"Every man who comes into the world has need of friends." What Ursa
Major thus profoundly observes of mankind, from China to Peru, might be
applied with special force to the blue jay, at least to those jays that
come into the world. Of the rest "deponent saith not." For by common
consent the blue jay is a rascal, nay even a villain; and to deepen his
turpitude to an infinity of wickedness, I have heard one uncherished
female with a disposition slightly acid liken him to a Man. Indeed, were
some of his detractors to be believed, there is scarcely a crime in the
whole avian calendar that has not been meditated upon and hatched in his
nest.
It is true that there are people of such impinging personality that
merely mild dislike with respect to them seems impossible. The reactions
they produce are violent. Their admirers, when they have any, pursue
their loyalty to an _O Altitudo!_ their enemies (and such are usually
legion) make of their names a hissing, and spit them out of the mouth.
To particularize, I might refer to a gentleman who was vigorously active
in the political unpleasantness of 1912. His friends saw in him a
Godefroy, come to lead the politically pure against the hordes of the
standpat infidels; his enemies, when they had wiped the froth from their
lips, turned the vocabulary of prayer to evil uses, and accused him of
being in league with the devil.
But these are merely individuals. The cases in which an indictment is
drawn up against a whole people are comparatively rare,--the Goths,
perhaps, the Turks, and the bloodthirsty Belgians, to bring it down to
modern times, will serve as examples. Just such an inclusive indictment
is brought against the jay. "I fear," says one amiable and authoritative
writer on bird life, "that the blue jay is a reprobate"; and in this
opinion most authorities concur. Are there not, then, three righteous
jays in all Israel? No, say his judges. Peradventure one? "Only in the
museums of natural history," they inexorably answer. All living jays are
impudent, profane, mischievous, cannibalistic, "the hul cussed tribe of
'em," as one exasperated gardener wrathfully declared to me.
Dear, dear! This is a terrible situation. Like Fuzzy Wuzzy, the poor
blue jay "'asn't got no papers of his own." Nor can he follow the
example of those benevolent corporations whose judicious investments in
advertising space temper the unshorn lamb to receive the shears in a
docile mood, and at the same time protect them from too close scrutiny
by the newspapers. He must bear the slings and air-guns of outrageous
boyhood with scarcely a voice raised in his behalf. It seems hardly
fair.
It is true that the jay is not delicate in his appetite. He cannot, like
the ethereal maiden whom Burton mentions, subsist for months on the
smell of a rose. I knew one old gentleman, to be sure, who secured a
brief respite from care, and achieved a state of mild hilarity, by
applying his nose to the mouth of a whiskey jug. But the jay enjoys not
these olfactive refections. He needs more substantial food. He is
omnivorous; and out of that important characteristic springs his most
reprehensible trait: he eats little birds.
One morning last summer I got up rather earlier than usual to transplant
some asters before the sun should come out hot. It was a calm,
breezeless morning, with scarcely a sound to disturb the cool quietude,
except the song of a robin on the top of the old maple. Heaven be
praised! we have no trolley cars in our village, and no factories.
Suddenly there broke out in the alley, the wildest commotion imaginable.
It sounded as though the sparrows from five counties were there, and had
eaten of the insane root. The air was filled with shrill cries, chirps,
and excited chatterings. I rushed to the fence, my fingers all mud, and
looked over. In the midst of a flock of sparrows forty or more in
number, all hopping about distractedly but none daring to attack him,
stood a big blue jay with his crest militantly erect. From time to time
he pecked at something, but what that something was, like Peterkin, I
could not well make out. At every stroke of his strong black beak the
cries of the sparrows shrilled louder; whenever he paused and looked
around in his truculent contempt, their frenzied crescendos somewhat
abated.
Curious, I drew nearer and discovered that the object of his unpleasant
attention was a young sparrow, a mere fledgeling, scarcely old enough to
be out of the nest. He was murderously pecking it in the eye. The wee
helpless thing fluttered weakly in its agony and cheeped piteously. I
grabbed up an empty fruit jar that had protected a rose cutting from the
blasts of winter, and hurled it at the jay. He flew screaming to a sour
cherry tree a short distance away, from which safe vantage point he
cursed me with every oath and revilement in his scandalous vocabulary.
The little sparrow I put out of its misery.
