A-Birding on a Bronco Part 9

Around the blossoming bush the air fairly vibrated with hummers, darting up into the sky, shooting down and chasing each other pell mell--sometimes almost into my face. As I sat by the bush one day, a handsome male went around with upraised throat, poking his bill up the red fuchsia-like tubes. Another one was flying around inside the bush, and I edged nearer to see. The sun shone in, whitening the twigs, and as the bird whirred about with a soft burring sound, I caught gleams of red, gold, and green from his gorget, and could see the tiny bird rest his wee feet on a twig to reach up to a blossom. Then he hummed what sounded more like a love song than anything I had ever heard from a hummingbird. He seemed so much more like a real bird than any of his brothers that I felt attracted to him.

One morning a little German girl, in a red pinafore, and with hair flying, came riding down the sand stream toward my bush. Her colt reared and pranced, but she sat as firmly as if she had been a small centaur.

It was a holiday, and she was staking out her horses to graze, making gala-day work of it. She had one horse down by the little oak already, and springing off the one she had brought, changed about, jumped as lightly as a bird upon the other's back and raced home. Soon she came galloping back again, and so she went and came until tired out, for pure fun on her free holiday.

In looking over the bright memory pictures of my beautiful oak garden, there is one to which I always return. The spreading trunks of a great five-stemmed tree on one side of the grove made a dark oaken couch, screened by the leafy willow-like branches that hung to the ground.

Here--after looking to see that there were no rattlesnakes coiled in the dead leaves--I spent many a dreamy hour, reclining idly as I listened to the free songs of the birds that could not see me behind my curtain. It was interesting to note the way certain sounds predominated; certain songs would absorb one's attention, and then pa.s.s and be replaced by others. At one time a jay's scream would jar on the ear and drown all other voices; when that had pa.s.sed, the chewinks would fly up from the leaves and sing and answer each other till the air was quivering with their trills. Then came the thrashers, with their loud rollicking songs; and when they had pitched down into the brush, out rang the clear bell-like tones of the wren-t.i.t, filling the air with sound. Afterwards the impatient whipped-out notes of the chaparral vireo were followed by the soft cooing of doves; and then, as the wind stirred the trees and sent the loosened oak blossoms drifting to the ground, from high out of an oak top came a most exquisite song. At the first note of this grosbeak all other songs were forgotten--they were noise and chatter--this was pure music. It was like pa.s.sing from the cries of the street into the hall of a symphony concert. The black-headed grosbeak has not the spirituality of the hermit thrush, and his ordinary song is not so remarkable, but his love song excels that of any bird I have ever heard in finish, rich melody, and music. As I listened, my surroundings harmonized so perfectly with the wonderful song echoing through the great trees that the old oak garden seemed an enchanted bower. The drooping branches were a leafy lattice through which the afternoon sun filtered, steeping the oaks in thick still suns.h.i.+ne. Last year's leaves drifted slowly to the ground, while the bees droned about the yellow ta.s.sels of the blooming trees. As a violinist, lingering to perfect a note, draws his bow again and again over the strings, so this rapt musician dwelt tenderly on his highest notes, trolling them over till each was more exquisite and tender than the last, and the ear was charmed with his love song--a song of ideal love fit to be dreamed of in this stately green oak garden filled with golden sunlight.

XIV.

A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.

ON a peg just inside the door of the ranchman's old wine shed hung one of the horses' unused nosebags. A lad on the place told me that a wren had a nest in it, and added that he had seen a fight between the wren and a pair of linnets who seemed to be trying to steal her material.

The first time I went to the wine shed both wrens and linnets were there, but nothing happened and I forgot about the original quarrel. By peering through a crack in the boarding I could look down on the wren in the nosebag inside. I could see her dark eyes, the white line over them, and her black barred tail. She was Vigor's wren. She got so tame that she would not stir when the creaking door was opened close by her, or when people were talking in the shed; and I used to go often to see how her affairs were progressing.

