Thar's Ghosts in Them Hills!

Pleasant the little lanes diverging from main highways of remembrance. Loyal as an old friend is memory, answering our faintest call for companionship. A delightful guest because she comes uncensored unless that archaic bugbear, conscience, insists on attending the conference. Then she camouflages the gloomer in a mystery veil so effectively, that the villain’s stern features are touched by some of her charm.

As the years drift we turn aside more often into these byways of the past and find this paradox confronting us. We forget pictures behind turns of familiar paths and remember what is around corners of swiftly-trodden ways.

A toy, common fifty years ago, was the genesis of present motion picture. It was a cylinder of cardboard about eight inches across by six deep with a series of slits near the upper edge. Strips of illustrated paper depicting some incident — such as a donkey jumping a fence — were placed inside. Revolving the toy produced motion illusion thru the slits.

The window alongside my desk is the opening thru which I watch Time’s panorama — like that plaything but with slower tempo. May apple blossoms whiten the ground with fugacious snow: Summer with the Wood Pewee’s plaintive note answering the “Preacher” in the maple tree. Plangent Autumn marching thru the hills, pennons beckoning to a wavering skein of southbound geese. Winter birds and snow shadows — blue as the northwest sky. For decades these pictures have come and waned and yet they are not among those children of memory, recalled without effort from their wandering.

In that quiet hour before sleep when thot roams untrammeled, familiar scenes fade — rare ones emerge keen as October dawns.

I remember a pool where dragon flies tip sweet flag spears and trout lurk in brown waters; the upflung arms of a dead chestnut patriarch; budding oaks, with a Scarlet Tanager resting – that flame from the far Amazon; beach nights and Sanderlings reflecting tiny flecks of moonlight from their white breasts as they hurried into the dark — but more clearly do I remember a Wood Thrush singing in the dogwood tree when life and the year were May!

Whenever I see this friendly tree in bloom this boyhood picture revives. The canvas is a little dim (years exact toll) yet a longing for “the wonder light that was on field and stream” lures me back. Resentment because it “exiles us into dreams” does not diminish. Thrush Lane is my favorite path.

Cold taxonomists have little consideration for those outside their clan but like Confucius we will return evil with justice.

Nodding is supposed to have originated with Homer but his predecessors probably indulged in the pastime. Greek ornithologists must have evolved the technical name of thrushes in their sleep. Hylocichla — lover of woods — is too romantically perfect for bestowal by wakeful dustbins. In conference assembled it was decreed later that thrushes be given the position of honor at the head of the bird battalions. Right the second time — that is where these flute-voiced aristocrats belong.

“If thou would'st be perfect and deserve well of thyself and thy neighbor” follow the Thrushes — they are sparks lighting the Right Way.

Aren’t Bluebirds the leaders? asks a Sialia admirer.

True. They are Thrushes disguised in blue coats.

Soon after acquiring land, pride of possession impelled exploration of these rocky Taconic acres. Leaving the old overgrown Dover wood road I entered a small glade and an indefinite something in arrangement of trees and contour of the clearing brot me to a halt. The years faded like fragments of morning mist curling, faintly opalescent, into the treetops. I was a boy again among the Long Island hills:

May 24, 1883. Saw a good many warblers today which I could not identify they kept to high in the tall trees and moved too fast but I saw some yellow, black&white and magnolia warblers close to the ground. The yellow warblers were carrying bits of bark and were starting to build. I found 3 wood thrushes nests. The first one had 3 eggs the second one had 2 eggs and the third one had no eggs. These birds are very sweet singers but when I examined their nests they put put put put put put putted instead. I did not know this morning whether to go to the opening of the brooklyn bridge or go into the woods but it was such a nice day I thought I would like the woods best so I went and I guess I was lucky for they had a terrible jam on the bridge and killed a lot of people.

The record (scrawled in purple ink in a red-covered notebook) is the memory revived here in these far hills by a little brook where blackberry blossoms whitened the ground. Something was missing tho — the brook, hills and trees were there but — then a Wood Thrush sang in the dogwood tree! The picture became complete.

Something stirred in the bushes. A boy slid into view, carrying a single barrel gun at ready, eyes fixed on the speckled breasted minstrel. He was aiming the weapon when I spoke.

“Hello, son! Ease off with that cannon!”

