Once upon a time, when the Spanish
owned this state and called it their province of Alta
California, there were great herds of antelope feeding
on the grassy plains, and at every little stream elk
and deer and big grizzly bears came down to drink.
No fences had been built, and the wild animals had
never heard a rifle-shot. Free and fearless they
ranged valley and hillside, or made their dens in the
thick brush, or “chaparral,” as the Spanish
called it.
Indian hunters watched the paths over
which these wild creatures travelled to water, and
killed deer and antelope with their arrows. But
these hunters were afraid of grizzly bears, for an
arrow in Mr. Bear’s thick hide only made him
cross, and with one hug, or even a light blow from
his paw, he could cripple the poor Indian. So
in those early days the old bears came year after
year, and carried off sheep and cattle. The simple
folks did not even try to kill them. Indeed,
many of the red men believed that very bad Indians
were punished by being turned into grizzly bears when
they died, and they would not hurt their brothers,
they said.
When Father Serra’s Mission
people were starving at Monterey, the Padre learned
that at a place called Bear Valley near by, there were
many grizzlies which the Indians would not kill.
He sent Spanish soldiers there, and they shot so many
bears that the hungry Mission family had meat enough
to last till a ship came from Mexico with supplies.
Of all flesh-eating animals this grizzly
bear is the largest and strongest. He can knock
down a bull with his great paws, or kill and carry
off a horse. He can live on wild berries and acorns
with grass and roots he digs out of the ground, yet
fresh meat suits him best, and he prefers a calf,
which he holds as a cat does a mouse.
Nothing but stock was raised in California
in those days so long ago, and cattle were counted
by the thousands and sheep by tens of thousands.
Then the grizzly and cinnamon, or brown, bear feasted
all the time on stray calves and yearlings.
Every spring and fall the cattle, which had roamed
almost wild in the pastures, were “rounded up”
by the cowboys, or vaqueros. After the work of
picking out each ranchero’s stock and branding
the young cattle was over, the vaqueros thought it
fine fun to lasso a bear, some old fellow,
perhaps, who had been helping himself to the calves.
It is told that one big cinnamon bear, while quietly
feeding on acorns, looked up to find three or four
cow-boys on their ponies in a circle around him.
They spurred the trembling ponies as close to him
as they dared, and yelled at the tops of their voices.
The great brute sat up on his haunches and faced them,
growling and snarling. One vaquero sent his rope
flying through the air, and the loop settled over a
big, hairy fore paw. Then the bear dropped on
all fours and made a jump at the pony, which got out
of his reach. Another Mexican threw a lasso and
caught the bear’s hind foot; and as he sat up
again a third noose dropped over the other fore paw.
Then the poor trapped creature, growling, snarling,
and rolling over and over, began a tug of war with
the lariats and the ponies. Once a rope broke,
and horse and rider tumbled in front of the bear.
He made a quick, savage jump, but was pulled back
by the other ropes. Then Mr. Bear sat up straight
and tugged so hard that another lariat broke and sent
the saddle and rider over the pony’s head.
With one sweep of his paw the bear smashed the saddle,
but the cow-boy saved himself by running to an oak
tree. At last Mr. Bear was getting the best of
the fight so plainly, and had pulled the frightened
ponies so near him, that the man who was thrown off
ended the poor animal’s struggles with a rifle-ball.
A Chinese sheep-herder tells this
funny story about a bear: “Me lun out,
see what matta; me see sheep all bely much scared,
bely much lun, bely much jump. Big black bear
jump over fence, come light for me. Me so flighten
me know nothin’, then me scleam e-e-e-e so loud,
and lun at bear till bear get scared too and lun away.”
A few grizzlies are still found
in the Sierras, and black and brown bears are often
seen with their playful little cubs. The small
fellows are easily tamed and may be taught many tricks.
They will live contentedly in a bear-pit, or even
if chained up, and as most of you know, they like
peanuts and pop-corn well enough to beg for them.
The panther, or mountain-lion, is
another large flesh-eating animal which makes his
home in the thick woods conveniently neighboring the
farmers’ corrals and pastures. Not long
ago a boy in Marin County, who was sent to look after
some ponies, saw a big yellow dog, as he thought,
“worrying” one of the colts. When
he came nearer he found it was a wicked-looking, catlike
creature, and knew it must be a California lion.
He had nothing with him but a heavy whip. The
panther left the wounded colt and crouched ready to
spring at the boy, but he was on the alert and struck
it a terrible blow across the eyes with his whip,
and then another and another. Half-blinded and
whining with pain, the panther turned tail and ran
away, while the boy’s pony, trembling and snorting
with fright, galloped home with his brave rider.
