nor subdued, and his heart was filled with hate and bitterness toward
everybody; especially did he hate the forced companionship of all the
tame barn-yard fowls,--most of all that of the great, haughty, strutting
red rooster, monarch of the barn-yard, who never lost an opportunity of
giving Nicodemus a vicious peck whenever he felt like it. And at feeding
time, when Nicodemus ventured near the chickens to share a few kernels
of yellow corn, once the haughty red rooster had fallen upon him and
spurred him most cruelly with his sharp spurs, so that Nicodemus felt
the effects of the thrashing for days and days.
Old Nicodemus was a very humble crow indeed these dark days. He lost all
pride in grooming his former glossy, iridescent plumage, and became
muddy and draggled. He would sit perched upon an old rain barrel in a
corner of the barn-yard and croak and complain dismally to himself,
hunching up his shoulders miserably, and uttering a peevish “Caw,” and
the new, strange croak which he had acquired, because of his split
tongue, until finally he became so dull and uninteresting that the boy
lost all interest in him and he was left wholly to himself; and thus it
happened that his wings were left unclipped, so that all through the
summer the wing feathers grew each day a trifle longer. Ah, Nicodemus’
dull days were soon to be over, for one day, just about the time the
first snow flurry fell, he spread forth his great wings and began to
circle over the heads of the astonished fowls, cawing triumphantly and
stridently; then, with exultant, happy heart, away he flew in the
direction of Balsam Swamp.
When he reached his old nest it was empty. Nothing remained of it but a
few loose sticks, and these were soon sprinkled over with snow. Oh, how
lonely and unhappy was the home-coming of the king of Crow Colony.
Of course Nicodemus knew instinctively that his family had grown up and
deserted the nest. Perhaps they had joined the colony for the winter, as
was their custom, seeking some close retreat in the dense pines where
they herd together for the winter months. He resolved to join the old
colony. If he could only go back among his loved ones he would soon be
welcomed again and take his rightful place as king of the flock.
All day long he flew heavily about over the swamps and mountains
searching for the colony. At last the leaders appeared against the
distant sky-line; they had flown over the mountain, and were coming back
into the balsams for the night. Straggling and cawing they came, the
long procession, and finally joining the last stragglers, Nicodemus
flopped heavily along in the rear. And in the darkness of twilight he
joined them, huddling close together in the dense green thickets. The
flock had not recognized him and they gave him no welcome; evidently he
was forgotten. But the next morning they discovered him in their midst,
and just as soon as he gave forth his strange, new call they knew him
only as a stranger, and one and all the whole colony fell upon him and,
with fierce cawings and scoldings, drove him forth from their midst.
Poor, unhappy Nicodemus! Solitary and alone he flew off, deserted by the
flock, and probably by his very own family as well. No one had
recognized him. The winter which followed was long and cold. At break of
day the deposed king would start off alone for food, and when night
came, with heavy, tired wings, back he flew to the shelter of the pines
in the swamp. There the winds howled and crooned above him, and fierce
blizzards sent the snow swirling about his solitary retreat. It is hard
for a crow to live alone, for with the colony, where there are sometimes
hundreds of crows, they manage to keep warm by huddling closely together
for warmth, and so do not freeze to death.
At last spring came, and Nicodemus, glad to be alive now, heard the old
colony cawing loudly, and watched the great black band of crows as,
greatly excited, they settled in a near-by sycamore to talk over and
arrange the business of disbanding.
Then, unable to stand his loneliness longer, with swift, eager flight
the old king of the colony joined the flock. In their excitement they
did not heed him. But the eyes of the king were alert; nothing escaped
them. Soon a young dandy of a crow, accompanied by his mate, spread
forth his wings and headed for the stunted balsam tree, the old nesting
place of Nicodemus. Then instantly all the old courage of the king came
back to him, and with one mighty swoop of his great black wings, with
loud, commanding caws, he followed the pair, caught up with them, and
drove the presuming young crow away from the balsam. Nicodemus, king of
the Crow Colony, thus resumed his place among his kindred as commander
of the flock.
