The original home of the canary was in the Canary Islands. These are warm, sunny islands not far from the west coast of Africa. Winter is almost unknown there, and before the bird-catchers came the canaries must have led happy lives.
The birds were trapped and sent to all the countries of Europe. The first canaries brought to America came from Germany in 1842. It was a long voyage in a sailing-vessel, and many of the poor little prisoners died on the way.
The birds are put into wicker cages so small that there is scarcely room to stretch their wings. These cages are packed in boxes or crates, and one hundred and sixty-eight birds are sent in one crate.
The birds are kept in the tiny cages until they are sold. The cups of food and water are put inside the cages. Sometimes when they are moved to a larger cage, the birds do not know where to look for their food. They have been known to die of hunger because they could not find their seed-cups, which in their new cages are on the outside.
Every day, when the cage is cleaned, fresh water and food should be placed in it. Birds like a daily bath in a shallow dish of tepid water. After the bath they should have an hour or two of liberty. It is unkind to keep them shut up in a cage all the time.
After a bird has had his morning frolic he should not be chased or frightened into his cage. When the little fellow is hungry he will be glad to go back, especially if he sees there a bit of food that he likes. In time he will even learn to fly to the outstretched finger of his master or mistress, and to answer, as well as he can, the caressing tones which he loves.
A canary is one of the most sensitive creatures in the world. A harsh or sudden noise disturbs it, and a severe fright may kill it.
Canaries like the sunshine and dread the cold, but they should not be left in the sun in warm weather. Do not hang the cage in a draught or away from the light. It should be about five feet from the floor and not too near a register or radiator.
Once a month the cage must be thoroughly washed and the perches scalded, if you wish your bird's home to be healthful. The floor and perches will also need cleaning every day. Coarse sand should be sprinkled on the thick, brown paper which covers the bottom of the cage. At night put the cage in a dark room or spread over it a square of soft, dark material, in such a way that the air is not shut out.
The ordinary bath-tub provided for a canary is much too small. Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller says that it should be nearly as wide as the spread of his wings, so that he can beat the water and toss it over him in a spray. A common earthen saucer belonging to a flower-pot is very good for the purpose. As this saucer will be too large to go through the cage-door, it should be placed on a large folded cloth or paper and the upper part of the cage placed over it. While the bird is taking his bath, the floor of the cage may be made clean for the day.
It is a good plan to give a canary bread, crackers, a little of the hard-boiled yolk of an egg, or a piece of apple. In summer he will enjoy a bunch of chickweed. In winter he may have a bit of lettuce or cabbage leaf. He should have something green every day. Of course he must have also canary and rape seeds, and occasionally a very little hemp seed for a treat.
If the canary or rape seed is poor the bird will scatter it and refuse to eat it. Only seed which is large and clean should be used. It is better to buy each kind by itself and mix them afterwards. The hemp seed is so rich that not more than half a small teaspoonful should be given at a time. Do not mix this with the other seeds, but scatter it on the floor of the cage.
Mosquitoes sometimes annoy a canary very much. A loose bag of netting drawn over the cage will save him from unnecessary suffering. When these poor prisoners are in our care we must do what we can to protect them and make them happy. No true bird-lover would choose to see his pets in cages, but we cannot turn the defenseless little creatures out into the cold. If no one would buy a canary, there would be no more caught, and the cruel business would come to an end. Is it not worth while to think how much better it is to have no caged pets at all? In this free land of ours shall we deny freedom to the bird, which, above all other creatures, needs space and sunshine?
In a little book about Omaha there is this story which is told by Bright Eyes, the daughter of an Indian chief. "We were out on a buffalo hunt. I was a little bit of a thing when it happened. Father could neither speak English nor read and write, and this story shows that the highest moral worth can exist aside from all civilization and education.
"It was evening. The tents had been pitched for the night, the camp-fire made, and mother and the other women were cooking supper over it.
"I was playing near my father when an Indian boy, a playmate, came up and gave me a little bird which he had found.
"I was very much pleased. I tried to feed it and make it drink. After I had played with it a long time, my father said to me: 'My daughter, bring your bird to me.'
"When I took it to him he held it in his hand a moment, smoothed its feathers gently, and then said: 'Daughter, I will tell you what you might do with your bird. Take it carefully in your hand out yonder where there are no tents, where the high grass is. Put it softly down on the ground and say as you put it down, "God, I give you back your little bird. Have pity on me as I have pity on your bird."'
"I said: 'Does it belong to God?'
"He said: 'Yes, and He will be pleased if you do not hurt it, but give it back to Him to care for.'
"I was very much impressed and carefully followed out his directions, saying the little prayer he had told me to say."
Then the little HiawathaLearned of every bird its language,Learned their names and all their secrets,How they built their nests in summer,Where they hid themselves in winter,Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."Of all beasts he learned the language,Learned their names and all their secrets,How the beavers built their lodges,Where the squirrels hid their acorns,How the reindeer ran so swiftly,Why the rabbit was so timid,Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
Sweet bird! Thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No winter in thy year.
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!We'd make on joyful wingOur annual visit o'er the globe,Companions of the Spring.JOHN LOGAN.
We have few better friends than the birds. They spend their lives working for us. Without them our crops would be destroyed by insects and mice. Soon no green thing would be left, and the earth would no longer be habitable.
