BIRDS OF SONG AND
STORY

BIRDS OF SONG AND
STORY

BY

ELIZABETH AND JOSEPH GRINNELL

Authors of "Our Feathered Friends"

CHICAGO

A. W. MUMFORD, Publisher

1901

CONTENTS

THE BIRDS

SINGERS AND THEIR SONGS

Some barbarous peoples possess a rude taste for the beautiful plumage of birds, decorating their bodies in feathers of softest and brightest tints. But we have record of few, if any, savage tribes the world over which delight in bird melody. True, the savage may seek his food by sound, or even song, but to feast the ear on music for music's sake—ah, this is reserved for culture.

An ear cultivated to melody is one of the soul's luxuries. Attuned to sweet and varied sound, it may become the guide to bird secrets never imparted to the eye.

Sitting in the close shrubbery of a home garden, or crouching moveless in a forest, one may catch whispers of bird language never imparted to human ears when the listener is moving about or talking with a comrade.

If one has accidentally or by patience discovered the evening resort of shy birds, let him precede the birds by half an hour. Sitting low among rocks or fallen trees, having the forethought to wear plainly colored clothes, and as moveless as the neighboring objects, one may be treated to such a feast of sounds as will both surprise and entertain him. The birds will come close, and even hop over one's coat sleeves and shoes, though so much as a full-fledged wink may dissipate the charm.

Just before bedtime there are whisperings, and salutes, and low-voiced conversations, and love notes, and "O's" and "Ah's" at sight of a belated insect, and lullaby ditties, and if one be possessed of a good deal of imagination, "evening prayers."

Birds that fly from their night-time perches in the thick shrubbery in the morning dusk with a whirr, and a scream, or emphatic call-note, in evening time just whisper or sing in half-articulate tones.

To be out in their haunts late in the day and very early in the dawn is to learn things about birds one never forgets. And if one chance to remain late at night, one may often hear some feathered person mumble, or talk, or scold, or complain, or sing a short melody, in his sleep. Some students of bird-lore suggest that all-night singers, like the mockers, and some thrushes, do "talk in their sleep," instead of from intent and choice. If one will watch a tame canary in its cage one may hear a very low, sweet warble from the bird while its head is tucked under its feathers. This act wakens the little creature, and it may be seen to finish its note while it looks about in the lamp-light in a half-bewildered way.

Take our domestic fowls! Go noiselessly out to the chicken roost and stand stock-still for a while. Now and then some hen or cock will speak a few words in its own language, in a rambling, dozing way. Then the suggestion passes on, and perhaps half a dozen individuals engage in nocturnal conversation. One, more "nervous" from yesterday's overwork perhaps, actually has a nightmare, and cackles in fright. All this has no connection with the usual time for the head of the family to give his warning crow that midnight or daytime is close at hand and there is scarcely time for another wink of sleep.

Once in the secret of bird notes, even a blind person may locate the immediate vicinity of a nest. And he may identify species by the call-notes and songs. We have a blind girl neighbor who declares she would rather have her hearing than her sight, she has learned so well to hear what her sight might deprive her of.

When once the ear has learned its better lessons, glimpses, so to speak, of bird life flutter to it as naturally as leaves flutter to the sward in autumn. It is the continual chatter, chatter, that deprives many of us of the best enjoyments of life. We talk when we should listen. Nature speaks low more often than she shouts. A taciturn child or person finds out things that are worth the habit of keeping still to know.

These remarks are in the interest of singing birds. A bird is sometimes interrupted, and comes to a sudden stop. A footstep, a word, a laugh, and the very next note is swallowed by the singer. By studying our songsters one may come to know for one's self how individuals differ even among the same species.

