different matter from the way Father Goldfinch changes his feathers
every October for a winter coat that looks much the same as that of
Mother Goldfinch and his young daughters; and then changes every spring
to a beautiful yellow suit, with black-and-white trimmings and a black
cap, for the summer. It is different, too, from the color-styles of Bob
the Vagabond, who merely wears off the dull tips of his winter feathers,
and appears richly garbed in black and white, set off with a lovely bit
of yellow, for his gay summer in the north. Again, it is something quite
different from the color-fashions of Larie, who was not clothed in a
beautiful white garment and soft gray mantle, like his father's and
mother's, until he was quite grown up.
No, the complexion of Solomon and his sons and daughters was a different
matter altogether, because it had nothing whatever to do with season of
the year, or age, or sex. But for all that it was not different from the
sort of color-variations that Mother Nature gives to many of her
children; and you may meet now and again examples of the same sort among
flowers, and insects, and other creatures, too.
But, reddish or gray, it made no difference to Solomon and Mrs. Otus.
They had no favorites among their children, but treated them all alike,
bringing them food in abundance: not only enough to keep them happy the
night long, but laying up a supply in the pantry, so that the youngsters
might have luncheons during the day.
Although Solomon had night eyes, he was not blind by day. He passed the
brightest hours quietly for the most part, dozing with both his outer
eyelids closed, or sometimes sitting with those open and only the thin
inner lid drawn sidewise across his eye. It seems strange to think of
his having three eyelids; but, then, perhaps we came pretty near having
a third one ourselves; for there is a little fold tucked down at the
inner corner, which might have been a third lid that could move across
the eye sidewise, if it had grown bigger. And sometimes, of a dazzling
day in winter, when the sun is shining on the glittering snow, such a
thin lid as Solomon had might be very comfortable, even for our day
eyes, and save us the trouble of wearing colored glasses.
[Illustration: _He passed the brightest hours dozing._]
Lively as Solomon was by night, all he asked during the day was peace
and quiet. He had it, usually. It was seldom that even any of the wild
folk knew where his nest was; and when he spent the day outside, in some
shady place, he didn't show much. His big feather-horns at such times
helped make him look like a ragged stub of a branch, or something else
he wasn't. It is possible for a person to go very close to an owl
without seeing him; and fortunately for Solomon, birds did not find him
every day. For when they did, they mobbed him.
One day, rather late in the summer, Cock Robin found him and sent forth
the alarm. To be sure, Solomon was doing no harm--just dozing, he was,
on a branch. But Cock Robin scolded and sputtered and called him mean
names; and the louder he talked, the more excited all the other birds in
the neighborhood became. Before long there were twenty angry kingbirds
and sparrows and other feather-folk, all threatening to do something
terrible to Solomon.
Now, Solomon had been having a good comfortable nap, with his feathers
all hanging loose, when Cock Robin chanced to alight on the branch near
him. He pulled himself up very thin and as tall as possible, with his
feathers drawn tight against his body. When the bird-mob got too near
him, he looked at them with his big round eyes, and said, "Oh!" in a
sweet high voice. But his soft tone did not turn away their wrath. They
came at him harder than ever. Then Solomon showed his temper, for he was
no coward. He puffed his feathers out till he looked big and round, and
he snapped his beak till the click of it could be heard by his
tormentors. And he hissed.
But twenty enemies were too many, and there was only one thing to be
done. Solomon did it. First thing those birds knew, they were scolding
at nothing at all; and way off in the darkest spot he could find in the
woods, a little owl settled himself quite alone and listened while the
din of a distant mob grew fainter and fainter and fainter, as one by one
those twenty birds discovered that there was no one left on the branch
to scold at.
If Solomon knew why the day birds bothered him so, he never told. He
could usually keep out of their way in the shady woods in the summer;
but in the winter, when the leaves were off all but the evergreen trees,
he had fewer places to hide in. Of course, there were not then so many
birds to worry him, for most of them went south for the snowy season.
But Jay stayed through the coldest days and enjoyed every chance he had
of pestering Solomon. I don't know that this was because he really
disliked the little owl. Jay was as full of mischief as a crow, and if
the world got to seeming a bit dull, instead of moping and feeling sorry
and waiting for something to happen, Jay looked about for some way of
amusing himself. He was something of a bully,--a great deal of a bully,
in fact,--this dashing rascal in a gay blue coat; and the more he could
swagger, the better he liked it.
