cradle. (I know this does not agree with the books, so I explain that it
was six days from the time constant sitting ceased. If the young were
out of the shell before that, they were covered all the time, and not
fed.) The day that stirring urchin was six days old he mounted the edge
of the nest and tried his wings. When mamma came, he asked for food in
the usual bird-baby way, gentle flutters of the wings; but this haste
was certainly not pleasing to the little dame, and upon her departure I
noticed that he had returned to the nursery.
However, his ambition was roused,--the ambition of a redstart to be
moving,--and at seven o'clock the next morning, his seventh day, he came
out with his mind made up to stay. First a shaky little yellowish head
appeared above the nest; then the owner thereof clambered out upon a
twig, three inches higher. One minute he rested, to glance around the
new world, and quickly increased the distance to six inches, where he
stood fidgeting, arranging his feathers, and evidently preparing for a
tremendous flight, when his anxious parent returned. Plainly, he would
have been wiser to wait another day, for all the time it was difficult
for him to keep his place; every few seconds he made wild struggles,
beating the air with his wings, and at last, after enjoying that
elevated position in life about ten minutes, he lost his hold and fell.
I held my breath, for a fall to the ground meant a dead nestling; but he
clutched at a twig two or three feet lower, and succeeded in retaining
this more humble station. Madame came and fed and comforted him, and it
was soon evident that he had learned a lesson, for he moderated his
transports; though his head was as restless as ever, his feet were more
steady; he did not fall again, and he soon scrambled freely all over the
tree.
Now I was interested to see how the redstart babies were brought up, and
for more than four hours I kept my eyes on that youngster. It is no
small task, let me say, to keep watch of an atom an inch or two long, to
whom any leaf is ample screen, to note every movement lest he slip out
of sight, and to make memorandum of each morsel of food he gets. There
were, also, of course, the most seductive sounds about me; never so many
birds came near. Cat-birds whispered softly behind my back; a vireo
cried plaintively over my head; the towhee bunting boldly perched on a
low bush, and saluted me with his peculiar cry; flickers uttered their
quaint "wick-up" on my right, and a veery sighed softly "we-o" on my
left. Unflinchingly, however, I kept my face toward that apple-tree, and
my eyes on that restless young hopeful, while I noted the conduct of the
parents toward him.
This is what I learned: first, that those left in the nest were to be
kept back, and not allowed out of the nursery till this one was able to
care for himself, or at least to help. The nest, holding probably one or
two little ones, was visited, the first hour almost exactly once in
twenty minutes, by madame exclusively, and the three succeeding hours at
longer intervals, by her spouse. Scarcely a move was made there; plainly
there were no more "come-outers" that day. The efforts of the mother
were concentrated on number one, apparently, to bring him forward as
fast as possible. He was, for an hour, fed every five or six minutes,
the next hour only three times, and this system was kept up with perfect
regularity all day.
Meanwhile, the behavior of the happy father was peculiar and somewhat
puzzling, considering how solicitous he had hitherto appeared. For some
time his gay coat was not to be seen, even on his favorite lower
branches; and when he did come around, his mate flew at him, whether to
praise or to punish could only be guessed, for he at once disappeared
before her. After two or three episodes of this sort he remained about
the tree, and occasionally contributed a mite to the family sustenance.
The next morning, at half past seven, I resumed my seat as usual, and
very soon saw I was too late. Both parents were busily flitting about
the tree, but never once went near the old home; moreover, when the sun
reached the magical point where he revealed the inside of the nest, lo,
it was empty!
Either there had been but one other bairn, and he had got out before I
did,--things happen so rapidly in the redstart family,--or there had
been a tragedy, I could not discover which. Neither could I find a young
bird on that tree, though I was sure, by the conduct of the parents,
that at least one remained.
