man had no part: an extended and luxuriant tangle, bordering the river,
of alder and other bushes, with here and there a young tree, elm, apple,
cedar, or wild cherry; and winding through it a bewitching path, made by
cows in their unconventional and meandering style and for their own
convenience, penetrating every charming nook in the shrubbery, and so
unnoticeable at its entrance that one might pass it and not suspect its
presence. In this path bushes met over their heads, often not high
enough for ours, wild roses perfumed the air, and meadow-sweet lingered
long after it was gone from haunts less cool and shaded. Every turn
offered a new and fascinating picture, and a stroll through the
irresistible way always began or ended my day's study.
[Sidenote: _FLOATED OFF THE NEST._]
For several days following my happy discovery I spent much time watching
domestic affairs in the poplar-tree. The little matron was not a
steady sitter. From two to four minutes, at intervals of about the same
length, was as long as she could possibly remain in one place; and even
then she entertained herself by rearranging the materials composing her
nest, till I began to fear she would have it pulled to pieces before the
birdlings appeared. Beautiful beyond words was her manner of entering
and leaving her snug home. On departing, she simply spread her wings and
floated off, as if lifted by the rising tide of an invisible element;
and on returning, she sank from a height of ten or twelve inches, as if
by the subsidence of the same tide.
This corner of my small world, however enchanting with its rocky ledge,
its cow-path, and its nest, did not absorb me entirely. Life about the
trumpet-vine was far more stirring and eventful. It was there that madam
spent half her time, for at that point, as well as at the nest, were
duties to be performed, her larder to be defended, intruders to be
banished, and crops to be gathered; there, too, in the intervals, her
toilet to be made. That a creature so tiny should make a toilet at all
was wonderful to think of, and to see her do it was charming. Each
minute feather on gossamer wing or widespread tail was passed carefully
through her beak; from all soft plumage, the satin white of the breast
and the burnished green of the back, every particle of dust was
removed and every disarrangement was set right. Her long white tongue,
looking like a bristle, was often thrust out far beyond the beak, and
the beak itself received an extra amount of care, being scraped and
polished its whole length by a tiny claw, which was used also for
combing the head feathers.
At the vine, too, was war; for the youngster already mentioned persisted
in denying the matron's right to the whole, and many a sharp tussle they
had, when for an hour at a time there would not be a shadow of peace for
anybody. Occasionally madam would relax her opposition to the intruder
and let him remain on the vine; but with the proverbial ingratitude of
beneficiaries, he then assumed to own it himself, and flew at her when
she returned from a visit to her nest, as if she had no right there. His
advantage lay in having nothing else to do, and thus being able to spend
all his time on the ground.
The energy of the little mother was wonderful. In spite of the unrest of
her life, of continual struggles, and work over the nest, she frequently
indulged in marvelous aerial evolutions, dashing into the air and
marking it off into zigzag lines and angles, as if either she did not
know her own mind for two seconds at a time, or was forced to take
this way to work off surplus vitality. During all this time I was hoping
to see her mate. But if he appeared at all, as several times a
ruby-throated individual did, she promptly sent him about his business.
[Sidenote: _THE WORLD TRANSFORMED._]
It was the 19th of July when I decided that sitting had finally begun on
the poplar-tree nest, madam controlling her restlessness sometimes for
the great space of ten minutes, and working no more on the structure.
Now I redoubled my vigilance, going out from the breakfast-table, and
spending my day under the rocky ledge, leaving matters at the
trumpet-vine to take care of themselves. On the 28th I started out as
usual. There had been a heavy fog all night and not a breath of wind
stirring, and I found the whole world loaded with waterdrops. When I
reached the stone wall which bounded my delightsome field, and slipped
through my private gate, I stopped in amazement at the sight before me.
The fine meadow-grass was bowed down with its weight of treasure, as if
a strong wind had laid it low, and every stem strung its whole length
with minute crystals. Purple-flowering grasses turned the infinitesimal
gems that adorned every angle into richest amethysts, and looked like
jeweled sprays fit for the queen of fairies. Every spider's web was
glorified into a net of pearls of many sizes, all threatening, if
touched, to mass themselves and run down the tunnel, at the bottom of
which, it is to be presumed, sat Madam Arachne waiting for far other
prey.
