Wood Folk at School — Ismaques the Fishhawk, part 2

There is another curious bit of bird lore that I discovered here in the autumn, when, much later than usual, I came back through the lake.

Ismaques, when he goes away for the long winter at the South, does not leave his house to the mercy of the winter storms until he has first repaired it.

Large fresh sticks are wedged in firmly across the top of the nest; doubtful ones are pulled out and carefully replaced, and the whole structure made shipshape for stormy weather.

This careful repair, together with the fact that the nest is always well soaked in oil, which preserves it from the rain, saves a deal of trouble for Ismaques.

He builds for life and knows, when he goes away in the fall, that, barring untoward accidents, his house will be waiting for him with the quiet welcome of old associations when he comes back in the spring.

Whether this is a habit of all ospreys, or only of the two on Big Squatuk Lake--who were very wise birds in other ways--I am unable to say.

What becomes of the young birds is also, to me, a mystery.

The home ties are very strong, and the little ones stay with the parents much longer than most other birds do; but when the spring comes you will see only the old birds at the home nest.

The young come back to the same general neighborhood, I think; but where the lake is small they never build nor trespass on the same waters.

As with the kingfishers and sheldrakes, each pair of birds seem to have their own pond or portion; but by what old law of the waters they find and stake their claim is yet to be discovered.

There were two little ones in the nest when I first found it; and I used to watch them in the intervals when nothing was stirring in the underbrush near my hiding place.

They were happy, whistling, little fellows, well fed and contented with the world.

At times they would stand for hours on the edge of the nest, looking down over the slanting tree-tops to the lake, finding the great rustling green world, and the passing birds, and the glinting of light on the sparkling water, and the hazy blue of the distant mountains marvelously interesting, if one could judge from their attitude and their pipings.

Then a pair of broad wings would sweep into sight, and they would stretch their wings wide and break into eager whistlings,--_Pip, pip, ch'wee?

chip, ch'weeeeee?

_ "did you get him?

is he a big one, mother?"

And they would stand tiptoeing gingerly about the edge of the great nest, stretching their necks eagerly for a first glimpse of the catch.

At times only one of the old birds would go a-fishing, while the other watched the nest.

But when luck was poor both birds would seek the lake.

At such times the mother bird, larger and stronger than the male, would fish along the shore, within sight and hearing of her little ones.

The male, meanwhile, would go sweeping down the lake to the trout pools at the outlet, where the big chub lived, in search of better fishing grounds.

If the wind were strong, you would see a curious bit of sea lore as he came back with his fish.

He would never fly straight against the wind, but tack back and forth, as if he had learned the trick from watching the sailor fishermen of the coast beating back into harbor.

And, watching him through your glass, you would see that he always carried his fish endwise and head first, so as to present the least possible resistance to the breeze.

While the young were being fed, you were certain to gain new respect for Ismaques by seeing how well he brought up his little ones.

If the fish were large, it was torn into shreds and given piecemeal to the young, each of whom waited for his turn with exemplary patience.

There was no crowding or pushing for the first and biggest bite, such as you see in a nest of robins.

If the fish were small, it was given entire to one of the young, who worried it down as best he could, while the mother bird swept back to the lake for another.

The second nestling stood on the edge of the nest meanwhile, whistling good luck and waiting his turn, without a thought, apparently, of seizing a share from his mate beside him.

* * * * * Just under the hawks a pair of jays had built their nest among the sticks of Ismaques' dwelling, and raised their young on the abundant crumbs which fell from the rich man's table.

It was curious and intensely interesting to watch the change which seemed to be going on in the jays' disposition by reason of the unusual friendship.

Deedeeaskh the jay has not a friend among the wood folk.

They all know he is a thief and a meddler, and hunt him away without mercy if they find him near their nests.

But the great fishhawks welcomed him, trusted him; and he responded nobly to the unusual confidence.

He never tried to steal from the young, not even when the mother bird was away, but contented himself with picking up the stray bits that they had left.

And he more than repaid Ismaques by the sharp watch which he kept over the nest, and indeed over all the mountain side.

Nothing passes in the woods without the jay's knowledge; and here he seemed, for all the world, like a watchful terrier, knowing that he had only to bark to bring a power of wing and claw sufficient to repel any danger.

When prowlers came down from the mountain to feast on the heads and bones scattered about the foot of the tree, Deedeeaskh dropped down among them and went dodging about, whistling his insatiable curiosity.

So long as they took only what was their own, he made no fuss about it; but he was there to watch, and he let them know sharply their mistake, if they showed any desire to cast evil eyes at the nest above.

[Illustration: "PRESENTLY THEY BEGAN TO SWOOP FIERCELY AT SOME ANIMAL"] Once, as my canoe was gliding along the shore, I heard the jays' unmistakable cry of danger.

The fishhawks were wheeling in great circles over the lake, watching for the glint of fish near the surface, when the cry came, and they darted away for the nest.

