Ah! Did you see that flash of blue and white and orange that went darting by, almost like a streak of many-colored light, sounding a loud rattling call as he flew? It was a kingfisher, and if we stand quite still for a minute or two, without moving so much as a finger, we shall very likely see him again. Yes, there he is, sitting on that branch overhanging the stream, and peering down into the water beneath. He is watching for little fishes, upon which he feeds. There, he has caught sight of one, and down he drops into the water, splashes about for a moment or two, and then rises with a minnow in his beak. Back he flies to his perch, slaps the little fish against the branch once or twice to kill it, jerks it up into the air, catches it head foremost as it falls, and then swallows it with one big gulp. A moment later he is peering down into the water again on the lookout for another.
That hole in the face of the steep bank across the stream is the doorway of the kingfisher's home. If we could get there, and should try to dig it, we would find it a hard task; for from that round door a tunnel runs into the ground probably six or eight feet, and ends in a chamber where lie half a dozen pure white eggs, resting upon the bones of fishes and scraps of every sort, which make a very ill-smelling place for the young kingfishers to be born in; but they do not mind that.
The butterfly that has just floated by is a small tortoise-shell, and it has lived through the winter, which kills nearly all of the butterfly tribe. That is why its wings are faded and chipped, for it had six or eight weeks of active life before it hid itself away, last of all, in a hollow tree, and entered upon a six-months' slumber. Sometimes, on a warmer day than usual, these and certain other butterflies will be roused up, and will flutter about in the sunshine, so that now and then you may capture a tortoise-shell even in the Christmas holidays.
The warm May sunshine is enticing out many a minute insect—gnats and flies especially. Dancing companies of small sulphur yellow and other companies of blue butterflies whirl about one another over the rapidly growing grass.
Have you noticed among the May flowers how many are yellow? There are dandelions, and yellow violets, and the modest fivefinger low in the herbage, while above them tower great tufts of wild mustard and indigo, the buttercups, the marsh-marigold, and many another.
The frogs and toads are less noisy than a month ago, and one sees fewer masses and strings of eggs in the roadside ditches than in April; but in their place the pools swarm with tadpoles, and it will be well worth your while to keep watch of their growth. Try to find out what they eat, and what eats them. Observe when the tail begins to disappear, and how it is lost; when the legs begin to appear, and which pair first shows itself. You may learn a lot of interesting facts about frogs and toads before the summer is done, if you are diligent.
In this stream are a few turtles. Can you tell when and where they lay their eggs? Keep careful watch of the little sandy beaches, and perhaps you may see one digging a hole in which to bury her set of sixty or so, leaving the sun to supply a better warmth than she could give them.
May is a month of activity for snakes. They have thrown off the stiffness and drowsiness of their long winter torpidity, and, grown thin after five months of fasting, are running about in search of food. Let the frogs and toads, the beetles and young ground-sparrows and mice—also weak from their winter trials—take heed, for the swift blacksnake or sly garter, or rapacious water-snake will seize them before they have time to squeal!
The water in the stream is still cool, but the fishes are struggling up the current, pickerel are spawning in the weedy shallows, and among the pebbles of the bottom a host of young creatures are beginning to grow vigorous.
None among them is more active than the larval caddis-flies, or case-worms, as anglers call them. Here is a caddis-fly now, its gauzy wings folded tentwise over its back. All its earlier life was spent in the water, and when it was a grub it lived in a very curious case, which it made by cutting up a rush into short lengths, and sticking them together by means of a kind of natural glue. When once a caddis-grub has made one of these cases it never gets out of it again, but drags it about wherever it goes. And if you try to pull it out you will find that you cannot do so without killing it. For at the end of its body it has a pair of strong little pincers, with which it holds on so firmly and so doggedly to its case that you might actually pull it in two without forcing it to loose its hold.