Over the mossy walls,
Above the slumbering fields,
Where yet the ground no vintage yields,
Save as the sunlight falls
In dreams of harvest yellow,
What voice remembered calls—
So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow?
A darting, azure-feathered arrow
From some lithe sapling’s low curve fleet
The Bluebird, springing light and narrow,
Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet.
—George P. Lathrop.
“We become attached to some birds for one reason, and to others for
totally different qualities. We admire the Oriole and Tanager first
through the eye, because of their rich colouring. The Robin we like
because he is always with us, and he was probably the very first bird
that we knew by name and we could watch from the moment the nest was
built until the young left it; so he awakens the general interest first,
and then the ear is won by his cheerful and sometimes remarkable song.
“The Catbird stirs one’s curiosity. We wonder what he will say and do
next; and when he throws back his head to sing, we never can tell
whether a dreamy melody or a series of jeers will be the result. But the
Song Sparrow we love for himself alone, from the very beginning of our
acquaintance.
“In personal appearance he bears nearly all the markings of his
characteristic family, but the few exceptions, if remembered, will tell
you his name: his brown crown-feathers have a gray parting-line, _his
wings have no white bars or yellow markings_, while the breast and sides
are streaked; one large spot in the centre, with sometimes a smaller one
close to it, tell the Song Sparrow’s identity.
“He is seldom seen feeding on the ground like the Chippy, but loves the
shelter of low bushes, from which he gives his warning cry of
‘Dick-Dick!’ and then flies out with a jerking motion of the tail and,
never going high into the air, perches on another bush. If he wishes to
sing, he climbs from the dense lower branches to a spray well above the
others, as if he needed plenty of air and light for the effort, and
bubbles into song.
“As to the nest, well made of roots and bedded soft with fine grass and
hairs, the Song Sparrow uses his own taste, as all birds do, and though
the favourite place is within the crown of a small bush not far above
the ground, or even in a grass tuft close to the earth itself, yet I
have found them in very different places.
“Down in the garden a Song Sparrow once insisted on building, not only
in a flower-bed, but among the stalks of perishable plants that would
wither long before the young left the nest. To prevent disaster, we
drove stakes on each side of the nest, fastened a fruit-box underneath,
and a shelter overhead, so that, when the overhanging blossoms faded,
the sun might not make broiled squabs of the little ones. This brood was
raised successfully, but to our surprise the Sparrows began a second
nest directly opposite the first in the brush of the line of sweet-peas.
The location was chosen with more judgment, but in picking the pea
blossoms I passed within a foot of the nest every morning during the
whole time of building, hatching, and feeding of the young.
“This did not trouble the parents in the least; they seemed to know that
I would neither hurt them nor intrude upon their privacy, by watching
their movements too closely, and the father of the family repaid me by
such music as I never before believed could come from the throat of even
a Song Sparrow.
“At first I wondered why they should have chosen a garden border, when
there were so many near-by bushes about the orchard edge, and tufted
grasses and scrubs in a waste meadow over the way. For, familiar as the
Song Sparrow is, and fearless, too, yet he is a reserved bird even among
his kin, not even travelling in great flocks, and does not care, even
when in the full spring ecstasy of song, to be very near another singer.
“Presently I discovered the reason. Song Sparrows love water, both for
drinking and bathing: and, possibly from close association with it,
these bubblings of the little wayside brooks have had an influence upon
their song. This particular year was a time of severe drought; the
near-by streams were dried up early in June, and the ‘birds’ bath,’ made
of a hollowed-out log, and put in the shelter of some vines at the far
end of the garden, was the nearest available water within half a mile.
This trough was filled every night, and as the hollow sloped gently at
one end, small birds could either walk in it to bathe, or perch on the
edge to drink; and it was the sight of the first brood all bathing
there, a few days after they left the nest, that made me sure that it
was this little watering trough to which I owed their presence.
“Many other birds besides the Sparrows came as well, and Robins and Wood
Thrushes, who use wet clay in the shaping of their nests, found it
particularly useful. Now I have a stone basin for the water, because the
old wooden one was decayed on our return, but I’m sure the birds liked
the mossy log the best, and Jacob Hughes is on the lookout for another.”
Gray Lady paused and looked up quickly, as though a new idea had come to
her; then, glancing at the older boys who had that morning been working
on a large Martin house which had been ordered, and which made it
certain that the wayside drinking-fountain would be built as soon as
frost left the ground, she said, “This suggests something more to be
made for the spring sale. I saw some fine oak and beech logs with the
bark still on at the lumber camp last week. If you are willing to
undertake hollowing them out, it will be a good investment for the Kind
Hearts’ Club to buy a half a dozen of them. When sawn into lengths of
three feet, and the ends covered with bark securely nailed, as all the
bark covering must be, to prevent splitting, the logs will be attractive
both as drinking-troughs for the birds and as features of the gardens
where they are placed, and I am sure that we shall have no difficulty in
selling them. Many people would establish drinking-places for the birds
if they had something suitable to hold the water, but tin pans glisten,
heat quickly, and even earthenware dishes are slippery, while the hollow
log, that soon mosses over, must seem to the wild bird like a natural
bit of the woods. Only one thing must be remembered: the log must not be
allowed to become dry at any season, or it will warp and split.
“It would be worth the trouble of keeping such a fountain filled, I am
sure, if only to lure a single pair of Song Sparrows about the garden or
yard. For this Sparrow is the only bird whose song I have heard in every
month of the year. Not the full spring song, of course, though I have
heard a very perfect melody in December; but in dreary winter, when the
scatter-brained Robin has forgotten his alarm cry of
‘Quick-Quick-Quick!’ the dear little bird will find a warm spot in which
to sun himself after a hard-earned meal of gleaned weed seeds,—for like
all of his tribe he is a valiant Weed Warrior, working in the
home-fields when other birds have followed the sun for richer
fare,—and, after swelling his throat vainly for a few moments, begin to
whisper a song, as if in a dream, that finally grows strong and clear.
“Yes, neither winter nor the darkness of night dishearten the Song
Sparrow. Last season, in the darkest of summer nights, when some slight
sound had awakened the feathered sleepers, I have heard a few subdued
bars of his song from almost under my window, and I have thought, ‘Yes,
there you are, dear little companion, cheerful by day and night, in
summer and in winter; how much we, who are called the “higher animals,”
have yet to learn from you.’
“Another thing of interest about the Song Sparrow: like the Bluebird, he
belongs not alone to us of the East, but to the whole United States as
well. To be sure, he changes his size, dress, and name slightly
according to location, as does the Bluebird; another proof of the
adaptability of the bird to circumstances.