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Title: Neighbors with Wings and Fins and Some Others,
   for Young People [Natural History Series--Book Third]
Author: Johonnot, James (1823-1888)
Date of first publication: 1885
Place and date of edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York, Cincinnati, and Chicago:
   American Book Company, undated
Date first posted: 4 July 2009
Date last updated: 4 July 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #344

This ebook was produced by:
Marcia Brooks, woodie4
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available
by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




[Illustration: Frontispiece]

_NATURAL HISTORY SERIES--BOOK THIRD._

NEIGHBORS WITH

WINGS AND FINS.

AND

SOME OTHERS,

_FOR YOUNG PEOPLE._

[Illustration: Title page decoration]

 BY JAMES JOHONNOT.


NEW YORK : CINCINNATI : CHICAGO:

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.




The Boy and the Owl.

[Illustration: The Boy and the Owl.]

              "Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!"
    Caught as the deed was almost done,
    Detected when the prize seemed won!
    In vain all efforts to conceal
    The egg you've risked so much to steal!
    "Tu-whoo!" the owl croaks forth anew:
    "Just put it back! Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!
              Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!"

       *       *       *       *       *

 COPYRIGHT, 1885,
 BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.




THE PLAN OF THE WORK.


In this third book, the pupil is prepared, by both age and experience,
to enter upon more systematic study. Story and description, the staple
of the preceding numbers of the series, have performed their work of
awakening interest, and the next step in advance demands the
consideration of relations of a more vital character than those already
presented.

The lively interest that children always take in birds; the eagerness
with which they watch the graceful motions of "gladness on wings"; the
rapt attention that they give to the music which descends from tree tops
or floats down "a brook of laughter through the air," have all led to an
extended and detailed account of our feathered friends and neighbors.

But, in the treatment, the canons of scientific arrangement have again
been made to yield to the more important laws of mental growth. The
lessons begin with the familiar rather than with the simple. The bridge
over which the mind passes from the obvious and common to the strange
and unknown, is made up of similarities. From the chicken that scratches
in the farm-yard, the mind is led to a consideration of the scratchers
of field and forest the world over; from the warble of the little wren
at the door, the attention is directed to the carol and song which
greet the sunrise in its daily march around the world.

Science, story, and song are mingled in proper proportions: science, the
latest and best, to inform; story, vivid and authentic, to interest; and
song, fresh and vigorous, to inspire.

By this combination of matter and method, knowledge broadens; the mental
faculties expand; the vocabulary grows from day to day; and the reading
exercises become efficient means for obtaining the knowledge which most
effectually arouses mental activity.

The good, prospective and potential, in the method may be lost by
misconception and mismanagement. The reading may be converted into a
mechanical pronunciation of words, the thought never reaching the
understanding; or the process of reading may be regarded as an end, the
thought terminating with the book.

The full benefit of the system can be experienced only when each new
fact and new relation stated will lead to investigation outside of the
book, and when is established the threefold process which makes
observation the basis of instruction; uses books for obtaining facts not
accessible to direct perception; and culminates in well-ordered and
well-expressed thought.

In the preparation of this book, I wish to express my obligation to Hon.
John Monteith, of St. Louis, for valuable assistance in both research
and composition. To him in a great measure is due the effective style in
which the subjects are presented.

[Illustration: decoration]




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
                                                           PAGE

     I.  Scratching for a Living.                            11

    II.  The Bird of Christmas.                              16

   III.  Scratchers of Wood and Prairie.                     22

    IV.  Scratchers of Other Lands.                          27

     V.  A Sensitive Spirit.                                 33

    VI.  Long Legs for Wading.                               38

   VII.  Beach-Walkers.                                      44

         The Sandpiper.                                      48

  VIII.  Feathered Marsh-Dwellers.                           50

    IX.  Giants of Desert and Plain.                         55

         The Ballad of the Emu.                              58

     X.  Swimmers of Lake and Sea.                           60

    XI.  Sailers of Ocean and Air.                           65

   XII.  The Stormy Petrel.                                  71

  XIII.  Oar-footed Sea-Fliers.                              73

   XIV.  Swimmers and Divers.                                78

    XV.  The Messenger-Bird and its Cousins.                 84

           The Belfry Pigeon.                                90

   XVI.  Gluttons in Feathers.                               92

  XVII.  The Sky King and his Family.                        98

 XVIII.  Hannah Lomond's Bairn.                             105

   XIX.  Cats in Feathers.                                  112

    XX.  Polly and her Kin.                                 121

   XXI.  Tree-Climbers.                                     127

           The Cuckoo.                                      135

  XXII.  Divers of the Air.                                 136

 XXIII.  Fairies on the Wing.                               144

           The Humming-Bird.                                149

  XXIV.  Moth and Fly Hunters.                              150

           The Pewee.                                       154

   XXV.  Gossips and Thieves of Orchard and Woodland.       156

  XXVI.  Shiny Coats.                                       162

           The Bobolinks.                                   167

 XXVII.  Sociable Tenants of the Trees.                     169

XXVIII.  Our Near and Kindly Neighbors.                     175

  XXIX.  Friends of Field and Forest.                       180

   XXX.  Little Busy Wings.                                 187

  XXXI.  Birds at Dawn.                                     192

 XXXII.  Song and Hymn of Garden and Wood.                  194

XXXIII.  The Rochester Robin.                               201

 XXXIV.  Wings and Feet for Earth, Air, and Sea.            203

  XXXV.  Shiny Tenants of Brook and Pond.                   212

 XXXVI.  Finny Tribes of Lake and Sea.                      220




[Illustration: Fox and crow]

A hungry fox discovered a crow perched upon a high branch, with a piece
of cheese in her mouth which she had just stolen, and he thus addressed
her:

"What a beautiful bird! How soft and glossy your plumage! How bright the
glance of your eye! Doubtless your voice is as musical as your form and
dress are elegant. Do favor me with a song which can not be less than
divine!"

The crow, pleased by this flattery, opened her beak and gave a dismal
croak, when down fell the cheese, and was snapped up by the fox in an
instant.

[Illustration: _The Peacock._]




CHAPTER I.

SCRATCHING FOR A LIVING.


1. It is a bright, sunny morning. Our feathered friends are awake and
out. They are talking, laughing, crying, peeping, crowing, clucking,
gobbling, and shrieking. They are running, rolling, hopping, flying,
strutting, and scratching. They seem to think the whole world belongs to
them. They fill the air with their noise. Their many-colored feathers
turn and glisten in the mellow sunshine, and the whole farm-yard is
alive with their play and work.

2. With the first coming of daylight the hens have dropped from their
perch to the floor, and are led forth by the gay paternal cock to enjoy
a day's life. A busy crowd are they. When not scratching for food they
are laying away a treasure as good as gold. They rest, and roll, but
never loaf, or waste time. The hen seems to know that if she would eat
she must work. And she sets about her work early, to obtain food for
herself and for her children.

3. The hen knows where to seek her bread and meat. Grain and seeds
pressed into the earth by the tread of heavy feet are her bread. Her
meat has wings and legs. It crawls and digs and burrows in the ground.
It is a diet of worms, flies, and beetles. They have a good time during
the cool and dark of the night while their enemies are asleep. But when
the fingers of the morning begin to touch them they think of the rude,
scratching claws that will soon be after them, and they scamper and hide
before their eager pursuers.

4. And what about hen's teeth? The hen, and all other scratchers, have
teeth, but not in the mouth. Their food is swallowed without chewing,
and is at once stored in the crop, where, it remains until it is
softened. Then it passes into the gizzard, where it is rubbed and ground
between tough, hard ribs, like the grooves of a wash-board. To help in
this work, the gizzard is filled with sharp stones and bits or gravel
which she has swallowed. These are the hen's teeth, and they work
quietly, both while she is gathering food and when she is resting or
roosting.

5. So the hen is the princess of scratchers. Her hard, tough claw, with
its four toes and four sharp nails, scratches while the sun shines. Her
nimble bill catches and bags the running and crawling game which her
gizzard, with its strong teeth, chews and grinds at her leisure. While
her brood is young and tender she scratches for them, and teaches them
how to scratch for themselves.

[Illustration: _The Guinea-Fowl._]

6. Above all the noises which the scratchers of the farm-yard make, we
may hear the harsh and grating voice of the Guinea-fowl. Like some vain
beings without feathers, he seems to think that he is greatest who makes
the most noise. He is the rattling orator of the farm-yard; and, like
many public speakers, he has not sense enough to know when to stop. All
the live-long day his clatter, like the sound of a cracked bell, or a
squeaking saw, seldom ceases. At times he gets out of patience with his
hearers, picking quarrels with turkey, and peacock, and hens, and
throwing the whole farm-yard into confusion.

7. The Guinea-fowl is by no means a useless bird. Allured by its beauty
and its dark, delicate flesh, the ancients brought it from the coast of
Africa. Its very noise and quarrelsome disposition are made use of by
poultrymen to protect the rest of the feathered circle against the
attacks of hawks. And it is also valued for the richness of its eggs.
Some have said that the Guinea-hen is sensitive about the disturbance of
her nest; and that she will forsake eggs which human hands have touched.

8. The Guinea is a little smaller than the common hen, but it bears a
general family likeness to the turkey. Its neck is long, ending in a
queer-looking head, with a top-knot sticking up like the end of one's
little finger. As to color, there are pure white Guineas and Guineas of
slate-colored feathers, sprinkled over with round, white spots.

9. A long, shrill, unpleasant cry calls our attention to the comb of the
barn-roof, where the peacock has passed the night, and is getting ready
to come down and swell among the common folks of the yard. Isn't he
beautiful? No wonder that he was carried from his home in India as a
present to King Solomon. No wonder that Alexander the Great, charmed
with his gorgeous feathers, gave strict orders that no harm should be
done to him. He knows his own beauty, and for this reason he is very
vain. And if any creature has a right to be proud it is the peacock.

10. About the size of the turkey, the form of the peacock is lithe and
graceful; and it carries a train longer than his body, covered with
gauzy feathers of green, gold, bronze, and blue, all blended into the
brightest and richest hues, as he raises and spreads and turns his tail
to the sunlight. The eyes in the feathers of this overskirt are like
those of the peacock-butterfly, which boys catch with their hats in
summer-time. The peacock has been known to live as many as a hundred
years.

11. How wide is the difference between the beauty of the peacock and
that of his mate, the pea-hen! And why is this so? The beautiful plumage
of birds, we must know, is intended both to attract the eye of man and
to please the eyes of the birds themselves. Birds win the affections of
their companions by their beauty or their song, just as boys and girls
gain friends by good and pleasant actions. But the female bird, who must
cover her eggs or her young, on the ground or on trees, exposed to many
enemies, would only invite and increase danger if she were beautiful.
So, like a good and sacrificing mother, she must be sober and plain, for
the sake of her children.




CHAPTER II.

THE BIRD OF CHRISTMAS.


1. We now come to the bird which is a universal favorite, especially
when, as at Christmas-dinner, it lies on the platter, well roasted,
brown, tender, and juicy, and hot from the oven. How cold and dreary
would Christmas be without the presence of this silent, roasted friend!

2. Eager eyes of little folks dwell fondly upon the feast "fit to set
before a king," and, when the carving is done, spoons must be thrust
into little mouths, to keep them from crying out "Turkey!" before-time,
as was the case of the children of Bob Cratchet, in the "Christmas
Carol."

3. When no peacocks are about, the turkey is the most showy bird of the
farm-yard. It is larger, and can boast of longer legs, than any of its
companions; and its coat is shiny and always clean. By turning in
different ways to the light, the wild turkey appears at one time nearly
black, and again it shows a bright green or a rich, deep bronze color.
In the farm-yard turkeys may be seen of different hues--some white,
others brown or bronze, while most of them, like Joseph, have coats of
many colors.

[Illustration: _The Wild Turkey._]

4. The hen-turkey is plain in her dress, so that she may, as little as
possible, attract the attention of her enemies. She is shy in her
manner, and is disposed to make but few acquaintances. She talks to her
young with a soft, cooing note, when she feels safe; but, when danger
comes, she bids them hide in the grass by her sharp "quit, quit!" The
little ones, in turn, answer the voice of their mother by high-keyed,
affectionate, and contented "peeps," that seem to say, "All is well."

5. The turkey-cock, or gobbler, as he is called, wears gayer clothes
than his dames. His feathers shine with deeper, brighter colors; and his
tail is more gorgeous than theirs. He is a fine-looking fellow, and,
like the peacock, he knows it, and is proud. He struts about with his
red face and wattles, with his head drawn back, his tail spread like a
fan, his wings dropped and dragging on the ground; and he seems to say,
"I am the finest bird in the world."

6. Getting food and eating are the main business of turkeys. Though they
are scratchers, they spend little time in scratching. The farm-yard is
too small for them. Great walkers and wanderers are they. Tender grass,
leaves, bugs, flies, and worms tempt them; and for these they roam over
the fields, far away from home, leading their young ones along, and,
with the declining sun, return to the farm-yard with full crops.

7. Turkeys are natives of America. They once roamed wild all over the
country, and are still found wild in the forests of the South and West.
They do not go from North to South with the changes of the seasons;
but, when food and water fail in one part of the country, they are
obliged to go to another. They are social, and live in small families;
but, when they leave for a more abundant region, they collect in great
numbers.

8. After the broods are hatched, the turkey-cocks live by themselves, in
parties of from ten to a hundred. They are cruel parents, and the
hen-turkeys must keep their young by themselves, for fear that they may
be killed. When, however, a want of food forces the turkey community to
seek a new home, all set out together on foot.

9. If they come to a river, they collect in mass, meeting on the highest
bluff, and there often remain a whole day consulting as to what they
shall do. This is thought to be a good opportunity to show off, and to
display fine clothes and loud talk. Besides, it is a political meeting,
and a leader is to be chosen. So the gobblers strut and gobble more than
usual, and even the hen-turkeys grow nervous and try to gobble.

10. At length, when all are ready, they rise to the tops of the tallest
trees. The leader gives a signal-cluck, and all take flight for the
opposite shore. Across even a very wide river the strong birds will make
their flight. But many of the young fall into the water, and reach the
shore by swimming.

11. Very careful and tender mothers are these hen-turkeys, and they show
their care in the selection of nests. In a hollow place, among dry
leaves, by the side of a log, or in a fallen, leafy tree-top, but always
in a dry place, they lay their eggs. Slyly and secretly they deposit and
cover them so as to preserve them from the hungry crow, which is ever
watching for the chance of a feast. When she returns to her nest, the
hen-turkey follows a different path from that by which she left it. If
her eggs have been touched by a snake, she abandons the nest forever.

12. When first hatched, the young turkeys wear a coat of soft, heavy
down, and are very tender. The mother, anxious to keep them dry until
their feathers are grown, leads them to dry and sheltered places. When
the dew is on, or rain is falling, she covers them with her wings. In
fourteen days they are able to fly to the low branches of trees, where
they pass the night under their mother's wings. In another month they
have grown strong enough to reach the tops of the highest trees.

13. But bird-life, like other lives, is not without its dangers. Man,
the fox, and the owl, are the enemies of young turkeys. The owl makes
its attacks while they are roosting in the trees. Slyly and silently he
draws near to the innocent sleepers, but is usually discovered.

14. A single cluck from one of the flock gives the alarm, when they all
rise upon their legs and watch the motions of the owl. He selects his
prey, and darts down toward it like an arrow. But, at this instant, the
victim lowers its head and raises its tail over its back. The owl
strikes the tail instead of the body, and the turkey drops to the ground
with only the loss of a few feathers.

15. Those who have studied the habits of the wild turkeys know how to
easily trap them. On a slope of ground, or hill-side, a pen of small
timber is constructed, just as children build cob or stick houses. It is
covered with a strong roof, and on the lower side of the slope, close to
the ground, an opening is left large enough for a turkey to pass
through. From this opening, and down the hill, a short trench is dug,
and corn is scattered both in the pen and in the trench.

16. The turkeys are delighted to find such rare food, and doubtless pass
a vote of thanks to the kind hand that has provided for them without
either hunting or scratching for it. The greedy creatures follow the
golden line of corn until they reach the pen, when they stoop and enter.
Now, finding themselves confined, they try to break out through the
sides and roof, but never think that they can go out as they came in.




CHAPTER III.

SCRATCHERS OF WOOD AND PRAIRIE.


1. From the story of the turkey we learn that the circle of our
feathered friends extends far beyond the farm-yard or meadow. A way in
wild and woody places, and over broad prairie-lands, are the partridges,
pheasants, and prairie-chickens. Here they live upon the worms and bugs
which they scratch from the ground. Their right name, so we learn from
those who know, is grouse.

[Illustration: _The Prairie-Hen._]

2. The first of these we find in the wooded country, and it is the
ruffed or ruffled grouse. In the Eastern and Middle States it is called
the partridge, and in the South the pheasant. Their flesh is white, and
excellent for the table. Scarcely half the size of the common hen, the
ruffed grouse is so called on account of a tuft of broad, soft, glossy
black feathers which it wears on either side of its neck. Its color is
grayish brown, touched with pale black spots; and it wears a soft crest
on its head, and behind it sweeps a broad fan-tail.

3. To call or charm its mate, to get up a fight with its rivals, or to
express its good feelings, this bird has no sweet notes, like the
song-birds, but it makes a noise like the beating of a drum. Standing on
a log, he throws his head back like the gobbler, spreads his tail, and
flaps or vibrates his wings so rapidly that the strokes can not be
distinguished. This drumming is sometimes heard at the distance of half
a mile.

4. The ruffed grouse is very affectionate and tender toward her young.
She makes her nest in a tuft of grass, or under a bush. Here she
deposits from twelve to twenty white eggs, each about a quarter of the
size of a hen's egg. While she is sitting, the male stays about her to
keep her company, and to defend her against enemies. The hen is so
careful of her nest that she has sometimes allowed herself to be stroked
by a man's hand rather than forsake her precious charge.

5. And when the little ones are hatched, the mother-grouse is
wonderfully watchful and cunning in her way of protecting them. When
suddenly disturbed by a human being, she gives a scream, which scatters
her chicks, who hide in the grass, and keep so still that it is nearly
impossible to find them. Then she runs in the opposite direction,
leading the disturber to think her young are there; and to excite
sympathy she flutters, and cries, and pretends to be lame.

6. A near relation of the ruffed grouse is the pinnated grouse, or the
famous prairie-chicken. Many years ago it was found in nearly every part
of the country, but at the present time its home is confined to the
prairies of the Western States. About half the size of the common hen,
it wears a small crest on its head, a tuft of long feathers on each side
of its neck, runs on a pair of feathered legs, and feeds upon berries,
insects, and grain. Its flesh is dark and much prized for food.

7. Spring-time is a season of great excitement in the community of
prairie-hens. Early every morning the cocks fly to a battle-ground, or
"scratching-ground," as it is called, where about twenty of them
assemble. Then they inflate the yellow sacs that stand out on either
side of the neck, and drum with their wings more loudly even than do the
ruffed grouse.

8. The hens quietly gather about the edges of the ring when the fight
commences. With tails erect and heads thrown back, and wings dragging on
the ground, the cocks strut about like turkey-gobblers. Then they close
in mortal combat. They rise in the air and strike each other, until the
victor drives his antagonist from the field.

[Illustration: _Cock of the Plains._]

9. In her nest on the ground the prairie-hen lays ten or twelve brown
eggs. After eighteen or nineteen days of sitting, she brings out her
brood. The young are protected by her alone. Whenever they are surprised
by an enemy, she utters a cry of alarm, when they scatter and scamper,
and hide among the grass and brush. Then the mother, like the ruffled
grouse, flutters and limps and rolls, that she may deceive and arouse
sympathy.

10. The largest of American grouse is the sage-hen, or the "Cock of the
Plains." The broad plains of the far West, reaching to the Rocky
Mountains and the Columbia River, are its native home. It is nearly two
and a half feet in length, about the size of a hen-turkey, and is
covered with handsome gray and black plumage. A curious fact about this
bird is that it has no gizzard. The sage-cock, like the pinnated grouse,
has enormous sacs on the sides of its neck. These sacs are filled with
air when he raises his tail, lowers his wings, and struts like a turkey.

11. We come home to our own little quail, or American partridge. Its
reddish-brown feathers, lined with black and yellow, the white throat,
and black stripes on the head of the male, and the buff throat and
modest brown head of the female, we all know. The size of the bird, too,
we know--so many times, in the early part of the season, have we seen
the male perched on the fence, and heard his clear, sharp, musical
whistle, "Bob White!" ring out upon the summer air, to attract the
attention of his pretty mate.

[Illustration: _American Quail._]

12. If you listen carefully, you will detect in his whistle one soft
note, and two strong or loud ones. Hence, Audubon has said his call
consists of three syllables, and that he sings, "Ah! Bob! White!" The
hen deposits in her nest, under a low bush, as many as twenty pure-white
eggs. The cock relieves her in the task of hatching; and this is a
reason why his plumage is not so gaudy as that of some male birds--that
he may not attract attention to the place of the nest.

13. The young scud away almost as soon as they are out of the shell.
Both parents protect and brood them. When they are frightened, they will
hide under the feet of the intruder, and it is almost impossible to find
them. They feed upon berries, grain, and insects; roaming over the
fields of the farm and catching the insect enemies of the farmer's
crops.

14. When a covey goes to sleep at night, the birds form a large circle,
with their tails toward the center--each standing some distance from the
others. Then they move back toward the center, until they are close to
each other. Now they are prepared to watch danger on all sides.




CHAPTER IV.

SCRATCHERS OF OTHER LANDS.


    "See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
    And mounts exulting on triumphant wings."

1. Next to the peacock the golden pheasant ranks as the most beautiful
domestic bird. Its original home is in Asia, from which country come so
many sunny, golden things. The ancient Grecian poets tell a story of a
hero called Jason, who was promised a kingdom and a crown if he would
bring a golden fleece from a place away on the coast of the Black Sea.
So he sailed in his ship Argo with fifty comrades and captured the
prize. Near where he found the golden fleece, at a river called Phasis,
some of his companions found the golden pheasant, and they brought it
back to Greece. From this beginning, it is supposed, the pheasant has
spread over a large part of Europe.

2. With a small body, about the size of a half-grown chicken, the
principal part of the golden pheasant appears to be its splendid
clothes. Like an Eastern king, it is arrayed in purple and gold. Upon
its head is a bright golden crest, in which each feather is tinged with
velvety black. The plumage on its breast, shoulders, and sides is purple
or dark blue, with streaks of gold. The long feathers are red, with eyes
of golden yellow. Its tail is nearly two feet in length, and its
movement is soft and graceful.

3. The daily life of this bird is much like that of the grouse. It loves
the tangled wood, where it picks and scratches for insects. The
mother-bird is careless about her nest and her young. Sometimes she
crushes and eats her own eggs, and another hen must be borrowed to
hatch and brood the chicks. The hen-pheasant, though clothed in a more
sober dress than that of her mate, when she has grown too old to lay
eggs, changes her plumage and becomes gorgeous like him.

[Illustration: _The Argus Pheasant._]

4. Even more showy than the golden pheasant is the Argus pheasant. Its
colors are not so brilliant, but they are more delicately marked. The
head is deep black, and the feathers of the rest of the body are
variegated with different shades of yellow, brown, red, and gray. The
wings are large and broad, like fans, and are adorned with covers of
mixed brown, red, and yellow, and are dotted over with large, shining
round spots or eyes. Among the fabled characters of the ancient Greeks
Argus was famous for his hundred eyes. The Argus pheasant is so called
because of the multitude of eyes on its wings.

5. In ancient times, when Croesus, the richest king, was seated on his
throne in royal robes, and in great pomp, he asked Solon, the wise man
of Greece, if he had ever seen anything so fine. Solon replied that,
having seen the beautiful plumage of the pheasant, he could not be
surprised by any other splendor that might be presented to him.

6. Among the scratchers of other lands the mound-bird is the most
remarkable. A small bird, about the size of a female pheasant, it is
modest and shy in its dress of sober brown and red. The story of its
work would read like a fable were we not obliged to believe the reports
of truthful men. Weighing scarcely more than two pounds, the mound-bird
builds by the sea-side in Australia its home, a hill ten feet high and
sixty feet in circumference at the base.

7. How the mound-bird raises so large a hill is not certainly known.
Its feet, which are immense for so small a bird, are evidently intended
for heavier work than scratching; and it has been seen hopping along on
one foot, while in the other claw it carried a large bunch of grass. It
seems as if a single pair or generation of these birds could not
possibly perform so great a task.

[Illustration: _Brush-Turkeys and their Egg-Mounds._]

8. Strange as it may seem, this mound is the bird's nest. In the top a
hole is made which is packed with grass and leaves, mixed with earth.
Here are laid eight large white eggs, which are set on end and left to
be warmed by the heat that comes from the decay of the litter of which
the nest is made. Only the male bird is sent occasionally to open the
nest and stir the litter, so as to let in the air and regulate the heat.
Wonderful bird!

