Chapter II: Part 2

The Red-backed Sandpiper is not a bird architect and it does not build even a simple home. A slight hollow on a dry knoll, which commands a clear view of some body of water, is the site usually selected. Here the eggs are laid, either upon the dry grass already in the hollow or upon a few bits of leaves, twigs and grass hastily gathered and placed without order. After the appearance of the eggs the male seems to realize the responsibility of family cares, for his merry song ceases and he devotes his share of time to sitting on the nest, protecting the eggs with his warm body. That this is the case is shown by the bare patches that appear on his breast at this season.

With such a home as is prepared for their reception, it is not surprising that the little red-backs leave the nest as soon as they are hatched and freely run about. When frightened they readily conceal themselves by sitting on the ground and remaining quiet.

This species exhibits considerable variation in the color of its plumage. In the spring and summer it may be known by the black patch on the belly and reddish color of its back, which is mottled with white and black. At this season it is often called Blackbreast. In the fall and winter the upper parts are brownish-gray in color and the under parts are whitish. It is then frequently called the Leadback. The Red-back is not as active as the other sandpipers and its unsuspicious nature makes it seem quite stupid. Though a beach bird, it is not infrequently met in grassy marshes, and by some it is called the Grass-bird.

A PANSY OF HARTWELL.

I was a Pansy of Hartwell, a dainty little thing, with gold and purple petals, touched with white, and leaves of tender green—“a dear, delicate thing, but fair,” so Louise said. I grew below her chamber window, where she had prepared a rich, warm bed of mother earth for me and for hundreds of my kindred. “But none,” she said, “no, not one of my kind, was ever so beautiful as I.”

I remember my birthland well. Our old home in Hartwell, where Louise and I were born, was surrounded by a wide, rolling lawn, filled with blooming flowers from the time of the first peep of the early March crocus to the stately bloom and decay of the autumn flowers. Here, too, near her window grew a straight, tall maple tree, whose branches stretched far and wide and even touched her window.

I liked this tree because it gave us a pleasant shade when the sun’s rays were inclined to be too warm and made us droop and feel so languid and so tired. Delicate, dainty things, as Louise and I, must not have too much sunshine, else we droop and die.

One day I asked Louise if this tree was old. I knew it was by the many deep furrows in its bark, but I loved the music of her voice so much that I often asked her useless questions that I might lift up my head and listen to its melody. Louise then told me its age and much else that I had never heard. She said that with each returning springtime this tree sent up the life-giving sap from its roots, which ran swiftly through the trunk to the branches. Soon on these branches little red buds appeared, then a bloom and finally leaves, and wonderful little wing-like looking keys which held the seeds of the maple tree.

These were strange, wonderful things for me to hear, but I knew them to be true, because Louise told them to me. No one ever doubted Louise, for all her life long she had worshiped at the altar of truth, and, because of her truthfulness, her beauty and her goodness, all things loved her.

Besides giving us moisture and shade, the south wind told me that this same fine old tree held in its forks a home for some little friends of Louise. When the March winds left us and the skies became clear and blue and warm, her friends the robins would return to their old home as they had done for many seasons past, and there under her kindly, watchful care would raise their brood of young.

One day I saw her—I was always watching her—drop a bit of cotton and several strings down from her window. The cotton fell near my bed. I wondered and wondered why she had done this thing. A long time afterward I was told that it was for the use of Mother Robin in making her nest. Father Robin thanked my dear Louise for her thoughtfulness by singing for her his most beautiful notes at the dawn, the noon-time and the evening.

I lived in happiness in that quaint old town of Hartwell, caring naught for its bright skies, wide rolling plains, its peaceful waters, its fruits of tree and vine. I was young; I was happy; I lived near Louise; it was all that I desired.

I remember—but why should I tell you? I am only a little pansy, born, perhaps, for an hour or a day, to bloom and be gathered and die—so the south wind has told me. It must know. “God gave the flowers and birds and all things for man’s use and abuse,” so you say; but I had thought it different, for I lived in the sunshine of Louise’s love and tender care. One day—how well I remember it!—it was a day in sunny, coquettish April—when I heard voices approaching. Nearer and nearer they came, until I felt the presence of my dear Louise with her dark haired friend. I could not see them, for one of my sister pansies held her head so high and haughty that a little pansy such as I could not see or be seen.

This day Louise was more tender than usual. Alas! why is it ever true that dearest love is bought at the price of death and separation?

She bent down, half hesitatingly, and kissed me, touched my petals lovingly, and whispered so gently—only I could hear: “My beauty, my golden-hearted pansy, shall I—must I—give you to my friend?”

The wind gave back my answer. I was sacrificed on the altar of friendship.

Then I felt my heartstrings slowly tugged at, and quivering and wounded and bleeding I was taken from my home, the home Louise had made for me, and placed in a basket with my cousins, the violets, to be carried to a new home, to meet new faces and perhaps make new friends.

Louise and this friend loved each other very dearly. Alas! for me, they loved pansies, too.