Birds do all this without being asked. If we treat them kindly and try to make friends with them, we shall find that in addition to the good they do in protecting our fields and gardens, they may also bring us a great deal of pleasure.
Birds are the most beautiful of creatures. Their plumage is often brilliant and always pleasing. Their motions are so graceful it is a delight to watch them. Their voices are so sweet that they charm every one who loves the fields and woods.
It is very interesting to study the habits of birds. They make journeys thousands of miles in length and return to the same home each year. They build the most wonderful homes and take the best of care of their young.
If we would have these beautiful and interesting creatures live near us we must show them that we mean them no harm. Then they will come about our homes, cheering us with their glad songs, and amusing us with their intelligence.
It is sad to think that birds have learned to fear man because he has killed and trapped them, or robbed their nests of eggs or young. This is not a very good way to treat a friend, is it?
Travelers tell us that when they have visited islands where men did not live, the birds were so tame that they perched upon their shoulders and could be easily caught.
Birds soon find out when man is their enemy, and then become wild and shy; but they are always willing to become our friends again. If we can make them understand that when near us they are safe, they will show their faith in our good-will.
The wild eider-duck makes her nest and lays her eggs in the huts of the Icelanders because she knows that she will not be harmed. In nesting time the birds may be seen in the village streets. They are so tame that one might think they were domestic ducks.
In Europe the storks build upon the house-tops. The peasant welcomes them as friends when each spring they return to their home. He is glad to have them near him, and he places an old cart-wheel on top of his house as a foundation for their nest of sticks.
Near some of the steamboat landings in Florida no shouting is allowed. The wild ducks and coots quickly learn to know where they are safe, and in these places they are very tame, so that one can walk quite near them. But when they are outside the spot in which they are protected they are as shy as the wildest ducks.
Throughout the South it is against the law to kill the buzzards or vultures. These birds are very useful. They are public scavengers, devouring many things which would cause disease. The birds know that they have no one to fear and they hop about the streets as tame as chickens.
You see, therefore, that the birds will trust us when they learn that we are their friends. If you would encourage them to make their home near yours, you might provide little boxes for them to occupy or make holes in hollow limbs where they can place their nests.
They enjoy, too, a trough of water in which they can bathe. When winter comes a piece of tallow in the trees will prove a rich treat to the chickadee, and a few seeds scattered on the snow will make a feast for the hardy snowbirds.
[Illustration with caption: Bird-house. Made from a bark-covered log, 8 inches long and 8 inches in diameter, a hole 5 inches in diameter "being bored from end to end, leaving an outer wall 1 1/2 inches thick."—From "Bird-Lore" by permission of The Macmillan Company.]
Some birds are great travelers. They may pass the summer in the Arctic regions and in the autumn go to Patagonia to spend the winter. Is it not wonderful how they can make this long journey without a compass or map to guide them?
Generally they follow rivers or coast lines; but they may have to cross large bodies of water where no land can be seen Still they find their way to and fro, returning each year to the same place Sometimes they even use the nest they built the year before.
Large birds and those which can fly swiftly, like swallows, are not afraid to travel by day. But the little birds, like wrens and warblers, that live in the shelter of trees and bushes, wait for the night.
They are not afraid of the dark. It hides them from their enemies. So when the sun has gone down and night comes, they fly up into the air and start on their journey.
If you should look through a telescope at the moon some clear night in spring or autumn, you could probably see the birds flying by. They look like bees going across the face of the moon.
Large birds, like ducks, fly very swiftly. It is thought that they may travel one hundred miles an hour. But the small warblers and flycatchers go less than half as fast.
Most birds that fly at night are far above the earth. They go as high as two or three miles. If you have ever been on a mountain top or a very high building, you will know how much farther you can see than when you are on the ground.
So the birds, too, can see a great distance as they fly by, high in the air. At night they can see the water sparkling in the starlight. This helps them to find their way.
When it is foggy or raining they cannot see which way they are going This is a sad time for the little feathered travelers. Some fly far out to sea and are drowned. The feathers of some are so wet that they cannot fly. Then they must seek shelter in the trees.
In wet and foggy weather the birds sometimes fly to the lighthouses. The light seems to attract them, just as a light attracts moths. They fly against the glasses which protect the light, and often are killed.
Sometimes large birds fly through the glass about the light. The light- keeper therefore puts wire netting outside the glass to protect it from these large birds.
While the birds are traveling at night they often call and chirp to each other. This keeps them from being lonely and from getting lost. If you should listen very carefully some still night in September, you might hear the birds calling as they fly swiftly by.
When morning comes the birds fly down to earth. Would you not think that they would be very tired after flying all night? They do not seem to be. But they are hungry, and as soon as they alight they begin to look for something to eat.
After breakfast they rest for a few hours. In the afternoon they go out for supper, for they must have a good meal if they are to fly again all night.
How pleasant it is to hear the song of the robin on a March morning! At the first sign of spring he comes back to us from his winter home in the South. His cheerful song tells us that winter will soon be gone. In a few weeks we can look for wild flowers, and the fields will be green again.
The blackbirds follow a few days later. With a merry, jingling chorus they perch in the leafless trees. We know now that soon there will be leaves and blossoms, and the thought makes us glad.
Now we may look for the bluebird also. His soft, sweet warble is one of the most welcome of the springtime sounds. See him looking at the box in which last year he had a nest! Probably he is planning repairs. How happy he seems!