There is the sad-voiced phœbe! Even she forgets her customary dismal cry at certain times when flies are winging their midday dance on invisible floors that never were waxed. It is when she takes a "flat stand" an the roof-corner and "bewails her lot" that her notes are utterly disconsolate. Take a couple of phœbes on a cloudy day, just after "one's folks have gone away from home on a long visit," and nothing lends an aid to sorrow like their melancholy notes. Really we do believe phœbe thinks he is singing. But he has mistaken his calling. Some of the goldfinches have a plaintive note, especially while nesting, which appeals to the gloomy side of the listener, if he chance to have such a side. Were Coleridge listening to either of these, the phœbe or the goldfinch, he would doubtless say, in answer to the charge of sadness:

And he would have us believe the birds are "merry" when they sing.

And so they shall be merry. Even the mourning dove shall make us glad. She does not intend to mourn; the appearance of sadness being only the cadence of her natural voice. She has not learned the art of modulation; though the bluebird and the robin and all the thrushes call her attention to the matter every year.

If one will closely watch a singer, unbeknown to him, when he is in the very act, one may note the varying expression of the body, from the tip of his beak to the tip of his tail. Sometimes he will stand still with closely fitting plumage and whole attitude on tiptoe. Sometimes he will crouch, and lift the plumage, and gyrate gracefully, or flutter, or soar off at random on quick wings.

Sometimes he sings flat on the breast like a song-sparrow, or again high up in the sky like the lark. However he sings, heaven bless the singer! "The earth would be a cheerless place were there no more of these."

But legend tells the story of singing birds in its own way—the story of a time long, long eons ago, when not a single bird made glad the heart of anything or anybody.

True, there were some large sea birds and great walking land birds, too deformed for any one to recognize as birds in these days, but there was no such thing as a singing bird.

One day there came a great spring freshet, the greatest freshet ever dreamed of, and all the land animals sought shelter in the trees and high mountains. But the water came up to the peaks and over the treetops, and sorrow was in all the world. Suddenly a giraffe, stretching its long neck in all directions, espied a big boat roofed over like a house. The giraffe made signs to the elephant, and the elephant gave the signal, as elephants to this day do give signals that are heard for many a mile, so they say! Then there came a scurrying for the big boat. A few of all the animals got on board, by hook or crook, and the rain was coming down in sheets. All at once along came the lizards, crawling up the sides of the boat and hunting for cracks and knot-holes to crawl into, just as lizards are in the habit of doing on the sly to this day. But not a crack or knot-hole could they find in the boat's side; for the loose places, wide enough for a lizard to flatten himself into, had all been filled up with gum, or something.

Then the lizards began to hiss, exactly the way they hiss to this day when they are frightened; and the big animals inside the boat poked out their noses to see what was to pay.

"Oh, they are nothing but lizards!" exclaimed the giraffe to the elephant, who had naturally taken possession of more than his share of the only foothold in existence. "Let them drown in the freshet."

But a big, awkward land bird, with teeth, and a tail like a church steeple, took pity on the lizards and gnawed a hole in the wall of the boat.

Of course in trooped the lizards. Once in, they disposed themselves in nooks and corners, and right under the flapping ears of the elephant and between the pointed ears of the giraffe. And they began to whisper.

It was a very low, hissing whisper, as if they had never gotten farther than the s's in the alphabet, but the big animals understood.

Plenty of room was made for the lizards, and they were allowed to make a square meal now and then on the flies that had come in at the boat's door, uninvited, plenty of them.

After a few days the spring freshet came to an end, and the giraffe opened the door of the boat-house and looked out. He made signs to the elephant, and the elephant gave the signal, and out walked all the animals on "dry ground," which, to tell the truth, was rather muddy.

When all the other creatures were out of the boat it came the lizard's turn. But the elephant and the giraffe bethought them of something, and turned back to the boat "You promised us! You promised us!" they cried, to the wriggling lizards that hadn't a single thing about them to make anybody desire their company in land or sea.

"So we did promise," they answered, hissing their words.

