Transcriber Note: Text emphasis denoted as _Italics_.
BIRDS OF SONG AND STORY
[Illustration: FOX SPARROW.]
BIRDS OF SONG AND STORY
BY
ELIZABETH AND JOSEPH GRINNELL
Authors of "Our Feathered Friends"
"And now, wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations, then pass forth
And find them midst those many-colored birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute."
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
A. W. MUMFORD, Publisher
1901
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
_Frontispiece_
CHAPTER PAGE
Poem, The Birds 7
Singers and Their Songs _Illustration_ 9
I Our Comrade the Robin _Illustration_ 17
II The Mocking-Bird _Illustration_ 29
III The Cat-Bird _Illustration_ 36
IV The Hermit-Thrush _Illustration_ 40
V The Grosbeaks _Illustration_ 45
VI The Orioles _Illustration_ 53
VII The Biography of a Canary-Bird _Illustration_ 61
VIII Sparrows and Sparrows _Illustration_ 73
IX The Story of the Summer Yellowbird _Illustration_ 83
X The Bluebird _Illustration_ 94
XI The Tanager People _Illustration_ 101
XII The Meadow-Lark _Illustration_ 107
XIII Skylark (Horned Lark) _Illustration_ 115
XIV Bobolink _Illustration_ 121
XV At Nesting-Time 130
XVI The Romance of Ornithology 144
Index 151
THE BIRDS
They are swaying in the marshes,
They are swinging in the glen,
Where the cat-tails air their brushes
In the zephyrs of the fen;
In the swamp's deserted tangle,
Where the reed-grass whets its scythes;
In the dismal, creepy quagmire.
Where the snake-gourd twists and writhes.
They are singing in arroyos,
Where the cactus mails its breast.
Where the Spanish bayonet glistens
On the steep bank's rocky crest;
In the canon, where the cascade
Sets its pearls in maiden-hair,
Where the hay and holly beckon
Valley sun and mountain air.
They are nesting in the elbow
Of the scrub-oak's knotty arm,
In the gray mesh of the sage-brush,
In the wheat-fields of the farm;
In the banks along the sea beach,
In the vine above my door.
In the outstretched, clumsy fingers
Of the mottled sycamore.
While the church-bell rings its discourse
They are sitting on the spires;
Song and anthem, psalm and carol
Quaver as from mystic lyres.
Everywhere they flirt and flutter.
Mate and nest in shrub and tree.
Charmed, I wander yon and hither,
While their beauties ravish me,
Till my musings sing like thrushes,
And my heart is like a nest,
Softly lined with tender fancies
Plucked from Nature's mother-breast.
Elizabeth Grinnell.
SINGERS AND THEIR SONGS
And hark! The nightingale begins its song,--
"Most musical, most melancholy bird."
A melancholy bird? Oh, idle thought.
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
.... 'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast, thick warble his delicious notes.
Coleridge.
Some barbarous peoples possess a rude taste for the beautiful
plumage of birds, decorating their bodies in feathers of softest and
brightest tints. But we have record of few, if any, savage tribes the
world over which delight in bird melody. True, the savage may seek
his food by sound, or even song, but to feast the ear on music for
music's sake--ah, this is reserved for culture.
An ear cultivated to melody is one of the soul's luxuries. Attuned to
sweet and varied sound, it may become the guide to bird secrets never
imparted to the eye.
Sitting in the close shrubbery of a home garden, or crouching
moveless in a forest, one may catch whispers of bird language never
imparted to human ears when the listener is moving about or talking
with a comrade.
If one has accidentally or by patience discovered the evening resort
of shy birds, let him precede the birds by half an hour. Sitting low
among rocks or fallen trees, having the forethought to wear plainly
colored clothes, and as moveless as the neighboring objects, one
may be treated to such a feast of sounds as will both surprise and
entertain him. The birds will come close, and even hop over one's
coat sleeves and shoes, though so much as a full-fledged wink may
dissipate the charm.
Just before bedtime there are whisperings, and salutes, and
low-voiced conversations, and love notes, and "O's" and "Ah's"
at sight of a belated insect, and lullaby ditties, and if one be
possessed of a good deal of imagination, "evening prayers."
