Read Ebook: A Hermit's Wild Friends; or Eighteen Years in the Woods by Walton Mason Augustus

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ould answer from the surrounding woods.

When the sweet acorns were ripe, Satan was unusually active early in the evening. At this early hour the coons were abroad in search for food, and Satan scented them, and did his best to attract their attention. One coon passed near the cabin every night and answered Satan's cries, so I imagined that it was his mate.

Many writers claim that the tremulous cry attributed to the coon is made by the little screech-owl . It is true, doubtless, that people that do not know both cries may make such a mistake.

The little owls appear to resent my intrusion on their vested rights, so from early spring to late fall they haunt my sleeping-quarters, and divide their time between snapping their beaks and uttering their monotonous notes. As I sleep in the open air nine months out of the twelve, I have a good chance to study both cries, and could not mistake one for the other.

The coon is a ventriloquist. His cry seems to come down from the sky. A friend came in from the city one night to hear the coon cry. It was a moonlight night, and the coon was staked out in the dooryard. My friend was not looking when the first cry was uttered, but claimed that the sound came from the trees overhead. Afterward he saw the coon in the act, and could not make a mistake.

When Satan uttered the cry, he was always sitting on his haunches. He would throw his head up until his nose pointed skyward, then blow the sound out between his half-closed lips.

My friend had brought in a blanket and hammock, and was prepared to spend the night in the open air. He slung his hammock near mine, and we turned in about ten o'clock. He was nervous and restless, and said he could not sleep with the little owls about him. Every fifteen or twenty minutes he would call to me to ask about some noise of the night, common enough, but which appeared strange and startling to him in the strained condition of his nerves. Soon after midnight a small animal, doubtless a stoat looking for an owl supper, dropped on to my friend's blanket. There was a smothered cry, full of fear, and a flying figure that did not stop until my hammock was reached. Nothing that I could say would induce the frightened man to go back to that hammock. He suggested at last that he would sleep in the cabin. I assented, and we soon had a bed arranged in a bunk. The cabin was overrun with white-footed mice, and I looked for more trouble.

Twenty minutes later I heard several war-whoops, and I saw my friend tumble out of the cabin into the dooryard. "Are you awake?" cried he. "Certainly," I answered, "you don't think there is any one asleep in this county after the racket you have made, do you?" "Oh, let up with your fooling," said he, "this is a serious thing. I sleep with my mouth open; suppose one of those mice had run down my throat and choked me to death? I am going home." And home he did go. I accompanied him through the woods to Western Avenue, and returned in time to get three hours' sleep. My friend was like hundreds of other nervous people that I had known in a lifetime, who were too sensitive to enjoy a night in the open air. To be in full accord with nature one should get accustomed to the presence of a snake now and then, in the open-air bed.

Satan was an apt scholar. I taught him to pull in his chain, hand over hand, sailor-fashion. The chain was twelve feet in length. I begun by tying on a nut about two feet from the coon. He pulled in the chain with his fore feet, which he used as hands. I would say to him, "Pull in the chain. Pull in the chain," and inside of a week he would obey the order without the use of food. I think he enjoyed the sport.

The boys that visited my cabin thought it great fun to play with Satan. They would pull the chain out and watch the coon pull it in. When Satan got tired he would coil the chain and lay on it, and the play was ended for the time being. After he had rested awhile he would go on with the play. When he was resting, if a boy offered to reach the chain he would lay back his ears, growl, and show his teeth. When he was ready to play he would sit up on his hind feet, prick his ears forward and look clever; then the boys could reach under him and pull out the chain without danger.

