University of Virginia Library

LETTER XX.

There is nothing which makes me feel the imprisonment
of a city, like the absence of birds. Blessings on the little
warblers! Lovely types are they of all winged and graceful
thoughts. Dr. Follen used to say, “I feel dependent for
a vigorous and hopeful spirit on now and then a kind word,
the loud laugh of a child, or the silent greeting of a flower.”
Fully do I sympathize with this utterance of his gentle, and
loving spirit; but more than the benediction of the flower,
more perhaps than even the mirth of childhood, is the clear,
joyous note of the bird, a refreshment to my soul.

But alas! like the free voices of fresh youth, they come not
on the city air. Thus should it be; where mammon imprisons
all thoughts and feelings that would fly upward,

their winged types should be in cages too. Walk down
Mulberry street, and you may see, in one small room, hundreds
of little feathered songsters, each hopping about restlessly
in his gilded and garlanded cage, like a dyspeptic
merchant in his marble mansion. I always turn my head
away when I pass; for the sight of the little captives goes
through my heart like an arrow. The darling little creatures
have such visible delight in freedom;
I seldom see a bird encaged, without being reminded of
Petion, a truly great man, the popular idol of Haiti, as
Washington is of the United States.

While Petion administered the government of the island,
some distinguished foreigner sent his little daughter a beautiful
bird, in a very handsome cage. The child was
delighted, and with great exultation exhibited the present
to her father. “It is indeed very beautiful, my daughter,”
said he; “but it makes my heart ache to look at it. I hope
you will never show it to me again.”

With great astonishment, she inquired his reasons. He
replied, “When this island was called St. Domingo, we
were all slaves. It makes me think of it to look at that
bird; for he is a slave.”

The little girl's eyes filled with tears, and her lips quivered,
as she exclaimed, “Why, father! he has such a
large, handsome cage; and as much as ever he can eat
and drink.”

“And would you be a slave,” said he, “if you could live
in a great house, and be fed on frosted cake?”

After a moment's thought, the child began to say, half
reluctantly, “Would he be happier, if I opened the door of

his cage?” “He would be free!” was the emphatic reply.
Without another word, she took the cage to the open
window, and a moment after, she saw her prisoner playing
with the humming-birds among the honey-suckles.

One of the most remarkable cases of instinctive knowledge
in birds was often related by my grandfather, who
witnessed the fact with his own eyes. He was attracted
to the door, one summer day, by a troubled twittering, indicating
distress and terror. A bird, who had built her
nest in a tree near the door, was flying back and forth with
the utmost speed, uttering wailing cries as she went. He
was at first at a loss to account for her strange movements;
but they were soon explained by the sight of a snake slowly
winding up the tree.

Animal magnetism was then unheard of; and whosoever
had dared to mention it, would doubtless have been hung
on Witch's Hill, without benefit of clergy. Nevertheless,
marvellous and altogether unaccountable stories had been
told of the snake's power to charm birds. The popular belief
was that the serpent charmed the bird by looking steadily
at it; and that such a sympathy was thereby established,
that if the snake were struck, the bird felt the blow, and
writhed under it.

These traditions excited my grandfather's curiosity to
watch the progress of things; but, being a humane man,
he resolved to kill the snake before he had a chance to despoil
the nest. The distressed mother meanwhile continued
her rapid movements and troubled cries; and he soon discovered
that she went and came continually, with something
in her bill, from one particular tree—a white ash.
The snake wound his way up; but the instant his head
came near the nest, his folds relaxed, and he fell to the
ground rigid, and apparently lifeless. My grandfather made
sure of his death by cutting off his head, and then mounted
the tree to examine into the mystery. The sung little nest

was filled with eggs, and covered with leaves of the white
ash!

That little bird knew, if my readers do not, that contact
with the white ash is deadly to a snake. This is no idle
superstition, but a veritable fact in natural history. The
Indians are aware of it, and twist garlands of white ash
leaves about their ankles, as a protection against rattlesnakes.
Slaves often take the same precaution when they travel
through swamps and forests, guided by the north star; or
to the cabin of some poor white man, who teaches them to
read and write by the light of pine splinters, and receives
his pay in “massa's” corn or tobacco.

I have never heard any explanation of the effect produced
by the white ash; but I know that settlers in the wilderness
like to have these trees round their log houses,
being convinced that no snake will voluntarily come near
them. When touched with the boughs, they are said to
grow suddenly rigid, with strong convulsions; after a while
they slowly recover, but seem sickly for some time.

The following well authenticated anecdote has something
wonderfully human about it:

A parrot had been caught young, and trained by a Spanish
lady, who sold it to an English sea-captain. For a
time the bird seemed sad among the fogs of England, where
birds and men all spoke to her in a foreign tongue. By
degrees, however, she learned the language, forgot her Spanish
phrases, and seemed to feel at home. Years passed on,
and found Pretty Poll the pet of the captain's family. At
last her brilliant feathers began to turn gray with age; she
could take no food but soft pulp, and had not strength
enough to mount her perch. But no one had the heart to
kill the old favourite, she was entwined with so many
pleasant household recollections. She had been some
time in this feeble condition, when a Spanish gentleman
called one day to see her master. It was the first time

she had heard the language for many years. It probably
brought back to memory the scenes of her youth in that
beautiful region of vines and sunshine. She spread forth
her wings with a wild scream of joy, rapidly ran over the
Spanish phrases, which she had not uttered for years, and
fell down dead.

There is something strangely like reason in this. It
makes one want to know whence comes the bird's soul,
and whither goes it.

