" LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. AMERICAN BIRDS RIGHT H3OS ffy li.T, 8 & IV, t Young Golden Eagle, not quite fully fledged. White down still showing on breast. AMERICAN BIRDS STUDIED AND PHOTOGRAPHED FROM LIFE BY WILLIAM LOVELL FINLEY ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY HERMAN T. BOHLMAN AND THE AUTHOR H or - - r r CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK:::::::::::::::::::: 1908 Agric. COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published, October, 1907 TO MY MOTHER 203G87 PREFATORY NOTE AN important and sometimes difficult phase in the study of bird life is to observe accurately and report without false interpretation the habits and actions of birds. The naturalist who uses the camera in the field often has the advantage of backing his observations with proof (not an unimportant thing in nature writing of to-day), and if he produces good authentic photographs, one may be quite sure they were not secured without patient waiting and a careful study of his subjects. In this book no attempt has been made to include all the different bird families, but a series of representative birds from the hummingbird to the eagle has been se- lected. Each chapter represents a close and continued study with camera and notebook at the home of some bird or group of birds, — a true life history of each species. It is the bird as a live creature, its real wild personality and character, that I have tried to portray. Many of these studies were made in the West, but in the list of birds treated an effort has been made to get a selection that is national in scope. In the popular mind a song sparrow is a song sparrow from ocean to ocean, yet scientifically he represents over a dozen subspecies, vii viii Prefatory Note according to the part of the country in which he lives. To the ordinary bird lover, however, a robin is the same east and west, and the same is true of the chickadee, flicker, wren, grosbeak, vireo, warbler, hawk, and others dealt with in the following chapters. In making this book, I have used many suggestions offered by my wife, and I have had her valued assistance and criticism. In studying bird life, I have been closely associated with Mr. Herman T. Bohlman since boyhood. He has been my constant companion and helper in the field every summer for the past ten years. I owe much to him, for this book embraces the chapters in his experience as well as in mine. WILLIAM L. FINLEY. PORTLAND, OREGON, August, 1907. CONTENTS PAGE I. THE HUMMINGBIRD AT HOME .... 3 II. THE CHICKADEE 15 III. PHOTOGRAPHING FLICKERS 25 IV. THE YELLOW-THROAT 35 V. A FAMILY OF GROSBEAKS 45 VI. THE RED-TAILED HAWK 57 VII. JACK CROW 69 VIII. THE OWL, BIRD OF NIGHT ..... 81 IX. REARING A WREN FAMILY 91 X. THE WEAVER OF THE WEST 105 XL JIMMY THE BUTCHER-BIRD . . . . .115 XII. THE WARBLER AND His WAYS . . . .127 XIII. KINGFISHERS 139 XIV. SPARROW Row 151 XV. Two STUDIES IN BLUE 163 ix x Contents PAGE XVI. BASKET MAKERS, THE VIREO AND ORIOLE . 175 XVII. PHOEBE . . . . . . . . . 189 XVIII. A PAIR OF COUSINS — ROBIN AND THRUSH . 199 XIX. GULL HABITS . . . . ^ . .211 XX. IN A HERON VILLAGE . . .V . . 221 XXI. THE EAGLE OF MISSION RIDGE . . * * 235 INDEX . 249 FACING PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS Young Golden Eagle, not quite fully fledged. White down still showing on breast .... Frontispiece The Hummer saddled her cup on the lowest branch of a small fir 5 Mother Hummingbird on edge of nest about to brood young 5 The nestlings began to fork out all over with tiny black horns r The Hummer feeding her young by regurgitation. She jabs her long bill down the baby's throat and injects him with honey 5 Rufous at home 8 Young Hummer on the clothes-line in the back yard . . 12 Young Hummers about to leave nest 12 Hummingbird poised in mid-air, taking food from the geranium cups 12 Nest and eggs of Chickadee 17 Chickadee at the threshold of her home . . . . 17 Mother Chickadee at back door of her nest . . . 17 "Here we are! We are seven! " 21 Chickadees in a family jar 21 Photographing the Flickers' nest 28 xi xii Illustrations FACING PAGE They liked to cling to our clothing 28 Nest and eggs of Flicker, with side of stump sawed out . 28 "About face!" . 32 A family of young Flickers 32 Flicker at the front door of her home . . » . . 32 Male Yellow-throat . *. . 39 The mother came with a big spider 39 Nest and eggs of Yellow-throat • 39 The mother dropped to the perch, and gave the nearer one a big caterpillar . V . . . . . . . 40 Young Yellow-throats quarreling ....... 40 Mother Grosbeak feeding young . » . . . 49 Male Grosbeak feeding young • ... . . . . ., 49 Nest of eggs of Black-headed Grosbeak ,.«, * . . 52 Male Grosbeak at nest . . *.**».• 52 Grosbeak babies » . . *.*.*.". . 52 A full-grown young Red-tail. The tail end of a carp show- ing in the nest • 57 Taking pictures at the aerie of the Red-tail, 120 feet from the ground „ -^ . . . . -. . . , 58 At the foot of the Hawk's tree 58 Aerie of the Red-tail in the tall cottonwood . . . . 58 Nest and eggs of the Red-tail, April 1 5th . . . . 61 Young Red-tails in the downy stage, May 3d . . . 61 Full-grown young Red-tails just before they left the aerie, May 24th. Piece of carp showing in nest . . 64 Illustrations xiii FACING PAGE Young Crows just after hatching 72 Nest full of young Crows, about half-grown ... 72 Jack Crow's perch in the apple tree 72 "Granny" — a portrait of a half-grown Barn Owl . . 81 Full-grown young Barn Owls at the age of eight weeks . 85 Nest and eggs of the Barn Owl 85 Downy young Barn Owls about three weeks old . . 85 A study in sentiment 88 Barn Owl in full flight 88 Half-grown Barn Owls, about six weeks old ... 88 Young Barn Owl in fighting attitude 88 Wide awake and on the tip-toe of expectancy ... 92 Mother Wren at the nest hole 96 A young Vigors Wren just after leaving nest in the dead alder 96 Feeding young Wrens . . . ... . . 96 The parents lit wherever they found the children . .105 Bush-tit feeding young on top of cap 105 Awaiting their turns — rather impatiently . . . .105 Bush-tit at door of long hanging nest 108 Young Bush-tits beside long pendent nest .... 108 Male Bush-tit with green cutworm for young . . .108 Jimmy . . , 116 Jimmy eating from the hand of his mistress . . . 116 Pair of young Shrikes or Butcher-birds . . . .116 He often perched in the pear tree 116 xiv Illustrations FACING PAGE Nest and eggs of Black-throated Gray Warbler . . .128 Two small nestlings - . . 128 Disputing while mother is away . . , . . .128 The mother often brought in green cutworms . . 133 The gray mother rewarded him with a mouthful . .133 She did not forget the hungry, more timid fledgling in the nest . ... . 133 Taking a portrait of a young Kingfisher . . . .140 The Kingfisher with a broken bill . . . . . .140 The first day out of the nest fully fledged . . . ; 140 Six of the frowsy-headed Fishers in a pose . . „ .145 The door to the Kingfisher's home showing small hole to the left where nest was first started; the two little tracks at the bottom made by the feet of the bird . . .145 They perched on the projecting snags over the water . 145 Song Sparrows about to break home ties . ., . . 152 An English Sparrow, actually making a home in a hornet's nest . , . . . . . . . . . . 156 Nest and eggs of the Song Sparrow ... . . . . 156 Song Sparrow on a fence. One of our most constant singers 156 The White-crowned Sparrow father with food for young . 160 Female White-crowned Sparrow . . . . . . 160 Female White-crowned Sparrow with food for young. . 160 A pair of White-crowned Sparrows 160 Young Blue Jay in nest 165 The Bluebird mother at the nest hole 165 Illustrations xv FACING PAGE Young Blue Jay just leaving nest 168 The young Bluebird was just in the act of jumping for the worm the mother held 172 The male Bluebird with food for young . . . .172 A Mother Bluebird poising an instant after feeding her young . . '. , 172 Mother Oriole feeding young 177 Basket nest of the Oriole. A door has been cut in the wall of the nest to show the eggs *77 Young Cassin Vireos on branch over basket nest . .177 Cassin Vireo beside nest 180 Warbling Vireo feeding young 180 Warbling Vireo at nest after feeding 180 Phoebe and young on the wire of the fence . . . 193 Young black Phoebes in nest . . . . , . . 193 Two young black Phoebes just after leaving nest . .193 Mother Phoebe feeding young ...... 193 The Thrush's nest among the ferns 200 The Thrush on her nest 200 The Thrush mother at the nest edge 200 Young Thrush on a wild raspberry 200 Young Robins at home 208 A Robin in the cherry tree 208 Nest and eggs of the Gull 212 The perfect poise of the Gull 212 Young Sea Gulls in the nest 212 xvi Illustrations FACING PAGE A Gull at home on the rocks . . . . * . V 212 A pair of Gulls on the wharf 214 Gull just catching a bite that is thrown to it . . .214 Tame Gulls about the beach 214 Gulls perched on the anchor chain awaiting dinner . . 216 Great Blue Herons coming home from the marshes . . 225 Family of young Great Blue Herons in tree-top nest . . 225 Young Great Blue Heron * * . . . . . 225 Great Blue Heron in top of sycamore beside nest . . 225 Full-grown young Night Heron ....*». 229 Using a reflex camera in the tree-tops among the Herons . 230 Black-crowned Night Heron on nest . . . . . 230 Young Night Heron clinging to limb , . . . * 230 Nest and eggs of the Golden Eagle . * . . . 236 Working at the aerie of the Golden Eagle. The nestlings about three-fourths grown. The nest is five feet across 236 Photographing the Golden Eagle's nest ... • • 236 Downy white Eagles at the age of twenty-five days . . 240 Mottled young Eagles at the age of forty days . . . 240 The royal twins at the age of fifty-five days . . . 240 Pair of young Golden Eagles at the age of sixty-two days 240 THE HUMMINGBIRD AT HOME V THE HUMMINGBIRD AT HOME HE dropped into our garden like the flying fleck from a rainbow, probed at the geranium blossoms and disappeared as the flash from a whirling mirror. I had often watched him and listened to the musical hum of his wings, as it rose and fell in sweetest cadences. I always had the unsatisfied tinge of disappointment as I was left gazing at the trail of this little shooting star of our gar- den, that hummed as well as glowed. I longed to have him and call him mine. Not caged, mercy no ! I wanted his lichen-shingled home in the Virginia creeper, his two pearly eggs, the horned midgets, the little fledglings, the mother as she plied them with food, and I wanted the glint of real live sunshine that hovered and poised about the flowers and got away, a minute ethereal sprite. And more than that, I wanted to have forever with me this mite that possesses the tiniest soul in feathers. It was not till we had studied, had watched and waited with the camera for four different nesting seasons about the hillside and along the creek, that we succeeded in get- ting a series of pictures of the home life of the little Ru- fous Hummingbird (Selasphorus rufus)1. The first year, by the merest chance, we found a nest 1 For a description of the more important species in each family the reader is referred to the end of the chapter. 3 4 American Birds that had been placed in a wild blackberry brier just above the creek. The green fibres and the lichens that shingled the outside of the tiny cup blended exactly with the green leaves and stems of the vines. The cotton lining of the nest and the two eggs looked precisely like the clusters of white blossoms surrounding. One might have searched all over the vine a dozen times and yet not have discovered the nest. Many a spider's suspension-bridge the hummingbird had torn away, and many a mouthful of cotton from the balms and down from the thistles, she collected. As I watched her, it looked to me as if a bill for probing flowers was not suitable for weaving nests. Maybe it would have been more convenient at times if it had been shorter. But she wove in the webs and fibres. She whirred round and round and shaped the side of her cup as a potter moulds his masterpiece. Then she thatched the outside with ir- regular bits of lichen. Another pair of hummers took up a homestead on the hillside. The bank had been cut down to build a wood road, but the place had been abandoned a generation ago. The hummer saddled her tiny cup on the lowest branch of a small fir at the top of the bank. It looked as if she had picked out a spot to please the photographer. When the weather was warm, the mother didn't brood long at a time. It often looked to me as if it was only child's play at setting. Five minutes was such a long, wearisome spell that she just had to take a turn about the garden. I often thought the tiny eggs would chill through before she returned, and I began to lose hope in her rest- less, shiftless manner. But she knew better. The Hummer saddled her cup on the lowest branch of a small fir. Mother Hummingbird on edge of nest about to brood young. The nestlings began to fork out all over with tiny black horns. The Hummer feeding her young by regurgitation. She jabs her long bill down the baby's throat and injects him with honey. The Hummingbird at Home 5 At first the little capsules had such a wonderfully delicate flesh-tint of pink. Then, one morning, I stood over the nest like Thomas of old. Some one had replaced the eggs with two black bugs ! It might have been a miracle. There was a tiny knob on the end of each bug that looked as if it might be the beginning of a bill. Each little creature resembled a black bean more than a bird, for each possessed a light streak of brown along the mid- dle of the back. They couldn't be beans, for they were pulsing with life in a lumpy sort of way. I went fre- quently to look at them. In a few days the nestlings began to fork out all over with tiny black horns, until they would have looked like prickly pears had they been the right color. At the next stage each tiny horn began to blossom out into a spray of brown down, the yellow at one end grew into a bill, the black skin cracked a trifle and showed two eyes. It was hard to see just how those black bugs could turn to birds, but day after day the mira- cle worked till I really saw two young hummingbirds. When they left the nest, the midgets took up their abode in our back yard. The yard was crossed by three clothes-lines for perches, and the large apple tree in the corner gave abundant shade for the hottest days. In the centre was a round bed of geraniums, and along the fence were gladioli and nasturtiums. The youngsters simply sucked all the honey out of every flower in the yard. Every morning I saw them going the rounds and collect- ing tribute from the hearts of the new blossoms. As I came and went about the house, they soon became accus- tomed to the presence of a person, and when I filled some flowers with sweet water, it did not take them long to 6 American Birds recognize that the flowers in the hand were better than those on the bush. Then one day I dipped my finger in sweetened water and held it up to one of the twins as he sat on the line. I was amused, for such a treat came to him as a complete surprise. Before that, when a finger was put up near his nose, he poked it, but found nothing attractive; now his little tongue darted out and hauled in the sweet. The next instant he was buzzing about my face and neck, poking for honey. He seemed as enthusiastic as a man who had suddenly struck a new mine, for it all looked alike to him. If one part was sweet, perhaps it all was, and it was high time he was knowing this new source of food, for he had seen such things as people before. One morning I found one of the young hummers sit- ting muffled up on the clothes-line, sound asleep in the sun. The instant I touched the line he awoke as if from a bad dream, and was all excitement. I didn't have any sweet- ened water, but I picked up a ripe plum, tore the skin away, and held it up. In went the sharp bill, but it came out with thrice the rapidity. Such a face! He almost fell backward off the perch and nearly shook his head off, scolding in a little squeaky voice all the time. It was amusing to watch the little fellows, for each had his own perch on a separate line and every once in a while, when one went too near the perch of the other, there was a little friendly bout and they darted back and forth, chasing each other in the sunshine. But, as the days passed, I noticed these little conflicts seemed to grow more serious. One would dart at the other, and round and round the yard they would go, whizzing and screeching, The Hummingbird at Home 7 and then away. Before long one of the twins ceased to come at all. I don't believe any sun-worshipper of old could be more devoted to his idol than the hummingbird. He lives in the sun almost as a fish does in the water. The minute a cloud crosses the face of the sun his feathers puff up and his eye loses its sparkle. It's hard for a hummer to en- dure cold and cloudy weather, much more a season of rain. But he seems to adapt himself better to a rainy climate than many other birds. He has profited by the experience of the past. Out of twenty-three different hummingbird nests, I found the majority built so that they were entirely under shelter. Three were in vines directly under bridges, two in Virginia creepers under porches, another in a black- berry bush under a log, and so on, every time in a place where no amount of rain could bother them. I was standing on the hillside one bright May morn- ing when two hummers caught my attention. One whirred downward like the rush of a rocket. He ascended, whirl- ing up till I could see only a blurred speck in the blue. Then he dropped headlong like a red meteor, with his gorget puffed out and his tail spread wide. Instead of striking with a burst of flying sparks, he veered just above the bushes with a sound like the lash of a whip drawn swiftly through the air, and, as the impetus carried him up, a high-pitched musical trill burst out above the whir of his wings. Again and again he swung back and forth like a comet in its orbit. If he was courting, his aim was surely to dazzle and move with irresistible charm. I think his method was to sweep at his lady love with a show of glit- tering brilliancy and gorgeous display and win her heart 8 American Birds in one grand charge. He must have won her, for the pair built a home in the Virginia creeper. They took one of the loose strings that had been used to tie up the vines and wove it into the fabric of their home; if the floor beneath gave way, they would surely have a support from above. The way the mother would light on her nest was a marvel to me. She always stopped on the dead twig of a maple before dropping to her home. I saw her do it several times. She came at the nest like a meteoric streak. I held my breath lest the whole thing be splintered to atoms, for she hit the little cup without the slightest pause that I could see, yet she lit as lightly as the touch of float- ing thistle-down. Below the hummer's nest the water trickled down the basin of the canon. In places it formed pools and dropped over the rocky edges. One of these tiny basins was the hummer's bath-tub. It was shallow enough at the edge for her to wade. For a moment her wing-tips and tail would skim the surface, and it was all over. She dressed and preened with all the formality of a queen. After the bath I watched her circle about the clusters of geraniums and drink at the honey cups of the columbine. She seemed only to will to be at a flower and she was there; the hum of the wings was all that told the secret. She was a marvel in the air. She backed as easily as she darted forward. She side-stepped, rose, and dropped as easily as she poised. While the nestlings were very young the mother never left them alone long at a time. If the day was warm, if the sun shone on the nest, the mother hovered over with The Hummingbird at Home 9 wings and tail spread wide. When it was hottest, I've seen the mother sit forward on the nest edge, spread her tail till she showed the white tips of her feathers, and keep up a constant quivering, fanning motion with her wings to give protection to the frail midgets in the nest. When I first crawled in among the bushes close to the nest the little mother darted at me and poised a foot from my nose, as if to stare me out of countenance. She looked me all over from head to foot twice, then she seemed con- vinced that I was harmless. She whirled and sat on the nest edge. The bantlings opened wide their hungry mouths. She spread her tail like a flicker and braced herself against the nest side. She craned her neck and drew her daggerlike bill straight up above the nest. She plunged it down the baby's throat to the hilt and started a series of gestures that seemed fashioned to puncture him to the toes. Then she stabbed the other baby till it made me shudder. It looked like the murder of the infants. But they were not mangled and bloody: they were get- ting a square meal after the usual hummingbird method of regurgitation. They ran out their slender tongues to lick the honey from their lips. How they liked it I Then she settled down and ruffled up her breast feathers to let her babies cuddle close to her naked bosom. Occasion- ally she reached under to caress them with whisperings of mother-love. I have never seen a hummingbird fledgling fall from the nest in advance of his strength as a robin often does. When the time comes, he seems to spring into the air full grown, clad in glittering armor, as Minerva sprang from the head of Jove. While I lay quiet in the bushes I learned io American Birds the reason. One youngster sat on the nest edge, stretched his wings, combed his tail, lengthened his neck, and preened the feathers of his breast. Then he tried his wings. They began slowly, as if getting up steam. He made them buzz till they fairly lifted him off his feet; he had to hang on to keep from