One day, while the coon was chained to a stake in the dooryard, he killed a pet bird in a manner so cruel and crafty, that it caused me to name him Satan then and there. I had placed a piece of matting by the stake to which the coon was chained. He understood that the matting was for his use, and he would cry to be fed while chained out. He used the matting as a dining-table and bed combined. The pet bird that was killed was a male catbird. Satan had left a piece of cookie on the matting, and the catbird thought to appropriate it. I was writing, not thirty feet away, and looked up just in time to see the flash of Satan's paw. I shouted, and rushed to the rescue. When I reached the coon the bird had disappeared. Satan looked so innocent and surprised that I was led to believe that the bird had escaped. I returned to my writing, and the coon settled down for a nap. An hour later a visitor from the city called to get the loan of a book on birds. I went to the cabin for the book, and when I returned Satan was patting down the edge of the mat. He saw me, and put on his innocent look. He coiled up as if he were about to try to sleep in a new spot. My suspicion was aroused. I pulled away the coon and under the mat found the dead bird. He had killed the bird and placed it under him so swiftly that I did not detect the trick when I went to the rescue. For a full hour he simulated sleep while he had the dead bird under him all the time. When I went to the cabin he hid the dead body under the mat. I gave him a severe whipping and placed the dead bird on his mat. The next day I buried the body, so Satan did not profit by his crafty deed. He remembered the whipping, and ever after did not molest the birds. I once saw a young towhee-bunting sit on his hind foot and eat from a cookie that the coon had tried to hide. How it would have fared with the bird, if I had been absent, is a question.

I don't think Satan had any respect for the Sabbath, but he knew the day, nevertheless. On week-days, I returned from city about nine o'clock A. M. Soon after, I would stake Satan in the dooryard, and he would seem much pleased with the change. I got up every morning at daybreak. My first duty was to feed the birds and Satan, then get my breakfast. At first I did not let Satan out of his cage on Sundays, on account of the dogs that my visitors brought along. Every Sunday morning I would feed Satan as soon as I was out of my hammock, as I did on week-day mornings, but he would not eat or drink, and constantly tried to open the door of the cage. He certainly knew, thus early in the morning, that it was Sunday, and he would have to remain hived up in his cage all day. It seemed to me, that if Satan was intelligent enough to keep run of the days of the week, he ought to know about the dogs, and was willing to fight them rather than be cooped up all day. I knew all about the fighting ability of the raccoon. It had been my good fortune to observe the evolution of a young coon, from a helpless, sprawling bunch of fat and fur, to an old coon, with a bristling battery of claws and teeth operated by chain-lightning. After due consideration I concluded to let Satan take chances with the dogs. The next Sunday I staked him in the dooryard and awaited developments.

A big Newfoundland dog was the first to appear. The moment he saw the coon he made a fierce rush, but Satan sprang lightly into the air and landed on the dog's back. Swiftly and savagely he delivered two blows on the dog's eyes. The big brute tore himself away from the coon and frantically rubbed his eyes with his fore paws. When he could see a little, he "dusted" for home, a sadder but wiser dog.

The next dog was a small one, and Satan gave him a slap under the ear that landed him outside of the ring, or beyond the length of the coon's chain. This dog did not go home, but went to his master for sympathy. He could not be induced afterward to look at the coon.

Dog number three proved to be a yelping cur. He did not attack the coon, but danced around him, yelping all the time. He distracted the visitors with his incessant yelping. His master could not call him off. Satan set a trap for the cur, and caught him, too. He went to the stake, pulled in the chain, and then pretended to sleep. The dog was deceived, and got bolder and bolder until he was near enough for Satan to reach him. The coon made a swift rush and caught the yelping cur, and handled him so roughly that I was obliged to rescue him. It is needless to say that the cur was cured of yelping.

Satan whipped two other dogs before night, then for several weeks had no trouble worth mentioning. Now and then, through the summer, a strange dog would attack Satan and get whipped.

There is a class of writers that claim that the lower animals cannot reason. That such animals are controlled by instinct. I have ever found the lower animals as intelligent in relation to the needs of their lives as we are to ours. Satan proved to me and to others that he could reason, also that he could take advantage of new circumstances. Visitors often gave Satan a dirty nut, which he would clean by rubbing it between his paws. This trick was played on the coon constantly. Satan invented a new way to clean a nut. He would take it to the mat and roll it under his fore paw. How did he find out that he could clean a nut on the mat? There was no instinct, as I afterward proved. When visitors were feeding nuts to him I dusted his mat with ashes. Satan would take a nut and start for the mat, but his keen sight would detect the ashes, and he would stop, sit up, and clean the nut in the old way.

