But there is much to admire in the Sparrow. I do not know of any bird that is braver, or more ready to find a way out of trouble; and if he cannot find a way, he cheerfully makes the best of it.
Some years ago I was at Duluth during a bitterly cold spell of weather. The thermometer registered 20° or 30° below zero, and the blizzard wind was blowing. Oh my, it was cold. But out in the street were dozens of English Sparrows chirruping and feeding; thriving just as they do in warmer lands and in fine weather.
When black night came down, colder yet, I wondered what the little stout-hearts would do. Crawl into some hole or bird-house, maybe? or dive into a snowdrift? as many native birds do.
I found out; and the answer was most unexpected.
In front of the hotel was a long row of electric lights. At nine o'clock, when I chanced to open the window for a breath of air, my eye fell on these; on every bulb was an English Sparrow sound asleep with the overarching reflector to turn the storm, and the electric bulb below him to warm his toes. My hat is off. Our Department of Agriculture may declare war on the Sparrow; but what is the use? Don't you think that a creature who is not afraid of blizzard or darkness, and knows how to use electric lights, is going to win its life-battle, and that he surely is here to stay?
TALE 55
Tracks, and the Stories They Tell
Tracks, and the Stories They Tell
Sometimes, in town, just after rain, when the gutters are wet, and the pavement dry, look for the tracks of some Dog that walked with wet feet on the pavement. You will find that they are like "a" in the drawing. A Dog has five toes on his front feet, but only four touch the pavement as he walks. The claws also touch, and make each a little mark.
Now look for the track of a Cat; it is somewhat like that of the Dog, but it is smaller, softer, and the claws do not show (b). They are too good to be wasted on a pavement; she keeps them pulled in, so they are sharp when she has use for them.
Make a drawing of each of these, and make it life size.
When there is dust on the road, or snow, look for Sparrow tracks; they are like "c."
Note how close together the front three toes are. The inner two are really fast together, so they cannot be separated far and the hind toe is very large. Last of all, note that the tracks go two and two, because the Sparrow goes "hop hop, hop." These things mean that the Sparrow is really a tree bird; and you will see that, though often on the ground he gets up into a tree when he wishes to feel safe.
Look for some Chicken tracks in the dust; they are like "d" in the drawing because the Chicken does not go "hop, hop, hop" like the Sparrow, but "walk, walk, walk." The Chicken is a ground bird. Most of the song birds hop like the Sparrow, and most of the game birds walk like a Chicken. But the Robin (e) goes sometimes hopping and sometimes running, because part of his life is in the trees, and part on the ground.
TALE 56
A Rabbit's Story of His Life, Written by Himself
Yes, the Rabbit wrote it himself and about himself in the oldest writing on earth, that is the tracks of his feet.
A WOODCRAFT TRAGEDY
As shown by the Tracks and Signs in the Snow
In February of 1885, one morning after a light snowfall, I went tramping through the woods north of Toronto, when I came on something that always makes me stop and look—the fresh tracks of an animal. This was the track of a Cottontail Rabbit and I followed its windings with thrills of interest. There it began under a little brush pile (a); the bed of brown leaves showing that he settled there, before the snow-fall began. Now here (b) he leaped out after the snow ceased, for the tracks are sharp, and sat looking around. See the two long marks of his hind feet and in front the two smaller prints of his front feet; behind is the mark made by his tail, showing that he was sitting on it.
Then he had taken alarm at something and dashed off at speed (c), for now his hind feet are tracking ahead of the front feet, as in most bounding forefoots, and the faster he goes, the farther ahead those hind feet get.
See now how he dodged about here and there, this way and that, among the trees, as though trying to escape some dreaded enemy (c, d, e, f).
But what enemy? There are no other tracks, and still the wild jumping went on.
I began to think that the Rabbit was crazy, flying from an imaginary foe; possibly that I was on the track of a March Hare. But at "g" I found on the trail for the first time a few drops of blood. That told me that the Rabbit was in real danger but gave no clue to its source.
