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The Snow-Walkers
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He who marvels at the beauty of the world in summer will find equal
cause for wonder and admiration in winter. It is true the pomp and
the pageantry are swept away, but the essential elements remain, -
the day and the night, the mountain and the valley, the elemental
play and succession and the perpetual presence of the infinite sky.
In winter the stars seem to have rekindled their fires, the moon
achieves a fuller triumph, and the heavens wear a look of a more
exalted simplicity. Summer is more wooing and seductive, more
versatile and human, appeals to the affections and the sentiments,
and fosters inquiry and the art impulse. Winter is of a more heroic
cast, and addresses the intellect. The severe studies and disciplines
come easier in winter. One imposes larger tasks upon himself, and is
less tolerant of his own weaknesses.
The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in
winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone
and sinew to Literature, summer the tissues and blood.
The simplicity of winter has a deep moral. The return of nature,
after such a career of splendor and prodigality, to habits so simple
and austere, is not lost either upon the head or the heart. It is the
philosopher coming back from the banquet and the wine to a cup of
water and a crust of bread.
And then this beautiful masquerade of the elements, - the novel
disguises our nearest friends put on! Here is another rain and
another dew, water that will not flow, nor spill, nor receive the
taint of an unclean vessel. And if we see truly, the same old
beneficence and willingness to serve lurk beneath all.
Look up at the miracle of the falling snow, - the air a dizzy maze of
whirling, eddying flakes, noiselessly transforming the world, the
exquisite crystals dropping in ditch and gutter, and disguising in
the same suit of spotless livery all objects upon which they fall.
How novel and fine the first drifts! The old, dilapidated fence is
suddenly set off with the most fantastic ruffles, scalloped and
fluted after an unheard-of fashion! Looking down a long line of
decrepit stone wall, in the trimming of which the wind had fairly run
riot, I saw, as for the first time, what a severe yet master artist
old Winter is. Ah, a severe artist! How stern the woods look, dark
and cold and as rigid against the horizon as iron! |
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All life and action upon the snow have an added emphasis and
significance. Every expression is underscored. Summer has few finer
pictures than this winter one of the farmer foddering his cattle from
a stack upon the clean snow, -the movement, the sharply defined
figures, the great green flakes of hay, the long file of patient
cows, the advance just arriving and pressing eagerly for the choicest
morsels, and the bounty and providence it suggests. Or the chopper in
the woods, - the prostrate tree, the white new chips scattered about,
his easy triumph over the cold, his coat hanging to a limb, and the
clear, sharp ring of his axe. The woods are rigid and tense, keyed up
by the frost, and resound like a stringed instrument. Or the
road-breakers, sallying forth with oxen and sleds in the still, white
world, the day after the storm, to restore the lost track and
demolish the beleaguering drifts. |
All sounds are sharper in winter; the air transmits better. At night
I hear more distinctly the steady roar of the North Mountain. In
summer it is a sort of complacent purr, as the breezes stroke down
its sides; but in winter always the same low, sullen growl.
A severe artist! No longer the canvas and the pigments, but the
marble and the chisel. When the nights are calm and the moon full, I
go out to gaze upon the wonderful purity of the moonlight and the
snow. The air is full of latent fire, and the cold warms me - after a
different fashion from that of the kitchen stove. The world lies
about me in a "trance of snow." The clouds are pearly and
iridescent, and seem the farthest possible remove from the condition
of a storm, - the ghosts of clouds, the indwelling beauty freed from
all dross. I see the hills, bulging with great drifts, lift
themselves up cold and white against the sky, the black lines of
fences here and there obliterated by the depth of the snow. Presently
a fox barks away up next the mountain, and I imagine I can almost see
him sitting there, in his furs, upon the illuminated surface, and
looking down in my direction. As I listen, one answers him from
behind the woods in the valley. What a wild winter sound, wild and
weird, up among the ghostly hills! Since the Wolf has ceased to howl
upon these mountains, and the panther to scream, there is nothing to
be compared with it. So wild! I get up in the middle of the night to
hear it. It is refreshing to the ear, and one delights to know that
such wild creatures are among us. At this season Nature makes the
most of every throb of life that can withstand her severity. How
heartily she indorses this fox! In what bold relief stand out the
lives of all walkers of the snow! The snow is a great tell-tale, and
blabs as effectually as it obliterates. I go into the woods, and know
all that has happened. I cross the fields, and if only a mouse has
visited his neighbor, the fact is chronicled.