Then the lizards all turned facing each other in rows, and stuck out their long tongues just as lizards do to this day, and breathed on one another, and made a sizzling noise. Suddenly, from each side of their long tails appeared pin-feathers, which grew very fast, till the scales were all disappeared. And then little baby feathers appeared on their backs, and breasts, and fore legs, or arms, which overlapped each other like scales, and were beautiful and soft and many-tinted. Beaks grew in place of the wide mouths; only the hind legs were left as they were. But these, too, began to change! They grew long, and slim, and hard, but the nails remained as they were before, only stronger. Then the lizards were reptiles no longer, but beautiful birds. And with one accord they began to sing, each singing a different song from his neighbor, and making the clear air ring with melody.

And the giraffe made signs to the elephant, and the elephant signaled all the other animals to return. And so they returned. And they could hardly believe their eyes when the elephant told them these were the crawling lizards that had come into the boat-house the last thing. But he assured them they were the "very same." And then he told them how the lizards had promised him and the big giraffe that if they would be permitted to stay in the boat with the rest until the spring freshet was over, they would be "angels" ever afterward, and spend all their time, when they were not eating and sleeping, in making glad melody for all the animal world.

While the giraffe was speaking the birds lifted their wings, which an hour before were bare arms, and soared out and up into the blue sky, singing as they went.

And this was the origin of the singing birds. To explain how, to this day, there are plenty of lizards of all sizes and colors, the legend hints a sequel to the story. Not all of the lizards were able or even willing to go into the boat-house, being naturally shy, and the holes the big bird pecked in the walls were all too soon sealed up.

Almost drowned, the remaining lizards crept up on the backs of the great water dragons, the leviathan, and behemoth, which nobody knows anything about in our days, and so were saved.

Anyhow, we have them, on warm days sunning themselves on fence-rails and bare rocks, or scurrying under the stumps and stones. But they are always on good terms with the birds, for we have seen them basking in the sun together, and they eat the selfsame insects.

The lizards are no doubt discussing with the birds the approach of another spring freshet, when they, too, will bethink them of the boat-house, and so come by feathers and songs.

Harmless they are, as the birds, whom they resemble in many ways. We have taught some of them to drink milk and honey from a teaspoon, and to peck at insects in our fingers, to come at our call, and to lie in our hands. To some they are beautiful creatures; to others they are "nothing but lizards." Boys throw stones at them, and girls wish there were no lizards, they "are so ugly."

Oh, the pity of it! If these would but turn the creatures tenderly over, they would see beautiful colors on the under side, that sparkle and glisten like the breast of a brightly tinted bird. We are acquainted with one lizard as long as a mocking-bird, with a breast as silver-gray. And we love to think of the time (of course it is imagination, though they do say there is possibly some truth in it) when another spring freshet, or something, will turn the little reptile into the bird he resembles.

CHAPTER I

OUR COMRADE THE ROBIN

On account of its generous distribution, and the affection for the bird in the heart of Young America and England alike, the robin shall be given first place among the singing birds. He is the "Little Wanderer"—as the name signifies—the "Robin-son Crusoe" of almost every clime and race.

True, he may be a warbler instead of a thrush in the Old World; but what does that signify? To whatever class or family he may belong by right of birth and legend, the bird of the red breast is the bird of the human breast.

It is impossible to study the early history of birds in any language and not stumble upon legend and superstition. And the more we read of these the more we come to delight in them. There may not be a bit of truth in the matter, but there is fascination. It is like delving among the dust and cobwebs of an old attic. The more dust and cobwebs, the more fun in coming upon things one never went in quest of.

Of course superstition has its objections; but when the robin is the point at issue, we may waive objections and go on our merry ways satisfied that the oldest and clearest head in the family will concur.

Legends concerning our comrade the robin are full of tender thought of him. They have kept his memory green through the rain and shine of centuries, even going so far as to embalm him after death, as will be seen.

