Birdnesting Under Difficulties

WHEN I was fifteen years old our family lived in Central Texas. Our house stood on a hill at the edge of town. About us stretched the rolling prairies, gay in summer with red and yellow daisies and the tall spikes of blooming yucca, and studded with clumps of prickly pear cactus and feathery mesquite trees.

About three miles to the south of us the Trinity River slipped through a dense, low woodland. Here I spent much of my time, eager to watch, and capture if possible, the strange and interesting creatures which lived thereabout. Road runners nested at the edge of the wood in tangles of cat’sclaw smilax. Flying squirrels built l heir globular nests of twigs high in the slender pecan trees. Chuck-will’s-widows fluttered up from the leaves like gigantic moths. Raccoons and opossums searched for food along the banks of the slow-flowing streams, leaving their neat lacy track patterns in the mud.

In the pale far sky drifted widewinged, sable-coated turkey vultures, their pinions motionless for hours at a time as they ascended in slow spirals, breasted the wind, or swung low to the level of the tree tops. I never ceased to marvel at their clean-cut outline, and at the ease with which they handled themselves in flight. I was all unconscious, in those days, of the probability that decades, centuries, ages perhaps, had slipped by while the turkey vulture was learning to conquer the air. It did not occur to me then that thousands upon thousands of the gaunt creatures had perished in the eternal struggle for survival that those dreamily swinging spots of ebon might enchant me for an hour! Drowsily, majestically, unceasingly they drifted about, many just above the low-hung fluffy cloud masses, some gently moving amid the ribbed cirrus of the dizzy sky plains. Lying on the warm earth, I watched them. I could hardly think; I only dreamed myself a sky bird, a playmate of the clouds. I was vaguely, sadly conscious, perhaps, that while my race had for ages been developing my brain into an organ of doubtful utility, it had at the same time been reducing the length of my forelimbs, solidifying my bones — in short, condemning me to fourscore years and ten as a terrestrial being without the slightest glimmer of hope that I should one day spread my black wings and, rustling like heavy silk, mount to the blue. Never, never could I be a vulture!

I was roused from my revery by the swish of dusky, stiff quills above me, as one of the vultures, made curious by my motionless supine form, swung low. What a different creature! The naked head and pale bill were evil in appearance. There entered my mind the thought that, had I been a corpse, that white beak would have sought with its hooked tip the innermost chambers of my heart! The plumage of the drab fowl was rusty and ragged; its wing tips spread out like slender, heavily nailed fingers! The vulture, close at hand, was a revolting creature. I shuddered because the vile body and macabre pinions had cast their shadow across my face.

Walking one day in the depths of the woodland, near a stagnant pool, I came upon a huge, partly decayed, hollow log. Instinctively curious, I peered cautiously into the darkness, half expecting to discern the taut form of a wildcat crouched for a spring, or the lazy, pulpy coii of a water moccasin, whitemouthed and venomous. I could see nothing, though I strained my eyes. I went to the other end of the log, lay upon my side, and peered through. From this position I could see light at the other end. The dim interior became more sharply defined. What was that strange shape? Was there a movement, just the slightest movement? Did I hear a noise? My back stiffened.

Then it dawned upon me that I was gazing at the silhouette of a turkey vulture — a mother bird, probably, sitting upon her eggs. Eager, fairly breathless, I dragged two large flat stones to one end of the log, closing the opening there, and instantly sprang to the other end of the log, half expecting to be greeted by a rush of wings. Assured that the bird was still within, I sat down. For a moment I pondered. The log was almost twenty feet long; I could not make the bird come to me by punching it with a stick, and there was danger of breaking the eggs. I could not smoke it out, because I had no matches and I doubted my ability to start a fire by twirling a pointed stick against a piece of wood. My course was plain. I should have to go through the log.

I entertained certain misgivings. Could I force my way through the dark, moist tunnel? What should I encounter there? Would the mother vulture try to pick out my eyes?

Nevertheless I started, to find at once that the aperture was not so large as it had appeared to be. Arms outstretched in front, hair and face scraping the musty wood, I inched forward, my toes digging doggedly into the earth, Within a short time the entire length of my body was inside the log. My face pressed against wet wood; my body ached with the strain of the unnatural position, but I could not bring my arms back because there was no room for such a movement.

Perhaps, after all, I should not attempt this strange tunneling! In a panic I tried to back out, only to find myself powerless. It appeared that in my toes, which could push me forward, was my only propellent power. I was doomed to stay, or to go ahead! I breathed hard, spent with exertion. There did not seem to be enough air in the place. My ribs were crowded. But I must go ahead! Digging my fingers in the soft wood, shoving forward with all the force of my feet, I made slow progress. A flake of wood somehow got into my eye. I could do little more than shed tears over this unfortunate happening, for my arms were so long that I could not reach my face with my fingers. And my handkerchief was in my pocket !

I realized now, without question, that I should not have come into this log, that freedom of movement and plenty of fresh air were really all I had ever desired in the world. But I could not go back. Perhaps I remembered, in that dark moment, certain lines of Joaquin Miller’s poem on Columbus. At any rate I squirmed on. I heard dull sounds as the buttons of my shirt gave way. My trousers stayed on only because of the strength of the leather belt, the straps of cloth which held it, and the endurance of my pelvic bones. The slipping downward of my shirt did not improve matters any. Wads of the cloth seemed to be knotted all about my body.

I found myself wondering how much more an imprisoned, half-suffocated, tortured boy, miles from home, could endure, when suddenly I realized that the mother vulture and I were not the only inhabitants of this hollow log.

