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Mammy Caroline of Bay Quarter 
Farm, Virginia 
OT of least value of the many phases of bird interest is the 
friendship of others who know and love birds, each in his own 
way. It was an old negro mammy who was my first instructor in 
ornithology, and no author or bird pal has ever been more charming. 
She lived a mile from my camp on the Potomac River, and she knew the 
woods and all that lived therein. A trace of Indian blood seemed to give 
her an unusual insight into wild life. She talked to the birds and animals 
about her as one would talk to a neighbor. She scolded “‘de singin’ 
mahtin” (Mockingbird) for building her nest too early in the spring. 
‘““We is goin’ to have col’ weathah yet!” She scolded the bluebirds for 
roosting under her porch eaves too late in the winter when it was “so 
wahm dey can jes’ as well go in de bushes.” 
“De little wood wren” also met mammy’s indignation when she came 
“right in de kitchen” and went to “‘pickin’ aroun’ de shelves, tryin’ to 
fin’ a place to build her nestes. Las’ yeah when Jim lef’ de window open 
in his room, dat little old wren bird went right in and built a nes’ in Jim’s 
hat.” This was the Carolina Wren. 
The “E-E” bird (Phoebe) and mammy had an annual quarrel lasting 
several days over the point of building her nest under the eaves of 
mammy’s porch. If she could get the nest built and the eggs laid before 
mammy detected it, mammy was outwitted. Such a look of rebuke she 
gave me when I once found the nest with the bird sitting on it, and 
asked, ‘‘Mammy, you won’t tear the nest down, will you?”” The answer 
was, “Well, I specks I can’t now; she’s done laid her eggs.” 
When we saw a Kingbird, mammy said, “De bee mahtin is heah.” A 
Brown Thrasher appeared, ‘“‘Dat’s de ground mahtin,” said mammy. 
The Catbird was “de snake bird; he chases away de snakes.” 
One moonlight night I was returning to my camp alone. The woods 
were on the left, and on the right, the fields. A terrifying scream sounded 
in the woods some distance away. I quickened my pace, my heart 
thumping. Again came the scream quite near, and I ran as fast as I 
could to camp. The next day I went to mammy’s to learn the source of 
the mysterious sound. ‘‘Oh, dat’s de ole owl bird. Yassum, dat’s what 
it is, and it sho does sound awful. Sometimes when I is a settin’ in mah 
cabin an’ I heah’s dem way down in de woods, I say, ‘no sah, dat ain’t 
de old owl bird—dat’s de ole folks talking.’”’ She referred to ghosts. 
Bird study began in such a delightful way for me. A little brown bird, 
bobbing a pert little tail haunted my wood-pile at the camp. At irregular 
intervals he appeared on top and called, ‘“‘Cheery, cheery, cheery.” I 
