Dreamful Bedtime Stories
Dreamful Bedtime Stories
Morning on Moosehead
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Have sweet dreams with subscriber-only episodes!Journey to Moosehead at dawn, where the sounds and sights of wildlife create a symphony of spring awakening—revealing truths about nature's inherent joy and cooperation that contradict conventional notions of a struggle for existence. So snuggle up in your blankets and have sweet dreams.
The music in this episode is Bluetts and Barley by Anna Landstrom.
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Dreamful is produced and hosted by Jordan Blair. Edited by Katie Sokolovska. Theme song by Joshua Snodgrass. Cover art by Jordan Blair. ©️ Dreamful LLC
Welcome to Dreamful Podcast bedtime stories for slumber. In this bonus episode I will be reading Morning on Moosehead. So snuggle up in your blankets and have sweet dreams.
Speaker 2:Thank you.
Speaker 1:Sunrise in the big woods, morning and springtime and fishing weather. For the new day, kilolete the white-throated sparrow has a song of welcome. Fishing has its gleaming in Coscomenos, the kingfisher Sounding his merry rattle along every shore where minnows are shoaling. And for the springtime, even these dumb trees grow eloquent. Yesterday they were grey and dun, as if life had lost a sense of beauty. Today, a mist of tender green appears on every birch tree, a blush of rose color spreads over the hardwood ridges. Woods that all winter have been silent, as if deserted, are now alive, with the rustling of eager feet, the flutter of wings, the call of birds returning with joy to familiar nesting places. Above these quiet voices of rejoicing sounds, another note loud, rhythmic, jubilant, which says that comedy light of foot and heart has once more renewed her lease of the wilderness.
Speaker 1:High on a towering hemlock, a logcock has a sounding board, dry and resonant, where he makes all the hills echo to his lusty drumming. The morning light flames on his scarlet crest as he turns his head alertly. This way for the answer of a mate, that way for the challenge of a rival. This way for the answer of a mate, that way for the challenge of a rival, near on the roof of my fishing camp, a downy woodpecker is thumping the metal cover of the stovepipe, a wonderful drum on which he can easily make more noise than the big log cock. Every day before sunrise that same little fellow appears on my roof so punctually that one wonders if he keeps a clock and bids me top of the morning by sending a fearful din clattering down the stovepipe. It is a love call to his mate, no doubt, but the seven sleepers in my place must be roused by it as by dynamite.
Speaker 1:This morning he exploded me out of sleep at 4.20, as usual, and so persistent was his rackety-packety that I lost patience and threw a stick of wood at him Away. He went crying yip-yip at the meddlesome Philistine who had no heart for love, no ear for music. He was heading briskly for the horizon when, remembering his shy mate, he darted aside to the shell of a white pine where he drummed out another message, only to meet violent opposition from another. He had sounded one call, listened for the effect, only to meet violent opposition from another. He has sounded one call, listened for the effect and was in the midst of another ecstatic vibration when there came a scurry of leaves, a shaking of boughs and Miko the red squirrel, appeared, threatening death and destruction to all drummers. Evidently, miko was planning a nest of his own in that vicinity and had no mind to tolerate such a noisy fellow as a near neighbor. As he came headlong upon the scene hurling abuse ahead of him, the woodpecker vanished like a wink, leaving the enemy to threaten the empty air, which he did in a fashion to make one shudder at what might happen if a red squirrel were half as big as his temper.
