Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Josephine Paolucci
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net.
BIRD STORIES
[Illustration: _Chick, D.D. in his pulpit._]
_LITTLE GATEWAYS TO SCIENCE_
BIRD STORIES
BY EDITH M. PATCH
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ROBERT J. SIM
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1926
Copyright, 1921, by
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
First Impression, May, 1921
Second Impression, May, 1922
Third Impression, March, 1926
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS PUBLICATIONS
ARE PUBLISHED BY
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
IN ASSOCIATION WITH
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY
_Printed in the United States of America_
TO
JUNIOR AUDUBON CLASSES
AND TO
ALL OTHER BOYS AND GIRLS THROUGHOUT THE
LAND WHO ARE FRIENDLY TO BIRDS
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
For help in planning this book, for sharing his bird-notes with the
writer, and for a critical reading of the manuscript, acknowledgment
should be made to Mr. Robert J. Sim. Certain events in the lives of Eve
and Petro and little Solomon Otus are told with reference to his
observations of eave-swallows and screech owls; his trip to an island
off the Maine coast for gull-sketches added greatly to an acquaintance
with Larie; and but for his six-weeks' visit with the loons of "Immer
Lake," much of the story of Gavia could not have been told. Since Mr.
Sim contributed not only the pictures to the book, but many items of
interest to the narrative, it gives the writer pleasure to acknowledge
his cooperation, both as artist and as field-naturalist.
EDITH M. PATCH
CONTENTS
I. CHICK, D.D. 1
II. THE FIVE WORLDS OF LARIE 18
III. PETER PIPER 33
IV. GAVIA OF IMMER LAKE 49
V. EVE AND PETRO 66
VI. UNCLE SAM 86
VII. CORBIE 100
VIII. ARDEA'S SOLDIER 121
IX. THE FLYING CLOWN 133
X. THE LOST DOVE 150
XI. LITTLE SOLOMON OTUS 163
XII. BOB, THE VAGABOND 180
NOTES
CONSERVATION 198
NOTES TO THE STORIES 199
A BOOK LIST 208
ILLUSTRATIONS
_Chick, D.D. in his pulpit_ _Frontispiece_
_Firs that pointed to the sky_ 2
_"Woodland Music after an Ice-Storm"_ 4
_Birds, too, that had lived in rough winds_ 25
_Floated beside him in the sea another gull, to
whom he talked pleasantly_ 28
_After Larie found a clam, he would fly high into
the air and then drop it_ 30
_It was not for food alone that Larie and his mate
lived that spring_ 31
_One was named Peter, for his father_ 34
_The spot she teetered to most of all_ 43
_Dallying happily along the river-edge_ 47
_Immer Lake_ 51
_Two babies, not yet out of their eggshells,
hidden among the rushes_ 53
_While their children were napping, Gavia and
Father Loon went to a party_ 61
_At Work in the Plaster Pit_ 72
_The Hunting Flight_ 74
_They always chatted a bit and then went on with
their work, placing their plaster carefully_ 77
_Quaint Clay Pottery_ 81
_A Famous Landmark_ 85
_Above all other creatures of this great land he had
been honored_ 87
_The Yankee-Doodle Twins_ 90
_In this Mother Crow had laid her eggs_ 101
_"Kah! Kah! Kah!" he called from sun-up to
sun-down_ 109
_Corbie slipped off and amused himself_ 116
_She wore, draped from her shoulders, snowy plumes
of rare beauty_ 122
_Near Ardea's Home_ 124
_That criss-cross pile of old dead twigs was a dear
home, and they both guarded it_ 127
_The Flying Clown_ 135
_Peaceful enough, indeed, had been the brooding
days_ 141
_The little rascals could practise the art of
camouflage_ 144
_Suppose you should find just one pair_ 153
_Through all the lonesome woods there is not
one dove_ 158
_Once, so many flew by, that the sound of their
wings was like the sound of thunder_ 161
_Oh, the wise, wise look of him_ 165
_Solomon knew the runways of the mice_ 168
_Those five adorable babies of Solomon_ 171
_He passed the brightest hours dozing_ 174
_It was time for the Feast of the Vagabonds_ 185
_Something south of the Amazon kept calling to
him_ 189
_Nature has kept faith with him and brought him
safely back to his meadow_ 195
BIRD STORIES
I
CHICK, D.D.
Right in the very heart of Christmas-tree Land there was a forest of
firs that pointed to the sky as straight as steeples. A hush lay over
the forest, as if there were something very wonderful there, that might
be meant for you if you were quiet and waited for it to come. Perhaps
you have felt like that when you walked down the aisle of a church, with
the sun shining through the lovely glass in the windows. Men have often
called the woods "temples"; so there is, after all, nothing so very
strange in having a preacher live in the midst of the fir forest that
grew in Christmas-tree Land.
And the sermon itself was not very strange, for it was about peace and
good-will and love and helping the world and being happy--all very
proper things to hear about while the bells in the city churches, way,
way off, were ringing their glad messages from the steeples.
But the minister was a queer one, and his very first words would have
made you smile. Not that you would have laughed at him, you know. You
would have smiled just because he had a way of making you feel happy
from the minute he began.
He sat on a small branch, and looked down from his pulpit with a dear
nod of his little head, which would have made you want to cuddle him in
the hollow of your two hands.
