“Well,” he said, “we think birds earn all the cherries they eat; we
never pick those on the top branches at all, but leave them for the
birds.”
During that visit the boy showed me several bird homes. First he
apologized for doing it. “Every bird home is a secret between mother and
me,” he said; then added, “but I know I can trust you.”
One of these little homes belonged to bluebirds. The others belonged to
the flicker, the wood thrush, and the killdeer.
We walked slowly and talked low, as we went from one place to another.
Loud talk and running frighten birds. And to go very near to a bird nest
is harmful because, every time the mother is frightened away, the eggs
or young are liable to get chilled if the weather is cool. If hot, and
the nest is exposed to the sun, the eggs or young are liable to get
overheated.
The boy told me of a marsh hawk’s nest which a gentleman came to
photograph. He said that this gentleman brought a lad along to hold his
hat over the young to shield them from the sun, during the mother’s
absence. The two were there only about ten minutes. But evidently that
boy told other boys; for soon the nest was being visited at all times of
day. At every visit, the mother flew away, and in a few days all the
young were dead.
I remarked that photographing nests should be done with the greatest
care; that if any screening foliage was pushed aside, it should be
replaced, and the nest left just as the mother bird had planned it. It
is indeed fortunate that bird photography is so difficult that only few
people attempt it. Exposing a nest to the camera is very apt to result
in disaster unless it is done by one who has the highest interests of
birds at heart.
The flickers had their home in a stump of a tree. The entrance was so
low I had to stoop in order to look in; but the nest was down deep, out
of sight. Whenever Father or Mother Flicker came with food they called
softly, “Ye quit! ye quit!” Then the babies could be heard making a
hissing sound. Sometimes when the parents were gone longer than usual, a
baby flicker could be seen taking a peep at the outside world.
[Illustration: BABY FLICKER PEEPS AT THE OUTSIDE WORLD]
One day during the previous spring while walking along the ravine I had
seen three of these large brown birds, and had learned their name from
hearing them sing, “Flicka flicka flicka.” It is easy to get acquainted
with birds who are named after their song. One of these birds on that
spring day was constantly spreading his wings and his tail before the
others, as if he wanted to show the beautiful yellow feathers
underneath. Because of these yellow feathers the flicker is also called
golden-winged woodpecker. Nearly all birds have a scolding word. When
the flicker wants to scold he says, “Queer,” as plainly as a person can
say it.
Of course, we never went near enough to any bird’s nest to frighten the
brooding birds, nor did we stay long enough to keep the parents from
feeding their young. We always found a convenient place fifty feet or
more away, and through our field glasses watched the birds without
annoying them.
I had long known the wood thrush by his yodeling song. It usually came
out of the thickets and tangles in the ravine back of our place, so the
singer could not easily be seen. At sunrise and sunset, the music of the
thrushes, singing and answering one another, was like bells calling to
prayer. From early May until mid-July I always wanted to be out mornings
and evenings to attend the matins and the vespers of the wood thrushes.
Mrs. Wood Thrush tried hard to hide her nest; it was completely
surrounded by thornbushes. “Wit-a-wit-a-wit,” said her mate as we went
near; then he came out of his hiding place. He had a brown back and a
white and brown speckled front just like Mrs. Wood Thrush, who sat
serene on her nest all this time. She was trusting in something to
protect her fully; whether it was her brave companion, or those bushes
bristling with thorns that surrounded her nest, I do not know. Maybe she
thought we didn’t see her at all. We pretended not to see her.
[Illustration: MRS. WOOD THRUSH ON HER NEST]
Always, when I find a nest, I turn away and try to keep the birds from
knowing they have been discovered. I look out of the corners of my eyes,
and go away humming a tune. After a while I return and walk near by,
again singing the same tune. I do this as many times as I can during a
day or two. Before long the birds seem to know that the person who comes
singing that tune has never harmed them. They remain quiet when I am
near, and this affords opportunity to observe them more closely.
Some bluejays were flitting about. Bluejays are everywhere, and at all
times of the year. The bluejay is that big blue and white bird with
handsome crest. In early spring he sings some pleasing notes, but in
autumn and winter he is just noisy. Now he was very still. I could just
see Mrs. Bluejay’s head between two branches of a poplar tree. She had a
nest there, for there were tell-tale twigs hanging over on both sides.
Mr. Bluejay did not want anybody to find her, nor the nest. This was why
he kept so still.
The boy had scattered some peanuts on a bald spot in the yard. I asked
why he did this during the summer time.
“It keeps the chickadees and woodpeckers coming here all summer,” said
he.
As we sat there a bluejay came for a peanut and went under a tree with
it. There he punched a hole in the ground with his bill and poked in the
nut. Then he went to a currant bush and got a leaf. Returning to the
spot where he had buried the peanut, he patted the leaf neatly over it.
A brown and white bird about as big as a robin flew overhead singing,
“Killdeer killdeer” as loud and as fast as he could.
