I
MY FIRST BIRD NEIGHBORS
The birds that live in my yard are the loveliest of all my neighbors.
During the springtime and summer they awaken me every morning with their
sweet songs. Then all the day long their pretty ways make me wish I had
nothing to do but to watch them.
Now I can imagine someone saying, “If I had a yard, I, too, would try to
have bird neighbors.” Listen! Before I had a yard I had bird neighbors
on my porch.
How did I get them?
In summer, a basin of water on the porch railing, and in winter, the
basin filled with table scraps—this is what did it. On the porch of that
apartment house I learned how to neighbor with birds.
A kind lady in the next house tied suet and strings of peanuts to one of
her trees. During winter and spring the woodpeckers enjoyed the treat,
while we enjoyed the woodpeckers! Pigeons and bluejays came too, and,
yes, English sparrows, those birds that are nowhere welcome. But they
didn’t have it all their own way there, as they do where nothing is done
to attract other birds.
One winter day a beautiful blue and white pigeon with rose-colored neck
came in at an open window. The streets were covered with snow. It was
hard for birds to find anything to eat. This pigeon ate some rolled oats
that I scattered before it, drank some water, and walked into a corner.
After a nap it ate some more; then took another nap. When it awoke again
I set it in a waste-paper basket by the open window, so it could go away
when it pleased. It took several more helpings of oats. Toward evening
it flew away.
Among the pigeons that used to come often to my porch was my little
guest of a day. As the pigeons ate they always cooed. Perhaps they were
remarking how good it tasted.
In early spring the robins came. They liked little scraps of meat.
Chopped raw beef was to them the greatest treat. At the basin they not
only drank, but spread their wings over it and splashed the water all
around, trying to bathe in that shallow dish. It was only a big
flower-pot saucer. While the weather was still cold, they began to sing
mornings before daylight. It was like listening to Christmas carols to
hear them.
On mild and thawing days they could be seen hopping over my neighbor’s
lawn. Most cunningly they would turn their heads to one side, then to
the other. It is said that they do this so they can hear the worms and
insects move about in the ground. I believe it; for often I have seen a
robin, after listening intently at some spot, stop to scratch and dig,
then pull out a worm.
The robins often pulled and jerked at the morning-glory vines on our
porch. Whenever they got one loose they would gather it up in loops with
the bill and carry it away. They also tore strings off our mop and flew
away with them.
On a pillar of our porch there hung a can in which we sometimes put
flowers. One rainy April day a little wren alighted on the edge of that
can and looked in. The can was empty at the time, so the bird went
inside, but came out again quickly and flew away.
Pretty soon two wrens came, and both went inside. Then for several days
they made frequent visits to that can, and there was almost constant
trilling of the merriest bubbling songs. Sometimes there was just a
chatter back and forth, as if they were talking or arguing. These wrens
were so much together that I concluded they were mates.
[Illustration: THEY WERE MAKING THAT CAN INTO A BIRD HOME]
They fetched little twigs of all kinds and dropped them into that can.
They also fetched bits of cloth and chicken feathers, as if they
actually intended to make a feather bed. Mr. Wren could carry things in
his bill and sing at the same time. Once in a while, when he brought
something, Mrs. Wren chattered louder than usual. It sounded as though
she wasn’t pleased with what he had brought. Sometimes she wouldn’t even
let him in, and, after carrying his burden around for a while, he would
drop it. But he sang on just as happily, and entertained her while she
did most of the work. This went on for several days. At last they
fetched grasses, too. It was a joy to see how happy they were at their
work. They were making that can into a bird home.
When the little home was finished, Mrs. Wren loved it so well that for
about two weeks she stayed in it nearly all the time. Mr. Wren brought
her many kinds of bugs and worms to eat, and sang to her all the day
long.
Soon there were some baby wrens in that little home. Again Father and
Mother Wren worked hard from daylight until dark, fetching worms and
bugs for their babies to eat. Whenever one came home with a bill full,
he glided right in among those thorny twigs. How they could do it
without getting pricked was a wonder!
One day all this was changed. Instead of going into their little home
with provisions, both Father and Mother Wren stayed out on the edge, and
held a worm or a bug where the little ones could see it. After a while,
one of the baby birds came up a little way to receive a helping of the
food. But the big outdoors must have frightened him; for he ducked right
down again. The next one that came out had more courage, or else he was
more hungry. He received a helping; then gazed about him a little.
Evidently the world looked pleasant to him. He shook his feathers,
flapped his wings, and didn’t go back into the little home at all. This
was just what Father and Mother wanted him to do, and each gave him a
whole worm, although the birdies inside were calling for some too.
The day was fine. It was still early. The babies would have all day in
which to get used to the outdoors if they would come out now. To-morrow
it might rain, and the next day, and the next. The babies were quite old
enough to live outside of that stuffy can. They must come out to-day,—so
Father and Mother Wren had decided.
