Part 3

“Well, Tommy,” said Gray Lady, who had learned that at least one of the children before her cared for out-of-doors, which was precisely what she wanted to know, “as long as this is a sort of holiday, suppose you take that empty seat by the east window and tell us what you see. You may open the window and the others on that side also, for I think the rain is over; yes, the clouds are breaking away.”

How fresh and sweet the air was that rushed into the close room! Tommy stuck his head out and took a great breath as he looked down over the corn-fields,—his enemies the crows were not there.

“There isn’t much to see now, it’s too wet yet,” he said; “but pretty soon there will be, for most birds and things get hungry right after a rain!”

“Olit—olit—olit—che-wiss-ch-wiss-war,” sang a little bird in a low bush by the roadside.

“What bird is that,” asked Gray Lady; “do any of you know?”

“It’s just the usually little brown bird that stays around here most all the time, but I love the tune it sings,” said Sarah Barnes. “Teacher says it’s some kind of a sparrow.”

“It is a Song Sparrow,” said Gray Lady, “and you are right in saying it stays with us almost all the year.”

“Now,” called Tommy, “the birds are beginning to come out; some Barn Swallows are flying over the low meadow and there’s a lot of ’em, and another kind strung along the wires on the turnpike. They always sit close and act that way all this month and some fly away, and ’long the first part of next month, when the corn’s all husked, they’ll be gone! Please, ma’am, why do some birds never go away, and some do, and what makes ’em come back?” Then Tommy began one of the volley of questions that Miss Wilde so dreaded.

“Yes, an’ please, ma’am,” asked Dave, “why are some birds that mate together such different colours?” “An’ what becomes of Bobolinks after Fourth of July?” asked another. “An’ what makes birds have so many kind of feet?” queried a third.

Then questions flew so thick and fast that Gray Lady could not even hear herself think, and presently, when every one had laughed at the confusion, order was restored.

“I asked you a moment ago what you would like to hear about. I think I know. You would like to hear about birds! Are there any other boys here besides Tommy and Dave who care about birds?” asked Gray Lady, who wished to have each child feel that he or she had a part in what was going on.

“I know about birds’ eggs!” cried Bobby Bates, a boy who, from being undersized, looked much younger than he really was; “I’ve got a pint fruit-jar of robins’ eggs.”

“But I’ve got a quart jar of mixed eggs,” said Dave, “and they’re mostly little ones, Wrens and Chippy birds and such like, so’s I’ve really got more’n Bobby!” he added boastfully.

Gray Lady opened her lips to speak sharply and her eyes flashed, for nest-robbing was one of the things she most detested. Then she remembered that perhaps these children had not only never even dreamed that there was any harm in it, but had never heard of the laws that wise people had made to protect the eggs of wild birds, as well as the birds themselves, from harm. So she hesitated a moment while she thought how she might best make the matter understood.

“Why do you like to collect eggs?” she asked. “Because they are pretty?”

“Yes’m, partly,” drawled Dave, “and then to see how many I can get in a spring.”

“But do you never think how you worry the mother birds by stealing their eggs, and how many more birds there would be if you let the eggs hatch out? What the rhyme says is true,—

“‘The blue eggs in the Robin’s nest Will soon have beak and wings and breast, And flutter and fly away!’

Only think, if all those robins’ eggs of yours, Bobby, and all your little eggs, Dave, should suddenly turn into birds and fly about the room, how many there would be! But now they will never have wings and swell their throats to sing to us and use their beaks to eat up insects that make the apples wormy and curl up the leaves of the great shade trees.”

“Robins don’t do any good; they just spoil our berries and grapes; dad says so, and he shoots ’em whenever he can, and he likes me to take the eggs,” said Dave, stubbornly, while Sarah Barnes exclaimed, “Yes, an’ _my_ father says he ought to be ashamed of himself!” almost out loud.

