At Rye Beach, during our summer’s vacation, there came, as there always
will to seaside visitors, two or three cold, chilly, rainy days,—days
when the skies that long had not rained a drop seemed suddenly to bethink
themselves of their remissness, and to pour down water, not by drops,
but by pailfuls. The chilly wind blew and whistled, the water dashed
along the ground, and careered in foamy rills along the roadside, and the
bushes bent beneath the constant flood. It was plain that there was to
be no sea-bathing on such a day, no walks, no rides; and so, shivering
and drawing our blanket-shawls close about us, we sat down to the window
to watch the storm outside. The rose-bushes under the window hung
dripping under their load of moisture, each spray shedding a constant
shower on the spray below it. On one of these lower sprays, under the
perpetual drip, what should we see but a poor little humming-bird, drawn
up into the tiniest shivering ball, and clinging with a desperate grasp
to his uncomfortable perch. A humming-bird we knew him to be at once,
though his feathers were so matted and glued down by the rain that he
looked not much bigger than a honey-bee, and as different as possible
from the smart, pert, airy little character that we had so often seen
flirting with the flowers. He was evidently a humming-bird in adversity,
and whether he ever would hum again looked to us exceedingly doubtful.
Immediately, however, we sent out to have him taken in. When the friendly
hand seized him, he gave a little, faint, watery squeak, evidently
thinking that his last hour was come, and that grim Death was about to
carry him off to the land of dead birds. What a time we had reviving
him,—holding the little wet thing in the warm hollow of our hands, and
feeling him shiver and palpitate! His eyes were fast closed; his tiny
claws, which looked slender as cobwebs, were knotted close to his body,
and it was long before one could feel the least motion in them. Finally,
to our great joy, we felt a brisk little kick, and then a flutter of
wings, and then a determined peck of the beak, which showed that there
was some bird left in him yet, and that he meant at any rate to find out
where he was.
Unclosing our hands a small space, out popped the little head with a pair
of round brilliant eyes. Then we bethought ourselves of feeding him, and
forthwith prepared him a stiff glass of sugar and water, a drop of which
we held to his bill. After turning his head attentively, like a bird who
knew what he was about and didn’t mean to be chaffed, he briskly put out
a long, flexible tongue, slightly forked at the end, and licked off the
comfortable beverage with great relish. Immediately he was pronounced
out of danger by the small humane society which had undertaken the
charge of his restoration, and we began to cast about for getting him a
settled establishment in our apartment. I gave up my work-box to him for
a sleeping-room, and it was medically ordered that he should take a nap.
So we filled the box with cotton, and he was formally put to bed with a
folded cambric handkerchief round his neck, to keep him from beating his
wings. Out of his white wrappings he looked forth green and grave as any
judge with his bright round eyes. Like a bird of discretion, he seemed to
understand what was being done to him, and resigned himself sensibly to
go to sleep.
The box was covered with a sheet of paper perforated with holes for
purposes of ventilation; for even humming-birds have a little pair of
lungs, and need their own little portion of air to fill them, so that
they may make bright scarlet little drops of blood to keep life’s fire
burning in their tiny bodies. Our bird’s lungs manufactured brilliant
blood, as we found out by experience; for in his first nap he contrived
to nestle himself into the cotton of which his bed was made, and to
get more of it than he needed into his long bill. We pulled it out as
carefully as we could, but there came out of his bill two round, bright,
scarlet, little drops of blood. Our chief medical authority looked grave,
pronounced a probable hemorrhage from the lungs, and gave him over at
once. We, less scientific, declared that we had only cut his little
tongue by drawing out the filaments of cotton, and that he would do well
enough in time,—as it afterward appeared he did,—for from that day there
was no more bleeding. In the course of the second day he began to take
short flights about the room, though he seemed to prefer to return to
us,—perching on our fingers or heads or shoulders, and sometimes choosing
to sit in this way for half an hour at a time. “These great giants,” he
seemed to say to himself, “are not bad people after all; they have a
comfortable way with them; how nicely they dried and warmed me! Truly a
bird might do worse than to live with them.”
So he made up his mind to form a fourth in the little company of three
that usually sat and read, worked and sketched, in that apartment, and
we christened him “Hum, the son of Buz.” He became an individuality, a
character, whose little doings formed a part of every letter, and some
extracts from these will show what some of his little ways were.
