_By Margaret Coulson Walker_
Lovers of birds will doubtless be pleased to know that some of the
most agreeable and interesting legends of the past were centered about
these guests of our groves, whose actions formed the basis of
innumerable fancies and superstitions. An acquaintance with the
literature as well as with the life history of our feathered friends
will not only increase our interest in the bird life about us but it
will broaden our sympathies as well.
Birds exercised a strong influence on prehistoric religion, having
been worshipped as gods in the earlier days and later looked upon as
representatives of the higher powers. The Greeks went so far as to
attribute the origin of the world itself to the egg of some mysterious
bird. To others, these small creatures flitting about among our trees,
represented the visible spirits of departed friends. The Aztecs
believed that the good, as a reward of merit, were metamorphosed at
the close of life into feathered songsters, and as such were permitted
to pass a certain term in the beautiful groves of Paradise. To them,
as to all North American Indians, thunder was the cloud bird flapping
his mighty wings, while the lightning was the flash of his eye. The
people of other countries believed that higher powers showed their
displeasure by transforming wrong-doers into birds and animals as a
punishment for their crimes.
In all lands birds were invested with the power of prophecy. They were
believed to possess superior intelligence through being twice-born,
once as an egg, and again as an animal. Because of their wisdom, not
only they, but their graven images also, were consulted on all
important affairs of life. Many nations, notably the Japanese, are
still believers in the direct communication between man and unseen
beings, through birds and other agents. In their country, birds are
regarded as sacred, and for this reason the agriculturist gladly
shares with them the fruit of his toil.
While we of to-day attach no supernatural significance to the presence
of these feathered songsters, and even though to us they possess no
powers of prophecy, we can find a great deal of pleasure in observing
these beings whose boding cries were regarded as omens by the greatest
of earth--beings whose actions in Vespasian's time were considered of
vital national importance.
Aside from their historic and literary interest, these multitudinous,
and often contradictory, legends and superstitions are of interest to
us as a part of the faith of our fathers, much of which, combined with
other and higher things, is in us yet. These beliefs of theirs, like
many of what we are pleased to think are original ideas and opinions
to-day, were hereditary and largely a matter of geography.
In ancient times the chief birds of portent were the raven or crow,
the owl and the woodpecker, though there were a number of others on
the prophetic list.
As an example of interest let us consider our friend the raven and his
congener the crow, who are so confused in literature, as well as in
the minds of those not familiar with ornithological classification,
that it is almost impossible to treat them separately. The raven is a
larger bird and not quite so widely distributed as the crow, but in
general appearance and habits they are practically the same.
If tradition is to be credited, we are more indebted to this bird of
ancient family than to any other feathered creature, for he has played
an important part in history, sacred and profane, in literature, and
in art.
On the authority of the Koran we know that it was he who first taught
man to bury his dead. When Cain did not know what disposition to make
of the body of his slain brother, "God sent a raven, who killed
another raven in his presence and then dug a pit with his beak and
claws and buried him therein." It was the raven whom Noah sent forth
to learn whether the waters had abated--one of the rare instances
wherein he ever proved faithless to his trust--and it was he who gave
sustenance to the prophet Elijah.
In Norse mythology, Odin, the greatest of all the gods, the raven's
God, had for his chief advisers two ravens, Hugin and Munin (Mind and
Memory), who were sent out by him each morning on newsgathering
journeys, and who returned to him at nightfall to perch on his
shoulders and whisper into his ears intelligence of the day. When news
of unusual importance was desired, Odin himself in raven guise went
forth to seek it, and when the Norse armies went into battle they
followed the raven standard, a banner under which William the
Conqueror fought. When bellied by the breezes it betokened success,
but when it hung limp, only defeat was expected.
Norse navigators took with them a pair of ravens to be liberated and
followed as guides; if the bird returned it was known that land did
not lie in that direction; if they did not, they were followed. The
discoveries of both Iceland and Greenland are attributed to their
leadership.
To the Romans and Greeks the raven was the chief bird of omen, whose
effigy was borne on their banners, and whose auguries were followed
with greatest confidence, while to the German mind he was his satanic
majesty made manifest in feathers. In some parts of Germany these
birds are believed to hold the souls of the damned, while in other
European sections priests only are believed to be so reincarnated.
