“Oh,” said he, “this is one of my vacation jobs. After school begins I
won’t have time for these things. I’ll be a freshman in High, you know.”
The tray was about a foot long and not quite so wide. On each side there
was a wire pocket to hold suet. Four neat, round sticks supported the
roof, which he said was made out of the sides of a soap box.
I asked where he got those fine round sticks and that pretty tray. He
said the sticks were scraps from his uncle’s cabinet shop, and that he
got the tray from the grocer. The name “Neufchâtel” was printed on the
sides of the tray in big letters.
I said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if all the Neufchâtel cheese boxes were
made into food trays for birds?”
“Yes,” he answered, “I know that our grocer would rather give his boxes
away for some useful purpose than to burn them.”
I admired the little food house so much that the boy gave me some sticks
so that I could make one, too.
Then he told me of a pair of cedar waxwings that had nested in the
orchard, and a pair of crested flycatchers in a woodpecker’s house. I
was very curious to see the waxwings, so we went to them first. The nest
was about ten feet up in an apple tree. With our field glasses we could
see it quite plainly from under the nearest tree. Mrs. Waxwing was
sitting up there; we could just see her head and her tail. Mr. Waxwing
visited her every few minutes with some food. They were the quietest
birds I have ever seen. What they did say or sing was in very soft
tones, as if they were telling each other secrets. I hummed parts of the
little song occasionally. When I explained to the boy why I did so, he
smiled, and looked as if he didn’t quite believe me.
We went from the waxwings to the flycatchers. They lived in what the boy
called a Berlepsch house. That means it was designed by a man named
Berlepsch who was a great friend of birds. The boy said his uncle in New
York had sent him the house as a birthday present. What could be a nicer
gift for a boy than a bird house? It would make him want to get birds in
it, of course. And I can think of nothing that would make a boy happier
than to have bird neighbors.
[Illustration: THE CRESTED FLYCATCHER AND A BERLEPSCH HOUSE]
The Berlepsch house was made so one could raise the top, lid-fashion,
and clean it when necessary. It was mounted about twelve feet high on a
brook willow that stood aslant in the ravine; and it had been intended
for woodpeckers. The crested flycatchers are brown birds with gray upper
breast and yellow below. Their headfeathers are always ruffed, which
gives the appearance of a crest.
The flycatchers were flying back and forth continually with all sorts of
prey. The brown bugs called “Canadian soldiers” were numerous that day
and were easy to catch. These parent birds evidently had a large family,
judging from the amount of food they delivered.
Mr. Flycatcher had a loud, explosive whistle. It sounded as if he were
saying:
“Wha-^a-^at?”
The young could be heard giving the same whistle, but much more softly,
and somewhat long drawn out:
_“Wha-a-^a-^at?”
After our visit with the flycatchers we returned to the waxwings.
Waxwings are brown and about the size of bluebirds. On the back of the
head they have a tuft. A black line extends across the bill, and around
the side of the head. The front is yellowish-gray and the tail edged
with yellow. The name, waxwing, is due to a shiny red patch on their
wings. The fact that these waxwings are very fond of cedar berries must
be what has given them also the name of cedar bird. The nest was made of
twigs, strings, and various kinds of fiber. The boy said that a few
weeks ago he had cut his dog’s hair and left it lying on the lawn: that
these waxwings then came and carried every bit of it to their nest.
While near the birds I hummed the bird song again, to let them know that
the same persons were there that had visited them before. The mother
bird was looking straight at us and sitting perfectly still all the
while. The boy said he believed the song did help to keep her quiet.
On a cornice of the front porch a phœbe had made two nests, one last
year and one this. Both nests were now empty. I said I hoped that a
phœbe would come to live on our porch next year.
“You can have this one,” answered the boy; and added, “I have to wash
off the porch every day while Phœbe is nesting: she scatters so much
mud.”
[Illustration: KITTY WATCHING FOR MICE]
As for me, I would gladly clean off our porch several times a day if a
phœbe would nest here and sing as sweetly, “Phœbe, phœbe,” as I heard
that one sing. Sometimes I noticed a slight trill in the second syllable
of her song, like “Phœbery.” She sang “Phœbe” with the inflection
generally downward; but when she trilled it, “Phœbery,” the inflection
was always upwards:
“Phœ-^be-^ry.”
