English Singing Birds
Unknown Author
Table of Contents
Ye Beautiful Birds
“Ye birds that fly thro' the fields of air,
What lessons of wisdom and truth ye bear!
Ye would teach our souls from the earth to rise;
Ye would we all groveling scenes despise;
Ye would tell that all its pursuits are vain,
That pleasure is toil-ambition and pain—
That its bliss is touched with a poisoning leaven,
Ye would teach us to fix our aim in heaven.
“Beautiful birds of lightsome wing,
Bright creatures that come with the voice of spring;
We see you array'd in the hues of the morn,
Yet ye dream not of pride and ye wist not of scorn!
Though rainbow splendor around you glows,
Ye vaunt not the beauty which nature bestows;
Oh! 'What a lesson for glory are ye,
How ye preach the grace of humility.
“Swift birds, that skim o'er the stormy deep,
Who steadily onward your journey keep,
Who neither for rest nor for slumber stay,
But press still forward, by night or day—
As in your unwearying course ye fly,
Beneath the clear and unclouded sky;
Oh! may we, without delay, like you,
The path of duty and right pursue.
“Sweet birds that breathe the spirit of song,
And surround heaven's gate in melodious throng,
Who rise with the earliest beams of day,
Your morning tribute of thanks to pay:
You remind us that we should likewise raise
The voice of devotion and song of praise,
There's something about you that points on high,
Ye beautiful tenants of earth and sky!”
The Nightingale
No part of God's creation is more beautiful and certainly none more interesting than the winged portion of it. Birds are everybody's friends; but singing birds, especially our English ones, are especial favorites. We propose then in this little book to tell our youthful readers something about them, that will not only amuse them but really instruct, and most of all, may you gather up some precious divine lessons as we trace the wisdom and kindness of Him who made them, and without whom not even a sparrow falleth to the ground.
Very few of my young friends have ever seen a Nightingale, I may say none of you who have never been out of Ireland, or Scotland, or a large portion of the north of England. It is never known to visit any of these places, and is but very seldom seen in Devonshire, Cornwall or Wales.
The Nightingale is one of our most welcome visitors, coming to us in the spring, but he is very particular in his choice of places, always avoiding the places I have named.
Gilbert White, who wrote many beautiful things about birds, now a hundred years ago, tells of several efforts having been made to introduce nightingales into many of these places, but always without permanent success. One gentleman, named Sir J. Sinclair, was at trouble to obtain quite a number of the eggs of the nightingale, and placed them in the nests of robins in these unfavored spots. The dear robins were as kind to them as if they had been their own eggs and chicks, and in due time they were hatched and brought up. But just as sure as the migrating time came, though they had no old bird to teach them, off they went to their warmer climates and never returned again. Not only so, but many pairs have been caught and removed to these places when they first arrived in spring. They would build their nests, lay their eggs, and bring up their young, but after migrating would never be seen there again. There is something very curious about this. In some parts of Yorkshire and Devonshire they are said to be common, in other parts of the same counties they never make their appearance. It is difficult to account for this. It cannot be the difference in the climate, for they visit much colder countries, as Sweden. They visit also many parts of Europe, as Poland, Germany, France, Italy, &c. It is thought by some that the supply of the particular insects on which they live is not so plentiful in those places where they do not visit, but that is not positively known.
They are plentiful about London, throughout Sussex, Somersetshire, Isle of Thanet, and especially the Isle of Wight.
What a contrast there is in the character of birds, as indeed in all the creatures God has made. The little impudent sparrow will scarcely get out of your way. What a sociable bird, everybody's friend, the robin is, especially when winter approaches. The swallow, too, loves the companionship of man, and will cling to his habitation, whether it be the wild Indian's rude hut, around which he sings and dances his terrible war song, or the most refined European monarch living in his magnificent marble palace. Not so the nightingale. He shuns our company. He is shy, very timid, and loves the thicket and the shade. And yet there are exceptions. I have read of a pair that built their nest in the middle of a flowering currant bush, but it was in a quiet country spot. The male would sit upon an apple tree and sing away night and day, and both were so tame as to pick up the crumbs thrown for them from the window of the house.
Would you like to listen to his far-famed song? Then about the end of April or beginning of May you must wander down some very quiet lane, surrounded with copse-wood, and oak trees whose leaves are not yet fully out, and then you may both see and hear this wonderful singer, only you must tread softly, or he will be off in a moment.
There are two things the nightingale cannot boast of; he has neither a fine plumage, nor does he build, like other birds, a beautiful nest. His color is very sombre; the upper part a deep yellowish brown, the tail a reddish brown.
The throat and under part are a grayish white. His length is about seven inches; the extent of his wings about eleven, and his shape elegant. But who shall fully describe his song?
It would be easy to fill a volume with what has been written about the nightingale. Poets especially have said many things about it, some true, but not a few mere imagination.
Milton often and in choicest verse sings her praise
“Sweet bird! that shun'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy,
Thou chantress, oft the woods among
I woo, to hear thy evening song.”
I think either Milton must have been in a "melancholy" mood, and so thought the sweet nightingale was sympathizing with his own sorrows; or, more likely, he put in "melancholy" simply that the m might chime in with the m in "musical.”
For this another gently rebukes our famous poet, and replies—
“And hark! the nightingale begins its song,
‘Most musical, most melancholy' bird.
A melancholy' bird? Oh! idle thought,
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
`Tis the merry nightingale that crowds, and
hurries, and precipitates
With fast, thick warble, his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburden his full soul of all
his music.”
Wonderful is his musical tone; and it has been found that the organs of sound are larger in the nightingale than in any other bird. Did you ever think of the wisdom, as well as the goodness of God in the formation of these organs of sound They are totally different in a bird from what they are in an animal; they are formed for singing just as much as the most charming singer that ever lived. Many birds can be taught to imitate the notes of other birds—a fact never accomplished by any other animal. The strength of note of the nightingale is such that it can be heard fully half-a-mile, but its compass, flexibility, prodigious variety, and harmony of voice have ever made it the most admired of all songsters. "Sometimes," says one of the most ardent admirers, "dwelling for minutes on a strain composed of only two or three melancholy tones, he begins in an under voice, and swelling gradually by the most superb ascending skill to the highest point of strength, he ends it by a dying cadence; or, it consists of a rapid succession of most brilliant sounds, terminated like many other strains of his song by some detached ascending notes.”
The great variety of his tunes is the most wonderful and charming of his excellences. He is said to have from fifteen to twenty different tunes, all of which are kept quite distinct.
As I have said the nightingale is a very timid bird, and it is very difficult to tame him, yet this task has been accomplished, and one who writes more than a hundred years ago speaks of having kept one several years, and of having taught other birds to imitate his song, by placing them near his cage when very young, and before they had heard any other note. You will perhaps be surprised to learn that even a sparrow was thus taught to imitate the notes of the nightingale, though, of course, he never could attain his sweet and powerful voice.
Do you ask how and where does he build his nest? Well, as you might expect, it is always in a thick bush or shrub near to the ground and completely out of sight. You would find it very difficult ever to find one. It is made of dried leaves, often oak, and he is not much of an architect, as the nest is rather slovenly put together, but then he is a singer and not a builder. The hen lays five eggs. The cock comes to this country in the first or second week in April, and in a few days after is followed by the hen. They do not begin to build till the beginning of May, and it is said they leave us for warmer climes in July and August.
