Birds and Nature, Vol 10 No. 2 [September 1901]

At last we are safely down in the valley and across the meadow, which is one vast bed of poppies, a field of the cloth of gold. Then we come down among the huge cottonwoods and river oaks that line the river bank and unharness our horse and tie him where the grazing is good and then start on our search. We first make our way down to the river’s edge and, lying flat on the sand and rocks, drink to our content of the cool water fresh from the snow of the Sierras. The river is about five hundred feet wide and varies from two hundred to a thousand at this point. It is not high now, for the spring floods come later, with the melting of the snow, and in its deepest part is not probably over eight or ten feet, but it is swift – terribly swift. It is a good swimmer that can hold his own with the current for five minutes, and in the swiftest part it is impossible for a man to make any headway. The bottom is of shifting sand and the channel is ever changing. It is a deceitful and treacherous river, though laughing and sparkling in the sun to-day. It has taken value for value for all the gold it has given up. Here and there in the deep places under the shadow of the bank we can see catfish and big carp moving lazily about. The catfish and a fish known as the river trout can be caught with a hook and line, but the carp never touches bait, but there is considerable sport in spearing them.

We pass up the stream with our eyes directed at the tree tops, but now and then at the ever-changing aspect of the river, taking in all the beauties of nature and the curious formation of the steep sides of the bluff. The face of the bluff represents excellently the different geological layers of soil and stone, here chalky, there slaty, and here gaudily daubed with all the brilliant hues of a clay formation. The cottonwood and the willows are just beginning to show green. Now and then we come upon a nest in the cottonwood trees, far out over the water. Sometimes it is an old one, but often we are convinced otherwise by the sudden departure of a screaming hawk as we throw a dead limb in that direction. Then comes the hard climb, the toilsome shin to reach the first limb, with knees and elbows hugging tightly the smooth, slippery bark, taking advantage of every little knot and twig, and then, the limb gained, up from limb to branch, up into the air, into the cooling breeze, feeling for the instant the life of the birds, up into the swaying lesser branches, up to the tip-top, where the big, rough nest of sticks is firmly placed, the nether end of a jackrabbit carcass half hanging over the edge, and numerous ears, paws and small bones along the rim, and inside four handsome, large, speckled brown eggs of the squirrel hawk. Into our little sack they go, regardless of the remonstrances of the angry hawk, which is circling around overhead, and with the sack firmly held in our teeth we descend to the ground, pack the eggs into our case and go on. Sometimes in the distance huge clumps of mistletoe on the river oaks look like nests, but nearer approach shows the difference. Mistletoe is very plentiful here. What a place for a party of girls and boys to spend Christmas. Now we come upon a bend in the river where the ground is all strewed with driftwood left by some winter freshet. There is enough to keep many families in fuel for a long time, but it lies there untouched, inaccessible, to be carried on at the next flood – on to where? Who knows the ending of the travels of a piece of driftwood that starts from the mills far up in the Sierras? The wood is washed smooth and round and into every conceivable shape. At places we pass through thickets of rose bushes, blackberry vines, and elderberry, which grow profusely all along the river. In a many-limbed willow tree, an easy climb and not a high one, we find the nest of a horned owl, with five round white eggs within. The old bird stayed on the nest until we were nearly to it and then, with a peculiar cry, scrambled over the side and fell to the ground as if shot, then arose to a neighboring branch and sat there, uttering a cry like a cat and swelling out her feathers angrily, but all in vain. Further up the river ran in close to the bluff on our side, and as the traveling was rather difficult along land that lay at an angle of only five or ten degrees from the vertical, we scrambled to the top, at times slipping, and often pulling ourselves up by the weeds, so steep it was. A misstep would have sent us rolling into the river below. In the face of the bluff squirrels had their homes, and we found the dwellings therein of two handsome big snowy owls, but they had wisely chosen them in places where the five degrees of slope was in under us and a crumbling of the sand meant a straight drop of fifty or sixty feet, so we left them with “requiescat in pace.” For a quarter of a mile we followed along the top of the bluff, watching the river and the tree tops below us. Flocks of ducks were flying up and down the river, quacking vigorously. Now and then a big, ugly “shack” rose from a stump and flapped across the river. Isles big and little and middlesized were dotted in the stream, all heavily covered with underbrush, an excellent refuge for the ducks in their nesting season a little later on. A big white pelican sat on a log watching its victims in the water. The river curves and bends and doubles on itself, and never goes straight for forty yards at a time. At a bend we came upon a scene that delighted our ornithological eyes. One hundred feet below us, in the tops of a clump of cottonwoods, was a heronry. Dozens of big, basket-like nests blackened the tree tops, and perched on the very topmost branches were dozens of long-legged, crooked-necked, great blue herons. As we came upon them they started up, flapping their wings, stretching out their necks and pulling in their legs behind them. Uttering cries like those of the seagulls, they flapped off and lit away upon the plains, but within sight of us, and seemed to be holding a consultation. We could see into the most of the nests, and they were all empty. It was a little too early for the birds to begin nesting, and they were evidently mating and perhaps deciding who should have first choice. Some nests looked like old family residences of many generations, for they had several stories and additions, porticos and dormer windows, so to speak, in abundance.