Perhaps it was an honor for Louise to have chosen me from among a hundred others, for to her a pansy was the dearest, the daintiest and most coquettish of all the flowers that bloom and die. But, though I felt the honor, I would a thousand times rather have lived to lift my petals to the breezes in my native land without glory and without pain; or better still, death on Louise’s breast, with her smiles and caresses, was preferable to honor and glory in a stranger’s land. I say this was preferable, but how foolish I am; we pansies have no preference. We of the flower family must take what you of the human family choose to give us.

This friend of Louise’s, I knew not her name and cared not to know, carried me very gently with the violets, protecting me from the sun and dust as we went; and when I awoke from my misery and my long, long journey, I found myself an exile, with my kindred, in the far south-land where the birds are always singing, and the flowers are ever blooming, and youth and beauty and old age go hand in hand.

It was a beautiful home to which I was brought. Here I was surrounded with all that a pansy’s heart should long for; but I was not happy. I was not content. Soon my face looked sad; my shining green leaves began to wither and droop, and the breath of the south wind became so hot I felt as though I could not live. Then the battle against death began. I longed to live that I might see Louise once more. Then I tried to live for her to whom she had sacrificed me. I made a brave struggle for life, but all in vain. It was the battle of the weak against the strong.

Since life has left me and I have become a spirit flower with my earthly body caged between the pages of a musty old book, which my spirit may enter at will, Louise’s friend often holds communion with me. It is then I ask, “Does she love me, or is it Louise, of whom she thinks, for whom she longs when she looks at me so lovingly and talks to me of the old days?”

Laura Cravens.

GARNET.

This stone exhibits many varieties of color and of composition. The color probably most often thought of in connection with it is dark red, but it would be a mistake to suppose this the only color which it may manifest. Green, red, rose and brown are other colors which garnet transparent enough to be used as gems exhibits, while among opaque garnets may be found black and many varieties of the shades above mentioned.

These variations of color are more or less connected with differences of composition which it may be well first of all to consider. Garnet as a mineral is, like most minerals used as precious stones, a silicate. United with the silica the element most commonly occurring is aluminum. If calcium be united with these two the variety of garnet known as grossularite, or essonite, or cinnamon stone, is produced. If magnesium takes the place of calcium, then pyrope is formed. If iron, we have almandite, and if manganese, spessartite. Another variety of garnet, andradite, is composed of calcium and iron in combination with silica, and still another, uvarovite, of calcium, chromium and silica. Though they seem to differ so much in composition, all kinds of garnet crystallize in the same system and are closely allied in all their properties, so that it is always an easy matter to distinguish garnet of any variety from other minerals.

Garnet crystals may be of the twelve-sided form, known as dodecahedrons, the faces of which have the shape of rhombs, or the twenty-four-sided form known as trapezohedrons, the faces of which have the shape of trapeziums. Quite as commonly occur crystals which are combinations of these two forms, and then exhibit thirty-six faces, as in the crystal from Alaska shown in the accompanying illustration. Sometimes the crystals attain considerable size, some perfect ones from Colorado weighing fifteen pounds, while crystals two feet in diameter are reported from North Carolina. A curious feature of garnet crystals is that of often inclosing other minerals. The garnets from New Mexico, for instance, when broken open are sometimes found to contain a small grain of quartz. In the crystals from East Woodstock, Maine, only the outside shell is garnet and the interior is calcite. Other crystals are made up of layers of garnet and some other mineral.

Garnet has a strong tendency to crystallize, and hence is usually found as crystals. The grains of garnet found in the sands of river beds and on beaches, though not often showing crystal form, may be really fragments of crystals. Garnet is one of the most common constituents of such sands because of its hardness and power of resisting decay. These properties enable it to endure after the other ingredients of the rocks of which it formed a part have been worn away. It is quite heavy as compared with the quartz of which the sand is mostly composed, and hence continually accumulates on a beach, while the quartz is in part blown away. In such localities it will always be found near the water line, because the waves, on account of its weight, can carry it but a slight distance inland. Practically all garnet is three and one-half times as heavy as water, and some four times as heavy. Garnet, as a rule, is somewhat harder than quartz, its hardness being 7½ in the scale of which quartz is 7. Some varieties are, however, somewhat softer. The hardness of garnet and its uneven fracture are properties which give it an extensive use for rubbing and polishing wood. For this purpose it is spread upon glued paper in the manner of sandpaper and is used similarly, but it is superior to the latter. Most varieties of garnet fuse quite readily before the blowpipe, and the globules thus formed will be magnetic if the garnet contains much iron. The green garnet, uvarovite, is almost infusible, however. Garnet is not much affected by ordinary acids, although it may be somewhat decomposed by long heating.

Top row:
Almandite (Colorado.)
Almandite (Connecticut.)
Center:
Essonite (Italy.)
Garnet in Matrix, polished (Mexico.)
Garnet (Hungary.)
Bottom:
Garnet in Matrix (Alaska.)
Uvarovite in Matrix (Canada.)

