The Way of the Wild

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The Way of the Wild

Stories of Field and Forest

The Winding Way to Woodcraft

The winding way is a pleasant way and this is partly because it is winding. The straight way on the other hand has no surprises because one can see so far ahead. But with the winding way it is different.

It is like Life full of surprises. One cannot tell what new thing he will stumble upon at the very next turn only a few yards ahead.

There are many kinds of winding ways, but all are interesting. The first winding way that the good people of Boston knew was a cow path, upon which they finally builded their main street. It is rather amusing to think that perhaps a frisky calf may have struck out the first thoroughfare of the great city.

The winding way may be also an old wood road running far back into the timber land. I know many such and they are all interesting. This is because they go twisting and winding in and out to accommodate themselves to the timber and the unevenness of the ground. Then in the early days there were Indian trails and deer paths in our northern country. The Indian trails were finally used by the settlers for bridle paths and the cows often followed old deer paths to the best water-holes. Many of the great streets of the world's greatest cities were formerly but stage-coach approaches to a small trading post. Such was one of the great avenues of New York in the days when the first John Jacob Astor brought down beaver pelts from Albany on his back and traded with the Indians for the first few dollars of the Astor fortune.

Almost no railroad has ever climbed a high mountain chain but what the adventuresome traveler was there before the railroad riding a faithful pony up a steep bridle path. The prairie schooners of the early days marked the way for the mighty transcontinental railroads which to-day connect the Atlantic and the Pacific seaboards. But when the railroad and the smooth straight macadam road take the place of the winding way, they spoil it for the nature lover. This is because they straighten all its crooks, go round its steepest climbs, and despoil much of the adjacent landscape in so doing. There is no great gain in this old world that is wholly without loss. So all the improvements which man seeks to perpetrate on nature take away something from her primitive beauty. Of course we all appreciate the telephone and the telegraph, but a telephone pole always looks out of place along a country road.

So to-day for your winding way, you will have to go back away from the beaten tracks to the less cultivated or civilized country, country that is too poor or too out of the way for the invasions of civilization. There you will still find many a cow path and old wood road, twisting and winding on its devious way. It will not matter much what season of the year you go, there will always be something interesting.

If it is springtime the arbutus will arrest you with its fragrance even before you find its vine deep hidden in the grass and dead leaves.

If you are not so fortunate as to discover this rare wild flower, then the hepatica, the anemone, the bloodroot, or perhaps a shadbush will make the pathway glad. The first birds will be singing and nesting. The squirrels scolding and frisking and all the woods glad and glorious in the scant illusive dress of springtime.

If it is summer the path will riot with beauty and glory. Flowers and fruit will be ready for the picking, berries that the birds planted and flowers that were sown by the winds of heaven.

If it is autumn you will have to vie with the squirrels in a mad scramble for nuts. On every hand you will see the promises of summer fully redeemed, for nature pays all her notes. A carpet of brown, russet and gold will rustle beneath your feet, while the campfires of autumn will burn brightly along the watercourses, on soft maple, and stag-horn sumac.

Even in winter this winding way will be beautiful. The new snow will gem all its trees and weeds with ridges of pearl. The plumes of the evergreens will look like white caps and flowing gowns. Blue shadows will steal from behind the trees, perhaps to accent a very red sunset.

So the winding way is beautiful and wonderful in all seasons. I advise each of my readers to seek it as often as possible. It will rest your tired nerves more than sleep and its bracing air is the very best tonic.

Breathe deep breaths of pine and balsam, or the fragrance of new-mown hay. These are primitive scents full of healing and comfort.

Lay your own tired heart close to the great beating heart of Mother Nature and rest. Rest and be glad. Forget time and the city life and its hustle and bustle. Just let the wonder and the peace of the winding way steal into your soul and make you a child again. The simplest and the best of all children, a child of nature.

The Story of Bluie

The story of Bluie is one of the strangest of all the bird chronicles that has ever come under my observation, during thirty years of study of the ways of our little furred and feathered friends. I will tell it to you just as it happened, without any embellishments, so that you may be absolutely sure that you are reading a real story about a real bird.

To my mind it is just another one of those strange happenings in nature which shows that the wild creatures, especially the birds and squirrels, often long for human companionship and friendship.

