Part 12

I noticed one night that the crow in the tree, as soon as he saw me, called out, "Caw-caw," and in a short time repeated the call. He had told his mates that the hermit was coming. My path passed within fifty feet of the crows, but they did not fly away. They had long ago found that I was not to be feared. Sometimes I had company, and the sentinel would then give the danger-call, "Cur-cur-cur," and the crows would fly away before we got in sight. I had this experience throughout the summer, so there could be no mistake.

This fall a young crow became quite familiar. He would call to me in the woods, "Caw-caw," and often fly near me. The old crows seemed to think he was in danger, or they thought he was departing from the ways of the fathers, and they always drove him away. They would beat him with their wings until he was forced into flight to save himself. This young crow had found food in my dooryard, and had heard the older crows say that "Caw-caw" was harmless, so he wanted to be friendly, no doubt with an eye to the food supply. I experimented with this fellow, in hopes that I could tame him, and learn from him and his mates something of the crow language.

As added to my knowledge of the young crow he proved to be a failure. I am now convinced that this youngster is not of sound mind. He utters the cry of a young crow, when calling for food, which shows that he has not acquired the crow language. The only exception to this rule is when he calls to me. Somehow he has been taught by other crows that my name is "Caw-caw," and whenever he sees me he calls out in an eager manner. Sometimes he steals away from his mates and comes to my dooryard. The crows hear him when he calls to me, and rush in, and with loud cries drive him into the woods.

There is another crow that "gobbles," and I have made up my mind that he is unable to utter the common cries of other crows.

A few years ago I followed this crow for two days. Not a sound escaped him other than the loud gobble. After this, I saw many things that convinced me that the crow was deaf and dumb.

There is another deaf and dumb crow about four miles away. He is located on the line between Gloucester and Essex.

Five years ago a Mr. Clark, a resident of Gloucester, told me about the last-named crow. Mr. Clark was ninety years of age. He was as straight and vigorous as a young man, and possessed a fund of amusing stories. He told how, when he went to his farm and found the crows pulling up his grain, the sentinel would call out, "Clark, Clark, Clark," and then another crow would cry, "Bother-the-luck, bother-the-luck."

In the winter months the crows visit the clam-flats for food. A sentinel is sent down to the woods, overlooking the flats, and when the tide goes out, this sentinel returns, and, flying in a circle above the pines, calls out "Caw-caw-caw," continuing the cry until he has completed the circuit.

This cry can be translated into "Come-come-come," or, "Clams-clams-clams." Anyhow, the crows understand, and a sentinel flies to a pine-tree just south of my cabin. Another drops into a large oak-tree on the hill looking to the east. Two more sentinels seek trees for observation, one near the clam-flats. The crow near the flats calls out "Caw-caw-caw," which means "All is well." The next sentinel takes up the call, and thus it is carried to crows in the woods. The latter fly to the sentinel-trees, if there is nothing to create fear. If a man should approach either sentinel with or without a gun, the danger-cry would be rapidly uttered. This cry "Cur-cur-cur," is usually quickly repeated, and the crows rush to the shelter of the pines.

Like human beings, crows have courts of justice. The jury, however, tries, convicts, and punishes the criminal. Sometimes I have witnessed these trials. Once, while sitting under a sentinel-tree, I saw six crows flying across the swamp, headed for the tree. Five of the crows were striking at one crow that was evidently trying to escape. When the crows reached the tree, the criminal was surrounded by the others. This was not to his liking, and he flew to an upper limb. One of the crows said something to him, and he answered in a loud, defiant tone. For ten minutes the trial went on. Each crow had something to say, while the criminal replied in the most aggressive style. At last the criminal seemed to be convicted, when he flew away with a string of caws that doubtless, in crow language, meant, "Go to hades, the whole blooming lot of you." One old crow shouted "Car-r-r-r-r," as much as to say, "I told you so," The crows followed the criminal, and as they disappeared in the deep woods beyond the swamp, they were making it extremely warm for him. I do not know how the matter ended, but I am satisfied that the bad crow received severe punishment.

I have read in books relating to natural history, that crows are in the habit of playing games. I can only say from my observation that crows take life very seriously. I have seen nothing like play in a lifetime of careful watching.