[Illustration: A KILLDEER’S NEST IN A POTATO FIELD]
“There goes a killdeer,” said the boy.
So the killdeer is another bird that is named after his song! How easy
it would be to know birds if all were named after their song, like the
chickadees and the killdeers and the flickers, or after their colors,
like the bluebirds, or after their actions, like the woodpeckers!
The boy’s father had found a killdeer’s nest in a potato field when he
was plowing. We went to see that, too. It was in a patch of ground
overgrown with weeds because the man had kindly plowed around it. Mother
Killdeer sat dutifully on the nest while Father Killdeer guarded the
premises and told us by his various shrieks and somersaults that he
wished we would not go near enough to disturb her.
On the farm that day I saw the golden-throated meadowlark. He is another
yodeler. His favorite tune is:
“Le-_o- ^lee-o-_loo”
His songs ring so clear and flute-like that I can hear him away over at
our place. He is a brown bob-tailed bird. Over a beautiful yellow front
he has a black band, pointing down in the middle, V-shaped. A large
company of these birds were in the meadow, happy as larks; so they are
well named meadowlarks.
But think of a dear little bird and such a sweet singer as the song
sparrow, bearing the same name as the odious English sparrow! It seems
unjust, and in this the boy agreed with me. We got to talking about the
song sparrow because one was on a fence post near by, singing over and
over this lively ditty:
“Twee twee twee^/^twe-e^\twe-e\_\_jeje^je^je^jeje_jeje^je jay.”
[Illustration: THE BLUEBIRDS IN THEIR PRIMITIVE HOME]
The bluebirds’ home that the boy had mentioned at the beginning of my
visit was in a hole of an apple tree. By standing on tiptoe I could look
in and see four light-blue eggs lying on a nest of grasses that looked
like a cunning little basket. It was a hot day, too hot for Mother
Bluebird to stay in that hollow tree all the time. She was out playing
tag with Mr. Bluebird. Perhaps she thought the hot air would keep her
eggs warm. After she went in again he visited her often with food.
Before going after more he usually perched on a little knob just above
the entrance and sang. Sometimes she came out on the ledge to listen. It
was a winsome sight to see the bluebirds in their primitive home.
This was the bluebirds’ second nesting on the farm. Their first one had
been destroyed by the English sparrows. The boy said he had tried in
every way to help the bluebirds, and that, whenever he saw any sparrows
near, he gave a sharp whistle—his confidential whistle, he called it—and
that Mrs. Bluebird got so she understood what it meant; that as soon as
she heard it she would come up on the ledge and call, “Dear, dear-dear.”
Immediately Mr. Bluebird would appear and drive the intruders away.
These bluebirds were also annoyed by a red squirrel who climbed the
trees in the orchard and peered into the nest holes. Mr. Bluebird dashed
for him whenever he saw him, especially if he found him near the home
tree. Sometimes both the bluebirds chased the red squirrel, who would
run off barking like a little dog.
The boy had seen how I put out strings and cotton and chicken feathers,
for the birds’ nestings, and he had fixed up a “store”—as he called
it—on a tree, where they could “buy without money.” Every little while a
goldfinch came and got some string. Always on coming he sang out,
“Perchikatee,” as if to say, “By your leave.” Downy woodpeckers,
chickadees, and nuthatches were there at this time of the year, although
ordinarily they are seen only in winter and early spring.
[Illustration: EVERY LITTLE WHILE A GOLDFINCH CAME TO THE “STORE”
TREE AND GOT SOME STRING]
The boy said it was the ravine, with its trees and thickets and tangles,
that attracted so many birds. He was always praising that ravine. He
thought so much of it that he had asked the neighbors not to throw
rubbish down there, and not to disturb the underbrush, which shelters so
many birds. He had also asked them please to keep their cats indoors at
night, because so many birds had nests and helpless little ones on the
ground, or in low bushes.
“Mother put me up to that,” he said; and added, “we are trying to keep
that ravine as a sanctuary for birds, where they and their little ones
can be safe.”
Another thing that attracted birds to that place was a mulberry tree.
Though only two years old, it was bearing fruit and was visited by
robins, orioles, thrashers, and redheaded woodpeckers.
The boy had so many kinds of birds never seen near our place that I
began to wish I, too, could live on a farm and have so many more of
these charming neighbors.
A storm came up. Soon the shallow places in a cornfield near by were
turned into puddles. The baby martins that had been lounging on the
porch went inside. The old ones came flying home in a hurry. We went to
the garden house, which the boy had fitted up as a workshop because he
didn’t like to deprive his mother any longer of her little storeroom.
When it stopped raining the sun came out and the clean earth fairly
glistened. A flock of robins came to hunt for worms in the drenched
field. Some bathed in the puddles. It was amusing to watch them chase
one away if he stayed in long.
As we were enjoying the robins, the boy’s mother called out: “Come here,
you bird people, and see what has happened.” She took us to the living
room and told us to listen at the chimney. A rasping twitter came from
within.