Now that no one's feelings could be hurt by the operation, I had a limb
cut off the apple-tree, and the little home I had watched with so great
interest brought down to me. Nothing could be daintier or more secure
than that snug little structure. Placed on an upright branch, just below
the point where five branchlets, a foot or more long, sprang out to
shelter, and closely surrounded by seven twigs, of few inches but many
leaves, it was a marvel I had been able to see it at all. The redstarts
might be lively and restless, but they were good workers. So firmly was
that nest fastened to its branch, resting on one-twig and embraced by
two others, like arms, that to remove it would destroy it. Strips of
something like grapevine bark, with a few grass-blades and a material
that looked like hornets' or other insects' nest, formed the outside,
while long horsehairs made the soft lining. Though strong and firm, it
was on the sides so thin, that, as mentioned above, the movements of the
young could be seen through it.
This pretty cup, around which so many hopes had centred, was of a size
for a fairy's homestead,--hardly two inches inside diameter, and less
than two inches deep. I carried it off as a memento of a delightful June
among the hills of the old Bay State.
V.
WHEN NESTING IS OVER.
"When the birds fly past
And the chimes ring fast
And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast,"
comes the most attractive time of year to the bird-lover,--the
baby-days, when the labors and anxieties of the nest being over, proud
and happy parents bring forward their tender younglings all unused to
the ways of the world, and carry on their training before our eyes.
First to come upon the scene of the summer's studies was the brown
thrush family. For some time the head of the household had made the
grove a regular resting place in his daily round. He always entered in
silence, alighted on the lowest limb of a tree, and hopped lightly, step
by step, to the top, where he sang softly a few delightful and
tantalizing strains. In a moment he dropped to the ground, uttering a
liquid note or two as he went, and threw into his work of digging among
the dead leaves the same suppressed vehemence he had put into his song.
Not unfrequently he came into collision with a sparrow mob that claimed
to own that piece of wood, and his way of dealing with them was an ever
fresh satisfaction. He stood quiet, though the crouching attitude and
the significant twitches of his expressive tail indicated very clearly
to one who knew him that he was far from calm inside; that he was merely
biding his time. His tranquil manner misled the vulgar foe; that they
mistook it for cowardice was obvious. Nearer, and still nearer, they
drew, surrounded him, and seemed about to fall upon him in a body, when
he suddenly wheeled, and like a flash of light dashed right and left
almost simultaneously, as if he had become two birds, and the
impertinent enemy fairly vanished before him.
Like many another bird, however, the thrasher, although not afraid of
sparrows, disliked a continual row. He had gradually ceased to come into
the neighborhood, and I feared I should neither see nor (what was worse)
hear him again. But one morning he presented himself with two
youngsters, so brimful of joy that he quite forgot his previous caution
and reserve. They perched in plain sight on the fence, and while the
little ones clumsily struggled to maintain their footing, the father
turned his head this side and that, jerked his tail, and uttered a low
cry as touch as to say, "Can anybody beat that pair now?"
In a moment he fell to the serious work of filling their hungry mouths.
Being very wide awake, the young birds readily saw where supplies came
from, and then they accompanied their parent to the ground, following
every step, as he dug almost without ceasing. After a tolerably solid
repast of large white grubs, he slipped away from the dear coaxers,
disappeared on the other side of the fence, and before they recovered
from their bewilderment at finding themselves deserted, returned bearing
in his beak a strawberry. The young thrush received the dainty eagerly,
but finding it too big to swallow, beat it on the fence as if it were a
worm. Of course it parted, and a piece fell to the ground, which the
waiting parent went after, and administered as a second mouthful.
For a long time the little ones were fed on the fence, and the father
was so happy that every few minutes he was forced to retire behind a
neighboring tree and "make gladness musical upon the other side."
After that morning the thrasher came daily to the place, and a dessert
of strawberries invariably followed the more substantial meal, but never
again did he bring more than one of his family with him.
One morning the brown thrush baby, who had been rapidly growing
self-reliant, came alone for the first time. It was interesting to watch
him, running along the tops of the pickets; searching in the hot grass
till out of breath for something to eat; looking around in a surprised
way, as if wondering why the food did not come; making a dash, with
childlike innocence, after a strawberry he saw in the mouth of a robin,
who in amazement leaped a foot in the air; and at last flying to a tree
to call and listen for his sire. That wise personage, meanwhile, had
stolen silently into the grove, all dripping from his bath in the bay,
and while indulging in a most elaborate dressing and pluming, had kept
one eye on the infant in the grass below, apparently to see how he got
on by himself. When at last the little one stood panting and
discouraged, he called, a single "chirp." The relieved youngster
recognized it and answered, and at once flew over to join him.
