WABBLES is the name of a wild bird. Not a book name, for the bird is known to naturalists as the song-sparrow (Melospiza fasciata).
SONG-SPARROW.
I made Wabbles's acquaintance some years ago. On returning to my log cabin one afternoon, I had found him in the dooryard, wounded, bleeding, and exhausted. An examination disclosed a number four shot bedded in the muscle of the wing-joint. While I was removing the lead Wabbles struggled violently, and when released, hopped into the bushes and hid himself. I think he held a poor opinion of my surgical skill. The next day he was about the dooryard with other sparrows, but for many days his flight was a peculiar wabble, hence his name.
Wabbles was left behind when, on the approach of cold weather, the song-sparrows migrated southward. He seemed contented, and I thought he would stop with me through the winter, but one cold day he was missing.
Early in the following March, I looked out upon the snow-banks one blustering morning, and saw Wabbles in the dooryard. He had returned in the night, two weeks ahead of his mates. I do not know how far south he had wintered, but doubtless he had remembered the little log cabin in the woods, and all the time had understood that food and a welcome awaited his return.
That spring the sparrows lingered about my dooryard three weeks or more, and then dispersed to the neighboring fields and pastures, for the song-sparrow does not nest in the woods. Wabbles did not leave with the rest, and when spring merged into summer and he yet remained, I understood the reason. The male song-sparrow is obliged to do battle for the possession of a mate, and Wabbles, with his tender wing, wisely forbore to enter the lists. He preferred the cool woods and free food to the sun-scorched fields and a mate-less life.
Wabbles and I became fast friends. He was constantly hopping about the dooryard, and was always on hand to greet me whenever I returned from town.
"WABBLES MADE IT HIS BUSINESS TO AWAKE ME AT DAYLIGHT."
I slept in the open air in a hammock, with only a canvas roof to keep off the rain, and Wabbles made it his business to awake me at daylight. The little rogue pursued the same method each morning. He would hop about in the bushes near the hammock, and chirp to me in the loud, sharp call-note peculiar to the sparrow family. If I remained quiet he would break into song. He confined his singing usually to the morning and evening hours. But on my return after a long absence, he would sing for a short time, regardless of the time of day. It was a bird's method of expressing joy. I thought that he prized my companionship and disliked to be left alone.
That fall Wabbles migrated with his mates, but the next spring he returned as before, two weeks ahead of the main flock. He lingered about the cabin until the mating season approached, when he disappeared for five days. On his return he brought with him a mate—a shy, demure little wife.
Wabbles wanted to set up housekeeping in the woods, so he showed Mrs. Wabbles all the nooks, sly corners, and sheltered spots, but it was useless; she positively refused to build a nest beneath the trees. She flew away to the fields, and Wabbles followed her.
Three weeks later, when returning from town, I heard his familiar call by the roadside. He came hurriedly through the bushes and fluttered to my feet. He appeared overjoyed to see me, and greedily ate the cracker-crumbs I gave him. When he flew away, I followed him. He led me a long distance to a field, where I found Mrs. Wabbles sitting on four dainty, speckled eggs. The nest was in the open field, beneath a tuft of grass.
Three baby sparrows were reared from this nest. When they were big enough to fly, I expected that Wabbles would move his whole family to the woods, provided Mrs. Wabbles would consent, which I much doubted. Sure enough, early in autumn Wabbles returned, but he was alone. I fancied that he had deserted his family for my companionship and a life in the woods. But not so. His visit was a matter of business. He wanted to know how the supplies of food held out. After he had satisfied himself he flew away, but the next day returned with one of the baby birds. Wabbles fussed over this bird all day long. He called the little one into the dooryard and stuffed it with crumbs, then into the garden and stuffed it with insects. He kept up a constant chirping meanwhile, and I thought he made much of the fuss and bustle to keep the baby from being homesick. That night he flew away with his charge, and the next day did not appear. Undoubtedly Mrs. Wabbles had given him a piece of her mind for taking her baby to the woods.
Three days later, however, Wabbles returned, and brought with him two of the babies. This day, for fuss and bustle, was like the first, but that night, instead of taking the birds out to the fields, he put them to bed in a hemlock-tree near my hammock, after which he flew away. The next day he brought in the other baby, leaving Mrs. Wabbles childless and alone. That night Wabbles put the three little ones to bed in the same hemlock-tree, and then flew back to his deserted mate.
Before dark I looked for the young birds, and found them on a twig about a man's height from the ground, sitting side by side and cunningly concealed by hemlock spray. When I approached, three little heads turned and six bright eyes looked on me, but not with fear. I suppose Wabbles had told them all about the hermit, and they knew I would not harm them.
The next morning Wabbles returned, and Mrs. Wabbles was with him. She at once took charge of her babies, and tried to entice them away. But Wabbles, the sly rogue, hopped into the dooryard, and I heard him calling, "Tsp, tsp," and the little fellows heard him, too, and, remembering the food, flew to him. Mrs. Wabbles was obliged to give in.
Wabbles is not wholly unknown to notoriety. Many of the summer residents that visited my cabin had made his acquaintance, and the story of the little bird that would desert the fields for a hermit-life in the woods has doubtless often been told in many a distant home.
Before the birds had departed in migration, Wabbles's little wife had become contented and happy in the cabin dooryard. She was of a confiding nature, and in a remarkably short time would take food from my hand. Wabbles and his family lingered about the cabin until the thermometer registered ten above. The fifteenth of March Wabbles returned to my dooryard. His wife and family appeared a week later.
For some reason, known only to bird-life, the male birds of most species return from the south about a week before the females and young birds.
