BIRD STORIES

[Illustration: _Chick, D. D. In his pulpit. _]

_LITTLE GATEWAYS TO SCIENCE_

BIRD STORIES

BY EDITH M. PATCH

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

ROBERT J. SIM

[Illustration]

BOSTONLITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY1926

Copyright, 1921, by

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS

First Impression, May, 1921Second Impression, May, 1922Third Impression, March, 1926

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS PUBLICATIONS

ARE PUBLISHED BY

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

IN ASSOCIATION WITH

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY

_Printed in the United States of America_

TO

JUNIOR AUDUBON CLASSES

AND TO

ALL OTHER BOYS AND GIRLS THROUGHOUT THELAND WHO ARE FRIENDLY TO BIRDS

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

For help in planning this book, for sharing his bird-notes with thewriter, and for a critical reading of the manuscript, acknowledgmentshould be made to Mr. Robert J. Sim. Certain events in the lives of Eveand Petro and little Solomon Otus are told with reference to hisobservations of eave-swallows and screech owls; his trip to an islandoff the Maine coast for gull-sketches added greatly to an acquaintancewith Larie; and but for his six-weeks' visit with the loons of "ImmerLake, " much of the story of Gavia could not have been told. Since Mr. Sim contributed not only the pictures to the book, but many items ofinterest to the narrative, it gives the writer pleasure to acknowledgehis coöperation, both as artist and as field-naturalist. 

EDITH M. PATCH

CONTENTS

I. CHICK, D. D. 1

II. THE FIVE WORLDS OF LARIE 18

III. PETER PIPER 33

IV. GAVIA OF IMMER LAKE 49

V. EVE AND PETRO 66

VI. UNCLE SAM 86

VII. CORBIE 100

VIII. ARDEA'S SOLDIER 121

IX. THE FLYING CLOWN 133

X. THE LOST DOVE 150

XI. LITTLE SOLOMON OTUS 163

XII. BOB, THE VAGABOND 180

NOTES

CONSERVATION 198

NOTES TO THE STORIES 199

A BOOK LIST 208

ILLUSTRATIONS

_Chick, D. D. In his pulpit_ _Frontispiece_

_Firs that pointed to the sky_ 2

_"Woodland Music after an Ice-Storm"_ 4

_Birds, too, that had lived in rough winds_ 25

_Floated beside him in the sea another gull, towhom he talked pleasantly_ 28

_After Larie found a clam, he would fly high intothe air and then drop it_ 30

_It was not for food alone that Larie and his matelived that spring_ 31

_One was named Peter, for his father_ 34

_The spot she teetered to most of all_ 43

_Dallying happily along the river-edge_ 47

_Immer Lake_ 51

_Two babies, not yet out of their eggshells, hidden among the rushes_ 53

_While their children were napping, Gavia andFather Loon went to a party_ 61

_At Work in the Plaster Pit_ 72

_The Hunting Flight_ 74

_They always chatted a bit and then went on withtheir work, placing their plaster carefully_ 77

_Quaint Clay Pottery_ 81

_A Famous Landmark_ 85

_Above all other creatures of this great land he hadbeen honored_ 87

_The Yankee-Doodle Twins_ 90

_In this Mother Crow had laid her eggs_ 101

_"Kah! Kah! Kah!" he called from sun-up tosun-down_ 109

_Corbie slipped off and amused himself_ 116

_She wore, draped from her shoulders, snowy plumesof rare beauty_ 122

_Near Ardea's Home_ 124

_That criss-cross pile of old dead twigs was a dearhome, and they both guarded it_ 127

_The Flying Clown_ 135

_Peaceful enough, indeed, had been the broodingdays_ 141

_The little rascals could practise the art ofcamouflage_ 144

_Suppose you should find just one pair_ 153

_Through all the lonesome woods there is notone dove_ 158

_Once, so many flew by, that the sound of theirwings was like the sound of thunder_ 161

_Oh, the wise, wise look of him_ 165

_Solomon knew the runways of the mice_ 168

_Those five adorable babies of Solomon_ 171

_He passed the brightest hours dozing_ 174

_It was time for the Feast of the Vagabonds_ 185

_Something south of the Amazon kept calling tohim_ 189

_Nature has kept faith with him and brought himsafely back to his meadow_ 195

BIRD STORIES

I

CHICK, D. D. 

Right in the very heart of Christmas-tree Land there was a forest offirs that pointed to the sky as straight as steeples. A hush lay overthe forest, as if there were something very wonderful there, that mightbe meant for you if you were quiet and waited for it to come. Perhapsyou have felt like that when you walked down the aisle of a church, withthe sun shining through the lovely glass in the windows. Men have oftencalled the woods "temples"; so there is, after all, nothing so verystrange in having a preacher live in the midst of the fir forest thatgrew in Christmas-tree Land. 

And the sermon itself was not very strange, for it was about peace andgood-will and love and helping the world and being happy--all veryproper things to hear about while the bells in the city churches, way, way off, were ringing their glad messages from the steeples. 

But the minister was a queer one, and his very first words would havemade you smile. Not that you would have laughed at him, you know. Youwould have smiled just because he had a way of making you feel happyfrom the minute he began. 

He sat on a small branch, and looked down from his pulpit with a dearnod of his little head, which would have made you want to cuddle him inthe hollow of your two hands. 

[Illustration: _Firs that pointed to the sky. _]

His robe was of gray and white and buff-colored feathers, and he wore ablack-feather cap and bib. 

He began by singing his name. "Chick, D. D. , " he called. Now, when aperson has "D. D. " written after his name, we have a right to think thathe is trying to live so wisely that he can teach us how to be happier, too. Of course Minister Chick had not earned those letters by studyingin college, like most parsons; but he had learned the secret of a happyheart in his school in the woods. 

Yes, he began his service by singing his name; but the real sermon hepreached by the deeds he did and the life he lived. So, while we listento his happy song, we can watch his busy hours, until we are acquaintedwith the little black-capped minister who called himself "Chick, D. D. "

Chick's Christmas-trees were decorated, and no house in the whole worldhad one lovelier that morning than the hundreds that were all about himas far as he could see. The dark-green branches of the pines and cedarshad held themselves out like arms waiting to be filled, and the snow hadbeen dropped on them in fluffy masses, by a quiet, windless storm. Ithad been very soft and lovely that way--a world all white and greenbelow, with a sky of wonderful blue that the firs pointed to likesteeples. Then, as if that were not decoration enough, another storm hadcome, and had put on the glitter that was brightest at the edge of theforest where the sun shone on it. The second storm had covered the softwhite with dazzling ice. It had swept across the white-barked birchtrees and their purple-brown branches, and had left them shining allover. It had dripped icicles from the tips of all the twigs that nowshone in the sunlight brighter than candles, and tinkled like littlebells, when the breezes clicked them together, in a tune that is called, "Woodland Music after an Ice-Storm. "

[Illustration: "_Woodland Music after an Ice-Storm. _"]

That is the tune that played all about the black-capped bird as heflitted out of the forest, singing, "Chick, D. D. , " as he came. Theclear cold air and the exercise of flying after his night's sleep hadgiven Chick a good healthy appetite, and he had come out for hisbreakfast. 

He liked eggs very well, and there were, as he knew, plenty of them onthe birch trees, for many a time he had breakfasted there. Eggs withshiny black shells, not so big as the head of a pin; so wee, indeed, that it took a hundred of them or more to make a meal for even littleChick. 

But he wasn't lazy. He didn't have to have eggs cooked and brought tohis table. He loved to hunt for them, and they were never too cold forhim to relish; so out he came to the birch trees, with a cheery "Chick, D. D. , " as if he were saying grace for the good food tucked here andthere along the branches. 

When he alighted, though, it wasn't the bark he found, but a hard, thickcoating of ice. The branches rattled together as he moved among them andthe icicles that dangled down rang and clicked as they struck oneanother. The ice-storm had locked in Chick's breakfast eggs, and, try ashe would with his little beak, he couldn't get through to find them. 

So Chick's Christmas Day began with hardship: for, though he sang gaylythrough the coldest weather, he needed food to keep him strong and warm. He was not foolish enough to spend his morning searching through theicy birch trees, for he had a wise little brain in his head and soonfound out that it was no use to stay there. But he didn't go back to theforest and mope about it. Oh, no. Off he flew, down the short hillslope, seeking here and there as he went. 

Where the soil was rocky under the snow, some sumachs grew, and theirbranches of red berries looked like gay Christmas decorations. The snowthat had settled heavily on them had partly melted, and the soakedberries had stained it so that it looked like delicious pink ice-cream. Some of the stain had dripped to the snow below, so there were placesthat looked like pink ice-cream there, too. Then the ice-storm hadcrusted it over, and now it was a beautiful bit of bright color in themidst of the white-and-green-and-blue Christmas. 

Chick stopped hopefully at the sumach bushes, not because he knewanything about ice-cream or cared a great deal about the berries; butsometimes there were plump little morsels hidden among them, that heliked to pull out and eat. If there was anything there that morning, though, it was locked in under the ice; and Chick flew on to the willowsthat showed where the brook ran in summer. 

Ah, the willow cones! Surely they would not fail him! He would put hisbill in at the tip and down the very middle, and find a good tasty bitto start with, and then he would feel about in other parts of the conefor small insects, which often creep into such places for the winter. The flight to the willows was full of courage. Surely there would be abreakfast there for a hungry Chick!

But the ice was so heavy on the willows that it had bent them down tillthe tips lay frozen into the crust below. 

So from pantry to pantry Chick flew that morning, and every single oneof them had been locked tight with an icy key. The day was very cold. Soon after the ice-storm, the mercury in the thermometer over at theFarm-House had dropped way down below the zero mark, and the wind was inthe north. But the cold did not matter if Chick could find food. Hisfeet were bare; but that did not matter, either, if he could eat. Nothing mattered to the brave little black-capped fellow, except that hewas hungry, oh, so hungry! and he had heard no call from anywhere totell him that any other bird had found a breakfast, either. 

No, the birds were all quiet, and the distant church-bells had stoppedtheir chimes, and the world was still. Still, except for the click ofthe icicles on the twigs when Chick or the wind shook them. 

Then, suddenly, there was a sound so big and deep that it seemed to fillall the space from the white earth below to the blue sky above. Aroaring BOOOOOOOM, which was something like the waves rushing against arocky shore, and something like distant thunder, and something like thenoise of a great tree crashing to the earth after it has been cut, andsomething like the sound that comes before an earthquake. 

It is not strange that Chick did not know that sound. No one ever hearsanything just like it, unless he is out where the snow is very light andvery deep and covered with a crust. 

Then, if the crust is broken suddenly in one place, it may settle likethe top of a puffed-up pie that is pricked; and the air that has beenprisoned under the crust is pushed out with a strange and mighty sound. 

So that big BOOOOOOOM meant that something had broken the icy crustwhich, a moment before, had lain over the soft snow, all whole, for amile one way and a mile another way, and half a mile to the Farm-House. 

Yes, there was the Farmer Boy coming across the field, to the orchardthat stood on the sandy hillside near the fir forest. He was walking onsnowshoes, which cracked the crust now and then; and twice on the way tothe orchard he heard a deep BOOOOOOOM, which he loved just as much as heloved the silence of the field when he stopped to listen now and then. For the winter sounds were so dear to the Farmer Boy who lived at theedge of Christmas-tree Land, that he would never forget them even whenhe should become a man. He would always remember the snowshoe trampsacross the meadow; and in after years, when his shoulders held burdenshe could not see, he would remember the bulky load he carried thatmorning without minding the weight a bit; for it was a big bag full ofChristmas gifts, and the more heavily it pressed against his shoulder, the lighter his heart felt. 

When he reached the orchard, he dropped the bag on the snow and openedit. Part of the gifts he spilled in a heap near the foot of a tree, andthe rest he tied here and there to the branches. Then he stood still andwhistled a clear sweet note that sounded like "Fee-bee. "

Now, Chick, over by the willows had not known what BOOOOOOOM meant, forthat was not in his language. But he understood "Fee-bee" in a minute, although it was not nearly so loud. For those were words he often usedhimself. They meant, perhaps, many things; but always somethingpleasant. "Fee-bee" was a call he recognized as surely as one boyrecognizes the signal whistle of his chum. 

So, of course, Chick flew to the orchard as quickly as he could andfound his present tied fast to a branch. The smell of it, the feel ofit, the taste of it, set him wild with joy. He picked at it with hishead up, and sang "Chick, D. D. " He picked at it with his head down andcalled, "Chick, D. D. D. D. D. D. D. , Chick, D. D. " He flew here and there, toogay with happiness to stay long anywhere, and found presents tied toother branches, too. At each one he sang "Chick, D. D. , Chick, D. D. D. DeeDeee Deeee. " It was, "indeed" the song of a hungry bird who had foundgood rich suet to nibble. 

The Farmer Boy smiled when he heard it, and waited, for he thoughtothers would hear it, too. And they did. Two birds with black-feathercap and bib heard it and came; and before they had had time to gofrantic with delight and song, three others just like them came, andthen eight more, and by that time there was such a "Chick"-ing and"D. D. "-ing and such a whisking to and fro of black caps and black bibs, that no one paid much attention when Minister Chick, D. D. , himself, perched on a branch for a minute, and gave the sweetest little warblethat was ever heard on a winter's day. Then he whistled "Fee-bee" veryclearly, and went to eating again, heeding the Farmer Boy no more thanif he were not there at all. 

And he wasn't there very long; for he was hungry, too; and that made himthink about the good whiff he had smelled when he went through thekitchen with the snowshoes under his arm, just before he strapped themover his moccasins outside the door. 

Yes, that was the Farmer Boy going away with a clatterover the snow-crust; but who were these coming throughthe air, with jerky flight, and with a jerky note something like"Twitterty-twit-twitterty-twit-twitterty-twitterty-twitterty-twit"? Theyflew like goldfinches, and they sounded like goldfinches, both in thetwitterty song of their flight and their "Tweeet" as they called oneanother. But they were not goldfinches. Oh, my, no! For they weredressed in gray, with darker gray stripes at their sides; and when theyscrambled twittering down low enough to show their heads in thesunlight, they could be seen to be wearing the loveliest of crimsoncaps, and some of them had rosy breasts. 

The redpolls had come! And they found on top of the snow a pile of dustysweepings from the hay-mow, with grass-seeds in it and some cracked cornand crumbs. And there were squash-seeds, and sunflower-seeds, and seedyapple-cores that had been broken up in the grinder used to crunch bonesfor the chickens; and there were prune-pits that had been cracked with ahammer. 

The joy-songs of the birds over the suet and seeds seemed a signalthrough the countryside; and before long others came, too. 

Among them there was a black-and-white one, with a patch of scarlet onthe back of his head, who called, "Ping, " as if he were speaking throughhis nose. There was one with slender bill and bobbed-off tail, blackcap and white breast, grunting, "Yank yank, " softly, as he ate. 

But there was none to come who was braver or happier than Chick, D. D. , and none who sang so gayly. After that good Christmas feast he and hisflock returned each day; and when, in due time, the ice melted from thebranches, it wasn't just suet they ate. It was other things, too. 

That is how it happened that when, early in the spring, the Farmer Boyexamined the apple-twigs, to see whether he should put on a nicotinespray for the aphids and an arsenical spray for the tent caterpillars, he couldn't find enough aphids to spray or enough caterpillars, either. Chick, D. D. And his flock had eaten their eggs. 

Again, late in the summer, when it was time for the yellow-neckedcaterpillars, the red-humped caterpillars, the tiger caterpillars, andthe rest of the hungry crew, to strip the leaves from the orchard, theFarmer Boy walked among the rows, to see how much poison he would needto buy for the August spray. And again he found that he needn't buy asingle pound. Chick, D. D. And his family were tending his orchard!

Yes, Minister Chick was a servant in the good world he lived in. Hesaved leaves for the trees, he saved rosy apples for city girls andboys to eat, and he saved many dollars in time and spray-money for theFarmer Boy. 

And all he charged was a living wage: enough suet in winter to tide himover the icy spells, and free house-rent in the old hollow post theFarmer Boy had nailed to the trunk of one of the apple trees. 

That old hollow post was a wonderful home. Chick, D. D. Had crept into itfor the first time Christmas afternoon, when he had eaten until duskovertook him before he had time to fly back to the shelter of the firforest. He found that he liked that post. Its walls were thick and theykept out the wind; and, besides, was it not handy by the suet?

In the spring he liked it for another reason, too--the best reason inthe world. It gave great happiness to Mrs. Chick. "Fee-bee?" he hadasked her as he called her attention to it; and "Fee-bee, " she hadreplied on looking it over. So he said, "Chick, D. D. " in delight, andthen perched near by, while he warbled cosily a brief song jumbled fullof joy. 

Chick and his mate had indeed chosen well, for it is a poor wall thatwill not work both ways. If the sides of the hollow post had been thickenough to keep out the coldest of the winter cold, they were also thickenough to keep out the hottest of the summer heat. If they kept out thewet of the driving storm, they held enough of the old-wood moisturewithin so that the room did not get too dry. Of course, it needed alittle repair. But, then, what greater fun than putting improvementsinto a home? Especially when it can be done by the family, withoutexpense!

So Mr. And Mrs. Chick fell to work right cheerily, and dug the holedeeper with their beaks. They didn't leave the chips on the groundbefore their doorway, either. They took them off to some distance, andhad no heap near by, as a sign to say, "A bird lives here. " For, sociable as they were all winter, they wanted quiet and seclusion withinthe walls of their own home. 

And such a home it was! After it had been hollowed to a suitable depth, Chick had brought in a tuft of white hair that a rabbit had left amongthe brambles. Mrs. Chick had found some last year's thistle-down andsome this year's poplar cotton, and a horse-hair from the lane. ThenChick had picked up a gay feather that had floated down from a scarletbird that sang in the tree-tops, and tore off silk from a cocoon. So, bit by bit, they gathered their treasures, until many a woodland andmeadow creature and plant had had a share in the softness of a nestworthy of eight dear white eggs with reddish-brown spots upon them. Itwas such a soft nest, in fact, with such dear eggs in it, that Chickbrooded there cosily himself part of the time, and was happy to bringfood to his mate when she took her turn. 

In eleven or twelve days from the time the eggs were laid, there wereten birds in that home instead of two. The fortnight that followed wastoo busy for song. Chick and his mate looked the orchard over even morethoroughly than the Farmer Boy did; and before those eight hungry babiesof theirs were ready to leave the nest, it began to seem as if Chick hadeaten too many insect eggs in the spring, there were so few caterpillarshatching out. But the fewer there were, the harder they hunted; and theharder they hunted, the scarcer became the caterpillars. So when Dee, Chee, Fee, Wee, Lee, Bee, Mee, and Zee were two weeks old, and came outof the hollow post to seek their own living, the whole family had totake to the birches until a new crop of insect eggs had been laid in theorchard. This was no hardship. It only added the zest of travel andadventure to the pleasure of the days. Besides, it isn't just orchardsthat Chick, D. D. And his kind take care of. It is forests andshade-trees, too. 

Hither and yon they hopped and flitted, picking the weevils out of thedead tips of the growing pine trees, serving the beech trees such a goodturn that the beechnut crop was the heavier for their visit, doing a bitfor the maple-sugar trees, and so on through the woodland. 

Not only did they mount midget guard over the mighty trees, but theyacted as pilots to hungry birds less skillful than themselves in findingthe best feeding-places. "Chick, D. D. D. D. D. , " they called inthanksgiving, as they found great plenty; and warblers and kinglets andcreepers and many a bird beside knew the sound, and gathered there toshare the bountiful feast that Chick, D. D. Had discovered. 

The gorgeous autumn came, the brighter, by the way, for the leaves thatChick had saved. The Bob-o-links, in traveling suits, had already leftfor the prairies of Brazil and Paraguay, by way of Florida and Jamaica. The strange honk of geese floated down from V-shaped flocks, as if theywere calling, "Southward Ho!" The red-winged blackbirds gave a wonderfulfarewell chorus. Flock by flock and kind by kind, the migrating birdsdeparted. 

_WHY?_

Well, never ask Chick, D. D. The north with its snows is good enough forhim. Warblers may go and nuthatches may come. 'Tis all one to Chick. Heis not a bird to follow fashions others set. 

This bird-of-the-happy-heart has courage to meet the coldest day with ajoyous note of welcome. The winter is cheerier for his song. And, as youhave guessed, it is not by word alone that he renders service. The treesof the north are the healthier for his presence. Because of him, thepurse of man is fatter, and his larder better stocked. He has done noharm as harm is counted in the world he lives in. It is written in booksthat, in all the years, not one crime, not even one bad habit, is knownof any bird who has called himself "Chick, D. D. "

Because the world is always better for his living in it; and because noone can watch the black-capped sprite without catching, for a moment atleast, a message of cheer and courage and service, does he not namehimself rightly a minister?

Yes, surely, the little parson who dwells in the heart of Christmas-treeLand has a right to his "D. D. , " even though he did not earn it in acollege of men. 

II

THE FIVE WORLDS OF LARIE

Larie was all alone in a little world. He had lived there many days, andhad spent the time, minute by minute and hour by hour, doing nothing atall but growing. That one thing he had done well. There is no doubtabout that; for he had grown from a one-celled little beginning of lifeinto a creature so big that he filled the whole of his world crammedfull. It was smooth, and it was hard, and its sides were curved aroundand about him so tightly that he could not even stretch his legs. Therewas no door. Larie was a prisoner. The prison-walls of his world heldhim so fast that he could not budge. That is, he could not budgeanything but his head. He could move that a little. 

Now, that is what we might call being in a fairly tight place. But youdon't know Larie if you think he could not get out of it. There are fewplaces so tight that we can't get out of them if we go about it theright way, and make the best of what power we have. That is just whatLarie did. He had power to move his head enough to tap, with his beak, against the wall of his world that had become his prison. So he kepttapping with his beak. On the end of it was a queer little knob. Withthis he knocked against the hard smooth wall. 

"Tap! tip tip!" went Larie's knob. Then he would rest, for it is noteasy work hammering and pounding, all squeezed in so tight. But he keptat it again and again and again. And then at last he cracked hisprison-wall; and lo, it was not a very thick wall after all! No thickerthan an eggshell!

That is the way with many difficulties. They seem so very hard at first, and so very hopeless, and then end by being only a way to somethingvery, very pleasant. 

So here was Larie in his second world. Its thin, soft floor and itsthick, soft sides were made of fine bright-green grass, which had turnedyellowish in drying. It had no roof. The sun shone in at the top. Thewind blew over. There had been no sun or wind in his eggshell world. Itwas comfortable to have them now. They dried his down and made itfluffy. There was plenty of room for its fluffiness. He could stretchhis legs, too, and could wiggle his wings against his sides. This feltgood. And he could move his head all he cared to. But he did not beginthumping the sides of his new world with it. He tucked it down betweentwo warm little things close by, and went to sleep. The two warm littlethings were his sister and brother, for Larie was not alone in hisnest-world. 

The sun went down and the wind blew cold and the rain beat hard from theeast; but Larie knew nothing of all this. A roof had settled down overhis world while he napped. It was white as sea foam, and soft and dryand, oh, so very cosy, as it spread over him. The roof to Larie's secondworld was his mother's breast. 

The storm and the night passed, and the sun and the fresh spring breezeagain came in at the top of the nest. Then something very big stood nearand made a shadow, and Larie heard a strange sound. The something verybig was his mother, and the strange sound was her first call tobreakfast. When Larie heard that, he opened his mouth. But nothing wentinto it. His brother and sister were being fed. He had never had anyfood in his mouth in all the days of his life. To be sure, his egg-worldwas filled with nourishment that he had taken into his body and had usedin growing; but he had never done anything with his beak except to knockwith the knob at the end of it against the shell when he pipped his wayout. What a handy little knob that had been--just right for tapping. But, now that there was no hard wall about him to break, what should heuse it for? Well, nothing at all; for the joke of it is, there was noknob there. It had dropped off, and he could never have another. 

Never mind: he could open his beak just as well without it; andby-and-by his mother came again with a second call for breakfast, andthat time Larie got his share. After that, there were calls for luncheonand for dinner, and luncheon again between that and supper; and part ofthe calls were from Mother and part from Father Gull. 

Larie's second world, it seems, was a place where he and his brother andsister were hungry and were fed. This is a world in which dwell, for atime, all babies, whether they have two legs, like you and Larie, orfour, like a pig with a curly tail, or six, like Nata who lived inShanty Creek. [1] An important world it is, too; for health and strengthand growing up, all depend upon it. 

There was, however, only a rim of soft fine dry grass to show whereLarie's nest-world left off and his third world began. So it is notsurprising that, as soon as their legs were strong enough, Larie and hisbrother and sister stepped abroad; for what baby does not creep out ofhis crib as soon as ever he can?

They could not, for all this show of bravery, feed themselves like thesons of Peter Pan, or swim the waters like Gavia's two Olairs at ImmerLake. However grown up the three youngsters may have felt when theybegan to walk, Father and Mother Gull made no mistake about the matter, but fed them breakfasts, dinners, and suppers, and stuffed them so fullof luncheons between meals, that the greedy little things just had togrow, so as to be able to swallow all that was brought them. 

There were times, certainly, when Larie still felt very much a baby, even though he ran about nimbly enough. For instance, when he made amistake and asked some gull, that was not his father or mother, forfood, and got a rough beating instead of what he begged for!

Oh, then he felt like a forlorn little baby, indeed; for it was notpleasant to be whipped, and that sometimes cruelly, when he didn't knowany better; for all the big gulls looked alike, with their foam-whitebodies and their pearl-gray capes, and they were all bringing food; sohow could he know who were and who were not his Father and Mother Gull?Well, he must learn to be careful, that was all, and stay where his veryown could find and feed him; for gulls can waste no time on the young ofother gulls--their own keep them busy enough, the little greedies!

Again, Larie must have felt very wee and helpless whenever a big manwalked that way, shaking the ground with his heavy step and making adark shadow as he came. Then, oh, then, Larie was a baby, and hid near atuft of grass or between two stones, tucking his head out of sight, andkeeping quite still as an ostrich does, or, --yes, --as perhaps a shyyoung human does, who hides his head in the folds of his mother's skirtwhen a stranger asks him to shake hands. 

