Chairman Eagle explained the purpose of their meeting and Mr. Shrike promised to hurt no one. Looking around he said, “I have just come from my summer home in the north to spend the winter with you. I see gay little Winter Wren hopping around. As soon as there comes a northern snowfall heavy enough to cover the weed seeds there Mr. and Mrs. Snow Bunting will join us.”
“How glad we will be to see them; glad to see them!” chattered happy Chickadee. “We will have a jolly game of snowball. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee! Da-da-day!” And he hopped along and around a branch one of the most lighthearted creatures living.
Mr. English Sparrow wished to say something. “Our flock can always find a warm place and something – ”
Just then a hoarse voice was heard calling, “Who, who, who, who, ar-r-r-re you?” As the feathered people must ever be on the alert to protect their lives, in a second all was as quiet as the grave. Thinking that some better dressed bird only meant to make fun of him and his many wives Mr. English Sparrow flew into a passion and began to pull off his coat.
Mr. Eagle told the crowd that there was no need of a scare. “That,” said he, “is only Mr. Barred Owl in yon tree. He has been roused by our talking. Put on your coat, foolish Mr. Sparrow.”
Mr. Jay could not let slip the chance to twit his neighbor. “Ha, ha!” said he; “you had better get enough more wives to teach you how to behave yourself.”
Everyone looked around laughing. Thinking that night had come and that his friends from the next timber had come to make a call, Mr. Owl again broke out: “He-he-he-he, hi-hi-hi-hi, ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Mr. English Sparrow was vexed and ashamed, but being afraid to get into a fight he flew off.
As it was getting late in the day the chairman said that the meeting must close. “It is useless to talk longer,” said he. “It is plain that our pretty Meadow Larks and other insect eating birds must move or starve. We shall be very sorry to see them leave and hope to meet them again on their return next spring. They are needed at the south. May God speed their journey.
“But some of us must remain or shirk our duty. The Turkey Buzzards and their helpers must be here to clean up the fields and groves and to clear away dead things washed ashore. If these things are not done the foul air next spring may make much sickness. Woodpeckers must keep at their work or plants will suffer next summer. Those who can eat seeds must be active or the farmers will not be able to keep down the weeds. Grouse, Jay, Wax Wing and others who can manage berries and nuts must not leave or in a few years trees and underbrush will be so thick that there will not be room for them to branch out. Even our hated Mr. English Sparrow is needed to pick up droppings in the street and waste around houses. We are all needed – each to do his own bit of work in his own place and way. Although that may not be just what we prefer, may we all do our duty just as cheerfully as man’s friend, Mr. Turkey Buzzard, does his unpleasant tasks.”
THE FIELD SPARROW
(Spizella pusilla.)
A bubble of music floats
The slope of the hillside over;
A little wandering sparrow’s notes;
And the bloom of yarrow and clover,
And the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry leaf,
On his ripple of song are stealing;
For he is a chartered thief,
The wealth of the fields revealing.
The Field Sparrow is the smallest of our sparrows and is quite easily distinguished from the other species by its reddish bill. The common name is misleading, and perhaps it would be more appropriate to call this bird the Bush Sparrow, a name by which it is frequently known. Instead of the field it seems to prefer the pasture, with its weeds and bushes. It will also frequent the shrubby thickets that follow the removal of a forest. This shy bird has a somewhat extensive range, which includes the eastern United States and Southern Canada. It passes the winter months chiefly in those states south of the Ohio river.
The Field Sparrow when frightened does not retreat to the cover of foliage, as does the Song Sparrow, but flies to an exposed position on top of bush or low tree, where it can watch and await developments. In the fall they frequently gather in small flocks. If disturbed all will fly to the nearest bushes, and in perching will cluster close together.
The Field Sparrow is all the more interesting because of its shyness. Mr. Keyser speaks of it as “a captivating little bird, graceful of form and sweet of voice, singing his cheerful trills from early spring until far past midsummer. The song makes me think of a silver thread running through a woof of golden sunshine, carried forward by a swinging shuttle of pearl.” Mr. Chapman says: “There is something winning in his appearance; he seems such a gentle, innocent, dove-like little bird. His song is in keeping with his character, being an unusually clear, plaintive whistle, sweeter to the lover of birds’ songs than the voice of the most gifted songstress.” It is not possible to describe the song in words, for it varies greatly. No two birds seem to have the same song and the same bird may vary its song. Locality also seems to affect its character. It is the sweetest at the going down of the sun and in the early twilight. To hear it then, in the absence of all other sounds, is indeed soul inspiring.
Its delicate nest, too, becomes the lovely character of this little bird. This small house is usually placed near the ground in a low shrub, or on the ground where it is well protected by tall grasses. The nests are not usually found near fence rows, but rather in less public places, on hillsides and nearer the center of the field. When possible, a thorny bush is chosen. The nest is constructed of fine grasses and very fine roots loosely woven together and lined with finer grasses, hair and the delicate bark fibers.
Writing of the finding of a Field Sparrow’s nest near the top of a hill, some one has said: “How ‘beautiful for situation’ is this tiny cottage on the hill! Here the feathered poets may sit on their leafy verandas, look down into the green valleys and compose verses on the pastoral attractions of Nature. One is almost tempted to spin a romance about the happy couple.”
DISHRAG VINES
Margie was cross. It was a rainy day, and she was having to sew; two things she hated.
“I think it might rain on school days. And I wish dish-cloths had never been invented,” she exclaimed, jerking her thread into a tangle.
“You ought to move down south,” quietly said her aunt.
“Why? Don’t they have rain and dish-cloths there?”
“Yes, of course they do; and I will tell you a true story, if you will promise not to complain the least bit for the rest of the day.”
Margie promised; and, after threading a needle, her aunt began:
“When I was in Georgia, last October, I saw a queer vine growing over the porch of an old negro’s cabin. It looked like a pumpkin vine, with its great coarse leaves, and it had green, gourd-like seed pods, or fruit, hanging all over it. I asked the old colored man, who was hoeing near by, about it, and he said, in surprise: ‘Lawsy me! Didn’ you neber heerd tell ob a dishrag vine afore?’
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