The name garnet is said by some authorities to come from the Latin word granatus, meaning like a grain, and to have arisen in allusion to the resemblance of its crystals in color and size to the seeds of the pomegranate. The German word for garnet, granat, is the same as the Latin word. Others think the word derived from the Latin name of the cochineal insect in allusion to a similarity in color.

The use of garnet for gem purposes seems to date back to the earliest times. Among the ornaments adorning the oldest Egyptian mummies there are frequently found necklaces containing garnet. The Romans prized the stone highly, and it is a gem very largely used at the present day, its hardness and durability and richness and permanency of color giving it all the qualities desired in a precious stone.

Two varieties of garnet, almandite and pyrope, may exhibit the dark blood-red color especially ascribed to garnet. Almandite or almandine garnet derives its name from Alabanda, a city of Asia Minor, in the ancient district of Caria, whence garnet was first brought to the Romans. The finest almandite for a long time came from near the city of Sirian, in the old province of Pegu, Lower Burmah. While this was the center of supply, it is not known just where the garnets were obtained. Such garnets are still known as “Sirian” garnets. Their color tends toward the violet of the ruby and gives them a high value. There are several localities in Northern India where almandite is mined on a large scale, and the stone is much used in Indian jewelry. Some of these localities are Condapilly, Sarwar and Cacoria. Almandite is also found in Brazil, in Australia, in several localities in the Alps, and in the United States. Stones from all these regions are found suitable for cutting, the only qualifications needed being sufficient size and transparency and good color. The almandite of Alaska shown in the accompanying plate occurs in great quantities near the mouth of the Stickeen river, but has not been extensively cut on account of its being too opaque. Almandite usually occurs in metamorphic rocks, such as gneisses or mica schists; also in granite. It is also found in many gem gravels. From the ruby it can be distinguished, as can all varieties of garnet, by its lower hardness and single refraction of light. In artificial light, too, it borrows a yellow tint, rendering it less pleasing, while the color of ruby grows more intense.

Pyrope, the magnesian variety of garnet, does not differ much in color from almandite. Both are dark red, but while almandite tends toward a violet tone, pyrope shades toward yellow. Pyrope is lighter than almandite, the specific gravity being 3.7 to 3.8, while that of almandite is 4.1 to 4.3. It is also less easily fusible. It rarely occurs in crystals, and where found in place is always associated with the magnesium-bearing rocks, peridotite or serpentine.

It is thus probably always of eruptive origin. Pyrope is a characteristic constituent of the diamond-bearing rock of South Africa, and is the stone known in trade as “Cape ruby.” These garnets afford many excellent gems. The home of the pyrope, however, is and has been for many centuries, Bohemia. Here it is found in many localities, but chiefly in the northwestern part, near Teplitz and Berlin. The garnets are found in a gravel or conglomerate of Cretaceous age, resulting from the decomposition of a serpentine. Sometimes, however, they are found in the matrix and often associated with a brown opal. They are found by digging and separated by washing. Though of good quality the scones are small, those as large as a hazel nut being found but rarely. Although the Bohemian garnets have been known for many centuries, the industry of mining and cutting them on a large scale is said not to have assumed any special proportions until the advent of foreigners to Karlsbad. In this way a knowledge of the stones went out to other countries, and a demand sprang up which has led to the establishment of a great industry and made Bohemia the garnet center of the world. There are over three thousand men employed at the present time simply in cutting the stones, and if to these be added the number of miners and gold and silver smiths occupied in the mining and mounting of the garnets, it is estimated that a total of 10,000 persons are engaged in the Bohemian garnet industry. The stones are used not alone for jewelry and for ornamenting gold and silver plate, but also extensively for watch jewels and for polishing. Excellent pyropes are found in Arizona, New Mexico and Southern Colorado in our own country. They occur in the beds of streams as rolled pebbles, and often associated with the green chrysolite or peridot of the eruptive rock from which they came. They are especially abundant about anthills, being removed by the ants because their size stands in the way of the excavations of the busy insects. The name pyrope comes from the Greek word for fire, and is applied on account of the color of the stone.

Of quite similar origin is the name carbuncle, a term applied to nearly all fiery red stones in Roman times, but now used to designate garnets cut in the oval form known as cabochon. The word carbuncle comes from the Latin word carbo, coal, and refers to the internal fire-like color and reflection of garnets.

The calcium-aluminum variety of garnet, grossularite, cinnamon stone or essonite, is less used in jewelry than those above mentioned. It is usually yellow to brown in color, but may be rose red or pink, as in the specimen from Mexico shown in the accompanying plate. The yellow grossularites resemble in color the gem known as hyacinth and are sometimes sold in place of the latter, but true hyacinth is much heavier and doubly refracting. About the only essonites or cinnamon stones available for gems come from Ceylon. These are of good size and color. Those from Italy, shown in the accompanying plate, are too small to cut into gems, but surrounded as they are by light green chlorite and pyroxene, they make very pretty mineral specimens. Grossularite is almost always found in crystalline limestone.