going: he could fly, but the time was not ripe. A little gnat buzzed slowly past within two inches of his eyes. The nestling instinctively stabbed at the insect, but fell short. Each bantling took turns at practising on the edge of the nest, till they had mastered the art of balancing and rising in the air. I have never known exactly what to think of the male rufous. I never saw such an enthusiastic lover during the days of courtship and the beginning of house building. He reminded me of a diminutive whirlwind that took everything by storm. He simply ran crazy-mad in love. As soon as the cottony cup was finished and the mother had cradled her twin white eggs the father disappeared. He merely dropped out of existence, as Bradford Torrey says of his ruby-throat, leaving a widow with the twins on her hands. This always seems to be the case, for at the differ- ent nests where I have watched, I never but once saw the male hummer near the nest after the children were born. I was lying in the shade of the bushes a few feet from the nest one afternoon. For two whole days I had been watch- ing and photographing and no other hummer had been near. Suddenly a male darted up the canon and lit on a dead twig opposite the nest. He hadn't settled before the mother hurtled at him. I jumped up to watch. They shot up and down the hillside like winged bullets, through The Hummingbird at Home 1 1 trees and over stumps, the mother with tail spread, all the while squealing like mad. It looked like the chase of two meteors that were likely to disappear in a shower of sparks had they struck anything. If it was the father, he didn't get a squint at the bantlings. If it was a bachelor awooing, he got a hot reception. I can't believe the male rufous is an intentional shirk and deserter. I think that somewhere back through the generations of hummingbird experience, it was found that such bright colors and such devotion about the home were clews unmistakable for enemies. It is, therefore, the law of self-protection that he keep away entirely during the period of incubation and the rearing of the young. THE HUMMINGBIRD FAMILY This is a family of birds easily recognized because they are the smallest in size. They have tiny feet and long slender bills to suck the nectar from the flowers. They flit through the air with great rapidity, their buzzing wings giving the bird the appearance of an insect. Ruby-throated Hummingbird (Trochilus colubris): Male, above, green; below, grayish-white; wings and tail, ruddy black; shining ruby- red patch on throat. Female, colors less showy and throat-patch lack- ing. Summer resident along the Atlantic Coast, arriving the first of May and remaining till October. Nest, a tiny cup saddled on a limb. Eggs, two in number, pure white and about the size of soup beans. Rufous Hummingbird (Selaspborus rufus): Male, general color above and below, bright reddish-brown, with more or less green on top of head and sometimes extending on back; throat, glancing coppery red, below fading into white. Female, similar to male but more brownish in color; throat with just a tinge of red. Summer resident of the north Pacific Coast, arriving in April. Nest and habits, similar to those of Ruby-throat. Anna Hummingbird (Calypte anna); Top of head with metallic, 12 American Birds iridescent scales same as throat. Feathers of throat prolonged in a ruff. Back and middle tail feathers greenish without any rufous or white. Tail forked. Adult female similar, except on head and tail. No metallic scales on head, but greenish like back. Throat specked with rose. Common resident throughout California. Young Hummer on the clothes-line in the back yard. Young Hummers about to leave nest. Hummingbird poised in mid-air, taking food from the geranium cups. THE CHICKADEE II THE CHICKADEE THE air was crisp. The snow crunched under foot. The waters of Fulton Creek slid noiselessly through the lush grasses that hung along the bank. The clump of tall firs up the hillside was roughly inked against the gray clouds. The dead hush of winter had crept up the canon. Suddenly a sound like the tinkling of tiny bell-voices broke the stillness. Across the long, white stretch between the pointed firs scurried a whole troop of black and white fairies. I was in the same place a little over three months later. The young firs stood in rows rising from the creek side, each topped with the brighter green of the new spring growth. The alders and dogwoods had suddenly split their buds, as if shame had shaken their naked limbs. The open glade shimmered with the diamond drops on the ten- der shoots of new grass. The air quivered with each sound and motion. Everything throbbed with expectancy. Where I had seen a dozen fairies, now I saw only two. Where the rest of the troop had gone, I do not know. This newly wedded pair seemed happy and contented. I stood there and watched as one of the midgets whirled over to a nearer bush What was he doing there ? He fidgeted about as if he had put something away and couldn't remember just where he had laid it. I looked '5 1 6 American Birds around, but saw nothing save the wreck of an old alder; dead, rotten, useless, broken off five feet from the ground ; not even good for fire-wood; worm-eaten at the bottom, almost ready to return as earth to the ground from which it had sprung. Rotten, but not entirely useless — it gave me an idea. The little Black-cappedTitmouse or Chickadee (Parus atricapillus occidentalls) is the most constant feathered friend I have, for there is hardly a day in the year that I cannot find him, whether it be hot or cold. On some of my tramps in the rain and snow the chickadee has been the only bit of bird life that has cheered my way. I have never found the chickadee moody. I've seen him when it was so cold I couldn't understand just how he kept his tiny body warm; when it looked like all hunting for him and no game. If he was hungry, he didn't show it. The wren goes south and lives in sunshine and plenty all winter. He goes wild with de- light when he returns home in the spring. The chickadee winters in the north. He endures the cold and hunger of the dreary months. In the spring his cheer seems just the same. He doesn't bubble over. He takes his abun- dance in quiet and contentment. Chickadee never seems to have the blues, but for all his cheer and happiness, the loneliest, saddest bird I ever saw was a chickadee who had lost his mate. It was cold and darkening. I heard the sad, drawn-out " phee-bee " note up the ravine. As he came nearer, it sounded like a funeral song. The bewildered little fellow was all aflut- ter and uneasy, flitting from tree to tree and calling, call- ing. I can hear the echo yet, calling for his love. OFTHE UNIVERSITY OF «pALironr|V The Chickadee 17 The glade up Fulton Creek just suited the chickadees. It was rarely invaded by troublesome people. Chickadee likes human society when the snow comes and food grows scarce in the woods, but just as soon as he falls in love and his mind turns to housekeeping, he looks for a quiet nook, The next time I strolled up the creek, one of a newly wedded pair suddenly met me just where the path branched a few yards below the alder stump. I didn't see him come, but he appeared right on the limbs of the maple over the trail that led away from the nest. He didn't see me at all! The little trickster! He was very industriously pecking at nothing I could see with my field-glass. As soon as I stopped, he began turning and twisting, stretch- ing his neck to look under a leaf. He hung by his toes, head down, and swung back up like a circus performer. Then he swung head down again, dropped, and lit right side up on the branch below. He made a high jump of over a foot, but grabbed nothing. And such unconcern! He never looked at me. I thought of the lad across the street, who, by his stunts, used to coax me out of the yard against orders. The little black-cap drew me now as the boy did then. " You're entertaining, but not so clever as you seem," I said, as I followed him off down the wrong path away from his nest. I shall never forget the day we trudged up with the camera to get a picture of the eggs. When we reached the chickadee villa, the mother was at home. I knocked at the base, so she would leave. Then I shook the stub, but she did not take the hint. I took a little twig and poked in, trying to lift her up. She met my advance with a funny little sound, like a mad cat in a box. Drive her 1 8 American Birds out of her own house ? Well, I should say not ! Finally I cut a piece right out of the back part of her house, where the wall was thin. There she sat without moving, while I focused my camera. The little black eyes showed a brave spirit that I have seldom seen in a bird. I care- fully slid the piece back again and locked it with a string. I knew she had done a heroic deed. I sat down under the tree to watch. As soon as all was quiet, she shot from the door like a winged bullet and struck right on the limb beside her mate who had been dee-dee-ing to her all the while. Of course, birds do not feel as we feel, but I don't believe a sweetheart ever met her lover returning from a field of battle with a greater show of joy. They simply threw themselves into each other's arms. It wasn't a silent meeting either; there were real cracks of kisses and twit- ters of praise. Chickadees are not human by any means, but had she not defended her home all alone against a giant? A day or so later, I really did catch both the owners away from the nest and I counted one — two — three — four — five — six — seven dotted eggs on a cottony couch. When the mother returned she seemed so worried that I closed the door and started to leave in a hurry. But I hadn't stepped away more than ten feet before she was clinging at the doorway, and a moment later she popped into the hole and continued her brooding. What if every egg should hatch, I thought. What could any mother and father do with seven children, all the same age? Think of it! Two pair of twins and a set of triplets, and not one of the youngsters able to assist in caring for brother or sister! The Chickadee 19 I have often watched old birds feeding young, but I never had a good idea of just the amount of insect food they did consume till I watched the chickadees for a few days after the eggs hatched. Both birds fed in turn, and the turns were anywhere from three to ten minutes apart. From the time the chicks were born, the parents were busy from daylight to dark. They searched every leaf and twig along the limbs and trunk to the roots of every tree, under bark and moss, in ferns, bushes, and vines, and they hunted thoroughly. Such numbers of spiders they ate, and green caterpillars, brown worms, grasshoppers, daddy-long-legs, moths, millers, and flies, besides untold numbers of eggs and larvae. Everything was grist that went to the chicka- dee mill. The way they could turn insects into feathers, placing the black and white pigment just where it be- longed, was simply marvelous. A baby chickadee changes about as much in a day as a human baby does in a year. One can readily count up how much insect life is de- stroyed each day, when the parents return every few min- utes with food. Think how closely each bush and tree is gone over everywhere about the nest. One chickadee nest in an orchard means the death of hundreds and maybe thousands of harmful insects and worms every day. It more than pays for all the fruit the birds can eat in half a dozen seasons. But there are generally other birds nest- ing about. Think of the time when seven young chicka- dees are turned loose to search among the trees day after day during the entire year. I spent two whole days at the nest before the chicks were ready to leave home. The owners of the stump seemed to think we had placed the camera there for their 2O American Birds use, as they generally perched on the tripod. Then they always stopped a moment at the door before entering. The seven eggs had pretty well filled the nest. Now it looked too full. It seemed to me that if the little chicks kept on growing they would either have to be stacked up one on top of the other or lodged in an upper story. Once the mother came with a white miller. She had pulled the wings off, but even then it looked entirely too big for a baby's mouth. Not a single nestling but wanted to try it. When the mother left, I looked in and one little fellow sat with the miller bulging out of his mouth. It wouldn't go down any further, but he lay back quite happy. His stomach was working at a high speed below; I saw the miller slowly slipping down until the last leg went in as the chick gave a big gulp. The day was warm. We built a little perch at the front door, and set out one of the youngsters blinking in the sunshine. He soon felt at home. He liked it and seemed quite perked up and proud. Then we set out an- other and another — seven in all. It looked like a pub- lic dressing-room. Think of being crowded in the tiny hole of a hollow, punky stump with six brothers and sisters; jammed together with your clothes all wrinkled, not even room to stretch out, let alone comb and dress and clean yourself properly. They gave us a real chicka- dee concert, each trying to outdo the other. " Here-we- are! We-are-seven ! Seven-are-we-dee-dee-dee ! " Even the mother and father sounded a " Tsic-a-dee-dee " of joy as they fed from the perch instead of diving down into the little dungeon. I believe there's more family love in the chickadee OFTHE UNIVERSITY OF Here we are! We are seven!" Chickadees in a family jar. The Chickadee 21 household than in any bird home I have visited. I have seen a young flicker jab at his brother in real madness, but I never saw two chickadees come to blows. Of course, when young chickadees are hungry, they will cry for food just as any child. Not one of the seven was the least back- ward in coming forward when a morsel of food was in sight. Each honestly believed his turn was next. Once or twice I saw what looked like a family jar. Each one of the seven was crying for food as the mother flew over. She herself must have forgotten whose turn it was, for she hung beneath the perch a moment to think. How she ever told one from the other, so as to divide the meals evenly, I don't know. There was only one chick I could recognize, and that was pigeon-toed, tousled-headed Johnnie. He was the runt of the family, and spoiled, if ever a bird was spoiled. We trudged up the canon early the next morning. Four of the flock had left the nest and taken to the bushes. Three stayed at the stump while we set the cam- era. It is rarely indeed that one catches a real clear pho- tograph of bird home life such as the mother placing a green cutworm in the mouth of a hungry chick; a satisfied look on the face of the second bantling who had just got a morsel; and hope on the face of the third who is sure to get the next mouthful: the present, the past, and the future in one scene. There are perhaps many other families of chickadees that live and hunt through the trees along Fulton Creek. I rarely visit the place that I do not hear them. But ever since the seven left the old alder stump that has now fallen to pieces, I never see a flock about this haunt that 22 American Birds they do not greet me with the same song I heard three years ago, " Tsic-a-dee-dee ! Seven-are-we 1 " THE CHICKADEE OR TITMOUSE FAMILY The Chickadee is one of our few winter residents; he is hardy, al- ways cheerful, and braves the coldest winter spell. He is musical after his own fashion, always active and restless, heedless of man's presence. He is only five inches long with a black and white coat, and is generally seen hanging head down, hunting insect eggs and bugs under the limbs and leaves. Chickadee (Parus atricapillus) : Male and female, top of head and back of neck and throat, black; sides of head, white; back, ashy or grayish; under parts, whitish. Resident of eastern North America north of the Potomac, winter as well as summer. Nest, in a hole in a stump, made of wool, hair, and feathers. Eggs, six to nine, white speckled with brown. Western Chickadee (Parus atricapillus occidentalis): Almost identi- cal with above. Lives on the Pacific Coast from California to Alaska. PHOTOGRAPHING FLICKERS Ill PHOTOGRAPHING FLICKERS IF I were the owner of the firs about the reed-covered pond and were drawing rental from the bird tenants, I would rather take a lease from the Flickers (Colaptes cafer collaris) than any other feathered family. They're not always amoving south and leaving your trees without an occupant as soon as the frost nips. When the ther- mometer drops low and the kinglets are twittering too softly to be heard more than a few yards away, " high- hole " always sends a full share of bird cheer up and down the scattering woods. Nor is he half as particular as some of the other bird residents. He takes the best of the few remaining stumps and seems satisfied. Once he pounded out a wooden home just below his last year's house. His wife didn't like it very much, but they settled it in some way and reared a thriving family. One January day I was wading through the wet grass and low bushes near Ladd's farm when a flicker flapped up almost in my face. His mate followed. I found sev- eral holes where they had been driving into the ground for food. The bug supply under the bark was low, or maybe it was purely a voluntary change of diet. " Red-hammer " of the West, like " yellow-hammer," his eastern cousin, is a rather odd mixture of woodpecker and robin. The Picus family in general takes its food 25 26 American Birds from the bark of a tree, but red-hammer often feeds on berries, grain, and earthworms. According to wood- pecker taste, a bird should cling to the side of a tree, clutching two toes above and two below, with body propped by his tail, but high-hole is independent, and often sits on a limb as an ordinary percher. Nature has given the flicker a bill slightly curved instead of straight and chisel-shaped. But why does this westerner parade the woods in a jaunty suit lined with red, while his eastern cousin flaunts from tree to tree in a yellow-lined jacket? High-hole is somewhat of a barbarian among the Romans about the pond. He knows nothing about, nor does he care for, the finer arts of architecture and music. A dark den suits him as well as a mansion. He has a voice like the " holler " of a lusty-lunged, whole-souled plough- boy. As he swings from stump to stump his wings flash red like a beacon light. He shouts " Yar-up! Yar-up! Yar-up ! " from the tree-top, or occasionally he breaks the woody silence with a prolonged jovial " Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " There's always a sentiment of the farm about the flicker. Occasionally I see one of the birds here in the midst of the city, but he always reminds me of a back- woods boy on a visit. He never seems at home among the clanging of the cars and the rumbling of the wagons along the paved streets. A few days ago I saw one of these woodpeckers light on the side of a brick building above the busy street. I knew it was an inexperienced bird, for he began jabbing at the tin cornice in a way that seemed to me was likely to splinter his bill. It resounded like a drum. He cocked his head with a surprised expres- Photographing Flickers 27 sion that seemed to say, " That's the funniest tree I ever tapped." Then he flipped across the street and started a tattoo on a window-sill, but some one pushed up the window to see who was trying to get in and almost scared the youngster witless. The last I saw of him he was tak- ing a bee-line straight across the block for the hills. With a tinge of regret I have watched the clumps of fir thinned year after year. High-hole does not care a snap. He can bore a hole in a church steeple as easily as in a fir snag. The moral influence on his family is about the same in one place as the other. For two seasons I watched a red-shafted flicker rear his family in the tall steeple of a Presbyterian Church in the heart of the city. I was always a little afraid lest the strait-laced divine discover the brood of squabbling youngsters sheltered under the sacred roof, seize a scourge, and drive them from the temple. They worked as hard on the Sabbath as any other day of the week. Another flicker dug a home in one of the maples that bordered the walk about a large grammar-school. The poor hen was harassed half to death by attention from the boys, but she reared four lusty shouters. I have known high-hole for years. For two seasons we have photographed him and his family. He has punc- tured every old stump about the pond with doors and windows. Every one of these old boles is dead to the root, yet I generally find them throbbing at the heart more vitally than the greenest neighbor in the clump. Red- hammer is not altogether idle during the months of rain and snow. When he does work, he goes like an automatic toy wound to the limit. As soon as the weather brightens 28 American Birds into the first warm, springlike day, he and his wife have a wooden house well near its completion. Last spring when I first discovered the brand-new hole at the top of the stump, the lady of the house sidled around the tree like a bashful school-girl, always keeping on the opposite side and peeking around the curve. Few birds have larger families than high-hole. But, were it not for the number of his family, how could he hold his own among so many enemies? His conspicuous size and color always draw the aim of the small boy's gun, and every village lad in the land has collected flicker's eggs. He is a fellow of resources, however. If his home is robbed, his wife soon lays another set of eggs. It is on record that one pair, when tested by the removal of egg after egg, laid seventy-one eggs in seventy-three days. In the hollowed heart of the punky fir on a bed of fine wood bits, lay seven glossy