His range being southern, Cardinal Grosbeak seldom travels through New
England; and, to my knowledge, has never established a home and reared a
family north of Connecticut until in the instance here recorded.
Kentuckians claim him, and with some show of right, since James Lane
Allen built his monument in imperishable prose. But, soon or late, all
notables come to Boston, and among them may now be registered the
“Kentucky Cardinal.”
Shy by nature, conspicuous in plumage, he shuns publicity; and avoiding
the main lines of travel, he puts up at a quiet country house in a
Boston suburb—Brookline.
Here, one October day in 1897, among the migrants stopping at this
halfway house, appeared a distinguished guest, clad in red, with a black
mask, a light red bill, and a striking crest; with him a bird so like
him that they might have been called the two Dromios. After a few days
the double passed on, and left our hero the only red-coat in the field.
A White-throated Sparrow now arrived from the mountains, and a
Damon-and-Pythias friendship sprang up between the birds. Having decided
to winter at the North, they took lodgings in a spruce tree, and came
regularly to the _table d’hôte_ on the porch. My lord Cardinal, being
the more distinguished guest, met with particular favour, and soon
became welcome at the homes of the neighbourhood. With truly catholic
taste, he refused creature-comforts from none, but showed preference for
his first abode.
It was March 5, 1898, when we kept our first appointment with the
Cardinal. A light snow had fallen during the night, and the air was
keen, without premonition of spring. It was a day for home-keeping
birds, the earth larder being closed. The most delicate tact was
required in presenting strangers. A loud, clear summons—the Cardinal’s
own whistle echoed by human lips—soon brought a response. Into the
syringa bush near the porch flew, with a whir and a sharp _tsip_, a
bird. How gorgeous he looked in the snow-laden shrub! For an instant the
syringa blossoms loaded the air with fragrance as a dream of summer
floated by. Then a call to the porch was met by several sallies and
quick retreats, while the wary bird studied the newcomers. Reassuring
tones from his gentle hostess, accompanied by the rattle of nuts and
seeds, at last prevailed, and the Cardinal flew to the railing, and
looked us over with keen, inquiring eye. Convinced that no hostilities
were intended, he gave a long, trustful look into the face of his
benefactress and flew to her feet.
A gray squirrel, frisking by, stopped at the lunch-counter and seized an
“Educator” cracker.
The novel sensation of an uncaged bird within touch, where one might
notice the lovely shading of his plumage as one notes a flower, was
memorable; but a sweeter surprise was in store. As we left the house,
having made obeisance to his eminence, the Cardinal, the bird flew into
a spruce tree and saluted us with a melodious “Mizpah.” Then, as if
reading the longing of our hearts, he opened his bright bill, and a song
came forth such as never before enraptured the air of a New England
March,—a song so copious, so free, so full of heavenly hope, that it
seemed as if forever obliterated were the “tragic memories of his race.”
As March advanced, several changes in the Cardinal were noted by his
ever-watchful friends. He made longer trips abroad, returning tired and
hungry. The restlessness of the unsatisfied heart was plainly his. His
long, sweet, interpolating whistle, variously rendering “Peace . . .
peace . . . peace!” “Three cheers, three cheers,” etc., to these
sympathetic northern ears became “Louise, Louise, Louise!” Thenceforth
he was Louis, the Cardinal, calling for his mate.
On March 26, a kind friend took pity on the lonely bachelor, and a caged
bird, “Louise,” was introduced to him. In the lovely dove-coloured bird,
with faint washings of red, and the family mask and crest, the Cardinal
at once recognized his kind. His joy was unbounded, and the acquaintance
progressed rapidly, a mutual understanding being plainly reached during
the seventeen days of cage courtship. Louis brought food to Louise, and
they had all things in common, except liberty.
April 12, in the early morning, the cage was taken out-of-doors, and
Louise was set free. She was quick to embrace her chance, and flew into
the neighbouring shrubbery. For six days she revelled in her new-found
freedom, Louis, meanwhile, coming and going as of old, and often
carrying away seeds from the house to share with his mate.