All her eggs hatched in time, and the small birds, from being at first all eyeball, soon got to be all bill. When I opened the bag to look at them, the light woke them up and they opened their mouths, showing chasms of yellow throat.

The mother bird fed them several times when I was watching only a few feet away. She would come ambling along in the pretty wren fas.h.i.+on, with her tail over her back; creeping down the side of a lath, running behind a rafter, scolding as though to make conversation, and then winding down to the nest through a crack. One day she hesitated, and waited to spy at me, since I had thought it polite to stare at her! When satisfied, she hopped along from beam to beam, her bright eyes still upon me. Then her mate joined her. He had been suspicious of me at our first meeting, but apparently had changed his mind, for, seeing his spouse hesitate, he glanced at me unconcernedly, as much as to say, "Is she all you're waiting for?" and flew out, leaving her to my tender mercies. She hopped meekly into the bag after that rebuke, but stretched up to peer at me once more before settling down inside.

One day when I looked in to see how wren matters were progressing, to my amazement and horror, instead of my wren's nest I found another, high in the mouth of the bag with one fresh egg in it! The egg was a linnet's, and the nest had been built right on top of the wren's. Such a stench came from the bag that I took out the upper nest and found the four little wrens dead in their crib.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Nosebag Nest.

(Vigors's Wren.)]

I had become very fond of the winsome mother bird, and so much interested in her brood that this horrid discovery came like a tragedy in the family of a friend.

And what did it all mean? Unless the old wrens had been dead, could the linnets have gotten possession? The wrens were usually able to hold their own in a discussion. If the nestlings had been alive, would the linnets--would any bird--have built upon them, deliberately burying them alive? It seemed too diabolical. On the other hand, what could have killed the little wrens and left them in the nest? If they had been dead when the linnets came to build, how could the birds have chosen such a sepulchre for a building site?

Grieving over my little friends, I cleaned out the nosebag and hung it up on its peg. Three weeks later I discovered, to my great perplexity, that a pair of wrens had built in the bottom of the bag and had one egg in the nest. Now, was this the same pair of birds that had built there before, and if so, what did it all mean?

XV.

HOW I HELPED BUILD A NEST.

THEY picked out their crack in the oak and began to build without any advice from me, winning little gray-crested t.i.tmice that they were.

Their oak was right behind the ranch-house barn; I found it by hearing the bird sing there. The little fellow, warmed by his song, flitted up the tree a branch higher after each repet.i.tion of his loud cheery _tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit'_. Meanwhile his pretty mate, with bits of stick in her bill, walked down a crack in the oak trunk.

Thinking she had gone, I went to examine the place. I poked about with a twig but couldn't find the nest till, down in the bottom of the crack, I spied a little gray head and a pair of bright eyes looking up at me. The bird started forward as if to dart out, but changed her mind and stayed in while I took a hasty look and fled, more frightened than she by the intrusion.

The t.i.tmice had been flying back and forth from the hen-yard with chicken's feathers, and it seemed such slow work for them I thought I would help them. So the next day, when the pair were away, I stuffed a few white feathers into the mouth of the nest and withdrew under the shadow of the barn to watch through my gla.s.s without being observed.

Then my conscience began to trouble me. What if this interference should drive the gentle bird to desert her nest?

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Plain t.i.tmouse in her Doorway.]

When I heard the familiar chickadee call--the t.i.tmouse often chirrups like his cousin--it made me quake guiltily. What would the birds do? The gray pair came flying in with crests raised, and my small friend hopped down to her doorway. She gave a start of surprise at sight of the feathers, but after a moment's hesitation went bravely in! While she was inside, her mate waited in the tree, singing for her; and when she came out, he flew away with her. Then I crept up to the oak, and to my delight found that all the feathers had disappeared. She evidently believed in taking what the G.o.ds provide. In fact, she seemed only to wish that they would provide more, for, after taking a second supply from me, she stood in the vestibule, c.o.c.ked her crested head, and looked about as if expecting to see new treasures.