In Sweden the ravens croaking at night in the swamps are said to be
the ghosts of murdered persons who have been denied Christian burial,
and whom on this account Charon has refused ferriage across the River
Styx.
As a companion of saints this bird has had too many experiences to
mention.
By some nations he was regarded as the bearer of propitious news from
the gods--and sacrosanct, to others he was the precursor of evil and
an object of dread. With divining power, which enabled him for ages to
tell the farmer of coming rain, the maiden of the coming of her lover
and the invalid of the coming of death, he was received with joy or
sadness, according to the messages he bore.
In England he was looked upon with greater favor; there the mere
presence of the home of a raven in a tree-top was enough to insure the
continuance in power of the family owning the estate.
The wealth of raven literature bears indubitable testimony to the
interest people of all times and all localities have felt in this
remarkable bird--an interest certain to increase with acquaintance.
To one with mind open to rural charm, this picturesque bird, solemnly
stalking about the fields, or majestically flapping his way to the
treetops, is as much a part of the landscape as the fields themselves,
or the trees upon their borders; it possesses an interest different
from that of any other creature of the feathered race. Though he no
longer pursues the craft of the augur, his superior intelligence,
great dignity and general air of mystery inspire confidence in his
abilities in that line.
What powers were his in the old days! Foolish maidens and ignorant
sailors might put their faith in the divining powers of the flighty
wren; others might consult the swallow and the kingfisher; but it was
to the "many-wintered crow" that kings and the great ones of earth
applied for advice, and it was he who never failed them. According to
Pliny, he was the only bird capable of realizing the meaning of his
portents.
In the early morning light the worthy successors of the ancient Hugin
and Munin go forth to-day in quest of news of interest to their clan,
just as those historic messengers did in the days when the mighty
Norse gods awaited their return, that they might act on the
intelligence gathered by them during the daylight hours; and when
slanting beams call forth the vesper songs of more tuneful birds, they
return, followed by long lines of other crows, to their usual haunts
on the borders of the marshes. Singly or in long lines, never in loose
flocks like blackbirds, they arrive from all directions, till what
must be the whole tribe is gathered together--a united family--for the
night's repose.
As there in the treetops in the early evening, in convention
assembled, they discuss important affairs, who can doubt that certain
ones of their number are recognized as leaders, and that they have
some form of government among themselves? One after another delivers
himself of a harangue, then the whole assemblage joins in noisy
applause--or is it disapproval? At other times sociability seems to be
the sole object of the gathering.
As one old crow, more meditative than the rest, at the close of the
conclave always betakes himself to the same perch, the lonely,
up-thrust shaft of a lightning-shattered tree on the hillside, we
decide that here is old Munin, who has selected this perch as one
favorable to meditation--a place where he may ponder undisturbed over
the occurrences of the day.
Others among the group have habits as fixed and noticeable. Even
though approaching his perch from the opposite direction, one will be
seen to circle and draw near it from the accustomed side; some of the
more decided ones will invariably remain just where they alight;
others will turn around and arrange themselves on their perches
indefinitely. In the fields it will be noticed that some are socially
inclined and forage in groups, while others, either from personal
choice or that of their neighbors, are more solitary. Like members of
the human family, each has his own individual characteristic.
While the chief charm of the crow is his intelligence, his dignity
also claims our attention. Who ever saw one of his tribe do anything
foolish or unbecoming to the funeral director he has been ever since
the birth of time, and that he must ever be while time endures? The
ancients believed him to be able to scent a funeral several days
before death occurred, so sensitive was he to mortuary influences, and
there is little doubt he still possesses the power to discern
approaching death in many creatures smaller than himself--and to whom
he expects to extend the rite of sepulchre. Inside and out he is
clothed in deepest black; even his tongue and the inside of his mouth
are in mourning. Seeming to think it incumbent on him to live up to
his funeral garb and occupation, faithful to his trust, with clerical
solemnity he goes about his everyday duties.
