DRAINING THE LAND OF ITS PIGEONS: SCIOTO MARSH AND MEANS PRAIRIE
The unpublished memoir of George D. Smith, describing the obliteration of a pigeon roost in Auglaize County, Ohio, is one of the most valuable in the substantial annals of the bird’s history. Unlike accounts that focus on the clearing of forests as a factor in the bird’s extinction, Smith points to the loss of wetlands as the critical development that sealed the fate of this particular roost. Passenger pigeons, besides all the deliberate actions taken against them, were here the inadvertent victims of federal law.
Smith was born in 1865 and grew up in Waynesfield, not far from the Scioto Marsh, where the pigeons roosted, and Means Prairie, where they foraged. He received two undergraduate degrees from Ohio Northern University and Ohio Wesleyan. Teaching science was his calling, and he devoted his career to it at various institutions, most especially Eastern Kentucky State Teachers College (now Eastern Kentucky University), in Richmond, where he spent twenty-five years teaching biology. He was also an accomplished photographer, and his nature pictures were widely published.41
Smith’s earliest recollections were of continuous lines of pigeons flying over his house as they left the roost in the morning and returned to the sheltering woods of the swamp in the evening. The birds occupied the skies from four to seven or eight on both early and late flights. The heights they flew exceeded the range of firearms, although it did not stop the young Smith from trying. His shots skyward never hit any pigeons, but they caused the flocks to separate briefly before coalescing as before.42
The prairie occupied the headwaters of the Scioto River, seventeen thousand acres of lowland “largely covered with weeds, prairie grass, willows, and other moisture loving plants.” Smith makes no mention of oaks or other nut trees, and since this was in winter, no fruits would have been available. Maps of presettlement vegetation place this in a region of ash and elm on whose seeds the birds were known to feed heavily. Downstream sprawled Scioto Marsh, twelve to fifteen miles long and two to four miles wide. Both sites were largely inaccessible to humans, and that is one attribute that held the birds. The one exception was in the winter, when the wet areas froze. But even then the danger of breaking through the ice kept all but the most intrepid visitor from entering what seemed to be a wasteland good only for pigeons.
To encourage the draining of marshes and swamps so they could become “productive,” Congress enacted the Swamp Land Act of 1849. This statute applied only to Louisiana, but a year later Congress extended the provisions to additional states, including Ohio. Federal lands would be conveyed to the states, which would in turn transfer title to private parties for little or no compensation provided they drained the property. In this case, Limon Means received the seventeen thousand acres of prairie and quickly began to fulfill his end of the deal: “Mr. Means employed a lot of Irish laborers to ditch it, and before many months had passed there were many large ditches running all thru it from which gopher ditches ran out into the fields. The weeds and grass were burned off and during the following winter and spring, long strings of oxen could be seen turning the sod for a corn crop.”
During this same time, the marsh, too, came under assault. A dredge was shipped downstream to Kenton, from where it was hauled by oxen to the marsh: “For nearly two years that dredge puffed and snorted in the bed of the river. People came for miles and miles to see it for it was something new in that community. In due time the river was opened up and the marshy land drained.”
Suddenly, nothing protected the roosting and feeding grounds of the pigeons. Hunters invaded the marsh by droves, for the roosting birds could be killed with little effort. A neighbor named Jim told Smith about the happenings in the marsh: “Do you know that they are catching [pigeons] over there by the millions and hauling them away by the wagon and sled load?” He suggested that he and the Smiths pool their horses so they could rig up a wagon that could hold sixty bushels. Jim and his two sons along with three Smiths ventured out on a cold December day in 1877 to try their luck. Provisioned with lanterns, bags, nets, food, and clubs, they arrived at their destination at dusk. As they waited impatiently, they could see great crowds of people pouring in; this parade would continue into the night and included visitors from forty miles away.
When darkness eventually arrived, they went forth with blazing lanterns into the roost: “We had not gone far when we came to a small cluster of willows which was filled with wild pigeons. Our lanterns blinded them, so they did not fly until we had formed our circle ready for action. The word was given and we made the attack. Instantly, there was a sound of many clubs beating from all sides against those helpless birds. They fell by the score but a few of them fluttered away in the darkness and were lost to our view.” Their few minutes of labor produced 114 dead birds.
