Chapter 2
"There are people who say that we robins are a nuisance, and that we destroy so much fruit that they wish we would never come near them. The fact is, we do more good than harm to your orchards and berry patches. Just think how many insects we destroy! If it were not for us I think much more fruit would be destroyed by insects. And worms and caterpillars would be crawling everywhere.
"A robin is a very greedy fellow. He eats nearly all the time. I could not begin to tell you how many insects I have eaten during my life.
"There are cutworms, too, which live underground. During the night they come out for food. We robins are early risers, and often catch the slow worms before they can get back to their underground homes."
"Ah," laughed Phyllis, "that must be the reason that we say that the early bird catches the worm."
"When our babies come," said the robin, "we are very busy, indeed. Those young mouths seem always to be open, begging for more food.
"My mother says that when I was a baby robin she was kept busy all day long.
"There were four baby birds in the nest. I myself ate about seventy worms in a day. My brother and sisters had as good appetites as I."
"Will you build here in the apple-tree?" asked Phyllis. "I should so like to watch you. Besides, there is a garden just beneath with millions of bugs and insects there."
"Oh, yes," replied the robin. "We shall surely build there. You will find that robins like to build near your home. We have a very friendly feeling towards people. That is the reason that we hop about your lawn so much and that we waken you by singing near your window in the early morning."
"I have heard that robins are not very good nest-builders," said Phyllis. "I was told that a great number of robins' nests were blown down by every hard storm."
"More are destroyed than I like to think about," said the robin. "But my father and mother raised three families of birds in their nest last season.
"Early in the spring they were very busy about their nest-building. First they brought sticks, straw, weeds, and roots. With these they laid the foundation in what seemed a very careless fashion, among the boughs.
"Then here on this foundation they wove the round nest of straws and weeds. They plastered it with mud. They lined it with soft grasses and moss.
"In this nest my mother laid four beautiful greenish-blue eggs. From the first egg that cracked open I crept out. From the three other eggs came my brother and sisters.
"We were not handsome babies. I don't believe bird babies ever are beautiful at first. We had no feathers, and our mouths were so big and yellow.
"We were always hungry, for we were growing very fast. Our mouths flew open at every little noise. We thought every sound was the flutter of our parents' wings. They always brought such fine food for us."
The robin pecked away at his breakfast for some time before he spoke again. Then he again took up the story of his life.
"How well I remember being taught to fly," he said. "How our mother coaxed us to try our wings. How timid and feeble we were One of my sisters fell to the ground and a great gray cat caught her.
"Our wings were very weak then and our feathers were still short. I then had no beautiful red breast. It was just a rusty looking white spotted with black.
"My mother's breast was not so red as my father's. She was of a paler colour and she sang much less than he. She was a very happy little mother, however, and she chirped very sweetly to her babies.
"After we flew from the nest, and were able to look out for ourselves, my mother laid four more greenish-blue eggs in the same nest. By and bye four more young robins were chirping about in the garden.
"Quite late in the season my parents were again nesting. But it was rather unfortunate that they did so. A great storm came up and a branch broke from the tree and destroyed the four blue eggs.
"It was shortly after this mishap that the robins flew south for the winter.
"My brother, who was always a brave, cheery fellow, thought he would rather stay here. I wonder how he fared. I have not yet seen him."
"I have not seen him lately, but he was here during the winter," said Phyllis. "I dare say you will find him soon."
"Well," said the robin, picking up the last grain of wheat, "I thank you, Phyllis, for this fine breakfast.
"I will only say 'good morning.' I think you will see me again. Perhaps I will show you where we build our nest."
"I am grateful to you," replied Phyllis. "You see the cherry-tree grows beside Jack's window. You might have sung your morning song there."
THE ROBIN'S RED BREAST[1]
It was very cold in the north country. The ice was thick and the snow was deep.
The seal and the white bear were happy. They liked the ice, the snow, and the cutting north wind, for their fur was thick and warm.
