THE BOXWOOD FLATS
THE BOXWOOD FLATS
I
ILOOK up from my book and the cool corner of the veranda, conscious of a very busy, noisy life in the great boxwood trees at either side of the brick walk. For many bird families live among the comfortable, shady branches; and I am reminded of a tenement house in the East End, as all the bird families are large and the making of their living is uppermost in their little heads.
The robins have the top flat, the thrushes the first floor up, and the noisy catbirds the ground floor. If by any chance Father Robin enters the Thrush apartment, there is a dreadful fuss. Thefamilies in the other flats all take a hand in reproving the gentleman for his carelessness, and it takes many minutes ere all is peaceful and quiet again.
The green opening or door of the robin flat is large and much worn, for the husky baby robins eat their weight in worms each day, and keep their loving parents more than busy coming and going with their bills full of goodies. The catbird has time to sit on his doorstep and sing to his little wife in modest gown of Quaker gray, encouraging her to stay on her nest. He himself darts off only to return with a titbit in the shape of a fat fly for her enjoyment. The thrush family are very well behaved, minding their own business, but always keeping a jealous eye upon Minnie, my Scotch terrier. Whenever she walksacross the lawn in the direction of the flats, they dart down in front of her nose with a cry half of fear and half of play. They always fly away from the nest, flopping on the ground as if hurt, to attract the dog’s attention, and leading her by stratagem to the farther end of the garden. Then, with a tantalizing chirp, they fly back to their nest.
When the shadows grow long, the proud parents take the little ones out for a lesson in flying. How patient they are with the clumsy fluff-balls that cling to the lower branches and squeal, fearing to let go and trust the half-grown wings. The parents, in a near-by tree, coax and shame them into trying, until they drop off one limb and flop feebly to the next. This is the hour my dog is locked up, for otherwise great would be the tragedy,the little fluff-balls are so very helpless.
I am certain the mother and father birds know I take this precaution, for they repay me in song, and become exceedingly tame, allowing me to peep into their nests without fear, and answering my call as would a trained canary. Often they fly down near my head and accompany me on my walk through the garden. Their little beady eyes notice my every motion, and they show off by bullying and chasing the hedge sparrows we meet in our walk, seeming to say: “Get out of our way, you disrespectful birds. Don’t you see the Mistress out for a walk?” The poor little hedge sparrows hurry and scurry to the nearest tree, cocking their tiny heads to one side, as if saying: “Why all this excitement? She’s not so much!”
The Japanese mimosa tree is in blossom and so is the trumpet vine, both of which attract the humming bird in his coat of many colors. His beautiful wings, with their rapid motion, glisten in the sunlight like miniature rainbows. When you are favored with a peep into his nest, you think it a strange place to keep quinine pills, for the resemblance between these and the little eggs is very striking, both having the same shape, size, and color. I dislike to think of this lovely dream-like bird as one of the most bloodthirsty of the feathered tribe, but a fight between two humming birds always means death to one, for their long bills are as sharp as darning needles, and they are expert fencers.
Idling in my easy chair, I listen to the love-making of a pair of doves that livehigh up in the tree at the end of the veranda. They never seem to tire of love or the telling of it. They are so busy making love that they have not had time to build a substantial nest, and after each storm I look with fear at their loosely put together home. Love, it is said, makes the world go round, and it must likewise be love that keeps the doves’ nest in the tree, for there seems to be nothing else that is doing so.
The early evening is the swallows’ play time. They dart and chase one another around the house top, fairly shrieking with delight. And when the moon rises, the plaintive call of the whip-poor-will comes up from the glen. He is a solitary fellow, never coming near the house, although I feel he serves with the nightingale as a night watchman.
I find myself growing sleepy, and as I glance over to the Boxwood Flats, it is apparent that for hours the occupants have been asleep, dreaming of the early worm and of the happy sunshine that to-morrow holds for them.
Good night, my friends. May there be another day for us to meet and enjoy ourselves. We are all a part of the great scheme, each a cog in the wheel of Destiny. Man is prying into the secrets of your lives and habits, endeavoring to solve the mystery of your migratory flight. Where did you obtain the knowledge of the compass which enables you, after a journey of hundreds of miles, to find the very tree that last year held your nest? And where do you keep the speed that makes it possible for you to travel a mile a minute? Can it be you havefound an air current that encircles the globe, carrying you to any part of the earth you desire to reach? Thus far you have guarded well your secret from the naturalists.
Mayhap, my Boxwood Flatters, you will confide in me, if I promise not to raise your rent.