behind the other, and there awaited the coming of the abbess. All night
they stood thus without making a sound, as if struck dumb by their
guilty consciences. But when morning came, they uttered the most pitiful
cries as though asking pardon and permission to depart.
Then the lady abbess, taking compassion on the repentant birds, appeared
with some nuns upon a balcony. Long she talked to the geese, asking them
why they had stolen the convent grain. She threatened them with a long
fast, and then, softening, began to offer them pardon if they would
never again attack her lands, nor eat her corn. To which the geese bowed
their heads low in assent. Then the abbess gave them her blessing and
permission to depart.
Hardly had she done so when the geese, spreading their wings, made a
joyous circle above the convent towers, and flew away. Alighting at some
distance they counted their number and found one missing. For, alas! in
the night, when they had been shut in the courtyard, the convent cook,
seeing how fat they were, had stolen one bird and had killed, roasted,
and eaten it.
When the birds discovered that one of their number was missing, they
again took wing and, hovering over the convent, they uttered mournful
cries, complaining of the loss of their comrade, and imploring the
abbess to return him to the flock.
Now, when the lady abbess heard these melancholy pleas, she assembled
her household, and inquired of each member where the bird might be.
The cook, fearing that it might be already known to her, confessed the
theft, and begged for pardon.
“You have been very audacious,” said the abbess, “but at least collect
the bones and bring them to me.”
The cook did as directed, and the abbess at a word caused the bones to
come together and to assume flesh, and afterwards feathers, and, lo! the
original bird rose up.
The geese, having received their lost companion, rejoiced loudly,
and, beating their wings gratefully, made many circles over the sacred
cloister, before they flew away. Neither did they in future ever dare
to place a foot on the lands of the convent, nor to touch one blade of
grass.
THE KING OF THE BIRDS
BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM (TRANSLATED)
One day the birds took it into their heads that they would like a
master, and that one of their number must be chosen king. A meeting of
all the birds was called, and on a beautiful May morning they assembled
from woods and fields and meadows. The eagle, the robin, the bluebird,
the owl, the lark, the sparrow were all there. The cuckoo came, and the
lapwing, and so did all the other birds, too numerous to mention. There
also came a very little bird that had no name at all.
There was great confusion and noise. There was piping, hissing,
chattering and clacking, and finally it was decided that the bird that
could fly the highest should be king.
The signal was given and all the birds flew in a great flock into the
air. There was a loud rustling and whirring and beating of wings. The
air was full of dust, and it seemed as if a black cloud were floating
over the field.
The little birds soon grew tired and fell back quickly to earth. The
larger ones held out longer, and flew higher and higher, but the eagle
flew highest of any. He rose, and rose, until he seemed to be flying
straight into the sun.
The other birds gave out and one by one they fell back to earth; and
when the eagle saw this he thought, “What is the use of flying any
higher? It is settled: I am king!”
Then the birds below called in one voice: “Come back, come back! You
must be our king! No one can fly as high as you.”
“Except me!” cried a shrill, shrill voice, and the little bird without
a name rose from the eagle's back, where he had lain hidden in the
feathers, and he flew into the air. Higher and higher he mounted till
he was lost to sight, then, folding his wings together, he sank to earth
crying shrilly: “I am king! I am king!”
“You, our king!” the birds cried in anger; “you have done this by
trickery and cunning. We will not have you to reign over us.”
Then the birds gathered together again and made another condition, that
he should be king who could go the deepest into the earth.
How the goose wallowed in the sand, and the duck strove to dig a hole!
All the other birds, too, tried to hide themselves in the ground.
The little bird without a name found a mouse's hole, and creeping in
cried:--
“I am king! I am king!”
“You, our king!” all the birds cried again, more angrily than before.
“Do you think that we would reward your cunning in this way? No, no! You
shall stay in the earth till you die of hunger!”
So they shut up the little bird in the mouse's hole, and bade the owl
watch him carefully night and day. Then all the birds went home to bed,
for they were very tired; but the owl found it lonely and wearisome
sitting alone staring at the mouse's hole.
