The sun shone brightly through the green leaves of the trees and crowned
each tiny ripple on the lake with a glistening diamond. A Robin
Redbreast hopped along the shore, picking up a few pebbles, for the poor
thing has to wear her false teeth in her stomach, as it were, having no
teeth in her head with which to chew her food.
There was a rush of wings above her and she dropped the grain of sand
with which she had thought to fill up her gizzard, cocked her smooth
black head on one side and watched the approach of another bird. Was it
friend or enemy? It proved to belong to the aristocratic family of
Thrushes—real high-flyers among birds—who alighted on the same sandy
shore and advanced “with many a flirt and flutter” to greet her old
friend, for they had been neighbors in the same sunny orchard the year
before.
“So glad to meet you again, Mrs. Redbreast,” said the gracious Thrush in
a most musical voice, “but are you not a long way from the willows on
the river bank where I last had the pleasure of seeing you?”
“Oh, we never finished that house among the willows. We became
dissatisfied with the neighborhood,” answered Mrs. Redbreast, after
performing the graceful courtesy of a well-bred bird, as are all Robin
Redbreasts.
“Ah, I was afraid of malaria when we looked the ground over together in
the spring. It was too low, almost swampy. Mr. Thrush and I went to a
little knoll about three miles away and built in the loveliest, the most
fragrant wild crabapple tree you ever saw,” and Mrs. Thrush smoothed
with shining beak a mottled feather on her handsome breast.
“But would not those lovely blossoms tempt those creatures—boys, I think
they are called—to climb until they found your home?”
“The thorns stand sentinel and the thick leaves hide it well, and I
wanted my children to grow up strong, and swift on the wing. They would
never grow up well feathered and beautiful amid those lovely willows on
account of the low ground,” replied the Thrush.
“It was not malaria that caused us to abandon our half-built nest, but
boys, some black as crows and some white as doves, kept coming to get
materials for whistles. It seems that the very tree we chose had bark
that slipped the easiest, and sometimes a flock of three or four would
be perched on the limbs (they always sit astride, so awkwardly, you
know), with jack-knives in their hands, and of course we could not stay.
Robin wanted to come to the park—it is a lovely place—where those fine
big creatures with bright stars on their gray coats are put to take care
of us birds. Why,” she went on, “they will not let boys stone even an
English Sparrow, but I think that is altogether too particular. There
comes a party of the little cockneys now,” as a handful of winged brown
balls came fluttering through the air close to the heads of the larger
birds, who could easily have put them to flight if they would but try.
However, they ducked their heads and scampered into the weeds, leaving
the smooth shore to the new-comers, who dipped and splashed in the
shallow edge of the lake as if they enjoyed it mightily.
“Just see the horrid little things washing themselves in water, but they
never can get clean. Why, my Robin, who is a very venturesome fellow and
sometimes follows the boulevards almost into the heart of the city, says
that he has seen them in the dirty city streets washing themselves in
the dust like common barnyard fowls.”
“Don’t let’s look at them,” exclaimed Mrs. Thrush. “They are doing it
just because it looks respectable, and they know that we wash in water;”
and the two birds spread their wings and swept disdainfully away from
the neighborhood of the Sparrows.
“And where did you finally build, Mrs. Redbreast?” asked the other as
they settled gracefully on the shore a half a mile away.
“Well, Robin, as I said, wanted very much to live in the park. He is so
fond of company, but I told him there were too many children on the
grass. Why, they are as thick as dandelions any fine day, and in spite
of the care of the great gray creatures it would be impossible to safely
teach our children to fly. We finally found a lovely suburban place
within easy flying distance of the park. An apple tree with perfect
branches for a nest grew in the back yard, the cherry trees were white
with bloom and the whole place fragrant with the blossoms of the grape.
There was a flat jar always kept filled with water for the birds, with a
stone in it that reached nearly to the surface on which to stand while
bathing. The water made the birds come in flocks, so that the place was
gay with songs, and really that yard was a little Eden. But you know,”
she went on, dropping her voice, “there is a story of something terrible
that walked in the garden of Eden, and I think it was a black cat, for
that is what walks in our garden. He lies on the back steps in the
sunshine pretending to be asleep, but where his eyes ought to be in that
big black ball he calls his head I can see a narrow yellow stripe, and
out of that stripe of yellow he watches every bird that comes.”
