In a grove that ran up close to our old home in southeastern Iowa was a
crab apple thicket around the edges of which grew a tangle of blackberry
bushes and ferns. Here and there a blue violet lifted its head, and
bluebells, claytonias, Dutchman's-breeches, anemones, in fact, wild
flowers of every description simply ran riot. The whole grove contained
only five acres, yet within its borders grew, with few exceptions,
specimens of all the trees and flowers native to this part of the State.
It was seldom pastured. The birds and squirrels were protected, and even
the minnows in the little brook that ran through it were undisturbed.
Here my sister and I used to play day after day all summer long. On the
bank of the brook, only a few yards from the crab apple thicket, was a
wild-grape arbor, formed by grape-vines tangling over a number of small
elm trees. The sun's rays could not penetrate the natural roof thus
formed, and even the rain was as effectively turned as by shingles. From
it the vines hung in long, graceful loops, making the finest swings
imaginable. Just at the door of this delightful playhouse grew a small elm
sapling, which we could easily bend over. This was our fiery steed, all
saddled and bridled, and how he could go! No real horse in the real stable
beyond could compare with him.
The blue-grass carpet was as clean as a floor, and nature had planted
flowerbeds all around the house. The place was beautiful at all times.
Wild grapes, black haws, thorn apples, nuts, and acorns formed treasures
innumerable in autumn, and goldenrod and blue asters made decorations fit
for a king. In summer there were wild plums, gooseberries, and
blackberries, with lady's-slippers and nigger heads for decorations.
Earlier came the wild strawberries, raspberries, and flowers of every
variety. But the most delightful time of the whole year was when the crab
apple thicket was one cloud of rosy pink, filling all the air with its
delicate, delicious fragrance. Talk about hot-house beauties, there is
more genuine enjoyment to be had from one whiff of this wildwood fragrance
than from all the petted beauties in the land.
Whether they were attracted by this fragrant beauty, or whether they
chose the spot for some other reason, I do not know; but one spring
morning two blue jays began building a nest in the thickest of these crab
apple trees. For some days Mr. Blue Jay had been singing to his mate from
the top of the old white, quaking aspen tree-
that low, sweet song which no other bird can rival, and which so few ears
ever hear, save those for which it is intended.
Now all this was forgotten, and both were carrying hedge limbs and
twigs with all haste. Just why these birds always choose twigs having so
many thorns I could never tell, but it is certain that they always do.
Neither could I ever discover the rule by which Mrs. Blue Jay decides
which of her husband's hard-brought sticks to weave into her nest and
which scornfully to discard. But the ground under the nest is always
littered with them, good, bad, and indifferent, and he is always
good-natured about it, appearing to think that she should have her own
sweet will. He will patiently bring stick after stick, only to see them
all thrown aside as soon as Madame Blue Jay can get hold of them. Instead
of losing his temper, he flies off for another without so much as a note
of complaint. Yet if her back is turned, he does not hesitate to pick up
some of the rejected twigs and carry them to the nest again. Often, too,
they are woven into it without a shadow of complaint.
Blue jays are noted brawlers but their quarrels are always with their
neighbors. So far as I have observed, family fusses are unknown among
them.
In a few days the nest was completed, and in due time seven
brownish-gray spotted eggs were deposited therein. Now the mother bird
spent most of her time on the nest, while her saucy mate was having his
last few days of fun for the season. From the top of a near-by willow he
would keep all the birds of the neighborhood in a continual state of
excitement. First he would give the distress call of one bird, then the
love note of another. Then he would utter his own danger cry, and frighten
poor bunny (bunny slept under a large gooseberry bush near by, on purpose
so she could be warned of danger) till her life was a burden to her. Then,
seeing a staid old woodpecker looking for worms, he would shout, in
derision, "Hit-im-a-lick! Hit-im-a-lick! Hit-im-a-lick! Jay-jay-jay!
Meau-meau-meau!" This last was intended for a catbird, whose nest was
in a thorn bush only a few yards from his own, and with whom he was
continually at war. The catbird would accuse the blue jay of having evil
designs on his nest of eggs, and Mr. Blue Jay, like any other thief,
resented the accusation as a slur on his good name. Next he would fly to
the nest of an old red squirrel and threaten all sorts of penalties if she
did not stop her pilfering ways, even venturing to peck and pull her bushy
tail. Then, flying again to the topmost twig of his aspen tree, he would
shout defiance at some traveler passing along the road.
