_People_:
Tell me where you scare up
Names for me like “Flicker,” “Yarup,”
“High-hole,” “Yucker,” “Yellowhammer”—
None of these are in my grammar—
“Piquebois jaune” (Woodpick yellow),
So the Creoles name a fellow.
Others call me “Golden-wings,”
“Clape,” and twenty other things
That I never half remember,
Any summer till September.
Many names and frequent mention
Show that I receive attention,
And the honour that is due me;
But if you would interview me
Call me any name you please,
I’m “at home” among the trees.
Yet I never cease my labours
To receive my nearest neighbours,
And ’twill be your best enjoyment
Just to view me at employment.
I’m the friend of every sower,
Useful to the orchard grower,
Helping many a plant and tree
From its enemies to free—
They are always food for me.
And I like dessert in reason,
Just a bit of fruit in season,
But my _delicacy_ is _ants_,
Stump or hill inhabitants;
Thrusting in my sticky tongue,
So I take them, old and young.
Surely, we have found the best
Place wherein to make our nest
Tunnel bored within a tree,
Smooth and clean as it can be,
Smallest at the door,
Curving wider toward the floor,
Every year we make a new one,
Freshly bore another true one;
Other birds, you understand,
Use our old ones, second-hand—
Occupying free of rent,
They are very well content.
To my wife I quite defer,
I am most polite to her,
Bowing while I say, “kee-cher.”
Eggs we number five to nine,
Pearly white with finish fine.
On our nest we sit by turns,
So each one a living earns;
Though I think I sit the better,
When she wishes to, I let ’er!
Flicker.
—Garrett Newkirk, in _Bird-Lore_.
“Then, last and least in size, but chief in importance among the
tree-trunk birds, come the little Downy Woodpeckers, only as big as the
Tree-sparrow or Winter Chippy, as it is called, plump, all neatly
patterned in black and white, a scarlet band on the back of the neck,
while Mrs. Downy and the children lack even this bit of colour. You
cannot mistake this Woodpecker for any other, for his big brother the
Hairy Woodpecker, who has somewhat similar markings, is almost as big as
a Robin, besides being a more timid bird of the woods that does not come
about houses like the confiding and cheerful Downy. The Hairy Woodpecker
has a more harsh and screaming call-note than the clear, sharp cry of
the Downy. In watching birds, you should remember to keep the ears open
and trained to hearing as well as the eye to seeing, as a bird that
keeps too far away for the sight may oftentimes be recognized by its
note.
[Illustration: F. M. Chapman, Photo. DOWNY WOODPECKER]
“The Downy’s life is spent in the tree-trunks and hollow limbs, where he
merely chisels his doorway large enough, but with not a bit to spare,
and the hole within is nicely finished with a few soft chips by way of a
bed for the eggs; nice white eggs like all the Woodpeckers, and this
would seem to prove that thrifty Nature, knowing that the eggs would be
hidden in the dark nesting-hole, did not think it necessary to decorate
them for their better protection as she does the eggs laid in open
nests.
“To name the injurious insects, moths, and caterpillars our little Downy
eats would require a long list, but, as he is a lover of orchards in
spring and summer, we may mention the apple-tree borer as one against
whom he wages war, and here, by his delicate sense of touch, he locates
the larvæ of the codling-moth. ‘Every stroke with which he knocks at the
door of an insect’s retreat sounds the crack of doom. He pierces the
bark with his beak, then with his barbed tongue drags forth an insect,
and moves on to tap a last summons on the door of the next in line.’
“Boring beetles, bark beetles, weevils, caterpillars, ants, and
plant-lice, the imagoes of night-moths, as well as the eggs of many
insects, are also on his bill of fare. Sometimes he has been accused of
boring holes for sap-sucking, but this is disproven; where a hole exists
it is because insect prey, in one of its many forms, hide beneath.
