Читать книгу: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 03, No. 17, March, 1859», страница 8
THE WATERFALL
Down across the green and sunny meadow,
Where the grass hangs thick with glistening dew,—
In the birch-wood's flickering light and shadow,
Where, between green leaves, the sun shines through,—
Plunging deeper in the wood's dark coolness,
Where the path grows rougher and more steep,
Where the trees stand thick in leafy fulness,
And the moss lies green in shadows deep:—
Hark! the wind amid the tree-tops rushing
In a sudden gust along the hills!—
No,—the leaves are still,—'tis water gushing
From some hidden haunt of mountain-rills.
Upward through the rugged pathway struggling,
Loud and louder yet the music grows;
Near and nearer still, the water's gurgling
Guides me where o'er moss-grown rocks it flows.
Breathless, for its welcome coolness thirsting,
On I haste, led by the rushing sound,
Till upon my full sight sudden bursting,
Lo, the forest's hidden treasure found!
See the gathered waters madly leaping,
Plunging from the rocks in headlong chase,
Boiling, eddying, whirling, downward sweeping
All that meets them in their foaming race!
From the broken waters riseth ever,
Fresh and cool, a soft and cloud-like spray;
And where through the boughs slant sunbeams quiver,
On the mist the sudden rainbows play.
On a branch high o'er the torrent swinging
Sits a bird, with joyful-swelling throat;—
Only to the eye and heart he's singing;
Through the roar below I hear no note.
All the forest seems as if enchanted,
Seems to lie in wondrous stillness bound;
Hushed its voices, silenced and supplanted,
Interwoven with this ceaseless sound.
Gazing on the whirl of waters meeting,
Dizzy with its rush, I stand and dream,
Till it almost seems my own heart's beating,
And no more the voice of mountain-stream.
THE WINTER-BIRDS
We are prone to set an extraordinary value upon all sources of pleasure that arrive in a season when they are few and unexpected. Hence the peculiar charm of the early flowers of spring, and of those equally delightful flowers that come up to cheer the short and melancholy days of November. The winter-birds, though they do not sing, are, on the same account, particularly interesting. The Chicadees and the little speckled Woodpeckers, that tarry with us in midwinter, and make the still cold days lively and cheerful by their merry voices, are, in animated nature, what flowers would be in inanimate nature, if they were found blooming under the snow. Nature does not permit, at any season, an entire dearth of those sources of enjoyment that spring from observation of the external world; and as there are evergreen mosses and ferns that supply in winter the places of the absent flowers, in like manner there are chattering birds that linger in the wintry woods; and Nature has multiplied the echoes at this season, that their few and feeble voices may be repeated by their lively responses among the hills.
To those who look upon Nature with the feelings of a poet or a painter, we need not speak of the value of the winter-birds as enliveners of the landscape. Any circumstance connected with scenery, that exercises our feelings of benevolence, adds to the picturesque charms of a prospect; and no man can see a little bird, or any other animal, at this time, without feeling a lively interest in its welfare. The sight of a flock of Snow-Buntings descending, like a shower of meteors, upon a field of grass, and eagerly devouring the seeds contained in its drooping pannicles that extend above the snow-drifts,—of a company of Crows rejoicing with noisy sociability over some newly-discovered feast in the pine-wood,—of the party-colored Woodpeckers winding round the trees and hammering upon their trunks,—all these, and many other sights and sounds, are associated with our ideas of the happiness of these creatures; and while our benevolent feelings are thus agreeably exercised, the objects that cause our emotions add a positive charm to the dreary aspects of winter. These reflections have always led me to regard the birds and other interesting animals as having a value to mankind not to be estimated in dollars and cents, and which is entirely independent of any services they may render to the farmer or the orchardist by preventing the over-multiplication of noxious insects.
