Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 4 [April 1902]

THE SPIRIT OF SPRING

It came to me this morning, in my room, and filled my whole being with a subtle feeling of delight and mysterious glad expectancy. When I went downstairs they told me that it was colder than yesterday; that the thermometer registered 14 degrees above zero. But what care I for the thermometer? What does it know about spring?

Spring is a spirit which takes possession of the air, be it hot or cold, and makes one’s heart sing for joy.

The crows kept telling me the glad news, “Spring has come!” all the time I was dressing, and it was echoed in the tufted tit’s questioning note when he flew round the house to his breakfast on the window sill. When I started out for my morning walk the very air seemed filled with tiny voices proclaiming the good tidings.

I had not gone far before I heard a cardinal singing gloriously, his song answering the one in my own heart; and the theme was ever, “Spring has come!”

But the crowning surprise and joy of all came when I had reached the brook pasture. I stopped, listened and caught my breath; could it be on the 27th of February? Yes, a song sparrow! No one who is unacquainted with the purity and simple charm of this bird’s song, which breathes of all that is fair and good, can understand or appreciate the rapture I felt upon hearing it again this morning. Going on a little farther I heard another song sparrow; the two were singing by turns, answering each other in sweetest melody. One could scarcely wait until the other had finished his strain, so eager were they to pour out the good news.

Oh, if you who are tired or dull indoors will only go out these mornings and fill your lungs with the pure air of heaven and your hearts with the rapture of spring, how many of your cares will drop away! Nature’s myriad voices will talk to you if you will listen; the birds will sing to you the sweetest music in the world – God’s love in melody.

This joy in the beauties of Nature may be yours if you will; do not allow such a precious gift to escape you. It is beyond price, yet free to all. Each year adds to the wonder and value of Nature’s treasures; they are ever new, ever more and more welcome with each returning season. Happy are they who know and love them well.

    Anne Wakely Jackson.

FROM AN ORNITHOLOGIST’S YEAR BOOK.

FLUTE OF ARCADY

In Ohio are many wide, grassy fields, covering the rounded hillslopes or filling open valleys. One day in March the world was white with snow, and I heard, as if in a dream, the soft cooing of the doves. Never before had I heard it except on sunny afternoons in pine woods, rich with warm, resinous odors. It is hardly a sound – rather silence perceptible, blending so perfectly with the sunshine, the hushed and brooding stillness of the air, the half-conscious sense of life, that I would often hear it a long while without knowing that I listened – the soft, tremulous cooing of the wood-doves, yet here the earth was white with snow and the air chill.

But the doves were right. Spring was near, and in a little while the feathery grass was nodding in the warm wind, gray and hazy, as the great white clouds swept overhead with wing-like shadows, or shining, each tiny blade like burnished steel, in the sunlight. The cooing of the doves had been only a low prelude; now the air was ringing with melody.

“N’er a leaf was dumb;
Around us all the thickets rung
To many a flute of Arcady.”

The fresh, glad songs of the western meadow larks! Everywhere, everywhere, the air was vibrant with the poignant sweetness of their silvery voices; everywhere you might see the shining yellow of their breasts as they rose with strong wing; everywhere you might perhaps chance to stumble upon some nest of woven grasses. Often with arched covering, on the very ground, with the dear little brownish mother bending over four or six white eggs, freckled with cinnamon spots. It is the season of the larks, and earth and sky are more lovely for the magic of their singing. One hardly knows how to describe it in words. Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year! it seems to say to the listener, both in the east and west, but the song of the western meadow lark has a richer melody, a more piercing delight. It seems to talk of forgotten things; of youth and first hopes; first love; it has all the glamour of the far-away, and yet a sweetness of the near. It rises from the thick grass at your feet, yet it mounts towards the blue sky! It is a veritable Flute of Arcady blown with a breath of joy.

    Ella F. Mosby.

The dogwood blossoms white as snow
Their favors now to rambler show,
And where the Winter’s latest drift
Through the dark moss did silent sift,
All blossomed-starred, above the ground
The shy arbutus now is found.

The cloud-capped mountains all appear
With verdant slopes and summits clear;
The sun has lost its soulless glare —
Earth, sea and sky are wondrous fair.

    – George Bancroft Griffith.

THE RED-BACKED SANDPIPER

(Tringa alpina pacifica.)

The sandpipers trip on the glassy beach,
Ready to mount and fly;
Whenever a ripple reaches their feet
They rise with a timorous cry.

    – Duncan Campbell Scott, “Sandpipers.”
Very early in the spring the Red-backed Sandpiper leaves its winter home in the States and countries bordering the Gulf of Mexico and starts on its long journey to the cooler region of the far north. It arrives in Alaska early in May, in full breeding plumage, and the males are soon engaged in prettily wooing the coy females. Mr. Nelson, who had unexcelled opportunities for studying the habits of these interesting sandpipers, well describes their courting habits. He says: “The males may be seen upon quivering wings flying after the female and uttering a musical, trilling note, which falls upon the ear like the mellow tinkle of large water-drops falling rapidly into a partly filled vessel. Imagine the sounds thus produced by the water run together into a steady and rapid trill some five or ten seconds in length, and the note of this Sandpiper is represented. It is not loud, but has a rich, full tone, difficult to describe, but pleasant to hear. As the lover’s suit approaches its end the handsome suitor becomes exalted, and in his moments of excitement he rises fifteen or twenty yards, and hovering on tremulous wings over the object of his passion, pours forth a perfect gush of music, until he glides back to earth exhausted, but ready to repeat the effort a few minutes later. The female coyly retreats before the advance of the male, but after various mishaps each bird finds its partner for the summer and they start off house-hunting in all the ardor of a rising honeymoon.”

