What The Animals Do and Say
Eliza Lee Follen
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WHAT THE ANIMALS DO AND SAY
BY
MRS. FOLLEN
Illustrated with Engravings
WHAT THE ANIMALS DO AND SAY.
"Could you not tell us a traveller's story of some strange people
that we have never heard of before?" said Harry to his mother, the
next evening.
After a moment or two of thought, Mis. Chilton said, "Yes, I will
tell you about a people who are great travellers. They take journeys
every year of their lives. They dislike cold weather so much that
they go always before winter, so as to find a warmer climate."
"They usually meet together, fathers, mothers, and children, as well
as uncles, aunts, and cousins, but more especially grandfathers and
grandmothers, and decide whither they shall go. As their party is so
large, it is important that they should make a good decision."
"When they are all prepared, and their mind quite made up, they all
set off together. I am told that they make as much noise, on this
occasion, as our people make at a town-meeting; but as I was never
present at one of the powwows of these remarkable travellers, I
cannot say."
"What is a powwow?" asked Harry.
"It is the name the Indians give to their council meetings," replied
Mis. Chilton.
She went on. "This people, so fond of travelling, have no great
learning; they write no books; they have no geographies, no
steamboats, no railroads, but yet never mistake their way."
"Four-footed travellers, I guess," said Harry.
"By no means; they have no more legs than any other great
travellers; but you must not interrupt me."
Well, to go back to our travellers; every one is ready and glad to
prepare apartments for them, such as they like. They are so lively,
so merry, and good-natured, that they find a welcome every where.
They are such an easy, sociable set of folks that they like a house
thus prepared for them just as well as if they had built it
themselves."
"I have been told that when they arrive at any place, before they
wash themselves, or brush off the dust of their journey, they will
go directly to one of these houses that has been prepared for them,
and examine every part of it; and, if they like it, they seem to
think they have, of course, a right to it, and they take possession
directly, and say, 'Thank you' to nobody."
"No one is affronted with them; but every one is ready and glad to
accommodate the strangers as well as he can, merely for the sake of
their good company. They come to us in May, and leave our part of
the country in August, to visit other lands.
"The great reason, I think, that all the world welcomes these
travellers is, that they are such a happy, merry set of beings they
make every one around them cheerful; their gayety is never-failing.
They rise with the first streak of light; there are no sluggards
among them. They are all musical, and sing as they go about their
work; but their music pleases me best when they join in their
morning hymn. When the morning star is growing pale, and rosy light
tinges the edges of the soft clouds in the east, this choir of
singers stop for a second, as if waiting, in silent reverence, for
the glad light to appear; then, just as the first ray gilds the hill
tops and the village spire, all pour forth a joyful song, swelling
their little throats, and making such a loud noise that every sleepy
head in the neighborhood awakes."
"Ah! now I have caught you, Mother," said Frank; "these famous
travellers are martins. I wonder, when you said they were not four
footed, I did not think of martins. I heard George say, the other
day, that his father had put up a martin box, and how they came and
looked at it first, before they took it, and that they always sang
before daylight, and what a noise they made.
But, Mother, when you tell that story again, you must not say little
throats, or any one will know who your travellers are quick enough;
but do please tell us more about them."
"Yes, Frank, you have caught me; these travellers are martins; and,
if you wish, I will tell you more about them. Mr. Wilson, whom I
have been reading to-day, calls them birds of passage."
"What does that mean, Mother"?"
"It means that they find it necessary for their support to pass from
one country to another when winter is coming on. At that time they
leave us.
Some people think that martins and swallows hide themselves from the
cold in holes in rocks and banks, or in hollow trees; but Wilson,
who spent many years in watching the habits of birds, and learning
their history, thinks that these fly a great way off to a warmer
country as winter approaches, and that they return again in the
spring."
"But how can they find the way?" asked Frank.