After the little venturer had received several helpings, another
birdling came scrambling up. He got all of the next helping. Mother Wren
was among the porch vines, chirping. Every little while she flew to the
little ones, fluttered her wings before them, and then flew back to the
vines. In this way she was coaxing them to follow her.
Before Number Three came out, the mother had Numbers One and Two safely
among the vines. Number Four came close behind Number Three. It wasn’t
very pleasant to stay down in the can all alone. The mother kept up her
coaxing until she managed to get them all in nice, shady places.
It was now about nine o’clock. The rest of the day was spent quietly
among the vines. After they had rested a little from the excitement of
their first flight, Mother tried to keep them moving from vine to vine.
One was more clever than the others. He learned everything quickly.
The Wren family lived in the vines all the next day. On the third day
Mother Wren began to coax them farther away. Back and forth she flew
between the porch and my neighbor’s tree, and around in circles, to show
the babies how to do it. Father Wren coaxed them on with a white worm in
his bill. He was not singing much now, because these growing birds
needed more and more food. Also, father-wisdom bade him keep quiet lest
his babies be discovered and come to harm.
The cleverest of the four was also the biggest; so it was easy to tell
him from the rest. Again, he was always the first to venture. But as he
neared the tree, when he had almost reached his goal, he began to drop;
and he fell to the ground. Fearing some harm might come to him, I went
down quickly with the long-handled dust mop. It was fuzzy, and soft for
him to rest on. With it I hoisted him to a low branch. Mother and Father
Wren scolded, but went to the young bird as soon as my back was turned.
Birds do not like to have people meddle with their affairs; but
sometimes when they are in trouble we can help them.
Maybe this little mishap showed Mother Wren that her babies were not yet
strong enough to fly so far. Anyway, she waited until the next day
before she urged the others to go. Even then she was not quite decided.
At dinner time the three were still on the porch. They had reached the
highest rung of the trellis. In the afternoon, when I returned from
school, they were gone. Father Wren was again singing his cheery songs.
He had kept pretty quiet while the little ones were learning to fly.
Why? Because he did not want anyone to find out where they were.
My robins, meanwhile, had made themselves a nest on a high window sill
at the far end of the porch; but not until the wrens began nesting did I
discover it. Already there were three blue eggs in it. The robins seemed
so distressed at being found out that we kept away from that end of the
porch until they got well used to us. The wrens didn’t fear us at all.
They came to their nest no matter how many people were on the porch.
I had now learned what the wrens and the robins like for their nestings;
so I fastened strings, shreds of cloth, some cotton, and small chicken
feathers to the low branches of my neighbor’s trees, and also on my
porch. I had read somewhere that some birds will pull feathers out of
their own bodies, if they can find none elsewhere, with which to line
their nests. After the wrens had cleaned out the can, they helped
themselves to cotton and feathers, and made ready for their second
nesting.
Father and Mother Robin were such devoted parents, it seemed as if they
couldn’t do enough. Their babies always craned their necks and opened
their bills wide as soon as they heard anyone near. As they grew older
they also chattered and flapped their wings. Sometimes they fluttered
over the sides of the nest so far that I feared they would fall off the
high window sill.
[Illustration: THE BABY ROBINS]
One morning the robins’ nest was empty, and the young were over on my
neighbor’s lawn. For convenience I will call this neighbor Mrs. Daily.
She lived on our right. The neighbor to our left was Mrs. Cotton.
A birds’ bath at Mrs. Daily’s and the tree with nesting materials on it
showed the birds that they were welcome there. So the parents coaxed
their young in that direction.
Mrs. Cotton also tried to attract birds. But her basin sometimes went
dry for days. Also, she had a big, beautiful cat that was usually
somewhere in the yard. It was not so inviting there, according to birds’
ways of thinking, nor so safe for their young, as over at Mrs. Daily’s,
where the cat was kept in.
I kept our kitty locked up night and day, and asked my neighbors to keep
their cats in, too, until these young robins could fly up into trees. At
first they could only fly sideways. It is more than just a kind act to
save young robins from harm: it is saving birds who will be useful and
pleasing all their lives, and who will spread happiness wherever they
go.
When I saw how my birds left me as soon as their young could fly, I
began to wish that I, too, had a yard and trees, like my neighbors. I
longed to have more birds, and birds of different kinds.
[Illustration: ONE WINTER DAY A PIGEON CAME IN AT AN OPEN WINDOW]
[Illustration: VACANT LOTS ATTRACT BIRDS]
II
NEW ADVENTURES IN BIRDLAND
I got my wish: Our present home is a whole house, with a yard. We have
big trees and little ones, and on one side there is a grape arbor. All
around us are vacant lots, where thornapple bushes, dogwood trees, and
tall sunflowers grow. These attract birds. Behind the vacant lots there
is a ravine with wild cherry trees, elder bushes, wild grape tangles,
and other attractions for birds.