As I went back to my asters, I could not help reflecting on the scene I
had witnessed. I seemed to see in it a small counterpart of what had
happened in Europe. Here was little Servia in the person of this young
sparrow--something of a nuisance, perhaps, yet comparatively
defenseless. And here in the arrogant, domineering jay, relentless and
powerful, was Austria. A similitude might likewise be made out for
Belgium and Germany. And where, I wondered, did my own country come in?
With almost sinister significance a sleek bronze grackle, plump and
round, his eyes standing out with fatness, emerged leisurely from among
the currant bushes and gobbled up a worm. I had been vaguely aware of
his presence from the first, and now as I noted his well-fed
complacency, and remembered that he had been foraging around utterly
oblivious of the little tragedy being enacted in the alley, I lost my
patience and let fly a good-sized clod.
But jays are jays, and it were unfair to demand from them a standard of
conduct that even human beings, with all their centuries of moral
education, find it hard to apply. As a matter of fact the only jay I
ever caught red-beaked at such murderous work was the one in the alley,
and my field of observation has extended clear from the coast of Maine
part way to the Rocky Mountains. Yet if a man from Mars were to pick up
a bundle of newspapers, and could make out the strange little characters
imprinted thereon, he would probably infer that murder was a trade
common enough among human beings, particularly to-day. He would see it
as a highly organized and severely technical activity carried on by
whole nations under the direction of their respective governments. It
must be said, however, that although the sensitive nerve of national
honor seems oftenest to reside in the national belly, nations rarely
murder with the object of eating their victims. And those jays that
murder are censurable chiefly in this: they have learned so little from
humanity's civilized forbearance.
* * * * *
To tell the truth, the jay is not the fiercely courageous and militantly
aggressive biped his harsh cries and erected crest might lead one to
suppose. His aspect is doubtless frightful to some small birds, but most
of them recognize in him much of the Pistolian braggart. I have seen a
house-wren, about the size of a large colored gentleman's thumb, drive
him away from her vine-shaded dwelling. Robins quickly put him to
flight, and so, too, do catbirds and cardinals. Even the mourning dove
(gentlest of birds) does not fear to measure her mild weapons with his;
and one of the most amusing spectacles I ever witnessed was the comical
bluff of a dove who puffed out her breast, fierce as a lamb, and
literally pushed the swash-buckling blue jay clean off the feed board.
That the jay does not always exercise the discretion of which the timid
proverb speaks, the crown of my head can very well testify. One pleasant
afternoon, while I was breathlessly pursuing the phantom of an idea
through the syntactical mazes of a freshman theme, I became aware of the
sharp screaming of a pair of jays directly beneath my open window. I
glanced out and saw (item) one baby jay squatting all hunched up on the
close-cut lawn in the sunlight; (item) one long, lithe, black cat in the
shadow of the syringa bush, blinking its greedy yellow eyes and moving
its tail with a gentle, snaky, anticipatory motion; and (item) two
frantic parent jays darting viciously at the black sphinx, and shrieking
like a couple of suffragettes in the hands of a pair of miserable London
bobbies. I watched the little drama until I saw the cat quivering for
the spring; whereupon, forsaking the role of spectator, I threw my
bottle of red ink and drove the dark marauder from the field. Surely
never was preceptorial red ink put to more humane uses.
As I turned back to my themes, it occurred to me that here was the very
opportunity I had been looking for. My favorite hobby is taking bird
pictures, and I had long desired a picture of a young jay. Most
fledgelings bear a ludicrous likeness to very old men. They wear an
expression of solemn and pessimistic wisdom such as comes only to those
who have looked long on the vanities of mankind. And it has always
seemed to me that the infant jay bears a weird resemblance to England's
Grand Old Man, Mr. Gladstone, after he had passed the prime of old age.
Out of regard, then, for the great Liberal minister, and also because I
am no rifler of nests, I seized my old black hat and a camera, and
dashed downstairs. My plan was to drop the hat over the unsuspecting
fledgeling so that I could pick him up without any fuss, and pose him on
the grape-vine behind the house. But the young rascal, divining my
intention, hopped away, and kept with exasperating nicety just out of
reach. Finally, by dint of much scrambling along on my knees, taking
care to preserve as innocent an expression as I could, I managed to clap
the hat over him. But as I took him out from the sudden gloom, he gave
one terrified shriek, and the next instant BING! something sharp,
something penetrating, something entirely unexpected, struck me on the
head. It was the marvellously efficient beak of Mr. Jay.
