A little miss, who had come from the city with her parents, was much interested when I told her that the birds were Mr. Chewink's babies. She looked on while the babies clamored for food, and when Mr. Chewink knocked one of the little ones over in his rough, impatient way, the sympathetic miss cried out: "Oh, mamma, how cross he is! He is just like papa when the baby cries."
After awhile Mr. Chewink changed his tactics. I think he had grumbled to his wife, and had threatened to let the hawks get the little beggars, so she told him how to induce them to pick up their food. Mr. Chewink took the hint, and dropped food before each bird, and probably said, "Help yourself or starve." The poor things did get right down hungry before they found out that they could feed themselves. Another feature of bird life was brought to my attention two days before the second brood was hatched out. Mr. Chewink enticed the young birds away to a bird resort. This resort is a place where there is food and water, and many birds that rear two broods take the first brood to the spot, so the mother-bird can feed the second family unmolested. Mr. Chewink visited the banished birds several times each day. The bird resort was near a little pond on my road to the city. One of the young birds was bright enough to remember me, and intelligent enough to follow me to the cabin. His father found him in the dooryard, and pecked and beat him and drove him into the bushes. But the plucky little fellow insisted, and remained in spite of the whippings he got from his father. I returned from the city one afternoon, and found a black snake had swallowed the second brood, and was sleeping it off on a sunny patch of bed-rock. I killed the snake. The next day the banished birds were brought back.
Mrs. Chewink remained about the dooryard most of the time. She would go after berries with the rest of the family, but her stay was short. At meal-time she would hop on the table and look the food over. If she discovered cup-cake, she helped herself without ceremony. After dinner, she would preen her feathers standing on a rock near where my writing-table stood. I liked to have her round, for she seemed to be more like a human being than a bird. After the breeding season was over, the old birds shed their feathers, and sorry-looking objects they were. Mr. Chewink appeared to hate the sight of his wife, and he abused her most unmercifully. He pecked her, and would not let her eat until he had satisfied his own appetite. At one time, I threw a bit of cookie to Mrs. Chewink, and it chanced to fall behind a box. While she was eating it, I heard the male calling from the bushes, "Towhee, Chewink," and soon he came flying into the yard, to see, perhaps, if any dainty morsels were about. Mrs. Chewink left her cookie and sauntered from behind the box, as if there was nothing to eat in that spot. She made a great pretence of eating dry corn and flour bread, but I don't believe the artful thing swallowed a morsel. Mr. Chewink was just a bit suspicious, and hopped toward the box, but seeing his wife eating, he turned back to investigate. When he found she had only common food, he flew at her, pecked her severely, and then flew away. Mrs. Chewink returned at once to her cookie. I saw then that this wild bird could reason. She had exercised thought to control action, with a definite object in view. The first of November turned clear and cold. There was a hint of winter in the air by day, and the nights were frosty. The chewinks lingered awhile, but the cold was too severe for them, and at last it drove them south. The next spring Mrs. Chewink did not return. Mr. Chewink soon found a second wife. I do not know what became of my pet. The chewinks are shot in the Southern rice-fields, and it is always uncertain about a particular bird coming back in the spring. Association with my little bird for three seasons had led me to become so attached to her that her loss really gave me a heartache.
Mr. Chewink did not return the next year, and I was not a mourner. He was tame enough to take food from my hand, although he would not hop on to the table, but his disposition made him distasteful to me. He abused his wives and children, and was as selfish as a hog.
Last year the chewinks did not rear a family, owing to the crows. The year before they were successful in rearing three babies from the first brood. The crows got the second brood. The intelligence of the young birds have caused me much surprise. I have made it a practice, while writing out-doors, to be well supplied with bird-food. Usually there is a loaf of bread wired down in the dooryard, but the birds will not eat from it if I will throw to them bits of cookie, cup-cake, or doughnut. The old birds hop out of the bushes, twenty feet away, and make a peculiar chuckling note, down in the throat, to attract my attention. If I throw food, they scramble for it. They will come to my feet for the food. When the three babies, mentioned before, were full-grown, they were brought by the old birds to the bushes near the dooryard. The parents, both male and female, carried bread, and the food that I supplied, to the young birds. When all were satisfied, the whole family flew away to the patches of huckleberry-bushes. While writing one morning, I was surprised to see one of the young birds hop out of the bushes to eat from the loaf of bread. He soon tired of the bread, and hopped toward me. When he had approached within ten feet, he stopped, and made the same notes in his throat common to the old birds when attracting my attention. I threw to him a piece of doughnut, which he took to the bushes. Three times he returned for food. That day the other two went through the same performance. Did these birds learn the trick by watching from the bushes the manner in which their parents got the sweet food from me? Or, did their parents tell them what to do? We must remember that these little wild things were only a few weeks old, and however we decide, it appeals to us as an exhibition of intelligence that would be wholly impossible to a human being of the same age.
ENGLISH SPARROW.
The English sparrow has not found its way to my cabin. I suppose it is too far in the woods for these city dwellers. Some boys, of a Sunday, brought to me a young English sparrow which they had rescued from a cat. They found the bird near the old barn on the hill just above Western Avenue. The bird was injured in both wings, with body wounds beside. I thought the bird was dead, and placed it on a seat near a tree. Shortly, a lady visitor said, "Your bird is coming to life." Sure enough, he had got on to his feet, but was sadly crippled. I gave him some crumbs, and he ate a hearty meal. It was evident that he did not intend to starve to death if he could get food. That night he hopped over to the cabin and climbed the banking to where he could get into a barberry-bush. He could not move his wings, but his feet were all right. The next day he hopped to me for food and water. I fed him, then put him on a rock where he could find water for himself. He did not forget the spot. For three days he followed the same methods, sleeping in the barberry-bush every night. The fourth day, while I was feeding him, an old chewink hopped to the loaf of bread and called the sparrow. The sparrow did not respond at first, but after awhile hopped over to find out what the chewink wanted. He seemed surprised to find the bread, and began at once to help himself.