He seemed, too, to have very much the same feeling that we mean by joy,
in fun and frolic. There was, perhaps, in the sight of a bird asleep and
listless in broad daylight, something amusing. He was in the habit of
seeing the feather-folk scatter at his approach. If he understood why,
that didn't bother him any. He was used to it, and there is no doubt he
liked the power he had of making his fellow creatures fly around. When
he found, sitting on a branch, with two toes front and two toes back, a
downy puff with big round eyes and a Roman nose and feather-horns
sticking up like the ears of a cat, maybe he was a bit puzzled because
it didn't fly, too. Perhaps he didn't quite know what to make of poor
little Solomon, who, disturbed from his nap, just drew himself up slim
and tall, and remarked, "Oh!" in a sweet high voice.
But, puzzled or not, Jay knew very well what he could do about it. He
had done it so many times before! It was a game he liked. He stood on a
branch, and called Solomon names in loud, harsh tones. He flew around as
if in a terrible temper, screaming at the top of his voice. When he
began, there was not another day bird in sight. Before many minutes, all
the chickadees, nuthatches, and woodpeckers within hearing had arrived,
and had taken sides with Jay. Yes, even sunny-hearted Chick D.D. himself
said things to Solomon that were almost saucy. I never heard that any of
these mobs actually hurt our little friend; but they certainly disturbed
his nap, and there was no peace for him until he slipped away. Where he
went, there was no sound to tell, for his feathers were fringed with
silent down. Perhaps some snow-bowed branch of evergreen gave him
shelter, in a nook where he could see better than the day-eyed birds who
tried to follow and then lost track of him.
So Solomon went on with his nap, and Jay started off in quest of other
adventures. The winter air put a keen edge on his appetite, which was
probably the reason why he began to hunt for some of the cupboards where
food was stored. Of course, he had tucked a goodly supply of acorns and
such things away for himself; but he slipped into one hollow in a tree
that was well stocked with frozen fish, which he had certainly had no
hand in catching. But what did it matter to the blue-jacketed robber if
that fish had meant a three-night fishing at an air-hole in the ice? He
didn't care (and probably didn't know) who caught it. It tasted good on
a frosty day, so he feasted on fish in Solomon's pantry, while the
little owl slept.
Well, if Jay, the bold dashing fellow, held noisy revel during the
dazzling winter days, night came every once in so often; and then a
quavering call, tremulous yet unafraid, told the listening world that an
elf of the moonlight was claiming his own. And if some shivered at the
sound, others there were who welcomed it as a challenge to enter the
realm of a winter's night.
For, summer or winter, the night holds much of mystery, close to the
heart of which lives a little downy owl, who wings his way silent as a
shadow, whither he will. And when he calls, people who love the stars
and the wonders they shine down upon sometimes go out to the woods and
talk with him, for the words he speaks are not hard even for a human
voice to say. There was once a boy, so a great poet tells us, who stood
many a time at evening beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, and
called the owls that they might answer him. While he listened, who knows
what the bird of wisdom told him about the night?
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: _Hexapod Stories_, page 89.]
XII
BOB THE VAGABOND
Bob had on his traveling suit, for a vagabond must go a-journeying. It
would never do to stay too long in one place, and here it was August
already. Why, he had been in Maine two months and more, and it is small
wonder he was getting restless. Restless, though not unhappy! Bob was
never that; for the joy of the open way was always before him, and
whenever the impulse came, he could set sail and be off.
The meadows of Maine had been his choice for his honeymoon, and a glad
time of it he and May had had with their snug little home of woven
grass. That home was like an anchor to them both, and held their hearts
fast during the days it had taken to make five grown-sized birds out of
five eggs. But now that their sons and daughters were strong of wing and
fully dressed in traveling suits like their mother's, it was well that
Bob had put off his gay wedding clothes and donned a garb of about the
same sort as that worn by the rest of his family; for dull colors are
much the best for trips.