It is well-nigh impossible to give the earliest date in which the robin is mentioned as a "sacred bird." Certain it is that he ranks with characters of "ye olden time," for myth and superstition enshrined him. The literature of many tongues has preserved him. Poetry and sculpture have embodied him and given him place among the gods and winged beings that inhabit the "neighbor world." Did he not scorch his original gray breast by taking his daily drop of water to lost souls? Did he not stain it by pressing his faithful heart against the crown of thorns? Or, did he not burn it in the Far North when he fanned back into flame the dying embers which the polar bear thought to have trampled out in his wrath that white men invaded his shores? Was he not always the "pious bird?"—though it must be confessed that his beak alone seemed to be possessed of religious tendencies. Was he not the original church sexton who covered the dead, with impartial beak, from eye of sun and man, piling high and dry the woodland leaves about them? The wandering minstrel, the orphan child, or the knight of kingly robe, each shared his sweet charity.

The English ballad of the "Babes in the Wood" immortalized his memory in poetical sentiment:

Earlier than the pathetic career of these Babes, homage was paid to the robins,

This superstition of the robin's art in caring for the dead runs through many of the old poets, Drayton, Grahame, Hood, Herrick, and others. Strict justice in the matter would have divided the praise of him with the charitable night winds, for it was they more than he who "covered friendless bodies." The sylvan shades of the Old World being then more comprehensive than now, unburied men, from any cause, found their last resting-place in the lap of the forest, sleeping wherever they fell, since no laws of "decent burial" governed the wilds. The night winds, true to their instincts then as now, swirled the fallen leaves about any object in their way, in the fashion of a burial shroud. As a matter of course, credit was given to the robin, whose voracious appetite always led him to plunder litter of any sort in search of food. Up bright and early, as is still his habit (since at this hour he is able to waylay the belated night insect), the robin was spied bestirring the forest leaves, and unbeknown to himself was sainted for all time.

And his duties were not confined to those of sexton alone, for, according to good witnesses, he became both sculptor and clergyman—

—stripping, as they were supposed to do, the foliage from the trees on which to write their elegies, and so leaving the uncovered trunks as monumental shafts.

According to tradition, it was the robin who originated the first conception of decorating the graves of martyrs.

And again from one of the old poets, who was naturally anxious that his own last rites should be proper as well as pathetic:

And so it came to pass, by the patronage of the poets, that in the early centuries this little bird came to be protected by an affectionate, unwritten law. To molest a redbreast was to bring the swift vengeance of lightning on the house. The ancient boy knew better, if he cherished his personal safety, than to steal a young bird for the purpose of captivity, for

The "sobbing, sobbing of pretty, pretty robin" would surely call down upon the head of the luckless thief the dire displeasure of the deities; as runs the rhyme, meant in all reverence (as it should also be quoted);

Terrible punishments were thus meted out to the ancient urchin whose instincts would lead him to rob bird's nests.

In Pilgrim's Progress, Christiana is said to have been greatly astonished at seeing a robin with a spider in its beak. Said she, "What a disparagement it is to such a little, pretty bird as the robin-redbreast is, he being also a bird above many, that loveth to maintain a kind of sociableness with man; I had thought they had lived on crumbs of bread—I like him worse than I did-."

And the wordy-wise Interpreter, to clinch a moral lesson in the mind of the religious woman, explained how the robins "when they are by themselves, catch and gobble up spiders; they can change their diet (like the ungodly hypocrite), drink iniquity, and swallow down sin like water." And so, obedient to her spiritual adviser, Christiana liked the robin "worse than she did." Poor soul; she should have observed for herself that for a robin to gobble up a spider is no "iniquity." Did she think that crumbs grew on bushes, ready made for early breakfast, or that the under side of woodland leaves was buttered to order?

Spiders the robin must have, else how could he obtain the strings for his harp? Wherever the spider spins her thread, there is her devotee, the robin. He may not be seen to pluck and stretch the threads, but the source of them he loves, and he says his best grace above this dainty of his board. Our pet robin was known to stand patiently by the crack of a door, asking that it be opened wider, as, in his opinion, a spider was hiding behind it. He heard her stockinged tread, as he hears also the slippered feet of the grub in the garden sod—provided the grubs have feet, which it is known they can do tolerably well without.