“It must be those chimney swallows,” guessed the boy.
He stepped upon a chair and took off the chimney cap. There, scrambling
around in soot, were some black looking birds.
“One, two, three, four,” he counted, as he reached in and handed them
out on a newspaper.
Three were young birds, and one was an adult bird with long wings. Their
nest was also there. The heavy rain had loosened it and made it fall.
The little ones screeched in chorus, and tried constantly to get hold of
something with their claws. The older bird gave no sound at all. She
seemed to be hurt. We called her the mother.
The lady looked at their little nest. Then she went and fetched a
basket, and, as soon as the birds were removed to it, they began to
clamber up the sides. When they got to the top, where they could hang at
full length, they stopped their screeching. Only now and then they still
gave a rasping sound. Perhaps they were hungry, and scolded because
nobody brought them any food. Some crossed over the rim of the basket
and tried the other side.
I stayed there the rest of the afternoon. Every ten or fifteen minutes
the little birds gave a call, like, “Gitse gitse.” Thinking that they
must be almost choked with the soot, I tried to give them water, but
they would not open their bills. I forced them open with a manicure
stick, and gave them a drop at a time. They swallowed it when it was
dropped far down in their throats; otherwise they would jerk their heads
and throw it out.
I also moistened a cracker with some egg yolk, and mixed into it about
fifty flies out of the flytrap; then tried to feed the birds with the
little stick. By prying up their upper mandible I got some flies down
each bird’s throat. The lower mandible was very soft and would not bear
handling.
[Illustration: THE CHIMNEY SWIFTS’ TEMPORARY HOME]
I became so attached to these birds, I hated to leave them, but the time
came for me to go home. The boy and his mother seemed distressed at the
prospect of having birds as boarders. There was canning to do, besides
cooking for extra farm hands; and Laddie had to help his father with the
haying,—so his mother said.
I offered to take the birds and do the best I could with them, if the
lad was willing. He was; so I took the birds and the nest with me in the
little basket, which was their temporary home.
[Illustration: THE FLICKER IS ALSO CALLED GOLDEN-WINGED WOODPECKER]
[Illustration: CHIMNEY SWIFTS’ NEST]
VII
THE CHIMNEY SWIFTS
The correct name of these birds whose home life was so rudely broken up
is chimney swift. According to the bird books, they have been known to
fly a thousand miles in a day, and they live in chimneys. Could any name
fit them better? Chimney swifts are sometimes called swallows, probably
because they resemble them somewhat, and twitter like swallows. But they
are not swallows at all.
I thought if the birds could have their nest near them, it would seem
more like home to them. It was a tiny nest, a bracket made of twigs
which were woven together basket fashion and tightly glued. I have
preserved it as an art treasure. On each side is a flat, gluey
extension. Wetting this extension made it sticky; but it would not stick
to the rough surface of the small basket. I laid it on the smooth
surface inside a peach basket and put weights on it. When it became dry,
the nest was stuck fast.
[Illustration: ONE OF THESE SWIFT BABIES WAS PUT TO REST IN THE
NEST, BUT HE DID NOT STAY THERE LONG]
Then I transferred the swifts from the small basket, which had been
their temporary home, to the peach basket. They perched around the nest.
One of these babies was put to rest in the nest, but he did not stay
there long. They all clambered up to the edge and from time to time they
changed places, sometimes crossing over the edge of the basket from one
side to the other.
It was fortunate that this happened during my vacation, because the care
of a baby bird demands much time. He has to be fed regularly and often.
Having several birds to feed is about enough to take up all one’s time.
If they only had opened their bills when they were hungry, it would have
been much easier to feed these swifts. Their very short but wide bills
had to be pried open every time and the food poked down their throats. I
tried to feed them every fifteen or twenty minutes. It took so long to
feed each one, that usually, by the time I had finished with number
four, it was necessary to begin feeding number one again.
The food I gave them was bread soaked in warm milk, with plenty of flies
mixed in. For a change I mixed the bread with a raw yolk. I gave them
warm water occasionally. It seemed to me they needed it after having
come through that mass of soot.
At the end of the first day the young were as chipper and bright as any
young birds. Instead of screeching they began to twitter, “Gitse gitse.”
The mother was very still. She did not seem to care for her babies at
all, and did not go near to keep them warm. She just hung in the one
position. Several times she tried to fly, but she could only fly a few
feet; then she fell to the floor.
During the second day the young seemed to be doing well. They preened
themselves, and their blackish breasts were changed to gray. It was a
cool day, and I set the basket where the sun would shine on the birds.
They fluffed their feathers as if they enjoyed the warmth. Once in a
while one tried to fly, but he always fluttered to the ground and had to
be brought back. The mother tried her wings again and again. She got so
she could fly a little farther at every attempt, before she went to the
ground. At about five o’clock she flew far enough to get out of sight.
