Wood Folk at School — Ismaques the Fishhawk, part 1

[Illustration] _Whit, whit, ch'wee?

Whit, whit, whit, ch'weeeeee!

_ over my head went the shrill whistling, the hunting cry of Ismaques.

Looking up from my fishing I could see the broad wings sweeping over me, and catch the bright gleam of his eye as he looked down into my canoe, or behind me at the cold place among the rocks, to see if I were catching anything.

Then, as he noted the pile of fish,--a blanket of silver on the black rocks, where I was stowing away chub for bear bait,--he would drop lower in amazement to see how I did it.

When the trout were not rising, and his keen glance saw no gleam of red and gold in my canoe, he would circle off with a cheery _K'weee!

_ the good-luck call of a brother fisherman.

For there is no envy nor malice nor any uncharitableness in Ismaques.

He lives in harmony with the world, and seems glad when you land a big one, even though he be hungry himself, and the clamor from his nest, where his little ones are crying, be too keen for his heart's content.

What is there in going a-fishing, I wonder, that seems to change even the leopard's spots, and that puts a new heart into the man who hies him away to the brook when buds are swelling?

There is Keeonekh the otter.

Before he turned fisherman he was probably fierce, cruel, bloodthirsty, with a vile smell about him, like all the other weasels.

Now he lives at peace with all the world and is clean, gentle, playful as a kitten and faithful as a dog when you make a pet of him.

And there is Ismaques the fishhawk.

Before he turned fisherman he was probably hated, like every other hawk, for his fierceness and his bandit ways.

The shadow of his wings was the signal for hiding to all the timid ones.

Jay and crow cried _Thief!

thief!

_ and kingbird sounded his war cry and rushed out to battle.

Now the little birds build their nests among the sticks of his great house, and the shadow of his wings is a sure protection.

For owl and hawk and wild-cat have learned long since the wisdom of keeping well away from Ismaques' dwelling.

Not only the birds, but men also, feel the change in Ismaques' disposition.

I hardly know a hunter who will not go out of his way for a shot at a hawk; but they send a hearty good-luck after this winged fisherman of the same fierce family, even though they see him rising heavily out of the very pool where the big trout live, and where they expect to cast their flies at sundown.

Along the southern New England shores his coming--regular as the calendar itself--is hailed with delight by the fishermen.

One state, at least, where he is most abundant, protects him by law; and even our Puritan forefathers, who seem to have neither made nor obeyed any game laws, looked upon him with a kindly eye, and made him an exception to the general license for killing.

To their credit, be it known, they once "publikly reeprimanded" one Master Eliphalet Bodman, a son of Belial evidently, for violently, with powder and shot, doing away with one fishhawk, and wickedly destroying the nest and eggs of another.

Whether this last were also done violently, with powder and shot, by blowing the nest to pieces with an old gun, or in simple boy-fashion by shinning up the tree, the quaint old town record does not tell.

But all this goes to show that our ancestors of the coast were kindly people at heart; that they looked upon this brave, simple fisherman, who built his nest by their doors, much as the German village people look upon the stork that builds upon their chimneys, and regarded his coming as an omen of good luck and plenty to the fisher folk.

Far back in the wilderness, where Ismaques builds his nest and goes a-fishing just as his ancestors did a thousand years ago, one finds the same honest bird, unspoiled alike by plenty or poverty, that excited our boyish imagination and won the friendly regard of our ancestors of the coast.

Opposite my camp on the lake, where I tarried long one summer, charmed by the beauty of the place and the good fishing, a pair of fishhawks had built their nest in the top of a great spruce on the mountain side.

It was this pair of birds that came daily to circle over my canoe, or over the rocks where I fished for chub, to see how I fared, and to send back a cheery _Ch'wee!

chip, ch'weeee!

_ "good luck and good fishing," as they wheeled away.

It would take a good deal of argument now to convince me that they did not at last recognize me as a fellow-fisherman, and were not honestly interested in my methods and success.

At first I went to the nest, not so much to study the fishhawks as to catch fleeting glimpses of a shy, wild life of the woods, which is hidden from most eyes.