Sure it is the world over, be he thrush or warbler, the robin is partial to bread and butter; to bread thrice buttered if he can get it. Fat of any sort he craves. The more practical than sentimental believe that he uses it in the preparation of the "colors done in oil" with which he tints his breast. For lack of oil, therefore, where it is not provided by his friends, or discovered by himself, his breast is underdone in color, paling even to dusky hue; so that, would you have a redbreast of deepest dye, be liberal with his buttered bread.

And his yellow mouth! Ah, it is the color of spring butter when the dandelions are astir, oozing out, as it were, when he is very young, as if for suggestion to those who love him.

The historical wedding of Cock Robin to Jenny Wren was the result of anxiety on the part of mutual friends who would unite their favorite birds. The "courtship," the "merry marriage," the "picnic dinner," and the rest of the tragedy are well described. Alas, for the death and burial of the robin-groom, who did not live to enjoy the bliss of wedded life as prearranged by his solicitous friends. But the affair went merry as a marriage-bell for a while, and was good until fortunes changed.

All the birds of the air combined to make the event a happy one, and they dined and they supped in elegant style.

Just as the dinner things were being removed, and the bird guests were singing "fit to be heard a mile around," in stalked the Cuckoo, who it is presumed had not been invited to the wedding, and was angry at being slighted. He rudely began pulling the bride all about by her pretty clothes, which aroused the temper of the groom, naturally enough, as who could wonder? His best man, the Sparrow, went out and armed himself, his weapons being the bow and arrow, and took his usual steady aim to hit the intruder, but, like many another excited marksman, he missed his aim, and, oh, the pity of it! shot Cock Robin himself. (It was an easy way for the poet to dispose of the affair, as he knew very well a robin and a wren couldn't mate, in truth.)

Nor did the Sparrow deny his unintentional blunder when it came to the trial. There were witnesses in plenty; and Robin was given a splendid burial—Robin who had himself officiated at many a ceremony of the same sad sort.

It is a pathetic tale, as any one may see who reads it, and served the purpose of stimulating sympathy for the birds. We have forgiven the sparrow for his blunder, as will be seen later on; for in consequence of it, the birds were called up in line and made to do something, thus distinguishing themselves as no idlers.

The mating of Robin with Jenny Wren proved a failure, of course, so we have our dear "twa birds," the robins, as near alike as two peas, when the male is not singing and the female is not cuddling her nest. A trifle brighter of tint is the male (in North America), but the two combine, like any staid farmer and his wife, in getting a living out of the soil. Hand in hand, as it were, they wander about the country anywhere under the flag, at home wherever it rains; but returning to the same locality, with true homing instinct, as often as the spring-time suggests the proper season for family affairs; completing these same affairs in time to look after their winter outfit of clothes. This last more on account of their annual shabby condition than by reason of the rigors of cold, for they change climate as often as health and happiness (including, of course, food) require.

True, some penalties attach to this sudden and frequent change, but the robins accept whatever comes to them with a protest of song, returning good for evil, even when charged with stealing more fruit than the law allows. It is impossible to compare the good they do with any possible harm, since the insect harvest-time is always, and the robin's farming implements never grow rusty.

Always in the wake of the robins is the sharp-shinned hawk and many another winged enemy, for their migrations are followed by faithful foes who secrete themselves in the shadows. We deprived one of these desperadoes of his dinner before he had so much as tasted it, also of his pleasure in obtaining another, for we brought him down in the very act, and rescued his victim only by prying apart the reluctantly dying claws.

But whatever may be said of hawks and such other hungry beings who lay no claim to a vegetable diet, their so-called cruelty should be overlooked, since it is impossible to draw the lines without affecting the robin himself. For see with what excusable greed he snatches at winged beings which happen to light for a rest in their flight, or draws the protesting earth-worm from its sunless corridors. It is a law of nature, and grace must provide absolution. So must also the bird-lover, supposing in his charitable heart that worms and flies delight in being made over into new and better loved individuals.