All the next day I kept the peach basket with these swifts in it
outdoors, hoping the mother would return and feed them. But she did not
return.
On the following day these birds began to look feeble. I went to the
telephone and called up a gentleman[1] who is an authority on birds, and
asked him what I should do. He said the main thing was to keep the birds
evenly warm; that more young birds die from chill than from hunger. To
revive them he said I should put a few drops of whiskey in a glass of
water and give them each a few drops; then I should try to get them some
gnats, or a grub from the garden, mince it well, and feed it to them.
Flies, he said, had not much nourishment in them.
On returning I found that two of the little birds had died. I determined
to try hard to save the remaining one. It was impossible to get whiskey
because I live in a temperance town. I gave the little bird a weak
solution of baking soda because he had a big lump in his craw. Then I
wrapped him in a silken scarf, and warmed him beside the cook stove as I
have seen baby chicks revived when they have been chilled by a sudden
rain. The lump disappeared. He brightened up. I could find no grubs; but
a few grasshoppers, some ant larvæ, and several juicy green cabbage
worms were food enough for the rest of that day. I kept the bird in his
wrappings all day, but fixed it so he could clamber on to the basket. At
night I put him away warm and snug, and seemingly happy. The first sound
I heard the next morning was “Gitse gitse.”
The little bird was ready for a meal. From an ant hill near by I got
more ant larvæ, something which all young birds like. For the first time
now he swallowed food just as soon as it got inside his bill. Up to this
time he had jerked it out unless it was poked down. But he still refused
to open his bill.
He did not care for the nest and never would stay on it. So I fixed him
again in the little basket where he would be more snug. I had lined it
with cotton batting and woolen cloth so his breast would be against a
soft, warm surface. I also kept him at an even temperature, and fed him
regularly. The little basket was on my work table. He seemed to enjoy
being near me and being talked to. Sometimes he flew over on my
shoulder. I fed him more cabbage worms and grasshoppers, and also gave
him water occasionally.
I could not forgive myself to think I hadn’t asked for advice sooner. I
felt sure that, had I done so the first day I took charge of these
birds, and then followed instructions, the two would not have died.
Again at the close of the day Baby Swift was put away in his warm
wrappings. In the morning I did not hear the usual, “Gitse gitse.” Baby
Swift had gone to the bird heaven.
It had been a big undertaking to adopt those homeless birds; but I am
glad for several reasons that I did it.
_First_, I am glad that I helped them in their trouble.
_Second_, I am glad I relieved the boy and his busy mother of caring for
them.
_Third_, I am glad because I have since read in the bird books that the
chimney swift is a very useful bird; that he feeds wholly on troublesome
insects.
_Fourth_, I am glad because it gave me opportunity to get acquainted
with one more bird. I consider that something worth while.
[Illustration: A ROBIN’S NEST]
VIII
BIRDS NOT OF A FEATHER
One day, on looking up into a tree in the vacant lot, what should I see
there? A mother robin just dropping a worm into her baby’s open beak.
The nest was right in the crotch where the trunk forks into two main
branches. So many robins’ nests are blown off the branches by the wind,
or washed off by heavy rains, that I was glad to see this nest firmly
saddled on that strong trunk. But a second thought told me that it was
easy for cats and squirrels to get at, so I studied how to make it safe.
All the tin sheeting had been used up; but I knew where there was some
old stove pipe. A kind neighbor ripped it open. One piece was not wide
enough to go around the tree, so I had to use two. Mrs. Cotton, who had
again become my neighbor, having built a bungalow on one of the vacant
lots, came to help me. She said it wasn’t good for the tree to drive
nails into it, and fetched some wire. Meanwhile, I got the stepladder;
for the sheeting must be high enough so that cats and squirrels cannot
jump from the ground to the trunk above it. We used only two small
nails, to keep the wires from slipping.
Of course, the robins scolded while we were doing this. They never liked
to have anybody near their tree.
After a week the young ones were sitting on the edge of the nest. I knew
then that they would soon leave it, and I began to keep a close watch on
them, and on the cats of the neighborhood.
If all cats belonged to people, and had to be kept on their own
premises, little birds would be much safer. As it is, cats may roam
wherever they please. They can crouch in tall grasses, flower beds,
shrubs, and other places, ready to pounce on any bird that comes near
enough. Homeless cats who have to hunt their living are the greatest
menace to birds, especially to young birds who are not yet wise to the
dangers that surround them. Now who is to blame? Surely not the cats.
Instead of continually berating the cats, let the friends of birds
secure laws to license cats, to compel people to keep their cats on
their own premises, to punish people for putting cats astray, and to put
homeless cats out of their misery.
