The Hunters' Feast: Conversations Around the Camp Fire Read online

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  THE PASSENGER-PIGEONS.

  After an early breakfast we lit our pipes and cigars, and took to theroad. The sun was very bright, and in less than two hours afterstarting we were sweltering under a heat almost tropical. It was one ofthose autumn days peculiar to America, where even a high latitude seemsto be no protection against the sun, and his beams fall upon one with asmuch fervour as they would under the line itself. The first part of ourjourney was through open woods of black-jack, whose stunted formsafforded no shade, but only shut off the breeze which might otherwisehave fanned us.

  While fording a shallow stream, the doctor's scraggy, ill-tempered horsetook a fit of kicking quite frantical. For some time it seemed likelythat either the doctor himself, or his saddle-bags, would be depositedin the bottom of the creek, but after a severe spell of whipping andkicking on the part of the rider, the animal moved on again. What hadset it dancing? That was the question. It had the disposition to be"frisky," but usually appeared to be lacking in strength. The buzz of ahorse-fly sounding in our ears explained all. It was one of those largeinsects--the "horse-bug,"--peculiar to the Mississippi country, andusually found near watercourses. They are more terrible to horses thana fierce dog would be. I have known horses gallop away from them as ifpursued by a beast of prey.

  There is a belief among western people that these insects are propagatedby the horses themselves; that is, that the eggs of the female aredeposited upon the grass, so that the horses may swallow them; thatincubation goes on within the stomach of the animal, and that thechrysalis is afterwards voided. I have met with others who believed ina still stranger theory; that the insect itself actually sought, andfound, a passage into the stomach of the horse, some said by passingdown his throat, others by boring a hole through his abdomen; and thatin such cases the horse usually sickened, and was in danger of dying!

  After the doctor's mustang had returned to proper behaviour, these oddtheories became the subject of discussion. The Kentuckian believed inthem--the Englishman doubted them--the hunter-naturalist could notendorse them--and Besancon ignored them entirely.

  Shortly after the incident we entered the bottom lands of a considerablestream. These were heavily-timbered, and the shadow of the great foresttrees afforded us a pleasant relief from the hot sun. Our guides toldus we had several miles of such woods to pass through, and we were gladof the information. We noticed that most of the trees were beech, andtheir smooth straight trunks rose like columns around us.

  The beech (_Fagus sylvatica_) is one of the most beautiful of Americanforest trees. Unlike most of the others, its bark is smooth, withoutfissures, and often of a silvery hue. Large beech-trees standing by thepath, or near a cross road, are often seen covered with names, initials,and dates. Even the Indian often takes advantage of the bark of abeech-tree to signalise his presence to his friends, or commemorate somesavage exploit. Indeed, the beautiful column-like trunk seems to invitethe knife, and many a souvenir is carved upon it by the loiteringwayfarer. It does not, however, invite the axe of the settler. On thecontrary, the beechen woods often remain untouched, while others fallaround them--partly because these trees are not usually the indices ofthe richest soil, but more from the fact that clearing a piece of beechforest is no easy matter. The green logs do not burn so readily asthose of the oak, the elm, the maple, or poplar, and hence the necessityof "rolling" them off the ground to be cleared--a serious thing wherelabour is scarce and dear.

  We were riding silently along, when all at once our ears were assailedby a strange noise. It resembled the clapping of a thousand pairs ofhands, followed by a whistling sound, as if a strong wind had setsuddenly in among the trees. We all knew well enough what it meant, andthe simultaneous cry of "pigeons," was followed by half a dozensimultaneous cracks from the guns of the party, and several bluish birdsfell to the ground. We had stumbled upon a feeding-place of thepassenger-pigeon (_Columba migratoria_).

  Our route was immediately abandoned, and in a few minutes we were in thethick of the flock, cracking away at them both with shot-gun and rifle.It was not so easy, however, to bring them down in any considerablenumbers. In following them up we soon strayed from each other, untilour party was completely scattered, and nearly two hours elapsed beforewe got back to the road. Our game-bag, however, made a fine show, andabout forty brace were deposited in the waggon. With the anticipationof roast pigeon and "pot-pie," we rode on more cheerily to ournight-camp. All along the route the pigeons were seen, and occasionallylarge flocks whirled over our heads under the canopy of the trees.Satiated with the sport, and not caring to waste our ammunition, we didnot heed them farther.

