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What The Animals Do and Say
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.