Green garnets are of two kinds, the calcium-iron garnet, known as demantoid, and the calcium-chromium garnet known as uvarovite. The demantoid garnets come only from the Urals. They have a rich green color and make beautiful gems when good ones can be found. The name demantoid refers to the diamond-like luster which they possess. The stone is also known as “Uralian emerald.” Uvarovite, named for Count Uvarov of Russia, also makes valuable gems if found in pieces of sufficient size and luster. It is found in Russia, in Pennsylvania and in Canada. Garnet has long been the birthstone of the month of January.

“By her who in this month is born
No gems save garnets should be worn.
They will insure her constancy,
True friendship and fidelity.”

Such are the virtues ascribed to the garnet. That the stone has been known and used from the earliest times I have already remarked. Under the name of carbuncle mention is made of it in the literature of all ages, its impressive feature being usually the brilliant, fiery light which it gives forth. According to the Talmud, the only light which Noah had in the ark was afforded by a carbuncle, and there are many Oriental tales regarding the size and brilliancy of carbuncles owned by the potentates of the East. Occasionally carbuncles were engraved, and some fine garnet intaglios are still known. The greater abundance of the stone in modern times has led to its being less highly prized than formerly, and to its being put to other uses than mere adornment, but it perhaps contributes more largely to the comfort and happiness of the world as it is now used than could ever have been the case when it was the property only of kings.

Oliver Cummings Farrington.

ANIMAL EMOTIONS.

Through the emotions we are apt to judge ourselves somewhat superior to the animal creation, though perhaps a more thorough study and interest in the “smiles and tears” of the so-called creatures of lesser intelligence would teach us that the emotions play almost as important and distinctive a part in their organism as in our own oversensitive nerve force. I am not speaking of the emotion of fear and anger that is instinctive in all animals, but of the more subtle emotions of joy and grief as visibly expressed. The older epic writers made much of the grief expressed by horses, and their sorrows have formed many an heroic verse. Merrick, in his “Tryphiodorus,” says:

He stands, and careless of his golden grain,
Weeps his associates and his master slain.

Says Moschus:

Nothing is heard upon the mountains now
But pensive herds that for their master low,
Struggling and comfortless about they rove,
Unmindful of their pasture and their love.

Virgil, who was probably more conversant with the horse and his interests than almost any other writer of that faraway period, thus writes of the sorrow of Pallas’ steed:

To close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state,
Is led, the funeral of his lord to wait;
Stripp’d of his trappings, with a sullen pace
He walks, and the big tears run rolling down his face.

In the Iliad, Homer thus renders the emotion of Patroclus’ war horses evinced for that hero:

Restive they stood, and obstinate in woe:
Still as a tombstone, never to be moved
On some good man or woman unreproved
Lays its eternal weight; or fix’d, as stands
A marble courser by the sculptor’s hands.
Placed on the hero’s grave. Along their face
The big round drops coursed down with silent pace,
Conglobing with the dust. Their manes, that late
Circled their arched necks, and waved in state,
Trail’d on the dust beneath the yoke were spread,
And prone to earth was hung their languid head.

Shakespeare, in “As You Like It,” tells of the tears shed by a wounded stag:

The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours’d one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase.

All, or nearly all, animals are sensitive to music, which affects them in various ways, and again it is Shakespeare who refers to this sensitiveness in even untrained horses, proving its effect to be instinctive:

For do but note a wild and wanton herd
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad? bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eye turned to a modest gaze
By the sweet power of music.

There is an ancient account of the Libyan mares to whom it was necessary to discourse sweet music in order to tame them sufficiently to be milked, and the horses of the Sybarites, who have been taught to dance to certain strains of music, inopportunely heard the same strains of music on their way to battle and very much chagrined their masters by stopping to dance instead of going forward to fight, such was the influence of the familiar tune. De Vere gives an account of a certain Lord Holland who was very eccentric, and used during the time of William III to give his horses weekly concerts in a covered gallery specially erected for the purpose. He maintained that it cheered their hearts and improved their temper, and an eye witness says that they seemed to be greatly delighted with the performance. Not at all a bad suggestion for owners of those horses who do not “come up to time” at the present day. A few years ago, according to the “American Naturalist,” experiments were made in Lincoln Park, Chicago, to determine with scientific accuracy the effect of violin playing on different animals. It says:

“Music which was slow and sweet, like ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ or ‘Annie Laurie,’ pleased the panthers, a jaguar and a lioness and her cubs. The panthers became nervous and twitched their tails when a lively jig, ‘The Irish Washerwoman,’ was played to them, and relapsed into their former quiet when the music again became soothing.

“The jaguar was so nervous during the jig music that he jumped from a shelf to the floor of his cage and back again. When the player ceased playing and walked away the jaguar reached out his paw to him as far as he could. His claws were drawn back.

“The lioness and her cubs were interested from the first, though when the violinist approached the cage the mother gave him a hiss and the cubs hid behind her. At the playing of a lively jig the cubs stood up on their hind legs and peeped over at the player. When the musician retreated from the cage the animals came to the front of it and did not move back when he gradually drew so near as almost to touch the great paws that were thrust through the bars. When playing ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ the entire family seemed very attentive, and were motionless except that the cubs turned their heads from side to side. Then another jig was played and the cubs danced about.