The wrens and the robins had gone to their winter homes when we moved,
and the woodpeckers had come. I had bought a bird guide with colored
pictures, and a pair of field glasses which brought those black and
white birds very near to me. Some had red on the back of the head. They
were the downy woodpeckers. A bird very much like the downy, but larger,
was the hairy woodpecker. And there were birds just like the downy and
hairy but without the red patch on the head. They were the mates of the
downy and the hairy.
Whenever I heard a brisk “chsip,” I could see downy approach in
graceful, curving flight toward some tree. Usually he perched near the
bottom and climbed up, pecking and scratching as he went. Sometimes he
alighted higher up and came down cat-fashion, but always busily pecking
at the bark. The hairy did the same. This must be why these birds are
called woodpeckers.
Knowing how well the winter birds like peanuts and suet, I fastened
strings of peanuts across a bird table that I had made, and in the tray
below I kept suet. I also scattered chickfeed on the ground beside a
tree, and added to it buckwheat and sunflower seeds. But I soon learned
better than to put anything for birds near a tree behind which a cat
could hide!
It was great fun to watch the different birds select their favorite
food. The woodpeckers liked the suet so well that, while it was on hand,
they hardly ever touched the peanuts. Downy also liked the chickfeed;
but he did not like to step down to the ground. In trying to get it, he
would back down the tree until his tail touched the ground. Then,
without leaving the tree and while propped on his tail, he reached over
to the right or left and picked up kernels. In this way he could eat
without stepping on the ground.
[Illustration: THE WINTER BIRDS LIKE PEANUTS AND SUET]
And downy had good eating manners. He never hurried, never fidgeted.
Sometimes he stayed twenty minutes at a meal and ate slowly and quietly,
like a well-bred person.
[Illustration: WHEN I DID NOT HAVE PEANUTS I GAVE THE NUTHATCH
DOUGHNUTS]
Another bird that came to my place in winter had a light blue back and a
white front. His wings and tail were dark blue, and so was the top of
his head. I always knew he was near when I heard a sound like “gack” or
“yack.” He liked the peanuts better than anything else. With his sharp
bill he would punch a nut, then hold down the shell while he pulled out
the kernel. Maybe this is why he is called the nuthatch. Sometimes, when
I did not have peanuts, I gave him doughnuts. He liked them just as
well. He would nibble at a doughnut until it dropped from the nail, then
go to the ground and forage there. He liked cheese also.
I soon found that somebody else, too, liked suet and peanuts. This was
the red squirrel, and when he was on the table the birds would not come
near. However, it was birds I wanted and not squirrels,—especially not
the red squirrel, who is said to bother birds in many ways. To keep him
away I nailed tin sheeting around the post of the bird table.
I am sorry to say that the nuthatch was not at all polite to other
birds. He always wanted all the food himself, no matter how much there
was on hand. He would flit from one feeding place to another and chase
the other birds away. I stopped putting peanuts on the table, so that he
would have no excuse to go there and the birds who liked the suet might
eat in peace. I put all the peanuts on the tree farthest back in the
vacant lot and made the selfish nuthatch eat there by himself.
Another thing that was not nice about the nuthatch was his way of
eating. He was always in a hurry. He would take the kernel out of a nut,
walk up the tree with it, and fly away. Then he would come back quickly
and do the same thing again, as if afraid another bird might get
something. Sometimes he kept this up for an hour or more. Even after all
the peanuts were moved to his tree, he would bluster around at the other
feeding places and try to drive those peaceable birds away.
The dearest of all my winter birds were some that came singing in all
sorts of weather. I called them my little minstrels.
“Chicaday, chicaday, chicaday-day-day-day,” was their song. Somebody has
named them chickadees, and the name just fits. If you should see a
little gray bird with a black cap and bib, who comes singing that song,
you may know that you have seen a chickadee.
The chickadees were not at all particular what they ate. They sang just
as cheerily when they had only breadcrumbs as they did when they found
suet and peanuts and sunflower seeds. They never wasted their food. If
any fell to the ground they picked it up. They were the politest of
birds and, like the downy and the hairy, they worked at the trees most
of the time.
These winter birds are some of nature’s best house-cleaners. They work
all through the cold and stormy season when the other birds are away in
their sunny winter homes. Should we not remember to give them a treat
once in a while, and so brighten the cold days with good cheer?
From the very first, I heard many bird voices coming from the ravine. So
one morning I took a walk out that way. Scattered all along were tall
sunflowers, now gone to seed. Foraging on some were the noisy bluejays,
on others the dear happy chickadees. The trees were bare, so that I
could see as well as hear the birds. Woodpeckers were tapping, pecking,
delving. All along I heard this pleasing, friendly music, as if the
birds were following me. So pleasant was my walk that I did not realize
how far I was going until I was at the end of the city, where the
country begins.
