I was startled out of my contemplation by the sound of the old dog giving tongue, and the bang of the musket echoing in the tree-tops.

Listening, I could hear the dogs baying on the trail some distance from where the shot was fired,--plainly a clean miss. In a short time the language of the hound again announced "Holed," and the gathering of the heartless around the spot told the same old story. At my suggestion, "Give the rabbit a chance," the dog was removed from the hole, when out popped the rabbit. The dog in hot pursuit soon overtook him, but failed to pick him up. Twice the little fellow fooled the dog, but the third time his doom was sealed. The dog returned with the rabbit kicking in his mouth, and laid it at the feet of his master as a trophy worthy of the chase, occasionally nosing it to see if any life remained. Truly this cannot be sport.

[Ill.u.s.tration: In Hot Pursuit]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Picked Up]

Crossing the hill we caught a view from the distance of a beautiful meadow flanked on one side by an old orchard, which long needed pruning and was grown up with blackberry briers. On the other side was a thicket of locust, sumac, and elder, which had been cleared several years before and the debris piled on the stone heaps ready for the match that had never been applied. Here and there were stretches of stake and rider fence; in fact, it was an old farm neglected for many years owing to the death of the owner and continued litigation among the heirs for the possession of the land,--an ideal home for the cottontail.

Crossing the meadow the dogs started a rabbit which had been basking in the sun, coiled up in a bed built in the middle of a bunch of dry swamp gra.s.s. The little fellow had remained perfectly quiet, although one of the party pa.s.sed within two feet without seeing him, so well did his color harmonize with the surroundings. He remained un.o.bserved until one of the dogs pa.s.sing by started him and warned the other dogs, whereupon away they went in full chase. Through the orchard, down along the old fence, sped the fugitive, the dogs close behind, tonguing at every jump.

Into the thicket he plunged, safe for the time being. The dogs began to circle, caught the trail on the opposite side, and followed it into another cover, where Bunny squatted and presently we saw him returning on his own trail. I made a run to head him off so that I could get a snap-shot, but observing me he stopped in the middle of a wheat field.

In the meantime the dogs had gathered enough information and were working their way back over the track until the leader came on to him, and away they went. The quarry returned towards the other dogs and was picked up before cover could be reached.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Down the Old Fence]

Again the dogs were urged to hunt the old orchard. A start was made and away went a rabbit across the meadow on the far side of which he darted into a burrow. The ferret was put into a hole and out popped three rabbits, one on the heels of the other. Each dog followed one, but soon returned, evidently unable to keep the trails, for they all crisscrossed around the orchard. In the meantime every effort was made to get the ferret, without success, when finally one of the unfeeling suggested shooting a bird. I protested against shooting a song bird and suggested an English sparrow, whereupon he promised to go down to the barn for a sparrow. However, upon returning he handed over a song sparrow (_Melospiza fasciata_), with its long tail and brownish-streaked body beautiful even in death. Charity impels me to believe the man was ignorant rather than willful. Pulling a piece of twine from his hunting-coat pocket, he tied fast the bird, a double hitch after hitch, so that the ferret could not loose the bait and carry it into the hole.

When properly secured the bird was thrown to the ferret, and instantly seized. Each began to pull, when off went the head into the hole.

Returning promptly for the body the ferret made another grab and was finally coaxed out of the hole and caught by the owner.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Dog Listening to the Last Sound]

The dogs began to work the trails and again had a rabbit crossing the meadow for dear life, they following close behind. He went into a hole among the roots of an old tree, to escape from his enemies, as he hoped, but alas, only to a cruel fate! "Put in the long pole," said one of the boys kneeling at the hole. The other started the ferret on its death-dealing mission. In a few minutes we could hear the smothered "Wah, wah, wah" of cottontail, and a curse from the heartless, not out of sympathy for poor little bunny, but because he knew the rabbit would not make another attempt to reach the opening and the ferret would stay there for days. Fainter and fainter grew the pitiful moans, until finally they ceased forever. One of the men went for an ax to cut a way down to the ferret. The hole took a downward course into an old root, and by cutting through they found the hole, reached in and pulled out the dead rabbit. It was sickening to see the condition of its head. The owner of the ferret had a cruel heart, but even it was softened a little at the sight, for he threw the murderous creature away from him.

Instantly the big dog made a jump, grabbed the ferret, and tossed him into the air several feet before his master could interfere. A feeling of satisfaction came over me when I saw the toss, and I said to myself, "That was your last kill." But landing on his feet he humped his back and at the same time hissing through his teeth made several vicious snaps at the dog and sought protection by running towards his master.

Fortunately for him his master had the sack open and the ferret hastened into it to safety.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Did He Come Out?]

When I boarded the train for home that evening I felt as though I had spent a day in the shambles. Such slaughter seems to me to be utterly unjustifiable, even in the name of sport.

CHAPTER VI

A NIGHT HUNT

A c.o.o.n hunt is always interesting to me. Just as soon as night approaches and you call old Stump, who has lost the tip of his tail in a battle royal, he p.r.i.c.ks up his ears, begins to whine, and seems to know that the boys are out for a c.o.o.n hunt. As you approach to loosen the snap that ties him to the kennel he begins to wag what is left of his tail and seems to say, "Boys, I'm happy to be with you to-night!" The wrinkles in his face twitch as the excitement grows. His face and head indicate that he has been in many a c.o.o.n fight. On one occasion he tracked a ground-hog into its hole underneath an uprooted tree. Being then of tender years and lacking experience, as the ground-hog came out, Stump made a grab and at the same time the ground-hog snapped Stump by the nose and held on like grim death. It took the combined efforts of men and dogs to separate them. Finally in the mix-up Stump made one desperate struggle to get away and lost the tip of his nose. Thus with the two tips gone Stump entered the arena as a full-fledged--shall we say?--and experienced c.o.o.n dog.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Hunting Party]

We gather at the country farm, boys and girls ready for the outing.

Stump, Fan, and Towser all are anxious for a night out working the ravines and watercourses. Lanterns and "pit-lamps" are shining brightly as we start across the meadow. The dogs disappear in the darkness. The fireflies flash here and there as though to light our way across the fields. One of the party, and by the way a fair one, steps into a pool of running water and the night air is pierced--in fact, sadly rent--by the shrill screams of the miss, for this is her first experience "trekking" in the dark. As we approach the woods the weirdness of the scene is enchanting. Shadows play on the trees and leaves, as though in imagination one were transplanted into some fairy-land. Away off among the timber the great horned owl can be heard calling to its mate, "Waugh ho! waugh ho!" just before it makes an excursion into the fields in search of some hapless rabbit or bird. The crickets are fiddling away, making music for their mates while they gather blades of gra.s.s for their burrow.

Presently our eager ears catch the low grunt of a dog as he gets the first whiff of the trail, not fresh, but spent. By the reflected light we see Towser wag his tail, slowly at first, but as the scent gets warmer the tail wags more vigorously. Soon one long, loud wail resounds in the stillness of the night and ere the echo dies away in the distance it is repeated, and we know the chase is on. Everybody runs toward the sound. The quarry has taken to the tree and the dogs bay up, but before the party reaches the scene of action the dogs are off again. They find the trail where the c.o.o.n has followed a grapevine for some distance, taken the ground again, and "put one over" on the old dog. After considerable delay the dog finds his mistake, picks up the scent and away he goes, and directly, on the other side of the ridge, bays up.

Then the party goes pell-mell in that direction. And so the hunt proceeds, now here, now there, up hill and across ravine, until at last the c.o.o.n is treed, and the dogs by their change of voice tell the news and summon the party, which arrives in installments, out of breath, at the foot of the tree where the dogs are panting after their long chase.

Every one is eager for the finish. The tree-climber of the party takes off his coat, hat, and shoes and begins the ascent to shake Mister c.o.o.n from the tree. A shout comes from the tree-top, "Here he is; look out below!" then follows a shake or two and a large house cat disappears into the darkness before the dogs can take hold. When the cat came down it alighted on all fours near the girls, and what with the girls screaming, the dogs barking, and the cat spitting, night was made hideous. We soon called the dogs off and "hied" them on for a fresh trail.

By and by the dogs took another hot scent. Down the hill, clambering over a stake and rider fence,--a ruse which for a moment confused the dogs,--then across a cornfield to the creek went the c.o.o.n with the dogs in hot pursuit; he followed the course of the creek for several rods, then dashed through at the shallows and bid fair to make good his escape to the woods beyond. But old Stump had been through that maneuver before; the rest of the dogs knew it and followed him over to the other bank, up the hill, under the cliff, and erelong bayed up. Following as fast as possible over and under dead trees, a jump of several feet over an embankment, a slide of several feet more, a brief climb and we reached the dogs, who, excitedly voicing their triumph, formed a circle around the tree as though appealing to us for action.

The night was dark and just such a night as was well suited for "shining" the eyes of the c.o.o.n. Lying flat on the ground and staring into every part of the tree, I finally descried two objects shining like stars near together in the zenith. We knew they were the eyes of the treed c.o.o.n. Calling the dogs we prepared to photograph them and the c.o.o.n in the mix-up. Setting up the kodak about twenty feet from the spot where we figured the c.o.o.n would drop from the tree, we fixed the pan for the flash, loading it with an ounce of flash-light powder. One of the party held the dogs and another lighted Roman candles and shot them towards the c.o.o.n. Thus we had the artist at the kodak, the man in charge of the flash at the pan, the c.o.o.n hunters holding the dogs, and one of Payne's pyrotechnic men setting off the fireworks. The combination was too much for the c.o.o.n. About that time the big dog began to jerk at his chain, and the pit-lamp in the hands of the man who held him registered on the exposed sensitive film a sort of stylographic record of the efforts of the dog to get at the c.o.o.n as soon as the latter landed on the ground. As the c.o.o.n dropped we set the flash off, and caught both the dog and c.o.o.n about the time they came together at the very spot on which we had focused the lens.

The chase ended, the quarry caught, we straggled back over the hills to the distant trolley line, as Orion rose high toward the zenith. A few hours more, and the eastern sky would grow gray. Tired, but happy, we jogged along, most of us in silence, for about that time in the morning after a c.o.o.n hunt, the songs and jokes of the early evening are stale, and our spirits, with the night, are on the wane. Like an exploded skyrocket, we are getting back again to earth as fast as we can after our excursion into the realm of darkness.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Dog and c.o.o.n in the Mix-up

Note the forefoot of the c.o.o.n between the dog's hind legs; his banded tail to the right of the dog's right forefoot. The zig-zag line in front of the man at the left indicates the movement of his hand in which was a pit-lamp and the end of the dog's chain just prior to the flash.]

Another denizen of the woods is frequently interrupted in his night prowlings by the dogs hunting for c.o.o.n. I refer to the oppossum, who is himself frequently the object of the quest. In the Southern States the negroes are very fond of hunting for 'possum. A successful hunt means a good dinner, the _piece-de-resistance_ being the trophy of the chase stuffed with sweet potatoes. Roasted and served as only an old "mammy"

can roast and serve it, 'possum defies comparison. Perhaps roast suckling-pig comes the nearest, but even this lacks the flavor of the woods. We are used to thinking of the 'possum as a lethargic animal, but that is only when he is "playing 'possum." He is really quite agile, and when treed by the dogs, furnishes no end of excitement by climbing, not into the tops of the trees, as does the c.o.o.n, but merely far enough to be safe from his pursuers. I have yet in antic.i.p.ation the pleasure of obtaining a flash-light of the hounds on their hind legs, pawing and clawing at a tree on which, just beyond their reach, the 'possum lies stretched indifferently on a horizontal limb. One really ought to have a dictagraph, so that when the picture is thrown on the screen, it may be with the appropriate accompaniment of the baying and barking of the hounds and the shouts of the hunters.

