I knew a charming little girl,
Who’d say, “Oh, see that flower!”
Whenever in the garden
Or woods she spent an hour.
And sometimes she would listen,
And say, “Oh, hear that bird!”
Whenever in the forest
Its clear, sweet note was heard.
But then I knew another—
Much wiser, don’t you think?
Who never called a bird a “bird”;
But said “the bobolink”
Or “oriole” or “robin”
Or “wren,” as it might be;
She called them all by their first names,
So intimate was she.
And in the woods or garden
She never picked a “flower”;
But “anemones,” “hepaticas,”
Or “pansies,” by the hour.
Both little girls loved birds and flowers,
But one love was the best:
I need not point the moral;
I’m sure you see the rest.
For would it not be very queer,
If when, perhaps, you came,
Your parents had not thought worth while
To give you any name?
I think you would be quite upset,
And feel your brain a-whirl,
If you were not “Matilda Ann,”
But just “a little girl”!
—Alice W. Rollins, in the Independent.
SNOWY HERON
“Perhaps the boys may not be interested in hearing about feathers and hats,” said Gray Lady, “but the two birds whose pictures you see here are very interesting in themselves; and it is well that both boys and girls should realize all the different reasons why some kinds of birds have been growing fewer and fewer, until it is necessary to take active measures for their protection.
“Boys have robbed nests and thoughtless men have shot and caged song-birds, and have often killed many more food-birds than they could eat, merely for what they call the ‘sport’ of killing.
“Girls who seldom rob nests, unless they are following the examples of their brothers, and women who would shrink from touching firearms or killing a bird, will still, as far as the law allows and sometimes further, wear birds’ feathers on their hats.
“Not many years ago we often saw whole birds, such as Humming-birds, Swallows,—like those on Eliza’s hat,—Bluebirds, and many of the pretty little warblers used as hat trimming. To-day, this is against the law in all of the really civilized of the United States, and any one offering the feathers of these birds for sale may be arrested and fined.”
“Please, is it any harm to wear roosters’ feathers or Guinea hens’ and ducks’ wings?” asked Ruth Banks. “ ’Cause I’ve got two real nice duck wings and a lovely spangled rooster tail—home-made ducks, you know, that we hatch under hens,” she added.
“No, it is no harm to use the feathers of domestic fowls, or other food-birds,” said Gray Lady; “only, unless we have raised the fowls from which they come ourselves, it is not easy to be sure about the matter, unless the feathers are left in their natural colours. They may tell you in a shop that the wing or breast you see is made of dyed chicken or pigeon feathers. You must take their word that this is so, and many times they may have been misled in the matter themselves.
“Birds’ feathers, it cannot be denied, are very beautiful and ornamental, but to my mind it is very bad taste to wear anything dead merely for ornament,—furs, of course, keep the wearer warm as well,—but I myself do not care for any hat trimming that can only be had by taking life.
“There is one kind of feather,—the Heron or Egret plume,—that I am not only sorry, but ashamed, to say is still in use, because it comes from birds that live in other countries, and these birds we cannot yet protect. Not only must these birds be killed to obtain the coveted plumes, but the killing is done in a brutal way, and at a time of year—the nesting season—when, according to the wise law of nature, every bird should be cherished and its privacy respected.
“Look at this great White Heron in the picture beside me here. He measures two feet from the tip of his bill up over his head to his tail, though you cannot really see the tail as he is pictured on account of the beautiful sweeping cloak of fine feathers that cover it. This bird has yellow eyes and feet, beak and legs partly yellow and partly black, but is everywhere else white of an almost dazzling brilliancy.
“Many birds wear more beautiful and highly coloured feathers in the nesting season than at any other. These Herons, both male and female, are pure white all the year through, but as the nesting season approaches a change comes,—a number of slender plumes grow out from between the shoulders and curve gracefully over the tail, forming a complete mantle, and it is these feathers that are sought by the professional plume hunters to be made into the feathery tufts sold as egrets, though the word Eliza used by a slip of the tongue, regrets, I think much more suitable, for surely any one with a warm woman’s heart would regret ever having worn them if she realized how they are obtained.”
“Miss Barker gave my mother hers,” put in Eliza, “ ’cause she’d just found out where they came from and dassn’t wear it to church ’cause her minister belongs to a society that wouldn’t like it. She didn’t tell us why, though; she only said regrets was counted stylish in N’ York.”
“Yes,” said Gray Lady, “that is all the idea some people, who think themselves very clever, have of honour. To give away a feather that one cannot wear, for fear of what some one will say, is like giving stolen goods to some one who does not know that they are stolen.
