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THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

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Wake-Robin

BY

JOHN BURROUGHS

NEW YORK
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON

Cambridge: ftftntfiUe #rc&*

1871

SE^ BY

:iC£5

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by

J.. nN Burroughs,

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
rRXMTKD BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.

PREFACE.

r^HIS is mainly a book about the Birds, or more

-*- properly an invitation to the study of Ornithology,

and the purpose of the author will be carried out in

proportion as it awakens and stimulates the interest of

the reader in this branch of Natural History.

Though written less in the spirit of exact science
than with the freedom of love and old acquaintance,
yet I have in no instance taken liberties with facts, or
allowed my imagination to influence me to the extent
of giving a false impression or a wrong coloring. I
have reapedmy harvest more in the woods than in the
study ; what I offer, in fact, is a careful and conscien-
tious record of actual observations and experiences,
and is true as it stands written, every word of it. But
what has interested me most in Ornithology, is the pur-
suit, the chase, the discovery j that part of it which is
akin to hunting, fishing, and wild sports, and which I

jv PREFACE.

could carry with me in my eye and ear, wherever 1
went.

I cannot answer with much confidence the poet's
inquiry.

•' Have you named all the birds without the gun?"

but 1 have done what I could to bring home the
"earth and the sky" with the sparrow I heard "sing-
ing at dawn on the alder bough." In other words,
I have tried to present a live bird, — a bird in the
woods or the fields, — with the atmosphere and associa-
tions of the place, and not merely a stuffed and labeled
specimen.

A more specific title for the volume would have
suited me better, but not being able to satisfy myself in
this direction, I cast about for a word thoroughly in the
atmosphere and spirit of the book, which I hope I have
found in " Wake-Robin" — the common name of the
white Trillium, which blooms in all our woods, and
which marks the arrival of all the birds.

CONTENTS

Page

I. The Return of the Birds .... i

II. In the Hemlocks 39

III. Adirondac 75

IV. Bikds'-nests 101

V. Spring at the Capital .... 137

VI. Birch Browsings 169

VII. The Invitation ■ 203

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

O PRING in our northern climate may fairly be said
^ to extend from the middle of March to the mid-
dle of June. At least, the vernal tide continues to rise
until the latter date, and it is not till after the summer
solstice that the shoots and twigs begin to harden and
turn to wood, or the grass to lose any of its freshness
and succulency.

It is this period that marks the return of the birds,
— one or two of the more hardy or half-domesticated
species, like the song-sparrow and the bluebird, usu-
ally arriving in March, while the rarer and more brill-
iant wood-birds bring up the procession in June. But
each stage of the advancing season gives prominence
to certain species, as to certain flowers. The dandelion
tells me when to look for the swallow, the dog-toothed
violet when to expect the wood-thrush, and when I have
found the wake-robin in bloom I know the season is
fairly inaugurated. With me this flower is associated
not merely with the awakening of Robin, for he has
been awake some weeks, but with the universal awaken-
ing and rehabilitation of nature.

Yet the coming and going of the birds is more or
less a mystery and a surprise. We go out in the morn-

4 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

ing, and no thrush or vireo is to be heard ; we go out
again, and every tree and grove is musical ; yet again,
and all is silent. Who saw them come ? Who saw
them depart?

This pert little winter-wren, for instance, darting in
and out the fence, diving under the rubbish here and
coming up yards away, — how does he manage with
those little circular wings to compass degrees and zones,
and arrive always in the nick of time ? Last August I
saw him in the remotest wilds of the Adirondacs, im-
patient and inquisitive as usual ; a few weeks later, on
the Potomac, I was greeted by the same hardy little
busybody. Does he travel by easy stages from bush
to bush and from wood to wood ? or has that com-
pact little body force and courage to brave the night
and the upper air, and so achieve leagues at one pull ?

And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge on his
breast and the sky tinge on his back, — did he come
down out of heaven on that bright March morning
when he told us so softly and plaintively that if we
pleased, spring had come ? Indeed, there is nothing in
the return of the birds more curious and suggestive
than in the first appearance, or rumors of the appear-
ance, of this little blue-coat. The bird at first seems a
mere wandering voice in the air ; one hears its call or
carol on some bright March morning, but is uncertain
of its source or direction ; it falls like a drop of rain
when no cloud is visible ; one looks and listens, but to
no purpose. The weather changes, perhaps a cold

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 5

snap with snow comes on, and it may be a week before
I hear the note again, and this time or the next per-
chance see the bird sitting on a stake in the fence lift-
ing his wing as he calls cheerily to his mate. Its notes
now become daily more frequent ; the birds multiply,
and, flitting from point to point, call and warble more
confidently and gleefully. Their boldness increases
till one sees them hovering with a saucy, inquiring air
about barns and out-buildings, peeping into dove-cotes,
and stable windows, inspecting knot-holes and pump-
trees, intent only on a place to nest. They wage war
against robins and wrens, pick quarrels with swallows,
and seem to deliberate for days over the policy of tak-
ing forcible possession of one of the mud-houses of the
latter. But as the season advances they drift more
into the background. Schemes of conquest which
they at first seemed bent upon are abandoned, and they
settle down very quietly in their old quarters in remote
stumpy fields.

Not long after the bluebird comes the robin, some-
times in March, but in most of the Northern States
April is the month of the robin. In large numbers
they scour the fields and groves. You hear their pip-
ing in the meadow, in the pasture, on the hillside.
Walk in the woods, and the dry leaves rustle with the
whir of their wings, the air is vocal with their cheery
call. In excess of joy and vivacity, they run, leap,
scream, chase each other through the air, diving and
sweeping among the trees with perilous rapidity.

6 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

In that free, fascinating, half-work and half-play
pursuit, — sugar-making, — a pursuit which still lingers
in many parts of New York, as in New England, the
robin is one's constant companion. When the day is
sunny and the ground bare, you meet him at all points
and hear him at all hours. At sunset, on the tops of
the tall maples, with look heavenward, and in a spirit
of utter abandonment, he carols his simple strain. And
sitting thus amid the stark, silent trees, above the wet,
cold earth, with the chill of winter still in the air, there
is no fitter or sweeter songster in the whole round
year. It is in keeping with the scene and the occasion.
How round and genuine the notes are, and how eagerly
our ears drink them in ! The first utterance, and the
spell of winter is thoroughly broken, and the remem-
brance of it afar off.

Robin is one of the most native and democratic of
our birds ; he is one of the family, and seems much
nearer to us than those rare, exotic visitants, as the
orchard starling or rose-breasted grossbeak, with their
distant, high-bred ways. Hardy, noisy, frolicsome,
neighborly and domestic in his habits, strong of wing
and bold in spirit, he is the pioneer of the thrush
family, and well worthy of the finer artists whose
coming he heralds and in a measure prepares us for.

I could wish Robin less native and plebeian in one
respect, — the building of his nest. Its coarse material
and rough masonry are creditable neither to his skill
as a workman nor to his taste as an artist. I am the

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 7

more forcibly reminded of his deficiency in this respect*
from observing yonder humming-bird's nest, which is
a marvel of fitness and adaptation, a proper setting for
this winged gem, — the body of it composed of a white,
felt-like substance, probably the clown of some plant or
the wool of some worm, and toned down in keeping
with the branch on which it sits by minute tree-lichens,
woven together by threads as fine and frail as gos-
samer. From Robin's good looks and musical turn
we might reasonably predict a domicile of equal fitness
and elegance. At least I demand of him as clean and
handsome a nest as the king-bird's, whose harsh
jingle, compared with Robin's evening melody, is as
the clatter of pots and kettles beside the tone of a
flute. I love his note and ways better even than those
of the orchard starling or the Baltimore oriole ; yet
his nest, compared with theirs, is a half-subterranean
hut contrasted with a Roman villa. There is some-
thing courtly and poetical in a pensile nest. Next to a
castle in the air is a dwelling suspended to the slender
branch of a tall tree, swayed and rocked forever by the
wind. Why need wings be afraid of falling ? ^Vhy
build only where boys can climb ? After all, we must
set it down to the account of Robin's democratic turn ;
he is no aristocrat, but one of the people ; and there-
fore we should expect stability in his workmanship,
rather than elegance.

Another April bird, which makes her appearance
sometimes earlier and sometimes later than Robin, and

8 735KB RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

whose memory I fondly cherish, is the Phcebe-bird
(Muscieapa nunciola), the pioneer of the fly-catchers.
In the inland farming districts, I used to notice her,
on some bright morning about Easter-day, proclaiming
her arrival with much variety of motion and attitude,
from the peak of the barn or hay-shed. As yet, you
may have heard only the plaintive, homesick note of the
bluebird, or the faint trill of the song-sparrow ; and
Phoebe's clear, vivacious assurance of her veritable
bodily presence among us again is welcomed by all
ears. At agreeable intervals in her lay she describes
a circle or an ellipse in the air, ostensibly prospecting
for insects, but really, I suspect, as an artistic flourish,
thrown in to make up in some way for the deficiency
of her musical performance. If plainness of dress in-
dicates powers of song, as it usually does, then Phoebe
ought to be unrivaled in musical ability, for surely
that ashen-gray suit is the superlative of plainness ;
and that form, likewise, would hardly pass for a " per-
fect figure " of a bird. The seasonableness of her com-
ing, however, and her civil, neighborly ways, shall
make up for all deficiencies in song and plumage.
After a few weeks Phoebe is seldom seen, except as she
darts from her moss-covered nest beneath some bridge
or shelving cliff.

Another April comer, who arrives shortly after
Robin-redbreast, with whom he associates both at this
season and in the autumn, is the golden-winged
woodpecker, alias " high-hole," alias " flicker," alias

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 0

"yarup." He is an old favorite of my boyhood, and
his note to me means very much. He announces
his arrival by a long, loud call, repeated from the dry
branch of some tree, or a stake in the fence — a thor-
oughly melodious April sound. I think how Solomon
finished that beautiful climax on spring, " And the
voice of the turtle is heard in the land," and see that
a description of spring in this farming country, to be
equally characteristic, should culminate in like man-
ner,— "And the call of the high-hole comes up from
the wood."

It is a loud, strong, sonorous call, and does not
seem to imply an answer, but rather to subserve some
purpose of love or music. It is " Yarup's " proclama-
tion of peace and good-will to all. On looking at the
matter closely, I perceive that most birds, not denom-
inated songsters, have, in the spring, some note or
sound or call that hints of a song, and answers imper-
fectly the end of beauty and art. As a "livelier iris
changes on the burnished dove," and the fancy of the
young man turns lightly to thoughts of his pretty
cousin, so the same renewing spirit touches the " silent
singers," and they are no longer dumb ; faintly they
lisp the first syllables of the marvelous tale. Witness
the clear, sweet whistle of the gray-crested titmouse,
— the soft, nasal piping of the nuthatch, — the amo-
rous, vivacious warble of the bluebird, — the long, rich
note of the meadow-lark, — the whistle of the quail. —
the drumming of the partridge, — the animation and

io THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

loquacity of the swallows, and the like. Even the
hen has a homely, contented carol ; and I credit the
owls with a desire to fill the night with music. All
birds arc incipient or would-be songsters in the spring.
I find corroborative evidence of this even in the crow-
ing of the cock. The flowering of the maple is not
so obvious as that of the magnolia ; nevertheless,
there is actual inflorescence.

Few writers award any song to that familiar little
sparrow, the Socialis ; yet who that has observed him
sitting by the wayside, and repeating, with devout atti-
tude, that fine sliding chant, does not recognize the
neglect ? Who has heard the snow-bird sing ? Yet he
has a lisping warble very savory to the ear. I have
heard him indulge in it even in February.

Even the cow-bunting feels the musical tendency,
and aspires to its expression, with the rest. Perched
upon the topmost branch beside his mate or mates, —
for he is quite a polygamist, and usually has two or
three demure little ladies in faded black beside him,
— generally in the early part of the clay, he seems liter-
ally to vomit up his notes. Apparently with much
labor and effort, they gurgle and blubber up out of him,
falling on the ear with a peculiar subtile ring, as of
turning water from a glass bottle, and not without a
certain pleasing cadence.

Neither is the common woodpecker entirely insen-
sible to the wooing of the spring, and, like the par-
tridge, testifies his appreciation of melody after quite

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. n

a primitive fashion. Passing through the woods, on
some clear, still morning in March, while the metallic
ring and tension of winter are still in the earth and air,
the silence is suddenly broken by long, resonant ham-
mering upon a dry limb or stub. It is Downy beating
a reveille to spring. In the utter stillness and amid the
rigid forms we listen with pleasure ; and as it comes to
my ear oftener at this season than at any other, I freely
exonerate the author of it from the imputation of any
gastronomic motives, and credit him with a genuine
musical performance.

It is to be expected, therefore, that " Yellow-ham-
mer " will respond to the .general tendency, and contri-
bute his part to the spring chorus. His April call is
his finest touch, his most musical expression.

I recall an ancient maple standing sentry to a large
sugar-bush, that, year after year, afforded protection to
a brood of yellow-hammers in its decayed heart. A
week or two before the nesting seemed actually to have
begun, three or four of these birds might be seen, on
almost any bright morning, gamboling and courting
amid its decayed branches. Sometimes you would
hear only a gentle, persuasive cooing, or a quiet, confi-
dential chattering, — then that long, loud call, taken
up by first one, then another, as they sat about upon
the naked limbs, — anon, a sort of wild, rollicking
laughter, intermingled with various cries, yelps, and
squeals, as if some incident had excited their mirth
and ridicule. Whether this social hilarity and boister-

I a THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

OUSness is in celebration of the pairing or mating cere-
mony, or whether it is only a sort of annual " house-
warming" common among high-holes on resuming their
summer quarters, is a question upon which I reserve
my judgment

Unlike most of his kinsmen, the golden-wing prefers
the fields and the borders of the forest to the deeper
seclusion of the woods, and hence, contrary to the
habit of his tribe, obtains most of his subsistence from
the ground, probing it for ants and crickets. He is not
quite satisfied with being a woodpecker. He courts
the society of the robin and the finches, abandons the
trees for the meadow, and feeds eagerly upon berries
and grain. What may be the final upshot of this course
of living is a question worthy the attention of Darwin.
Will his taking to the ground and his pedestrian feats
result in lengthening his legs, his feeding upon berries
and grains subdue his tints and soften his voice, and
his associating with Robin put a song into his heart ?

Indeed, what would be more interesting than the
history of our birds for the last two or three centuries ?
There can be no doubt that the presence of man has
exerted a very marked and friendly influence upon them,
since they so multiply in his society. The birds of Cali-
fornia, it is said, were mostly silent till after its settle-
ment, and I doubt if the Indians heard the wood-thrush
as we hear him. Where did the bobolink disport him-
self before there were meadows in the North and rice-
fields in the South ? Was he the same blithe, merry-

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 13

hearted beau then as now? And the sparrow, the lark,
and the goldfinch, birds that seem so indigenous to the
open fields and so averse to the woods, — we cannot
conceive of their existence in a vast wilderness and
without man.

But to return. The song-sparrow, that universal
favorite and firstling of the spring, comes before April,
and its simple strain gladdens all hearts.

May is the month of the swallows and the orioles.
There are man)' other distinguished arrivals, indeed
nine tenths of the birds are here by the last week in
May, yet the swallows and orioles are the most conspic-
uous. The bright plumage of the latter seems really
like an arrival from the tropics. I see them flash
through the blossoming trees, and all the forenoon hear
their incessant warbling and wooing. The swallows
dive and chatter about the barn, or squeak and build
beneath the eaves ; the partridge drums in the fresh
sprouting woods ; the long, tender note of the mead
lark comes up from the meadow ; and at sun^-
every marsh and pond come the ten thousand voices of
the hylas. May is the transition month, and exists to
connect April and June, the root with the flower.

With June the cup is full, our hearts are satisfied,
there is no more to be desired. The perfection of the
season, among other things, has brought the pi
of the song and plumage of the birds. The ;.
artists are all here ; and the expectations excited by
the robin and the song-sparrow are fully justified. The

14 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

thrushes have all come ; and I sit down upon the first
rock, with hands full of the pink azalea, to listen.
With me, the cuckoo does not arrive till June ; and
often the goldfinch, the king-bird, the scarlet tanager
delay their coming till then. In the meadows the bob-
olink is in all his glory; in the high pastures the field-
sparrow sings his breezy vesper-hymn ; and the woods
are unfolding to the music of the thrushes.

The cuckoo is one of the most solitary birds of our
forests, and is strangely tame and quiet, appearing
equally untouched by joy or grief, fear or anger. Some-
thing remote seems ever weighing upon his mind. His
note or call is as of one lost or wandering, and to the
farmer is prophetic of rain. Amid the general joy and
the sweet assurance of things, I love to listen to the
strange clairvoyant call. Heard a quarter of a mile
away, from out the depths of the forest, there is some-
thing peculiarly weird and monkish about it. Words-
worth's lines upon the European species apply equally

1 1 to ours : —

" O blithe new-comer ! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice :
O cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird ?
Or but a wandering voice ?

" While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear !
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near !

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 15

" Thrice welcome, darling of the spring !
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery."

The black-billed is the only species found in my
locality, the yellow-billed abounds farther south. Their
note or call is nearly the same. The former sometimes
suggests the voice of a turkey. The call of the latter
may be suggested thus : k-k-k-k-kkow, kow, kow-010,
kow-ow.

The yellow-billed will take up his stand in a tree,
and explore its branches till he has caught every worm.
He sits on a twig, and with a peculiar swaying move-
ment of his head examines the surrounding foliage.
When he discovers his prey, he leaps upon it in a flut-
tering manner.

In June the black-billed makes a tour through the
orchard and garden, regaling himself upon the canker-
worms. At this time he is one of the tamest of birds,
and will allow you to approach within a few yards
of him. I have even come within a few feet of one
without seeming to excite his fear or suspicion. He
is quite unsophisticated, or else royally indifferent.

The plumage of the cuckoo is a rich glossy brown,
and is unrivaled in beauty by any other neutral tint
with which I am acquainted. It is also remarkable for
its firmness and fineness.

Notwithstanding the disparity in size and color, the
black-billed species has certain peculiarities that

1 6 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS-

remind one of the passenger-pigeon. His eye, with
.1 circle, the shape of his head, and his motions
on alighting and taking flight, quickly suggest the re-
semblance ; though in grace and speed, when on the
wing, he is far inferior. His tail seems disproportion-
ately long, like that of the red thrush, and his flight
among the trees is very still, contrasting strongly with
the honest clatter of the robin or pigeon.

1 Live you heard the song of the field-sparrow? If
you have lived in a pastoral country with broad upland
pa>tures. you could hardly have missed him. Wilson,
I believe, calls him the grass-finch, and was evidently
unacquainted with his powers of song, The two white
lateral quills in his tail, and his habit of running and
skulking a few yards in advance of you as you walk
through the fields, are sufficient to identify him. Not
in meadows or orchards, but in high, breezy pasture-
grounds, will you look for him. His song is most
noticeable after sundown, when other birds are silent ;
for which reason he has been aptly called the vesper-
sparrow. The farmer following his team from the field
at dusk catches his sweetest strain. His song is not
so brisk and varied as that of the song-sparrow, being
softer and wilder, sweeter and more plaintive. Add
the best parts of the lay of the latter to the sweet,
vibrating chant of the wood-sparrow, and you have
the evening hymn of the vesper-bird, — the poet of
the plain, unadorned pastures. Go to those broad,
smooth, up-lying fields where the cattle and sheep are

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 17

grazing, and sit down in the twilight on one of those
warm, clean stones, and listen to this song. On every
side, near and remote, from out the short grass which
the herds are cropping, the strain rises. Two or three
long, silver notes of peace and rest, ending in some
subdued trills and quavers, constitute each separate
song. Often you will catch only one or two of the
bars, the breeze having blown the minor part away.
Such unambitious, quiet, unconscious melody ! It is
one of the most characteristic sounds in Nature. The
grass, the stones, the stubble, the furrow, the quiet
herds, and the warm twilight among the hills, are all
subtilely expressed in this song ; this is what they are
at last capable of.

The female builds a plain nest in the open field,
without so much as a bush or thistle or tuft of grass to
protect it or mark its site ; you may step upon it, or
the cattle may tread it into the ground. But the danger
from this source, I presume, the bird considers less
than that from another. Skunks and foxes have a
very impertinent curiosity, as Finchie well knows, —
and a bank or hedge, or a rank growth of gra:-
thistles, that might promise protection and cover to
mouse or bird, these cunning rogues would be apt to
explore most thoroughly. The partridge is undoubt-
edly acquainted with the same process of reasoning ;
for, like the vesper-bird, she, too, nests in open, un-
protected places, avoiding all show of concealment, —
coming from the tangled and almost impenetrable
2

1 8 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

parts of the forest, to the clean, open woods, where
she can command all the approaches and fly with
equal case in any direction.

Another favorite sparrow, but little noticed, is the
■ 1 or bush sparrow, usually called by the ornitholo-
gists spizclla pusilla. Its size and form is that of the
■/is, but is less distinctly marked, being of a
duller redder tinge. He prefers remote bushy heathery
fields, where his song is one of the sweetest to be
heard. It is sometimes very noticeable, especially early
in spring. I remember sitting one bright day in the
still leafless April woods, when one of these birds
struck up a few rods from me, repeating its lay at short
intervals for nearly an hour. It was a perfect piece of
wood-music, and was of course all the more noticeable
for being projected upon such a broad unoccupied
page of silence. Its song is like the words, fe-o,fe-o,
fe-o,frw,frw, few, fee fee fee, uttered at first high and
leisurely, but running very rapidly toward the close,
which is low and soft.

