flying, came riding down the sand stream toward my bush. Her colt reared
and pranced, but she sat as firmly as if she had been a small centaur.
It was a holiday, and she was staking out her horses to graze, making
gala-day work of it. She had one horse down by the little oak already,
and springing off the one she had brought, changed about, jumped as
lightly as a bird upon the other's back and raced home. Soon she came
galloping back again, and so she went and came until tired out, for pure
fun on her free holiday.
In looking over the bright memory pictures of my beautiful oak garden,
there is one to which I always return. The spreading trunks of a great
five-stemmed tree on one side of the grove made a dark oaken couch,
screened by the leafy willow-like branches that hung to the ground.
Here--after looking to see that there were no rattlesnakes coiled in the
dead leaves--I spent many a dreamy hour, reclining idly as I listened to
the free songs of the birds that could not see me behind my curtain. It
was interesting to note the way certain sounds predominated; certain
songs would absorb one's attention, and then pass and be replaced by
others. At one time a jay's scream would jar on the ear and drown all
other voices; when that had passed, the chewinks would fly up from the
leaves and sing and answer each other till the air was quivering with
their trills. Then came the thrashers, with their loud rollicking songs;
and when they had pitched down into the brush, out rang the clear
bell-like tones of the wren-tit, filling the air with sound. Afterwards
the impatient whipped-out notes of the chaparral vireo were followed by
the soft cooing of doves; and then, as the wind stirred the trees and
sent the loosened oak blossoms drifting to the ground, from high out of
an oak top came a most exquisite song. At the first note of this
grosbeak all other songs were forgotten--they were noise and
chatter--this was pure music. It was like passing from the cries of the
street into the hall of a symphony concert. The black-headed grosbeak
has not the spirituality of the hermit thrush, and his ordinary song is
not so remarkable, but his love song excels that of any bird I have ever
heard in finish, rich melody, and music. As I listened, my surroundings
harmonized so perfectly with the wonderful song echoing through the
great trees that the old oak garden seemed an enchanted bower. The
drooping branches were a leafy lattice through which the afternoon sun
filtered, steeping the oaks in thick still sunshine. Last year's leaves
drifted slowly to the ground, while the bees droned about the yellow
tassels of the blooming trees. As a violinist, lingering to perfect a
note, draws his bow again and again over the strings, so this rapt
musician dwelt tenderly on his highest notes, trolling them over till
each was more exquisite and tender than the last, and the ear was
charmed with his love song--a song of ideal love fit to be dreamed of in
this stately green oak garden filled with golden sunlight.
XIV.
A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.
ON a peg just inside the door of the ranchman's old wine shed hung one
of the horses' unused nosebags. A lad on the place told me that a wren
had a nest in it, and added that he had seen a fight between the wren
and a pair of linnets who seemed to be trying to steal her material.
The first time I went to the wine shed both wrens and linnets were
there, but nothing happened and I forgot about the original quarrel. By
peering through a crack in the boarding I could look down on the wren in
the nosebag inside. I could see her dark eyes, the white line over them,
and her black barred tail. She was Vigor's wren. She got so tame that
she would not stir when the creaking door was opened close by her, or
when people were talking in the shed; and I used to go often to see how
her affairs were progressing.
All her eggs hatched in time, and the small birds, from being at first
all eyeball, soon got to be all bill. When I opened the bag to look at
them, the light woke them up and they opened their mouths, showing
chasms of yellow throat.
The mother bird fed them several times when I was watching only a few
feet away. She would come ambling along in the pretty wren fashion, with
her tail over her back; creeping down the side of a lath, running behind
a rafter, scolding as though to make conversation, and then winding down
to the nest through a crack. One day she hesitated, and waited to spy at
me, since I had thought it polite to stare at her! When satisfied, she
hopped along from beam to beam, her bright eyes still upon me. Then her
mate joined her. He had been suspicious of me at our first meeting, but
apparently had changed his mind, for, seeing his spouse hesitate, he
glanced at me unconcernedly, as much as to say, "Is she all you're
waiting for?" and flew out, leaving her to my tender mercies. She hopped
meekly into the bag after that rebuke, but stretched up to peer at me
once more before settling down inside.