“Not many years ago this Snowy Heron and his cousin, the American Egret, almost twice his size, might be found everywhere in the swampy groves of temperate and tropical America, from New Jersey across to Minnesota and Oregon, and as far south as Patagonia in South America. Within a few years I have seen one or two in autumn in the marshes back of our bay below, for like many birds they wander about after the nesting season. Their food consists of small fish,—shrimps, water-beetles, etc.,—so that they never make their homes far from moist places. Now, in this country at least, the race is nearly gone, and it will be only by the strictest laws and most complete protection that it will be possible for the tribe to increase. To regain its old footing cannot be hoped for.
“The beginning of the tragedy came by woman’s love of finery, and only by her resolutely giving it up can the trouble be ended.
“Through some happening it was discovered that this mantle of feathers could be made into ornaments for hats and hair that were not only widely sought, but brought a high price. This was enough; bands of hunters were organized to search the swamps for the Herons and obtain the plumes when they were in the best condition. How it was to be done did not matter, and indeed it has taken the world many years to realize the horror of it all.
“These Herons breed in colonies. The nest, a stoutly built, slightly hollowed platform of small sticks, reeds, etc., is placed either in a tree or tall bush, care being always taken to keep it safely above the water-line. As the birds are very sociable, a single bush or tree would often contain many nests.
“When the nesting season was well under way and the feather cloaks in their first perfection, through the lagoons and sluggish waterways came noiseless flat-bottomed boats, low on the water, and poled by the guiding Indian or half-breed. Astern sat the plume hunters, guns at rest and eyes eagerly scanning the foliage above their heads. ‘Ah! here is a rookery at last!’ (rookery being the name given to colonies of many birds beside the Rook). The parent birds are sailing gracefully to and fro, their long legs trailing behind, while they feed the newly hatched nestlings. For with the most crafty calculation the plume hunters wait for the time when the birds are hatched because they know that the parents are then less likely to take alarm and fly beyond reach.
“The boat is stopped by the guide, who grasps an overhanging branch close to where an opening in the under-brush gives a good view of the colony.
“Bang! bang! Bodies crashing through the branches and pitiful cries of alarm mingle for several minutes, as the confused birds rise, remember their young, and return to die! When the smoke has lifted, the hunters clear the ground of the dead and dying and piling them in the boat begin to tear off that portion of the back, the ‘scalp,’ that holds the precious plumes. If all the birds were dead, the horror would be less, but time is precious; there are other rookeries to be visited that day, and so the still breathing and fluttering birds are also torn and mutilated.
“Then the boat glides on, leaving death behind. Yes, but not the silence that usually goes with death, for there in a hundred nests are the clamouring hungry broods that will die slowly of hunger, or be victims of snakes or birds of prey,—the happier ending of the two.
“After a day’s work the plume hunters find ground dry enough for a camp, where they pass the night, and at dawn they again glide forth on their ghastly errand.
“Sometimes storm, pestilence, and famine may nearly exterminate a species of bird or beast, but Nature in some way, if she still needs the type, always manages to restore and undo her own mischief; but, as a lover of these birds has said, ‘When man comes, slaughters, and exterminates, Nature does not restore!’ It is only the men and women who have done the evil that may be allowed to undo it, and sometimes it is too late.
“Now you see why no one should wear egret plumes, the feathers of the bird that has been called ‘The Bonnet Martyr.’ Girls and boys, whoever you may be, who hear or read this story of the vanishing Snowy Heron, be courageous, and wherever or whenever you see one of these regret plumes ask the wearer if she knows how it was obtained and tell her its story, for whether the bird who bore it lived in this or another country the manner of taking is the same.
“There have been foolish stories told of raising these birds in captivity and gathering the plumes after they are shed. This is not true. They would, when shed naturally, be worn and useless, and the egret will always be what one of the Wise Men has called it, the ‘White Badge of Cruelty.’”
“Now, Tommy Todd,” said Gray Lady, “you may take down the Heron and put the other picture in its place. The bird in it is not graceful and beautiful like the Heron; in fact, it looks more like some sort of a camel than a bird, but its story is much more cheerful. Its feathers may be worn by every one, for it is not necessary to kill or hurt the bird in order to get them. Some of you have guessed its name already, I am sure.
