Wild Babies & Nature's Lesson
I should have known better...
What happens when your pruning chore goes seriously awry?
The east side of our house, outside our fenced compound, was a jungle.
The woods had been encroaching closer and closer to the house—for years. Which is what happens when you give all your attention to food-growing, and none to maintaining your wild areas!
Last month, after wading through what used to be a path to get to the hose bib, I was jonesing to finally get this crazy growth under control. But where to start?
I needed to 1) prune the boughs of cedar and native shrubs blocking the pathway, 2) Cut back the thorn-infested blackberry bramble close to the bib, and 3) weed-whack the wild daisies—so pretty, yet so invasive— that were just days from going to seed.
One long-postponed task was a priority: trimming the gangly red currant growing right into the path. Every time there was even a gentle breeze, its branches scraped very annoyingly against the side of the house.
Armed with my trusty loppers, I headed for the currant first, eyeing the offending branches—and stopped in my tracks.
There was a bird’s nest in the shrub.
It was a medium-sized nest—I guessed a robin’s, since the size and shape was very similar to the other robin’s nests we’ve seen around our place.
Like the others, this nest was quite a feat of engineering. Long stems of grass, small twigs, and lots of lichen and moss were interwoven into a sturdy little structure.
It had actually been constructed around two adjacent branches—and likely, not even a strong wind would dislodge it.
The robins at our homestead do tend to build nests close by. One spring, an under-construction nest appeared on top of the light fixture next to our main house entry. Another year, a Mama set up her nursery inside our carport, right next to our tool storage area.
Nests of all sorts have shown up in all four of our woodsheds. All in all, nearly every tree and protected spot near our house and around our yard has an empty birds’ nest in it. Chances are, this one would be empty too.
I peered at it carefully. And saw a small, open beak over the top of the nest.
I wasn’t tall enough to see into the nest, to check if the baby had siblings. Still, all that mattered was that the nest was occupied. No sign of Mama Bird, and the baby was completely motionless.
The nest was near the offending branch, but I figured I could just prune around it.
With great care not to jar the shrub, I pruned a lower branch. The little beak didn’t move.
Now that I’d finally begun my chore, I was determined to finish it. I set the loppers about two and a half feet from the nest, on the branch making all the noise, and squeezed.
Snap!
Four small balls of feathers shot out of the nest.
It was like I pressed an “Eject” button. Horrified, I could only stand still.
The fledglings scattered in three directions, faster than my eyes could follow.
The tennis-ball sized babies moved so quickly, and their feathers blended so perfectly into the dried leaves on the ground, I saw only one. In a flash, it disappeared under the huge sword fern just behind me.
From the fern, I detected a tiny, “cheep, cheep.”
I heard more tiny scratching sounds, as if the others were running for cover. Moving as carefully as I had ever moved in my life, I stepped away from the whole area, then hurried around the side of the house. “John!” I called.
He was in the doorway of the shop. Before he could speak, I said, “I’ve just done a very bad thing.”
Heartsick, I beckoned him to follow me back to the wild side of the house. Amongst the weeds and brush and leaves, we searched for the babies, watching the ground with minute attention.
“Can we put them back into the nest?” I asked him.
“If we could find them, I’d like to,” said John—common sense about nature is one of his superpowers. “But there’s that thing about bird mothers possibly rejecting their babies, if they’ve been touched by humans.”
Neither John nor I knew if that was a myth or not. But it didn’t matter. We couldn’t find any of the babies.
Yet for a few minutes, I could still hear the delicate cheeping from a couple of directions, without being able to tell where the sound was coming from.
Then the cheeps dwindled.
John said, “We’d better clear out, so the mother can come and find them.”
“Of course,” I said, my heart heavy.
Of course I was done pruning. And no way was I going to do any weed-whacking for a long while.
About 15 minutes later, I ventured into the wild side of the house again. On the other end of the house, about 30 feet from the nest, there was a tiny cheep coming from beneath a huckleberry shrub next to the house.
At least one baby was alive.
I returned to the area near the nest about an hour later, and there was an adult bird on the ground looking around disconsolately. Judging from her coloring, it was a female robin—and could only be the mother.
