Birds and Nature Vol. 9 No. 3 [March 1901]

The White Pelican as it calmly floats on the surface of the water, some distance from the shore, has been mistaken for the sail of a boat as the moist white feathers glisten in the sunshine.

Longfellow has beautifully woven this fact into the “Song of Hiawatha.”

“O’er the water floating, flying,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the mists of morning,
Loomed and lifted from the water,
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
Was it Shingebis the diver?
Or the pelican, the Shada?
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah?
Or the white-goose, Waw-be-wawa,
With the water dripping, flashing
From its glossy neck and feathers?
It was neither goose nor diver,
Neither pelican nor heron
O’er the water floating, flying,
Through the shining mist of morning,
But a birch canoe with paddles,
Rising, sinking on the water.”

    Seth Mindwell.

THE SANDPIPER

The glitter of the sunlit river
In his flashing, fearless eye,
There on his unwearied pinions
See the bird go sailing by!

Slender, sword-like wings, and dainty,
How they cut the thin air now!
And without a trace of languor
Soars he to the mountain’s brow.

Back again – for whim has moved him —
And where rippling water lies,
Scanning all the shore line closely,
Light as thistle-down he flies!

On the white sand scarce a footprint
Makes he, touching here and there;
Singing his two notes so gladly,
Ah, this bird is passing fair!

Sweet content in voice and motion;
Following plash of many a wave;
Or o’er pine that faces ocean
Mounts this rover, gay and brave!

    – George Bancroft Griffith.

A BIT OF BIRD GOSSIP

The sun shone brightly through the green leaves of the trees and crowned each tiny ripple on the lake with a glistening diamond. A Robin Redbreast hopped along the shore, picking up a few pebbles, for the poor thing has to wear her false teeth in her stomach, as it were, having no teeth in her head with which to chew her food.

There was a rush of wings above her and she dropped the grain of sand with which she had thought to fill up her gizzard, cocked her smooth black head on one side and watched the approach of another bird. Was it friend or enemy? It proved to belong to the aristocratic family of Thrushes – real high-flyers among birds – who alighted on the same sandy shore and advanced “with many a flirt and flutter” to greet her old friend, for they had been neighbors in the same sunny orchard the year before.

“So glad to meet you again, Mrs. Redbreast,” said the gracious Thrush in a most musical voice, “but are you not a long way from the willows on the river bank where I last had the pleasure of seeing you?”

“Oh, we never finished that house among the willows. We became dissatisfied with the neighborhood,” answered Mrs. Redbreast, after performing the graceful courtesy of a well-bred bird, as are all Robin Redbreasts.

“Ah, I was afraid of malaria when we looked the ground over together in the spring. It was too low, almost swampy. Mr. Thrush and I went to a little knoll about three miles away and built in the loveliest, the most fragrant wild crabapple tree you ever saw,” and Mrs. Thrush smoothed with shining beak a mottled feather on her handsome breast.

“But would not those lovely blossoms tempt those creatures – boys, I think they are called – to climb until they found your home?”

“The thorns stand sentinel and the thick leaves hide it well, and I wanted my children to grow up strong, and swift on the wing. They would never grow up well feathered and beautiful amid those lovely willows on account of the low ground,” replied the Thrush.

“It was not malaria that caused us to abandon our half-built nest, but boys, some black as crows and some white as doves, kept coming to get materials for whistles. It seems that the very tree we chose had bark that slipped the easiest, and sometimes a flock of three or four would be perched on the limbs (they always sit astride, so awkwardly, you know), with jack-knives in their hands, and of course we could not stay. Robin wanted to come to the park – it is a lovely place – where those fine big creatures with bright stars on their gray coats are put to take care of us birds. Why,” she went on, “they will not let boys stone even an English Sparrow, but I think that is altogether too particular. There comes a party of the little cockneys now,” as a handful of winged brown balls came fluttering through the air close to the heads of the larger birds, who could easily have put them to flight if they would but try. However, they ducked their heads and scampered into the weeds, leaving the smooth shore to the new-comers, who dipped and splashed in the shallow edge of the lake as if they enjoyed it mightily.

