Birds of Song and Story (2024)

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BIRDS OF SONG AND
STORY

BY

ELIZABETH AND JOSEPH GRINNELL

Authors of "Our Feathered Friends"

CHICAGO

A. W. MUMFORD, Publisher

1901

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CONTENTS

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THE BIRDS

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SINGERS AND THEIR SONGS

Some barbarous peoples possess a rude taste for thebeautiful plumage of birds, decorating their bodies in feathersof softest and brightest tints. But we have record of few, ifany, savage tribes the world over which delight in birdmelody. True, the savage may seek his food by sound, oreven song, but to feast the ear on music for music's sake—ah,this is reserved for culture.

An ear cultivated to melody is one of the soul's luxuries.Attuned to sweet and varied sound, it may become the guideto bird secrets never imparted to the eye.

Sitting in the close shrubbery of a home garden, or crouchingmoveless in a forest, one may catch whispers of birdlanguage never imparted to human ears when the listener ismoving about or talking with a comrade.

If one has accidentally or by patience discovered the eveningresort of shy birds, let him precede the birds by half anhour. Sitting low among rocks or fallen trees, having theforethought to wear plainly colored clothes, and as movelessas the neighboring objects, one may be treated to such a feastof sounds as will both surprise and entertain him. The birds[ 10 ]will come close, and even hop over one's coat sleeves andshoes, though so much as a full-fledged wink may dissipate thecharm.

Just before bedtime there are whisperings, and salutes,and low-voiced conversations, and love notes, and "O's" and"Ah's" at sight of a belated insect, and lullaby ditties, and ifone be possessed of a good deal of imagination, "eveningprayers."

Birds that fly from their night-time perches in the thickshrubbery in the morning dusk with a whirr, and a scream, oremphatic call-note, in evening time just whisper or sing inhalf-articulate tones.

To be out in their haunts late in the day and very early inthe dawn is to learn things about birds one never forgets.And if one chance to remain late at night, one may often hearsome feathered person mumble, or talk, or scold, or complain,or sing a short melody, in his sleep. Some students of bird-loresuggest that all-night singers, like the mockers, and somethrushes, do "talk in their sleep," instead of from intent andchoice. If one will watch a tame canary in its cage one mayhear a very low, sweet warble from the bird while its head istucked under its feathers. This act wakens the little creature,and it may be seen to finish its note while it looks about inthe lamp-light in a half-bewildered way.

Take our domestic fowls! Go noiselessly out to thechicken roost and stand stock-still for a while. Now andthen some hen or co*ck will speak a few words in its ownlanguage, in a rambling, dozing way. Then the suggestionpasses on, and perhaps half a dozen individuals engage innocturnal conversation. One, more "nervous" from yesterday'soverwork perhaps, actually has a nightmare, and cackles[ 11 ]in fright. All this has no connection with the usual time forthe head of the family to give his warning crow that midnightor daytime is close at hand and there is scarcely time foranother wink of sleep.

Once in the secret of bird notes, even a blind person maylocate the immediate vicinity of a nest. And he may identifyspecies by the call-notes and songs. We have a blind girlneighbor who declares she would rather have her hearing thanher sight, she has learned so well to hear what her sight mightdeprive her of.

When once the ear has learned its better lessons, glimpses,so to speak, of bird life flutter to it as naturally as leavesflutter to the sward in autumn. It is the continual chatter,chatter, that deprives many of us of the best enjoyments oflife. We talk when we should listen. Nature speaks lowmore often than she shouts. A taciturn child or personfinds out things that are worth the habit of keeping still toknow.

These remarks are in the interest of singing birds. Abird is sometimes interrupted, and comes to a sudden stop.A footstep, a word, a laugh, and the very next note is swallowedby the singer. By studying our songsters one maycome to know for one's self how individuals differ evenamong the same species.

There is the sad-voiced phœbe! Even she forgets hercustomary dismal cry at certain times when flies are wingingtheir midday dance on invisible floors that never were waxed.It is when she takes a "flat stand" an the roof-corner and"bewails her lot" that her notes are utterly disconsolate.Take a couple of phœbes on a cloudy day, just after "one'sfolks have gone away from home on a long visit," and nothing[ 12 ]lends an aid to sorrow like their melancholy notes. Reallywe do believe phœbe thinks he is singing. But he hasmistaken his calling. Some of the goldfinches have a plaintivenote, especially while nesting, which appeals to thegloomy side of the listener, if he chance to have such a side.Were Coleridge listening to either of these, the phœbeor the goldfinch, he would doubtless say, in answer to thecharge of sadness:

And he would have us believe the birds are "merry" whenthey sing.

And so they shall be merry. Even the mourning doveshall make us glad. She does not intend to mourn; theappearance of sadness being only the cadence of her naturalvoice. She has not learned the art of modulation; thoughthe bluebird and the robin and all the thrushes call her attentionto the matter every year.

If one will closely watch a singer, unbeknown to him,when he is in the very act, one may note the varying expressionof the body, from the tip of his beak to the tip of histail. Sometimes he will stand still with closely fitting plumageand whole attitude on tiptoe. Sometimes he will crouch,and lift the plumage, and gyrate gracefully, or flutter, or soaroff at random on quick wings.

Sometimes he sings flat on the breast like a song-sparrow,or again high up in the sky like the lark. However he sings,heaven bless the singer! "The earth would be a cheerlessplace were there no more of these."

But legend tells the story of singing birds in its own way—the[ 13 ]story of a time long, long eons ago, when not a singlebird made glad the heart of anything or anybody.

True, there were some large sea birds and great walkingland birds, too deformed for any one to recognize as birds inthese days, but there was no such thing as a singing bird.

One day there came a great spring freshet, the greatestfreshet ever dreamed of, and all the land animals soughtshelter in the trees and high mountains. But the water cameup to the peaks and over the treetops, and sorrow was in allthe world. Suddenly a giraffe, stretching its long neck in alldirections, espied a big boat roofed over like a house. Thegiraffe made signs to the elephant, and the elephant gave thesignal, as elephants to this day do give signals that are heardfor many a mile, so they say! Then there came a scurryingfor the big boat. A few of all the animals got on board, byhook or crook, and the rain was coming down in sheets.All at once along came the lizards, crawling up the sides ofthe boat and hunting for cracks and knot-holes to crawl into,just as lizards are in the habit of doing on the sly to this day.But not a crack or knot-hole could they find in the boat'sside; for the loose places, wide enough for a lizard to flattenhimself into, had all been filled up with gum, or something.

Then the lizards began to hiss, exactly the way they hissto this day when they are frightened; and the big animalsinside the boat poked out their noses to see what wasto pay.

"Oh, they are nothing but lizards!" exclaimed the giraffeto the elephant, who had naturally taken possession of morethan his share of the only foothold in existence. "Let themdrown in the freshet."

But a big, awkward land bird, with teeth, and a tail like a[ 14 ]church steeple, took pity on the lizards and gnawed a hole inthe wall of the boat.

Of course in trooped the lizards. Once in, they disposedthemselves in nooks and corners, and right under the flappingears of the elephant and between the pointed ears of thegiraffe. And they began to whisper.

It was a very low, hissing whisper, as if they had nevergotten farther than the s's in the alphabet, but the big animalsunderstood.

Plenty of room was made for the lizards, and they wereallowed to make a square meal now and then on the flies thathad come in at the boat's door, uninvited, plenty of them.

After a few days the spring freshet came to an end, andthe giraffe opened the door of the boat-house and lookedout. He made signs to the elephant, and the elephant gavethe signal, and out walked all the animals on "dry ground,"which, to tell the truth, was rather muddy.

When all the other creatures were out of the boat itcame the lizard's turn. But the elephant and the giraffebethought them of something, and turned back to the boat"You promised us! You promised us!" they cried, to thewriggling lizards that hadn't a single thing about them tomake anybody desire their company in land or sea.

"So we did promise," they answered, hissing their words.

Then the lizards all turned facing each other in rows, andstuck out their long tongues just as lizards do to this day, andbreathed on one another, and made a sizzling noise. Suddenly,from each side of their long tails appeared pin-feathers,which grew very fast, till the scales were all disappeared.And then little baby feathers appeared on their backs, andbreasts, and fore legs, or arms, which overlapped each other[ 15 ]like scales, and were beautiful and soft and many-tinted.Beaks grew in place of the wide mouths; only the hind legswere left as they were. But these, too, began to change!They grew long, and slim, and hard, but the nails remainedas they were before, only stronger. Then the lizards werereptiles no longer, but beautiful birds. And with one accordthey began to sing, each singing a different song from hisneighbor, and making the clear air ring with melody.

And the giraffe made signs to the elephant, and theelephant signaled all the other animals to return. And sothey returned. And they could hardly believe their eyeswhen the elephant told them these were the crawling lizardsthat had come into the boat-house the last thing. But heassured them they were the "very same." And then hetold them how the lizards had promised him and the biggiraffe that if they would be permitted to stay in the boatwith the rest until the spring freshet was over, they would be"angels" ever afterward, and spend all their time, when theywere not eating and sleeping, in making glad melody for allthe animal world.

While the giraffe was speaking the birds lifted their wings,which an hour before were bare arms, and soared out and upinto the blue sky, singing as they went.

And this was the origin of the singing birds. To explainhow, to this day, there are plenty of lizards of all sizes andcolors, the legend hints a sequel to the story. Not all of thelizards were able or even willing to go into the boat-house,being naturally shy, and the holes the big bird pecked in thewalls were all too soon sealed up.

Almost drowned, the remaining lizards crept up on thebacks of the great water dragons, the leviathan, and behemoth,[ 16 ]which nobody knows anything about in our days, and so weresaved.

Anyhow, we have them, on warm days sunning themselveson fence-rails and bare rocks, or scurrying under thestumps and stones. But they are always on good terms withthe birds, for we have seen them basking in the sun together,and they eat the selfsame insects.

The lizards are no doubt discussing with the birds the approachof another spring freshet, when they, too, will bethinkthem of the boat-house, and so come by feathers and songs.

Harmless they are, as the birds, whom they resemble inmany ways. We have taught some of them to drink milkand honey from a teaspoon, and to peck at insects in ourfingers, to come at our call, and to lie in our hands. Tosome they are beautiful creatures; to others they are "nothingbut lizards." Boys throw stones at them, and girls wishthere were no lizards, they "are so ugly."

Oh, the pity of it! If these would but turn the creaturestenderly over, they would see beautiful colors on the underside, that sparkle and glisten like the breast of a brightlytinted bird. We are acquainted with one lizard as long as amocking-bird, with a breast as silver-gray. And we love tothink of the time (of course it is imagination, though they dosay there is possibly some truth in it) when another springfreshet, or something, will turn the little reptile into the birdhe resembles.

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CHAPTER I

OUR COMRADE THE ROBIN

On account of its generous distribution, and the affectionfor the bird in the heart of Young America and Englandalike, the robin shall be given first place among the singingbirds. He is the "Little Wanderer"—as the name signifies—the"Robin-son Crusoe" of almost every clime and race.

True, he may be a warbler instead of a thrush in the OldWorld; but what does that signify? To whatever class orfamily he may belong by right of birth and legend, the birdof the red breast is the bird of the human breast.

It is impossible to study the early history of birds in anylanguage and not stumble upon legend and superstition. Andthe more we read of these the more we come to delight inthem. There may not be a bit of truth in the matter, butthere is fascination. It is like delving among the dust andcobwebs of an old attic. The more dust and cobwebs, themore fun in coming upon things one never went in quest of.

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Of course superstition has its objections; but when therobin is the point at issue, we may waive objections and go onour merry ways satisfied that the oldest and clearest head inthe family will concur.

Legends concerning our comrade the robin are full oftender thought of him. They have kept his memory greenthrough the rain and shine of centuries, even going so far asto embalm him after death, as will be seen.

It is well-nigh impossible to give the earliest date in whichthe robin is mentioned as a "sacred bird." Certain it is thathe ranks with characters of "ye olden time," for myth andsuperstition enshrined him. The literature of many tongueshas preserved him. Poetry and sculpture have embodiedhim and given him place among the gods and winged beingsthat inhabit the "neighbor world." Did he not scorch hisoriginal gray breast by taking his daily drop of water to lostsouls? Did he not stain it by pressing his faithful heartagainst the crown of thorns? Or, did he not burn it in theFar North when he fanned back into flame the dying emberswhich the polar bear thought to have trampled out in hiswrath that white men invaded his shores? Was he not alwaysthe "pious bird?"—though it must be confessed that hisbeak alone seemed to be possessed of religious tendencies.Was he not the original church sexton who covered thedead, with impartial beak, from eye of sun and man, pilinghigh and dry the woodland leaves about them? The wanderingminstrel, the orphan child, or the knight of kingly robe,each shared his sweet charity.

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The English ballad of the "Babes in the Wood" immortalizedhis memory in poetical sentiment:

Earlier than the pathetic career of these Babes, homagewas paid to the robins,

This superstition of the robin's art in caring for the deadruns through many of the old poets, Drayton, Grahame,Hood, Herrick, and others. Strict justice in the matterwould have divided the praise of him with the charitablenight winds, for it was they more than he who "coveredfriendless bodies." The sylvan shades of the Old Worldbeing then more comprehensive than now, unburied men,from any cause, found their last resting-place in the lap ofthe forest, sleeping wherever they fell, since no laws of"decent burial" governed the wilds. The night winds, trueto their instincts then as now, swirled the fallen leaves aboutany object in their way, in the fashion of a burial shroud. Asa matter of course, credit was given to the robin, whosevoracious appetite always led him to plunder litter of any sortin search of food. Up bright and early, as is still his habit(since at this hour he is able to waylay the belated nightinsect), the robin was spied bestirring the forest leaves, andunbeknown to himself was sainted for all time.

And his duties were not confined to those of sexton alone,for, according to good witnesses, he became both sculptorand clergyman—

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—stripping, as they were supposed to do, the foliage from thetrees on which to write their elegies, and so leaving theuncovered trunks as monumental shafts.

According to tradition, it was the robin who originated thefirst conception of decorating the graves of martyrs.

And again from one of the old poets, who was naturallyanxious that his own last rites should be proper as well aspathetic:

And so it came to pass, by the patronage of the poets,that in the early centuries this little bird came to be protectedby an affectionate, unwritten law. To molest a redbreast wasto bring the swift vengeance of lightning on the house. Theancient boy knew better, if he cherished his personal safety,than to steal a young bird for the purpose of captivity, for

The "sobbing, sobbing of pretty, pretty robin" wouldsurely call down upon the head of the luckless thief the diredispleasure of the deities; as runs the rhyme, meant in allreverence (as it should also be quoted);

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Terrible punishments were thus meted out to the ancienturchin whose instincts would lead him to rob bird's nests.

In Pilgrim's Progress, Christiana is said to have beengreatly astonished at seeing a robin with a spider in its beak.Said she, "What a disparagement it is to such a little, prettybird as the robin-redbreast is, he being also a bird abovemany, that loveth to maintain a kind of sociableness with man;I had thought they had lived on crumbs of bread—I like himworse than I did-."

And the wordy-wise Interpreter, to clinch a moral lessonin the mind of the religious woman, explained how the robins"when they are by themselves, catch and gobble up spiders;they can change their diet (like the ungodly hypocrite), drinkiniquity, and swallow down sin like water." And so, obedientto her spiritual adviser, Christiana liked the robin "worsethan she did." Poor soul; she should have observed forherself that for a robin to gobble up a spider is no "iniquity."Did she think that crumbs grew on bushes, ready made forearly breakfast, or that the under side of woodland leaves wasbuttered to order?

Spiders the robin must have, else how could he obtainthe strings for his harp? Wherever the spider spins herthread, there is her devotee, the robin. He may not be seento pluck and stretch the threads, but the source of them heloves, and he says his best grace above this dainty of hisboard. Our pet robin was known to stand patiently by thecrack of a door, asking that it be opened wider, as, in hisopinion, a spider was hiding behind it. He heard her stockingedtread, as he hears also the slippered feet of the grubin the garden sod—provided the grubs have feet, which it isknown they can do tolerably well without.

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Sure it is the world over, be he thrush or warbler, therobin is partial to bread and butter; to bread thrice butteredif he can get it. Fat of any sort he craves. The more practicalthan sentimental believe that he uses it in the preparationof the "colors done in oil" with which he tints hisbreast. For lack of oil, therefore, where it is not providedby his friends, or discovered by himself, his breast is underdonein color, paling even to dusky hue; so that, would youhave a redbreast of deepest dye, be liberal with his butteredbread.

And his yellow mouth! Ah, it is the color of springbutter when the dandelions are astir, oozing out, as it were,when he is very young, as if for suggestion to those who lovehim.

The historical wedding of co*ck Robin to Jenny Wrenwas the result of anxiety on the part of mutual friends whowould unite their favorite birds. The "courtship," the"merry marriage," the "picnic dinner," and the rest of thetragedy are well described. Alas, for the death and burial ofthe robin-groom, who did not live to enjoy the bliss ofwedded life as prearranged by his solicitous friends. Butthe affair went merry as a marriage-bell for a while, and wasgood until fortunes changed.

All the birds of the air combined to make the event ahappy one, and they dined and they supped in elegant style.

Just as the dinner things were being removed, and thebird guests were singing "fit to be heard a mile around," in[ 23 ]stalked the Cuckoo, who it is presumed had not been invitedto the wedding, and was angry at being slighted. He rudelybegan pulling the bride all about by her pretty clothes, whicharoused the temper of the groom, naturally enough, as whocould wonder? His best man, the Sparrow, went out andarmed himself, his weapons being the bow and arrow, andtook his usual steady aim to hit the intruder, but, like manyanother excited marksman, he missed his aim, and, oh, thepity of it! shot co*ck Robin himself. (It was an easy wayfor the poet to dispose of the affair, as he knew very wella robin and a wren couldn't mate, in truth.)

Nor did the Sparrow deny his unintentional blunder whenit came to the trial. There were witnesses in plenty; andRobin was given a splendid burial—Robin who had himselfofficiated at many a ceremony of the same sad sort.

It is a pathetic tale, as any one may see who reads it, andserved the purpose of stimulating sympathy for the birds.We have forgiven the sparrow for his blunder, as will beseen later on; for in consequence of it, the birds were calledup in line and made to do something, thus distinguishingthemselves as no idlers.

The mating of Robin with Jenny Wren proved a failure,of course, so we have our dear "twa birds," the robins, asnear alike as two peas, when the male is not singing and thefemale is not cuddling her nest. A trifle brighter of tint isthe male (in North America), but the two combine, like anystaid farmer and his wife, in getting a living out of the soil.Hand in hand, as it were, they wander about the countryanywhere under the flag, at home wherever it rains; butreturning to the same locality, with true homing instinct, asoften as the spring-time suggests the proper season for family[ 24 ]affairs; completing these same affairs in time to look aftertheir winter outfit of clothes. This last more on account oftheir annual shabby condition than by reason of the rigors ofcold, for they change climate as often as health and happiness(including, of course, food) require.

True, some penalties attach to this sudden and frequentchange, but the robins accept whatever comes to them with aprotest of song, returning good for evil, even when chargedwith stealing more fruit than the law allows. It is impossibleto compare the good they do with any possible harm, sincethe insect harvest-time is always, and the robin's farming implementsnever grow rusty.

Always in the wake of the robins is the sharp-shinnedhawk and many another winged enemy, for their migrationsare followed by faithful foes who secrete themselves in theshadows. We deprived one of these desperadoes of his dinnerbefore he had so much as tasted it, also of his pleasurein obtaining another, for we brought him down in the veryact, and rescued his victim only by prying apart the reluctantlydying claws.

But whatever may be said of hawks and such otherhungry beings who lay no claim to a vegetable diet, their so-calledcruelty should be overlooked, since it is impossible todraw the lines without affecting the robin himself. For seewith what excusable greed he snatches at winged beings whichhappen to light for a rest in their flight, or draws the protestingearth-worm from its sunless corridors. It is a law ofnature, and grace must provide absolution. So must also thebird-lover, supposing in his charitable heart that worms andflies delight in being made over into new and better lovedindividuals.

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Would the bird-lover actually convert this redbreast fromthe error of his victual ways, he may do so by substitutingcooked or raw food from his own table. The robin is an aptstudent of civilization, and adopts the ways of its reformerswith relish. As to the statement that robins require a dietof worms to insure life and growth, we can say that we haveraised a whole family on bread and milk alone with perfectsuccess. True, we allowed them a bit of watermelon inmelon season, but they used it more as a newfangled baththan as a food, actually rolling in it, and pasting their featherstogether with the sticky juice. The farmer's orchard is therobin's own patch of ground, and he revels in its varied bounties.A pair of them know at a glance the very crotch inthe apple-tree which grew three prongs on purpose for theirnest. The extreme center, scooped to a thimble's capacity,suggests the initial post-hole for a proper foundation. Thesaid post may be placed directly across it, but that does notchange the idea. Above is the parting of the boughs, acrosswhose inverted arches sticks alternate, and so on up. Andatop of straws and leaves and sticks is the "loving cup" ofclay, with its soft lining of vegetable fiber and grasses. Whatcare the robins that little cover roofs them and their young?Are they not water birds by nature, and wind birds as well?(Our pet sat for hours at a time in hot weather emersedto his ears in the bath, and even sang low notes while hesoaked.) Birds of spring freshets and June winds, they doteon the weather, and bring off their young ones as successfullyas their neighbors. What if a nest be blown down nowand then? The school-boy, in passing, puts it back in its placeand sees that every birdling goes with it; while the old birdsabove him, shedding water like a goose, thank him for his pains.

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The orchardist who plants a mulberry-tree in his applerows, though he himself scorns the insipid sweetness of thefruit, ranks with any philanthropist in that he foresees theneeds of a little soul which loves the society of man morethan anything else in the world.

By the planting of the mulberry-tree he plants a thoughtin the breast of his little son. "I don't like mulberries,father. What makes you set out a mulberry-tree in an appleorchard?"