In November I trapped another coon, a young male. Doubtless he was the son of Satan, for he was from the same den. I knew, too, that he was born after Satan was captured, so they could have no knowledge of each other. I thought I would put the young coon in Satan's cage and see if the old fellow would recognize his own flesh and blood. If he did, I would have to admit that it was a case of instinct. When I put them together a desperate fight took place. The young coon was soon whipped and tried to hide. Satan followed him up, but suddenly began to sniff. He dropped his nose on to the young coon's ears, sniffing all the time. Instantly his savage look changed for one of pleasure. His ears, that just now were flat on his head, pricked up, and the lips, which were drawn back, showing the cruel teeth, fell into place. He put his arms around the young coon's neck and dragged him into the nest. Then he licked his ears and head, purring all the time like a big cat. Satan had recognized his son. I had noticed that the sense employed was of smell, and not of sight. I readily understood the meaning. The young coon carried the scent of his mother, and Satan had recognized it, and with subtle reasoning had concluded that he had found his own offspring. Afterward I trapped five coons. One was an adult. I put the four young coons, one at a time, into Satan's cage. Two of these were from the old den, and Satan recognized them at once after sniffing them. The other two were from a distant den, and as soon as Satan put his nose on their ears he fell to mauling them, and I was obliged to take them out to save their lives.

I could handle Satan whenever or however I pleased, and he would not lose his temper. It would be dangerous for a stranger to put a hand on him. One could almost step on him and he would not take offence, but he drew the line at touch. During the nine months that he was in my possession he attacked but one person. I met the gentleman in question at Barnum's Show, on Stage Fort. After the people had entered the main tent I stopped some time in the animal tent. I noticed a dudish-looking fellow acting in a peculiar manner before a cage containing two lions. I was interested, and strolled over to the cage. The fellow was a dude beyond a doubt. He wore a cowboy hat, a checkered coat, a crimson vest, and lavender colored trousers. He was trying to look the lions out of countenance. The big African lion, the male, seemed to feel uneasy under the fixed gaze of the dude, and at last crowded behind his mate. "See him cower and hide," cried the fellow, addressing me. "The human eye, intelligently used, can subdue the most ferocious brute living. I could enter that cage and handle those lions as I would kittens." I did not dispute his assertion, and he asked if the woods about Gloucester harbored wild animals. I told him about my raccoon. He suggested that it would please him to tame the coon for me, and offered to accompany me home.

When the show was over I missed the lion-tamer, but the next day he came down the hill to the cabin, resplendent in his checkered coat, crimson vest, and lavender trousers. As soon as he had said good morning he threw off his hat and coat and started the circus. He fixed his gaze on the coon and slowly approached him, stamping his feet while he cried, in a commanding tone, "Down, sir, down, sir!" Satan looked at the dude, then looked toward me. This was something new, and he wanted my opinion. When he found that I remained quiet, he concluded to act for himself. With a savage snarl he sprang on to the dude and fastened his claws in the lavender trousers. The dude, half-frightened to death, jumped backward beyond the length of Satan's chain. Satan held on, and the trousers were stripped from the hips to the knees. Fortunately, the coon's claws did not reach the flesh.

The dude put on a pair of my trousers, and with needle and silk I essayed to mend the lavender wreck. My work was rather clumsy. I should starve to death if I depended on the needle. I toiled and wrestled for two hours with that piece of work. It was a warm day, and I was nearly drowned in my own perspiration.

The dude put on the mended trousers and left me without saying so much as "thank you." Thus was Hood's "Song of the Shirt" verified.

On the approach of cold weather I made arrangements to winter Satan in the cabin. I placed a box inside, and the cage outside, and connected the two by a passage made of boards. The passage was eight inches square, and near the end that entered the cage I had hung a swinging door to keep the cold air from the nest inside. I expected Satan would have to be taught the use of the swinging door. After everything was arranged I put Satan into the cage, and at once he saw the change that had been made. He investigated the passage with his handy paws, and when he found he could move the swinging door he passed through into the box inside. After he had satisfied himself that the nest was all right, he came out.

To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised by the ingenuity displayed. Satan's comprehension was equal to that of a human being. I removed the chain and collar, and the coon and I settled down for the winter. I had arranged a cover to Satan's nest-box, and evenings I would give him the freedom of the cabin. Inside of a week he knew the contents of the cabin better than I did. The light puzzled him. Once, and once only, he touched the lamp-chimney. He would look on gravely while I would blow out the lamp and relight it again.

