Part 29

“August 29. ‘Out to-day,’ as the newsboy cries—the female’s elevation on the nest determined that. Her eagerness now overcame caution, and she flew straight to the nest instead of in a roundabout course. Both parents fed the young.

“August 30. In a single trip the male Goldfinch brought forty morsels to the family, his mate eager to get her ‘thirds,’ but as soon as he had gone she slipped off the nest and fed the young. This method was pursued for three days.

“Sept. 1. The female very active at the nest, making toilets of young, reassuring them with tender syllables when a red squirrel ran up the tree with alarming sounds. I saw three open mouths. The brooding bird went for food and returned stealthily to the nest. The male came once, but brought nothing, and henceforth was an idle partner.

“Sept. 6. Young birds, having found their voices, announced meal time with joyous twitter. They were fed, on an average, once in forty-five minutes and were now forming cleanly habits, like young Swallows, voiding excrement over the rim of the nest.

“Sept. 8. The old bird no longer perching at the nest to feed her young, but on the branch, to lure them from their cradle. They shook their wings vigorously and preened their tiny feathers.

“Sept. 11. Young Finches ventured to the edge of the nest and peered curiously into the unknown.

“Sept. 11. An empty nest.”

—Ella Gilbert Ives, in _Bird-Lore_.

* * * * *

“In spite of the rosy wing-linings and shield set above his white breast, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak is the least conspicuous of the Singers in Costume. The reason for this is, that unless you are either directly under or before him, the richly coloured breast may escape notice and only the dark back appear. Yet to one who knows birds, even the back will serve to name him, for no other familiar songster has so much black and white about him—black head and back, a white rump, black-and-white wings, and black-and-white tail.

Order—Passeres Family—Fringillidæ Genus—Zamelodia Species—Ludoviciana

“This Grosbeak delights in young woodlands where the trees are small and well branched, and the big, rather loosely woven nest of weeds, twigs, and various wood fibres is seldom placed as high as even the Robin’s or Tanager’s, and yet, in spite of the fact that female birds are supposed to have dull feathers because they will be less seen when on the nest, I have seen a gorgeous male brooding the eggs in bright daylight, the nest being on a low sapling in a rather thickly wooded brush-lot.

“The Rose-breast is very useful as a killer of large beetles and insects, and from his prowess with the striped potato-beetle has been called locally the ‘Potato Bird’; but it is for its song that we love and prize him as one of the birds that to miss from the garden, means that one of the best features of the season has been lost.

“Listen to what Audubon said of this song, that great pioneer naturalist, whose pure nature and spiritual kinship with the birds never forsook him in hours of adversity.

“‘One year, in the month of August, I was trudging along the shores of the Mohawk River, when night overtook me. Being little acquainted with that part of the country, I resolved to camp where I was. The evening was calm and beautiful, the sky sparkled with stars, which were reflected by the smooth waters, and the deep shade of the rocks and trees of the opposite shore fell on the bosom of the stream, while gently from afar came on the ear the muttering sound of the cataract. My little fire was soon lighted under a rock, and, spreading out my scanty stock of provisions, I reclined on my grassy couch. As I looked around on the fading features of the beautiful landscape, my heart turned toward my distant home, where my friends were doubtless wishing me, as I wished them, a happy night and peaceful slumbers. Then were heard the barkings of the watch-dog and I tapped my faithful companion to prevent his answering them. The thoughts of my worldly mission then came over my mind, and having thanked the Creator of all for His never-failing mercy, I closed my eyes and was passing away into the world of dreaming existence, when suddenly there burst on my soul the serenade of the Rose-breasted Bird, so rich, so mellow, so loud in the stillness of the night, that sleep fled from my eyelids. Never did I enjoy music more: it thrilled through my heart and surrounded me with an atmosphere of bliss. One might easily have imagined that even the Owl, charmed by such delightful music, remained reverently silent. Long after the sounds ceased did I enjoy them, and when all had again become still, I stretched out my wearied limbs and gave myself up to the luxury of repose.’

