Far off we hear them, cry answering cry:
'Tis the voice of the birds as they southward fly.
From sea to sea, as if marking the time,
Comes the beat of wings from the long, dark line.
O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic beat,
Flying from cold to the summertime heat;
O, keen, glancing eye, that can see so far,
Do you guide your flight by the northern star?
The birds from the North are crossing the moon,
And the southland knows they are coming soon.
With gladness and freedom and music gone,
Another migration is passing on.
No long, dark lines o'er the face of the moon;
No dip of wings in the southern lagoon.
No sweet, low titter, no welcoming song;
These are birds of silence that sweep along.
Lifeless and stiff, with the death mark on it,
This "Fall Migration" on hat and bonnet.
And the crowd goes by, with so few to care
For this march of death of the "fowls of the air."
– Mary Drummond, in the Chicago Times-Herald.
THE WAYS OF SOME BANTAMS
Last summer, when I was out in the country, I made the acquaintance of a kind-hearted little bantam rooster, who was as funny as he was kind-hearted.
An old speckled hen, who looked as if she might be a good mother, but wasn't, had brought up a family of chickens to that stage where their legs had grown long and their down all turned to pin-feathers.
Very ugly they were; there was no doubt of it. Perhaps this queer mother thought so. At any rate, she turned the poor things adrift and pecked them cruelly whenever they came near her.
Little "Banty" saw this unkind behavior. He was small, but his heart was big, and he set Madam Speckle an example which ought to have made her hide her head in the darkest corner of the hen-house for shame.
He adopted those chickens!
Each one of them was about half the size of "Banty," and to see that loving little father-bird standing on tiptoe with his wings spread, trying in vain to cover all eight of his adopted children, was a pathetic as well as a ludicrous sight.
They loved him and believed in him fully. They followed him all day long, and seemed to see nothing amusing when he choked down a crow to cluck over the food he found for them, and at night they quarreled over the privilege of being nearest to him.
I think bantams perhaps are more interesting than other fowls. When I was a little girl father brought three of them home. Dandy and his two little wives were all pure white and very small.
We had other fowls, the aristocratic Spanish kind, each as large as two or three of Dandy, and the Spanish rooster hinted very strongly that Dandy's presence in that barnyard could be dispensed with. But Dandy was a brave little fighter, and he soon settled it once for all with Grandee as to what the rights of the former and his family were.
In a month or so one of the little hens was missing. After a long time we found her, and in such a queer, cozy place! Upon the foundations of the old red farmhouse where we lived, rested great squared beams. An end of one of these beams had decayed, out of sight, under the clapboards on the south side of the house, until there was a large, soft-lined hollow. Here the little hen had stolen her nest, and when we found her she was just ready to lead off twenty-one tiny white fluff-balls of chickens, every egg having hatched.
Dandy's bravery saved his little life one day, and made him forever famous in the annals of our pets. On this most eventful day of his life, a shadow flitted over the barnyard, and a wail went up from us children as a chicken-hawk swooped down upon our beloved Dandy and carried him off before our indignant and tearful eyes.
Up they went! But in a moment or two we saw that the thief was having trouble, as somehow Dandy had managed to turn in those wicked talons, and the little fellow was using his sharp beak and spurs with all his might.
The battle was brief, and then Dandy dropped at our feet. He was bleeding and had lost the sight of one of his eyes, but otherwise he was little hurt. All the rest of his days Dandy carried himself proudly, as one who has been tried as a hero and not found wanting.
May H. Prentice.
THE BUFFLE-HEAD
(Charitonetta albeola.)
This small and wonderfully beautiful duck is a native of North America, wintering in the latitude of Cuba and Mexico and breeding from Maine to Montana and northward. It is said that a favorite place for its nesting is along the banks of the Yukon river, and other streams of the boreal regions, yet it is reported that the young have been captured in the Adirondack mountains. Though classed with the "sea ducks" (Fuligulinae) it is one of the most common of our fresh-water forms, and, like many other animals, as well as vegetable forms, of wide distribution, it is the recipient of numerous popular names, nearly all of them being more or less suggestive of its characteristics or habits. In the North it is frequently called the Butter-ball, the Butter-box, the Butter duck, the Spirit duck and the Dipper. In the South some of the same names are heard, but perhaps more often the Marionette, the Scotch dipper, or duck, the Scotch teal and the Wool-head. However, no more appropriate name could be selected than that of Buffle-head, having reference to the showy, ruffled or puffed plumage of the head. The technical name, albeola, meaning whitish, was given this species by Linnaeus in 1758, on account of the pure white on the side of the head.