“The coyotes, in a den, squatted in a semi-circle and sat silently while the music continued. When it ceased they ran up and pawed at the player through the bars. He began afresh, and they again formed in a silent semi-circle. This experiment was tried several times with the same results.”

Many of us are familiar with the story of the man who was chased by wolves and who climbed to the rafters of an old cabin out of reach of the vicious fangs, but who fortunately carried with him an old violin, and through its means he was able to hold the wolves in thrall the night through by his music until the last string of the violin snapped and the brutes prepared to make an onslaught, but at that moment the first gleams of the coming day appeared and the wolves forsook their prey and disappeared.

Much has been written of the effect of music upon elephants and their tempers. Gentle strains have moved them to caresses, and martial music arouses them to a sort of fury. It has been written that the Arab, than whom there is no truer lover of the animal creation, entertains his camel with music, songs and fairy tales. When the animal lags in its long swinging trot, the Bedouin draws his reed-pipe from the folds of his turban and sharp and shrill its notes are heard far across the dusky sands, and the weary camel, encouraged by its notes, moves on again with enlivened motion.

It has often been noticed how quickly a cow will distinguish a new bell, and how great a disturbance is created in the whole herd, who will often take it upon themselves to chastise the unwary wearer. De Vere is an authority for the fact that the leader of a herd of cows when deprived of her beloved bell will weep bitter tears, and says that there are many instances of cows that have died when deprived of their harmonious ornament.

That mice have a musical ear and taste is a well known fact, but the lowest type of animal that is visibly affected by a strain of music is the turtle. Readers of that sensational tale, “The Household of Bouverie,” will remember the history of the small tortoise “Merodach” whom his master could summon at will by playing a certain air on an old lyre, a tale that was said to be founded on fact.

Alberta A. Field.

DOMESTIC CATTLE.

In the beautiful Swiss Alps, in the early springtime, one hears the ringing of a large bell. This is rung in the villages and is the signal for the departure of the herds to the alps above. The cows, lowing and jumping with delight, collect eager for departure. The finest cow of all has the largest bell hung from her neck with a bright ribbon, and between her horns is placed a large nosegay of flowers.

She is the leader and has the place of honor, and to deprive her of this pleasure would be cruelty indeed. The herdsmen begin their songs, the yodling sounds through the valley, the milk stools are set between the horns of the cattle, the cheese kettles and provisions are packed upon the beasts of burden, and the procession gaily wends its way up the mountainside.

Even if poorly protected from storms which may be encountered above, we cannot wonder that the cattle thoroughly enjoy this calm, beautiful life in the alps, and we are told that cows left in the valley below will often escape and follow their companions to the distant mountains.

In the United States there are also cattle that live an outdoor life, which have the freedom of the range, and are shelterless the year around. These are the half-wild herds which roam over Texas, Colorado and other western states. Although the great cattle owners often inclose immense pastures, thousands of acres in extent, so that the herds are in a measure restricted, the smaller owners turn their cattle out and allow them to wander at will.

This occasions the necessity for the yearly “round-up.” At a given time the cattle of each county are driven to a common center, confined within an inclosure or “corral,” and the calves running with the cow mother are branded with the mark of the owners. The “round-up” is the great event of the cowboy’s life, and an interesting occasion it certainly is. The time of the “round-up” may consume a number of days. The cowboys take their places on the outer limit of the tract belonging to their division, and with a skill acquired by long experience they are able to find every cow and calf and slowly to draw the circle smaller and smaller, until all the cattle are congregated in one herd. Then follows a time of work by day and merrymaking by night. The camp is maintained until all the cattle are branded with the brands which are registered with the county clerk, thus making the ownership plain to all. The cowboys, with their broad hats frequently ornamented with the various brands of the cattle owners, with their picturesque attire, mounted on their bronchos, or scraggy, wiry mountain ponies, are interesting individually and collectively. Among them at the time of the “round-up” are often men of education and refinement, as well as others who know no life besides that of the plains and the open. They ride like the wind, and when one rode to his ranch neighbor’s thirteen miles away to execute a little commission before breakfast and returned before the coffee was spoiled, my eastern ideas received a shock which made it necessary for me to readjust my conception of western life and living.

Mr. Brehm tells us that the manner of life of the domestic cattle of various countries is instructive as well as fascinating. He tells us that there are “herds which lead the same manner of existence as did those belonging to the patriarchs. The wandering tribes of Eastern Soudan are herdsmen, who attend to their duties in exactly the same way as their ancestors did thousands of years ago. Herds of cattle constitute their only riches. Their wealth is estimated by the number of their sheep and cattle, as that of the Laplander is estimated by the number of his reindeer.

