Wilderness Ways by William J Long
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William J Long >> Wilderness Ways
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Wherever there are barrens--treeless plains in the midst of dense
forest--the caribou collect in small herds as winter comes on,
following the old gregarious instinct. Then each one cannot do as he
pleases any more; and it is for this winter and spring life together,
when laws must be known, and the rights of the individual be laid
aside for the good of the herd, that the young are trained.
One afternoon in late summer I was drifting down the Toledi River,
casting for trout, when a movement in the bushes ahead caught my
attention. A great swampy tract of ground, covered with grass and low
brush, spread out on either side the stream. From the canoe I made out
two or three waving lines of bushes where some animals were making
their way through the swamp towards a strip of big timber which formed
a kind of island in the middle.
Pushing my canoe into the grass, I made for a point just astern of the
nearest quivering line of bushes. A glance at a bit of soft ground
showed me the trail of a mother caribou with her calf. I followed
cautiously, the wind being ahead in my favor. They were not hurrying,
and I took good pains not to alarm them.
When I reached the timber and crept like a snake through the
underbrush, there were the caribou, five or six mother animals, and
nearly twice as many little ones, well grown, which had evidently just
come in from all directions. They were gathered in a natural opening,
fairly clear of bushes, with a fallen tree or two, which served a good
purpose later. The sunlight fell across it in great golden bars,
making light and shadow to play in; all around was the great marsh,
giving protection from enemies; dense underbrush screened them from
prying eyes--and this was their schoolroom.
The little ones were pushed out into the middle, away from the
mothers to whom they clung instinctively, and were left to get
acquainted with each other, which they did very shyly at first, like
so many strange children. It was all new and curious, this meeting of
their kind; for till now they had lived in dense solitudes, each one
knowing no living creature save its own mother. Some were timid, and
backed away as far as possible into the shadow, looking with wild,
wide eyes from one to another of the little caribou, and bolting to
their mothers' sides at every unusual movement. Others were bold, and
took to butting at the first encounter. But careful, kindly eyes
watched over them. Now and then a mother caribou would come from the
shadows and push a little one gently from his retreat under a bush out
into the company. Another would push her way between two heads that
lowered at each other threateningly, and say with a warning shake of
her head that butting was no good way to get along together. I had
once thought, watching a herd on the barrens through my glasses, that
they are the gentlest of animals with each other. Here in the little
school in the heart of the swamp I found the explanation of things.
For over an hour I lay there and watched, my curiosity growing more
eager every moment; for most of what I saw I could not comprehend,
having no key, nor understanding why certain youngsters, who needed
reproof according to my standards, were let alone, and others kept
moving constantly, and still others led aside often to be talked to by
their mothers. But at last came a lesson in which all joined, and
which could not be misunderstood, not even by a man. It was the
jumping lesson.
Caribou are naturally poor jumpers. Beside a deer, who often goes out
of his way to jump a fallen tree just for the fun of it, they have no
show whatever; though they can travel much farther in a day and much
easier. Their gait is a swinging trot, from which it is impossible to
jump; and if you frighten them out of their trot into a gallop and
keep them at it, they soon grow exhausted. Countless generations on
the northern wastes, where there is no need of jumping, have bred this
habit, and modified their muscles accordingly. But now a race of
caribou has moved south into the woods, where great trees lie fallen
across the way, and where, if Megaleep is in a hurry or there is
anybody behind him, jumping is a necessity. Still he doesn't like it,
and avoids it whenever possible. The little ones, left to themselves,
would always crawl under a tree, or trot round it. And this is another
thing to overcome, and another lesson to be taught in the caribou
school.
As I watched them the mothers all came out from the shadows and began
trotting round the opening, the little ones keeping close as possible,
each one to its mother's side. Then the old ones went faster; the
calves were left in a long line stringing out behind. Suddenly the
leader veered in to the edge of the timber and went over a fallen tree
with a jump; the cows followed splendidly, rising on one side, falling
gracefully on the other, like gray waves racing past the end of a
jetty. But the first little one dropped his head obstinately at the
tree and stopped short. The next one did the same thing; only he ran
his head into the first one's legs and knocked them out from under
him. The others whirled with a _ba-a-a-ah_, and scampered round the
tree and up to their mothers, who had turned now and stood watching
anxiously to see the effect of their lesson. Then it began over again.