[Illustration: THE DEAR HAPPY CHICKADEE]
A good way off were some widely scattered houses. On a tall pole near
the first house was a very large bird house. As I drew nearer, three
small bird houses came in sight.
I made up my mind to get acquainted with the people in that home. A
pleasant lady opened the door and invited me in.
“Who put up those bird houses?” I asked, the first thing.
“That’s my boy,” said the lady. “He just loves to tinker with his
tools.” She pointed with pride to a clock shelf which she said he had
made for her birthday.
“And he made that big bird house, too?” I asked.
“He made every one,” answered the lady, “and he is making more. He is
learning it in the manual training school.”
I told her I wanted to make some bird houses, but didn’t know just how
to go about it.
Then she led me into a tiny room off the kitchen. There by the window
stood an old dry goods box that had been fitted up as a work bench, with
a vise and a rack for small tools. Larger tools were hanging on the
wall. On some shelves were wooden boxes and boards. On the work bench
lay a bird house. I picked it up and looked at it.
“He says that’s to be for wrens,” explained the lady. From a chest she
produced another bird house which she said was for bluebirds.
“He makes them out of these boxes that he gets from our grocer,” she
added, “and I save the starch boxes for him.”
The lady had much to do, so I made ready to go. But she went on talking:
“At first, I couldn’t bear to give up this little storeroom. But since I
have seen how happy it makes Laddie to have this little ‘shop,’ as he
calls it, I am glad I gave in to him. Would you believe it: from the
time he begins to work with these tools until he lays them down again he
whistles and sings like a bird himself! I think anything that makes a
boy so contented must be good for him.”
The lady then went about her work, telling me not to hurry. So I stayed
to take some measurements of the bird houses. Both were made so that
they could be opened in front.
“He makes them that way so they can be easily cleaned,” explained the
lady.
On the way home I stopped at our grocer’s and got some small wooden
boxes. Two were yeast foam boxes, and one was a cocoa box. I, too, had
learned in manual training school how to use simple tools, so I bought
also a saw, plane, shaving knife, brace and set of bits, and a small
vise. Then out of an old sewing machine stand I made a work bench, and a
light corner of the basement became my “shop.” I made those yeast foam
boxes into wren houses, and out of the cocoa box I made a bluebird
house. The boy’s mother had told me that his manual training teacher was
a lady, and that she was “just as good as a man,” so I felt quite proud
of my new fancy work.
The house for bluebirds and one for wrens were put up in trees. The
other wren house was mounted on a post above the grape arbor. But it did
not stay there long, for I soon found that a grape arbor is no place for
a bird house. Can you guess why not?
It was while waiting for the wrens and the bluebirds to come that I had
such delightful times with the woodpeckers, the nuthatches and the
chickadees.
[Illustration: THE SELFISH NUTHATCH]
[Illustration: CATS BELONG ON THEIR OWN PREMISES]
III
REAL TROUBLES IN BIRDLAND
I said that birds were lovely neighbors. So are some other animals. At
my new home I soon became acquainted with a wild rabbit. Two dogs roamed
around in the vacant lots and in the ravine a great deal. Often when I
heard them barking, the next thing I saw would be Bunny, running as fast
as he could toward our place, with the dogs after him. Bunny could glide
through under the garden fence, and that was lucky for him. The dogs
were too big and couldn’t.
I was glad when Bunny came to our place for safety. He liked slices of
apple so well that he would come nearer and nearer to get them, until
finally he ate out of my hand.
[Illustration: THE BASIN WAS BUNNY’S LOOKING-GLASS]
One hot day while Bunny was in our yard, he saw the birds’ basin, and
went there to drink. He had been accustomed to drink at the brook in the
ravine, where the water always runs, if there is any. But the brook was
dried up at this time of year. The clear, still water in the basin was a
new thing to Bunny. He took a long look at it. Seeing himself pictured
in the water was another new thing to him, and he looked again and
again. Evidently he thought himself quite handsome, for even after it
rained and the brook filled up again, he still kept coming. The basin
was his looking-glass.
I am sorry for what I have to tell about some other animals. One day our
neighbor’s cat lay crouching near the tree under which the chickfeed was
scattered. A downy woodpecker was just coming down the tree. Kitty’s
eyes glared. Her teeth chattered. But evidently the downy did not see
her. I scolded Kitty and drove her away. This disturbed the downy, and
he flew away too. But that was better than to let him come down where
Kitty could jump on him. She could easily have done so while he was
reaching over to the ground for a kernel.
After this experience I covered up all the chickfeed beside the tree,
and scattered some in more exposed places, away from any trees and from
bushes. I also laid suet on low branches of trees and tied it on firmly,
and poked some into small holes of old trees, and under the bark.
Soon afterward I saw the same cat again. This time she was on a branch,
eating suet. That set me to thinking: “If the cat can get to the suet in
the tree, she will also be able to get to the bird houses. Some day she
might find some baby birds in there, not yet able to fly.”