One day when I looked in to see how wren matters were progressing, to my
amazement and horror, instead of my wren's nest I found another, high in
the mouth of the bag with one fresh egg in it! The egg was a linnet's,
and the nest had been built right on top of the wren's. Such a stench
came from the bag that I took out the upper nest and found the four
little wrens dead in their crib.
[Illustration: The Nosebag Nest.
(Vigors's Wren.)]
I had become very fond of the winsome mother bird, and so much
interested in her brood that this horrid discovery came like a tragedy
in the family of a friend.
And what did it all mean? Unless the old wrens had been dead, could the
linnets have gotten possession? The wrens were usually able to hold
their own in a discussion. If the nestlings had been alive, would the
linnets--would any bird--have built upon them, deliberately burying them
alive? It seemed too diabolical. On the other hand, what could have
killed the little wrens and left them in the nest? If they had been dead
when the linnets came to build, how could the birds have chosen such a
sepulchre for a building site?
Grieving over my little friends, I cleaned out the nosebag and hung it
up on its peg. Three weeks later I discovered, to my great perplexity,
that a pair of wrens had built in the bottom of the bag and had one egg
in the nest. Now, was this the same pair of birds that had built there
before, and if so, what did it all mean?
XV.
HOW I HELPED BUILD A NEST.
THEY picked out their crack in the oak and began to build without any
advice from me, winning little gray-crested titmice that they were.
Their oak was right behind the ranch-house barn; I found it by hearing
the bird sing there. The little fellow, warmed by his song, flitted up
the tree a branch higher after each repetition of his loud cheery
_tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit'_. Meanwhile his pretty mate,
with bits of stick in her bill, walked down a crack in the oak trunk.
Thinking she had gone, I went to examine the place. I poked about with a
twig but couldn't find the nest till, down in the bottom of the crack, I
spied a little gray head and a pair of bright eyes looking up at me. The
bird started forward as if to dart out, but changed her mind and stayed
in while I took a hasty look and fled, more frightened than she by the
intrusion.
The titmice had been flying back and forth from the hen-yard with
chicken's feathers, and it seemed such slow work for them I thought I
would help them. So the next day, when the pair were away, I stuffed a
few white feathers into the mouth of the nest and withdrew under the
shadow of the barn to watch through my glass without being observed.
Then my conscience began to trouble me. What if this interference should
drive the gentle bird to desert her nest?
[Illustration: The Plain Titmouse in her Doorway.]
When I heard the familiar chickadee call--the titmouse often chirrups
like his cousin--it made me quake guiltily. What would the birds do? The
gray pair came flying in with crests raised, and my small friend hopped
down to her doorway. She gave a start of surprise at sight of the
feathers, but after a moment's hesitation went bravely in! While she was
inside, her mate waited in the tree, singing for her; and when she came
out, he flew away with her. Then I crept up to the oak, and to my
delight found that all the feathers had disappeared. She evidently
believed in taking what the gods provide. In fact, she seemed only to
wish that they would provide more, for, after taking a second supply
from me, she stood in the vestibule, cocked her crested head, and looked
about as if expecting to see new treasures.
She had common-sense enough to take what she found at hand, but if she
had not been such a plucky little builder she would have been scared
away by the strange sights that afterwards met her at her nest. Once
when she came, feathers were sticking in the bark all around the crack.
She hesitated--the rush of her flight probably fanned the air so the
white plumes waved in her face--she hesitated and looked around timidly
before getting courage to go in; and on leaving the nest flew away in
nervous haste; but she was soon back again, and ready to take the
feathers down inside the oak. She caught hold of the tip of one that was
wedged into a crack, and tugged and tugged till I was afraid she would
get discouraged and go off without it. She got it, however, and drew it
in backwards. Then she attacked another feather, but finding that it
came harder than the first, let go her hold and took an easier one. She
was not to be daunted, though, and after stowing away the loose one came
back for the tight one again, and persevered till she bent it in several
places, besides breaking off the tip.