It is when the hen is sitting that the male bird is said to sing his sweetest and most plaintive and thrilling notes. He takes care to perch some distance from his beloved companion, lest he should let out the secret as to where she is; and there, on some lofty boughs, his throat swelling and quivering with that thrilling song with which he pours out the joy of his heart, he wiles away the tedious hours of his mate, while she patiently hatches her tender brood. After they are hatched the song gradually loses it sweetness, and in a short time it ceases altogether.
If God can call forth such notes of song from so small a creature on earth, what must be the music of heaven? What the song of redeemed creation—of those saints, who have not only been saved, but changed into the image of Christ, when they shall sing not the praises of creation, but the glories of Him who hath loved them, washed them from their sins in His own blood, and made them kings and priests unto God? Are you amongst the redeemed of the Lord?
Sweet as is the song of the Nightingale, when a dear little one has learned the love of God in the gift of Jesus, and lisps ever so feebly its thankfulness, that is a song far more sweet and a sacrifice most acceptable to Him.
The Lark
IF the Nightingale is the most famed of the feathered tribe for the variety, length, and sweetness of its notes, the skylark surely claims the next place of honor. There is a great contrast, however, in the habits of the two birds. The Nightingale is exceedingly timid, very choice as to the locality he visits, and speedily retreats if his favored spots are encroached upon. Not so the Lark. He is found from one end of the land to the other, and wherever you can find a green field, though it be just outside of big noisy London, your ear will catch the thrilling cheerful notes of the Lark, as early in the morning he springs up, lighthearted and buoyant, to greet the sun and hail the approach of day. Nor does it shun the abodes of man, for perhaps every one of my young friends has often watched it start up from the beautiful golden meadow, and has followed it with intense delight as it has soared apparently straight up to the very gates of heaven, till you have lost sight of it altogether.
The Lark is the only bird that sings as it flies. The Nightingale, like most birds, loves to perch on some bare withered branch, and in the darkness and stillness of night to pour forth his enchanting song; but the moment he hears a footstep his song is hushed, and he is gone. It is in the very early morning, even before it is day, that the Lark loves most to mount aloft and pour forth his sweetest melody. To get the finest of his notes you must be like himself, an early riser: lazy children, whether in town or country, who never see the sun rise, are not likely to enjoy the pleasure Milton speaks of—
“To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watchtower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise.”
The Nightingale, as we saw, is with us only a summer bird, but the lark remains with us all the year round.
Now let me try to give you a description of the Lark. His length is about seven and a quarter inches, his breadth is twelve and a half, and he weighs about one ounce and a half: he has a broad tongue and cloven. It is a brown, sober-feathered bird, has a spotted breast with just a tinge of yellow upon it, and it has a little crest upon its head. The skylark is made for the sky or the ground. It is never seen to perch, as all other birds, upon a tree. Its claws are all straight, as you will see in the picture, and not made to grasp the bough. But it can run with great speed on the ground, and its feet seem made for that very purpose.
There is something very peculiar and beautiful in the way in which the Lark mounts into the air.
Most birds climb the air by a succession of leaps or steps, with pauses between. Not so the lark. Have you ever seen a column of ascending smoke? As it rises it spreads, but equally in all directions. So the lark; it ascends in a circle as if inside a spiral column, ever widening the circle as it rises. It descends in the same way, beginning with a wide circle and narrowing the same as it nears the ground, when suddenly it drops like a stone, just as if it had been shot.
No bird continues its songs so long throughout the year as the Lark. It begins with the first peep of the pretty daisy, even while snow is on the ground; and when the primrose puts forth its beautiful delicate flower, then it sings more cheerily still. Then comes the rich-scented honeysuckle, the wild rose of summer; the corn fields ripen and are laid low by the sickle, or now-a-days by the reaping machine; then autumn comes at length, the apples grow red, the leaves begin to fall, but all the while the lark sings on and on, and it is not till winter is near at hand that he drops his beautiful song.
Most birds sing their song through, and then pause awhile as if to take more breath, but the Skylark never pauses all the time he is in the air, and never seems to tire. In this respect he much resembles the Nightingale. If either of them are forced to take a breath while singing it is not perceived by the listener, and it is done with as much skill as by the most proficient of human singers.
The note of the Skylark is far inferior to that of the Nightingale in its mellowness, but it is much more sprightly and of almost equal compass.
Indeed, perhaps the one grand feature of the song of the Lark is its unbroken continuous cheerfulness. The Nightingale moves the inmost emotions by its plaintive strains, but the Lark, as if ever gazing upon the glories of heaven, and as if it knew naught of the pain and fear and sorrow of earth, pours out, as it were, an everlasting song of deep-toned joy and merry gladness.
His food in summer is chiefly the earth worm, but in winter he lives on all hinds of seeds. Then they fly about in large flocks, and a great number are caught and sold in the market for food.
The Skylark has several relations, but they differ in some things, and none sing so lustily as he. The Wood Lark is a smaller bird and lives partly on the trees and partly on the ground. Then there is the Tit Lark, frequently found in low marshy grounds, and like the Wood Lark it sits on the trees and has a remarkably fine note. Unlike the Skylark, it sings alike in all positions, whether on the ground, on trees, or in the air. If you are careful in examining you will soon learn the difference between these and the true Skylark.
And now, what shall we learn from the Lark? Well, while his song takes our thoughts to heaven, his nest tells us how little he seems to care for aught on earth. It is built of the commonest materials, on the bare ground, hidden by some clod, and in such a careless manner you would scarcely think it a nest. Like the Nightingale, the Lark has no time to build a splendid mansion.
His whole heart is in his song, and it is only at heaven's-gate he loves to pour it out. My young friend, has your heart been so drawn to heaven that you care little about anything on earth? You know it is not often so with young people. They love a fine home and fine clothes; and the gaiety and pleasures, and follies too, of the world are all attractive to them.
But there is a something which makes them not like to think of heaven, or of Him who is there. Yes, they know they are not fit for God; they have got a guilty conscience and they do not like to think of God. But if you have believed God, and found out what sin really is, and all the sad mischief it has wrought— guilt and ruin and death; and most of all, if by faith in the blessed Lord Jesus Christ, you have been delivered from it all, redeemed to God, then I know your hearts are in heaven.
There is a Person up there—the Lord Jesus, who has died for you and saved you—and He has won your affections, and, like the Lark, you love, in thought, oft to go up to heaven, and if you can't sing a very sweet song on earth your heart loves to think of Him, and your sweetest moments are those of praise and thanksgiving to Him who has washed away your sins by His own precious blood.
The Blackbird
IF you intend to catch the first note of the Blackbird you must indeed be an early riser. And let me assure you that early rising, especially in the country, will be richly rewarded, not only by the sweetest of music, but by sights and sounds and pleasures the most cheering and delightful. But I fear these are not the days for early rising. Even young people live too fast. Telegraphs, and railways, and the busy, whirling scenes of a city life; evening parties, and readings, and lectures, and the superficial daily newspaper, not to name the wretched, dissipating, soul-poisoning fictions that everywhere abound, are terribly distractive of those sober habits of reflection and quiet observation which make even children love to rise early, and wander forth to gaze upon the beauties of a rising sun and drink in all the charms of early day. I cannot but think if once you were to see the glories of a sunrise, even in gloomy England, it would tempt you to become an early riser.
“Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the scene.
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower
Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers.”