I looked on all this magnificence with admiration and dismay. Should I
wade through that sea of gems, which at the touch of my garments would
resolve themselves, like the diamonds of the fairy tales, not into
harmless dead leaves, but into mere vulgar wet? The hummer flew by to
her nest, goldfinches called from the ledge. I hesitated--and went on.
Making a path before me with my stick, stepping with care, to disturb no
drop unnecessarily, and leaving to every spider her net full of pearls,
I reached my usual place, and seated myself in a sea of jewels such as
no empress ever wore. And behold, the old fence too was transfigured
with strange hieroglyphics, into which dampness had changed the lichens,
and one half-dead old tree, under the same subtle influence, had clad
its bare and battered branches in royal velvet, of varied tints of
green, white, and black.
At last I turned lingeringly from all this beauty to the nest. Ah!
something had happened there too! Madam sat on the edge, leaned over,
and made some movements within. At my distance I could not be positive,
but I could guess--and I did, and subsequent events confirmed me--that
birdlings were out. Like other bird mammas, she sat on those infants as
steadily as she had sat on the eggs, and it was a day or two later
before I saw her feed. This was the murderous-looking fashion in which
that dainty sprite administered nourishment to her babies: she clung to
the edge of the nest, and appeared to address herself to the task of
charging an old-fashioned muzzle-loading gun, using her beak for a
ramrod, and sending it well home, violently enough, one would suppose,
to disintegrate the nestling on whom she operated. If I had not read Mr.
Torrey's description of hummingbird feeding, I should have thought the
green-clad dame was destroying her offspring, instead of tenderly
ministering to their wants.
[Sidenote: _A MURDEROUS-LOOKING OPERATION._]
Bird babies grow apace. Appetites waxed stronger, and the trumpet-vine
had dropped its blossoms. The little mother had to seek new fields, and
she settled on a patch of jewel-weed for her supplies. Now, if ever, was
needed the help of her mate, but not once did he show himself. Was he
loitering--as the books hint--at a distance, and did she go to him now
and then, on her many journeys, to tell him how the young folk
progressed? I cannot tell; I was busy watching the business partner; I
had no time to hunt up absentees. But I have a "theory," which may or
may not explain his apparent indifference. It is that the small dame,
so intolerant of neighbors even on her feeding-ground, simply cannot
endure any one about her, and prefers to do all her building and
bringing-up herself, with no one to "bother." Have we not seen her
prototype in the human world?
The young hummers had been out of their shells for two weeks before I
saw them, and then the sight was unsatisfactory,--only the flutter of a
tiny wing, and two sharp beaks thrust up above the edge. But after this
day beaks were nearly always to be seen, and sometimes a small round
head, or a glistening white tongue, or the point of a wing appeared to
encourage me. Baby days were now fast passing away; the mother fed
industriously, and the "pair of twins," waxed strong and pert, sat up
higher in the nest, and began the unceasing wag of the head from side to
side, like their mother. What a fairy-like world was this they were now
getting acquainted with! What to them was the presence of human beings,
with their interests, their anxieties, and their cares, passing far
below on the road, or what even the solitary bird-student, sitting hour
after hour by the rocks in silence, turning inquisitive eyes upon them?
The green tree was their world, and their mother was queen. Valiantly
did this indefatigable personage drive away every intruder, bravely
facing the chickadee who happened to alight in passing, even showing
fight to the wasps that buzzed about her castle in the air. I shall
always think she really knew me, and had a not unfriendly feeling toward
me, for when I met her about the place, even away from the nest, she
frequently greeted me with what one would not wish to be so
disrespectful as to call a squeaking twitter.
