The Mother Murre

: Good Stories For Great Holidays


One of the most striking cases of mother-love which has ever come under

my observation, I saw in the summer of 1912 on the bird rookeries of the

Three-Arch Rocks Reservation off the coast of Oregon.

We were making our slow way toward the top of the outer rock. Through

rookery after rookery of birds, we climbed until we reached the edge of

the summit. Scrambling over this
edge, we found ourselves in the midst

of a great colony of nesting murres--hundreds of them--covering this

steep rocky part of the top.

As our heads appeared above the rim, many of the colony took wing and

whirred over us out to sea, but most of them sat close, each bird upon

its egg or over its chick, loath to leave, and so expose to us the

hidden treasure.

The top of the rock was somewhat cone-shaped, and in order to reach the

peak and the colonies on the west side we had to make our way through

this rookery of the murres. The first step among them, and the whole

colony was gone, with a rush of wings and feet that sent several of the

top-shaped eggs rolling, and several of the young birds toppling over

the cliff to the pounding waves and ledges far below.

We stopped, but the colony, almost to a bird, had bolted, leaving scores

of eggs, and scores of downy young squealing and running together for

shelter, like so many beetles under a lifted board.

But the birds had not every one bolted, for here sat two of the colony

among the broken rocks. These two had not been frightened off. That both

of them were greatly alarmed, any one could see from their open beaks,

their rolling eyes, their tense bodies on tiptoe for flight. Yet here

they sat, their wings out like props, or more like gripping hands, as if

they were trying to hold themselves down to the rocks against their wild

desire to fly.

And so they were, in truth, for under their extended wings I saw little

black feet moving. Those two mother murres were not going to forsake

their babies! No, not even for these approaching monsters, such as they

had never before seen, clambering over their rocks.

What was different about these two? They had their young ones to

protect. Yes, but so had every bird in the great colony its young one,

or its egg, to protect, yet all the others had gone. Did these two

have more mother-love than the others? And hence, more courage, more


We took another step toward them, and one of the two birds sprang into

the air, knocking her baby over and over with the stroke of her wing,

and coming within an inch of hurling it across the rim to be battered

on the ledges below. The other bird raised her wings to follow, then

clapped them back over her baby. Fear is the most contagious thing in

the world; and that flap of fear by the other bird thrilled her, too,

but as she had withstood the stampede of the colony, so she caught

herself again and held on.

She was now alone on the bare top of the rock, with ten thousand

circling birds screaming to her in the air above, and with two men

creeping up to her with a big black camera that clicked ominously. She

let the multitude scream, and with threatening beak watched the two men

come on. A motherless baby, spying her, ran down the rock squealing

for his life. She spread a wing, put her bill behind him and shoved him

quickly in out of sight with her own baby. The man with the camera saw

the act, for I heard his machine click, and I heard him say something

under his breath that you would hardly expect a mere man and a

game-warden to say. But most men have a good deal of the mother in them;

and the old bird had acted with such decision, such courage, such swift,

compelling instinct, that any man, short of the wildest savage, would

have felt his heart quicken at the sight.

"Just how compelling might that mother-instinct be?" I wondered. "Just

how much would that mother-love stand?" I had dropped to my knees, and

on all fours had crept up within about three feet of the bird. She still

had chance for flight. Would she allow me to crawl any nearer? Slowly,

very slowly, I stretched forward on my hands, like a measuring-worm,

until my body lay flat on the rocks, and my fingers were within three

INCHES of her. But her wings were twitching, a wild light danced in her

eyes, and her head turned toward the sea.

For a whole minute I did not stir. I was watching--and the wings again

began to tighten about the babies, the wild light in the eyes died down,

the long, sharp beak turned once more toward me.

Then slowly, very slowly, I raised my hand, touched her feathers with

the tip of one finger--with two fingers--with my whole hand, while the

loud camera click-clacked, click-clacked hardly four feet away!

It was a thrilling moment. I was not killing anything. I had no

long-range rifle in my hands, coming up against the wind toward an

unsuspecting creature hundreds of yards away. This was no wounded

leopard charging me; no mother-bear defending with her giant might a

captured cub. It was only a mother-bird, the size of a wild duck,

with swift wings at her command, hiding under those wings her own and

another's young, and her own boundless fear!

For the second time in my life I had taken captive with my bare hands a

free wild bird. No, I had not taken her captive. She had made herself a

captive; she had taken herself in the strong net of her mother-love.

And now her terror seemed quite gone. At the first touch of my hand I

think she felt the love restraining it, and without fear or fret she let

me reach under her and pull out the babies. But she reached after them

with her bill to tuck them back out of sight, and when I did not let

them go, she sidled toward me, quacking softly, a language that I

perfectly understood, and was quick to respond to. I gave them back,

fuzzy and black and white. She got them under her, stood up over them,

pushed her wings down hard around them, her stout tail down hard behind

them, and together with them pushed in an abandoned egg that was

close at hand. Her own baby, some one else's baby, and some one else's

forsaken egg! She could cover no more; she had not feathers enough. But

she had heart enough; and into her mother's heart she had already tucked

every motherless egg and nestling of the thousands of frightened birds,

screaming and wheeling in the air high over her head.