October had gone. In north central Illinois many trees had lost all
their gaily colored leaves; others were fast becoming bare. With the
exception of a few goldenrod and aster blooms, the splendid autumn
flowers were buried in banks of dead leaves. The sun cast daily smaller
shadows. Only once in a while could the tree sparrow capture a belated
beetle. The quiet of the woods was broken by the busy little Mr.
Squirrel gathering his winter’s nuts.
The pecking of Woodpecker Brothers & Company was busily kept up; but
most of the sweet-voiced birds had gone south.
The merry voices of gay nutting parties were drowned in the rustling of
dry leaves. Even Mrs. Chipmunk was startled if she heard before she saw
her own Mr. Chipmunk coming toward her. The woods seemed almost
lifeless.
Missing the bustling, restless life of their active summer neighbors,
the birds still in the forest were beginning to feel lonesome. Some were
loth to leave their homes and familiar places. Others who were touched
with a desire to join the rovers were unwilling to forsake their old
friends when skies were so dark and days so dreary.
Finally they agreed to call a mass meeting to see if they could agree to
all go or to all stay together.
Then arose the question of how to get word to all the birds. Although he
knew that he was out of tune, cheerful yellow-breasted Mr. Meadowlark
said that he would do his best at whistling through the meadows for the
purpose of letting his neighbors know of the meeting. Mr. Bob White
agreed that instead of always calling his own name, he would go through
the fields and along the edges of the timber where he was best known,
calling his comrades.
Mr. Blue Jay, Mr. Black Crow and Mr. Black-Capped Chickadee, who are
always in voice, were urged to help. Mr. Crow was asked if he could not
call “come” as easily as “caw.” Upon making a trial he found that he
could. Since he has no fear either in the fields or near the towns, he
was sent to scour the country roundabout. Mr. Chickadee, who keeps a
summer cottage in the thick woods, was asked to see that all the timber
birds were called.
As the season was daily growing more cheerless, and as it was feared
that some birds might not promptly obey the summons, the fearless,
fighting Mr. Jay was told to arrest all heedless or laggard birds. As
this command just suited Officer Jay, he started off in high spirits.
Having no patrol wagon at his call, he took along Mr. Chickenhawk to
help him manage those who must be brought by force.
Although they said that they were anxious to have all the birds present,
the Woodpecker Brothers and their partner, Mr. Nuthatch, said that they
could not drop their work to roam over the state, but that they would
help by pecking and pounding as noisily as they could so that the
gathering birds might know in just which timber to alight.
At last the day for the meeting came. The sky was sunny, but the air was
chill. It was about the middle of November and the days were growing
shorter and shorter. You would be surprised to know how many different
birds were present.
The great strong Mr. Bald Eagle was chosen to conduct the meeting. This
he did in good style. He told the object of the meeting in a little
speech: “Neighbors, friends and relations,” he said, “we have come
together to discuss a very important matter. Spring came with all its
beauties, fresh promises of life and new chances. Warmed with renewed
vigor, we began our year’s work with great vim. You all know how hard
every one of us has worked in building a home and rearing a family.
Summer, with its plenty, has passed and our children are grown. Shall we
join those of our old neighbors who have already left for other homes in
the sunny southland? Or, shall we face the winter’s storm and cold here?
Let us hear from every one present. Which shall we do?”
As everyone waited for someone else to speak first, it was as quiet as
Quaker meeting. After waiting a while, as jolly Mr. Robin is so well
known and liked, Chairman Eagle called upon him. Robin replied: “My
summer in Illinois has been a pleasant one. Here are many fond ties.
Wife and I have had a cosy home in which we have raised four of our five
children. They are now happily flying about. We have but one sorrow. A
cruel stone from a sling-shot killed our other baby.” Here Mrs. Robin
cried so that he could not go on until he had pulled out his
handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Her cousins, Mrs. Thrush and Mrs.
Bluebird, tried to quiet Mrs. Robin by fanning her and holding some
smelling salts to her nose. Choking back a lump in his throat, Mr. Robin
went on talking. “We have found strawberries, mulberries, cherries and
other fruits in plenty, and have never lacked for insects that are our
reliance for food. But winter with ice and snow is coming. Jack Frost
has already been here and has driven away most of our bugs and worms.
Our bills are not strong enough to crack nuts. Wild berries which we can
eat are almost gone. Unless the kind children scatter us plenty of
crumbs, if it freezes so hard that we can get no more insects, sorry as
we are to leave, we must go to a warmer country. But we will go no
farther than we must, and will return as soon as we can. We remember
that last year in December there was a spell warm enough for bugs to
creep out and we came back for a five days’ visit. We prefer to remain
if we can get a living.”
This started them all to talking, and they had to be called to order.
Singer Bluebird said that he, like the Robins, cannot do without his
bugs and worms, and must go where he can get them or starve.
