"Sweet is the melody that at this season of the year arises from every
feathered songster of forest, field, and lea. I am writing to-day out
in the fields, seated, I might say, in the very lap of Nature--my county
is the very wildest and prettiest in all mid-England--and I cannot help
throwing down my pen occasionally to watch the motions or listen to the
singing of some or other of my wild pets. Nothing will convince me that
I am not as well known in the woods as if I were indeed a denizen
thereof. The birds, at all events, know me, and they do not fear me,
because I never hurt or frighten them.
"High overhead yonder, and dimly seen against the light grey of a cloud,
is the skylark. He is at far too great a height for me to see his head
with the naked eye, so I raise the lorgnettes, and with these I can
observe that even as he sings he turns his head earthwards to where, in
her cosy grass-lined nest among the tender corn, sits his pretty
speckled mate. He is singing to his mate. Yonder, perched on top of
the hedgerow, is my friend the yellow-hammer. He is arrayed in pinions
of a deeper, brighter orange now. Is it of that he is so proud? is it
because of that that there comes ever and anon in his short and simple
song a kind of half-hysterical note of joy? Nay, _I_ know why he sings
so, because I know where his nest is, and what is in it.
"In the hollow of an old, old tree, bent and battered by the wind and
weather, the starling has built, and the male bird trills his song on
the highest branch, but in a position to be seen by his mate. Not much
music in his song, yet he is terribly in earnest about the matter, and
I've no doubt the hen admires him, not only for the green metallic gloss
of his dark coat, but because he is trying to do his best, and to her
his gurgling notes are far sweeter than the music of merle, or the song
of the nightingale herself.
"But here is something strange, and it may be new to our little folk.
There are wee modest mites of birds in the woods and forests, that
really do not care to be heard by any other living ears than those of
their mates. I know where there is the nest of a rose-linnet in a bush
of furze, and I go and sit myself softly down within a few feet of it,
and in a few minutes back comes the male bird; he has been on an errand
of some kind. He seats himself on the highest twig of a neighbouring
bush. He is silent for a time, but he cannot be so very long; and so he
presently breaks out into his tender songlet, but so soft and low is his
ditty, that at five yards' distance methinks you would fail to hear it.
There are bold singers enough in copse and wild wood without him. The
song of the beautiful chaffinch is clear and defiant. The mavis or
speckled thrush is not only loud and bold in his tones, but he is what
you might term a singer of humorous songs. His object is evidently to
amuse his mate, and he sings from early morning till quite late, trying
all sorts of trick notes, mocking and mimicking every bird within
hearing distance. He even borrows some notes from the nightingale,
after the arrival of that bird in the country; a very sorry imitation he
makes of them, doubtless, but still you can recognise them for all that.
"Why is it we all love the robin so? Many would answer this question
quickly enough, and with no attempt at analysis, and their reply would
be, `Oh, because he deserves to be loved.' This is true enough; but let
me tell you why I love him. Though I never had a caged robin, thinking
it cruel to deprive a dear bird of its liberty, I always do all I can to
make friends with it wherever we meet. I was very young when I made my
first acquaintance with Master Robin. We lived in the country, and one
time there was a very hard winter indeed; the birds came to the lawn to
be fed, but one was not content with simple feeding, and so one colder
day than usual he kept throwing himself against a lower pane in the
parlour window--the bright, cheerful fire, I suppose, attracted his
notice.
"`You do look so cosy and comfortable in that nice room,' he seemed to
say; `think of my cold feet out in this dreary weather.'
"My dear mother--she who first taught me to love birds and beasts, and
all created things--did think of his cold feet. She opened the window,
and by-and-by he came in. He would have preferred the window left open,
but being given to understand that this would interfere materially with
family arrangements, he submitted to his semi-imprisonment with charming
grace, and perched himself on top of a picture-frame, which became his
resting-place when not busy picking up crumbs, or drinking water or
milk, through all the livelong winter. We were all greatly pleased when
one day he threw back his pert wee head and treated us to a song. And
it was always while we were at dinner that he sang.
"`I suppose,' he seemed to say, `you won't object to a little music,
will you?' Then he would strike up.
"But when the winter wore away he gave us to understand he had an
appointment somewhere; and so he was allowed to go about his business.
"My next adventure with a robin happened thus. I, while still a little
boy, did a very naughty thing. By reading sea-stories I got enamoured
of a sea life, and determined to run away from my old uncle, with whom I
was residing during the temporary absence of my parents on the
Continent. The old gentleman was not over kind to me--_that_ helped my
determination, no doubt. I did not get very far away--I may mention
this at once--but for two nights and days I stayed in the heart of a
spruce-pine wood, living on bread-and-cheese and whortleberries. My bed
was the branches of the pines, which I broke off and spread on the
ground, and all day my constant companion was a robin. I think he
hardly ever left me. I am, or was, in the belief that he slept on me.
Be this as it may, he picked up the crumbs I scattered for him, and
never forgot to reward me with a song. While singing he used to perch
on a branch quite close overhead, and sang so very low, though sweetly,
that I fully believed he sang for me alone. After you have read this
you will readily believe, that there may have been a large foundation of
truth in the beautiful tale of `The Babes in the Wood.' Before nor
since my childish escapade, I never knew a robin so curiously tame as
the one I met in the spruce-pine wood.
"Birds take singular fancies for some people. I know a little girl who
when a child had a great fancy for straying away by herself into the
woods. She was once found fast asleep and almost covered with wild
birds. Some might tell me the birds were merely keeping their feet warm
at the girl's expense. I have a very different opinion on the subject.
"Robins usually build in a green bank at the foot of a large tree, and
lay four or five lightish yellow or dusky eggs; but I have found their
nests in thorn-bushes. In the romantic Isle of Skye all small birds
build in the rocks, because there are no trees there, and few bushes.
In a cliff, for example, close to the sea, if not quite overhanging it,
you will find at the lower part the nests of larks, finches, linnets,
and other small birds; on a higher reach the nests of thrushes and
blackbirds; higher still pigeons build; and near the top sea-gulls and
birds of prey, including the owl family.
"There is a short branch line not far from where I live, which ends five
miles from the main artery of traffic. In the corner of a truck which
had been lying idle at the little terminus for some time, a pair of
robins built their nest, and the hen was sitting on five eggs when it
became necessary to use the truck.
"`Don't disturb the nest,' said the kindly station-master to his men;
`put something over it. But I daresay the bird will forsake it; she's
sure to do so.'
"But the bird did nothing of the kind, and although she had a little
railway journey gratis, once a day at least, to the main line and back,
she stuck to her nest, and finally reared her family to fledglings.
"Robins are early astir in the morning; their song is the first I hear.
They sing, too, quite late at night; they also sing all the year round;
and it is my impression, on the whole, that they like best to trill
forth when other birds are silent.
"The song-birds of our groves are neither jealous of each other nor do
they hate each other. Down at the foot of my lawn I have a large
shallow pan placed, which is kept half-filled with water in summer. I
can see it from my bedroom window, and it is very pleasant to watch the
birds having a bath in the morning. There is neither jealousy nor
hatred displayed during the performance of this most healthful
operation. I sometimes see blackbirds, thrushes, and sparrows all
tubbing at one time, and quite hilarious over it.