some of the starfish are covered with long spines, 
 others are nearly smooth. The colours are won- 
 derfully varied, — red, purple, orange, yellow, etc. 
 
 The stages through which these prickly skinned 
 animals pass, before they reach the adult state, 
 are wonderfully curious, and only when they are 
 seen under the microscope can they be fully ap- 
 preciated. A bolting-cloth net drawn through 
 some of the pools will yield thousands in many 
 stages, and we can take eggs of the common star- 
 fish and watch their growth in tumblers of water. 
 At first the egg seems nothing but a tiny round 
 globule of jelly, but soon a dent or depression 
 appears on one side, which becomes deeper and 
 deeper until it extends to the centre of the egg- 
 mass. It is as if we should take a round ball of 
 putty and gradually press our finger into it. This 
 pressed-in sac is a kind of primitive stomach and 
 the entrance is used as a mouth. After this fol- 
 lows a marvellous succession of changes, form 
 giving place to form, differing more in appear- 
 ance and structure from the five-armed starfish 
 than a caterpillar differs from a butterfly. 
 
 For example, when about eight days old, 
 another mouth has formed and two series of deli- 
 cate cilia or swimming hairs wind around the 
 creature, by means of which it glides slowly 
 through the water. The photographs of a starfish 
 of this age show the stomach with its contents, a 
 dark rounded mass near the lower portion of the 
 
150 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 organism. The vibrating bands which outline the 
 tiny animal are also visible. The delicacy of struc- 
 ture and difficulty of preserving these young star- 
 fish alive make these pictures of particular value, 
 especially as they were taken of the living forms 
 swimming in their natural element. Each day 
 and almost each hour adds to the complexity of 
 the little animal, lung tentacles grow out and 
 many other larval stages are passed through 
 before the starfish shape is discernible within this 
 curious "nurse" or living, changing egg. Then 
 the entire mass, so elaborately evolved through 
 so long a time, is absorbed and the little baby star 
 sinks to the bottom to start on its new life, crawl- 
 ing around and over whatever happens in its path 
 and feeding to repletion on succulent oysters. It 
 can laugh at the rage of the oysterman, who 
 angrily tears it in pieces, for "time heals all 
 wounds" literally in the case of these creatures, 
 and even if the five arms are torn apart, five star- 
 fish, small of arm but with healthy stomachs, will 
 soon be foraging on the oyster bed. 
 
 But to return to our tide-pools. In the skim- 
 ming net with the young starfish many other crea- 
 tures are found, some so delicate and fragile that 
 they disintegrate before microscope and camera 
 can be placed in position. I lie at full length on 
 a soft couch of seaweed with my face close to a 
 tiny pool no larger than my hand. A few arma- 
 dillo shells and limpets crawl on the bottom, but 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 151 
 
 a frequent troubling of the water baffles me. I 
 make sure my breath has nothing to do with it, 
 but still it continues. At last a beam of sunshine 
 lights up the pool, and as if a film had rolled from 
 my eyes I see the cause of the disturbance. A sea- 
 worm — or a ghost of one — is swimming about. Its 
 large, brilliant eyes, long tentacles, and innumer- 
 able waving appendages are now as distinct as 
 before they had been invisible. A trifling change 
 in my position and all vanishes as if by magic. 
 There seems not an organ, not a single part of 
 the creature, which is not as transparent as the 
 water itself. The fine streamers into which the 
 paddles and gills are divided are too delicate to 
 have existence in any but a water creature, and 
 the least attempt to lift the animal from its ele- 
 ment would only tear and dismember it, so I leave 
 it in the pool to await the return of the tide. 
 
 Shrimps and prawns of many shapes and col- 
 ours inhabit every pool. One small species, 
 abundant on the algae, combines the colour changes 
 of a chameleon with the form and manner of 
 travel of a measuring-worm, looping along the 
 fronds of seaweed or swimming with the same 
 motion. Another variety of shrimp resembles 
 the common wood-louse found under faeces of 
 bark, but is most beautifully iridescent, glowing 
 like an opal at the bottom of the pool. The curi- 
 ous little sea-spiders keep me guessing for a long 
 time where their internal organs can be, as they 
 
132 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 consist of legs with merely enough body to con- 
 nect these firmly together. The fact that the 
 thread-like stomach and other organs send a 
 branch into each of the eight legs explains the 
 mystery and shows how far economy of space may 
 go. Their skeleton-forms, having the appearance 
 of eight straggling filaments of seaweed, are thus, 
 doubtless, a great protection to these creatures 
 from their many enemies. Other hobgoblin forms 
 with huge probosces crawl slowly over the floors 
 of the anemone caves, or crouch as the shadow of 
 my hand or net falls upon them. 
 
 The larger gorgeously coloured and graceful 
 sea-worms contribute not a small share to the 
 beauty of Fundy tide-pools, swimming in irides- 
 cent waves through the water or waving thei* 
 Medusa-head of crimson tentacles at the bottom 
 among the sea-lettuce. These worms form tubes 
 of mud for themselves, and the rows of hooks on 
 each side of the body enable them to climb up and 
 down in their dismal homes. 
 
 Much of the seaweed from deeper bottoms 
 seems to be covered with a dense fur, which under 
 a hand lens resolves into beautiful hydroids, — 
 near relatives of the anemones and corals. 
 Scientists have happily given these most euphoni- 
 ous names — Campanularia, Obelia, and Plumu- 
 laria. Among the branches of certain of these, 
 numbers of round discs or spheres are visible. 
 These are young medusae or jelly-fish, which grow 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 153 
 
 like bunches of currants, and later will break off 
 and swim around at pleasure in the water. Occa- 
 sionally one is fortunate enough to discover these 
 small jellies in a pool where they can be photo- 
 graphed as they pulsate back and forth. When 
 these attain their full size they lay eggs which 
 sink to the bottom and grow up into the plant-like 
 hydroids. So each generation of these interesting 
 creatures is entirely unlike that which immedi- 
 ately precedes or follows it. In other words, a 
 hydroid is exactly like its grandmother and grand- 
 daughter, but as different from its parents and 
 children in appearance as a plant is from an ani- 
 mal. Even in a fairy-story book this would be 
 wonderful, but here it is taking place under our 
 very eyes, as are scores of other transformations 
 and " miracles in miniature" in this marvellous 
 underworld. 
 
 Now let us deliberately pass by all the attrac- 
 tions of the middle zone of tide-pools and on as 
 far as the lowest level of the water will admit. 
 We are far out from the shore and many feet 
 below the level of the barnacle-covered boulders 
 over which we first clambered. Now we may 
 indeed be prepared for strange sights, for we are 
 on the very border-land of the vast unknown. The 
 abyss in front of us is like planetary space, un- 
 known to the feet of man. While we know the lat- 
 ter by scant glimpses through our telescopes, the 
 former has oaly been scratched by the hauls of 
 
15i THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 the dredge, the mark of whose iron shoe is like the 
 tinv track of a snail on the leaf mould of a vast 
 
 ■r 
 
 forest. 
 
 The first plunge beneath the icy waters of 
 Fundy is likely to remain long in one's memory, 
 and one's first dive of short duration, but the 
 glimpse which is had and the hastily snatched 
 handfuls of specimens of the beauties which no 
 tide ever uncovers is potent to make one forget 
 his shivering and again and again seek to pene- 
 trate as far as a good-sized stone and a lungful 
 of air will carry him. Strange sensations are ex- 
 perienced in these aquatic scrambles. It takes a 
 long time to get used to pulling oneself downivard, 
 or propping your knees against the under crevices 
 of rocks. To all intents and purposes, the law of 
 gravitation is partly suspended, and wiien stone 
 and wooden wedge accidentally slip from one's 
 hand and disappear in opposite directions, it is 
 confusing, to say the least. 
 
 When working in one spot for some time the 
 fishes seem to become used to one, and approach 
 quite closely. Slick-looking pollock, bloated lump- 
 fish, and occasionally a sombre dog-fish rolls by, 
 giving one a start, as the memory of pictures of 
 battles between divers and sharks of tropical wa- 
 ters comes to mind. One's mental impressions 
 made thus are somewhat disconnected. With the 
 blood buzzing in the ears, it is only possible to 
 snatch general glimpses and superficial details. 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 155 
 
 Then at the surface, notes can be made, and speci- 
 mens which have been overlooked, felt for during 
 the next trip beneath the surface. Fronds of 
 laminaria yards in length, like sheets of rubber, 
 offer convenient holds, and at their roots many 
 curious creatures make their home. Serpent star- 
 fish, agile as insects and very brittle, are abun- 
 dant, and new forms of worms, like great slugs, — 
 their backs covered with gills in the form of tufted 
 branches. 
 
 In these outer, eternally submerged regions are 
 starfish of still other shapes, some with a dozen 
 or more arms. I took one with thirteen rays and 
 placed it temporarily in a pool aquarium with 
 some large anemones. On returning in an hour 
 or two I found the starfish trying to make a meal 
 of the largest anemone. Hundreds of dart-covered 
 strings had been pushed out by the latter in de- 
 fence, but they seemed to cause the starfish no 
 inconvenience whatever. 
 
 In my submarine glimpses I saw spaces free 
 from seaweed on which hundreds of tall polyps 
 were growing, some singly, others in small tufts. 
 The solitary individuals rise three or four inches 
 by a nearly straight stalk, surmounted by a many- 
 tentacled head. This droops gracefully to one 
 side and the general effect is that of a bed of 
 rose-coloured flowers. From the heads hang 
 grape-like masses, which on examination in a 
 tumbler are seen to be immature medusae. Each 
 
156 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 of these develop to the point where the four radi- 
 ating canals are discernible and then their growth 
 comes to a standstill, and they never attain the 
 freedom for which their structure fits them. 
 
 When the wind blew inshore, I would often find 
 the water fairly alive with large sun-jellies or 
 Aurelia^ — their Latin name. Their great milky- 
 white bodies would come heaving along and bump 
 against me, giving a very "crawly" sensation. 
 The circle of short tentacles and the four horse- 
 shoe-shaped ovaries distinguish this jelly-fish 
 from all others. When I had gone down as far 
 as I dared, I would sometimes catch glimpses of 
 these strange beings far below me, passing and 
 repassing in the silence and icy coldness of the 
 watery depths. These large medusa? are often 
 very abundant after a favourable wind has blown 
 for a few days, and I have rowed through masses 
 of them so thick that it seemed like rowing through 
 thick jelly, two or three feet deep. In an area the 
 length of the boat and about a yard wide, I have 
 counted over one hundred and fifty Aurelias on 
 the surface alone. 
 
 When one of these "sun-fish," as the fishermen 
 call them, is lifted from the water, the clay- 
 coloured eggs may be seen to stream from it in 
 myriads. In many jellies, small bodies the size of 
 a pea are visible in the interior of the mass, and 
 when extracted they prove to be a species of small 
 shrimp. These are well adapted for their quasi- 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 157 
 
 parasitic life, in colour being throughout of the 
 same milky semi-opaqueness as their host, but one 
 very curious thing about them is, that when taken 
 out and placed in some water in a vial or tumbler 
 they begin to turn darker almost immediately, and 
 in five minutes all will be of various shades, from 
 red to a dark brown. 
 
 I had no fear of Aurelia, but when another free- 
 swimming species of jelly-fish, Cyanea, or the 
 blue-jelly, appeared, I swam ashore with all speed. 
 This great jelly is usually more of a reddish liver- 
 colour than a purple, and is much to be dreaded. 
 Its tentacles are of enormous length. I have seen 
 specimens which measured two feet across the 
 disc, with streamers fully forty feet long, and one 
 has been recorded seven feet across and no less 
 than one hundred and twelve feet to the tip of the 
 cruel tentacles! These trail behind in eight 
 bunches and form a living, tangled labyrinth as 
 deadly as the hair of the fabled Medusa — whose 
 name indeed has been so appropriately applied to 
 this division of animals. The touch of each ten- 
 tacle to the skin is like a lash of nettle, and there 
 would be little hope for a diver whose path crossed 
 such a fiery tangle. The untold myriads of little 
 darts which are shot out secrete a poison which is 
 terribly irritating. 
 
 On the crevice bottoms a sight now and then 
 meets my eyes which brings the "devil-fish" of 
 Victor Hugo's romance vividly to mind, — a mis- 
 
158 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 sliapon squid making its way snakily over the 
 shells and seaweed. Its large eyes gaze fixedly 
 around and the arms reach alternately forward, 
 the sucking cups lined with their cruel teeth clos- 
 ing over the inequalities of the bottom. The crea- 
 ture may suddenly change its mode of progression 
 and shoot like an arrow, backward and upward. 
 If we watch one in its passage over areas of sea- 
 weed and sand, a wonderful adaptation becomes 
 apparent. Its colour changes continually; when 
 near sand it is of a sombre brown hue, then blushes 
 of colour pass over it and the tint changes, corre- 
 sponding to the seaweed or patches of pink sponge 
 over which it swims. The way in which this is 
 accomplished is very ingenious and loses nothing 
 bv examination. Beneath the skin are numerous 
 cells filled with liquid pigment. When at rest 
 these contract until they are almost invisible, ap- 
 pearing as very small specks or dots on the sur- 
 face of the body. When the animal wishes to 
 change its hue, certain muscles which radiate from 
 these colour cells are shortened, drawing the cells 
 out in all directions until they seem confluent. It 
 is as if the freckles on a person's face should be 
 all joined together, when an ordinary tan would 
 result. 
 
 From bottoms ten to twenty fathoms below the 
 surface, deeper than mortal eye can probably ever 
 hope to reach, the dredge brings up all manner of 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 159 
 
 curious things ; basket starfish, with arms divided 
 and subdivided into many tendrils, on the tips of 
 which it walks, the remaining part converging up- 
 ward like the trellis of a vine-covered summer 
 house. Sponges of many hues must fairly carpet 
 large areas of the deep water, as the dredge is 
 often loaded with them. The small shore-loving 
 ones which I photographed are in perfect health, 
 but the camera cannot show the many tiny cur- 
 rents of water pouring in food and oxygen at the 
 smaller openings, and returning in larger streams 
 from the tall funnels on the surface of the sponge, 
 which a pinch of carmine dust reveals so beauti- 
 fully. From the deeper aquatic gardens come up 
 great orange and yellow sponges, two and three 
 feet in length, and around the bases of these the 
 weird serpent stars are clinging, while crabs 
 scurry away as the mass reaches the surface of 
 the water. 
 
 Treasures from depths of forty and even fifty 
 fathoms can be obtained when a trip is taken with 
 the trawl-men. One can sit fascinated for hours, 
 watching the hundreds of yards of line reel in, 
 with some interesting creature on each of the 
 thirty-seven hundred odd hooks. At times a 
 glance down into the clear water will show a score 
 of fish in sight at once, hake, haddock, cod, hali- 
 but, dog-fish, and perhaps an immense "barn- 
 door" skate, a yard or more square. This latter 
 
160 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 will hold back with frantic flaps of its groat 
 "wings," and tax all the strength of the sturdy 
 Acadian fishermen to pull it to the gunwale. 
 
 Now and then a huge "meat-rock," the fisher- 
 men's apt name for an anemone, comes up, im- 
 paled on a hook, and still clinging to a stone of five 
 to ten pounds weight. These gigantic scarlet ones 
 from full fifty fathoms far surpass any near shore. 
 Occasionally the head alone of a large fish will 
 appear, with the entire body bitten clean off, a 
 hint of the monsters which must haunt the lower 
 depths. The pressure of the air must be exces- 
 sive, for many of the fishes have their swimming 
 bladders fairly forced out of their mouths by the 
 lessening of atmospheric pressure as they are 
 drawn to the surface. When a basket starfish 
 finds one of the baits in that sunless void far be- 
 neath our boat, he hugs it so tenaciously that the 
 upward jerks of the reel only make him hold the 
 more tightly. 
 
 Once in a great while the fishermen find what 
 they call a "knob-fish" on one of their hooks, and 
 I never knew what they meant until one day a 
 small colony of five was brought ashore. Boltenia, 
 the scientists call them, tall, queer-shaped things ; 
 a stalk six to eight inches in length, with a knob 
 or oblong bulb-like body at the summit, looking 
 exactly like the flower of a lady-slipper orchid and 
 as delicately coloured. This is a member of that 
 curious family of Ascidians, which forever 
 
 i 
 
SECRETS OF THE OCEAN 161 
 
 trembles in the balance between the higher back- 
 boned animals and the lower division, where are 
 classified the humbler insects, crabs, and snails. 
 The young of Boltenia promises everything in its 
 tiny backbone or notochord, but it all ends in 
 promise, for that shadow of a great ambition 
 withers away, and the creature is doomed to a 
 lowly and vegetative life. If we soften the hard 
 scientific facts which tell us of these dumb, blind 
 creatures, with the humane mellowing thought of 
 the oneness of all life, we will find much that is 
 pathetic and affecting in their humble biographies 
 from our point of view. And yet these cases of 
 degeneration are far from anything like actual 
 misfortunes, or mishaps of nature, as Buffon was 
 so fond of thinking. These creatures have found 
 their adult mode of life more free from competi- 
 tion than any other, and hence their adoption of 
 it. It is only another instance of exquisite adapta- 
 tion to an unfilled niche in the life of the world. 
 
 Yet another phase of enjoying the life of these 
 northern waters; the one which comes after all 
 the work and play of collecting is over for the 
 day, after the last specimen is given a fresh sup- 
 ply of water for the night, and the final note in our 
 journal is written. Then, as dusk falls, we make 
 our way to the beach, ship our rudder and oars 
 and push slowly along shore, or drift quietly with 
 the tide. The stars may come out in clear splen- 
 dour and the visual symphony of the northern 
 
162 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 lights play over the dark vault above us, or all 
 may be obscured in lowering, leaden clouds. But 
 the lights of the sea are never obscured — they 
 always shine with a splendour which keeps one 
 entranced for hours. 
 
 At night the ripples and foam of the Fundy 
 shores seem transformed to molten silver and 
 gold, and after each receding wave the emerald 
 seaweed is left dripping with millions of spar- 
 kling lights, shining with a living lustre which 
 would pale the brightest gem. Each of these 
 countless sparks is a tiny animal, as perfect in its 
 substance and as well adapted to its cycle of life 
 as the highest created being. The wonderful way 
 in which this phosphorescence permeates every- 
 thing — the jelly-fish seeming elfish fireworks as 
 they throb through the water with rhythmic beats 
 — the fish brilliantly lighted up and plainly visible 
 as they dart about far beneath the surface — makes 
 such a night on the Bay of Fundy an experience 
 to be always remembered. 
 
 Like the tints on a crescent sea beach 
 
 When the moon is new and thin, 
 Into our hearts high yearnings 
 
 Come welling and surging in — 
 Come, from the mystic ocean, 
 
 Whose rim no foot has trod — 
 Some of us call it longing, 
 
 And others call it God. 
 
 W. H. Carruth. 
 
JULY 
 
 /-3 1 
 
 n 
 
 ■*? 
 
BIRDS IN A CITY 
 
 WE frequently hear people say that if only 
 they lived in the country they would take 
 up the study of birds with great interest, but that 
 a city life prevented any nature study. To show 
 how untrue this is, I once made a census of wild 
 birds which were nesting in the New York 
 Zoological Park, which is situated within the 
 limits of New York City. Part of the Park is 
 wooded, while much space is given up to the col- 
 lections of birds and animals. Throughout the 
 year thousands of people crowd the walks and 
 penetrate to every portion of the grounds ; yet in 
 spite of this lack of seclusion no fewer than sixty- 
 one species build their nests here and successfully 
 rear their young. The list was made without 
 shooting a single bird and in each instance the 
 identification was absolute. This shows what a 
 little protection will accomplish, while many 
 places of equal area in the country which are har- 
 ried by boys and cats are tenanted by a bare 
 dozen species. 
 
 Let us see what a walk in late June, or espe- 
 cially in July, will show of these bold invaders of 
 our very city. Wild wood ducks frequently decoy 
 to the flocks of pinioned birds and sometimes mate 
 with some of them. One year a wild bird chose as 
 
 165 
 
166 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 its mate a little brown female, a pinioned bird, and 
 refused to desert her even when the brood of sum- 
 mer ducklings was being caught and pinioned. 
 Such devotion is rare indeed. 
 
 In the top of one of the most inaccessible trees 
 in the Park a great rough nest of sticks shows 
 where a pair of black-crowned night herons have 
 made their home for years, and from the pale 
 green eggs hatch the most awkward of nestling 
 herons, which squawk and grow to their prime, on 
 a diet of small fish. When they are able to fly 
 they pay frequent visits to their relations in the 
 great flying cage, perching on the top and gazing 
 with longing eyes at the abundant feasts of fish 
 which are daily brought by the keepers to their 
 charges. This duck and heron are the only ones 
 of their orders thus to honour the Park by nesting, 
 although a number of other species are not uncom- 
 mon during the season of migration. 
 
 Of the waders which in the spring and fall 
 teeter along the bank of the Bronx Eiver, only a 
 pair or two of spotted sandpipers remain through- 
 out the nesting period, content to lay their eggs 
 in some retired spot in the corner of a field, where 
 there is the least danger to them and to the fluffy 
 balls of long-legged down which later appear and 
 scurry about. The great horned owl and the red- 
 tailed hawk formerly nested in the park, but the 
 frequent noise of blasting and the building opera- 
 tions have driven them to more isolated places, 
 
BIRDS IN A CITY 167 
 
 and of their relatives there remain only the little 
 screech owls and the sparrow hawks. The latter 
 feed chiefly upon English sparrows and hence are 
 worthy of the most careful protection. 
 
 These birds should be encouraged to build near 
 our homes, and if not killed or driven away some- 
 times choose the eaves of our houses as their domi- 
 ciles and thus, by invading the very haunts of the 
 sparrows, they would speedily lessen their num- 
 bers. A brood of five young hawks was recently 
 taken from a nest under the eaves of a school- 
 house in this city. I immediately took this as a 
 text addressed to the pupils, and the principal 
 was surprised to learn that these birds were so 
 valuable. In the Park the sparrow hawks nest in 
 a hollow tree, as do the screech owls. 
 
 Other most valuable birds which nest in the 
 Park are the black-billed and yellow-billed 
 cuckoos, w r hose depredations among the hairy and 
 spiny caterpillars should arouse our gratitude. 
 For these insects are refused by almost all other 
 birds, and were it not for these slim, graceful crea- 
 tures they would increase to prodigious numbers. 
 Their two or three light blue eggs are always laid 
 on the frailest of frail platforms made of a few 
 sticks. The belted kingfisher bores into the bank 
 of the river and rears his family of six or eight in 
 the dark, ill-odoured chamber at the end. Young 
 cuckoos and kingfishers are the quaintest of young 
 birds. Their plumage does not come out a little 
 
168 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 at a time, as in other nestlings, but the sheaths 
 which surround the growing feathers remain until 
 they are an inch or more in length; then one day, 
 in the space of only an hour or so, the overlapping 
 armour of bluish tiles bursts and the plumage 
 assumes a normal appearance. 
 
 The little black-and-white downy and the flicker 
 are the two woodpeckers which make the Park 
 their home. Both nest in hollows bored out by 
 their strong beaks, but although full of splinters 
 and sawdust, such a habitation is far superior to 
 the sooty chimneys in which the young chimney 
 swifts break from their snow-white eggs and 
 twitter for food. How impatiently they must look 
 up at the blue sky, and one would think that they 
 must long for the time when they can spread their 
 sickle-shaped wings and dash about from dawn 
 to dark! Is it not wonderful that one of them 
 should live to grow up when we think of the frag- 
 ile little cup which is their home? — a mosaic of 
 delicate twigs held together only by the sticky 
 saliva of the parent birds. 
 