“Fortunately, we have many families of the little Downy in the old
orchard, and the fact that they are good patrons of Goldilocks’
lunch-counter does not seem to make them relax their vigilance about the
apple trees, so that I wonder if it may not be their care, together with
the other tree-trunk birds, to which we owe the keeping of the trees,
during the ten long years they have been neglected by man. For, though
the trees in Birdland are old, gnarled, and vine-draped, yet they are
neither worm-eaten nor unsightly, but merely picturesque, and from the
birds’ point of view cosy and homelike.
“Now, boys, back into the workroom, and if any one of you has not made a
house for a tree-trunk bird, I am sure that he will begin one to-day.”
-----
[2] These fine charts may be purchased from the Audubon Society, State
of Massachusetts.
XIV
FOUR NOTABLES
_Grouse, Quail, Woodcock, and the Wood Duck_
The Saturday before Thanksgiving Tommy Todd came trudging up the road
toward “the General’s,” with an extremely contented expression on a face
that was usually more than cheerful, while he kept turning his head to
admire something that he carried in his right hand, twisting and
swinging it as he walked. The something was a beautiful male Ruffed
Grouse, or Partridge, as it is commonly called, in all the bravery of
its glossy neck-ruff and tail that when spread looks like that of a
miniature Wild Turkey.
Together with the Grouse was a pair of Quail in rich, brown autumn coats
and snowy throats that excel those of the White-throated Sparrow itself.
Tommy’s father and his elder brother Joe, the Fair Meadows blacksmith,
had taken two “days off,” and gone a-hunting up to the upland
brush-country beyond the river woods, and these birds, a part of the
result, were a gift for Gray Lady and Goldilocks. Not only were the
birds in fine condition, but they were nicely tied together with some
sprays of trailing ground-pine and a little tuft of pungent wintergreen
with its coral berries.
Gray Lady took the birds, and as she thanked Tommy for them, glanced
toward Goldilocks, who sat in the library window watching for the
children to come. When the young girl saw the birds, she gave an
exclamation, half of pleasure at their plumage, half of sorrow that they
were dead, for to keep everything alive and as happy as possible was her
inherent nature. But she knew that these were game- or “chicken-birds,”
as she had once called them when a mere baby, whose fate was to be
eaten, and that Tommy’s father had only followed a legitimate desire for
outdoor life and its sports when he had tramped more than thirty miles
for the hunting. So she merely said, as she smoothed the beautifully
shaded feathers, “I wish the Kind Hearts’ Club could do something to
make game-birds have a _very_ comfortable, good time, the part of the
year when they are not hunted; do you think we could, mother? For I
don’t think that this shy kind of bird will come to the lunch-counter,
and I’ve been wondering lately what they find to eat in such cold
winters as the last. Miss Wilde has told me that for weeks last winter
the snow was so deep that in going, from where she lived, a mile to
school, she never even saw a fence top, so if game-birds ‘feed chiefly
on the ground after the manner of barnyard fowls, roosting in low trees
and bushes,’ as one of my books says, I do not see why they do not
freeze and starve.”
“That’s what Pop and Grand’ther and Joe were talking about last night,”
said Tommy; “they said that they travelled over miles of stubble-fields
and brush-lots where there used to be lots of birds, and now, in spite
of the laws in our place that are down on pot-hunters and won’t let game
be sold or carried away, and our having a keen county warden, the birds
seem to be melting away just the same.”
[Illustration: Dr. C. K. Hodge, Photo. RUFFED GROUSE]
“What did your father think was the reason?” asked Gray Lady, for she
remembered as a young girl that the General used to say, “Get a farmer
interested in a subject enough to make him really think, and you cannot
get better advice.”
“Pop said all these new stiff-edged stone roads that are pushing out the
dirt and grass lanes may be mighty fine for automobiles and all the
other dust-raisers, but they’re poor trash for horses’ feet and
game-birds, ’cause the brush along the old roads both sides of the
fences made good cover and kept the snow, when it drifted, sort of
loose, so that the birds could get in and out to look for food. But when
everything is trimmed smooth, the snow lies flat and hard and crusty,
and the birds can’t get under to grub for food, and if they’re under and
it freezes on top of ’em, they can’t get out.