I did not try to reason with him or placate him in wheedling tones. The
ambient air was too full of a shrapnel burst of screaming, darting,
pecking, whirling, shrieking blue jay. His shrill and angry cries,
moreover, called to his aid three other jays, and such a stream of
feathered Billingsgate followed as, I felt sure, must fix the eyes of
all the neighborhood upon me. And so I retreated to the house,
endeavoring in my gait to preserve that dignity of bearing which is
generally supposed to be the fruit of an academic life. But the jay,
with the uncomfortable persistence of a bee or a small heel-snapping
terrier, pursued me to the very door, and might have chased me upstairs
had it not been for the screen. After that I decided never again to
attempt kidnapping a jay without the protection of a policeman's helmet.
But the fierce detractors of the blue jay will doubtless scoff at this
as evidence of a sometimes resolute daring. I do not resent the implied
aspersion of my own courage; I am content to leave that to the judgment
of my readers. There is, however, one bit of commendation to which even
they must "assent with civil ear," as a freshman of mine put it. The
blue jay is almost humanly intelligent. Mind, I do not argue that he
can, offhand, give you the distinction between free verse and a page
from a real poet's note-book, or that he can explain precisely why
certain matters are deleted by the British censors. But with the
intrepidity of a new Congressman delivering a speech in the _Record_, I
dare assert, "without fear of _successful_ contradiction," that the blue
jay is among the most intelligent of feathered bipeds.
Not long ago, during a particularly sharp attack of bitter weather, with
frosty bayonets in the air but no snow on the ground, I was holding a
conference in the English office with one of my students, a girl whose
sweet deep eyes gave no flicker of understanding as I tried to make
clear to her the difference between a sentence and a clause. To conceal
my sorrow I stepped to the window and gazed off through the grayish-blue
beeches with their dead brown leaves shivering in the keen air, trying,
meanwhile, to recall what principle of pedagogic efficiency I had failed
to employ. Presently a blue jay with something white in its beak
alighted upon the twisted limb of a maple not a rod from the window, and
began a close inspection of the rough bark. He found what he was looking
for, a hole; and into this he thrust the white substance which he
carried in his beak, suet possibly, from the feed-board below, or a bit
of bread. He cocked his head on one side and eyed the little cache in a
thoughtful manner. Then he dropped to the ground.
I thought that was the end, but I was mistaken. Soon he shot up to the
limb, this time with a dead leaf in his beak. I watched intently and saw
him carefully lay the leaf over the hole where he had hidden the suet. A
gust of wind, however, blew the leaf off the limb, and sent it swirling
to the ground. Quick as a hawk the jay swooped after it in an
ineffectual attempt to capture it while it was still in the air. They
reached the ground together. Convinced apparently that the leaf was too
large, he selected another, much smaller, and carried it up to the limb.
This time he did not merely lay the leaf over the hole; he had learned
his lesson. Instead, he rammed the leaf into the hole on top of the
suet, a really difficult job, and packed it firmly with his beak. It was
safe from the other jays if not from the inquisitive redheaded
woodpecker who lived only a few branches away. Now all you host of
cocksure psychologists, was it instinct or reason that led the jay?
I know it has been argued that since a jay will attack a stuffed owl
placed near his nest, he must be without the power of reason. The test
seems hardly fair, for the ghoulish mystery of the taxidermist is known
to no animal but man. Thus at the very start the jay is laid under an
unreasonable handicap. Consider, too, the ingeniously cruel nature of
this test; it pierces him as it were in the eye of his most sensitive
instinct. Even human parents, faced by an ordeal at all comparable to
this in sudden poignancy, would scarcely act in a manner calmly
rational. What mother, leaving her infant slumbering in the cradle, and
suddenly returning to find a brutal visaged mannikin bent over it in a
posture of menace, would expend the millionth of a second in the
psychologist's reflective delay? Like the jay, she would act in such a
situation from instinct alone, nor would we consider her deficient in
intelligence.