Now that they were properly dressed, there was nothing left to see to,
except to join the Band of Bobolink Vagabonds. Of course no one can be a
member of this band without the password; but there was nothing about
that to worry Bob. When any of them came near, he called, "Chink," and
the gathering flock would sing out a cheery "Chink" in reply: and that
is the way he and his family were initiated into the Band of Bobolink
Vagabonds. Anyone who can say "Chink" may join this merry company. That
is, anyone who can pronounce it with just exactly the right sound!
So, with a flutter of pleasant excitement, they were gone. Off, they
were, for a land that lies south of the Amazon, and with no more to say
about it than, "Chink."
No trunk, no ticket, no lunch-box; and the land they would seek was four
thousand miles or more away! Poor little Bob! had he but tapped at the
door of Man with his farewell "Chink," someone could have let him see a
map of his journey. For men have printed time-tables of the Bobolink
Route, with maps to show what way it lies, and with the different
Stations marked where food and rest can be found. The names of some of
the most important Stations that a bobolink, starting from Maine, should
stop at on the way to Brazil and Paraguay, are Maryland, South Carolina,
Florida, Cuba, Jamaica, and Venezuela.
Does it seem a pity that the little ignorant bird started off without
knowing even the name of one of these places? Ah, no! A journeying
bobolink needs no advice. "Poor," indeed! Why, Bob had a gift that made
him fortunate beyond the understanding of men. Nature has dealt
generously with Man, to be sure, giving him power to build ships for the
sea and the air, and trains for the land, whereon he may go, and power
to print time-tables to guide the time of travel. But to Bob also, who
could do none of these things, Nature had, nevertheless, been generous,
and had given him power to go four thousand miles without losing his
way, though he had neither chart nor compass. What it would be like to
have this gift, we can hardly even guess--we who get lost in the woods a
mile from home, and wander in bewildered circles, not knowing where to
turn! We can no more know how Bob found his way than the born-deaf can
know the sound of a merry tune, or the born-blind can know the look of a
sunset sky. Some people think that, besides the five senses given to a
man, Nature gave one more to the bobolink--a sixth gift, called a "sense
of direction."
A wonderful gift for a vagabond! To journey hither and yon with never a
fear of being lost! To go forty hundred miles and never miss the way! To
sail over land and over sea,--over meadow and forest and mountain,--and
reach the homeland, far south of the Amazon, at just the right time! To
travel by starlight as well as by sunshine, without once mistaking the
path!
By starlight? What, Bob, who had frolicked and chuckled through the
bright June days, and dozed o' nights so quietly that never a passing
owl could see a motion to tempt a chase?
Yes, when he joined the Band of Bobolink Vagabonds, the gates of the
night, which had been closed to him by Sleep, were somehow thrown open,
and Bob was free to journey, not only where he would, but when he
would--neither darkness nor daylight having power to stop him then.
Is it strange that his wings quivered with the joy of voyaging as surely
as the sails of a boat tighten in the tugging winds?
What would you give to see this miracle--a bobolink flying through the
night? For it has been seen; there being men who go and watch, when
their calendars tell them 't is time for birds to take their southward
flight. Their eyes are too feeble to see such sights unaided; so they
look through a telescope toward the full round moon, and then they can
see the birds that pass between them and the light. Like a procession
they go--the bobolinks and other migrants, too; for the night sky is
filled with travelers when birds fly south.
But though we could not see them, we should know when they are on their
way because of their voices. What would you give to hear this miracle--a
bobolink calling his watchword through the night? For it has been
heard; there being men who go to the hilltops and listen.
As they hear, now and again, wanderers far above them calling, "Chink,"
one to another, they know the bobolinks are on their way to a land that
lies south of the Amazon, and that neither sleep nor darkness bars their
path, which is open before them to take when and where they will.
And yet Bob and his comrades did not hasten. The year was long enough
for pleasure by the way. He and May had worked busily to bring up a
family of five fine sons and daughters early in the summer; and now that
their children were able to look out for themselves, there was no reason
why the birds should not have some idle, care-free hours.
[Illustration: _It was time for the Feast of the Vagabonds._]
Besides, it was time for the Feast of the Vagabonds, a ceremony that
must be performed during the first weeks of the Migrant Flight; for it
is a custom of the bobolinks, come down to them through no one knows how
many centuries, to hold a farewell feast before leaving North America.