“Ostriches live in warm countries as well as Herons, but here the comparison begins and ends, for the Ostrich loves the open sandy desert and was originally found wild in Africa, Arabia, and also in Persia. The Ostrich, the largest bird now alive, is most peculiar both in appearance and habits. Standing sometimes eight feet in height, it has a long, almost bare neck, and small stupid-looking head; its wings are so small that it cannot fly, but its strong legs, ending in two-toed feet, give it the power of running as fast as a horse, and it can kick like a horse also, with this difference,—an Ostrich kicks forward so if you wish to be perfectly safe you must stand behind it! At the base of the wings and tail grow tufts of long and substantial feathers, the wing tufts being the longer and best. In truth, but for the fact of the feathers that cover its body, no one would guess that it was a bird, and even with these it looks like some strange beast that has put on a borrowed coat to go, perhaps, to the great Elephant Dance that little Toomai saw once upon a time in the Jungle, about which Rudyard Kipling tells so well that sometimes we wake up in the morning and really believe that we ourselves have ridden to the dance upon the great Elephant instead of Toomai.
“In wild life birds have always been hunted for their plumage as well as for food. It is thought that the savage at first killed solely for food, and then used the hides of beasts and feathers of birds for clothing and decoration as an afterthought, some of the royal garments of kings and chiefs of tribes being woven of countless rare feathers.
“When man as we know him, white or civilized man as he is called, explored wild countries, he introduced two things that wrought great harm to wild creatures and savages alike,—the money-trading instinct and strong drink. In order to buy this drink, which always proved his ruin, the savage looked about for something to offer in exchange, and what was there for him but to kill beast or bird and offer some part of it in trade?
“In this way the elephants’ tusks, of which ivory is made, rare furs, alligator hides, and Ostrich eggs and plumes, as well as rough uncut gems, became known to the people of Europe.
“The savages hunted the wild Ostrich with bow and arrows that were sometimes poisoned, and the bird being killed, of course, yielded but one crop of feathers.
“As the Ostrich cannot fly and is a very stupid bird, living in open deserts where there were few places to hide, it was very easily destroyed—its only means of escape being to outrun its pursuers, who were on foot. But presently when firearms were used to hunt him, the Ostrich seemed as utterly doomed as the White Heron.
CLIPPING OSTRICH PLUMES
“But the day came when men who realized the great demand there was for these feathers and the profit to be made by selling them, tried the experiment of raising the birds in captivity, just as we do our barnyard fowl, treating them kindly, and feeding them well, so that they might yield not only one but many crops of plumes, because they knew that the Ostrich is not only long-lived but, like the smaller birds, changes its feathers every year.
“The Ostrich was a difficult bird to catch and tame when full grown, for at that time they weigh several hundred pounds and their habit of kicking has to be remembered, the same as with a wild horse. So the plan was tried of collecting the eggs and hatching them out, and even this was not as easy as it seems.
“Though Ostriches are so foolish that, when chased, they will often stand still and hide their heads in the sand, evidently thinking that if they cannot see their pursuers, they themselves cannot be seen, they make devoted parents. And this plan was so successful that Ostriches are now raised like domestic fowls, not only in Africa but in this country, where the birds were introduced in 1882, and there are now many successful Ostrich farms in Arizona, California, and Florida, where alfalfa can be raised all the year, for this is the best food for them.
“The breeding habits of the Ostrich in captivity are different from those of the wild birds of the desert who live half a dozen hens to a family like our barnyard fowls. The nest is merely a hollow in the sand a foot or so deep, and several broad, made by the pressure of the great breast-bone and sides. Eggs are laid, one every other day, until a ‘clutch’ of a dozen or more has accumulated, and these must be kept warm for nearly a month and a half before the chicks will be hatched.
“When you realize that one of these eggs would make an omelet as large as two dozen and a half hens’ eggs, and weighs three or four pounds, so that the omelet would feed an entire family, you will understand that it takes both patience on the part of the parents and a great deal of heat to hatch these eggs. Sometimes the owners prefer to hatch the eggs in an incubator.
“You have some of you seen a Robin stand up in the nest and shuffle her feet; when she does this she is turning her eggs, and the great Ostrich eggs are also turned every day. When domesticated, the mother Ostrich tends the eggs during the daylight hours, but the father takes her place in the later afternoon and remains until morning. This is evidently the result of the instinct for colour protection. The gray female shows the least plainly in daylight on the sand, while the black-and-white male can scarcely be seen at night. In fact, the domesticated bird is a creature of such regular habits that, according to reliable accounts, the male takes his place on the nest promptly at 5 P.M. and does not move until 9 A.M. This account does not say whether Mrs. O. lets her husband have an evening out once in a while to go to his club or lodge, but perhaps, as he has the rest of the year to himself, he does not expect a vacation in the important nesting season. But one thing is known to be true, that Ostriches are very devoted to each other and that the pairs when once mated remain together for life, an attribute of many birds, especially the very long-lived species. It is said that the wild Ostrich lives to be 100 years old. This may be true, for Ostriches who have been captives 40 years are still alive and healthy. In the deserts Ostriches are supposed to be able to go without water for days at a time, but in captivity they drink freely every day. This either proves that the habits alter very much, or else, that those who reported their wild life did not see correctly.