eggs, inanimate, but full of promise. They all had the vital flesh tinge of pink. Each imprisoned a precious spark of life to be fanned by the magic brooding of the mother's breast. Red-hammer had grown quite trustful. We got a ladder twenty-five feet long which reached about up to the nest. The eggs had been placed a foot and a half below the round entrance. On the opposite side from the entrance and on a level with the eggs, we sawed out a back door, giving a good view of the living room and letting in a little sunlight. With the camera ready to snap, firmly fastened to a small board, we climbed the tree. Holding it out to a measured distance, we aimed it downward at the eggs. The first attempt came nearer landing camera and all in a heap in the shallow water of the pond than Photographing the Flickers' nest. They liked to cling to our clothing. Nest and eggs of Flicker, with side of stump sawed Photographing Flickers 29 getting a photograph of the eggs, but after several trials a good picture was taken. Neither mother nor father flicker seemed exactly to understand our right of making free with their home. The former nervously returned to her nest each time we descended the tree. She climbed in the front door. It was easy enough to recognize her own eggs, but that new door was a puzzle. She had to slip out and examine it half a dozen times, returning always by the round door above. The change made her a little uneasy, but she soon settled down, satisfied to brood and watch her gossiping neighbors at the same time. After we fastened up the new entrance, flicker affairs went on as usual. Some of our later visits were certainly a little tiresome for the brooding mother. A knock at the foot of the tree was generally followed by an impatient eye and a danger- ous-looking bill at the threshold — the greeting a busy housewife gives an intruding peddler. With a bored look she flipped across the way and sat while the visitors nosed about and prowled in her house. Those naked baby flickers were the ugliest little bird youngsters I ever saw. High-hole did not carry their din- ners in her bill, as a warbler feeds her young. She nour- ished the bantlings with the partially digested food of her own craw. She jabbed her long sharp beak down their throats till I thought she would stab them to death. Yet they liked it. They called for more with a peculiar hiss- ing noise. A few feet away it sounded more like the buzz of maddened bees. I always feel like jumping to the ground and taking to the timber the instant that swarmy sound strikes my ear. It's not exactly cowardice, but bird 30 American Birds curiosity once led me to pry into a hornet's nest in a hol- low log. I've been a little skittish since. I am not sure of Nature's reason for providing woodpeckers with such a peculiar baby prattle, but I know the sound has scared more than one boy into shying away from a flicker's home. In the heart of the fir the growth was rapid. The thin drawn lids of each callow prisoner cracked and re- vealed a pair of black eyes. Feathers sprouted and spread from the rolls of fatty tissue up and down their backs. Each bill pointed ever upward to the light; the instant the doorway darkened, each sprung open to its limit. The nestlings soon took to climbing the walls, not solely for amusement. The sharp ears of each youngster caught the scrape of the mother's claws the instant she clutched the bark of the tree, and this sound always gave rise to a neck-stretching scramble toward the door. The young woodpeckers had little chance of exercising their wings. The next time we climbed the tree with the camera they were apparently full grown, strong in climbing, but, to our advantage, weak in flying. We are not likely to forget the day we climbed the stump to picture the young flickers. The full meaning of the task had not struck us. Nor had the enjoyment of it dawned upon the fledglings. They were bashful at first, but after a little coaxing and fondling they were as tame as pet pussies. They climbed out and crowded the stump- top, where they sat in the warm sunshine stretching, fluff- ing, bowing, and preening. They liked to cling to our clothing. A coat sleeve was easier climbing than a tree trunk, and it was softer to penetrate with a peck. There was a streak of ambition Photographing Flickers 31 in the soul of each flicker that would put most people to shame. They climbed continually, and always toward the top. Up our arms to our shoulders they would go, and then to our heads. Just at the instant one's mind and energy were directed toward balancing in the tree-top, he was sure to get a series of jabs in the cheek. One might endure the scratch of the sharp claws as they penetrated his clothing, but he would be likely to cringe under the sting of a chisel-shaped drill boring with rapid blows into his arm. I couldn't see any use in the parents working them- selves to death feeding such ravenous, full-grown children. " They might as well hustle a little for themselves," I said, as I climbed the stump next morning. We took all five of the fledglings to the ground. Wild strawberries they gulped down with a decided relish, until we got tired and cut short the supply. We soon had a regular yar- uping concert. One young cock clutched the bark with his claws, his stiff-pointed tail feathers propping his body in the natural woodpecker position, as he hitched nestward up the tree, followed by his mates. Afterward when I set all five on a near-by limb with the order " Company, attention ! Right dress ! " they were the rawest and most unruly recruits I ever handled. If the upper guide did not keep moving, he received a gouge from his impatient neighbor below. This was sure either to set the whole squad in motion, or to start a fam- ily brawl, without regard to the annoyance of the bird photographer. "About, face!" was executed with the same lack of discipline on the part of the feathered com- pany. The captain stepped meekly around to the other 3 2 American Birds side of the limb and planted himself and camera in the rear. During our early acquaintance the fledgling flickers savagely resisted our attempts to coax them out of their home. After a few hours in the warm sunshine, they fought every effort to put them back. They were no longer nestlings, for a bit of confidence had turned them into full-fledged birds of the world. The following day it was noticed that the flicker popu- lation of the fir woods had increased. Here and there one caught sight of a bird bearing the emblem of a black crescent hung about his neck. Juvenile yar-ups echoed among the scattered trees and over the pond. Occasion- ally there were flashes of red as wings opened and closed and a bird swung through the air in wavelike flight. THE WOODPECKER FAMILY The Woodpeckers are easily recognized because they habitually cling to the bark and climb straight up the limbs, pecking for eggs of insects and worms. The bill is strong and chisel-shaped; the tail feathers stiff and bristly. The woodpecker foot differs from that of other birds in that it has two toes behind and two in front. Flicker (Colaptes auratus), Golden-winged Woodpecker, Yellow- hammer, High-holder: Male, above, golden-brown, barred with black ; white patch on rump; breast, with black crescent; below, brownish dotted with black; black patch on cheeks, red band on back of head; lining of wings and tail, yellow. Female lacks the black cheek patches. Lives in northern and eastern United States to Rocky Mountains, where it arrives from the South in April and stays till October. Nests gener- ally in a hollow tree. Eggs, pure white, usually six to eight. Red-shafted Flicker (Colaptes cafer collaris): Much the same as above, except wings and tail lined with red. Red instead of black cheek patches, and no red on back of head. Common on Pacific Coast. 'About face ! " A family of young Flicker Flicker at the front door of her home. THE YELLOW-THROAT IV THE YELLOW-THROAT JUST below the brow of Marquam Hill, half a mile above the creek, a little spring bubbles out of an alder copse. Instead of trickling down the hillside like an ordinary streamlet, the water scatters and sinks into the spongy soil; it forms a wet place an acre or so in extent, over which has sprung up a rich growth of swamp grass. This is the Yellow-throat's (Geothlypis trichas Occident alls) home. I call it the witches' garden. There's a fascination about lying in the shade of the alders on the brow of the hill. Overhead on the top branches of the maple, is the favorite perch of a meadow lark, who never fails to rear a brood of singers each sea- son. He scatters his notes downward as the wind of au- tumn whirls the red and gold-tinted leaves. A flicker rattles his salute from the hollow top of a fir stump. A grosbeak trills a roundelay that fairly sparkles in the sun- shine. But none of these charm me like the fanciful call of the yellow-throat. You may hear him almost any time of the day calling, "Witch-et-y! Witch-et-y! Witch- et-y! " Yes, you may hear him, but seldom see him. I never know just when yellow-throat will return in the spring or when he is going to depart in the fall. You may hear him one day and find your garden tenantless the following. Then, after a long silence, you wake up some 35 3 6 American Birds morning and find he's there again, as if he had grown out of the ground during the night, like a toadstool. After his return, he soon begins to scratch out a hollow in a tussock of swamp grass. What a little deceiver this golden sprite is! Look- ing for his nest is something like searching for the bags of gold at the rainbow's tip. If you stand under the alders, looking down over the garden, he will call, " Here-it-is I Here-it-is ! Here ! " and a minute later he will shriek the same lie from another tussock ten yards away. It seems to be the appointed duty of this little witch to sing his lies all day long, while his wife broods the eggs. He wears a jet-black mask across his face. Per- haps when Nature gave out the bird clothes, she gave this to him just so he could sing his falsehoods without a blush. The lady hops about without the sign of a veil, while the gentleman always wears a mask; it's the Turkish custom reversed. While I was honest and open in my treatment of yel- low-throat, he simply met every advance with deceit. I tried to visit his house again and again when Mrs. Yellow- throat was at home, but every time he led me by a dif- ferent path to the furthest limits of the garden. I tried to take him unawares, but he seemed to do nothing else except come out to meet visitors and pilot them in the wrong direction. Whenever I got too near the home the wife herself slipped off the nest and appeared right before me calling, " Here-I-am ! Fol-low-me! Fol-low!" At last I tried cunning. I took a long rope, and two of us crept up to the edge of the garden late one after- noon. We quietly spread out, each taking an end of the The Yellow-throat 37 cord. At a signal we skirted the opposite sides of the gar- den on a dead run, brushing the grass tops with the rope. Just as it switched across the lower end a yellow streak flashed in the air like a rocket, and as quickly disappeared. She never dreamed of a snake sweeping the grass tops at such a lightning speed as that rope went. It scared her witless. I walked over and saw her nest and four eggs set down in the middle of a thick tussock. At last I had the little deceivers in my power. They found me not such a cruel tyrant after all. They had played me long, but now the game was mine, and the minute they lost, they gave up deceitful methods. Day after day the wife kept her vigil of love upon the spotted eggs. We laid siege with the camera, but not in a way the least obtrusive. A service-berry bush grew a few feet away, which was a favorite perch of both parents. We soon had a rampart of limbs built, from behind which the camera was levelled at the bush. After covering every- thing with green, and attaching a long hose and bulb to the shutter, we were ready. The mother was on the nest most of the time, but the father stayed about near at hand and kept flitting back and forth, like a watchman on his round. Catching his picture was just like waiting for a bite on a lazy day at the river. But it was a good deal more exciting when the fidgety father lit in the service- bush. It takes patience to catch bird photographs. Patience is the salt of the old bird-catching legend. You may have to wait hours at a time. Often a whole day slips by with- out getting a single good picture, but if you have had your 38 American Birds eyes open, you have not failed to pick up some interesting bits of information. Hunting and fishing have their moments of intense excitement. Occasionally I like to go back to the more primitive way by taking to the trail for two or three weeks to hunt and fish for a living. It sharpens the senses to live as the Indian lived. I have waded mountain streams and whipped the riffles for trout. I have hunted the woods for a dinner of grouse and quail. There's not a moment of more intense excitement that comes to the fisher or hunter than comes to the photographer as he lies hidden in the bushes, camera focused and bulb in hand, waiting for some sly creature to come into position. If it takes a fine shot to clip the wing of a flying quail, or to catch a buck on the jump, it takes a skilled hand to anticipate bird movements that are too rapid for the eye, and click the shutter at the exact instant. A smile of deep satis- faction sweeps over the face of the photographer as he stands over the dim, red-lighted bench and sees the magic chemicals transform the white-colored glass, and etch out a feathered family as true as life itself. He has a feel- ing of higher pleasure than the hunter gets in looking at his game. Yellow-throat, according to my ideas, was more of an ideal husband and father than many male birds. He was thoughtful about the home, he worked side by side with his wife, and never failed or faltered for an instant. In fact, he often marched squarely up in the face of the camera, when his mate had some doubt about facing the stare of the big round eye. By this time he had forgotten his witchety call. He crossed the border of the garden OF "HE UNIVERSITY Male Yellow-throat. The mother came with a big spider. Nest and eggs of Yellow-throat. The Yellow-throat 39 with a harsher note of authority, " T'see-here ! " He dropped to a quieter, "Quit! Quit!" when he ap- proached the nest, as if he were afraid of waking the babies. One day when I spent all afternoon about the nest, my note-book read as follows: " Two of the youngsters were out of the nest. Set up a perch for them, focused the camera at one o'clock, and hid in the bushes. In five minutes the mother came with a big spider, which she held carefully, so as not to puncture the body and lose the substance. The father was right at her heels. Both fed and went away on a hunt together inside of two minutes. They returned in five minutes with green cutworms. While the mother was feeding one of the bantlings, he fluttered with such delight that he fell from the perch in trying to swallow his morsel. Both parents stayed about watching the young for ten minutes. After they departed, the mother returned in three minutes, but had no food. She hopped about the limbs over my head, watching her children with an anxious eye, till she heard the call of her mate, when she left. Inside of eight minutes they were both back again with caterpillars and a moth. The mother fed, but the father hopped about the bush a moment or so and swallowed the mouthful he had, wiping his bill across the limb with a satisfied air. In four minutes the father was there again with a fat grub, which he gave to one of the children. It was such a huge mouthful that it took a little push to start it down. He hopped up on the camera, stretched his wings, and preened himself till he heard his wife." The next day as I sat in the shade watching the two 4° American Birds bantlings, I had to roll over in laughter at their actions. Each youngster was afraid his brother would get the next morsel, and his fears were quite often realized. Two or three times they became so excited that they went at each other as if it were going to be a case of " may the best man win." I don't believe in brothers quarrelling, but once or twice, while I was watching, I saw just cause for disagreement. Both mother and father were putting their whole energy to satisfying the two little stomachs that seemed to go empty as fast as they were filled. The two bairns were sitting side by side, when the mother dropped to the perch, and gave the nearer one a big caterpillar. The father came two minutes later. If he tried to tell who had the last bite by looking at those wide-stretched mouths, he was fooled. In a twinkling the chick had taken the morsel he brought. " That belongs to me," yelled the brother in righteous indignation, but it was too late, papa was gone; so he squatted down beside his squirming brother with a stoical expression that showed it was better to be a little too empty than a bit too full. Both parents seemed nervous when their children were out in the unprotected open. They always tried to coax the little ones down into the bushes before giving them food. I happened to discover a very urgent reason just why these yellow-throats had to keep under cover. My camera was well concealed and aimed at a branch where the two bantlings were perched, while I was hidden a few feet away, waiting to click the shutter on one of the parents when they came to feed. By the merest chance I happened to look around, and saw a black object whizzing earthward like a falling star. Instinctively I jumped up. The mother dropped to the perch, and gave the nearer one a big caterpillar. Young Yellow-throats quarreling. The Yellow-throat 41 It swerved at the very point of striking, and glanced up- ward with a swishing sound, and left me gazing at a Cooper hawk that sailed off down the hillside. Later I discovered what the yellow-throats had known all the time that this hunter had a nest in a fir half a mile down the canon, and that this very garden was part of his hunt- ing preserve. The yellow-throats grew in strength, and later set out with their parents for the southland. I may never see the children again, and I would hardly know them if I did, but I am sure the parents will build a new summer cottage in the garden as soon as winter goes away. THE GROUND WARBLER FAMILY This is a part of the Wood Warbler family, but these birds differ in that they stay habitually in bushes or among the grass. The nest is generally placed on the ground. Maryland Yellow-throat (Geotblypis tricbas): Male, top of head, olive-gray gradually changing to bright olive on rump; under parts, under wing and tail feathers, rich yellow, fading to white on the belly; forehead and sides of head masked with black, separated by ash-white line from crown. Female, smaller and colors less distinct; no black mask on head. Summer resident of eastern United States, arriving from the South during the first week in May. Nest placed on the ground or in a bushy tangle. Western Yellow-throat (Geotblypis tricbas occidentalis): Like the above, but slightly larger owing to longer tail. Nesting habits same as above. Inhabits western United States, arriving from the South about the second week in April. Mourning Warbler (Geothlypis Philadelphia): Male and female, head, throat, and breast dark slate or gray, making the bird appear as if wearing crape; back, olive-green; clear yellow below. In the West, this bird is named Macgillivray Warbler. A FAMILY OF GROSBEAKS V A FAMILY OF GROSBEAKS ONE day I crossed the road below the yellow-throat's garden, broke through the thick fringe of maples and syringa brush, and crawled along on my hands and knees under the canopy of tall ferns. The ground was soft and loamy. The dogwood saplings, the hazel and arrow- wood bushes grew so thick that each vied with the other in stretching up to reach the life-giving light of the sun's rays. Underneath, the blackberry reached out its long, slender fingers and clutched the tallest ferns to hang its berries where they might catch a glint of the sun, for the beams sifted through only in places. I was in the thicket of the Grosbeak (Zamelodia melanocephala) . For several years we have watched a pair of grosbeaks that spend their summers on the side hill in this clump. The same pair, no doubt, has returned to the thicket for at least three or four years. It seems I can almost recog- nize the notes of their song. If our ears were only tuned to the music of the birds, could we not recognize them as individuals, as we recognize our old friends? In the grosbeak family, the cardinal or red-bird, is perhaps more familiar to us, since he is often seen behind the bars of a cage. But his colors fade in confinement, and he is no longer the brilliant bird of the wild that seems to have strayed up from the tropics. But even if the 45 46 American Birds beauty of this bird should not survive, we have two other grosbeaks, the rose-breasted of the eastern states and the black-headed of the West, both alike in character and in habits. The black-headed grosbeak is one of the birds of my childhood. As long ago as I can remember, I watched for him in the mulberry trees and about the elderberry bushes when the fruit was ripe. I could tell him from the other birds by his high-keyed call-note long before I knew his name. One day when I stopped to look for a bird that was carolling in one of the maples along the creek, I saw the grosbeak mother singing her lullaby, as she sat on her eggs. It looked to me so like a human mother's love. Few, if any other birds, sing in the home; perhaps they often long to but are afraid. As John Burroughs says, it is a very rare occurrence for a bird to sing on its nest, but several times I have heard the grosbeak do