One night a maple tree, the very one under which Mr. Red Squirrel sat
when he first came to the forest, dreamed of her winter resting-time,
and when she awakened early in the morning she found that her leaves
were turning yellow. They were not all brightly colored, but on each was
an edging, or a tip, or a splash of gold. You may be sure that the
Forest People noticed it at once.
"I told you so," chirruped a Robin to her mate. "The Orioles went long
ago, and the Bobolinks start to-day. We must think about our trip to the
South." When she said this, she hopped restlessly from twig to twig with
an air of being exceedingly busy.
Her husband did not answer, but began to arrange his new coat of
feathers. Perhaps he was used to her fussy ways and thought it just as
well to keep still. He knew that none of the Robins would start South
until the weather became much colder, and he did not think it necessary
to talk about it yet. Perhaps, too, Mr. Robin was a trifle contrary and
was all the more slow and quiet because his wife was uneasy. In that
case one could hardly blame her for talking over the family plans with
the neighbors.
Later in the day, a Bobolink came up from the marsh to say good-by. He
had on his travelling suit of striped brown, and you would never have
known him for the same gay fellow who during the spring and early
summer wore black and buff and sang so heartily and sweetly. Now he did
not sing at all, and slipped silently from bush to bush, only speaking
when he had to. He was a good fellow and everyone disliked to have him
go.
Mrs. Cowbird came up while they were talking. Now that she did not care
to lay any more eggs, the other birds were quite friendly with her. They
began to talk over the summer that was past, and said how finely the
young birds were coming on. "By the way," said she, in the most careless
manner possible, "I ought to have a few children round here somewhere.
Can anybody tell me where they are?"
Mrs. Goldfinch looked at her husband and he looked at the sky. The
Warblers and the Vireos, who had known about the strange egg in the
Goldfinches' nest, had already left for the winter, and there seemed to
be no use in telling their secret now or quarrelling over what was past.
Some of the other birds might have told Mrs. Cowbird a few things, but
they also kept still.
"It is a shame," she said. "I never laid a finer lot of eggs in my life,
and I was very careful where I put them. I wish I knew how many there
were, but I forgot to count. I have been watching and watching for my
little birds to join our flock; I was sure I should know them if I saw
them. Mothers have such fine feelings, you know, in regard to their
children." (As though she had any right to say that!)
The Mourning Doves were there with their young son and daughter, and you
could see by looking at them that they were an affectionate family. "We
shall be the last to go South," they cooed. "We always mean to come
North in the very early spring and stay as late as possible. This year
we came much later than usual, but it could not be helped." They had
spoken so before, and rather sadly. It was said that they could tell a
sorrowful story if they would; but they did not wish to sadden others by
it, and bore their troubles together bravely and lovingly.
"How do the new feathers work?" asked a Crow, flying up at this minute
and looking blacker than ever in his fall coat. Then all the birds began
to talk about dress. As soon as their broods were raised, you know,
their feathers had begun to drop out, and they had kept on moulting
until all of the old ones were gone and the new ones on. When birds are
moulting they never feel well, and when it is over they are both happy
and proud.
"I changed later than usual this year," said the Crow, "and I feel that
I have the very latest fashions." This was a joke which he must have
picked up among the Barnyard People, and nobody knows where they got
it. Fashions never change in the Forest.
"I think," remarked a Red-headed Woodpecker, "that I have the best wing
feathers now that I ever had. They seem to be a little longer, and they
hook together so well. I almost wish I were going South to try them on a
long journey."
"Mr. Woodpecker's wing feathers are certainly excellent," said his wife,
who was always glad to see him well dressed. "I am sure that the
strongest wind will never part them. I don't see how the Owls can stand
it to wear their feathers unhooked so that some of the air passes
through their wings each time they flap them. It must make flying hard."
"Well, if you were an Owl you would understand," chuckled the Crow. "If
their great wings were like ours, the noise of their flying would scare
every creature within hearing, and there would not be much fun in
hunting."
And so they chatted on, while from the meadow came the sound of the
happy insects piping in the sunshine. It was chilly now at night and in
the early morning, and they could give concerts only at noonday. The
next day the Wild Turkeys came and there was great excitement in the
forest. The Squirrels were busier than ever storing up all the acorns
that they could before the newcomers reached the oak trees; and the Blue
Jays were so jealous of the Turkeys that they overate every day for fear
there would not be enough to go around. As though there were any danger!
The Ground Hog was getting so sleepy now that he would doze off while
people were talking to him, and then he would suddenly straighten up and
say: "Yes, yes, yes! Don't think that I was asleep, please. The colors
of the trees are so bright that they tire my eyes and I sometimes close
them." The dear old fellow really never knew how he had been nodding.
The Snakes, too, were growing dull and slow of motion, while the Bats
talked freely of hanging themselves up for the winter. The Grouse and
Quail made daily trips to the edges of the grain-fields, and found rich
picking among the stubble. You could almost fancy that they came home
each night fatter than when they went away in the morning.
Life went on in this way for many days, and the birds had all stopped
singing. There were no more happy concerts at sunrise and no more carols
at evening; only chirrupings and twitterings as the feathered people
hopped restlessly from one perch to another. All could see that they
were busily thinking and had no time for music. The truth was that each
bird who was not to spend the winter in the Forest felt as though
something were drawing--drawing--drawing him southward. It was something
they could not see or hear, and yet it was drawing--drawing--drawing all
day and all night. They spoke of it often to each other, and the older
birds told the young ones how, before long, they would all start South,
and fly over land and water until they reached their winter home.
"How do we know where to go?" asked the children.
"All that you have to do," the older ones said, "is to follow us."
"And how do you know?" they asked.
"Why, we have been there before," they answered; "and we can see the
places over which we pass. But perhaps that is not the real reason, for
sometimes we fly over such great stretches of water that we can see
nothing else and it all looks alike. Then we cannot see which way to go,
but still we feel that we are drawn South, and we only have to think
about that and fly onward. The fathers and sons can fly the faster and
will reach there first. The mothers and daughters come a few days later.
We never make a mistake."
"It is wonderful, wonderful," thought a young Rabbit on the grass below.
"I must watch them when they go."
The very next morning the Forest People awakened to find a silvery frost
on the grass and feel the still air stirred by the soft dropping of damp
red, brown, and yellow leaves from the trees. Over the river and all the
lowland near it hung a heavy veil of white mist.
"It is time!" whispered the Robins to each other.
"It is time!" cooed the Mourning Doves.
"It is time!" cried the Cowbirds in their hoarse voices.
All through the forest there was restlessness and quiet haste. The
Juncoes had already come from the cold northland and were resting from
their long flight. The Ground Hogs, the Rabbits, and the Squirrels were
out to say good-by. The Owls peeped from their hollow trees, shading
their eyes from the strong light of the sun. And then the travellers
went. The Robins started in family parties. The Mourning Doves slipped
quietly away. The Cowbirds went in a dashing crowd. And the Crows, after
much talking and disputing on the tree-tops, took a noisy farewell of
the few members of the flock who were to remain behind, and, joining
other flocks from the North, flew off in a great company which darkened
the sky and caused a shadow to pass over the stubble-field almost like
that of a summer cloud.
"They are gone!" sighed the Ground Hog and his wife. "We shall miss them
sadly. Well, we can dream about them, and that will be a comfort."
"Jay! Jay!" shrieked a handsome-crested fellow from the tree above.
"What if they are gone? They will be back in the spring, and we have
plenty to eat. What is the use of feeling sad? Jay! Jay!"
But all people are not so heartless as the hungry Blue Jays, and the
song-birds had many loving friends who missed them and longed for their
return.
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