Chapter 4

At length one day the king came to the room where Queen Halcyone sat with her maids. They were spinning carefully and happily together.

"My Halcyone--my queen," said the king, "as you know, I am greatly troubled and disturbed. I do not know what is the best thing for me to do. I must seek wise advice from the gods."

Queen Halcyone dropped her distaff and looked in fear at the king.

"I must go," said the king to Halcyone, "on a long journey across the seas. As you know, in the Temple of Apollo there is a wise oracle. To this oracle must I go in search of counsel."

Then the lovely Queen Halcyone's heart was filled with sorrow. She feared that harm might come to the king, whom she loved for his goodness and his kindness.

Halcyone fell on her knees before the king. She begged him to postpone this terrible journey across the seas.

"Indeed," cried she, "there are cruel dangers, O my king! The journey is long and wearisome. Remain at home with me!"

The king smiled pityingly upon his lovely queen. He kissed her gently before he answered.

"It seems to me," he said, sadly, "that there is no other way. I must go."

"Ah, then, I pray, take me also. Let me share the dangers and the weariness."

"You could not--" the king began.

"In truth it would be easier far than to bear the loneliness and dread when you are gone. It would be weary waiting for your return!"

Now the king loved Halcyone. He longed to remain at home with her. But already the boat lay ready for departure--and there was no place for Halcyone.

Already the oarsmen sat at their benches ready to row away. So the king bade Halcyone farewell and stepped on board and quickly pushed off.

With bitter tears Halcyone stood on the bank and watched the king's boat push out from shore.

When it looked but a speck she shaded her eyes with her hand and still watched. But when in the purple distance the tiny speck could no longer be seen, Halcyone turned with a sigh to the marble palace and her maidens.

On and on across the waters the little boat sped. For a time all went well. At night the stars shone. In the morning the sun arose from the blue waters and travelled across a cloudless sky. Gentle winds blew, filling the sails and pushing the little boat quietly on its way.

But one day a change came over the sea. The moaning of the wind was heard. Dark clouds scurried across the sky.

The waves rose high and broke in white crests of foam. The rain poured down. The wind crept up and sprang upon the little boat with fury.

For a time the boat rose and fell with the waves. It pitched and rolled and reeled. Great waves splashed over it, washing the oarsmen overboard.

The masts were torn away. At last the little boat, buried in the trough of the wave, sank beneath the water.

The king and all his crew lay buried deep beneath the deep blue sea.

Weeks passed. Months passed. A year went by.

Queen Halcyone wandered restlessly up and down the shore. With weary eyes she watched the purple distance. But the king did not return.

She prayed to the gods that they would guard and protect the king whom she loved so dearly. She went to the sacred altars of her country, and burned incense there.

When the goddess Juno heard the prayers and saw the tears of the lovely Queen Halcyone, she was sad for her. Juno called to her side the beautiful rainbow messenger, Iris.

"Iris," said Juno, "this night I wish you to go down on your rainbow bridge to the god of dreams.

"Ask him to send to Halcyone a dream which shall tell her of the fate of her husband, the king. It is better that she should know what has befallen him whom she loved than to wander thus in uncertainty."

So Iris, the beautiful messenger, swept down to the god of dreams--and that night Halcyone dreamed that the king came to her and told her his story. He told her how the boat and all therein had long since been buried under the sea.

"Be brave, my Halcyone," said the shade of the dead king. "Be brave and patient, and soon perchance, if the gods will, thou shalt come to me in the land of shades."

When the dream left her, Halcyone sprang from her couch and ran again to the seashore. She stretched out her arms and called aloud to Aeolus, the father of the winds.

"O great father Aeolus," she prayed, "give me wings so large and strong that they will carry me to the spot where the king now lies.

"Hear me, Aeolus! Hear Halcyone, thy child!"

And as she prayed, lo, she rose slowly into the air. The folds of her blue robe enwrapped her.

