Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 3 [March 1902]

Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 3 [March 1902]
Various

Various

Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 3 [March 1902]

EASTER CAROL

Hepatica, anemone,
And bloodroot snowy white,
With their pretty wildwood sisters,
Are opening to the light.

Each blossom bears a message
That a little child may read,
Of the wondrous miracle of life
Hid in the buried seed.

In the woods and fields and gardens
We may find the blessed words
Writ in beauty, and may hear them,
Set in music by the birds.

It is Nature’s Easter carol,
And we, too, with gladness sing,
For we see the Life immortal
In the promise of the spring.

    – Anna M. Pratt,
    From “Among Flowers and Trees with the Poets.”

SPRING

O beautiful world of green!
When bluebirds carol clear,
And rills outleap,
And new buds peep,
And the soft sky seems more near;
With billowy green and leaves, – what then?
How soon we greet the red again!

    G. Cooper, “Round the Year.”

THE WINTER WREN

(Troglodytes hiemalis.)

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times.

    – Isaac McLellan, “The Notes of the Birds.”
The Winter Wren inhabits that part of North America east of the Rocky Mountains, breeding chiefly north of the United States and migrating at the approach of winter nearly or quite to the Gulf of Mexico.

This diminutive form of bird life, which is also called Bunty Wren and Little Log Wren, is a denizen of the forest, and it is more common in those forests found on bottom lands adjacent to rivers. It is a shy bird, and does not seek the intimacy of man as will its cousin, the house wren. It is seldom seen far above the ground. In many places where it does not seem abundant it may be quite common, for it readily eludes observation in the underbrush because of its neutral color. It frequents old logs, where it may be seen “hopping nimbly in and out among the knotholes and other hollow places, then flitting like a brown butterfly to another place of refuge on the too near approach of an intruder.” Some one has said, “Its actions are almost as much like that of a mouse as of a bird, rarely using its wings except for a short flutter from one bush or stone-heap to another; it creeps slyly and rapidly about, appearing for an instant and is then suddenly lost to view.”

The Winter Wren builds its nest in the matted roots of an overturned tree, in brush-heaps, in moss-covered stumps, or on the side of a tree trunk. It may be attached to a ledge of rock, and is occasionally found in some unoccupied building, especially if it be a log hut in the woods. The nest is very large and bulky when compared with the size of the bird. Dr. Minot describes a nest that he found in a moss-covered stump in a dark, swampy forest filled with tangled piles of fallen trees and branches. This nest was made of small twigs and moss. It had a very narrow entrance on one side, which was covered by an overhanging bit of moss, which the bird pushed aside on entering. The nests are usually more or less globular and thickly lined with feathers and hair.

This little brown bird, which carries its tail pertly cocked on high, is a notable singer. Many have described this song, or perhaps it is better to say have tried to do so. But words are too inadequate to portray this sweetest of woodland sounds. Reverend Mr. Langille says: “I stand entranced and amazed, my very soul vibrating to this gushing melody, which seems at once expressive of the wildest joy and the tenderest sadness. Is it the voice of some woodland elf, breaking forth into an ecstasy of delight, but ending its lyric in melting notes of sorrow?”

Of this song Florence A. Merriam says: “Full of trills, runs, and grace notes, it was a tinkling, rippling roundelay. It made me think of the song of the ruby-crowned kinglet, the volume and ringing quality of both being startling from birds of their size. But while the kinglet’s may be less hampered by considerations of tune, the Wren’s song has a more appealing, human character. It is like the bird itself. The dark swamps are made glad by the joyous, wonderful song.”

And Audubon beautifully expresses the song as it appealed to him: “The song of the Winter Wren excels that of any other bird of its size with which I am acquainted. It is truly musical, full of cadence, energetic and melodious; its very continuance is surprising, and dull indeed must be the ear that thrills not on hearing it. When emitted, as it often is, from the dark depths of the unwholesome swamps, it operates so powerfully on the mind that it by contrast inspires a feeling of wonder and delight, and on such occasions has impressed me with a sense of the goodness of the Almighty Creator, who has rendered every spot of earth in some way subservient to the welfare of His creatures.”

VOICES IN THE GARDEN

As the snows were being guarded on the mountain tops by the gentle herder Spring two small seeds, dropped from the same busy hand, fell so near together in a fresh furrow that they could hear each other shiver as they struck the cold, damp earth and were covered over by the same.

“How cold our bed is,” said seed number One, as a cold chill ran down her back.

“Yes,” replied seed number Two. “But we will soon get used to this cold, and when Father Sun sends the sunbeams to play on our top cover we will get warmth from their little hot feet.”

With this thought seed number Two snuggled down in her new bed of earth and pulled the tiny clods around her and shut her eyes to sleep. But seed number One still shivered and complained and wished that she was back in the paper package so loudly that all her companions in the furrow were disturbed, especially number Two, who was lying so near.

“Aren’t you feeling more comfortable?” asked seed number Two.

“No, I am not. I am freezing, and these cold clods are mashing me. I wish I was back in the paper though we were crowded on top of each other.”

“But you could not grow there.”

“No, but I could be more comfortable. If it takes these old black clods to make me grow I don’t know that I want to grow,” and she gave a sniff to show her contempt.

“Stop! You don’t realize what you are saying! You are near committing the unpardonable sin. Do you remember your promise to Mother Nature as she placed within your bosom the sacred germ of life? That promise which you gave to grow, at the first opportunity, and to do all within your power to become strong and vigorous, producing seeds in which she could place like germs. Then have you forgotten your dying mother’s request that you live up to this solemn promise?”

Seed number One did not reply, but gave a little rebellious grunt to show her state of feelings and remained silent.

This was a great relief to the other seeds, who were enduring the discomforts of their new and chilly environments with as much fortitude as possible, hoping and believing that their new home would yet become more comfortable. Finally all became quiet and they shut their eyes and waited and dreamed.

The cold, dark night was at last over. The seeds in their little dark chambers could not see this, but they knew it was so when they felt the warm influence of the sunbeams as it crept stealthily down through the damp soil and warmed their cold, wet wrappings. Oh, how it did revive them! They grew larger as they tried to express their thankfulness. The quickening power within pictured to them bright sunshine, refreshing showers and warm, balmy nights. But there they lay helpless in the dark, waiting and dreaming and dimly feeling that —

Instinct within that reaches and towers
And, groping blindly above for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.

But the greatest change of all was in seed number One. She had spent the dark, cold night in thinking of the promise she had given and about which she had been reminded by seed number Two. Gradually the angry, rebellious feelings passed away and she began to realize how sinful her spirit had been. And now that the warm sunshine had turned the cold, wet clods into a blessing she most heartily felt ashamed of herself and could get no rest until she gave some expression to this feeling. She began by snuggling closer down among the clods and trying to make them feel that she was glad to be among them.

Then she whispered to them softly: “I am so sorry for the rude, impatient, angry words I spoke yesterday when I first came among you. Can you forgive me?”

“Certainly we will,” said the big clod that the seed had accused of mashing her. “I know we are rough looking companions for a tiny seed and oftimes we are forced, by influences from without, to act rudely. But Mother Nature knows our needs and will send water to soften our natures and men will lift and stir us about so that we can do our very best work in helping you and other seeds to perform life’s obligations.”