Chapter 1

Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.

WHAT THE ANIMALS DO AND SAY

BY

MRS. FOLLEN

Illustrated with Engravings

WHAT THE ANIMALS DO AND SAY.

"Could you not tell us a traveller's story of some strange people that we have never heard of before?" said Harry to his mother, the next evening.

After a moment or two of thought, Mis. Chilton said, "Yes, I will tell you about a people who are great travellers. They take journeys every year of their lives. They dislike cold weather so much that they go always before winter, so as to find a warmer climate."

"They usually meet together, fathers, mothers, and children, as well as uncles, aunts, and cousins, but more especially grandfathers and grandmothers, and decide whither they shall go. As their party is so large, it is important that they should make a good decision."

"When they are all prepared, and their mind quite made up, they all set off together. I am told that they make as much noise, on this occasion, as our people make at a town-meeting; but as I was never present at one of the powwows of these remarkable travellers, I cannot say."

"What is a powwow?" asked Harry.

"It is the name the Indians give to their council meetings," replied Mis. Chilton.

She went on. "This people, so fond of travelling, have no great learning; they write no books; they have no geographies, no steamboats, no railroads, but yet never mistake their way."

"Four-footed travellers, I guess," said Harry.

"By no means; they have no more legs than any other great travellers; but you must not interrupt me."

"Well, to go back to our travellers; every one is ready and glad to prepare apartments for them, such as they like. They are so lively, so merry, and good-natured, that they find a welcome every where. They are such an easy, sociable set of folks that they like a house thus prepared for them just as well as if they had built it themselves."

"I have been told that when they arrive at any place, before they wash themselves, or brush off the dust of their journey, they will go directly to one of these houses that has been prepared for them, and examine every part of it; and, if they like it, they seem to think they have, of course, a right to it, and they take possession directly, and say, 'Thank you' to nobody."

"No one is affronted with them; but every one is ready and glad to accommodate the strangers as well as he can, merely for the sake of their good company. They come to us in May, and leave our part of the country in August, to visit other lands.

"The great reason, I think, that all the world welcomes these travellers is, that they are such a happy, merry set of beings they make every one around them cheerful; their gayety is never-failing. They rise with the first streak of light; there are no sluggards among them. They are all musical, and sing as they go about their work; but their music pleases me best when they join in their morning hymn. When the morning star is growing pale, and rosy light tinges the edges of the soft clouds in the east, this choir of singers stop for a second, as if waiting, in silent reverence, for the glad light to appear; then, just as the first ray gilds the hill tops and the village spire, all pour forth a joyful song, swelling their little throats, and making such a loud noise that every sleepy head in the neighborhood awakes."

"Ah! now I have caught you, Mother," said Frank; "these famous travellers are martins. I wonder, when you said they were not four footed, I did not think of martins. I heard George say, the other day, that his father had put up a martin box, and how they came and looked at it first, before they took it, and that they always sang before daylight, and what a noise they made.

"But, Mother, when you tell that story again, you must not say little throats, or any one will know who your travellers are quick enough; but do please tell us more about them."

"Yes, Frank, you have caught me; these travellers are martins; and, if you wish, I will tell you more about them. Mr. Wilson, whom I have been reading to-day, calls them birds of passage."

"What does that mean, Mother?"

"It means that they find it necessary for their support to pass from one country to another when winter is coming on. At that time they leave us.

"Some people think that martins and swallows hide themselves from the cold in holes in rocks and banks, or in hollow trees; but Wilson, who spent many years in watching the habits of birds, and learning their history, thinks that these fly a great way off to a warmer country as winter approaches, and that they return again in the spring."

"But how can they find the way?" asked Frank.

"All that we know about that, Frank, is, that He who created the martins has given to them the knowledge that guides them right. In their long way through the pathless air, they never make a mistake. Our great vessels and our skilful captains sometimes get lost in the wide ocean; but these little birds always know the way, and arrive with unerring certainty at their place of destination.

"Our great poet, Bryant, has written some beautiful lines to a water-fowl, which express this idea. I will repeat these lines to you if you like to hear them.

'Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly limned upon the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.'"

"I should like to learn that by heart," said Frank; "I like it very much."

"Come, Mother," said Harry, "what more have you to tell us about these travellers?"