“When the young Ostriches are hatched, they are about the size of a Plymouth Rock hen and are mottled and fuzzy. They grow very rapidly, so that at nine months old the bird will be nearly six feet tall, and after this the plumes are plucked at intervals of nine months; the feathers do not reach perfection, however, until the third year, and the birds do not reach maturity and mate until they are four years old,—and a fine male Ostrich of six or seven years of age is worth $1000 and will yield from $50 to $80 worth of feathers yearly.
“When a little over a year old, the mottled plumage that the young birds wear slowly changes, the female becomes a dusky gray, and the male glossy black, though they both grow long white wing-plumes. By this you may learn that all the gayly coloured plumes that you see are dyed, and even those that remain black or white go through many processes of cleansing and curling before they are sold in the shops.”
“How do they get the feathers off?” asked Sarah Barnes; “do they wait until they moult or pull ’em like they do geese?—only that hurts some ’cause the geese squawk something dreadful.”
“I’m glad that you asked that question,” said Gray Lady, “because it is one of the special points about Ostrich feathers that should be made known to every one. If they waited for the feathers to be shed, they would be worn and broken. You all know how very shabby the long tail-feathers of a rooster become before the summer moulting time. When Ostriches were first raised in confinement, their owners used to pluck out the plumes. But they soon found that not only was this troublesome, for the pain of it made the birds struggle, but the next crop of feathers suffered in consequence. Nature has reasons for everything she plans and there is evidently some substance in the butt of the old quill that, by keeping the skin soft and open, prepares the way for the new one that is to follow and causes it to be of better quality.
“Now the plumes are clipped off, and later on the stubs, which are then dry, come out easily. The feathers of these birds are much fuller and finer than those that came from the wild Ostriches.
“The picture shows an Ostrich in the little three-cornered pen with the men holding up the tufts and preparing to snip off the feathers. The pen is made in this shape so that there will be standing-room for the men, but not room enough for the Ostrich to turn round and kick forward. A hood shaped like a stocking is drawn over his head, and he is perfectly quiet, for he feels no pain and no blood is drawn.
“Now you can judge for yourselves that Ostrich feathers may be safely worn by every one who likes beautiful things, for certainly there are no feathers so graceful as a sweeping Ostrich plume with the ends slightly curled.
“In addition to the fact that the growing and taking of these feathers is perfectly humane, their use encourages a large industry which gives employment to many people here in our own country.”
“I wish my ma had an Ostrich plume in her Sunday hat instead of that mean egret,” sighed Eliza Clausen, half to herself. “I can take the smaller wings out of mine and leave the ribbon, but the feather’s the whole topknot of ma’s.”
Softly as Eliza had spoken, her words could be heard in the silence that came when the reader closed her scrap-book.
“Bravo! bravo! little girl,” said Gray Lady, smiling so brightly that Eliza forgot to be embarrassed. “You see that your mother was right when she said, ‘When people get to hearing about birds they stop caring to wear them in their hats,’ even though she did not mean it quite in this way. Very few people would wear the cruel kind of feathers if they only understood. I will give you a pretty little Ostrich tuft to take to your mother in exchange for the egret, when you explain to her about it, and I’m sure Anne can find something among Goldilocks’ boxes to replace your Swallow’s wings.”
Eliza’s eyes sparkled, and all signs of resentment left her face.
“But,” asked Gray Lady, “what will you do with the poor little wings and the egret? You surely will not give them to any one else.”
“No, ma’am, I’ll have a funeral, and bury them down in the meadow, where my kitten is that fell in the water barrel and sister’s canary!”
Then all the children laughed, including Eliza herself, and Gray Lady joined.
“School is over for this afternoon,” said Gray Lady, “but before you go we must arrange for our next meeting. I, myself, belong to the Humane Society. How would you like to organize a little school society of your own to help one another remember to be kind to everything that lives, and also to see and learn all you can about our little brothers of the air, whose life and happiness depends as much upon our mercy as our food and shade, beautiful flowers, and luscious fruit depend upon their industry?