The adult males vary but little. The plumage of the head is puffy and, with that of the upper half of the neck, is a "rich silky, metallic green, violet purple and greenish bronze, the last prevailing on the lower part of the neck, the green on the anterior part of the head, the purple on the cheeks and crown." A beautiful pure white patch extends from the eyes, meeting on the top of the head. The lower portion of the neck and nearly all the feathers of the under side of the body, as well as the wing coverts, are also showy white. The lining of the wings is dark, and the upper side of the body is black.
The head of the female is less puffy and of a brownish or dark gray color. The white head patch is not so prominent or pure and the plumage of the under side of the body is more or less tinged with gray. In both sexes the iris is dark brown, the bill bluish or lead color, and the legs and feet pinkish.
There are few birds that are more expert in diving or swimming, while on land, owing to their larger feet and shorter legs, they are more awkward and waddle more than many of the ordinary ducks. Their graceful attitude while floating on the water, moving apparently without any motion of the body and scarcely causing a ripple on even a placid surface, has given them the name Spirit duck.
The Buffle-head, like nearly all the sea ducks, feeds on mollusks and other animal-forms found in the water. As a result, their flesh is usually coarse and quite too rank for use as a food. The canvas-back is a notable exception, for during the winter months it feeds on the wild celery (Vallisneria) of the Middle Atlantic coast, and thus its flesh receives the flavor so appreciated by those who relish game food.
AN HOUR WITH AN ANT
If you want to know how to accomplish a hard task, come with me and watch a little ant for an hour.
She was a small, black ant, and, seeing a brown worm eight times as large as herself, she was seized with the ambition to take it home in triumph.
Now will you tell me how she knew that she could have no power over the worm while he was on his ten feet, that stuck to the sidewalk like glue? Before she attempted anything, she fastened her mandibles into his side and turned him over on his back just as you see Bridget turn the mattress. Then running to his head she again fastened her mandibles and dragged him for a couple of inches. While pausing to get her breath, the worm took the opportunity to get on his feet once more. The ant did not seem to notice the change in position till she tried again to drag the body. As soon as she felt it sticking, around she ran to the side, over went the worm in a trice, and once more the two started on their journey. Now they were close to a crack in the broad sidewalk, and I, thinking to help the little worker, in whom by this time I was quite interested, lifted the worm across the crack.
Did you ever try to help some one and find too late you had done exactly the wrong thing? Then you know how I felt when that little ant began rushing around as if she were crazy, and when she got hold of the worm again, began to drag it back across the very crack I had lifted it over. Can you guess why? She was taking a bee-line to her house, and I had changed the direction. But how was she to get that big body across a crack that could swallow them both? That was what I waited anxiously to see. Soon the worm felt himself going down, down into a dark abyss, and of course caught hold of the side to save himself, and when he once felt he had a hold on life how he did hold on! The ant was not to be daunted; balancing herself on the edge, and holding on by her feet, she reached down her mandibles and dragged him by main force straight up the perpendicular wall to the top; nor did she stop till he was carried far enough from the edge not to get down again.
In this way three cracks were safely crossed, and it was plain to see the worm was losing heart, although every time the ant paused for breath he would get over on his feet and have to be tossed back again.
And now a new difficulty arose. The worm had been dragged about eighteen inches over the boards. Fourteen inches more would bring them to the ant's house, or, rather, hill. But the way was now off from the sidewalk, and no sooner did the worm feel the stubble under him than he gathered all his strength, turned over on his feet, and held on to every spear of grass for dear life.
Indeed, it was his last chance, and I felt tempted to snatch him from the certain death awaiting him, but curiosity to see how this new obstacle would be overcome induced me to wait. The ant now felt justified in calling for assistance, and soon a dozen ants had come to help. Only five could work to advantage, so the rest, for ants never like to do the "heavy looking on," left to find other employment.
The first thing to be done was to get the worm on his back, and this proved no easy task. He could fasten his feet just as fast as the ants could unfasten them. At last two ants went to one end and two to the other. Each one of the four seized a foot in her strong mandibles and held it out as far as possible, while the fifth one turned the captive. It was the funniest sight! It was easy now to drag him two or three inches, but breath had to be taken, and again the worm fastened. In vain they tugged and pulled. He had evidently learned their tactics and knew how to defend himself. Suddenly his body moved along an inch and a half, as if by magic. Was it magic? Not at all. One little ant had run up on an overhanging blade of grass, and, reaching down, holding on by the wonderful feet spoken of before, and grabbed the poor creature in the middle, raised it right up from the ground, and keeping hold, ran along overhead till the end of the spear of grass was reached.
This was the last struggle of any importance. The worm gave up discouraged; it was only now a question of time till they had dragged him through the stubble up to the door of the house in the hill, and I saw only a faint quiver as of dread as his body passed through the mysterious opening. I could not help wondering if the ant who started the capture received all the praise she deserved, or if the other four took the glory to themselves.
At any rate, no one could take away her own satisfaction in overcoming and winning in the struggle.
Harriet Woodbridge.