 A relation of theirs — though we should never 
 guess it — is sitting upon her tiny air castle high 
 up in an apple tree not far aw T ay, — a ruby-throated 
 hummingbird. If we take a peep into the nest 
 when the young hummingbirds are only partly 
 grown, we shall see that their bills are broad and 
 stubby, like those of the swifts. Their home, how- 
 ever, is indeed a different affair, — a pinch of 
 
BIRDS IN A CITY 1G9 
 
 plant-down tied together with cobwebs and stuc- 
 coed with lichens, like those which are growing all 
 about upon the tree. If we do not watch the fe- 
 male when she settles to her young or eggs we 
 may search in vain for this tiniest of homes, so 
 closely does it resemble an ordinary knot on a 
 branch. 
 
 The flycatchers are well represented in the Park, 
 there being no fewer than five species ; the least 
 flycatcher, wood pewee, phcebe, crested flycatcher, 
 and kingbird. The first two prefer the woods, the 
 phcebe generally selects a mossy rock or a bridge 
 beam, the fourth nests in a hollow tree and often 
 decorates its home with a snake-skin. The king- 
 bird builds an untidy nest in an apple tree. Our 
 American crow is, of course, a member of this 
 little community of birds, and that in spite of 
 persecution, for in the spring one or two are apt 
 to contract a taste for young ducklings and hence 
 have to be put out of the way. The fish crow, a 
 smaller cousin of the big black fellow, also nests 
 here, easily known by his shriller, higher caw. A 
 single pair of blue jays nest in the Park, but the 
 English starling occupies every box which is put 
 up and bids fair to be as great or a greater nui- 
 sance than the sparrow. It is a handsome bird and 
 a fine whistler, but when we remember how this 
 foreigner is slowly but surely elbowing our native 
 birds out of their rightful haunts, we find our- 
 selves losing sight of its beauties* The cowbird, 
 
170 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 of course, imposes her eggs upon many of the 
 smaller species of birds, while our beautiful pur- 
 ple grackle, meadow lark, red-winged blackbird, 
 and the Baltimore and orchard orioles rear their 
 young in safety. The cardinal, scarlet tanager, 
 indigo bunting, and rose-breasted grosbeak form 
 a quartet of which even a tropical land might well 
 be proud, and the two latter species have, in addi- 
 tion to brilliant plumage, very pleasing songs. 
 Such wealth of aesthetic characteristics are un- 
 usual in any one species, the wide-spread law of 
 compensation decreeing otherwise. More sombre 
 hued seed-eaters which live their lives in the Park 
 are townees, swamp, song, field, and chipping 
 sparrows. The bank and barn swallows skim over 
 field and pond all through the summer, gleaning 
 their insect harvest from the air, and building 
 their nests in the places from which they have 
 taken their names. The rare rough-winged swal- 
 low deigns to linger and nest in the Park as well 
 as do his more common brethren. 
 
 The dainty pensile nests which become visible 
 when the leaves fall in the autumn are swung by 
 four species of vireos, the white-eyed, red-eyed, 
 warbling, and yellow-throated. Of the interesting 
 and typically North American family of wood 
 warblers I have numbered no fewer than eight 
 which nest in the Park; these are the redstart, 
 the yellow- breasted chat, northern yellow- throat, 
 oven-bird, the yellow warbler, blue-winged, black- 
 
 ! 
 
 
BIRDS IN A CITY 171 
 
 and-white creeping warblers, and one other to be 
 mentioned later. 
 
 Injurious insects find their doom when the 
 young house and Carolina wrens are on the wing. 
 Catbirds and robins are among the most abundant 
 breeders, while chickadees and white-breasted 
 nuthatches are less often seen. The bluebird 
 haunts the hollow apple trees, and of the thrushes 
 proper the veery or Wilson's and the splendid 
 wood thrush sing to their mates on the nests 
 among the saplings. 
 
 The rarest of all the birds which I have found 
 nesting in the Park is a little yellow and green 
 warbler, with a black throat and sides of the face, 
 known as the Lawrence warbler. Only a few of 
 his kind have ever been seen, and strange to say 
 his mate was none other than a demure blue- 
 winged warbler. His nest was on the ground and 
 from it six young birds flew to safety and not to 
 museum drawers. 
 
NIGHT MUSIC OF THE SWAMP 
 
 TO many, a swamp or marsh Brings only the 
 very practical thought of whether it can he 
 readily drained. Let us rejoice, however, that 
 many marshes cannot he thus easily wiped out of 
 existence, and hence they remain as isolated hits 
 of primeval wilderness, hedged about by farms 
 and furrows. The water is the life-blood of the 
 marsh, — drain it, and reed and rush, bird and 
 batrachian, perish or disappear. The marsh, to 
 him who enters it in a receptive mood, holds, 
 besides mosquitoes and stagnation, — melody, the 
 mystery of unknown waters, and the sweetness of 
 Nature undisturbedly man. 
 
 The ideal marsh is as far as one can go from 
 civilisation. The depths of a wood holds its undis- 
 covered secrets; the mysterious call of the veery 
 lends a wildness that even to-day has not ceased to 
 pervade the old wood. There are spots overgrown 
 with fern and carpeted with velvety wet moss; 
 here also the skunk cabbage and cowslip grow 
 rank among the alders. Surely man cannot live 
 near this place — but the tinkle of a cowbell comes 
 faintly on the gentle stirring breeze — and our 
 illusion is dispelled, the charm is broken. 
 
 But even to-day, when we push the punt through 
 the reeds from the clear river into the narrow, 
 
 172 
 
NIGHT MUSIC OF THE SWAMP 173 
 
 tortuous channel of the marsh, we have left civil- 
 isation behind us. The great ranks of the cat- 
 tails shut out all view of the outside world ; the 
 distant sounds of civilisation serve only to accen- 
 tuate the isolation. It is the land of the Indian, 
 as it was before the strange white man, brought 
 from afar in great white-sailed ships, came to 
 usurp the land of the wondering natives. At any 
 moment we fancy that we may see an Indian canoe 
 silently round a bend in the channel. 
 
 The marsh has remained unchanged since the 
 days when the Mohican Indians speared fish there. 
 We are living in a bygone time. A little green 
 heron flies across the water. How wild he is; 
 nothing has tamed him. He also is the same now 
 as always. Pie does not nest in orchard or 
 meadow, but holds himself aloof, making no con- 
 cessions to man and the ever increasing spread of 
 his civilisation. He does not come to his doors 
 for food. He can find food for himself and in 
 abundance ; he asks only to be let alone. Nor does 
 he intrude himself. Occasionally we meet him 
 along our little meadow stream, but he makes no 
 advances. As we come suddenly upon him, how 
 indignant he seems at being disturbed in his 
 hunting. Like the Indian, he is jealous of his an- 
 cient domain and resents intrusion. He retires, 
 however, throwing back to us a cry of disdain. 
 Here in the marsh is the last stand of primitive 
 nature in the settled country; here is the last 
 
174 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 stronghold of the untamed The bulrushes rise 
 in ranks, Like the spears of a great army, sur- 
 
 mnding and guarding the colony of the marsh. 
 
 There seems to be a kinship between the voices 
 
 of the marsh dwellers. Most of them seem to have 
 a muddy, aquatic note. The boom of the frog 
 
 rands like some great stone dropped into the 
 water; the little marsh wren's song is the "babble 
 and tinkle of water running out of a silver flask." 
 
 The blackbird seems to be the one connecting 
 link between the highlands and the lowlands. 
 Seldom does one see other citizens of the marsh 
 in the upland. How glorious is the flight of a 
 great blue heron from one feeding-ground to 
 another! He does not tarry over the foreign ter- 
 ritory, nor does he hurry. With neck and head 
 furled close and legs straight out behind, he pur- 
 sues his course, swerving neither to the right nor 
 the left. 
 
 "Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As darkly painted on the crimson si 
 Thy figure floats along." 
 
 The blackbirds, however, are more neighbourly. 
 They even forage in the foreign territory, return- 
 ing at night to sleep. 
 
 In nesting time the red-wing is indeed a citizen 
 of the lowland. His voice is as distinctive of the 
 mar si i as is the croak of the frog, and from a 
 distance it is one of the first sounds to greet the 
 
NIGHT MUSIC OF THE SWAMP 175 
 
 ear. How beautiful is his clear whistle with its 
 liquid break ! Indeed one may say that he is the 
 most conspicuous singer of the marshlands. His 
 is not a sustained song, but the exuberant ex- 
 pression of a happy heart. 
 
 According to many writers the little marsh 
 wren is without song. No song ! As well say that 
 the farmer boy's whistling as he follows the 
 plough, or the sailor's song as he hoists the sail, 
 is not music ! All are the songs of the lowly, the 
 melody of those glad to be alive and out in the 
 free air. 
 
 When man goes into the marsh, the marsh re- 
 tires within itself, as a turtle 'retreats within his 
 shell. With the exception of a few blackbirds and 
 marsh wrens, babbling away the nest secret, and 
 an occasional frog's croak, all the inhabitants 
 have stealthily retired. The spotted turtle has 
 slid from the decayed log as the boat pushed 
 through the reeds. At our approach the heron 
 has flown and the little Virginia rail has scuttled 
 away among the reeds. 
 
 Remain perfectly quiet, however, and give the 
 marsh time to regain its composure. One by one 
 the tenants of the swamp will take up the trend 
 of their business where it was interrupted. 
 
 All about, the frogs rest on the green carpet of 
 the lily pads, basking in the sun. The little rail 
 again runs among the reeds, searching for food in 
 the form of small snails. The blackbirds and 
 
176 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 wrens, most domestic in character, go busily about 
 their borne business; the turtles again come up to 
 their positions, and a muskrat swims across the 
 channel. One hopes that the little colony of marsh 
 wren homes on stilts above the water, like the 
 
 cient lake dwellers of Tenochtitlan, may have 
 no enemies. But the habit of building dummy 
 ne.>ts is suggestive that the wee birds are pitting 
 their wits against the cunning of some enemy, — 
 and suspicion rests upon the serpent. 
 
 As evening approaches and the shadows from 
 the bordering wood point long lingers across the 
 marsh, the blackbirds straggle back from their 
 feeding-grounds and settle, clattering, among the 
 reeds. Their clamour dies gradually away and 
 night settles down upon the marsh. 
 
 All sounds have ceased save the booming of the 
 frogs, which but emphasises the loneliness of it 
 all. A distant w T histle of a locomotive dispels the 
 idea that all the world is wilderness. The firefly 
 lamps glow along the margin of the rushes. The 
 frogs are now in full chorus, the great bulls beat- 
 ing their tom-toms and the small fry filling in the 
 chinks with shriller cries. How remote the scene 
 and how melancholy the chorus! 
 
 To one mind there is a quality in the frogs' 
 serenade that strikes the chord of sadness, to 
 
NIGHT MUSIC OF THE SWAMP 177 
 
 another the chord of contentment, to still another 
 it is the chant of the savage, just as the hoot of 
 an owl or the bark of a fox brings vividly to mind 
 the wilderness. 
 
 Out of the night comes softly the croon of a 
 little screech owi — that cry almost as ancient as 
 the hills. It belongs with the soil beneath our 
 towns. It is the spirit of the past crying to us. 
 So the dirge of the frog is the cry of the spirit of 
 river and marshland. 
 
 Our robins and bluebirds are of the orchard 
 and the home of man, but who can claim neigh- 
 bourship to the bittern or the bullfrog? There is 
 nothing of civilisation in the hoarse croak of the 
 great blue heron. These are all barbarians and 
 their songs are of the untamed wilderness. 
 
 The moon rises over the hills. The mosquitoes 
 have become savage. The marsh has tolerated us 
 as long as it cares to, and we beat our retreat. 
 The night hawks swoop down and boom as they 
 pass overhead. One feels thankful that the mos- 
 quitoes are of some good in furnishing food to 
 so graceful a bird. 
 
 A water snake glides across the channel, leav- 
 ing a silver wake in the moonlight. The frogs 
 plunk into the water as we push past. A night 
 heron rises from the margin of the river and 
 slowly flops away. The bittern booms again as 
 we row down the peaceful river, and we leave the 
 marshland to its ancient and rightful owners. 
 
178 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 A ud the marsh is meshed with a million veins, 
 That like BS with rosy and silvery essences flow 
 In the ro^e and silver evening glow. 
 Farewell, my lord Sun! 
 The creeks overflow ; a thousand rivulets run 
 'Twixt the roois of the sod; the blades of the marsh grass stir; 
 Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr. 
 
 Sidney Laxier. 
 
THE COMING OF MAN 
 
 IP we betake ourselves to the heart of the deep- 
 est forests which are still left upon our north- 
 ern hills, and compare the bird life which we find 
 there with that in the woods and fields near our 
 homes, we shall at once notice a great difference. 
 Although the coming of mankind with his axe and 
 plough has driven many birds and animals far 
 away or actually exterminated them, there are 
 many others which have so thrived under the new 
 conditions that they are far more numerous than 
 when the tepees of the red men alone broke the 
 monotony of the forest. 
 
 We might walk all day in the primitive woods 
 and never see or hear a robin, while in an hour's 
 stroll about a village we can count scores. Let 
 us observe how some of these quick-witted feath- 
 ered beings have taken advantage of the way in 
 which man is altering the whole face of the land. 
 
 A pioneer comes to a spot in the virgin forest 
 which pleases him and proceeds at once to cut 
 down the trees in order to make a clearing. The 
 hermit thrush soothes his labour with its wonder- 
 ful song; the pileated woodpecker pounds its dis- 
 approval upon a near-by hollow tree ; the deer and 
 wolf take a last look out through the trees and 
 flee from the spot forever, A house and barn 
 
 179 
 
180 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 arise; fields become covered with waving grass 
 ami grain; a neglected patch of burnt forest be- 
 comes a tangle of blackberry and raspberry; an 
 orchard is set out. 
 
 When the migrating birds return, they are at- 
 tracted to this new scene. The decaying wood of 
 fallen trees is a paradise for ants, flies, and bee- 
 tles; offering to swallows, creepers, and flycatch- 
 ers feasts of abundance never dreamed of in the 
 primitive forests. Straightway, what must have 
 been a cave swallow becomes a barn swallow ; the 
 haunter of rock ledges changes to an eave swal- 
 low; the nest in the niche of the cliff is deserted 
 and phce.be becomes a bridgebird; cedarbirds are 
 renamed cherrybirds, and catbirds and other low- 
 nesting species find the blackberry patch safer 
 than the sweetbrier vine in the deep woods. The 
 swift leaves the lightning-struck hollow tree 
 where owl may harry or snake intrude, for the 
 chimney flue — sooty but impregnable. 
 
 When the great herds of ruminants disappear 
 from the western prairies, the buffalo birds with- 
 out hesitation become cowbirds, and when the 
 plough turns up the never-ending store of grubs 
 and worms the birds lose all fear and follow at 
 the very heels of the plough-boy: grackles, vesper 
 sparrows, and larks in the east, and flocks of gulls 
 farther to the westward. 
 
 The crow surpasses all in the keen wit which it 
 pits against human invasion and enmity. The 
 
THE COMING OF MAN 181 
 
 farmer declares war (all unjustly) against these 
 sable natives, but they jeer at his gun and traps 
 and scarecrows, and thrive on, killing the noxious 
 insects, devouring the diseased corn-sprouts, — 
 doing great good to the farmer in spite of himself. 
 The story of these sudden adaptations to con- 
 ditions which the birds could never have foreseen 
 is a story of great interest and it has been but half 
 told. Climb the nearest hill or mountain or even a 
 tall tree and look out upon the face of the country. 
 Keep in mind you are a bird and not a human, — 
 you neither know nor understand anything of 
 the reason for these strange sights, — these bipeds 
 who cover the earth with great square structures, 
 who scratch the ground for miles, who later gnaw 
 the vegetation with great shining teeth, and who 
 are only too often on the look out to bring sudden 
 death if one but show a feather. What would you 
 do? 
 
THE SILENT LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS 
 
 WHAT a great difference there is in bril- 
 liancy of colouring between birds and the 
 furry creatures. How the plumage of a cardinal, 
 or indigo bunting, or hummingbird glows in the 
 sunlight, and reflects to our eyes the most intense 
 vermilion or indigo or an iridescence of the whole 
 gamut of colour. On the other hand, how som- 
 brely clad are the deer, the rabbits, and the mice; 
 gray and brown and white being the usual hue of 
 their fur. 
 
 This difference is by no means accidental, but 
 has for its cause a deep significance,— all-impor- 
 tant to the life of the bird or mammal. Scientists 
 have long known of it, and if we unlock it from 
 its hard sheathing of technical terms, we shall 
 find it as simple and as easy to understand as it 
 is interesting. When we once hold the key, it will 
 seem as if scales had fallen from our eyes, and 
 when we take our walks abroad through the fields 
 and woods, when we visit a zoological park, or 
 even see the animals in a circus, we shall feel as 
 though a new world ^ T ere opened to us. 
 
 Xo post offices, or even addresses, exist for 
 birds and mammals; when the children of the 
 desert or the jungle are lost, no detective or 
 policeman hastens to find them, no telephone or 
 
 182 
 
THE SILENT LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS 183 
 
 telegraph aids in the search. Yet, without any 
 of these accessories, the wild creatures have mar- 
 vellous systems of communication. The five 
 senses (and perhaps a mysterious sixth, at which 
 we can only guess) are the telephones and the 
 police, the automatic sentinels and alarms of our 
 wild kindred. Most inferior are our own abilities 
 in using eyes, nose, and ears, when compared 
 with the same functions in birds and animals. 
 
 Eyes and noses are important keys to the bright 
 colours of birds and comparative sombreness of 
 hairy-coated creatures. Take a dog and an oriole 
 as good examples of the two extremes. When a 
 dog has lost his master, he first looks about ; then 
 he strains his eyes with the intense look of a near- 
 sighted person, and after a few moments of this 
 he usually yelps with disappointment, drops his 
 nose to the ground, and with unfailing accuracy 
 follows the track of his master. When the fresh- 
 ness of the trail tells him that he is near its end 
 he again resorts to his eyes, and is soon near 
 enough to recognise the face he seeks. A fox 
 when running before a hound may double back, 
 and make a close reconnaissance near his trail, 
 sometimes passing in full view without the 
 hound's seeing him or stopping in following out 
 the full curve of the trail, so completely does the 
 wonderful power of smell absorb the entire atten- 
 tion of the dog. 
 
 Let us now turn to the oriole. As we might 
 
181 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 infer, the nostrils incased in horn render tne sense 
 of mil !1 of but slight account. It is hard to tell 
 how much a bird can distinguish in this way — 
 probably only the odour of food near at hand. 
 However, when we examine the eye of our bird, 
 we e a sense organ of a very high order. 
 Bright, intelligent, full-circled, of great size com- 
 pared to the bulk of the skull, protected by three 
 complete eyelids; we realise that this must play 
 an important part in the life of the bird. There 
 are, of course, many exceptions to such a general- 
 isation as this. For instance, many species of 
 sparrows are dull-coloured. We must remember 
 that the voice — the calls and songs of birds — is 
 developed to a high degree, and in many instances 
 renders bright colouring needless in attracting 
 a mate or in locating a young bird. 
 
 As we have seen, the sense of smell is very 
 highly developed among four-footed animals, but 
 to make this efficient there must be something for 
 it to act upon ; and in this connection we find some 
 interesting facts of which, outside of scientific 
 books, little has been written. On the entire body, 
 birds have only one gland — the oil gland above the 
 base of the tail, which supplies an unctuous dress- 
 ing for the feathers. Birds, therefore, have not 
 the power of perspiring, but compensate for this 
 by very rapid breathing. On the contrary, four- 
 footed animals have glands on many portions of 
 
THE SILENT LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS 185 
 
 the body. Nature is seldom contented with the 
 one primary function which an organ or tissue 
 performs, but adjusts and adapts it to others in 
 many ingenious ways. Hence, when an animal 
 perspires, the pores of the skin allow the con- 
 tained moisture to escape and moisten the sur- 
 face of the body ; but in addition to this, in many 
 animals, collections of these pores in the shape 
 of large glands secrete various odours which serve 
 important uses. In the skunk such a gland is a 
 practically perfect protection against attacks 
 from his enemies. He never hurries and seems 
 not to know what fear is — a single wave of his 
 conspicuous danger signal is sufficient to clear 
 his path. 
 
 In certain species of the rhinoceros there are 
 large glands in the foot. These animals live 
 among grass and herbage which they brush 
 against as they walk, and thus " blaze' ' a plain 
 trail for the mate or young to follow. There are 
 few if any animals which care to face a rhinoc- 
 eros, so the scent is incidentally useful to other 
 creatures as a warning. 
 
 It is believed that the hard callosities on the 
 legs of horses are the remains of glands which 
 were once upon a time useful to their owners ; and 
 it is said that if a paring from one of these hard, 
 horny structures be held to the nose of a horse, he 
 will follow it about, hinting, perhaps, that in 
 
18G THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 former days the scent from the gland was an in- 
 active guide which kept members of the herd 
 together. 
 
 "Civet," which is obtained from the civet cat, 
 and "musk," from the queer little hornless musk 
 deer, are secretions of glands. It has been sug- 
 gested that the defenceless musk deer escapes 
 many of its enemies by the similarity of its secre- 
 tion to the musky odour of crocodiles. In many 
 animals which live together in herds, such as the 
 antelope and deer, and which have neither bright 
 colours nor far-reaching calls to aid straying 
 members to regain the flock, there are large and 
 active scent glands. The next time you see a 
 live antelope in a zoological park, or even a 
 stuffed specimen, look closely at the head, and be- 
 tween the eye and the nostril a large opening will 
 be seen on each side, which, in the living animal, 
 closes now and then, a flap of skin shutting it 
 tight. 
 
 Among jugs the fierce peccary is a very social 
 animal, going in large packs; and on the back of 
 each of these creatures is found a large gland 
 from which a clear watery fluid is secreted. Dogs 
 and wolves also have their odour-secreting glands 
 on the back, and the "wolf -pack' ' is proverbial. 
 
 The gland of the elephant is on the temple, and 
 secretes only when the animal is in a dangerous 
 mood, a hint, therefore, of opposite significance 
 to that of the herding animals, as this says, "Let 
 
THE SILENT LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS 187 
 
 me alone! stay away!" Certain low species of 
 monkeys, the lemurs, have a remarkable bare 
 patch on the forearm, which covers a gland serv- 
 ing some use. 
 
 If we marvel at the keenness of scent among 
 animals, how incredible seems the similar sense 
 in insects — similar in function, however different 
 the medium of structure may be. Think of the 
 scent from a female moth, so delicate that we 
 cannot distinguish it, attracting a male of the 
 same species from a distance of a mile or more. 
 Entomologists sometimes confine a live female 
 moth or other insect in a small wire cage and 
 hang it outdoors in the evening, and in a short 
 time reap a harvest of gay-winged suitors which 
 often come in scores, instinctively following up 
 the trail of the delicate, diffused odour. It is 
 surely true that the greatest wonders are not 
 always associated with mere bulk. 
 