“As a near-by garden neighbour, the Rose-breast, though shy by nature, may become as intimate as the Wood Thrush, and if you are near his feeding-haunts you will notice, aside from his song, he has a way of talking when he feeds and that, with a little imagination, you can translate his words to suit yourself. I had once thought this an idea of my own, but this clipping in my scrap-book proves the contrary, and that others have made his notes into words.”

A TALKING ROSE-BREASTED GROSBEAK.

Early last summer, while standing on my back steps, I heard a cheerful voice say, “You’re a pretty bird. Where are you?” I supposed it to be the voice of a Parrot, but wondered how any Parrot could talk loud enough to be heard at that distance, for the houses on the street back of us are quite a way off.

Almost before I had done laughing, the voice came again, clear, musical, and strong—“You’re a pretty bird. Where are you?”

For several days I endured the suspense of waiting for time to investigate. Then I chased him up. There he was in the top of a walnut tree, his gorgeous attire telling me immediately that he was a Rose-breasted Grosbeak.

At the end of a week he varied his compliment to, “Pretty, pretty bird, where are you? Where are you?” with a kind of impatient jerk on the last “you.”

He and his mate stayed near us all last summer, and though I heard him talk a hundred times, yet he always brought a feeling of gladness and a laugh.

Our friend has come back again this spring. About May 1st I heard the same endearing compliment as before.

Several of my friends whom I have told about him have asked, “Does he say the words plainly? Do you mean that he really talks?” My reply is, “He says them just as plainly as a bird ever says anything, so plainly, that even now I laugh whenever I hear him.”

He is not very easily frightened, and sometimes talks quite a while when I am standing under the tree where he is.

—Emily B. Pellet, Worcester, Mass., in _Bird-Lore_.

A SONG OF THE ROSE-BREASTED GROSBEAK

Hark! Hark! From the elm tree’s topmost spray, As the sun’s first spark O’erleaps the dark

He sings to the dawning day. Over and over and over, the thrilling strain: Never more clear On love-tuned ear Burst forth love’s charmed refrain.

Hark, hark, listen and hear! The robin’s whistle, the oriole’s note, Both are drowned In the golden sound That pours from the perfect throat.

Sing, spirit of might, Bird of beauty and tune,— Sable-winged as a summer’s night, With the red-rose breast as soft, as bright As a rose-red dawn in June!

Sing, sing to the rippling light, Sing to the paling moon! Sing, sing, sing Of a joy beyond our ken, Till the burdens of manhood loose their hold, And the heart grows young, and the Age of Gold Rolls back on the souls of men.

—Dora Read Goodale, in _Youth’s Companion_.

XXVII FLAG DAY

The Spring Sale of the work of the Kind Hearts’ Club was held the Saturday after Arbour and Bird Day. People who had seen the bird-houses that their friends had bought at Christmas drove over from towns many miles away, while those who had been before came again and seemed perfectly fascinated by the birds’ baths and drinking-troughs made from the hollowed logs.

The money thus being secure, the wayside drinking-fountain for man, beast, and bird was begun at once and before Memorial Day was completed and the water turned on, to Tommy’s great pride.

Nor were the children obliged to spend all their pennies upon the work, for besides the actual money, they had earned something of more value—the confidence and co-operation of their own parents and of the neighbourhood.

At first the work that Gray Lady had begun at Foxes Corners school was thought to be merely a passing fancy or a matter of sentiment only, but day by day many of those who were not only indifferent, but perhaps aggressive, saw that common sense went hand in hand with the common humanity that the Kind Hearts’ Club expressed.

Flag Day, that year falling upon a Friday, was to be the last regular bird lesson for the Foxes Corners school. Now that the planting season had come, and the summer vacation was near, the Friday afternoons were needed for making up back work on the part of those who had been absent and in preparing for examinations.