We passed on, and when the valley widened out again we descended and sat down under the oaks to eat our luncheon. It soon disappeared, the last morsel, and we were on our way again. At long intervals farm houses appeared on the edge of the bluff, and in the river below one of them, on the opposite side of the stream from us, was a curious old water-wheel on a flatboat securely moored to the trees on the bank, and which laboriously and noisily jerked water up through a pipe to the bluff above. The meadows along the river are the pasturage of big herds of horses and cattle, and one is lucky if one’s perambulations are not interrupted by some inhospitable bull. As we ascend the river it grows swifter and more rocky and the top of the bluff rolls higher and higher and the hills appear in the distance. When we came to the first of these low hills we climbed the bluff and ascended it. It was a peculiar formation of stone resembling sand in softness or sand resembling stone in hardness, we could hardly determine which. It was seamed and ribbed, projecting cliff-like into the air, with boulders lying about and with caverns and precipitous sides. As we scaled to the top of it we scared away a number of turkey buzzards that had been watching our ascent, and it was evidently their nesting place, as we discovered traces of old nests and a good many bones of the hapless denizens of the plains. We started several of the big boulders at the edge rolling and plunging down, and, though most of them broke up in their downward career, they stopped only when, after a great plunge, they settled in the bed of the river. Sometimes as they thundered down they would startle a rabbit from his repose, and off he would scamper in great affright. But it was getting near sundown and we were miles from our wagon, and even when we reached that we would be ten miles from home, so we set out on our return with spirits not lacking, but appetites sorely pressing. The miles of climbing up hill and down hill in the pure air had done us more good than months in a gymnasium, and when, long after dark, we reached our home in Fresno town, what a supper we did eat.

    Charles Elmer Jenney.

THE BENGAL TIGER

(Felis tigris.)

The Bengal Tiger (Felis tigris) inhabits the hotter regions of Southern Asia, but the species is found with certain color variations throughout the lower levels of all Asia from Siberia to the River Euphrates and as far south as Sumatra and Java. Next to the lion it is the strongest and most ferocious of carnivorous animals, and, on account of the heavily wooded country in which it lives being densely populated, the Tiger is even more destructive of human life. In Bengal alone three hundred and forty-seven persons were reported killed by Tigers in a single year, and this in spite of the best efforts of the government and people to mitigate the evil by poisoning, hunting and trapping.

Mr. William T. Hornaday, who hunted Tigers on his collecting trip in India, says in his book, “Two Years in the Jungle,” that only a limited number of Tigers, and those of the old and decrepit sort, ever kill men at all, but once they have tasted human flesh they continue to kill until some hunter reciprocates and brings peace again to the ravaged district. According to their habits in procuring food the people of India divide Tigers into three classes – the “game killer,” the “cattle lifter” and the “man killer.” The “game killer” lives in the dense forest, catches his own deer and wild hogs and is very self-respecting and honest, for a Tiger. The “cattle lifter” is a fat and lazy cat, who hangs around villages and kills a steer from the herds whenever he is hungry. Dragging away the carcass he returns to it until it is all eaten, when he kills again, while the timid and defenseless natives flee in terror or hover about, unable to protect their herds. It is after these fat “cattle lifters” get old and mangy that they turn “man eater,” finding it easier to catch the herdsman than to drag off a bullock. Then after the first taste they haunt the paths and villages, pouncing upon men, women and children until there is no safety, except within doors, until some hunter has slain the foe.

Among the English of India Tiger hunting is a favorite sport. A most picturesque and safe way is to mount on an Elephant and be driven about through the country beating up the Tigers from cover and shooting them with the huge four-bore rifles which the English sportsmen affect. The principal danger lies in the stampeding of the elephant or the attack of a wounded Tiger on the elephant himself. The more common way is to build a shooting platform by some water hole or carcass and lie in wait for the Tiger, or, better yet, have a small army of beaters drive him from his lair and past the spot where the platform has been erected.

Sometimes men who like to take chances follow the Tigers on foot and shoot them where they find them, which is often coming straight through the air. A glance at the illustration will show what powerful forearms and shoulders the tiger has. One blow from that paw will break a bullock’s back, and a wounded Tiger is more dangerous than one unhurt. Unless the brain is reached or the spinal column broken a Tiger will not stop in his charge, and the most active man can hardly avoid his clutches.

An adult Bengal Tiger measures ten feet from tip to tip, stands over three and a half feet in height and weighs five hundred pounds. If we consider the strength, activity and ferocity of the ordinary house cat and then think of it multiplied a hundred times we can form some conception of the Bengal Tiger as he lies down by his water hole and wonders what he will kill next.

In color the Tiger matches the foliage of his native jungles. When lying in grass or even upon the ground the dark markings and rufous fawn colors of his body blend almost perfectly with his surroundings, and it has often happened that his presence was only guessed by the thrashing of his nervous tail in the grass as he gathered for a leap. Grassy plains and swamps are his favorite abiding places, and he does not hesitate to swim from island to island in search of prey. Curiously, again, for a cat, the Tiger does not climb trees except when forced to do so by floods.

The Tigress gives birth to from two to six cubs and is most affectionate toward them and aggressive toward intruders while she has them in charge. As soon as they can eat she begins to kill for them, and teaches them by a thousand cruel tricks to imitate her example. Not until they are nearly grown and able to kill for themselves does she separate herself and leave them to shift for themselves. Young Tigers are far more destructive than old, killing three or four cattle and eating one, as if they wished to learn their duties in life well or were mad with the rage to kill.

    Dane Coolidge.

AD VESPERAM

With bars of beaten brass and amethyst,
Evening hath shut the crimson sun within
A pasturage, where fleecy cloud-flocks win
Uncertain nurture from pelagian mist,
The singing of a feathered rhapsodist
Sounds from the darkening wood: O Night begin!
Bright pageant of the stars, come, usher in
The hour when Peace, a potent exorcist,
Casts out the turbulence and fret of day.
Now as the last faint bird notes die away,
And sunset’s glory fades from out the west,
Cometh an angel and his name is Rest.
On white dream wings I soar away with him,
Farewell, O Earth; farewell, O twilight dim!

    Mary Grant O’Sheridan.