THE SNOWBIRD

Bob-whiteRuffed GrouseRed-shouldered HawkMeadowlarkLong-eared OwlScreech OwlDowny WoodpeckerRobinBluebirdSong SparrowWhite-breasted NuthatchRed-tailed HawkSharp-shinned HawkBarred OwlCedar WaxwingHairy WoodpeckerFlickerBlue JayCrowAmerican GoldfinchChickadeeHerring Gull

Bob-white

Ruffed Grouse

Red-shouldered Hawk

Meadowlark

Long-eared Owl

Screech Owl

Downy Woodpecker

Robin

Bluebird

Song Sparrow

White-breasted Nuthatch

Red-tailed Hawk

Sharp-shinned Hawk

Barred Owl

Cedar Waxwing

Hairy Woodpecker

Flicker

Blue Jay

Crow

American Goldfinch

Chickadee

Herring Gull

This is a list of the visiting birds, that nest in the far North and drift southward, either in search of food or driven on the course of the storm clouds; and before February came, with its longer afternoons, the children could name them all, either from sight or from the pictures in Gray Lady’s portfolio.

Horned Lark.(See above.)

Snowflake.A bird of the Sparrow tribe, winter plumage soft brown and white, colour of dead leaves and snow, black feet and bill. Comes in flocks to feed on weed seeds, especially of snowy winters.

Redpoll.Of the Sparrow tribe and the size of the Chippy. Dusky gray and brown, with long, pointed wings and short, forked tail.Head, neck, and rump washed with crimson!A canary-like call-note.

The Two Crossbills.(See page252.)

Snowy Owl.(See page295.)

Tree-sparrow.(See page249.)

White-throated Sparrow.The most beautiful of all our Sparrows; a plump handsome bird.White throat and crown stripes.Back striped with black, bay, and whitish. Rump light olive-brown. Bay edgings to wings, and two white cross-bars; underparts gray.Yellow spot before eye.Female, crown brown, markings less distinct. Song, sweet and plaintive “Pee-a-peabody, peabody, peabody!”Abundant migrant; also a winter resident from September to May.

Abundant migrant; also a winter resident from September to May.

Junco.(See page250.)

Myrtle Warbler.(See page250.)

Winter Wren.(See page247.)

Golden-crowned Kinglet.(See page249.)

Brown Creeper.(See page184.)

Northern Shrike.A roving winter resident with Hawklike habits, Hawklike in flight: called “Butcher-bird,” from its meat-eating habits.Length: 9-10.50 inches.Male and Female: Powerful head, neck, and blackish beak with hooked point. Above bluish ash, lighter on the rump and shoulders. Wide black bar on each side of the head from the eye backward. Below, light gray with a brownish cast, broken on breast and sides by waved lines of darker gray. Wings and tail black, edged and tipped with white. Large white spot on wings, white tips and edges to outer quills of tail. Legs bluish black.A call-note, and in its breeding-haunts a sweet, warbling song.

Northern Shrike.A roving winter resident with Hawklike habits, Hawklike in flight: called “Butcher-bird,” from its meat-eating habits.

Length: 9-10.50 inches.

Male and Female: Powerful head, neck, and blackish beak with hooked point. Above bluish ash, lighter on the rump and shoulders. Wide black bar on each side of the head from the eye backward. Below, light gray with a brownish cast, broken on breast and sides by waved lines of darker gray. Wings and tail black, edged and tipped with white. Large white spot on wings, white tips and edges to outer quills of tail. Legs bluish black.A call-note, and in its breeding-haunts a sweet, warbling song.

A call-note, and in its breeding-haunts a sweet, warbling song.

In common with all winter birds, its movements are guided by the food supply, and if severe cold and heavy snows drive away the small birds, and bury the mice upon which it feeds, the Shrike must necessarily rove.

Grasshoppers, beetles, other large insects, and field-mice are staple articles of its food in seasons when they are obtainable; in fact, next to insects, mice constitute the staple article of its diet; and protection should be accorded it on this account, even though we know the Shrike chiefly as the killer of small birds. The victims are caught by two methods: sneaking,—after the fashion of Crows,—and dropping upon them suddenly from a height, like the small Hawks. In the former case the Shrikes frequent clumps of bushes, either in open meadows or gardens, lure the little birds by imitating their call-notes, and then seize them as soon as they come within range. They often kill many more birds than they can possibly eat at a meal, and hang them on the spikes of a thorn or on the hooks of a cat-brier in some convenient spot, until they are needed, in the same manner as a butcher hangs his meat; and from this trait the name “Butcher-bird” was given them.

During some of these wintry days of meeting, questions and answers about the birds seen filled the time, and then Gray Lady read to them from some of her many books what people living in other places had said and thought of these same familiar birds. Besides the stories, she told them many things about the building of a bird, its bones, its feathers, the reasons why of the various kinds of feetand bills, the grouping of race, tribe, and family that both divide the bird world and at the same time bind it together; for she very well knew that when spring came with its procession of songsters, the children would be so eager to listen, see, follow, and learn the names of the living birds that they would not have patience to listen to the dry details.