Mr. Quail, who likes to be called Bob White, said: “My dear plain little
wife and my children very much prefer bugs. We are all so fond of them
that we relish even potato beetles. Yet, in winter time—unless they are
covered by a deep snow, we can find grains, weed seed and other things
which will keep us from starving. In that case, we can go to the poultry
yard and eat with the chickens. We fear freezing most. After all the
good work which we do for the farmer, he might well afford to provide us
a shelter. But it is to be supposed that he does not think of it.
However, we will risk staying here.”
Two chums, Mr. Crow Blackbird and Mr. Red-Winged Blackbird, who had been
driven from a marshy place by Blue Jay, sat side by side on the same
limb and were having fine sport making faces and winking at each other
while the speeches were being made. Both can help the farmer. Mr. C.
Blackbird can eat mice and the scattered corn kernels. Mr. R. W.
Blackbird can pick smartweed, ragweed and other weed seeds. Yet both
declared that they could not get along without insects and they did not
mean to try. “Down south,” said Mr. R. W., “if insects are scarce, there
are plump rice kernels which taste better than old weed seed.”
Up spoke Mr. Common Crow: “I would not be so particular. I teach my
children to eat corn and mice and we can find both around the corn-crib.
And we can always find a frozen apple in the orchard, or some potatoes
or turnips in the garden, or a forgotten pumpkin in the field. These
taste very good. If we are very hungry, we can pick up dead rabbits and
birds. We will stay so as to be here when the farmer begins his spring
work. We are not afraid of his scarecrows. They never hurt us. We help
the farmer so much that he will surely let us get a living around the
farm. He will never miss what we eat.”
A pair of Turtle Doves on a limb of a neighboring tree softly sang,
“Coo, coo, we will stay, too.”
There were several of the Woodpeckers present. The little
black-and-white one with red patches on the sides of his neck, who is
called Downy Woodpecker, tried to speak for the whole family. “We all
must have our insects. God has given us long, strong bills so that we
can peck holes into the wood in which bugs and grubs are hidden.
Sometimes merely our tapping charms them so that they crawl out for us.
If they do not, we can run out our long tongues and catch those beyond
the reach of our bills.”
His big red-headed brother went on: “Oh, yes! we can find enough to eat.
I can leave the trees for hunting places for the rest of the family.
There is plenty of food good enough for me in fence posts and telegraph
poles. Besides, I can eat cedar berries, nuts and other things. No need
for me to go off on a tramp in search of food. Ha, ha!” chuckled he, “I
have already begun to lay aside for winter. You’ll not catch me starving
here. I know just where to find knot holes, cracks in railroad ties,
loose pieces of bark and loose shingles on houses which hold a good
supply of beech nuts and acorns. If I find an apple on the tree, I can
bore into it for the seeds. Then there are choice bits to be found
around the cow sheds and barns. We have no thought of going away.”
The pair of Turtle Doves nestled closer together and again sang, “Coo,
coo—we will stay, too.” Everybody smiled at their loving peace of mind.
“I have already begun to hollow out a hole in a high tree for my winter
home,” said Downy Woodpecker.
“So have I,” said the pretty Golden Winged Woodpecker, who is nicknamed
High Hole; “and it is in a place that just suits me in the tip top of a
very tall tree.”
Mr. Nut Hatch rose to his feet. “I too hammer into cracks and holes such
things as sunflower seeds, corn and nuts for winter use. Mr. Chickadee
and I have agreed to work together. I hunt only on the trunks and larger
limbs, leaving the smaller branches for friend Chickadee. If he can not
find quite enough he knows how to hunt around houses. Children who see
him only when snow is on the ground call him Snowbird and sometimes
kindly throw him crumbs.”
“I can eat buds of some trees and seeds, too,” added Mr. Chickadee.
Just then a Northern Shrike alighted in their midst. In an instant there
was a flutter of great alarm. The cool headed chairman bade everybody to
sit still and he would see to it that nobody was hurt. Because of his
cruelty, you know, the Shrike is often called Mr. Butcher Bird. He
catches other birds which he hangs on great thorns while he tears and
eats their flesh. Even the English Sparrows are afraid of him.
Chairman Eagle explained the purpose of their meeting and Mr. Shrike
promised to hurt no one. Looking around he said, “I have just come from
my summer home in the north to spend the winter with you. I see gay
little Winter Wren hopping around. As soon as there comes a northern
snowfall heavy enough to cover the weed seeds there Mr. and Mrs. Snow
Bunting will join us.”
“How glad we will be to see them; glad to see them!” chattered happy
Chickadee. “We will have a jolly game of snowball. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
Da-da-day!” And he hopped along and around a branch one of the most
lighthearted creatures living.
Mr. English Sparrow wished to say something. “Our flock can always find
a warm place and something—”
Just then a hoarse voice was heard calling, “Who, who, who, who,
ar-r-r-re you?” As the feathered people must ever be on the alert to
protect their lives, in a second all was as quiet as the grave. Thinking
that some better dressed bird only meant to make fun of him and his many
wives Mr. English Sparrow flew into a passion and began to pull off his
coat.