Still keeping among the unrecognized, the white-
eyed vireo, or fly-catcher, deserves particular mention.
The song of this bird is not particularly sweet and
soft ; on the contrary, it is a little hard and shrill, like
that of the indigo-bird or oriole ; but for brightness,
volubility, execution, and power of imitation, he is
unsurpassed by any of our northern birds. His or-
dinary note is forcible and emphatic, but, as stated,
not especially musical : Chick-a-re'r-chick, he seems to

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 19

say, hiding himself in the low. dense undergrowth, and
eluding your most vigilant search, as if playing some
part in a game. But in July or August, if you are on
good terms with the sylvan deities, you may listen to
a far more rare and artistic performance. Your first
impression will be that that cluster of azalea, or that
clump of swamp-huckleberry conceals three or four
different songsters, each vying with the others to lead
the chorus. Such a medley of notes, snatched from
half the songsters of the field and forest, and uttered
with the utmost clearness and rapidity, I am sure you
cannot hear short of the haunts of the genuine mock-
ing-bird. If not fully and accurately repeated, there
are at least suggested the notes of the robin, wren,
cat-bird, high-hole, goldfinch, and song-sparrow. The
pip, pip, of the last is produced so accurately that
I verily believe it would deceive the bird herself; —
and the whole uttered in such rapid succession that it
seems as if the movement that gives the concluding
note of one strain must form the first note of the next.
The effect is very rich, and, to my ear, entirely unique.
The performer is very careful not to reveal himself in
the mean time ; yet there is a conscious air about the
strain that impresses me with the idea that my presence
is understood and my attention courted. A tone of
pride and glee, and, occasionally, of bantering jocose-
ness, is discernible. I believe it is only rarely, and
when he is sure of his audience, that he displays his
parts in this manner. You are to look for him, not in

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

tall tre< ep forests, but in low, dense shrubbery

where there are plenty of gnats and
mosquil

The winter-wren is another marvelous songster, in
speaking of whom it is difficult to avoid superlatives.
II is not so conscious of his powers and so ambitious
of effect as the white-eyed fly-catcher, yet you will not
be 1< onished and delighted on hearing him. He

pos> the fluency and copiousness for which the

wrens are noted, and besides these qualities, and what
is rarely found conjoined with them, a wild, sweet,
rhythmical cadence that holds you entranced. I shall
not soon forget that perfect June clay, when, loitering
in a low, ancient hemlock wood, in whose cathedral
aisles the coolness and freshness seemed perennial, the
silence was suddenly broken by a strain so rapid and
gushing, and touched with such a wild, sylvan plain-
tiveness, that I listened in amazement. And so shy
and coy was the little minstrel, that I came twice to
the woods before I was sure to whom I was listening.
In summer, he is one of those birds of the deep north-
ern forests, that, like the speckled Canada warbler
and the hermit-thrush, only the privileged ones hear.

The distribution of plants in a given locality is not
more marked and defined than that of the birds.
Show a botanist a landscape, and he will tell you
where to look for the lady's-slipper, the columbine,
or the harebell. On the same principles the ornithol-
ogist will direct you where to look for the greenlets,

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 21

the wood-sparrow, or the chewink. In adjoining
counties, in the same latitude, and equally inland, but
possessing a different geological formation and differ-
ent forest-timber, you will observe quite a different
class of birds. In a land of the beech and sugar-maple
I do not find the same songsters that I know where
thrive the oak, chestnut, and laurel. In going from
a district of the Old Red Sandstone to where I walk
upon the old Plutonic Rock, not fifty miles distant, I
miss in the woods the veery, the hermit-thrush, the
chestnut-sided warbler, the blue-backed warbler, the
green-backed warbler, the black and yellow warbler,
and many others, and find in their stead the wood-
thrush, the chewink, the redstart, the yellow-throat, the
yellow-breasted fly-catcher, the white-eyed fly-catcher,
the quail, and the turtle-dove.

In my neighborhood here in the Highlands the dis-
tribution is very marked. South of the village I inva-
riably find one species of birds, north of it another.
In only one locality, full of azalea and swamp huckle-
berry, I am always sure of finding the hooded warbler.
In a dense undergrowth of spice-bush, witch-hazel, and
alder, I meet the worm-eating warbler. In a remote
clearing, covered with heath and fern, with here and
there a chestnut and an oak, I go to hear in July the
wood-sparrow, and returning by a stumpy, shallow
pond. I am sure to find the water-thrush.

Only one locality within my range seems to possess
attractions for all comers. Here one may study al-

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

most the entire ornithology of the State. It is a rocky
piece of ground, long ago cleared, but now fast relaps-
ing into the wildness and freedom of nature, and
marked by those half-cultivated, half-wild features
which birds and boys love. It is bounded on two
sides by the village and highway, crossed at various
points by carriage-roads, and threaded in all directions
by paths and by-ways, along which soldiers, laborers,
and truant schoolboys are passing at all hours of the
day. It is so far escaping from the axe and the bush-
hook as to have opened communication with the
forest and mountain beyond by straggling lines of
cedar, laurel, and blackberry. The ground is mainly
occupied with cedar and chestnut, with an under-
growth, in many places, of heath and bramble. The
chief feature, however, is a dense growth in the centre,
consisting of dogwood, water-beech, swamp-ash, al-
der, spice-bush, hazel, etc., with a net-work of smilax
and frost-grape. A little zigzag stream, the draining
of a swamp beyond, which passes through this tangle-
wood, accounts for many of its features and produc-
tions, if not for its entire existence. Birds that are not
attracted by the heath or the cedar and chestnut, are
sure to find some excuse for visiting this miscellaneous
growth in the centre. Most of the common birds lit-
erally throng this idle-wild ; and I have met here
many of the rarer species, such as the great-crested
fly-catcher, the solitary warbler, the blue-winged swamp-
warbler, the worm-eating warbler, the fox-sparrow, etc.

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 23

The absence of all birds of prey, and the great number
of flies and insects, both the result of proximity to the
village, are considerations which no hawk-fearing,
peace-loving minstrel passes over lightly ; hence the
popularity of the resort.

But the crowning glory of all these robins, fly-catch-
ers, and warblers is the wood-thrush. More abundant
than all other birds, except the robin and cat-bird, he
greets you from every rock and shrub. Shy and re-
served when he first makes his appearance in May,
before the end of June he is tame and familiar, and
sings on the tree over your head, or on the rock a few
paces in advance. A pair even built their nest and
reared their brood within ten or twelve feet of the
piazza of a large summer-house in the vicinity. But
when the guests commenced to arrive and the piazza
to be thronged with gay crowds, I noticed something
like dread and foreboding in the manner of the mother-
bird j and from her still, quiet ways, and habit of sit-
ting long and silently within a few feet of the precious
charge, it seemed as if the dear creature had resolved,
if possible, to avoid all observation.

If we take the quality of melody as the test, the
wood-thrush, hermit-thrush, and the veery-thrush, stand
at the head of our list of songsters.

The mocking-bird undoubtedly possesses the great-
est range of mere talent, the most varied executive
ability, and never fails to surprise and delight one
anew at each hearing; but being mostly an imitator,

24 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

he never approaches the serene beauty and sublimity
of the hermit-thrush. The word that best expresses
my feelings, on hearing the mocking-bird, is admiration,
though the first emotion is one of surprise and incredu-
lity. That so many and such various notes should
proceed from one throat is a marvel, and we regard
the performance with feelings akin to those we experi-
"ii witnessing the astounding feats of the athlete
or gymnast, — and this, notwithstanding many of the
notes imitated have all the freshness and sweetness of
the originals. The emotions excited by the songs of
these thrushes belong to a higher order, springing as
they do from our deepest sense of the beauty and har-
mony of the world.

The wood-thrush is worthy of all, and more than all,
the praises he has received ; and considering the num-
ber of his appreciative listeners, it is not a little sur-
prising that his relative and equal, the hermit-thrush,
should have received so little notice. Both the great
ornithologists, Wilson and Audubon, are lavish in their
praises of the former, but have little or nothing to say
of the song of the latter. Audubon says it is some-
times agreeable, but evidently has never heard it.
Nuttall, I am glad to find, is more discriminating, and
does the bird fuller justice.

It is quite a rare bird, of very shy and secluded
habits, being found in the Middle and Eastern States,
during the period of song, only in the deepest and
most remote forests, usually in damp and swampy

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 25

localities. On this account the people in the Adiron-
dack region call it the " Swamp Angel." Its being so
much of a recluse accounts for the comparative igno-
rance that prevails in regard to it.

The cast of its song is very much like that of the
wood-thrush, and a good observer might easily con-
found the two. But hear them together and the dif-
ference is quite marked : the song of the hermit is in a
higher key, and is more wild and ethereal. His in-
strument is a silver horn which he winds in the most
solitary places. The song of the wood-thrush is more
golden and leisurely. Its tone comes near to that of
some rare stringed instrument. One feels that perhaps
the wood-thrush has more compass and power, if he
would only let himself out, but on the whole he comes
a little short of the pure, serene, hymn-like strain of
the hermit.

Yet those who have heard only the wood-thrush
may well place him first on the list. He is truly a
royal minstrel, and considering his liberal distribution
throughout our Atlantic seaboard, perhaps contributes
more than any other bird to our sylvan melody. One
may object, that he spends a little too much time in
tuning his instrument, yet his careless and uncertain
touches reveal its rare compass and power.

He is the only songster of my acquaintance, except-
ing the canary, that displays different degrees of pro-
ficiency in the exercise of his musical gifts. Not long
since, while walking one Sunday in the edge of an or-

26 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

chard adjoining a wood, I heard one that so obviously
and unmistakably surpassed all his rivals, that my
companion, though slow to notice such things, re-
marked it wonderingly ; and with one accord we paused
to listen to so rare a performer. It was not different
in quality so much as in quantity. Such a flood of it !
Such copiousness ! Such long, trilling, accelerating
preludes ! Such sudden, ecstatic overtures, would have
intoxicated the dullest ear. He was really without a
compeer — a master-artist. Twice afterward I was
conscious of having heard the same bird.

The wood-thrush is the handsomest species of this
family. In grace and elegance of manner he has no
equal. Such a gentle, high-bred air, and such inim-
itable ease and composure in his flight and movement !
He is a poet in very word and deed. His carriage is
music to the eye. His performance of the commonest
act, as catching a beetle, or picking a worm from the
mud, pleases like a stroke of wit or eloquence. Was
he a prince in the olden time, and do the regal grace
and mien still adhere to him in his transformation ?
What a finely proportioned form! How plain, yet rich
his color, — the bright russet of his back, the clear
white of his breast, with the distinct heart-shaped
spots ! It may be objected to Robin that he is noisy
and demonstrative ; he hurries away or rises to a
branch with an angry note, and flirts his wings in ill-
bred suspicion. The mavis, or red-thrush, sneaks
and skulks like a culprit, hiding in the densest alders ;

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 27

the cat-bird is a coquette and a flirt, as well as a sort
of female Paul Pry ; and the chewink shows his in-
hospitality by espying your movements like a Japanese.
The wood-thrush has none of these under-bred traits.
He regards me unsuspiciously, or avoids me with a
noble reserve, — or, if I am quiet and incurious, gra-
ciously hops toward me, as if to pay his respects, or
to make my acquaintance. I have passed under his
nest within a few feet of his mate and brood, when
he sat near by on a branch, eying me sharply, but
without opening his beak ; but the moment I raised
my hand toward his defenseless household his anger
and indignation were beautiful to behold.

What a noble pride he has ! Late one October, after
his mates and companions had long since gone south,
I noticed one for several successive days in the dense
part of this next-door wood, flitting noiselessly about,
very grave and silent, as if doing penance for some
violation of the code of honor. By many gentle, in-
direct approaches, I perceived that part of his tail-
feathers were undeveloped. The sylvan prince could
not think of returning to court in this plight, — and
so, amid the falling leaves and cold rains of autumn,
was patiently biding his time.

The soft, mellow flute of the veery fills a place in
the chorus of the woods that the song of the vesper-
sparrow fills in the chorus of the fields. It has the
nightingale's habit of singing in the twilight, as indeed
have all our thrushes. Walk out toward the forest in

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

the warm twilight of a June day, and when fifty rods
distant you will hear their soft, reverberating notes,
rising from a dozen different throats.

It is one of the simplest strains to be heard, — as
simple as the curve in form, delighting from the pure
element of harmony and beauty it contains, and not
from any novel or fantastic modulation of it, — thus
contrasting strongly with such rollicking, hilarious
songsters as the bobolink, in whom we are chiefly
pleased with the tintinnabulation, the verbal and labial
excellence, and the evident conceit and delight of the
performer.

I hardly know whether I am more pleased or an-
noyed with the cat-bird. Perhaps she is a little too
common, and her part in the general chorus a little
too conspicuous. If you are listening for the note of
another bird, she is sure to be prompted to the most
loud and protracted singing, drowning all other sounds ;
if you sit quietly down to observe a favorite or study
a new-comer, her curiosity knows no bounds, and you
are scanned and ridiculed from every point of obser-
vation. Vet I would not miss her; I would only sub-
ordinate her a little, make her less conspicuous.

She is the parodist of the woods, and there is ever
a mischievous, bantering, half-ironical undertone in
her lay, as if she were conscious of mimicking and
disconcerting some envied songster. Ambitious of
song, practicing and rehearsing in private, she yet
seems the least sincere and genuine of the sylvan

THE RETURN OF -THE BIRDS. 29

minstrels, as if she had taken up music only to be in
the fashion, or not to be outdone by the robins and
thrushes. In other words, she seems to sing from
some outward motive, and not from inward joyousness.
She is a good versifier, but not a great poet. Vigorous,
rapid, copious, not without fine touches, but destitute
of any high, serene melody, her performance, like that
of Thoreau's squirrel, always implies a spectator.

There is a certain air and polish about her strain,
however like that in the vivacious conversation of a
well-bred lady of the world, that commands respect.
Her maternal instinct, also, is very strong, and that
simple structure of dead twigs and dry grass is the
centre of much anxious solicitude. Not long since,
while strolling through the woods, my attention was
attracted to a small densely grown swamp, hedged in
with eglantine, brambles, and the everlasting smilax,
from which proceeded loud cries of distress and alarm,
indicating that some terrible calamity was threatening
my sombre-colored minstrel. On effecting an entrance,
which, however, was not accomplished till I had doffed
coat and hat, so as to diminish the surface exposed to
the thorns and brambles, and looking around me from
a square yard of terra firma, I found myself the spec-
tator of a loathsome, yet fascinating scene. Three or
four yards from me was the nest, beneath which, in
long festoons, rested a huge black snake ; a bird two
thirds grown, was slowly disappearing between his ex-
panded jaws. As he seemed unconscious of my pies-

30 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

ence, I quietly observed the proceedings. By slow
degrees he compassed the bird about with his elastic
mouth ; his head flattened, his neck writhed and swelled,
and two or three undulatory movements of his glisten-
ing body finished the work. Then, he cautiously raised
himself up, his tongue flaming from his mouth the while,
curved over the nest, and, with wavy, subtle motions,
explored the interior. I can conceive of nothing more
overpoweringly terrible to an unsuspecting family of
birds than the sudden appearance above their domicile
of the head and neck of this arch-enemy. It is enough
to petrify the blood in their veins. Not finding the
object of his search, he came streaming down from the
nest to a lower limb, and commenced extending his
researches in other directions, sliding stealthily through
the branches, bent on capturing one of the parent birds.
That a legless, wingless creature should move with
such ease and rapidity where only birds and squirrels
are considered at home, lifting himself up, letting him-
self down, running out on the yielding boughs, and
traversing with marvelous celerity the whole length and
breadth of the thicket, was truly surprising. One thinks
of the great myth, of the Tempter and the " cause of
all our woe," and wonders if the Arch One is not now
playing off some of his pranks before him. Whether
we call it snake or devil matters little. I could but
admire his terrible beauty, however ; his black, shin-
ing folds, his easy, gliding movement, head erect, eyes
glistening, tongue playing like subtle flame, and the
invisible means of his almost winged locomotion.

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 31

The parent birds, in the mean while, kept up the
most agonizing cry, — at times fluttering furiously about
their pursuer, and actually laying hold of his tail with
their beaks and claws. On being thus attacked, the
snake would suddenly double upon himself and follow
his own body back, thus executing a strategic move-
ment that at first seemed almost to paralyze his victim
and place her within his grasp. Not quite, however.
Before his jaws could close upon the coveted prize the
bird would tear herself away, and, apparently faint and
sobbing, retire to a higher branch. His reputed pow-
ers of fascination availed him little, though it is possi-
ble that a frailer and less combative bird might have
been held by the fatal spell. Presently, as he came
gliding down the slender body of a leaning alder, his
attention was attracted by a slight movement of my
arm ; eying me an instant, with that crouching, utter,
motionless gaze which I believe only snakes and devils
can assume, he turned quickly, — a feat which necessi-
tated something like crawling over his own body, — and
glided off through the branches, evidently recognizing
in me a representative of the ancient parties he once
so cunningly ruined. A few moments after, as he lay,
carelessly disposed in the top of a rank alder, trying
to look as much like a crooked branch as his supple,
shining form would admit, the old vengeance overtook
him. I exercised my prerogative, and a well-directed
missile, in the shape of a stone, brought him looping
and writhing to the ground. After I had completed

32 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

his downfall and quiet had been partially restored, a
half-fledged member of the bereaved household came
out from his hiding-place, and, jumping upon a decayed
branch, chirped vigorously, no doubt, in celebration of
the victory.

Till the middle of July there is a general equilibrium ;
the tide stands poised ; the holiday-spirit is unabated.
But as the harvest ripens beneath the long, hot days,
the melody gradually ceases. The young are out of the
nest and must be cared for, and the moulting season is
at hand. After the cricket has commenced to drone
his monotonous refrain beneath your window, you will
not, till another season, hear the wood-thrush in all his
matchless eloquence. The bobolink has become care-
worn and fretful, and blurts out snatches of his song
between his scolding and upbraiding, as you approach
the vicinity of his nest, oscillating between anxiety for
his brood and solicitude for his musical reputation.
Some of the sparrows still sing, and occasionally across
the hot fields, from a tall tree in the edge of the forest,
comes the rich note of the scarlet tanager. This trop-
ical-colored bird loves the hottest weather, and I hear
him even in dog-days.

The remainder of the summer is the carnival of the
swallows and fly-catchers. Flies and insects, to any
amount, are to be had for the catching ; and the oppor-
tunity is well improved. See that sombre, ashen-col-
ored pewee on yonder branch. A true sportsman he,
who never takes his game at rest, but always on the

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 33

wing. You vagrant fly, you purblind moth, beware
how you come within his range ! Observe his attitude,
the curious movement of his head, his "eye in a fine
frenzy rolling, glancing from heaven to earth, from
earth to heaven."

► His sight is microscopic and his aim sure. Quick
as thought he has seized his victim and is back to his
perch. There is no strife, no pursuit, — one fell swoop
and the matter is ended. That little sparrow, as you
will observe, is less skilled. It is the Socialis, and he
finds his subsistence properly in various seeds and
the larvae of insects, though he occasionally has higher
aspirations, and seeks to emulate the pewee, com-
mencing and ending his career as a fly-catcher by an
awkward chase after a beetle or " miller." He is hunt-
ing around in the grass now, I suspect, with the desire
to indulge this favorite whim. There ! — the opportu-
nity is afforded him. Away goes a little cream-colored
meadow-moth in the most tortuous course he is capa-
ble of, and away goes Socialis in pursuit. The contest
is quite comical, though I dare say it is serious enough
to the moth. The chase continues for a few yards,
when there is a sudden rushing to cover in the grass,
— then a taking to wing again, when the search has
become too close, and the moth has recovered his wind.
Socialis chirps angrily, and is determined not to be
beaten. Keeping, with the slightest effort, upon the
heels of the fugitive, he is ever on the point of halting
to snap him up, but never quite does it, — and so,
3

34 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

between disappointment and expectation, is soon dis-
gusted, and returns to pursue his more legitimate means
of subsistence.

In striking contrast to this serio-comic strife of the
sparrow and the moth, is the pigeon-hawk's pursuit
of the sparrow or the goldfinch. It is a race of sur-
prising speed and agility. It is a test of wing and wind.
Every muscle is taxed, and every nerve strained. Such
cries of terror and consternation on the part of the
bird, tacking to the right and left, and making the most
desperate efforts to escape, and such silent determina-
tion on the part of the hawk, pressing the bird so
closely, flashing and turning and timing his movements
with those of the pursued as accurately and as inexo-
rably as if the two constituted one body, excite feelings
of the deepest concern. You mount the fence or rush
out of your way to see the issue. The only salvation
for the bird is to adopt the tactics of the moth, seeking
instantly the cover of some tree, bush, or hedge, where
its smaller size enables it to move about more rapidly.
These pirates are aware of this, and therefore prefer
to take their prey by one fell swoop. You may see
one of them prowling through an orchard, with the
yellowbirds hovering about him, crying, Pi-ty, pi-ty, in
the most desponding tone ; yet he seems not to regard
them, knowing, as do they, that in the close branches
they are as safe as if in a wall of adamant.

