In one of the chimneys of the big house several families of Chimney
Swifts had built their homes. They had come north in April and flown
straight to this particular place. It was the family home of this
branch of the Swifts, and every year since great-grandfather Swift
discovered it, some of his children and grandchildren had come back
there to build. They were quite airy, and thought a great deal about
appearances. “Swifts are sure to be judged by the chimney in which
they live,” they said, “and there is no use in choosing a poor one
when there are good ones to be found.”
Nobody would have dared remind these Chimney Swifts that their
great-great-great-great-grandparents lived in hollow trees, if
indeed any of their friends knew it. They themselves never spoke of
the Swifts who still do so, and since they had always lived in a land
of chimneys, they did not dream of the times when there were none to
be found. Of course, before the white men came to this country Swifts
had to build in hollow trees.
[Illustration: THE CHIMNEY-SWIFT’S HOME. _Page 78_]
You can just imagine what a happy, busy place this chimney was in the
springtime, when last year’s nests were being torn down and new ones
were building. The older Swifts were there and those who were to keep
house for the first time. Then, of course, the younger ones had
married and brought new wives there, and they had to be introduced and
shown all over the chimney.
Some wanted to build nearer the top than others, and the older ones
were always advising the younger ones. It was so hard for a Swift
mother to remember that her married son was old enough to decide
things for himself; and many such mothers fluttered around the sons’
nests, telling them how to place each twig, and giving the new wives
advice as to how to bring up the babies who would soon come to live
with them.
This story is about a young couple who built the lowest nest of all.
They were dressed just alike in sleek, sooty, brown feathers, which
were of a lighter shade on their throats. Their necks and heads were
very broad, their bills short but able to open very wide; their wings
were longer than their tails, and the quills of their tail feathers
stuck out stiff and bare far beyond the soft, feathery part. The
Swifts are all very proud of these bare quills. “There are not many
birds,” they say, “who can show their quills in that fashion.”
These quills are very useful, too, for after a Swift has broken off a
tiny twig for his nest, he has to cling to the side of the chimney and
fix it into place, and he could not do this without supporting himself
by these tail quills. It is hard work building nests, and you can see
that it would be. They have to cling with both feet, support
themselves with their tails, put each tiny twig in place with their
bills, and glue it there with sticky saliva from their mouths or else
with tree-gum.
The young husband who was building his first home low down in the
chimney was a sturdy and rather wilful fellow, who was very sure what
he wanted, and just as sure that he was going to get it. When he said,
“I shall do this,” or, “I am going to have that,” other people had
learned to keep still. They sometimes had a smiling look around the
bill, but they said nothing. His wife was a sweet and sensible Swift
who never made a fuss about anything, or bragged of what she meant to
do. Still, other Swifts who watched them said that she had her way
quite as often as he had his.
It was really she who had chosen to build well down in the chimney.
Her husband had preferred to be near the top, and she had agreed to
that, but spoke of what would happen if one of their children should
fall out of the nest.
“There is no need of one falling out,” said Mr. Swift. “Tell them to
lie still and not push around. Then they will not fall out.”
Mrs. Swift fixed one of the feathers on the under side of her left
wing, and then remarked: “And you do not think it would disturb you to
have our neighbors passing all the time.”
“Yes, I do,” he replied. “I have thought so from the first, and I am
thinking that it might be well to build lower for that reason. Then we
could be passing the others instead.”
He flew down and pecked at the bricks in a few places to make sure
that he could fasten a nest securely. Then he came back to his wife.
“I have decided to build the lowest nest of all,” said he, “but you
understand it is not on account of the children. There is no sense in
their moving around in the nest.”
“I understand,” said Mrs. Swift, and he flew away for twigs while she
stayed behind to visit with her mother-in-law.
The mother-in-law’s eyes twinkled. “I believe my son said that his
children were not to move around in the nest,” she said with a laugh.
“I wonder how he is going to stop their doing so.”
“Tell them, I suppose,” answered young Mrs. Swift, smilingly. “Did he
push around at all when he was a baby?”
“He?” replied the older Swift. “He was the most restless child I ever
hatched. He will know more about bringing up children after he has
raised a brood or two. Don’t worry, my dear. It will come out all
right.” She flew off and the young wife went for twigs also, and
thought how happy she ought to be in having such a mother-in-law.