The greater number of small birds that remain in northern latitudes during winter, except the Woodpeckers and their congeners, are such as subsist chiefly upon seeds. Those insectivorous species that gather their food chiefly from the ground are under a particular necessity of migrating. Hence the common Robin, living entirely on insects and a little fruit, that serves him rather as a dessert than as substantial fare, a bird that never feeds upon grain or seeds of any kind, but devours the insects that are found upon the surface of the soil, cannot subsist in our latitude, except in open winters. During such favorable seasons, the Robins are able to collect vast quantities of dormant insects from the open ground. These birds always endeavor to keep on the outside of extensive snows; and if in any year, very early in November, a large quantity of snow should fall in the latitude of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, while north of it the ground remained uncovered, the Robins would be retarded in their journey and tarry with us in unusual numbers. A great many of them must perish of hunger, or be reduced to the necessity of feeding on the berries of the Viburnum and Juniper, should they be overtaken by an extensive and enduring snow that cuts off their journey of emigration.
The Woodpeckers and their allied species, though insectivorous, are not thus affected by the winter. Gathering all their food, consisting of larvae and insects, from the bark and wood of trees, the snow cannot conceal it or place it beyond their reach. The quantity of this kind of food is less than in summer, but the birds can obtain it with about the same facility at all times, because other species of birds are diminished, which in summer divide with them this spoil. Hence, Woodpeckers, Creepers, and Tomtits do not migrate. They simply scatter more widely over the country, instead of keeping in the woods, and thus accommodate themselves to their more limited supplies of food. The Swallow tribes, that catch their food in the air, are the first to migrate, because the swarms of insects are vastly diminished by the early frosts of autumn.
It is not often that we are led to reflect upon the extreme loneliness that would prevail in all solitary places in winter, were all the birds to migrate at this season to a warmer climate, or to sink into a state of torpidity, like frogs, dormice, and other small animals. But Nature, to preserve the pleasantness of this season, has endowed certain birds with power to endure the severest cold, and with the faculty of providing for their wants at a time when it would seem that there was not sustenance enough among the hidden stores of the season to keep them from starvation. The woodman, however insensible he may be to the charms of all such objects, is gladdened and encouraged in his toils by the sight of these sprightly creatures, some of which, like the Jay and the Woodpecker, are adorned with the most beautiful plumage, and are all pleasantly garrulous, filling the otherwise silent woods with constant and vociferous merriment.
In my early days, for the supposed benefit of my health, I passed a winter in Tennessee, and, being unoccupied, except with my studies, I spent a great portion of my time in botanical and zoölogical excursions in the woods adjoining the city of Nashville. It was during that season I experienced the full power of the winter-birds to give life and beauty to the scenes of Nature; for, though not one was heard to sing, they seemed as active and as full of merriment as in the early summer. The birds that most particularly attracted my attention at this time were the Woodpeckers, of which several species were very numerous. Conspicuous among them was the Pileated Woodpecker, (Picus pilcaius,) a bird with rusty-black plumage, a red crest and moustaches, and a white stripe on each side of the neck,—one of the largest of the tribe. His loud croaking note was heard at all times in the deep woods, and his great size and his frequent hammering upon the resounding boles of the trees attracted every one's attention.
A more beautiful, but smaller species, was the Redheaded Woodpecker, (P. erythrocephalus,) with head, neck, and throat of crimson, and other parts of his plumage variously marked with white and changeable blue. This species, though never seen in Eastern Massachusetts, is a common resident in this latitude, west of the Green-Mountain range. The birds of this species were very numerous, during my excursions, and the woods were constantly flushing with their bright colors as they flitted among the trees. They were sometimes joined by another species, hardly less beautiful, the Redbreasted Woodpecker (P. Caroliniensis).
It is impossible to describe the charm which these birds afforded to the otherwise solitary woods. The loud croaking of the Log-cock, the cackling screams of the Redheaded Woodpecker, and the solemn, tolling note of the Redbreast, blended with the occasional cooing of Turtle-doves, formed a sylvan charm, that made my winter-rambles, at this period, as interesting as any I ever pursued in summer or autumn.
