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WHAT THE ANIMALS DO AND SAY

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.

"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."

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