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

“Not all of them. I have some white ones – in another part of the garden. Those you saw are daffodils and jonquils.”

“John – who?” queried Grace, in astonishment.

“Jonquils,” repeated Mrs. White, amused not a little at Grace’s ignorance and wonder. “Come! I’ll show you which is which.”

Grace ran on ahead, and was minutely inspecting the tender young blossoms when her aunt arrived.

“The large double yellow ones are daffodils. Those across yonder are the white ones. Wait!” she called, for the impatient child had already started toward the bed of more familiar lilies. “Here are the jonquils – these with cups. Really the name for these, both the yellow and the white, is Narcissus. Presently I’ll tell you how they came to have that name. There are twenty or thirty kinds, but the most perfect forms grow in Europe and Japan. Cultivation has done a great deal for the Narcissus, both in this and other countries, but these of mine are but the old-fashioned sort that grandmother planted here. Now let’s go see the white ones. Will they be in full bloom for Easter?”

“Yes,” replied Grace. “See, here are two now. Mamma has this kind,” and she fondled the snowy blossoms as though they were friends of long standing.

“These are, without doubt, the ‘lilies of the field’ that Christ spoke of,” said Aunt Chatty. “Isn’t it nice of them to hurry from the ground in the spring in time to remind us of the resurrection of Him who commended them so highly? And their whiteness tells us of His purity, as though they wish to honor Him as long as they live.”

“But tell me, aunty, how they came to have that other name,” urged Grace presently.

“Oh, yes. That story was told by the ancients to frighten boys and girls who were selfish and unkind.”

To the cosy sitting room they repaired, for the air had not yet become warm enough for so lengthy a stay out of doors. When both were comfortably settled Aunt Chatty began:

“There was a very beautiful youth, mythology tells us, who was devotedly loved by a wood nymph, Echo. But she had incurred the displeasure of Juno, their goddess of the heavens, and by her had been condemned to have the power to speak only the last word and was forbidden any other. For this reason she could not address Narcissus, much as she desired to do so. When he did speak, finally, Echo answered by repeating his last word. Her heart was full of joy, for she was sure that at last her opportunity had come. But in spite of her beauty and purity the youth repelled her, and left her to haunt the recesses of the woods. In her disappointment she pined for him until her form faded because of grief. Her bones were changed to rocks and there was nothing left but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to anyone who calls to her and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.

“Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned every one else as he had done poor Echo. One day one of those whom he repelled so heartlessly breathed a prayer that he should some day feel what it was to receive no return of affection. The wish was granted.

“There was a fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds never drove their flocks. In fact, nothing ever disturbed its water, and here one day Narcissus chanced to stop to drink. He saw his own likeness in the water and, thinking it a beautiful water spirit living in the fountain, admired and loved it. He talked to it, but it would not answer; he tried to catch it, but it fled whenever he touched the water. He could not tear himself away from the spot, for he was so captivated by the lovely face in the fountain that he ignored all else. So there he stayed until he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which had so charmed Echo. She kept near him, however, and when, in his grief, he exclaimed, ‘Alas! alas!’ she answered with the same words. He pined away and died. The nymphs prepared a funeral pile and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; in its place was a flower, purple within and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.”

When Aunt Chatty had finished, Grace, after gazing out at the white Easter lilies a few moments, said:

“I like the story, but I don’t like Narcissus. He was too selfish and ungrateful. I like the story best that you told me in the garden, the one about the ‘lilies of the field.’”

    Claudia May Ferrin.

THE CALL OF THE KILLDEE

“Killdee, killdee.”
The pleasantest sight to me
Is a little brown bird with a curious word;
A queer little word that to-day I have heard
For the very first time this spring, you see,
And that queer little word is “Killdee, killdee.”
That curious word is “Killdee.”

“Killdee, killdee.”
It is cheery and clear as can be.
And there’s snow in the gully not melted away,
And ice in the river; I saw it to-day.
Yet there he goes dipping and skimming along
And singing so blithely his queer little song:
“’Tis spring. Killdee, Killdee.”

    – Mary Morrison.

THE NORTHERN PHALAROPE

(Phalaropus lobatus.)

