Wilderness Ways — Hukweem the Night Voice, Part 1

[Illustration: Hukweem] Hukweem the loon must go through the world crying for what he never gets, and searching for one whom he never finds; for he is the hunting-dog of Clote Scarpe.

So said Simmo to me one night in explaining why the loon's cry is so wild and sad.

Clote Scarpe, by the way, is the legendary hero, the Hiawatha of the northern Indians.

Long ago he lived on the Wollastook, and ruled the animals, which all lived peaceably together, understanding each other's language, and "nobody ever ate anybody," as Simmo says.

But when Clote Scarpe went away they quarreled, and Lhoks the panther and Nemox the fisher took to killing the other animals.

Malsun the wolf soon followed, and ate all he killed; and Meeko the squirrel, who always makes all the mischief he can, set even the peaceable animals by the ears, so that they feared and distrusted each other.

Then they scattered through the big woods, living each one for himself; and now the strong ones kill the weak, and nobody understands anybody any more.

There were no dogs in those days.

Hukweem was Clote Scarpe's hunting companion when he hunted the great evil beasts that disturbed the wilderness; and Hukweem alone, of all the birds and animals, remained true to his master.

For hunting makes strong friendship, says Simmo;

and that is true.

Therefore does Hukweem go through the world, looking for his master and calling him to come back.

Over the tree-tops, when he flies low looking for new waters; high in air, out of sight, on his southern migrations; and on every lake where he is only a voice, the sad night voice of the vast solitary unknown wilderness--everywhere you hear him seeking.

Even on the seacoast in winter, where he knows Clote Scarpe cannot be--for Clote Scarpe hates the sea--Hukweem forgets himself, and cries occasionally out of pure loneliness.

When I asked what Hukweem says when he cries--for all cries of the wilderness have their interpretation--Simmo answered: "Wy, he say two ting.

First he say, _Where are you?

O where are you_?

Dass what you call-um his laugh, like he crazy.

Denn, wen nobody answer, he say, _O I so sorry, so sorry_!

_Ooooo-eee_!

like woman lost in woods.

An' dass his tother cry."

[Illustration: Hukweem] This comes nearer to explaining the wild unearthliness of Hukweem's call than anything else I know.

It makes things much simpler to understand, when you are camped deep in the wilderness, and the night falls, and out of the misty darkness under the farther shore comes a wild shivering call that makes one's nerves tingle till he finds out about it--_Where are you?

O where are you?

_ That is just like Hukweem.

Sometimes, however, he varies the cry, and asks very plainly: "Who are you?

O who are you?"

There was a loon on the Big Squattuk lake, where I camped one summer, which was full of inquisitiveness as a blue jay.

He lived alone at one end of the lake, while his mate, with her brood of two, lived at the other end, nine miles away.

Every morning and evening he came close to my camp--very much nearer than is usual, for loons are wild and shy in the wilderness--to cry out his challenge.

Once, late at night, I flashed a lantern at the end of the old log that served as a landing for the canoes, where I had heard strange ripples; and there was Hukweem, examining everything with the greatest curiosity.

Every unusual thing in our doings made him inquisitive to know all about it.

Once, when I started down the lake with a fair wind, and a small spruce set up in the bow of my canoe for a sail, he followed me four or five miles, calling all the way.

And when I came back to camp at twilight with a big bear in the canoe, his shaggy head showing over the bow, and his legs up over the middle thwart, like a little old black man with his wrinkled feet on the table, Hukweem's curiosity could stand it no longer.

He swam up within twenty yards, and circled the canoe half a dozen times, sitting up straight on his tail by a vigorous use of his wings, stretching his neck like an inquisitive duck, so as to look into the canoe and see what queer thing I had brought with me.

He had another curious habit which afforded him unending amusement.

There was a deep bay on the west shore of the lake, with hills rising abruptly on three sides.

The echo here was remarkable; a single shout brought a dozen distinct answers, and then a confusion of tongues as the echoes and re-echoes from many hills met and mingled.

I discovered the place in an interesting way.

One evening at twilight, as I was returning to camp from exploring the upper lake, I heard a wild crying of loons on the west side.

There seemed to be five or six of the great divers, all laughing and shrieking like so many lunatics.

Pushing over to investigate, I noticed for the first time the entrance to a great bay, and paddled up cautiously behind a point, so as to surprise the loons at their game.

For they play games, just as crows do.

But when I looked in, there was only one bird, Hukweem the Inquisitive.

I knew him instantly by his great size and beautiful markings.

He would give a single sharp call, and listen intently, with head up, swinging from side to side as the separate echoes came ringing back from the hills.

Then he would try his cackling laugh, _Ooo-áh-ha-ha-ha-hoo, ooo-áh-ha-ha-ha-hoo_, and as the echoes began to ring about his head he would get excited, sitting up on his tail, flapping his wings, cackling and shrieking with glee at his own performance.

Every wild syllable was flung back like a shot from the surrounding hills, till the air seemed full of loons, all mingling their crazy cachinnations with the din of the chief performer.

The uproar made one shiver.

Then Hukweem would cease suddenly, listening intently to the warring echoes.

Before the confusion was half ended he would get excited again, and swim about in small circles, spreading wings and tail, showing his fine feathers as if every echo were an admiring loon, pleased as a peacock with himself at having made such a noise in a quiet world.

There was another loon, a mother bird, on a different lake, whose two eggs had been carried off by a thieving muskrat; but she did not know who did it, for Musquash knows how to roll the eggs into water and carry them off, before eating, where the mother bird will not find the shells.

