The bird lover who carries a gla.s.s but never a gun, who observes but never shoots, sees many queer things not set down in the books; freaks and notions and curious fancies on the part of the feathered folk, which reveal an individuality of character as marked in a three-inch warbler as in a six-foot man. Some of the idiosyncrasies of our "little brothers" may be understood and explained from the human standpoint, others are as baffling as "the lady, or the tiger?"
One lovely and lazy day last July--the fourth it was--a perfect day with not a cannon nor even a cracker to disturb its peace, my comrade and I turned our steps toward the woods, as we had for the thirty-and-three mornings preceding that one.
This morning, however, was distinguished by the fact that we had a special object. In general, our pa.s.sage through the woods was an open-eyed (and open-minded) loitering walk, alternated with periods of rest on our camp-stools, wherever we found anything of interest to detain us.
On this Fourth of July we were in search of a warbler,--one of the most tantalizing, maddening pursuits a sensible human being can engage in.
Fancy the difficulty of dragging one"s self, not to mention the flying gown, camp-stool, opera-gla.s.s, note-book and other impedimenta through brush and brier, over logs, under fallen trees, in the swamp and through the tangle, to follow the eccentric movements of a sc.r.a.p of a bird the size of one"s finger, who proceeds by wings and not by feet, who goes over and not through all this growth.
The corner to which we had traced our "black-throated blue," and where we suspected he had a nest, presented a little worse than the usual snarl of saplings and fallen branches and other hindrances, and the morning was warm. My heart failed me; and as my leader turned from the path I deserted. "You go in, if you like," I said; "I"ll wait for you here."
I seated myself, and she went on. For a few minutes I heard the cracking of twigs, the rustle of her movements against the bushes, the heavy tread of her big dog, and then all was silent.
It was--did I say it was a fair morning?--not a breath of air was stirring. My seat was in a rather open spot at the foot of a big b.u.t.ternut tree; and I could look far up where its branches spread out wide and held their graceful leafy stars against the blue.
In the woods I am never lonely; but I was not this morning alone. Near by a vireo kept up his tireless song; a gray squirrel peeped curiously at me from behind a trunk, his head showing on one side and his tail on the other; an oven-bird stole up behind to see what manner of creature this was, and far off I could hear the tanager singing.
I did not notice the time; but after a while I became conscious of a low whistle which seemed to mingle with my reveries, and might have been going on for some minutes. Suddenly it struck me that it was the call of my fellow-student, and I started up the road wondering lazily if she had found the nest, and, to tell the truth, not caring much whether she had or not. For, to tell the whole truth, I had long ago steeled my heart against the fascinations of those bewitching little sprites who never stay two seconds in one spot, and sternly resolved never, _never_ to get interested in a warbler.
My companion, however, was not so philosophical or so cool. She never could withstand the flit of a warbler wing; she would follow for half a day the absurd but enchanting little trill; and she regularly went mad (so to speak) at every migration, over the hundred or two, more or less, varieties that made this wood a resting-place on their way. Now, I could resist the birds by never looking at them, but I could not resist my friend"s enthusiasm; so when she started on a warbler trail, I generally followed, as a matter of course. And I admit that the blue, to which we shortened his name, was a beauty and a charming singer.
I pa.s.sed quietly up the road toward the continued low calls, and soon saw the student, not far from the path, in a clearer spot than usual, sitting against a maple sapling, with her four-footed protector at her feet. When I came in sight she beckoned eagerly but silently, and I knew she had found something; probably the nest, I thought. As quietly as might be under the circ.u.mstances (namely, a pa.s.sage through dead leaves, brittle twigs, unexpected hollows, etc.), I crept to her side, planted my camp-stool near hers, and sat down, in obedience to her imperious gesture.
"Now look," she whispered, pointing to a nest in plain sight.
"Why that"s the redstart nest we saw yesterday from the road," I answered in the same tone, somewhat disappointed, it must be said, for redstart nests were on about every third sapling in the woods.
"Yes; but see what"s going on," she added, excitedly.
"I see," I replied; "there is a young bird on the edge of the nest and its mother is feeding it;" and I was about to lower my gla.s.s and ask what there was surprising about that, when she went on:--
"Keep looking! There! Who"s that?"
"Why that"s--why--that"s a chestnut-sided warbler! and--what?--he feeds the same baby!" I gasped, interested now as much as she.
"There!" she exclaimed, triumphantly, "I wanted you to see that with your own eyes, since you scorn to look at the warblers. He has been doing that ever since I left you. I couldn"t bear to let him out of my sight!"
At that moment the warbler appeared again, and the wise redstart baby, who at least knew enough to take a good thing when it offered, opened his ever-ready mouth for the bit of a worm he brought.
But lo! Madam, who had flown the moment before, returned in hot haste, and flung herself upon that small philanthropist as if he had brought poison; he vanished.
Here was indeed a queer complication! It was a redstart nest without doubt, but who owned the baby? If he were a redstart, why did Mamma refuse help in her hard work, and why did the chestnut-sided insist on helping? If he were a chestnut-sided infant, how did he come in a redstart nest, and what had the redstart to do with him?
These were the problems with which we had to grapple, and we settled ourselves to the work. We placed our seats against neighboring saplings, for backs, and we first critically examined that nest. It was surely a redstart"s, though at an unusual height, perhaps twenty-five feet, as we had observed the day before when we had both noted in our books that we saw the male feeding the young. Even had the nest not been so plainly a redstart"s, the air of that mother was unmistakable. She owned that nest and that baby, there could not be a doubt, and the dapper little personage with chestnut sides was an interloper.
