Do you have a "soft spot" for stray animals and injured birds? Then you may relate to the kids in this story. . . .
Home Sweet Home
At the start of what was to be a busy summer, a mother bird decided to build her nest right outside my bedroom window, in the sweet young apple tree whose branches hugged the house.
Where does the narrator see a nest?
I probably wouldn't have realized the birds were there except that they were blue jays, and they were just about the noisiest birds around.
They weren't whistlers or warblers. No, they were fierce squawkers who hardly seemed concerned by human activity of any kind. With their standing tuft of feathers and their haughty attitude, they looked to me like the punk rockers of the bird species.
What are whistlers and warblers?
I was reading one night when I first heard them. I knew Marilyn would get excited over the prospect of baby birds, so I decided to wait until morning to tell her -- having a little sister could be a big responsibility.
Marilyn was in the fourth grade and I was going into eighth next year. We had our differences, but one thing we agreed on was that we both loved animals. When I told her about the nest she squawked and squeaked almost as much as the birds. Dad cautioned me. "That orange cat who comes around here is going to get those birds; don't be feeding that old thing, Carl."
But we couldn't frighten off the neighborhood tomcat just because the birds had moved in. We had grown used to "Tuna Tom" since he arrived a little over a year ago and he had grown used to us, too.
A couple of uneventful days went by. Mornings and evenings, Momma Bird would feed her babies, delivering food with more regularity and predictability than room service at a fancy hotel. Marilyn spent all of her free time in my room, trying to get a glimpse of the little bird beaks, but she was really too short to see much.
Everything seemed like domestic harmony until Dad's ominous prediction came true. I was trying to read when I heard a loud "thump" on the roof. I quickly ran outside to survey the damage.
What do you think made the "thump"?
I looked around the study for a flashlight, because by this time it was getting dark outside. Dad traded comfortable slippers for his outdoor work boots. We were ready!
It was as bad as I had imagined. I ran inside and found Dad at work in his study. While I was attempting to describe the situation, Marilyn wandered in, wanting to play a game of cards. "This is no time for games, Marilyn. Tuna Tom knocked the baby birds out of their nest!"
I turned to Dad again, almost as frantic as the baby birds. "Well, I'm not going to say that I told you so, but I would like to," he said sternly. He thought for a moment and I assumed he was going to tell us both to go to our rooms. Instead I heard, "Okay, Carl and Marilyn, it looks like we're all on bird patrol this evening."
We all helped pick up the babies. There were five of them. Dad grimaced each time he picked up a bird. Even though they looked small and fragile in his huge hands, they were really quite big for baby birds. As a matter of fact, they looked almost ready to fly. But they couldn't, of course, and because they were afraid, they kept trying to peck at us.
After the rescue mission was complete, we had to decide what to do next. Dad called the Animal Rescue people, who said we should keep the birds warm tonight and then return them to their nest tomorrow.
They assured us that Momma Bird would take them back. But their nest was no longer intact. "So make one as best you can, and put them back as close to where they were as possible," came the instructions.
Dad thought this was a lousy idea, since it was far too easy for Tuna Tom to climb from the roof of our porch and into the apple tree to get at the birds again. But there were no other trees nearby.
Why does Dad have a problem with the Animal Rescuer's advice?
"I'll think of something," he said. "Now you kids get to sleep. It's been a long day." Marilyn was thrilled that the birds would be sleeping indoors. Dad put the box full of squeaking babies into one of Marilyn's doll cradles. I found the heating pad to put under them.
Momma Bird was back the next morning, flying towards where the nest should have been. I felt sorry for her because I knew that she was wondering what had happened to the baby birds. "I have an idea," Dad said. "Although a part of me wants to just leave this whole bird business alone, I know you kids feel differently. So, we are going to put the nest on top of our old flagpole. There is no way that crafty cat is going to climb up a 12-foot steel pole."
Dad spent much of the morning helping us. As we worked to fashion a new nest with pieces of the old one, grass clippings, and twine, Momma Bird looked on.
Momma Bird seemed very interested in what we were doing and quite anxious to see her babies. She swooped and circled closer and closer towards the house as she grew more and more impatient. At one point she almost came onto the porch where we were working, but Marilyn made a loud noise and she retreated.
What words are used to describe Momma Bird?
Once the steel pole was in the ground we had to figure out how to attach the nest to it. Dad did this by setting the nest into a large, deep box and fastening the whole thing to the top of the flagpole. With several trips up the ladder, Dad carefully placed the babies back into their nest.
Momma Bird seemed content with how we had resolved the situation, because before long, she was bringing more goodies for the baby birds. We wondered if she ever rested. Everyone seemed to agree that the new nest was home, sweet, home.
Mornings and evenings, Momma Bird would feed her babies, delivering food with more regularity and predictability than room service at a fancy hotel.
As we worked to fashion a new nest with pieces of the old one, grass clippings, and twine, Momma Bird looked on.