Little Brothers of the Air

by Olive Thorne Miller

We lingered, loath to abandon hope, till the deepening shadows reminded us of the woods to be passed through; but no bird came nearer than that maddening distance. In despair we turned our faces homeward at last; several times on the way we paused, lured by an ecstatic note, but every one too far off to be completely heard.

In our quiet walk back through the dark woods I accepted my evident fate, that I was not to be blessed with hermit music this season; but I made a private resolve to find next year a "hermit neighborhood," where birds should be warranted to sing, if I had to take a tent and camp out in a swamp.

June passed away in delightful bird-study, and July followed quickly. Nests and songs in plenty rewarded our search. Every day had been full. Nothing had been wanting to fill our cup of content, except the longed-for song of the hermit; and I had been so absorbed I had almost ceased to regret it.

With the last days of July everything was changed about us. The world was full of bird babies. Infant voices rang out from every tangle; flutters of baby wings stirred every bush; the woods echoed to anxious "pips," and "smacks," and "quits," of uneasy parents working for dear life. We had been so occupied with our study of these charming youngsters, that we bethought ourselves, only as one after another strange warbler appeared upon the scene, that migrating time had arrived, the wonderful procession to the summer-land had begun.

This, alas! I could not stay to see. And if one must go, it were better to take leave before getting entangled in the toils of the warblers, to be driven wild by the numberless shades of yellow and olive, to go frantic over stripes and spots, and bars, and to wear out patience and the Manual, trying to discover what particular combination of Latin syllables scientists have bestowed upon this or that flitting atom in feathers. Before the student is out of bed, a new warbler-note will distract her; in the twilight some tiny bird will fly over her head with an unfamiliar twitter; each and every one will rouse her to eager desire to see it, to name it.

Why have we such a rage for labeling and cataloguing the beautiful things of Nature? Why can I not delight in a bird or flower, knowing it by what it is to me, without longing to know what it has been to some other person? What pleasure can it afford to one not making a scientific study of birds to see such names as "the blue and yellow-throated warbler," "the chestnut-headed golden warbler," "the yellow-bellied, red-poll warbler," attached to the smallest and daintiest beauties of the woods?

Musing upon this and other mysteries, I followed my friend up the familiar paths one day, looking for some young birds whose strange cries we had noted. It was a gray morning, and all the tree trunks were grim and dark, with no variety in coloring. The sounds we were following led us through some unused roads entirely grown up with jewel-weed, part of it five feet high, and thickly hung with the yellow flower from which it takes its name.

It had rained in the night, and every leaf was adorned with minute drops like gems. We parted the stems carefully and passed through, though it seemed to us like wading in deep water, and, in spite of our caution, we were well sprinkled from the dripping leaves. Just as we stepped out of our green sea, the low calls we were trying to locate ceased. We walked slowly on until we were attracted by a rustling in the dry leaves, and then we turned to see two young thrushes foraging about in silence by themselves. They were not very shy, but looked at us with innocent baby eyes as we drew near and examined them. We saw the color and the markings and the peculiar movement of the tail characteristic of the hermit. There could be no doubt that these were hermit babies. We were delighted to see them. I never feel that I know a bird family till I have seen the young. But my pleasure was sadly marred by the reflection that where there were babies must have been a nest and a singer, and we had not heard his voice.

The last Sunday of my stay came, all too soon. It was a glorious day, and, as usual, the two bird-lovers turned their steps toward the woods. Everything seemed at rest and silent. We paused a while in a part of the forest in which we had seen some strange phases of bird life, and had christened the "Bewitched Corner." A gentle breeze set all the leaves to fluttering; far off a woodpecker drummed his salute to his fellows; beyond the trees we could hear the indigo bird singing; but nothing about us was stirring. The wood-pewee was unheard, and even the vireo seemed to have finished his endless song and gone his way.