August is the month of the high-sailing hawks.
The hen-hawk is the most noticeable. He likes the

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 35

haze and the calm of these long, warm days. He is a
bird of leisure, and seems always at his ease. How
beautiful and majestic are his movements ! So self-
poised and easy, such an entire absence of haste, such
a magnificent amplitude of circles and spirals, such a
haughty, imperial grace, and, occasionally, such daring
aerial evolutions !

With slow, leisurely movement, rarely vibrating his
pinions, he mounts and mounts in an ascending spiral
till he appears a mere speck against the summer sky •
then, if the mood seizes him, with wings half-closed,
like a bent bow, he will cleave the air almost perpen-
dicularly, as if intent on dashing himself to pieces
against the earth ; but on nearing the ground, he sud-
denly mounts again on broad, expanded wing, as if
rebounding upon the air, and sails leisurely away. It
is the sublimest feat of the season. One holds his
breath till he sees him rise again.

If inclined to a more gradual and less precipitous
descent, he fixes his eye on some distant point in the
earth beneath him, and thither bends his course. He
is still almost meteoric in his speed and boldness. You
see his path down the heavens, straight as a line ; if
near, you hear the rush of his wings ; his shadow
hurtles across the fields, and in an instant you see him
quietly perched upon some low tree or decayed stub in
a swamp or meadow, with reminiscences of frogs and
mice stirring in his maw.

When the south-wind blows, it is a study to see three

36 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

or four of these air-kings at the head of the valley far
up toward the mountain, balancing and oscillating
upon the strong current : now quite stationary, except
a slight tremulous motion like the poise of a rope-
dancer, then rising and falling in long undulations, and
seeming to resign themselves passively to the wind ; or,
again, sailing high and level far above the mountain's
peak, no bluster and haste, but, as stated, occasionally
a terrible earnestness and speed. Fire at one as he
sails overhead, and, unless wounded badly, he will not
change his course or gait.

His flight is a perfect picture of repose in motion.
It strikes the eye as more surprising than the flight of
the pigeon and swallow even, in that the effort put
forth is so uniform and delicate as to escape observa-
tion, giving to the movement an air of buoyancy and
perpetuity, the effluence of power rather than the con-
scious application of it.

The calmness and dignity of this hawk, when at-
tacked by crows or the king-bird, are well worthy of
him. He seldom deigns to notice his noisy and furious
antagonists, but deliberately wheels about in that aerial
spiral, and mounts and mounts till his pursuers grow
ciizzy and return to earth again. It is quite original,
this mode of getting rid of an unworthy opponent,
rising to heights where the braggart is dazed and be-
wildered and loses his reckoning ! I am not sure but
it is worthy of imitation.

But summer wanes, and autumn approaches. The

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 37

songsters of the seed-time are silent at the reaping of
the harvest. Other minstrels take up the strain. It
is the heyday of insect life. The day is canopied with
musical sound. All the songs of the spring and sum-
mer appear to be floating, softened and refined, in the
upper air. The birds, in a new, but less holiday suit,
turn their faces southward. The swallows flock and
go ; the bobolinks flock and go ; silently and unob-
served, the thrushes go. Autumn arrives, bringing
finches, warblers, sparrows, and kinglets from the
North. Silently the procession passes. Yonder" hawk,
sailing peacefully away till he is lost in the horizon,
is a symbol of the closing season and the departing
birds.

IN THE HEMLOCKS.

IN THE HEMLOCKS.

A /T OST people receive with incredulity a statement
of the number of birds that annually visit our
climate. Very few even are aware of half the number
that spend the summer in their own immediate vicinity.
We little suspect, when we walk in the woods, whose
privacy we are intruding upon, — what rare and ele-
gant visitants from Mexico, from Central and South
America, and from the islands of the sea, are holding
their reunions in the branches over our heads, or pur-
suing their pleasure on the ground before us.

I recall the altogether admirable and shining family
which Thoreau dreamed he saw in the upper chambers
of Spaulding's woods, which Spaulding did not know
lived there, and which were not put out when Spauld-
ing, whistling, drove his team through their lower halls.
They did not go into society in the village ; they were
quite well ; they had sons and daughters ; they neither
wove nor spun ; there was a sound as of suppressed
hilarity.

I take it for granted that the forester was only say-
ing a pretty thing of the birds, though I have observed
that it does sometimes annoy them when Spaulding's
cart rumbles through their house. Generally, however.

42 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

they are as unconscious of Spaulding as Spaulding is
of them.

Walking the other day in an old hemlock wood, I
counted over forty varieties of these summer visitants,
many of them common to other woods in the vicinity,
but quite a number peculiar to these ancient solitudes,
and not a few that are rare in any locality. It is quite
unusual to find so large a number abiding in one for-
est,— and that not a large one, — most of them nest-
ing and spending the summer there. Many of those
I observed commonly pass this season much farther
north. But the geographical distribution of birds is
rather a climatical one. The same temperature, though
under different parallels, usually attracts the same
birds ; difference in altitude being equivalent to the
difference in latitude. A given height above the sea
level under the parallel of thirty degrees may have the
same climate as places under that of thirty-five degrees,
and similar Flora and Fauna. At the head-waters of
the Delaware, where I write, the latitude is that of
Boston, but the region has a much greater elevation,
and hence a climate that compares better with the
northern part of the State and of New England. Half
a da>-:s drive to the southeast brings me down into
quite a different temperature, with an older geological
formation, different forest timber, and different birds;
— even with different mammals. Neither the little gray
rabbit nor the little gray fox is found in my locality,
but the great northern hare and the red fox. In the

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 43

last century a colony of beavers dwelt here, though
the oldest inhabitant cannot now point to even the
traditional site of their dams. The ancient hemlocks,
whither I propose to take the reader, are rich in many
things beside birds. Indeed, their wealth in this re-
spect is owing mainly, no doubt, to their rank vegeta-
ble growths, their fruitful swamps, and their dark,
sheltered retreats.

Their history is of an heroic cast. Ravished and
torn by the tanner in his thirst for bark, preyed upon
by the lumberman, assaulted and beaten back by the
settler, still their spirit has never been broken, their
energies never paralyzed. Not many years ago a pub-
lic highway passed through them, but it was at no time
a tolerable road ; trees fell across it, mud and limbs
choked it up, till finally travellers took the hint and
went around ; and now, walking along its deserted
course, I see only the foot-prints of coons, foxes, and
squirrels.

Nature loves such woods, and places her own seal
upon them. Here she shows me what can be done
with ferns and mosses and lichens. The soil is mar-
rowy and full of innumerable forests. Standing in
these fragrant aisles, I feel the strength of the vegeta-
ble kingdom and am awed by the deep and inscruta-
ble processes of life going on so silently about me.

No hostile forms with axe or spud now visit these
solitudes. The cows have half-hidden ways through
them, and know where the best browsing is to be had.

44 /Ar THE HEMLOCKS.

In spring the farmer repairs to their bordering of ma-
ples to make sugar ; in July and August women and
boys from all the country about penetrate the old Bark-
peelings for raspberries and blackberries ; and I know
a youth who wonderingly follows their languid stream
casting for trout.

In like spirit, alert and buoyant, on this bright June
morning go I also to reap my harvest, — pursuing a
sweet more delectable than sugar, fruit more savory
than berries, and game for another palate than that
tickled by trout.

June, of all the months, the student of ornithology
can least afford to lose. Most birds are nesting then,
and in full song and plumage. And what is a bird
without its song ? Do we not wait for the stranger to
speak ? It seems to me that I do not know a bird till
I have heard its voice ; then I come nearer it at once,
and it possesses a human interest to me. I have met
the gray-cheeked thrush (Tardus alicice) in the woods,
and held him in my hand ; still I do not know him.
The silence of the cedar-bird throws a mystery about
him which neither his good looks nor his petty lar-
cenies in cherry time can dispel. A bird's song con-
tains a clew to its life, and establishes a sympathy, an
understanding, between itself and the listener.

I descend a steep hill, and approach the hemlocks
through a large sugar-bush. When twenty rods dis-
tant, I hear all along the line of the forest the inces-
sant warble of the red-eyed fly-catcher ( Vireosylvia oli-

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 45

vacca), cheerful and happy as the merry whistle of a
school-boy. He is one of our most common and widely
distributed birds. Approach any forest at any hour
of the da\-, in any kind of weather, from May to Au-
gust, in any of the Middle or Eastern districts, and the
chances are that the first note you hear will be his.
Rain or shine, before noon or after, in the deep forest
or in the village grove, ■ — when it is too hot for the
thrushes or too cold and windy for the warblers, — it
is never out of time or place for this little minstrel to
indulge his cheerful strain. In the deep wilds of the
Adirondack, where few birds ^re seen and fewer heard,
his note was almost constantly in my ear. Always
busy, making it a point never to suspend for one mo-
ment his occupation to indulge his musical taste, his
lay is that of industry and contentment. There is
nothing plaintive or especially musical in his perform-
ance, but the sentiment expressed is eminently that of
cheerfulness. Indeed, the songs of most birds have
some human significance, which, I think, is the source
of the delight we take in them. The song of the bob-
olink to me expresses hilarity ; the song-sparrow's,
faith ; the bluebird's, love ; the cat-bird's, pride ; the
white-eyed fly-catcher's, self-consciousness ; that of the
hermit-thrush, spiritual-serenity : while there is some-
thing military in the call of the robin.

The vireosylvia is classed among the fly-catchers by
some writers, but is much more of a worm-eater, and
has few of the traits or habits of the Muscicapa or the

46 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

true Sylvia. He resembles somewhat the warbling
vireo ( Vireo gilvus), and the two birds are often con-
founded by careless observers. Both warble in the
same cheerful strain, but the latter more continuously
and rapidly. The red-eye is a larger, slimmer bird,
with a faint bluish crown, and a light line over the eye.
His movements are peculiar. You may see him hop-
ping among the limbs, exploring the under side of the
leaves, peering to the right and left, now flitting a few
feet, now hopping as many, and warbling incessantly,
occasionally in a subdued tone, which sounds from a
a very indefinite distance. When he has found a worm
to his liking, he turns lengthwise of the limb, and
bruises its head with his beak before devouring it.

As I enter the woods the slate-colored snow-bird
(Fringilla Hudsonia) starts up before me and chirps
sharply. His protest when thus disturbed is almost
metallic in its sharpness. He breeds here, and is not
esteemed a snow-bird at all, as he disappears at the
near approach of winter, and returns again in spring,
like the song-sparrow, and is not in any way asso-
ciated with the cold and the snow. So different are the
habits of birds in different localities. Even the crow
does not winter here, and is seldom seen after Decem-
ber or before March.

The snow-bird, or " black chipping-bird," as it is
known among the farmers, is the finest architect of any
of the ground-builders known to me. The site of its
nest is usually some low bank by the road-side near a

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 47

wood. In a slight excavation, with a partially con-
cealed entrance, the exquisite structure is placed.
Horse and cow hair are plentifully used, imparting to
the interior of the nest great symmetry and firmness
as well as softness.

Passing down through the maple arches, barely
pausing to observe the antics of a trio of squirrels,
— two gray ones and a black one, — I cross an an-
cient brush fence and am fairly within the old hem-
locks, and in one of the most primitive, undisturbed
nooks. In the deep moss I tread as with muffled feet,
and the pupils of my eyes dilate in the dim, almost re-
ligious light. The irreverent red squirrels, however,
run and snicker at my approach, or mock the solitude
with their ridiculous chattering and frisking.

This nook is the chosen haunt of the winter wren.
This is the only place and these the only woods in
which I find him in this vicinity. His voice fills these
dim aisles, as if aided by some marvelous sounding-
board. Indeed, his song is very strong for so small a
bird and unites in a remarkable degree brilliancy and
plaintiveness. I think of a tremulous vibrating tongue
of silver. You may know it is the song of a wren, from
its gushing lyrical character : but you must needs look
sharp to see the little minstrel, especially while in the
act of singing. He is nearly the color of the ground
and the leaves ; he never ascends the tall trees, but
keeps low, flitting from stump to stump and from root
to root, dodging in and out of his hiding-places, and

48 IN THE HEMLOCK'S.

watching all intruders with a suspicious eye. He has
a very pert, almost comical look. His tail stands more
than perpendicular: it points straight toward his head.
He is the least ostentatious singer I know of. He does
not strike an attitude, and lift up his head in prepara-
tion, and, as it were, clear his throat ; but sits there on
a log and pours out his music, looking straight before
him, or even down at the ground. As a songster, he
has but few superiors. I do not hear him after the
first week in July.

While sitting on this soft-cushioned log, tasting the
pungent acidulous wood-sorrel (Oxalis acdellosa), the
blossoms of which, large and pink-veined, rise every-
where above the moss, a rufous-colored bird flies quickly
past, and, alighting on a low limb a few rods off, salutes
me with " Whew ! Whew ! " or " Whoit ! Whoit ! " al-
most as you would whistle for your dog. I see by his
impulsive, graceful movements, and his dimly speckled
breast, that it is a thrush. Presently he utters a few
soft, mellow, flute-like notes, one of the most simple
expressions of melody to be heard, and scuds away,
and I see it is the veery, or Wilson's thrush. He is
the least of the thrushes in size, being about that of
the common bluebird, and he may be distinguished
from his relatives by the dimness of the spots upon
his breast. The wood-thrush has very clear, distinct
oval spots on a white ground ; in the hermit, the spots
run more into lines, on a ground of a faint bluish-
white ; in the veery, the marks are almost obsolete,

IN THE HEMLOCKS 49

and a few rods off his breast presents only a dull yel-
lowish appearance. To get a good view of him you
have only to sit down in his haunts, as in such cases
he seems equally anxious to get a good view of you.

From those tall hemlocks proceeds a very fine insect-
like warble, and occasionally I see a spray tremble, or
catch the flit of a wing. I watch and watch till my
head grows dizzy and my neck is in danger of perma-
nent displacement, and still do not get a good view.
Presently the bird darts, or, as it seems, falls down a
few feet in pursuit of a fly or a moth, and I see the
whole of it, but in the dim light am undecided. It is
for such emergencies that I have brought my gun. A
bird in the hand' is worth half a dozen in the bush,
even for ornithological purposes ; and no sure and
rapid progress can be made in the study without tak-
ing life, without procuring specimens. This bird is a
warbler, plainly enough, from his habits and manner ;
but what kind of warbler ? Look on him and name
him : a deep orange or flame-colored throat and breast ;
the same color showing also in a line over the eye and
in his crown ; back variegated black and white. The
female is less marked and brilliant. The orange-
throated warbler would seem to be his right name, his
characteristic cognomen ; but no, he is doomed to wear
the name of some discoverer, perhaps the first who
robbed his nest or rifled him of his mate, — Blackburn ;
hence, Blackburnian warbler. The burn seems appro-
priate enough, for in these dark evergreens his throat
4

50 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

and breast show like flame. He has a very fine war-
ble, suggesting that of the redstart, but not especially
musical. I find him in no other woods in this vicinity.

I am attracted by another warble in the same local-
ity, and experience a like difficulty in getting a good
view of the author of it. It is quite a noticeable strain,
sharp and sibilant, and sounds well amid the old trees.
In the upland woods of beech and maple it is a more
familiar sound than in these solitudes. On taking the
bird in hand, one cannot help exclaiming, " How beau-
tiful ! " So tiny and elegant, the smallest of the war-
blers ; a delicate blue back, with a slight bronze-col-
ored triangular spot between the shoulders ; upper
mandible black ; lower mandible yellow as gold ; throat
yellow, becoming a dark bronze on the breast. Blue
yellow-back he is called, though the yellow is much
nearer a bronze. He is remarkably delicate and beau-
tiful, — the handsomest as he is the smallest of the
warblers known to me. It is never without surprise
that I find amid these rugged, savage aspects of Nature
creatures so fairy and delicate. But such is the law.
Go to the sea or climb the mountain, and with the rug-
gedest and the savagest you will find likewise the fair-
est and the most delicate. The greatness and the mi-
nuteness of Nature pass all understanding.

Ever since I entered the woods, even while listening
to the lesser songsters, or contemplating the silent
forms about me, a strain has reached my ears from out
the depths of the forest that to me is the finest sound

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 51

in nature, — the song of the hermit-thrush. I often
hear him thus a long way off, sometimes over a quarter
of a mile away, when only the stronger and more per-
fect parts of his music reach me ; and through the gen-
eral chorus of wrens and warblers I detect this sound
rising pure and serene, as if a spirit from some remote
height were slowly chanting a divine accompaniment.
This song appeals to the sentiment of the beautiful in
me, and suggests a serene religious beatitude as no
other sound in nature does. It is perhaps more of an
evening than a morning hymn, though I hear it at all
hours of the day. It is very simple, and I can hardly
tell the secret of its charm. " O spheral, spheral ! " he
seems to say ; " O holy, holy ! O clear away, clear away !
O clear up, clear up ! " interspersed with the finest trills
and the most delicate preludes. It is not a proud, gor-
geous strain, like the tanager's or the grosbeak's ; sug-
gests no passion or emotion, — nothing personal, — but
seems to be the voice of that calm sweet solemnity
one attains to in his best moments. It realizes a peace
and a deep solemn joy that only the finest souls may
know. A few nights ago I ascended a mountain to see
the world by moonlight ; and when near the summit
the hermit commenced his evening hymn a few rods
from me. Listening to this strain on the lone moun-
tain, with the full moon just rounded from the horizon,
the pomp of your cities and the pride of your civiliza-
tion seemed trivial and cheap.

I have seldom known two of these birds to be sing-

52 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

ing at the same time in the same locality, rivaling each
other, like the wood-thrush or the veery. Shooting
one from a tree, I have observed another take up the
strain from almost the identical perch in less than ten
minutes afterward. Later in the day when I had pene-
trated the heart of the old " Barkpeeling," I came sud-
denly upon one singing from a low stump, and for a
wonder he did not seem alarmed, but lifted up his di-
vine voice as if his privacy was undisturbed. I open
his beak and find the inside yellow as gold. 1 was pre-
pared to find it inlaid with pearls and diamonds, or to
see an angel issue from it.

He is not much in the books. Indeed, I am ac-
quainted with scarcely any writer on ornithology whose
head is not muddled on the subject of our three prevail-
ing song-thrushes, confounding either their figures or
their songs. A writer in the " Atlantic " ' gravely tells
us the wood-thrush is sometimes called the hermit, and
then, after describing the song of the hermit with great
beauty and correctness, coolly ascribes it to the veery !
The new Cyclopaedia, fresh from the study of Audubon,
says the hermit's song consists of a single plaintive
note, and that the veery's resembles that of the wood-
thrush ! These observations deserve to be preserved
with that of the author of " Out-door Papers," who tells
us the trill of the hair-bird (Fringillia socialis) is pro-
duced by the bird fluttering its wings upon its sides !

1 For December, 1858.

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 53

The hermit-thrush'may be easily identified by his color ;
his back being a clear olive-brown becoming rufous on
his rump and tail. A quill from his wing placed be-
side one from his tail on a dark ground presents quite
a marked contrast.

I walk along the old road, and note the tracks in
the thin layer of mud. When do these creatures
travel here ? I have never yet chanced to meet one.
Here a partridge has set its foot ; there, a woodcock ;
here, a squirrel or mink : there, a skunk ; there, a fox.
What a clear, nervous track reynard makes ! how easy
to distinguish it from that of a little dog, — it is so
sharply cut and defined ! A dog's track is coarse and
clumsy beside it. There is as much wildness in the
track of an animal as in its voice. Is a deer's track
like a sheep's or a goat's ? What winged-footed fleet-
ness and agility may be inferred from the sharp,
braided track of the gray squirrel upon the new snow !
Ah ! in nature is the best discipline. How wood-life
sharpens the senses, giving a new power to the eye,
the ear, the nose ! And are not the rarest and most
exquisite songsters wood-birds ?

Everywhere in these solitudes I am greeted with the
pensive, almost pathetic note of the wood-pewee. The
pewees are the true fly-catchers, and are easily identi-
• fied. They are very characteristic birds, have very
strong family traits, and very pugnacious dispositions.
They are the least attractive or elegant birds of our
fields or forest. Sharp-shouldered, big-headed, short-

54 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

legged, of no particular color, of little elegance in
flight or movement, with a disagreeable flirt of the tail,
always quarreling with their neighbors and with one
another, no birds are so little calculated to excite
pleasurable emotions in the beholder, or to become
objects of human interest and affection. The king-
bird is the best dressed member of the family, but he
is a braggart : and, though always snubbing his neigh-
bors, is an arrant coward, and shows the white feather
at the slightest display of pluck in his antagonist. I
have seen him turn tail to a swallow, and have known
the little pewee in question to whip him beautifully.
From the great crested to the little green fly-catcher,
their ways and general habits are the same. Slow in
flying from point to point, they yet have a wonderful
quickness, and snap up the fleetest insects with little
apparent effort. There is a constant play of quick,
nervous movements underneath their outer show of
calmness and stolidity. They do not scour the limbs
and trees like the warblers, but, perched upon the mid-
dle branches, wait, like true hunters, for the game to
come along. There is often a very audible snap of
the beak as they seize their prey.

The wood-pewee, the prevailing species in this local-
ity, arrests your attention by his sweet, pathetic cry.
There is room for it also in the deep woods, as well as
for the more prolonged and elevated strains.

Its relative, the phcebe-bird, builds an exquisite nest
of moss on the side of some shelving cliff or overhang-

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 55

ing rock. The other day, passing by a ledge near the
top of a mountain in a singularly desolate locality, my
eye rested upon one of these structures, looking pre-
cisely as if it grew there, so in keeping was it with the
mossy character of the rock ; and I have had a grow-
ing affection for the bird ever since. The rock seemed
to love the nest and to claim it as its own. I said,
what a lesson in architecture is here ! Here is a house
that was built, but with such loving care and such
beautiful adaptation of the means to the end, that it
looks like a product of nature. The same wise econ-
omy is noticeable in the nests of all birds. No bird
would paint its house white or red, or add aught for
show.