Gazing on them from his watchtower in the tree tops, what does this
grave creature think of the gayer birds that dwell in the meadows and
groves round about? What thinks he of the clownish bobolink, in motley
nuptial livery, pouring out his silly soul in gurgling, rollicking
song, in his efforts to please a possible mate, then quarreling with
both her and his rivals, who also have donned cap and bell to win her
favor? What of the unpretentious home--a mere hollow in the
ground--where the care-free pair go to housekeeping? What of the
redwings building their nests among the reeds in the midst of the
marsh--so low as almost to touch the water? Of the fitful wren,
incessantly singing of love to his mate, yet who fails to assist her
in nest-building, and who proves but an indifferent provider for his
young family? Of the lonely phoebe, calling in plaintive, mysterious
tones to a mate unresponsive to his sorrowful beseechings? Of the
robin, who makes of the grove a sanctuary? He doubtless has his
opinions concerning every one of them, for he views them all with
interest. Hearing all the other birds singing their love and seeing
them winning favor with their brilliant colors, does he envy them?
On the theory of compensation, his sterling qualities render
accomplishments and decorative raiment unnecessary. With no song in
which to tell his story, and no garments gay to captivate the eye, the
crow must needs live his love--and he does--to the end. Seriously he
wins the mate to whom he remains true forever. To him the marital bond
is not the mere tie of a season, but one that holds through life. He
assists the dusky bride of his choice in establishing a commodious
home in the most commanding situation available--the top of the
tallest tree in the edge of the wood, and which may have been planted
by one of his ancestors. He assists her in giving warmth to their eggs
in the nest. He carries food to her while she broods over them. He
braves every danger in protecting both her and them against predatory
hawks and owls and frolicking squirrels, to whom he is known as the
"warrior crow." With tenderest solicitude he relieves his mate as far
as he can in ministering to their nestlings.
And what of the young crows in the nest? When their elders are away on
commissary tours, the young ones, bewailing the absence of parents
almost constantly, are always found, on the return, in attitudes of
expectancy. To them the approach of older crows, even though it be
from the left, is never ominous of anything but good. And when after
many excursions baby appetites have been satisfied, in their lofty
cradles in the tree tops, the infant crows are rocked by the breezes,
and though the tuneless throats of the parents yield no songs they are
not without music, for soft aeolian lullabies soothe them to sleep.
On hearing farmers talk, one would think that the diet of the crow is
entirely granivorous, while no bird has a more adaptable appetite;
everything eatable is perfectly acceptable--harmful grubs, beetles,
worms, young rats, mice, snakes and moles, as well as mollusks,
acorns, nuts, wild fruit and berries are among his staple articles of
diet. And, though it is no longer believed that "he shakes contagion
from his ominous wing," he occasions a lamentable amount of infant
mortality among rabbits, and squirrels, and even among weak-limbed
lambs, depriving them of health, strength and happiness--but not
through magic. These last he attacks in the eye, as the most
vulnerable point. In the old days he is reputed to have met with great
success as an oculist; in these his patients never recover.
In winter, when cereal stores and acorns which supply the season's
want lie buried in the snow, and when such animals as in youth were
ready prey have grown to a more formidable majority, crows frequently
suffer and perish from hunger, and when snows lie long on the ground
many of them are found dead beneath their roosting places.
The voice of the crow when heard distinctly has in it something of the
winter's harshness and seems to harmonize best with winter
sounds--creaking boughs and shrieking winds--but when modulated by
distance it is not unmusical. In the twilight, when calling to his
belated brethren across the marshes, his uncanny call might well be
taken for the cry of a lost soul craving Christian burial. Yet this
might depend on one's mood. To each he seems to speak a different
language. To St. Athanasius he said: "Cras, cras!" (To-morrow,
to-morrow). To the sympathetic Tennyson he always called, in tenderest
accents, the name "Maud."
Though this bird is said to have no tongue for expressing the happier
emotions, the voice of the mother crow when soothing her nestlings,
with gurgling notes of endearment, is tender as the robin's; and the
head of the family, though croaking savagely when his mate is
molested, and though able to send an exultant "caw" after a retreating
enemy, never lowers himself by scolding as the jay does.
Whatever his faults may be--and they are many--to anyone taking the
trouble to study the crow, either in captivity or in his native
environment, he will prove the most interesting example of his race,
an agreeable companion, an ideal home-maker, a thrifty being, a
liberal provider, an able defender of his family, a destroyer of
harmful insect and animal life, a burier of the dead, a creature of
dignity, a keen observer, and the intellectual marvel of the bird
world.