Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little Sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,—
One little Sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud black and swift across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
Stand out the white lighthouses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,—
One little Sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,
Or flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong;
He scans me with a fearless eye.
Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong,
The little Sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God’s children both,
Thou, little Sandpiper, and I?
—Celia Thaxter.
[Illustration: SPOTTED SANDPIPER]
[Illustration: LEAST SANDPIPER]
“The spotted Sandpiper, in my girlhood, was here, with us, a familiar
bird of moist meadows and pond edges, and every season I used to see
them stepping about the stones in the little brook that flows through
the river woods, across the meadow above the orchard. They frequently
nested there, also, and I have often seen the buff, chocolate, spotted
eggs. I have seen the birds wading in the stream quite up to their
bodies, sometimes dragging their legs after them as children do in play;
they can also swim, when they wish to cross a stream without taking to
wing, and it is said, when hard pressed or wounded, can dive deep and
swim, or rather, fly under water very swiftly, for they use the wings as
the Loon does. Teeter and Tip-up are two of its common names, because it
seems to be always balancing in order not to tumble over. If you startle
it, it gives a frightened cry like ‘peet-weet-weet,’ as it rises, but
soon drops again.
“This bird has a list of good deeds as an insect eater to plead for its
removal from the list of game-birds. Birds consume the most insects in
the nesting season when the quick-growing young require constant
feeding, and, as it breeds all over North America as far as Hudson Bay,
you can see that the Spotted Sandpiper’s field of usefulness is very
wide, and wherever he goes, following the sun as he does throughout the
seasons, his value, aside from his dainty beauty, does not lie in the
morsel of food he would make for those short sighted enough to shoot
him, but in the insects of all sorts, including grasshoppers and
locusts, he kills in the simple process of getting a living.
“Another bird of the moist meadows of rivers and salt creeks is the
Killdeer or Little Ring-necked Plover. It is about the size of the
Spotted Sandpiper, equally beautiful, and with a certain dignity all its
own. We always used to have them in the river meadows, but, since my
return this year, I have not seen a single one.
“I have found the curious, creamy, pear-shaped eggs, with brown spots,
in a grassy hollow, with no other bed than the turf itself. Strange eggs
they are, seemingly so much too large for their owners, and an
apparently careless arrangement to leave them with no protecting nest.
But the shape of the egg prevents accident, for, if disturbed, they
simply turn round and round on the pointed end, but do not roll away.
[Illustration: National Association of Audubon Societies KILLDEER]
Order—Limicolæ Family—Charadriidæ
Genus—Ægialitis Species—Vocifera
“The young chicks are the prettiest little creatures; even when first
hatched, they are well covered with down, and have strong, useful legs,
with which they can follow their parents all day long until their
pinions have developed to let them fly. It is a peculiarity of the
game-bird that, like our domestic poultry, the chick comes from the egg
open-eyed, well covered, and able, in a measure, to care for itself from
the moment that it is hatched. The song-birds, birds of prey, and others
are hatched blind and naked, and require several weeks’ time before they
are fit for independent life.
“No prettier scene of young bird-life can be drawn than that of Mother
Killdeer, walking through the dewy meadows, with stately gait, followed
by her four chicks, now brooding them with a warning cry, if the shadow
of a hawk appears; now turning over leaves and bits of dead wood in
search of their insect food. When danger is near, the young squat, and
the blending of their colours with those of the ground gives them the
benefit of what is known as ‘colour protection,’ a wise plan of Heart of
Nature for the benefit of the weaker species. If threatened danger does
not pass by, then the old birds become aggressive, and sometimes fly at
the intruder, be he man or animal. The peculiar call of the bird,
‘Killdee-Killde-e-e-Killdeer,’ has given it its name, though it has
several other cries when brooding and protecting its young.
“The desire to protect this charming bird, that the National Association
of the Audubon Societies is endeavouring to have made a law, state by
state, is, after all, nothing new. Listen to what Audubon himself wrote
about the Killdeer, beginning with the nesting time: ‘At this period the
parents, who sit alternately on the eggs, never leaving them to the heat
of the sun, are extremely clamorous at the sight of an enemy. The female
droops her wings, emits her plaintive notes, and endeavours, by every
means she can devise, to draw you from her nest or young. The male
dashes over you in the air and vociferates all the remonstrances of an
angry parent whose family is endangered. If you cannot find pity for the
poor birds at such a time, you may take up their eggs and see their
distress, but if you be at all so tender hearted as I would wish you to
be, it will be quite unnecessary for me to recommend mercy.’
“So, children of the Kind Hearts’ Club, ask all those you meet to help
put the little Killdeer upon the protected list; say that it is too
small to be counted as food, and, in addition, whisper to every farmer
you meet (and farmers north, south, east, and west should be interested,
for the bird inhabits the whole of temperate North America), ‘The
Killdeer is an insect eater, taking grasshoppers, crickets, beetles,
boll weevils, and the dreaded Rocky Mountain locust.’ If this is not
enough, add that the Kind Hearts wish to protect all these gentle little
birds, that are out of place on the list of food-birds, and we all know
that when a kind heart _wishes_ to do a thing, it usually finds the
way!”
“Somebody told Dad at the last Farmers’ Institute that the Reed birds,
that the big boys go gunning for down in the marsh meadows along in
August, are changed Bobolinks,” said Tommy, “and that we mustn’t shoot
them any more, because Bobolinks are singing-birds, and I just guess
they are. My! can’t they sing, and fly right up at the same time, as if
going so fast shook the song out of them, and they couldn’t help it!”
Gray Lady laughed at Tommy’s description, which was certainly very true,
and expressed in vigorous boy language.
“Yes, Tommy, the black-white-and-buff Bobolink of May, after the
midsummer moult, becomes a dull, brown-striped bird like his wife, and,
shedding his lovely voice and glowing feathers together, he keeps only a
call note. In this masquerade he leads a double, and somewhat vagabond,
life, travelling by slow degrees toward his winter home and then back
again in the spring, all the while eating many things which the owners
do not wish him to have, one being rice,—rice in the ear and the
sprouting rice in spring.
“Let others do as they must, but we, who have no rice to be hurt, insist
that this bit of ardent, flying melody shall receive the treatment that
his music deserves, and be taken forever off the list of semigame-birds.
What if this singer of the opera does choose to don a sober travelling
cloak and journey silently? The musician is only waiting for the pink
blossoms to come on the apple trees, and the grass to grow long enough
to sway to the wind, to again let his music float from the one and give
his nest to the care of the other, where no human eye, at least, may spy
it. If we destroy Robert of Lincoln, called Bobolink for short, we kill
not one but many qualities and songs. Did you never hear the rhyme of
his merry family?”