INSECT MUSIC 
 
 AM< >NG insects, sounds are produced in many 
 ways, and for various reasons. A species 
 of ant which makes its nest on the under side of 
 leaves produces a noise by striking the leaf with 
 its head in a series of spasmodic taps, and an- 
 other ant is also very interesting as regards 
 
 - sound-producing habit. " Individuals of this 
 species are sometimes spread over a surface of 
 two square yards, many out of sight of the others ; 
 yet the tapping is set up at the same moment, con- 
 tinued exactly the same space of time, and 
 stopped at the same instant. After the lapse of a 
 few seconds, all recommence simultaneously. The 
 interval is always approximately of the same 
 duration, and each ant does not beat synchro- 
 nously with every other ant, but only like those in 
 Hie same group, so the independent tappings play 
 a sort of tune, each group alike in time, but the 
 tapping of the whole mass beginning and ending 
 at the same instant. This is doubtless a means of 
 communication." 
 
 The organ of hearing in insects is still to be dis- 
 covered in many forms, but in katydids it is 
 situated on the middle of the fore-legs; in butter- 
 flics on the sides of the thorax, while the tip of 
 the horns or antenna 1 of many insects is con- 
 
 188 
 
INSECT MUSIC 189 
 
 sidered to be the seat of this function. In all it 
 is little more than a cavity, over which a skin is 
 stretched like a drum-head, which thus reacts to 
 the vibration. This seems to be very often 
 " tuned," as it were, to the sounds made by the 
 particular species in which it is found. A cricket 
 w T ill at times be unaffected by any sound, however 
 loud, while at the slightest "screek" or chirp 
 of its own species, no matter how faint, it will 
 start its own little tune in all excitement. 
 
 The songs of the cicadas are noted all over the 
 world. Darwin heard them while anchored half a 
 mile off the South American coast, and a giant 
 species of that country is said to produce a noise 
 as loud as the whistle of a locomotive. Only the 
 males sing, the females being dumb, thus giving 
 rise to the well-known Grecian couplet: 
 
 "Happy the cicadas' lives, 
 For tliey all have voiceless wives." 
 
 Anyone who has entered a wood where thou- 
 sands of the seventeen-year cicadas were hatch- 
 ing has never forgotten it. A threshing machine, 
 or a gigantic frog chorus, is a fair comparison, 
 and when a branch loaded with these insects is 
 shaken, the sound rises to a shrill screech or 
 scream. This noise is supposed — in fact is de- 
 finitely known — to attract the female insect, and 
 although there may be in it some tender notes 
 which we fail to distinguish, yet let us hope that 
 
190 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 the absence of any highly organised auditory 
 organ may result in reducing the effect of a steam- 
 engine whistle to an agreeable whisper! It is 
 thought that the vibrations are felt rather than 
 heard, in the sense that we use the word "hear"; 
 if one has ever had a cicada zizz in one's hand, 
 the electrical shocks which seem to go up the arm 
 help the belief in this idea. To many of us the 
 song of the cicada — softened by distance — will 
 ever be pleasant on account of its associations. 
 When one attempts to picture a hot August day 
 in a hay-field or along a dusty road, the drowsy 
 zee-ing of this insect, growing louder and more 
 accelerated and then as gradually dying away, 
 is a focus for the mind's eye, around which the 
 other details instantly group themselves. 
 
 The apparatus for producing this sound is one 
 of the most complex in all the animal kingdom. 
 In brief, it consists of two external doors, capable 
 of being partly opened, and three internal mem- 
 branes, to one of which is attached a vibrating 
 muscle, which, put in motion, sets all the others 
 vibrating in unison. 
 
 We attach a great deal of importance to the 
 fact of being educated to the appreciation of the 
 highest class of music. We applaud our Paderew- 
 ski, and year after year are awed and delighted 
 with wonderful operatic music, yet seldom is the 
 limitation of human perception of musical sounds 
 considered. 
 
INSECT MUSIC 191 
 
 If we wish to appreciate the limits within which 
 the human ear is capable of distinguishing sounds, 
 we should sit down in a meadow, some hot mid- 
 summer day, and listen to the subdued running 
 murmur of the myriads of insects. Many are 
 very distinct to our ears and we have little trouble 
 in tracing them to their source. Such are crickets 
 and grasshoppers, which fiddle and rasp their 
 roughened hind legs against their wings. Some 
 butterflies have the power of making a sharp 
 crackling sound by means of hooks on the wings. 
 The katydid, so annoying to some in its persistent 
 ditty, so full of reminiscences to others of us, is 
 a large, green, fiddling grasshopper. 
 
 Another sound which is typical of summer is 
 the hum of insects' wings, sometimes, as near a 
 beehive, rising to a subdued roar. The higher, 
 thinner song of the mosquito's wings is unfortu- 
 nately familiar to us, and we must remember that 
 the varying tone of the hum of each species may 
 be of the greatest importance to it as a means of 
 recognition. Many beetles have a projecting horn 
 on the under side of the body which they can 
 snap against another projection, and by this 
 means call their lady-loves, literally "playing the 
 bones' ' in their minstrel serenade. 
 
 Although we can readily distinguish the sounds 
 which these insects produce, yet there are hun- 
 dreds of small creatures, and even large ones, 
 which are provided with organs of hearing, but 
 
192 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 -whoso language is too fine for our coarse percep- 
 tions. The vibrations — chirps, hums, and clicks — 
 can he recorded on delicate instruments, hut, just 
 as there are shades and colours at both ends of 
 the spectrum which our eyes cannot perceive, so 
 there are tones running we know not how far be- 
 yond the scale limits which affect our ears. Some 
 creatures utter noises so shrill, so sharp, that it 
 pains our ears to listen to them, and these are 
 probably on the borderland of our sound-world. 
 
 Pipe, little minstrels of the waning year, 
 
 In gentle concert pipe! 
 Pipe the warm noons; the mellow harvest near; 
 
 The apples dropping ripe; 
 
 The sweet sad hush on Nature's gladness laid; 
 
 The sounds through silence heard! 
 Pipe tenderly the passing of the year. 
 
 Harriet McEwek Kimball. 
 
 I love to hear thine earnest voice, 
 
 Wherever thou art hid, 
 Thou testy little dogmatist, 
 
 Thou pretty Katydid! 
 Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,-^ 
 
 Old gentlefolks are they, — 
 Thou say'st an undisputed thing 
 
 In such a solemn way. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
AUGUST 
 
THE GRAY DAYS OF BIRDS 
 
 THE temptation is great, if we love flowers, to 
 pass over the seed time, when stalks are 
 dried and leaves are shrivelled, no matter how 
 beautiful may be the adaptation for scattering or 
 preserving the seed or how wonderful the protec- 
 tive coats guarding against cold or wet. Or if 
 insects attract us by their many varied interests, 
 we are more enthusiastic over the glories of the 
 full-winged imago than the less conspicuous, 
 though no less interesting, eggs and chrysalides 
 hidden away in crevices throughout the long 
 winter. 
 
 Thus there seems always a time w T hen we 
 hesitate to talk or write of our favourite theme, 
 especially if this be some class of life on the earth, 
 because, perchance, it is not at its best. 
 
 Even birds have their gray days, when in the 
 autumn the glory of their plumage and song has 
 diminished. At this time few of their human 
 admirers intrude upon them and the birds them- 
 selves are only too glad to escape observation. 
 Collectors of skins disdain to ply their trade, as 
 the ragged, pin-feathery coats of the birds now 
 make sorry-looking specimens. But we can find 
 something of interest in birddom, even in this 
 interim. 
 
 195 
 
196 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 Nesting is over, say you, when you start out on 
 your tramps in late summer or early autumn; but 
 
 do not be too sure. The gray purse of the oriole 
 has begun to ravel at the edges and the haircloth 
 cup of the chipping sparrow is already wind- 
 distorted, but we shall find some housekeeping 
 just begun. 
 
 The goldfinch is one of these late nesters. Long 
 after his northern cousins, the pine siskins and 
 snowflakes, have laid their eggs and reared their 
 young, the goldfinch begins to focus the aerial 
 loops of his flight about some selected spot and 
 to collect beakfuls of thistledown. And here, per- 
 haps, we have his fastidious reason for delaying. 
 Thistles seed with the goldenrod, and not until 
 this fleecy substance is gray and floating does he 
 consider that a suitable nesting material is avail- 
 able. 
 
 "When the young birds are fully fledged one 
 would think the goldfinch a polygamist, as we see 
 him in shining yellow and black, leading his 
 family quintet, all sombre hued, his patient wife 
 being to our eyes indistinguishable from the 
 youngsters. 
 
 But in the case of most of the birds the cares 
 of nesting are past, and the woods abound with 
 full-sized but awkward young birds, blundering 
 through their first month of insect-hunting and fly- 
 itching, tumbling into the pools from which they 
 try to drink, and shrieking with the very joy of 
 
THE GRAY DAYS OF BIRDS 197 
 
 life, when it would be far safer for that very life 
 if they remained quiet. 
 
 It is a delightful period this, a transition as 
 interesting as evanescent. This is the time when 
 instinct begins to be aided by intelligence, when 
 every hour accumulates fact upon fact, all helping 
 to co-ordinate action and desire on the part of the 
 young birds. 
 
 No hint of migration has yet passed over the 
 land, and the quiet of summer still reigns; but 
 even as we say this a confused chuckling is heard ; 
 this rises into a clatter of harsh voices, and a 
 small flock of blackbirds — two or three families — 
 pass overhead. The die is cast ! No matter how 
 hot may be the sunshine during succeeding days, 
 or how contented and thoughtless of the future the 
 birds may appear, there is a something which has 
 gone, and which can never return until another 
 cycle of seasons has passed. 
 
 During this transition time some of our friends 
 are hardly recognisable; we may surprise the 
 scarlet tanager in a plumage which seems more 
 befitting a nonpareil bunting, — a regular "Jos- 
 eph's coat." The red of his head is half replaced 
 with a ring of green, and perhaps a splash of 
 the latter decorates the middle of his back. When 
 he flies the light shows through his wings in two 
 long narrow slits, where a pair of primaries are 
 lacking. It is a wise provision of Nature which 
 regulates the moulting sequence of his flight 
 
19S THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 feathers, so that only a pair shall fall out at one 
 time, and the adjoining pair not before the new 
 feathers are large and strong. A sparrow or 
 oriole hopping along the ground with angular, 
 half -naked wings would be indeed a pitiful sight, 
 except to marauding weasels and cats, who would 
 find meals in abundance on every hand. 
 
 Let us take our way to some pond or lake, thick 
 with duckweed and beloved of wild fowl, and we 
 shall find a different state of affairs. We surprise 
 a group of mallard ducks, which rush out from the 
 overhanging bank and dive for safety among the 
 sheltering green arrowheads. But their out- 
 spread wings are a mockery, the flight feathers 
 showing as a mere fringe of quill sticks, which 
 beat the water helplessly. 
 
 Another thing we notice. Where are the re- 
 splendent drakes? Have they flown elsewhere 
 and left their mates to endure the dangers of 
 moulting alone? Let us come here a week later 
 and see what a transformation is taking place. 
 When most birds moult it is for a period of 
 several months, but these ducks have a partial 
 fall moult which is of the greatest importance to 
 them. When the wing feathers begin to loosen 
 in their sockets an unfailing instinct leads these 
 birds to seek out some secluded pond, where they 
 patiently await the moult. The sprouting, blood- 
 filled quills force out the old feathers, and the 
 
THE GRAY DAYS OF BIRDS 199 
 
 bird becomes a thing of the water, to swim and to 
 dive, with no more power of flight than its pond 
 companions, the turtles. 
 
 If, however, the drake should retain his irides- 
 cent head and snowy collar, some sharp-eyed 
 danger would spy out his helplessness and death 
 would swoop upon him. So for a time his bright 
 feathers fall out and a quick makeshift disguise 
 closes over him — the reed-hued browns and grays 
 of his mate — and for a time the pair are hardly 
 distinguishable. With the return of his power of 
 flight comes renewed brightness, and the wild 
 drake emerges from his seclusion on strong- 
 feathered, whistling wings. All this we should 
 miss, did we not seek him out at this season; 
 otherwise the few weeks would pass and we should 
 notice no change from summer to winter plumage, 
 and attribute his temporary absence to a whim 
 of wandering on distant feeding grounds. 
 
 Another glance at our goldfinch shows a curious 
 sight. Mottled with spots and streaks, yellow 
 alternating with greenish, he is an anomaly in- 
 deed, and in fact all of our birds which undergo 
 a radical colour change will show remarkable com- 
 binations during the actual process. 
 
 It is during the gray days that the secret to a 
 great problem may be looked for— the why of 
 migration. 
 
 A young duck of the year, whose wings are at 
 
200 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 last strong and fit, waves them in ecstasy, vibrat- 
 ing from side to side and end to end of his natal 
 pond. Then one day we follow his upward glances 
 to where a thin, black arrow is throbbing south- 
 ward, so high in the blue sky that the individual 
 ducks are merged into a single long thread. The 
 young bird, calling again and again, spurns the 
 water with feet and wings, finally rising in a 
 slowly ascending arc. Somewhere, miles to the 
 southward, another segment approaches — touches 
 — merges. 
 
 But what of our smaller birds? "When the gray 
 days begin to chill we may watch them hopping 
 among the branches all day in their search for 
 insects — a keener search now that so many of the 
 more delicate flies and bugs have fallen chilled to 
 the earth. Toward night the birds become more 
 restless, feed less, wander aimlessly about, but, 
 as we can tell by their chirps, remain near us until 
 night has settled down. Then the irresistible 
 maelstrom of migration instinct draws them up- 
 ward, — upward, — climbing on fluttering wings, a 
 mile or even higher into the thin air, and in com- 
 pany with thousands and tens of thousands they 
 drift southward, sending vague notes down, but 
 themselves invisible to us, save when now and 
 then a tiny black mote floats across the face of 
 the moon — an army of feathered mites, passing 
 from tundra and spruce to bayou and palm. 
 
 In the morning, instead of the half-hearted 
 
THE GRAY DAYS OF BIRDS 201 
 
 warble of an insect eater, there sounds in our ears, 
 like the ring of skates on ice, the metallic, whip- 
 like chirp of a snowbird, confident of his winter's 
 seed feast. 
 
LIVES OF THE LANTERN BEARERS 
 
 TO all wild creatures fire is an unknown and 
 hated thing, although it is often so fascinat- 
 ing to them that they will stand transfixed gazing 
 at its mysterious light, while a hunter, unnoticed, 
 creeps up behind and shoots them. 
 
 In the depth of the sea, where the sun is power- 
 less to send a single ray of light and warmth, 
 there live many strange beings, fish and worms, 
 which, by means of phosphorescent spots and 
 patches, may light their own way. Of these 
 strange sea folk we know nothing except from 
 the fragments which are brought to the surface 
 by the dredge; but over our fields and hedges, 
 throughout the summer nights, we may see and 
 study most interesting examples of creatures 
 which produce their own light. Heedless of 
 whether the moon shines brightly, or whether an 
 overcast sky cloaks the blackest of nights, the 
 fireflies blaze their sinuous path through life. 
 These little yellow and black beetles, which illu- 
 mine our way like a cloud of tiny meteors, have 
 indeed a wonderful power, for the light which 
 they produce within their own bodies is a cold 
 glow, totally different from any fire of human 
 agency. 
 
 In some species there seems to be a most roman- 
 
 202 
 
LIVES OF THE LANTERN BEARERS 203 
 
 tic reason for their brilliance. Down among the 
 grass blades are lowly, wingless creatures — the 
 female fireflies, which, as twilight falls, leave their 
 earthen burrows in the turf and, crawling slowly 
 to the summit of some plant, they display the tiny 
 lanterns which Nature has kindled within their 
 bodies. 
 
 Far overhead shoot the strong-winged males, 
 searching for their minute insect food, weaving 
 glowing lines over all the shadowy landscape, 
 and apparently heedless of all beneath them. Yet 
 when the dim little beacon, hung out with the 
 hopefulness of instinct upon the grass blade, is 
 seen, all else is forgotten and the beetle descends 
 to pay court to the poor, worm-like creature, so 
 unlike him in appearance, but whose little illumi- 
 nation is her badge of nobility. The gallant suitor 
 is as devoted as if the object of his affection were 
 clad in all the gay colours of a butterfly ; and he 
 is fortunate if, when he has reached the signal 
 among the grasses, he does not find a half-dozen 
 firefly rivals before him. 
 
 "When insects seek their mates by day, their 
 characteristic colours or forms may be confused 
 with surrounding objects ; or those which by night 
 are able in that marvellous way to follow the 
 faintest scent up wind may have difficulties when 
 cross currents of air are encountered; but the 
 female firefly, waiting patiently upon her lowly 
 leaf, has unequalled opportunity for winning her 
 
204 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 mate, for there is nothing to compare with or 
 eclipse her flame. Except — I wonder if ever a 
 firefly has hastened downward toward the strange 
 glow which we sometimes see in the heart of de- 
 cayed wood, — mistaking a patch of fox-fire for 
 the love-light of which he was in search ! 
 
 In other species, including the common one 
 about our homes, the lady lightning-bug is more 
 fortunate in possessing wings and is able to fly 
 abroad like her mate. 
 
 Although this phosphorescence has been mic- 
 roscopically examined, it is but slightly under- 
 stood. We know, however, that it is a wonderful 
 process of combustion, — by which a bright light is 
 produced without heat, smoke, or indeed fuel, 
 except that provided by the life processes in the 
 tiny body of the insect. 
 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 
A STARFISH AND A DAISY 
 
 DAY after day the forms of horses, dogs, 
 birds, and other creatures pass before our 
 eyes. We look at them and call them by the 
 names which we have given them, and yet — we 
 see them not. That is to say, we say that they 
 have a head, a tail; they run or fly; they are of 
 one colour beneath, another above, but beyond 
 these bare meaningless facts most of us never go. 
 Let us think of the meaning of form. Take, 
 for example, a flower — a daisy. Now, if we could 
 imagine such an impossible thing as that a daisy 
 blossom should leave its place of growth, creep 
 down the stem and go wandering off through the 
 grass, soon something would probably happen to 
 its shape. It would perhaps get in the habit of 
 creeping with some one ray always in front, and 
 the friction of the grass stems on either side 
 would soon wear and fray the ends of the side 
 rays, while those behind might grow longer and 
 longer. If we further suppose that this strange 
 daisy flower did not like the water, the rays in 
 front might be of service in warning it to turn 
 aside. When their tips touched the surface and 
 were wet by the water of some pool, the ambula- 
 tory blossom would draw back and start out in a 
 new direction. Thus a theoretical head (with the 
 
 205 
 
206 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 beginnings of the organs of sense), and a long- 
 drawn-out tail, would have their origin. 
 
 Such a remarkable simile is not as fanciful as 
 it might at first appear; for although we know 
 of no blossom which so sets at naught the seden- 
 tary life of the vegetable kingdom, yet among cer- 
 tain of the animals which live their lives beneath 
 the waves of the sea a very similar thing occurs. 
 
 Many miles inland, even on high mountains, we 
 may sometimes see thousands of little joints, or 
 bead-like forms, imbedded in great rocky cliffs. 
 They have been given the name of St. Cuthbert's 
 beads. Occasionally in the vicinity of these fos- 
 sils — for such they are — are found impressions 
 of a graceful, flower-like head, with many deli- 
 cately divided petals, fixed forever in the hard re- 
 lief of stone. The name of stone lilies has been 
 applied to them. The beads were once strung to- 
 gether in the form of a long stem, and at the top 
 the strangely beautiful animal-lily nodded its 
 head in the currents of some deep sea, which in 
 the long ago of the earth's age covered the land — 
 millions of years before the first man or beast 
 or bird drew breath. 
 
 It was for a long time supposed that these won- 
 derful creatures were extinct, but dredges have 
 brought up from the dark depths of the sea actual 
 living stone lilies, or crinoids, this being their real 
 name. Few of us w T ill probably ever have an op- 
 portunity of studying a crinoid alive, although in 
 
A STARFISH AND A DAISY 207 
 
 our museums we may see them preserved in glass 
 jars. That, however, detracts nothing from the 
 marvel of their history and relationship. They 
 send root-like organs deep into the mud, where 
 they coil about some shell and there cling fast. 
 Then the stem grows tall and slender, and upon 
 the summit blooms or is developed the animal- 
 flower. Its nourishment is not drawn from the 
 roots and the air, as is that of the daisy, but is 
 provided by the tiny creatures which swim to its 
 tentacles, or are borne thither by the ocean cur- 
 rents. Some of these crinoids, as if impatient of 
 their plant-like life and asserting their animal 
 kinship, at last tear themselves free from their 
 stem and float off, turn over, and thereafter live 
 happily upon the bottom of the sea, roaming 
 where they will, creeping slowly along and ful- 
 filling the destiny of our imaginary daisy. 
 
 And here a comparison comes suddenly to mind. 
 How like to a many-rayed starfish is our creeping 
 crinoid ! Few of us, unless we had studies about 
 these creatures, could distinguish between a cri- 
 noid and one of the frisky little dancing stars, or 
 serpent stars, which are so common in the rocky 
 caves along our coast. TJiis relationship is no less 
 real than apparent. The hard-skinned "five 
 finger,' ' or common starfish, which we may pick 
 up on any beach, while it never grew upon a stem, 
 yet still preserves the radial symmetry of its 
 stalked ancestors. Pick up your starfish, carry 
 
208 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 it to the nearest field, and pluck a daisy close to 
 the head. How interesting the comparison be- 
 comes, now that the knowledge of its meaning is 
 plain. Anything which grows fast upon a single 
 immovable stem tends to grow equally in all direc- 
 tions. We need not stop here, for we may include 
 sea anemones and corals, those most marvellously 
 coloured flowers of the sea, which grow upon a 
 short, thick stalk and send out their tentacles 
 equally in all directions. And many of the jelly- 
 fish which throb along close beneath the surface 
 swells were in their youth each a section of a pile 
 of saucer-like individuals, which were fastened 
 by a single stalk to some shell or piece of coral. 
 We will remember that it was suggested that 
 the theoretical daisy would soon alter its shape 
 after it entered upon active life. This is plainly 
 seen in the starfish, although at first glance the 
 creature seems as radially symmetrical as a 
 wheel. But at one side of the body, between two 
 of the arms, is a tiny perforated plate, serving 
 to strain the water which enters the body, and 
 thus the circular tendency is broken, and a begin- 
 ning made toward right and left handedness. In 
 certain sea-urchins, which are really starfishes 
 with the gaps between the arms filled up, the body 
 is elongated, and thus the head and tail conditions 
 of all animals higher in the sca'e of life are rep- 
 resented. 
 
THE DBEAM OF THE YELLOW-THROAT 
 
 MANY of us look with longing to the days 
 of Columbus; we chafe at the thought of 
 no more continents to discover; no unknown seas 
 to encompass. But at our very doors is an "un- 
 discovered bourne," from which, while the travel- 
 ler invariably returns, yet he will have penetrated 
 but slightly into its mysteries. This unexplored 
 region is night. 
 
 When the dusk settles down and the creatures 
 of sunlight seek their rest, a new realm of life 
 awakens into being. The flaring colours and loud 
 bustle of the day fade and are lost, and in their 
 place come soft, gray tones and silence. The 
 scarlet tanager seeks some hidden perch and soon 
 from the same tree slips a silent, ghostly owl ; the 
 ruby of the hummingbird dies out as the gaudy 
 flowers of day close their petals, and the gray 
 wraiths of sphinx moths appear and sip nectar 
 from the spectral moonflowers. 
 
 With feet shod with silence, let us creep near a 
 dense tangle of sweetbrier and woodbine late some 
 summer evening and listen to the sounds of the 
 night-folk. How few there are that our ears can 
 
 209 
 
210 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 analyse ! We huddle close to the ground and shut 
 our eyes. Then little by little we open them and 
 set our senses of sight and hearing at keenest 
 pitch. Even so, how handicapped are we com- 
 pared to the wild creatures. A tiny voice becomes 
 audible, then dies away, — entering for a moment 
 the narrow range of our coarse hearing, — and 
 finishing its message of invitation or challenge in 
 vibrations too fine for our ears. 
 