[Illustration: _The Lyre-Bird._]

9. At the proper period the young birds are hatched. Not with soft down
and tender skin, like other youngsters of the bird kind, but
full-feathered and strong. And out of this temple of their nativity they
find their way to the light; and, having dried themselves in the sun,
they enter upon life's duties and sports without help.

10. You can see how the lyre-bird of Australia gets its name. The music
of the bird is not in its throat, but in the form of its tail, which is
that of a musical instrument called the lyre. Though beautiful, the
lyre-bird is not proud, but shy and retiring, and exceedingly swift of
foot. It is difficult to capture or even to get sight of it. Sometimes
it is decoyed by the hunter, who, among the bushes, wears one of the
beautiful tails on his hat.




CHAPTER V.

A SENSITIVE SPIRIT.


1. Mrs. Black Spanish laid four beautiful white eggs, from which, after
much tedious and anxious sitting, were hatched four downy little chicks,
that followed their mother about the yard, crying "Peep, peep," in a way
delightful to hear.

2. Mrs. Black Spanish was very proud of her great-great-grandmother, and
very proud of her children, and very proud of herself, and of
everything belonging to her. And when she strutted through the hen-yard
with her little brood, calling "Kut, kut, kut, kut, ka-da, kut!" which
is black Spanish for "Did you ever see such chick-ens?" she was quite a
sight to see, and excited great admiration and respect in all fowls.
Even the white bantams courtesied, and nothing could exceed the
politeness of the old speckled hens.

3. The only rooster among the new-comers seemed to have a feeble
constitution. His feathers were few and scattering, his blue legs were
so small and weak they almost doubled up when he attempted to walk, and
he was very cross and snappish.

4. Dr. Gander put on his eyeglasses and took a good look at him, when
Mrs. Black Spanish brought her family near the goose-pen.

5. "Good-day, madam," called the doctor through the fence. "I'm glad to
see you out again. I hope you and your interesting family are well."

6. "Quite well," said Mrs. Black Spanish, with a lofty bow.

7. "And that small young one," said the doctor, nodding his bill toward
the knock-kneed little rooster, "how is he? He appears to be a trifle
weak about the legs. Some nobum-bobum ointment, now, well rubbed in at
night--might--"

8. "My son is quite well," snapped Mrs. Black Spanish, ruffling her
feathers. "He has a delicate frame and a sensitive spirit. Our family
all have sensitive spirits."

9. "Just what I was going to say, ma'am, when you anticipated me," said
Dr. Gander, politely.

10. Mrs. Black Spanish walked away to call upon her own physician, Dr.
Peacock, who was not only very learned, but was also a great beau and a
favorite with the ladies.

11. "I've come to show you my family, Dr. Peacock," said she,
graciously. "Jacob, my son, you see, is like my family, delicate, and of
a sensitive spirit."

12. "Ah, yes, ah," said the doctor, in a high falsetto voice; and as
Jacob knocked down two of his little sisters, and snatched up the worms
they had just scratched out of the earth, he continued: "Ah, yes, ah--I
see, of a very sensitive spirit. He'll be a credit to you, my lovely
Mrs. Black Spanish, take my word for it."

13. The older Master Jacob grew, the more greedy and hateful he became;
but, partly because he pecked on the head every one that opposed his
wishes, and partly because his proud mamma talked so much about it, his
sensitive spirit became the reason and excuse for every disagreeable
thing he did.

14. He was always bragging about himself, and nearly every evening he
entertained the hen-house with tales of what he could do--if certain
things should happen.

15. One day in spring, when the air was so warm that the violets and
squirrel-corn were in blossom in the woods, there were six young
families in the hen-yard; forty tiny fellow-chicks strolling about on
eighty little yellow legs.

16. There was a great clatter and chatter, and the warm, moist earth was
scratched up in all directions. Everybody but Jacob was so busy with
bill and claws that nobody else saw a black speck sailing, with long,
slim wing, round and round, far above them, in the blue sky.

17. Jacob slowly wandered into the barn. Next he hopped upon a manger,
and thence into the hay-loft. "I need to meditate in a quiet spot," he
said to himself. "Undoubtedly that hawk will swoop down soon, and a
rooster of my brave, sensitive spirit needs to be prepared."

18. In a moment more there was a great clamor in the hen-yard. The hens
squalled, the roosters shrieked, and the farmer's boy bawled at the top
of his lungs.

19. "It's very lucky I came up here when I did," thought Jacob. "My
nerves could not have endured that noise. Ugh! what a racket!" As soon
as he thought it safe, he flew down from his perch and called out:

    "I've scared the hawk away!
    Just see what I can do!
    Oh, cock-a-doodle-do!"

20. All the hens and most of the little chickens crept out from their
hiding-places at the sound of his voice, and ran up to him, clucking and
peeping for joy, when the farmer's boy, who had been ordered to kill a
chicken for dinner, reached his pitchfork over the fence, and hit Jacob
such a crack on the head that he never breathed again. "Take that, old
strutter!" said the farmer's boy; "you'll do for a pot-pie, and you are
useless for anything else." But at dinner he discovered that Jacob,
though fat and plump, was not even fit for a pot-pie. "The hawk could
not have killed him, mother," said the boy, as he struggled with one of
the legs. "I think he must have been hatched from an India-rubber ball."

21. The hens lamented all that day over Jacob's death. "He was our
deliverer; he saved us from the hawk," they cried. "We shall never see
another like him, who was so brave and tender, and of so gallant and
sensitive a spirit."

22. Old High-Biddy Martin, who was one of the speckled hens, and had a
red rag tied to her tail for trying to crow, laughed, for, though she
had flown at the hawk and scared him from her chicks, she was cool
enough to see and remember Jacob's retreat to the barn, and his return
to the yard when the danger was past. But no one minded what she did or
said, for she was not related to any of the first families, and so was
of no possible account.




CHAPTER VI.

LONG LEGS FOR WADING.


1. In the fall a great many people pack their trunks and follow the
birds in their flight southward. They find a resting-place in Florida,
where the air is so mild that they can live in tents all the year round.

2. While their Northern friends are wading through snow, or shivering
round the fire, they are breathing the perfumed air of the pine-woods,
or rambling through orange-groves, where the trees are ablaze with
golden fruit.

3. If we were among those who could go

    "Where no winter our footsteps can wrong,
    Where flowers are blossoming all the year long,
    Where the shade of the palm-tree is over our home,
    And the orange and lemon are white in the bloom,"

before returning we would like to see some of the curious things which
Florida keeps in store for us.

4. Some fine morning our party sets off for the shore, perhaps two or
three days away. Our railway is a winding path through the pine and
palmetto woods, our car is a rickety old wagon which Ponce de Leon might
have used, and our engine is a pair of mules.

5. We jolt along over roads rough with palmetto-roots, but shaded by the
umbrella-tops of the trees. Our hunters find plenty of game, and, while
camping at noon or night beside some spring, we have a royal feast of
quail or wild-turkey. If we tire of this diet, we can have venison or
bear-meat for the asking.

6. Our journey ends on the banks of a body of water, made up of about
equal parts of bay, swamp, and river. A sluggish stream oozes through
the marshes, and enters the bay a few miles west. A long line of little
islands or reefs separates the bay from the Gulf of Mexico, just beyond.

7. Here we pitch our tent at nightfall. Wearied with our journey, we
prepare for rest. But the twilight is full of strange music. All around
us is heard the "chuck-will's-widow" in the place of the
"whip-poor-will" of our Northern homes. From the water near by comes up
the cry of the loon, and from the reefs that lie farther off come the
screams of multitudes of sea-birds blended by the distance, so that the
sound is like the rush of a far-off train of cars.

[Illustration: _The Spoonbill._]

8. Lulled by the evening concert, we drop to sleep, and the music passes
into our dreams. At daybreak we are called back to life by a delightful
morning carol. The melody of the Carolina wren floats down from the
tree-tops in sweet little warbles and snatches of song; and the
mocking-bird fills the air with his cat-like cries and imitations of all
the other birds of the forest.

9. With the day our new school opens, and study begins--the study of
that grand old book of Nature. But we must move with care. Many birds,
who do not decline to show themselves "dressed in their Sunday's best,"
are shy about exposing the secrets of their homes and house-keeping to
strangers.

10. Into a thicket near by and lonely we creep, and sit perfectly still.
By-and-by, through the leaves, black specks appear in the sky. Down they
come, nearer and nearer, till the shadow of wide-spreading wings is
clearly reflected in the water. Then slowly, with fluttering and
flapping, great white herons descend in flocks upon the shore.

11. At a little distance their long legs can not be seen, and their
white bodies seem to float in the air a few feet above the earth. Soon
they move in companies into the shallow water, where they stand half-leg
deep. Their long necks are drawn back into their bodies, so as to
balance the sharp and heavy bills. So still do they stand that we begin
to think they have gone to sleep, when, quick as a flash, a neck is
darted down and the bill grasps some unlucky frog, or fish, or young
alligator which comes in the way.

12. Should the prey be small enough, it is swallowed at once; but,
should it be large and inclined to fight for its life, the huge bill
closes upon it like a vise, and the bird flies to some neighboring tree,
where it can have its fight and dinner undisturbed. Eels and young
alligators it beats to death by repeated blows of its bill.

[Illustration: _The Gray Heron._]

13. If other food fails, the heron stamps upon the soft mud, and eats
such worms and bugs as are pounded out from beneath. When its appetite
is satisfied, it goes to some quiet spot on the land, and stands upon
one leg and sleeps for many hours.

14. In some seasons of the year, from our hiding-place we can see flocks
of flamingoes, with their scarlet coats, floating in the air, like rosy
clouds. Or they are fishing in the water, their tinted bodies in fine
contrast with the pure white of the heron. These birds are also waders,
but their legs are longer and smaller, and their bodies are more
graceful, than those of the herons.

15. We may observe the heron and other waders, however, without taking a
journey to Florida. The great blue heron is found in the regions of the
lakes and swamps all over the United States. Its habits are very much
like those of the white heron.

16. In the breeding-season the herons collect in great numbers in some
lone swamp, where the ground is covered with old logs and brush, and
tall, half-decayed cedar-trees rise out of the mud and water. In the
tops of these trees they build rude nests from a few sticks, and here
the young birds are hatched and reared.

17. The sacred ibis is a wading-bird, about the size of a common
barn-yard fowl. Its bill is curved downward in a curious way. Its home
is in Northern Africa. The Egyptians worshiped the ibis as a sacred
bird, it is said, because it cleared the country of venomous serpents.
An ibis similar to the sacred ibis is found in our Southern States.

[Illustration: _The Sacred Ibis._]

18. The spoon-bill is a near kin to the heron. Its bill is so wide that
it can scoop up its prey. Like the heron, it fishes; and, like the duck,
it searches for worms in the mud. The first year its color is a dark
chestnut, the second year it changes to a roseate hue, and the third
year to a bright scarlet.




CHAPTER VII.

BEACH-WALKERS.


1. A small boy, perched upon a pair of stilts that add two feet to the
length of his legs, presents an odd and ridiculous figure. But here is
the stilt-bird, no bigger than a pigeon, mounted on a pair of bright-red
legs two feet high. And these pipe-stem legs are not thus out of
proportion to the small body simply to make us laugh; they are for use
and business.

[Illustration: _The Stilt._]

2. The stilt-bird gets his living by his long legs and his long,
straight, sharp bill. In the mud at the bottom of sea-marshes and ponds,
and even in the fresh water of the interior, lies his food, in the shape
of worms, insect-eggs, and small shell-fish. He also catches the flies
and beetles that dance and play on the surface of the water.

3. At the top of these long legs, which are without the hind-toe, there
is a very pretty bird--slender, with long, pointed wings, greenish-black
back, and white breast. One who has watched the stilt-birds in their
wild home describes them thus:

4. "The birds had observed me, of course, as the grass was only a few
inches high and the ground perfectly flat, but they stood motionless,
looking with more curiosity than fear. It was a picturesque group; still
as statues the birds stood in the water, raised only a little above it
on their firm though so slender supports, their trim bodies drawn up to
full height, and their large, soft eyes dilated in wonder. In an
instant, however, as if they had but one mind in common, a thought
occurred, and, quick as the thought, they were off."

5. Upon a much shorter pair of stilts come the common snipes, brown and
white, and about the size of a newly hatched chick, tripping over our
low meadows in the early spring. A bill, two and a half inches long,
with sensitive nerves running down to its tip, enables them to feel
their food as they bore into the soft ground. These birds are hunted for
the excellence of their flesh.

6. The ruff is another stilt-walker. It is found in the temperate
portions of Europe and America. About the size of a large snipe, the
female wears a sober brown dress, while the male carries a large ruff of
thick, long feathers about his neck, and changes his robes once each
year, putting on a great variety of fine colors.

[Illustration: _The Curlew._]

7. The lapwing, another long-legged lover of wet-ground food, is not
found in America, but makes for itself a happy home in Europe. In size
and habits it is much like the snipe, but has a shorter bill, and a tall
crest of feathers upon its head. Its voice is loud and piercing. And
this is the way the poet sings of it:

    "Thou dove, whose soft echoes resound from the hill,
     Thou green-crested lapwing with noise loud and shrill,
     Ye wild whistling warblers, your music forbear,
     I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair."

8. With a clear, mellow, piping voice the sandpiper divides the coasts
and the wet grounds with his cousin the snipe. In large families the
sandpipers come and go with the changing seasons. Their movements are
graceful, whether they swim in the water, or trip lightly on their toes
over the moist ground, or make a voyage in the air on their wings. There
are more than twenty varieties of them, from the ash-colored sandpiper,
which is ten inches long, to the little "tip-up," brown and happy, that
measures but five inches.


THE SANDPIPER.

    9. Across the narrow beach we flit,
          One little sandpiper and I,
        And fast I gather, bit by bit,
          The scattered drift-wood, 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.

    10. Above our heads the sullen clouds
          Scud, black and swift, across the sky;
        Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
          Stand out the white lighthouses high.
        Almost as far as eye can reach
          I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
        As fast we flit along the beach--
          One little sandpiper and I.

    11. I watch him as he skims along,
          Uttering his sweet 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.

    12. Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
          When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
        My drift-wood fire will burn so bright!
          To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
        I do not fear for thee, though wroth
          The tempest rushes through the sky,
        For are we not God's children both--
          Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

_Celia Thaxter_




CHAPTER VIII.

FEATHERED MARSH-DWELLERS.


1. High, very high up in the air we have sometimes seen passing over us
a large flock of white or brown birds, with long necks stretching out
before them, and longer legs dragging behind. At so great a distance
they appear small, but their loud trumpet-voices tell us they must be
quite large. They may be herons, but from the noise we conclude they are
cranes.

2. There are fifty or perhaps a hundred of them, and they move in the
form of a wedge or a triangle. In this way they fly that they may more
easily cleave the air. The foremost bird in the procession has the
hardest work to do; so, as they move forward at great speed, each member
of the flock takes its turn at being leader.

3. In general form like herons, the cranes are usually the larger of the
two. Their feathers are more compact, and their necks are not quite so
smooth and graceful. Some of the white or whooping cranes are of immense
size, and stand as high as a man's breast. At the far West one has
sometimes been mistaken for an antelope or a buffalo. And such coarse,
piping voices! no wonder that they can be heard for miles, for the
whooping-crane plays upon a windpipe nearly five feet long, about half
of it coiled up in his breast like a French horn.

4. Strange birds and very shy are these cranes. They love the vast
marshes and the tall cane-brake; the long sand-bars of the great river,
where they can not be surprised; or the deep gorges of the mountains,
where human feet rarely tread. When feeding or resting, they place one
of their number as sentinel to watch for approaching danger.

[Illustration: _The American Crane._]

5. And when danger comes, the sentinel gives a whoop, and up they all
rise upon their great white wings. The male is kind and attentive while
his mate hatches her two eggs and broods her young. Though they seem so
wild and shy, they have sometimes been tamed, running with other fowls,
or herding with the cattle.

6. Nor are cranes so sober and gloomy as the dreary scenes of their life
would seem to make them. Indeed, they are jolly fellows among
themselves. From them the Greeks derived one of their favorite dances.
In a solemn and stately manner they will advance toward one another in
long rows or processions, make some kind of a salutation, and then
suddenly break into a ludicrous dance, swinging their legs about, bowing
their heads, flapping their wings, and almost turning somersaults.

[Illustration: _The Marsh Hen._]

7. A very small swamp-dweller, not larger than a quail, is the coot. It
has a large, strong bill and exceedingly long toes, which enable it with
ease to run over floating branches and leaves. It seems to be about half
hen and half duck.

8. The claws of the coot are not webbed like those of the duck, but they
have a membrane on the sides of the toes which acts as a paddle. Then
its bluish-gray feathers are close and tight, like the coat of the
duck. Nimble on foot and wing, like the scratcher, the coot takes to the
water like the duck. It hates the light and sunshine, and steals out in
the dusk to gather its food. The rail is a little swamp-dweller, much
like its cousin the coot, and in appearance quite like a quail.

9. The marsh-hen of the sea-coast has the air and appearance of a true
hen. Of a pretty olive-brown and white color, she is bright and active;
can run swifter than a man, and can dive as well as a duck. Although a
constantly wet hen, she never loses her temper. If the flood sweeps away
her nest, she builds another, and in the warm days of the spring she
furnishes delicious eggs for lucky hunters. This little wild hen has
sometimes been tamed, and in England it is often found with tame
poultry.

10. The woodcock is a very pretty bird to look at, and furnishes a
pleasant attraction to the table when it has made the proper
acquaintance with the fire. It has much the appearance of the snipe, but
is larger and fairer in form and feather. Around the edges of the low
ground or the swamp, where there are trees for shade, is its chosen
place for play and work.

11. The woodcock has a bright, large eye, but can not see well in broad
day. On this account, when it is flushed by the dog, it makes an
irregular flight, and is a difficult mark for the sportsman. During the
day the woodcock is at rest, and at nightfall it begins work. The
straight, sharp bill, two and a half inches long, and very sensitive,
knows where to find the worm, and is thrust into the soft ground and
drawn out so quickly that you can scarcely count the strokes.

[Illustration: _American Woodcock._]

12. Woodcocks have an affection for the places they have once chosen to
dwell in, and love to return to them. A gamekeeper in France once snared
a woodcock, to which he gave its liberty after he had tied to its leg a
copper ring. The next year he found his old friend again, with the same
leg and the same copper ornament. Tender and affectionate, too, are the
woodcocks to the four or five young they yearly hatch. To rescue them
from danger, they often pick up the little ones with their bills or
claws, and fly away with them to a place of safety.




CHAPTER IX.

GIANTS OF DESERT AND PLAIN.


1. UNLESS we stop to think, there seems to be very little in common
between the humming-bird and the ostrich. The one is about as big as the
little finger; and the other is larger and taller than a man, and
sometimes weighs three hundred pounds. The one has a leg no thicker than
a tiny grass-stalk, and the other has the leg of a horse, one kick of
which is enough to kill a man.

2. Yet, in some respects, this buzzing little atom and the immense giant
are alike. They are both true birds. They are both warm-blooded, both
have backbones, both have feathered wings, both have beaks for jaws,
both have hollow bones, both have feathers, and both lay eggs from which
they produce their young.

3. And yet the ostrich is a queer-looking creature. He has a long,
skinny neck, reaching up into the air like that of a camel. He stands
six to eight feet high, and can carry a man on his back. The natives of
Africa, where the ostrich is at home, call him the "camel of the
desert."

4. What strange feet he has, with but two toes, and one of these twice
as long as the other! He has a droll appetite for stones; some of those
he swallows are as large as hen's eggs. These stones find their way into
his gizzard, and help to grind and digest his food, which consists
mostly of reptiles, rats, and birds. When tame, he has been known to
swallow nails, copper coins, keys, and the bolts and screws of an iron
bridge.

[Illustration: _The Ostrich._]

5. One thing brings him into close relation to the humming-bird--his
beautiful feathers. With the stubby wings he has, the ostrich can not
fly. But, when he runs from his pursuers, these wings give him much
friendly assistance. By their help his long legs are able to take steps
of twelve or fourteen feet in length, and to carry him over the African
plains with the speed of a railway-train.

6. The egg of the female is equal to twenty-five hen's eggs, and weighs
from two to three pounds. She makes a nest in the sand about four feet
in diameter. Here she lays, perhaps, fifteen eggs. Then her neighbors
deposit their eggs in the same nest, and a certain number are laid aside
for the young to eat when they are hatched.

7. The six weeks of hatching are passed in a way that shows much
forethought and good sense. The work, for such this laborious sitting
must be, is divided between the different females who have laid the
eggs, each taking her turn. The male occasionally relieves them, and,
during the hottest part of the day, the eggs are left to the sun alone.

8. The young of the ostrich are carefully tended by both parents until
they are nearly grown. Dr. Livingstone met with broods of little
ostriches led by a male, who pretended to be lame, that he might attract
attention from his tender charge. In South Africa, farms, containing
thousands of acres, are devoted to the rearing of the birds, for the
profit arising from their feathers.

9. In South America--in Brazil, Chili, and Peru--there is a smaller
variety of ostrich, called the rhea. It is but half the size of the
African bird, and has three instead of two toes.

10. These birds run swiftly, are easily tamed, steal coins and nails to
eat, and hate no one but their Indian enemies, who hunt them upon
horse-back. The male does all the sitting upon and hatching of the
eggs--his gentle companions retiring until he brings off the brood. The
egg of the rhea is equal to fifteen hen's eggs, and, like the ostrich's
egg, is cooked and eaten from the shell.

[Illustration: _The Emu._]

11. The emu of Australia, next to the ostrich, is the largest of birds.
The male bird alone hatches and broods the young. The female is noisy,
quarrelsome, and cruel to her offspring. As a household pet it is
cunning, and often mischievous. A familiar poem gives a pleasant
introduction to this bird:


THE BALLAD OF THE EMU.

    12. Oh, say, have you seen at the willows so green,
          So charmingly and rurally true,
        A singular bird with a manner absurd,
          Which they call the Australian emu?
                            Have you
          Ever seen this Australian emu?

    13. It trots all around with its head on the ground,
          Or erects it quite out of your view;
        And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy:
          "Oh, what a sweet, pretty emu!
                            Oh, do
          Just look at that lovely emu!"

    14. With large loaves of bread then they feed it, instead
          Of the flesh of the white cockatoo,
        Which once was its food in that wild neighborhood
          Where ranges the sweet kangaroo;
                            That too
          Is game for the famous emu!

    15. Old saws and gimlets best its appetite whets,
          Like the world-famous bark of Peru;
        There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard,
          And nothing its taste will eschew,
                            That you
          Can give that long-legged emu!




CHAPTER X.

SWIMMERS OF LAKE AND SEA.


1. Each class or family of birds is furnished with such a shape of body,
and with such bills, wings, legs, and toes as are necessary for the kind
of life it leads, and for the kind of food it is to catch and eat. If a
boy is to gather pond-lilies, he may roll up his pantaloons and wade for
them, or, if the water is too deep for wading, he must get into a boat
and use a paddle or oars.

2. And so it is with birds. If they get their living by wading, they
must have long legs to keep their bodies above the water, long necks to
bring their heads back to the ground, and long bills to penetrate the
mud. If they are to live by swimming and diving, they must have broad
bodies for floating; light, oily feathers for keeping out the water;
legs set far back for paddles; and long, slender bills for catching food
in sight, or broad, flat bills for sifting it out of the mud.

3. Now, here is the flamingo, a wader, swimmer, and flier. It is set
upon a pair of walking tongs, that carry it three feet above the ground;
with a long, snaky neck, lifting its head two feet higher. The neck of
this bird must be long, because its legs are long; but, as it is too
long for pushing in the mud, like the duck, it is made to turn and
twist in every way. With this neck, and with its odd beak, the flamingo
can bore into the mud with its head upside down. Its body is lithe and
boat-shaped, so as to pass easily through air or water.

[Illustration: _The American Flamingo._]

4. The goose is common in most parts of the inhabited world. It is a
much abused bird, but it is not half so silly or stupid as are many of
those who slander it. Sharp eyes, sharp ears, a keen smell, and a quick
perception, are among the virtues of this bird. A flock of geese was
once stolen, and could not be found. Some weeks afterward the old gander
escaped, and appeared before the gate of his home, uttering a harsh
scream. When he refused to enter, his master followed his lead to an old
barn, where he found the missing flock.

5. The wild geese, that we sometimes see flying high above us, are of a
grayish-brown color, and are much handsomer than their tame cousins.
From the shores of tropical Cuba to the icy slopes of Labrador they fly
on the path of the clouds, with ocean and land and river and mountain,
and the busy life of man far beneath them.

