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Birds and All Nature, Vol. V, No 1, January 1899

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<h2>THE WHIPPOORWILL.</h2> WHAT farm boy has not heard this birdless voice echoing from the ghostly shades of the thicket close at hand, or scarcely audible in the distance? Perhaps you have heard it as you have passed between the wood and the hill over there, coming clear from the wood but reëchoing from the hill only the shrill last syllable. Farther away on the distant hill-top you may have taken this last syllable for the piping of the salamander. The "whippoorwill" song belongs with the early May moonlit balmy nights, before the blossoms have lost their best perfume and before farm work has become a mere drudgery. It vividly recalls the merry May-basketing frolics, apparently so necessary to existence on the farm; the fresh green fields and woodland blossoms; the planting season with all its hidden promises. There is, in the warble of the bluebird, glad promise of returning spring; and in the animated whistle of the ph&oelig;be reiteration of the earlier promise; but the whippoorwill tells of that delightful season realized. His is not a complaint groaned forth, but a glad announcement of joy fully come. My early home nestled in one of those gems of woodland that dot the rolling Iowa prairies. One of my earliest memories of this old home is the twilight choruses of the whippoorwills in the door-yard. They often ventured upon the door-step and sang for minutes at a time, apparently oblivious of the members of the family seated just inside the open door. On more than one occasion more than one bird occupied the door-step at the same time, all the while apparently trying to drown each others' voices in a continuous flow of song. At such times the delightful mellowness which one hears, with the birds in the distance, gives place to an almost painful, penetrating shrillness. The more deliberately uttered song is invariably preceded by a strongly guttural sound not unlike that produced by striking an inflated rubber bag. The near-by song, to my ear, sounds like "qui ko wee," the first syllable with a strong "q" sound. I have never heard them sing later than 11 o'clock in the evening nor earlier than 3 in the morning. It is well-nigh impossible to creep upon a singing bird in the woods, even if it could be seen in the dim light, but it was not unusual, at my old home, for the birds to playfully fly round and round anyone who might be standing out in the yard at twilight. The birds often came so close that the wings seemed to brush the face. The flight is so utterly noiseless that the object of their sport is aware of the presence before he can fully realize what it is. The whippoorwill inhabits the eastern portion of the United States, west to eastern North and South Dakota and Nebraska, western Kansas, Indian Territory and Texas; north to southern Canada, into Nova Scotia and Manitoba; and south in winter into eastern Mexico and Guatemala. It breeds in the northern and central parts of its range, and rarely to Florida. The nest is made late in May or early in June, in the Northern states. The eggs are two in number, light gray or white, with brown and lilac markings often arranged in scratchings and pencilings besides the spots and blotches. There is usually scarcely more of a nest than the leaves lying on the ground; rarely nothing but the bare ground. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 36] <h2>THE EAGLE.</h2> (Continued from page 25.) Eagles are sometimes caught by placing a large cage on edge so it will fall when a string is pulled. A live hen and her chickens are tied to the cage so they may run under when the eagle comes at them. As they run into the cage to escape the eagle, he follows them, the string is pulled, and the eagle finds himself alone in the trap, for the hen and her chickens easily get out between the bars which are too close together to allow him to do the same. An eagle once attacked a weasel. This little animal is very fierce, and will not give up its life easily. Finding itself in the grasp of the bird, the weasel turned and fastened its teeth in the throat of the eagle. It was lucky for the eagle that the weasel did not cut his throat, but the little animal never let go. Its teeth were locked into the flesh of the eagle so they could not be torn open. Years afterwards the eagle was shot, and it had on its neck a queer locket, the skull of the weasel hanging there by the teeth. Sometimes the weasel cuts a vital part in the bird that picks it up, and then the weasel enjoys the life-blood of his enemy. We have a gold coin that is named after the eagle. It is worth ten dollars. In fact it is ten dollars in gold. The first one was made in 1792. Half-eagles, quarter-eagles, and double-eagles have also been made of gold at our nation's mints. In some countries besides America it has been the national bird. When the army of Rome first tried to land in England the men feared the fierce English soldiers. One soldier had an Eagle with him in the boat. He jumped into the sea with his eagle and called to his friends to follow him. They soon put the enemy to flight, and the eagle was praised for helping them win. The eagle is fond of capturing such birds as the swan. When he finds a swan flying so high that it cannot get to the water and dive out of his reach the eagle flies against the swan from below with such force that the breath is knocked out of the swan in an instant. As the swan falls lifeless to the ground the eagle invites his mate to meet him at the spot and they have a great feast. The eagle flies swifter than a railway train, but one was once caught by a train before it could rise and get out of the way. The "cannon-ball" train on the Georgia Railway was late. In making up time it swung round a curve in a cut at full speed. A bald eagle was seen on the track by the fireman, who was looking out of the window. The pilot of the engine was upon the bird before he could rise. It struck him, tumbled him upon the frame, and fastened one of his claws into a wooden beam. Before the eagle had time to get back his senses the fireman climbed along the foot-rail to the pilot. He caught the great bird, and a fierce struggle followed. The bird fought for freedom and the fireman fought for a prize. The train was going at the rate of forty-five miles an hour. It was hard for the man to keep himself on the engine with one hand on the rail and the other holding the eagle, which tore at him wildly as the engine swung to and fro upon the rails. The man's clothing was torn to shreds and his hands were bleeding. But he worked his way back to the cab where the engineer assisted him in tying the eagle so he could not get away. But the tying was not easy for two men, for the bird made good use of his great beak and claws. When spread out on the car floor he measured seven feet from tip to tip of his wings. He was not injured, and is now kept as a splendid prisoner, the king of American birds. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 37] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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