When she had flown off, I jumped up, ran to the oak, and stuffed the
doorway full of feathers. Before I had finished, the family sentinel
caught me--I had been in too much of a hurry and he had heard me walking
over the cornstalks. He eyed me suspiciously and gave vent to his
disapproval, but I addressed him in such friendly terms that he soon
flew off and talked to his mate reassuringly, as if he had decided that
it was all right after all. After their conversation she came back and
made the best of her way right down through the feather-bed! I went away
delighted with her perseverance, and charmed by her confidence and
pretty performances.
The next day I heard the titmouse singing in an elder by the kitchen,
and went out to see how the birds acted when gathering their own
material. The songster was idly hunting through the branches, singing,
while his mate--busy little housewife--was hard at work getting her
building stuff. She had something in her beak when I caught sight of
her, but in an instant was down on the ground after another bit. Then
she flew up in the tree looking among the leaves; in passing she swung
a moment on a strap hanging from a branch; then flew down among the
weeds, back up in the tree again; and so back and forth, over and over,
her bill getting fuller and fuller.
I was glad to save her work, and interested to see how far she would
accept my help. Once when I blocked the entrance with feathers and
horsehair she stopped, and, though her bill was full, picked up the
packet and flew out on a branch with it. Was she going to throw away my
present? For a moment my faith in her was shaken. Perhaps her mate had
been warning her to beware of me. She did drop the mat of
horsehair--what did such a dainty Quaker lady as she want of
horsehair?--but she kept tight hold of one of the feathers, although it
was almost as big as she was; and flew back quickly to the nest with it.
This performance proved one point. She would not take everything that
was brought to her. She preferred to hunt for her own materials rather
than use what she did not like. Now the question was, what did she like?
My next experiment was with some lamp wick to which I had tied bits of
cotton. The titmouse took the cotton and would have taken the wicking, I
think, if it had not been fastened in too tight for her. After that I
tried tying bits of cotton to strings, and letting them dangle before
the mouth of the nest. Though I moved up to within twenty feet of the
nest, she paid no attention to me but hurried in. She liked the cotton
so well she stopped in her hallway, reached up to pull at the white
bundles, and tweaked and tugged till, finally, she backed triumphantly
down the hole with one.
Her mate, less familiar with my experiments, started to go to the nest
after her, but the sight of the cotton scared him so he fled
ignominiously back into the treetop. He stayed there singing till she
came out, when he flew up to her with a dainty he had discovered--at
least the two put their bills together; perhaps it was just a caress,
for they were a tender, gentle little pair.
Having proved that my bird liked feathers and cotton, I wanted to see
what she thought of straws. Apparently she did not think much of them.
She looked very much dashed when she came home and found the yellow
sticks protruding from the nest hole. She hesitated, turned her head
over, flew to a twig on one side of the oak and then back to one on the
other side. Finally she mustered courage, and with her crest flattened
as if she did not like it, darted down into the hole. When she flew out,
however, she went right to her mate, and forgetting all her troubles at
sight of him, fluttered her wings and lisped like a young bird as she
put up her bill to have him feed her.
Perhaps it was unkind to bother the poor bird any more, but I meant her
no harm and the fever for experiment possessed my blood. I tied some of
the straws to a piece of wicking and baited it with feathers, thinking
that perhaps she would take the straws for the sake of the feathers and
wicking. I also stuffed the hole with horsehair. She did pull at the
feather end of the line; I saw the straw jerk, and, when she had left,
found a round hole the brave little bird had made right through the
middle of the mat of horsehair I had stopped the nest with.
Straws and horsehair the titmouse evidently classed together. They were
not on her list of building materials. On reflection she decided that
the horsehair would make a good hall carpet, so left it in the
vestibule, though she would have none of it down in her nest; but she
calmly threw my straws down on the ground at the foot of the oak.
I don't know what experiments I might have been tempted to try next had
I not suddenly found myself dismissed--the house was complete. My pretty
Quaker lady sat in the shade of the oak leaves with crest raised and the
flickering sunlight flecking her gray breast. She pecked softly at one
of the white feathers that blew up against her as she listened to the
song of her mate; and then flew away to him without once going to the
nest. Evidently her work was done, and she was waiting till it should be
time to begin brooding.
