Cock O' the Walk

AT dusk, it began to spit snow out of the northeast through the ragged remnants of a fog that for weeks had inundated the Puget Sound country like a soft Lethean tide. In the morning, the half-dozen chipping sparrows that I had been feeding through the fall came to the cherry tree in front of the dining-room window as usual; but when I raised the sash and threw out to them their regular allotment of broken bread, it disappeared in the soft snow. Each bird turned a cheerless eye upon the pitted white surface into which its breakfast had vanished, but did not stir. Then I scattered more crumbs over the narrow strip of bare ground protected by the eaves. These they fell upon greedily, each grabbing a fragment and heading for its usual retreat under the fence. But they were not snow-wise as are Eastern birds, and promptly sank out of sight into this strange new something that had buried all their familiar runways among the rank grass and stark, overtopping weeds. Presently they fluttered out, bedraggled and breadless, and did not repeat the blunder, eating the remainder of their meal upon solid earth under the window.

On the third day of the snow a fox sparrow, all bunched up with the cold, dropped casually into the cherry tree during the morning meal, and after a few moments of deliberation slid quietly down among the cheery company of chipping sparrows at breakfast. But his lordship would not condescend to eat with common folk, and, ruthlessly assailing his humble cousins, scattered them in a panic.

As the corner under the dining-room window was sheltered by two walls and faced the southwest, a crust soon formed over the snow, and upon this spotless tablecloth the food for the birds was thrown. On the fifth day, just as the lordly fox sparrow was hustling away the vulgar proletariat from the festal board, a towhee appeared. For a few moments he stood beside the cherry tree, head high and white-edged tail jerking spasmodically; then with three jumps (you know how he jerks along double-footed) he fell upon the fox sparrow with such enthusiasm that that thick-necked bully scurried away to the neighboring thicket, shedding every vestige of his dignity as he gathered speed.

Toward evening the towhee was joined by his less conspicuously colored helpmeet, and after all the ‘small fry’ had been driven off these two proceeded to enjoy the good things vouchsafed to them. But hunger is no mean stimulator of courage, and in a few moments all the sparrows were back, hastily grabbing what fragments they could behind the backs of the two tyrants, who, like the little Corsican, could not be everywhere at the same time.

On the sixth night more snow fell, and in the morning the thermometer on our back porch stood at ten above zero — cold weather indeed for Puget Sound! Desperate with hunger, a flock of Californian quail ventured up within a rod of the food thrown out. But there they halted; looked as long and wishfully at the tempting titbits as did ever Moses at the Promised Land; then, at a warning cluck from their alert leader, who had spied me at the window, ran back to the shelter of the grove as only quail can run. Later they discovered the manure pile under a shed at the rear of the barn, and there they would sit by the hour about the smoking litter, like marooned and downcast sailors about a beach fire.

That afternoon a pair of flickers, which for several years had frequented a huge Douglas fir stub beyond the cherry orchard, warily inspected the food supply from the roof of the house, but contented themselves with drumming a resounding tattoo upon the shingles. In summer, by the way; the male flicker, while the female is nesting in the fir stub, drums lustily upon a five-gallon oil can that I have nailed to the top of a post at the pasture bars as a shelter for the cow’s halter in wet weather. Throughout the cold snap these two old aristocrats never joined their feathered neighbors at the common board. They did not go hungry, either; for they discovered a pile of refuse apples under the wide eaves of the barn shed, and upon these they dined sumptuously every day, delaying their meal, though, until the afternoon sun had somewhat softened the frozen fruit.

One day I noticed a third bird upon the pile of discarded apples, which, upon closer inspection, proved to be an unusually large cock robin. For a time he hung about the barn with a red squirrel that had taken up its quarters there and was shamelessly feeding upon my choicest Wagener apples, gaining access heaven only knows how to the root cellar in which they were stored.