When the leaves are shedAnd the branches bare,When the snows are deepAnd the flowers asleep,And the autumn dead;And the skies are o’er us bentGray and gloomy since she went,And the sifting snow is driftingThrough the air;Then mid snowdrifts white,Though the trees are bare,Comes the Snowbird boldIn the winter’s cold.Quick and round and bright,Light he steps across the snow.Cares he not for winds that blow,Though the sifting snow be driftingThrough the air.—Dora R. Goodale.

When the leaves are shed

And the branches bare,

When the snows are deep

And the flowers asleep,

And the autumn dead;

And the skies are o’er us bent

Gray and gloomy since she went,

And the sifting snow is drifting

Through the air;

Then mid snowdrifts white,Though the trees are bare,Comes the Snowbird boldIn the winter’s cold.Quick and round and bright,Light he steps across the snow.Cares he not for winds that blow,Though the sifting snow be driftingThrough the air.

Then mid snowdrifts white,

Though the trees are bare,

Comes the Snowbird bold

In the winter’s cold.

Quick and round and bright,

Light he steps across the snow.

Cares he not for winds that blow,

Though the sifting snow be drifting

Through the air.

—Dora R. Goodale.

When wintry winds through woodlands blowAnd naked tree-tops shake and shiver;While all the paths were bound in snow,And thick ice chains the merry river,One little feathered denizen,A plump and nut-brown winter wren,Sings of springtime even there—“Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”—Who could listen and despair?Charmed with the sweetness of his strain,My heart found cheer in winter’s bluster;The leafless wood was fair again,Its ice-gems sparkled with new lustre.The tiny, trembling, tinkling throatPoured forth despair’s sure antidote,No leafy June hears sweeter note—“Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”—The essence of unspoken prayer.—Lynn Tew Sprague, inBird-Lore.

When wintry winds through woodlands blowAnd naked tree-tops shake and shiver;While all the paths were bound in snow,And thick ice chains the merry river,

When wintry winds through woodlands blow

And naked tree-tops shake and shiver;

While all the paths were bound in snow,

And thick ice chains the merry river,

One little feathered denizen,A plump and nut-brown winter wren,Sings of springtime even there—“Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”—Who could listen and despair?

One little feathered denizen,

A plump and nut-brown winter wren,

Sings of springtime even there—

“Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”—

Who could listen and despair?

Charmed with the sweetness of his strain,My heart found cheer in winter’s bluster;The leafless wood was fair again,Its ice-gems sparkled with new lustre.The tiny, trembling, tinkling throatPoured forth despair’s sure antidote,No leafy June hears sweeter note—“Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”—The essence of unspoken prayer.

Charmed with the sweetness of his strain,

My heart found cheer in winter’s bluster;

The leafless wood was fair again,

Its ice-gems sparkled with new lustre.

The tiny, trembling, tinkling throat

Poured forth despair’s sure antidote,

No leafy June hears sweeter note—

“Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”—

The essence of unspoken prayer.

—Lynn Tew Sprague, inBird-Lore.

When piped a tiny voice hard by,Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,Chic-chickadee-dee! saucy noteOut of sound heart and merry throat,As if it said, “Good day, good sir!Fine afternoon, old passenger!Happy to meet you in these placesWhere January brings few faces.”—R. W. Emerson.

When piped a tiny voice hard by,

Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,

Chic-chickadee-dee! saucy note

Out of sound heart and merry throat,

As if it said, “Good day, good sir!

Fine afternoon, old passenger!

Happy to meet you in these places

Where January brings few faces.”

—R. W. Emerson.

These are a few of the many bits of verse and poems that Gray Lady read or recited to the children in these days, some of which they learned by heart. Once learned, she knew they would never be forgotten, but that years afterward, when they saw the birds that the lines described, the words and the days in the schoolhouse and playroom,and the faces of their companions, would all come back to them.

Oh, surpassing all expression by the rhythmic use of words,Are the memories that gather of the singing of the birds:When as a child I listened to the Whip-poor-will at dark,And with the dawn awakened to the music of the Lark.Then what a chorus wonderful when morning had begun,—The very leaves, it seemed to me, were singing to the sun,And calling on the world asleep to waken and beholdThe king in glory coming forth along his path of gold.The crimson-fronted Linnet sang above the river’s edge,The Finches in the evergreens, the Thrasher in the hedge;Each one as if a dozen songs were chorused in his own,And all the world were listening to him and him alone.In gladness sang the Bobolink upon ascending wing,With cheery voice the bird of blue, the pioneer of spring,The Oriole upon the elm, with martial note and clear,While Martins twittered gayly by the cottage window near.Among the orchard trees were heard the Robin and the Wren,And the army of the Blackbirds along the marshy fen;The songster in the meadow and the Quail upon the wheat,And the warbler’s minor music made the symphony complete.Beyond the tow’ring chimney’d walls that daily meet my eyes,I hold a vision beautiful beneath the summer skies;Within the city’s grim confines, above the roaring street,The Happy Birds of Memory are singing clear and sweet.—Garrett Newkirk.