One night the great white bear climbed to the top of an immense iceberg. He looked far across the country. The fields of snow and the beautiful northern lights made the night almost as light as day.
The white bear saw no living thing save a few fur-clad animals and a little gray robin chirping cheerily as it picked away at an old bone.
Again the white bear looked down. Almost at the foot of the iceberg crouched a hunter and his little son. Between the two a tiny fire was blazing.
When the white bear saw the hunter and the boy guarding the fire he growled terribly. He leaped across from one iceberg to another. He went into his icy cave still growling.
"It is the only fire in the whole north country," growled the white bear to himself. "If I could only put out that fire the land of ice and snow would be mine.
"Neither the hunter nor the hunter's son could live, without fire. I will watch my chance. Perhaps some day I shall be so lucky as to put the fire out."
Now the Eskimo night is weeks long. All through the long night the hunter kept the fire. All through the long night the white bear crouched near and growled deeply.
At length the hunter fell ill. The brave little boy kept the fire burning. He also cared for his sick father.
The white bear crept closer now, and growled more loudly.
He longed to jump on the fire with his wet feet and tramp it out. But he dared not. The boy's bright eyes watched faithfully. The hunter's arrows were deadly, and the boy's aim was true.
But by and bye the boy could endure the long watch no longer. His head drooped. His eyes closed. He slept.
The white bear's growl sounded like a hideous laugh. The little gray robin twittered loudly in warning. But the poor tired little fellow heard neither the white bear's growl nor the gray robin's twitter.
Then the white bear ran swiftly to the fire. He tramped upon it with his cold wet feet. He rolled upon it with his cold wet fur. The cheerful blaze died out.
When he arose the white bear saw only a little pile of gray ashes. He laughed so loudly that the boy awoke and snatched up his bow and arrows.
But the white bear ran away to his cave, still growling laughingly. He knew that no human being could live in that cruelly cold north country without fire.
Now when the white bear was gone, the little gray robin hopped near. Her chirp was quite sad. She, too, saw nothing but a little heap of ashes as gray as her own feathers.
She hopped nearer. She scratched among the ashes with her cold little claws. She looked eagerly at each cinder with her sharp little eyes. She found--a tiny live coal.
It was only the tiniest spark! The least flake of the fast-falling snow would put it out!
The little gray robin hovered over it that the cold wind might not reach the spark. She fanned it softly with her wings for a long, long time.
The gray robin hovered so close that the coal touched her gray breast. As she fanned it glowed larger and redder. Her breast was scorched quite red, as the coal grew.
But the robin did not leave until a fine red flame blazed up.
Then the robin with her poor scorched red breast flew away. She flew wearily, for she was very tired. Now and again she touched the ground.
And wherever the robin's red breast touched the earth a fire was kindled. Soon the whole north country was blazing with tiny fires over which the Eskimos might cook their food and dry their clothes.
The white bear crept far, far back into his cave. He growled fiercely. He knew now that he could never have the north country to himself.
[1] Adapted from Flora J. Cook's "Nature Myths," by permission of A. Flanigan, Chicago.
WHICH WAS THE WISER?[1]
One morning in the early spring a raven was sitting on one of the branches of an old oak. He felt very ugly and cross, and could only say, "Croak! Croak!"
Soon a little robin, who was looking for a place to build her nest, came, with a merry song, into the same tree. "Good morning to you," she said to the raven.
But the raven made no answer; he only looked at the clouds and croaked something about the cold wind. "I said good morning to you," said the robin, hopping from branch to branch.
"You seem very merry this morning about nothing," croaked the raven.
"Why should I not be merry?" asked the robin. "Spring has come, and everybody should be glad and happy."
"I am not happy," said the raven. "Don't you see those black clouds above us? It is going to snow."
"Very well," answered the robin, "I shall keep on singing till it comes, at any rate. A merry song will not make it any colder."
"You are very silly," croaked the raven.
The robin flew to another tree and kept on singing; but the raven sat still and made himself very unhappy.
