Kitabı oku: «Birds Illustrated by Color Photography Vol 3. No 4.», sayfa 3
IRISH BIRD SUPERSTITIONS
THE HEDGEWARBLER, known more popularly as the "Irish Nightingale," is the object of a most tender superstition. By day it is a roystering fellow enough, almost as impish as our American Mocking Bird, in its emulative attempts to demonstrate its ability to outsing the original songs of any feathered melodist that ventures near its haunts among the reeds by the murmuring streams. But when it sings at night, and particularly at the exact hour of midnight, its plaintive and tender notes are no less than the voices of babes that thus return from the spirit land to soothe their poor, heart-aching mothers for the great loss of their darlings. The hapless little Hedge Sparrow has great trouble in raising any young at all, as its beautiful bluish-green eggs when strung above the hob are in certain localities regarded as a potent charm against divers witch spells, especially those which gain an entrance to the cabin through the wide chimney. On the contrary, the grayish-white and brown-mottled eggs of the Wag-tail are never molested, as the grotesque motion of the tail of this tiny attendant of the herds has gained for it the uncanny reputation and name of the Devil's bird.
THE STARLING, THE MAGPIE, AND THE CROW
When the Starling does not follow the grazing cattle some witch charm has been put upon them. The Magpie, as with the ancient Greeks, is the repository of the soul of an evil-minded and gossiping woman. A round-tower or castle ruin unfrequented by Jackdaws is certainly haunted. The "curse of the crows" is quite as malevolent as the "curse of Cromwell." When a "Praheen Cark" or Hen Crow is found in the solitudes of mountain glens, away from human habitations, it assuredly possesses the wandering soul of an impenitent sinner. If a Raven hover near a herd of cattle or sheep, a withering blight has already been set upon the animals, hence the song of the bard Benean regarding the rights of the kings of Cashel 1,400 years ago that a certain tributary province should present the king yearly "a thousand goodly cows, not the cows of Ravens." The Waxwing, the beautiful Incendiara avis of Pliny, whose breeding haunts have never yet been discovered by man, are the torches of the Bean-sidhe, or Banshees. When the Cuckoo utters her first note in the spring, if you chance to hear it, you will find under your right foot a white hair; and if you keep this about your person, the first name you thereafter hear will be that of your future husband or wife.
FOUR MOURNFUL SUPERSTITIONS
Four other birds provide extremely mournful and pathetic superstitions. The Linnet pours forth the most melancholy song of all Irish birds, and I have seen honest-hearted peasants affected by it to tears. On inquiry I found the secret cause to be the belief that its notes voiced the plaints of some unhappy soul in the spirit land. The changeless and interminable chant of the Yellow Bunting is the subject of a very singular superstition. Its notes, begun each afternoon at the precise hour of 3, are regarded as summons to prayer for souls not yet relieved from purgatorial penance. A variety of Finch has notes which resemble what is called the "Bride-groom's song" of unutterable dolor for a lost bride – a legend of superstition easily traceable to the German Hartz mountain peasantry; while in the solemn intensity of the Bittern's sad and plaintive boom, still a universally received token of spirit-warning, can be recognized the origin of the mournful cries of the wailing Banshee.
THE BARTRAMIAN SANDPIPER
THIS pretty shore bird, known as Bartram's Tattler, is found in more or less abundance all over the United States, but is rarely seen west of the Rocky Mountains. It usually breeds from the middle districts – Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Minnesota, and the Dakotas northward, into the fur country, and in Alaska. It is very numerous in the prairies of the interior, and is also common eastward. It has a variety of names, being called Field Plover, Upland Plover, Grass Plover, Prairie Pigeon, and Prairie Snipe. It is one of the most familiar birds on the dry, open prairies of Manitoba, where it is known as the "Quaily," from its soft, mellow note. The bird is less aquatic than most of the other Sandpipers, of which there are about twenty-five species, and is seldom seen along the banks of streams, its favorite resorts being old pastures, upland, stubble fields, and meadows, where its nest may be found in a rather deep depression in the ground, with a few grass blades for lining. The eggs are of a pale clay or buff, thickly spotted with umber and yellowish-brown; usually four in number.
The Sandpiper frequently alights on trees or fences, like the Meadow Lark. This species is far more abundant on the plains of the Missouri river region than in any other section of our country. It is found on the high dry plains anywhere, and when fat, as it generally is, from the abundance of its favorite food, the grasshopper, is one of the most delicious imaginable.
Marshall Saunders tells us that in Scotland seven thousand children were carefully trained in kindness to each other and to dumb animals.
It is claimed that not one of these in after years was ever tried for any criminal offense in any court. How does that argue for humane education? Is not this heart training of our boys and girls one which ought to claim the deepest sympathy and most ready support from us when we think of what it means to our future civilization? "A brutalized child," says this great-hearted woman, "is a lost child." And surely in permitting any act of cruelty on the part of our children, we brutalize them, and as teachers and parents are responsible for the result of our neglect in failing to teach them the golden rule of kindness to all of God's creatures. It is said that out of two thousand criminals examined recently in American prisons, only twelve admitted that they had been kind to animals during youth. What strength does that fact contain as an argument for humane education?
THE NIGHTINGALE
You have heard so much about the Nightingale that I am sure you will be glad to see my picture. I am not an American bird; I live in England, and am considered the greatest of all bird vocalists.
At midnight, when the woods are still and everybody ought to be asleep, I sing my best. Some people keep awake on purpose to hear me. One gentleman, a poet, wept because my voice sounded so melancholy. He thought I leaned my breast up against a thorn and poured forth my melody in anguish. Another wondered what music must be provided for the angels in heaven, when such music as mine was given to men on earth.
All that sounds very pretty, but between you and me, I'd sing another tune if a thorn should pierce my breast.
Indeed, I am such a little bird that a big thorn would be the death of me. No, indeed, I am always very happy when I sing. My mate wouldn't notice me at all if I didn't pour out my feelings in song, both day and night. That is the only way I have to tell her that I love her, and to ask her if she loves me. When she says "yes," then we go to housekeeping, build a nest and bring up a family of little Nightingales. As soon as the birdies come out of their shell I literally change my tune.
In place of the lovely music which everybody admires, I utter only a croak, expressive of my alarm and anxiety. Nobody knows the trouble of bringing up a family better than I do. Sometimes my nest, which is placed on or near the ground, is destroyed with all the little Nightingales in it; then I recover my voice and go to singing again, the same old song: "I love you, I love you. Do you love me?"
Toward the end of summer we leave England and return to our winter home, way off in the interior of Africa. About the middle of April we get back to England again, the gentlemen Nightingales arriving several days before the lady-birds.
