(SEPTEMBER)
On the housetop, one by one
Flock the synagogue of swallows
Met to vote that Autumn's gone.
--_Gautier: "Life."_
FARMERS WHO WEAR FEATHERS
Sh! Go easy! Pretend you're a horse or a cow.[21] We've gone south with
the swallows--it's September you see--and those queer birds over there
are flamingoes. The flamingoes are a shy lot; I don't know why. I can't
think it's on account of their looks; for there's the kiwi, the
hornbill, and sakes alive--the puffins! _They_ all have funny noses,
too, but none of them are particularly shy, and you can walk right up to
a Papa Puffin almost. Whatever the reason is, the flamingoes are very
easily frightened and they're particularly suspicious of human beings.
Yet we've simply got to meet them and have them in this chapter, for
they are among the most interesting of the feathered workers of the
soil. They just live in mud; build those tower-like nests out of it,
walk about in it, and get their meals by scooping up mud and muddy water
from the marshes where they live, on the borders of lakes and seas. They
strain out the little creatures wiggling about in these scooped-up
mouthfuls.
[21] Observers find that flamingoes can be successfully approached
by putting on the skin of a cow or a horse.
I. FEATHERED FARMERS WITH QUEER NOSES
"What a funny nose! What happened to it?"
I knew you'd say that. Everybody does. But just watch now and see. That
flamingo over there, stalking about on his stilt-like legs, sticks his
long neck down to the muddy water, turns that funny nose upside down
and----
"Why, of all things, is he going to stand on his head?"
WHY FLAMINGOES HAVE SUCH FUNNY NOSES
No, not that. Don't you see, he's getting his dinner? After that crooked
scoop bill--for that's what it really is, a scoop--is filled, the water
strains out through ridges along the edge of the bill and what's left is
his food.
That picture looks as if it had a tremendous lot of flamingoes in it,
doesn't it? It has. It's quite a town, Flamingoburg is. Although
flamingoes are so wary about meeting two-legged people without
feathers--that is, human beings--they're very sociable among themselves
and there may be a thousand, even two thousand, pair in a single
flamingo city, such as Doctor Chapman studied in the Bahama Islands some
years ago.
Their nests are cupped-out hollows in little towers of dried mud raised
a foot or so to keep high tides from swamping them. They scrape up the
mud with that shovel-like bill. After the conical-tower nest is made,
the mud piled up and patted into shape with her bill and feet, Mother
Flamingo lays one or two eggs--and then she goes to setting. You notice
there's just one little chick in the nest in the lower left-hand corner
of the picture, and just one egg in the nest near by.
With such a low stool to sit on you wonder what the mother bird does
with her long legs. In some pictures in children's nature books of not
so many years ago you'll find her represented as sitting on the nest
with her legs hanging down the sides--but you see that couldn't be; the
nest isn't tall enough. What she really does is to fold her legs under
her body; just once, of course, at the joint. But they're so long that,
even when folded, they reach out beyond her tail. While setting, the
lady birds reach around with their long necks shovelling up things to
eat and gossiping, more or less, with the neighbors; for the nests, you
notice, are very close together. Sometimes two of them will reach across
the narrow alley that separates the residence of Mrs. Flamingo Smith
from Mrs. Flamingo Jones, take each other playfully by the bill and hold
together for a while. Maybe this is their way of saying "Good morning,"
or "How do you do?"
[Illustration: FLAMINGO SOCIETY NOTES FROM THE ZOO
THE TOILETTE
You'd expect a lady wearing so many nice feathers to be particularly
careful about her dress, wouldn't you?
A LITTLE NAP
Queer notion, sleeping on one leg like that, isn't it? But then
flamingoes _are_ queer!
A TOUCH OF RHEUMATISM
Of course flamingoes don't go around like that even in zoos. This is the
artist's joking way of telling that in our northern climate they are
subject to rheumatism. And the keepers actually do oil their legs.]