^“Pee-e- _a- _wee- _e- e- ^e- ^ ee”
came up from the ravine, clear as a strain from a flute. On my way home
I saw the pewee on a fence picket. Every little while he flew after an
insect, then back to a picket. As I walked slowly along, he flew from
picket to picket ahead of me, until I came to where the houses on the
street begin again. Then he flew back. I think that pewee and phœbe must
be some relation, they look so nearly alike. And both sing their own
names.
Another bird who sings his name is Bob White, the quail. “Bob _White_!”
came ringing across the meadow every little while. The boy could whistle
it exactly the same as the bird, and they answered each other back and
forth. Bob White was on a fence post,—a large brown bird with a stubby
tail.
On Thanksgiving Day I was up at the farm again, and I saw a shelter
which the boy had made for the winter comfort of Bob White, and other
birds who wished to share it. It was tent-like, made out of cornstalks,
the inside filled with pea vines, bean vines, morning-glory vines, and
several sheaves of oats. Kitty was watching beside the shelter,—for
mice, the boy explained!
The new food house was being visited by bluejays, who nibbled at the
suet. A smaller feedery on a tree had corn in a tray and suet in a wire
pocket. This feedery was much liked by downies, and small gray birds
with white on lower front and tail—juncos. Juncos came in flocks of a
dozen or more, and twittered, “Tut, tut, tut,” to each other and to us,
in sociable fashion. They preferred to pick up the scatterings of
chickfeed on the ground, rather than perch on the tray. Both of these
food stations were protected with tin sheeting to keep the squirrel from
eating the birds’ food. This visit at the boy’s home made me wish more
than ever that some day I, too, might live on a farm.
[Illustration: THE NEW FOOD HOUSE WAS VISITED BY BLUEJAYS]
On that Thanksgiving Day I had quite a surprise. Some dogs came barking
from the ravine. Before them ran a rabbit just as fast as he could. They
were the dogs that had so often chased Bunny, and this rabbit looked so
much like Bunny, that I felt sure it was he.
“There’s my rabbit,” said the boy, as he went to chase the dogs away. I
was glad to know that Bunny had such a nice home, and that the boy was a
big brother to him also.
[Illustration: A FEEDERY MUCH LIKED BY DOWNY]
[Illustration: A TREE TRIMMED WITH PEANUTS FOR THE BIRDS]
XI
THE CARDINALS
Having often seen cardinals feed in poultry yards with chickens, I again
started to scatter chickfeed, hoping to attract those beautiful birds to
my house. _Chickfeed_ is finer than _chickenfeed_, and I believe the
birds like it better.
Every winter I trimmed up an old tree with peanuts for the birds’
Christmas, and always after a snowstorm I tramped the snow down; then
scattered the feed on it, with buckwheat and sunflower seeds added.
At first only nuthatches, chickadees, and juncos came to my lunches on
the snow. One stormy day a cardinal ventured into our front yard; but he
did not go near the chickfeed. Several juncos were there, and maybe he
wanted to be generous and leave it all to the smaller birds.
He kept coming nearer to the house. At last he flew pell-mell into our
porch. It seemed as if the wind had blown him in. On a little shelf
behind the windshield he alighted and stayed.
After a while another bird flew to the little shelf. I hadn’t noticed
this bird before, my attention being taken up with the cardinal. This
second bird was reddish green. In my little bird guide I had seen
pictures of the two cardinals, so I knew that she was the red one’s
mate.
The cardinal pecked at her when she went to his side, and the meek
little bird just clung to the shelf. The next day I made a shelf for her
just below his.
At dusk the cardinals returned, silently, even stealthily, as though
they thought it unwise to publish their presence. Again he was a little
ahead of her, and he flew to the new shelf. She alighted on the edge of
the upper one. After a while she tripped a little farther in, to a more
comfortable place. When she was settled, he went to her shelf and
snuggled down beside her. Maybe he was sorry that he had acted so
selfishly the day before. I never saw him peck at her again.