it. How it came to be a custom of the grosbeak I do not know, for birds are, in general, very shy about appearing near the nest or attracting attention to it. Last year I found three spotted eggs in a nest loosely built among the leaves of the dogwood limbs. When I had seen the father carrying a stick in his mouth, he dropped it and looked as uneasy as a boy who had just been caught with his pockets full of stolen apples. This year the nest was twenty feet down the hill from the old home. They came nearer the ground and placed the thin framework of their nest between the two upright forks of an arrow-wood bush. We had never bothered them very much with the camera, but when they put their home right down within four and a half feet of the ground, it A Family of Grosbeaks - 47 looked to me as if they wanted their pictures taken. It was too good a chance for us to miss. The ferns grew almost as high as the nest, and it was a fine place to hide the camera so as to focus it on the home. When I waded through the ferns and pushed aside the bushes, the nest was brimful. Above the rim, I could see the tiny plumes of white down wavering in a breath of air that I couldn't feel. I stole up and looked in. The three bantlings were sound asleep. Neither parent hap- pened to be near, so I crawled back and hid well down in the bushes twelve feet away. The father came in as silently as a shadow and rested on the nest edge. He was dressed like a prince, with a jet-black hat, black wings crossed with bars of white, and the rich, red-brown of his vest shading into lemon-yellow toward his tail. He crammed something in each wide-opened mouth, stretched at the end of a wiggling, quivering neck. The mother followed without a word and sat looking about. She treated each bobbing head in the same way. Then, with head cocked on the side, she examined each baby, turning him gently with her bill, and looked carefully to the needs of all three before departing. The male stayed near the nest. When I arose and stood beside the arrow-wood he was scared. " Quit ! Quit ! " he cried, in a high, frightened tone, and when I didn't he let out a screech of alarm that brought his wife in a hurry. Any one would have thought I was thirsting for the life- blood of those nestlings. She was followed by a pair of robins, a yellow warbler and a flycatcher, all anxious to take a hand in the owl-ousting if, indeed, an owl was near. I have often noticed that all the feathered neigh- 48 American Birds bors ot a locality will flock at such a cry of alarm. The robins are always the loudest and noisiest in their threats, and are the first to respond to a bird emergency call. The weather was warm and it seemed to me the young grosbeaks grew almost fast enough to rival a toadstool. Sunshine makes a big difference. These little fellows got plenty to eat, and were where the sun filtered through the leaves and kept them warm. The young thrushes across the gully were in a dark spot. They got as much food, but they rarely got a glint of the sun. They didn't grow as much in a week as the grosbeak babies did in three days. I loved to sit and watch the brilliant father. He perched at the very top of the fir and stretched his wings till you could see their lemon lining. He preened his black tail to show the hidden spots of white. Of course, he knew his clothes were made for show. It was the song of motion just to see him drop from the fir to the bushes below. What roundelays he whistled: " Whit-te-o ! Whit- te-o ! Reet ! " Early in the morning he showed the quality of his singing. Later in the day it often lost finish. The tones sounded hard to get out or as if he were practising; just running over the notes of an air that hung dim in his memory. But it was pleasing to hear him practise; the atmosphere was too lazy for perfect execution. He knew he could pipe a tune to catch the ear, but he had to sit on the tree-top, as if he were afraid some one would catch the secret of his art if he sang lower down. Perhaps he was vain, but I have watched him when he seemed to whistle as unconsciously as I breathed. The morning of July 6th the three young birds left Mother Grosbeak feeding young. Male Grosbeak feeding young. A Family of Grosbeaks 49 the nest, following their parents out into the limbs of the arrow-wood. They were not able to fly more than a few feet, but they knew how to perch and call for food. I never heard a more enticing dinner-song, such a sweet, musical " tour-a-lee." The triplets were slightly different in size and strength. The eldest knew the note of alarm, and two or three times when he got real hungry I heard him utter a shriek that brought papa and mamma in a hurry to get there before he was clear dead. Then he flapped his wings and teased for a morsel. The minute his appetite was sat- isfied he always took a nap. There was no worry on his mind as to where the next bite was coming from. He just contracted into a fluffy ball, and he didn't pause a second on the border-land ; it was so simple ; his lids closed and it was done. He slept soundly, too, for I patted his feathers and he didn't wake. But at the flutter of wings he awoke as suddenly as he dropped asleep. The parents fed their bantlings as much on berries as on worms and insects. Once I saw the father distribute a whole mouthful of green measuring-worms. The next time he had visited a garden down the hillside, for he brought one raspberry in his bill and coughed up three more. Both parents soon got over their mad anxiety every time I looked at their birdlings. In fact, they soon seemed willing enough for me to share the bits from my own lunch, for the youngsters were very fond of pieces of cherry taken from a small stick, twirled in the air above them. We spent the next two days watching and photograph- ing, but it took all the third forenoon to find the three 50 American Birds bantlings. The mother had enticed one down the slope to the hazel bush near the creek. I watched her for two hours before I heard the soft tour-a-lee of the young- ster. He perched on my finger and I brought him back to the nest. Another we found down in the thimbleberry bushes, which, with the third up in the maple sapling over the nest, seemed to be in the keeping of the father. Nature has given the grosbeak a large and powerful bill to crack seeds and hard kernels, but it seemed to me this would be rather an inconvenience when it came to feeding children. If it was, the parents did not show it. The mother always cocked her head to one side so that her baby could easily grasp the morsel, and it was all so quickly done that only the camera's eye could catch the way she did it. She slipped her bill clear into the young- ster's mouth, and he took the bite as hurriedly as if he were afraid the mother would change her mind and give it to the next baby. After watching the grosbeak family all day, we put the children in a little isolated clump of bushes, late in the afternoon, and when we paid our visit early the next morn- ing they were still there, but perched well up in the top limbs. We had at last reached almost a " bird-in-the- hand " acquaintance with the parents. We could watch them at close range and they didn't seem to care a snap. The mother wore a plain-colored dress in comparison with her husband's almost gaudy suit. When he turned his head he showed a black silk hat that was enough to dis- tinguish any bird, but I, for my part, would hardly have called his wife Mrs. Black-headed Grosbeak had I not known they were married. A Family of Grosbeaks 51 I have watched a good many bird families, but I never saw the work divided as it seemed to be in the grosbeak household. The first day I stayed about the nest I noticed that the father was feeding the children almost entirely, and whenever he brought a mouthful he hardly knew which one to feed first. The mother fed about, once an hour, while he fed every ten or fifteen minutes. This seemed rather contrary to my understanding of bird ways. Generally the male is wilder than his wife and she has to take the responsibility of the home. The next day I watched at the nest conditions were the same, but I was surprised to see that the parental duties were just reversed. The mother was going and coming continually with food, while the father sat about in the tree-tops, sang and preened his feathers leisurely, only taking the trouble to hunt up one mouthful for his bairns to every sixth or seventh the mother brought. To my surprise the third day I found the father was the busy bird again. Out of eighteen plates exposed that day on the grosbeak family I got only five snaps at the mother, and three of these were poor ones. The fourth day I watched, the mother seemed to have charge of the feeding again, but she spent most of her time trying to coax the bantlings to follow her off into the bushes. It was hardly the father's day for getting the meals, but, on the whole, he fed almost as much as the mother, otherwise the youngsters would not have received their daily allowance. I have watched at some nests where the young were cared for almost entirely by the mother, and I have seen others where those duties were taken up largely by the father. Many times I have seen both parents work side ty side in rearing a family, but 52 American Birds the grosbeak seemed to have a way of dividing duties equally and alternating with days of rest and labor. The grosbeak family stayed about the thicket for over two weeks. I saw the babies when they were almost full- grown birds and watched them follow their parents about. They were able to find bugs and feed themselves, but each child knew it was easier to be fed than to go about looking under every twig and leaf. One juvenile flew up to the limb beside his father, quivering his wings and begging for a bite. His father straightened back and looked at him with an air of inquiry, " Why don't you hunt for yourself?" The little fellow turned his back as if in shame, but he kept on crying. The father flew into the next tree; the little beggar followed and squatted right beside him as if he half expected a trouncing. I looked to see him get it. The father turned and fed him. He couldn't resist. In some ways children are the same, and bird papas are, perhaps, a good deal like human papas. THE GROSBEAK FAMILY The Grosbeak is a seed-eater and is related to the sparrow family. It is about eight inches in length and has the build of a sparrow, but it is an abnormal sparrow, because of its immensely thickened bill. The Grosbeak is a good singer, with a finely colored dress. Rose-breasted Grosbeak (Zamelodia ludoviciana): Male, head and upper parts, black, except for white rump and white markings on wings and tail; breast and under wings, rosy red; bill, white. Female, brownish color, no rosy tint on breast; yellow under wings; heavy brown bill. Found in eastern United States and southern Canada, from the first of May till the middle of September. Nest in bushes and low trees, thin and saucer-shaped, made of wiry roots. Eggs, from three to five, dull green with dark brown spots and specks. Nest and eggs of Black-headed Grosbeak. Male Grosbeak at nest. Grosbeak babies. A Family of Grosbeaks 53 Black-headed Grosbeak (Zamelodia melanocephala): Male, upper parts black with brown collar and brown on rump; two white wing- bars; throat and under parts, rich orange-brown, changing to lemon- yellow on belly and under wings. Female, plain brown color, sides streaked; collar and wing-bars, dull white; yellowish on belly and under wings. Inhabits western United States. Nest and eggs similar to Rose-breasted Grosbeak. THE RED-TAILED HAWK A full-grown young Red-tail. The tail end of a carp showing in the nest. VI THE RED-TAILED HAWK THAT chicken-hawk's got a nest somewhere down in them cottonwoods; he's been round there every year nigh as long as I can remember. He's never pestered any of my chickens, so I don't pester him," replied the old farmer, who had taken us out behind the barn to a little knoll where we could see the grove of cottonwood trees and the old hawk circling above them. This was in the summer of 1898 while we were pass- ing up the south bank of the Columbia River on a hunt- ing trip. We searched the woods at the time but were unable to find the aerie. A year later we happened to be in that vicinity early in the springtime before the trees had leaved out and made a careful search for the hawk's nest. It was near the top of one of the tallest trees, and one look sufficed to give us both the same opinion: the nest was beyond human reach. The Red-tailed Hawk (Buteo borealis) is perhaps the best known of the larger birds of prey throughout the United States. It may be found in almost every state where the woods still remain thick enough for it to find a good nesting place. The Pacific Coast is a better place for hawks and eagles than many of the eastern states. The tall trees, the sheer cliffs along the waterways, and the steep hillsides overlooking the valleys beneath, fur- 57 5 8 American Birds nish ideal homes for these birds of prey. Their chosen sites are out-of-the-way positions where they are safe from human interference. The red-tail is perhaps commonest about the hills and in the valleys of California, where it builds in the scattered oaks. Almost every little canon along the central coast region is occupied by a pair of these birds. Their nests are easily found in the early spring by scanning the trees for a mile up the hillside with a field-glass. The abundance of these hawks is due to the large supply of natural food they find about these regions. Squirrels, moles, and other rodents are very plentiful, and the hawks help to keep in check these pests that are such enemies to the farmer. If it were not for the birds of prey, the balance of nature would surely swing very much against those who till the soil. A red-tail likes a high, commanding site for a nest, just as a mallard searches the sedge grass about a pond for a home, and the pair of hawks in the cottonwood had surely found it. We schemed for three different summers, after we found this aerie of the red-tail, before we finally succeeded in levelling our camera at the eggs. The nest tree measured over fourteen feet around at the bottom. There was not a limb for forty feet. The nest itself was lodged just one hundred and twenty feet up. It was out of the question to clamber up such a tree with climbers, ropes, or anything else, but we had another plan. We had spotted a young cottonwood just fifteen feet away. This might serve as a ladder, so we chopped at the base till it began to totter. With ropes we pulled it over. The crown lodged in the branches of the first large limb of the nesting tree, full forty feet up. This formed Taking pictures at the aerie of the Red-tail, 120 feet from the ground. At the foot of the Hawk's tree. Aerie of the Red-tail in the tall cottonwood. The Red-tailed Hawk 59 a shaky bridge, up which we clambered a third of the way to the nest. Hope led us on. We lassoed upper branches, dug our climbing-irons into the bark and worked slowly up. We found a stack of sticks the size of a small hay- cock. They were not pitched together helter-skelter. A big nest like a^hawk's or heron's always gives me the im- pression that it is easily thrown together. I examined this one and found it as carefully woven as a wicker basket. It was strong at every point. Sticks over a yard in length and some as big as your wrist, were all worked into a compact mass. In the hollowed top, on some bark and leaves, lay the two eggs. I never saw a more commanding stronghold. It over- looked the country for miles in every direction. From where the hawk mother brooded her eggs I looked out far up the Columbia, and I could see the cavern-cut slopes of Mount Hood. Extending to the westward was the long line of ponds and lakes, the red-tail's favorite hunting- ground, while to the north lay the broad expanse of water, and in the distance loomed up the domelike peak of St. Helens, covered with perpetual snow. How could we ever secure a good series of pictures at such a distance from the ground ? It looked impossible at first, but a careful examination showed a rare arrange- ment of nest and branches. If we could but hoist our equipment there was no question as to photographs. Eight feet below the aerie the trunk of the tree branched and spread in such a way that we could climb to a point just above the nest on the opposite limb. We strapped the camera in a crotch that seemed built for the purpose, with 60 American Birds the sun coming from the right direction. The trouble came in focusing the instrument One hundred and twenty feet is not such a dizzy height when you stand on the ground and look up, but it is different when you strap yourself to the limb of a tree and dangle out backward over the brink. No matter how strong the rope, there's a feeling of death creeping up and down every nerve in your body the first time you try it. The eggs of some hawks differ widely in marking, but the two we found in the cottonwood year after year were always of a bluish-white tint with pale lavender shell markings. In her period of housekeeping the mother seemed to understand the changes of season. She cradled her eggs about the last week of March, before the trees had leaved out, so that during the time of incubation she had a clear view of the surrounding country. When the hawklets were hatched and she had to go back and forth carrying them food, and when the young began to move about in the nest and peek over the edge, they were well protected from a view below as well as from the sun and rain above by the thick surrounding foliage. The red-tail is often called " chicken-hawk," but he does not deserve the name. Many of the hawks carry reputations that they do not deserve. Often people who live in the country are enemies of the hawks and owls and shoot them at every opportunity, because they think the hawk is the persistent foe of poultry, whereas this is a very small part of his diet. In regions and in seasons when animal and insect food is scarce this hawk may catch chickens and game birds, but it lives mostly on mice and shrews as well as frogs, snakes, lizards, and insects of vari- OF THE UNIVERSITY OF Nest and eggs of the Red-tail, April i5th. Young Red-tails in the downy stage, May 3d. The Red-tailed Hawk 61 ous kinds. In a prairie and hilly country almost its entire food is squirrels, gophers, meadow-mice, and rabbits. It has been shown by careful examinations of hun- dreds of stomachs of these hawks, carried on under the direction of the Department of Agriculture at Washing- ton, that poultry and game birds do not make up more than ten per cent of the food of this hawk. All the other helpful animals preyed upon, including snakes, will not increase the proportion to fifteen per cent, so there is a balance of eighty-five per cent in favor of the red-tail. This is a fact that every gunner should remember, since the hawks destroy so many injurious rodents they should never be shot unless in the act of stealing chickens. There is a charm in the life of a wild bird of prey. Like the Indian that once hunted his daily food through forest and over plain, these creatures have every sense de- veloped to a high point for their own protection and exist- ence. They maintain themselves by preying upon birds, fish, and mammals almost as crafty as themselves. Off to the west of the hawk's nest, and spreading for two or three miles to the north and south, is a network of low-lying ponds and lakes. Here the red-tails fished and hunted. Skirting one of these lakes, early one morn- ing, we came to the top of a low rise between this and the next pond. A hundred and fifty yards below, and at the edge of the timber, we saw one of the red-tails sitting on a dead stump. We crouched in the bushes and studied him for several minutes with the field-glass. He had not seen us or, at least, he paid no attention to our presence. Suddenly he lifted his wings and set out straight across the lake, but at the further side he seemed to 6 2 American Birds change his mind, for he swerved and sailed back a short way to the left and suddenly dropped to the water like an osprey. With heavy flapping of wings he struggled to regain the air with the weight of a large carp that was wriggling in his talons. As soon as the hawk reached the bank he dropped the fish, evidently to let it die or to get a better grip on the load. A few intervening bushes cut off our view of the fisher and his catch, but we lay quiet till the old hawk took wing again with his fish. He could hardly scrape over the tops of the low willows as he labored slowly toward his aerie in the cottonwood. That afternoon we were again at the nest tree with our cameras. The parents, as usual, discovered our ap- proach while we were some distance from their home, and during the ascent they circled about overhead with an occasional loud scream. When we looked into the nest the fish feast was over, for only the tail-end of the carp remained. The fish was originally over a foot in length, and I should have judged it too heavy for the hawk to carry such a distance had we not seen him do it. But these birds of prey are powerful on the wing; they will sometimes attack and kill animals as large as them- selves. Occasionally a hawk will make a mistake. I have the record of one of these hawks that was seen sitting on a perch watching the ground below. Suddenly he poised and dove straight for the prey. He seemed to strike squarely, and began to rise with a small animal in his talons. The bird rose for thirty or forty feet, and then, with a scream, he began to flutter higher and higher, cir- cling around, and all the time feathers were dropping The Red-tailed Hawk 63 from the hawk's body. He reached a height of several hundred feet when he began to descend rapidly and soon dropped to the ground. The hawk had pounced upon a weasel