6. They migrate in flocks of from ten to one hundred. They fly either in
Indian file forming a single line, or with a second line, branching off
from near the head of the column, and forming two sides of a triangle.
The strong, old ganders take the lead, and then follow the others in the
order of their strength. In the path of the migration, flocks follow one
another in rapid succession, sometimes for two days and nights, the
whole number being almost countless. In the far North they build their
nests and rear their young.

7. While the goose hatches or broods her goslings in the swamp-grass,
the gander sails about, with his eye and ear open to every object and
sound. There is something surprising in the way these birds judge of the
sounds they hear. The branch of a tree may fall, or a turtle may tumble
into the water, or a deer crack the bush under its feet, and they give
no heed to these things. But, when the tread of the Indian is heard in
the brake, or the dipping of his oar in the water, they know the sound
of the enemy, and the alarm is given.

8. Ducks are as common in all parts of the world as chickens and
children. They are web-footed swimmers, with feet flatter than those of
the goose, and with wide, flat bills, which work in the mud and strain
out worms, seeds, and other things that they like to eat. Ducks get
nearly their full growth during the first three months of their life.
And these young ducks, tender and delicious, are served on many a table
as the most tempting dish for festive occasions.

9. Of wild ducks there is scarcely any end. There are river ducks and
sea ducks; eider ducks, mallard ducks, and canvas-backs; wood ducks and
teal ducks and call ducks. Nearly all are migratory, following the
season to the North or to the South. Their flight is very swift;
sometimes as many as ninety or a hundred miles an hour. Nearly all make
their nests in grass or rushes. The wood duck builds on a stump or a
tree. The wild duck is intelligent and crafty. It dives away from the
hunter, swims to the shore under water, and creeps up under the grass.

10. Audubon once came upon a female duck with her brood, when the mother
raised her feathers and hissed. The ducklings skulked and hid in every
direction. His well-trained dog, however, hunted them all out, and
brought them to the bag without injury. All this time the old duck
fluttered before the dog to draw away his attention. When the little
ones were all in the bag, she came and stood before the sportsman, as if
deeply grieved. What could he do less than to give her back her babies?
The mother, he says, seemed to smile her gratitude; and he himself felt
a great joy in her happiness.

[Illustration: _The Black Swan._]

11. For beauty, grace, and gentleness the swan is king of web-footed
birds. To all who visit the parks and gardens of great cities it is
attractive by its finely arched neck, its white plumage, and its gentle,
winding movements. There is also the black swan of Australia, and the
black-necked swan of South America. The size of our swan is great. It
has weighed as many as thirty-eight pounds, and has measured ten feet
between the tips of its spread wings.

12. The swan is not a bird for the palate, nor for the ear; it belongs
to the eye. All the ancient poets have said about its sweet note, and
its sweeter dying strain, is very fine, but lacks truth. The swan has an
ugly note, but sense enough to keep still. It is said, however, that
there is a "whistling" swan in the colder regions of the North and
South, that sings as it flies, and its pleasant note is heard at a long
distance.




CHAPTER XI.

SAILERS OF OCEAN AND AIR.


1. Over the vast surface of ocean and sea are found in abundance fish,
eels, and other creatures of the water upon which birds delight to feed.
Success in the hunt and in the feast that follows demands strength of
wing to fly long and far, an eye sharp to see at a great distance, a
motion quick and sudden to secure the prey, and a shape of foot and body
to fit the water as well as the air.

2. The sailers of ocean and air are just the birds for this work. They
have wide-stretching wings, running to a point, so that they slip
easily through the air. Their bodies are filled with air-cells, so that
they are balloons when they fly, and life-preservers when they float.
Their eyes are keen, their flight rapid, and they are supplied with a
larger sack of oil than most birds to moisten their feathers and keep
the wet from their bodies.

[Illustration: _The Gull._]

3. The appetite of gulls seems never to be satisfied. They chiefly live
upon fish, but many of them hover about the paths of vessels, picking up
fragments of food thrown overboard. One of their occupations is to rob
weaker birds of their hard-earned game. They even snatch food from the
beaks of pelicans. They pipe an unpleasant note, although the laughing
sea-mew is so called because of the resemblance of its noise to human
laughter.

4. Gulls vary in size, some being as small as pigeons, others larger
than ducks. The largest is the burgomaster-gull, a white bird that comes
down from the Arctic regions as far south as New York. He is a
gluttonous fellow, eating fish, small birds, and carrion. The sea-mew,
sometimes called a gull, is small, active, and courageous. All gulls
have feeble feet and three webbed-toes. Their long, tapering wings, when
folded, reach beyond the tail, and are busy whirling, tossing, and
dropping their bodies in the air. They seldom rest.

[Illustration: _The Tern._]

5. The tern, or sea-swallow, is the winged fairy among all the
sea-fliers. Its body is delicate in outline; its wings long, slender,
and graceful; its color a soft, pearly-white; the cap on its head is
black, and the stockings on its legs are coral-red. When the tern flies
over the water in search of food, its long bill points downward, giving
it somewhat the appearance of a great white mosquito.

6. Terns have a tender sympathy for their own kind. When one is brought
down by the sportsman's shot, the survivors fly to the spot and flutter
and wail, as if in great distress. Should a tern have the misfortune to
lose a wing, its friends bring it food until the time comes for
migration, when it must be left to its fate.

7. The terns, while they secure their own food, render agreeable service
to the fishermen on the coast. The blue-fish, in their season, drive
large schools of smaller fish to the surface, for which the terns
cunningly watch. Hence the fisherman has only to keep his eye on the
terns to know where to find his blue-fish.

8. An immense sea-flier, three feet long, and seven feet or more in the
extent of its wings, is the albatross. Its upper feathers are either
white or brown, and it is found mostly in the southern seas, where it
visits the village of the penguins to rent a place for its nest. The
albatross has wonderful power of wing, sailing through the sea air for
many days without rest.

[Illustration: _The Albatross._]

9. The size of a bird does not measure the extent of its courage. The
great albatross is often attacked, and sometimes torn in pieces, by the
little sea-mew. But this feathered sailer braves the severest storms,
and is regarded by the human sailors as a bird of good omen. On account
of its size, they call it "man-of-war." To distressed seamen it is a
welcome visitor, as we find in the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner":

10. "The ice was here, the ice was there,
      The ice was all around;
    It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
      Like noises in a swound!
    It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
      And round and round it flew:
    The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
      The helmsman steered us through!
    And a good south wind sprang up behind;
      The albatross did follow,
    And every day, for food or play,
      Came to the mariner's hollo!"

11. There is a bird which the sailors never kill. In the gentle touch of
the wave by its three-toed foot it has reminded them of St. Peter trying
to walk on the water. So they regard it with awe and superstition, and
call it a petrel. It may be as small as a swallow or as large as a
goose. It is a dusky bird, like the darkness and the storm which it
loves. Living on the fat of fish, it becomes a lump of oil, and men have
used it for a lamp by simply drawing a wick through its body.

12. A solemn, weird bird is this stormy petrel. It loves what other
birds and men fear. Its home is the ocean, far away from land, save when
it seeks some lonely spot on which to lay its single egg and rear its
young. It is a mute bird. It makes no noise. With the waves and the
winds and the rocking billows it plays. In the storm it rejoices. When
the clouds are low, and the tempest is high, and the ship is on end, and
sailors are terror-stricken, then the petrel dances, laughs at fear, and
is happy.




CHAPTER XII.

THE STORMY PETREL


    1. A thousand miles from land are we,
        Tossing about on the roaring sea,
        From billow to bounding billow cast,
        Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.
        The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;
        The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
        The mighty cables and iron chains,
        The hull, which all earthly strength disdains--
        They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone
        Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

    2. Up and down! up and down!
        From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
        And amid the flashing and feathery foam
        The stormy petrel finds a home.
        A home, if such a place may be
        For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
        On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
        And only seeketh her rocky lair
        To warm her young, and to teach them to spring
        At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

    3. O'er the deep! o'er the deep!
        Where the whale and the shark and the sword-fish sleep--
        Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
        The petrel telleth her tale--in vain;
        For the mariner curseth the warning bird
        Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard!
        Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill
        Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still!
        Yet he ne'er falters--so, petrel, spring
        Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

_Barry Cornwall_.


[Illustration: _The Stormy Petrel._]




CHAPTER XIII.

OAR-FOOTED SEA-FLIERS.


    "Through my north window, in the wintry weather--
       My airy oriel on the river-shore--
    I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together
       Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar."


1. Among the sea-fowl there are some birds of large size and long wing,
whose life requires that they sail on the water as well as in the air.
For this purpose their toes are fully webbed, and, thus furnished, their
feet act like oars to move their bodies when they float.

2. One of these oar-footed sea-fliers is the pelican, which is about the
size and shape of the goose, and has a small tail and a monstrous beak.
The beak is huge and hooked at the end because it is a fishing-hook, a
scoop-net, a game-pouch, and a meat-axe--all in one. We shall see how he
uses this beak if we watch the bird carefully.

3. The pelican sails about on his great wide-spread wings, with his keen
eye piercing the water below. If we watch closely, we may not see a
fish, but he sees one, and pounces down as quick as a gun-shot. In an
instant he scoops the game, keeps it from slipping away by the hook in
his bill, and pushes it into his pouch or game-bag.

4. Look at this pouch. When the bird is not fishing you would not notice
it, for it is a loose skin attached to his under jaw. But when he crams
it with six pounds of fish, as he often does, it grows as large as a
man's head. This bird leads the life of a glutton. He is a pig with
wings. To eat and to sleep are his main occupation. And such an eater!
His meal of fish would feed six men.

[Illustration: _The American White Pelican._]

5. Pelicans live in large companies, and their habits are regular. They
call for two meals a day--one before sunrise, and the other after
sunset. They wake early, rub their eyes, and stretch. There may be a
hundred of them standing in a long, white row. If one of them gapes,
they all gape. Then they rise, and float away on their white sails
toward some nook in the bay.

6. Slowly the long, graceful, snowy line in the air stretches around
this corner in the bay, when they descend to the water. Between them
and the shore thousands of little fellows with fins are jumping and
dancing in the peep of day. Now the pelicans spread their wings, and
flap the water with heavy strokes, driving the small fry closer and
closer into the corner.

7. Then breakfast is ready, and each one helps himself. The pouches are
filled, and the sated flock flies away to a sunny retirement, to swallow
and digest their meal, and to sleep away the long, lazy day. When he is
ready to eat, the pelican closes and throws up his bill, contracts the
pouch, and swallows the prey.

8. Pelicans build their nests in the coarse grass, where each female
lays two white eggs. When, after forty days, the young are hatched, the
mother-bird treats them with kind care. And this is the way she feeds
them: Pressing the point of her bill against her breast, a portion of
the fish in her stomach rises, and is emptied into the open mouth of the
young bird.

9. The cormorant is a sea-flier and a great eater--as its name
indicates. About the same in weight as the pelican, with a shorter neck
and a much smaller pouch, it has a more pleasing form, and is clothed
with black, shiny feathers, varied with green, purple, and violet tints.
The tail is long, fan-shaped, and stiff--helping the bird to climb up
the rocks, and to hold its body erect when it is standing.

[Illustration: _The Cormorant._]

10. This bird is very particular about the way in which it swallows
game. The fish must always go down head-foremost. Should it happen to be
sent to the stomach tail first, it must come up and be tossed into the
air until it is caught and sent to its destination in a proper position.
Eels are very slippery, and do not like to be swallowed. But they are
doomed when once they pay a visit to the bill of a cormorant.

11. With a struggle, this bird finally swallows the eel, and we think it
is done for. But in a moment up comes this lively fish, having found
that it can crawl out by the same door through which it was forced in.
Again it is swallowed, and again it comes up. It is a sad and sober
scramble for dear life for the eel, but it is fun for the cormorant. At
last, disheartened and worn out, the poor eel descends to rise no more.

[Illustration: _The Darter._]

12. The cormorants are sometimes tamed and made useful as fishermen. By
the Chinese they are made as docile and gentle as puppies. To keep them
from swallowing the fish they catch, rings are sometimes passed over
their necks; but they frequently become so obedient that a dozen birds
will dive from a raft and bring up their game, and instantly deliver it
to their masters.

13. The darter, with a neck long, crooked, and winding, is sometimes
called the serpent-bird. He is longer than the duck, and is formed less
like a water-bird. Upon a tree or rock, by the side of river or pond, he
sits and watches his prey. When a fish comes within reach, the darter
drops down and seizes it, swallowing it whole, if not too large. Again,
if this bird is alarmed, it darts down from its perch into the water
like an arrow, and often swims for a thousand feet before it appears
again on the surface.




CHAPTER XIV.

SWIMMERS AND DIVERS.


1. The Vicar of Wakefield remarked that visitors to his house would say,
"Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the
whole country." "Ay, neighbor," she would answer, "they are as Heaven
made them, handsome enough, if they be good enough, for handsome is
that handsome does." The loon is fine-looking and well-favored, but, on
the principle of Mrs. Primrose, it is not handsome. Some of its actions
are not bright, and on this account some people are said to be "as
stupid as a loon."

2. From the point of his bill to the end of his tail the loon measures
three feet, and his extended wings measure five feet. As he sits upon a
rock, dashed by the blue sea-waves, lifting his straight form to the
sky, showing his white breast, and his glossy back of green and black in
the sunlight, he looks like a very handsome bird. There is scarcely a
better diver than the loon. Rarely does he go down that he does not
bring up a fish.

[Illustration: _The Loon_.]

3. No common sportsman can shoot a loon. The bird keeps his eye on the
shore, and, when he sees the flash of the gun, he dives so quickly that
the bullet passes harmlessly over him. Then he swims or flies with great
rapidity under water, and comes up a long distance from where he went
down. But, approached from the sea, the loon becomes stupid. As he sails
out with his pretty mate, off on the water, he sees a bright-colored
object fluttering in the wind, and out of mere curiosity he sets out to
examine it. When so near, that even his quickness of diving can not save
him, he falls a victim to the concealed sportsman.

[Illustration: _Floating Nest of the Little Grebe._]

4. Among the stories of the ancients is that of the halcyon, which made
a raft for its nest, and floated out on the tranquil sea, until its eggs
were hatched. It could foretell weather, and while it floated no storms
disturbed the air. These were the happy halcyon days. This story is
doubtless a fable, but the equally strange story of the grebe is true.
The grebe, known as the little grebe, or the crested grebe, is about the
size of a small duck. With its legs fastened to the rear end of its
body, and with toes, each of which is a separate paddle, the grebe is at
home on the water.

[Illustration: _The Crested Grebe._]

5. The nest of the grebe is a tight raft, and floats upon the bosom of
lakes and ponds. Where the tall rushes and reeds grow it is usually
found. Made of closely woven rushes and water-plants, we can scarcely
see how it would fail to sink under the weight of the fowl, or her
eggs. The nest, however, is a perfect boat. In this little ark, of
reeds, the grebe hatches and broods her young, and here they float like
Moses in the ark of bulrushes, hidden among the flags.

6. If some enemy discovers her, this witty bird puts one foot out of the
nest, and, using it as a paddle, guides her little palace to safer
waters. As soon as the young are hatched, the male leads the little ones
into the water, where they swim and are taught to dive. When they grow
tired, they mount upon the backs of the old birds. The mother-bird
induces them to dive by holding food in her beak, retiring as they
approach it, until she tempts them to go under the water to catch it.

7. Away in the islands of the Southern Pacific Ocean, where summer
shines when it is winter with us, lives the penguin. On a bleak, sandy
coast thousands of penguins are seen, with white breasts and glossy,
brown backs, sitting on their tails, or standing on their short legs,
which are far behind, like soldiers drawn up in line.

8. As to order and rule, they are real soldiers. The line is straight
and close. The old birds and the fine-looking are together; so also are
the young birds, and the birds that are molting and unclean; and if a
bird gets into the wrong rank, it is at once thrown out. The short wings
of the penguins look more like arms than wings, and are worthless for
flight. But they are a great help when they attempt to run on the shore.
Then the wings are used as feet. The penguin lays but one egg, which she
holds between her warm thighs until it is hatched.

[Illustration: _King Penguin._]

9. Penguins have singular customs about their nests. In October, which
is their spring, they hold a mass-meeting that lasts for a day or two,
and is a very solemn affair. Then, upon a rocky beach, they mark out
with their bills a large square court, and all hands go to work, and
bring in their beaks stones, which they lay up as a wall to inclose the
square, and to shelter them from the winds. At the openings, sentinels
are placed for the night. The large inclosure is subdivided into small
squares, of sufficient size to receive a certain number of nests.

10. When all this is done, comes the albatross, begging for a chance to
place her nest. Here is the strongest flier coming to meet the bird that
is most like a fish. With a look of generosity she is assigned to some
vacant corner, where she deposits her eggs. Sometimes there is heard in
this bird village the cry of "Thief!" when it usually turns out that the
king penguin has robbed the nest of the albatross.




CHAPTER XV.

THE MESSENGER-BIRD AND ITS COUSINS.


1. We have followed our feathered friends into the water, out upon the
sea, into the sky and the raging storm, and now we come back to the land
and the quiet woods, and see who are there.

    "Come with me, if but in fancy,
        To the wood, the green, soft shade:
    'Tis a haven, pure and lovely,
        For the good of mankind made.

    "Listen! you can hear the cooing,
        Soft and soothing, gentle sound,
    Of the pigeons, as they nestle
        In the branches all around."

2. The pigeon and the dove are quite the opposite of some of the rough
and greedy creatures of the water and the air. The soft, gentle, timid
dove has for thousands of years been the emblem of purity, peace, and
the divine presence. It belongs to the family of pigeons, which, in some
of their three hundred varieties, are found the world over.

[Illustration: _The Passenger-Pigeon_.]

3. The foot of a bird is not its claw alone, but that part of the leg
which reaches from the heel or first joint down to the ground. Now, the
foot of the pigeon is shorter than its claw or toes. It is made for
walking as well as for holding to the twig of a tree. Pigeons do not
hop like robins; they walk and run like quails and chickens. Their
feathers and tails are long, and they have no down. The wings, too, are
long, strong, and pointed, giving them the power of swift and continued
flight. The color of wild pigeons and doves is gray, with blue, green,
and rose-colored tints.

4. How do pigeons drink? Of course, those who have not observed will say
that they drink as most other feathered people drink--by sipping a
little water, and then holding up the beak so that it will run down the
throat. But this is not their way. They put their bills into the water,
and draw up their drink as horses and cows do. And they have an odd way
of feeding their young. In the pigeon's throat is a gland or sac which
produces a milky fluid; and this milk is dropped into the bills of the
two little ones in the nest during the first two weeks of their life.

5. Pigeons are birds of the air and the tree, though their food is found
on the ground, and consists chiefly of acorns and berries. The natural
varieties of them are few, but, by careful mating and breeding, men have
produced a great number of sorts. The common barn doves we all know; and
the neatly dressed, graceful, and shy turtle or mourning dove, not so
long of wing or tail as the wild pigeon, and making the wood resound
with its sad, unpleasant "coo" of four notes. Then there is the
rock-pigeon of foreign lands, building its nest in caves and holes--the
original parent of our doves, and of the carrier-bird.

[Illustration: _Wood-Pigeon on her Rude Nest._]

6. Very rarely does the railway passenger-train move as swiftly as the
passenger-pigeons fly. Audubon says that pigeons, killed near New York,
had crops filled with Carolina or Georgia rice. As the grain would
digest in twelve hours, the birds must have made the trip from the
rice-region in less than twelve hours, or at the rate of a mile a
minute. These pigeons take journeys, not to find a warmer or cooler
climate, but to seek the beechnuts and acorns that constitute their
food.

7. Their eye-sight must be very keen, for, swift as is their movement,
they instantly detect the place where food is, and drop from their airy
path to the branches of the forest. The place which they have visited,
either for food or for breeding, has often suffered great and lasting
damage.

8. Many years ago, in a Kentucky forest, the pigeons occupied, for their
nesting-season, a space of country forty miles long and seven miles
wide. Audubon visited this region, and gives a very spirited account of
it. It was in the month of May. As soon as the young, or squabs, as they
are called, were fully grown, and before they left their nests, the
people from the surrounding country came to this immense nursery with
wagons, axes, beds, and cooking-utensils, and encamped for several days.
The noise and clatter of this chattering camp of birds, cooing, and
chirping, and piping, was so great that human conversation could
scarcely be heard. As many as a hundred nests were found on a single
tree. So great was the weight of feathered life, that the branches of
the trees gave way, and the ground was strewed with broken limbs and
squeaking squabs.

9. The men felled trees with their axes, and thus added greatly to the
struggling and helpless youngsters on the ground. It was a scene of
heartless carnage. Hawks, buzzards, eagles, and great herds of hogs
enjoyed a perpetual feast. It was dangerous to walk through the woods on
account of the falling of the timber, and the droppings of the feathered
millions above. And large portions of the forest were as effectually
killed as they would have been if girdled with an axe.

10. Audubon has left an account of a remarkable flight of pigeons on
their way to this nesting-place in 1813. He tried to count the flocks as
they passed, but soon grew tired. On they came, flock after flock, until
the thickening masses increased to an immense cloud that obscured the
noonday sun. For three days in succession this feathered cloud continued
to pass. As it crossed the Ohio River the flight was lower, and the
banks were covered with excited boys, who never had better luck in
hunting in their lives.

11. And who can estimate the number in that grand procession? Audubon
thinks that the mass of moving birds shadowed a territory equal to
eighteen square miles, and that there were at least two pigeons to the
square yard. This would give to the whole flight more than one thousand
million birds; and if each required a half-pint of food daily, the whole
multitude would consume, in one day, nearly nine million bushels!

12. The use of pigeons for carrying messages was practiced by the Romans
two thousand years ago. William, Prince of Orange, employed pigeons to
carry letters to the besieged city of Leyden in 1574; and so delighted
was he with their faithfulness, that he ordered them to be fed on
strawberries, and to be embalmed after death. Navigators from Egypt were
accustomed to take carriers on board their ships, which they released to
return home, from time to time, to bear messages to their families.
During the siege of Paris in 1871 pigeons were employed to carry
messages to and from the city. These post-boys were out of the reach of
the German soldiers.

13. The carrier-pigeon is, by nature, strongly attached to its home. In
training, it is taken, perhaps, a mile from home in a basket, and let
loose. Then the distance is increased daily, until the bird can be moved
to any distance, when, on being released, it will take a direct course
for home. When once trained, the letter is tied to its wings or to its
feet; he is set free, rises high in the air, makes one or two circular
flights, and then darts off in the proper direction like an arrow.


THE BELFRY PIGEON.

    14. On the cross-beam, under the Old South bell,
        The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
        In summer and winter that bird is there,
        Out and in with the morning air:
        I love to see him track the street,
        With his wary eye and active feet;
        And I often watch him as he springs,
        Circling the steeple with easy wings,
        Till across the dial his shade has passed,
        And the belfry edge is gained at last.
        'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
        And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
        There's a human look in its swelling breast,
        And a gentle curve of its lowly crest;
        And I often stop with the fear I feel--
        He soars so close to the rapid wheel.

    15. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,
        Chime of the hour, or funeral knell,
        The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
        When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
        When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,
        When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
        When the child is waked with "nine at night,"
        When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
        Filling the spirit with tones of prayer--
        Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
        He broods in his folded wings unstirred;
        Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
        He takes the time to smooth his breast,
        Then droops again with filmd eyes,
        And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

_N. P. Willis_.




CHAPTER XVI.

GLUTTONS IN FEATHERS.


1. Before we condemn the poor birds whom we can fitly call greedy
gluttons, we must carefully study their nature and habits, and learn
what work they are called upon to do. They are fitted with hooked beaks,
stout wings, and strong legs; but their toes are weak and their claws
short, blunt, and but slightly curved.

2. Their sense of sight is keen, but they possess no voice, and can make
only a weak, hissing sound. In the United States there are three members
of the family--the turkey-buzzard, carrion-crow, and Californian
vulture.

3. The turkey-buzzard, our most familiar species, is about two and a
half feet in length, has a wing extent of six feet, is blackish-brown in
color, with head and neck nearly naked, bearing only scattered,
bristle-like feathers. In outward appearance he greatly resembles the
turkey.

4. He greedily devours carrion and all kinds of refuse animal matter,
usually assembling with hosts of his companions wherever a dead animal
is to be found, and there remaining until gorged.

5. The carrion-crow is a shorter but heavier bird than the
turkey-buzzard, and with head more fully feathered. In the Southern
States these birds are very numerous, and are frequently met with in the
streets of the towns. They also attend the markets and shambles to pick
up pieces of flesh thrown away by the butchers, and when an opportunity
occurs leap from one bench to another for the purpose of helping
themselves.