One June day, while walking along the ravine, I saw three robins on the
ground. I went to the tree to see if the young had all left the nest,
and found that one was still there. He looked down, as if he would like
to go to join his brothers; but he seemed to be afraid to leave the safe
little home. The parents brought food to him and also to those on the
ground. Whenever the parents went to the one on the nest, they urged him
to come over to some of the near branches; but he stayed on the nest as
if glued to it. Finally, one of the parents got behind him and just
politely pushed him off. He spread his wings to fly, but fluttered to
the ground. Instead of continuing my walk that morning I stayed with the
robins. About a hundred feet away I could see them well with my field
glasses. My neighbor, Mrs. Cotton, was just as much interested in these
birds as I was. They could not fly well yet. Between us we saw to it
that no harm befell them that day.
Towards evening the robins also sought the protection of those bristly
thornapple bushes. One by one they coaxed the young in that direction.
During that night a great storm came up of lightning and thunder and
rain. I was sorry for the young robins, but had no doubt that their
parents shielded them. I have seen a mother bird sit faithfully on the
nest when the rain was pelting her mercilessly. Mother love knows no
discomforts.
I think all birds enjoy a good shower; they always sing joyously as soon
as it clears again, and sometimes while it is still raining. Some also
enjoy a shower bath. Sometimes they finish it with a ducking in the
basin. Those that do not care for the shower usually know where to find
a comfortable place during a heavy downpour. On such occasions, I have
seen them take refuge in trees, close to the trunk where it is steady
and where the foliage is dense over them. And I have seen them go for
shelter under rail fences, such as there are in the country, where the
rails are broad enough to protect a little bird. I have also seen birds
come out from under a corn-crib after a rain, so I presume they had gone
under it for shelter.
After the robins had left their nest I took the sheeting off the tree.
It is said that the bark of a tree is its lungs through which it
breathes. I want all the trees around me to breathe deeply of the
precious air, so I try always to save the bark. It is much easier to
take off the wires than it is to take nails out of a tree. Already some
insects had made nests and cocoons under this sheeting.
My way of getting acquainted with birds was by keeping a notebook. In it
I wrote everything I saw any bird do: what he ate, how he sang, what he
looked like, where he was generally seen, etc. I always watched a bird
as long as it stayed in sight. When it left I observed its flight and
its shape. Then I looked at the colored pictures in my bird books, to
see if I could find a bird similar to mine. If I did find him, then I
read all about him to see whether that bird ate the kind of food, and
acted, and flew, and sang, in the way my strange bird did. If he did,
then I knew I had made the acquaintance of a new bird.
For instance, I had written about one bird:
“Rather plump, head pointed, bill long. Head and back olive. Front
yellow. Wings dark with white bars. Tail brown with dark marks. Is on
the fence getting strings. Also visits the basin. Never sings. Likes
bread crumbs. Nearly as large as robin.”
Sometimes there came with this bird a beautiful black and orange bird.
In a little pocket guide I found both these birds pictured as mates.
They were the Baltimore orioles. She was the bird I had described in my
notebook. While she was getting strings, her mate was usually up in a
tree somewhere near, singing:
“Hee_\ho/hee, hee_\ho ho/hee.”
It was no wonder that the orioles needed so many strings. They made a
baglike nest on the tip end of a branch in Mrs. Cotton’s elm. The wind
used to swing that nest like a hammock. I often thought how nice it must
be for those baby orioles to be rocked by the wind and to have such a
fine musician for their father.
Mrs. Cotton was keeping her cat housed during those days. Moreover, she
threw bread out on her lawn every day for any birds that might want it.
The orioles were among the birds that went there; they preferred graham
or entire wheat bread to white bread.
Other birds that came to my yard were the brown thrasher, the goldfinch,
and the redheaded woodpecker. They had their nests along the ravine.
The redheaded woodpeckers’ home was in a hole of an old tree near the
ravine. Their call was a guttural “Chr-r-r,” which was pleasant to hear.
Near the nest tree was a big stone which they used as a convenient
perch. The woodpecker babies did not have the showy red head and neck of
the parents; theirs were of a rusty color, and the white on their wings
was barred with black. During the summer, Father Woodpecker often
brought the babies to the food station. They could help themselves
pretty well to suet; but the peanuts were a puzzle to them. They just
pecked into the shell and tried to eat that. Usually, before the babies
arrived, the father came and perched on some high point and looked all
around. If all was to his liking, he sounded his rattling tattoo. The
babies always came so promptly that it was evident he had hidden them
somewhere near, probably with orders to await his signal before
venturing farther.
[Illustration: NEAR THE NEST TREE WAS A BIG STONE WHICH THE
REDHEADED WOODPECKER USED AS A PERCH]
I think the brown thrasher must have had a large family; he used to tear
off pieces of bread and carry them away from the bird table. Once he
carried off a piece of cheese that kept him trailing near the ground, it
was so heavy. A blackbird followed and tried to take it, but the
thrasher got away from him.
A queer thing about the brown thrasher is his song. It is made up of
real words and sentences, and he sings everything twice or more times.
If you should ever hear a big brown bird, with a long reddish tail and
speckled breast, sing, “Beverly Beverly,” “Peter Peter,” “Tell it to me!
