"O! Nature, a' thy shows and forms
To feeling pensive hearts have charms,
Whether the summer kindly warms
Wi' life and light,
Or winter howls in gusty storms
The lang dark night."
Burns.
Our birds out of doors had all a pitiful tale to tell next morning. Not
that they had any reason to complain of the boisterousness of the
weather, for the wind, after blowing the snow into the most fantastic of
wreaths that blocked the roads and walks, and shut us quite up and away
from the village, had retired to the cave of its slumber, wherever that
may be. The sun, moreover, was shining from a sky of brightest blue,
and the trees were like trees of coral, yet the frost was intense.
So while Buttons proceeded to feed the dogs--always an interesting
operation--and I stood by looking on, the birds came round us in flocks.
The robin, of course, was the tamest; he would almost eat from my hand:
later on he did.
This was our own particular robin, who had come backwards and forwards
for years, and knew every one of us, I verily believe, by name.
"It is terrible weather, isn't it," he said to me confidentially; "there
is nothing to eat; everything is covered up, and the worms have all gone
down a yard beneath the earth to keep themselves cosy. My feet are
almost frozen!"
"That is right," he added; "I cannot live without a little animal food,
and this shredded morsel of sheep's-head is delicious. Some feed their
birds in winter on crumbs alone. They ought to study their habits, and
add a bit of meat now and then. There, don't go away till I finish my
breakfast, because, the moment you are off, down comes Mr Thrush and
gobbles up the lot."
"But," I said, "you're not afraid of the sparrows."
"I'm not afraid of a few of them, though five is more than I can fight,
and often ten come. They are cowardly creatures in the main."
"Now, Buttons," I said, "as soon as you have fed the dogs give them all
a romp in the snow; then set up the birds' sheaf."
I alluded to a custom we have at our place of giving the birds a
Christmas-tree, whenever there is snow on the ground. It is a plan
taught us by the Norwegians, and I would rejoice to think it was
universally adopted; for surely we ought to feed well in winter the
birds that amuse and delight us when summer days are fine.
The Christmas-tree is simply a little sheaf of oats or wheat tied to the
top of a small spruce-fir. It is positively a treat to see with what
delight they cluster round it.
Another good plan--which gives much amusement, as witnessed from the
dining-room window--is to tie up a little sheaf of oats by a string to
the branch of a tree.
Tie also up some scraps of meat, and, if you have it, a few poppy-heads
for the tits. The poppy-heads must be gathered and garnered in autumn,
being cut down before they are too ripe, and with long stalks attached
to them.
I am not sure that the seeds are not almost capable of intoxicating the
birds, but they do so luxuriate in them, that I have not the heart to
deny them the delight.
Here is an excerpt from my diary of this winter before the snowstorm
came on:
"December 19.--It is a bright beautiful day. The garden-paths are hard.
The grass on lawns and borders is crisp and white with the hoar-frost
that has fallen during the night. Though it is past midday, the sun
makes no impression on it. There isn't the slightest breath of wind,
nor is there a leaf left on the lofty trees to stir if it did blow. A
still, quiet, lovely winter's day.
"But I do not think the birds are at all unhappy yet. The blackbirds
and the thrushes are still wild. _They_ have not come near the door yet
to beg for food. But the sparrows have, and eke cock-robin. The latter
has just eaten about a yard of cold boiled macaroni, and now sits on an
apple-tree and sings loud and clearly a ringing joyous song of
thanksgiving. I cannot help believing that he looks upon poor me as
only an instrument in the hands of the kind Providence, who seeth even
the sparrow fall.
"Perhaps even the sparrows are thankful, though music is not much in
their line. These gentry are not particular what they eat, and it is
surprising how soon they make away with a soaked dog's biscuit, if one
be left in their way, or a pound or two of the boiled liver that
Hurricane Bob is so very fond of. The old nests of these birds are
still up in the wistaria-trees that cover the front, or one of the
fronts, of the cottage. Those nests are crowded with the birds at
night. They have used them now for two seasons, simply re-lining them.
_Memo_: to pull them all down as soon as the days get warmer; laziness
should not be encouraged even in sparrows.
"December 21.--The weather is still hard and calm. Cock-robin had a sad
story to tell me this morning. He looked all wet and draggled and
wretched, quite a little mop of a robin.
"`Whatever have you been doing, Cockie?' I asked. `Have you had an
accident?'
"`Accident, indeed!' replied Cockie. `No, it was no accident, but a
daring premeditated attempt at parricide.'