When the lowest nest was built and the four long pure white eggs were
laid in it, Mr. and Mrs. Swift were a very proud young couple. The
nest was so thin that one could see the eggs through it quite plainly,
but it was exceedingly stout and firm. It was not a soft nest, and it
had no real lining, although Mrs. Swift had laid in one especially
perfect grass blade “to give it style.”
That grass blade may be seen to this day by any one who cares to look
at the nest as it lies in a cabinet in the house. It was the only nest
in the chimney which had anything but twigs in it, and some people
wondered at Mrs. Swift’s taste. One stout elderly mother Swift said
“she supposed it was all right, but that she had never done such a
thing and her children had turned out all right.” However, young Mrs.
Swift smiled in her pretty way and did not talk back.
When they were planning for the four children whom they expected, Mrs.
Swift spoke of how patient they would have to be with them, but Mr.
Swift said: “They must be brought up to mind! If I tell a child once
to do a thing, that is enough. You will see how I bring them up.” Then
he ruffled up his feathers, puffed out his throat, and looked very
important.
They did most of their visiting in the beautiful night-time, for it is
a custom among their people to fly and hunt and visit in the dark, and
rest by day. Their busiest time is always just before the sun comes
up, and so it happened that the Little Boy who slept in the room below
did not often hear the rumbling noise in the chimney as they flew in
and out. When they were awakened he slept quietly in his snug little
bed, and as he was awakening, and stretching, and getting his dimples
ready for the day, the Swifts were going to sleep after a busy night.
When the baby Swifts broke their shells and were seen for the first
time by their loving father and mother, Mr. Swift was surprised to
find how small they were. Mrs. Swift murmured sweet words to them and
worked as hard as her husband to find them food. There were now so
many mouths to be fed that they flew by day as well as by night, and
often the Little Boy in the room below thought he heard distant
thunder when it was only the Swifts coming down the chimney with food
for their babies. All sorts of tiny winged creatures were brought them
to eat, for Swifts catch all their food as they fly, and that means
that they can feed upon only such creatures as also fly.
When they were stretching up to reach the food, Mrs. Swift would say
to the children: “Now learn to move carefully, for if you should get
over the edge of the nest you will tumble down into that fireplace of
which I have told you.”
When he was feeding them Mr. Swift would say: “You may open your
bills, but not one of you must move beyond that twig. Do you
understand?”
Three of them obeyed without asking questions, but the eldest brother
was always trying to see just how far he could go without tumbling,
and he would talk back to his father.
“You don’t care if I put one wing out, do you?” he would ask.
“Not one wing!” his father would answer.
“Why?” the son would ask. “I wouldn’t tumble just because I put one
wing out.”
“It is not minding me,” his father would say, “to see how far you can
go without tumbling. I did not tell you only to keep from falling
out. I told you to keep inside that twig.”
Then the son would pout his bill and act very sulky, getting close to
the twig which he had been told not to pass. When he thought his
father was not looking, he would even wriggle a little beyond it. Mrs.
Swift was worried, but what could she do? She noticed that her husband
did not talk so much as he used to about making a child mind the very
first time he is spoken to.
One night when the Swifts had fed their children faithfully, this son
was unusually naughty. It may be that he had eaten more than his share
or that he had picked for the biggest insect every time that lunch was
brought. It may be, too, that he was naughty simply because he wanted
to be. It does not always mean that a child is ill when he is naughty.
His father had just told him to be more careful, and he made a face
(yes, he did) and flopped aside to show what he could do without
falling.
Then he felt a tiny twig on the edge of the nest break beneath him,
and he went tumbling, bumping, and scraping down into the fireplace
below. He could not fly up, for his wings were not strong enough to
carry him up such a narrow space, and his parents could not get him.
He heard his brother and sisters crying and his mother saying that she
had always expected that to happen.
“Horrid old twig!” he said. “Don’t see why it had to break! Should
think they might build their nest stronger. I don’t care! I was sick
of being told not to wriggle, anyway!”