and had clutched it through the hips, but had not killed the little animal. Both the bird and his prey were dead when found. The weasel, in its death-struggle, had literally disemboweled the big bird. Our young chieftains in the tall cottonwood, for so we called them, were now almost full grown. They were as large as their parents, but their heads were still cov- ered with downy feathers. Instead of crouching timidly in the nest they stood up and walked about or perched in the crotch over the aerie. Their home, which was once nest-shaped, was worn down about the edges until it was a mere platform of sticks. While at first they assumed a fighting attitude when we reached the nest, in all our visits they never once tried to tear our hands with their sharp beaks. How they watched us with those large eyes of gray, such sharp, serious eyes ! No movement of ours escaped their gaze. After several visits to the aerie we learned to regard the hawklets with a sort of love. A glimpse of those wild creatures in their home well repaid us for the long trip, the ascent of the tree, difficult and dangerous as it was. We longed to take them with us so as to study their habits, for in a few days they would be forever beyond our reach. But what satisfaction could we have had in watching these birds behind prison bars? I should much rather have had their dried bones. Any- thing but a hawk or an eagle in a cage ! Conditions had changed somewhat in the vicinity of the hawk's nest by the first of June when we made our 64 American Birds last visit The river had risen and covered the lowland. The water had come up to the base of the tree, and we reached it only by wading through the woods for half a mile with the cameras strapped to our backs. The warn- ing screams of the parents gave assurance that the home was not yet deserted. Peering up through the foliage with our field-glass we saw two young braves straining their necks and watching us over the edge. When we reached the large fork below the nest, one of the parents swooped downward and swerved above the nest with a loud scream. If it was a command it was instantly obeyed, for the young hawks spread their wings and skimmed out over the trees and on up the bank of the Columbia. We made a close study of the red-tail's home in the tall cottonwood. He was always a successful hunter. In all our visits we never saw the time when his larder was empty. Nor did we find that he had to resort to the chicken yard for food. There was plenty of wild game. On the first visits we found the remains of quail and pheas- ants in the aerie. One morning we saw the mangled body of a screech owl; almost a case of hawk eat hawk. The old red-tail had evidently found the victim returning home too late in the morning, and there were no restrictions as to race and color in the hawk household. Later in the season, when the banks of the Columbia overflowed and covered most of the surrounding country, the old hawk did not abandon his own preserve. He turned his atten- tion entirely to fishing. Where the carp and catfish fed about the edges of the ponds he had no trouble in catching plenty to eat. Twice we found carp, over a foot in length, in the aerie. After that we saw no sign of food other than The Red-tailed Hawk 65 fish, and on our last visit we picked up the head bones of seven catfish. The wild life of the red-tail has a fascination for me. He is as interesting as a person. He has a character as clearly marked as that in any feathered creature I ever saw. The bleak winter winds that sweep the valley of the Columbia and drive the other birds to the southland, never bother him. This is his permanent home. He is not a vagabond. He is local in his attachments and habits. This is his hunting ground. He won it by years of de- fence. He beats over the field and along the edge of the woods as regularly as the fisherman casts his net. He has his favorite perch. He watches the pond as closely for carp as the farmer watches his orchard. His routine of life is as marked as any inhabitant along the river.~ 'Nor can I believe he is lacking in the sentiment of home. He adds sticks to his house and enlarges it year by year. Who can say that the old aerie is not fraught with many hawk mem- ories of the past? THE HAWK FAMILY The Hawks are medium or large-sized birds of powerful build. They have strong, hooked bills and well-developed feet and talons. Their flight is swift and dashing, and they catch their prey by watching and swooping with great speed. They live largely on rabbits, squirrels, gophers, and insects; some species capture birds and chickens. Red-tailed Hawk (Buteo borealis}, Red Hawk, Hen Hawk: Male and female, above, dark brown, marked with white and gray; breast, whitish and buff, streaked across belly with brown; tail, rusty-red with black band near end. Common resident throughout eastern North America. Nests in March, generally in a tall tree in the woods. Eggs, two to four, dirty white, blotched with purplish-brown. Western Red-tailed Hawk (Buteo borealis calurus): Same as above species, but darker in color. Lives from the Mississippi to the Pacific. JACK CROW iVH JACK CROW AFTER the heavy shut-in winter period, the first spring day sets my being all ajump to be out and away across the hills and the fields, to be refreshed by the gladness of the new sunshine and brought out of my winter sleep with the other creatures of Nature. One morning early, when spring was not yet old, the call came to me and I was up and afield with the sun. I was eager to be out among the wild folk, and see their joy in the good weather and their calmness and rest in the sunlit woods. Were you ever in a hurry to get to the woods? I was that morning, but I didn't want to seem too anxious to myself, so I sauntered down the path and struck off through the rows of corn toward the dark grove hemming them in. I was not at home, and the charm of a strange land was with me. The green corn-field lay in the hollow with the big woods all around. Just at the corner of the field, between the tall pines and the rustling corn blades, I picked up a young Crow (Corvus americanus) with his wing hurt. Surmising that there were others somewhere near, I began a hunt and found two more little black fellows in a nest in an old pine. It was a real crow home, with the rough sticks piled hastily in the crotch of the old storm-broken 69 jo American Birds pine. But looks were deceptive, for built into that rough foundation was a closely woven warm nest. Here, be- tween the forest and the fallow land, the provident parents had had an eye for a snug home, with an easy living close by, but the gun of an angry farmer had made orphans of the young birds. The crow is a peculiar piece of birdhood. His jetty color surely was not given him for protection, so perhaps his wits were. Crow wit isn't very deep, but it is certainly always ready for use. He is suspicious and always sees a trap in the simplest thing, yet his curiosity can't let it alone. He is always up and stirring for mischief. Let a simple owl appear, and this black villain will heap a load of never-suspected crimes upon the foolish night-bird, and call all of his neighbors to the trial, in which he him- self renders judgment. Then, after thus aiding public justice, he will turn around and steal anything that strikes his fancy, whether he needs it or not. He needs it — just because — that's all! How can he help being a thief? He can't help crow nature. Besides, he is such a cheerful bandit, with a gentle, self-confident way of taking things from under your very nose. There is ever a hopeful, ex- pectant expression on his face, and, even when he is caught, he puts on a don't-care look and immediately hunts up more trouble. The crow walks the earth as if he belonged there. In fact, everything that he touches belongs to him. Other birds drop down and snatch food from the ground, but Master Crow walks about and takes his choice as if it were all put there for his selection. It isn't impudence; it's a spirit of community rights with man. Jack Crow 71 We made a home out of a dry-goods box for the three little waifs, and they seemed happy in their adoption. It was interesting to watch them play. When they were little fellows and couldn't fly much and had to help them- selves along with their wings, they would gather about the old splitting-block in the back yard and chase each other around and around. Sometimes they hopped over the block, chippering and cawing all the time as if they really understood and enjoyed it. It looked like real baby play. They had another game which seemed to bring out all the humor in their bird natures, though you never would have guessed it by their faces. They would get a piece of paper, or something light, and all climb up on the block, and one of them would drop it off. The other two would make a dive for it as it fluttered down, and one of them would get it. It was his turn then, so they stalked slowly back and again took their places on the block. And so the game went. They were only little chicks and often it took three or four tries for them to get over the big block. Finally, they would make such a racket that old Jack, the dog, would interfere and pitch into them as if he were going to eat them alive, and then they would scatter and do something else. As they grew older, baby ways were forgotten. Crow craft took the place of amusement, and they were stealing and hiding things instead of playing. The three little crows lived with us for several weeks. One night there came on a cold snap late in the season, and in the morning we found two of the birds dead in the box. The cripple was left. After the two crows were gone the one that was left 72 American Birds seemed to have a closer companionship with us. He was alone and a cripple; he needed our care and we gave it. He was a joy and a sorrow at the same time — a joy to watch his quick, bright ways, but a sorrow to have any dealings with him. When Jack Crow was little he would sit up and beg us to feed him, his wings fluttering and his bill stuck straight up so you could see nothing but a hole in his head. And all the while he was caw-awing at us. We fed him everything. Fish-worms, berries, and soaked corn were the main part of his diet. He was particularly fond of hominy. The weather continued cold and we were afraid the young crow would get chilled and die, so one night we put him to bed with old Jack, our dog, and after that we could never get them apart. Jack Crow made a regular den out of the kennel, and it seemed to me that old Jack was consenting to lawlessness in the community when he allowed his black companion to bring in his booty and store it away. It was all " jug-handle " love between the two Jacks. Jack Crow clung to the old dog for warmth and safety. His was a politic friendship. But it was different with old Jack. His dog fidelity told him to protect the little black bird, and that was enough for him. There was no such faith in the crow's creed. He took toll from friend and foe. A dinner call for " Jack " brought both. Two dishes were set out and each knew his place, but Jack Crow had a short memory. He left his own dish and stood close to the dog's plate, watching him eat. He seemed to measure every bite old Jack took, and every Jack Crow 73 now and then, when the dog stopped gobbling to take a breath, he snatched a chunk and scuttled off as fast as his lame wing would let him. Old Jack's wrathful growls were his only consolation, for the crow perched just out of reach and ate his stolen bit or stowed it away in some conspicuous corner. The dog's grievances were soon for- gotten, and the crow went tagging him all around the yard, hitching along as fast as he could and jabbering in an excited, impatient way. The children, the dog, and the crow were boon companions. In summer they went blackberrying to- gether. When they started out the crow always rode on some one's shoulder, but when they came back he was in a much bigger hurry to get home than the rest and flew on ahead. When they arrived they found him skir- mishing for something to eat or up to some of his tricks. Jack Crow's wings were never clipped. He stayed with us of his own free will. He never entirely severed his relations with his own kind, for he used to go out in the corn-field with the flocks of tramp crows that came to forage. We expected to see them resent his company, since it generally seems to be the case that wild crows hate a crow that is tame and lives with man, and they treat him as a traitor to the race. But if Jack got such treatment we never knew it. We were always afraid when the men went out in the field to shoot crows that they would kill our pet. So we watched the proceeding with anxiety. Once or twice, when they scared up the flocks of birds, old Jack was along, and Jack Crow saved his own life by flying out of the flock and lighting on the dog's back. All through the summer 74 American Birds and fall, when he was young and growing strong, he went out in the corn-field at will, but dusk always brought him home. Is it strange that there should be bird friendships? Isn't it natural and necessary that the wild creatures who brave the outdoor hardships should need the encourage- ment and backing of their fellows? Perhaps in the days of their prosperity, in the joyous, sunny nesting time, they forget their friends and past favors; but it is only for a time, and the ingratitude isn't very deep. Besides, they are all busy with household cares and don't miss each other. But in the fall when family duties are over, and parents and young are ready to begin their travels to the southland, they remember that company makes the cold nights a little less cheerless and shortens the miles of flight. There are very few of our common birds that do not flock some time in the year. Some, like the water birds, both of the coast and the inland, live together all the time — the gulls, cormorants, pelicans, and terns. And many of the land birds prefer to live together in colonies, such as the swallows, blackbirds, and crows. The crows are very clannish at all times of the year. When the season of home-building comes they sometimes select a site and several pair will nest in a locality. Of course, they may not be very neighborly at this time, but they like to have the assurance of their kind close by. When the crows begin to flock the farmer feels that winter is already at hand. When the first chill winds her- alded the winter, and the little corn-field in the hollow was but a patch of sear stalks, the black foragers of the summer came trooping in to the shelter of the thick pines. Jack Crow 75 In hundreds they came, and blackened the sky as they passed, to alight in the skirts of the woods and turn their shade to ebon. The small flocks for miles around seemed to collect to form one great winter camp in the old pine forest. In the daytime they departed for the few meagre feed- ing-grounds that had been hunted up over the country. A big flock usually took the lead, sailing straight in a dense mass, and followed by a few scattering small flocks, while far in the rear came the stragglers who had for- gotten to start on time. Sometimes great numbers of them lined the old rail fence. In the fall an old rail fence and a crow belong to each other. There was a change in their attitude now. They were not bubbling over with life as a few months ago. Even curiosity was dulled. They had put on the mood of another season. They sat with heads hunched down between their pointed shoulders, and they sat for long spells. There was something ominous in their quiet. Winter meant something worse for the crows out there in the cold than it did for the farmer and his pet crow in his snug nest with the old dog at home. Jack Crow weathered the winter in happiness. In the yard there was an old half dead apple tree where he used to sit and jeer at the dog, when he had been nipping some dinner. But the dog wasn't the only one who scolded the little torment. This old apple tree was the crow's favorite den, and here he stored his treasures. He re- treated here for safety and, perched on a limb out of reach, he would cock his head on one side and listen gravely to the powerless threats sent up to him. We never could 76 American Birds teach him to talk, and it was well for Jack he couldn't lest he might have told many of his sins we never dis- covered. Bright-colored objects and things that glittered seemed to attract him. Although he couldn't string his treasures and wear them around his neck like an Indian, he never lost the enthusiasm of a collector. A thimble was missed in the house and the children were accused of misplac- ing it. It was not found till a year later. When the old apple tree was cut down, up in a hole in the fork were found the thimble, a teaspoon, and a lot of broken glass and other trinkets. The finding of Jack's storehouse cleared up many little troubles for the children. There used to be a current notion, which probably was well founded, that crows would rob hens' nests. Jack Crow's farmer-father said that if he ever got to robbing nests he would have to be killed. But he never did. He kept his thieving to the more petty, annoying thefts around the house. But he lived up to crow character every bit and never let the grass grow under his feet. When he could sneak into the summer kitchen he would hop on a chair, and then upon the table, and snatch things when he thought no one was looking. Stealing was pure delight to him. A crow likes company as a chicken does. But he can't be placed in the same class with chickens. What a sputtering in the barn-yard when the crows flew over! But the chickens were friendly to Jack, for in winter he ran around with them, picking up extras beside what he got from the table. Jack considered everything a gain. He stayed with the family the whole of one year. Early Jack Crow 77 the next spring when the crows first began to come he would flap off down the corn rows with them, getting acquainted perhaps. At night he would come back to the house if the children and old Jack did not hunt him up before. Gradually he got to staying out nights, and finally he would be gone for two or three days at a time. At last he didn't come back at all. We never knew whether he was taken back into crow fellowship, or whether he departed to a new land to begin life over and live as a thoroughbred crow should. After he left, the children often took old Jack and went down in the corn-field to look for Jack Crow. They scared up all the flocks they could find, but never again did they see Jack Crow fly out from the swarm of black wings that fluttered up into the pine trees on the skirts of the field. THE CROW FAMILY This is a large family, including jays and magpies. The Crow is everywhere known because of the black coat. This family has no musical ability, as the voice is either hoarse or harsh. The crow walks firmly and easily on the ground while the jay hops. The crow is about a foot and a half long; he lives on small mammals, cutworms, grain, fruit, and the eggs and young of other birds. American Crow (Corvus Americanus): Male, plumage, glossy black with purplish tinge; bill and feet black. Female, less brilliant. Lives throughout the United States, summer and winter. Nest, generally in evergreen trees, a platform of rough sticks lined with bark, weeds, and leaves. Eggs, four to six, greenish, spotted with brown. THE OWL, BIRD OF NIGHT Granny" — a portrait of a half-grown Barn Owl. VIII THE OWL, BIRD OF NIGHT f INHERE is not a tumble-down barn in the country that A does not shelter good material for a naturalist's note-book. Take it all in all the old shacks are the most productive. If there is a hole and a snug corner some wren or bluebird has likely climbed in and built a home. If it be near town some English sparrow has perhaps been living there all winter, and, at the first sign of spring, has begun carrying in grass and sticks. Or, if the barn is very shaky and leaky, it may make a home for an owl. The Barn Owl (Strlx pratincola) is not hard to please when he needs a nesting place. He takes the steeple of a church, an old hollow sycamore along the creek, or a cave in the mountains. I know of one pair that has lived for years in the tower of a court-house. The town clock just below the nest must have been a nuisance at first during the day-sleep, but it was likely taken as something that could not be helped, as we take the clang and rumble of the street-cars under our windows at night. Years ago our nearest neighbor got a pair of pigeons, sawed two holes up in the corner of his barn and nailed up a soap box for them. The pigeons disappeared one day and the next spring a pair of barn owls moved in. That was seven or eight years ago, but the old dusty box in the gable is still rented to the same pair. I have no doubt they will stay as long as the barn lasts. 