The red fox is the only species that abounds in my locality; the
little gray fox seems to prefer a more rocky and precipitous country,
and a less rigorous climate; the cross fox is occasionally seen, and
there are traditions of the silver gray among the oldest hunters. But
the red fox is the sportsman's prize, and the only fur-bearer worthy
of note in these mountains. I go out in the morning, after a fresh
fall of snow, and see at all points where he has crossed the road.
Here he has leisurely passed within rifle-range of the house,
evidently reconnoitering the premises with an eye to the hen-roost.
That clear, sharp track, - there is no mistaking it for the clumsy
footprint of a little dog. All his wildness and agility are
photographed in it. Here he has taken fright, or suddenly recollected
an engagement, and in long, graceful leaps, barely touching the
fence, has gone careering up the hill as fleet as the wind.
The wild, buoyant creature, how beautiful he is! I had often seen his
dead carcass, and at a distance had witnessed the hounds drive him
across the upper fields; but the thrill and excitement of meeting him
in his wild freedom in the woods were unknown to me till, one cold
winter day, drawn thither by the baying of a hound, I stood near the
summit of the mountain, waiting a renewal of the sound, that I might
determine the course of the dog and choose MY position, - stimulated
by the ambition of all young Nimrods to bag some notable game. Long I
waited, and patiently, till, chilled and benumbed, I was about to
turn back, when, hearing a slight noise, I looked up and beheld a
most superb fox, loping along with inimitable grace and ease,
evidently disturbed, but not pursued by the hound, and so absorbed in
his private meditations that he failed to see me, though I stood
transfixed with amazement and admiration, not ten yards distant. I
took his measure at a glance, - a large male, with dark legs, and
massive tail tipped with white, - a most magnificent creature ; but
so astonished and fascinated was I by this sudden appearance and
matchless beauty, that not till I had caught the last glimpse of him,
as he disappeared over a knoll, did I awake to my duty as a
sportsman, and realize what an opportunity to distinguish myself I
had unconsciously let slip. I clutched my gun, half angrily, as if it
was to blame, and went home out of humor with myself and all
fox-kind. But I have since thought better of the experience, and
concluded that I bagged the game after all, the best part of it, and
fleeced Reynard of something more valuable than his fur, without his knowledge.
This is thoroughly a winter sound, - this voice of the hound upon the
mountain, - and one that is music to many ears. The long trumpet-like
bay, heard for a mile or more, - now faintly back in the deep
recesses of the mountain, - now distinct, but still faint, as the
hound comes over some prominent point and the wind favors, - anon
entirely lost in the gully, - then breaking out again much nearer,
and growing more and more pronounced as the dog approaches, till,
when he comes around the brow of the mountain, directly above you,
the barking is loud and sharp. On he goes along the northern spur,
his voice rising and sinking as the wind and the lay of the ground
modify it, till lost to hearing.
The fox usually keeps half a mile ahead, regulating his speed by that
of the hound, occasionally pausing a moment to divert himself with a
mouse, or to contemplate the landscape, or to listen for his pursuer.
If the hound press him too closely, he leads off from mountain to
mountain, and so generally escapes the hunter; but if the pursuit be
slow, he plays about some ridge or peak, and falls a prey, though not
an easy one, to the experienced sportsman.
A most spirited and exciting chase occurs when the farm-dog gets
close upon one in the open field, as sometimes happens in the early
morning. The fox relies so confidently upon his superior speed, that
I imagine he half tempts the dog to the race. But if the dog be a
smart one, and their course lies downhill, over smooth ground,
Reynard must put his best foot forward, and then sometimes suffer the
ignominy of being run over by his pursuer, who, however, is quite
unable to pick him up, owing to the speed. But when they mount the
hill, or enter the woods, the superior nimbleness and agility of the
fox tell at once, and he easily leaves the dog far in his rear. For a
cur less than his own size he manifests little fear, especially if
the two meet alone, remote from the house. In such cases, I have seen
first one turn tail, then the other.
