My name is Dewey, and no bird was ever prouder of his name. I know if
Admiral Dewey could see me he would feel proud of his namesake, as I am
said to be an unusually handsome, intelligent bird. I have been laughing
in my wings for many months, hearing people say what kind of a bird I
am. Some say I am an oriole; some a male, others a female; another a
meadowlark; another not a meadowlark, but some kind of lark. One thing
they agree upon, that I go on a lark from early morn till “Dewey eve.” I
am said to have a little of the bluejay, and points like dozens of
birds. When I was about six weeks old I was quite large and fluffy, but
very much of a baby, for I knew nothing about feeding myself. My tail
was long, olive on top, yellow underneath; wings black, with cream color
on the edges—on the lower feathers just a line, on the upper ones quite
a little wider, at the top short yellow feathers, making lovely little
scallops; head and back olive-brown; rump more on the yellow; throat and
breast light yellow, with a tinge of blue under the wings, and belly
only tinted. As I grew older I kept changing, and now at nine months old
my breast is light-orange, belly light-yellow, head and back deeper
olive, rump deeper yellow. I broke my tail all off in the fall, and when
it came in, the upper feathers were black, with yellow a quarter of an
inch at the rump; under ones yellow and black. On my head are almost
invisible stripes of black, on my neck pretty broken wavy ones. My eyes
are large and bright, my bill everyone says is the handsomest they have
ever seen, very long and pointed as a needle. Underneath ivory white, on
top black, with a white star at the head. The admiration of all are my
legs and claws, as I keep them so clean, and they are a beautiful blue,
just the shade of malachite. I am seven inches long, and for the last
month have been getting black spots over my eyes and on my throat. Now
what kind of a bird am I?
One June afternoon I thought I was old enough to take a walk by myself,
so off I started, without asking permission of my father or mother. All
went well for awhile, and I was having a delightful time, seeing many
new strange things. Then all at once I began to feel very tired and
hungry, and thought I would go home, but which way to go I knew not. I
went this way and that and peeped as loud as ever I could, calling
“Mother! mother!” but no answer came. Finally I sat down, tucked my head
under my wing and went to sleep. The next thing I knew something was
coming down over me and I was held very tight. I screamed, pecked, and
tried my best to get away. Then someone said very gently: “Don’t be
afraid, little birdie; I am not going to harm you, but send you to a
lady who loves little birds, and will take good care of you.” I was
dreadfully frightened, but I did not make another peep. We went a long
way. Then I heard the little boy say: “Charlotte, will you please take
this bird to Miss Bascom, for she was so kind to me when I was sick?” I
changed hands, and off we went. Soon I heard some one calling out:
“There comes Charlotte with a bird.” Then another voice said: “I wonder
if it is another sparrow;” but when she saw me she exclaimed, “What a
perfect beauty!” took me in her hand and I knew at once I had found a
good friend and new mother. Bread and milk were ordered. Of course, I
did not know what bread and milk were, but I was so hungry I could have
swallowed dirt or stones, so there was no trouble about my taking it,
and I wished all birds could have such delicious food. I was taken
up-stairs to my new home, where everything was in pink and green and
looked so fresh I thought I was back in the clover field. My new mother
(for that is what I mean to call her) took me up to what she called a
cage and said: “Tricksey and Cervera, I want to introduce you to your
new brother.” Tricksey charmed me at once, for he was like a ray of
sunshine in his dress of gold, but when I looked at Cervera I laughed
right out in his face. It was very rude, but I know if any of you had
been in my place you would have done the same thing. Of all the ugly
specimens of a bird I had ever seen he was the very worst. He was
Tricksey’s size, but only had his baby feathers and one tail feather. He
was dirt color, had big staring eyes, and such a bill, almost as large
as his head, which was perfectly flat. He looked so common and ill-bred
that I wondered how dainty Tricksey ever sat beside him. I was too
sleepy to ask any questions and was soon fast asleep on my new mother’s
finger; then was put into a nice little basket filled with cotton. The
next day Tricksey was very kind to me, but Cervera was cross and pecked
me every time he got a chance. Tricksey said: “I have tried to be kind
to that old Spaniard, Cervera, but I do not like him and will not have
him snuggle close to me nights, so I fight him until he gets into the
swing. If you will sleep in the cage you may put your wings close to
mine, for you are so pretty and clean.” When bedtime came my new mother
said I was too large for the basket, and I might try sleeping in the
cage, so she put me in and made Cervera get up into the swing. Just as
Tricksey and I were going to sleep Cervera began swinging with all his
might, and would reach down, peck us on the head and pull our feathers
out. When he was caught he was taken out and made to sleep in the
basket. In the morning we were all let out on the floor, and it was
amusing to see Cervera mimic everything Tricksey did. If Tricksey took a
drink Cervera did, and would follow everywhere he went.