Birds that fly from their night-time perches in the thick shrubbery
in the morning dusk with a whirr, and a scream, or emphatic
call-note, in evening time just whisper or sing in half-articulate
tones.
To be out in their haunts late in the day and very early in the dawn
is to learn things about birds one never forgets. And if one chance
to remain late at night, one may often hear some feathered person
mumble, or talk, or scold, or complain, or sing a short melody, in
his sleep. Some students of bird-lore suggest that all-night singers,
like the mockers, and some thrushes, do "talk in their sleep,"
instead of from intent and choice. If one will watch a tame canary in
its cage one may hear a very low, sweet warble from the bird while
its head is tucked under its feathers. This act wakens the little
creature, and it may be seen to finish its note while it looks about
in the lamp-light in a half-bewildered way.
Take our domestic fowls! Go noiselessly out to the chicken roost and
stand stock-still for a while. Now and then some hen or cock will
speak a few words in its own language, in a rambling, dozing way.
Then the suggestion passes on, and perhaps half a dozen individuals
engage in nocturnal conversation. One, more "nervous" from
yesterday's overwork perhaps, actually has a nightmare, and cackles
in fright. All this has no connection with the usual time for the
head of the family to give his warning crow that midnight or daytime
is close at hand and there is scarcely time for another wink of sleep.
Once in the secret of bird notes, even a blind person may locate the
immediate vicinity of a nest. And he may identify species by the
call-notes and songs. We have a blind girl neighbor who declares she
would rather have her hearing than her sight, she has learned so well
to hear what her sight might deprive her of.
When once the ear has learned its better lessons, glimpses, so to
speak, of bird life flutter to it as naturally as leaves flutter
to the sward in autumn. It is the continual chatter, chatter, that
deprives many of us of the best enjoyments of life. We talk when
we should listen. Nature speaks low more often than she shouts. A
taciturn child or person finds out things that are worth the habit of
keeping still to know.
These remarks are in the interest of singing birds. A bird is
sometimes interrupted, and comes to a sudden stop. A footstep, a
word, a laugh, and the very next note is swallowed by the singer.
By studying our songsters one may come to know for one's self how
individuals differ even among the same species.
There is the sad-voiced phœbe! Even she forgets her customary dismal
cry at certain times when flies are winging their midday dance on
invisible floors that never were waxed. It is when she takes a "flat
stand" an the roof-corner and "bewails her lot" that her notes are
utterly disconsolate. Take a couple of phœbes on a cloudy day, just
after "one's folks have gone away from home on a long visit," and
nothing lends an aid to sorrow like their melancholy notes. Really
we do believe phœbe thinks he is singing. But he has mistaken his
calling. Some of the goldfinches have a plaintive note, especially
while nesting, which appeals to the gloomy side of the listener, if
he chance to have such a side. Were Coleridge listening to either of
these, the phœbe or the goldfinch, he would doubtless say, in answer
to the charge of sadness:
"A melancholy bird? Oh, idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy."
And he would have us believe the birds are "merry" when they sing.
And so they shall be merry. Even the mourning dove shall make us
glad. She does not intend to mourn; the appearance of sadness being
only the cadence of her natural voice. She has not learned the art of
modulation; though the bluebird and the robin and all the thrushes
call her attention to the matter every year.
If one will closely watch a singer, unbeknown to him, when he is
in the very act, one may note the varying expression of the body,
from the tip of his beak to the tip of his tail. Sometimes he will
stand still with closely fitting plumage and whole attitude on
tiptoe. Sometimes he will crouch, and lift the plumage, and gyrate
gracefully, or flutter, or soar off at random on quick wings.
Sometimes he sings flat on the breast like a song-sparrow, or again
high up in the sky like the lark. However he sings, heaven bless the
singer! "The earth would be a cheerless place were there no more of
these."
But legend tells the story of singing birds in its own way--the
story of a time long, long eons ago, when not a single bird made glad
the heart of anything or anybody.
True, there were some large sea birds and great walking land birds,
too deformed for any one to recognize as birds in these days, but
there was no such thing as a singing bird.