The next willow stand was somewhat larger than the first, and they decided to employ their homemade net, almost eight feet high and fifty or sixty feet wide. Previously, they had used it to catch fish at nearby Lewistown Reservoir. Four members of the party encircled the birds with the net. They began clubbing pigeons within reach while frantic birds seeking escape flew into the net and fell to the ground. Eventually those birds, too, would be bludgeoned to death. In the end not one bird escaped, and they had added 225 pigeons to their total. By eleven that night they had filled sixty bushels with pigeons and were ready to call it a night. Their take hardly made a dent on the total population of the roost, but they were hardly alone: “The crowds could now be counted by the hundreds, and the lanterns could be seen throughout the valley darting back and forth like a great swarm of fireflies.”
Smith and his friends spent the next day handing out pigeons to their neighbors. Such generosity was warmly appreciated, and the tale they told spurred over fifty of the recipients into launching their own raiding parties. The word continued to spread throughout the winter and into March: “Finally the number of hunters became so vast, they penetrated every nook and corner of the valley, and so the remnant of the pigeons left the Marsh and found a roosting place on the Prairie.” But here, too, the birds were sought out and destroyed, forcing them to abandon this refuge as well. The birds stayed for a short while in nearby woods but soon thereafter made their exit: “Then suddenly as if the earth had opened up and swallowed them, they disappeared and never again with only one single exception the next winter, did we ever see a pigeon in that region.”
PIGEON SOCIAL
Come for the pigeons, stay for the booze, bands, and balderdash!
Evadyne Swanson’s admirable dissertation on the treatment of Minnesota’s wildlife from 1850 to 1900 refers to the “social and convivial” element of passenger pigeon hunting. The accounts from Minnesota, she says, are rich in jocularity, while those of Wisconsin and Michigan consist mainly of “sordid tales of systematic slaughter.” This difference is most likely due to the editor of the Chatfield Democrat, the paper from which all of Swanson’s Minnesota examples originate. He obviously had an eye for the sarcastic and humorous, and his reports reflected that.43
Many of the Chatfield yarns center upon the liberal indulgence of distilled spirits. In the June 6, 1863, issue, the editor relates his encounter with a group of hunters from the nearby town of Cremona. They urged him to join them for the night, and it proved to be one of his more enjoyable experiences: “We ate pigeons cooked in every style, until ‘we couldn’t rest’ without divers and sundry ‘night-caps.’ Take it all together it was a time long to be remembered … But we must say that we had pigeons enough; too much of a good thing is too much, and we believe the unanimous verdict of the party was that fat squabs, whiskey, and boiled eggs are a bad mixture, which refuse most decidedly to mingle together.”
Two years later, the pigeons nested in the neighborhood again. In late May the “Pigeon Roost Camp Meeting” was planned for all those who enjoy “sport and squabs”: “Preying will commence at early dawn and continue till early candlelight each day … Arms requisite for successful ‘squabbing,’ a l
ong pole and high boots—provisions for the camping, whiskey, smelling salts, bread, salt, and a little whiskey.” Given it had been a late spring, the squabs proved to be still a bit small so the camp meeting was postponed until June 3:
Bishop E. D. Williams, Presiding Elders John A. Mathews, A. W. Webster and several other brethren loud on the amen of Winona, having arrived yesterday afternoon. Deacons Hyde, Broughton, and others equally pious, are expected this evening from St. Charles. A delegation of devoted Christians from Preston will also be present. As all of the brethren who will be in attendance are spiritually inclined, we presume much squabs will be devoured and that old devil, whisky, severely punished. Amen!