[Sidenote: _THE BABY FLIES._]
As the end of the three weeks reported to be necessary to fit baby
hummers for life drew near, I rarely left the rocky ledge for an hour of
daylight, so anxious was I to see a nestling try his wings. The mother
herself seemed to be in a state of expectancy, and would often, after
feeding, linger about the little home, as if inviting or expecting a
youngster to come out to her. At the last I could not stay in my bed in
the morning, but rushed out before sunrise, remembering how momentous
are the early morning hours in the bird-world. But it was noon of the
twenty-first day of his life when the first baby flew. He had just been
fed, and he sat on the edge of the nest beating his wings, when all at
once away he went, floating off like a bit of thistledown, up and out of
sight. Though expecting it and looking for it, I was greatly startled
when the moment came.
The last act in the little drama was a pretty scene in the bushes. I
was wandering about in the hope of one more interview, when suddenly my
lady and a young one alighted on a twig before me. She appeared to feed
the youth, hovered about him an instant, and with the tip of her beak
touched him gently on the forehead. Then, with a farewell twitter, both
flew away over my head, so closely they almost swept me with their
wings. And so the pretty story of the nest was ended.
VII.
MY LADY IN GREEN.
Truly a fairy-like dwelling was that nest on the apple-tree; about the
size of a walnut, with one leaf for a shelter. It was placed--I had
almost said grew--in a slender crotch of a low-hanging bough. No coarse
grass stems or bark fibres bound it to its slight moorings; it seemed to
stand by its own fitness, to be a part of the branch itself. Soft,
creamy-hued vegetable cotton, pressed and felted into a certain firmness
of consistency, formed the structure, and a close covering of lichens
held it in shape and completed its beauty, while giving an apple-branch
tone that made it almost invisible. An inch in depth and the same in
breadth furnished ample quarters for the twin hummingbird babies whose
home it was.
But the charm that had drawn me across four States to study it was its
situation. For when has one of those airy sprites, with the whole
expanse of the tallest trees at command, chosen to come down to the
level of mortals, to set up her domestic gods within reach of a human
hand, and within hearing of a human ear? What friendly spirit bade her
select a scantily leaved branch, backed by the heavy foliage of
luxuriant maples, that rendered her fairy-like home conspicuous whatever
the weather and wherever the sunlight fell? By what happy thought did
she settle upon a low bough with long swaying ends, by which to draw it
gently down, and thus let the enraptured bird-lover watch closely day by
day the growth and development of her darlings? and so near a house that
one could look into it from a window? Long railway trips in dusty
August, the hot days and hotter nights of that fiery month, and the
various minor discomforts of close summer--boarder quarters were all
forgotten in a great joy.
Nothing was ever more bewitching to watch than that atom in feathers,
the hummingbird mother. She was so tiny that her life might be crushed
out between a thumb and finger, yet she was full of love and anxiety
about her birdlings. She was thoughtful in her care of them, and
industrious in supplying their wants. In a word, she was a pattern of
perfect and beautiful motherhood. Charming it was, beyond expression, to
see her come home to her beloved, embroidering angles in the
air,--hummingbird fashion,--pausing a dozen times on wing, looking at
them from as many points of view, and at length dropping lightly as a
feather upon the edge, like a fairy godmother with her gifts of food;
and then in a few moments suddenly rise, up--up--up, with body erect as
if mounting an invisible ladder, till, at five or six feet above, she
shot away so swiftly no eye could follow her.
[Sidenote: _BEAUTIFUL MOTHERHOOD._]
When startled, as she frequently was in her close proximity to our noisy
race, she darted off like a flash, forward or backward, upward or
downward, never turning, but dashing in any direction opposite to the
quarter from which the disturbance came. On the rare occasions when she
was not frightened, she seemed unable to tear herself away. She would
hover about her nest, five or six inches from it, this side and that,
over and around again, with eyes apparently fixed on her treasures,
sometimes daintily touching with the tip of her beak the nest, or one of
the nestlings, in a caressing manner.
The small dame too, though wary and easily startled, had a great deal of
repose of manner. When settled over her infants, she sat still most of
the time, not moving her head from side to side in the restless way of
some of her family, but looking straight before her and as quiet as a
thrush.
In another way the little mother ignored the traditions; she did not
always hum. Until the little ones were ten or twelve days old she came
to the nest in perfect silence; after that she began to hum, and by the
time they were two weeks old she came with her characteristic note every
time.
