THE SONG SPARROW’S APPEAL.
Naturalists tell us that of all creatures below man, the largest animal brain in proportion to the size of the body is found in horses and song-birds. Whatever sense beyond instinct the little creature of whom we write may have had, something, at least, told it that it could obtain help at human hands.
A little sparrow the past season entered the kitchen of one of our country homes, and perched upon the window-sill in evident distress. Its feathers were ruffled, and its head ever and anon turned curiously around and up, as if looking at something out of the house and above the window.
In and out it continued to hop, without intermission, regardless of all offers of food, until the shutters were closed at twilight, and various were the surmises as to the cause of its strange conduct.
Through the course of the following day the same scene was enacted, without any clue appearing as to the cause of its distress.
At length, on the third morning, the mute petition for aid still continuing, one of the family, bethinking herself of the bird’s curious upturning of the head, caught a new idea from it. Perhaps she might have a nest in the ivy that encircled the window, and something might be amiss with its little household.
Going to the second story and looking down, the cause of the trouble was at once manifest. A thick limb of the ivy had become loosened by the wind, and fallen directly across the petitioner’s nest. It was too heavy for the bird to remove, and offered an insuperable difficulty in the way of her getting in to feed her young—now almost lifeless.
The branch was quickly removed, when the mother-bird, pausing only for a brief inspection of her brood, was on the wing in search of food. Her mate soon joined her, and both were busy as quick wings, worked by hearty good will, could make them.
Once only did the mother pause in her work—as if desirous to give expression to her gratitude, she reappeared upon the window-seat, and poured forth a sweet and touching song, as of thankfulness to her benefactors.
She returned three successive seasons, to be noticed and fed at the same spot where her acquaintance and familiarity with man first commenced.
We will add another similar incident, which is also absolutely true.
The correctness is vouched for by Mr. George Babbitt, late captain on Gen. Gresham’s staff, of which he himself was a witness.
During the fierce cannonading in one of the battles of the Civil War, a small bird came and perched upon the shoulder of an artilleryman—the man designated, we believe, as “No. 1,” whose duty it is to force down the charge after the ammunition is put in the gun. The piece was a “Napoleon,” which makes a very loud report, and the exact scene of this occurrence was at a place called “Nickajack.” The bird perched itself upon this man’s shoulder and could not be driven from its position by the violent motions of the gunner. When the piece was discharged, the poor little thing would run its beak and head up under the man’s hair at the back of the neck, and when the report died away would resume its place upon his shoulder. Captain Babbitt took the bird in his hand, but when released it immediately resumed its place on the shoulder of the smoke-begrimed gunner. The singular and touching scene was witnessed by a large number of officers and men. It may be a subject of curious inquiry, what instinct led this bird to thus place itself. Possibly, frightened at the violent commotion caused by the battle, and not knowing how to escape or where to go, some instinct led it to throw itself upon the gunner as a protector. But, whatever the cause, the incident was a most beautiful and pleasing one to all who witnessed it.
George Bancroft Griffith.
THE WITCH IN THE CREAM.
A TRUE STORY.
The old stone farm-house in which my grandmother lived had beneath it what I thought a very interesting cellar. The floor was plastered and whitewashed like the walls, to ensure the place from rats and other intruders, as well as to keep it cool. From the walls, flat stones projected, serving as shelves on which the butter and milk were kept. For years the milk had had a shelf to itself near the window.
One summer morning, while Grandma and I were sitting on the porch waiting for breakfast, the little colored servant came to us with wide-open eyes, saying: “La, Missy, jes look at dis milk-pan!” We looked, and saw, to our disgust, that the inside of the pan was covered with sand and grime, while the milk, which usually was coated with rich, thick cream, was thin and poor. “Why, Janey,” said Grandma, “you didn’t put milk away in a pan like that, did you?” “La, no, Missy,” said Janey, “nobody wouldn’t nebber put milk away in a dirty pan.” “This is very strange,” said Grandma. “You will have to throw the milk away, Janey, and be especially careful to have the pan clean this evening.” “Yes’m,” said Janey, “I will.”
The following morning, however, the milk had to be thrown away again, as the pan was in a worse condition than on the preceding morning. “I don’t understand it,” said Grandma. “It can’t be rats, nor mice, for there is no way for them to come in.” “They couldn’t climb into a tin pan eight inches high, at any rate,” I said, “and if they jumped in they would drown.” Janey shook her head knowingly and said, “It’s witches, Missy, dat’s jes what it is.” A light board was placed over the milk that evening, but we found that the marauder pushed it off in the night. We felt that we must come to Janey’s conclusion about the witches, if the mystery were not solved soon.
In the afternoon of the third day of these experiences we were sitting on the back porch with our sewing, both of us half asleep, when chancing to look up I saw a rat go scudding across the yard. Straight to the cellar window he went, and, approaching one corner, thrust his nose under the sash. He gave a mighty tug, pushed one paw under, and soon, by pushing and pulling with nose and with paws, he crept through the window. From my position on the porch I could see all that was happening in the cellar. He jumped to the milk shelf, turned around, raised himself on his forepaws, and clasped the edge of the milk pan with his hind ones.
He then threw his tail into the pan, whisked it rapidly over the milk, coating it with cream, and licked it. This he repeated until he had a full meal, or at least until he had skimmed all the cream.
He started homeward then, and I was so much amazed that I didn’t attempt to stop him. On the following morning he was caught in the steel trap set just inside the window for him.
Elizabeth Roberts Burton.