81 82 American Birds Our neighbor says his barn is worn out, and resembles Mr. Burroughs' apple tree, which was not much good for apples but always bore a good crop of birds. The owl home is a valuable asset of the barn. The owner knows something of owls as well as of fruit trees; no other barn about the neighborhood shelters such a valuable family of birds, and he guards them as closely as he guards his cherries. The nest has never been robbed, and when we spoke of photographing his owls he looked doubtful until we promised him the birds should not be harmed. The barn owl is a queer-looking tenant. No one is very fond of an owl. More than that, his actions are against him. It's natural that we should not care much for a fel- low who is up and sneaking around all night and sleeping through the day. There is always some suspicion about a night-prowler, whether he be bird, man, or beast. How- ever, I have often watched the barn owl, and have studied his habits, so that I am sure he did more for our neigh- bor in one night than the pigeons, swallows, and wrens did in a month. Not in singing, mercy no! Who ever heard of a song coming from a hooked bill? It was in real service about the farm, as watchman or policeman, to rid the place of injurious animals. It was not an easy matter to photograph these barn owls in the very peak of the old barn. The minute we came near the nest box the old owl pitched headlong out of the hole and landed in a willow tree opposite. We had to climb a ladder and swing into the rafters to reach the nest. In such a place we could hardly handle a camera. There was not even a loft to work from, so we set up a long ladder and nailed to it a couple of cross-pieces strong The Owl, Bird of Night 83 enough to hold a board. Crawling up in a stooping po- sition we took the back out of the nest box and fixed it so that it would drop down to show the inside, and then could be fastened up again. A month later we climbed up into the gable end of the barn and pulled out three of the funniest, fuzziest, monkey-faced little brats that I have ever set eyes upon. They blinked, snapped their bills, and hissed like a boxful of snakes. We took them to the ground and doubled up in laughter at their queer antics. They bobbed and screwed around in more funny attitudes in a minute than any contortionist I ever saw. We found them graded in size and height, as care- fully as a carpenter builds the steps of a staircase. They were lumpy-looking, as if some amateur taxidermist had taken them in hand and rammed the cotton in, wad at a time with a stick, till he had the youngsters bulging out in knobs all over. The eldest we called the colonel, but looking at him from a humanized standpoint, it seemed to me he had been put together wrongly, for his chest had slipped clear around on his back. At times he was a peaceable-looking citizen, but he was always shy and cautious. He turned his back on the camera in disgust, or sat in a sour state of silence, but one eye was always open, watching every movement we made. While the nestlings were in the downy stage the mother always stayed with them during the day. She seemed to be a widow, with triplets on he.r hands, for we never saw the father. If he came to see the children or to help in the house it was only in the dark of the night. 84 American Birds When the nestlings grew older the mother slept in the cypress tree during the day. Twice I tried to climb the tree to get a good view of her, but each time she flew out as soon as I got a few feet up. She seemed to have no trouble in seeing by day as well as by night, but the eyes of the owl are undoubtedly much keener after dark. We crept out one night and hid in a brush-heap by the barn. It was not long before the scratching and soft hissing of the young owls told us their breakfast-time had come. The curtain of the night had fallen. The day creatures were at rest. Suddenly a shadow flared across the dim-lit sky; there was a soundless sweeping of wings as the shadow winnowed back again. The young owls, by instinct, knew of the approach of food, for there was a sudden outburst in the soap box like the whistle of escaping steam. It was answered by a rasp- ing, witching screech. I thought of the time when we used to creep out at the dead of night and scare an old negro by drawing a chunk of resin along a cord attached to the top of an empty tin can. Again and again the shadow came and went. Then I crept into the barn, felt my way up, and edged along the rafters to the hen- roosty old box. Silently I waited and listened to a nasal concert that might have come from a cageful of snakes. As soon as food was brought I lit a match, and saw one of the little " monkey-faces " tearing the head from the body of a young gopher. The barn owl kills the largest squirrel quickly and easily, for the animal apparently terror-stricken does not show much fight. With sharp talons stuck firmly into the Full-grown young Barn Owls at the age of eight weeks. Nest and eggs of the Barn Owl. Downy young Barn Owls about three weeks old. The Owl, Bird of Night 85 back of the squirrel, and with wings spread, an owl can break the animal's neck with a few hard blows of his beak. The head is usually eaten first, either because that is a favorite part, or because the destruction of the head gives the bird better assurance of the animal's death. The next time I climbed the cobwebbed rafters to photograph the young owls I cautiously thrust in my hand to pull out the nearest nestling. In a twinkling he fell flat on his back and clutched me with both claws. Of all the grips I ever felt, that was the most like a needle-toothed steel trap. I felt the twinge of pain as the sharp talons sank into the flesh. I cringed and the grip tightened. The slightest movement was the signal for a tenser grasp. It was the clutch that fastens in the prey and never re- laxes till the stillness of death follows. I hung to the rafters and gritted my teeth till I could wedge in my thumb and pry the claws loose. The young owls were hardly old enough to fly, but they could raise their wings and run like a cat for the darkest corner. We had never tried the camera on such a ferocious lot of birds. They knew the art of self- defense like a professional prize-fighter. Approach one, and he was on his guard. He would turn on his back in a second and throw up his claws. " Come on, I'm ready," he seemed to say, and we kept our distance. The oldest one had a villainous temper; he was as much opposed to having his picture taken as a superstitious Indian. Gen- erally he sat with his chin resting on his chest like a broken- down lawyer. Once, when the photographer was least expecting it, he dropped on to his trousers' leg as lightly as a feather, but with the strength and tenacity of a mad 86 American Birds bull-pup. The claws sank through to the flesh, and before they could be pried loose they had drawn blood in three places. All birds of prey swallow a great deal of indigestible matter, such as the fur and bones of animals and the feath- ers of birds. After the nutritious portions have been ab- sorbed, the rest of the mass is formed into pellets in the stomach, and is vomited up before a new supply of food is eaten. By the examination of these pellets, found about the nest or under the roost, a scientist can get a good idea of the character of the food that has been eaten. Besides, one generally finds in the nest the remains of creatures upon which the young birds have been feeding. The birds of prey are well able to fulfil their mission in the world of natural things. All parts of the organic world are linked together in a thousand ways, and one form of life is dependent upon other forms, while the whole has been summed up in a general law called the " balance of nature." If, for example, we were to kill off our birds of prey, we would have no check against the rodents that infest our fields. Nature made these birds with strong wings and acute eyes ; she gave them powerful claws to pierce the entrails of the small animals, and strong, hooked bills for tearing the flesh. They digest food so rapidly that they are continually on the hunt, and eat a large amount each day. The owls as a family are the most helpful birds of prey to the farmer. With few exceptions they are night hunters. Their eyes and ears are remarkably acute, and are keenest in the early hours of the night and morning. Many harmful rodents are most active in their search for The Owl, Bird of Night 87 food during the night, and the owls are the natural check upon them. The hawk hunts by day and the owl by night, and the work of one supplements that of the other. A pair of barn owls occupied one of the towers of the Smithsonian Institution at Washington. When the young were half-grown the floor was strewn with pellets. An examination of two hundred of these showed a total of four hundred and fifty-four skulls. Four hundred and twelve of these were mice, twenty rats, twenty shrews, one mole, and one vesper sparrow. A family of young barn owls will number from three to seven birds. It is hard to believe what an amount of vermin a family of owls will consume. An old owl will capture as much or more food than a dozen cats in a night. The owlets are always hungry; they will eat their own weight in food every night, and more, if they can get it. A case is on record where a half-grown owl was given all the mice it could eat. It swallowed eight, one after the other. The ninth followed all but the tail, which for some time hung out of the bird's mouth. The rapid diges- tion of the birds of prey is shown by the fact that in three hours the little glutton was ready for a second meal, and swallowed four more mice. If this can be done by a single bird, what effect must a whole nestful of owls have on the vermin of a community? I wondered at the changes in the owl faces as they grew older. When I first saw them in white down, I thought, the face was that of a sheep, and then a monkey, and then I didn't know just what it resembled. The third time we visited the nest each youngster had a face that surely looked like some old grandmother dressed in a nightcap. 88 American Birds Later on, when we saw them full-grown, they had grown to be more owl-like and dignified. An owl spreads terror among the small ground folk as a ghost among negroes. It is the owl's shadow-silent wings, his sharp, sound-catching ear, and his night-piercing eyes that make him the superior of the mouse, the mole, the gopher, and the squirrel. He fans over the field with an ominous screech that sets a mouse scampering to his hole, but his ear has caught the footstep ; those wings are swift, those steel trap claws are always ready; his drop is sure, his grip is death. It would be difficult to point out a more useful bird than the barn owl in any farming country. Like many other birds, it deserves the fullest protection, but man is often its worst enemy. THE OWL FAMILY The Owls are distinguished from all other birds by having very large heads. The large, round eyes looking forward instead of sidewise give a full-face view. The bill is hooked; the claws long, hooked, and very sharp. They live on animal food, catching small animals, birds, reptiles, and insects at night-time. The strange and weird cries this bird makes at night connect it with things superstitious. American Barn Owl (Strix pratincola): Male and female, face, white edged with yellowish; under parts, pure white to yellowish-brown, dotted with blackish spots; upper parts, yellowish-brown, more or less mottled with gray. Lives throughout the warmer parts of North America, where it nests in February and March. Nests in hollow trees, caves, towers, and belfries. Eggs, from three to eight, dirty white. REARING A WREN FAMILY IX REARING A WREN FAMILY WHY shouldn't a little wren have an enormous appe- tite? " I mused, as I lay hidden in the tall grass watching the father as he fed the eldest of the family of five, that had flown for the first time from the nest in the hollow stump to the alder branches below. " Of course we admit that the tiny bobtailed youngster must have the most rapid sort of double-action digestive apparatus when we remember that he is full-grown within two weeks from the day he is hatched. The chief object of his life must be to eat and to sleep." Wrens are interesting little chaps anyhow — droll, fidgety individuals, each with great self-esteem. My in- terest in a certain brown family had increased with every visit for a whole month. One picks up many acquaint- ances rambling about the hills, but, like people, some are more interesting than others, and acquaintanceship often warms into friendship as the days pass by. While out birding in the latter part of June I was trudging along up one of the shaded paths of the fir- covered hillsides, when a little bird whizzed headlong down in its tippling flight, barely dodging my head. Both of us were rather flustered at this sudden and unexpected meeting. The moment's pause on an overhanging branch was sufficient for me to recognize the hurrying stranger 92 American Birds as a Vigors Wren (Thryomanes bewickii spilurus). But I hardly had time to see just what the small white par- cel was, she carried in her mouth. It may have been a white miller, soon to be thrust down a gaping throat, but this little brown bird was too wise to show me her home. The next day, however, I stole a march, and was well hidden in the bushes near where I thought the nest must be, when the wren appeared. I hardly expected to escape that sharp round eye, and was prepared for the scolding that followed ; in fact, I took it cheerfully, without a word in reply. In her bill she held a strip of snake-skin. Rather an uncanny mouthful, to be sure. She fidgeted about with her tail over her back, and then whirled away to a large upturned root covered with vines. Here she hopped about in the tangle of brier and fern, apparently forgetful of my presence; but those sharp brown eyes, behind which are generations of care and cunning gained in contact with nature, are never heedless. Her action would have de- ceived any other creature, but I knew her too well ; at the likeliest moment, and in an eye's twinkling, she suddenly popped up into the dead body of an alder tree and disap- peared into a tiny round hole. Wrens have traditions, and, like some people, are per- haps slightly superstitious. I was not sure that a Vigors wren thought there had to be a bit of snake-skin in her home, but I do not remember ever examining the nest of her cousin, the Parkman wren, without finding it. May- be it is for protection, as it is said that a snake will not venture where a scrap of its own skin is found. Years and years ago the first wrens must have fought for themselves among tribes of reptiles, and now the birds never think Rearing a Wren Family 93 of starting housekeeping without searching up the hill- sides, through the meadows, or back in the deep woods until the cast-off scaly coat of some snake is found and borne home in triumph as a safeguard. Almost every feathered creature has some interesting trait of protection. I have always found that the red- breasted nuthatch, after he has dug out his wooden home in some dead stump, never fails to collect a good supply of soft pitch to plaster about the round doorway of his log-house. Ever since I discovered the wren building its home in the alder stub my interest had grown, and I was anx- ious to win its friendship, principally because most birds had finished nesting for the season. Why had the nest not been placed nearer the ground instead of at a dis- tance of twelve feet, and why was such a dark, narrow home chosen that I could hardly get a glimpse of the in- terior ? Experience had taught me not to try to win the affec- tions of a bird too rapidly, especially at a season when it was so busy with household affairs. When I thought I could safely do so, I went up near the nest rather cautiously and timidly, and sat down in the tall ferns. It surprised me somewhat that neither parent scolded at my approach. After watching and waiting for almost half an hour and seeing neither wren, I became impatient and knocked gently on the tree trunk to pay my respects to the brown head that might be thrust from the round door above. Again I knocked, and then a little harder. It was queer that a wren could not feel such an earthquake against the pillar of her home. I shook the tree vigorously. Could 94 American Birds it be possible the nest was deserted? Visions of all sorts of bird accidents flashed through my mind as I swung up into the branches and rapped at the round door. All was dark within ; not even the white eggs could be seen. This was bad luck indeed, I thought. Then, with the aid of a little mirror that is always handy to examine dark cracks, I reflected a ray of light through the door to the innermost depths. There sat the mother, her brown back almost indistinguishable from the dry sides of the house, but those round dark eyes gleamed out from the gloom. Nor did she have any idea of deserting her post for all the knocking without. When I visited the little wooden home the first week in July there was a decided turn in the tide of wren affairs. The news was heralded from the tree-tops. The energy that had been used in keeping the secret of the little home a week previous was doubled in the eagerness to spread it among feathered neighbors far and wide. For two long weeks the mother and father had covered and caressed their five eggs of speckled white until they suddenly teemed with inward life, and five tiny bodies burst forth from the prison walls. The father wren — it is often the case — was rather timid while we were around. He had a particular fear and dislike for the great three-legged, one-eyed creature — my camera — that was hidden dragonlike so near his home. Birds have many enemies, and a nest is seldom left without its guard. We soon discovered that this was the father's duty. His harsh, scolding note, sounded from the surrounding boughs, always reminded us that we were trespassing. Rearing a Wren Family 95 It was the mother's duty to forage. Returning from the hunt with food she whisked about with a " what-are- you - doing - here " look of inquiry. Although flustered somewhat at first by our presence, she soon came to regard us with an air of indifference. A moment's pause on her threshold, and into the round opening she would pop; then, as if amazed at the increasing appetites she had to appease, she would dart out and away for a new supply. About the hillside and down along the little stream the mother searched continually the entire day for grubs. Each time returning, she would pause on the top of one of the trees nearby and pipe her merry trill. This note of home-coming the father never failed to hear, and it was he that always gave the response of " all's well." I was amused to hear how readily the wrenlets learned to recognize the voice of their mother. Her song of ar- rival came to be answered by such a chorus of tiny cries from the round door that she could not resist hurrying headlong to the nest. Several times from my " rabbit's hole " in the bushes I saw a song sparrow stop on sway- ing limb and sing a song somewhat resembling that of the wren, but the children in the wooden home knew not the song, and, true to their parents' teachings, remained quiet while the doughty father darted out and drove the in- truder from the premises. On July 23d I wrote in my note-book: " This morning I was surprised to see two little brown heads as I gazed through my field-glass at the round nest hole." But how could I ever get pictures of the wren nestlings if they were to remain continually within those protected wooden walls? 96 American Birds For some reason the father stormed and scolded more than usual at my next visit. He seemed out of sorts about everything. The rating I got was not very much more severe than the little wretch gave his wife when she re- turned each time with morsels of food. Something was very far wrong. It could not be that his mate did not search hard enough for food or bring enough back. With all his faultfinding, he never once offered to relieve his faithful wife. Hidden in the grass, I tried to solve the secret of the father's pettish actions. Each time the patient mother re- turned he grew more restless and violent in his language. Soon I saw his wife whirl joyously by with an unusually large white grub — surely a prize for any bird. But, alas 1 For all her prowess her spouse darted at her as if in madness, while she, trembling in terror, retreated down the limb and through the bushes. For a few moments it seemed as if the wren household was to be wrecked. I was tempted to take the mother's part against such cruel treatment, as she quivered through the fern on fluttering wing toward me, but at that moment, as if thoroughly sub- dued, she yielded up the bug to the father. This was the bone of contention. A domestic battle had been fought, and he had won. The scolding ceased. Both seemed sat- isfied. Mounting to the tree-top, the little mother poured forth such a flood of sweet song as rarely strikes human ear. From that moment she seemed a different wren, re- leased from all care and worry. Her entire time was spent in search for bugs. Each return was heralded by the high- sounding trill from the tree-top, and her husband whirled out of the tangled vines to take the morsel she carried. Mother Wren at the nest hole. A young Vigors Wren just after leaving nest in the dead alder. Feeding young Wrens. Rearing a Wren Family 97 But what of his actions? He had either gone crazy or he was a most selfish little tyrant, for he flew about the alder stump, calling now in a softer tone to his children within, and finally swallowed the grub himself. Two or three times he did this, until I was so disgusted I could hardly endure him. If he were hungry, why could he not skirmish for his own bugs? While I was chiding him for his infamous action, the mother appeared with a large moth, which he readily took. Among the alder limbs he flew, and finally up to the nest hole, out of which was coming such a series of hungry screams as no parent with the least bit of devotion could resist. Hardly could I believe my eyes, for the little knave just went to the door, where each hungry nestling could get a good view of the morsel, then, as if scolding the little ones for being so noisy and hungry, he hopped back down the tree into the bushes. This was, indeed, cause for a family revolt. The brown nestling nearest the door grew so bold with hunger that he forgot his fear and plunged headlong down, catch- ing in the branches below where the father perched. And the precocious youngster got the large moth as a reward for his bravery. Not till then did it dawn upon me that there was a reason for the father's queer actions. The wrenlets were old enough to leave the nest. Outside in the warm sun- shine they could be fed more easily and would grow more rapidly, and they could be taught the ways of woodcraft. In half an hour, one after another, the little wrens had been persuaded, even compelled, to leave the narrow con- fines of the nest and launch out into the big world. 