Part 2

From the very first, I heard many bird voices coming from the ravine. So one morning I took a walk out that way. Scattered all along were tall sunflowers, now gone to seed. Foraging on some were the noisy bluejays, on others the dear happy chickadees. The trees were bare, so that I could see as well as hear the birds. Woodpeckers were tapping, pecking, delving. All along I heard this pleasing, friendly music, as if the birds were following me. So pleasant was my walk that I did not realize how far I was going until I was at the end of the city, where the country begins.

A good way off were some widely scattered houses. On a tall pole near the first house was a very large bird house. As I drew nearer, three small bird houses came in sight.

I made up my mind to get acquainted with the people in that home. A pleasant lady opened the door and invited me in.

“Who put up those bird houses?” I asked, the first thing.

“That’s my boy,” said the lady. “He just loves to tinker with his tools.” She pointed with pride to a clock shelf which she said he had made for her birthday.

“And he made that big bird house, too?” I asked.

“He made every one,” answered the lady, “and he is making more. He is learning it in the manual training school.”

I told her I wanted to make some bird houses, but didn’t know just how to go about it.

Then she led me into a tiny room off the kitchen. There by the window stood an old dry goods box that had been fitted up as a work bench, with a vise and a rack for small tools. Larger tools were hanging on the wall. On some shelves were wooden boxes and boards. On the work bench lay a bird house. I picked it up and looked at it.

“He says that’s to be for wrens,” explained the lady. From a chest she produced another bird house which she said was for bluebirds.

“He makes them out of these boxes that he gets from our grocer,” she added, “and I save the starch boxes for him.”

The lady had much to do, so I made ready to go. But she went on talking:

“At first, I couldn’t bear to give up this little storeroom. But since I have seen how happy it makes Laddie to have this little ‘shop,’ as he calls it, I am glad I gave in to him. Would you believe it: from the time he begins to work with these tools until he lays them down again he whistles and sings like a bird himself! I think anything that makes a boy so contented must be good for him.”

The lady then went about her work, telling me not to hurry. So I stayed to take some measurements of the bird houses. Both were made so that they could be opened in front.

“He makes them that way so they can be easily cleaned,” explained the lady.

On the way home I stopped at our grocer’s and got some small wooden boxes. Two were yeast foam boxes, and one was a cocoa box. I, too, had learned in manual training school how to use simple tools, so I bought also a saw, plane, shaving knife, brace and set of bits, and a small vise. Then out of an old sewing machine stand I made a work bench, and a light corner of the basement became my “shop.” I made those yeast foam boxes into wren houses, and out of the cocoa box I made a bluebird house. The boy’s mother had told me that his manual training teacher was a lady, and that she was “just as good as a man,” so I felt quite proud of my new fancy work.

The house for bluebirds and one for wrens were put up in trees. The other wren house was mounted on a post above the grape arbor. But it did not stay there long, for I soon found that a grape arbor is no place for a bird house. Can you guess why not?

It was while waiting for the wrens and the bluebirds to come that I had such delightful times with the woodpeckers, the nuthatches and the chickadees.

III REAL TROUBLES IN BIRDLAND

I said that birds were lovely neighbors. So are some other animals. At my new home I soon became acquainted with a wild rabbit. Two dogs roamed around in the vacant lots and in the ravine a great deal. Often when I heard them barking, the next thing I saw would be Bunny, running as fast as he could toward our place, with the dogs after him. Bunny could glide through under the garden fence, and that was lucky for him. The dogs were too big and couldn’t.

I was glad when Bunny came to our place for safety. He liked slices of apple so well that he would come nearer and nearer to get them, until finally he ate out of my hand.

One hot day while Bunny was in our yard, he saw the birds’ basin, and went there to drink. He had been accustomed to drink at the brook in the ravine, where the water always runs, if there is any. But the brook was dried up at this time of year. The clear, still water in the basin was a new thing to Bunny. He took a long look at it. Seeing himself pictured in the water was another new thing to him, and he looked again and again. Evidently he thought himself quite handsome, for even after it rained and the brook filled up again, he still kept coming. The basin was his looking-glass.

I am sorry for what I have to tell about some other animals. One day our neighbor’s cat lay crouching near the tree under which the chickfeed was scattered. A downy woodpecker was just coming down the tree. Kitty’s eyes glared. Her teeth chattered. But evidently the downy did not see her. I scolded Kitty and drove her away. This disturbed the downy, and he flew away too. But that was better than to let him come down where Kitty could jump on him. She could easily have done so while he was reaching over to the ground for a kernel.

After this experience I covered up all the chickfeed beside the tree, and scattered some in more exposed places, away from any trees and from bushes. I also laid suet on low branches of trees and tied it on firmly, and poked some into small holes of old trees, and under the bark.