Oh, surpassing all expression by the rhythmic use of words,

Are the memories that gather of the singing of the birds:

When as a child I listened to the Whip-poor-will at dark,

And with the dawn awakened to the music of the Lark.

Then what a chorus wonderful when morning had begun,—The very leaves, it seemed to me, were singing to the sun,And calling on the world asleep to waken and beholdThe king in glory coming forth along his path of gold.

Then what a chorus wonderful when morning had begun,—

The very leaves, it seemed to me, were singing to the sun,

And calling on the world asleep to waken and behold

The king in glory coming forth along his path of gold.

The crimson-fronted Linnet sang above the river’s edge,The Finches in the evergreens, the Thrasher in the hedge;Each one as if a dozen songs were chorused in his own,And all the world were listening to him and him alone.

The crimson-fronted Linnet sang above the river’s edge,

The Finches in the evergreens, the Thrasher in the hedge;

Each one as if a dozen songs were chorused in his own,

And all the world were listening to him and him alone.

In gladness sang the Bobolink upon ascending wing,With cheery voice the bird of blue, the pioneer of spring,The Oriole upon the elm, with martial note and clear,While Martins twittered gayly by the cottage window near.

In gladness sang the Bobolink upon ascending wing,

With cheery voice the bird of blue, the pioneer of spring,

The Oriole upon the elm, with martial note and clear,

While Martins twittered gayly by the cottage window near.

Among the orchard trees were heard the Robin and the Wren,And the army of the Blackbirds along the marshy fen;The songster in the meadow and the Quail upon the wheat,And the warbler’s minor music made the symphony complete.

Among the orchard trees were heard the Robin and the Wren,

And the army of the Blackbirds along the marshy fen;

The songster in the meadow and the Quail upon the wheat,

And the warbler’s minor music made the symphony complete.

Beyond the tow’ring chimney’d walls that daily meet my eyes,I hold a vision beautiful beneath the summer skies;Within the city’s grim confines, above the roaring street,The Happy Birds of Memory are singing clear and sweet.

Beyond the tow’ring chimney’d walls that daily meet my eyes,

I hold a vision beautiful beneath the summer skies;

Within the city’s grim confines, above the roaring street,

The Happy Birds of Memory are singing clear and sweet.

—Garrett Newkirk.

XXIJACOB HUGHES’ OPINION OF CATS

One morning after a light snow-storm, followed by sparkling sunshine, Gray Lady took the younger children out for a walk through Birdland and the lane. Not but what even the younger children knew the way! But often as they had trodden it, there were many things that they noticed for the first time: the wonderful shapes of the snow crystals, the snow flowers that blossomed on the old weed stalks, the snow filling that brought many hidden nests into view, and all the other wonders that are so often wrought in the winter night, while we sleep soundly.

Tommy and Dave, who had walked on ahead, halted suddenly and picked up a handful of feathers from the snow and stood looking at them as Gray Lady came up.

“A bad Hawk or a Crow or Owl or something big has been here,” said Dave, with a quaver in his voice, “and it’s killed a banty rooster that looks just like mine, that is, this bunch of feathers does; but then, Goldilocks has banties, too, so perhaps it is one of hers,” and he held the feathers up.

Gray Lady took them; yes, they were banty feathers, and from a bird that had not been long dead, for the quill ends were still moist. Then she looked at the ground: “Something that did not fly has killed the bantam, and dragged its body along the ground, and it had feet withpadded claws, look!” she said, and there was a blood-stained trail that skirted the bushes and then ran across the lane toward a hay-barn that now held only bedding and cornstalks.

“You children amuse yourselves here while Tommy, Dave, and I follow this up.”

Nothing could have been more simple than this following, as the footprints of the large cat, for that is what it was, showed plainly in the new snow, and, here and there, a few drops of blood also marked the way. Straight to the barn ran the trail, and then through a small door that had been left open at Gray Lady’s request, that birds might take shelter inside.

So they had, poor things, and so had the cat also. On the floor were other feathers of many kinds, among which Gray Lady recognized the white-spotted tail-feathers of a Robin, the pointed shafts of the Flicker, and gray-and-white down that might have come from a Junco’s breast; while half hidden by loose cornstalks was the foot of a Grouse, also yellow legs that had belonged to a good-sized chicken.

The boys stood still in amazement, and Dave said, “I knew foxes and dogs carried things home or buried them, but I didn’t know cats did unless they have kittens hidden. I wonder if there are kittens in the cornstalks, and if this cat stole all the chickens we’ve been losing every day almost along since fall? Because it couldn’t be any kind of birds that stole them, they couldn’t get in; and father said it lay between cats, rats, and weasels.”