Every stormy day that winter the cardinals came to our porch at evening.
They became so confiding after a week or so that he usually announced
their arrival with a few low hissing notes, something like “Tset, tset,
tset!” Sometimes he would perch on the upper shelf, sometimes on the
lower. Mrs. Cardinal was a peace-loving bird. She always came last, and
took the empty shelf. Usually he would change so as to sit beside her.
They were always gone in the morning, no matter how early I came out;
and when they came in the evening it was usually dusk. So I never got a
picture of my cardinals on the shelves.
Mr. Cardinal finally got so he sometimes came to the lunch on the snow;
but his favorite feedery was a tray in my neighbor’s yard, which I kept
supplied with shelled peanuts and shelled corn. The English sparrows
could not manage these large kernels, so the cardinals had this feedery
to themselves. This may be the reason why they preferred it to the one
on the ground.
But the cardinals must have procured much of their food elsewhere, for
they came only about once in three or four hours to get a dainty at the
tray. Strange to say they never came together. Always he came first and
ate a while, then sometimes she would come, too. It seemed as if she let
him come first, then, seeing that he stayed, she took it for granted
that all was well.
[Illustration: THE CARDINAL’S FAVORITE FEEDERY]
In March the cardinals stopped sleeping on the porch. About that time I
began to hear almost daily a new song. It sounded like,
^“D e _a _r gilly gilly gilly gilly!”
Immediately after it there would be a loose twitter:
“Chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk,”—so soft and low, it seemed it must be very near.
Usually it brought another song from the cardinal, and presently he
would appear with a morsel for Mrs. Cardinal, who had a favorite perch
in our little pear tree. I soon learned that the twitter was her
response to his call. The winsome sight of seeing him feed her repaid me
for all the money I spent for peanuts at thirteen cents the pound.
The pair began now to frequent the ravine more than usual. On its edge
lay a log from which the outer bark had been removed. Here the cardinals
were often to be seen, peeling and tearing off strips of wood-fiber,
which they bore away in long flowing streamers.
One morning Mrs. Cotton came in. “Here is news for you,” she said. “The
red bird and a greenish bird are making a nest in my syringa bush.”
The birds went on with their nesting for several days. Then Mrs. Cotton
came over again, looking sad. The birds were carrying away all their
nesting material, she said. They had probably seen the cat, had become
alarmed for the safety of their home, and so changed its location.
The cardinal had several songs. One was:
“Whit whit ^d ^e a _r ^d ^e a _r ^whoit whoit whoit”
Another was just plain:
_“W _h o ^i ^t _w _h o ^i ^t”
sung from three to ten times in succession. Sometimes, when Mrs.
Cardinal did not respond promptly, he “chuk”-ed, himself, in imitation
of her notes.
In late August I found the cardinals’ deserted nest in an evergreen on
the ravine’s edge. It was made almost entirely of this stringy
wood-fiber, lined with fine rootlets, and interwoven with many leaves.
I never saw but two baby cardinals of this brood. They were brownish
birds, and they had the red bill of the parents.
After August I saw nothing more of their mother. I have suspected that a
boy down the street was to blame; his favorite plaything was an air-gun,
and he had been caught shooting a brown thrasher shortly before. It
seems to me the laws protecting song-birds ought to be taught in every
school, and that children should be obliged to know that shooting
song-birds or their young, or spoiling or stealing their eggs or nest,
is a crime punishable by fine or imprisonment, or both.
Father Cardinal was seen tending the young faithfully until October.
Then he suddenly turned on them. Whenever they followed him after that
he drove them from him. The young found peanuts which I had chopped and
scattered on the ground for them. But whenever Father found the young
birds eating these nuts, he chased them away. Once a baby cardinal found
a whole peanut. He bravely ventured to eat it, and in the attempt got
the shell partly open. He was just picking a nut out, when his brother
tried to snatch it from him. A struggle followed, during which the shell
broke in two, and each contestant got a kernel. In November the young
cardinals disappeared.