When we see gnats or small insects in the air we may expect the phoebe. The phoebe belongs to the family of flycatchers. He spends his life in man's service, catching the insects which are so troublesome.
When the first insects appear the phoebe comes to prevent them from growing too numerous. You will know the phoebe by his note. "Pewit- phoebe!" he calls, with a wag of his tail, as he sits on a fence or bridge rail.
If the frost has left the ground, you may be sure that the woodcock has come. The woodcock has a bill nearly three inches long. He sticks it into the soft earth to hunt for the worms on which he lives. So you see if the ground were hard the woodcock could not get his usual fare.
For the same reason the kingfisher waits until the ice has left the ponds and streams. Then we can hear him sound his rattle-like voice and watch him fishing. What a sure aim he has! See him hovering over the water, waiting for some small fish to come near the surface! Then he closes his wings and plunges downward like a dart. There is a splash, and a second later he flies up with his prize.
Early in April the chippy comes. He has not much of a song, but we are always glad to see him because he seems glad to see us. He comes to the piazza steps, plainly asking for crumbs. If we give them to him, he may build his hair-lined nest in the vine on the trellis.
Some day later in the month the barn swallow may be seen flitting in and out the barn door or hay window, twittering merrily. He has seen many countries since he left us last October. Probably he has been to Central America, or even Brazil. But in all his travels I am sure he has visited no place he loves as well as the old barn.
The chimney swift loves his chimney, too. Let us hope that when he returns early in May he will not find smoke curling from his home.
Each day now brings a host of the little feathered travelers. In February and March we cannot tell just what day to look for our bird friends. If it is cold and bleak, they must wait for warmer weather. In May, when the sun shines brightly, and the season of storms has passed, we know almost exactly when to expect each bird.
About the first of the month we shall again be cheered by the songs of the catbird and wren. From a tree-top near the roadside a brown thrasher will sing a song of rejoicing. In the woods the wood thrush will chant a hymn of praise.
The ground is carpeted with wild flowers, and we may gather the beautiful anemones, violets, and buttercups. The trees are putting on their dresses of green. The air rings with the joyful music of birds. Now we know that the song of the robin was true.
Nearly every bird has a trade. Some are carpenters, others are masons, weavers, tailors, basket-makers, etc. It is only when building their homes that birds work at their trades.
Then you may see the woodpecker hammering with his chisel-like bill, making a home in some dead tree. You can hear his strokes a long way through the woods. The chips fly from beneath his strong blows.
The robin, the phoebe, and the barn and eave swallows are masons. The robin moulds an inner layer of mud in his round nest and covers it with fine grasses. The phoebe uses a mixture of mud and moss in plastering his large nest on some beam or rafter.
The barn swallow also uses a beam. His nest is nearly all mud, but is lined with soft feathers. The eave swallows are the most expert masons of all. They build rows of mud tenements beneath the eaves of the barn. Each little apartment is rounded over and has a round hole for a door.
The chimney swift or swallow uses wood and glue in making the pretty little bracket-like basket he fastens to the chimney wall. His feet are so small that he cannot perch as other birds do, so when he rests he clings to the side of the chimney and leans on his tail. Each tail feather is tipped with a stiff, sharp point that keeps it from slipping.
How then do you suppose he gathers the twigs for his nest? Watch him some day when he is flying rapidly about. You may see that he goes by a dead tree, and as he passes he hovers for a second near the end of a limb. Then it is that he snaps off with his bill a small, dry twig for his home.
But how can he fasten a nest of twigs to the upright chimney wall? Well, the chimney swift carries a gluepot with him. It is in his mouth, where certain glands produce a sticky substance like mucilage. With this he glues the little twigs together and fastens them to the bricks.
Sometimes a heavy rain will moisten this glue. Then the nest is loosened from the chimney and, with the poor little birds in it, falls to the fireplace. If you fasten it as high in the chimney above the fireplace as you can, the parent birds may come down and feed their young.
The humming-bird is an upholsterer and decorator. He and his tiny wife build the daintiest little nest it is possible to imagine. They use plant-down or "thistle-down" and cover it all over with grayish or greenish lichens, those flakes of "moss" we see growing on the bark of trees. Generally they place it on a limb of a large tree. There it looks so much like a knot that it takes sharp eyes to find a humming-bird's nest.
The great crested flycatcher places his nest in a hollow limb and though he seems to care very little about its appearance he has, nevertheless, an idea of his own about decoration and evidently thinks no nest is complete without a bit of cast-off snake skin.
Just why he should want to have such a thing in his home no one can say. Some naturalists believe that he uses it as a scarecrow to frighten his enemies away. But I do not think he could give a reason if he were asked.
Birds build the same kind of nests their parents built, without asking the reason why.
The chipping sparrow always lines its nest with hairs, the crane uses cedar bark, the robin mud, the vireos often place a bit of wasps' nest in their bag-like nests; but no one has ever tried to explain why they should always employ these particular things.
The oriole is a master weaver. Have you ever seen his cradle swaying from an elm branch? It is so well made that it often lasts through the winter.
It is usually made of long grass fibres. If the birds can find strings or worsted, they are glad to use them, but they sometimes get their claws caught in the string, and are not able to free themselves, so it is better for them to use other material. When the birds have left their nests in the autumn, yon may take them to study and to show to others.