A novel spectacle often occurs in summer, when the female has young.
You are rambling on the mountain, accompanied by your dog, when you
are startled by that wild, half-threatening squall, and in a moment
perceive your dog, with inverted tail, and shame and confusion in his
looks, sneaking toward you, the old fox but a few rods in his rear.
You speak to him sharply, when he bristles up, turns about, and,
barking, starts off vigorously, as if to wipe out the dishonor; but
in a moment comes sneaking back more abashed than ever, and owns
himself unworthy to be called a dog. The fox fairly shames him out of
the woods. The secret of the matter is her sex, though her conduct,
for the honor of the fox be it said, seems to be prompted only by
solicitude for the safety of her young.
One of the most notable features of the fox is his large and massive
tail. Seen running on the snow at a distance, his tail is quite as
conspicuous as his body; and, so far from appearing a burden, seems
to contribute to his lightness and buoyancy. It softens the outline
of his movements, and repeats or continues to the eye the ease and
poise of his carriage. But, pursued by the hound on a wet, thawy day,
it often becomes so heavy and bedraggled as to prove a serious
inconvenience, and compels him to take refuge in his den. He is very
loath to do this; both his pride and the traditions of his race
stimulate him to run it out, and win by fair superiority of wind and
speed; and only a wound or a heavy and moppish tail will drive him to
avoid the issue in this manner.
To learn his surpassing shrewdness and cunning, attempt to take him
with a trap. Rogue that he is, he always suspects some trick, and one
must be more of a fox than he is himself to overreach him. At first
sight it would appear easy enough. With apparent indifference he
crosses your path, or walks in your footsteps in the field, or
travels along the beaten highway, or lingers in the vicinity of
stacks and remote barns. Carry the carcass of a pig, or a fowl, or a
dog, to a distant field in midwinter, and in a few nights his tracks
cover the snow about it.
The inexperienced country youth, misled by this seeming carelessness
of Reynard, suddenly conceives a project to enrich himself with fur,
and wonders that the idea has not occurred to him before, and to
others. I knew a youthful yeoman of this kind, who imagined he had
found a mine of wealth on discovering on a remote side-hill, between
two woods, a dead porker, upon which it appeared all the foxes of the
neighborhood had nightly banqueted. The clouds were burdened with
snow; and as the first flakes commenced to eddy down, he set out,
trap and broom in hand, already counting over in imagination the
silver quarters he would receive for his first fox-skin. With the
utmost care, and with a palpitating heart, he removed enough of the
trodden snow to allow the trap to sink below the surface. Then,
carefully sifting the light element over it and sweeping his tracks
full, he quickly withdrew, laughing exultingly over the little
surprise he had prepared for the cunning rogue. The elements con-
spired to aid him, and the falling snow rapidly obliterated all
vestiges of his work. The next morning at dawn he was on his way to
bring in his fur. The snow had done its work effectually, and, he
believed, had kept his secret well. Arrived in sight of the locality,
he strained his vision to make out his prize lodged against the fence
at the foot of the hill. Approaching nearer, the surface was
unbroken, and doubt usurped the place of certainty in his mind. A
slight mound marked the site of the porker, but there was no
footprint near it. Looking up the hill, he saw where Reynard had
walked leisurely down toward his wonted bacon till within a few yards
of it, when he had wheeled, and with prodigious strides disappeared
in the woods. The young trapper saw at a glance what a comment this
was upon his skill in the art, and, indignantly exhuming the iron, he
walked home with it, the stream of silver quarters suddenly setting
in another direction.