  In order to give Lanty due time for the duties of the _cuisine_, wehalted a little earlier than usual. Our day's march had been a shortone, but the excitement and sport of the pigeon-hunt repaid us for theloss of time. Our dinner-supper--for it was a combination of both--wasthe dish known in America as "pot-pie," in which the principalingredients were the pigeons, some soft flour paste, with a few slicesof bacon to give it a flavour. Properly speaking, the "pot-pie" is nota pie, but a stew. Ours was excellent, and as our appetites wore in asimilar condition, a goodly quantity was used up in appeasing them.

  Of course the conversation of the evening was the "wild pigeon ofAmerica," and the following facts regarding its natural history--although many of them are by no means new--may prove interesting to thereader, as they did to those who listened to the relation of them aroundour camp-fire.

  The "passenger" is less in size than the house pigeon. In the air itlooks not unlike the kite, wanting the forked or "swallow" tail. Thatof the pigeon is cuneiform. Its colour is best described by calling ita nearly uniform slate. In the male the colours are deeper, and theneck-feathers present the same changeable hues of green, gold, andpurple-crimson, generally observed in birds of this species. It is onlyin the woods, and when freshly caught or killed, that these brillianttints can be seen to perfection. They fade in captivity, andimmediately after the bird has been shot. They seem to form part of itslife and liberty, and disappear when it is robbed of either. I haveoften thrust the wild pigeon, freshly killed, into my game-bag,glittering like an opal. I have drawn it forth a few hours after of adull leaden hue, and altogether unlike the same bird.

  As with all birds of this tribe, the female is inferior to the male,both in size and plumage. The eye is less vivid. In the male it is ofthe most brilliant fiery orange, inclosed in a well-defined circle ofred. The eye is in truth its finest feature, and never fails to strikethe beholder with admiration.

  The most singular fact in the natural history of the "passenger," istheir countless numbers. Audubon saw a flock that contained "onebillion one hundred and sixteen millions of birds!" Wilson counted, orrather computed, another flock of "two thousand two hundred and thirtymillions!" These numbers seem incredible. I have no doubt of theirtruth. I have no doubt that they are _under_ rather than _over_ thenumbers actually seen by both these naturalists, for both made mostliberal allowances in their calculations.

  Where do these immense flocks come from?

  The wild pigeons breed in all parts of America. Their breeding-placesare found as far north as the Hudson's Bay, and they have been seen inthe southern forests of Louisiana and Texas. The nests are built uponhigh trees, and resemble immense rookeries. In Kentucky, one of theirbreeding-places was forty miles in length, by several in breadth! Onehundred nests will often be found upon a single tree, and in each nestthere is but one "squab." The eggs are pure white, like those of thecommon kind, and, like them, they breed several times during the year,but principally when food is plenty. They establish themselves in great"roosts," sometimes for years together, to which each night they returnfrom their distant excursions--hundreds of miles, perhaps; for this isbut a short fly for travellers who can pass over a mile in a singleminute, and some of whom have even strayed across the Atlantic toEngland! They, however, as I myself have observed, remai
n in the samewoods where they have been feeding for several days together. I havealso noticed that they prefer roosting in the low underwood, even whentall trees are close at hand. If near water, or hanging over a stream,the place is still more to their liking; and in the morning they may beseen alighting on the bank to drink, before taking to their dailyoccupation.

  The great "roosts" and breeding-places are favourite resorts fornumerous birds of prey. The small vultures (_Cathartes aura_ and_Atratus_), or, as they are called in the west, "turkey buzzard," and"carrion crow," do not confine themselves to carrion alone. They arefond of live "squabs," which they drag out of their nests at pleasure.Numerous hawks and kites prey upon them; and even the great white-headedeagle (_Falco leucocephalus_) may be seen soaring above, andoccasionally swooping down for a dainty morsel. On the ground beneathmove enemies of a different kind, both biped and quadruped. Fowlerswith their guns and long poles; farmers with waggons to carry off thedead birds; and even droves of hogs to devour them. Trees fall underthe axe, and huge branches break down by the weight of the birdsthemselves, killing numbers in their descent. Torches are used--for itis usually a night scene, after the return of the birds from feeding,--pots of burning sulphur, and other engines of destruction. A noisyscene it is. The clapping of a million pair of wings, like the roaringof thunder; the shots; the shouts; men hoarsely calling to each other;women and children screaming their delight; the barking of dogs; theneighing of horses; the "crashes" of breaking branches; and the "chuck"of the woodman's axe, all mingled together.

