Part 14

I was deeply interested in the food selected by Mrs. Chewink. As for herself, she would never eat bread when she could get cup-cake. I expected that she would feed this favorite food to her babies, and that the sweet food would kill them, or make them sick, if no more. I watched carefully, intending to remove the cake before the little ones were injured. The morning, on which I had pitched to try the experiment, proved to be rainy. The wet grass and foliage made it difficult for the little mother to collect food, and I thought that that would cause her to fall back on the cup-cake. As soon as she found the cake, she stuffed herself and carried a load to her babies. I followed, and when I had reached the nest she was feeding the last of the cake. From what I saw, it was evident that she had divided the food fairly. I returned to the dooryard, and Mrs. Chewink followed me. She passed by the cake to load up with bread. The next trip was made up of bread. The fourth and fifth trips were gleaned from the flower garden. The sixth trip was again made up of cup-cake. The next trip she carried bread, and then I removed the bread. When Mrs. Chewink returned, she looked for bread, but did not offer to take cup-cake in its place. She flew to the garden and hunted up insects. I tried a great many experiments with this bird, and I found that she would not feed enough cup-cake to injure her babies. When they were older and stronger, she fed more cake to them.

Here was a little wild mother that knew better than to feed to her babies food that she dearly loved herself. How did she know that such food would hurt them? Well we know that the wild things manage their domestic affairs in a way best suited to their needs and natures. But it is only here and there that a human being can gain the confidence of the wild things so far as to share the secrets o their lives.

Mrs. Chewink, like many human mothers, was overworked during the warm weather. Often she would seek the shade for a few seconds' rest. Her open bill and drooping wings gave evidence of how much she was suffering from the heat. All this time Mr. Chewink haunted the cool, shady spots, and left his clamorous family to the care of his overworked wife. The little ones increased in size very fast, and soon were as large as the old ones. One morning Mrs. Chewink brought the brood into the dooryard. I think she wanted to be near the food supply. Certainly it lessened her labors. She had another object in view, which appeared later.

Two weeks passed, and one morning Mr. Chewink brought the young birds to the dooryard. I was much worried, for I thought that my little pet had been killed. I searched the shrub-land on the hill, and was delighted to hear her call. She was gathering material for a new nest. Then I understood why she had brought her family to the dooryard. She had contemplated putting them under the care of her lazy husband, and she thought that he would not be overworked where food was so plentiful.

The young birds did not take kindly to Mr. Chewink's care. When they found that he was their sole dependence, they made his life miserable. They followed him with open bills and fluttering wings, clamoring for food. Mr. Chewink acted like a crazy bird. He would fly round and gather food and jab it into an open bill, often, in his reckless haste, knocking a little one off its feet. I pitied the poor birds, but there was a ludicrous side to the whole affair. It proved that bird nature and human nature are much alike.

A little miss, who had come from the city with her parents, was much interested when I told her that the birds were Mr. Chewink's babies. She looked on while the babies clamored for food, and when Mr. Chewink knocked one of the little ones over in his rough, impatient way, the sympathetic miss cried out: "Oh, mamma, how cross he is! He is just like papa when the baby cries."

After awhile Mr. Chewink changed his tactics. I think he had grumbled to his wife, and had threatened to let the hawks get the little beggars, so she told him how to induce them to pick up their food. Mr. Chewink took the hint, and dropped food before each bird, and probably said, "Help yourself or starve." The poor things did get right down hungry before they found out that they could feed themselves. Another feature of bird life was brought to my attention two days before the second brood was hatched out. Mr. Chewink enticed the young birds away to a bird resort. This resort is a place where there is food and water, and many birds that rear two broods take the first brood to the spot, so the mother-bird can feed the second family unmolested. Mr. Chewink visited the banished birds several times each day. The bird resort was near a little pond on my road to the city. One of the young birds was bright enough to remember me, and intelligent enough to follow me to the cabin. His father found him in the dooryard, and pecked and beat him and drove him into the bushes. But the plucky little fellow insisted, and remained in spite of the whippings he got from his father. I returned from the city one afternoon, and found a black snake had swallowed the second brood, and was sleeping it off on a sunny patch of bed-rock. I killed the snake. The next day the banished birds were brought back.