The successful trapper commences in the fall, or before the first
deep snow. In a field not too remote, with an old axe he cuts a small
place, say ten inches by fourteen, in the frozen ground, and removes
the earth to the depth of three or four inches, then fills the cavity
with dry ashes, in which are placed bits of roasted cheese. Reynard
is very suspicious at first, and gives the place a wide berth. It
looks like design, and he will see how the thing behaves before he
approaches too near. But the cheese is savory and the cold severe. He
ventures a little closer every night, until he can reach and pick a
piece from the surface. Emboldened by success, like other mortals, he
presently digs freely among the ashes, and, finding a fresh supply of
the delectable morsels every night, is soon thrown off his guard and
his suspicions quite lulled. After a week of baiting in this manner,
and on the eve of a light fall of snow, the trapper carefully
conceals his trap in the bed, first smoking it thoroughly with
hemlock boughs to kill or neutralize the smell of the iron. If the
weather favors and the proper precautions have been taken, he may
succeed, though the chances are still greatly against him.
Reynard is usually caught very lightly, seldom more than the ends of
his toes being between the jaws. He sometimes works so cautiously as
to spring the trap without injury even to his toes, or may remove the
cheese night after night without even springing it. I knew an old
trapper who, on finding himself outwitted in this manner, tied a bit
of cheese to the pan, and next morning had poor Reynard by the jaw.
The trap is not fastened, but only encumbered with a clog, and is all
the more sure in its hold by yielding to every effort of the animal
to extricate himself. |
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When Reynard sees his captor approaching, he would fain drop into a
mouse-hole to render himself invisible. He crouches to the ground and
remains perfectly motionless until he perceives himself discovered,
when he makes one desperate and final effort to escape, but ceases
all struggling as you come up, and behaves in a manner that stamps
him a very timid warrior, - cowering to the earth with a mingled look
of shame, guilt, and abject fear. A young farmer told me of tracing
one with his trap to the border of a wood, where he discovered the
cunning rogue trying to hide by embracing a small tree. Most animals,
when taken in a trap, show fight; but Reynard has more faith in the
nimbleness of his feet than in the terror of his teeth. |
Entering the woods, the number and variety of the tracks contrast
strongly with the rigid, frozen aspect of things. Warm jets of life
still shoot and play amid this snowy desolation. Fox-tracks are far
less numerous than in the fields; but those of hares, skunks,
partridges, squirrels, and mice abound. The mice tracks are very
pretty, and look like a sort of fantastic stitching on the coverlid
of the snow. One is curious to know what brings these tiny creatures
from their retreats; they do not seem to be in quest of food, but
rather to be traveling about for pleasure or sociability, though
always going post-haste, and linking stump with stump and tree with
tree by fine, hurried strides. That is when they travel openly; but
they have hidden passages and winding galleries under the snow, which
undoubtedly are their main avenues of communication. Here and there
these passages rise so near the surface as to be covered by only a
frail arch of snow, and a slight ridge betrays their course to the
eye. I know him well. He is known to the farmer as the " deer
mouse," to the naturalist as the whitefooted mouse, - a very
beautiful creature, nocturnal in his habits, with large ears, and
large, fine eyes, fun of a wild, harmless look. He is daintily
marked, with white feet and a white belly. When disturbed by day he
is very easily captured, having none of the cunning or viciousness of
the common Old World mouse.
It is he who, high in the hollow trunk of some tree, lays by a store
of beechnuts for winter use. Every nut is carefully shelled, and the
cavity that serves as storehouse lined with grass and leaves. The
wood-chopper frequently squanders this precious store. I have seen
half a peck taken from one tree, as clean and white as if put up by
the most delicate hands, - as they were. How long it must have taken
the little creature to collect this quantity, to hull them one by
one, and convey them up to his fifth-story chamber! He is not
confined to the woods, but is quite as common in the fields,
particularly in the fall, amid the corn and potatoes. When routed by
the plow, I have seen the old one take flight with half a dozen young
hanging to her teats, and with such reckless speed that some of the
young would lose their hold and fly off amid the weeds. Taking refuge
in a stump with the rest Of her family, the anxious mother would
presently come back and hunt up the missing ones.