Speaker 1:Once I saw a bull moose accidentally shake a branch on which Miko happened to be sitting while he ate a mushroom, turning it around in his little paws as he nibbled the edges. And the peppery little beast followed the sober great beast, two or three hundred yards running just above the antlered head, calling down the wrath of squirrel heaven on all the tribe of moose. Now in a greater rage because the object of it was so small, he whisked all over the pine, declaring it to be his property and warning all woodpeckers to keep away from it. Hardly had he ended his demonstration of squirrel rights and gone away, swearing to his interrupted affairs when another hammering, louder and more jubilant, began on the pine shell. Here was defiance as well as trespass, and Miko came rushing back to deal with it. Properly, sputtering like a lighted fuse, he darted up the pine and took a flying leap. After the drummer, determined this time to make an end of him or chase him clean out of the woods Into a thicket of spruce, he went shrilling his battle yell Out of the thicket, flashed the woodpecker unseen and doubled back to the starting point. There a curious thing happened, one which strengthened my impression that all birds have more or less ventriloquial power to make their calling sound near or far at will. To make their calling sound near or far at will, the woodpecker lit on precisely the same spot he had used before and hammered it with the same rapidity and rhythm. But now his drum sounded faintly, distantly, as if on the other side of the ridge, Growing bolder. He changed his note, putting more hallelujah into it, and was in the midst of a glorious rub-a-dub when Miko came tearing back through the spruce thicket and hunted him away. So the little comedy ran on charge and retreat till the second Miko appeared and held the fort, while the first ran after the drummer.
Speaker 1:Now, as I watch the play, there is triumphant squirrel talk on the pine shell and the woodpecker is again drumming lustily on the stovepipe cover drumming lustily on the stovepipe cover. As I creep away, trying not to disturb them, I am startled by a rush behind me and have glimpse of two deer bounding through the leafless woods. They take needlessly high jumps for such easy going, it seems. One has an impression that they are kicking up their heels in delight at being out of their winter yard, free to wander at will and find abundance of fresh food, tender and delicious, wherever they seek. A loon blows his wild bugle from the lake, below Multitudes of little warblers. The first ripple of a mighty wave are sweeping northward with exultation singing as they go, frogs are piping, kingfishers clattering thrushes chiming their silver bells.
Speaker 1:Everywhere the full tide of life, the impulse of play, the spirit of happy adventure. One such morning, when every blessed bird or beast appears like a bit of happiness astray, should be enough to open one's eyes to the meaning of nature. But yesterday was just like this in the woods, and in the back of my head is a memory of other mornings in that far, misty time when all days came as holidays, when one leaped out of bed with wordless thought that life was too precious to waste any but sunny hours in sleeping. Suddenly, it occurs to me, looking out from my kamusi at the sunrise on Moosehead, while the woods around are vocal and jubilant, that this inspiring morning is simply natural and as it should be, that this new day, with its tingle of life and joy, is typical of the whole existence of the wood folk. For every day is a new day, joyous and expectant, without regret for yesterday or anxiety for the morrow.
Speaker 1:Ah, but wait, you say. Wait till winter returns with its hunger and snow and bitter cold. Then we shall see nothing of this springtime comedy but a stern and terrible struggle for existence. That owlish hoot expresses the prevalent theory of wildlife, I know, but forget all such borrowed notions here in the budding woods and open your eyes to behold life as it is. Ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee, or the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee that animal life is, from beginning to end, a gladsome comedy. The tragedy is romantic invention of our own story writers.
Speaker 1:The struggle for existence is a bookish theory passed from lip to lip without a moment's thought or observation to justify it. I would call it mythical, were it not that myths commonly have some hint of truth or gleam of beauty in them, but the struggle notion is the crude, unlovely superstition of one who used neither his eyes nor his imagination. To quote Darwin as an authority is to deceive yourself, for he borrowed the notion of natural struggle from the economist Malthus, who invented it, not as a theory of nature, but to explain, from this easy chair, the vice and misery of massed humanity. Moreover, darwin views the struggle for existence as a crude figure of speech, but later writers accept it as literal gospel, or rather bull's spell, without once putting it to the test of outdoor observation. A moment's reflection here may suggest two things. First, that from lowly protozoans, which always unite in colonies, to the mighty elephant that finds comfort and safety in a herd of his fellows, cooperation of kind with kind is the universal law of nature. Second, that the evolutionary processes to which the violent name of struggle is thoughtlessly applied are all so leisurely that centuries must pass before the change is noticeable, and so effortless that subject creatures are not even aware they are being changed.