Many thoughtless boys rob birds of their nests and eggs. They do not intend to be wicked, but they do not know any better. If they could learn how interesting it is to see the birds building their homes and rearing their young, they surely would not wish to destroy them.
Some birds are shy and retiring, and if we would meet them we must go to their haunts in the forests. Others are comparatively tame and domestic, living about our dwellings and meeting us more than halfway when we attempt to make friends with them.
Among these familiar birds of the garden and orchard, none is better known than the cheery robin. Robins are very numerous, and are found in all parts of North America, from New England to Alaska, and south to the city of Mexico.
It is due to his tameness and also to his brick-red breast that he bears the name of "Robin."
When the first English settlers came to this country, of course everything was new and strange to them. The birds had only Indian names which the newcomers could not understand, even when they heard them. So they had to make up names for those birds that were common enough to attract their attention.
The robin was probably one of the first to be named. When the settlers saw this friendly bird, with a breast colored somewhat like the robin redbreast of England, they called him "Robin," after the favorite of their far-away homes.
The two birds are really quite unlike. The robin redbreast is less than six inches in length, and is slighter than our bluebird, while our robin is ten inches long, and is, as every one knows, a stout, heavy bird. There is only a general resemblance in color, both birds having a brownish-red breast; probably our bird's name is due as much to his friendly ways as to his appearance.
The robin is a migratory bird, and in winter is not usually found north of New Jersey and Pennsylvania. This is his playtime in the sunny South. He lives in flocks containing hundreds and even thousands of birds. They feed on the berries of the dogwood, china tree and mistletoe, and are the jolliest lot of birds it is possible to imagine.
Some are singing; not so long a song as they sing in the summer, but just a kind of gay humming; while others are dashing about, chasing one another through the woods in sport.
But the robin is a great home-lover. At the very first sign of spring he begins to think about returning to us, and some warm day, late in February, we may generally find him hunting for food about the grassy banks of a spring, or on the sheltered side of a wood.
Soon, if the weather continues pleasant, we shall hear him sing. What a welcome sound it is! How it recalls memories of cherries and strawberries, and of all the good things of summer!
In the latter hall of April he and his mate go to housekeeping. Who hasn't seen a robin's nest?—that strong, large house of grasses, plastered inside with mud, and furnished with a lining of rootlets.
He places it almost anywhere in the trees, but generally in a broad crotch. If you are fortunate, and the robin has learned that you are his friend, he may build his mud and grass cabin in a tree near your window.
Then you can learn all about his household affairs. You will see the four blue eggs. You will know how many days it takes them to hatch, and you will see what faithful parents birds are.
Not only will they give every minute of their time to securing food for their hungry family, but they will bravely fight any enemy who appears. If it rains, you may see the mother bird standing on the nest with wings spread over her young, to shelter them from the falling drops.
Generally the robin rears two families each season. When the first brood is ready to leave the nest, Father Robin takes charge of them. Every night he leads them to a great roost or nursery where other young robins are brought by their fathers to sleep. In the daytime he returns to help Mother Robin care for family number two.
At last all the young are old enough to care for themselves. Then they gather in large flocks and go for a holiday in the wild cherry trees. When the cherries are gone, they visit the sassafras and pepperidge trees, and the woodbine tangles. Then comes a course of dogwood, with a dessert of nanny-berries.
Cedar berries are added by way of a bit of cracker and cheese. Then the robin's great feast is over, and he leaves us for the repast which is awaiting him in the South.
The robin is very useful to the farmer. He eats ants, bugs, caterpillars, army worms, and many other worms and insects which would harm the grass and fruit trees.
In return, what does he ask? Only to dine on a few ripe cherries and strawberries.
Among the first of the spring,The notes of the Robin ring;With flute-like voice,He calls, "Rejoice,For I am coming to sing!"
To any one gloomy or sad,He says, "Be glad! be glad!Look on the bright side,'Tis aye the right side;The world is good, not bad."
At daybreak in June we hearHis melody, strong and clear:"Cheer up, be merry,I've found a cherry;'Tis a glorious time of the year!"GARRETT NEWKIRK.From "Bird-Lore," by permission of The Macmillan Company.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire,The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know,Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then, as I am listening now!PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
"Hush, hush!" said a little brown thrushTo his mate on the nest in the elder-bush."Keep still! Don't open your bill!There's a boy coming bird-nesting over the hill!Let your wings out, soThat not an egg or the nest shall show.Chee! Chee! It seems to meI'm as frightened as ever a bird can be!"
Then, still, with a quivering bill,He watched the boy out of sight o'er the hill.Ah, then in the branches again,His glad song ran over vale and glen.Oh, oh! if that boy could knowHow glad they were when they saw him go,Say, say, do you think next dayHe could possibly steal those eggs away?ANON.
Don't rob the birds of their eggs, boys,'Tis cruel and heartless and wrong;And remember, by breaking an egg, boys,We may lose a bird with a song.
When careworn, weary, and lonely,Some day as you're passing along,You'll rejoice that the egg wasn't brokenThat gave you the bird with its song.ANON.
There was once a boy whose eye was so true, and whose hand was so steady, that he became a very good marksman. If he threw a stone, or fired at anything with his air-gun, he usually hit what he aimed at. He took such pride and pleasure in his skill that he was always looking for good shots.