You'd hardly think it--with those long legs of theirs--but the
flamingoes swim beautifully. With their long necks drawn back--the way
swans do it, you know--they are very graceful, and a flock of them
floating about is one of the loveliest sights in the world. They look
like a big, fleecy, pink cloud resting right on the surface of the
water. You can now find only a few flamingoes in Florida, where there
used to be so many; but go on south into Central and South America and
there are thousands of them. They are still fairly numerous in countries
bordering the Mediterranean and the Indian Ocean. In Persia they are
called "red geese." And the name isn't so far wrong as you'd think. You
notice that, unlike those stilt-walkers, the herons, the flamingoes have
webbed feet. Like geese and ducks, also, they have those rows of
tooth-like ridges on the edges of their bills. It is these "teeth" that,
coming together, act as strainers.
But a queer thing about their bills, besides the funny-way they have of
crooking down all of a sudden, is that the upper bill is smaller and
fits down into the lower. Stranger still, the birds can raise and lower
this upper bill like the cover of a coffee-pot.
They can move the under bill a little, too, but not to amount to
anything; so you see there was even more to the upside-downness of that
bill than there seemed to be at first. The whole arrangement looks odd
to us, but it works out beautifully for the birds. When they turn their
heads upside down they can stir the ooze to various depths, as required,
by using the upper bill as a ploughshare and setting it at different
angles.
Although they've borrowed some ideas from both the goose and the heron
families, the flamingoes are so different from either they are put into
a family by themselves, the _Phoenicopteridae_. This family name is from
two Greek words meaning "red-winged." If you want to be formal in
speaking of or to a goose you must refer to her family as the _Anserinae_
which is Latin for "geese."
[Illustration: WHERE THE FLAMINGO KEEPS ITS TEETH
While teeth, like those of the Hesperornis, went out of fashion ages
ago, the flamingoes have substitutes for teeth which answer their
purposes much better. They have little horny spines on their bills and
on their tongues. These spines serve as fences to prevent the escape of
the minute creatures which the flamingo scoops up with its bill. You
notice the spines on the tongue are pointed backward toward the throat;
and that's a help--to the flamingo, I mean, for once on that tongue
there's no turning back.]
A LATE BIRD, BUT HE GETS THE WORM
Another of the long-nosed earth workers, as curious in his make-up as
the flamingoes, is the kiwi of New Zealand. Like the flamingo, the kiwi
uses his queer bill to get his living out of the soil. You've heard the
saying "it's the early bird that gets the worm"; but while this is true
of most birds it doesn't apply to the kiwis. Although they live on
worms, as does Mr. Early Bird of the proverb, they do their feeding by
night.
And such a funny thing for a bird to do, the kiwis go about with their
noses to the ground like a dog smelling after a rat. The reason they do
this is that their nostrils are situated, not next to their heads, as in
most birds, but at the end of the bill--and on purpose; for they locate
their suppers, the worms in the earth, by the sense of smell, although
most birds have a very poor sense of smell. Just after sunset, you'll
see the kiwis moving about softly (as if they were afraid of scaring
away the worms!), and with the tips of their bills against the ground.
"Sniff! Sniff!" (You actually can hear them sniff.)
There, he's found one! His bill is not only long, but bends rather
easily and that's why, perhaps, he's able to follow up so closely the
hints he gets from his nose as to the location of worms, for he usually
brings the worm out whole, and not all pulled apart as the robins do it
sometimes. He works in soft earth, where most worms are found, and
generally drives his bill in up to his forehead. If all goes well he
pulls it right out with the worm at the end; but if there is any
likelihood of an accident, the kiwi gently moves his head and neck to
and fro until he has the soil loosened up and so clears the way. Once
the worm is fairly out of the ground, he throws up his head with a jerk
and swallows it whole.
Because they roam about so much at night, the kiwis sleep much of the
day. You'll find them in thickets or in among the forested hills, where
they make their homes. Sometimes, however, you'll see one standing,
leaning on his long bill, like a street-idler propping himself up with
his cane. If you disturb him, he yawns, as if to say:
"Oh, these bores! Why can't they let a fellow alone?"
But don't you go too far and annoy him or he'll get real peevish and
strike at you with his foot.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Kiwi drill the earth every day--or rather every
night--in their search for worms, but Lady Kiwi does all the excavating
when it comes to making the nest. This she does by digging a tunnel,
generally under the roots of a tree fern. There she lays two eggs and
then her family cares are practically over for the time being, since it
is the male kiwi who does most of the setting.
