Part 2

Its range is quite extensive, for it is found from the Great Plains eastward through Illinois and Indiana and from Manitoba southward. During the winter months it frequents the States bordering the Gulf of Mexico. This Sparrow is often seen in the stubble of grain fields which have become covered with grass and low weeds, to the cover of which it will retreat when frightened. In this respect it resembles the grasshopper sparrow, and like it is easily overlooked. Mr. Nelson found it on moist prairies that were covered with a growth of coarse grass. It is also frequently seen in the swampy prairies of the Mississippi bottom lands.

Mr. Oliver Davie quotes the following description of the bird’s habits from an observer who studied their habits in Manitoba, where they nest extensively: “Leconte’s Sparrows are fairly numerous in Manitoba. Their peculiar note can be heard both day and night in fine weather; the only sound I can compare it to is the note of the grasshopper. It is one of the most difficult of all the small birds to collect that I know of. They are great skulkers. I have often followed them, guided by their chirping, in the grass until I was sure the bird was not more than a few yards away; then he would suddenly ‘crowd on all sail’ and dart away at a high rate of speed, gyrating from side to side in a manner that would test the skill of any collector.”

The nests are described as concealed in a thick tuft of grass and are rather deep and cup shaped. They are constructed of fine grass and fibers.

Though this elegant little Sparrow baffled bird lovers for so many years, it is now known to be abundant in many localities, and it is only because of its peculiar and retiring habits, living as it does in grassy places not easily accessible, that it is not more often observed.

EASTER LILIES.

The one delight of Grace Newton’s life was to visit Aunt Chatty White. Winter or summer, autumn or spring—no matter what the season nor how bright or how gloomy the weather—there was sure to be found some unusually fascinating pleasure or employment. There were books of every description with which to while away the winter days. And in summer the trees were full of fruit, the yard with flowers, the fields and garden with good things, while the birds saucily claimed possession of all.

But when she was told by Mamma that she should open Easter with Aunt Chatty her heart was a-flutter with a joy not known before. Easter—her first away from home! And she was sure that there would be presents, and new books to read, and new stories to hear, and rabbits’ nests to visit, and—well, it would be the gladdest Easter of her life, she was certain.

It was Good Friday when she arrived at her aunt’s quiet country home. The winter was dying away and spring was making itself known and felt, while a few birds were venturing to sing of summer’s return. The buds were swelling, the lawns and meadows were becoming green, and in the woods Grace was sure she could find, should she try, a violet, a bloodroot bloom, or a dainty snowdrop. For these were the first flowers, and sometimes appeared, her mother told her, before the snow was fairly gone.

A surprise awaited her, however; for, as she was wandering aimlessly about the garden borders that afternoon, she suddenly came upon a bed of golden buds and blossoms. After gazing at them a few moments to make sure she was not dreaming, she hastened away to Aunt Chatty for an explanation.

“Why, dearie, those are Easter flowers,” laughed her aunt.

“But I thought Easter lilies were white.”

“Not all of them. I have some white ones—in another part of the garden. Those you saw are daffodils and jonquils.”

“John—who?” queried Grace, in astonishment.

“Jonquils,” repeated Mrs. White, amused not a little at Grace’s ignorance and wonder. “Come! I’ll show you which is which.”

Grace ran on ahead, and was minutely inspecting the tender young blossoms when her aunt arrived.

“The large double yellow ones are daffodils. Those across yonder are the white ones. Wait!” she called, for the impatient child had already started toward the bed of more familiar lilies. “Here are the jonquils—these with cups. Really the name for these, both the yellow and the white, is Narcissus. Presently I’ll tell you how they came to have that name. There are twenty or thirty kinds, but the most perfect forms grow in Europe and Japan. Cultivation has done a great deal for the Narcissus, both in this and other countries, but these of mine are but the old-fashioned sort that grandmother planted here. Now let’s go see the white ones. Will they be in full bloom for Easter?”

“Yes,” replied Grace. “See, here are two now. Mamma has this kind,” and she fondled the snowy blossoms as though they were friends of long standing.

“These are, without doubt, the ‘lilies of the field’ that Christ spoke of,” said Aunt Chatty. “Isn’t it nice of them to hurry from the ground in the spring in time to remind us of the resurrection of Him who commended them so highly? And their whiteness tells us of His purity, as though they wish to honor Him as long as they live.”

“But tell me, aunty, how they came to have that other name,” urged Grace presently.

“Oh, yes. That story was told by the ancients to frighten boys and girls who were selfish and unkind.”