Near his house lived a bird. Five young ones were in her nest. So many mouths, always wide open for food, kept the little mother busy. From morning till night she flew over fields and woods, getting worms and bugs and seeds for her babies to eat. Every day she flew off chirping gayly, and came back as soon as she could with a bit of food. The smallest bird had been hurt in some way and could not cry so loudly as the others. The mother always gave him his breakfast first.
One day when she had picked up a worm and was resting a moment, the good marksman saw her.
"What a fine shot!" he said, and fired his air-gun. The bird felt a sharp, stinging pain in her side, and when she tried to fly she found that she could not lift herself from the ground.
Fluttering and limping, she dragged herself along to the foot of the tree where her nest was. Her broken wing hurt her very much, but she chirped a little, in as cheerful a way as she could, so that her babies should not be frightened. They chirped back loudly, because they were hungry, and they could not understand why she did not come to them. She knew all their voices, and when she heard the plaintive note of the smallest, she tried again and again to fly. At last she fell in such a way that she could not move her wings again.
All day she lay there, and when her children called, she answered with her old, brave chirp. But as the hours went by, her voice grew fainter and fainter, until at last it was still.
In the morning she was dead. The little ones called now in vain. They cried until they were so tired that they fell asleep; but soon their hunger waked them and they cried again.
The next night was cold, and they crowded together, hoping to get warm. How they missed their mother's warm, soft feathers! It grew colder and colder. Before dawn they all died, one after the other. Would the boy have been so proud of his good shot if he had known the whole story?
Adapted
"Be kind to animals," as a motto for every schoolroom in the United States conspicuously and constantly displayed by teachers upon wall or blackboard, will go far and help greatly towards inculcating a spirit of kindness to animals and educating humanely the boys and girls who are to be future citizens of this great country.
Have you ever noticed the downy white seeds of the thistle? A puff of wind will carry away hundreds of these soft, woolly tufts, which sail like tiny balloons. When they drop to the ground they take root and soon become young thistles.
There is no weed more troublesome to the farmer than the thistle. It will soon crowd out the young wheat, and if let alone would cover the whole farm. If the farmer had no help, it would be difficult for him to raise anything but thistles.
He has, however, one of the best helpers in the world. The goldfinch is ready to look for thistle seeds, and asks no wages at all. The farmer ought to be grateful to such a busy little worker.
The mother goldfinch builds a beautiful nest for her little ones. For food they have seeds which she has carefully softened in her own crop. As soon as the young birds can fly, she takes them to the fields where the thistles grow.
In winter birds are thankful for food and shelter. The story is told of a man who has part of his house-wall covered with cages. The finches which live near his home find snug lodgings in these cages during the cold weather. In the spring his feathered guests build their nests in the cages and pay their rent by working in his garden. They are not confined to the cages, but come and go as they please.
Their wild sweet notes seem to come from a happy heart, and nothing can be prettier than to see a number of these goldfinches swinging on the brown sunflower and daintily feasting on the seeds.
Mr. Frank M. Chapman in "Bird-Life" says: "I wish that every one knew the Goldfinch. His gentle ways and sweet disposition are never-failing antidotes for discontent. One cannot be long near a flock of these birds without being impressed by the refinement which seems to mark their every note and action. They show, too, a spirit of contentment from which we may draw more than a passing lesson. 'HEAR ME, HEAR ME, DEARIE,' they call as they feed among the weeds or on the birch buds, and, no matter how poor the fare, they seem thankful for it. The seeds of the dandelion, thistle, and sunflower are among their favorites; and if you would attract goldfinches as well as some other birds, devote a corner of your garden to sunflowers."
The swallow is a mason,And underneath the eavesHe builds a nest, and plasters itWith mud and hay and leaves.
Of all the weavers that I knowThe oriole is the best;High on the branches of the treeShe hangs her cozy nest.
The woodpecker is hard at work—A carpenter is he—And you can hear him hammeringHis nest high up the tree.
Some little birds are miners,Some build upon the ground;And busy little tailors, too,Among the birds are found.
One of the most common of our American birds is the sparrow, of which there are as many as sixteen varieties. Those that we know the best are the field sparrow, the song sparrow, and the chipping sparrow, often called the chippy.
The sparrows are among the earliest comers in the spring, and some of them stay with us through the winter. Their nests may be found in hedges, under bushes, in thick grass tufts, and in low shrubs.
These nests are usually made of dried grasses and fine roots, but the chipping sparrow weaves horsehair with the grass and makes his nest very delicate and dainty. He is often called the hair-bird. He is known also as the social sparrow because he likes best to live near houses, and seems ready to be friendly with mankind. The tree sparrow, though larger, closely resembles him, and is often called the winter chip-bird.
The chipping sparrow's eggs are greenish-blue, speckled with dark brown.They are four in number. The nest is built in a bush or a low tree.
The song sparrow is a very sweet singer. Early in the spring we hear his song, and he stays late in the autumn. Sometimes he is with us all winter. His nest is usually on the ground or in some low bush. The eggs are grayish-white, clouded and spotted with brown and lavender. When the nest is not disturbed, there are often three broods of little ones during the summer.
We cannot have too many of these sweet songsters. They make our hearts glad with their delightful melody, and they help us to keep our gardens beautiful.