Nearly two hours we watched every movement of the small actors in this strange drama, and in seeking food they often came within six feet of us on our own level, so that we could not mistake their ident.i.ty.
The poor little mamma was in deep distress. Although her mate was absent, she resented her neighbor"s efforts to help in her work, and dashed at him furiously every time she saw him come. Yet she could not stay on guard, for upon her alone devolved the duty of feeding that nestling! So she rushed frantically hither and thither in mad redstart fashion, brought her morsel and administered it, and then darted angrily after the enemy, who appeared as often as she did, every time with a tidbit for that pampered youngster.
This double duty seemed almost too much for the redstart. Her feathers were ruffled, her tail opened and shut nervously, and at every interval that she could spare from her breathless exertions she uttered in low tones the redstart song, as though calling on that missing lord of hers.
And where was that much needed personage? Had he been killed in these carefully protected and fenced woods, where no guns or collectors were allowed, and trespa.s.s notices were as plentiful as blackberries? Not by shooting we were sure; we should have heard a gun at the house. Had, then, an owl paid a twilight visit, and could a redstart be surprised?
Or could, perchance, a squirrel have stolen upon him unaware? We shall never know. There"s no morning paper to chronicle the tragedies in the bird world; and it would be too pitiful reading if there were.
The most curious thing about the whole performance was the behavior of the chestnut-sided. His manner was as unruffled as Madam"s was excited.
The most just and honorable cause in the world could not give more absolute self-possession, more dignified persistence, than was shown by this wonderful atom of a bird. He acknowledged her right to reprove him, for he vanished before her outraged motherhood every time; but the moment the chase ended he fell to collecting food, and by the time his a.s.sailant had given her bantling a morsel, he was ready with another.
What could be his motive? Was he a charity-mad personage, such as we sometimes see among bigger folk, determined to benefit his kind, whether they would or no? Had he, perchance, been bereaved of his own younglings, and felt moved to bestow his parental care upon somebody?
Did he wish to experiment with some theory of his own on another"s baby?
Was it his aim to coax that young redstart to desert his family and follow after the traditions of the chestnut-sided?
Alas! how easy to ask; how hard to answer!
By this time I had become as absorbed in the drama as my companion. We forgot, or postponed, the blue, and gave the day to study of this case of domestic infelicity. Five long hours we sat there (morning and afternoon) before the stage on which the interesting but agitating play went on; and after tea, just before dark, we came out again. All this time the war between the two still raged, with no abatement of spirit.
Breakfast was not loitered over on the following morning, and we hurried out to our post. The situation was changed a little. The youngster had made up his mind to go out into the world. He had moved as far as the branch, a few inches from the nest, and was still fed on both sides by his zealous providers. Mamma, however, though every time repelling her unwelcome a.s.sistant, was not so nervous. Perhaps she realized that a few hours more would end the trouble. She fed, she encouraged, and pretty soon, while we looked, the infant flew to the nearest tree.
Now the chestnut-sided began to have difficulty in following up his self-imposed charge. He took to coming close upon the mother"s heels to see where she went. But this course was attended with the difficulty that the instant she had fed she was ready to turn upon him, which she never failed to do.
After several short flights about the tree, the young bird, grown bolder, perhaps by over-feeding, for surely never nestling was stuffed as that one was, attempted a more ambitious flight, failed, and came fluttering to the ground, much to the dismay of his mamma, who followed him closely all the way.
This was our opportunity, the moment we had waited for; we must see that disputed baby!
My comrade dropped everything and ran to the spot. A moment"s scrambling about on the ground, a few careful "grabs" among the dead leaves, and she held the exhausted little fellow in her hand. He was not frightened; but his mother was greatly disturbed at first. We were too interested in this case to heed her, and indeed after a moment"s demonstration she flew away and left him in our hands.
We examined him minutely, and I noted his markings on the spot. There was no doubt about his being a redstart baby, as I had been convinced from the first. When we had settled this, the little one was placed on a branch, where he remained quite calmly, and we left him to his two attendants.
The next morning we found the mother still hard at work in the same part of the woods (we knew her by some feathers she had lost from her breast), but the gallant little warbler was nowhere to be seen.
XX.
A CLEVER CUCKOO.
"Hark, the cuckoo, weatherwise, Still hiding, farther onward woos you."
The mysterious bird, around whose name cl.u.s.ter some strange facts as well as absurd fancies; shy and intolerant of the human race, yet bold in protecting his treasures; devoted and tender in his family relations, yet often known in the neighborhood where he pa.s.ses his days as a mere "wandering voice,"--
"No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery,"--
this bird, the cuckoo, was a stranger to me till one happy day last June, when I came upon him where he could not escape, beside his own nest.
In returning from our daily visit to the woods that morning, my fellow-student turned down a narrow footway connecting the woods with the home-fields, and I followed. She had pa.s.sed through half its length, her dog close behind her, when our eyes, ever searching the trees and bushes, fell almost at the same instant upon a nest, with the sitting bird at home. It was so near me that I could have touched it, being not more than two feet from the ground, and hardly farther from the path.
Fearing to startle the little mother, whose frightened eyes were fixed upon us, we announced our mutual discovery by a single movement of the hand, and walked quietly past without pausing. Not until we reached the open fields at the end did my comrade whisper, "a cuckoo," and our hearts, if not our lips, sang with Wordsworth, "Thrice welcome, darling of the spring," for the nest of this shy bird we hardly dared hope to see.