Halcyone floated out across the sea. Again and again her breast touched the white crest of the waves and left its foam on her throat and on the bosom of her dress.

On and on she sped across the billowy waters. Her wings were firm, strong, untiring.

At last, floating upon the water she spied the form of the king. With a hoarse rattling in her throat she called to him.

With her strong wings outspread, Halcyone hung motionless above the king. Those broken cries came again and again from her throat.

And Juno, looking down from her cloudland home, saw Halcyone kneeling on the waves beside the dead king. She leaned down from her place in the heavens and touched the king's forehead.

Lo! there rose from the water two strong-winged birds in dresses of blue and white.

"Ah," sighed Aeolus, "let us call them the halcyon birds, for the lovely Halcyone, whose love did not fail her.

"Let these birds live ever beside the waters and rear their young in peace and quiet.

"Behold, when Halcyone broods over her little ones I will hold my winds in check. The waters shall be quiet and the sun shall shine merrily.

"And these days of peace and quiet and happiness shall be called 'halcyon days,' for ever."

ALL ABOUT THE KINGFISHER

SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS

Comes north in early March--remains until December, often throughout the year.

Song--harsh, discordant, laughing chuckle or rattle--never musical.

Upper parts blue--wings and tail with white markings--lower parts white with two blue bands across breast--bluish tinge on sides--a white spot in front of each eye.--Head large and crested--bill longer than head--feet small.

Food--principally fish which it obtains by diving and kills by striking against a tree if large, or swallows alive if small.--This food supplemented by larger insects, shrimps, etc.

Nest--tunnelled out of bank--six to eight feet deep--at the extreme end of tunnel is the nest made of fish-bones and scales.

Eggs--pure white--four to six in one brood.

THE RED-HEADED WOODPECKER

IN CAP OF RED

Phyllis sat in her own room, rocking her doll to sleep. The window was open and the curtain flapped idly in the breeze.

Presently into the room darted a bird. He was beautifully dressed. His soft gray uniform was spotted and barred with white.

He did not seem in the least alarmed when he found himself in the room with Phyllis. He perched on the window-ledge and did not even glance at the little girl.

In a moment he flew to the ledge above her door. With his strong little bill he began to rap, rap, rap at the wood.

"You act like a woodpecker, but you do not look like one," said Phyllis.

"That shows that you do not know all about woodpeckers," said the gray, downy bird. "I belong to the family of red-headed woodpeckers."

"You?" cried Phyllis, amazed. "But where is your red cap, and where is your white vest, and where is your black coat? You are trying to fool me, my friend."

"My father and mother have crimson heads and necks and throats. They have white breasts. They have black backs and wings and tails. When they fly, the broad white bands on the wings are quite plain to be seen.

"My home nest is that in the trunk of the old oak by the gate."

"It is very queer," said Phyllis. "Perhaps some other bird laid an egg in the woodpeckers' nest by mistake."

The small bird fluttered quite helplessly with laughter.

"Oh, no, Phyllis, I see I have to tell you all about it. I am a woodpecker, surely. But I am quite young yet. It is not a week since I had my first lesson in flying."

"You fly very well for a young bird," said Phyllis.

"Well, my mother is very wise," said the bird.

"She does not think it well for her babies to get out of the nest until they have grown quite large. She says that if we wait until our wings are strong we will not be so apt to fall into danger.

"So I remained inside the nest until I was quite a large, strong bird. Then my parents called me out and taught me to fly.

"Only yesterday I asked my mother why I did not wear a dress and cap like her own.

"She said, 'Wait a little longer, my child. When you are quite grown your cap will be as red as my own. You will look so much like your father and me that those children down there will be unable to tell us apart.'

"It is little wonder that you did not know me for a woodpecker in this simple gray dress. All woodpecker children, however, dress in this quiet fashion at first. I shall be happy when I get my gorgeous red cap."