But even if the jay were as stupid as an old-model political
prison-warden, or an English official in Ireland, which he indubitably
is not, I would still look upon him with an indulgent eye. The redbird
excepted, he is the sole bit of lively color in our winter landscape. No
matter how sharp the wind or deep the snow, you will find him foraging
among the low bushes or uttering his cheerfully vigorous _jay! jay!
jay!_ from the airy chambers of some tall, bare maple. And if you are of
that generous company who share their winter bounty with the birds, from
none of your feathered charity scholars will you receive more evident
tokens of full appreciation than from the maligned jay. He is as prompt
to the feeding board as an impecunious college professor to the bursar's
office at the end of the first quarter. To be sure, his table manners
are somewhat rude, but what he lacks in elegance he more than atones for
with a certain robust beef-and-pudding gusto that I have somehow come to
associate with Lord Macaulay.
It is in the spring, however, in the days of warm sunshine and clear
air, when the grass begins to quicken along the walks and around the
roots of the big elm-trees, when the vanguard of the crocus legions have
thrust their green spear-heads up through the sere lawn, and the buds on
the lilac bushes along the garden fence have begun to swell, that the
jay reveals how really amiable he can be. To many who do not know him
well it will come as a surprise to learn that he possesses vocal
attainments far beyond the harsh cry from which he takes his name. Under
the spell of love he becomes truly melodic. He will sit for ten minutes
at a time in the old black cherry-tree, and beginning with a soft,
prelusory, ventriloquial whistle, as though he were a musician testing
his flute, he will run through a series of little musical snatches
surprising in their mimetic variety. Now it will seem like a baby's
silver rattle, or like clear water gurgling over a sunny bed of pebbles;
again you will hear a note or two of the robin, or a plaintive echo of
the bluebird's song, or even the beautiful sliding legato of the
cardinal,--with a crack in it, perhaps.
As the head of a family the blue jay is exemplary. He is not one of
those who think they perform the whole duty of husbands when they preen
their gay feathers in the sunlight, or lift their voices in flattering
song, while their plain little wives build the nest, hatch the eggs, and
go in search of the nourishing worm. Not much! He believes that marriage
is a partnership involving equal duties and responsibilities; and so,
during the nesting season, you will see him busily at work, searching
for the best twigs, paper, string, tendrils, and rootlets obtainable. I
once saw a nest that had a piece of yellow paper sticking out of its
side, with the cryptic legend--_otes for wom_--plainly legible on it,
but I am not sure that it had any real significance. Feeding the young
jays, too, he considers part of his fatherly duties, and sometimes,
though not often, he even treats Mrs. Jay to a specially delicate tidbit
of bug or worm. If the latter should happen to be fuzzy, he will follow
his careful wife's example and thoroughly wipe the fuzz off on the rough
bark of some tree.
And he likes his bath; no monocled Englishman better. Indeed, if you
really wish to enjoy a treat, set a rusty shallow pan of water on your
lawn, not _too_ near the tulip-bed or shrubbery (Cats!), and see what
follows. If you have been thoughtful enough to place a stone or a piece
of brick near the rim of the pan, Mr. and Mrs. Jay will step right in
and enjoy a thorough wetting without much preliminary skirmishing. But
little Willie Jay and his four brothers will exhibit all the delicious
trepidation of childhood. While their parents are in the bath, they will
be bold enough, even to running up and allowing themselves to be
splashed on; but when it comes to actually entering the water, ugh! They
will linger around the edge of the pan, fluttering their wings, hop
across it, dip their beaks into the water, turn around, and splash the
water with their tails--in short, go through all the motions of a small
boy having his first "duck under" without the assuring grasp of his
father's strong hand. But once let them get in, and oh, what a joyous
splashing ensues, what a ruffling of feathers, what a beating of wings,
what a fan-like fluttering of the tail! Like most small boys, too, they
will stay in until they are thoroughly soaked, scarcely able, in fact,
to fly up to some sunny limb where they may preen themselves and dry off
out of harm's reach.
No, the jay is not an unprincipled scoundrel, not the bloodthirsty
reprobate he is sometimes made out to be. He has his faults, it is true,
properly censurable; but he has some very commendable virtues as well.
And I am sure that if the reader will watch his career as carefully as I
have, from his fledgeling childhood to his gay and dashing cavalier
youth, he will agree with me that the imaginations of the blue jay's
heart are not wholly evil.