The fishing was good, and both birds were expert fishermen.

While the young were growing there was always an abundance in the big nest on the spruce top.

The overflow of this abundance, in the shape of heads, bones and unwanted remnants, was cast over the sides of the nest and furnished savory pickings for a score of hungry prowlers.

Mink came over from frog hunting in the brook, drawn by the good smell in the air.

Skunks lumbered down from the hill, with a curious, hollow, bumping sound to announce their coming.

Weasels, and one grizzly old pine marten, too slow or rheumatic for successful tree hunting, glided out of the underbrush and helped themselves without asking leave.

Wild-cats quarreled like fiends over the pickings; more than once I heard them there screeching in the night.

And one late afternoon, as I lingered in my hiding among the rocks while the shadows deepened, a big lucivee stole out of the bushes, as if ashamed of himself, and took to nosing daintily among the fish bones.

It was his first appearance, evidently.

He did not know that the feast was free, but thought all the while that he was stealing somebody's catch.

One could see it all in his attitudes, his starts and listenings, his low growlings to himself.

He was bigger than anybody else there, and had no cause to be afraid; but there is a tremendous respect among all animals for the chase law and the rights of others; and the big cat felt it.

He was hungry for fish; but, big as he was, his every movement showed that he was ready to take to his heels before the first little creature that should rise up and screech in his face: "This is mine!"

Later, when he grew accustomed to things and the fishhawks' generosity in providing a feast for all who might come in from the wilderness byways and hedges, he would come in boldly enough and claim his own; but now, moving stealthily about, halting and listening timidly, he furnished a study in animal rights that repaid in itself all the long hours of watching.

But the hawks themselves were more interesting than their unbidden guests.

Ismaques, honest fellow that he is, mates for life, and comes back to the same nest year after year.

The only exception to this rule that I know is in the case of a fishhawk, whom I knew well as a boy, and who lost his mate one summer by an accident.

The accident came from a gun in the hands of an unthinking sportsman.

The grief of Ismaques was evident, even to the unthinking.

One could hear it in the lonely, questioning cry that he sent out over the still summer woods; and see it in the sweep of his wings as he went far afield to other ponds, not to fish, for Ismaques never fishes on his neighbor's preserves, but to search for his lost mate.

For weeks he lingered in the old haunts, calling and searching everywhere; but at last the loneliness and the memories were too much for him.

He left the place long before the time of migration had come; and the next spring a strange couple came to the spot, repaired the old nest, and went fishing in the pond.

Ordinarily the birds respect each other's fishing grounds, and especially the old nests; but this pair came and took possession without hesitation, as if they had some understanding with the former owner, who never came back again.

The old spruce on the mountain side had been occupied many years by my fishing friends.

As is usually the case, it had given up its life to its bird masters.

The oil from their frequent feastings had soaked into the bark, following down and down, checking the sap's rising, till at last it grew discouraged and ceased to climb.

Then the tree died and gave up its branches, one by one, to repair the nest above.

The jagged, broken ends showed everywhere how they had been broken off to supply the hawks' necessities.

There is a curious bit of building lore suggested by these broken branches, that one may learn for himself any springtime by watching the birds at their nest building.

Large sticks are required for a foundation.

The ground is strewed with such; but Ismaques never comes down to the ground if he can avoid it.

Even when he drops an unusually heavy fish, in his flight above the trees, he looks after it regretfully, but never follows.

He may be hungry, but he will not set his huge hooked talons on the earth.

He cannot walk, and loses all his power there.

So he goes off and fishes patiently, hours long, to replace his lost catch.

When he needs sticks for his nest, he searches out a tree and breaks off the dead branches by his weight.

If the stick be stubborn, he rises far above it and drops like a cannon ball, gripping it in his claws and snapping it short off at the same instant by the force of his blow.

Twice I have been guided to where Ismaques and his mate were collecting material by reports like pistol shots ringing through the wood, as the great birds fell upon the dead branches and snapped them off.

Once, when he came down too hard, I saw him fall almost to the ground, flapping lustily, before he found his wings and sailed away with his four-foot stick triumphantly.