Birds and Nature, Vol. 12 No. 4 [September 1902]

“I don’t see what there is in Fig Trees to study over much! All they have anyhow is queer awkward looking leaves in the spring, then green figs growing right out of the branches, no flowers or anything, then by and by all the leaves dropping off again! I wouldn’t think that would take much time or was worth much time either, and for my part I wouldn’t have leaves I couldn’t keep all the year round.”

Mrs. Fig answered her in a very polite tone, just as if she was talking to company: “Excuse me, Mrs. Pepper, but probably you never heard that it was my family that gave the first man and woman who ever lived in the world their clothes!”

Mrs. Pepper said she never heard it, and she guessed no one else ever did either. But you could see she was getting curious, and so were the other trees, and they finally asked Mrs. Fig to tell them, and so she began.

“Long, long ago there was the most beautiful garden that ever was heard or thought of and every lovely flower that grows, and every tree that amounts to anything, was there. But the rose bushes had no thorns, and there were no spiders or bugs or worms to bother the trees and shrubs, but only great butterflies as bright as the rainbow. And there were no brambles or thistles or burrs, but only violets and clover blossoms and other flowers, and all the birds sang more sweetly than the nightingale, and the fountains were clear and sparkling, and the fruit was always ripe, and everything was just as beautiful as could be, and the first man and woman were the most beautiful of all, only they didn’t have any clothes.”

Mr. Pine rustled his needles in an embarrassed sort of way, and Grandma Liveoak said that didn’t seem just the right thing, somehow; but Mrs. Fig calmly remarked: “That was what they thought too and so they made themselves lovely clothes out of fig leaves.”

Mrs. Pepper guessed that that wouldn’t help them much; that clothes made out of fig leaves would amount to no clothes at all. But here Mr. Pine spoke, saying:

“If I might with propriety venture a suggestion on so delicate a subject, I think possibly it was bathing suits the first man and woman made of the fig leaves. My friend, the East Wind, assures me that” —

“Rubbish,” cried Mrs. Pepper, “rubbish! I don’t believe that they ever made any clothes of her old leaves at all, so there!”

And now Mrs. Fig’s voice was so polite it made me quite nervous, and she spoke very slowly. “The first man and woman went to all of the other trees and looked their leaves over very carefully, but none of them were good or pretty enough, and finally they came to the Fig tree.” Here Mrs. Fig made a long pause, repeating, “Finally they came to the Fig tree. And the first woman said: ‘Oh, aren’t these leaves just too lovely for anything! The Fig tree is the best and prettiest of all. We will make our clothes out of her leaves. And so they did, and what’s more, they got into a whole lot of trouble just because they had something to do with another tree besides the Fig.”

Mrs. Pepper rubbed two branches together, and it made the most sneery sound you ever heard, as she asked: “I suppose you want me to believe that ‘other tree’ was the pepper?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Fig, “I don’t think there were any pepper trees in the garden at all.”

Then you should have seen how angry Mrs. Pepper grew and I did wish that Grandma Liveoak would hurry and say something so there would be peace; but sure as you live, when she spoke her voice sounded strange and very dignified, and she only said:

“The other trees may have family histories too, Mrs. Fig, if they chose to boast of them!”

“A poet once said,” began Mr. Pine.

But Mrs. Orange Tree interrupted him to ask what they were saying about her; that she heard “best and prettiest leaves” mentioned.

Mrs. Fig told the story all over again, and I wanted to explain to her that I had never heard it just that way; but her stubby branches were standing very firm and determined, and I knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good.

“Poets,” said Mr. Pine, “are the wisest people in the world, and one of them” —

“I don’t care a twig for the first man or the first woman,” said Mrs. Pepper crossly. “I know all the painters choose me, and they put my leaves and my clusters of white blossoms and red berries on paper and boards, and painters are the people of all the earth who know what is beautiful, so that proves the first place mine.”

“This poet once said of our family,” Mr. Pine began again.

“The brides all choose me,” cried Mrs. Orange, “and who in the world is so important as a bride? And if they choose me, I must be first and prettiest.”

“As I remarked,” said Mr. Pine, “this poet” —

But such a noise you never heard, and even Grandma Liveoak as bad as the rest, and Mrs. Pepper and Mrs. Fig and Mrs. Orange, all claiming so many things for their family. And they got to saying unkind things to each other – they really did – and you have no idea how dreadfully sarcastic trees can be. But just as I was wondering however it would all come out Mrs. Pepper stopped still for a minute, then leaned her graceful boughs fringed with fine narrow leaves way over until they kissed Mrs. Fig’s bare branches, and said gently: “I am sure it was a great honor to have your pretty leaves chosen by the first man and woman, and I am very sorry I was cross.”

Grandma Liveoak gave a little laugh, exclaiming, “Well, what a silly old tree I am! Do you know, I came very near being a little put out there, just for a second, simply because another tree mentioned her family.” Then she praised Mrs. Fig and told her it was a good thing to think well of one’s own sap and wood. And Mrs. Fig said she might have been mistaken about what the first woman said, and that probably she took the fig leaves because they were the handiest or something. And Mrs. Orange got the wind to blow over some of her prettiest blossoms to the other trees, while high above Mockingbird was singing and over on the hedge a meadow lark gave its call, and it was all very sweet and pretty.

“As I was saying,” calmly remarked Mr. Pine, “a poet once said of our family:

Who is the king of all the wood?
Be it distinctly understood
It is the Pine!”

    Karrie King.

BUILDING FOR BIRD TENANTS

When on walking through a city park on a blustery winter day one suddenly spies the little bird houses, built by the custodian and perched high up among the branches of the trees, a smile invariably creeps over the face and a thought of summer steals into the tired brain. Would that the building of bird houses became more fashionable among our boys!

One of the simplest and most artistic of them may be formed from a cocoanut shell. The opening may be so made that the piece of shell cut out can be turned up like a little porch roof over the door. If these be fixed just at nest-building time and the architect should kindly leave the nut inside the shell the birds will be most grateful.

Down south many of the door-yard trees seem to be growing gourd fruit. In reality the gourds (with an opening in the side of each) are tied on or hung there by means of their own crooked necks to make nests for the birds.

Sometimes one may see whole rows of them upon a pole which is nailed to a stable roof and often they are found hanging to the ragged edge of the roof of a negro cabin. As far as I can learn, the idea originated with the colored people, who take great pride in the number of birds they can attract about them by this and other kindly means. The little yellow houses seem to delight the birds so much that one is seldom put up in vain, and the tenants pay lavishly with coins of song and many a trill of joy.

    Lee McCrae.

THE LIGHT OF THE LEAVES

Hurry, skurry through the air
Leaves are falling everywhere.
Gold and crimson meet or miss
Smile or blush at the frost king’s kiss.

Whirling, twirling, o’er the ground,
Forced by merry winds around;
Piled by childish hands on high,
There, like martyred saints, to die.

Crackle crackle, sound their knells,
Imprisoned sunshine in them dwells
Like tiny tongues, ’twixt earth and sky
They whisper love to passers by.

Falling, ever falling, they,
Consumed to make the world more gay;
The misty cloud of smoke o’erhead
Seems like the veil Shakina spread.

Down and down comes memory’s leaf,
Bright with hopes or sere with grief;
The brightest one in life’s huge pile
Is that from which our bonfires smile.

    – Cora May Cratty.

THE STARLING

(Sturnus vulgaris.)