In our latitude, after the first flight of snow has covered the ground, the winter-birds, pressed by hunger, are compelled to make extensive forages in quest of food. Hence our attention is more closely attracted to them at this time, as many parties of them will visit our neighborhood in the course of the day, when if no snow had fallen, they would have confined themselves to a more limited range. One of the most attractive sights on such occasions is caused by the flocks of Snow-Buntings, which are particularly gregarious in their habits. In Sweden they are called "Bad-Weather-Birds," because they are mostly seen when the fallen snow has caused them to roam from place to place, in quest of their subsistence. They are far from being birds of ill-omen, however, as we see them commonly when the storm is past. Few sights are more picturesque than these flocks of Snow-Buntings, whirling with the subsiding winds, and moving as if they were guided by an eddying breeze, now half-concealed by the direction in which they meet the rays of the sun, then suddenly flashing with a simultaneous turn they present the under white side of their wings to the light of heaven. The power which these diminutive creatures seem to possess, of enduring the cold of winter, and of contending with the storm, attaches to their appearance a quality which is allied to sublimity. I cannot look upon them, therefore, in any other view than as important parts in that ever-changing picture of light, motion, and beauty, with which Nature benevolently consoles for those evils which are assigned by fate to all the inhabitants of the earth.
The common Snow-Birds (Fringilla nivalis) are more interesting as individuals, but they are never seen in compact flocks. They go usually in scattered parties, and appear in Massachusetts about the middle of autumn, arriving from Canada and Labrador, where they spend the summer. They have many of the habits of the common Hair-Bird, (Fringilla socialis,) assembling around our houses and barns, and picking up crumbs of bread and other fragments of food. They differ entirely from the Buntings in their appearance, the latter being called White Snow-Birds, to distinguish them from the others, which are slate-colored. These birds are quite as remarkable, however, for their power of enduring the cold, and of sustaining the force of the tempest. In the midst of a snow-storm, they may often be seen sporting, as it were, in the very whirlpool of the driving snows, and alighting upon the tall sedges and weeds, and eagerly gathering the produce. The Hemp-Bird often joins their parties, and his cheerful and well-known twitter may be heard, as he hurriedly flits from one bush to another, hunting for the seeds of the golden-rods and asters.
The cause of the migration of these birds from their native northern latitudes is not, probably, the severe cold of those regions, but the deep snows that bury up their cereal stores at a very early period. But even if the grounds in those cold latitudes were only partially covered, these birds must scatter themselves over a wide extent of territory, in proportion as their food becomes less abundant. They live principally upon seeds, and hence their forages are made chiefly in the tilled lands, where the weeds afford them an abundance of food. The negligence of the tiller of the soil is, therefore, a great gain to the small birds, by leaving a supply of seeds in the annual grasses that grow thriftily with his crops.
Among these flocks of Snow-Birds, a few individuals of the common Hair-Bird (Fringilla socialis) may frequently be seen. The majority of this species migrate to a more open clime; but sufficient numbers remain to entitle them to be included with other Snow-Birds of the Finch tribe. He is one of the smallest of the Sparrows, of a brownish ash color above, and grayish white beneath. He wears a little cap or turban of brown velvet on his head, and by this mark he is readily distinguished from his kindred Sparrows. Relying on his diminutive size for his security, he comes quite up to our door-step, mindless of the people who are assembled round it, and, fearless of danger, picks up the crumbs that are scattered there. He may be seen at all seasons of the year, though his voice is not heard in the spring so early as that of the Song-Sparrow or the Blue-Bird. He lives chiefly on seeds, though, like other granivorous birds, he feeds his young with grubs and small insects. This is a general practice with the granivorous tribes, in order to provide their young with soft and digestible food before they are strong enough to digest the hard, coriaceous seed. Nature has formed an exception in the Pigeon tribe; but has compensated them by providing that the parent bird shall soften the food in her own crop before it is given to the tender young. From the peculiar manner in which the young are fed comes the epithet, "sucking doves."