The gun left his shoulder.

“Gee — you scared me!”

“Well — I meant to. What you doing with a gun this time of year?”

“I’m a naturalist, an' collectin’ birds.”

“You are, eh? Suppose you’ve got a collector’s license?”

“Haven’t. No one bothers me, tho, when I tell ‘em I stuff the birds I shoot.”

“Come here and let’s talk it over. I want to look at that gun.”

Doubt showed in his glance. He poised for flight.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not a cop and I’m not going to grab your gun and jail you — I’m a naturalist, too.”

He walked slowly toward me and reluctantly handed over the weapon. It was a twenty bore muzzleloader of foreign make and had evidently been made to order, for the stock was hand carved with raised cheek piece and I had never seen a more beautiful product of the gunsmith’s art. The name “Uncas” was rufly engraved on the hammer plate.

“Read Fenimore Cooper, I see!”

“Yes, an’ Uncas was certainly some Indian — the way he’d slip thru the woods an’ —”

“He surely was. Where did you get this gun? It’s a beauty!”

A pleased expression replaced suspicion.

“Had to save up nearly a year for it, an’ it cost six dollars! I was afraid Kiffe would sell it before I could get all that money together so I gave him the first dollar I made an’ he kept it for me until I paid it all. You ort to see that old gun shoot!”

“Looks like a mighty powerful weapon. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Just starting on the road,” I murmured reminiscently but his sharp ears caught the words.

“Been on it all morning.”

“You don't quite get me. Now let's talk this collecting game over, man to man.”

“I'm willin’ but first tell me what kind of a bird this is?”

He pulled a paper cornucopia out of his pocket, opened it and handed me the specimen.

“A Greatcrested Flycatcher.”

“Great yelling Flycatcher’d be a better name — it sure can holler. Don’t seem possible a bird that size can squawk as loud as that did.”

“Yes, you always know when they're around. They build in tree hollows and always encircle their nests with a castoff snake skin.”

“What do they do that for — to scare enemies away?”

“Probably, tho we never can be certain of the reasons animals or birds act as they do. We don’t understand their language well yet.”

“They must have sharp eyes to find snake skins. I've only found three in my life.”

“Flycatchers have to be keen sighted. Now let’s get back to the Wood Thrush. They have a nest in that Maple crotch and there are four eggs in it. If you shot the male, the female might grieve so she would desert the eggs and that would mean five lives gone. Suppose when you get home, you’d find that a monster, one hundred times larger than you, had killed your father. Wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“Like it? — I’d trail him down an’ kill him!”

“Even with that powerful gun you wouldn’t have much luck.”

“But that’s only a bird. My father’s a man. He has a soul. It’s different.”

“Maybe not so different as you think. One of the greatest religions teaches as part of its belief, that animals and birds have souls. When you cross the final river, souls of your victims may be awaiting you. What would you say to them?”

“Gee — I dunno — never thot of anything like that!”

The killing instinct is an inheritance from ancestors who were forced to take life to keep their own going. We no longer have to destroy in this part of the world. It’s really much more exciting to hunt with field glass and camera than with a gun. Try it — you'll see I’m right.

“But I’m going to make pictures of ‘em an’ how can I do that ‘less I get skins to paint from?”

“Going to paint the birds around here, eh?”

“I’m goin’ to paint ‘em all. All there are in the whole country an’ their different plumages too!”

“You’ve laid out an ambitious program that will take some time to finish.”

“I don’t care: I’ve got lots of time.”

“If you’re in earnest I’ll help you put it over. Seems to me the best way to start is with a pencil and pad and spend a few years sketching live birds. Chuck the gun overboard.”

“What am I goin’ to do when I color ‘em?”

“Any museum will lend you skins for that purpose. I’ll make a bargain with you. If you’ll agree to ease off shooting I’ll supply you with any skins you want. How about it?”

“It’s a go!”

“Remember son, birds are part of

‘ — the vital breath
The murmur of the sigh of life that lingers
In the dark flutes of Death’
and when you drive shot thru a Thrush’s tender body its flageolet is stilled forever.”

“I’ll remember! Would you like to see some of my watercolors?”

“Certainly I would. Bring them down whenever you feel like it. I’m a bit of an artist and can give you a pointer or two. So long!”

“So long.”

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