"For the robins, my son. Haven't you heard that luckfollows the robins?"

"What is luck, father?"

"Luck, my son, is any good thing which people make forthemselves and the folks they think about."

And the little boy sits down on a buttercup cushion andmeditates on luck, while he watches the robins knocking atthe doors of the soft-bodied larvæ, engaged in making luck forother folks. And the boy's own luck takes the right turn allon account of his father setting out a mulberry-tree.

Whole school-rooms full of children are known to be afterthe same sort of luck when they plant a tree on Arbor Day;a cherry-tree or mulberry-tree, or even an apple, in due time issure to bring forth just the crotch to delight the heart ofmother robin in June. Not that the robins do not selectother places than apple-trees to nest in. An unusual placeis quite as likely to charm them. Let a person interest himselfa little in the robin's affairs and he will see startlingresults by the summer solstice. An old hat in the crotch ofa tree, an inverted sunshade, or even a discarded scarecrow,terrible to behold, left over from last year and hidden in thefoliage, one and all suggest possibilities to the robins.

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Mud that is fresh and sweet is essential to a robin's nest.Stale, bad-smelling, sour mud isn't fit for use. Sweet, clay-likestuff is what they want. A pack of twigs made up loosely,soft grass and fiber, all delight the nest-builders, who are assure to select a location near by, as they are sure to stay allsummer near the farmer on account of the nearness of food.

Anywhere from four to thirty feet one may find the nestswith little trouble, they are so bulky, all but the delicateinside of them, which is soft as down; nest-lining being nextthing to nest-peopling—the toes of the little new people findingtheir first means of clinging to life by what is next tothem. A well-woven lining gives young robins a delicioussense of safety, as they hold on tight—the instinct to hold ontight being about the first in any young thing, be it bird orhuman baby, except, perhaps, the instinct of holding itsmouth open.

Some people who do not watch closely suppose theyoung robin who holds its mouth open the longest and widestgets the most food. We are often mistaken in things. Motherrobin understands the care of the young, though she neverread a book about it in all her life. Think of her infant, ofexactly eleven days, leaving the nest and getting about on itsown legs, as indeed it does, more to the astonishment of itsown little self than anybody else. And before the babyknows it, he is singing with all the rest,

The very same song we heard him sing within the Arcticcircle, far up to the snow line of the Jade Mountains, alternatinghis song with the eating of juniper berries.

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But one might go on forever with the robin as he hopsand skips and flies from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and fromAlaska to Mexico and other parts; but one would never getto the end of loving him.

When poor robin at last meets with disaster and cannotpick himself up again, in short, is "gone to that world wherebirds are blest," the leaves shall remember to cover him,while we imagine, with the poet who thought it not time andtalent wasted to write an epitaph to the redbreast,

But the funeral of even a robin is a sad event; so we willbring him back in the spring, for

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CHAPTER II

THE MOCKING-BIRD

In his native town, or district, the mocker stands at thehead of the class as a song-bird. He is not distinguished forhis gorgeous plumage, like a parrot, nor yet for the mischiefhe does, like the crow. His virtue is all in his throat. Andyet he can scarcely be honored as an original genius. Werehe original he would be no mocker. But he has an originalway with him for all that, when he takes a notion to mimicany person. Were he a man as gifted, we should have notrouble in seeing ourselves "as ithers see us"; or better, inhearing ourselves "as ithers hear us." He is the preacher,the choir leader, the choir itself, the organ. He gives outthe hymns, chants the "Amen," and pronounces the benedictionin the garden church. Few verses have been inscribedto the mocking-bird, for the reason, it is supposed, that sentimentintended for any known singer fits the mocker, thoughit must be conceded that he is humorist more than poet. It[ 30 ]is impossible to listen to his varied songs and keep from laughing,especially if the mood be on one. Where the weatheris very mild he sings all winter, and nearly all the year. Hisfall molt takes but a few weeks, and then "Richard is himselfa*gain."

His humor does not desert him even at the trying seasonof molting his coat, for he is seen to stand on a bough andpreen himself of his old tatters, catching a falling feather inhis beak, and turning it about in a ludicrous way, as if laughingto himself at this annual joke of his. Dropping the remnantof his summer plumage, he cants his wise little head andgives a shrill cry of applause as it floats away.

Whatever may be said of his musical powers, the mockerexceeds his fellows in the art of listening. We have knownhim to sit the better part of an afternoon, concealed in thickfoliage, listening with all his might to the various songs abouthim, with full intention of repeating them at midnight. Andrepeat them he does, not forgetting the postman's whistle,nor the young turkeys just learning to run (in the wet grass)to an untimely grave.

He has an agreeable way of improving upon the originalof any song he imitates, so that he is supposed to give freemusic lessons to all the other birds. His own notes, belongingsolely to himself, are beautiful and varied, and he sandwichesthem in between the rest in a way to suit the best.

We imagine that he forgets, from year to year, and musthave his memory stirred occasionally. This is particularly soin his imitation of the notes of young birds. We never hearthem early in spring or very late in autumn after he has completedhis silent molt. In late summer, however, when thebaby birds have grown into juveniles, then "old man mocker"takes up his business of mimicking the voices of the latenursery.

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Until we knew his methods we would start at peculiarsounds in the garden and cry to one another, "There's a latebrood of young ones!" and run to locate the tardy family.

From his perch on the chimney the mocker laughs at us,while he squeals, like his own little son of a month old, orcoaxes, like a whole nestful of baby linnets.

No matter who is the victim of his mimicry, he loves thecorner of a chimney better than any other perch, and carolsout into the sky and down into the "black abyss" as if chimneyswere made on purpose for mocking-birds.

A neighbor of ours has a graphophone which is used onthe lawn for the entertainment of summer guests. Think youthat big brass trumpet-throat emits its uncanny sounds forhuman ears alone? Behind it, or above it, or in front of it,listening and taking notes, is the mocker. Suddenly, nextday or next week, we hear, perhaps at midnight, a concert upin the trees—song-sparrows, and linnets, and blackbirds, andyoung chickens, and shrikes, and pewees, and a host of othermusicians, clear and unmistakable. Then as suddenly thewhole is repeated through a graphophone, and we listen andlaugh, for well we know that the only source of it all is ourdear mocker. How he gets the graphophone ring we do notknow any more than we know how he comes by all his powersof reproduction. Of practice he has a plenty, and his industryin this respect may be the key to his success.

The male differs so slightly from his mate that the two areindistinguishable save at song-time. They pair in early spring,and are faithfully united in all their duties. They nest mostlyin bushes or low branches from four to twenty feet from the[ 32 ]ground. The nests are large and often in plain sight. Likethe robin and other thrushes, the mocker's first thought isfor the foundation. This is made of large sticks and grasses,interlaced and crossed loosely. Upon these the nest properis placed, of soft materials lined with horsehair or grasses.

With the mockers, as with other birds, there is not a fixedrule as to nesting materials. Outside of a few fundamentalprinciples as to foundations, etc., they select the material athand. Where cotton is to be obtained they use it, andstrings in place of grass. Leaves in the foundation are bulkyand little trouble to gather.

We have found a pair of mockers very sly and silent justat nesting-time. Or the female will be at the nest work,while her mate is singing at a distance as if to distract usfrom the scene of action. However, in our grounds, wherewe have taught all birds extreme confidence, the good workprogresses in plain sight. One writer has declared that apair of mockers will desert a nest if you so much as look atit. This is true only where they are very wild and unaccustomedto human friends.

When once the young are hatched the fun begins. Duringthe day the male ceases to sing, and devotes himself togiving exact information as to where the nest may be found.Of course this information is unintentional. He flies at us ifwe step out in sight, screaming with all his might. Thenearer we approach the nest the louder and nearer he cries,until he actually has an attack of hysterics and turns somersaultsin the air or quivers in the foliage. If it be possible toreach you from behind, he dives at your shoulder and nips atyour hair. Always from behind, never facing you. Hisquiet mate flits through the boughs as if she understands her[ 33 ]husband's exaggerated solicitude, and half smiles to see hisperformances.

In a day or two the young birds are able to speak forthemselves, and from this on until the next brood of theirparents is hatched, the youngsters keep up a coaxing squeal.Getting out of the nest in about two weeks, they fly awkwardlyabout, easy prey to cats and other thieves. From anest of four or five eggs a pair of mockers do well if they raisetwo or even one. Night birds find them easy to steal, forthey sleep on the ground or under a bush at first, being severaldays in learning to fly; and a much longer time inlearning to eat by themselves. This year three sets of youngmockers were raised on raspberries. They were brought tothe patch as soon as they left the nest, where they remainedon the ground along the drooping canes. The old birdskept with them, putting in all their time at teaching the awkwardthings the art of helping themselves. The parent birdwould hop up a foot or two, seize a tip end of a twig onwhich was the usual group of berries, and bring it down tothe ground, holding it there and bidding the young ones"take a bite." Not a bite would they take, squealing withmouth wide open and waiting for the old bird to pick theberry and place it in the capacious throat, the yellow marginsof the base of the beak shining in the sun like melted butter.And butter these birds like, as well as the robins, for theycome to the garden table and eat it with the bread anddoughnuts and pie like hungry tramps.

Unlike the ashy white of the parent breast, the juvenileshave a dotted vest very pretty to look at, which disappearsat the first molt.

The natural food of the mocking-bird is fruit and meat.[ 34 ]They catch an insect on the wing with almost the cunningof a flycatcher, and listen on the ground like a robin, for themuffled tread of a bug under a log or in the sward. Theyare not the tyrants they are sometimes accredited with being.The mocker does not fight a pitched battle with other birdsas often as opportunity offers. Like many another volublebeing, his bark is worse than his bite. Not his weapon, buthis word, is law. So fraternal are the mockers, as we seethem, that the close coming of them near the house in springinsures us the company of many other birds.

It is hard to outwit the mockers. They love fruit of anysort as well as they love insects. They dote on scarecrows,those "guardian angels" of domestic birds, and have beenseen to kiss their cheeks or pick out their eyes.

We caused one of these terrors to stand in the Christmaspersimmon-tree in the garden, thinking that, for fright ofhim, the mockers would stand aloof. It rained, and the firstbird that came along snuggled under his chin with the hat-brimfor an umbrella. That was a linnet. Along came amocker and took refuge under the other ear of the angel.We tied paper bags around the fruit, but the mockers bitholes in the bags and took the persimmons. We pinned asheet over the whole treetop, but peep-holes were sufficient.In went the mockers like mice and held carousals undercover.

Tamed when young, and given the freedom of the wholehouse, a mocking-bird feels fairly at home and is good company,especially if there be an invalid in the family. Thebigger the house the more fun, for the limits of the cage inwhich birds are usually confined form the greatest objectionto keeping them in captivity. Few cages admit of sufficient[ 35 ]room for the stretch of wing in flight, or even for a respectablehop.

We know of no bird save a parrot which chooses to becaressed. Birds are not guinea-pigs, to be scratched into goodterms. It spoils the plumage and disagrees with the temper.A mocker on the ground never trails his coat-skirt. He liftshis tail gracefully, as if he knows that contact with the grasswill disarrange his feathers.

In "Evangeline," Longfellow immortalized the mocking-birdthus:

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CHAPTER III

THE CAT-BIRD

He is not always the cat-bird, O no! He is one of oursweetest singers before day has fairly opened her eyes. Beforeit is light enough to be sure that what one sees be a birdor a shadow, the cat-bird is in the bushes.

Singing as he flits, this early riser and early eater passes frombush to bush on the fringed edge of morning, conscious of happinessand hunger. With a quaint talent for mimicry he triesto reproduce the notes of other birds, with partial success;giving only short snatches, however, as if afraid to trust himself.

In the hush of evening when the cricket's chirp has adrowsy tone, the cat-bird makes his melody, each individualwith cadences of his own. Now like a thrush and now likea nightingale, he sings, though he is not to be compared withthe mocking-bird in powers of mimicry. Yet his own personalnotes are as sweet as the mocker's.

But, like most persons, he has "another side," on whichaccount he came by his name. And his mate is Mrs. Cat-birdas well, for she, too, imitates the feline foe of all birds,more especially at nesting-time.

There is a legend to fit the case, as usual. This bird wasonce a great gray cat, and got its living by devouring theyoung of such birds as nest in low bushes.

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All the birds met in convention to pray the gods theymight be rid of this particular cat.

As no created thing may be absolutely deprived of life,but only transformed into some other being, this cat waschanged into a bird, henceforth doomed to mew and screamlike a kitten in trouble.

Its note long since ceased to have much effect upon thebirds, who seldom mistake its cry for that of their real enemyin fur and claws.

Not so its human friends, for it takes a fine ear indeed todistinguish the bird from a cat when neither is in sight.

Now this bird, doomed, as the superstition runs, to prowland lurk about in dark places near the ground, seldom flieshigh, nor does it often nest in trees. This does not preventthe singer from exercising his musical talents, however, more,than it does the meadow-lark or the song-sparrow.

It is in midsummer that the cat-bird is best known as thebird that "mews." Then both birds, if one approaches thenest, fly at the intruder, wings drooping, tail spread, beakopen, whole attitude one of scolding anger.

In this mood the bird fears nothing, even making up to astranger, and pecking at him. If it would pass with thewaning summer and the maturing of the young birds, thisbad temper of the cat-bird would be more tolerable; but onceacquired, the habit clings to it, and it may be that not tillnext winter will it get over the fit.

The favorite site of the cat-bird for nesting, as wehave observed it, is the middle of a patch of blackberrybushes, so dense and untrimmed it would be impossiblefor any one save a bird to reach it. Even the parent birdsmust creep on "all twos" or dodge along beneath the[ 38 ]briers. We have known it to build in a thick vine over thedoor.

The cat-bird and brown thrasher were always together inour Tennessee garden; each fearless, nesting near the door,eating the same food, but differing in personal habits. Thecat-bird's nest was in the blackberries, the thrasher's in thehoneysuckle. We often borrowed the young thrashers forexhibition to our friends in the parlor. After the first time ortwo the parents did not care, but watched quietly from thevine for the return of their darlings.

The cat-bird neighbor, always prying about, took note ofour custom and played "spy" in the honeysuckle. At thefirst opening of the door out peeped a black beak, from whichproceeded the familiar cat-cry we had learned to not heed.Paying no attention to this self-appointed guardian of thelittle thrashers, we took them into the parlor, where theywould remain for half an hour.

All this time the cat-bird kept up its mewing and screamingat the door, outside, nor did it cease until the birds wereplaced back in the nest.

The custom of the cat-birds everywhere to play the detective,and sound the note of warning in behalf of all theother birds, is well known. Is there danger anywhere, theyrush to the rescue with imploring cry, setting up a great agonyof sound and posture, very ludicrous if not pathetic.

And the poor cat-bird is always at swords' points withthe farmer. Scarecrows a plenty deck the orchards and ornamentthe gardens. More do these historical and sometimesartistic beings serve to ease the farmer's conscience than tointimidate the birds; for it is well known that cat-birds thrivebest under the grotesque shadows of the scarecrow. And the[ 39 ]more horrible of face and figure are these individuals created,the more are they sought after by the very birds they areintended to scare out of their wits.

It will probably take another generation of fruit-men towake up to the fact that these and other birds habitually mistakethe scarecrow for a guide-board to "ways and means,"or a sign for "home cooking."

Would the farmer stop when he has finished the veryworst scarecrow he can conjure up out of last year's trousersand coat and hat and straw from the bedding mow, the birdswould have fair play. But the shot-gun, alas! picks off thepoor little mew bird almost as fast as he himself picked offthe berries an hour before, and so the farmer is accused ofhaving "no heart."

But the farmer's boy of the bare feet and brown legs lovesthe funny bird. He will sit for an hour near its brier-boundnest, chuckling at its screams and gestures, and wondering"why it isn't a cat for good and all."

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CHAPTER IV

THE HERMIT-THRUSH

Hermit that it is, this little thrush is known and loved innearly all of North America. True, there are several of itsrelatives about in fields and woods, which are taken for thehermit by those who have not compared the different birds;the plain, deep olive-brown above, with dotted creamy vest,being a popular dress with the thrushes.

The hermit answers to several names, suiting the locationin which it is found. In low parts of the South it is knownas the swamp-robin. You meet it in the damp, shady placeswhere it is always twilight, in the fascinating grounds of thesnails and water-beetles.

It likes such clammy, silent neighbors, with their retiringhabits and proper manners, for the reason that it is able toturn them to some account at meal-time, which, as is the casewith most birds, is all the time, or any time. (It is said toresemble in habits and notes the English song-thrush, whichis known to spend most of its time at certain periods of theyear hunting snails, which it has learned to dress for eatingby slapping them against a stone. It will choose a stone ofthe proper shape, to which it carries its snails as often as ithas good luck in the hunt, leaving little heaps of shell by thestone to mark its picnic-ground.)

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Family affairs bring little labor to a pair of hermits, forthey have not far to go in search of nesting materials. Theytake what is close at hand, little dry twigs, lichens, and lastyear's leaves crumbled and moist, which soon lose theirdampness and adhere together in a thick mass.

But few have found it, this nest of the hermit, hiddenunder the bushes where it is always shadowed, and where thefledglings may help themselves to rambling insects without somuch as stepping out of the door. They are supposed totake advantage of this nearness to food by remaining aboutthe nest later than most birds; or if they run, returning onfoot of course, having tardy use of their wings, but learningto stretch their legs instead. And well may they learn to"stretch their legs," as they will come to their fortunes by"footing it" mostly, when they are not migrating on the wing.

Like the thrashers, the hermit must scratch for a livingwhen berries are not ripe. By listening one may hear thebird at its work, and by slipping quietly in the dusk of theearly morning to the lowlands, or the thick woods, and standingstock-still for a while, even see it. But nearly alwaysit is under cover on the edge of thickets, where the leaf-moldis unstirred and richest. And always by its own self isthe hermit, as if it loves nature better than the company ofits fellows, listening now and then for underground or overheadsounds, and dwelling on the beauty of the leaf skeletonsit overturns like a botanist.

Lace-work and dainty insertion in delicate threads doesMadam Hermit find in her resorts—fabric so marvelous andfascinating she could admire it forever; cast-off finery of such[ 42 ]insects as outgrow their clothes, grasshopper nymphs, andwhole baskets full of locusts' eggs hidden in half-decayedlogs, and making a nourishing breakfast, "rare done" anddelicious. She delights in the haunts of the praying-mantisat egg-laying season, surprising the wonderful insect in herdevotions, who scarcely has time to turn her head on her foebefore she disappears from sight.

It is well for her thus to disappear suddenly, for she isspared witnessing the fate of her newly laid eggs just aboveher on the twig, their silken wrapper being no obstruction inthe way of Madam Hermit finishing her meal on them.

These habits of the hermit-thrush mark the dwarf-hermitin southern California. We see it in the orange-groves afterirrigation or during a wet winter. Plenty of mulching in theorchards invites the dwarf (where it is a hermit like its relative),and we find it scratching away in the litter, overturningfrail little toadstool huts and umbrellas, and exchanginggreetings with its neighbor, the varied thrush, under the nexttree.

Here in the cañons, where the brooks turn right side upfor one brief season in the long, dry year, we see the littleolive-brown bird with its speckled breast. Its sight and hearingare keen, so that it detects the whereabouts of the stone-flies,lingering among the moist rocks until they come out fora drink or a bath, when—that is the last of them.

The dwarf brown beauty, which, of course, must havevictuals by hook or crook, never breaking a single law ineither case, loves the watery haunts of the dragon-flies.

It passes by the pupa-skin drying on its leaf-stalk just asit was outgrown, with perchance a glance at the reflection inthe water; but the cunning bird neglects not to take in the[ 43 ]pupa itself, making its own breakfast on undeveloped mosquitoesin the water's edge.

All winter long about our home lives the dwarf hermit,eating crumbs at the garden table and looking for belatedraspberries on the ever-green canes. Early, before the sun isup, the bird runs along under our windows, where the myrtlecovers the tracks of night insects, and rings its tinkling notes.These resemble the familiar bell-notes that belong to the wood-thrush,cousin of the hermit and the dwarf hermit.

Not so numerous as its relatives, the wood-thrush is seenonly in Eastern North America. It nests in trees or bushes,packing wet, decaying leaves and wood fiber into a paste,which dries and resembles the mud nest of the robin. It,too, gets its food in the litter of leaves and wet places,choosing fens and cranberry bogs in the pastures. All thethrushes delight in berries, and any berry-patch, wild or cultivated,is the bird's own patch of ground.

The sadder the day the sweeter the song of the wood-thrush.Nature-lovers who stroll into the thickest of thewoods of a cloudy day on purpose to make the acquaintanceof the thrush will find

The notes of all the thrushes are singularly sweet, and maybe recognized by their low, tinkling, bell-like tones.

At the funeral of co*ck Robin, who did not survive hiswedding-day in the legend, it was the thrush who sang apsalm, and he was well qualified, "as he sat in a bush,"if such a thing were possible, no doubt bringing tears to hisfeathered audience.

The "throstle with his note so true" in the garden of[ 44 ]Bottom, the fairy in "Midsummer Night's Dream," was thethrush of Shakespeare's own country. No fairy's garden iscomplete without this sweet singer described so truly byEmily Tolman.

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CHAPTER V

THE GROSBEAKS

You would recognize it anywhere by its beak. And youmay call this feature of the face a beak, or a nose, or a hand,or a pair of lips. In either case it is thick, heavy, prominent,the common characteristic of the grosbeaks. Individuals maydiffer in plumage, but always there is the thick, conical bill.

"Oh, oh, what a big nose you've got!" and "Oh, oh, whata red nose it is!" we exclaimed, when we first met the cardinalface to face in a thicket. In a moment we had forgotten theshape and tint of the beak in the song that poured out of it.It was like forgetting the look of the big rocks between whichgushes the waterfall in a mountain gorge.

