Birds and Nature, Vol. 12 No. 1 [June 1902]

“Come, come,” interrupted Mrs. Crow at this point. “I hope no sarcasm is intended. Our taste is for a branch high up in some dark hemlocks, out of the reach of gunners and harum-scarum boys. We care more for quantity than quality, too, plenty of room but not too much luxury to make our children lazy in getting their own living.”

“That would never do us,” persisted Mrs. Vireo. “We hold that nothing is too good for the little ones, and early surroundings and influences are everything in cultivating a refined taste, a love for the beautiful, and the art of fanciful designing. You cannot find anyone who takes more pains than we in this respect.”

“O, we all know that the Vireos have plenty of time and means,” tartly responded Mrs. Catbird, in an unmistakably sarcastic tone. She, well aware of her own carelessness both in selection of site and manner of building, had not an advanced idea to offer; and, like certain humans, she therefore indulged in scoffing at her betters. “For my part,” she continued after a pause intended to be impressive, “I think that those who trust to luck a little more come out just as well in the end and have just as respectable and more independent children.”

“Yes, yes,” laughed Mrs. O’Lincoln, “if by ‘independent’ you mean lawless; and fine examples you could furnish us, too. No one will dispute you.”

“I like to see materials correspond with surroundings,” modestly suggested Mrs. Sparrow, and Mrs. Bluebird added: “If you have proper regard for privacy and modesty in the choice of a site you need give less attention to either materials or the style of your structure.”

Madam Cowbird now descended from a perch in the big birch balcony and summarily dismissed the assembly with this rough injunction: “Better be in better business, all of you! Work is better than talk and accomplishes more for the benefit of your neighbors. Theories are well enough, but let me see a practical demonstration of your various ideas. Finish your building and I will come around as critic and inspect your work. I’ll warrant that I shall find little to choose among you for all your fine talk.”

This characteristic speech filled me with such indignation that I resolved at once to expose the duplicity of the speaker, thus thwarting Madam’s wily plans for shirking her own duties.

Springing to my feet and gathering my forces for an energetic and scathing rebuke, I suddenly discovered that the whole company had dispersed, leaving me alone with the beauty and sweetness and quiet gladness of the old orchard.

    Sara Elizabeth Graves.

THE CAROLINA CHICKADEE

(Parus carolinensis.)

As one walks through the forest, either in winter when the snow is deep, or in summer when the sun is highest, the stillness will be broken from time to time by the merry “Chicka-dee-dee,” “day, day,” or “hey-de, hey-de,” coming from a little throat only a few feet away.

The Carolina Chickadee is very similar to the blackcapped chickadee with the exception that it has a decidedly shorter tail. Its range is also different, being seldom found north of a line extending from New Jersey, through central Indiana, west to Texas and Indian Territory. The blackcapped is seldom found south of this line.

The nest of this bird is a very cozy affair sheltered in a hollow snag or post. It often takes advantage of the deserted home of a downy woodpecker to make its nest. It also frequently excavates a cavity in some rotten snag or tree trunk. As soft wood is preferred one generally finds the nest in a willow snag. I found a nest of this interesting little bird in a rotten willow snag only a few feet from a small stream. The stump was so decayed that I could easily have pushed it over. The excavation had been recently done, because fresh bits of wood were scattered about the ground. Looking in at the hole, which was about four feet from the ground, I could easily see the nest and eggs in the cavity some ten inches below. Desiring to study it more closely and to obtain a photograph, I carefully pushed my knife through the soft trunk and pried off a large slab. This exposed the cavity and the nest. The nest was a beautiful soft affair, composed of hair, feathers, down, etc., and contained seven small, pinkish white eggs, spotted with reddish brown most profusely at the larger end.

I then carefully replaced the slab and tied it on securely, trusting I had not disturbed the home too much to prevent further nesting.

When I again passed the nest an hour later and looked in I met the gaze of a pair of small bead-like eyes. The parent bird had returned and had resumed her task, apparently in no way disturbed by the rude attack on her domicile.

Whenever I desired to examine the progress of development of this small family I had but to remove the door and look in. This was easily done, for the latchstring was always out. About eight days after hatching the young left the nest.

The Chickadee is one of the farmer’s best friends. During the egg-laying season of the canker-worm moth it destroys a great many eggs. Examination of the stomach contents shows between 200 and 300 canker-worm eggs in each. It has been estimated that each of these birds destroys 14,000 of these eggs during the month of egg laying. The Chickadee has been accused of destroying the buds of fruit trees, but this is not substantiated. It has been found that whenever it attacks a bud it does so to secure the worm which has burrowed into the center.