It is common to speak disparagingly of the little Hair-Bird, as if he were good for nothing, without beauty and without song, and, what is of still more consequence in the eyes of the sordid epicure, too small to be eaten, his weight of flesh not being worth a charge of powder and shot. We can never sufficiently rejoice that there are some birds too small to excite the avaricious feelings of these knights of the fowling-piece and the rifle. The Hair-Bird is not to be despised, except by epicures. Though he is contemptuously styled the "Chipping-Sparrow,"—a name which I will never consent to apply to him,—his voice is no mean accompaniment to the general chorus which may be heard every still morning before sunrise, during May and June. His continued trilling note is to this warbling band what the octave flute is to a grand concert of artificial instruments. The voices of numbers of these birds, which are the very first to be heard and the last to become silent in the morning, serve to fill up the pauses in this sylvan anthem, like a running appoggiatural accompaniment in certain admired musical compositions. How little soever the Hair-Bird may generally be valued as a songster, his voice, I am sure, would be most sadly missed, were it never more to be heard charmingly blending with the other louder voices of the feathered choristers.
How often, on still, sultry nights in July, when scarcely a breath of air is stirring among the foliage of the trees, when the humming of the Moth might be plainly heard, as it glided by my open window, have I been charmed with the voice of this little bird, uttered in a low, trilled note, from the branch of some neighboring tree! He seems to be the sentinel whom Nature has appointed to watch for the first gleam of dawn, which he always faithfully announces before any other bird has begun to stir. Two or three strains from his octave pipe are the signal for a general awakening of the birds, and one by one they join the song, until the whole air resounds with an harmonious medley of voices. The Hair-Bird has a singular habit of sitting upon the ground, while chirping in the early morning. His nest is placed commonly upon an apple-tree, sometimes in a bush, but never on the ground. It is very neatly constructed of the fibres of roots closely woven together, and beautifully lined with fine soft hair, whence he has obtained his name. It is not surpassed in neatness and beauty by the nest of any other bird.
I will leave the granivorous birds to speak of another class, equally hardy, but of habits more like those of the Woodpecker. I allude to the Chicadees, to whose lively notes we are indebted for a great part of the cheerfulness of a winter's walk. These notes are not a song; but there is a liveliness in their sound, most frequently uttered during a pleasant winter-day, causing them to be associated with these agreeable changes in the weather. The Chicadees are not seen, like Snow-Birds, most numerous during a snow-storm, or after a fall of snow. Their habits are nearly the same in all weathers, except that they are more prone to be noisy and loquacious on pleasant, sunny days.
The sounds from which the Chicadee has derived his name appear to be his call-notes, like the crowing of a Cock or the gobbling of a Turkey, and are probably designed by Nature to enable the birds, while scattered singly over the forest, to signalize their presence to others of the same species. Hence it may be observed, that, when the call is rapidly repeated, a multitude of his kindred will immediately assemble around the one that gave the alarm. When no alarm is intended to be given, the bird utters these notes but seldom, and only as he passes from one tree to another. He is probably accustomed to hearing a response, and, if one is not soon heard, he will repeat his call until it is answered; for as these birds do not forage the woods in flocks, this continual hailing is carried on between them to satisfy their desire for each other's company. A similar conversation passes between the individuals of a flock of Chickens, when scattered over a farmyard; one, on finding itself alone, will chirp until it hears a response, when it seems immediately satisfied. The call-notes of the Chicadee are very lively, with a mixture of querulousness in their tone, that renders them the more pleasing.
The Chicadee is the smallest of the birds that remain with us during the winter. He is a permanent resident, and everybody knows him. He is a lively chatterer and an agreeable companion; and as he never tarries long in one place, he does not tire one with his garrulity. He is our attendant in all our pleasant winter-walks, in the orchard or the wood, in the garden or by the rustic wayside. We have seen him, on still winter-days, flitting from tree to tree, with the liveliest motions and in the most engaging attitudes, examining every twig and branch, and winding over and under and in and out among them, and, after a few lively notes, hopping to another tree to pass through the same manoeuvres. Even those who are confined to the house are not excluded from a sight of these birds; one cannot open a window, on a bright winter's morning, without a greeting from one of them on the nearest tree.