Father Cardinal’s persecution of his motherless children seemed
unnatural, not to say cruel. Can it be that he tried thus to compel his
young to seek their natural food, rather than to subsist on dainties
furnished? Did he want to encourage them to become self-reliant and
useful? Only on this theory can I account for his conduct.
Our cardinal was a widower for some weeks longer. Only a few times
during that mild winter did he come to sleep on our porch, and on those
occasions he came alone. Then a lady cardinal appeared, and she followed
him persistently. But he wholly ignored her. Finally she began to carry
food to him and to feed him. Whether this be a last resort of wooing in
birddom, or not, I do not know. Anyhow, Mr. Cardinal relented. The next
thing, he was seen to feed her whom he had treated so coolly. This was a
pretty sure sign that the two had come to an understanding. Again the
old log by the ravine was being visited for nesting material. Again all
his songs rang out, and he added a new one. It seemed as if he were
singing over and over:
“Come ^here come ^here Come ^here here here”
[Illustration: ALWAYS MR. CARDINAL CAME FIRST AND ATE A WHILE; THEN
SHE WOULD FOLLOW]
[Illustration: SONG SPARROW]
XII
MY BIRD FAMILY
A great big family—that’s what my bird neighbors are to me. This large
family is made up of smaller families. Let me set them all down in a
row: There are the bluebirds, meadowlarks, killdeers, song sparrows,
robins, purple martins, goldfinches, wrens, orioles, thrashers,
thrushes, waxwings, flycatchers, pewee, phœbe, and the redheaded
woodpecker. Oh, there is one more. I would by no means slight the humble
chimney swift. When I hear that “Gitse gitse” twitter, then I know that
they, too, have come. From early March when the first bluebird arrives,
until late May when pewee comes, I am like a mother who waits at
evening, unsatisfied until all her children are in for the night. When I
hear the call of the latest comer, the sweet-voiced pewee, then I know
that my absent ones have all returned.
Add to these the Bob Whites, the cardinals, bluejays, and flickers, who
stay the year round, and the chickadees, nuthatches, downy and hairy
woodpeckers, and juncos, who come in autumn to spend the winter, and you
have my bird family, a wonderful family, of musicians, of workmen, of
homemakers—fathers and mothers and children.
To me the ways of birds are more entertaining than the best play I have
ever attended. They enact real life, not make-believes. Then, too, what
music can be compared to the sunrise and sunset concerts of birds in
springtime and in early summer? To know each singer by name adds much to
the enjoyment.
The ways of birds are also wonderful, past finding out. Who can explain
how they make their nests so pretty, when the only tools they have are
beak and feet? Then, how gingerly they hide their nests, some with
dainty curtains of leaves, others by blending colors! To find a bird’s
nest always fills me with reverence. It is a little home, a sacred place
to its owners. It shall be sacred to me. The mother-wit and
father-wisdom that birds show in rearing their young and in protecting
them from harm makes me believe that they do think and plan and reason
out things much as we human beings do. The most wonderful thing about
birds is the long journey that so many of them make every year,
generally with several babies only a few months old in the family.
It has been proved that birds will return year after year to the same
orchard, garden, yard, or porch. I know my birds by their actions. I do
not need to tie bands on their legs to know them. When they return they
visit all their familiar haunts, not cautiously as a stranger would, but
boldly, and with the joyousness of those who have returned home after a
long absence. They call to me as if they would say: “Here we are again!
Are you still here, too?”
Then what curiosity they display when they find a new bath! How they fly
over and around it, trying to satisfy themselves that it is a safe place
to alight! What joy they express by their splashing!
It was while taking her bath that Mother Oriole was caught one day by
the camera. Most wonderful to tell, her own babies whom she often
brought with her took this picture. How did they do it? They tried to
perch on the thread leading from the camera over to the house, where I
sat waiting for Mrs. Oriole to come out of the water before taking her
picture. The thread was not strong enough to hold the young birds. They
went down with it, and in so doing snapped the spring which operated the
shutter. This took the picture of Mother Oriole in the bath.
