Part 52

Grasshoppers, beetles, other large insects, and field-mice are staple articles of its food in seasons when they are obtainable; in fact, next to insects, mice constitute the staple article of its diet; and protection should be accorded it on this account, even though we know the Shrike chiefly as the killer of small birds. The victims are caught by two methods: sneaking,—after the fashion of Crows,—and dropping upon them suddenly from a height, like the small Hawks. In the former case the Shrikes frequent clumps of bushes, either in open meadows or gardens, lure the little birds by imitating their call-notes, and then seize them as soon as they come within range. They often kill many more birds than they can possibly eat at a meal, and hang them on the spikes of a thorn or on the hooks of a cat-brier in some convenient spot, until they are needed, in the same manner as a butcher hangs his meat; and from this trait the name “Butcher-bird” was given them.

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During some of these wintry days of meeting, questions and answers about the birds seen filled the time, and then Gray Lady read to them from some of her many books what people living in other places had said and thought of these same familiar birds. Besides the stories, she told them many things about the building of a bird, its bones, its feathers, the reasons why of the various kinds of feet and bills, the grouping of race, tribe, and family that both divide the bird world and at the same time bind it together; for she very well knew that when spring came with its procession of songsters, the children would be so eager to listen, see, follow, and learn the names of the living birds that they would not have patience to listen to the dry details.

THE SNOWBIRD

When the leaves are shed And the branches bare, When the snows are deep And the flowers asleep, And the autumn dead; And the skies are o’er us bent Gray and gloomy since she went, And the sifting snow is drifting Through the air;

Then mid snowdrifts white, Though the trees are bare, Comes the Snowbird bold In the winter’s cold. Quick and round and bright, Light he steps across the snow. Cares he not for winds that blow, Though the sifting snow be drifting Through the air.

—Dora R. Goodale.

ON HEARING A WINTER WREN SING IN WINTER

When wintry winds through woodlands blow And naked tree-tops shake and shiver; While all the paths were bound in snow, And thick ice chains the merry river,

One little feathered denizen, A plump and nut-brown winter wren, Sings of springtime even there— “Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”— Who could listen and despair?

Charmed with the sweetness of his strain, My heart found cheer in winter’s bluster; The leafless wood was fair again, Its ice-gems sparkled with new lustre. The tiny, trembling, tinkling throat Poured forth despair’s sure antidote, No leafy June hears sweeter note— “Tsip-twis-ch-e-e-e cheerily-cheerily-dare”— The essence of unspoken prayer.

—Lynn Tew Sprague, in Bird-Lore.

THE CHICKADEE

When piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chic-chickadee-dee! saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, “Good day, good sir! Fine afternoon, old passenger! Happy to meet you in these places Where January brings few faces.”

—R. W. Emerson.

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These are a few of the many bits of verse and poems that Gray Lady read or recited to the children in these days, some of which they learned by heart. Once learned, she knew they would never be forgotten, but that years afterward, when they saw the birds that the lines described, the words and the days in the schoolhouse and playroom, and the faces of their companions, would all come back to them.

BIRD SONGS OF MEMORY

Oh, surpassing all expression by the rhythmic use of words, Are the memories that gather of the singing of the birds: When as a child I listened to the Whip-poor-will at dark, And with the dawn awakened to the music of the Lark.

Then what a chorus wonderful when morning had begun,— The very leaves, it seemed to me, were singing to the sun, And calling on the world asleep to waken and behold The king in glory coming forth along his path of gold.

The crimson-fronted Linnet sang above the river’s edge, The Finches in the evergreens, the Thrasher in the hedge; Each one as if a dozen songs were chorused in his own, And all the world were listening to him and him alone.

In gladness sang the Bobolink upon ascending wing, With cheery voice the bird of blue, the pioneer of spring, The Oriole upon the elm, with martial note and clear, While Martins twittered gayly by the cottage window near.

Among the orchard trees were heard the Robin and the Wren, And the army of the Blackbirds along the marshy fen; The songster in the meadow and the Quail upon the wheat, And the warbler’s minor music made the symphony complete.

Beyond the tow’ring chimney’d walls that daily meet my eyes, I hold a vision beautiful beneath the summer skies; Within the city’s grim confines, above the roaring street, The Happy Birds of Memory are singing clear and sweet.

—Garrett Newkirk.

XXI JACOB HUGHES’ OPINION OF CATS

One morning after a light snow-storm, followed by sparkling sunshine, Gray Lady took the younger children out for a walk through Birdland and the lane. Not but what even the younger children knew the way! But often as they had trodden it, there were many things that they noticed for the first time: the wonderful shapes of the snow crystals, the snow flowers that blossomed on the old weed stalks, the snow filling that brought many hidden nests into view, and all the other wonders that are so often wrought in the winter night, while we sleep soundly.

Tommy and Dave, who had walked on ahead, halted suddenly and picked up a handful of feathers from the snow and stood looking at them as Gray Lady came up.