Tell it to me!” “Come here! Come here!” and such things, then you have
heard the brown thrasher. If you will look high enough you can almost
surely see him too, in the top of a high tree. He loves to be seen as
well as heard.
Mrs. Brown Thrasher looked just like her mate. She had hidden her nest
so well that I did not find it until it was empty. It was in a dense
thicket. I knew it was hers because she was still near. “Io-it! io-it!”
she scolded, until I went away. One little baby thrasher was on a branch
of the thicket. The mother was guarding him.
The goldfinches were very late with their housekeeping. In July they
were still gathering strings and cotton for their nesting. They are just
as polite and gentle as the chickadees. Their name fits so well that
anybody who sees these yellow birds, just like canaries with black wings
and tail, ought to know them at once. Their song usually starts with
“Sweet sweet sweet,” and the rest is a regular canary song. They are
sometimes called wild canaries.
[Illustration: EACH LITTLE GOLDFINCH CALLED AS LOUD AS HE COULD]
The young goldfinches loved to sit on the edge of their nest as soon as
they were old enough. As they sat there they chattered to each other,
“Ze bebe, ze bebe,” and fluttered their wings a great deal. When I found
their nest I was surprised that I hadn’t seen it before; it was low on a
buckeye.
When the young goldfinches left their nest it seemed as if they wanted
to get acquainted with people. They came down on the lowest branches,
and quite near the house. One alighted on the clothesline. Whenever
Father or Mother came with food there was the greatest fluttering of
wings. Each one called, “Ze bebe ze bebe,” as loud as he could, and
opened wide his bill to catch what the parents tossed or squirted out to
him. It was no living, squirming thing, but a pulpy mass.
The young were yellow in front, olive on the back, and they had black
wings with brown and white bars. The black tail was edged with white.
Goldfinches like sunflower seeds. But the main reason why they are so
useful and so well liked is that they eat large quantities of thistle
seeds and dandelion seeds.
When cold weather came the parent goldfinches were no longer so
beautifully yellow, for they had put on their gray autumn coats.
[Illustration: A YOUNG GOLDFINCH ALIGHTED ON THE CLOTHESLINE]
[Illustration: THIS MARTIN SCOUT BROUGHT A LADY WITH HIM]
IX
THE MARTINS’ AIRCASTLE
The purple martins like a house with many rooms, so they can live
together in a large company. Since the martins belong to the swallow
family, to call them purple swallows would, it seems to me, be more
informing.
My friend who had sent me the wren apartment house was so pleased with
its success that he sent me also a martin house. It is four stories high
and has twenty-six rooms. Around each story are porches, some of them
several inches wide.
It pleases birds to have their houses look, before they occupy them, as
if they had been out in all sorts of weather. So, for several weeks
before this martin house was set up, it lay out in the yard to be rained
and snowed on.
One cold March day a purple bird came in at my window. He perched on
picture frames, twittered a little, and went out again. According to the
bird books, my little visitor was a purple martin. Maybe he had seen the
martin house on the lawn, and came to ask me to put it up. Anyway, the
next day it was mounted in the farthest corner of the garden. For,
according to the directions that came with the house, martins want their
houses to be fifty feet away from any building or tree, and on a pole at
least sixteen feet high.
In early April another martin came; or maybe it was the same one,
returning to see whether the house had been put up. Martins always send
one of their number ahead to look up a house for them. He is called a
scout. This martin scout perched on the wires nearby, and tried
repeatedly to alight on one of the porches of the martin house. But some
English sparrows were there; they also wanted that house. Every time the
scout went near, these sparrows flew at him and kept him from getting a
foothold on the house. Sometimes he managed to perch on the roof and
there wait for a chance to get inside. But the sparrows were too many
for him. Now and then he gave a sad note, as if he were discouraged and
calling for help. Then again it seemed as if something had encouraged
him, and he sang out clearly something like this:
“Whew whew whew _tr-r-r-r _cho cho cho cho.”
After holding out against the sparrows for three days, he went away.
About a week later I heard a sweet and happy twitter. Several martins
were flying around the house. I had named it The Martins’ Aircastle. By
this time the English sparrows had begun nesting in some of the rooms.
The martins perched on the wires in front of the house and made a saucy
chatter, calling the sparrows all sorts of names, I suppose. The
sparrows jabbered back at them. In about an hour the martins left.
Early the next morning another flock of martins came. Some perched on
the wires, some on the roof, and some on the porches of the martin
house. Others flew around in big circles. All were twittering and
calling in their happiest manner.
[Illustration: THE MARTINS’ AIRCASTLE]
I had driven the sparrows away the night before, and this is how I did
it: I put a few big nails into a tin can, then closed the can and tied
it to a long stick. With this stick I banged the can against the martin
house pole again and again. It frightened the sleeping sparrows. By the
moonlight I could see six come out and fly away; but I think there were
more.
