Sky Birds of Late Winter

As temperatures have warmed in recent days, a variety of bird sounds have become obvious among the habitats of Valentine.

The Eurasian Collared Doves have been especially expressive while staking a claim on a breeding space, within town and northward about the Mill Pond. The few bright red cardinals can be heard early in the morning.

Robins are actively establishing their claim to a breeding space. They have been noted upon one fence or another, just a few feet apart, while they hop around - a few feet apart - to establish territorial dominance. Bald eagles are sitting on their nest. Red-tailed Hawks have their place to nest. Owls are also involved, caring for their early season nest.

Especially subtle and exquisite during these spring times is the bird with a cerulean color that mimics the hue of the day's sky. The dramatic featheration of the blue bird is distinctly unique. The feathers are at their prime as the males express the claim to a territory for this season.

The Eastern Bluebirds arrived with warmer weather. They perch atop tree snags, upon utility wires, fences or other land features while being focused upon finding something edible, notably early season insects.

The coloration of these birds is dramatic as they renew their residence. The vivid blue on their back is enhanced by a brown and white chest. Their song is a pleasant phrase of soft whistles, that spreads across their chosen territory.

Females have lesser in color but are most essential for the coming breeding season.

When seen near to the other, the larger robin seems to not only have a lesser quality of a song, but also looks rather drab in any comparison of coloration.

Bluebirds are regular residents on the north side of Valentine, and elsewhere. Their daily activity can be enjoyed as a special treat these early days of an ascending spring. Placing a nest box in suitable habitat can be a way to welcome a pair to raise a brood. Their beauty is something for any avian aficionado to appreciate.

Winter is not yet done, as several Dark-eyed Junco are still seen on a daily basis, as they search for food.

Soon the wrens will arrive, and they will gather among the many nest boxes prevalent on the north side of the Mill Pond. There will soon be a plethora of wrenly activity because there are a big bunch of nest boxes where they can raise a brood.

Spring has arrived and any bird enthusiast can take their binoculars and look upon their back yard, the city park or most any place to appreciate the season's birds. Notable places within walking distance include the Mill Pond, city park and the fish hatchery. Valentine has many wild places to enjoy birds!

Impromptu To a Bluebird

Impromptu. — To a Blue Bird,
Singing on a cold frosty morning, — after several warm days.

Come hither, sweet bird, the cold wind hath harmed thee,

Come warm they chill'd limbs, and partake my repast;

A few sunny days from the covert have charmed thee,

As hope told thee, falsely, the winter was past.

 

Thy song of the spring a sweet foretaste has given,

Of delights ever new, ever smiling and gay,

Of young buds, and fresh flowers, and the soft blue of Heaven,

The rich verdure of earth, and the warm airs of May.

 

In thy fate, hapless bird, O! 'tis plain to discover

An emblem of life in its early spring morn,

When the young heart comes forth with hope glowing all over,

And shrinks at the touch of the cold world's chill scorn.

Myra. February 19, 1824.

March 12, 1825. Cincinnati Literary Gazette 3(11): 88.

The Blue Bird and Songsters of Spring

By P. Williamson.

Welcome, sweet bird, whose cheering note shall bring

The first "glad tidings" of approaching spring;

Welcome to this thy long deserted home,

From whence rude winter forced thee far to roam.

 

Thou com'st again the lovely grove to cheer,

And in they train the warbling choir appear;

Thy absence left the vernal woods in gloom,

At thy return the hills and valleys bloom.

 

Thy cheering note, ere twilight spring shall dawn,

Break on the ear sweet as the distant horn,

Thy presence make the verdant fields look gay,

Ere yet bright Phoebus' tinge the flowers of May.

 

The robbin red-breast, skipping o'er the lawn,

Waked into raptures, hails the rising morn,

And at the evening sun's departing beam,

Repeats new homage in his closing theme.

 

* Returning spring the swallow brings apace,

And the house-martin, both of kindred race;

But where they rest, or to what clime they go,

Is more perhaps than mortals here can know.

 

** Then comes the mock-bird, noblest of the throng!

Columbia's native bird and prince of song,

Melodious bird! mimic of all that sing,

So merrily chaunting, spreads thy silvery wing;

 

And o'er the smiling landscape tireless play,

From morn till night pour thy enchanting lay;

The whining cat-bird comes with sportive glee,

Who in his song is but the clown to thee.

 

And crow's fierce voice shall echo loud and shrill,

And every night the restless whip-poor-will;

The social wren, your house its place of rest,

And in the porch or window builds its nest,

Whose merry song is heard at dawning light,

And every ear will greet it with delight.

 

The sparrow, lone, unnotic'd, ne'er shall fall,

For he who made thee is the God of all;

Thy feeble voice as soon his ear shall meet,

As seraphs bright, who worship at his feet.

 

Haste, then, all songsters of the feathered throng;

To you these animating strains belong:

Creation haste! let one grand chorus ring,

From earth to heaven, the jubilee of spring.

