Souvenirs of an Empty Nest

There are second broods in some birdnests; but the second brood may be only Souvenirs!

When the household of which I am a member arrived at the stone cottage, Castle-Crag-on-The-Sound, we found a custodian in charge, — a “ light-winged dryad,” who had built her own small summer dwelling in a coign of vantage offered by the larger dwelling of a friendly bird-loving humanity. To my great delight, I discovered, just outside my window, — firmly based in a fork of stout Virginia creeper, — a remarkably fine specimen of robin-architecture. One treasured hope it already contained; and this, in due time, was succeeded by three other entirely similar treasures. And now began the serious brooding of those treasures; the hen-bird taking up her position scarcely two yards away from my writing-table. Between us was but window-glass, which birds, evidently, regard as non-existent (witness their persistent efforts to make their escape therethrough when, by accident, they have flown inside the house). The patient sitter apparently was in nowise made anxious by the close proximity of a human neighbor; and the mate, who failed not in his duties of refection, after sounding one shrill note of protest at my presence, relegated me to the position of, at least, friendly irrelevance. Yet I am not sure of the irrelevance; for, during the long hours of her immobile industry, the hen-bird (so I flattered myself) appeared sometimes to regard me as a slightly diverting object about which she even indulged in mildly curious speculation. That inspection by a bird’s eye! It has, for me, always something of the (imagined) look of an accusing Angel visiting on me all the unanswerable inquiries as to why the winged biped has had so much to suffer from the greater wingless order!

There came a morning when, in place of treasures in “robin’s egg blue,”that patiently brooded nest revealed a motley tinted mass of life, — apparently one tender, rhythmically palpitating body, but with four heads, four pairs of fastclosed eyes, — and (surely, not least salient feature) four “star-ypointing” bills outlined in yellow! I shall never know how many hours I wasted, in the succeeding days, during which time the up-bringing of that healthy and eager brood occupied our attention, — the parent birds’, and mine, by proxy of sympathy. I longed more practically to coöperate in the prodigious labor of serving those ever yawning throats; but having heard much as to the jealousy of parent birds, I discreetly refrained. And yet, my precaution was, perhaps, needless; for, if the old birds had entertained doubts as to the harmlessness of the neighbor on the other side of the window-pane, the fledgelings did not participate in such doubts. On my approaching the window, four wide-open bills, at once, and with one accord, invited my coöperation! Not responding to this appeal, I became an object of solemn-eyed wonder, — of reproach, even!

The young birds, too, I fancied, had their hours of ennui, while their plumage was gradually and raggedly putting forth (oh, those floating pennons of down along the fledgeling’s olive back!). One, manifestly the eldest, appeared to find some diversion in pecking at my finger when I lightly tapped on the pane. Certainly fear was not in his demeanor. This eldest brother, a little later, had a lordly way of stepping upon his younger brothers and sisters, while, with the loudest of loud chirps, he declared his rights of primogeniture. And he it was, as I believe, who led the first and final Ausflug from the dear, overcrowded nest!

I have greatly missed my feathered neighbors, whose flying experiments, accompanied by the joyful outcries of the whole family, were continued for two or three days under their and my window. Thereafter, I was obliged to admit, I failed to distinguish this brood from the many other happy clans that the season was marshaling with subtle, far-off provision of southward flight.

It is only the Sentimental Contributor (if such there be) who will countenance the present writer in her recounting of the Souvenirs that have taken possession of — have brooded over — have hovered about, that twig-built domicile of summer joy, and that, now, in the late autumn, have resolved themselves into

A SONG OF THE DESERTED NEST