“We will soon find out,” said Gray Lady. “Will you boys go down to the stable and ask Jacob to come up?I will watch here.” As soon as they had gone, Gray Lady went into a corner and seated herself upon a box. Presently she heard a rustle among the cornstalks and out stalked a great tiger-striped cat, licking her whiskers. After snuffing the footsteps of the boys, she began to lash her tail to and fro, which in a cat means anger, and quite the reverse of the dog’s sociable, “I’m glad to see you” tail-wag. Then, looking back at the hole in the corn stack through which she had come, she made a strange sound, half purr, half growl, that Gray Lady thought was evidently intended as a note of warning, and then the cat slunk off through the snow, keeping as close to the fence as possible and dropping her body low as she hurried away.

When Jacob came, he took a hayfork and began to shift the cornstalks from the corner to the empty floor opposite. The feathers, he said, had all been gathered during the two past weeks, for when he had last taken the wood-sled from the barn, no feathers were to be seen.

“Here they are!” he exclaimed, as the last stack was reached, but even as he spoke, six half-grown kittens, brindled like their parent, sprang in different directions, some going up on the beams and others diving into the hay, only one remaining, with arched back and flashing eyes, to hiss a protest at the disturbing of their comfortable home.

“What’s the use of making bird laws and feeding birds and all that, and letting wild beasts like these multiply about the country?” said Jacob, resting on the handle of the fork. “No, ma’am, if I had my way, I’d get up a Kind Heart Club of men to help the birds and rid thetownship of homeless cats, red squirrels, and English Sparrows—yes, I would, ma’am!

“I have eyes and I use them, and I know cats are worse enemies to birds, counting wild birds and poultry together, than everything else that walks or flies humped together. Tame house cats are bad enough, for they’ll kill for pleasure when they’re not hungry. My sister over at Hill’s farm says she’s taken over fifty dead or half-dead birds away from her pet cat this summer, until it sickened her of the idea of keeping cats.

“But when it comes to the half-breeds that some folks let grow up because they’re too slack to kill ’em, it’s just a crime! Look at this piece of work here; the cat that has done all this is one of the outcasts of the lot down at the grist-mill. Cats are only half tamed at best; let them get a taste of hunting and back they go and are savages.

“They don’t belong to this country; we folks brought ’em, like we did English Sparrows, and we made a mistake, and we ought to undo it when we can. Transplanted animals, like pauper foreigners, always get the upper hand. Traps can catch up the rats and mice, only we’re too lazy to set them. Cats are no good, even for pets, for they’re tricky, and they aren’t healthy for children to have because they carry skin diseases and such in their fur. They claim that Jessie Lyons that died in Bridgeton ’long in the fall got the diphtheria from her cat’s trampin’ all over creation, and then her huggin’ it.

“If it’s right and proper to license dogs, and if one kills fowls or sheep, for the town to pay damages, then, say I, the least we can do is to license cats and hold the owners for their mischief.

“Next to cats I’m most put out with red squirrels and English Sparrows. The first are sneaks; they take eggs, little birds, and all. They make free with young gray squirrels, too, and don’t spare their next-door neighbours even, while Sparrows hustle and do much likewise, taking the nesting-places of Swallows and Bluebirds and Jenny Wrens, and fighting and wrastling with anything smaller than themselves, breaking up nests and pitching out young ones until I just can’t stand it! Now it’s woe to any of these three that comes across my path. Maybe some folks will say I’m cruel. Will those folks let mice and rats eat their groceries and not kill them? and by themselves rats and mice are decent, clean animals.

“Not they; and to us that love our tree birds, cats and red squirrels and English Sparrows are hateful as are rats and mice, and I warrant you’ll not think I’m going too far when I say it, ma’am!”

“No, Jacob, you are right, though I’m sorry to say so,” answered Gray Lady, still looking at the feathers. “The cat tribe is by nature cruel. All animals kill for food, but the cat tortures before she kills. I used to defend the keeping of pet cats until one that I had trusted bit me through the hand at a moment when I was petting her, without the slightest provocation. I never knew a dog to bite his master unprovoked—unless he was ill—and even if we love our cats, we should be unselfish, for birds are of value to the country at large and cats are not. Only, I insist upon this, that the killing, even of vermin, is a matter for the grown-up, and some one with authority should be appointed to do it. It should not be left to the young and irresponsible, just as the punishing of humancriminals is not a matter for the people in general to decide and put in execution.

“Yes, boys,” Gray Lady continued, “I wish every one would feel responsible in this matter. No farmer will raise more poultry or calves or colts than he can feed and then turn them loose to either starve or prey upon his neighbours. Why, then, should he allow his cats to straggle about and kill the song-birds that even much money cannot buy or replace? But come, we must go on; the others will be wondering where we are.

“I want you all to look at something at the lane end,—that great beech tree with the gray streaked trunk. Do you see the sunbeams playing checkers on the bark, this side? Do you know what this means? I will tell you. It means that the tide of winter is turning toward spring, that February is here. We should not know it unless we looked at the day in the calendar. It is quite as cold as it has been all through the winter, but the days are growing longer, and now, once more, the sun slips by the barn in the morning and lies upon the beech trunk that has been in shadow all winter long.

