For a long time he was quiet, then he cautiously peeped
out. After a while he ventured to the ground,
raced to a dead stump, and sitting on it, barked
and scolded with all his might. Then he darted
home again. When he had repeated this performance
several times, the idea became apparent. There
was some danger to be defied in Rainbow Bottom, but
not a sound must be made from his home. The
bark of a dog hurried me to the fence in time to see
some hunters passing in the bottom, but I thanked
mercy they were on the opposite side of the river
and it was not probable they would wade, so my birds
would not be disturbed. When the squirrel felt
that he must bark and chatter, or burst with tense
emotions, he discreetly left his mate and nest.
I did some serious thinking on the `instinct’
question. He might choose a hollow log for his
home by instinct, or eat certain foods because hunger
urged him, but could instinct teach him not to make
a sound where his young family lay? Without
a doubt, for this same reason, the cardinal sang from
every tree and bush around Horseshoe Bend, save the
sumac where his mate hovered their young.
The matter presented itselfin this way. The
squirrel has feet, and he runs with them. He
has teeth, and he eats with them. He has lungs,
and he breathes with them. Every organ of his
interior has its purpose, and is used to fulfil it.
His big, prominent eyes come from long residence
in dark hollows. His bushy tail helps him in
long jumps from tree to tree. Every part of his
anatomy is created, designed and used to serve some
purpose, save only his brain, the most complex and
complicated part of him. Its only use and purpose
is to form one small ’tidbit ’ for the
palate of the epicure! Like Sir Francis, who
preached a sermon to the birds, I found me delivering
myself of a lecture to the squirrels, birds, and moths
of Sunshine Hill. The final summing up was, that
the squirrel used his feet, teeth, eyes and tail;
that could be seen easily, and by his actions it could
be seen just as clearly that he used his brain also.
There was not a Thysbe in front of the lens, so picking
up a long cudgel I always carry afield, and going
quietly to surrounding thistles, I jarred them lightly
with it, and began rounding up the Hemaris family
in the direction of the camera. The trick was
a complete success. Soon I had an exposure on
two. After they had faced the camera once, and
experienced no injury, like the birds, they accepted
it as part of the landscape. The work was so
fascinating, and the pictures on the ground glass so
worth while, that before I realized what I was doing,
half a dozen large plates were gone, and for this
reason, work with the cardinals that day ended at
noon. This is why I feel that at times in bird
work the moths literally `thrust themselves’
upon me.