She had common-sense enough to take what she found at hand, but if she had not been such a plucky little builder she would have been scared away by the strange sights that afterwards met her at her nest. Once when she came, feathers were sticking in the bark all around the crack.

She hesitated--the rush of her flight probably fanned the air so the white plumes waved in her face--she hesitated and looked around timidly before getting courage to go in; and on leaving the nest flew away in nervous haste; but she was soon back again, and ready to take the feathers down inside the oak. She caught hold of the tip of one that was wedged into a crack, and tugged and tugged till I was afraid she would get discouraged and go off without it. She got it, however, and drew it in backwards. Then she attacked another feather, but finding that it came harder than the first, let go her hold and took an easier one. She was not to be daunted, though, and after stowing away the loose one came back for the tight one again, and persevered till she bent it in several places, besides breaking off the tip.

When she had flown off, I jumped up, ran to the oak, and stuffed the doorway full of feathers. Before I had finished, the family sentinel caught me--I had been in too much of a hurry and he had heard me walking over the cornstalks. He eyed me suspiciously and gave vent to his disapproval, but I addressed him in such friendly terms that he soon flew off and talked to his mate rea.s.suringly, as if he had decided that it was all right after all. After their conversation she came back and made the best of her way right down through the feather-bed! I went away delighted with her perseverance, and charmed by her confidence and pretty performances.

The next day I heard the t.i.tmouse singing in an elder by the kitchen, and went out to see how the birds acted when gathering their own material. The songster was idly hunting through the branches, singing, while his mate--busy little housewife--was hard at work getting her building stuff. She had something in her beak when I caught sight of her, but in an instant was down on the ground after another bit. Then she flew up in the tree looking among the leaves; in pa.s.sing she swung a moment on a strap hanging from a branch; then flew down among the weeds, back up in the tree again; and so back and forth, over and over, her bill getting fuller and fuller.

I was glad to save her work, and interested to see how far she would accept my help. Once when I blocked the entrance with feathers and horsehair she stopped, and, though her bill was full, picked up the packet and flew out on a branch with it. Was she going to throw away my present? For a moment my faith in her was shaken. Perhaps her mate had been warning her to beware of me. She did drop the mat of horsehair--what did such a dainty Quaker lady as she want of horsehair?--but she kept tight hold of one of the feathers, although it was almost as big as she was; and flew back quickly to the nest with it.

This performance proved one point. She would not take everything that was brought to her. She preferred to hunt for her own materials rather than use what she did not like. Now the question was, what did she like?

My next experiment was with some lamp wick to which I had tied bits of cotton. The t.i.tmouse took the cotton and would have taken the wicking, I think, if it had not been fastened in too tight for her. After that I tried tying bits of cotton to strings, and letting them dangle before the mouth of the nest. Though I moved up to within twenty feet of the nest, she paid no attention to me but hurried in. She liked the cotton so well she stopped in her hallway, reached up to pull at the white bundles, and tweaked and tugged till, finally, she backed triumphantly down the hole with one.

Her mate, less familiar with my experiments, started to go to the nest after her, but the sight of the cotton scared him so he fled ignominiously back into the treetop. He stayed there singing till she came out, when he flew up to her with a dainty he had discovered--at least the two put their bills together; perhaps it was just a caress, for they were a tender, gentle little pair.

Having proved that my bird liked feathers and cotton, I wanted to see what she thought of straws. Apparently she did not think much of them.

She looked very much dashed when she came home and found the yellow sticks protruding from the nest hole. She hesitated, turned her head over, flew to a twig on one side of the oak and then back to one on the other side. Finally she mustered courage, and with her crest flattened as if she did not like it, darted down into the hole. When she flew out, however, she went right to her mate, and forgetting all her troubles at sight of him, fluttered her wings and lisped like a young bird as she put up her bill to have him feed her.