Courting is a serious business. The male rushes at his intended, mauling her, while he utters loud cries, in which he rolls his r's in the most approved stage style. When he has forced the young lady to say "yes," they are mated for life. Then he becomes tender in his attentions. He will sit for a half-hour or more, singing the crow love-song. It is not much of a song, but it is the best he can do. He draws his beak down to his breast while he utters liquid notes that remind one of the suction of a wooden pump.

This spring the king-birds returned to Bond's Hill, and I hope they will nest near by. If they do, the crows and hawks will have to walk Spanish. Last season the crows destroyed many birds'-nests in the woods in the immediate vicinity of my cabin. One pair of robins had four nests looted. Only two towhee-buntings were reared, and two nests of the chestnut-sided warbler escaped. The destruction in so small an area shows how fearful the havoc must be on a large territory.

If the king-birds do not nest near by, I shall continue the study of the crow at the muzzle of the shotgun, in defence of the song-birds that inhabit the woods around me.

Those that praise the crow can have but little knowledge of his destructive habits.

I sleep in the open air eight months of the twelve, and the crows awake me each morning before it is fairly light. For a half-hour or more they keep up a conversation in the crow language. They seem to be debating and laying out a programme for the day.

They must have a crow almanac, for they know all about the tides. If the tide is out in the morning they seek the clam-flats without a report from a scout. At this early hour they make the flight without posting sentinels. If it is high water they go down to the seashore to see what the tide has brought in.

It is generally supposed that crows utter but one note, or cry, a loud caw. The fact is the crow language is not confined to one note, for "ker" is heard as frequently as "caw."

The cries of the crow can be modulated to express many of the feelings common to the human voice.

In the old times, when I killed crows right and left, I often threw dead birds into my cabin dooryard. If a crow passed over, his sharp eyes always discovered his dead comrades, and he would immediately circle above the bodies, repeating several times a cry, "ker-r-r-r," which most vividly expressed horror and indignation.

IX.

LIFE IN THE WOODS

The first years of my hermit life were passed rambling the woods of Ward Eight, Rockport, Essex, and Manchester. I bought a double-barrel shotgun, not on account of the game to be found in the woods, but because I was told of the wonderful duck shooting in Ipswich Bay.

For three years there was a great supply of acorns, and gray squirrels swarmed in the woods of the Cape. The next four years were years of famine to all animal life that depended on acorns. The gray squirrels died off by hundreds, and the second year the most of the survivors migrated. Two years ago there was a great crop of sweet acorns, and some of the gray squirrels returned. As last year was a nut year for bitter acorns, the squirrels would have become plentiful if it had not been for the gunners.

Ward Eight has been cursed by a State law. Rockport and the seven wards of Gloucester, on the east side of Annisquam River, and the town of Essex on the west, were given a close time on all kinds of land game for five years. Ward Eight was the only outlet for the gunners in a population of forty-five thousand. Every living thing wearing fur or feathers was shot at, song and insectivorous birds as well as lawful game. Almost total extermination has been the result of this unwise legislation.

One of my first ventures was a flower garden. I had trailed a few vines over the cabin, and had planted a small bed of favorite garden flowers. The summer visitors offered to buy the flowers, and I saw an opening for another year. I cleared away a small spot for a garden, and made me a hotbed, so the next year, and for the seven following years, I drove a thriving trade in cut flowers. This flower business did not leave me much time for gadding the woods.

The care and sale of flowers, and my last trip to Ipswich Bay, decided me to discard my gun. The study of the wild things at the muzzle of a shotgun did not give me the satisfaction I thought I could obtain in some other way. I found the Bay shooting was expensive, and the birds, which were mostly coots, were not edible so far as I was concerned.

My last trip to Ipswich Bay convinced me that I did not care for such unsatisfactory dangerous sport. I had engaged a young man, and he had hired a gunning boat and decoys for one day. We embarked at the Cut Bridge about midnight. We rowed down the stream, and at daylight crossed the bar at the mouth of the river. While we were crossing the bar I saw several boats returning. I hailed the nearest to find out why they were coming back. "Too much wind," was the answer.