The snow-walkers are mostly night-walkers also, and the record they
leave upon the snow is the main clew one has to their life and
doings. The hare is nocturnal in its habits, and though a very lively
creature at night, with regular courses and run-ways through the
wood, is entirely quiet by day. Timid as he is, he makes little
effort to conceal himself, usually squatting beside a log, stump, or
tree, and seeming to avoid rocks and ledges where he might be
partially housed from the cold and the snow, but where also - and
this consideration undoubtedly determines his choice -he would be
more apt to fall a prey to his enemies. In this, as well as in many
other respects, he differs from the rabbit proper: he never burrows
in the ground, or takes refuge in a den or hole, when pursued. If
caught in the open fields, he is much confused and easily overtaken
by the dog; but in the woods, he leaves him at a bound. In summer,
when first disturbed, he beats the ground violently with his feet, by
which means he would express to you his surprise or displeasure; it
is a dumb way he has of scolding. After leaping a few yards, he
pauses an instant, as if to determine the degree of danger, and then
hurries away with a much lighter tread.
His feet are like great pads, and his track has little of the sharp,
articulated expression of Reynard's, or of animals that climb or dig.
Yet it is very pretty like all the rest, and tells its own tale.
There is nothing bold or vicious or vulpine in it, and his timid,
harmless character is published at every leap. He abounds in dense
woods, preferring localities filled with a small undergrowth of beech
and birch, upon the bark of which he feeds. Nature is rather partial
to him, and matches his extreme local habits and character with a
suit that corresponds with his surroundings, - reddish gray in summer
and white in winter.
The sharp-rayed track of the partridge adds another figure to this
fantastic embroidery upon the winter snow. Her course is a clear,
strong line, Sometimes quite wayward, but generally very direct,
steering for the densest, most impenetrable places, leading you over
logs and through brush, alert and expectant, till, suddenly, she
bursts up a few yards from you, and goes humming through the trees, -
the complete triumph of endurance and vigor. Hardy native bird, may
your tracks never be fewer, or your visits to the birch-tree less frequent!
The squirrel tracks - sharp, nervous, and wiry - have their histories
also. But how rarely we see squirrels in winter! The naturalists say
they are mostly torpid; yet evidently that little pocket-faced
depredator, the chipmunk, was not carrying buckwheat for so many days
to his hole for nothing: was he anticipating a state of torpidity, or
providing against the demands of a very active appetite? Red and gray
squirrels are more or less active all winter, though very shy, and, I
am inclined to think, partially nocturnal in their habits. I Here a
gray one has just passed, - came down that tree and went up this;
there he dug for a beechnut, and left the burr on the snow. How did
he know where to dig? During an unusually severe winter I have known
him to make long journeys to a barn, in a remote field, where wheat
was stored. How did he know there was wheat there? In attempting to
return, the adventurous creature was frequently run down and caught
in the deep snow.
His home is in the trunk of some old birch or maple, with an entrance
far up amid the branches. In the spring he builds himself a
summer-house of small leafy twigs in the top of a neighboring beech,
where the young are reared and much of the time is passed. But the
safer retreat in the maple is not abandoned, and both old and young
resort thither in the fall, or when danger threatens. Whether this
temporary residence amid the branches is for elegance or pleasure, or
for sanitary reasons or domestic convenience, the naturalist has
forgotten to mention.
The elegant creature, so cleanly in its habits, so graceful in its
carriage, so nimble and daring in its movements, excites feelings of
admiration akin to those awakened by the birds and the fairer forms
of nature. His passage through the trees is almost a flight. Indeed,
the flying squirrel has little or no advantage over him, and in speed
and nimbleness cannot compare with him at all. If he miss his footing
and fall, he is sure to catch on the next branch; if the connection
be broken, he leaps recklessly for the nearest spray or limb, and
secures his hold, even if it be by the aid of his teeth.