[Illustration: MR. HORNBILL LOCKS THE DOOR
In Africa, Southern Asia, and the East Indies live the Hornbills. After
the nest is built and the eggs laid in the hollow of some big tree like
that, Mrs. Hornbill begins to set; and Mr. Hornbill, to protect her from
enemies, walls up the nest with mud--all but that hole through which she
puts her bill and gets food from the devoted father and husband.]
Other long-nosed tunnel diggers you must have seen many a time when
you've been fishing, for they are fishers, too--Mr. and Mrs. Kingfisher.
Their home is at the end of a tunnel in the banks of the stream where
they do their fishing.
While we're visiting them and making a study of their household
arrangements, it's a good thing for us that we're not kingfishers
ourselves; for if there's anything that makes the kingfishers mad it's
to have other kingfishers fooling around their place or even coming into
their front yard. Each pair of kingfishers lays claim to the part of the
creek in the neighborhood of their nest, as their fishing preserve, and
woe betide any other kingfisher that trespasses!
Human fishermen and hunters give it out sometimes that kingfishers eat
big fish that might otherwise be caught with a hook or a seine, but the
fact is these birds catch only minnows and little shallow-water fish.
In digging the tunnels for their nests the two birds work together, and
these tunnels are sometimes fifteen feet long. So you see that with
kingfishers scattered around the world as they are--some 200 species in
all--they must have done an enormous amount of ploughing in the course
of time; to say nothing of what they have done in the way of enriching
the soil with fish-bones, one of the very best of all fertilizers.
The kingfisher's nest wouldn't be at all attractive to some birds--the
swallows, for example, who are so particular about having feather-beds.
It has just a hard-earth floor like the cabins of the American pioneers,
but the little kingfishers are perfectly contented and happy; for their
meals are very plentiful, fairly regular, and the fish are always fresh.
FISHING DAYS AND OTHER DAYS
But some days even the kingfishers don't have fish for dinner. Instead
they serve crayfish and frogs. This is on cloudy days, or when the wind
is stiff and the water rough. On such days even the keen eyes of the
kingfisher can't see a fish or make out exactly where the fish is when
he does see one. But on clear, quiet days, you should see him fish. He
often dives from a perch fifty feet or more above the creek and strikes
the water so hard you'd think it would knock the breath out of him. But
up he comes with his fish, nearly every time!
Of course he misses occasionally, but just think of seeing a fish that
far away--under the water, mind you; and not a big fish, but a little
minnow, only two or three inches long.
II. UNDER THE OVEN-BIRD'S FRIENDLY ROOF
Another great little farmer is the oven-bird. We can't afford to miss
him and his wife for anything; and although we have to go to South
America to meet them, we'll do it. So here we are! The oven-birds build
a nest of clay mixed with some hair or grass or real fine little roots.
This nest, when it's all done--it takes a good while to build it--is so
big you'd hardly believe it was the home of so small a bird. It's a
dome-shaped affair, like a Dutch oven. In the United States we have what
we call an "oven-bird," too--one of the water-thrushes; but as its
dome-shaped nest is made of grass and leaves and has no clay in it, we
will not include this bird among the feathered farmers. The oven-bird of
South America knows how to build its dome of clay without any
scaffolding, which isn't easy.
OVEN-BIRD DOORS AND THE FRIENDLY ROAD
While the big flamingoes are so shy, the little oven-birds don't care
who sees them--provided they can see _him_ first. This is possibly
because they want to keep an eye on any suspicious movements; for they
make it an invariable rule to build so that their front doors will face
the road. But really I think they do this, not because they are
suspicious, but because they want to be neighborly and arrange their
homes so they can sit on their front stoop and watch the crowd go by.
They not only have their doors where they can see what's going on, but
they nearly always build near the country road or the village street,
and in the most conspicuous place they can find, instead of staying off
by themselves in those vast, lonesome woods of Brazil where they lived
before man came.