But few men trod upon Larie's island-world, and no man came to do himharm; for _the regulations under the Migratory-Bird Treaty Act prohibitthroughout the United States the killing of gulls at any time_. Thatmeans that the laws of our country protect the gull, as of course youwill understand, though Larie knew nothing about the matter. 

Yes, think of it! There was a law, made at Washington in the District ofColumbia, which helped take care of little downy Larie way off in thenorth on a rocky island. 

I said "helped take care of"; for no law, however good it may be, canmore than help make matters right. There has to be, besides, some sortof policeman to stand by the law and see that it is obeyed. 

So Larie, although he never knew that, either, had a policeman; and thelaw and the policeman together kept him quite safe from the dangerswhich not many years ago most threatened the gulls on our coast islands. In those days, before there were gull-laws and gull-policemen, peoplecame to the nests and took their eggs, which are larger than hens' eggsand good to eat; and people came, too, and killed these birds for theirfeathers. Then it was that the beautiful stiff wing-feathers, whichshould have been spread in flight, were worn upon the hats of women; andthe soft white breast-feathers, which should have been brooding brownisheggs all spattered over with pretty marks, were stuffed intofeather-beds for people to sleep on. 

Well it was for Larie that he lived when he did; for his third world wasa wonderful place and it was right that he should enjoy it in safety. When Larie first left his nest and went out to walk, he stepped upon ashelf of reddish rock, and the whole wall from which his shelf stuck outwas reddish rock, too. Beyond, the rocks were greenish, and beyond thatthey were gray. Oh! the reddish and greenish and grayish rocks werebeautiful to see when the fog lifted and the sun shone on them. 

But Larie's island-world was not all rock of different colors: for overthere, not too far away to see, was a dark-green spruce tree. Becauserough winds had swept over this while it was growing, its branches werescraggly and twisted. They could not grow straight and even, like a treein a quiet forest. But never think, for all of that, that Larie's sprucewas not good to look upon. There is something splendid about a treewhich, though bending to the will of the mighty winds that work theirforce upon it, grows sturdy and strong in spite of all. Such trees aresomehow like boys and girls, who meet hardships with such courage whenthey are young, that they grow strong and sturdy of spirit, and warm ofheart, with the sort of mind that can understand trouble in the world, and so think of ways to help it. 

[Illustration: _Birds, too, that had lived in rough winds. _]

Yes, perhaps Larie's tree was an emblem of courage. However that may be, it was a favorite spot on the island. Often it could be seen, that dark, rugged tree, which had battled with winds from its seedling days andgrown victoriously, with three white gulls resting on its squarishtop--birds, too, that had lived in rough winds and had grown strong intheir midst. 

There was more on the island than rocks and trees. Over much of it lay acarpet of grass. Soft and fine and vivid green it was, of the kind thathad been gathered for Larie's nest and had turned yellowish in drying. Under the carpet, in underground lanes as long as a man's long arm, lived Larie's young neighbor-folk--little petrels, sometimes called"Mother Carey's Chickens. "

There was even more on the island yet: for high on the rocks stood alighthouse; and the man who kept the signal lights in order was no otherthan Larie's policeman himself. A useful life he lived, saving ships ofthe sea by the power of light, and birds of the sea by the power of law. 

So that was Larie's third world--an island with a soft rug ofbright-green grass, and big shelfy rocks of red and green and gray, andrugged dark-green trees, with white gulls resting on the branches, and alighthouse with its signal. 

All around and about that island lay Larie's fourth world--the sea. When his great day for swimming came, he slipped off into the water; andafter that it was his, whenever he wished--his to swim or float upon, the wide-away ocean reaching as far as any gull need care to swim orfloat. 

All over and above the sea stretched Larie's fifth world--the air. Whenhis great day for flying came, he rose against the breeze, and his wingstook him into that high-away kingdom that lifted as far as any gull needcare to fly. 

Now that Larie could both swim and fly, he was large, and acted in manyways like an old gull; but the feathers of his body were not white, andhe did not wear over his back and the top of his spread wings apearl-gray mantle. 

Nor was he given the garb of his father and mother for a traveling suit, that winter when he went south with the others, to a place where theGulf Stream warmed the water whereon he swam and the air wherein heflew. 

But there came a time when Larie had put off the clothes of his youthand donned the robe of a grown gull. And as he sailed in the breezes ofhis fifth world, which blew over the cold sea, and across the islandwith a carpet of green and rocks of red and green and gray, --for he wasagain in the North, --he was beautiful to behold, the flight of a gullbeing so wonderful that the heart of him who sees quickens with joy. 

Larie was not alone. There were so many with him that, when they flewtogether in the distance, they looked as thick as snowflakes in the air;and when they screamed together, the din was so great that people whowere not used to hearing them put their hands over their ears. 

And more than that, Larie was not alone; for there sailed near him inthe air and floated beside him in the sea another gull, at whom he didnot scream, but to whom he talked pleasantly, saying, "me-you, " in amusical tone that she understood. 

[Illustration: _Floated beside him in the sea another gull, to whom hetalked pleasantly. _]

Larie and his mate found much to do that spring. One game that neverfailed to interest them was meeting the ships many, many waves out atsea, and following them far on their way. For on the ships were men whothrew away food they could not use, and the gulls gathered in flocks toscramble and fight for this. Children on board the ships laughed merrilyto see them, and tossed crackers and biscuits out for the fun ofwatching the hungry-birds come close, to feed. 

Many a feast, too, the fishermen gave the gulls, when they sorted thecontents of their nets and threw aside what they did not want. 

Besides this, Larie and his mate and their comrades picnicked in highglee at certain harbors where garbage was left; for gulls are thriftyfolk and do not waste the food of the world. 

From their feeding habits you will know that these beautiful birds arescavengers, eating things which, if left on the sea or shore, would makethe water foul and the air impure. Thus it is that Nature gives to ascavenger the duty of service to all living creatures; and the freshnessof the ocean and the cleanness of the sands of the shore are in part agift of the gulls, for which we should thank and protect them. 

Relish as they might musty bread and mouldy meat, Larie and his mateenjoyed, too, the sport of catching fresh food; and many a clam huntthey had in true gull style. They would fly above the water near theshore, and when they were twenty or thirty feet high, would plunge downhead-first. Then they would poke around for a clam, with their heads andnecks under water and their wings out and partly unfolded, but notflopping; and a comical sight they were!

[Illustration: _After Larie found a clam, he would fly high into the aira hundred feet or so, and then drop it. _]

[Illustration: _It was not for food alone that Larie and his mate livedthat spring. _]

After Larie found a clam, he would fly high into the air a hundred feetor so above the rocks, and then, stretching way up with his head, dropthe clam from his beak. Easily, with wings fluttering slightly, Lariewould follow the clam, floating gracefully, though quickly, down towhere it had cracked upon the rocks. The morsel in its broken shell wasnow ready to eat, for Larie and his mate did not bake their sea-food ormake it into chowder. Cold salad flavored with sea-salt was all theyneeded. 

Exciting as were these hunts with the flocks of screaming gulls, it wasnot for food alone that Larie and his mate lived that spring. For underthe blue of the airy sky there was an ocean, and in that ocean there wasan island, and on that island there was a nest, and in that nest therewas an egg--the first that the mate of Larie had ever laid. And in thategg was a growing gull, their eldest son--a baby Larie, alone inside hisvery first world. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: _Hexapod Stories_, page 80. ]

III

PETER PIPER

One was named Sandy, because Sandy is a Scotch name and there wereblue-bells growing on the rocks; so it seemed right that one of themshould have a Scotch name, and what could be better, after all, thanSandy for a sandpiper? One was named Pan, because he piped sweetly amongthe reeds by the river. One, who came out of his eggshell before hisbrothers, was named Peter, for his father. 

But Mother Piper never called her children Sandy and Pan and Peter. Shecalled them all "Pete. " She was so used to calling her mate "Pete, " thatthat name was easier than any other for her to say. 

The three of them played by the river all day long. Each amused himselfin his own way and did not bother his brothers, although they did notstray too far apart to talk to one another. This they did by saying, "Peep, " now and then. 

About once an hour, and sometimes oftener, Mother Piper came flying overfrom Faraway Island, crying, "Pete, Pete, Pete, " as if she were worried. It is no wonder that she was anxious about Sandy and Peter and Pan, for, to begin with, she had had four fine children, and the very first nightthey were out of their nest, the darlings, a terrible prowling animalnamed Tom or Tabby had killed one of her babies. 

[Illustration: _One was named Peter, for his father. _]

But Peter and Pan and Sandy were too young to know much about beingafraid. So they played by the river all day long, care-free and happy. Their sweet little voices sounded contented as they said, "Peep, " oneto another. Their queer little tails looked frisky as they wentbob-bob-bob-bing up and down every time they stepped, and sometimes whenthey didn't. Their dear little heads went forward and back in a merrysort of jerk. There were so many things to do, and every one of them apleasure!

Oh! here was Sandy clambering up the rocky bank, so steep that there wasroothold only for the blue-bells, with stems so slender that one namefor them is "hair-bell. " But Sandy did not fall. He tripped lightly upand about, with sure feet; and where the walking was too hard, hefluttered his wings and flew to an easier place. Once he reached the topof the bank, where the wild roses were blossoming. And wherever he went, and wherever he came, he found good tasty insects to eat; so he hadpicnic-luncheons all along the way. 

Ho! here was Pan wandering where the river lapped the rocky shore. Hislong slender legs were just right for wading, and his toes feltcomfortable in the cool water. There was a pleasing scent from thesweet-gale bushes, which grew almost near enough to the river to gowading, too; and there was a spicy smell when he brushed against themint, which wore its blossoms in pale purple tufts just above the leavesalong the stem. And every now and then, whether he looked at the top ofthe water or at the rocks on the shore-edge, he found tempting bits ofinsect game to eat as he waded along. 

Oho! here was Peter on an island as big as an umbrella, with ascooped-out place at one side as deep as the hollow in the palm of aman's hand. This was shaped exactly right for Peter's bathtub, and asluck would have it, it was filled to the brim with water. Such a coolsplashing--once, twice, thrice, with a long delightful flutter; and thenout into the warm sunshine, where the feathers could be puffed out anddried! These were the very first real feathers he had ever had, and hehadn't had them very long; and my, oh, my! but it was fun running hisbeak among them, and fixing them all fine, like a grown-up bird. Andwhen he was bathed and dried, there was a snack to eat near by floatingtoward him on the water. 

Oh! Ho! and Oho! it was a day to be gay in, with so many new amusementswherever three brave, fearless little sandpipers might stray. 

Then came sundown; and in the pleasant twilight Peter and Pan and Sandysomehow found themselves near each other on the bank, still walkingforth so brave and bold, and yet each close enough to his brothers tohear a "Peep, " were it ever so softly whispered. 

Did it just happen that about that time Mother Piper came flying lowover the water from Faraway Island to Nearby Island, calling, "Pete, Pete, Pete, " in a different tone, a sort of sundown voice?

Was that the way to speak to three big, 'most-grown-up sandpiper sons, who had wandered about so free of will the livelong day?

Ah, but where were the 'most-grown-up sons? Gone with the sun atsundown; and, instead, there were three cosy little birds, with theirheads still rumpled over with down that was not yet pushed off the endsof their real feathers, and a tassel of down still dangling from the tipof each funny tail. 

And three dear, sweet, little voices answered, "Peep, " every time MotherPiper called, "Pete"; and three little sons tagged obediently after heras she called them from place to place all round and all about NearbyIsland, teaching them, perhaps, to make sure there was no Tabby and noTommy on their camping-ground. 

So it was that, after twilight, when darkness was at hand and the curfewsounded for human children to be at home, Peter and Pan and Sandysettled down near each other and near Mother Piper for the night. 

And where was Peter Piper, who had been abroad the day long, payinglittle attention to his family? He, too, at nightfall, had come flyinglow from Faraway Island; and now, with his head tucked behind his wing, was asleep not a rod away from Mother Piper and their three sons. 

Somehow it was very pleasant to know that they were near togetherthrough the starlight--the five of them who had wandered forth alone bysunlight. 

But not for long was the snug little Nearby Island to serve for a nightcamp. Mother Piper had other plans. Like the wise person she was, shelet her children find out many things for themselves, though she kept intouch with them from time to time during the day, to satisfy herselfthat they were safe. And at night she found that they were willingenough to mind what they were told to do, never seeming to bother theirheads over the fact that every now and then she led them to a strangecamp-ground. 

So they did not seem surprised or troubled when, one night soon, MotherPiper, instead of calling them to Nearby Island, as had been her wont, rested patiently in plain sight on a stump near the shore and, withnever a word, waited for the sunset hour to reach the time of dusk. Thenshe flew to the log where Peter Piper had been teetering up and down, and what she said to him I do not know. But a minute later, back sheflew, this time rather high overhead, and swooped down toward the littleones with a quick "Pete-weet. " After her came Peter Piper flying, alsorather high overhead, and swooping down toward his young. Then Motherand Peter Piper went in low, slow flight to Faraway Island. 

Were they saying good-night to their babies? Were their sons to be lefton the bank by themselves, now that they had shaken the last fringe ofdown from their tails and lost the fluff from their heads? Did they needno older company, now that they looked like grown-up sandpipers exceptthat their vests had no big polka dots splashed over them?

Ah, no! At Mother Piper's "Pete-weet, " Peter answered, "Peep, " liftedhis wings, and flew right past Nearby Island and landed on a rock onFaraway Island. And, "Peep, " called Sandy, fluttering after. And, "Peep, " said Pan, stopping himself in the midst of his teetering, andflying over Nearby Island on his way to the new camp-ground. 

That is how it happened that they had their last luncheon on the shoreof Faraway Island before snuggling down to sleep that night. 

One of the haunts of Peter and Pan and Sandy was Cardinal-Flower Path. This lovely place was along the marshy shore not far from Nearby Island. It was almost white with the fine blooms of water-parsnip, aninteresting plant from the top of its blossom head to the lowest of itsqueer under-water leaves. And here and there, among the lacy white, astalk of a different sort grew, with red blossoms of a shade so richthat it is called the cardinal flower. Every now and then aruby-throated hummingbird darted quickly above the water-parsnipsstraight to the cardinal throat of the other flower, and foundrefreshment served in frail blossom-ware of the glorious color he lovedbest of all. 

And it would be well for all children of men to know that, althoughthree bright active children of sandpipers ran teetering aboutCardinal-Flower Path many and many a day, the place was as lovely tolook upon at sundown as at sunrise, for not one wonderful spray had beenbroken from its stem. So it happened, because the children who playedthere were Sandy and Peter and Pan, that the cardinal flowers livedtheir life as it was given them by Nature, serving refreshments forhummingbirds through the summer day, and setting seeds according totheir kind for other cardinal flowers and other hummingbirds anotheryear. 

But even the charms of Cardinal-Flower Path did not hold Pan and Peterand Sandy many weeks. They seemed to be a sort of gypsy folk, with thelove of wandering in their hearts; and it is pleasant to know that, assoon as they were grown enough, there was nothing to prevent theirjourneying forth with Peter and Mother Piper. 

Of all the strange and wonderful plants and birds and insects they metupon the way I cannot tell you, for, in all my life, I have not traveledso far as these three children went long before they were one year old. They went, in fact, way to the land where the insects live that are sohard and beautiful and gemlike that people sometimes use them forjewels. These are called "Brazilian beetles, " and you can tell by thatname where the Pipers spent the winter, though it may seem a very farway for a young bird to go, with neither train nor boat to give him alift. 

Not even tired they were, from all accounts, those little feather-folk;and why, indeed, should they be tired? A jaunt from a northern countryto Brazil was not too much for a healthy bird, with its sure breath andpure rich blood. There was food enough along the trail--they chose theirroute wisely enough for that, you may be sure; and they were in no greathaste either going or coming. 

"Coming, " did I say? Why, surely! You didn't think those sandpipers_stayed_ in Brazil? What did they care for green gem-like beetles, afterall? The only decorations they ever wore were big dark polka dots ontheir vests. Perhaps they were all pleased with them, when their oldtravel-worn feathers dropped out and new ones came in. Who can tell?They had a way of running their bills through their plumage after abath, as if they liked to comb their pretty feathers. 

Be that as it may, there was something beneath their feathers thatquickened like the heart of a journeying gypsy when, with nodding headsand teetering tails, they started again for the north. 

Did they dream of a bank where the blue-bells grew, and a shore spicedwith the fragrance of wild mint?

No one will ever know just how Nature whispers to the bird, "Northwardho!" But we know they come in the springtime, and right glad are we tohear their voices. 

So Peter Piper, Junior, came back again to the shore of Nearby Island. And do you think Sandy and Pan walked behind him for company, calling, "Peep, " one to another? And do you think Mother Piper and Father Petershowed him the way to Faraway Island at sun-down, and guarded him o'nights? Not they! They were busy, every one, with their own affairs, andPeter would just have to get along without them. 

Well, Peter could--Peter and Dot. For of course he was a grown-upsandpiper now, with a mate of his own, nodding her wise little head thelivelong day, and teetering for joy all over the rocks where the redcolumbine grew. 

[Illustration: _The spot she teetered to most of all. _]

The spot she teetered to most of all was a little cup-shaped hollow highup on the border of the ledge, where the sumachs were big as small treesand where the sweet fern scented the air. The hollow was lined tidilyand softly with dried grass, and made a comfortable place to sit, nodoubt. At least, Dot liked it; and Peter must have had some fondness forit, too, for he slipped on when Dot was not there herself. It justfitted their little bodies, and there were four eggs in it of which anysandpiper might well have been proud; for they were much, much biggerthan most birds the size of Dot could ever lay. In fact, her little bodycould hardly have covered them snugly enough to keep them warm if theyhad not been packed just so, with the pointed ends pushed down into themiddle of the rather deep nest. 

The eggs were creamy white, with brown spots splashed over them--theproper sort of eggs (if only they had been smaller) to tuck beneath awarm breast decorated with pretty polka dots. But still, they must havebeen her very own, or Dot could not have taken such good care of them. 

Because of this care, day by day the little body inside each shell grewfrom the wonderful single cell it started life with, to a many-celledcreature, all fitted out with lungs and a heart and rich warm blood, andvery slender legs, and very dear heads with very bright eyes, and allthe other parts it takes to make a bird. When the birds were all made, they broke the shells and pushed aside the pieces. And four more capablelittle rascals never were hatched. 

Why, almost before one would think they had had time to dry their downand stretch their legs and get used to being outside of shells insteadof inside, those little babies walked way to the edge of the river, andfrom that time forth never needed their nest. 

And look! the fluffy, cunning little dears are nodding their heads andteetering their tails! Yes, that proves that they must be sandpipers, even if we did have doubts of those eggs. Ah! Dot knew what she wasabout all along. The size of her eggs might fool a person, but she hadnot worried. Why, indeed, should she be troubled? Those big shells hadheld food-material enough, so that her young, when hatched, were sostrong and well-developed that they could go wandering forth at once. They did not lie huddled in their nest, helplessly begging Peter Piperand Mother Dot to bring them food. Not they! Out they toddled, teeteringalong the shore, having picnics from the first--the little gypsy babies!

Tabby did not catch any of them, though one night she tried, and gaveDot an awful scare. It was while they were still tiny enough to betucked under their mother's feathers after sundown, and before theycould manage to get, stone by stone, to Nearby Island. So they werecamped on the shore, and the prowling cat came very near. So near, infact, that Mother Dot fluttered away from her young, calling back tothem, in a language they understood, to scatter a bit, and then lie sostill that not even the green eyes of the cat could see a motion. Thefour little Pipers obeyed. Not one of them questioned, "Why, Mother?" orwhined, "I don't want to, " or whimpered, "I'm frightened, " or boasted, "Pooh, there's nothing here. "

Dot led the crouching enemy away by fluttering as if she had a brokenwing, and she called for help with all the agony of her mother-love. "Pete, " she cried, "Pete, " and "Pete, Pete, Pete!"

No one who hears the wail of a frightened sandpiper begging protectionfor her young can sit unmoved. 

Someone at the Ledge House heard Dot, and gave a low whistle and a quickcommand. Then there was a dashing rush through the bushes, that soundedas if a dog were chasing a cat. A few minutes later Dot's voice againcalled in the dark--this time, not in anguish of heart, but very cosilyand gently. "Pete-weet?" she whispered; and four precious little babiesmurmured, "Peep, " as they snuggled close to the spotted breast of theirmother. 

So it happened that two sons and two daughters of Peter Piper, Junior, played and picnicked and bathed by the river. The one who had firstpipped his eggshell was named Peter the Third, for his father and hisgrandfather, and a finer young sandpiper never shook the fluff of downfrom his head or the fringe from his tail, when his real feathers pushedinto their places. 

What his brother and sisters were named, I never knew; and it didn'tmatter much, for their mother called them all "Pete. "

[Illustration: _Dallying happily along the river-edge. _]

Peter the Third and the others grew up as Pan and Peter and Sandy hadgrown, dallying happily along the river-edge, and as happily acceptingthe guidance of their mother, who made her slow flight from FarawayIsland every now and then, usually so low that her spotted breast wasreflected in the clear water as she came, the white markings in herwings showing above and below. 

Of course, as soon as the season came for their migration journey, thefour of them started cheerfully off with Peter and Dot, for a leisurelylittle flight to Brazil and back--to fill the days, as it were, withpleasant wanderings, from the time the hummingbird fed at the feast ofthe cardinal flower in late summer, until he should be hovering over thecolumbine in the spring. 

IV

GAVIA OF IMMER LAKE

Once upon a time, it was four millions of years ago. There were nopeople then all the way from Florida to Alaska. There was, indeed, inall this distance, no land to walk upon, except islands in the westwhere the Rocky Mountains are now. That is the only place where thecountry that is now the United States of America stuck up out of thewater. Everywhere else were the waves of the sea. There were no people, even on the Rocky Mountain Islands. None at all. 

No, the creatures that visited those island shores in those old dayswere not people, but birds. Nearly as large as men they were, and theyhad teeth on their long slender jaws, and they had no wings. They cameto the islands, perhaps, only at nesting-time; for their legs and feetwere fitted for swimming and not walking, and they lived upon fish inthe sea. So they dwelt, with no man to see them, on the water thatstretched from sea to sea; and what their voices were like, no manknows. 

A million years, perhaps, passed by, and then another million, and maybeanother million still; and the birds without wings and with teeth wereno more. In their places were other birds, much smaller--birds withwings and no teeth; but something like them, for all that: for theirfeet also were fitted for swimming and not walking, and they, too, visited the shore little, if at all, except at nesting-time, and theylived upon fish in the water. 

And what their voices were like, all men may know who will go to thewilderness lakes and listen; for, wonderful as it may seem, these secondbirds have come down to us through perhaps a million years, and liveto-day, giving a strange clear cry before a storm, and at other timescalling weirdly in lone places, so that men who are within hearingalways say, "The loons are laughing. "

Gavia was a loon who had spent the winter of 1919-1920 on the AtlanticOcean. There had hardly been, perhaps, in a million years a handsomerloon afloat on any sea. Even in her winter coat she was beautiful; andwhen she put on her spring suit, she was lovelier still. 

She and her mate had enjoyed the sea-fishing and had joined a company offorty for swimming parties and other loon festivities; for life on theocean waves has many interests, and there is never a lack ofentertainment. The salt-water bathing, diving, and such other activitiesas the sea affords, were pleasant for them all. Then, too, the wintermonths made a chance for rest, a change from home-duties, and a freedomfrom looking out for the children, that gave the loons a care-freemanner as they rode the waves far out at sea. 

[Illustration: Immer Lake. ]

Considering all this, it seems strange, does it not, that when thespring of 1920 had gone no further than to melt the ice in the northernlakes, Gavia and her mate left the sea and took strong flight inland. 

What made them go, I cannot explain. I do not understand it well enough. I do not really know what urges the salmon to leave the Atlantic Oceanin the spring and travel up the Penobscot or the St. John River. I neverfelt quite sure why Peter Piper left Brazil for the shore where theblue-bells nod. All I can tell you about it is that a feeling came overthe loons that is called a migration instinct; and, almost before Gaviaand her mate knew what was happening to them, they had flown far and farfrom the Ocean, and were laughing weirdly over the cold waters of ImmerLake. 

The shore was dark with the deep green of fir trees, whose straighttrunks had blisters on them where drops of fragrant balsam lay hidden inthe bark. And here and there trees with white slender trunks leaned outover the water, and the bark on these peeled up like pieces of thin andpretty paper. Three wonderful vines trailed through the woodland, andeach in its season blossomed into pink and fragrant bells. But whatthese were, and how they looked, is not a part of this story, for Gavianever wandered among them. Her summer paths lay upon and under the waterof the lake, as her winter trails had been upon and under the water ofthe sea. 

Ah, if she loved the water so, why did she suddenly begin to stay out ofit? If she delighted so in swimming and diving and chasing wildwing-races over the surface, why did she spend the day quietly in oneplace?

Of course you have guessed it! Gavia was on her nest. She had hidden hertwo babies among the bulrushes for safety, and must stay there herselfto keep them warm. They were not yet out of their eggshells, so the onlycare they needed for many a long day and night was constant warmthenough for growth. They lay near each other, the two big eggs, of acolor that some might call brown and some might call green, withdark-brown spots splashed over them. 

[Illustration: _Two babies, not yet out of their eggshells, hidden amongthe rushes. _]

The nest Gavia and her mate had prepared for them was a heap of old wetreeds and other dead water-plants, which they had piled up among thestems of the rushes until it reached six inches or more out of thewater. They were really in the centre of a nest island, with water allabout them. So, you see, Gavia was within splashing distance of herfishing-pool after all. 

She and her mate, indeed, were in the habit of making their nests herein the cove; though the two pairs of Neighbor Loons, who built yearafter year farther up the lake, chose places on the island near thewater-line in the spring; and when the water sank lower later on, theywere left high and dry where they had to flounder back and forth to andfrom the nest, as awkward on land as they were graceful in the water. 

Faithful to her unhatched young as Gavia was, it is not likely that shealone kept them warm for nearly thirty days and nights; for Father Loonremained close at hand, and would he not help her with this task?