 AVere we crouched by a dense yew hedge, bor- 
 dering an English country lane, a nightingale 
 might delight us, — a melody of day, softened, 
 adapted, to the night. If the air about us was 
 heavy with the scent of orange blossoms of some 
 covert in our own southland, the glorious harmony 
 of a mocking-bird might surge through the gloom, 
 — assuaging the ear as do the blossoms another 
 sense. 
 
 But sitting still in our own home tangle let us 
 listen, — listen. Our eyes have slipped the scales 
 of our listless civilised life and pierce the dark- 
 ness with the acuteness of our primeval fore- 
 fathers ; our ears tingle and strain. 
 
 A slender tongue of sound arises from the bush 
 before us. Again and again it comes, muffled but 
 increasing in volume. A tiny ball of feathers is 
 perched in the centre of the tangle, with beak 
 
THE DREAM OF THE YELLOW-THROAT 211 
 
 hidden in the deep, soft plumage, but ever and 
 anon the little body throbs and the song falls 
 gently on the silence of the night : "I beseech you ! 
 I beseech you! I beseech you!" A Maryland 
 yellow-throat is asleep and singing in its dreams. 
 As we look and listen, a shadowless something 
 hovers overhead, and, looking upward, we see a 
 gray screech owl silently hanging on beating 
 wings. His sharp ears have caught the muffled 
 sound; his eyes search out the tangle, but the 
 yellow-throat is out of reach. The little hunter 
 drifts away into the blackness, the song ends and 
 the sharp squeak of a mouse startles us. We rise 
 slowly from our cramped position and quietly 
 leave the mysteries of the night. 
 
SEPTEMBER 
 
THE PASSING OF THE FLOCKS 
 
 IT is September. August — the month of gray 
 days for birds — has passed. The last piu- 
 feather of the new winter plumage has burst its 
 sheath, and is sleek and glistening from its thor- 
 ough oiling with waterproof dressing, which the 
 birds squeeze out with their bills from a special 
 gland, and which they rub into every part of their 
 plumage. The youngsters, now grown as large as 
 their parents, have become proficient in fly-catch- 
 ing or berry-picking, as the case may be. Hence- 
 forth they forage for themselves, although if we 
 watch carefully we may still see a parent's love 
 prompting it to give a berry to its big offspring 
 (indistinguishable save for this attention), who 
 greedily devours it without so much as a wing 
 flutter of thanks. 
 
 Two courses are open to the young birds who 
 have been so fortunate as to escape the dangers 
 of nestlinghood. They may unite in neighbourly 
 flocks with others of their kind, as do the black- 
 birds of the marshes; or they may wander off by 
 themselves, never going very far from their sum- 
 mer home, but perching alone each night in the 
 thick foliage of some sheltering bush. 
 
 How wonderfully the little fellow adapts him- 
 self to the radical and sudden change in his life ! 
 
 215 
 
21G THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 Before this, his world has been a warm, soft- 
 lined nest, with ever anxious parents to shelter 
 him from rain and cold, or to stand with half- 
 spread wings between him and the burning rays 
 of the sun. He has only to open his mouth and 
 call for food and a supply of the choicest morsels 
 appears and is shoved far down his throat. If 
 danger threatens, both parents are ready to fight 
 to the last, or even willing to give their lives to 
 protect him. Little wonder is it that the young 
 birds are loth to leave; we can sympathise heart- 
 ily with the last weaker brother, whose feet cling 
 convulsively to the nest, who begs piteously for 
 "just one more caterpillar V* But the mother 
 bird is inexorable and stands a little way out of 
 reach with the juiciest morsel she can find. Once 
 out, the young bird never returns. Even if we 
 catch the little chap before he finishes his first 
 flight and replace him, the magic spell of home is 
 broken, and he is out again the instant our hand 
 frees him. 
 
 What a change the first night brings ! Yet with 
 unfailing instinct he squats on some twig, fluffs up 
 his feathers, tucks his wee head behind his wing, 
 and sleeps the sleep of his first adult birdhood 
 as soundly as if this position of rest had been 
 familiar to him since he broke through the shell. 
 
 "We admire his aptitude for learning; how 
 quickly his wings gain strength and skill; how 
 soon he manages to catch his own dinner. Bu£ 
 
THE PASSING OF THE FLOCKS 217 
 
 how all this pales before the accomplishment of a 
 young brush turkey or moundbuilder of the antip- 
 odes. Hatched six or eight feet under ground, 
 merely by the heat of decaying vegetation, no 
 fond parents minister to his wants. Not only 
 must he escape from the shell in the pressure 
 and darkness of his underground prison (how we 
 cannot tell), but he is then compelled to dig 
 through six feet of leaves and mould before he 
 reaches the sunlight. He finds himself well feath- 
 ered, and at once spreads his small but perfect 
 wings and goes humming off to seek his living 
 alone and unattended. 
 
 It is September — the month of restlessness for 
 the birds. Weeks ago the first migrants started 
 on their southward journey, the more delicate 
 insect-eaters going first, before the goldfinches 
 and other late nesters had half finished house- 
 keeping. The northern warblers drift past us 
 southward — the magnolia, blackburnian, Cana- 
 dian fly-catching, and others, bringing memories 
 of spruce and balsam to those of us who have 
 lived with them in the forests of the north. 
 
 "It's getting too cold for the little fellows,' ' 
 says the wiseacre, who sees you watching the 
 smaller birds as they pass southward. Is it, 
 though? What of the tiny winter wren which 
 spends the zero weather with us? His coat is 
 no warmer than those birds which have gone to 
 the far tropics. And what of the flocks of birds 
 
218 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 which we occasionally come across in mid-winter, 
 of species which generally migrate to Brazil? It 
 is not the cold which deprives us of our summer 
 friends, or at least the great majority of them; 
 it is the decrease in food supply. Insects dis- 
 appear, and only those birds which feed on seeds 
 and buds, or are able to glean an insect diet from 
 the crevices of fence and tree-trunk, can abide. 
 
 This is the month to climb out on the roof of 
 your house, lie on your back and listen. He is a 
 stolid person indeed who is not moved by the 
 chirps and twitters which come down through the 
 darkness. There is no better way to show what 
 a wonderful power sound has upon our memories. 
 There sounds a robin's note, and spring seems 
 here again; through the night comes a white- 
 throat's chirp, and we see again the fog-dimmed 
 fields of a Nova Scotian upland; a sandpiper 
 "peets" and the scene in our mind's eye as in- 
 stantly changes, and so on. What a revelation 
 if we could see as in daylight for a few moments ! 
 The sky would be pitted with thousands and 
 thousands of birds flying from a few hundred 
 yards to as high as one or two miles above the 
 earth. 
 
 It only adds to the interest of this phenomenon 
 when w T e turn to our learned books on birds for 
 an explanation of the origin of migration, the 
 whence and whither of the long journeys by day 
 and night, and find — no certain answer ! This is 
 
THE PASSING OF THE FLOCKS 219 
 
 one of the greatest of the many mysteries of the 
 natural world, of which little is known, although 
 much is guessed, and the bright September nights 
 may reveal to us — we know not what undiscovered 
 facts. 
 
 I see my way as birds their trackless way. 
 I shall arrive; what time, what circuit first, 
 I ask not; but unless God sends his hail 
 Of blinding fire-balls, sleet or driving snow, 
 In sometime, his good time, I shall arrive; 
 He guides me and the bird. In his good time. 
 
 Robert Beowning. 
 
GHOSTS OF THE EARTH 
 
 WE may know the name of every tree near 
 our home ; we may recognise each blossom 
 in the field, every weed by the wayside; yet we 
 should be astonished to be told that there are 
 hundreds of plants — many of them of exquisite 
 beauty — which we have overlooked in very sight 
 of our doorstep. What of the green film which 
 is drawn over every moist tree-trunk or shaded 
 wall, or of the emerald film which coats the water 
 of the pond's edge? Or the gray lichens painting 
 the rocks and logs, toning down the shingles ; the 
 toadstools which, like pale vegetable ghosts, 
 spring up in a night from the turf ; or the sombre 
 puff balls which seem dead from their birth ? 
 
 The moulds which cover bread and cheese with 
 a delicate tracery of filaments and raise on high 
 their tiny balls of spores are as worthy to be 
 called a plant growth as are the great oaks which 
 shade our houses. The rusts and mildews and 
 blights which destroy our fruit all have their 
 beauty of growth and fruition when we examine 
 them through a lens, and the yeast by which flour 
 and water is made to rise into the porous, spongy 
 dough is just as truly a plant as is the geranium 
 blossoming at the kitchen window. 
 
 If we wonder at the fierce struggle for existence 
 
 020 
 
GHOSTS OF THE EARTH 221 
 
 which allows only a few out of the many seeds of 
 a maple or thistle to germinate and grow up, how 
 can we realise the obstacles with which these lowly 
 plants have to contend? A weed in the garden 
 may produce from one to ten thousand seeds, and 
 one of our rarest ferns scatters in a single season 
 over fifty millions spores; while from the larger 
 puff-balls come clouds of unnumbered millions of 
 spores, blowing to the ends of the earth; yet we 
 may search for days without finding one full- 
 grown individual. 
 
 All the assemblage of mushrooms and toad- 
 stools, — although the most deadly may flaunt 
 bright hues of scarlet and yellow, — yet lack the 
 healthy green of ordinary plants. This is due to 
 the fact that they have become brown parasites or 
 scavengers, and instead of transmuting heat and 
 moisture and the salts of the earth into tissue by 
 means of the pleasant-hued chlorophyll, these 
 sylvan ghosts subsist upon the sap of roots or 
 the tissues of decaying wood. Emancipated from 
 the normal life of the higher plants, even flowers 
 have been denied them and their fruit is but a 
 cloud of brown dust,— each mote a simple cell. 
 
 But what of the delicate Indian pipe which 
 gleams out from the darkest aisles of the forest? 
 If we lift up its hanging head we will find a per- 
 fect flower, and its secret is discovered. Traitor 
 to its kind, it has dropped from the ranks of the 
 laurels, the heather, and the jolly little winter- 
 
222 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 greens to the colourless life of a parasite, — hob- 
 nobbing with clammy toadstools and slimy lichens. 
 Its common names are all appropriate, — ice-plant, 
 ghost-flower, corpse-plant. 
 
 Nevertheless it is a delicately beautiful crea- 
 tion, and we have no right to apply our human 
 standards of ethics to these children of the wild, 
 whose only chance of life is to seize every opportu- 
 nity, — to make use of each hint of easier existence. 
 
 We have excellent descriptions and classifica- 
 tions of mushrooms and toadstools, but of the 
 actual life of these organisms, of the conditions 
 of their growth, little is known. Some of the 
 most hideous are delicious to our palate, some 
 of the most beautiful are certain death. The 
 splendid red and yellow amanita, which lights 
 up a dark spot in the woods like some flowering 
 orchid, is a veritable trap of death. Though 
 human beings have learned the fatal lesson and 
 leave it alone, the poor flies in the woods are 
 ever deceived by its brightness, or odour, and a 
 circle of their bodies upon the ground shows the 
 result of their ignorance. 
 
MUSKRATS 
 
 10NG before man began to inherit the earth, 
 J giant beavers built their dams and swam in 
 the streams of long ago. For ages these creatures 
 have been extinct. Our forefathers, during his- 
 torical times, found smaller beavers abundant, 
 and with such zeal did they trap them that this 
 modern race is now well-nigh vanished. Nothing 
 is left to us but the humble muskrat, — which in 
 name and in facile adaptation to the encroach- 
 ments of civilization has little in common with his 
 more noble predecessor. Yet in many ways his 
 habits of life bring to mind the beaver. 
 
 Let us make the most of our heritage and watch 
 at the edge of a stream some evening in late 
 fall. If the muskrats have half finished their 
 mound of sticks and mud, which is to serve them 
 for a winter home, we will be sure to see some of 
 them at work. Two lines of ripples furrow the 
 surface outward from the farther bank, and a 
 small dark form clambers upon the pile of rub- 
 bish. Suddenly a spat! sounds at our very feet, 
 and a muskrat dives headlong into the water, 
 followed by the one on the ground. Another spat I 
 and splash comes from farther down the stream, 
 and so the danger signal of the muskrat clan is 
 
 223 
 
224, THE LOG Or THE SUN 
 
 passed along, — a single flap upon the water with 
 the Hat of the tail. 
 
 If we wait silent and patient, the work will be 
 taken up anew, and in the pale moonlight the 
 little labourers will fashion their house, lining 
 the upper chamber with soft grasses, and shaping 
 the steep passageway which will lead to the ever- 
 unfrozen stream-bed. Either here or in the snug 
 tunnel nest deep in the bank the young muskrats 
 are born, and here they are weaned upon tooth- 
 some mussels and succulent lily roots. 
 
 Safe from all save mink and owl and trap, these 
 sturdy muskrats spend the summer in and about 
 the streams; and when winter shuts down hard 
 and fast, they live lives more interesting than any 
 of our other animals. The ground freezes their 
 tunnels into tubes of iron, — the ice seals the 
 surface, past all gnawing out; and yet, amid the 
 quietly flowing water, where snow and wind never 
 penetrate, these warm-blooded, air-breathing 
 muskrats live the winter through, with only the 
 trout and eels for company. Their food is the 
 bark and pith of certain plants ; their air is what 
 leaks through the house of sticks, or what may 
 collect at the melting-place of ice and shore. 
 
 Stretched full length on the smooth ice, let us 
 look through into that strange nether world, 
 
MUSKRATS 225 
 
 where the stress of storm is unknown. Far be- 
 neath us sinuous black forms undulate through 
 the water, — from tunnel to house and back again. 
 As we gaze down through the crystalline mas-, 
 occasional fractures play pranks with the objects 
 below. The animate shapes seem to take unto 
 themselves greater bulk; their tails broaden, their 
 bodies become many times longer. For a moment 
 the illusion is perfect ; thousands of centuries have 
 slipped back, and we are looking at the giant 
 beavers of old. 
 
 Let us give thanks that even the humble musk- 
 rat still holds his own. A century or two hence 
 and posterity may look with wonder at his stuffed 
 skin in a museum ! 
 
NATURE'S GEOMETRICIANS 
 
 SPIDERS form good subjects for a rainy-day 
 study, and two hours spent in a neglected 
 garret watching these clever little beings will 
 often arouse such interest that we shall be glad 
 to devote many days of sunshine to observing 
 those species which hunt and build, and live their 
 lives in the open fields. There is no insect in the 
 world with more than six legs, and as a spider 
 has eight he is therefore thrown out of the com- 
 pany of butterflies, beetles, and wasps and finds 
 himself in a strange assemblage. Even to his 
 nearest relatives he bears little resemblance, for 
 when we realise that scorpions and horseshoe 
 crabs must call him cousin, we perceive that his is 
 indeed an aberrant bough on the tree of creation. 
 
 Leaving behind the old-fashioned horseshoe 
 crabs to feel their way slowly over the bottom of 
 the sea, the spiders have won for themselves on 
 land a place high above the mites, ticks, and 
 daddy-long-legs, and in their high development 
 and intricate powers of resource they yield not 
 even to the ants and bees. 
 
 Nature has provided spiders with an organ 
 filled always with liquid which, on being exposed 
 to the air, hardens, and can be drawn out into 
 the slender threads we know as cobweb. The silk- 
 
 226 
 
NATURE'S GEOMETRICIANS 227 
 
 worm encases its body with a mile or more of 
 gleaming silk, but there its usefulness is ended 
 as far as the silkworm is concerned. But spiders 
 have found a hundred uses for their cordage, 
 some of w T hich are startlingly similar to human 
 inventions. 
 
 Those spiders which burrow in the earth hang 
 their tunnels with silken tapestries impervious 
 to wet, which at the same time act as lining to the 
 tube. Then the entrance may be a trap-door of 
 soil and silk, hinged with strong silken threads; 
 or in the turret spiders which are found in our 
 fields there is reared a tiny tower of leaves or 
 twigs bound together with silk. Who of us has 
 not teased the inmate by pushing a bent straw 
 into his stronghold and awaiting his furious on- 
 slaught upon the innocent stalk ! 
 
 A list of all the uses of cobwebs would take 
 more space than we can spare; but of these the 
 most familiar is the snare set for unwary flies, — 
 the wonderfully ingenious webs which sparkle 
 With dew among the grasses or stretch from bush 
 to bush. The framework is of strong webbing and 
 upon this is closely woven the sticky spiral which 
 is so elastic, so ethereal, and yet strong enough to 
 entangle a good-sized insect. How knowing seems 
 the little worker, as when, the web and his den of 
 concealment being completed, he spins a strong 
 cable from the centre of the web to the entrance 
 of his watch-tower. Then, when a trembling of 
 
S THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 his aerial spans warns him of a capture, how 
 eagerly lie seizes his master cable and jerks away 
 on it, thus vibrating the whole structure and 
 making more certain the confusion of his victim. 
 
 What is more interesting than to see a great 
 
 How garden-spider hanging head downward in 
 the centre of his web, when we approach too 
 closely, instead of deserting his snare, set it vi- 
 brating back and forth so rapidly that he becomes 
 a mere blur ; a more certain method of escaping 
 the onslaught of a bird than if he ran to the shel- 
 ter of a leaf. 
 
 Those spiders which leap upon their prey in- 
 stead of setting snares for it have still a use for 
 their threads of life, throwing out a cable as they 
 leap, to break their fall if they miss their foothold. 
 What a strange use of the cobweb is that of the 
 little flying spiders ! Up they run to the top of 
 a post, elevate their abdomens and run out several 
 threads which lengthen and lengthen until the 
 breeze catches them and away go the wingless 
 aeronauts for yards or for miles as fortune and 
 wind and weather may dictate! We wonder if 
 they can cut loose or pull in their balloon cables 
 at will. 
 
 Many species of spiders spin a case for holding 
 their eggs, and some carry this about with them 
 until the young are hatched. 
 
 A most fascinating tale would unfold could we 
 discover all the uses of cobweb when the spiders 
 
NATURE'S GEOMETRICIANS 229 
 
 themselves are through with it. Certain it is that 
 our ruby-throated hummingbird robs many webs 
 to fasten together the plant down, wood pulp, 
 and lichens which compose her dainty nest. 
 
 Search the pond and you will find another mem- 
 ber of the spider family swimming about at ease 
 beneath the surface, thoroughly aquatic in habits, 
 but breathing a bubble of air which he carries 
 about with him. When his supply is low he swims 
 to a submarine castle of silk, so air-tight that he 
 can keep it filled with a large bubble of air, upon 
 which he draws from time to time. 
 
 And so we might go on enumerating almost end- 
 less uses for the web which is Nature's gift to 
 these little waifs, who ages ago left the sea and 
 have won a place for themselves in the sunshine 
 among the butterflies and flowers. 
 
 In the balsam-perfumed shade of our northern 
 forests we may sometimes find growing in abund- 
 ance the tiny white dwarf cornel, or bunch-berry, 
 as its later cluster of scarlet fruit makes the more 
 appropriate name. These miniature dogwood 
 blossoms (or imitation blossoms, as the white di- 
 visions are not real petals) are very conspicuous 
 against the dark moss, and many insects seem to 
 seek them out and to find it worth while to visit 
 them. If we look very carefully we may find that 
 
230 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 this discovery is not original with us, for a little 
 creature has long ago found out the fondness of 
 bees and other insects for these flowers and has 
 put his knowledge to good use. 
 
 One day I saw what I thought was a swelling 
 on one part of the flower, but a closer look showed 
 it was a living spider. Here was protective 
 colouring carried to a wonderful degree. The 
 body of the spider was white and glistening, like 
 the texture of the white flower on which he 
 rested. On his abdomen were two pink, oblong 
 spots of the same tint and shape as the pinkened 
 tips of the false petals. Only by an accident could 
 he be discovered by a bird, and when I focussed 
 my camera, I feared that the total lack of contrast 
 would make the little creature all but invisible. 
 
 Confident with the instinct handed down 
 through many generations, the spider trusted im- 
 plicitly to his colour for safety and never moved, 
 though I placed the lens so close that it threw a 
 life-sized image on the ground-glass. When all 
 was ready, and before I had pressed the bulb, 
 the thought came to me whether this wonderful 
 resemblance should be attributed to the need of 
 escaping from insectivorous birds, or to the in- 
 creased facility with which the spider would be 
 able to catch its prey. At the very instant of mak- 
 ing the exposure, before I could will the stopping 
 of the movement of my fingers, if I had so wished, 
 my question was answered. A small, iridescent, 
 
NATURE'S GEOMETRICIANS 231 
 
 green bee flew down, like a spark of living light, 
 upon the flower, and, quick as thought, was caught 
 in the jaws of the spider. Six of his eight legs 
 were not brought into use, but were held far back 
 out of the way. 
 
 Here, on my lens, I had a little tragedy of the 
 forest preserved for all time. 
 
 There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; 
 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night ; 
 The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
 
 Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
OCTOBER 
 
AUTUMN HUNTING WITH A FIELD GLASS 
 
 ONE of the most uncertain of months is Octo- 
 ber, and most difficult for the beginner in 
 bird study. If we are just learning to enjoy the 
 life of wood and field, we will find hard tangles 
 to unravel among the birds of this month. Many 
 of the smaller species which passed us on their 
 northward journey last spring are now returning 
 and will, perhaps, tarry a week or more before 
 starting on the next nocturnal stage of their pas- 
 sage tropicward. Many are almost unrecognis- 
 able in their new winter plumage. Male scarlet 
 tanagers are now green tanagers, goldfinches are 
 olive finches, while instead of the beautiful black, 
 white, and cream dress which made so easy the 
 identification of the meadow bobolinks in the 
 spring, search will now be rewarded only by somo 
 plump, overgrown sparrows — reedbirds — which 
 are really bobolinks in disguise. 
 
 Orchard orioles and rose-breasted grosbeaks 
 come and are welcomed, but the multitude of 
 female birds of these species which appear may 
 astonish one, until he discovers that the young 
 birds, both male and female, are very similar to 
 their mother in colour. We have no difficulty in 
 distinguishing between adult bay-breasted and 
 black poll warblers, but he is indeed a keen ob- 
 
 235 
 
286 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 server who can point out which is which when the 
 young birds of the year pass. 
 
 October is apt to be a month of extremes. One 
 day the woods are filled with scores of birds, and 
 on the next hardly one will be seen. Often a sin- 
 gle species or family will predominate, and one 
 will remember "thrush days'' or " woodpecker 
 days." Yellow-bellied sapsuckcrs cross the path, 
 llickers call and hammer in every grove, while in 
 the orchards, and along the old worm-eaten fences, 
 glimpses of red, white, and black show where red- 
 headed woodpeckers are looping from trunk to 
 post. When we listen to the warble of bluebirds, 
 watch the mock courtship of the high -holders, and 
 discover the fall violets under leaves and burrs, 
 for an instant a feeling of spring rushes over us ; 
 but the yellow leaves blow against our face, the 
 wind sighs through the cedars, and we realise that 
 the black hand of the frost will soon end the brave 
 efforts of the wild pansies. 
 