His career of frolic and festivity begins in the fall, after the
birds have left us and the holiday spirit of nature has commenced to
subside. How absorbing the pastime of the sportsman who goes to the
woods in the still October morning in quest of him! You step lightly
across the threshold of the forest, and sit down upon the first log
or rock to await the signals. It is so still that the ear suddenly
seems to have acquired new powers, and there is no movement to
confuse the eye. Presently you hear the rustling of a branch, and see
it sway or spring as the squirrel leaps from or to it; or else you
hear a disturbance in the dry leaves, and mark one running upon the
ground. He has probably seen the intruder, and, not liking his
stealthy movements, desires to avoid a nearer acquaintance. Now he
mounts a stump to see if the way is clear, then pauses a moment at
the foot of a tree to take his bearings, his tail, as he skims along,
undulating behind him, and adding to the easy grace and dignity of
his movements. Or else you are first advised of his proximity by the
dropping of a false nut, or the fragments of the shucks rattling upon
the leaves. Or, again, after contemplating you awhile unobserved, and
making up his mind that you are not dangerous, he strikes an attitude
on a branch, and commences to quack and bark, with an accompanying
movement of his tail. Late in the afternoon, when the same stillness
reigns, the same scenes are repeated. There is a black variety, quite
rare, but mating freely with the gray, from which he seems to be
distinguished only in color. |
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The track of the red squirrel may be known by its smaller size. He is
more common and less dignified than the gray, and oftener guilty of
petty larceny about the barns and grain-fields. He is most abundant
in old barkpeelings, and low, dilapidated hemlocks, from which he
makes excursions to the fields and orchards, spinning along the tops
of the fences, which afford not only convenient lines of
communication, but a safe retreat if danger threatens. He loves to
linger about the orchard; and, sitting upright on the topmost stone
in the wall, or on the tallest stake in the fence, chipping up an
apple for the seeds, his tail conforming to the curve of his back,
his paws shifting and turning the apple, he is a pretty sight, and
his bright, pert appearance atones for all the mischief he does. At
home, in the woods, he is the most frolicsome and loquacious. The
appearance of anything unusual, if, after contemplating it a moment,
he concludes it not dangerous, excites his unbounded mirth and
ridicule, and he snickers and chatters, hardly able to contain
himself; now darting up the trunk of a tree and squealing in
derision, then hopping into position on a limb and dancing to the
music of his own cackle, and all for your special benefit. |
There is something very human in this apparent mirth and mockery of
the squirrels. It seems to be a sort of ironical laughter, and
implies self-conscious pride and exultation in the laugher. "What
a ridiculous thing you are, to be sure!" he seems to say;
"how clumsy and awkward, and what a poor show for a tail! Look
at 'me, look at me!" - and he capers about in his best style.
Again, he would seem to tease you and provoke your attention; then
suddenly assumes a tone of good-natured, childlike defiance and
derision. That pretty little imp, the chipmunk, will sit on the stone
above his den and defy you, as plainly as if he said so, to catch him
before he can get into his hole if you can. You hurl a stone at him,
and "No you didn't!" comes up from the depth of his retreat.
In February another track appears upon the snow, slender and
delicate, about a third larger than that of the gray squirrel,
indicating no haste or speed, but, on the contrary, denoting the most
imperturbable ease and leisure, the footprints so close together that
the trail appears like a chain of curiously carved links. Sir
Mephitis mephitica, or, in plain English, the skunk, has awakened
from his six weeks' nap, and come out into society again. He is a
nocturnal traveler, very bold and impudent, coming quite up to the
barn and outbuildings, and sometimes taking up his quarters for the
season under the haymow. There is no such word as hurry in his
dictionary, as you may see by his path upon the snow. He has a very
sneaking, insinuating way, and goes creeping about the fields and
woods, never once in a perceptible degree altering his gait, and, if
a fence crosses his course, steers for a break or opening to avoid
climbing. He is too indolent even to dig his own hole, but
appropriates that of a woodchuck, or hunts out a crevice in the
rocks, from which he extends his rambling in all directions,
preferring damp, thawy weather. He has very little discretion or
cunning, and holds a trap in utter contempt, stepping into it as soon
as beside it, relying implicitly for defense against all forms of
danger upon the unsavory punishment be is capable of inflicting. He
is quite indifferent to both man and beast, and will not hurry
himself to get out of the way of either. Walking through the summer
fields at twilight, I have come near stepping upon him, and was much
the more disturbed of the two. When attacked in the open field he
confounds the plans of his enemies by the unheard-of tactics of
exposing his rear rather than his front. " Come if you
dare," he says, and his attitude makes even the farm-dog pause.