“Let us call it ‘The Kind Hearts’ Club.’ Who will join it? Goldilocks and Jacob Hughes are the first two members—how many more are there here? Oh! Tommy Todd! one hand is enough to raise, unless you expect to work for two people!”
“While you were playing hide-and-seek in the orchard this morning, Miss Wilde and I had a long talk about the Friday afternoons at school,” said Gray Lady, “and what do you suppose? She has given every other Friday afternoon to us, to you and to me, not only that we may all learn about birds and animals and how to be kind to them, but other things as well.”
“That will be lovely!” exclaimed Sarah Barnes, but suddenly her face clouded and she added; “that will only be twice a month, though, and if, when it comes winter, it’s such bad weather that school has to be closed up of a Friday, then it would be once a month, and that would be very long to wait!”
“Ah! but you have not heard all of the plan yet,” said Gray Lady. “Two Fridays of each month I will go to your school, and two Saturday mornings in every month you are to come to my house, that is, if you wish to,—of course you are not obliged to come. And it will only be a very bad snow-storm, deeper than horses’ legs are long, that will keep me away from Foxes Corners, for did not you and I become friends on a very dreary, rainy afternoon?
“On the Friday afternoon at school I will either tell or read you stories of the birds of the particular season, and I shall give you every chance to ask questions and tell anything that you have noticed about birds or such little wild beasts as we have hereabouts, for you know it is a very one-sided sort of meeting where one person does all the talking.
“I may be a sober-minded Gray Lady, but I very well know how tiresome it is to sit still for a couple of hours, even if one is listening to something interesting. I think that one can hear so very much better if the fingers are busy. So, with Ann Hughes’ help, I am going to give the girls some plain, useful sewing to do, patchwork, gingham cooking-aprons, and the like. This plain sewing will be Friday work. On the Saturday mornings that you come to me you shall have something more interesting to work upon,—that is, as many of you as prove that they know a little about handling a needle. You shall learn to dress dolls and make any number of pretty things besides.”
“I haven’t got any thimble,” said little Clara Hinks, called “Clary” for short, in a quavering voice. “Grandma is going to give me a real silver one when I’m eight, but that won’t be until next spring, and now I have to borrow my big sister Livvie’s when I sew my patchwork, and it’s too big, and it wiggles, and the needle often goes sideways into my finger. Besides, she wouldn’t let me bring it to school, ’cause it’s got her ’nitials inside a heart on one side of it, and George Parsons gave it to her, an’ anyways she’s using it all the time, ’cause she’s sewing her weddin’ things terrible fast.”
Gray Lady had great difficulty to keep from laughing outright at this burst of confidence, but she never hurt any one’s feelings, and her lips merely curved into a quizzical smile, as she said, “What Clara says about her thimble reminds me to tell you that Ann has a large work-box with plain thimbles of all sizes, scissors, needles, and thread. This I used last winter in the city in teaching some little girls to sew, who were about your ages. I will lend you these things, and then later on, if you do well, you will have a chance to earn work-boxes of your own.”
“Have we boys got to sew, too?” asked Tommy Todd, with a very mischievous expression on his freckled face; “ ’cause I know how to sew buttons on my overalls, and I can do it tighter’n ma can, so’s they don’t yank off for ever so long!”
“No, I had thought of something quite different for you boys, though it would not be amiss for you all to know how to take a few stitches for yourselves, for you are all liable at some time in your lives to travel in far-away places, and even when you go down to the shore and camp out in summer, buttons will come off and stitches rip.
“It seemed to me that hammers and saws and chisels and nails and jack-knives would be more interesting to you boys than dolls and patchwork!” As Gray Lady pronounced the names of the tools slowly, so that she might watch the effect of her words, she saw five pairs of eyes sparkle, and when the magic word “jack-knives” was reached, they were leaning forward so eagerly that Dave slipped quite off his chair and for a moment knelt on the floor at Gray Lady’s feet.
“But what could we do with all those carpenters’ tools down at school?” asked Dave, when he had regained his chair and the laugh at his downfall had subsided. “Dad says it’s a wonder Foxes Corners’ schoolhouse don’t fall down every time teacher bangs on the desk to call ’tention,—we couldn’t hammer things up there.”
“No, that is very true,” said Gray Lady, “but the tools are to be used at the ‘General’s house’ on Saturdays, and the jack-knives at school on Fridays! I see that you cannot guess this part of the plan, so I will not tease you by making you wait as I had first intended.