If you will glance at a map of the Bobolink Route, you will see the
names of the states they passed through. Our travelers did not know
these names; but for all that, they found the Great Rice Trail and
followed it. They found wild rice in the swamps of Maryland and the
neighboring states. In South Carolina they found acres of cultivated
rice. For rice is the favorite food during the Feast of the Vagabonds,
and to them Nature has a special way of serving it. This same grain is
eaten in many lands; taken in one way or another, it is said to be the
principal food of about one half of all the people in the world. Bob
didn't eat his in soup or pudding or chop-suey. He used neither spoon
nor chop-sticks. He took his in the good old-fashioned way of his own
folk--unripe, as most of us take our sweet corn, green and in the
tender, milky stage, fresh from the stalk. He had been having a rather
heavy meat diet in Maine, the meadow insects being abundant, and he
relished the change. There was doubtless a good healthy reason for the
ceremony of the Feast of the Vagabonds, as anyone who saw Bob may have
guessed; for by the time he left South Carolina he was as fat as butter.
In following the Great Rice Trail, Bob went over the same road that he
had taken the spring before when he was northward bound; but one could
hardly believe him to be the same bird, for he looked different and he
acted differently. In the late summer, the departing bird was dull of
hue and, except for a few notes that once in a great while escaped him,
like some nearly forgotten echo of the spring, he had no more music in
him than his mate, May. And when they went southward, they went all
together--the fathers and mothers and sons and daughters in one great
company.
In the spring it had all been different: Bob had come north with his
vagabond brothers a bit ahead of the sister-folk. And the vagabond
brothers had been gay of garb--fresh black and white, with a touch of
buff. And Bob and his band had been gay of voice. The flock of them had
gathered in tree-tops and flooded the day with such mellow, laughing
melodies as the world can have only in springtime--and only as long as
the bobolinks last.
The ways of the springtime are for the spring, and those of the autumn
for the fall of the year. So Bob, who, when northward bound a few months
before, had taken part in the grand Festival of Song, now that he was
southward bound, partook of the great Feast of the Vagabonds, giving
himself whole-heartedly to each ceremony in turn, as a bobolink should,
for such are the time-honored customs of his folk.
Honored for how long a time we do not know. Longer than the memory of
man has known the rice-fields of South Carolina! Days long before that,
when elephants trod upon that ground, did those great beasts hear the
spring song of the bobolinks? Is the answer to that question buried in
the rocks with the elephants? Bob didn't know. He flew over, with never
a thought in his little head but for the Great Rice Trail leading him
southward to Florida.
While there, some travelers would have gone about and watched men cut
sponges, and have found out why Florida has a Spanish name. But not Bob!
The Feast of the Vagabonds, which had lasted well-nigh all the way from
Maryland, was still being observed, and even the stupidest person can
see that rice is better to eat than sponges or history.
Then, as suddenly as if their "Chink, chink, chink" meant "One, two,
three, away we go," the long feast was over, and their great flight
again called them to wing their way into the night. How they found Cuba
through the darkness, without knowing one star from another; what
brought them to an island in the midst of the water that was everywhere
alike--no man knows. But in Cuba they landed in good health and spirits.
This was in September,--a very satisfactory time for a bird-visit,--and
Bob and his comrades spent some little time there, it being October,
indeed, when they arrived on the island of Jamaica. Now Jamaica, so
people say who know the place, has a comfortable climate and thrilling
views; but it didn't satisfy Bob. Not for long! Something south of the
Amazon kept calling to him. Something that had called to his father and
to his grandfather and to all his ancestors, ever since bobolinks first
flew from North America to South America once every year.
How many ages this has been, who knows? Perhaps ever since the icy
glaciers left Maine and made a chance for summer meadows there. Long,
long, long, it has been, that something south of the Amazon has called
to bobolinks and brought them on their way in the fall of the year. So
the same impulse quickened Bob's heart that had stirred all his fathers,
back through countless seasons. The same quiver for flight came to all
the Band of Vagabonds. Was it homesickness? We do not know.