Not that the mouth of the grosbeak was built to accommodate[ 46 ]its song, but, that being formed for other purposes, itnevertheless is a splendid flute.

Whichever he may be, the cardinal or the black headed, orthe blue or the rose breasted, the grosbeak is a splendidsinger.

On account of its gorgeous coloring, the cardinal is oftenestcaged. But to those who love the wild birds best in theirnative freedom, the cardinal grosbeak imprisoned lacks thecharm of manner which marks it in the tangle of wild grape-vinesand blackberry thickets. Seldom still in the wild, unlessit be singing, the red beauty flits and dodges between twigs,and dips into brush and careens through the thickest undergrowthof things that combine to hide it, now here, now there,and everywhere. One would think its bright coat a certainand quick token of its whereabouts, but so active is the livelyfellow that it eludes even the sharpest eye, a stranger mistakingits gleam for a rift of sunlight through the treetops.

Legend tells us that the beak of this bird was once ashengray and the face white. Once on a time, a whole flock ofthem were discovered in the currant rows of a mountaineer,who called on the gods of the woods to punish them, since hehimself was unable to overtake the thieves. The gods, willingto appease the old man, yet loving the grosbeaks better, dyedtheir beaks crimson from that moment, and set black maskson their faces. Thus was a favor done to the cardinals, forever after the juice of berries left no stain on their red lips,while the black masks set off their features to the best advantage,interrupting the tint of the beak and the head. He isno ecclesiastic, though he wear the red cap of the cardinal,which he lifts at pleasure, for he gets his living by foragingthe woods and gardens for berries at berry-time.

[ 47 ]

The cardinal's companion is modest of tint, ashy brownwith only traces of red below, deepening on wings, head,and tail. Bird of the bush is she, and she places her looselymade nest in the thicket, where she can easily obtain barkfiber and dry, soft leaves and grass. In it she sees that threeor four chocolate-dotted eggs, like decorated marbles, areplaced. And she repeats the family history two or threetimes a season, where the season is long. At first the lips ofthe baby birds are dark; but they soon blush into the familyred. In plumage they resemble the mother for a time, butbefore cold weather the males put on a coat of red with theblack mask.

In the respect of molting the cardinals differ from theiryoung cousins, the rose-breasted, the latter requiring two orthree years to complete the tints of adult life.

But born in the thickets are the rose-breasts, just like thecardinals, the nest being composed of the selfsame fibers andwoodland grasses. Strange craft of Mother Nature is this, tobring the rose-breast and the cardinal from eggs of the verysame size and markings. But so she does; so that a strangercoming upon either nest in the absence of the mother birdmight mistake it for that of the other. You can't be certainuntil you see the old birds.

The rose-breasted grosbeaks are found east of the RockyMountains and north into Canada. It migrates south early,and returns to its summer habitat rather late in spring. Thelips of the rose-breast are white, not red, while the feet aregrayish blue, differing from the brown feet of the cardinal.

How did it come by its breast? Why, legend has it thatthe breast was white at the start. One day he forgot himself,not knowing it was night, he was so happy singing the[ 48 ]funeral hymn of a robin-redbreast that had died of a chill inmolting time, as birds do die when the process is belated.And the grosbeak sang on, until a night-owl spied him andthought to make a supper of a bird so plump. But the owlmistook his aim and flew away with only a beakful of thebreast feathers, he not taking into account the nearness of themolt. The grosbeak escaped, but lacking a vest.

The robins gathered pink wild-rose leaves and laid themon the heart of the singer, not forgetting to line the wings,and so from that day to this the psalm singer is known as therose-breasted grosbeak.

The head and neck of the male and most of the upperparts are black, the tail white and black combined, wingsblack variegated with white, and the middle breast and underwing-coverts the rich rose that deepens into a carmine. Thebeak is white.

The mother bird is streaked with blackish and olive brownabove, below white tinged with dusky, under wing-covertsthe tint of saffron. Her beak is brown.

These beautiful birds may be seen in the haunts of autumnberries, early spring buds that are yet incased in winter wrappings,and orchards in the remote tops of whose trees havebeen left stray apples. By the time these are frost-bitten theyare "ready cooked" for the belated rose-breasts, whose strongbeaks seem made on purpose to bite into frozen apples. Butfrozen apples have a charm of taste for any one who takes thetrouble of climbing to the outer limbs for a tempting recluse.Better were more of them left in the late harvest for boys andgirls and the rose-breasted grosbeaks.

An invisible thread fastened to a solitary apple on a hightwig, and connected inside of the attic window of a cottage,[ 49 ]suggests winter fun of a harmless sort. The grosbeaks fishfor the apple, which all of a sudden is given a jerk from awatchful urchin inside the window; and the bird realizes thehistorical "slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." The stringbeing, to start with, almost invisible, is from necessity veryweak as well, and breaks at about the third jerk. The funfor the participants inside the window at the other end of thestring is over for a time, and before it is readjusted the applehas several bites in it. And besides, there are other apples.

On the Pacific coast we have the black-headed grosbeak,cousin of the others and equally gifted in song.

The sides of the head, back, wings, and tail of this maleare black, though the back and wings are dotted with whiteand cinnamon-brown. The neck and under parts are richorange-brown, changing to bright, pure yellow on the belly andunder wing-coverts. The bill and feet are dark grayish blue.The female and her young differ in the under parts, being arich sulphur-yellow. Upper parts are olive shaded, variedwith whitish or brownish stripes. The habits of the black-headedgrosbeak are like those of the others described.

From our custom of making the grounds as attractive toall wild birds as possible, never relenting our vigilance inregard to the feline race, we have had splendid opportunitiesof studying this bird. They have nested with us for three years,beginning in wary fashion and ending in perfect confidence.

The first of the season we saw only the male, and he kepthigh in the blue-gum trees, fifty or sixty feet or more aboveground, singing as soon as everybody was out of sight, butdisappearing if a door opened. We thought him a belatedrobin, so do the songs of the two birds impress a stranger.For weeks we could catch not so much as a glimpse of the[ 50 ]singer, though we hid in the shrubbery. Shrubbery was nobarrier to the sight of the keen little eye and ear above.Then we took to the attic, and from a little roof corner-panebeheld the musician.

But his song was short and ended unfinished, so suspiciouswas the bird. Gradually he came to understand that no shot-gundisturbed the garden stillness, even though he sat on anouter bough, and no cat lurked in the roses. He also appearedto notice that nobody played ball on the greensward,nor threw stones at stray chickens. Altogether circ*mstancesseemed favorable to Sir Grosbeak, and he brought Madamalong down from the mountain cañons.

By midsummer of the second season the two were seen atsunrise as low as the tallest of the orange-trees, but they flewhigher or disappeared if the door were opened. It was theyear that we first planted the row of Logan berries, a newcross between the blackberry and raspberry. It was betweenthe orange and lemon trees, in a quiet corner of the orchard,and the grosbeaks espied them, reddening a month beforethey ripened. By getting up at dawn we made sure thatnesting operations had begun within twenty feet of the Loganberries. But which way? It was not until the eggs werelaid that we found the site on a low limb of a fig-tree adjoiningthe berry row. The nest was made solely of dry dark-leafspines, and so transparently laid that we could distinguishthe three eggs from below. There was no lining, plenty ofventilation in this and other of these grosbeaks' nests observedin the foothills being the rule. Perhaps the climate inducesthe birds to this sanitary measure. Certain it is that this nestcould be no harbor for those insect foes that too often makelife miserable for the birdlings.

[ 51 ]

The summer passed, and we gave up the row of berries tothe grosbeaks. There were but few anyway, and we wantedthe birds. And there was other fruit they were welcome to.

This season the grosbeaks have brought off three broodswithin fifty feet of the house. The male sings in the lowbushes and trees, and does not think of punctuating his noteswith stops and pauses, even though we stand within a fewfeet of him. In fact, the birds are now as tame as robins.Young striped fledglings grope about in the clover, or flutterin the bushes as fearless as sparrows. If we pick them upthey will support themselves by a grip on the hand and swingby their strong great beaks, screaming at the top of theirshrill voices to "let go!" when it is themselves that are holdingon with might and main. If they scream long enough,and their beaks do not weaken in their clutch, the mockercomes to the rescue and scolds us, while we explain thesituation, extending our hands with the grosbeak clinging tothe palm.

So far as we have known, all the nests in our grounds havebeen built in the crotch of a fig-tree. The fig has sparsefoliage and affords little shelter. But then there are figs thatripen most of the summer—and figs are good for baby grosbeaks.Once we discovered a nest by accident. The bees atswarming-time settled in the top of a fig-tree, a place not atall suitable, in our opinion. We were busily engaged in tossingdust into the tree to frighten the bees out, when a grosbeakappeared, scolding so hard in her familiar, motherly tonethat we knew we were "sanding" her nest as well as the bees.And we found it all right! She went on with her work afterwe had attended to the bees.

On account of the fondness of the birds for fruit and buds,[ 52 ]the grosbeaks might easily become resident in any homegrounds. Low shrubbery they love when once they havebecome familiar; unlike the thrushes, not caring particularlyfor damp places. Dry, baked-in-the-sun nooks, crisp undergrowth,and especially untrimmed berry rows fascinate them.During mating-season the male sings all the time when he isnot eating, singing as he flies from perch to perch, and likeothers of the family, has been accused of night serenades.We are unable to know certainly if it is our grosbeak or themocker that wakes us at midnight. It is probably the mocker,who has stolen notes from all the birds.

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CHAPTER VI

THE ORIOLES

It's a merry song, that of the oriole. It belongs to thefamily, and once heard will be always recognized. Sometimesit is a happy laugh; sometimes a chatter, especially atnesting-time, when a pair of birds are selecting a place for thehammock. Always, wherever heard, the song of an oriolesuggests sunshine and a letting-go of winter and sad times.

The name itself is characteristic of the bird, for it signifiesyellow glory. And a yellow glory the oriole surely is,whether it be found in Europe or America, and whether it becalled hang-bird, or yellow robin, or golden robin, or fieryhang-bird. The term "hang-bird" suggests the fate of aconvict, but the oriole is no convict. His transgressionsagainst any law are few and far between. The name simplydenotes the conditions of its start in life. The "hanging" ofan oriole occurs before it is out of the shell, at the very beginningof its career. The skill of the orioles in the art ofweaving nests is unsurpassed by any other bird. Always it is[ 54 ]nest-weaving; not nest-building. Not a stick or piece of barkdo they use, nor a bit of mud or paste.

The beak of the orioles differs so widely from that of thegrosbeaks that one has but to compare them to be interested.One might almost imagine the bill of a grosbeak to be adrinking-cup, or a basket with an adjustable lid or cover shuttingslightly over; while that of the orioles is sharp andpointed, sometimes deflected, longer than the head of thebird, parting, it is true, but the upper and lower mandiblesmeeting so exactly together at the tip that they form averitable needle or thorn. And a needle it is, on the pointof which hangs a tale—the tale that has given to this lovelybeing the nom de plume of "hang-bird."

True, the orchard oriole fastens its nest in the forks, givingit a more fixed condition than is the case with the strictlypensile nests, but it, too, is woven with artistic designs, thethreads interlacing in beautiful patterns. No more could agrosbeak weave an oriole's nest, with its big, clumsy, thickbill, than could an oriole crack pine cones to pieces with itsneedle beak. Each to its own tools when it comes to individualtricks. And there are the feet of the birds, fitted onlyfor perching, not for walking! The nearest we ever came tocatching an oriole on the ground was when we compelled aJuly grasshopper to sit in a bird-cage under a tree. Theoriole went in at the door and the grasshopper went out ofthe door. We tried it again, and each time the bird and thehopper went out together, the oriole assisting its friend, forwhom it has a special fondness. The fondness is not returnedon the part of the hopper.

We were sorry for the grasshopper, and wishing to continueour experiments, secured the dry skin of an insect,which we tied to the perch of the cage. The oriole enteredwarily, took a bite, discovered the trick, and never came back.

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Perhaps the Baltimore oriole is best known, not being confinedto the city whose name it bears. It came by its namevery much as many other birds came by their names and willcontinue to come by them. About 1628 Lord Baltimore, onan important visit to America, heard a chatter in the top ofa maple, and looking up beheld the colors of his own livery,black and yellow. The colors were animated and flitted fromplace to place, at last seeming to laugh at the Englishmanwho had come so far from home to find his coat of arms outof reach. Baltimore recognized the bird as an aristocrat, andbestowed upon it his own name on the spot. And a lordthe oriole is to this day, black and orange in color, varyingin tint with age and season of the year. New clothes,whether on birds or people, fade with wear and sunshine,and lose the luster of newness.

Everybody knows the oriole: you can't make a mistake.That is, you know the male; you may not be so certain ofthe female and young, for these are always duller of color,more olive, and without the bright black of the male. Moreover,the young male orioles dress very much like their sistersuntil they are a year or two old, when they dress like a lord.

A neighbor of ours was sure she had discovered a newspecies hanging their nest under the awning of a window.Both birds were dull yellow, exactly similar in size and color.There was no mistaking the oriole's nest, however; and whenwe went to see we found the male to be an immature only,mating, as is their custom, the second year, before his bestclothes arrived.

The Baltimore oriole attaches its nest or hammock to[ 56 ]twigs pretty well up out of reach, and weaves the same ofgrasses and string, or horsehairs, or all combined. Some ofthe strings and hairs are very long, and are passed back andforth in open-work fabric, crazy-quilt fashion, and really verybeautiful. The cradles swing with every passing breeze,suggesting the origin of the Indian lullaby song, "Rock-a-ByeBaby, in the Treetop." The eggs are four or five innumber, bluish white, with many and various markings inbrown. These are laid on a soft bed of wool or other suitablematerial. No wind can blow the young from the nest, thoughsorry accidents do sometimes happen to them. We havefound them caught by the toes in the meshes of the nest,helplessly suspended on the outside, thus earning the name of"hang-bird" in a particular case. Not so very different fromthe Baltimore is the Bullock oriole, which was also namedfor an English gentleman who discovered the gay fellow up ina tree, laughing at him. There is less black on the head andneck of the Bullock than on the Baltimore, but the two relativesare alike in habits and manners.

The hooded oriole differs from both the others in the factthat he wears a hood or cowl of yellow, falling over the facelike a mask. Perhaps the bill is more slender and decurvedthan in the Bullock.

The orchard oriole differs from the others in lacking thebright orange or yellow with the black of his dress. Hisbright chestnut breast, however, with the pointed bill andfamiliar manners, distinguish him as a member of the family.The nest is more compact than that of the others, wovensometimes of green grasses, which mature into sweet-smellinghay, retaining the green tint, which helps to hide its exactlocation in the foliage where it is placed.

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To know one member of the oriole family is to know themall in a sense, and to know them is to love them.

Here in southern California we are best acquainted withthe Arizona hooded, which comes to us from Mexico as earlyas March or April and remains until autumn. We have alsothe Bullock, and have watched both at nesting-time. Noneof the orioles is gregarious. They come in single file, neverin flocks, and go the same way, often a solitary bachelor ormaid lingering behind. When they come in spring it is alwaysthe male first, two or three days ahead of his mate.And only one male appears first on the grounds, who makesknown his presence exultantly, as if declaring, "I've come,see me!" The oranges are ripe about this time, and the coatof the gay bird is quite in keeping with the prevailing color.One associates any of the orioles, save the orchard, withoranges and buttercups and dandelions and summer goldenrod.

These birds love the habitation of man, and where encouragedand tempted by fruits, remain about our homes by choice,returning each year to the old homestead. We have had oriolesreturn to our home four consecutive seasons, weaving thenew nests on to last year's, like a lean-to, sewing the twotogether with threads. Three pairs of these double-apartmentnests are swinging from a single gum-tree twenty-five feetabove the driveway.

Often a pair of orioles will suspend their hammocks underthe cloth awnings of windows, if provision is made for them.A strong string or little rope, put in and out of the cloth,close up under the corner, will tempt them. We have notknown an oriole to pierce firm, untransparent texture of anysort, with her needle beak. On this account we tempt herwith the rope.

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If corn leaves were high enough, the orioles would doubtlesstake them for nesting-places in their season. Not so verydifferent from corn is our banana leaf, only a good dealbroader and higher. It closes in the middle of the day like acorn leaf, opening again at night or with the sunset.

When the orioles first come to us in the spring they examineall the banana leaves. They soon make up their mindsthat these are either too young and tender or too old and tatteredfor a nesting site, and resort to the trees. Any tree willanswer, but a favorite is the blue-gum, whose extreme heightoffers inducements. Though why the birds should take heightinto consideration we do not know, for later, when the leaveshave matured, they select a low banana stock with its broadleaf, so low the hand can reach it. It may be they learn confidenceas the season advances.

We have seen no nests with us made of other material thanthe light yellow fiber which the birds strip from the edge ofthe palm-leaves, the identical leaf of which the big broad fansare made. When the leaf is green it drips small threads fromthe edges of its midribs, which you see in the fan as thickgrooves. These threads the orioles may be seen pulling outor off any hour in the day if the nest be located in a tree. Ifthey have found a suitable banana leaf they work only in themorning and evening, as the leaf folds up like a book in thedaytime, and the sharp apex under which the nest cuddles isdifficult to reach.

An oriole works only from below, pushing the thread up,and pulling it down the width of two or three veins away fromthe first stitch, making a good hold. She first leaves a dozenor twenty threads swinging, after doubling her stitches tomake them fast. Then she ties and twists the ends of the[ 59 ]threads together at suitable length and width for the innerlining of the hammock; thus fashioning the inner space firstand adding to the outside. When the whole is completed,she lines it with soft materials, using but one kind of materialin the same lining. The banana-leaf hammock has two openings,back and front, through either of which the birds enteror emerge. As the nest progresses in size the leaf is spreadapart, until on completion the thick midrib passes directlyover the nest and fixes the shape of the whole like a roof ora tent. It is cool and always swinging, and on the whole isan ideal nursery.

The adaptation of the oriole's feet for clinging and perchingis a good thought of nature, else the bird could neverweave from below as she does. She sticks her sharp toesthrough the mesh of the leaf, clinging to a rib while sheworks.

This custom of beginning on the inside of the nest marksthe building instincts of all the hang-birds, for should theyreverse the order they would make a mere tangle withoutinside proportions. It would be impossible to weave fromwithout. As the nest progresses the outer threads are coarserand less closely woven, brought together at certain points ofattachment to the twig or the leaf rib, and making a nest thewinds might play with, but not steal away.

The oriole's nest is the poetry of bird architecture, be itswung in an apple-tree or an elm or a maple, or under a leaf.Her slender beak is her needle, her shuttle her hands, herone means of livelihood. We may call her fabric a tangle ifwe will; to the eye of Mother Nature it is a texture surpassinghuman ingenuity, the art for making which has descendedby instinct to all her family. It is as beautiful as seaweed,[ 60 ]as intricate as the network of a foxglove leaf, and suggeststhe indefinite strands of a lace-work spider's cocoon. Allhomage to the oriole!

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CHAPTER VII

THE BIOGRAPHY OF A CANARY-BIRD

He didn't look very much like a bird, being mostly a biglittle stomach, as bare of feathers as a beechnut just out ofthe burr, with here and there on the head and back a tuft ofdown. His eyelids bulged prominently, but did not open,sight being unnecessary in consideration of the needs of hislarge stomach. Said needs were partially satisfied every fewminutes with the nursing-bottle.

And a very primitive nursing-bottle it was, being no otherthan the beak of the parent bird thrust far down the littlethroat, as is the family custom of the rest of the finches.

From somewhere in the breast of the mother a supplywas always forthcoming, and found its way down the tiny[ 62 ]throat of the baby and into the depths of its pudgy being.This food, which was moist and smooth, was very nourishingindeed, and sweet as well, for it tasted good, and left sucha relish in the mouth that said mouth always opened of itselfwhen the mother bird came near. But no more than its ownshare of the victuals did Dicky get, though he did his verybest to have it all. There were other babies in the samecradle to be looked after and fed. And they all five were asmuch alike as five peas, excepting that Dicky was the smallestof all and was kept pushed well down in the bottom of thenest. This did not prevent his mother from noticing his openmouth when it came his turn to be fed.

Canary mothers have sharp eyes; so have canary fathers,as will be seen.

Now, when this particular pair of birds began to look aboutthe cage for a good place to fix upon for family affairs, somekind hand from outside fastened a little round basket in onecorner, exactly of the right sort to stimulate nesting business.It was an old-fashioned basket, with open-work sides and bottom,airy and clean. Now, had this basket been a box instead,we should have had no tragedy to record; or had themesh been closely woven, no fatal mistake (though well meant)would have darkened the sky of this domestic affair. Butalas! the truth must be told, since the biography we arewriting admits of no reservations.

It all came about by the interference of the father bird,whose presence in the nursery should have been forbidden atthe start. The mother was more than once alarmed by hisactivity and misapplied zeal about the nest, and she hadscolded him away with emphatic tones.

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Not having anything of importance to do save to eat allday and sleep all night, he was on the alert for employment.One dreadful morning, when the mother was attending tobreakfast, this father canary espied some, tatters sticking outof the bottom meshes of the nest basket, bits of string endsand threads, carelessly and innocently overlooked.

"Ah," thought he, "here is something that ought to beattended to at once."

And he went to work! He thrust his sharp beak up betweenthe round meshes of the basket bottom and pulled atevery thread he could lay hold of, struggling beneath, fairlylosing his foothold in his eagerness to pull them out. Havingsucceeded in dragging most of the material from beneaththe birdlings, he caught sight of a few more straight pinkstrings lying across the meshes, and began tugging at them.The mother, feeding the babies from the edge of the nestabove, noticed the little ones each in its turn crouchingfarther and farther into the bottom of the cradle, faintly openingtheir mouths as if to cry, but being too young and weakto utter a sound. It was a mystery, but the deepest mysteryof it all was the fact that little Dicky, the dwarf of the family,came to the top as the rest worked down, and was gettingmore than his share of the breakfast.

