It began out in the shady old orchard where a robin and a catbird were nesting in the same apple tree. Dear little Mrs. Robin was a young thing, and it was her first nest. She had found a beautiful long piece of twine and was doing her best to weave it in properly, when part of the building material slipped, and in another moment there it was, dangling forlornly at the end of the twine.
"Phut-phut-coquillicot," squawked the catbird whose home was in the upper flat. "Ho, ho! what a way to build a nest! Phoo phoo! anybody would know better than that."
"Cheer up, dearie," sang Mr. Robin as he saw his little wife almost ready to cry. "Try again, cheerily, cheerily. We'll pull it up, tuck it in here, reef it in there, and it will be as good as new. Cheer up, I'm he-re!"
"Ha, ha," laughed the catbird, jerking his tail in derision. "Such a nest, woven with a string and lined with mud!"
"You would better look at home," replied Mr. Robin, losing his temper. "Your own nest is nothing but a scrap basket--just coarse twigs and rags, and bits of newspaper. Everyone knows what a wretched nest you build, for all your soft root-lining. You would better keep still about nest-building."
"Twee-tee-ze," sweetly lisped a cedar bird who sat with her friends on a limb near by. "Don't be angry with each other, dear birds. Always be gentle, always be kind; each has his own way of building. Twee-tee-ze!"
"That's so," said the catbird, who, for all his teasing, was a good-natured fellow at heart. "Forgive me, Robin. I was only in fun, and after all I will confess my wife and I are poor nest-builders. See here, suppose we call a birds' convention and discuss the best and most modern way of building. What do you think of that?"
"Cheerily, cheerily," replied Mr. Robin, cocking his head on one side. "I like our own adobe cottage, but at the same time I believe in progress. You would like it, wouldn't you, dearie, cheery, cheery?"
Poor little Mrs. Robin, who was tugging with might and main at the piece of twine, really felt the need of some lessons, and so readily gave her consent.
There was a great twittering in the orchard and wood when Mr. Catbird brought the birds the invitation.
"How perfectly ridiculous!" sneered the cowbird. "Who wants to know anything about nest-building, I'd like to know?"
"Not you, I am very sure," called out the red-eyed vireo. "You lay your eggs in our nests every time you get a chance, you lazy, wicked bird, and we little birds have to raise your big babies."
"Never mind," said the summer yellow bird. "I've found a way to outwit her. I build right over her great egg a false bottom to my nest of pretty milk-weed flax. Then if she troubles me again I build another and another, until sometimes I have raised my babies in a four-story nest, but how happy we were there in peace and quiet!"
As all the birds agreed that the convention would be very pleasant as well as instructive, every one accepted the invitation except the cowbird. She tried to induce the cuckoo family to refuse, but Mr. Cuckoo said that although their English cousins were too shiftless to build, they, as American birds, were trying to do their best. They should certainly attend, hoping to gain some new ideas in building.
The convention was held in the orchard one lovely morning in May. The sky was deeply blue with soft banners of fleecy white cloud floating across it. The apple and peach trees were hung with perfumed garlands of white and pink and green, and from every bough came the gay voices of the little feathered people.
It was a dignified old black crow who called the meeting to order at the request of Mr. Robin, but it was Mr. Catbird who took the chair, and very handsome he looked in his satin-gray coat and black velvet cap.
"Friends and fellow birds," he began impressively. "We have assembled here as you know, to discuss the interesting question of nest-building. We ourselves must admit that we have failed to discover the best method, and we shall be glad to hear from every bird who thinks he understands the fine points of nest architecture."
"Ker-r-uck, Mr. Chairman," said Mr. Red-headed woodpecker, pompously clearing his throat. "We woodpeckers are the best nest-builders in the world, as is well known, and it has been a source of much amusement to us to see how absurdly the rest of you build. Now there is but one proper way. A deep hole must be excavated in a tree. If the tree is somewhat decayed, so much the better. The chips and wood dust must be used for lining. Follow this plan, and you have the safest and most comfortable nest for birdlings to be imagined."
"This is the greatest nonsense, Mr. Chairman," exclaimed Mr. kingbird in a harsh voice. "The only place for a nest is in the orchard, high up in the tree and on the very tip of the limb. Build it with stalks, grasses, and moss; line it with plant-down and soft rootlets, and you have a wind-rocked cradle fit for a prince--yes, for the son of a kingbird!"
"Listen to me, listen to me, Mr. Chairman, please," a sweet voice cried. Oh, what a beauty he was! his coat so glossy black, his vest snowy white, and a shirt-front of the loveliest pink.
"Mr. rose-breast grosbeak has the floor," said Mr. Catbird, with a deep bow.
"What I wanted to say, Mr. Chairman," went on Mr. Grosbeak in his silvery voice, "was, that nest-building does not make all of bird life. They tell me we build a very poor sort of a nest, but I help my little wife by tending the birdlings, sitting on the nest myself when she needs an outing; and then I sing the very sweetest lullaby I know. Oh, we are so happy!"