After a few encounters of this kind, and if you entertain the usual
hostility towards him, your mode of attack will speedily resolve
itself into moving about him in a circle, the radius of which will be
the exact distance at which you can hurl a stone with accuracy and effect.
He has a secret to keep and knows it, and is careful not to betray
himself until he can do so with the most telling effect. I have known
him to preserve his serenity even when caught in a steel trap, and
look the very picture of injured innocence, maneuverung carefully and
deliberately to extricate his foot from the grasp of the naughty
jaws. Do not by any means take pity on him, and lend a helping hand!
How pretty his face and head! How fine and delicate his teeth, like a
weasel's or a cat's! When about a third grown, he looks so well that
one covets him for a pet. He is quite precocious, however, and
capable, even at this tender age, of making a very strong appeal to
your sense of smell.
No animal is more cleanly in his habits than he. He is not an awkward
boy who cuts his own face with his whip; and neither his flesh nor
his fur hints the weapon with which he is armed. The most silent
creature known to me, he makes no sound, so far as I have observed,
save a diffuse, impatient noise, like that produced by beating your
hand with a whisk-broom, when the farm-dog has discovered his retreat
in the stone fence. He renders himself obnoxious to the farmer by his
partiality for hens' eggs and young poultry. He is a confirmed
epicure, and at plundering hen-roosts an expert. Not the full-grown
fowls are his victims, but the youngest and most tender. At night
Mother Hen receives under her maternal wings a dozen newly hatched
chickens, and with much pride and satisfaction feels them all safely
tucked a'way in her feathers. In the morning she is walking about
disconsolately, attended by only two or three of all that pretty
brood. What has happened? Where are they gone ? That pickpocket, Sir
Mephitis, could solve the mystery. Quietly has he approached, under
cover of darkness, and one by one relieved her of her precious
charge. Look closely and you will see their little yellow legs and
beaks, or part of a mangled form, lying about on the ground. Or,
before the hen has hatched, he may find her out, and, by the same
sleight of hand, remove every egg, leaving only the empty
blood-stained shells to witness against him. The birds, especially
the ground-builders, suffer in like manner from his plundering propensities.
The secretion upon which he relies for defense, and which is the
chief source of his unpopularity, while it affords good reasons
against cultivating him as a pet, and mars his attractiveness as
game, is by no means the greatest indignity that can be offered to a
nose. It is a rank, living smell, and has none of the sickening
qualities of disease or putrefaction. Indeed, I think a good smeller
will enjoy its most refined intensity. It approaches the sublime, and
makes the nose tingle. It is tonic and bracing, and, I can readily
believe, has rare medicinal qualities. I do not recommend its use as
elevate, though an old farmer assures me it has undoubted virtues
when thus applied. Hearing, one night, a disturbance among his hens,
he rushed suddenly out to catch the thief, when Sir Mephitis, taken
by surprise, and no doubt much annoyed at being interrupted,
discharged the vials of his wrath full in the farmer's face, and with
such admirable effect that, for a few moments, he was completely
blinded, and powerless to revenge himself upon the rogue, who
embraced the opportunity to make good his escape; but he declared
that afterwards his eyes felt as if purged by fire, and his sight was
much clearer.
In March that brief summary of a bear, the raccoon, comes out of his
den in the ledges, and leaves his sharp digitigrade track upon the
snow, - traveling not unfrequently in pairs, - a lean, hungry couple,
bent on pillage and plunder. They have an unenviable time of it, -
feasting in the summer and fall, hibernating in winter, and starving
in spring. In April I have found the young of the previous year
creeping about the fields, so reduced by starvation as to be quite
helpless, and offering no resistance to my taking them up by the tail
and carrying them home.
