There are little realms all around of which many of us know nothing. Take,
for example, some marsh within a half-hour's trolley ride of any of our
cities or towns. Select one where cat-tails and reeds abound. Mosquitoes
and fear of malaria keep these places free from invasion by humankind; but
if we select some windy day we may laugh them both to scorn, and we shall
be well repaid for our trip. The birds frequenting these places are so
seldom disturbed that they make only slight effort to conceal their nests,
and we shall find plenty of the beautiful bird cradles rocking with every
passing breeze.
A windy day will also reveal an interesting feature of the marsh. The
soft, velvety grass, which abounds in such places, is so pliant and
yielding that it responds to every breath, and each approaching wave of
air is heralded by an advancing curl of the grass. At our feet these
grass-waves intersect and recede, giving a weird sensation, as if the
ground were moving, or as if we were walking on the water itself. Where
the grass is longer, the record of some furious gale is permanently
fixed--swaths and ripples seeming to roll onward, or to break into green
foam. The simile of a "painted ocean" is perfectly carried out. There is
no other substance, not even sand, which simulates more exactly the
motions of water than this grass.
In the nearest clump of reeds we notice several red-winged blackbirds,
chattering nervously. A magnificent male bird, black as night, and with
scarlet epaulets burning on his shoulders, swoops at us, while his
inconspicuous brownish consorts vibrate above the reeds, some with grubs,
some empty mouthed. They are invariable indexes of what is below them. We
may say with perfect assurance that in that patch of rushes are two nests,
one with young; beyond are three others, all with eggs.
We find beautiful structures, firm and round, woven of coarse grasses
inside and dried reeds without, hung between two or three supporting
stalks, or, if it is a fresh-water marsh, sheltered by long, green fern
fronds. The eggs are worthy of their cradles--pearly white in colour, with
scrawls and blotches of dark purple at the larger end--hieroglyphics which
only the blackbirds can translate.
In another nest we find newly hatched young, looking like large
strawberries, their little naked bodies of a vivid orange colour, with
scanty gray tufts of down here and there. Not far away is a nest,
overflowing with five young birds ready to fly, which scramble out at our
approach and start boldly off; but as their weak wings give out, they soon
come to grief. We catch one and find that it has most delicate colours,
resembling its mother in being striped brown and black, although its
breast and under parts are of an unusually beautiful tint--a kind of
salmon pink. I never saw this shade elsewhere in Nature.
Blackbirds are social creatures, and where we find one nest, four or five
others may be looked for near by. The red-winged blackbird is a mormon in
very fact, and often a solitary male bird may be seen guarding a colony of
three or four nests, each with an attending female. A sentiment of
altruism seems indeed not unknown, as I have seen a female give a grub to
one of a hungry nestful, before passing on to brood her own eggs, yet
unhatched.
While looking for the blackbirds' nests we shall come across numerous
round, or oval, masses of dried weeds and grass--mice homes we may think
them; and the small, winding entrance concealed on one side tends to
confirm this opinion. Several will be empty, but when in one our fingers
touch six or eight tiny eggs, our mistake will be apparent. Long-billed
marsh wrens are the architects, and so fond are they of building that
frequently three or four unused nests are constructed before the little
chocolate jewels are deposited.
If we sit quietly for a few moments, one of the owners, overcome by wren
curiosity, will appear, clinging to a reed stalk and twitching his pert,
upturned tail, the badge of his family. Soon he springs up into the air
and, bubbling a jumble of liquid notes, sinks back into the recesses of
the cat-tails. Another and another repeat this until the marsh rings with
their little melodies.
If we seat ourselves and watch quietly we may possibly behold an episode
that is not unusual. The joyous songs of the little wrens suddenly give
place to cries of fear and anger; and this hubbub increases until at last
we see a sinister ripple flowing through the reeds, marking the advancing
head of a water snake.
The evil eyes of the serpent are bent upon the nearest nest, and toward it
he makes his way, followed and beset by all the wrens in the vicinity.
Slowly the scaly creature pushes himself up on the reeds; and as they bend
under his weight he makes his way the more easily along them to the nest.
His head is pushed in at the entrance, but an instant later the snake
twines downward to the water. The nest was empty. Again he seeks an
adjoining nest, and again is disappointed; and now, a small fish
attracting his attention, he goes off in swift pursuit, leaving untouched
the third nest in sight, that containing the precious eggs. Thus the
apparently useless industry of the tiny wrens has served an invaluable
end, and the tremulous chorus is again timidly taken up--little hymns of
thanksgiving we may imagine them now.
These and many others are sights which a half-hour's tramp, without even
wetting our shoes, may show us. Before we leave, hints of more deeply
hidden secrets of the marsh may perhaps come to us. A swamp sparrow may
show by its actions that its nest is not far away; from the depths of a
ditch jungle the clatter of some rail comes faintly to our ears, and the
distant croak of a night heron reaches us from its feeding-grounds,
guarded by the deeper waters.
And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high?
The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky!
A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and terminal sea?
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free
From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin.
Sidney Lanier.