[Illustration: THE STORY OF RUSTY STARLING]
XVI
THE STORY OF RUSTY STARLING
Rusty Starling had a coat of glossy black feathers, all speckled over
with rust colored dots, for all the world like a freckle-faced boy in
summer time. His long, sharp beak was brilliant yellow, and he had such
a funny, strutting kind of a walk which made him appear not unlike a
dandy as he minced along over wide fields to feed. But Rusty’s song was
perhaps the queerest thing of all. It began, usually, with a few
preliminary, creaking notes, which somehow reminded you of the noise
made by a rusty swinging hinge; but occasionally he would change this
note and burst forth into a beautiful, clear whistle, which he followed
by a curious, throbbing call; and when he uttered this last call, it
seemed to fairly shake his speckled body from the point of his yellow
beak to the very tip of his long tail feathers.
Rusty was a foreigner; he sailed across the ocean to America in company
with a little band of starlings, and was let loose in a large park. But
one bright spring morning he suddenly began to feel strangely lonely,
and longing for fresh adventure, he spread his wings, and off he flew to
discover for himself a new country. At first he did not get acquainted
with the strange American birds readily, for some of them chased him
about, pecking at him viciously just because they failed to recognize
him, for he was quite unlike any other American blackbird which they had
ever met, and they were all suspiciously inclined, and unwilling to
adopt a stranger into their midst.
But, taking it altogether, Rusty liked his new home exceedingly, and
made himself quite at home in an old apple tree which chanced to be in
blossom. The tree was simply riddled with knot-holes, and Rusty knew by
experience that beneath the rough bark of the apple tree he could find
plenty of fine grubs for the searching. The apple blossoms clustered
thickly about him, all pink and white, and the air was sweet with
perfume, while in and out, gathering pollen, the honey-bees droned and
hummed in the sunshine. All this so charmed Rusty Starling that he began
to pour out his strange rusty, creaking song as hard as ever he could
pipe. Oh, what a fine spot the apple tree would make for a nest. Why,
right below him in a knot-hole was the finest place he had ever run
across. He felt very much overcome at the thought of building a nest in
the apple tree, and the very idea caused him to change his first harsh,
throaty notes into a wonderfully clear, beautiful warbling--the mating
call.
Almost before his last note died out, Rusty’s whistle was answered.
First came the starling’s creaking notes, then it merged into the same
throbbing, inviting call as his own, and thus Rusty found his mate, for
another starling had strayed away from the park flock.
Rusty never felt lonely after little Mrs. Rusty’s arrival, and they soon
made all plans for their nest building in the knot-hole of the old apple
tree. It was such an ideal place, for the whole tree chanced to be hung
about with many gossamer caterpillars’ nests; there would be food
a-plenty right at their very door.
During the mating days Rusty’s coat of feathers underwent the strangest
change, and you would hardly have recognized him, for he became very
beautiful, having lost every one of his freckles. His feathers glittered
and shone in the sunshine in colors of purple, green and golden hue,
and he would flash like a jewel back and forth from morning until night
carrying twigs and material for the nest in the apple tree.
The entrance to the nest was so very small that you simply wondered how
a full grown starling could ever manage to get inside the door; but once
he had squeezed inside, it was deep and roomy, and comfortably lined
with down and hair. At sunset Rusty always took up his position on a
twig close to the nest and gave a regular concert to his little mate,
who sat away down inside the knot-hole brooding five young starlings.
But really he or his mate had very little time for songs, for as soon as
their pin-feathers commenced to sprout, the little starlings developed
such fearful appetites that it took their parents every instant to find
food enough to satisfy them.
One day when Rusty and his mate had gone off after food, leaving the
little ones home alone, suddenly, as they were expecting the old birds
to come home, a strange thing happened. Instead of food being thrust
down into their wide, hungry mouths, a long, furry arm, striped with
tigerish marks and filled with sharp, cruel claws, came creeping far
down into the nest, and when it was withdrawn a baby starling went with
it. Five times the dreadful tigerish arm was thrust down into the nest,
and each time it took away a starling.