“My father showed me this when I was a child; and whenever I grew tired of winter, the earth seemed dead, and it seemed as if spring would never come back, he would say, ‘Go up the lane and see if the sun’s message is written on the beech tree.’ So, while it is still winter here, down in the South the flocks of Robins and Song Sparrows and Bluebirds are reading the sun’s message, and, far away as spring seems, they are planning their return. Meanwhile we have the brave winter birds to keep us cheerful.See the flock of Juncoes alighting yonder. They are asplump and freshly plumed as new arrivals in spring dress. This Snowbird is no sloven, he always wears a trim dress-suit.”

Better far, ah yes! than no birdIs the ever-present snowbird;Gayly tripping, dainty creature,When the snow hides every feature;Covers fences, field, and tree,Clothes in white all things but thee.Restless, twittering, trusty snowbirdLighter heart than thine hath no bird.—C. C. Abbott,Snowbird.

Better far, ah yes! than no bird

Is the ever-present snowbird;

Gayly tripping, dainty creature,

When the snow hides every feature;

Covers fences, field, and tree,

Clothes in white all things but thee.

Restless, twittering, trusty snowbird

Lighter heart than thine hath no bird.

—C. C. Abbott,Snowbird.

XXIIFEBRUARY, “THE LONG-SHORT MONTH”

“I wonder why February is so long, when it is the very shortest month in the year?” said Goldilocks one Saturday, as she and Miss Wilde were walking from Swallow Chimney, up through Birdland, to the big house for the bird class.

“I have often thought the same thing myself,” answered Rose Wilde, “and I think it must be because, knowing that it is a short month, we think spring is hurrying to us because we are trying to hurry toward it. Spring, however, never hurries to return to New England, even when nature faces her this way she seems to take pleasure in walking backward!”

Miss Wilde and Goldilocks had become fast friends since the little teacher had come to live on the hill. With the interest Gray Lady had shown in the children and school, the dreary, lonely days had passed away, and she no longer looked pale and nervous, but was bright-eyed, with a lovely soft colour in her cheeks, so that, as Goldilocks told her one day, her name could be written in two ways, Rose Wilde, and Wild Rose, which, of course, made her blush with pleasure, and look all the more like that radiant June flower.

Goldilocks would have liked to go to school at FoxesCorners with the others, but the doctor shook his head and said something to her mother about “unwholesome stove heat, fresh air but not draughts,” but Gray Lady smiled at Goldilocks with a mysterious sort of glance that always hid a surprise and said, “Be content to grow strong this winter and wait and see what will happen.”

“Yes, but Miss Wilde may go to a better school next year, if she is well, for you know that Sarah Barnes’ grandmother heard that she had two chances, one at the Bridgeton High School and one to teach the eighth grade at the Centre. Besides, the children I like best—Sarah, and Tommy, and Dave, and Eliza—won’t be at Foxes Corners next year. If their parents can take turns in lending them a horse, they will have to go to the Centre School for the eighth grade, because no one can go from Foxes Corners straight into the High School, and they dosowant to learn.”

“Of course it is quite possible that Rose Wilde may go to another school, and we would not wish to keep her back, I’m sure, little daughter.” Something in Gray Lady’s voice made Goldilocks look at her quickly.

“I can’t guess what it is, motherkin, but I simplyknowthat you have a secret and a plan in your head that I may not know until summer.” Then Goldilocks smiled to herself, as she remembered that she also had, or rather was a part of, a secret of Miss Wilde’s that her mother could not know until summer; and this secret had many things in it,—girls and boys, needles and thread and bits of coloured cloth, long walks into the far-away hemlock woods, axes, and many other things!

It was now the last week in February. Every one was on the lookout for the first spring migrants, and the children were beginning to bring news of birds that they had seen imperfectly and yet were sure were new arrivals from the South. It was impossible that most of these birds should have been in the vicinity, but the pictures on the charts, mixed with equal portions of imagination and hope, caused the children tothinkthey saw the bird that they wished to be the first to report, rather than the one that was actually there.

Aside from the birds that are represented by a few individuals all the year the only newcomers to hope for are a few adventurous Blackbirds, the Purple Grackle, and the Red-wing, and they are not usually seen in any numbers before the beginning of March. There are three birds, however, that, unless the month is very stormy, may be expected at any time to show their fresh plumage and bring the latest news of travel to their stay-at-home brothers who have remained behind. These are the Bluebird, the Song Sparrow, and the Robin.

“We all know those. Even little brother Ebby knowsthosebirds,” said Clary, when Gray Lady proposed to spend the morning in the company of the most homelike and familiar birds of New England. “That is, Ebby knows the Bluebird and Robin, and the Song Sparrow if it is singing; but I do think Sparrows are dreadful hard to tell by sight. If a Song Sparrow doesn’t sing, and turns his back so’s I can’t see the big spot and the little one on his breast, I don’t always know him myself.”