Well, the Blackbird is amongst the earliest of risers, and as the old saying is, he is the bird that pecks up the worm. He has got a voice that rings through the woods with the choicest music. His voice is very loud, yet not so loud as the Thrush, nor so varied, but far sweeter and richer. It is deep, mellow, full of melody, and the very soul of music. The stave of the Blackbird is brief, consisting of not more than six or seven notes, after which there is an interlude of silence, when the ear listens eagerly for its repetition.
He is of a retired and solitary nature; frequents hedges, and thickets, shrubberies, large gardens, especially thick laurel hedges, and the borders of woods. A bower of ivy, or a solitary bush of some luxuriant evergreen is a favorite site for its nest. It is a somewhat timid bird and easily disturbed. The nest is made of moss, fibers, small twigs; is lined with mud or clay, over which is spread a layer of hay or fine straw. The female lays four or five eggs, of a fine bluish-green with spots of pale reddish brown; but sometimes they are of a uniform blue, without spots.
The Blackbird is found all over the British Islands—Wales, Ireland and Scotland. There is one feature about this bird which I have much pleasure in telling you of: the male and female are most devotedly attached to each other. Most birds, but not all, pair every spring, but it is thought Blackbirds remain true to each other for life. Not only so, but they display the greatest affection for their young. A patient and accurate observer watched a pair from a quarter to three in the morning till a quarter before nine at night, and found that during that time the male fed the young ones forty-four times, and the mother sixty-nine times. Many touching stories are told of this wonderful attachment, amongst the rest that of a schoolboy, who took a nest from the Great Park of Windsor: the old birds followed their young for a distance of near three miles, flying from tree to tree and uttering those distressed and wailing notes which are so peculiar to the Blackbird. The boy placed the young birds in a cage, and hung them outside the house, where they were regularly fed by the parents. As they grew up, the boy sold first one and then another till the last one was gone. The following morning the female was found dead beneath the cage, as if unable to survive the loss of her offspring. I trust not one of my readers will ever become so hardhearted as this cruel boy.
There is nothing in this world so beautiful as a mother's love. The more you think of her love to you, the more you will love her in return.
The Thrush
HAVING told you a little about the Nightingale, the Lark, and the Blackbird, I think the next English singing bird that claims our attention is the Thrush. There are several kinds; the common Thrush, sometimes called the Throstle, the golden Thrush, the rock Thrush, and the missel Thrush. The first and the last, however, are what are chiefly found in England. They are much alike as to color; but the missel Thrush is much the larger bird, indeed, about the largest singing bird we have. It weighs five ounces. Its length is eleven inches; its breadth sixteen and a half. The head, back, and lesser portions of the wing are of a deep olive brown, the lower part of the back tinged with yellow, and the cheek and throat mottled with brown and white, while the breast and stomach are whitish yellow, marked with large spots of black, and the legs yellow. The common Thrush is about two-thirds the size of the missel, hut in every other respect, except in song, they are very similar.
The common Thrush is one of our very finest songsters, not only for the sweetness and variety of its notes, but for long continuance of its harmony. One thus sings of his song:—
“Sweet Thrush! whose wild untutored strain
Salutes the opening year,
Renew those melting notes again,
And soothe my ravished ear.
“While evening spreads her shadowy veil,
With pensive steps I'll stray,
And soft on tiptoe gently steal
Beneath thy favorite spray.
“Thy charming strain shall doubly please,
And move my bosom more;
Since innocence attunes those lays
Whispered by joy and love.”
Like the Blackbird, the note of the Thrush is very loud, and only suited for the woods, through which it rings with a shrill, clear sound that is peculiar to itself, but most animating. It chiefly consists of wild trills, and most distinct call notes. It also most clearly imitates other birds. It is altogether too loud for the house, though it is a favorite with all boys who are lovers of singing birds.
My next door neighbor has a great pet which begins its thrilling notes with earliest morning, and will continue all through the day. It will answer the inmates of the house most distinctly, will trill out with almost deafening tones quite a variety of call notes; suddenly stop, and in gentle strains imitate a Canary in the same room. For a moment it will stop, as if listening to the notes of some distant bird, which it at once takes up; first repeating them gently, as if trying its hand, but shortly trilling them out with amazing force. A great admirer of birds thus speaks of the powers of the Thrush. "Like all powerful song birds, the Thrush often seems to articulate words distinctly. We have heard one express in the course of its singing, sounds which fell on the ear as if it were repeating the words,—‘My dear—my pretty dear—my pretty little dear.' These accents were not caught up by one listener alone, who might, perhaps, have been deemed a little imaginative; but all who heard them were struck by the resemblance.”
But perhaps the nicest things about the Thrush have been said by a certain lady, who for months was confined to bed, but who found the songs of the birds a source of constant pleasure. Numbers of Blackbirds and Thrushes built their nests in a garden, and the wood-pigeons mingled their soft notes in the high trees. But there was one Thrush whose notes she soon learned to distinguish from all the other Thrushes. Every morning its voice was sure to precede the matins of all the other birds. In the day time its brilliant tones were mingled and almost lost in the general melody, but as soon as the sun was preparing to set, when the Blackbirds had either sung themselves to sleep, or were flown off to keep their festivities elsewhere, then came its practicing time. It selected a tree net far from the window of the invalid, while the other Thrushes placed themselves at a respectful distance, and edged in a note here and there when they could. It opened the rehearsal with a number of wild trills and calls, which the listener could not understand, only she found them very sweet and cheering, and it would pause between each, till it heard a soft response from a distant bough.
But when it had fixed on a little cadence pleasing to the songster, the Thrush would chant it over in a low tone, two or three times, as if to make sure of the strain, and then it was poured forth, with triumphant glee; when the bird would stop on a sudden, as if to say to its rivals, "Which of you can imitate my strains?”
“Their notes sounded" says the lady, "most sweet at various distances during these little intervals; but they seemed conscious of their inferiority to my favorite, who would suddenly break out into the same melody, upon which, doubtless, the songster had been musing all the while, enriching it by some little note or trill, the wildest and most touching that ever came into a Thrush's heart. I needed neither concert nor music-master, while I could listen to the untaught but not unpremeditated harmony of this little original professor.”
Beautiful as this is, and perfectly right in its place, yet let us hope that this highly gifted but invalid lady had a loftier source of pleasure and consolation, during her hours of pain and sickness. To God, the note of every bird is sweet, and it ascends to Him in praise. But if our hearts have not been attuned by God, the richest song of the sweetest songster of the woods would fail to call forth a song of real, though feeble praise to God Himself.
We may love the song of the bird, but how woefully and fatally ignorant are we of that blessed God who gave him that beautiful song! How glad I am to know that I write to many dear little ones, and some older ones too, who do know God; yea, who know Him as the God who has saved them, and has put a new song into their mouths, even praise unto our God.
And now I must just tell you why the larger and rarer kind of Thrush is called the "missel" Thrush. It lives chiefly on berries and especially the berry of the mistletoe, of which it is very fond, and whence it has got its name.
His song is very inferior to the common Thrush, but he is said to be a very bold and pugnacious bird, and will suffer no other bird to approach his nest. The Welsh call it "the lord of the coppice," for it drives away all corners by its vehement cries.