Those of my bird family who inhabit houses are sure every spring to find
either some new houses, or their old ones cleaned and repaired.
I always keep two houses up for bluebirds, and several for wrens. It is
pleasant to watch them make their choice, and after a fledging they can
set up housekeeping again in the same house, or take another. My
experience has been that birds become attached to a house where they
have safely fledged a brood, and if it is promptly cleaned they will
return to it, rather than try a new one. But I have known instances
where a pair began a second nesting before the young of their first
brood were fledged. In such a case an extra house is convenient.
[Illustration: MOTHER ORIOLE IN THE BATH]
My bluebird house is five by seven inches,[3] and is so shaped as to
afford depth. Sufficient height is secured by means of a gable roof; and
a half-inch hole immediately under the roof affords ventilation.
The bluebird covers the floor of her house with grasses to the depth of
about an inch and a half. Away back against the rear wall she makes the
little hollow in which she lays her eggs. I make her entrance one inch
and a half in diameter, and just below the middle front. While brooding
she can look outside, and this affords her some diversion during that
monotonous task. This certainly seemed to be what one bluebird aimed at
who nested in Mrs. Daily’s wren house. The wad of grasses in that house
reached clear up to the entrance, which was about four inches above the
floor. Apparently this bird had tried to build her nest high enough so
she could look outside.
Wrens always make a litter several inches high of twigs and other
materials. In this litter they embed their nest of fine grasses and
feathers. Hence I conclude that they want their entrance several inches
above the floor, so that, on going in, they can walk over the litter and
do not have to grope through it. Being small birds they need only a
small house. After years of experimenting I have settled on five inches
by seven for wrens also, but their house is so shaped as to afford
height. The sides run up at the back to twelve inches. A half-inch hole
high on each side affords ventilation. I make the entrance one inch and
an eighth in diameter, just too small for the English sparrow, but large
enough to serve some other small bird should no wrens come. A smaller
entrance makes it difficult for wrens to get in their bulky nesting
materials. My wrens raised three broods in their little house in the
pear tree last summer.
A friend of mine bought a wren house which has a low entrance. Some
wrens nested in it. One day Father Wren was very much excited, but no
one could understand what was the trouble. The next day, believing that
the wrens had fledged their young, my friend ordered the house to be
cleaned. To her horror she found Mother Wren wedged in among the
nesting, dead. The babies were dead in their nest. Evidently their
increasing weight had settled the nesting materials so the mother could
not get out any more and neither could Father Wren go in. Let this be a
warning to all who make wren houses, to make the entrance several inches
above the floor!
My houses for wrens and bluebirds are so made that they can be easily
opened after use, and cleaned. The front on the wren house can be
raised, that on the bluebird house lowered. By means of a screw eye, the
front is securely closed while the house is in use.
[Illustration: SO MADE THAT THEY CAN BE EASILY OPENED AFTER USE AND
CLEANED]
Of late I have also used an open shelter. It consists of a tray about
five inches square, roofed over, and serves two purposes. For winter use
I fasten a small wire pocket on it, into which I put beef suet. Then I
mount this shelter about five feet high on a tree. Around the trunk I
fasten strings of peanuts; in the tray I keep shelled corn, of which
cardinals are especially fond. The English sparrow does not care for the
suet, and as he cannot manage the corn nor the peanuts, this feedery
attracts only desirable birds. In March I remove the wire pocket, and
mount the shelter a few feet higher, to serve as a nest shelter for
robins. The roof will ward off heavy rains, which destroy so many
robin’s nests. A similar shelter, if fastened in the shade on a wall,
might attract phœbes.
When one starts out to make bird houses he should decide first of all
what birds he wishes to attract by means of them. Booklets containing
drawings and instructions for making houses for many kinds of
house-nesting birds can be had free by addressing a postcard to the
Biological Survey, Washington, D.C.
Whoever tries to attract birds should also protect them from storms,
from their natural enemies, and from meddlesome people. Birds will
sometimes reject a good house because it is not properly mounted, or
because the location is objectionable. The boy and I visited a park
lately where about a hundred bird houses had been put up, and but a few
were said to be occupied. These houses were so constructed that, by
turning a cleat underneath, the floor could be pulled down and out. If
occupied, opening them in this way might have disturbed the nest. We
visited twenty-five of these houses. All except two were mounted so low
that the boy could reach them, some with ease, and turn those cleats.