It was true kindergarten teaching; for under guise of a frolic the
calves were being taught a needful lesson,--not only to jump, but, far
more important than that, to follow a leader, and to go where he goes
without question or hesitation. For the leaders on the barrens are
wise old bulls that make no mistakes. Most of the little caribou took
to the sport very well, and presently followed the mothers over the
low hurdles. But a few were timid; and then came the most intensely
interesting bit of the whole strange school, when a little one would
be led to a tree and butted from behind till he took the jump.
There was no "consent of the governed" in that governing. The mother
knew, and the calf didn't, just what was good for him.
It was this last lesson that broke up the school. Just in front of my
hiding place a tree fell out into the opening. A mother caribou
brought her calf up to this unsuspectingly, and leaped over, expecting
the little one to follow. As she struck she whirled like a top and
stood like a beautiful statue, her head pointing in my direction. Her
eyes were bright with fear, the ears set forward, the nostrils spread
to catch every tainted atom from the air. Then she turned and glided
silently away, the little one close to her side, looking up and
touching her frequently as if to whisper, _What is it? what is it?_
but making no sound. There was no signal given, no alarm of any kind
that I could understand; yet the lesson stopped instantly. The caribou
glided away like shadows. Over across the opening a bush swayed here
and there; a leaf quivered as if something touched its branch. Then
the schoolroom was empty and the woods all still.
There is another curious habit of Megaleep; and this one I am utterly
at a loss to account for. When he is old and feeble, and the tireless
muscles will no longer carry him with the herd over the wind-swept
barrens, and he falls sick at last, he goes to a spot far away in the
woods, where generations of his ancestors have preceded him, and there
lays him down to die. It is the caribou burying ground; and all the
animals of a certain district, or a certain herd (I am unable to tell
which), will go there when sick or sore wounded, if they have strength
enough to reach the spot. For it is far away from the scene of their
summer homes and their winter wanderings.
I know one such place, and visited it twice from my summer camp. It is
in a dark tamarack swamp by a lonely lake at the head of the
Little-South-West Miramichi River, in New Brunswick. I found it one
summer when trying to force my way from the big lake to a smaller one,
where trout were plenty. In the midst of the swamp I stumbled upon a
pair of caribou skeletons, which surprised me; for there were no
hunters within a hundred miles, and at that time the lake had lain for
many years unvisited. I thought of fights between bucks, and bull
moose, how two bulls will sometimes lock horns in a rush, and are too
weakened to break the lock, and so die together of exhaustion.
Caribou are more peaceable; they rarely fight that way; and, besides,
the horns here were not locked together, but lying well apart. As I
searched about, looking for the explanation of things, thinking of
wolves, yet wondering why the bones were not gnawed, I found another
skeleton, much older, then four or five more; some quite fresh, others
crumbling into mould. Bits of old bone and some splendid antlers were
scattered here and there through the underbrush; and when I scraped
away the dead leaves and moss, there were older bones and fragments
mouldering beneath.
I scarcely understood the meaning of it at the time; but since then I
have met men, Indians and hunters, who have spent much time in the
wilderness, who speak of "bone yards" which they have discovered,
places where they can go at any time and be sure of finding a good set
of caribou antlers. And they say that the caribou go there to die.
All animals, when feeble with age, or sickly, or wounded, have the
habit of going away deep into the loneliest coverts, and there lying
down where the leaves shall presently cover them. So that one rarely
finds a dead bird or animal in the woods where thousands die yearly.
Even your dog, that was born and lived by your house, often
disappears when you thought him too feeble to walk. Death calls him
gently; the old wolf stirs deep within him, and he goes away where the
master he served will never find him. And so with your cat, which is
only skin-deep a domestic animal; and so with your canary, which in
death alone would be free, and beats his failing wings against the
cage in which he lived so long content. But these all go away singly,
each to his own place. The caribou is the only animal I know that
remembers, when his separation comes, the ties which bound him to the
herd winter after winter, through sun and storm, in the forest where
all was peace and plenty, and on the lonely barrens where the gray
wolf howled on his track; so that he turns with his last strength from
the herd he is leaving to the greater herd which has gone before
him--still following his leaders, remembering his first lesson to the
end.