“Grand’ther said that was so, but he reckoned there wasn’t so much for
the game-birds to eat, anyhow, because folks that used to raise just so
many acres of rye and wheat and oats and buckwheat had mostly given it
up and put their land down to meadows for hay, because that is the only
crop that there is a sure market for everywhere. Then Grand’ther said
that, between freezing and starving, and what was left being shot down
close, it’s a wonder there’s any Grouse left, or Bob-whites either.”
“There, Goldilocks, you have your answer as to what the Kind Hearts’
Club can do to make these food-birds comfortable during the ten months
of the year (in this state, Connecticut), when they may roam without
fear of hunting by honest sportsmen. The dishonest hunters and
pot-hunters, who do not care for law and order, we must watch and bring
to justice, just as we do any other class of criminals.
“Some very good people are extremely careless about this, and would
arrest a hungry man for stealing a bottle of milk from a doorstep, and
yet even buy game from poachers whom they knew had taken it against the
law; doing this is a far more serious offence, for one of our Wise Men
has said that wild birds are not the property of the individual, but of
the Commonwealth.”
“I wish these birds need never be shot; don’t you?” said Sarah Barnes.
“They are much prettier than some song-birds, and I’m sure that
Bob-white’s call is just as pleasant to hear as a song.”
“Yes, Sarah, I should like to protect the game-birds also, unless in
cases where people, living away from places where other food can be had,
are really hungry. But there are two sides to this question, and the
Kind Hearts’ Club must always try to look at both, so as to be sure that
in being just to one, the other may not be misjudged. All over the
country there are hundreds of men who, for nearly all the year, are tied
to desks in offices, and their heads are weary and their bodies cramped.
The love of hunting is born in man, probably an inheritance from his
ancestors, who hunted for their living, just as the bird inherits the
instincts of migration from its parents and performs the journeys even
when there is no need.
“This love of hunting leads the men out into the woods for a few weeks,
or even days, each year, and, besides the hunting, they meet Nature face
to face, and, whether they know it or not, come back better able to take
up the work of life, which is a harder struggle as the world gets older
and older.
[Illustration: Dr. C. K. Hodge, Photo. JUST OUT
(Chicks of Domesticated Ruffed Grouse)]
“Some people may not agree with me, but I had a good warm-hearted
father, who gave his life in the cause of humanity; yet he loved fair
hunting, and Goldilocks’ father did, also. So I think that the Kind
Hearts’ Club will not only be doing the game-bird a service, but man
also, if it can make and carry out a plan to feed and shelter these
birds, even in the space of Fair Meadows township.
“I have been talking this over with some men who know the haunts of
these birds, and next month, if the big boys join us, I will tell you my
plan; for it will need sturdy fellows to carry it out, though you can
all help.”
“Where do the Grouse nest, in bushes or on the ground?” asked Dave;
“I’ve never seen one, though I’ve found a Woodcock’s nest, and touched
the bird on it, she was so tame.”
“They make their nest on the ground, Dave,” said Gray Lady; “not much of
a nest, merely a few leaves scratched together in a tree hollow. Now we
have these real birds here (for later I know that Tommy will let me
share them with Miss Wilde’s mother, who has been so ill, and her
appetite needs tempting), let us spend the morning with the game-birds;
Dave shall tell us of his Woodcock’s nest, and I have many little bits
in the scrap-book about the others, besides remembrances of my own.
“Children, can you realize that when I was a girl of twelve, I could
stand of a May morn, by the old orchard bars, where the Birdland gate is
now, and hear twenty or thirty Bob-whites calling all the way across the
fields and brush-lots, until the Ridge shut off the sound?