“I know that Robins sometimes eat fruit,” said Gray Lady, firmly, “but they do so much more good by destroying bugs that the Wise Men say that neither they nor their eggs shall be taken or destroyed, and what they say is now a law. So that it is not for any one to do as he pleases in the matter. To kill song-birds or destroy their eggs is as much breaking the law as if you stole a man’s horse or cow, for these birds are not yours; they belong to the state in which you live.”

Bobby and Dave looked surprised, but Tommy and Sarah nodded to one another, as much as to say, “We knew that, didn’t we?”

“Some day, if you are clever with your lessons so that Miss Wilde can spare the time for it, I will tell you all about the reasons for these laws, and what the wild birds do for us, and what we should do for them. But first you must learn to know the names of some of the birds that live and visit hereabout, as I am now learning yours, and make friends of some of them as I hope to make friends of you.”

“Yes, yes, oh, yes!”

“You can’t make friends of birds; they won’t let you,” said Dave Drake, who was a sickly, lanky boy of fourteen with a whining voice; “they always fly away. That is, I mean tree birds, not chickens nor pigeons.”

“Chickens aren’t birds, they’re only young hens,” put in Eliza Clausen, with an expression of withering contempt. She was one of the big fourteen-year-old girls, and not being a good scholar was apt to use opposition in the place of information.

“We can make friends of at least some birds,” said Gray Lady, “if we are kind to them. When we have human visitors come to stay with us, what do we do for them?”

“We let them sleep in the best bedroom, and we get out the best china and have awful good things to eat, and give ’em a good time,” said Ruth Barnes, all in one breath.

“Yes, and we should do much the same with our bird friends. They do not need to have a bedroom prepared; they can generally find that for themselves, though even this is sometimes necessary in bad weather; but they often need food, and in order that they should have what Ruth calls ‘a good time,’ we must let them alone and not interfere with their comings and goings.

“Go softly to the west window and look out,” continued Gray Lady, raising a finger to caution silence, for from her seat on the little platform she could see over the children’s heads and out both door and windows, “and see the hungry visitors that a little food has brought to the very door.”

The children tiptoed to one side of the room, and there, lo and behold, was a great Blue Jay, a Robin, a Downy Woodpecker with his clean black-and-white-striped coat and red neck bow, and a saucy Chickadee, with his jaunty black cap and white tie, all feasting on the broken bits of Miss Wilde’s ham sandwich, while a pair of Robins were industriously picking the fruit from a remnant of huckleberry pie. Unfortunately, before the children had taken more than a good look, the door banged to and the birds flew away, the Woodpecker giving his wild sort of laugh, the Robins crying, “Quick! quick!” in great alarm, while the Jay and Chickadee told their own names plainly as they flew.

“As we have agreed to talk and ask questions, I will ask the first one,” said Gray Lady, as they all settled down, feeling very good-natured and eager to listen.

“Eliza said a few minutes ago that a chicken isn’t a bird. Now a chicken is a bird, though of course all birds are not chickens.

_The Bird_

“Who can tell me exactly what a bird is? You all may think you know, but can you put it in words?”

“A bird isn’t a plant; it is an animal,” said Tommy Todd.

“Yes, but a cat is an animal, and a snake, and a horse; and we are animals ourselves.”

“A bird is a flying animal,” returned Sarah.

“Very true, but so is a bat, and, as you know, a bat has fur and looks very like a mouse, and a bird does not.

“Ah, you give it up. Very well, listen and remember. _A bird is the only animal which has feathers!_ With his hollow bones filled with buoyant, warm air, and covered with these strong pinions, he rows through the air, as we row a boat through the water with the oars, balancing himself with these wings, also steering himself with them and with his tail made of stiff feathers and shaped to his particular need, while with small feathers laid close, overlapping each other like shingles, and bedded on an under-coat of down, he is clothed and protected from heat, cold, and wet.

“The eye of the bird is different from ours, for it magnifies and makes objects appear much larger to it than they do to us. Also, while with other animals each group has practically the same kind of feet or beaks, birds have these two features built on widely different plans, so that when you have learned to know the common birds by name and are really studying bird-life, you will find that you must be guided to the orders in which they belong often by their beaks and feet.