The Northern Phalarope has a wide range, extending throughout the northern portion of the Northern Hemisphere and in winter reaching the tropics. It breeds only in Arctic latitudes. It is a bird of the ocean, and seldom is observed inland except as a rare migrant early in May or in October. Then it “frequents slow streams or marshy pools.”

This Phalarope belongs to the shore birds and to a family that contains but three known species. Two of these are sea birds. The other, Wilson’s phalarope, is an inhabitant of the interior of North America. Their feet are webbed, and usually the two marine forms, or sea snipe, as they are sometimes called, migrate in flocks far from land. Mr. Chapman says: “I have seen it in great numbers about one hundred miles off Barnegat, New Jersey, in May. For several hours the steamer passed through flocks, which were swimming on the ocean. They arose in a body at our approach, and in close rank whirled away to the right or left in search of new feeding grounds.”

It is not an exaggeration to say that it is one of the most beautiful of our aquatic birds. All its motions are graceful. It possesses a quiet dignity and elegance while swimming in search of food, which it frequently obtains by thrusting its bill into the water. In this manner it obtains a large number of marine animals and flies that may be on the surface of the water. When on the shore it may be seen wading and swimming in ponds near the coast.

Dr. Coues wrote in an interesting manner of this bird. He said that the Northern Phalarope is “a curious compound of a wader and swimmer. Take one of our common little sandpipers, fit it for sea by making oars of its feet, and launch it upon the great deep, you have a Northern Phalarope. You may see a flotilla of these little animated cockle-boats riding lightly on the waves anywhere off the coast of New England.”

Its habits at the mating season are most interesting, and no words can better describe them than those of Mr. E. W. Nelson: “As the season comes on when the flames of love mount high, the dull-colored male moves about the pool, apparently heedless of the surrounding fair ones. Such stoical indifference usually appears too much for the feelings of some of the fair ones to bear. A female coyly glides close to him and bows her head in pretty submissiveness, but he turns away, pecks at a bit of food and moves off; she follows and he quickens his speed, but in vain; he is her choice, and she proudly arches her neck and in mazy circles passes and repasses close before the harassed bachelor. He turns his breast first to one side, then to the other, as though to escape, but there is his gentle wooer ever pressing her suit before him. Frequently he takes flight to another part of the pool, all to no purpose. If with affected indifference he tries to feed she swims along side by side, almost touching him, and at intervals rises on wing above him and, poised a foot or two over his back, makes a half dozen quick, sharp wing-strokes, producing a series of sharp, whistling noises in rapid succession. In the course of time it is said that water will wear the hardest rock, and it is certain that time and importunity have their full effect upon the male of this Phalarope, and soon all are comfortably married, while mater familias no longer needs to use her seductive ways and charming blandishments to draw his notice.”

Then after the four dark and heavily marked eggs are laid the “captive male is introduced to new duties, and spends half his time on the eggs, while the female keeps about the pool close by.”

These birds, which possess such dainty elegance in all their motions, do not exhibit a corresponding degree of taste in home building. Their nests, at best, consist of only a few blades of grass and fragments of moss laid loosely together. Often the eggs are laid in some convenient hollow, with no bedding whatever except that which happened to lodge there.

These are a few of the facts in the life history of this bird, which starts in its career as a little ball of buff and brown and later in life “glides hither and thither on the water, apparently drifted by its fancy, and skims about the pool like an autumn leaf wafted before the playful zephyrs on some embosomed lakelet in the forest.”

OUR LITTLE MARTYRS

Do we care, you and I,
For the songbirds winging by?
Ruffled throat and bosom’s sheen,
Thrill of wing, of gold or green,
Sapphire, crimson – gorgeous dye
Lost or found across the sky,
’Midst the glory of the air,
Birds who tenderer colors wear?
What to us the free bird’s song,
Breath of passion, breath of wrong,
Wood-heart’s orchestra, her life,
Breath of love and breath of strife,
Joy’s fantasias, anguish breath,
Cries of doubt and cries of death?
Shall we care when nesting-time
Brings no birds from any clime,
Not a voice or ruby wing,
Not a single nest to swing
’Midst the reeds or higher up,
Like a dainty fairy-cup;
Not a single little friend,
All the way as footsteps wend
Here and there through every clime,
Not a bird at any time?
Does it matter, do we care