[Illustration: _The Turkey-Buzzard._]

6. One winter day in Florida, while drifting idly in our boat, the
Bandersnatch, among the beautiful palmetto-crowned islands of the
Gulf-coast, we saw, at a short distance, hundreds of turkey-buzzards and
carrion-crows circling in the air, and large numbers coming from all
directions.

7. We determined at once to discover the cause of the commotion, and
rowing to the spot, some two hundred yards distant, found floating in
the water the bodies of a number of porpoises. Evidently a school of
these creatures had suddenly met an untimely end, and had been washed in
by the tide. Here was a rare chance for our naturalist to obtain a
series of skeletons. A line was attached to several of the carcasses,
and they were towed to an islet a quarter of a mile distant, and carried
well up on the sand.

8. Early the following morning dark objects were seen hovering in the
air over Porpoise Islet. With a glass we discovered that the gluttons
were assembling, and soon the feast began. During the day several
excursions were made to the scene, it being necessary to watch the work
of the bone-cleaners, for fear that portions of the skeletons might be
carried away. On these occasions a few of the birds kept steadily at
work, while others, more completely gorged, took refuge in the
palmettos, from time to time lazily flapping their wings, as if to fan
themselves. In a short time the skeletons were picked clean, and needed
but little work to make them ready for the museum.

9. Another vulture, the condor of South America, is the largest bird
that flies. Its length is about three and a half feet, and the spread of
its wings ten feet. It is a powerfully-built bird, of metallic black
plumage, with white-tipped wings. The head, neck, and front of the
breast are bare of feathers, and covered with a hard, dry, and wrinkled
skin, with a few short, stiff hairs. The male bird has on the top of the
head a crest of hardened skin. A collar of white silken down separates
the naked neck from the feathered body. The only noise it makes is a
hiss like that of a goose.

[Illustration: _The Condor._]

10. The high region of the Andes is the favorite home of the condor. At
night he rests on the ledges of rock, but with the sun's first rays he
rouses himself, peers over the ledge into the abyss below, dives
downward, but soon rises, and, moving upward in sweeping circles, often
ascends to a height of four or five miles. While hovering in the air he
will spy out his prey in the valley below. Sometimes it is a lamb or a
sheep, or a mule, that has fallen dead on the mountains.

11. True to his nature as a vulture, he will eagerly descend upon dead
prey, though he is equally glad of it when alive. Such havoc does he
create among the flocks and herds of the mountains, that watch-dogs are
trained to bark at the approach of these terrible foes. His talons can
not clutch his prey, as do those of the eagle, and he is forced to eat
it on the spot. Like the rest of his race, he is a great glutton, and
will often eat until he is unable to rise in the air. When in this
condition the Indians capture him with ease. The young grow but slowly,
and are not able to fly for nearly two years.

12. The vultures of the Old World, though resembling those of our
country in their habit of eating carrion, are more hawk-like, and many
of them are among the fiercest of the birds of prey. In warm countries
they do great service as scavengers, clearing away all garbage, which,
if allowed to remain and decay, would cause pestilence.

13. The secretary-bird, or crane-vulture, of South Africa, has a slender
body with a tail of remarkable length, the two middle feathers of which
extend far beyond the rest. The foot is long, the toes short, claws of
moderate length, but slightly curved and very strong. The head is
provided with a crest composed of six pairs of feathers, placed one
behind the other, so that they can be either raised or spread, or laid
back flat upon one another. These quills, looking like the quill-pens
which clerks place behind their ears, have given to him his name of
secretary-bird.

[Illustration: _The Secretary-Bird._]

14. The peculiar part which he plays, however, is that of a
snake-killer. A poisonous snake, when attacked, usually stops, rears
itself, and shows anger by shrill hissings. The bird spreads one of his
wings, and, holding it before him like a shield, hops backward and
forward in a variety of strange attitudes. Each bite of the reptile is
received on the wing-feathers, where the poison is harmless, and is paid
by vigorous blows with its other wing. At last the snake is stunned. The
bird then catches hold of it, and, after throwing it several times into
the air, crushes its skull with his sharp-pointed bill, and swallows it.

15. At the Cape of Good Hope the secretary-bird is frequently tamed, and
lives on the most friendly terms with the poultry in the farm-yard,
rendering efficient service by destroying intruding rats and snakes.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE SKY KING AND HIS FAMILY


1. THE sky king and his family are day-hunters. They are brighter and
more active birds than the night-hunters, though they carry many of the
same weapons. The short, thick, angry bill with a tearing hook on the
end of it; feet ending in toes curved and sharper than thorns; wings
long, strong, and tireless; eyes that can see a hare from the height of
a cloud--these are the royal tools of the hunters of the air. They do
not have the help of the darkness, when their prey is asleep.

2. The bird that adorns our coat-of-arms and our silver dollars is the
white-headed or bald eagle. When he is sitting he appears in size and
weight like a small hen-turkey; but when he launches into the air and
spreads his wings he is a grand bird--three feet in length and four feet
in breadth. His head is not really bald; it is covered with thick white
feathers that give it the look of an old man's head. His feathers above
are of a brownish-black color, while his tail shows white.

3. The bald-headed eagle loves fish, but he does not like to catch them.
From some distant tree-top he watches the fish-hawk struggling with his
slippery prey, and, when this weaker brother strikes off to some lonely
spot to enjoy his well-earned meal, the eagle darts after him like a
winged hyena. Swifter of wing, and stronger of muscle, and having no
load, he soon overcomes the hawk, and makes him drop the prey, which he
greedily appropriates for himself.

4. The golden eagle is a finer, larger bird. He is not often seen in
America. Upon a high rock he builds his nest or eyrie. It is roughly
laid up, and often measures five feet square. The eaglets never number
more than four, and are hatched in thirty days. They are great eaters,
and to supply their ravenous appetites the old birds must work and rob
in a lively way.

[Illustration: _The Golden Eagle._]

    "He clasps the crag with hookd hands;
    Close to the sun in lonely lands,
    Ringed with the azure world he stands.
    The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls:
    He watches from his mountain walls,
    And like a thunderbolt he falls."

5. When this king of the sky is catching his own game, he sails about in
graceful circles in the upper air until he sees a sitting hare.
Gradually and slowly he descends, lower and lower, until he is seen by
his victim. As it can not outrun the eagle's flight, the cunning hunter
winds around in constantly decreasing circles until, in an instant, he
folds his wings and drops upon his poor, bewildered prey, and makes it
fast in his sharp talons.

6. The eagle does not always catch his prey with his beak or his talons,
but oftener kills it by the force of his powerful swoop--running his
breast-bone against it like the keel of a ship. It has been said that
his direct flight is at the rate of sixty miles an hour; but, whatever
may be his speed, he can not overtake the pigeon. Strange stories are
told about his warlike encounters with the chamois in the Alps; his
carrying away of kids and lambs; and of seizing little children in his
cruel claws and bearing them aloft to his eyrie.

7. In Switzerland, a boy ten years old thought it would be a nice thing
to rob an eagle's nest. And, indeed, if boys must rob birds' nests, we
should say that it is far more manly to invade the home of the eagle,
who is able to defend himself, than to impose upon a little robin or
sparrow.

8. So our Swiss boy climbed up by a dangerous path to the nest of the
eagle, and was just grasping the struggling, squeaking, eaglets when the
enraged parent lighted down upon him, seized him in a tight grip, and
carried him away six hundred yards. His companions rushed to his rescue,
and found him alive and unhurt. It is a relief to know that the boy was
saved, and it may be that he was honestly trying to avenge the wrongs of
innocent lambs or kids.

9. Most of the birds that hunt in the air by day belong to the class
called falcons. The falcon is a reaping-hook, and the weapons of these
birds are quite like reaping-hooks. All of them carry the same tearing
beak, and all have the same hooked and piercing claws. They lay only
from two to four eggs in the year, and it is well for our weaker friends
in feathers that these highwaymen of the air do not increase more
rapidly.

10. Eagles, buzzards, and hawks are all falcons, and are closely
related. Of hawks, the smallest is the pigeon-hawk, not quite so large
as the pigeon he tries to catch. About the same size, and of the same
general appearance, but with bright yellow legs, is the sparrow-hawk.
Still larger, with his dark-brown upper feathers and dusky
white-splashed breast, is the chicken-hawk--the little rascal that darts
around the bushes and picks away a chick just after we have finished
scaring him away.

11. Then comes the duck-hawk, next larger than the chicken-hawk, finely
feathered with dark plumes delicately edged with brown. Next in size is
the red-tailed buzzard, or hen-hawk. He is equal to the capture of any
member of the chicken-yard; has an appetite for quails and rabbits and
prairie-chickens; and in the autumn lazily sits for an hour at a time
upon a hay-stack or a dead tree.

12. The fish-hawk is the largest of all. He is black and brown, with
white feathers about his head, and is often mistaken for the eagle, for
whom he performs unwilling toil. The kite is nearer the size of the
chicken-hawk, blacker in feet and feather, slim and delicate in form,
graceful and quick in action. He may be seen at times on the lower
Mississippi River, getting a free ride on a dead mule, and eating the
animal that carries him.

13. And now we will come back to the falcon--the peregrine falcon--the
hawk that was the shot-gun of the Middle Ages. He is such a trim,
gamy-looking fellow that anyone who loves animals would like to make a
pet of him. He is a brave bird, even daring to snatch from the sportsman
the game he has killed. His life is long, and one is said to have been
caught at the Cape of Good Hope, in 1797, which wore a golden collar
with an inscription stating that in 1610 it belonged to James I, King of
England.

14. The falcon was trained to catch other birds as long ago as
Aristotle, three hundred years B. C. In the Middle Ages gentlemen and
ladies nearly always appeared in public with falcons sitting on their
wrists. Bishops and abbots carried them into church, leaving them near
the altar during service. But the most beautiful exhibition of the
falcon was the hunt, or "hawking," as it was called. Kings and noblemen
were given to it.

15. Upon elegant horses, with attendants and dogs, they rode to the
field. When the bird was seen flying, or was started or "flushed" by the
dogs, the falcon was let fly. Then there was a chase in the air, and, in
the case of large birds, a fight. When the falcon brought his game to
the ground, and it proved to be a troublesome customer, the dogs at once
lent a helping paw and tooth. Hawking was an exciting sport in those
days, and is even nowadays practiced in Persia and India.




CHAPTER XVIII.

HANNAH LOMOND'S BAIRN.


1. ALMOST all the people in the parish were taking in their meadow-hay
on the same day, so drying was the sunshine and the wind, and huge,
heaped-up wains, that almost hid from view the horses that drew them
along the sward, were moving in all directions toward the snug
farm-yards. Never had the parish seemed before so populous. Jocund was
the balmy air with laughter, whistle, and song.

2. But suddenly the great golden eagle, the pride and the pest of the
parish, swooped down, and away with something in his talons. One sudden
female shriek, and then shouts and outcries, as if a church-spire had
tumbled down on a congregation at a sacrament--"Hannah Lomond's bairn!
The eagle has ta'en off Hannah Lomond's bairn!" and many hundred feet
were, in another instant, hurrying toward the mountain. Two miles of
hill and dale, and copse and shingle, and many intersecting brooks lay
between; but in an incredibly short time the foot of the mountain was
alive with people. The eyrie was well known, and both old birds were
visible on the rock's edge.

3. But who shall scale that dizzy cliff which Mark Stuart, the sailor,
who had been at the storming of many a fort, attempted in vain? All kept
gazing, weeping, and wringing their hands in vain, rooted to the ground,
or running backward and forward without thought or purpose. "What's the
use, what's the use of ony puir human means? We have no power but in
prayer!" and many knelt down--fathers and mothers, thinking of their own
babies--as if they would force the deaf heavens to hear.

4. Hannah Lomond had all this while been sitting on a rock, with a face
perfectly white, and eyes, like those of a mad person, fixed on the
eyrie. Nobody had noticed her; for, strong as all sympathies with her
had been at the swoop of the eagle, they were now swallowed up in the
agony of eye-sight. "Only last Sabbath was my sweet bairn baptized in
the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost!" and, on
uttering these words, she flew off through the brakes, and over the huge
stones, up, up, up, faster than ever huntsman ran into the
death--fearless as a goat playing among the precipices. No one doubted,
no one could doubt, that she would soon be dashed to pieces.

5. No stop, no stay--she knew not that she drew her breath. Beneath her
feet Providence fastened every stone, and to her hands strengthened
every root. How was she to descend? That fear but once crossed her head
as up, up, up--to the little image made of her own flesh and blood. Down
came the fierce rushing of the eagles' wings, each savage bird dashing
close to her head, so that she saw the yellow of their wrathful eyes.
All at once they quailed and were cowed; yelling they flew to the stump
of an ash, a thousand feet above the cataract, and the Christian mother,
falling across the eyrie, clasped her child--dead! dead! dead! no doubt,
but unmangled and untorn, and swaddled up just as it was when she laid
it down asleep among the fresh hay in a nook of the harvest-field. Oh!
what a pang of perfect blessedness transfixed her heart from that feeble
cry--"It lives! it lives! it lives!"

6. Where all this time was Mark Stuart, the sailor? Half way up the
cliffs. But his eye had got dim, and his head dizzy, and his heart
sick--and he, who had so often reefed the topsail, when at midnight the
coming of the gale was heard afar, covered his face with his hands, and
dared look no longer on the swimming heights. "And who will take care of
my poor, bed-ridden mother?" thought Hannah, whose soul, through the
exhaustion of so many passions, could no more retain in its grasp that
hope which it had clutched in despair. A voice whispered, "God."

7. She looked around, expecting to see an angel; but nothing moved,
except a dead branch that, under its own weight, broke off from the
crumbling rock. Her eye, by some secret sympathy of her soul, watched
its fall; and it seemed to stop, not far off, on a small platform. Her
child was bound within her bosom, she remembered not how or when, but it
was safe, and, scarcely daring to open her eyes, she slid down the
shelving rocks, and found herself on a small piece of firm root-bound
soil, with the tops of the bushes appearing below.

8. With fingers suddenly strengthened with the power of iron, she swung
herself down by briers, and broom, and heather, and dwarf-birch. Then a
loosened stone, leaped over a ledge, and no sound was heard, so profound
was its fall. Then the shingle rattled down the steep, and she hesitated
not to follow. Her feet bounded against the huge stone that stopped
them, but she felt no pain. Her body was as callous as the cliff. Steep
as the walls of the house were now the sides of the precipice. But it
was matted with ivy centuries old, long ago dead, and without a single
green leaf, but with thousands of arm-thick stems petrified into the
rock, and covering it as with a trellis. With hands and feet she clung
to that fearful ladder.

9. Turning round her head and looking down, lo! the whole population of
the parish on their knees! and hush, the voice of psalms! a hymn,
breathing the spirit of one united prayer! Sad and solemn was the
strain, but nothing dirge-like; breathing not of death, but deliverance.
Often had she sung that tune, perhaps the very words, but them she heard
not, in her own hut, she and her mother, or in the kirk along with all
the people. An unseen hand seemed fastening her fingers to the ribs of
ivy, and in sudden inspiration, believing that her life was to be saved,
she became almost as fearless as if she had been changed into a winged
creature.

10. Again her feet touched stones and earth. The psalm was hushed, but a
tremulous, sobbing voice was close beside her, and lo! a she-goat with
two little kids at her feet. "Wild heights," thought she, "do these
creatures climb, but the dam will lead down her kid by the easiest path,
for oh! even in the brute creatures, what is the holy power of a
mother's love!" and, turning round her head, she kissed her sleeping
babe, and for the first time she wept.

11. Overhead frowned the precipice, never touched before by human hand
or foot. No one had ever dreamed of scaling it, and the golden eagles
knew that well in their instinct, as, before they built their eyrie,
they had brushed it with their wings. But all the rest of this part of
the mountain-side, though scarred, and seamed, and chasmed, was yet
accessible, and more than one person in the parish had reached the
bottom of the cliff. Many were now attempting it; and ere the cautious
mother had followed her dumb guides a hundred yards, though among
dangers enough to terrify the stoutest heart, yet traversed by her
without a shudder, the head of one man appeared, and then another, and
she knew that God had delivered her and her child in safety, into the
care of their fellow-creatures.

12. Not a word was spoken--eyes said enough. She hushed her friends with
her hands, and with uplifted eyes pointed to the guides sent her by
Heaven. Small green plats, where these creatures nibble the wild
flowers, became now more frequent; trodden lines, almost as easy as
sheep-paths, showed that the dam had not led her young into danger; and
now the brushwood dwindled away into straggling shrubs, and the party
stood on a little eminence above the stream, and forming part of the
strath.

13. There had been trouble and agitation, much sobbing, and many tears,
among the multitude, while the mother was scaling the cliffs; sublime
was the shout that echoed afar the moment she reached the eyrie; then
had succeeded a silence deep as death; in a little while arose that
hymning prayer, succeeded by mute supplication; the mildness of
thankfulness had next its sway; and now, that her salvation was sure,
the great crowd rustled like a wind-swept wood.

14. And for whose sake was all this alternation of agony? A poor, humble
creature, unknown to many even by name--one who had few friends, nor
wished for more; contented to work all day, here, there, anywhere, that
she might be able to support her aged mother and little child; and who
on the Sabbath took her seat in an obscure pew, set apart for the
paupers in the kirk.

15. "Fall back and give her fresh air," said the old minister of the
parish: and the circle of close faces widened round her, lying as in
death. "Gie the bonny bit bairn into my arms," cried first one mother,
and then another; and it was tenderly handed round the circle of kisses,
many of the snooded maidens bathing its face in tears. "There's no' a
single scratch about the puir innocent, for the eagle, you see, maun hae
struck its talons into the lang claes and the shawl! Blin', blin', maun
they be who see not the finger of God in this thing!"

16. Hannah started up from her swoon, and, looking wildly round, cried,
"Oh! the bird, the bird, the eagle, the eagle, the eagle has carried off
my bonny wee Walter! Is there none to pursue?" A neighbor put her baby
into her arms, and, shutting her eyes and smiting her forehead, the
sorely bewildered creature said, in a low voice, "Am I awake? Oh, tell
me if I am awake! or if a' this be the wark of a fever, and the delirium
of a dream!"

_Professor John Wilson._




CHAPTER XIX.

CATS IN FEATHERS.


1. The spring sun is beginning to shine bright and warm, though in many
places patches of snow still lie upon the ground; here and there in the
woods hepaticas and anemones are showing their bright faces; and, if we
look closely, pushing away the dead leaves and pine needles, we may find
the rosy bunches of our favorite trailing arbutus. We must not shut
ourselves indoors this beautiful day. Let us have the lunch-basket
brought, packed for a woodland feast; and, when old Dash is harnessed,
start for a day's journey of discovery.

2. As we drive along over the country road, on every side our eyes are
made glad by the many signs of spring. The alders by the brook are
dropping their fringed tassels, the red buds are sprouting on the
maples, the tiny ferns are peeping up by the side of the lichen-covered
rocks, and the air is filled with the carol of bird voices.

3. Suddenly we come to a standstill just outside a pair of bars leading
into an old apple-orchard. We climb down from the "high wagon," our red
setter, Grouse, as usual leading the way. The two children of the party
are most anxious to know what can be found in so lonely a spot. Patience
is enjoined. Then our naturalist gives his orders. Each of us is
assigned a row of the gnarled trees, which we are told to examine, and,
finding a rotten hole or cavity, to look carefully into its depths and
report what we may discover.

4. The children set about the search with great earnestness. All work in
silence save Grouse, who, finding his master engaged, is sniffing
eagerly about the field, hoping to start some game for his own
amusement. Now a shout comes from one of the children, "I have found a
hole, and see something shining and woolly in the bottom." Leaving our
own trees, we look into the cavity, and see the something "shining and
woolly," but what it is we vainly guess.

5. Now it is the turn for our leader; and he, after one quick look, puts
his hand into the hole, and pulls out, by one wing, a fluttering,
struggling, frightened little red owl. At first it seems stunned by the
sudden change from darkness to light, but quickly its eyes fly wide
open, and its claws clutch at its keeper's finger. He, being an old hand
at the business, knows how to hold the little savage firmly while we
examine it.

[Illustration: _The Screech Owl._]

6. And what do we see! A bird about the size of a quail, covered with
soft, fluffy feathers. It has a large, cat-like head, defined by a ruff
of feathers, large, round yellow eyes, and tufts on either side of the
head that look like ears. Our instructor pushes away these tufts, and
shows us a curious opening into the head, which is the true ear, and he
tells us that owls are the only birds provided with an external ear. The
bill or beak we see is sharp and hooked, reminding us of the hawks and
vultures. The legs are covered with feathers to the toes, and the claws
are long, much curved, and extremely sharp.

7. Another plunge of the hand brings out another owl, and then come one,
two, three, four, five round white eggs. These last are packed with
cotton in a tin box, and placed in a basket with the two owls, whom the
children have already named "Tweedledum" and "Tweedledee."

8. As we are about turning to take a final look before again starting,
Grace calls our attention to several curious balls lying near the foot
of the tree. Again we learn that, like other birds of prey, the owl,
having fed on a mouse or small bird, and swallowed it whole, after a
meal ejects from his mouth, in the form of a pellet, the bones, hair,
and other indigestible substances.

9. Several orchards are visited during the morning. When noon arrives,
we seat ourselves for dinner on a dry, sunny, south slope, near a
running brook, from which we gather crisp watercresses, which give an
added relish to our meal. Counting over our spoils, we find ourselves in
possession of eight sets of eggs and four old birds for the museum, and
two tiny puff-balls of owlets for our own special pets.

10. During our sylvan meal, and on our way home, we ply our bird-lover
with questions about owls, as he has seen and studied them; and this, in
substance, is what he tells us: Best known to the world, through song
and story, is the barn owl. The old ruined castle-towers, that
everywhere in Europe rise to view, are the chosen haunts of this
well-known species, and nightly its mournful cry is often the cause of
alarm to foolish and superstitious people returning late at night to
their homes.

11. Our barn owl is smaller than his European cousin, and is found in
all parts of the country. It is of a bright tawny hue, about eighteen
inches in length, with a wing-extent of from two to five feet. It has no
ear-tufts, but around each eye a "facial disk" of feathers makes its
stare more cat-like. The eggs, from five to six in number, are deposited
in rude nests in holes in rocks, walls, and old trees. It feeds on small
vermin like rats and mice, and so proves a true friend of the farmer.

[Illustration: _The Barn Owl._]

12. The horned owls are so called because of the pair of feathery tufts
on the top of the head. They are also called cat owls. Our little friend
of the morning is a horned owl in miniature, though he is called a
screech owl. The great horned owl is about two feet in length, with an
extent of wings of from four to six feet. The general color above is
brown, with throat and neck white, and breast striped with black. He
looks like a fine old general, stately, courageous, and ready for
anything that may happen.

[Illustration: _The Great Horned Owl._]

13. This owl makes a great variety of sounds. At one time he will
startle us by barking like a dog, at another he will utter notes like
half-suppressed screams, and again will break out into a low, fiendish
yell. He commits great havoc in the farm-yard, seizing all kinds of
poultry, and preys also, upon grouse, ducks, squirrels, and opossums.
The crows are his sworn enemies, and, when an owl is found during the
day crouched against the limb of a tree, they all go at him, and with
bill and claw, flap of wing and harsh cry, proceed to make his life
miserable. Thus, in a measure, they retaliate for the torture he
inflicts on other creatures.

14. The gray owls make another group. They have immense heads, smallish
eyes, and no ear-tufts. The barred owl, a member of this group, is
striped up and down his light-colored breast and sides with bars of dark
brown. "A quaint and lively bird; its actions look like antics. He has
queer ways for an owl. In the deep woods, and in broad daylight, when
all owldom is abed, he will set up his comical half laugh, half cry." He
is well called the buffoon of the woods.

15. A much graver person, and the giant of American owls, is the great
gray owl. His length is thirty inches. His cry is not unlike that of the
screech owl. The little saw-whet, or Acadian owl, belonging to this
group, is the smallest member of the family. It is about eight inches
long, and makes a noise like the filing of the teeth of a saw.

16. But the smallest of the owl kind I have ever seen is Whitney's owl
of Arizona, discovered by an army officer. I have many delightful
memories of the days spent with a pleasant party in the sunny land
where this bird has its home. In places the hill-sides and plains are
covered thick with the giant cactus--large, fleshy stalks, growing into
immense trees, without leaves and almost without branches.

[Illustration: _The Giant Cactus, the Home of Whitney's Owl._]

17. Woodpeckers easily make their way through the outer skin of these
huge plants, and build a cozy nest in the soft fiber inside. When these
nests are deserted, they afford a home for the little owl. We had often
seen these holes with the small housekeeper at the door, but he vanished
as we came near. Now, what was to be done? The holes were too high to be
reached from below, no branches afforded a foothold for climbing, and
the whole column was armed with cruel spines, which entered the flesh at
the least touch. But numerous failures sharpened our wits. We brought
from our camp a ladder, made in sections; and this we put together, the
top reaching twenty-five feet from the ground.