It is interesting to see how all birds recognize and respect the right
of a mother to her own tree, or the part of a tree on which she has set
up her home. Big birds like robins and thrashers, even belligerent ones,
who will not generally allow themselves to be driven, usually depart
speedily before the beak of the least of mothers asserting her ownership
of a tree or bush; not because they are afraid of her, but because they
appreciate the justice of her title, and demand the same for themselves.
[Sidenote: _BABIES THE SIZE OF A BEE._]
Small as was the apple-tree dweller, she had managed, before I knew her,
to establish her claim to her own vicinity. Goldfinches and yellow
warblers, vireos and robins, were about; I heard them on all sides, but
not one intruded upon her tree or the neighboring sides of the maples.
As the young progressed and waxed bumptious, she became more and more
cautious. She made many more angles and observations in the air before
alighting, looking at them from every possible side, as if wishing to
assure herself that nothing had happened in her absence. She even
resented the presence under her tree of a hen and chickens, and flew
at them with savage cries. But the barnyard matron was too much absorbed
in her own maternal anxieties to pay any heed to the midget buzzing and
squeaking around her head; and madam herself seemed to appreciate the
absurdity of her proceeding, for in a moment she returned to her duties,
and remonstrated no more.
* * * * *
How shall I picture the growth and development of the twins in that
cherished home! Where shall I find words delicate and subtle enough to
describe the change as I saw it from day to day, from puny atoms the
size of a honey-bee to fledged and full-grown hummingbirds! Every
morning, watching and waiting till the whole of our little world was at
breakfast, I drew down the fateful branch and indulged in a long, close
look at them, and no language at my command is adequate to describe the
process of unfolding.
At first sight of the two I was lost in amazement. Could those minute,
caterpillar-like objects, covered with scanty and scattering hairs,
lying side by side in the bottom of their miniature cradle, be the
offspring of the winged sprites of the bird-world? Would those short,
wide, duck-like beaks ever become the needle-shaped probers of flowers?
Would wings ever grow on those grub-like bodies? They were at this
time four and five days old; for though they appeared like twins, I
learned from previous watchers that there was a day's difference between
them.
After I had looked and wondered, and returned to my seat behind the
window-blinds to watch, the mother came to feed. It would be pleasant to
imagine that the food brought by that dainty dame, and administered to
her beloved brood, consisted of the nectar of flowers, drawn from the
sweet peas that filled the garden with beauty and perfume, the gay
flaunting scarlet beans over the way, or the golden drops of the
jewel-weed modestly hiding under their broad leaves, in the hollow down
by the bridge. But Science, in her relentless substitution of fact for
fancy, does not allow us this agreeable delusion. Something far more
substantial, not to say gross, we are informed, is required to build up
the muscle and bone of the atoms in the nest. Meat is what they must
have, and meat it was, in the shape of tiny spiders and perhaps other
minute creatures, that mamma was seeking when she hovered under the
maple boughs, now and then touching a twig or the underside of a leaf.
Indeed, one might occasionally see her pick off her spider as deftly as
one would pick a peach.
[Sidenote: _A FEARFUL SIGHT._]
Hummingbird feeding has been graphically described more than once; but
when the food-bearer arrived I seized my glass, eager to see it again.
This is the way my fairy-like mother administered the staff of life to
her tender birdlings. Alighting on the edge of the nest, she leaned
over, and with her beak jerked a little head into sight above the edge;
then down the baby's throat she thrust her long beak its whole length;
and it looked actually longer than the youngster itself. Then she
prodded and shook the unfortunate nestling, who seemed to hold on, till
I wondered his head did not come off. It was truly fearful to witness.
In a moment, shaking off, apparently with difficulty, that one, who
dropped out of sight, she jerked up the other, and treated it in the
same rough way, shaking her own body from head to tail by her exertion.
Thus alternately she fed them, three or four times, before she finished;
and then she calmly slipped on to the nest, wriggling and twisting about
as if she were pawing them over with her feet. There she sat for five or
six minutes before darting away for fresh supplies, while I wondered if
the two victims of this Spartan method were lying dead, stabbed to
death, or smothered, by their own mother. But I did her tenderness and
her motherhood injustice. Regularly every half hour she came and
repeated this murderous-looking process, unless, as often happened,
she was frightened away by the people about.