"Not much, Harry. The martin is such a universal favorite that Wilson says he never knew but one man that did not like them and treat them kindly. Wherever they, go, they find some hospitable retreat prepared for their reception. Some people have large habitations formed for the martins, fitted up with a variety of apartments and conveniences; these houses are regularly occupied every spring, and the same individual birds have been known to return to the same box for many successive years.

"The North American Indians, who have a great regard for martins, cut off all the top branches of a young tree, and leave the prongs a foot or two in length, and hang hollow gourds or calabashes on the ends for nests."

"What are gourds and calabashes, Mother?" said Harry.

"A gourd, my dear, is a vegetable, something like a squash, only much thicker and harder; when hollowed out, it is as hard as if it were made of wood, and not so easy to break. It is shaped something like a short, straight-necked winter squash; a calabash is a large kind of gourd.

On the banks of the Mississippi, the negroes stick up long poles, with calabashes on the ends, to accommodate the martins.

Martins have been known, when no house was provided for them, to take possession of part of a pigeon house; and no pigeon ever dares to set its foot in the martin's side of the house. The martin is a very courageous and spirited bird, and will attack hawks, crows, and even great bald eagles; he whirls around and around them, and torments them, till, at last, he succeeds in driving them off. This makes the martin a very valuable friend to the farmer, whose chickens he defends from their enemies.

The martins are very faithful and affectionate to each other; when the mother bird is hatching her eggs, her mate often sits by her side; and sometimes he will take her place, and send her out to take exercise and get food. He passes a great deal of his time at the door of her apartment, chattering to her, as if he were telling her amusing stories; and then he will sing very softly and tenderly to her, and he does every thing he can to please her.

The martin has very strong and large wings, and short legs, that they may not interfere with his flight, which is very rapid. It is calculated by Mr. Wilson that this bird flies as fast as a mile in a minute. Sometimes you may see a martin flying in the midst of a crowded street, so near people that it seems as if they might catch him; and then, quick as thought, he darts out of their reach, and, in less than a minute, you may see him far up among the clouds, looking like a little black speck upon their silver edges."

"How happy, Mother," said Frank, "the martins must be, to be able to fly about among the clouds, and travel so far, and go just where they please so easily!"

"God has made every living thing to be happy," said his mother; "and in this we see His goodness. Are not you happy, too?"

"Almost always, Mother. Sometimes I am not happy."

"What is the reason why you are not always happy?"

"Why, things trouble me, and I feel cross and impatient."

"But if you try to bear with disagreeable things, and conquer your ill-humor, and make yourself patient, are you unhappy then?"

"No, Mother; but then I have to try very hard."

"But you are happy when you succeed. Now, what is it in you that tries to be good, and is happy when it succeeds?"

"It is my mind, Mother."

"Would you, Frank, give up your mind for a pair of martin's wings?"

"O, no, Mother; but I want my mind, and a pair of wings too."

"If you think your mind is better than the martin's wings, my dear, be thankful for the possession of it; and be thankful too that God has allowed you the privilege of making yourself happy by your own efforts, and by the exercise of your thoughts, for they are the wings of your mind. You do not now see a martin in the air; you are only thinking of him; and yet you feel how pleasant it might be to be like him, up among the clouds.

The martin cannot have the pleasure we have now had, but God has given him wings, and taught him the way through the air, and put love into his heart for his mate; and let us rejoice in his happiness, and, more than all, let us rejoice in the goodness of Him who has put joy into so many hearts. And when, my dear children, you see the martin cutting his way so swiftly through the air, and when you think of him travelling away thousands of miles, guided by the goodness of God to the right place, and you wish that you had wings like him, and think that he is happier than you are, you can then remember a far greater gift that God has bestowed upon you.

Although the martin's flight is very swift and very high, yet he can go but so far, and he knows not what directs him. When his wings are wearied, and he is nothing but a speck of dust, and when your body also is nothing but dust, these thoughts of yours, that have pursued him, will be still travelling on; and, if you stretch the wings of your mind, and soar upward, as the martin does with his bodily wings, and like him, use all your powers as God directs you, you will be rising higher and higher. And you will also know to whom you go, and who gives you all your powers. The martin knows nothing of this. He must go and come at such a time, and do just as all other martins have done; but you are free to choose for yourself, and to take the right and happy way, because you know it is the right way, and the path to heaven.

But I must tell you what made me think particularly now of these travellers through the pathless air. Last week, you remember, I was ill, and shut up in my room. As I was sitting at my chamber window, enjoying the perfume of the apple blossoms, and listening to the song of the birds, and the soft sighing of the south wind, the world looked as beautiful to me as if it had been that moment created.