Mr. Eagle told the crowd that there was no need of a scare. “That,” said
he, “is only Mr. Barred Owl in yon tree. He has been roused by our
talking. Put on your coat, foolish Mr. Sparrow.”
Mr. Jay could not let slip the chance to twit his neighbor. “Ha, ha!”
said he; “you had better get enough more wives to teach you how to
behave yourself.”
Everyone looked around laughing. Thinking that night had come and that
his friends from the next timber had come to make a call, Mr. Owl again
broke out: “He-he-he-he, hi-hi-hi-hi, ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Mr. English Sparrow was vexed and ashamed, but being afraid to get into
a fight he flew off.
As it was getting late in the day the chairman said that the meeting
must close. “It is useless to talk longer,” said he. “It is plain that
our pretty Meadow Larks and other insect eating birds must move or
starve. We shall be very sorry to see them leave and hope to meet them
again on their return next spring. They are needed at the south. May God
speed their journey.
“But some of us must remain or shirk our duty. The Turkey Buzzards and
their helpers must be here to clean up the fields and groves and to
clear away dead things washed ashore. If these things are not done the
foul air next spring may make much sickness. Woodpeckers must keep at
their work or plants will suffer next summer. Those who can eat seeds
must be active or the farmers will not be able to keep down the weeds.
Grouse, Jay, Wax Wing and others who can manage berries and nuts must
not leave or in a few years trees and underbrush will be so thick that
there will not be room for them to branch out. Even our hated Mr.
English Sparrow is needed to pick up droppings in the street and waste
around houses. We are all needed—each to do his own bit of work in his
own place and way. Although that may not be just what we prefer, may we
all do our duty just as cheerfully as man’s friend, Mr. Turkey Buzzard,
does his unpleasant tasks.”
Loveday Almira Nelson.
[Illustration: FIELD SPARROW.
(Spizella pusilla.)
⅘ Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
THE FIELD SPARROW.
(_Spizella pusilla._)
A bubble of music floats
The slope of the hillside over;
A little wandering sparrow’s notes;
And the bloom of yarrow and clover,
And the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry leaf,
On his ripple of song are stealing;
For he is a chartered thief,
The wealth of the fields revealing.
—Lucy Larcom, “The Field Sparrow.”
The Field Sparrow is the smallest of our sparrows and is quite easily
distinguished from the other species by its reddish bill. The common
name is misleading, and perhaps it would be more appropriate to call
this bird the Bush Sparrow, a name by which it is frequently known.
Instead of the field it seems to prefer the pasture, with its weeds and
bushes. It will also frequent the shrubby thickets that follow the
removal of a forest. This shy bird has a somewhat extensive range, which
includes the eastern United States and Southern Canada. It passes the
winter months chiefly in those states south of the Ohio river.
The Field Sparrow when frightened does not retreat to the cover of
foliage, as does the Song Sparrow, but flies to an exposed position on
top of bush or low tree, where it can watch and await developments. In
the fall they frequently gather in small flocks. If disturbed all will
fly to the nearest bushes, and in perching will cluster close together.
The Field Sparrow is all the more interesting because of its shyness.
Mr. Keyser speaks of it as “a captivating little bird, graceful of form
and sweet of voice, singing his cheerful trills from early spring until
far past midsummer. The song makes me think of a silver thread running
through a woof of golden sunshine, carried forward by a swinging shuttle
of pearl.” Mr. Chapman says: “There is something winning in his
appearance; he seems such a gentle, innocent, dove-like little bird. His
song is in keeping with his character, being an unusually clear,
plaintive whistle, sweeter to the lover of birds’ songs than the voice
of the most gifted songstress.” It is not possible to describe the song
in words, for it varies greatly. No two birds seem to have the same song
and the same bird may vary its song. Locality also seems to affect its
character. It is the sweetest at the going down of the sun and in the
early twilight. To hear it then, in the absence of all other sounds, is
indeed soul inspiring.
Its delicate nest, too, becomes the lovely character of this little
bird. This small house is usually placed near the ground in a low shrub,
or on the ground where it is well protected by tall grasses. The nests
are not usually found near fence rows, but rather in less public places,
on hillsides and nearer the center of the field. When possible, a thorny
bush is chosen. The nest is constructed of fine grasses and very fine
roots loosely woven together and lined with finer grasses, hair and the
delicate bark fibers.
Writing of the finding of a Field Sparrow’s nest near the top of a hill,
some one has said: “How ‘beautiful for situation’ is this tiny cottage
on the hill! Here the feathered poets may sit on their leafy verandas,
look down into the green valleys and compose verses on the pastoral
attractions of Nature. One is almost tempted to spin a romance about the
happy couple.”