I didn’t hear any more cheeping from the huckleberry, or anywhere else.
I figure the babies had just vanished into the woods.
The rest of the afternoon, I bitterly regretted my foolishness, my human ego, for feeling like the job I wanted to do was actually important. Instead of waiting another week or two before trying again.
The baby birds hadn’t been helpless; they had had enough instinct to evade danger, run for cover and protect themselves. But seeing again that little, wide-open beak in my mind, I knew they probably weren’t yet able to feed themselves.
So they could starve. But the greatest danger, though, was that another animal, further up the food chain, would eat them.
The next day, and with great care, went around to check the nest. Empty.
It was empty the following day too.
Well, of course, baby birds can’t fly back into their nest.
I’ve been hoping against hope that the mama found her babies. And since they couldn’t fly up to their little home, I hope she gathered them close, and was able to feed them, all safe under a fern or in a little burrow.
I haven’t see the neighbor cats around our place, so I have more hopes that they survived. But again, that’s my human ego talking, trying to make myself feel better.
To justify what I’d done.
Nature is often slow. It requires patience. I had forced myself into nature’s sphere, where I had no business being in a rush, and look what happened.
All I know is that I will be FAR more respectful of bird’s nests and any occupants in the future. Wherever I find them.
I finally stopped checking the nest. But I’m still listening for those little cheeps.
Yet on a more hopeful note…
Three weeks later:
One morning, I heard a lot of chirping and cheeping in the Japanese maple just outside our bathroom window. Then a couple of robins flew away from it, into the tall firs above our woodsheds.
The cheeps intrigued me—although it was too much to hope that these birds were related to the babies I’d driven from the nest. But still…
Going into the kitchen, from the window I continued to see several robins flying around the yard. One, an adult male, hopped and hovered around other smaller robins, all of them with beaks a bit large for their size.
Rooted to the spot, I watched them for a while, and noted that the smaller birds weren’t flying all that well. One flapped its wings, and only got about six inches above the ground, then faltered, falling sideways into the grass. Only to try again.
Then it came to me—Dad Robin was teaching them to fly!
Despite all the songbird activity around our place, except for hummingbirds, I had never taken the time to truly watch other species. I’d only kept my eye on the finches and towhees and other birds to make sure they weren’t sneaking into our berry nets.
But I found this learning-to-fly sight quite extraordinary. Again, it seemed too much to hope that this was the same robin family. But it’s nice to think about.
Babes in the Woods
Here’s what two inexperienced but enterprising 14-year-olds might get up to, when super-motivated!
John and I got lucky this July: a visit from our grandson and his best friend. Despite the heat, the boys really, really wanted to build a fort during their short stay at our place.
Without any prior knowledge of using tools, the two boys designed their creation on the fly. Under John’s supervision, they learned to dig a trench, clear brush with a machete, fall trees with a chainsaw, and weave cord and tie knots.
They spent maybe five or six hours on their project, got completely covered in dirt and forest duff. But who cares, when you’re on a mission! And ta-da!
A teenager nest!
“Next time,” said our grandson’s friend, bursting with pride, “I want to build a mansion!”
More Wild Babies Thriving
Living in the woods, we have loads of deer around, and see them almost every day. Bucks are cagey, and will leap away at the sight of a human. But to females, well, you’re chopped liver. They hardly take notice of you, just go about their business.
Walking on our lane in the rain yesterday evening, I noticed a doe gazing at me intently—unusually so. Her ears were straight up, and she didn’t take her eyes off me.
Going uphill away from her, I watched her closely in turn, wondering why she was so attentive. Then the reason—reasons—became clear…
Twin fawns bounded out of the brush into the road, about 30 feet away from me! Fawns can be quite playful; John and I have often seen the littlest ones hopping and leaping around their mother, this way and that.
It’s like they’re trying show off, or at least annoy her a little.
These two weren’t new babies, just old enough that their spots had faded. They saw me right away, and started following me up the road!
Well. Mama Deer’s ears got even more upright. I’ve never been afraid of deer, but I couldn’t help recalling hearing that a doe (peaceful though they may appear) will attack a human if they mess with her babies.
