Birds and All Nature, Vol. VI, No. 3, October 1899

At sight of me the dog coolly picked up the baby and trotted off. I followed and he soon dropped it; but I couldn't succeed in driving him away. He still remained in sight, bold and impudent.

I was in a sad dilemma. Of the two evils which confronted me, or rather the baby, which would prove the less?

The trees all about the place were tall ones, with no low branches. There was no hope of returning the baby to its nest. It was too weak from cold and fright, as well as too young, to fly. If I left it the dog would certainly return and devour it before its mother's eyes.

On the other hand, if I took it home with me it would probably die under my ignorant care. However, I decided on the latter course, so clasping it close in my hand, continued on my way.

Those who have a continual grudge against the English sparrow will say, "Why all this fuss over a miserable little nuisance of a sparrow?" and think the wisest thing would have been to leave it to its fate. But the superfluity of the English sparrow is not the question in a case like this. When something weak and helpless is thrown across our path, it simply remains for us to help and save it, if it is in our power.

On the way home I pondered a good deal over the question of how I should care for it and feed it, and what I could find to keep it in, as I had no bird-cage.

When I got Master Sparrow home, and had thoroughly warmed him and dried his little feathers (they were very few!) I put him into the best substitute for a bird-cage that I could find, and that was a large wire rat-trap!

The next question was, what to feed him. As I had seen sparrows picking at the cornmeal which we mixed and gave to the little chickens, I ventured to put some of it into his cage.

I watched him a good deal, that day and didn't see him eat a morsel. But as he seemed stronger and more lively the next day, I concluded he was bashful and only ate when I wasn't looking.

Soon, however, he grew less afraid of me and would hop about and peck at his food when I was near. I began to vary his diet, too, and gave him what green slugs I could find on the rosebushes, as well as minced earthworms. He ate the slugs eagerly and seemed to enjoy tugging at wriggling bits of earthworm.

He also began to develop quite a voice and "cheeped" so loudly that I named him "Cheeper."

I grew very fond of him and watched him grow and feather out with great pride and interest. As he became stronger he grew more eager to get out of his cage. It quite went to my heart to see him beating against, the wires, and vainly striving for freedom. But I feared he couldn't take care of himself; and also that the other birds might not receive him well.

So I kept him seven days. I put his cage in the window several times where he could look out on the world and become acquainted with the colony of sparrows which inhabits the Virginia creeper covering the north side of our house. He would "cheep" very loudly on these occasions and try harder than ever to get out. His presence in the window made a great commotion among the other sparrows, who chirped excitedly and flew about, taking long looks at him. Two of them went so far as to alight on his cage.

On the seventh day, at noon, I took his cage to the window and set him free. He flew the length of the house and settled on a rosebush at the end of the porch, where he sat for some time, peering about, with his little head comically hoisting this side and that. Presently, when I came to the window to see if he were still there, I found he had flown away; and though I thought I could distinguish his particular "cheep" several times afterwards, I saw him no more that day. Nor did I expect to see him again.

I missed him a great deal and was surprised to find how fond of him I had grown. Imagine my surprise and delight when I went out next morning to feed the chickens to find little "Cheeper" there before me! He flew onto the fence when he saw me, but soon flew down again, and hopped about among the little chicks quite fearlessly. I was afraid the big chickens would step on him; and, sure enough, the Bantam rooster did walk right over him, but he just squawked and hopped away without any apparent resentment.

The next morning he was there again, when I went out. This time he followed a hen about, hopping along with her little chicks as though he thought himself one of them. He was such a fluffy little fellow, and he did look so tiny and cunning!

Poor little motherless baby, trying to find a mother in a big hen! That was the last time I saw him.

Only a despised little English sparrow! Yet, little "Cheeper," you had your mission in life. You made the heart of one bird-lover more tender by your helplessness, and your memory is dear to her.

THE HERMIT THRUSH

NELLY HART WOODWORTH

Does the thrush drink wild honey? a nectar distilled
From the flowers of the field, that his message is filled
With such sweetness? O'er the twilight 'tis ringing —
June's divinest refrain, 'tis a soul that is singing,
Oh, so trustfully sweet, rapture blended with pain,
Rings the silver bell softly, I hear it again,
And the wood is enchanted, uncertain it seems,
As some moment of waking, the dreams, oh the dreams!

Does he bathe evermore in the miracle springs,
That his wings and his heart are in rhythm when he sings?
Tears moisten the harpstrings, they quiver with pain,
Then the triumph, the peace but the finest souls gain —
Earth's losses, its tears through the notes sweep along,
The longings of earth find a voice in the song,
Till outechoed by angels they find a release,
To be silenced henceforth, merged in infinite peace.

Will the spirit bird sing through the ages to come,
Or the soul take its flight and, still singing, go home,
And the world weep aghast when, the music withdrawn,
The lark still a wing tells the rapture of dawn?