About this time the mistress of the canary-cage came tosee after her pets, and beheld a sight which made her screamas hard as if she had seen a mouse. There, beneath the nest,was the father bird tugging at protruding feet and legs of babybirds with all his might, growing more and more excited as hesaw his supposed strings resisting his attempts to pull themthrough.

When the affair was looked into, there was but one birdleft alive of the five little infants no more than five days old,[ 64 ]and they were released from their predicament to have adecent burial in the garden at the foot of a motherly-lookingcabbage head that stood straight up in disgust of the cruelaffair, "as if she would ever have such a thing happen to herlittle cabbages!" True, she had no little cabbages of herown, but that made no difference.

Now that we have tucked away these four little canary-birds,who never saw the light of day, and therefore nevercould realize what they missed by not holding on harder towhat little they had by way of feet and legs, we will dropthe painful subject and attend to Dicky.

Of course the father bird was excluded from the nursery,as he should have been weeks before, and there was only onemouth to feed. And that mouth was never empty unless theowner of it was sleeping. In fact, the babe was stuffed;though, strange to say, his stomach grew no bigger, but lessand less, as the rest of his body filled out.

At the end of a couple of weeks he had a pretty fair shirton his back, of delicate down, softer than any shirt of woolthat ever warmed a human baby's body. And the motherstood on the edge of the basket and admired it. She didn'tmake it, of course, but she was in some way responsible forit, and no doubt felt proud of the bit of fancy work. Shenoticed, also, that the eyes of the little one did not bulge somuch as they did, and a tiny slit appeared at the center,widening slowly, until one happy hour they opened fairly out,and "the baby had eyes." But they were tired eyes to startwith, like the eyes of most young things, and they weariedwith just a glimpse of the light. So the lids closed, and itwas several days before Dicky actually took in the situationas he ought.

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There being no other baby to crowd, he kept to the nestlonger than birds commonly do, and when at last he got onhis feet he was pretty well fledged.

Now, when he had obtained his first youthful suit ofclothes, his mother looked surprised, as did also his father,it is to be supposed, he in his solitary cage hanging close tothe other. Both parent birds were pure-bred Teneriffecanaries, the male as green as emerald and the female moredusky and lighter. By a strange freak of nature, which happenssometimes by breeding these birds in captivity, theyoung fellow was bright yellow, of the tint of a ripe lemon,beak white, and eye black, while his feet and ankles retainedtheir original baby pinkness. Oh, he was a pretty bird! Butit was foreordained in his case, as in similar cases, that heshould not be so sweet a singer as though his color had beenlike that of his parents. He was not conscious of this fact,however, and it mattered not to him that he was yellowinstead of green. Nor did he care in the least that the priceof him was marked down to a dollar and a half when it shouldhave been double. Away he went in a new cage, after hisnew mistress had paid the sum named into the hand of hisformer owner. He peeked out of the bars as he was carriedalong swinging at every step; that is, he peeped out as wellas he could, considering that a cloth was covered over thecage. The wind blew the cloth aside now and then andDicky saw wonderful sights—sights that were familiar and"so soul-appealing." Not that he, in his own short life, hadever seen such sights, but that somehow in his little beingwere vague memories or conceptions of what his ancestorshad seen. It is hard to explain it, but everything cannot beexplained. When we come to one of these things we call it[ 66 ]"instinct," with a wise shake of our heads, just as we weretold to say "Jerusalem" when we came to a word wecouldn't pronounce when we were very young and read inthe Second Reader.

Well, Dicky had a good home of his own, and lived for apurpose, although he never developed into a trained singer.In the heart of him he longed for a mate, and often expressedhis desires in low, musical notes. But no mate came to him,and he would sit for hours pondering on his bachelor's lot,and singing more notes.

Now, wild birds are constantly having something "happen"to them. They fly against a wire or get a wing hurt,or the young fall out of the nest and can't find their mother.Dicky's mistress was always on the lookout for such accidents,and she brought such birds into the house and nursedthem and brought them back to health when possible. Itoccurred to her to offer a "calling" or "vocation" to Dicky.So she made a small private hospital of his cage, into whichshe placed the victims of accident or sickness as she foundthem. Dicky was surprised, never having seen a bird savehis parents, and his lady-love in his dreams, and at first hestood on tiptoe and was frightened.

But he learned to be kind after a while, and to show hisvisitors where the food and water were kept, and to snuggleup to them on the perch when it came bedtime. Many andmany a poor invalid did he aid in restoring to freedom andflight, until he became pretty well acquainted with the birdsthat nest in our grounds.

Year after year the good work went on, and Dicky developedmore musical talent, until he sang sweetly, imitatingthe finches and linnets outside. In the fall of the year, when[ 67 ]the wild birds were thinking of their annual migrations, Dickyhimself grew restless and quit his songs. Then his mistressopened his door and told him he might "go." Not faraway, of course, but all about in the room, that seemed tothis caged bird as big as any world could be. In his questfor new nooks he came by accident upon the mirror abovethe fireplace. Standing on the edge of a little vase beforethe glass, just in front of the beveled edge of it, he espiedtwo yellow birds, one in the glass itself and another in thebeveled edge, as a strict law of science had determined shouldbe the case.

In a second the whole bearing of the bird was changed.His feathers lay close, his legs stood long and slim, and hiseyes bulged, as they never had bulged since the lids partedwhen he was two weeks old. Then he found voice. Hesang as never a green bird sang sweeter. He turned hishead and the two birds in the glass turned their heads. Hepreened his wing and the two birds preened each a wing. Hislittle throat swelled out in melody, the tip of his beak pointingstraight to the ceiling of the big room as if it were indeedthe blue sky, and the two birds sang with uplifted beaks andswelling throats. They were of his own kind, his own race,his own ancestral comrades. And they were not green! Thelow mesas of the Canary Islands never resounded to suchmelody.

But melody was not food, at least so thought Dicky'smistress, as she tempted the bird in vain to eat. Not acrumb would he touch until placed back in his cage, wherehe straightway forgot his recent discoveries. As usual, hetook his bread and cooky to the water-dish and set it to soakfor dinner, and scattered his seeds about the cage floor in his[ 68 ]eagerness to dispose of the non-essentials, the hemp onlybeing, in his opinion, suitable for his needs. Of course hewas obliged to pick up his crumbs after he had thus assortedthe varieties.

Every day when the door was open he flew straight to themirror. If we moved the vase to the middle, away from thebeveled edge, he found the place by himself and stood ontiptoe exactly where the reflection accorded him the companionshipof two birds, and he would resume his melody.It was real to him, this comradeship, and it lasted untilactual and personally responsible companions were providedfor him.

Now, let not the reader conjure up a picture of many birdsin a cage with Dicky as governor or presiding elder. It wasmidsummer, when the sands are hot and inviting to the retiringand modest family known by name as "lizards." Theparticular branch of this family to which we refer, and towhich Dicky was referred, is known to scientists, who wouldbe precise of expression, as Gerrhonotus. But the familiarname of "lizard" is sufficient for the creatures we placed ina large wire cage on the upper balcony and designed forDicky's summer companions.

Now, it should not seem strange to any one that we chosethe lizard people to associate with this yellow-as-gold canary.Were they not one and the same long ages ago? And this isno legend, but fact. Have they not both to this day scaleson their legs and a good long backbone? To be sure, thebirds now have feathers on most of their bodies, so they maybe able to fly; but a long while ago the bird had only scales,and not a single feather. And are not baby lizards hatchedfrom eggs laid by the mother lizard? Ah, it is a long story,[ 69 ]this, dating back too far to count. But long stories are quitethe accepted fashion in natural science, and from readingthem we resolved to make some observations of our own.There is more to be gained sometimes in making observationson one's own account than by adopting those of others.

We captured half a dozen lizards and gave them the namesof Lizbeth, Liza, Liz, and Lize. That is, four of them, beingof the same order, received these names; there were two littleones besides, with peaco*ck-blue trimmings, which have nothingto do with this story. The four named were about eight inchesin length, speckled above and silver beneath. Their otherbeauties and characteristics will not be discussed except as itbecomes necessary in treating of Dicky's further development.

From the day when these five creatures became fellow-captivesthey were friends. The lizards took to sleeping inthe canary's food-box, so that in getting at his meals he wasobliged to peck between them, and sometimes to step overthem and crowd them with his head after hidden seeds. Asthe afternoon sunshine slanted across the cage the five tooktheir dry bath all in a heap, bird on top with wings outspread,lizards in a tangle, each and all thankful that there was sucha thing as a sun bath or family descent. Later, as the sunwas going down and the lizards became drowsy, as lizards will,Dicky sang them a low lullaby, now on the perch above them,now on the rim of the feed-box. At times another comradejoined them, especially at this choral hour.

One of those red and white striped snakes seen in fernsand brakes along watercourses made a home in the cage withthe bird and the lizards. This snake had an ear for music;at the first notes he emerged from his lair slowly and cautiously,lifted his graceful head toward the singer, and glided[ 70 ]in his direction. If the bird were on the perch the snakewould crawl up the end posts, taking hold with his scales,which, of course, were his feet, and lie at length on the perchat Dicky's feet, watching out of its beautiful eyes. At othertimes it would merely glide toward the bird, lift its head erectsome five or six inches, and remain motionless until the songwas finished. A big, warty hop-toad, also an inmate of thisasylum, was a friend of Dicky's, as indeed was every creature,even to the big grasshopper. This toad and the bird wereoften seen in the bath together, the toad simply squatting, asis the custom of toads, the bird splashing and spattering thewater over everything, including, of course, the toad. Thetoad blinked and squatted flatter to the bottom of the bath,hopping out when the bird was done, and the two sunningthemselves after nature's own way of using a bath-towel.

It would be too long a story were one to tell of the songsDicky sang to the drone of the drones bumming away againstthe wire, sorry perhaps that they were to become dinner tolizards before summer was half over. But we must bring thebiography to an end, hoping that these few reminiscenceswill tend to interest people in the "Dickies" that are aboutthem in wire cages, too often neglected and never half comprehended.

But we should by all means give an account of the last weever saw of this particular Dicky.

During his stay on the balcony he had become acquaintedwith the finches and linnets and mocking-birds of the yard,holding quiet talks with them in the twilight, and growingmore thoughtful at times, even to the extent of watching foropportunities to escape. One evening, just as we lifted thedoor to set in a fresh pan of water, out darted Dicky. Straight[ 71 ]to a tree near by he flew, and called himself over and overagain. We cried to him, "Dicky, O Dicky, come back."

Ah, but here was a taste of freedom—the freedom whichhis ancestral relatives had enjoyed on the low slopes of Teneriffebefore ever a foreign ship had carried them away captive.And Dicky had never read a word about his ancestors andtheir freedom! Therefore, what did he know about it?Scientists call it "instinct." It is a word too hard for us,and we will say "Jerusalem" and let it pass. Away acrossthe street flew Dicky, the bird of prison birth, the bird ofonly two comrades of his kind and color, and these but shadowsin a mirror.

The lizards heard us call, and peeped lazily over the edgeof the hammock seed-box, blinking sleepily, and then cuddleddown again without sense of their loss.

Running after the bird did not bring him back, as everybodyknows to his sorrow who has once tried it. A glint ofgold in the pine-tree, a radiance as of lemon streamers in andout of the cypress hedge, and we saw Dicky no more.

Some day a budding ornithologist, more eager than wise,with note-book and pencil, will possibly record a "new[ 72 ]species" among the foothill trees—a species that resemblesboth yellow warbler and goldfinch. And the young man willlook very knowing, all alone out in the woods; and he willsend his specimen to the National Museum for identification.And the museum people will shake their wiser heads andinform the "ornithologist" that, in their opinion, there ismore of the ordinary tame canary "let loose" in the individualthan goldfinch or warbler.

Let it pass.

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CHAPTER VIII

SPARROWS AND SPARROWS

No bird, unless it be the crow, is so nicknamed as thesparrow. None is so evil spoken of, none so loved. Acceptedenemy of the farmer, it is the farmer's dearest friend.

It is a good, large family, that of the sparrows, ninety ormore varieties occurring in the United States. Always, ofwhatever tint or markings, it is recognized by its stout, stalkyshape, short legs, and strong feet; but more surely by itsbulging, cone-like bill, pointed toward the end. This beak isthe bird's best characteristic, just as a certain nose is the leadingfeature of some human families. And there is characterin a sparrow's nose. It is used for original research and investigation,on account of which the sparrow, of all the birds,deserves the degree of doctor of philosophy conferred uponhim; omitting, of course, one single member of the family,the English sparrow. And why the English sparrow should[ 74 ]come in for any notice among the song-birds we cannot tell,unless it be the fact that it really does haunt them, and theyhave to put up with it almost everywhere they go. Surely itneeds no picture to introduce this little vagrant, save in a fewregions sacred as yet from its presence. Even this littleforeign rogue has lovable traits, were it not for the prejudiceagainst him. What persistence he has in the face of persecutionand death! What philosophy in the production of largefamilies to compensate for loss! What domestic habits!What accommodation to circ*mstances! What cheerfulacceptance of his lot! Surely the English sparrow presentsan example worthy of imitation.

To those whose preferences are for cooked little birds,what suggestions are stirred by the hosts of these sparrowsinvitingly arrayed on roof and porch and fences. They makeas good pot-pie as the bobolink or robin, and it would seemless sacrilege to so appropriate them. The rich and pooralike might indulge in the delicacy. Especially might theweak little starvelings in the cities, whose dipper of fresh, newmilk is long in coming, or never to come at all, find in sparrowbroth a nourishing substitute. Who knows but for thisvery purpose the birds are sent to the large cities. We readof a story of "quails" in a certain Old Book, and more thanhalf believe the wonderful tale. Why not make a modernstory of sparrows sent "on purpose," and cultivate a taste forthe little sinner? And its eggs! Why, a sparrow hen willlay on, indefinitely, like a real biddy. Only be sure torespect the "nest-egg," so the old bird may have one alwaysby her "to measure by."

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Think of the "little mothers" of the big cities, raisingbaby weaklings on sparrow broth and poached sparrow's eggs.It is a pity to waste such fat, little scraps of meat as arethrown about. Besides, making good use of the birds, if theymust be killed, is good for the soul of boys. It would teachthem thrift and a good purpose. Our best ornithologistsdeclare the English sparrow "a nuisance without a redeemingquality." Pity they hadn't thought about the pie.

But there are sparrows and sparrows. Some of the familyare our sweetest singers. Take the song-sparrow, the bird ofthe silver tongue. It is known throughout the EasternUnited States and Canada; and on the Pacific coast and elsewhereit is still the song-sparrow, though it varies slightly incolor in different regions. In many states it remains allwinter, singing when the snow is falling, and keeping comradeshipwith the chickadee.

Everybody knows the little fellow by his voice if not byhis coat. Nothing fine about the coat or gown save its modesttints. But, as with many another bird of gray or brownplumage, its song is the sweetest. Hearty, limpid, cheerfulin the saddest weather, always ending in the melody of anupward inflection, as if he invited answer.

The song-sparrow is the only one we have noticed togargle the song in its throat, swallowing a few drops witheach mouthful; or it may be that he stops to take a breathbetween notes. We have seen him sing, sprawled flat on alog in a hot day, with wings outspread, and taking a sun bath.The song is always very brief, as if he would not tire hislisteners, though he gives them an encore with hearty grace.Individual birds differ in song, no two singing their dozennotes exactly alike.

While his mate is patiently waiting to get the best resultsfrom her four or five party-colored eggs, the song-sparrow[ 76 ]sings constantly, never far from the nest in the bush or thelow tree, or even on the ground, where cats are debarredfrom the vicinity. One never can depend on the exact colorof the eggs, for they vary in tint from greenish white tobrowns and lavender, speckled or clouded, "just as it happens."

And the feathers of the birds have all these colors mingledand dotted and striped, and dashed off, as you may see foryourself, by looking out of the window or taking a still strolldown along the creek.

The song-sparrow has a pert little way of sticking its tailstraight up like a wren when it runs—and it is always runningabout. In our grounds they follow us like kittens, keepingup their happy chirp as if glad they ever lived and were blessedwith feet and a beak.

The nest of the song-sparrow is compact and snug, withlittle loose material about the base of it. We have had along hunt many a time to find it. If we are in the vicinityof it the two birds follow us, chirping, never going straight tothe nest, but wandering as we wander, picking up food in theway, and appearing to hold a chatty conversation. It is notevident that they are trying to conceal the fact that they havea nest and that we are near it; for if we sit down and wait,the mother goes straight to it without a sign of fear. But wemust wait a long while sometimes, until dinner is over, forthese birds seem to remain away from the nest longer at atime than most birds do. They feed their young on larvæ,pecked out of the loose earth, and tiny seeds from under thebushes, or soft buds that have fallen. They pick up a wholebeakful, never being satisfied with the amount collected.So it drips from the corners of their mouths in an odd fashion,[ 77 ]and some of it escapes, especially if it have feet of itsown.

We have not seen a nest of any other than a dark color.Horsehairs make almost half of it, and the outside is ofgrass closely woven around. The young birds are not"scared out of their wits," as are some birdlings, if a strangerappears, but will snuggle down and look one in the face.Once off and out they are always hungry, following the parentbirds with a merry chirp, with the usual upward inflection.They come early to our garden table, where crumbs of cakeand other things tempt them to eat too much. After theyare filled they hop a few feet away, and sit ruffled all up, andblinking with satisfaction.

Once we played a pretty trick on the sparrows. Knowingtheir preference for sweets, we placed a saucer of blackNew Orleans molasses on the table, with a few crumbs sprinkledon the top. Of course the birds took the crumbs, and ofcourse, again, they took a taste of the molasses. It wasn'ta day before they dipped their beaks into the molasses thathad now no sprinkling of crumbs, and seemed surprised at itslack of shape. It tasted good, and yet they couldn't pick itup like crumbs. Then they took to leaving the tip of thebill in the edge of it and swallowing like any person of sense.When they were done they flew away with the molasses drippingfrom their faces and beaks in a laughable style, returningalmost immediately with more birds.

The fact is, a sparrow is a boy when it comes to eating.Were it not for its good appetite, it couldn't put up with"just anything." Sparrows love the towns and cities becausethey find crumbs there. Our friend the baker knows them,and many a meal do they find ready spread at his back door.[ 78 ]So does Bridget the cook, and even Lung Wo, if their heartshappen to have a soft place for the birds. As for the boyaround the corner, who walks about on crutches, he knows allabout the sparrows' preferences. In fact, sparrows seem tohave a special liking for boys on crutches. One little fellowwe knew used to lay his crutch down flat on the ground andplace food up and down on it when the sparrows were hungryin the morning. And the crutch came to be the "familyboard," around which the birds gathered, be the crutch laidflat or tilted aslant on the doorstep. In this way Johnnyof the crippled foot came to have a good understanding withthe birds, and many a quiet hour was spent in their company.Johnny may turn out to be a great ornithologist some day, allon account of his crutch. What will it matter that he maynever shoulder a gun and wander off to the woods to shoot"specimens"? His knowledge of bird ways will serve a betterpurpose than a possible gun. It was Johnny who first toldus to notice how a sparrow straddles his little stick legs farapart when he walks, spreading his toes in a comical way.

Eastern and Western song-sparrows differ, and so do individualbirds everywhere—not only in their songs, but in thedistribution of specks and stripes on their clothes. What wehave said about our song-sparrows may not wholly apply tothe family elsewhere. These differences lead bird-lovers tostudy each of the birds about his own door and forests withoutplacing too much credit upon what others say.

There is much of the year when sparrows live almost solelyon seeds, and this is the time when they join hands with thefarmer, so to speak, and help him with the thistles and otherweeds, by work at the seed tufts and pods. Sparrows love torun in and out of holes and cracks and between cornstalks and[ 79 ]dry woodpiles. It was this habit of peeping into everything,on the part of the birds, that led the olden poet to write:

It was a pretty idea and a charitable one, that of thepoet's. In a country where roofs are shingled with thatch,or dry sticks and leaves overlapping, the sparrows are familiarresidents; and where somebody remembers to "pull out thethatch" or make a loose little corner on purpose, they sleepall night. We have ourselves made many a pile of brush onpurpose for the sparrows.

The white-crowned sparrows winter with us, going far upthe Alaskan coast to nest in the spring, as do also the tree-sparrow,the golden-crowned, savanna, and some others,including the beautiful fox-sparrow. These birds arrive inthe Far North as soon as the rivers are open, and to the gold-seekers,who get to their dreary work with pick and spade,are like friends from home. Many a homesick miner stops amoment to listen to their clear, ringing songs, almost alwaysin the rising inflection, as if a question were asked. And foranswer, the man who sometimes would "give all the gold heever saw" for one glimpse of home, draws his sleeve acrosshis eyes.

Some of the sparrows which nest in Alaska use pure whiteptarmigan feathers for nest-lining; while their cousins in theeast, on the opposite side, breeding in Labrador, use eider-down.In these far northern latitudes these birds scratch inthe moss and dead leaves of summer-time, often coming to iceat the depth of three or four inches. The summers are so[ 80 ]short that insect life is very scarce, excepting the mosquitoes.But there are berries! And an occasional hunter's or gold-seeker'scabin always furnishes meals at short notice. Menmay pass the birds at home in civilization with scarcely athought; but when away and alone, the presence of a birdthey have known in other climes brings them to their senses.It is then they recognize the fact that birds are their comradesand friends, to be cherished and fed, not always huntedand eaten.

On account of the distribution of sparrows the worldover, many legends have been written of them. The veryearliest we have read is the one that assures us the sparrowwas seen by Mother Eve in the Garden of Eden, on theday she ate of the forbidden fruit. In fact, the "tree" wasfull of sparrows warning the woman not to eat, though thebirds themselves were making for the fruit with might andmain.