“I can close one eye and watch with the other,” he thought. So he closed
one eye and stared steadfastly with the other; but before he knew it he
forgot to keep that one open, and both eyes were fast asleep.
Then the little bird without a name peeped out, and when he saw Master
Owl's two eyes tight shut, he slipped from the hole and flew away.
From this time on the owl has not dared to show himself by day lest
the birds should pull him to pieces. He flies about only at night-time,
hating and pursuing the mouse for having made the hole into which the
little bird crept.
And the little bird also keeps out of sight, for he fears lest the other
birds should punish him for his cunning. He hides in the hedges, and
when he thinks himself quite safe, he sings out: “I am king! I am king!”
And the other birds in mockery call out: “Yes, yes, the hedge-king! the
hedge-king!”
THE DOVE WHO SPOKE TRUTH
BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
The dove and the wrinkled little bat once went on a journey together.
When it came toward night a storm arose, and the two companions sought
everywhere for a shelter. But all the birds were sound asleep in their
nests and the animals in their holes and dens. They could find no
welcome anywhere until they came to the hollow tree where old Master Owl
lived, wide awake in the dark.
“Let us knock here,” said the shrewd bat; “I know the old fellow is not
asleep. This is his prowling hour, and but that it is a stormy night he
would be abroad hunting.--What ho, Master Owl!” he squeaked, “will you
let in two storm-tossed travelers for a night's lodging?”
Gruffly the selfish old owl bade them enter, and grudgingly invited them
to share his supper. The poor dove was so tired that she could scarcely
eat, but the greedy bat's spirits rose as soon as he saw the viands
spread before him. He was a sly fellow, and immediately began to flatter
his host into good humor. He praised the owl's wisdom and his courage,
his gallantry and his generosity; though every one knew that however
wise old Master Owl might be, he was neither brave nor gallant. As
for his generosity--both the dove and the bat well remembered his
selfishness toward the poor wren, when the owl alone of all the birds
refused to give the little fire-bringer a feather to help cover his
scorched and shivering body.
All this flattery pleased the owl. He puffed and ruffled himself, trying
to look as wise, gallant, and brave as possible. He pressed the bat to
help himself more generously to the viands, which invitation the sly
fellow was not slow to accept.
During this time the dove had not uttered a word. She sat quite still
staring at the bat, and wondering to hear such insincere speeches of
flattery. Suddenly the owl turned to her.
“As for you, Miss Pink-Eyes,” he said gruffly, “you keep careful
silence. You are a dull table-companion. Pray, have you nothing to say
for yourself?”
“Yes,” exclaimed the mischievous bat; “have you no words of praise for
our kind host? Methinks he deserves some return for this wonderfully
generous, agreeable, tasteful, well-appointed, luxurious, elegant, and
altogether acceptable banquet. What have you to say, O little dove?”
But the dove hung her head, ashamed of her companion, and said very
simply: “O Master Owl, I can only thank you with all my heart for the
hospitality and shelter which you have given me this night. I was beaten
by the storm, and you took me in. I was hungry, and you gave me your
best to eat. I cannot flatter nor make pretty speeches like the bat. I
never learned such manners. But I thank you.”
“What!” cried the bat, pretending to be shocked, “is that all you have
to say to our obliging host? Is he not the wisest, bravest, most gallant
and generous of gentlemen? Have you no praise for his noble character as
well as for his goodness to us? I am ashamed of you! You do not deserve
such hospitality. You do not deserve this shelter.”
The dove remained silent. Like Cordelia in the play she could not speak
untruths even for her own happiness.
“Truly, you are an unamiable guest,” snarled the owl, his yellow eyes
growing keen and fierce with anger and mortified pride. “You are an
ungrateful bird, Miss, and the bat is right. You do not deserve this
generous hospitality which I have offered, this goodly shelter which you
asked. Away with you! Leave my dwelling! Pack off into the storm and see
whether or not your silence will soothe the rain and the wind. Be off, I
say!”
“Yes, away with her!” echoed the bat, flapping his leathery wings.
And the two heartless creatures fell upon the poor little dove and drove
her out into the dark and stormy night.
