I bided my time. I didn’t want to add one single extra anxiety to the little mother heart that was already so burdened with care. But when at length I saw both birds slink off in search of food, I parted the branches and looked in. For some time I could see nothing, it was so dark and mysterious under the heavily plumed boughs, but the little one had learnt to use its voice by now; “Cheep” came vigorously from within; and then I saw our baby comfortably ensconced on a drift of pine needles against the wall.
I slipped away quietly, wondering and wondering how in the world those little birds had managed to get that fat youngster up that hill and into the tree that was fully three minutes’ walk, even for me, from the old nest!
The baby flourished apace, and before we returned to town, it was brought along to the pansy border, and told to stay there quite still for a moment, while mother got it something to eat. But it didn’t do anything of the sort; directly her back was turned, it hopped into the bird’s bath, and splashed joyously till its expostulating parents returned, alarmed out of their senses lest it should be drowned!
After thinking it over, I fancy that for all-round serviceability you cannot do better than the blackbird. He starts singing in January, as a rule, and keeps at it till August, always a beautiful song, but not always the same song.
It is a clear-blue message of hope, as it rings out on a cold winter’s day.
As the spring progresses, it becomes a cascade that overflows with bubbling sound and ends with a challenge: “Let any blackbird dare to say he can sing that cadenza as brilliantly as I can, and I’ll know the reason why!”
Later on, when the nestlings keep up a constant demand for “more,” he only manages to get in an occasional stanza; and that, I am inclined to think, is when he has a difference of opinion with another of his kind; though sometimes he sings a rippling, pulsating song to the setting sun.
But best of all I love him when the summer has run well on into July. He is getting tired then; two families—possibly with four in the nest at a time—are something of a handful to cater for. He has become draggled and weary in appearance. His yellow-ringed eyes do not seem as sparkling as they were. But he still tries to do his best, and towards sundown you may hear him singing; one of those in my garden seems to have a preference for an underbough on a tall pine, where he stands almost hidden from sight, and whistles gently and softly—though not to me personally, as the robin does; apparently he is talking to himself.
Gone is the buoyancy of his early spring song; gone the self-assertiveness, the boastfulness and dominating clamour of his early married life. Now, his song is much subdued, gentler, and strangely suggestive of a quiet, almost saddened reminiscence.