I

WONDER what a robin calls a thrush. Does it recognize its relationship? If it does, American though it be, it likely would use the old English "coz," not cousin. A robin is not given to unnecessary speech; it is only on occasion that it has much to say. It saves its voice for the mornings and evenings. And how cultured is that voice, never vulgar nor profane, not even when excited. How different is the blackbird, the grackle, especially when there are a number together. Did any one ever hear such billingsgate! And the sparrow too is pretty bad-but then of course the sparrow is brought up on the streets, so it can be forgiven. I would not be surprised if now, with the advent of the automobile and the sparrow's retirement to the farm, its speech might be radically altered. It may lose that shrillness so necessary if it is to be heard above the city noises, and become softer and milder.

What becomes of the spots on a fledgling robin? One day you see them, and the next time you see them, as an Irishman might say, they are gone. What a source of anxiety they must be to the parents-especially to the father. Here, apparently, is a brood of young thrush. That these spotted children will later prove to be regular robins can hardly be ex

pected with any confidence. And where do the spots come from, and why do they go? You can get rid of freckles. All you have to do is to wash your face in running water and repeat the proper words, and the freckles will pass to the nearest swallow. But why to a swallow? What does the swallow do with them? It does not keep them. Does it, in turn, pass them on, and has possibly the mother robin learned this same useful spell? Does she simply have to wait until she can get her child to the water?

But what I started to say was, I wish I knew what the birds call each other, or even more, what they call themselves. The textbooks tell you nothing. They do not know; and the worst of it is, not wishing to acknowledge this ignorance, they make up names. Hylocichla mustelina-that is what the book says is the name of this thrush down there by the edge of the woods. It is absurd. The name does not even suggest a thrush. Adam had more sense. Only once did he slip up and that was with the catbird. It may have been in the twilight, at the end of a long, hard day, and Adam may not have been able to see very clearly; moreover, he may just have heard the embarrassed candidate for baptism give its pecu

liar cat-like mate call. "What's that?" he would have asked Eve. "It's a bird," she would have answered. "Oh well, call it a catbird." It was a grievous error; this beautiful, gray, improvising songster has suffered in consequence from that day to this. However, the pseudo-ornithologists have no method at all, not even imagination-just pedantry and egoism. Old Tom Paine used to say that if you want to know what men think about God, then study theology; but if you want to know God, then study his works. So, I say, if you want to know what men think about birdsor at least what some men thinkthen study the textbooks; but if you want to know birds, then study birds, get acquainted with them, live with them. Hylocichla mustelina! As I repeat the name I hear first a thrum of ukuleles, and then when I reach its second part there comes a great Roman shout, “A Noi!” and I see a forest of uplifted arms.

But it is not only the birds' names I am interested in-it is their language as well. And here I have made more progress. At least, I can say, as most of us do when we are asked if we know French, "Oh, I understand it pretty well, but I cannot speak it." So too with the birds. I understand them indeed, but I cannot talk back. I am a perfect duffer in conversation with them; I cannot get their accent. I whistle to them, try to imitate them, and they listen respectfully for a while, and then give it up. The catbird especially tries to understand, and he will, too, always answer; but he does it in a way as though he were saying, "Sorry! I really cannot make you out-but now just listen to me!"

In fact, though I speak of success, I have so far acquired hardly half a dozen of their words, and even one of these I take no satisfaction in because I suspect that it may be not bird language at all, but just English. The catbird calling me to drive away a cat does so with a distinctly uttered, "Kt! Kt!" But is this not simply in recognition of my own linguistic limitations? I fear so, and so, I say, my understanding here gives me no pride of accomplishment. However, through eavesdropping, I have learned some of their small talk, especially, I am ashamed to say, of their lovemaking and quarreling. Then there is that little "phut-phut," a very tiny, almost whispered "phut-phut," used by the wrens in putting their youngsters to sleep. Mother wren, having decided to call it a day, retires to a limb near by for rest and relaxation. But she keeps her eye on her house. Out come the stretched necks of the children, calling for More! Then a few rapid words from the mother and in they go again. What she says is, of course, "Pull in your heads and go to sleep," but I cannot give it all in her vernacular— only this little "phut-phut.”

They say that birds do not use consonants in their language-what a job then it would be to write bird language in Hebrew-but this statement is true only of their songs, not of their intimate conversation. And I have a feeling that we might learn something of them there. The fact is, you know, they use no words at all when singing, just a sort of openthroated, unspellable "la-la-la," and that seems to me a very good way.