When the nesting-season approached Wabbles and his wife located their family in a less wooded growth, on the road to the city. The old birds returned to the dooryard, and Mrs. Wabbles made a nest where a little patch of grass had sprung up between the ledges.
Wabbles and I, during the summer, renewed the friendly relations that had existed when he led the life of a bachelor. He would come to me for food at all hours of the day. When I gave him his favorite food, cookie, he would reward me with a song. He would fly to a limb about four feet above my head and sing one song, and then fly away to his mate. Sometimes I could coax him to repeat the song by talking to him earnestly and rapidly. My visitors thought that the song was strange, and often it was suggested that it was on account of the nearness of the singer. But the song was not the one with which they were familiar. It was a new song, low, sweet, and tender, with nothing in it to remind one of the loud, joyous carol heard in the springtime.
Wabbles called me at daybreak every morning. He was jealous of the other birds, and drove them away, when he thought they were too friendly with me. A catbird and a veery hopped about my hammock mornings, and Wabbles attacked them so furiously that it made me wonder why they did not keep away for good. Wabbles did not allow other birds to eat in the dooryard until he had satisfied his appetite. Visitors asserted that he was a tyrant, but I did not look at his warlike actions in that light. He thought that he owned the dooryard, and other birds were trespassers.
Near my cabin there is a notice posted forbidding trespass, and it alludes sarcastically to "wood-cutting thieves." This sign was put up because sometimes dead, worthless wood was carried away from the lot. Wabbles is willing that the birds may enjoy the things in the dooryard after he is satisfied, but the human fellow preferred to let the wood rot on the ground.
The feathered biped's humanity contrasts sharply with the human biped's brutality.
Mrs. Wabbles soon had four little mouths to feed, and she worked early and late. The heat was so intense that every little while she would seek the shade, and rest with her wings drooping and her bill open. Notwithstanding the strain on her limited strength, she never showed impatience, but was always the same confiding little bird.
The Wabbles family enjoyed life in the woods. Through the summer and fall months, Wabbles set up a singing-school and trained his boys to sing the mating-song of his species.
Late in the fall death entered the family circle. A boy from the city mistook poor Mrs. Wabbles for an English sparrow and shot her to death. Wabbles mourned for his little wife, and he was not the only mourner. I had become attached to the gentle bird, and I was grievously pained by her tragic death.
Wabbles lost his joyous manner. He watched over his motherless babies with gentle care, but not a song did I hear after the tragedy. Later, he conducted the young birds to a warmer climate, and was lost to me until the next March.
When Wabbles returned in the spring he was alone, and his children did not appear later. I suppose some motherly bird had adopted the bereaved family, to take them into the fields or pastures.
In April, Wabbles deserted me for three days, then returned with another wife. This was an old bird, probably a widow. It was evident from the first that she thought Wabbles's first wife had spoiled him. She bossed him around in grand style. I tried to get acquainted with her, but, with a lordly air, she gave me to understand that she did not associate with hermits. After two days she ordered Wabbles out to the fields, and I did not see him again till October. He came in twice before migration. That was all. Wabbles, the warrior, was henpecked.
The next spring Wabbles returned from the South early in March. I think he was glad to escape from his wife, but three weeks later she swooped down on him, and packed him off to the pastures.
For eleven years Wabbles has lived with his second wife. Every spring he comes to the cabin for a long visit, but I seldom see much of him in the fall. Once I did not see him at all, and reported that probably he was dead, but the next spring he turned up as usual.
It is now fourteen years since I removed the shot from Wabbles's wing. He does not grow old in looks and is yet good for many years, if his wife does not worry him to death.
Dear old Wabbles. He has blessed me with a friendship as sincere and lasting as any that can spring from the human heart. As the years go by, I am more and more impressed with the little bird's individuality. Long ago he proved to me that he possessed a moral sense.
When Wabbles finds birds in the dooryard he threatens them for a short time, then darts at the nearest, and the feathers fly. After he has satisfied his appetite he will let the other birds return to glean the dooryard. He does not want to deprive them of food, but insists that they shall await his pleasure. Sometimes he will sing while the birds are eating. He firmly believes that he holds a mortgage on the dooryard, or, perhaps, that he is a joint owner with me; but he insists that his property rights must be respected.
WABBLES.
One afternoon I found a wounded chickadee in the dooryard. Some wretch had shot away one leg and had injured a wing besides. I thought Wabbles would make short work of the helpless bird, but instead he hopped around him and talked to him in a low tone. There was no threat in his notes such as he uttered when angry. Up to the time that Wabbles left in migration the chickadee was allowed the freedom of the cabin dooryard.
When Wabbles's first wife was alive, he returned one spring the tenth day of March, and brought with him a male linnet. I was surprised, for it was peculiar that a linnet should return in migration three weeks before the usual time. A week later Mrs. Wabbles returned, and with her was the mate to the linnet. This incident opened up a wide field for reflection. It proved that two species of the bird family could communicate ideas to each other.
These birds must have met in the South. In the course of bird gossip either the linnets or sparrows had announced that the summer home was on Cape Ann. "That is where we live," is the glad reply, so the birds, having come from the same locality, associate together. Wabbles tells them about the hermit and the dooryard crowded with food. In some way he induced the male linnet to accompany him, three weeks out of season, with the understanding that Mrs. Wabbles, a week later, would pilot the female linnet to her husband. It must be remembered that linnets do not inhabit the woods. Wabbles gave the freedom of the dooryard to the linnets. They were invited guests, and were treated as such. It all goes to show that Wabbles knows what belongs to good breeding and possesses a moral sense.