One day Mrs. Blue Jay called her husband and proudly showed him five
wee, fuzzy bird babies. There was certainly nothing very attractive about
the little, half-naked creatures which seemed all mouth, and that always
open, but to the delighted parents these youngsters were the most
beautiful babies in the world.
Now all was work for Mr. Blue Jay, and I imagine the other birds in the
neighborhood drew a long sigh of relief. One parent usually stayed near
the nest while the other was out hunting for worms and bugs. If a stranger
came too near, both birds would quickly fly from the nest, keeping well
concealed among the branches till they came to the edge of the thicket,
near an old nest, which they had occupied the year before. Then they would
utter loud cries of distress and act so wildly frightened that it was
really amusing. We humored the joke, and they never imagined that their
little ruse was so plainly understood.
The young birds grew rapidly and were soon nearly as large as their
parents. Finally they ventured out of the nest and into the trees. Then
all day long the young birds could be heard coaxing for food, and every
little while would sound a contented chuckle as the old birds furnished
them with a worm, only to be followed again by the incessant begging for
more. Young jays are the most hungry little creatures I know.
But alas, even at this late day a calamity overtook the family. How it
happened I do not know, but all but two of them met their fate, and these
were too young and inexperienced to care for themselves. When we finally
learned their plight, sister and I took the half-famished little things
home. We named them Joe and Mandy, and did the best we could for them, but
in a day or two Mandy died. I think she was my bird, and Joe was sister's,
but a tube of white paint made the matter of ownership satisfactory to
both of us. It was always so. I could get the flowers, the garden, and the
pets by judiciously bartering a few tubes of paint and allowing sister to
wear the flowers.
For several days after his capture Joe was rather shy. He would keep
out of reach if he could till forced by hunger to make terms, for one of
the maxims he had been taught by his worldly wise father and mother was:
"Men are never to be trusted." However, as all his food and
water came from us, he soon made up his mind that they had been mistaken.
At the corner of the summer kitchen, near the door, stood a post, to
which was fastened the dinner bell. I used to set Joe on the top of this
post under the bell, and he soon learned to like the place. All his life
he took refuge there when it rained and slept there every night. He never
liked to have us ring the bell, and at first he would fly angrily back and
forth and squall and scold every time one pulled the rope. In due time,
however, he seemed to understand that these little exhibitions were of no
use, so he stopped them. It was a rule of his life never to make a fuss
about anything that he knew he could not remedy.
We fed Joe mainly on Dutch cheese and hard-boiled eggs, though he also
had bread, milk, potatoes, and, in fact, anything that we had. He would
beg for food as if he were half starved and eat till his stomach was
gorged to its limit, and then still eat till his throat and mouth were
both full, and try to beg for more. I used to fear that he would die of
gout, or some other gluttonous disease, but as he grew older he became
more temperate in his habits and confined himself to a reasonable meal.
Still Joe always had one great weakness, and that was for butter. To
his taste there was nothing in all the world half so good, and he never
could understand why he could not have all this dainty that his heart
desired. If there happened to be a dish of butter on the table he would
act very innocent and unconcerned, hardly glancing toward it, till he was
sure no one was looking or was near enough to catch him, and that a window
or door was open. Then he would make a dive for it, eating as fast as he
could. When discovered he would fly away with all he could carry in his
mouth and both feet. At such times he stayed away for a long time,
evidently thinking, as small boys in disgrace have been known to reason,
that if he was gone long enough his offense would be forgotten or
overlooked. When finally he did come back, he was always in royal good
humor, and oh, so friendly and affectionate!
He was forever hanging about the door, begging to get into the house,
but as he was quite a nuisance he was not allowed the freedom of the place
at all times. Often he would wait about till mother started to go in
search of something, and while the door was open would dart in if he
could. Sometimes after a number of fruitless attempts to get in, he would
fly to the top of the old willow tree and pout. At other times he would
come to the field to tell me his troubles. After scolding and worrying for
a while, he would perch on a hame on one of the horses and ride. More
often he would sit on the beam of the plow, where he could ride and jabber
and at the same time see every bug or worm that was turned out. He was
never too busy to hop down and catch any that he thought would be good to
eat.