In some way it seemed to be an understood fact that Rose Wilde would go to Bridgeton to teach in the High School, and it was a subject about which her pupils were very unhappy.

There were to be some patriotic exercises at the school in the morning as usual; then Miss Wilde asked Gray Lady, who had been away for several days, if the children might not have their afternoon talk at Swallow Chimney instead of at the school, as the air in the low room was quite heavy and uncomfortable in the warm June afternoons.

Luncheon was hardly over on that day before Goldilocks began to show unusual signs of hurry. In answer to her mother’s question as to what made her so restless, she replied, “I’m so afraid we may be late. I promised Miss Wilde we would be over by half-past one,” and then stopped and looked confused.

“I do not see how we can be late when the class cannot begin by itself,” said Gray Lady, smiling, for she was well aware that there was something unusual in the air, but exactly what, she had purposely kept herself from guessing.

However, she did not aggravate Goldilocks by any unnecessary delay, and half-past one saw mother and daughter going through the garden toward the gate of Birdland. Goldilocks, for some mysterious reason, kept her eyes upon the ground, while it seemed to her as if her mother stopped an endlessly long time to admire every shrub and to gather a bunch of delicately pencilled pansies of lilac, mauve, and royal purple to fasten in the belt of her soft gray muslin gown.

As the pair came out from the shadow of the overhanging vines of the garden walk, a low murmur and the distinct words “here she comes” made Gray Lady pause and look toward the rustic gate of Birdland. As she did so, the gate opened, and inside she saw the school children drawn up in line on either side of the grass path that formed a natural aisle to the middle of the orchard, where several of the old trees had crumbled away, leaving an open space.

“We must walk right on,” whispered Goldilocks, clutching her mother’s hand and almost pulling her along. So, wishing every one good day right and left as she went, Gray Lady allowed herself to be led, the children closing in and following.

At first the bright light in the open space blinded Gray Lady, and then she saw that a tall flagpole was planted in the centre of the open,—a slender pole, flawless from bottom to top, polished and smooth as glass. On the top was perched a gilded eagle with wings wide-spread; in the halyards on the pole a loosely folded bundle was caught, and the end of the line was in the hands of Jack Todd.

Gray Lady stood quite still looking from one to the other, her breath coming fast. Then Jack jerked the line, and out of the bundle, fold on fold, fell a large flag; slowly it rose to the top of the pole and floated in the breeze, while at the little click of Miss Wilde’s tuning-fork twenty-five fresh young voices broke into song.

HYMN OF THE FLAG

(Dedicated to the Army and Navy)

North, South, East, and West Rise and join your hands. Native born and Brothers drawn From many Fatherlands. Rise ye Nation of the morn, Land where Liberty was born; Ye who fear no ruler’s nod, Ye who only kneel to God— Rise—Salute your Flag!

Stars upon its azure throng, Stars for states that stride along, Stars of hope that make men strong. Blood-red bars for battle done, Steel-white stars for peace well won. Rise—Salute this Flag!

North, South, East, and West Bring your tribute then. Gold ye have and grain enough To feed earth’s starving men. Ye who tent on distant shores, Ye whose name the ocean roars, Ye who toil in mine and field, Ye who pluck the cotton’s yield, Rise—Salute your flag!

North, South, East, and West Rise and join your hands; Native born and brothers drawn From many Fatherlands. One ye stand in common cause, One to break oppression’s laws, One to open Freedom’s gate, One! Ye re-United States! Rise—Salute your Flag!

Stars upon its azure throng, Stars for states that stride along, Stars of hope that make men strong. Blood-red bars for battles done, Steel-white stars for peace well won. Rise—Salute this Flag!

* * * * *

The singing ceased, and Gray Lady stood with bent head, a smile upon her lips and tears in her eyes, for often when one is happiest, the two go together.