The Linnet
THE Linnet gets its name from the fact that of all seeds it loves the flax seed most, and the botanic name for flax is linum, and so it has come to be called Linnet. But like most other birds, it cannot afford to be dainty, and for the greater part of the year it makes a plentiful meal on the chickweed, the seed of the commonest of all weeds, which ripens its seed no fewer than eight times in the year; and on this it seems to thrive quite as well as on its favorite linseed. The Linnet has many names, Brown Linnet, Gray Linnet, Redpole, Red-headed Finch, &c.; and at one time it was thought there were two distinct kinds, but it was found they only changed their color with the seasons. It is a very common bird, and found all over the British Islands. It is a general favorite partly because of its sweet, simple note, and perhaps most of all because of its gentle temper and winning ways. It soon takes to confinement, and thus becomes a pleasant companion and a household pet.
In summer, the back, wings, and upper tail coverts of the male Linnet are of a rich chestnut brown, the chin and throat brownish gray, and the breast and head vermillion; but in winter it drops this beautiful vermillion, which is replaced by a brown tint.
The song is short, but brilliant and soft; it consists of many irregular notes, but tastefully put together, in a clear and sonorous tone. It is one of the few birds that sings nearly all the year round. The Linnet is also gifted with great powers of imitation, and will soon acquire the notes of other birds, and especially of the nightingale. And now, my young friends, I am going to give you a very amusing and useful story about a Linnet, told by a dear Christian old man who called himself "Old Humphrey," and who when I was a boy used to write beautiful simple tales which were read by thousands of people. He begins by meeting a supposed objection.
“But, perhaps it may be said, ‘you who talk so glibly of kindness to dumb creatures, and prate with your pen so freely about humanity, you to keep a bird pent up in a narrow cage!’ He was not, gentle reader, always mine. I took care of him for another, until he became truly my own bird. He would not take him away again, believing that he could not make him so comfortable and happy as I did. And then, again, so far from being pent up in a narrow cage, he has the door of his wiry habitation open almost the whole of the day when in the house, going in and out as he pleases, to say nothing of the free revel he now and then has on the buds and gravel walks of the garden. If old Chaffy could speak for himself, he would not complain of his master, I know.
“I love my bird, and when I give
His measure free
Of meat and drink, I try to think
That he loves me.”
“I know Chaffy must be ten or twelve years old, and for this very sufficient reason, that for so long a period he has been under my care. Twelve months ago, about the time when I sprained my ankle, one of his legs having caught in the wire of his cage, his thigh was put out of joint, so that we have been fellow-sufferers. You may be sure I do not value him the less on this account. As he is now pecking at the mold of the flower pot before me, I may as well draw his picture.
“When old Chaffy was young, his plumage was ruddy; but now he has lost much of its warmth of coloring. His back is light brown, mixed, blotched, mottled, or streaked (I scarcely know which) with darker brown. His breast and the quills of his feathers are lighter; his legs and claws of a flesh color, and when the sun shines on them they look transparent; one of his wings is a little rueful, for it does not sit close to his body, and his poor lame leg sticks out in a rather unsightly manner. He hardly has any tail. His blue beak is strong, pointed and sharp; and his eye is black as ebony, and almost as sharp as a diamond.
“Though old Chaffy seems to live the life of a pensioner on my bounty, I feel quite sure that if I were to keep a debtor and creditor account with him, the balance would be sadly against me. I give him rape, flax, and now and then a little hemp-seed; and occasionally, he has a little water cress, chickweed and groundsel, besides a little water to drink and to wash in. He lives in his cage rent free, pays no taxes, and I charge him nothing for attendance. This is a tolerably fair statement of what I do for poor old Chaffy. But does Chaffy do nothing for me? Oh, yes, indeed he does. Why, the hopping about in his cage is worth something; his very chirp is cheerfulness; and his song is melody.
“Old Chaffy gives me a useful lesson, and sets me an example of cheerfulness and thankfulness, worth my closest imitation; for without hands, clothes, or books, pen, ink, or paper, he can be happy. He has neither a purse nor a pocket to put it in, if he had one; nor has he, as I have, the gift of speech and the still greater gift of reason and understanding; and yet, give him the range of a few flower pots within doors, or hang him up in the sun without, and he will make the neighborhood ring again with his note.
“Sometimes I talk jocularly to Chaffy on this wise, fancifully putting such words into his mouth as I suppose he would use had he the gift of speech and was conversing with me.
“‘Chaffy’ I say to him, you are not an eagle, winging your flight upwards towards the sun; but a poor caged linnet, with a lame leg; so you must not give yourself airs.'
“Chaffy chirps his reply, which is to this effect. I know that I am not an eagle, but if that is a fault it is not mine, and if I am a poor caged linnet with a lame leg, I have more need of your pity than your reproach.'
“This reply is just what it ought to be. But Chaffy has not done with me yet, for he goes on thus with his chirping: If I am not a king among birds, neither are you a king among men. True, my leg is lame, but yours is little better, for a sad hobble you make of it, either when walking without a stick or with one. You can hardly, I think, blame me without reproaching yourself.'
“While I am noting down these remarks, old Chaffy is sitting at the open door of his cage, placed on the table before me, pulling away at a great bunch of grass, groundsel, and chickweed, so close to him that he seems to be almost in the middle of it. Linnets are seen in the lanes and the fields; but they like better to frequent the wild broken ground of the common, and get among the furze bushes, and if I thought that Chaffy could live there, and be happier than he is now, he should be among them to-morrow. But he could never get his own living now. A cat, a weasel, or a hawk, would be sure to lay hold of him.
“Should any reader churlishly say that what I have written is trifling, my reply is, that as nothing can be altogether trifling and unworthy which makes me feel more kindly to my poor injured and aged bird, and that may influence others to practice more humanity to them, it is my intention to amuse myself, and even to continue my playful conversations with my feathered pet.
I do not, however, really believe that any reader is opposed to me, either as regards my principle or my practice. Humanity is a precious jewel, which ought to be worn in every bosom; nor are the lower creatures too insignificant to be treated with kindness. God careth for oxen; His tender mercies are over all His works, and without His permission not a sparrow falleth to the ground.”
During the summer, the Linnet loves the waste lands of the commons, in the higher parts of the country where it breeds. Furzy commons seem to be the favorite resorts of these birds during that season, the bushy furze being admirably adapted to conceal the nest from the prying eye, and sometimes the quick set hedge or a gooseberry bush answers the purpose. The nest is composed of moss, woven with wool; and lined with wool and hair, very neatly put together. The Linnet lays four eggs, of a bluish white, with a few purplish specks and short lines, No bird is more bent on rearing its young than the Linnet, and should its nest get destroyed, it will build another as late as the month of August.
Robin Redbreast
PERHAPS one of my youngest readers will be ready to say, "Oh, you surely need not describe our very familiar acquaintance, the bold and social little Robin. Who does not know him by his beautiful scarlet breast? And surely every one living in the country has made him a particular friend during the cold winter months. Who at that season has not enticed him, and perhaps his young brood too, first on to the window-sill, then inside the house, until at last grown familiar, he has even perched upon the table and fed upon the crumbs? But bold as he is in winter, there are few birds more shy and unobtrusive during the summer months; and it is not until autumn has far advanced that he loses his retiring habits. Then it is, as the poet has beautifully said,
“Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusty man
His annual visit. Half afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then brisk alights
On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the
floor
Eyes all the family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is;
Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs
Attract his slender feet.”
