Soft falls his chant as on
the nest
Beneath the sunny
zone,
For love that stirred it in
his breast
Has not aweary
grown,
And ’neath the city’s
shade can keep
The well of music clear and
deep.
And love that keeps the music,
fills
With pastorial
memories.
All echoing from out the hills,
All droppings
from the skies,
All flowings from the wave
and wind
Remembered in the chant I
find.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
One of the most winning inhabitants
of my bird-room last winter bore on his snow-white
breast a pointed shield of beautiful rose-color, and
the same rich hue lined his wings. With these
exceptions his dress was of sober black and white,
though so attractively disposed that he was an extremely
pretty bird the rose-breasted grosbeak.
Nor was beauty his only attraction;
he was a peculiar character, in every way different
from his neighbors. He was dignified, yet his
dignity was not like that of a thrush; he was calm
and cool, yet not after the manner of an orchard oriole.
He possessed a lovely gentleness of disposition, and
a repose of manner unparalleled among my birds.
Vulgar restlessness was unknown to him; flying about
for mere exercise, or hopping from perch to perch
to pass away time, he scorned. The frivolous
way common to smaller birds of going for each seed
as they want it, was beneath him. When he wished
to eat he did so like a civilized being, that is,
took his stand by the seed-cup, and stayed there,
attending strictly to the business in hand till he
had finished, leaving a neat pile of canary-seed shells
in one spot, instead of the general litter common
to cages. The meal over, he was ready to go out
of the cage, place himself comfortably in one of his
favorite corners, and remain for a long time, amused
with the life in the room and the doings in the street,
on both of which he seemed to look with the eye of
a philosopher. In the same deliberate and characteristic
way he disposed of a meal-worm, or a bit of beef,
which he enjoyed. He never bolted it outright
like a thrush, nor beat it to death like a tanager,
nor held it under one toe and took it in mouthfuls
like an oriole: he quietly worked it back and
forth between his mandibles till reduced to a pulp,
and then swallowed it.
The rosy shield-bearer was preeminently
a creature of habit. Very early in his life with
us he selected certain resting places for his private
use, and all the months of his stay he never changed
them. The one preferred above all others was
the middle bar of the window-sash, in the corner,
and I noticed that his choice was always a corner.
In this sunny spot he spent most of the time, closely
pressed against the window-casing, generally looking
out at the trees and the sparrow-life upon them, and
regarding every passer-by in the street, not in an
unhappy way, but apparently considering the whole a
panorama for his entertainment. When events in
the room interested him, his post of observation was
a bracket that held a small cage, where he often sat
an hour at a time in perfect silence, looking at everybody,
concerned about everything, his rosy shield and white
breast effectively set off by the dark paper behind
him.
Although thus immobile and silent,
the grosbeak was far from being stupid. He had
decided opinions and tastes as well defined as anybody’s.
For example, when he came to me his cage stood on a
shelf next to that occupied by two orchard orioles,
and he was never pleased with the position. He
was hardly restless even there, while suffering what
he plainly considered a grievance, but he was uneasy.
I saw that something was wrong, and guessed at once
that it was because his upper perch was three inches
lower than that in the next cage, and to have a neighbor
higher than himself is always an offense to a bird.
As soon as I raised his cage he was satisfied on that
score, and no more disturbed me in the early morning
by shuffling about on his perch and trying to fly upward.
But still things were not quite to
his mind, and he showed it by constantly going into
the cage of the orioles and settling himself evidently
with the desire of taking up his residence there.
He was so gentle and unobtrusive everywhere, that
no one resented his presence in the cage, and he could
have lived in peace with almost any bird. But
I wanted him contented at home, and moreover, I was
curious to find out what was amiss, so I tried the
experiment of removing his cage from its position
next to the lively orioles, and hanging it alone between
two windows, where, although not so light, it had
the advantage of solitude. The change completed
the happiness of the grosbeak. From that day he
no more intruded upon others, but went and came freely
and joyously to his own cage, and from being hard
to catch at night he became one of the most easy,
proceeding the moment he entered his home toward dark
to the upper perch to wait for me to close the door
before going to his seed-dish. In fact, he grew
so contented that he cared little to come out, and
often sat in his favorite corner of the cage by the
hour, with the door wide open and the other birds
flying around. Now, too, he began to sing in
a sweet voice a very low and tender minor strain.
