Birds and Nature Vol. 9 No. 3 [March 1901]

THE SANDPIPER

 
The glitter of the sunlit river
In his flashing, fearless eye,
There on his unwearied pinions
See the bird go sailing by!
 
 
Slender, sword-like wings, and dainty,
How they cut the thin air now!
And without a trace of languor
Soars he to the mountain’s brow.
 
 
Back again – for whim has moved him —
And where rippling water lies,
Scanning all the shore line closely,
Light as thistle-down he flies!
 
 
On the white sand scarce a footprint
Makes he, touching here and there;
Singing his two notes so gladly,
Ah, this bird is passing fair!
 
 
Sweet content in voice and motion;
Following plash of many a wave;
Or o’er pine that faces ocean
Mounts this rover, gay and brave!
 

– George Bancroft Griffith.

A BIT OF BIRD GOSSIP

The sun shone brightly through the green leaves of the trees and crowned each tiny ripple on the lake with a glistening diamond. A Robin Redbreast hopped along the shore, picking up a few pebbles, for the poor thing has to wear her false teeth in her stomach, as it were, having no teeth in her head with which to chew her food.

There was a rush of wings above her and she dropped the grain of sand with which she had thought to fill up her gizzard, cocked her smooth black head on one side and watched the approach of another bird. Was it friend or enemy? It proved to belong to the aristocratic family of Thrushes – real high-flyers among birds – who alighted on the same sandy shore and advanced “with many a flirt and flutter” to greet her old friend, for they had been neighbors in the same sunny orchard the year before.

“So glad to meet you again, Mrs. Redbreast,” said the gracious Thrush in a most musical voice, “but are you not a long way from the willows on the river bank where I last had the pleasure of seeing you?”

“Oh, we never finished that house among the willows. We became dissatisfied with the neighborhood,” answered Mrs. Redbreast, after performing the graceful courtesy of a well-bred bird, as are all Robin Redbreasts.

“Ah, I was afraid of malaria when we looked the ground over together in the spring. It was too low, almost swampy. Mr. Thrush and I went to a little knoll about three miles away and built in the loveliest, the most fragrant wild crabapple tree you ever saw,” and Mrs. Thrush smoothed with shining beak a mottled feather on her handsome breast.

“But would not those lovely blossoms tempt those creatures – boys, I think they are called – to climb until they found your home?”

“The thorns stand sentinel and the thick leaves hide it well, and I wanted my children to grow up strong, and swift on the wing. They would never grow up well feathered and beautiful amid those lovely willows on account of the low ground,” replied the Thrush.

“It was not malaria that caused us to abandon our half-built nest, but boys, some black as crows and some white as doves, kept coming to get materials for whistles. It seems that the very tree we chose had bark that slipped the easiest, and sometimes a flock of three or four would be perched on the limbs (they always sit astride, so awkwardly, you know), with jack-knives in their hands, and of course we could not stay. Robin wanted to come to the park – it is a lovely place – where those fine big creatures with bright stars on their gray coats are put to take care of us birds. Why,” she went on, “they will not let boys stone even an English Sparrow, but I think that is altogether too particular. There comes a party of the little cockneys now,” as a handful of winged brown balls came fluttering through the air close to the heads of the larger birds, who could easily have put them to flight if they would but try. However, they ducked their heads and scampered into the weeds, leaving the smooth shore to the new-comers, who dipped and splashed in the shallow edge of the lake as if they enjoyed it mightily.

“Just see the horrid little things washing themselves in water, but they never can get clean. Why, my Robin, who is a very venturesome fellow and sometimes follows the boulevards almost into the heart of the city, says that he has seen them in the dirty city streets washing themselves in the dust like common barnyard fowls.”

“Don’t let’s look at them,” exclaimed Mrs. Thrush. “They are doing it just because it looks respectable, and they know that we wash in water;” and the two birds spread their wings and swept disdainfully away from the neighborhood of the Sparrows.

“And where did you finally build, Mrs. Redbreast?” asked the other as they settled gracefully on the shore a half a mile away.