Perhaps it was unkind to bother the poor bird any more, but I meant her no harm and the fever for experiment possessed my blood. I tied some of the straws to a piece of wicking and baited it with feathers, thinking that perhaps she would take the straws for the sake of the feathers and wicking. I also stuffed the hole with horsehair. She did pull at the feather end of the line; I saw the straw jerk, and, when she had left, found a round hole the brave little bird had made right through the middle of the mat of horsehair I had stopped the nest with.

Straws and horsehair the t.i.tmouse evidently cla.s.sed together. They were not on her list of building materials. On reflection she decided that the horsehair would make a good hall carpet, so left it in the vestibule, though she would have none of it down in her nest; but she calmly threw my straws down on the ground at the foot of the oak.

I don't know what experiments I might have been tempted to try next had I not suddenly found myself dismissed--the house was complete. My pretty Quaker lady sat in the shade of the oak leaves with crest raised and the flickering sunlight flecking her gray breast. She pecked softly at one of the white feathers that blew up against her as she listened to the song of her mate; and then flew away to him without once going to the nest. Evidently her work was done, and she was waiting till it should be time to begin brooding.

Ten days later I saw her mate come with his bill full of worms and lean down by the hole to call her. She answered with a sweet pleading twitter, and reached up to be fed. When he had gone, perhaps she thought she would like a second bite. At any rate, she hopped out in the doorway and flew off to another tree, calling out _tsche-de-de_ so sweetly he would surely have come back to her had he been within hearing.

A few days later I saw him feed her at the nest five or six times in half an hour. He would come to the next oak, light and call to her, when she would answer from inside the tree trunk and he would go to her. I was near enough to see her pretty gray head and black eyes coming up out of the crack in the oak. Sometimes when he had fed her he would call out and she would answer as if saying good-by from down in the nest. One morning I found the devoted little mate bringing her breakfast to her at half past six.

Nearly a month later they were feeding their young. The winsome mother bird, who had looked so tired and nest-worn the last time I saw her, was now as plump and happy as her spouse. When I thought the pair were away, I went to try to get sight of the nestlings down the hole. The old birds appeared as soon as I set foot by the oak and took upon themselves to scold me. They chattered softly in a way they had never done before.

They quickly got used to me again, however, and fed the little ones without hesitation right before me, knowing full well that a person who had helped them build their nest would never harm their little brood; and it was a disappointment when I had to go away and leave the winning family.

XVI.

IN OUR NEIGHBOR'S DOOR-YARD.

THE little German girl with the scarlet pinafore was a near neighbor, living at the head of the valley in a cottage surrounded by great live-oaks. These trees were alive with birds. Bush-t.i.ts flew back and forth, busily hanging their gray pockets among the leafy folds of the drooping branches; blue jays flew through, squawking on their way to the brush; goldfinches, building in the orchard, lisped sweetly as they rested in the oaks; and a handsome oriole who was building in the grove flew overhead so slowly he seemed to be r.e.t.a.r.ded by the fullness of his own sweet song. But I had become so fond of the gentle gray t.i.tmouse whose nest I had helped to build, that of all the bird songs in the trees, its cheery _tu-whit', tu-whit', tu-whit'_ was most enticing to me. How delightful it would be to watch another pair of the winning workers! I did see one of the birds enter a hollow branch, one day, and not long after saw it go down a hole in an oak trunk; but never saw it afterwards in either place. Back and forth I followed that elusive voice, hoping to discover the nest, but I suspect the bird was only prospecting, and had not even begun to work.

The little German Gretchen became interested in the search for the t.i.tmouse's nest, and told me that a gray bird had built in an oak in front of her house. I rode right over to see it, but found the gray bird a female Mexican bluebird, whose brilliant ultramarine mate sat on the fence of the vegetable garden in plain sight. The children kept better watch of the nest after that, and a few days later, when in my attic study, I heard the tramp of a horse, and, looking out, found my little friend under the window, come to tell me that the eggs had hatched. When her older sister came for the was.h.i.+ng I asked her if she had seen the old birds go to the nest, and she said, "Yes; one was blue and the other gray."