Part 12

I am sure that the farm at the end of our street is like home to the birds of the neighborhood, and that that good boy is big brother to them all. He always has a bath for the birds set out on a table, and a lunch beside it.

“You would be surprised to see how well the birds like oatmeal mush and other cereals,” said he, the last time I was there. “Just watch that song sparrow!”

The little brown bird was feeding on a shredded wheat biscuit. She stayed long enough to eat a hearty meal; then took away as much as she could carry in her bill. While I sat there she returned several times for more.

We were out in the boy’s workshop. He had just finished making what he called a food house. It was a tray roofed over, “to keep out the rain and snow,” he said.

I remarked that it was early (it was in July) to talk about snow.

“Oh,” said he, “this is one of my vacation jobs. After school begins I won’t have time for these things. I’ll be a freshman in High, you know.”

The tray was about a foot long and not quite so wide. On each side there was a wire pocket to hold suet. Four neat, round sticks supported the roof, which he said was made out of the sides of a soap box.

I asked where he got those fine round sticks and that pretty tray. He said the sticks were scraps from his uncle’s cabinet shop, and that he got the tray from the grocer. The name “Neufchâtel” was printed on the sides of the tray in big letters.

I said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if all the Neufchâtel cheese boxes were made into food trays for birds?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I know that our grocer would rather give his boxes away for some useful purpose than to burn them.”

I admired the little food house so much that the boy gave me some sticks so that I could make one, too.

Then he told me of a pair of cedar waxwings that had nested in the orchard, and a pair of crested flycatchers in a woodpecker’s house. I was very curious to see the waxwings, so we went to them first. The nest was about ten feet up in an apple tree. With our field glasses we could see it quite plainly from under the nearest tree. Mrs. Waxwing was sitting up there; we could just see her head and her tail. Mr. Waxwing visited her every few minutes with some food. They were the quietest birds I have ever seen. What they did say or sing was in very soft tones, as if they were telling each other secrets. I hummed parts of the little song occasionally. When I explained to the boy why I did so, he smiled, and looked as if he didn’t quite believe me.

We went from the waxwings to the flycatchers. They lived in what the boy called a Berlepsch house. That means it was designed by a man named Berlepsch who was a great friend of birds. The boy said his uncle in New York had sent him the house as a birthday present. What could be a nicer gift for a boy than a bird house? It would make him want to get birds in it, of course. And I can think of nothing that would make a boy happier than to have bird neighbors.

The Berlepsch house was made so one could raise the top, lid-fashion, and clean it when necessary. It was mounted about twelve feet high on a brook willow that stood aslant in the ravine; and it had been intended for woodpeckers. The crested flycatchers are brown birds with gray upper breast and yellow below. Their headfeathers are always ruffed, which gives the appearance of a crest.

The flycatchers were flying back and forth continually with all sorts of prey. The brown bugs called “Canadian soldiers” were numerous that day and were easy to catch. These parent birds evidently had a large family, judging from the amount of food they delivered.

Mr. Flycatcher had a loud, explosive whistle. It sounded as if he were saying:

“Wha-^a-^at?”

The young could be heard giving the same whistle, but much more softly, and somewhat long drawn out:

_“Wha-a-^a-^at?”

After our visit with the flycatchers we returned to the waxwings. Waxwings are brown and about the size of bluebirds. On the back of the head they have a tuft. A black line extends across the bill, and around the side of the head. The front is yellowish-gray and the tail edged with yellow. The name, waxwing, is due to a shiny red patch on their wings. The fact that these waxwings are very fond of cedar berries must be what has given them also the name of cedar bird. The nest was made of twigs, strings, and various kinds of fiber. The boy said that a few weeks ago he had cut his dog’s hair and left it lying on the lawn: that these waxwings then came and carried every bit of it to their nest.

While near the birds I hummed the bird song again, to let them know that the same persons were there that had visited them before. The mother bird was looking straight at us and sitting perfectly still all the while. The boy said he believed the song did help to keep her quiet.

On a cornice of the front porch a phœbe had made two nests, one last year and one this. Both nests were now empty. I said I hoped that a phœbe would come to live on our porch next year.

“You can have this one,” answered the boy; and added, “I have to wash off the porch every day while Phœbe is nesting: she scatters so much mud.”

As for me, I would gladly clean off our porch several times a day if a phœbe would nest here and sing as sweetly, “Phœbe, phœbe,” as I heard that one sing. Sometimes I noticed a slight trill in the second syllable of her song, like “Phœbery.” She sang “Phœbe” with the inflection generally downward; but when she trilled it, “Phœbery,” the inflection was always upwards:

“Phœ-^be-^ry.”

^“Pee-e- a- wee- _e- e- ^e- ^ ee”

came up from the ravine, clear as a strain from a flute. On my way home I saw the pewee on a fence picket. Every little while he flew after an insect, then back to a picket. As I walked slowly along, he flew from picket to picket ahead of me, until I came to where the houses on the street begin again. Then he flew back. I think that pewee and phœbe must be some relation, they look so nearly alike. And both sing their own names.

Another bird who sings his name is Bob White, the quail. “Bob White!” came ringing across the meadow every little while. The boy could whistle it exactly the same as the bird, and they answered each other back and forth. Bob White was on a fence post,—a large brown bird with a stubby tail.