“Barnyard Ducks, as you know, have webbed toes for swimming, and flat bills to aid them in shovelling their natural food from the mud.

“Birds of prey, like the Hawks and Owls, have strong hooked beaks and powerful talons or claws, for seizing and tearing the small animals upon which they feed.

“The Woodpeckers (all but one) have two front and two hind toes; these help them grasp the tree bark firmly as they rest, while they have strong-cutting, chisel-like beaks, which they also use for tapping or drumming their rolling love-songs.

“While the insect-eating song-birds have more or less slender bills and four toes, three in front and one behind, for perching crosswise on small branches, the seed-eating songsters, such as Sparrows, have similar feet, but short, stout, cone-shaped bills for cracking seeds and small nuts.

“By this you can see that in spite of the fact that all birds wear feathers, and have wings, a tail, beak, and a pair of legs, they may still be very different from each other.

“A Turkey Gobbler doesn’t look much like a Robin, nor a Goose like a Swallow, yet they are all four birds! They all four bring forth their young from eggs; but the little Turkeys and Goslings are covered with feathers when they peep out of the shell and are able to walk, while the young Robins and Swallows are at first blind, naked, and helpless; so here again you can see that there is something special to be learned about every bird that flies or swims.”

“Chickadee-dee-dee! Can’t you tell them something about me?” said this dear little bird, flitting about one of the open windows and clinging upside down to the blind slats that were bare of paint, like either a Woodpecker, or, as Tommy Todd remarked, “the man in the circus.”

“The little bird peeping in the window and calling his name reminds me of a pretty poem about him,” said Gray Lady. “I will repeat it to you and write it on the board so that you can copy it in your books, and then some of you may like to learn it to surprise Miss Wilde on another rainy Friday.”

A LITTLE MINISTER

I know a little minister who has a big degree; Just like a long-tailed kite he flies his D.D.D.D.D. His pulpit is old-fashioned, though made out of growing pine; His great-grandfather preached in it, in days of Auld lang syne.

Sometimes this little minister forgets his parson’s airs: I saw him turn a somersault right on the pulpit stairs; And once, in his old meeting-house, he flew into the steeple, And rang a merry chime of bells, to call the feathered people.

He has a tiny helpmeet, too, who wears a gown and cap, And is so very wide-awake, she seldom takes a nap. She preaches, also, sermonettes, with headlets one, two, three, In singing monosyllables beginning each with D.

But O her little minister, she does almost adore: I’ve heard her call her sweet D.D. full twenty times or more. And his pet polysyllable—why, did you hear it never? He calls her Phe-be B, so dear, I’d listen on forever.

Now if there is a Bright Eyes small who’d like to go with me, And on his cautious tiptoes ten, creep softly to a tree, I’ll coax this little minister to quit his leafy perch, And show this little boy or girl the way to go to church;

And where his cosy parsonage is hidden in the trees, And how in summer it is full of little D.D.D.’s. And if Bright Eyes will prick his ears, he’ll hear the titmice say, “Good morning,” which, in Chickadese is always “Day, day, day.”

—Ella Gilbert Ives.

“Now that I have answered my own question, there was another that one of you asked, or rather a pair of questions. Why do some birds go away in autumn, and why do they come back? It is very important to know the answers to these, if we want to really understand about the lives of birds and the trials and dangers they undergo.

_The Bird Year and the Migration_

“People who think of birds at all know that they are not equally plentiful at all times of the year, but that they have their seasons of coming and disappearing, as the flowers have, though not for exactly the same reason.

“We are accustomed to see the plants send up shoots through the bare ground every spring, unfold their leaves and blossoms, and, finally, after perfecting seed, wither away again at the touch of frost.

“Of these plants, as well as some large trees, a few are more hardy than others, like the ground-pine, laurel, and wintergreen, and are able to hold their leaves through very cold weather, and we call them evergreens.

