Part 62

“Almost all of our birds feed the young nestlings with animal food, even if they themselves are seed-eaters; for little birds must grow quickly, and you would hardly believe the number of worms and flying things it takes to turn one little Robin from the queer, helpless, featherless thing that it is when it hatches from the egg, into the clumsy, clamouring ball of feathers, with awkward wings and hardly a bit of tail to balance it, that it is when it leaves the nest.

“No human father and mother work harder to feed their children than do these feathered parents, who toil ceaselessly from sunrise until sunset to bring food, and share by turns the protection of the nest.

THE NEST

When oaken woods with buds are pink, And new-come birds each morning sing, When fickle May on summer’s brink Pauses, and knows not which to fling, Whether fresh bud and bloom again, Or hoar-frost silvering hill and plain,

Then from the honeysuckle gray The Oriole with experienced quest Twitches the fibrous bark away, The cordage of his hammock-nest, Cheering his labour with a note Rich as the orange of his throat.

High o’er the loud and dusty road The soft gray cup in safety swings, To brim ere August with its load Of downy breasts and throbbing wings, O’er which the friendly elm tree heaves An emerald roof with sculptured eaves.

Below, the noisy world drags by In the old way, because it must; The bride with heartbreak in her eye, The mourner following hated dust; Thy duty, winged flame of spring, Is but to love, and fly, and sing.

O happy life, to soar and sway Above the life by mortals led, Singing the merry months away, Master, not slave of daily bread, And, when the autumn comes, to flee Wherever sunshine beckons thee!

—James Russell Lowell.

OUT OF THE SOUTH

A migrant song-bird I, Out of the blue, between the sea and the sky, Landward blown on bright, untiring wings; Out of the South I fly, Urged by some vague, strange force of destiny, To where the young wheat springs,

And the maize begins to grow, And the clover fields to blow. I have sought In far wild groves below the tropic line To lose old memories of this land of mine; I have fought This vague, mysterious power that flings me forth Into the North; But all in vain. When flutes of April blow, The immemorial longing lures me, and I go.

—Maurice Thompson.

WHAT TO EXPECT

“In April we may look for the coming of a score or more of different birds. How quickly they come and in what numbers depends upon the season. If it is mild, they come gradually; if stormy, by fits and starts, and sometimes in strangely mixed flocks.

“These belong to the first half of the month:—

The Great Blue Heron. Cousin to the white Egret; we always used to have a pair of them by the upper mill-pond.

The Purple Finch. A large sparrow with a beautiful voice; the fully grown male having a rosy flush to his feathers as if, it has been said, the juice of crimson berries had been squeezed over him.

The Vesper-sparrow. The wayside Sparrow of our afternoon walk that we have known as long as the Song Sparrow and Bluebird; famous for his clear, ringing song at twilight and dawn. Rather light in color, with rust-red wing-markings and white outside tail-feathers that show conspicuously as he flits along and tells his name.

THE VESPER-SPARROW

It comes from childhood land, Where summer days are long And summer eves are bland— A lulling good-night song.

Upon a pasture stone, Against the fading west, A small bird sings alone, Then dives and finds its nest.

The evening star has heard And flutters into sight. Oh, childhood’s vesper bird, My heart calls back good night.

—Edith M. Thomas.

The Chipping-sparrow. Our least Sparrow, who wears a little chestnut velvet cap, gray back, and black bill, and has a mild, innocent expression in keeping with his friendly ways. He puts his dainty hair-lined nest (from which he is sometimes called Hair-bird) in a near-by shrub or rose-bush in the garden, and then hops about the door, picking up almost invisible bits of food, calling “chip-chip-chip.” His courting song is a long trill that begins at dawn almost with the Phœbe, and the dear little bird often sings as he sits on the ground.

The Tree Swallow. This we saw last fall in the migration, and we may hope that it will take lodging in some of the new bird-boxes.

“In the second half of the month:—

The Barn Swallow.