This is why the song-birds flock into our country villages and even frequent great cities. Thus they may be on the outskirts of civiliza- tion, and watch men and women come and go. There is a wonderful companionship for us with the song-birds. It is a great compliment to man to have the swallows build in the eaves of his buildings and the robins and orioles plan their nests in his very dooryard. They teach us many valuable lessons. Their friendship should be cultivated as a priceless thing, and children should be taught at every opportunity to befriend them.

Bluie, as you may have guessed, was a bluebird. He came to us as the result of a tragedy in birdland—just one more of those tragedies which are always occurring. If it is not the cat, or some larger bird that preys upon the weaker, then it is the elements.

For several years a pair of bluebirds had made their home in a deserted woodpecker's nest in an old sweet-apple tree in the back yard. We were sure that this was the same pair of bluebirds that came to us year after year, because they did the same things each year. They were just as familiar with the place the day that they returned in the spring as they were the day that they flew away to the South. As soon as they arrived they would always look for food in the places where we had left it the year before, and also for material with which to patch up last year's nest. So they were our old friends without a doubt.

The year in question they had come as usual and repaired the nest. There had seemed to be some doubt in their minds as to whether to use the old home again. They had prospected about for a while house-hunting, but had finally come back to the old home.

The nest had been rebuilt as usual, the eggs laid and the fledglings hatched, when the tragedy occurred. It happened when the fledglings were two or three weeks old. They were fully feathered out and would have been able to fly in another week. As some of my readers doubtless know a small bluebird is not blue at all, but black as a young crow. It is not until some months later that the young birds put on the markings of their elders.

One afternoon late in May a violent thunder and wind storm came up. The rains fell in torrents and the wind blew a hurricane. When it finally cleared up and we looked outside, we found that the old sweet-apple tree had been laid low. Our first thought was not of the loss of the tree, but of the bluebirds' nest.

We found that the tree had split open in its fall and the nest lay upon the ground. The two young bluebirds were still in it, but they had received a bad shaking up. The old birds had evidently thought that the end of the world had come, for we never saw them again. If they did come back to look for their nest, we did not know it.

We set the nest with the fledglings in it upon the piazza, in a conspicuous place, in hopes that if the old birds returned they would see it. By nightfall, as they had not discovered the nest, we brought it into the house. One of the small birds died the first night, but Bluie survived and thrived from the very first.

We were full of misgivings as to our ability to raise him, but he surprised us at every turn. In fact he fitted into our life so well that one might have thought that we too had sometime been bluebirds.

At first we fed him on crackers and milk, but I finally concluded that he ought to have a worm diet as well, so I spent half an hour each day looking up small worms for him. These he ate out of my hands with great relish and much greed.

A bird will eat several times as much food, for its size, as any other creature. It is said on good authority that a young robin in the nest will eat fourteen feet of angleworms per day. I presume this is true, as I have seen the old birds carry worms to their nest nearly all day long. At night the young mouths would be stretched up as eagerly as in the morning.

In two weeks after we adopted him, Bluie was flying about the kitchen. He accomplished this by degrees. One day the mistress started to go into the living-room and just for a joke as she passed through the door, she turned and said, "Want to come in here, Bluie?" To her great astonishment the little fellow flew down on her shoulder from the top of a door and rode into the living-room. Here he flew about for half an hour having a fine time investigating.

When the cuckoo clock struck, it gave him quite a fright as he happened to be sitting on it at the time. But he soon got used to it; in fact this became his favorite perch in the living-room.

The following day as the mistress started to go up-stairs to do the chamber work, Bluie fluttered down to her shoulder and rode up-stairs.

After that he had the entire range of the house. Whenever he saw the mistress open a door, he knew that it meant an excursion to unknown parts, so he would fly upon her shoulder and ride away with great delight. In this manner he even made trips to the neighboring houses. But we were rather careful where we took him, fearing that he might be frightened.

At first we did not dare let him go outside, for fear that we would lose him, but he seemed to be bound to us by a golden cord, the golden cord of love. We were his father and mother and the big house was his nest, and he loved us accordingly.

We could call him from the trees or even from a distant lot simply by whistling to him. Each night when I came home from work I would whistle as soon as I came into the yard. If the little fellow was anywhere in hearing, he would fly and light upon my finger and ride into the house in state.

