Troubles in Housekeeping

The first indications of the coming of the bluebirds were a few faint rumors. Just a note now and then from far away, a vague suggestion of song, a wandering voice that presaged the arrival of the little creatures in blue.

Then came on a cold snap and a light flurry of snow. There was not a sound of the murmuring song again for over a week.

But soon the snow melted, the weather gradually got warmer, and one sunshiny day there was the bluebird, sitting on one of the posts of the grape trellis. His appearance was almost as sudden and unannounced as a rain would be that comes without gathering of clouds. It seemed much as if he had dropped from the sky and brought some of its blue with him.

He sat on the post, singing his early song. Some one has said that he should be called the national bird, because he wears the national colors, red, white, and blue. The red is a little dull, like the red in an old flag, but this only strengthens the claim that is made for his national characteristics.

And surely he has the color of the red earth on his breast, and the color of the blue heavens on his back, and between the two colors he wears the white of the clouds that hover between these two. In him the heavenly and the earthly meet and are friends, not alone in the colors he wears, but in the faultless nature of the bird himself. And so both color and character in him betoken that between heaven and earth peace has been proclaimed, good-will toward men.

Many careful observers all agree that bluebirds never utter a harsh, unpleasant note. Even when they are driven to defend their rights, they do not scold and seem to get into a fury, as do the wrens and the sparrows. There is a gentleness about them always that is indescribable, as well as being something of an example to humanity itself.

The arrival of the bluebirds is a certain token of the spring. Soon the plow will be turning furrows in the fields; and in a little time the fruit trees will be a perfect show of blossoms, and the air be filled with perfume.

The first time you see him will probably be in March or the first of April. He has come from the southland and the far-away islands of the Indies.

John Burroughs, with his fine imagination, thinks he hears the bluebird crying in the early spring, “Bermuda! Bermuda! Bermuda!” and we know that the mild climate of spring, like that of Bermuda, is about to break the hard, long reign of Winter.

First came Mr. Bluebird, like a hardy pioneer, a week or two in advance of Mrs. Bluebird. By the time she arrived, the ground was being turned in the garden as fast as a spade and a strong back could do it.

Mr. Bluebird was very devoted to his mate. There never was a happier or more faithful husband than he. He followed her wherever she went, her constant attendant. He sang to her, he sang for her; he always was demonstrative, sometimes almost hilarious, in his joy.

She seemed more businesslike, acting as if she had very serious work to do. He might live on love if he chose, but she had work to do, and was certainly going about it. He might look at the sky and sing; she must look around for a house, and build her nest.

And soon one fine morning a rival appeared. Mr. Bluebird left his wife at once, and went after the intruder in a hurry. He chased him from place to place, reproving, rebuking the while, and always driving him farther away. Then feeling that he had done the work well and taught his enemy a good lesson, he came back and sang the triumphs of the moment and the transports of his joy.

For the first few days of their honeymoon, his affectionate attentions to his wife were constant and very marked. He seemed to think that he must even feed her, and one might easily imagine that his song, as well as his attentions, became somewhat tiresome to her at length. Anyway, she turned his energies to the matter of finding a nesting-place.

He soon adjusted himself to the new proposition, and led the way by examining the dove-house in the peak of the barn. He went in through one of the many entrances, came out, and talked to his wife about it. She seemed to get enough interested in the matter to enter and look the place over. Coming out, they had another council. She seemed to find some objections, he seemed to hesitate, and wanted a minute in which to think it over. Then he went inside again, and soon came out. They talked the matter over again. She had to enter and make another examination.

She seemed to yield rather reluctantly. They began as if to build the nest. She gathered a few grasses. Then she flew away, as much as to say, “I don’t like it at all.” He coaxed, sang, and coaxed some more, but she was determined. Finally he let her have her way, and they hunted as before.

A new place attracted his attentions. Between the roof of the kitchen and the sloping eaves of the upright part of the house was a rain-trough. Mr. Bluebird peered in here, and the place looked very promising to him. He called to Mrs. Bluebird. She had been sunning herself on the roof of the shed, but she came forthwith.

He showed her the place under the eaves; but when he came out this time, two English sparrows came out close behind him. They had blood in their eyes. They were intensely enraged at the intrusion of Mr. Bluebird. They went at him in a way that started the feathers. Mrs. Bluebird tried to explain, but they answered by tearing her feathers.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird sought to stay the wrath of the fighters; they tried to explain, to apologize, but there was no chance for anything of the sort. Several more sparrows appeared around the corner, and they promptly joined the fray. The bluebirds realized now, if they had not before, that it was time for them to leave, and leave they did, in precipitate, headlong flight.

They settled down on a far-away fence to dress wounds and rearrange toilets. It was a hard world,— a hard world for bluebirds. But half an hour afterward Mr. Bluebird was lifting his wings and quavering, “Cheerily, cheerily.” And when his wife made a remark or two, he showed his appreciation and concord by replying, “Tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly.”

It seems that Mr. Bluebird was a trifle discouraged by this time in the matter of hunting house sites, and declined in honor of his wife. A little later he was singing in glee from the peak of the shed. She had found a knot hole in the side of the shed; it led in between the sheathing and gave them a snug place for a home; but they would never be able to live there— the shed was the home of a colony of rats. The birds gave up this place inside of three days.

By this time the man was interested. The first spare time he had, he built a box, put it on a pole, fastened a collar of tin about the pole to keep down prowling cats, and set the thing in the garden, among the blackberry vines.

The very next day Mr. Bluebird was singing out the raptures of his heart, while his wife was busy, going back and forth, arranging her nest. He never sat still very long at a time. He was Mrs. Bluebird’s constant attendant. Always a little distance ahead of her, he led the way while she gathered the material. He carried not so much as a straw for her. Like the Indian’s squaw, she did all the work. He sang and acted as her guard and policeman.

She would enter the box and arrange her material in the nest. Then she would withdraw, and wait for him to go in and inspect her work. He would soon come out and exclaim most encouragingly, “Excellent, excellent! Tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly!”

Thus encouraged, she would start for new material, he flying out in advance of her to see that no harm came to her, and to brave all the dangers himself. In due time they had their nest of soft grass all completed, and soon four eggs appeared.

About this time Mr. Bluebird seemed to put on a little extra by way of singing. He seemed to be wonderfully proud of the little blue mate and her eggs, and guarded them most faithfully and tenderly. He was forever on the watch fondly, and always seemed to be saying, “We will be happy, happy.”