“Many other birds besides the Sparrows came as well, and Robins and Wood Thrushes, who use wet clay in the shaping of their nests, found it particularly useful. Now I have a stone basin for the water, because the old wooden one was decayed on our return, but I’m sure the birds liked the mossy log the best, and Jacob Hughes is on the lookout for another.”
Gray Lady paused and looked up quickly, as though a new idea had come to her; then, glancing at the older boys who had that morning been working on a large Martin house which had been ordered, and which made it certain that the wayside drinking-fountain would be built as soon as frost left the ground, she said, “This suggests something more to be made for the spring sale. I saw some fine oak and beech logs with the bark still on at the lumber camp last week. If you are willing to undertake hollowing them out, it will be a good investment for the Kind Hearts’ Club to buy a half a dozen of them. When sawn into lengths of three feet, and the ends covered with bark securely nailed, as all the bark covering must be, to prevent splitting, the logs will be attractive both as drinking-troughs for the birds and as features of the gardens where they are placed, and I am sure that we shall have no difficulty in selling them. Many people would establish drinking-places for the birds if they had something suitable to hold the water, but tin pans glisten, heat quickly, and even earthenware dishes are slippery, while the hollow log, that soon mosses over, must seem to the wild bird like a natural bit of the woods. Only one thing must be remembered: the log must not be allowed to become dry at any season, or it will warp and split.
“It would be worth the trouble of keeping such a fountain filled, I am sure, if only to lure a single pair of Song Sparrows about the garden or yard. For this Sparrow is the only bird whose song I have heard in every month of the year. Not the full spring song, of course, though I have heard a very perfect melody in December; but in dreary winter, when the scatter-brained Robin has forgotten his alarm cry of ‘Quick-Quick-Quick!’ the dear little bird will find a warm spot in which to sun himself after a hard-earned meal of gleaned weed seeds,—for like all of his tribe he is a valiant Weed Warrior, working in the home-fields when other birds have followed the sun for richer fare,—and, after swelling his throat vainly for a few moments, begin to whisper a song, as if in a dream, that finally grows strong and clear.