A Hermit's Wild Friends; or, Eighteen Years in the Woods

by Mason Augustus Walton

"I THREW A BIT OF COOKIE TO HER."

After dinner my guests departed. Later I looked them up. The female was perched on a horizontal limb, while about ten feet away the two dudes strutted and spread their wings and tails, in an effort to affect the choice of the demure maiden. For three days the rivals showed off before the little lady in brown and orange. The morning of the fourth day only two of the birds came to breakfast. The little lady had made her choice, and was now a bride. The other suitor had disappeared, perhaps to look up a second choice. Housekeeping was a failure with the newly wedded pair for two years. Nest after nest was looted by snakes until the third year. That year the birds reared a family of four. Mrs. Chewink was very industrious, and worked early and late gathering straws, rootlets, and bits of weed-stalk for a nest. Mr. Chewink turned out to be a lazy, good-for-nothing, shiftless fellow. Not even a feather did he carry to the new home. However, he had one redeeming quality, he could sing. Somehow, his song seemed to fit into the glorious spring mornings, and the listener felt that it was in perfect harmony with wild flowers, with the drowsy hum of insect life and the tinkling notes of the woodland brook. When the little ones were out of the shell, Mrs. Chewink had all she could do to supply their wants. She carried bread from the dooryard, and gleaned bugs and beetles in the flower garden.

I was deeply interested in the food selected by Mrs. Chewink. As for herself, she would never eat bread when she could get cup-cake. I expected that she would feed this favorite food to her babies, and that the sweet food would kill them, or make them sick, if no more. I watched carefully, intending to remove the cake before the little ones were injured. The morning, on which I had pitched to try the experiment, proved to be rainy. The wet grass and foliage made it difficult for the little mother to collect food, and I thought that that would cause her to fall back on the cup-cake. As soon as she found the cake, she stuffed herself and carried a load to her babies. I followed, and when I had reached the nest she was feeding the last of the cake. From what I saw, it was evident that she had divided the food fairly. I returned to the dooryard, and Mrs. Chewink followed me. She passed by the cake to load up with bread. The next trip was made up of bread. The fourth and fifth trips were gleaned from the flower garden. The sixth trip was again made up of cup-cake. The next trip she carried bread, and then I removed the bread. When Mrs. Chewink returned, she looked for bread, but did not offer to take cup-cake in its place. She flew to the garden and hunted up insects. I tried a great many experiments with this bird, and I found that she would not feed enough cup-cake to injure her babies. When they were older and stronger, she fed more cake to them.

Here was a little wild mother that knew better than to feed to her babies food that she dearly loved herself. How did she know that such food would hurt them? Well we know that the wild things manage their domestic affairs in a way best suited to their needs and natures. But it is only here and there that a human being can gain the confidence of the wild things so far as to share the secrets o their lives.

Mrs. Chewink, like many human mothers, was overworked during the warm weather. Often she would seek the shade for a few seconds' rest. Her open bill and drooping wings gave evidence of how much she was suffering from the heat. All this time Mr. Chewink haunted the cool, shady spots, and left his clamorous family to the care of his overworked wife. The little ones increased in size very fast, and soon were as large as the old ones. One morning Mrs. Chewink brought the brood into the dooryard. I think she wanted to be near the food supply. Certainly it lessened her labors. She had another object in view, which appeared later.

Two weeks passed, and one morning Mr. Chewink brought the young birds to the dooryard. I was much worried, for I thought that my little pet had been killed. I searched the shrub-land on the hill, and was delighted to hear her call. She was gathering material for a new nest. Then I understood why she had brought her family to the dooryard. She had contemplated putting them under the care of her lazy husband, and she thought that he would not be overworked where food was so plentiful.

The young birds did not take kindly to Mr. Chewink's care. When they found that he was their sole dependence, they made his life miserable. They followed him with open bills and fluttering wings, clamoring for food. Mr. Chewink acted like a crazy bird. He would fly round and gather food and jab it into an open bill, often, in his reckless haste, knocking a little one off its feet. I pitied the poor birds, but there was a ludicrous side to the whole affair. It proved that bird nature and human nature are much alike.