Part 9

My route to the city was along the deserted old highway. When I had climbed the first hill (where my new cabin now stands), I could overlook a rugged territory where the fire and axe had exterminated the large trees, leaving a low, shrubby growth, just suited to the needs of the birds. The songs of the catbird, towhee-bunting, and robin were heard here, and, strange to tell, in a distant corner of the territory, could be heard the loud carol of the song-sparrow. A few pairs of these birds had changed their nesting site from pasture to shrub-land. I knew that these sparrows were descendants of my pet birds, Wabbles and his first wife. They were born in the woods, and so reared their children in the same surroundings.

The frog-pond was just beyond the hill, and when the toads and frogs did not drown their music, birds could be heard singing from morning till night during the nesting season.

There was a colony of Maryland yellowthroats near this spot, and the sprightly song could be heard from May 1st to the middle of July. I have heard the song in September.

A short distance from the frog-pond, on the left, there is another pond, or shoal bog, where frogs and red-winged blackbirds appear to own the earth or water. Still farther along the old highway, on the right, there is a walled-in territory, called the "Sheep Pasture." I think I could carry the grass in this so-called pasture in my hands. A mass of boulders and bed-rock, set off by barberry-bushes, comprises the view, but this rugged pasture (?) is the home of the field-sparrow (Spizella agrestis). This sparrow is not so common as the song-sparrow and bay-winged bunting.

I consider it a rare treat to listen to this sweet singer. I made it a practice, during the season of song, to stop by this old pasture, not only to hear the sparrow, but a brown thrush as well. The thrush occupied the other side of the old highway, and when he saw me coming, he would mount to the top of a small tree and sing so long as I remained to listen.

Farther along on the old road, a pair of redstarts could be found every spring. The male did his singing in a wild apple-tree. From this spot, down "Slaughter-house Hill," to Western Avenue, I found song-sparrows to be the prevailing bird. There were a few chestnut-sided warblers, robins, and catbirds.

The birds I have mentioned, that nest along the old road, look upon me with friendly eyes as I pass. When they return in the spring, they give a greeting which I understand, because the notes are in a higher key, and are never repeated through the summer. While passing daily over the road I have made it a practice to talk to the birds, so many of them, not all, greet me as before mentioned.

The brown thrush is usually more demonstrative than other birds. His greeting is almost like the shrill cry of a small boy. Two years ago, when rounding a turn in the old road, I saw four thrushes before me. I stopped to observe them, when I heard behind me the laugh of a boy. I glanced back, but saw no one. Again I heard the laugh, and this time I located the sound over the wall, and started to call, when a male thrush flew to the top of a small cherry-tree, and, after laughing as before, gave me a song. This thrush was my old friend just returned from the South, and when he saw me looking at his mates, he called out to let me know where to find him.

Along Western Avenue the tall elms harbored many singers. The Baltimore orioles' loud notes could be heard above other bird-songs. Linnets, chipping-sparrows, bluebirds, and bay-winged-buntings were scattered along the route to the city. When I had reached the sea-wall, the gulls were the birds to attract my attention. Some were seen skimming the surface of the water, while others were anchored in large rafts. The gulls appeared to be fearless, and swung to and fro near the beach, but, just the same, the crafty birds did not approach near enough for a shot. They knew how far the modern gun could shoot, and gauged their flight accordingly. Whenever one desired to cross the highway to the marshes beyond, it would rise above gunshot before making the attempt. Besides the keen sense which the gulls possess, they carry themselves with true dignity.

From the first of April to the middle of November I looked every morning for my "lone fisherman." There was a stake near the drawbridge which a belted kingfisher had preëmëpted. For six years this feathered fisherman held that stake, while he had to face almost all the travel in and out of the city. The nest was in a clay-bank that overhung the beach near Stage Fort.

It is needless for me to tell that I derived great pleasure from my daily association with the birds that nested along my route to the city.

