Strange as it may seem, there had never been any Mourning Doves in the
forest until this year, and when a pair came there to live, the people
were much excited. They talked about the Doves' song, so sweet and sad,
and about their soft coats of brown and gray, and they wondered very
much what kind of home they would build. Would it be a swinging pocket
of hairs, strings, and down, like that of the Orioles? Would it be stout
and heavy like the nests of the Robins? Or would it be a ball of leaves
and grasses on the ground, with a tiny doorway in one side, like that of
the Ovenbird?
You can see that the forest people were really very much interested in
the Mourning Doves, and so, perhaps, it is not strange that, when the
new couple built their nest in the lower branches of a spruce tree,
everybody watched it and talked about it.
"Really," said one of the Blackbirds, who had flown over from the swamp
near by, "I never should think of calling that thing a nest! It is
nothing but a few twigs and sticks laid together. It is just as flat as
a maple-leaf, and what is to keep those poor little Doves from tumbling
to the ground I can't see."
"I wouldn't worry about the little Doves yet," said a Warbler. "I don't
think there will ever be any little Doves in that nest. The eggs will
roll off of it long before they are ready to hatch, and the nest will
blow to pieces in the first storm we have."
"Well," said the Blackbird, as she started for home, "I shall want to
know how the Mourning Doves get on. If any of you are over my way, stop
and tell me the news."
Some days after this, a Quail, passing under the Doves' home, happened
to look up and see two white eggs in the nest. It was so very thin that
she could see them quite plainly through the openings between the twigs.
Later in the day, she spoke of this to a Grouse, saying, "I came by the
Mourning Doves' nest and saw two white eggs through the bottom."
After she went away, the Grouse said to a wild Rabbit: "The Quail told
me that the Mourning Dove's eggs went right through the bottom of her
nest, and I don't wonder. It wasn't strong enough to hold anything."
At sunset, the Rabbit had a short visit with Mrs. Goldfinch, as she
pulled a great thistle-head to pieces and made her supper from its
seeds. He told her he had heard that the Mourning Dove's eggs had fallen
through the bottom of the nest and broken on the ground, and Mrs.
Goldfinch said: "Oh, that poor Mrs. Mourning Dove! I must go to see her
in the morning." Then she fled home to her own four pearly treasures.
Now, of course the Rabbit was mistaken when he said anybody had told him
that those two eggs were broken; just as much mistaken as the Grouse was
when she said somebody had told her that the eggs had fallen. They both
thought they were right, but they were careless listeners and careless
talkers, and so each one had changed it a bit in the telling.
The next day it rained, and the next, and the next. Mrs. Goldfinch did
not dare leave her nest to make calls, lest the cold raindrops should
chill and hurt the four tiny birds that lay curled up in their shells.
At last the weather was warm and sunshiny, and Mrs. Goldfinch and some
of her bird neighbors went to call on Mrs. Mourning Dove. They found her
just coming from a wheat-field, where she had been to get grain. "Oh,
you poor creature!" they cried. "We have heard all about it. Your poor
babies! How sorry we are for you!"
Mrs. Mourning Dove looked from one to another as though she did not know
what to make of it. "What do you mean?" she cooed. "My babies are well
and doing finely. Won't you come to see them?"
Then it was the turn of the other birds to be surprised. "Why," they
chirped, "we heard that your eggs had fallen through your nest and had
broken and killed the tiny Dove babies inside. Is it true?"
"Not a word of it," answered Mrs. Mourning Dove. "The nest is all
right, and the eggs were not broken until my two little darlings broke
them with their sharp beaks."
"Here they are," she added, fondly. "Did you ever see such pretty ones?
See him open his bill, the dear! And did you ever see such a neck as she
has? Mr. Mourning Dove thinks there never were such children."
"But do you feel perfectly safe to leave them in that nest?" asked the
Oriole politely. "My babies are so restless that I should be afraid to
trust them in it."
"That is what people always say," answered Mrs. Mourning Dove, with a
happy coo, "and I fear that I am a rather poor housekeeper, but it runs
in our family. Mr. Mourning Dove and I have raised many pairs of
children, and they never rolled out, or tumbled through, or blew away,
and I do not worry about these. I shall never be thrifty like you good
builders, perhaps, but I'm sure you cannot love your little ones any
more than I do mine. It was very kind of you to be so sorry for me when
you heard I was in trouble. I think I have the best neighbors in the
world."
When her callers went away, they could not say enough about Mrs.
Mourning Dove's pleasant ways, and her gentle, well-behaved children.
"It is too bad she is such a poor nest-maker," the Vireo said, "and I
understand now what she meant when she told me that they sometimes used
old Robins' nests for their young. She said they flattened them out and
added a few twigs, and that they did finely. I thought it very queer in
them to do so, but perhaps if I had not been a good builder I should
have done the same thing."
"Perhaps we all would," the others agreed. "She certainly is a very
pleasant bird, and she is bringing up her children well. Mr. Mourning
Dove seems to think her perfect. We won't worry any more about her."
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