I did not take away the suet which the birds liked so well. I got some
tin sheeting and tacked it around the tree. The cat could not climb over
the smooth sheeting.
Imagine my surprise when I saw her up there at the suet again! “How did
she get there?” I wondered to myself. Day after day I watched Kitty
before I found her out.
One morning, who should go climbing up that tree but a red squirrel?
When he reached the tin, he looked around and made a loud chatter.
Seeing no one, he took one big jump over the sheeting and went to the
suet. After tasting it, he wiped his mouth on the bark as if he did not
like it. Then he went over to the bluebird house. The entrance to this
little house had been nicked by somebody with sharp little teeth. Now I
found out who that somebody was. This squirrel was even now nibbling at
the entrance, trying to make it still bigger. At the wren house somebody
had broken off the little porch, which was probably the squirrel’s doing
also.
I wondered what I should do to keep this squirrel from spoiling my bird
houses. Some more tin sheeting, I thought, would fix it so he could not
jump over. I put another sheet just above the first one. That made the
tin protection thirty-six inches deep. When the squirrel came the next
time, he climbed as far as he could, then looked up at the tin. That was
too high a jump. He turned, jumped to the ground, and scampered away.
The pilfering red squirrel is not to be confounded with the genial gray
squirrel of our parks, who loves to take peanuts out of our hands.
I still wondered how Kitty had made her way to the suet, with the tin
around that tree. Surely she could not jump over the tin! As a jumper
the squirrel can beat Kitty any time. One day I heard a scratching
noise. Kitty was sharpening her claws on the bark of the next tree.
Every little while she climbed a few steps up that tree; then sharpened
her claws again. There was nothing in that tree that she could harm, so
I let her go on. She walked along on one of the branches, and jumped
across to a branch on the other tree, the one that held the bluebird
house, and smelled around there. It was early spring. There were no
young birds in the house yet; so I let her go on, just to see what she
would do. Some English sparrows had started to nest in the little house.
Kitty pulled out grasses and feathers, and spoiled the nest.
Now just think how wise she was to plan that all out so nicely! And all
she gets for it is scolding! Why should we blame Kitty for liking birds?
We like our chicken dinners. We praise Kitty when she catches a mouse or
a rat. Some people even entice her to catch English sparrows. How can
she know it is good to clean out a mouse nest and naughty to clean out a
bird nest?
Two things can be done to lessen the loss of birds by cats. First, to
safeguard in every possible way every bird house, feeding place, and
bath. Second, to compel the owners of cats to keep them on their own
premises, and to lock them up nights. It is at night, when there is no
one to interfere, that cats do the most damage to birds.
I knew that if Kitty could jump from that tree to the next one, the
squirrel could do it, too; so I put double tin sheeting on that tree
also.
But such a clever cat and such a nimble squirrel would also know how to
climb the grape arbor, I thought; so I took the wren house off the
arbor. This house also had been nibbled and the entrance made much
larger. I concluded that the worst of all places for a bird house is a
grape arbor, a pergola, or a garden arch.
A friend had sent me a beautiful wren house. It was shaped like a small
barrel, and had four rooms. I called it the apartment house.
Fortunately, it was made of such hard wood that no squirrel could bite
through. I had this house put on a tin-sheathed post on the north side
of the house where it would be in shade.
For the bluebirds I put up two new houses. The one that had been up all
winter was so smelly of squirrels and English sparrows that I knew the
dainty bluebirds would not like it. The time was near for the birds to
return from their winter homes. I wanted everything clean and safe for
them.
[Illustration: THE GENIAL GRAY SQUIRREL]
[Illustration: THE RETURN OF THE BLUEBIRD]
IV
THE BLUEBIRDS’ BUNGALOW
I love the springtime because it brings my birds back from their winter
homes.
One cold March day I saw something blue flash across the sky.
“Can that be the bluebird I have been waiting for?” I thought.
It flew into a tree; then alighted on a clothesline post. I could
plainly see the blue on its back and the red on its front. Yes, it was
the bluebird. His song was as beautiful as his plumage, but in a minor
tone:
“De-_ary! De-_ary!”
Next he flew to the top of the wren house, tripped along the roof,
leaned over and looked at the little porches. Then he went down on one
of them and looked into the room. That was as far as he could go. The
entrances to these apartments had been made for the tiny wrens and not
for bluebirds. When he saw the bluebird house in the tree, he flew to a
branch just in front of it and looked at it a while. Then he flew back
to the wren house and tried that again; he liked it so well, he couldn’t
bear to give it up.
After a week or so another bird came, of much paler hue, but with the
reddish breast. The song of my bluebird now became long and pleading:
“Deary! dear, dear, deary!” But it still remained subdued and minor.
Together he and his newly arrived companion visited the bird houses, so
I concluded that they were mates. They could hardly make up their minds
which house to take, so pleased were they with all of them. Mrs.
Bluebird tried the wren house, too. But when she saw she could not get
inside she did not go there any more.