One night I forgot to fasten the cover in his nest-box. That night something touched me on the face and awoke me. I remained quiet, and soon I felt a cold, soft touch on my cheek. A swift clutch and I had Satan by one paw. I held him until I had lighted the lamp. He looked innocent and grieved, and tried to show me that he did not mean any wrong. He wanted to know if I were asleep or dead. When I released him he went to his box and raised the cover so quickly and neatly that it seemed a slight-of-hand performance.

One morning I neglected to secure the door to Satan's cage. When I returned that night the door was open and the coon was missing. The next day I took some food to the den under the boulder, but Satan did not care for food. He was fat enough to go into hibernation, and had probably entered upon the sleep that would last till spring. The next spring Satan would come to the mouth of the den and take food from my hand, but he was so crafty that I could not get hold of his neck. I thought to arrange a box-trap in which to catch him, when I could get time. One day I missed him, and when I heard that a farmer had caught a coon in his poultry-house, and had killed him, I knew that Satan had sacrificed his life to his appetite for poultry. The reckless act did not indicate a lack of reason.

Human beings sacrifice their lives to appetite, so which of us will throw the first stone at Satan?

WABBLES

Wabbles is the name of a wild bird. Not a book name, for the bird is known to naturalists as the song-sparrow .

I made Wabbles's acquaintance some years ago. On returning to my log cabin one afternoon, I had found him in the dooryard, wounded, bleeding, and exhausted. An examination disclosed a number four shot bedded in the muscle of the wing-joint. While I was removing the lead Wabbles struggled violently, and when released, hopped into the bushes and hid himself. I think he held a poor opinion of my surgical skill. The next day he was about the dooryard with other sparrows, but for many days his flight was a peculiar wabble, hence his name.

Wabbles was left behind when, on the approach of cold weather, the song-sparrows migrated southward. He seemed contented, and I thought he would stop with me through the winter, but one cold day he was missing.

Early in the following March, I looked out upon the snow-banks one blustering morning, and saw Wabbles in the dooryard. He had returned in the night, two weeks ahead of his mates. I do not know how far south he had wintered, but doubtless he had remembered the little log cabin in the woods, and all the time had understood that food and a welcome awaited his return.

That spring the sparrows lingered about my dooryard three weeks or more, and then dispersed to the neighboring fields and pastures, for the song-sparrow does not nest in the woods. Wabbles did not leave with the rest, and when spring merged into summer and he yet remained, I understood the reason. The male song-sparrow is obliged to do battle for the possession of a mate, and Wabbles, with his tender wing, wisely forbore to enter the lists. He preferred the cool woods and free food to the sun-scorched fields and a mate-less life.

Wabbles and I became fast friends. He was constantly hopping about the dooryard, and was always on hand to greet me whenever I returned from town.

I slept in the open air in a hammock, with only a canvas roof to keep off the rain, and Wabbles made it his business to awake me at daylight. The little rogue pursued the same method each morning. He would hop about in the bushes near the hammock, and chirp to me in the loud, sharp call-note peculiar to the sparrow family. If I remained quiet he would break into song. He confined his singing usually to the morning and evening hours. But on my return after a long absence, he would sing for a short time, regardless of the time of day. It was a bird's method of expressing joy. I thought that he prized my companionship and disliked to be left alone.

That fall Wabbles migrated with his mates, but the next spring he returned as before, two weeks ahead of the main flock. He lingered about the cabin until the mating season approached, when he disappeared for five days. On his return he brought with him a mate--a shy, demure little wife.

Wabbles wanted to set up housekeeping in the woods, so he showed Mrs. Wabbles all the nooks, sly corners, and sheltered spots, but it was useless; she positively refused to build a nest beneath the trees. She flew away to the fields, and Wabbles followed her.

Three weeks later, when returning from town, I heard his familiar call by the roadside. He came hurriedly through the bushes and fluttered to my feet. He appeared overjoyed to see me, and greedily ate the cracker-crumbs I gave him. When he flew away, I followed him. He led me a long distance to a field, where I found Mrs. Wabbles sitting on four dainty, speckled eggs. The nest was in the open field, beneath a tuft of grass.