The field sparrow is found in pastures and woodlands. If he is disturbed, he flies up suddenly from the grass and alights again farther on. He has a sweet song that ends in a little trill.
While we find our own sparrows lovable we are not so fond of the English sparrows, which have become more numerous than the native birds. The English sparrow, or finch, as he is more properly called, may be a troublesome visitor, but we invited him to come, and he is not to blame for some of his disagreeable ways. He is by no means useless, for he clears the gutters of quantities of unsavory and unsightly fragments which would decay and become a nuisance if not removed. The English sparrow eats also a great many of the army worms which have done so much harm in some parts of the country, and he has in many places entirely destroyed the cankerworms.
He has good traits, and he may certainly be admired for his courage and perseverance. He bears our hard winters very cheerfully, and when no other birds are to be seen he flies about, chirping as bravely as in the summer sunshine.
Let skies be sunny or clouds hang lowLittle brown sparrow away you goEver in search of food or funCome summer or winter rain or sun
Boughs of lilac whereon to restApril spreads when you build your nest,Autumn feeds you with golden cornAnd berries ripe on the wayside thorn
Winter comes with its frost and snowWaters may freeze and winds may blowYet little you care and nought you rue,For every hand has a crumb for you
Through sunshine tomorrow and storm todayYou go like a friar of orders gray,Finding wherever your fancy leads,A table spread for the wanderer's needs
In the far-off land of Norway,Where the winter lingers late,And long for the singing birds and flowersThe little children wait;
When at last the summer ripensAnd the harvest is gathered in,And food for the bleak, drear days to comeThe toiling people win,—
Through all the land the childrenIn the golden fields remainTill their busy little hands have gleanedA generous sheaf of grain.
All the stalks by the reapers forgottenThey glean to the very least,To save till the cold December,For the sparrows' Christmas feast.
And then through the frost-locked countryThere happens a wonderful thing:The sparrows flock north, south, east, west,For the children's offering.
Of a sudden, the day before Christmas,The twittering crowds arrive,And the bitter, wintry air at onceWith their chirping is all alive.
They perch upon roof and gable,On porch and fence and tree,They flutter about the windowsAnd peer in curiously.
And meet the eyes of the children,Who eagerly look outWith cheeks that bloom like roses red,And greet them with welcoming shout.
On the joyous Christmas morning,In front of every doorA tall pole, crowned with clustering grain,Is set the birds before.
And which are the happiest, truly,It would be hard to tell;The sparrows who share in the Christmas cheer,Or the children who love them well!
How sweet that they should remember,With faith so full and sure,That the children's bounty awaited themThe whole wide country o'er!
When this pretty story was told meBy one who had helped to rearThe rustling grain for the merry birdsIn Norway, many a year,
I thought that our little childrenWould like to know it too,It seems to me so beautiful,So blessed a thing to do—
To make God's innocent creatures seeIn every child a friend,And on our faithful kindnessSo fearlessly depend.CELIA THAXTER
The poor crow has had very few friends. Like many mischievous people, he has been more severely blamed than he really deserves. He has been called an egg-stealer, a bird-eater, and a corn-thief. I am afraid that this is all true, and yet it is not fair to forget the good that he does.
In the spring, before there are many insects for him to eat, the hungry crow will sometimes do a great deal of mischief.
He troubles the farmer by pulling up the tender young corn, but a way to prevent this has been found. If the corn is dipped in soft tar, and afterwards in powdered lime to give it a white coating, the crow will not touch it. He does not like the taste of tar, and he will look elsewhere for his dinner.
Some farmers feed the crows by scattering loose grain over the surface of the cornfield, and in many cases the birds have been satisfied with what they received in this way.
Now let us see why it is for the farmer's interest to make friends with the crow. In the early days of New England, crows were thought to be so harmful that many of them were killed. The next year the grass and the crops were greatly injured by worms which the crows would have destroyed. It has often been proved that when a large number of crows and blackbirds have been killed, there has been an increase of harmful insects.
Crows eat the cutworm, the white grub, and the weevil. They like no food so well as mice. In the spring they like to follow the plough and pick up hundreds of insects that would do more harm than the most mischievous crow.
A tame crow should never be kept in a cage. If the bird is well fed and kindly treated, it will not fly far from its home, but it is a noisy and sometimes a troublesome pet, and it is better to leave it in the woods.
Crows are social and intelligent creatures. They choose a thick wood for their winter home and gather in flocks which sometimes number thousands of birds. In the summer they build their nests in neighboring trees, and are ready to lend each other aid if danger arises.
The United States Department of Agriculture says that the crow does more good than harm, and that he is a friend to the farmer instead of the enemy that he is commonly supposed to be.
I know the song that the bluebird is singing,Out in the apple tree where he is swinging;Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary,Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.
Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!Hark! was there ever so merry a note?Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying,Up in the apple tree, swinging and swaying.
"Dear little blossoms, down under the snow,You must be weary of winter, I know;Hark, while I sing you a message of cheer!Summer is coming! and Springtime is here!
"Little white snowdrop! I pray you, arise;Bright yellow crocus! come open your eyes;Sweet little violets, hid from the cold,Put on your mantles of purple and goldDaffodils! daffodils! say, do yon hear?Summer is coming! and Springtime is here!"EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.By permission of the author.