At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the
woods, I come suddenly upon a brood of screech-owls,
full grown, sitting together upon a dry, moss-draped
limb, but a few feet from the ground. I pause within
four or five yards of them and am looking about me,
when my eye alights upon these gray, motionless fig-
ures. They sit perfectly upright, some with their
backs and some with their breasts toward me, but
every head turned squarely in my direction. Their
eyes are closed to a mere black line ; through this
crack they are watching me, evidently thinking them-
selves unobserved. The spectacle is weird and gro-
tesque, and suggests something impish and uncanny.
It is a new effect, the night side of the woods by day-
light. After observing them a moment I take a single

56 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

step toward them, when, quick as thought, their eyes
fly wide open, their attitude is changed, they bend,
some this way, some that, and, instinct with life and
motion, stare wildly around them. Another step, and
they all take flight but one, which stoops low on the
branch, and with the look of a frightened cat regards
me for a few seconds over its shoulder. They fly
swiftly and softly, and disperse through the trees. I
shoot one, which is of a tawny red tint, like that figured
by Wilson, who mistook a young bird for an old one.
The old birds are a beautiful ashen gray mottled with
black. In the present instance, they were sitting on
the branch with the young.

Coming to a drier and less mossy place in the
woods, I am amused with the golden-crowned thrush, —
which, however, is no thrush at all, but a warbler, the
Sciurus aurocapillus. He walks on the ground ahead
of me with such an easy gliding motion, and with such
an unconscious, preoccupied air, jerking his head like
a hen or a partridge, now hurrying, now slackening his
pace, that I pause to observe him. If I sit down, he
pauses to observe me, and extends his pretty ram-
blings on all sides, apparently very much engrossed
with his own affairs, but never losing sight of me. But
few of the birds are walkers, most being hoppers, like
the robin.

Satisfied that I have no hostile intentions, the pretty
pedestrian mounts a limb a few feet from the ground,
and gives me the benefit of one of his musical perform-

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 57

ances, a sort of accelerating chant. Commencing in
a very low key, which makes him seem at a very un-
certain distance, he grows louder and louder, till his
body quakes and his chant runs into a shriek, ringing
in my ears with a peculiar sharpness. This lay may
be represented thus : " Teacher teacher, teacher,
TEACHER, TEACHER!" — the accent on the first
syllable and each word uttered with increased force
and shrillness. No writer with whom I am acquainted
gives him credit for more musical ability than is dis-
played in this strain. Yet in this the half is not told.
He has a far rarer song, which he reserves for some
nymph whom he meets in the air. Mounting by easy
flights to the top of the tallest tree, he launches into
the air with a sort of suspended, hovering flight, like
certain of the finches, and bursts into a perfect ecstasy
of song, — clear, ringing, copious, rivaling the gold-
finch's in vivacity, and the linnet's in melody. This
strain is one of the rarest bits of bird-melody to be
heard. Over the woods, hid from view, the ecstatic
singer warbles his finest strain. In this song you in-
stantly detect his relationship to the water-wagtail
(Sciurus noveboracensis) — erroneously called water-
thrush, — whose song is likewise a sudden burst, full
and ringing, and with a tone of youthful joyousness in
it, as if the bird had just had some unexpected good
fortune. For nearly two years this strain of the pretty
walker was little more than a disembodied voice to me,
and I was puzzled by it as Thoreau by his mysterious

58 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

night-warbler, which, by the way, I suspect was no new
bird at all, but one he was otherwise familiar with. The
little bird himself seems disposed to keep the matter a
secret, and improves every opportunity to repeat before
you his shrill, accelerating lay, as if this were quite
enough and all he laid claim to. Still, I trust I am
betraying no confidence in making the matter public
here. I think this is preeminently his love-song, as I
hear it oftenest about the mating season. I have
caught half-suppressed bursts of it from two males
chasing each other with fearful speed through the
forest.

Turning to the left from the old road, I wander,
over soft logs and gray yielding debris, across the little
trout brook, until I emerge in the overgrown " Bark-
peeling," — pausing now and then on the way to
admire a small, solitary white flower which rises above
the moss, with radical, heart-shaped leaves, and a
blossom precisely like the liverwort except in color,
but which is not put down in my botany, — or to
observe the ferns, of which I count six varieties, some
gigantic ones nearly shoulder-high.

At the foot of a rough, scraggy yellow birch, on a
bank of club-moss, so richly inlaid with partridge-berry
and curious shining leaves, — with here and there in
the bordering a spire of the false wintergreen (Pyrola
rotund if olio) strung with faint pink flowers and exhal-
ing the breath of a May orchard, — that it looks too
costlv a couch for such an idler, I recline to note what

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 59

transpires. The sun is just past the meridian, and the
afternoon chorus is not yet in full tune. Most birds
sing with the greatest spirit and vivacity in the fore-
noon, though there are occasional bursts later in the
day, in which nearly all voices join ; while it is not till
the twilight that the full power and solemnity of the
thrush's hymn is felt.

My attention is soon arrested by a pair of humming-
birds, the ruby-throated, disporting themselves in a
low bush a few yards from me. The female takes
shelter amid the branches, and squeaks exultingly as
the male, circling above, dives down as if to dislodge
her. Seeing me, he drops like a feather on a slender
twig, and in a moment both are gone. Then, as if by
a preconcerted signal, the throats are all atune. I lie
on my back with eyes half closed, and analyze the
chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches, and fly-catch-
ers ; while, soaring above all, a little withdrawn and
alone, rises the divine soprano of the hermit. That
richly modulated warble proceeding from the top of
yonder birch, and which unpracticed ears would mis-
take for the voice of the scarlet tanager, comes from
that rare visitant, the rose-breasted grosbeak. It is
a strong, vivacious strain, a bright noonday song, full
of health and assurance, indicating fine talents in the
performer, but not genius. As I come up under the
tree he casts his eye down at me, but continues his
song. This bird is said to be quite common in the
Northwest, but he is rare in the Eastern districts. His

60 in THE HEMLOCKS.

beak is disproportionately large and heavy, like a huge
nose, which slightly mars his good looks; but Nature
lias made it up to him in a blush rose upon his breast,
and the most delicate of pink linings to the under side
of his wings. His back is variegated black and white,
and when flying low the white shows conspicuously.
If he passed over your head, you would note the
delicate flush under his wings.

That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hemlock,
glowing like a live coal against the dark background,
seeming almost too brilliant for the severe northern
climate, is his relative, the scarlet tanager. I occa-
sionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and know
no stronger contrast in nature. I almost fear he will
kindle the dry limb on which he alights. He is quite
a solitary bird, and in this section seems to prefer the
high, remote woods, even going quite to the mountain's
top. Indeed, the event of my last visit to the mountain
was meeting one of these brilliant creatures near the
summit, in full song. The breeze carried the notes
far and wide. He seemed to enjoy the elevation, and
I imagined his song had more scope and freedom
than usual. When he had flown far down the moun-
tain-side, the breeze still brought me his finest notes.
In plumage he is the most brilliant bird we have. The
bluebird is not entirely blue ; nor will the indigo-bird
bear a close inspection, nor the goldfinch, nor the sum-
mer redbird. But the tanager loses nothing by a near
view , the deep scarlet of his body and the black of

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 6 1

his wings and tail are quite perfect. This is his holiday
suit ; in the fall he becomes a dull yellowish-green, —
the color of the female the whole season.

One of the leading songsters in this choir of the old
Barkpeeling is the purple finch or linnet. He sits
somewhat apart, usually on a dead hemlock, and
warbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finest song-
sters, and stands at the head of the finches, as the her-
mit at the head of the thrushes. His song approaches
an ecstasy, and, with the exception of the winter
wren's, is the most rapid and copious strain to be
heard in these woods. It is quite destitute of the trills
and the liquid, silvery, bubbling notes that character-
ize the wren's ; but there runs through it a round,
richly modulated whistle, very sweet and very pleasing.
The call of the robin is brought in at a certain point
with marked effect, and, throughout, the variety is so
great and the strain so rapid that the impression is as
of two or three birds singing at the same time. He is
not common here, and I only find him in these or sim-
ilar woods. His color is peculiar, and looks as if it
might have been imparted by dipping a brown bird in
diluted pokeberry juice. Two or three more dippings
would have made the purple complete. The female
is the color of the song-sparrow, a little larger, with
heavier beak, and tail much more forked.

In a little opening quite free from brush and trees I
step down to bathe my hands in the brook, when a
small, light slate-colored bird flutters out of the bank,

62 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

not three feel from my head, as I stoop down, and, as
if severely lamed or injured, flutters through the grass
and into the nearest bush. As I do not follow, but
remain near the nest, she chips sharply, which brings
the male, and I see it is the speckled Canada warbler.
I find no authority in the books for this bird to build
upon the ground, yet here is the nest, made chiefly of
dry grass, set in a slight excavation in the bank, not
two feet from the water, and looking a little perilous to
anything but ducklings or sandpipers. There are two
young birds and one little specked egg, just pipped.
But how is this ? what mystery is here ? One nestling
is much larger than the other, monopolizes most of
the nest, and lifts its open mouth far above that of its
companion, though obviously both are of the same
age, not more than a day old. Ah ! I see ; the old
trick of the cow-bunting, with a stinging human sig-
nificance. Taking the interloper by the nape of the
neck, I deliberately drop it into the water, but not
without a pang, as I see its naked form, convulsed with
chills, float down stream. Cruel ? So is Nature cruel.
I take one life to save two. In less than two days
this pot-bellied intruder would have caused the death
of the two rightful occupants of the nest ; so I step
in and turn things into their proper channel again.

It is a singular freak of Nature, this instinct which
prompts one bird to lay its eggs in the nests of others,
and thus shirk the responsibility of rearing its own
young. The cow-buntings always resort to this cunning

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 6$

trick ; and when one reflects upon their numbers it is
evident that these little tragedies are quite frequent.
In Europe the parallel case is that of the cuckoo, and
occasionally our own cuckoo imposes upon a robin
or a thrush in the same manner. The cow-bunting
seems to have no conscience about the matter, and,
so far as I have observed, invariably selects the nest of
a bird smaller than itself. Its egg is usually the first
to hatch ; its young overreaches all the rest when food
is brought ; it grows with great rapidity, spreads and
fills the nest, and the starved and crowded occupants
soon perish, when the parent bird removes their dead
bodies, giving its whole energy and care to the foster-
child.

The warblers and smaller fly-catchers are generally
the sufferers, though I sometimes see the slate-colored
snow-bird unconsciously duped in like manner ; and
the other day, in a tall tree in the woods, I discovered
the black-throated green-backed warbler devoting itself
to this dusky, overgrown foundling. An old fanner to
whom I pointed out the fact was much surprised that
such things should happen in his woods without his
knowledge.

These birds may be seen prowling through all parts
of the woods at this season, watching for an opportu-
nity to steal their egg into some nest. One day while
sitting on a log I saw one moving by short flights
through the trees and gradually nearing the ground.
Its movements were hurried and stealthy. About fifty

64 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

yards from me it disappeared behind some low brush
and had evidently alighted upon the ground.

After waiting a few moments I cautiously walked in
the direction. When about half way I accidentally
made a slight noise, when the bird flew up, and seeing
me hurried off out of the woods. Arrived at the place,
I found a simple nest of dry grass and leaves partially
concealed under a prostrate branch. I took it to be the
nest of a sparrow. There were three eggs in the nest
and one lying about a foot below it as if it had been
rolled out, as of course it had. It suggested the thought
that perhaps when the cow-bird finds the full comple-
ment of eggs in a nest, it throws out one and deposits
its own instead. I revisited the nest a few days after-
ward and found an egg again cast out, but none had
been put in its place. The nest had been abandoned
by its owner and the eggs were stale.

In all cases where I have found this egg, I have
observed both male and female of the cow-bird lin-
gering near, the former uttering his peculiar liquid,
glassy note from the tops of the trees.

In July the young, which have been reared in the
same neighborhood, and which are now of a dull fawn
color, begin to collect in small flocks, which grow to
be quite large in autumn.

The speckled Canada is a very superior warbler,
having a lively, animated strain, reminding you of
certain parts of the canary's though quite broken and
incomplete ; the bird, the while hopping amid the

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 65

branches with increased liveliness, and indulging in
fine sibilant chirps, too happy to keep silent.

His manners are quite marked. He has a habit of
courtesying when he discovers you, which is very pretty.
In form he is an elegant bird, somewhat slender, his
back of a bluish lead-color becoming nearly black on
his crown : the under part of his body, from his throat
down, is of a light, delicate yellow, with a belt of black
dots across his breast. He has a fine eye, surrounded
by a light-yellow ring.

The parent birds are much disturbed by my presence,
and keep up a loud emphatic chirping, which attracts
the attention of their sympathetic neighbors, and one
after another they come to see what has happened.
The chestnut-sided and the Blackburnian come in
company. The black-and-yellow warbler pauses a
moment and hastens away ; the Maryland yellow-
throat peeps shyly from the lower bushes and utters
his " Fip ! fip ! " in sympathy ; the wood-pewee comes
straight to the tree overhead, and the red-eyed vireo
lingers and lingers, eying me with a curious, innocent
look, evidently much puzzled. But all disappear again,
one by one, apparently without a word of condolence
or encouragement to the distressed pair. I have often
noticed .among birds this show of sympathy, — if in-
deed it be sympathy, and not merely curiosity, or desire
to be forewarned of the approach of a common danger.

An hour afterward I approach the place, find all still,
and the mother bird upon the nest. As I draw near
5

66 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

she seems to sit closer, her eyes growing large with an
inexpressibly wild, beautiful look. She keeps her place
till I am within two paces of her, when she flutters away
as at first. In the brief interval the remaining egg has
hatched, and the two little nestlings lift their heads
without being jostled or overreached by any strange
bedfellow. A week afterward and they were flown
away, — so brief is the infancy of birds. And the won-
der is that they escape, even for this short time, the
skunks and minks and muskrats that abound here, and
that have a decided partiality for such tidbits.

I pass on through the old Barkpeeling, now thread-
ing an obscure cow-path or an overgrown wood-road ;
now clambering over soft and decayed logs, or forcing
my way through a net-work of briers and hazels ; now
entering a perfect bower of wild-cherry, beech, and soft-
maple ; now emerging into a little grassy lane, golden
with buttercups or white with daisies, or wading waist-
deep in the red raspberry-bushes.

Whir ! whir ! whir ! and a brood of half-grown par-
tridges start up like an explosion, a few paces from me,
and, scattering, disappear in the bushes on all sides.
Let me sit down here behind this screen of ferns and
briers, and hear this wild-hen of the woods call together
her brood. At what an early age the partridge flies !
Nature seems to concentrate her energies on the wing,
making the safety of the bird a point to be looked after
first ; and while the body is covered with down, and no
signs of feathers are visible, the wing-quills sprout and

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 67

unfold, and in an incredibly short time the young make
fair headway in flying.

The same rapid development of wing may be ob-
served in chickens and turkeys, but not in water-fowls,
nor in birds that are safely housed in the nest till full-
fledged. The other day, by a brook, I came suddenly
upon a young sand-piper, a most beautiful creature,
enveloped in a soft gray down, swift and nimble and
apparently a week or two old, but with no signs of
plumage either of body or wing. And it needed none,
for it escaped me by taking to the water as readily as if
it had flown with wings.

Hark ! there arises over there in the brush a soft,
persuasive cooing, a sound so subtle and wild and un-
obtrusive that it requires the most alert and watchful
ear to hear it. How gentle and solicitous and full of
yearning love ! It is the voice of the mother hen.
Presently a faint timid " Yeap ! " which almost eludes
the ear, is heard in various directions, — the young re-
sponding. As no danger seems near, the cooing of the
parent bird is soon a very audible clucking call, and
the young move cautiously in the direction. Let me
step never so carefully from my hiding-place, and all
sounds instantly cease, and I search in vain for either
parent or young.

The partridge {Bofiasa umbdlus) is one of our most
native and characteristic birds. The woods seem good
to be in where I find him. He gives a habitable air to
the forest, and one feels as if the rightful occupant was

68 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

really at home. The woods where I do not find him
seem to want something, as if suffering from some neg-
lect of Nature. And then he is such a splendid success,
so hardy and vigorous. I think he enjoys the cold and
the snow. His wings seem to rustle with more fer-
vency in midwinter. If the snow falls very fast, and
promises a heavy storm, he will complacently sit down
and allow himself to be snowed under. Approaching
him at such times, he suddenly bursts out of the snow
at your feet, scattering the flakes in all directions, and
goes humming away through the woods like a bomb-
shell, — a picture of native spirit and success.

His drum is one of the most welcome and beautiful
sounds of spring. Scarcely have the trees expanded
their buds, when, in the still April mornings, or toward
nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted wings. He
selects not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log,
but a decayed and crumbling one, seeming to give the
preference to old oak-logs that are partially blended
with the soil. If a log to his taste cannot be found he
sets up his altar on a rock, which becomes resonant be-
neath his fervent blows. Who has seen the partridge
drum ? It is the next thing to catching a weasel asleep,
though by much caution and tact it may be done. He
does not hug the log, but stands very erect, expands his
ruff, gives two introductory blows, pauses half a second,
and then resumes, striking faster and faster till the
sound becomes a continuous, unbroken whir, the whole
lasting less than half a minute. The tips of his wings

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 69

barely brush the log, so that the sound is produced
rather by the force of the blows upon the air and upon
his own body as in flying. One log will be used for
many years, though not by the same drummer. It
seems to be a sort of temple and held in great respect.
The bird always approaches on fot)t, and leaves it in
the same quiet manner, unless rudely disturbed. He
is very cunning, though his wit is not profound. It is
difficult to approach him by stealth ; you will try many
times before succeeding ; but seem to pass by him in
a great hurry, making all the noise possible, and with
plumage furled he stands as immovable as a knot,
allowing you a good view and a good shot, if you are a
sportsman.

Passing along one of the old Barkpeelers' roads
which wander aimlessly about, I am attracted by a
singularly brilliant and emphatic warble, proceeding
from the low bushes, and quickly suggesting the voice
of the Maryland yellow-throat. Presently the singer
hops up on a dry twig, and gives me a good view.
Lead-colored head and neck, becoming nearly black on
the breast ; clear olive-green back, and yellow belly.
From his habit of keeping near the ground, even hop-
ping upon it occasionally, I know him to be a ground-
warbler ; from his dark breast the ornithologist has
added the expletive mourning, hence the mourning
ground-warbler.

Of this bird both Wilson and Audubon confessed
their comparative ignorance, neither ever having seen

70 IN THE HEMLOCKS.

its nest or become acquainted with its haunts and gen-
eral habits. Its song is quite striking and novel, though
its voice at once suggests the class of warblers to
which it belongs. It is very shy and wary, flying but a
few feet at a time, and studiously concealing itself from
your view. I discover but one pair here. The female
has food in her beak, but carefully avoids betraying
the locality of her nest. The ground-warblers all
have one notable feature, — very beautiful legs, as white
and delicate as if they had always worn silk stockings
and satin slippers. High tree warblers have dark-
brown or black legs and more brilliant plumage, but
less musical ability.

The chestnut-sided belongs to the latter class. He
is quite common in these woods, as in all the woods
about. He is one of the rarest and handsomest of the
warblers ; his white breast and throat, chestnut sides,
and yellow crown show conspicuously. But little is
known of his habits or haunts. Last year I found the
nest of one in an uplying beech-wood, in a low bush
near the road-side, where cows passed and browsed
daily. Things went on smoothly till the cow-bunting
stole her egg into it, when other mishaps followed, and
the nest was soon empty. A characteristic attitude of
the male during this season is a slight drooping of the
wings, and tail a little elevated, which gives him a very
smart, bantam-like appearance. His song is fine and
hurried, and not much of itself, but has its place in the
general chorus.

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 71

A far sweeter strain, falling on the ear with the true
sylvan cadence, is that of the black-throated green-
backed warbler, whom I meet at various points. He
has no superiors among the true Sylvia. His song is
very plain and simple, but remarkably pure and tender,

and might be indicated by straight lines, thus,

V ; the first two marks representing two sweet, sil-
very notes, in the same pitch of voice, and quite unac-
cented ; the latter marks, the concluding notes, wherein
the tone and inflection are changed. The throat and
breast of the male are a rich black like velvet, his face
yellow, and his back a yellowish green.

Beyond the Barkpeeling, where the woods are min-
gled hemlock, beech, and birch, the languid midsum-
mer note of the black- throated blue-back falls on my
ear. "Twea, twea, twea-e-e ! " in the upward slide,
and with the peculiar z-ing of summer insects, but not
destitute of a certain plaintive cadence. It is one of
the most languid, unhurried sounds in all the woods.
I feel like reclining upon the dry leaves at once. Au-
dubon says he has never heard his love-song ; but this
is all the love-song he has, and he is evidently a very
plain hero with his little brown mistress. He assumes
few attitudes, and is not a bold and striking gymnast,
like many of his kindred. He has a preference for
dense woods of beech and maple, moves slowly amid
the lower branches and smaller growths, keeping from
eight to ten feet from the ground, and repeating now
and then his listless, indolent strain. His back and

72 JN THE HEMLOCKS.

crown are dark blue ; his throat and breast, black ; his
belly, pure white ; and he has a white spot on each
wing.