The little animal is very prolific and rears several families in a season. How interesting it is to watch the antics of the young clinging to the mother when disturbed! I have known cases where an old 'possum, presumably alone, was shaken out of a tree, and as she fell, strange, plaintive cries were heard on all sides. The rays of the lantern disclosed perhaps a dozen young 'possums, who had been ruthlessly dislodged from the pouch or marsupium of the mother as she struck the ground. On such an occasion, if the parent is allowed an opportunity, she will gather up the young and hunt cover.

There is something quite comfortable and clinging about the young 'possums and their mother (Frontispiece). The little fellows are very roguish in their ways, and I have no doubt would in time become friendly. The 'possum has very sharp teeth, and can do good execution upon occasion, but as a general rule he may be said to have a "retiring"

disposition.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE SPRINGTIME

As soon as the first harbingers of spring arrive we take to the forest.

Life is just awakening in the northern woods. The winter has been long and severe. Following the course of the creek we see large cakes of ice thrown topsy-turvy all over the meadow, where they have been carried by the spring freshet. In the gorge block after block is piled; they are lying in every conceivable position. The spring sun is busy undoing what the hard winter has accomplished. The cakes of crystal ice are fast losing their deep blue color, becoming "rotten" and breaking off in huge chunks with a report that fairly startles one. The newly-exposed ice-prisms glisten in the sun like so many jewels. To add to the attractions of the landscape, the creek is lined with stately sycamores,--here and there a lonely b.u.t.tonball clings by a slender stem to the parent tree, as though loath to break away. Or perhaps it is hopeful that by some imaginary elixir of life it may renew its youth and live the spring and summer over again, forgetful that on the verge of inaugurating a new cycle of existence,--the birth of another generation,--it has before it the great consummation of all life. Where the hills furnish a dark background the old tree stands out, weird and majestic, its limbs white and naked after shedding their cinnamon-like bark. It glistens in the sunlight almost as much as the ice-prisms. The high water is busy undermining the bank of the stream and an occasional cave-in appears, as though some muskrat surprised in his foraging were making a hasty departure for his tunnelled home.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Home of the Cardinal]

The woods are ringing with the song of the cardinals (_Cardinalis cardinalis cardinalis_), and just as soon as you enter their "beat" they seem to take notice and are ready to fight any intruder. It is a noteworthy fact that the "sphere of influence" of a particular c.o.c.k is limited to a portion of a tract of woodland as well defined as though surrounded by a fence. If you can conceal yourself in his zone and imitate his call, the bird will approach very near. In my younger days many were the cardinals I trapped in the following manner: In the mating season we would take a caged bird into the woods, the cage covered from the time we left home until we reached the woods. Selecting a likely place, we set our net, and attached a rope which led to a blind constructed of boughs put together as naturally as possible. Then when all was ready we lifted the cover of the cage. The sudden emergence from darkness to light seemed to fill the very soul of the caged bird with gladness, and even before we could conceal ourselves behind the blind it would break forth into the sweetest melodies, filling the woods with its songs, as though once again free in its erstwhile haunts. Ere the first notes die away in the distance, like an echo comes the answer from the proprietary lord of that particular section of woodland, as though he seemed to say: "Some miscreant has entered my shady bowers to entice my fair one away, so I'll teach him a lesson and drive him out of my domain." Again the voice of the caged bird peals forth in a loud, clear whistling call, but I have no doubt the notes are not so sweet to the suspicious wild bird, for he is answering in an angry tone. In the meantime the wild bird is cautiously advancing, flitting from limb to limb. If he comes from the direction of the blind, he may be so near that you can distinctly see the bristled rictus and black mask on his face, the crested top, and glowing red body. Presently he sees the captive bird, makes a dive for it, and hangs onto the wires, trying to get hold of the intruder, picking and striking through the narrow openings so excitedly that he does not notice the net being pulled over him. What loyalty to his mate we see in this little bird! Thus many cardinals are caught. If the other bird does not encroach on their beat they will not answer to the call, but by shifting the cage even fifty feet or less, it may enter the domain of another and then he will show fight even to the death.