This restless young thrasher, excepting that he was perhaps somewhat
lighter in color and a little less glossy of coat, looked at that moment
as old as he ever would. Nothing but his ingenuous ways, and his soft
baby-cry "chr-er-er" revealed his tender age. His curiosity when he
found himself in an unfamiliar place or on a strange tree was amusing.
He looked up and down, stretching his neck in his desire to see
everything; he critically examined the tuft of leaves near him; he
peered over and under a neighboring branch, and then gazed gravely
around on the prospect before him. He flew with ease, and alighted with
the grace of his family, on the bare trunk of a tree, the straight side
of a picket, or any other unlikely place for a bird to be found. For a
week he came and went and was watched and studied, but one day the
strawberries were gathered in the old garden, and the beautiful brown
thrush baby appeared no more.
The world was not deserted of bird voices, however.
"Swift bright wings flitted in and out
And happy chirpings were all about."
For days the wood had resounded with the shrill little cries of swallow
babies, who alighted on the low trees on the border while their busy
parents skimmed over the bay, or the marshy shore, and every few minutes
brought food to their clamorous offspring. I had a remarkably good
opportunity to make the acquaintance of this youngster--the
white-bellied swallow. There were dozens of them, and the half grown
trees were their chosen perches. The droll little fellows, with white
fluffy breasts, no feet to speak of, and
"Built so narrow
Like the head of an arrow
To cut the air,"
did not even notice me in my nook under the pines.
They could fly very well, and now and then one followed the parent far
out, calling sharply his baby "cheep" and trying to get close to her in
the air. Often she turned, met and fed him on the wing, and then sailed
on, while the youngster lagged a little, unable to give his mind to
feeding and flying at the same time. Sometimes the mother avoided a too
persistent pleader by suddenly rising above him. When a little one was
at rest, she usually paused before him on wing only long enough to poke
a mouthful into his wide open beak; occasionally--but not often--she
alighted beside him for a few moments.
Leading out into the water for the use of boatmen, was a narrow foot
pier, provided on one side with a hand rail. This rail was a convenient
rendezvous for all the babies belonging to the swallow flock, a sort of
a community nursery. On this they rested from the fatigue of flying;
here they were fed, and sometimes gently pushed off the perch afterward,
as a mild hint to use their wings.
I wanted to find out whether parents and young knew each other from all
the rest. Of course in this crowd it was not possible to tell, but I
found a better chance in another favorite spot, an old post that rose
out of the water, eight or ten feet from the shore, and so small that it
was only comfortable for one, although two could stand on it. The post
seldom lacked its occupant, a baby swallow with head up, looking eagerly
into the flock above him. This isolated youngling I made my special
study. Sometimes on the approach of a grown up bird, he lifted his wings
and opened his mouth, petitioning for, and plainly expecting food. At
other times he paid not the least attention to a swallow passing over
him, but sat composed and silent, though watchful, apparently for the
right one to come in sight. He was often, though not invariably, fed
upon his appeal; but that proves nothing, for it would require the
services of a dozen parents to respond to every request of a young bird.
It not unfrequently happened, too, that one of the flock always flying
about over the water came very near the little one on the post as if to
offer him a morsel, but suddenly, when almost upon him, wheeled and
left,--obviously mistaken. On no such occasion did that knowing
youngster show any expectation of attention. Again there would sometimes
join him on the post, a second young swallow, and, although crowded,
they were quite contented together. Then I noticed as the elders swept
over, that sometimes one baby begged, sometimes the other; never both at
once. This seemed to indicate that the little one knows its parents, for
no one familiar with the craving hunger and the constant opening of the
baby beak to its natural purveyors, will doubt that when a young bird
failed to ask, it was because the elder was not its parent.