"Well," said Phyllis, "I am very glad you came to see me. I knew there was a nest in the old oak-tree. I watched your father and mother one whole morning a few weeks ago. I think they chose the oak because of those old dead branches.

"I saw your mother brace herself against the tree with her stiff tail. Then how her wedge-shaped bill rapped and rapped against the wood. For fully twenty minutes she rapped away at the rotten wood. Then she grew tired and your father took her place at the tree-trunk.

"Soon they pecked a hole deep enough to hide them from sight, but their constant rap, rap, rap could still be heard.

"I wondered how deep they made the hole, but it was too high for me to climb to find out."

"Having just come from the nest I can tell you all about it," replied the young woodpecker. "My parents dug down into the soft trunk to a depth of perhaps eighteen inches. At the bottom they hollowed out a large roomy place for the nest. They did not line it with feathers or grasses. Instead of a bed of moss was a little sawdust and the smooth white sides of the oak.

"In this nest my mother laid six pure white eggs. She sat on them and kept them warm until at last six downy birds came out of the shells.

"We were hungry little things. Both our mother and father were kept busy filling our greedy, ever-open mouths.

"And whatever they brought was sure to be very nice. Sometimes it was a cherry or a berry, sometimes a bit of pear or apple.

"But, best of all, were the fat, juicy little grubs which they often brought.

"I asked my father where he got the grubs. He made fun of me and called out to my mother in his shrill, lively way.

"She said that that was a thing which every young woodpecker should find out for himself.

"After that, every time a fat grub was brought to me, I wondered if I should ever be able to find them when I began to shift for myself.

"At last my wings were strong enough and my parents called me out of the nest. I very soon found that the fat grubs lived beneath the bark of my own oak-tree. All I had to do was to strike my bill into the bark and bear off the prize."

"Were you sorry to leave your safe high nest?" asked Phyllis.

"Indeed it was not so safe," said the young woodpecker. "On the day that I left the nest a great black snake crept in. He swallowed my little brothers and sisters.

"My parents were wild with grief. They said that was the thing they always dreaded, that such things often happened in woodpeckers' nests."

"How sad!" said Phyllis. "I should never have thought of snakes!"

"They are our greatest danger," was the reply. "Squirrels sometimes come in and steal the nuts and corn we have stored away, but the snake is the most to be feared."

"So you store away food?" Phyllis asked. "Do you stay here in the winter, then?"

"Oh, yes, we often stay all winter. Have you not seen us flying about among the trees in the winter-time?"

By this time the bird sat on the window-sill.

"Must you go?" asked Phyllis. "Here is a strawberry for you."

"Thanks," said the bird, pecking away at the fruit. "I am just off to the corn-field. My father showed me this morning how to open the husks of the green corn to get at the rich, milky kernels inside."

"When you get your red cap, come back," cried Phyllis, and the young woodpecker's lively cry answered from the corn-field.

A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND[1]

Away, away in the Northland, Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winter They cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer To the sledges, when it snows; And the children look like bears' cubs In their funny, furry clothes;

They tell them a curious story-- I don't believe 'tis true; And yet you may learn a lesson If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter Lived in the world below, And walked about it, preaching, Just as he did, you know,

He came to the door of a cottage, In travelling round the earth, Where a little woman was making cakes And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting, For the day was almost done, He asked her from her store of cakes To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake, But as it baking lay, She looked at it, and thought it seemed Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another, And still a smaller one, But it looked, when she turned it over, As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, And rolled and rolled it flat; And baked it as thin as a wafer-- But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small, When I eat them myself, Are yet too large to give away." So she put them on the shelf.