Till her little ones were two weeks old, the devoted if apparently
ungentle parent continued to feed them at intervals of thirty minutes,
the neck-dislocating performance being always as violent as I have
described. After that date she came more frequently, every fifteen or
twenty minutes, and their development went on more rapidly. At the early
age of five and six days, even before their eyes were open, the young
birds began to show that they had minds of their own, and knew when they
had enough (which some folk bigger than birds never know). When one was
sufficiently filled, or sufficiently racked, it would shut its mouth and
refuse to open, though mamma touched it gently with her beak.
"The world slipped away and I was in fairyland," wrote my old friend the
Enthusiast, while watching, in another part of the country that same
summer, the nest-building of a hummingbird. To me, also, the study of
the life and affairs of this nest, to which I gave nearly every hour of
daylight for weeks, seemed like a glimpse into that land of childhood's
dreams, excepting when the outer world obtruded too rudely. For the life
that went on under and around that charmed spot was far from fairy-like.
The "hard facts" of human existence were ever uppermost, and there
were a thousand disturbances between breakfast and bedtime. Indeed, the
nest was the neighborhood show; everybody longed to pull down the branch
and look at it. Men, women, and boys; master, mistress, and maids;
horses, cattle, and birds, conspired to keep up an excitement around the
apple-tree. It seemed a magnet to draw to itself all the noise and
confusion of that peaceful village.
[Sidenote: _THE NEIGHBORHOOD SHOW._]
There was the man who assumed the office of showman, brought a chair out
under the tree, pulled down the branch, and invited every passer-by to
step up and look, with the comment, "Big business raising such a family
as that!" while I sat in terror, dreading lest the branch slip from his
careless fingers and fling the little ones out into the universe, an
accident I saw befall a chipping sparrow's brood, as already related.
There, too, was the horse who halted under the tree and regaled himself
with apples which he gathered for himself, jerking his branch violently;
happily not _the_ branch, or there would have been a sudden end to
dreams of fairyland.
Above all, there were the summer boarders, to whom in that quiet rural
life any object of interest was a godsend and greedily welcomed. Every
day, and many times a day, a procession passed on the way to the
"Springs" of odorous--not to say odious--memory, equipped with tumblers
and cups, pitchers and pails, and every one paused at the little show in
front of the house, where, alas! there was no fence. Well dressed city
women stopped, and stared, and pointed with parasols, often asking for a
look into the nest.
All this hindered the poor little mother in her domestic duties. She
would come near, alight on a twig far above, and wait, hoping to reach
her darlings, till some laugh or movement startled her away; and usually
just before dark, while the village was at supper, she had to feed very
often to make up for short commons all day.
There were other dangers too, which I hoped did not worry the "wee
birdie" as they did me. Two or three times a strong wind--a November
gale out of date, rocked and tossed that tiny cradle all day, while I
frequently held my breath, in fear of seeing the twins flung out. But
the canny little creatures cuddled down in the nest, which by that time
seemed too small to hold them, showing only beaks and, later, immature
tails above the edge.
Once, very early in their lives, came a steady rain. All night long the
devoted mother received the downpour on her back, and all the next day,
with short intervals of food-seeking, she remained at her post, while
the water ran off her tail in streams. She kept her younglings warm and
dry, but the nest was sadly damaged, the lichen covering was softened
and brightened in color, and the whole structure spread and settled, so
that I feared it would not hold together till the little ones were
grown.
[Sidenote: _A MALICIOUS-LOOKING APPLE._]
There, too, was the ever-present menace of falling apples, which were
constantly dropping from the tree. A well-loaded branch hung over the
nest, and one particularly malicious-looking specimen of an angry
reddish hue, suspended as it appeared exactly above, had a deep dimple
in one side which gave it a sinister expression, and one could not help
the suspicion that it might delight in letting go its hold and dashing
that frivolous nursery to the ground.