“Hum has learned to sit upon my finger, and eat his sugar and water
out of a teaspoon with most Christian-like decorum. He has but one
weakness,—he will occasionally jump into the spoon and sit in his sugar
and water, and then appear to wonder where it goes to. His plumage is
in rather a drabbled state, owing to these performances. I have sketched
him as he sat to-day on a bit of Spiræa which I brought in for him. When
absorbed in reflection, he sits with his bill straight up in the air, as
I have drawn him. Mr. A⸺ reads Macaulay to us, and you should see the
wise air with which, perched on Jenny’s thumb, he cocked his head now
one side and then the other, apparently listening with most critical
attention. His confidence in us seems unbounded; he lets us stroke his
head, smooth his feathers, without a flutter; and is never better pleased
than sitting, as he has been doing all this while, on my hand, turning up
his bill, and watching my face with great edification.
“I have just been having a sort of maternal struggle to make him go
to bed in his box; but he evidently considers himself sufficiently
convalescent to make a stand for his rights as a bird, and so scratched
indignantly out of his wrappings, and set himself up to roost on the
edge of the box, with an air worthy of a turkey, at the very least.
Having brought in a lamp, he has opened his eyes round and wide, and sits
cocking his little head at me reflectively.”
When the weather cleared away, and the sun came out bright, Hum became
entirely well, and seemed resolved to take the measure of his new life
with us. Our windows were closed in the lower part of the sash by frames
with mosquito gauze, so that the sun and air found free admission, and
yet our little rover could not pass out. On the first sunny day he took
an exact survey of our apartment from ceiling to floor, humming about,
examining every point with his bill,—all the crevices, mouldings, each
little indentation in the bed-posts, each window-pane, each chair and
stand; and, as it was a very simply furnished seaside apartment, his
scrutiny was soon finished. We wondered, at first, what this was all
about; but, on watching him more closely, we found that he was actively
engaged in getting his living, by darting out his long tongue hither
and thither, and drawing in all the tiny flies and insects which in
summer-time are to be found in an apartment. In short, we found that,
though the nectar of flowers was his dessert, yet he had his roast beef
and mutton-chop to look after, and that his bright, brilliant blood was
not made out of a simple vegetarian diet. Very shrewd and keen he was,
too, in measuring the size of insects before he attempted to swallow
them. The smallest class were whisked off with lightning speed; but about
larger ones he would sometimes wheel and hum for some minutes, darting
hither and thither, and surveying them warily; and if satisfied that
they could be carried, he would come down with a quick, central dart
which would finish the unfortunate at a snap. The larger flies seemed to
irritate him,—especially when they intimated to him that his plumage
was sugary, by settling on his wings and tail; when he would lay about
him spitefully, wielding his bill like a sword. A grasshopper that
strayed in, and was sunning himself on the window-seat, gave him great
discomposure. Hum evidently considered him an intruder, and seemed to
long to make a dive at him; but, with characteristic prudence, confined
himself to threatening movements, which did not exactly hit. He saw
evidently that he could not swallow him whole, and what might ensue from
trying him piecemeal he wisely forbore to essay.
Hum had his own favorite places and perches. From the first day he chose
for his nightly roost a towel-line which had been drawn across the corner
over the wash-stand, where he every night established himself with one
claw in the edge of the towel and the other clasping the line, and,
ruffling up his feathers till he looked like a little chestnut-burr, he
would resign himself to the soundest sleep. He did not tuck his head
under his wing, but seemed to sink it down between his shoulders, with
his bill almost straight up in the air. One evening one of us, going to
use the towel, jarred the line, and soon after found that Hum had been
thrown from his perch, and was hanging head downward, fast asleep, still
clinging to the line. Another evening, being discomposed by somebody
coming to the towel-line after he had settled himself, he fluttered off;
but so sleepy that he had not discretion to poise himself again, and was
found clinging, like a little bunch of green floss silk, to the mosquito
netting of the window.
A day after this we brought in a large green bough, and put it up over
the looking-glass. Hum noticed it before it had been there five minutes,
flew to it, and began a regular survey, perching now here, now there,
till he seemed to find a twig that exactly suited him; and after that
he roosted there every night. Who does not see in this change all the
signs of reflection and reason that are shown by us in thinking over our
circumstances, and trying to better them? It seemed to say in so many
words: “That towel-line is an unsafe place for a bird; I get frightened,
and wake from bad dreams to find myself head downwards; so I will find a
better roost on this twig.”
When our little Jenny one day put on a clean white muslin gown
embellished with red sprigs, Hum flew towards her, and with his bill made
instant examination of these new appearances; and one day, being very
affectionately disposed, perched himself on her shoulder, and sat some
time. On another occasion, while Mr. A⸺ was reading, Hum established
himself on the top of his head just over the middle of his forehead,
in the precise place where our young belles have lately worn stuffed
humming-birds, making him look as if dressed out for a party. Hum’s
most favorite perch was the back of the great rocking-chair, which,
being covered by a tidy, gave some hold into which he could catch his
little claws. There he would sit, balancing himself cleverly if its
occupant chose to swing to and fro, and seeming to be listening to the
conversation or reading.