“Well, Robin, as I said, wanted very much to live in the park. He is so fond of company, but I told him there were too many children on the grass. Why, they are as thick as dandelions any fine day, and in spite of the care of the great gray creatures it would be impossible to safely teach our children to fly. We finally found a lovely suburban place within easy flying distance of the park. An apple tree with perfect branches for a nest grew in the back yard, the cherry trees were white with bloom and the whole place fragrant with the blossoms of the grape. There was a flat jar always kept filled with water for the birds, with a stone in it that reached nearly to the surface on which to stand while bathing. The water made the birds come in flocks, so that the place was gay with songs, and really that yard was a little Eden. But you know,” she went on, dropping her voice, “there is a story of something terrible that walked in the garden of Eden, and I think it was a black cat, for that is what walks in our garden. He lies on the back steps in the sunshine pretending to be asleep, but where his eyes ought to be in that big black ball he calls his head I can see a narrow yellow stripe, and out of that stripe of yellow he watches every bird that comes.”

“Does he get any birds?” asked the Thrush in an awe-struck whisper.

The Redbreast shook her black head sadly. “Every now and then his mistress finds him with feathers in his whiskers, and she scolds him. But there is a serpent in every Eden,” she added philosophically; “if it isn’t cats it’s boys.”

“Did you ever hear what became of the family of Wrens that lived in the honeysuckle over the back door?” asked Mrs. Thrush, who cared more for gossip than moralizing. “They were so pleasant and cheery.”

“Oh, yes. We started south before they left and I haven’t seen them since. They were a proud little folk, that made believe they were not proud, always wearing the finest clothes, yet in such sober colors. I always called them stuck up.”

“Their tails certainly were – he, he, he,” giggled Mrs. Thrush.

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Mrs. Redbreast. “That’s pretty good. I must tell that to Robin. But don’t you remember,” she went on, “the Blue Jays that lived in the elm tree down the lane?”

“I never thought them very well-bred,” replied Mrs. Thrush, bridling prettily, for she and her family pride themselves on their correct behavior. “Wonderfully pretty, but too loud.”

“Altogether too gay and noisy. Mrs. Jay was a great scold, and Blue almost as bad. You could hear them all over the neighborhood. Well, they lost all their children by a Hawk, though Mrs. Jay fought bravely for her little ones, and Blue proved himself a real hero. She over-exerted herself, however, and died shortly after of nervous prostration. I saw a girl, who had found her body, spreading out her poor dead wings and holding them up against her hat. She finally wrapped Mrs. Jay up in her handkerchief and carried her away.”

“If women would only be satisfied with the wings of a bird that had died a natural death we would not complain,” said Mrs. Thrush, as she folded her own pretty wings a little closer. “Blue Jay married again right away, of course,” she went on, as she dropped a little red ant down among the mill stones of her gizzard to be ground up.

“He did not even wait the conventional two weeks. If I thought Robin Redbreast would be looking out for another housekeeper so soon after my death he would not have such a good wife as he has to-day. He would have to hunt more worms and bugs than he does, instead of just bringing home a little bit of dessert in the shape of cherries or grapes to please the children;” and the mother fluffed up her feathers alarmingly.

“That makes me think,” said Mrs. Thrush, “that I promised the children an especially nice supper to-night if they would not chirp or stick up their heads and look over the edge of the nest. They are really getting so big now that Mr. Thrush and I can do nothing with them. Last night when I went home I found my eldest son, Brown Thrush, sitting on the edge of the nest, and he is taller – ”

Just then a large shadow wavered over the sunshiny sward, and with a scared exclamation of “Hawk!” the birds flew swiftly in different directions, not waiting to see that the object which cast the shadow was nothing but a harmless paper kite.

S. E. McKee.

THE MARBLED MURRELET
(Brachyramphus marmoratus.)

This little bird belongs to the family of auks and puffins, the guillemots and the dovekie. It is the sea bird family (Alcidae) for all the species are maritime, spending most of their time on the ocean. Nearly all the species frequent the Pacific coast of North America. A few are, however, found on the Atlantic coast. They seem to frequent the wildest and most rocky shores and generally congregate in large colonies which may include several species. Their structure unfits them for locomotion on the land where they move in an uncouth and awkward manner, but they are agile and quick swimmers and expert divers. It is said that they will remain under water for several minutes, swimming for long distances. They use their wings in diving. The Marbled Murrelet inhabits the coast of the Pacific ocean from San Diego, California, northward, breeding only in the northern part of its range. These birds are seldom found at any great distance inland. It is said that their nests, like those of the petrels, are built in holes in banks or in burrows in the ground. They have also been known to lay their eggs in the open crevices of cliffs where but little effort is made to build a nest other than the gathering together of a few sticks and twigs.

The ovate eggs are of a buffy color and are marked with varying shades of brown.