At "h" I found more blood and at "j" I got a new thrill, for there, plain enough on each side of the Rabbit track, were finger-like marks, and the truth dawned on me that these were the prints of great wings. The Rabbit was fleeing from an eagle, a hawk, or an owl. Some twenty yards farther "k" I found in the snow the remains of the luckless Rabbit partly devoured. Then I knew that the eagle had not done it, for he would have taken the Rabbit's body away, not eaten him up there. So it must have been a hawk or an owl. I looked for something to tell me which, and I got it. Right by the Rabbit's remains was the large twin-toed track (l) that told me that an owl had been there, and that therefore he was the criminal. Had it been a hawk the mark would have been as shown in the left lower corner, three toes forward and one back, whereas the owl usually sets his foot with two toes forward and two backward, as in the sketch. This, then, I felt sure was the work of an owl. But which owl? There were two, maybe three kinds in that valley. I wished to know exactly and, looking for further evidence, I found on a sapling near by a big soft, downy, owlish feather (m) with three brown bars across it; which told me plainly that a Barred Owl or Hoot Owl had been there recently, and that he was almost certainly the killer of the Cottontail.
This may sound like a story of Sherlock Holmes among the animals—a flimsy tale of circumstantial evidence. But while I was making my notes, what should come flying through the woods but the Owl himself, back to make another meal, no doubt. He alighted on a branch just above my head, barely ten feet up, and there gave me the best of proof, next to eye witness of the deed, that all I had gathered from the tracks and signs in the snow was quite true.
I had no camera in those days, but had my sketch book, and as he sat, I made a drawing which hangs to-day among my pictures that are beyond price.
Here, then, is a chapter of wild life which no man saw, which man could not have seen, for the presence of a man would have prevented it. And yet we know it was true, for it was written by the Rabbit himself.
If you have the seeing eye, you will be able to read many strange and thrilling happenings written for you thus in the snow, the mud, and even the sand and the dust.
TALE 57
The Singing Hawk
Listen, Guide and young folk, I want to add another bird to your list to-day; another secret of the woods to your learning.
I want you to know the Singing Hawk. Our nature writers nearly always make their hawks scream, but I want you to know a wonderful Hawk, right in your own woods, that really and truly sings, and loves to do it.
It is a long time ago since I first met him. I was going past a little ravine north of Toronto, on a bright warm mid-winter day, when a loud call came ringing down the valley and the bird that made it, a large hawk, appeared, sailing and singing, kee-o, kee-o, kee-o, kee-o, kee-o, kee-ye-o, ky-ye-o, ky-oodle, ky-oodle, kee-o, kee-o and on; over and over again, in a wild-wood tone that thrilled me. He sailed with set wings to a near-by tree, and ceased not his stirring call; there was no answer from the woods, but there was a vibrant response in my heart. It moved me through and through. How could it do so much, when it was so simple? I did not know how to tell it in words, but I felt it in my boyish soul. It expressed all the wild-wood life and spirit, the joy of living, the happy brightness of the day, the thrill of the coming spring, the glory of flight; all, all it seemed to voice in its simple ringing, "kee-o, kee-o, kee-o, kee-yi-o"; never before had I seen a bird so evidently rejoicing in his flight; then singing, it sailed away from sight; but the song has lingered ever since in the blessed part of my memory. I often heard it afterward, and many times caught the Blue-jay in a feeble imitation of its trumpet note. I never forgot the exact timbre of that woodland call; so when at length, long after, I traced it to what is known in books as the "Red-shouldered Hawk," it was a little triumph and a little disappointment. The books made it all so commonplace. They say it has a loud call like "kee-o"; but they do not say that it has a bugle note that can stir your very soul if you love the wild things, and voices more than any other thing on wings the glory of flight, the blessedness of being alive.