* The place of migration of these birds is not known even to naturalists.

** Turdus poliglalus of America, falsely called English mocking-bird.

January 3, 1846. The Subterranean 3(32): 0 [4].

The Blue Bird - Poetry from Pennsylvania

Know ye a note in all the year

So pleasant as the blue bird's song,

When some bright morning, calm and clear

He greets us as he flits along? —

 

Or, as on some tall tree he rests,

And warbles forth his clear wild notes,

So startling and so sweet, as blest

While on the air his music floats?

 

Yet blessing more, the woodman strong

Welcomes him with his upturned eyes,

As brighter visions swiftly throng

Before him at the glad surprise;

 

Visions of longer, brighter days;

Of buds, and flowers, and leafy grove,

Where many joyous roundelays

Proclaim the almighty power of love.

 

Herald of spring, we welcome thee :

The first of all returned to make

Our forests vocal! — would that we

Thus by the forelock time might take :

 

For precious moments quickly pass,

And seasons swiftly glide along

Unmarked as grows the humble grass,

And transient as the wild-bird's song.

 

"Up and be doing!" — we will take

The lesson thou so well dost teach,

And in our duties strive to make

Sweet music, though we may not reach

 

Thy joyous heights, yet we may bear

Thy happy spirit in our hearts,

And from the clouded brow of care

Disperse the footprints and the darts.

 

Still warble on, sweet bird, thy song

Inspires me more than many lays;

Still let it float our woods among,

The prophecy of brighter days.

 

And when from every tree and bush

Thy brother songsters fill the air,

Let thy sweet voice be heard at blush

Of morning, and at evening fair;

 

For midst them all no sweeter tone

Floats upward than thy gentle song,

And I would give to thee thy own

Full share of praise our birds among!

May 6, 1863. The blue bird. Raftsman's Journal 9(36): 1.

The Blue-bird - A Poem from 1841

By David Paul Brown.

O, do you hear the Blue Bird,

The herald of the spring —

How cheerily he tunes his pipe,

How blithely plumes his wing.

 

He breathes the native note of praise

To the great source of Good,

The trees are vocal with his lays,

Instinct with gratitude.

 

He mounts upon the downy wing,

He cleaves the ambient air,

Inhales the balmy breath of spring,

And wishes the world to prayer.

 

The fertile Earth's at nature's voice,

Unlocks her precious store,

And mount and vale and plain rejoice,

And greet the genial hour.

 

The purling stream no longer bound,

In winter's icy chain,

Sparkles beneath the sunny ray,

And freely flows again.

 

Flows — as life flows, in infancy,

Pure, radiant and serene,

Through flowers and fields and fragrant groves,

That animate the scene.

 

Flows on, till winter checks its tide,

And robs it of its bloom.

Like death, that in our youthful pride

Consigns us to the tomb.

 

Yet man, for whom these notes are sung,

For whom these waters flow,

For whom this vernal wealth abounds

The monarch here below!

 

Man, only Man! with lofty brow,

With stubborn heart and knee,

Looms over this smiling universe,

Ungrateful, Lord, to thee.

 

The perils of the winter past —

Spring, like a blooming bride,

The summer's and the human's hope,

All magnify his pride!

 

There — there he stands — a rebel still,

A recent in that Power.

That murmurs in each limpid rill,

And breathes in every flower.

April 3, 1841. Winyah Observer 1(8): 4.

The Death of the Blue Bird

Madge Elliott. January 27, 1876. Fancier's Journal 3(4): 42.

"He is dead!" said the Wind,

"Oh, who?" asked the Rose,

"The prince of the wildwood — the Blue Bird."

"And he died," said the Wind,

"Oh, why?" asked the Rose,

"Because she he loved was no true bird."

 

"Alas!" sighed the Rose,

"Ah, me I " said the Wind,

"So handsome, so tuneful, so clever."

"And she?" asked the Rose,

"False one!" said the Wind,

"In the maple chirps gaily as ever."

 

"And he lies," said the Wind,

"Oh, where? " asked the Rose,

"At the foot of the oak, in the clover."

"And the grass," said the Wind,

"Droops low," wept the Rose,

"O'er the form of the ill-fated lover."

 

"Oh, list!" said the Wind,

"I hear," sighed the Rose,

"The grave-digging beetles are coming."

"And that sound?" asked the Wind,

"Is a hymn," wept the Rose,

"That the Bee folks are solemnly humming."

 

"They are there, " said the Wind,

"And at work?" asked the Rose,

"Yes, the ground very softly they're breaking."

"They are kind," said the Wind,

"Most kind," wept the Rose,

"Such a pretty wee grave to be making."

 

"They are done," said the Wind,

"And I'll fling," said the Wind, "A rose leaf or two where he's lying."

"Take myself," sighed the Rose,

"All myself," wept the Rose, "He is dead, and for him — I am dying!"