"The wind is so cold," he said. "It always blows the wrong way for me."
Very soon the sun came out warm and bright, and the clouds went away. But the raven was as sad as ever.
The grass began to spring up in the meadows. Green leaves and flowers were seen in the woods. Birds and bees flew here and there in the glad sunshine. The raven sat alone on the branch of the old oak.
"It is always too warm or too cold," said he. "To be sure it is quite pleasant just now; but I know that the sun will soon shine hot enough to burn one up. Then to-morrow it will be colder than ever before. I do not see how any one can be so silly as to sing at such a time as this."
Just then the robin came back to the tree, carrying a straw in her mouth.
"Well, my friend," asked she, "where is your snow?"
"Don't say anything," croaked the raven. "It will snow all the harder for this sunshine."
"And snow or shine," said the robin, "you will keep on croaking. For my part, I shall look on the bright side of everything, and have a song for every day in the year."
Which was the wiser, the raven or the robin?
[1] Permission of American Book Company.
ALL ABOUT THE ROBIN
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
One of the first birds to return in the spring--migrates north early in March--sometimes remains during winter--stays north as late as October or November.
Domestic--generally preferring to live near the home of man.
Song--though short and always the same is in tone wonderfully expressive of happiness, love, anger, or fear, as the case may be.
Black head--wings and tail brown--touches of white on throat--entire breast a rusty red.--Female duller and paler in colouring, growing almost as bright as the male in the autumn.
Food--principally insects and worms--does not disdain fruit, berries, cherries, etc., but prefers insect food--a ravenous eater.
Nest--outer layer composed of sticks, coarse grasses, etc., seemingly rather carelessly arranged--on this the rather large round nest is woven with grasses--plastered with mud--lined with softer grasses.
Eggs--greenish blue--four in number--young have black spots on breast--generally two broods reared in a season--sometimes three.
THE SWALLOW
UNDER THE EAVES
It was the tenth day of April. Phyllis knew the date because it chanced to be her birthday. She was just eight years old.
The sun shone very warm and bright, and the buds were growing big and red on the horse-chestnut-trees.
"I shall go down to the brook to look for pussy-willows this afternoon," said the little girl.
Phyllis was sitting in the window of the barn loft with the sun shining full upon her. All was very quiet and the little girl was half asleep.
Suddenly, with a flash of blue wings and a funny little twitter, a bird darted right across her face. Phyllis sat up straight, and, leaning out of the window, looked up at the eaves.
There she saw the merry twitterer, with several of his companions, who seemed very busy and very talkative.
They darted here and there, they skimmed through the air so swiftly that Phyllis could only catch a gleam of blue. They wheeled and circled and darted. All the time they twittered, twittered, twittered.
"What are they up to?" said Phyllis, leaning farther out and looking more closely.
For an instant one of the birds clung to the eaves and seemed to be pecking away at a bit of mud which was stuck to the eaves.
Phyllis noticed the deeply forked tail of the bird. Its back and wings and tail were steel blue. Its throat and chest were bright chestnut, becoming paler near the back of the body.
"Oh, I know you," laughed Phyllis. "I have no fear of frightening you, for you are a swallow.
"How does it happen that you are so fearless? You are scarcely more afraid of us than our chickens. Why do you build so near our homes? You are even more tame than the robin!"
The swallow twittered in a way which made Phyllis feel that he was laughing at her. He darted so near that had she been quick enough she might have caught him.
"We are not afraid of you!" laughed the swallow, darting close again and then whirling away.
"What a funny bird!" said Phyllis.
In a moment the bird was back with a bit of mud in his mouth. He plastered it up against the rest of the mud under the eaves. Then he flew again near Phyllis.
"I suppose there was a time," said the bird, "when all swallows built their nests on the sides and ledges of caves or cliffs. But that was hundreds of years ago, before men came and made barns with such comfortable places for building.
"To be sure there are swallows to this day who prefer the bank of a brook or the side of a cave for their nesting-place. But we barn swallows like the eaves best."
