Part 5

So difficult is it to watch a pair of birds while building, that the method of their working is largely to be guessed at from the work itself, but by means of a field-glass a good deal can be learned. It would appear as if a great many twigs were brought for the foundation of a nest, such as a cat-bird’s or song-sparrow’s, that were unsuitable. I have occasionally seen a twig tossed aside with a flirt of the head very suggestive of disappointment. The builders do not always carry with them a distinct idea of what they want when hunting for material, and so labor more than would be necessary if a little wiser. Very funny disputes, too, often arise, and these are most frequent when wrens are finishing their huge structures in a box or some corner of an out-building. A feather, or a bit of thread, or a small rag will be carried in by one bird and tossed out by the other with a deal of scolding and “loud words” that is positively startling. But when the framework of any ordinary open or cup-shaped nest is finally completed, the lining is not so difficult a matter. Soft or yielding materials are used that to a greater or less extent have a “felting property,” and by the bird’s weight alone assume the shape desired. This is facilitated by the bird in two ways: the builder sits down, as if the eggs were already laid, and with its beak pushes the loose material between it and the framework, and tucks odd bits into any too open crevices. While doing this, it slowly moves around until it has described a complete circle. This brings to light any defects in the outer structure, and the bird can often be seen tugging away at some projecting end, or its mate, outside of the nest, rearranging a twig here and there, while the other bird—shall I say?—is giving directions.

Surprise has often been expressed that the common chipping sparrow can so neatly curl a long horse-hair into the lining of its little nest. It cannot be explained, perhaps, but we have at least a clue to it. One end of the hair is snugly tucked in among stouter materials, and then,—I ask the question only,—as the bird coils it about the sides of the nest with its beak, does it break or dent it, or is there some chemical effect produced by the bird’s saliva? The hairs do not appear to be merely dry-curled, for in that case they would unroll when taken from the nest, and such as I have tried, when just placed in position, retained the coiled condition when removed. But old hair, curled by long exposure to the air and moisture, is often used, and this is far more tractable. When we come to examine woven nests, such as the Baltimore oriole and the red-eyed vireo, as well as some other small birds, build, there is offered a great deal more to study, for how they accomplish what they do, with their only tools their feet and beak, is not wholly known. That the tropical tailor-bird should run a thread through a leaf and so bring the edges together and make a conical-shaped bag, is not so very strange. It is little more than the piercing of the leaf and then putting the thread through the hole. This is ingenious but not wonderful, because not difficult; but let us consider a Baltimore oriole and his nest. The latter is often suspended from a very slender elm or willow twig, and the bird has a hard time to hold on while at work. One experienced old oriole has for years built in the elm near my door, and occasionally I have caught a glimpse of him. I will not be positive, but believe that his first move is to find a good stout string, and this he ties to the twig. I use the word “tie” because I have found in many cases a capitally-tied knot, but how the bird, or birds, could accomplish this I cannot imagine. Both feet and beak, I suppose, are brought into play, but how? To get some insight into the matter, I once tied a very long string to the end of a thread that the oriole had secured at one end and left dangling. This interference caused some commotion, but the bird was not outwitted. It caught the long string by its loose end and wrapped it over and over various twigs, and soon had a curious open-work bag that served its purpose admirably. The lining of soft, fluffy stuff’s was soon added. This brought up the question as to whether the bird ever ties short pieces together and so makes a more secure cable that gives strength to the finished nest. In examining nests, I have seen such knots as might have been tied by the birds, but there was no way to prove it. That they do wrap a string several times about a twig and then tie it, just as a boy ties his fishing-line to a pole, is certain. With my field-glass I have followed the bird far enough to be sure of this. When at work, the bird, from necessity, is in a reversed position,—that is, tail up and head down. This has an obvious advantage, in that the builder can see what is going on beneath him, and shows, too, how near the ground the nest will come when finished; but it sometimes happens that he gets so absorbed in his work that a person can approach quite near, but I never knew him to become entangled in the loose ends that hang about him.

The oriole at times offers us a wonderful example of ingenuity. It occasionally happens that too slight a twig is selected, and when the nest is finished, or, later, when the young are nearly grown, the structure hangs down too low for safety or sways too violently when the parent birds alight on it. This is a difficulty the bird has to contend with, and he has been known to remedy it by attaching a cord to the sustaining twigs and tying them to a higher limb of the tree, thus securing the necessary stability.

A more familiar evidence of the intelligence of birds is when the vireos are disturbed by the presence of a cow-bird’s egg in their nest. To get rid of it, they often build a new floor to the nest, and so leave the offending egg to spoil. But there is displayed here an error of judgment that I am surprised to find. The birds that take this trouble certainly could throw the egg out, and, I should think, preserve their own eggs, which invariably are left to decay when a new structure is reared above the old. I believe even three-storied vireos’ nests have been found.