“I hope that we all know these three birds,” said Gray Lady, “but, like old friends, we are even more glad to seethem when they come than if they were the most brilliant of strangers. Old friends also may bring news, and as for birds, no one can ever be sure that there is nothing new to learn of them. And as for what we do know, it becomes fresh and new each spring with his return. One thing about this bird is worthy of notice, and that is the wonderful way in which Nature uses colour, both as an ornament and a protection to her children. The majority of the brightly coloured birds do not arrive until there are at least a few leaves to screen them; the Oriole, Tanager, Rose-breast, and Indigo-bird perching on leafless branches. Yet the Bluebird and the Blue Jay, both of brilliant and striking plumage, are with us when the trees are entirely bare, and when evergreens are lacking they have only sky or earth for a background.

“What does this mean? Look out of the window, Sarah, as you are the nearest to it, and perhaps you will discover.Do you see two Bluebirds in the branches of the old Bell pear tree in the garden? No? Look again; they are in the top, where the blue sky shows through the smaller limbs.”

“No, ma’am; that is, I see something moving, but I can’t see any colour. Oh, yes! now I do; it was because the blue of their backs came right against the sky and matched it.”

“Yes,” said Gray Lady, “and the light underparts match the snow and the ruddy breast the fresh earth, so that the Bluebird’s beauty is his protection also; for as our dear old friend John Burroughs says, ‘When Nature made the Bluebird, she wished to gain for him the protection of both earth and sky, so she gave him the colourof one on his back and the other on his breast; yes, and we might also add a touch beneath of the snow that falls from sky to earth.’

“For the rest, who dares write of the Bluebird, thinking to add a fresher tint to his plumage, a new tone to his melodious voice, or a word of praise to his gentle life, that is as much a part of our human heritage and blended with our memories as any other attribute of home?

“Not I, surely, for I know him too well, and each year feel myself more spellbound and mute by memories he awakens. Yet I would repeat his brief biography, lest there be any who, being absorbed by living inward, have not yet looked outward and upward to this poet of the sky and the earth and the fulness and goodness thereof.

“For the Bluebird was the first of all poets,—even before man had blazed a trail in the wilderness or set up the sign of his habitation and tamed his thoughts to wear harness and travel to measure. And so he came to inherit the earth before man, and this, our country, is all the Bluebird’s country, for at some time of the year he roves about it from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from Mexico to Nova Scotia, though westward, after he passes the range of the Rocky Mountains, he wears a different dress and bears other longer names.

“In spite of the fact that our eastern Bluebird is a home-body, loving his nesting-haunt and returning to it year after year, he is an adventurous traveller. Ranging all over the eastern United States at some time in the season, this bird has its nesting-haunts at the very edge of the Gulf States and upward, as far north as Manitoba and Nova Scotia.

National Association of Audubon Societies

Upper Figures—CHESTNUT-BACKED BLUEBIRDOrder—PasseresFamily—TurdidæGenus—SialiaSpecies—MexicanaSubspecies—BairdiLower Figures—BLUEBIRDSOrder—PasseresFamily—TurdidæGenus—SialiaSpecies—Sialis

Upper Figures—CHESTNUT-BACKED BLUEBIRD

Order—PasseresFamily—Turdidæ

Genus—SialiaSpecies—Mexicana

Subspecies—Bairdi

Lower Figures—BLUEBIRDS

Order—PasseresFamily—Turdidæ

Genus—SialiaSpecies—Sialis

“When the breeding season is over, the birds travel sometimes in family groups and sometimes in large flocks, moving southward little by little, according to season and food supply, some journeying as far as Mexico, others lingering through the middle and southern states. The Bluebirds that live in our orchards in summer are very unlikely to be those that we see in the same place in winter days. Next to breeding impulse, the migrating instinct seems to be the strongest factor in bird-life. When the life of the home is over, Nature whispers, ‘To wing, up and on!’ So a few of the Bluebirds who have nested in Massachusetts may be those who linger in New Jersey, while those whose breeding-haunts were in Nova Scotia drift downward to fill their places in Massachusetts. But the great mass of even those birds we call winter residents go to the more southern parts of their range every winter; those who do not being but a handful in comparison.

“Before more than the first notes of the spring have sounded in the distance, Bluebirds are to be seen by twos and threes about the edge of old orchards along open roads, where the skirting trees have crumbled or decaying knot-holes have left tempting nooks for the tree-trunk birds, with which the Bluebird may be classed. For, though he takes kindly to a bird-box, or a convenient hole in fence-post, telegraph pole, or outbuilding, a tree hole must have been his first home, and consequently he has a strong feeling in its favour.

