[For Merry’s Museum.]The Blue-Bird.
[For Merry’s Museum.]
Aboutthe beginning, or early in the month of March, in Connecticut and Massachusetts, comes the delightful blue-bird. “Everybody loves the blue-bird,” says the Rev. Dr. Peabody, in his Report on the Birds of Massachusetts. And Mr. Wilson remarks of him, “As one of the first messengers of spring, bringing the charming tidings to our very doors, he bears his own recommendation always along with him, and meets with a hearty welcome from everybody.”
The blue-bird has been so beautifully described by other writers, and so well known, that I shall do little else than quote from others, and principally from Wilson, who is perhaps unrivalled in his description of birds.
He has written a poetical account of him, which is so interesting and beautiful, and which so few persons, especially children, have an opportunity of reading in his beautiful work on American Ornithology, that I am tempted to transcribe the whole of it for the readers of Merry’s Museum, young and old.
“When Winter’s cold tempests and snows are no more,Green meadows and brown furrow’d fields re-appearing,The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,O, then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring!And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.“Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,And spicewood and sassafras budding together;O, then, to your gardens ye housewives repair,Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;The Blue-bird will chant from his box, such an air,That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!“He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,The red-flowering peach and the apple’s sweet blossoms;He snaps up destroyers wherever they be;And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter;His song and his services freely are ours,And all that he asks is—in summer a shelter.“The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,Now searching the furrows,—now mounting to cheer him;The gard’ner delights in his sweet simple strain,And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;The slow lingering school-boys forget they’ll be chid,While gazing intent as he warbles before them,In mantle of sky-blue and bosom so red,That each little loiterer seems to adore him.“When all the gay scenes of the summer are o’er,And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow;And millions of warblers that charmed us before,Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam,He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.“While spring’s lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,Or love’s native music have influence to charm,Or sympathy’s glow to our feelings are given,Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure,For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,He comes, to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!”
“When Winter’s cold tempests and snows are no more,Green meadows and brown furrow’d fields re-appearing,The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,O, then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring!And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.“Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,And spicewood and sassafras budding together;O, then, to your gardens ye housewives repair,Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;The Blue-bird will chant from his box, such an air,That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!“He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,The red-flowering peach and the apple’s sweet blossoms;He snaps up destroyers wherever they be;And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter;His song and his services freely are ours,And all that he asks is—in summer a shelter.“The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,Now searching the furrows,—now mounting to cheer him;The gard’ner delights in his sweet simple strain,And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;The slow lingering school-boys forget they’ll be chid,While gazing intent as he warbles before them,In mantle of sky-blue and bosom so red,That each little loiterer seems to adore him.“When all the gay scenes of the summer are o’er,And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow;And millions of warblers that charmed us before,Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam,He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.“While spring’s lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,Or love’s native music have influence to charm,Or sympathy’s glow to our feelings are given,Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure,For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,He comes, to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!”
“When Winter’s cold tempests and snows are no more,
Green meadows and brown furrow’d fields re-appearing,
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,
O, then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring!
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
“Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,And spicewood and sassafras budding together;O, then, to your gardens ye housewives repair,Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;The Blue-bird will chant from his box, such an air,That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!
“Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together;
O, then, to your gardens ye housewives repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The Blue-bird will chant from his box, such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!
“He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,The red-flowering peach and the apple’s sweet blossoms;He snaps up destroyers wherever they be;And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter;His song and his services freely are ours,And all that he asks is—in summer a shelter.
“He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red-flowering peach and the apple’s sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be;
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is—in summer a shelter.
“The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,Now searching the furrows,—now mounting to cheer him;The gard’ner delights in his sweet simple strain,And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;The slow lingering school-boys forget they’ll be chid,While gazing intent as he warbles before them,In mantle of sky-blue and bosom so red,That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
“The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows,—now mounting to cheer him;
The gard’ner delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;
The slow lingering school-boys forget they’ll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before them,
In mantle of sky-blue and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
“When all the gay scenes of the summer are o’er,And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow;And millions of warblers that charmed us before,Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam,He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
“When all the gay scenes of the summer are o’er,
And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow;
And millions of warblers that charmed us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;
The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,
Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
“While spring’s lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,Or love’s native music have influence to charm,Or sympathy’s glow to our feelings are given,Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure,For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,He comes, to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!”
“While spring’s lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,
Or love’s native music have influence to charm,
Or sympathy’s glow to our feelings are given,
Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;
His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure,
For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,
He comes, to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!”
The Blue-bird, as most persons, young and old, probably know, builds its nest in a hole in some old tree, generally an apple tree, unless a box is provided for him, in which the female lays five or six very pale blue eggs. Its song is a pleasant warble, which everybody loves to hear. Says Wilson, “In his motions and general character, he has great resemblance to the Robin Redbreast of Britain, (meaning Great Britain,) and had he the brown-olive of that bird, instead of his own blue, could scarcely be distinguished from him. Like him, he is known to almost every child; and shows as much confidence in man by associating with him in summer, as the other by his familiarity in winter. His society is courted by the inhabitants of the country, and few farmers neglect to provide for him, in some suitable place, a snug little summer-house, ready fitted and rent free. For this, he more than sufficiently repays them by the cheerfulness of his song, and the multitude of injurious insects which he daily destroys.”
If the young readers of Merry’s Museum will make a small box, with a hole in it large enough for the bird to go in and out, and nail it up in the neighborhood of the house, in the spring or fore part of summer, they will be almost certain to have either a blue-bird’s or a wren’s nest made in it, and can examine the eggs and young at their pleasure.
Last year I put up a box, for martins, on the side of my house, but no martins coming, a pair of blue-birds took possession of it, and raised a brood of young ones. This season, a box which I nailed up near the house, has a wren’s nest built in it, in which the female has now (July 3d) laid two eggs. The blue-birds have not yet occupied the martin box, but I think they may, as it was late last year when they made their nest in it.
Vireo.
Kircher.—The celebrated astronomer, Athanasius Kircher, having an acquaintance who denied the existence of a Supreme Being, took the following method to convince him of his error, upon his own principles. Expecting a visit from him, he procured a very handsome globe, or representation of the starry heavens, which was placed in the corner of the room, where it could not escape his friend’s observation; who, when he came, asked from whence it came, and to whom it belonged. “Not to me,” said Kircher, “nor was it ever made by any person, but came here by mere chance.” “That,” replied his skeptical friend, “is absolutely impossible: you surely jest.” Kircher, however, persisting in his assertion, took occasion to reason with his friend on his own atheistical principles. “You will not believe,” said he, “that this small body originated in mere chance; and yet you would contend that those heavenly bodies of which it is but a faint and diminutive resemblance, came into existence without order or design.” Pursuing this train of reasoning, his friend was at first confounded, next convinced, and ultimately joined in a cordial acknowledgement of the absurdity of denying the existence of a God.