Читать книгу: «Birds and Nature, Vol. 12 No. 4 [September 1902]», страница 3

THE ARKANSAS GOLDFINCH
(Spinus psaltria.)

 
The Goldfinch, social, chirping, bright,
Takes in those branches his delight.
A troop like flying sunbeams pass
And light among the vivid grass,
Or in the end of some long branch,
Like acrobats, in air they launch,
And in the wild wind sway and swing,
Intent to twitter, glance and sing.
 

– Rose Terry Cooke, “My Apple Tree.”

These lines of the poet were inspired by the beautiful goldfinch so familiar to all, and usually called yellow-bird and thistle-bird. They form an appropriate introduction to a few words regarding the thistle-bird’s sister species of the Pacific coast – the Arkansas Goldfinch. This bright and sprightly bird enlivens the shrubby ravines and weedy places from Oregon southward through the United States, and from the Pacific coast eastward into Colorado. Throughout its range it is quite common and nests on the plains and also in the mountains to a height of nine thousand feet. Abundant in many mountainous regions, it has been given the name Rocky Mountain Goldfinch, and the olive-green color of the plumage of its back has given it the very appropriate name Arkansas Green-backed Goldfinch.

Like the common thistle-bird, it has a social disposition and feeds with its fellows in flocks of a greater or less number. Not infrequently several individuals will alight on the same plant and immediately begin a diligent search for their food of seeds. Active and of a seemingly impatient temperament, it seldom remains long in any one locality, yet a garden rich in sunflower blossoms or a field full of blooming thistles furnished so tempting a larder that a flock may patiently labor therein for some time, gathering an abundance of goldfinch dainties.

Its notes are similar to those of the thistle-birds. “The ordinary note is a plaintive mellow, whistling call, impossible to describe and so inflected as to produce a very mournful effect.” While pursuing its undulating flight, it utters a sweet song which is in harmony with the rise and fall of its onward motion and is indicative of its sweet disposition. Its nest is a dainty structure built of fine bark and other vegetable fibers, fine grasses and moss compactly bound together and quite thickly lined with plant down.

TRAGEDY IN BIRD LIFE

For the friends of birds there are, in cold days of wind and storm, opportunities of loving service.

In the drama of bird-life the scenes are ever shifting, and struggle for existence is not always under sun-lighted, genial skies.

It is true that creative love has endowed the birds with facilities for resisting the havoc of storms. The feathered tribes, nested in chosen coverts, defy the elements and shake out their plumage in fearless defiance of tempests before which man stands in dismay.

A little bit of feathered anatomy will sway cheerily on unprotected twigs, disdaining the shelter close at hand, while the storm beats on wayside.

The endurance of these creatures of the air may well astonish men, who, with all their vitality and size, succumb, of necessity, to the warring elements.

But, in spite of their powers of endurance, the storm-periods are for the birds bitter intervals of life, when hunger and thirst and cold combine to sweep them into the vortex of the lost.

It is not the cold, unaccompanied by other influences, which devastates the ranks of the birds during extreme winter storm-periods, however; it is, chiefly, the dearth of food.

While the harvest of seeds over the meadows is available the bleak blast moans about our birds innoxiously; but it is when the feathery snowflakes cover this well-stocked granary, clinging about the seed-vessels of weed and flower, and closing it in a frozen locker, or the ice-storm wraps it in glittering ice, that the lairds are beaten before the winds, and perish of cold and starvation.

There are few, if any, bird lovers who have not some scene of tragedy to recount; some memory of storm-periods when the birds flew to the habitations of men for help, finding no hope but in the fragments cast away by some human hand.

That more thought is not given to the needs of the birds about our doors, at such periods, is due more to the prevailing impression that the birds have the means of providing, even in times of emergency, for their own needs, than to a disregard of the interests of these little friends of the air.

Unless we have awakened to pathetic struggle of bird life under some conditions we are not apt to be aroused to any obligation in the matter of aiding in providing for birds in seasons of peril.

But it is true, nevertheless, that the little visitor upon our doorsill who stays with us during the long winter suffers the anguish of cold and hunger, frequently of starvation, during the periods of intense cold and storm – anguish which might be prevented by a little thoughtfulness on man’s part, in casting a trifle of food in sheltered nooks – crumbs from the table; cracked corn or coarse meal; cracked nuts; a bit of suet, the latter being best served by being nailed upon some neighboring tree, high enough to be beyond the reach of any but the intended guests.

By such provision one phase of the tragedy of bird-life would be abated, and the friendliness of the little strangers developed, to the pleasure of many bird lovers, who would receive in return for their kindness the gladness sure to be theirs in watching the feast of the joyous birds.

The day when earth and sky meet in one maze of blinding snow, or in the mist of rain which freezes where it falls, is hard enough for the birds; but while there is light there is also a hope of a scanty meal to be caught somewhere through the swirl of the storm. But, when this hope fails and darkness lowers into deepening night; when bleak winds rage on every side; the forests creak and moan; the tormented air sobs and wails like a tortured soul; when every sound is swept into the cadence of despair and the outposts of hills are lost in the labyrinth of tumultuous night, then how bitter is life’s tragedy for the hunger-racked birds; how marvelous it is that so many little storm-beaten breasts survive to meet the struggle for existence at the dawn of a new storm-beaten day.

George Klingle.

THE LIFE OF AIRY WINGS

One beautiful day last May my mother laid a tiny green egg on the under side of a leaf on a milkweed plant. I know that its color was green and that it was laid on the back of the leaf because Mother Milkweed Butterfly did not want any fly or worm to eat me up, so she made its green like the leaf and hid it away in a safe place. There I rested quietly within the egg for about four days, when I burst open the shell to see what was out in the world.