The Robin is truly an English bird; he braves out the winter's cold and unlike so many of our best singing birds, he never leaves our shores. In early spring he is marvelously busy preparing his nest. Like the Lark and the Nightingale, he has lowly thoughts about his home, and generally finds some retired snug spot near or on the ground. But he is very particular as to this, and he must be a most expert birdnester (which I sincerely hope none of my readers are) who can discover a Robin's nest. They select spots where the foliage is thick on the ground, and if this is hard to find, they have been observed to accumulate a quantity of dry leaves and scatter them around so as to form an artificial concealment. Insects of nearly all kinds are the favorite food of the Robin, but when these fail he will pick up grain, crumbs, or indeed anything that is eatable.
They destroy an immense number of insects as they alight to deposit their eggs on the embryo buds, the chase after which they continue as long as the insect is to be found on the wing, and when they are gone they make a raid upon their eggs, and so, what with the number they destroy, and those they prevent coming into existence, they prove great enemies to the insect tribe.
The personal beauty, the sprightly movements, his cheerful carol, the quick, interesting way in which, especially in winter, he will hop near to you and watch your every movement, and his great familiarity, make the Robin a general favorite; and perhaps there are few birds, about which so many pleasing and interesting stories are told. So tame are they, that they will enter our houses, perch on our shoulders, feed from our hands, and if we give them the least encouragement, the same birds will return year after year, and will seem to know again the people who have been kind to them.
Hundreds of stories, beginning with that touching one which every child has read, the "Babes in the wood," have been told about the Robin.
You will all remember that our king, William IV had been a sailor; well, he was fond of naval relics, so he kept in his grounds in Bushey Park a part of the mast against which Lord Nelson was leaning when he received, in the moment of victory, his death-wound. In that same mast, a large shot had passed through, and in this hole, while the mast was in the park, two Robins built their nest and reared their young. The relic is now in the King's armory at Windsor Castle; and for anything I know, the little nest may be there too.
There is a story told of a little Robin who became very familiar with a golden eagle that had been caught in Ireland and was fastened by a chain. It regularly visited this eagle at feeding time; when the king of birds descended from his perch to receive his dinner, the Robin coolly took his place on the perch. It would then hop on his chain, fearless and unhurt, and joined the eagle at his dinner.
Two ladies fed a Robin through the winter, and when spring came put a box outside the window, and anxiously watched to see what it would do. It seemed at once to understand their wish, and immediately began to build its nest, and there, I have no doubt to the great delight of the ladies, it reared its young. A slate trap had been set to catch birds, and a Robin was observed perched outside it. On the trap being opened, another Robin was found caught within. The captive was carried into the house, but its friend instantly followed, and gave the captor no peace till the captive was set at liberty, when the two flew off happily together.
Still another tale is told of two male Robins being captured and placed in one cage, but from the first, I am sorry to say, they did nothing but quarrel and fight. At length, one of them by some accident broke his leg and became a cripple. From that moment, not only did their enmity cease, but the sound one paid towards his suffering companion every possible attention, feeding and caring for him, with all the tenderness of an affectionate nurse.
And yet, to be faithful, I am forced to make a sad confession about our mutual friend, and that is that after all, at particular times of the year, when they are selecting their mates, they are exceedingly quarrelsome one with another, and will fight with great fury. This however, does not last long, and all at once they seem to settle all causes of dispute and become again very friendly.
I have placed him among our English singing birds, and his song is by all admitted to be very sweet. Pennant says, "Its song is remarkably fine and soft, and the more to be valued, as we enjoy it the greatest part of the winter and early in the spring, and even through great part of the summer, but its notes are part of that time drowned in the general warble of the forest. Many of the autumnal songsters seem to be the young cock Redbreasts of that year.”
“Come, sweetest of the feathered throng,
And soothe me with thy plaintive song;
Come to my cot devoid of fear,
No danger shall await thee here.
No prowling cat with whiskered face,
Approaches this sequestered place;
No schoolboy with his willow bow
Shall aim at thee the murderous blow;
No wily lim'd twig ere molest
Thy olive wing or crimson breast.
Thy cup, sweet bird, I'll daily fill
At yonder, cressy, bubbling rill.
Thy board shall plenteously be spread
With crumblets of the nicest bread;
And when rude winter comes, and shows
His icicles and shivering snows,
Hop o'er my cheery hearth, and be
One of my peaceful family;
Then soothe me with thy peaceful song
Thou sweetest of the feathered throng.”
The Canary
SOME may object to our placing the Canary amongst our English singing birds, but surely it belongs as much to England as to any other country in Europe; and it has become such a universal pet that we may fairly claim it as one of ours. And well does it deserve to be such a favorite. You all know how gentle and winning are its little ways; how beautiful its plumage and how charming is its song. I need not tell you it is not found in a wild state in England, nor indeed in any part of Europe, but it is one of the most valued and cheerful inmates in nearly every home. Now, let me tell my young friends a little of the Canary's history. If you get an atlas and look near the west coast of Africa, you will find a cluster of islands called the Canary Islands. Here, originally, was their home. And a beautiful one it is. The temperature is most delightful, the soil is so fertile as to produce, with scarcely any toil, several crops of grain during the year; the most delicious fruits everywhere grow wild, and altogether they are said to be the most charming places in this poor world. About the year 1330, these islands were first discovered by a French vessel being driven ashore in a storm. Fifty years after, the Spaniards, who at that time were amongst the most powerful, enterprising, and warlike nations in the world, attempted to settle on some of these islands, and in about one hundred years more they took possession of the whole group, and have held them ever since.
Nearly all these islands are full of the richest and most beautiful valleys in the world, and these were the original homes of our pretty little Canaries. How then have they got so widely spread? Well, just about three hundred years ago, a ship was bound for Leghorn from these islands, but when off Elba, near to Italy, it was wrecked and driven ashore. A large number of Canaries formed part of her freight, which by some means got free and settled in the island. They would soon have spread over the whole of it, but the beauty of their plumage, and the richness of their song, made them such favorites with the people of the island, that the whole number were speedily caught and placed in cages; and from that time the Canary began to spread over nearly the whole world.
But naturalists tell us the Canary has greatly changed since it left its native home. It is larger and not so slender, and its plumage has greatly altered. As most of you see and hear the Canary in its captive state every day, I am sure you would like to hear something about his little ways and his song, just as he is in his native home, and as you could see and hear him to-day, if you were in those beautiful Canary Islands, where great numbers of them are still to be found. A writer who has been there, and has written a great book about them, tells us the Canary is principally to be met with in such places as are covered with wood or shrubs, near springs of water, also in the gardens and houses of the inhabitants, and is quite as numerous in crowded cities as in the quietest nooks. The color of the wild Canary is very difficult to describe, owing to the delicacy with which the different shades are blended, but its prevailing colors are green and gray. They live upon green herbs, small seeds, and delicate juicy fruits which abound so plentifully in those islands. A fig tree, when the fruit is perfectly ripe, is a beautiful sight when covered by the various singing birds, the blackbird, greenfinches, tomtits, and many others, in variegated confusion, all feasting on the dainty food, in common with our friend the Canary.
Water is essential to its welfare, as it drinks much, and is fond of bathing. They begin to build about the end of March, generally on a pear or pomegranate tree. The nest is broad at the base, very narrow at the top, with a tiny little entrance. It is formed of snow-white wool, woven together with a few blades of grass. The eggs are of a pale sea-green, spotted with reddish brown, indeed exactly like those of the tame bird with us. The Canary usually breeds four times in the year, but occasionally only three. The same writer describes in glowing terms the song of the male bird. "During the period of incubation he perches upon a tree near his mate, and from thence delights her with his song of encouragement and sympathy. It is a real pleasure to listen to this pretty songster, as it inflates its throat and pours forth its lay, turning as it sings from one side to another, as if it would bathe its glowing breast in the flood of bright sunshine. All at once it hears the call of its little companion, and darts with responsive tenderness to perch at her side. Indeed, in our opinion, this modestly attired bird, as it sits surrounded by all the varied and delicious blossoms of its native trees, is a far more attractive spectacle than its more brightly colored and elegant brother, with whose appearance in captivity we are all so familiar.”