[Illustration: _Firs that pointed to the sky._]
His robe was of gray and white and buff-colored feathers, and he wore a
black-feather cap and bib.
He began by singing his name. "Chick, D.D.," he called. Now, when a
person has "D.D." written after his name, we have a right to think that
he is trying to live so wisely that he can teach us how to be happier,
too. Of course Minister Chick had not earned those letters by studying
in college, like most parsons; but he had learned the secret of a happy
heart in his school in the woods.
Yes, he began his service by singing his name; but the real sermon he
preached by the deeds he did and the life he lived. So, while we listen
to his happy song, we can watch his busy hours, until we are acquainted
with the little black-capped minister who called himself "Chick, D.D."
Chick's Christmas-trees were decorated, and no house in the whole world
had one lovelier that morning than the hundreds that were all about him
as far as he could see. The dark-green branches of the pines and cedars
had held themselves out like arms waiting to be filled, and the snow had
been dropped on them in fluffy masses, by a quiet, windless storm. It
had been very soft and lovely that way--a world all white and green
below, with a sky of wonderful blue that the firs pointed to like
steeples. Then, as if that were not decoration enough, another storm had
come, and had put on the glitter that was brightest at the edge of the
forest where the sun shone on it. The second storm had covered the soft
white with dazzling ice. It had swept across the white-barked birch
trees and their purple-brown branches, and had left them shining all
over. It had dripped icicles from the tips of all the twigs that now
shone in the sunlight brighter than candles, and tinkled like little
bells, when the breezes clicked them together, in a tune that is called,
"Woodland Music after an Ice-Storm."
[Illustration: "_Woodland Music after an Ice-Storm._"]
That is the tune that played all about the black-capped bird as he
flitted out of the forest, singing, "Chick, D.D.," as he came. The
clear cold air and the exercise of flying after his night's sleep had
given Chick a good healthy appetite, and he had come out for his
breakfast.
He liked eggs very well, and there were, as he knew, plenty of them on
the birch trees, for many a time he had breakfasted there. Eggs with
shiny black shells, not so big as the head of a pin; so wee, indeed,
that it took a hundred of them or more to make a meal for even little
Chick.
But he wasn't lazy. He didn't have to have eggs cooked and brought to
his table. He loved to hunt for them, and they were never too cold for
him to relish; so out he came to the birch trees, with a cheery "Chick,
D.D.," as if he were saying grace for the good food tucked here and
there along the branches.
When he alighted, though, it wasn't the bark he found, but a hard, thick
coating of ice. The branches rattled together as he moved among them and
the icicles that dangled down rang and clicked as they struck one
another. The ice-storm had locked in Chick's breakfast eggs, and, try as
he would with his little beak, he couldn't get through to find them.
So Chick's Christmas Day began with hardship: for, though he sang gayly
through the coldest weather, he needed food to keep him strong and warm.
He was not foolish enough to spend his morning searching through the
icy birch trees, for he had a wise little brain in his head and soon
found out that it was no use to stay there. But he didn't go back to the
forest and mope about it. Oh, no. Off he flew, down the short hill
slope, seeking here and there as he went.
Where the soil was rocky under the snow, some sumachs grew, and their
branches of red berries looked like gay Christmas decorations. The snow
that had settled heavily on them had partly melted, and the soaked
berries had stained it so that it looked like delicious pink ice-cream.
Some of the stain had dripped to the snow below, so there were places
that looked like pink ice-cream there, too. Then the ice-storm had
crusted it over, and now it was a beautiful bit of bright color in the
midst of the white-and-green-and-blue Christmas.
Chick stopped hopefully at the sumach bushes, not because he knew
anything about ice-cream or cared a great deal about the berries; but
sometimes there were plump little morsels hidden among them, that he
liked to pull out and eat. If there was anything there that morning,
though, it was locked in under the ice; and Chick flew on to the willows
that showed where the brook ran in summer.
Ah, the willow cones! Surely they would not fail him! He would put his
bill in at the tip and down the very middle, and find a good tasty bit
to start with, and then he would feel about in other parts of the cone
for small insects, which often creep into such places for the winter.
The flight to the willows was full of courage. Surely there would be a
breakfast there for a hungry Chick!
But the ice was so heavy on the willows that it had bent them down till
the tips lay frozen into the crust below.
So from pantry to pantry Chick flew that morning, and every single one
of them had been locked tight with an icy key. The day was very cold.
Soon after the ice-storm, the mercury in the thermometer over at the
Farm-House had dropped way down below the zero mark, and the wind was in
the north. But the cold did not matter if Chick could find food. His
feet were bare; but that did not matter, either, if he could eat.
Nothing mattered to the brave little black-capped fellow, except that he
was hungry, oh, so hungry! and he had heard no call from anywhere to
tell him that any other bird had found a breakfast, either.
No, the birds were all quiet, and the distant church-bells had stopped
their chimes, and the world was still. Still, except for the click of
the icicles on the twigs when Chick or the wind shook them.
Then, suddenly, there was a sound so big and deep that it seemed to fill
all the space from the white earth below to the blue sky above. A
roaring BOOOOOOOM, which was something like the waves rushing against a
rocky shore, and something like distant thunder, and something like the
noise of a great tree crashing to the earth after it has been cut, and
something like the sound that comes before an earthquake.