BEFORE THE STORM

 
A whir and sweep of snow-white wings,
Soft brown-flecked breasts, now here, now there
A-sway upon the ragged weeds
Or darting through the wintry air.
I watch you from the frosted pane
Beside the glowing hearth-stone warm,
And shudder as I hear the wail
Of angry winds before the storm.
 

– Mary Morrison.

BOY-CHICKADEE

I doubt if any one was ever haunted by a more commonplace object than a fence-post; yet, terminating a fence that borders a little farm, there is a gray old post which has haunted my imagination for several years. The fence has long ceased to fence anything in or out; the uppermost rail is the only one left and that is fastened to my post about five inches from the top. Just under the lee of that rail is a round hole which is rather jagged about the lower edge as if gnawed by sharp little teeth. Every time I travel that road I am impelled to stop and put a finger into that hole. I always expect to discover a secret, yet never do. Still, the post haunts me for once Boy-Chickadee kept house there.

Boy-Chickadee is one of our smallest birds. He wears a dumpy little gray coat surmounted by a pair of bright black eyes under a velvety black cap. Dear to the heart of every bird-lover, he is especially so in winter. It is then that his crystal pendulum of song swings lightly to and fro where other bird-song is rare. It is rather plaintive – two minor notes swing to the left, then two more to the right – and seems to belong only to frosty mornings. Boy-Chickadee stays to wish you “A Merry Christmas” and “A Happy New Year,” and comes daily to dine on sunflower seeds stowed in a large gourd for him. I should be ashamed to say how many seeds he consumes at a sitting, or flitting better describes it. He flits in for a seed, then out to the apple-tree to hammer it, uttering gurgles of content all the while. He spends so much time eating them that I eye my store anxiously wondering if it will hold out under such onslaughts. Sometimes he brings a companion and they take turns going into the gourd. His British enemies tag him enviously and hang about the gourd-door; but it is cut too small for them and they can only gaze in. It is Boy-Chickadee’s cache.

In summer time Chickadee deserts us and we must seek him in the fields, and that is how we came to find the fence-post. We sat waiting for birds to bathe, but waited in vain. They bathed up-stream and they bathed down-stream. We saw them drying their feathers, but they would not bathe by us. A dripping Chickadee flew overhead and sat preening his feathers in a sweetgum tree. How nearly we had come to seeing that bath! (a thing we had never achieved). In despair we crossed the road and hid behind the sassafras hedge. Presently something strange passed us and there was Dame Chickadee with a very queer burden. Imagine yourself with a mouthful of excelsior larger than your head, and you will have some idea of her comical appearance. She peered at us from behind her treasure first with one eye and then with the other. We were all attention. A dozen times she darted towards the old fence, but we were too alarming and she could not make up her mind to brave us. Each time she retreated to the sweetgum, holding tight to her bundle – it might have been a clematis blossom, I could not say. It was the first time I had ever seen a Chickadee look self-conscious. At the same time we saw that Boy-Chickadee had dipped in once more and was dripping wet. It was maddening. At last she made a wide curve towards us and disappeared. I sprang to the fence-post and discovered the round hole, and with an ecstatic catch of the breath I put one finger in. A bunch of indignant feathers hurled itself against my hand and out came the finger and out came she and whisked away with such lightning rapidity that we barely saw her. The hole was too deep and too well shadowed to tell us anything more than that it had a secret in its keeping and although we should have liked to camp by the post it was not to be.

At our next visit we found Dame Chickadee setting and Boy Chickadee feeding her; again, and the post had become a nursery. It seemed too ludicrous that such babes-in-the-woods should ever attain to the dignity of fatherhood and motherhood; but this time neither parent was there to be laughed at, and as I tapped at the door a perfectly intelligible “Day-day-day-day” came from the nursery; the babes had already learned to talk!

It was so long before we visited them again that we expected to find the post deserted. There was no sign of occupancy and I felt depressed because it was all over. But a gentle tap brought a tiny, angular cranium and a careworn baby face to the door. It didn’t seem possible that Boy Chickadee could have such a homely bairn! We withdrew in haste when he threatened to come out; but we had summoned him and the moment had come to seek his fortune. The youngster stepped into the door and set sail straight across the wide roadway. When we caught a rear view of the tiny sailboat our gravity was undone, for not a vestige of tail adorned it and he was the most unfinished fledgling we had ever seen.

This was the last sign of life the old fence-post yielded, but I cannot learn to believe it final. I am constantly expecting to see more Chickadees set sail, and its possibilities still haunt me.

Elizabeth Nunemacher.