Then he fluttered and sprawled through a crack beside the screen of
the grate until he was out in the room. The Little Boy lay asleep in
the bed, and that frightened the young Swift. When they tried to
scare each other the children had always pretended that a Boy was
after them. He crawled behind a picture which leaned against the wall,
and stayed there and thought about his dear, dear home up in the
chimney.
The Little Boy stirred and awakened and called out: “Mother! Mother!
There is somefing making a scratching noise in my room. I fink it is a
Bear.”
The young Swift sat very still while the Lady came in and hunted for
the Bear. She never came near his hiding-place, and laughed at the
Little Boy for thinking of Bears. She told him that the only Bears
around their town were two-legged ones, and when he asked her what
that meant she laughed again.
He peeped out from behind the picture and saw the Little Boy dress
himself. He heard him say: “I can’t poss’bly get vese shoes on, but
I’ll try and try and try.” He thought how much pleasanter it was to
be a Swift and have all his clothes grow on, and to go barefoot all
the year.
He heard the Lady say: “Why, you precious Boy! You did get your shoes
on, after all.” Then he saw them go off to breakfast, racing to see
who would beat.
After they were gone, he fluttered out to the window, and there the
Lady found him, and the Little Boy danced around and wanted to touch
him, but didn’t quite dare. The Lady said: “I think this must have
been your Bear,” and the Little Boy said: “My teeny-weeny little bitty
Bear wiv feavers on.” He heard the Little Boy ask, too, why the bird
had so many pins sticking out of his tail, and this made him cross. He
did not understand what pins were, but he felt that anybody ought to
know about tail-quills.
He didn’t know much about Boys, for this was the first one he had
ever seen, and he wondered what those shiny white things were in his
mouth. He had never seen teeth and he could not understand. He
wondered how the Boy got along without a bill, and pitied him very
much. This Little Boy did not seem so very terrible. He even acted a
bit afraid of the Swift.
Next the young Swift felt himself lifted gently in the Lady’s hand and
laid in a box with soft white stuff in it and two small holes cut in
the cover. He was carried from room to room in the house and shown to
other people. Once he heard a queer voice say, “Meouw!” and then the
Little Boy stamped his foot and said: “Go way, Teddy Silvertip. You
can’t have my little bird, you hungry Cat.”
After this the young Swift was more scared than before, and would have
given every feather he had to be safely back in the nest in the
chimney. He was hungry, too, and he wanted to see his father and his
dear mother. He beat his wings against the sides of the box and cried
for his mother. “Oh,” he said, “if I were only back in the nest I
wouldn’t move. I wouldn’t move a bit.” Then the Cat mewed again and he
kept still from fright.
At last he was taken into the open air and placed in the top of a
short evergreen, where the Cat could not reach him. Here he clung,
weak and lonely and scared, blinking his half-blinded eyes in a light
brighter than he had yet seen. All the rest of that day he stayed
there, while his father and mother and their other children were
sleeping in the home nest. He expected never to see them again, but he
did want to tell them how sorry he was.
After the sun had set and the moon was shining, he saw his father
darting to and fro above him. “Father!” he cried. “Father, I am so
sorry that I moved past the twig. I was very naughty.”
His father heard and flew down to tuck a fat and juicy May Beetle into
his mouth. “You poor child!” said he. “Eat that and don’t try to talk.
You will not do such things when you are older. I will get you some
more food.”
When he returned Mrs. Swift was with him, and they petted and fed the
young Swift all night, never scolding him at all, because, as they
said, he had been punished quite enough and was sorry. And that was
true. His grandmother came also with a bit of food. She told him that
they would feed him every night and that he should hide in the
branches each day until his feathers were grown.
“In three days more,” said she, “you will be ready to fly, and you
look more like your father all the time. In three days more,” she
said, “if nobody eats you up.”
You can imagine how anxious the young Swift was during those three
days, and how small he tried to be when Silvertip was around.
“Surely,” he thought, “the sun and moon were never before so slow in
marking off the time.”
When at last he was ready for flight, Silvertip was under the snowball
bush near by. The young Swift sprang into the air. “Good-by, my Cat
friend,” said he. “You look hungry, but you have lost your best chance
at me. You should have been waiting at the grate for me. You might
have known that such a foolish young Swift as I would tumble down
sooner or later. All that saves some people is not having their
foolishness found out!”