One day there came a great spring freshet, the greatest freshet ever
dreamed of, and all the land animals sought shelter in the trees
and high mountains. But the water came up to the peaks and over
the treetops, and sorrow was in all the world. Suddenly a giraffe,
stretching its long neck in all directions, espied a big boat roofed
over like a house. The giraffe made signs to the elephant, and the
elephant gave the signal, as elephants to this day do give signals
that are heard for many a mile, so they say! Then there came a
scurrying for the big boat. A few of all the animals got on board, by
hook or crook, and the rain was coming down in sheets. All at once
along came the lizards, crawling up the sides of the boat and hunting
for cracks and knot-holes to crawl into, just as lizards are in the
habit of doing on the sly to this day. But not a crack or knot-hole
could they find in the boat's side; for the loose places, wide enough
for a lizard to flatten himself into, had all been filled up with
gum, or something.
Then the lizards began to hiss, exactly the way they hiss to this day
when they are frightened; and the big animals inside the boat poked
out their noses to see what was to pay.
"Oh, they are nothing but lizards!" exclaimed the giraffe to the
elephant, who had naturally taken possession of more than his share
of the only foothold in existence. "Let them drown in the freshet."
But a big, awkward land bird, with teeth, and a tail like a church
steeple, took pity on the lizards and gnawed a hole in the wall of
the boat.
Of course in trooped the lizards. Once in, they disposed themselves
in nooks and corners, and right under the flapping ears of the
elephant and between the pointed ears of the giraffe. And they began
to whisper.
It was a very low, hissing whisper, as if they had never gotten
farther than the s's in the alphabet, but the big animals understood.
Plenty of room was made for the lizards, and they were allowed to
make a square meal now and then on the flies that had come in at the
boat's door, uninvited, plenty of them.
After a few days the spring freshet came to an end, and the giraffe
opened the door of the boat-house and looked out. He made signs to
the elephant, and the elephant gave the signal, and out walked all
the animals on "dry ground," which, to tell the truth, was rather
muddy.
When all the other creatures were out of the boat it came the
lizard's turn. But the elephant and the giraffe bethought them of
something, and turned back to the boat "You promised us! You promised
us!" they cried, to the wriggling lizards that hadn't a single thing
about them to make anybody desire their company in land or sea.
"So we did promise," they answered, hissing their words.
Then the lizards all turned facing each other in rows, and stuck
out their long tongues just as lizards do to this day, and breathed
on one another, and made a sizzling noise. Suddenly, from each side
of their long tails appeared pin-feathers, which grew very fast,
till the scales were all disappeared. And then little baby feathers
appeared on their backs, and breasts, and fore legs, or arms, which
overlapped each other like scales, and were beautiful and soft and
many-tinted. Beaks grew in place of the wide mouths; only the hind
legs were left as they were. But these, too, began to change! They
grew long, and slim, and hard, but the nails remained as they were
before, only stronger. Then the lizards were reptiles no longer, but
beautiful birds. And with one accord they began to sing, each singing
a different song from his neighbor, and making the clear air ring
with melody.
And the giraffe made signs to the elephant, and the elephant signaled
all the other animals to return. And so they returned. And they could
hardly believe their eyes when the elephant told them these were the
crawling lizards that had come into the boat-house the last thing.
But he assured them they were the "very same." And then he told them
how the lizards had promised him and the big giraffe that if they
would be permitted to stay in the boat with the rest until the spring
freshet was over, they would be "angels" ever afterward, and spend
all their time, when they were not eating and sleeping, in making
glad melody for all the animal world.
While the giraffe was speaking the birds lifted their wings, which an
hour before were bare arms, and soared out and up into the blue sky,
singing as they went.
And this was the origin of the singing birds. To explain how, to this
day, there are plenty of lizards of all sizes and colors, the legend
hints a sequel to the story. Not all of the lizards were able or even
willing to go into the boat-house, being naturally shy, and the holes
the big bird pecked in the walls were all too soon sealed up.
Almost drowned, the remaining lizards crept up on the backs of the
great water dragons, the leviathan, and behemoth, which nobody knows
anything about in our days, and so were saved.
Anyhow, we have them, on warm days sunning themselves on fence-rails
and bare rocks, or scurrying under the stumps and stones. But they
are always on good terms with the birds, for we have seen them
basking in the sun together, and they eat the selfsame insects.