Gavia, sitting on her nest, did not look like herself of the earlywinter months when she had played among the ocean waves. For her headand neck were now a beautiful green, and she wore two white stripedcollars, while the back of her feather coat was neatly checked off withlittle white squarish spots. Father Loon wore the same style that shedid. Summer and winter, they dressed alike. 

Yes, a handsome couple, indeed, waited that long month for the birth oftheir twins, growing all this time inside those two strong eggshells. Atlast, however, the nest held the two babies, all feathered with downfrom the very first, black on their backs and gray shading into whitebeneath. 

Did I say the nest held them? Well, so it did for a few hours. Afterthat, they swam the waters of Immer Lake, and their nest was home nolonger. Peter Piper's children themselves were not more quick to runthan Gavia's twins were to swim and dive. 

I think, perhaps, they were named Olair; for Gavia often spoke in a verysoft mellow tone, saying, "Olair"; and her voice, though a bit sad, hada pleasing sound. So we will call them the two Olairs. 

They were darlings, those baby loons, swimming about (though not veryfast at first), and diving out of sight in the water every now and then(but not staying under very long at the beginning). Then, when they weretired or in a hurry, they would ride on the backs of Gavia and FatherLoon: and they liked it fine, sailing over the water with no trouble atall, just as if they were in a boat, with someone else to do the rowing. 

Oh, yes, they were darlings! Had you seen one of them, you could hardlyhave helped wanting to cuddle him. But do you think you could catch one, even the youngest? Not a bit of it. If you had given chase in a boat, the wee-est loon would have sailed off faster yet on the back of hisfather; and when you grew tired and stopped, you would have heard, as ifmocking you, the old bird give, in a laughing voice, the _Tremble Song:_

 "O, ha-ha-ha, ho!--O, ha-ha-ha, ho!-- O, ha-ha-ha, ho!--O, ha-ha-ha, ho!--"

If you had tried again a few days later, the young loon would have beenable to dive and swim by himself out of sight under water, the old onesgiving him warning of danger and telling him what to do. 

But no child chased the two Olairs and no lawbreaker fired a shot atGavia or Father Loon. They had frights and narrow escapes in plentywithout that; but those were of the sorts that loons get used to centuryafter century, and not modern disasters, like guns, that people haverecently brought into wild places. For the only man who dwelt on theshore of Immer Lake was a minister. 

Because he loved his fellow men, this minister of Immer Lake spent partof his days among them, doing such service to the weak of spirit as onlya minister can do, who has faith that there is some good in everyperson. At such times he was a sort of servant to all who needed him. 

Because he loved, also, his fellow creatures who had lived in thebeautiful wild places of this land much longer than any man whatsoever, he spent part of his days among them. At such times he was a sort ofhermit. 

Then no handy trolley rumbled by to take him on his near way. No trainshrieked its departure to distant places where he might go. There was nointeresting roar of mill or factory making things to use. There was nosociable tread of feet upon the pavement, to give him a feeling of humancompanionship. 

But, for all that, it was not a silent world the minister found at ImmerLake. On sunny days the waves, touching the rocks on the shore, sanggently, "Bippo-bappo, bippo-bappo. " The trees clapped their leavestogether as the breezes bade them. The woodpeckers tapped tunes to eachother on their hollow wooden drums. The squirrels chattered among thebranches. At dawn and at dusk the thrushes made melodies everywhereabout. 

On stormy nights the waves slapped loudly upon the rocks. The brancheswhacked against one another at the mighty will of the wind. The thunderroared applause at the fireworks the lightning made. And best of all, like the very spirit of the wild event, there rang the strange, sweetmoaning _Storm Song of the Loon_:--

 "A-a-ah l-u-u-u-u-u-u´ la. A-a-ah l-u-u-u-u-u-u´ la. A-a-ah l-u-u-u-u-u-u´ la. A-a-ah l-u-u-u-u-u-u´ la. "

The minister of Immer Lake liked that song, and he liked the othermusic that they made. So it was that he sat before his door through manya summer twilight, and played on his violin until the loons answeredwith the _Tremble Song_:--

 "O, ha-ha-ha, ho! O, ha-ha-ha, ho! O, ha-ha-ha, ho! O, ha-ha-ha, ho!"

Then they would swim up and up, until they floated close to his cottage, feeding unafraid near by, while he played softly. 

Often, when Gavia and her mate were resting there or farther up thelake, some other loon would fly over; and then Father Loon would throwhis head way forward and give another sort of song. "Oh-a-lee'!" hewould begin, with his bill wide open; and then, nearly closing hismouth, he would sing, "Cleo´-pe´´-a-rit´. " The "Oh" starts low and thenrises in a long, drawn way. Perhaps in all the music of Immer Lake thereis nothing queerer than the _Silly Song of Father Loon_:--

 "Oh-a-lee´! Cleo´-p´´-a-rit´, cleo´-pe´´-a-rit´, cleo´-per´´-wer-wer! Oh-a-lee´! Cleo´-p´´-a-rit´, cleo´-pe´´-a-rit´, cleo´-pe´´-wer-wer!"

Such were the songs the two Olairs heard often and again, while theywere growing up; and they must have added much to the interest of theirfirst summer. 

Altogether they had endless pleasures, and were as much at ease in thewater as if there were no more land near them than there had been nearthose other young birds that had teeth and no wings, four million yearsor so ago. Their own wings were still small and flipper-like when, aboutthe first of August, they were spending the day, as they often did, in asmall cove. They were now about two-thirds grown, and their featherswere white beneath and soft bright brown above, with bars of white spotsat their shoulders. They had funny stiff little tails, which they stuckup out of the water or poked out of sight, as they wished. They swamabout in circles, and preened their feathers with their bills, whichwere still small and gray, and not black like those of the old birds. 

After a time Gavia came swimming toward them, all under water except herhead. Suddenly Father Loon joined her, and they both began diving andcatching little fishes for the two Olairs. For the vegetable part oftheir dinner they had shreds of some waterplant, which Gavia broughtthem, dangling from her bill. Surely never a fresher meal was servedthan fish just caught and greens just pulled! No wonder it was that theyoung loons grew fast, and were well and strong. After the twins werefed, Gavia and Father Loon sank from sight under the water, heads andall, and the Olairs saw no more of them for two hours or so, though theyheard them now and then singing, sometimes the _Tremble Song_ andsometimes the _Silly Song_. 

They were good children, and did not try to tag along or sulk becausethey were left behind. First they dabbled about and helped themselves, for dessert, to some plant growing under water, gulping down ratherlarge mouthfuls of it. Then they grew drowsy; and what could have beenpleasanter than going to sleep floating, with the whole cove for acradle?

You could never guess how those youngsters got ready for their nap. Justlike a grown-up! Each Olair rolled over on one side, till the whiteunder-part of his body showed above water. Then he waved the exposed legin the air, and tucked it away, with a quick flip, under the feathers ofhis flank. Thus one foot was left in the water, for the bird to paddlewith gently while he slept, so that he would not be drifted away by thewind. But that day one of the tired water-babies went so sound asleepthat he didn't paddle enough, and the wind played a joke on him byshoving him along to the snaggy edge of the cove and bumping him againsta log. That was a surprise, and he woke with a start and swam quicklyback to the middle of the cove, where the other Olair was resting in theopen water. 

While their children were napping, Gavia and Father Loon went to aparty. On the way, they stopped for a bit of fishing by themselves. Gavia began by suddenly flapping around in a big circle, slapping thewater with wing-tips and feet, and making much noise as she spatteredthe spray all about. Then she quickly poked her head under water, as iflooking for fish. Father Loon, who had waited a little way off, dived anumber of times, as if to see what Gavia had scared in his direction. 

[Illustration: _While their children were napping, Gavia and Father Loonwent to a party. _]

Then they both dove deep, and swam under water until they came near thefour Neighbor Loons, who had left their two families of young dozing, and had also come out for a good time. 

When Father Loon caught sight of his four neighbors, he sang the _SillySong_, after which the six birds ran races on the water. They allstarted about the same time and went pell-mell in one direction, theirfeet and wings going as if they hardly knew whether to swim or fly, andending by doing both at once. Then they would all stop, as suddenly asif one of them had given a signal, and turning, would dash in theopposite direction, racing to and fro again and again and again. Oh! itwas a grand race, and there is no knowing how long they would have keptit up, had not something startled them so that they all stopped and sangthe _Tremble Song_, which sounds like strange laughter. They openedtheir mouths quite wide and, wagging the lower jaw up and down withevery "ha, " they sang "O, ha-ha-ha, ho!" so many times that it seemed asif they would never get through. And, indeed, how could they tell whenthe song was ended, for every verse was like the one before?

Then all at once they stopped singing and began some flying stunts. Astiff breeze was blowing, and, facing this, they pattered along, workingbusily with wings and feet, until they could get up speed enough toleave the water and take to flight. Though it was rather a hard matterto get started, when they were once under way they flew wonderfullywell, and the different pairs seemed to enjoy setting their wings andsailing close together around a large curve. They went so fast part ofthe time that, when they came down to the surface of the water again, they plunged along with a splash and ploughed a furrow in the waterbefore they could come to a stop. 

Of course, by that time they were hungry enough for refreshments! SoGavia went off to one side and stirred the water up as if she weretrying to scare fish toward the others, who waited quietly. Then theyall dived, and what their black sharp-pointed bills found under watertasted good to those hungry birds. 

After that the loon party broke up, and each pair went to their own homecove, where they had left their young. It had been a pleasant way tospend the time sociably together; and loons like society very much, ifthey can select their own friends and have their parties in a wildernesslake. But gay and happy as they had been at their merrymaking, Gavia andher mate were not sorry to return to the two Olairs, who had long sincewakened from their naps and were glad to see their handsome father andmother again. 

By the time the two Olairs were full grown, Gavia had molted many of herprettiest feathers and was looking rather odd, as she had on part of hersummer suit and part of her winter one. Father Loon had much the sameappearance; for, of course, birds that live in the water cannot shedtheir feathers as many at a time as Corbie could, but must change theirfeather-wear gradually, so that they may always have enough on to keeptheir bodies dry. And summer and winter, you may be sure that a loontakes good care of his clothes, oiling them well to keep themwaterproof. 

Fall grew into winter, and the nest where Gavia had brooded the springbefore now held a mound of snow in its lap. The stranded log againstwhich the little Olair had been bumped while he was napping, months ago, was glazed over with a sparkling crust. The water where Gavia and FatherLoon had fished for their children, and had played games and run raceswith Neighbor Loons, was sealed tight with a heavy cover of ice. 

And it may be, if you should sail the seas this winter, that you willsee the two Olairs far, far out upon the water. What made them leave thepleasures of Immer Lake just when they did, I cannot explain. I do notunderstand it well enough. I never felt quite sure why Peter Piper leftthe shore where the cardinal flowers glowed, for far Brazil. All I cantell you about it is that a feeling came over the loons that is called amigration instinct, and, almost before they knew what was happening tothem, they were laughing weirdly through the ocean storms. 

If you see them, you will know that they are strange birds whoseancestors reach back and back through the ages, maybe a million years. You will think--as who would not?--that a loon is a wonderful gift thatNature has brought down through all the centuries; a living relic of atime of which we know very little except from fossils men find and guessabout. 

It is small wonder their songs sound strange to our ears, for theirvoices have echoed through a world too old for us to know. It makes us abit timid to think about all this, as it does the minister of ImmerLake, who sits before his door through many a summer twilight, playingon his violin until the loons answer him with their _Tremble Song_:--

 "O, ha-ha-ha, ho! O, ha-ha-ha, ho!"

V

EVE AND PETRO

If swallows studied history, 1920 would have been an important date forEve and Petro. It was the one hundredth anniversary of the year when aman named Long visited cliff swallows among the Rocky Mountains. 

The century between 1820 and 1920 had given what we call civilization achance to make many changes in the wild world of birds. During that timelifeless hummingbirds had been made to perch upon the hats offashionable women; herring gulls had been robbed of their eggs andkilled for their feathers; shooting movements had been organized to killcrows with shotgun or rifle, in order that more gunpowder might be sold;the people of Alaska had been permitted to kill more than eight thousandeagles in the last great breeding-place left to our National Emblem;uncounted millions of Passenger Pigeons had been slaughtered, and thesewonderful birds done away with forever; and the methods by which egretshad been murdered were too horrible to write about in books for childrento read. 

But however shamefully civilization had treated, and had brought upchildren to treat, these and many other of their fellow creatures of theworld, who had a right to the life that had been given them as surelyas it had been given to men, the years since 1820 had been happy onesfor the ancestors of Eve and Petro. 

Eve and Petro, themselves, were happy as any two swallows need be thatspring of 1920, when they started forth to seek a cliff, just as theirancestors had done for the hundred years or so since man began to noticetheir habits, and no man knows for how many hundreds of years beforethat. 

Of course they found it as all cliff swallows must, for cliff-hunting isa part of their springtime work. It was very high and very straight. Itswall was of boards, and the gray shingled roof jutted out overhead justas if inviting Eve and Petro to its shelter. 

It was a good cliff, and mankind had been so busy building the same sortall across the country for the past hundred years that there was no lackof them anywhere, and swallows could now choose the ones that pleasedthem best. Yes, civilization had been kind to them and had made morecliffs than Nature had built for them; though perhaps it was MotherNature, herself, who taught the birds that these structures men calledbarns and used inside for hay or cattle were, after all, only cliffsoutside, and that people were harmless creatures who would not hurt theswallow kind. 

However all that may be, it is quite certain that Eve and Petrosqueaked pleasantly for joy when they chose their building site, undisturbed by the ladder that was soon put near, and unafraid of thepeople who climbed up to watch them at their work. They were too happilybusy to worry, and besides, there is a tradition that men folk andswallow folk are friendly, each to the other. 

How old this tradition is, we do not know; but we do know that swallowsof one kind and another were welcomed in the Old World in the old daysto heathen temples before there were Christian churches, and that to-dayin the New World they play in and out of the dark arches in the greatchurches of far Brazil and flash across the gilding of the verytabernacle, reminding us of the passage in the Psalms where it iswritten that the swallow hath found a nest for herself, where she maylay her young--even thine altars, O Lord of Hosts!

So it is not strange that far and wide over the world people have theidea that swallows bring luck to the house. I think so myself, don'tyou?--that it is very good fortune, indeed, to have these birds offriendly and confiding ways beneath our shelter. 

Of course the ancestors of cliff swallows had not known the walls androofs of man so long as other kinds of swallows; but the associations ofone short century had been pleasant enough to call forth many cheerfulsqueakings of joy, just like those of Eve and Petro that pleasant dayin June when they started their nest under the roof near the top of theladder. 

To be sure, they made no use of that ladder, even though they weremasons and had their hods of plaster to carry way up near the top oftheir cliff. No, they needed no firmer ladder than the air, and theirlong wings were strong enough to climb it with. 

They lost little time in beginning, each coming with his first hod ofplaster. How? Balanced on their heads as some people carry burdens? No. On their backs, then? No. In their claws? Oh, no, their feet were fartoo feeble for bearing loads. Do you remember what Corbie used for aberry-pail when he went out to pick fruit? Why, of course! the hod ofthe swallow mason is none other than his mouth, and it holds as much ashalf a thimbleful. 

First, Eve had to mark the place where the curved edge of the nest wouldbe; and how could she mark it without any chalk, and how could she makea curve without any compasses? Well, she clung to the straight wall withher little feet, which she kept nearly in one place, and, swinging herbody about, hitch by hitch, she struck out her curve with her beak andmarked it with little dabs of plaster. Then she and Petro could tellwhere to build and, taking turns, first one and then the other, theybegan to lay the wall of their home. 

It was slow work, for it must be thick and strong, and the place wherethey gathered the plaster was not handy by, and it took a great greatmany trips, their hods being so small. 

At first, while the nest was shallow, only one could work at a time; andif Petro came back with his plaster before Eve had patted the last ofhers into place, she would squeak at him in a fidgety though not fretfulvoice, as if saying, "Now, don't get in my way and bother me, dear. " Sohe would have to fly about while he waited for her to go. The minute shewas ready to be off, he would be slipping into her place; and this timeshe would give him a cosy little squeak of welcome, and he would reply, with his mouth full of plaster, in a quick and friendly way, as if hemeant, "I'll build while you fetch more plaster, and we'd both betterhurry, don't you think?"

After worrying a bit about the best place to dump his hodful, he went towork. He opened his beak and, in the most matter-of-fact way, pushed outhis lump of plaster with his tongue, on top of the nest wall. Then hebraced his body firmly in the nest and began to use his trowel, whichwas his upper beak, pushing the fresh lump all smooth on the inside ofthe nest. 

Have you ever seen a dog poke with the top of his nose, until he got thedirt heaped over a bone which he had buried? Well, that's much the wayPetro bunted his plaster smooth--rooted it into place with the top ofhis closed beak. He got his face dirty doing it, too, even the prettypale feather crescent moon on his forehead. But that didn't matter. Trowels, if they do useful work, have to get dirty doing it, and Petrodidn't stop because of that. If he had, his nest would have been asrough on the inside as it was outside, where a humpy little lump showedfor each mouthful of plaster. 

Although Eve and Petro did not fly off to the plaster pit together, theydid not go alone, for there was a whole colony of swallows buildingunder the eaves of that same barn; and while some of them stayed andplastered, the rest flew forth for a fresh supply. 

They knew the place, every one of them; and swiftly over the meadow andover the marsh they flew, until they came to a pasture. There, near aspring where the cows had trampled the ground until it was oozy and thewater stood in tiny pools in their hoof prints, the swallows stopped. They put down their beaks into the mud and gathered it in their mouths;and all the time they held their wings quivering up over their beautifulblue backs, like a flock of butterflies just alighting with their wingsatremble. 

So their plaster pit was just a mud-puddle. Yes, that is all; only ithad to be a particularly sticky kind of mud, which is called clay; forthe walls of their homes were a sort of brick something like that thepeople made in Egypt years and years ago. And do you remember how thestory goes that the folk in Pharaoh's day gathered straws to mix withthe clay, so that their bricks would be stronger? Well, Eve and Petrodidn't know that story, but they gathered fibres of slender roots anddead grass stems with their clay, which doubtless did their brickplaster no harm. 

[Illustration: _At Work in the Plaster Pit. _]

Men brick-makers nowadays bake their bricks in ovens called kilns, which are heated with fire. Eve and Petro let their brick bake, too, andthe fire they used was the same one the Egyptians used in the days ofPharaoh--a fire that had never in all that time gone out, but had glowedsteadily century after century, baking many bricks for folk and birds. Of course you know what fire that is, for you see it yourself every daythat the sun shines. 

Every now and again Eve and Petro and all the rest of the swallow colonyleft off their brick-building and went on a hunting trip. They huntedhigh in the air and they hunted low over the meadow. They hunted afaroff along the stream and they hunted near by in the barnyard. And allthe game they caught they captured on the wing, and they ate it fresh ata gulp without pausing in their flight. As they sailed and swirled, theywere good to watch, for a swallow's strong long wings bear him rightgracefully. 

Why did they stop for the hunting flight? Perhaps they were hungry. Perhaps their mouths were tired of being hods for clay they could noteat. Perhaps the fresh plaster on the walls of their homes needed timeto dry a bit before more was added. 

Be that as it may, they made the minutes count even while they restedfrom their building work. For they used this time getting their meals;and whenever they were doing that, they were working for the owner ofthe barn, paying their rent for the house-lot on the wall by catchinggrass insects over the meadow, and mosquitoes and horseflies andhouse-flies by the hundreds, and many another pest, too. 

[Illustration: _The Hunting Flight. _]

Ah, yes, there may be some reason for the belief that swallows bringgood luck to men. I once heard of a farmer who said he didn't daredisturb these birds because of a superstition that, if he did, his cowswouldn't give so much milk. Well, maybe they wouldn't if all the fliesa colony of swallows could catch were alive to pester his herd; for thehappier and more comfortable these animals are, the healthier they areand the more milk they give. 

The hunting flights of Eve and Petro and their comrades lasted aboutfifteen minutes each time they took a recess from their building. 

After two days the nest was big enough, so that there was room for bothswallows to build at once; and after that, Petro didn't have to flyaround with his mouth full of plaster waiting for Eve to go if hechanced to come before she was through. They always chatted a bit andthen went on with their work, placing their plaster carefully andbunting it smooth on the inside, modeling with clay a house as wellsuited to their needs as is the concrete mansion a human architect makessuited to the needs of man. 

And if you think it is a simple matter to make a nest of clay, just goto the wisest architect you know and ask him these questions. How manyhodfuls of clay, each holding as much as half a thimble, would it taketo build the wall of a room just the right shape for a swallow to sit inwhile she brooded her eggs? How large would it have to be inside, tohold four or five young swallows grown big enough for their firstflight? How thick would the walls have to be to make it strong enough?What sort of curve would be best for its support against a perfectlystraight wall? How much space would have to be allowed for lining theroom, to make it warm and comfortable? How can the clay be handled sothat the drying sun and wind will not crack the walls? What is the testfor telling whether the clay is sticky enough to hold together? How muchof the nest must be stuck to the cliff so that the weight of it will notmake it fall?

If the architect can answer all those questions, ask him one more: askhim if he could make such a nest with the same materials the birds used, and with no more tools?

Well, Eve and Petro could and did. It was big enough and strong enoughand shaped just right; and when it was nearly done and nearly ready forthe soft warm lining, That Boy climbed the ladder and knocked it downwith his hand. 

There it lay, Eve and Petro's wonderfully modeled nest of clay, brokento bits on the ground and spoiled, oh, quite spoiled. There is a sayingthat it brings bad luck to do harm to a swallow. What bad luck, then, had the hand of That Boy brought to the world that day?

[Illustration: _They always chatted a bit and then went on with theirwork, placing their plaster carefully. _]

Bad luck it brought to Eve and Petro, who had toiled patiently andunafraid beside the ladder-top, with faith in those who climbed quietlyto watch the little feathered masons at their work. But now the walls oftheir home were broken and crumbled, and their faith was broken andcrumbled, too. In dismay they cried out when they saw what washappening, and in dismay their swallow comrades cried out with them. Fear and disappointment entered their quick hearts, which had beenbeating in confidence and hope. People who climbed ladders were notbeings to trust, after all, but frightful and destroying creatures. Thishad the hand of That Boy brought to Eve and Petro, who looked at theempty place where their nest had been, and went away. 

Bad luck it brought to an artist who drew pictures of birds; and when heknew what had happened, a sudden light flamed in his eyes. The name ofthis light is anger--the kind that comes when harm has been ruthlesslydone to the weak and helpless. For the artist had climbed the laddermany a time, and had laid his quiet hand upon the lower curve of thenest while Eve and Petro went on with their building at the upper edge. And he had seen the colors of their feathers and the shape of the palecrescent on their foreheads--the mark a man named Say had noticed manyyears before, when he named this swallow in Latin, _lunifrons_, because_luna_ means moon and _frons_ means front. And he had hoped to climb theladder many a time again, and when there should be young in the nest, tosee how they looked and watch what they did, so that he could drawpictures of the children of Eve and Petro. 

Bad luck it brought to a writer of bird stories; and when she knew whathad happened, something like an ache in her throat seemed to choke her, something that is called anger--the kind that comes when harm is done tolittle folk we love. For she had climbed the ladder many a time, and hadrested her head against the top while she watched Eve and Petro push thepellets of mud from their mouths with their tongues and bunt the wall oftheir clay nest smooth on the inside with the top of their closed beaks, not stopping even though they brushed their pretty chestnut-coloredcheeks against the sticky mud, or got specks on the feathers of theirdainty foreheads that bore a mark shaped like a pale new moon. And shehad hoped to climb the ladder many a time again, and watch Eve and Petrofeed their children when the nest was done and lined and the eggs werelaid and hatched; for this nest could be looked into, as the top wasleft open because the barn roof sheltered it and it needed no othercover. 

Now Eve and Petro were gone, and no more sketches could be made nearenough to show how little cliff swallows looked in their nest. Andnothing more could be written about such affairs of these two birds ascould only be learned close to them. Nor, indeed, was there any way tolearn those things from the rest of the colony; for it so chanced thatEve and Petro were the only pair who had built where a ladder could beplaced. So bad luck had come not only to Eve and Petro, but to the storyof their lives. 

But, most of all, the breaking of their nest brought bad luck to ThatBoy, himself. For as he stood at the top of the ladder, he might havecurved the hollow of his hand gently upon the rounded outside of thenest and, waiting quietly, have watched the building birds. He mighthave seen Eve come flitting home with her tiny load of clay, poking itout of her mouth with her tongue and bunting it smooth in her owncunning way. He might have laid his head against the ladder and heardtheir cosy voices as they squeaked pleasantly together over thehome-building. He might have looked at the colors of their feathers, andseen where they were glossy black with a greenish sheen, where richpurply chestnut, and where grayish white. He might have looked well atthe pale feather moon on their foreheads, which the man named Say hadnoticed one hundred years before. He might, oh, he might have become oneof the brotherhood of men, whom swallows of one kind or another havetrusted since the far-off years of Bible times when they built at thealtars of the Lord of Hosts. 

All this good luck he held, That Boy, in the hollow of his hand, and hethrew it away when he struck the nest; and it fell, crumbled, with thebroken bits of clay. 

[Illustration: _Quaint Clay Pottery. _]

As for Eve and Petro, if fear and disappointment had driven trust fromtheir hearts, they still had courage and patience and industry. Theysought another and a different sort of cliff, and found one made of redbrick and white stone. Near the very high top of this a large colony ofswallows were building; and, because there was no closely protectingroof, these swallows were making the round part of their nest closedover at the top with a winding hallway to an outer doorway. They looked, indeed, like a row of quaint clay pottery, shaped like crook-neckedgourds. For such were the nests these swallows built one hundred yearsago on the wild rock cliffs, if they chose their house-lots where therewas no overhanging shelter; and such are the nests they still buildwhen there seems to be need of them. 

They were too far from the pleasant pasture to dig their clay out of thefootprints of cows; but there was a track where the automobiles slushedthrough sticky mud, and they swirled down there and filled their littlehods when the road was clear. 

