Birds and Nature, Vol. 10 No. 1 [June 1901]

MR. CHAT, THE PUNCHINELLO.
A TRUE STORY

If Mr. Chat were an ordinary performer he would doubtless select a spot in the center of the village square; he would put up his little stage and his drop-curtain and would send small boys all through the village with his flaming posters:

ATTENTION, EVERY ONE!

This Afternoon – in the Village Square

At Two O’clock,

Mr. Yellow-Breasted Chat will give one of his

REMARKABLE PERFORMANCES

Mr. Chat is acknowledged by all to be the best imitator, the most gifted singer, the finest elocutionist, the cleverest ventriloquist, the greatest athlete in all bird-dom.

MR. CHAT

Orator, Singer, Gymnast and Punchinello!

Don’t fail to see him!

and by two o’clock the village square would be alive with people, and after the show the dimes would rattle into the hat and no one would go away disappointed, as Mr. Chat’s poster would be nearer the truth than most posters of its kind.

All this if Mr. Chat were an ordinary performer, but he is not. His performance is so far ahead of anything that was ever advertised on a poster, that there are not dimes enough in all the world to buy it. You may set a day for him and invite all your friends, or you may take your friends and go seek him in his own haunts; you may try to coax, hire, threaten; you may do everything in your power; but Mr. Chat is a happy creature of inspiration, and makes dates with nobody.

 
When he will, he will —
You may depend on’t;
And when he won’t, he won’t —
And there’s an end on’t!
 

His only tent is the blue sky; his stage-setting a jungle of trees near a swamp; his stage a thick bough near the top of a tree; his curtain the leaves of a white birch, or willow, or butternut; his orchestra and curtain-raiser the wind, and his audience his wife sitting patiently on the eggs in her nest, and – you, if you belong to Nature’s elect and happen to be near the swamp at that moment and have the kind of eyes that really see and the kind of ears that really hear. Mrs. Chat can command the performance with one little bird sigh. You could not buy it with the wealth of the world. After the entertainment is over, Mr. Chat drives his wife from the nest and takes her place on the eggs while she flies out over the tree-tops for a little outing. Not many bird husbands are so considerate.

Once upon a time (you see the story is just beginning now) I happened to find myself in a pasture; not a tame, every-day, green pasture tacked on one end of a nice smooth farm – not at all! but a pasture on top of a high hill, with beautiful fields stretching out below it, and all pink and white with laurel. The cows, who, they say, do not care either for laurel or scenery, may not have liked this pasture, but I did. So when I had climbed the bars and seated myself on the top one to view the country, I saw at the far edge of the pasture, a jungle of trees, and I liked it still more, and determined to explore it. On the way I flushed a brown thrasher in a laurel bush, and he flew into the jungle. There seemed to be but one bird singing in all the neighborhood, and this song which was a peculiar one, lured me into the thicket. On I went very cautiously till the sound seemed to be directly overhead. I paused and listened and peered into the tree tops.

“Caw-caw!” cried the bird harshly.

“Nothing but an old crow,” said I in disgust.

I started to go, when from the same spot overhead came a loud, clear double note, and again I waited.

“Meow! meow!” remarked my new friend.

“How stupid of me!” said I. “I might have known it was Mr. Catbird.” But immediately there came a glorious trill – first over my head, then almost under my feet, then at my right hand, then at my left; though there was no flutter of wings or other sound in all the jungle. At last the fallen branch upon which I had been sitting gave way and I went into the swamp with a splash of mud. “Look out, look out!” came a sarcastic voice from the tree top.

“It is an escaped Poll-parrot,” said I, to reassure myself, but I took out my handkerchief and mopped my heated brow. The unknown then proceeded to bark like a dog, quack like a duck, and squeal like a pig, with occasionally a measure of song in between. At last in desperation I seized a young sapling near at hand and shook it with all my might, thinking to frighten him into showing himself.

“Haw-haw-haw!” rang out clearly from the top of the very sapling itself.

“That is no bird,” I announced to the swamp; “it is an imp of the forest trying to lure me to destruction in the jungle,” and I turned and fled.

I felt better when I met a cotton-tail rabbit, though he did not stop to be greeted; and still better when I reached the sunlight and the pink and white laurel pasture; and when I neared the bars and saw my horse grazing patiently on the other side, I was quite myself again. On an upright stake at the side of the bars sat a strange, yellowish bird. I did not know him, for I had not so many bird friends then as I have now. Suddenly he rose in the air with a shriek, his legs dangling helplessly. “Is this a magical pasture,” I said to myself, “where birds are shot without the report of a gun?” and then with legs still dangling, he made a beautiful gyration in the air, and calling out: “That’s it – that’s it – tut – tut – tut!” disappeared in the direction of the thicket. This was my first attendance upon one of the remarkable performances of Mr. Yellow-Breasted Chat, and I can without hesitation pronounce it the most wonderful in all bird-dom.

