Part 3

We owe our fruits largely to the birds. This statement anyone may prove by simple experiment. First drive the birds from your garden because you think they are eating the buds and blossoms, instead of the insects which sting the buds. You will be rewarded with a scanty and stunted fruit crop. Next conclude that you won't get fruit anyway, and so let the birds do as they please. You will be pretty sure to harvest a fairly good crop at least. Lastly, encourage the birds to visit your garden and orchard in their northward passage, as well as during the summer season. Build nesting boxes for the swallows, wrens and martins. Plant a mulberry tree for the fruit-loving robins and cat-birds. Now your fruit and garden are returning an abundant yield of the best grade. If the birds take a little for themselves have they not earned it? There is enough and to spare.

We owe corn and other grains largely to the birds, because they help to keep in check the insects which attack the cereals. During the grasshopper plagues very many birds feed upon the grasshoppers which do not usually touch grasshoppers. Probably chief among our grain field helpers is the Bronzed Grackle, who is so much in disfavor for the ravages he makes upon those same fields when the corn is in the roasting-ear stage. But he earns far more than he eats. The birds of prey destroy vast numbers of the little rodents which help themselves too freely to the planted grains.

We owe the preservation of the remnant of our forests, and all our trees and bushes largely to the birds who eat the insects which attack the trees and bushes. The woodpeckers are after the insect which is destroying the tree, not after the life of the tree.

Space would fail us to speak of the debt we owe to all the birds. There are the scavenger water-birds--gulls, terns and the like--the scavenger land birds--the vultures--the ducks, geese and swans, who check the encroachments of vegetable life upon our streams, ponds and lakes; the herons, cranes, rails, coots, gallinules and shore-birds, which feed upon the water and mud-inhabiting insects and other small animals; the sparrows and grouse, which destroy vast quantities of the seeds of harmful plants. In short, the only birds about whose usefulness there is any doubt are the English Sparrow, Crow, Blue Jay and four of the hawks. These are far too few for us to condemn all birds.

We cannot afford to overlook the esthetic side of this question. How much of our pleasure and happiness do we owe the birds directly for their intensely busy lives, the neatness and beauty of their dress, the perpetual joy of their songs? Can you imagine a world without birds? Are the returned warmth and the green vegetation all that make the summer months more pleasant than the winter season? Rob the tropics of their birds and you rob them of their heart. Pasadena, California, is a bird paradise, but take away its mocking birds, its orioles, its towhees, its gorgeous humming birds, and the many other birds which enliven every lawn, and you have taken away one of its chief charms.

But it is not simply that we are entertained by the birds, nor even that we are pleased with their neatness and beauty. Where their lives touch ours we feel an uplifting influence. We are better fitted for the service which it is our privilege to render to the world by the touch of the bird life. Our horizon is broadened beyond the self-interest, the egoistic, to the altruistic conception of life. We cannot live in the presence of these creatures so full of life without being spurred to more earnest effort ourselves. When we fail to see in the world of nature about us what it is our privilege to see we are losing that much of life. Let us open our eyes to all the influences that may shape our lives toward best living. Lynds Jones.

TO THE VESPER BIRD.

Sweet bird of twilight wake in me Bright memories of melody Outpoured from every nesting-tree At early morning gray. O sing that I may ponder on The songs away with noontide gone, Ere shadows troop across the lawn And voices die away. Long have I waited wistfully; And lest thy gift unheeded be, Lo, now my gardens are for thee, Thou truant all the day! Frank English.

THE VESPER SPARROW.

In the fields, the pastures and along the roadsides of the Eastern United States and the British Provinces may be found the unobtrusive Vesper Sparrow (Poocaetes gramineus). It is also known by other names such as the Bay-winged Bunting or Sparrow, the Grass-Finch and sometimes, though incorrectly, it is called the Field Sparrow. The latter name should only be applied to one of the Chipping Sparrows (Spizella pusilla).

The characteristics of the male and the female are the same. The exposed part of the outer and the tip of the second tail feathers are white. This character is very marked as the bird alights. The feathers of the underside of the body are usually yellowish-white and the tops of the wings are a light chestnut-brown. It does not seem to shun one's presence, but will run along the side of the road, a short distance ahead, occasionally stopping for observation.

The Vesper Sparrow builds its nest on the ground without reference to any special plant protection except that of grass and other low herbage. The eggs are usually four in number, the general color of which is light gray marked, in a variable manner, by dull reddish-brown spots or blotches.