Rusty and his mate made a frightful fuss when they came back to the nest
and found it empty; while there upon a flat limb sat a big tiger cat
lapping his chops, and freeing his long whiskers from pin-feathers. They
flew about his head, rasping shrilly, and trying to peck at him with
their long yellow beaks, but the tiger cat simply blinked his eyes
insolently at them. And somehow the starlings are of such a happy
disposition that nothing ever worries them for long, and in a few days
they were as happy as ever.
Autumn came, and soon the few apples left upon their home tree were
touched by Jack Frost and became bitter, not very good eating; still
Rusty and his mate loved to peck at them, for by this time food began to
be scarce. Now, when October came, by rights Rusty and his mate should
have gone south with all the other migrating birds, for at this time the
starlings usually seek a warmer climate; but strangely enough, Rusty and
his mate watched the bluebirds, the straggling flocks of geese and all
their neighbors fly off, and still they tarried behind.
When cold weather came they left the apple tree nest, for the snow
sifted down into it and blocked up their door completely. They flew off
into the pine forests, and huddled closely together to keep warm. One
day they were buffeted about in a great howling snow-storm, and Mrs.
Rusty was blown against a barb-wire fence and her wing injured. Then
Rusty knew he must find a comfortable spot for her or she would perish.
So, urging her to follow him, he flew to a farmhouse, and there they
perched upon a great chimney. My, what a beautiful warm spot they had
discovered! The heat came up in great waves and penetrated their
feathers, and best of all they could sit down inside upon a small ledge
and be out of the storm.
Soon Mrs. Rusty’s lame wing grew strong, and they were allowed to fly
into the barn-yard and share the chickens’ food. And upon sunshiny days
they sat together upon the chimney and sang their rusty, creaking song
together, for already beautiful visions of a new nest in the apple tree
came to them. But one day Rusty flew off, and while he was away they
built up a rousing fire in the old chimney to clear out its soot, so
that when Rusty came back he could not find his little mate. She had
been blinded and overcome by the uprushing smoke, and had perished.
He called and called, but vainly, and took up his lonely life again
until spring time; and glad enough he was to welcome back all his old
bird neighbors. He recognized them all in turn: the bluebirds, the
flickers and the robins. And one great day as he sat lonesomely upon the
old apple tree trying hard to keep cheerful by whistling to himself,
suddenly he spied what at first sight appeared to be a black cloud
floating right in his direction. The cloud moved rapidly, and finally
began to come to earth. It was a great colony of birds, and somehow they
appeared to Rusty strangely familiar. Soon a soft, creaking, crackling
burst of song came to him, and instantly Rusty knew they were starlings.
Hundreds of them there were. They broke ranks finally, precisely like a
company of trained soldiers, and settling all over the field, they began
walking about with their little, quick, mincing steps.
Rusty gave one great, triumphant whistle of recognition and joy, and
spreading his freckled wings he launched forth into the air and had soon
joined the colony. And, wonderful to relate, much to his delight he
discovered among the great flock another little starling so precisely
like his lost mate that he was fully convinced that he had found her.
And so when the leader of the great Starling Colony gave his loud
whistle of command for the company to form ranks again, at his signal
the whole flock arose, and making a wide wheel first, close to the
earth, suddenly, as if they were one instead of a great company, they
arose in the air and took flight, and Rusty Starling went with them.
[Illustration: WHERE THE PARTRIDGE DRUMS]
XVII
WHERE THE PARTRIDGE DRUMS
All during the beautiful summer days the little Mother Partridge and her
mate, the brave, ruffled cock, and their twelve brown chicks had lived
just on the border of a deep wood, not too far back, so that when the
little ones began to fly their flight should be easy. It was a fine,
safe place for the little partridges, for they could easily run and hide
from danger beneath the thick shadowy places of the pines, which towered
so far above their lowly nest that only the soft, swishy whispering of
their plumy tops could be heard down in the covert. The little ones grew
rapidly, and were soon good-sized chicks; and they were very knowing,
for the very instant their wise mother uttered her warning “cr-rr-r-r”
cry, off they would flutter, looking, in their flight, for all the world
like a drove of flying dead leaves; and strain your eyes as you might,
after they had taken flight, you could never find where one little
partridge had hidden itself. Instinct taught them to select a leaf or
object which exactly matched their brown feathers, and then lie quite
flat. There they would huddle until their mother gave a reassuring
cluck, meaning “danger over,” then out they would come in a little
flock, and all this time while they lay hid, the little Father Partridge
was never idle, I assure you, but took it upon himself, when danger came
near the flock, to tell them just as far away as possible, and try to
divert the attention of the enemy to himself in the funniest fashion. He
would be so brave, even in the face of great danger, that he would
boldly strut forth, all his feathers bristling, and the curious ruffle
raised about his neck, and so bluster and strut and make such a
ridiculous clamor that the intruder invariably forgot to see where the
little chicks hid themselves. Then as soon as Mother Partridge and the
chicks were off and away, a swift “whir-r-r,” and before you knew it,
Father Partridge had vanished as if the earth had swallowed him up.