Poor little dove! All night she was tossed and beaten about shelterless
in the storm, because she had been too truthful to flatter the vain old
owl. But when the bright morning dawned, draggled and weary as she was,
she flew to the court of King Eagle and told him all her trouble. Great
was the indignation of that noble bird.
“For his flattery and his cruelty let the bat never presume to fly
abroad until the sun goes down,” he cried. “As for the owl, I have
already doomed him to this punishment for his treatment of the wren. But
henceforth let no bird have anything to do with either of them, the
bat or the owl. Let them be outcasts and night-prowlers, enemies to be
attacked and punished if they appear among us, to be avoided by all in
their loneliness. Flattery and inhospitality, deceit and cruelty,--what
are more hideous than these? Let them cover themselves in darkness and
shun the happy light of day.
“As for you, little dove, let this be a lesson to you to shun the
company of flatterers, who are sure to get you into trouble. But you
shall always be loved for your simplicity and truth. And as a token
of our affection your name shall be used by poets as long as the world
shall last to rhyme with LOVE.”
THE BUSY BLUE JAY
BY OLIVE THORNE MILLER (ADAPTED)
One of the most interesting birds who ever lived in my Bird Room was a
blue jay named Jakie. He was full of business from morning till night,
scarcely ever a moment still.
Poor little fellow! He had been stolen from the nest before he could
fly, and reared in a house, long before he was given to me. Of course he
could not be set free, for he did not know how to take care of himself.
Jays are very active birds, and being shut up in a room, my blue jay had
to find things to do, to keep himself busy. If he had been allowed to
grow up out of doors, he would have found plenty to do, planting acorns
and nuts, nesting, and bringing up families.
Sometimes the things he did in the house were what we call mischief
because they annoy us, such as hammering the woodwork to pieces, tearing
bits out of the leaves of books, working holes in chair seats, or
pounding a cardboard box to pieces. But how is a poor little bird to
know what is mischief?
Many things which Jakie did were very funny. For instance, he made it
his business to clear up the room. When he had more food than he
could eat at the moment, he did not leave it around, but put it away
carefully,--not in the garbage pail, for that was not in the room, but
in some safe nook where it did not offend the eye. Sometimes it was
behind the tray in his cage, or among the books on the shelf. The places
he liked best were about me,--in the fold of a ruffle or the loop of
a bow on my dress, and sometimes in the side of my slipper. The very
choicest place of all was in my loosely bound hair. That, of course, I
could not allow, and I had to keep very close watch of him, for fear I
might have a bit of bread or meat thrust among my locks.
In his clearing up he always went carefully over the floor, picking
up pins, or any little thing he could find, and I often dropped burnt
matches, buttons, and other small things to give him something to do.
These he would pick up and put nicely away.
Pins Jakie took lengthwise in his beak, and at first I thought he had
swallowed them, till I saw him hunt up a proper place to hide them. The
place he chose was between the leaves of a book. He would push a pin far
in out of sight, and then go after another. A match he always tried to
put in a crack, under the baseboard, between the breadths of matting, or
under my rockers. He first placed it, and then tried to hammer it in
out of sight. He could seldom get it in far enough to suit him, and this
worried him. Then he would take it out and try another place.
Once the blue jay found a good match, of the parlor match variety. He
put it between the breadths of matting, and then began to pound on it
as usual. Pretty soon he hit the unburnt end and it went off with a loud
crack, as parlor matches do. Poor Jakie jumped two feet into the air,
nearly frightened out of his wits; and I was frightened, too, for I
feared he might set the house on fire.
Often when I got up from my chair a shower of the bird's playthings
would fall from his various hiding-places about my dress,--nails,
matches, shoe-buttons, bread-crumbs, and other things. Then he had to
begin his work all over again.
Jakie liked a small ball or a marble. His game was to give it a hard
peck and see it roll. If it rolled away from him, he ran after it and
pecked again; but sometimes it rolled toward him, and then he bounded
into the air as if he thought it would bite. And what was funny, he was
always offended at this conduct of the ball, and went off sulky for a
while.
He was a timid little fellow. Wind or storm outside the windows made him
wild. He would fly around the room, squawking at the top of his voice;
and the horrible tin horns the boys liked to blow at Thanksgiving and
Christmas drove him frantic.