We all know from pictures what owls look like, though we do not often see them. Their wise faces, with large, solemn eyes, are familiar to every one of us. Why do we see these birds so seldom?
The owl flies at night, and at all times he is a shy bird. He likes a quiet home and does not wish to be disturbed.
As for himself, he makes no noise. He is like a cat, not only in his face and in his taste for mice, but in his quiet ways. His broad wings are fringed with the softest down, so that they move with as little sound as a feather fan. The owl is a large bird, but his wings never make the sharp whirr of a pigeon's flight.
The barn owl builds his nest not far from the farmyard. He catches the mice arid rats in the barn and feeds on many harmful beetles and moths. The number of mice he catches for his little ones in a single night is sometimes very large. He is said to bring to his nest four or five of his hapless victims every hour.
Pennsylvania once offered a premium for killing hawks and owls, not knowing how much good they do. Before long the state was overrun with little rodents, and many valuable crops were destroyed.
No bird is more devoted to her little ones than the mother owl. She will take up her tiny owlet in her claws and carry him away, if she fancies that any danger is near; and she will not leave him, even to save her own life.
It has been supposed that an owl is unable to see in the daytime, but probably this is not true. He can see better at dusk than we can, but when it is really dark he cannot see at all. He hunts at night, because rats and mice do not often venture out in the daytime.
Unless he is free, an owl is miserable. It is cruel to keep him caged, because it makes him ill and unhappy. When he is at liberty he is a good friend to the farmer.
By yonder sandy cove where, every day,The tide flows in and out,A lonely bird in sober brown and grayLimps patiently about;
And round the basin's edge, o'er stones and sand,And many a fringing weed,He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,Crying, with none to heed.
But sometimes from the distance he can hearHis comrades' swift reply;Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,Sounding from sea and sky.
And then, oh, then his tender voice, so sweet,Is shaken with his pain,For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,Never to soar again.
Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,Once glad and blithe and free,And in his prison limits frets and strivesHis ancient self to be.
The little sandpipers about him play,The shining waves they skim,Or round his feet they seek their food, and stayAs if to comfort him.
My pity cannot help him, though his plaintBrings tears of wistfulness;Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,None may his wrong redress.
O bright-eyed boy! was there no better wayA moment's joy to gainThan to make sorrow that must mar the dayWith such despairing pain?
O children, drop the gun, the cruel stone!Oh, listen to my words,And hear with me the wounded curlew moan—Have mercy on the birds!CELIA THAXTER.
Across the narrow beach, we flit,One little sandpiper and I;And fast I gather, bit by bit,The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,—One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his faint and mournful cry;He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery;He has no thought of any wrong,He scans me with a fearless eye,—Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-nightWhen the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky:For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?CELIA THAXTER.
[Illustration of two birds.]
"What does it cost, this garniture of death?It costs the life which God alone can give;It costs dull silence where was music's breath,It costs dead joy, that foolish pride may live.Ah, life, and joy, and song, depend upon it,Are costly trimmmgs for a woman's bonnet!"MAY RILEY SMITH
Among the cruel things that are done thoughtlessly there is none more common than the wearing of birds' feathers as ornaments in hats. The coloring is often exquisitely soft and delicate, and we do not think, at first, what these beautiful feathers mean.
In the morning some mother bird sings her sweetest songs under your window as she flies forth to look for food for her nestlings. At night she lies wounded or dead and her little ones must starve alone in the nest. Is the pleasure of wearing a dead bird enough to pay for this suffering?
Perhaps you will say that since the bird is already killed when you buy it, it may as well be in your hat as in the shop window. Now think a moment. You may be sure that when you buy such a bird, another will be shot to take its place in the milliner's show-case. If no woman would buy these feathers, do you suppose that milliners would keep them for sale?
Think what a price to pay,Faces so bright and gay,Just for a hat!Flowers unvisited, mornings unsung,Sea-ranges bare of the wings that o'erswung,—Bared just for that!Oh, but the shame of it,Oh, but the blame of it,Price of a hat!Just for a jauntiness brightening the street!This is your halo, O faces so sweet,DEATH: and for that!REV. W. C GANNETT.In "Voices for the Speechless"
[Illustration with caption: THE SNOWY HERON.]
One of the greatest sufferers among the bird mothers is the egret, or snowy heron. The pretty, airy plumes which we see on many hats grow on the egret's back, and fall over the sides and tail of the bird. They are most beautiful at the time when the mother bird is raising her brood of little ones. This is the time for the hunter to shoot her, and he finds it easy, because the egret will not readily fly away from her babies.
The little birds starve to death, and in many places there are no egrets left. Every feathery plume in the dainty bonnet means that at least one happy, innocent life has been taken. Do the feathers look quite so pretty to you when you think of all this? Is it comfortable to feel that for the sake of being in the fashion you have been the cause of such distress? If you can, for one moment, put yourself in the place of the mother bird as she lies dying on the grass and thinking of the little ones that will never see her again, I am sure nothing will induce you to be seen with her beautiful feathers in your hat. No ornament, bought at such a price, is worth the cost.
The seagull loves the salt sea and the wild wind. The waves are his cradle. When he wishes to fly, he spreads his long, narrow wings, and the breeze carries him along as if he were a white boat with sails.