To the cosy sitting room they repaired, for the air had not yet become warm enough for so lengthy a stay out of doors. When both were comfortably settled Aunt Chatty began:

“There was a very beautiful youth, mythology tells us, who was devotedly loved by a wood nymph, Echo. But she had incurred the displeasure of Juno, their goddess of the heavens, and by her had been condemned to have the power to speak only the last word and was forbidden any other. For this reason she could not address Narcissus, much as she desired to do so. When he did speak, finally, Echo answered by repeating his last word. Her heart was full of joy, for she was sure that at last her opportunity had come. But in spite of her beauty and purity the youth repelled her, and left her to haunt the recesses of the woods. In her disappointment she pined for him until her form faded because of grief. Her bones were changed to rocks and there was nothing left but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to anyone who calls to her and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.

“Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned every one else as he had done poor Echo. One day one of those whom he repelled so heartlessly breathed a prayer that he should some day feel what it was to receive no return of affection. The wish was granted.

“There was a fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds never drove their flocks. In fact, nothing ever disturbed its water, and here one day Narcissus chanced to stop to drink. He saw his own likeness in the water and, thinking it a beautiful water spirit living in the fountain, admired and loved it. He talked to it, but it would not answer; he tried to catch it, but it fled whenever he touched the water. He could not tear himself away from the spot, for he was so captivated by the lovely face in the fountain that he ignored all else. So there he stayed until he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which had so charmed Echo. She kept near him, however, and when, in his grief, he exclaimed, ‘Alas! alas!’ she answered with the same words. He pined away and died. The nymphs prepared a funeral pile and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; in its place was a flower, purple within and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.”

When Aunt Chatty had finished, Grace, after gazing out at the white Easter lilies a few moments, said:

“I like the story, but I don’t like Narcissus. He was too selfish and ungrateful. I like the story best that you told me in the garden, the one about the ‘lilies of the field.’”

Claudia May Ferrin.

THE CALL OF THE KILLDEE.

“Killdee, killdee.” The pleasantest sight to me Is a little brown bird with a curious word; A queer little word that to-day I have heard For the very first time this spring, you see, And that queer little word is “Killdee, killdee.” That curious word is “Killdee.”

“Killdee, killdee.” It is cheery and clear as can be. And there’s snow in the gully not melted away, And ice in the river; I saw it to-day. Yet there he goes dipping and skimming along And singing so blithely his queer little song: “’Tis spring. Killdee, Killdee.” —Mary Morrison.

THE NORTHERN PHALAROPE. (_Phalaropus lobatus._)

The Northern Phalarope has a wide range, extending throughout the northern portion of the Northern Hemisphere and in winter reaching the tropics. It breeds only in Arctic latitudes. It is a bird of the ocean, and seldom is observed inland except as a rare migrant early in May or in October. Then it “frequents slow streams or marshy pools.”

This Phalarope belongs to the shore birds and to a family that contains but three known species. Two of these are sea birds. The other, Wilson’s phalarope, is an inhabitant of the interior of North America. Their feet are webbed, and usually the two marine forms, or sea snipe, as they are sometimes called, migrate in flocks far from land. Mr. Chapman says: “I have seen it in great numbers about one hundred miles off Barnegat, New Jersey, in May. For several hours the steamer passed through flocks, which were swimming on the ocean. They arose in a body at our approach, and in close rank whirled away to the right or left in search of new feeding grounds.”

It is not an exaggeration to say that it is one of the most beautiful of our aquatic birds. All its motions are graceful. It possesses a quiet dignity and elegance while swimming in search of food, which it frequently obtains by thrusting its bill into the water. In this manner it obtains a large number of marine animals and flies that may be on the surface of the water. When on the shore it may be seen wading and swimming in ponds near the coast.

Dr. Coues wrote in an interesting manner of this bird. He said that the Northern Phalarope is “a curious compound of a wader and swimmer. Take one of our common little sandpipers, fit it for sea by making oars of its feet, and launch it upon the great deep, you have a Northern Phalarope. You may see a flotilla of these little animated cockle-boats riding lightly on the waves anywhere off the coast of New England.”

Its habits at the mating season are most interesting, and no words can better describe them than those of Mr. E. W. Nelson: “As the season comes on when the flames of love mount high, the dull-colored male moves about the pool, apparently heedless of the surrounding fair ones. Such stoical indifference usually appears too much for the feelings of some of the fair ones to bear. A female coyly glides close to him and bows her head in pretty submissiveness, but he turns away, pecks at a bit of food and moves off; she follows and he quickens his speed, but in vain; he is her choice, and she proudly arches her neck and in mazy circles passes and repasses close before the harassed bachelor. He turns his breast first to one side, then to the other, as though to escape, but there is his gentle wooer ever pressing her suit before him. Frequently he takes flight to another part of the pool, all to no purpose. If with affected indifference he tries to feed she swims along side by side, almost touching him, and at intervals rises on wing above him and, poised a foot or two over his back, makes a half dozen quick, sharp wing-strokes, producing a series of sharp, whistling noises in rapid succession. In the course of time it is said that water will wear the hardest rock, and it is certain that time and importunity have their full effect upon the male of this Phalarope, and soon all are comfortably married, while mater familias no longer needs to use her seductive ways and charming blandishments to draw his notice.”