“Just see the horrid little things washing themselves in water, but they never can get clean. Why, my Robin, who is a very venturesome fellow and sometimes follows the boulevards almost into the heart of the city, says that he has seen them in the dirty city streets washing themselves in the dust like common barnyard fowls.”

“Don’t let’s look at them,” exclaimed Mrs. Thrush. “They are doing it just because it looks respectable, and they know that we wash in water;” and the two birds spread their wings and swept disdainfully away from the neighborhood of the Sparrows.

“And where did you finally build, Mrs. Redbreast?” asked the other as they settled gracefully on the shore a half a mile away.

“Well, Robin, as I said, wanted very much to live in the park. He is so fond of company, but I told him there were too many children on the grass. Why, they are as thick as dandelions any fine day, and in spite of the care of the great gray creatures it would be impossible to safely teach our children to fly. We finally found a lovely suburban place within easy flying distance of the park. An apple tree with perfect branches for a nest grew in the back yard, the cherry trees were white with bloom and the whole place fragrant with the blossoms of the grape. There was a flat jar always kept filled with water for the birds, with a stone in it that reached nearly to the surface on which to stand while bathing. The water made the birds come in flocks, so that the place was gay with songs, and really that yard was a little Eden. But you know,” she went on, dropping her voice, “there is a story of something terrible that walked in the garden of Eden, and I think it was a black cat, for that is what walks in our garden. He lies on the back steps in the sunshine pretending to be asleep, but where his eyes ought to be in that big black ball he calls his head I can see a narrow yellow stripe, and out of that stripe of yellow he watches every bird that comes.”

“Does he get any birds?” asked the Thrush in an awe-struck whisper.

The Redbreast shook her black head sadly. “Every now and then his mistress finds him with feathers in his whiskers, and she scolds him. But there is a serpent in every Eden,” she added philosophically; “if it isn’t cats it’s boys.”

“Did you ever hear what became of the family of Wrens that lived in the honeysuckle over the back door?” asked Mrs. Thrush, who cared more for gossip than moralizing. “They were so pleasant and cheery.”

“Oh, yes. We started south before they left and I haven’t seen them since. They were a proud little folk, that made believe they were not proud, always wearing the finest clothes, yet in such sober colors. I always called them stuck up.”

“Their tails certainly were – he, he, he,” giggled Mrs. Thrush.

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Mrs. Redbreast. “That’s pretty good. I must tell that to Robin. But don’t you remember,” she went on, “the Blue Jays that lived in the elm tree down the lane?”

“I never thought them very well-bred,” replied Mrs. Thrush, bridling prettily, for she and her family pride themselves on their correct behavior. “Wonderfully pretty, but too loud.”

“Altogether too gay and noisy. Mrs. Jay was a great scold, and Blue almost as bad. You could hear them all over the neighborhood. Well, they lost all their children by a Hawk, though Mrs. Jay fought bravely for her little ones, and Blue proved himself a real hero. She over-exerted herself, however, and died shortly after of nervous prostration. I saw a girl, who had found her body, spreading out her poor dead wings and holding them up against her hat. She finally wrapped Mrs. Jay up in her handkerchief and carried her away.”

“If women would only be satisfied with the wings of a bird that had died a natural death we would not complain,” said Mrs. Thrush, as she folded her own pretty wings a little closer. “Blue Jay married again right away, of course,” she went on, as she dropped a little red ant down among the mill stones of her gizzard to be ground up.

“He did not even wait the conventional two weeks. If I thought Robin Redbreast would be looking out for another housekeeper so soon after my death he would not have such a good wife as he has to-day. He would have to hunt more worms and bugs than he does, instead of just bringing home a little bit of dessert in the shape of cherries or grapes to please the children;” and the mother fluffed up her feathers alarmingly.