You remember that there is an olive jar in the cherry tree close to my window, which I had last autumn desired to have placed there, in the hope that the birds would build in it this spring.

While I was looking I saw a bluebird alight on the tree. Presently she came nearer and nearer to the jar, and looked earnestly at the small round opening in it, as much as to say, 'That looks like a nice place for a nest.' Then she came still nearer, and looked round to see if any one noticed her. I kept very still. At last she grew bolder, and flew upon the jar. Now she looked around again, as if she was afraid of something. Then she turned her head sideways, and looked up and down, this way, and that way, and every way, till she satisfied herself that no enemy was near. At last, she flew upon the edge of the hole, and courageously looked in; then she quickly drew her head out, and looked all around again. I thought she looked directly into my face, and came to the conclusion that I was a friend, for she went part way in. Then she suddenly drew her beautiful head and shoulders out again, and looked about once more. At last, she seemed satisfied, made one more effort, and flew in. She staid in long enough to make up her mind that it was a good place for her nest, and then she flew off, quick as thought. In less than two minutes she came back with her mate. They alighted upon a bough near the jar, and it was plain that they were confabulating together, and that she was urging him to go in and look at the place she had chosen for her nursery. Her mate looked very wise and grave, as much as to say, 'My dear, we must not be too hasty. We must choose this home of ours with great care. Too much of our happiness depends upon this step to allow of any mistake'; he then flew upon the outside of the jar, and went through just the same ceremonies that his better half had performed before, only he was still more deliberate and cautious about entering. At last, he flew in, and, in a short time, appeared again, and alighted on a branch near the jar by the side of his dear mate. There they conversed together in their bird language for some time, as plainly to me as if they had spoken good English. 'This,' said he, 'is a nice large comfortable place, my dear. That great house is rather too near, to be sure, but I am well informed that its inhabitants, and those of all this neighborhood, will never molest us. Last year, the cherry birds ate up all the cherries in all the gardens around here, and not one of the thieves received the slightest harm. We will, I think, begin our work immediately, and make a nice soft bed for our young to rest in when we shall be so happy as to have any.' This, I am sure, was the result of their confab, for directly they began to pick up hay, and furze, and feathers, and every soft thing they could find, and carry them into the jar.

The male bird, which I knew by the greater brightness of his plumage, and his more slender form, seemed to be fondest of bringing sticks, one of which was too long for the mouth of the jar to admit. It was very amusing to witness his efforts to get the stick in; but it would not do; the stick fell to the ground. All day long, these pretty creatures were busy at their work; one usually watched while the other was in the jar arranging the nest for their expected brood. In about a week, it was evident that their work was completed, for they carried in no more sticks or dried grass. They were gone a great part of the day, I suppose playing, after so much hard work, but they returned at evening. Some one in the neighborhood fired a gun. This scared the bluebirds so that they staid away for two whole days; and, when they returned, it was amusing to see how timidly they entered their house. Then they would fly off to another tree at a distance, and make believe they had nothing to do with the one their nest was in. At last, they grew bolder; and, every evening at sunset, I saw the mother bird go into her nest while her mate went to roost.

There was a slight feeling of despondency in my heart when I first went to look out of this window; but when I saw these birds, and witnessed the scene of faithful love and domestic industry and happiness set forth by these little creatures, the spirit of complaint was rebuked within me, and I learned a new lesson of serene trust and assurance that all were cared for by the Creator of all.