In the story of Joseph it is recorded that the "chiefbaker" had a dream. In his dream he bore three baskets onhis head. In the uppermost basket were all kinds of "bake-meatsfor the king." While the baker was walking to thepalace with the baskets on his head the sparrows came andate all the meat there was in the upper basket.

In the narrative the name of the birds is not given, butthe fact that they "ate up the meat," going in at the littlewickerwork spaces, leads us to believe they were sparrows.It was only a dream; but people dream their waking thoughtsand habits. It is supposed that this chief baker was fond ofbirds, and it was customary for him to feed them on the king'svictuals.

Well, the king is no poorer off now that the birds had[ 81 ]their fill. And we wish peace to the soul of the baker for hiskindness.

In the ballad of the "Babes in the Wood" it was the sparrowwho made the fatal mistake which took off co*ck Robinbefore the wedding feast was over. Poor sparrow! He hasnever been known to carry a bow and arrow under his coatfrom that day to this. Thinking of that old ballad, we haveoften watched the robins and the sparrows together, and arenever able to make out that the robin holds any grudgeagainst his ancient friend and guest who made the blunder.

In nearly all the markets of the Old World sparrows havebeen sold as food, bringing the very smallest price imaginable.In Palestine two of them were sold for the least piece ofmoney in use, though what anybody wants of two sparrows,unless to make a baby's meal, we do not know.

The tree-sparrow of England is common in the HolyLand, and it was probably this bird to which the New Testamentalludes.

Of our American sparrows, the fox-sparrow is probablythe most beautiful in markings. By its name one mightimagine it had something to do with foxes, and so it has, butin color only, being a rich foxy brown in its darker tints.This bird is seen all winter in Washington on the Capitolgrounds, scratching in the leaves for food and singing its loyalmelody. The fox-sparrow has been sometimes detained incaptivity, but as a rule grows too fat for a good singer. Itseems to be the same with them as with our domestic fowls—iftoo fat they give poor returns. The hen and the sparrowand most people must scratch for a living, would they makea success in life. But who would want to cage a sparrowunless it be an invalid who can never go out of the room?[ 82 ]Even here, if the invalid have a window-sill it were better;for the window-sill is sparrow's own delight, if it be furnishedwith crumbs. Or, if one would see some fun, let the crumbsbe in a good round loaf tightly fastened. This, let the sparrowunderstand, is for him alone, and he will burrow to theheart of it. Caged birds make sorry companions.

The farmer sometimes wishes he had all the sparrows heever saw in a cage. Well, farmer, were it not for the sparrows,there would be more abandoned farms than you canimagine. Therefore, let them live and have their freedom.And let the farmer's daughter make bread on purpose forthem. They will make no complaints about her first attempts,nor call it sour or heavy. Let the children play atcamp-fire and throw their biscuits to the birds. It will givethem happy hearts, each of them, the birds and the children.The sparrows will respond with a single word of thanks, butit will be hearty.

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CHAPTER IX

THE STORY OF THE SUMMER YELLOWBIRD

Here is a legend of the summer yellowbird. Let whowill believe or disbelieve. They will think of it as often asthey see the yellow beauty.

Once on a time, when Mother Nature was very lavish ofher gold, she forgot to be thrifty and took to spreading iteverywhere. She thought she had enough to make the wholeworld yellow, this being her favorite color; but she soon collectedher wits, and reasoned that if everything were yellowthere would be nothing left for contrast. So she quit spreadingit on, and took to tossing it about in great glee, not caringwhere it went, so it was in dashes and dots and streaks andlumps, here and there.

She threw whole handfuls on the flowers, and butterflies,and little worms, and toadstools, and grass roots, and up inthe sky at sunset, and against mountain peaks. The mountainslaughed at this sudden whim of Mother Nature, openingtheir mouths wide, and got whole apronfuls tossed rightdown their throats.

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After the ocean bottoms had been peppered with the gold,the flowers came along for their share; the buttercups anddandelions, and goldenrod and sunflowers and jonquils, andhosts of others.

Last came the orioles and finches and bobolinks, and manyothers, each in turn getting a spray or a dash or a grain ofthe yellow, and went away singing about it.

But certain very plain little birds arrived later, when thegold was almost gone, and asked Nature to give them "justa little." Now she had but a handful left. Seeing that therewasn't enough to go around if each had a little, the lady birdssaid, "Give all you have left to our mates. We do not carefor gold. We will follow them about like shadows and lookwell to the nesting."

Then Nature smiled on the unselfish lady birds, and tossedall she had left of the yellow stuff straight at the singers whostood before her, each behind the other in a straight row,thinking she would give it to them in bits. But Nature threwit at them with all her might, laughing.

Of course the bird in front got the biggest splash, andthen it scattered down the line, until the last few had only adust or two. But they all began to warble, every one, eachso happy that he had a little gold.

When Nature saw that the bird in the front had more thanhis share, she looked very keenly in his face and said: "Myson, you must go everywhere, all over the cities and townsand country and forests, wherever human hearts are sad andeyes are dim with tears. And you must warble all aboutsummer and good times when the clouds are dark, and youmust be fond of houses where people dwell, and fields andplaygrounds and sheep, and keep company with sorrow, and[ 85 ]make the earth glad you had so much gold about you.And you can stay out in the rain, and make believe the sunshines when it doesn't, just to make people happier. Shoo!little summer yellowbird, that is your name."

And the bird has been true to his happy mission eversince, going about here and there and everywhere in our country,taking his gold with him, and making buttercups anddandelions grow on fir-trees and goldenrod quiver in theglens before even the spring crocuses are out. In the greenof the trees he looks like a single nugget, and when he runsup and down a branch it seems as if somebody had spilledliquid gold above, and it was running zigzag in and out of thebark. When he flies in the blue sky he seems like a visiblelaugh, for nobody can see the dash he makes and not smile.Many a breaking heart has been made less sad by the sightof him, and though he is not much of a singer, as singinggoes, the few notes he has are cheery. Better to speak a fewglad words than be an orator and scold.

And the yellow summer bird couldn't scold if he tried.The more he warbles gladness, the more the habit grows. Inthose nooks where the yellow warbler does his dress act, ormolts, the children catch the feathers as they fall from hisnight perch, or lie in the ferns and toss them about for fun,to see them glint in the sunshine. Little girls gather themfor doll hats, and make startling fashions for winter head-dresses.

All right, little girls; take the feathers as they are tossedto you by the merry warbler, without a single twinge of conscience.They are yours because they are given you. Youdidn't steal them nor hire a big boy to bring them to you.Should the yellow warbler molt a pair of wings by mistake,[ 86 ]and you found them lying in a bush some bright autumnmorning, you might have them for your doll's hat. Youmight even put them on your own little head.

But to rob a bird of its gold, to tear out a wing or afeather to flaunt on your own pitiless head or the crackedchina head of your doll—that would be a different thing.

There is a story afloat which we are tempted to tell,though it isn't a very happy one, and is not believed byeverybody. It especially concerns girls and some women.

It has been a well-known fact for centuries that birds dohold conventions for the supposed purpose of talking overmatters that concern themselves.

Not long ago, some time in the century that has justpassed, there was a general convention of American birdsheld in the backwoods of the north. There were representativesfrom all the bird families that wear bright feathers.The purpose of the assembly was for discussion of differentpoints in fashion, more particularly of the head-dress ofwomen.

Now, at this point in the story, everybody knows exactlythe drift of the "moral" which is as sure to come at the endas the yellowbird is sure to come with the daffodils. So it'sof no use to go on with the story, since the moral is whatstory-tellers usually aim at from start to finish. Listen to thesummer yellowbird all next season, and when he gives theword, let everybody, big and little, who loves to wear birdfeathers and wings, make a scramble for the backwoods, andyou may hear the upshot of the convention for yourself.In the mean time, should crows and magpies and eagles andvultures, and other birds of strong beak and furious temper,steal down on homes and peck off the scalps of girls andwomen as they lie in their happy beds, let no one be alarmed.Possibly there has been a bird convention, and the big birdsof sharp claw and strong beak are but doing as they aredirected—and it is "the fashion" for them to do it, so theyare quite excusable.

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But if we go on with legends and imagined bird conventions,we shall never get to the bird itself.

The bird itself is the summer yellowbird, the dear, delightfulyellow warbler, whose very picture you see before you;the restless, much-traveled bird, the bird who may not lookexactly like himself when his coat is worn and tumbled, butwho comes by a new, fresh one when it is most sorelyneeded. More dull of color is his mate, who is just behindhimself, somewhere in the tree out of range of the camera.The two are never far apart in family times; where one fliesthere goes the other, happy as clams—if clams ever are veryhappy, which we doubt—nesting as they do deep down in thewet sand, and never seeing a flower or a ripe peach or a raspberryall their lives. However, it is supposed the clam knowssomething akin to happiness, for he is always where he wantsto be, save when he falls into the pot, and here is where wewill leave him.

Well, the yellow warbler is at home all over NorthAmerica, migrating from place to place, sometimes in twosand threes, sometimes in flocks; at times journeying straighton, and again stopping in every treetop for refreshments sureto be ready. Sometimes the birds travel by night, comingin on the morning train like any travelers, hungry for breakfast,and the first we know of their arrival is a quaint littleplea for something to eat. Not a highly melodious note that,but curious and pleasing.

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We always know summer is coming straight away whenwe see the warbler, just as we know winter is here by thefirst snowflake. And as soon as they arrive nesting begins.For that very purpose they come, of course. As to the nests,they are very beautiful. The one in the picture must havebeen built deep in the woods, where grasses and dried leaftatters were plenty.

But there is no set pattern to go by, when nests are made.That is, there is no particular building material allowed, aswith the swallows and some others. The yellow warbler lovesbest to use things that mat together readily, so the nest cupwill be compact and thick, like a piece of felt cloth—so differentfrom the nest of the grosbeak, transparent and open, likebasketwork.

To get this cloth-like substance, the birds visit the sweet-fernstalks of the pasture sides, pulling off the woolly furze bitby bit, until a beakful is gathered. Then they make a tripto the brooks, especially in early spring, where they wake upthe catkins on the puss*-willows and get loads of the soft fur.Oh, the secrets the puss*-willows know, about bird and batand butterfly cocoon, and other winged people that frolic intheir shadows! They could tell you exactly how many beakfulsof puss* fur it takes to weave a crib blanket for a yellowwarbler's nest. Whole nests are made of it sometimes; forthe warbler loves to gather one particular kind of material fora nest if sh& comes across enough of it in one spot. That iswhy they build so rapidly, always getting it done in a hurry.They love big loads of anything, and the male shows his matewhere she can find it with the least trouble. In places wheresheep pasture, rubbing against trees and catching their sidesinto thorns and sticks at every turn, the yellowbird gathers[ 89 ]the wool. She likes this particularly, as it is light and clingsto itself, and she can carry large quantities at one trip.

The happy boy or girl who has a pasture near by home isrich. There is nothing like a pasture to study nature in,especially birds. A wood lot with trees of all sizes in it, acranberry bog, a huckleberry patch, a maple grove, a sweet-ferncorner, with snake vines running at random among youngbrakes—ah! this is the spot of all the world for nature-loversand birds. One can part the bushes and find a warbler's nestmost anywhere. One can peer up into the treetops and findanother. In the treetops the nest is fastened securely, be itwhere the winds have a habit of blowing through their fingerswhen it isn't necessary. But birds and winds are fair play-fellowsand seldom interfere with one another.

Here, in southern California, we have little wind, if any,in the days of the summer yellowbird. So nests are oftenset in a crotch without a bit of fastening.

Two years ago a pair came to the house grounds, the firstwe had seen so near. We wondered what they would nestwith first, knowing their disposition to take the material closeat hand. We knew they strip the down from the backs ofthe sycamores in the mountain cañons, and gather bits ofwool fiber from tree trunks, or ravel lint from late weedstems in the arroyos. So we anticipated and shook loosecotton-batting in a bush. No sooner did father yellowbirdspy the fluffy, white stuff than he brought madam, and shewas delighted. This cotton could be pulled by beakfuls, andan afternoon or two would make the entire nest.

And they used it, not getting another thing save somegray hairs from a lady's head, which in combing had escaped,and were saved on purpose for the birds.

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The nest was placed in the crotch of a pepper-tree, justout of reach of tiptoe inquirers. Just one pinch of cottonabove another until the cup was deep and true to the shapingof the mother's breast, she turning round and round after themanner of nest-builders. Through the layers ran separatehairs which held the cotton in shape.

It was a beautiful thing, that nest, even after it had servedits purpose, and we took it down when the birds had flown.That was a mistake of ours. It was before we had come toknow it is better to leave old nests undisturbed. Many birdslove to return the coming season and repair last year's structures.

When the following summer came, and the yellowbirdsreturned from their winter in Mexico, they went straight tothe same old tree. They crept up and down the trunk, peeringinto all the crotches, and criticising every place where anest might have been. Perhaps a single speck of the cottonhad 'remained and served for "a pointer"; anyway, the birdslocated the exact spot and went to work without more ado.

Exactly as though they remembered, they went also tothe supply counter where we had placed more cotton inadvance of their coming, and with it they built exactly thesame white nest in the very crotch of last year's happy history.

It was a pretty sight to see the mother take the cotton.It looked sparklingly white against her breast and drippingfrom her beak. And all the time she was arranging it in thenest to suit her experienced mind, her mate sang, warblinghis sympathy, darting through the leaves, and running up anddown the branches. This running up and down the boughs,so like their cousins, the creepers, makes this bird look gracefulof form and motion, as indeed he is, anywhere and at[ 91 ]anything he does. On this account he is often called the gem-bird,his brilliant grace suggesting some precious and covetedstone.

These warblers of ours did not feign lameness, if we camenear the nest, as some of the family are said to do. Fromdaily companionship they came to know and trust us. Hadthe nest been a little lower we should have succeeded in tamingthem completely, as we have many of the wild birds atnesting-time.

We have left the nest where it is this fall, hoping the birdswill return and claim it another year. It being of cotton,however, and having no threads to bind it in the crotch, wethink the winter storms will wreck it.

It has been claimed by good authority that the cow-birdloves to deposit her eggs in the yellow warbler's nest. Butthis is of little avail to the cow-bird's trick, for MadamWarbler sees the point and the egg at a glance. She oftenbuilds above the intruder, imprisoning the alien egg, and soleaves it to its fate. A single bird is said to have built abovethe cow-bird's egg three times in succession, as the intruderpersisted, until there were four floors to the nest, on the lastof which the mother succeeded in laying her own eggs. Ifshe becomes discouraged by the persistency of her guiltyneighbor, she will leave the spot sometimes and search foranother in which to carry on her own affairs in peace.

Of the seventy-five or more species of this warbler familysaid to occur in the United States, all resemble each other inpoints enough to mark them as warblers. All are insect-eaters.Some are called worm-eaters, others bug-eaters.They despise a vegetable diet. On account of their sharpappetite for grubs and larvæ, the warblers are the friends of[ 92 ]all who live by the growth of green things and the ripeningof fruits and grains. With few exceptions all the birds aresmall and very beautiful. Theirs is the second largest familyamong our birds, ranking next to the sparrows.

Some of the warblers live near streams, playing boat onfloating driftwood, hunting for insects in the decaying timbers,running up and down half-submerged logs atilt on theshore, after spiders and water-beetles.

If they are missed we may be sure they will return in theirown good time, bringing their warble with them. They mayonly stay long enough for breakfast or dinner, taking advantageof their stop-over tickets, like any travelers of note.Perhaps the strong, courageous, singing males of the party oftravelers come in advance of the females and young, as if tosee that the country is ready and at peace. Nothing can besaid of them more beautiful and fitting than this quotationfrom Elliott Coues:

"With tireless industry do the warblers defend the humanrace. They visit the orchard when the apple and pear, thepeach, plum, and cherry, are in bloom, seeming to revelamong the sweet-scented blossoms, but never faltering intheir good work. They peer into crevices of the bark, andexplore the very heart of the buds, to detect, drag forth, anddestroy those tiny creatures which prey upon the hopes of thefruit-grower, and which, if undisturbed, would bring all hiscare to naught. Some warblers flit incessantly in the tops ofthe tallest trees, others hug close to the scored trunks andgnarled boughs of the forest kings; some peep from thethickets and shrubbery that deck the watercourses, playingat hide-and-seek; others, more humble still, descend to theground, where they glide with pretty mincing steps and[ 93 ]affected turning of the head this way and that, their delicateflesh-tinted feet just stirring the layer of withered leaves withwhich a past season carpeted the sod. We may see warblerseverywhere in their season and find them a continual surprise."

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CHAPTER X

THE BLUEBIRD

Yesterday the snow melted from the top of the great rocksin the woods; the evergreens shading the rocks lost theirwhite load that had been bearing down the branches for amonth; the fences straggled their lean legs wide apart, as if itwere summer, only the tips of their toes resting on the surfacesnow; the north roof of the barn fringed itself with iciclesthat tumbled down by noon, sticking up at the base of thebarn in the drifts head foremost; the top dressing of whitepowder that for weeks had adorned the woodpiles sifteddown through the sticks in a wet scramble for the bottom.All around the farm the buntings had picked the snow off,making the fields look as if brown mats were spread all overthe floor. But yesterday the south wind puckered up its lipsand blew all over everything in sight, and the brown matsdisappeared, or rather, grew into one big one. The cows inthe barn-yard look longingly over the fence toward the pasture,and the fowls take a longer walk than they have daredfor months, away out in the garden, where lopping brownvines and nude bush stalks bear witness to what they havesuffered.

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The sun shines across the dooryard as it hasn't shone forso long, making a thin coat of mud just at the edge of thechips and around the doorsteps. But what matters? Thechildren run in and out, tracking up the clean floors, takingtheir scolding with good cheer. Isn't spring here? and don'tthey hear the bluebird's note in the orchard?

Run! run! and put up some more little boxes on the shedand the fence-posts. Clean out the last year's nests in thehollow trees. Tell the old cat to "keep mum" and "lielow," or she will be put in a bag and dropped to the bottomof the very first hole in the ice. Cats are all right in the deadof winter, when Old Boreas is frantic in his annual mad fit.She can sit on the rug and purr to her heart's content; butwhen the bluebirds come, if she bethinks herself of the fact,and sharpens her claws against the trunk of a cherry-tree, shewould better look out. When the old cat sharpens her clawsshe means business, especially if she turns her head in thedirection of the orchard. From the orchard comes a soft,agreeable, oft-repeated note, there is a quivering of wingsoutspread, and "he" is here. There may be only one or twoor six singers. They have left the lady bluebirds in a safeplace until they are sure of the weather. If the outlook bebad to-morrow, the birds will retire out of sight and wait foranother warm spell. But spring is really here, and the goodwork of the sun goes on. In a day or two the lady birdsappear modestly, of paler hue than the males, quiet, butquick and glad of motion.

It is the time of sweethearts. A blue beauty, whoselatest coat is none the worse for winter wear, alights near the[ 96 ]mate of his choice, sitting on a twig. He goes very near herand whispers in her ear. She listens. He caresses a droopingfeather, torn in her wing as she dodged the brush in the journey.She thinks it very kind of him to do so.

Suddenly an early fly appears, traveling zigzag, slowly,somewhere, probably on some family business of its own.Bluebird spies it and makes for it. Not on his own account!Oh, no! He snatches it leisurely and presents it to his love,still sitting on the tree. She thanks him, and wipes her beakon a smaller twig.

So little by little, and by very winning ways, does thisgentle blue courtier pay his suit of Miss Bluebird. A chanceacquaintance of bluebird sidles up to the same branch onwhich the two have been sitting. Bluebird courtier likeshim not; he will have no rival, and so he drives the intruderaway as far as the next tree, returning to his sweet and singinga low warble about something we do not understand.Probably he is giving her to understand that he will "do theright thing" by her all the time, never scolding (as indeed henever does), and looking to the family supplies, and in allthings that pertain to faithful affection will prove himselfworthy of her. She consents, taking his word for it, andthey set about the business of the season.

Now they must hurry or the wrens will come and drivethem out of house and home. One of the bluebirds remainsin the nesting-place, or very near it; for if the house be emptyof inmates, the wrens make quick work of pulling out suchstraws and nesting material as have been gathered.

If the people of the farm or other home be on the watchthey can lend a hand at this time. Offered inducements byway of many boxes or nesting-places, with handfuls of fine[ 97 ]litter, will attract the wrens, and the bluebirds will be untroubled.It may be that a cold snap will come up in a drivinghurry after the nesting is well under way. In this eventthe birds will disappear, probably to the deep, warm woods,or the shelter of hollow trees, until the storm be past, whenthey will come again and take up the work where they left off.

This sudden going and coming on account of the weatherhas always been a mystery to those who study the bluebirds.Some imagine they have a castle somewhere in the thickestof the woods, where they hide, making meals on insects thatlove old, damp trees. Caves and rock chambers have beenexplored in search of the winter bluebirds, but not a birdwas found in either place. They keep their own secrets,whether they fly far off to a warmer spot, or whether theyhide in cell or castle.

If the work is not anticipated by human friends, and thenesting-places cleaned out in advance of the birds, they willtidy up the boxes themselves, both birds working at it.What do they want of last year's litter with its invisible littlemites and things that wait for a genial warmth to hatch out?House-cleaning is a necessity with the bluebirds. When thenest is done it is neat and compact, composed of sticks andstraws with a softer lining. The birds accept what is readyto hand, making no long search for material. Being neighborto man and our habitations, it uses stable litter.

The three to six pale blue eggs contrast but slightly withthe mother's breast. The little ones grow in a hurry, for wellit is known that more broods must be attended to beforesummer is over. Sometimes the nest is placed at the bottomof a box or passageway, and the young birds have difficultyin making their way to freedom. The old birds in such a[ 98 ]case are said to pile sticks up to the door, and the little oneswalk up and out as if on a ladder!

