It was a radiant May day, so invitingly fresh and sunshiny that I found
it impossible to stay indoors with any degree of resignation. Far up the
hillside sloping southward was a favorite nook, and thither I turned my
springing steps, so full of life and gladness that I could hardly
contain it all.
Robins and bluebirds along my path saluted me, sparrows caroled from
shrub and tree top their sweet, glad-spirited chorus, swallows were
skimming the meadow with graceful wing, and bobolinks sang everywhere,
jubilant, hilarious, in their “rollicking holiday spirit,” evidently
intensely amused over some episode of recent date in the blithe bobolink
world.
An old orchard of gnarled and tangled trees—a veritable “antique”—ended
my ramble; here I threw myself down upon a mossy bank, turning to face
the direction whence I had come. Down the valley, with its willow and
alder fringed brook threading the meadow flats, I could look far away
and over to the distant hills, woods and tilled lands on the other side.
The old orchard stands like the leafy porch to the sylvan halls behind
it. Upon either side is a wild unbroken tangle of small growth—saplings
of birch, poplar and maple; in front is a stubbly slope cut off by a
picturesque brook from the meadows beyond; upon the farther side a deep
forest of many years’ standing.
Ah, the restfulness of a retreat like this, shut in from the rustle,
bustle and petty cares of the world and the everyday scramble for the
bread and butter of mere existence! And the witchery of an hour like
this—the whole earth steeped in sunshine, the air exhilarant and
inspiring with freshness and fragrance, the woodsy odors of the tender
new life but just awakened from the torpidity of frost-bound inanition,
and the honeyed fragrance of the abundant apple blossoms inviting bird
and bee and human flower lovers.
Evidently the birds were in sympathy with my mood, for there were
literally flocks of them all about me; and the air was freighted with
the enchanting melody of their rejoicing voices, Robert O’Lincoln as
usual making himself delightfully prominent. I threw myself back upon
the lap of Mother Earth and mentally rehearsed that characteristic
bobolink poem:
“A flock of merry singing birds were sporting in the grove,
Some were warbling cheerily and some were making love.
There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseble, Conquedle,—
A livelier set were never led by taber, pipe or fiddle.”
Presently the soporific influence of the atmosphere and surroundings
began to take effect; and, soothed by Nature’s lullaby, I fell asleep
with Wadolincon, Bobolincon, Conquedle, Winterseble, all in a confused
jumble in my brain.
Immediately my companions began a lively discussion about
house-building. At first I could not make out even the subject of the
conversation, for all were talking together in such determined
I-will-have-my-say accents that they out-babeled Babel with the
confusion of tongues and senseless racket.
Soon, however, came a diversion, a hawk flew screaming across the arena,
and, in the lull that followed, Mrs. Crow seized the opportunity to
mount the platform of a tall spruce and call the meeting to order,
suggesting that as the subject under consideration was of common
interest and importance, it would be more profitably discussed if each
were allowed to speak separately.
I was grateful indeed for this timely suggestion of the sable intruder,
for, being myself especially interested in the subject under debate, I
was anxious for information, and knew that among so divers opinions one
might expect new light upon it.
Mrs. Robin Redbreast came forward just then and opened the discussion by
expressing her own choice of “use before beauty” and a dry and airy
situation.
Mrs. Bluebird liked privacy and retirement from the public gaze, and
declared that no place more conspicuous than a hollow post or stump is a
fitting home for the bringing up of baby bluebirds.
Mrs. Sparrow, in modest apparel, showed her quiet taste in the matter of
home-making as in dress, choosing a lowly nook in the pasture or upon
the edge of some grass-fringed bank.
An equally secluded and unsuspected site, with the meadow grasses waving
above and daisies and buttercups nodding in the breeze but telling no
tales, is the select location of Mrs. O’Lincoln, and rarely indeed does
Madam betray the secrets of her home.
“No position is so favorable for nesting purposes as a big knot upon a
bridge sleeper,” tersely remarked Mrs. Pewee. “My sisters and I make a
point of utilizing every bridge in our neighborhood, though we like
nearly as well the eaves of a barn if only the Swallows would give us
permission to build on their territory.”
“Dear me,” exclaimed Mrs. Vireo in a distressed tone. “Under a bridge.
How plebeian to be sure! Why, how can the precious nestlings sleep in so
much noise? I think a swinging cradle indispensable for my babies.”
“I, too,” chimed in Mrs. Oriole. “I have often watched Mrs. Pewee from
our beautiful Elm Lodge and wondered how she could be happy with her
home in such a constant jar.”
“Come, come,” interrupted Mrs. Crow at this point. “I hope no sarcasm is
intended. Our taste is for a branch high up in some dark hemlocks, out
of the reach of gunners and harum-scarum boys. We care more for quantity
than quality, too, plenty of room but not too much luxury to make our
children lazy in getting their own living.”
“That would never do us,” persisted Mrs. Vireo. “We hold that nothing is
too good for the little ones, and early surroundings and influences are
everything in cultivating a refined taste, a love for the beautiful, and
the art of fanciful designing. You cannot find anyone who takes more
pains than we in this respect.”
“O, we all know that the Vireos have plenty of time and means,” tartly
responded Mrs. Catbird, in an unmistakably sarcastic tone. She, well
aware of her own carelessness both in selection of site and manner of
building, had not an advanced idea to offer; and, like certain humans,
she therefore indulged in scoffing at her betters. “For my part,” she
continued after a pause intended to be impressive, “I think that those
who trust to luck a little more come out just as well in the end and
have just as respectable and more independent children.”
“Yes, yes,” laughed Mrs. O’Lincoln, “if by ‘independent’ you mean
lawless; and fine examples you could furnish us, too. No one will
dispute you.”
“I like to see materials correspond with surroundings,” modestly
suggested Mrs. Sparrow, and Mrs. Bluebird added: “If you have proper
regard for privacy and modesty in the choice of a site you need give
less attention to either materials or the style of your structure.”
Madam Cowbird now descended from a perch in the big birch balcony and
summarily dismissed the assembly with this rough injunction: “Better be
in better business, all of you! Work is better than talk and
accomplishes more for the benefit of your neighbors. Theories are well
enough, but let me see a practical demonstration of your various ideas.
Finish your building and I will come around as critic and inspect your
work. I’ll warrant that I shall find little to choose among you for all
your fine talk.”
This characteristic speech filled me with such indignation that I
resolved at once to expose the duplicity of the speaker, thus thwarting
Madam’s wily plans for shirking her own duties.
Springing to my feet and gathering my forces for an energetic and
scathing rebuke, I suddenly discovered that the whole company had
dispersed, leaving me alone with the beauty and sweetness and quiet
gladness of the old orchard.
Sara Elizabeth Graves.
THE CAROLINA CHICKADEE.
(_Parus carolinensis._)
As one walks through the forest, either in winter when the snow is deep,
or in summer when the sun is highest, the stillness will be broken from
time to time by the merry “Chicka-dee-dee,” “day, day,” or “hey-de,
hey-de,” coming from a little throat only a few feet away.
The Carolina Chickadee is very similar to the blackcapped chickadee with
the exception that it has a decidedly shorter tail. Its range is also
different, being seldom found north of a line extending from New Jersey,
through central Indiana, west to Texas and Indian Territory. The
blackcapped is seldom found south of this line.
The nest of this bird is a very cozy affair sheltered in a hollow snag
or post. It often takes advantage of the deserted home of a downy
woodpecker to make its nest. It also frequently excavates a cavity in
some rotten snag or tree trunk. As soft wood is preferred one generally
finds the nest in a willow snag. I found a nest of this interesting
little bird in a rotten willow snag only a few feet from a small stream.
The stump was so decayed that I could easily have pushed it over. The
excavation had been recently done, because fresh bits of wood were
scattered about the ground. Looking in at the hole, which was about four
feet from the ground, I could easily see the nest and eggs in the cavity
some ten inches below. Desiring to study it more closely and to obtain a
photograph, I carefully pushed my knife through the soft trunk and pried
off a large slab. This exposed the cavity and the nest. The nest was a
beautiful soft affair, composed of hair, feathers, down, etc., and
contained seven small, pinkish white eggs, spotted with reddish brown
most profusely at the larger end.