But speaking of open throats, what a task is this infant-feeding! The

turned from his day's work and discovered what had happened. He, and later his wife, studied the situation for nearly an hour and then, having decided that the thing was hopeless, they deliberately abandoned their home-fortunately at that time having no one in the nursery and not even any luggage. Then, within a few days, the wrens came, but only two of them; and they, the little rascals, have since used both of the houses-moving from one to the other in the middle of the season, to avoid the necessity of doing any house-cleaning.

It is not only the feeding of the youngsters that keeps the mothers busy, there are many other duties, much instruction to be given. A flapper came up on our porch the other day, and stood there looking us over. For once here was a flapper with a stare that was quite unassumed. What chances these fledglings take! They do not know enough to be afraid. When the robin mother appeared there was a scene indeeda scene indeed such scolding, such hustling and slapping with wings, until shelter was reached. And the mother was right, even though in this particular case no harm would have befallen. That old saying, Spare the rod and spoil the child, is not half bad-especially when the rod here is taken reasonably as connoting the exercise of wise authority. Children have brains possibly-but there is one thing they do not have and cannot have, and that is judgment. Judgment rests upon knowledge, real knowledge, and it calls too for experience. What children get in their early experimenting is merely sensa

tion. To convert this sensation into actual experience of life, time is required. There must be accumulation and coördination; interpretation must be learned, and a true sense of values. One cannot accomplish this overnight, nor unguided. Flappers will never "save society," "plan a new morality," "effect a more stable scheme of life." They are just healthy little animals, supplying energy to the world, not direction. They make no valuable social contribution whatever until they begin to grow away from themselves-like the communism of Russia, they are successful only in so far as they become something else.

But now here is a delicate point, one calling for the exercise of discretion. The robin beats up its runaway child, but it knows when to stop, when to give over its care, when to hand over its responsibility. This modern practice of letting the children occupy the whole of our lives, not only in childhood when they need us, but long after childhood when it is their pleasure not their necessity that is in question, is not going to get us anywhere—anywhere that we shall like. Longfellow had the right idea—give the children an hour. But alas, now, before we can attain to this, we shall have first to persuade our present masters to give an hour to us.

Comes a pause in the day's occupa

tions,

That is known as the Old Folks' Hour.

Let us try to get this. It may turn out to be that opening which shall lead on to a greater freedom, possibly even to the recovery of our sovereignty.

Nor is it only our pleasure and convenience that are at stake here, there is also to be considered the effect of our slavery on progress in general. How shall we ever get on if we are continually turning back to the beginning? We start on a seventy year journey. Our taximeters clip along merrily and we make, say, a thirty year advance—and then suddenly we halt-"Let's go back and help the youngsters." And back we go, and for the next twenty-five or more years we cover again the ground already passed over-talking baby talk, sharing in the children's games, playing parchesi, fumbling at school lessons, trying to reunderstand and to reënjoy the inanities of college. No wonder we never grow up! When we finally get leisure, that is, when the children, now grown, get tired of our fussing and try to avoid us, then we look at the dial and find that already some fifty-five or sixty years have been ticked off. And where are we? Just where we were when the figure stood at thirty-and not so well off as we were then, for now we have no longer the energy of thirty. We are too old to look ahead with ambition. "Habit has now become stronger than desire, and anticipation has ceased to be hope."

But what of the next generation? Will it not have profited by our sacrifice? How can it? When these children of ours reach thirty they will do exactly what we are doing. No wonder man has made no mental progress since the days of the early Greeks. Were it not for our familyneglecting and generally irresponsible inventors, there could be no progress at all. It is the inventors who are carrying us, giving us buttons to

push and thus enabling us to deceive ourselves into thinking that we are cleverer than we are. How much wiser are the birds. Just as soon as their children are able to fend for themselves, they drop them flat, and go go off on their own business.

22

And they are wise too in other ways, these birds, wise in the great principles of life, in all that really counts for the species. They are Nature's own children, with none of the failures of our own vaunted but artificial superiority. Life they take as the day brings it. They are happy when happiness is possible. They do not waste their good time, as we do, worrying about the bad time that may come. For our worry they substitute caution, and they observe even this subconciously, not fearfully.

See them in their human friendships. They do not fly into our hands, but that does not mean that they do not like us. They are in this somewhat like those people who are not superstitious but who, nevertheless, will not sit down thirteen at tablethey are withheld by their ancient inheritances, their instinct compels them to play safe. And so they differ too in regard to what they feel is safe this again being a matter of old experience. Here is the cardinal, the most timid of all my regular tenants. Possibly he has been taught by his forefathers that this beautiful color of his has its disadvantages, that there are wicked people who would rob him, take his coat from his back. No wonder His Eminence is inclined to a position high in the trees. And yet he likes me and follows me even though keeping at a