THE OWL
When icicles hang by the wall, And d.i.c.k the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail; When blood is nipped and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, "Tu-who!
Tu-whit! tu-who!" a merry note, While greasy Jean doth clean the pot.
--"Love"s Labour"s Lost," Shakespeare.
ALL ABOUT THE BARRED OR HOOT OWL
SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS
Notes--deep-toned, startling hoot.
Heard most frequently at nesting time.
Upper parts brown, marked with white--face gray, mottled with black, wings and tail barred with brown, eyes blue black, bill yellow, under parts buff marked with darker, legs and feet feathered, bill and claws dark, hooked, strong.
Feeds on chicken, mice, etc.
Usually take an old crow"s or woodp.e.c.k.e.r"s nest for their own use--rarely make nests for themselves. Nest very early in the season, young being sometimes ready to fly early in March.
THE BOBOLINK
[Ill.u.s.tration: The Bobolink]
A SUMMER SONG
He sat upon the tallest bending gra.s.s stalk. He paid not the slightest attention to Phyllis. He just swung lightly with the June breezes, and sang his little heart out.
Such a careless, joyous, jingling song Phyllis had never before heard.
It seemed just a bubbling-over of happiness and gladness.
And such a common-looking little fellow to have such a wonderful voice!
He was but a little larger than a sparrow.
His plumage was mostly black. His wings and tail were edged with pale yellow, and there were splashes of white in places on his body. There was a light yellow spot on the back of his neck.
"You seem filled with gladness," said Phyllis.
The little bird stared at her for a moment. Then he nodded his head, and quivered his small wings. He opened his mouth again and warbled out the jolliest, sweetest tune that bird throat ever sang.
"How very beautiful!" cried Phyllis. "What a world of happiness you send out in that song!"
"Ah, but I should be happy," warbled the sweet-voiced bobolink. "I have all that bird heart can wish!"
"Tell me--" said Phyllis.
"I at last have won my wife," sang the bobolink. "At this very moment, in this very field, she is sitting on a nestful of light blue eggs."
[Ill.u.s.tration: ""She is sitting on a nestful of light blue eggs""]
"Listen, Phyllis, and I will tell you all about it.
"It was about the middle of May when my brothers and I started north.
All winter long we had wandered through the rice-fields of the South.
"We were not happy there. We feared for our lives. There we are not called bobolinks and the people of the South never listen for our songs.
"In fact we seldom sing when we are in the South. The hunters call us "rice-birds" or "reed-birds." With their terrible guns they hunt us early and late.
"It was no wonder, then, that we were so glad to return to the North.
It was a long journey, but we did not tire. In fact we travelled mostly at night. During the day we feasted in the fields or at grain stacks.
"For a few days we flew about here, and sang out our names to every pa.s.ser-by.
"Just ten days after our arrival something very wonderful happened.
Our sisters and wives and sweethearts came with fluttering wings and sweet, quiet ways.
"On that very day I met the lovely bird who now broods so gently over our eggs.
"She seemed to me the most beautiful bobolink that ever was. Early and late I sang to her. My most beautiful songs seemed not half good enough for so lovely a bird.
"I, alas, was not the only bobolink who admired her. My own brother was quite as delighted with her. He, too, sang to her.
"Sometimes we sat in the same tree, each of us singing our hearts out to the shy little creature whom we both loved.
"I am sorry to say we did more than sing for the demure little bird.
We fought for her. We quarrelled fiercely. But at last it was I who won her, and my brother found for himself another wife."
"I wish I could find your nest," said Phyllis.
"It is in this field," said the bobolink. "It is near the brook, and every morning we both fly down there for a refreshing bath.
"I have told you all this, and yet, Phyllis, I venture to say that you might hunt all day among the gra.s.ses and not find my nest. For the leaves and the gra.s.ses bend over and about the nest where my little mate sits.
"Should I call to her she would come to me. You perhaps would run to the spot where she rose from the gra.s.s. But you would not find the nest.
"My wife in her quiet brown dress is too wise for that. She never flies up directly from the nest. She runs a distance among the gra.s.s stems and then starts up from the gra.s.ses.
"There are five eggs in the nest, light blue with spots of blackish brown.
"When they are hatched, you will hear very little music from me. I shall put on a quiet dress, much like the one which my mate now wears, and will work early and late bringing food to my babies.