The lizards are no doubt discussing with the birds the approach of
another spring freshet, when they, too, will bethink them of the
boat-house, and so come by feathers and songs.
Harmless they are, as the birds, whom they resemble in many ways. We
have taught some of them to drink milk and honey from a teaspoon, and
to peck at insects in our fingers, to come at our call, and to lie
in our hands. To some they are beautiful creatures; to others they
are "nothing but lizards." Boys throw stones at them, and girls wish
there were no lizards, they "are so ugly."
Oh, the pity of it! If these would but turn the creatures tenderly
over, they would see beautiful colors on the under side, that
sparkle and glisten like the breast of a brightly tinted bird. We
are acquainted with one lizard as long as a mocking-bird, with a
breast as silver-gray. And we love to think of the time (of course it
is imagination, though they do say there is possibly some truth in
it) when another spring freshet, or something, will turn the little
reptile into the bird he resembles.
CHAPTER I
OUR COMRADE THE ROBIN
Robin, Sir Robin, gay-vested knight,
Now you have come to us, summer's in sight;
You never dream of the wonders you bring--
Visions that follow the flash of your wing.
How all the beautiful by and by
Around you and after you seems to fly;
Sing on, or eat on, as pleases your mind.
Well have you earned every morsel you find.
"Aye! ha! ha! ha!" whistles Robin. My dear,
Let us all take our own choice of good cheer.
Lucy Larcom.
On account of its generous distribution, and the affection for the
bird in the heart of Young America and England alike, the robin shall
be given first place among the singing birds. He is the "Little
Wanderer"--as the name signifies--the "Robin-son Crusoe" of almost
every clime and race.
True, he may be a warbler instead of a thrush in the Old World; but
what does that signify? To whatever class or family he may belong by
right of birth and legend, the bird of the red breast is the bird of
the human breast.
It is impossible to study the early history of birds in any language
and not stumble upon legend and superstition. And the more we read
of these the more we come to delight in them. There may not be a
bit of truth in the matter, but there is fascination. It is like
delving among the dust and cobwebs of an old attic. The more dust and
cobwebs, the more fun in coming upon things one never went in quest
of.
Of course superstition has its objections; but when the robin is the
point at issue, we may waive objections and go on our merry ways
satisfied that the oldest and clearest head in the family will concur.
Legends concerning our comrade the robin are full of tender thought
of him. They have kept his memory green through the rain and shine of
centuries, even going so far as to embalm him after death, as will be
seen.
It is well-nigh impossible to give the earliest date in which the
robin is mentioned as a "sacred bird." Certain it is that he ranks
with characters of "ye olden time," for myth and superstition
enshrined him. The literature of many tongues has preserved him.
Poetry and sculpture have embodied him and given him place among the
gods and winged beings that inhabit the "neighbor world." Did he not
scorch his original gray breast by taking his daily drop of water
to lost souls? Did he not stain it by pressing his faithful heart
against the crown of thorns? Or, did he not burn it in the Far North
when he fanned back into flame the dying embers which the polar bear
thought to have trampled out in his wrath that white men invaded
his shores? Was he not always the "pious bird?"--though it must be
confessed that his beak alone seemed to be possessed of religious
tendencies. Was he not the original church sexton who covered the
dead, with impartial beak, from eye of sun and man, piling high and
dry the woodland leaves about them? The wandering minstrel, the
orphan child, or the knight of kingly robe, each shared his sweet
charity.
[Illustration: ROBIN.]
The English ballad of the "Babes in the Wood" immortalized his memory
in poetical sentiment:
"Their little corpse the robin-redbreast found,
And strewed with pious bills the leaves around."
Earlier than the pathetic career of these Babes, homage was paid to
the robins,
"Who with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men."
This superstition of the robin's art in caring for the dead runs
through many of the old poets, Drayton, Grahame, Hood, Herrick, and
others. Strict justice in the matter would have divided the praise of
him with the charitable night winds, for it was they more than he who
"covered friendless bodies." The sylvan shades of the Old World being
then more comprehensive than now, unburied men, from any cause, found
their last resting-place in the lap of the forest, sleeping wherever
they fell, since no laws of "decent burial" governed the wilds. The
night winds, true to their instincts then as now, swirled the fallen
leaves about any object in their way, in the fashion of a burial
shroud. As a matter of course, credit was given to the robin, whose
voracious appetite always led him to plunder litter of any sort in
search of food. Up bright and early, as is still his habit (since at
this hour he is able to waylay the belated night insect), the robin
was spied bestirring the forest leaves, and unbeknown to himself was
sainted for all time.