It is not strange that Chick did not know that sound. No one ever hears
anything just like it, unless he is out where the snow is very light and
very deep and covered with a crust.
Then, if the crust is broken suddenly in one place, it may settle like
the top of a puffed-up pie that is pricked; and the air that has been
prisoned under the crust is pushed out with a strange and mighty sound.
So that big BOOOOOOOM meant that something had broken the icy crust
which, a moment before, had lain over the soft snow, all whole, for a
mile one way and a mile another way, and half a mile to the Farm-House.
Yes, there was the Farmer Boy coming across the field, to the orchard
that stood on the sandy hillside near the fir forest. He was walking on
snowshoes, which cracked the crust now and then; and twice on the way to
the orchard he heard a deep BOOOOOOOM, which he loved just as much as he
loved the silence of the field when he stopped to listen now and then.
For the winter sounds were so dear to the Farmer Boy who lived at the
edge of Christmas-tree Land, that he would never forget them even when
he should become a man. He would always remember the snowshoe tramps
across the meadow; and in after years, when his shoulders held burdens
he could not see, he would remember the bulky load he carried that
morning without minding the weight a bit; for it was a big bag full of
Christmas gifts, and the more heavily it pressed against his shoulder,
the lighter his heart felt.
When he reached the orchard, he dropped the bag on the snow and opened
it. Part of the gifts he spilled in a heap near the foot of a tree, and
the rest he tied here and there to the branches. Then he stood still and
whistled a clear sweet note that sounded like "Fee-bee."
Now, Chick, over by the willows had not known what BOOOOOOOM meant, for
that was not in his language. But he understood "Fee-bee" in a minute,
although it was not nearly so loud. For those were words he often used
himself. They meant, perhaps, many things; but always something
pleasant. "Fee-bee" was a call he recognized as surely as one boy
recognizes the signal whistle of his chum.
So, of course, Chick flew to the orchard as quickly as he could and
found his present tied fast to a branch. The smell of it, the feel of
it, the taste of it, set him wild with joy. He picked at it with his
head up, and sang "Chick, D.D." He picked at it with his head down and
called, "Chick, D.D.D.D.D.D.D., Chick, D.D." He flew here and there, too
gay with happiness to stay long anywhere, and found presents tied to
other branches, too. At each one he sang "Chick, D.D., Chick, D.D.D. Dee
Deee Deeee." It was, "indeed" the song of a hungry bird who had found
good rich suet to nibble.
The Farmer Boy smiled when he heard it, and waited, for he thought
others would hear it, too. And they did. Two birds with black-feather
cap and bib heard it and came; and before they had had time to go
frantic with delight and song, three others just like them came, and
then eight more, and by that time there was such a "Chick"-ing and
"D.D."-ing and such a whisking to and fro of black caps and black bibs,
that no one paid much attention when Minister Chick, D.D., himself,
perched on a branch for a minute, and gave the sweetest little warble
that was ever heard on a winter's day. Then he whistled "Fee-bee" very
clearly, and went to eating again, heeding the Farmer Boy no more than
if he were not there at all.
And he wasn't there very long; for he was hungry, too; and that made him
think about the good whiff he had smelled when he went through the
kitchen with the snowshoes under his arm, just before he strapped them
over his moccasins outside the door.
Yes, that was the Farmer Boy going away with a clatter
over the snow-crust; but who were these coming through
the air, with jerky flight, and with a jerky note something like
"Twitterty-twit-twitterty-twit-twitterty-twitterty-twitterty-twit"? They
flew like goldfinches, and they sounded like goldfinches, both in the
twitterty song of their flight and their "Tweeet" as they called one
another. But they were not goldfinches. Oh, my, no! For they were
dressed in gray, with darker gray stripes at their sides; and when they
scrambled twittering down low enough to show their heads in the
sunlight, they could be seen to be wearing the loveliest of crimson
caps, and some of them had rosy breasts.
The redpolls had come! And they found on top of the snow a pile of dusty
sweepings from the hay-mow, with grass-seeds in it and some cracked corn
and crumbs. And there were squash-seeds, and sunflower-seeds, and seedy
apple-cores that had been broken up in the grinder used to crunch bones
for the chickens; and there were prune-pits that had been cracked with a
hammer.
The joy-songs of the birds over the suet and seeds seemed a signal
through the countryside; and before long others came, too.
Among them there was a black-and-white one, with a patch of scarlet on
the back of his head, who called, "Ping," as if he were speaking through
his nose. There was one with slender bill and bobbed-off tail, black
cap and white breast, grunting, "Yank yank," softly, as he ate.
But there was none to come who was braver or happier than Chick, D.D.,
and none who sang so gayly. After that good Christmas feast he and his
flock returned each day; and when, in due time, the ice melted from the
branches, it wasn't just suet they ate. It was other things, too.
That is how it happened that when, early in the spring, the Farmer Boy
examined the apple-twigs, to see whether he should put on a nicotine
spray for the aphids and an arsenical spray for the tent caterpillars,
he couldn't find enough aphids to spray or enough caterpillars, either.
Chick, D.D. and his flock had eaten their eggs.