When frightened from her nest the mother-bird will endeavor to attract the attention of the intruder by slowly flying away and occasionally feigning injury by falling.

Mr. John Burroughs, in his little book, "Wake Robin," writes in an admirable manner of the song and habits of this little bird. He says: "Have you heard the song of the Field-Sparrow? If you have lived in a pastoral country, with broad upland pastures, you could hardly have missed him. Wilson, I believe, calls him the Grass-Finch, and was evidently unacquainted with his powers of song. The two white lateral quills of his tail, and his habit of running and skulking a few yards in advance of you as you walk through the fields, are sufficient to identify him. Not in meadows or orchards, but in high, breezy pasture grounds, will you look for him. His song is most noticeable after sundown, when other birds are silent, for which reason he has been aptly called the Vesper Sparrow. The farmer following his team from the field at dusk catches his sweetest strain. His song is not so brisk and varied as that of the Song-Sparrow, being softer and wilder, sweeter and more plaintive. Add the best parts of the lay of the latter to the sweet vibrating chant of the Wood Sparrow (Spizella pusilla), and you have the evening hymn of the Vesper-bird--the poet of the plain unadorned pastures. Go to those broad, smooth, uplying fields, where the cattle and sheep are grazing, and sit down on one of the warm, clean stones, and listen to this song. On every side, near and remote, from out the short grass which the herds are cropping, the strain rises. Two or three long, silver notes of rest and peace, ending in some subdued trills or quavers, constitute each separate song. Often you will catch only one or two of the bars, the breeze having blown the minor part away. Such unambitious, unconscious melody! It is one of the most characteristic sounds in Nature. The grass, the stones, the stubble, the furrow, the quiet herds, and the warm twilight among the hills, are all subtly expressed in this song; this is what they are at least capable of."

THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.

The ocean looketh up to heaven As 'twere a living thing; The homage of its waves is given In ceaseless worshiping.

They kneel upon the sloping sand, As bends the human knee, A beautiful and tireless band, The priesthood of the sea!

They pour the glittering treasures out Which in the deep have birth, And chant their awful hymns about The watching hills of earth.

The green earth sends its incense up From every mountain-shrine, From every flower and dewy cup That greeteth the sunshine.

The mists are lifted from the rills, Like the white wing of prayer: They lean above the ancient hills As doing homage there.

The forest-tops are lowly cast O'er breezy hill and glen, As if a prayerful spirit pass'd On nature as on men.

The clouds weep o'er the fallen world, E'en as repentant love; Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl'd, They fade in light above.

The sky is as a temple's arch, The blue and wavy air Is glorious with the spirit-march Of messengers at prayer.

The gentle moon, the kindling sun, The many stars are given, As shrines to burn earth's incense on, The altar-fires of Heaven! John Greenleaf Whittier.

BIRD-STUDY.

To be intimate with Nature is as important to the investigator as the ability to technically classify the things found therein.

In this connection we copy, by permission, the words of Olive Thorne Miller, from the "School Room Methods and Nature Study:"

"Recognizing a bird on sight or hearing, knowing his nest and eggs, when he arrives in the spring, and when he departs in the fall, does not by any means imply that one is acquainted with the bird himself. All these facts are easily acquired; they have been set down in the books these many years.

But whoso really desires to know the little being so beautifully enshrined; to see his home ways with his mate and little ones; to find out his personal habits; his likes and dislikes; his tastes; his disposition; in a word his personality, for him is something very different from book study. He must go into the field and observe for himself; for well as we may know our common birds by sight, glibly as we can explain their anatomy, give their scientific names, and their place in our classification, of their lives and habits we are in almost total ignorance.

This is a field of inquiry as fascinating as it is fresh and unexplored. Nothing but the greed of collecting and the passion for classifying, could so long have blinded men to the charm of studying life instead of death, the individual instead of the skin. And this is the beautiful work left for us to do, to make the world acquainted with the lives of our little brothers in feathers.

For this work are needed, patience that knows no fatigue, accuracy of observation, enthusiasm that scorns such trifles as wet feet, torn garments, insect bites and stings, burning sun or blistering wind, and above all--lacking which all else is useless--truthfulness that will report correctly, without exaggeration or coloring. To one possessing these qualities a whole world of delight is open.

Nor is this world so difficult to enter as it seems at first. Science--whose help is needed--has, to be sure, shrouded itself in technicalities, buried its facts under scientific terms, and hidden its names in a dead language. But all this, which perhaps was necessary, can be got over. With a little courage, and some perseverance, this bristling array of difficulties may be broken through, and the charming goldfinch be as lovely and bewitching under the name of Spinus tristis, as of thistle bird, or yellow bird.