An early lesson in many bird lives is that of following, or flying in a
flock, for at first the babies of a brood scatter wildly, and seem not
to have the smallest notion of keeping together. The small swallows in
the trees near me were carefully trained in this. Often while one stood
chirping vehemently, clearly thinking himself half starved, a grown-up
bird flew close past him, calling in very sweet tones, and stopped in
plain sight, ten or fifteen feet away. Of course the youngster followed
at once. But just as he reached the side of the parent, that thoughtful
tutor took another short flight, calling and coaxing as before. This
little performance was repeated three or four times before the pupil
received the tidbits he so urgently desired.
Other sweet baby-talk in the trees came from the wood-pewee. The pewee I
had noted from the building of her beautiful lichen-covered cradle in
the crotch of a wild-cherry tree. The branch, dead and leafless,
afforded no screen for the brave little mother. Look when one might, in
the hottest sunshine or the heaviest rain, there sat the bird quite up
out of the nest, head erect and eyes eagerly watching for intruders. The
pewee, for all his tender and melancholy utterances, has a fiery spirit.
He hesitates not to clinch with a brother pewee, interpolates his
sweetest call into the hot chases, and even when resting between
encounters, spreads his tail, flutters his wings, and erects his crest
in a most warlike manner. The little dame was not a whit less vigilant
than her spouse. Let but a blackbird pass over and she was off in a
twinkling, pursuing him, pouncing down upon him savagely, and all the
time uttering her plaintive "pe-o-wee!" till her mate joined her, and
made it so uncomfortable for the big foe that he departed, protesting to
be sure in vigorous black-birdese, but taking good care to go. So
persistent were the pewees in these efforts, that in a few days they
convinced a pair of blackbirds (purple crow blackbirds) that this part
of the grove was no longer a thoroughfare, and whereas they had been
quite frequent visitors, they were now rarely seen.
The saucy robin who chose to insist upon his right to alight on their
tree, as he had always done, was harder to convince; in fact, he never
was driven away. Every day, and many times a day, arose the doleful cry
of distress. I always looked over from my seat on the other side of the
little open spot in the wood, and invariably saw a robin on the lower
part of the wild-cherry where the trunk divided, flirting his tail,
jerking his wings, and looking very wicked indeed. Down upon him came
one, sometimes two pewees. He simply ran up the sloping branch toward
their nest, hopped to another limb, every step bringing him nearer, the
pewees darting frantically at him--and at last took flight from the
other side; but not until he was quite ready. This drama was enacted
with clock-like regularity, neither party seeming to tire of its
repetition, till the happy day when the pewee baby could fly, and
appeared across the grove, near me.
One morning I noticed the anxious parents very busy on a small oak-tree,
but a clump of leaves made a perfect hiding place for the infant, and I
could not see it at first. There may have been more, although I saw but
one and heard but one baby cry, a prolonged but very low sound of pewee
quality. While their charge lingered so near me, I was treated to
another sensation by one of the pair,--a pewee song. The performer
alighted almost directly over my head, and began at once to sing in a
very sweet voice, but so low it could not be heard a dozen feet away.
There was little variation in the tones, but it was rapidly delivered,
with longer and shorter intervals and varying inflections, a genuine
whisper-song such as most birds that I have studied delight in. It did
not please madam, his mate; she listened, looked, and then rushed at the
singer, and I regret to say, they fell into a "scrimmage" in the grass,
quite after the vulgar manner of the sparrow.
They soon returned to their duty of feeding the baby behind the oak leaf
screen. Both came very nearly at the same time; each one on arriving,
administered a significant "poke" behind the leaf, then indulged in
several eccentric movements in their jerky style, dashed after a fly,
stood a full minute staring at me, and at last flew. This programme was
scarcely varied. Inoffensive as I was, however, the birds plainly did
not relish my spying upon them, and when I returned from luncheon, they
had removed their infant. For a day or two, I heard on the farther side
of the grove the sweet, mournful "pe-o-wee" with which this bird
proclaims the passage of another insect to its fate, and then it was
gone, and I saw and heard them no more.