Eve and Petro found a nook even higher up than the others, where acrook-necked jug of a nest did not seem to fit. When they had builttheir wall as high as need be, they closed it over with a little roundeddome, and at the side they left two doorways open, one facing thesouthwest and one facing the southeast. And some days after this wasdone, had you gone to the foot of their cliff and used a pair offield-glasses, you might have seen Eve's head sticking out of one doorand Petro's at the other. Ah, they had, then, some good luck left them. They had had each other in their days of trouble, and now they restedfrom their building labors and sat happily together in their secondhome, each with a doorway to enjoy. 

And later on they had more good luck still. For there came a day whenthey spent no more time sitting at ease within doors, but flew hitherand yon, and then, returning to the nest, clung outside with their tinyfeet and stuck their heads in at the open doorway for a brief momentbefore they were off again. Their nest was too far up for anyone to hearor see what went on within; but there must have been some hungry littlemouths yawning all day long, to keep Eve and Petro both so busy huntingthe air for insects. 

Soon after this one of the doors was closed, sealed tight with clay. What had happened? Were the little ones inside crowding about toorecklessly, so that there was danger of one falling out? Had Eve andPetro come upon an especially good mud-puddle and built a bit more justfor the fun of it?

It was not very many days after this that Eve and Petro and all theircomrades ceased coming to the cliff where their curious nests werefastened. Their doorways knew them no more; but over the meadows fromdawn till nearly dusk there flew beautiful old swallows bearing upontheir foreheads the pale mark of a new moon, and with them were theiryoung. 

At night they sought the marshes, where their little feet might cling toslender stems of bending reeds; and their numbers were very many. 

But winter would be coming, and if it still was a long way off, so werethe hunting grounds of South America, where they must be flitting awaythe days when the northern marshes would be frozen over. 

So off they went, Eve and Petro and their young, looking so much likeothers of the swallow flock that we could not tell who they were, nowthat they had stopped coming to their nest with one open and one closeddoorway. 

They would have far to travel, even if they took the direct over-waterroute, which many sorts of birds do. But what is distance to Petro, whose strong wings carry him lightly? A mile or a hundred or a thousandeven are nothing if the hunting be good. Might just as well be flyingsouth, as back and forth over the same meadow the livelong day, with nowand then a rest on the roadside wires, which fit his little feet nearlyas well as the reeds of the marsh. Some people think it is for the sakeof the hunting that the route of the swallows lies overland, for theyfly by day and catch their game all along the way. 

And as they journeyed, Eve and Petro and their flock, south and southand south, maybe the children, here and there, waved their hands to themand called, "Good hunting, little friends of the air, and _good luck_through all the winter till you come back to us again. "

[Illustration: _A Famous Landmark. _]

VI

UNCLE SAM

Uncle Sam stood at the threshold of his home, with an air of dignity. There was enough to fill his breast with honest pride. His home had beena famous landmark for generations before he himself had fallen heir toit. It was the oldest one in the neighborhood. It had stood thereseventy-five years before, when a white man had built a cabin withinsight of it, for company. That cabin had been neglected and had fallento bits years ago; but Uncle Sam's ancestors had taken care of theirplace, and had mended the weak spots each season, and had kept it insuch repair that it was still as good as ever. It would last, indeed, with such treatment, as long as the post and the beams that supported itheld. The post was the trunk of a tall old tree, and the beams were thebranches, so near the top that it would be a very brave or a veryfoolish man who would try to climb so far; for there were no stairs. 

No stairs, and such a distance up! But Uncle Sam could find the paththat led to it; for was he not a lord of the air, and could he not sailthe roughest wind with those strong wings of his?

[Illustration: _Above all other creatures of this great land he had beenhonored. _]

Perhaps it was the sure strength of his wings that gave him a statelypoise of pride even as he rested. It could not have been the honor menhad bestowed upon him; for, although that was very great, he knewnothing about it. 

Soldiers had gone into battle for freedom and right, bearing the pictureof Uncle Sam on their banners. Veterans had walked in Memorial Dayparades, while over their gray heads floated the symbol of Uncle Sam andthe Stars and Stripes. Yes, the people of a great and noble land, reaching from a sea on the east to a sea on the west, had honored UncleSam by choosing him for the emblem of their country. His picture wasstamped on their paper money, and ornamented one side of the coins thatcame from the mint, with the words, "In God We Trust, " on the otherside. Above all other creatures of this great land he had been honored;and could he have understood, he might well have been justly proud ofthis tribute. 

But as it was, perhaps his emotions were centred only on his family; forhis home was shared by his mate and two young sons. He bent his whitehead to look down at his twins. They were such hungry rascals and neededsuch a deal of care! They had needed care, indeed, ever since the daytheir little bodies had begun to form in the two bluish white eggs theirmother had laid in the nest. They had stayed inside those shells for amonth; and they never could have lived and grown there if they had notbeen brooded and kept warm. Their mother had snuggled her feathers overthem and kept them cosy; and, when she had needed a change and a rest, Uncle Sam had cuddled them close under his body; for a month is a longtime to keep eggs from getting cold, and it was only fair that he shouldtake his turn. 

He was no shirk in his family life. He had chosen his mate until deathshould part them; and whenever there were eggs in the nest, he was aspatient about brooding them as she was; for did they not belong to bothof them, and did they not contain two fine young eagles in the making?

And never had they had finer children than the two who that moment wereopening hungry mouths and begging for food. In answer to their teasing, Uncle Sam spread his great wings and took stately flight to the lake. For he was a fisherman. When a fish came to the surface, he would try tocatch it in his strong claws, so that he might have food to take back tohis waiting family. This was easy for him when the fish was wounded orweak and had come to the surface to die; but the quick fishes oftenescaped, because he was not so skillful at this sort of fishing as theosprey. 

Yes, the osprey was a wonderful fisherman, who could snatch a fish fromthe water in his sure claws. But for all that, he was not so wonderfulas Uncle Sam, who could catch a fish in the air. 

[Illustration: _The Yankee-Doodle Twins. _]

Now, fishing in the air was a thrilling game that Uncle Sam loved. Allthe wild delight of a chase was in the sport. He used, sometimes, to sithigh up on a cliff and watch the osprey swoop down to the water. Then, when the hawk mounted with the prize, Uncle Sam flew far above him andswept downward, commanding him to drop the fish. The smaller birdobeyed, and let the fish fall from his claws. But it never fell far. Uncle Sam closed his mighty wings and dropped with such speed that hecaught the fish in mid-air; and the tree-tops swayed with the suddenwind his passing caused. Surely there was never a more exciting way ofgoing fishing than this!

And did the fish belong to the osprey or to Uncle Sam?

What would you call a man who, by power of greater strength, took awaythe food another man had earned?

Are we, then, to call Uncle Sam a thief and a bully?

Ah, no; because it is not with an eagle as it is with a man. 

For the wild things of the world there is only one law, and that is theLaw of Nature. They must live as they are made to live, and that is allthat concerns them. There is nothing for bird or beast or blossom tolearn about "right" or "wrong, " as we learn about those things. All theyneed to do--any of them--is to live naturally. 

When we think about it that way, it is very easy to tell whether thefish belonged to the osprey or to Uncle Sam. Of course, to begin with, the fish belonged to itself as long as it could dive quickly enough orswim fast enough to keep itself free and safe. But the minute the ospreycaught it, it belonged to the osprey, just as much as it would belong toyou if you caught it with a net or a hook. Yes, the fish belonged to theosprey _more_ than it would belong to you; for ospreys hunted food forthemselves and for their young in that lake centuries and centuriesbefore a white man even saw it, and before nets and hooks were invented;and besides, in most places, the children of men can live and grow ifthey never eat a fish, while the children of the osprey would diewithout such food. So we admire Fisherman Osprey for his strength andswiftness and skill, and are glad for him when he flies off with theprize, which is his very own as long as he can keep it. 

But when he drops it, it is his no longer, but the eagle's, who fisheswonderfully in the air--a game depending on the keenness of his sight, his strength, his quickness, and his skill; and the fish that belongedfirst to itself, and then to the osprey, belonged in the end to theeagle; and all this is according to the Law of Nature. 

Uncle Sam was not selfish about that fish. He gave it to his twins, andthey did enjoy their dinner very, very much, indeed. A fresh brooktrout, browned just right, never tasted better to you. For they had beenhungry, and the food was good for them. 

Uncle Sam and his mate, whom the children who lived within sight oftheir nest named Aunt Samantha, had many a hunting and fishing trip totake while the twins were growing; for the bigger the young eaglesbecame, the bigger their appetites were, too. But at last theyoungsters were old enough and strong enough and brave enough to taketheir first flight. Think of them, then, standing there on the outerporch of their great home in the air, and daring to leave it, when itwas so very high and they would have so very far to fall if their wingsdid not work right!

Nonsense, an eagle fall! Had they not been stretching and exercisingtheir muscles for days? And surely the twins would succeed, with UncleSam and Aunt Samantha to encourage and urge them forth. 

The day Uncle Sam cheered his young sons in their baby flight was agreat day for all the country round. For not only were the sons ofeagles flying, but the sons of men were flying, too. Yes, it waspractice day near the lake, and across the water airships rose from thecamp and sailed through the air, like mighty birds meant for mightydeeds. For Uncle Sam's country was at war, and many brave and noble ladsthrilled with pride because they were going to help win a battle forRight. 

The bravest and noblest and most fearless of all the camp caught sightof Uncle Sam and smiled. "Emblem of my country!" the young man said. "King of the air in your strong flight! Great deeds are to be done, OEagle with the snow-white head, and your banner will be foremost in thefight. "

Uncle Sam made no reply. He was too far away to hear, and he could nothave understood if he had been near. He saw the distant airships, so bigand strong, and led his family away to quieter places, without knowingat all what the big birds were, or what they meant to do. There was somuch happening in the country that honored him, that Uncle Sam could notunderstand!

He did not even know that, far to the northwest, there was a part of thecountry called Alaska, where eagles had lived in safety and had broughtup their young in peace long after their haunts in most parts of theland had been disturbed. He did not know that the government of Alaskawas at that moment paying people fifty cents for every eagle they wouldkill, and that in two years about five thousand of these noble birdswere to die in that manner. He did not know that, if such deeds kept on, before many years there would be no eagles flying proudly through theair: there would be only pictures of eagles on our money and banners. Ifhe could have been told what was happening, and that there was dangerthat the country would be without a living emblem, and that there mightbe only stuffed emblems in museums, would he not have thought, "Surelythe strong, wise men who go forth to fight for right and liberty willsee that the bird of freedom has a home in their land!"

No; Uncle Sam knew nothing about such matters, and so he busied his mindwith the things he did know, and was not sad. 

He knew where the swamp was, and in the swamp the ducks were thick. Theywere good-tasting ducks, and there were so many of them that hunterswith guns and dogs gathered there from all the country round. And thehunters wounded some birds that the dogs did not get, and these couldnot fly off at migrating time. 

Now, Uncle Sam and his family found the wounded ducks easy to catch, andthey were nearly as well pleased with them for food as with fish. Ofcourse their feathers had to be picked off first. No eagle would eat aduck with his feathers on, any more than you would. And Uncle Sam knewhow to strip off the feathers as well as anyone. 

So it was interesting in the swamp, and Uncle Sam and Aunt Samantha andthe twins were satisfied with hunting there when they were not fishingin the lake. 

One day, when Uncle Sam went hunting, he flew near a field where therewas a little lamb; and being a strong and powerful eagle, he was able tocarry it away. Perhaps he felt very proud as he flew off with so muchfood at one time. Such strength is something to be pleased with when itis put to the right use, and getting food is as important for an eagle'slife as it is for a man's. 

He lifted his burden high in the air, holding it in his strong talons;and he did not falter once in his steady flight, although the loadweighed nearly as much as he did, and he carried it two miles withoutresting once. 

Yes, I think Uncle Sam was proud of that day's hunting and happy withwhat he had caught; and the tender meat tasted good to him and hisfamily. 

But the man who had owned the lamb before Uncle Sam caught it was notpleased. He happened to be coming out of the woods just in time to seethe capture; and an hour later the boy and the girl who lived withinsight of Uncle Sam's nest met the man and saw that he carried a gun. 

"I'm after a white-headed sheep thief, " he said; "do you know which wayhe flew, after he reached the cliff?"

The boy's face turned white in a second, and he held his fists togethervery still and very tight. The girl looked at her younger brother andthen at the man. 

"Yes, we know, " she said, "and we will not tell. "

"Why?" asked the man. "He took the lamb I was going to roast when it wasbig enough. "

The girl chuckled a little merrily. "And Uncle Sam got ahead of you, "she said. "Never mind, I'll get the money to pay for his dinner. Theeagles here usually eat fish from the lake, and sometimes game from theswamp; but once in a very, very long while they take a lamb. When thathappens, the Junior Audubon Society at our school pays for their treat. I have the money, because I am treasurer. "

After the girl turned back to the house for the money, the boy lookedhard at the gun. Then he swallowed to get rid of the lump that hurt histhroat and said, "If you had shot Uncle Sam or Aunt Samantha or theiryoung, the children for miles and miles NEVER would have liked you. Eagles have nested in that tree for more than seventy years, and nobodyexcept a newcomer would think of shooting one. "

So they talked together for some time about eagles; and when the girlcame back, the man did not charge so much for Uncle Sam's treat as wesometimes have to pay for our own lamb chops. 

And way off among the cliffs Uncle Sam ate in content, not knowing thathis life had been in danger, and that he had been saved by a boy and agirl who were growing up "under the shadow of an eagle's wings, " as theysaid to each other as they watched him sail the air in his journeys toand fro. 

That afternoon, when they heard him call, "Cac, cac, cac, " they said, "Uncle Sam is laughing. " And when his mate answered in her harsh voice, they said, "Aunt Samantha would be happy if she knew we saved theirlives. "

Busy with the life Nature taught them to live, the twins grew up asUncle Sam had grown before them. 

As they were hunters, there was nothing more interesting to them thanseeking their food in wild, free places. They had no guns and dogs, butthey caught game in the swamp. They had no cooks to prepare their ducks, so they picked off the feathers themselves. They had no fish-line andtackle, but they caught fish in the lake. And in time they caught fishin the air, too; which was even more thrilling, and a game they came toenjoy when they overtook the ospreys. Many times, too, they sought thefish that had been washed up on the lake shore, and so helped keepthings sweet and clean. In this way they were scavengers; and it isalways well to remember that a scavenger, whether he be a bird or beastor beetle, does great service in the world for all who need pure air tobreathe. 

The first year they became bigger than their father, and bigger thanthey themselves would be when they were old. At first, too, their eyeswere brown, and not yellow like their father's and mother's. And for twoyears their heads and tails were dark, so that they looked much morelike "golden eagles" than they did like the old ones of their own kind. 

The soldiers at the training-camp caught sight of them now and then, andnamed them the "Yankee-Doodle Twins. " When the twins were three yearsold, their molting season brought a remarkable change to them. The darkfeathers of their heads and necks and tails dropped out, and in theirplaces white feathers grew, so that by this time they looked like theirown father and mother, who are what is called "bald eagles, " thoughtheir heads are not bald at all, but well covered with feathers. 

These two birds that were hatched in the home that was more than seventyyears old lived to see the end of the war the young soldiers weretraining for when they took their first flights together near the shoreof the same lake. And perhaps they will live to a time when the peopleof their country learn to deal more and more justly with each other andwith the great bird of freedom chosen by their forefathers to be theemblem of their proud land. 

Why, indeed, if the boys and girls of the neighborhood keep up a guardfor the protection of Uncle Sam and Aunt Samantha, should they not nestagain, and yet again, in that tree-top home that has been so well takencare of for more than threescore years and ten; and bring upYankee-Doodle Twins for their country in days of peace as they did indays of war?

VII

CORBIE

Corbie's great-great-grandfather ruled a large flock from his look-outthrone on a tall pine stump, where he could see far and wide, and judgefor his people where they should feed and when they should fly. 

His great-grandfather was famous for his collections of old china andother rare treasures, having lived in the woods near the town dump, where he picked up many a bright trinket, chief among which was an oldgold-plated watch-chain, which he kept hidden in a doll's red tea-cupwhen he was not using it. 

His grandfather was a handsome fellow, so glistening that he lookedrather purple when he walked in the sunshine; and he had a voice sosweet and mellow that any minstrel might have been proud of it, thoughhe seldom sang, and it is possible that no one but Corbie's grandmotherheard it at its best. He was, moreover, a merry soul, fond of a joke, and always ready to dance a jig, with a chuckle, when anything veryfunny happened in crowdom. 

As for the wisdom and beauty of his grandmothers all the way back, thereis so much to be said that, if I once began to tell about them, therewould be no space left for the story of Corbie himself. 

[Illustration: _In this Mother Crow had laid her eggs. _]

Of course, coming from a family like that, Corbie was sure to beremarkable; for there is no doubt at all that we inherit many traits ofour ancestors. 

Corbie knew very little about his own father and mother, for he wasadopted into a human family when he was ten days old, and a baby at thatage does not remember much. 

Although he was too young to realize it, those first ten days after hehad come out of his shell, and those before that, while he was growinginside his shell, were in some ways the most important of his life, forit was then that he needed the most tender and skillful care. Well, hehad it; for the gentleness and skill of Father and Mother Crow leftnothing to be desired. They had built the best possible nest for theirneeds by placing strong sticks criss-cross high up in an old pine tree. For a lining they had stripped soft stringy bark from a wild grapevine, and had finished off with a bit of still softer dried grass. 

In this Mother Crow had laid her five bluish-green eggs marked withbrown; and she and Father Crow had shared, turn and turn about, the longtask of keeping their babies inside those beautiful shells warm enoughso that they could grow. 

And grow they did, into five as homely little objects as ever broketheir way out of good-looking eggshells. There was not down on theirbodies to make them fluffy and pretty, like Peter Piper's children. Theywere just sprawling little bits of crow-life, so helpless that it wouldhave been quite pitiful if they had not had a good patient mother and afather who seemed never to get tired of hunting for food. 

Now, it takes a very great deal of food for five young crows, becauseeach one on some days will eat more than half his own weight and beg formore. Dear, dear! how they did beg! Every time either Father or MotherCrow came back to the nest, those five beaks would open so wide that thebabies seemed to be yawning way down to the end of their red throats. Oh, the food that got stuffed into them! Good and nourishing, every bitof it; for a proper diet is as important to a bird baby as to a humanone. Juicy caterpillars--a lot of them: enough to eat up a wholeberry-patch if the crows hadn't found them; nutty-flavoredgrasshoppers--a lot of them, too; so many, in fact, that it looked verymuch as if crows were the reason the grasshoppers were so nearly wipedout that year that they didn't have a chance to trouble the farmers'crops; and now and then a dainty egg was served them in the mosttempting crow-fashion, that is, right from the beak of the parent. 

For, as you no doubt have heard, a crow thinks no more of helpinghimself to an egg of a wild bird than we do of visiting the nests oftame birds, such as hens and geese and turkeys, and taking the eggs theylay. Of course, it would not occur to a crow that he didn't have aperfect right to take such food for himself and his young as he couldfind in his day's hunting. Indeed, it is not unlikely that, if a crowdid any real thinking about the matter, he might decide that robins andmeadowlarks were his chickens anyway. So what the other birds wouldbetter do about it is to hide their nests as well as ever they can, andbe quiet when they come and go. 

That is the way Father and Mother Crow did, themselves, when they builttheir home where the pine boughs hid it from climbers below and fromfliers above. And, though you might hardly believe it of a crow, theywere still as mice whenever they came near it, alighting first on treesclose by, and slipping up carefully between the branches, to be sure noenemy was following their movements. Then they would greet their babieswith a comforting low "Caw, " which seemed to mean, "Never fear, littleones, we've brought you a very good treat. " Yes, they were shy, thoseold crows, when they were near their home, and very quiet they kepttheir affairs until their young got into the habit of yelling, "Kah, kah, kah, " at the top of their voices whenever they were hungry, and ofmumbling loudly, "Gubble-gubble-gubble, " whenever they were eating. 

After that time comes, there is very little quiet within the home of acrow; and all the world about may guess, without being a bit clever, where the nest is. A good thing it is for the noisy youngsters that bythat time they are so large that it does not matter quite so much. 

But it was before the "kah-and-gubble" habit had much more than begunthat Corbie was adopted; and the nestlings were really as still as couldbe when the father of the Brown-eyed Boy and the Blue-eyed Girl climbedway, way, way up that big tree and looked into the round little room upthere. There was no furniture--none at all. Just one bare nursery, inwhich five babies were staying day and night. Yet it was a tidy room, fresh and sweet enough for anybody to live in; for a crow, young or old, is a clean sort of person. 

The father of the Brown-eyed Boy and the Blue-eyed Girl looked over thefive homely, floundering little birds, and, choosing Corbie, put himinto his hat and climbed down with him. He was a nimble sort of father, or he never could have done it, so tall a tree it was, with no branchesnear the ground. 

Corbie, even at ten days old, was not like the spry children of PeterPiper, who could run about at one day old, all ready for picnics andteetering along the shore. No, indeed! He was almost as helpless andquite as floppy as a human baby, and he needed as good care, too. Heneeded warmth enough and food enough and a clean nest to live in; and heneeded to be kept safe from such prowling animals as will eat youngbirds, and from other enemies. All these things his father and motherhad looked out for. 

Now the little Corbie was kidnaped--taken away from his home and theloving and patient care of his parents. 

But you need not be sorry for Corbie--not very. For the Brown-eyed Boyand the Blue-eyed Girl adopted the little chap, and gave him food enoughand warmth enough and a chance to keep his new nest clean; and they didit all with love and patience, too. 

Corbie kept them busy, for they were quick to learn that, when he openedhis beak and said, "Kah, " it was meal-time, even if he had had luncheononly ten minutes before. His throat was very red and very hollow, andseemed ready to swallow no end of fresh raw egg and bits of raw beef andearthworms and bread soaked in milk. Not that he had to have much at atime, but he needed so very many meals a day. It was fun to feed thelittle fellow, because he grew so fast and because he was so comicalwhen he called, "Kah. "

It was not long before his body looked as if he had a crop ofpaint-brushes growing all over it; for a feather, when it first comes, is protected by a little case, and the end of the feather, which sticksout of the tip of the case, does look very much like the soft hairs atthe end of a paint-brush, the kind that has a hollow quill stem, youknow. After they were once started, dear me, how those feathers grew! Itseemed no time at all before they covered up the ear-holes in the sideof his head, and no time at all before a little bristle fringe grew downover the nose-holes in his long horny beak. 

He was nearly twenty days old before he could stand up on his toes likea grown-up crow. Before that, when he stood up in his nest and "kahed"for food, he stood on his whole foot way back to the heel, which lookslike a knee, only it bends the wrong way. When he was about three weeksold, however, he began standing way up on his toes, and stretching hisleg till his heels came up straight. Then he would flap his wings andexercise them, too. 

Of course, you can guess what that meant. It meant--yes, it meant thatCorbie was getting ready to leave his nest; and before the Brown-eyedBoy and the Blue-eyed Girl really knew what was happening, Corbie wentfor his first ramble. He stepped out of his nest-box, which had beenplaced on top of a flat, low shed, and strolled up the steep roof of thewoodshed, which was within reach. There he stood on the ridge-pole, thelittle tike, and yelled, "Caw, " in almost a grown-up way, as if he feltproud and happy. Perhaps he did for a while. It really was a trip to beproud of for one's very first walk in the world. 

But the exercise made him hungry, and he soon yelled, "Kah!" in a tonethat meant, "Bring me my luncheon this minute or I'll beg till you do. "

The Brown-eyed Boy took a dish of bread and milk to the edge of the lowroof, where the nest-box had been placed, and the Blue-eyed Girl called, "Come and get it, Corbie. "

Not Corbie! He had always had his meals brought to him. He likedservice, that crow. And besides, maybe he _couldn't_ walk down the roofit had been so easy to run up. Anyway, his voice began to sound as if hewere scared as well as hungry, and later as if he were more scared thanhungry. 

Now it stood to reason that Corbie's meals could not be served him everyfifteen minutes on the ridge-pole of a steep roof. So the long ladderhad to be brought out, and the crow carried to the ground and advised tokeep within easy reach until he could use his wings. 

It was only a few days until Corbie could fly down from anything hecould climb up; and from that hour he never lacked for amusement. Ofcourse, the greedy little month-old baby found most of his fun for awhile in being fed. "Kah! Kah! Kah!" he called from sun-up to sun-down, keeping the Brown-eyed Boy and the Blue-eyed Girl busy diggingearthworms and cutworms and white grubs, and soaking bread in milk forhim. "Gubble-gubble-gubble, " he said as he swallowed it--it was all sovery good. 

[Illustration: _"Kah! Kah! Kah!" he called from sun-up to sun-down. _]

The joke of it was that Corbie, even then, had a secret--his first one. He had many later on. But the very first one seems the most wonderful, somehow. Yes, he could feed himself long before he let his fosterbrother and sister know it; and I think, had he been a wild crow insteadof a tame one, he would have fooled his own father and mother the sameway--the little rascal. 

No one would think, to see him with beak up and open, and withfluttering wings held out from his sides, that the little chap begging"Kah! kah! kah!" was old enough to do more than "gubble" the food thatwas poked into his big throat. But for all that, when the Brown-eyed Boyforgot the dish of earthworms and ran off to play, Corbie would listenuntil he could hear no one near, and then cock his bright eye down overthe wriggling worms. Then, very slyly, he would pick one up with a jerkand catch it back into his mouth. One by one he would eat the worms, until he wanted no more; and then he would hide the rest by poking theminto cracks or covering them with chips, crooning the while over hissecret joke. "There-there-tuck-it-there, " was what his croon soundedlike; but if the Brown-eyed Boy or the Blue-eyed Girl came near, hewould flutter out his wings at his sides and lift his open beak, histeasing "Kah" seeming to say, "Honest, I haven't had a bite to eat sinceyou fed me last. "

When his body was grown so big with his stuffing that he was almost afull-sized crow, he stopped his constant begging for food. The days ofhis greed were only the days of his growth needs, and the world was toofull of adventures to spend all his time just eating. 