The hardships which I have mentioned were encountered in the winter months, when storms prevailed. Cold starlight mornings were my delight. If there was snow on the ground it added a new pleasure. I always enjoyed the keen, cutting air. Sometimes there were storms in the morning with rain or snow. At times, the wind would blow such a furious gale on the Cut, that it would make it nearly impossible to reach my haven. When safely housed at last, I always felt satisfied with myself, because of my victory over the elements. One storm forced me to remain in the city overnight. The storm had died out, but had created a sea such as is seldom seen even on the Cape. I went over to Bass Rocks, to see the waves break, and did not get back to Western Avenue until near night. I found the street full of snow and sea-water. I waded nearly to the drawbridge and then mounted the sea-wall. I soon found that the large waves broke over the wall, and with force enough to wash me overboard, so I turned back. The street was closed to travel afterward, by the city officials.

During the summer weather I saw many strange sights when taking my morning walk. One morning, a pasture-rabbit tore along the old road as if he were racing for life. He passed me without turning his head, and was out of sight around a turn in the path before I had recovered from my surprise. While I was looking, he came back, jumping high and long; after he had got by the turn, and nearly to my feet, he gave a great jump sideways, and landed in a clump of weeds. Just then a stoat came in sight on the rabbit's trail. His leaps were not expended in the air, but were swift, long, and near the ground. It was evident that the poor rabbit had no chance to escape from such a supple, bloodthirsty foe without help. When the stoat was out of sight, the rabbit again took to the road. He passed me, then turned into the woods. Whether he knew it or not, it was the best thing to do. It left the hermit to face his relentless foe. Perhaps the birds had told the rabbit that the hermit was a friend. The stoat came back, hunting both sides of the road. He understood just how he had been tricked. When he found the trail in the weeds, he circled around until satisfied that the rabbit had returned to the road. When we met, he seemed surprised, but he tried to pass, spitting spitefully to frighten me. I drove him back, and managed to keep him from the rabbit's trail until it was too cold to follow.

I expect that this rescue established my reputation with the rabbits, for from time to time they came into my dooryard when chased by a mink or stoat. Whenever it occurs on Sunday there are visitors present, who are invariably excited for the welfare of the rabbit.

The stoat is the large weasel. It turns white in the winter, and is then the ermine.

Of all the incidents that happened during my morning walks, there is one that I cannot explain without resorting to a belief in hypnotism. I was on the way to the city when a turn in the path brought into sight a large mink, apparently coal-black. His peculiar actions caught my attention first, but soon I saw a ruffed grouse about twelve feet beyond the mink. Every feather on the grouse stood up, causing the bird to look as large as a small turkey. The mink was making figure eights, moving from side to side of the grassy path, which was over five feet in width. His movements were so rapid the eye could see only a black streak. While I could not see the mink move toward the grouse, I saw that the distance between them grew less quite rapidly. Feeling sure that the grouse was doomed, for it seemed unable to do anything but follow the rapid motion of the mink, I stepped forward and gave a shout. The grouse flew away, and the mink turned on me and let out a yell that was fierce and loud enough for a tiger. He acted as if he meant to attack me, but thought better of it, and ran into a stone wall. From this safe retreat he yelled while I was in sight. This case puzzled me. It appeared almost impossible that such a wary, muscular bird as the grouse could be hypnotized. The mink was surely but slowly nearing the grouse when I interfered. I am sorry I did not remain quiet, and so find out if the grouse was able to fly away before the danger-point was reached. As it is, I remain in doubt.

Returning from the city one morning in October, I turned off the old highway into the woods. I thought that some of the wood-folk would notice my visit and reward me with gossip for my note-book. I stopped to rest near a red squirrel's nest. The nest was in the top of a tall hemlock-tree and I was on the ground, but the proprietor knew I could climb, and so was eager to drive me away. He did not dare to attack me, for I suppose that sometime in his life he had worked the idea through his little head that man was too big and powerful to be whipped by a red squirrel, but he did the next thing. He flew into a passion and abused me in the expressive and vehement language common to this squirrel. He would run out on the limbs over my head and dance himself into a frenzy, and chatter and bark and shriek as if that would drive me away. He was wound up for a half-hour. After he had run down, he stretched out on a limb and silently watched me. Soon after, I heard a slight rustling of leaves, and a gray squirrel appeared from the underbrush with an acorn in his mouth. The red saw the gray, but remained silent. The gray squirrel selected a spot and proceeded to bury the nut. When he had finished and was patting the dirt down, the red set up a great laugh. The gray cast one look aloft, and instantly his little paws were making the dirt fly. In less time than it takes me to write it, he had dug up the nut and had disappeared. I don't think the red squirrel thought to appropriate the nut. I think he enjoyed the joke which was on the gray. I know that I did.