[Illustration: _Something south of the Amazon kept calling to him._]
We only know that a night came when Bob and his companions left the
mountains of Jamaica below them and then behind them. Far, far behind
them lay the island, and far, far ahead the coast they sought. Five
hundred miles between Jamaica and a chance for rest or food. Five
hundred miles; and the night lay about and above them and the waters
lay underneath. The stars shone clear, but they knew not one from
another. No guide, no pilot, no compass, such as we can understand, gave
aid through the hours of their flight. But do you think they were
afraid? Afraid of the dark, of the water, of the miles? Listen, in your
fancy, and hear them call to one another. "Chink," they say; and though
we do not know just what this means, we can tell from the sound that it
is not a note of fear. And why fear? There was no storm to buffet them
that night. They passed near no dazzling lighthouse, to bewilder them.
No danger threatened, and something called them straight and steady on
their way.
Oh, they were wonderful, that band! Perhaps among all living creatures
of the world there is nothing more wonderful than a bird in his migrant
flight--a bird whose blood is fresh with the air he breathes as only a
bird can breathe; whose health is strong with the wholesome feast that
he takes when and where he finds it; whose wings hold him in perfect
flight through unweary miles; whose life is led, we know not how, on,
on, on, and ever in the right direction.
Yes, Bob was wonderful when he flew from the mountains of Jamaica to the
great savannas of Venezuela; but he made no fuss about it--seemed to
feel no special pride. All he said was, "Chink," in the same
matter-of-fact way that his bobolink forefathers had spoken, back
through all the years when they, too, had taken this same flight over
sea in the course of their vagabond journey.
From Venezuela to Paraguay there was no more ocean to cross, and there
were frequent places for rest when Bob and his band desired. Groves
there were, strange groves--some where Brazil nuts grew, and some where
oranges were as common as apples in New England. There were chocolate
trees and banana palms. There were pepper bushes, gay as our holly trees
at Christmastime. Great flowering trees held out their blossom cups to
brilliant hummingbirds hovering by hundreds all about them. Was there
one among them with a ruby throat, like that of the hummingbird who
feasted in the Cardinal-Flower Path near Peter Piper's home? Maybe 't
was the self-same bird--who knows? And let's see--Peter Piper himself
would be coming soon, would he not, to teeter and picnic along some
pleasant Brazilian shore?
Perhaps Bob and Peter and the hummingbird, who had been summer neighbors
in North America, would meet again now and then in that far south
country. But I do not think they would know each other if they did. They
had all seemed too busy with their own affairs to get acquainted.
Besides the groves where the nuts and fruit and flowers grew, the
vagabonds passed over forests so dense and tangled that Bob caught never
a glimpse of the monkeys playing there: big brown ones, with heads of
hair that looked like wigs, and tiny white ones, timid and gentle, and
other kinds, too, all of them being very wise in their wild ways--as
wise, perhaps, as a hand-organ monkey, and much, much happier.
No, I don't think Bob saw the monkeys, but he must have caught glimpses
of some members of the Parrot Family, for there were so many of them;
and I'm sure he heard the racket they made when they talked together.
One kind had feathers soft as the blue of a pale hyacinth flower, and a
beak strong enough to crush nuts so hard-shelled that a man could not
easily crack them with a hammer. But all that was as nothing to Bob. For
't was not grove or forest or beast or bird that the vagabonds were
seeking.
When they had crossed the Amazon River, some of the band stopped in
places that seemed inviting. But Bob and the rest of the company went on
till they crossed the Paraguay River; and there, in the western part of
that country, they made themselves at home. A strange, topsy-turvy land
it is--as queer in some ways as the Wonderland Alice entered when she
went through the Looking-Glass; for in Paraguay January comes in the
middle of summer; and the hot, muggy winds blow from the north; and the
cool, refreshing breezes come from the south; and some of the wood is so
heavy that it will not float in water; and the people make tea with
dried holly leaves! But to the Band of Vagabond Bobolinks it was not
topsy-turvy, for it was home; and they found the Paraguay prairies as
well suited to the comforts of their January summer as the meadows of
the North had been for their summer of June.
Bob was satisfied. He had flown four thousand miles from a meadow and
had found a prairie! And if, in all that wonderful journey, he had not
paid over much attention to anything along the way except swamps and
marshes, do not scorn him for that. Remember always that Bob _found_ his
prairie and that Peter _found_ his shore.