Among his other peculiarities this
bird scarcely ever seemed to feel the need of utterance
of any soft. On the rare occasions of any excitement
he delivered a sharp, metallic “click”;
a sudden alarm, like the attack of another bird, called
out a war-cry loud and shrill, and very odd; and in
the contest over the important question of precedence
at the bath he sometimes uttered a droll squeal or
whining sound. Besides these, he made singular
noises in bathing and dressing his feathers, which
are not uncommon among birds, but are difficult to
describe. They always remind me of the rubbing
of machinery in need of oil.
This beautiful bird was not easily
frightened; the only time I ever saw him seriously
disturbed was at the sight of a stuffed screech-owl,
which I brought into the room without thinking of
its probable effect. I placed it on a shelf in
a closet, and I soon noticed that the moment the closet
door was opened the grosbeak became greatly agitated;
he darted across the room to a certain retreat where
he always hurried on the first alarm of any sort,
and remained in retirement till the fancied danger
was over, while the others flew madly about. In
this place he stood posturing in much excitement,
and uttering at short intervals his sharp “click.”
For some time I did not understand his conduct, nor
think of connecting it with the owl on the shelf;
but when it did occur to me I tried the experiment
of bringing it out into the room, when I immediately
saw, what I should have remembered at once, that it
was an object of terror to all the birds.
The song of the rose-breasted grosbeak
is celebrated, and I hoped my bird would become acquainted
with us, and let out his voice; but I was disappointed
in both respects, for he never became familiar in the
least, and though not at all afraid he was very shy;
and furthermore, upon my bringing into the room two
small musical thrushes, the grosbeak feeling,
as I said, no need of utterance readily
relapsed into silence, and all the winter never sang
a note. His conduct before the looking-glass
indicated that he was not naturally so silent, and
that he could be social with one who understood his
language. Being unable to get another grosbeak,
I tried to give him companionship by placing a small
glass against one end of his cage. On seeing his
reflection the bird was greatly agitated, began his
low, whining cry, postured, bowed, turned, moved back
and forth, and at last left the cage and looked for
the stranger behind the glass. Not finding him
he returned, had another interview with the misleading
image, and ended as before in seeking him outside.
At length he seemed to be convinced that there was
something not quite natural about it, for, feeling
hungry, he went, with many a backward glance at the
glass, to the floor, took a hemp-seed and carried
it out into the room to eat, a thing he never did
at any other time.
I spoke of my bird’s posturing;
that was one of his pleasures, and almost his only
exercise while he lived in the house. He was not
graceful, his body was not flexible, and his tail was
far from being the expressive member it is with many
birds, it always stood straight out; he could raise
it with a little jerk, and he had a beautiful way of
opening it like a fan, but I never saw it droop or
stir in any other way. In these movements his
head and tail maintained the same relative position
to the body, as though they were cut out of one piece
of wood; but he bowed and leaned far over on one side,
with his short legs wide spread; he passed down a
perch, alternately crouching and rising, either sideways
or straight; he jerked his whole body one side and
then the other, in a manner ludicrously suggestive
of a wriggle; he sidled along his perch, holding his
wings slightly out and quivering, then slowly raised
them both straight up, and instantly dropped them,
or held them half open, fluttering and rustling his
feathers.
He had also a curious way of moving
over a long perch: he proceeded by sidewise hops,
and at each hop he turned half round, that is, the
first step he faced the window, the next the room,
the third the window again, and so on to the end,
coming down at every jump as though he weighed a pound
or two. He was much addicted to sitting with breast-feathers
puffed out covering his toes, or sometimes with wings
held a little way from his body, showing the delicate
rose-colored lining, as though conscious how pretty
he looked; and among other eccentric habits he often
thrust out his tongue, first one side and then the
other, apparently to clean his bill.