The Red-backed Sandpiper is not a bird architect and it does not build even a simple home. A slight hollow on a dry knoll, which commands a clear view of some body of water, is the site usually selected. Here the eggs are laid, either upon the dry grass already in the hollow or upon a few bits of leaves, twigs and grass hastily gathered and placed without order. After the appearance of the eggs the male seems to realize the responsibility of family cares, for his merry song ceases and he devotes his share of time to sitting on the nest, protecting the eggs with his warm body. That this is the case is shown by the bare patches that appear on his breast at this season.

With such a home as is prepared for their reception, it is not surprising that the little red-backs leave the nest as soon as they are hatched and freely run about. When frightened they readily conceal themselves by sitting on the ground and remaining quiet.

This species exhibits considerable variation in the color of its plumage. In the spring and summer it may be known by the black patch on the belly and reddish color of its back, which is mottled with white and black. At this season it is often called Blackbreast. In the fall and winter the upper parts are brownish-gray in color and the under parts are whitish. It is then frequently called the Leadback. The Red-back is not as active as the other sandpipers and its unsuspicious nature makes it seem quite stupid. Though a beach bird, it is not infrequently met in grassy marshes, and by some it is called the Grass-bird.

A PANSY OF HARTWELL

I was a Pansy of Hartwell, a dainty little thing, with gold and purple petals, touched with white, and leaves of tender green – “a dear, delicate thing, but fair,” so Louise said. I grew below her chamber window, where she had prepared a rich, warm bed of mother earth for me and for hundreds of my kindred. “But none,” she said, “no, not one of my kind, was ever so beautiful as I.”

I remember my birthland well. Our old home in Hartwell, where Louise and I were born, was surrounded by a wide, rolling lawn, filled with blooming flowers from the time of the first peep of the early March crocus to the stately bloom and decay of the autumn flowers. Here, too, near her window grew a straight, tall maple tree, whose branches stretched far and wide and even touched her window.

I liked this tree because it gave us a pleasant shade when the sun’s rays were inclined to be too warm and made us droop and feel so languid and so tired. Delicate, dainty things, as Louise and I, must not have too much sunshine, else we droop and die.

One day I asked Louise if this tree was old. I knew it was by the many deep furrows in its bark, but I loved the music of her voice so much that I often asked her useless questions that I might lift up my head and listen to its melody. Louise then told me its age and much else that I had never heard. She said that with each returning springtime this tree sent up the life-giving sap from its roots, which ran swiftly through the trunk to the branches. Soon on these branches little red buds appeared, then a bloom and finally leaves, and wonderful little wing-like looking keys which held the seeds of the maple tree.

These were strange, wonderful things for me to hear, but I knew them to be true, because Louise told them to me. No one ever doubted Louise, for all her life long she had worshiped at the altar of truth, and, because of her truthfulness, her beauty and her goodness, all things loved her.

Besides giving us moisture and shade, the south wind told me that this same fine old tree held in its forks a home for some little friends of Louise. When the March winds left us and the skies became clear and blue and warm, her friends the robins would return to their old home as they had done for many seasons past, and there under her kindly, watchful care would raise their brood of young.

One day I saw her – I was always watching her – drop a bit of cotton and several strings down from her window. The cotton fell near my bed. I wondered and wondered why she had done this thing. A long time afterward I was told that it was for the use of Mother Robin in making her nest. Father Robin thanked my dear Louise for her thoughtfulness by singing for her his most beautiful notes at the dawn, the noon-time and the evening.

I lived in happiness in that quaint old town of Hartwell, caring naught for its bright skies, wide rolling plains, its peaceful waters, its fruits of tree and vine. I was young; I was happy; I lived near Louise; it was all that I desired.

I remember – but why should I tell you? I am only a little pansy, born, perhaps, for an hour or a day, to bloom and be gathered and die – so the south wind has told me. It must know. “God gave the flowers and birds and all things for man’s use and abuse,” so you say; but I had thought it different, for I lived in the sunshine of Louise’s love and tender care. One day – how well I remember it! – it was a day in sunny, coquettish April – when I heard voices approaching. Nearer and nearer they came, until I felt the presence of my dear Louise with her dark haired friend. I could not see them, for one of my sister pansies held her head so high and haughty that a little pansy such as I could not see or be seen.

This day Louise was more tender than usual. Alas! why is it ever true that dearest love is bought at the price of death and separation?

She bent down, half hesitatingly, and kissed me, touched my petals lovingly, and whispered so gently – only I could hear: “My beauty, my golden-hearted pansy, shall I – must I – give you to my friend?”

The wind gave back my answer. I was sacrificed on the altar of friendship.

Then I felt my heartstrings slowly tugged at, and quivering and wounded and bleeding I was taken from my home, the home Louise had made for me, and placed in a basket with my cousins, the violets, to be carried to a new home, to meet new faces and perhaps make new friends.

Louise and this friend loved each other very dearly. Alas! for me, they loved pansies, too.

Perhaps it was an honor for Louise to have chosen me from among a hundred others, for to her a pansy was the dearest, the daintiest and most coquettish of all the flowers that bloom and die. But, though I felt the honor, I would a thousand times rather have lived to lift my petals to the breezes in my native land without glory and without pain; or better still, death on Louise’s breast, with her smiles and caresses, was preferable to honor and glory in a stranger’s land. I say this was preferable, but how foolish I am; we pansies have no preference. We of the flower family must take what you of the human family choose to give us.

This friend of Louise’s, I knew not her name and cared not to know, carried me very gently with the violets, protecting me from the sun and dust as we went; and when I awoke from my misery and my long, long journey, I found myself an exile, with my kindred, in the far south-land where the birds are always singing, and the flowers are ever blooming, and youth and beauty and old age go hand in hand.