Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 5 [May 1902]

The nest is a loose, globular affair situated in the top of a tussock of grass or in rushes some twelve or eighteen inches above the ground or water. It is composed of coarse grass closely interwoven with fine blades and fibers, making a compact structure. The inner part is lined with fine materials, such as soft down, cat-tail blossoms, etc. At one side, sometimes ingeniously hidden, is a small round entrance. The nest resembles very closely that of its first cousin in shape and location, but can easily be recognized by the eggs, which are pure white.

This little bird sometimes builds a number of nests, but lays eggs in but one. Whether it does this because it enjoys the occupation, or for the purpose of producing a “blind,” no one can say. A number will nest in the same locality, thus forming quite a colony.

Its song is quite different from that of the long-billed. Mr. Gault says: “In the manner of delivery it forcibly reminds one of the song of the dickcissel, although, of course, it is not near as loud. They are quite shy, but would allow one to approach within forty or fifty feet of them, when they would dart down into the thick grass, from which it was almost impossible to dislodge them.”

Mr. Washburn, in speaking of this bird in the Red River valley, gives some interesting accounts of its peculiarities. “In a large marsh * * * I found a colony of these wrens, which by my presence was thrown into most excitable activity. They are at a disadvantage when on the wing, these appendages seeming scarcely able to support their obese bodies, for they fly as though weighted like a bee returning to a hive heavily laden. Instinctively they fly toward the friendly support of some tall weed where, as if feeling more secure on their feet than in the air, they resume their antics, hanging their heads downward, twirling their tails, jumping from one weed to another, and each bird apparently communicating its restlessness to its neighbor, until the whole colony is in a state of ferment. They do not alight gracefully like most birds, but seem to tumble into the weeds.”

Unless one is very cautious and persevering he is not able to observe the activity of these wee bits of bird life. He can wade into their very midst and can hear them chattering within a few feet of him without seeing them or at the best getting but a glimpse of one. But if he conceals himself and remains quiet for perhaps a half hour his efforts may be rewarded.

Ilk happy bird, wee helpless thing,
That in the weary months o’ spring
Delight me to hear thee sing,
What’s come o’ thee?
Where wilt thou cower thy chittering wing
And close thy e’e?

    – Burns.
    J. Rollin Slonaker.

TWAIN LOVES OF JEREMIAH

“Do not leave me, I beg of you,” implored old Jeremiah, standing guard over the opening in the fence. “Believe me, there are dangers outside of which you know not. Snakes frequent the tangle of these weeds and swine lie in wait.”

“Stay, if you are afraid. Stay, anyway,” she answered, curtly, and vaulting over him, she went through the fence and called her ten children from the other side.

Jeremiah struck his white head in the dust, praying her to return. He lunged at the fence and fell back, baffled, his feet beating the air. He floundered upright and ran, entreating, along the fence, his head thrusting between the interstices. The obdurate fair one paid no heed. She was talking baby talk to her followers.

Jeremiah, after exhausting every maneuvre to get through, over or under the fence, resigned himself to the inevitable and began looking around for entertainment. He is a great gander to keep something going on. A trim black pullet passed the orbit of his vision and he sauntered up to her.

“Good evening, Miss Dominie. You are looking charming.”

Miss Dominie tossed her head. “Perhaps,” she cackled, “but I can only charm you in the absence of Mrs. Cochin.”

“What do I care for Mrs. Cochin?” protested Jeremiah, and he looked Miss Dominie over with the eye of a connoisseur. She was certainly well bred and she carried herself erect. This was because she had been raised a pet, but Jeremiah ascribed it all to her aristocratic lineage and thought complacently that if any ill fate overtook Mrs. Cochin, Miss Dominie would be a close second in his affections. “Mrs. Cochin is too old,” he added.

“And that is a good thing for you,” retorted Miss Dominie. “She is too old to be particular and she may tolerate you. For myself, I draw the line at ganders. Chickens are good enough for me.”

“You talk like a preacher,” suavely answered Jeremiah, “and I agree with you. They are good enough for me, too,” but Miss Dominie had darted around the big coop and was lost to view. At that moment Dollie came out of the house carrying a bucket of water and went from pan to trough, pouring the chickens a fresh drink. With cries of delight, Jeremiah fluttered in her rear, paddling and throwing the water, making it an undrinkable mixture for the chickens. Suddenly his eyes dilated, his neck straightened and stiffened, his wings slightly lifted and his large feet passed each other in rapid succession, fence-ward. Dollie’s father was coming from the barn, walking stiffly, his arm pressed against an aching back. His eye caught Jeremiah’s and the pursuit began. The man forgot his lame back and plunged forward, gathering small stones which he aimed at Jeremiah. Round and round the fence they went, the man throwing stones and execrations; the gander gabbling, ducking, dodging until he bethought himself of the haven of gooseberry bushes, scrambled under them and into the orchard, through the hedge into the open where, joy inexpressible, Mrs. Cochin and her ten fluffs were tumbling in the dog fennel.

“At last I have found you, my beloved,” gasped Jeremiah, and he rounded up the chicks and drove them into the orchard. Mrs. Cochin followed, protesting. She even flung herself at Jeremiah, with many a cluck and scratch; but Jeremiah had constituted himself head of her household and, serene in the consciousness of right, he took the family through the orchard, under the gooseberry bushes and back into the yard.