Again, late in the summer, when it was time for the yellow-necked
caterpillars, the red-humped caterpillars, the tiger caterpillars, and
the rest of the hungry crew, to strip the leaves from the orchard, the
Farmer Boy walked among the rows, to see how much poison he would need
to buy for the August spray. And again he found that he needn't buy a
single pound. Chick, D.D. and his family were tending his orchard!
Yes, Minister Chick was a servant in the good world he lived in. He
saved leaves for the trees, he saved rosy apples for city girls and
boys to eat, and he saved many dollars in time and spray-money for the
Farmer Boy.
And all he charged was a living wage: enough suet in winter to tide him
over the icy spells, and free house-rent in the old hollow post the
Farmer Boy had nailed to the trunk of one of the apple trees.
That old hollow post was a wonderful home. Chick, D.D. had crept into it
for the first time Christmas afternoon, when he had eaten until dusk
overtook him before he had time to fly back to the shelter of the fir
forest. He found that he liked that post. Its walls were thick and they
kept out the wind; and, besides, was it not handy by the suet?
In the spring he liked it for another reason, too--the best reason in
the world. It gave great happiness to Mrs. Chick. "Fee-bee?" he had
asked her as he called her attention to it; and "Fee-bee," she had
replied on looking it over. So he said, "Chick, D.D." in delight, and
then perched near by, while he warbled cosily a brief song jumbled full
of joy.
Chick and his mate had indeed chosen well, for it is a poor wall that
will not work both ways. If the sides of the hollow post had been thick
enough to keep out the coldest of the winter cold, they were also thick
enough to keep out the hottest of the summer heat. If they kept out the
wet of the driving storm, they held enough of the old-wood moisture
within so that the room did not get too dry. Of course, it needed a
little repair. But, then, what greater fun than putting improvements
into a home? Especially when it can be done by the family, without
expense!
So Mr. and Mrs. Chick fell to work right cheerily, and dug the hole
deeper with their beaks. They didn't leave the chips on the ground
before their doorway, either. They took them off to some distance, and
had no heap near by, as a sign to say, "A bird lives here." For,
sociable as they were all winter, they wanted quiet and seclusion within
the walls of their own home.
And such a home it was! After it had been hollowed to a suitable depth,
Chick had brought in a tuft of white hair that a rabbit had left among
the brambles. Mrs. Chick had found some last year's thistle-down and
some this year's poplar cotton, and a horse-hair from the lane. Then
Chick had picked up a gay feather that had floated down from a scarlet
bird that sang in the tree-tops, and tore off silk from a cocoon. So,
bit by bit, they gathered their treasures, until many a woodland and
meadow creature and plant had had a share in the softness of a nest
worthy of eight dear white eggs with reddish-brown spots upon them. It
was such a soft nest, in fact, with such dear eggs in it, that Chick
brooded there cosily himself part of the time, and was happy to bring
food to his mate when she took her turn.
In eleven or twelve days from the time the eggs were laid, there were
ten birds in that home instead of two. The fortnight that followed was
too busy for song. Chick and his mate looked the orchard over even more
thoroughly than the Farmer Boy did; and before those eight hungry babies
of theirs were ready to leave the nest, it began to seem as if Chick had
eaten too many insect eggs in the spring, there were so few caterpillars
hatching out. But the fewer there were, the harder they hunted; and the
harder they hunted, the scarcer became the caterpillars. So when Dee,
Chee, Fee, Wee, Lee, Bee, Mee, and Zee were two weeks old, and came out
of the hollow post to seek their own living, the whole family had to
take to the birches until a new crop of insect eggs had been laid in the
orchard. This was no hardship. It only added the zest of travel and
adventure to the pleasure of the days. Besides, it isn't just orchards
that Chick, D.D. and his kind take care of. It is forests and
shade-trees, too.
Hither and yon they hopped and flitted, picking the weevils out of the
dead tips of the growing pine trees, serving the beech trees such a good
turn that the beechnut crop was the heavier for their visit, doing a bit
for the maple-sugar trees, and so on through the woodland.
Not only did they mount midget guard over the mighty trees, but they
acted as pilots to hungry birds less skillful than themselves in finding
the best feeding-places. "Chick, D.D.D.D.D.," they called in
thanksgiving, as they found great plenty; and warblers and kinglets and
creepers and many a bird beside knew the sound, and gathered there to
share the bountiful feast that Chick, D.D. had discovered.
The gorgeous autumn came, the brighter, by the way, for the leaves that
Chick had saved. The Bob-o-links, in traveling suits, had already left
for the prairies of Brazil and Paraguay, by way of Florida and Jamaica.
The strange honk of geese floated down from V-shaped flocks, as if they
were calling, "Southward Ho!" The red-winged blackbirds gave a wonderful
farewell chorus. Flock by flock and kind by kind, the migrating birds
departed.
_WHY?_
Well, never ask Chick, D.D. The north with its snows is good enough for
him. Warblers may go and nuthatches may come. 'Tis all one to Chick. He
is not a bird to follow fashions others set.
This bird-of-the-happy-heart has courage to meet the coldest day with a
joyous note of welcome. The winter is cheerier for his song. And, as you
have guessed, it is not by word alone that he renders service. The trees
of the north are the healthier for his presence. Because of him, the
purse of man is fatter, and his larder better stocked. He has done no
harm as harm is counted in the world he lives in. It is written in books
that, in all the years, not one crime, not even one bad habit, is known
of any bird who has called himself "Chick, D.D."