“As with many other species of migrant birds, the male is the first to arrive; and he does not seem to be particularly interested in house-hunting until the arrival of the female, when the courtship begins without delay, andthe delicate purling song, with the refrain, ‘Dear, dear, think of it, think of it,’ and the low two-syllabled answer of the female is heard in every orchard. The building of the nest is not an important function,—merely the gathering of a few wisps and straws, with some chance feathers for lining. It seems to be shared by both parents, as are the duties of hatching, and feeding the young. The eggs vary in number, six being the maximum, and they are not especially attractive, being of so pale a blue that it is better to call them bluish white. Two broods are usually raised each year, though three are said to be not uncommon; for Bluebirds are active during a long season, and, while the first nest is made before the middle of April, last year a brood left the box over my rose arbour September 12, though I do not know whether this was a belated or a prolonged family arrangement.

“As parents the Bluebirds are tireless, both in supplying the nest with insect food and attending to its sanitation; the wastage being taken away and dropped at a distance from the nest at almost unbelievably short intervals, proving the wonderful rapidity of digestion and the immense amount of labour required to supply the mill inside the little speckled throats with grist.

“The young Bluebirds are spotted thickly on throat and back, after the manner of the throat of their cousin, the Robin; or rather, the back feathers are spotted, the breast-feathers having dusky edges, giving a speckled effect.

“The study of the graduations of plumage of almost any brightly coloured male bird, from its first clothing until the perfectly matured feather of its breeding season, isin itself a science and a subject about which there are many theories and differences of opinion by equally distinguished men.

“The food of the nestling Bluebird is insectivorous, or, rather, to be more exact, I should say animal; but the adult birds vary their diet at all seasons by eating berries and small fruits. In autumn and early winter cedar and honeysuckle berries, the grapelike cluster of fruit of the poison ivy, bittersweet and cat-brier berries, are all consumed according to their needs.

“Professor Beal, of the Department of Agriculture, writes, after a prolonged study, that 76 per cent of the Bluebird’s food ‘consists of insects and their allies, while the other 24 per cent is made up of various vegetable substances, found mostly in stomachs taken in winter. Beetles constitute 28 per cent of the whole food, grasshoppers 22 per cent, caterpillars 11 per cent, and various insects, including quite a number of spiders, comprise the remainder of the insect diet. All these are more or less harmful, except a few predaceous beetles, which amount to 8 per cent, but in view of the large consumption of grasshoppers and caterpillars, we can at least condone this offence, if such it may be called. The destruction of grasshoppers is very noticeable in the months of August and September, when these insects form more than 60 per cent of the diet.’

“It is not easy to tempt Bluebirds to an artificial feeding-place, such as I keep supplied with food for Juncoes, Chickadees, Woodpeckers, Nuthatches, Jays, etc.; yet it has been done, and they have been coaxed to nest close to houses and feed on window-sills like the Chickadees.In winter they will eat dried currants, and make their own selection from mill sweepings if scattered about the trees of their haunts. For, above all things, the Bluebird, though friendly, and seeking the borderland between the wild and the tame, never becomes familiar, and never does he lose the half-remote individuality that is one of his great charms. Though he lives with us, and gives no sign of pride of birth or race, he is not one of us, as the Song Sparrow, Chippy, or even the easily alarmed Robin. The poet’s mantle envelops him as the apple blossoms throw a rosy mist about his doorway, and it is best so.

Over the mossy walls,Above the slumbering fields,Where yet the ground no vintage yields,Save as the sunlight fallsIn dreams of harvest yellow,What voice remembered calls—So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow?A darting, azure-feathered arrowFrom some lithe sapling’s low curve fleetThe Bluebird, springing light and narrow,Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet.—George P. Lathrop.

Over the mossy walls,

Above the slumbering fields,

Where yet the ground no vintage yields,

Save as the sunlight falls

In dreams of harvest yellow,

What voice remembered calls—

So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow?

A darting, azure-feathered arrowFrom some lithe sapling’s low curve fleetThe Bluebird, springing light and narrow,Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet.

A darting, azure-feathered arrow

From some lithe sapling’s low curve fleet

The Bluebird, springing light and narrow,

Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet.

—George P. Lathrop.

“We become attached to some birds for one reason, and to others for totally different qualities. We admire the Oriole and Tanager first through the eye, because of their rich colouring. The Robin we like because he is always with us, and he was probably the very first bird that we knew by name and we couldwatch from the moment the nest was built until the young left it; so he awakens the general interest first, and then the ear is won by his cheerful and sometimes remarkable song.

“The Catbird stirs one’s curiosity. We wonder what he will say and do next; and when he throws back his head to sing, we never can tell whether a dreamy melody or a series of jeers will be the result. But the Song Sparrow we love for himself alone, from the very beginning of our acquaintance.

“In personal appearance he bears nearly all the markings of his characteristic family, but the few exceptions, if remembered, will tell you his name: his brown crown-feathers have a gray parting-line,his wings have no white bars or yellow markings, while the breast and sides are streaked; one large spot in the centre, with sometimes a smaller one close to it, tell the Song Sparrow’s identity.

“He is seldom seen feeding on the ground like the Chippy, but loves the shelter of low bushes, from which he gives his warning cry of ‘Dick-Dick!’ and then flies out with a jerking motion of the tail and, never going high into the air, perches on another bush. If he wishes to sing, he climbs from the dense lower branches to a spray well above the others, as if he needed plenty of air and light for the effort, and bubbles into song.