She came swimming down to meet us the moment our canoe entered the lake; and what she seemed to cry was, "Where are they?

O where are they?"

She followed us across the lake, accusing us of robbery, and asking the same question over and over.

But whatever the meaning of Hukweem's crying, it seems to constitute a large part of his existence.

Indeed, it is as a cry that he is chiefly known--the wild, unearthly cry of the wilderness night.

His education for this begins very early.

Once I was exploring the grassy shores of a wild lake when a mother loon appeared suddenly, out in the middle, with a great splashing and crying.

I paddled out to see what was the matter.

She withdrew with a great effort, apparently, as I approached, still crying loudly and beating the water with her wings.

"Oho," I said, "you have a nest in there somewhere, and now you are trying to get me away from it."

This was the only time I have ever known a loon to try that old mother bird's trick.

Generally they slip off the nest while the canoe is yet half a mile away, and swim under water a long distance, and watch you silently from the other side of the lake.

I went back and hunted awhile for the nest among the bogs of a little bay; then left the search to investigate a strange call that sounded continuously farther up the shore.

It came from some hidden spot in the tall grass, an eager little whistling cry, reminding me somehow of a nest of young fish-hawks.

As I waded cautiously among the bogs, trying to locate the sound, I came suddenly upon the loon's nest--just the bare top of a bog, where the mother bird had pulled up the grass and hollowed the earth enough to keep the eggs from rolling out.

They were there on the bare ground, two very large olive eggs with dark blotches.

I left them undisturbed and went on to investigate the crying, which had stopped a moment as I approached the nest.

Presently it began again behind me, faint at first, then louder and more eager, till I traced it back to Hukweem's household.

But there was nothing here to account for it, only two innocent-looking eggs on top of a bog.

I bent over to examine them more closely.

There, on the sides, were two holes, and out of the holes projected the points of two tiny bills.

Inside were two little loons, crying at the top of their lungs, "Let me out!

O let me out!

It's hot in here.

Let me out--_Oooo-eee!

pip-pip-pip_!"

But I left the work of release to the mother bird, thinking she knew more about it.

Next day I went back to the place, and, after much watching, saw two little loons stealing in and out among the bogs, exulting in their freedom, but silent as two shadows.

The mother bird was off on the lake, fishing for their dinner.

Hukweem's fishing is always an interesting thing to watch.

Unfortunately he is so shy that one seldom gets a good opportunity.

Once I found his favorite fishing ground, and came every day to watch him from a thicket on the shore.

It was of little use to go in a canoe.

At my approach he would sink deeper and deeper in the water, as if taking in ballast.

How he does this is a mystery; for his body is much lighter than its bulk of water.

Dead or alive, it floats like a cork; yet without any perceptible motion, by an effort of will apparently, he sinks it out of sight.

You are approaching in your canoe, and he moves off slowly, swinging his head from side to side so as to look at you first with one eye, then with the other.

Your canoe is swift; he sees that you are gaining, that you are already too near.

He swings on the water, and sits watching you steadily.

Suddenly he begins to sink, deeper and deeper, till his back is just awash.

Go a little nearer, and now his body disappears; only his neck and head remain above water.

Raise your hand, or make any quick motion, and he is gone altogether.

He dives like a flash, swims deep and far, and when he comes to the surface will be well out of danger.

If you notice the direction of his bill as it enters the water, you can tell fairly well about where he will come up again.

It was confusing at first, in chasing him, to find that he rarely came up where he was expected.

I would paddle hard in the direction he was going, only to find him far to the right or left, or behind me, when at last he showed himself.

That was because I followed his body, not his bill.

Moving in one direction, he will turn his head and dive.

That is to mislead you, if you are following him.

Follow his bill, as he does himself, and you will be near him when he rises; for he rarely turns under water.

With two good men to paddle, it is not difficult to tire him out.

Though he swims with extraordinary rapidity under water--fast enough to follow and catch a trout--a long deep dive tires him, and he must rest before another.

If you are chasing him, shout and wave your hat the moment he appears, and paddle hard the way his bill points as he dives again.

The next time he comes up you are nearer to him.

Send him down again quick, and after him.

The next time he is frightened to see the canoe so close, and dives deep, which tires him the more.

So his disappearances become shorter and more confused; you follow him more surely because you can see him plainly now as he goes down.

Suddenly he bursts out of water beside you, scattering the spray into your canoe.

Once he came up under my paddle, and I plucked a feather from his back before he got away.

This last appearance always scares him out of his wits, and you get what you have been working hard for--a sight of Hukweem getting under way.

Away he goes in a smother of spray, beating the water with his wings, kicking hard to lift himself up; and so for a hundred yards, leaving a wake like a stern-wheel steamer, till he gathers headway enough to rise from the water.

After that first start there is no sign of awkwardness.

His short wings rise and fall with a rapidity that tries the eye to follow, like the rush of a coot down wind to decoys.

You can hear the swift, strong beat of them, far over your head, when he is not calling.

His flight is very rapid, very even, and often at enormous altitudes.

But when he wants to come down he always gets frightened, thinking of his short wings, and how high he is, and how fast he is going.

On the ocean, in winter, where he has all the room he wants, he sometimes comes down in a great incline, miles long, and plunges through and over a dozen waves, like a dolphin, before he can stop.

But where the lake is small, and he cannot come down that way, he has a dizzy time of it.