Bluie was a marvel to all our friends. Each week we thought he would grow tired of his half civilized life and fly away with his free fellows, but he stuck by us until autumn.

By that time he had put on the full livery of a male bluebird, with the pretty red ruffs. Then a call came to him, which his kind had obeyed from time immemorial, a call that was stronger than his love for his foster parents. It was not without a struggle, though, that we lost him.

One bright day about the last of October we saw him in a distant lot with several other blue- birds. I went into the house and reported to the mistress. "The bluebirds are flocking," I said, "and Bluie is with them. It is the call of nature. I am very much afraid we will lose him."

Together we went out into the field and I whistled for him. He answered with his shrill sweet little Cheerily, Cheerily, but would not come to me. Again and again I whistled. Each time he would answer, but would not come. Several times that evening I went out and tried to coax him into the house. He was still good friends with me, but mightily interested in his own kin. Perhaps a lady bluebird had already begun to flirt with him, although he was not of the courting age.

For two or three days the flock of bluebirds lingered in the field. Each day I went out and whistled for Bluie. Each time he answered me, but he would not light on my shoulder or even come near me.

"I see you, master," he seemed to be saying. "We are still good friends. You are all right. The house is a fine place, but the fields and the blue sky are better. I have found my own. It is great to be a real bluebird."

One bright morning, just as I came out to take the car for work, the flock of bluebirds whirred up out of the field and skimmed away southward. I watched them until they were mere specks in the distance, then sorrowfully said, "Good-bye, Bluie. You were a wonderful little fellow. We loved you strangely, but we gladly give you back to nature where you belong. Good luck, little chap, but we will miss you."

Blue Fox Goes Hunting

The blue fox is first cousin to the red fox, which is so well known in the United States. He is also cousin to all the foxes, for the fox family is very closely interwoven, as far as breeding is concerned. The blue fox, the white Alaskan fox, the red fox, the silver gray, or black fox are all members of the same family, and no one can tell when one or the other of the rare specimens will appear in even a vulgar fox family. That is what makes fox breeding so difficult. The black and the blue foxes will not stay blue or black.

Old fox hunters say that they have rarely seen two foxes identically alike in color and markings, so every fox is a sort of species unto himself.

One thing is certain, all the members of the numerous fox family have definite character- istics, which always appear, no matter what the color.

They always have the sharp muzzle and that shape of the head which is called foxy, although the blue fox is not so snipey as some of the others.

The general public have some very erroneous ideas as to the size and weight of a fox, once he is stripped of his beautiful coat. The fact is, the slimmest grayhound looks fat and stocky beside a fox when he is minus his coat. His fleet legs, which will carry him all day before the fastest hounds, are as slight as a lead pencil, while his girth is no larger than a man's wrist.

I have known many fox hunters and the largest dog fox they ever saw weighed fourteen pounds, while the female fox often does not weigh more than seven or eight.

Having considered the fox family as a whole, I will tell you of Blue Fox's hunting trip which I started out to describe.

Blue Fox was stockier and had a squarer head than most of the fox family, but his skull contained the same fox wits, notwithstanding its shape.

He was making his way across the barrens which stretched from a mountain peak, down to the sheer cliffs which skirted the desolate Behring Sea. This barren land was covered with wild wheat and creeping willow, and was gay with wild poppies which everywhere abound in Alaska.

Midway in the barrens, a foaming stream ran cold from the glacier which crept down the distant peak. Its snow water was white as milk. Although this was Alaska, yet there was such a wealth of gay flora along the banks of this stream as would have astonished the stranger in this strange land. We think of Alaska as the land of ice and snow, yet her summers are a marvel and a delight.

Along the stream which Blue Fox was skirting, grew great masses of larkspur of every rose tint known to fashion. Gentians bluer than the blue heavens were there in wild profusion. Forget-me-nots that would have gladdened the heart of a hothouse keeper bloomed by the millions to be had merely for the picking. Wild phlox lifted its gay head everywhere, while the wild poppies splashed the scene with gay patches of splendid color. This magic of the arctic sun is the wonder of the floral world. So it was a gay and beautiful country that Blue Fox traveled as he went hunting on this summer morning.

When Blue Fox had crossed the barrens (which are called tundra in the old world), he came to the top of a series of precipitate cliffs leading down to the sandpits which fringed the waters of the Behring Sea.