98 American Birds What a task the father had brought upon himself! Surely the old woman in a shoe never had a more trying time. The fretful father darted away to punish one of the wrenlets for not remaining quiet; he scurried here to scold another for wandering too far, or whirled away to whip a third for not keeping low in the underbrush, away from the hawk's watchful eyes. My attention was directed in particular to one little feathered subject who, each time the brown father came back, insisted vociferously that his turn was next. Once in particular, when the camera did not fail to record, papa wren was approaching with a large grub. The wrenlet was all in ecstasy. He was calling, " Papa, papa, the bug is mine! The bug is mine! " fluttering his wings in delight as he hopped to the next limb near the hesitating parent. But the youngster's emphatic appeal failed to persuade the father, for the next instant he deposited the morsel in the mouth of the less boisterous child. What a change in my enthusiastic little friend, who at one mo- ment fairly tasted the dainty bit and the next saw it dis- appear down the throat of a less noisy brother. He stood looking in amazement as his feathers ruffled up in anger and an astonished peep of disgust escaped his throat. Another day in the warm sunshine and the wrenlets began to act more like their parents, and to gain rapidly in worldly knowledge. The third morning all was quiet, and I thought the family had departed for other hunting- grounds. Soon, however, the father appeared, and then the mother, scolding as usual. I crawled down under the tall ferns to wait. The parents had taught their children the act of keeping still very well, for not a peep was heard. Rearing a Wren Family 99 But those ever-growing appetites soon mastered caution, and, regardless of continual warnings, there was a soft little "Wink! Wink! " in the direction of the vine-cov- ered stump. JTwas hardly an exclamation of delight, but just a gentle reminder lest the busy parents forget. Grad- ually these little notes increased in number and volume till the full chorus of five impatient voices arose from among the tangle of vines and ferns. My continued visits had made fast friends of the little fellows. Two of them took their position on the top of the stub where the father was accustomed to light. Here they sat in sleepy attitude, each awaiting his turn to be fed. Not in the least accommodating were they from the photographer's point of view, for generally when the camera was focused for the picture they would nod lower and lower, as children do at bedtime, till both were sound asleep in the warm sunshine. It was remarkable, how- ever, to witness the effect of the mother's trill as she her- alded the approach of something edible. In a flash both wrenlets on the wooden watch-tower were wide awake and on the tiptoe of expectancy. Often do I remember trying to play foster-parent to young birds, and yet, with all my care and patience, I seldom succeeded. A week before, when I had held a large spider temptingly near the nestlings, they had crouched back in terror; but by this time they had certainly gained in worldly wisdom. I also had not been watching the wrens for the past two weeks without learning. I had seen the mother hop up and down an old stump, like a dog after a squirrel, till she would haul out a big grub. Digging into this bird storehouse with my knife, in a trice ioo American Birds I collected half a dozen fine fat worms — a stock of provi- sions that would take the mother two hours to gather. Why are young birds so particular, anyhow? What dif- ference does it make whether their dinner comes from the mother's mouth or from some kindly disposed neighbor? " I'll just test the little wrens once more," I said to myself, as I impaled two of the choicest grubs on a sharp- ened stick. It was impossible for me to announce the approach of this dinner with the soft little "Wink! Wink! " of the mother, but I patted both the sleepy birdies on the back and, rather hesitatingly, held up my offering. There was hardly room to doubt its ac- ceptance. Mercy! Such a reaching and stretching! I could not divide up fast enough. Nor was one grub apiece sufficient. Quiet was not restored till each wrenlet had stored away two of the largest and fattest. For the first time the parent wrens seemed to realize that I was actually of some use. The trying task of sat- isfying five growing appetites was lessened to some de- gree, and the busy parents took household affairs some- what more easily the rest of the day. The next time I saw the wren family all the young were scampering about in the bushes, following their pa- rents hither and thither, earning their own livelihood, and rapidly learning for themselves the arts of woodcraft. THE WREN FAMILY The Wrens are all dull brown or gray birds and fine singers. They have long, slender bills and are generally found in low bushes and shrub- bery where they hunt for worms and insects. In size they are from four to six inches in length. They are fidgety and inquisitive and may often be recognized by a tail that is tilted over the back. Rearing a Wren Family 101 House Wren (Troglodytes aedon): Male and female, dark brown above, barred with a darker shade especially on wings and tail; under parts grayish-brown. Lives through eastern United States, where it may be found from the middle of April to October. Nest, a loose heap of sticks with a soft lining, in a bird-house or hollow tree. Eggs, six to ten, cream color, covered with red-brown spots. The House Wren on the Pacific Coast is identical, but is called Parkman Wren. Vigors Wren is also similar but larger in size, and may be recognized by a whitish stripe over the eye. The Winter Wren is common in the East and West and is smaller in size, only four inches in length. Like the other wrens, it may be known by its plain brown clothes, fidgety movements and bright and lively song. THE WEAVER OF THE WEST The parents lit wherever they found the children. Bush-tit feeding young on top of cap. Awaiting their turns — rather impatiently. THE WEAVER OF THE WEST I LAY on my back under the hemlock and marvelled at the little mansion hanging in the glint of the warm June sun. Yes, a real bird mansion. Not open-roofed, for impudent passers-by to spy out family secrets; not set in a crotch, so that it could be tipped over or blown out, but carefully tied, cradlelike, to the drooping branches, where it could be rocked by the playing breezes. It's not a small matter to get a site suited for a Bush- tit's (Psaltriparus minimus) mansion. There should be one or two firm, upright twigs about which to weave the walls, a cross branch or two for rafters, and, if the house is to be modern, a little support for a porch or promenade. Contrary to our first rule for success, these little builders begin at the top and build down, first weaving the roof, leaving a round door, and then the hallway down to the main living-room. Each is the architect of his own home, and each is a born master builder. Once I found a bush-tit's nest twenty inches long. The little weavers had started their home on a limb, and appar- ently it was not low enough to suit them, for they wove a fibrous strap ten inches long, and then swung their gourd-shaped nest to that, so it hung in a tussock of willow leaves. I happened to find the nest in the hemlock when they 105 io6 American Birds were putting in the first spider-web cross-beams and sup- ports for the roof, and only six feet from the ground, where I could see the whole process. In two days they had all the framework up and started with the furnishings. Each midget would return every few minutes with some- thing new. Down into the bag he would dive, and it would shake and bulge for a moment, and then away he would dart for some more material. It took days to furnish the home. What downy draperies ! What moss- covered walls, lichen-tinted in greens and browns! And most important of all, there was a thick bed of feathers, the resting-place of seven eggs of delicate whiteness. You should have seen the way they put me in the same category with small boys, owls, and sparrow hawks. At first they didn't dare go near the nest for fear I'd see it. But, mercy ! a titmouse might make twenty resolutions not to trust you, and the very next minute he'd throw him- self and all his hopes right into your arms. There wasn't a fibre of suspicion in his little body, but his race had suf- fered so long that a good bit of caution had been embedded in his tiny brain. He tried to keep the family secret, but the minute he trusted me he told all he knew. I stood almost within reach of the nest. The little lover looked me over from all sides. Then, as a final test, he popped right into the round door. He knew I would make a grab at him, nest and all. He was out in a twinkle. He looked amazed, for I didn't move. That was his test of friendship, and from that time on he gave me his confidence. What implicit trust they placed in me ! Why, I don't know. Had they forgotten the thousand wrongs the man- The Weaver of the West 107 tribe had inflicted upon their kin? They had known me scarcely a week. I really believe the fluffy, gray bodies only remembered the kindnesses of our race, not the evils. Then, maybe, they had not forgotten the feathers I hung about on the limbs. But their happiness was my happi- ness. I rejoiced when the naked mites broke from the fragile shells. I had a private door all my own; a slit cut in the back wall where I could occasionally peek into the innermost depths, and then pin it carefully together again. Anybody would fall in love with a bush-tit, even if he were not the chickadee's cousin. If it were not for his tail, the fluffy midget would be no larger than your thumb. He does not possess the aerial grace of a swallow, or even the nimbleness of a warbler. He bustles along in such a jerky way he often looks as if he would topple heels over head and go whirling to the ground like a tailless kite. But he is a skilled hunter. He skirmishes every tree and bush. He is not so successful a wing-shot as the fly- catcher, but he has an eye that few birds can equal in stalk- ing. He is no mean assistant of the gardener. He is not the kind that hoes a whole garden in a day, cutting off half the new tender shoots, but he's at work early and late, and he's constantly at it. I kept run of bush-tit affairs for several days after the young had hatched. The father fed the nestlings as often as the mother. He generally paused a moment on the fern tops just below the nest, and by focusing our camera at this point we got his picture. Sometimes he would stop at the doorway with a look of inquiry that said, " What do you think of that for a dinner?" Occasionally I've io8 American Birds seen him swallow the morsel himself/ He then justified his conscience by appearing too timid to enter the door. The real drama of life began when the youngsters were fluttering, full-grown, vigorous, impatient to get one glimpse at the great outside from where the mother and father came so often with morsels. One morning I saw a pair of bright eyes pushed right through the fibrous wall at my own observation door. An ambitious youngster had seen the wall open and close too often not to know there was a way. He had worked it open, and it was just where he could sit and look long- ingly out. The time had come ; we had watched and waited two weeks for this day. The minute one nestling took the idea into his head .to get out into the sunshine, it spread like contagion among the whole household. They came not in singles, but in battalions! If we'd had a dozen eyes we couldn't have kept track of them. We put sev- eral back on a twig beside the nest, where they sat fluffing in the warm sunshine, enjoying their first outing, and awaiting their turns to be fed rather impatiently. Each titmouse had a tiny tinkle for a voice that was almost as hard to hear as the whisper of the flowers. I had to strain my ears to catch it more than a few feet away. One nestling flew over into the deep ferns, but I might have searched till doomsday for him. But the mother knew where he was the instant she returned. Another flew down into our camera box, and I shut the lid to see if the mother would find him. She lit right on the box with a billsome morsel, and looked so uneasy that I had to let her in. It looked to me like wireless telegra- Hush-tit at door of long hanging nest. Young Rush-tits beside long pendent nest. Male Bush-tit with green cutworm for young. The Weaver of the West 109 phy. Maybe the birds had a system of long-distance com- munication even before man called through a trumpet, and ages before he ever shipped his thoughts by wire. We were fairly overrun with titmice. They climbed into our camera and clung to our clothes as easily as a fly walks up a wall. They perched on our fingers and our heads, and the parents lit wherever they found the chil- dren. Some fairy always told the mother where to go, as she came again and again with green cutworms that seemed as large as the head of one of her babies. Birds differ only in size and dress to some people, but to one who has studied long and carefully at the homes of the different species each feathered creature has a real character of its own. What doe's a cut-and-dried cata- logued description mean? "Name, Psaltriparus mini- mus (Bush-tit). Nest in hemlock tree six feet from the ground. Identity, positive. Eggs, seven, pure white." This is all right for a city directory, and is almost as inter- esting. Think of labelling your friends in this way! You don't know a bush-tit any more when you have found him with a field-glass and identified him in your bird manual than you do a man when you are introduced to him and shove his card in your pocket. Each bird has a real indi- viduality. Each is different in character and disposition from all others. I knew the bush-tit and chickadee were cousins before I ever heard of the Parada family. They may not look much alike in dress, but aren't they identical in disposition? They are merry because they can't look on the dark side of things. Let to-morrow take care of itself; they live for to-day. I've watched the young birds of many species where 1 1 o American Birds the parents care for them a week or so after they leave the nest till they are able to hunt a living for themselves ; then the family scatters and loses identity in the great world of feathers. Not so with the bush-tits: they hunt, feed, and sleep together, winter as well as summer. Such little talkers ! They titter as much as they hunt and eat, and that is all day long. When you meet them in the woodland it sounds like a fairy's wedding march. I found the little family in the hemlock tree even more interesting after they all learned to fly. Several times I saw them about the patch of woods. One day I stood watching the flock of midgets in an alder copse. Each youngster had learned to keep up a constant " Tsre-e ! Tsre-e ! Tsit ! Tsre-e ! " as if always saying something, but I do not think this gossip was as much for the sake of the conversation as merely to keep the whole flock constantly together. While I was watching, three or four of the little fellows were within a few feet of me. One of the parents in the next tree began a shrill, quavering whistle, and instantly it was taken up by every one of the band. The two tiny birds near me, as well as every one of the others, froze to their perches. Had I not known, I couldn't have told just where the whistle was coming from, it sounded so scattering, like the elusive, grating call of the cicada. Then I saw a hawk sweeping slowly overhead, and the confusing chorus lasted as long as the hawk was in sight; nor did one of the little bush-tits seem to move a feather, but just sit and trill in perfect unison. It served as a unique method of protection; the whole flock had learned to act as a unit. It would have been hard for an enemy to tell where a single bird was, the The Weaver of the West 1 1 1 alarm note was so deceiving. They were so motionless and their clothing harmonized so perfectly with the shad- ows of the foliage. Millions of destructive insects lay their eggs, live and multiply in the buds and bark of trees, and it seems the bush-tit's life-work to keep this horde in check. After the little family left their home I never found them quiet for a minute. When they took possession of a tree they took it by storm. It looked as if it had suddenly grown wings and every limb was alive. They turned every leaf, looked into every cranny, and scratched up the moss and lichens. They hung by their toes to peek into every bud; they swung around the branches to pry into every crack; then, in a few moments, they tilted off to the next tree to con- tinue the hunt. THE BUSH-TIT FAMILY The Bush-tits are the dwarfs of the chickadee family. They are four inches in length and half of this is tail. They have very short bills and tiny gray bodies. The bush-tits are exclusively western, and are remarkable nest builders. They live on insect eggs, scale, plant-lice, caterpillars, and other injurious insects. Bush-tit (Psaltriparus minimus}: Male and female, uniform gray in color, darker above and lighter below; scarcely larger than a humming- bird in size, but with a tail as long as body. Found on the Pacific Coast. Nests in April and May. Nest, hanging and gourd-shaped, with small hole near the top. Eggs, five to nine, and pure white. JIMMY THE BUTCHER-BIRD XI JIMMY THE BUTCHER-BIRD THE first time I saw Jimmy he was doubled up in a fluffy ball with his head under his wing. For a bed he had taken a eucalyptus limb that hung on the back porch. He had been brought in with another nestling by a small boy, who said that the mother had " died of a cat." There was a question at the time as to whether this was the real cause of her taking-off, but the fact remained that the bantlings were in danger of starvation. With two orphans on her hands, there was nothing left for our neighbor to do but to adopt them. A little fresh meat seemed to revive the two bobtailed youngsters, but the smaller of the two was not long for this world, and in a few days one young Butcher-bird (Lanius ludiovicianus gambeli) was left. Yes, a butcher-bird for a pet. Might as well adopt a cannibal or become a foreign missionary, one of our friends thought. But helplessness always arouses pity, and some of us like a bird merely because he is a bird. Some one has said that man's interest in birds lies in the fact that we were birds ourselves before we reached the human stage. An angel is a child with wings. How much bird actions are like human actions! They frolic and they toil. What other animal approaches nearer to man as a home builder and housekeeper than the bird? And, after all, this young orphan butcher-bird could "5 1 1 6 American Birds hardly be blamed for the sins of his ancestors, even though his own parents had likely murdered a caged canary that had lived not far away. He was the son of a murderer, but by adoption into a respectable family who could tell but that this fledgling might develop into a bird of good qualities? We were of the opinion that a shrike had no good qualities, that he was a butcher pure and simple, and killed his own kind for the pure taste of blood and brains. In fact, the first impression I ever got of a shrike or butcher-bird was when I was called out to the back porch and saw our tame canary lying headless in the bottom of the cage. But even though the shrike is the enemy of the small birds, they do not seem to realize that he is dangerous. I have often seen birds pay no more attention to a shrike than to a robin. Perhaps he does not attack the birds in the open, where they can fly and dodge and get away. I think the shrike likes caged birds best, those he can scare and catch through the bars and tear to pieces as the victim is held by the wires. The shrike is called the butcher-bird from its habit of hanging its meat on a hook or in a crotch. He is much the same size and form as the blue jay. He has a grayish coat. I generally see him flying about the fields and occa- sionally lighting in the stubble, where he picks up crickets, grasshoppers, and mice. The habit of the shrike in impal- ing its food on thorns or fastening it in crotches comes as a necessity to the bird in tearing its food. It has a hooked bill, but is not equipped like the hawks and owls with talons to hold its food. Although this bird undoubtedly kills some small songsters, we wanted to find out whether Jimmy eating from the hand of his mistress. Pair of young Shrikes or Butcher-birds. He often perched in the pear tree. Jimmy the Butcher-bfrd 117 under different circumstances he would change his bar- barous traits. Can a wild bird be civilized? Can he retain his freedom and yet put off his bad habits ? When he begins to hunt his own food, will he know that it is right to hunt beetles, grasshoppers, and mice, but against the law to kill goldfinches ? Jimmy was given the freedom of the back porch. This was a large apartment, and was well screened. Some branches were hung up to make the place look as woodsy as possible, and a special table was built for the new arrival. In two or three weeks he was able to fly quite well, and it was decided to give-^him the freedom of the back yard. It was the real nature of the bird that we wanted to study, the wild bird under civilized circum- stances, but not in a cage. It did not take Jimmy long to make friends and to know his mistress. He was awake and squealing at day- light. He fluttered at the window, and the minute the door