“Does he get any birds?” asked the Thrush in an awe-struck whisper.
The Redbreast shook her black head sadly. “Every now and then his
mistress finds him with feathers in his whiskers, and she scolds him.
But there is a serpent in every Eden,” she added philosophically; “if it
isn’t cats it’s boys.”
“Did you ever hear what became of the family of Wrens that lived in the
honeysuckle over the back door?” asked Mrs. Thrush, who cared more for
gossip than moralizing. “They were so pleasant and cheery.”
“Oh, yes. We started south before they left and I haven’t seen them
since. They were a proud little folk, that made believe they were not
proud, always wearing the finest clothes, yet in such sober colors. I
always called them stuck up.”
“Their tails certainly were—he, he, he,” giggled Mrs. Thrush.
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Mrs. Redbreast. “That’s pretty good. I must tell
that to Robin. But don’t you remember,” she went on, “the Blue Jays that
lived in the elm tree down the lane?”
“I never thought them very well-bred,” replied Mrs. Thrush, bridling
prettily, for she and her family pride themselves on their correct
behavior. “Wonderfully pretty, but too loud.”
“Altogether too gay and noisy. Mrs. Jay was a great scold, and Blue
almost as bad. You could hear them all over the neighborhood. Well, they
lost all their children by a Hawk, though Mrs. Jay fought bravely for
her little ones, and Blue proved himself a real hero. She over-exerted
herself, however, and died shortly after of nervous prostration. I saw a
girl, who had found her body, spreading out her poor dead wings and
holding them up against her hat. She finally wrapped Mrs. Jay up in her
handkerchief and carried her away.”
“If women would only be satisfied with the wings of a bird that had died
a natural death we would not complain,” said Mrs. Thrush, as she folded
her own pretty wings a little closer. “Blue Jay married again right
away, of course,” she went on, as she dropped a little red ant down
among the mill stones of her gizzard to be ground up.
“He did not even wait the conventional two weeks. If I thought Robin
Redbreast would be looking out for another housekeeper so soon after my
death he would not have such a good wife as he has to-day. He would have
to hunt more worms and bugs than he does, instead of just bringing home
a little bit of dessert in the shape of cherries or grapes to please the
children;” and the mother fluffed up her feathers alarmingly.
“That makes me think,” said Mrs. Thrush, “that I promised the children
an especially nice supper to-night if they would not chirp or stick up
their heads and look over the edge of the nest. They are really getting
so big now that Mr. Thrush and I can do nothing with them. Last night
when I went home I found my eldest son, Brown Thrush, sitting on the
edge of the nest, and he is taller——”
Just then a large shadow wavered over the sunshiny sward, and with a
scared exclamation of “Hawk!” the birds flew swiftly in different
directions, not waiting to see that the object which cast the shadow was
nothing but a harmless paper kite.
S. E. McKee.
[Illustration: ]
THE MARBLED MURRELET.
(_Brachyramphus marmoratus._)
This little bird belongs to the family of auks and puffins, the
guillemots and the dovekie. It is the sea bird family (Alcidae) for all
the species are maritime, spending most of their time on the ocean.
Nearly all the species frequent the Pacific coast of North America. A
few are, however, found on the Atlantic coast. They seem to frequent the
wildest and most rocky shores and generally congregate in large colonies
which may include several species. Their structure unfits them for
locomotion on the land where they move in an uncouth and awkward manner,
but they are agile and quick swimmers and expert divers. It is said that
they will remain under water for several minutes, swimming for long
distances. They use their wings in diving. The Marbled Murrelet inhabits
the coast of the Pacific ocean from San Diego, California, northward,
breeding only in the northern part of its range. These birds are seldom
found at any great distance inland. It is said that their nests, like
those of the petrels, are built in holes in banks or in burrows in the
ground. They have also been known to lay their eggs in the open crevices
of cliffs where but little effort is made to build a nest other than the
gathering together of a few sticks and twigs.
The ovate eggs are of a buffy color and are marked with varying shades
of brown.