The partridges always led their little chicks to the very best feeding
grounds. Well they knew where the plump little red partridge berries
grew thick in their deep green beds of moss, and also they remembered
where in the deep mountain slashes the luscious red raspberries hung in
ripe clusters; and sometimes they had to do battle with the screaming
blue jays to drive them off, providing they reached the feeding grounds
first. Brave as well as gallant was the little cock partridge. Off
alone, on fleet wing would he fly upon private expeditions of his own,
and when he succeeded in finding good feeding, he would mount upon a
great log, or high place, and drum, drum, drum, beating his strong wings
against his sides, and filling the forest with loud echoing calls--the
call of the partridge for his mate, until she and the little partridges
had followed him to the feeding place. Many a time when swift danger
came upon them from above, and a cruel hawk swooped low after one of the
chicks, then Father Partridge would raise his ruff fiercely and rushing
forth, his barred wings and tail flaunted high, he would drum so loudly
in the very face of the hawk that it would change its course and decide
that it really did not care for a young partridge that day.
Gradually, as the young partridges became stronger and larger, they
would venture forth into the woods upon short excursions on their own
account, but they invariably came back to the home covert at night,
where their mother would hover them beneath her soft brown wings, until
they became too old, when they would all huddle together beneath the
drooping limbs of a low falling spruce, or fly up into its lower limbs;
for sometimes their instinct told them to sleep out of reach of
Red-Brush, the fox, who sometimes strolled in the woods, near at hand,
after dark. But somehow, in spite of the many warnings of wise little
Mother Partridge, and fierce drummings of the father, one by one all but
four of the partridge chicks mysteriously disappeared in one way or
another, until when autumn came there were but six left of the large
partridge family.
But they did not seem to mind that, which is the way in partridge
families, and all through the autumn they had the very happiest times
together that you possibly can imagine. The mornings were beginning to
be keen and frosty, but their brown feather coats were thick and glossy,
and they were so very plump from the abundance of good feed to be had,
that they never minded the cold; it only made them wilder and livelier.
Just as the first twinkling sunbeam filtered its way through the
tent-like roof of their covert, then Father Partridge would take his
head from beneath his wing; with a flash of his bright, beady eyes he
would ruffle his crest, then “whir-r-r,” swiftly his wings would take
him off, skimming low over frosted ferns and brakes. Then five other
“whir-r-s” would sound, and you knew that the partridge family were
awake for the day, and had started off to hunt for their breakfast.
Indeed in the partridge family it was meal time all day long in those
autumn days, for they did nothing but feast continually, because that is
the great festival time of the year for partridges. In the hedges the
red choke cherries had turned black and hung in such heavy clusters that
their branches trailed low, and the fruit was wild and juicy. The thorn
apple trees, with their armor of bayonet-like spikes, were filled with
scarlet apples, mellow and rich as a persimmon after the frost has
ripened it, while over wayside saplings trailed long vines hung thick
with little fox grapes doubly tasty because Jack Frost had nipped them.
Then too there were beechnuts rattling down out of their yellowing
leaves--all these good things to be had for the taking; no wonder the
partridges grew each day a trifle more plump that autumn. Still, unlike
the thrifty squirrel family, they were not wise enough to lay aside a
hoard of food against hard, bitterly cold winter weather; they just
flew about enjoying life. So plump did the young ones become that at
last you could not tell them from the old partridges. Then, all of a
sudden, just as they were becoming recklessly tame and fearless,
something terrifying and unknown came into the forest and drove every
little thing which wore fur or feathers quite wild with fright.