April 16, he lured her into the house, and after that they came often
for food, flying fearlessly in at the window, and delighting their
friends with their songs and charming ways. Louis invariably gave the
choicest morsels to his mate, and the course of true love seemed to
cross the adage; but, alas! Death was already adjusting an arrow for
that shining mark.
April 25, Louise stayed in the house all day, going out at nightfall.
Again the following day she remained indoors, Louis feeding her; but her
excellent appetite disarmed suspicion, and it was thought that she had
taken refuge from the cold and rain, especially as she spent the night
within. The third morning, April 27, she died. An examination of her
body showed three dreadful wounds.
Louis came twittering to the window, but was not let in until a day or
two later, when a new bird, “Louisa,” had been put in the cage. When he
saw the familiar form, he evidently thought his lost love restored, for
he burst into glorious song; but, soon discovering his mistake, he
stopped short in his hallelujahs, and walked around the cage inspecting
the occupant.
[Illustration: National Association of Audubon Societies CARDINAL
Upper Figure, Female; Lower Figure, Male.]
Louisa’s admiration for the Cardinal was marked; but for some days he
took little notice of her, and his friends began to fear that their
second attempt at match-making would prove a failure. April 30, however,
some responsive interest was shown, and the next day Louis brought to
the cage a brown bug, half an inch long, and gave Louisa his first
meat-offering.
The second wooing progressed rapidly, and May 7, when Louisa was set
free, the pair flew away together with unrestrained delight. After three
days of liberty, Louisa flew back to the house with her mate, and
thenceforth was a frequent visitor.
May 21, Louisa was seen carrying straws, and on June 6 her nest was
discovered low down in a dense evergreen thorn. Four speckled eggs lay
in the nest. These were hatched June 9, the parent birds, meantime and
afterward, going regularly to market, and keeping up social relations
with their friends.
In nine days after their exit from the shell, the little Cardinals left
the nest and faced life’s sterner realities. A black cat was their worst
foe, and more than once, during their youth, Louis flew to his devoted
commissary and made known his anxiety. Each time, on following him to
the nest, she found the black prowler, or one of his kind, watching for
prey. On June 28, the black cat outwitted the allied forces, Señor
Cardinal and his friends, and a little one was slain. The other three
grew up, and enjoyed all the privileges of their parents, flying in at
the window, and frequenting the bountiful porch.
July 25, Louisa disappeared from the scene, presumably on a southern
trip, leaving the Cardinal sole protector, provider, and peacemaker for
their lively and quarrelsome triplet. A fight is apparently as needful
for the development of a young Cardinal as of an English schoolboy,
possibly due in both cases to a meat diet.
Overfeeding was but temporary with our birds. On the 8th of August the
migratory instinct prevailed over ease, indulgence, friendship, and the
Cardinal with his brood left the house, where he had been so well
entertained, to return no more. No more? Who shall say of any novel that
it can have no sequel? Massachusetts may yet become the permanent home
of the Kentucky Cardinal, the descendant to the third and fourth
generation of Louis and his mate.
—Ella Gilbert Ives, in _Bird-Lore_.
* * * * *
As Gray Lady read the story of the Cardinal, the children, between
listening to it and being intent on their work, forgot the Mockingbird
in the window, upon whom the rays of the sun, that had gradually managed
to pierce the clouds, were resting.
As her mother finished and paused, Goldilocks, with a very slight
gesture, directed their glance toward the window, where the Mockingbird,
having completed his toilet and meal, perched, wings slightly raised and
quivering, with half-closed eyes, murmuring a few broken snatches of
song, half to himself and half as if in a dream, his head thrown back
and, oh, such a human expression of longing in his attitude, that Gray
Lady, without speaking, turned the leaves of her scrap-book slowly until
she came to a place where the long line of prose shortened to verse, and
then in a low but distinct voice she read:—