“You notice that the birds appear in spring even before the pussy-willows bud out, and that every morning when you wake, the music outside the window and down among the alders on the meadow border is growing louder, until by the time the apple trees are in bloom there seems to be a bird for every tree, bush, and tuft of sedgegrass.

“By the time the timothy is cut and rye harvested, you do not hear so great a variety of song. The Robin, Song Sparrow, House Wren, and Meadowlark are still in good voice, and an occasional Catbird, but the Bobolink has dropped out, and the Brown Thrasher no longer tells the farmer how to plant his corn: ‘Drop it, drop it, cover it up, hoe it, hoe it;’ and very wise he is, too, for the corn is all planted.

“Later still, when the stacked cornstalks fill the fields with their wigwams, like Indian encampments, the pumpkins are gathered in golden heaps, and the smoke of burning leaves and brush pervades the air, you hear very few bird songs, for many birds have either dropped silently out of sight or collected in huge flocks, like the Swallow, swept by, and disappeared in the clouds, while others, like the Purple Grackle or Common Crow-Blackbird,—walk over the stubble and cover the trees, making such a creaking, crackling noise that one would surely think that their wings as well as voices were rusty and needed oiling.

“What has become of the birds? Where do they go when they disappear?

“Being warm-blooded animals they cannot dive into the mud and hide, like fishes, or crawl into cracks of tree bark and wrap themselves up in cocoons, like insects. Neither do they drop their feathers and die away as tender plants drop their leaves and disappear.

“People once believed that Swallows dived through the water into the mud, where they rolled themselves into balls and slept all winter. They thought this because Swallows are seen in early autumn in flocks about ponds and marshes, where they feed upon the insects that abound in such places. People thought that as Swallows were last seen in these places before they disappeared they must have gone under the water; but this was merely guessing, which is a very dangerous thing to do when trying to find out the plans that Nature makes for her great family.

“Later yet, when the snow begins to fall, there is little or no bird music, only the hoot of an Owl, the shrill cry of the Hawks, the ‘quank, quank’ of the Nuthatch, that runs up and down the tree-trunks like a mouse in gray-and-white feathers, the jeer of the Jay, and the soft voice of the Chickadee that, as you have just heard, tells you his name so prettily as he peers at you from beneath his little black cap.

“But the Catbird, Wren, Bobolink, Oriole, the Cuckoo that helped clear the tent caterpillars from the orchard, the Chat that puzzled the dogs by whistling like their master, the beautiful Barn Swallow, with the swift wings, that had his plaster nest in the hayloft, the Phœbe that built in the cowshed, and the dainty Humming-bird that haunted the honeysuckle on the porch and hummed an ancient spinning-song to us with his wings,—where are they all?

“And why is it that while those have disappeared, some few birds still remain with us in spite of cold and snow?”

THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS

Whither away, Robin, Whither away? Is it through envy of the maple leaf, Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast, Thou wilt not stay? The summer days were long, yet all too brief The happy season thou hast been our guest. Whither away?

Wither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the colour of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? Ah, why, Thou, too, whose song first told us of the spring, Whither away?

Whither away, Swallow, Whither away? Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, Here where our roof so well hath screened thy nest? Not one short day? Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forth And wander far from them who love thee best? Whither away?

—Edmund Clarence Stedman.

_The Fall Migration_

“If you watch the birds, you will soon notice that some eat only animal food, in the shape of various bugs, worms, and lice, while others eat seeds of various weeds, and grasses, and also berries. There are many birds that, like ourselves, eat a little of everything, both animal and vegetable.

“For instance, the Swallows live on insects of the air, except sometimes in the autumn flocking they feed for a short time on bayberries. The Phœbe is an insect eater; also the Catbird, though he is fond of strawberries and cherries for dessert. You saw just now that the Chickadee, Woodpecker, and Jay preferred the meat from the sandwich and the Robins the berries from the pie, though the Jay also likes nuts and seeds.

