Fun for the Household: A Book of Games

by Emma J. Gray

The correct number to find is seventy-six.

Time allowed is six minutes.

The slip should be headed Bird Test.

One day while walking along a grassy lane conspicuously edged with blackberry bushes, my attention was riveted by the song of a bird, a sort of up and down warble, and in the branches of a maple tree near, I saw a red-eyed viero, and not far off, quietly looking towards the singer, was such a pretty warbler, another greenlet, the white-eyed viero.

Listening to the red-eye, the viero’s warble grew less and less distinct as the distance lengthened between us. The warbler warbled the same sweet song, but my ear was less able to catch the warbling warbler’s notes, and soon the greenlet, the viero, the musical, silver-tongued warbler, warbled for me all in vain.

But as I walked I thought how rarely that we meet people who are indifferent to birds, and how desolate our lanes, woods and gardens would be without them. And how much beauty is added to bushes, flowers, and trees, if a singing bird rests on them long enough for us to listen to his song. And then I named over some favorite birds. The meadow lark, blue jay, Carolina wren, wood thrush, robin, swallow. But suddenly I heard “Me-au, me-au,” as if a cat was near. I stood just where I was, to discover the creature. My thought of birds gave a thought of protection. A moment later and I laughed aloud, for flying over my head was the jolly song-bird, called cat-bird, who has a bad habit of mewing. But the sunshine seemed pleasant company for him; for watching the cat-bird’s movements I saw him alight on a tree close by, and with a hop and a skip go from limb to limb.

Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, and again on the alert, my eyes were almost strained, this time in effort to follow the sad cry, looking everywhere for whip-poor-will. When what a pleasant surprise, to learn that whip-poor-will was none other than the brilliantly colored mocking bird, whose fancy had dictated the whip-poor-will’s melancholy notes and now whizzed close to me, to nestle on the blackberry blossoms a few steps beyond.

Then walking on I thought of the many birds about us, the brown thrasher, and white-throated sparrow, the tree sparrow, the bank and barn swallows, and the sociable sparrow, dear little chippy, and of what I had read about fly-catchers and veerys, and the crested titmouse who gleefully shouts in the wildest winds, “T’ sweet here! t’ sweet here!”

My walk by this time was hurried into a run, and I caught my foot into some poor bird’s nest that was hidden in the long grass, and I almost fell, but being glad I had not tripped over a rut-runner, I thought of the quotation, “Runs like the kill-deer up the rut,” and a warbler near sang so cheerily that I forgot my accident and soon reached the creek towards which I was hastening. When who should come first to greet me but a yellow-billed cuckoo. And thus my mind dwelt on other birds that liked creeks and lakes, such as the kingfisher, and on the instant I heard the report of a gun, and sure enough one of these birds had just been shot. I knew this because of the excitement of a group of gunners.

Poor bird! How many birds’ lives end in a similar way. The cardinal grosbeak and the myrtle bird, a greenlet in color, we fancy myrtle suggests greenlet, the snow-buntings, horned larks, golden-crowned kinglet and vesper sparrows, the red-polls and crossbills, the plovers, the golden herons, night-herons, sandpipers, coots, hawks, geese, and swans,—all are marks for the hunter.