"`Parricide,' I cried, `you don't mean to say that your son--'
"`O! but I do though,' interrupted Cockie. `You know, sir, that he
follows me to the door, and attempts to take the bit out of my mouth,
and you've seen me fling him a piece of meat.'
"`Yes,' I replied, `and then try to chase him away, and the young rascal
runs backwards, and sings defiance in your face.'
"`True, sir; and to-day, when I tried to reason with him, he flew right
at me--at his father, sir--and toppled me heels over head into the
water-vat, and I'm sure I've caught a frightful cold already.'
"`There's a fire in my study, Cockie, if you care to go in.'
"`No, thank you, sir, I'll sit in the sun.'
"December 22.--The weather gets colder and colder. I interviewed a
speckle-breasted thrush to-day, who had come to the garden-room-door to
be fed.
"`On winter nights,' I asked, `do you not suffer very much from the
cold?'
"The bird looked at me for a moment with one big bright eye and said:
"`No, not as a rule. You see we retire early, always seeking shelter at
sunset, and generally going to the self-same spot night after night, for
weeks or months; for all the winter through we can do with quite a deal
of sleep. Yes, as you say, we make up for it in spring and early
summer, when we sing all the livelong day and seldom have more than four
hours of rest. We rest in winter under the shelter of a hedge or tree,
or eave, away from the prevailing wind.
"`In winter we are more warmly feathered all over, though our garments
are less gay than in summer, when we have to appear on the stage, as it
were. Even our heads are well clad, and when perched on a bough our
toes are covered, and we hardly feel the cold a bit.
"`But at times in winter it is bad enough, for when the snow covers the
frozen ground we get but little warmth-giving food. This alone prevents
us from sleeping soundly; and sometimes the wind gets high and rages
through the trees, and we get blown right off our perches. Then, as it
is all dark, we are glad to huddle in anywhere, and many of us get
snowed up, and never see the glad sunshine any more.
"`Wet is even worse than snow, and if there is wind as well as wet we
are very numbed and wretched. Then the night seems so long, and we are
_so_ glad when day breaks at last, and the warm sunshine streams in
through the bushes.'"
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Our little village was so truly small and so unsophisticated, that with
the exception of the clergyman and doctor it could boast of nothing at
all in the shape of society, while the families in the country districts
were mostly honest farmer-folk, who had seen but little of the outside
world, and only heard of it by reading the weekly paper. Their talk was
chiefly about growing crops and live stock, so that, interesting though
this might be, neither my friend Frank nor myself had much temptation to
leave home on winter evenings.
But we had plenty to talk about nevertheless, and I cannot help saying
that it would be a blessing to themselves if the thousands of country
families, situated as we were, would cultivate the art of instructive
conversation and story-telling. Science gossip is infinitely to be
preferred to fireside tattle about one's neighbours, to say nothing of
its being free from ill-nature, and elevating to the mind instead of
depressing.
About a week before Christmas, my wife was busy one evening trimming an
opera-cloak for Maggie May--would she ever wear it, I wonder--with some
kind of grebe.
"Is it grebe?"
"Yes, it is the skin of a grebe of some kind," was the reply; "but there
are so many different kinds, in this country find America."
"A kind of duck, isn't it?"
"Or a kind of gull?"
"Betwixt and between, one might say. Grebes are nearly allied to the
great Northern Diver, but their feet are not, like his, quite webbed.
They frequent the seashore and rivers by the sea, and live on fish,
frogs, and molluscs of any sort. Their nests are often built to float
among the reeds, and to rise and fall with the tide."
"When I get an opela-cloak," said Ida, "I'll have it tlimmed with
elmine."
"Why with ermine, Ida?"
"Because the Queen had elmine on, in the waxwork."
"Yes; and the ermine is only a weasel after all, and all summer it wears
a dress of red-brown fur, which speedily gets bleached to white, when
the thermometer stands below zero."
"No, Frank, I haven't seen my weasel for some time. He is dozing in
some snug corner, you may be sure; and really, Frank, I believe the
subject of hibernation is but very imperfectly understood. I don't want
to go into the matter at present physiologically, except to say that it
seems to be a provision of Nature for the protection of species; and
that a variety of animals and creatures of all kinds that we little wot
of, hibernate, more or less completely. We see sometimes, in the dead
of winter, a beautiful butterfly--a red Admiral, perhaps--suddenly
appear and dance about on a pane of glass. We wonder at it. It is not
a butterfly's ghost at all, but a real butterfly, who had gone to sleep
in a snug corner of the room, and has now awakened probably only to die.
"I found an immense knot of garden worms, the other day, deep down in
garden mould. They were sleeping away the cold season.
"But, talking about weasels, I'll tell you a story, Ida."
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