Only the two which he could not reach were occupied.
Some people have recommended tin cans as nest boxes for small birds. I
have tried the tin can, carefully painted and placed in the shade. But,
even with these precautions, I would discourage its use. People are so
apt to forget about placing it in the shade! I have seen birds’ nests in
tin cans with little skeletons embedded in them, the birds having been
smothered by the intense heat which metal will store.
Enough wooden boxes are discarded by grocers, druggists, and other
merchants to stock the country every year with bird houses. If our
fathers and mothers will encourage the making of these discards into
bird houses, shelters, and feederies, it will mark a step forward in
bird protection.
[Illustration: FOOD HOUSE, MADE OUT OF WASTE MATERIALS]
Food houses should be protected so that other animals cannot mount and
monopolize them, keeping the birds at bay. The red squirrel will do this
unless the food tray is at least five feet above ground and the post
well sheathed in tin.
My newest food house has the lid of a cheese box as tray and the top of
a sugar barrel as roof. This flat surface is a handy place for a basin
of water. In each of the four pillars supporting the roof is a hole, to
be stuffed with suet, cheese, peanut butter, etc. My grocer saves the
drippings from his peanut grinder for my birds, so there is no
extravagance in giving them this dainty. Song sparrows and bluebirds
like it as well as the woodpeckers. On the side of the tray I tack
nesting material. So this food house, made out of waste materials,
serves several uses. The boy liked it so well he patterned one after it
for his birds.
Every autumn a lisping, whispered, dreamy bird song coming from some low
elevation has puzzled me. The bird looked like the song sparrow, but
this soft warble was so different from his spirited spring and summer
songs that I could not believe my eyes. After repeated autumn entries in
my notebook, “I see his heavy breastspot heave and swell, and his tail
quiver as the song sparrow’s always does when he sings,” I was gratified
to find my findings confirmed by another observer.[4] The singer was the
song sparrow.
But to return to my bird family.
From the time the first birds arrive in the spring until they leave
again, my notebook and my field glasses are my constant companions. Now
here are some little nature secrets. My notebook is a green one. I have
to buy the paper in large sheets of the wholesaler, and make the books
myself. A green notebook on my lap does not make such a striking patch
on the landscape as a white one would. The birds do not notice it so
readily. Then, whenever I am out “birding,” except in winter, I wear
green clothes. When taking pictures I use green focusing cloths instead
of the usual black ones. These things are great helps in bird study.
There now! For the first time in this book I have used the word “study”
in connection with birds. Some people think they must study volumes on
ornithology before they can enjoy birds. Nothing could be farther from
the truth.
Even the little tot in a family may have an interest in his bird
neighbors that will provide him wholesome pastime. I know one who, ever
since he could walk well, has faithfully kept the birds’ bath in the
yard supplied with fresh water, and who saves all the table scraps for
them. He wears an Audubon button and says he is “the birdies’
policeman.”
Love, look, listen, appreciate; let these be your watchwords. Just love
the birds. Look, as long as they remain in sight. Observe their ways and
their appearance. Listen to their songs. Try to know your immediate bird
neighbors by appearance, name, and song. Do them a kindness when
possible. This will lead up to recognition of birds, which creates a
desire for study of them. The rest will follow. You will begin to record
observations. You will _wish_ for field glasses and bird books. You will
_want_ to spend your holidays and your vacations where you can see
birds. Before you realize it you will be one of those happiest of
individuals, a nature lover, as all true bird lovers are. It cannot be
otherwise, because the birds will draw you out to nature at all times,
and make you see her in all her moods.
Then some day, when everybody loves birds, perhaps they will no longer
hide their nests, and may even fly to us, instead of away from us.
[Illustration: MAYBE THEY WILL FLY TO US, INSTEAD OF AWAY FROM US]
[Illustration: THE BIRDIES’ POLICEMAN]