"All that we know about that, Frank, is, that He who created the
martins has given to them the knowledge that guides them right. In
their long way through the pathless air, they never make a mistake.
Our great vessels and our skilful captains sometimes get lost in the
wide ocean; but these little birds always know the way, and arrive
with unerring certainty at their place of destination.
Our great poet, Bryant, has written some beautiful lines to a water-
fowl, which express this idea. I will repeat these lines to you if
you like to hear them.
'Whither, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly limned upon the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
The desert and illimitable air,--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.'"
"I should like to learn that by heart," said Frank; "I like it very
much."
"Come, Mother," said Harry, "what more have you to tell us about
these travellers?"
"Not much, Harry. The martin is such a universal favorite that
Wilson says he never knew but one man that did not like them and
treat them kindly. Wherever they, go, they find some hospitable
retreat prepared for their reception. Some people have large
habitations formed for the martins, fitted up with a variety of
apartments and conveniences; these houses are regularly occupied
every spring, and the same individual birds have been known to
return to the same box for many successive years.
The North American Indians, who have a great regard for martins, cut
off all the top branches of a young tree, and leave the prongs a
foot or two in length, and hang hollow gourds or calabashes on the
ends for nests."
"What are gourds and calabashes, Mother?" said Harry.
"A gourd, my dear, is a vegetable, something like a squash, only
much thicker and harder; when hollowed out, it is as hard as if it
were made of wood, and not so easy to break. It is shaped something
like a short, straight-necked winter squash; a calabash is a large
kind of gourd.
On the banks of the Mississippi, the negroes stick up long poles,
with calabashes on the ends, to accommodate the martins.
Martins have been known, when no house was provided for them, to
take possession of part of a pigeon house; and no pigeon ever dares
to set its foot in the martin's side of the house. The martin is a
very courageous and spirited bird, and will attack hawks, crows, and
even great bald eagles; he whirls around and around them, and
torments them, till, at last, he succeeds in driving them off. This
makes the martin a very valuable friend to the farmer, whose
chickens he defends from their enemies.
The martins are very faithful and affectionate to each other; when
the mother bird is hatching her eggs, her mate often sits by her
side; and sometimes he will take her place, and send her out to take
exercise and get food. He passes a great deal of his time at the
door of her apartment, chattering to her, as if he were telling her
amusing stories; and then he will sing very softly and tenderly to
her, and he does every thing he can to please her.
The martin has very strong and large wings, and short legs, that
they may not interfere with his flight, which is very rapid. It is
calculated by Mr. Wilson that this bird flies as fast as a mile in a
minute. Sometimes you may see a martin flying in the midst of a
crowded street, so near people that it seems as if they might catch
him; and then, quick as thought, he darts out of their reach, and,
in less than a minute, you may see him far up among the clouds,
looking like a little black speck upon their silver edges."
"How happy, Mother," said Frank, "the martins must be, to be able to
fly about among the clouds, and travel so far, and go just where
they please so easily!"
"God has made every living thing to be happy," said his mother; "and
in this we see His goodness. Are not you happy, too?"
"Almost always, Mother. Sometimes I am not happy."
"What is the reason why you are not always happy?"
"Why, things trouble me, and I feel cross and impatient."
"But if you try to bear with disagreeable things, and conquer your
ill-humor, and make yourself patient, are you unhappy then?"
"No, Mother; but then I have to try very hard."
"But you are happy when you succeed. Now, what is it in you that
tries to be good, and is happy when it succeeds?"
"It is my mind, Mother."
"Would you, Frank, give up your mind for a pair of martin's wings?"
"O, no, Mother; but I want my mind, and a pair of wings too."
"If you think your mind is better than the martin's wings, my dear,
be thankful for the possession of it; and be thankful too that God
has allowed you the privilege of making yourself happy by your own
efforts, and by the exercise of your thoughts, for they are the
wings of your mind. You do not now see a martin in the air; you are
only thinking of him; and yet you feel how pleasant it might be to
be like him, up among the clouds.