Mrs. Chewink remained about the dooryard most of the time. She would go after berries with the rest of the family, but her stay was short. At meal-time she would hop on the table and look the food over. If she discovered cup-cake, she helped herself without ceremony. After dinner, she would preen her feathers standing on a rock near where my writing-table stood. I liked to have her round, for she seemed to be more like a human being than a bird. After the breeding season was over, the old birds shed their feathers, and sorry-looking objects they were. Mr. Chewink appeared to hate the sight of his wife, and he abused her most unmercifully. He pecked her, and would not let her eat until he had satisfied his own appetite. At one time, I threw a bit of cookie to Mrs. Chewink, and it chanced to fall behind a box. While she was eating it, I heard the male calling from the bushes, "Towhee, Chewink," and soon he came flying into the yard, to see, perhaps, if any dainty morsels were about. Mrs. Chewink left her cookie and sauntered from behind the box, as if there was nothing to eat in that spot. She made a great pretence of eating dry corn and flour bread, but I don't believe the artful thing swallowed a morsel. Mr. Chewink was just a bit suspicious, and hopped toward the box, but seeing his wife eating, he turned back to investigate. When he found she had only common food, he flew at her, pecked her severely, and then flew away. Mrs. Chewink returned at once to her cookie. I saw then that this wild bird could reason. She had exercised thought to control action, with a definite object in view. The first of November turned clear and cold. There was a hint of winter in the air by day, and the nights were frosty. The chewinks lingered awhile, but the cold was too severe for them, and at last it drove them south. The next spring Mrs. Chewink did not return. Mr. Chewink soon found a second wife. I do not know what became of my pet. The chewinks are shot in the Southern rice-fields, and it is always uncertain about a particular bird coming back in the spring. Association with my little bird for three seasons had led me to become so attached to her that her loss really gave me a heartache.

Mr. Chewink did not return the next year, and I was not a mourner. He was tame enough to take food from my hand, although he would not hop on to the table, but his disposition made him distasteful to me. He abused his wives and children, and was as selfish as a hog.

Last year the chewinks did not rear a family, owing to the crows. The year before they were successful in rearing three babies from the first brood. The crows got the second brood. The intelligence of the young birds have caused me much surprise. I have made it a practice, while writing out-doors, to be well supplied with bird-food. Usually there is a loaf of bread wired down in the dooryard, but the birds will not eat from it if I will throw to them bits of cookie, cup-cake, or doughnut. The old birds hop out of the bushes, twenty feet away, and make a peculiar chuckling note, down in the throat, to attract my attention. If I throw food, they scramble for it. They will come to my feet for the food. When the three babies, mentioned before, were full-grown, they were brought by the old birds to the bushes near the dooryard. The parents, both male and female, carried bread, and the food that I supplied, to the young birds. When all were satisfied, the whole family flew away to the patches of huckleberry-bushes. While writing one morning, I was surprised to see one of the young birds hop out of the bushes to eat from the loaf of bread. He soon tired of the bread, and hopped toward me. When he had approached within ten feet, he stopped, and made the same notes in his throat common to the old birds when attracting my attention. I threw to him a piece of doughnut, which he took to the bushes. Three times he returned for food. That day the other two went through the same performance. Did these birds learn the trick by watching from the bushes the manner in which their parents got the sweet food from me? Or, did their parents tell them what to do? We must remember that these little wild things were only a few weeks old, and however we decide, it appeals to us as an exhibition of intelligence that would be wholly impossible to a human being of the same age.

The English sparrow has not found its way to my cabin. I suppose it is too far in the woods for these city dwellers. Some boys, of a Sunday, brought to me a young English sparrow which they had rescued from a cat. They found the bird near the old barn on the hill just above Western Avenue. The bird was injured in both wings, with body wounds beside. I thought the bird was dead, and placed it on a seat near a tree. Shortly, a lady visitor said, "Your bird is coming to life." Sure enough, he had got on to his feet, but was sadly crippled. I gave him some crumbs, and he ate a hearty meal. It was evident that he did not intend to starve to death if he could get food. That night he hopped over to the cabin and climbed the banking to where he could get into a barberry-bush. He could not move his wings, but his feet were all right. The next day he hopped to me for food and water. I fed him, then put him on a rock where he could find water for himself. He did not forget the spot. For three days he followed the same methods, sleeping in the barberry-bush every night. The fourth day, while I was feeding him, an old chewink hopped to the loaf of bread and called the sparrow. The sparrow did not respond at first, but after awhile hopped over to find out what the chewink wanted. He seemed surprised to find the bread, and began at once to help himself. The chewink called him into the bushes. I suppose he intended to give him an introduction to his family. The next day the sparrow came into the dooryard alone. He made for the bread and did not look at me. I tried to catch him, but he hopped into the bushes, apparently filled with terror. I think that old chewink had told the sparrow that I was a very bad man. The old fellow might have been jealous, and had frightened the young sparrow, so that he would fly from me in wild alarm. The next time the sparrow visited the yard the chewink was with him. They departed together, and three days later I saw the sparrow near the old barn. He was with other sparrows, but he knew me, and, more than that, he had lost his wildness. He would eat from my hand. It was evident that the chewink had piloted him three-fourths of a mile to his friends. The sparrow had to hop all the way. The old chewink must have exercised much patience to have accompanied the sparrow in such a slow way. How did the chewink know where to take the sparrow? Did he do a deed of charity by restoring the lost one to his friends, or did he entice him away for selfish purposes? It is barely possible that he might think that the sparrow would recover his wing power, and would go out and bring in his uncles and his aunts, so took him out by devious ways that could not be held in the memory.

XI.