Joe was not the kind of bird that is satisfied to spend all his time at
play while others are at work. Far from it. He used to help pare apples
and potatoes. As surely as sister took a pan of apples to the shady back
porch and began to pare them, Joe would come at full speed and begin
carrying the parings, one by one, to the garbage barrel. He asked no
questions and never stopped at this stage of the proceedings to indulge in
jabbering, but simply rushed from the pan to the barrel as fast as his
wings would carry him, till he had caught up. If for any reason he had
been late in finding out what was going on, it took a great deal of
patience, but he never stopped till the last scrap was disposed of and he
had announced his triumph with a victorious scream. Then he would seat
himself on the edge of the pan in sister's lap, catch each paring as it
slipped away under her skillful knife, and pull and scold until it was
loosened, when he would take it to the barrel and hurry back again. When
the paring was done he always wanted a hand- or
rather, a claw- in the coring. His part was to
pick out all the seeds and scatter them over the yard. A worm was a signal
for a regular explosion of cries, and the poor thing was promptly carried
off and pounded beyond recognition.
Joe was very cleanly in his habits, but entirely too fond of
experiments. He took a bath at least once every day, often two or three
times, and for a long time if he found anything with water in it he could
scarcely resist the temptation of trying it for a bathtub. He would splash
and flutter till he looked like a drowned chicken and then fly up on some
post or fence to dry and plume his feathers in the sun.
One day this desire for original investigation led Joe into trouble.
There was a large trough near the henhouse which was always kept full of
bonnyclabber for the chickens. Joe found it and wondered what it all
meant. Here was more milk than he had ever seen before! He hopped on one
side of the trough and stepped around to examine; then he took a sip of
the milk. It was sour and evidently did not taste to suit him. He tried
again but it was no better. Then a happy thought struck him-
it must be the chickens' bathtub! No sooner thought than done-
he would jump in and try it. My, it was jolly, and how he did splash! The
bonnyclabber splashed ever so much better than water, and how it did
spatter things up! Joe enjoyed it immensely until by and by something
seemed to be sticking his eyes shut. He tried to scratch them open with
his toes, rubbed his head against the side of the trough, hopped up on its
edge and tried to shake himself dry. But none of his efforts seemed to
have the desired effect. He hopped to the ground and tried again, with no
better results. Then he tried to fly, but for some reason his wings-
what was the matter with his wings?
Clearly, something was wrong; so Joe started for the house, calling
loudly for help at every hop. Here was an old hen's opportunity. She had
never liked Joe and had been watching his performances in the trough with
evident disapproval. Now he was plainly in her power, and she was
determined to put him out of the way. Before I could get down from my
perch on the woodpile and run to his rescue, Joe had a skinned head and
was otherwise the worst for the encounter. I picked him up, took him to
the house, and set him on the edge of a pail of water. He took the hint
and wisely proceeded to clean up. Then I put mutton tallow on his head and
set him out on the fence to dry, a sadder but wiser bird.
After this experience with the bonnyclabber, Joe gave up all
experiments in the way of novel baths and was hence forth willing to
confine himself to his own barrel of rain water under the eaves. But he
never forgot that old hen. He lived at peace with all the other chickens
on the farm, but he made life a burden to her. He would dash down among
her brood with a squawk, frightening them into a panic, peck the mother
when she was least expecting an onslaught, and in various other ways annoy
her. Always, when other amusements grew tame, he would take a turn at
teasing that old hen.
I might explain here how Joe learned to bathe, for he was too young
when his father and mother were killed to have been taught this important
item of bird's education. He was always watered from a small dish, and so
had no opportunity for experiments. He was beginning to be very much
ruffled and stuck up with food and dirt, when one day it rained. Joe was
sitting in the window, and when the water began to beat against the
windowpane, something told him to flutter and fluff out his feathers. He
acted just as he would if he were bathing; yet when I gave him a pan of
water, he did not know what to do with it. When I set him in the water, he
acted frightened. Finally I dipped him entirely under, afterward setting
him up in the sunshine (the sun had broken through the clouds) to dry. He
shook the water off, but dried without any attempt to plume his feathers.