Because the world is always better for his living in it; and because no
one can watch the black-capped sprite without catching, for a moment at
least, a message of cheer and courage and service, does he not name
himself rightly a minister?
Yes, surely, the little parson who dwells in the heart of Christmas-tree
Land has a right to his "D.D.," even though he did not earn it in a
college of men.
II
THE FIVE WORLDS OF LARIE
Larie was all alone in a little world. He had lived there many days, and
had spent the time, minute by minute and hour by hour, doing nothing at
all but growing. That one thing he had done well. There is no doubt
about that; for he had grown from a one-celled little beginning of life
into a creature so big that he filled the whole of his world crammed
full. It was smooth, and it was hard, and its sides were curved around
and about him so tightly that he could not even stretch his legs. There
was no door. Larie was a prisoner. The prison-walls of his world held
him so fast that he could not budge. That is, he could not budge
anything but his head. He could move that a little.
Now, that is what we might call being in a fairly tight place. But you
don't know Larie if you think he could not get out of it. There are few
places so tight that we can't get out of them if we go about it the
right way, and make the best of what power we have. That is just what
Larie did. He had power to move his head enough to tap, with his beak,
against the wall of his world that had become his prison. So he kept
tapping with his beak. On the end of it was a queer little knob. With
this he knocked against the hard smooth wall.
"Tap! tip tip!" went Larie's knob. Then he would rest, for it is not
easy work hammering and pounding, all squeezed in so tight. But he kept
at it again and again and again. And then at last he cracked his
prison-wall; and lo, it was not a very thick wall after all! No thicker
than an eggshell!
That is the way with many difficulties. They seem so very hard at first,
and so very hopeless, and then end by being only a way to something
very, very pleasant.
So here was Larie in his second world. Its thin, soft floor and its
thick, soft sides were made of fine bright-green grass, which had turned
yellowish in drying. It had no roof. The sun shone in at the top. The
wind blew over. There had been no sun or wind in his eggshell world. It
was comfortable to have them now. They dried his down and made it
fluffy. There was plenty of room for its fluffiness. He could stretch
his legs, too, and could wiggle his wings against his sides. This felt
good. And he could move his head all he cared to. But he did not begin
thumping the sides of his new world with it. He tucked it down between
two warm little things close by, and went to sleep. The two warm little
things were his sister and brother, for Larie was not alone in his
nest-world.
The sun went down and the wind blew cold and the rain beat hard from the
east; but Larie knew nothing of all this. A roof had settled down over
his world while he napped. It was white as sea foam, and soft and dry
and, oh, so very cosy, as it spread over him. The roof to Larie's second
world was his mother's breast.
The storm and the night passed, and the sun and the fresh spring breeze
again came in at the top of the nest. Then something very big stood near
and made a shadow, and Larie heard a strange sound. The something very
big was his mother, and the strange sound was her first call to
breakfast. When Larie heard that, he opened his mouth. But nothing went
into it. His brother and sister were being fed. He had never had any
food in his mouth in all the days of his life. To be sure, his egg-world
was filled with nourishment that he had taken into his body and had used
in growing; but he had never done anything with his beak except to knock
with the knob at the end of it against the shell when he pipped his way
out. What a handy little knob that had been--just right for tapping.
But, now that there was no hard wall about him to break, what should he
use it for? Well, nothing at all; for the joke of it is, there was no
knob there. It had dropped off, and he could never have another.
Never mind: he could open his beak just as well without it; and
by-and-by his mother came again with a second call for breakfast, and
that time Larie got his share. After that, there were calls for luncheon
and for dinner, and luncheon again between that and supper; and part of
the calls were from Mother and part from Father Gull.
Larie's second world, it seems, was a place where he and his brother and
sister were hungry and were fed. This is a world in which dwell, for a
time, all babies, whether they have two legs, like you and Larie, or
four, like a pig with a curly tail, or six, like Nata who lived in
Shanty Creek.[1] An important world it is, too; for health and strength
and growing up, all depend upon it.
There was, however, only a rim of soft fine dry grass to show where
Larie's nest-world left off and his third world began. So it is not
surprising that, as soon as their legs were strong enough, Larie and his
brother and sister stepped abroad; for what baby does not creep out of
his crib as soon as ever he can?
They could not, for all this show of bravery, feed themselves like the
sons of Peter Pan, or swim the waters like Gavia's two Olairs at Immer
Lake. However grown up the three youngsters may have felt when they
began to walk, Father and Mother Gull made no mistake about the matter,
but fed them breakfasts, dinners, and suppers, and stuffed them so full
of luncheons between meals, that the greedy little things just had to
grow, so as to be able to swallow all that was brought them.
There were times, certainly, when Larie still felt very much a baby,
even though he ran about nimbly enough. For instance, when he made a
mistake and asked some gull, that was not his father or mother, for
food, and got a rough beating instead of what he begged for!
Oh, then he felt like a forlorn little baby, indeed; for it was not
pleasant to be whipped, and that sometimes cruelly, when he didn't know
any better; for all the big gulls looked alike, with their foam-white
bodies and their pearl-gray capes, and they were all bringing food; so
how could he know who were and who were not his Father and Mother Gull?
Well, he must learn to be careful, that was all, and stay where his very
own could find and feed him; for gulls can waste no time on the young of
other gulls--their own keep them busy enough, the little greedies!