In one of the mountain counties a
woman, hearing her chickens squawking one day at noon,
ran out to find what seemed a big dog among them with
a hen in his mouth. She rushed straight at him
with a broom, when the animal turned. She found
it was a great panther, who snarled and made ready
to spring at her. As she screamed and started
to run away, her foot slipped on a steep and muddy
place, and she slid down the little hill right into
the panther’s face. He was so frightened
that he jumped the fence and hurried to the woods.
This great yellow cat is both savage
and cowardly, and he has been known to follow a man
walking through the woods, all day, yet he sneaked
out of sight at every loud call the man gave.
He chases deer and gets many small and helpless fawns,
hunters say.
Fur-hunting was once a profitable
business for the Indians, who were clothed in bear
and panther skins when the first white men came to
California, and had many furs to trade or sell.
The Indians trapped otters, beavers, and minks, and
the squaws tanned the deer-hides to make buckskin
shirts or leggings. Hunters and trappers still
bring in these wild animals’ furry coats after
trips to the high mountains or untravelled woods,
where the shy creatures try to live and be safe from
their enemies.
In early days herds of a very large
deer, called elk, fed on the wild oats and grass.
These elk had wide, branching horns measuring three
or four feet from tip to tip. Only a few of them
now survive in the redwood forests in the northern
counties. There were plenty of them once where
San Francisco now stands. Dana in his book called
“Two Years Before the Mast,” tells us
that when his ship dropped anchor off the little village
of Yerba Buena about sixty-seven years ago, he saw
hundreds of red deer and elk with their branching antlers.
They were running about on the hills, or standing
still to look at the ship until the noise frightened
them off. At that time the whole country was
covered with thick trees and bushes where the wolf
and coyote prowled, and the grizzly bear’s track
was seen everywhere.
There are plenty of deer in the redwoods
now, and in the high Sierras are black-tailed and
large mule-deer. In the woods round Mount Tamalpais
timid red deer live, too. In winter, when it is
cold and snowy in the northern counties of our state,
these deer often come into the farmer’s barnyard
to nibble at the hay.
There are still left in the mountains
among the pines and snowy cliffs many mountain-sheep.
These curious big-horned animals resemble both the
elk and the sheep, and it is said they can jump from
a high rock and land far below on their feet or heavy,
twisted horns without being hurt in the least.
Of all the great herds of graceful,
fast-running antelope, once the most plentiful of
our wild animals, only a very few can now be found
on the eastern slopes of the Sierras.
But Master Coyote, who might well
be spared, so cruel and cowardly is he, still sneaks
up and down the whole state, and his quick sharp bark
gives notice that the rascal is ready to steal a chicken
or a lamb if it is not protected. With his bushy
tail and large head he is half fox and half wolf in
appearance, and mean enough in habits to be both.
He can outrun a dog and even a deer, and though he
catches jack-rabbits and the Molly Cottontail usually
for food, he would help his brother, the wolf, to
kill a poor harmless sheep.
This gray wolf is a savage creature
and hides in the thick forests by day, slinking out
at night to the nearest sheep corral or turkey-pen
if he can find one unwatched by some faithful dog.
His friend and neighbor, the fox, likes fat geese
and chickens as well as birds, squirrels, and wood-rats.
The queer raccoon lives in the redwoods and is often
caught and kept in a cage or chained for a pet.
Wildcats, both gray and yellow, are
found in the thickly timbered parts of California,
and the badger makes his home in the mountain canons
or pine woods. There, too, the curious porcupine
dwells. He is covered with grayish white quills,
which bristle out when he is angry or frightened.
No old dog will touch this animal, for he knows better
than to get a mouthful of sharp toothpicks by biting
Mr. Porcupine, who is like a round pincushion with
the pins pointing out. A dog who has never seen
this prickly ball will dab at it, and have a sore paw
to nurse for weeks after.
Two or three kinds of tree-squirrels
live in the pines and redwoods, the Douglas squirrel
being well known in the mountains. The ground
squirrel, or chipmunk, digs holes in the ground, where
he hides his winter’s store of grain and nuts.
Three of our smaller wild animals
are very common and very troublesome to the farmer.
The skunk, which looks like a pretty black and white
kitten with a bushy tail, and also the weasel, destroy
all the chickens and eggs they can reach, and they
are so cunning that it is hard to keep them out of
the hen-house. That little pest, the gopher,
we are all well acquainted with, since he gnaws the
pinks and roses off at their roots in your city garden
while his large family of brothers and sisters kill
the farmer’s fruit-trees and vines. The
gopher digs long tunnels under ground, making storerooms
here and there in these passages, which he fills with
grass, roots, and seeds. In each cheek he has
a pouch, or pocket, large enough to hold nearly a
handful of grain, so the little rascal carries his
stores very easily. The traps and poison by which
the farmer is always trying to make way with him,
he is sly enough to let alone. His greatest foe
is the cat, which watches patiently at the hole where
the destructive little fellow is digging and usually
catches him. A mother cat will sometimes bring
in two or three gophers a day to her kittens.