Down these cliffs by devious paths he picked his way, often climbing down sheer cliffs where the footing would have troubled a Rocky Mountain goat. Yet he went with ease and balanced himself where there was no apparent footing.

Arrived at the water's edge, he was rewarded for his pains, for he found the clams plenty where the receding tide had left them high and dry. He selected several and with infinite pains broke their hinges with his crunching jaws and deliberately ate out the inside.

But this was only the beginning of his breakfast, for he was an epicurean.

He skirted the shore for half a mile until he came to a favorite rookery for the sea birds, then he began a slow and arduous ascent of the cliffs. Half-way up, there were hundreds of the nests of sea-gulls, or shags, as the sailors call them. Although the angry birds swooped and screamed at the robber, yet he kept doggedly on his way. Finally he discovered a nest within his reach which the frightened mother shag had left. He lifted the egg gently in his mouth and continued his desperate climb to the top of the cliff. When he had scaled the last breathless twenty feet, he lay down upon a rock and, breaking a small hole in the large end of the egg, deliberately sucked it to the last drop.

He paid no more attention to the screaming gulls, auks and kittywinks, than he would have to flies.

But when he had finished his egg, he had to think of Mrs. Blue Fox and the four kit foxes in the burrow half a mile away. The kit foxes were pulling on the dam and he had to keep her nourished. She must have something besides egg, so he set his wits to work for his family.

Very leisurely, Mr. Blue Fox proceeded along the cliff. Occasionally he stopped to sniff at a rock, or to stretch himself, or to yawn, he was a very innocent looking chap, intent merely on a morning walk along the cliff. Presently he came to a rock which suited his purpose.

It was large and flat, just the sort of a rock to take a sun bath on. So he climbed upon it and lay down, stretching and yawning. He really looked tired to death, just ready for a long morning nap. He curled himself up into a round ball, his tail streaming out on the rock behind him.

The gulls, kittywinks, and auks circled nearer. They had really never had a good look at a sleeping fox. Mr. Blue Fox was usually so wide awake and energetic that his sleepiness interested them. Nearer and nearer they circled. Finally the crafty hunter lifted his fine brush slowly and then let it fall. The excitement among the circling birds increased. Again he tried the experiment.

Curiosity is the most dangerous quality that the wild creatures possess; for instance wigwagging deer is a favorite method of shooting them. Mr. Fox was wigwagging gulls.

Again he repeated the interesting experiment. In an unguarded moment, a curious shag circled not four feet above him. Then something happened that was not on the gull's program. With a motion as sudden as though propelled by gunpowder, Mr. Fox shot into the air and his powerful jaws closed upon the unfortunate gull's neck. He brought the shag flapping to the rock and with one turn of his head broke his neck. Thus Mrs. Fox and the kit foxes had their breakfast.

Then he deliberately threw the dead bird over his shoulder and trotted away, a very successful hunter.

The First Balloonist

Man is very apt to get puffed up and full of vanity when he considers his discoveries and his achievements in many ways. But there is very little that he knows or has discovered but what was used by either animals, birds or insects, even before man appeared in the world. All of the secrets of nature are as old as the world itself, and the wonder is that man has not discovered more of them sooner.

Man considers himself a great builder. He is proud of his houses, his dams, his bridges and tunnels. Yet the animals, birds, insects and some fishes have in a degree known the art of house-building. The beaver is a better dam builder than man when we consider his size. The spider is a better bridge builder, and the mole can make a more scientific tunnel. So why should man be puffed up? Did you ever go out on a summer morning, when there had been a heavy dew the night before and see an entire field literally covered with a wonderful fine mesh, that sparkled and glistened in the sunlight until it looked like fairy-land? Many of the tops of the taller grasses were bound together, ever so delicately, by a wonderful shimmering something, which you children called cobwebs. In the summer-time you will see these delicate shimmering garments on the tall weeds, and on the walls along the roadside.

Did you ever stop to think that this is all the work of the spiders and the fields are beautiful this morning because a million spiders wanted to travel, catch flies, or amuse themselves?

Yet this is the case. The spider is the original balloonist. He also knows the use of the parachute and he can disport himself in the air more gracefully than any bird, and as airily as thistle-down. In fact his ballooning is a sort of thistle-down performance. For he has discovered the secret of all the lighter than air flying machines.