My prettiest bluebird house was on our hammock post, well shaded by our
biggest tree. I had read somewhere that bluebirds like to have one house
for spring and another for summer. So this house was made with two
rooms, one above the other. I thought the bluebirds would surely like
this double house better than the single one, for they went inside it
many times, and always stayed there long.
The other house, which was mounted on a young maple, was not nearly so
pretty. It was made out of cigar boxes and I had forgotten to take off
the labels. After the bluebirds had visited it I did not dare touch it
because, if their houses are interfered with, birds are liable to go
away. Both the maple and the hammock post were well protected with tin
sheeting.
One day Mrs. Bluebird fetched some grasses in her bill. To my great joy
she alighted on the perch in front of the double house. Twice she poised
to fly, but did not. At last she flew—and where do you think she went?
Why, to that ugly little house with the labels on it!
[Illustration: SOMETIMES SHE WAS JUST GLIDING THROUGH THE ENTRANCE
AS HE ALIGHTED ON THE HOUSETOP WITH A CHOICE MORSEL FOR HER]
While she was in the house, Mr. Bluebird alighted on the porch, looked
in, and sang a little song. Mrs. Bluebird flew out past him and almost
brushed him off. Then he went inside, and just as Mrs. Bluebird returned
with some more grasses he came out with a chip in his bill. Some chips
had fallen inside when I made the entrance, and he did not like that.
The little house must be clean, since Mrs. Bluebird was going to make
her nest in it. Sometimes he brought a grass or two; she brought whole
wads of grasses. But he made up in attentions to her. Wherever she might
be working, he perched near by, on a fence post or a low branch, and
kept his eyes on her. As she went from place to place to find the right
kind of grasses, or to the little house to throw them in, he always
followed her. Sometimes she was just gliding through the entrance with a
load as he alighted on the housetop with a choice morsel for her to eat.
One day our neighbor’s cat was hiding behind an evergreen near where
Mrs. Bluebird was hunting grasses. Mr. Bluebird’s bright eyes saw her
just in time.
“Dear-dear-dear!” he cried, quickly and jerkily.
Mrs. Bluebird knew that that meant, “Danger! Fly quick!!” Up she flew,
and away.
The cat jumped high and almost caught her.
After that I chased the cat away every time I saw her. There certainly
should be a law to make people keep their cats at home.
When Mrs. Bluebird had her house all furnished she stayed at home about
two weeks and took a good rest. Mr. Bluebird continued to bring her
meals and to entertain her. When he was not hunting bugs and worms, or
chasing English sparrows, he was sure to be somewhere near home, singing
his sweetest songs.
When Mrs. Bluebird was able to be out again she and Mr. Bluebird were
busier than ever. Both were carrying food to the little house. I knew
then that they had babies in there, so I called him Father, and her
Mother.
[Illustration: BLUEBIRD BABIES TO FEED AND CARE FOR]
The bluebirds caught some of their food in the air, but a good deal of
it they picked up in my garden. I had some low stakes there expressly
for them. They perched on these and on the bean-poles, and from there
pounced on many a luckless worm or bug that their sharp eyes espied. I
am sure the bluebirds are great helpers in a garden.
After two busy weeks of baby-tending, Father and Mother Bluebird did
just what the little wrens had done. They made the babies come outside
for their food, or go hungry.
I think the first little bird to leave a nest must be very courageous.
The others usually follow close after him. It was so with these
bluebirds. And as they came out, one after another, Mother coaxed them
over to the thornapple bushes. She did it by calling, “Dear dear,” and
flying back and forth between the little house and the bushes.
[Illustration: THE BLUEBIRDS MOVED INTO THE PRETTY DOUBLE HOUSE]
Some of the baby bluebirds were quite obedient and flew after the
mother. Two liked it so well on a branch in front of their house that
they stayed there a while; then flew to other branches in the same tree.
Father looked after these, and Mother stayed with the other three. What
a chatter they always made when food was brought to them! It seemed as
if each one said: “Come to me! Come to me!”
While Father and Mother Bluebird had those babies to feed and to care
for, they started another housekeeping. This time they moved into the
pretty double house and took the lower story. In the second coming-out
party there were four more little bluebirds.
All through this second housekeeping the English sparrows tried
repeatedly to get into the upper story, and Father Bluebird had to spend
much time chasing them away. In the one-story house he had that much
more time to get food, or to sing.
I did not clean the bungalow house after their first nesting, because I
did not want the bluebirds to nest in it again. After the double house
was vacated, I cleaned both houses, and found that the bluebirds had
used only grasses and a few feathers for their nesting. In each case
they had covered the entire floor with grasses, but the cup-like nest
was back against the rear wall, as far from the entrance as it could
possibly be.
What could this mean but that the bluebird likes a house with depth so
she can bed her young as far back from meddling paws as possible? This
much I learned from examining the deserted bluebird nests.
