Part 7

“Well,” he said, “we think birds earn all the cherries they eat; we never pick those on the top branches at all, but leave them for the birds.”

During that visit the boy showed me several bird homes. First he apologized for doing it. “Every bird home is a secret between mother and me,” he said; then added, “but I know I can trust you.”

One of these little homes belonged to bluebirds. The others belonged to the flicker, the wood thrush, and the killdeer.

We walked slowly and talked low, as we went from one place to another. Loud talk and running frighten birds. And to go very near to a bird nest is harmful because, every time the mother is frightened away, the eggs or young are liable to get chilled if the weather is cool. If hot, and the nest is exposed to the sun, the eggs or young are liable to get overheated.

The boy told me of a marsh hawk’s nest which a gentleman came to photograph. He said that this gentleman brought a lad along to hold his hat over the young to shield them from the sun, during the mother’s absence. The two were there only about ten minutes. But evidently that boy told other boys; for soon the nest was being visited at all times of day. At every visit, the mother flew away, and in a few days all the young were dead.

I remarked that photographing nests should be done with the greatest care; that if any screening foliage was pushed aside, it should be replaced, and the nest left just as the mother bird had planned it. It is indeed fortunate that bird photography is so difficult that only few people attempt it. Exposing a nest to the camera is very apt to result in disaster unless it is done by one who has the highest interests of birds at heart.

The flickers had their home in a stump of a tree. The entrance was so low I had to stoop in order to look in; but the nest was down deep, out of sight. Whenever Father or Mother Flicker came with food they called softly, “Ye quit! ye quit!” Then the babies could be heard making a hissing sound. Sometimes when the parents were gone longer than usual, a baby flicker could be seen taking a peep at the outside world.

One day during the previous spring while walking along the ravine I had seen three of these large brown birds, and had learned their name from hearing them sing, “Flicka flicka flicka.” It is easy to get acquainted with birds who are named after their song. One of these birds on that spring day was constantly spreading his wings and his tail before the others, as if he wanted to show the beautiful yellow feathers underneath. Because of these yellow feathers the flicker is also called golden-winged woodpecker. Nearly all birds have a scolding word. When the flicker wants to scold he says, “Queer,” as plainly as a person can say it.

Of course, we never went near enough to any bird’s nest to frighten the brooding birds, nor did we stay long enough to keep the parents from feeding their young. We always found a convenient place fifty feet or more away, and through our field glasses watched the birds without annoying them.

I had long known the wood thrush by his yodeling song. It usually came out of the thickets and tangles in the ravine back of our place, so the singer could not easily be seen. At sunrise and sunset, the music of the thrushes, singing and answering one another, was like bells calling to prayer. From early May until mid-July I always wanted to be out mornings and evenings to attend the matins and the vespers of the wood thrushes.

Mrs. Wood Thrush tried hard to hide her nest; it was completely surrounded by thornbushes. “Wit-a-wit-a-wit,” said her mate as we went near; then he came out of his hiding place. He had a brown back and a white and brown speckled front just like Mrs. Wood Thrush, who sat serene on her nest all this time. She was trusting in something to protect her fully; whether it was her brave companion, or those bushes bristling with thorns that surrounded her nest, I do not know. Maybe she thought we didn’t see her at all. We pretended not to see her.

Always, when I find a nest, I turn away and try to keep the birds from knowing they have been discovered. I look out of the corners of my eyes, and go away humming a tune. After a while I return and walk near by, again singing the same tune. I do this as many times as I can during a day or two. Before long the birds seem to know that the person who comes singing that tune has never harmed them. They remain quiet when I am near, and this affords opportunity to observe them more closely.

Some bluejays were flitting about. Bluejays are everywhere, and at all times of the year. The bluejay is that big blue and white bird with handsome crest. In early spring he sings some pleasing notes, but in autumn and winter he is just noisy. Now he was very still. I could just see Mrs. Bluejay’s head between two branches of a poplar tree. She had a nest there, for there were tell-tale twigs hanging over on both sides. Mr. Bluejay did not want anybody to find her, nor the nest. This was why he kept so still.

The boy had scattered some peanuts on a bald spot in the yard. I asked why he did this during the summer time.

“It keeps the chickadees and woodpeckers coming here all summer,” said he.

As we sat there a bluejay came for a peanut and went under a tree with it. There he punched a hole in the ground with his bill and poked in the nut. Then he went to a currant bush and got a leaf. Returning to the spot where he had buried the peanut, he patted the leaf neatly over it.

A brown and white bird about as big as a robin flew overhead singing, “Killdeer killdeer” as loud and as fast as he could.

“There goes a killdeer,” said the boy.

So the killdeer is another bird that is named after his song! How easy it would be to know birds if all were named after their song, like the chickadees and the killdeers and the flickers, or after their colors, like the bluebirds, or after their actions, like the woodpeckers!

The boy’s father had found a killdeer’s nest in a potato field when he was plowing. We went to see that, too. It was in a patch of ground overgrown with weeds because the man had kindly plowed around it. Mother Killdeer sat dutifully on the nest while Father Killdeer guarded the premises and told us by his various shrieks and somersaults that he wished we would not go near enough to disturb her.

On the farm that day I saw the golden-throated meadowlark. He is another yodeler. His favorite tune is:

“Le-o- ^lee-o-loo”

His songs ring so clear and flute-like that I can hear him away over at our place. He is a brown bob-tailed bird. Over a beautiful yellow front he has a black band, pointing down in the middle, V-shaped. A large company of these birds were in the meadow, happy as larks; so they are well named meadowlarks.

But think of a dear little bird and such a sweet singer as the song sparrow, bearing the same name as the odious English sparrow! It seems unjust, and in this the boy agreed with me. We got to talking about the song sparrow because one was on a fence post near by, singing over and over this lively ditty:

“Twee twee twee^/^twe-e^\twe-e\\jeje^je^je^jeje_jeje^je jay.”

The bluebirds’ home that the boy had mentioned at the beginning of my visit was in a hole of an apple tree. By standing on tiptoe I could look in and see four light-blue eggs lying on a nest of grasses that looked like a cunning little basket. It was a hot day, too hot for Mother Bluebird to stay in that hollow tree all the time. She was out playing tag with Mr. Bluebird. Perhaps she thought the hot air would keep her eggs warm. After she went in again he visited her often with food. Before going after more he usually perched on a little knob just above the entrance and sang. Sometimes she came out on the ledge to listen. It was a winsome sight to see the bluebirds in their primitive home.

This was the bluebirds’ second nesting on the farm. Their first one had been destroyed by the English sparrows. The boy said he had tried in every way to help the bluebirds, and that, whenever he saw any sparrows near, he gave a sharp whistle—his confidential whistle, he called it—and that Mrs. Bluebird got so she understood what it meant; that as soon as she heard it she would come up on the ledge and call, “Dear, dear-dear.” Immediately Mr. Bluebird would appear and drive the intruders away.

These bluebirds were also annoyed by a red squirrel who climbed the trees in the orchard and peered into the nest holes. Mr. Bluebird dashed for him whenever he saw him, especially if he found him near the home tree. Sometimes both the bluebirds chased the red squirrel, who would run off barking like a little dog.