The mother soon takes to preparing for another brood,and the father assumes all the care of the young just out,leading them a short distance from the mother, and teachingthem to hunt insects and berries. The little ones are not blue,as any one may see, but brown with speckled breasts. Thesespeckled breasts of young birds are fashionable costumes formany other than bluebirds. They remind one of infantilebibs, to be discarded as soon as the young things eat andbehave like their elders.

When the persimmons are ripe in the late fall whole familiesof bluebirds collect in the trees for the fruit. They loveapples as well, but apples are hard unless in early spring afterthe frost has thawed out of them. So the birds take the persimmonsfirst. It is at this time, when they are flitting fromtree to tree, that any person who will take the trouble ofhiding underneath and keeping still will catch glimpses of theyellow soles of the bluebird's feet. The legs are dark abovethe soles. There is a legend about this that is pleasing toknow and half-way believed by lovers of legends.

And one need not be ashamed of one's fondness forlegends. Legends are as old as the hills, and folk-lore haspreserved them. Now that the printer has become theguardian of such things, we expect a legend with every bird andbeast, and a life history of either is hardly complete without.

Nearly all the birds of North America are entitled to alegend through the nature-loving Indians, the first inhabitantsof our country. They have left little data, but enough has beengleaned from their folk-lore to put us on the trail of many adelightful story. Some of our legends may be of recent date.[ 99 ]but all have a fascination of their own. The ancients lovedmyth and weird, fanciful tales. We are descendants of theancients, and we love the same things.

Once upon a dreary time a flood of water covered all theearth. The land birds were all huddled together in a littleboat, twittering to each other of a "bright to-morrow," asthey do to this day. As the storm grew harder the birdsgrew cold, not having any clothes up to that date. This wasthe first rain that ever came, and caught many things, ofcourse, unprepared. The birds had been of naked skin, likethe lizards, but their beaks had grown, else how could theyhave been twittering to one another of a bright to-morrow?On this very morrow of song, the boat being far above themountain-tops, a single ray of sunshine appeared at a crackin the cabin-house. The bluebird always, from the veryfirst, being on the lookout for stray bits of sunshine, sprangto the spot, which was just big enough for his two feet.When the sun went back behind the clouds it was found thatthe stray bit of it which the bluebird had hopped uponremained on the soles of his feet. That is the way the bluebirdcame by his yellow soles.

And he came by his blue coat in this wise: When thestorm had spent itself the bluebird was the first to go outof the boat, straight toward heaven, singing as he went.When he got to the blue sky he stopped not, but pushed hisway straight through, rubbing the tint of the sky right intohis uncolored feathers, that had grown in a flash when he leftthe boat. His mate followed straight through the hole herlord had made, but of course she did not get so much blueas he, the hole being rubbed quite dry of its paint. Eversince the first flight of the bluebird somewhere the sun has[ 100 ]shone through the rift he made in the sky and he carries hopeof spring in his wake.

The bluebirds are good neighbors, never quarreling nortroubling other birds. In the late fall his note changes to aplaintive one, as if he were mourning for the dear, delightfuldays of summer-time and nursery joys. It is now that he,with his large family, may be seen on weed stalks in the opencountry, looking for belated insects and searching for beetlesand spiders among the stones.

In darting for winged insects the bluebird does not takea sudden flight, but sways leisurely, as if he would not frightenhis treasure by quick movements.

Besides this particular bluebird, so well known all overNorth America, there are two other members of the family,differing only slightly in coloring and similar in habits.These are the Western and the Arctic bluebirds.

The bluebirds are the morning-glories of our country.They are companions of the violet of spring and the asters inautumn. They belong to the blue sky and the country homeand the city suburbs. When the English sparrow is wearyof being made into pot-pie and baby-broth, it will go on itsway to the North Pole or the Southern Ocean, and our darlingin blue will have no enemy in all the land.

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CHAPTER XI

THE TANAGER PEOPLE

It is a large tribe, of numerous species in America, but thescarlet tanager alone may well be termed the Red Man of theforest. Native of the New World, shy, a gypsy in his way,harmless to agriculture, a hunter by nature, fascinating to alleyes that light on him.

It is as if Nature had a surplus of red and black the dayshe painted him, and was determined to dip her brush innothing else. This contrast of color has made him one of ourmost familiar birds. But, as with many another of strikinghue, the scarlet tanager has an indifferent song. Among ourflowers like the scarlet geraniums and hibiscus, we do notlook for the fragrance that distinguishes the pale violet orwild rose. It is as if the bright tint of bird or blossom issufficient of itself, and nature would not bestow all virtuesupon one individual.

Still the musical qualities of this tanager are not to bedespised. His few notes may be almost monotonous, butthey are pensive, even tender when addressed to his dearcompanion, for whom his little breast holds warm affection.She, too, at nesting-time, utters the same pensive note,and the two may be noticed in the treetops, whispering to oneanother in low tones.

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It is not for his song, therefore, that we seek the bird,but hearing the song, we would see the singer. And whocan blame us? We love the deeper tints of sunset and sunrise,the red and yellow of autumn leaves, the red glow of theprairie fire, the tint of the Baldwin apple and the sops o' wine.A tree of dull green apples in the orchard, though of finerflavor, will be neglected, more especially by the "wanderingboy," for its crimson-cheeked neighbor of indifferent relish.The red apples of the naked winter bough, left on purposefor Jack Frost and the birds to bite, are said to allure thelatter before the paler fruit of the next tree is disturbed.

Therefore, when a nature-lover wanders into the woods indreamy mood and the scarlet tanager flits above him amid thegreen of the foliage, the thrush and the sparrow are forgotten.

The tanager is discreet by nature, for it is as if he knowsthat by glimpses only is he best appreciated. Were he lessretiring, as bold in habit as in color, sitting on the roofs andfence-posts, swinging the nest pendant from boughs, like theoriole, he would be less fascinating. But the tanager is seldommore than half seen; he is detected for an instant, likea flash, and disappears.

It is with the eye as with the hand. We would hold inthe grasp of our fingers what we covet to touch or own.And the eye would retain in its deep fortress, if only for a moment,the tint it feasts on. More especially is this the caseif the thing we would hold or see is transitory by nature.

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So when we sit down on a half-decayed log bedeckedwith toadstools, and hear the note of a scarlet tanager overhead,we listen and are moveless. It is repeated, and if weare unacquainted with the bird we may think him to theright of us. Actually he is on the left, being endowed withthe gift of ventriloquism. By this gift or attainment thebeautiful creature eludes his human foes. For foes the tanagersurely has, the more's the pity! Not content to adorethe bird as part and parcel of generous nature, there are thosewho would pay their homage to the wings only, set amongfeathers and plaited straw. Such lose the fine art of tenderness.The face that would pale at sight of a brown mouseshines with pride beneath a remnant of red plumage literallydyed with the life-blood of their original owner.

Well, let Angelina's hat pass for what it is worth to her.It is no more than the redbirds have had to submit to alltheir life history. There isn't a savage tribe but has madeuse of bright feathers for dress, either in skins or quills. Thedark-skinned native is "dressed for church" if he wear asingle feather tuft in his scalp-lock, or a frail shoulder-cape ofcrimson breasts, stripped from the bird in the bush.

It may be the tanager has a sort of dull instinct to hidehimself on this account in the deep foliage, deeming it thebetter part of valor to keep out of harm's way when a nature-loversits on the toadstool-bedecked log to watch for him.

His mate, of dull greenish yellow, has less enemies in thedisguise of admirers, and her little heart has no call to flutterwhen the so-called nature-lover haunts the woods. She goeson with her nest-building on the arm of a maple or even lonelyapple-tree, making haste, for well she knows the season is[ 104 ]short in which to raise their single brood. By the middle ofAugust they must be off, have the wings of the young grownsufficient strength; and yet the old birds only arrived fromtheir warmer clime in the South when May was half over, orlater.

Like the grosbeak's, the tanager's nest is loosely built oftwigs and stalks, transparent from below, as if ventilationwere more necessary than softness. The dull blue eggs,spotted with brown or purple, may be distinctly seen frombeneath when the sun is shining overhead. But why worrythe mother bird by long gazing? She is in great distress.Were the ear of the nature-lover properly tuned he wouldunderstand her to be saying, "They're mine, they're mine.I beg, I beg. Don't touch, don't take."

But in due time the young are juveniles, not nurslings,and they leave the nest, too soon the worse for wear onaccount of its careless build. At first the thin dress of theyoung is greenish yellow, like the mother, and they may passunnoticed amid the late summer foliage. The male juveniles,during their first year, somewhere change to brighter hues inspots and dashes of red and black, as if their clothes had beenpatched with left-overs from their fathers' wardrobes. Thefathers themselves, before they fly to the warm South, droptheir scarlet feathers, like tatters, amid the ferns and blue-berries,and girls pick them up for the adorning of doll hats.No merrier sight, and none more innocent of character, thanthis of little girls searching for what is left of the beautifulsummer visitor, picking up, as it were, the shreds of his memory.These scarlet feathers, together with those of the summeryellowbird, placed in layers or helter-skelter in a case ofgauze, make a fairy pillow for winter times, pretty to look at.[ 105 ]They come with thistle-down and milkweed tassels, andsumach droppings and maple leaves, and the first oozing ofspruce gum in the woods. Yes, and beechnuts and belatedgoldenrod, and the first frosts that nip the cheek of the cranberryin the bog.

And the huckleberry patch is littered with the tiny plumes,for tanagers love the huckleberries that leave no stain on theirgreenish yellow lips. These huckleberries are their chieffood in late berry-time, coming, as they do, when the juvenilesneed a change in their meat diet before the long flightahead of them. Up to this date they made good, squaremeals from fat beetles and other insects big enough to "payfor catching." That bumblebees and wasps are endowedwith sharp points in their character does not forbid the use ofthem for tanager food; though it is presumed that the stingsare either squeezed out, or the insect killed, before it is fedto the nestlings, as we have noticed in the case of the phœbes.

In these late summer days the singer punctuates his songoften and long, for he must recuperate for his autumn journey.More than this, he must protect his young ones. He thereforeloses the shyness of spring, and follows the juvenilesabout, feeding them and teaching them to shift for themselves,and protecting them with word and sign. His wholecare is for his family, and hard is a cruel world indeed whosehuman inhabitants can molest him. His scarlet cloth is forgotten.He will follow his young even into captivity, andthere feed them through bar or window. But not a fascinatingprisoner is the tanager; one grows accustomed to hisbright coat, and as it is seen against the pane in winter-time,contrasting with the whiteness of the snow, seems to reproachthe hand that imprisoned it. When one stops to think of it,[ 106 ]scarcely a bird in captivity, unless it be the canary to themanner born, gives the satisfaction and amusem*nt anticipated.It is the going and coming of the wild birds thatmake more than half the fun. The sudden surprise of spring;the reluctant departure of autumn, with the hope of intermediatedays—there is charm in all this keeping of Nature'sorder.

Well, good by, sweet scarlet tanager. Sing us back yourfarewell note of "Wait, wait." We shall see you againwhen the early cherries are ripe, if not sooner. The beetlesand bumbles and the grasshoppers will be watching out foryou, and the terrible hornet shall double his armor-plate tosuit the strength of your strong beak. It will be of no availfor the big black beetle to hide beneath the iron kettle hecarries on his back, and the bum of the big, yellow bumblebeewill serve only as its call-note, while the broad swordof the hornet will have no time to unsheath itself at sight ofyou. Good by, tanager.

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CHAPTER XII

THE MEADOW-LARK

Never did any lark "lean its breast against a thorn" andsing. That was the poet's sorry fancy. Larks are not in thehabit of leaning their breasts against anything when they sing.They stand tiptoe on a stout grass stem or a fence-post or thehighest bough, or sing as they fly, or warble a simple dittywhile running on the ground.

It is on account of this habit of his, always having hissong at his tongue's end, that the poets have made the larkthe subject of many a moral romance. "His feet are on theearth, while his song is in the sky." "High or low, in joyand pain, warm or cold, wet or dry, sing like the lark." Andhe is given the credit of "waking up the morning," and alsoof "tucking in the night," and of "blowing the noon whistle,"and all sorts of intermediate duties. He doesn't deserve itall more than other birds, however. But it is the poet who[ 108 ]sings as often as the mood takes him. If it be the lark thatinspires him at this particular moment, the lark is his theme.Or if it be the raven or the wren or any other winged subject,it is one and the same to the poet.

But country people are all poets. In their hearts theyhave enshrined the meadow-lark, because he is very near themand gives them little cause to despise him. He has no toothfor fruit or grain, unless he happen to stumble on it unawares.He seems never to seek it, like the sparrows. Resident inmany places, even when the snow is up to his knees; in theopen field, in the margin of woods, where it is cool and grassy;in damp meadows where the insect people have their summerhome; and if food be scarce, even in the barn-yard litter, maythe meadow-lark be seen.

Yes, seen and heard! Very often he is heard and notseen. And no one need see him to know him. His song ishis passport to everybody's heart. "There's the meadow-lark!"exclaims a white-haired man, bent with much listeningand many sorrows, leaning on memory and his strongcane for support. And his eye brightens, as no youthful eyecan shine, at sound of the familiar melody. "Yes," he says,"that is the meadow-lark. He's somewhere down in theopen. I knew him when I was a boy."

And the old man, who is a boy again, walks weakly off tothe nearest field, bent on flushing the comrade of his childhood.He sits feebly down on a log and rests. It is thesame log he climbed when he was a boy. It was not horizontalas long ago as that, but perpendicular, and was green-toppedand full of orioles' nests. It lies prone on the groundnow, long ago cut straight in two at the base. And it haslaid there so long it has grown black and mildewed. Onaccount of this mildew, and the toadstools that have ruffledand fluted and bedecked its softened bark, the insect peoplehave made their home in it.

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The old man sitting there, waiting for the meadow-lark toappear, thinks not of the insect people, but of the lark. Withthe tip of his strong cane he breaks off a piece of the serriedbark, and a spider scurries down the side of the log and intothe grass. He chips off another piece, and a bevy of sow-bugsmake haste to tumble over and "play dead," curling their legsunder their sides, but recovering their senses and scurryingoff after the spider. The cane continues to chip off the bark,and down tumble all sorts of wood people, some of themhiding like a flash in the first moist earth they come to; othersnever stopping until they are well under the log, where experiencehas taught them they will be safe out of harm's way.And they declare to themselves, and to each other, that theywill never budge from under that log until it is midnight "andthat wicked meadow-lark is fast asleep."

Of course it is no other than the meadow-lark the insectpeople are running away from! They never saw the old man,nor the tip of his cane that was doing all the mischief. Theyknow their feathered foe of old. What care they for his song?He is always on their trail. So when the old man sat downheavily on the log, and the point of his cane jarred the loosebark, out tumbled the tenants, expecting each of them to bepresented with a bill. But the bill of their dreaded enemy isa rod or two away.

He has had his breakfast already. It was composed of allsorts of winged and creeping folk, including many an insectinfant bundled all up in its swaddling-clothes and not halfconscious of its fate.

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It was for this very purpose that he was up so early. Ofcourse the poets did not take his breakfast into account whenthey wrote verses about his "rising with the sun" and singingwith "the first beam of day." Nothing in the worldbrought him out of bed save his ever-present appetite. Andthe farmers have cause to bless their stars that the meadow-larkhas an appetite of his own. Also, that he and his spousemake their nest in the grass, and that the baby larks getabout on the ground long before they are able to fly fence-high.

But we are leaving the old man sitting too long on thatdamp log. He may catch a cold. Of one thing we are certain,he will catch sight of "that rogue lark" if he waits halfan hour. He used to wait just that way when he was a boy,though to keep still half as long in any other place for anyother purpose would have been a physical impossibility. Hisspecs are on the end of his nose now, for the old man hasgood far sight, and he squints knowingly at a bunch ofmeadow-grass three rods away. Who says the eye of theaged grows dim? The eye of this particular old man nevershone brighter even when he climbed that identical elm andcame near losing his balance, reaching after the orchardoriole's nest that swung, empty, just at tantalizing distance.What did the boy want of that nest? He just wanted to getit, that was all.

And what does the old man want of the meadow-larkcaroling at the base of bunch-grass somewhere ahead of him?Why, he just wants his nest, that is all! Suddenly up popsthe bird, right out of the waving mound he was "sure to bein," and he flies low to the nearest stone heap, looking theold man right in the eyes as if he had as easy a conscience as[ 111 ]ever reposed in the breast of man or bird. And no other consciencehas the meadow-lark, to be sure. It is the same consciencethat has descended to him through his ancient familydown through countless generations.

But the old man isn't after the conscience of the dear bird.He is after what may develop at the base of that grassymound. Over toward it he goes, feeling with his cane, pokingthe buttercups and smartweed and yarrow aside. "Ha,"he laughs, "I've got it, Mary!"

"Mary" isn't anywhere in sight; but the old man's habitof telling "Mary" everything stands by him like any goodfriend. He has been telling her everything all his life, andwhy shouldn't he tell her about this lark's nest, the very latestdiscovery of his?

No deceiving this old boy! All these meadow-grasses,bent low and forming a rather awkward archway over a possiblecorridor, hold secrets. Out darts the mother lark withmany a sign of maternal anxiety. And the singer discontinueshis morning carol.

The old man kneels very stiffly down in the meadow (hethinks he is dropping down with a jerk, in boy fashion) andparts the grasses. He peers in and sees something. Helaughs, parting his gums wide, exhibiting to a black and yellowbumblebee a solitary tooth, like the last remaining picketon the garden gate he swung on when he was a boy. Thenhe rises stiffly, and goes as fast as his legs can carry him,exactly as he has always done for seventy-five years, more orless, straight to "tell Mary."

Just as he reaches the doorstep and places his strong caneagainst the corner, preparatory to lifting his right foot, heturns to take a look at the spot he has just left, empty-handed,[ 112 ]in the meadow. He shades his eye from the nine-o'clocksun, and sees a crouching form no bigger than was hisown at the age of ten. He tries to shout, but that one toothstanding in the door of his lips like a faithful sentinel, orsomething back of and behind it in the years that are gone,prevents his voice from reaching farther than the stone wall atthe garden's edge. "Mary," inside, darning hand-knit stockings,hears the voice that is dear to her, lo! these many years;and she does the shouting. Somehow her voice is the strongerof the two. "Get out of that meadow, boy! No stealinglark's eggs in here."

The "boy" slinks back down to the road fence, andbethinks him of another meadow "out of sight of folks,"where no end of larks are singing.

When the nesting-season is over—and maybe there werea couple of broods—the larks will club together on a picnicexcursion and wander off and on, nobody knows just where.Perchance they will turn up in the next town or the nextcounty or the next state. As they wander, they will singplaintively, stopping for meals where meals are served. Orthey will chatter all together, recognized wherever their happylot is cast, loved by the loving, perhaps eaten by the sensual.

It will be remembered that the lark was a wedding guestof no ordinary office at the marriage of co*ck Robin andJenny Wren. At the very last feature of the beautiful ceremonythe ballad runs this wise:

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After the cruel blunder was done, which was the fault ofneither bird nor beast nor man (by intention), and the questionas to who should act the part of clerk at the last sad burialrites was raised, it was the lark who volunteered, though it isto be supposed that his heart was breaking.

Now, why the lark should object to doing this very solemnservice for his dead friend the robin, if it should happen to be"dark," we cannot tell. Perchance he really couldn't act thepart of a clerk at night on account of his family having beenforbidden, centuries and centuries ago, to lean any moreagainst the moon in the first quarter. It used to be a habitof theirs to sing that way, and that is how they came by thecrescent on their breast. The gods made up their minds thatif all the larks in the world took to leaning their breasts againstthe moon all at one time it would result in toppling the oldmoon over. The meadow-lark being the last of the family oflarks to obey the command, flew away with the shadow of thecrescent under his throat. Anybody can see it for himselfin plain sight. So, as intimated, the lark at the funeral,remembering that he couldn't have a moon to lean against,refused to do the part asked of him, if the ceremony occurredafter dark. Though, come to think of it, this legend aboutthe crescent must be of very recent date, for the lark of theballad could have been no other than the English skylark,which has no crescent. But the moon has a crescent, and sohas our meadow-lark, and so, if there be a grain of truth in[ 114 ]the ballad and the legend, our dear singer must have beenspirited across the sea for that special occasion.

Our interest in this old ballad of co*ck Robin would havedied before it began had we not been informed of the wholeaffair with such precision as to details.

For the benefit of those who doubt the event having everoccurred "within the memory of man" and birds, we willrefer our readers to the inscription on a certain very old tomb-stonein Aldermary Churchyard, England. If they do notfind a single reference to co*ck Robin and the lark whichacted the part of clerk at the funeral, it will be because theyhave left their specs at home. Is is not a well-known factthat tombstones tell no falsehoods?

Thinking all these things very calmly over, it occurs to usthat, after all, any other of the singing birds we have mentionedin this book might be as well fitted to act the partallotted to the lark as that bird himself. The plain, everydayfacts are, it was a poet who reported the affair, and hewas at his wit's end to find a word to rhyme with "clerk,"and a clerk he must have at a funeral of that date. Now theEnglish tongue, wherever it is spoken, is a curious language.It seems ready made to suit any figure, stout or slim, big orlittle. The poet knew that any person of good sense, accustomedto rhyming, would read the word "clerk" to soundlike "dark." Hence the immortal rhyme,

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CHAPTER XIII

SKYLARK (HORNED LARK)

In Shakespeare's play, "As You Like It," scene v.,Amiens, a close student of nature, is made to sing this song.

It probably caused his companion, Jaques, to rememberthe skylark of his own boyhood, for he besought Amiens to"sing it again." But Amiens argued with his friend that itwould make him "melancholy." However, he sang again,and it is supposed that the two lived over the days of theirboyhood, when they lay on the grass under the greenwood-tree,just on the edge of a corn-field, and listened to the skylarktuning his merry note in his own sweet throat.