He was certainly a sorry-looking specimen, with his feathers sticking
together in tufts all over his body. In a day or two I put him into water
again, and this time he ruffled up his feathers just a little to let the
water reach his skin; then from sheer necessity, in order to be
comfortable, he straightened a few of his feathers as they dried. From
this he went on by slow degrees till he had learned the whole secret of
the bath. Perhaps instinct did lead him to flutter the first time when it
rained, but it was certainly experience that taught him after that.
Instinct is all right, but birds as well as boys live and learn. Joe
soon formed the habit of soaking his hard food before he ate it. If he was
given a crust of bread, he would stick it into the first dish of water he
saw. He was punished once or twice, but to no avail. Finally he learned
his own lesson, as even a bird who refuses correction is sure to learn.
Happy is he if he does not forfeit his life in acquiring it. One day a
kettle of water was heating on the stove. Someone handed Joe a piece of
bread, and straightway he flew to this kettle and dipped his crust into
the water to soak it. Scarcely had he touched the water when he gave a
squall of anger, pain, and mortification, and was gone in an instant. He
had learned another lesson, and ever afterward his bread was soaked in the
rain barrel.
Boys have no monopoly on making collections. Joe had a mania for
gathering up trinkets and dropping them into this rain barrel. Spools,
needles, thimbles, thread, scissors, buttons-
anything that struck his fancy was hidden there. Bright things were his
special delight. He also liked hairpins, though I think this was chiefly
because it was such fun slyly to pull the one out of mother's hair that
would loosen the whole coil and let it down. After this trick he would fly
off, squawking with triumph, to his barrel. We gradually came to look for
anything lost-needles, thread, scissors, spoons, or what not-
in this barrel of water.
Still this was not Joe's only treasure house. As he grew older he
learned that he could not get his trinkets to play with if they were at
the bottom of the barrel of water; so whenever he found anything that
especially suited his fancy he would store it in the eaves of the house
and then visit the place every day to pick over his treasures, quietly
jabbering to himself about them. I could never quite tell what use he
expected to make of them, but they were certainly as dear to his heart as
the often-pictured neat little piles of gold could be to the heart of the
most veritable miser who ever drew breath.
Joe, like Nimrod, was a mighty hunter. He would alight on my shoulder
and jabber and beg till I would leave what I was doing and start on a hunt
with him. Again, I would call, "Joe, let's go hunting!" Then he
was in high glee. He would flutter about while I moved boxes and barrels,
and would be so intent on the game that sometimes I could hardly move
quickly enough to avoid piling them on him.
There was a lively scramble when two or three cockroaches ran out at
the same time, but he seldom failed to capture them all. He would catch
every bug and worm he saw, killing those he did not wish to eat.
We turned Joe's fondness for hunting to good account. I would take him
to the garden and begin turning over the cabbage leaves, looking for
worms. Joe was interested in a moment, and, after a little experience, but
few of these pests ever escaped his keen eye. Afterward he would go over
the entire patch alone, visiting each plant and catching the butterflies
that were flitting about laying their eggs.
Sometimes if I would not go on a hunt with Joe, he would go alone away
down in the meadow and catch grasshoppers and butterflies. When he had
eaten all he cared for, he would catch an unusually large grasshopper or a
very brilliant butterfly and, screaming at the top of his voice, would
bring it to show to me. Then he would flutter about, pride in his prowess
showing in every feather, but he always kept just out of reach. If little
attention was paid to him, his disappointment was as plainly manifest.
As Joe grew older, and the acorns and corn began to ripen, his natural
instinct taught him to gather and hide a store for winter. He would work
by the hour, hammering acorns into every fence post, every rough place in
the bark of trees, into the pump, under the carpet, and a dozen other
places. Acorns were scattered all over the yard, the barn lot, in fact,
wherever the bird went. It is surprising how many acorns one bird will
carry in a fall. But Joe's favorite hiding place for acorns and grains of
corn was in someone's shoe. Then he would watch till the owner tried to
put it on, and would come the nearest to laughing of any bird I ever heard
when the owner had to pull it off to remove the corn or nuts.