The next day I invited some skeptical friends to prove the truth of my story. So at the same time of day we drove up the long hills till we spied the pink and white of the laurel, and halted at the gray bars. The pasture which had been deserted the day before, was now spotted with cows, the laurel had begun to fade, and though we waited one long, weary hour, not a sight or sound of a bird of any description did we see. The towhee and the shore lark whom I had seen the day before, seemed to have dropped out of existence, and those disagreeable people hinted that even the brown thrasher was a myth. But as I ventured alone into the dark swamp, hoping still to stir up Mr. Chat, I came face to face with the beautiful purple-fringed orchis – the large, early variety – blooming alone in the damp thicket, so straight and stately, and of such a delicate, refined beauty, I fell on my knees beside it, and felt it to be ample compensation for any disappointments. So you see it is true that there is not wealth enough in all the world to force a bird-song at the moment when you want it, but at the same time and in the same swamp the purple orchis may be blooming for you.

Nell Kimberly McElhone.

Center Column

BANDED AGATE (Lake Superior). MOSS AGATE.

Bottom Row

BANDED AGATE (Brazil). CLOUDED AGATE.

AGATE

Agate is a form of the common mineral quartz. From other forms of that mineral it differs in being made up of minute layers and in being variegated in color. The colors may appear in the form of bands or clouds. The banded agates appear to be made up of parallel layers, sometimes straight, but more often wavy or curved in outline. These layers or bands differ in color from one another, exhibiting shades of white, gray, blue, yellow, red, brown or black. To the naked eye they appear to vary in width from the finest lines to a width of a quarter of an inch or more. In reality, all the bands visible to the naked eye are made up of finer ones, to be seen only with the microscope. Thus in a single inch of thickness of agate Sir David Brewster, using the microscope, counted seventeen thousand and fifty layers. Besides differing in color, the layers differ in transparency and porosity, and these properties add to the variegated appearance of the agate.

On account of their beauties of color and outline, agates have been known and prized from the earliest times. They are mentioned by many of the ancient Greek writers, and the name agate is a corruption of the name Achates, a river in Sicily, whence the first stones of this kind used by the Greeks were obtained. This and neighboring localities continued to be the source of supply until the fifteenth century, when agates were found to occur in large quantities near Oberstein and Idar on the banks of the river Nahe, in the duchy of Oldenburg.

The industry of cutting and polishing the agates on a large scale was soon established there, and these places are to this day the center of the agate industry. The agates used most extensively at the present time are not, however, those found about Oberstein, but come from a region about one hundred miles in length extending from the Province of Rio Grande do Sul, of Southern Brazil, into Northern Uruguay.

The agates in this region, first discovered in 1827, so surpass in size and beauty those from any other known locality, that they form at the present time almost the only source of supply. They are shipped in large quantities as ballast to Oberstein and Idar, and here the work of cutting, polishing and coloring them is performed. The discovery that the attractiveness of agates could be enhanced by artificial coloring was made about the beginning of the nineteenth century. The natural colors are rarely of a high order, being often only variations of white and gray or dull yellows and reds. Through the difference of porosity of the different layers, however, and the consequent different absorption of coloring ingredients, methods of artificial coloring can be employed, which produce lasting and pleasing effects. Most agate used for ornamental purposes at the present time is therefore artificially colored.

Agates of considerable beauty, though not of great size, are found in many places in the United States. Those of Agate Bay, Lake Superior, have rich colors and make attractive charms and other ornaments. Agates are found in the beds of many streams in Colorado, Montana and other regions of the Rocky Mountains. They occur all along the Mississippi River, especially in Minnesota, also along the Fox River, Illinois, in the trap rocks along the Connecticut River, and on the coast of California. While many of these agates are of great beauty, their use and sale is not likely to be anything more than local, since the Brazilian agates can be supplied so cheaply from Germany. The moss agates of Colorado and other localities in the Rocky Mountains are, however, equal to anything in the world.

The layered structure of agates is due to successive depositions of silica by water flowing through cavities in rocks. Rising and falling alternately through the rocks the water leaves a mark of each advance or retreat in the form of an additional layer deposited upon the interior walls of the cavity. Agates, therefore, grow from the outside inward. The process may go on until the cavity is entirely filled or may cease at any time. If water remains in the cavity for some time crystals, such as are sometimes seen, will be formed. The nodule of silica or agate formed by the percolating waters is harder and more resistant than the surrounding rock. Hence it remains after the surrounding rock has been worn away. We can thus understand why agates should be found, as they usually are, on sea or lake beaches, or in the beds of streams.