“All right,” I said to the fawns. “Go on.”
They did not go on, but kept following me. Another glance at Mama and she did not look happy. In fact, she wasn’t moving a muscle, just staring at me.
“Go on,” I said again. And was ignored again. Then I flapped my hands, and said more forcefully, “Hey! Now go!”
This time, the twins wisely turned away, and returned to their mother—and I could see her visibly relax. Although she hadn’t acted threatening, at that moment, I felt a lot safer myself!
Other Hopping Critters
This has been the week of hoppy toads!
There’s a lake about two miles from our house, accessed by a narrow country road with woodlands on both sides. The lake is a breeding ground for all kinds of wildlife—especially toads.
Around here, a toad’s eggs are laid in the spring, in shallow water. They start their lives as tadpoles before growing legs.
Near the end of July, on this local country road, if you keep your eyes peeled on the section next to the lake, you’ll see an amazing sight:
Baby toads migrating from the lake, crossing the road, and heading for the deep woods!
These tiny guys are dark in color, about 3/4 of an inch in size. From a motor vehicle, you’d never notice them.
But from my bike, the critters look like black spots hopping. The numbers will vary—a quick glance and you’ll see many dozens. Once I see even one, though, I get off my bike and walk it, so I can avoid stepping on them.
But a couple of years ago, we had a major baby toad boom! That July, the road was alive with them. Hundreds upon hundreds of hopping black spots.
But the massive numbers was overwhelming—so many it was kinda nightmarish. A bit like a horror movie, to be honest. Especially when I thought of how many toad babies would be flattened every time a car drove by.
I ended up walking on the soft road shoulder, in the weeds, so I wouldn’t be able to feel any baby that I inadvertently stepped on.
Thankfully, this year, there aren’t a ton of migrating “toadlets,” and walking, I can easily avoid them.
In any event, our local toad population replenishing itself every summer is another hopeful note—that we’ll have plenty of toads around these woods. Turns out, they eat all kinds of pests: ants, beetles, sowbugs, centipedes, and slugs.
As John likes to say, they’re good garden friends!
Summer Reading at the Little Farm
Summertime, for me, is all about working in the garden. By the time I finish a late dinner, I’m pretty brain-dead (and we don’t have streaming). So if I want entertainment, it’s reading—which this time of year, I keep on the light side!
This week, I started Round 2 of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park—and enjoying it more this second time. I’ve noticed that Austen’s novels get more accessible and funnier on subsequent readings—for sure, you catch a lot more of Miss A.’s zingers!
And when I want something really light…
I’m a fan of Elin Hilderbrand’s super-beachy reads, and recently blew through two of her newer novels, The Hotel Nantucket and The Five-Star Weekend. I just started her 2020 novel, 28 Summers, and couldn’t put it down until 1 am!
The books are tons of gossipy fun: propulsive plots about appealing characters (they’re all good-looking, of course) with plenty of money and free time, with lots of name-dropping and brand-dropping, plus mouth-watering food and drink abounds.
An extra: one of the main characters in The Hotel Nantucket is a smart, wise-cracking ghost!
Now, I can only imagine spending my summer days lounging on the beach, and my nights going to a posh, waterfront restaurant for a wildly expensive dinner, but it’s fun to think about.
What’s your favorite summertime reading?
I appreciate all of you for reading about my homesteady life, and I’d love to hear from you!
To share your thoughts, it’s easy to leave a comment ❤️ I’d also be delighted to connect with you one-on-one—just reply to this email. Thank you so much for being here!
Warm wishes,
~Susan, from the Foothills
I love the teenager nest-- looks well-built! I empathize with your baby robin experience. A few years ago, I figured I could just yank down the wild grape vines that were overhanging our yard. Not a wise move on my part, lovely robins' eggs & a nest came crashing down with the vine. 😢
Oh I am sorry about the nest and baby birds!! I hope, like you that they are the ones you saw later! It's very nice to be surrounded by wildlife! Despite the occasional bear :)
Thank you for sharing your stories.