The greatest of European landowners and cattle breeders, including those of Holland and Switzerland, can hardly realize the vast numbers contained in the herds of those nomads. Near the village of Melbess the plain shows a deep depression, at the bottom of which a number of wells have been dug, one beside the other, for the sole purpose of watering the herds congregating there during the noon hours. Beginning in the afternoon and during the whole night, far on toward noon next day, nearly a hundred people are busy hauling water from the wells and pouring it into pools, to which a little salty earth is added. From all sides innumerable herds of sheep, goats and cattle draw near, first the sheep and goats, then the cows. In a few minutes the valley is filled with them. One sees nothing but an unbroken herd of animals passing back and forth, a dark human form looming up between them at intervals. Thousands of sheep and goats keep arriving, while as many are departing satisfied. I believe it impossible to count the number of cattle, yet I do not exaggerate if I put down the number of the animals daily congregating at the spot as sixty thousand.

In the south of Africa the oxen are of great importance, as without them the extended trip necessary for purposes of trading and hunting through the vast wastes in parts entirely devoid of water and grass would be impossible.

In Southern Russia, Tartary and probably also a great portion of Central Asia considerable herds of cattle are kept.” In fact, at the present time there seems to be no country in the world where domestic cattle are not found. They are common from Norway and Lapland in the north to Southern Africa and South America in the south. Columbus first brought them to the New World, and the Spaniards transported them to South America, where they multiplied with great rapidity.

In a general way domestic cattle may be divided into two classes—the straight backed cattle of Europe and the New World and the humped cattle of India. Humped cattle may also be found in China, Africa and Madagascar. They not only vary from other cattle by having the hump on the withers, but they have a different coloration, voice and habits. They have a convex forehead, long, drooping ears and a dew-lap, which hangs in folds the entire length of the neck. They vary much in size, as the largest “may stand as high as a buffalo, while the smallest may be little larger than a calf a month old.” They are gentle in disposition and the larger ones are used for drawing native carriages. Unlike the European cattle, they seldom seek the shade, and never stand knee-deep in water. These cattle are often called zebus, and in the northern provinces of India, where they are used for riding, they will carry “a man at the rate of six miles an hour for fifteen hours.”

“White bulls are held peculiarly sacred by the Hindus, and when they have been dedicated to Siva by the branding of his image upon them, they are thenceforth relieved from all labor. They go without molestation wherever they choose, and may be seen about eastern bazars helping themselves to whatever dainties they prefer from the stalls of the faithful.”

In Central Africa the humped cattle are represented by the Galla, or Sanga. This is regarded by some as the finest breed of the humped variety. It is large, slender and vigorous, long legged and rather long tailed. The general color is a chestnut-brown. The horns are very strong and are fully forty inches in length.

The straight backed cattle are those of Europe, America, Australia and the smaller islands, and of some parts of Africa. They may be long-horned, short-horned or hornless. Among them are very many breeds, many well known being common almost everywhere.

One is the ox of Freiburg, or the Swiss ox. This variety yields both excellent beef and extremely rich milk.

The Dutch ox is marked by stately proportions, uniform coloring, a long, tapering head and a long and thin neck. The color is pied, a white or grayish ground showing red, brown or black spots of varying size and shape. “It has been bred in Holland for centuries. It is easily fattened and has an abundant yield of milk.”

The Durham or short-horned breed of England is an animal with little symmetry of proportion, with a small head, a straight back and short legs. It is not a good milker, but surpasses all in the production of beef.

The beautiful Jersey cow is a great favorite in America and Great Britain on account of the rich cream and butter obtained from the milk. The Alderneys and Guernseys are classed with the Jerseys and are also of “elegant appearance.” Other breeds are the hornless Galloways, the Devons, the Herefords, the Holsteins and many others.

Like the sheep, the cat and other domestic animals, the origin of domestic cattle seems surrounded with mystery and uncertainty. We know that in earliest times domestic cattle were common, as the earliest writings mention them and the ancient monuments picture them. It is, however, probable that all the straight backed varieties, directly or indirectly, may be traced back to the aurochs, or urus, a most interesting wild ox of Europe. This is extinct now, as well as some other species which may form the connecting link.

The aurochs was an animal of great size, nearly as large as an elephant, but with the form and color of a bull. Skulls and bones, both in England and on the Continent, show their characteristics, and skulls pierced by flint hatchets show that they were hunted by prehistoric hunters. We do not know when they finally disappeared, but in Julius Cæsar’s time they seem to have been common in the Black Forest of Germany. Old chronicles prove that they were found in the middle of the sixth century, and in the ninth century Charlemagne hunted the aurochs in the forests near Aix-la-Chapelle. The Nibelungen-Lied mentions the slaughter of four in the twelfth century. In classic literature there are accounts of contests with gigantic wild oxen, indicating that the animal’s range extended as far south as Greece. Bones have been found in a number of European countries, and it is certain that it roamed over Russia, but how far to the eastward and northward it wandered we cannot tell.