Would the bird-lover actually convert this redbreast from the error of his victual ways, he may do so by substituting cooked or raw food from his own table. The robin is an apt student of civilization, and adopts the ways of its reformers with relish. As to the statement that robins require a diet of worms to insure life and growth, we can say that we have raised a whole family on bread and milk alone with perfect success. True, we allowed them a bit of watermelon in melon season, but they used it more as a newfangled bath than as a food, actually rolling in it, and pasting their feathers together with the sticky juice. The farmer's orchard is the robin's own patch of ground, and he revels in its varied bounties. A pair of them know at a glance the very crotch in the apple-tree which grew three prongs on purpose for their nest. The extreme center, scooped to a thimble's capacity, suggests the initial post-hole for a proper foundation. The said post may be placed directly across it, but that does not change the idea. Above is the parting of the boughs, across whose inverted arches sticks alternate, and so on up. And atop of straws and leaves and sticks is the "loving cup" of clay, with its soft lining of vegetable fiber and grasses. What care the robins that little cover roofs them and their young? Are they not water birds by nature, and wind birds as well? (Our pet sat for hours at a time in hot weather emersed to his ears in the bath, and even sang low notes while he soaked.) Birds of spring freshets and June winds, they dote on the weather, and bring off their young ones as successfully as their neighbors. What if a nest be blown down now and then? The school-boy, in passing, puts it back in its place and sees that every birdling goes with it; while the old birds above him, shedding water like a goose, thank him for his pains.

The orchardist who plants a mulberry-tree in his apple rows, though he himself scorns the insipid sweetness of the fruit, ranks with any philanthropist in that he foresees the needs of a little soul which loves the society of man more than anything else in the world.

By the planting of the mulberry-tree he plants a thought in the breast of his little son. "I don't like mulberries, father. What makes you set out a mulberry-tree in an apple orchard?"

"For the robins, my son. Haven't you heard that luck follows the robins?"

"What is luck, father?"

"Luck, my son, is any good thing which people make for themselves and the folks they think about."

And the little boy sits down on a buttercup cushion and meditates on luck, while he watches the robins knocking at the doors of the soft-bodied larvæ, engaged in making luck for other folks. And the boy's own luck takes the right turn all on account of his father setting out a mulberry-tree.

Whole school-rooms full of children are known to be after the same sort of luck when they plant a tree on Arbor Day; a cherry-tree or mulberry-tree, or even an apple, in due time is sure to bring forth just the crotch to delight the heart of mother robin in June. Not that the robins do not select other places than apple-trees to nest in. An unusual place is quite as likely to charm them. Let a person interest himself a little in the robin's affairs and he will see startling results by the summer solstice. An old hat in the crotch of a tree, an inverted sunshade, or even a discarded scarecrow, terrible to behold, left over from last year and hidden in the foliage, one and all suggest possibilities to the robins.

Mud that is fresh and sweet is essential to a robin's nest. Stale, bad-smelling, sour mud isn't fit for use. Sweet, clay-like stuff is what they want. A pack of twigs made up loosely, soft grass and fiber, all delight the nest-builders, who are as sure to select a location near by, as they are sure to stay all summer near the farmer on account of the nearness of food.

Anywhere from four to thirty feet one may find the nests with little trouble, they are so bulky, all but the delicate inside of them, which is soft as down; nest-lining being next thing to nest-peopling—the toes of the little new people finding their first means of clinging to life by what is next to them. A well-woven lining gives young robins a delicious sense of safety, as they hold on tight—the instinct to hold on tight being about the first in any young thing, be it bird or human baby, except, perhaps, the instinct of holding its mouth open.

Some people who do not watch closely suppose the young robin who holds its mouth open the longest and widest gets the most food. We are often mistaken in things. Mother robin understands the care of the young, though she never read a book about it in all her life. Think of her infant, of exactly eleven days, leaving the nest and getting about on its own legs, as indeed it does, more to the astonishment of its own little self than anybody else. And before the baby knows it, he is singing with all the rest,