The different colors seen in the natural agates are produced by traces of organic matter or of oxides of iron, manganese or titanium contained in the waters which formed them.

The beautiful moss-like inclusions seen in the moss agates are due to a partial crystallization of oxide of manganese or iron contained in the waters. The particles of oxide in these cases arrange themselves in arborescent forms, just as do the particles of frost crystallizing on a window pane.

Agates are not used as extensively as they once were for ornamental purposes. In the years of 1848-50 agate jewelry was very fashionable and was extensively worn. At the present time, however, the principal use of agate in jewelry is for breastpins and watch charms. For ornamental purposes it is used in pen-holders, knife handles, and vases. Its use for large marbles was once quite common, but glass marbles of the same size and still called “agates” are now generally substituted. In fine mechanical work, such as bearings for delicate instruments and in tools for polishing and grinding, agate is still extensively used.

Oliver Cummings Farrington.

MARTYRS OF THE WOODS

 
Would we miss them, you and I,
Would we care if soon should die
Every single singing bird
You and I have ever heard?
Would we miss them from the grass,
Through the tangled, deep morass;
From the bushes and the trees —
Robin, wren and chickadees —
Birds of blue and crimson wing;
Would we miss the notes they sing;
Would we miss the call and cry;
Chattering talk as we go by;
Nests amid the reeds and grass,
Nests swung high above the pass?
Do we care that birds must die,
Slaughtered daily as they fly?
Men will kill while people choose
Wings of birds to buy and use;
Soon the woods must quiet be;
Scarce a bird for minstrelsy.
 

– George Klingle.

A PANSY BED

There is ever so much fun in a pansy bed. If you have never had one, ask your papa or mamma to let you have one this summer. A few dozen plants will give you much pleasure.

There are so many little faces to know among them, and so many little family groups. Some grin at you like monkeys, others scowl, some seem to wink, some smile shyly, while others are curious and open-eyed. There is a white family delicately blue-veined – Colonial Dames, I call them. There are negroes of the darkest hue, Indians, and those that the sun seems to have bronzed. There are groups of Chinamen with their little “yellow kids.” Some are tattooed, and some have striped skin. Many wear ruffled bonnets, and some have beards. The little clusters are so erect and alert on a morning after a heavy dew that they seem like families off for an outing or school children waiting for a snap shot. There are lovely grandmothers wearing purple caps with white frills, and with faces though crinkled and wrinkled yet full of smiles and wisdom. There are sweethearts too, their little heads close together, and they whisper, whisper when the wind goes by.

What do you think? One day from out of my bowl of pansies which I had placed on the lunch table skipped two frisky “yellow kids.” I discovered them hand in hand skipping away. Their little figures were reflected in the polished surface of the table, and they seemed partners out of a Virginia reel. As I put them back in the bowl among their elders, I felt that I had wantonly interrupted a runaway.

Watch how the pansies love the rain! As they seem praying for it with bent heads in dry weather, so they seem a-quiver with thanksgiving after a shower.

There are many things you can do with your pansies. First, though, you must love them. You must teach pussy and the dog not to tramp over them. Every day you must take off all the faded flowers. You must water them and weed them. You will enjoy gathering a bouquet daily for the house, and if anybody is ill, papa or mamma or some one else you love, by all means carry them a bunch of your pansies.

In midsummer, when the fairies have pitched their tents about the sweet-scented bed, the blossoms will have become so many that if grandpa or grandma has a birthday, you can gather seventy or eighty (possibly ninety if you need so many) for a birthday gift. You will not see the fairies about the bed, for they come at midnight, but the dew-sprinkled tents are there, and the cluster of toadstools that the brownies like so well.

Do not forget to give some flowers to the poor children who stand outside your gate, and who wish for some for their very own. The children who have no garden love to look at yours.

Perhaps you have an older sister or brother who paints. If so, they may like some of your pansies to sketch, and to keep in the house in the winter when your real ones are tucked under the earth and snow.

You will find several live things in your flower bed; the bees, the butterflies, and once in a while a humming-bird. Sir Bumble, the bee who looks so heavy and clumsy, touches lightly the pansies, and the pansies like to have him about, for he is so lively and cheery, so do not drive him away. The light yellow and the deep yellow butterflies seem like the pansies themselves, flying off from their stems for a journey about the country. Who knows what the butterflies and the bees tell the flowers, or what messages the flowers send by the flying creatures that pay them visits? When you have pansy beds of your own perhaps you will be able to write me some stories, and then perhaps you can tell me what the butterflies, bees and pansies talk about.

Grace Marion Bryant.