The piping of the cardinal is shrill at times, again soft, mellow, and soothing to the ear. He is a perfect vocalist and is known as one of the best whistlers among the feathery tribes; indeed, by some he is called the American nightingale. At times when he ends up his song with "Pretty, pretty, pretty," I repeat the words, agreeing absolutely with him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Cardinal's Nest and Eggs]

He shows some strange antics occasionally. Once we found a nest built in a crab tree about three feet from the ground. When we first found it there were four light blue eggs blotched with liver-colored spots, laid in a loosely-built nest of rootlets, gra.s.s, and grapevine bark. About a week later when we visited it the nest was empty. Looking toward the ground by chance, I saw a little bird "in the down" apparently without life. Lifting it up in my hand, by close observation I noticed that it still breathed. We put the bird into the nest, went away, and returned in about thirty minutes, when to our surprise we found the nestling was gone again! Query, did the mother bird carry away its offspring to some place of safety where it would not be disturbed?

On another occasion we found a nest in the top of a grapevine. We drew down the vine, photographed the nest, and restored the nest to its original position. Calling the following week I found the mother bird had incubated the brood as though nothing had happened, but the young were taken from the nest as soon as they could be moved and some days before they would ordinarily have been allowed to leave home. Although the cardinal is naturally shy and retiring, at times he will permit one to get very close. I am glad to think that in many of the States this beautiful bird is increasing under the protection of the law.

While sitting on a moss-covered log enjoying the balmy breezes of spring, the "dee, dee, dee" notes of the tufted t.i.tmouse (_Parus bicolor_) came to my ear. What hardy little birds they are! The coldest winter of the north does not affect them. They are fearless of man at times, and if you keep quiet they will flit about from place to place, alternately disclosing to you now their ashy blue backs, now their dull white, russet-flanked under-parts, as they swing from twig to twig, scanning each little crevice for a choice morsel of insect life.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Winter in the North]

When the first warm rays hatch the winged insects, the tragedy of the woods begins. A little cream-colored b.u.t.terfly just out of its winter garb is on the wing, floating gracefully in the air among the leafless trees. The t.i.tmouse, with his bright eye ever on the alert, spies the insect, makes a sprightly dart, and seldom misses his mark. Then he perches on a limb with the fly and, like a bird of prey, takes hold with bill and feet and tears his victim apart, and as the remnants of the little wings float slowly to the ground, he feeds on the body.

The indigo bunting (_Pa.s.serina cyanea_) with its exquisite lay makes its abode very attractive to bird fanciers. In the mating season he can be seen perched on the topmost twig of one of the graceful drooping limbs of the elm bush, a little blue ball of feathers, throat expanded, pouring forth sweet music. If an instrument could be invented to record and reproduce the melody as he delivers it in the stillness of the morning when the little songster is at his best, it would become a very popular air. The indigo is frequently kept in captivity, but loses all the sweetness of song and the little male soon drops his beautiful livery and dons a distasteful shabby color, lacking even the somber l.u.s.ter of the female. During the period of mating, the c.o.c.k-bird can be trapped very easily by using a trap cage with a bird in the lower compartment. As a boy, I have placed a trap cage on my head, walked under the tree where the wild bird was singing, with my mouth made a few kissing sounds, whereupon the bird would fly down into the cage and try to get through the wires to the captive. If some wheat grains were placed on the "paddle," the wild bird would invariably light on it first, and picking up the grains would spring the trap and be caught while the cage was on my head.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Indigo Bunting's Nest with Cowbird's Egg]