Pushing out into the lake, I saw them sweeping above the tree-tops in swift circles, uttering short, sharp cries of anger.

Presently they began to swoop fiercely at some animal--a fisher, probably--that was climbing the tree below.

I

stole up to see what it was; but ere I reached the place they had driven the intruder away.

I heard one of the jays far off in the woods, following the robber and screaming to let the fishhawks know just where he was.

The other jay sat close by her own little ones, cowering under the shadow of the great dark wings above.

And presently Deedeeaskh came back, bubbling over with the excitement, whistling to them in his own way that he had followed the rascal clear to his den, and would keep a sharp watch over him in future.

When a big hawk came near, or when, on dark afternoons, a young owl took to hunting in the neighborhood, the jays sounded the alarm, and the fishhawks swept up from the lake on the instant.

Whether Deedeeaskh were more concerned for his own young than for the young fishhawks I have no means of knowing.

The fishermen's actions at such times showed a curious mixture of fear and defiance.

The mother would sit on the nest while Ismaques circled over it, both birds uttering a shrill, whistling challenge.

But they never attacked the feathered robbers, as they had done with the fisher, and, so far as I could see, there was no need.

Kookooskoos the owl and Hawahak the hawk might be very hungry; but the sight of those great wings circling over the nest and the shrill cry of defiance in their ears sent them hurriedly away to other hunting grounds.

There was only one enemy that ever seriously troubled the fishhawks; and he did it in as decent a sort of way as was possible under the circumstances.

That was Cheplahgan the eagle.

When he was hungry and had found nothing himself, and his two eaglets, far away in their nest on the mountain, needed a bite of fish to vary their diet, he would set his wings to the breeze and mount up till he could see both ospreys at their fishing.

There, sailing in slow circles, he would watch for hours till he saw Ismaques catch a big fish, when he would drop like a bolt and hold him up at the point of his talons, like any other highwayman.

It was of no use trying to escape.

Sometimes Ismaques would attempt it, but the great dark wings would whirl around him and strike down a sharp and unmistakable warning.

It always ended the same way.

Ismaques, being wise, would drop his fish, and the eagle would swoop down after it, often seizing it ere it reached the water.

But he never injured the fishhawks, and he never disturbed the nest.

So they got along well enough together.

Cheplahgan had a bite of fish now and then in his own high-handed way; and honest Ismaques, who never went long hungry, made the best of a bad situation.

Which shows that fishing has also taught him patience, and a wise philosophy of living.

The jays took no part in these struggles.

Occasionally they cried out a sharp warning as Cheplahgan came plunging down out of the blue, over the head of Ismaques; but they seemed to know perfectly how the unequal contest must end, and they always had a deal of jabber among themselves over it, the meaning of which I could never make out.

As for myself, I am sure that Deedeeaskh could never make up his mind what to think of me.

At first, when I came, he would cry out a danger note that brought the fishhawks circling over their nest, looking down into the underbrush with wild yellow eyes to see what danger threatened.

But after I had hidden myself away a few times, and made no motion to disturb either the nest or the hungry prowlers that came to feast on the fishhawks' bounty, Deedeeaskh set me down as an idle, harmless creature who would, nevertheless, bear watching.

He never got over his curiosity to know what brought me there.

Sometimes, when I thought him far away, I would find him suddenly on a branch just over my head, looking down at me intently.

When I went away he would follow me, whistling, to my canoe; but he never called the fishhawks again, unless some unusual action of mine aroused his suspicion; and after one look they would circle away, as if they knew they had nothing to fear.

They had seen me fishing so often that they thought they understood me, undoubtedly.

There was one curious habit of these birds that I had never noticed before.

Occasionally, when the weather threatened a change, or when the birds and their little ones had fed full, Ismaques would mount up to an enormous altitude, where he would sail about in slow circles, his broad vans steady to the breeze, as if he were an ordinary hen hawk, enjoying himself and contemplating the world from an indifferent distance.

Suddenly, with one clear, sharp whistle to announce his intention, he would drop like a plummet for a thousand feet, catch himself in mid-air, and zigzag down to the nest in the spruce top, whirling, diving, tumbling, and crying aloud the while in wild, ecstatic exclamations,--just as a woodcock comes whirling, plunging, twittering down from a height to his brown mate in the alders below.

Then Ismaques would mount up again and repeat his dizzy plunge, while his larger mate stood quiet in the spruce top, and the little fishhawks tiptoed about the edge of the nest, _pip-pipping_ their wonder and delight at their own papa's dazzling performance.

This is undoubtedly one of Ismaques' springtime habits, by which he tries to win an admiring look from the keen yellow eyes of his mate; but I noticed him using it more frequently as the little fishhawks' wings spread to a wonderful length, and he was trying, with his mate, by every gentle means to induce them to leave the nest.

And I have wondered--without being able at all to prove my theory--whether he were not trying in this remarkable way to make his little ones want to fly by showing them how wonderful a thing flying could be made to be.

[Illustration] A School for Little Fishermen