When the festivities had finally concluded, it was estimated that all the joyous preying claimed ten thousand squabs.44
Good humor also sprang from the breach in the britches of old squabber Isaac Day. It seems that the year before, in 1864, another squabbing festival drew folks from all over the region. The editor opined that “stewed squabs with whisky sauce [were] not bad to take if you knew when you have eaten enough.” During the festivities, Mr. Day scampered up a tree to grab squabs, and his pants split to the great amusement of the gathered observers. This year everyone was warned to wear tear-resistant slacks. Day and his pants were given another chance. As he scaled the tree, cheering spectators waved flags, and to honor the integrity of his trousers, the band began playing “Yankee Doodle.” All the while, the ladies “clapped their pretty little hands … crying out in the fullness of their overjoyed hearts, did you ever see such a day?”45
Chapter 7
The Tempest Was Spent: The Last Great Nestings
The pigeon was no mere bird, he was a biological storm … Yearly the feathered tempest roared up, down, and across the continent, sucking up the laden fruits of forest and prairie, burning them in a traveling burst of life.
—ALDO LEOPOLD, 1947
Whereas passenger pigeons once enjoyed an extensive nesting range, all of these last large nestings were in six states and one province: Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota, Pennsylvania, New York, Oklahoma, and Ontario. Unfortunately, little is known about many of them. This is particularly true with regard to Ontario, where most of the nestings have come to light due to detailed questionnaires developed and distributed by the Royal Ontario Museum in the late 1920s. Although these firsthand accounts are invaluable, data based on the memory of events that took place four or more decades earlier are apt to contain inaccuracies. In addition, the value of a recollection related to the size of a nesting is limited not only by memory but the subjective nature inherent in that kind of assessment. (These nestings are listed in the table at the end of the chapter.)
Still, these possible Ontario pigeon massings are intriguing, if not haunting and perplexing. If indeed huge, largely unmolested nestings were pumping hundreds of thousands of pigeons into the population throughout the 1870s, the virtual extinction of the species in a twenty- or thirty-year span becomes almost inexplicable. The key variable is the level at which the nestings were exploited. That most of Ontario was less economically developed and supported lower densities of human inhabitants than the U.S. states to the south meant that the intensity of killing was also probably less. But although precise information seems to be lacking, it is known that commercial operations in Bruce, Huron, Simcoe, York, Welland, and Lincoln Counties sent multitudes of live and dead pigeons to Toronto, Montreal, New York City, and especially Buffalo.1
The most detailed accounts on the subject address northern Bruce County, which was particularly remote and distant from rail lines. In 1872, a sizable aggregation of pigeons engaged both the white settlers and the Chippewa from Cape Croker in the “killing, storing, and vending” of the birds. Even though the number of participants was small, the quantity of birds they took “would have done credit to an army.” Four years later, the April 28 issue of the Paisley Advocate reported that a large nesting in Annabel Township was “visited by scores of persons, and all the shot in Owen Sound and Southampton seems to have been fired away as a telegram has been received in Paisley asking for a supply.”2
As the places suitable for nesting decreased in number and size, more birds were drawn to those areas that had the food supplies necessary to sustain them. The vast nestings in the 1870s did not reflect increases in overall population, but rather a concentration of the decreasing number of surviving birds in fewer and fewer places. Due in part to an unusual stretch of favorable weather, these years saw heavy production of beech mast in the fall of every odd year. Thus, in the spring of even years the pigeons congregated to nest in the beech forests of Michigan, Ontario, and Pennsylvania, and in odd years they sought the oaks of Wisconsin and Minnesota. It is possible that during a few of these years, neither acorns nor beech nuts were in sufficient quantity to support all of the birds. They would have been forced to nest in smaller, scattered groups or to rely on less favored food sources. In any of these events, the number of progeny that year would probably have been reduced even without the constant harassment by people. But know with confidence that wherever the birds did gather within the ken of Homo sapiens, there was slaughter.
