Birds and Nature, Vol. 12 No. 5 [December 1902]

AFTER THE SNOW STORM

 
Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
Tell me where were you
When last night the white snow drifted
And the north wind blew?
Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
Bonny little bird!
Come anear my window, let me
Whisper you a word:
 
 
If you’ll stay with me all winter,
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee,
Apple-cores and crumbs I’ll give you;
Best of friends we’ll be;
You shall sit among the branches
Of the lilac tree,
Sit and sing anear my window,
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee.
 
 
Glad indeed I’ll be to see you;
Promise me you’ll stay,
Food and shelter I shall find you
For the winter day;
And in spring I’ll give you, dearest
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee,
For your nesting-place and bower,
All my lilac tree!
 

– Mary Grant O’Sheridan, in the Chicago Tribune.

THE FEATHERED FISHERMAN

The cormorant is a strange and remarkable bird, and is found in many parts of the world. It is of large size and somewhat resembles the goose and the pelican. Its feet are webbed, and its middle toe has notches like the teeth of a saw, which help it to hold its prey. Its plumage is generally dark, while the feathers on its head and neck are jet black. Its bill is long and straight, except at the end, where the upper part bends into a sharp hook.

The cormorant is a great fisher, and it is needless to say that it is only found where fish are to be had, as it lives chiefly upon them. It is a very greedy bird, and will hover over the water for hours at a time, catching and devouring fish until it can swallow no more. Sometimes the cormorant will play with its prey, letting it go and diving after it several times, but its victim never escapes in the end. This bird has seldom been known to miss its aim when diving for a fish. It drops from a great height when descending upon its prey, and sometimes it is seen to emerge from the water holding a fish by the tail, in which case it cannot very well manage to swallow it, so the fish is tossed up into the air and, turning a complete somersault, comes down head foremost into the bird’s mouth. The home of the cormorant is among the steep ledges of rock by the sea, where they build their nests and rear their young. Their nests are made of dry sticks, weeds and moss. The old birds return each year to their old nests, repair them and begin rearing another brood. At night those having no broods roost apart, standing erect in files upon the top of some high ledge. The young birds are of a livid color and present a very unattractive appearance. Their legs and feet are enormous and all out of proportion to their little bodies.

When leaving for the season cormorants fly in long lines one after another. In their wild state it is almost impossible to get very near the cormorants when they are fishing, as they are very cautious and have many sentinels to warn them of the approach of danger.

In far-off China the cormorant is tamed and put to a very curious and practical use. When a Chinaman goes fishing he does not take a rod and line, as we do, but sets out in his boat and takes some trained cormorants along with him. As soon as he comes to a place where there are plenty of fish, the cormorants plunge into the water, catching fish after fish, and, at their master’s call, dropping them in the bottom of the boat. These birds are so greedy that if left to themselves they would eat the fish as fast as they caught them, so the cunning Chinaman ties a small piece of twine around their necks so that they cannot swallow it. In this way he gets a boatload of fish with very little trouble. After the cormorants have finished their work, the strings are untied and they are allowed to fish for themselves.

Walter Cummings Butterworth.

A WINTER-PIECE AMONG THE PENTLANDS

 
A flock of fieldfares from the leafless trees
Flew chattering mournfully, while here and there
A single redwing flung upon the breeze
A sigh that seem’d the utterance of despair.
 
 
But on the burn, scarce half a mile below,
The bluff white-breasted ouzel from a rock
Pour’d his bold song – a huddling overflow
Of mirth, those faint-heart winter-fowl to mock.
 

– Henry Johnstone.

THE CARNATION

Most of the names by which we are accustomed to designate familiar forms of the vegetable kingdom have descended to us from remote times and from ancient associations. The old terms are for the most part founded either on the medicinal values of the plants or on some mythological fancy that accounted for their creation or form.

The Carnation derived its generic name from the latter source. The term Dianthus is derived from two Greek words, signifying flower of Jupiter, while the specific name, caryophyllus, is obtained from words meaning nut and leaf, originally applied to the clove tree, but later given to the Carnation, because of its spicy fragrance. Again, the word Carnation is from the Latin, meaning flesh, and was deemed appropriate because of the pink and white color of the petals.