Place a spider on a block of wood in the middle of a dish of water and see what will happen. He will first run about the wood till he sees that in every direction is water. Then he will rear upon his hind legs and begin spinning a thread. This is made by his spitting out a liquid which is contained in his long bottle-shaped abdomen. As soon as this liquid reaches the air, it becomes the very delicate solid which we know as web, or gossamer. Perhaps he made the gossamer too heavy the first time, so it sinks in the water. If so he will try again. Presently you will see the tiny thread float across to the side of the dish. When it has become strong enough to hold him, Mr. Spider will walk across on his suspension bridge and climb up the side of the dish, laughing at you all the time.

One of the favorite pastimes of the spider is ballooning or parachuting, whichever suits him at the time.

He will climb upon a wall or fence where there is a current of air and free space for his flying performance. He will stand upon his hind legs and spin out a long glistening thread. If he has made the thread right and there is enough air to carry it you will see it floating away in the air, and balancing. When Mr. Spider thinks it is long enough to hold his weight, he will slide on to the end coming from his mouth and float away as gracefully as a parachute man.

But this parachute act is not so interesting as his ballooning which calls for more spinning. This time he will climb up as before for the flight. He will weave much more gossamer than he did for the parachute. This he will weave into a cradle or basket, shaping it with his hind feet. When the basket is ready he will spin more long threads to act as stays for his basket, and to buoy it up. When all is ready and there comes a strong gust of air he launches his tiny cradle in air and goes sailing away just as skillfully as any other balloonist. But like man he has no power to control the direction which he will travel, and has to go where the air takes him.

The cunning old spider who weaves a skill- ful web and hides in one corner and watches for flies is also a very wise fellow if he is something of a cannibal. But so long as he hunts mere flies we do not care.

So the reason why the fields and fences are so beautiful on summer mornings when they sparkle and glisten is because the spiders wanted to go somewhere and so built bridges, or launched parachutes and sailed balloons. Then the dewdrop people came and gemmed these shimmering gossamers with diamonds, making a fairy-land of beauty and wonder.

What Puzzled the Robins

One spring when Cock Robin and My Lady came north they decided that they would seek an entirely new nesting place. They had been having rather poor luck with their babies for several years so they thought they would find a new place for the house.

For the past three years they had built in an apple tree in a farmer's dooryard. This had been a fine place for the nest and they had enjoyed the farmer and his wife. The children were also very friendly, but there were other drawbacks. The farmer kept a lot of cats. So each time they knocked the new brood out of the nest they were sure to lose some of the fledglings.

The starlings also troubled them. The grackles were likewise not on good terms with the robin family. But worst of all a villainous black crow had found the nest one morning very early, before the farmer was up, and had robbed it of every small bird. If the farmer had been up he would have spoken to Mr. Crow with his bangstick, but the crow was too early for the farmer and the murder had gone unpunished.

So for all these reasons the robins decided to seek a new home. They prospected about for a long time. Finding a really fine place for a nest is a task that takes patience. So many things have to be considered. They investigated orchards and barns and many other outbuildings before they finally made a decision. The place that they finally decided upon pleased them both exceedingly, but what it was or what it was used for they did not know.

It was not far from a railroad depot, the terminal of a small country line. There was only one train a day and that went to the city in the morning and returned at night.

There were a lot of iron beams and cross-beams and the place was rather dark and secluded. Cock Robin felt sure that cats never came there. They discovered this spot about nine o'clock in the morning; the train had gone to the city two hours before and the yard was quiet. In fact it was nearly always quiet, except at morning and evening. They had wasted so much time searching that they went to work diligently and by night they had the nest partly built. Mud and straw had been plenty and they had never before made such progress. They roosted in a tree near by that night feeling very happy over the day's work.

You can well imagine their astonishment and disgust on the following morning to find the nest gone. They did not go to see it until after the train had gone and the yard was quiet. The beam where they had placed it was there but no nest. Neither were there any signs of their labors. When a nest is blown down there is usually some mud left clinging to the place, but this beam was quite clean. They were much puzzled, but set to work again with a will. The birds and the wild creatures have a patience that puts to shame the best efforts of man. If they do not succeed at first they try again. So they worked very hard all day and by night had the nest half done again.