[Illustration: RENTED FOR THE SUMMER]
V
THE WRENS’ APARTMENT HOUSE
A four-room house which had been sent to me was very much liked by a
pair of wrens. Again their lively, rippling notes filled the air, as
these wrens went from room to room of this “apartment house,” as I
called it. It was three days before they made up their minds which room
they liked best.
Then they brought little twigs and bits of rag, and leaves, and other
things, and poked them into one of the rooms. It was as good as saying,
“We will take this apartment for the summer.”
Some English sparrows wanted that same room. We always shooed them away,
of course, if we could without frightening the other birds. The wrens
jabbered and hissed at the sparrows, and stayed, pecking them and being
pecked by them. There were four sparrows and only the two wrens; so the
poor little wrens finally gave up and went away.
But, try as they would, the sparrows could not get inside of the house.
After a while, they, too, went away. Then the wrens returned. It seemed
as if they had been watching for the chance.
The wrens soon fetched more twigs, some of them several inches long.
They poked them in as far as they would go; then went inside and pulled
them in as well as they could. But some of the longest ones remained
partly outside and so blocked the entrance to any birds except the tiny
wrens.
Again the English sparrows came and, although they couldn’t even get
their heads in now, still they bothered the wrens. They couldn’t have
that room themselves, and they didn’t want anybody else to have it.
With such a mean spirit is it any wonder that nobody likes these birds?
I cannot bear to call them sparrows any more, because so many good birds
go by that name, and are therefore in danger of being disliked. Or, I
wish that all the good sparrows could have a different name, and let the
English sparrow alone keep the name he has dishonored.
The boy has told me that, to keep English sparrows from increasing
around his place, he destroys their eggs wherever he can find them. He
said that one pair of sparrows seemed to blame the bluebirds for it, and
in revenge destroyed the bluebirds’ nest.
We kept up the shooing and handclapping whenever English sparrows
visited the wren house. After a while the wrens began to understand that
we were trying to help them, and went on with their nesting. They put
tiny sticks and twigs into other rooms of their house also,—and now
there was a perfect concert of wren music all the time. Before night two
more entrances were blocked. Some of the twigs that these wrens brought
had such long thorns on them that they would not go inside at all. But
this did not discourage the plucky wrens. They just dropped them to the
ground and fetched others.
The next day another pair of wrens came. It seemed as if wrens had a way
of letting their friends know where some nice apartments could be had. I
was so eager to accommodate as many wrens as would come that I had made
some one-room houses for them. One was mounted in a pear tree; another
under the overhang of the garage roof.
[Illustration: THE SMALL WREN HOUSE IN THE PEAR TREE]
This last wren pair seemed quite bewildered with so many houses to
choose from, and all of them different. Whenever Mrs. Wren showed
preference for one house, Mr. Wren would go to another one and with his
singing try to coax her there. She was seen oftener about the house
under the garage roof, than the others. Mr. Wren seemed to like the
apartment house best. He was such a jolly little fellow, it is no wonder
he liked to have company. But Mrs. Wren did not care for that at all. A
small cottage was her choice. After making us believe that she liked the
one under the garage roof, she came with a stick about three inches long
and flitted about with it.
Mr. Wren had already put some nesting material into the apartment house.
But hard as he tried, by singing and by soft chatter, which I suppose
was coaxing, and by frequent visits to the apartment house, he could not
win her over. Her mind was made up, and it must be—what? Well, it was
the small house in the pear tree. When Mr. Wren saw that he couldn’t
have his way, why, of course, that small house became his choice too.
Each of these pairs of wrens raised some babies. But with all their work
and family cares, and the English sparrows to bother them at times, they
were always a happy company. They could sing just as beautifully when
carrying twigs or worms or bugs as at any other time. Their happy music
made a continuous open-air concert. And their manners, whether at work
or at play, were so entertaining that I could not bear to take my eyes
off them.
This went on through late April and part of May. One morning the wrens
were all excited. Two of their little ones were on the ground. Our kitty
had been tethered to a hitching weight; but now, fearing one of the
little wrens might fly near her, I locked her up. The parents were
coaxing their little birds over toward the vacant lot where the
thornapple bushes are. These bushes start even with the ground and are
so dense, and have such long, sharp needles, that a cat would get her
eyes scratched out if she tried to go in. I shall always plant
thornapple bushes wherever I may live, especially for the protection of
young birds. And I shall plant several close together, so as to make a
dense thicket. These bushes will provide food for birds, as well as
protection.
The way these wrens coaxed their little ones to follow was very clever.
They would go near them; then walk away trailing their wings. This made
a soft, rustling, coaxing sound. But it was over an hour before they
succeeded in getting the little ones where they wanted them. They had to
come back to them again and again and keep up the coaxing. I was glad
when they finally had them safe under those thorny branches, where I
could not see them any more for the leaves.
