Birds and Nature, Vol. VIII, No. 4, November 1900
TekstCASTLES IN THE AIR
In a little bend of the San Joaquin River, where the current, attempting to straighten its course, has left a bank a few feet wide, there is a small grove of tall cottonwood trees, perhaps a dozen in number, whose branches lean far over the stream and whose tops reach almost to the level of the bluff or rather the floor of the valley 250 feet above, for this swift river has, in the course of ages, cut thus deep a channel for itself.
The place is not easy of access, for the shore narrows above and below the bend to a few inches where one with difficulty keeps from crumbling away the sand with his feet and falling into the water, and the cliff is so nearly perpendicular that in many places it is inaccessible to a climber, being of soft sand whose different stratas are clearly defined where they have been sliced off by the cutting stream.
The valley above is a vast grainfield out almost to the edge of the bluff, and along the edge and face of the bluff, wherever root can cling or tendril hold, grow beautiful wild flowers in the early spring days – their last refuge between the cultivation and the deep sea, or rather, river.
In the tops of the cottonwoods live a number of baronial families in castles huge, gray and ugly, overlooking the sweep of the stream. They are the Great Blue Herons whose Latin title, (Ardea herodias), gives one some idea of their ancient lineage. They claim to be older than the storks of Egypt, and indeed, they look older as they stand humpbacked and sleepy on one leg by the side of their nests, the long fringe of light-speckled neck feathers underneath looking like a long gray beard sweeping over their recurved neck and breast. There is a wise look about them, too, for the black markings of the head sweep back over the eye and prolong into the appearance of a quill extending behind their ears.
Though they are almost four feet long and spread their wings to six feet and over, the herons' large blue-grey bodies are often almost indistinguishable from the bark of the cottonwood branches and the blue of the sky against which they are silhouetted so oddly. One's eyes open with astonishment when these sticks or excrescences of the tree-tops slowly unfold an enormous sweep of sail and, extending their long stilts behind them, flap off across the stream with a creaking sound like the pulleys of a vessel when the halliards are running through them. Standing or flapping they are not handsome birds and one who comes suddenly upon a large heron for the first time as he stands in the shallow water of the brookside, will be convulsed with laughter, for if there is an utterly clumsy and awkward form or motion in bird-life it belongs to this heron.
Their homes are big baskets of nests made of twigs as large as a man's finger, closely intermeshed. From year to year they use the same nest or build over it until it has two or three stories or more and is bigger than a bushel basket. There are probably two dozen nests in the dozen cottonwood trees, some of the larger trees having three or four or even six away up in their tops where the branches seem scarcely strong enough to bear such heavy burdens. From the top of the bluff one can look down into the nests and in early March see the big blue eggs, almost as large as hens' eggs, reposing like amethysts in their rough brown setting. Some authors state that not over three eggs are laid, but I have seen four about as often as three and, on one occasion, five in a nest.
From their high-placed towers the herons watch the small fry in the river below and make forays among the young trout, pike and catfish and the frogs. They listen to the complaining voices in the twilight and in the morning give them cause for still further complainings. They keep in terror the big wood rats whose homes in the clumps of elder berries below surpass in size those of the herons. And the gophers and field mice of the grain fields never know at what moment an ungainly shadow shall fall upon them and end their harvestings. There was a conceited young frog who sang loud and shrill at sunset on the edge of the river and who had an ambition to be, not an ox like the one in the fable, but a Patti. And she had her wish after a fashion, for that connoisseur, the heron who dwelt on the farthest branch over the water, attracted by her vocal abilities, sought her out, and the little herons thought her the nicest paté de foie gras they had ever eaten.
There they dwell, this ancient race of high-born philosophers, stalking the shallows of sunny baylets, or dreaming in the breeze of the tree-tops of traditions old as the sequoias. What an authority would you and I be if we could read the unwritten history of their race!
Charles Elmer Jenny.
Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the Book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.
– Hood, "The Seasons."
THE PRONG-HORNED ANTELOPE
(Antilocapra americana.)