Then after the four dark and heavily marked eggs are laid the “captive male is introduced to new duties, and spends half his time on the eggs, while the female keeps about the pool close by.”

These birds, which possess such dainty elegance in all their motions, do not exhibit a corresponding degree of taste in home building. Their nests, at best, consist of only a few blades of grass and fragments of moss laid loosely together. Often the eggs are laid in some convenient hollow, with no bedding whatever except that which happened to lodge there.

These are a few of the facts in the life history of this bird, which starts in its career as a little ball of buff and brown and later in life “glides hither and thither on the water, apparently drifted by its fancy, and skims about the pool like an autumn leaf wafted before the playful zephyrs on some embosomed lakelet in the forest.”

OUR LITTLE MARTYRS.

Do we care, you and I, For the songbirds winging by? Ruffled throat and bosom’s sheen, Thrill of wing, of gold or green, Sapphire, crimson—gorgeous dye Lost or found across the sky, ’Midst the glory of the air, Birds who tenderer colors wear? What to us the free bird’s song, Breath of passion, breath of wrong, Wood-heart’s orchestra, her life, Breath of love and breath of strife, Joy’s fantasias, anguish breath, Cries of doubt and cries of death? Shall we care when nesting-time Brings no birds from any clime, Not a voice or ruby wing, Not a single nest to swing ’Midst the reeds or higher up, Like a dainty fairy-cup; Not a single little friend, All the way as footsteps wend Here and there through every clime, Not a bird at any time? Does it matter, do we care What the feathers women wear Cost the world? For birds must die; Not a clime where they may fly Safely through their native air; Slaughter meets them everywhere. Scorned be hands that touch such spoil! Let women pity, and recoil From traffic, barbarous and grave, And quickly strive the birds to save. —George Klingle.

A CARGO OF STOWAWAYS.

“Birds of ocean and of air Hither in a troop repair.” —Aristophanes’ “The Birds.”

Passing out of the golden sunrise into a world of blue sky and the blue waters of Lake Huron, we regretfully assured ourselves that save for the shadowy gray and white gulls that followed in the wake of our steamer in search of a breakfast, there would be for us no bird reviews so dear to the heart of the ornithologist in a strange country, or not at least until we should have reached the far distant islands in the picturesque River Sault Ste. Mary, so with the inertia of the blank waters about us we prepared to be content, but in this instance, as in many others, we were to learn that conclusions are by no means conclusive, and it was with joy that we could exclaim with Aristophanes:

“But hark! the rushing sound of rushing wings Approaches us,”

when before our delighted and surprised eyes alighted a bronze grackle, most majestic of blackbirds, who stepped off across the deck with all of the pride of a lately promoted major, doubtless glad enough to find himself on solid footing after the heavy gale of the past night, which has blown him into unknown seas. His rich metallic plumage gleamed in the sunlight as he eyed us inquisitively, the while walking calmly about us picking up the insects of which we seemed to have an abundant supply aboard. But where is the little wife to whom he was so devoted, and whose labors of incubation he so materially assisted, taking his “turn” on the nest with clock-like regularity? But also he shared with her their rich song notes which so delight us during the courting season. But our grackle is by no means the only stowaway we were to carry north with us, for all at once the air was resonant with excited “chips” and “zeeps” as the different winged passengers arrived. At least half a dozen pine warblers contentedly flitted onto the deck, filling the air with their sweet calls, and dancing about like little balls of yellow feathers. And to delight beyond anything the heart of a bird enthusiast, far more indeed than can any result of gun, camera or opera glass, was the fact that exhaustion and hunger had entirely obliterated from these birds every trace of their dread of the human kind, and they associated with us as fearlessly as tho’ to the manor born. Particularly was this true of the pine warblers who hopped about us on the hatchways like chickens, one venturesome little fellow even becoming so familiar as to alight on the toe of my slipper, and quietly inspect its steel embroidery with silent curiosity, occasionally glancing up at me out of his round, bright eyes as confidentially as though he was a connoisseur in footwear. Another warbler lit on the corner of a book that one of the passengers was holding in her hand. This rare friendliness made us feel that we had not only the bird in the hand, but also the two in the bush, with still a balance in our favor, for we could study their movements as intimately as we desired, but I could hardly keep from rubbing my eyes in amazement, fearing “’twas but a dream,” or that my brain has been turned, as topsy turvy this morning as was my stomach the night before. But the experience was certainly uniquely delightful to say the least. After all of these years of careful peeking and prying to secure a moment’s observation of some of these birds, to have them now flitting about me, at my very feet as it were, in this familiar and friendly fashion was indeed a rare treat. It is Darwin who has said that he had come to the conclusion that the wildness of birds with regard to man is a particular instinct directed against him, and not dependent on any general degree of caution arising from other sources of danger. Birds in general, however, have had reason to become timid from their experience of the human biped, and hold with Eben Holden that “Men are the most terrible of all critters, an’ the meanest. They’re the only critters that kill fer fun,” and it has become instinctive for them to act accordingly.