When a nest is to be built the oven-bird picks up the first
likely-looking root fibre, or a horsehair, or a hair from an old cow's
tail, carries it to some pond or puddle and, with this binding
material, works bits of mud into a little ball about the size of a
filbert. Then he flies with this pellet to the place where the nest is
going up. With clay balls like this laid down and then worked together,
the two birds make the floor of their little house. On the outer edge of
the floor they build up the walls. These walls they gradually incline
inward, just as the Eskimos build their snow-block huts, until they form
a dome with a little hole in it. The last little ball they bring goes to
fill that little hole and then the house is done, so far as the walls
and roof are concerned. Next, a front door is cut through the wall that
faces the road.
[Illustration: THE FRIENDLY DOOR THAT FACES THE ROAD
Oven-birds make it a rule to build their adobe homes so that the front
door will face the road. And they nearly always build near the road or
the village street. Neighborly little creatures!]
From the front door a partition is built reaching nearly to the back of
the house, shutting off the front room from the family bedroom. After
the eggs are laid Papa Oven-bird stays in the front room--or
thereabouts--while mamma sets in the back room. The object of the little
partition seems to be to protect mother and the eggs and, when they
come, the babies from wind and rain. When the four or five baby birds
arrive both papa and mamma put in most of their time, of course, feeding
them.
The nests of the oven-birds weigh eight or nine pounds. The work of
these little feathered farmers and their wives reminds us in more ways
than one of that of Mrs. Mason-Bee,[22] but they evidently have quite
different notions about housekeeping; for, although their residences are
so big, the oven-birds would evidently rather build than clean house,
while with Mrs. Bee it's just the other way. The nests of the oven-birds
are so thick and strong they often stand for two or three years in spite
of the rains; but the birds build a new nest every year, nevertheless.
[22] Chapter VI.
III. THE MOUND-BUILDERS
Another class of birds that have a fancy for big dome-like nests are the
mound-birds. We find them in Australia, the Philippines, and the islands
of the South Seas. Their scientific nickname is _Megapoddidae_, the
"big-footed." It's with their big feet that they pile immense heaps of
leaves, twigs, and rotten wood over their eggs.
And what for, do you suppose?
To hatch them! This heap of material not only absorbs the heat of the
sun, but, in decaying, makes heat of its own. These mounds, of course,
contribute tons and tons of fertilizer to the soil, but what interests
the birds is that these warm heaps hatch their eggs. It's a kind of an
incubator system, you see. As it is with many tens of thousands of our
own little chickens, these days, the baby megapodes are born orphans.
That heap of dead sticks, leaves, and earth is all the mother they ever
know. As soon as the mother birds have laid their eggs in the mounds and
covered them up, they go off gossiping with other lady megapodes, and
don't bother their heads any more about their babies.
WHY LITTLE BIG FOOT NEVER SAYS "MAMMA"
But it really doesn't seem to matter. It's more of a question of
sentiment than anything else, for the babies get on very well by
themselves. When the time comes they not only make their own way out of
the shell, as all birds do, but they work their way up through the
rubbish-heap and run off at once into the woods to hunt something to
eat.
It's all right, after all, I suppose; but if _I_ were a little
mound-builder's baby, I'd rather have a mamma that would stay around and
go places with me, wouldn't you?
There's one nice thing about these mamma mound-builders, though; they're
so neighborly and sociable. It's like a regular old-fashioned quilting
party to see them build a nest. The birds look like turkeys, and one of
the species is called the "brush turkey," but they are no bigger than an
ordinary chicken--than a rather small chicken, in fact. When I tell you,
then, that these mounds of theirs are often six feet high and twelve
feet across in the widest part, the middle, you can see it takes good
team-work to put them up.
[Illustration: BRUSH TURKEYS BUILDING THEIR INCUBATORS
It's like an old-fashioned quilting party--the co-operative mound
building of the brush turkeys. The text tells you about that back kick
of theirs.]
So a lot of the lady mound-builders get together in woodsy places, where
there's plenty of leaves and twigs lying around and together build a
mound. One will run forward a little way, rake up and grasp a handful of
sticks and leaves--I mean to say a footful--and kick it backward. The
motion is much like that of an old hen scratching. Then another bird
gathers a footful; then another, and soon they are all throwing the
rubbish toward the same pile; all as busy as a sewing-circle,
but--curiously enough--nobody saying a word! Before the mounds are quite
done, they all begin laying their eggs in them; as many as forty or
fifty, before they are through.