“Bang, bang, bang,” it sounded, the awful din, sometimes in the depths
of the thick spruce bush, and again in the open, or down in the edge of
the slashes; then up would curl an evil-smelling blue vapor, and one
time when the terrified partridge family took flight two more of the
young ones did not follow their leader to safe covert. Four of them, all
that were now left, remained safely hidden in the depths of the deep
forest for days, and at last the terrifying bangs were no longer heard,
and they finally ventured out into the open once more.
By this time the maples, beeches, and the birch trees had all shed their
dense leaves, and chilly winds, wintry and bleak, began to croon and
whine through the dense coverts among the thick spruces. There the
partridges sought shelter each night, and finally winter set in in good
earnest and all the little wild creatures sought for warm, snug
quarters. The squirrels huddled down in their cozy nests, all lined with
leaves, and filled with a choice assortment of provisions, and old Dame
Woodchuck had long ago crept into her burrow, deep down in the brown
earth, and closed up her door for the winter; not until Candlemas Day
would she venture to even stick her nose out-of-doors again. Still,
there were plenty who did not care to idle and sleep all through the
cold weather, so there was still plenty of life left in the forest.
After the first deep snow the partridges remained hidden in some deep,
warm covert among the thick, sheltering pines, coming forth into the
open only when they wished to feed upon chance dried berries which the
snow and winds had left clinging to bare branches; but for the most part
all the birds which had not gone south kept to the deep woods for
shelter.
Now right in the heart of a balsam pine lived a great snowy owl, which
had drifted from its kindred down from the far North, and taken up its
solitary home close to the partridge covert. The great, wise owl thought
herself perfectly safe, no doubt, in such a lofty home; so, a few months
before, she had laid two beautiful snowy eggs in her retreat, which in
time became two small owlets, with such comical, fuzzy, round faces,
and large yellow eyes. The great snowy mother owl loved them as only a
mother owl knows how, almost wearing herself out to hunt food for them,
both day and night. One day when the great snowy owl came back to the
balsam pine she arrived just in time to see a sinuous, brown, fur-coated
stranger hastily claw himself down from her nest, and dashing swiftly
and angrily at him, she managed to clutch just a tuft of his brown fur.
He had slipped away, and her nest was empty; and all night long, far
above the spot where the partridges nested, the great snowy owl cried
out: “Who-who-wo-wo-wo-o-o,” and from that day she nested alone and
began to watch and watch for the reappearance of that hateful, sinuous,
brown-coated stranger who had stolen the young owl babies, but she
watched in vain.
Fiercely raged the great northern blizzards and sometimes when the
partridges ventured forth from their coverts when hard pressed with
hunger the heavy winds would seize them and dash them roughly about, so
that spent and weary they were often forced to come back to shelter
without tasting food for hours. Still, in certain places known to the
partridges there were still pine cones a-plenty, and in between the
brown husk-like layers of the cones they found little nutty seeds of the
pine, while beneath, in sheltered spots which the snow did not cover,
they scratched for partridge berries, wintergreen plums, and an
occasional beechnut which the squirrels had not found. Searching and
keen were the wintry winds, which sometimes stung through their feather
coats, so they would huddle close together beneath the shelter of a
great log, or where pine branches swept low. One day a great storm raged
which lasted for many days, and the giant pines rocked so mightily that
none of the wild creatures ventured out as long as it lasted. The
partridges huddled closely together upon the ground for warmth, and
gradually the snow sifted and filtered its way through the forest until
it had finally covered everything, even the partridges, who looked like
little mounds of snow. Strangely enough they were warm and comfortable
beneath their snow coverlet, for the snow arched over each sleek, brown
back, forming a little shelter or hut over them, not unlike those small
snow huts which the Laps build; and if you could have peeped beneath,
you might have seen four pairs of very bright, alert eyes peeping from
a tiny opening in their snow covering; that is, when the partridges were
not fast asleep.