Outings at Odd Times

by Charles C. Abbott

But apple-blossoms are none the less beautiful because of the unfortunate changes meddlesome men have brought about. They hold their ancient glory still and yield, as of old, that rich, rare fragrance which never cloys. Surely no one ever walked among rows of blooming apple-trees, and said, “It is too sweet.” Not even of our native wild crab-apple is this lightly to be said, and it is unquestionably of deeper tints and richer fragrance than the average cultivated tree. I know of one exception. At the end of the row upon one side of the lane, there stands a vigorous apple-tree. It has more the appearance of the trees in the forest than of those in an orchard, and if its fruit is not quite so small as that of the wild crab, it is but one remove therefrom. This tree rests its glory upon its blossoms, and well it may! Upon these go out all its strength, offering, therefore, beauty to the eye, rather than food for the body. It is a tree with a history, perhaps, not worth relating. When set where it now stands, it appears to have been more exposed to the wind than its companions and was twice blown down. When last put back, my grandfather remarked, rather impatiently, “Now stay, at least, if you never bear an apple!” And the tree stood, still stands. What of the fruit it bears? Tough, wrinkled as a toad, and sour; it is said that even the pigs refuse it, squealing in disgust when, by mistake, they crunch it. So, if my grandfather’s muttered curse fell upon the fruit, the tree revenged itself by adding beauty to its blossoms, and to-day, though twice hoar-frost has chilled the open buds, if judged by the eye alone, it stands, among a goodly number, brightest of them all.

The Building of the Nest.

Those who have lived a part or all of their lives in the country know from observation, while those who have spent their days in town know from hearsay or books, that a very large proportion of our birds remain with us only from April to October or later; while yet others, on the approach of winter, come from the north to escape the rigors of an arctic climate, and a considerable number of most interesting species are strictly resident. This striking feature of bird life is by no means confined to North America, and perhaps it is, in most respects, more suggestive as observed on other continents. However this may be, it is so noticeable an occurrence on our Atlantic seaboard, that the coming and going of this or that bird has passed into our folk-lore, and more than one weather proverb is based upon the arrival or departure of wild-geese, fish-hawks, and the swallows.

Although very much more is now known of these seasonal movements of our birds than was but a few years ago, it is not yet, and probably never will be, possible to determine the “law” of migration, for the simple reason that the springtide northward and autumnal southward flight of our inland birds has not that element of regularity as to dates or method that has been so frequently insisted upon. They come and go, but beyond this we can be sure of nothing from year to year. Sooner or later, our warblers, thrushes, and fly-catchers come as the world grows green; sooner or later, as the meadows and upland grow drearily brown, these same birds depart.

But if, as to birds collectively, we can not be positive in this matter of the time, place, and manner of migration, we can feel moderately confident of a return, summer after summer, of certain individual birds, if they have escaped life’s perils in the mean while. Says Dr. Robert Brown (Birds of Passage): “The individual swallow, it is now ascertained, returns from the Canaries or North Africa to the very spot on which it built its little mud mansion the previous summer; and, according to the observations of the celebrated Jenner, marked birds were caught at their old nests every year for three successive seasons.”

I find the home hillside luxuriantly green to-day, although the first week of May has not yet passed. Even the tardy oaks are well in leaf, and from every nook and corner of the woods and fields there floats the merry song of a nesting bird. Among them, are there any friends of a year ago? Surely I recognize one. Long before sunrise on the morning of April 26th I heard a loud chatter near my chamber windows. There was no mistaking the creature that uttered it, and I knew, although it had rained violently all the night, and was still storming, that the house-wren had come back to his old castle on the post. I peeped through the shutter as soon as there was sufficient light, and there stood the little bird, braving a keen east wind and singing with all his might. Now, the day before there were no wrens near; not one was skulking along the hillside looking for nesting sites. Had there by chance been even a straggler ahead of time, as is not uncommon with many migratory birds, it would have been heard, if not seen, for wrens are never silent for a day, if indeed for any five minutes of it, unless asleep. Therefore I am confident that the plucky bird that I saw in the dawn of April 26th had been guided by the prominent landmarks, such as the river, meadows, and the wooded bluff, and had come directly to his home of the past summer, hastening, when once he started, to the inconspicuous box that is perched upon a pole close to my house, and hidden by two great locust-trees and a towering wild-cherry. No stranger wren while yet it was dark could have found the spot and proved himself so promptly at home, for early that same day, while yet alone, the bird commenced house-cleaning, preparatory to the one great event of the coming summer—nest-building.