There is one common swallow that is found well-nigh everywhere, which burrows into the sand; and when we think of it, it seems strange that so aerial a bird should build so gloomy an abode for the nesting season. This bank swallow, as it is called, selects a suitable bluff, facing water, and, with closed beak, turns round and round with its head to the ground, thus boring a hole big enough to crawl into. It turns into a gimlet for the time, and uses its beak as the point of the tool. This is odd work for a bird that almost lives in the air; and then think, too, of sitting in a dark cave, sometimes six feet long, until the eggs are hatched. On the other hand, the barn swallow makes a nest where there is plenty of light and air, and is a mason rather than a carpenter or miner. The mud he uses is not mere earth and water, but is made more adherent by a trace of secretion from the bird’s mouth; at least, my experiments lead me to think so. To build such a nest would be slow work did not the two birds work together and carry their little loads of mortar with great rapidity. They waste no time, and use only good materials, for I have noticed them, when building, go to a quite distant spot for the mud when a pool was directly outside of the barn in which they were building. To all appearance the nest is of sun-dried mud, but the material has certainly undergone a kind of puddling first that makes it more adherent, bit to bit, and the whole to the rafter or side of the building. Again, these swallows have the knack of carrying a little water on the feathers of their breasts, I think, and give the structure a shower-like wetting from time to time. At last the structure “sets” and is practically permanent.

There are birds that build no nests, like the kill-deer plover and the woodcock, and yet they exercise a faculty of equal value intellectually; for to be able to locate a spot that will be in the least degree exposed to danger is a power of no mean grade. The kill-deer will place its eggs on sloping ground, but somehow the heaviest dashes of rain do not wash out that particular spot. There are sand-pipers that lay their eggs on a bit of dead grass, just out of reach of the highest tides. As we look at such _nests_, we conclude that the birds trust a great deal to good luck; but, as a matter of fact, the destruction of eggs when in no nests, or next to none, is very small. Why, on the other hand, woodpeckers should go to such an infinity of trouble to whittle a nest in the firm tissue of a living tree, when a natural hollow would serve as well, is a problem past finding out. I have even seen a woodpecker make a new nest in a tree which already contained one in every respect as good.

Going back to the fields and thickets, it will be seen that birds, as a rule, desire that their nests should be inconspicuous, and their efforts are always largely in this direction in the construction. The foliage of the tree or bush is considered, and when not directly concealed by this, the nest is made to look marvellously like a natural production of the vegetable world, as the beautiful nest of our wood pee-wee or the humming-bird shows. These nests are then not merely the homes of young birds, but are places of defence against a host of enemies. The parent birds have no simple task set before them that can be gone through with mechanically year after year. Every season new problems arise, if their favorite haunts suffer change, and every year the birds prove equal to their solution.

CHAPTER FIFTH

_CORN-STALK FIDDLES_

It is a merit of our climate that at no time of the year are we, as children, shut out from healthy out-door pleasure. There are shady nooks along our creeks and rivers and delightful old mill-ponds wherein we may bathe in midsummer, and there are acres of glassy ice over which to skate in midwinter. Spring and autumn are too full of fun to particularize, the average day being available for scores of methods whereby to make life a treasure beyond compare, spending it, to the mind of a boy, in that most rational way, having sport. I do not know why we always played marbles at one time of the year and flew our kites at another: this is for the folk-lore clubs to fathom. Suffice it, that there has been for centuries a time for every out-door amusement as fixed as the phases of the moon. So much for the sport common to all boys. And now a word concerning an old-time musical instrument that may be now quite out of date,—the corn-stalk fiddle.

This very primitive musical instrument is associated with the dreamy Indian-summer days of late November. Then it discoursed delicious music, but at other times it would have been “out of tune and harsh.” Did the Indians give the secret to the children of our colonial forefathers? It would be a pleasing thought whenever the toy comes to mind, as the mere suggestion is a pleasant fancy.

The husking over, the corn-stalks carted and stored in a huge rick by the barn-yard, the apples gathered, the winter wood cut, and then the long quiet, with almost nothing to do. Such was the routine when I was a boy, and if the uncertain, dreamy days would only come, there was sure to be a short round of pleasure wherein the fiddle figured more prominently than all else.

It was no small part of the fun to see Billy make a fiddle; it was such a curious combination of mummery and skill. Having whetted his keen, old-fashioned Barlow knife on the toe of his boot, he would flourish it above his head with a whoop as though he was looking for an enemy instead of a corn-stalk. Finding one that was glossy and long enough between the joints, he would press it gently between his lips, trying the several sections, and then selecting the longest and most glossy one. So much of the proceeding was for our benefit, as the cunning old fellow well knew that it added to his importance in our eyes.