18. The attack began. One of the party, wearing a hatchet at the belt,
mounted the ladder. A few strokes make a hole large enough for the hand
to enter, and a capture is made of both the birds and the eggs. One
day's search brings home a rich harvest for our distant museum.

19. One more group, the day owls, must be mentioned. They hunt in the
day-time, and in the morning and evening twilight. To this group belongs
the beautiful great snowy owl of the North. Its usual white coat is
sometimes specked with black. It is rapid in flight, and, falcon-like,
strikes ducks, grouse, and pigeons on the wing, and seizes hares from
the ground, and fish from shallows.

20. Driving home in the warm afternoon sun, the children nodding on
their seats, our naturalist concludes by dreamily quoting from John
Burroughs: "All the ways of the owl are ways of softness and duskiness.
His wings are shod with silence--his plumage is edged with down."




CHAPTER XX.

POLLY AND HER KIN.


1. We have become so well acquainted with polly in her cage, or on her
perch, or sitting in the shop-window, that she seems to be one of us,
and we seldom think or ask where she came from. We must, therefore,
follow the parrot to its home in South America, where we shall find the
macaw--the large parrot, with long, tapering tail, and bright red, blue,
green, and black colors. There we shall find these birds of exquisite
feather more numerous than blackbirds about our swamps.

2. And here, in their native woods, too, these "pollies" keep up an
incessant talking and laughing, all in their own language. The great
Humboldt, who has told so much about South America, says it is necessary
to have lived in the hot valleys of the Andes to believe that "the
shrieking of the parrots actually drowns the roar of the mountain
torrents."

3. Or we may visit the home of the gray parrot, with its tail of deep
red, on the western coast or in the interior of Africa. Here there will
be the same jolly, great, happy family, all talking, and perhaps vieing
with the monkeys in climbing the trees. In their original home, parrots
are clean birds. They rise early in the morning, get their breakfast of
fruit or nuts, then take a bath, and return to the trees, where they
smooth down their gaudy dresses, and sit and sleep during the hot day.

[Illustration: _The Gray Parrot._]

4. The green parrot learns to talk in the language of men, but not so
well as the gray parrot. Indeed, polly is not only a great climber, but
it is so good an imitator that we must call it a monkey in feathers. The
beak of the parrot is unlike that of any other bird. How odd it is--the
upper part turning down like a hook, and the under part shaped like a
cup. By this beak, polly hooks on to a limb and pulls herself up so that
she can catch it with her foot, which has two toes in front and two
behind. By her beak she can crack the hardest nuts, and on this account
is called a "cracker."

5. These bird-talkers have done some wonderful talking with their bills
and thick tongues. In the sixteenth century a cardinal paid a hundred
crowns for a parrot that could repeat the Apostles' Creed correctly.
Another parrot could act as chaplain on board of a ship, by repeating
the Lord's Prayer. In the year 1822 there was a parrot living in London
who sang a number of songs in perfect time and tune. She could ask for
what she wanted as nicely as could any human being.

6. Is polly a mere imitator, or does she understand what she learns?
Some singular facts may help to answer this question. There was once in
England a parrot which was able to speak both in English and Portuguese;
and, when addressed in either of these tongues, its reply was in the
language of the speaker. Another one, in the hot weather enjoyed having
water poured over her, and when she was satisfied would say, "That's
enough." The same accomplished bird would sing and dance; and, if a
stranger came into the kitchen, polly would cry out, "Somebody's
wanted," or ask, "What's your business?"

7. There was once a parrot in Boston that had been taught to whistle for
a dog. One day, when he was tuning up his whistle, a dog happened to be
passing by, and, thinking he heard a familiar call, started toward the
cage of the parrot, when the bird roughly shouted, "Get out, you brute!"
The dog ran at once, leaving the parrot to enjoy the joke.

8. The little parrakeet of South Africa is thought to be the handsomest
of all the parrot tribe. It has an emerald-green body, a deep-red beak,
a rose-colored ring round its neck, and two long tail-feathers of
brilliant blue. It is graceful, lively, gentle, and a good talker. One
of these ringed parrakeets, if told to call the cat, would either "mew"
loudly, or use the cat's name. It would also play hide-and-seek, and, if
the mistress hid under the table, the bird would knock on the table
several times to induce her to come out.

9. Our own North America is the native home of a very pretty parrot,
called the Carolina parrakeet. It is small, and its coat is mainly of a
pleasing green color. A golden collar adorns its neck, and its wings
are olive green with yellow tips. In flocks it has been seen as far
north as the Ohio River, and individuals were formerly met still farther
to the north. A great destroyer of grain-crops, it has made sore
enemies, in spite of its pretty ways and its talent for talk.

10. Wilson, the lover of birds, captured one of these parrots that had
been slightly wounded in the wing. He carried it in his boat and on
land, wrapped in a handkerchief, a thousand miles, when he arrived at
the country of the Chickasaw Indians. These people recognized in the
feathered traveler an old friend, and it became a bond of friendship
between them and its master.

11. The bird sighed for a companion, and called to the wild parrakeets
that flew by its cage. A looking-glass was placed before it, in which
its own form was reflected, and it appeared to be satisfied. At night it
would lay its head against the image in the glass and whisper some
gentle note. Very tame at length it became, and learned to speak its own
name.

12. An interesting parrot, found in Australia and the adjacent tropical
islands, is called the cockatoo. The note it utters is something like
"cockatoo"; whence its name. Upon the head it carries a crest of
brilliant feathers, which can be set up or laid down as it may choose.
Gathered in large flocks, this species presents a beautiful appearance
by the variety of the colors of its plumage. The disposition of the
cockatoo is gentle, and it learns to talk and form words into phrases.

13. The cockatoo, by the mischief it makes, creates enemies. The natives
remember the plunder of their crops with anything but kindness. So they
hunt and kill the cockatoo. They have no guns, but use a weapon called a
boomerang. This weapon is made of wood, and is shaped like a sickle.
When thrown, it flies in many circles, and in a winding path. A great
flock of cockatoos, sitting on the trees near a body of water, is slyly
approached by the hunters. When the birds rise in a body, the boomerangs
are hurled, one after another, among them, and large numbers drop to the
ground with broken necks or wings. The cockatoo, like other parrots, is
tamed and petted.

14. A cockatoo was once trained to act a little scene in company with a
Newfoundland dog. The dog would sit up quietly, while the bird would
walk up his back, over his head, out on the end of his nose, and make a
bow to the spectators. Then the bird flew to its master's hand, while
the dog picked up a hat, and passed it around for contributions to a
fund raised for a humane society.




CHAPTER XXI.

TREE-CLIMBERS.


1. "What! Do you call the woodpecker a friend in feathers? You do? Well,
well! May be he is a friend to you book-folks; you have a very soft way
of looking at everything that seems pretty about you. But you just turn
farmer once, and then see whether this little red-headed rascal is a
friend to you. Pretty friend in feathers! If I could, I'd hang every
woodpecker in the land. I tell the boys to rob every nest they can
find."

[Illustration: _The Woodpecker._]

2. So said our farmer-neighbor, when it was gently suggested to him that
the woodpecker is his true friend. "But what does the red-headed rascal
do, neighbor, that brings him your ill will?" "Do? Why, he's an
everlasting thief and robber. He steals our cherries, apples, pears,
and strips the husks from our growing corn, and hammers the apple-trees
full of holes. There ought to be a law, as there was in old times,
giving four cents a head for every dead woodpecker."

3. Perhaps there is a good deal of truth in what our neighbor has said;
but we must give the accused "rascal" a chance to be heard before he is
condemned. First, however, let us follow the boy-farmer in his exploit
to rob the red-head's nest. He has found the tree in which the nest is,
for it is easy enough to find the woodpecker's hole in a dry, bare tree.
He pulls off his boots, moistens his hands, and hitches and puffs up the
trunk of the tree.

4. There is a naked limb, fortunately, right over the hole; it is very
slender and partly decayed, but a boy can afford to risk his neck to rob
a nest, and especially the nest of a rascal that robs his father. So he
sits on the limb, and holds fast with one hand while he bends over and
softly passes the other hand into the hole. Scarcely has it entered as
far as the wrist when out comes the hand as quickly as if it had been
bitten, and the boy slides down the tree much more briskly than he went
up.

5. Just look at that boy! How pale he is! And his hands, how they are
scratched. What was the matter? Did the red rascal drive his bill into
him? No; worse than that. He put his hand on a snake; and that is the
reason why he turned so white, and slid down so hastily, and now sulks
away to his home, saying, "You won't catch me trying to rob a red-head's
nest again."

6. The woodpecker, then, not only has the farmer for an enemy, but his
boy, and the black snake too, who, having surmised that the boy would
soon make his annual visit to the nest, has got ahead of him, and is
enjoying a feast on six little white eggs, in a house that has cost a
great deal of hard labor to build. Well, suppose the woodpecker does
steal the fruit, and bore holes in the living trees; does he not, on the
whole, do a great deal more good than harm?

7. We must watch these abused friends and become better acquainted with
them. They are birds of very fine feather. Do you not know the little
downy woodpecker, black and white, and smallest of all? And the hairy
woodpecker, a little larger, and with almost the same variegated coat?
And the yellow-bellied, and red-breasted, and golden-wing, with crimson
crowns or necks, and soft gray feathers, exquisitely penciled with white
or gold? These, though not so mischievous as the red-head, sometimes
taste fruit. Woodpeckers are good judges of fruit. When they test the
farmer's cherries or apples, they are sure to sample the best and the
ripest.

8. But suppose the woodpeckers were all murdered or banished: what then
would become of the trees and the fruit left to the mercy of
caterpillars and bugs and worms? These insects do far more mischief than
the birds do that live chiefly on them, and, when we have given the
woodpecker a fair trial, our judgment must be that he deserves all the
fruit he gets for the good he does.

9. See what a splendid carpenter the woodpecker is. He needs no
scaffold. His little feet have two toes with sharp claws in front and
two behind, so that he can cling to the bark of the tree, with his head
up or down. His tail-feathers are stiff and help to hold him up. His
bill is long, straight, and so formed as to be pick-axe, auger, chisel,
and hammer. His tongue is a still more wonderful tool. He has in his
head a little machine by which he can push it out far beyond the end of
his bill. And on the end of this tongue are little fine points, like the
barb of a fish-hook.

10. So, with this fish-hook tongue, the woodpecker can pierce and draw
from the tree, even beyond the reach of his bill, a worm or grub; and if
the insect is too small to catch in this way, he has a gum, or sticky
liquid, that flies to the end of his tongue and glues the game to it.
And he is a great worker. No other bird works so hard or has so tough a
muscle. From daybreak to dark he hammers away, his little mate now and
then taking his place and giving him a rest.

11. The woodpecker is a skilled worker. He knows by the looks of the
bark where the worm is; or, if in doubt, he taps with his hammer until
he strikes the place that sounds hollow. To build his nest, he cuts a
smooth, round hole, inclined a little upward to keep the rain out, and
then down lengthwise of the tree, sometimes five inches deep. He has no
delicious song with which to charm his mate. His music is made by the
noise of his bill rapping on a hard, hollow tree.

12. "Another trait our woodpeckers have that endears them to me," says
Mr. Burroughs, "is their habit of drumming in the spring. They are
songless birds, and yet are all musicians; they make the dry limbs
eloquent of the coming change. Did you think that loud, sonorous
hammering, which proceeded from the orchard or from the near woods, on
that still March or April morning, was only some bird getting its
breakfast? It is downy, but he is not rapping at the door of a grub; he
is rapping at the door of spring, and the dry limb thrills beneath the
ardor of his blows.

13. "Or, later in the season, in the dense forest, or by some remote
mountain lake, does that measured rhythmic beat that breaks upon the
silence--first three strokes following each other rapidly, succeeded by
two louder ones with longer intervals between them, and that has an
effect upon the alert ear as if the solitude itself had at last found a
voice--does that suggest anything less than a deliberate musical
performance? In fact, our woodpeckers are just as much drummers as is
the ruffed grouse, and they have their particular limbs and stubs to
which they resort for that purpose. Their need of expression is
apparently just as great as that of song-birds, and it is not surprising
that they should have found out that there is music in a dry, seasoned
limb, which can be evoked beneath their beaks.

14. "The past spring a downy woodpecker began to drum early in March on
a partly-decayed apple-tree that stands on the edge of a narrow strip of
woodland near me. His drum was the stub of a dry limb about the size of
one's wrist. The heart was decayed and gone, but the outer shell was
hard and resonant. The bird would keep his position there for an hour at
a time. Between his drummings he would preen his plumage and listen as
if for the drum of some rival. How swift his head would go when he was
delivering his blows upon the limb! His beak wore the surface
perceptibly. When he wished to change the key, which was quite often,
he would shift his position an inch or two to a knot which gave out a
higher, shriller note."

15. Largest of all his tribe is the ivory-billed woodpecker. A splendid
bird is he, with a scarlet crest upon his head. The forests and marshes
of the West and South are his home, and his work is shown by great heaps
of chips that fall at the roots of the pine and cypress trees upon which
he works. Among the Indians he is regarded as a hero for his labor, and
they wear the head of the ivory-billed woodpecker for a charm.

[Illustration: _The Toucan._]

16. There are other birds that have the climbing feet like the
woodpecker, but they do not in the same manner search for food. The
toucan, of South America is, in some respects, like the woodpecker, but
its bill looks like a huge, overgrown nose, and is soft and spongy. It
is not a worker like its cousin we have been reading about, but uses
other birds' holes to make its nest in, and gets its food as easily as
it can. But its plumage is beautiful and soft, and is used for ladies'
muffs.

17. Cuckoos are related to woodpeckers by their feet, but they have
different habits of life. The ground or California cuckoo, or chapparal
cock, is a fine-looking bird, nearly as large as the crow, with glossy
and variegated green feathers, shy, and swifter on its feet than the
horse. The European cuckoo is the cuckoo of the poets and of song. It is
the harbinger of spring. But there are some queer things to be said
about it.

18. This cuckoo lays her eggs at too long intervals to be hatched at the
same time. So what does she do? She lays her eggs in other birds' nests,
one in each nest, or, laying them on the ground, carries them in her
bill and deposits them in these nests. So Mrs. Wren or Mrs. Bluebird, or
some other patient sitter, hatches out the young cuckoo and rears him.
But when the little wretch has grown big enough he tumbles his step
brothers and sisters out of their home.

19. The American cuckoo does no such strange things. She builds her own
nest, and hatches and broods her young like a good, faithful mother.
About the size of a turtle-dove, she is clothed in Quaker brown, and is
a deft, sprightly bird. The simple note, coo, coo, coo, from the
thicket, announces the presence of the male, and, when it is most
clamorous, is taken as a sign of approaching rain.


THE CUCKOO.

    1. O blithe comer! I have heard,
          I hear thee and rejoice.
        O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
          Or but a wandering voice?

    2. While I am lying on the grass,
          Thy loud note smites my ear!
        From hill to hill it seems to pass
          At once far off and near.

    3. I hear thee babbling to the vale,
          Of sunshine and of flowers;
        And unto me thou bring'st a tale
          Of visionary hours.

    4. Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!
          Even yet thou art to me
        No bird, but an invisible thing--
          A voice, a mystery.

    5. The same whom in my boyhood days
          I listened to; the cry
        Which made me look a thousand ways
          In bush, and tree, and sky.

    6. To seek thee did I often rove
          Through woods and on the green;
        And thou wert still a hope, a love;
          Still longed for, never seen!

    7. And I can listen to thee yet;
          Can lie upon the plain
        And listen, till I do beget
          That golden time again.

_Wordsworth_.




CHAPTER XXII.

DIVERS OF THE AIR.


1. Along the quiet, shady brooks, where bending willows gently touch the
still water, or perched upon the scraggy top of some tall tree that
leans over a woody river--there we may see the kingfisher. He deserves
his name, for he has a royal look. Upon his head he wears a kingly
crest, and shades of blue glimmer on his back, making a showy contrast
with the white, thick, oily plumage below, and the white collar about
his neck.

2. A royal sportsman is this kingfisher, as weary, luckless boys well
know, who have watched him as he stands, still as a statue, on some
stone or overhanging bough, and then shoots down like a meteor and
carries off the fish which was nibbling away at their baits. "Oh, if we
could only catch fish like him!" sigh these drooping boys, as they bait
and throw their hooks, and jerk, and wonder, and scold at crafty perch
or chubs, because they will not be caught. But it is serious business
with our bird, for he must get his fish, or starve; while our
disappointed boys are only fishing for fun.

[Illustration: _The Belted Kingfisher._]

3. Mr. Darwin says the kingfisher always beats his fish before he
swallows it, to express his emotions. His emotions must be lively ones,
and we may wonder what they can be. Is it because he is glad, or because
he is hungry, that he takes a perch by the tail and lashes him first on
one side and then on the other of the limb of a tree? It is said that in
the zological gardens where he is confined he treats his beefsteak in
the same way.

4. Now, we will leave Mr. Darwin to settle the matter of emotions, but
we must conclude that the kingfisher beats his fish for the same reason
that a cook beats his steak--because it is tough. A perch has very angry
fins, too, and a rough tail, that are not pleasant to think of in close
connection with the tender throat and crop of a bird. It surely seems
wise to beat and break these fierce and jagged instruments before they
are sent upon a journey so sensitive and perilous.

5. It is pleasant to think of bird-life so airy and serene; pleasant to
think that bird-bread may be earned so easily; and pleasant to think
what rare fun it must be for the kingfisher with his long, stout, sharp
bill to strike for his game, and scarcely ever miss; and then rise upon
his happy wing to some high limb where he can express his emotions and
enjoy his meal. But stop! Life is not always a smooth and unvexed
current even for our happy kingfisher. He sometimes gets a bone in his
throat, or chokes with a fish too large to swallow; drops from his lofty
breakfast-table and floats down the stream to be devoured by some
ravenous pickerel.

6. The kingfisher, though possessed of a good appetite, has an eye to
future wants, and in some hole in the bank of a stream he stores away
his surplus game for a rainy day, or for a time when his luck is poor.
The nest or this bird is a piece of cunning architecture. Several feet
above the water-line, in the bank of the stream, a smooth, deep hole is
made, at the end of which a larger room is scooped out. Here the nest is
built. First there is laid up a platform of fish-bones, to keep the eggs
from the moist ground; then upon this curious foundation the soft nest
is placed, the white eggs are laid, and the young are hatched.

7. Birds, as we have already seen, are not all free from moral
imperfection. The kingfisher is not a saint or an angel. True parental
affection is on the side of the mother. The father is said to cherish
cruel feelings toward the little ones. If not prevented by the watchful
mother, he drags them from their downy nest and even kills them.

8. But this bird has an honored history. He it is that was called by the
ancients the halcyon. And for seven days before and seven days after the
winter solstice, when the halcyon was supposed to build its nest, the
sea was calm, and those were happy days. The dead body of the kingfisher
was thought to keep away thunderbolts, and to bring beauty, peace,
plenty, and prosperity. So, among some unlettered people of to-day, the
head of the kingfisher is believed to be a charm for love, a protection
against witchcraft, or a pledge of fair weather.

9. There lives in the Malay Islands a larger bird than our
kingfisher--being eighteen inches long--called the racket-tailed
kingfisher. Like so many of the tropical birds, it is dressed in
beautiful plumage. The bill is coral red, the back and wings are purple,
the upper parts bright azure blue, and the breast white. Two exceedingly
long tail-feathers extend away beyond the ordinary tail, ending in
points shaped like spoons.

[Illustration: _The Racket-tailed Kingfisher._]

10. A very odd member of the kingfisher family is the giant kingfisher,
or laughing jackass. Its home is Australia, and its peculiar name arises
from its strange cry and its queer actions. The diet it feeds upon is
not confined to fish, but includes insects, rats, and snakes. When the
sun rises and when it sets, the laughing jackass sets up a lively chant,
on account of which it has been called the "settlers' clock." This music
has been compared to the "yelling chorus of unquiet demons."

11. Any event out of the usual course calls forth the peculiar strains
of the laughing jackass. If a fire is lighted, or a stranger arrives, or
a native encamps, a few of these droll birds consider it their special
duty to draw near, and from some overhanging branch pour down their
contemptuous, braying laughter. A vile criminal was once caught by means
of these intruders. Just in advance of his pursuers, he had taken to the
thicket. The birds saw the fellow, and thought it a fitting opportunity
for a laugh. So they hovered over the hidden culprit and began their
hideous noise. Of course, the officers caught him, for they well knew
the habits of the birds.

12. The hornbill, that lives in Africa, Asia, and in some other tropical
localities, is remarkable chiefly on account of its ugly nose. On the
top of its beak, and in front of its head, rises a helmet, or horn, that
gives it the appearance of a feathered rhinoceros. No particular use has
been found for this uncouth horn, unless it be to call attention to the
amiable and affectionate traits of the bird. If any further sign of the
presence of the hornbill is needed, it may be found in the attack which
its equally unpleasant croak makes upon the ear.

13. The food of the hornbill is carrion and fruits, though it sometimes
eats nutmegs, from which its flesh is said to become quite savory. The
female makes her nest in the hole of a tree, and, from the moment she
begins to sit until her young are old enough to shift for themselves,
the male exhibits a remarkable degree of wit and paternal affection.

[Illustration: _The Rhinoceros Hornbill._]

14. It is well known that the poultry-woman sometimes finds it a hard
task to keep a sitting hen on her nest. The hornbill proposes to run no
risk on this point. When, therefore, his mate has placed herself on her
nest in the hole, he plasters over the hole, leaving only a small crack
through which he can run his delicate bill. Through this opening the
sacrificing parent passes all the food that the mother and her brood
require. They become very fat, but he becomes very poor.

15. It would be a pleasant relief to us in the summer, when wasps and
hornets, carrying their painful weapons, come in at the windows and
disturb the peace of quiet householders, if we had some airy friend who
would make a business of chasing, punishing, and, if need be, killing
these pestering visitors. Such a friend the inhabitants of Europe enjoy
in the bee-eater. A very attractive friend it is, too; for it has a
graceful body covered with feathers of brown, blue, green, and red. Its
beak has a gentle curve, and its wings are long and pointed, giving it a
rapid flight.

16. The bee-eater dives in the air, and takes much of its prey on the
wing; and it will not only overtake a wasp or hornet, but it will turn
and twist in the air, suiting its flight to all the motions of these
smaller fliers. Its nest is built in much the same manner as that of the
kingfisher. The form and actions of the bird resemble those of the
common barn-swallow. In the island of Crete, boys catch the bee-eater
with a pin-hook baited with a grasshopper. But this pretty bird has its
objectionable characteristics. It likes the honey-bee as well as the
wasp. Hence, the bee-eater is the enemy of the bee-keeper.




CHAPTER XXIII.

FAIRIES ON THE WING.


1. By the Indians the humming-bird is called a "living sunbeam." And so
it is; it brings into dancing, dashing, darting life all the bright
colors that are folded asleep in the sunbeam. It has no voice, no sweet
note for the ear; but it has life and beauty for the eye. We may wonder
why the old poets have not sung of its beauty. But the old poets had no
humming-birds; and, besides, the humming-bird is itself a winged poem.

2. Nature has not bestowed every variety of her treasure on any one
bird. Where she gives song and a sweet note, she clothes with a sober
and modest dress. And where she lavishes her richest tints, she
withholds the beauty of music. Neither does she tire the eye or ear. The
birds of most gaudy color must be sought in the wild tropical forest;
the finest singers put by their instruments after nesting-time; and if
you would see the richest hues of precious stones flashing from the
humming-bird's feathers, you must look quick. It is here, but in an
instant it is gone.

3. The humming-bird does not seem to know that it is so beautiful. It is
one of the busiest of feathered workers. All its tools are fitted for
the particular use required. The bill is curiously made, and in each
variety is suited to the particular flower it is to feed upon. Some
bills are straight, and some are slightly curved, but every bill is long
and sharp-pointed. Its tongue reminds us of the woodpecker. Far out
beyond the end of the beak this tongue can be thrust, so that the bird
can sound the depths of honeysuckle and trumpet-flower. Its food is the
sweet or honey in the flower, and the insect that may happen to linger
within the petals of the blossom.

4. And now can you see any reason why the humming-bird should be so very
small? or why its feet are so tiny and weak, while its wings are so
strong and never tire? Look at the flowers when their season comes: how
they lift themselves away from the ground and extend their forms far
beyond the end of the twig that bears them, and away from any standing
support. To reach the calyx of the flower, where the sugar is, the bird
must be either as small as a bee, so that it can crawl in, or it must be
able to stand on the air while its long bill and tongue reach to the
bottom of the tube.