Beside the note from which the Chicadee derives his name, he sometimes utters two very plaintive notes, which are separated by a regular musical interval, making a fourth on the descending scale. They slightly resemble those of the Pewee, and are often supposed to come from some other bird, so different are they from the common note of the Chicadee. I have not been able to ascertain the circumstances under which the bird repeats this plaintive strain, but it is uttered both in summer and winter. Indeed, there is such a variety in the notes uttered at different times by this bird, that, if they were repeated in uninterrupted succession, they would form one of the most agreeable of woodland melodies.
The Chicadee is not a singing-bird. He utters his usual notes at all times of the year; but in the early part of summer he is addicted to a very low but pleasant kind of warbling, considerably varied, and wanting only more loudness and precision to entitle him to a rank with the singing-birds. This warbling does not seem intended to cheer his partner, but it is rather a sort of soliloquizing for his own amusement. If it was uttered by the young birds only, we might suppose them to be taking lessons in music, and that this was a specimen of their first attempts. I have often heard the Golden Robin warbling in a similar manner.
In company with the Chicadees in their foraging excursions, we often see two Speckled Woodpeckers, differing apparently only in size, each having a sort of red crest. The smaller of the two (Picus pubescens) is the Downy Woodpecker. The birds of this species are called "Sap-Suckers," from their habit of making perforations in the sound branches of trees through the bark without penetrating the wood, as if they designed only to obtain the sap. These perforations are often made in a circle round the branch, and it is highly probable that they follow the path of a grub that is concealed underneath the bark. Our farmers, who suspect every bird of some mischievous designs, accuse them of boring into the tree for the purpose of drinking the sap.
The Woodpecker is a more restless, though not a more industrious bird than the Chicadee, and seldom gives the branches so thorough an examination as the latter. He searches for grubs that are concealed in the wood of the tree; he examines those spots only where he hears their scratchings, bores the wood to obtain them, and then flies off. But the Chicadee looks for insects on or near the surface, and does not confine his search to trees. He examines fences, the under part of the eaves of houses, and the woodpile, and destroys, in the course of his foraging, many an embryo moth and butterfly which would otherwise become the parent of noxious larvae. The Woodpecker is often represented as the emblem of industry; but the Chicadee is more truly emblematical of this virtue, and the Woodpecker of perseverance, as he never tires when drilling into the wood of a tree in quest of his prey.
Another of the companions of the Chicadee is the Brown Creeper, (Certhia familiaris,) of similar habits, and commonly seen moving in a spiral direction around the trunks and branches of trees, and, when he is conscious of being observed, keeping on the further side of the branch. He is more frequently seen in the winter than in the summer, when he confines himself to the seclusion of the pine forest. The different birds which I have named, as companions of the Chicadee, often assemble by seeming accident in large numbers upon one tree, and meeting with more company than is agreeable to them, they will often on these occasions make the wood resound with their noisy disputes. They may have been assembled by some accidental note of alarm, and on finding no particular cause for it, they raise a shout that reminds one of the extraordinary vociferation with which young men and boys conclude a false alarm of fire in the early part of the night. These different birds, though evidently social, are not gregarious, and seldom, without vexation, endure the presence of more than two or three companions.
The Nut-Hatch (Sitta Caroliniensis) is often found among these assemblages, and may be recognized by his piercing trumpet-like note. This bird resembles the Woodpeckers in the shape of the bill, but has only one hinder toe, instead of two; and is said to have derived its name from a habit of breaking open or hatching nuts, to obtain the kernel. He is a permanent inhabitant of the cold parts of the American continent, resembling the Titmouse in his diligence and activity, and in the various manoeuvres he performs while in quest of his insect-food.
There are times when even this class of birds, that collect their food from the bark and wood of trees, are driven to great extremities. When the trees are incased with ice, which, though not impenetrable by their strong bills, prevents their laying hold of the bark with their claws for support, they are in some danger of starving. It is at such times that the gardens and barnyards are frequented by large numbers of Woodpeckers, Creepers, and Nut-Hatches, driven by this necessity from their usual haunts. A piece of suet fastened to the branch of a tree, at any time of the winter, would soon be discovered by these birds and afford them a grateful repast. I have frequently assembled them under my windows by this allurement.