THE ALLEGHENY MOUNTAINS OF PENNSYLVANIA: 1870
The year 1870 saw millions of pigeons nesting along Potato Creek in McKean and Potter Counties, Pennsylvania. Filling up the forest in a strip forty miles long and up to two miles wide, the nesting was the largest in the vicinity since 1830. Professional pigeoner J. B. Oviatt began his career with this mass of birds, situated not far from his home in Smethport. Although he had caught some pigeons as a youngster while assisting his father, the arrival of the birds in March of 1870 prompted him to buy his first net, fourteen feet by twenty feet, for a dollar. His first hauls were modest, but of seventy-five that he caught on March 22, he sold several live birds as stool pigeons for a total of $8.75, while the dead ones went for seventy-five cents a dozen.3
The beeches had fruited bountifully during the fall of 1869, auguring the arrival of pigeon throngs come spring. Thus tipped off, the “pigeon men” flocked to Smethport in numbers almost as thick as the birds. The local newspaper editor observed that they were fixing nets and other equipment for the “anticipated slaughter.” Catches were scanty through early April, but for the next month thereafter, “a net was set in almost every clearing large enough to hold one, the whole length of the Potato Creek valley and down to the Allegheny River.” The most productive operations were at the feeding areas about ten miles from the nests.4
Besides the pigeon men, Seneca from the Salamanca reservation routinely showed up at large nestings in the region. They dispatched scouts to identify the best place to set up their village, and then entire families, with their horses and belongings, would move in like an army. They had neither guns nor nets, focusing mostly on the squabs, which they preserved in substantial quantities. Some of the white pigeoners boarded with them, and everyone seemed to enjoy each other’s company.5
The second stage of killing commenced several days before the squabs could fly. The pigeoners would them begin cutting down the trees that held the most nests. Eventually, the landowners, objecting to the loss of their valuable timber, forbade the practice, so the men would have to scale the trees in pursuit of the fat babies. As in other places, the Seneca used blunt-edged arrows to knock the squabs from their nests.6
By May 12, things in town had quieted down, as the pigeon excitement abated. The Smethport newspaper estimated that five or six tons of pigeons had been shipped from local points every day for two or three weeks. Never again would the pigeons nest in such profusion in the state.
THE LARGEST NESTING OF ALL: WISCONSIN IN 1871
The stupendous pigeon nesting that spread across 850 square miles of west-central Wisconsin in 1871 was “discovered” by A. W. Schorger as part of his decades-long project to examine the state’s newspapers for information on wildlife. It was previously thought that the 1878 Petoskey nesting was the greatest of all, but Schorger found that this
Wisconsin concentration “was so much larger that one hesitates to believe the evidence.”7
Map of the 1871 Wisconsin nesting. © Gary Antonetti/Ortelius Design, based on a map in A. W. Schorger, The Passenger Pigeon: Its Natural History and Extinction
Most of the birds seem to have entered the state through the Rock River and Mississippi River valleys, for few were noted along Lake Michigan or in the southwest corner. Throughout March, large flights traversed the skies over such towns as Beloit, Janesville, Lodi, Fond du Lac, Baraboo, and La Crosse. A newspaper from the last-named city said the birds “darken the vernal atmosphere,” while a description of events over Fond du Lac speaks of “flocks without-any-end-either-way.”8
The pigeons began to breed in April. The nesting area went from Kilbourn City (now called Wisconsin Dells) northwesterly to Black River Falls, then headed almost straight north to Grand Rapids (now called Wisconsin Rapids). (See map.) This huge area was not uniform, containing swamps as well as stands of mature white oak. Most of it, though, featured a surface of sand, ideal for the short, squat Hill’s oak (Quercus ellipsoidalis), which produces a small acorn that was relished by the pigeons.9
After ignoring whatever pigeons appeared earlier in the spring, the Kilbourn City Mirror finally commented in its April 22 issue, “For the past three weeks they have been flying in countless flocks that no man can number.” Even if the editor was slow in reporting the pigeons, the townspeople had mobilized a week earlier: “Had a stranger looked on to the street in town on Friday night he would have thought it about war time, or soon after an Indian scare or massacre. Young men and old, women and children, fathers, sons and husbands, and other men had a gun or wanted to borrow one. Clerks and proprietors were pouring out shot like hail in the March equinox.” Later in the evening, wagons came back in from the field loaded with pigeons.10
A Feathered River Across the Sky Page 17