A thaw in the winter made trouble for me outside of the sloppy walking. It brought out the skunk family, and each individual skunk thought he owned the old highway, and he did, when I met him. Many and many times I have had to climb through snow, or over ledges, to give the right of way to some sleepy old fraud, that did not know enough about man to be afraid of him.

One evening I went to the well for water, and left the cabin door open. When I returned, I saw a big skunk climbing over the door-sill. I shouted, in hopes to make him turn back, but he looked at me as much as to say, "Hermit, you are out," and so I was. It was a cold, drizzly evening, and I was in my shirt-sleeves. It was a good half-hour before the scamp had satisfied himself that my stores were locked up. I was glad that he did not try his teeth on my cupboard. In that case I should have had to stop out all night.

VI.

THE WHITE-FOOTED MOUSE

The white-footed mouse, unlike the house mouse, is a handsome fellow. He sports a chestnut coat, a white vest, reddish brown trousers, and white stockings. His eyes and ears are uncommonly large, causing his head to resemble a deer's in miniature. This resemblance has bestowed upon him the name of "deer-mouse." He is also called "wood-mouse," but is known to science as Hesperomys leucopus.

My object in writing about these mice is to call attention to their peculiar method of communication. I have summered and wintered them over fifteen years, and never have I heard one of them utter a vocal sound. They communicate with each other by drumming with their fore feet, or, rather, they drum with their toes, for the foot in the act is held rigid while the toes move.

If any writer has called attention to this peculiar method of communication, it has escaped my reading. I am well satisfied that the habit has never been published before, so it must prove interesting to those who pry into the secrets of Dame Nature.

The white-footed mouse has taken possession of my cabin. Until a year ago the mice were kept in check by stoats, but for some reason the stoats have failed to appear, and the mice are increasing rapidly. I find their nests in every nook and corner. I go bareheaded the most of the time, so it happens that when I do need a hat I find it occupied by an enterprising mouse and her family. Now a few mice for company in the winter evenings would not be objectionable, but I draw the line when they become so numerous that I am forced to eat and sleep with them. They are too cunning and intelligent to be kept in check by traps. I have tried all kinds of traps, only to find them useless. Last winter I bought a wire rat-trap--the kind with a trencher that tips and slides the rat into the space below. The trap was a failure. The mice were highly delighted with the contrivance, and from the first used the trencher as a door leading into and out of the trap.

How does it happen that these shy inhabitants of the woods are more intelligent than the cunning citrat?

Some writers tell us that the lower animals cannot reason. In such case it ought to be an easy matter for man to outwit a lot of foolish little mice. I tried the experiment by fixing a wire to the trencher in such a way as to give me full control. When the mice were engaged on the food in the trap I pulled my wire and made it fast. The next morning my prisoners numbered twenty-eight. I was about to drown the lot, when several pets clung to the upper wires of the trap, and the mute appeal in their great wild eyes softened my foolish heart, and I thought it would be more humane to lose them in the woods. I carried them nearly a mile from the cabin, and turned them out near some big boulders. I left a supply of food, and promised myself to feed them from time to time. Two nights later they were all back in the cabin. Upon investigation I found that they had followed my footsteps. I could see their tracks in the snow where they had trooped along in short journeys. At the end of each journey the tracks would disappear under a boulder or a tree, only to appear again, but always heading for the cabin.

I baited and fixed the trap, while the mice scampered about, evidently celebrating their return. I told them plainly that this was their last night on earth; that I had outwitted them once and would now outwit them again. But all my boasting came to naught. Not a mouse would enter that trap while the wire was on the trencher. The third night I removed the wire, and the mice entered the trap without fear.