Sometimes I have wondered whether this also were taught in the caribou
school; whether once in his life Megaleep were led to the spot and
made to pass through it, so that he should feel its meaning and
remember. That is not likely; for the one thing which an animal cannot
understand is death. And there were no signs of living caribou
anywhere near the place that I discovered; though down at the other
end of the lake their tracks were everywhere.
There are other questions, which one can only ask without answering.
Is this silent gathering merely a tribute to the old law of the herd,
or does Megaleep, with his last strength, still think to cheat his old
enemy, and go away where the wolf that followed him all his life shall
not find him? How was his resting place first selected, and what
leaders searched out the ground? What sound or sign, what murmur of
wind in the pines, or lap of ripples on the shore, or song of the
veery at twilight made them pause and say, _Here is the place_? How
does he know, he whose thoughts are all of life, and who never looked
on death, where the great silent herd is that no caribou ever sees but
once? And what strange instinct guides Megaleep to the spot where all
his wanderings end at last?
II. KILLOOLEET, LITTLE SWEET-VOICE.
[Illustration: Killooleet]
The day was cold, the woods were wet, and the weather was beastly
altogether when Killooleet first came and sang on my ridgepole. The
fishing was poor down in the big lake, and there were signs of
civilization here and there, in the shape of settlers' cabins, which
we did not like; so we had pushed up river, Simmo and I, thirty miles
in the rain, to a favorite camping ground on a smaller lake, where we
had the wilderness all to ourselves.
The rain was still falling, and the lake white-capped, and the forest
all misty and wind-blown when we ran our canoes ashore by the old
cedar that marked our landing place. First we built a big fire to
dry some boughs to sleep upon; then we built our houses, Simmo a
bark _commoosie_, and I a little tent; and I was inside, getting
dry clothes out of a rubber bag, when I heard a white-throated
sparrow calling cheerily his Indian name, _O hear, sweet
Killooleet-lillooleet-lillooleet!_ And the sound was so sunny, so good
to hear in the steady drip of rain on the roof, that I went out to see
the little fellow who had bid us welcome to the wilderness.
Simmo had heard too. He was on his hands and knees, just his dark face
peering by the corner stake of his _commoosie_, so as to see better
the little singer on my tent.--"Have better weather and better luck
now. Killooleet sing on ridgepole," he said confidently. Then we
spread some cracker crumbs for the guest and turned in to sleep till
better times.
That was the beginning of a long acquaintance. It was also the first
of many social calls from a whole colony of white-throats (Tom-Peabody
birds) that lived on the mountain-side just behind my tent, and that
came one by one to sing to us, and to get acquainted, and to share our
crumbs. Sometimes, too, in rainy weather, when the woods seemed wetter
than the lake, and Simmo would be sleeping philosophically, and I
reading, or tying trout flies in the tent, I would hear a gentle stir
and a rustle or two just outside, under the tent fly. Then, if I crept
out quietly, I would find Killooleet exploring my goods to find where
the crackers grew, or just resting contentedly under the fly where it
was dry and comfortable.
It was good to live there among them, with the mountain at our backs
and the lake at our feet, and peace breathing in every breeze or
brooding silently over the place at twilight. Rain or shine, day or
night, these white-throated sparrows are the sunniest, cheeriest folk
to be found anywhere in the woods. I grew to understand and love the
Milicete name, Killooleet, Little Sweet-Voice, for its expressiveness.
"Hour-Bird" the Micmacs call him; for they say he sings every hour,
and so tells the time, "all same's one white man's watch." And indeed
there is rarely an hour, day or night, in the northern woods when you
cannot hear Killooleet singing. Other birds grow silent after they
have won their mates, or they grow fat and lazy as summer advances, or
absorbed in the care of their young, and have no time nor thought for
singing. But not so Killooleet. He is kinder to his mate after he has
won her, and never lets selfishness or the summer steal away his
music; for he knows that the woods are brighter for his singing.
Sometimes, at night, I would, take a brand from the fire, and follow a
deer path that wound about the mountain, or steal away into a dark
thicket and strike a parlor match. As the flame shot up, lighting its
little circle of waiting leaves, there would be a stir beside me in
the underbrush, or overhead in the fir; then tinkling out of the
darkness, like a brook under the snow, would come the low clear strain
of melody that always set my heart a-dancing,--_I'm here, sweet
Killooleet-lillooleet-lillooleet_, the good-night song of my gentle
neighbor. Then along the path a little way, and another match, and
another song to make one better and his rest sweeter.