Speaker 1:Meanwhile, individual birds and beasts go to their alert ways, finding pleasure in the exercise of every natural faculty singing or feeding, playing or resting, courting their mates or roving freely with their little ones. All wild creatures have every appearance of gladness but give you never a sign that they are under a terrible law of strife or competition. And why? Because there is absolutely no such thing as a struggle for existence in nature. There is no evidence of struggle, no reason for struggle, no impression of the spirit of struggle when you look on the natural world with frank, unprejudiced eyes.
Speaker 1:As for the coming winter, let not theory be as a veil over your sight to obscure the facts or to blur your impressions. One who camps in these big woods when they are white with snow finds them quite as cheery as the woods of spring or summer. Most of the birds that now fill the solitude with rejoicing will then be far away, pursuing the happy adventure under other skies. But the friendliest of them all, the tiny chickadee, will bide contentedly in this cold domain and greet the sunrise with a note in which you detect no lack of cheerfulness. A few of the animals will be snug in their dens, with a bear and chipmunk. Others will show the same spirit of play, a little subdued but still brave and confident, which moves them now as they go seeking their mates, to the sound of running brooks and the fragrance of swelling buds, to the sound of running brooks and the fragrance of swelling buds. Keonek the otter will spend a large part of his time happily sliding downhill. Pequon the fisher will save his short legs much travel by putting his nose into every fox track till he finds one which tells him that a lemos has been digging at a frozen carcass and has the smell of it on his feet. Then he will cunningly back-trail that fellow, knowing that food is somewhere ahead of him. Tookis the wood mouse will be building his assembly rooms deep under the snow, and Miko, the Red Squirrel, mischief Maker he's called, will still be making treasure comedy of every passing event, berating the jays that spy upon him when he hides food, berating the jays that spy upon him when he hides food, chasing the woodpeckers that hammer on his hollow tree and scolding every big beast that pays no attention to him.
Speaker 1:To sum up this prelude of the sunrise whether you enter the solitude in the expectant spring or the restful winter, nothing is here to wail or knock the breast. The wood folk are invincibly cheerful and need no pity for their alleged tragic fate. If I dared voice their unconscious philosophy, I might say that the lines are fallen unto them in pleasant places and that if ever they grow discontented with the place, they quickly change it for a better or for hope of a better. The world is wide and all theirs, and through it they go like perpetual Canterbury pilgrims. Sunrise in the big woods, morning in springtime, and fishing weather.
Speaker 1:For the new day, kilolete, the white-throated sparrow, has a song of welcome. Fishing has its gleaming in Koskomenos, the kingfisher sounding his merry rattle along every shore where minnows are shoaling. And for the springtime, even these dumb trees grow eloquent. Yesterday they were grey and dun, as if life had lost a sense of beauty. Today, a mist of tender green appears on every birch tree. A blush of rose color spreads over the hardwood ridges. Woods that all winter have been silent, as if deserted, are now alive, with the rustling of eager feet, the flutter of wings, the call of birds returning with joy. Alive with the rustling of eager feet, the flutter of wings, the call of birds returning with joy to familiar nesting places. Above these quiet voices of rejoicing sounds, another note loud, rhythmic, jubilant, which says that comedy light of foot and heart has once more renewed her lease of the wilderness.
Speaker 1:High on a towering hemlock, the logcock has a sounding board, dry and resonant where he makes all the hills echo to his lusty drumming. The morning light flames on his scarlet crest as he turns his head alertly, this way for the answer of a mate, that way for the challenge of a rival. Near on the roof of my fishing camp, a downy woodpecker is thumping the metal cover of the stovepipe, a wonderful drum on which he can easily make more noise than the big log cock. Every day before sunrise that same little fellow appears on my roof so punctually that one wonders if he keeps the clock and bids me top of the morning by sending a fearful din clattering down the stovepipe. It is a love call to his mate, no doubt, but the seven sleepers in my place must be roused by it as by dynamite.
