Wood-Folk Talk
By J. ALLISON ATWOOD
HAS it ever seemed strange to you why Bobolink should have two suits of feathers so entirely different? Why, when he comes to us in the spring, should he wear a beautiful black and white costume, and in the fall put on his modest plumage of brown? It was not always so. The time was when Bobolink wore his best spring plumage all year round; but that, of course, was before his quarrel with Rough-leg. Rough-leg was one of the hawk family and was really the most agreeable of them. He had never been known to disturb the birds, but made his entire living by catching mice. No wonder, then, that he was greatly provoked when, after he had watched patiently for two hours in the hot sun with the vain hope of catching Meadow-mouse, he learned that the latter had been warned by Bobolink. Although generally good-natured, Rough-leg had a temper and he was very angry at Bobolink for poking his bill into other folks’ affairs. He was even heard to threaten to dine upon Bobolink instead of Meadow-mouse.
This, of course, was alarming news to Bobolink, yet he never regretted saving Meadow-mouse, who had been one of his old neighbors for years. Nevertheless, he was greatly worried at the threat and went South to his winter home earlier than usual that year, for fear that Rough-leg would catch him.
The next spring when he reached the Great Meadows again Bobolink supposed that the whole matter had been forgotten. But no. There, on exactly the same limb of the tall poplar, as if he had been waiting all winter, sat Rough-leg. Bobolink was so frightened that he did not stop at the Meadows, as had been his custom, but went straight North many miles even past his summer home. Rough-leg had kept his eyes shut and pretended not to see Bobolink when he arrived on the Meadows, but in reality he was only waiting for a good chance to get his claws upon him. So, of course, his disappointment was great when he opened his eyes, to find that Bobolink had gone. Somehow this only made him more determined, and he resolved to catch Bobolink if it took a year. To a bird a year is a very long time. Rough-leg knew that Bobolink would have to stop at the Great Meadow on his way south in the autumn, for there he must get his food supply. Rough-leg would wait for him. His feathers puffed out and his eyes blazed as he thought of revenge.
At length the hot summer drew to a close, and Bobolink bethought himself of going South, for, of course, he could not remain where he was all winter. But he shuddered as he thought of Rough-leg. He must stop at the Great Meadows else he could get no food until he reached the rice lands.
It would soon begin to get cold, and already the birds around him were leaving. They seemed to enjoy the fact that he could not follow. That mischievous little imp, Maryland Yellow-throat, especially took the greatest delight in peeping out from his brier thicket and then calling in his shrill voice, “Wintery, Wintery, Wintery,” just for the fun of seeing Bobolink look round anxiously at the falling leaves.
And now Blackbird, usually among the last, was ready to go and would soon be feeding lavishly on the reed seeds. They would not last long. Bobolink was at his wit’s end. Then, as from the top of a reed he looked wistfully at the dusky form of departing Song Sparrow, an idea occurred to him.
That afternoon he disappeared. He was not seen on the next day nor the next. At the end of the third day a very strange-looking bird might have been seen hopping about in the thicket which Bobolink had occupied. This newcomer was a modest fellow. He wore a plain, brown coat without a trace of the tall, white collar such as adorned Bobolink; and he talked very little. Indeed, his only note seemed to be a dull, little chirp which no one understood. While folks in the north country were beginning to wonder who this new comer could be, he, too, disappeared. A little later the birds of the Great Meadow were surprised to see what to them was a very odd-looking traveler. He was no other than the brown stranger who had just left the north country. No one remembered to have seen him before.
Rough-leg, who from his high lookout kept his eyes open for Bobolink, saw the newcomer, but the modest plumage awakened little interest in his mind. Blackbird, who always fed near the stranger, kept up a sociable chat all the time, but he was unable to learn anything of the other’s history. Indeed the latter, although polite, paid little attention to his neighbors but went on busily about his food. He soon became quite stout.
The fall had nearly passed. All the birds except Rough-leg, Blackbird, and the stranger had gone South. The leaves had fallen and the reeds turned to brown fagots. Rough-leg still kept up his weary look-out. Occasionally he would launch himself from the now leafless poplar and circle over the Meadows. The brown bird would bolt up nervously from his feeding ground and Blackbird, thinking that it was he who had disturbed him would flutter overhead, calling out heartily, “Don’t mind me-e-e! Don’t mind me-e-e!” But in spite of Blackbird’s cheer the stranger would start up every time Rough-leg’s shadow passed over the meadow. But one day when the autumn wind murmured through the dry reeds the brown bird had flown. A day later Blackbird followed.
Old Rough-leg still keeps up his watch. Every little while you can see him launch out from the great poplar and circle above the Meadows as if perchance Bobolink might be hiding among the reeds. But his search is vain. Often, however, he sees the brown stranger, whom folks have since named Reed Bird, but as he sails back to his favorite perch, he vainly wonders what has become of Bobolink in his beautiful coat of black and white.
Perhaps he would wonder still more if he knew that, although they pass to and fro with each year’s migration, Bobolink and Reed Bird have never met. Couldn’t the reader explain something of this to old Rough-leg?
“The good are better made by ill,As odors crushed are sweeter still.”—Rogers.
“The good are better made by ill,As odors crushed are sweeter still.”—Rogers.
“The good are better made by ill,As odors crushed are sweeter still.”—Rogers.
“The good are better made by ill,
As odors crushed are sweeter still.”
—Rogers.