The name Dianthus, or flower of Jupiter, originates in a Greek myth, that had to do with the establishment of Olympus. Jupiter had escaped the unpleasant fate that befell his brothers, namely, of being swallowed by their unnatural parent, Saturn. Jupiter married Metis (Prudence), who straightway demonstrated the fitness of her name by bestowing on Saturn a draught which caused him to disgorge his domestic bill of fare, and the sons, banding together, imprisoned their father and his brother Titans and divided their empire among themselves. Jupiter inherited the heavens and became king of gods and men. When the Thunderer came into possession of his kingdom Vulcan, the celestial artist, crowned him with a chaplet of beautiful flowers, whose white petals Iris had marked with the colors of the rainbow, their edges being bright with the plumage of the peacock, which was the favorite bird of Juno, as was Iris, her chosen attendant, after she espoused Jupiter and became queen of the gods. Hence the Dianthus became the flower of Jupiter.

The Carnation has been under cultivation for more than two thousand years. Theophrastus, who gave the plant its technical name, states that “the Greeks cultivated roses, gillie flowers, violets, narcissi and iris,” gillie flower being the old English name for the Carnation, having been bestowed upon it for the reason that it bloomed in July. It was also called the Coronarium because it was the coronation flower of a queen of Italy during whose reign in the sixteenth century the plants were introduced into England.

From their first appearance in England Carnations took a firm hold on the popular fancy, varieties began to be formed, the original flesh color being broken up into red and white. The remarkable susceptibility of the plants to cultivation, their beauty and fragrance, so appealed to the florists of Italy, France, Germany and Holland that in 1597 Gerard wrote that “to describe each new variety of Carnation were to roll Sisyphus’ stone or number the sands.”

The Carnations of to-day originated about 1840, as a distinct race. Special attention was given in Europe to the elaboration of the plants by M. Dalmais and M. Schmitt, and the varieties created by them were imported to America in 1868. Bench cultivation was started in the United States in 1875 and became so popular that in 1892 the specialist or “Carnationalist” first became known. At that time there were about five hundred distinct varieties, all of American origin.

The Carnation is a native of Central and Southern Europe. Since its introduction into England it is said to have escaped cultivation and to have become fixed in several localities. In its cultivation three general classes have been established by English specialists. The selfs are plants whose flowers have a uniform color. The flakes possess a pure ground of white or yellow, flaked or striped with one color, the stripes running longitudinally through the petals. The bizarres are such as have a pure ground, marked as in the flakes, but with two or three colors; this form possesses the most fragrance, especially when there is a frequent recurrence of the stripes. Lastly there are the picotees, having a pure ground, each petal being bordered with a band of color. This last form includes many of the rarest varieties and the yellow picotee is famous in several royal establishments.

It is a peculiar fact that rain will injure the colors of the more delicate varieties, and the florist must shield the opening flowers from direct sunlight if he would obtain the best results.

In the perfect flower the pod and calyx should be long, the flower circular, not less than three inches in diameter, rising gradually towards the center, so as to form a sort of crown. The outer petals should be large and few in number, rising slightly above the calyx and spreading horizontally, the other petals being regularly disposed above them, nearly flat, diminishing in size towards the center. The ground should be a pure color and the petals wax-like.

The Carnation is allied to the pink family, and consequently is related to the modest Indian pink, the Chinese pink and the Sweet William. These lowly forms doubtless nourish a secret pride in their relationship to the illustrious head of the house, concerning which Shakespeare said, “The fairest flowers of the season are our Carnations.”

Charles S. Raddin.

WINTER SONG

 
Sing ho! for the hilltop bold and bare,
Where the bracing breezes blow!
There’s a frosty edge on the wintry air,
Exhilaration keen and rare
That sets the heart aglow.
 
 
Over the crest the snow lies deep,
Over the brow of the hill.
Down below the woodlands sleep,
Blanketed well on the sloping steep
’Neath a snow sheet white and chill.
 