Again, Larie must have felt very wee and helpless whenever a big man
walked that way, shaking the ground with his heavy step and making a
dark shadow as he came. Then, oh, then, Larie was a baby, and hid near a
tuft of grass or between two stones, tucking his head out of sight, and
keeping quite still as an ostrich does, or,--yes,--as perhaps a shy
young human does, who hides his head in the folds of his mother's skirt
when a stranger asks him to shake hands.
But few men trod upon Larie's island-world, and no man came to do him
harm; for _the regulations under the Migratory-Bird Treaty Act prohibit
throughout the United States the killing of gulls at any time_. That
means that the laws of our country protect the gull, as of course you
will understand, though Larie knew nothing about the matter.
Yes, think of it! There was a law, made at Washington in the District of
Columbia, which helped take care of little downy Larie way off in the
north on a rocky island.
I said "helped take care of"; for no law, however good it may be, can
more than help make matters right. There has to be, besides, some sort
of policeman to stand by the law and see that it is obeyed.
So Larie, although he never knew that, either, had a policeman; and the
law and the policeman together kept him quite safe from the dangers
which not many years ago most threatened the gulls on our coast islands.
In those days, before there were gull-laws and gull-policemen, people
came to the nests and took their eggs, which are larger than hens' eggs
and good to eat; and people came, too, and killed these birds for their
feathers. Then it was that the beautiful stiff wing-feathers, which
should have been spread in flight, were worn upon the hats of women; and
the soft white breast-feathers, which should have been brooding brownish
eggs all spattered over with pretty marks, were stuffed into
feather-beds for people to sleep on.
Well it was for Larie that he lived when he did; for his third world was
a wonderful place and it was right that he should enjoy it in safety.
When Larie first left his nest and went out to walk, he stepped upon a
shelf of reddish rock, and the whole wall from which his shelf stuck out
was reddish rock, too. Beyond, the rocks were greenish, and beyond that
they were gray. Oh! the reddish and greenish and grayish rocks were
beautiful to see when the fog lifted and the sun shone on them.
But Larie's island-world was not all rock of different colors: for over
there, not too far away to see, was a dark-green spruce tree. Because
rough winds had swept over this while it was growing, its branches were
scraggly and twisted. They could not grow straight and even, like a tree
in a quiet forest. But never think, for all of that, that Larie's spruce
was not good to look upon. There is something splendid about a tree
which, though bending to the will of the mighty winds that work their
force upon it, grows sturdy and strong in spite of all. Such trees are
somehow like boys and girls, who meet hardships with such courage when
they are young, that they grow strong and sturdy of spirit, and warm of
heart, with the sort of mind that can understand trouble in the world,
and so think of ways to help it.
[Illustration: _Birds, too, that had lived in rough winds._]
Yes, perhaps Larie's tree was an emblem of courage. However that may be,
it was a favorite spot on the island. Often it could be seen, that dark,
rugged tree, which had battled with winds from its seedling days and
grown victoriously, with three white gulls resting on its squarish
top--birds, too, that had lived in rough winds and had grown strong in
their midst.
There was more on the island than rocks and trees. Over much of it lay a
carpet of grass. Soft and fine and vivid green it was, of the kind that
had been gathered for Larie's nest and had turned yellowish in drying.
Under the carpet, in underground lanes as long as a man's long arm,
lived Larie's young neighbor-folk--little petrels, sometimes called
"Mother Carey's Chickens."
There was even more on the island yet: for high on the rocks stood a
lighthouse; and the man who kept the signal lights in order was no other
than Larie's policeman himself. A useful life he lived, saving ships of
the sea by the power of light, and birds of the sea by the power of law.
So that was Larie's third world--an island with a soft rug of
bright-green grass, and big shelfy rocks of red and green and gray, and
rugged dark-green trees, with white gulls resting on the branches, and a
lighthouse with its signal.
All around and about that island lay Larie's fourth world--the sea.
When his great day for swimming came, he slipped off into the water; and
after that it was his, whenever he wished--his to swim or float upon,
the wide-away ocean reaching as far as any gull need care to swim or
float.
All over and above the sea stretched Larie's fifth world--the air. When
his great day for flying came, he rose against the breeze, and his wings
took him into that high-away kingdom that lifted as far as any gull need
care to fly.
Now that Larie could both swim and fly, he was large, and acted in many
ways like an old gull; but the feathers of his body were not white, and
he did not wear over his back and the top of his spread wings a
pearl-gray mantle.
Nor was he given the garb of his father and mother for a traveling suit,
that winter when he went south with the others, to a place where the
Gulf Stream warmed the water whereon he swam and the air wherein he
flew.
But there came a time when Larie had put off the clothes of his youth
and donned the robe of a grown gull. And as he sailed in the breezes of
his fifth world, which blew over the cold sea, and across the island
with a carpet of green and rocks of red and green and gray,--for he was
again in the North,--he was beautiful to behold, the flight of a gull
being so wonderful that the heart of him who sees quickens with joy.
Larie was not alone. There were so many with him that, when they flew
together in the distance, they looked as thick as snowflakes in the air;
and when they screamed together, the din was so great that people who
were not used to hearing them put their hands over their ears.