There still exist in England wild cattle known as the “park oxen.” Though much smaller in size, they seem to be more like a direct descendant of the aurochs than any other species, although probably they descended from domesticated early breeds. These herds are confined in private parks, and the best known at the present time is the Chillingham herd. This park was probably inclosed about the thirteenth century. The cattle are small, with moderately rough, curly hair. The insides of the ears and muzzles are red, while the animals are white. They have the characteristics of animals in a wild state. “They hide their young, feed in the night, basking or sleeping during the day. They are fierce when pressed, but generally speaking are very timorous, moving off on the appearance of anyone, even at a great distance.”

John Ainslie.

Mightiest of all the beasts of chase
That roam in woody Caledon,
Crashing the forest in his race,
The mountain bull comes thundering on.
—Sir Walter Scott.

THE ARROW HEAD.
(_Sagittaria latifolia._)

In all places then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The Arrow Head is one of our most familiar plants, quite as well known because of its beautiful arrow-shaped leaves as for its showy white flowers. It is interesting and conspicuous among the rushes and sedges that abound in the sluggish waters that border lakes and streams. It must have sunshine and well illustrates the words of Thoreau: “Rivers and lakes are the great protectors of plants against the aggressions of the forest, by their annual rise and fall, keeping open a narrow strip where these more delicate plants have light and space in which to grow.”

There are about twenty-five species of the genus Sagittaria, to which the plant of our illustration belongs. These inhabit both temperate and tropical regions. The generic name is from the Latin word sagitta, meaning an arrow, and referring, as does the common name, to the shape of the leaf. When the Arrow Head grows in water leaves are produced under water that do not have the arrow shape. These are not produced on those plants that grow on wet, muddy banks.

Two kinds of flowers are produced by this plant—the male and the female. The male flowers are the large white ones with a golden center formed by the group of yellow stamens. The female flowers are lower on the flower stalk and are dull green and unattractive. This arrangement of the flowers is nature’s provision for preventing self-fertilization. The insects that visit these flowers naturally first alight on the more brilliant staminate flowers, and the pollen, adhering to their bodies, is later transferred to the seed producing flowers when the insects visit them. Though the two flowers are usually upon the same plant, they are sometimes developed on distinct plants. The Arrow Head beautifies the swampy regions of North America from Mexico northward.

THE BLACK COHOSH.
(_Cimicifuga racemosa._)

The Black Cohosh, or Black Snakeroot, grows in rich woods from Canada nearly to the Gulf of Mexico. It is a conspicuous plant, with its long stem, which sometimes grows to a height of eight feet, and its large compound leaves, as well as with its long raceme of numerous small white flowers. This raceme during the ripening of the fruit often acquires a length of two to three feet.

This plant is sometimes called Bugbane. The name Cimicifuga is from the Latin words cimex, a bug, and fugo, to drive away. Both the technical name and the name Bugbane allude to the offensive odor of the flowers, which was supposed to drive away insects. In fact, the Black Cohosh is held in high repute by some Indians as a cure for the bite of poisonous snakes, as well as a powerful aid in driving away insects. Were it not for the strong, disagreeable odor of the flowers, which are only frequented by those flies which enjoy the odor of carrion, with its “tall white rockets shooting upward from a mass of large, handsome leaves,” it would be a striking ornament for the flower garden.

Someone has said that the Black Cohosh “may truly be classed among those objects which, from the standpoint of frail humanity, distance lends enchantment.” Though this be true, may we not say with Wordsworth,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

THE VEERIE.

Darkness descends in shadowy folds
Over the distant hills; the breeze
Shivers and stirs in the leafy trees,
And a single star beholds.

The brook murmurs low in the tangled copse,
The jewel-weed stands with its feet in the stream,
By my lantern light the dew-drops gleam
On the leaves like diamond drops.

And lo! like the shuddering wind-stirred leaves,
Like the trembling weed where the waters glide,
A voice from the depths where the wood-birds hide
Its thrilling melody weaves.

What shakes the harp-strings in thy throat?
Is it joy or woe? Is it love or fear?
The mystery of the woods I hear
In the passion of your note.

Do you cry, Woe! Woe! Do you cry, Rejoice!
Joy and sorrow no longer twain,
Hope and despair in one wild strain,
And the night has found a voice.
—Isabella T. M. Blake.

THE SPRING MIGRATION.
II. IN CENTRAL MISSISSIPPI.

In the former article under this title attention was paid to the warblers only. In the present one I will try to give you some idea of the other birds that in spring take part in this general movement northward. A few birds that cannot properly be classed among the winter residents visit us now and then on warm summery days in January and February; they may be called the advance guard of the great army of migration. Conspicuous among these are the bluebird and the hermit thrush, two birds closely related, but very different both in coloring and disposition.

The bluebird is one of the first birds to be learned by the country children; his bright colors, cheerful music and affectionate, trusting disposition make him a general favorite. Right here permit me to digress enough to say that too little encouragement is given the children of our public schools, especially in the country, to learn the names and habits of our common birds. A little time and effort judiciously expended by the teacher in guiding the pupils to an understanding and love of the bird life about them would be an investment paying large dividends in quickened perceptions and increased interest in the too often dull and distasteful round of school work.