It was now time for him to take pleasure in his sense of sight, and for a few, weeks he went nearly crazy with joy over yellowplaythings. He strewed the vegetable garden with torn and tatteredsquash-blossoms--gorgeous bits of color that it was such fun to findhidden under the big green leaves! He strutted to the flower-garden, andpulled off all the yellow pansies, piling them in a heap. He jumped forthe golden buttercups, nipping them from their stems. He danced for joyamong the torn dandelion blooms he threw about the lawn. For Corbie waslike a human baby in many ways. He must handle what he loved, and spoilit with his playing. 

Perhaps Corbie inherited his dancing from his grandfather. It may havecome down to him with that old crow's merry spirit. Whether it was allhis own or in part his grandfather's, it was a wonderful dance, so fullof joy that the Brown-eyed Boy and the Blue-eyed Girl would leave theirplay to watch him, and would call the Grown-Ups of the household, thatthey, too, might see Corbie's "Happy Dance. "

If he was pleased with his cleverness in hiding some pretty beetle in acrack and covering it with a chip, he danced. If he spied the shinynails in the tool-shed, he danced. If he found a gay ribbon to dragabout the yard, he danced. But most and best he danced on a hot day whenhe was given a bright basin of water. Singing a lively chattering tune, he came to his bath. He cocked one bright eye and then the other overthe ripples his beak made in the water. Plunging in, he splashed long, cooling flutters. Then he danced back and forth from the doorstep tohis glistening pan, chattering his funny tune the while. 

Have you heard of a Highland Fling or a Sailor's Hornpipe? Well, Corbie's Happy Dance was as gay as both together, when he jigged in thedooryard to the tune of his own merry chatter. The Brown-eyed Boy andthe Blue-eyed Girl laughed to see him, and the Grown-Ups laughed. Andeven as they laughed, their hearts danced with the little black crow--hemade them feel so very glad about the bath. For he had been too warm andwas now comfortable. The summer sun on his feathered body had tired him, and the cooling water brought relief. "Thanks be for the bath. O bird, be joyful for the bath!" he chattered in his own language, as he spreadhis wings and gave again and yet again his Happy Dance. 

But a basin, however bright, is not enough to keep a crow in thedooryard; for a crow is a bird of adventure. 

So it was that on a certain day Corbie flew over the cornfield and overthe tree-tops to the river; and so quiet were his wings, that theBrown-eyed Boy and the Blue-eyed Girl did not hear his coming, and theyboth jumped when he perched upon a tiny rock near by and screamed, "Caw, " quite suddenly, as one child says, "Boo, " to another, to surprisehim. Then the bird sang his chatter tune, and found a shallow place nearthe bank, where he splashed and bathed. After that, the Blue-eyed Girlshowed him a little water-snail. He turned it over in his beak anddropped it. It meant no more to him than a pebble. "I think you'll liketo eat it, Corbie, " said the Brown-eyed Boy, breaking the shell andgiving it to him again; "even people eat snails, I've heard. "

Corbie took the morsel and swallowed it, and soon was cracking forhimself all the snails his comrades gave him. But that was not enough, for their eyes were only the eyes of children and his bright bird eyescould find them twice as fast. So he waded in the river, playing "I spy"with his foster brother and sister, and beating them, too, at the game, though they had hunted snails as many summers as he had minutes. 

He enjoyed doing many of the same things the children did. It was that, and his sociable, merry ways, that made him such a good playfellow, andbecause he wanted them to be happy in his pleasure and to praise hisclever tricks. Like other children, eating when he was hungry gave himjoy, and at times he made a game of it that was fun for them all. Everynow and then he would go off quietly by himself, and fill the hollow ofhis throat with berries from the bushes near the river-bank and, flyingback to his friends, would spill out his fruit, uncrushed, in a littlepile beside them while he crooned and chuckled about it. He seemed tohave the same sort of good time picking berries in his throat cup andshowing how many he had found that the children did in seeing whichcould first fill a tin cup before they sat down on the rocks to eatthem. 

One day the Brown-eyed Boy and the Blue-eyed Girl were down by theriver, hunting for pearls. A pearl-hunter had shown them how to openfreshwater clamshells without killing the clams. Suddenly Corbie walkedup and, taking one of these hard-shelled animals right out of theirhands, he flew high overhead and dropped it down on the rocks near by. Of course that broke the shell and of course Corbie came down and atethe clam, without needing any vinegar or butter on it to make it tastegood to him. How he learned to do this, the children never knew. Perhapshe found out by just happening to drop one he was carrying, or perhapshe saw the wild crows drop their clams to break the shells: for afternesting season they used often to come down from the mountainside tofish by the river for snails and clams and crayfish, when they were nothelping the farmers by eating up insects in the fields. 

Corbie liked the crayfish, too, as well as people like lobsters andcrabs, and he had many an exciting hunt, poking under the stones forthem and pulling them out with his strong beak. 

There seemed to be no end of things Corbie could do with that beak ofhis. Sometimes it was a little crowbar for lifting stones or bits ofwood when he wanted to see what was underneath; for as every outdoorchild, either crow or human, knows, very, very interesting things livein such places. Sometimes it was a spade for digging in the dirt. Sometimes it was a pick for loosening up old wood in the hollow treewhere he kept his best treasures. Sometimes it worked like anut-cracker, sometimes like a pair of forceps, and sometimes--oh, youcan think of a dozen tools that beak of Corbie's was like. He was aswell off as if he had a whole carpenter's chest with him all the time. But mostly it served like a child's thumb and forefinger, to pickberries, or to untie the bright hair-ribbons of the Blue-eyed Girl orthe shoe-laces of the Brown-eyed Boy. And once in a long, long while, when some stupid child or Grown-Up, who did not know how to be civil toa crow, used him roughly, his beak became a weapon with which to pinchand to strike until his enemy was black and blue. For Corbie learned, asevery sturdy person must, in some way or other, how to protect himselfwhen there was need. 

Yes, Corbie's beak was wonderful. Of course, lips are better on peoplein many ways than beaks would be; but we cannot do one tenth so manythings with our mouths as Corbie could with his. To be sure, we do notneed to, for we have hands to help us out. If our arms had grown intowings, though, as a bird's arms do, how should we ever get along in thisworld?

[Illustration: _Corbie slipped off and amused himself. _]

The weeks passed by. A happy time for Corbie, whether he played with thechildren or slipped off and amused himself, as he had a way of doing nowand then, after he grew old enough to feel independent. The world forhim was full of adventure and joy. He never once asked, "What can I donow to amuse me?" Never once. His brain was so active that he couldfill every place and every hour full to the brim of interest. He had amerry way about him, and a gay chatter that seemed to mean, "Oh, life toa crow is joy! JOY!" And because of all this, it was not only theBrown-eyed Boy and the Blue-eyed Girl who loved him. He won the heartsof even the Grown-Ups, who had sometimes found it hard to be patientwith him during the first noisy days, when he tired them with hisfrequent baby "kah-and-gubble, " before he could feed himself. 

But, however bold and dashing he was during the day, whatever the sunnyhours had held of mirth and dancing, whichever path he had trod orflown, whomever he had chummed with--when it was the time of dusk, little Corbie sought the one he loved best of all, the one who had beenmost gentle with him, and snuggling close to the side of the Blue-eyedGirl, tucked his head into her sleeve or under the hem of her skirt, andcrooned his sleepy song which seemed to mean:--

 Oh! soft and warm the crow in the nest Finds the fluff of his mother's breast. Oh! well he sleeps, for she folds him tight-- Safe from the owl that flies by night. 

 Oh! far her wings have fluttered away, Nor does it matter in the day. But keep me, pray, till again 't is light, Safe from the owl that flies by night. 

Thus, long after he would have been weaned, for his own good, from suchcare, had he remained wild, Corbie, the tame crow, claimed protectionwith cunning, cuddling ways that taught the Blue-eyed Girl and herbrother and the Grown-Ups, too, something about crows that many peoplenever even guess. For all their rollicking care-free ways, there is, hidden beneath their black feathers, an affection very tender andlasting; and when they are given the friendship of humans, they findtouching ways of showing how deep their trust can be. 

Before the summer was over, Corbie had as famous a collection as hisgreat grandfather. The children knew where he kept it, and usedsometimes to climb up to look at his playthings. They never disturbedthem except to take out the knitting-needle, thimble, spoons, or thingslike that, which were needed in the house. The bright penny someone hadgiven him, the shiny nails, the brass-headed tacks, the big whitefeather, the yellow marble, all the bits of colored glass, and an oldwatch, they left where he put them; for they thought that he loved histhings, or he would not have hidden them together; and they thought, andso do I, that he had as much right to his treasures to look at and carefor as the Brown-eyed Boy had to his collection of pretty stones and theBlue-eyed Girl to the flowers in her wild garden. 

After his feathers were grown, in the spring, Corbie had been reallygood-looking in his black suit; but by the first of September he washomely again. His little side-feather moustache dropped out at the topof his beak, so that his nostrils were uncovered as they had been whenhe was very young. The back of his head was nearly bald, and his neckand breast were ragged and tattered. 

Yes, Corbie was molting, and he had a very unfinished sort of look whilethe new crop of paint-brushes sprouted out all over him. But it wasworth the discomforts of the molt to have the new feather coat, allshiny black; and Corbie was even handsomer than he had been during thesummer, when cold days came, and he needed his warm thick suit. 

At this time all the wild crows that had nested in that part of thecountry flew every night from far and wide to the famous crow-roost, notfar from a big peach orchard. They came down from the mountain thatshowed like a long blue ridge against the sky. They flew across a roadthat looked, on account of the color of the dirt, like a pinkish-redribbon stretching off and away. They left the river-edge and the fields. Every night they gathered together, a thousand or more of them. Corbie'sfather and mother were among them, and Corbie's two brothers and twosisters. But Corbie was not with those thousand crows. 

No cage held him, and no one prevented his flying whither he wished;but Corbie stayed with the folk who had adopted him. A thousand wildcrows might come and go, calling in their flight, but Corbie, thoughfree, chose for his comrades the Brown-eyed Boy and the Blue-eyed Girl. 

I thought all along it would be so if they were good to him; and that iswhy I said, the day he was kidnaped, that you need not be sorry forCorbie--not very. 

VIII

ARDEA'S SOLDIER

In years long gone by, soldiers called "knights" used to protect therights of other people; and, when the weak were in danger, thesesoldiers went forth to fight for them. They were so brave, these knightsof old, that there was nothing that could make them afraid. Dragonseven, which looked like crocodiles, with leather wings and terriblesnatching claws and fiery eyes and breath that smoked--dragons, even, sothe stories go, could not turn a knight away from his path of duty. Mind, I am not telling you that there ever were creatures that lookedlike that; but certain it is that there were dangers dreadful to meet, and "dragon" is a very good name to call them by. 

You know, do you not, that there are soldiers, still, who protect therights of others; and although we do not commonly call them "knights, "they still fight for the weak, and are so brave that dangers as fearsomeas dragons, even, cannot scare them. 

There was such a soldier in Ardea's camp; and if he had lived in oldendays, he would probably have been called "Knight of the Snowy Heron. "

Ardea was a bride that spring, and perhaps never was there one muchlovelier. Her wedding garment was the purest white; and instead of aveil she wore, draped from her shoulders, snowy plumes of rare beauty, which reached to the bottom of her gown, where the dainty tips curled upa bit, then hung like the finest fringe. 

[Illustration: _She wore, draped from her shoulders, snowy plumes ofrare beauty. _]

The Soldier watched her as she stood alone at the edge of the water, sosmall and white and slender against the great cypress trees bearded withSpanish moss, and thought she made a picture he could never forget. Andwhen her mate came out to her, in a white wedding-robe like her own, with its filmy cape of mist-fine plumes, Ardea's Soldier smiled gently, for he loved Heron Camp and shared, in his heart, the joys of theirhome-coming. 

Ardea and her mate took a pleasant trip, looking for a building place atthe edge of a swamp. They did not object to neighbors; which wasfortunate, as there were so many other herons in the camp that it wouldhave been hard to find a very secret spot for their nest. After lookingit over and talking about it a bit, they chose a mangrove bush for theirvery own. They had never built a house before, but they wasted no timein hunting for a carpenter or teacher, but went to work with a will, just as if they knew how. It was like playing a game of "five-six, pickup sticks"; only they did not lay them straight but in a scragglycriss-cross sort of platform, with big twigs twelve inches long at thebottom and smaller ones on top. Then, when it looked all ready for anice soft lining, Ardea laid an egg right on the rough sticks. Ratherlazy and shiftless, don't you think? or maybe they didn't know anybetter, poor young things who had never had a home before! Ah, but therewas another pair of snowy herons building in the bush next door, andthey didn't put in anything soft for their eggs, either; and six oreight bushes farther on, a little blue heron was already sitting on herblue eggs in almost exactly the same sort of nest. 

So that is the kind of carpenters herons are! Sticks laid tangled up ina mass is the way they build! Yes, that is all--just some old deadtwigs. I mean that is all you could _see_; but never think for a minutethat there wasn't something else about that nest; for Ardea and her matehad lined it well with love, and so it was, indeed, a home worthbuilding. 

[Illustration: _Near Ardea's Home. _]

In less than a week there were four eggs beneath the white downcomforter that Ardea tucked over them; and the little mother was aswell pleased as if she had had five, like her neighbors, the other snowyheron and the little blue heron. 

If the eggs of the little blue heron were blue, would not those of thesnowy herons be pure white? No, the color of eggs does not need to matchthe color of feathers; and Ardea's eggs and those of her next-bushneighbor were so much like the beautiful blue ones of the little blueheron, that it would be very hard for you to tell one from the other. Perhaps Ardea could not have told her own eggs if she had not rememberedwhere she had built her nest. As it was, she made no mistake, butsnuggled cosily over her pretty eggs, doubling up her long slender blacklegs and her yellow feet as best she could. 

If she found it hard to sit there day after day, she made no fuss aboutit; and probably she really wanted to do that more than anything elsejust then, since the quiet patience of the most active birds is naturalto them when they are brooding their unhatched babies. Then, too, therewas her beautiful mate for company and help; for when Ardea needed toleave the nest for food and a change, the father-bird kept house ascarefully as need be. 

To her next-bush neighbors and the little blue herons Ardea paid noattention, unless, indeed, one of them chanced to come near her ownmangrove bush. Then she and her mate would raise the feathers on the topof their heads until they looked rather fierce and bristly, and spreadout their filmy capes of dainty plumes in a threatening way. Thatcriss-cross pile of old dead twigs was a dear home after all, beinglined, you will remember, with the love of Ardea and her mate; and theyboth guarded it as well as they were able. 

At last the quiet brooding days came to an end, and four funny littleherons wobbled about in Ardea's nest. Their long legs and toes stuck outin all directions, and they couldn't seem to help sprawling around. Ifthere had been string or strands of moss or grass in the nest, theywould probably have got all tangled up. As it was, they sometimes nearlyspilled out, and saved themselves only by clinging to the firm sticksand twigs. So it would seem that their home was a good sort for theneeds of their early life, just as it was; and no doubt a heron's nestfor a heron is as suitable a building as an oriole's is for an oriole. 

[Illustration: _That criss-cross pile of old dead twigs was a dear home, and they both guarded it. _]

It would take some time before the babies of Ardea would be able tostraighten up on their long, slim legs and go wading. Until that daycame, their father and mother would have to feed them well and often. Now the marsh where the snowy herons went fishing, where the shallowwater was a favorite swimming-place for little fishes, was ten miles ormore from their nest. Some kinds of herons, perhaps most kinds, arequiet and stately when they hunt, standing still and waiting for theirgame to come to them, or moving very slowly and carefully. But Ardea andthe other snowy herons ran about in a lively way, spying out the littlefishes with their bright yellow eyes, and catching them up quickly intheir black beaks. After swallowing a supply of food, Ardea took wingand returned across the miles to her young. Standing on the edge of hernest and reaching down with her long neck, she took the bill of one ofher babies in her own mouth, and dropped part of what she had swallowedout of her big throat down into his small one. When she had fed herbabies and preened her pretty feathers a bit, she was off again on theten-mile flight; for many a long journey she and her mate must take eretheir little ones could feed themselves. But ten miles over and over andover again were as nothing to the love she had for her children; andfaithfully as she had brooded her eggs, she now began the task ofproviding their meals. She seemed so happy each time she returned, thatperhaps she was a little bit worried while she was away; but there is noreason to think she really was afraid that any great harm could come tothem. 

Certainly she was unprepared for what she found when she flew back fromher fourth fishing trip. Even when she reached Heron Camp, she did notunderstand. There are some things it is not given the mind of a bird toknow. 

She could not know, poor dear, that there were people in the world whocoveted her beautiful wedding plumes. Women there were, who wished tomake themselves look better by wearing the feathers that Nature hadgiven snowy herons for their very own. And men there were, who thoughtto make themselves grander in the dress of their organization by walkingabout with heron plumes waving on their heads. The two kinds of whiteherons with wonderful plumes that have been put to such uses are calledEgrets and Snowy Egrets, and the feathers, when they are stripped fromthe birds, are called by the French name of _aigrette_. 

Now, of course, Ardea could not know about this, or that thePlume-Hunters had come to steal her wedding feathers. But she knew wellenough that danger was at hand, and that in times of trouble a mother'splace is beside her babies. Her heart beat quickly with a new terror, but she stayed, the brave bird stayed! And all about her the otherherons stayed also. They had no way to fight for their lives, and theymight have flown far and safely on their strong wings; but none of themwould desert the home built with love while the frightened babies werecalling to their fathers and mothers. 

No, _they_ could not fight for their lives, but there was one who could. For danger did not come to Heron Camp without finding Ardea's Soldier athis post. 

Now the Plume-Hunters did not have bodies like crocodiles and leatherwings, you know; but they were dragons of a sort, for all that, for theycarried brutal things in their hands that belched forth smoke and painand death, and they were cruel of heart, and they had sold themselves todo evil for the sake of the dollars that covetous men and women wouldpay them for feathers. 

Dragons though they were, Ardea's Soldier met them bravely. I like tothink how brave he was; for was not the fight he fought a fight for ourgood old Mother Earth, that she might not lose those beautiful childrenof hers? If the world should be robbed of Snowy Herons, it would be justso much less lovely, just so much less wonderful. And have they no rightto life, since the same Power that gave life to men gave life to them?And when we think about it this way, who seems to have the better rightto those plumes--herons, or men and women?

The Soldier believed in Ardea's right to life, believed in it so deeplythat he stood alone before the Plume-Hunters and told them that, whilehe lived, the birds of his camp should also live. 

And that is why they killed him--the dragons who were cruel of heartand had sold themselves to do evil for the sake of dollars that covetousmen and women would pay for feathers. 

Because of his courage and because of the cause for which he died, Ithink, don't you, that Ardea's Soldier might well be called "Knight ofthe Snowy Heron. "

I said that he was alone, and it is true that no one was there at thecamp to help him. But many there were in other places doing their bit inthe same good fight. Another soldier, named Theodore Roosevelt, did muchfor these birds when he was President, by granting them land where noman had a right to touch them; for it makes a true soldier angry whenthe weak are oppressed, and he said, "It is a disgrace to America thatwe should permit the sale of aigrettes. " Another man, named WoodrowWilson, whose courage also was so great that he always did what hebelieved to be right, would not permit, when he was Governor of NewJersey, a company to sell aigrettes in that State; he said, "I think NewJersey can get along without blood-money. "

Many another great man, besides, served the cause of Ardea. So many, infact, that there is not room here to tell about them all. But there isroom to say that the children helped. For, you know, every JuniorAudubon Society sends money to the National Association of AudubonSocieties--not much, but a little; and when the Knight of the SnowyHeron was killed, that little helped the National Association to hireanother soldier to take his place. Now, think of that! There was anothersoldier who so believed in the Herons' right to life and plumage, thathe was ready to protect them though it meant certain danger to himself!

Yes, there is to this very day a soldier at Heron Camp. Do you know away to keep him safe? Why, you children of America can do it if youwill, and it need not cost one of you a penny. You can do it with yourminds. For if every girl makes up her mind for good and all that shewill never wear a feather that costs a bird its life; and if every boymakes up his mind for good and all that he will never be afeather-hunting dragon--why there will not be _anybody_ growing up inAmerica to harm Ardea, will there? You can keep the Soldier of HeronCamp safe by just wishing it! That sounds wonderful as a fairy storycome true, does it not? And like the knight in some old fairy tale, could not Ardea's new Soldier "live happily forever after"?

IX

THE FLYING CLOWN

There are many accounts of the flying clown, in books, nearly all ofwhich refer to him as bull-bat or nighthawk, and a member of theGoatsucker or Nightjar family. But he wasn't a bull and he wasn't a batand he wasn't a hawk and he wasn't a jar; and he flew more by day thanby night, and he never, never milked a goat in all his life. So for thepurposes of this story we may as well give him a name to suit ourselves, and call him Mis Nomer. 

He was a poor skinny little thing, but you would not have guessed it tosee him; for he always wore a loose fluffy coat, which made him lookbigger and plumper than he really was. It was a gray and brown andcreamy buff-and-white sort of coat, quite mottled, with a rather plain, nearly black, back. It was trimmed with white, there being a whitestripe near the end of the coat-tail, a big, fine, V-shaped white placeunder his chin that had something the look of a necktie, and a bar ofwhite reaching nearly across the middle of each wing. 

These bars would have made you notice his long, pointed wings if he hadbeen near you, and they were well worth noticing; for besides justflying with them, --which was wonderful enough, as he was a talentedflier, --he used them in a sort of gymnastic stunt he was fond ofperforming in the springtime. 

Perhaps he did it to show off. I do not know. Certainly he had as good aright to be proud of his accomplishments as a turkey or a peacock thatspreads its tail, or a boy who walks on his hands. Maybe a better right, for they have solid earth to strut upon and run no risks, while Mis didhis whole trick in the air. It was a kind of acrobatic feat, though hehad no gymnasium with bars or rings or tight rope, and there was nocanvas stretched to catch him if he fell. A circus, with tents, and agate-keeper to take your ticket, would have been lucky if it could havehired Mis to show his skill for money. 

But Mis couldn't be hired. Not he! He was a free, wild clown, performingonly under Mother Nature's tent of wide-arched sky. If you wanted to seehim, you could--ticket or no ticket. That was nothing to him; for Mis, the wild clown of the air, had no thought either of money or fame amongpeople. 

Far, far up, he flew, hither and yon, in a matter-of-fact-enough way;and then of a sudden, with wings half-closed, he dropped toward theearth. Could he stop such speed, or must he strike and kill himself inhis fall? Down, down he plunged; and then, at last, he made a sound asif he groaned a loud, deep "boom. "

[Illustration: _The Flying Clown. _]

But just at the moment of this sound he was turning, and then, the firstanyone knew, he was flying up gayly, quite gayly. Then it wasn't a groanof fear? Mis afraid! Why the rascal had but to move his wings this wayand that, and go up instead of down. He might be within a second ofdashing himself to death against the ground, but so sure were his wingsand so strong his muscles, that a second was time and to spare for himto stop and turn and rise again toward the safe height from which hedived. A fine trick that! The fun of the plunge, and then the quick jerkat the end that sent the wind groaning against and between the feathersof his wings, with a "boom" loud and sudden enough to startle anyonewithin hearing. 

Yes, you might have seen the little clown at his tricks without a ticketat the wild-circus gate, for all he cared or knew. What did the childrenof men matter to him? Had not his fathers and grandfathers andgreat-grandfathers given high-air circus performances of a springtime, in the days when bison and passenger pigeons inherited their full shareof the earth, before our fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathershad even seen America?

Was it, then, just for the joy of the season that he played in the air, or was there, after all, someone besides himself to be pleased with thesport? Who knows whether the little acrobat was showing his mate what asplendid fellow he was, how strong of wing and skillful in the tricks offlight? Be that as it may, the mate of Mis was satisfied in some way orother, and went with him on a voyage of discovery one afternoon, whenthe sky was nicely cloudy and the light pleasantly dull. 

Now, like all good parents, Mis and his mate were a bit particular aboutwhat sort of neighborhood they should choose for their home; for thebringing up of a family, even if it is a small one, is most important. 

A peaceful place and a sunny exposure they must have; there must be goodhunting near at hand; and one more thing, too, was necessary. Now, thehouse-lot they finally decided upon met all four of these needs, thoughit sounds like a joke to tell you where it was. But then, when a clowngoes merrily forth to find him a home, we must not be surprised if he isfunny about it. It was where the sun could shine upon it; though how Misand his mate knew that, all on a dull, dark afternoon, I'm sure I can'ttell. Maybe because there wasn't a tree in sight. And as for peace, itwas as undisturbed as a deserted island. It was, in fact, a sort ofisland in a sea of air, and at certain times of the day and night therewas game enough in this sea to satisfy even such hunters as they. 

Perhaps they chuckled cosily together when they decided to take theirpeace and sunshine on the flat roof of a very high building in a verylarge city. Their house-lot was covered with pebbles, and it suited themexactly. So well that they moved in, just as it was. 

Yes, those two ridiculous birds set up housekeeping without any house. Mother Nomer just settled herself on the bare pebbles in a satisfiedway, and that was all there was to it. Not a stick or a wisp of hay or afeather to mark the place! And as she sat there quietly, a queer thinghappened. She disappeared from sight. As long as she didn't move, shecouldn't be seen. Her dappled feathers didn't look like a bird. Theylooked like the light and dark of the pebbles of the flat roof. Ah, so_that_ was the one thing more that was necessary for her home, besidessunshine and peace and good hunting. It must be where she could sit andnot show; where she could hide by just looking like what was near her, like a sand-colored grasshopper on the sand in the sun, [2] or awalking-stick on a twig, [2] or a butterfly on the bark of a tree. [2]

Yes, Mis's mate knew, in some natural wise way of her own, the secret ofmaking use of what we call her "protective coloration. " This is one ofthe very most important secrets Mother Nature has given her children, and many use it--not birds alone, but beasts and insects also. They useit in their own wild way and think nothing about it. We say that it istheir instinct that leads them to choose places where they cannot easilybe seen. If you do not understand exactly what instinct is, do not feelworried, for there are some things about that secret of Mother Naturethat even the wisest men in the world have not explained. But this we doknow, that when her instincts led Mother Nomer to choose the pebbly roofas a background for her mottled feathers, she did just naturally verymuch the same thing that the soldiers in the world-war did when theymade use of great guns painted to look like things they were not, andships painted to look like the waves beneath them and the clouds in thesky above. Only, the soldiers did not use their protective colorationnaturally and by instinct. They did this by taking thought; and veryproud they felt, too, of being able to do this by hard study. Theytalked about it a great deal and the French taught the world a new word, _camouflage_, to call it by. And their war-time camouflage _was_wonderful, even though it was only a clumsy imitation of what MotherNature did when the feathers of Mother Nomer were made to grow dappledlike little blotches of light and dark; or, to put it the other wayabout, when the bird was led, by her instinct, to choose for thenesting-time a place where she did not show. 