One afternoon when the sun failed to soften the frozen fruit, Father Robin sauntered over to the cherry tree by the dining-room window, halting and cocking his head to one side several times along the way, as if the habit of listening for earthworms was ineradicable. Flying up into the tree, he watched for some time the feasting below him with an air of apparent indifference; then he dropped leisurely down among the feathered diners, whose number had so greatly increased that dear old Ann, the officer in immediate charge of our domestic commissariat, declared that if the cold spell continued our bread bill would bankrupt us.

The number of pensioners had indeed multiplied. There were now a score of chipping sparrows, three towhees, three voracious and pugnacious varied thrushes, a sizable flock of small orange-crested birds that I could not identify, and a solitary Western evening grosbeak that would sit in the cherry tree by the hour solemnly watching the food over its exaggerated and grotesque beak, but never, so far as we knew, deigning to sample it but once.

One morning the regular boarders were joined by a trim visitor about the size of a robin, whose entire plumage was a pure rich buff, suggesting England’s historic Ross-shire Buffs. It was shy and restless, alighting and realighting almost continuously, not venturing near enough to taste the food, and remaining not longer than a couple of minutes. It was so serenely, assuredly beautiful that, had not other members of the family seen it, I might regard it as an illusion. Thus far, my fascinating caller remains unidentified.

When Father Robin finally decided upon more substantial fare than frozen apples, the situation under the window was about as follows. When the sash went up, the sound brought all the birds with a rush, and the feasting and quarreling promptly began. The chipping sparrows always arrived first, on smooth and even wing, the embodiment of modesty and good manners. The fox sparrow always ran the chipping sparrows a close second. When he had charged them with a fury that admitted of no compromise, he would select the choicest titbits and, fluffing up his rufous feathers until he looked positively odious in his self-esteem, proceed to eat in a most leisurely manner. But his sangfroid was usually of brief duration; for the three towhees would follow close upon his heels, their beady black eyes greedily aglitter. After a rapid survey of the edibles, they would dash in upon the solitary diner and put him to ignominious flight; then each would seize a substantial chunk of bread and scamper round the corner of the house to the shelter of the honeysuckle, where he could eat with his back to the wall, thus preventing any feline surprise from the rear. Often before the towhees had made good their retreat the three thrushes would swoop down and scatter all the birds in sight, the sad old grosbeak watching the whole unmannerly performance from the top of the cherry tree with an air of utter disgust.

On this particular occasion the thrushes had just alighted, cutlass in hand, so to speak, when Father Robin decided to join in the game. He slipped indolently down from a near-by branch, stood for a few moments as if contemplating another nap, and then rushed at the larger of the male thrushes with a verve that made that colorful gentleman depart precipitately. The towhees, returning for another snack, took one look at the sturdy warrior in red, and then discreetly withdrew to the shelter of a bristling hardhack that guarded the nearest fence corner. Father Robin, with head high, breast out, and his short, straight back set pridefully at nearly right angles to the snow, hopped leisurely about until he discovered a beef bone. This he proceeded to strip clean, while the lesser birds dined upon dry bread snatched as best they could from behind his back.

The table etiquette of these birds was interesting. The chipping sparrows daintily severed crumb after crumb from the larger pieces of bread, working their tiny jaws with great rapidity. The fox sparrow went solemnly and formally about the ceremony of eating, reminding one of an Englishman at dinner. The towhees evidently knew nothing of Lady Macbeth’s advice to her guests on the night of the tragic banquet, but bolted their food in truly quick-lunch fashion. The three varied thrushes were just plain gluttons. It was difficult indeed to associate those greedy and rowdylike varied thrushes with one of the most remarkable bird songs heard on the Pacific Coast. For the song of the male during the nesting season, as he tarries among the moss-draped cedars high up on the side of Mount Rainier, would touch the hardest heart that ever lay in human breast. The single long-drawn note, uttered in varying keys by scores of invisible choristers, kindles in one ‘those thoughts that wander through eternity,’ and makes one feel the mood of Keats as he listened to his beloved nightingale.