Muir, now the foremost guide of the Sierra, had the honor to show Emerson and Asa Gray and John Torrey, David Starr Jordan, Charles S. Sargent and Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, Le Conte and Theodore Roosevelt, their first glimpses of that mountain life. It is said that when Roosevelt met Muir his first words were, “How can one tell the Hammond from the Wright flycatcher?” When asked what preparations he made for his trips, Muir said, “I put some bread and tea in an old sack and jump over the back fence.”
Muir guided the first Coast and Geodetic Survey engineers to the top of Mt. Shasta. His explorations widened through the coast ranges and the “Redwood Empire,” into Nevada and Utah, to Oregon and Puget Sound. He had begun to write; Scribner’s, Harper’s, Century Magazine and the Atlantic published his work which bubbled with fresh enthusiasm, the rapture of living, the very spirit of morning. In this period of his first flight upon literary wings he wrote the essay I have selected, on the water-ouzel. It appeared in Scribner’s in 1878 under the title of “The Humming-bird of the California Waterfalls” and was reprinted as “The Water-Ouzel” in The Mountains of California (1894). More than anything else he ever wrote, this essay brought Muir fame. He was deluged with letters and praise, and was the literary lion of the Pacific States.
Just at this time Muir met and married Louie Wanda Strentzel, the daughter of an emigrated Polish patriot by a Tennessee woman. Muir rented his father-in-law’s orchard near Martinez, on San Francisco Bay, and for ten years devoted himself to horticulture, for which he had a great talent, and to writing and family life. These did not prevent him from joining a cruise into the polar seas and Alaska, in the first year of his married life, nor from making other wide excursions. But it was on the whole a period of high literary production in which he drew upon his great fund of experience in the field.
Muir now took up his battle for the public ownership of the forests and beauty spots of the nation. He had seen the destruction of the timber around Shasta; he knew that both the coastal redwoods and the Sierra Big Trees were doomed to fall unless speedily saved, and that commercial exploitation was already threatening the glories of the West. With the aid of Robert Underwood Johnson, then a powerful editor, Muir began to agitate for the salvation of the forests. In this work there have been many courageous pioneers, but probably none who wielded such an immense popular sentiment. Even Congressmen read their Muir, and in the administration of President Cleveland, who paid Muir special tribute, the National Forests became a fact.
But more, the constant agitation of Muir to save Yosemite and other priceless playgrounds that were not primarily timberlands, and his friendship with Theodore Roosevelt, caused that President to enlarge the system of National Parks. So these too are monuments to the foresight of John Muir, to the power of his pen, and the infectious enthusiasm of his personality.
Muir’s love of trees so struck Professor Sargent of the Arnold Arboretum that he took him on a tour of the world to see the greatest trees. They began with the Appalachian forests, travelled to Australia, Siberia, Russia, and other forested regions. Besides these trips, Muir enjoyed several arctic expeditions, where he does not fail to note the fascinations of far northern bird life, with its nesting ptarmigan and eiders, wild swans and plovers, emperor geese, snowy owls, auks, snow buntings and Lapland longspurs.
Muir died in Los Angeles in 1914. He lived as Thoreau would have had a man to live, but as he himself, chained by Concord and ill-health, could not do. Muir worshipped God through Nature as Wordsworth did without knowing as much about Nature as Muir knew. He was above all a botanist and glaciologist. “Some of my ancestors,” he wrote, “must have been born on a Muirland, for there is heather in me, and tinctures of bog juices that send me to Cassiope,* and, oozing through all my veins, impel me unhaltingly through endless glacier meadows, seemingly the deeper and danker the better.”
As an ornithologist Muir was, if not original, an observer with sensitive perceptions. So far as I know he never makes an ornithological mistake; when he refers to some bird it is never under such a general noun as “a gull"; he specifies unerringly “Burgomaster gull” or “Iceland gull.” He had a flair for finding the nests of birds who are cryptic about their nidification, an ear for bird sounds; he was the sort of woodsman that birds instinctively trust and to whom they reveal themselves.