Ten days later I saw her mate come with his bill full of worms and lean
down by the hole to call her. She answered with a sweet pleading
twitter, and reached up to be fed. When he had gone, perhaps she thought
she would like a second bite. At any rate, she hopped out in the doorway
and flew off to another tree, calling out _tsché-de-de_ so sweetly he
would surely have come back to her had he been within hearing.
A few days later I saw him feed her at the nest five or six times in
half an hour. He would come to the next oak, light and call to her, when
she would answer from inside the tree trunk and he would go to her. I
was near enough to see her pretty gray head and black eyes coming up out
of the crack in the oak. Sometimes when he had fed her he would call out
and she would answer as if saying good-by from down in the nest. One
morning I found the devoted little mate bringing her breakfast to her at
half past six.
Nearly a month later they were feeding their young. The winsome mother
bird, who had looked so tired and nest-worn the last time I saw her, was
now as plump and happy as her spouse. When I thought the pair were away,
I went to try to get sight of the nestlings down the hole. The old birds
appeared as soon as I set foot by the oak and took upon themselves to
scold me. They chattered softly in a way they had never done before.
They quickly got used to me again, however, and fed the little ones
without hesitation right before me, knowing full well that a person who
had helped them build their nest would never harm their little brood;
and it was a disappointment when I had to go away and leave the winning
family.
XVI.
IN OUR NEIGHBOR'S DOOR-YARD.
THE little German girl with the scarlet pinafore was a near neighbor,
living at the head of the valley in a cottage surrounded by great
live-oaks. These trees were alive with birds. Bush-tits flew back and
forth, busily hanging their gray pockets among the leafy folds of the
drooping branches; blue jays flew through, squawking on their way to the
brush; goldfinches, building in the orchard, lisped sweetly as they
rested in the oaks; and a handsome oriole who was building in the grove
flew overhead so slowly he seemed to be retarded by the fullness of his
own sweet song. But I had become so fond of the gentle gray titmouse
whose nest I had helped to build, that of all the bird songs in the
trees, its cheery _tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit'_ was most enticing to
me. How delightful it would be to watch another pair of the winning
workers! I did see one of the birds enter a hollow branch, one day, and
not long after saw it go down a hole in an oak trunk; but never saw it
afterwards in either place. Back and forth I followed that elusive
voice, hoping to discover the nest, but I suspect the bird was only
prospecting, and had not even begun to work.
The little German Gretchen became interested in the search for the
titmouse's nest, and told me that a gray bird had built in an oak in
front of her house. I rode right over to see it, but found the gray bird
a female Mexican bluebird, whose brilliant ultramarine mate sat on the
fence of the vegetable garden in plain sight. The children kept better
watch of the nest after that, and a few days later, when in my attic
study, I heard the tramp of a horse, and, looking out, found my little
friend under the window, come to tell me that the eggs had hatched. When
her older sister came for the washing I asked her if she had seen the
old birds go to the nest, and she said, "Yes; one was blue and the other
gray."
When I rode up again, the young had grown so that from the saddle I
could look down the hole and see their big mouths and bristling
pin-feathers. The mother bird was about the tree, and her soft dull
coloring toned in well with the gray bark. The bluebirds had a double
front door, and went in one side to come out the other. I saw both of
them feed the young, the male flying into the hole straight from the
fence post.
It seemed such hard work finding worms out in the hot sun that I
wondered if birds' eyes ever ached from the intentness of their search,
and if there were near-sighted birds. Perhaps the intervals of feeding
depend on the worm supply rather than the dietary principles of the
parents.
Gretchen's mother was bending over her wash-tubs out under the oaks, and
I called her attention to the pretty birds brooding in her door-yard,
telling her that they were good friends of hers, eating up the worms
that destroyed her flowers and vegetables. "So?" she asked, but seemed
ready to let the subject drop there, and hurried back to her work. A
poor widow with a large family of children and a ranch to look after can
find little time, even in beautiful California, to enjoy what Nature
places in her door-yard.