Jeremiah knew that a little of him went a long way with Mrs. Cochin, yet he never lost hope that his persistent devotion would win her favor. He had been a lone gander many years. There was not another feather of his kind in the poultry yard. It was sometimes marveled that he did not take to the ducks, his next of kin, fat and wabbly, with raucous voices. It was so much easier to love Mrs. Cochin, the perfection of grace and beauty. She was large and stately. She wore always a buff robe that flashed in the sun like burnished gold. Poor Jeremiah fell easily a prey to her unconscious wiles and consecrated himself, body and soul, to her personal attendance and protection.

Jeremiah’s first concern, again inside the yard, was to reconnoitre for his friend, the enemy. He was nowhere in sight and Jeremiah turned pleadingly to Mrs. Cochin. “Let us make up,” he urged. “Your coldness is killing me. I honestly think I have not long to live.”

“Diet yourself,” suggested Mrs. Cochin, her feminine intuitions connecting cause and effect. “And don’t be a goose.”

Mrs. Cochin went scratching in a flower bed. Ignored, he followed at a respectful distance, hissing at the pup who ambled near, striking a cat whose lithe body was poised for a spring at one of the chickens, and frightening away a brood of ducklings. All afternoon the faithful sentinel executed his self-imposed duty, and finally followed his charmer across the yard to the old workshop.

“Do not go in there,” he cried, sharply.

For answer Mrs. Cochin tripped over the threshold, clucking to her chicks. She flew upon the work bench, thence to a rafter and settled herself as if for the night.

“What do you think I am going to do with these chickens?” grumbled Jeremiah, trying to arouse her maternal solicitude. “Let the rats catch them, I don’t care. They are not my chickens.”

Mrs. Cochin looked down. She drooped a wing and shut an eye. Her attitude indicated that she would take proper care of her offspring as soon as their company had taken his welcome leave.

Again Jeremiah went through the scene at the fence. He gabbled his vain protestations. He groveled in the dust. He flung his unwieldly weight against the work bench and made many futile attempts to rise to Mrs. Cochin’s superior elevation.

“You distract, humiliate me,” he hissed. “Your heart is no larger than your head. You may stay there. I wash my feet of you,” and suiting the action of the word, he waddled into the water trough and fluttered there.

The black pullet drew near. She was really a comely creature, Jeremiah thought, and he stopped fluttering. If it were not for the fatal glitter of Mrs. Cochin’s blonde beauty, he might learn to care for demure Miss Dominie. He didn’t know but he could, anyway, and gracefully curving his kingly neck he approached her.

“Good evening, Miss Dominie. You are looking very charming.”

Miss Dominie pretended not to hear. She was too young to be entirely unmoved by his apparent admiration and she felt vaguely sorry for him; but the sun was very low and the sand man had passed her twice. She was looking for a spring bed on one of the low limbs of the cottonwood tree. Jeremiah followed her, babbling the story of his wretched loneliness, until they unwittingly crossed the path of his enemy, the man. Jeremiah’s voice sank to a whisper and he hid behind a tree. Jeremiah is a goose about a good many things, but he knows when to lay dead.

The black pullet brushed against him and his heart warmed – but she was only enflight to the limb overhead. She leaned forward and spoke to him, drowsily: “I am sorry, Jeremiah. It is the old story and I can only advise you to get used to it. Don’t you give up. Remember, you can have anything in this world you want if you keep after it until you get it; that is one of the fixed laws of the universe. I think you will find Mrs. Cochin in the end coop now. I saw Dollie gathering the chickens into her apron and carrying Mrs. Cochin by the wing. It might be well to excite her jealousy. You may say to her that I have at last consented to be yours. Tell her that you have come to bid her a final farewell. Give her back that scar she made on your neck and assure her that I am a jealous god and object to your even passing the time of day with her.”

Jeremiah hastened to the end coop. Between the slats he recognized the profile of his beloved, hovering her fluffs. He tried to get his head inside, but the openings were too small and he could get in only as far as his eyes.

“I have come to say farewell,” he breathed, hoarsely. “I have found one younger and fairer than you.” His soul revolted when he said “fairer,” for Jeremiah hates a lie, and even if Miss Dominie be a diamond it cannot be denied she is of the charcoal variety. “I may see you sometimes,” he continued, “for I do not expect to leave the farm, and I wish you to know that the bright particular star of my life has blazed out and henceforth I am hers alone.”

Jeremiah gushed on, rapturing over his new attraction until he half convinced himself; gushed on, rapturing, until Mrs. Cochin lifted her head and struck him with her bill.

“You make me very tired,” she said. “If you have any respect for your lady love, keep your mouth shut about her. Don’t let everybody know you are a goose. Of course, you would be just as big a goose if you kept your mouth shut, but everybody wouldn’t know it. Even a gander owes that much to himself: not to let it get out how big a goose he is.”

Saying this, she tucked her head and sang a soft lullaby to her fluffs, and their faint, sweet “peep, peep,” lost in a low croon of content, sounded to forlorn Jeremiah like music behind the locked gates of paradise.

Sadly he clambered upon the back of an old wagon seat, half way between the end coop and the black pullet; and the friendly dark came down; and old Jeremiah lost the ache of self in the oblivion of sleep.

    Emily Frances Smith.

THE ORIOLE

A flash of gold and black against the sky,
A perch upon the orchard’s topmost bough,
A strain of such unmingled ecstasy,
The lingering echoes thrill the silence now.

A hanging nest so beautifully shaped,
So softly lined, close woven, firm and strong,
A bright-eyed mate to brood above the eggs,
And listen to that rhapsody of song.

A deep serenity of blue above,
A bubbling joy within beyond control.
Of hopes fulfilled, of Summertime and love —