The water-ouzel or dipper of which he writes so feelingly is one of the glories of the western mountains of North America. Oddly enough, though related species are found in Eurasia, dippers do not occur in the Appalachian system which would seem, from its innumerable mountain torrents, to be adapted to them. Ouzels form a family having but a single genus and no close affinities unless perhaps to the wren-tits, another little family of Europe and western America, or to the true wrens. In form as in affinity, they are land birds. They do not swim and they cannot dive, and are yet able to carry on the business of their lives in deep and rushing waters. This they accomplish only through their ability to fly under the surface. As Coues has pointed out, it is as hard for the ouzels to keep down in this strange flight as it is for other birds to keep aloft.
Many writers—William Hudson and Bradford Torrey, Olive Thorne Miller, Robert Ridgway, Otto Herman and Elliott Coues, have paid homage to the ouzel. No one, I think, has ever equalled Muir’s description, and no one, surely, ever knew more about the bird. “Ouzel Basin” in the King’s River valley of the Sierra, was named by David Starr Jordan in honor of this essay, for it is believed that it was there Muir wrote his first draft of the following pages.
* A genus of alpine flowers of Muir’s favorite heath family. [Ed.]
THE WATER-OUZEL
THE waterfalls of the Sierra are frequented by only one bird—the Ouzel or Water Thrush (Cinclus Mexicanus, Sw.). He is a singularly joyous and lovable little fellow, about the size of a robin, clad in a plain waterproof suit of bluish gray, with a tinge of chocolate on the head and shoulders. In form he is about as smoothly plump and compact as a pebble that has been whirled in a pot-hole, the flowing contour of his body being interrupted only by his strong feet and bill, the crisp wing-tips, and the up-slanted wren-like tail.
Among all the countless waterfalls I have met in the course of ten years’ exploration in the Sierra, whether among the icy peaks, or warm foot-hills, or in the profound yosemitic cañons of the middle region, not one was found without its Ouzel. No cañon is too cold for this little bird, none too lonely, provided it be rich in falling water. Find a fall, or cascade, or rushing rapid, anywhere upon a clear stream, and there you will surely find its complementary Ouzel, flitting about in the spray, diving in foaming eddies, whirling like a leaf among beaten foam-bells; ever vigorous and enthusiastic, yet self-contained, and neither seeking nor shunning your company.
If disturbed while dipping about in the margin shallows, he either sets off with a rapid whir to some other feeding-ground up or down the stream, or alights on some half-submerged rock or snag out in the current, and immediately begins to nod and courtesy like a wren, turning his head from side to side with many other odd dainty movements that never fail to fix the attention of the observer.
He is the mountain streams’ own darling, the humming-bird of blooming waters, loving rocky ripple-slopes and sheets of foam as a bee loves flowers, as a lark loves sunshine and meadows. Among all the mountain birds, none has cheered me so much in my lonely wanderings,—none so unfailingly. For both in winter and summer he sings, sweetly, cheerily, independent alike of sunshine and of love, requiring no other inspiration than the stream on which he dwells. While water sings, so must he, in heat or cold, calm or storm, ever attuning his voice in sure accord; low in the drought of summer and the drought of winter, but never silent.
What may be regarded as the separate songs of the Ouzel are exceedingly difficult of description, because they are so variable and at the same time so confluent. Though I have been acquainted with my favorite ten years, and during most of this time have heard him sing nearly every day, I still detect notes
and strains that seem new to me. Nearly all of his music is sweet and tender, lapsing from his round breast like water over the smooth lip of a pool, then breaking farther on into a sparkling foam of melodious notes, which glow with subdued enthusiasm, yet without expressing much of the strong, gushing ecstasy of the bobolink or skylark.
The more striking strains are perfect arabesques of melody, composed of a few full, round, mellow notes, embroidered with delicate trills which fade and melt in long slender cadences. In a general way his music is that of the streams refined and spiritualized. The deep booming notes of the falls are in it, the trills of rapids, the gurgling of margin eddies, the low whispering of level reaches, and the sweet tinkle of separate drops oozing from the ends of mosses and falling into tranquil pools.
The Ouzel never sings in chorus with other birds, nor with his kind, but only with the streams. And like flowers that bloom beneath the surface of the ground, some of our favorite’s best song-blossoms never rise above the surface of the heavier music of the water. I have often observed him singing in the midst of beaten spray, his music completely buried beneath the water’s roar; yet I knew he was surely singing by his gestures and the movements of his bill.