And his duties were not confined to those of sexton alone, for,
according to good witnesses, he became both sculptor and clergyman--
"For robin-redbreasts when I die
Make both my monument and elegy,"
--stripping, as they were supposed to do, the foliage from the trees
on which to write their elegies, and so leaving the uncovered trunks
as monumental shafts.
According to tradition, it was the robin who originated the first
conception of decorating the graves of martyrs.
"The robin-redbreast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his aid,
With hoary moss and gathered flowers
To deck the grave where thou art laid."
And again from one of the old poets, who was naturally anxious that
his own last rites should be proper as well as pathetic:
"And while the wood nymphs my old corpse inter,
Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister;
My epitaph in foliage next write this:
'Here, here, the tomb of Robert Herrick is.'"
And so it came to pass, by the patronage of the poets, that in
the early centuries this little bird came to be protected by an
affectionate, unwritten law. To molest a redbreast was to bring the
swift vengeance of lightning on the house. The ancient boy knew
better, if he cherished his personal safety, than to steal a young
bird for the purpose of captivity, for
"A robin in a cage
Sets all heaven in a rage."
The "sobbing, sobbing of pretty, pretty robin" would surely call
down upon the head of the luckless thief the dire displeasure of the
deities; as runs the rhyme, meant in all reverence (as it should also
be quoted);
"The robin and the wren
Are God Almighty's cock and hen.
Him that harries their nest
Never shall his soul have rest."
Terrible punishments were thus meted out to the ancient urchin whose
instincts would lead him to rob bird's nests.
In Pilgrim's Progress, Christiana is said to have been greatly
astonished at seeing a robin with a spider in its beak. Said she,
"What a disparagement it is to such a little, pretty bird as the
robin-redbreast is, he being also a bird above many, that loveth to
maintain a kind of sociableness with man; I had thought they had
lived on crumbs of bread--I like him worse than I did-."
And the wordy-wise Interpreter, to clinch a moral lesson in the mind
of the religious woman, explained how the robins "when they are by
themselves, catch and gobble up spiders; they can change their diet
(like the ungodly hypocrite), drink iniquity, and swallow down sin
like water." And so, obedient to her spiritual adviser, Christiana
liked the robin "worse than she did." Poor soul; she should have
observed for herself that for a robin to gobble up a spider is no
"iniquity." Did she think that crumbs grew on bushes, ready made
for early breakfast, or that the under side of woodland leaves was
buttered to order?
Spiders the robin must have, else how could he obtain the strings for
his harp? Wherever the spider spins her thread, there is her devotee,
the robin. He may not be seen to pluck and stretch the threads, but
the source of them he loves, and he says his best grace above this
dainty of his board. Our pet robin was known to stand patiently by
the crack of a door, asking that it be opened wider, as, in his
opinion, a spider was hiding behind it. He heard her stockinged
tread, as he hears also the slippered feet of the grub in the garden
sod--provided the grubs have feet, which it is known they can do
tolerably well without.
Sure it is the world over, be he thrush or warbler, the robin is
partial to bread and butter; to bread thrice buttered if he can get
it. Fat of any sort he craves. The more practical than sentimental
believe that he uses it in the preparation of the "colors done in
oil" with which he tints his breast. For lack of oil, therefore,
where it is not provided by his friends, or discovered by himself,
his breast is underdone in color, paling even to dusky hue; so that,
would you have a redbreast of deepest dye, be liberal with his
buttered bread.
And his yellow mouth! Ah, it is the color of spring butter when the
dandelions are astir, oozing out, as it were, when he is very young,
as if for suggestion to those who love him.
The historical wedding of Cock Robin to Jenny Wren was the result of
anxiety on the part of mutual friends who would unite their favorite
birds. The "courtship," the "merry marriage," the "picnic dinner,"
and the rest of the tragedy are well described. Alas, for the death
and burial of the robin-groom, who did not live to enjoy the bliss
of wedded life as prearranged by his solicitous friends. But the
affair went merry as a marriage-bell for a while, and was good until
fortunes changed.