 The thrushes, ranking in some ways at the head 
 of all our birds, drift through the woods, brown 
 and silent as the leaves around them. Splendid 
 opportunities they give us to test our powers of 
 woodcraft. A thrush passes like a streak of 
 brown light and perches on a tree some distance 
 away. We creep from tree to tree, darting nearer 
 when his head is turned. At last we think we are 
 within range, and raise our w T eapon. No, a leaf 
 is in the way, and the dancing spots of sunligh: 
 
AUTUMN HUNTING 237 
 
 make our aim uncertain. We move a little closer 
 and again take aim, and this time he cannot escape 
 ns. Carefully our double-barrelled binoculars 
 cover him, and we get what powder and lead could 
 never give us— the quick glance of the hazel eye, 
 the trembling, half-raised feathers on his head, 
 and a long look at the beautifully rounded form 
 perched on the twig, which a wanton shot would 
 destroy forever. The rich rufous colouring of 
 the tail proclaims him a singer of singers — a her- 
 mit thrush. We must be on the watch these days 
 for the beautiful wood thrush, the lesser spotted 
 veery, the well named olive-back and the rarer 
 gray-cheeked thrush. We may look in vain among 
 the thrushes in our bird books for the golden- 
 crowned and water thrush, for these walkers of 
 the woods are thrushes only in appearance, and 
 belong to the family of warblers. The long-tailed 
 brown thrashers, lovers of the undergrowth, are 
 still more thrush-like in look, but in our classifica- 
 tions they hold the position of giant cousins to the 
 wrens. Even the finches contribute a mock thrush 
 to our list, the big, spotted-breasted fox sparrow 
 but he rarely comes in number before mid October 
 or November. Of course we all know that our 
 robin is a true thrush, young robins having their 
 breasts thickly spotted with black, while even 
 the old birds retain a few spots and streaks on 
 the throat. 
 
 If we search behind the screen of leaves and 
 
238 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 mass around us we may discover many tragedies. 
 One fall I picked up a dead olive-backed thrush 
 in the Zoological Park. There were no external 
 signs of violence, but I found that the food canal 
 was pretty well rilled with blood. The next day 
 still another bird was found in the same condi- 
 tion, and the day after two more. Within a week 
 I noted in my journal eight of these thrushes, all 
 young birds of the year, and all with the same 
 symptoms of disorder. I could only surmise that 
 some poisonous substance, some kind of berry, 
 perhaps some attractive but deadly exotic from 
 the Botanical Gardens, had tempted the inexper- 
 ienced birds and caused their deaths. 
 
 As we walk through the October woods a covey 
 of ruffed grouse springs up before us, overhead 
 a flock of robins dashes by, and the birds scatter 
 to feed among the wild grapes. The short round 
 wings of the grouse whirr noisily, while the quick 
 wing beats of the robins make little sound. Both 
 are suited to their uses. The robin may travel 
 league upon league to the south, while the grouse 
 will not go far except to find new bud or berry 
 pastures. His wings, as we have noticed before, 
 are fitted rather for sudden emergencies, to bound 
 up before the teeth of the fox close upon him, to 
 dodge into close cover when the nose of the hound 
 almost touches his trembling body. When he 
 scrambled out of his shell last May he at once 
 
AUTUMN HUNTING 239 
 
 began to run about and to try his tiny wings, and 
 little by little lie taught himself to fly. But in the 
 efforts he got many a tumble and broke or lost 
 many a feather. Nature, however, has foreseen 
 this, and to her grouse children she gives several 
 changes of wing feathers to practise with, before 
 the last strong winter quills come in. 
 
 How different it is with the robin. Naked and 
 helpless he comes from his blue shell, and only 
 one set of wing quills falls to his share, so it be- 
 hooves him to be careful indeed of these. He 
 remains in the nest until they are strong enough 
 to bear him up, and his first attempts are care- 
 fully supervised by his anxious parents. And so 
 the glimpse we had in the October woods of the 
 two pair of wings held more of interest than we 
 at first thought. 
 
 In many parts of the country, about October 
 fifteenth the crows begin to flock back and forth 
 to and from their winter roosts. In some years it 
 is the twelfth, or again the seventeenth, but the 
 constancy of the mean date is remarkable. Many 
 of our winter visitants have already slipped into 
 our fields and woods and taken the places of some 
 of the earlier southern migrants; but the daily 
 passing of the birds which delay their journey 
 until fairly pinched by the lack of food at the 
 first frosts extends well into November. It is 
 not until the foliage on the trees and bushes be- 
 
1210 
 
 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 comes threadbare and the last migrants have 
 flown, that our northern visitors begin to take a 
 prominent place in our avifauna. 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! 
 Close bosom friend of the maturing sun; 
 
 • •••••# 
 
 Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? 
 
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft -dying day, 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
 Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 
 
 Or sinking as the light wind livas or dies; 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
 Hedge-crickets sing, and now witti treble soft 
 The red-breast whistles from a garden-eroft, 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
 John EIeats. 
 
A WOODCHUCK AND A GEEBE 
 
 N r fact comes to mind which is not more im- 
 pressed upon us by the valuable aid of 
 comparisons, and Nature is ever offering antith- 
 eses. At this season we are generally given a 
 brief glimpse — the last for the year — of two crea- 
 tures, one a mammal, the other a bird, which are 
 as unlike in their activities as any two living crea- 
 tures could well be. 
 
 What a type of lazy contentment is the wood- 
 chuck, as throughout the hot summer days he lies 
 on his warm earthen hillock at the entrance of his 
 burrow. His fat body seems almost to flow down 
 the slope, and when he waddles around for a 
 nibble of clover it is with such an effort that we 
 feel sure he would prefer a comfortable slow 
 starvation, were it not for the unpleasant feelings 
 involved in such a proceeding. 
 
 As far as I know there are but two things which 
 can rouse a woodchuck to strenuous activity; 
 when a dog is in pursuit he can make his stumpy 
 feet fairly twinkle as he flies for his burrow, and 
 when a fox or a man is digging him out, he can 
 literally worm his way through the ground, fre- 
 quently escaping by means of his wonderful 
 digging power. But when September or October 
 days bring the first chill, he gives one last yawn 
 
 241 
 
242 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 upon the world and stows himself away at the 
 farthest end of his tunnel, there to sleep away 
 the winter. Little more does he know of the snow r s 
 and blizzards than the bird which has flown to the 
 tropics. Even storing up fruits or roots is too 
 great an effort for the indolent woodchuck, and in 
 his hibernation stupor he draws only upon the fat 
 which his lethargic summer life has accumulated 
 within his skin. 
 
 As we might expect from a liver of such a sloth- 
 ful life, the family traits of the woodchuck are far 
 from admirable and there is said to be little affec- 
 tion shown by the mother w r oodchuck toward her 
 young. The poor little fellows are pushed out of 
 the burrow and driven away to shift for them- 
 selves as soon as possible. Many of them must 
 come to grief from hawks and foxes. Closely 
 related to the squirrels, these large marmots (for 
 they are first cousins to the prairie dogs) are as 
 unlike them in activity as they are in choice of a 
 haunt. 
 
 What a contrast to all this is the trim feathered 
 form which w T e may see on the mill pond some 
 clear morning. Alert and wary, the grebe pad- 
 dles slowly along, watchful of every movement. 
 If we approach too closely, it may settle little by 
 little, like a submarine opening its water compart- 
 ments, until nothing is visible except the head with 
 its sharp beak. Another step and the bird has 
 vanished, swallowed up by the lake, and the 
 
A WOODCHUCK AND A GREBE 243 
 
 chances are a hundred to one against our dis- 
 covering the motionless neck and the tiny eye 
 which rises again among the water weeds. 
 
 This little grebe comes of a splendid line of 
 ancestors, some of which were even more spe- 
 cialised for an aquatic life. These paid the price 
 of existence along lines too narrow and vanished 
 from the earth. The grebe, however, has so far 
 stuck to a life which bids fair to allow his race 
 safety for many generations, but he is perilously 
 near the limit. Every fall he migrates far south- 
 ward, leaving his northern lakes, but if the water 
 upon which he floats should suddenly dry up, he 
 would be almost as helpless as the gasping fish; 
 for his wings are too weak to lift him from the 
 ground. He must needs have a long take-off, a 
 flying start, aided by vigorous paddling along the 
 surface of the water, before he can rise into the 
 air. 
 
 Millions of years ago there lived birds built on 
 the general grebe plan and who doubtless were 
 derived from the same original stock, but which 
 lived in the great seas of that time. Far from 
 being able to migrate, every external trace of 
 wing was gone and these great creatures, almost 
 as large as a man and with sharp teetli in their 
 beaks, must have hitched themselves like seals 
 along the edge of the beach, and perhaps laid their 
 eggs on the pebbles as do the terns to-day. 
 
 The grebe, denied the power to rise easily and 
 
241 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 even to run about on land without considerable 
 effort, is, however, splendidly adapted to its water 
 life, and the rapidity of its motions places it near 
 the head of the higher active creatures, — with the 
 woodchuck near the opposite extreme. 
 
THE VOICE OF ANIMALS 
 
 THKOUGHOUT the depths of the sea, silence, 
 as well as absolute darkness, prevails. The 
 sun penetrates only a short distance below the 
 surface, at most a few hundred feet, and all dis- 
 turbance from storms ceases far above that depth 
 "Where the pressure is a ton or more to the square 
 inch, it is very evident that no sound vibration 
 can exist. Near the surface it is otherwise. The 
 majority of fishes have no lungs and of course no 
 -vocal chords, but certain species, such as the drum- 
 fish, are able to distend special sacs with gas or 
 air, or in other ways to produce sounds. One 
 variety succeeds in producing a number of sounds 
 by gritting the teeth, and when the male fish is 
 attempting to charm the female by dashing round 
 her, spreading his fins to display his brilliant 
 colours, this gritting of the teeth holds a promi- 
 nent place in the performance, although whether 
 the fair finny one makes her choice because she 
 prefers a high-toned grit instead of a lower one 
 can only be imagined! But vibrations, whether 
 of sound or of water pressure, are easily carried 
 near the surface, and fishes are provided with 
 organs to receive and record them. One class of 
 such organs has little in common with ears, as we 
 speak of them ? - they are merely points on the head 
 
 245 
 
246 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 and body which are susceptible to the watery 
 vibrations. These points are minute cavities, sur- 
 rounded with tiny cilia or hairs, which connect 
 with the ends of the nerves. 
 
 The ears of the frogs and all higher animals 
 are, like the tongue-bone and the lower jaw, 
 derived originally from portions of gills, which 
 the aquatic ancestors of living animals used to 
 draw the oxygen from the water. This is one of 
 the most wonderful and interesting changes which 
 the study of evolution has unfolded to our 
 knowledge. 
 
 The disproportionate voices are produced by 
 means of an extra amount of skin on the throat, 
 which is distensible and acts as a drum to increase 
 the volume of sound. In certain bullfrogs which 
 grow to be as large as the head of a man, the bel- 
 lowing power is deafening and is audible for miles. 
 In Chile a small species of frog, measuring only 
 about an inch in length, has two internal vocal 
 sacs which are put to a unique use. Where these 
 frogs live, water is very scarce and the polliwogs 
 have no chance to live and develop in pools, as is 
 ordinarily the case. So when the eggs are laid, 
 they are immediately taken by the male frog and 
 placed in these capacious sacs, which serve as 
 nurseries for them all through their hatching and 
 growing period of life. Although there is no wa- 
 ter in these chambers, yet their gills grow out and 
 are reabsorbed, just as is the case in ordinary 
 
THE VOICE OF ANIMALS 847 
 
 tadpoles. When their legs are fully developed, 
 they clamber up to their father's broad mouth 
 and get their first glimpse of the great world from 
 his lower lip. When fifteen partly developed 
 polliwogs are found in the pouches of one little 
 frog, he looks as if he had gorged himself to burst- 
 ing with tadpoles. To such curious uses may vocal 
 organs be put. 
 
 Turtles are voiceless, except at the period of 
 laying eggs, when they acquire a voice, which even 
 in the largest is very tiny and piping, like some 
 very small insect rather than a two-hundred- 
 pound tortoise. Some of the lizards utter shrill, 
 insect-like squeaks. 
 
 A species of gecko, a small, brilliantly coloured 
 lizard, has the back of its tail armed with plates. 
 These it has a habit of rubbing together, and by 
 this means it produces a shrill, chirruping sound, 
 which actually attracts crickets and grasshoppers 
 toward the noise, so that they fall easy prey to 
 this reptilian trapper. So in colour, sound, mo- 
 tion, and many other ways, animals act and react 
 upon each other, a useful and necessary habit 
 being perverted by an enemy, so that the death of 
 the creature results. Yet it would never be claimed 
 that the lizard thought out this mimicking. It 
 probably found that certain actions resulted in the 
 approach of good dinners, and in its offspring this 
 action might be partly instinctive, and each gen- 
 eration would perpetuate it. If it had been an 
 
248 
 
 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 intentional act, other nearly related species of 
 lizards would imitate it, as soon as they perceived 
 the success which attended it. 
 
 That many animals have a kind of language is 
 nowadays admitted to be a truism, but this is more 
 evident among mammals and birds, and, review- 
 ing the classes of the former, w T e find a more or 
 less defined ascending complexity and increased 
 number of varying sounds as w r e pass from the 
 lower forms — kangaroos and moles — to the higher 
 herb-and-flesh-eaters, and particularly monkeys. 
 
 Squeaks and grunts constitute the vocabulary, 
 if w 7 e dignify it by that name, of the mammals. 
 The sloths, those curious animals whose entire 
 life is spent clinging to the underside of branches, 
 on whose leaves they feed, may be said almost to 
 be voiceless, so seldom do they give utterance to 
 the nameless wail which constitutes their only 
 utterance. Even w T hen being torn to pieces by an 
 enemy, they offer no resistance and emit no sound, 
 but fold their claws around their body and sub- 
 mit to the inevitable as silently and as stoically 
 as did ever an ancient Spartan. 
 
 Great fear of death will often cause an animal 
 to utter sounds which are different from those 
 produced under any other conditions. When an 
 elephant is angry or excited, his trumpeting is 
 terribly loud and shrill; but when a mother ele- 
 phant is "talking" to her child, while the same 
 sonorous, metallic quality is present, yet it is 
 
THE VOICE OF ANIMALS 249 
 
 wonderfully softened and modulated. A horse is 
 a good example of what the fear of death will do. 
 The ordinary neigh of a horse is very familiar, 
 but in battle when mortally wounded, or having 
 lost its master and being terribly frightened, a 
 horse will scream, and those who have heard it, 
 say it is more awful than the cries of pain of a 
 human being. 
 
 Deer and elk often astonish one by the peculiar 
 sounds which they produce. An elk can bellow 
 loudly, especially when fighting; but when mem< 
 bers of a herd call to each other, or when sur- 
 prised by some unusual appearance, they whistle 
 — a sudden, sharp whistle, like the tin mouth- 
 pieces with revolving discs, which were at one 
 time so much in evidence. 
 
 The growl of a bear differs greatly under vary- 
 ing circumstances. There is the playful growl, 
 uttered when two individuals are wrestling, and 
 the terrible " sound' ' — no word expresses it — to 
 which a bear, cornered and driven to the last 
 extremity, gives utterance — fear, hate, dread, and 
 awful passion mingled and expressed in sound. 
 One can realise the fearful terror which this in- 
 spires only when one has, as I have, stood up to a 
 mad bear, repelling charge after charge, with only 
 an iron pike between one's self and those power- 
 ful fangs and claws. The long-drawn moan of a 
 polar bear on a frosty night is another phase ; this, 
 too, is expressive, but only of those wonderful 
 
250 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 Arctic scenes where night and day are as one to 
 this great seal-hunter. 
 
 The dog has made man his god, — giving up his 
 life for his master would be but part of his way 
 of showing his love if he had it in his power to do 
 more. So, too, the dog has attempted to adapt 
 his speech to his master's, and the result is a bark. 
 Xo wild coyotes or wolves bark, but when bands 
 of dogs descended from domesticated animals run 
 wild, their howls are modulated and a certain un- 
 mistakable barking quality imparted. The drawn- 
 out howl of a great gray wolf is an impressive 
 sound and one never to be forgotten. Only the 
 fox seems to possess the ability to bark in its 
 native tongue. The sounds which the cats, great 
 and small, reproduce are most varied. Nothing 
 can be much more intimidating than the roar of a 
 lion, or more demoniacal than the arguments 
 which our house-pets carry on at night on garden 
 fences. 
 
 "What use the sounds peculiar to sea-lions sub- 
 serve in their life on the great ocean, or their 
 haunts along the shore, can only be imagined, but 
 surely such laudable perseverance, day after day, 
 to out-utter each other, must be for some good 
 reason! 
 
 Volumes have been written concerning the 
 voices of the two remaining groups of animals — - 
 monkeys and birds. In the great family of the 
 four-handed folk, more varieties of sound are pro- 
 
THE VOICE OF ANIMALS 251 
 
 duced than would be thought possible. Some of 
 the large baboons are awful in their vocalisations. 
 Terrible agony or remorse is all that their moans 
 suggest to us, no matter what frame of mind on 
 the part of the baboon induces them. Of all verte- 
 brates the tiny marmosets reproduce most exactly 
 the chirps of crickets and similar insects, and to 
 watch one of these little human faces, see its mouth 
 open, and instead of, as seems natural, words issu- 
 ing forth, to hear these shrill squeaks is most sur- 
 prising. Young orang-utans, in their "talk," as 
 well as in their actions, are counterparts of human 
 infants. The scream of frantic rage when a 
 banana is offered and jerked away, the wheedling 
 tone when the animal wishes to be comforted by 
 the keeper on account of pain or bruise, and the 
 sound of perfect contentment and happiness when 
 petted by the keeper whom it learns to love, — all 
 are almost indistinguishable from like utterances 
 of a human child. 
 
 But how pitiless is the inevitable change of the 
 next few years ! Slowly the bones of the cranium 
 thicken, partly filling up the brain cavity, and 
 slowly but surely the ape loses all affection for 
 those who take care of it. More and more morose 
 and sullen it becomes until it reaches a stage of 
 unchangeable ferocity and must be doomed to 
 close confinement, never again to be handled or 
 caressed. 
 
THE NAMES OF ANIMALS, FROGS, AND 
 
 FISH 
 
 WHEN, during the lazy autumn days, the 
 living creatures seem for a time to have 
 taken themselves completely beyond our ken, it 
 may be interesting to delve among old records and 
 descriptions of animals and see how the names by 
 which we know them first came to be given. Many 
 of our English names have an unsuspected ances- 
 try, which, through past centuries, has been 
 handed down to us through many changes of 
 spelling and meaning, of romantic as well as his- 
 torical interest. 
 
 How many people regard the scientific Latin 
 and Greek names of animals with horror, as being 
 absolutely beyond their comprehension, and yet 
 how interesting these names become when we look 
 them squarely in the face, analyse them and find 
 the appropriateness of their application. 
 
 When you say "wolf" to a person, the image 
 of that wild creature comes instantly to his mind, 
 but if you ask him why it is called a wolf, a hun- 
 dred chances to one he will look blankly at you. 
 It is the old fault, so common among us human 
 beings, of ignoring the things which lie nearest 
 us. Or perhaps your friend shares the state of 
 mind of the puzzled old lady, who, after looking 
 
 252 
 
NAMES OF ANIMALS, FROGS, AND FISH 253 
 
 over a collection of fossil bones, said that she 
 could understand how these bones had been pre- 
 served, and millions of years later had been dis- 
 covered, but it was a mystery to her how anyone 
 could know the names of these ancient animals 
 after such a lapse of time ! 
 
 Some of the names of the commonest animals 
 are lost in the dimness of antiquity, such as fox, 
 weasel, sheep, dog, and baboon. Of the origin 
 of these we have forever lost the clew. With 
 camel we can go no farther back than the Latin 
 word camelus, and elephant balks us with the old 
 Hindoo word elepJi, which means an ox. The old 
 root of the word wolf meant one who tears or 
 rends, and the application to this animal is obvi- 
 ous. In several English and German names of 
 persons, we have handed down to us a relic of the 
 old fashion of applying wolf as a compliment to a 
 warrior or soldier. For example, Adolph means 
 noble-wolf, and Eudolph glory-wolf. 
 
 Lynx is from the same Latin word as the word 
 lux (light) and probably was given to these wild- 
 cats on account of the brightness of their eyes. 
 Lion is, of course, from the Latin leo, which word, 
 in turn, is lost far back in the Egyptian tongue, 
 where the word for the king of beasts was lahu. 
 The compound word leopard is first found in the 
 Persian language, where pars stands for panther. 
 Seal, very appropriately, was once a word mean- 
 ing "of the sea"; close to the Latin sal, the sea. 
 
254, THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 Many names of animals are adapted from words 
 in the ancient language of the natives in whose 
 country the creatures were first discovered. 
 Puma, jaguar, tapir, and peccary (from paquires) 
 are all names from South American Indian lan- 
 guages. The coyote and ocelot were called coyotl 
 and ocelotl by the Mexicans long before Cortes 
 landed on their shores. Zebra, gorilla, and chim- 
 panzee are native African words, and orang-utan 
 is Malay, meaning Man of the Woods. Cheetah 
 is from some East Indian tongue, as is tahr, the 
 name of the wild goat of the Himalayas. Gnu is 
 from the Hottentots, and giraffe from the Arabic 
 zaraf. Aoudad, the Barbary wild sheep, is the 
 French form of the Moorish name audad. 
 
 The native Indians of our own country are pass- 
 ing rapidly, and before many years their race may 
 be extinct, but their musical, euphonious names 
 of the animals they knew so well, often pleased the 
 ear of the early settlers, and in many instances 
 will be a lasting memorial as long as these forest 
 creatures of our United States survive. 
 
 Thus, moose is from the Indian word mouswah, 
 meaning wood-eater; skunk from seganku, an 
 Algonquin term; wapiti, in the Cree language, 
 meant white deer, and was originally applied to 
 the Rocky Mountain goat, but the name is now 
 restricted to the American elk. Caribou is also 
 an Indian word; opossum is from possotvne. and 
 
NAMES OF ANIMALS, FROGS, AND FISH 255 
 
 raccoon is from the Indian arrathkune (by further 
 apheresis, coon). 
 
 Rhinoceros is pure Greek, meaning nose-horned, 
 but beaver has indeed had a rough time of it in 
 its travels through various languages. It is hardly 
 recognisable as bebrus, babbru, and bbru. The 
 latter is the ultimate root of our word brown. 
 The original application was, doubtless, on ac- 
 count of the colour of the creature's fur. Otter 
 takes us back to Sanskrit, where we find it udra. 
 The significance of this word is in its close kin- 
 ship to udan, meaning water. 
 
 The little mouse hands his name down through 
 the years from the old, old Sanskrit, the root 
 meaning to steal. Many people who never heard 
 of Sanskrit have called him and his descendants 
 by terms of homologous significance! The word 
 muscle is from the same root, and was applied 
 from a fancied resemblance of the movement of 
 the muscle beneath the skin to a mouse in motion 
 — not a particularly quieting thought to certain 
 members of the fair sex ! The origin of the word 
 rat is less certain, but it may have been derived 
 from the root of the Latin word radere, to scratch, 
 or rodere, to gnaw. Rodent is derived from the 
 latter term. Cat is also in doubt, but is first 
 recognised in cat alas, a diminutive of canis, a dog. 
 It was applied to the young of almost any animal, 
 as we use the words pup, kitten, cub, and so forth. 
 
 i 
 
256 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 Bear is the result of tongue-twisting from the 
 Latin fera, a wild beast. 
 