His food, as far as I have noticed, consists of all kinds of water insects, which in summer are chiefly procured along shallow margins. Here he wades about ducking his head under water and deftly turning over pebbles and fallen leaves with his bill, seldom choosing to go into deep water where he has to use his wings in diving.
He seems to be especially fond of the larvas of mosquitoes, found in abundance attached to the bottom of smooth rock channels where the current is shallow. When feeding in such places he wades up-stream, and often while his head is under water the swift current is deflected upward along the glossy curves of his neck and shoulders, in the form of a clear, crystalline shell, which fairly incloses him like a bell-glass, the shell being broken and re-formed as he lifts and dips his head; while ever and anon he sidles out to where the too powerful current carries him off his feet; then he dexterously rises on the wing and goes gleaning again in shallower places.
The Ouzel is usually found singly; rarely in pairs, excepting during the breeding season, and very rarely in threes or fours. I once observed three thus spending a winter morning in company, upon a small glacier lake, on the Upper Merced, about 7,500 feet above the level of the sea. A storm had occurred during the night, but the morning sun shone unclouded, and the shadowy lake, gleaming darkly in its setting of fresh snow, lay smooth and motionless as a mirror. My camp chanced to be within a few feet of the water’s edge, opposite a fallen pine, some of the branches of which leaned out over the lake. Here my three dearly welcome visitors took up their station, and at once began to embroider the frosty air with their delicious melody, doubly delightful to me that particular morning, as I had been somewhat apprehensive of danger in breaking my way down through the snow-choked cañons to the lowlands.
The portion of the lake bottom selected for a feeding-ground lies at a depth of fifteen or twenty feet below the surface, and is covered with a short growth of algas and other aquatic plants—facts I had previously determined while sailing over it on a raft. After alighting on the glassy surface, they occasionally indulged in a little play, chasing one another round about in small circles; then all three would suddenly dive together, and then come ashore and sing.
The Ouzel seldom swims more than a few yards on the surface, for, not being web-footed, he makes rather slow progress, but by means of his strong, crisp wings he swims, or rather flies, with celerity under the surface, often to considerable distances. But it is in withstanding the force of heavy rapids that his strength of wing in this respect is most strikingly manifested. The following may be regarded as a fair illustration of his power of sub-aquatic flight. One stormy morning in winter when the Merced River was blue and green with unmelted snow, I observed one of my ouzels perched on a snag out in the midst of a swift-rushing rapid, singing cheerily, as if everything was just to his mind; and while I stood on the bank admiring him, he suddenly plunged into the sludgy current, leaving his song abruptly broken off. After feeding a minute or two at the bottom, and when one would suppose that he must inevitably be swept far downstream, he emerged just where he went down, alighted on the same snag, showered the water-beads from his feathers, and continued his unfinished song, seemingly in tranquil ease as if it had suffered no interruption.
The Ouzel alone of all birds dares to enter a white torrent. And though strictly terrestrial in structure, no other is so inseparably related to water, not even the duck, or the bold ocean albatross, or the stormy-petrel. For ducks go ashore as soon as they finish feeding in undisturbed places, and very often make long flights overland from lake to lake or field to field. The same is true of most other aquatic birds. But the Ouzel, born on the brink of a stream, or on a snag or boulder in the midst of it, seldom leaves it for a single moment. For, notwithstanding he is often on the wing, he never flies overland, but whirs with rapid, quail-like beat above the stream, tracing all its windings. Even when the stream is quite small, say from five to ten feet wide, he seldom shortens his flight by crossing a bend, however abrupt it may be; and even when disturbed by meeting some one on the bank, he prefers to fly over one’s head, to dodging out over the ground. When, therefore, his flight along a crooked stream is viewed endwise, it appears most strikingly wavered—a description on the air of every curve with lightning-like rapidity.
The vertical curves and angles of the most precipitous torrents he traces with the same rigid fidelity, swooping down the inclines of cascades, dropping sheer over dizzy falls amid the spray, and ascending with the same fearlessness and ease, seldom seeking to lessen the steepness of the acclivity by beginning to ascend before reaching the base of the fall. No matter though it may be several hundred feet in height he holds straight on, as if about to dash headlong into the throng of booming rockets, then darts abruptly upward, and, after alighting at the top of the precipice to rest a moment, proceeds to feed and sing. His flight is solid and impetuous, without any intermission of wing-beats,—one homogeneous buzz like that of a laden bee on its way home. And while thus buzzing freely from fall to fall, he is frequently heard giving utterance to a long outdrawn train of unmodulated notes, in no way connected with his song, but corresponding closely with his flight in sustained vigor.