Bathing and getting dry was conducted
by this peculiar bird in a manner characteristic of
himself. Slow to make the plunge, he was equally
deliberate in coming out of the bath. When fairly
in, he first thrust his head under, then sat up in
the drollest way, head quite out of water and tail
lying flat on the bottom, while he spattered vigorously
with wings and tail. When he stepped out, the
bath was over; he never returned for a second dip,
but passed at once to a favorite corner of the window-bar,
and stood there a most disconsolate-looking object,
shivering with cold, with plumage completely disheveled,
but making not the least effort to dry his feathers
for several minutes. If the sun shone, he indulged
himself in a sunning, erecting the feathers of his
chin till he looked as if he wore a black muffler,
opening his tail like a fan, spreading and crossing
his wings over the back. This attitude made a
complete change in his looks, showing white where black
should be, and vice versa. This was the
result of his peculiar coloring. Next the skin
all feathers were the common slate-color, but outside
of that each feather was black and white. On
the back the black was at the tip, and the white between
that and the slate-color; on the breast this order
was reversed, and the white at the tip. Thus when
wet the white and black were confused, and he resembled
an object in patch-work. The rose-colored shield
was formed by the slightest possible tips of that
color on the white ends, and it was wonderful that
they should arrange themselves in an unbroken figure,
with a sharply defined outline, for each feather must
have lain in its exact place to secure the result.
The different ways in which birds
greet advancing night has long been a subject of interest
to me, some restless and nervous, others calm, and
a few wild and apparently frightened. In no one
thing is there more individuality of action, and in
my room that winter were exhibited every evening quite
a variety of methods. A brown thrush or thrasher
on the approach of darkness became exceedingly restless,
flying about his cage, going over and under and around
his perches, posturing in extraordinary ways, uttering
at every moment a strange, harsh-breathing sound.
Two smaller thrushes met the evening hour by fluttering,
and a queer sort of dance elsewhere described.
Two orchard orioles saluted the twilight by gymnastics
on the roof of the cage. The bluebirds made careful
and deliberate arrangements for a comfortable night,
while the grosbeak differed from all in simply fluffing
himself out, and settling himself, on the first hint
of dark, in the chosen corner, whence he scarcely
moved, and as soon as objects grew indistinct he laid
his head quietly in its feather pillow and stirred
no more. The brightest gaslight an hour later
did not disturb him; if a noise wakened him, he simply
looked up to see what was the matter, but did not move,
and soon turned back to his rest, when slight jerks
of his wings, and faint complaining sounds, told that
he not only slept, but dreamed.
The bearer of the rosy shield was
a persistent individual; having once taken a notion
into his head, nothing would make him forget it or
change his mind. Fully settled in his preference
for a certain perch on the window, the coldest day
in winter, with the wind blowing a gale through the
crack between the sashes, would not make him desert
it. Driving him away from the spot had not the
slightest effect on him, he returned the moment he
was left in peace. Thinking that another cage
was more convenient for his use, nothing short of
absolute shutting the door would keep him out of it.
Nor did he forget about it either; if the door was
accidentally left open, after being closed for weeks,
he entered as quickly as though he had been in every
day.
This bird never showed any playfulness
of disposition; indeed, he had too much dignity to
do so. He never flew around the room as though
he liked to use his wings, although they were perfect,
and there was nothing to prevent if he chose.
Nor did he display curiosity about his surroundings.
The only things he appeared to notice were the doings
of the birds and people in the room, and the moving
panorama without, which latter he always viewed with
equanimity, although the sound of a hand-organ aroused
him to a sort of mild fury.
As spring advanced, the beautiful
grosbeak grew tuneful and often added his exquisite
song to the rippling music of the small thrushes,
and with a little stretch of the imagination
as to its duration
“Trilled from out his
carmine breast,
His happy breast, the livelong
day.”