About that time I saw coming into the room a large, striped thing, with
shining, green eyes, and my heart beat so fast I could hardly breathe.
Tricksey whispered in my ear: “You need not be at all afraid; that is
only Taffy, the cat, and we are the best of friends.” Taffy jumped into
my new mother’s lap, and we three stood on the table and ate bread and
milk together. The first time I was left in the room alone I looked
around to see what would be nice to play with. First I went over to the
dressing table, carried two large cuff-buttons and put them into my
drinking cup, another pair I put on the floor of the cage with two large
coral hairpins, two shell pins, and some studs. I stuck all the pins on
anything I could pick up and threw them on the floor; turned over a
basket which was filled with ribbon and lace; some I left on the floor,
and with the rest I trimmed the cage. When I heard my new mother coming
I began to tremble. She stood speechless for a moment, then said: “You
rogue of a bird; how shall I punish you?” Then took me in her hand and
kissed me, and I knew the future was clear, and I could have all the fun
I wanted. Tricksey had the asthma very bad, and sometimes a little
whisky on some sugar would relieve him. It was funny to see that bad
Cervera maneuvre to get Tricksey off the perch so he could eat the sugar
and whisky. Tricksey grew worse instead of better, and one morning my
new mother was wakened early by his hard breathing. She took him off
from his perch and found his claws ice-cold, and he was so weak he could
hardly hold on. He lay in her hand a moment, then threw back his pretty
head and all was over. We were all heart-broken and shed many tears, for
we were powerless to bring back to life that little bird we loved so
dearly. I really felt sorry for that horrid Cervera. He missed Tricksey,
and for days seemed to be looking for him. One evening he went out the
window, and we never saw him again.
I am very fond of sweet apples and generally whenever I want anything
that is down-stairs I go and get it. I love grapes better than any other
fruit. When I want one I hop back and forth on the back parlor table,
then on top of a high back chair and tease until one is given to me. I
like best to have my new mother hold a grape in her right hand while I
perch on her left and suck all the rich, sweet juice next the skin out
first; then I take the grape over on the table on a paper and knock it
until all the seeds come out before I eat it. I like bananas, too, and
go to the fruit dish and open one myself. Every morning I perch on the
plate or finger-bowl and eat my orange.
We usually have our orange in our room, and sometimes I get so impatient
I fly over to the bed, back to the orange, and beg my new mother to get
up. I always take a drink out of the finger bowl and often said to
myself, “What a fine bathtub this would make.” When fall came I began
going to bed at 5 o’clock, and at 7 was awakened and taken out to
dessert. One night I became tired of waiting and went out into the
dining-room very quietly, and the first thing I spied was a finger-bowl,
so thought that was just the time for a bath. In I went. They heard the
splashing and looked up to see everything as well as myself soaking wet.
Of course they thought it very cunning, but after I did it for three
nights I was told two baths a day were too much for me. I made up my
mind if I could not take a bath in the finger-bowl at night, I would in
the morning and, as I refused to go near my old bathtub, the bowl was
given me for my own. There was a bowl of Wandering Jew on the
dining-table, and several times I took a bath in the center. All said I
made a beautiful picture, but when they found I was tearing the vine all
to pieces it was not so pretty and many lectures were given to me, but I
heeded them not, and if taken away I would walk (for I can walk as well
as hop) all over the table on the ends of my toes and look every way but
towards the bowl; then, when no one was looking, grab a piece and take
it up on top of a picture. One day I trimmed all of the pictures, and
there was none left in the bowl, so I had to look up some other
mischief.