By day I used to listen to them, hours long at a stretch, practicing
to perfect their song. These were the younger birds, of course; and
for a long time they puzzled me. Those who know Killooleet's song will
remember that it begins with three clear sweet notes; but very few
have observed the break between the second and third of these. I
noticed, first of all, that certain birds would start the song twenty
times in succession, yet never get beyond the second note. And when I
crept up, to find out about it, I would find them sitting
disconsolately, deep in shadow, instead of out in the light where they
love to sing, with a pitiful little droop of wings and tail, and the
air of failure and dejection in every movement. Then again these same
singers would touch the third note, and always in such cases they
would prolong the last trill, the _lillooleet-lillooleet_ (the
_Peabody-Peabody_, as some think of it), to an indefinite length,
instead of stopping at the second or third repetition, which is the
rule with good singers. Then they would come out of the shadow, and
stir about briskly, and sing again with an air of triumph.
One day, while lying still in the underbrush watching a wood mouse,
Killooleet, a fine male bird and a perfect singer, came and sang on a
branch just over my head, not noticing me. Then I discovered that
there is a trill, a tiny grace note or yodel, at the end of his second
note. I listened carefully to other singers, as close as I could get,
and found that it is always there, and is the one difficult part of
the song. You must be very close to the bird to appreciate the beauty
of this little yodel; for ten feet away it sounds like a faint cluck
interrupting the flow of the third note; and a little farther away you
cannot hear it at all.
[Illustration: Killooleet]
Whatever its object, Killooleet regards this as the indispensable part
of his song, and never goes on to the third note unless he gets the
second perfectly. That accounts for the many times when one hears only
the first two notes. That accounts also for the occasional prolonged
trill which one hears; for when a young bird has tried many times for
his grace note without success, and then gets it unexpectedly, he is
so pleased with himself that he forgets he is not Whippoorwill, who
tries to sing as long as the brook without stopping, and so keeps up
the final _lillooleet-lillooleet_ as long as he has an atom of breath
left to do it with.
But of all the Killooleets,--and there were many that I soon
recognized, either by their songs, or by some peculiarity in their
striped caps or brown jackets,--the most interesting was the one who
first perched on my ridgepole and bade me welcome to his camping
ground. I soon learned to distinguish him easily; his cap was very
bright, and his white cravat very full, and his song never stopped at
the second note, for he had mastered the trill perfectly. Then, too,
he was more friendly and fearless than all the others. The morning
after our arrival (it was better weather, as Simmo and Killooleet had
predicted) we were eating breakfast by the fire, when he lit on the
ground close by, and turned his head sidewise to look at us curiously.
I tossed him a big crumb, which made him run away in fright; but when
he thought we were not looking he stole back, touched, tasted, ate the
whole of it. And when I threw him another crumb, he hopped to meet it.
After that he came regularly to meals, and would look critically over
the tin plate which I placed at my feet, and pick and choose daintily
from the cracker and trout and bacon and porridge which I offered him.
Soon he began to take bits away with him, and I could hear him, just
inside the fringe of underbrush, persuading his mate to come too and
share his plate. But she was much shyer than he; it was several days
before I noticed her flitting in and out of the shadowy underbrush;
and when I tossed her the first crumb, she flew away in a terrible
fright. Gradually, however, Killooleet persuaded her that we were
kindly, and she came often to meals; but she would never come near, to
eat from my tin plate, till after I had gone away.
Never a day now passed that one or both of the birds did not rest on
my tent. When I put my head out, like a turtle out of his shell, in
the early morning to look at the weather, Killooleet would look down
from the projecting end of the ridgepole and sing good-morning. And
when I had been out late on the lake, night-fishing, or following the
inlet for beaver, or watching the grassy points for caribou, or just
drifting along shore silently to catch the night sounds and smells of
the woods, I would listen with childish anticipation for Killooleet's
welcome as I approached the landing. He had learned to recognize the
sounds of my coming, the rub of a careless paddle, the ripple of
water under the bow, or the grating of pebbles on the beach; and with
Simmo asleep, and the fire low, it was good to be welcomed back by a
cheery little voice in the darkness; for he always sang when he heard
me. Sometimes I would try to surprise him; but his sleep was too light
and his ears too keen. The canoe would glide up to the old cedar and
touch the shore noiselessly; but with the first crunch of gravel under
my foot, or the rub of my canoe as I lifted it out, he would waken;
and his song, all sweetness and cheer, _I'm here, sweet
Killooleet-lillooleet-lillooleet_, would ripple out of the dark
underbrush where his nest was.