Of course, it was not just the gravel on the flat roof that would matchher feathers; for there isn't a house in the land that is nearly so oldas one thousand years, and birds of this sort have been building muchlonger than that. No, so far as color went, Mother Nomer might havechosen a spot in an open field, where there were little broken sticks orstones to give it a mottled look--such a place, indeed, as her ancestorsused to find for their nesting in the old days when there were nohouses. Such a place, too, as most of this kind of bird still seek; fornot all of them, by any means, are roof-dwellers in cities. 

Our bird with the dappled feathers, however, sat in one little spot onthat large roof for about sixteen days and nights, with time enough offnow and then to get food and water, and to exercise her wings. When shewas away, Mis came and sat on the same spot. If you had been there tosee them come and go, you would have wondered why they cared about thatparticular spot. It looked like the rest of the sunny roof--just littlehumps of light and dark. Ah, yes! but two of those little humps of lightand dark were not pebbles: they were eggs; and if you couldn't havefound them, Mis and his mate could, though I think even they had toremember where they were instead of eye-spying them. 

By the time sixteen days were over, there were no longer eggs beneaththe fluffy feathers that had covered them. Instead, there were twolittle balls of down, though you couldn't have seen them either, unlessyou had been about near enough to touch them; for the downy children ofMis were as dappled as his mate and her eggs, and they had, from themoment of their hatching, the instinct for keeping still if danger camenear. 

[Illustration: _Peaceful enough, indeed, had been the brooding days. _]

Peaceful enough, indeed, had been the brooding days of Mother Nomer. Something of the noise and bustle, to be sure, of the city streets cameup to her; but that was from far below, and things far off are not worthworrying about. Sometimes, too, the sound of voices floated out fromthe upper windows of the building, quite near; but the birds soon becameused to that. 

When the twins were but a few days old, however, their mother had a realscare. A man came up to take down some electric wires that had beenfastened not far from the spot that was the Nomer home. He trampedheavily about, throwing down his tools here and there, and whistlingloudly as he worked. All this frightened little Mother Nomer. There isno doubt about that, for her heart beat more and more quickly. But shedidn't budge. She couldn't. It was a part of her camouflage trick to sitstill in danger. The greater the danger, the stiller to sit! She evenkept her eyes nearly shut, until, when the man had cut the last andnearest end of wire and put all his things together in a pile ready totake down, he came to look over the edge of the roof-wall. As he bent todo this, he brushed suddenly against her. 

Then Mother Nomer sprang into the air; and the man jumped, in suchsurprise that, had it not been for the wall, he would have fallen fromthe roof. It would be hard to tell which was the more startled for amoment--man or bird. But Mother Nomer did not fly far. She fell back tothe roof some distance from her precious babies and fluttered pitifullyabout, her wings and tail spread wide and dragging as she moved lamely. She did not look like a part of the pebbly roof now. She showedplainly, for she was moving. She looked like a wounded bird, and theman, thinking he must have hurt her in some way, followed her to pickher up and see what the trouble was. Three times he almost got her. Almost, but not quite. Crippled as she seemed, she could still fumbleand flutter just out of reach; and when at last the man had followed herto a corner of the roof far from her young, Mother Nomer sprang up, andspreading her long, pointed wings, took flight, whole and sound as abird need be. 

The man understood and laughed. He laughed at himself for being fooled. For it wasn't the first time a bird had tricked him so. Once, when hewas a country boy, a partridge, fluttering as if broken-winged, had ledhim through the underbrush of the wood-lot; and once a bird by theriver-side stumbled on before him, crying piteously, "Pete! Pete!Pete-weet!" and once--Why, yes, he should have remembered that this isthe trick of many a mother-bird when danger threatens her young. 

So he went back, with careful step, to where he had been before. Helooked this way and that. There was no nest. He saw no young. The littleNomer twins were not the son and daughter of Mis, the clown, and MotherNomer, the trick cripple, for nothing! They sat there, the littlerascals, right before his eyes, and budged not; they could practice theart of camouflage, too. 

[Illustration: _The little rascals could practise the art ofcamouflage. _]

But as he stood and looked, a wistful light came into the eyes of theman. It had been many years since he had found nesting birds and watchedthe ways of them. His memory brought old pictures back to him. Thecrotch in the tree, where the robin had plastered her nest, modeling themud with her feathered breast; the brook-edge willows, where theblackbirds built; the meadow, with its hidden homes of bobolinks; andthe woods where the whip-poor-wills called o' nights. His thoughts madea boy of him again, and he forgot everything else in the world in hiswish to see the little birds he felt sure must be among the pebblesbefore him. So he crept about carefully, here and there, and at lastcame upon the children of Mis. He picked up the fluffy little balls ofdown and snuggled them gently in his big hands for a moment. Then he putthem back to their safe roof, and, gathering up his tools, went on hisway, whistling a merry tune remembered from the days when he trudgeddown Long-ago Lane to the pasture, for his father's cows. Late ofafternoon it used to be, while the nighthawks dashed overhead in theirair-hunts, showing the white spots in their wings that looked likeholes, and sometimes making him jump as they dropped and turned, with asudden "boom. "

No sooner had the sound of his whistle gone from the roof, than MotherNomer came back to her houseless home--any spot doing as well asanother, now that the twins were hatched and able to walk about. As shecalled her babies to her and tucked them under her feathers, her heartstill beating quickly with the excitement of her scare, it would be easyto guess from the dear way of her cuddling that it isn't a beautifulwoven cradle or quaint walls of clay that matter most in the life ofyoung birds, but the loving care that is given them. In this respect theyoung orioles, swinging in their hammock among the swaying tips of theelm tree, and the children of Eve and Petro, in their wonderful brickmansion, were no better off than the twins of Mis and Mother Nomer. 

Busy indeed was Mis in the twilights that followed the hatching of hischildren; and, though he was as much in the air as ever, it was not thefun of frolic and clownish tricks that kept him there. For, besides hisown keen appetite, he had now the hunger of the twins to spur him on. Such a hunter as he was in those days! Why, he caught a thousandmosquitos on one trip; and meeting a swarm of flying ants, thoughtnothing at all of gobbling up five hundred before he stopped. Countlessflies went down his throat. And when the big, brown bumping beetles, with hard, shiny wing-covers on their backs and soft, fuzzy velvetunderneath, flew out at dusk, twenty or thirty of them, as likely asnot, would make a luncheon for Mis the clown. For he was lean andhungry, and he ate and ate and ate; but he never grew fat. He huntedzigzag through the twilight of the evening and the twilight of the dawn. When the nights were bright and game was plenty, he hunted zigzagthrough the moonlight. When the day was dull and insects were on thewing, he hunted, though it was high noon. And many a midnight ramblergoing home from the theatre looked up, wondering what made the dartingshadows, and saw Mis and his fellows dashing busily above where thenight-insects were hovering about the electric lights of the citystreets. He hunted long and he hunted well; but so keen was his appetiteand so huge the hunger of his twins, that it took the mother, too, tokeep the meals provided in the Nomer home. 

I think they were never unhappy about it, for there is a certainsatisfaction in doing well what we can do; and there is no doubt thatthese birds were made to be hunters. Mis and his kind swept the air, ofcourse, because they and their young were hungry; but the game theycaught, had it gone free to lay its myriad eggs, would have cost many afarmer a fortune in sprays to save his crops, and would have addeduntold discomfort to dwellers in country and city alike. 

Although Mis, under his feathers, was much smaller than one would thinkto look at him, there were several large things about him besides hisappetite. His mouth was almost huge, and reached way around to the sidesof his head under his eyes. It opened up more like the mouth of a frogor a toad than like that of most birds. When he hunted he kept ityawning wide open, so that it made a trap for many an unlucky insectthat flew straight in, without ever knowing what happened to it when itdisappeared down the great hollow throat, into a stomach so enormousthat it hardly seems possible that a bird less than twice the size ofMis could own it. 

There were other odd things about him, too--for instance, the comb hewore on his middle toe-nail. What he did with it, I can't say. He didn'tseem to do very much with his feet anyway. They were rather feeblelittle things, and he never used them in carrying home anything hecaught. He didn't even use them as most birds do when they stop torest; for, instead of sitting on a twig when he was not flying, he wouldsettle as if lying down. Sometimes he stayed on a large level branch, not cross-wise like most birds, but the long way; and when he did that, he looked like a humpy knot on the branch. When there were no brancheshandy, he would use a rail or a log or a wall, or even the ground; butwherever he settled himself, he looked like a blotch of light and dark, and one could gaze right at him without noticing that a bird was there. That was the way Mother Nomer did, too--clowns both of them and alwaysready for the wonderful game of camouflage!

They had remarkable voices. There seemed to be just one word to theircall. I am not going to tell you what that word is. There is a reasonwhy I am not. The reason is, that I do not know. To be sure, I haveheard nighthawks say it every summer for years, but I can't say itmyself. It is a very funny word, but you will have to get one of them tospeak it for you!

They came by all their different kinds of queerness naturally enough, Mis and Mother Nomer did, for it seemed to run in the family to bepeculiar, and all their relatives had oddities of one kind or another. Take Cousin Whip-poor-will, who wears whiskers, for instance; and CousinChuck-will's widow, who wears whiskers that branch. You could tell fromtheir very names that they would do uncommon things. And as for theirmore distant relatives, the Hummingbirds and Chimney Swifts, it wouldtake a story apiece as long as this to begin to tell of their strangedoings. But it is a nice, likable sort of queerness they all have; sovery interesting, too, that we enjoy them the better for it. 

There is one more wonderful thing yet that Mis and his mate did--andtheir twins with them; for before this happened, the children had grownto be as big as their parents, and a bit plumper, perhaps, though notenough to be noticed under their feathers. Toward the end of a pleasantsummer, they joined a company of their kind, a sort of traveling circus, and went south for the winter. Just what performances they gave alongthe way, I did not hear; but with a whole flock of flying clowns on thewing, it seems likely that they had a gay time of it altogether!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: See _Hexapod Stories_, pages 4, 110, 126. ]

X

THE LOST DOVE

_One Thousand Dollars ($1000) Reward_

That is the prize that has been offered for a nesting pair of PassengerPigeons. No one has claimed the money yet, and it would be a greatadventure, don't you think, to seek that nest? If you find it, you mustnot disturb it, you know, or take the eggs or the young, or frighten thefather- or mother-bird; for the people who offered all that money didnot want dead birds to stuff for a museum, but hoped that someone mighttell them where there were live wild ones nesting. 

You see the news had got about that the dove that is called PassengerPigeon was lost. No one could believe this at first, because there hadbeen so very many--more than a thousand, more than a million, more thana billion. How could more than a billion doves be lost?

They were such big birds, too--a foot and a half long from tip of beakto tip of tail, and sometimes even longer. Why, that is longer than thetame pigeons that walk about our city streets. How could doves as largeas that be lost, so that no one could find a pair, not even for onethousand dollars to pay him for the time it took to hunt?

Their colors were so pretty--head and back a soft, soft blue; neckglistening with violet, red, and gold; underneath, a wonderful purplered fading into violet shades, and then into bluish white. Who would notlike to seek, for the love of seeing so beautiful a bird, even though noone paid a reward in money?

Shall we go, then, to Kentucky? For 'twas there the man named Audubononce saw them come in flocks to roost at night. They kept coming fromsunset till after midnight, and their numbers were so great that theirwings, even while still a long way off, made a sound like a gale ofwind; and when close to, the noise of the birds was so loud that mencould not hear one another speak, even though they stood near andshouted. The place where Audubon saw these pigeons was in a forest nearthe Green River; and there were so many that they filled the trees overa space forty miles long and more than three miles wide. They perched sothickly that the branches of the great trees broke under their weight, and went crashing to the ground; and their roosting-place looked as if atornado had rushed through the forest. 

Must there not be wild pigeons, yet, roosting in Kentucky--some smallflock, perhaps, descended from the countless thousands seen by Audubon?No, not one of all these doves is left, they tell us, in the woods inthat part of the country. The rush of their wings has been stilled andtheir evening uproar has been silenced. Men may now walk beside theGreen River, and hear each other though they speak in whispers. 

Would you like to seek the dove in Michigan in May? For there it was, and then it was, that these wild pigeons nested, so we are told bypeople who saw them, by hundreds of thousands, or even millions. Theybuilt in trees of every sort, and sometimes as many as one hundred nestswere made in a single tree. Almost every tree on one hundred thousandacres would have at least one nest. The lowest ones were so near theground that a man could reach them with his hand. 

[Illustration: _Suppose you should find just one pair. _]

Suppose you should find, next May, just one pair nesting. Sire Dove, wethink from what we have read, would help bring some twigs, and Dame Dovewould lay them together in a criss-cross way, so that they would make afloor of sticks, sagging just a little in the middle. As soon as thefloor of twigs was firm enough, so that an egg would not drop through, Dame Dove would put one in the shallow sagging place in the middle. Itwould be a white egg, very much like those our tame pigeons lay; and, because there would be no thick soft warm rug of dried grass on thefloor, you could probably see it right through the nest, if you shouldstand underneath and look up. But you couldn't see it long, because, almost as soon as it was laid, Dame Dove would tuck the feathercomforter she carried on her breast so cosily about that precious egg, that it would need no other padding to keep it warm. She would staythere, the faithful mother, from about two o'clock each afternoon untilnine or ten o'clock the next morning. She would not leave for oneminute, to eat or get a drink of water. Then, about nine or ten o'clockeach morning, Sire Dove would slip onto the nest just as she moved off, and they would make the change so quickly that the egg could not evenget cool. That one very dear egg would need two birds to take care ofit, one always snuggling it close while the other ate and flew about anddrank. 

So they would sit, turn and turn about, for fourteen days. All thiswhile they would be very gentle with each other, saying softly, "Coo-coo, " something as tame pigeons do, only in shorter notes, orcalling, "Kee-kee-kee. " And sometimes Sire Dove would put his beak tothat of his nesting mate and feed her, very likely, as later they wouldfeed their young. For when the two weeks' brooding should be over, therewould be a funny, homely, sprawling, soft and wobbly baby dove withinthe nest. 

The father and mother of him would still have much to do, it seems; forhatching a dove out of an egg is only the easier half of the task. Thewobbly baby must be brought up to become a dove of grace and beauty. That would take food. 

But you must not think to see Sire and Dame Dove come flying home withseeds or nuts or fruit or grain or earthworms or insects in their beaks. What else, then, could they bring? Well, nothing at all, indeed, intheir beaks; for the food of a baby dove requires especial preparation. It has to be provided for him in the crop of his parent. So Dame Dovewould come with empty beak but full crop, and the baby would be fed. Just exactly how, I have not seen written by those people who saw amillion Passenger Pigeons. Perhaps they did not stop to notice. 

However, if you will watch a tame pigeon feed its young, you can guesshow a wild one would do it. A tame mother-pigeon that I am acquaintedwith comes to her young (_she_ has two) and, standing in or beside thenest, opens her beak very wide. One of her babies reaches up as far ashe can stretch his neck and puts his beak inside his mother's mouth. Hetucks it in at one side and crowds in his head as far as he can push it. Then the mother makes a sort of pumping motion, and pumps up soft babyfood from her crop, and he swallows it. Sometimes he keeps his beak inhis mother's mouth for as long as five minutes; and if anything startlesher and she pulls away, the hungry little fellow scolds and whines andwhimpers in a queer voice, and reaches out with his teasing wings, andflaps them against her breast, stretching up with his beak all the whileand feeling for a chance to poke his head into her mouth again. Andoften, do you know, his twin sister gets her beak in one side of MotherPigeon's mouth while he is feeding at the other side, and Mother juststands there and pumps and pumps. The two comical little birds, withfeet braced and necks stretched up as far as they can reach, and theirheads crowded as far in as they can push them, look so funny they wouldmake you laugh to see them. Then, the next meal Father Pigeon feeds themthe same way, usually one at a time, but often both together. 

Now, I think, don't you, because that is the way tame Father and MotherPigeon serve breakfast and dinner and supper and luncheons in betweenwhiles to their tame twins, that wild Dame and Sire Dove would give foodin very much the same way to their one wild baby? It might not beexactly the same, because tame pigeons and wild Passenger Pigeons arenot the same kind of doves; but they are cousins of a sort, which meansthat they must have some of the same family habits. 

If you should find a nest in Michigan in May, perhaps you can learn moreabout these matters, and watch to see whether, when the baby dove is allfeathered out, Dame or Sire Dove pushes it out of the nest even beforeit can fly, though it is fat enough to be all right until it gets sohungry it learns to find food for itself. Perhaps you can watch, too, tosee why Dame and Sire Dove seem to be in such a hurry to have theirfirst baby taking care of himself. Is it because they are ready to buildanother nest right straight away, or would Dame Dove lay another egg inthe same nest? Tame Mother Pigeon often lays two more eggs in the nextnest-box even before her twins are out of their nest. Then you may besure Father and Mother Pigeon have a busy time of it feeding theireldest twins, while they brood the two eggs in which their younger twinsare growing. 

It would be very pleasant if you could watch a pair of Passenger Pigeonsand find out all these things about them. _If you could!_ But I saidonly "perhaps, " because the people who know most about the matter saythat Michigan has lost more than a million, or possibly more than abillion, doves. They say that, if you should walk through all the woodsin Michigan, you would not hear one single Passenger Pigeon call, "Kee-kee-kee" to his mate, or hear one pair talk softly together, saying, "Coo-coo. " There are sticks and twigs enough for their nestslying about; but through all the lonesome woods, so we are told, thereis not one Sire Dove left to bring them to his Dame; and never, never, never will there be another nest like the millions there used to be. 

[Illustration: _Through all the lonesome woods there is not one dove. _]

Well, then, if we cannot find them at sunset in their roosting-place inKentucky or in their nests in Michigan in May, shall we give up thequest for the lost doves? Or shall we still keep hold of our courage andour hope and try elsewhere?

Surely, if there are any of these birds anywhere, they must eat food!Shall we seek them at some feeding-place? This might be everywhere inNorth America, from the Atlantic Ocean as far west as the Great Plains. That is, everywhere in all these miles where the things they liked toeat are growing. So, if you keep out of the Atlantic Ocean, and getsomeone to show you where the Great Plains are, you might look--_almostanywhere_. Why, many of you would not need to take a steam-train or evena trolley-car. You could walk there. Most of you could. You could walkto a place where they used to stop to feed. Those that were behind inthe great flock flew over the heads of all the others, and so were infront for a while. In that way they all had a chance at a well-spreadpicnic ground. Yes, you could easily walk to a place where that used tohappen--most of you could. 

Do you know where acorns grow, or beechnuts, or chestnuts? Well, Passenger Pigeons used to come there to eat, for they were very fond ofnuts! Do you know where elm trees grow wild along some riverway, orwhere pine trees live? Oh! that is where these birds used sometimes toget their breakfasts, when the trees had scattered their seeds. Do youknow a tree that has a seed about the right size and shape for a knifeat a doll's tea-party? Yes, that's the maple; and many and many a partythe Passenger Pigeons used to have wherever they could find thesecunning seed-knives. Only they didn't use them to cut things with. Theyate them up as fast as ever they could. 

Have you ever picked wild berries? Why, more than likely PassengerPigeons have picked other berries there or thereabouts before your day!

Do you know a place where the wild rice grows? Ah, so did the PassengerPigeons, once upon a time!

But if you know none of these places, even then you can stand near wherethe flocks used to fly when they were on their journeys. All of you wholive between the Atlantic Ocean and the Great Plains can go to the dooror a window of the house you live in and point to the sky and think:"Once so many Passenger Pigeons flew by that the sound of their wingswas like the sound of thunder, and they went through the air faster thana train on a track, and the numbers in their flocks were so many thatthey hid the sun like great thick clouds. "

When you do that, some of you will doubtless see birds flying over; butwe fear that not even one of you will see even one Passenger Pigeon inits flight. 

What happened to the countless millions is recorded in so many booksthat it need not be written again in this one. This story will tell youjust one more thing about these strange and wonderful birds, and that isthat no _child_ who reads this story is in any way to blame because thedove is lost. What boy or girl is not glad to think, when some wrong hasbeen done or some mistake has been made, "It's not _my_ fault"?

[Illustration: _Once, so many flew by, that the sound of their wings waslike the sound of thunder. _]

Even though this bird is gone forever and forever and forever, there aremany other kinds living among us. If old Mother Earth has been robbed ofsome of her children, she still has many more--many wonderful andbeautiful living things. And that she may keep them safe, she needs yourhelp; for boys and girls are her children, too, and the power lies inyour strong hands and your courageous hearts and your wise brains tohelp save some of the most wonderful and fairest of other living things. And what one among you all, I wonder, will not be glad to think that_you_ help keep the world beautiful, when you leave the water-liliesfloating on the pond; that it is the same as if _you_ sow the seeds inwild gardens, when you leave the cardinal flowers glowing on the banksand the fringed gentians lending their blue to the marshes. For the lifeof the world, whether it flies through the air or grows in the ground, is greatly in your care; and though you may never win a prize of moneyfor finding the dove that other people lost, there is a reward of joyready for anyone who can look at our good old Mother Earth and say, "Itwill not be _my_ fault if, as the years go by, you lose your birds andflowers. "

And it would be, don't you think, one of the greatest of adventures toseek and find and help keep safe such of these as are in danger, thatthey may not, like the dove, be lost?

XI

LITTLE SOLOMON OTUS

Oh, the wise, wise look of him, with his big round eyes and his veryRoman nose! He had sat in a golden silence throughout that dazzling day;but when the kindly moon sent forth a gentler gleam, he spoke, and thespeech of little Solomon Otus was as silver. A quivering, quaveringwhistle thrilled through the night, and all who heard the beginninglistened to the end of his song. 

It was a night and a place for music. The mellow light lay softly overthe orchard tree, on an old branch of which little Solomon sat mooninghimself before his door. He could see, not far away, the giant chestnuttrees that shaded the banks of a little ravine; and hear the murmuringsound of Shanty Creek, where Nata[3] grew up, and where hergrandchildren now played hide-and-seek. Near at hand stood a noble oak, with a big dead branch at the top that was famous the country round as alook-out post for hawks and crows; and maybe an eagle now and then hadused it, in years gone by. 

But hawk and crow were asleep, and toads were trilling a lullaby fromthe pond, while far, far off in the heart of the woods, a whip-poor-willcalled once, twice, and again. 

Solomon loved the dusk. His life was fullest then and his sight waskeenest. His eyes were wide open, and he could see clearly the shadow ofthe leaves when the wind moved them lightly from time to time. He was atease in the great night-world, and master of many a secret thatsleepy-eyed day-folk never guess. As he shook out his loose, soft coatand breathed the cool air, he felt the pleasant tang of a hunger thathas with it no fear of famine. 

Once more he sent his challenge through the moonlight with quivering, quavering voice, and some who heard it loved the darkness better forthis spirit of the night, and some shivered as if with dread. ForSolomon had sounded his hunting call, and, as with the baying of houndsor the tune of a hunter's horn, one ear might find music in the note andanother hear only a wail. 

Then, silent as a shadow, he left his branch. Solomon, a little lonehunter in the dark, was off on the chase. Whither he went or what hecaught, there was no sound to tell, until, suddenly, one quick squeakway over beside the corn-crib might have notified a farmer that anothermouse was gone. But the owner of the corn-crib was asleep, and dreaming, more than likely, that the cat, which was at that moment disturbing apair of meadow bobolinks, was somehow wholly to be thanked for thescarcity of mice about the place. 

[Illustration: _Oh, the wise, wise look of him. _]

Solomon was not wasteful about his food. He swallowed his eveningbreakfast whole. That is, he swallowed all but the tail, which wasfairly long and stuck out of his mouth for some time, giving him rathera queer two-tailed look, one at each end! But there was no one about tolaugh at him, and it was, in some respects, an excellent way to make ameal. For one thing, it saved him all trouble of cutting up his food;and then, too, there was no danger of his overeating, for he could tellthat he had had enough as long as there wasn't room for the tail. Andafter the good nutritious parts of his breakfast were digested, he had acomfortable way of spitting out the skin and bones all wadded togetherin a tidy pellet. An owl is not the only kind of bird, by any means, that has a habit of spitting out hard stuff that is swallowed with thefood. A crow tucks away many a discarded cud of that sort; and even thethrush, half an hour or so after a dainty fare of wild cherries, takenwhole, drops from his bill to the ground the pits that have beensqueezed out of the fruit by the digestive mill inside of him. 

After his breakfast, which he ate alone in the evening starlight andmoonlight, Solomon passed an enjoyable night; for that world, which tomost of us is lost in darkness and in sleep, is full of lively interestto an owl. Who, indeed, would not be glad to visit his starlit kingdom, with eyesight keen enough to see the folded leaves of clover like littlehands in prayer--a kingdom with byways sweet with the scent and mellowwith the beauty of waking primrose? Who would not welcome, for onewonderful night, the gift of ears that could hear the sounds which tolittle Solomon were known and understood, but many of which are lost indeafness to our dull ears?

Of course, it may be that Solomon never noticed that clovers fold theirleaves by night, or that primroses are open and fragrant after dusk. Forhe was an owl, and not a person, and his thoughts were not the thoughtsof man. But for all that they were wise thoughts--wise as the look ofhis big round eyes; and many things he knew which are unguessed secretsto dozy day-folk. 