One morning I rose at dawn and seated myself behind my blind to spy upon
the doings of the early risers. On this particular morning I first
heard the tender notes of "the darling of children and bards"--the
bluebird baby. The cry was almost constant; it was urgent and clamorous
beyond anything I ever heard from "April's bird." I even doubted the
author till I saw him. The thin and worn looking mother who had him in
charge worked without ceasing, while the open-mouthed infant lifted up
his voice and wept in a way so petulant and persistent as to completely
disguise its sweet bluebird quality. Now this charming youngster,
bearing heaven's color on his wings, with speckled bib and
shoulder-cape, and honest, innocent eyes, is a special favorite with me;
I never before saw a cry-baby in the family, and I did not lose sight of
him. Three or four days passed in which the pair frequently came about,
but without the father or any other young ones. Had there been an
accident and were these the survivors? Was the troublesome brawler a
spoiled "only child"? All questions were settled by the appearance
somewhat later of three other young bluebirds who were not cry-babies.
The father had evidently shaken off the trammels of domestic life, and
"gone for his holiday" into the grove, where his encounters with the
pewees kept up a little excitement for him.
When the pitiful looking little dame had succeeded in shaking off her
ne'er-do-well, the four little ones came every day on the lawn
together. Sometimes the mother came near to see how they prospered, but
oftener they were alone. They cried no more; they ran about in the
grass, and if one happened upon a fat morsel, the three others crowded
around him and asked in pretty baby fashion for a share. Often they went
to the fence, or the lower bar of the grape trellis, and there stood
pertly erect, with head leaning a little forward, as though pondering
some of the serious problems of bluebird life, but in fact concerning
themselves only with the movements in the grass, as now and then a
sudden plunge proved. Sometimes one of the group appeared alone on the
ground, when no person was about (except behind the blinds), and then he
talked with himself for company, a very charming monologue in the
inimitable bluebird tone, with modifications suggesting that a new and
wonderful song was possible to him. He was evidently too full of joy to
keep still.
The English sparrow, who had usurped the martin house in the yard,
warned him off; the tiny golden warbler, who flitted about the shrubbery
all day, threatened to annihilate him, but with infantile innocence he
refused to understand hostility; he stared at his assailant, and he held
his ground. The little flock of four was captivating to see, and though
the mother looked ragged and careless in dress, one could but honor the
little creature who had made the world so delightful a gift as four
beautiful new bluebirds, in whose calm eyes
"Shines the peace of all being without cloud."
Other young birds were plentiful in those warm July days. From morning
till night the chipping sparrow baby, with fine streaked breast, uttered
his shrill cricket-like trill. No doubt he had already found out that he
would get nothing in this world without asking, so, in order that
nothing escape him, his demand was constant. The first broods of English
sparrows had long before united in a mob, and established themselves in
the grove, and the nests were a second time full of gaping infants
calling ever for more. The energies of even this unattractive bird were
so severely taxed that he spared us his comments on things in general,
and our affairs in particular. In the wood, young high-holes thrust
their heads out of the door and called; blackbird and martin babies flew
over with their parents, talking eagerly all the way; barn swallow
nestlings crowded up to the window-sill to look out and be fed by
passing mothers; and cautious young kingbirds, in black caps, dressed
their feathers on the edge of the nest.
But days hurried on; before long, young birds were as big as their
fathers and had joined the ranks of the grown-ups. There were no more
babies left on tree or lawn, and holiday time was over.
VI.
IN SEARCH OF THE BLUEJAY.
"The grass grows up to the front door, and the forest comes down to the
back; it's the end of the road, and the woods are full of bluejays."
Such was the siren song that lured me to a certain nook on the side of
the highest mountain in Massachusetts one June. The country was
gloriously green and fresh and young, as if it had just been created.
From my window I looked down the valley beginning between Greylock and
Ragged Mountain, and winding around other and (to me) nameless hills
till lost in the distance, apparently cut square off by what looked like
an unbroken chain from east to west. The heavy forests which covered the
hills ended in steep grass-covered slopes, with dashing and hurrying
mountain brooks between, and, save the road, scarcely a trace of man was
seen.