And more than that, Larie was not alone; for there sailed near him in
the air and floated beside him in the sea another gull, at whom he did
not scream, but to whom he talked pleasantly, saying, "me-you," in a
musical tone that she understood.
[Illustration: _Floated beside him in the sea another gull, to whom he
talked pleasantly._]
Larie and his mate found much to do that spring. One game that never
failed to interest them was meeting the ships many, many waves out at
sea, and following them far on their way. For on the ships were men who
threw away food they could not use, and the gulls gathered in flocks to
scramble and fight for this. Children on board the ships laughed merrily
to see them, and tossed crackers and biscuits out for the fun of
watching the hungry-birds come close, to feed.
Many a feast, too, the fishermen gave the gulls, when they sorted the
contents of their nets and threw aside what they did not want.
Besides this, Larie and his mate and their comrades picnicked in high
glee at certain harbors where garbage was left; for gulls are thrifty
folk and do not waste the food of the world.
From their feeding habits you will know that these beautiful birds are
scavengers, eating things which, if left on the sea or shore, would make
the water foul and the air impure. Thus it is that Nature gives to a
scavenger the duty of service to all living creatures; and the freshness
of the ocean and the cleanness of the sands of the shore are in part a
gift of the gulls, for which we should thank and protect them.
Relish as they might musty bread and mouldy meat, Larie and his mate
enjoyed, too, the sport of catching fresh food; and many a clam hunt
they had in true gull style. They would fly above the water near the
shore, and when they were twenty or thirty feet high, would plunge down
head-first. Then they would poke around for a clam, with their heads and
necks under water and their wings out and partly unfolded, but not
flopping; and a comical sight they were!
[Illustration: _After Larie found a clam, he would fly high into the air
a hundred feet or so, and then drop it._]
[Illustration: _It was not for food alone that Larie and his mate lived
that spring._]
After Larie found a clam, he would fly high into the air a hundred feet
or so above the rocks, and then, stretching way up with his head, drop
the clam from his beak. Easily, with wings fluttering slightly, Larie
would follow the clam, floating gracefully, though quickly, down to
where it had cracked upon the rocks. The morsel in its broken shell was
now ready to eat, for Larie and his mate did not bake their sea-food or
make it into chowder. Cold salad flavored with sea-salt was all they
needed.
Exciting as were these hunts with the flocks of screaming gulls, it was
not for food alone that Larie and his mate lived that spring. For under
the blue of the airy sky there was an ocean, and in that ocean there was
an island, and on that island there was a nest, and in that nest there
was an egg--the first that the mate of Larie had ever laid. And in that
egg was a growing gull, their eldest son--a baby Larie, alone inside his
very first world.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: _Hexapod Stories_, page 80.]
III
PETER PIPER
One was named Sandy, because Sandy is a Scotch name and there were
blue-bells growing on the rocks; so it seemed right that one of them
should have a Scotch name, and what could be better, after all, than
Sandy for a sandpiper? One was named Pan, because he piped sweetly among
the reeds by the river. One, who came out of his eggshell before his
brothers, was named Peter, for his father.
But Mother Piper never called her children Sandy and Pan and Peter. She
called them all "Pete." She was so used to calling her mate "Pete," that
that name was easier than any other for her to say.
The three of them played by the river all day long. Each amused himself
in his own way and did not bother his brothers, although they did not
stray too far apart to talk to one another. This they did by saying,
"Peep," now and then.
About once an hour, and sometimes oftener, Mother Piper came flying over
from Faraway Island, crying, "Pete, Pete, Pete," as if she were worried.
It is no wonder that she was anxious about Sandy and Peter and Pan, for,
to begin with, she had had four fine children, and the very first night
they were out of their nest, the darlings, a terrible prowling animal
named Tom or Tabby had killed one of her babies.
[Illustration: _One was named Peter, for his father._]
But Peter and Pan and Sandy were too young to know much about being
afraid. So they played by the river all day long, care-free and happy.
Their sweet little voices sounded contented as they said, "Peep," one
to another. Their queer little tails looked frisky as they went
bob-bob-bob-bing up and down every time they stepped, and sometimes when
they didn't. Their dear little heads went forward and back in a merry
sort of jerk. There were so many things to do, and every one of them a
pleasure!
Oh! here was Sandy clambering up the rocky bank, so steep that there was
roothold only for the blue-bells, with stems so slender that one name
for them is "hair-bell." But Sandy did not fall. He tripped lightly up
and about, with sure feet; and where the walking was too hard, he
fluttered his wings and flew to an easier place. Once he reached the top
of the bank, where the wild roses were blossoming. And wherever he went,
and wherever he came, he found good tasty insects to eat; so he had
picnic-luncheons all along the way.
Ho! here was Pan wandering where the river lapped the rocky shore. His
long slender legs were just right for wading, and his toes felt
comfortable in the cool water. There was a pleasing scent from the
sweet-gale bushes, which grew almost near enough to the river to go
wading, too; and there was a spicy smell when he brushed against the
mint, which wore its blossoms in pale purple tufts just above the leaves
along the stem. And every now and then, whether he looked at the top of
the water or at the rocks on the shore-edge, he found tempting bits of
insect game to eat as he waded along.