5. This is just what the humming-bird does. It is so small, and its
wings are so strong and lively, that it can stand on the air and suck
nectar from the lips of a flower, the vibrations of its wings being so
rapid that no person can count or estimate them. Its little pump works
briskly, and its wing hums and buzzes long. More than a hundred flowers
a minute are made to yield their sweets. And, besides the honey, any
small insect beyond the reach of the bill is touched by the tongue, and
attached by the mucilage on the end of the tongue.

6. The humming-bird is a rare little artist. Its nest is a masterpiece
of skill. In the air this bird is protected by its smallness and
swiftness. In the nest its small size and its cunning are a defense. The
male brings the materials, and the female arranges them. The outside of
the nest is of lichen or moss, and the inside of soft or woolly
substance. In the most artistic manner these materials are woven
together, and cemented with the bird's saliva. The finishing on the
inside is composed of the finest silky fibers gathered from plants.

7. This pretty little fairy cradle is no larger than a large
hickory-nut; is suspended from a leaf, or twig, or bundle of rushes,
according to the particular species of bird that builds it; and the
outside is covered with moss and other substances so arranged that you
could scarcely tell it from a small dry knot. The female lays in this
little disguised pocket, twice a year, two pure white eggs, each about
the size of a pea. Though so very small, these birds are brave. Often
they defend their nests against larger birds, and against the sly
attacks of a great spider that spins his net over the nest, or lies
within it awaiting the return of the absent occupants.

[Illustration: _The Nest of the Humming-Bird._]

8. It is not surprising that the charms of these winged jewels should
have suggested the wish to win them to the condition of pets. But the
little creatures will not bear confinement. They are creatures of the
air, and they must be free. A humming-bird was once found sitting on her
nest. The branch to which the nest was fastened was cut off, and both
bird and nest carried on ship-board, in the hope of conveying them to
England, where there are none of these birds. The mother soon hatched
her young, which takes but six days, and grew tame, but died before
reaching land. The little ones arrived in England and were partly
raised, but finally fell victims to the cool climate.

9. In the United States there are seven species of humming-birds. The
ruby-throat abounds almost everywhere. Other kinds are found on the
Pacific coast, in the South, and in Mexico, but the region where they
are most numerous is in the tropical portions of South America. Here
there are over three hundred species. Since their richly-colored plumes
have become an article of dress, the catching of these feathered dwarfs
has grown into a large business. The manner in which they are captured
is thus described:

10. "Let us follow little Dan, the oldest and sharpest of the
humming-bird hunters, as he goes out for birds. First he goes to a tree
called the mountain palm. Beneath the tree are some fallen leaves
fifteen feet in length; these he seizes and strips, leaving the midrib
bare--a long, slender stem tapering to a point. Upon this tip he places
a lump of bird-lime, to make which he had collected the thickened juice
of the bread-fruit, and chewed it to the consistency of soft wax.

11. "Scattered over the savanna are clumps of flowering bushes, over
whose crimson and snowy blossoms humming-birds are dashing, inserting
their beaks into the honeyed corollas, and resting upon some bare twig
preening their feathers. Cautiously creeping toward a bush, upon which
one of these little beauties is resting, the hunter extends the palm-rib
with its treacherous coating of gum. The bird eyes it curiously, but
fearlessly, as it approaches his resting-place, even pecking at it; but
the next moment he is dangling helplessly, beating the air with buzzing
wings in vain efforts to escape the clutches of that treacherous gum."


THE HUMMING-BIRD.

    12. "Brave little humming-bird,
           Every eye blesses thee;
           Sunlight caresses thee,
           Forest and field are the fairer for thee,
         Blooms, at thy coming stirred,
           Bend on each brittle stem,
           Nod to the little gem,
         Bow to the humming-bird, frolic and free.

    13. "Now around the woodbine hovering,
         Now the morning-glory covering,
         Now the honeysuckle sipping,
         Now the sweet clematis tipping,
         Now into the bluebell dipping;
       Hither, thither, flashing, bright'ning,
       Like a streak of emerald light'ning:
         Round the box, with milk-white phlox;
         Round the fragrant four-o'clocks;
         O'er the crimson quamoclit,
         Lightly dost thou whirl and flit;
           Into each tubd throat
           Dives little Ruby-throat."




CHAPTER XXIV.

MOTH AND FLY HUNTERS.


1. In the farm-yard, as we saw, there were little creatures that ran
away from the fowls, and from the hot sun, and hid in the dirt, in the
shade of the bushes, or under sticks and stones. Many of these creatures
have wings, and, when the sun has gone down, they leave their
hiding-places and rise into the cool, free air to play, to visit their
friends, and to come in at our open windows.

2. Not even the most active of our winged friends, whom we have seen
thus far, are able to catch a night-beetle on the wing. Our kingfisher
can dash down and snap up his minnow; but we should no more think of
setting him to catch a dragon-fly, with that long, pointed beak of his,
than we should give a boy a pair of tongs to catch a ball.

3. But we have other birds that are equal to the task. The night-hawk,
whip-poor-will, and kingbird belong to this group of insect-hunters,
and, if we will carefully look at their beaks, we shall see how, in
part, they succeed. The two hands of a boy, brought together at the
wrist and spread open like a mouth to catch a flying ball, give us a
good illustration of the open beaks of our hunters when catching insects
in the air.

4. The night-hawk, the whip-poor-will, and the chuck-will's-widow, are
similar in many respects. They each have that wide gaping of the mouth,
which aids them greatly in the capture of their flying prey. A soft,
downy plumage, like that of the owl, covers them, and they have short
legs, small feet, wide tails, and long, sharp wings for rapid and easy
flight.

5. In England the night-hawk is called the night-jar, or goat-sucker. It
is not a feathered cat, like the owl, nor is it strictly a night-bird.
It makes its appearance toward the close of day, and for an hour or two
is busy at work. It flies a short distance in a straight line, and then
abruptly turns in another direction, but all the time slowly mounting
upward. At each turn in this zigzag course it gives out its one
unmusical note.

[Illustration: _The Night-Hawk, feeding on the Wing._]

6. When at a sufficient height it suddenly shoots downward, swift and
straight as an arrow, its course ending in an abrupt upward curve. At
the lowest point of this headlong dive, we can hear a loud, booming cry,
like the prolonged sound of the syllable "whoo." This is its
harvest-time, for now its game is abroad. It flies until twilight fades
into night, or later if the moon shines brightly.

7. The night-hawk is frequently seen flying about cows, sheep, and
goats. By close watching it is found that the mischievous flies that
pester these animals attract the bird. On this account the night-hawk
and the tenants of the farm-yard have always been good friends. It is
quite possible that this kindness has been misjudged; and the little
bird that was helping the goat to chew its cud in peace has been
charged with stealing milk. Hence, as far back as the time of the
ancient Greeks, it has borne the name of goat-sucker.

8. Crouching upon the ground, or sitting lengthwise of a fallen tree,
may be seen, after nightfall in May, the soft little whip-poor-will. It
begins its work about the time when the night hawk retires. A true
night-bird is the whip-poor-will, and as it sends out upon the still air
its clear, flute-like note, that warbles the chastisement of "poor
Will," we may well honor it with the name of nightingale.

9. A somewhat larger bird, but of the same form and dusky-brown color,
is the southern chuck-will's-widow. In the pine forests of South
Carolina it makes the whole night melodious with a sweet, plaintive
tune. "Even the soft, full-toned, and richly varied song of the
mocking-bird, with which it is often blended, can not drown the
sweetly-cadenced voice of this plain, modest bird, as he sits and
'chucks will's-widow' away during the live-long night."

10. The kingbird, tyrant fly-catcher, or bee-martin, as he is called,
wears upper feathers of ashen-blue, and under plumage of bluish-white.
He is quick and keen. Sitting on the top of a post, he watches the
passing of an insect on the wing, when, with a dash and a whirl, he
seizes the prey and returns to the same perch. He selects the drones
among bees, because they have no sting. But for every bee he captures,
he kills a thousand harmful insects.

[Illustration: _The Kingbird._]

11. In the kingbird, the hawk, and even the eagle, find their match.
They are large and strong, but he is small and active. The eagle may fly
high; but this little tyrant will fly higher until the favorable moment
comes, when, like a swift arrow, he drops upon his giant foe and
inflicts a severe wound in the back of his neck. Though a cousin of the
kingbird, the pewee, or phoebe-bird, is less disposed to quarrel, and
is not nearly so bright and alert.


THE PEWEE.

    12. To trace it in its green retreat,
          I sought among the boughs in vain;
          And followed still the wandering strain,
        So melancholy and so sweet,
          The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain.

           *       *       *       *       *

    13. Long-drawn and clear its closes were--
          As if the hand of Music through
          The somber robe of Silence drew
        A thread of golden gossamer;
          So pure a flute the fairy blew.
        Like beggared princes of the wood,
        In silver rags the birches stood;
        The hemlocks, lordly counselors,
        Were dumb; the sturdy servitors,
        In beechen jackets patched and gray,
        Seemed waiting spell-bound all the day
        That low, entrancing note to hear--
        "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

    14. I quit the search, and sat me down
          Beside the brook, irresolute;
          And watched a little bird in suit
        Of somber olive, soft and brown,
          Perched in the maple branches, mute;
        With greenish gold its vest was fringed,
        Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged,
        With ivory pale its wings were barred,
        And its dark eyes were tender-starred.
        "Dear bird," I said, "what is thy name?"
        And thrice the mournful answer came,
        So faint and far, and yet so near--
        "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

_Trowbridge_.




CHAPTER XXV.

GOSSIPS AND THIEVES OF ORCHARD AND WOODLAND.


    "The river was silent, and could not speak,
       For the weaver winter its shroud had spun;
    A single crow, on the hill-side bleak,
       From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun."

1. Everybody knows the crows and ravens that hang about fields that are
skirted by woods; though everybody does not mark the difference between
these two species of black-feathered creatures. The raven is about two
feet long, and the crow is a half foot shorter. Their habits are nearly
alike. They are strong fliers, build rude nests in tall trees, eat
nearly everything, are not very honest, and make the air noisy with
their cawing and talking, about and across the fields.

2. Ravens and crows do some good when they drop down and pick up the
grubs and cut-worms that are waiting to attack the farmer's young corn.
But they are also fond of corn, and seem to think that the farmer has
planted it in straight check-rows for their special benefit. It is this
mistake on the part of the crow that induces the farmer to erect
statuary in different parts of his field, called "scare-crows"; but
although they are dressed out in the image of very ugly men, the crow
often sees the joke and does not scare.

[Illustration: _The American Crow._]

3. These birds are intelligent, and may be tamed. Stories are told about
them which show that they possess something like reason. A gentleman
tells the following story of the raven: "When I was a boy at school, a
tame raven was very attentive in watching our cribs or bird-traps, and
when a bird was taken he endeavored to catch it by turning up the crib;
but in so doing the bird always escaped, as he could not let the crib go
in time to seize it.

4. "After several vain attempts of this kind, the raven, seeing another
bird caught, instead of going at once to the crib, went to another tame
raven and induced it to accompany him, when the one lifted up the crib,
and the other bore the poor captive off in triumph."

5. At a certain inn in England, a tame raven was kept who was called
Ralph. A gentleman driving to this inn accidentally ran over and
bruised the leg of a favorite Newfoundland dog. While the dog was being
tied to the manger of the horse, Ralph was watching, cawing, and talking
with deep interest. It seemed that Ralph had been brought up with the
dog, and the two were strongly attached, and often performed kindnesses
to each other.

6. After awhile the dog broke his leg, and during the whole time in
which he was confined the raven waited on him, bringing bones and other
food for him to eat. One night the stable-door had been shut, so as to
leave Ralph on the outside; but early in the morning the hostler found
that the faithful bird had almost picked a hole through the door, by
which he might enter.

7. To call these birds gossips may not be altogether a play upon words.
It is known that crows have twenty-seven distinct cries or calls, and
that each utterance has some connection with particular actions.
Therefore, it may be that crows talk to and understand each other. Tame
crows have been taught to mimic other birds, and to repeat names; and
sometimes they are very intelligent in this respect.

8. The rook is a smaller cousin of the crow, and abounds in England,
where it is domestic like our robin. Rooks build "rookeries" in clusters
of trees, where immense numbers of young are raised. The jackdaw is
like the rook in appearance and habit, and the two are great friends.
The jackdaw is more lively than the rook, and more mischievous. He loves
to build his nest in steeples and nooks of churches and colleges. Their
association with moral and religious institutions does not seem to
affect the morals of the jackdaws. They are given to dishonest tricks.
They pilfer from the house bits of linen, and steal all sorts of things,
of which they build their nests.

9. The magpie, in America, is found chiefly in the far West. Related to
the crow family, it is more showy than most of its cousins, having
beautifully-colored feathers of blue, green, and white. It lingers about
the western herds, annoys the tents of campers, and lives largely upon
carrion. In England this bird is sociable, and easily tamed. Young
partridges are not safe in its presence, and, if a hen with her brood
does not keep a sharp lookout, the magpie will eat her innocent chicks.

10. Captain Charles Bendire, U. S. A., tells a good story about his
setter and the magpies, which very craftily robbed it of its bone. While
at Fort Lapwai, Idaho, the magpies were very numerous. His setter Rock
would frequently carry a bone to the front of his master's quarters to
gnaw at leisure. "After a while four or five magpies would come about
him, and watch their chance to get a pick at the bone. In order to
accomplish this, one of the birds would station itself about a foot from
the dog's tail, the other three or four taking their positions in front,
on the sides of the dog's head. The bird in the rear would watch for a
chance when Rock was occupied with his bone, and make a sudden dive at
the extremity of his tail.

[Illustration: _The Magpie._]

11. The enraged dog would jump around, forgetting his bone, and trying
to catch his tormentor. The bird would then leisurely escape. The
remaining birds, in the mean time, devoted themselves to the bone, and
would carry it away, if small enough; if too large, they would pick at
it till the dog returned and drove them away. "I have seen the same
birds pursue these tactics repeatedly," says the writer, "and at every
fresh attack a different bird took his position in the rear. I was able
to make sure of this, as the tails of these birds are seldom, if ever,
alike. They made these attacks systematically, and acted in perfect
accord with each other, as if by a previous understanding."

[Illustration: _The Blue Jay._]

12. Our crow family is not complete without the jay--known to all
country-boys. His high crest, black whiskers, blue wings and tail,
tastefully bound with black and white, render him a pleasing object for
the eye; but his character can not be judged from his looks. He is the
fop among birds, proud, loud-mouthed, and seemingly useless. The jay's
character is not good. He quarrels, and drives away other birds of
softer disposition, and woe to the robin, or oriole, or sparrow, whose
nest comes in his way. He eats the eggs of other birds, and destroys
their young.

13. It is pleasant to find that he sometimes meets his match. Audubon
says: "The cardinal grossbeak will challenge him, and beat him off the
ground. The red thrush, the mocking-bird, and many others, although
inferior in strength, never allow him to approach their nests with
impunity; and the jay, to be even with them, creeps silently to it in
their absence, and devours their eggs and young whenever he finds an
opportunity."




CHAPTER XXVI.

SHINY-COATS.


1. The bird-world is a curious and interesting scene, and our feathered
friends, when we think of them all, never cease to fill us with pleasure
and surprise. If we could stand them all up in a row, what a strange
sight they would present. What sizes, forms, feathers, wings, bills, and
feet! The ostrich is a giant and the humming-bird is a pygmy. The
bird-of-paradise is as splendid as a rainbow, and the swift is as dull
as a cloud. The stormy petrel sails upon a wing that never tires, and
the penguin crawls with a wing that can not fly.

2. In the beaks, legs, and claws of quails, humming-birds, night-hawks,
eagles, woodpeckers, ducks, pelicans, herons, and hornbills, there is an
endless variety of devices and tools. There are running and walking
legs, stilts, oars, paddles, spades, rakes, plows, game-bags, hammers,
chisels, gimlets, hooks, knives, vises, pickaxes, and hatchets. By these
means we have seen our feathered citizens scratching, jumping, wading,
swimming, diving, boring, digging, cutting, sucking, and seizing--all to
satisfy their hungry gizzards.

3. We are now beginning to enter a new sphere of feathered life. We
leave the scratching and pecking, and go with our little friends to
their great temple of song. Now we shall learn the value of the throat,
and a new use of the beak. We shall hear the music of solo and chorus.
We shall see that birds sing not only to call or charm their mates, but
also to express their own joy.

4. And for us, too, they sing. Think of a summer without song-birds. As
well have a summer without sunshine, without buds, or blossoms, or
fruit. With no robin, no pewee, no bobolink, no mocker, no song-sparrow,
June would be December. These birds are all lyre-birds and poets. They
make the heart light and free. The burden of joy or sadness floats away
on their mirthful or plaintive music. Places change, but the birds are
always the same.

    "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
      How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
    How can ye chant, ye little birds,
      And I sae weary fu' o' care!
    Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
      That wantons thro' the flowering thorn;
    Thou minds me o' departed days,
      Departed--never to return."

[Illustration: _The Starling._]

5. The starlings are our happy songsters of spring. When the curtain of
winter rises, they come in the midst of bursting buds and opening
flowers. Among them are bobolinks, cow-birds, meadow-larks, orioles,
and blackbirds. Nature does not deny a shiny gloss, but she prefers dark
colors for her musicians. The bobolink's dress is black and white. The
cow-bird sings in lustrous black. The meadow-lark is happy in yellow,
brown, and black. There are orioles of brown and black, and orioles of
orange and black. Blackbirds must be black, though they glimmer with
blue and green; while some relieve their heads or wings with red, or
yellow, or white.

6. The cow-bird lays small eggs, but shirks work and builds no nest.
Into the nests of other and smaller birds she places her treasures--one
egg in each. This egg is hatched sooner than its companions, and
receives the first attention and love from the foster-mother. She
becomes bewildered over her own weaklings, and tosses them from the nest
and broods the little cow-bird alone.

7. The meadow or field lark, which is no lark, but a starling, we are
told, loves the broad, sunny, shadeless meadow. She makes her nest in a
tuft of grass, and jerks and flutters in the grass before she rises on
her wings. The male sits upon a stump, or a fence, and sings a sweet,
plaintive note which we can never forget.

8. Of orioles, the Baltimore is best known to us, bringing its name from
the livery or arms of Lord Baltimore, of Maryland. Its note is a short,
simple, rolling one, not so much a song as a tuneful way of talking. The
oriole is called a hanging-bird, on account of the peculiar nest it
builds. On the south side of the tree, where the sun is brightest, and
protected from the storm, it hangs a woven pouch or pocket from a limber
twig, which rocks in the breeze but never breaks. Robber-birds find it
difficult to plunder this nest.

[Illustration: _The Baltimore Oriole._]

9. The red-winged blackbird pipes a flute-like song, and chirps about
the willows and bushes of the marsh or creek, where the nest is made,
and two broods of young are raised. Blackbirds do not live in pairs like
other birds, but love rather to assemble in great flocks, covering the
ground and the tree-tops. The crow-blackbird looks like his namesake,
the crow, and is a robber-bird, as bluebirds and robins sadly know.

[Illustration: _The Bobolink._]

10. But we come back to our bobolink. When the bright days of summer
have passed, he puts on dull feathers, and becomes a glutton of
rice-fields in the South. But he is the boy's bird. Washington Irving
says of him: "Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the bobolink
was the envy of my boyhood.... It seemed as if the little varlet mocked
at me as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his
happier lot. Oh, how I envied him! No lessons, no task, no hateful
school; nothing but holiday frolic, green fields, and fine weather."


THE BOBOLINKS.

    1. When Nature had made all her birds,
          With no more cares to think on,
        She gave a rippling laugh, and out
          There flew a bobolinkon.

    2. She laughed again: out flew a mate;
          A breeze of Eden bore them
        Across the fields of paradise,
          The sunrise reddening o'er them.

    3. Incarnate sport and holiday,
          They flew and sang forever;
        Their souls through June were all in time,
          Their wings were weary never.

    4. Their tribe, still drunk with air and light,
          And perfume of the meadow,
        Go reeling up and down the sky,
          In sunshine and in shadow.

    5. One springs from out the dew-wet grass,
          Another follows after;
        The morn is thrilling with their songs,
          And peals of fairy laughter.

    6. From out the marshes and the brook,
          They set the tall reeds swinging;
        And meet and frolic in the air,
          Half prattling and half singing.

    7. When morning winds sweep meadow-lands,
          In green and russet billows,
        And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs,
          And silver all the willows;

    8. I see you buffeting the breeze,
          Or with its motion swaying;
        Your notes half drowned against the wind,
          Or down the current playing.

    9. When far away o'er grassy flats,
          Where the thick wood commences,
        The white-sleeved mowers look like specks,
          Beyond the zigzag fences.

    10. And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam
          White in the pale-blue distance;
        I hear the saucy minstrels still,
          In chattering persistence.

_C. P. Cranch_.




CHAPTER XXVII.

SOCIABLE TENANTS OF THE TREES.


1. There are some birds who love the society of human beings. They are
mostly small, and it seems to please them to hover about and trust in
beings higher and stronger than themselves. There is room enough for
them in the forest or about broad fields, but they love the objects and
company that gather about human homes--the orchard, the barn, the
children, the cow, and the sheep.

2. The little, grayish-brown chipping-sparrow, or chipbird, is most at
home about the kitchen-door. In the near bush or shrub it builds a nest
of grass, neatly lined with hair. Nearly every child, when it is old
enough to talk about birds, is told that he can catch one of these
tempting creatures by putting salt on its tail. The small child usually
tries his experiment on the chipping-sparrow, and usually fails.

3. The white-throated sparrow is not quite so familiar, and is,
therefore, a little farther removed from the danger of the child's
experiment. It is known by a black crown, by yellow spots over the eyes,
by the orange edges of the wings, and by its white throat. It is also
called the peabody-bird, because it is thought to sing something like
_pea_, _pea-body_, _pea-body_, _pea-body_, in a tune of gentle sweetness.

[Illustration: _Sparrows._]

4. The sparrow family is a numerous one. The cousins abound everywhere;
but the song-sparrow is everybody's friend. Its crown is red with black
stripes, and its breast is mottled; though its dress, always plain,
varies its shades in different localities. Mr. Burroughs, the friend of
birds, writes these pleasant words concerning this sociable family:

5. "The sparrows are all meek and lowly birds. They are of the grass,
the fences, the low bushes, the weedy wayside-places. Theirs are the
quaint and lullaby songs of childhood. The white-throat has a timid,
tremulous strain, that issues from the low bushes, or from behind the
fence where its cradle is hid. The song-sparrow modulates its simple
ditty as softly as the lining of its own nest.

6. "What pretty nests, too, the sparrows build! Can anything be more
exquisite than a sparrow's nest under a grassy or mossy bank? What care
the bird has taken not to disturb one straw, or spear of grass, or
thread of moss! You can not approach it and put your hand into it
without violating the place more or less, and yet the little architect
has wrought day after day and left no marks. There has been an
excavation, and yet no grain of earth appears to have been moved.

7. "If the nest had slowly and silently grown, like the grass and the
moss, it could not have been more nicely adjusted to its place and
surroundings. There is absolutely nothing to tell the eye it is there.
Generally a few spears of dry grass fall down from the turf above and
form a slight screen before it. Then, when the full complement of eggs
is laid, what a sweet, pleasing little mystery the silent old bank
holds."

8. There are sparrows of the summer and sparrows of the winter. Who does
not know the brave little snow-birds that warm a driving snow-storm by
their cheerful presence? But their home is not with us; they are only
visiting. When the spring opens, they hie away to the far north, where
they have a cool summer for song and for nesting.

9. Among our sparrow acquaintances is the English sparrow--the
twittering, squeaking, little gamin of the city. He is always with us,
fights away other birds, and is active and saucy. A good story about him
was given to a newspaper: "A male bird brought to his box a large, fine
goose-feather, which is a great find for a sparrow. After he had
deposited his prize and chuckled over it, he went away to find his mate.

10. "His next-door neighbor, a female bird, seeing her chance, quickly
slipped in and seized the feather--and here the wit of the bird came
out, for, instead of carrying it into her own box, she flew with it to
a near tree and hid it in a fork of the branches, then went home, and
was innocently employed about her own affairs, when her neighbor
returned with his mate.

11. "The proud mate, finding his feather gone, came out of his box in a
high state of excitement, and rushed into the cot of the female. Not
finding his goods there, as he expected, he stormed around awhile,
abusing everybody in general and his neighbor in particular, and then
went away as if to get another feather. As soon as he was out of sight,
the shrewd thief went and brought the feather home, and lined her own
house with it."