I will leave the Chicadees and their companions to speak of another class of birds of different character and habits: these are the Jays, and their sable-plumed congeners of the Crow family. In all parts of the country that abound in woods of any description, we are sure to be greeted by the loud voice of the Blue Jay, one of the most conspicuous tenants of the forest. He has a beautiful outward appearance, under which he conceals an unamiable temper and a propensity to mischief. Indeed, there is no other bird in our forest that is arrayed in equal splendor. His neck of fine purple, his pale azure crest and head with silky plumes, his black crescent-shaped collar, his wings and tail-feathers of bright blue with stripes of white and black, and his elegant form and vivacious manners, combine to render him attractive to all observers.
But with all this beauty, he has, like the Peacock, a harsh voice; he is a thief, and a disturber of the peace. He is a sort of Ishmael among the sylvan tribes, who are startled at the sound of his voice, and fear him as a bandit. The farmer, who is well acquainted with his habits, is no friend to him; for he not only takes what is required for his immediate wants, but hoards a variety of articles in large quantities for future use. It would seem as if he were aware when he was engaged in an honest and when in a dishonest expedition; for while searching for food in the the wood or open field, he is extremely noisy,—but when he ventures into a barn, to take what does not belong to him, he is silent and stealthy, and exhibits all the peculiar manners of a thief.
It would be no mean task to enumerate all the acts of mischief perpetrated by this bird; and I cannot but look upon him as one the most guilty of the feathered tribe. He plunders the cornfield both at seed-time and harvest; he steals everything that is eatable, and conceals it in his hoarding-places; he destroys the eggs of smaller birds and devours their young; he quarrels with all other species, and his life is a constant scene of contentions. He is restless, pugnacious, and irascible, and always seems like one who is out on some expedition. Yet, though a pest to other birds, he is a watchful parent and a faithful guardian of his off-spring. It is dangerous to venture near the nest of a pair of Jays, as they immediately attack the adventurer, aiming their blows at his face and eyes with the most savage determination.
Like the Magpie, the Jay has considerable talent for mimicry, and in a state of domestication may be taught to articulate words like a Parrot. At certain times I have heard this bird utter a few notes resembling the tinkle of a bell, and which, if syllabled, might form such a word as dilly-lily; but it is not a musical strain. Indeed, there is no music in his nature, and in all his imitations of other sounds he prefers the harsh to the melodious, such as the voice of the Hawk, the Owl, and other unmusical birds.
The Blue Jay is a true American; he is known throughout this continent, and never visits any other country. At no season is he absent from our woods, and he is an industrious consumer of the larger insects and grubs, atoning in this way for some of his evil deeds. In this respect, however, his services are not to be compared to those of the Robin and the Blue-Bird. Yet I am not prepared to say that I would consent to his banishment, for he is one of the most cheering tenants of the groves, at a season when they have but few inhabitants; and I never listen to his voice without recalling a crowd of charming reminiscences of pleasant winter excursions and adventures at an early period of my life. The very harshness of his voice has caused it to be impressed more forcibly upon the memory, in connection with these scenes.
The common Crow may be considered the representative, in America, of the European Rook, which he resembles in many of his habits, performing similar services, and being guilty of the same mischievous deeds. It is remarkable that in Europe, where land is more valuable than in this country, and where agriculture is carried on with an amount of skill and nicety that would astonish an American farmer, the people are not so jealous of the birds. In Great Britain rookeries are regular establishments, and the Rooks, notwithstanding the mischief they do, are protected, on account of their services to agriculture. The farmers of Europe, having learned by repeated observation, that, without the aid of mischievous birds, the work of the farmer would be sacrificed to the more destructive insect-race, forgive them their trespasses, as we forgive the trespasses of cats and dogs. The respect shown to birds by any people seems to bear a certain ratio to the antiquity of the nation. Hence the sacredness with which they are regarded in Japan, where the population is so dense that the inhabitants would feel that they could ill afford to divide the produce of their fields with the birds, unless they were convinced of their usefulness.