Speaker 1:This morning he exploded me out of sleep at 4.20, as usual, and so persistent was his rackety-packety that I lost patience and threw a stick of wood at him Away. He went crying yip-yip at the meddlesome Philistine who had no heart for love, no ear for music. He was heading briskly for the horizon when, remembering his shy mate, he darted aside to the shell of a white pine where he drummed out another message, only to meet violent opposition from another, listened for the effect and was in the midst of another ecstatic vibration when there came a scurry of leaves, a shaking of boughs and Miko, the red squirrel, appeared, threatening death and destruction to all drummers. Evidently, miko was planting a nest of his own in that vicinity and had no mind to tolerate such a noisy fellow as a near neighbor. As he came headlong upon the scene hurling abuse ahead of him, the woodpecker vanished like a wink, leaving the enemy to threaten the empty air, which he did in a fashion to make one shudder at what might happen if a red squirrel were half as big as his temper.
Speaker 1:Once I saw a bull moose accidentally shake a branch on which Miko happened to be sitting while he ate a mushroom, turning it around in his little paws as he nibbled the edges. And the peppery little beast followed the sober great beast, two or three hundred yards, running just above the antlered head, calling down the wrath of squirrel heaven on all the tribe of moose. Now, in a greater rage because the object of it was so small, he whisked all over the pine, declaring it to be his property and warning all woodpeckers to keep away from it. Hardly had he ended his demonstration of squirrel rights and gone away, swearing to his interrupted affairs, when another hammering, louder and more jubilant, began on the pine shell. Here was defiance as well as trespass, and miko came rushing back to deal with it properly, sputtering like a lighted fuse, he darted up the pine and took a flying leap. After the drummer, determined this time to make an end of him or chase him clean out of the woods Into a thicket of spruce, he went shrilling his battle yell. Out of the thicket, flashed the woodpecker unseen and doubled back to the starting point. There a curious thing happened, one which strengthened my impression that all birds have more or less ventriloquial power to make their calling sound near or far at will. The woodpecker lit on precisely the same spot he had used before and hammered it with the same rapidity and rhythm. Spot he had used before and hammered it with the same rapidity and rhythm. But now his drum sounded faintly, distantly, as if on the other side of the ridge, growing bolder. He changed his note, putting more hallelujah into it, and was in the midst of a glorious when Miko came tearing back through the spruce thicket and hunted him away. So the little comedy ran on charge and retreat till the second Miko appeared and held the fort, while the first ran after the drummer.
Speaker 1:Now, as I watch the play, there is triumphant squirrel talk on the pine shell and the woodpecker is again drumming lustily on the stovepipe cover. As I creep away, trying not to disturb them, I am startled by a rush behind me and have glimpse of two deer bounding through the leafless woods. They take needlessly high jumps for such easy going, it seems. One has an impression that they are kicking up their heels in delight at being out of their winter yard, free to wander at will and find abundance of fresh food, tender and delicious, wherever they seek. A loon blows his wild bugle from the lake. Below Multitudes of little warblers, the first ripple of a mighty wave are sweeping northward, with exultation singing as they go, frogs are piping, kingfishers clattering, thrushes chiming their silver bells. Everywhere the full tide of life, the impulse of play, the spirit of happy adventure.
Speaker 1:One such morning, when every blessed bird or beast appears like a bit of happiness astray, should be enough to open one's eyes to the meaning of nature. But yesterday was just like this in the woods, and in the back of my head is a memory of other mornings, in that far, misty time when all days came as holidays, when one leaped out of bed with wordless thought that life was too precious to waste any of its sunny hours in sleeping. Suddenly, it occurs to me, looking out from my kamusi at the sunrise on Moosehead, while the woods around are vocal and jubilant, that this inspiring morning is simply natural and as it should be, that this new day, with its tingle of life and joy, is typical of the whole existence of the wood folk. For every day is a new day, joyous and expectant, without regret for yesterday or anxiety for the morrow ah. But wait, you say. Without regret for yesterday or anxiety for the morrow, ah. But wait, you say. Wait till winter returns with its hunger and snow and bitter cold. Then we shall see nothing of this springtime comedy but a stern and terrible struggle for existence. That owlish hoot expresses the prevalent theory of wildlife, I know. But forget all such borrowed notions here in the budding woods and open your eyes to behold life as it is. Ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee, or the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee that animal life is, from beginning to end, a gladsome comedy. The tragedy is romantic invention of our own story writers.