[Illustration: _Goldfinches._]

12. These sparrows are all finches. The beak of the finch is short,
stout, like a cone in form, and is suited to pick and crack seeds and
nuts. And there are, besides sparrows, other finches who rejoice in the
friendly atmosphere of home. There is the goldfinch, or yellow-bird,
known by its black cap and wings, and by the wavy line of its flight.
It is sometimes called the American canary.

[Illustration: _Grossbeaks._]

13. Of the finch family the grossbeaks are members. The pine grossbeak,
red and gray, lives in pine woods, and spends its summers far North. The
cardinal grossbeak is red all over, wears a crest on its head, and makes
its home in the Middle States all the year round. His whistle is the
merriest of all birds. The red and white winged crossbills are
interesting, because the two parts of their beaks run by each other
like a pair of scissors, for the easier cutting and breaking of shucks
and seeds.

14. The canary, for three hundred years bred in captivity as the musical
house-pet, is a sparrow. "If the nightingale is the chantress of the
wood, the canary is the musician of the chamber." It has a great power
of imitation, and can be taught amusing tricks. Caged canaries have been
known to live ten and even thirteen years. The most of them do not live
half so long.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

OUR NEAR AND KINDLY NEIGHBORS.


1. The poet says:

    "Somewhat back from the village street
    Stands the old-fashioned country-seat,"

and we may add that, from the top of the old mansion rises a chimney or
stack of chimneys. In the nights of summer, through the open
fire-places, the people who live in this home can hear strange
flutterings and chirpings from the flues above, and once in a while a
young bird or two, half-fledged and covered with soot, will fall into
the fire-place.

2. If we watch about sunset, we shall see a great flock of birds
collecting near the house-top. They are chattering and twittering, as
though discussing some weighty matter. They are not still an instant,
but take short flights, or hop on the roof, or from branch to branch
upon the trees near by. But at last things seem to be settled to their
minds. As the sun sinks out of sight, they form into line, circle round
a little farther than usual, and then the leader flies directly down the
chimney, the others following one by one until the whole flock
disappears. These are the chimney-swallows.

3. Before chimneys were built, these birds made their nests in hollow
trees, and often a single old tree would contain hundreds of nests. But
owls kept watch above, and weasels invaded the tree from below, making
sad havoc among the defenseless tenants of the trees.

4. When houses and chimneys were built, the birds soon discovered the
tall hollow shafts, so like their old homes. Here they made nests in
unused flues, and they soon found they were safe from their old enemies.
The smoke, which was sometimes disagreeable, was a more tolerable
companion than a weasel or a snake, and besides there was a warmth very
agreeable on a cold night.

5. The news spread; and soon, whenever the right kind of chimneys were
built, the birds deserted their forest homes, and became companions to
man: flitting above his roof, chirping for him a pleasant little chorus
as an evening farewell, and gliding into his chimney to pass the night
in silence, broken only by an occasional soft chirp, expressive of
contentment and security.

[Illustration: _The Esculent Swallow's Nest._]

6. The chimney-swallow is not a true swallow, but belongs to the swifts,
a family of birds resembling the swallows in form and habits. In the
structure of their throats, however, they are more akin to the
humming-birds.

7. The tail of the chimney-swallow is square across the end, and each
tail-feather ends in a stiff, naked spine. When building its nest, this
bird clings to the wall by its toes and these tail-spines, using its
bill to arrange the twigs of which the nest is made. The twigs are
cemented by a kind of glue which the bird ejects from its stomach. In
Java and adjacent islands the gluey substance used by a bird of this
kind forms the edible birds' nests, greatly valued as an article of food
in China.

[Illustration: _The Barn-Swallow._]

8.  THE BARN-SWALLOW.--Back of the old mansion is a group of old barns;
and here we find the true swallows, with their forked tails and swift,
zigzag flight. The barn-swallow builds its nest of mud upon the rafters
under the peak of the roof. That it might go in and out, the carpenter
made the threecornered "swallows' holes" high up in the gables.

9.  THE CLIFF OR EAVES SWALLOW formerly built its nest upon the sides of
cliffs, where a projecting stone afforded some shelter from above. But
since man has come, these swallows have found that the eaves of barns
furnish the shelter they need; and here they build their nests of mud,
lined with fine grass and feathers.

10.  THE BANK-SWALLOW, also known as the "sand-martin," seeks high,
perpendicular banks of clay for its home. Here, in the middle of the
bank, so as to be out of reach of enemies from above or below, it digs
deep holes in the clay, and at the farther end makes its nest.
Railroad-cuts often furnish the proper kind of bank for its
nest-digging, and the bank-swallow becomes more numerous as such
cuttings are made.

11.  MARTINS.--The purple martin is the largest of the swallow family. It
is strong, and swift of flight, and it shows great courage in defending
its nest and in attacking any birds or animals that have a taste for
eggs or young birds. A pair of these birds will drive a cat out of the
garden and a hawk out of the district. The martin is a great favorite
with people in the country, and "martin-boxes" are placed on trees and
poles for them to build nests in.

12. All the swallows catch their prey upon the wing, and they destroy
immense numbers of insects which would otherwise spoil our crops. In the
spring they come early, sending on an advance-guard to see that
everything is ready before the whole body arrives. It was once thought
that they passed the winter in the mud at the bottom of ponds; but it is
now known that they migrate in early autumn to warm southern countries,
and that vast flocks of them collect and fly mostly by night.




CHAPTER XXIX.

FRIENDS OF FIELD AND FOREST.


    "Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings."

1. The lark of Shakespeare, the sky-lark, lives in the land of
Shakespeare. Our little goldfinch sings his galloping ditty while he
bounds along the air; but most of our song-birds must fold the wing and
rest the foot when they swell the throat. This modest brown sky-lark,
that builds its nest in the grass, rises in the air and pours down a
shower of notes upon the world beneath. Even when it has soared beyond
the reach of the eye, its music still reaches and charms the ear.

2. So the poets have loved to extol the sky-lark, as Longfellow sings:

    "Up soared the lark into the air,
    A shaft of song, a wingd prayer,
    As if a soul released from pain,
    Were flying back to heaven again."

[Illustration: _The Sky-Lark._]

3. Our larks, by the structure of their bills, nostrils, and wings, are
closely related to the European sky-lark. The so-called meadow-lark does
not belong to this family; but the shore-lark, the titlark, and the
wagtail are familiar members, and sweet singers. The shore-lark has over
each ear a peculiar tuft, which gives it the name of horned lark. The
wagtails have a singular way of wagging their tails, as if trying to
balance themselves when they alight. They are restless creatures,
tripping from one place to another, always with a wag or twitch of the
tail. The Louisiana pipit, or brown lark, is common, though its song is
feeble.

4. The Missouri titlark is our sky-lark; but it seems to be waiting for
some poet to excite human ears to hear it. From the Red River of the
North to Texas in the South it cleaves the sky with its soaring song.
"Rising from the nest, or from its grassy bed, this plain-looking bird,
clad in the simplest colors, and making but a speck in the boundless
expanse, mounts straight up, on tremulous wings, till lost to view in
the blue ether, and then sends back to earth a song of gladness that
seems to come from the sky itself, to cheer the weary, and give hope to
the disheartened.

[Illustration: _The American Titlark._]

5. "No other bird-music in our land compares with the wonderful strains
of this songster; there is something not of earth in the melody, coming
from above, yet from no visible source. The notes are indescribable; but
once heard, they can never be forgotten. Their volume and penetration
are truly wonderful; they are neither loud nor strong, yet the whole air
seems filled with the tender strains, and delightful melody continues
long unbroken. The song is only heard for a period in the summer, and it
is only uttered when the birds are soaring."

6. Of warblers there is a multitude, though there must be practiced eyes
and keen ears to see and hear them. They are small: only five inches
long. Their colors are rather gay--too gay for distinguished musicians.
They mingle the tints of blue and black, yellow, green, and white, in
great variety. The black and white creeper, the blue golden-winged
warbler, the blue yellow-backed warbler, and the summer yellow-bird, are
common acquaintances. They pry into every crevice of limb or bark, and
catch their daintiest tid-bits on the under side of leaves, where other
birds forget to look. They nest on the ground, in stumps, bushes, or
trees.

7. Our summer yellow-bird, the blue-eyed yellow warbler, has a sprightly
song, and is a common inhabitant of woodland. The nest of this bird is
one of those in which the cow-bird lays her egg. In making her nest, the
yellow-bird, when arranging the material, which is cotton or wool,
whirls round and round, with outstretched wings and tail, like a small
spinning-wheel.

8. In this expert nest-builder, the cow-bird finds her match. If this
sly impostor deposits her egg in the nest, either before or after the
yellow-bird has laid her own eggs, this shrewd little builder sets to
work and places a new floor, covering both her own eggs and that of the
cow-bird. Then she begins another brood.

9. While we attend to warblers, we must not forget the wonderful, sober,
quiet, little tailor-birds, who live in India, where they have lively
and reckless monkeys to deal with. Their nest is a marvel of crafty
work. Away out at the end of a slender twig, where spry monkeys can not
reach, these little tailors--seamster and seamstress--join hanging
leaves and sew them together, with some vegetable fiber for thread. The
holes in the leaves are punched and the thread is drawn through by their
bills; then the whole is glued together with their saliva. Cotton, lint,
and down furnish the nest within.

[Illustration: _Nest of the Tailor-Bird._]

10. Occasionally there comes dashing into the trees, where the plainer
home birds play, a visitor so gay that it might be taken for a tropical
bird. It is about the size of a swallow, and is of a deep-scarlet color,
except its wings and tail, which are as deeply black. In the more
Western States, this bird is rose or vermilion in color, wings and all.

11. "Oh, see that beautiful red bird," is the exclamation, when this
unexpected visitor arrives, and everybody tries to get a sight at it.
The one with black wings is the scarlet tanager, and the other, of solid
color, is its cousin, the summer red-bird. We may reasonably wonder why
they do not show their rich robes to us oftener. But the gay robes are
quite likely to be the reason. Among birds, to be beautiful is to be
seen, to be caught, and shot at, and to be always in danger. The safest
are they which sit upon tree-tops and are heard, not seen.

12. When cherries are ripe, the cedar-bird comes. It is the Carolina
wax-wing. Its feathers wear a glossy, olive-ash color, and a crest rises
from its head. There is a singular horny point on its wings that looks
like sealing-wax. The fondness it has for the ripest and best cherries
wins for it few, friends.

13. There are two small birds we shall observe if we look carefully, who
are clad in olive-green, like the leaves among which they twitter and
dance. They love the sunshine. One of them has red eyes, and the other
has white eyes. They are the red-eyed and white-eyed vireos. Red-eye
plays a quaint little tune, and white-eye sings a simple, quiet ditty.
Their soft, sweet notes fill us with peaceful feelings, as of some
distant spirit voice.

[Illustration: _The Wax-Wing._]

[Illustration: _The Red-eyed Vireo._]

14. The nest of the white-eyed vireo is something curious. It hangs
from a bush like an inverted cone, and is made of twigs and hornets'
nests, and nearly always of bits of newspaper. Hence, the bird is called
"the little politician." In this nest the cow-bird places her egg, and
obliges the little vireo to hatch and rear a young one several times as
big as herself.

15. It is not so pleasant to pass from the gentle vireo, patient under
the imposition of the cow-bird, to so fierce a character as the great
northern shrike, or butcher-bird. The garment that covers this
hard-hearted creature is of rich slate or ash color, trimmed with
velvety black on the wings and tail. It is larger than the blue jay, and
its beak is devoted not so much to song as to the slaughter of smaller
birds. And when this butcher-bird has killed his victim, he hangs it on
a thorn or twig, and straightway goes to kill another.




CHAPTER XXX.

LITTLE BUSY-WINGS.


1. The titmouse, which is our chickadee, ought to be one of our best
friends; for, with the snow-bird, it comes to give lightness to the dull
tone of winter. Titmice are quite suggestive of mice in feathers. The
chickadee has a black crown, and the tufted titmouse wears a crest; but
otherwise they have a color not unlike that of mice, and in their sly,
quick, droll actions, they remind us of their cousins in fur.

2. Titmice hop, skip, and jump about from twig to twig, looking over and
under branches and leaves, and into all cracks and holes for their
insect food, revealing their presence by their "saucy note." They ought
to have the friendship of all those who value the fruit of garden or
orchard for the earnest, patient work they do in catching harmful
insects.

[Illustration: _The Hanging Titmouse._]

3. Their nests are curious. On the Pacific coast is a titmouse, called
the least-bush-tit, who constructs a nest like a skillfully-woven purse,
hung from a slender branch. The Cape titmouse, in South Africa, weaves
a nest of cotton, in the shape of a bottle, which is suspended from the
twig of a tree. It has an outside pocket, in which the male sits as
watchman while the female and her brood are within. When the mother
leaves her charge, this watchman closes the entrance of the bottle by
beating it with his wings.

4. A lively, nimble, little creeper, shying around a winter tree,
clinging to the bark like a woodpecker, and uttering his _quauk_,
_quauk_, _quauk_, is the nut-hatch. It is so called because it sticks
nuts and seeds in the bark of trees, and then hammers them till they are
cracked. Its upper feathers are blue, its under feathers white, and its
crown is black.

5. Nut-hatches are like the titmouse in their habits--turning and
twisting around the branches, in quest of insects with which to vary
their diet of nuts and seeds. To make the search more easy, their
tongues are horny, and end in sharp points or barbs. It is not
altogether easy for them to crack some of the nuts they eat. If a
hazel-nut, which is hard, is to be opened, they place it in a crevice in
the bark, and, after striking it in several different positions, finally
hammer it with their heads down.

6. These active little winter neighbors, like the titmouse, remain with
us throughout the year; but we see little of them during the summer,
for they are then busy with their nests and young, which they tuck away
in the holes of trees. While the female is confined to her duties
within, the male may be seen creeping about the hole and softly
chattering to make light the tedious moments of her imprisonment.

7. Speaking of our small neighbors, we can not pass by the story of the
wren. It is a gallant little soldier, and an accomplished artist. An
ancient story calls it the king of birds. Its claim to royalty seems to
rest upon the fact that it is both small and smart. The old story tells
how the birds assembled to choose a king, and it was decided that he
should be king who could soar the highest.

8. All the birds sprang up into the air; but the eagle, as might be
expected, mounted higher toward the sky than the rest, and proclaimed
himself king. But the little wren, so small and light that he was not
noticed, was all this time riding on the eagle's shoulder; and, as soon
as this proud monarch had reached his limit, up sprang the wren on its
tiny wings and rose still higher.

9. Great size and strength are not always the best means of defense, as
is shown in the case of this very small but active bird. The nest of the
marsh-wren is an ingenious little pocket fastened to the stalk of a
rush or mallow. It is too high for a large robber in feathers to reach,
and a smaller enemy finds no branch to stand upon. But the smart and
nimble wrens can cling even to the smooth stalk, and laugh at all
enemies.

10. The house-wren, or "Jenny Wren," is a human little creature, that
has become a favorite about home by its gushing melody and its pert
ways. First of all, it is a brave fighter, and will attack a martin or a
cat. It will perform a small manual of arms, with its jerking body and
its bobbing head and tail. When a house-sparrow has committed a criminal
act, Jenny Wren has called in her associates and given him a sound
drubbing.

11. Then our brave little friend is a skilled artist. The female does
the work in building, while her mate, who does no work, plays a
continuous song. To the one it seems pleasant to be charmed with fine
music, while hard at work, and to the other it seems much easier to sing
than to work. Both parties are satisfied, and the nest is a dainty
little piece of architecture, upon which a vast amount of labor has been
bestowed.

12. A great deal of common sense is shown by this cunning builder. She
prefers a box, with a very small hole, to place her nest in; but if this
is wanting, she will make the best of any hole or cranny. She has
erected a choice little home in the carcass of a hawk nailed to a barn,
in the skeleton head of a calf suspended in a tree, in the sleeve of a
neglected coat hung in a stable, and in an old hat.

13. Some persons have watched to find out how many times in the day a
pair of birds feed their young. The wren has been seen to bring food to
her six little ones two hundred and seventy-eight times during a single
day. How much mischief the caterpillars, worms, and other insects thus
slaughtered could do, it is not easy to estimate. This should make Jenny
Wren a universal favorite.




CHAPTER XXXI.

BIRDS AT DAWN.


    1. The beautiful day is breaking,
          The first faint line of light
          Parts the shadows of the night,
        And a thousand birds are waking.
        I hear the hairbird's slender trill--
        So fine and perfect it doth fill
        The whole sweet silence with its thrill.

    2. A rosy flush creeps up the sky,
        The birds begin their symphony.
        I hear the clear, triumphant voice
        Of the robin, bidding the world rejoice.
        The vireos catch the theme of the song,
        And the Baltimore oriole bears it along,
        While from sparrow, and thrush, and wood-pewee,
        And, deep in the pine-trees, the chickadee,
        There's an under-current of harmony.

    3. The linnet sings like a magic flute;
        The lark and bluebird touch the lute;
        The starling pipes to the shining morn,
        With the vibrant note of the joyous horn;
          The splendid jay
          Is the trumpeter gay;
        The kingfisher, sounding his rattle--he
        May the player on the cymbals be;
        The cock, saluting the sun's first ray,
        Is the bugler sounding a reveille;
        "Caw! Caw!" cries the crow, and his grating tone
        Completes the chord like a deep trombone.

    4. But, above them all, the robin sings;
          His song is the very soul of day,
          And all black shadows troop away
        While, pure and fresh, his music rings:
              "Light is here!
               Never fear!
               Day is near!
               My dear!"

_Harriet E. Paine_.




CHAPTER XXXII.

SONG AND HYMN OF GARDEN AND WOOD.


    "I hear from many a little throat
      A warble, interrupted long;
    I hear the robin's flute-like note,
      The bluebird's slenderer song.

    "Brown meadows and the russet hill,
      Not yet the haunt of grazing herds,
    And thickets by the glimmering rill,
      Are all alive with birds."

1. Our "flying visit" brings us at length to the birds of richest,
rarest song. The migratory thrush, or robin-redbreast, claims for its
home the North and the South, the East and the West, is everybody's
friend, and everybody should be its friend. It loves worms, but it also
loves men.

2. We can hardly tell what our robin did before he had an apple-tree to
build his nest in; or a cherry-tree to be king of; or a garden to pick
worms from; or a lilac-bush to light on while he chats his _tuck_,
_tuck_, _tuck_; or a kitchen-window to peep into; or a human
neighborhood to flute his morning song to. Nor can we know whether the
chimney-swift or the swallow felt lost before there were chimneys and
barns for them.

3. The blackbird of England is our robin in a darker dress. The
song-thrush of the same country is remarkable for its rich, mellow tone,
and for the delicacy of its flesh. But the nightingale of the old
country is her queen of song. With its music Milton celebrates the
marriage of our first parents:

       --"Nor then the solemn nightingale
    Ceased warbling, but all night tuned her soft lays."

And the ancient Pliny says: "In that little bill seems to reside all the
melody which man has vainly labored to bring from a variety of musical
instruments."

[Illustration: _The Song-Thrush._]

4. Good old Izaak Walton gives us this: "The nightingale, another of my
airy creatures, breathes such sweet music out of her little instrumental
throat, that it might make mankind to think that miracles had not
ceased. He that at midnight, when the weary laborer sleeps securely,
should hear, as I have very often heard, the clear airs, the sweet
descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of
her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, 'Lord, what music
hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men
such music on earth?'"

5. Our earliest harbinger of spring, and the familiar acquaintance of
everybody, is the bluebird--

    "The bluebird shifting his light load of song
    From post to post along the cheerless fence."

He answers to the English robin. He comes from the warm South, and we
often hear his gentle, rolling carol before we have realized that spring
is near. "With the earth-tinge on his breast, and the sky-tinge on his
back," the cheerfulness of opening buds is in his pleasant voice.

[Illustration: _The Nightingale._]

6. Soon after the bluebird announces his arrival, comes his more plainly
dressed mate. Their family home is in hollow stumps, knot-holes, or
boxes. When a nest is so far down in a perpendicular hole that the
young can not climb out, it has been found that the parents let down
sticks for a ladder. These birds stay with us longer than other
migratory songsters, are not afraid of men, meet us everywhere, and are
among our most familiar friends.

7. Appearing in the Middle States during the latter part of April, there
is the brown thrasher, the largest of our thrushes. His bright
reddish-brown back, broad fan-tail, and vigorous flight among brambles
and bushes, are all familiar points. His nest is usually placed so near
to the ground that it invites unfriendly visits from black-snakes, which
the bird vigorously repels. The thrasher is a delightful songster,
though not a mocking-bird, as many suppose. He has a note of his own.

[Illustration: _The Brown Thrasher._]

8. Out from thickets and orchards comes a cry as of a motherless kitten,
and the coming of the cat-bird is announced. Not very attractive in his
covering of deep-slate color, he is a mocker, but imperfect and not
distinct in his imitations. The cat-bird always joins in the daybreak
chorus. Of his strong paternal attachment, Wilson says:

9. "In passing through the woods in summer, I have sometimes amused
myself with imitating the violent chirping or squeaking of young birds,
in order to observe what different species were around me; for such
sounds, at such a season, in the woods, are no less alarming to the
feathered tenants of the bushes, than the cry of fire or murder in the
streets is to the inhabitants of a large and populous city.

10. "On such occasions, the cat-bird is the first to make his
appearance, not singly, but sometimes half a dozen at a time. At this
time, those who are disposed to play with his feelings may almost throw
him into fits at the distressful cries of what he supposes to be his
suffering young."

    11. "But hush!
            Far off sings the sweet wood-thrush."

From the topmost branch of some tall tree, far off, and yet near enough
for music-loving ears to hear, or out of the still depths of the forest,
he pours his melody on the air like the rolling, double-tongued notes of
a finely played flute. He sings in the sunshine, and when the day is
fading into night. He sings when it is dry and when it is wet. Even
when the throats of other birds are closed, the wood-thrush sings.

[Illustration: _The Wood-Thrush._]

12. A near relative of this bird is the linnet-thrush, less attractive
in feather, seldom heard, but said to possess even a richer note. Of the
wood-thrush Mr. Burroughs says: "He is a poet in very word and deed. His
carriage is music to the eye. His performance of the commonest act, as
catching a beetle, or picking a worm from the mud, pleases like a stroke
of wit or eloquence. What a finely proportioned form! How plain, yet
rich, his color, the bright russet of his back, the clear white of his
breast!"

13. The mocking-bird, our most renowned thrush, is the American
nightingale. Ashen-gray, with tail and wings black and tipped with
white, it rarely passes the summer north of the thirty-eighth parallel
of latitude. It brings off two broods in the season, hates the cat, and
is a deadly enemy to the black-snake. It is the rival of the English
nightingale, both as a singer of the night, and in the richness and
power of its song.

14. In the cage, the mocking-bird is a faithful learner and imitator of
other birds' notes. But in its wild freedom at the South it makes its
best performance. When the last trill of the whip-poor-will has died
away, our night-minstrel floods the moonlit air with enchanting melody.
He even mounts into the upper air, and, while soaring on his wing,
shakes out the notes of his delicious song upon the world below--thus
proving himself both sky-lark and nightingale.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE ROCHESTER ROBIN.[A]


    1. A Rochester robin alighted one day
        On a bar or a brace of the wonderful thing
    That mills the swift miles like grain in its way,
        And flies like a bird, though it never takes wing.

    2. And the Rochester robin said to herself,
        "What a place for a nest, so strong and so warm,
    As neat as a pin and as shiny as delf,
        Up out of the danger, in out of the storm."

    3. And her mate by the roadside struck up the old lay,
        He sang for the apple-tree blossoms to dance,
    The girlish white blossoms in pink appliqu,
        More fragrant and fair than the lilies of France.

    4. The heart of the engine was cold as a cave,
        The furnace-door grim as the grate of a cell;
    And, dumb as the church under Switzerland's wave,
        Like a tulip of gold the glittering bell.

    5. Then the stoker swung wide the furnace's door,
        Stirred up the dull fire, and the robins just said,
    "Summer weather to-day!" Then rumble and roar
        Played the water's hot pulse with the clouds overhead.

    6. "I am sure it will rain," he sang to his mate,
        "It thunders and lightens; but work right along,
    The house but half done, and the season so late--
        How cloudy it grows." So he kept up the song.

    7. And the twain fell to work, bore timbers of straw,
        And fibers of wool caught on thistle and thorn;
    And wrought them all in, by the Lord's "higher law,"
        With threads of the laces some maiden had worn.

    8. Then _clang_ swung the bell, and the warble was hushed,
        And the crazy sparks flew, as if the storm tore
          The small constellations aside and asunder;
    While the engine along the steel parallels rushed.
          The birds watched it all with innocent wonder--
        "Who ever saw stars in the day-time before?"

    9. Then she cried, and he said, "The gale is so strong,
        I think the whole world must be blowing away!"
    She, trusting, replied, "Can not last very long,"
        And kept on with her work, far sweeter than play.