 
Sing ho, sing ho, for the galloping gale
That sweeps the summit clear,
And drives the mass of icy shale
Into the pines, whose eery wail
Fills timid souls with fear!
 
 
There’s that in the winter’s whistling wind
That stirs dead hearts to life,
And energy and health you’ll find
In the breath of the breeze that’s rough yet kind,
That’s keen as a surgeon’s knife.
 

– Frank Farrington.

BUDS OF PROMISE
COLD WEATHER NOTES FROM NATURE

It has become a conventional habit with us to look upon the winter season as unproductive of artistic interest so far as Nature’s decorations are concerned. And we note it as a period of rest from the exhaustion of seed time and harvest. But to the initiated and observant, it is now that the change worketh fast, and barely has the network of fretted branches, looming up so purple against an autumnal sky, become a realization, before the winter progress of the budding forest has changed the dreamy violet to a rich ruddy brown, in promise of a future fulfillment of a rich verdure of living greens.

In winter, we are, as it were, behind the scenes in the green-room of some vast forest auditorium, and the closely locked buds are become the dressing rooms of thousands upon thousands of gaily decked flower-folk, who are preparing their multi-colored wardrobe of gorgeous petals, with which to entrance and delight our mortal eyes when the golden key of the sun shall have unlocked their doors, and are melted the barriers of ice and snow that now reign supreme in the great foyers of the forest. But if at present we are barred from the scene, the work of preparation is being rushed forward, and on every swelling twig there is evidence of a glorious drama of delight which shall be uncurtained at the clarion voice of Spring. How many shades and colors are outlined against the wintry sky! The bronze points of the oaks, in contrast with the gray of the pale ash buds, whose color indicates the advent of some demure debutant in Quaker costume, while the ruddy buds of the whitewood or tulip tree, which steal their rich color from the furrowed red of its bark, give promise of some gorgeous result that is later realized in the magnolia-like bloom of rich, creamy green, girdled with a crimson sash, and which within the last few years has become such a fad among nature’s devotees. But all of our fads are but a continuing in the universal circle from which, according to Lord Beaconsfield, we never evolve beyond, and it is written that the tulip tree was so esteemed by the ancients that they poured libations of wine about its roots. We put our wine to other uses in these twentieth century days, but we worship at the same tree, pro tempore.

The highly polished buds of the June berry or shad bush shine forth in evidence of a future of bewildering bloom that shall envelop its now dull branches in a robe of fairy whiteness when “the shad come down.” Break open the tightly sealed, varnished bud of the lilac tree, and out pours that incomparable fragrance of Spring, an odor that challenges all of the arts and sciences or alchemy to produce. One of the most notable trees in winter is the plane-tree or buttonwood, wrongly called sycamore, a term which can only be applied correctly to the Ficus sycamorus, or true sycamore, a tree closely allied to the fig, and a native of the far East. It is the ragged appearance of the buttonwood that makes it so conspicuous a tree in winter, the white trunk gleaming so distinctly through its shattered habiliments of bark. It is said that this disastrous state of its covering is due to the inelasticity of the bark, which does not expand to meet the requirements of the tree’s growth, as does the bark of other trees, hence the impoverished condition of its outer garment. But when we see this sad state of conditions repeated on its human prototype, we feel that we have more cause for sympathy than ridicule, so why not accord the tree the same commiseration? But I am sure there is some legendary tale extant to the effect that in mythological days the tree was a derelict from duty in some line or another, and for this was condemned to pass the rest of its days in a tattered coat, for so was sentenced the white Birch, who arrived late at an important wedding of the gods, hence doomed to wear her wedding garment of snowy bark throughout all ages in penance for her dilatoriness. But if the buttonwood wears the coat of poverty, it is more than abundantly supplied with buttons, which are so tightly sewed on that it is no easy task to secure a bunch of these drooping balls for decorative purposes, and for which they are so effective when hung among clusters of the scarlet berries of the bitter-sweet. Their secure hold on the parent stem has thus aroused the interest of John Burroughs:

“Why has Nature taken such particular pains to keep these balls hanging to the parent tree intact till spring? What secret of hers has she buttoned in so securely? for these buttons will not come off. The wind can not twist them off, nor warm nor wet hasten or retard them. The stem, or penduncle, by which the ball is held in the fall and winter, breaks up into a dozen or more threads or strands, that are stronger than those of hemp. When twisted tightly they make a little cord that I find it impossible to break with my hands. Had they been longer the Indian would surely have used them to make his bow strings and all other strings he required. One could hang himself with a small cord of them. Nature has determined that these buttons should stay on. In order that the needs of this tree may germinate, it is probably necessary that they be kept dry during the winter, and reach the ground after the season of warmth and moisture is fully established. In May, just as the leaves and the new balls are emerging, at the touch of a warm, moist south wind, these spherical packages suddenly go to pieces – explode, in fact, like tiny bombshells that were fused to carry to this point – and scatter their seeds to the four winds. They yield at the same time a fine pollen-like dust that one would suspect played some part in fertilizing the new balls, did not botany teach him otherwise. At any rate, it is the only deciduous tree I know of that does not let go the old seed till the new is well on the way.”

Next to the cedar tree, this tree is the strongest power in mythology and was, by the ancients, consecrated to Genius, and who knows what mighty stores of intelligence is buttoned under its tattered coat? and I myself can bear witness to its strong will and determination under adverse circumstances, for a huge tree that has fallen from a high bank into the river below, has floated down stream to a lodgment, and there put forth a vigorous growth of foliage, and is thriving well under these abnormal conditions. The maple bloom is now closely housed, with but little show of promise, but if one were favored with a specially alert ear, I am sure that he could hear the rush of the ascending sap blood, hurrying upward in answer to the call of the quickening Spirit of Spring. In many of the creepers, the lilies and the gourd, a kind of fever heat is perceptible at the time of inflorescence, and the heat has been observed to increase daily from sixty to one hundred and ten or even one hundred and twenty degrees, and without doubt the forest temperament rises accordingly.

As yet the birds have not taken all of the scarlet berries of the bitter-sweet vine, which clings lovingly, but with a somewhat parasitical clasp about the hospitable boles of the great trees. In color rivalry looms up the dark red panicles of the sumach, whose acrid fruit, which is a last resort for hungry birds, must prove a pungent pill to the feathered folk. But it is a line of beauty across the hillside:

 
Like glowing lava streams the sumach crawls
Upon the mountain’s granite walls.
 

Peeping out from the sheltered crannies are numerous long, slender fronds of the Christmas fern, Polystichum acrostichoides, gleaming like emerald bars against the white of the snow bank. Outlining against the sky are the aristocratic hemlocks which belong to the regal pine family, and which have established a social precedence by wearing their holiday clothes all the year round, in opposition to their more humble, deciduous kin, who are now in working habiliments, and they flaunt their heads haughtily, but their thickly clothed branches form a warm shelter for snow bound birds, so that their distinction is not without its advantages. In a sheltered nook still flourish a few plants of “Life Everlastin’,” so dear to the hearts of Mary Wilkin’s quaint New England characters as an allayer of rheumatic ills, and it still exhales its aromatic fragrance in the air. Here and there a witch-hazel waves its scraggy branches, still laden with their velvety seed capsules, which have but now bursted open and shot forth their glistening seeds, and whose inconsequent yellow bloom has only just shed its slender petals to the winds. A few lingering wild rose haws are withering upon the parent stem, yet glowing like cherries against the wintry sky, but break off a tiny branch and a whiff of Richard Jefferies’ “sweet briar wind” is wafted across one’s nostrils, filling one’s brain with visions of the gladdening spring time. A gaily plumaged jay dashes his brilliant blue through the branches of a thickly needled pine, and a scarlet crowned “downie” taps diligently up and around the worm-infested trunk of an old apple tree, in search of an unwary morsel, and one comes to the conclusion that after all, winter is not all gloom and grayness, but filled with bits of glowing color and vitality, if only one’s eye is set for its beauty, instead of its bleakness.