When I go out to dinner I have my own little table cloth and plate put
by my new mother’s. I usually take a little of everything; chicken and
cranberry jelly is very good. Sometimes I do not behave very well, for I
go tiptoeing across the table to my grandmother’s plate, hop on the
edge, and see if she has anything I like. When dinner was ready to be
served I went over on the sideboard, made holes in all the butter balls,
then took some mashed potato and boiled onion and put them to cool in a
big hole I had made in an apple. Few people know that birds are ever
sick at their stomachs. I had been in the habit of eating a little
shaved hickorynut that was put in a half shell and kept in a dish on the
back parlor table. When I came down stairs I usually took a taste, and
it seemed to agree with me. For a change I ate a little chestnut, and
soon began to feel bad, so went off by myself and tried to go to sleep.
When my new mother saw me she said she knew I was not well, for I never
acted that way in the daytime. She put me in my cage, and sat down
beside me. I would close my eyes and open my bill, and she thought I was
dying until I opened my bill very wide and out came the chestnut in a
lump a half inch long and a quarter wide.
My mother’s writing desk is a favorite place of mine. I get into
drawers, pigeon holes and ink; pictures and all sorts of small things I
throw on the floor. Once I stole ever so many dimes and pennies. I can
lift a silver dollar and often carry a coffee-spoon all about the room,
so you see I have a very strong bill. If anything is lost all say “Dewey
must have taken it.” One day my new mother looked until she was tired
for her thimble. When she asked me for it, I pretended I did not hear,
but as she was going into the dining-room I dropped it down on her head
from the top of the portiere. I often perch on a basket on top of the
book case in the writing room. When I saw a new white veil beside me I
went to work and made ten of the prettiest eyelet holes you can imagine,
right in front; some were round and some star-shaped. As I grew older I
said, “I will not sleep in my cage.” For a few nights I insisted upon
sleeping on the brass rod at the head of the bed, then changed to the
top of the curtain. I have a piece of soft flannel over some cotton put
on the ledge and on the wall, so I will not take cold. If it is very
cold I get behind the frill of the curtain, so no one can see me. If
warm I turn around so my tail hangs over the outside. When my new mother
comes in I open my eyes, make a bow, and, if not too sleepy, come down
and sit on her hand. I never chirp or peep, and when I hide and hear
“Dewey, Dewey,” I do not answer but fly down on my new mother’s head,
shoulder or hand. Taffy gets so angry at me. I know he often feels like
killing me. I wake up early mornings, and take my exercise by flying
back and forth from a picture on one side of the room to the head of the
bed. When Taffy is on the foot of the bed I fly very low, almost
touching him with my wings, and say, “You lazy cat, why don’t you wake
up and hear the little birds sing to God Almighty; why don’t you wake
up?” I soon hear words that are not used in polite society, and next see
the end of his tail disappearing around the corner of the door. Before I
go to sleep at night I exercise again. One afternoon Taffy was trying to
take a nap in a chair in the back parlor. I kept flying over him, making
a whizzing sound with my wings. When he could endure it no longer he
went into the writing-room and sat down by his mother. I went in to take
a luncheon on the table. Taffy stood up on his hind legs, reached out a
velvet paw, and gave me such a slap I fell upon the floor. I was not
hurt in the least, flew up on a picture and shook with laughter at the
punishment and scolding Mr. Taffy was getting. He said very naughty
words, scratched and bit, but he was conquered at last, and has behaved
like a gentleman ever since. The first time I saw the snow I was wild
with delight, flew to the window and tried to catch the pretty white
flakes. But when I heard the sleigh bells they struck terror to my
heart, for I thought a whole army of cats was coming, as all I knew
about bells are Taffy’s. Not long ago my new mother was very ill and had
to send for a strange physician, who knew nothing about me. When I heard
him coming upstairs I hid behind the curtain and watched him fix a white
powder in a paper. When he laid it on the table I swooped down, grabbed
it and took it into my cage. After that I was kept busy, as my
grandmother was ill for many weeks. I would carry off all the sleeping
powders; one day I put them behind the bed, for I thought they would not
taste so badly, and do just as much good.
It did not take more than a minute to get down there when I heard the
doctor come in, for I had to see that the medicine was mixed all right.