 Ape is from the Sanskrit hapi; ~kap in the same 
 language means tremble ; but the connection is not 
 clear. Lemur, the name given to that low family 
 of monkeys, is from the plural Latin word 
 lemur xs, meaning ghost or spectre. This has 
 reference to the nocturnal habits, stealthy gait, 
 and weird expression of these large-eyed crea- 
 tures. Antelope is probably of Grecian origin, 
 and was originally applied to a half -mythical ani- 
 mal, located on the banks of the Euphrates, and 
 described as "very savage and fleet, and having 
 long, saw-like horns with which it could cut down 
 trees. It figures largely in the peculiar fauna of 
 heraldry.' ' 
 
 Deer is of obscure origin, but may have been 
 an adjective meaning wild. Elk is derived from 
 the same root as eland, and the history of the lat- 
 ter word is an interesting one. It meant a 
 sufferer, and was applied by the Teutons to the 
 elk of the Old World on account of the awkward 
 gait and stiff movements of this ungainly animal. 
 But in later years the Dutch carried the same 
 word, eland, to South Africa, and there gave it 
 to the largest of the tribe of antelopes, in which 
 sense it is used by zoologists to-day. 
 
 Porcupine has arisen from two Latin words, 
 porcus, a hog, and spina, a spine; hence, appro- 
 priately, a spiny-hog. Buffalo may once have 
 
NAMES OF ANIMALS, FROGS, AND FISH 257 
 
 been some native African name. In the vista of 
 time, our earliest glimpse of it is as bubalus, 
 which was applied both to the wild ox and to a 
 species of African antelope. Fallow deer is from 
 fallow, meaning pale, or yellowish, while axis, as 
 applied to the deer so common in zoological gar- 
 dens, was first mentioned by Pliny and is doubt- 
 less of East Indian origin. The word bison is from 
 the Anglo-Saxon wesend, but beyond Pliny its 
 ultimate origin eludes all research. 
 
 Marmot, through various distortions, looms up 
 from Latin times as mus montanus, literally a 
 mountain mouse. Badger is from badge, in allu- 
 sion to the bands of white fur on its forehead. 
 The verb meaning to badger is derived from the 
 old cruel sport of baiting badgers with dogs. 
 
 Monkey is from the same root as monna, a 
 v^oman; more especially an old crone, in reference 
 to the fancied resemblance of the weazened face 
 of a monkey to that of a withered old woman. 
 Madam and madonna are other forms of words 
 from the same root, so wide and sweeping are the 
 changes in meaning which usage and time can give 
 
 to words. 
 
 Squirrel has a poetic origin in the Greek lan- 
 guage; its original meaning being shadow-tail. 
 Tiger is far more intricate. The old Persian word 
 tir meant arrow, while tighra signified sharp. The 
 application to this great animal was in allusion to 
 the swiftness with which the tiger leaps upon his 
 
258 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 prey. The river Tigris, meaning literally the 
 river Arrow, is named thus from the swiftness 
 of its current. 
 
 As to the names of reptiles it is, of course, to 
 the Romans that we are chiefly indebted, as in the 
 case of reptile from reptilus, meaning creeping; 
 and crocodile from dilus, a lizard. Serpent is also 
 from the Latin serpens, creeping, and this from 
 the old Sanskrit root, sarp, with the same mean- 
 ing. This application of the idea of creeping is 
 again found in the word snake, which originally 
 came from the Sanskrit naga. 
 
 Tortoise harks back to the Latin tortus, mean- 
 ing twisted (hence our word tortuous) and came 
 to be applied to these slow creatures because of 
 their twisted legs. In its evolution through many 
 tongues it has suffered numbers of variations ; one 
 of these being turtle, which we use to-day to desig- 
 nate the smaller land tortoises. Terrapin and its 
 old forms terrapene and turpin, on the contrary, 
 originated in the New World, in the language of 
 the American Redskin. 
 
 C obra-de-capello is Portuguese for hooded 
 snake, while python is far older, the same word 
 being used by the Greeks to denote a spirit, demon, 
 or evil-soothsayer. This name was really given 
 to designate any species of large serpent. Boa is 
 Latin and was also applied to a large snake, while 
 the importance of the character of size is seen, 
 perhaps, in our words bos and bovine* 
 
NAMES OF ANIMALS, FROGS, AND FISH 259 
 
 The word viper is interesting ; coming directly 
 from the Romans, who wrote it vipera. This in 
 tnrn is a contraction of the feminine form of the 
 adjective vivipera, in reference to the habit of 
 these snakes of bringing forth their young alive. 
 
 Lizard, through such forms as lesarde, lezard, 
 lagarto, lacerto, is from the Latin lacertus, a 
 lizard; while closely related is the word alligator 
 by way of lagarto, aligarlo, to alligator. The 
 prefix may have arisen as a corruption of an arti- 
 cle and a noun, as in the modern Spanish el 
 lagarto, — a lizard. 
 
 Monitor is Latin for one who reminds, these 
 lizards being so called because they are supposed 
 to give warning of the approach of crocodiles. 
 Asp can be carried back to the aspis of the 
 Eomans, no trace being found in the dim vistas of 
 preceding tongues. 
 
 Gecko, the name of certain wall-hunting lizards, 
 is derived from their croaking cry; while iguana 
 is a Spanish name taken from the old native 
 Haytian appellation biuana. 
 
 Of the word frog we know nothing, although 
 through the medium of many languages it has had 
 as thorough an evolution as in its physical life. 
 We must also admit our ignorance in regard to 
 toad, backward search revealing only tade, tode, 
 ted, toode, and tadie, the root baffling all study. 
 Polliwog and tadpole are delightfully easy. Old 
 forms of polliwog are pollywig, polewiggle, and 
 
260 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 poll wiggle. This last gives us the clew to our 
 spelling — pollwiggle, which, reversed and inter- 
 preted in a modern way, is wigglehead, a most 
 appropriate name for these lively little black fel- 
 lows. Tadpole is somewhat similar ; toad-pole, or 
 toad's-head, also very apt when we think of these 
 small-bodied larval forms. 
 
 Salamander, which is a Greek word of Eastern 
 origin, was applied in the earliest times to a lizard 
 considered to have the power of extinguishing fire. 
 Newt has a strange history; originating in a 
 wrong division of two words, "an eivte," the lat- 
 ter being derived from eft, which is far more cor- 
 rect than newt, though in use now in only a few 
 places. Few fishermen have ever thought of the 
 interesting derivation of the names which they 
 know so well. Of course there are a host of fishes 
 named from a fancied resemblance to familiar 
 terrestrial animals or other things; such as the 
 catfish, and those named after the dog, hog, horse, 
 cow, trunk, devil, angel, sun, and moon. 
 
 The word fish has passed through many varied 
 forms since it w T as piscis in the old Latin tongue, 
 and the same is true of shark and skate, which in 
 the same language were carcliarus and squatus. 
 Trout was originally tructa, which in turn is lost 
 in a very old Greek word, meaning eat or gnaw. 
 Perch harks back to the Latin perca, and the 
 Romans had it from the Greeks, among whom it 
 meant spotted. The Romans said minutus when 
 
NAMES OF ANIMALS, FROGS, AND FISH 261 
 
 they meant small, and nowadays when we speak 
 of any very small fish we say minnow. Alewife 
 in old English was applied to the women, usually 
 very stout dames, who kept alehouses. The corpu- 
 lency of the fish to which the same term is given 
 explains its derivation. 
 
 The pike is so named from the sharp, pointed 
 snout and long, slim body, bringing to mind the 
 old-time weapon of that name; while pickerel 
 means doubly a little pike, the er and el (as in cock 
 and cockerel) both being diminutives. Smelt was 
 formerly applied to any small fish and comes, per- 
 haps, from the Anglo-Saxon smeolt, which meant 
 smooth — the smoothness and slipperiness of the 
 fish suggesting the name. 
 
 Salmon comes directly from the Latin salmo, a 
 salmon, which literally meant the leaper, from 
 satire — to leap. Sturgeon, from the Saxon was 
 stiriga, literally a stirrer, from the habit of the 
 fish of stirring up the mud at the bottom of the 
 water. Dace, through its medieval forms darce 
 and dars, is from the same root as our word dart, 
 given on account of the swiftness of the fish. 
 
 Anchovy is interesting as perhaps from the 
 Basque word antzua, meaning dry ; hence the dried 
 fish; and mullet is from the Latin midlus. Herring 
 is well worth following back to its origin. We 
 know that the most marked habit of fishes of this 
 type is their herding together in great schools or 
 masses or armies. In the very high German heri 
 
262 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 meant an army or host; hence our word harry 
 and, with a suilix, herring. 
 
 Hake in Norwegian means hook, and the term 
 hake or hook-fish was given because of the hooked 
 character of the under-jaw. Mackerel comes from 
 macarellus and originally the Latin macula — 
 spotted, from the dark spots on the body. Roach 
 and ray both come from the Latin raria, applied 
 then as in the latter case now to bottom-living 
 sharks. 
 
 Flounder comes from the verb, which in turn 
 is derived from flounce, a word which is lost in 
 antiquity. Tarpon (and the form tarpum) may 
 be an Indian word ; while there is no doubt as to 
 grouper coming from garrupa, a native Mexican 
 name. Chubb (a form of cub) meant a chunky 
 mass or lump, referring to the body of the fish. 
 Shad is lost in sceadda, Anglo-Saxon for the same 
 fish. 
 
 Lamprey and halibut both have histories, which, 
 at first glance, we would never suspect, although 
 the forms have changed but little. The former 
 have a habit of fastening themselves for hours to 
 stones and rocks, by means of their strong, suck- 
 ing mouths. So the Latin form of the word lam- 
 petra, or literally lick-rock, is very appropriate. 
 Halibut is equally so. But or hot in several lan- 
 guages means a certain flounder-like fish, and in 
 olden times this fish was eaten only on holidays 
 
NAMES OF ANIMALS, FROGS, AND FISH 263 
 
 (i.e., holy days). Hence the combination halibut 
 means really holy-flounder. 
 
 The meaning of these words and many others 
 are worth knowing, and it is well to be able to 
 answer with other than ignorance the question 
 "What's in a name?" 
 
THE DYING YEAR 
 
 WHEN a radical change of habits occurs, as 
 in the sapsucker, deviating so sharply 
 from the ancient principles of its family, many 
 other forms of life about it are influenced, indi- 
 rectly, but in a most interesting way. In its 
 tippling operations it wastes quantities of sap 
 which exudes from the numerous holes and 
 trickles down the bark of the wounded tree. This 
 proves a veritable feast for the forlorn remnant 
 of wasps and butterflies, — the year's end strag- 
 glers whose flower calyces have fallen and given 
 place to swelling seeds. 
 
 Swiftly up wind they come on the scent, eager 
 as hounds on the trail, and they drink and drink 
 of the sweets until they become almost incapable 
 of flying. But, after all, the new lease of life is a 
 vain semblance of better things. Their eggs have 
 long since been laid and their mission in life ended, 
 and at the best their existence is but a matter of 
 days. 
 
 It is a sad thing this, and sometimes our heart 
 hardens against Nature for the seeming cruelty 
 of it all. Forever and always, year after year, 
 century upon century, the same tale unfolds itself, 
 — the sacrifice of the individual for the good of the 
 
 264 
 
THE DYING YEAR 265 
 
 *ace. A hundred drones are tended and reared, 
 all but one to die in vain; a thousand seeds are 
 sown to rot or to sprout and wither ; a million lit- 
 tle codfish hatch and begin life hopefully, perhaps 
 all to succumb save one ; a million million shrimp 
 and pteropods paddle themselves here and there 
 in the ocean, and every one is devoured by fish or 
 swept into the whalebone tangle from which none 
 ever return. And if a lucky one which survives 
 does so because it has some little advantage over 
 its fellows, — some added quality which gives just 
 the opportunity to escape at the critical moment, 
 —then the race will advance to the extent of that 
 trifle and so carry out the precept of evolution. 
 But even though we may owe every character of 
 body and mind to the fulfilment of some such inex- 
 orable law in the past, yet the witnessing of the 
 operation brings ever a feeling of cruelty, of in- 
 justice somewhere. 
 
 How pitiful the weak flight of the last yellow 
 butterfly of the year, as with tattered and bat- 
 tered wings it vainly seeks for a final sip of 
 sweets ! The fallen petals and the hard seeds are 
 black and odourless, the drops of sap are 
 hardened. Little by little the wings weaken, the 
 tiny feet clutch convulsively at a dried weed stalk, 
 and the four golden wings drift quietly down 
 among the yellow leaves, soon to merge into the 
 dark mould beneath. As the butterfly dies, a 
 stiffened Katydid scratches a last requiem on his 
 
266 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 wing covers — "katy-didn't — katy-did — hate — y" 
 — and the succeeding moment of silence is broken 
 by the sharp rattle of a woodpecker. "We shake 
 off every dream of the summer and brace our- 
 selves to meet and enjoy the keen, invigorating 
 pleasures of winter. 
 

 NOVEMBER 
 
NOVEMBEB'S BIRDS OF THE HEAVENS 
 
 AS the whirling winds of winter's edge strip 
 . the trees bare of their last leaves, the leaden 
 sky of the eleventh month seems to push its cold 
 face closer to earth. "Who can tell when the north- 
 ern sparrows first arrive? A whirl of brown 
 leaves scatters in front of us ; some fall back to 
 earth ; others rise and perch in the thick briers, — 
 sombre little white-throated and tree sparrows! 
 These brown-coated, low-voiced birds easily at- 
 tract our attention, the more now that the great 
 host of brilliant warblers has passed, just as our 
 hearts warm toward the humble poly-pody fronds 
 (passing them by unnoticed when flowers are 
 abundant) which now hold up their bright green- 
 ness amid all the cold. 
 
 But all the migrants have not left us yet by any 
 means, and we had better leave our boreal visi- 
 tors until midwinter's blasts show us these 
 hardiest of the hardy at their best. 
 
 "We know little of the ways of the gaunt herons 
 on their southward journey, but day after day, in 
 the marshes and along the streams, we may see 
 the great blues as they stop in their flight to rest 
 for a time. 
 
 The cold draws all the birds of a species 
 together. Dark hordes of clacking grackles pass 
 
 269 
 
270 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 by, scores of red-winged blackbirds and cowbirds 
 mingle amicably together, both of dark hue but 
 of such unlike matrimonial habits. A single male 
 red-wing, as we have seen, may assume the cares 
 of a harem of three, four, or five females, each of 
 which rears her brown-streaked offspring in her 
 own particular nest, while the valiant guardian 
 keeps faithful watch over his small colony among 
 the reeds and cat-tails. But little thought or care 
 does mother cowbird waste upon her offspring. 
 No home life is hers — merely a stealthy approach 
 to the nest of some unsuspecting yellow warbler, 
 or other small bird, a hastily deposited egg, and 
 the unnatural parent goes on her way, having 
 shouldered all her household cares on another. 
 Her young may be hatched and carefully reared 
 by the patient little warbler mother, or the egg 
 may spoil in the deserted nest, or be left in the 
 cold beneath another nest bottom built over it; 
 little cares the cowbird. 
 
 The ospreys or fish hawks seem to circle south- 
 ward in pairs or trios, but some clear, cold day 
 the sky will be alive with hawks of other kinds. 
 It is a strange fact that these birds which have 
 the power to rise so high that they fairly disap- 
 pear from our sight choose the trend of terrestrial 
 valleys whenever possible, in directing their 
 aerial routes. Even the series of New Jersey 
 hills, flattered by the name of the Orange Moun- 
 tains, seem to balk many hawks which elect to 
 
NOVEMBER'S BIRDS OF THE HEAVENS 271 
 
 change their direction and fly to the right or left 
 toward certain gaps or passes. Through these a 
 raptorial stream pours in such numbers during 
 the period of migration that a person with a fore- 
 knowledge of their path in former years may lie 
 in wait and watch scores upon scores of these 
 birds pass close overhead within a few hours, 
 while a short distance to the right or left one may 
 watch all day without seeing a single raptor. The 
 whims of migrating birds are beyond our ken. 
 
 Sometimes, out in the broad fields, one's eyes 
 will be drawn accidentally upward, and a great 
 flight of hawks will be seen — a compact flock of 
 interceding forms, perhaps two or three hun- 
 dred in all, the whole number gradually passing 
 from view in a southerly direction, now and then 
 sending down a shrill cry. It is a beautiful sight, 
 not very often to be seen near a city— unless 
 watched for. 
 
 To a dweller in a city or its suburbs I heartily 
 commend at this season the forming of this habit, 
 —to look upward as often as possible on your 
 walks. An instant suffices to sweep the whole 
 heavens with your eye, and if the distant circling 
 forms, moving in so stately a manner, yet so 
 swiftly, and in their every movement personifying 
 the essence of wild and glorious freedom,— if this 
 sight does not send a thrill through the onlooker, 
 then he may at once pull his hat lower over his 
 eyes and concern himself only with his immediate 
 
272 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 business. The joys of Nature are not for such as 
 he; the love of the wild which exists in every one 
 of us is, in him, too thickly "sicklied o'er" with 
 the veneer of convention and civilisation. 
 
 Even as late as November, when the water 
 begins to freeze in the tiny cups of the pitcher 
 plants, and the frost brings into being a new kind 
 of foliage on glass and stone, a few insect-eaters 
 of the summer woods still linger on. A belated 
 red-eyed vireo may be chased by a snowbird, and 
 when we approach a flock of birds, mistaking them 
 at a distance for purple finches, we may discover 
 they are myrtle warblers, clad in the faded yel- 
 low of their winter plumage. In favoured locali- 
 ties these brave little birds may even spend the 
 entire winter with us. 
 
 One of the best of November's surprises may 
 come when all hope of late migrants has been 
 given up. Walking near the river, our glance falls 
 on what might be a painter's palate with blended 
 colours of all shades resting on the smooth sur- 
 face of the water. We look again and again, 
 hardly believing our eyes, until at last the gorge- 
 ous creature takes to wing, and goes humming 
 down the stream, a bit of colour tropical in its 
 extravagance — and w r e know that we have seen 
 a male wood, or summer, duck in the full grandeur 
 of his white, purple, chestnut, black, blue, and 
 brown. Many other ducks have departed, but this 
 
NOVEMBER'S BIRDS OF THE HEAVENS 273 
 
 one still swims among the floating leaves on se- 
 cluded waterways. 
 
 Now is the time when the woodcock rises from 
 h: : s swampy summer home and zigzags his way to 
 a land where earthworms are still active. Some- 
 times in our walks we may find the fresh body 
 of one of these birds, and an upward glance at the 
 roadside will show the cause — the cruel telegraph 
 wires against which the flight of the bird has car- 
 ried it with fatal velocity. 
 
 One of the greatest pleasures which November 
 has to give us is the joy of watching for the long 
 lines of wild geese from the Canada lakes. Who 
 can help being thrilled at the sight of these strong- 
 winged birds, as the V-shaped flock throbs into 
 view high in air, beating over land and water, 
 forest and city, as surely and steadily as the pass- 
 ing of the day behind them. One of the finest of 
 November sounds is the "Honk! honk!" which 
 comes to our ears from such a company of geese, 
 — musical tones "like a clanking chain drawn 
 through the heavy air." 
 
 At the stroke of midnight I have been halted in 
 my hurried walk by these notes. They are a bit 
 of the wild north which may even enter within a 
 city, and three years ago I trapped a fine gander 
 and a half a dozen of his flock in the New York 
 Zoological Park, where they have lived ever since 
 and reared their golden-hued goslings, which 
 
274 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 otherwise would have broken their shells on som*? 
 Arctic waste, with only the snowbirds to admire, 
 and to be watched with greedy eyes by the Arct.c 
 owls. 
 
 A haze on the far horizon, 
 
 The infinite tender sky, 
 The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields, 
 
 And the wild geese sailing high; 
 And ever on upland and lowland, 
 
 The charm of the golden-rod — 
 Some of us call it Autumn, 
 
 And others call it God. 
 
 W. H. Carruth. 
 
A PLEA FOR THE SKUNK 
 
 IN spite of constant persecution the skunk is 
 without doubt the tamest of all of our wild 
 animals, and shares with the weasel and mink 
 the honour of being one of the most abundant of 
 the carnivores, or flesh-eaters, near our homes. 
 This is a great achievement for the skunk, — to 
 have thus held its own in the face of ever advanc- 
 ing and destroying civilisation. But the same 
 characteristics which enable it to hold its ground 
 are also those which emancipate it from its wild 
 kindred and give it a unique position among ani- 
 mals. Its first cousins, the minks and weasels, 
 all secrete pungent odours, which are unpleasant 
 enough at close range, but in the skunk the great 
 development of these glands has caused a radical 
 change in its habits of life and even in its physical 
 make-up. 
 
 "Watch a mink creeping on its sinuous way, — 
 every action and glance full of fierce wildness, 
 each step telling of insatiable seeking after liv- 
 ing, active prey. The boldest rat flees in frantic 
 terror at the hint of this animal's presence; but 
 let man show himself, and with a demoniacal grin 
 of hatred the mink slinks into covert. 
 
 Now follow a skunk in its wanderings as it 
 comes out of its hole in early evening, slowly 
 
 275 
 
276 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 stretches and yawns, and with hesitating, rolling 
 gait ambles along, now and then sniffing in the 
 grass and seizing some sluggish grasshopper or 
 cricket. Fearlessness and confidence are what its 
 gait and maimer spell. The world is its debtor, 
 and all creatures in its path are left unmolested, 
 only on evidence of good behaviour. Far from 
 need of concealment, its furry coat is striped 
 with a broad band of white, signalling in the 
 dusk or the moonlight, "Give me room to pass 
 and go in peace! Trouble me and beware!" 
 
 Degenerate in muscles and vitality, the skunk 
 must forego all strenuous hunts and trust to craft 
 and sudden springs, or else content himself with 
 the humble fare of insects, helpless young birds, 
 and poor, easily confused mice. The flesh of the 
 skunk is said to be sweet and toothsome, but few 
 creatures there are who dare attempt to add it to 
 their bill of fare ! A great horned owl or a puma 
 in the extremity of starvation, or a vulture in dire 
 stress of hunger, — probably no others. 
 
 Far from wilfully provoking an attack, the 
 skunk is usually content to go on his way peace- 
 fully, and when one of these creatures becomes 
 accustomed to the sight of an observer, no more 
 interesting and, indeed, safer object of study can 
 be found. 
 
 Depart once from the conventional mode of 
 greeting a skunk, — and instead of hurling a stone 
 in its direction and fleeing, place, if the oppor- 
 
A PLEA FOR THE SKUNK 277 
 
 tunity present itself, bits of meat in its way eve- 
 ning after evening, and you will soon learn that 
 there is nothing vicious in the heart of the skunk. 
 The evening that the gentle animal appears lead- 
 ing in her train a file of tiny infant skunks, you 
 will feel well repaid for the trouble you have 
 taken. Baby skunks, like their elders, soon learn 
 to know their friends, and are far from being at 
 hair-trigger poise, as is generally supposed. 
 
THE LESSON OF THE WAVE 
 
 THE sea and the sky and the shore were at 
 perfect peace on the day when the young 
 gull first launched into the air, and flew outward 
 over the green, smooth ocean. Day after day his 
 parents had brought him fish and squid, until his 
 baby plumage fell from him and his beautiful 
 wing-feathers shot forth, — clean-webbed and elas- 
 tic. His strong feet had carried him for days over 
 the expanse of sand dunes and pebbles, and now 
 and then he had paddled into deep pools and 
 bathed in the cold salt water. Most creatures of 
 the earth are limited to one or the other of these 
 two elements, but now the gull was proving his 
 mastery over a third. The land, the sea, were left 
 below, and up into the air drifted the beautiful 
 bird, every motion confident with the instinct of 
 ages. 
 