Here and there I meet the black and white creeping-
warbler, whose fine strain reminds me of hair-wire. It
is unquestionably the finest bird-song to be heard. Few
insect strains will compare with it in this respect ; while
it has none of the harsh, brassy character of the latter,
being very delicate and tender.

That sharp, uninterrupted, but still continued warble,
which, before one has learned to discriminate closely,
he is apt to confound with the red-eyed vireo's, is
that of the solitary warbling vireo, — a bird slightly
larger, much rarer, and with a louder, less cheerful
and happy strain. I see him hopping along length-
wise of the limbs, and note the orange tinge of his
breast and sides and the white circle around his eye.

But the declining sun and the deepening shadows
admonish me that this ramble must be brought to a
close, even though only the leading characters in this
chorus of forty songsters have been described, and only
a small portion of the venerable old woods explored.
In a secluded swampy corner of the old Barkpeeling,
where I find the great purple orchis in bloom, and
where the foot of man or beast seems never to have
trod, I linger long, contemplating the wonderful dis-
play of lichens and mosses that overrun both the
smaller and the larger growths. Every bush and
branch and sprig is dressed up in the most rich and

IN THE HEMLOCKS. 73

fantastic of liveries ; and, crowning all, the long bearded
moss festoons the branches or sways gracefully from the
limbs. Every twig looks a century old, though green
leaves tip the end of it. A young yellow birch has a
venerable, patriarchal look, and seems ill at ease un-
der such premature honors. A decayed hemlock is
draped as if by hands for some solemn festival.

Mounting toward the upland again, I pause rever-
ently as the hush and stillness of twilight come upon
the woods. It is the sweetest, ripest hour of the day.
And as the hermit's evening hymn goes up from the
deep solitude below me, I experience that serene exal-
tation of sentiment of which music, literature, and re-
ligion are but the faint types and symbols.

ADIRONDAC.

ADIRONDAC

WHEN I went to the Adirondacs, which was in
the summer of 1863, I was in the first flush
of my ornithological studies, and was»curious, above all
else, to know what birds I should find in these soli-
tudes — what new ones, and what ones already known
to me.

In visiting vast, primitive, far-off woods one natu-
rally expects to find something rare and precious, or
something entirely new, but it commonly happens that
one is disappointed. Thoreau made three excursions
into the Maine woods, and though he started the moose
and caribou, had nothing more novel to report by
way of bird notes, than the songs of the wood-thrush
and the pewee. This was about my own experience in
the Adirondacs. The birds for the most part prefer
the vicinity of settlements and clearings, and it was at
such places that I saw the greatest number and variety.

At the clearing of an old hunter and pioneer by the
name of Hewett, where we paused a couple of days on
first entering the woods, I saw many old friends and
made some new acquaintances. The snow-bird was
very abundant here, as it had been at various points
along the route, after leaving Lake George. As I went

78 ADIRONBAC.

out to the spring in the morning to wash myself a pur-
ple finch flew up before me, having already performed
its ablutions. I had first observed this bird the winter
before in the Highlands of the Hudson, where during
several clear but cold February mornings a troop of
them sang most charmingly in a tree in front of my
house. The meeting with the bird here in its breeding
haunts was a pleasant surprise. During the clay I ob-
served several pine finches — a dark brown or brin-
dlish bird, allied to the common yellow-bird, which it
much resembles in its manner and habits. They lin-
gered familiarly about the house, sometimes alighting
in a small tree within a few feet of it. In one of the
stumpy fields I saw an old favorite in the grass finch
or vesper sparrow. It was sitting on a tall charred
stub with food in its beak. But all along the borders
of the woods and in the bushy parts of the fields there
was a new song that I was puzzled in tracing to the au-
thor. It was most noticeable in the morning and at
twilight, but was at all times singularly secret and
elusive. I at last discovered that it was the white-
throated sparrow, a common bird all through this re-
gion. Its song is very delicate and plaintive — a thin,
wavering, tremulous whistle, which disappoints one,
however, as it ends when it seems only to have begun.
If the bird could give us the finishing strain of which
this seems only the prelude, it would stand first among
feathered songsters.

By a little trout-brook in a low part of the woods

ADIRONDAC. 79

adjoining the clearing, I had a good time pursuing and
identifying a number of warblers — the speckled Can-
ada, the black-throated blue, the yellow-rumped, and
Audubon's warbler. The latter, which was leading its
troop of young through a thick undergrowth on the
banks of the creek where insects were plenty, was new
to me.

It being August, the birds were all moulting and
sang only fitfully and by brief snatches. I remember
hearing but one robin during the whole trip. This
was by the Boreas River in the deep forest. It was
like the voice of an old friend speaking my name.

From Hewett's, after engaging his youngest son, —
the " Bub " of the family, — a young man about twenty
and a thorough woodsman, as guide, we took to the
woods in good earnest, our destination being the Still-
water of the Boreas — a long deep dark reach in one
of the remote branches of the Hudson, about six
miles distant. Here we paused a couple of clays, put-
ting up in a dilapidated lumberman's shanty, and cook-
ing our fish over an old stove which had been left
there. The incident of our stay at this point was a
visit to a cave some two miles down the stream which
had recently been discovered. We squeezed and
wriggled through a big crack or cleft in the side of
the mountain, for about two hundred feet, when we
emerged into a large dome-shaped passage, the abode,
during certain seasons of the year, of innumerable
bats, and at all times of primeval darkness. There

So ADIRONDAC.

were various other crannies and pit-holes opening
into it, some of which we explored. The voice of run-
ning water was everywhere heard, betraying the prox-
imity of the little stream by whose ceaseless corroding
the cave and its entrance had been worn. This
streamlet flowed out of the mouth of the cave and
came from a lake on the top of the mountain ; this ac-
counted for its warmth to the hand which surprised us

all.

Birds of any kind were rare in these woods. A pig-
eon-hawk came prowling by our camp, and the faint
piping call of the nut-hatches, leading their young
through the high trees was often heard.

On the third day our guide proposed to conduct us
to a lake in the mountains where we could float for
deer.

Our journey commenced in a steep and rugged as-
cent, which brought us, after an hour's heavy climbing,
to an elevated region of pine forest, years before rav-
ished by lumbermen, and presenting all manner of ob-
stacles to our awkward and encumbered pedestrianism.
The woods were largely pine, though yellow birch,
beech, and maple were common. The satisfaction of
having a gun, should any game show itself, was the chief
compensation to those of us who were thus burdened.
A partridge would occasionally whir up before us, or
a red squirrel snicker and hasten to his den ; else the
woods appeared quite tenantless. The most noted ob-
ject was a mammoth pine, apparently the last of a great

ADIRONDAC. 8 1

race, which presided over a cluster of yellow birches,
on the side of the mountain.

About noon we came out upon a long shallow sheet
of water which the guide called Bloody-Moose Pond,
from a tradition that a moose had been slaughtered
there many years before. Looking out over the silent
and lonely scene, his eye was the first to detect an ob-
ject apparently feeding upon lily-pads, which our will-
ing fancies readily shaped into a deer. As we were
eagerly waiting some movement to confirm this impres-
sion, it lifted up its head, and lo ! a great blue heron.
Seeing us approach, it spread its long wings and flew
solemnly across to a dead tree on the other side of the
lake, enhancing, rather than relieving the loneliness
and desolation that brooded over the scene. As we
proceeded it flew from tree to tree in advance of us,
apparently loth to be disturbed in its ancient and soli-
tary domain. In the margin of the pond we found the
pitcher-plant growing, and here and there in the sand
the closed gentian lifted up its blue head.

In traversing the shores of this wild, desolate lake, I
was conscious of a slight thrill of expectation, as if
some secret of Nature might here be revealed, or some
rare and unheard-of game disturbed. There is ever a
lurking suspicion that the beginning of things is in some
way associated with water, and one may notice that in
his private walks he is led by a curious attraction to
fetch all the springs and ponds in his route, as if by
them was the place for wonders and miracles to happen.
6

82 ADIRONDAC.

Once, while in advance of my companions, I saw, from
a high rock, a commotion in the water near the shore,
but on reaching the point found only the marks of a
musquash.

Pressing on through the forest, after many adventures
with the pine-knots, we reached, about the middle of
the afternoon, our destination, Nate's Pond, — a pretty
sheet of water, lying like a silver mirror in the lap of
the mountain, about a mile long and half a mile wide,
surrounded by dark forests of balsam, hemlock, and
pine, and, like the one we had just passed, a very pic-
ture of unbroken solitude.

It is not in the woods alone to give one this impres-
sion of utter loneliness. In the woods are sounds and
voices, and a dumb kind of companionship ; one is lit-
tle more than a walking tree himself; but come upon
one of these mountain-lakes, and the wildness stands
relieved and meets you face to face. Water is thus
facile and adaptive, that it makes the wild more wild,
while it enhances culture and art.

The end of the pond which we approached was quite
shoal, the stones rising above the surface as in a sum-
mer-brook, and everywhere showing marks of the no-
ble game we were in quest of — footprints, dung, and
cropped and uprooted lily-pads. After resting for a half
hour, and replenishing our game-pouches at the expense
of the most respectable frogs of the locality, we filed
on through the soft, resinous pine-woods, intending to
camp near the other end of the lake, where, the guide

ADIRONDAC. 83

assured us, we should find a hunter's cabin ready built.
A half-hour's march brought us to the locality, and a
most delightful one it was, — so hospitable and invit-
ing that all the kindly and beneficent influences of the
woods must have abided there. In a slight depression
in the woods, about one hundred yards from the lake,
though hidden from it for a hunter's reasons, surrounded
by a heavy growth of birch, hemlock, and pine, with a
lining of balsam and fir, the rude cabin welcomed us.
It was of the approved style, three sides inclosed, with
a roof of bark and a bed of boughs, and a rock in front
that afforded a permanent back-log to all fires. A faint
voice of running water was heard near by, and, follow-
ing the sound, a delicious spring-rivulet was disclosed,
hidden by the moss and debris as by a new fall of snow,
but here and there rising in" little well-like openings, as
if for our special convenience. On smooth places on the
logs I noticed female names inscribed in a female hand ;
and the guide told us of an English lady, an artist, who
had traversed this region with a single guide, making
sketches.

Our packs unslung and the kettle over, our first
move was to ascertain in what state of preservation a
certain dug-out might be, which, the guide averred, he
had left moored in the vicinity the summer before, —
for upon this hypothetical dug-out our hopes of venison
rested. After a little searching it was found under the
top of a fallen hemlock, but in a sorry condition. A
large piece had been split out of one end, and a fear-

84 ADIRONDAC.

ful chink was visible nearly to the water-line. Freed
from the tree-top, however, and caulked with a little
moss, it floated with two aboard, which was quite
enough for our purpose. A jack and an oar were nec-
essary to complete the arrangement, and before the sun
had set our professor of wood-craft had both in readi-
ness. From a young yellow-birch, an oar took shape
with marvelous rapidity — trimmed and smoothed with
a neatness almost fastidious, — no make-shift, but an
instrument fitted for the delicate work it was to per-
form.

A jack was made with equal skill and speed. A
stout staff about three feet long was placed upright in
the bow of the boat, and held to its place by a hori-
zontal bar, through a hole in which it turned easily : a
half wheel eight or ten inches in diameter, cut from a
large chip, was placed at the top, around which was
bent a new section of birch bark, thus forming a rude
semicircular reflector. Three candles placed within
the circle completed the jack. With moss and boughs
seats were arranged — one in the bow for the marks-
man, and one in the stern for the oarsman. A meal
of frogs and squirrels was a good preparation, and when
darkness came, all were keenly alive to the opportu-
nity it brought. Though by no means an expert in the
use of the gun, — adding the superlative degree of en-
thusiasm to only the positive degree of skill, — yet it
seemed tacitly agreed that I should act as marksman,
and kill the deer, if such was to be our luck.

ADIRONDAC. 85

After it was thoroughly dark we went down to make
a short trial-trip. Everything working to satisfaction,
about ten o'clock we pushed out in earnest. For the
twentieth time I felt in the pocket that contained the
matches, ran over the part I was to perform, and
pressed my gun firmly, to be sure there was no mistake.
My position was that of kneeling directly under the
jack, which I was to light at the word. The night was
clear, moonless, and still. Nearing the middle of the
lake, a breeze from the west was barely perceptible,
and noiselessly we glided before it. The guide han-
dled his oar with great dexterity ; without lifting it from
the water or breaking the surface, he imparted the
steady, uniform motion desired. How silent it was !
The ear seemed the only sense, and to hold dominion
over lake and forest. Occasionally a lily-pad would
brush along the bottom, and stooping low I could hear
a faint murmuring of the water under the bow : else all
was still. Then, almost as by magic, we were encom-
passed by a huge black ring. The surface of the lake,
when we had reached the centre, was slightly luminous
from the starlight, and the dark, even forest-line that
surrounded us, doubled by reflection in the water, pre-
senting a broad, unbroken belt of utter blackness. The
effect was quite startling, like some huge conjuror's
trick. It seemed as if we had crossed the boundary -
line between the real and the imaginary, and this was
indeed the land of shadows and of spectres. What
magic oar was that the guide wielded that it could

86 ADIRONDAC.

transport me to such a realm ! Indeed, had I not com-
mitted some fatal mistake and left that trusty servant
behind, and had not some wizard of the night stepped
into his place ? A slight splashing in-shore broke the
spell and caused me to turn nervously to the oarsman :
" Musquash," said he, and kept straight on.

Nearing the extreme end of the pond, the boat
gently headed around, and silently we glided back into
the clasp of that strange orbit. Slight sounds were
heard as before, but nothing that indicated the pres-
ence of the game we were waiting for ; and we reached
the point of departure as innocent of venison as we
had set out.

After an hour's delay, and near midnight, we pushed
out again. My vigilance and susceptibility were rather
sharpened than dulled by the waiting ; and the features
of the night had also deepened and intensified. Night
was at its meridian. The sky had that soft luminous-
ness which may often be observed near midnight at this
season, and the " large few stars " beamed mildly down.
We floated out into that spectral shadow-land and
moved slowly on as before. The silence was most im-
pressive. Now and then the faint yeap of some travel-
ling bird would come from the air overhead, or the
wings of a bat whisp quickly by, or an owl hoot off in
the mountains, giving to the silence and loneliness a
tongue. At short intervals some noise in-shore would
startle me, and cause me to turn inquiringly to the
silent figure in the stern.

AD1R0NDAC. 87

The end of the lake was reached, and we turned
back. The novelty and the excitement began to flag ;
tired nature began to assert her claims ; the movement
was soothing, and the gunner slumbered fitfully at his
post. Presently something aroused me. " There's a
deer," whispered the guide. The gun heard, and
fairly jumped in my hand. Listening, there came the
cracking of a limb, followed by a sound as of some-
thing walking in shallow water. It proceeded from
the other end of the lake, over against our camp. On
we sped, noiselessly as ever, but with increased veloc-
ity. Presently, with a thrill of new intensity, I saw the
boat was gradually heading in that direction. Now,
tp a sportsman who gets excited over a gray squirrel,
and forgets that he has a gun on the sudden appear-
ance of a fox, this was a severe trial. I felt suddenly
cramped for room, and trimming the boat was out of
the question. It seemed that I must make some noise
in spite of myself. " Light the jack," said a soft whis-
per behind me. I fumbled nervously for a match, and
dropped the first one. Another was drawn briskly
across my knee, and broke. A third lighted, but
went out prematurely, in my haste to get it up to the
jack. What would I not have given to see those
wicks blaze ! We were fast nearing the shore, —
already the lily-pads began to brush along the bottom.
Another attempt, and the light took. The gentle
motion fanned the blaze, and in a moment a broad
glare of light fell upon the water in front of us, while
the boat remained in utter darkness.

88 ADIRONDAC.

By this time I had got beyond the nervous point,
and had come round to perfect coolness and com-
posure again, but preternaturally vigilant and keen. I
was read)' for any disclosures ; not a sound was heard.
In a few moments the trees along-shore were faintly
visible. Every object put on the shape of a gigantic
deer. A large rock looked just ready to bound
away. The dry limbs of a prostrate tree were surely
his antlers.

But what are those two luminous spots ? Need the
reader be told what they were ? In a moment the
head of a real deer became outlined ; then his neck
and foreshoulders * then his whole body. There he
stood, up to his knees in the water, gazing fixedly at
us, apparently arrested in the movement of putting his
head down for a lily-pad, and evidently thinking it was
some new-fangled moon sporting about there. " Let
him have it," said my prompter, — and the crash came.
There was a scuffle in the water, and a plunge in the
woods. "He's gone," said I. "Wait a moment,"
said the guide, " and I will show you." Rapidly run-
ning the canoe ashore, we sprang out, and holding the
jack aloft, explored the vicinity by its light. There,
over the logs and brush, I caught the glimmer of those
luminous spots again. But, poor thing ! there was
little need of the second shot, which was the unkindest
cut of all, for the deer had already fallen to the ground,
and was fast expiring. The success was but a very
indifferent one, after all, as the victim turned out to be

ADIRONDAC. 89

only an old doe, upon whom maternal cares had evi-
dently worn heavily during the summer.

This mode of taking deer is very novel and strange.
The animal is evidently fascinated or bewildered. It
does not appear to be frightened, but as if overwhelmed
with amazement, or under the influence of some spell.
It is not sufficiently master of the situation to be sen-
sible to fear, or to think of escape by flight ; and the
experiment, to be successful, must be done quickly,
before the first feeling of bewilderment passes.

Witnessing the spectacle from the shore, I can con-
ceive of nothing more sudden or astounding. You see
no movement and hear no noise, but the light grows
upon you, and stares and stares like a huge eye from
the infernal regions.

According to the guide, when a deer has been
played upon in this manner and escaped, he is not to
be fooled a second time. Mounting the shore, he
gives a long signal snort, which alarms every animal
within hearing, and dashes away.

The sequel to the deer-shooting was a little sharp
practice with a revolver upon a rabbit, or properly a
hare, which was so taken with the spectacle of the
camp-fire, and the sleeping figures lying about, that it
ventured quite up in our midst; but while testing the
quality of some condensed milk that sat uncovered at
the foot of a large tree, poor Lepus had his spine in-
jured by a bullet.

9° ADIRONDAC.

Tbose who lodge with Nature find early rising quite
in order. It is our voluptuous beds, and isolation from
the earth and the air, that prevents us from emulating
the birds and beasts in this respect. With the citizen
in his chamber, it is not morning, but breakfast-time.
The camper-out, however, feels morning in the air, he
smells it, sees it, hears it, and springs up with the gen-
eral awakening. None were tardy at the row of white
chips arranged on the trunk of a prostrate tree, when
breakfast was halloed ; for we were all anxious to try
the venison. Few of us, however, took a second piece.
It was black and strong.

The day was warm and calm, and we loafed at lei-
sure. The woods were Nature's own. It was a luxury
to ramble through them, — rank, and shaggy, and ven-
erable, but with an aspect singularly ripe and mellow.
No fire had consumed and no lumberman plundered.
Every trunk and limb and leaf lay where it had fallen.
At every step the foot sank into the moss, which, like
a soft green snow, covered everything, making every
stone a cushion and every rock a bed, — a grand old
Norse parlor ; adorned beyond art and upholstered be-
yond skill.

Indulging in a brief nap on a rug of club-moss care-
lessly dropped at the foot of a pine-tree, I woke up to
find myself the subject of a discussion of a troop of
chickadees. Presently three or four shy wood-warblers
came to look upon this strange creature that had wan-
dered into their haunts j else I passed quite unnoticed.

ADIRONDAC. 91

By the lake, I met that orchard-beauty, the cedar
wax-wing, spending his vacation in the assumed charac-
ter of a fly-catcher, whose part he performed with great
accuracy and deliberation. Only a month before I had
seen him regaling himself upon cherries in the garden
and orchard, but as the dog-days approached, he set
out for the streams and lakes, to divert himself with
the more exciting pursuits of the chase. From the tops
of the dead trees along the border of the lake, he would
sally out in all directions, sweeping through long curves,
alternately mounting and descending, now reaching up
for a fly high in air, now sinking low for one near the
surface, and returning to his perch in a few moments
for a fresh start.

The pine-finch was also here, though, as usual, never
appearing at home, but with a waiting, expectant air.
Here also I met my beautiful singer, the hermit-thrush,
but with no song in his throat now. A week or two
later and he was on his journey southward. This was
the only species of thrush I saw in the Adirondac. Near
Lake Sandford, where were large tracts of raspberry and
wild cherry, I saw numbers of them. A boy whom we
met, driving home some stray cows, said it was the
" partridge-bird," no doubt from the resemblance of its
note, when disturbed, to the cluck of the partridge.

Nate's Pond contained perch and sun-fish but no
trout. Its water was not pure enough for trout. Was
there ever any other fish so fastidious as this, requiring
such sweet harmony and perfection of the elements for

92 ADIRONDAC.

its production and sustenance ? On higher ground
about a mile distant was a trout pond, the shores of
which were steep and rocky.