Dear to the heart of English boys and other people is theskylark, on account of which, and for the reason that Britishersof any age may like to meet an old friend should theychance to take up this book in their travels, we are giving achapter to this bird. In the play, Jaques and Amiens singlater together all about their favorite lark (it is presumed):

[ 116 ]

Surely the skylark loves to live i' the sun, for he is alwaysin the open, summer and winter, as if he would be sure to notmiss a single sunbeam. As is the case with most of our birdswho dwell or nest near our homes, the skylark does not seekman for his own sweet sake, but for the sake of what the farmholds; though no marauder is this lark, for it eats groundinsects nearly the whole year—crickets, and beetles, andgrubs, and worms, and little folk who see no further thantheir noses. To be sure, in late fall, after the farmer's buck-wheatand other grains are ripened and mostly harvested, thelarks visit the fields in flocks to gather up the crumbs andgrow fat on the change from a meat to a vegetable diet.

This growing fat, by reason of his generous diet in late fall,just before the snows come, serves the same purpose as doesthe fattening of bear just before winter. The snow coverslark's "meat victuals" all up, and the birds must fall back attimes on their stores laid by under their skin for this veryseason. Though they do not hibernate, they still have use fortheir fat. So has the gunner, and the people with snaresready to set for the unwary and hungry birds.

A recent writer, commenting on this autumn sport of theEnglishman, excuses their seemingly wanton destruction byobserving that "were they not thus taken, large numbers woulddoubtless meet natural death in their autumn flights." Toquote Shakespeare again, "Oftentimes, excusing of a faultdoth make the fault the worse."

There seems to be a sort of inconsistency in the fact that,from earliest times, the human family have been guilty ofeating what most they love—or what most they do declarethey love. The flavor of the flesh of a bobolink or skylarkis hardly out of the mouth before the tongue takes to praisingthe favorite bird with a psalm or hymn; in due time the poetand singer bethinks him of his annual feast of flesh, and hisspiritual appreciation grows thin.

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We are thankful, in spite of all this, that the poets andsingers sing on. They have immortalized the skylark ofEurope as no other known bird is immortalized.

Superstition claims the bird as peculiarly its own. Donot its prophets divine things mysterious and darkly subtleby the skyward flight of the bird? And its song! Any priestof the craft may read in its varying notes all sorts of fortunesto people and clans.

And the eggs of the skylark! Were they not speckled andstreaked by passing night winds in the shape of fairies withgarden gourds filled with the ink juice of the deadly night-shadeberries? Were the skylark's eggs white they would be"moon-struck," and the hatchlings would sing the song of thenight-owl. In spite of the speckled eggs and the usual grassycover of the nest, these are too often the successful object ofthe prowling boy. Though it must be confessed that in this,as in the case of the robbery of other birds, it is not always theoriginal finder of the nest who is guilty of theft. Shakespearewas aware of this fact, for in "Much Ado About Nothing"he makes Benedick speak of "the flat transgression of aschool-boy, who, being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest,shows it his companion, and he steals it."

The mistake was in "showing it his companion." Though,should the companion happen to be a girl, he need have nofear. The nest will be undisturbed next time he visits the spot.

For eight months of the English year does the skylarksing, prodding the lazy, comforting the sorrowful, accusingthe guilty, making more merry the glad. On account of its[ 118 ]ever-circling upward flight, the bird is believed to hold conversewith heaven. In captivity it is supposed to be "longingfor the sky" when it flings itself against the roof of its cage.To protect it against harm in this last, soft cloth is sometimesused for the cover to its home.

In winter, when the skylarks cover the sandy plains ofGreat Britain, they have but a single cry, having laid bytheir songs with which to "wake the spring"; or it may bewith them as in the case of our bobolinks—after a diet of ripegrains they are "too full for utterance." But when springis actually astir, then are the larks abroad in the sky. FrancisRabelais, as long ago as the fourteenth century, loved theEnglish spring for the sake of the skylark, and the thoughtsthe bird inspired in him. Having no appetite, apparently,for the bird when he is fattened for eating, the poet longedfor larks in the act of singing, as if, could he hold one of themin his hand when it was articulating, he might come by itswritten song, as the telegrapher reads the scroll as it unwinds.But he wouldn't be content with one bird, oh, no!—if everthe "skies should fall" he made up his mind to "catch larks"by the basketfuls. But the heavens never were known tofall in lark-singing time, and the poet is long since under thesod with the skylarks nesting above him.

To be like a singing bird has been the longing of humanhearts in all ages; as if we realize that there is medicine insong as in nothing else—medicine to the singer. And sothere is. No higher compliment could be paid by a poet tothe memory of his friend than the following, dated in theseventeenth century. There is a happy lesson of work, andgood nature, and lightness of heart in a trying occupation toogood to lose.

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Several attempts to introduce the English skylark intoAmerica have been made, with no satisfactory results. It ishoped to some day have them feel at home on the Pacificcoast, where the varying moist and dry climates of north andsouth would give them the pleasures of their natural migrations.But although we may never have the skylark with us,we have its relative in our horned or shore larks. In itshabits it resembles its lark kindred in the Old World, singingon the wing, nesting on the ground, feeding on the samefood, walking rapidly, reserving flight as the last resort whenpursued.

The horned lark is so named on account of a little tuft offeathers on each side of the forehead, which it raises or lowersat pleasure. It nests in the North very early, even before thesnow is all melted, and brings off two or more broods in aseason. In the autumn it exchanges its beautiful song for agood appetite, and fattens itself on grains and berries in anticipationof possible winter hunger. It may be seen all overNorth America at some season of the year, in fall and winterin flocks.

In California we have the Mexican horned larks, whichcover the mesas and rise reluctantly in large numbers whensurprised. They love to follow the open country roads, runningout of the track while we pass, but returning as soon aswe have gone our way. On rainy days—which, by the way,are the best of bird days—we have taken our umbrellas andstrolled out to the flat lands on purpose to see these larks in[ 120 ]their greatest numbers. They will fly, with a whirr of sound,and alight almost at our feet, to repeat the act for a mile ifwe choose.

In midsummer they are seen in the vicinity of their nesting-places,standing in rows under fences or plants with mouthswide open, seeming to choose hot sand to flying straight acrossthe short desert to mountain retreats. The horned larks,wherever seen, suggest contentment, and pleasure in life asthey find it.

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CHAPTER XIV

BOBOLINK

He was just a bird to start with, half blackbird and theother half sparrow, with some of the meadow-lark's ways ofgetting along. As to the naming of him, everybody settledthat matter at random, until one day he grew tired of beingcalled nicknames and named himself.

Think of having "skunk-blackbird" called after a fellowwhen he deserved the title no more than half a dozen of hisfeathered friends! He could never imagine what gave himthe disagreeable epithet, unless it be his own individual hatredfor the animal whose name clung to him like mud.

To be sure, the coat of the bird was striped, somethinglike that of the detestable beastie; but so were the coats ofmany other birds, and he could never tell why he should becalled a blackbird, either.

True, he loved the marshes for personal reasons; but whohas seen a blackbird twist its toes around a reed stalk andsing like mad?

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So, as we said, he named himself, constituting himself atown crier on behalf of his own concerns. "Bobolink! bobolink!"As often as the blackbird attempted to talk of himself,bobolink chimed in and drowned every other note. Andhe kept it up for two or three months, until everybody understoodthat he had given himself a proper name. And eachyear he returns to remind the skunk and blackbird that he isno other than himself, and to assure people that he is deservingof an original name, whatever else may be said of him.

But the skunk never has quite forgiven the bobolink hisresentment of the name, for the ugly little creature hauntsthe bird in marsh and meadow, watching for the young bobolinksto get big enough for eating, exactly as the bobolinkwaits for the dandelion seeds to get ripe for his dinner. Butdandelion seeds and little baby bobolinks are two differentsorts of victuals; and father bobolink, swaying on his weedstem, wishes skunks were not so big, so he could turn on thewhole family and devour them as he does the bumblebees inthe next stone heap.

It is of no use wishing, for the old feud between the hatedanimal and the coveted bird is still on. And skunk knowsvery well how to get the best of the bobolink. Bobolinks seebetter by daytime, and besides they are tired out with singingall day long, and they sleep like Christians all night. It isthen, when the moon is little, and the flowers have closedtheir eyes, and the grass stems are growing silently in thedew, and the cicada is absorbed in the courting of his sweetheart—ah!it is then that skunk walks abroad, sniffing. Tailstraight out behind, gently swaying as he goes, nose wellpointed toward the nearest grass tufts, thoughts intent onsupper, and alas! baby bobolinks quietly sleeping. Skunkmay take in the mother as well, while she broods, she, no[ 123 ]doubt, having a violent attack of nightmare, could she butlive to tell her mate about it.

Yes, indeed! poor bobolink has his trials, and he is entitledto all the sweet melody of his family to help him riseabove them. When he is tired of New England polecats andtakes a run down South, it is but to meet his other enemy,the opossum. And he might as well be given the name ofopossum-bird—for, like the skunk, the opossum loves the still,dark night—and fat old bobolinks.

Should the bobolink and his juvenile family take to a treefor a roosting-place, provided his supper has not made hisbody heavier than his wings are strong, opossum will climbafter him.

So poor bobolink is pursued on every hand. Bird of theground is he, everywhere; he is born on the ground and dieson the ground, usually, for the ground is his dinner-table.His human friends (or foes) take him pitilessly at his mealswhen he is too full for utterance or quick flight. And thesehuman friends (or foes) dine upon him until they in turn aretoo full for utterance.

Oh, the bobolink has a hard time! But still he namedhimself out of the glee of his heart, and he sings a fourth partof the year as only a bobolink can sing.

You can make almost anything you please of the song.Children sit on the fence-rails and mimic him, and "guess"what he says, and cry, "Spink, spank, spink," "meadowwink, meadow wink," "just think, just think," "don't youwink, don't you wink," "want a drink, want a drink?"Coming back to his real name, "bobolink, bobolink," as if,after all, that were the nearest right.

Right under the swinging bare feet of the children, in a[ 124 ]dark, cool nest, Mother Skunk is fast asleep, making up forlast night's carousals among the bobolink nests.

June would be no June without the bobolinks, where theyare expected, and so ever so many things get ready for them.For what other purpose than for the bobolinks do the ground-beetlesair themselves, and the crickets get out their violins,and the gray spiders spin yarn on their doorsteps? Of courseit is all for purposes of their own, since nobody knows thatbeetles and crickets and spiders particularly love to be gobbledup by a bobolink. But it is one and the same to thebobolink family, who must have food of some sort. And theycouldn't at this season of the year, and under the peculiarconditions of family life, get along reasonably well withoutmeat of some sort. Later on, when the dandelions bethinkthemselves to turn into round white moons that fly away inthe breeze, and the wild oats lift their shoulder-capes, thebobolinks can turn vegetarians.

Shy, suspecting little birds, sharp of eye, fresh from awinter tour in the West Indies, they come exactly when theyare expected. They never disappoint people. The veryearliest to arrive may sing their "Don't you wink, don't youwink," on April 1st. But bobolink makes no April fool ofhimself or anybody else, unless it be Master Skunk in hishollow tree, who rubs his eyes at the first word from Roberto' Lincoln. But the male birds have come in advance of theirwomen folk, and roost high and dry out of reach of four-footedmarauders. It is as if the mother bobolinks wouldbe quite sure the spring storms are over before they put themselvesin the way of housework.

Until their mates arrive, the male birds go on a lark, sailinglow over meadows, singing as they sail, each outdoing[ 125 ]his friend, sitting now on a fence-post, and now on the buddingbranch of a maple or elm, calling their own names, andadding whole sentences or stanzas in praise of the Middle Westcountry, and of New England in particular.

Then comes the fun of courtship, when the modest ladybobolinks appear on the ground. With the praise of them ontheir lips, the males come near and ask each for the hand ofhis lady-love. Should a rival seek an accepted sweetheart,the rightful mate drives him from the field, literally speaking,and the by no means dejected lover goes to another meadowfor a bride. And that is all right, for aren't all lady bobolinksalike? No, indeed, they are not! or so think theirdevoted mates, for never was closer tie than binds the two toone another. The male never leaves the neighborhood of hisfamily, but sings to his mate as she attends fondly to thoseaffairs which gladden the heart of nature among bird or beastor insect. And she has not far to go for nesting materials.She may even shorten matters by shoving together a bunchof dry leaves and grass that served for the nest of a field-mouselast fall. And she eats as she works, for at every pullat blade or leaf an insect runs out of its hiding-place, rightinto her mouth, as it were. And if the farmer happen to beplowing, she will run along at the back of him, on the marginof the last furrow, for grub or larva, slipping back intothe grass of the hay-field before ever he turns for the nextfurrow.

If the bobolinks flew north in the light of the moon theymay expect good luck; and sometime in June, where beforethere were a pair of birds, there are now half a dozen or onemore than that. The eggs are five or six, but, as with mostbirds, "there's no telling," and if the parents succeed in raising[ 126 ]three or four children out of their single brood for thesummer, they do well.

There's no better June fun than hunting for bobolinks'nests. When it comes to disturbing them, that is anotherquestion. The farmer may not like to have his meadow-grasstrodden down before it is piled on the hay-wagon, but it can'tbe helped. And while the search is going on, there are somany other things coming to pass at the same time, quiteunlooked for, that one sometimes laughs and sometimescries. There are the bumblebees, for instance! The boyshadn't taken them into account, and a fellow's shins begin towarn him of danger that is mostly past. And there are thenettles hiding in their own nooks on purpose to sting. Andthe little patches of smartweed which one has to cross in goingfrom the east end of the meadow to the west end harborscrawling and hopping people that one doesn't see in time toavoid; and though they don't bite at all, they do look andfeel—well, most any boy knows how they feel if he cannottell it. O, yes, it is fun hunting bobolinks' nests, if onerespects the rights of one's neighbors in feathers. With note-bookand pencil a boy can put down the date of hatch, andgrowth of quill and beak and strength, and a thousand thingsit is good to know about birds. Only, as a rule, a single boynever goes on a bobolink hunt. And it's of no use for a wholebevy of boys to load themselves with lead-pencils. Theynever have been known to put down a single item of observationunder these circ*mstances. To make a business ofstudying bobolinks or other birds, a person must be all alone.And there isn't the temptation to pilfer when one is all alone.One catches sight of the father bobolink swinging and swaying[ 127 ]on a stout but yielding weed stalk, singing for all he isworth, and one cannot steal, not that time.

But a nest would seldom be found if the foolish birdswould keep a close mouth about the matter. It does seemas if they would learn after a while, but they don't. As soonas a stranger with two legs or four comes within sight of thespot, the birds set up what they intend for a warning cry,but which is in reality an "information call." Under itsspell one can walk straight to the nest, which even yet, onaccount of its color and surroundings, may be taken for aninnocent bunch of grass, provided one has as good eyes as theskunk has nose.

But nesting-time passes, with all its pleasures and trialsand dangers and happy-go-lucky affairs. Late summer seesthe young bobolinks out of the nest and away to the weedstalks with their parents. The young males set up an independentthough weakly melodious warble on their ownaccount, though they have not yet forgotten their baby ways,and still coax the parents for a good bite of bug or beetle.It is about the only very young bird we are acquainted withthat is as precocious in regard to song. It is by this onlythat it is recognized as a male in this first season, beingclothed like the mother and sisters. And, strange to say,about this time the father bobolink begins to don anotherdress. His black and white are inconspicuous, as if fadedwith the summer sun, and he ceases to sing as formerly. Thefact is, he has no time to sing now, with the young birds tohelp along, as it is getting almost "time to move." Andthis strange bird actually seems to forget which are his ownchildren, for the whole neighborhood gathers together, males,[ 128 ]females, and young, helter-skelter, each intent on gastronomicaffairs and the growing of feathers. As the days wear away,and the sere and yellow leaf of sumac and beech and maplewarn all good folk that winter is getting ready to travel backhome, the bobolinks preen up. Slyly, like the Arab, theysteal away; not suddenly as they came in the spring, butslowly and deliberately. The wings of the young must havetime to expand, and season and endure fatigue. Besides,bird families are not able to carry lunch-baskets on an autumnouting. So the bobolinks pass slowly toward the South,feeding as they go, never exercising enough to lose weight,but actually fattening on the journey.

Now, taking all things into account, the bobolinks are themost sensible of people. Persons who ought to know betterby experience and observation hurry on a journey, take notime to enjoy the scenery and the people that live along theroute. At the journey's end they are depleted, tired, wornto skin and bone, and out of sorts with travel. Not so thebobolinks! They have no bones at the journey's end. Theyhave fattened themselves into butter. They have put onflesh as the bare spring trees put on leaves, and the butternuttakes in oil. All the way they eat and drink, and make asmerry as they can with so much fat on them.

The yesterday's bird of mad music is to-day the bird ofmad appetite. True, they may call out "chink" in passing,but "chink" means "chock-full," and people who delightin bobolink table-fare recognize the true meaning of thenote.

Bobolink has forgotten to call his own name, so he answersto any nickname the epicurean lovers of him please to call himby—"rice-bird," "reed-bird," "butter-bird," anything or[ 129 ]everything that is appropriate. And "'possum" sits up ona stump and laughs.

Never mind, 'possum, it's your turn all the time. If bobolinkcould imitate you in the art of making-believe dead, hewould fare better—until folks found him out. People havelittle use for a dead bobolink, unless shot-gun or snare be in atthe death. But bobolinks never seem to learn of 'possums oranybody else. They follow in the wake of their ancestorbobolinks, over the selfsame route to the South; dining in theselfsame rice-fields; swinging on the selfsame reed stalks,exactly as the reed stalks come up each year in the place oflast season's petiole.

It's a sad, pathetic tale. But wait! Spring is coming inthe steps of last year's spring-time; over the selfsame route,to the selfsame end and fortunes. With the spring will returnthe bobolinks, as many as have survived disaster. Beforeyou know it he will be calling himself in the meadows, exactlyas he called last spring. The seasons and the birds are butechoes of themselves.

Robert o' Lincoln, with his latest striped coat, will swayon the stems and wait for his sweetheart. He will flirt withneither sparrow nor thrush until she arrives. He is true, isthe bobolink! So is the polecat, growing lean under hiswinter stump, and licking his lips at the sound of the farmercalling to his children, "The skunk-blackbird has come!"

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CHAPTER XV

AT NESTING-TIME

In the preceding chapters we have said little about thefemale or mother birds. In referring to a single individualwe have used the pronoun he, as if "he" and no other wereworthy of affectionate notice.

As apology, we refer our readers to the title of our book,"Birds of Song and Story."

As it is mostly the male who sings, and also the male whowears the more beautiful plumage, we have given him thefirst or greater space. It is the male who figures in myth orlegend, since it is he who speaks or is known for conspicuousmarkings.

But always, at the right season, is the wife bird or themother bird loyal and true, sweet and modest of color andhabit. It is she who "lives for a purpose"—if purpose evermoves the heart of a bird. It is she who sacrifices her ownindividual preferences and joys for the sake of others. It isshe, mostly, who makes the family fortunes. It is she, savein a few instances, who builds the nest, and warms the eggswhen once she has placed them where they ought to be.

As it is the vocation or pleasure of her mate to sing, it ishers to listen. And surely her family cares would be drearyenough were it not for the song she hears. It is always for herthat her lord makes music, as if he knows her "mother term"is long and monotonous. Many a time his eye is on her,when the keenest human spy fails to "see where that nest is."No hiding the exact spot from old father bird. Didn't hehelp select it? Wasn't he there at the start? Of course hewas!

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In early spring, before actual nesting-time, a male bird isseen coaxing his mate to think of the conveniences of somecertain spot. He flies to a corner or a crotch and turns andtwists and makes signs, and grows excited, as if urging hismate to commence at that very moment and at that very spot.Wife bird, coming to his side, considers and accepts his suggestions,or laughs at them, as the case may be. Should sheaccept the site of his choice, it is not then, not just at thatmoment. It is as if she fears the noise and bustle of hercompanion may have attracted attention. She returns insome quiet hour, and all by herself begins her summer work.

We have seen a boisterous oriole lead his lady to a bananaleaf and do his best to coax her into immediate acceptance ofthe location. It is not until the following day that we noticethe first swinging threads. And it is the same with manyother birds which nest near the house. Perhaps the linnet, orhouse-finch, is the most persistent in choosing a nest site. Heis sometimes seen at the business late in the fall and earlywinter, turning about in corners and nest-boxes, chatteringto his mate, and "making himself so silly." His mate, ofmore sense, looks on and lets him talk, seeming to smile athis foolishness. Doesn't he know, at his age, that she willbe on hand at the proper time?

As a rule, it is the mother bird who does all the nest-work.We have seen her closely followed by the male, in the case ofthe linnet and many of the other finches; the song-sparrow[ 132 ]and chippie and towhee and mocker and oriole each keeps atthe side of his dear companion and follows her on the wing,singing, while her mouth is full of grass or other stuff. Whenshe alights at the threshold of her nursery he alights too, ona near twig, to follow her back to the material in a momentor two. By hiding in the shrubbery one can see so much ofinterest at nesting-time. But first of all, would bird-loversinduce parent birds to choose the home grounds, preparationmust be made some time in advance.

Trees must be planted and allowed to grow naturally, notin clipped or distorted forms. Birds love natural growth. Theyrecognize wild things and nooks when these are planned andmade to grow in private grounds. Now and then a tree rootupturned; a pile of boughs; a heap of cuttings and pruningsthe gardener would have condemned to the fire; a bit of spaceoverlooked by the lawn-mower, moist and grass-tangled;woodpiles and logs left where they are until moss and toadstoolshave covered them, and bugs have housed in them—athousand things people, in their love of order and neatness,dispose of at sight—would prove untold attraction to the birds.Too many homes in city and country are not frequented bythese visitors, who really prefer our grounds to the woodswhen once they learn their welcome. When induced for asingle season to build in cultivated places, a pair of birds willreturn, often bringing several other pairs with them.

It seems as if certain birds are popular among their people,and "set the pace," as it were, in the matter of nestinghabits. The places they frequent are sought after by the rest;and not only by their own kind or species, but by birds ofdifferent character.