The words of the hymn had been written by a dear friend on one of the anniversaries of the day that the General gave his life for his flag’s honour, and forgetting that Goldilocks knew, Gray Lady had thought that no one remembered the verses but herself.

Tommy and Sarah, to whom it had fallen to explain the occasion in a little speech of Miss Wilde’s wording, stepped forward, then looked at each other and seemed struck dumb. Sarah found her tongue first and also her own wording for the speech; clasping her hands nervously, she began: “Last fall when we had the orchard party, you said ‘some day Birdland must have a flagpole of its own,’ so we thought we would all do it and Miss Wilde said, ‘yes.’ The big boys cut the pole in Haines’ woods (he let them), and they shaped it out and polished it all themselves, and Jacob helped set it yesterday. We were awfully afraid you wouldn’t go to New York so’s they could do it without being seen.

“Miss Wilde fitted the music to the words, and Mrs. Wilde cut out the flag, and the rest of us all sewed on it, the little boys too. The stripes were easy, but some of the stars wiggled in the points, because it’s hard turning sharp corners.

“We all bought the eagle, not in a store,—they cost too much,—but of the junk pedler, and it’s been done over. It’s a good strong one, better than they make nowadays, grandma says.” Then, as Sarah realized that she had forgotten all the expressions of thanks for the happiness that had come to them at “the General’s” which Miss Wilde had so carefully worded and drilled them to pronounce correctly, she gave a despairing look at their friend and, seeing something in her face that invited her, cast herself into Gray Lady’s arms.

* * * * *

After the flag had been lowered, duly examined, and praised, and the crooked stars declared to be quite natural, because, as Goldilocks truthfully remarked, “real stars twinkle and always look crooked, you know,” Gray Lady said: “Now that I know the beautiful surprise you had for me, I will tell you a little secret of my own. It is true, as rumour says, that Miss Wilde is going to leave Foxes Corners school at the term end, but _not_ to go to Bridgeton.

“She is going to have a little school all of her own in the big room at Swallow Chimney, with Goldilocks and as many of you for pupils as wish to go to the High School by and by and are ready for the eighth grade. Yes, I have arranged it with the school committee, and it is perfectly satisfactory to them. Oh! children, do not smother me!”

Then Tommy Todd suddenly realized that he had not only thought of following Sarah’s example and hugging Gray Lady, but that he had actually done so!

THE END

INDEX

Birds, Travels of, 136-153. Blackbird, Red-winged, 333-340. Bluebird, 313-317. Bobolink, 21, 34, 147, 226-228, 403. Bob-white (Quail), 145, 199-202.

Cardinal, 145, 277, 282-288. Catbird, 32, 366, 382, 383. Chat, Yellow-breasted, 403, 411. Chickadee, 25-27, 181, 246, 355-356. Chippy, Winter, see Tree-Sparrow. Cowbird, 333, 336. Creeper, Brown, 184-186. Crossbill, Red-winged, 252. Crossbill, White-winged, 252. Crow, 10-11, 107-109, 114-128. Cuckoo, Yellow-billed, 403, 404. Curlew, Eskimo, 148.

Dove, Mourning, 219-220. Duck, Wood, 213-215.

Finch, Purple, 363. Flicker, 189-194.

Goldfinch, American, 247, 422-426. Goose, Wild, 356-358. Grackle, Purple, 117, 337. Grackle, Rusty, 337. Grosbeak, Rose-breasted, 403, 426-430. Grouse, Ruffed (Partridge), 197-199, 203-208. Gull, Herring or Harbour, 229, 232-241.

Hawks, 157, etc. Hawk, American Sparrow, 172-174. Hawk, Harrier, 171. Hawk, Marsh, 171. Hawk, Red-shouldered, 154, 171. Heron, Great Blue, 363. Heron, Snowy Egret, 50, 65-72. Humming-bird, Ruby-throated, 366, 375-376, 403.

Indigo-bird, 279-281, 403.

Jay, Blue, 25, 116, 128-135. Junco, 250, 308.