I shook myself and found that I could crawl. I was also very hungry. I had come out a green caterpillar with a black head. How strange that was! Now I expected to be a butterfly with wings to sail through the air. Never mind, I thought, if I am a caterpillar I must do all that a caterpillar ought to do, and not make a fuss because I am not a handsome butterfly.

The first thing a caterpillar has to do is to eat his eggshell so that the ichneumon fly – the fellow is an enemy to my family – will not be able to find any traces of him on the leaf. Where did I learn that? I think Mother B. must have folded that thought in the eggshell, for it came out with me. After doing that duty I was so hungry that I ate the leaf on which I found myself, all day long and far into the night. Then I curled up and went to sleep feeling very quiet and comfortable.

When I awakened the sun was up. I was warm and hungry, so I began to eat again. Suddenly I heard a buzzing noise overhead. Oh, dear me! I was frightened and kept perfectly still, for I thought it was that miserable fly after me, but it proved to be only a jolly bumble-bee, and I went on eating.

After several days of this life – eating, and watching for enemies – something happened. I suppose that I had eaten so much milkweed that my skin got too tight to hold me, for it felt very uncomfortable and then began to crack. I had spun a little silk on the leaf to get a better foot-hold and remained very quiet for I did not feel like moving. I stretched my head a little, after awhile, and the old head-case came off, falling to the ground. Then I made violent exertions, or movements, with the muscles of my body, and finally the old skin came off. I was very much fatigued and was quiescent, not caring to stir, for several hours. I thought of the fly too, that might sting me now while my new jacket was soft, and that kept me still also. When it became harder I had to eat up the old one, and then was hungry as ever.

Eat! Why I did nothing for about four weeks but devour milkweed, keep a watch out for enemies and grow too big for my jacket. I moulted four times in all, and at the end you should have seen me. My body was striped yellow, black and green, and was nearly two inches long. My head was black-banded; my face yellow with two parallel black bows, and I had two pairs of long slender, flexible filaments, like a hair, on my body.

I had grown so large and strong that I wanted to see more of the world. I crawled off my leaf, down the stalk of the plant onto the ground. What a queer sensation it was, to be sure, to feel the grass and the ground! There was a rail-fence near my old home. I began to feel very weary and sleepy. I crept cautiously along until I reached the fence; crawled up to next the top rail and under it to rest awhile. My, how tired I was! I did not want anything to eat. I did not care to move, nor to speak. I caught hold of the rail and hung there for about twelve days.

I have learned since, that I was a chrysalis and was a beautiful object of emerald green, with gold and black dots. I was fastened to the fence-rail by a slender shining black peduncle, or stem. Nothing disturbed me, and on the eleventh day the bright green disappeared, the golden spots faded, and on the twelfth day I burst open the shell of the chrysalis, found that I had wings and sailed away through the air. How delightful! So much easier than crawling. At last I was a butterfly. This is what patience and perseverance does for the “ugly duckling,” at least that is what a friend on the milkweed leaf told me one day.

I saw another butterfly a short distance ahead of me having the same colors I had – yellow and black with white dots on the wings – and I flew faster to catch up with her. She was very beautiful and knew more of the world than I did, therefore I determined to keep close to her. I found her very modest and unassuming. She made me feel as if I knew it all, and that is the chief qualification that even a butterfly wants in a wife. After a little hesitation I asked her to be my mate. She said she would, and away we raced in the sunshine to a field of clover. She showed me how to get honey out of the flowers with my tongue, which is like a watch-spring coiled up in the lower part of my head. When I am excited in probing to the bottom of a flower it uncoils and half coils again, “acting like a little force-pump” to bring up the juice of the flower.

My mate and I had a jolly time flying over the clover-field, where we met more of our family, the milkweed butterflies, and others. The flowers we like best are the clover, milkweed, goldenrod, thistle and phlox.

I soon discovered that birds and insects did not trouble us much, because we do not suit their appetites. They say that we taste bitter and disagreeable, like the milkweed, so they seldom disturb us, and we lead a happy-go-lucky life. We often spread our wings wide and float along in the air with little fear of foes. They see our colors – yellow and black, the badge of the milkweed butterfly – and off they go seeking a choicer tidbit.

Whenever there is a heavy wind storm I fly out to battle with it. What fun to have the angry wind hurl you back – only to get your wings fluttering again, and flying a distance to meet another fling! It is great sport.

I must tell you of something that happened to my mate one day. She was flying near a piazza where there were some phlox plants. She darted down towards them, keeping an eye out on a sparrow that had been flying after her, when her right wing caught in a spider-web that was in the piazza rail. She fluttered and fluttered, frightening the spider out of his web, until she got her wing loose; but it was not so strong after that, as a little piece was torn off.

I saw some beautiful flowers lying on a table on the same piazza soon afterwards and, as no one was out there, winged down on them. Queer: they had no honey in them. A little girl in the window exclaimed, “Oh, sister! a butterfly is on our paper flowers.”

Then a boy sprang out with a hat in his hand and I flew quickly away. My mate and I were so terrified that we did not go near that piazza again.

The lovely warm summer passed very soon and I had such a happy time that I was sorry when our family flocked together and began to talk of going South in September. We held our meetings on the underside of the branches of trees and, perhaps, some of you saw us there.

Oh! the life of a butterfly is sweet, and there is just enough excitement in keeping out of the reach of enemies to make the struggle for existence interesting.

M. Evelyn Lincoln.