It is with birds as with humankind—many different sorts[ 133 ]make up a popular neighborhood. Bird families do notchoose to wander away to some remote part of the countryand make a settlement. Indeed, as we have studied them,birds delight in fraternal good-fellowship.

Within an area of two hundred feet square in our groundswe have counted thirty-three varieties in this single season.Of these, fifteen have nested—the linnet, two varieties ofgoldfinch, chipping-sparrow, song-sparrow, humming-bird,towhee, mocker, pewee, phœbe, oriole, thrush, black-headedgrosbeak, yellow warbler, and bush-tit. Some of these havenested twice or three times in our long season. These birdsare not seen to quarrel nor to disagree as to the locationschosen. Each respects the other's rights, even to keepingguard over one another's children. Be a single family oreven one little bird in trouble, each and all of these birdsmentioned come to the rescue. At such times the varyingnotes are a sound both interesting and amusing. Food andwater are always before these birds in shady places or in thesunshine. Materials for nest-building are spread before themthe whole six months of the nesting-season, from horsehairand strings to mud, paper, rags, bark, feathers, cotton, drygrasses, lint, and a general assortment of lichens. The linnets,goldfinches, hummers, orioles, yellow warblers, andbush-tit* lose their wits over the fluffy white cotton. Oursong-sparrows and phœbes are not seen to use other thanmaterial of dark color, like brown rootlets and mud for phœbes,and old grass blades and dark horsehair for the sparrows.Mention has been made as to most of the others.

The linnets are the easier suited. A black last year'ssparrow's nest put in the box under the eaves in place of anew white cotton one is accepted, with no questions asked.[ 134 ]We have substituted nest for nest many times, and find thereis no choice. Also, we have substituted young birds of thesame species, and each and all are adopted. Sometimes wefind an orphan birdling, which is sure to be cared for providedit be placed in the nest of any kind, motherly bird. Ofcourse, in thus trading or causing to be adopted young birds,we are careful not to give a seed-eater to a meat-eater, andvice versa.

An insect fare would hardly agree with nurslings accustomedto regurgitated food, like the finches and hummers.Once we rescued a tiny young hummer from a "wicked boy,"who had come to the treasure by theft. The little thing wasnearly dead with cold and hunger. But we knew exactlywhere to find a dear, motherly old soul in the person of ahumming-bird, who had just completed her nest. We placedthe orphan in the frail cradle, so weak it could scarcely openits beak. The old bird came at once, cuddled and coddledthe baby as only a humming-bird can do, with her small, softbreast. In ten minutes the wee one was having its supper,and it was raised by the foster-parent.

There seems to be something in the breast of mother birdsat the nesting-season akin to human instinct. All these interestingstudies go on with us at our door. No cats are allowedwithin certain bounds. And any home may be the same ifthe dwellers will take the trouble. An ideal corner in aschool-yard would be one in which birds were taught confidenceand dependence. Birds are subject to cultivation andencouragement.

If one is just making a start toward this, quick movementin the shrubbery should not be indulged in. Loud, suddennoises and throwing balls or other things, at the commencing[ 135 ]of the nest season, frighten the birds. One must learn tostand stock-still and listen and look. Birds notice movementmore than sound. Sidewise motions disturb, where straight,go-ahead methods are not noticed.

By gradually accustoming birds to one's presence, and thento one's voice, and then to the near approach, one may succeedin taming wild birds at nesting-time. We have had thefinches and linnets and towhees and bush-tit* and humming-birdsperfectly trustful, even to some of the males, whosepresence at the nests is not absolutely essential. We havehad the parent birds feed the young from our hands, westanding at the nest. As to nesting itself, the fun to be hadof a spring morning is beyond description. After learningthis familiarity the birds will go on without noticing us. Thetowhee straggles across the grass, tugging a long rag muchtoo heavy to fly with. The mocker pulls straws from thetorn end of a garden cushion. The bush-tit gathers bits oflichen from the bough on which our hands rest. The phœbescarcely waits for us to step aside that she may bite the shredsfrom the jute door-mat, to mix with her mud. The sparrow,scratching away under the tree for a bug and a bit of leaf atone and the same time, treads on our toes in her fearlessness.The hummer fans our faces with her wings, should we happento be near the "cotton-counter."

When the young birds are just big enough to tumble outof the nest, then nursery-times fairly begin. The ground isalive with them. Of many sizes and features, more especiallyas to beak, they peep and scream and coax. By sundownthose not old enough to hop or flutter to a safe place are thesource of great anxiety. We are obliged to go out and help"put the babies to bed." And these twilight times, more[ 136 ]than the whole day, are the "cat-times." puss* understandsthe turmoil. She skulks and prowls, and scarcely dares tobreathe in her silent hopes. It is then that we dare breathe,and many other things. This incessant war on the felinetribe must be kept up would any one have birds around hishome.

There is one thing at nesting-time that puzzles us. Whydo mother birds pass carelessly by so much good material?They pick up this grass or string or feather, to drop it foranother. And then, why do they pass by this or that fly orother insect and pick up another?

They probably have their reasons, the same as they choosebetween equally good nest locations. It is on this accountthat we are particular to have a variety of everything in theirway.

It is at nesting-time that we take especial care of thegarden table. We furnish everything we imagine acceptable.As soon as the young of finches or sparrows are out of thenest they are brought to the table by their parents. All thebirds have a sweet tooth. They like cookies and pie andsugar and (as will be remembered in the case of the sparrows)good molasses. It was when the tourist robins were herethat we thought about the molasses. The robins wouldn'ttake it clear, as the sparrows did, so we mixed it with meal.They came and looked at it and tasted, and liked it very well.Thinking to score a point for the temperance people, wemixed some old bourbon with the pudding. A tipsy robinwould be a funny sight! But not a morsel of the meal wouldthey ever touch. We kept up the game several days, itresulting at last in all the robins leaving the grounds in disgust.Then we tried it on the sparrows, but to no purpose.[ 137 ]Every bird grew suspicious, and we had to give it up. Thisproved to us that birds cultivate the sense of smell.

Birds in general are like the donkey before whose nose issuspended a wisp of hay tied to the end of a pole, "to makehim go." Of course in the case of the donkey the pole goesin advance of the nose, and it's a long while before the wispand the appetite have a passing acquaintance. With thebirds at our home the "wisp" is always out, so they are in nohurry to migrate. They do not leave us for so much as ashort visit to their folks in Mexico until the molt is well underway. Some summer visitants even molt completely with us,and it is a sorry season. By the time a young bird is able tohustle for himself he wouldn't know his own mother. Shehas shed the feathers around the beak, leaving her nose ormouth so grotesque one has to laugh. Seeming to understandthe joke is at their expense; some of our birds at this timekeep well hidden, and come only to the edges of the shrubberyfor food, or if overtaken in the open, they run as fast astheir legs can carry them. A song-sparrow without a bit oftail is hopping now under the window, chirping her happynote, but hiding if we look at her.

A hummer, which yesterday took honey from the flowerswe held in our lips, sits on a tiny twig, the picture of despairbecause her neck feathers are so thin. A mocker who hasdrank all summer from the dish with the bees, peeps at hershadow and preens imaginary quills. Half of them are onthe ground by the table.

A phœbe sits alone on the housetop, wailing, thinking nodoubt she is singing, and looking the picture of distress, withone tail-feather, and not enough of her ordinary neckerchiefaround her neck to cover the bare skin of it. And the nests,[ 138 ]where are they? Just where they were. But they are fadedand old and deserted. Never does a young bird go back tothe nest after it has once left it, though some people believethey use it for a bed until long into the autumn. We havenot seen them do so. They scorn the old thing! Isn't it asfull of mites as it can hold? Of course it is, especially if itbe a linnet's nest. When the third brood came out in thesame nest we found it so infested with mites, almost invisible,that we could not touch it. And the poor little birdlings hadto bide their time in getting away. It is supposed to be onaccount of these parasites that some birds compose their nestsof strong-smelling weeds. However, we have not known anyof the nests near us to be disturbed by these parasites savethose in which several broods are reared. We have a seven-storyflat, on each successive floor of which a linnet and aphœbe have nested. Phœbe's nest is mud, linnet's is strawand hair. Each builds atop of the others. It may grow tobe a sky-scraper yet. Many of the mother birds sing atnesting-time. The house-finch, or linnet, keeps a continualtwitter while incubating. So also the goldfinches. Thesenotes are low and very musical and happy. The phœbespeaks her mournful note under the eaves while on the nest.By close listening, when other things are noiseless, one maydetect the almost inaudible note of some of the hummers.The ear of a nature-lover grows keen by practice. There arelow, nearly inarticulate whisperings among the birds in summerdays never heard by those who have not learned the artof listening. The nest of the summer yellowbird may bewithin six feet of a person on the hunt for it, who, though ofkeen eye, may never find it, for lack of as keen an ear to hearthe low note of the mother bird behind the foliage.

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By close observation one may come to disprove manythings said against the birds. For instance, a neighbor toldus to be careful how we encouraged the orioles and phœbesto nest in our grounds if we didn't want them to eat up allour honey-bees. As usual with us in such cases, we acceptedthe warning "with a pinch of salt," and took to makingobservations on our own account.

Locating ourselves behind an open window near the beehives,we watched. A vine trellis with top bar uncoveredoffered safe footing to phœbe; on she came with five youngphœbes hatched on the fourth-floor flat under the eaves.The young birds were whining for food. As plain as anywords can be, they cried, "Bees, bees, please!" And beesthey were to have for dinner! The mother led them to thetrellis bar, where they squatted in a row, peeping their longings.Bees were flying thicker than hail. The mother cantedher head from side to side, the black eye of the upward cantsearching the homeward-bound insects. "Why don't youhelp yourself?" we wondered. In a few minutes the bum,bum, of the drones was heard. Then mother phœbe darted,and darted, and darted; each time she snapped a big, sting-less,bumming drone, which she killed by banging its headagainst the bar. Then it was taken by a little phœbe, ormore often by two phœbes, who tugged at the creature untilit came in two parts, or was cunningly appropriated as awhole by one of them. This meal-time went on until allwere, for the time being, appeased, and the family flew off.By the middle of next day they returned and went throughthe same performances, very amusing to the witnesses insidethe window. Now, not a single worker-bee was touched!And the mother phœbe knew the exact hour for the flying of[ 140 ]drones. These lazy, shiftless, bumming fellows never leavethe hives until the day is far advanced and the sun haswarmed things up. So, not breakfast, but dinner, was madeof the drones.

As for the orioles, we were willing to give them a chanceto speak for themselves. They appeared about April 10th, asusual. And straight for the bee corner of the garden theywent. "I told you so!" said the neighbor. We watched.There were rose-bushes and vines in that part of the grounds,and to these the orioles hastened as fast as their wings couldtake them. The beehives sit under a row of moss-roses sothickly covered with spines that one cannot take hold of themwithout gloves. But this pair of orioles ran up and down andin and out without fear. These and many other rose-bushesdid they examine minutely, pecking away as fast as they couldmove their beaks. Right at the entrance to the hives theywent, on straggling briers, but not a bee did they touch.We were as close to them as we wished to be. Suddenly wescared them away before they should have devoured everysecret, and there was retreat for our neighbor! The orioleshad been eating the little green plant-lice that infest rose-bushesearly in the spring.

Later they took to watching the bees, and we resumedour watch of the orioles. It was midsummer, and the youngbirds were all about, crying for bread, or rather for "bees,"though their pronunciation was not so distinct as that of theyoung phœbes. The parent orioles took their stand right onthe doorstep of the hives, and waited with head slightlyturned, alert, ready for "a bite." Not a worker did theytouch, but when a drone came bumming along he was nabbedas quick as a wink. All drone-time (which lasts about two[ 141 ]months with us) did the orioles patronize the beehives.Unmolested did the tireless workers come, pollen-loaded, andrun in at the entrance.

When the summer yellowbirds have three or four hungrymouths to feed, just watch at the open window behind thesnowball-bush and "see what you see." Little green caterpillarsmake nourishing food for baby yellowbirds. Theparents might be running up and down amid the green andwhite of the bush, just for effect of color, but they are not.Those little, soft, green biscuits are the objects of their ramble.

It has been an open question as to whether old birds carrywater to the young. In the case of tame canaries they havebeen seen to regurgitate a whole cropful of the liquid intowaiting "parched throats." So we may conclude that youngbirds require water.

In the case of a very young humming-bird who wasdeprived of its mother, we raised it for a while, at least, onmilk sweetened with honey, feeding it with an eye-droppersuch as surgeons use. The milk was a good substitute forsuch animal food as the young of hummers are accustomedto. When young humming-birds come out of the nest, andfor many weeks, they are either very fearless or their sight isnot good. Surely it is not the latter, unless it be atoned forby greater sense of smell; for they come to flowers we holdup to them, and even light on our hands and faces, followingus in the shrubbery.

As a rule, young birds are suspicious and wary. Theyknow by instinct how and where to hide. After sundown isthe time to see interesting events connected with supper andbedtime. By close and quiet watching one may see for one'sself where and how young birds sleep. Some retire to the[ 142 ]same bough or bush each night. A family of bush-tit* sleptin a row on an orange twig every night for two weeks, inplain sight of us, and as near as six feet from our hands.The parents had been blessed with unusual success in thisparticular brood, bringing off six. These all slept in a row,"heads and tails," whispering the softest of notes until quitedark.

We have never been able to account for all the egg-shellsthat disappear in nesting-times. Now and then cracked bitsare found in fields and woods, but only bits. One might getsome information from the ants that are always prowlingabout for detached morsels of animal life. The birds themselvesmay eat or hide them, lest they tell tales. We havefound shells far away from any nests, as if they had beencarried on purpose. Sometimes they lie in the nest bottomin powder.

It is worth while to take a peep into every nest, just toget "pointers"—but never to get birdlings! And one'speeps should not be too frequent. It disturbs family orderand confidence. Besides, if one takes to peeping when thebirds are nearly fledged they often become frightened, andleave the nest too immature to warrant freedom and safety.Young birds are seen to sit or cling to the edge of the nestlong before they are able to fly. At night they snuggle downinto the warmth—and warmth as much as food is essential toyoung birds. But nesting-time has an end, like all goodtimes.

When the late peaches turn their rosiest cheek to theautumn sun, and the husk of the beechnut opens its palelips, then are the nests that were so lately the center of attractiontenantless and neglected. Old birds, in passing, take no[ 143 ]notice of them, and the hungry juveniles pay no visible heed.What care they for cradles, now that the universal cry is"Bread and butter, please"?

Baby zephyrs nap on the worn-out linings, and the rainruns its slim fingers through the fading meshes. Even thedomestic feline, who was wont to peep into the heart of everyone of them, no longer is discovered inquiring into the nestinghabits of birds. Forsaken are the nests. Naked are theboughs. We will leave them for the winter winds to question—andthe winter winds will ravel more bark for nextyear's nests, and they will make the meadow-grasses molttheir softest wrappers for linings. And it is the winter windsthat will swirl the dead leaves into lint, and pull the weedstalks into fiber.

Therefore, long live the winter winds!

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CHAPTER XVI

THE ROMANCE OF ORNITHOLOGY

As everybody knows, ornithology means a discourse aboutbirds—and people have discoursed about birds ever sincespoken or written language gave us the means of exchangingthoughts.

In the Biblical history of the creation, birds occurred inthe fifth epoch of time, when the evolution of grass and herbsand trees and seeds and fruits had made for them a paradise.With the grass and trees and seeds and fruits had evolved avariable diet for the feathered folk, and by instinct they havecontinued to follow after their food, migrating on merry toursthe wide world over. Lovers of them from earliest dates havediscoursed of their ways and means, of their habits, theirfavorite resorts, their uses relative to cultivation of lands, theirfaults in connection with civilization. Students of naturehave divided the birds into "classes" and "species," as thehuman race itself is divided. As "order is heaven's firstlaw," ornithologists have taught us to distinguish it in the[ 145 ]study of birds; and so we have the "groups," always withreference to individual habits and anatomical peculiarities.

In the Old World, ornithology as a science dates perhapsfrom Aristotle, 384 years before Christ. True, he was ateacher of A, B, C's on the subject, but he set students to"thinking," But there were students before Aristotle; if notstudents of science, they were students of religion. It is toreligion in many forms that we owe the romance of ornithology.We may call this phase of the subject "superstition."The word itself is almost gruesome to the unletteredimagination. It suggests uncanny things, ghosts and goblins,and other creatures that are supposed to wander aroundin the dark, because they were never seen at midday or anyother time. To the educated person actual faith in ghostsand goblins has given place to a mildly fanciful imaginationwhich indulges in the flavor of superstition, as one takes lightdesserts after a full meal. And so we have the romance ofsuperstition for the intelligent.

Stopping to consider that the word itself means a "standingstill" to "stare" at something, an attitude of reverence,so to speak, we see how religion in ornithology preceded theromance of it. Certain of the birds waited on the deities, orhad access to their presence, in consequence of which theywere set apart and protected. Sometimes they were prophetsof the gods, foretelling future events with accuracy. Theirflights were noted by religious devotees, who, unconsciouslyto themselves probably, and certainly unsuspected, by theirfollowers, were sure to be "out" at migration times. Atsuch times, should the birds choose a natural course past acity and be seen only after they had left it behind them, theprophet knew, in the depths of his religious being, that the[ 146 ]gods had doomed that city. It was only when the study ofbirds as an actual science developed the fact that these denizensof the air depended more upon climate and necessarydiet than upon the will of gruesome gods that the religion ofornithology gave place to romance. And romance is theafter-dinner course of real ornithology—romance lends a fancifultouch to figures and data, and apologizes to the averagestudent for intermissions that seem dedicated to frolic.

In the universe of romance, North America has its fullshare. Preceding the romance was, and still is (among thenative tribes), the religion of superstition. The deities foretellcertain death of persons among the Eskimos by the passingof a bluejay or the croak of a raven.

Our own poet, Edgar Allan Poe, was not an Eskimo,but he indulged in the well-known superstitions about thebird when he permitted the raven to perch above his door.Many of the Arctic tribes are known to protect the ominousbird to this day. The Indians of Alaska revere and even fearit, like a black spirit from the land of demons.

Song and story among American aborigines are repletewith bird superstition. So prominent was it that early historiansmade mention of it to preserve it, and students oflanguages are putting it into books, so that romance andlegend may not pass away with our native Indians.

The government itself is preserving the history of Americansuperstition among its precious archives. Reports of theEthnological Bureau are entertaining reading for vacationtimes. True, they are "heavy volumes" in some cases, butthere are supplements. Were these reports placed in moreschool and other libraries, the inclination to read moreobjectionable and not half so entertaining literature would[ 147 ]go quickly out, like a fire-proof match, without burning thefingers.

To those who find a fascination in prehistoric legends thestudy of bird representation on the ancient pottery of someof our western Indians, and in the mounds of the MississippiValley, is offered in some of these government reports. Theyare a very mine of suggestion and information. Imagination,subtle guide to many a self-entertaining mind, runs fast andfaster on before while one reads, and one wonders how itcame to pass one never knew about government reportsbefore.

The Ethnological Bureau is the poet's corner of our government—theromance of our dull facts and figures. Withoutit* unsleeping eye forever scanning the sky of unwritten literaturefor gems, how would some of us know about the historyof the human race as preserved by the Iroquois Indians?And that birds had a wing, if not a hand, in the peopling ofAmerica at least?

Of course America was "all the world" to these Indians,and naturally enough their priests and poets combined togive some adequate genesis for the people.

It is said that a story, once started on its rounds in civilizedsociety, gathers facts and things as it goes, until at last—andnot before very long—its own original parent "wouldn'trecognize it." Not so the legends that have come to usthrough savage tongues. Simple to start with, they maintaintheir original type without a trace of addition. What studentsgather for us of folk-lore is as correct as though the firsttext had been copyrighted by its author. Note this simplicityin all barbaric legends, the discourse coming straight tothe facts and leaving off when it is done.

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This one legend referred to of the origin of the humanrace makes so good a preface to the closing rhyme of ourtext, that we are tempted to give it for that special purpose.According to this story of the Iroquois Indians, it is to birdsthat woman owes her history. Unconsciously to thesenatives of America, they identified woman with birds andbirds' wings for all time. Unconsciously, perhaps, to herself,woman has also identified her sex with birds and bird wings,though in a different relation to that of the Iroquois. Thelegend will need no further introduction to the girl or womanof America who may become interested in "Birds of Song andStory."

There was once a time when all the earth was hiddenunder great waters. No island or continent gave foothold.No tree, torn from its moorings, afforded rest to tired foot orwing; for finny and winged people were all the inhabitants inbeing. Birds soared unceasingly in the air, and fish disportedtheir beautiful armor-plate in the water. In the consciousnessof bird and fish there was need of higher intelligencesthan themselves. They watched and waited for some hint,some glimpse, of other and superior beings. One day thebirds, congregating in the sky, discoursing on this very matter,beheld a lovely woman dropping out of the far blue. Hurriedlythey talked of possible means of saving her from drowning,for they had a subtle sense that this falling object, witharms outstretched like wings, was the being they hoped for.One of their number, a prophet, suggested the means. Asthe lovely being dropped toward the great sea the birds cametogether and lapped wings over wings in a thick featheredisland. Upon the soft deck of this throbbing life-boat thebeautiful being descended and lay panting. Slowly and[ 149 ]lovingly her soft hand caressed the wings of her benefactors.She lifted the variously tinted plumage of the breasts onwhich she reclined, and kissed the down of them.

That was long, long ago! We will conclude our text withthe ending of the poem preceding the first chapter in ourbook, repeating four lines of the same, and dedicating thissame "ending" to the Birds.

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Index

[Transcriber Note: Although two unique copies of this volume are storedat The Internet Archive and both of them list an Index at Page 151, neitherone of them has an Index and both end at Page 150.]