    10. To and fro, far and near, their fiery world went,
        The cup of their love brimming over with life;
    And the engineer stood at his window, intent,
        And watched the steel rails, the redbreast and wife,
    And declared, by his engine and honor, he would
    Be the death of the man, big or little, who should,
    In the height or the depth of his gracelessness, dare
    "To meddle or make" with his passengers there.

    11. Ah, brave guests of the foot-board, ticketed through
        All weathers and times till the end of the run,
    The Lord of the sparrows, who is caring for you,
        And the Lord of all realms forever are One.

_Benj. F. Taylor_.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

WINGS AND FEET FOR EARTH, AIR, AND SEA.


1. Before parting from our friends in feathers, let us invite them all
to gather in some pleasant field in the world of our imagination, that
they may see and amuse each other, and that we may be both amused and
instructed. So many sizes, shapes, and colors could scarcely be brought
from any other race of animals. Many of them have never met before, and
they have their emotions excited as they examine the different forms,
features, and feathers assembled.

2. We can easily fancy the flamingo, with long legs, wings, and neck,
and the penguin, with short legs, and stubby wings, expressing surprise
at each other. The pelican, with dignified face, and the
bird-of-paradise, with gorgeous dress, will admire each other. The owl,
who can not see well, but has ears to hear, will enjoy the guffaw of the
laughing-jackass; and this visitor from Australia will be excited to
smile more loudly than usual at the big ears of the owl. The
secretary-bird will, doubtless, be pleased with the snaky neck of the
darter. The condor will study with interest the instruments of slaughter
carried by the eagle, hawk, and falcon; and those hungry highwaymen will
find it hard to keep their cruel claws from the multitude of dainty
little hoppers before them.

[Illustration: _Sharp Claws of Bird of Prey._]

3. Then we may fancy some of the visitors claiming relationship by their
feathers, bills, legs, and feet. The flamingo will show that he is kin
both to the heron and the duck. The pigeon, by its feet, will cousin
with the hen, and, by its wings, with the swiftest fliers. The penguin,
because he uses his little wings for crawling and swimming, may show his
relationship to lizards and fish. The darter, by his neck, may claim
that his fore-fathers were snakes. All the members of the assembly will
rejoice in the common features they behold, and the mass-meeting will be
turned into a family-gathering.

4. The ostrich--the feathered camel--will be the grand patriarch of the
occasion, and we may well conclude that he will be honored. He will not
be annoyed or burdened if the whole race of perchers--finches, warblers,
swallows, and wrens--sit upon his back, and nut-hatches and woodpeckers
climb his neck and legs. If now, in the midst of this general good
feeling, the whole assembly should join in the exercise of their musical
powers, there would be such a chorus as was never before heard. The tide
of music would swell with the songs of nightingale, sky-lark, bobolink,
robin, wood-thrush, and mocker; with the crowing of the cock, the
cackling of the guinea, the hoot of the owl, the honk of the goose, the
caw of the crow, the yell of the loon, the horn of the crane, the quack
of the duck, the screech of the parrot, the trumpet of the heron, the
cymbal of the woodpecker, and the drum of the grouse.

5. Amid the vast variety in this feathered convention, one fact is
common to all its members: they are all birds. All breathe air and are
warm-blooded; lay eggs, have backbones and feathers; two limbs for
walking or swimming, three eyelids, bony tongues, and hollow bones. None
of them have true teeth, or lips of flesh, or outside ears.

6. If now they scatter, and go to their homes as fast as they are able,
we have a fine chance to observe their different natural motions. It is
easy to see that they divide themselves into birds of the air, birds of
the land, and birds of the water. To secure the objects of their life,
all must move, and all have either air or water to move in or against.
Hence, the general shape of the body is alike in all. It has the form of
the egg they lay. The breast of the bird is like the large end of the
egg, and the rest of the body tapers back like the small end. Or the
form of the bird's body is like a boat or canoe, tapering at both ends,
so as to cut the air or water in front, and to drag as little as
possible behind.

7. The breast-bone of the bird is like the keel of a boat, and the curve
is shorter in water than in land-birds. Water-birds, too, have flatter
bodies for floating, while they, as well as air-birds, have air-cells
which, with their hollow bones, are filled by their lungs. The ostrich,
and the apteryx, of New Zealand, that has no wings or tail, both have
flat breasts.

8. Just as the balloon, the buggy, and the boat are operated, each in a
different manner, so the birds of the air, of the land, and of the water
have different means of motion. The air-birds are moved by the wings
pressing against the air. For powerful flight over a short distance the
wing is short and round, and makes rapid strokes, as in the quail or
grouse. For the light, airy, circling, or continued flight or the
swallow, the pigeon, or the albatross, the wing is long and pointed. The
wings of the ostrich and auk are stubby, because they do not use them
for flying.

9. The land-birds are moved mainly by legs. The turkey, pheasant,
lyre-bird, and all walkers and runners, are well-balanced on long,
strong legs; the waders' legs are still longer. For the swimming-birds
these limbs are short as well as strong, and they are set far behind, so
as to push the body in the water. The birds of the air, except those
that use their feet for catching prey, have short, weak legs, and they
move when on the ground only by hopping. The duck and penguin are
awkward walkers.

[Illustration: _Strong flat Foot of Scratcher._]

10. All birds have necks long enough to carry the bill back to the
oil-sac at the root of the tail. And, when the legs lift the body high
above the ground, the neck must be long enough to bring the bill back to
the ground. So, the crane, stork, and heron have long necks; and ducks,
swallows, and cormorants have short necks.

[Illustration: _Swan swimming, showing the Web expanded and closed._]

11. The feathers, also, are precisely suited to the habits of the
different birds. All need feathers for a covering, as other animals need
fur and scales. The duck has a thick, oily coat to resist water. The
fliers have fewer feathers, light and open, except in the wing, where
the barbs of the feathers are hooked and locked together, so as to
resist the air. The feathers of the ostrich are downy, so as to cover
him, and at the same time make his load light when he runs. The tails of
flying-birds are used for rudders to steer their course.

12. The foot of the bird is that part of the leg that reaches from the
joint we see below the feathers to the ground. This joint is the heel,
and some birds, like the auk, when sitting, rest upon the whole foot.
Most birds have four toes, three in front and one behind. The feet,
including the toes, differ according to the work they have to
do--whether they perch, or walk, or wade, or swim.

[Illustration: _Climbing-Claw of the Parrot._]

13. The higher up a bird lives, the shorter are its feet, and the longer
are its toes. The perchers must grasp branches and twigs, and they have
long, slender toes, with sharp nails, the hind toe as long as the front
ones. Some of them have their toes in pairs--two before and two
behind--an arrangement quite convenient for the woodpecker, who wants to
cling to a tree with his head down; and for the parrot, who climbs from
twig to twig like a monkey.

[Illustration: _Walking-Foot of the Plover._]

14. The walkers and scratchers, like the hen and turkey, have toes that
spread when they touch the ground, so as to make a broad foundation to
support their bodies. The hind toe is set up, and above this is
sometimes seen the spur for defense. The plover has but three toes, as
it is a beach-walker, and not a scratcher. The flamingo wades in deep
water, and its three fully webbed toes serve to keep it from sinking in
the mud, as it digs and bores for its prey. The heron has but two
webbed toes; he stands and waits for his prey to come to him. The grebe
has a membrane on each side of its toes, which makes them paddles when
it needs to swim. In some this membrane is scalloped.

[Illustration: _Foot of Grebe, showing Swimming-Membrane on each Toe._]

15. Among swimmers, the duck, like the swan, a complete water-bird, has
three webbed toes. The pelican, with long wings for flight, needs a
powerful oar when he swims, and his toes are all webbed. The
ocean-fliers can not be bothered with great, strong legs and feet: so
their limbs are small and weak; and, to help them, when it is necessary
to swim, they have webbed toes. The birds that seize their prey alive,
like the hawk and eagle, have all their toes long, curved, strong, and
with sharp claws; while the vultures, that only attack animals when they
are dead, wear short hind toes, long, nearly flat front toes, and all
rather weak.

[Illustration: _Curved Toes of the Grebe or Coot._]

16. Nothing about birds is more curious than the bill. Of course, it is
the mouth, but it is also the lips, and partly the teeth. It does all
sorts of work, for it is a hand as well as a mouth. It tears, cuts,
crushes, pounds, feels, holds, carries, and performs the work of a
variety of tools. To do all this, it is either long or short, straight
or curved, or hooked; and it is slender or cone-shaped, or flat and
wide. The air-birds, or perchers, if, like the robin, they live largely
on insects, have bills of medium length; but if they are seed-eaters,
they have short, cone-shaped beaks, like the finches, or cracking and
cutting bills, that work like scissors, as in the cross-bill. Those that
catch insects on the wing, like the night-hawk and swallows, have short
bills that open wide and deep.

17. The parrot has a nut-cracking bill with a hook at the end for
climbing. The eagle's bill is both hooked and strong, for catching and
tearing live animals; while the vulture's bill is weak and less hooked,
as it is used merely to carve dead flesh. The heron manages well, with a
long, sharp, cutting bill, to snap a fish as it swims by; but the
flamingo, to bore, and plow, and sift, needs the large, ugly tool that
he has. The spoon-bill catches shrimps and crabs with a double spoon;
the duck digs and strains out its nourishment with a double shovel; the
pelican captures small fry with a scoop; and the sea-fliers have long
bills, with sharp or hooked ends, so arranged as to catch and hold their
slippery prey.




CHAPTER XXXV.

SHINY TENANTS OF BROOK AND POND.


1. Fishes are our friends, mostly because they allow us to catch and eat
them. Some of them, like the gold-fish and other small varieties, live
well in the aquarium, and grow interesting as pets. Those that are kept
in large numbers in artificial ponds grow tame, and will come at the
call of the voice, or at the tinkling of a bell. Fish have sense enough
to know where to find their nests. They return to the sea after they
have journeyed far up toward the source of rivers. But their wit fails
against the deception of a baited hook hiding within a tempting bait.

2. There are some features of rare beauty about fish. Among them are
those whose form is graceful, and some are clothed in scales that
reflect nearly all the colors of the rainbow. But the most interesting
thing about fish, to the majority of the people, is the catching of them
with rod, hook, and line. The rod and line, as held in fishing,
describe in the air the two sides of an angle, and hence fishing has
been called angling. From earliest times it has been considered fine
sport to go fishing. More than two hundred years ago Izaak Walton, an
Englishman, wrote a book on angling, which is even now a delight both to
those who love books, and to those who love this charming sport. In this
book, addressing one who is learning the art of angling, he says:

3. "No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy and so pleasant as the
life of a well-governed angler; for when the lawyer is swallowed up with
business--and the statesman is preventing or contriving plots--then we
may sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in
as much quietness as these silent, silver streams which we now see glide
so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, we may say of angling, as Dr.
Boteler said of strawberries: 'Doubtless God could have made a better
berry, but doubtless God never did.' And, so, if I might be judge, God
never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling."

4. With this sentiment most girls and boys will agree. But another view
set forth by Izaak Walton hardly represents the facts:

    "Of recreation there is none
     So free as fishing is alone;
     All other pastimes do no less
     Than mind and body, both possess;
     My hand alone my work can do,
     So I can fish and study too."

Where is the boy that can study while he is baiting his hook, casting
his line, or landing a wriggling shiner or chub? Fishing forgets
everything but itself; forgets school, study, and the time of day;
forgets that water is wet, or cold, or deep. But it is sometimes
forcibly reminded of all these things by a small edition of the
Judgment-day, when it returns home at night.

5. There is one kind of study, however, that may go along with fishing,
and that is the study of fish. Here is the shiner, nearly always the
first inhabitant of the water to be introduced to a young fisherman at
the end of his quivering line. What a graceful form it has, tapering
into a small head at one end, and thin lively tail at the other. And how
true to its name, as its greenish back, and sides of lustrous, silvery
white, gleam in the sunshine.

6. Let us go to school to the shiner, and see what we can learn. Along
the bank of a brook, when the water is clear, we will step softly, and
on the side that is away from the sun, so that our shadows will not
fall on the stream. Here, in little pools, are scores of minnows. They
are a kind of fish by themselves, and never grow longer than two or
three inches. But here again is a deeper pool, over part of which the
bank casts its shadow. Keep still now, for a moment. There he comes! Now
watch him closely.

[Illustration: _The Common Minnow: n, nose; gc, gill-cover; af, arm-fin;
lf, leg-fins; sf, single fins; ms, mucous scales_.]


7. He stops to look and to hear if any danger is near. It is easy to see
how he keeps from rolling over. There are two limbs just behind the
head, and two more still farther back. These limbs are fins, but they
have fingers and toes which are like the rays of a fan. The shiner
spreads out these fins on either side of him, and they keep him in an
upright position. There is another fin sticking up on his back, and
still another below, near his tail. These help to hold him steady.

8. It is easy to see how the shiner keeps right side up, but not so
easy to see how he floats or keeps himself from sinking. Watch him! He
moves a little! This is a simple operation. He vibrates his tail
horizontally, just as a boat is sculled by working a single oar at the
stern. But how he manages to stand still, and to rise or drop in the
water is not so clear. To learn this secret of the shiner, we must catch
him.

[Illustration: _The Rock-Bass._]

9. Most young fishermen study the habits of fish but little. They
readily learn to distinguish the varieties. They know the roach, by the
red in its eyes and about its lower parts; and the chub, by its large
neck and head, coarse scales and flesh. They know the perch, by its
yellow color and small head, and because it is a "bold biter," as Walton
says; the rock-bass, by its broader body and pouting under lip; the
sun-fish, or pumpkin-seed, because it is nearly round. And these fishes
have made more or less impression on all young anglers by the sharp,
ugly spines with which their fins are armed.

10. Everybody, too, knows the sucker, by his peculiar mouth; and the
bull-head, because his head is the largest part of him, and carries ten
spines with which to draw blood from tender hands. These peculiar marks
are soon learned, but who notes the resemblances or difference of
fishes, or sees that the chub, and roach, and shiner, and sucker have
soft fins, and the perch and bass have sharp, stiff fins? Or who knows
how these fishes stand still in the water?

11. But we must catch our shiner before he gets away. Izaak Walton gives
to young fishermen some hints that it may be well for them to learn. He
tells them that the earth-worms they use for bait should be taken from
the ground long enough to become empty and hungry before they are used.
The hook should enter near the tail of the worm, so as to leave the head
covering the end or barb of the hook. And further he says: "Before you
begin to angle, cast to have the wind on your back; and the sun, if it
shines, to be before you; and to fish down stream; and to carry the top
of your rod downward, by which means the shadow of yourself, and rod
too, will be least offensive to the fish, for the sight of any body
amazes the fish, and spoils our sport, of which you must take great
care."

12. We shall have no difficulty in catching our shiner. A hungry worm on
a small hook, let down by a fine grass-line, gently into the
water--there! he nibbles; don't be in a hurry: let him get a firm hold;
there! He comes! Squirming with all his might, and shining like a silver
dollar. Lay him down. See how he pants! Notice the rising and falling of
the small lid on the side of his head. Raise this lid, and see the gills
full of red blood. These are his breathing-apparatus. He can not live on
air. He needs the same oxygen that is in the air, but he must get it
from the water. Into his mouth the water runs, and, as it passes out
under the gill-cover, the gills take the oxygen out of the water and
send it to the blood.

13. That is the way in which the shiner breathes. His flesh is very poor
eating, and is full of minute bones; but any fish seems good to the
youth who catches it. So, now that it is dead, we will open and dress
it. Under the spine we find a transparent sac, evidently filled with
air. This is the swimming-bladder, and it is filled with gas or emptied
at the will of the fish; and, just as it is more or less filled, the
fish rises, remains stationary, or sinks in the water.

14. The fish world is more numerous in people than that of any other
animals, and the varieties are almost endless. Some of them, like our
common fish, are found singly, and some, like the mackerel of the sea,
move in large companies or schools. Some are caught with nets or seines,
but many of them, like the cod of the ocean, and the cat-fish of the
rivers, are taken with large hooks. Some are deceived by a savory bait
covering the hook, and others are fools enough to swallow the
mischievous barb with only a piece of bright metal attached, and
trolled, or drawn through the water behind a boat.

15. The salmon family is an interesting one, including the large trout
and white fishes of the lakes, and the river salmon that run up high
waterfalls to lay their eggs and leave their young in secluded places.
But the speckled or brook trout of the small, clear brooks in the
Northern States, is the most beautiful as well as the most palatable of
all.

[Illustration: _The Speckled Trout_.]

16. A practical skill alone takes the brook trout. With all the devices
of hooks and lines, of worms and artificial flies, the trout-fisher must
move deftly and unseen, when he dangles his line after this wary,
crimson-spotted fairy of the brook. It is exciting sport to catch and
land the trout, and he who succeeds will feel like joining with our good
brother of the angle when he says: "I once heard one say, 'I envy not
him that eats better meat than I do, nor him that is richer, or that
wears better clothes than I do: I envy nobody but him that catches more
fish than I do.' And such a man is like to prove an angler; and this
noble emulation I wish to you and all young anglers."




CHAPTER XXXVI.

FINNY TRIBES OF LAKE AND SEA.


1. A little boot-black in Chicago, who had been reared in an orphan
asylum, when asked who his father and mother were, replied that he had
no parents: that he was born an orphan. So the millions of little fish
in the great world of water might say with some real truth that they
were born orphans. With few exceptions, they are hatched from eggs laid
and left alone in the water. From the first moment when they are set
free from their embryo prison, they know no parents, but are left to
fight the battle of life without help. This early independence gives
them the pluck they need. Fish life is a real battle, and the main
occupation of all fish is to eat and to keep from being eaten.

2. Fish are admirably adapted, by the way they are made, to kill and to
keep from being killed. The little trout, that lives principally on
flies and worms, is a nice nugget for bass to eat; but he is so active
that he can get away from his cruel enemy, and can climb the tumbling
streams where the bass can not go. The pike has large jaws and sharp
teeth, and is a heartless cannibal of small fish; but it is said that he
looks and meditates long before he concludes to take into his mouth and
send down his throat the little sun-fish, with its erect spines standing
on its back like angry spears.

3. In the bird world, the eagle, who can tear a lamb in pieces, can not
catch the pigeon on the wing; and the spry, little kingbird can fly over
the eagle and wound him in the neck. So, in the fish world, some
individuals are armed with giant weapons to kill, while others are able
to live and protect themselves by being small and active, and by other
curious provisions.

[Illustration: _The Stickleback and its Nest._]

4. Low down in the scale of life, and without bones or jaws, are some
creatures of the water that have an odd way of getting on in life. The
cuttle fish is one of the family of fish called head-footed, because
they are all head and feet. They defend themselves with a bottle of ink
which they carry. When attacked, they color the water about them with
this fluid, so that their enemy can not see them, and under cover of
this black cloud they make their escape and capture their prey. The
squid is like the cuttle-fish. It has been found twice the length of a
man, and with arms five times as long as a man. These arms are
sprawling, strong, and supple, and can be very dangerous. The devil-fish
has the same sort of arms or legs, and can travel on land as well as in
water.

5. Among the higher orders of fish that have bones, there are found
equally remarkable means of defense and attack. The balloon-fish is
covered with spines like a porcupine, and must be an uncomfortable
morsel for the mouth or throat of any other fish. The stickleback, whose
name tells of its nature, is even a worse inmate of a tender mouth than
the balloon-fish. A long, sharp sword forms the upper jaw of the
sword-fish, with which it can pierce a shark. The saw-fish carries a
flat sword, armed on either side with ferocious teeth. Savages have used
the jaw of the saw-fish for an ugly weapon of war.

6. The shark is so large and powerful that he is called the tiger of the
ocean. He sometimes reaches a length of thirty-five feet. The
hammer-fish, whose head is shaped like a tack-hammer, is dreaded by
sailors even more than the shark. The angler-fish practices the tricks
of the fisherman. From the upper part of his head shoot out long bending
spines like teamsters' whips. Like a boy holding his rod and line, this
angler lies at his ease in the mud, dangling the end of his spine in the
water just in front of his enormous mouth. When a foolish fish, or a
stupid loon, darts for the supposed bait, it is apt to find itself
instantly inclosed by a pair of hungry jaws.

[Illustration: _The White Shark._]

[Illustration: _Flying-Fish, pursued by Dolphin._]

7. The flying-fish, that lives in the warmer latitudes, is able, by a
spring into the air with the spreading of its wings, to fly several
hundred feet away. In this manner it escapes persecution in the water,
but enters a new world of trouble when the sea-birds get after it on the
wing. The climbing-perch, of India, sometimes emigrates to a new home by
creeping up the bank and over a long space of dry land, using its fins
for feet, and its instinct for a guide. India, too, has a little fish,
called the archer, who has no teeth. The spines on its back are a
protection against its enemies, but its food is procured by shooting.
Spying a beetle sitting on an overhanging branch, the archer greets him
with a few drops of water fired from its mouth; the game drops to the
surface of the water, when it is easily caught.

[Illustration: _The European Turbot._]

8. The flounder finds safety in being flat. Its head and both eyes are
on one side, so that it can lie upon the bottom in shallow water on the
other side, with its eyes turned upward. Thus danger can come from one
side only, and that is well watched. The English sole is like our
flounder; and the turbot, of the same family, is large and much
esteemed for food.

9. Great prices are sometimes paid for turbots, which constitute a
prominent dish at public dinners. A story is told in which the turbot is
a silent character, but becomes the occasion of some slippery dealing,
followed by a merited punishment: A rich nobleman was about to be
married, and great preparations were made at his castle for the
wedding-feast. Everything rare and costly was provided except fish. Both
the chief cook and the nobleman himself were sorely put out because the
sea was so rough that fishermen dared not venture out. However, the very
day before the wedding a sturdy fisherman, who had heard of the lord's
distress, came from a distant village, bringing an unusually fine
turbot, and asked to be admitted.

10. The fat little Italian porter, sporting a fine livery and chain, and
feeling important withal, was quite willing to turn a dishonest penny if
he could not turn an honest one. So he refused the fisherman admittance
unless he would agree to share with him half the price received from the
nobleman for the fish. The fisherman said he had worked hard to catch
the fish and bring it so long a distance, and that it would be
ridiculous to give the porter half the price he should get for it.

"As you choose," said the porter, sulkily, "only you will not show your
fish in yonder kitchen unless you accept my proposition. Say yes, and
you will get whatever you choose to ask. Otherwise, you can stay outside
till your fish spoils."

11. The fisherman, tired and angry, felt obliged to accept the unjust
demand, and, having shouldered his turbot, was marched into the great
kitchen, where he met the nobleman himself, who was delighted at the
arrival of the longed-for game. "Don't be afraid," he said; "name your
price, for I will pay anything within reason." And he displayed his
purse filled with shining, jingling gold. "Sir," said the fisherman, "I
am about to ask a strange price, but it is the only one I will take for
the turbot."

12. "Speak up, speak up," cried the lord, impatient to secure his
treasure; "I will pay your own price." "Well, sir, I crave two hundred
lashes on my bare back," said the man, with determination. "Nonsense!
Are you mad? Tell me your price and be gone," said the nobleman,
angrily. "This is my price, and no other will I take, so please you,
great sir," said the fisherman, as he began to repack his fish. All
thought him silly, and joined to persuade him to accept a money price,
but with no success, for he repeated, firmly, "Two hundred lashes, or
nothing."

13. The nobleman, concluding that the fellow must be mad, ordered his
men to give him the two hundred blows, saying that he would soon cry
"stop," and that the lashes could be laid on lightly. So the fisherman
took off his jacket, laid bare his big, strong shoulders, and took the
first hundred lashes, when he cried, "Hold! hold! that will do."

14. "I am glad to hear that," said the lord, clapping his hands; "but I
thought you demanded two hundred lashes?" "Aye, sir, so I did," replied
the fisherman, "but I have a partner in the business, and I ask that
your lordship will kindly summon him that he may now receive the other
half of the pay." "Why, you don't mean that there's another man as mad
as yourself?" cried the lord, deeply puzzled. "Yes, sir, and he is not
far off," said the fisherman; "he is your own porter, and he insisted on
my keeping outside unless I shared with him whatever you gave me."

15. "Oh, now I understand," cried the nobleman. "Fetch him instantly,
and let him have his share by all means. Lay it on soundly, my men.
Afterward he can go, for I want no such clever gentleman at my doors."

16. So the porter was paid, and heartily too, at the end of the lash,
while the honest fisherman received a silver coin for every blow he had
endured, and went on his way rejoicing.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: A Rochester robin has built its nest on the main frame of
an engine of the New York Central Railroad. The engine runs daily
between Rochester and De Witt, but the bird occupies the nest.]




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[End of _Neighbors with Wings and Fins and Some Others_ by James Johonnot]