These birds are doubly useful because they remain with us the entire year and continue their destruction of eggs and larvæ. The amount of work done by a pair of these birds in destroying eggs and larvæ of injurious insects is more than could be accomplished by any man. They should therefore receive the greatest protection possible.

    J. Rollin Slonaker.

DICK

(THE STORY OF A DOG.)

My first remembrance is when I was about two weeks old and lived with my mother, brother and sister in a fancy basket that stood in the corner of a pleasant room in a house in the city of Apokeepsing.

My mistress came into the room followed by another lady, and taking me up she said: “This is the one I am going to give to the little boy.”

The other lady took me in her hands and smoothed my curls as she said: “Well, he is a dear little fellow – but what a darkey he is!”

My father was an imported Russian poodle. He was pure white with pink eyes and nose, but he was cross, for the only time I remember seeing him, he growled at me and I hid in my mistress’ skirts while she scolded him.

My mother was a Skye terrier, silver gray in color and very intelligent and affectionate.

Our mistress loved us dearly and used to wash us and comb our hair until we were as clean as children.

She was a pretty woman and we all loved her as much as she did us and would run to meet her and kiss her hands and jump in her lap as soon as she sat down.

I used to wonder who the little boy was to whom I was to be given, and when he would come for me; but time went on and I was still with my mother and had nearly forgotten about being given away. One day when I was about five months old, my mistress came into the room and said to her daughter: “Emma, where is Sandy?” I pricked up my ears, for that was my name. She then called me and I ran to her. She took me in her arms and carried me to the street. There was a wagon standing by the sidewalk and in it were a gentleman and a dear brown-eyed little boy who gave a pleased laugh and caught me in his arms, as my mistress held me up to him, and he hugged me so hard that it almost hurt.

Then the gentleman thanked my mistress and she said: “Good bye, Sandy,” and I tried to get back to her, but the horses started off and I had to go too.

First we went up a long hill where trolley cars ran and where wagons, horses and people were coming and going all the time.

Then we drove on over a softer road, with less noise and so few houses that sometimes I had to look all around before I could see any, but at last the horses turned in through a gateway and stopped at a large white house.

The little boy called, “Mamma, come and see the new dog!” and out on the stoop came a young lady with a baby in her arms, and she said: “Well! well! what a funny little black fellow!” but she said it with a laugh in her eyes so I knew she liked my looks and when the gentleman put me out on the stoop, I ran to her and she took me up and let the baby pull my curls.

I was so glad to be liked, that I kissed them both ever so many times, until the lady laughed and said: “Here, my son, take this little kisser in and give him some dinner.” I was glad to hear that for I was very hungry.

The next day the little boy said he meant to call me Dick, so his mother took my head between her hands and said: “Dear little doggie, your name is Dick now, so don’t forget that we mean you when you hear us say it.”

I wagged my tail as hard as I could to tell her I would remember and I did so well that it wasn’t long before I forgot to expect to be called Sandy and grew to like Dick much better.

I found I had come to live on a farm with cool green grass to run through, cats to chase, chickens to hunt and horses and cows to look out for.

One day I was barking at a cow to make her go into the barn and she turned quickly and kicked me against the fence.

It hurt me pretty badly and I was sick for several days. My new mistress gave me medicine, rubbed my sides and kept me in the house by her until I felt better.

There was another dog at this house. He was a great St. Bernard called Brian and he used to play with me and scare me almost to death.

His paws were so large that when he struck me in play he nearly knocked my breath away.

There were seven people in this home, the little boy’s mother and father, baby sister, their grandfather and a little woman and a young man who did most of the work.

My mistress used to talk to me and teach me how to do things. I soon learned to jump and speak and shake hands, to sit up, lie down, roll over and do other little similar tricks.

When she went out with her horse, I would go too and sometimes when we were alone I would sit on the seat by her side.

One day all were going for a drive and I was to stay at home, but after they were gone, I became so lonesome that I ran off after them and tried my best to catch them.

After I had run a long way, I saw the wagon ahead of me and so I hurried on until I was close to them. I went on for some time without any one seeing me, but at last my mistress turned her head and saw me trotting along through the dust. She looked surprised and shook her head at me, but did not tell the others.

By and by the horse stopped at a house and I was so tired I ran up to the wheel and cried to be taken in.

Then the little boy cried out, “Why, here is Dick, how did he get here?” and his papa said, “Dick, you rascal, what did you follow us for?” I hung my head for I thought I might get a whipping for coming without permission, but the gentleman only laughed and taking me up, put me in under the seat. Wasn’t I glad to lie down and rest!

When the baby began to creep she and I used to have great fun on the floor. I would stand still and let her catch me and then jump away and back at her, and she would laugh and crow with delight.