However, we had not yet arrived at the end of our experience with the sociable bird world, for it seemed that we were to carry a full cargo of stowaways, for the next arrivals were six or seven juncos savoring of frost and wintry weather, notwithstanding the heat of the autumnal sun. Miss Merriam has quaintly styled these busy little birds: “Gray robed monks and nuns,” though their character does not cleverly carry out that conception, for they are a pugnacious lot of feathers and blood, and there were pitch battles going on at every hatch corner, the juncos playing the part of the aggressor every time, turning and conspicuously flaunting their stylish white tail markings in the face of their opponents. The next advent was that of a tiny house wren, who seemed to have had a good deal of his natural belligerency blown out of him, and was content to make a peaceful breakfast on the Canada soldiers that were swarming about. Wrens are noticeable for the interest that they take in human belongings, and love to make their home among them. At Marquette I was shown a nest built in an overshoe inadvertently left in the crotch of an apple tree, and which, I am glad to report, the owner left undisturbed when she learned by whom it was pre-empted. I thought of our little stowaway when I saw the nest and wondered how much he could have told me of its construction. Some one has mentioned a nest built in an old coat sleeve, and Audubon tells us of a pair that nested in his parlor, paying him rent in song music. The wren has also received much “honorable mention” in history, Aristotle being the first, I believe, to call him the King of Birds, possibly because of the legend that tells us that to gain his sovereignty in a trial of flight he concealed himself on the back of an eagle who was one of the contestants, and after that bird of mighty wing power had reached his limit the wren, arising from his seat among the eagle’s feathers, easily flew much higher, thus gaining the race and title. Perhaps not the first time that high places have been arrived at through duplicity. But, in justice to his species, mention should be made of the myth that asserts that in ye golden time the wren was the only bird brave enough to enter heaven and bring down fire to earth for the benefit of the mortals. In this philanthropical work he scorched off his feathers, so the other birds made a donation party and each contributed some spare feathers to the singed benefactor (but we notice that their generosity, like that of some others, was confined to donating their plainest apparel), all but the owl, who refused to part with a single quill, but who for his stinginess was at once ostracised from good society, and forced to make his appearance only after nightfall, when the “best people” were not in evidence.

Of the two other members of the warbler family, who traveled north with us singly and alone, one was a Blackburnian warbler, silent and dull of plumage as befitted the season, and the other a dainty black-throated blue warbler, one of the most dressy and gentlemanly appearing birds of the warbler species. In his steely blue coat, black stock and evening vest and wide expanse of white shirt front, he looks as though fully attired for a swell reception. His two white wing patches closely resemble handkerchiefs peeping from side pockets, completing the illusion. He was rather more reserved in his movements than the gang of noisy associates, and picked daintily at the flies as befits well-bred superiority. But he, like the rest, showed no apparent distrust of us, neither did some newly arrived white-throated sparrows, who joined in the general scramble for insects. But not now do we hear their cheerful “I-have-got-plenty-to-eat-but-no-che-eze,” as Dr. Brewer interprets their song. I am sure that they could have had cheese or anything else they desired on board the Castalia, for on hospitable thoughts intent I secured some crumbs from the table, but my feathered fellow travelers would have none of me, passing my humble offerings by in disdain. There was but one death on the passage, and that was a white-eyed vireo, who either succumbed to exhaustion or struck the rigging too violently in boarding the steamer.

But birds were not the only winged creatures who took passage with us. For several hours a continuous stream of honey bees and yellow-jackets flew exhausted upon the deck, only to become food for the bee-eating passengers. The few who escaped and revived sufficiently to crawl up onto the cabin were so fatigued that one could stroke them gently without provoking any antagonism. Wafted across the blue waters by adverse winds came also myriads of common yellow butterflies, tossing in the gentle breeze like handfuls of shining buttercups, and great troops of beautiful milkweed butterflies (Anosia plexippus), their brilliant colors gleaming in the sunlight in all the richness of ebony and crimson. They hovered about the steamer like gorgeous blossoms cut from the parent stalk and left poised in mid air at the mercy of treacherous gales. Funny little atoms of vanity and brightness, whose homes are among the gardens of peace and sunshine, what business had they here in this region of seething waters and tempestuous winds?