  When the men--saturated with slaughter, and white with ordure--haveretired beyond the borders of the roost to rest themselves for thenight, their ground is occupied by the prowling wolf and the fox; theracoon and the cougar; the lynx and the great black bear.

  With so many enemies, one would think that the "passengers" would soonbe exterminated. Not so. They are too prolific for that. Indeed, wereit not for these enemies, they themselves would perish for want of food.Fancy what it takes to feed them! The flock seen by Wilson wouldrequire eighteen million bushels of grain every day!--and it, mostlikely, was only one of many such that at the time were traversing thevast continent of America. Upon what do they feed? it will be asked.Upon the fruits of the great forest--upon the acorns, the nuts of thebeech, upon buck-wheat, and Indian corn; upon many species of berries,such as the huckleberry (_whortleberry_), the hackberry (_Celtiscrassifolia_), and the fruit of the holly. In the northern regions,where these are scarce, the berries of the juniper tree (_Juniperuscommunis_) form the principal food. On the other hand, among thesouthern plantations, they devour greedily the rice, as well as the nutsof the chestnut-tree and several species of oaks. But their staple foodis the beech-nut, or "mast," as it is called. Of this the pigeons arefond, and fortunately it exists in great plenty. In the forests ofWestern America there are vast tracts covered almost entirely with thebeech-tree.

  As already stated, these beechen forests of America remain almostintact, and so long as they shower down their millions of bushels of"mast," so long will the passenger-pigeons flutter in countless numbersamidst their branches.

  Their migration is semi-annual; but unlike most other migratory birds,it is far from being regular. Their flight is, in fact, not aperiodical migration, but a sort of nomadic existence--food being theobject which keeps them in motion and directs their course. Thescarcity in one part determines their movement to another. When thereis more than the usual fall of snow in the northern regions, vast flocksmake their appearance in the middle States, as in Ohio and Kentucky.This may in some measure account for the overcrowded "roosts" which havebeen occasionally seen, but which are by no means common. You may livein the west for many years without witnessing a scene such as thosedescribed by Wilson and Audubon, though once or twice every year you maysee pigeons enough to astonish you.

  It must not be imagined that the wild pigeons of America are so "tame"as they have been sometimes represented. That is their character onlywhile young at the breeding-places, or at the great roosts when confusedby crowding upon each other, and mystified by torch-light.

  Far different are they when wandering through the open woods in searchof food. It is then both difficult to approach and hard to kill them.Odd birds you may easily reach; you may see them perched upon thebranches on all sides of you, and within shot-range; but the _thick_ ofthe flock, somehow or other, always keeps from one to two hundred yardsoff. The sportsman cannot bring himself to fire at single birds. No.There is a tree near at hand literally black with pigeons. Its branchescreak under the weight. What a fine havoc he will make if he can butget near enough! But that is the difficulty; there is no cover, and hemust approach as he best can without it. He continues to advance; thebirds sit silent, watching his movements. He treads lightly and withcaution; he inwardly anathematises the dead leaves and twigs that make aloud rustling under his feet. The birds appear restless; severalstretch out their necks as if to spring off.

  At length he deems himself fairly within range, and raises his gun totake aim; but this is a signal for the shy game, and before he can drawtrigger they are off to another tree!

  Some stragglers still remain; and at them he levels his piece and fires.The shot is a random one; for our sportsman, having failed to "cover"the flock, has become irritated and careless, and in all such cases thepigeons fly off with the loss of a few feathers.

  The gun is reloaded, and our amateur hunter, seeing the thick flock uponanother tree, again endeavours to approach it, but with like success.