"You, too, are an early bird," said Phyllis. "Where did you spend the winter?"
There was a great twittering among the returning swallows just then and Phyllis was obliged to wait for a reply. Back came the bird after a moment.
"We went south last October," he said. "Late in September we gathered in great flocks in the marshes.
"For days we stayed there waiting for the entire company to gather. At length on one of the blue October days we flew southward.
"There were hundreds of birds in the flock. We looked like a small cloud, as we skimmed and darted through the air. As we flew, the flock was a half mile long.
"We spent the winter in South America. There are delicious insects there. But for all that we love the north country best.
"By and bye Mother Nature whispered to us. She said that it was nest-building time in the northland. Such a twittering and fluttering there was when this news came.
"That very afternoon we started north. Day after day we flew. We met other great flocks as we travelled, who joined us.
"Day after day we flew northward. We did not stop to eat, but caught our food on the wing.
"Now we lunched on moths and flies. Again we dined on grasshoppers. Any insect foolish enough to trust itself in the air at the time we passed served as food.
"We arrived here only a few days ago. It is not yet very warm, but here under the eaves on the sunny side of the barn it is quite comfortable.
"We are so busy with this nest-building and settling for the summer. You see we swallows do not live alone. There are always flocks of us together.
"We should be lonely if we lived only in pairs. That is the reason that we build a whole little village of nests under your eaves."
"You build very queer nests," said Phyllis. "They are neither like the robin's nor the chickadee's nests."
"No, indeed, no robin or chickadee could build such nests as the swallow. You see we make the soft mud from the brookside into little balls and carry it in our bills. With it we mix straws and grasses. This holds the clay together. When the outer clay wall is finished we line the nest with soft grasses and feathers."
"I notice there are a great many chicken feathers in the barnyard. I shall line my nest with the softest, fluffiest feathers that I can find there.
"By and bye my little mate will sit in the dear clay nest and over four or five or possibly six little eggs."
"I shall never be able to see them," sighed Phyllis. "They are up so high. Tell me about them."
"Oh, my eggs are beautiful," said the swallow. "They are white with just a little rose tint. They are spotted with fine dots of brown and purple, and are about three-quarters of an inch long.
"We shall probably have three broods of birdlings this summer. What a happy, happy time we shall have!"
All this time the swallow was darting and wheeling and circling about Phyllis in a most graceful manner.
"Are you never still?" asked Phyllis, at last. "I do not believe you even stop to eat."
"I do not," said the swallow, darting after a big blue fly. "I eat on the fly." And then he burst into a giggling twitter.
"I catch nearly all my food on the wing. No one can complain--as they do of the robin--of our destroying fruit.
"We do not care for fruit at all. I would rather have a dozen nice fat flies than all the cherries in the world!"
"Well," laughed Phyllis, "I'd rather have a dozen ripe cherries than all the flies in the world!"
"Tastes differ," twittered the swallow.
THE SWALLOWS
Once upon a time some Eskimo children were playing in the wet clay by the seashore. They were making tiny toy houses of the clay. These houses they fastened high on the face of the cliff.
The children chattered and laughed. They ran gaily to and fro in their happy play.
The people of the village heard their merry voices. Their busy mother paused with her long bone needle between her fingers. She looked up and smiled at her little ones.
"How happy my children are to-day!" she said, and she hummed a little tune to herself.
"They are very wise children!" said a neighbour. "They say so many wonderful things. Indeed, they seem to know more of some things than even the wise men of the village!"
"Yes, they are quite wonderful," said the mother. "I sometimes listen to their chatter and watch their nimble little fingers, and I wonder who taught them all they know."
"Oh," said another woman, "they do not seem so extraordinary to me. In fact, they look to me like little birds, flitting about in their dark dresses."
"They do look like birds!" said the mother, gazing at the children.
"I do believe they are birds," said the neighbour.
"But the voices are my children's voices," said the mother, looking again in wonder.