Soon afterward I saw the same cat again. This time she was on a branch, eating suet. That set me to thinking: “If the cat can get to the suet in the tree, she will also be able to get to the bird houses. Some day she might find some baby birds in there, not yet able to fly.”

I did not take away the suet which the birds liked so well. I got some tin sheeting and tacked it around the tree. The cat could not climb over the smooth sheeting.

Imagine my surprise when I saw her up there at the suet again! “How did she get there?” I wondered to myself. Day after day I watched Kitty before I found her out.

One morning, who should go climbing up that tree but a red squirrel? When he reached the tin, he looked around and made a loud chatter. Seeing no one, he took one big jump over the sheeting and went to the suet. After tasting it, he wiped his mouth on the bark as if he did not like it. Then he went over to the bluebird house. The entrance to this little house had been nicked by somebody with sharp little teeth. Now I found out who that somebody was. This squirrel was even now nibbling at the entrance, trying to make it still bigger. At the wren house somebody had broken off the little porch, which was probably the squirrel’s doing also.

I wondered what I should do to keep this squirrel from spoiling my bird houses. Some more tin sheeting, I thought, would fix it so he could not jump over. I put another sheet just above the first one. That made the tin protection thirty-six inches deep. When the squirrel came the next time, he climbed as far as he could, then looked up at the tin. That was too high a jump. He turned, jumped to the ground, and scampered away.

The pilfering red squirrel is not to be confounded with the genial gray squirrel of our parks, who loves to take peanuts out of our hands.

I still wondered how Kitty had made her way to the suet, with the tin around that tree. Surely she could not jump over the tin! As a jumper the squirrel can beat Kitty any time. One day I heard a scratching noise. Kitty was sharpening her claws on the bark of the next tree. Every little while she climbed a few steps up that tree; then sharpened her claws again. There was nothing in that tree that she could harm, so I let her go on. She walked along on one of the branches, and jumped across to a branch on the other tree, the one that held the bluebird house, and smelled around there. It was early spring. There were no young birds in the house yet; so I let her go on, just to see what she would do. Some English sparrows had started to nest in the little house. Kitty pulled out grasses and feathers, and spoiled the nest.

Now just think how wise she was to plan that all out so nicely! And all she gets for it is scolding! Why should we blame Kitty for liking birds? We like our chicken dinners. We praise Kitty when she catches a mouse or a rat. Some people even entice her to catch English sparrows. How can she know it is good to clean out a mouse nest and naughty to clean out a bird nest?

Two things can be done to lessen the loss of birds by cats. First, to safeguard in every possible way every bird house, feeding place, and bath. Second, to compel the owners of cats to keep them on their own premises, and to lock them up nights. It is at night, when there is no one to interfere, that cats do the most damage to birds.

I knew that if Kitty could jump from that tree to the next one, the squirrel could do it, too; so I put double tin sheeting on that tree also.

But such a clever cat and such a nimble squirrel would also know how to climb the grape arbor, I thought; so I took the wren house off the arbor. This house also had been nibbled and the entrance made much larger. I concluded that the worst of all places for a bird house is a grape arbor, a pergola, or a garden arch.

A friend had sent me a beautiful wren house. It was shaped like a small barrel, and had four rooms. I called it the apartment house. Fortunately, it was made of such hard wood that no squirrel could bite through. I had this house put on a tin-sheathed post on the north side of the house where it would be in shade.

For the bluebirds I put up two new houses. The one that had been up all winter was so smelly of squirrels and English sparrows that I knew the dainty bluebirds would not like it. The time was near for the birds to return from their winter homes. I wanted everything clean and safe for them.

IV THE BLUEBIRDS’ BUNGALOW

I love the springtime because it brings my birds back from their winter homes.

One cold March day I saw something blue flash across the sky.

“Can that be the bluebird I have been waiting for?” I thought.

It flew into a tree; then alighted on a clothesline post. I could plainly see the blue on its back and the red on its front. Yes, it was the bluebird. His song was as beautiful as his plumage, but in a minor tone:

“De-_ary! De-_ary!”

Next he flew to the top of the wren house, tripped along the roof, leaned over and looked at the little porches. Then he went down on one of them and looked into the room. That was as far as he could go. The entrances to these apartments had been made for the tiny wrens and not for bluebirds. When he saw the bluebird house in the tree, he flew to a branch just in front of it and looked at it a while. Then he flew back to the wren house and tried that again; he liked it so well, he couldn’t bear to give it up.