 The usefulness of his mother's immaculate 
 breast now becomes apparent. A school of small 
 fish basking near the surface rise and fall with 
 the gentle undulating swell, seeing dimly over- 
 head the blue sky, flecked with hosts of fleecy 
 white clouds. A nearer, swifter cloud approaches, 
 hesitates, splashes into their midst, — and the par- 
 ent gull has caught her first fish of the day. In- 
 stinctively the young bird dives; in his joy of 
 
 278 
 
THE LESSON OF THE WAVE 279 
 
 very life lie cries aloud, — the gull-cry which his 
 ancestors of long ago have handed down to him. 
 At night he seeks the shore and tucks his bill 
 into his plumage; and all because of something 
 within him, compelling him to do these things. 
 
 But far from being an automaton, his bright 
 eye and full-rounded head presage higher things. 
 Occasionally his mind breaks through the mist of 
 instinct and reaches upward to higher activity. 
 
 As with the other wild kindred of the ocean, 
 food was the chief object of the day's search. 
 Fish were delicious, but were not always to be 
 had ; crabs were a treat indeed, when caught una- 
 wares, but for mile after mile along the coast 
 were hosts of mussels and clams, — sweet and 
 lucious, but incased in an armour of shell, through 
 which there was no penetrating. However swift 
 a dash was made upon one of these, — always the 
 clam closed a little quicker, sending a derisive 
 shower of drops over the head of the gull. 
 
 Once, after a week of rough weather, the storm 
 gods brought their battling to a climax. Great 
 green walls of foaming water crashed upon the 
 rocks, rending huge boulders and sucking them 
 down into the black depths. Over and through the 
 spray dashed the gull, answering the wind's howl 
 -—shriek for shriek, poising over the fearful bat- 
 tlefield of sea and shore. 
 
 A wave mightier than all hung and curved, and 
 a myriad shell-fish were torn from their sheltered 
 
280 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 nooks and hurled high in air, to fall broken and 
 helpless among the boulders. The quick eye of 
 the gull saw it all, and at that instant of intensest 
 chaos of the elements, the brain of the bird found 
 itself. 
 
 Shortly afterward came night and sleep, but the 
 new-found flash of knowledge was not lost. 
 
 The next day the bird walked at low tide into 
 the stronghold of the shell-fish, roughly tore one 
 from the silky strands of its moorings, and carry- 
 ing it far upward let it fall at random among the 
 rocks. The toothsome morsel was snatched from 
 its crushed shell and a triumphant scream told of 
 success, — a scream which, could it have been 
 interpreted, should have made a myriad, myriad 
 mussels shrink within their shells ! 
 
 From gull to gull, and from flock to flock, the 
 new habit spread, imitation taking instant advan- 
 tage of this new source of food. When to-day 
 we walk along the shore and see flocks of gulls 
 playing ducks and drakes with the unfortunate 
 shell-fish, give them not too much credit, but think 
 of some bird which in the long ago first learned 
 the lesson, whether by chance or, as I have sug- 
 gested, by observing the victims of the wave£. 
 • ••••• > 
 
 No scientific facts are these, but merely a logi- 
 cal reasoning deduced from the habits and traits 
 of the birds as we know them to-day; a theory to 
 hold in mind w r hile we watch for its confirmation 
 
THE LESSON OF THE WAVE 281 
 
 in the beginning of other new and analogous 
 habits. 
 
 The world is too much with us; late and soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; 
 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
 And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers ; 
 
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
WE GO A-SPONGING 
 
 WLIEN a good compound microscope becomes 
 as common an object in our homes as is 
 a clock or a piano, we may be certain that the suc- 
 ceeding generation will grow up with a much 
 broader view of life and a far greater realisation 
 of the beauties of the natural world. To most of 
 us a glance through a microscope is almost as 
 unusual a sight as the panorama from a balloon. 
 While many of the implements of a scientist 
 arouse enthusiasm only in himself, in the case of 
 the revelations of this instrument, the average 
 person, whatever his profession, cannot fail to 
 be interested. 
 
 Many volumes have been written on the micro- 
 scopic life of ponds and fields, and in a short essay 
 only a hint of the delights of this fascinating study 
 can be given. 
 
 Any primer of Natural History will tell us that 
 our bath sponges are the fibrous skeletons of 
 aquatic animals which inhabit tropical seas, but 
 few people know that in the nearest pond there 
 are real sponges, growing sometimes as large as 
 one's head and which are not very dissimilar to 
 those taken from among the corals of the 
 Bahamas. We may bring home a twig covered 
 with a thick growth of this sponge; and by 
 
 282 
 
\ 
 
 WE GO A-SPONGING 283 
 
 dropping a few grains of carmine into the water, 
 the currents which the little sponge animals set 
 up are plainly visible. In winter these all die, and 
 leave within their meshes numbers of tiny winter 
 buds, which survive the cold weather and in the 
 spring begin to found new colonies. If we ex- 
 amine the sponges in the late fall we may find 
 innumerable of these statoblasts, as they are 
 called. 
 
 Scattered among them will sometimes be 
 crowds of little wheels, surrounded with double- 
 ended hooks. These have no motion and we shall 
 probably pass them by as minute burrs or seeds 
 of some water plant. But they, too, are winter 
 buds of a strange group of tiny animals. These 
 are known as Polyzoans or Bryozoans ; and though 
 to the eye a large colony of them appears only as 
 a mass of thick jelly, yet when placed in water 
 and left quiet, a wonderful transformation comes 
 over the bit of gelatine. . . . "Perhaps while you 
 gaze at the reddish jelly a pink little projection 
 appears within the field of your lens, and slowly 
 lengthens and broadens, retreating and reappear- 
 ing, it may be, many times, but finally, after much 
 hesitation, it suddenly seems to burst into bloom. 
 A narrow body, so deeply red that it is often 
 almost crimson, lifts above the jelly a crescentic 
 disc ornamented with two rows of long tentacles 
 that seem as fine as hairs, and they glisten and 
 sparkle like lines of crystal as they wave and float 
 
284 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 and twist the delicate threads beneath your 
 wondering gaze. Then, while you scarcely 
 breathe, for fear the lovely vision will fade, 
 another and another spreads its disc and waves its 
 silvery tentacles, until the whole surface of that 
 ugly jelly mass blooms like a garden in Paradise 
 — blooms not with motionless perianths, but with 
 living animals, the most exquisite that God has 
 allowed to develop in our sweet w T aters. ,, At the 
 slightest jar every animal-flower vanishes 
 instantly. 
 
 A wonderful history is behind these little crea- 
 tures and very different from that of most mem- 
 bers of the animal kingdom. While crabs, butter- 
 flies, and birds have evolved through many and 
 varied ancestral forms, the tiny Bryozoans, or, 
 being interpreted, moss-animals, seem throughout 
 all past ages to have found a niche for themselves 
 where strenuous and active competition is absent. 
 Year after year, century upon century, age upon 
 age, they have lived and died, almost unchanged 
 down to the present day. When you look at the 
 tiny animal, troubling the water and drawing its 
 inconceivably small bits of food toward it upon 
 the current made by its tentacles, think of the 
 earth changes which it has survived. 
 
 To the best of our knowledge the Age of Man 
 is but a paltry fifty thousand years. Behind this 
 the Age of Mammals may have numbered three 
 millions ; £hen back of these came the Age of Rep- 
 
WE GO A-SPONGING 285 
 
 tiles with more than seven millions of years, dur- 
 ing all of which time the tentacles of unnumbered 
 generations of Bryozoans waved in the sea. Back, 
 back farther still we add another seven million 
 years, or thereabouts, of the Age of the Amphi- 
 bians, when the coal plants grew, and the Age of 
 the Fishes. And finally, beyond all exact human 
 calculation, but estimated at some five million, 
 we reach the Age of Invertebrates in the Silurian, 
 and in the lowest of these rocks we find beautifully 
 preserved fossils of Bryozoans, to all appearances 
 as perfect in detail of structure as these which we 
 have before us to-day in this twentieth century 
 of man's brief reckoning. 
 
 These tiny bits of jelly are transfigured as well 
 by the grandeur of their unchanged lineage as by 
 the appearance of the little animals from within. 
 What heraldry can commemorate the beginning 
 of their race over twenty millions of years in the 
 past! 
 
 The student of mythology will feel at home 
 when identifying some of the commonest objects 
 of the pond. And most are well named, too, as 
 for instance the Hydra, a small tube-shaped crea- 
 ture with a row of active tentacles at one end. 
 Death seems far from this organism, which is 
 closely related to the sea-anemones and corals, 
 for though a very brief drying will serve to kill 
 it, yet it can be sliced and cut as finely as possible 
 and each bit, true to its name, will at once proceed 
 
286 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 to grow a new head and tentacles complete, becom- 
 ing a perfect animal. 
 
 Then we shall often come across a queer crea- 
 ture with two oar-like feelers near the head and 
 a double tail tipped with long hairs, while in the 
 centre of the head is a large, shining eye, — 
 Cyclops he is rightly called. Although so small 
 that we can make out little of his structure with- 
 out the aid of the lens, yet Cyclops is far from 
 being related to the other still smaller beings 
 which swim about him, many of which consist of 
 but one cell and are popularly known as animal- 
 cule, more correctly as Protozoans. Cyclops has 
 a jointed body and in many other ways shows his 
 relationship to crabs and lobsters, even though 
 they are many times larger and live in salt water. 
 
 Another member of this group is Daphnia, 
 although the appropriateness of this name yet 
 remains to be discovered ; Daphnia being a chunky- 
 bodied little being, with a double-branched pair of 
 oar-like appendages, with which he darts swiftly 
 through the water. Although covered with a hard 
 crust like a crab, this is so transparent that we 
 can see right through his body. The dark mass 
 of food in the stomach anfd the beating heart are 
 perfectly distinct. Often, near the upper part of 
 the body, several large eggs are seen in a sort of 
 pouch, where they are kept until hatched. 
 
 So if the sea is far away and time hangs heavy, 
 invite your friends to go sponging and crabbing 
 
WE GO A-SPONGING 287 
 
 in the nearest pond, and you may be certain of 
 quieting their fears as to your sanity as well as 
 drawing exclamations of delight from them when 
 they see these beautiful creatures for the first 
 time. 
 

DECEMBER 
 
NEW THOUGHTS ABOUT NESTS 
 
 OUR sense of smell is not so keen as that of a 
 dog, who can detect the tiny quail while 
 they are still invisible ; nor have we the piercing 
 sight of the eagle who spies the grouse crouching 
 hundreds of feet beneath his circling flight; but 
 when we walk through the bare December woods 
 there is unfolded at last to our eyes evidence of 
 the late presence of our summer's feathered 
 friends — air castles and tree castles of varied pat- 
 terns and delicate workmanship. 
 . Did it ever occur to you to think what the first 
 nest was like — what home the first reptile-like 
 scale flutterers chose? Far back before Jurassic 
 times, millions of years ago, before the coming of 
 bony fishes, when the only mammals were tiny 
 nameless creatures, hardly larger than mice; 
 when the great Altantosaurus dinosaurs browsed 
 on the quaint herbage, and Pterodactyls — those 
 ravenous bat- winged dragons of the air — hovered 
 above the surface of the earth, — in this epoch we 
 can imagine a pair of long-tailed, half-winged 
 creatures which skimmed from tree to tree, per- 
 haps giving an occasional flop — the beginning of 
 the marvellous flight motions. Is it not likely that 
 the Teleosaurs who watched hungrily from the 
 swamps saw them disappear at last in a hollowed 
 
 291 
 
292 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 cavity beneath a rotten knothole? Here, perhaps, 
 the soft-shelled, lizard-like eggs were laid, and 
 when they gave forth the ugly creaturelings did 
 not Father Creature flop to the topmost branch 
 and utter a gurgling cough, a most unpleasant 
 grating sound, but grand in its significance, as 
 the opening chord in the symphony of the ages to 
 follow f — until now the mockingbird and the night- 
 ingale hold us spellbound by the wonder of their 
 minstrelsy. 
 
 Turning from our imaginary picture of the an- 
 cient days, we find that some of the birds of the 
 present time have found a primitive way of nest- 
 ing still the best. If we push over this rotten 
 stump we shall find that the cavity near the top, 
 where the wood is still sound, has been used the 
 past summer by the downy woodpecker — a front 
 door like an auger hole, ceiling of rough-hewn 
 wood, a bed of chips ! 
 
 The chickadee goes a step further, and shows 
 his cleverness in sometimes choosing a cavity 
 already made, and instead of rough, bare chips, 
 the six or eight chickadee youngsters are happy 
 on a hair mattress of a closely woven felt-like 
 substance. 
 
 Perhaps we should consider the kingfisher the 
 most barbarous of all the birds which form a shel- 
 ter for their home. With bill for pick and shovel, 
 she bores straight into a sheer clay bank, and at 
 the end of a six-foot tunnel her young are reared, 
 
NEW THOUGHTS ABOUT NESTS 293 
 
 their nest a mass of fish bones — the residue of 
 their dinners. Then there are the aerial masoi 
 and brickmakers — the eave swallows, who carry 
 earth up into the air, bit by bit, and attach it to 
 the eaves, forming it into a globular, long-necked 
 flask. The barn swallows mix the clay with straw 
 and feathers and so form very firm structures on 
 the rafters above the haymows. 
 
 But what of the many nests of grasses and 
 twigs which we find in the woods? How closely 
 they were concealed while the leaves were on the 
 trees, and how firm and strong they were while in 
 use, the strongest wind and rain of summer only 
 rocking them to and fro ! But now we must waste 
 no time or they will disappear. In a month or 
 more almost all will have dissolved into frag- 
 ments and fallen to earth— their mission accom- 
 plished. 
 
 Some look as if disintegration had already 
 begun, but if we had discovered them earlier in 
 the year, we should have seen that they were 
 never less fragile or loosely constructed than we 
 find them now. Such is a cuckoo's nest, such a 
 mourning dove's or a heron's; merely a flat plat- 
 form of a few interlaced twigs, through which the 
 eggs are visible from below. Why, we ask, are 
 some birds so careless or so unskilful? The 
 European cuckoo, like our cowbird, is a parasite, 
 laying her eggs in the nests of other birds ; so, 
 perhaps, neglect of household duties is in tha 
 
294 
 
 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 blood. But this style of architecture seems to 
 answer all the requirements of doves and herons, 
 and, although with one sweep of the hand we can 
 demolish one of these flimsy platforms, yet such 
 a nest seems somehow to resist wind and rain just 
 as long as the bird needs it. 
 
 Did you ever try to make a nest yourself? If 
 net, sometime take apart a discarded nest — even 
 the simplest in structure — and try to put it 
 together again. Use no string or cord, but fasten 
 it to a crotch, put some marbles in it and visit it 
 after the first storm. After you have picked up 
 all the marbles from the ground you will appre- 
 ciate more highly the skill which a bird show r s in 
 the construction of its home. Whether a bird 
 excavates its nest in earth or wood, or weaves or 
 plasters it, the work is all done by means of two 
 straight pieces of horn — the bill. 
 
 There is, however, one useful substance which 
 aids the bird — the saliva which is formed in the 
 mucous glands of the mouth. Of course the first 
 and natural function of this fluid is to soften the 
 food before it passes into the crop; but in those 
 birds which make their nests by weaving together 
 pieces of twig, it must be of great assistance in 
 softening the wood and thus enabling the bird 
 readily to bend the twigs into any required posi- 
 tion. Thus the catbird and rose-breasted gros- 
 beak weave. 
 
 Given a hundred or more pieces of twigs, each 
 
NEW THOUGHTS ABOUT NESTS 295 
 
 an inch in length, even a bird would make but 
 little progress in forming a cup-shaped nest, were 
 it not that the sticky saliva provided cement 
 strong and ready at hand. So the chimney swift 
 finds no difficulty in forming and attaching her 
 mosaic of twigs to a chimney, using only very 
 short twigs which she breaks off with her feet 
 while she is on the wing. 
 
 How wonderfully varied are the ways which 
 birds adopt to conceal their nests. Some avoid 
 suspicion by their audacity, building near a fre- 
 quented path, in a spot which they would never 
 be suspected of choosing. The hummingbird studs 
 the outside of its nest with lichens, and the vireo 
 drapes a cobweb curtain around her fairy cup. 
 Few nests are more beautiful and at the same time 
 more durable than a vireo 's. I have seen the 
 nests of three successive years in the same tree, 
 all built, no doubt, by the same pair of birds, the 
 nest of the past summer perfect in shape and 
 quality, that of the preceding year threadbare, 
 while the home which sheltered the brood of three 
 summers ago is a mere flattened skeleton, remind- 
 ing one of the ribs and stern post of a wrecked 
 boat long pounded by the waves. 
 
 The subject of nests has been sadly neglected 
 by naturalists, most of whom have been chiefly 
 interested in the owners or the contents ; but when 
 the whys and wherefores of the homes of birds 
 are made plain we shall know far more concern- 
 
296 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 ing the little carpenters, weavers, masons, and 
 basket-makers who hang our groves and decorate 
 our shrubbery with their skill. When on our win- 
 ter \s walk we see a distorted, wind-torn, grass cup, 
 think of the quartet of beautiful little creatures, 
 now flying beneath some tropical sun, which owe 
 their lives to the nest, and which, if they are 
 spared, will surely return to the vicinity next 
 summer. 
 
 That time of year thou may'st in me behold, 
 When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, — ■ 
 Bare, ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
LESSONS FROM AN ENGLISH SPAKHow 
 
 MANY people say they love Nature, but as 
 they have little time to go into the country 
 they have to depend on books for most of their 
 information concerning birds, flowers, and other 
 forms of life. There is, however, no reason why 
 one should not, even in the heart of a great city, 
 begin to cultivate his powers of observation. Let 
 us take, for example, the omnipresent English 
 sparrow. Most of us probably know the difference 
 between the male and female English sparrows, 
 but I venture to say that not one in ten persons 
 could give a satisfactory description of the colours 
 of either. How much we look and how little we 
 really see ! 
 
 Little can be said in favour of the English spar- 
 rows' disposition, but let us not blame them for 
 their unfortunate increase in numbers. Man 
 brought them from England, where they are kept 
 in check by Nature's wise laws. These birds were 
 deliberately introduced where Nature was not 
 prepared for them. 
 
 When we put aside prejudice we can see that 
 the male bird, especially when in his bright spring 
 colours, is really very attractive, with his ashy 
 gray head, his back streaked with black and bay, 
 the white bar on his wings and the jet black chin 
 
 297 
 
298 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 and throat contrasting strongly with the uni- 
 formly light-coloured under parts. If this were 
 a rare bird the "black-throated sparrow" would 
 enjoy his share of admiration. 
 
 It is wonderful how he can adapt himself to new 
 conditions, nesting anywhere and everywhere, and 
 this very adaptation is a sign of a very high order 
 of intelligence. He has, however, many character- 
 istics which tell us of his former life. A few of 
 the habits of this bird may be misleading. His 
 thick, conical bill is made for crushing seeds, but 
 he now feeds on so many different substances that 
 its original use, as shown by its shape, is obscured. 
 If there were such a thing as vaudeville among 
 birds, the common sparrow would be a star imita- 
 tor. He clings to the bark of trees and picks out 
 grubs, supporting himself w r ith his tail like a 
 woodpecker; he launches out into the air, taking 
 insects on the wing like a flycatcher ; he clings like 
 a chickadee to the under side of twigs, or hovers 
 in front of a heap of insect eggs, presenting a 
 feeble imitation of a hummingbird. These modes 
 of feeding represent many different families of 
 birds. 
 
 Although his straw and feather nests are shape- 
 less affairs, and he often feeds on garbage, all 
 aesthetic feeling is not lost, as we see when he 
 swells out his black throat and white cravat, 
 spreads tail and wing and beseeches his lady-love 
 to admire him. Thus he woos her as long as he 
 
LESSONS FROM AN ENGLISH SPARROW 299 
 
 is alone, but when several other eager suitors 
 arrive, his patience gives out, and the courting 
 turns into a football game. Rough and tumble is 
 the word, but somehow in the midst of it all, her 
 highness manages to make her mind known and 
 off she flies with the lucky one. Thus we have 
 represented, in the English sparrows, the two ex- 
 tremes of courtship among birds. 
 
 It is worth noting that the male alone is orna- 
 mented, the colours of the female being much 
 plainer. This dates from a time when it was 
 necessary for the female to be concealed while 
 sitting on the eggs. The young of both sexes are 
 coloured like their mother, the young males not 
 acquiring the black gorget until perfectly able to 
 take care of themselves. About the plumage there 
 are some interesting facts. The young bird moults 
 twice before the first winter. The second moult 
 brings out the mark on the throat, but it is rusty 
 now, not black in colour ; his cravat is grayish and 
 the wing bar ashy. In the spring, however, a 
 noticeable change takes place, but neither by the 
 moulting nor the coming in of plumage. The 
 shaded edges of the feathers become brittle and 
 break off, bringing out the true colours and mak- 
 ing them clear and brilliant. The waistcoat is 
 brushed until it is black and glossy, the cravat 
 becomes immaculate, and the wristband or wing 
 bar clears up until it is pure white. 
 
 The homes of these sparrows are generally com- 
 
300 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 posed of a great mass of straw and feathers, with 
 the nest in the centre ; but the spotted eggs, per- 
 haps, show that these birds once built open nests, 
 the dots and marks on the eggs being of use in 
 concealing their conspicuous white ground. Some- 
 thing seems already to have hinted to Nature that 
 this protection is no longer necessary, and we 
 often find eggs almost white, like those of wood- 
 peckers and owls, which nest in dark places. 
 
 We have all heard of birds flocking together for 
 some mutual benefit — the crows, for instance, 
 which travel every winter day across country to 
 favourite "roosts." In the heart of a city we can 
 often study this same phenomenon of birds 
 gathering together in great flocks. In New York 
 City, on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, 
 there stands a tree — a solitary reminder of the 
 forest which once covered all this paved land. 
 To this, all winter long, the sparrows begin to 
 flock about four or five o'clock in the afternoon. 
 They come singly and in twos and threes until 
 the bare limbs are black with them and there 
 seems not room for another bird; but still they 
 come, each new arrival diving into the mass of 
 birds and causing a local commotion. By seven 
 o'clock there are hundreds of English sparrows 
 perching in this one tree. At daylight they are 
 off again, whirring away by scores, and in a few 
 minutes the tree is silent and empty. The same 
 
LESSONS FROM AN ENGLISH SPARROW 301 
 
 habit is to be seen in many other cities and towns, 
 for thns the birds gain mutual warmth. 
 
 Nature will do her best to diminish the number 
 of sparrows and to regain the balance, but to do 
 this the sparrow must be brought face to face with 
 as many dangers as our wild birds, and although, 
 owing to the sparrows' fearlessness of man, this 
 may never happen, yet at least the colour protec- 
 tions and other former safeguards are slowly 
 being eliminated. On almost every street we may 
 see albino or partly albino birds, such as those 
 with white tails or wings. White birds exist in a 
 wild state only from some adaptation to their sur- 
 roundings. A bird which is white simply because 
 its need of protection has temporarily ceased, 
 would become the prey of the first stray hawk 
 which crossed its path. [We cannot hope to 
 exterminate the English sparrow even by the most 
 wholesale slaughter, but if some species of small 
 Hawk or butcher bird could ever become as fear- 
 less an inhabitant of our cities as these birds, 
 their reduction to reasonable numbers would be a 
 matter of only a few months. 
 
 So dainty in plumage and hue, 
 
 A study in gray and brown, 
 How little, how little we knew 
 
 The pest he would prove to the town! 
 
 From dawn until daylight grows dim, 
 
 Perpetual chatter and scold. 
 No winter migration for him. 
 