While not quite true that all worth knowing of a bird is centered in the few weeks occupied in rearing its young, certainly at no other time is it seen to the same advantage. Every faculty is quickened then, and all that a bird is capable of effecting is apparent. Something more important than food-getting commands its attention, and reason is exercised almost if not quite to the exclusion of instinct, for the nest of every bird must meet its builder’s peculiar needs, and is not fashioned blindly after the homes of its ancestors. It is true that a family likeness runs through the nests of a given species of bird, but to say of a deserted one in autumn this or that bird built it is a rash procedure.

Not every bird builds a nest, although all lay eggs, and, as has been intimated, all nests are not alike. Perhaps the cup-shaped structure built of twigs and lined with fine grass may be said to be the typical form, but many are the modifications of this simple pattern. And now this beautiful May morning the birds are building. Not here and there a sparrow or a thrush, but birds of many kinds, and building everywhere. I can not even mention them by name, or my article would run into a catalogue. Suffice it to say they are building in the barn and on it, in my house and down in the chimney; under the floor of the bridge in the lane is a nest, and the trees, shrubbery, and bare ground are all occupied. There is now a nest for every nook and corner, and I would that the young people of everywhere were my guests to-day, provided they would live up to the law I long ago passed for my own government—eyes on; hands off.

And now what of the building of particular nests? I know of twenty within a stone’s-throw of my front door, and the making of each one had its serious as well as comic side. At the very outset a conflict of interests arose on account of some bits of material being equally valuable in the minds of several birds; and when an oriole, a wren, and an English sparrow wish to pull at the frayed end of a rope at the same time, something more than a mere ripple of excitement is likely to ensue. In short, nest-building brings out in a bird not only all its belligerency, which during the rest of the year is dormant, but a great deal of strategic skill as well, for many a time I have seen the smaller bird succeed through cunning in outwitting the bully that depended on mere strength of beak and claws.

The burden of each bird’s mind in spring being, “I must build me a nest,” let us follow the wakeful wren that came on a stormy morning to his old home. He evidently was sure of his mate, and was for four days ceaselessly at work. Perhaps he found odd moments when he could eat, as he constantly did to sing, but never a leisurely meal was his, I am very sure. The old homestead must be made habitable again. And how he worked! All the old rubbish of last summer was pulled from the box, and none of it taken back, I fancy. While I watched the busy bird two days after his arrival, I recalled an occurrence of last summer, and wondered if there might be a repetition of it, with my aid; and at all events the bird’s movements would tend to show whether it was the same wren or not. So I placed tempting material for nest-building on a piece of very thin board, and set it afloat in a huge basin. It was directly discovered; the old wren was looking for it, I am sure now, but last year’s tactics were not repeated as a whole. Then the bird alighted on the strands of hemp and submerged them and almost itself, and only after many trials hit upon the plan of dipping down and seizing a strand while on the wing. Would it do this now, a year later? I was all impatience while the wren flittered nervously about the basin, but was encouraged by its contemplative manner. At last it attempted to alight on the mass, and I felt angry at its stupidity and my own overconfidence. But no! it proved only to be an attempt; last year’s experience was remembered, and strand after strand was deftly picked up while the bird was flying. I am confident now that I am listening, while I write, to the very wren that comforted me last summer.