How shall we go to work? This is the first question always. Let me give you a few hints: Some fine morning dress yourself in modest-hued array, dull olive of medium shade best; discard all conspicuous details of costume; take off ribbons and veils, and all fluttering things; reject the spring hat with its eccentricities of flowers, fruits, feathers, or general fluffiness, and put on a plain shade hat, as near the color of the dress as possible; leave parasol, bag or basket and book all at home. Slip into a flat pocket on the outside of your gown or coat, a small note book with sharpened pencil attached to it, and suspend by narrow ribbon around the neck, so that it will hang above the waist and be ready for instant use, an opera glass without its case. On your left arm carry a light folding camp stool--and start out.

Bid adieu to your friends, and go alone, for the temple of Nature can never be entered in crowds, nor even in pairs. Turn your steps to the best place you know of; an old orchard, a grove with underbrush near a house, a ravine, a swamp, or the edge of woods. Walk slowly and leisurely along, with little noise of footsteps, and without swinging arms.

Arrived in your chosen spot look sharply around for the flitting forms of the birds. When you see one, stop at once; quietly slip your stool off your arm and sit upon it, with as little motion as possible. If you place it against a tree trunk, to furnish a back, you can be comfortable in that one position an hour without moving.

Now slowly raise your opera glass to your eyes, adjust the focus to bring the bird clearly before you, and proceed to study him. First you want his description so that you can name him. Look very carefully at him, his size and shape, his coloring above and below, his peculiar markings, the shape of his tail at the end, and the color and shape of the beak. As you settle one point write it in your note book, which you have quietly drawn out of its pocket.

His description recorded, proceed to note his manners; whether quiet or restless, whether he jerks his tail, or his head; walks or hops. See what he is doing; picking up insects, digging them from bark or ground, seeking them among flowers or leaves, or whether he is eating seeds from the grass or weeds. Sit there as long as that bird is in sight, and note down everything he does, even his calls and his song as it sounds to you.

When you go home take your manual and look for a description that matches yours. This is where troubles begin, not only the obscure scientific terms, and the Latin names, but the knowing where in that big book to start. You will be helped by observing what the bird ate. If he hammered on the bark and picked his food from tree trunk or limb, look among the woodpeckers; if he flew out, made a turn or two and back to his perch seek him among the fly-catchers; if he was eating seeds, look among the finches; and so on.

When by a little work you have passed this Rubicon--where so many turn back discouraged--you will reap your reward, success. Having persevered, and named your bird without help, you will feel a new pleasure in his acquaintance, as if he belonged to you, and you will never forget him.

Then go out and make acquaintance with another. You will find him easier to identify, and as you will become familiar with its idiosyncrasies the manual will lose its terrors for you.

Of course all this trouble will be avoided if you begin with the study of scientific ornithology. But in that case you are in danger of becoming absorbed in the science, and getting to care more for the dry bones and the dead skin, than for the living bird, and thus adding one more to the ornithologists, and taking one from the students of life."

THE OREGON JUNCO.

Residents of the Atlantic, Middle, Southern and Middle Western States are, doubtless, well acquainted with the slate-colored Junco. This little feathered specimen is more familiarly known as "Snowbird."

The Oregon Junco ("Junco hyemalis var. Oregonus") is a sub-species, and is found throughout the Pacific coast region from California to Sitka. It is, by no means, confined exclusively to Oregon. Its darkest-hued plumage makes the bird very conspicuous when the ground is covered with a soft and spotless mantle of snow.

The sooty-black head, flesh-colored bill and white breast, sharply contrast in color. On the sides are pinkish colored feathers; the back is rufous-brown and the two outer tail feathers pure white, showing when the bird flies. In western Oregon it is a winter visitant, arriving with the first cool days of autumn.

As winter approaches these snowbirds become more plentiful, hopping about in the small bushes in quest of food. A great deal of pleasure and interest may be found in studying these birds, especially when the ground is covered with snow. By casting bread crumbs on the snow, the little fellows flock around, and are easily tamed. In winter their only note is a sort of chirp, sometimes uttered several times in quick succession when alarmed. With the warm days of spring they begin their song, sometimes many singing at once, and soon the majority disappear to a higher altitude to breed.