I am glad now to think that I never saw that nest, though it was
scarcely ten yards from my tent, until after the young had flown, and
Killooleet cared no more about it. I knew the bush in which it was,
close by the deer path; could pick out from my fireplace the thick
branch that sheltered it; for I often watched the birds coming and
going. I have no doubt that Killooleet would have welcomed me there
without fear; but his mate never laid aside her shyness about it,
never went to it directly when I was looking, and I knew he would like
me better if I respected her little secret.
Soon, from the mate's infrequent visits, and from the amount of food
which Killooleet took away with him, I knew she was brooding her eggs.
And when at last both birds came together, and, instead of helping
themselves hungrily, each took the largest morsel he could carry and
hurried away to the nest, I knew that the little ones were come; and I
spread the plate more liberally, and moved it away to the foot of the
old cedar, where Killooleet's mate would not be afraid to come at any
time.
One day, not long after, as I sat at a late breakfast after the
morning's fishing, there was a great stir in the underbrush. Presently
Killooleet came skipping out, all fuss and feathers, running back and
forth with an air of immense importance between the last bush and the
plate by the cedar, crying out in his own way, "Here it is, here it
is, all right, just by the old tree as usual. Crackers, trout, brown
bread, porridge; come on, come on; don't be afraid. _He's_ here, but
he won't harm. I know him. Come on, come on!"
Soon his little gray mate appeared under the last bush, and after much
circumspection came hopping towards the breakfast; and after her, in a
long line, five little Killooleets, hopping, fluttering, cheeping,
stumbling,--all in a fright at the big world, but all in a desperate
hurry for crackers and porridge _ad libitum_; now casting hungry eyes
at the plate under the old cedar, now stopping to turn their heads
sidewise to see the big kind animal with only two legs, that
Killooleet had told them about, no doubt, many times.
After that we had often seven guests to breakfast, instead of two. It
was good to hear them, the lively _tink, tink-a-tink_ of their little
bills on the tin plate in a merry tattoo, as I ate my own tea and
trout thankfully. I had only to raise my eyes to see them in a bobbing
brown ring about my bounty; and, just beyond them, the lap of ripples
on the beach, the lake glinting far away in the sunshine, and a bark
canoe fretting at the landing, swinging, veering, nodding at the
ripples, and beckoning me to come away as soon as I had finished my
breakfast.
Before the little Killooleets had grown accustomed to things, however,
occurred the most delicious bit of our summer camping. It was only a
day or two after their first appearance; they knew simply that crumbs
and a welcome awaited them at my camp, but had not yet learned that
the tin plate in the cedar roots was their special portion. Simmo had
gone off at daylight, looking up beaver signs for his fall trapping. I
had just returned from the morning fishing, and was getting breakfast,
when I saw an otter come out into the lake from a cold brook over on
the east shore. Grabbing a handful of figs, and some pilot bread from
the cracker box, I paddled away after the otter; for that is an animal
which one has small chance to watch nowadays. Besides, I had found a
den over near the brook, and I wanted to find out, if possible, how a
mother otter teaches her young to swim. For, though otters live much
in the water and love it, the young ones are afraid of it as so many
kittens. So the mother--
But I must tell about that elsewhere. I did not find out that day; for
the young were already good swimmers. I watched the den two or three
hours from a good hiding place, and got several glimpses of the mother
and the little ones. On the way back I ran into a little bay where a
mother shelldrake was teaching her brood to dive and catch trout.
There was also a big frog there that always sat in the same place, and
that I used to watch. Then I thought of a trap, two miles away, which
Simmo had set, and went to see if Nemox, the cunning fisher, who
destroys the sable traps in winter, had been caught at his own game.
So it was afternoon, and I was hungry, when I paddled back to camp. It
occurred to me suddenly that Killooleet might be hungry too; for I had
neglected to feed him. He had grown sleek and comfortable of late, and
never went insect hunting when he could get cold fried trout and corn
bread.
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