Some species frequent scrubby jungles along the sea. These scratch a
slanting hole in the sandy soil about three feet deep and lay their eggs
on the bottom, loosely covering up the mouth of the hole with a
collection of sticks, shells, and seaweed. The natives say these birds,
before they leave, go carefully over the footprints leading to this
treasure-house, scratch them out and make tracks leading in various
directions away from the nest. And all species lay their eggs at night.
You see why, don't you? They're just that cautious.
SUCH AN EGG FROM SUCH A BIRD
But if you should find one of their nests full of brick-red eggs you'd
never guess who laid them, they're so big! Away back in 1673, an English
missionary to China who had stopped off at the Philippines, on his way,
wrote a little book when he got back home about where he had been and
what he had seen, and he just couldn't get over the wonder of the
mound-builders. Among other things he says, in one place in his book:
"There is a very singular bird called Tabon. What I and very many
more admired[23] is that being in body no bigger than an ordinary
chicken, it lays an egg larger than a goose's."
[23] "Admire," in those days, meant "to wonder at."
"So," he adds, "the egg is bigger than the bird itself!"
IV. THE SWALLOWS
To make the acquaintance of either the mound-builders or those dear
little oven-birds--_aren't_ they dear?--we must be travellers, of
course, for with their short wings neither the mound-builders nor the
oven-birds ever could come all the way up here to see us. But another
feathered farmer--and, like the oven-bird, a clay-worker and most
neighborly--everybody knows; the swallow. Like Kim, the swallow is the
little friend of all the world.
Swallows of one kind and another are found everywhere--almost everywhere
that people can live; usually where people _do_ live. And if all the
soil they've helped pulverize and mix--even since the days when the
swallows built under the eaves and rafters of the ark--was spread out,
it would easily make another Egypt, I do believe!
But, speaking of the way swallows take to human society, do you know
where our barn-swallows came from? They were originally cliff-dwellers
away out West. The early explorers found enormous collections of their
nests plastered all over the perpendicular cliffs and along the bluffs.
Just as soon, however, as the country settled up and men put up barns
these little cliff-dwellers, deserting rocks and bluffs, began building
their bottle-shaped nests under the eaves. The swallows live on
insects--including squash-bugs, stink-bugs, shield-bugs, and jumping
plant-lice; and that's supposed to be one of the reasons for the curious
fact that they left their ancient family seats--they found so many more
insects about the barns and the farmer's fields and the gardens and the
orchards.
TINY SOIL MILLS OF THE BABY SWALLOW
Haven't you often watched them and listened to them, diving and
chattering around the barn in their busy season; that is to say, in the
spring and summer time? Then the air is full of insects and is fairly
woven with their darting wings. Some keep busy picking up the insects
that are always hovering about in a barnyard, while others dash away to
some near-by marsh or to the meadow or to the creek. Over the
grain-fields they go, over the meadows and back again straight to the
nest where downy babies are cheeping for them. The parents feed them,
stop and chatter a moment, and then off they go. Follow that one down to
the marsh. See how she flies high, round and round in circles, and then
swoops for an insect. She missed him! Then she wheels, darts up--darts
down--to right--to left. There, she's got him! Then off like an arrow to
the nest. The soft-bodied insects are chosen and chewed up for the
babies, while the parents eat the tougher ones. And to help digestion
they give the babies little bits of gravel, although they don't use it
themselves. So, in grinding up this gravel the baby birds help make soil
before they are old enough to do any nest-building.
[Illustration: THE SAND MARTIN AND HIS HOME IN THE BANK]
You've noticed, of course, that all the swallows about a barn don't
build under the eaves. Some build under the rafters inside the barn.
That isn't just a matter of taste; it's family tradition. The
eave-builders are descendants of the cliff-swallows, while the birds
known to bird students as "barn" swallows build under the rafters.