Now and then he pounces down upon the water. That is when he catches sight of some shining fish which he thinks will make him a good dinner. He is a hungry bird, and, fortunately for us, he is not very particular as to what he eats. He swallows the floating scraps which would soon become unsightly and dangerous if they were left along the shore.
The common gull has a pure white breast, a slate-colored back, and black-tipped wings. Its nest is built of seaweed on some rocky cliff or ledge. As soon as it can scramble out of its nest, the young gull likes to sit on a ledge of rocks, where it looks like a ball of soft, gray down. When hundreds of them are seen sitting on the same cliff, it seems wonderful that the mother birds can find their own children, but they make no mistake. They are devoted and faithful mothers. Often their lives are in danger, and they might easily seek safety for themselves, but they will not leave their helpless birdlings.
The gulls have the same sad story to tell that belongs to all beautiful, soft-hued birds. They are much less numerous than formerly, because sportsmen take advantage of the mother's devotion to kill her and steal her wings. When girls and women consent to wear these feathers in their hats, they forget the pain and terror of the dying birds. Few girls would go so far as to kill a bird. Perhaps not one would harm a mother bird defending her little ones. Yet to wear the soft, pretty wings is to doom another victim to this piteous death.
I am very lonely and hungry. Here I have been, for days, hidden in a cave in the rocks, and I do not dare to come out. Only a little while ago my mother and I were so happy! To lie on the sunny beach, to splash and swim in the salt sea, to nestle close to her soft, warm fur when I was cold and tired,—this was my life.
Then men came in boats and drove away my playmates in a flock to be clubbed and killed. When I ran back to my mother I could not find her, but her beautiful coat had been torn off and thrown upon a pile of skins. My mother had been killed while she was trying to find me. I wonder if any woman would wear my mother's coat if she knew this.
There comes that man with a gun! The winter wren has just told me what it means. It seems that women like to wear the feathers of dead birds, and that man is trying to shoot my mother as she comes back to her nest. I am afraid I shall never see her again.
The wren tells me that people like to adorn themselves with the skins of fur-coated animals. It does seem strange that men and women think that they cannot be well dressed without killing us and wearing our clothes.
Have you ever thought what the world would be without the birds? A learned Frenchman, named Michelet, said that if it were not for the birds there would be no plant life, no animal life, no life at all upon this earth. Hosts of insects would destroy all plant life, and if there were no plants, no animals could live. The common chickadee destroys in twenty-five days more than a hundred thousand eggs of the cankerworm moth, and the chickadee is one of our smallest birds.
In winter, if you have an apple tree near your home, you can watch the hungry woodpecker getting his dinner. He runs up the trunk, digging into the bark for insects and insects' eggs. Almost seventy-five per cent of his food is made up of insects.
Perhaps you have read of the army worm and of the harm it does to grass and grain. In a single night a green field attacked by this pest is made brown and bare. In 1896 the damage done in Massachusetts by this worm was estimated at $200,000. As soon as the birds discover that the army worm is at work, they come flocking from long distances. No farmer could summon helpers so promptly. Kingbirds, phoebe birds, cowbirds, Baltimore orioles, chipping sparrows, robins, English sparrows, meadow larks, crows, golden-winged woodpeckers, and quail eat the army worm, but of all these helpers, none is so valuable for this work as the red-winged blackbird and the crow blackbird.
About fifty years ago, caterpillars were destroying an immense forest in Europe, when suddenly a flock of cuckoos appeared and saved the woodland. During the great locust invasion of our own western country, when the farmers had given up the battle, an army of birds would sometimes alight upon a field and save the crop.
Swallows live entirely upon insects, and a very large proportion of the food of most of our birds is made up of insect life. Thirty-eight kinds of birds have been seen to feed on some form of the gypsy moth, and they are not expecting the salaries that are paid to government agents. The sea-gull is another official on a small salary. He is the best health- inspector of our coasts, for he not only sees what is to be done, but does it himself, promptly and well. The little tree-sparrow, in Iowa alone, destroys more than a million harmful seeds every year.
Sometimes, it is true, the birds eat the fruits that men have taken pains to raise. "What little thieves they are!" says the gardener. "Please tell me," says Mr. Robin, "how I am to know that you care so much for some kinds of fruit, and so little for others? If you would plant shad-berries for me, I would not eat so many strawberries. In September I should be quite willing to make a dinner of choke-cherries, if they were as conveniently near as your grapes. Perhaps, in time, you will learn to be more careful in your planting. Why not protect your fruits by planting wild varieties that we like?"
Mr. Lawrence Bruner says: "If we take pains to water our birds during the dry season, they will be much less apt to seek this supply from the juices of fruits so temptingly at hand." He suggests placing little pans of water in the orchard and vineyard.
There is another side to the same question which is worth considering. Not only does the agriculturist know how useful birds are to us, but every child can tell us of the pleasure they give. One does not have to be a poet to know the beauty of the birds. What would spring be without the bluebird, or June without the oriole? To the eye and to the ear alike they are a joy.
From a selfish point of view, then, it is folly to let the wholesale destruction of birds go on. We are losing more than we fully understand. But can there be no other motive than a selfish one? Have the birds no rights which we are bound to respect? Must their claim to life be based on the fact that they do us good or give us pleasure? We are hopeless tyrants if this is true. Let us not be content with the smaller question, What can the birds do for us? but ask ourselves the larger one, What can we do for the birds?