Then the good Saint Peter grew angry, For he was hungry and faint; And surely such a woman Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish To dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter, And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do, And shall get your scanty food By boring, and boring, and boring, All day in the hard dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney, Never speaking a word, And out of the top flew a woodpecker, For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head, And that was left the same, But all the rest of her clothes were burned Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country schoolboy Has seen her in the wood; Where she lives in the trees till this very day, Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches: Live not for yourself alone, Lest the needs you will not pity Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given you, Listen to pity's call; Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that, And try to be kind and good, When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress, And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live As selfishly as you can; But you will be changed to a smaller thing-- A mean and a selfish man.

--Phoebe Cary.

[1] Used by permission of and special arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

ALL ABOUT THE WOODPECKER

SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS

Comes north in May--often stays all winter--most commonly seen in the fall.

Song--shrill, lively call resembling the voice of the tree-frog.

Male and female have crimson head and neck--upper parts black with white marking--white band across wings--most conspicuous when bird is in flight.

Lower parts white--bill wedge-shaped, strong, and sharp--tail strong and stiff, used as a brace when clinging to a tree-trunk and tapping with bill--toes arranged two in front and two behind for better support in clinging to tree trunks, etc.

Young birds resemble the parents, except that in colour they are a mottled gray.

Food is largely fruit--green corn, nuts, and larval insects procured from tree-trunks.--Sometimes stores away nuts, etc.

Place chosen for nest is usually a rotting tree, which is easier to bore.--Hollow from fifteen to eighteen inches deep.--Eggs pure white, generally six in number.

THE LARK

IN THE MEADOW

If Jack's big black dog, Nero, had not chanced to snatch Phyllis's rag doll by the head and run away with it this story would have never been written.

You see, Nero bounded straight across the meadow and Phyllis, fearing that she would lose the doll, ran shrieking after him.

Nero was only playing, and soon dropped the doll and ran off. Phyllis regained her property and started to return, when a bird rose from the grass at her feet with a queer whirring sound.

Phyllis looked up at the bird and then down to the spot from which it had flown.

In another moment she would have stepped in the nest. This meadow lark's nest was unlike any other Phyllis had found. Indeed, it could scarcely be called a nest at all.

But when she looked at it Phyllis thought what a wise little bird the meadow lark must be to choose such a place for the nest.

Had Phyllis not chanced upon it in just the way she did she might have looked all day long and not discovered it.

The nest was flat upon the ground. Around it and over it arched the tall meadow grasses. The nest itself was made of grass--it seemed to Phyllis that it was made in a somewhat careless manner, and that the eggs might easily roll out upon the ground.

There were four beautiful oval eggs in the nest--the largest birds' eggs Phyllis had as yet discovered. They were over an inch long, and were of a beautiful rosy white colour, speckled closely with reddish brown spots.

As Phyllis sat very still, the mother bird crept softly back to her home. She carefully settled herself on the grassy nest and with her bill tenderly tucked the eggs under her soft feathers.

"How careful you are!" exclaimed Phyllis. "No fear of your breaking the eggs."

The brown bird rose up quickly in fright and looked uncertainly toward the fence. Phyllis thought to see her whirr off again.

"Oh, don't go," she cried. "I will not harm you! Truly I will not disturb you!"

The meadow lark looked again toward the fence, and then settled herself once more over her precious eggs.

"Why do you look toward the fence so often?" asked Phyllis.

"Do you not see that bird perched upon the fence?" asked the meadow lark.

"Yes," Phyllis answered, "what is he doing there?"

"He is our sentinel," said the meadow lark. "He is on the lookout for danger. When he gives the alarm, the rest of the flock know there is danger near.

"When we hear the sentinel's alarm we are off in an instant. We fly high into the air. Did you not notice how I hovered near the grass-tops for a moment and then rose high into the air?"

"Yes," answered Phyllis, "and I knew that you were a lark because of that whirring sound you made when flying."

"Ah, but I am not really a lark at all," said the bird. "I am called the meadow lark, but in truth I belong to the blackbird family. The red-winged blackbird is an own cousin of mine. So also is the oriole, who builds a queer hanging nest in the tree-tops.