But they don't take to the fine, new modern barns--all spick and
span--the barn-swallows don't. If there's an old gray barn with doors
that never shut quite snug, a board off here and there, and several
panes in the cob-webbed windows broken out----
"Oh, just the thing!" say Mr. and Mrs. Swallow, and they turn their
backs on the new barn and proceed to build their cute little nests of
clay among the rafters of that old tumbled-down affair. In their
preference for the old gray barns, the swallows are like the artists,
the painters that Mr. Dooley told about. He was talking about artists to
his friend, Mr. Hennessey:
"I don't mane the kind of painther that paints yer fine new barn," said
Mr. Dooley. "I mane the kind of painther that makes a pitcher of yer
_old_ barn and wants to charge ye more'n the barn itself is worth."
WHY ARTISTS AND SWALLOWS PREFER OLD BARNS
The reason the artists prefer old barns is that they look better in
pictures, but the reason the barn-swallow shows the same taste is that,
with windows that have panes in them and doors that shut tight you'd no
sooner start to build a nest than, coming back with a pellet of clay, or
bringing a feather for the little feather-bed, you'd be liable to find
the door shut and you could no more get in until chore time than you
could open the time-lock in the First National Bank. And suppose there
were babies and you'd just _got_ to get back--you see it wouldn't do at
all!
But both the barn-swallows and the old gray barns will be seen only in
pictures before long, if things keep on; what with these new barns and
the cats always trying to catch the few swallows there are left--when
you're swooping low to catch a squash-bug, say--and those hateful
sparrows that tear your nest to pieces. And for several years swallows
were killed by thousands to make ornaments for women's hats until this
shameful business was stopped by law!
On the Pacific Coast, if you're out there even as early as March, you'll
see a purplish-bronze swallow, with bronze-green markings. These
swallows make a specialty of orchard insects and that's why, perhaps,
they build under the eaves of the farmhouse rather than the barn. But,
like the rest of the swallow family, they think nothing quite so nice as
a bed of feathers to raise babies in, and they know as well as the
cliff-swallows and the barn-swallow that a barnyard is a great place for
feathers.
And besides, there's a man out there, in one place, that keeps a supply
of feathers just to give away when the swallows are nesting. Watch him,
over on the hillside. He takes a little bunch of feathers and throws
them up into the air from his open hand. A swallow skims by and catches
one of these feathers before it touches the ground. But soon the word
passes along:
"Here's that nice man with the feathers!"
And, pretty soon, there are a half-dozen in the game. They flit closer
and closer to that generous hand, seizing the feathers almost the moment
they are in the air. Then one, bolder than the rest, snatches a feather
right from the man's thumb and finger. The little rogue!
By the way, do you know who that man is? It's Mr. W. L. Finley, State
Ornithologist of Oregon. "Our little brothers of the air," as Olive
Thorne Miller calls the birds, are getting to be so much appreciated,
not only as the friends of man, but for their beauty and the usefulness
of their lives, that both our State and national governments have laws
to protect them, and such men as Mr. Finley are employed to look after
their interests.
Of course, he doesn't _have_ to furnish feather-beds for the baby
swallows--he just does!
[Illustration: OFF FOR THE SOUTH]
HIDE AND SEEK IN THE LIBRARY
If you want to get better acquainted with ostriches you should read
Olive Thorne Miller's "African Nine Feet High," in "Little Folks in
Feathers and Fur." Carpenter deals with the ostrich in his "How the
World is Clothed" and in his "Geographic Reader on Africa";
Johonnott's "Neighbors with Wings and Fins" gives a chapter to
"Giants of Desert and Plain," among which you may be sure he
includes the ostrich.
Allen, in writing about "Some Strange Nurseries" ("Nature's Work
Shop"), tells why it is Papa Ostrich has most to do with the
hatching of the eggs when the sun is not on the job.
Lucas, in his "Animals of the Past," speaks of ostriches and
crocodiles as the nearest living relatives of--guess what--the
dinosaurs! (Yet look at the dinosaur in "The Strange Adventures of
a Pebble" and see if you can't make out a good deal of the ostrich
and the crocodile in him.)
But, speaking of Papa Ostrich's parental duties, did you know that
it's _Mr._ Puffin, and not _Mrs._ Puffin, who digs the family
burrow? Arabella Buckley's "Morals of Science" tells that and many
other interesting things about devoted husbands among the birds,
including how Papa Nightingale feeds Mamma Nightingale.