I then carefully replaced the slab and tied it on securely, trusting I
had not disturbed the home too much to prevent further nesting.
When I again passed the nest an hour later and looked in I met the gaze
of a pair of small bead-like eyes. The parent bird had returned and had
resumed her task, apparently in no way disturbed by the rude attack on
her domicile.
Whenever I desired to examine the progress of development of this small
family I had but to remove the door and look in. This was easily done,
for the latchstring was always out. About eight days after hatching the
young left the nest.
The Chickadee is one of the farmer’s best friends. During the egg-laying
season of the canker-worm moth it destroys a great many eggs.
Examination of the stomach contents shows between 200 and 300
canker-worm eggs in each. It has been estimated that each of these birds
destroys 14,000 of these eggs during the month of egg laying. The
Chickadee has been accused of destroying the buds of fruit trees, but
this is not substantiated. It has been found that whenever it attacks a
bud it does so to secure the worm which has burrowed into the center.
These birds are doubly useful because they remain with us the entire
year and continue their destruction of eggs and larvæ. The amount of
work done by a pair of these birds in destroying eggs and larvæ of
injurious insects is more than could be accomplished by any man. They
should therefore receive the greatest protection possible.
J. Rollin Slonaker.
[Illustration: CAROLINA CHICKADEE.
(Parus carolinensis.)
Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
DICK.
(THE STORY OF A DOG.)
My first remembrance is when I was about two weeks old and lived with my
mother, brother and sister in a fancy basket that stood in the corner of
a pleasant room in a house in the city of Apokeepsing.
My mistress came into the room followed by another lady, and taking me
up she said: “This is the one I am going to give to the little boy.”
The other lady took me in her hands and smoothed my curls as she said:
“Well, he is a dear little fellow—but what a darkey he is!”
My father was an imported Russian poodle. He was pure white with pink
eyes and nose, but he was cross, for the only time I remember seeing
him, he growled at me and I hid in my mistress’ skirts while she scolded
him.
My mother was a Skye terrier, silver gray in color and very intelligent
and affectionate.
Our mistress loved us dearly and used to wash us and comb our hair until
we were as clean as children.
She was a pretty woman and we all loved her as much as she did us and
would run to meet her and kiss her hands and jump in her lap as soon as
she sat down.
I used to wonder who the little boy was to whom I was to be given, and
when he would come for me; but time went on and I was still with my
mother and had nearly forgotten about being given away. One day when I
was about five months old, my mistress came into the room and said to
her daughter: “Emma, where is Sandy?” I pricked up my ears, for that was
my name. She then called me and I ran to her. She took me in her arms
and carried me to the street. There was a wagon standing by the sidewalk
and in it were a gentleman and a dear brown-eyed little boy who gave a
pleased laugh and caught me in his arms, as my mistress held me up to
him, and he hugged me so hard that it almost hurt.
Then the gentleman thanked my mistress and she said: “Good bye, Sandy,”
and I tried to get back to her, but the horses started off and I had to
go too.
First we went up a long hill where trolley cars ran and where wagons,
horses and people were coming and going all the time.
Then we drove on over a softer road, with less noise and so few houses
that sometimes I had to look all around before I could see any, but at
last the horses turned in through a gateway and stopped at a large white
house.
The little boy called, “Mamma, come and see the new dog!” and out on the
stoop came a young lady with a baby in her arms, and she said: “Well!
well! what a funny little black fellow!” but she said it with a laugh in
her eyes so I knew she liked my looks and when the gentleman put me out
on the stoop, I ran to her and she took me up and let the baby pull my
curls.
I was so glad to be liked, that I kissed them both ever so many times,
until the lady laughed and said: “Here, my son, take this little kisser
in and give him some dinner.” I was glad to hear that for I was very
hungry.
The next day the little boy said he meant to call me Dick, so his mother
took my head between her hands and said: “Dear little doggie, your name
is Dick now, so don’t forget that we mean you when you hear us say it.”