“As you may remember, Goldilocks told you this morning that Jacob Hughes, who now lives with us since he has left the sea, and keeps everything in repair about the place, besides being a good carpenter can whittle almost anything that can be made from wood with a knife.
“In the attic of this house are two large rooms. One of these Jacob is fitting up for a playroom for my little daughter, now that she will soon be able to enjoy it. The other room was the workroom where her father had his tools and workbench when he was a lad like you, for the General had him taught the use of all the tools and he used to make bird-houses and boats and garden seats and even chairs and such things for the house. He grew to be so skilful that he learned to carve them beautifully.
“Since he went away to his father and mother in heaven no one has used the room; but it is not right to let things be useless when others need them, and now Jacob is putting that room in order also. Then for half of the time on Saturday morning he will take you up there, teach you the use of the tools, and show you how to make bird-houses and many other things, while on the Friday afternoons, when the girls are sewing, he will bring some pieces of soft wood to school, and something that he has carved as a model, and each boy must strive to make the best copy that he can!”
“That’ll be bully!” cried Tommy Todd, adding, “and I think it is just fine of you to let us use those tools that belonged to—to—” And here Tommy faltered for the right word.
“To my husband,” said Gray Lady, very gently, and the children saw the little mist that veiled her eyes, and understood better than words could tell them why gray hair framed the face that was still young and why there were no gay colours in her dress,—in short, it came to them why their Gray Lady earned her name, and yet was never sad nor wished to sadden others.
“S’pose we haven’t all got jack-knives—that is, ones that’ll cut?” piped little Jared Hill, blushing red at having dared to speak. He was the smallest boy in the school and lived with his grandparents, who, though well-to-do, evidently believed it sinful to spend money for anything but food and clothing, for the only Christmas presents Jared ever had were those from the Sunday-school tree, and though he was seven years old he had never owned a knife.
“If I lend the girls thimbles and scissors, I must, of course, lend the boys jack-knives, and give them an equal chance of earning them for their very own!” And from that moment Jared Hill firmly believed that angels and good fairies had fluffy gray hair and wore shimmering gray garments that smelled of fresh violets, like Gray Lady.
“Let me see,” said she, glancing at a little calendar in a silver frame that stood upon her desk, “two weeks from to-day will be the 27th; then you come here again. I should like every boy who can, to bring some bits of old weathered wood with him. Either a few mossy shingles, the hollow branch of a tree, a bundle of bark,—anything, in short, that will make the bird-houses that you build look natural to the birds, who dislike new boards and fresh paint so much that they will not use such houses until they are old and weathered.”
Again Gray Lady consulted her calendar. “There will be eight Saturday meetings before the Christmas holidays, and we must all be very industrious so as to be ready for our fair.”
“Where? what?” cried Sarah Barnes and three or four other girls together, for to these children on this remote hillside the word “fair” meant visions of the County Agricultural Fair, and this stood for the very gayest of times that they knew.
“A little fair of our own to be held in Goldilocks’ playroom and the workroom where the ‘Kind Hearts’ Club’ will offer its friends bird-houses, dolls, button-bags, cooking-aprons, and home-made cake and candy. Then, with the money thus earned, the Club will have a little fund for its winter work, and each member will, of course, have a vote as to how the money is to be spent.”
Gray Lady opened a small drawer in her desk, and took from it two packages of picture cards. The picture on the cards of the first pack was of a little boy releasing a rabbit that had been caught in a trap. The picture of the other cards was of a little girl standing in a doorway, and scattering grain sweepings to the hungry birds on the snow-covered ground.
“Now, who wishes to join the ‘Kind Hearts’ Club’? We must have some members before we can elect our officers and begin. The promise you make is very simple.” On the cards they read only these words: “I promise to be kind to every living thing.” Under this was a place to write the name of the member.
“How can we always tell what it is kind to do? Some folks think different ways,” asked Eliza Clausen, the hat feathers still fresh in her mind.
“Our hearts must tell us that, Eliza,” said Gray Lady, very gently. “We cannot carry rules about with us, but, if we have kind hearts always in our breasts, we shall not make mistakes. And even if our hearts do not feel for others in the beginning, they may be taught by example, just as our heads may learn from books. That is what I wish our Kind Hearts’ Club to stand for—to be a reminder that there is nothing better to work for in this world than that our hearts may be kind and true to ourselves, each other, and to God’s dumb animals that he has given for our service and has trusted to our mercy, for this is true worship and doing His will.”
