drop of rain

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Sometimes it’s funny how nature presents itself; it's often serendipitous as we stumble into insight at the most opportune moment.

Recently, I heard the soft warbler of a bluebird, but try as I might, I could not find it. I looked but the source of the call seemed to come from no place specific. It just floated on the breeze.

I'm not the first to be so puzzled. Within the hour I read a passage in 19th century naturalist John Burroughs' first book “Wake-Robin,” originally published in 1871.

“The [blue]bird at first seems a mere wandering voice in the air: one hears its call or carol...but is uncertain of its source or direction; it falls like a drop of rain when no cloud is visible; one looks and listens, but to no purpose."

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wormy tip

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Another bird feeding tip from Amy Barton. She emails, "These photos were taken this morning. I place the meal worms in plastic cups held by flower gathering ring supports (found at Mayo's Garden Center). No other birds visit them as they do not resemble any typical bird feeder. I will never purchase a standard meal worm feeder - meal worms are far too expensive!"

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bluebird memories

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Recently I heard from Dottie O’Dare:

“I also remember the “Bluebird of Happiness” song from my high school years. At a friend's suggestion, I bought the 78-speed record, sung by Jan Peerce, an opera singer at the time (l950). I surprisingly remember the words—I must have played it so often that it remains embedded in my memory. Hopefully, the lyrics are still on your blog (they are) and I will make corrections if needed.

“I really enjoy reading your column. So much to learn, and it is eye-opening to discover what is so readily available in this area of the country. Being a ‘city girl’ all my life, it is refreshing to be in East Tennessee!

“Thanks for your informative and entertaining column!”

Dottie. You are welcome.

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Amy's happiness II

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A follow-up to last week's bluebird post:

Amy Barton writes, "I cannot thank you enough for the wonderful articles you wrote about my bluebirds. The female laid her second clutch of eggs a couple days ago. Both she and her mate have been getting a steady diet of meal worms. I bought another 1000 a week ago after they both sat on the roof of their house and kept staring at me while I worked outside. I always call to them at mealtime and they have learned that when I say 'bluebirds, here's your worms, come and get them! It's time to eat.' Thanks again for all your advice and remembrance of my Grandmother's love of bluebirds."

And then a second e-mail from Amy a few days later:

"Well I am certain the eggs are laid. The female stays in the box most of the time. I feed about 16 meal worms twice a day and they always share them. One will land on the container first (sometimes the female, sometimes the male) and eat a few worms while its mate waits patiently on top of the box. Then they will switch positions and the other bird gets to eat worms also. When the female begins to gather worms in her beak and take them to her nest, then the eggs have hatched. For now, they eat worms one at a time.

Sometimes the male seems to get a particularly wiggly worm and he flies over to the driveway and repositions it on the cement before eating. 'Guess he doesn't want to risk having to look for it in grass should he drop it!"

Thanks, Amy.

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Amy's happiness

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As Monty Python was apt to say, "And now for something completely different."

Recently Amy Barton of Hardin Valley helped a pair of Eastern bluebirds raise their family. The experience kindled the memory of a song her grandmother used to sing to her. For Amy's complete story go to this week's farragutpress.

The "Bluebird of Happiness" composed by Sandor Harmati and Edward Heyman in 1934.

Are only different in name

For they are treated just the same by Fate.

Today a smile and tomorrow a tear

We're never sure what's in store

So learn your lesson before it is too late.

So be like I

Hold your head up high

Till you find the bluebird of happiness.

You will find

Greater peace of mind

Knowing there's a bluebird of happiness.

And when she sings to you

Though you're deep in blue

You will see a ray of light creep through.

And so, remember this

Life is no abyss

Somewhere there's a bluebird of happiness.

The poet with his pen

The peasant with his plow

It makes no difference who you are

It's all the same somehow.

The king upon his throne

The jester at his feet

The artist, the actress

The man on the street.

It's a life of smiles

And a life of tears

It's a life of hope

And a life of fears.

A blinding torrent of rain

And a brilliant burst of sun,

A biting, tearing pain

And bubbling, sparkling fun.

And no matter what you have

Don't envy those you meet,

It's all the same, it's in the game

The bitter and the sweet.

And if things don't look so cheerful

Just show a little fight,

For every bit of darkness

There's a little bit of light.

For every bit of hatred

There's a little bit of love.

For every cloudy morning

There's a midnight moon above.

So don't you forget

You must search

Till you find the bluebird.

You will find peace

And contentment forever

If you will . . .

Be like I

Hold your head up high

Till you find the bluebird of happiness.

You will find

Greater peace of mind

Knowing there's a bluebird of happiness.

And when she sings to you

Though you're deep in blue

You will see a ray of light creep through.

And so remember this

Life is no abyss

Somewhere there's a bluebird of happiness.

Thanks, Amy.

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bluebirds

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- West Side Story: Spring 2007


Eastern Bluebirds: Their colorful place in history

"Henry David Thoreau was this country’s first and, perhaps, foremost nature writer. He rigorously kept a journal, recording the happenings around his home in Concord, Massachusetts. On April 26, 1838 he scribed a poem that began, “In the midst of the poplar that stands by our door, We planted a bluebird box, And we hoped before summer was o’er, A transient pair to coax.”

Thoreau ended the long entry with the lines, “The bluebird had come from the distant South, To his box in the poplar tree, And he opened wide his slender mouth, On purpose to sing to me.”

It’s now been 169 years since the master of Walden waxed poetic about Eastern bluebirds, but his words seem just as appropriate today as they were then because people still love the birds that “carry the sky on their backs” and a song in their hearts.

Eastern bluebirds are mid-sized members of the Thrush family—a group noted for their singing. Their songs are raspy warbling chatters: “turr, turr-lee, turr-lee.” Yet, there’s a note of lament in their tunes, a melancholy counterpoint that serves as the yin to the yang of an otherwise cheerful spring day. This spot of sadness seems to suggest that even the joy of spring is fleeting.

Native American legend has it that the bluebird was once drab but obtained its brilliant azure from repeatedly bathing in the blue water of an isolated lake. It is reported that the colorful birds greeted the pilgrims of Plymouth Rock, who called them “blue robins” because the songbirds reminded them of their beloved English robins. For them, it was a cheerful welcome in an otherwise strange and hostile land. In “Song of Hiawatha,” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote of the bluebird singing from the thickets and meadows. Hiawatha’s people called the songster, “Owaissa”

By the early 1800s, when Thoreau was exploring the countryside around his beloved New England on foot, this nascent country was beginning to stretch its limbs and expand. Settlers first trickled and then flooded inland from the coast and New England into the wilderness, cutting down forests and building homesteads, eager to start a new life, plant a garden, orchard or hayfield for livestock. This rapid expansion was a boon to bluebirds; their population undoubtedly soared because the sky blue songbirds don’t live in the woods. They prefer the edges that open up to grasslands, pastures and fields.

Bluebirds are secondary cavity nesters...

For the rest of my article about bluebirds look for the spring issue of the West Side Story.

Special thanks to editor/publisher Dan Barile

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