I wagged my tail as hard as I could to tell her I would remember and I
did so well that it wasn’t long before I forgot to expect to be called
Sandy and grew to like Dick much better.
I found I had come to live on a farm with cool green grass to run
through, cats to chase, chickens to hunt and horses and cows to look out
for.
One day I was barking at a cow to make her go into the barn and she
turned quickly and kicked me against the fence.
It hurt me pretty badly and I was sick for several days. My new mistress
gave me medicine, rubbed my sides and kept me in the house by her until
I felt better.
There was another dog at this house. He was a great St. Bernard called
Brian and he used to play with me and scare me almost to death.
His paws were so large that when he struck me in play he nearly knocked
my breath away.
There were seven people in this home, the little boy’s mother and
father, baby sister, their grandfather and a little woman and a young
man who did most of the work.
My mistress used to talk to me and teach me how to do things. I soon
learned to jump and speak and shake hands, to sit up, lie down, roll
over and do other little similar tricks.
When she went out with her horse, I would go too and sometimes when we
were alone I would sit on the seat by her side.
One day all were going for a drive and I was to stay at home, but after
they were gone, I became so lonesome that I ran off after them and tried
my best to catch them.
After I had run a long way, I saw the wagon ahead of me and so I hurried
on until I was close to them. I went on for some time without any one
seeing me, but at last my mistress turned her head and saw me trotting
along through the dust. She looked surprised and shook her head at me,
but did not tell the others.
By and by the horse stopped at a house and I was so tired I ran up to
the wheel and cried to be taken in.
Then the little boy cried out, “Why, here is Dick, how did he get here?”
and his papa said, “Dick, you rascal, what did you follow us for?” I
hung my head for I thought I might get a whipping for coming without
permission, but the gentleman only laughed and taking me up, put me in
under the seat. Wasn’t I glad to lie down and rest!
When the baby began to creep she and I used to have great fun on the
floor. I would stand still and let her catch me and then jump away and
back at her, and she would laugh and crow with delight.
The little boy was in school part of the day, but we always had a good
run after he came home.
My mistress used to say to me, “Dick, it is half past three and time for
brother to come from school,” and then I would run down to the gate and
watch for him, and when I saw him coming we would run to meet each
other, and such a hugging as I would get!
But for that great dog I would have had a happy life on the farm, but
Brian used to bat me around so roughly that I was afraid to go near him,
and at last, one day, he struck me with his paw and rolled me over. He
then stepped on me, and I was hurt so badly that I could not get up.
My mistress ran out and picked me up in her arms and scolded Brian until
he hung his head and tried to lick her hand. Then she said, “Well, I
suppose you didn’t intend to hurt Dick, and, after all, you are only a
dog, and people do more thoughtless things than this.”
I stayed in the house nearly all the time until my sides were well, and
every day Brian came to the door to ask how I felt and to tell me how
sorry he was for having hurt me.
He was an affectionate dog, but very thoughtless, and I often heard our
mistress say that he was very different from the majority of St. Bernard
dogs, for they were generally very intelligent and trustworthy.
Perhaps Brian had not been well treated during his puppyhood, for that
is the time to form a dog’s character. By talking to us when we are
little we soon learn to understand what is required of us, and, then if
people are kind, we always will try to do as they wish.
My mistress used to say that the worst thing a person could do was to
abuse a dog or a horse, for both were too good friends to be
ill-treated.
There were four horses on the farm, a black mare named Dot, a black
horse, Billy, a large bay, Milo, and a young chestnut horse called
Archie.
When my mistress and the children went for a drive Milo generally took
them, and then I used to go, too. Sometimes I ran ahead to see if the
roads were all clear, and one day I saw a snake going across the road. I
ran back as fast as I could to tell Milo to hurry so the children could
see it. They were taught not to be afraid of everything, as some
children are, but to be interested in all living things, so I always
told them when I found snakes or turtles or any odd things out of doors.