"And they are still building tiny clay houses on the cliffs!" said the other woman.
"But those toy clay houses are birds' nests," said the neighbour, "and those little figures darting back and forth are no longer children. They have changed to birds!"
"Yes," said the mother, peering from under her hand. "Yes, those are birds building their funny clay nests on the cliffs yonder.
"But the birds have the happy twittering voices of my children. You were right. They were wonderful children!
"Ah, well, my only wish is that they may remain near us. They will cheer us and keep us from becoming lonely!"
"Surely that is a reasonable wish--since they are your own little ones," said the neighbour. "I, too, hope that the little birds will remain near our village!"
And indeed the mother's wish was granted. Even to this day the little swallows do not fear man.
In fact, they still choose to build their nests near the camps of the people. They still fix their tiny toy houses on the faces of the sea cliffs.
ALL ABOUT THE BARN SWALLOW
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Comes north about first or second week in April. Remains until late September or October--builds and travels in flocks or companies--winters in South or Central America.
Song--a constant twitter.
Head and upper parts except forehead steel blue--tail feathers marked with white--forehead and throat clear chestnut colour--chest and lower body paler chestnut.
Food--chiefly insects caught while on the wing.
Nest--built chiefly of mud--chooses under eaves or cavelike places for building--mud mixed with grasses and (one authority also asserts) a sticky saliva from the bird's mouth.
Eggs--white, tinted a delicate rose, and speckled finely with brown and purple.--Two or three broods in a season.
THE HAWK AND THE RAVEN
FROM THE BARNYARD FENCE
Had not the old hen been such a watchful mother she would never have been able to care for such a big, fluffy family.
Had not Phyllis been such a wide-awake little girl, she would have never heard and seen all that I am about to tell you.
Mother Speckle was scratching patiently in the barnyard. Now and again she gave a loud call and her ten little ones ran wildly for the bug or worm which their mother had found for them.
Phyllis was just coming into the barnyard with a cup of meal for Mother Speckle's family, when a strange cry from the old hen startled her.
Phyllis looked and saw every chick running as fast as its little legs could carry it to the hovering mother wings. Soon every chicken baby was hidden from sight and the chicken mother was clucking less loudly.
"What can be the matter?" cried Phyllis, and then looking up she saw a hawk circling in the air above.
She snatched off her hat and waved it wildly at the hawk. At the same time she shouted as fiercely as she could.
The hawk soared calmly in the air, rising ever higher and higher. The mother hen, calling softly to her babies, led the little ones to the protecting shelter of some low bushes. Then Phyllis sprinkled the meal and soon the chicken hawk was quite forgotten by Mother Speckle and her brood.
But Phyllis still watched eagerly for the hawk. She feared that he would return. But she could now see nothing of him.
On the fence post, not far away, sat a big black raven croaking gravely to himself.
"You are not a lovely bird either," said the little girl, but the raven did not hear her.
When she had crept up very close to the post on which the raven sat, Phyllis again saw the hawk sailing in wide circles nearer and nearer.
"Caw! Caw!" cried the raven, rising in the air, high above the barn. "I, too, can sail about in circles! Caw! Caw! Caw!"
The hawk said nothing, but quietly settled on the fence post. The raven still circled in the air, but ever nearer.
The hawk looked up. The raven wagged his head solemnly and uttered his sad, harsh cry. He shook out his black feathers and sat down again on the post.
"I am called the bird of ill omen," said the raven. "Some people think that I bring bad luck. Others think I eat too much of their corn. No one likes me. No one thinks me beautiful.
"Yet if you will look at my black coat you will see how glossy it is. My back fairly gleams in the sunlight. Sometimes I catch gleams of purple and green on my wings. See how soft and loose are the feathers about my throat. They make a fringe about my neck of which I am somewhat proud.
"I do not harm people, and I surely should not be blamed for my appetite. To be sure, I do eat corn and grain. I also eat grubs, worms, field mice, in fact anything which comes in my way.