opened he was in the kitchen and perched on the shoulder or arm of his mistress, begging to be fed. There was no doubt as to his preference; he wanted fresh meat. When the door of the back porch was opened and Jimmy was invited to go out into the yard and learn to find his own breakfast, he accepted the invitation with eagerness. He poked around through the rose-bushes and along the fence more from curiosity than with the idea of getting something to eat. He often perched in the pear tree. Then, when he was hungry, he hopped back to the porch, for he knew the table was always set there. Jimmy was lazy when it came to hunting his own 1 1 8 American Birds living. The fact that he had a free lunch-counter at his back porch home he did not forget. That seemed to be the binding link. He would go about the yard and up into the trees, and he got to wandering farther and far- ther; but he would always come back several times during the day for food. He knew his name as well as a person does, and would come immediately if he were within call- ing distance. As Jimmy grew older he developed into a fine-looking bird. His coat was a slate-gray above and a dull whitish color below. He soon developed remarkable likes and dis- likes. I would hardly have believed that a bird could have shown so much knowledge had I not seen it myself. We are too apt to think there is little real intelligence in the bird brain. I have often wished I could fathom the thoughts that Jimmy had as he sat in his master's room for hours at a time and looked out of the window when it was raining, or when he hopped about the kitchen, picking up and prying into things, or when he stopped to look his mistress in the eye and chuckle with a side turn of his 'head. He had the range of the house and the range of the outdoors, yet he often preferred to stay indoors when he took human company to bird company. He knew his home as well as the dog did. But Jimmy didn't like dogs or cats. When he had the freedom of the house he liked to tease, and his teasing turned to a pet mockingbird that was kept in a cage. At first Jimmy would sit on the table and watch. Then he took to flying on the top of the cage, and this worried the mocker, who didn't want any one on the cage above his head. But it pleased Jimmy, and he Jimmy the Butcher-bird 1 1 9 would hop back and forth in a threatening way. This happened several times, till one day the mocker had his chance; I think he had been waiting for it. Jimmy was on the side of the cage with his feet hooked in the wires, when the mocker suddenly grabbed him by the toe and gave it such a sharp pull that Jimmy squealed in pain. It was a pure case of revenge, and the mocker enjoyed it. It gave a good insight as to how quick Jimmy could learn, for he kept off the cage after that, and did not tease the mockingbird. Gradually Jimmy's freedom of the house was taken from him. He couldn't be trusted to leave anything in order. He knocked things off the bureau, broke a painted china cup, and he always wanted to taste out of every dish on the table. He stuck his feet in a dish of jam, and then tracked it across the table. And how he liked butter ! He dipped right in the instant he saw butter, and that was his first thought when the pantry door was open. One day when the kitchen was closed Jimmy found the window of the east room upstairs open and in he went, and soon appeared in the dining-room, helping himself. After that the window was kept shut, but Jimmy would go anyway and peck on the glass till he was let in. His master often sat there, and that became Jimmy's favorite room. All during the winter on rainy days he liked to stay in that room. The window looked directly out to the east over a waste of weeds and sage-brush. This was Jimmy's hunting-ground; he always went out that way when he wanted to hunt, for that was the only unculti- vated tract about the house. That was the place he hunted grasshoppers and crickets. His favorite perch was the I2O American Birds back of a chair near the window, where he could look out over the slope, and here he would sit for an hour at a time, as if thinking. And how do we know but that he was going over many of his hunts and hairbreadth escapes and thinking of the springtime that was coming and the new experiences it would bring? Out in front of the house was a concrete basin where the water-lilies grew. The lily-pads were large enough to support a bird, and the linnets and goldfinches used them for bath-tubs. I think the birds came for a mile around to get water here, for there was hardly a time during the hot days when some visitors did not come either to wash or to drink. Jimmy often watched the performance and seemed interested, but he knew better than to prey upon birds. His home training had gone deep enough for that, and he had been civilized to that extent. Jimmy didn't bathe very often himself, but when he did he simply soaked himself till he couldn't fly. For some reason he preferred the irrigating ditch; there he had plenty of running water. Perhaps he thought the basin where every tramp bird bathed was not clean enough. He selected a shallow place and waded in to his middle; then he began bobbing and throwing water, and he kept it up till he was so tired and heavy he could hardly crawl out. When it came to dealing with other people, Jimmy had many interesting experiences. He was bold and fearless, no matter whether he knew the person or not. One day when Jimmy had been gone several hours he was brought home by one of the neighbors. A carpenter was at work on the top of his house, when Jimmy, apparently in fun, Jimmy the Butcher-bird 1 21 had swooped down and lit on his shoulder and began screeching in his ear. The workman was so astonished that he almost fell from his position when he felt this strange bird fluttering about his head; he dodged as if he were trying to get rid of a swarm of bees. He didn't know whether to fight or not. But he was soon assured that the bird was only playing. For some reason Jimmy did not like the gardener. His mistress thought it was because the man wore 'such ragged clothes. She said he always took to people who were dressed up, and was friendly in every way, but the minute a workingman came about Jimmy would squall and peck and show his anger. When the gardener was hoeing, Jimmy would fly down at his feet and get in the way, or he would hop along in front of the wheelbarrow or ride on the front, squealing his disapproval. Twice he lit on the shoulder of the gardener and bit him in the neck till the blood came. This was carrying his opinions to such an extent that his mistress caught him and clipped the little hook on his bill. This served as a sort of a muzzle, so he could not bite so hard. The instinct was strong in Jimmy to hang his food on a nail or in a crack so he could tear it to pieces. He often brought in insects from the field, and would always fly direct to the hand of his mistress, because she so often held his meat in her hand for him to eat. He would light on her shoulder with a screech and a side turn of his head that said, " Hold this for me, quick, till I eat it ! " And if she didn't, he showed great impatience. But this habit of Jimmy's was distasteful at times, for he brought in a variety of things from dead mice to crickets, worms, and 122 American Birds beetles. One day when a fashionably-dressed lady was being entertained on the front porch Jimmy suddenly ap- peared and lit on her shoulder with a very large beetle. The reception he got surprised him, for a bird thrusting a big, ugly beetle in her face was too much for the lady, and she threw up her hands in horror and fled, while Jimmy sat looking in amazement. The wicker-backed rocking-chair on the front porch was a favorite of Jimmy's, for he could fasten his food in the cracks of it. One day his mistress found a mouse that he had left there, very likely with the intention of call- ing for it when he got hungry. By watching the various kinds of food that Jimmy brought in, we readily estimated that his hunts were of much more good than harm. Even the wild shrike that kills a small bird occasionally kills more than enough harmful insects to make up for its de- struction. As the winter passed and spring wore on, Jimmy ex- tended his visits. He must have looked and hunted far- ther away, for often he would be gone for half a day at a time. But he always returned to the eucalyptus bough on the back porch, and the door was always open for him and closed when he was in bed. Then one day in March he did not return. But he got back next morning about ten o'clock, and came pecking and crying at the window. He seemed overjoyed to get back, but, after staying about for a while, he got restless. It was evident that there was an influence somewhere out beyond the sage-brush that was stronger than his home life. Something else was call- ing him. It was only a matter of time till he would cease to sleep on the porch. Jimmy the Butcher-bird 123 About two weeks later Jimmy was seen for the last time. There were two shrikes out in the low oaks beyond the irrigating ditch. One came sweeping across from the hill, flapping his short wings and screeching his greet- ings in butcher-bird tongue. He paused just long enough on the fence to see that his companion had disappeared. With a loud squawk Jimmy turned back to find her, for that was his new mistress. THE SHRIKE OR BUTCHER-BIRD FAMILY The Shrikes may be recognized by the powerful head and neck and the hooked bill. Length, about nine inches. Bluish-gray in color. They are bold and fearless and feed on insects, mice, and small birds, which they impale on thorns and sharp twigs. White-rumped Shrike (Lanius ludovicianus excubitorides\ Butcher- bird: Male and female, upper parts pale ashy-gray; narrow black stripe across forehead through eye; under parts and rump, white; wings and tail, black with white markings. Found in middle and eastern North America, where it nests in hedges and thorn-trees. Eggs, four to six, grayish, covered with brown spots. The Northern Shrike is very similar but is seen only from November to April as a roving winter resident. California Shrike (Lanius ludovicianus gambeli): Pacific Coast form, identical with White-rumped Shrike. THE WARBLER AND HIS WAYS XII THE WARBLER AND HIS WAYS DURING the warm days of June, I often frequent a woody retreat above the old mill-dam on Fulton Creek. The water gurgles among the gray rocks and glides past a clump of firs and maples. Star-flowers gleam from the darker places of shade, white anemones are scat- tered in the green of the grass blades and ferns, and Lin- naean bells overhang the moss-covered logs. As one sits here in the midst of the woods, the chords of every sense are stretched. The nostrils sniff the scent of the fir boughs tipped with their new growth of lighter green. The eye catches the cautious movements of furry and feathered creatures. The heart beats in tune with the forest pulse. One day as I lay idling in this favorite haunt a shadow, caught in the net of sunbeams, spread under the maple. A Black-throated Gray Warbler (Dendroica nlgrescens) fidgeted on the limb above with a straw in her bill. This was pleasing. I had searched the locality for years, trying to find the home of this shy bird, and here was a piece of evidence thrust squarely in my face. The site of the nest was twelve feet from the ground in the top of a sapling. A week and a half later I parted the branches and found a cup of grasses, feather-lined, nestled in the fork of the fir. There lay four eggs of a pinkish tinge, touched with dots of brown. 127 128 American Birds The chief source of satisfaction in a camera study of bird life comes not in the odd-time chances of observa- tion, but in a continued period of leisure when one may spend his entire time about bird homes just as he takes a week's vacation at the sea-shore. One cannot take a cam- era, no matter how expensive it is, and snap off good bird pictures during the spare moments of a busy day. He might, however, fill half a dozen note-books with valuable odd-time observations. To be sure, the joy of nature comes to the amateur, not to the professional, but to be a successful amateur bird-photographer one has fairly to make a business of lying in wait for his subjects hour after hour, day by day, and maybe week after week. The re- ward of real success comes not in mere acquaintanceship with some feathered bit of flying life, but in real friend- ship ; there cannot be the formality of a society call, but one should, by frequent visits, be well enough acquainted to drop in at any time with his camera without interfering with the daily affairs of family life. The real value of photography is that it records the truth. The person who photographs birds successfully has to study his subjects long and carefully. He is likely, therefore, to get a good set of notes, and not to be compelled to complete his observations when he is seated in the comfortable chair of his study. Of course, in the study of art, we may try to improve on nature, but in nature study truth is the chief thing. We must under- stand that a beast or bird is interesting for its own wild sake. Of course it showed a pure lack of discretion to try to picture the home of such a shy warbler during the days of Nest and eggs of Black-throated Gray Warbler. Two small nestlings. Disputing while mother is away. The Warbler and His Ways 129 incubation, but I half believe the feathered owners would have overlooked this had it not been for the pair of blue jays that buccaneered that patch of fir. While we were getting a picture I saw them eyeing us curiously, but they slunk away among the dark firs squawking jay-talk about something I didn't understand. Two days later we skirted the clump to see if the warblers had been too severely shocked by the camera. In an instant I translated every syllable of what that pair of blue pirates had squawked. The scattered remnants of the nest and the broken bits of shell told all. These gray warblers, however much they were upset by the camera-fiend and blue jay raid, were not to be undone. They actually went to housekeeping again within forty yards of the old home site. The new nest was placed in a fir sapling very like the first, but better hidden from marauding blue jays. It was far better suited to the photographer. Just at the side of the new site was the sawed-off stump of an old fir upon which we climbed and aimed the camera straight into the nest. There, instead of four, were only two small nestlings. They stretched their skinny necks and opened wide their yellow- lined mouths in unmistakable hunger. The moment the mother returned and found us so dangerously near her brood she was scared almost out of her senses. She fell from the top of the tree in a flutter- ing fit. She caught quivering on the limb a foot from my hand. Involuntarily I reached to help her. Poor thing! She couldn't hold on, but slipped through the branches and clutched my shoe. I never saw such an ex- aggerated case of the chills, or heard such a pitiful high- I jo American Birds pitched note of pain. I stooped to see what ailed her. What, both wings broken and unable to hold with her claws! She wavered like an autumn leaf to the ground. I leaped down, but she had limped under a bush and sud- denly got well. Of course, I knew she was tricking me. The next day my heart was hardened against all her alluring ways and her crocodile tears. She played her best, but the minute she failed to win I got a furious berating. It was no begging note now. She perched over my head and called me every name in the warbler vocabulary. Then she saw that we were actually shoving that cyclopian monster right at her children. " Fly ! Fly for your lives ! " she screamed in desperation. Both the scanty-feathered, bobtailed youngsters jumped blindly out of the nest into the bushes below. The mother outdid all previous per- formances. She simply doubled and twisted in agonized death spasms. But, not to be fooled, I kept an eye on one nestling and soon replaced him in the nest where he belonged. Nature always hides such creatures by the sim- ple wave of her wand. I've seen a flock of half a dozen grouse flutter up into a fir and disappear to my eyes as mysteriously as fog in the sunshine. This fidgety bit of featherhood is called the black- throated gray warbler, but it's only the male that has a black throat. He is not the whole species. His wife wears a white cravat and she, to my thinking, is a deal more important in warbler affairs. Mr. Warbler seemed to be kept away from home the greater part of the day when the children were crying for food. The first day I really met the gentleman face to face we were trying to get a photograph of the mother as The Warbler and His Ways 131 she came home to feed. She had got quite used to the camera. We had it levelled point-blank at the nest, only a yard distant. A gray figure came flitting over the tree- top and planted himself on the limb right beside his home. He carried a green cutworm in his mouth. No sooner had he squatted on his accustomed perch than he caught sight of the camera. With an astonished chirp he dropped his worm, turned a back somersault, and all I saw was a streak of gray curving up over the pointed firs. I doubt if he lit or felt any degree of safety till he reached the opposite bank of the river. We met his lordship again the following day. The mother was doing her best to lure us from the nest by her cunning tricks. Every visit we had made she kept prac- tising the same old game. Just as she was putting on a few extra touches of agony I saw a glint of gray. The father darted at the deceiving mother. I never saw such a case of wife-beating. Maybe she deserved it. I don't know whether he blamed her for my presence and interference, or whether he wanted all her time and attention devoted to the care of the children. She didn't practise deceit any more. I could not tell one nestling from the other. As I sat watching the mother the questions often arose in my mind: Does she recognize one child from the other? Does she feed them in turn, or does she poke the food down the first open mouth she sees ? Here is a good chance to experiment I thought. So with a good supply of 5 x 7 plates we watched and photographed from early in the morning till late in the afternoon for three days. At the end of that time we had eight pictures, or rather four I32 American Birds pairs, each of which was taken in the same order as the mother fed her young. The warblers foraged the firs for insects of all sizes and colors. The mother often brought in green cutworms, which she rolled through her bill as a housewife runs washing through a wringer, either to kill the creature or to be sure it was soft and billsome. This looked like a waste of time to me. The digestive organs of those bob- tailed bantlings seemed equal to almost any insect I had ever seen. In the days I spent about the nest I never saw the time when both the bairns were not in a starving mood, regardless of the amount of dinner they had just swal- lowed. The flutter of wings seemed to touch the button that opened their mouths. At the slightest sound I've often seen disputes arise while the mother was away. " I'll take the next," said one. " I guess you'll not! " screamed the other. The mother paid no more attention to their quarrels and entreaties than to the ceaseless gurgle of the water. How could she? I don't believe she ever caught sight of her children when their mouths were not open. The fact that the mother fed them impartially appealed in no way to their sense of justice. The one that got the meal quivered his wings in ecstasy, while the other always protested at the top of his voice. The first pair of pictures in the series was taken while the young were still in the nest. The mother fed the nearest nestling. Changing the plate and adjusting the camera again I had to wait only three minutes. The bairn at the edge of the nest surely had the advantage of posi- tion, but what was position? For all his begging the The mother often brought in green cutworms. The gray mother rewarded him with a mouthful. She did not forget the hungry, more timid fledgling in the nest. The Warbler and His Ways 133 nearest got a knock on the ear that sent him bawling, while his brother gulped down a fat spider. Soon after one of the bantlings hopped out on the limb, and the gray mother rewarded him with a mouth- ful that fairly made his eyes bulge. On her return she did not forget the hungry, more timid fledgling in the nest. Again I tried the experiment of having the mother light between her clamoring children. First the right one received a toothsome morsel, notwithstanding the im- patient exclamations of the chick on the left. Soon after the hungry bairn on the left got a juicy bite, in spite of the loud appeals from the right. "This way I'll fool the mother," I thought, as I perched both bantlings on a small limb where they could be fed only from the right. This looked good to the first little chick, for he seemed to reason that when he opened his mouth his mother could not resist his plead- ings. He reasoned rightly the first time. On the second appearance of his mother position did not count for much; it was his brother's turn. Later in the day I watched the gray warbler coax her two children from the fir into the thick protecting bushes below. With the keen sense of bird motherhood she led them on, and they followed out into the world of bird experience. THE WOOD WARBLER FAMILY This is one of the largest families of North American birds. The Warblers are five inches or less in length. They are all migratory; they live almost entirely on insects. The bill is narrow and, like the feet, 134 American Birds delicately formed. The bird is often beautifully colored, quick and active, flitting incessantly among the leaves. Yellow Warbler (Dendroica