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Learning About Birds Through Stories
WHILE not the largest of birds, the eagle is the most stately and kingly in looks and bearing of all the bird family, and is therefore called the king of birds, just as the lion, though not the largest of animals, for similar reasons is called the king of beasts.
The eagle is by no means a small bird, however, but ranks among the larger class of birds. When perched he stands erect, and when in flight he spreads a noble-looking and powerful pair of wings. A golden eagle caught years ago in northwestern Illinois not far from the author's boyhood home, measured seven feet and two inches from tip to tip of its wings. The wings of an eagle caught in New England in the autumn of 1926, had a spread of over nine feet truly a noble bird.
Being a bird of prey, the eagle is not only a master flyer, but is equipped with a powerful aquiline or curved beak, with which it tears its food when eating or when feeding its young, and with long, sharp, and powerful talons or claws with which it seizes and holds its prey. In these respects, therefore, it stands at the head of that class of birds known as rapacious or predatory birds, or birds of prey-birds that live or prey upon other birds or animals, such as the hawk, the owl, the osprey, the falcon-and the like.
Eagles live in pairs, and generally build their nest in some lone, tall tree off in the forest, or on some high and inaccessible ledge among the hills, the cliffs or rocks of the mountains.
From ancient times the eagle has been chosen as the national emblem of various nations. The Romans had him as their ensign, and we find him stamped on our own Great Seal and on most of our gold and silver coins.
While the founders of the nation, who chose the eagle as our national emblem, doubtless never dreamed that an actual eagle would play any part in a war for the preservation of the Union, this really happened. "Old Abe," the War Eagle, named after Abraham Lincoln, played a very conspicuous part in the Civil War. For three years he accompanied a Wisconsin regiment in their campaigns and battle-conflicts. From being sold, when young, by an Indian for two bushels of corn, this bird mounted in value so greatly that P. T. Barnum, the great American showman, could not purchase him for $20,000.
In the words, "For wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together," Christ foretold of the greatest siege of all history-that of the Romans, under Titus, surrounding and besieging, for five months, the city of Jerusalem, in the year A. D. 70-a siege in which the Jewish historian Josephus tells us 1,100,000 Jews perished.
In our own Civil War of four years duration, a million men lost their lives.
Whether by chance, intention, or otherwise, courageous, powerful, and victorious nations seem often to have chosen either the king of birds or the king of beasts as their national emblem. Witness the Babylonians, the Romans, the English, and the Americans.
SOMETIMES men do things for which they are very sorry. Sir Walter Scott, when a young man, once threw a stone at a dog and broke its leg. The poor creature, doglike, crawled up to him and licked his feet. He felt very sorry for what he had done. The thought of it, he tells us, gave him the bitterest remorse in his after life.
A Mr. W. B. Murch, a kind-hearted gentleman living in Washington, D. C., and a great lover of animals, told the author of a very similar experience in his own life when a boy of eight or nine, while living in the State of Maine.
Seeing a sparrow light down in a bunch of grass out in a field one day, he picked up a stone and threw it over in the direction of where the little bird had lighted. He did not intend to hit it, but meant only to frighten it and see it fly up again. He did not suppose there was one chance in a hundred of his hitting it. But, contrary to his expectations, no little bird flew up again. Upon going over to where he had thrown the stone he found that his aim had been only too straight, and that the little bird was dead.
He felt very sorry for this, and ever after, when he threw a stone at any animal or bird, he said he took good care to throw it wide enough of the mark to be sure of missing it.
IN writing the following story, memory must sweep back over a flight of many years to the days of my early childhood. Yet the event described is as fresh in my memory as if it had occurred only yesterday. While it is necessarily associated with sorrow and regret, I have never forgotten it, nor tried to forget it. And while it was attended with fatal results, the results were as unintentional on my part as anything I ever did accidentally in all my life.
As nearly as I can indicate my age, I was about four years old. My mother was the only other person around at the time, and as she passed away many years ago, I cannot ask her as to exact details.
She had a beautiful canary, of the natural canary color, such as are found on the Canary Islands; not the all-yellow variety obtained through feeding the mother bird and the young birds the yolks of eggs and red pepper.
As was her custom in feeding and tending it, she had set the cage containing the bird down on the kitchen table; but, for some reason, perhaps to get something for the bird to eat, had left the room, with the bird and me in it, for a short time.
I have no recollection whatever of her cautioning me not to touch the bird. She probably did not think to do so, or suppose that I would do it.