The antelope family comprises many of the most beautiful and graceful species among horned animals. When we behold the curiously twisted horns of the sasin, the long, sharp horns of the pasan, the large, spiral horns of the koodoo and the shorter horns of the eland, not to mention the graceful bodies and limbs of these animals, we are led to wonder at the extravagance of nature in furnishing such a variety of appendages to these creatures.
By far the larger number of species of this family live in Africa and Asia, where they have reached the highest development of structure. They are not, like some families of mammals, confined to any one particular locality, but are found on the plains and high up on the mountains; in a country sparsely covered with vegetation and in the thick forests; in marshes and bogs. In fact, they seem to inhabit all varieties of country. While the family is thus diversified in habitat, the different species are by no means so widely distributed, for while some species, like the sasin, live only on the open plains, others, like the chamois, live high up on the mountains, frequently above the snow-line.
The subject of our sketch, the Prong-horned antelope (Antilocapra americana), is not as large nor so strikingly horned as the other animals which have been mentioned. In fact, so different is its structure, having hollow, pronged horns which do not increase by continuous growth, as do those of the true antelopes, but are shed like those of the deer family, and having a somewhat different structure of feet and different texture of hair, that a family has been made for it known as Antilocapridae.
The Prong-horn ranges throughout the western part of North America from the Missouri river to the Pacific ocean, and from the Saskatchewan river south to the Rio Grande. It is not confined to the plains, but has been found in the wild valleys of the Rocky mountains to a height of over eight thousand feet above sea level.
The daily life of this interesting animal is thus described by Canfield, who made an exhaustive study of them and who also kept them in captivity: "From the first of September to the first of March one always sees them in larger groups composed of bucks, does and yearlings. Shortly afterward the does individually retire from these herds and give birth to their young. After a short interval they again unite with other suckling does and their little calves, possibly with a view to common defense against the wolf and coyotes. The adult bucks roam about singly or two together, leaving the mothers with their latest progeny to their fate, the young Prong-horns in the meantime gathering in groups of their own apart from the older animals. Apparently tired of the world and bored by society the old bucks wander about for one or two months, frequenting localities in which they are not ordinarily seen. Two or three months subsequently the adolescent bucks again join the old does and their calves, and finally the old bucks also put in an appearance, so that one can observe herds, numbering hundreds, or sometimes even thousands, after the first of September. A herd never leaves its native locality or roams over more than a few miles of range. In dry summer weather they seek water and go to drink regularly once a day or twice in three days; but if the grass is fresh and green, as is the case during the greater part of the year, the Prong-horns do not drink at all."
The food of the antelope consists to a great extent of the short, succulent herbage of the prairie, of moss, and also, to a limited extent, of the young and tender branches of trees. Like many other ruminants, this animal is passionately fond of salt and they will remain about saline deposits for many hours, satisfying themselves by licking the salty ground.
The antelope is the swiftest runner of any animal in North America, though perhaps less agile and speedy than some of its relatives in the old world. It has been said by competent observers that so swiftly do they run that it is absolutely impossible to distinguish their limbs.
The senses of the antelope are unusually developed. Their sight is exceedingly keen and their hearing very acute. Their sense of smell is so well developed that no danger can possibly approach from the windward side. When a herd is feeding, sentinels are placed on the outskirts to scent any impending danger, and to give due warning to the herd. Their curiosity is one of their most peculiar qualities and seems to overshadow every other sense.
For a number of years this graceful animal has been considered royal game for the sportsman and a good round-up of antelopes is considered a great achievement among hunters. Mr. G. O. Shields, in his interesting book, "Hunting in the Great West," very vividly describes a hunt for antelopes, and we cannot better illustrate the peculiarities of the animal than by giving his pen sketch:
"We had heard from some ranchmen along the way that the buffalo herd was at this time grazing about fifteen to twenty miles up the Big Porcupine, and knowing that antelopes are nearly always found hanging on the outskirts of every large herd of bison, we were on the look-out for them, for it would not seem at all strange to find them near the stage trail on which we were traveling. We scanned the country closely with the field glass and were finally rewarded by seeing a number of small white spots on the dead grass away up the Porcupine, that seemed to be moving. We rode toward them at a lively trot for perhaps a mile, and then stopped to reconnoitre again. From this point we could plainly distinguish them, though they looked to be about the size of jack rabbits. We again put the rowels to our donkeys and rode rapidly up to within about a mile of them, when we picketed our animals in a low swale, took out our antelope flag – a piece of scarlet calico about half a yard square – attached it to the end of my wiping stick, and were ready to interview the antelopes.