Once I brought a Christmas tree into the room to please the birds, and
all were delighted with it except my poor little blue jay, who was much
afraid of it. Think of the sadness of a bird being afraid of a tree!
II
Jakie had decided opinions about people who came into the room to see
me, or to see the birds. At some persons he would squawk every moment.
Others he saluted with a queer cry like “Ob-ble! ob-ble! ob-ble!” Once
when a lady came in with a baby, he fixed his eyes on that infant with a
savage look as if he would like to peck it, and jumped back and forth in
his cage, panting but perfectly silent.
Jakie was very devoted to me. He always greeted me with a low, sweet
chatter, with wings quivering, and, if he were out of the cage, he would
come on the back of my chair and touch my cheek or lips very gently with
his beak, or offer me a bit of food if he had any; and to me alone when
no one else was near, he sang a low, exquisite song. I afterwards
heard a similar song sung by a wild blue jay to his mate while she was
sitting, and so I knew that my dear little captive had given me his
sweetest--his love-song.
One of Jakie's amusements was dancing across the back of a tall chair,
taking funny little steps, coming down hard, “jouncing” his body, and
whistling as loud as he could. He would keep up this funny performance
as long as anybody would stand before him and pretend to dance too.
My jay was fond of a sensation. One of his dearest bits of fun was to
drive the birds into a panic. This he did by flying furiously around the
room, feathers rustling, and squawking as loud as he could. He usually
managed to fly just over the head of each bird, and as he came like a
catapult, every one flew before him, so that in a minute the room was
full of birds flying madly about, trying to get out of his way. This
gave him great pleasure.
Once a grasshopper got into the Bird Room, probably brought in clinging
to some one's dress in the way grasshoppers do. Jakie was in his cage,
but he noticed the stranger instantly, and I opened the door for him.
He went at once to look at the grasshopper, and when it hopped he was
so startled that he hopped too. Then he picked the insect up, but he
did not know what to do with it, so he dropped it again. Again the
grasshopper jumped directly up, and again the jay did the same. This
they did over and over, till every one was tired laughing at them. It
looked as if they were trying to see who could jump the highest.
There was another bird in the room, however, who knew what grasshoppers
were good for. He was an orchard oriole, and after looking on awhile,
he came down and carried off the hopper to eat. The jay did not like
to lose his plaything; he ran after the thief, and stood on the floor
giving low cries and looking on while the oriole on a chair was eating
the dead grasshopper. When the oriole happened to drop it, Jakie,--who
had got a new idea what to do with grasshoppers,--snatched it up and
carried it under a chair and finished it.
I could tell many more stories about my bird, but I have told them
before in one of my “grown-up” books, so I will not repeat them here.
BABES IN THE WOODS
BY JOHN BURROUGHS
One day in early May, Ted and I made an expedition to the Shattega, a
still, dark, deep stream that loiters silently through the woods not far
from my cabin. As we paddled along, we were on the alert for any bit of
wild life of bird or beast that might turn up.
There were so many abandoned woodpecker chambers in the small dead
trees as we went along that I determined to secure the section of a tree
containing a good one to take home and put up for the bluebirds. “Why
don't the bluebirds occupy them here?” inquired Ted. “Oh,” I replied,
“blue birds do not come so far into the woods as this. They prefer
nesting-places in the open, and near human habitations.” After carefully
scrutinizing several of the trees, we at last saw one that seemed to
fill the bill. It was a small dead tree-trunk seven or eight inches in
diameter, that leaned out over the water, and from which the top had
been broken. The hole, round and firm, was ten or twelve feet above us.
After considerable effort I succeeded in breaking the stub off near the
ground, and brought it down into the boat.
“Just the thing,” I said; “surely the bluebirds will prefer this to an
artificial box.” But, lo and behold, it already had bluebirds in it! We
had not heard a sound or seen a feather till the trunk was in our hands,
when, on peering into the cavity, we discovered two young bluebirds
about half grown. This was a predicament indeed!
Well, the only thing we could do was to stand the tree-trunk up again as
well as we could, and as near as we could to where it had stood before.