There are different theories on the subject of instinct.
Some consider it a special revelation to each creature;
others believe it is founded on traditions handed down
among animals, from generation to generation, and is therefore
a matter of education. My own observation, two years
ago, tends to confirm the latter theory. Two barn-swallows
came into our wood-shed in the spring time. Their busy,
earnest twitterings led me at once to suspect that they were
looking out a building-spot; but as a carpenter's bench was
under the window, and frequent hammering, sawing, and
planing were going on, I had little hope they would choose
a location under our roof. To my surprise, however, they
soon began to build in the crotch of a beam, over the open
door-way. I was delighted, and spent more time watching
them, than “penny-wise” people would have approved. It
was, in fact, a beautiful little drama of domestic love. The
mother-bird was so busy, and so important; and her mate
was so attentive! Never did any newly-married couple take
more satisfaction with their first nicely-arranged drawer of
baby-clothes, than these did in fashioning their little woven
cradle.

The father-bird scarcely ever left the side of the nest.
There he was, all day long, twittering in tones that were
most obviously the outpourings of love. Sometimes he
would bring in a straw, or a hair, to be inwoven in the
precious little fabric. One day my attention was arrested

by a very unusual twittering, and I saw him circling round
with a large downy feather in his bill. He bent over the
unfinished nest, and offered it to his mate with the most
graceful and loving air imaginable; and when she put up
her mouth to take it, he poured forth such a gush of gladsome
sound! It seemed as if pride and affection had
swelled his heart, till it was almost too big for his little
bosom. The whole transaction was the prettiest piece of
fond coquetry, on both sides, that it was ever my good luck
to witness.

It was evident that the father-bird had formed correct
opinions on “the woman question;” for during the process
of incubation he volunteered to perform his share of household
duty. Three or four times a day would he, with
coaxing twitterings, persuade his patient mate to fly abroad
for food; and the moment she left the eggs, he would take
the maternal station, and give a loud alarm whenever cat
or dog came about the premises. He certainly performed
the office with far less ease and grace than she did; it was
something in the style of an old bachelor tending a babe;
but nevertheless it showed that his heart was kind, and his
principles correct, concerning division of labour. When
the young ones came forth, he pursued the same equalizing
policy, and brought at least half the food for his greedy little
family.

But when they became old enough to fly, the veriest
misanthrope would have laughed to watch their manœuvres!
Such chirping and twittering! Such diving down
from the nest, and flying up again! Such wheeling round
in circles, talking to the young ones all the while! Such
clinging to the sides of the shed with their sharp claws, to
show the timid little fledgelings that there was no need of
falling!

For three days all this was carried on with increasing
activity. It was obviously an infant flying school. But

all their talking and fussing was of no avail. The little
downy things looked down, and then looked up, and alarmed
at the infinity of space, sunk down into the nest again.
At length the parents grew impatient, and summoned their
neighbours. As I was picking up chips one day. I found
my head encircled with a swarm of swallows. They flew
up to the nest, and chaned away to the young ones; they
clung to the walls, looking back to tell how the thing was
done; they dived, and wheeled. and balanced, and floated,
in a manner perfectly beautiful to behold.

The pupils were evidently much excited. They jumped
up on the edge of the nest, and twittered, and shook their
feathers, and waved their wings; and then hopped back
again, saying, “It's pretty sport, but we can't do it.”

Three times the neighbours came in and repeated their
graceful lessons. The third time, two of the young birds
gave a sudden plunge downward, and then fluttered and
hopped, till they alighted on a small upright log. And oh,
such praises as were warbled by the whole troop! The
air was filled with their joy! Some were flying round,
swift as a ray of light; others were perched on the hoe-handle,
and the teeth of the rake; multitudes clung to the
wall, after the fashion of their pretty kind; and two were
swinging, in most graceful style, on a pendant hoop. Never
while memory lasts, shall I forget that swallow party! I
have frolicked with blessed Nature much and often; but this,
above all her gambols, spoke into my inmost heart, like the
glad voices of little children. That beautiful family continued
to be our playmates, until the falling leaves gave
token of approaching winter. For some time, the little
ones came home regularly to their nest at night. I was
ever on the watch to welcome them, and count that none
were missing. A sculptor might have taken a lesson in
his art, from those little creatures perched so gracefully on
the edge of their clay-built cradle, fast asleep, with heads

hidden under their folded wings. Their familiarity was
wonderful. If I hung my gown on a nail, I found a little
swallow perched on the sleeve. If I took a nap in the
afternoon, my waking eyes were greeted by a swallow on
the bed-post; in the summer twilight, they flew about the
sitting-room in search of flies, and sometimes lighted on
chairs and tables. I almost thought they knew how much
I loved them. But at last they flew away to more genial
skies, with a whole troop of relations and neighbours. It
was a deep pain to me, that I should never know them
from other swallows, and that they would have no recollection
of me. We had lived so friendly together, that I
wanted to meet them in another world, if I could not in this;
and I wept, as a child weeps at its first grief.

There was somewhat, too, in their beautiful life of loving
freedom which was a reproach to me. Why was not my
life as happy and as graceful as theirs? Because they
were innocent, confiding, and unconscious, they fulfilled all
the laws of their being without obstruction.

The old Greeks observed a beautiful festival, called
“The Welcome of the Swallows.” When these social
birds first returned in the spring-time, the children went
about in procession, with music and garlands; receiving
presents at every door, where they stopped to sing a welcome
to the swallows, in that graceful old language, so
melodious even in its ruins, that the listener feels as if the
brilliant azure of Grecian skies, the breezy motion of their

olive groves, and the gush of their silvery fountains, had all
passed into a monument of liquid and harmonious sounds.