By this time two more young were ready to leave the house. One was
already on the little porch, the other peered out of the entrance. These
were wiser than the first two. Instead of going to the ground, one flew
to the kitchen roof which was near and almost even with the wren house.
It was a flat roof covered with gravel. Pretty soon the second baby also
flew to the roof.
It must indeed be a wonderful event in the life of a bird when first he
steps out of the crowded little home and looks around him at the big
outdoors. Then what courage it must take to venture on his wings! He has
fluttered them a few times over the nest, of course, but that is not to
be compared with just bouncing out into the air and trusting to his
wings to bear him up.
The two stayed on the kitchen roof all the rest of the day. I put a
potted plant out there for them to perch on. In the morning one of the
baby wrens perched for a little while on a window sill, but Father Wren
coaxed him back to the roof. I put several more plants out on the roof
in order that the fledglings might exercise their wings and strengthen
them for the long flight they would have to make to the nearest tree.
After a while they did fly from plant to plant. In this way they spent
the rest of the day and they liked it so well that they stayed another
day, and perhaps longer.
I was absent from home a few days. On my return the apartment house was
empty of baby birds; so also was the small house in the pear tree. The
wrens were pulling out the feathers and grasses of the first nestings,
and getting ready to nest again. One pair had already begun nesting in
an unoccupied apartment. Can anyone imagine the hustle and bustle of
those busy wrens, cleaning house and nesting at the same time, and the
joy with which they did it?
The one-room house in the pear tree was so made that the front could be
raised after turning a small screw-eye on the side. This made cleaning
it easy.
Now, aside from furnishing their rooms all over again, these wrens had
their babies to care for. But they seemed the happier the more work they
had to do. They were just bubbling over with happiness all the time; and
they made everyone about them happy, too.
I should think everybody would put out wren houses and get these jolly
little fellows to live near them. Wrens are not particular whether they
live on a porch, in a city yard, or on a farm. They are just as happy in
one place as another, as long as they have a safe little home; and they
will rid a place of bugs and flies and other unpleasant things.
So cheery was that summer with those wrens around me, that I hope always
to have them as my neighbors.
[Illustration: A BABY WREN ON THE WINDOW SILL]
[Illustration: BLUEBIRDS ARE GREAT HELPERS IN A GARDEN (_See page 33
_)]
VI
THE BOY
One day in early April I was in the ravine getting hepaticas. Before I
knew it I was near the boy’s house again. His mother called to me from
her garden.
“The boy is at home now,” she said; “maybe you would like to see him at
work.”
I thanked her, and went with her to the little shop. There beside his
work bench stood a boy about twelve or thirteen years old. He was
painting the wren house a dark green. The bluebird house was finished,
ready to put up.
I told him I had put up my bird houses long ago, and that the bluebirds
had been house hunting for some weeks. He said that there were so many
English sparrows around his place that he feared they would nest in his
houses if he put them out early. But he had just learned of a way to
keep the sparrows from nesting in bluebird houses. He said his manual
training teacher had advised him to mount his houses for wrens and
bluebirds only about eight feet from the ground, since the English
sparrows seldom nest lower than ten feet from the ground, and will not
be likely to take a house that is lower.
The boy put up the bluebird house while I was there, on a young maple
that afforded plenty of shade. His bluebirds were house hunting too, and
visited the house right away.
I told him about the tin sheeting to keep cats and squirrels down. He
said he had been using tangle-foot, the sticky stuff that is sometimes
put on trees to keep bugs down. But he said that cats and squirrels
didn’t mind climbing over it, and he was going to try the tin.
I fear that the boy was not wise in delaying so long to put up his bird
houses. When I saw him again, in mid-April, he said that one pair of
bluebirds had nested in a house that he had intended for chickadees;
that another pair were in an old hollow tree; and that a pair of wrens
were visiting the new bluebird house.
Two of his other houses were for woodpeckers, and a beautiful new one
for purple martins already had some tenants.
“It is two years now that the first martin house has been up, and yet I
have never had any martins to stay!” said the boy. “They would come, go
into the house and twitter, and then fly away.”
He began talking again about his manual training teacher: how she called
one day, and told him that the martin house was mounted too low, and too
near trees; that martins want to be fifty feet away from a tree or
building, and sixteen feet up from the ground; also, that it pleases
martins to have openings near the ceiling of their rooms so they can
have a change of air.
I remarked that this ventilation would make their rooms more
comfortable.
“Yes,” said the boy; “and this new martin house is made according to
teacher’s directions.”
As we stood there, martins were flying about, twittering, singing,
perching on the telephone wires near by and on the roof and the porches
of their house. The pole had hinges so that the house could be brought
down and cleaned, when necessary, or closed.
One lovely June day found me again at the boy’s home. I remarked the
large number of young robins on the lawn.
“The young have just left their nests in that tree,” answered the boy,
pointing into a big cherry tree. “Robins have nested in that tree every
year since I can remember.”