Speaker 1:The struggle for existence is a bookish theory, passed from lip to lip without a moment's thought or observation to justify it. I would call it mythical, were it not that myths commonly have some hint of truth or gleam of beauty in them. But this struggle notion is the crude, unlovely superstition of one who used neither his eyes nor his imagination. To quote Darwin as an authority is to deceive yourself, for he borrowed the notion of natural struggle from the economist Malthus, who invented it, not as a theory of nature but to explain, from this easy chair, the vice and misery of massed humanity. Moreover, darwin used the struggle for existence as a crude figure of speech, but later writers accepted it as literal gospel, or rather bullspell, without once putting it to the test of outdoor observation.
Speaker 1:A moment's reflection here may suggest two things. First, that from lowly protozoans, which always unite in colonies, to the mighty elephant that finds comfort and safety in a herd of his fellows, cooperation of kind with kind is the universal law of nature. Second, that the evolutionary processes to which the violent law of nature. Second, that the evolutionary processes to which the violent name of struggle is thoughtlessly applied are all so leisurely that centuries must pass before the change is noticeable, and so effortless that subject. Creatures are not even aware they are being changed.
Speaker 1:Meanwhile, individual birds and beasts go to their alert ways, finding pleasure in the exercise of every natural faculty singing or feeding, playing or resting, courting their mates or roving freely with their little ones. All wild creatures have every appearance of gladness, but give you never a sign that they are under a terrible law of strife or competition. And why under a terrible law of strife or competition? And why? Because there is absolutely no such thing as a struggle for existence in nature. There is no evidence of struggle, no reason for struggle, no impression of the spirit of struggle when you look on the natural world with frank, unprejudiced eyes. As for the coming winter, let not theory be as a veil over your sight to obscure the facts or to blur your impressions.
Speaker 1:One who camps in these big woods when they are white with snow finds them quite as cheery as the woods of spring or summer. Most of the birds that now fill the solitude with rejoicing will then be far away, pursuing the happy adventure under other skies. But the friendliest of them all, the tiny chickadee, will bide contentedly in this cold domain and greet the sunrise with a note in which you detect no lack of cheerfulness. A few of the animals will be snug in their dens with a bear and chipmunk. Others will show the same spirit of play, a little subdued but still brave and confident, which moves them now as they go seeking their mates, to the sound of running brooks and the fragrance of swelling buds fragrance of swelling buds. Keonek the otter will spend a large part of his time happily sliding downhill. Pequon the fisher will save his short legs much travel by putting his nose into every fox track, till he finds one which tells him that a lemos has been digging at a frozen carcass and has the smell of it on his feet. Then he will cunningly back-trail that fellow, knowing that food is somewhere ahead of him.
Speaker 1:Tookis the wood mouse will be building his assembly rooms deep under the snow. And Miko Red Squirrel, mischief Maker he's called, will still be making treasure comedy of every passing event, berating the jays that spy upon him when he hides food, chasing the woodpeckers that hammer on his hollow tree and scolding every big beast that pays no attention to him. To sum up this prelude of the sunrise, whether you enter the solitude in the expectant spring or the restful winter, nothing is here to wail or knock the breast. The wood folk are invincibly cheerful and need no pity for their alleged tragic fate. If I dared voice their unconscious philosophy, tragic fate, if I dared voice their unconscious philosophy, I might say that the lines are fallen unto them in pleasant places and that if ever they grow discontented with the place, they quickly change it for a better or for hope of a better. The world is wide in all theirs and through it they go no-transcript.