Tripping ever so daintily, his fine leg threads just brushing the surface upon which he trod, came a grandaddy longlegs, disturbed in his noonday sleep. A grandaddy longlegs, considered impersonally, is an interesting creature. His legs are amazingly long and thin; his airy body is a strangely plump hub for those eight, filamentous spokes which mince along so questioningly. I do not mind having a grandaddy longlegs walk across my hand, in fact.

But to have a grandaddy longlegs, and perhaps four hundred of his companions, suddenly decide to wander all over my face, neck, and back is another story. The first tickle of the advance guard’s feet upon my nose drove me fairly frantic. I plunged my face into the wood, crushing my adversary. The odor of his body was unpleasant. Already his companions were bearing down upon me. I writhed and shuddered in exquisite torture. By waiting a moment, then wiping my face deliberately across the damp wood, I could kill or disable whole squadrons at a time. The situation was not improved by the fact that I could see only imperfectly in the dim light and because of the bit of wood in my eye.

Gradually the queer spiders learned that they were safer when they moved toward the light. I could see their dancing, trembling forms slowly withdraw from me. Nervous, full of reproach for my foolhardiness, I tried to relax, to think of something beside the vise in which I was fixed.

Was this soft thing my hand felt a fluff of milkweed down? Was it a bit of silk, so oddly out of place in this nether world? It was the nest of a pair of white-footed mice — dainty, bright-eyed little creatures whose noses quivered with terror, whose bodies shook with dread, as they felt rude fingers upon their nest. Frantically they rushed forth. Instinctively they leaped for the darkest crevices they could find. Owing to the effective stoppage of my end of the log, these havens of refuge were naturally near me. Trim, sharp-clawed feet raced over my back, under my shirt, about my neck. Can mice run nimbly? Can they use their toes in holding on? Do they learn of the unknown in the darkness through touching objects with their silken whiskers? The answers to these questions, and to many more, I learned within our hollow log. I was half afraid the jewel-eyed gnomes would bite my face or that one of them would pounce into my mouth as I strove to get a deep breath of air. Could all this torture be actual? Was I having a nightmare? Would it never end? One of the mice crawled between my body and the wood. I gave my shoulder a frantic shrug; there was a tiny squeak, and the sharp nails which had been digging into my skin instantly grew limp. The other mouse lodged himself somewhere in a fold of my trousers. Poor little creatures! They had sought only the safety of darkness. They could have harmed hardly a living thing. But I am sure they wrecked a thousand nerve cells in my quivering body.

Again shoving forward violently with my toes and digging my fingers into the soft structure of the tree, I pressed onward. The passageway became larger; I moved more freely. It was heavenly to be able to rest my weary body, and to breathe more deeply.

But I was yet to meet my most amazing, my most uncomfortable adventure! Suddenly the mother vulture stood up, hissed, coughed a little, and began vomiting decayed flesh she had eaten earlier in the day. I had somehow forgotten the vulture. I found myself wishing with all my heart that I had not sealed up the other end of the log. Summoning courage, and wriggling forward as rapidly as I could, I struck the great bird an awkward blow. She hobbled off, hissing hoarsely and leaving a new object exposed to view.

I could not see very well; but I had enough strength and interest in my strange expedition to permit me to realize that I was face to face with a lovely newborn creature — a baby vulture, scarcely more than two hours old. It was downy white, its legs and naked head were pale gray, its infant eyes had no expression. Breathing evenly, quietly, it rested beside a large egg which was of soiled white splotched with blackish brown.

The mother continued to cough and hiss, but she could not produce any more food. I was thankful that the digestive process in birds is so rapid that food does not, as a rule, stay long in the crop or gullet!

Lifting the young vulture as well as I could, and rolling the big egg ahead of me, I wormed my way onward. The dusky parent retreated. At the end of the log I grasped her by her feet, pushed the obstructing stones away as well as I could, and breathed the fresh air in deep gasps. Nearly worn out, I trembled from head to foot. Most of my shirt was somewhere in the log; the underclothes which had covered my shoulders and chest were wound in tatters about my trousers. I was scratched up considerably, and bleeding in several spots. It must have taken me fifteen minutes to get out of the log, for the exit was small.

When I finally reached the outer air I sank to the leaves, awkwardly tied the vulture to a sapling, using a shred of torn underclothing, and panted and trembled as I picked grandaddy longlegs from my hair, eyes, and neck, and a dead mouse from my clothing. The belt had dug deep into the skin and had worn raw grooves all about my waist. But I was free! I could breathe the air, the cool, fresh air of heaven!

I hobbled over to the pool. In the rustic mirror I could see that I was no lovely vision. I washed my face and hands, smoothed back my hair, and pinned my torn clothing together with a thorn or two.

Then I returned to my captives. Somehow the little white baby seemed pitiably friendless in this bright world of the open. The eyes of the mother were hard and fierce and frightened. The egg was infertile. I could hear the liquid contents slopping about inside when I shook it.

Had I been less weary or had my predatory instinct been more keen, I might have killed the mother vulture and tossed her aside; or I might have carried her home. But I could n’t bring myself to take that woods baby away, or to leave it there an orphan. I put it back in the damp shadow of the hollow log. I rolled aside the stones I had brought for sealing the opening. And then I put the mother back beside the cottony infant, which by this time was peeping faintly. The mother bird did not attempt to rush away. Mouth open, she eyed me impersonally. I moved off through the woods quietly, hoping that my retreat would not frighten her, or that if she did fly away she would soon return to her charge.

I was famished and exhausted when I reached home, and I mounted the stairs to my room with stiff and weary feet. When I took off my trousers a bright-eyed mouse whisked out of a pocket and scampered behind the bookcase.