He was a successful hunter, and he had a certain sort of knowledge aboutthe habits of the creatures he sought. He seldom learned where the daybirds slept, for he did not find motionless things. But he knew wellenough that mice visited the corn-crib, and where their favorite runwayscame out into the open. He knew where the cutworms crept out of theground and feasted o' nights in the farmer's garden. He knew where thebig brown beetles hummed and buzzed while they munched greedily ofshade-tree leaves. And he knew where little fishes swam near the surfaceof the water. 

So he hunted on silent wings the bright night long; and though he didnot starve himself, as we can guess from what we know about hisbreakfast of rare mouse-steak, still, the tenderest and softestdelicacies he took home to five fine youngsters, who welcomed theirfather with open mouths and eager appetite. Though he made his trips asquickly as he could, he never came too soon to suit them--the hungrylittle rascals. 

[Illustration: _Solomon knew the runways of the mice. _]

They were cunning and dear and lovable. Even a person could see that, tolook at them. It is not surprising that their own father was fond enoughof them to give them the greater part of the game he caught. He had, indeed, been interested in them before he ever saw them--while they werestill within the roundish white eggshells, and did not need to be fedbecause there was food enough in the egg to last them all the daysuntil they hatched. 

Yes, many a time he had kept those eggs warm while Mrs. Otus was awayfor a change; and many a time, too, he stayed and kept her company whenshe was there to care for them herself. Now, it doesn't really need twoowls at the same time to keep a few eggs warm. Of course not! So whyshould little Solomon have sat sociably cuddled down beside her? Perhapsbecause he was fond of her and liked her companionship. It would havebeen sad, indeed, if he had not been happy in his home, for he was anaffectionate little fellow and had had some difficulty in winning hismate. There had been, early in their acquaintance, what seemed toSolomon a long time during which she would not even speak to him. Why, 'tis said he had to bow to her as many as twenty or thirty times beforeshe seemed even to notice that he was about. But those days were overfor good and all, and Mrs. Otus was a true comrade for Solomon as wellas a faithful little mother. Together they made a happy home, and werequite charming in it. 

They could be brave, too, when courage was needed, as they gave proofthe day that a boy wished he hadn't climbed up and stuck his hand in attheir door-hole, to find out what was there. While Mrs. Otus spread herfeathers protectingly over her eggs, Solomon lay on his back, and, reaching up with beak and clutching claws, fought for the safety of hisfamily. In the heat of the battle he hissed, whereupon the boyretreated, badly beaten, but proudly boasting of an adventure with somesort of animal that felt like a wildcat and sounded like a snake. 

Besides, courage when needed, health, affection, good-nature, and plentyof food were enough to keep a family of owls contented. To be sure, somefolk might not have been so well satisfied with the way the householdwas run. A crow, I feel quite sure, would not have considered the placefit to live in. Mrs. Otus was not, indeed, a tidy housekeeper. The floorwas dirty--very dirty--and was never slicked up from one week's end toanother. But then, Solomon didn't mind. He was used to it. Mrs. Otus wasjust like his own mother in that respect; and it might have worried hima great deal to have to keep things spick and span after the way he hadbeen brought up. Why, the beautiful white eggshell he hatched out of wasdirty when he pipped it, and never in all his growing-up days did he seehis mother or father really clean house. So it is no wonder he wasrather shiftless and easy-going. Neither of them had shown what might becalled by some much ambition when they went house-hunting early thatspring; for although the place they chose had been put into fairly goodrepair by rather an able carpenter, --a woodpecker, --still, it had beenlived in before, and might have been improved by having some of therubbish picked up and thrown out. But do you think Solomon spent any ofhis precious evenings that way? No, nor Mrs. Otus either. They moved injust as it was, in the most happy-go-lucky sort of way. 

Well, whatever a crow or other particular person might think of thatnest, we should agree that a father and mother owl must be left tomanage affairs for their young as Nature has taught them; and if thosefive adorable babies of Solomon didn't prove that the way they werebrought up was an entire success from an owlish point of view, I don'tknow what could. 

[Illustration: _Those five adorable babies of Solomon. _]

Take them altogether, perhaps you could not find a much more interestingfamily than the little Otuses. As to size and shape, they were as muchalike as five peas in a pod; but for all that, they looked so differentthat it hardly seemed possible that they could be own brothers andsisters. For one of the sons of Solomon and two of his daughters hadgray complexions, while the other son and daughter were reddish brown. Now Solomon and Mrs. Otus were both gray, except, of course, what whitefeathers and black streaks were mixed up in their mottlings and dapples;so it seems strange enough to see two of their children distinctlyreddish. But, then, one never can tell just what color an owl of thissort will be, anyway. Solomon himself, though gray, was the son of areddish father and a gray mother, and he had one gray brother and tworeddish sisters: while Mrs. Otus, who had but one brother and onesister, was the only gray member of her family. Young or old, summer orwinter, Solomon and Mrs. Otus were gray, though, young or old, summer orwinter, their fathers had both been of a reddish complexion. 

Now this sort of variation in color you can readily see is altogether adifferent matter from the way Father Goldfinch changes his feathersevery October for a winter coat that looks much the same as that ofMother Goldfinch and his young daughters; and then changes every springto a beautiful yellow suit, with black-and-white trimmings and a blackcap, for the summer. It is different, too, from the color-styles of Bobthe Vagabond, who merely wears off the dull tips of his winter feathers, and appears richly garbed in black and white, set off with a lovely bitof yellow, for his gay summer in the north. Again, it is something quitedifferent from the color-fashions of Larie, who was not clothed in abeautiful white garment and soft gray mantle, like his father's andmother's, until he was quite grown up. 

No, the complexion of Solomon and his sons and daughters was a differentmatter altogether, because it had nothing whatever to do with season ofthe year, or age, or sex. But for all that it was not different from thesort of color-variations that Mother Nature gives to many of herchildren; and you may meet now and again examples of the same sort amongflowers, and insects, and other creatures, too. 

But, reddish or gray, it made no difference to Solomon and Mrs. Otus. They had no favorites among their children, but treated them all alike, bringing them food in abundance: not only enough to keep them happy thenight long, but laying up a supply in the pantry, so that the youngstersmight have luncheons during the day. 

Although Solomon had night eyes, he was not blind by day. He passed thebrightest hours quietly for the most part, dozing with both his outereyelids closed, or sometimes sitting with those open and only the thininner lid drawn sidewise across his eye. It seems strange to think ofhis having three eyelids; but, then, perhaps we came pretty near havinga third one ourselves; for there is a little fold tucked down at theinner corner, which might have been a third lid that could move acrossthe eye sidewise, if it had grown bigger. And sometimes, of a dazzlingday in winter, when the sun is shining on the glittering snow, such athin lid as Solomon had might be very comfortable, even for our dayeyes, and save us the trouble of wearing colored glasses. 

[Illustration: _He passed the brightest hours dozing. _]

Lively as Solomon was by night, all he asked during the day was peaceand quiet. He had it, usually. It was seldom that even any of the wildfolk knew where his nest was; and when he spent the day outside, in someshady place, he didn't show much. His big feather-horns at such timeshelped make him look like a ragged stub of a branch, or something elsehe wasn't. It is possible for a person to go very close to an owlwithout seeing him; and fortunately for Solomon, birds did not find himevery day. For when they did, they mobbed him. 

One day, rather late in the summer, Cock Robin found him and sent forththe alarm. To be sure, Solomon was doing no harm--just dozing, he was, on a branch. But Cock Robin scolded and sputtered and called him meannames; and the louder he talked, the more excited all the other birds inthe neighborhood became. Before long there were twenty angry kingbirdsand sparrows and other feather-folk, all threatening to do somethingterrible to Solomon. 

Now, Solomon had been having a good comfortable nap, with his feathersall hanging loose, when Cock Robin chanced to alight on the branch nearhim. He pulled himself up very thin and as tall as possible, with hisfeathers drawn tight against his body. When the bird-mob got too nearhim, he looked at them with his big round eyes, and said, "Oh!" in asweet high voice. But his soft tone did not turn away their wrath. Theycame at him harder than ever. Then Solomon showed his temper, for he wasno coward. He puffed his feathers out till he looked big and round, andhe snapped his beak till the click of it could be heard by histormentors. And he hissed. 

But twenty enemies were too many, and there was only one thing to bedone. Solomon did it. First thing those birds knew, they were scoldingat nothing at all; and way off in the darkest spot he could find in thewoods, a little owl settled himself quite alone and listened while thedin of a distant mob grew fainter and fainter and fainter, as one by onethose twenty birds discovered that there was no one left on the branchto scold at. 

If Solomon knew why the day birds bothered him so, he never told. Hecould usually keep out of their way in the shady woods in the summer;but in the winter, when the leaves were off all but the evergreen trees, he had fewer places to hide in. Of course, there were not then so manybirds to worry him, for most of them went south for the snowy season. But Jay stayed through the coldest days and enjoyed every chance he hadof pestering Solomon. I don't know that this was because he reallydisliked the little owl. Jay was as full of mischief as a crow, and ifthe world got to seeming a bit dull, instead of moping and feeling sorryand waiting for something to happen, Jay looked about for some way ofamusing himself. He was something of a bully, --a great deal of a bully, in fact, --this dashing rascal in a gay blue coat; and the more he couldswagger, the better he liked it. 

He seemed, too, to have very much the same feeling that we mean by joy, in fun and frolic. There was, perhaps, in the sight of a bird asleep andlistless in broad daylight, something amusing. He was in the habit ofseeing the feather-folk scatter at his approach. If he understood why, that didn't bother him any. He was used to it, and there is no doubt heliked the power he had of making his fellow creatures fly around. Whenhe found, sitting on a branch, with two toes front and two toes back, adowny puff with big round eyes and a Roman nose and feather-hornssticking up like the ears of a cat, maybe he was a bit puzzled becauseit didn't fly, too. Perhaps he didn't quite know what to make of poorlittle Solomon, who, disturbed from his nap, just drew himself up slimand tall, and remarked, "Oh!" in a sweet high voice. 

But, puzzled or not, Jay knew very well what he could do about it. Hehad done it so many times before! It was a game he liked. He stood on abranch, and called Solomon names in loud, harsh tones. He flew around asif in a terrible temper, screaming at the top of his voice. When hebegan, there was not another day bird in sight. Before many minutes, allthe chickadees, nuthatches, and woodpeckers within hearing had arrived, and had taken sides with Jay. Yes, even sunny-hearted Chick D. D. Himselfsaid things to Solomon that were almost saucy. I never heard that any ofthese mobs actually hurt our little friend; but they certainly disturbedhis nap, and there was no peace for him until he slipped away. Where hewent, there was no sound to tell, for his feathers were fringed withsilent down. Perhaps some snow-bowed branch of evergreen gave himshelter, in a nook where he could see better than the day-eyed birds whotried to follow and then lost track of him. 

So Solomon went on with his nap, and Jay started off in quest of otheradventures. The winter air put a keen edge on his appetite, which wasprobably the reason why he began to hunt for some of the cupboards wherefood was stored. Of course, he had tucked a goodly supply of acorns andsuch things away for himself; but he slipped into one hollow in a treethat was well stocked with frozen fish, which he had certainly had nohand in catching. But what did it matter to the blue-jacketed robber ifthat fish had meant a three-night fishing at an air-hole in the ice? Hedidn't care (and probably didn't know) who caught it. It tasted good ona frosty day, so he feasted on fish in Solomon's pantry, while thelittle owl slept. 

Well, if Jay, the bold dashing fellow, held noisy revel during thedazzling winter days, night came every once in so often; and then aquavering call, tremulous yet unafraid, told the listening world that anelf of the moonlight was claiming his own. And if some shivered at thesound, others there were who welcomed it as a challenge to enter therealm of a winter's night. 

For, summer or winter, the night holds much of mystery, close to theheart of which lives a little downy owl, who wings his way silent as ashadow, whither he will. And when he calls, people who love the starsand the wonders they shine down upon sometimes go out to the woods andtalk with him, for the words he speaks are not hard even for a humanvoice to say. There was once a boy, so a great poet tells us, who stoodmany a time at evening beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, andcalled the owls that they might answer him. While he listened, who knowswhat the bird of wisdom told him about the night?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: _Hexapod Stories_, page 89. ]

XII

BOB THE VAGABOND

Bob had on his traveling suit, for a vagabond must go a-journeying. Itwould never do to stay too long in one place, and here it was Augustalready. Why, he had been in Maine two months and more, and it is smallwonder he was getting restless. Restless, though not unhappy! Bob wasnever that; for the joy of the open way was always before him, andwhenever the impulse came, he could set sail and be off. 

The meadows of Maine had been his choice for his honeymoon, and a gladtime of it he and May had had with their snug little home of wovengrass. That home was like an anchor to them both, and held their heartsfast during the days it had taken to make five grown-sized birds out offive eggs. But now that their sons and daughters were strong of wing andfully dressed in traveling suits like their mother's, it was well thatBob had put off his gay wedding clothes and donned a garb of about thesame sort as that worn by the rest of his family; for dull colors aremuch the best for trips. 

Now that they were properly dressed, there was nothing left to see to, except to join the Band of Bobolink Vagabonds. Of course no one can be amember of this band without the password; but there was nothing aboutthat to worry Bob. When any of them came near, he called, "Chink, " andthe gathering flock would sing out a cheery "Chink" in reply: and thatis the way he and his family were initiated into the Band of BobolinkVagabonds. Anyone who can say "Chink" may join this merry company. Thatis, anyone who can pronounce it with just exactly the right sound!

So, with a flutter of pleasant excitement, they were gone. Off, theywere, for a land that lies south of the Amazon, and with no more to sayabout it than, "Chink. "

No trunk, no ticket, no lunch-box; and the land they would seek was fourthousand miles or more away! Poor little Bob! had he but tapped at thedoor of Man with his farewell "Chink, " someone could have let him see amap of his journey. For men have printed time-tables of the BobolinkRoute, with maps to show what way it lies, and with the differentStations marked where food and rest can be found. The names of some ofthe most important Stations that a bobolink, starting from Maine, shouldstop at on the way to Brazil and Paraguay, are Maryland, South Carolina, Florida, Cuba, Jamaica, and Venezuela. 

Does it seem a pity that the little ignorant bird started off withoutknowing even the name of one of these places? Ah, no! A journeyingbobolink needs no advice. "Poor, " indeed! Why, Bob had a gift that madehim fortunate beyond the understanding of men. Nature has dealtgenerously with Man, to be sure, giving him power to build ships for thesea and the air, and trains for the land, whereon he may go, and powerto print time-tables to guide the time of travel. But to Bob also, whocould do none of these things, Nature had, nevertheless, been generous, and had given him power to go four thousand miles without losing hisway, though he had neither chart nor compass. What it would be like tohave this gift, we can hardly even guess--we who get lost in the woods amile from home, and wander in bewildered circles, not knowing where toturn! We can no more know how Bob found his way than the born-deaf canknow the sound of a merry tune, or the born-blind can know the look of asunset sky. Some people think that, besides the five senses given to aman, Nature gave one more to the bobolink--a sixth gift, called a "senseof direction. "

A wonderful gift for a vagabond! To journey hither and yon with never afear of being lost! To go forty hundred miles and never miss the way! Tosail over land and over sea, --over meadow and forest and mountain, --andreach the homeland, far south of the Amazon, at just the right time! Totravel by starlight as well as by sunshine, without once mistaking thepath!

By starlight? What, Bob, who had frolicked and chuckled through thebright June days, and dozed o' nights so quietly that never a passingowl could see a motion to tempt a chase?

Yes, when he joined the Band of Bobolink Vagabonds, the gates of thenight, which had been closed to him by Sleep, were somehow thrown open, and Bob was free to journey, not only where he would, but when hewould--neither darkness nor daylight having power to stop him then. 

Is it strange that his wings quivered with the joy of voyaging as surelyas the sails of a boat tighten in the tugging winds?

What would you give to see this miracle--a bobolink flying through thenight? For it has been seen; there being men who go and watch, whentheir calendars tell them 't is time for birds to take their southwardflight. Their eyes are too feeble to see such sights unaided; so theylook through a telescope toward the full round moon, and then they cansee the birds that pass between them and the light. Like a processionthey go--the bobolinks and other migrants, too; for the night sky isfilled with travelers when birds fly south. 

But though we could not see them, we should know when they are on theirway because of their voices. What would you give to hear this miracle--abobolink calling his watchword through the night? For it has beenheard; there being men who go to the hilltops and listen. 

As they hear, now and again, wanderers far above them calling, "Chink, "one to another, they know the bobolinks are on their way to a land thatlies south of the Amazon, and that neither sleep nor darkness bars theirpath, which is open before them to take when and where they will. 

And yet Bob and his comrades did not hasten. The year was long enoughfor pleasure by the way. He and May had worked busily to bring up afamily of five fine sons and daughters early in the summer; and now thattheir children were able to look out for themselves, there was no reasonwhy the birds should not have some idle, care-free hours. 

[Illustration: _It was time for the Feast of the Vagabonds. _]

Besides, it was time for the Feast of the Vagabonds, a ceremony thatmust be performed during the first weeks of the Migrant Flight; for itis a custom of the bobolinks, come down to them through no one knows howmany centuries, to hold a farewell feast before leaving North America. If you will glance at a map of the Bobolink Route, you will see thenames of the states they passed through. Our travelers did not knowthese names; but for all that, they found the Great Rice Trail andfollowed it. They found wild rice in the swamps of Maryland and theneighboring states. In South Carolina they found acres of cultivatedrice. For rice is the favorite food during the Feast of the Vagabonds, and to them Nature has a special way of serving it. This same grain iseaten in many lands; taken in one way or another, it is said to be theprincipal food of about one half of all the people in the world. Bobdidn't eat his in soup or pudding or chop-suey. He used neither spoonnor chop-sticks. He took his in the good old-fashioned way of his ownfolk--unripe, as most of us take our sweet corn, green and in thetender, milky stage, fresh from the stalk. He had been having a ratherheavy meat diet in Maine, the meadow insects being abundant, and herelished the change. There was doubtless a good healthy reason for theceremony of the Feast of the Vagabonds, as anyone who saw Bob may haveguessed; for by the time he left South Carolina he was as fat as butter. 

In following the Great Rice Trail, Bob went over the same road that hehad taken the spring before when he was northward bound; but one couldhardly believe him to be the same bird, for he looked different and heacted differently. In the late summer, the departing bird was dull ofhue and, except for a few notes that once in a great while escaped him, like some nearly forgotten echo of the spring, he had no more music inhim than his mate, May. And when they went southward, they went alltogether--the fathers and mothers and sons and daughters in one greatcompany. 

In the spring it had all been different: Bob had come north with hisvagabond brothers a bit ahead of the sister-folk. And the vagabondbrothers had been gay of garb--fresh black and white, with a touch ofbuff. And Bob and his band had been gay of voice. The flock of them hadgathered in tree-tops and flooded the day with such mellow, laughingmelodies as the world can have only in springtime--and only as long asthe bobolinks last. 

The ways of the springtime are for the spring, and those of the autumnfor the fall of the year. So Bob, who, when northward bound a few monthsbefore, had taken part in the grand Festival of Song, now that he wassouthward bound, partook of the great Feast of the Vagabonds, givinghimself whole-heartedly to each ceremony in turn, as a bobolink should, for such are the time-honored customs of his folk. 

Honored for how long a time we do not know. Longer than the memory ofman has known the rice-fields of South Carolina! Days long before that, when elephants trod upon that ground, did those great beasts hear thespring song of the bobolinks? Is the answer to that question buried inthe rocks with the elephants? Bob didn't know. He flew over, with nevera thought in his little head but for the Great Rice Trail leading himsouthward to Florida. 

While there, some travelers would have gone about and watched men cutsponges, and have found out why Florida has a Spanish name. But not Bob!The Feast of the Vagabonds, which had lasted well-nigh all the way fromMaryland, was still being observed, and even the stupidest person cansee that rice is better to eat than sponges or history. 

Then, as suddenly as if their "Chink, chink, chink" meant "One, two, three, away we go, " the long feast was over, and their great flightagain called them to wing their way into the night. How they found Cubathrough the darkness, without knowing one star from another; whatbrought them to an island in the midst of the water that was everywherealike--no man knows. But in Cuba they landed in good health and spirits. This was in September, --a very satisfactory time for a bird-visit, --andBob and his comrades spent some little time there, it being October, indeed, when they arrived on the island of Jamaica. Now Jamaica, sopeople say who know the place, has a comfortable climate and thrillingviews; but it didn't satisfy Bob. Not for long! Something south of theAmazon kept calling to him. Something that had called to his father andto his grandfather and to all his ancestors, ever since bobolinks firstflew from North America to South America once every year. 

How many ages this has been, who knows? Perhaps ever since the icyglaciers left Maine and made a chance for summer meadows there. Long, long, long, it has been, that something south of the Amazon has calledto bobolinks and brought them on their way in the fall of the year. Sothe same impulse quickened Bob's heart that had stirred all his fathers, back through countless seasons. The same quiver for flight came to allthe Band of Vagabonds. Was it homesickness? We do not know. 

[Illustration: _Something south of the Amazon kept calling to him. _]

We only know that a night came when Bob and his companions left themountains of Jamaica below them and then behind them. Far, far behindthem lay the island, and far, far ahead the coast they sought. Fivehundred miles between Jamaica and a chance for rest or food. Fivehundred miles; and the night lay about and above them and the waterslay underneath. The stars shone clear, but they knew not one fromanother. No guide, no pilot, no compass, such as we can understand, gaveaid through the hours of their flight. But do you think they wereafraid? Afraid of the dark, of the water, of the miles? Listen, in yourfancy, and hear them call to one another. "Chink, " they say; and thoughwe do not know just what this means, we can tell from the sound that itis not a note of fear. And why fear? There was no storm to buffet themthat night. They passed near no dazzling lighthouse, to bewilder them. No danger threatened, and something called them straight and steady ontheir way. 

Oh, they were wonderful, that band! Perhaps among all living creaturesof the world there is nothing more wonderful than a bird in his migrantflight--a bird whose blood is fresh with the air he breathes as only abird can breathe; whose health is strong with the wholesome feast thathe takes when and where he finds it; whose wings hold him in perfectflight through unweary miles; whose life is led, we know not how, on, on, on, and ever in the right direction. 

Yes, Bob was wonderful when he flew from the mountains of Jamaica to thegreat savannas of Venezuela; but he made no fuss about it--seemed tofeel no special pride. All he said was, "Chink, " in the samematter-of-fact way that his bobolink forefathers had spoken, backthrough all the years when they, too, had taken this same flight oversea in the course of their vagabond journey. 

From Venezuela to Paraguay there was no more ocean to cross, and therewere frequent places for rest when Bob and his band desired. Grovesthere were, strange groves--some where Brazil nuts grew, and some whereoranges were as common as apples in New England. There were chocolatetrees and banana palms. There were pepper bushes, gay as our holly treesat Christmastime. Great flowering trees held out their blossom cups tobrilliant hummingbirds hovering by hundreds all about them. Was thereone among them with a ruby throat, like that of the hummingbird whofeasted in the Cardinal-Flower Path near Peter Piper's home? Maybe 'twas the self-same bird--who knows? And let's see--Peter Piper himselfwould be coming soon, would he not, to teeter and picnic along somepleasant Brazilian shore?

Perhaps Bob and Peter and the hummingbird, who had been summer neighborsin North America, would meet again now and then in that far southcountry. But I do not think they would know each other if they did. Theyhad all seemed too busy with their own affairs to get acquainted. 

Besides the groves where the nuts and fruit and flowers grew, thevagabonds passed over forests so dense and tangled that Bob caught nevera glimpse of the monkeys playing there: big brown ones, with heads ofhair that looked like wigs, and tiny white ones, timid and gentle, andother kinds, too, all of them being very wise in their wild ways--aswise, perhaps, as a hand-organ monkey, and much, much happier. 

No, I don't think Bob saw the monkeys, but he must have caught glimpsesof some members of the Parrot Family, for there were so many of them;and I'm sure he heard the racket they made when they talked together. One kind had feathers soft as the blue of a pale hyacinth flower, and abeak strong enough to crush nuts so hard-shelled that a man could noteasily crack them with a hammer. But all that was as nothing to Bob. For't was not grove or forest or beast or bird that the vagabonds wereseeking. 

When they had crossed the Amazon River, some of the band stopped inplaces that seemed inviting. But Bob and the rest of the company went ontill they crossed the Paraguay River; and there, in the western part ofthat country, they made themselves at home. A strange, topsy-turvy landit is--as queer in some ways as the Wonderland Alice entered when shewent through the Looking-Glass; for in Paraguay January comes in themiddle of summer; and the hot, muggy winds blow from the north; and thecool, refreshing breezes come from the south; and some of the wood is soheavy that it will not float in water; and the people make tea withdried holly leaves! But to the Band of Vagabond Bobolinks it was nottopsy-turvy, for it was home; and they found the Paraguay prairies aswell suited to the comforts of their January summer as the meadows ofthe North had been for their summer of June. 

Bob was satisfied. He had flown four thousand miles from a meadow andhad found a prairie! And if, in all that wonderful journey, he had notpaid over much attention to anything along the way except swamps andmarshes, do not scorn him for that. Remember always that Bob _found_ hisprairie and that Peter _found_ his shore. 

It is somewhere written, "Seek and ye shall find. " 'Tis so with thechildren of birds--they find what Nature has given them to seek. And isit so with the children of men? Never think that Nature has been lesskind to boys and girls than to birds. Unto Bob was given the fields toseek, and he had no other choice. Unto Peter the shores, and that wasall. But unto us is given a chance to choose what we will seek. If it isas far away as the prairies of Paraguay, shall we let a dauntless littlevagabond put our faith to shame? If it is as near as our next-doormeadow, shall we not find a full measure of happiness there--mixed withthe bobolink's music of June?

[Illustration: _Nature has kept faith with him and brought him safelyback to his meadow. _]

For Bob comes back to the North again, bringing with him springtimemelodies, which poets sing about but no human voice can mimic. Bob, whohas dusted the dull tips from his feathers as he flew, and who, garbedfor the brightness of our June, makes a joyful sound; for Nature haskept faith with him and brought him safely back to his meadow, thoughthe journey from and to it numbered eight thousand miles!

