Indigo Bunting
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He never chose a mate. He never seemed to want one. He is the most quiet, self-contained, meek little bird imaginable. If any bird chases him he flies to his little box in my room. The only thing he begs for is a cockroach. He will hop toward me in the morning with a pleading expression, if I have not one of the most unprepossessing members of the beetle tribe for him.
At one time I started cockroach culture in a companion box to that of the meal-worms. My mother was resigned, but doubtful about the experiment, and I noticed that the cockroaches all fell victims to some sudden calamity during one of my absences from home.
However, by diligent search, we can usually find two or three around the hot-water pipes at night, and the maid I have taking care of the birds, writes me that she tries hard to get “a Cockroach every Night for the Little Blue Bird.”
CHAPTER XXVII
A HUMMINGBIRD, AND NATIVE AND FOREIGN FINCHES
The bird that paid the briefest visit to my aviary was a hummingbird. I had him for a day, then there was a rush of wings and he was gone. My first experience with this interesting and tiniest member of the bird race was in California. While sauntering one day about the beautiful grounds of the Belmont School a lad said to me, “Come and see a new bird’s nest.” He took me to a spot close to a rustic bridge where, in the long blades of what we in the East call “ribbon grass,” and only a few feet from the ground, a hummingbird had fastened an exquisite, fairylike cup, made of the softest plant down.
There sat the mother bird on two pure white eggs, gazing calmly at the schoolboy who, with a number of his friends, visited her daily. One boy got into serious trouble for, with mistaken zeal, he tried to feed bread-crumbs to the little mother, and brought down on his head a severe reprimand from the older lads.
As I hung over the dainty nest I wondered whether the hummingbird had had an eye for the beautiful, in choosing this spot to bring up her nestlings. Just below her home, a small brook or “creek” as Californians say, ran among great clumps of calla lilies. Among the lilies, lived several frogs, and as we leaned over the rustic bridge above them, we used to call “Little brother,” and rouse one fat frog who would respond, “Lit-tle Bro-ther, Lit-tle Bro-ther,” till the other frogs would take up the friendly refrain and send it resounding away up the creek.