“You know that when frost comes, the air-flying insects are killed, and the gnats, mosquitoes, and flies that have worried the horses and cattle disappear. For this reason the birds that depend upon these bugs must follow their food supply, and move off farther southward where frost has not yet come.

“This is the reason why so many birds who feed on winged insects leave us in early autumn, before it is cold enough to make them uncomfortable; they must follow their food.

“There are other birds that, when they no longer have nestlings to feed, can pick up a living from berries and seeds, like the Robin, or live the greater part of the season upon seeds, like the Sparrows. These birds are not driven away by the first frost, but many stay about until the weather is uncomfortably cold, and some few remain all winter, like the Meadowlarks, Nuthatches, Jays, and Woodpeckers, who, having stout beaks, can dig out grubs and insects from among the roots of grass and from tough tree bark; but these too must move on if ice coats the trees or snow buries their ground feeding-places.

“As a great many birds spend the nesting season north of New England, they pass by on their way southward, and, if the feeding is good, stay with us sometimes several weeks, so that the flocks of Robins seen here in October are likely to be those that nested in the north, while our own birds are gradually drifting down to the extreme south, where they winter.

“This great southward journey of the birds, that begins as early as August and lasts at some seasons, if the winter is open, almost until Christmas, is called the fall migration, and when it is over, the birds remaining with us are classed as Winter Residents.

“There is another thing to be seen at this time of year, and if you have not already noticed it, watch and you will see that many of the birds that wore bright feathers in May and June have changed their gay coats for duller feathers.

_The Moulting_

“After the nesting season is over, and a pair of birds have raised one, two, and, as with the Wrens, sometimes three broods, the feathers of the parents become worn and broken, and not fit for winter covering, nor are the wing quills strong enough for the fall flight.

“At this time, when the young birds are able to care for themselves, the pairs no longer keep alone together, but, leaving their nesting-haunts, travel about either in a family party or in larger friendly flocks, and, although some birds, like the Song Sparrow and Meadowlark, sing throughout the season, the general morning chorus and the nesting season end together, in early or middle July.

“It is quite difficult to name the birds when young and old travel in flocks, for when a male is bright-coloured and the female dull, the first coat of the young is often such a mixture of both that it is easily mistaken for a wholly different and strange bird.

“In August or September almost all of our birds change their spring feathers. This is called moulting. And the brightly coloured birds often drop their wedding finery for dull-coloured travelling cloaks, so that they may not be seen when they fly southward through the falling leaves.

“After this season Father Tanager, of the scarlet wedding coat with black sleeves, appears in yellowish-green, like his wife, and the little Tanagers sometimes have mixed green, yellow, and red garments, for all the world like patchwork bedquilts pieced without regard to pattern.

Order—Passeres Family—Tanagridæ Genus—Firanga Species—Erythromelas

“The jolly Bobolink, also, who in May was the prize singer of the meadows, and disported in a coat of black, white, and buff, now wears dull brown stripes, and, having forgotten his song, he mixes with the young of the year and becomes merely the Reed Bird of the gunners. But in early spring he will change again, and, before the nesting time, reappear among us with every black feather polished free from rusty edges and glistening as of old.

“When Father Tanager comes back, he is brave and red again, though it takes little Tommy Tanager two moultings to grow an equally red coat.

“Even with the more quietly marked birds their colours are less distinct after the summer moult, so that what is known as the bird’s perfect or typical plumage is in many species that of the nesting season alone.”

“I didn’t think that there was so much to know about birds; they seem to have ways of doing things just like people. I’d love to know all about them every Friday, but I suppose that’s too nice to happen,” said Sarah Barnes, as Gray Lady paused and moved her chair back from the bright light that was now shining through the door directly in her face, for the clouds had rolled away down behind the hills, leaving one of the clear, bright, early September afternoons when the sun lends its colour to the field of early goldenrod, until sunset seems to reach to one’s very feet.