THE GRAND CAÑON OF THE COLORADO

[From Major J. W. Powell's Report of the Exploration of the Cañons of the Colorado – 1869.]

"FOR two years previous to the exploration, I had been making some geological studies among the heads of the cañons leading to the Colorado, and a desire to explore the Grand Cañon itself grew upon me. Early in the spring of 1869 a small party was organized for this purpose. Boats were built in Chicago, and transported by rail to the point where the Union Pacific Railroad crosses the Green River. With these we were to descend the Green into the Colorado, and the Colorado down to the foot of the Grand Cañon."

From the record of May 24, 1869, we quote the following:

"The good people of Green River City turn out to see us start – a party of ten men. We raise our little flag, push the boats from shore, and the swift current carries us down."

"Our boats are four in number. Three are built of oak, staunch and firm."

"We take with us rations deemed sufficient to last ten months, abundant supplies of clothing, also a large quantity of ammunition and two or three dozen traps."

On the 26th they go into camp at the foot of the Uintah Mountains, at the head of Flaming Gorge Cañon, the first to be explored.

We quote again: "The river is running to the south; the mountains have an easterly and westerly trend directly athwart its course, yet it glides on in a quiet way as if it thought a mountain range no formidable obstruction to its course. It enters the range by a flaring, brilliant-red gorge, that may be seen from the north a score of miles away."

"You must not think of a mountain range as a line of peaks standing on a plain, but as a broad platform many miles wide, from which mountains have been carved by the waters. You must conceive, too, that this plateau is cut by gulches and cañons in many directions, and that beautiful valleys are scattered about at different altitudes. The first series of cañons we are about to explore constitute a river channel through such a range of mountains. The cañon is cut nearly half-way through the range, then turns to the east, and is cut along the central line, or axis, gradually crossing it to the south. Keeping this direction for more than fifty miles, it then turns abruptly to a southwest course, and goes diagonally through the southern slope of the range."

"May 30. – This morning we are ready to enter the mysterious cañon, and start with some anxiety. The old mountaineers tell us it cannot be run; the Indians say, 'Water heap catch 'em;' but all are eager for the trial, and off we go."

"Entering Flaming Gorge, we quickly run through it on a swift current, and emerge into a little park. Half a mile below, the river wheels sharply to the left, and we turn into another cañon cut into the mountain. We enter the narrow passage. On either side the walls rapidly increase in altitude. On the left are overhanging ledges and cliffs five hundred, a thousand, fifteen hundred feet high.

"On the right the rocks are broken and ragged, and the water fills the channel from cliff to cliff. Now the river turns abruptly around a point to the right, and the waters plunge swiftly down among great rocks; and here we have our first experience with cañon rapids. I stand up on the deck of my boat to seek a way among the wave-beaten rocks. All untried as we are with such waters, the moments are filled with intense anxiety. Soon our boats reach the swift current; a stroke or two, now on this side, now on that, and we thread the narrow passage with exhilarating velocity, mounting the high waves, whose foaming crests dash over us, and plunging into the troughs, until we reach the quiet water below; and then comes a feeling of great relief. Our first rapid run. Another mile and we come into the valley again.

"Let me explain this cañon. Where the river turns to the left above, it takes a course directly into the mountain, penetrating to its very heart, then wheels back upon itself, and runs into the valley from which it started, only half a mile below the point at which it entered; so the cañon is in the form of an elongated U, with the apex in the center of the mountain. We name it Horseshoe Cañon.

"Last spring, I had a conversation with an old Indian named Pa-ri-ats, who told me about one of his tribe attempting to run this cañon. 'The rocks,' he said, holding his hands above his head, his arms vertical, looking between them to the heavens – 'the rocks h-e-a-p, h-e-a-p high; the water go h-oo-woogh, h-oo-woogh! water-pony (boat) h-e-a-p buck; water catch 'em; no see 'em Injun any more! no see 'em squaw any more! no see 'em pappoose any more!'

"June 7. – On a rock we find a pool of clear, cold water, caught from yesterday evening's shower. After a good drink we walk to the brink of the cañon, and look down to the water below. I can do this now, but it has taken several years of mountain climbing to cool my nerves, so that I can sit, with my feet over the edge, and calmly look down a precipice two thousand feet. And yet I cannot look on and see another do the same. I must either bid him come away or turn my head.

"This evening, as I write, the sun is going down, and the shadows are settling in the cañon. The vermilion gleams and roseate hues, blending with the green and gray tints, are slowly changing to somber brown above, and black shadows are creeping over them below; and now it is a dark portal to a region of gloom – the gateway through which we are to enter on our voyage of exploration to-morrow."

The 9th of June brought disaster to a boat containing three of the men, who were carried down the rapids, but all were rescued.