Buch lesen: «Birds and Nature Vol. 10 No. 5 [December 1901]», Seite 2

THE SEA-GULL

 
From the frozen Pole to the Tropic sea
Thou wingest thy course with the drifting clouds;
O’er ghostly bergs and vessels’ shrouds
The beat of thy wings is strong and free.
Alone, or with thy tribe a host
Thou spreadest the bars of the low-ebbed tide.
On the wave-washed drift of wrecks canst ride
Or crowd the cliffs of a rock bound coast.
 
 
No home is thine save the ocean’s waste;
Unrestrained o’er thousands of miles dost roam;
And follow the trail of the liners’ foam
On wings that show no signs of haste.
Thou canst rest on the height of vessels’ yards,
Or the gleaming ice of the northern floe.
As the changing tides thou dost come and go
And the shifting wind thy strange course guards.
 
 
The seaman well knows the signs thou canst show
Of weather, and luck of the fishing grounds;
And the whaler smiles when the sea abounds
With thy thousands that come as the falling snow.
Yet stranger those thoughts that arise in me,
As I watch thee wheel of thy shining wings,
Of thy life o’er the depths where the ocean flings
From the frozen Pole to the Tropic sea.
 

– Julian Hinckley.

THE BIRD OF CONSOLATION

There is a Scandinavian tradition that the swallow hovered over the cross of our Lord crying “Svala! Svala!” (Console, console). Hence comes its name, “svalow” – the bird of consolation.

The habitat of the swallow is the whole of North America and parts of South America. The chief characteristic is usually a deeply forked tail. The swallows of this country are called Bank, Barn, Bridge, Chimney, Cliff, Tree, Land, Purple, Violet, Black, White, Crescent, Green, Blue, Republican, White-billed and White-fronted. There are some twenty common kinds, beside the Swift, which is called a swallow because of certain resemblances. But its structure is different. It has its name from the rapidity of its flight. It is almost always on the wing. Its feet are so seldom used that they are very weak. The chimney swallow has a bristly tail, which assists in its support when the bird alights. Its color is a sooty gray. Of the true swallows none is more familiar than the barn swallow, whose nest adds a picturesque interest to the eaves of the building. This swallow has a steel blue coat, a pale chestnut vest, with a bit of chocolate on chin and throat. The tail is deeply forked. It is not a noisy bird, but has a song – a little trill – aside from the note it uses when flying. Like a merry laugh, it says “Tittle-ittle-ittle-ee.” The barn swallow is sympathetic with its mates when they are in trouble and is friendly to man, who sometimes feels like questioning it —

 
“Is it far to heaven, O Swallow, Swallow!
The heavy-hearted sings;
I watch thy flight – and I long to follow.
The while I wait for wings.”
 

The flight of the swallow is in the curved line, which is that of beauty, and is without effort or restraint.

The cliff swallow, petrochelidon lunifrons – gets part of its name – lunifrons (moon front) – from its white, crescent-like frontlet. It builds a bottle or gourd-shaped nest under the protection of shelving cliffs. A whole colony will sometimes build under the eaves of out-buildings, when the shape of the nest is modified. This bird may be distinguished from the barn swallow by its less forked tail and its blackish color. It is a very useful bird, as it seems tireless in its destruction of injurious insects.

The tree or white-billed swallow wears a bluish-green coat, with white vest. It will sometimes rob the woodpecker of holes in trees in which to build.

The bank swallow or sand martin is the cosmopolitan of birds, as it thrives equally well in Asia, Africa, Europe and America.

Of all the swallows none is a greater favorite than the purple martin. It was doubtless the bird to which Shakespeare alludes when he says, “Where the temple haunting martlet breeds the air is delicate.” The purple martin, in iridescent coat, with soft, musical cry of “Peuo-peuo-peuo,” is a well protected guest, provided with pretty boxes for homes on tall poles or nailed to the sides of trees. It is a courageous bird, defending its home and young against any ruthless invader.

There is an old true saying that “one swallow does not make a summer.” Yet its advent is looked for as the harbinger of warm weather.

 
“Birds teach us as they come and go
When to sail and when to sow.
Cuckoo calling from the hill,
Swallow skimming by the mill.
Mark the seasons, map the year,
As they show and disappear.”
 

Belle Paxson Drury.

THE WORM-EATING WARBLER.
(Helmitherus vermivorus.)

The Worm-eating Warbler is much more retiring and less often noticed than most of the species of warblers. Unlike many of the species its range does not reach to the northern coniferous forests. Passing the winter in the countries bordering the Gulf of Mexico, it migrates in the spring throughout the Eastern United States, breeding as far north as Illinois and Connecticut. Its dull color and retiring and shy disposition eminently fit it for its chosen hunting grounds – the deep and thick woods, bordering ravines, where there is an abundant undergrowth of shrubs. Though preferring such localities, it is occasionally seen in rather open places.