Two pairs of sparrows came back in the morning. They had made their
nests side by side in the third story. Long grasses were hanging out
from the entrances. Perhaps the martins were sorry for them; anyway, it
looked as if they were willing to play fair. They did not chase them off
any more; and the sparrows, being now so few, no longer molested the
martins.
The martins now began to clean house. There were wads of chicken
feathers and some broken eggs among the rubbish which they threw out.
This was soon replaced by straws and sticks which they brought for their
own nesting. I could only count twelve pairs of martins, so that there
were plenty of rooms for them and the sparrows too. I suppose one reason
why the sparrows were unwelcome is because they are such untidy
housekeepers as to render close neighboring with them insanitary.
The more I see of martins, the better I like them. They are always
cheerful, always busy. Their shiny, purple plumage, broad shoulders, and
tapering body give them a distinguished air. These purple birds are the
father martins. The mother martins’ back feathers, when exposed to the
sunlight, have all the shades of violet. In front they are
cream-colored, and finely speckled.
These violet-colored ones stayed around home more than the others; this
is why I took them to be the mothers. The father martins flew around and
brought in the provisions, which they caught on the wing. On returning a
martin would sometimes sit on the porch and sing into the room to his
mate; or she would come out to him, and the two would coo to each other
in the most affectionate manner.
The martins were also friendly with all their bird neighbors. But they
were so high up that their housekeeping was for the most part a secret
which they wanted to keep to themselves. It was hard to tell what they
had to eat, except when one caught a dragonfly or a grasshopper. When
one got a big catch like that, he usually held it squirming in his bill
a while as if he was proud of it and wanted to show it off. Or maybe he
tried in this way to prolong the enjoyment of it. When it began to
disappear in his bill the body always went first and the wings last.
Martins are not strong on their feet. Even when walking around on the
porches of their house they just waddled, like ducks. But at flying they
are masters. They can soar high, almost out of sight, then shoot
straight down and skim along close to the ground.
Sometimes the martins visited the basin to get a drink or to bathe. One
of their favorite pastimes was to roll in the sand in our garden. When
around home they loved to perch on the wires or lounge on the porches.
They also visited a bald tree not far off, and there preened themselves.
I never saw them visit trees that had foliage on them.
Some more English sparrows tried from time to time to come back. It
seemed as if they watched for the martins to go away. Then they would
come and peer into the rooms, and even go in. The martins, however,
always left one of their number on guard, for usually the intruders were
soon chased away.
Once a martin caught an English sparrow in his room. He went in, but
kept one wing outside, and that wing flapped and fluttered just like a
flag in a high wind. No doubt the sparrow got a good beating with the
other wing. Sounds of “Kr-r-r! kr-r-r!” came from the room. “Kr-r-r!” is
the scolding word of the martins. It sounds as if someone, walking
beside a picket fence, were scraping it with a stick. I have often heard
the martins say it to the sparrows, but never have I heard them use it
among themselves. They are the most contented birds, always polite and
kind to one another. For good behavior I have put them on the honor roll
with the chickadees and the goldfinches.
The martins are also wonderful singers and whistlers. They sing all day
long, and often after dark. Their song is made up of three parts: a
sibilant or smacking twitter, a trill, and a whistle. To me it sounds
something like this:
“Hee_\chut-chut-chut/^tr-r-r-r\_ho/^hee\ho-ho-ho.”
They keep this up in a sort of conversational fashion, and as they do so
are continually changing places on the housetop, the porches, or the
wires.
In June the baby martins began to lounge on the porches and to sun
themselves on the wires. After a while there were more babies. The
porches were covered with them. My! how busy those parents were! As
babies increased in numbers, evidently the parents felt that the older
ones ought to become self-supporting; but they preferred to spend their
days preening and twittering and being waited on. The parents pecked and
scolded them, and finally pushed them off their perches to make them go
and hunt food for themselves.
One day after the second batch of babies had appeared outside, two hawks
came and perched on the telephone wires near the martin home. My
attention was attracted to them by the guttural calls or scoldings of
the martins. As they called, they flew swiftly to and from the house,
and around in big circles. Soon the wires were lined with martins that
had come from other colonies, and the air was rent with their guttural
shriekings. Evidently they felt that these big birds were a great menace
to their young. To the credit of the English sparrows it must be said
that they also flew around with the martins, and tried to help them call
attention to the danger. The hawks stayed about fifteen minutes, looking
constantly in all directions; for they were completely surrounded by the
vigilant and frantic martins all that time. Then they flew into a bald
tree near by, and after looking on from there a while they flew away.
They returned a few times after that, but never again stayed long enough
to cause such a commotion.
After the young were all able to fly, the whole company was usually away
most of the day. Early in the morning when they were getting ready to
go, and at sunset time when they returned, there was always a great
demonstration, with trilling, and twittering, and whistling, about the
house and on the wires. The home-coming of the martins was a daily event
to which not only we, but our neighbors also, looked forward.