The Canary with us, as we all know, is a most sociable bird. It is the same in its wild state, and on this account it is easily captured in great numbers.
The Canary in Europe, however, knows nothing of all this freedom and fruit, and beautiful wood and valley, in which to roam, and sing its sweet song. It is doomed to a life of captivity, yet it is such a dear friend to all, that every one delights to make it happy.
The breeding of Canaries in England and on the Continent has long been a great branch of business. In some villages in Germany, almost every house has its breeding room; many thousands are reared every year, sent off for sale to many parts of the world, especially Russia, Europe, and America. The Canary is well known to be a most docile pupil, and will learn to exhibit its skill by spelling words that are repeated to it, selecting the letters in proper order from an alphabet laid before it: it has been taught to add up, to multiply or divide figures by the assistance of numbers given it to choose from. Others will sing when commanded, pretend to fall dead when a pistol is fired, then allow them selves to be laid on a little car, to be carried to the grave by two other Canaries, and when the journey is accomplished, will jump up and sing a lively song. But all such little tricks, as with dogs, horses, and all other creatures, are only taught by keeping them without food, and the infliction of much cruelty.
Strange stories have been told by some writers about Canaries learning to talk. Many years ago one was exhibited in London. One of many thousands who saw it says, "It was an exceedingly fine bird, of beautiful plumage, and the history of its singular power was thus given by its exhibitor. This Canary had been as usual, in the family room, when it was suddenly heard to speak, and to repeat what it had uttered, and it was not long before its number of words became much enlarged; the words being distinctly sounded in the midst of its song. There appeared to have been no teaching of the bird; its power of imitation was spontaneously exercised. It distinctly uttered the words, `Mary,' ‘Dicky dear,' ‘O pretty dicky dear,' and 'Pretty queen.' Five hundred guineas were said to have been offered for the Canary, but in a few weeks it was dead,' " Mr. Lotheby has described another talking Canary. "Its parents had previously reared many young ones, but one year they hatched only one out of four eggs. This they immediately neglected, and began to build a nest upon the top of it. The unfledged bird, almost dead, was taken away, restored, and then brought up by hand. It was constantly talked to, and not having heard the notes of any other bird, when it was about three months old, it astonished its mistress by repeating the tender terms used in speaking to it, such as ‘Kissie kissie,’ with its significant sounds. This went on, and from time to time the little bird repeated other words, until for hours together, it would ring the changes, according to its own fancy, and as plain as any human voice could utter them, on such words as 'Dear, sweet Titchie,' (its name) 'Kiss Minnie,' ‘Kiss me then, dear Minnie,' `Sweet, pretty little Titchie,' &c., &c.”
The Canary will also imitate other birds, especially the Nightingale. It has been taught to whistle very clearly the first bar of the National Anthem.
I am sure I can ask all my young readers to be kind to the captive Canary. He seems always cheerful and happy, and, with his merry song, does his best to make others as happy as himself. God has told us there is a time near at hand, when this earth shall be no longer a desolation, but when it shall blossom like the rose. What a time that shall be when every valley and every hill shall be alike beautiful; when birds, and beasts, and flowers, and fields, and little children, and men, and women, shall form one harmonious scene of peace and joy; when praise and thanksgiving to God shall ascend from every living creature, and the Lord Jesus will reign from one end of the earth to the other! That will be a blessed time for this world when, in its full sense, "the time of the singing of birds" shall have come.
The Wren
TO one of our most interesting little friends we now come. He may not sing like the plaintive Nightingale, nor the sprightly Lark, nor with the thrilling notes of the Thrush or Blackbird. He is not so shapely and beautiful as the Canary or Goldfinch; yet is he a most charming little fellow, and a favorite with all. The Wrens are a large family, for there are many varieties, some of which are to be found in almost every part of the known world. In various countries it differs a little as to size, plumage, and song; but all are alike in one pleasing particular, they are most active little creatures, no bird is more lively; indeed, you would call him altogether a restless fellow, scarcely ever still for a moment. They hop about on the ground with the greatest sprightliness; they have become celebrated, too, for their ability to creep through the thickest and most tangled brushwood you can possibly conceive of.
If hitherto you have not learned to distinguish him, a glance at our engraving will enable you to do so. He is the smallest of all our feathered tribe, and the manner in which he cocks his little tail, so different from all other birds, makes it manifest at a glance to what tribe he belongs. Nearly all other birds are content to let their tails hang gracefully down, but Master Wren has a very different notion; when hopping about he points his tail straight up in such a pert manner as almost to make him look impudent. Some of the foreign Wrens, as in America, are spoken of in the most rapturous manner by naturalists. The Carolina Wren is a little larger than his English cousin, but much like it in other respects.
“The quickness of the motions of this bird,” says one, “is fully equal to that of the mouse. Like the latter it appears and is out of sight in a moment; peeps into a crevice, passes rapidly through it, and is seen in a different place in the next instant. When satiated with food, or fatigued with these multiplied exertions, the little fellow stops, droops its tail, and sings with great energy a short ditty, something resembling the words, ‘Come to me, come to me,’ repeated several times in quick succession, so loud, and yet so mellow, that it is always agreeable to listen to its music. During spring these notes are heard from all parts of the plantations, the damp woods, the swamps, the sides of creeks and rivers, as well as from barns, stables, and piles of wood.” Another American naturalist speaks of its vocal powers as very fine, especially its ability to imitate the notes of other birds. "Amidst its imitations and variations, which seem almost endless, and lead the stranger to imagine himself, even in the depths of winter, surrounded by all the quaint choristers of the summer, there is still with our capricious and tuneful mimic a favorite theme, which I heard from him in the dreary month of January. This sweet and melodious ditty—tsee-toot, tsee-toot, tsee-toot, and sometimes tsee-toot, tsee-toot, tsee—was uttered in a plaintive or tender strain, varied at each repetition with the most delightful and varied tones, of which no conception can be formed without experience." This sentimental air has been not unnaturally translated by the young people of America into "sweetheart, sweetheart, sweet." "I shall never forget," says the same writer, "the soothing satisfaction and amusement I derived from this little constant and unwearied minstrel, my sole vocal companion through many weary miles of a vast, desolate, and otherwise dreary wilderness.”
Our own common Wren is not more than about four inches long, and about five inches broad. The upper portion of the body is reddish brown, streaked with pale black, the under side is paler, marked with undulating dark-brown lines; a brown check stripe passes across the eyes, and a narrow brownish white line above them. T. Rymer Jones says of its song, “It consists of a great variety of clear piping notes, intermingled with clear piping trills, and is poured out with an energy and power that appear really astonishing if we consider the small dimensions of the little singer. Throughout almost the entire year this cheerful music is to be heard; no inclemency of weather appears to daunt the brisk but diminutive vocalist, who carols forth his joyful anticipations of the coming spring, even when the snow-covered ground renders it impossible for him to procure a sufficient supply of food, and cold and want have completely silenced all his feathered companions.”