Three baby sparrows were reared from this nest. When they were big enough to fly, I expected that Wabbles would move his whole family to the woods, provided Mrs. Wabbles would consent, which I much doubted. Sure enough, early in autumn Wabbles returned, but he was alone. I fancied that he had deserted his family for my companionship and a life in the woods. But not so. His visit was a matter of business. He wanted to know how the supplies of food held out. After he had satisfied himself he flew away, but the next day returned with one of the baby birds. Wabbles fussed over this bird all day long. He called the little one into the dooryard and stuffed it with crumbs, then into the garden and stuffed it with insects. He kept up a constant chirping meanwhile, and I thought he made much of the fuss and bustle to keep the baby from being homesick. That night he flew away with his charge, and the next day did not appear. Undoubtedly Mrs. Wabbles had given him a piece of her mind for taking her baby to the woods.

Three days later, however, Wabbles returned, and brought with him two of the babies. This day, for fuss and bustle, was like the first, but that night, instead of taking the birds out to the fields, he put them to bed in a hemlock-tree near my hammock, after which he flew away. The next day he brought in the other baby, leaving Mrs. Wabbles childless and alone. That night Wabbles put the three little ones to bed in the same hemlock-tree, and then flew back to his deserted mate.

Before dark I looked for the young birds, and found them on a twig about a man's height from the ground, sitting side by side and cunningly concealed by hemlock spray. When I approached, three little heads turned and six bright eyes looked on me, but not with fear. I suppose Wabbles had told them all about the hermit, and they knew I would not harm them.

Wabbles is not wholly unknown to notoriety. Many of the summer residents that visited my cabin had made his acquaintance, and the story of the little bird that would desert the fields for a hermit-life in the woods has doubtless often been told in many a distant home.

Before the birds had departed in migration, Wabbles's little wife had become contented and happy in the cabin dooryard. She was of a confiding nature, and in a remarkably short time would take food from my hand. Wabbles and his family lingered about the cabin until the thermometer registered ten above. The fifteenth of March Wabbles returned to my dooryard. His wife and family appeared a week later.

For some reason, known only to bird-life, the male birds of most species return from the south about a week before the females and young birds.

When the nesting-season approached Wabbles and his wife located their family in a less wooded growth, on the road to the city. The old birds returned to the dooryard, and Mrs. Wabbles made a nest where a little patch of grass had sprung up between the ledges.

Wabbles and I, during the summer, renewed the friendly relations that had existed when he led the life of a bachelor. He would come to me for food at all hours of the day. When I gave him his favorite food, cookie, he would reward me with a song. He would fly to a limb about four feet above my head and sing one song, and then fly away to his mate. Sometimes I could coax him to repeat the song by talking to him earnestly and rapidly. My visitors thought that the song was strange, and often it was suggested that it was on account of the nearness of the singer. But the song was not the one with which they were familiar. It was a new song, low, sweet, and tender, with nothing in it to remind one of the loud, joyous carol heard in the springtime.

Wabbles called me at daybreak every morning. He was jealous of the other birds, and drove them away, when he thought they were too friendly with me. A catbird and a veery hopped about my hammock mornings, and Wabbles attacked them so furiously that it made me wonder why they did not keep away for good. Wabbles did not allow other birds to eat in the dooryard until he had satisfied his appetite. Visitors asserted that he was a tyrant, but I did not look at his warlike actions in that light. He thought that he owned the dooryard, and other birds were trespassers.

Near my cabin there is a notice posted forbidding trespass, and it alludes sarcastically to "wood-cutting thieves." This sign was put up because sometimes dead, worthless wood was carried away from the lot. Wabbles is willing that the birds may enjoy the things in the dooryard after he is satisfied, but the human fellow preferred to let the wood rot on the ground.

The feathered biped's humanity contrasts sharply with the human biped's brutality.

Mrs. Wabbles soon had four little mouths to feed, and she worked early and late. The heat was so intense that every little while she would seek the shade, and rest with her wings drooping and her bill open. Notwithstanding the strain on her limited strength, she never showed impatience, but was always the same confiding little bird.

The Wabbles family enjoyed life in the woods. Through the summer and fall months, Wabbles set up a singing-school and trained his boys to sing the mating-song of his species.

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