"So happy!" shyly whispered his plain little mate, who sat beside him.
"Very pretty, but a bit sentimental, Mr. Chairman," said the barn swallow, who had just arrived. "But as for a building site, give me a good firm rafter with a deep nest woven of grass and mud and lined with downy chicken feathers. That's the nest for me!"
"Mr. Chairman, Mr. Chairman!" The sweet voice of the shy oven-bird could scarcely make itself heard.
"Louder, louder!" demanded the birds on the farthest peach tree.
"I was about to say," went on the oven-bird, gently, "that a very satisfactory nest can be made in a pretty mound of grass, stalks, and rootlets, built upon the ground. Arch the roof with soft, dry leaves; leave an opening upon one side, and draw the grass so closely over this that no one but yourself can discover the door. Wonderfully cozy you and your babies will be in your little oven-bed."
"I am the American goldfinch, Mr. Chairman," said a beautiful little fellow in a uniform of black and gold. "My nest is a jewel casket set high in some slender sapling that bends and sways with every breeze. We weave our pretty cradle of moss and lichens, and when it is finished we line it with the silken down of the thistle. In it our tiny eggs rest like blue gems in a silver setting."
"There is nothing in the world of nests so perfect as our fairy basket," peeped a bit of a bird that looked like a green beryl with a flash of flame at its throat.
"It's the ruby-throated hummingbird," twittered all the birds, bending forward to get a better view of the newcomer.
"We saddle our exquisite cradle near some knot on a gnarled and moss-grown tree, so skillfully that clever indeed are the eyes that discover it. Bits of bark and tiny lichens we glue with saliva to the dainty cup, then line it delicately with the fluff of the cat-tail; and in this perfect setting rest the two wee pearl-like eggs."
"We build!" shrieked an angry little voice. Another green beryl, but without the ruby at the throat, flashed into the circle. "What do you ever do but sip honey the live-long day? Upon me falls all the labor of building and the care of the birdlings, for who ever saw a male humming-bird near the nest?" And with a furious dash Mrs. Humming-bird drove her tiny husband away before her.
"How sad!" murmured loving little Mr. and Mrs. Grosbeak, and they nestled closer together.
"Mr. Chairman, may I speak in meeting?" asked a nervous little brown bird that fidgeted and bobbed on a twig near by.
"We shall be most pleased to hear from Mistress Jenny wren," replied Mr. Catbird with a flourish.
"Now I hope you will all excuse me, but it seems to me you are talking a great deal of folly," said Mrs. Wren, flitting and hopping about in her jerky little way. "I've nested in everything, from the bung-hole of a barrel to an old felt hat, and I've raised as nice children as anybody need without all this fuss and feathers."
"How common! How very plebian!" whispered all the birds, and those nearest poor Jenny Wren drew farther back upon the branch.
"Mr. Chairman!"
"Hush, hush," murmured the birds. "Mr. Baltimore Orole is about to speak."
A real aristocrat he seemed, slender and trim, as he stood there in his uniform of orange and black, the livery of the good LORD BALTIMORE, for whom he was named.
"Mr. Chairman," he began, with dignity. "I do not come to boast of our building, yet in poetry and prose we have been duly celebrated as being the best architects of the world. Neither upon the ground, nor upon a limb or sapling, do we choose to fashion our house, but we weave a hammock and swing it securely from some bough, that the passing breeze may rock our babies to rest. First, my little mate builds a strong framework of shreds of bark, milkweed stalks, and horsehair, and upon this is woven a graceful pouch about seven inches deep. Bits of string, threads of silk, and sometimes gay yarns are used to brighten the soft gray tone. To this swinging cradel we trust our six white eggs, so prettily etched with black. This seems the only reasonable and artistic way to build a nest."
"Caw, caw, caw!" said the old black crow who had called the meeting to order. He had been sitting for some time with his eyes closed, deeply meditating. "Caw, Mr. Chairman, caw! We have listened attentively this morning to many opinions by many birds, and yet, to my poor brain, it seems that we are coming out just where we went in. Can you weave like the oriole, build a mound like the oven-bird, or bore a hole like the woodpecker? I'm sure I can't. The only way for me is to put together a rickety, coarse old nest high up in a tree-top. So my mother built, so I build, so my children must build. This is all nonsense. Caw! caw! Anyway, I have no more time to waste," and away he flapped toward the cornfield.
The birds looked blankly at each other. It was all so true. As Mr. Crow said, not one other bird could build like the oriole, the oven-bird, or the woodpecker.
"And, after all, do we wish to, Mr. Chairman?" asked the robin. "My little mud nest that my mate smoothes with her soft breast is very dear to me. Each of us loves his own nest. Is not that so?"
"Yes, yes!" cried the birds in a chorus.
"Then let us sing our morning roundelay and adjourn," said the catbird.
So out in the orchard arose a jubilate. Loud and sweet it rang; and these are the words of their song: