Birds Illustrated by Color Photography Vol 3. No 4.

LET US ALL PROTECT THE EGGS OF THE BIRDS

ELIZABETH NUNEMACHER, in Our Animal Friends, writes thus of her observation of birds. Would that her suggestions for their protection might be heeded.

"Said that artist in literature, Thomas Wentworth Higginson: 'I think that, if required, on pain of death to name instantly the most perfect thing in the universe, I would risk my fate on a bird's egg; … it is as if a pearl opened and an angel sang.' But far from his beautiful thought was the empty shell, the mere shell of the collector. How can he be a bird lover who, after rifling some carefully tended nest, pierces the two ends of one of these exquisite crusts of winged melody, and murderously blows one more atom of wings and song into nothingness? The inanimate shell, however lovely in color, what is it? It is not an egg; an egg comprehends the contents, the life within. Aside from the worthlessness of such a possession, each egg purloined means we know not what depth of grief to the parent, and a lost bird life; a vacuum where song should be.

People who love birds and the study of them prefer half an hour's personal experience with a single bird to a whole cabinet of "specimens." Yet a scientist recently confessed that he had slain something like four hundred and seventy-five Redstarts, thus exterminating the entire species from a considable range of country, to verify the fact of a slight variation in color. One would infinitely prefer to see one Redstart in the joy of life to all that scientific lore could impart regarding the entire family of Redstarts by such wholesale butchery, which nothing can excuse.

We hear complaints of the scarcity of Bluebirds from year to year. I have watched, at intervals since early April, the nest of a single pair of Bluebirds in an old apple tree. On April 29th there were four young birds in the nest. On May 4th they had flown; an addition was made to the dwelling, and one egg of a second brood was deposited. On May 31st the nest again held four young Bluebirds. June 15th saw this second quartette leave the apple tree for the outer world, and thinking surely that the little mother had done, I appropriated the nest; but on June 25th I found a second nest built, and one white egg, promising a third brood. From the four laid this time, either a collector or a Bluejay deducted one, and on July 14th the rest were just out of the shell. This instance of the industry of one pair of Bluebirds proves that their scarcity is no fault of theirs. I may add that the gentle mother suffered my frequent visits and my meddling with her nursery affairs without any show of anger or excitement, uttering only soft murmurs, which indicated a certain anxiety. May not the eleven young Bluebirds mean a hundred next season, and is not the possessor of the missing egg guilty of a dozen small lives?"

We have observed that the enthusiasm of boys for collecting eggs is frequently inspired by licensed "collectors," who are known in a community to possess many rare and valuable specimens. Too many nests are despoiled for so-called scientific purposes, and a limit should be set to the number of eggs that may be taken by any one for either private or public institutions. Let us influence the boys to "love the wood-rose, and leave it on its stalk."

THE NEW TENANTS

By Elanora Kinsley Marble

Mrs. Wren, in a very contented frame of mind, sat upon her nest, waiting with an ever growing appetite for that delicious spider or nice fat canker worm which her mate had promised to fetch her from the orchard.

"How happy I am," she mused, "and how thankful I ought to be for so loving a mate and such a dear, little cozy home. Why, keeping house and raising a family is just no trouble at all. Indeed – " but here Mrs. Wren's thoughts were broken in upon by the arrival of Mrs. John, who announced, as she perched upon the rim of the tin-pot and looked disdainfully around, that she had but a very few minutes to stay.

"So this is the cozy nest your husband is so fond of talking about," she said, her bill in the air. "My, my, whatever possessed you, my dear, to begin housekeeping in such humble quarters. Everything in this world depends upon appearances; the sooner you find that out, Jenny, the better. From the very first I was determined to begin at the top. The highest pole in the neighborhood, or none, I said to Mr. John when he was looking for a site on which to build our house; and to do him justice Mr. Wren never thought of anything lower himself. A tin-pot, indeed, under a porch. Dear, dear!" and Mrs. John's bill turned up, and the corners of her mouth turned down in a very haughty and disdainful manner.

"I – didn't – know, I'm – sure," faltered poor little Mrs. Jenny, her feathers drooping at once. "I – thought our little house, or flat, was very nice and comfortable. It is in an excellent neighborhood, and our landlord's family is – "

"Oh, bother your landlord's family," interrupted Mrs. John impolitely. "All your neighbors are tired and sick of hearing Mr. Wren talk about his landlord's family. The way he repeats their sayings and doings is nauseating, and as for naming your brood after them, why – " Mrs. John shrugged her wings and laughed scornfully.

Mrs. Wren's head feathers rose at once, but experience had taught her the folly of quarreling with her aunt, so she turned the subject by inquiring solicitously after her ladyship's health.

"Oh, its only fair, fair to middlin'," returned Mrs. John, poking her bill about the edge of the nest as though examining its lining. "I told Mr. John this morning that I would be but a shadow of myself after fourteen days brooding, if he was like the other gentlemen Wrens in the neighborhood. Catch me sitting the day through listening to him singing or showing off for my benefit. No, indeed! He is on the nest now, keeping the eggs warm, and I told him not to dare leave it till my return."

Mrs. Jenny said nothing, but she thought what her dear papa would have done under like circumstances.

"All work and no play," continued Mrs. John, "makes dull women as well as dull boys. That was what my mama said when she found out papa meant her to do all the work while he did the playing and singing. Dear, dear, how many times I have seen her box his ears and drive him onto the nest while she went out visiting," and at the very recollection Mrs. John flirted her tail over her back and laughed loudly.

"How many eggs are you sitting upon this season, Aunt?" inquired Mrs. Jenny, timidly.

"Eight. Last year I hatched out nine; as pretty a brood as you would want to see. If I had time, Jenny, I'd tell you all about it. How many eggs are under you?"

"Six," meekly said Jenny, who had heard about that brood scores of times, "we thought – we thought – "

"Well?" impatiently, "you thought what?"

"That six would be about as many as we could well take care of. I am sure it will keep us both busy finding worms and insects for even that number of mouths."

"I should think it would" chuckled Mrs. John, nodding her head wisely, "but – " examining a feather which she had drawn out of the nest with her bill, "what is this? A chicken feather, as I live; a big, coarse, chicken feather. And straw too, instead of hay. Ah! little did I think a niece of mine would ever furnish her house in such a shabby manner," and Mrs. John, whose nest was lined with horse-hair, and the downiest geese feathers which her mate could procure, very nearly turned green with shame and mortification.

Mrs. Jenny's head-feathers were bristling up again when she gladly espied Mr. Wren flying homeward with a fine wriggling worm in his bill.

"Ah, here comes your hubby," remarked Mrs. John, "he's been to market, I see. Well, ta, ta, dear. Run over soon to see us," and off Mrs. John flew to discuss Mrs. Jenny's housekeeping arrangements with one of her neighbors.

Mr. Wren's songs and antics failed, to draw a smile from his mate the remainder of that day. Upon her nest she sat and brooded, not only her eggs, but over the criticisms and taunts of Mrs. John. Straw, chicken-feathers, and old tin pots occupied her thoughts to the exclusion of everything else, and it was not without a feeling of shame she recalled her morning's happiness and spirit of sweet content. The western sky was still blushing under the fiery gaze of the sun, when Mrs. Jenny fell into a doze and dreamed that she, the very next day, repaid Mrs. John Wren's call. The wind was blowing a hurricane and the pole on which Mrs. John's fine house stood, shook and shivered till Mrs. Jenny looked every minute for pole and nest and eggs to go crashing to the ground.

"My home," thought she, trembling with fear, "though humble, is built upon a sure foundation. Love makes her home there, too. Dear little tin-pot! Chicken feathers or straw, what does it matter?" and home Mrs. Jenny hastened, very thankful in her dream for the protecting walls, and overhanging porch, as well as the feeling of security afforded by her sympathetic human neighbors.

The fourteen days in truth did seem very long to Mrs. Wren, but cheered by her mate's love songs and an occasional outing – all her persuasions could not induce Mr. Wren to brood the eggs in her absence – it wasn't a man's work, he said – the time at length passed, and the day came when a tiny yellow beak thrust itself through the shell, and in a few hours, to the parents delight, a little baby Wren was born.

Mr. Wren was so overcome with joy that off he flew to the nearest tree, and with drooping tail and wings shaking at his side, announced, in a gush of song, to the entire neighborhood the fact that he was a papa.

"A pa-pa, is it?" exclaimed Bridget, attracted by the bird's manner to approach the nest. "From watchin' these little crathers it do same I'm afther understandin' bird talk and bird-ways most like the misthress herself," and with one big red finger she gently pushed the angry Mrs. Wren aside and took a peep at the new born bird.

"Howly mither!" said she, retreating in deep disgust, "ov all the skinny, ugly little bastes! Shure and its all head and no tail, with niver a feather to kiver its nakedness. It's shamed I'd be, Mr. Wren, to father an ugly crather loike that, so I would," and Bridget, who had an idea that young birds came into the world prepared at once to fly, shook her head sadly, and went into the house to inform the family of the event.

One by one the children peeped into the nest and all agreed with Bridget that it was indeed a very ugly little birdling which lay there.

"Wish I could take it out, mama," said Dorothy, "and put some of my doll's clothes on it. It is such a shivery looking little thing."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Walter, "what are those big balls covered with skin on each side of its head; and when will it look like a bird, mama?"

"Those balls are its eyes," she laughingly replied, "which will open in about five days. The third day you will perceive a slate-colored down or fuzz upon its head. On the fourth its wing feathers will begin to show. On the seventh the fuzz will become red-brown feathers on its back and white upon its breast. The ninth day it will fly a little way, and on the twelfth will leave its nest for good."

"An' its a foine scholard ye's are, to be shure, mum," said Bridget in open-mouthed admiration. "Whoiver 'ud hev thought a mite ov a crather loike that 'ud be afther makin' so interesthing a study. Foreninst next spring, God willin," she added, "its meself, Bridget O'Flaherty, as will be one ov them same."

"One of them same what?" inquired her mistress laughingly.

"Horn-ith-owl-ogists, mum," replied Bridget, not without much difficulty, and with a flourish of her fine red arms and a triumphant smile upon her round face, Bridget returned to her kitchen and work again.

[TO BE CONTINUED]