In the "Children's Hour," Volume 7, page 310, you will find an
interesting article about the puffins of Iceland.
"The Romance of Animal Arts and Crafts" tells about one of the
feathered clay-workers, the nuthatch of Syria, and why he makes his
nest look like a rock. These nuthatches love to build so well that
they often make nests that they never use; and they even help put
up nests for their neighbors!
This book also gives interesting details about the hornbill, and
how and why he walls up his mate in her nest in the hollow of a
tree. Father Hornbill, of course, gets all the meals for Mother
Hornbill, while she's setting. She simply _can't_ get out, and you
should see him by the time the babies are old enough to leave the
nest. He's worn to a shadow!
Rooks, it seems, do a little digging under certain circumstances.
Selous tells about it in his "Bird Life Glimpses." In this book you
will find a delightful description of martins building. It almost
makes you want to _be_ a martin. It also tells about the work of
the sand martins. You will hardly believe how fast they work. The
house-martin's nest is more elaborate than the swallow's. This book
tells why the house-martins begin work so early in the morning, and
why they have to delay their nest-building if the weather is either
too wet or too dry.
White, in his famous "Natural History of Selbourne," tells how
worried he was because certain swallows just _would_ build facing
southeast and southwest.
Birds, besides being workers of the soil, are great sowers of
seeds. Darwin tells how he reared eighty seedlings from a single
little clod on a bird's foot. What do you suppose he did that for?
You just look it up in the index to his "Origin of Species."
Doesn't it seem funny that one of the little farmer birds--a
burrower--should go into partnership with a lizard? There is one in
New Zealand that does that very thing. He is called the titi. What
the titi does for the lizard is to provide him with a home in his
burrow, but what do you suppose the lizard does in return to pay
for his lodging? Read about it in Ingersoll's "Wit of the Wild," in
the chapter on "Animal Partnerships."
Do you know why the phoebe bird so often uses moss in building her
nest? And how the phoebes that make green nests keep them green?
And how Mrs. P. puts a stone roof on her house? You will find all
about it in "Wit of the Wild."
The same chapter, "The Phoebe at Home," tells why the phoebe bird
took to building under bridges, and why she builds in a carriage
shed instead of a barn, as the barn-swallow does.
"Bird Life," by Chapman, is a guide to the study of our common
birds. The beauty about this book is that it has seventy-five
full-page plates in the natural colors, with brief descriptions, so
that all you have to do is to bring the _mind_ picture of the bird
you have seen alongside the picture in the book, and there's the
answer! Nobody has written more delightful books on birds than
Olive Thorne Miller. "Little Brothers of the Air" is one of them.
You couldn't keep your hands off a book with a name like that,
could you? Then there is her "Children's Book of Birds," "True Bird
Stories," illustrated by Louis Agassiz Fuertes, and "Little Folks
in Feathers and Fur," which, as you can see, goes outside the bird
family. John Burroughs's "Wake Robin" deals not with robins alone,
but with birds and bird habits in general.
But the greatest book about birds--the wonder of the bird and his
relations to the whole animal world--is very properly called "The
Bird," by C. William Beebe, who is at the head of the bird
department of the great New York Zoo. Among other things it tells:
How Nature practised drawing--so to speak--for years before she
could finally make a proper bird. (If you have ever tried to draw a
bird from memory and realized what a bad job you made out of it,
you will sympathize with her.) How they know that the earliest
birds Nature made, as well as being very homely, weren't at all
smart; not to be mentioned in the same breath with clever Jim Crow,
for example. How "a bird's swaddling clothes and his first
full-dress are cut from the same piece," the very words of the
book. About certain birds that have one set of wings to play in and
a new set for flying, like a child wearing jumpers to save his nice
clothes! About the world of interesting things you can discover
with the bones of a boiled chicken.
And so on for nearly five hundred pages, and as many illustrations;
the most striking collection of pictures explaining birds that I
ever saw.
[Illustration: THE END OF A BUSY SEASON
"And there's the corn and the pumpkins and the carrots and the turnips
and the potatoes in the root cellar and the jelly in the
jelly-glasses--we helped make them all."]