The old ones also become very much emaciated, and come boldly up to
the barn or other outbuildings in quest of food. I remember, one
morning in early spring, of hearing old Cuff, the farm-dog, barking
vociferously before it was yet light. When we got up we discovered
him, at the foot of an ash-tree standing about thirty rods from the
house, looking up at some gray object in the leafless branches, and
by his manners and his voice evincing great impatience that we were
go tardy in coming to his assistance. Arrived on the spot, we saw in
the tree a coon of unusual size. One bold climber proposed to go up
and shake him down. This was what old Cuff wanted, and he fairly
bounded with delight as he saw his young master shinning up the tree.
Approaching within eight or ten feet of the coon, he seized the
branch to which it clung and shook long and fiercely. But the coon
was in no danger of losing its hold, and, when the climber paused to
renew his hold, it turned toward him with a growl, and showed very
clearly a purpose to advance to the attack. This caused his pursuer
to descend to the ground with all speed. When the coon was finally
brought down with a gun, he fought the dog, which was a large,
powerful animal, with great fury, returning bite for bite for some
moments; and after a quarter of an hour had elapsed and his unequal
antagonist had shaken him as a terrier does a rat, making his teeth
meet through the small of his back, the coon still showed fight.
They are very tenacious of life, and like the badger will always whip
a dog of their own size and weight. A woodchuck can bite severely,
having teeth that cut like chisels, but a coon has agility and power
of limb as well.
They are considered game only in the fall, or towards the close of
summer, when they become fat and their flesh sweet. At this time,
cooning in the remote interior is a famous pastime. As this animal is
entirely nocturnal in its habits, it is hunted only at night. A piece
of corn on some remote side-hill near the mountain, or between two
pieces of woods, is most apt to be frequented by them. While the corn
is yet green they pull the ears down like hogs, and, tearing open the
sheathing of husks, eat the tender, succulent kernels, bruising and
destroying much more than they devour. Sometimes their ravages are a
matter of serious concern to the farmer. But every such neighborhood
has its coon-dog, and the boys and young men dearly love the sport.
The party sets out about eight or nine o'clock of a dark, moonless
night, and stealthily approaches the cornfield. The dog knows his
business, and when he is put into a patch of corn and told to "
hunt them up" he makes a thorough search, and will not be misled
by any other scent. You hear him rattling through the corn, hither
and yon, with great speed. The coons prick up their ears, and leave
on the opposite side of the field. In the stillness you may sometimes
hear a single stone rattle on the wall as they hurry toward the
woods. If the dog finds nothing, he comes back to his master in a
short time, and says in his dumb way, "No coon there." But
if he strikes a trail, you presently hear a louder rattling on the
stone wall, and then a hurried bark as he enters the woods, followed
in a few minutes by loud and repeated barking as he reaches the foot
of the tree in which the coon has taken refuge. Then follows a
pellmell rush of the cooning party up the hill, into the woods,
through the brush and the darkness, falling over prostrate trees,
pitching into gullies and hollows, losing hats and tearing clothes,
till finally, guided by the baying of the faithful dog, the tree is
reached. The first thing now in order is to kindle a fire, and, if
its light reveals the coon, to shoot him; if not, to fell the tree
with an axe. If this happens to be too great a sacrifice of timber
and of strength, to sit down at the foot of the tree till morning.
But with March our interest in these phases of animal life, which
winter has so emphasized and brought out, begins to decline. Vague
rumors are afloat in the air of a great and coming change. We are
eager for Winter to be gone, since he, too, is fugitive and cannot
keep his place. Invisible hands deface his icy statuary; his chisel
has lost its cunning. The drifts, so pure and exquisite, are now
earth-stained and weather-worn, - the flutes and scallops, and fine,
firm lines, all gone; and what was a grace and an ornament to the
hills is now a disfiguration. Like worn and unwashed linen appear the
remains of that spotless robe with which he clothed the world as his bride.
But he will not abdicate without a struggle. Day after day he rallies
his scattered forces, and night after night pitches his white tents
on the hills, and would fain regain his lost ground; but the young
prince in every encounter prevails. Slowly and reluctantly the gray
old hero retreats up the mountain, till finally the south rain comes
in earnest, and in a night he is dead.
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