After a week or so another bird came, of much paler hue, but with the reddish breast. The song of my bluebird now became long and pleading: “Deary! dear, dear, deary!” But it still remained subdued and minor. Together he and his newly arrived companion visited the bird houses, so I concluded that they were mates. They could hardly make up their minds which house to take, so pleased were they with all of them. Mrs. Bluebird tried the wren house, too. But when she saw she could not get inside she did not go there any more.

My prettiest bluebird house was on our hammock post, well shaded by our biggest tree. I had read somewhere that bluebirds like to have one house for spring and another for summer. So this house was made with two rooms, one above the other. I thought the bluebirds would surely like this double house better than the single one, for they went inside it many times, and always stayed there long.

The other house, which was mounted on a young maple, was not nearly so pretty. It was made out of cigar boxes and I had forgotten to take off the labels. After the bluebirds had visited it I did not dare touch it because, if their houses are interfered with, birds are liable to go away. Both the maple and the hammock post were well protected with tin sheeting.

One day Mrs. Bluebird fetched some grasses in her bill. To my great joy she alighted on the perch in front of the double house. Twice she poised to fly, but did not. At last she flew—and where do you think she went? Why, to that ugly little house with the labels on it!

While she was in the house, Mr. Bluebird alighted on the porch, looked in, and sang a little song. Mrs. Bluebird flew out past him and almost brushed him off. Then he went inside, and just as Mrs. Bluebird returned with some more grasses he came out with a chip in his bill. Some chips had fallen inside when I made the entrance, and he did not like that. The little house must be clean, since Mrs. Bluebird was going to make her nest in it. Sometimes he brought a grass or two; she brought whole wads of grasses. But he made up in attentions to her. Wherever she might be working, he perched near by, on a fence post or a low branch, and kept his eyes on her. As she went from place to place to find the right kind of grasses, or to the little house to throw them in, he always followed her. Sometimes she was just gliding through the entrance with a load as he alighted on the housetop with a choice morsel for her to eat.

One day our neighbor’s cat was hiding behind an evergreen near where Mrs. Bluebird was hunting grasses. Mr. Bluebird’s bright eyes saw her just in time.

“Dear-dear-dear!” he cried, quickly and jerkily.

Mrs. Bluebird knew that that meant, “Danger! Fly quick!!” Up she flew, and away.

The cat jumped high and almost caught her.

After that I chased the cat away every time I saw her. There certainly should be a law to make people keep their cats at home.

When Mrs. Bluebird had her house all furnished she stayed at home about two weeks and took a good rest. Mr. Bluebird continued to bring her meals and to entertain her. When he was not hunting bugs and worms, or chasing English sparrows, he was sure to be somewhere near home, singing his sweetest songs.

When Mrs. Bluebird was able to be out again she and Mr. Bluebird were busier than ever. Both were carrying food to the little house. I knew then that they had babies in there, so I called him Father, and her Mother.

The bluebirds caught some of their food in the air, but a good deal of it they picked up in my garden. I had some low stakes there expressly for them. They perched on these and on the bean-poles, and from there pounced on many a luckless worm or bug that their sharp eyes espied. I am sure the bluebirds are great helpers in a garden.

After two busy weeks of baby-tending, Father and Mother Bluebird did just what the little wrens had done. They made the babies come outside for their food, or go hungry.

I think the first little bird to leave a nest must be very courageous. The others usually follow close after him. It was so with these bluebirds. And as they came out, one after another, Mother coaxed them over to the thornapple bushes. She did it by calling, “Dear dear,” and flying back and forth between the little house and the bushes.

Some of the baby bluebirds were quite obedient and flew after the mother. Two liked it so well on a branch in front of their house that they stayed there a while; then flew to other branches in the same tree. Father looked after these, and Mother stayed with the other three. What a chatter they always made when food was brought to them! It seemed as if each one said: “Come to me! Come to me!”

While Father and Mother Bluebird had those babies to feed and to care for, they started another housekeeping. This time they moved into the pretty double house and took the lower story. In the second coming-out party there were four more little bluebirds.

All through this second housekeeping the English sparrows tried repeatedly to get into the upper story, and Father Bluebird had to spend much time chasing them away. In the one-story house he had that much more time to get food, or to sing.

I did not clean the bungalow house after their first nesting, because I did not want the bluebirds to nest in it again. After the double house was vacated, I cleaned both houses, and found that the bluebirds had used only grasses and a few feathers for their nesting. In each case they had covered the entire floor with grasses, but the cup-like nest was back against the rear wall, as far from the entrance as it could possibly be.

What could this mean but that the bluebird likes a house with depth so she can bed her young as far back from meddling paws as possible? This much I learned from examining the deserted bluebird nests.