The martin cannot have the pleasure we have now had, but God has
given him wings, and taught him the way through the air, and put
love into his heart for his mate; and let us rejoice in his
happiness, and, more than all, let us rejoice in the goodness of Him
who has put joy into so many hearts. And when, my dear children, you
see the martin cutting his way so swiftly through the air, and when
you think of him travelling away thousands of miles, guided by the
goodness of God to the right place, and you wish that you had wings
like him, and think that he is happier than you are, you can then
remember a far greater gift that God has bestowed upon you.
Although the martin's flight is very swift and very high, yet he can
go but so far, and he knows not what directs him. When his wings are
wearied, and he is nothing but a speck of dust, and when your body
also is nothing but dust, these thoughts of yours, that have pursued
him, will be still travelling on; and, if you stretch the wings of
your mind, and soar upward, as the martin does with his bodily
wings, and like him, use all your powers as God directs you, you
will be rising higher and higher. And you will also know to whom you
go, and who gives you all your powers. The martin knows nothing of
this. He must go and come at such a time, and do just as all other
martins have done; but you are free to choose for yourself, and to
take the right and happy way, because you know it is the right way,
and the path to heaven.
But I must tell you what made me think particularly now of these
travellers through the pathless air. Last week, you remember, I was
ill, and shut up in my room. As I was sitting at my chamber window,
enjoying the perfume of the apple blossoms, and listening to the
song of the birds, and the soft sighing of the south wind, the world
looked as beautiful to me as if it had been that moment created.
You remember that there is an olive jar in the cherry tree close to
my window, which I had last autumn desired to have placed there, in
the hope that the birds would build in it this spring.
While I was looking I saw a bluebird alight on the tree. Presently
she came nearer and nearer to the jar, and looked earnestly at the
small round opening in it, as much as to say, 'That looks like a
nice place for a nest.' Then she came still nearer, and looked round
to see if any one noticed her. I kept very still. At last she grew
bolder, and flew upon the jar. Now she looked around again, as if
she was afraid of something. Then she turned her head sideways, and
looked up and down, this way, and that way, and every way, till she
satisfied herself that no enemy was near. At last, she flew upon the
edge of the hole, and courageously looked in; then she quickly drew
her head out, and looked all around again. I thought she looked
directly into my face, and came to the conclusion that I was a
friend, for she went part way in. Then she suddenly drew her
beautiful head and shoulders out again, and looked about once more.
At last, she seemed satisfied, made one more effort, and flew in.
She staid in long enough to make up her mind that it was a good
place for her nest, and then she flew off, quick as thought. In less
than two minutes she came back with her mate. They alighted upon a
bough near the jar, and it was plain that they were confabulating
together, and that she was urging him to go in and look at the place
she had chosen for her nursery. Her mate looked very wise and grave,
as much as to say, 'My dear, we must not be too hasty. We must
choose this home of ours with great care. Too much of our happiness
depends upon this step to allow of any mistake'; he then flew upon
the outside of the jar, and went through just the same ceremonies
that his better half had performed before, only he was still more
deliberate and cautious about entering. At last, he flew in, and, in
a short time, appeared again, and alighted on a branch near the jar
by the side of his dear mate. There they conversed together in their
bird language for some time, as plainly to me as if they had spoken
good English. 'This,' said he, 'is a nice large comfortable place,
my dear. That great house is rather too near, to be sure, but I am
well informed that its inhabitants, and those of all this
neighborhood, will never molest us. Last year, the cherry birds ate
up all the cherries in all the gardens around here, and not one of
the thieves received the slightest harm. We will, I think, begin our
work immediately, and make a nice soft bed for our young to rest in
when we shall be so happy as to have any.' This, I am sure, was the
result of their confab, for directly they began to pick up hay, and
furze, and feathers, and every soft thing they could find, and carry
them into the jar.
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