Its companion in the woods is the golden-crowned thrush, for which it might easily be mistaken were it not for the absence of streaks on its breast. Its song closely resembles that of the chipping sparrow and may even mislead the trained field ornithologist. As it deliberately hunts for insects among the dry leaves on the ground or on the lower branches of shrubs, its slow motions are more like those of the vireo than of a warbler.

While walking through woods frequented by this rare little warbler the experiences of Mr. Leander Keyser is that of all who have had the pleasure of meeting it among the trees. He says: “Suddenly there was a twinkle of wings, a flash of olive-green, a sharp chirp, and then before me, a few rods away, a little bird went hopping about on the ground, picking up dainties from the brown leaves. It was a rare Worm-eating Warbler. The little charmer was quite wary, chirping nervously while I ogled him – for it was a male – and then hopped up into a sapling and finally scurried away out of sight.”

It builds its nest on the ground among the dead leaves and under the protecting shade of large leaved herbage or low shrubs. The nest is rather large for the size of the bird. Grasses, small roots, the fibrous shreds of bark and a few dried leaves are used in its construction.

Regarding the habits of this warbler Dr. Coues writes as follows: “It is a sedate, rather a demure, little bird, without the vivacity of most warblers. When startled from the dead leaves on the ground, where it spends most of its time rambling, like the golden-crowned thrush, it flies to a low limb and then often sits motionless or hops listlessly about.”

THE HUMMINGBIRD

 
A wheel of emerald set to song,
Song of a thousand murmurings;
A rainbow held in its leashes long,
A whirl of color, a rush of wings,
The branches tilt and the petals quake
(“There is honey, my love, for you!”)
And the frowzled heads of the blossoms shake
After each whispered interview.
 

Nelly Hart Woodworth.

NEVA’S BUTTERFLY

“Oh! Oh! Auntie, please come here, my foot’s caught in this hammock and I can’t get out and there’s a caterpillar going to crawl right on me!” called little Neva Birdsell in an excited tone.

Aunt Doris laid down her sewing and went over to where her little niece was lying with her eyes riveted on a caterpillar which was slowly crawling along quite ignorant that anyone was being alarmed by its presence.

Neva gave a sigh of relief when her aunt picked a leaf from the vine and the caterpillar crawled off on to it.

“Now what shall I do with him?” asked Aunt Doris as the caterpillar curled itself up in a little ball.

“Why, kill it, quick as ever you can,” replied Neva promptly, “I don’t want horrid old caterpillars crawling ’round me.”

Just then a beautiful butterfly lighted on the vine near by and Aunt Doris questioned, “Shall I catch the butterfly and kill that, too?”

“O, auntie, how could you kill a beautiful butterfly?” exclaimed the little girl. “Catch it, though, I’d love to see it close to. But there, now!” she added in a disappointed tone as the butterfly flitted away, “It’s gone; they always fly away from me.”

Aunt Doris went back to her chair carrying the caterpillar in the leaf with her. She seemed to be studying it for a moment and then asked, “Do you know what I have here, Neva?”

“Why, that caterpillar,” answered the little girl in a surprised tone. Then growing curious she left the hammock and went nearer her aunt’s chair.

“Yes,” said her aunt, “you are right, yet if I should keep it long enough it would turn into a butterfly just like the one that flew away a moment ago; but I suppose I had better kill it as you wish me to.”

“O, please don’t,” said Neva quickly as her aunt started from her chair, “I didn’t know ’bout it’s ever being a butterfly. Will it really be like that other one, and could you keep it long enough; and how can you tell what kind of a butterfly it will be?”

Aunt Doris laughed as she said, “Three questions all in one breath. I know it will be that kind of a butterfly because I’ve studied about butterflies and caterpillars. It has another name beside caterpillar and that is larva. It is a very good name for it means a mask. You know when a thing is masked you can’t tell quite what it is by its looks and so you might call this caterpillar a masked butterfly.”

“I think it is a good name,” said Neva, “’cause I never would guess it was going to be a butterfly; but can we keep it until it isn’t masked?”

“Yes, if you will run and ask Nora for a small pasteboard box we will fix a house for it,” said her aunt.

Neva ran into the kitchen and soon returned with a shoe-box asking, “Will this do? It’s the littlest one there was.”

“Yes, that will make a nice, roomy house,” replied her aunt, laying the caterpillar gently in the box. Then taking a piece of netting from her work basket she tied it over the top in place of the cover. “Now it will have plenty of light and air,” she said. “The next thing will be to get it something to eat.”

“What do caterpillars like?” asked Neva.

“Mostly leaves,” replied her aunt.

“Well, there is one leaf in the box; won’t it eat that?” asked the little girl, watching the caterpillar crawling over it.

“No, dear, caterpillars are very particular about their food; they all eat leaves, but different kinds of caterpillars eat different kinds of leaves. This kind feeds on the leaves of the milk-weed. The butterfly is always very careful to lay the eggs on the plant whose leaves supply the food of the caterpillar so when the little caterpillar comes out of the tiny egg its food is all ready for it.”

“Why, Aunt Doris! How can butterflies ever know so much? They don’t eat leaves, do they?” asked Neva in a surprised tone.

“No, butterflies eat honey and overripe fruit and such things; it is indeed wonderful that they can select the right plant, but the One who made the butterfly gave it wonderful instinct. Who is He, Neva?”

“Our Father,” answered the little girl. “I know that we sing in school:

 
‘The little sparrow falleth not
But Jesus taketh heed.’
 

but I never thought of His paying much attention to such a little thing as butterflies. I’m not afraid of this caterpillar now; I just, almost, pretty nearly love it.”

Aunt Doris smiled, then setting the box upon the railing she said: “This caterpillar must have taken quite a journey; we will go down the road a ways and see if we can find some milk-weed leaves for it.”

Neva ran ahead and her bright eyes soon discovered the leaves. When they had been placed in the box the little girl sat and watched the caterpillar make a good meal, while her aunt explained to her how it would first become a chrysalis and then a butterfly.

“How long does it have to be a caterpillar?” she asked.

“Twenty or thirty days,” answered Aunt Doris. “But I think that this one is quite old and will hang itself up before long now.”

“How can you tell, auntie?”

“I judge by the color and size. When this caterpillar is very young it is greenish, but as it grows older it casts its skin several times; each time it grows brighter and weighs more.”

“Why, how can it ever cast off its skin?” questioned Neva in astonishment.

Aunt Doris smiled as she replied: “Wait until it is ready to become a chrysalis and you will see.”

Neva kept close watch of her new pet after that, she was so afraid some change might take place that she did not see. When bedtime came her aunt let her take the box up to her room and put it on the dresser that she might look at it the first thing in the morning.

“Why can’t we have a name for this creature?” Neva asked while she was getting ready for bed. “I mean a real name spelled with a capital, like mine?”

“When it gets to be a butterfly it will have a name,” replied her aunt.

“What will it be?” asked Neva.

“Danais,” replied Aunt Doris.

“Danais,” repeated Neva, “That’s a pretty name, let’s call it that now. There isn’t any last name to it, is there?”

“Why, yes, there is another name,” said her aunt, “but it is a pretty long one. It is Archippus, Danais Archippus; can you remember that?”

“Oh, yes,” said Neva, “I’ll say it over lots of times and then I’ll never forget it,” and when Aunt Doris went past the door a little later she heard a very sleepy voice saying “Danais Archippus, Danais Archippus, Archippus.”

The next two days the caterpillar crawled around in the box and ate or slept and although Neva looked at it anxiously many times she could see no change and she was beginning to feel a little impatient. Early the third morning she was awakened by a robin which was singing in a tree near her window. Almost before she had her eyes open she jumped out of bed and ran over to look in the box. A moment later Aunt Doris heard a mournful little voice saying: “Danais Archippus, I just believe you’re a goner.”

“Good morning, little girl, you are an early bird; is there trouble in the box?” she said going over to the dresser.

“There don’t seem to be anything in the box,” answered Neva in a sorrowful tone.

Aunt Doris gave one look and then she laughed. “Why, Neva, the sandman is still in your eyes, for you are looking at the bottom of the box and here is the caterpillar hung up on the netting by the little hooks in the tail. It is well that you wakened so early, for half an hour later our Danais Archippus would have been a chrysalis and you never could have seen it cast its skin.”

Then putting a soft shawl around the little girl she took her in her lap and let her hold the box.

Very soon the caterpillar commenced rolling off its skin, but although Neva watched every minute and almost held her breath, she could scarcely tell how a little, green case, which looked as though it might be made of wax, was hanging where the caterpillar had hung a few moments before, while the old skin lay shriveled up in the bottom of the box.

“Isn’t it beautiful, auntie?” she said. “How can God make so many beautiful things?”

“Yes, it is very beautiful,” replied her aunt, “but it will be more so after a little; we will set the box up now and look again after you are dressed.”

“You were right, auntie,” Neva called a little later. “The green case is a prettier color now and it has a row of such cute little gold knobs near the top. What do you s’pose they are there for?”

“You notice that they are placed just where the chrysalis bulges; they are put there to protect the little sleeper when the wind blows the case against anything. You know a chrysalis is usually suspended from a leaf out of doors, and so it needs some such protection,” explained Aunt Doris.

“And now how long will this be just a chrysalis and will it just hang and do nothing?” asked the little girl.

“If you are watching it closely you will see that it sometimes swings towards the light and sometimes away from the light just as its needs require. It is a sensitive little mummy. But my little Neva will have to be very patient for it may be twelve or even sixteen days before the butterfly appears.”