What followed was skill. Having cut off the stalk above and below the ring-like joints, he had now a convenient piece about eight or ten inches in length. This he warmed by rubbing it violently with the palm of his hand, and then placing the point of the knife as near the joint as practicable, he drew it quickly down to the next joint or lower end. It must be a straight incision, and Billy seldom failed to make it so. A parallel one was then made, not more than one-sixteenth of an inch distant. A space of twice this width was left, and two or three more strings were made in the same manner. These were freed of the pith adhering to their under sides, and held up by little wooden “bridges,” one at each end. The bow was similarly fashioned, but was made of a more slender section of corn-stalk and had but two strings.

It was indeed surprising how available this crude production proved as a musical instrument. Youth and the environment counted for a great deal, of course, and my Quaker surroundings forbidding music, it was a sweeter joy because a stolen one.

I can picture days of forty years ago as distinctly as though a matter of the present. My cousin and myself, with Black Billy, would often steal away and carry with us one of the smaller barn doors. This we would place in a sunny nook on the south side of the stalk-rick, and while the fiddle was being made, would part with our jackets that we might dance the better. Billy was soon ready, and with what a joyful grin, rolling of his huge black eyes, and vigorous contortion of the whole body would our faithful friend draw from the corn-stalk every note of many a quaint old tune! And how we danced! For many a year after the old door showed the nail-marks of our heavily-heeled shoes where we had brought them down with a vigor that often roused the energy of old Billy, until he, too, would stand up and execute a marvellous _pas seul_. Then, tired out, we would rest in niches in the stalk-rick, and Billy would play such familiar airs as had penetrated even into the quiet of Quakerdom. It was no mere imitation of the music, but the thing itself; and it would be an hour or more before the fiddle’s strings had lost their tension, the silicious covering had worn away, and the sweet sounds ceased.

Almost the last of my November afternoons passed in this way had a somewhat dramatic ending. The fiddle was one of more than ordinary excellence. In the height of our fun I spied the brim of my grandfather’s hat extending an inch or two around the corner. I gave no sign, but danced more vigorously than ever, and as the music and dancing became more fast and furious the crown of his stiff hat appeared, and then my grandfather’s face. His countenance was a study. Whether to give the alarm and run or to remain was the decision of an instant. I gave no sign, but kept one eye on him. “Faster!” I cried to Billy, and, to my complete astonishment, the hat moved rapidly up and down. Grandfather was keeping time! “Faster!” I cried again, and the music was now a shrieking medley, and the broad-brimmed hat vibrated wonderfully fast. It was too much. I gave a wild yell and darted off. Circling the barn and stalk-rick, I entered the front yard with a flushed but innocent face, and met grandpa. He, too, had an innocent, far-away look, but his hat was resting on the back of his head and his checks were streaming with perspiration, and, best of all, he did not seem to know it.

“Grandpa,” I asked at the supper-table that evening, “does thee know why it is that savage races are so given to dancing?”

"Charles," he replied, gravely, and nothing more was said.

CHAPTER SIXTH

_THE OLD KITCHEN DOOR_

The white porch, with its high roof and two severely plain pillars to support it; the heavy door, with its ponderous knocker; the straggling sweetbrier at one side; the forlorn yellow rose between the parlor windows; the grass that was too cold to welcome a dandelion; the low box hedge, and one huge box bush that never sheltered a bird’s nest; all these were in front to solemnly greet that terror of my early days,—company.

To me these front-door features all meant, and still mean, restraint; but how different the world that lingered about the old farm-house kitchen door! There was no cold formality there, but freedom,—the healthy freedom of old clothes, an old hat; ay, even the luxury of an open-throated shirt was allowed.

After a tramp over the meadows, after a day’s fishing, after the round of the rabbit-traps in winter, what joy to enter the kitchen door and breathe in the delectable odor of hot gingerbread! There were appetites in those days.

I do not understand the mechanism of a modern kitchen: it looks to me like a small machine-shop; but the old farm kitchen was a simple affair, and the intricacies and mystery lay wholly in the dishes evolved. It is said of my grandmother that a whiff of her sponge-cake brought the humming-birds about. I do know there was a crackly crust upon it which it is useless now to try to imitate.

But the door itself—we have none such now. It was a double door in two ways. It was made of narrow strips of oak, oblique on one side and straight on the other, and so studded with nails that the whole affair was almost half metal. It was cut in two, having an upper and a lower section. The huge wooden latch was hard and smooth as ivory. At night the door was fastened by a hickory bar, which, when I grew strong enough to lift it, was my favorite hobby-horse.