But I must tell you the rest of the story of the bluebirds; and I am sorry to say, they met with sad trials. The first encroacher, as they supposed him to be, was a woodpecker; he seemed, as I thought, to mean them no harm; but as soon as they heard his tap, tap, tap, they flew at him very angrily and drove him away. A more dangerous enemy was at hand, one that from his size you would not have supposed dangerous to them. A little wren, not nearly so large as the bluebird, came one day to the tree; and, seeing the jar, having examined it, and being pleased with it, resolved to take it for herself. The little thief waited till the bluebirds had gone upon some expedition; and then, without any ceremony, without any fear of any thing, she entered the jar, and was evidently confirmed in her purpose of taking possession of it. Probably she held a consultation with her mate; but this I did not witness, as I did that between the two bluebirds. The next day this pert little Madam Wren, or her mate, I could not tell which, came again, and, perching on the topmost branch of the tree, poured forth a loud triumphant song, and then, as soon as the coast was clear, entered the house she was resolved to appropriate to herself. In a minute after, she appeared at the mouth of the jar with her bill full of the dried grass of which the bluebird's nest was made, which she threw out on the ground disdainfully. Back again she flew, and in an instant brought some more and threw it out. This she did with the most impudent look you can imagine. Then she flew swiftly in and out, like a little termagant, throwing out of the mouth of the jar, sticks, dead leaves, grass, with all the nice soft things which the poor bluebird had been a week in collecting. Every now and then, she came out for a minute and sang as sweetly as if she were not engaged in such a piratical work; and the little rogue looked up in my face so saucily, too, as much as to say, 'Who cares for you?' Then she began singing at the top of her voice, exulting over her work of destruction. Can you suppose it was any sense of honesty that prevented her using the bluebird's nest after having stolen her house? No, Jenny Wren had no principle. You would have laughed to see how scornfully she tossed out those dead leaves. Every thing went out of the nest pell-mell. The little monster! what could the poor bluebirds say or do? This bird evidently had no conscience, at least not a good one, that is plain. Never did general rejoice more over the capture and destruction of a city than this little bit of a bird rejoiced over the destruction of the bluebird's nest, and at the unlawful possession of the house. I saw her carrying in a long stick that suited her better than the short ones that the bluebird had carried in: she found she could not get it in if she took it in the middle; so she changed the place, and held it by the end, and so by that means got it in. She was more cunning than the bluebird. Now you might hear the two little robbers sing again. They are happier than any king can be nowadays. Poor, dear, beautiful bluebirds! What has become of them? Then came the mother. She looked into the jar and saw the destruction of her nest--all her week's work. How distressed she seemed! but the victorious wrens had no pity on her. They drove her away. She disappeared. The saucy conquerors flew in and out of their stolen house twenty times a minute, caring for nothing. They could have had no moral sense; but they were very amusing, and they were nothing but birds; they knew no better; so we must forgive them."

"I like stories about animals better than any other stories," said Frank. "I think animals know as much, and sometimes more than we do. So, Mother, do tell us all you can think of about elephants, bears, and lions, as well as dogs, and cats, and birds."

"I have laid up in my memory two or three dog and cat stories, which I will tell you, and then I will see what I can remember of lions, bears, and elephants. But first I must tell you what I have lately read about courts of justice among the crows."

"What is a court of justice?" asked Harry.

"A court of justice is an assemblage of men who meet together to ascertain if any one who is accused of doing a wrong thing has really done it or not. If he is proved to have committed the offence, he is declared to be guilty; if he is not proved to have done it, he is declared not guilty.

A writer on the history of the Feroe Islands describes these extraordinary courts as if he had witnessed them. He says, these crow-courts are observed here (in the Feroe Islands) as well as in the Scotch Isles. The crows collect in great numbers, as if they had been all summoned for the occasion. A few of the flock sit with drooping heads, others seem as grave as if they were judges, and some are exceedingly active and noisy, like lawyers and witnesses; in the course of about an hour the company generally disperse, and it is not uncommon, after they have flown away, to find one or two left dead on the spot.

Dr. Edmondstone, in his View of the Shetland Islands, says that sometimes the crow-court, or meeting, does not appear to be complete before the expiration of a day or two,--crows coming from all quarters to the session. As soon as they are all arrived, a very general noise ensues, the business of the court is opened, and shortly after they all fall upon one or two individual crows, (who are supposed to have been condemned by their peers,) and put them to death. When the execution is over, they quietly disperse."

"I shall never look at a crow, Mother, again," said Harry, "without dislike--cruel creatures."

"We don't understand these things," said his mother; "animals have no compassion for their sick companions; they kill them sometimes for being sick. It seems very cruel, but we don't understand enough to judge."

"Now, Mother, what new story have you about dogs?"

"The story I shall tell you now seems to show that dogs have good hearts, and are compassionate and magnanimous. A dog was placed to watch a piece of ground, perhaps a garden. A boy ran across the forbidden place. The dog chased him. The boy, greatly frightened, ran very fast, fell, and broke his leg. The dog, when he came up and heard the boy's cries, did not touch him, but ran up to the passers by, and barked till he attracted their attention, and brought some one to the aid of the poor boy, who could not move.

The faithful creature had performed his duty in driving away intruders; but he had too good a heart, and was too generous to hurt a fallen enemy. In the account I read he was called a Christian dog. His conduct would be a good example to all Christians.