I knew of a farm-boy who was in the habit of
putting his hand down into a bluebird's nest and taking out the old
bird whenever he came that way. One day he put his hand in, and,
feeling something peculiar, withdrew it hastily, when it was instantly
followed by the head of an enormous black snake. The boy took to his
heels and the snake gave chase, pressing him close till a plowman near
by came to the rescue with his ox-whip.
There never was a happier or more devoted husband than the male
bluebird is. But among nearly all our familiar birds the serious cares
of life seem to devolve almost entirely upon the female. The male is
hilarious and demonstrative, the female serious and anxious about her
charge. The male is the attendant of the female, following her
wherever she goes. He never leads, never directs, but only seconds and
applauds. If his life is all poetry and romance, hers is all business
and prose. She has no pleasure but her duty, and no duty but to look
after her nest and brood. She shows no affection for the male, no
pleasure in his society; she only tolerates him as a necessary evil,
and, if he is killed, goes in quest of another in the most
business-like manner, as you would go for the plumber or the glazier.
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