The food of the tiny Wren consists chiefly of insects and berries, and when cold and winter's snow cut off these, he will fearlessly venture into our houses and outbuildings, there, if possible, to procure a meal. Many tales are told about the Wren. A male bird was once observed to construct four nests before it took a partner. After it had found a mate, both worked together at three different nests, each in succession being left uncompleted, until at last the female, despairing of obtaining a place wherein to deposit her eggs, deserted her capricious spouse, who consoled himself by constructing two more nests, which, like the rest, were never employed.
They are not particular as to the material with which they build their nests; whatever happens to be nigh at hand is turned to purpose. If built near a haystack, hay is used; if moss is plentiful, that is utilized. Sometimes in building, one bird confines itself to the construction of the nest, which it never leaves for a moment, whilst the other, incessantly passing and repassing, supplies the materials for the structure. These materials, however, this helper never once attempts to put into their places, but always delivers them to the principal architect engaged in constructing the building. "I know not," says a writer, "a more pleasant object to look at than the Wren; it is always so smart and cheerful, to it all weathers are alike. The big drops of a thunder shower no more wet it than the drizzle of a Scotch mist; and as it peeps from beneath a bramble, or glances from a hole in the wall, it seems as snug as a kitten frisking on the parlor rug.”
The Wren is a prolific bird, the female often laying as many as eight eggs in number, and it is a common thing to have two broods in the summer. Both male and female take their turn at sitting, which lasts for thirteen days. They are said to be very cleanly as to their nests, and most attentive and diligent in feeding their numerous family.
Pennant, an old writer on birds, tells us that the Wren will lay from ten to eighteen eggs at a sitting, and as often brings up as many young. How wonderful this is! Only think of two such tiny things having eighteen mouths to fill, and each one must have something at least every hour in the day, and not one is overlooked! Ah, little Wren, no wonder you are so quick, and hop about with such activity, you have a great work to do.
There is an old and a nice little story about the Wren, which I must tell you before I close.
But then, remember, it is a fable, and made up by some old philosopher, to teach that little creatures are sometimes wiser than great ones.
For many hundred years the Wren has been called Regulus, in the Latin tongue, which means a little king, and the fable is to account for its first getting this remarkable name. "Once upon a time, the birds agreed that they should like one to be king over all the rest. But how should they decide who was worthy of the honor? They settled at last that the one who could soar the highest should be their king. So the Swallow started forth, and with its rapid wing it wheeled round and round in endless circles, but it could not soar into the sky; and the Lark rose higher and higher, but it could not breathe in that cold upper air. But the Eagle—that was his natural home. He mounted up as if he never meant to come back to earth. There was no question about it; do what they would, it was plain the Eagle must be king, and none besides. Just as they were about, then, to salute the Eagle as king of birds, the little golden-crested Wren popped up his head and put in his claim. Where had he come from? Why, he was so small, he had perched himself on the Eagle's tail, and nobody had seen him; and so light, the great bird had never felt his weight. So he had soared all the time with the Eagle, and been just as high as he had. The other birds shook their heads gravely, but they could say nothing against such a cunning little fellow. And thus it came to pass that the smallest bird and the largest were each honored with the title of, king. And the little gold crest deserves it too; for, with his golden crown upon his head, he tells us that in this world there is room for the small as well as the great; nay, that God's power is even more shown in the perfectness of the small than in the majesty of the large.”
With the following beautiful verses, by one who loved a Wren, which for many years had its nest in his garden, I must close my story about this charming little bird.
Little warbler! long hast thou
Perched beneath you spreading bough;
Snug beneath you ivied tree,—
Thy mossy nest I yearly see,
Safe from all thy peace annoys—
Claws of cats and cruel boys.
We often hear thy chit-chat song
Call thy tiny brood along;
While, in her nest, or on a spray,
The throstle charms us with her lay.
Little warbler! cheerful wren!
Spring-time's come, and thou again;
Little warbler! thou like me,
Delight'st in home and harmless glee;
What of peace is to be found
Circles all thy dwelling round;
Here with love beneath the shade
Thy tranquil happiness is made.
The Bullfinch
THE Bullfinch has many names, a sure proof that he is a favorite with all. He is from six to seven inches long, and about eleven inches across; the length of the wing three-and-a-half, and the tail two-and-a-half inches. He is bold and independent looking. The male has a rich, deep black mark upon the throat, wings, and tail, and ash-gray upon the back; the rump is white, and the rest of the lower part of the body is bright red. It is a very common bird, not only in England but all over Europe. Fond of retirement, it keeps chiefly to the woods, and is only seen near our homes when hard pressed for food. It must be a very keen frost that will compel the Bullfinch to join the social Robin in picking up the crumbs from your door. In a wild state their habits are very cheerful, and all close observers become much enamored with their little ways.
Their attachment to each other is very great. Should one be killed, the rest show real concern, and, it is said, will even carry away the dead body of their unfortunate companion. Those who have written large books about birds tell some very touching stories as to the grief they have shown under such trials. Hard-hearted and cruel indeed must be the man, or boy, that for mere love of sport can destroy such a tender-hearted bird. It is very unsuspecting, and on this account it is easily entrapped. Large numbers are caught by simply placing a stuffed Bullfinch in the midst of prepared snares, and then imitating its call-note.
But that which makes the Bullfinch so much prized is not its own natural song, as with the Canary, Blackbird, the Thrush, and the Lark. Its natural note is only a simple pipe or whistle, and is even disagreeable, almost like the creaking of a door or a wheelbarrow; but it is capable of high culture, and can be taught to pipe or whistle many airs and songs in a soft, pure, flute-like tone. When speaking about the Canary we told you how great a number of people were engaged in breeding, and then training them for the markets of Europe and America. This is equally true as to the Bullfinch. In early spring many thousands of young ones are taken from the nests on the Continent, and after being duly trained, like the canaries, are sold into captivity.
One writer tells us, "The bird is generally capable of retaining three different tunes. Bullfinches are best instructed by a flute, or the whistling of a teacher. To obtain the perfection of whistling, a bird should only be taught one air, together with the usual flourish or prelude.
No school can be more diligently watched over by its master, and no scholar more effectually trained to their own calling than a seminary of Bullfinches. As a general rule they are formed into classes of about six in each, and kept in a dark room, when food and music are administered at the same time; so that when the meal is ended, if the birds feel disposed to tune up, they are naturally inclined to copy the sounds which are so familiar to them. As soon as they begin to imitate a few notes, the light is admitted into the room, which still further exhilarates their spirits, and inclines them to sing.
“When they have been under this course of training for some time, they are committed singly to the care of boys, whose sole business it is to go on with their education. Each boy assiduously plays his organ from morning till night, while the class teacher goes his regular rounds, superintending the progress of his feathered pupils, and scolding or rewarding them in a manner which they perfectly understand, and strictly in accordance with the attention or disregard they have shown to the instruction of the monitor.”
This round of teaching goes on for fully nine months, by which time the bird has acquired firmness, and is less likely to forget or spoil the air by leaving out passages, or giving them in the wrong place. All this, however, is in danger of being lost in the time of moulting, and they require to have the tunes frequently repeated at that time.
Bullfinches are not only greatly attached to each other, but they show the same love to those who care for them. I could easily fill a volume with really interesting stories about the Bullfinch. Let me give you one. "Now let me say a kind word for the Bullfinch. Talk of attachments, what can equal the attachment of one of these sweet little creatures to its master or mistress. One that lived with me a number of years always had his liberty during spring and summer. It would follow me all about the house; and in the morning, perched on my pillow, it would guard me with the fondest affection—flying at, fighting, and scolding any one who ventured into my apartment.