Our next move was, a tramp of about twelve miles
through the wilderness, most of the way in a drenching
rain, to a place called the Lower Iron Works, situated
on the road leading in to Long Lake, which is about
a day's drive farther on. We found a comfortable ho-
tel here, and were glad enough to avail ourselves of the
shelter and warmth which it offered. There was a little
settlement and some quite good farms. The place
commands a fine view to the north of Indian Pass,
Mount Marcy, and the adjacent mountains. On the
afternoon of our arrival and also the next morning the
view was completely shut off by the fog. But about the
middle of the forenoon the wind changed, the fog lifted
and revealed to us the grandest mountain scenery we
had beheld on our journey. There they sat about fifteen
miles distant, a group of them ; Mount Marcy, Mount
McTntyre, and Mount Golden, the real Adirondac mon-
archs. It was an impressive sight, rendered doubly so
by the sudden manner in which it was revealed to us
by that scene shifter the Wind.

I saw blackbirds at this place, and sparrows, and the
solitary sandpiper, and the Canada woodpecker, and a
large number of humming-birds. Indeed I saw more
of the latter here than I ever before saw in any one
locality. Their squeaking and whirring were almost
incessant.

ADIRONDAC. 93

The Adirondac Iron Works belong to the past. Over
thirty years ago a company in Jersey City purchased
some sixty thousand acres of land lying along the Adi-
rondac River and abounding in magnetic iron ore. The
land was cleared, roads, dams, and forges constructed,
and the work of manufacturing iron begun.

At this point a dam was built across the Hudson,
the waters of which flowed back into Lake Sandford,
about five miles above. The lake itself being some
six miles long, tolerable navigation was thus established
for a distance of eleven miles, to the Upper Works,
which seem to have been the only works in operation.
At the Lower Work's, besides the remains of the clam,
the only vestige I saw was a long low mound, over-
grown with grass and wdWs, that suggested a rude
earth-work. We were told that it was once a pile of
wood, containing hundreds of cords, cut in regular
lengths and corded up here for use in the furnaces.

At the Upper Works, some twelve miles distant,
quite a village had been built, which was now entirely
abandoned, with the exception of a single family.

A march to this place was our next undertaking.
The road for two or three miles kept up from the river
and led us by three or four rough, stumpy farms. It
then approached the lake and kept along its shores.
It was here a dilapidated corduroy structure that com-
pelled the traveller to keep an eye on his feet. Blue
jays, two or three small hawks, a solitary wild pigeon,
and ruffed grouse were seen along the route. Now and

94 ADJRONDAC.

then the lake gleamed through the trees, or we crossed
on a shaky bridge some of its arms or inlets, After a
while we began to pass dilapidated houses by the road-
side. One little frame house I remember particularly ;
the door was off the hinges and leaned against the
jambs, the windows had but a few panes left which
glared vacantly. The yard and little garden spot were
overrun with a heavy growth of timothy, and the fences
had all long since gone to decay. At the head of the
lake a large stone building projected from the steep
bank and extended over the road. A little beyond the
valley opened to the east, and looking ahead about one
mile we saw smoke going up from a single chimney.
Pressing on, just as the sun was setting we entered the
deserted village. The barling of the dog brought the
whole family into the street, and they stood till we came
up. Strangers in that country were a novelty, and we
were greeted like familiar acquaintances.

Hunter, the head, proved to be a first-rate type of
an Americanized Irishman. His wife was a Scotch
woman. They had a family of five or six children, two
of them grown-up daughters — modest, comely young
women as you would find anywhere. The elder of the
two had spent a winter in New York with her aunt,
which perhaps made her a little more self-conscious
when in the presence of the strange young men. Hun-
ter was hired by the company at a dollar a day to live
here and see that things were not wantonly destroyed
but allowed to go to decay properly and decently. He

ADIRONDAC. 95

had a substantial roomy frame house and any amount
of grass and woodland. He had good barns and kept
considerable stock, and raised various farm products,
but only for his own use, as the difficulties of transpor-
tation to market some seventy miles distant made it no
object. He usually went to Ticonderoga on Lake Cham-
plain once a year for his groceries, etc. His post-office
was twelve miles below at the Lower Works, where the
mail passed twice a week. There was not a doctor, or
lawyer, or preacher within twenty-five miles. In winter,
months elapse without their seeing anybody from the
outside world. In summer, parties occasionally pass
through here on their way to Indian Pass and Mount
Marcy. Hundreds of tons of good timothy hay annu-
ally rot down upon the cleared land.

After nightfall we went out and walked up and down
the grass-grown streets. It was a curious and melan-
choly spectacle. The remoteness and surrounding wild-
ness rendered the scene doubly impressive. And the
next day and the next the place was an object of won-
der. There were about thirty buildings in all, most of
them small frame houses with a door and two windows
opening into a small yard in front and a garden in the
rear, such as are usually occupied by the laborers in a
country manufacturing district. There was one large
two-story boarding-house, a school-house with a cupola
and a bell in it, and numerous sheds and forges, and a
saw-mill. In front of the saw-mill, and ready to be
rolled to their place on the carriage, lay a large pile of

96 ADIKONDAC.

pine logs, so decayed that one could run his walking-
stick through them. Near by, a building filled with
charcoal was bursting open and the coal going to waste
on the ground. The smelting works were also much
crumbled by time. The school-house was still used.
Every clay one of the daughters assembles her smaller
brothers and sisters there and school keeps. The dis-
trict library contained nearly one hundred readable
books, which were well thumbed.

The absence of society, etc., had made the family all
good readers. We brought them an illustrated news-
paper which was awaiting them in the post-office at the
Lower Works. It was read and reread with great eager-
ness by every member of the household.

The iron ore cropped out on every hand. There was
apparently mountains of it ; one could see it in the
stones along the road. But the difficulties met with in
separating the iron from its alloys, together with the
expense of transportation and the failure of certain rail-
road schemes, caused the works to be abandoned. No
doubt the time is not distant when these obstacles will
be overcome and this region reopened.

At present it is an admirable place to go to. There
is fishing and hunting and boating and mountain climb-
ing within easy reach, and a good roof over your head
at night, which is no small matter. One is often dis-
qualified for enjoying the woods after he gets there by
the loss of sleep and of proper food taken at seasonable
times. This point attended to, and one is in the humor
for any enterprise.

ADIRONDAC. 97

About half a mile northeast of the village is Lake
Henderson, a very irregular and picturesque sheet of
water, surrounded by dark evergreen forests, and abut-
ted by two or three bold promontories with mottled
white and gray rocks. Its greatest extent in any one
direction is perhaps less than a mile. Its waters are
perfectly clear and abound in lake trout. A consider-
able stream flows into it which comes down from In-
dian Pass.

A mile south of the village is. Lake Sandford. This
is a more open and exposed sheet of water and much
larger. From some parts of it Mount Marcy and the
gorge of the Indian Pass are seen to excellent advan-
tage. The Indian Pass shows as a huge cleft in the
mountain, the gray walls rising on one side perpendic-
ularly for many hundred feet. This lake abounds in
white and yellow perch and in pickerel ; of the latter
single specimens are often caught which weigh fifteen
pounds. There were a few wild ducks on both lakes.
A brood of the goosander or red merganser, the young
not yet able to fly, were the occasion of some spirited
rowing. But with two pairs of oars in a trim light skiff,
it was impossible to come up with them. Yet we could
not resist the temptation to give them a chase every
day when we first came on the lake. It needed a good
long pull to sober us down so we could fish.

The land on the east side of the lake had been burnt
over, and was now mostly grown up with wild cherry and
red raspberry bushes. Ruffed grouse were found here
7

98 ADIRONDAC.

in great numbers. The Canada grouse was also com-
mon. I shot eight of the latter in less than an hour
on one occasion ; the eighth one, which was an old male,
was killed with smooth pebble stones, my shot having
run short. The wounded bird ran under a pile of brush,
like a frightened hen. Thrusting a forked stick down
through the interstices I soon stopped his breathing.
Wild pigeons were quite numerous also. These latter
recall a singular freak of the sharp shinned hawk. A
flock of pigeons alighted on the top of a dead hemlock
standing in the edge of a swamp. I got over the fence
and moved toward them across an open space. I had
not taken many steps, when on looking up I saw the
whole rlock again in motion flying very rapidly around
the butt of a hill. Just then this hawk alighted on the
same tree. I stepped back into the road and paused a
moment in doubt which course to go. At that instant
the little hawk launched into the air and came as straight
as an arrow toward me. I looked in amazement, but
in less than half a minute he was within fifty feet of my
face, coming full tilt as if he had sighted my nose. Al-
most in self-defense I let fly one barrel of my gun, and
the mangled form of the audacious marauder fell liter-
ally between my feet.

Of vvild animals, such as bears, panthers, wolves,
wild cats, etc., we neither saw nor heard any in the Adi-
rondacs. " A howling wilderness," Thoreau says, "sel-
dom ever howls. The howling is chiefly done by the
imagination of the traveller." Hunter said he often saw

ADIRONDAC. 99

bear tracks in the snow, but had never yet met Bruin.
Deer are more or less abundant everywhere, and one
old sportsman declares there is yet a single moose in
these mountains. On our return, a pioneer settler, at
whose house we stayed over night, told us a long ad-
venture he had had with a panther. He related how
it screamed, how it followed him in the brush, how he
took to his boat, how its eyes gleamed from the shore,
and how he fired his rifle at them with fatal effect. His
wife in the mean time took something from a drawer,
and as her husband finished his recital, she produced
a toe-nail of the identical animal with marked dramatic
effect.

But better than fish or game or grand scenery or any
adventure by night or day, is the wordless intercourse
with rude Nature one has on these expeditions. It is
something to press the pulse of our old mother by moun-
tain lakes and streams, and know what health and vigor
are in her veins, and how regardless of observation she
deports herself.

BIRDS'-NESTS.

BIRDS'-NESTS.

HOW alert and vigilant the birds are, even when
absorbed in building their nests ! In an open
space in the woods I see a pair of cedar-birds collect-
ing moss from the top of a dead tree. Following the
direction in which they fly, I soon discover the nest
placed in the fork of a small soft-maple, which stands
amid a thick growth of wild cherry-trees and young
beeches. Carefully concealing myself beneath it, with-
out any fear that the workmen will hit me with a chip
or let fall a tool, I await the return of the busy pair.
Presently I hear the well-known note, and the female
sweeps down and settles unsuspectingly into the half-
finished structure. Hardly have her wings rested before
her eye has penetrated my screen, and with a hurried
movement of alarm she darts away. In a moment the
male, with a tuft of wool in his beak (for there is a
sheep-pasture near), joins her, and the two reconnoitre
the premises from the surrounding bushes. With their
beaks still loaded, they move around with a frightened
look, and refuse to approach the nest till I have moved
off and lain down behind a log. Then one of them
ventures to alight upon the nest, but, still suspecting
all is not right, quickly darts away again. Then they

104 BIRDS' -NESTS.

both together come, and after much peeping and spying
about, and apparently much anxious consultation, cau-
tiously proceed to work. In less than half an hour it
would seem that wool enough has been brought to sup-
ply the whole family, real and prospective, with socks,
if needles and fingers could be found fine enough to
knit it up. In less than a week the female has begun
to deposit her eggs, — four of them in as many days,
— white tinged with purple, with black spots on the
larger end. After two weeks of incubation, the young
are out.

Excepting the American goldfinch, this bird builds
later in the spring than any other — its nest, in our
northern climate, seldom being undertaken till July.
As with the goldfinch, the reason is, probably, that
suitable food for the young cannot be had at an earlier
period.

Like most of our common species, as the robin, spar-
row, bluebird, pewee, wren, etc., this bird sometimes
seeks wild, remote localities in which to rear its young ;
at others, takes up its abode near that of man. I knew
a pair of cedar-birds, one season, to build in an apple-
tree, the branches of which rubbed against the house.
For a day or two before the first straw was laid, I no-
ticed the pair carefully exploring every branch of the
tree, the female taking the lead, the male following her
with an anxious note and look. It was evident that the
wife was to have her choice this time : and, like on*,
who thoroughly knew her mind, she was proceeding to

BIKDS'-NESTS. 105

take it. Finally the site was chosen upon a high branch,
extending over one low wing of the house. Mutual con-
gratulations and caresses followed, when both birds flew
away in quest of building material. That most freely
used is a sort of cotton-bearing plant, which grows in
old worn-out fields. The nest is large for the size of
the bird, and very soft. It is in every respect a first-
class domicile.

On another occasion, while walking or rather saun-
tering in the woods (for I have discovered that one
cannot run and read the book of nature), my attention
was arrested by a dull hammering, evidently but a few
rods off. I said to myself, " Some one is building a
house." From what I had previously seen, I suspected
the builder to be a red-headed woodpecker in the top
of a dead oak stub near by. Moving cautiously in that
direction, I perceived a round hole, about the size of
that made by an inch-and-a-half auger, near the top of
the decayed trunk, and the white chips of the workman
strewing the ground beneath. When but a few paces
from the tree, my foot pressed upon a dry twig, which
gave forth a very slight snap. Instantly the hammer-
ing ceased, and a scarlet head appeared at the door.
Though I remained perfectly motionless, forbearing
even to wink till my eyes smarted, the bird refused to
go on with his work, but flew quietly off to a neighbor-
ing tree. What surprised me was, that amid his busy
occupation down in the heart of the old tree, he should
have been so alert and watchful as to catch the slight-
est sound from without.

106 BIRDS'-NESTS.

The woodpeckers all build in about the same man-
ner, excavating the trunk or branch of a decayed tree
and depositing the eggs on the fine fragments of wood
at the bottom, of the cavity. Though the nest is not
especially an artistic work, — requiring strength rather
than skill, — yet the eggs and the young of few other
birds are so completely housed from the elements, or
protected from their natural enemies — the jays, crows,
hawks, and owls. A tree with a natural cavity is never
selected, but one which has been dead just long enough
to have become soft and brittle throughout. The bird
goes in horizontally for a few inches, making a hole
perfectly round and smooth and adapted to his size,
then turns downward, gradually enlarging the hole, as
he proceeds, to the depth of ten, fifteen, twenty inches,
according to the softness of the tree and the urgency
of the mother-bird to deposit her eggs. While excava-
ting, male and female work alternately. After one has
been engaged fifteen or twenty minutes, drilling and
carrying out chips, it ascends to an upper limb, utters
a loud call or two, when its mate soon appears, and,
alighting near it on the branch, the pair chatter and ca-
ress a moment, then the fresh one enters the cavity and
the other flies away.

A few days since I climbed up to the nest of the
downy woodpecker, in the decayed top of a sugar-
maple. For better protection against driving rains,
the hole, which was rather more than an inch in di-
ameter, was made immediately beneath a branch

BIRD&-NESTS. 107

which stretched out almost horizontally from the
main stem. It appeared merely a deeper shadow
upon the dark and mottled surface of the bark with
which the branches were covered, and could not be de-
tected by the eye until one was within a few feet of it.
The young chirped vociferously as I approached the
nest, thinking it was the old one with food ; but the
clamor suddenly ceased as I put my hand on that part
of the trunk in which they were concealed, the unusual
jarring and rustling alarming them into silence. The
cavity, which was about fifteen inches deep, was gourd-
shaped, and was wrought out with great skill and regu-
larity. The walls were quite smooth and clean and
new.

I shall never forget the circumstance of observing a
pair of yellow-bellied woodpeckers, — the most rare
and secluded, and, next to the red-headed, the most
beautiful species found in our woods, — breeding in an
old, truncated beech in the Beaverkill Mountains, an
offshoot of the Catskills. We had been travelling,
three of us, all day in search of a trout lake, which
lay far in among the mountains, had twice lost our
course in the trackless forest, and, weary and hungry,
had sat down to rest upon a decayed log. The chat-
tering of the young, and the passing to and fro of the
parent birds, soon arrested my attention. The entrance
to the nest was on the east side of the tree, about
twenty-five feet from the ground. At intervals of
scarcely a minute, the old birds, one after another,

108 BIRDS'-NESTS.

would alight upon the edge of the hole with a grub or
worm in their beaks ; then each in turn would make a
bow or two, cast an eye quickly around, and by a sin-
gle movement place itself in the neck of the passage.
Here it would pause a moment, as if to determine in
which expectant mouth to place the morsel, and then
disappear within. In about half a minute, during
which time the chattering of the young gradually sub-
sided, the bird would again emerge, but this time bear-
ing in its beak the ordure of one of the helpless family.
Flying away very slowly with head lowered and ex-
tended, as if anxious to hold the offensive object as
far from its plumage as possible, the bird dropped the
unsavory morsel in the course of a few yards, and alight-
ing on a tree, wiped its bill on the bark and moss. This
seems to be the order all day, — carrying in and carry-
ing out. I watched the birds for an hour, while my
companions were taking their turn in exploring the lay
of the land around us, and noted no variation in the
programme. It would be curious to know if the young
are fed and waited upon in regular order, and how,
amid the darkness and the crowded state of the apart-
ment, the matter is so neatly managed. But ornitholo-
gists are all silent upon the subject.

This practice of the birds is not so uncommon as it
might at first seem. It is indeed almost an invariable
rule among all the land birds. With woodpeckers and
kindred species, and with birds that burrow in the
ground, as bank swallows, kingfishers, etc., it is a ne-

BIRDS'-NESTS. 109

cessity. The accumulation of the excrement in the
nest would prove most fatal to the young.

But even among birds that neither bore nor mine,
but which build a shallow nest on the branch of a tree
or upon the ground, as the robin, the finches, the bunt-
ings, etc., the ordure of the young is removed to a dis-
tance by the parent bird. When the robin is seen
going away from its brood with a slow heavy flight,
entirely different from its manner a moment before on
approaching the nest with a cherry or worm, it is cer-
tain to be engaged in this office. One may observe the
social sparrow, when feeding its young, pause a mo-
ment after the worm has been given, and hop around
on the brink of the nest, observing the movements
within.

The instinct of cleanliness no doubt prompts the
action in all cases, though the disposition to secrecy
or concealment may not be unmixed with it.

The swallows form an exception to the rule, the ex-
crement being voided by the young over the brink of
the nest. They form an exception, also, to the rule of
secrecy, aiming not so much to conceal the nest as to
render it inaccessible.

Other exceptions are the pigeons, hawks, and water-
fowls.

But to return. Having a good chance to note the
color and markings of the woodpeckers as they passed
in and out at the opening of the nest, I saw that Audu-
bon had made a mistake in figuring or describing the

no BIXDS'-NESTS.

female of this species with the red spot upon the head.
I have seen a number of pairs of them, and in no in-
stance have I seen the mother bird marked with red.

The male was in full plumage, and I reluctantly shot
him for a specimen. Passing by the place again next
day I paused a moment to note how matters stood.
I confess it was not without some compunctions that
I heard the cries of the young birds, and saw the
widowed mother, her cares now doubled, hastening to
and fro in the solitary woods. She would occasionally
pause expectantly on the trunk of a tree, and utter a
loud call.

It usually happens when the male of any species is
killed during the breeding season, that the female soon
procures another mate. There are, most likely, always
a few unmated birds, of both sexes, within a given
range, and through these the broken links may be re-
stored. Audubon or Wilson, I forget which, tells of
a pair offish-hawks, or ospreys, that built their nest in
an ancient oak. The male was so zealous in the de-
fense of the young that it actually attacked with beak
and claw a person who attempted to climb into his nest,
putting his face and eyes in great jeopardy. Arming
himself with a heavy club, the climber felled the gallant
bird to the ground and killed him. In the course of a
few days the female had procured another mate. But
naturally enough the step-father showed none of the
spirit and pluck in defense of the brood that had been
displayed by the original parent. When danger was

BIRDS '-JV£i TS. 1 1 1

nigh, he was seen afar off, sailing around in placid un-
concern.

It is generally known that when either the wild tur-
key or domestic turkey begins to lay, and afterwards to
sit and rear the brood, she secludes herself from the
male, who then, very sensibly, herds with others of his
sex, and betakes himself to haunts of his own till male
and female, old and young, meet again on common
ground, late in the fall. But rob the sitting bird of her
eggs, or destroy her tender young, and she immediately
sets out in quest of a male, who is no laggard when he
hears her call. The same is true of ducks and other
aquatic fowls. The propagating instinct is strong, and
surmounts all ordinary difficulties. No doubt the wid-
owhood I had caused in the case of the woodpeckers
was of short duration, and chance brought, or the
widow drummed up, some forlorn male, who was not
dismayed by the prospect of having a large family of
half-grown birds .on his hands at the outset.

I have seen a fine cock robin paying assiduous ad-
dresses to a female bird, as late as the middle of July ;
and I have no doubt that his intentions were honor-
able. I watched the pair for half an hour. The hen, I
took it, was in the market for the second time that sea-
son ; but the cock, from his bright, unfaded plumage,
looked like anew arrival. The hen resented every ad-
vance of the male. In vain he strutted around her and
displayed his fine feathers ; every now and then she
would make at him in the most spiteful manner. He

1 1 2 BIRDS-NES TS.

followed her to the ground, poured into her ear a fine,
half-suppressed warble, offered her a worm, flew back
to the tree again with a great spread of plumage,
hopped around her on the branches, chirruped, chat-
tered, flew gallantly at an intruder, and was back in
an instant at her side. No use, — she cut him short
at every turn.

The denouement I cannot relate, as the artful bird,
followed by her ardent suitor, soon flew away beyond
my sight. It may not be rash to conclude, however,
that she held out no longer than was prudent.

On the whole, there seems to be a system of Women's
Rights prevailing among the birds, which, contemplated
from the stand-point of the male, is quite admirable.
In almost all cases of joint interest, the female bird is
the most active. She determines the site of the nest,
and is usually the most absorbed in its construction.
Generally, she is more vigilant in caring for the young,
and manifests the most concern when danger threatens.
Hour after hour I have seen the mother of a brood of
blue grossbeaks pass from the nearest meadow to the
tree that held her nest, with a cricket or grasshopper
in her bill, while her better-dressed half was singing
serenely on a distant tree or pursuing his pleasure
amid the branches.