 Not even afraid of the cold! 
 
302 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 Scarce a song-bird he fails to molest, 
 
 Belligerent, meddlesome thing! 
 Wherever he goes as a guest 
 
 He is sure to remain as a King. 
 
 Mary Isabella Forsyth. 
 
 
THE PERSONALITY OF TREES 
 
 HOW many of us think of trees almost as we 
 do of the rocks and stones about us,— as all 
 but inanimate objects, standing in the same rela- 
 tion to our earth as does the furry covering of an 
 animal to its owner. The simile might be carried 
 out more in detail, the forests protecting the con- 
 tinents from drought and flood, even as the coat 
 of fur protects its owner from extremes of heat 
 and cold. 
 
 "When w T e come to consider the tree as a living 
 individual, a form of life contemporaneous with 
 our own, and to realise that it has its birth and 
 death, its struggles for life and its periods of 
 peace and abundance, we will soon feel for it a 
 keener sympathy and interest and withal a ven- 
 eration greater than it has ever aroused in us 
 before. 
 
 Of all living things on earth, a tree binds as 
 most closely to the past. Some of the giant tor- 
 toises of the Galapagos Islands are thought to I 
 four hundred years old and are probably the 
 oldest animals on the earth. There is, however, 
 nothing to compare with the majesty and 
 grandeur of the Sequoias — the giant redwoods i 
 California— the largest of which, still living, 
 reach upward more than one hundred yards above 
 
 303 
 
304 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 the ground, and show, by the number of their 
 rings, that their life began from three to five 
 thousand years ago. Our deepest feelings of 
 reverence are aroused when we look at a tree 
 which was "one thousand years old when Homer 
 wrote the Iliad ; fifteen hundred years of age when 
 Aristotle was foreshadowing his evolution theory 
 and writing his history of animals ; two thousand 
 years of age when Christ walked upon earth; 
 nearly four thousand years of age when the 
 * Origin of Species' w T as written. Thus the life of 
 one of these trees spanned the whole period before 
 the birth of Aristotle (384 b.c.) and after the 
 death of Darwin (a.d. 1882), the two greatest nat- 
 ural philosophers who have lived.' ' 
 
 Considered not only individually, but taken as a 
 group, the Sequoias are among the oldest of the 
 old. Geologically speaking, most of the forms of 
 life now in existence are of recent origin, but a 
 full ten million of years ago these giant trees were 
 developed almost as highly as they are to-day. At 
 the end of the coal period, when the birds and 
 mammals of to-day were as yet unevolved, exist- 
 ing only potentially in the scaly, reptile-like crea- 
 tures of those days, the Sequoias waved their 
 needles high in air. 
 
 In those days these great trees were found over 
 the whole of Canada, Greenland, and Siberia, but 
 the relentless onslaught of the Ice Age wrought 
 terrible destruction and, like the giant tortoises 
 
THE PERSONALITY OF TREES 305 
 
 among reptiles, the apteryx among birds, and the 
 bison among mammals, the forlorn hope of the 
 great redwoods, making a last stand in a few 
 small groves of California, awaits total extinc- 
 tion at the hands of the most terrible of Nature's 
 enemies— man. When the last venerable giant 
 trunk has fallen, the last axe-stroke which severs 
 the circle of vital sap will cut the only thread of 
 individual life which joins in time the beating of 
 our pulses to-day with the beginning of human 
 history and philosophy, — thousands of years in 
 the past. 
 
 Through all the millions of years during which 
 the evolution of modern forms of life has been 
 going on, then as now, trees must have entered 
 prominently into the environment and lives of the 
 terrestrial animals. Ages ago, long before snakes 
 and four-toed horses were even foreshadowed, 
 and before the first bird-like creatures had ap- 
 peared, winged reptile-dragons flew about, doubt- 
 less roosting or perching on the Triassic and 
 Jurassic trees. Perhaps the very pieces of coal 
 which are burned in our furnaces once bent and 
 swayed under the weight of these bulky animals. 
 Something like six millions of years ago, long- 
 tailed, fluttering birds appeared, with lizard-like 
 claws at the bend of their wings and with jaws 
 filled with teeth. These creatures were certainly 
 arboreal, spending most of their time among the 
 branches of trees. So large were certain great 
 
306 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 sloth-like creatures that they uprooted the trees 
 bodily, in order to feed on their succulent leaves, 
 sometimes bending their trunks down until their 
 branches were within reach. 
 
 On a walk through the woods and fields to-day, 
 how seldom do we find a dead insect I When sick 
 and dying, nine out of ten are snapped up by frog, 
 lizard, or bird ; the few which die a natural death 
 seeming to disintegrate into mould within a very 
 short space of time. There is, however, one way 
 in which, through the long, long thousands of cen- 
 turies, insects have been preserved. The spicy 
 resin which flowed from the ancient pines 
 attracted hosts of insects, which, tempted by their 
 hope of food, met their death — caught and slowly 
 but surely enclosed by the viscid sap, each antenna 
 and hair as perfect as when the insect was alive. 
 Thus, in this strangely fortunate way, we may 
 know and study the insects which, millions of 
 years ago, fed on the flowers or bored into the 
 bark of trees. We have found no way to improve 
 on Nature in this respect, for to-day when we 
 desire to mount a specimen permanently for 
 microscopical work, we imbed it in Canada 
 balsam. 
 
 If suddenly the earth should be bereft of all 
 trees, there would indeed be consternation and 
 despair among many classes of animals. Although 
 in the sea there are thousands of creatures, 
 which, by their manner of life, are prohibited 
 
THE PERSONALITY OF TREES 307 
 
 from ever passing the boundary line between land 
 and water, yet many sea-worms, as for example 
 the teredo, or ship-worm, are especially fash- 
 ioned for living in and perhaps feeding on wood, 
 in the shape of stray floating trees and branches, 
 the bottoms of ships, and piles of wharves. Of 
 course the two latter are supplied by man, but 
 even before his time, floating trees at sea mu.-t 
 have been plentiful enough to supply homes for 
 the whole tribe of these creatures, unless they 
 made their burrows in coral or shells. 
 
 The insects whose very existence, in some cases, 
 depends upon trees, are innumerable. What, for 
 example, would become of the larvae of the cicada, 
 or locust, which, in the cold and darkness of their 
 subterranean life, for seventeen years suck the 
 juicy roots of trees; or the caterpillars of the 
 moths, spinning high their webs among the leaves ; 
 or the countless beetles whose grubs bore through 
 and through the trunk their sinuous, sawdusty 
 tunnels; or the ichneumon fly, which with an 
 instrument — surgical needle, file, augur, and scroll 
 saw all in one — deposits, deep below the bark, its 
 eggs in safety? If forced to compete with terres- 
 trial species, the tree spiders and scorpions would 
 quickly become exterminated; while especially 
 adapted arboreal ants would instantly disappear. 
 
 We cannot entirely exclude even fishes from our 
 list; as the absence of mangroves would inci- 
 dentally affect the climbing perch and catfishesl 
 
308 
 
 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 The newts and common toads would be in no wise 
 dismayed by the passing of the trees, but not so 
 certain tadpoles. Those of our ditches, it is true, 
 would live and flourish, but there are, in the world, 
 many curious kinds which hatch and grow up into 
 frogs in curled-up leaves or in damp places in 
 the forks of branches, and which would find them- 
 selves homeless without trees. Think, too, of the 
 poor green and brown tree frogs with their sucker 
 feet, compelled always to hop along the ground! 
 
 Lizards, from tiny swifts to sixty-inch iguanas, 
 would sorely miss the trees, while the lithe green 
 tree snakes and the tree boas would have to 
 change all their life habits in order to be able to 
 exist. But as for the cold, uncanny turtles and 
 alligators, — what are trees to them ! 
 
 In the evolution of the birds and other animals, 
 the cry of " excelsior' 9 has been followed literally 
 as well as theoretically and, with a few exceptions, 
 the highest in each class have not only risen above 
 their fellows in intelligence and structure, but 
 have left the earth and climbed or flown to the 
 tree-tops, making these their chief place of abode. 
 
 Many of the birds which find their food at sea, 
 or in the waters of stream and lake, repair to the 
 trees for the purpose of building their nests 
 among the branches. Such birds are the pelicans, 
 herons, ibises, and ospreys ; while the wood ducks 
 lay their eggs high above the ground in the hoi- 
 
THE PERSONALITY OF TREES 309 
 
 lows of trees. Parrots, kingfishers, swifts, and 
 hummingbirds are almost helpless on the ground, 
 their feet being adapted for climbing aboul tl 
 branches, perching on twigs, or clinging to the 
 
 hollows of trees. Taken as a whole, birds would 
 sutler more than any other class of creatures in a 
 deforested world. The woodpeckers would I 
 without home, food, and resting-place; except, 
 possibly, the flicker, or high-hole, who is either a 
 retrograde or a genius, whichever we may choose 
 to consider him, and could live well enough upon 
 ground ants. But as to his nest — he would have to 
 sharpen his wits still more to solve successfully 
 the question of the woodpecker motto, "What is 
 home without a hollow tree?" 
 
 Great gaps would be made'in the ranks of the 
 furry creatures — the mammals. Opossums and 
 raccoons would find themselves in an embarrass- 
 ing position, and as for the sloths, which never 
 descend to earth, depending for protection on their 
 resemblance to leaves and mossy bark, they would 
 be wiped out with one fell swoop. The arboreal 
 squirrels might learn to burrow, as so many of 
 their near relations have done, but their muscl 
 would become cramped from inactivity and their 
 eyes would often strain upward for a glimpse of 
 the beloved branches. The bats might take to 
 caves and the vampires to outhouses and dark 
 crevices in the rocks, but most of the monkeys and 
 
310 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 apes would soon become extinct, while a chim- 
 panzee or orang-utan would become a cripple, 
 swinging ever painfully along between the 
 knuckles of crutch-like forearms, searching, 
 searching forever for the trees which gave him 
 his form and structure, and without which his life 
 and that of his race must abruptly end. 
 
 Leaving the relations which trees hold to the 
 animals about them and the part which they have 
 played in the evolution of life on the earth in past 
 epochs, let us consider some of the more humble 
 trees about us. Not, however, from the standpoint 
 of the technical botanist or the scientific forester, 
 but from the sympathetic point of view of a liv- 
 ing fellow form, sharing the same planet, both 
 owing their lives to the same great source of all 
 light and heat, and subject to the same extremes 
 of heat and cold, storm and drought. How 
 wonderful, when we come to think of it, is a tree, 
 to be able to withstand its enemies, elemental and 
 animate, year after year, decade after decade, 
 although fast-rooted to one patch of earth. An 
 animal flees to shelter at the approach of gale or 
 cyclone, or travels far in search of abundant food. 
 Like the giant algae, ever waving upward from the 
 bed of the sea, which depend on the nourishment 
 of the surrounding waters, so the tree blindly 
 trusts to Nature to minister to its needs, filling its 
 leaves with the light-given greenness, and feeling 
 
THE PERSONALITY OF TREES 31 J 
 
 for nutritious salts with the sensitive tips of its 
 innumerable rootlets. 
 
 Darwin has taught us, and truly, that a relent- 
 less struggle for existence is ever going on around 
 us, and although this is most evident to our eyes 
 in a terrible death battle between two great beasts 
 of prey, yet it is no less real and intense in the 
 case of the bird pouring forth a beautiful song, or 
 the delicate violet shedding abroad its perfume. 
 To realise the host of enemies ever shadowing the 
 feathered songster and its kind, we have only to 
 remember that though four young birds may be 
 hatched in each of fifty nests, yet of the two hun- 
 dred nestlings an average often of but one lives 
 to grow to maturity, — to migrate and to return to 
 the region of its birth. 
 
 And the violet, living, apparently, such a quiet 
 life of humble sweetness? Fortunate indeed is it 
 if its tiny treasure of seeds is fertilized, and then 
 the chances are a thousand to one that they will 
 grow and ripen only to fall by the wayside, or on 
 barren ground, or among the tares. 
 
 At first thought, a tree seems far removed from 
 all such struggles. How solemn and grand its 
 trunk stands, column-like against the sky ! How 
 puny and weak we seem beside it! Its sturdy 
 roots, sound wood, and pliant branches all spell 
 power. Nevertheless, the old, old struggle is as 
 fierce, as unending, here as everywhere. A inon- 
 
312 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 arch of the forest has gained its supremacy only 
 by a lifelong battle with its own kind and with a 
 horde of alien enemies. 
 
 From the heart of the tropics to the limit of 
 tree-growth in the northland we find the battle of 
 life waged fiercely, root contending with root for 
 earth-food, branch with branch for the light which 
 means life. 
 
 In a severe wrestling match, the moments of 
 snpremest strain are those when the opponents 
 are fast-locked, motionless, when the advantage 
 comes, not with quickness, but with staying 
 power; and likewise in the struggle of tree with 
 tree the fact that one or two years, or even whole 
 decades, watch the efforts of the branches to lift 
 their leaves one above the other, detracts nothing 
 from the bitterness of the strife. 
 
 Far to the north we will sometimes find groves 
 of young balsam firs or spruce, — hundreds of the 
 same species of sapling growing so close together 
 that a rabbit may not pass between. The slender 
 trunks, almost touching each other, are bare of 
 branches. Only at the top is there light and air, 
 and the race is ever upward. One year some slight 
 advantage may come to one young tree, — some 
 delicate unbalancing of the scales of life, and that 
 fortunate individual instantly responds, reaching 
 several slender side branches over the heads of 
 his brethren. They as quickly show the effects of 
 the lessened light and forthwith the race is at an 
 
THE PERSONALITY OF TREES 313 
 
 end. The victor shoots up tall and straight, 
 stamping and choking out the lives at his Bid( . 
 surely as if his weapons were teeth and cla, 
 instead of delicate root-fibres and soughing 
 foliage. 
 
 The contest with its fellows is only the first of 
 many. The same elements which help to give ii 
 being and life are ever ready to catch it una war. 
 to rend it limb from limb, or by patient, Iod 
 continued attack bring it crashing to the very 
 dust from which sprang the seed. 
 
 We see a mighty spruce whose black leafage h; 
 waved above its fellows for a century or mor 
 paying for its supremacy by the distortion of 
 every branch. Such are to be seen clinging to the 
 rocky shores of Fundy, every branch and twig 
 curved toward the land; showing the years of 
 battling with constant gales and blizzards. Like 
 giant weather-vanes they stand, and, though the: 
 is no elasticity in their limbs and they are gnarled 
 and scarred, yet our hearts warm in admiration 
 of their decades of patient watching beside t : 
 troubled waters. For years to come they will 
 defy every blast the storm god can send against 
 them, until, one wild day, when the soil has n 
 
 scanty around the roots of one of the weak . it 
 will shiver and tremble at some terrific onslaught 
 of wind and sleet; it will fold its branches < ! 
 about it and, like the Indian chieftains, wL r- 
 haps in years past occasionally watched the wa 
 
314 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 ters by the side of the young sapling, the con- 
 quered tree will bow its head for the last time to 
 the storm. 
 
 Farther inland, sheltered in a narrow valley, 
 stands a sister tree, seeded from the same cone as 
 the storm-distorted spruce. The wind shrieks and 
 howls above the little valley and cannot enter ; but 
 the law of compensation brings to bear another 
 element, silent, gentle, but as deadly as the howl- 
 ing blast of the gale. All through the long winter 
 the snow sifts softly down, finding easy lodgment 
 on the dense-foliaged branches. From the sur- 
 rounding heights the white crystals pour down 
 until the tree groans with the massive weight. 
 Her sister above is battling with the storm, but 
 hardly a feather's weight of snow clings to her 
 waving limbs. 
 
 The compressed, down-bent branches of the val- 
 ley spruce soon become permanently bent and the 
 strain on the trunk fibres is great. At last, with a 
 despairing crash, one great limb gives way and is 
 torn bodily from its place of growth. The very 
 vitals of the tree are exposed and instantly every 
 splintered cell is filled with the sifting snow. 
 Helpless the tree stands, and early in the spring, 
 at the first quickening of summer 's growth, a salve 
 of curative resin is poured upon the wound. But 
 it is too late. The invading water has done its 
 work and the elements have begun to rot the very 
 heart of the tree. How much more to be desired is 
 
THE PERSONALITY OF TB 
 
 the manner of life and death of the & prn 
 battling to the very last ! 
 
 A beech seedling which takes root close to 
 bank of a stream has a good chance of Mirvivii. 
 since there will be no competitors on the w. 
 side and moisture and air will never fail. But 
 look at some ancient beech growing thus, whoc 
 smooth, whitened bole encloses a century of 
 growth rings. Offsetting its advantages, I 
 stream, little by little, has undermined the ma. 
 of roots and the force of annual freshets hi 
 trained them all in a down-stream direction. It 
 is an inverted reminder of the wind-mould.' 1 
 spruce. Although the stout beech props itself by 
 great roots thrown landward, yet, sooner or later, 
 the ripples will filter in beyond the centre of 
 gravity and the mighty tree will topple and mingle 
 with its shadow-double which for so many years 
 the stream has reflected. 
 
 Thus we find that while without moisture no 
 tree could exist, yet the same element often brings 
 death. The amphibious mangroves which frinf 
 the coral islands of the southern seas hardly attain 
 to the dignity of trees, but in the m) 
 depths of our southern swamps we find the 
 strangely picturesque cypresses, which defy tl 
 waters about them. One cannot say whore trunk 
 ends and root begins, but up from the sti 'it 
 slime rise great arched buttre > that the tn 
 
 seems to be supported on gian -oreight-1 d 
 
316 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 stools, between the arches of which the water 
 flows and finds no chance to use its power. Here, 
 in these lonely solitudes, — heron-haunted, snake- 
 infested, — the hanging moss and orchids search 
 out every dead limb and cover it with an un- 
 natural greenness. Here, great lichens grow and 
 a myriad tropical insects bore and tunnel their 
 way from bark to heart of tree and back again. 
 Here, in the blackness of night, when the air is 
 heavy with hot, swampy odours, and only the 
 occasional squawk of a heron or cry of some ani- 
 mal is heard, a rending, grinding, crashing, breaks 
 suddenly upon the stillness, a distant boom and 
 splash, awakening every creature. Then the 
 silence again closes down and we know that a 
 cypress, perhaps linking a trio of centuries, has 
 yielded up its life. 
 
 Leaving the hundred other mysteries which the 
 trees of the tropics might unfold, let us consider 
 for a moment the danger which the tall, success- 
 ful tree invites, — the £>enalty which it pays for 
 having surpassed all its other brethren. It pre- 
 eminently attracts the bolts of Jove and the lesser 
 trees see a blinding flash, hear a rending of heart 
 wood, and when the storm has passed, the tree, 
 before perfect in trunk, limbs, and foliage, is now 
 but a heap of charred splinters. 
 
 Many a great willow overhanging the banks of 
 a wide river could tell interesting tales of the 
 
THE PERSONALITY OF TREES 317 
 
 scars on its trunk. That lower wound was a deep 
 gash cut by some Indian, perhaps to direct a wa 
 party making their way through the untrodden 
 wilderness; this bare, unsightly patch was burnt 
 out by the signal fire of one of our forefather 
 pioneers. And so on and on the story would un- 
 fold, until the topmost, freshly sawed-off Limb had 
 for its purpose only the desire of the present 
 owner for a clearer view of the water beyond. 
 
 Finally we come to the tree best beloved of us 
 in the north,-*— the carefully grafted descendant of 
 some sour little wild crab-apple. A faithful 
 servant indeed has the monarch of the old orchard 
 proved. It has fed us and our fathers before us, 
 and its gnarled trunk and low-hanging branch 
 tell the story of the rosy fruit which has weighed 
 dow T n its limbs year after year. Old age has laid 
 a heavy hand upon it, but not until the outermost 
 twig has ceased to blossom, and its death, unlike 
 that of its wild kindred, has come silently and 
 peacefully, do we give the order to have the tre 
 felled. Even in its death it serves us, giving hack 
 from the open hearth the light and heat which it 
 has stored up throughout the summers of many 
 years. 
 
 Let us give more thought to the trees about US, 
 and when possible succour them in dial 
 straighten the bent sapling, remove the parasitic 
 lichen, and give them the best chance for a long, 
 patient, strong life. 
 
318 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 In the far North stands a Pine-tree, lone, 
 
 Upon a wintry height; 
 It sleeps; around it snows have throwa. 
 
 A covering of white. 
 
 It dreams forever of a Palm 
 
 That, far i* the morning-land, 
 Stands silent in a most sad calm 
 
 Midst of the burning sand. 
 {From the German of Heine.) Sidney Laniee. 
 
AN OWL OF THE NORTH 
 
 IT is midwinter, and from the northland a bliz- 
 zard of icy winds and swirling snow crystals 
 is sweeping with fury southward over woods ami 
 fields. We sit in our warm room before the crack- 
 ling log fire and listen to the shriek of the gale 
 and wonder how it fares with the little bundles of 
 feathers huddled among the cedar branches. 
 
 We picture to ourselves all the wild kindred 
 sheltered from the raging storm; the gray squir- 
 rels rocking in their lofty nests of leaves; the 
 chipmunks snug underground; the screech owls 
 deep in the hollow apple trees, all warm and dry. 
 
 But there are those for whom the blizzard has 
 no terrors. Far to the north on the barren wa 
 of Labrador, where the gale first comes in from 
 the sea and gathers strength as it comes, a great 
 owl flaps upward and on broad pinions, whit 
 the driving snowflakes, sweeps southward with 
 the storm. Now over ice-bound river or lake, or 
 rushing past a myriad dark spires of spruce, then 
 hovering wonderingly over a multitude of lighl 
 from the streets of some town, the strong Arc 
 bird forges southward, until one night, if we only 
 knew T , we might open our window and, looking up- 
 ward, see two great yellow eyes apparently ban 
 ing in space, the body and wings of the bird in 
 
 319 
 
320 THE LOG OF THE SUN 
 
 snow-white plumage lost amidst the flakes. We 
 thrill in admiration at the grand bird, so fearless 
 of the raging elements. 
 
 Only the coldest and fiercest storms will tempt 
 him from the north, and then not because he fears 
 snow or cold, but in order to keep within reach of 
 the snowbirds which form his food. He seeks for 
 places where a less severe cold encourages small 
 birds to be abroad, or where the snow's crust is 
 less icy, through which the field mice may bore 
 their tunnels, and run hither and thither in the 
 moonlight, pulling down the weeds and cracking 
 their frames of ice. Heedless of passing clouds, 
 these little rodents scamper about, until a darker, 
 swifter shadow passes, and the feathered talons 
 of the snowy owl close over the tiny, shivering 
 bundle of fur. 
 
 Occasionally after such a storm, one may come 
 across this white owl in some snowy field, hunt- 
 ing in broad daylight; and that must go down as 
 a red-letter day, to be remembered for years. 
 
 What would one not give to know of his adven- 
 tures since he left the far north. What stories he 
 could tell of hunts for the ptarmigan, — those 
 Arctic fowl, clad in plumage as white as his own; 
 or the little kit foxes, or the seals and polar bears 
 playing the great game of life and death among 
 the grinding icebergs ! 
 
 His visit to us is a short one. Comes the first 
 hint of a thaw and he has vanished like a melting 
 
AN OWL OF THE NORTH 821 
 
 snowflake, back to his home and his male. Th 
 in a hollow in the half -frozen Iceland moss, in 
 February, as many as ten fuzzy little snowy 
 owlets may grow up in one nest, — all as hardy and 
 beautiful and brave as their great fierce-ej 
 parents. 
 
 THE END 
 
 nOKurr UBMAMTi 
 
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