Killdeer, 220, 223-225. Kingbird, 403. Kingfisher, 340-350. Kinglet, Golden-crowned, 250, 251.

Lark, Horned, 297.

Martin, Purple, 95, 96, 99, 101, 365. Meadowlark, 217-218, 337. Migration of Birds, 136-153. Mockingbird, 271-274, 277, 289, 290. Murres, 143.

Nest-Building, 358. Nighthawk, 147-153, 366, 369-372, 403. Nonpareil, 276, 278. Nuthatch, White-breasted, 178-180, 183.

Oriole, Baltimore, 403, 412-420. Ostrich, 65, 73-79. Ovenbird, 365. Owls, 157, etc. Owl, Barn, 166-167. Owl, Barred, 163, 166. Owl, Great Horned, 163, 165. Owl, Gray, see Screech Owl. Owl, Mottled, see Screech Owl. Owl, Red, see Screech Owl. Owl, Screech, 158-162. Owl, Short-eared, 166-169. Owl, Snowy, 295.

Partridge, see Ruffed Grouse. Phœbe, 32, 335, 350-354. Plover, Upland, 220. Plover, Golden, 148-150.

Quail, see Bob-White.

Redpoll, 297. Redstart, 249, 403, 408. Robin, 23, 322, 326-332.

Sandpiper, Least, 220-222. Sandpiper, Spotted, 220-223, 365. Sapsucker, Yellow-bellied, 188-189. Shrike, Northern, 298-299. Snowbird, Gray, see Junco. Sparrow, Chipping, 364. Sparrow, Fox, 334. Sparrow, Song, 21, 318-325. Sparrow, Tree, 249. Sparrow, Vesper, 363. Sparrow, White-throated, 298. Starling, English, 110-113. Swallows, 89. Swallow, Bank, 91-95, 98, 101, 365. Swallow, Barn, 21, 91-94, 98, 101, 365. Swallow, Chimney, see Chimney Swift. Swallow, Cliff, or Eave, 93, 95, 98-99. Swallow, Tree, 94, 98, 101, 364. Swallow, White-breasted, 93. Swift, Chimney, 90, 152, 366, 372-375.

Tanager, Scarlet, 34, 403, 420-422. Thistle-bird, see Goldfinch. Thrasher, Brown, 366, 381-383. Thrush, Golden-crowned, see Ovenbird. Thrush, Wood, 366, 377-379. Thrush, Brown, see Thrasher. Turnstone, 148.

Veery, 366, 380-381, 403. Vireo, Red-eyed, 403, 405-407.

Wake-up, see Flicker. Warbler, Black-and-white, 365. Warbler, Myrtle, 250, 251. Warbler, Yellow, 403. Warbler, Yellow-rumped, see Myrtle Warbler.

Whip-poor-will, 335, 365-367. Wilson’s Thrush, see Veery. Woodcock, 201, 209-212. Woodpeckers, 187. Woodpecker, Downy, 194-196. Woodpecker, Golden-winged, see Flicker. Woodpecker, Partridge, see Flicker. Woodpecker, Pigeon, see Flicker. Wren, House, 366. Wren, Winter, 248.

Yellowbird, Summer, 408-409. Yellowhammer, see Flicker. Yellowthroat, Maryland, 403, 410.

OUT-DOOR BOOKS BY “BARBARA” (_MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT_) _Each_, $1.50

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The Garden of a Commuter’s Wife

_Recorded by the Gardener, with eight photogravure illustrations_

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* * * * *

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_From the Experience Book of a Commuter’s Wife_

_With eight illustrations_

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* * * * *

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_With a Frontispiece in Colors and Other Illustrations_

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* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

A few obvious typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Some illustrations have been moved slightly to keep paragraphs intact.

[End of _Gray Lady and the Birds_ by Mabel Osgood Wright]

End of Project Gutenberg's Gray Lady and the Birds, by Mabel Osgood Wright