 His trail is the open lane of the air, And the winds, they call him everywhere; So he wings him North, dear burbling Bob, With throat aquiver and heart athrob; And he sings o' joy in the month of June Enough to keep the year in tune. 

 Then, when the rollicking young of his kind Yearn for the paths that the vagabonds find, He leads them out over loitering ways Where the Southland beckons with luring days; To wait till the laughter-like lilt of his song Is ripe for the North again--missing him long!

NOTES

CONSERVATION

We cannot read much nature literature of the present day without comingupon a plea, either implied or expressed, for "conservation. " Even thechild will wish to know--and there is grave need that he shouldknow--why many people, and societies of people, are trying to save whatit has so long been the common custom to waste. Boys and girls living inthe Eastern States will be interested to know who is Ornithologist tothe Massachusetts State Board of Agriculture, and what his duties are;those in the West will like to know why a publication called "CaliforniaFish and Game" should have for its motto, "Conservation of Wild Lifethrough Education"; those between the East and the West will like tolearn what is being done in their own states for bird or beast orblossom. 

Fortunately the idea is not hard to grasp. Conservation is really butdoing unto others as we would that others should do unto us--so livingthat other life also may have a fair chance. It was a child who wrote, from her understanding heart:--

"When I do have hungry feels I feel the hungry feels the birds must behaving. So I do have comes to tie things on the trees for them. Somehave likes for different things. Little gray one of the black cap haslikes for suet. And other folks has likes for other things. "--From _TheStory of Opal. _

CHICK, D. D. 

_Penthestes atricapillus_ is the name men have given the bird who callshimself the "Chickadee. "

_The Bird_ (Beebe), page 186. "The next time you see a wee chickadee, calling contentedly and happily while the air makes you shiver from headto foot, think of the hard-shelled frozen insects passing down histhroat, the icy air entering lungs and air-sacs, and ponder a moment onthe wondrous little laboratory concealed in his mite of a body, whichhis wings bear up with so little effort, which his tiny legs support, now hopping along a branch, now suspended from some wormy twig. 

"Can we do aught but silently marvel at this alchemy? A little bundle ofmuscle and blood, which in this freezing weather can transmute frozenbeetles and zero air into a happy, cheery little Black-capped Chickadee, as he names himself, whose trustfulness warms our hearts!

"And the next time you raise your gun to needlessly take a featheredlife, think of the marvellous little engine which your lead will stifleforever; lower your weapon and look into the clear bright eyes of thebird whose body equals yours in physical perfection, and whose tinybrain can generate a sympathy, a love for its mate, which in sincerityand unselfishness suffers little when compared with human affection. "

_Bird Studies with a Camera_ (Chapman), pages 47-61. 

_Handbook of Nature-Study_ (Comstock), pages 66-68. 

_Nature Songs and Stories_ (Creighton), pages 3-5. 

_American Birds_ (Finley), pages 15-22. 

_Winter_ (Sharp), chapter VI. 

_Educational Leaflet No. 61. _ (National Association of AudubonSocieties. )

This story was first published in the _Progressive Teacher_, December, 1920. 

THE FIVE WORLDS OF LARIE

_Larus argentatus_, the Herring Gull. 

Larie's "policeman, " like Ardea's "soldier, " is usually called a"warden. " No thoughtful or informed person can look upon "bird study"as merely a pleasant pastime for children and a harmless fad for theoutdoor man and woman. It is a matter that touches, not only theæsthetic, but the economic welfare of the country: a matter that hasconcern for legislators and presidents as well as for naturalists. Inthis connection it is helpful to read some such discussion as is givenin the first four references. 

_Bird Study Book_ (Pearson), pages 101-213; 200. 

_Birds in their Relation to Man_ (Weed and Dearborn), pages 255-330. 

_Bird-Lore_, vol. 22, pages 376-380. 

_Useful Birds and their Protection_ (Forbush), pages 354-421. 

_Birds of Ohio_ (Dawson), pages 548-551; "Herring Gull. "

_Bird Book_ (Eckstorm), pages 23-29; "The Herring Gull. "

_American Birds_ (Finley), pages 211-217; "Gull Habits. "

_Game-Laws for 1920_ (Lawyer and Earnshaw), pages 68-75; "Migratory-BirdTreaty Act. "

_Tales from Birdland_ (Pearson), pages 3-27; "Hardheart, the Gull. "

_Educational Leaflet No. 29_; "The Herring Gull. " (National Associationof Audubon Societies. )

PETER PIPER

_Actitis macularia_, the Spotted Sandpiper. 

Educational Leaflet No. 51. (National Association of Audubon Societies. )

"A leisurely little flight to Brazil. "

Peter, the gypsy, and Bob, the vagabond, are both famous travelers, andmight have passed each other on the way, coming and going, in Venezuelaand in Brazil. Peter, like Bob, is a night migrant, stopping in thedaytime for rest and food. 

For references to literature on bird-migration, the list under the notesto "Bob, the Vagabond, " may be used. 

GAVIA OF IMMER LAKE

_Gavia immer_, the Loon. 

_The Bird_ (Beebe). "Hesperornis--a wingless, toothed, diving bird, about 5 feet in length, which inhabited the great seas during theCretaceous period, some four millions of years ago. " (Legend undercolored frontispiece. )

_Life Histories of North American Diving Birds_ (Bent), pages 47-60. 

_Bird Book_ (Eckstorm), pages 9-13. 

_By-Ways and Bird-Notes_ (Thompson), pages 170-71. "The cretaceous birdsof America all appear to be aquatic, and comprise some eight or a dozengenera, and many species. Professor Marsh and others have found inKansas a large number of most interesting fossil birds, one of them, agigantic loon-like creature, six feet in length from beak to toe, takenfrom the yellow chalk of the Smoky Hill River region and from calcareousshale near Fort Wallace, is named _Hesperornis regalis_. "

_Educational Leaflet No. 78. _ (National Association of AudubonSocieties. )

If twenty years of undisputed possession seems long enough to give a mana legal title to "his" land, surely birds have a claim too ancient to beignored by modern beings. Are we not in honor bound to share what wehave so recently considered "ours, " with the creatures that inheritedthe earth before the coming of their worst enemy, Civilization? And inso far as lies within our power, shall we not protect the free, wildfeathered folk from ourselves?

EVE AND PETRO

_Petrochelidon lunifrons_, Cliff-Swallow, Eave-Swallow. 

_Bird Studies with a Camera_ (Chapman), pages 89-105; "Where SwallowsRoost. "

_Handbook of Nature-Study_ (Comstock), pages 112-113. 

_Bird Migration_ (Cooke), pages 5, 9, 19-20, 26, 27; Fig. 6. 

_Our Greatest Travelers_ (Cooke), page 349; "Migration Route of theCliff Swallows. "

_Bird Book_ (Eckstorm), pages 201-12. 

_Bird-Lore_, vol. 21, page 175; "Helping Barn and Cliff Swallows toNest. "

UNCLE SAM

_Haliæetus leucocephalus_, the Bald Eagle. 

_Stories of Bird Life_ (Pearson), pages 71-80; "A Pair of Eagles. "

_The Fall of the Year_ (Sharp), chapter V. 

_Educational Leaflet No. 82. _ (National Association of AudubonSocieties. )

At the time this story goes to press, our national emblem is threatenedwith extermination. The following references indicate the situation in1920:--

_Conservationist, The, _ vol. 3, pages 60-61; "Our National Emblem. "

_National Geographic Magazine, _ vol. 38, page 466. 

_Natural History, _ vol. 20, pages 259 and 334; "The Dead Eagles ofAlaska now number 8356. "

_Science_, vol. 50, pages 81-84; "Zoölogical Aims and Opportunities, " byWillard G. Van Name. 

CORBIE

_Corvus brachyrhynchos_, the Crow. 

_The Bird_ (Beebe), pages 153, 158, 172, 200-01, 209. "When the brain ofa bird is compared with that of a mammal, there is seen to be aconspicuous difference, since the outer surface is perfectly smooth inbirds, but is wound about in convolutions in the higher four-footedanimals. This latter condition is said to indicate a greater degree ofintelligence; but when we look at the brain of a young musk-ox orwalrus, and find convolutions as deep as those of a five-year-old child, and when we compare the wonderfully varied life of birds, and realizewhat resource and intelligence they frequently display in adaptingthemselves to new or untried conditions, a smooth brain does not seemsuch an inferior organ as is often inferred by writers on the subject. Iwould willingly match a crow against a walrus any day in a test ofintelligent behavior. .. . A crow . .. Though with horny, shapeless lips, nose, and mouth, looks at us through eyes so expressive, so human, thatno wonder man's love has gone out to feathered creatures throughout allhis life on the earth. "

_Handbook of Nature-Study_ (Comstock), pages 129-32. 

_American Birds_ (Finley), pages 69-77; "Jack Crow. "

_The Crow and its Relation to Man_ (Kalmbach). 

_Outdoor Studies_ (Needham), pages 47-53; "Not so Black as he isPainted. "

_Tales from Birdland_ (Pearson), pages 128-52; "Jim Crow of CowHeaven. "

_Our Backdoor Neighbors_ (Pellett), pages 181-98; "A Jolly Old Crow. "

_Our Birds and their Nestlings_ (Walker), pages 76-85; "The Children ofa Crow. "

_The Story of Opal_ (Whiteley); "Lars Porsena. "

_Gray Lady and the Birds_ (Wright), pages 114-28. 

_Bird Lore_, vol. 22 (1919), pages 203-04; "A Nation-Wide Effort toDestroy Crows. "

_Educational Leaflet No. 77. _ (National Association of AudubonSocieties. )

ARDEA'S SOLDIER

Ardea's scientific name used to be _Ardea candidissima_, and the olderreferences to this bird will be found under that name, though at presentit is known as _Egretta candidissima_. It is commonly called the SnowyEgret, or the Snowy Heron. The other white heron wearing "aigrettes" is_Herodias egretta_. Ardea's "soldier, " like Larie's "policeman, " isusually spoken of as a "warden. " With reference to this story there ismuch of interest in the following:--

_Bird Study Book_ (Pearson), pages 140-66, "The Traffic in Feathers";pages 167-89, "Bird Protection Laws"; pages 190-213, "BirdReservations": pages 244-58, "Junior Audubon Classes. "

_Stories of Bird Life_ (Pearson), pages 153-60; "Levy, the Story of anEgret. "

_Birds in their Relation to Man_ (Weed and Dearborn), pages 237-38. 

_Gray Lady and the Birds_ (Wright), pages 67-80; "Feathers and Hats. "

_Educational Leaflets Nos. 54 and 54A;_ "The Egret" and "The SnowyEgret. " (National Association of Audubon Societies. )

To Mr. T. Gilbert Pearson, who has visited more egret colonies than anyother person in the country, and who, in leading fights for theirprotection, has kept in very close touch with the egret situation, anexpression of indebtedness and appreciation is due for his kindness inreading "Ardea's Soldier" while yet in manuscript, and for certainsuggestions with reference to the story. 

THE FLYING CLOWN

_Chordeiles virginianus_, the Nighthawk or Bull-bat. 

_Bird Migration_ (Cooke), pages 5, 7, 9. 

_Nature Sketches in Temperate America_ (Hancock), pages 246-48. 

_Birds in their Relation to Man_ (Weed and Dearborn), pages 178-80. 

_Bird-Lore_, vol. 20 (1918), page 285. 

_Educational Leaflet No. 1. _ (National Association of AudubonSocieties. )

THE LOST DOVE

_Ectopistes migratorius_, the Passenger Pigeon. 

"How can a billion doves be lost?"

_History of North American Birds_ (Baird, Brewer and Ridgway), vol. 3, pages 368-74. 

_Michigan Bird Life_ (Barrows), pages 238-51. 

_Birds that Hunt and are Hunted_ (Blanchan), pages 294-96. 

_Travels of Birds_ (Chapman), pages 73-74. 

_Birds of Ohio_ (Dawson and Jones), pages 425-27. 

_Passenger Pigeon_ (Mershon). 

_Natural History of the Farm_ (Needham), pages 114-15. "The wild pigeonwas the first of our fine game birds to disappear. Its social habitswere its undoing, when once guns were brought to its pursuit. It flew ingreat flocks, which were conspicuous and noisy, and which the huntercould follow by eye and ear, and mow down with shot at everyresting-place. One generation of Americans found pigeons in'inexhaustible supply'; the next saw them vanish--vanish so quickly, that few museums even sought to keep specimens of their skins or theirnests or their eggs; the third generation (which we represent) marvelsat the true tales of their aforetime abundance, and at the swiftness oftheir passing; and it allows the process of extermination to go on onlya little more slowly with other fine native species. "

_Bird Study Book_ (Pearson), pages 128-29. "Passenger Pigeons as late as1870 were frequently seen in enormous flocks. Their numbers during theperiods of migration were one of the greatest ornithological wonders ofthe world. Now the birds are gone. What is supposed to have been thelast one died in captivity in the Zoölogical Park of Cincinnati, at 2P. M. On the afternoon of September 1, 1914. Despite the generallyaccepted statement that these birds succumbed to the guns, snares, andnets of hunters, there is a second cause, which doubtless had its effectin hastening the disappearance of the species. The cutting away of vastforests, where the birds were accustomed to gather and feed on mast, greatly restricted their feeding range. They collected in enormouscolonies for the purpose of rearing their young; and after the forestsof the Northern states were so largely destroyed, the birds seem to havebeen driven far up into Canada, quite beyond their usual breeding range. Here, as Forbush suggests, the summer probably was not sufficiently longto enable them to rear their young successfully. "

_Birds in their Relation to Man_ (Weed and Dearborn), pages 219-22. 

_Educational Leaflet No. 6. _ (National Association of AudubonSocieties. ) "Those who study with care the history of the exterminationof the Pigeons will see, however, that all the theories brought forwardto account for the destruction of the birds by other causes than man'sagency are wholly inadequate. There was but one cause for the diminutionof the birds, which was widespread, annual, perennial, continuous, andenormously destructive--their persecution by mankind. Every greatnesting-ground was besieged by a host of people as soon as it wasdiscovered, many of them professional pigeoners, armed with all the mosteffective engines of slaughter known. Many times the birds were sopersecuted that they finally left their young to the mercies of thepigeoners; and even when they remained, most of the young were killedand sent to the market, and the hosts of the adults were decimated. "

LITTLE SOLOMON OTUS

_Otus asio_, the Screech Owl, are the scientific and common names of ourlittle friend Solomon. Perhaps the fact that owls stand upright and gazeat one with both eyes to the front, accounts in part for their lookingso wise that they have been used as a symbol of wisdom for manycenturies. 

In the Library of Congress in Washington, there is a picture called"The Boy of Winander. " When looking at this, or some copy of it, it ispleasant to remember the lines of Wordsworth's poem:--

 There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander!--many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew music hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. 

Following are a few references to Screech Owls:--

_Handbook of Nature-Study_ (Comstock), pages 104-07. 

_Some Common Game, Aquatic and Rapacious Birds_ (McAtee and Beal), pages27-28. 

_Our Backdoor Neighbors_ (Pellet), pages 63-74; "The Neighborly ScreechOwls. "

_My Pets_ (Saunders), pages 11-33. 

_Birds in their Relation to Man_ (Weed and Dearborn), page 199. 

_Educational Leaflet No. 11. _ (National Association of AudubonSocieties. )

BOB, THE VAGABOND

_Dolichonyx oryzivorus_, the Bobolink. 

_Educational Leaflet No. 38. _ (National Association of AudubonSocieties. )

_The Bobolink Route_

Maps, showing the route of migrant bobolinks may be found in _Bird, Migration_ (Cooke), page 6;

_Our Greatest Travelers_ (Cooke), page 365. 

Other interesting accounts of bird-migrations may be found in _Travelsof Birds_ (Chapman). 

_Bird Study Book_ (Pearson), chapter IV. 

History tells us when Columbus discovered Cuba and when Sebastian Cabotsailed up the Paraguay River; but when bobolinks discovered that island, or first crossed that river, no man can ever know. The physicalperfection that permits such journeys as birds take is cause foradmiration. In this connection much of interest will be found in

_The Bird_ (Beebe), chapter VII, "The Breath of a Bird, " from which wemake a brief quotation. "Birds require, comparatively, a vastly greaterstrength and 'wind' in traversing such a thin, unsupporting medium asair than animals need for terrestrial locomotion. Even more wonderfulthan mere flight is the performance of a bird when it springs from theground, and goes circling upward higher and higher on rapidly beatingwings, all the while pouring forth a continuous series of musicalnotes. .. . A human singer is compelled to put forth all his energy in hisvocal efforts; and if, while singing, he should start on a run even onlevel ground, he Would become exhausted at once. .. . The average personuses only about one seventh of his lung capacity in ordinary breathing, the rest of the air remaining at the bottom of the lung, being termed'residual. ' As this is vitiated by its stay in the lung, it does harmrather than good by its presence. .. . As we have seen, the lungs of abird are small and non-elastic, but this is more than compensated by thecontinuous passage of fresh air, passing not only into but entirely_through_ the lungs into the air-sacs, giving, therefore, the very bestchance for oxygenation to take place in every portion of the lungs. Whenwe compare the estimated number of breaths which birds and men take in aminute, --thirteen to sixteen in the latter, twenty to sixty inbirds, --we realize better how birds can perform such wonderful feats ofsong and flight. "

A BOOK LIST

For getting acquainted with birds, we no more need books than we needbooks for getting acquainted with people. One bird, if rightlyknown, --as with one person understood, --will teach us more than we canlearn by reading. But since no one has time to learn for himself morethan a few things about many birds, or many things about a few birds, itis pleasant and companionable and helpful to have even a second-handshare in what other people have learned. For myself, I like to watchboth the bird in the bush through my own eyes and the bird in the bookthrough the eyes of some other observer. So it seems but fair to sharethe names of books that have interested me in one way or another duringthe preparation of my own. If it seems to anyone a short list, I can butsay that I do not know all the good books about birds, and thereforemany (and perhaps some of the best) have been omitted. If it seems toanyone a long list, I would suggest that, if it contains more than youmay find in your public library, or more than you care to put on yourown shelves, or more than can be secured for the school library, thelist may be helpful for selection--perhaps some of them will be whereyou can find and use them. Certain of them, as their titles indicate, are devoted exclusively to birds; and others include other outdoorthings as well--as happens many a time when we start out on a bird-questof our own, and find other treasures, too, in plenty. 

If I could have but two of the books on the list, they would be "TheStory of Opal, " the nature-word of a child who well may lead us, and"Handbook of Nature-Study, " the nature-word of a wise teacher ofteachers. 

BOOKS, BULLETINS, AND LEAFLETS

_American Birds_, Studied and Photographed from Life. LOVELL FINLEY. Charles Scribner's Sons. 

_Attracting Birds about the Home. _ Bulletin No. 1: The NationalAssociation of Audubon Societies. 

_Bird, The. _ C. WILLIAM BEEBE. Henry Holt and Company

_Bird Book. _ FANNIE HARDY ECKSTORM. D. C. Heath & Co. 

_Bird Houses and How to Build Them. _ NED DEARBORN. U. S. Dept. OfAgriculture; Farmer's Bulletin 609. 

_Bird Migration. _ WELLS W. COOKE. U. S. Dept. Of Agriculture; Bulletin185. 

_Bird Neighbors. _ NELTJE BLANCHAN. Doubleday, Page & Co. 

_Bird Studies with a Camera. _ FRANK M. CHAPMAN. D. Appleton & Co. 

_Bird Study Book. _ T. GILBERT PEARSON. Doubleday, Page & Co. 

_Birds in their Relation to Man. _ CLARENCE M. WEED and NED DEARBORN. J. B. Lippincott Co. 

_Birds of Maine. _ ORA WILLIS KNIGHT. 

_Birds of New York. _ ELON HOWARD EATON. Memoir 12; N. Y. State Museum. 

(The 106 colored plates by Louis Agassiz Fuertes can be securedseparately. )

_Birds of Ohio. _ WILLIAM LEON DAWSON. The Wheaton Publishing Co. 

_Birds of Village and Field. _ FLORENCE A. MERRIAM. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

_Birds of the United States, _ East of the Rocky Mountains. AUSTIN C. APGAR. American Book Company. 

_Burgess Bird Book for Children. _ THORNTON W. BURGESS. Little, Brown &Co. 

_By-Ways and Bird Notes. _ MAURICE THOMPSON. United States Book Co. 

_Chronology and Index of the More Important Events in American GameProtection, _ 1776-1911. T. S. PALMER. U. S. Dept. Of Agriculture;Biological Survey Bulletin 41. 

_Common Birds of Town and Country. _ National Geographic Society. 

_Conservation Reader. _ HAROLD W. FAIRBANKS. World Book Co. 

_Crow, The, and its Relation to Man. _ E. R. KALMBACH. U. S. Dept. OfAgriculture; Bulletin 621. 

_Educational Leaflets_ of The National Association of Audubon Societies. 

More than one hundred of these have been issued, each giving anillustrated account of a bird. (These are for sale at a few cents each, and a list may be obtained upon application to the NationalAssociation. )

_Everyday Adventures. _ SAMUEL SCOVILLE, JR. The Atlantic Monthly Press. 

_Fall of the Year, The. _ DALLAS LORE SHARP. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

_Federal Protection of Migratory Birds. _ GEORGE A. LAWYER. Separate fromYearbook of the Dept. Of Agriculture, 1918, No. 785. 

_Food of Some Well-Known Birds of Forest, Farm, and Garden. _ F. E. L. BEAL and W. L. MCATEE. U. S. Dept. Of Agriculture; Farmers' Bulletin 506. 

_Game Laws for 1920. _ U. S. Dept. Of Agriculture; Farmers' Bulletin 1138. 

_Gray Lady and the Birds. _ MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT. The Macmillan Co. 

_Handbook of Birds of Eastern North America. _ FRANK M. CHAPMAN. D. Appleton & Co. 

_Handbook of Birds of Western United States. _ FLORENCE M. BAILEY. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

_Handbook of Nature-Study. _ ANNA BOTSFORD COMSTOCK. Comstock PublishingCo. 

_Hardenbergh's Bird Playmates. _ Charles Scribner's Sons. Two sets: LandBirds and Water Birds. (Two large scenic backgrounds in color, withcolored birds that can be slipped into place to complete the picture;for use during bird lessons, as a record of birds seen by the children, etc. )

_History of North American Birds. _ S. F. BAIRD, T. M. BREWER, and R. RIDGWAY. Three volumes. Little, Brown & Co. 

_Life Histories of North American Diving Birds. _ ARTHUR CLEVELAND BENT. U. S. National Museum Bulletin 107. 

_Michigan Bird Life. _ WALTER BRADFORD BARROWS. Michigan AgriculturalCollege. 

_Mother Nature's Children. _ ALLEN WALTON GOULD. Ginn & Co. 

_My Pets. _ MARSHALL SAUNDERS. The Griffith and Rowland Press. 

_Natural History of the Farm. _ JAMES G. NEEDHAM. The Comstock PublishingCo. 

_Nature Sketches in Temperate America. _ JOSEPH LANE HANCOCK. A. C. McClurg Co. 

_Nature Songs and Stories. _ KATHERINE CREIGHTON. The Comstock PublishingCo. 

_Nestlings of Forest and Marsh. _ IRENE GROSVENOR WHEELOCK. Atkinson, Mentzer, and Grover. 

_Our Backdoor Neighbors. _ FRANK C. PELLETT. The Abingdon Press. 

_Our Birds and their Nestlings. _ MARGARET COULSON WALKER. American BookCo. 

_Our Greatest Travelers. _ WELLS W. COOKE. (Reprinted in _Common Birds ofTown and Country. _)

_Outdoor Studies. _ JAMES G. NEEDHAM. American Book Co. 

_Passenger Pigeon, The. _ W. B. MERSHON. The Outing Publishing Co. 

_Primer of Bird-Study. _ ERNEST INGERSOLL. The National Association ofAudubon Societies. 

_Propagation of Wild-Duck Foods. _ W. L. MCATEE. U. S. Dept. OfAgriculture Bulletin 465. 

_Sharp Eyes. _ WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON. Harper and Brothers. 

_Short Cuts and By-Paths. _ HORACE LUNT. D. Lothrop Co. 

_Some Common Game, Aquatic, and Rapacious Birds in Relation to Man. _ W. L. MCATEE and F. E. L. BEAL. U. S. Dept. Of Agriculture; Farmers'Bulletin 497. 

_Spring of the Year, The. _ DALLAS LORE SHARP. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

_Stories of Bird Life. _ T. GILBERT PEARSON. B. F. Johnson Publishing Co. 

_Story of Opal, The. _ OPAL WHITELEY. G. P. Putnam's Sons. (The Journalof a child, who watched the comings and the goings of the littlewood-folk and waved greetings to the plant-bush-folk, and who dancedwhen the wind did play the harps in the forest--this being "a verywonderful world to live in. ")

_Summer. _ DALLAS LORE SHARP. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

_Tales from Birdland. _ T. GILBERT PEARSON. Doubleday, Page & Co. 

_Travels of Birds. _ FRANK M. CHAPMAN. D. Appleton and Co. 

_Useful Birds and their Protection. _ EDWARD H. FORBUSH. MassachusettsBoard of Agriculture. 

_Wild Life Conservation. _ WILLIAM T. HORNADAY. Yale University Press. 

_Winter. _ DALLAS LORE SHARP. Houghton Mifflin Co. 

_Wit of the Wild. _ ERNEST INGERSOLL. Dodd, Mead & Co. 

PERIODICALS

_Bird-Lore. _ Official Organ of the Audubon Societies. D. Appleton & Co. 

_Conservationist, The. _ New York State Conservation Commission, Albany. 

_Guide to Nature, The. _ The Agassiz Association, Arcadia, Sound Beach, Conn. 

_Natural History. _ Journal of the American Museum of Natural History. 

_Nature-Study Review. _ Official Organ of the American Nature-StudySociety, Ithaca, New York.