"The oriole is very proud of her woven nest, but I should consider it a dangerous place for bird babies. My little ones will never be hurt by falling from their nest.

"Neither can I imagine how any bird can dare to build in such an open place.

"My home is hidden here amid the grasses. Sometimes we find places like this, where the grass blades naturally arch over and hide the nest.

"Sometimes we weave a sort of arch over the nest with the downy, fine fibres from the grass leaves.

"Did you notice the little lane down which I returned to my tiny home?"

"No," said Phyllis, "I thought you just came through the grasses by the easiest way."

"If you will look closely," said the meadow lark, pecking away at her own brown feathers, "if you look very, very closely, you will see the tiny path which leads directly to my door."

Phyllis leaned down and peered very curiously among the grass stems. Sure enough, there was a tiny winding path, almost hidden from sight. It led directly to the meadow lark's nest.

"You are a very wonderful little bird," she cried.

"I shall have some very wonderful babies one of these fine days," said the meadow lark, proudly.

"How safely they will be hidden from danger," said Phyllis.

"Well," said the mother bird, shaking her head, sadly, "I am very sure that I build in a safer manner than my cousins. But, alas, even meadow larks are not free from danger."

"I might have stepped on your nest?" said Phyllis.

"Yes," said the bird, "but what makes me fear most are the field-mice and the snakes. They make great havoc in our nests when they discover them. Many a tiny fledgling has been swallowed by a great creeping, crawling snake. Many a beautiful egg has been eaten by the hungry little field-mice."

"I hope no harm will come to your little home," said Phyllis. "I notice one thing which you have for a protection from harm."

"What is that?" asked the meadow lark.

"It is your colour."

The meadow lark raised her head in gentle surprise.

"And what has my colour to do with my danger?" she asked.

"Why," said the little girl, feeling wondrous wise, "do you not see that the browns of your feathery dress are the same colours as the grass stems and the stubble amid which you brood and feed?"

"Why, so it is," said the meadow lark. "My back is brown, edged with brownish white. That is like the grass stems. I am streaked with black and brown and cream colours. That is like the blades of grass.

"My throat and breast are yellow like the stubble amid which I feed. You are wonderfully wise, Miss Phyllis."

"What a beautiful black crescent you have upon your breast," said Phyllis. "It was almost the first thing I noticed when I met you."

"Did you observe the dark brown lines on my head? They seem to cross my eyes."

"I think you are quite beautiful," said Phyllis.

"Ah, but you should see my mate," said the meadow lark. "He is much more beautiful than I. My feathers seem pale and faded when I walk beside him. When fall comes, however, my own colours will brighten."

"On what shall you feed your little ones?"

"When I tell you, you will see again that I am wise in choosing this place for a nest.

"My babies need never grow hungry, for the grass seeds are always falling. The beetles and worms and ants are always walking by. The moths and the butterflies are for ever laying their eggs in all sorts of convenient places. You remember how their eggs do not hatch out into butterflies and moths at once. They are just ugly little worms called grubs."

"Yes," said Phyllis, "I remember."

The meadow lark carefully tucked an egg farther under her soft brown feathers.

"I am glad," she said, "that my eggs do not hatch out as grubs. Perhaps if they did, I should care no more for my babies than the butterfly does for hers. I am told that she does not even know her own children."

"You are quite right," said Phyllis. "She herself told me so."

The meadow lark gave a low whistle and nervously flitted her tail, showing the white feathers with which it was edged.

"It has been some time since I have heard your clear, sweet whistle," said Phyllis. "I thought you must have left our meadow. You have a most beautiful voice."

"Oh, no, we shall not soon leave your meadow, Phyllis. In the autumn we may join a party of larks and take our family to the marshes for awhile, but we shall return. Meadow larks do sometimes go south for the winter, but usually they live their lives in their home meadows."

"Then you will sing for me again?" asked the little girl.

"Oh, with pleasure," said the meadow lark.