The Ouzel’s nest is one of the most extraordinary pieces of bird architecture I ever saw, odd and novel in design, perfectly fresh and beautiful, and in every way worthy of the genius of the little builder. It is about a foot in diameter, round and bossy in outline, with a neatly arched opening near the bottom, somewhat like an old-fashioned brick oven, or Hottentot’s hut. It is built almost exclusively of green and yellow mosses, chiefly the beautiful fronded hypnum that covers the rocks and old drift-logs in the vicinity of waterfalls. These are deftly interwoven, and felted together into a charming little hut; and so situated that many of the outer mosses continue to flourish as if they had not been plucked. A few fine, silky-stemmed grasses are occasionally found interwoven with the mosses, but, with the exception of a thin layer lining the floor, their presence seems accidental, as they are of a species found growing with the mosses and are probably plucked with them. The site chosen for this curious mansion is usually some little rock-shelf within reach of the lighter particles of the spray of a waterfall, so that its walls are kept green and growing, at least during the time of high water.
In choosing a building-spot, concealment does not seem to be taken into consideration; yet notwithstanding the nest is large and guilelessly exposed to view, it is far from being easily detected, chiefly because it swells forward like any other bulging moss-cushion growing naturally in such situations. This is more especially the case where the nest is kept fresh by being well sprinkled. Sometimes these romantic little huts have their beauty enhanced by rock-ferns and grasses that spring up around the mossy walls, or in front of the door-sill, dripping with crystal bead
s.
Furthermore, at certain hours of the day, when the sunshine is poured down at the required angle, the whole mass of the spray enveloping the fairy establishment is brilliantly irised; and it is through so glorious a rainbow atmosphere as this that some of our blessed ouzels obtain their first peep at the world.
In these moss huts three or four eggs are laid, white like foam-bubbles; and well may the little birds hatched from them sing water songs, for they hear them all their lives, and even before they are born.
I have often observed the young just out of the nest making their odd gestures, and seeming in every way as much at home as their experienced parents, like young bees on their first excursions to the flower fields. No amount of familiarity with people and their ways seems to change them in the least. To all appearance their behavior is just the same on seeing a man for the first time, as when they have seen him frequently.
On the lower reaches of the rivers where mills are built, they sing on through the din of the machinery, and all the noisy confusion of dogs, cattle, and workmen. On one occasion, while a wood-chopper was at work on the river-bank, I observed one cheerily singing within reach of the flying chips. Nor does any kind of unwonted disturbance put him in bad humor, or frighten him out of calm self-possession. In passing through a narrow gorge, I once drove one ahead of me from rapid to rapid, disturbing him four times in quick succession where he could not very well fly past me on account of the narrowness of the channel. Most birds under similar circumstances fancy themselves pursued, and become suspiciously uneasy; but, instead of growing nervous about it, he made his usual dippings, and sang one of his most tranquil strains. When observed within a few yards their eyes are seen to express remarkable gentleness and intelligence; but they seldom allow so near a view unless one wears clothing of about the same color as the rocks and trees, and knows how to sit still. On one occasion, while rambling along the shore of a mountain lake, where the birds, at least those born that season, had never seen a man, I sat down to rest on a large stone close to the water’s edge, upon which it seemed the ouzels and sandpipers were in the habit of alighting when they came to feed on that part of the shore, and some of the other birds also, when they came down to wash or drink. In a few minutes, along came a whirring Ouzel and alighted on the stone beside me, within reach of my hand. Then suddenly observing me, he stooped nervously as if about to fly on the instant, but as I remained as motionless as the stone, he gained confidence, and looked me steadily in the face for about a minute, then flew quietly to the outlet and began to sing. Next came a sandpiper and gazed at me with much the same guileless expression of eye as the Ouzel. Lastly, down with a swoop came a Steller’s jay out of a fir-tree, probably with the intention of moistening his noisy throat. But instead of sitting confidingly as my other visitors had done, he rushed off at once, nearly tumbling heels over head into the lake in his suspicious confusion, and with loud screams roused the neighborhood.
A Gathering of Birds Page 4