Hum had his different moods, like human beings. On cold, cloudy, gray
days he appeared to be somewhat depressed in spirits, hummed less about
the room, and sat humped up with his feathers ruffled, looking as much
like a bird in a great-coat as possible. But on hot, sunny days, every
feather sleeked itself down, and his little body looked natty and trim,
his head alert, his eyes bright, and it was impossible to come near him,
for his agility. Then let mosquitoes and little flies look about them!
Hum snapped them up without mercy, and seemed to be all over the ceiling
in a moment, and resisted all our efforts at any personal familiarity
with a saucy alacrity.
Hum had his established institutions in our room, the chief of which
was a tumbler with a little sugar and water mixed in it, and a spoon
laid across, out of which he helped himself whenever he felt in the
mood,—sitting on the edge of the tumbler, and dipping his long bill,
and lapping with his little forked tongue like a kitten. When he found
his spoon accidentally dry, he would stoop over and dip his bill in the
water in the tumbler,—which caused the prophecy on the part of some
of his guardians, that he would fall in some day and be drowned. For
which reason it was agreed to keep only an inch in depth of the fluid
at the bottom of the tumbler. A wise precaution this proved; for the
next morning I was awaked, not by the usual hum over my head, but by
a sharp little flutter, and found Mr. Hum beating his wings in the
tumbler,—having actually tumbled in during his energetic efforts to get
his morning coffee before I was awake.
[Illustration]
Hum seemed perfectly happy and satisfied in his quarters,—but one day,
when the door was left open, made a dart out, and so into the open
sunshine. Then, to be sure, we thought we had lost him. We took the
mosquito netting out of all the windows, and, setting his tumbler of
sugar and water in a conspicuous place, went about our usual occupations.
We saw him joyous and brisk among the honeysuckles outside the window,
and it was gravely predicted that he would return no more. But at
dinner-time in came Hum, familiar as possible, and sat down to his spoon
as if nothing had happened; instantly we closed our windows and had him
secure once more.
At another time I was going to ride to the Atlantic House, about a mile
from my boarding-place. I left all secure, as I supposed, at home. While
gathering moss on the walls there, I was surprised by a little green
humming-bird flying familiarly right towards my face, and humming above
my head. I called out, “Here is Hum’s very brother.” But, on returning
home, I saw that the door of the room was open, and Hum was gone. Now
certainly we gave him up for lost. I sat down to painting, and in a few
minutes in flew Hum, and settled on the edge of my tumbler in a social,
confidential way, which seemed to say, “O, you’ve got back then.” After
taking his usual drink of sugar and water, he began to fly about the
ceiling as usual, and we gladly shut him in.
When our five weeks at the seaside were up, and it was time to go home,
we had great questionings what was to be done with Hum. To get him home
with us was our desire,—but who ever heard of a humming-bird travelling
by railroad? Great were the consultings; a little basket of Indian work
was filled up with cambric handkerchiefs, and a bottle of sugar and water
provided, and we started with him for a day’s journey. When we arrived at
night the first care was to see what had become of Hum, who had not been
looked at since we fed him with sugar and water in Boston. We found him
alive and well, but so dead asleep that we could not wake him to roost;
so we put him to bed on a toilet cushion, and arranged his tumbler for
morning. The next day found him alive and humming, exploring the room
and pictures, perching now here and now there; but, as the weather was
chilly, he sat for the most part of the time in a humped-up state on the
tip of a pair of stag’s horns. We moved him to a more sunny apartment;
but, alas! the equinoctial storm came on, and there was no sun to be had
for days. Hum was blue; the pleasant seaside days were over; his room
was lonely, the pleasant three that had enlivened the apartment at Rye
no longer came in and out; evidently he was lonesome, and gave way to
depression. One chilly morning he managed again to fall into his tumbler,
and wet himself through; and notwithstanding warm bathings and tender
nursings, the poor little fellow seemed to get diphtheria, or something
quite as bad for humming-birds.
We carried him to a neighboring sunny parlor, where ivy embowers all the
walls, and the sun lies all day. There he revived a little, danced up
and down, perched on a green spray that was wreathed across the breast
of a Psyche, and looked then like a little flitting soul returning to
its rest. Towards evening he drooped; and, having been nursed and warmed
and cared for, he was put to sleep on a green twig laid on the piano. In
that sleep the little head drooped—nodded—fell; and little Hum went where
other bright dreams go,—to the Land of the Hereafter.