The heavy oak sill was worn in the middle until its upper surface was beautifully curved, and to keep the rain out, when the wind was south, a canvas sand-bag was rolled against it. A stormy-day amusement was to pull this away on the sly, and sail tiny paper boats in the puddle that soon formed on the kitchen floor. There was mischief in those days.

Kitchens and food are of course inseparably connected, and what hunting-ground for boys equal to the closets where the cakes were kept? I do not know that the matter was ever openly discussed, but as I look back it seems as if it was an understood thing that, when our cunning succeeded in outwitting auntie, we could help ourselves to jumbles. Once I became a hero in this line of discovery, and we had a picnic behind the lilacs; but, alas! only too soon we were pleading for essence of peppermint. Over-eating is possible, even in our teens.

Recent raids in modern kitchen precincts are never successful. Of late I always put my hand in the wrong crock, and find pickles where I sought preserves. I never fail, now, to take a slice of a reserved cake, or to quarter the pie intended for the next meal. Age brings no experience in such matters. It is a case where we advance backward.

Of the almost endless phases of life centring about the kitchen door there is one which stands out so prominently that it is hard to realize the older actor is now dead and that of the young on-lookers few are left. Soon after the dinner-horn was sounded the farm hands gathered at the pump, which stood just outside the door, and then in solemn procession filed into the kitchen for the noonday meal. All this was prosy enough, but the hour’s nooning after it,—then there was fun indeed.

Scipio—“Zip,” for short—was not ill-natured, but then who loves too much teasing? An old chestnut burr in the grass where he was apt to lie had made him suspicious of me, and I had to be extra cautious. Once I nearly overstepped the mark. Zip had his own place for a quiet nap, and, when stretched upon the grass under the big linden, preferred not to be disturbed. Now it occurred to me to be very funny. I whittled a cork to the shape of a spider, added monstrous legs, and with glue fastened a dense coating of chicken-down over all.

It was a fearful spider.

I suspended the sham insect from a limb of the tree so that it would hang directly over Zip’s face as he lay on the ground, and by a black thread that could not be seen I could draw it up or let it down at pleasure. It was well out of sight when Zip fell asleep, and then I slowly lowered the monster until it tickled his nose. It was promptly brushed aside. This was repeated several times, and then the old man awoke. The huge spider was just touching his nose, and one glance was enough. With a bound and a yell he was up and off, in his headlong flight overturning the thoughtless cause of his terror. I was the more injured of the two, but never dared in after-years to ask Zip if he was afraid of spiders.

And all these years the front door never changed. It may have been opened daily for aught I know, but I can remember nothing of its history.

Stay! As befitting such an occurrence, it was open once, as I remember, when there was a wedding at the house; but of that wedding I recall only the preparations in the kitchen for the feast that followed; and, alas! it has been opened again and again for funerals.

Why, indeed, should the front door be remembered? It added no sunshine to the child’s short summer; but around the corner, whether dreary winter’s storm or the fiercest heat of August fell upon it, the kitchen door was the entrance to a veritable elysium.

CHAPTER SEVENTH

_UP THE CREEK_

There is greater merit in the little word “up” than in “down.” If, when in a place new to me, I am asked to go “up the creek,” my heart leaps, but there is less enthusiasm when it is suggested to go down the stream. One seems to mean going into the country, the other into the town. All this is illogical, of course, but what of that? The facts of a case like this have not the value of my idle fancies. After all, there is a peculiar merit in going up-stream. It is something to be going deeper and deeper into the heart of the country. It is akin to getting at the foundations of things.

In the case of small inland streams, generally, the mouth is a commonplace affair. The features that charm shrink from the fateful spot, and we are put in a condition of anticipation at the start which, happily, proves one of abundant realization at the finish.

A certain midsummer Saturday was not an ideal one for an outing, but with most excellent company I ventured up the creek. It was my friend’s suggestion, so I was free from responsibility. Having promised nothing, I could in no wise be justly held accountable. Vain thought! Directly I suffered in their estimation because, at mere beck and nod, polliwogs were not forthcoming and fishes refused to swim into my hand. What strange things we fancy of our neighbors! Because I love the wild life about me, one young friend thought me a magician who could command the whole creek’s fauna by mere word of mouth. It proved an empty day in one respect, animal life scarcely showing itself. To offer explanations was of no avail, and one of the little company recast her opinions. Perhaps she even entertains some doubt as to my having ever seen a bird or fish or the coveted polliwog.

It is one thing to be able to give the name and touch upon the habits of some captured creature, and quite another to command its immediate presence when we enter its haunts. This always should, and probably never will, be remembered.