The little readers of _Birds and All Nature_ will not have much respect
for me, I am afraid, after reading what Mr. Wood Thrush said of my
family in the last number of the magazine.
Probably you don't recollect it. Well, he said that my cousin, Mr.
Red-Wing Blackbird, was often found in the company of Mr. Cowbird, and
that Mr. Cowbird was a very disreputable creature, being no better than
an outcast and a tramp.
Humph! Just as though birds, like boys and girls, are to be judged by
the company they keep. Why, _I_ associate with Mr. Cowbird, too; he
is a distant relative of mine, and certainly nobody who looks at my
picture can call me disreputable. See what a glossy black coat I wear
and what a fine yellow collar and hat. We are only free in our manners,
that is all, helping ourselves liberally to the grain planted by our
dear friend, Mr. Farmer.
I am not lazy, either, like my relative, Mr. Cowbird, for I build a new
house every spring, locating it among the tall flags and grasses in a
nice damp piece of marshland.
Though I am a blackbird, I'm not found from the Atlantic to the
Pacific, as Mr. Red-Wing is and others of our tribe. For that reason
you can't call me common, you know. But, then, our manners and customs
are about the same. We do not hop like other birds, but walk very
much as you do, putting one foot before the other, a bit awkwardly,
perhaps, but I am sure with considerable dignity. Indeed, my mate says
but for cocking my head on one side when strutting on the ground one
might take me for a bishop--in feathers--I have such a solemn, serious
air, as though burdened with a sense of my own importance.
Like the generality of birds, I find a warm climate in winter conducive
to my health, so in November I leave the north and hie me to the south,
returning about the first of May, not so early as my cousin, Mr.
Red-Wing, and the other common members of the blackbird family. They,
like some visitors, welcome or unwelcome, usually come early and stay
late.
It strikes me, for that reason, the blackbird family should be
considered of some importance, even if they do associate with Mr.
Cowbird, tramp that he is, for when the first flocks of blackbirds are
seen sailing overhead, like leaves blown by the wind against the sky,
you know that spring is near, no matter how cold or chill the weather
may be. Crowds and crowds of us are then seen circling and wheeling
above our last year's nesting-place, talking and laughing like little
children and making just as much noise.
_Con-cur-ee_ is the only song we know, but we utter that in different
tones, so that our mates consider it very pleasing, and so may you.