Each one of the children present signed silently and Gray Lady copied the names in a book, but let the children keep the cards, both as a reminder and to show their parents.
Miss Wilde came forward at this moment and she and their hostess explained the manner of electing officers. Before they trooped out on to the lawn, even then reluctant to go, Goldilocks had been made president, Miss Wilde, vice-president, Sarah Barnes, treasurer, and Tommy Todd, who wrote a very clear, round hand, secretary, Dave, Jared Hill, and the two Shelton boys, a committee to collect old wood, and Eliza Clausen, Ruth Banks, and Mary Barnes, a committee to collect odd patterns for patchwork, something in which the older country folks showed great ingenuity and took no little pride.
“Oh my, do look at the Swallows—there’s hundreds of them on the wires,” said Tommy, as Goldilocks was wheeled out on to the front walk to tell the party “Good-by,” her mother following.
“I wish I knew what really truly becomes of them,” said Sarah Barnes; “father says nobody knows, though some people say that they go down in pond mud and bury themselves all winter like frogs, and though you see them last right by water, I don’t believe it’s likely, do you, Gray Lady? Though at the end they disappear all of a sudden.”
“It is not only unlikely, but impossible. I think next Friday we will begin our real lessons with these fleet-winged birds of passage that are passing now every day and night.”
After the good-bys were said again and again, the children scattered down the road, talking all together, very much like a twittering flock of Swallows themselves, and like the birds they were neither still nor silent until darkness fell. Miss Wilde followed, smiling and happy, for she had found a friend who not only did not belittle her work in the hillside school, but showed her undreamed-of possibilities in it.
Time—September 20th. Place—The School at Foxes Corners.
These are the stories that Gray Lady told or read from her scrap-book between September and Flag Day. She allowed them to be copied at Miss Wilde’s request for the pleasure of the other children in the township.
Five Swallows and a Changeling
“I wonder if there is a child living in the real country who does not know a Swallow by sight the moment its eyes rest upon the bird? I think not, and a great many people who are only in the country at midsummer and in early autumn also know the Swallows, even though they cannot tell the different kinds apart, for during the nesting time, as well as the flocking period that follows, Swallows are conspicuous birds of the air and leaders of the birds that might be grouped as “The Fleetwings.” For not only do Swallows get their food while on the wing, now pursuing it through the upper air if the day is fair, now sweeping low over meadow, pond, and river if the clouds hang heavy and insect life keeps near to the ground, but during the flocking season, when the separate families join in the community life that they live through the winter, the Swallows are constantly on the wing.
“The day that we had the orchard party you all noticed the Swallows flying over the pond between the orchard and river woods, sometimes alighting so close together on the bushes as to be as thick as the leaves, and then again stringing along the telegraph wires, above the highway, some heading one way and some another until, evidently at a signal, they flew off again and disappeared in the distance, until they seemed but a cloud of smoke.
“We agreed, I think, some time ago, that it is much better to learn the real names of people, animals, and flowers than to simply give general names. It is more definite to say, “I saw a Swallow” flying over the moor or meadow, than to say, “I saw a bird” flying over the meadow; but it would be more interesting still if we tell the name of the particular kind of Swallow that was seen, for among the many kinds that exist at least five are quite common, according to the part of the United States in which one lives.
“Can any of you tell me the names of these Swallows, how they differ in plumage, and where they live? I can see by Dave’s face that he knows something about them and I think Sarah Barnes does also, while as for Tommy Todd, both hands are up in spite of jack-knife and the windmill he is making and he can hardly wait for me to stop.
“Now, Tommy, how many kinds of Swallows do you know?”
“Three!” he replied promptly. “Barn Swallows, and Chimney Swallows, and Dirt Swallows!”
“I have heard of Barn and Chimney Swallows, but never of a Dirt Swallow. Please describe it to me,” said Gray Lady, looking interested.
Tommy hesitated for a minute, for it is one thing to know a bird by sight, but quite another to carry a correct picture of it in your mind’s eye and then put it into words.
“A Dirt Swallow is pretty small and a kind of a dirty colour on top and a stripe across his chest, the rest white, and his tail hasn’t sharp points, and he isn’t blue and shiny like a Barn Swallow. He doesn’t build a nice nest like the others, but bores a hole right into a dirt bank, ever so far in, like a Kingfisher does, just like he was a ground-hog, and puts feathers in at the end for a nest. That’s why we call ’em Dirt Swallows. There’s a bank above Uncle Hill’s gravel-pit that’s full of the holes, and another bank full right at Farm’s End above the sand beach where we camped a week last summer. The way I found out about the holes was by diggin’ down a piece back of the edge of the bank, for sometimes they bore as much as four feet. The eggs are real white, not spotted like Barn Swallows’, ’cause we found a couple of bad ones, that hadn’t hatched, among the feathers.” Here Tommy paused for breath, his face all aglow with eagerness.
