CELIA THAXTER
THE CROW.
The poor crow has had very few friends. Like many mischievous people, he has been more severely blamed than he really deserves. He has been called an egg-stealer, a bird-eater, and a corn-thief. I am afraid that this is all true, and yet it is not fair to forget the good that he does.
In the spring, before there are many insects for him to eat, the hungry crow will sometimes do a great deal of mischief.
He troubles the farmer by pulling up the tender young corn, but a way to prevent this has been found. If the corn is dipped in soft tar, and afterwards in powdered lime to give it a white coating, the crow will not touch it. He does not like the taste of tar, and he will look elsewhere for his dinner.
Some farmers feed the crows by scattering loose grain over the surface of the cornfield, and in many cases the birds have been satisfied with what they received in this way.
Now let us see why it is for the farmer"s interest to make friends with the crow. In the early days of New England, crows were thought to be so harmful that many of them were killed. The next year the gra.s.s and the crops were greatly injured by worms which the crows would have destroyed. It has often been proved that when a large number of crows and blackbirds have been killed, there has been an increase of harmful insects.
Crows eat the cutworm, the white grub, and the weevil. They like no food so well as mice. In the spring they like to follow the plough and pick up hundreds of insects that would do more harm than the most mischievous crow.
A tame crow should never be kept in a cage. If the bird is well fed and kindly treated, it will not fly far from its home, but it is a noisy and sometimes a troublesome pet, and it is better to leave it in the woods.
Crows are social and intelligent creatures. They choose a thick wood for their winter home and gather in flocks which sometimes number thousands of birds. In the summer they build their nests in neighboring trees, and are ready to lend each other aid if danger arises.
The United States Department of Agriculture says that the crow does more good than harm, and that he is a friend to the farmer instead of the enemy that he is commonly supposed to be.
THE BLUEBIRD.
I know the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple tree where he is swinging; Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary, Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.
Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!
Hark! was there ever so merry a note?
Listen awhile, and you"ll hear what he"s saying, Up in the apple tree, swinging and swaying.
"Dear little blossoms, down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know; Hark, while I sing you a message of cheer!
Summer is coming! and Springtime is here!
"Little white snowdrop! I pray you, arise; Bright yellow crocus! come open your eyes; Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold Daffodils! daffodils! say, do yon hear?
Summer is coming! and Springtime is here!"
EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.
By permission of the author.
THE FARMER"S FRIEND.
We all know from pictures what owls look like, though we do not often see them. Their wise faces, with large, solemn eyes, are familiar to every one of us. Why do we see these birds so seldom?
The owl flies at night, and at all times he is a shy bird. He likes a quiet home and does not wish to be disturbed.
As for himself, he makes no noise. He is like a cat, not only in his face and in his taste for mice, but in his quiet ways. His broad wings are fringed with the softest down, so that they move with as little sound as a feather fan. The owl is a large bird, but his wings never make the sharp whirr of a pigeon"s flight.
The barn owl builds his nest not far from the farmyard. He catches the mice arid rats in the barn and feeds on many harmful beetles and moths.
The number of mice he catches for his little ones in a single night is sometimes very large. He is said to bring to his nest four or five of his hapless victims every hour.
Pennsylvania once offered a premium for killing hawks and owls, not knowing how much good they do. Before long the state was overrun with little rodents, and many valuable crops were destroyed.
No bird is more devoted to her little ones than the mother owl. She will take up her tiny owlet in her claws and carry him away, if she fancies that any danger is near; and she will not leave him, even to save her own life.
It has been supposed that an owl is unable to see in the daytime, but probably this is not true. He can see better at dusk than we can, but when it is really dark he cannot see at all. He hunts at night, because rats and mice do not often venture out in the daytime.
Unless he is free, an owl is miserable. It is cruel to keep him caged, because it makes him ill and unhappy. When he is at liberty he is a good friend to the farmer.
THE WOUNDED CURLEW.
By yonder sandy cove where, every day, The tide flows in and out, A lonely bird in sober brown and gray Limps patiently about;
And round the basin"s edge, o"er stones and sand, And many a fringing weed, He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand, Crying, with none to heed.
But sometimes from the distance he can hear His comrades" swift reply; Sometimes the air rings with their music clear, Sounding from sea and sky.
And then, oh, then his tender voice, so sweet, Is shaken with his pain, For broken are his pinions strong and fleet, Never to soar again.
Wounded and lame and languishing he lives, Once glad and blithe and free, And in his prison limits frets and strives His ancient self to be.
The little sandpipers about him play, The shining waves they skim, Or round his feet they seek their food, and stay As if to comfort him.
My pity cannot help him, though his plaint Brings tears of wistfulness; Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint, None may his wrong redress.
O bright-eyed boy! was there no better way A moment"s joy to gain Than to make sorrow that must mar the day With such despairing pain?
O children, drop the gun, the cruel stone!
Oh, listen to my words, And hear with me the wounded curlew moan-- Have mercy on the birds!
CELIA THAXTER.
THE SANDPIPER.
Across the narrow beach, we flit, One little sandpiper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,-- One little sandpiper and I.