Oho! here was Peter on an island as big as an umbrella, with a
scooped-out place at one side as deep as the hollow in the palm of a
man's hand. This was shaped exactly right for Peter's bathtub, and as
luck would have it, it was filled to the brim with water. Such a cool
splashing--once, twice, thrice, with a long delightful flutter; and then
out into the warm sunshine, where the feathers could be puffed out and
dried! These were the very first real feathers he had ever had, and he
hadn't had them very long; and my, oh, my! but it was fun running his
beak among them, and fixing them all fine, like a grown-up bird. And
when he was bathed and dried, there was a snack to eat near by floating
toward him on the water.
Oh! Ho! and Oho! it was a day to be gay in, with so many new amusements
wherever three brave, fearless little sandpipers might stray.
Then came sundown; and in the pleasant twilight Peter and Pan and Sandy
somehow found themselves near each other on the bank, still walking
forth so brave and bold, and yet each close enough to his brothers to
hear a "Peep," were it ever so softly whispered.
Did it just happen that about that time Mother Piper came flying low
over the water from Faraway Island to Nearby Island, calling, "Pete,
Pete, Pete," in a different tone, a sort of sundown voice?
Was that the way to speak to three big, 'most-grown-up sandpiper sons,
who had wandered about so free of will the livelong day?
Ah, but where were the 'most-grown-up sons? Gone with the sun at
sundown; and, instead, there were three cosy little birds, with their
heads still rumpled over with down that was not yet pushed off the ends
of their real feathers, and a tassel of down still dangling from the tip
of each funny tail.
And three dear, sweet, little voices answered, "Peep," every time Mother
Piper called, "Pete"; and three little sons tagged obediently after her
as she called them from place to place all round and all about Nearby
Island, teaching them, perhaps, to make sure there was no Tabby and no
Tommy on their camping-ground.
So it was that, after twilight, when darkness was at hand and the curfew
sounded for human children to be at home, Peter and Pan and Sandy
settled down near each other and near Mother Piper for the night.
And where was Peter Piper, who had been abroad the day long, paying
little attention to his family? He, too, at nightfall, had come flying
low from Faraway Island; and now, with his head tucked behind his wing,
was asleep not a rod away from Mother Piper and their three sons.
Somehow it was very pleasant to know that they were near together
through the starlight--the five of them who had wandered forth alone by
sunlight.
But not for long was the snug little Nearby Island to serve for a night
camp. Mother Piper had other plans. Like the wise person she was, she
let her children find out many things for themselves, though she kept in
touch with them from time to time during the day, to satisfy herself
that they were safe. And at night she found that they were willing
enough to mind what they were told to do, never seeming to bother their
heads over the fact that every now and then she led them to a strange
camp-ground.
So they did not seem surprised or troubled when, one night soon, Mother
Piper, instead of calling them to Nearby Island, as had been her wont,
rested patiently in plain sight on a stump near the shore and, with
never a word, waited for the sunset hour to reach the time of dusk. Then
she flew to the log where Peter Piper had been teetering up and down,
and what she said to him I do not know. But a minute later, back she
flew, this time rather high overhead, and swooped down toward the little
ones with a quick "Pete-weet." After her came Peter Piper flying, also
rather high overhead, and swooping down toward his young. Then Mother
and Peter Piper went in low, slow flight to Faraway Island.
Were they saying good-night to their babies? Were their sons to be left
on the bank by themselves, now that they had shaken the last fringe of
down from their tails and lost the fluff from their heads? Did they need
no older company, now that they looked like grown-up sandpipers except
that their vests had no big polka dots splashed over them?
Ah, no! At Mother Piper's "Pete-weet," Peter answered, "Peep," lifted
his wings, and flew right past Nearby Island and landed on a rock on
Faraway Island. And, "Peep," called Sandy, fluttering after. And,
"Peep," said Pan, stopping himself in the midst of his teetering, and
flying over Nearby Island on his way to the new camp-ground.
That is how it happened that they had their last luncheon on the shore
of Faraway Island before snuggling down to sleep that night.
One of the haunts of Peter and Pan and Sandy was Cardinal-Flower Path.
This lovely place was along the marshy shore not far from Nearby Island.
It was almost white with the fine blooms of water-parsnip, an
interesting plant from the top of its blossom head to the lowest of its
queer under-water leaves. And here and there, among the lacy white, a
stalk of a different sort grew, with red blossoms of a shade so rich
that it is called the cardinal flower. Every now and then a
ruby-throated hummingbird darted quickly above the water-parsnips
straight to the cardinal throat of the other flower, and found
refreshment served in frail blossom-ware of the glorious color he loved
best of all.
And it would be well for all children of men to know that, although
three bright active children of sandpipers ran teetering about
Cardinal-Flower Path many and many a day, the place was as lovely to
look upon at sundown as at sunrise, for not one wonderful spray had been
broken from its stem. So it happened, because the children who played
there were Sandy and Peter and Pan, that the cardinal flowers lived
their life as it was given them by Nature, serving refreshments for
hummingbirds through the summer day, and setting seeds according to
their kind for other cardinal flowers and other hummingbirds another
year.
But even the charms of Cardinal-Flower Path did not hold Pan and Peter
and Sandy many weeks. They seemed to be a sort of gypsy folk, with the
love of wandering in their hearts; and it is pleasant to know that, as
soon as they were grown enough, there was nothing to prevent their
journeying forth with Peter and Mother Piper.