But I had previously seen her put her hand in the cage and catch the bird, and, while she was gone, boy-like, I thought I would put my hand in the cage and see if I could catch it.
The bird, of course, flew about the cage to avoid being caught. In my excitement, I made several grabs for it, and finally got it in my hand. Not having the muscles of my hand under careful control, nor realizing how delicate a thing a little bird is, as I grabbed it, my fingers came together with a squeeze--a fatal squeeze to the poor little bird.
When my mother come in, her sweet singer lay motionless at the bottom of the cage. It was dead! She asked me what I had done, and I explained that I had tried to catch it. She then understood what had happened.
Unlike some mothers, who, under such circumstances, would have flown into a rage, used harsh words, and perhaps have administered severe corporal punishment, my mother, whom I never remember speaking an unkind word in all my life, while sorrowing, of course, at the loss of her bird, simply told me that I should not have squeezed it, and told me to take it out in the yard and bury it. This brought sorrow and regret to me, for I then began to realize what I had done.
Several times during the day I went out and dug the little bird up, and looked at it, and then buried it again.
This event of early childhood was one of the earliest of remembered regrets of my life.
OF all the songsters and delightful warblers, the canary, small as he is, stands at the head of the list. No other bird is so generally liked, admired, and sought for. Beautiful in shape and color, innocent and intelligent in eye and expression, contented and happy in confinement, timid but vivacious in disposition and deportment, for sweetness and clearness of voice, and variety and rapid modulation of song, he has no equal.
And of all the canaries that I have ever heard or seen, our own Dick was one of the sweetest, most intelligent, and charming. As he poured forth his rippling trills and medley of song, like some star opera singer lifting himself on tiptoe to reach the highest notes, our Dick, always facing his audience, would weave his body about from side to side and lift his head in his ecstasies of rapturous melody. So in love with music was he, it needed but the beginning of a song, or a piece on the cornet, trombone, or piano, to start him to singing.
For years he had a habit of sitting in his swing at night, often with his head under his wing, and swinging for an hour or more at a time, before coming to rest and going to sleep for the night.
He was exceedingly fond of Mrs. Colcord, and seemed happiest when near her. One day when she had gone down in the basement for something, Dick crowded himself out between two wires at the corner of his cage that had become somewhat spread apart, flew out into the kitchen and stood on the floor at the head of the stairs in the open doorway to meet her when she came up.
On another occasion when he was let out of his cage for exercise, after flying about the house for a time, he secreted himself on a window-sill behind a lace curtain, keeping as still as a mouse, so that we were unable to find him for a long time. He would not so much as make a chirp in response to all our calling.
Two years before he left us, Mrs. Colcord wrote the following beautiful poem about him:
MY CANARY
Birdie dear, Singing near,
Through the livelong day;
Skies of blue Welcome you,
Take you far away.
All alone, Joyous home,
In your cage of gold;
Free from care,
Naught to share
Happiness untold.
Silvery throat,
Echoing note -
Only songs you give.
Cheer to send,
Hearts to mend,
Life divine to live.
And when he finally died, as all birds will die in time, there was not only an empty cage in the home, but an aching void in our hearts at the thought of the loss of the sweet singer that had cheered us for so many years with his rapturous songs and charming presence.
It is wonderful how these innocent and attractive little creatures will steal into our lives and weave themselves around our affections. This being so, it is no wonder that we miss them when they are gone and long to see and hear them once more.
An empty cage ! The bird has flown !
Where can my little friend have gone?
Last night I left him on his perch,
But now, although I peep and search,
And wander here and wander there,
I cannot find him anywhere!
Such friends we were, you may believe,
No wonder that I sorely grieve;
I fed him from my very hand,
Upon my fingers he would stand;
And often from my lips remove
Some dainty that all song-birds love.
I cannot think he meant to go
He surely would not leave me so !
I'll wait beneath this maple tree,
Perhaps his golden crest I'll see;
A twitter from the topmost bough,
A burst of song, a rush, and now
Upon my shoulder nestles he,
As happy as a bird can be!
Why did you go, you naughty thing?
You might have broken leg or wing,
And fallen where no friend was near
To ease your pain, or bring you cheer.
"I did not mean to fly away
At least I did not mean to stay
But you forgot to give me drink
And nice fresh seed-oh, only think!
So, to remind you, day by day,
I made believe to run away."
-Author Unknown.