One day, soon after I had recovered from Brian’s playfulness, I heard
the little boy’s father say to my mistress: “We will have to send Dick
away.” She said, “Why so; on account of Brian?” and he replied, “Yes, I
think it will be better for Dick to have a more gentle playmate.”
“Well,” said my mistress, “I can send Dick down home.”
I was lying on the floor beside her chair, listening as hard as I could
and wondering where “down home” was and whether I would be treated well
and if the people would like me and a hundred other things. But under
all ran the thought that I was to leave my dear little master, the baby
and my mistress, and it made me feel so badly that I gave a howl of
sorrow before I knew it.
My mistress looked surprised and exclaimed, “Why, Dickie, what is the
matter?”
I climbed up in her lap and licked her face and hands and tried to beg
her to keep me with her. I must have succeeded, for she hugged me close
and said, “Did you hear what I said, my doggie?
“Well, never mind, Dickie, you will be happier there than you are here.”
But I didn’t believe that, for it didn’t seem as though I could be happy
away from these three.
After that I followed her wherever she went, and she used to laugh at me
and call me her shadow, but I wanted to be with her all I could before
she sent me away.
About a week after this my mistress said, “Dickie, I am going to take
you to town this morning.” I was delighted, but when a little after the
little boy, before he went to school, kissed me ever so many times and
said, “Goodbye, my dear doggie,” it set me to wondering what was going
to happen.
The next thing that occurred was very unpleasant, for the little boy’s
father put me in a box and nailed slats across the top so that I
couldn’t get out.
I did not like to be a prisoner and tried to scratch the slats off, but
it was of no use, so at last I sat down and waited to see what would
happen next.
As soon as Milo was harnessed the young man put me into the wagon and
led Milo to the house.
My mistress and the baby came out, and off we went.
As soon as we were on our way my mistress leaned over and said, “Dear
doggie, I am afraid you are not very comfortable in there, but you will
soon come out;” and she gave me her hand to lick. Then I felt better and
sat looking out as we drove along to the city.
Pretty soon we stopped in front of a store and a young man came out. My
mistress said to him, “I want to send this dog to New York by express.”
Going out, she procured some meat and put it in the box for me, and then
she said, “Good-bye, my dear old Dick, you are going where I would like
to be myself. Be good and love everyone for me.”
After a while a man came for me and put the box in a wagon. He took me a
long way through the city to a place where there were cars and
locomotives. I was put in a car with a queer little brass check tied to
the box, and soon the car began to go very fast indeed.
The next thing I knew a man was hauling my box out of the car, and he
put it on a sort of wheelbarrow and took me off across a street or two
and to a boat.
After I had been taken off the boat my box stood for a long while in a
corner, and I was just about ready to cry myself to sleep when I heard a
gentle voice say, “Here he is and it is Dick, sure enough.”
It was too dark to see plainly, but I could see a lady, a gentleman and
a young girl. The lady continued talking to me while the gentleman broke
open the box so I could get out.
At last the slats were off and out I bounced, and the lady said, “Dick,
I am your little master’s grandma,” and then I was very glad, for I knew
I was home at last.
Pretty soon we all four started to walk up a road. The lady led me by a
cord around my neck, as she was afraid I would run away, but if she had
known how glad I was to find friends she would not have worried about
that.
The house we reached was a large one, with beautiful lawns and gardens,
and I soon found out that I was to be known as “Brother’s dog,” and to
be petted because I belonged to him.
All through the winter and spring I lived an easy, happy life, with but
one break in the quiet days, and that was when my dear little master,
mistress and the baby came for a visit.
I was so glad to see them that I jumped and barked until I was all tired
out.
How I did miss them when they went away again!
Along toward spring one night we heard bells ringing and men shouting,
and I ran out in the yard to see a great glare of fire along the river
just a short distance above our home.
A large building was all ablaze, and it burned to the ground.
The next morning a poor little cat came to the place. She had been in
the fire and was horribly burned.
Brother’s grandpa brought her into the barn and gave her some milk, and
after a while she crept into my house to rest.
This poor thing was in such a terrible condition that I felt sorry for
her and began to talk to her to find out what I could do to help lessen
her pain.