All the birds of the air combined to make the event a happy one, and
they dined and they supped in elegant style.
"For each took a bumper
And drank to the pair;
Cock Robin the bridegroom,
And Jenny Wren the fair."
Just as the dinner things were being removed, and the bird guests
were singing "fit to be heard a mile around," in stalked the Cuckoo,
who it is presumed had not been invited to the wedding, and was angry
at being slighted. He rudely began pulling the bride all about by
her pretty clothes, which aroused the temper of the groom, naturally
enough, as who could wonder? His best man, the Sparrow, went out and
armed himself, his weapons being the bow and arrow, and took his
usual steady aim to hit the intruder, but, like many another excited
marksman, he missed his aim, and, oh, the pity of it! shot Cock Robin
himself. (It was an easy way for the poet to dispose of the affair,
as he knew very well a robin and a wren couldn't mate, in truth.)
Nor did the Sparrow deny his unintentional blunder when it came to
the trial. There were witnesses in plenty; and Robin was given a
splendid burial--Robin who had himself officiated at many a ceremony
of the same sad sort.
It is a pathetic tale, as any one may see who reads it, and served
the purpose of stimulating sympathy for the birds. We have forgiven
the sparrow for his blunder, as will be seen later on; for in
consequence of it, the birds were called up in line and made to _do
something_, thus distinguishing themselves as no idlers.
The mating of Robin with Jenny Wren proved a failure, of course, so
we have our dear "twa birds," the robins, as near alike as two peas,
when the male is not singing and the female is not cuddling her
nest. A trifle brighter of tint is the male (in North America), but
the two combine, like any staid farmer and his wife, in getting a
living out of the soil. Hand in hand, as it were, they wander about
the country anywhere under the flag, at home wherever it rains; but
returning to the same locality, with true homing instinct, as often
as the spring-time suggests the proper season for family affairs;
completing these same affairs in time to look after their winter
outfit of clothes. This last more on account of their annual shabby
condition than by reason of the rigors of cold, for they change
climate as often as health and happiness (including, of course, food)
require.
True, some penalties attach to this sudden and frequent change, but
the robins accept whatever comes to them with a protest of song,
returning good for evil, even when charged with stealing more fruit
than the law allows. It is impossible to compare the good they do
with any possible harm, since the insect harvest-time is always, and
the robin's farming implements never grow rusty.
Always in the wake of the robins is the sharp-shinned hawk and many
another winged enemy, for their migrations are followed by faithful
foes who secrete themselves in the shadows. We deprived one of these
desperadoes of his dinner before he had so much as tasted it, also
of his pleasure in obtaining another, for we brought him down in the
very act, and rescued his victim only by prying apart the reluctantly
dying claws.
But whatever may be said of hawks and such other hungry beings who
lay no claim to a vegetable diet, their so-called cruelty should
be overlooked, since it is impossible to draw the lines without
affecting the robin himself. For see with what excusable greed
he snatches at winged beings which happen to light for a rest in
their flight, or draws the protesting earth-worm from its sunless
corridors. It is a law of nature, and grace must provide absolution.
So must also the bird-lover, supposing in his charitable heart that
worms and flies delight in being made over into new and better loved
individuals.
Would the bird-lover actually convert this redbreast from the error
of his victual ways, he may do so by substituting cooked or raw food
from his own table. The robin is an apt student of civilization, and
adopts the ways of its reformers with relish. As to the statement
that robins require a diet of worms to insure life and growth, we can
say that we have raised a whole family on bread and milk alone with
perfect success. True, we allowed them a bit of watermelon in melon
season, but they used it more as a newfangled bath than as a food,
actually rolling in it, and pasting their feathers together with
the sticky juice. The farmer's orchard is the robin's own patch of
ground, and he revels in its varied bounties. A pair of them know at
a glance the very crotch in the apple-tree which grew three prongs on
purpose for their nest. The extreme center, scooped to a thimble's
capacity, suggests the initial post-hole for a proper foundation. The
said post may be placed directly across it, but that does not change
the idea. Above is the parting of the boughs, across whose inverted
arches sticks alternate, and so on up. And atop of straws and leaves
and sticks is the "loving cup" of clay, with its soft lining of
vegetable fiber and grasses. What care the robins that little cover
roofs them and their young? Are they not water birds by nature, and
wind birds as well? (Our pet sat for hours at a time in hot weather
emersed to his ears in the bath, and even sang low notes while he
soaked.) Birds of spring freshets and June winds, they dote on the
weather, and bring off their young ones as successfully as their
neighbors. What if a nest be blown down now and then? The school-boy,
in passing, puts it back in its place and sees that every birdling
goes with it; while the old birds above him, shedding water like a
goose, thank him for his pains.