Yet among the majority of our song birds the male
is most conspicuous both by his color and manners and
by his song, and is to that extent a shield to the female.
It is thought that the female is humbler clad for her

BIKDS'-NESTS. 1 1 3

better concealment during incubation. But this is not
satisfactory, as in some cases she is relieved from time
to time by the male. In the case of the domestic dove,
for instance, promptly at midday the cock is found
upon the nest. I should sooner say that the dull or
neutral tints of the female were a provision of nature
for her greater safety at all times, as her life is far more
precious to the species than that of themale. The in-
dispensable office of the male reduces itself to little
more than a moment of time, while that of his mate
extends over days and weeks, if not months.1

In migrating northward, the males precede the fe-
males by eight or ten days ; returning in the fall, the
females and young precede the males by about the
same time.

After the woodpeckers have abandoned their nests,
or rather chambers, which they do after the first sea-

1 A recent English writer upon this subject presents an array
of facts and considerations that do not support this view. He
says that, with very few exceptions, it is the rute that, when both
sexes are of strikingly gay and conspicuous colors, the nest is
such as to conceal the sitting bird ; while, whenever there is a
striking contrast of colors, the male being gay and conspicuous,
the female dull and obscure, the nest is open and the sitting bird
exposed to view. The exceptions to this rule among European
birds appear to be very few. Among our own birds, the cuckoos
and blue jays build open nests, without presenting any noticeable
difference in the coloring of the two sexes. The same is true of
the pewees, the king-bird, and the sparrows, while the common
bluebird, the oriole, and orchard starling afford examples the
other way.

8

114 BIRDS'-NESTS.

son, their cousins, the nuthatches, chickadees, and
brown creepers, fall heir to them. These birds, espe-
cially the creepers and nuthatches, have many of the
habits of the picidce, but lack their powers of bill, and
so are unable to excavate a nest for themselves.
Their habitation, therefore, is always second-hand. But
each species carries in some soft material of various
kinds, or, in other words, furnishes the tenement to its
liking. The chickadee arranges in the bottom of the
cavity a little mat of a light felt-like substance, which
looks as if it came from the hatter's, but which is prob-
ably the work of numerous worms or caterpillars. On
this soft lining the female deposits six white eggs.

I recently discovered one of these nests in a most
interesting situation. The tree containing it, a variety
of the wild-cherry, stood upon the brink of the bald
summit of a high mountain. Gray, time-worn rocks lay
piled loosely about, or overtoppled the just visible by-
ways of the red fox. The trees had a half-scared look,
and that indescribable wildness which lurks about the
tops of all remote mountains possessed the place.
Standing there I looked down upon the back of the
red-tailed hawk as he flew out over the earth beneath
me. Following him, my eye also took in farms and
settlements and villages and other mountain ranges
that grew blue in the distance.

The parent birds attracted my attention by appear-
ing with food in their beaks, and by seeming much put
out. Yet so wary were they of revealing the locality of

BIRDS'-NES TS. 1 1 5

their brood, or even of the precise tree that held them,
that I lurked around over an hour without gaining a
point on them. Finally a bright and curious boy who
accompanied me secreted himself under a low, project-
ing rock close to the tree in which we supposed the nest
to be, while I moved off around the mountain-side. It
was not long before the youth had their secret. The tree,
which was low and wide branching, and overrun with
lichens, appeared at a cursory glance to contain not one
dry or decayed limb. Yet there was one a few feet long,
in which, when my eyes were piloted thither, I detected
a small round orifice.

As my weight began to shake the branches, the con-
sternation of both old and young was great. The stump
of a limb that held the nest was about three inches thick,
and at the bottom of the tunnel was excavated quite to
the bark. With my thumb I broke in the thin wall, and
the young, which were full-fledged, looked out upon the
world for the first time. Presently one of them, with a
significant chirp, as much as to say, " It is time we were
out of this," began to climb up toward the proper en-
trance. Placing himself in the hole, he looked around
without manifesting any surprise at the grand scene that
lay spread out before him. He was taking his bearings
and determining how far he could trust the power of his
untried wings to take him out of harm's way. After a
moment's pause, with a loud chirrup, he launched out
and made tolerable headway. The others rapidly fol
lowed. Each one, as it started upward, from a sudden

1 1 6 BIRDS'-NES TS.

impulse, contemptuously saluted the abandoned nest
with its excrement.

Though generally regular in their habits and instincts,
yet the birds sometimes seem as whimsical and capri-
cious as superior beings. One is not safe, for instance,
in making any absolute assertion as to their place or
mode of building. Ground builders often get up into
a bush, and tree builders sometimes get upon the
ground or into a tussock of grass. The song sparrow,
which is a ground builder, has been known to build in
the knot-hole of a fence rail, and a chimney swallow
once got tired of soot and smoke, and fastened its nest
on a rafter in a hay barn. A friend tells me of a pair
of barn swallows which, taking a fanciful turn, saddled
their nest in the loop of a rope that was pendent from a
peg in the peak, and liked it so well that they repeated
the experiment next year. I have known the social
sparrow, or " hair-bird," to build under a shed, in a tuft
of hay that hung down, through the loose flooring, from
the mow above. It usually contents itself with half a
dozen stalks of dry grass and a few long hairs from a
cow's tail loosely arranged on the branch of an apple-
tree. The rough-winged swallow builds in the wall
and in old stone heaps, and I have seen the robin build
in similar localities. Others have found its nest in old,
abandoned wells. The house wren will build in any-
thing that has an accessible cavity, from an old boot
to a bombshell. A pair of them once persisted in
building their nest in the top of a certain pump-tree,

BIRDS'-NESTS. 1 1 7

getting in through the opening above the handle. The
pump being in daily use, the nest was destroyed more
than a score of times. This jealous little wretch has
the wise forethought, when the box in which he builds
contains two compartments, to fill up one of them, so
as to avoid the risk of troublesome neighbors.

The less^killful builders sometimes depart from their
usual habit, and take up with the abandoned nest of
some other species. The blue jay now and then lays
in an old crow's-nest or cuckoo's-nest. The crow-
blackbird, seized with a fit of indolence, drops its
eggs in the cavity of a decayed branch. I heard of a
cuckoo that dispossessed a robin of its nest ; of another
that set a blue jay adrift. Large, loose structures, like
the nests of the osprey and certain of the herons, have
been found with half a dozen nests of the blackbird
set in the outer edges, like so many parasites, or, as
Audubon says, like the retainers about the rude court
of a feudal baron.

The same birds breeding in a southern climate con-
struct far less elaborate nests than when breeding in a
northern climate. Certain species of water-fowl that
abandon their eggs to the sand and the sun in the
warmer zones, build a nest and sit in the usual way in
Labrador. In Georgia, the Baltimore oriole places its
nest upon the north side of the tree ; in the Middle and
Eastern States, it fixes it upon the south or east side,
and makes it much thicker and warmer. I have seen
one from the South that had some kind of coarse reed

1 1 8 BIRDS'-NES TS.

or sedge woven into it, giving it an open work appear-
ance, like a basket.

Very few species use the same material uniformly.
I have seen the nest of the robin quite destitute of mud.
In one instance, it was composed mainly of long black
horse-hairs, arranged in a circular manner, with a lin-
ing of fine yellow grass ; the whole presenting quite a
novel appearance. In another case, the nest was chiefly
constructed of a species of rock moss.

The nest for the second brood during the same sea-
son is often a mere make-shift. The haste of the female
to deposit her eggs as the season advances seems very
great, and the structure is apt to be prematurely fin-
ished. I was recently reminded of this fact by happen-
ing, about the last of July, to meet with several nests
of the wood or bush sparrow in a remote blackberry
field. The nests with eggs were far less elaborate and
compact than the earlier nests, from which the young
had flown.

Day after day, as I go to a certain piece of woods, I
observe a male indigo-bird sitting on precisely the same
part of a high branch, and singing in his most vivacious
style. As I approach he ceases to sing, and, flirting
his tail right and left with marked emphasis, chirps
sharply. In a low bush near by, I come upon the ob-
ject of his solicitude — a thick, compact nest composed
largely of dry leaves and fine grass, in which a plain
brown bird is sitting upon four pale blue eggs.

The wonder is, that a bird will leave the apparent

BIRDS'-NESTS. 1 1 Q

security of the tree-tops, to place its nest in the way of
the many dangers that walk and crawl upon the ground.
There, far up out of reach, sings the bird ; here, not
three feet from the ground, are its eggs or helpless
young. The truth is, birds are the greatest enemies of
birds, and it is with reference to this fact that many of
the smaller species build.

Perhaps the greatest proportion of birds breed along
highways. I have known the ruffed grouse to come
out of a dense wood and make its nest at the root of a
tree within ten paces of the road, where, no doubt,
hawks and crows, as well as skunks and foxes, would
be less liable to find it out. Traversing remote moun-
tain-roads through dense woods, I have repeatedly seen
the veery, or Wilson's thrush, sitting upon her nest,
so near me that I could almost take her from it by
stretching out my hand. Birds of prey show none of
this confidence in man, and, when locating their nests,
avoid rather than seek his haunts.

In a certain locality in the interior of New York, I
know, every season, where I am sure to find a nest or
two of the slate-colored snow-bird. It is under the
brink of a low, mossy bank, so near the highway that
it could be reached from a passing vehicle with a whip.
Every horse or wagon or foot passenger disturbs the
sitting bird. She awaits the near approach of the
sound of feet or wheels, and then darts quickly across
the road, barely clearing the ground, and disappears
amid the bushes on the opposite side.

1 2 o BINDS'-NES TS.

In the trees that line one of the main streets and
fashionable drives leading out of Washington City, and
less than half a mile from the boundary, I have
counted the nests of five different species at one time,
and that without any very close scrutiny of the foliage,
while in many acres of woodland, half a mile off, I
searched in vain for a single nest. Among the five
the nest that interested me most was that of the blue
grossbeak. Here this bird, which, according to Au-
dubon's observations in Louisiana, is shy and recluse,
affecting remote marshes and the borders of large
ponds of stagnant water, had placed its nest in the
lowest twig of .the lowest branch of a large sycamore,
immediately over a great thoroughfare,, and so near
the ground that a person standing in a cart or sitting
on a horse could have reached it with his hand. The
nest was composed mainly of fragments of newspaper
and stalks of grass, and though so low, was remark-
ably well concealed by one of the peculiar clusters of
twigs and leaves which characterize this tree. The
nest contained young when I discovered it, and though
the parent birds were much annoyed by my loitering
about beneath the tree, they paid little attention to the
stream of vehicles that was constantly passing. It
was a wonder to me when the birds could have built
it, for they are much shyer when building than at
other times. No doubt they worked mostly in the
morning, having the early hours all to themselves.

Another pair of blue grossbeaks built in a grave-yard

BIRDS-NESTS. 1 2 1

within the city limits. The nest was placed in a low
bush, and the male continued to sing at intervals till
the young were ready to fly. The song of this bird is
a rapid, intricate warble, like that of the indigo-bird,
though stronger and louder. Indeed, these two birds
so much resemble each other in color, form, manner,
voice, and general habits that, were it not for the
difference in size, — the grossbeak being nearly as large
again as the indigo-bird, — it would be a hard matter
to tell them apart. The females of both species are
clad in the same reddish-brown suits. So are the
young the first season.

Of course in the deep, primitive woods also are
nests ; but how rarely we find them ! The simple art
of the bird consists in choosing common, neutral-tinted
material, as moss, dry leaves, twigs, and various odds
and ends, and placing the structure on a convenient
branch, where it blends in color with its surroundings ;
but how consummate is this art, and how skillfully is
the nest concealed ! We occasionally light upon it,
but who, unaided by the movements of the bird, could
find it out ? During the present season I went to the
woods nearly every day for a fortnight, without making
any discoveries of this kind j till one day, paying them
a farewell visit, I chanced to come upon several nests.
A black and white creeping warbler suddenly became
much alarmed as I approached a crumbling old stump
in a dense part of the forest. He alighted upon it,
chirped sharply, ran up and down its sides, and finally

I a 2 BIRDS'-N£S TS.

left it with much reluctance. The nest, which con-
tained three young birds nearly fledged, was placed
upon the ground, at the foot of the stump, and in such
a position that the color of the young harmonized per-
fectly with the bits of bark, sticks, etc., lying about.
My eye rested upon them for the second time before I
made them out. They hugged the nest very closely,
but as I put down my hand they all scampered off
with loud cries for help, which caused the parent birds
to place themselves almost within my reach. The
nest was merely a little dry grass arranged in a thick
bed of dry leaves.

This was amid a thick undergrowth. Moving on
into a passage of large stately hemlocks, with only
here and there a small beech or maple rising up into
the perennial twilight, I paused to make out a note
which was entirely new to me. It is still in my ear.
Though unmistakably a bird note, it yet suggested the
bleating of a tiny lambkin. Presently the birds ap-
peared, — a pair of the solitary vireo. They came flit-
ting from point to point, alighting only for a moment
at a time, the male silent, but the female uttering this
strange, tender note. It was a rendering into some
new sylvan dialect of the human sentiment of maidenly
love. It was really pathetic in its sweetness and child-
like confidence and joy. I soon discovered that the
pair were building a nest upon a low branch a few
yards from me. The male flew cautiously to the spot,
and adjusted something, and the twain moved on, the

BIRDS'-NESTS. 1 2 3

female calling to her mate at intervals, love-e, love-e,
with a cadence and tenderness in the tone that rang in
the ear long afterward. The nest was suspended to
the fork of a small branch, as is usual with the vireos,
plentifully lined with lichens, and bound and rebound
with masses of coarse spider-webs. There was no at-
tempt at concealment except in the neutral tints, which
made it look like a natural growth of the dim, gray
woods.

Continuing my random walk, I next paused in a low
part of the woods, where the larger trees began to give
place to a thick second growth that covered an old
Barkpeeling. I was standing by a large maple, when
a small bird darted quickly away from it, as if it might
have come out of a hole near its base. As the bird
paused a few yards frpm me, and began to chirp un-
easily, my curiosity was at once excited. When I saw
it was the female mourning ground warbler, and re-
membered that the nest of this bird had not yet been
seen by any naturalist, — that not even Dr. Brewer
had ever seen the eggs, — I felt that here was some-
thing worth looking for. So I carefully began the
search, exploring inch by inch the ground, the base
and roots of the tree, and the various shrubby growths
about it, till, finding nothing, and fearing I might
really put my foot in it, I bethought me to withdraw
to a distance and after some delay return again, and,
thus forewarned, note the exact point from which the
bird flew. This I did, and, returning, had little diffi-

1 2 4 BIKDS'-NES TS.

culty in discovering the nest. It was placed but a few
feet from the maple-tree, in a bunch of ferns, and
about six inches from the ground. It was quite a
massive nest, composed entirely of the stalks and
leaves of dry grass, with an inner lining of fine, dark-
brown roots. The eggs, three in number, were of light
flesh-color, uniformly specked with fine brown specks.
The cavity of the nest was so deep that the back of the
sitting bird sank below the edge.

In the top of a tall tree, a short distance further on,
I saw the nest of the red-tailed hawk, — a large mass
of twigs and dry sticks. The young had flown, but
still lingered in the vicinity, and, as I approached, the
mother bird flew about over me, squealing in a very
angry, savage manner. Tufts of the hair and other
indigestible material of the common meadow mouse
lay around on the ground beneath the nest.

As I was about leaving the woods my hat almost
brushed the nest of the red-eyed vireo, which hung
basket-like on the end of a low, drooping branch of
the beech. I should never have seen it had the bird
kept her place. It contained three eggs of the bird's
own, and one of the cow-bunting. The strange egg
was only just perceptibly larger than the others, yet
three days after, when I looked into the nest again and
found all but one egg hatched, the young interloper
was at least four times as large as either of the others,
and with such a superabundance of bowels as to al-
most smother his bedfellows beneath them. That the

BIRDS'-NESTS. 1 2 5

intruder should fare the same as the rightful occupants,
and thrive with them, was more than ordinary potluck ;
but that it alone should thrive, devouring, as it were,
all the rest, is one of those freaks of nature in which
she would seem to discourage the homely virtues of
prudence and honesty. Weeds and parasites have the
odds greatly against them, yet they wage a very suc-
cessful war nevertheless.

The woods hold not such another gem as the nest
of the humming-bird. The finding of one is an event
to date from. It is the next best thing to finding an
eagle's nest. I have met with but two, both by chance.
One was placed on the horizontal branch of a chestnut-
tree, with a solitary green leaf, forming a complete can-
opy, about an inch and a half above it. The repeated
spiteful dartings of the bird past my ears, as I stood
under the tree, caused me to suspect that I was intrud-
ing upon some one's privacy ; and following it with my
eye, I soon saw the nest, which was in process of con-
struction. Adopting my usual tactics of secreting my-
self near by, I had the satisfaction of seeing the tiny
artist at work. It was the female unassisted by her
mate. At intervals of two or three minutes she would
appear with a small tuft of some cottony substance in
her beak, dart a few times through and around the tree,
and alighting quickly in the nest arrange the material
she had brought, using her breast as a model.

The other nest I discovered in a dense forest on the
side of a mountain. The sitting bird was disturbed as

1 2 6 BIRDST-NESTS.

I passed beneath her. The whirring of her wings ar-
rested my attention, when, after a short pause, I had
the good luck to see, through an opening in the leaves,
the bird return to her nest, which appeared like a mere
wart or excrescence on a small branch. The'humming-
bird, unlike all others, does not alight upon the nest,
but flies into it. She enters it as quick as a flash but
as light as any feather. Two eggs are the complement.
They are perfectly white, and so frail that only a wom-
an's fingers may touch them. Incubation lasts about
ten days. In a week the young have flown.

The only nest like the humming-bird's, and compar-
able to it in neatness and symmetry, is that of the blue-
gray gnatcatcher. This is often saddled upon the limb
in the same manner, though it is generally more or less
pendent ; it is deep and soft, composed mostly of some
vegetable down covered all over with delicate tree-lich-
ens, and, except that it is much larger, appears almost
identical with the nest of the humming-bird.

But the nest of nests, the ideal nest, after we have
left the deep woods, is unquestionably that of the Bal-
timore oriole. It is the only perfectly pensile nest we
have. The nest of the orchard oriole is indeed mainly
so, but this bird generally builds lower and shallower,
more after the manner of the vireos.

The Baltimore oriole loves to attach its nest to the
swaying branches of the tallest elms, making no attempt
at concealment, but satisfied if the position be high
and the branch pendent. This nest would seem to

BIKDS'-NESTS. 127

cost more time and skill than any other bird structure.
A peculiar flax-like substance seems to be always
sought after and always found. The nest when com-
pleted assumes the form of a large, suspended, gourd.
The walls are thin but firm, and proof against the
most driving rain. The mouth is hemmed or over-
handed with horse-hair, and the sides are usually
sewed through and through with the sarnie.

Not particular as to the matter of secrecy, the bird
is not particular as to material, so that it be of the na-
ture of strings or threads. A lady friend once told me
that, while working by an open window, one of these
birds approached during her momentary absence, and,
seizing a skein of some kind of thread or yarn, made
off with it to its half-finished nest. But the perverse
yarn caught fast in the branches, and, in the bird's
efforts to extricate it, got hopelessly tangled. She
tugged away at it all day, but was finally obliged to
content herself with a few detached portions. The flut-
tering strings were an eye-sore to her ever after, and,
passing and repassing, she would give them a spiteful
jerk, as much as to say, "There is that confounded
yarn that gave me so much trouble."

From Pennsylvania, Vincent Barnard (to whom I
am indebted for other curious facts) sent me this inter-
esting story of an oriole. He says a friend of his,
curious in such things, on observing the bird beginning
to build, hung out near the prospective nest skeins of
many-colored zephyr yarn, which the eager artist read-

1 2 8 BIKDS'-NESTS.

ily appropriated. He managed it so that the bird
used nearly equal quantities of various high, bright
colors. The nest was made unusually deep and capa-
cious, and it may be questioned if such a thing of
beauty was ever before woven by the cunning of a
bird.

Nuttall, by far the most genial of American ornithol-
ogists, relates the following : —

" A female (oriole), which I observed attentively, car-
ried off to her nest a piece of lamp-wick ten or twelve
feet long. This long string and many other shorter
ones were left hanging out for about a week before both
the ends were wattled into the sides of the nest. Some
other little birds making use of similar materials,
at times twitched these flowing ends, and generally
brought out the busy Baltimore from her occupation in
great anger.

" I may perhaps claim indulgence for adding a little
more of the biography of this particular bird, as a
representative also of the instincts of her race. She
completed the nest in about a week's time, without any
aid from her mate ; who indeed appeared but seldom
in her company and was now become nearly silent.
For fibrous materials she broke, hackled, and gathered
the flax of the asclepias and hibiscus stalks, tearing off
long strings and flying with them to the scene of her
labors. She appeared very eager and hasty in her
pursuits, and collected her materials without fear or
restraint, while three men were working in the neigh-

BIRDS-NESTS. 1 2 9

boring walks and many persons visiting the garden.
Her courage and perseverance were indeed truly ad-
mirable. If watched too narrowly, she saluted with
her usual scolding, tshrr, tshrr, tshrr, seeing no reason,
probably, why she should be interrupted in her indis-
pensable occupation.