"I crawled to the top of a ridge within plain view of the game, and planted my flag. The breeze spread it out, kept it fluttering, and it soon attracted their attention. They were then near the bank of the river, grazing quietly, but this bit of colored rag excited their curiosity to a degree that rendered them restive, anxious, uneasy, and they seemed at once to be seized with an insatiable desire to find out what it was. An antelope has as much curiosity as a woman, and when they see any object that they don't quite understand, they will travel miles and run themselves into all kinds of danger to find out what it is. They have been known to follow an emigrant or freight wagon with a white cover several miles, and an Indian brings them within reach of his arrow by standing in plain view wrapped in his red blanket. Some hunters "flag" them by lying down on their back, holding one foot as high as possible, and swinging it to and fro. A piece of bright tin or a mirror answers the same purpose on a clear day. Almost any conspicuous or strange-looking object will attract them, but the most convenient, as well as the most reliable at all times, is the little red flag, such as we employed in this instance.
"Huffman went to the top of another ridge, to my right and some distance in advance, and Jack crawled into a hollow on the left, and well in advance, we three forming a half circle, into which it was our intention if possible to decoy the game. When they first discovered our flag they moved rapidly toward it, sometimes breaking into a trot, but when they had covered half the distance between us and their starting point, they began to grow suspicious and stopped. They circled around, turned back, walked a few steps, and then paused and looked back at the, to them, mysterious apparition. But they could not resist its magic influence. Again they turned and came toward it, stopped, and gazed curiously at it. The old buck who led the herd stamped impatiently, as if annoyed at being unable to solve the mystery. Then they walked cautiously toward us again, down an incline into a valley, which took them out of our sight, and out of sight of the flag. This of course rendered them still more impatient, and when they again came in sight on the next ridge, they were running. But as soon as their leader caught sight of the flag, he stopped, as did the others in their turn when they reached the top of the ridge. There were seven in the herd, two bucks, three does and two fawns. They were now not more than a hundred yards from me, and still less from the other two of our party. Their position was everything we could wish, and though we might possibly have brought them a few yards nearer, there was a possibility of their scenting us, even across the wind, which, of course, we had arranged to have in our favor, and I decided that rather than run the risk of this and the consequent stampede, I would shoot while I had a good chance. It had been arranged that I was to open the ball, so I drew my peep and globe sights down very finely, taking the white breast of the old buck for my bull's-eye, and pulled. Huffman's Kennedy and Jack's carbine paid their compliments to the pretty visitors at almost the same instant, and for about two or three minutes thereafter we fanned them about as vigorously as ever a herd got fanned under similar circumstances. The air was full of leaden missiles; the dry dust raised under and around the fleeing herd as it does when a team trots over a dusty road. Clouds of smoke hung over us, and the distant hills echoed the music of our artillery until the last white rump disappeared in the cottonwoods on the river bank.
"When the smoke of battle cleared away, and we looked over the field, we found that we had not burned our powder in vain. Five of the little fellows, the two bucks and three does, had fallen victims to their curiosity. The two fawns had, strangely enough, escaped, probably only because they, so much smaller than their parents, were less exposed."
The antelope have a curious way of protecting their young, when on the open prairie. This is accomplished by placing a ring of sharp-pointed cacti about a spot which has been beaten smooth by their hoofs. Inside this ample protection the animal cares for its young and secures ingress and egress for itself by jumping over the ring of cacti. This serves to protect them from the majority of their foes, which inhabit the open country.
The antelope does not thrive well in captivity, the older ones soon killing themselves in their attempts to escape. The young taken soon after their birth generally die early, unless very special care is bestowed upon them, and even if they survive the juvenile state, they are very likely to die when three or four months old, from pyaemic sores or inflammation of the limbs.