“That,” said Gray Lady, “is a very good and clear description of the Bank Swallow, which is the English name that the Wise Men have given the little bird that you call the Dirt Swallow. As the bird always burrows its nesting-hole in a bank and never in field earth or the flat ground as a woodchuck does, Bank Swallow is decidedly the better name.”
Meanwhile Tommy had glanced hastily out of the window to where birds were constantly leaving and settling on the long-distance telephone wires that strung together the long poles that walked by the door, and up the hillside, striding across lots where they chose, regardless of the road. Slipping from his seat to the window, he took a second look and then said in a harsh whisper, as if afraid that the birds would hear him and take fright, “Gray Lady, there’s Bank Swallows mixed in with the Barn Swallows on the wires, and I’m sure there’s another kind besides, with a shiny back and all white in the breast. Wouldn’t you please come out and look? If we go around the schoolhouse, they won’t notice us from the other side, but we can see them.”
Gray Lady gave a signal and the girls and boys dropped the sewing and whittling quickly on their desks and, following her lead, stole out on tiptoe, one after the other, like the little pickaninnies when they sing, “The bogey man’ll ketch yer if yer doant watch out!”
There, to be sure, were the Swallows, hundreds of them, all twittering cheerfully and none of them sitting still even though they were perching, but pluming themselves, and stretching their wings, the feathers of which they seemed to comb with a peculiar backward movement of one claw.
As Gray Lady scanned the rows she saw brilliant Barn Swallows in little groups alternating with the sober-cloaked Bank Swallows, and then half a dozen each of two other species that were not so familiar.
“Bring me the opera-glasses from the little bag that is with my hat and gloves,” she said softly to Sarah Barnes. Then, motioning the children to keep still, she crossed the road to a point where, the sunlight falling behind her, she could look up at the wires without becoming dazzled, but as she did so the entire flock left the wires, and wheeling went down over the corn-field toward the reeds and low woods that bordered the mill-pond.
“You were quite right, Tommy,” said Gray Lady, as they still stood looking at the wires in the hope that the birds might return; “there were not only three but four kinds of Swallows in that flock. The birds with the slightly forked tails, beautiful shining steel-blue and green cloaks, and satiny white underparts are Tree Swallows that do not nest near here, but stop with us on their spring and fall journeys, and the others that you did not notice, because in the distance they look somewhat like Barn Swallows, except that they lack the forked tail, are Cliff or Eaves Swallows, as they are called in this part of the country, where they are rather uncommon.
“Now we will go in and I will ask Tommy Todd, who writes very clearly, to put on the board the names of these four Swallows, and the particular thing about them that will help you to tell them apart.
“No, I am afraid that they are not coming back,” said Gray Lady, after they had waited a couple of minutes more, “and they may all leave us suddenly any day now, though the Barn Swallow often stays into October and the White-Breasted almost to November.”
A wagon loaded with rye straw and drawn by a yoke of oxen came creaking up the hill and paused on the level place in front of the school. The teamster was Jared Hill’s grandfather,—the man who did not believe in play or playthings. As his far-sight was rather poor, he did not notice that the lady with the children was not Miss Wilde.
“Wal, teacher,” he called, as he leaned against his load, and tried in vain to discover the object at which the group was gazing, “what’s up thet there pole, a possum or a runaway hand-orgin monkey, or mebbe it’s the balloon got loose from Newbury Fair grounds?”
“No, nothing so unusual as that; we have been watching the flocking of the Swallows,” said Gray Lady, her silvery voice sounding clearly even in these deaf ears.
“Swallers!—out er school watchin’ Swallers?” exclaimed old Mr. Hill, taking the long straw that he was chewing from between his teeth in questioning amazement. “Shucks! what’s Swallers good fer, anyhow? Gee—haw, Cain! Shish, Abel! We’d best move on; I reckon this isn’t any place fer folks with something to do!” And thus addressing his oxen, the load went slowly on.
With the mischievous twinkle still lingering in her eyes, Gray Lady asked Tommy Todd to go to the blackboard as soon as the children settled down to their work again, and this is what he wrote at Gray Lady’s dictation:—