The orchardist who plants a mulberry-tree in his apple rows, though
he himself scorns the insipid sweetness of the fruit, ranks with any
philanthropist in that he foresees the needs of a little soul which
loves the society of man more than anything else in the world.
By the planting of the mulberry-tree he plants a thought in the
breast of his little son. "I don't like mulberries, father. What
makes you set out a mulberry-tree in an apple orchard?"
"For the robins, my son. Haven't you heard that luck follows the
robins?"
"What is luck, father?"
"Luck, my son, is any good thing which people make for themselves and
the folks they think about."
And the little boy sits down on a buttercup cushion and meditates
on luck, while he watches the robins knocking at the doors of the
soft-bodied larvæ, engaged in making luck for other folks. And the
boy's own luck takes the right turn all on account of his father
setting out a mulberry-tree.
Whole school-rooms full of children are known to be after the same
sort of luck when they plant a tree on Arbor Day; a cherry-tree or
mulberry-tree, or even an apple, in due time is sure to bring forth
just the crotch to delight the heart of mother robin in June. Not
that the robins do not select other places than apple-trees to nest
in. An unusual place is quite as likely to charm them. Let a person
interest himself a little in the robin's affairs and he will see
startling results by the summer solstice. An old hat in the crotch of
a tree, an inverted sunshade, or even a discarded scarecrow, terrible
to behold, left over from last year and hidden in the foliage, one
and all suggest possibilities to the robins.
Mud that is fresh and sweet is essential to a robin's nest. Stale,
bad-smelling, sour mud isn't fit for use. Sweet, clay-like stuff
is what they want. A pack of twigs made up loosely, soft grass and
fiber, all delight the nest-builders, who are as sure to select a
location near by, as they are sure to stay all summer near the farmer
on account of the nearness of food.
Anywhere from four to thirty feet one may find the nests with
little trouble, they are so bulky, all but the delicate inside
of them, which is soft as down; nest-lining being next thing to
nest-peopling--the toes of the little new people finding their first
means of clinging to life by what is next to them. A well-woven
lining gives young robins a delicious sense of safety, as they hold
on tight--the instinct to hold on tight being about the first in any
young thing, be it bird or human baby, except, perhaps, the instinct
of holding its mouth open.
Some people who do not watch closely suppose the young robin who
holds its mouth open the longest and widest gets the most food. We
are often mistaken in things. Mother robin understands the care of
the young, though she never read a book about it in all her life.
Think of her infant, of exactly eleven days, leaving the nest and
getting about on its own legs, as indeed it does, more to the
astonishment of its own little self than anybody else. And before the
baby knows it, he is singing with all the rest,
"Cheer up;
Cheerily, cheerily,
Cheer up."
The very same song we heard him sing within the Arctic circle, far up
to the snow line of the Jade Mountains, alternating his song with the
eating of juniper berries.
But one might go on forever with the robin as he hops and skips and
flies from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from Alaska to Mexico and
other parts; but one would never get to the end of loving him.
When poor robin at last meets with disaster and cannot pick himself
up again, in short, is "gone to that world where birds are blest,"
the leaves shall remember to cover him, while we imagine, with the
poet who thought it not time and talent wasted to write an epitaph to
the redbreast,
"Small notes wake from underground
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No prowling cat with whiskered face
Approaches this sequestered place;
No school-boy with his willow bow
Shall aim at thee a treacherous blow."
But the funeral of even a robin is a sad event; so we will bring him
back in the spring, for
"There's a call upon the housetop, an answer from the plain,
There's a warble in the sunshine, a twitter in the rain."