The Oregon Junco builds its nest in hollows in the ground under low bushes. The nest is constructed flush with the surface and in holes among the roots of bushes and trees, and under woodpiles. Usually, the nest is made of dry grasses rather loosely placed together, with a lining of cowhair, and contains four and sometimes five handsome greenish-white eggs, spotted and wreathed with purple.--J. Mayne Baltimore.

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Olive Thorne Miller, in her fascinating little book, "The First Book of Birds," speaking of how the birds work for us, says: "Chickadees like to eat the eggs of cankerworms; and for a single meal one of these tiny birds will eat two hundred and fifty eggs, and he will take several meals a day. Now, cankerworms destroy our apples. When they get into an orchard in force, it looks, as Miss Merriam says, as if it had been burned over. Robins, cat-birds, and shrikes, and several others, like to eat cutworms, which destroy grass and other plants. As many as three hundred of them have been found in the stomach of a robin, of course for one meal. Ants are very troublesome in many ways, and three thousand of them have been taken from the stomach of one flicker."

Why kill these birds that are so useful to us and so beautify nature? Many others are just as useful and some that occasionally do damage amply repay us in other ways.

THE CALICO BASS.

The Calico Bass (Pomoxys sparoides) is so called because of the mottled and variegated coloring of the body and fins. It is also called the Strawberry Bass, the Grass Bass, the Bitter Head, the Lamp-lighter and the Barfish.

It is abundant in all the lakes and ponds of the region of the Great Lakes and the upper Mississippi river, where it shows a preference for quiet, cool and clear water and grass covered bottoms.

The Calico Bass is closely related to the Crappie (Pomoxys annularis) of the lower Mississippi valley. It is, however, seldom seen where the Crappie is abundant, as the latter prefers muddy sloughs and bayous and is not found as far north as the former.

The body of the Calico Bass is elongated, is much compressed and of a bright, silvery olive-green color. The sides and fins are mottled with a darker green or brownish-green, the blotches being gathered into irregular bunches. The vertical fins also have markings in the form of a network surrounding paler spots. The mouth is large and oblique. The usual length of the adult is about twelve inches.

The Calico Bass obtains its food largely from the lower forms of animal life, such as crustaceans, worms and insects.

It is said that "from the fact that it thrives well in slow-moving waters, it deserves the favorable consideration of owners of large mill ponds, where there is a steady flow of water, as it requires very little care, except the first planting of it in waters suitable to its nature. It is not averse to an occasional minnow, but is not regarded as peculiarly aggressive, though provided by nature with an armature that enables it to defend itself against all comers."

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"Forthwith the sounds and seas, each creek and bay With fry innumerable swarm, and shoals Of fish, that with their fins and shining scales Glide under the green wave, in sculls that oft Bank the mid sea: part single, or with mate, Graze, the seaweed their pasture, and through groves Of coral stray, or, sporting with quick glance, Show to the sun their waved coats, dropt with gold." --Milton, "Paradise Lost."

THE GROWTH AND VARIATION OF FISH.

How can you tell the age of a fish? This question is often asked and just so often is the answer unsatisfactory.

A fish is a cold-blooded animal; that is, his temperature is nearly the same as that of the water in which he lives. His circulation is sluggish and his appetite is a variable quantity. He has the capacity to take in large quantities of food at one meal and properly assimilate it; on the other hand he is able to fast for weeks at a time. He has his own notions about eating, and it is quite impossible to induce him to change them, and all this has considerable influence on his rate of growth. It is out of the question to expect him to grow when he is fasting; on the other hand he must draw on the fat he has stored up in his body to furnish him energy for his muscular movements and to carry on the ordinary functions of nutrition. The fish here has an advantage over the warm-blooded animals, for he does not need to generate heat to keep his body at a constant temperature. The amount of food often eaten at one time is quite remarkable. I remember once of taking nearly one pound of sunfish from the stomach of a Large-mouthed Black Bass. This does not indicate that a bass must eat such meals three times each day, it only shows his capacity to make use of a large quantity of food when it is abundant and his stomach feels the need of it. A trout is a good feeder; his stomach and mouth are large, much in size like that of the black bass. From experiments conducted at Neosho, Missouri, by Mr. Page, he found that a young trout did best on a daily ration of solid food equal to about seventy-five per cent of its weight. On this amount the trout would reach an average length of six inches in one year. The average amount of solid food consumed daily by a man is from one and one-half to two per cent of his weight, or more than twice that consumed by our active, growing young trout. As mentioned before, the trout is relieved from generating heat to keep his body at a constant temperature, and at one usually much higher than the medium in which he lives.