It was great fun peering into the tiny little bottles in his case. I
would stand on the ends of my toes and crane my neck to watch him drop
the medicine into the tumblers. The other day some Christmas roses were
brought in. They looked so tempting I took several bites, and the next
day took some more. I felt a little queer, and kept opening my bill. My
new mother thought I had something in my throat and gave me some water.
The next afternoon she found me on the floor panting, took me to an open
window, gave me wine and the attack seemed to pass. We went up to our
room, and apparently I was as well as ever when she went down to dinner.
After she had gone another attack came on and I am too weak to write any
more, and can only warn little birds never to taste of a Christmas rose,
as they are said to be deadly poison.
When I went to my room late in the evening no little birdie peeped over
the curtain to greet me. I looked on the floor, and there lay my darling
Dewey, stiff and cold.
Caroline Crowninshield Bascom.
[Illustration: ]
THE AMERICAN HAWK OWL.
(_Surnia ulula caparoch._)
The typical form of this owl (Surnia ulula) is a native of Scandinavia
and Northern Russia, and incidentally is a visitor to Western Alaska. We
are told by Mr. L. M. Turner, who was stationed by the United States
Signal Service in Alaska from 1874 to 1881, that the natives assert that
this form is “a resident, and breeds in the vicinity of St. Michaels;
also that it is a coast bird, i. e., not going far into the interior,
and that it can live a long time in winter without food, as it remains
for days in the protection of the holes about the tangled roots of the
willow and alder patches.” Its true breeding range, however, is the
northern portion of the Eastern hemisphere. It is somewhat larger and
lighter in color than the American Hawk Owl.
The bird of our illustration, the American Hawk Owl, is simply a
geographical variety of the Old World form, and is a native of northern
North America, from Alaska to Newfoundland. This is its usual breeding
range, though it migrates in winter to the northern border of the United
States, and is an occasional visitor, during severe winters, as far
south as Maine and Idaho. It is much more common in the northern portion
of its range.
Unlike the other owls, as we usually understand their habits, it may be
considered as strictly diurnal, seeking its prey, to a great extent at
least, during daylight, usually during the early morning or evening
hours. Its principal food consists of the various species of rodents,
insects and small birds. Its southward migration is caused by that of
its food species, especially that of the lemmings.
It is a tame bird and may be said to know no fear. We are told by Dr. A.
K. Fisher that “specimens have been known to return to the same perch
after being shot at two or three times. It is a courageous bird, and
will defend its nest against all intruders. A male once dashed at Dr.
Dall and knocked off his hat as he was climbing to the nest; other
similar accounts show that the courage displayed on this occasion was
not an individual freak, but a common trait of the species.”
Not alone in its diurnal habits is it like the hawks, but it also
resembles some of them in selecting the dead branch of a tall tree in
some sightly locality from which to watch for its prey. From this
position it will swoop down hawk-like. Like the hawks its flight is
swift and yet noiseless, a characteristic which is common to all the
owls.
As a rule its note, which is a sharp, shrill cry, is only sounded when
flying.
As a nesting site, hollow trees are more frequently chosen. However,
nests built of twigs and lined with grass are not infrequent. These are
usually placed on the tops of stumps or among the branches of dense
cone-bearing trees. The number of eggs varies from three to seven, and
are frequently laid long before the ice and snow have disappeared. “The
eggs vary from oval to oblong oval in shape, are pure white in color,
and somewhat glossy, the shell is smooth and fine-grained.” Incubation
begins as soon as the first egg is laid, and both sexes participate in
this duty, and occasionally both are found on the nest at the same time.
At the nesting season the courage of both sexes is very marked. The male
will fight with its talons, and even when wounded will still defend
itself. We are told by Mr. Gentry that “calmly and silently it maintains
its ground, or springs from a short distance on its foe. So, bravely it
dies, without thought of glory and without a chance of fame; for of its
kind there are no cowards.”
This bird, like the other species of owls, though possibly not to so
great an extent because of its diurnal habits, is looked upon by the
Indian tribes as a bird of ill omen and by some tribes all owls are
called “death birds.” As a whole, the hawk owls are perhaps more useful
to man than any other birds that are not used as food. They cause but
little trouble in the poultry yard and are of incalculable value to the
farmer because of the large number of small rodents that they destroy.