V THE WRENS’ APARTMENT HOUSE

A four-room house which had been sent to me was very much liked by a pair of wrens. Again their lively, rippling notes filled the air, as these wrens went from room to room of this “apartment house,” as I called it. It was three days before they made up their minds which room they liked best.

Then they brought little twigs and bits of rag, and leaves, and other things, and poked them into one of the rooms. It was as good as saying, “We will take this apartment for the summer.”

Some English sparrows wanted that same room. We always shooed them away, of course, if we could without frightening the other birds. The wrens jabbered and hissed at the sparrows, and stayed, pecking them and being pecked by them. There were four sparrows and only the two wrens; so the poor little wrens finally gave up and went away.

But, try as they would, the sparrows could not get inside of the house. After a while, they, too, went away. Then the wrens returned. It seemed as if they had been watching for the chance.

The wrens soon fetched more twigs, some of them several inches long. They poked them in as far as they would go; then went inside and pulled them in as well as they could. But some of the longest ones remained partly outside and so blocked the entrance to any birds except the tiny wrens.

Again the English sparrows came and, although they couldn’t even get their heads in now, still they bothered the wrens. They couldn’t have that room themselves, and they didn’t want anybody else to have it.

With such a mean spirit is it any wonder that nobody likes these birds? I cannot bear to call them sparrows any more, because so many good birds go by that name, and are therefore in danger of being disliked. Or, I wish that all the good sparrows could have a different name, and let the English sparrow alone keep the name he has dishonored.

The boy has told me that, to keep English sparrows from increasing around his place, he destroys their eggs wherever he can find them. He said that one pair of sparrows seemed to blame the bluebirds for it, and in revenge destroyed the bluebirds’ nest.

We kept up the shooing and handclapping whenever English sparrows visited the wren house. After a while the wrens began to understand that we were trying to help them, and went on with their nesting. They put tiny sticks and twigs into other rooms of their house also,—and now there was a perfect concert of wren music all the time. Before night two more entrances were blocked. Some of the twigs that these wrens brought had such long thorns on them that they would not go inside at all. But this did not discourage the plucky wrens. They just dropped them to the ground and fetched others.

The next day another pair of wrens came. It seemed as if wrens had a way of letting their friends know where some nice apartments could be had. I was so eager to accommodate as many wrens as would come that I had made some one-room houses for them. One was mounted in a pear tree; another under the overhang of the garage roof.

This last wren pair seemed quite bewildered with so many houses to choose from, and all of them different. Whenever Mrs. Wren showed preference for one house, Mr. Wren would go to another one and with his singing try to coax her there. She was seen oftener about the house under the garage roof, than the others. Mr. Wren seemed to like the apartment house best. He was such a jolly little fellow, it is no wonder he liked to have company. But Mrs. Wren did not care for that at all. A small cottage was her choice. After making us believe that she liked the one under the garage roof, she came with a stick about three inches long and flitted about with it.

Mr. Wren had already put some nesting material into the apartment house. But hard as he tried, by singing and by soft chatter, which I suppose was coaxing, and by frequent visits to the apartment house, he could not win her over. Her mind was made up, and it must be—what? Well, it was the small house in the pear tree. When Mr. Wren saw that he couldn’t have his way, why, of course, that small house became his choice too.

Each of these pairs of wrens raised some babies. But with all their work and family cares, and the English sparrows to bother them at times, they were always a happy company. They could sing just as beautifully when carrying twigs or worms or bugs as at any other time. Their happy music made a continuous open-air concert. And their manners, whether at work or at play, were so entertaining that I could not bear to take my eyes off them.

This went on through late April and part of May. One morning the wrens were all excited. Two of their little ones were on the ground. Our kitty had been tethered to a hitching weight; but now, fearing one of the little wrens might fly near her, I locked her up. The parents were coaxing their little birds over toward the vacant lot where the thornapple bushes are. These bushes start even with the ground and are so dense, and have such long, sharp needles, that a cat would get her eyes scratched out if she tried to go in. I shall always plant thornapple bushes wherever I may live, especially for the protection of young birds. And I shall plant several close together, so as to make a dense thicket. These bushes will provide food for birds, as well as protection.

The way these wrens coaxed their little ones to follow was very clever. They would go near them; then walk away trailing their wings. This made a soft, rustling, coaxing sound. But it was over an hour before they succeeded in getting the little ones where they wanted them. They had to come back to them again and again and keep up the coaxing. I was glad when they finally had them safe under those thorny branches, where I could not see them any more for the leaves.

By this time two more young were ready to leave the house. One was already on the little porch, the other peered out of the entrance. These were wiser than the first two. Instead of going to the ground, one flew to the kitchen roof which was near and almost even with the wren house. It was a flat roof covered with gravel. Pretty soon the second baby also flew to the roof.