Another favorite hiding place, especially for things to eat, was in
mother's hair. He was forever alighting on someone's head. He would light
on mother's head and jabber away; then when he thought she did not notice,
he would hide something in her hair and fly off. After a long time he
would come back to look for it. If it was there, he was greatly pleased,
but if it was gone, he would scold at a lively rate.
Joe was a genuine rogue, and took particular delight in perching on the
top of a tall tree in the yard and mocking every bird in the neighborhood.
He was a very successful mimic, too. When for any reason we went away from
home, Joe would not stay there, but would fly all over the country. I have
often met him a mile away from home, and in response to my call,
"Joe!" he would fly to me, perch on the dashboard of the wagon,
and try to tell me all he had been doing while we were away.
All the neighbors came to know Joe, and he them. No one seemed disposed
to harm him, and all were glad to give him a meal when we were away from
home. He had no fear of man, and as for other things, he held them all in
contempt, with the one and only exception of dogs. When he could think of
nothing else to amuse himself, he would hunt up a neighbor's dog and worry
him. He would accuse him of all sorts of rascality, light on his back,
catch his claws in his bushy tail, and pound him with his wings, all the
time screeching at the top of his voice, till the pestered animal would
not know what to do.
Joe was busy all day long, week in and week out, but he never appeared
to care for the company of his own species. In fact, I do not remember his
ever paying a particle of attention to another blue jay.
But life had its serious side with Joe. He had an eye for business, and
was a great trader. Perhaps he always intended to be strictly honest, but
either his standard of morality was not high or he was a poor judge of
values. Sometimes he drove hard bargains. One of these got him into
trouble and finally cost him his life.
Our nearest neighbor had a canary, which she often hung out in the tree
near the house to enjoy the warm sunshine and fresh air. Joe soon noticed
this; he learned also that the canary always had hard-boiled eggs,
birdseed, and bread in his cage. So he would go down there, perch on a
limb, and banter Sir Canary for a trade, which usually resulted in Joe's
devouring everything eatable in the cage and spilling the water. Afterward
he would fill the seed and water cups with pebbles, cherry pits, and so
forth, strewing others over the bottom of the cage.
Sometimes Joe was more liberal in his trades than at others.
Occasionally he would take some of his treasures from his storehouse in
the eaves and drop them in the canary's cage. One day he found a bright
buckle that was wanted by some member of the family. When it was missed,
search was at once made in the rainbarrel and the eaves, but the buckle
was not to be found. We thought Joe innocent till one day this neighbor
gave the buckle to mother with the remark that she had found it among the
things Joe had put in her pet's cage, and thinking it might be of value,
had saved it. But in spite of the fairness of Joe's trades, the man who
owned the canary was not at all pleased with them.
One day when we were all away from home, Joe went over to this
neighbor's to call. By this time he had forgotten all about the maxim of
his parents: "Beware of men." Finally he caught a large
grasshopper, and brought it, all a-flutter with pride, to show to this
man, who knocked him down with a fork and killed him. It was some time
before I learned his fate, when a hired man, who had seen the murder, told
me about it. Were the old birds right, after all? Can birds safely trust
men? Who will answer?
When you are prowling about in the forest, looking for domestic scenes
among the wildlings, you may keep your eyes open and expect to be
reasonably rewarded as long as the blue jays are quarreling with their
neighbors or going about their regular business. But let one of them utter
his shrill danger cry and you may as well go home or to another part of
the wood, for you will see little more of real interest there that day.
Every bird of the forest hates the jay, but there is not one that does not
hurry to shelter at his call of danger.
No one knows this half so well as the jay himself, and he often
provides an hour's amusement by stirring up a commotion among his more
stupid neighbors. But fool them as often as he may, they are always ready
to believe him next time, since well they know that not even a dog or cat
can pass through their domain without his knowledge. Many a time has a
flock of stalked wild ducks been saved by flying at the alarm of a passing
blue jay, and often has the disappointed hunter shot the faithful sentinel
in his exasperation. But still he lives and thrives, and is one of the
most widely known birds in America. However serious his faults, and often,
in spite of them, we love him still. Long live the blue jay!
WHAT'S
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