SOME OF THE WILD THINGS

On Sunday, May 30, 1897, while the church bells were calling saint and sinner to worship in the city of Gloucester, and a catbird's blithe music, supplemented by the silvery bells of a veery, was calling me to worship in my cabin dooryard, I turned to the path that leads to Magnolia Swamp.

Two years before, on the west side of the swamp, I had discovered a woodpecker's sap orchard. For two seasons I had carefully noted the work of the woodpeckers in their curious method of tapping trees, and I desired now to add to my knowledge by a few hours of observation.

It was a glorious morning, bright with sunshine, tempered by a crisp air. It was one of the few sunshiny days rescued from a cold, rainy spring month. The trees were forward, and for the most part covered with full-grown leaves. The white oaks were late, as usual, their leaves were tiny, and at a distance looked to be a silvery gray in the sunshine. The hillsides west of Magnolia Swamp were lighted up by this immature gray foliage, while here and there the dark green of the pines afforded a pleasing contrast.

I found the sap orchard deserted. The trees, red maples and canoe-birches, were dead or dying. The sapsuckers and their self-invited guests, the humming-birds, had drained the life-blood of their helpless victims. All of the maples were still standing, but many of the gray birches had been broken off by the wind just below the belt of punctures.

While I was searching for another sap orchard, I saw a barred owl, with something in his bill, fly to a grove of small hemlocks. I followed on my hands and knees, and found his owlship on a low limb. Evidently this was his breakfast-hour. The thing in his bill proved to be a leopard frog. He was preparing to swallow the frog by crushing the bones of the legs and joints. He did not see me, or, if he did, he ignored my presence, and continued leisurely to prepare and swallow his breakfast. Afterward he spent several minutes preening his feathers before settling down for a Sunday nap. A pair of saucy chickadees, scouring the woods for a Sunday breakfast, discovered the owl and gave the alarm. Inside of two minutes I counted thirty-six birds, all called together by the cries of the chickadees. These birds included cuckoos, warblers, blue jays, thrushes, vireos, flycatchers, and buntings. How they did jeer and abuse the owl, but all were careful to keep at a safe distance. The blue jays seemed to be filled with fury, and if birds can swear, doubtless that owl listened to some very emphatic language.

For twenty minutes that patch of young hemlocks contained noise and life enough to stock a first-class aviary. The owl seemed bored, but was apparently fearless.

Thirty-two minutes after the first alarm, all the birds had disappeared, excepting two red-eyed vireos. The vireos continued to scold vigorously. The owl had intruded on their nesting-ground. Not twenty feet away a vireo's nest swung lightly from the horizontal limb of a red beech. It seemed to me that the owl suspected the presence of the nest, for he thrust out his head and swung it from side to side as if searching for something. After awhile he discovered the nest, and flew to the beech limb. When he had commenced to approach the nest by short hitches along the limb, the vireos changed their scolding to cries of alarm. Immediately all the birds returned. Again the owl was told that he was a robber and a great rascal by every bird in the grove. As he continued to approach the nest, I thought it time to interfere. "Hold, there!" I shouted, and the effect on the owl was instantaneous. He stopped short, crouched on the limb, then twisted his impish face directly into the back of his neck, and glared at me with a frightened look in his wide-open eyes. After a brief inspection he tumbled forward off the limb, caught himself on his wings, and floated as noiseless as a feather into the dark shadows of Magnolia Swamp. I examined the vireo-nest and found it empty--in fact, it was not yet completed.

It was evident, from what took place, that birds of different species can communicate with each other.

First, the chickadees call other birds to the spot by cries that certainly are understood to mean danger.

Afterward, the vireos did the same thing. While the latter were scolding the owl, other birds paid no attention, but responded at once to their cries for help.

After the owl had disappeared, the birds scattered as before. The blue jays and two thrushes stopped back to interview me, and find out if my intentions were friendly.

When all the birds had disappeared except the vireos, I went in search of a new sap orchard. I soon found a clump of red maples containing two trees that had been tapped by woodpeckers. The belt of punctures on both trees was nearly a foot in width, but the woodpeckers did not show up during my three hours' tarry.

This woodpecker, the yellow-bellied (Sphyropicus varius), does not nest on the Cape, so had doubtless departed in migration, but three humming-birds were fighting for the sap-buckets, and a red squirrel settled matters by driving the hummers from one tree to the other.

The red squirrel was a new feature in a woodpecker's sap orchard. He did not cling to one spot, as squirrels do when tapping for themselves, but instead moved rapidly around the tree, thrusting his tongue into the drills for the sweet sap. I suppose the squirrel owned the territory where the maple-trees grew, and was more than willing that the woodpeckers should tap the trees for his benefit.

The drills made by the woodpecker extended through the outside bark and into the cambium layer. From my observation with a good glass, during several seasons, I found that the woodpeckers were after the elaborated sap that descends from the leaves, through the inner bark, and did not extend the drills into the wood where they would reach the crude sap flowing up from the roots. The wisdom of this procedure was evident. The elaborated sap is far richer in nutriment than the crude sap, and the woodpeckers knew more about the growth of trees than many human beings, so worked understandingly.