Then, as night set in, there was a steady chorus of cooing as if each
martin mother were singing a lullaby to her numerous babies. We used to
wonder how they all existed in those rooms, six inches square by six
inches high. For no matter how hot the night, they all went inside
before midnight.
One evening my former neighbor, Mrs. Daily, was present when the martins
returned. She also had put up a martin house, but so far it had not been
occupied.
[Illustration: _Photo by Joseph H. Dodson_
THE HOME-COMING OF THE MARTINS]
“Your house has such wide porches, and mine hasn’t any,” she remarked,
as she watched the returning birds sit on the porches and coo to each
other. “And,” she added, “I have been told that my house is too near the
garage.”
It is true that martins are not easily attracted; but when once they
have accepted a house they will be steady summer tenants for years. When
I think what a pleasure it is to have a flock of these lovely birds,
year after year, from April to September, I wonder that any good-sized
yard is without a martin house. Martins are content to live anywhere, in
town or country. All they want is the right kind of a house with plenty
of room around it, and they like some wires near by for perches.
It seems to me that a martin house, perched high in broad sunlight,
needs ventilation. But this must be provided without causing drafts. It
can be provided by making a half-inch horizontal slit on the inner walls
just below the ceiling, something like the ventilation in a steamer
cabin. Martins will not tolerate drafts. Then if the two topmost rooms
in the martin house are made to connect by means of a hole two and a
half inches in diameter, next to the ceiling, this will greatly assist
the visiting scout. When English sparrows see the scout enter the house,
they will lie in wait where he entered, expecting to molest him when he
comes out. But if he can leave at another exit and get his colony while
the sparrows still wait for him, they will have to surrender when he
returns. It is a question of numbers. This kind of house, even though it
have only six or eight rooms, will attract martins, and promise a good
beginning in martin lore.
My neighbor, Mrs. Cotton, has now a martin house also. It has ten rooms,
ventilated as described above and with the two upper rooms connecting.
There being no telephone wires near enough, a wire running over the
house on four uprights serves the same purpose.
The first martin that was seen to visit this house brought a lady martin
with him. Maybe he had been there before, alone, without being noticed.
The pair inspected the rooms, then perched on the wire overhead and
preened. Every little while Mr. Martin twittered:
^“Chow chow chow ^choochoo_choo_ho/_//^/heeho_ho_ho”
and
^“Yo ^yo yo _yo _yo.”
This pair took possession of the upper east room. The next day four more
martins came. One pair took a lower east room, the other took the south
room. It looked as though the wire on top and the ventilation pleased
them. I was overjoyed that this house, which I had designed, proved
satisfactory to these notional birds.
The dimensions of the rooms in this house are six inches square by seven
inches high. The diameter of the entrances is two and a half inches; the
width of porch five inches. The pole extends through the center of the
house and is screwed to the roof. The rest of this house is held in
place by means of a bolt underneath, which can be taken out and the
house—without its roof—let down to be cleaned.[2]
Now listen to the good that martins do: A martin will eat mosquitoes by
the thousand every day, besides many insects that injure fruit trees and
spoil the fruit. To protect their young, martins will drive away hawks
and other big birds that come near. In this way they also protect any
poultry yard near by. On moonlight nights they hunt the moths and
millers until midnight.
In late August the martins began to assemble in ever increasing numbers,
getting ready for the journey to their winter home, which is said to be
in Central and South America.
During one of the days while those gatherings were going on, the boy was
here. The martins had, by this time, become so confiding that we could
go clear up to the pole on which their house was mounted,—and they would
stay on the wires and look down at us! I told the boy how I had driven
the sparrows away from the martin house, and showed him the stick with
the can tied to it. He tried it on the nearest telephone pole, and
instantly the martins flew from the wires. It looked like a great
gathering in midair.
The father martins were much darker at this time than in the Spring,—in
fact, almost black. Mother’s pretty violet hues had faded to gray. Baby
Martin was brownish-gray on the back, and light in front.
One day the whole colony departed, a jolly company, leaving us sad
indeed, but hopeful that they would return with the Spring flowers.
[Illustration: _Photo by Joseph H. Dodson_
A GREAT GATHERING IN MID-AIR]
[Illustration: A BATH FOR BIRDS AND A LUNCH BESIDE IT]
X
MORE ABOUT THE BOY
I am sure that the farm at the end of our street is like home to the
birds of the neighborhood, and that that good boy is big brother to them
all. He always has a bath for the birds set out on a table, and a lunch
beside it.
“You would be surprised to see how well the birds like oatmeal mush and
other cereals,” said he, the last time I was there. “Just watch that
song sparrow!”
The little brown bird was feeding on a shredded wheat biscuit. She
stayed long enough to eat a hearty meal; then took away as much as she
could carry in her bill. While I sat there she returned several times
for more.
We were out in the boy’s workshop. He had just finished making what he
called a food house. It was a tray roofed over, “to keep out the rain
and snow,” he said.