This was no easy thing. But after a time we had it fairly well replaced,
one end standing in the mud of the shallow water and the other resting
against a tree. This left the hole to the nest about ten feet below and
to one side of its former position. Just then we heard the voice of one
of the parent birds, and we quickly paddled to the other side of the
stream, fifty feet away, to watch her proceedings, saying to each other,
“Too bad! too bad!” The mother bird had a large beetle in her beak.
She alighted upon a limb a few feet above the former site of her nest,
looked down upon us, uttered a note or two, and then dropped down
confidently to the point in the vacant air where the entrance to her
nest had been but a few moments before. Here she hovered on the wing
a second or two, looking for something that was not there, and then
returned to the perch she had just left, apparently not a little
disturbed. She hammered the beetle rather excitedly upon the limb a few
times, as if it were in some way at fault, then dropped down to try for
her nest again. Only vacant air there! She hovers and hovers, her blue
wings flickering in the checkered light; surely that precious hole MUST
be there; but no, again she is baffled, and again she returns to her
perch, and mauls the poor beetle till it must be reduced to a pulp. Then
she makes a third attempt, then a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, till
she becomes very much excited. “What could have happened? Am I dreaming?
Has that beetle hoodooed me?” she seems to say, and in her dismay she
lets the bug drop, and looks bewilderedly about her. Then she flies away
through the woods, calling. “Going for her mate,” I said to Ted. “She is
in deep trouble, and she wants sympathy and help.”
In a few minutes we heard her mate answer, and presently the two birds
came hurrying to the spot, both with loaded beaks. They perched upon the
familiar limb above the site of the nest, and the mate seemed to say,
“My dear, what has happened to you? I can find that nest.” And he dived
down, and brought up in the empty air just as the mother had done. How
he winnowed it with his eager wings! How he seemed to bear on to that
blank space! His mate sat regarding him intently, confident, I think,
that he would find the clue. But he did not. Baffled and excited, he
returned to the perch beside her. Then she tried again, then he rushed
down once more, then they both assaulted the place, but it would not
give up its secret. They talked, they encouraged each other, and they
kept up the search, now one, now the other, now both together. Sometimes
they dropped down to within a few feet of the entrance to the nest,
and we thought they would surely find it. No, their minds and eyes were
intent only upon that square foot of space where the nest had been. Soon
they withdrew to a large limb many feet higher up, and seemed to say to
themselves,
“Well, it is not there, but it must be here somewhere; let us look
about.” A few minutes elapsed, when we saw the mother bird spring from
her perch and go straight as an arrow to the nest. Her maternal eye had
proved the quicker. She had found her young. Something like reason and
common sense had come to her rescue; she had taken time to look about,
and behold! there was that precious doorway. She thrust her head into
it, then sent back a call to her mate, then went farther in, then
withdrew. “Yes, it is true, they are here, they are here!” Then she went
in again, gave them the food in her beak, and then gave place to her
mate, who, after similar demonstrations of joy, also gave them his
morsel.
Ted and I breathed freer. A burden had been taken from our minds and
hearts, and we went cheerfully on our way. We had learned something,
too; we had learned that when in the deep woods you think of bluebirds,
bluebirds may be nearer you than you think.
THE PRIDE OF THE REGIMENT
BY HARRY M. KIEFFER (ADAPTED)
“Old Abe” was the war-eagle of the Eighth Wisconsin Volunteers. Whoever
it may have been that first conceived the idea, it was certainly a happy
thought to make a pet of an eagle. For the eagle is our national bird,
and to carry an eagle along with the colors of a regiment on the
march, and in battle, and all through the whole war, was surely very
appropriate, indeed.
“Old Abe's” perch was on a shield, which was carried by a soldier, to
whom, and to whom alone, he looked as to a master. He would not allow
any one to carry or even to handle him, except this soldier, nor would
he ever receive his food from any other person's hands. He seemed to
have sense enough to know that he was sometimes a burden to his master
on the march, however, and, as if to relieve him, would occasionally
spread his wings and soar aloft to a great height, the men of all
regiments along the line of march cheering him as he went up.