Part 5

Wiser wrens, with an instinctive knowledge that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, are known to have the forethought when the box in which they build contains two compartments, to fill up one of them, thus avoiding the risk of troublesome neighbors. Wrens have been known to nest in a human skull. Others with less questionable taste, have gone to housekeeping in an old boot, a watering pot, a coat sleeve; in gourds and baskets, jars and water pipes, while another pair made a nest in the lower part of a stone vase in the garden. There was a hole for drainage in the bottom of the vase, and through this hole they found, beneath some shavings, a circular space just suited for a nest. The vase was not filled with plants until the domestic affairs of the wren family were happily concluded.

The delicate swaying hammock of the oriole is sometimes used for a second nesting.

There was bitter disappointment in wren circles earlier in the season when, with the presumption of inexperience, the pump was filled regularly with coarse twigs, which were promptly dislodged at nightfall. Undiscouraged at this defeat, the morning hours were utilized for rebuilding with a persistency well worthy a more intelligent effort; they worked and sang, sang and worked, until a cigar box was nailed to a tree for their special accommodation. This was nearly full of twigs when they decided that the building-site was ineligible, a decision hastened by the fact that just at this opportune time a glass fruit can was left upon the piazza shelf. No sooner was this glass house seen than its possibilities were realized and plans were quickly made for a kind of crystal palace experiment. Under other circumstances this might have been a dangerous precedent, as certain unneighborly conduct toward their little brothers of the air had at various times fairly invited the throwing of stones. The can was half full of tiny fagots, and Jenny was thinking of settling upon the mattress of wood fibre when the thrifty housewife turned them adrift summarily, well aware that this kind of housekeeping, within easy range of neighboring cats, would not be successful. Before such supreme content, who could have the heart to undeceive them? And yet, the can was turned upside down before they could be made to understand the situation. Like Thoreau, they did not wish to practice self-denial unless it was quite necessary!

After the failure of this crystal scheme, it was a difficult matter for Jenny to make up her mind as to a further preference, but when she really decided it was with such entire good faith as left no doubt in her lover’s mind as to her judgment. This was more flattering as it was his own choice, their last year’s home thoroughly remodeled, to which he had repeatedly called her attention, vainly. So the hole in the house jet at least answered the question, “Where are the birds in last year’s nests?” for the wrens moved in regularly, the tenor having a perch upon a projecting bracket where Jenny joined him, a regular little termagant, scolding with all her might whenever the kittens looked that way.

Marsh wrens, small brown birds, with barred wings and tail, breed in or about the swamps and marshes of Lake Champlain.

They are intensely interesting from their habit of constructing several nests but one of which is utilized for housekeeping. After the real nest is made and the first egg laid, the male stays closely at home busying itself with building several nests, which are to all appearances entirely superfluous. In locating these he does not go beyond the immediate neighborhood of the true nest.

Some have thought that these sham nests are used as hiding places for the male, a Lilliputian watch tower or guard house, from which close watch is kept over the home property. Whether Mrs. Marsh Wren really needs such close watching, being more inclined to flirt than the ordinary feathered spouse, or because she is a better wife, so infinitely precious that she must be guarded from every side, is, as yet, an unsolved question. “Love holds the key to all unknown,” and though there is little to admire in a deportment made fine by compulsory measures, no doubt both parties understand the situation, which is quite enough for practical purposes. These nests, conspicuous from their size and exposed position, are securely attached to the upright swaying reeds, some of which penetrate their substance. They are lined with soft grasses and have an entrance at one side, often nearer the bottom than the top. Mr. Burroughs, who has found the marsh wren’s nest surrounded by half a dozen make-believes, says the gushing, ecstatic nature of the bird expresses itself in this way. It is simply so full of life and joy and of parental instinct that it gives vent to itself in constructing sham nests; the generous-hearted creature being willing to build and support more homes than can be furnished or utilized.

Entering the Lake Shore drive at St. Albans Bay, where dense tangles border the swamp beyond, you are sure to hear a song that is unmistakably wrennish. You have glimpses also of a small brown bird bubbling over with a nervous energy that betrays itself in every note he utters. Wait quietly and he approaches, but go one step in his direction and he recedes to the swamp where human foot may not follow.

Push your boat up the creek, the only avenue leading to his abode, that tantalizing song leading on meanwhile like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, though unlike the latter there is no disillusioning at the end. Red-winged blackbirds take wing as you enter the twilight of soft green and amber shade and the far-off music of their jangle-bells becomes less musical, the males striving “to recommend themselves by music, like some awkward youth who serenades his mistress with a jewsharp,” and using the air or the alder tops as a parade ground upon which to exhibit their musical evolutions. And yet you are witness to many a voluntary bit of sentiment that will increase your interest in this scarlet epauletted regiment, descendants of the dusky tribe that anchored long ago in this peaceful haven, going out and coming in with the tide until the legend of their coming is as vague and shadowy and misty as that of the golden-fleece voyageurs—the Argonauts. They ebbed and flowed with the stream; came at the proper time and season without knowing why; anchored and launched their ebony ships when it was time for sailing.

Here and there along this waterway the branches clasp hands above the creek, forming an arch of green within which vines sufficiently elegant to warrant exclusiveness cling in unaffected grace to the alders, without inquiring or caring as to the pedigree of their support. It is sufficient for them that the support is there.

A whole half mile along the stream and trees and bushes disappear, leaving a dense mass of reeds, the marsh wren’s “ain countrie,” out of which he is never at his best and to which he gives you no welcome.

Birds, like persons, have wonderful powers of concentration upon one topic, woe be to you if that topic happens to be yourself!

