Sauntering hither on listless wings,
Careless vagabond of the sea,
Little thou heedest the surf that sings,
The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,—
Give me to keep thy company.
Little thou hast, old friend, that’s new,
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee;
Sick am I of these changes, too;
Little to care for, little to rue,—
I on the shore, and thou on the sea,
All of thy wanderings, far and near,
Bring thee at last to shore and me;
All of my journeyings end them here,
This our tether must be our cheer,—
I on the shore and thou on the sea.
Lazily rocking on ocean’s breast,
Something in common, old friend, have we;
Thou on the shingle seek’st thy nest,
I to the waters look for rest,—
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.
—Bret Harte.
FROM AN ORNITHOLOGIST’S YEAR BOOK.
THE HEART OF A DRYAD.
I.
It was an oak wood. A few hickories and chestnuts grew there, but the
oaks ruled; great of girth, brawny of limb, with knotted muscles like
the figures of Michael Angelo or Tintoretto’s workmen in his painting of
the Forge of Vulcan. As to coloring, the oaks were of the Venetian
painter’s following, every oak of them! In summer they were “men in
green,” rich, vigorous green, with blue shadows between the rustling
boughs; in early autumn, though russet in the shadow, the sunshine
showed them a deep and splendid crimson, pouring through them like a
libation to the gods of the lower earth, and to the noble dead, for the
Dryad had a heart for heroes and all oak-like men.
Immediately before the great winds came, stripping them bare, and
dashing silver cymbals to wild airs of triumph, they wore a sober brown,
but it put on a glow, as of bronze or heated metal after a rain, when
the sun’s rays smote them with shining spears smiting aslant with
unwonted glittering. Under the moon or after a freeze they were all clad
in steel, armor of proof, and mighty was the tumult, as of meeting
swords, when the great boughs swung, and the long icicles fell upon ice
below.
But these days were far off. It was summer, and a crystal brook slipped
from level to level, singing its sweet water-song, and bringing cool
water to bathe the feet of the oak which the Dryad loved and decked with
green garlands. The orioles loved it, flashing here and there with rich
red gold or flame-like orange on breast and wings and soft, velvety
black on head and shoulders, splendidly beautiful as some tropic flower,
they chose the end of an oak bough to hang their pensile nest. The male
oriole shone in the sun, but his mate glowed with a duller hue, an
orange veiled with gray, and mottled and spotted or splashed with white
and fuscous and black, as a brooding creature should be that sits all
day long amid the play of fleeting light and shade upon constant color.
But both were beautiful in their strong and darting flight, and their
labors of love.
The mother alone fashioned the nest, weaving it strongly of grasses and
bark, of fibre, hair and string, and lashing it firmly near the end, a
hanging cradle for the wind to rock at will and safely, and beautifully
adorned with a fantastic pattern of green oak leaves, woven across, and
aiding to conceal the nest itself. The eggs, four to six, were white,
but marked with strange characters, sometimes distinct, sometimes
obscure, a hieroglyphic of black or fuscous lines, over which the mother
brooded patiently for many days. But the male oriole was not
indifferent, even while the young were in the egg. He did not fear to
expose himself upon an upper branch, where he could watch untiringly
over the safety of the beloved nest and all day long, in bright or
cloudy weather, floated down to his silent mate a song of courage and
tenderness.
Ah, no shepherds in far-off Arcady ever piped more sweetly to their
beloved than this winged lover! His note is wild and free, a touch of
anxious pleading perhaps in the brooding song that one does not catch in
the first triumphant cry of joy with which he flashes upon our sight in
April, but inexpressibly sweet and liquid. It is essentially music of
the pipes, like the soft airs blown by lips of happy children upon reeds
cut from the brook-side in the first joyous days of spring, but it is
different in its airy quality, as if a melody, unfinished, were floating
far above our heads! They are loving house-holders, and, if undisturbed,
will return, year after year, to the same nest.
Happy is the Dryad that dwells in an oak where the orioles build and
sing!