Three weeks later Gretchen came riding down to tell me that there were
eggs in the tree again. The bluebird bid fair to be as hardworked as the
widow, at that rate, I thought, when I went up to look at them. The
children showed me the nest of a goldfinch, near the ground, in one of
the little orange-trees in front of the house. They also pointed out
linnets' nests in the vines by the door, and the oldest child said
eagerly, "When we came home from school there was a hummingbird in the
window, and we caught it," adding, "I think it must have been a father
hummingbird." "Why?" I asked, "was it pretty?" "Yes, it just shined,"
she exclaimed enthusiastically.
When the family were at home, their puppy would bark at us furiously,
and follow us about suspiciously, but when he had been left on the
ranch alone he was glad of our society. Then when I watched the
bluebirds, he came and curled down by my side, becoming so friendly that
he actually grew jealous of Billy, and turned to have me caress him each
time that the little horse walked up to have the flies brushed off his
nose, or having pulled up a bunch of grass by the roots, brought it for
me to hold so that he could eat it without getting the dirt in his
mouth.
Going home one day, Billy came upon a gopher snake. Now Canello had been
brought up in a rattlesnake country, and was always on his guard, but
Billy was 'raised' in the mountains, where snakes are scarce, and did
not seem to know what they were. He had given me a good deal of anxiety
by this indifference--he had stepped over a big one once without seeing
any need for haste--and I had been expecting that he would get bitten.
Here, then, was my chance to give him a scare. The gopher snake was
harmless; perhaps, if I could get him so close to it that he would see
it wriggle away from under his feet, he might be less indifferent to
rattlers.
The gopher snake was three or four feet long, and lay as straight as a
stick across our path. As I urged Billy up beside it, he actually
stepped on the tip of its tail. The poor snake writhed a little, but
gave no other sign of pain; its rôle was to remain a stick. And Billy
certainly acted as if it were. I threw the reins on his neck, thinking
that if he put his head down to graze he might make a discovery. Then a
horrid thought came to me. The people said the rattlers sometimes lost
their rattles. In a general way, rattlers and gopher snakes look alike;
what if this were a rattlesnake, and at my bidding my little horse
should be struck! But no. There was no mistaking the long tapering body
of the gopher, and it lacked the wide flat head of the rattler. But I
might have spared myself my fears. Billy would not even put his head
down, and when I tried to force him upon the snake he quietly turned
aside. To make the snake move, I threw a stick at it, but it was as
obstinate as Billy himself. Then I slipped to the ground, and picking up
a long pole gave it a gingerly little poke. Still motionless! I tried
another plan, taking Billy away a few yards. Then at last the snake
slowly pulled itself along. But the moment we came back it turned into a
stick again, and Billy relapsed into indifference. It was no use. I
could do nothing with either of them. I would see the snake go off,
anyway, I thought, so withdrew and waited till it felt reassured, when
it started. Its silken skin shone as it wormed silently through the
grass and disappeared down a hole without a sound, and I reflected that
it might also come _up_ without a sound, very likely beside me as I sat
on the dead leaves!
[Illustration]
XVII.
WHICH WAS THE MOTHER BIRD?
THE second time I went to California the little whitewashed adobe
opposite my ranch was still standing, but an acacia-tree had grown over
the well where the black ph[oe]be had nested, and the shaft was so
overrun with bushes and vines that it was hard to find a trace of it.
Drawn by pleasant memories, I rode in one morning, sure of finding
something interesting about the old place.
I had not waited long before the chip of a young bird came from the
vines over the well. It proved a callow nestling, with no tail, and
little to mark its parentage. Presently a brown long-tailed wren-tit
came with food in its bill and peered down through the leaves at it; and
then a California towhee came and sat around till satisfied as to whose
child was crying. A moment later a lazuli bunting flew over with food in
her bill, and I at once bethought me of the lazuli-like markings, the
brownish wing-bars and the sharp cry of "quit," which none but a lazuli
could give. That surely was my bird.