Every denizen of the swamp regards you with suspicion, watching each movement as closely as if you were a dangerous character traveling under an alias, and could not be trusted to sail upon this ruddy ocean in which their lordships have anchored their private yachts. Push your boat far in among the reeds and cat-tails, into the sea of shadows over which no sluggish current sends a ripple, and certain globular nests in the tangled reeds reward your search. Push your fingers within these nests and in one only, here and there, will you find from five to ten dark eggs, a rich reward for all your trouble.

Meanwhile the “neighbors,” and the marsh wren generally has numbers of them, have doubtless been charming you with their bubbling, gurgling song, always half the colony singing at once, or, one bird rising above the reeds gives the order, as it were, and the whole colony joins in the chorus. The song is quite beyond their control; they seem filled to overflowing with an inexhaustible supply of music, which trickles down the reeds, like gathered-up drops of water charged with music.

“Sometimes, like a mine of melody, it explodes within them and lifts them from the dark recesses of the flags into the air above.”

Nelly Hart Woodworth.

WHEN SPRING COMES.

Again the birds will weave their nests, And come and go on airy wing; And one will nurse her little guests And one will watch and sweetly sing.

The bushes small and towering trees Their leaves of living green will don, And, swaying in the restless breeze, Will laugh because old Winter’s gone. —George Gee.

Description of Plate—A, twig with staminate flowers; B, fruit-bearing twig; 1, upper portion of staminate inflorescence; 2, staminate flower; 3, fruit; 4, 5, 6, 7, ovary; 8, 9, seed.

CUBEBS. (_Piper cubeba_ L.)

Aromatics, as cubebs, cinnamons and nutmegs, are usually put into crude poor wines to give them more oily spirits.—Floyer, “The Humors.”

The cubeb-yielding plant is not unlike the pepper plant and belongs to the same family (Piperaceae). The two resemble each other in general habits in the form of inflorescence and in the fruiting.

Cubebs were known to Arabian physicians as early as the ninth century, who employed them as a diuretic in kidney troubles. It was also known at that time that Java was the home of the plant. At one time it was believed that the Carpesium of ancient writers was cubebs, but this is now generally disbelieved. Edrisi states that cubeb found its way to Aden about 1153. During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries it was employed medicinally in Spain. Originally it was doubtless employed as a spice, similar to pepper. Mariano Sanudo (1306) classed it among the rare and costly spices. Hildegard referred to the soothing properties of cubeb. In the thirteenth century cubeb is mentioned among the import articles of London. About the same time it found its way into other European countries, notably Germany. At the beginning of the nineteenth century cubeb disappeared almost entirely from medical practice. About 1820 English physicians of Java again began to employ it quite extensively.

As in the case of black pepper, the fruit is collected before maturity and dried. The fruit is about the size of the pepper, but has a stalk-like prolongation which distinguishes it. The pericarp becomes much shriveled and wrinkled on drying.

Cubebs are cultivated in special plantations or with coffee for which they provide shade by spreading from the trees which serve as their support. Their cultivation is said to be easy.

Cubebs have a pungent, bitter taste and a characteristic aromatic odor. It cannot readily be confounded with any of the other more common spices. Its use as a spice is almost wholly discontinued. Its use in medicine is also waning, since it evidently has only slight medicinal properties. It is used in nasal and other catarrhal affections. Cubeb cigarettes are used in the treatment of nasal catarrh. It has a marked influence upon the kidneys, causing irritation and increased activity, and as already indicated it is therefore a diuretic. It is, however, harmful, rather than beneficial, in acute inflammatory conditions of these organs.

Albert Schneider.

A TREE-TOP TOWN.

Before the cradled violets awake beneath the grass, Or any but the crocuses and catkins have come back, Always ’tis then the loveliest thing of all things comes to pass,— A twit-twit-twitter on the mild spring breeze, A twit-twit-twitter in the leafing trees, Through which small sky-blue wings flash out a sky-blue track— For blue-birds, first adventurous house-builders of the year, Are at their old, wise tricks again of settling far and near.

Not long, ’tis when the hyacinths and tulips bloom in rows, And lilies-of-the-valley start to whitening on their stems, And woodsy things are opening fast to make a new out’-doors, Then robin-redbreast on a sunny day Comes taking life his usual charming way, With a blithe and merry Che-che-chem-chem-chems! While yet dry leaves and building twigs are left upon the ground “I thought I’d come to the old place and take a look around.”

Then later, when the grasses curl, a-tilt in taller growth, And nooks for snuggeries are made by grape and ivy-vines, When lilacs stand in purple, and the plum-trees blossom forth, Comes here a lilting, gay, and gaudy troop, Tits, thrushes, bobolinks, blue-jays with noisy whoop, Kingbirds, wild tumblers in the air, drunk with ethereal wines; Then cardinals, and indigoes, and finches find the place, And so the town-site in the trees grows populous apace.

One waiting for the apple-blooms is he who’s always late, The oriole: his building-site none e’er disputes with him. Though last to come he has full leave to settle, with his mate, And hang his hammock up to rock and swing, To flout the town on breezy, orange wing From where his house sways airily adown a pendant limb. And now the high, green tree-top town, which welcomes ev’ry comer, Has settled to the business of singing out the summer. —Austin Arnold McCausland.

Transcriber’s Notes

--Created an eBook cover from elements within the issue.

--Reconstructed the Table of Contents (originally on each issue’s cover).

--Retained copyright notice on the original book (this eBook is public-domain in the country of publication.)

--Silently corrected a few palpable typos.