I made her welcome to my bed, and we lived together after awhile, for
she said my thick curls made a warm bed for her poor burned sides to
rest on, so I tried to help her get well.
By and by the people began to call her “Bob” and say she was “Dick’s
cat,” and that pleased me so much that I began to be quite fond of her,
and many a cosy nap we had together.
Her burns healed nicely, but half her ears and nearly all her tail was
gone. She looked very queer, but she was a gentle little cat.
I licked her ears for her and kept them clean, so they healed nicely,
too.
When she had lived with us a month or two I came around to my house one
afternoon and there were three tiny gray kittens.
I was surprised, and asked Bob what they were doing there, and she
replied that they were her babies.
Then I was glad and kept them warm for her many times while she was off
hunting.
When they grew large enough they used to play tag over my back while Bob
and I lay talking together, and after a while I found they liked to have
me play with them, and for some reason I enjoyed a good romp as much as
they did.
One day when they were all climbing over me one put his paw on my nose
so I couldn’t breathe, and I took him in my mouth and carried him off on
the lawn and gave him a good shaking, but dear me! he knew I wasn’t
angry and didn’t mind it a bit.
Now the long, sunny summer days are coming, and I am waiting eagerly,
for when the warm weather comes my dear little master and his mother and
baby sister are coming for a long visit. Then I’ll be the happiest dog
in town, for I’ll have to go walking with two playmates and my mistress.
It is strange how few people understand dogs, or any other animal for
that matter.
The majority seem to think that all we are good for is to be kicked and
abused.
The people at both my homes are as kind to their animals as to their
children, and love and care for us just as we need.
I suppose that my history is not a very important one, but it will show
how a dog can love and appreciate and tell what a truly happy life I
have had so far, because I have been with good-hearted people.
I am not a very old dog yet, but I hope to live many years with my kind
friends in the beautiful home I now have, and wish all animals were as
well off as,
Yours truly,
Dick.
Katharine Watkins Lawson.
[Illustration: VIOLET-GREEN SWALLOW.
(Tachycineta thalassina).
⅘ Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
THE VIOLET-GREEN SWALLOW.
(_Tachycineta thalassina._)
The Violet-green Swallow is one of the most beautiful of the
Hirundinidæ, or family of swallows. There are about eighty species of
the family and they are world-wide in their distribution. These tireless
birds seem to pass almost the entire day on the wing in pursuit of
insects upon which they feed almost exclusively. They can outfly the
birds of prey, and the fact that they obtain their food while flying
enables them to pursue their migrations by day and to rest at night.
The Violet-green Swallow frequents the Pacific coast from British
Columbia on the north, southward in the winter to Guatemala and Costa
Rica. Its range extends eastward to the eastern base of the Rocky
Mountains.
Its nest, which is made of dry grass and copiously lined with a mass of
feathers, is variously placed. Sometimes the knot-holes of oaks and
other deciduous trees are selected. They have also been known to use the
deserted homes of the cliff swallow. Mr. Allen states that they “nest in
abandoned woodpeckers’ holes, but at the Garden of the Gods and on the
divide between Denver and Colorado City, we found them building in holes
in the rocks.” This Swallow is quite common in Western Colorado, where
they have been observed on the mountain sides at an altitude of eight to
over ten thousand feet. In “The Birds of Colorado” Mr. W. W. Cooke says:
“A few breed on the plains, but more commonly from six to ten thousand
five hundred feet” above the level of the sea. He also adds that they
begin laying late in June or early in July and desert the higher regions
in August and the lower early in September.
The notes of this exquisite bird are described by an observer who says
that they “consist of a rather faint warbling twitter, uttered as they
sit on some low twig, their favorite perch; when flying about they seem
to be rather silent.”
The Violet-green Swallows, like their sister species, usually nest and
migrate in colonies.
Isn’t it wonderful, when you think,
How the wild bird sings his song,
Weaving melodies, link by link,
The whole sweet summer long?
Commonplace is a bird alway,
Everywhere seen and heard,—
But all the engines of earth, I say,
Working on till Judgment Day,
Never could make a bird.
—J. S. Cutler.