“As to the nest, well made of roots and bedded soft with fine grass and hairs, the Song Sparrow uses his own taste, as all birds do, and though the favourite place is within the crown of a small bush not far above the ground, or even in a grass tuft close to the earth itself, yet I have found them in very different places.

“Down in the garden a Song Sparrow once insisted on building, not only in a flower-bed, but among the stalks of perishable plants that would wither long before the young left the nest. To prevent disaster, we drove stakes on each side of the nest, fastened a fruit-box underneath, and a shelter overhead, so that, when the overhanging blossoms faded, the sun might not make broiled squabs of the little ones. This brood was raised successfully, but to our surprise the Sparrows began a second nest directly opposite the first in the brush of the line of sweet-peas. The location was chosen with more judgment, but in picking the pea blossoms I passed within a foot of the nest every morning during the whole time of building, hatching, and feeding of the young.

“This did not trouble the parents in the least; they seemed to know that I would neither hurt them nor intrude upon their privacy, by watching their movements too closely, and the father of the family repaid me by such music as I never before believed could come from the throat of even a Song Sparrow.

“At first I wondered why they should have chosen a garden border, when there were so many near-by bushes about the orchard edge, and tufted grasses and scrubs in a waste meadow over the way. For, familiar as the Song Sparrow is, and fearless, too, yet he is a reserved bird even among his kin, not even travelling in great flocks, and does not care, even when in the full spring ecstasy of song, to be very near another singer.

“Presently I discovered the reason. Song Sparrows love water, both for drinking and bathing: and, possibly from close association with it, these bubblings of the littlewayside brooks have had an influence upon their song. This particular year was a time of severe drought; the near-by streams were dried up early in June, and the ‘birds’ bath,’ made of a hollowed-out log, and put in the shelter of some vines at the far end of the garden, was the nearest available water within half a mile. This trough was filled every night, and as the hollow sloped gently at one end, small birds could either walk in it to bathe, or perch on the edge to drink; and it was the sight of the first brood all bathing there, a few days after they left the nest, that made me sure that it was this little watering trough to which I owed their presence.

“Many other birds besides the Sparrows came as well, and Robins and Wood Thrushes, who use wet clay in the shaping of their nests, found it particularly useful. Now I have a stone basin for the water, because the old wooden one was decayed on our return, but I’m sure the birds liked the mossy log the best, and Jacob Hughes is on the lookout for another.”

Gray Lady paused and looked up quickly, as though a new idea had come to her; then, glancing at the older boys who had that morning been working on a large Martin house which had been ordered, and which made it certain that the wayside drinking-fountain would be built as soon as frost left the ground, she said, “This suggests something more to be made for the spring sale. I saw some fine oak and beech logs with the bark still on at the lumber camp last week. If you are willing to undertake hollowing them out, it will be a good investment for the Kind Hearts’ Club to buy a half a dozen of them. When sawn into lengths of three feet, and the ends covered with barksecurely nailed, as all the bark covering must be, to prevent splitting, the logs will be attractive both as drinking-troughs for the birds and as features of the gardens where they are placed, and I am sure that we shall have no difficulty in selling them. Many people would establish drinking-places for the birds if they had something suitable to hold the water, but tin pans glisten, heat quickly, and even earthenware dishes are slippery, while the hollow log, that soon mosses over, must seem to the wild bird like a natural bit of the woods. Only one thing must be remembered: the log must not be allowed to become dry at any season, or it will warp and split.

“It would be worth the trouble of keeping such a fountain filled, I am sure, if only to lure a single pair of Song Sparrows about the garden or yard. For this Sparrow is the only bird whose song I have heard in every month of the year. Not the full spring song, of course, though I have heard a very perfect melody in December; but in dreary winter, when the scatter-brainedRobin has forgotten his alarm cry of ‘Quick-Quick-Quick!’ the dear little bird will find a warm spot in which to sun himself after a hard-earned meal of gleaned weed seeds,—for like all of his tribe he is a valiant Weed Warrior, working in the home-fields when other birds have followed the sun for richer fare,—and, after swelling his throat vainly for a few moments, begin to whisper a song, as if in a dream, that finally grows strong and clear.

“Yes, neither winter nor the darkness of night dishearten the Song Sparrow. Last season, in the darkest of summer nights, when some slight sound had awakened the feathered sleepers, I have heard a few subdued bars ofhis song from almost under my window, and I have thought, ‘Yes, there you are, dear little companion, cheerful by day and night, in summer and in winter; how much we, who are called the “higher animals,” have yet to learn from you.’

“Another thing of interest about the Song Sparrow: like the Bluebird, he belongs not alone to us of the East, but to the whole United States as well. To be sure, he changes his size, dress, and name slightly according to location, as does the Bluebird; another proof of the adaptability of the bird to circumstances.

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