Ella F. Mosby.
[Illustration: ]
THE MARBLED GODWIT.
(_Limosa fedoa._)
—I behold
The godwits running by the water edge,
The mossy bridges mirrored as of old;
The little curlews creeping from the sedge.
—Jean Ingelow, “The Four Bridges.”
The Godwits form an interesting group of the shore birds (Limicolae) and
belong in the same family as the snipes and sandpipers. They command
attention not alone because of their habits, but also because they have
for centuries been considered a delicate food for man, and much has been
written in praise of their flesh.
Early in the sixteenth century one of the European species was rated as
“worth three times as much as the snipe,” and was considered a delicacy
of the French epicure. We are told that the black-tailed Godwit in the
year 1766 was sold in England for half-a-crown. Ben Jonson speaks
enthusiastically of this bird as a delicate morsel for the appetite.
The origin of the name Godwit is veiled in obscurity. It has been
suggested that it may be a corruption of the two words good and the
antiquated word wight, the latter meaning swift, though the Godwits are
not birds of very rapid flight.
The Marbled Godwit belongs to a genus (Limosa) which, though not rich in
the number of species, has representatives throughout the Northern
Hemisphere. This bird frequents muddy pools and marshes and wet, sandy
shores. It is this habit that suggested to the naturalist the generic
name, which is derived from the Latin word limosus, meaning muddy.
As is the case with many of our game birds, this species bears a number
of common names, such as the Straight-Billed Curlew, the Marbled or
Brown Marlin, the Red Curlew and, among sportsmen, the Dough and the Doe
Bird.
With the exception of the long-billed curlew the Marbled Godwit is the
largest of the “Bay Birds.” These two birds closely resemble each other
in coloration, but may be easily distinguished by the characteristics of
the bills, which are very long. The terminal half of the bill of the
curlew is curved downward, while that of the Godwit is either straight
or slightly curved upward.
The geographical distribution of the Marbled Godwit includes the whole
of North America, though it is infrequent on the Atlantic coast. Its
nesting range is chiefly limited to the interior from Iowa and Nebraska
northward to the Saskatchewan. In winter it migrates to Central America,
Cuba and the northern part of South America.
In company with the long-billed curlew and some species of sandpipers it
builds its nest on the grassy banks of rivers and ponds, usually in some
natural depression. Occasionally, however, the nests are found on moist
prairies some distance from a stream. In these grass-lined nests are
laid the three or four bright olivaceous, drab or creamy buff eggs that
are variously spotted or blotched with varying shades of brown. They are
domestic and seemingly devoted to their fellows. When one of their
number is wounded and unable to fly they will frequently remain in the
vicinity, flying around the spot where lies their wounded comrade.
Dr. Coues tells us that “on intrusion near the nest the birds mount in
the air with loud, piercing cries, hovering slowly around with labored
flight, in evident distress and approaching sometimes within a few feet
of the observer.”
Its food consists of the smaller crustaceans, worms, snails, insects and
their larvae. These are captured from the surface of the water, on the
shore or are probed for, with the long, sensitive bills, in the soft
soil of the banks or under shallow water. When feeding it moves in an
easy and graceful manner. Its grace and dignity well merit the saying
that “it is one of the most beautiful of the birds sought by the
sportsman.”
Neltje Blanchan has very aptly described the habits of this bird. She
says: “It is not the intention of the Godwit to give anyone a near view
of either plumage or bill. The most stealthy intruder on its
domains—salt or fresh water shores, marshes or prairie lands—startles it
to wing; its loud, whistled notes sound the alarm to other marlins
hidden among the tall sedges, and the entire flock flies off at an easy,
steady pace, not rapid, yet not to be overtaken afoot. A beautiful
posture, common to the plovers, curlews, terns and some other birds, is
struck just as they alight. Raising the tips of the wings till they meet
high above the back, the marlins suggest the favorite attitude of angels
shown by the early Italian painters.”