“My little champion was a bachelor. Wishing to please him, I procured him a mate; but thinking me, perhaps, over officious, he declined making himself agreeable, and the match never came off. He preferred a life of celibacy and was happiest by himself. Yet was the partner I had assigned him a charming little creature, and very tame. Her temper, too, was excellent, and her disposition most amiable." In no way offended at the slight put upon her, she listened to the bachelor's song, and learned it perfectly. The only difference was, that she sang his note in a softer tone. I ought to have given him `a choice.'" Here is another touching tale. "A gentleman had once taken great pains with a favorite Bullfinch, and taught it to sing very perfectly the National Anthem. He was then called away, and did not return home for some time. The first tidings he heard then were that his poor Bullfinch was very ill and not likely to live. It had lost its song and all its powers. The gentleman returned at once. It struggled up to its feet when it heard his voice, and by a great effort perched on his hand, as it used to do. It began to sing the familiar air, but it was too much for its failing strength, and in the act of doing so, it fell down dead!" Is it not sad to think that people should so often ill-treat and ill-use the creatures around them, when a little kindness would draw forth love like this? The Bullfinch is very sensitive to reproof or praise. "A lady friend of ours," says another, "had a Bullfinch so tame that she allowed it to fly about the room, and was in the habit of lavishing caresses upon it. One afternoon, being somewhat busy, her little companion did not receive the customary attention, for which he clamored so loudly that his mistress at length hastily caught him, replaced him in the cage, and covered it with a cloth; the poor little creature was no sooner treated in this manner than he uttered a few plaintive notes, as though imploring for notice and freedom, and then, hanging his head, fell dead from his perch upon the floor of his cage." Another owner of a Bullfinch took a journey, and during his absence the Bullfinch appeared very mournfully silent; on the master's return, however, the bird was overwhelmed with delight, flapped its wings, and fluttered up and down, bowed its tiny head repeatedly, as it had been taught to do, at the same time pouring forth a song of welcome; suddenly all was silent—the little favorite lay at the bottom of the cage dead with joy.
If properly trained, the Bullfinch may be allowed to go in and out at will. A female was allowed one spring to fly into the garden, and for many days afterward the bird would fly about, returning occasionally into the house, but at last disappeared entirely until the following autumn; when lo! one morning she flew into the sitting room, as tame as ever. The following morning she was again set at liberty, and returned in the month of June with four of her young ones, apparently as confiding as before, and most desirous to persuade her little brood to consider her late master as a friend; but these endeavors proving futile, she again left, and in September once more made her appearance with three of her second family. She remained for a short time and then departed, but positively came back in the autumn without her little flock to pass the winter in her old home.
The following spring she was set at liberty for a third time, and was observed not long after to enter her cage, pick up some of her food, whilst her mate lingered upon a neighboring tree, and then flew away and was seen no more.
The Goldfinch
THIS is the most beautiful of our hard-billed small birds, whether we consider its color, its elegance, or the music of its note. Indeed, it is almost as great a favorite as its cousin, the Bullfinch. The latter bird, as we saw, is greatly prized because of its powers of imitation—it can be taught to whistle almost any tune. The Goldfinch is valued not only for its song and its great beauty, but because, amongst other things, it can be taught to perform a great number of amusing little tricks. Indeed, there have been wonderful exhibitions of how many antics both the Goldfinch and the Linnet could be taught. A writer on birds tells us of the following:—"One appeared as if dead, and was held up by the tail or claw without exhibiting any signs of life. A second stood on its head with its claws in the air; a third imitated a Dutch milk-maid going to market, with pails on its shoulders; a fourth imitated a Venetian girl looking out of a window; a fifth appearing as a soldier, mounted guard as a sentinel; the sixth acted as a cannoneer, with a cap on its head, a firelock on its shoulder, and a match in its claw, with which it discharged a small cannon. The same bird acted as if it had been wounded. It was wheeled in a barrow, as if to convey it to a hospital; after which it flew away before the company. The seventh turned a kind of windmill; and the last bird stood in the midst of some fireworks, which were discharged all round it, without its exhibiting the slightest symptoms of fear.”
You will not see the Goldfinch every day, except as a prisoner at some cottage door. The best time to find him is on some bright September morning, and the best place near a corn field, just after the rich grain has been cut down and gathered in. There, on some sloping bank, you may find a fine bunch of thistles with some of its feathery seed floating away on the breeze, and plenty still hanging on to the plant. On those thistles, in all probability, you will find a cluster of beautiful little birds, red, yellow, and black, of most elegant shape, feeding away on those downy seeds with evident satisfaction. As they sway about on the slender stems, and their golden wings gleam bright in the sunshine, we at once recognize them as a party of happy Goldfinches pecking away at their favorite dinner. This is one of the many beautiful sights which may be always found in a delightful ramble in the country.
Though the Goldfinch is very shy, it is easily tamed, and manifests much affection towards those who show it kindness.
In its native liberty it sings most delightfully, beginning early in the year, and early in the day too. Its song continues all through the summer, and when other sweet songsters are silent, it is no little pleasure to wake up early and hear its clear, pleasant note.
The Goldfinch has ever been a favorite with the poets, by one of whom he has been thus beautifully addressed:—
“Goldfinch, pride of woodland glade.
In thy jet and gold arrayed;
Gentle bird, that lov'st to feed
On the thistle's downy seed;
Freely frolic, lightly sing,
In the sunbeam spread thy wing!
Spread thy plumage, trim and gay,
Glittering in the noontide ray
As upon the thorn-tree's stem
Perch'd, thou sipp'st the dewy gem,
Fickle bird forever roving,
Endless changes ever loving,
Now in orchards gaily sporting,
Now in flowery fields resorting;
Chasing now the thistle's down,
By the gentle zephyr blown;
Lightly on thou wing'st thy way,
Always happy, always gay.”
The Goldfinch is a great friend to the farmer. His special work seems to be to keep under a class of weeds that, but for him, would soon overrun the fields. He lives chiefly on the seeds of the thistle, the dandelion, grounsel, and many similar plants.
The home of the Goldfinch is one of the most beautiful nests that can be conceived of. It is built at the end of a high branch, but so covered with leaves as not easily to be found. It is elegantly formed of fine moss and fibrous roots for the outer wall, and weaving these materials together in the most artistic manner with spider's webs, then lined first with wool and hair, and then with thistle down. The nest is chiefly, if not exclusively, the work of the female, but her mate sings with great vigor, as if to cheer her during the progress of this labor of love. The brood consists of five or six, which, after they are reared, flock together in little parties, and at night will huddle together with their parents on one perch, as near each other as possible.
The following beautiful lines on two Goldfinches are by Cowper, and show the deep interest he felt in all the creatures of God.
The greenhouse is my summer seat;
My shrubs, displaced from that retreat
Enjoyed the open air.
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang as blithe as finches sing
That flutter loose on golden wing
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew
And therefore never miss'd.
But nature works in every breast
With force not easily suppress'd;
And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.
The open windows seemed to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere
To leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seemed to say,
You must not live alone.
Nor would he quit that chosen stand
'Till I, with slow and cautious hand,
Returned him to his own.
O ye, who never taste the joys
Of friendship: satisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
A prison with a friend preferred,
To liberty without.
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