The hermit thrush is a lover of the deep, dark shades where he can sit on a twig and watch the stirring life about him without being a part of it—a kind of chimney corner philosopher, if you please. The rufous tail in sharp contrast to the olive brown head and back will tell you his name every time, for he is the only member of the thrush family found in these regions in which the color of the tail differs materially from that of the back. I remember one afternoon in February seeing one in the shade of a thick-topped holly; here he remained quite unconscious while we peered at him through the opera glass, discussed his coloring and consulted the pocket manual to see what Chapman said about him, an occasional jerk of the tail or a slight movement of the head being the only indication of life in the graceful figure before us.

Late in March or early in April come the purple martin, the bank swallow and chimney swift, all cheerful birds whose only apparent aim in life is to sail about through the air in pursuit of gnats and flies. The noisy chatter of the martins as they wheel and turn about near the house is one of the most agreeable sounds in all the gamut of bird voices. They are very numerous in parts of Mississippi, but the only place in the North where I have ever seen them in any considerable numbers is on the Maumee, not far from the little town of Waterville, Ohio. The bank swallow and chimney swift are smaller and less conspicuous than the martin, less noisy but quite as useful.

Soon after the swallows appear the flycatchers, the tyrant wood pewee, phœbe bird, Acadian and great crested. What figure is more familiar on hot summer days than the kingbird or tyrant flycatcher perched on a mullein stalk, now and then darting down from his perch to capture some straying gnat? The Acadian stops for only a very short stay; you will find him in the deepest shades, where the gloom and dampness suit his somber fancy. The wood pewee is also a gloomy soul, possessing no gift of color or song to attract the eye or hold the fancy; his long drawn out monotonous note always reminds me of hot August afternoons when all other bird voices are silent as the grave and summer reigns with undisputed sway. The prince of woodland flycatchers, both from point of coloring and attractive personality, is the great crested; his olive brown back, whitish breast and sulphur-yellow belly give him a more brilliant appearance than the others just mentioned. His character, too, is better, for he is neither as belligerent as the kingbird or as gloomy as the Acadian and wood pewee. His call is not unmelodious, though it would be misleading to call it a song.

April brings the orioles to play their not insignificant part in the great color scheme of Nature at this resurrection season. I always associate the coming of the orchard oriole with the opening of the Chickasaw roses, and the arrival of the Baltimore with the blooming of the yellow poplar (Liriodendron tulipifera). For several seasons I caught my first glimpse of the Baltimore’s flame and black in the top of a tall poplar, and heard his cheery whistle as he dodged in and out among the great cups, making a breakfast on the insects whose hum made the whole woods drowsy. A few brief days of rest and pleasure in this land of flowers and the orioles are gone, except a few pairs that stay to rear their families in these solitudes.

A long, slim, brown body, a stealthy way of sliding in and out among the vines and limbs, and a shy, suspicious air mark the black billed cuckoo or raincrow. He, too, stays but a few days. When you see the raincrow it is time to look for the Wilson’s thrush; but it was never my privilege to hear him sing in these forests. Perhaps he is tired out with the long journey from the land of eternal summer and wishes to be seen, not heard. Writers tell us that this thrush is very plentiful in certain localities, but in this section of the South I saw only two specimens in four years.

The musician of the thrush family, of the whole woods for that matter, in some points a successful rival of the mocking bird, is the wood thrush. Dark cinnamon brown, of quite a uniform tint above and white breast spotted with round, black, or dark brown enable one to pick him out easily from the rest of the thrush family. I remember hearing one sing at a negro “baptizing” just at sunset of an April day. After the immersion had taken place, as the officiating “elder” led the candidate to the bank of the pond, clear negro voices raised one of the good old hymns. As the words of the last verse died away on the evening air and the elder raised his hand to pronounce the benediction, a wood thrush in the nearby forest began his vespers. Sweet, clear as a silver bell, the notes arose, tinkling, reverberating, tender but dignified, voicing in a half-unconscious way the solemn emotions of the hour. What is there in the singing of even the best of trained choirs to compare with this simple voice of Nature, without affectation or conceit, arousing the feelings and appealing to the noblest instincts of our common nature.

Birds crowd in upon us, bull bat, chuck-wills-widow, turtle dove, gray-cheeked thrush and titlark come to see us, some to stop and add their own individual element to the local coloring, others after a few hours of rest to continue their way northward. Multitudes of sparrows, jays, thrashers, nuthatches, titmice, woodpeckers, etc., that have enjoyed our hospitality during the winter and part of the spring pack up their effects and leave, for summer is almost here.

The bird that to my mind is distinctly the advance agent of summer has well been called the summer tanager. He delays his coming until straw hats and linen suits appear; then what a dash of warm color he brings. Seated on the topmost bough of a tall oak, where the sun’s rays fall full upon him, he gives such intense, palpitating color that one’s eyes are almost blinded looking at him. Rich as is the red of the cardinal it appears soiled and tarnished beside the summer tanager.