" Though the males were now comparatively silent
on the arrival of their busy mates, I could not help
observing this female and a second, continually vocif-
erating, apparently in strife. At last she was observed
to attack this second female very fiercely, who slyly in-
truded herself at times into the same tree where she
was building. These contests were angry and often
repeated. To account for this animosity, I now recol-
lected that two fine males had been killed in our vicin-
ity ; and I therefore concluded the intruder to be left
without a mate ; yet she had gained the affections of
the consort of the busy female, and thus the cause of
their jealous quarrel became apparent. Having ob-
tained the confidence of her faithless paramour, the
second female began preparing to weave a nest in an
adjoining elm, by tying together certain pendent twigs
as a foundation. The male now associated chiefly with
the intruder, whom he even assisted in her labor, yet
did not wholly forget his first partner who called on
him one evening in a low, affectionate tone, which was
answered in the same strain. While they were thus
engaged in friendly whispers, suddenly appeared the
rival, and a violent rencontre ensued, so that one of the

130 BIRDS'-NESTS.

females appeared to be greatly agitated, and fluttered
with spreading wings as if considerably hurt. The male,
though prudently neutral in the contest, showed his cul-
pable partiality by flying off with his paramour, and for
the rest of the evening left the tree to his pugnacious
consort. Cares of another kind more imperious and
tender, at length reconciled, or at least terminated these
disputes with the jealous females ; and by the aid of
the neighboring bachelors, who are never wanting
among these and other birds, peace was at length
completely restored, by the restitution of the quiet and
happy condition of monogamy."

Let me not forget to mention the nest under the
mountain ledge, the nest of the common pewee, — a
modest mossy structure, with four pearl white eggs, —
looking out upon some wild scene and overhung by
beetling crags. After all has been said about the elab-
orate, high-hung structures, few nests perhaps awaken
more pleasant emotions in the mind of the beholder
than this of the pewee, — the gray, silent rocks, with
caverns and dens where the fox and the wolf lurk, and
just out of their reach, in a little niche, as if it grew
there, the mossy tenement !

Nearly every high, projecting rock in my range has
one of these nests. Following a trout stream up a wild
mountain gorge, not long since, I counted five in the
distance of a mile, all within easy reach, but safe from
the minks and the skunks, and well housed from the
storms. In my native town I know a pine and oak

BIRDS'-NESTS. 13 1

clad hill, round-topped, with a bold, precipitous front
extending half-way around it. Near the top, and along
this front or side, there crops out a ledge of rocks unu-
sually high and cavernous. One immense layer pro-
jects many feet, allowing a person or many persons,
standing upright, to move freely beneath it. There is
a delicious spring there, and plenty of wild, cool air.
The floor is of loose stone, now trod by sheep and
foxes, once by the Indian and the wolf. How I have
delighted from boyhood, to spend a summer-day there,
or take refuge there from a sudden shower ! Always
the freshness and coolness, and always the delicate
mossy nest of the phcebe-bird ! The bird keeps her
place till you are within a few feet of her, when she flits
to a near branch, and, with many oscillations of her
tail, observes you anxiously. Since the country has
become settled this pewee has fallen into the strange
practice of occasionally placing its nest under a bridge,
hay-shed, or other artificial structure, where it is sub-
ject to all kinds of interruptions and annoyances. When
placed thus, the nest is larger and coarser. I know a
hay-loft beneath which a pair has regularly placed its
nest for several successive seasons. Arranged along
on a single pole, which sags down a few inches from
the flooring it was intended to help support, are three
of these structures, marking the number of years the
birds have nested there. The foundation is of mud
with a superstructure of moss, elaborately lined with
hair and feathers. Nothing can be more perfect and

132 BIRDS'-NESTS.

exquisite than the interior of one of these nests, yet a
new one is built every season. Three broods, however,
are frequently reared in it.

The pewees, as a class, are the best architects we
have. The king-bird builds a nest altogether admir-
able, using various soft cotton and woollen substances,
and sparing neither time nor material to make it sub-
stantial and warm. The green-crested pewee builds
its nest in many instances wholly of the blossoms of
the white-oak. The wood pewee builds a neat, com-
pact, socket-shaped nest of moss and lichens on a hori-
zontal branch. There is never a loose end or shred
about it. The sitting bird is largely visible above the
rim. She moves her head freely about and seems en-
tirely at her ease, — a circumstance which I have never
observed in any other species. The nest of the great-
crested flycatcher is seldom free from snake skins,
three or four being sometimes woven into it.

About the thinnest, shallowest nest, for its situation,
that can be found is that of the turtle-dove. A few
sticks and straws are carelessly thrown together, hardly
sufficient to prevent the eggs from falling through or
rolling off. The nest of the passenger pigeon is equally
hasty and insufficient, and the squabs often fall to the
ground and perish. The other extreme among our
common birds is furnished by the ferruginous thrush,
which collects together a mass of material that would
fill a half-bushel measure ; or by the fish-hawk, which
adds to and repairs its nest year after year, till the
whole would make a cart-load.

B/RDS'-NESTS. 1 33

The rarest of all nests is that of the eagle, because
the eagle is the rarest of all birds. Indeed so seldom
is the eagle seen that its presence always seems acci-
dental. It appears as if merely pausing on the way,
while bound for some distant unknown region. One
September, while a youth, I saw the ring-tailed eagle,
an immense, dusky bird, the sight of which filled me
with awe. It lingered about the hills for two days.
Some young cattle, a two-year-old colt, and half a
dozen sheep were at pasture on a high ridge that led
up to the mountain, and in plain view of the house.
On the second day this dusky monarch was seen flying
about above them. Presently he began to hover over
them, after the manner of a hawk watching for mice.
He then with extended legs let himself slowly down
upon them, actually grappling the backs of the young
cattle, and frightening the creatures so that they rushed
about the field in great consternation ; and finally, as
he grew bolder and more frequent in his descents, the
whole herd broke over the fence and came tearing
down to the house " like mad." It did not seem to be
an assault with intent to kill, but was perhaps a strate-
gem resorted to in order to separate the herd and ex-
pose the lambs, which hugged the cattle very closely.
When he occasionally alighted upon the oaks that stood
near, the branch could be seen to sway and bend be-
neath him. Finally, as a rifleman started out in pur-
suit of him, he launched into the air, set his wings,
and sailed away southward. A few years afterward, in

134 BIRDS'-NESTS.

January, another eagle passed through the same local-
ity, alighting in a field near some dead animal, but
tarried briefly.

So much by way of identification. The bird is com-
mon to the northern parts of both hemispheres, and
places its eyrie on high precipitous rocks. A pair built
on an inaccessible shelf of rock along the Hudson for
eight successive years. A squad of Revolutionary sol-
diers, also, found a nest along this river, and had an
adventure with the bird that came near costing one of
their number his life. His comrades let him down bv

J

a rope to secure the eggs or young, when he was at-
tacked by the female eagle with such fury that he was
obliged to defend himself with his knife. In doing so,
by a misstroke, he nearly severed the rope that held
him, and was drawn up by a single strand from his
perilous position. Audubon, from whom this anecdote
is taken, figures and describes this bird as the golden
eagle, though I have little doubt that Wilson was right,
and that the golden eagle is a distinct species.

The sea-eagle, also, builds on high rocks, according
to Audubon, though Wilson describes the nest of one
which he saw near Great Egg Harbor, in the top of a
large yellow pine. It was a vast pile of sticks, sods,
sedge, grass, reeds, etc., etc., five or six feet high by
four broad, and with little or no concavity. It had
been used for many years, and he was told that the
eagles made it a sort of home or lodging-place in all
seasons. This agrees with the description which Au-

BIRDS'-NESTS. 135

dubon gives of the nest of the bald eagle. There is
evidently a little confusion on both sides.

The eagle, in all cases uses one nest, with more or
less repair, for several years. Many of our common
birds do the same. The birds may be divided, with
respect to this and kindred points, into five general
classes. First, those that repair or appropriate the
last year's nest, as the wren, swallow, bluebird, great-
crested flycatcher, owls, eagles, fish-hawk, and a few
others. Secondly, those that build anew each season,
though frequently rearing more than one brood in the
same nest. Of these the phcebe-bird is a well-known
example. Thirdly, those that build a new nest for each
brood, which includes by far the greatest number of
species. Fourthly, a limited number that make no
nest of their own, but appropriate the abandoned nests
of other birds. Finally, those who use no nest at all,
but deposit their eggs in the sand, which is the case
with a large number of aquatic fowls. Thus the com-
mon gull breeds in vast numbers on the sand bars or
sand islands off the south coast of Long Island. A
little dent is made in the sand, the eggs are dropped,
and the old birds go their way. In due time the eggs
are hatched by the warmth of the sun, and the little
creatures shift for themselves. In July countless num-
bers of them, of different ages and sizes, swarm upon
these sandy wastes. As the waves roll out they rush
down the beach, picking up a kind of sea gluten, and
then hasten back to avoid the next breaker.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

WITH AN EYE TO THE BIRDS.

I CAME to Washington to live in the fall of 1863,
and, with the exception of a month each summer
spent in the interior of New York, have lived here
ever since.

I saw my first novelty in Natural History the day
after my arrival. As I was walking near some woods
north of the city, a grasshopper of prodigious size flew
up from the ground and alighted in a tree. As I pur-
sued him, he proved to be nearly as wild and as fleet
of wing as a bird. I thought I had reached the capi-
tal of grasshopperdom, and that this was perhaps one
of the chiefs or leaders, or perhaps the great High
Cock O'lorum himself, taking an airing in the fields.
I have never yet been able to settle the question, as
every fall I start up a few of these gigantic specimens,
which perch on the trees. They are about three inches
long, of a gray striped or spotted color, and have quite
a reptile look.

The greatest novelty I found, however, was the
superb autumn weather, the bright, strong, electric
days, lasting well into November, and the general

14° SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

mildness of the entire winter. Though the mercury
occasionally sinks to zero, yet the earth is never so
seared and blighted by the cold, but that in some
sheltered nook or corner signs of vegetable life still
remain, which, on a little encouragement even asserts
itself. I have found wild flowers here every month in
the year ; violets in December, a single houstonia in
January (the little lump of earth upon which it stood
was frozen hard), and a tiny, weed-like plant, with a
flower almost microscopic in its smallness, growing
along graveled walks, and in old ploughed fields in
February. The liverwort sometimes comes out as
early as the first week in March, and the little frogs
begin to pipe doubtfully about the same time. Apri-
cot-trees are usually in bloom on All-FooFs-day, and
the apple-trees on May-day. By August, mother hen
will lead forth her third brood, and I had a March
pullet that came off with a family of her own in
September. Our calendar is made for this climate.
March is a spring month. One is quite sure to see
some marked and striking change during the first
eight or ten days. This season (1868) is a backward
one, and the memorable change did not come till the
10th.

Then the sun rose up from a bed of vapors, and
seemed fairly to dissolve with tenderness and warmth.
For an hour or two the air was perfectly motionless,
and full of low, humming, awakening sounds. The
naked trees had a rapt, expectant look. From some

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 141

unreclaimed common near by came the first strain of
the song-sparrow ; so homely, because so old and
familiar, yet so inexpressibly pleasing. Presently a
full chorus of voices arose ; tender, musical, half sup-
pressed, but full of genuine hilarity and joy. The
bluebird warbled, the robin called, the snow-bird
chattered, the meadow-lark uttered her strong, but
tender note. Over a deserted field a turkey-buzzard
hovered low, and alighted on a stake in the fence,
standing a moment with outstretched, vibrating wings,
till he was sure of his hold. A soft, warm, brooding
day. Roads becoming dry in many places, and look-
ing so good after the mud and the snow. I walk up
beyond the boundary and over Meridian Hill. To
move along the drying road and feel the delicious
warmth is enough. The cattle low long and loud, and
look wistfully into the distance. I sympathize with
them. Never a spring comes, but I have an almost
irresistible desire to depart. Some nomadic or migra-
ting instinct or reminiscence stirs within me. I ache
to be off.

As I pass along, the high-hole calls in the distance
precisely as I have heard him in the North. After a
pause he repeats his summons. What can be more
welcome to the ear than these early first sounds !
They have such a margin of silence !

One need but pass the boundary of Washington City
to be fairly in the country, and ten minutes' walk in
the country brings one to real primitive woods. The

142 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

town has not yet overflowed its limits like the great
Northern commercial capitals, and Nature, wild and
unkempt, comes up to its very threshold, and even in
many places crosses it. .

The woods, which I soon reach, are stark and still.
The signs of returning life are so faint as to be almost
imperceptible, but there is a fresh, earthy smell in the
air, as if something had stirred here under the leaves.
The crows caw above the wood, or walk about the brown
fields. I look at the gray, silent trees long and long,
but they show no sign. The catkins of some alders
by a little pool have just swelled perceptibly ; and
brushing away the dry leaves and debris on a sunny
slope, I discover the liverwort just pushing up a
fuzzy, tender sprout. But the waters have brought
forth. The little frogs are musical. From every
marsh and pool goes up their shrill, but pleasing cho-
rus. Peering into one of their haunts, a little body of
semi-stagnant water, I discover masses of frogs' spawn
covering the bottom. I take up great chunks of the
cold, quivering jelly in my hands. In some places
there are gallons of it. It is a perfect jelly, of a
slightly milky tinge, thickly imbedded with black spots
about the size of a small bird's eye. When just
deposited, it is perfectly transparent. The vast jelly
part is contributed by the male, the dark germinal
specks by the female. These hatch in eight or ten
days, gradually absorb their gelatinous surroundings,
and the tiny tadpoles issue forth.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 143

In the city, even before the shop-windows have
caught the inspiration, spring is heralded by the silver
poplars, which line all the streets and avenues. After
a few mild, sunshiny March days, you suddenly per-
ceive a change has come over the trees. Their tops
have a less naked look. If the weather continues
warm, a single day will work wonders. Presently the
tree will be one vast plume of gray, downy tassels,
while not the least speck of green foliage is visible.
The first week in April these long mimic caterpillars
lie all about the streets and fill the gutters.

The approach of spring is also indicated by the
crows and buzzards, which rapidly multiply in the
environs of the city, and grow bold and demonstrative.
The crows are abundant here all winter, but are not
very noticeable except as they pass high in air to and
from their winter-quarters in the Virginia woods.
Early in the morning, as soon as it is light enough to
discern them, there they are, streaming eastward across
the sky, now in loose, scattered flocks, now in thick,
denSe masses, then singly and in pairs or triplets, but
all setting in one direction, probably to the waters of
Eastern Maryland. Toward night they begin to return,
flying in the same manner, and directing their course to
the wooded heights on the Potomac, west of the city.
In spring- these diurnal mass movements cease ; the
clan breaks up, the rookery is abandoned, and the
birds scatter broadcast over the land. This seems to
be the course everywhere pursued. One would think

144 SPRINQ AT THE CAPITAL.

that, when food was scarcest, the policy of separating
into small bands or pairs, and dispersing over a wide
country, would prevail, as a few might subsist where a
larger number would starve. The truth is, however,
that in winter, food can be had only in certain clearly
defined districts and tracts, as along rivers and the
shores of bays and lakes.

A few miles north of Newburg, on the Hudson, the
crows go into winter quarters in the same manner,
flying south in the morning and returning again at
night, sometimes hugging the hills so close during a
strong wind, as to expose themselves to the clubs and
stones of school-boys ambushed behind trees and
fences. The belated ones, that come laboring along
just at dusk, are often so overcome by the long journey
and the strong current, that they seem almost on the
point of sinking down whenever the wind or a rise in
the ground calls upon them for an extra effort.

The turkey-buzzards are noticeable about Washing-
ton as soon as the season begins to open, sailing
leisurely along two or three hundred feet over head, or
sweeping low over some common or open space, where,
perchance, a dead puppy or pig or fowl has been thrown.
Half a dozen will sometimes alight about some such
object out on the commons, and with their broad dusky
wings lifted up to their full extent, threaten and chase
each other, while perhaps one or two are feeding.
Their wings are very large and flexible, and the
slightest motion of them, while the bird stands upon

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 145

the ground, suffices to lift its feet clear. Their move-
ments when in air are very majestic and beautiful to
the eye, being in every respect identical with those of
our common hen or red-tailed hawk. They sail along
in the same calm, effortless, interminable manner, and
sweep around in the same ample spirals. The shape
of their wings and tail, indeed their entire. effect against
the sky, except in size and color, is very nearly the
same as that of the hawk mentioned. A dozen at a
time may often be seen high in air, amusing themselves
by sailing serenely round and round in the same
circle.

They are less active and vigilant than the hawk ;
never poise themselves on the wing, never dive and
gambol in the air, and never swoop down upon their
prey ; unlike the hawks also, they appear to have no
enemies. The crow fights the hawk, and.the kingbird
and crow-blackbird fight the crow ; but neither takes
any notice of the buzzard. He excites the enmity of
none, for the reason that he molests none. The crow
has an old grudge against the hawk, because the hawk
robs the crow's nest, and carries off his young ; the
kingbird's quarrel with the crow is upon the same
grounds. But the buzzard never attacks live game, or
feeds upon new flesh when old can be had.

In May, like the crows, they nearly all disappear

very suddenly, probably to their breeding-haunts near

the sea-shore. Do the males separate from the females

at this time, and go by themselves ? At any rate, in

10

146 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

July I discovered that a large number of buzzards
roosted in some woods near Rock Creek, about a mile
from the city limits ; and, as they do not nest any-
where in this vicinity, I thought they might be males.
I happened to be detained late in the woods, watching
the nest of a flying squirrel, when the buzzards, just
after sundown, began to come by ones and twos and
alight in the trees near me. Presently they came in
greater numbers, but from the same direction, flapping
low over the woods, and taking up their position in the
middle branches. On alighting, each one would blow
very audibly through his nose, just as a cow does when
she lies down ; this is the only sound I have ever
heard the buzzard make. They would then stretch
themselves after the manner of turkeys, and walk along
the limbs. Sometimes a decayed branch would break
under the weight of two or three, when, with a great
flapping, they would take up new positions. They
continued to come till it was quite dark, and all the
trees about me were full. I began to feel a little
nervous, but kept my place. After it was entirely
dark and all was still, I gathered a large pile of dry
leaves and kindled it with a match, to see what they
would think of a fire. Not a sound was heard till the
pile of leaves was in full blaze, when instantaneously
every buzzard started. I thought the tree-tops were
coming down upon me, so great was the uproar. But
the woods were soon cleared, and the loathsome pack
disappeared in the night.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 147

About the first of June, I saw numbers of buzzards
sailing around over the great Falls of the Potomac.

A glimpse of the birds usually found here in the
latter part of winter may be had in the following
extract, which I take from my diary under date of Feb-
ruary 4th : —

" Made a long excursion through the woods and over
the hills. Went directly north from the Capitol for
about three miles. The ground bare and the day cold
and sharp. In the suburbs, among the scattered Irish
and negro shanties, came suddenly upon a flock of
birds, feeding about like our Northern snow-buntings.
Every now and then they uttered a piping, disconso-
late note, as if they had a very sorry time of it. They
proved to be shore-larks, the first I had ever seen.
They had the walk characteristic of all larks ; were a
little larger than the sparrow ; had a black spot on the
breast, with much white on the under parts of their
bodies. As I approached them the nearer ones
paused, and, half squatting, eyed me suspiciously.
Presently, at a movement of my arm, away they went,
flying exactly like the snow-bunting, and showing
nearly as much white." (I have since discovered that
the shore-lark is a regular visitant here in February
and March, when large quantities of them are shot or
trapped, and exposed for sale in the market. During
a heavy snow I have seen numbers of them feeding
upon the seeds of various weedy growths in a large
market-garden well into town.) " Pressing on, the walk

148 SPR/A'G AT THE CAPITAL.

became exhilarating. Followed a little brook, the
eastern branch of the Tiber, lined with bushes and a
rank growth of green brier. Sparrows started out here
and there and flew across the little bends and points.
Among some pines just beyond the boundary, saw a
number of American goldfinches, in their gray winter
dress, pecking the pine-cones. A golden-crowned
kinglet was there also, a little tuft of gray feathers,
hopping about as restless as a spirit. Had the old
pine-trees food delicate enough for him also ? Farther
on, in some low open woods, saw many sparrows, —
the fox, white-throated, white-crowned, the Canada,
the song, the swamp, — all herding together along the
warm and sheltered borders. To my surprise saw a
cheewink also, and the yellow-rumped warbler. The
purple finch was there likewise, and the Carolina wren
and brown creeper. In the higher, colder woods not
a bird was to be seen. Returning, near sunset, across
the eastern slope of a hill which overlooked the city,
was delighted to see a number of grass-finches or ves-
per sparrows {fringilla gra?ninea), — birds which will be
forever associated in my mind with my father's sheep
pastures. They ran before me, now flitting a pace or
two, now skulking in the low stubble, just as I had ob-
served them when a boy."

A month later, March 4th, is this note : —
" After the second memorable inauguration of Presi-
dent Lincoln, took my first trip of the season. The
afternoon was very clear and warm, — real vernal sun-

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 149

shine at last, though the wind roared like a lion over
the woods. It seemed novel enough to find within
two miles of the White House a simple woodsman
chopping away as if no President was being inaugu-
rated ! Some puppies, snugly nestled in the cavity of
an old hollow tree, he said, belonged to a wild dog.
I imagine I saw the 'wild dog,' on the other side of
Rock Creek, in a great state of grief and trepidation,
running up and down, crying and yelping, and looking
wistfully over the swollen flood, which the poor thing
had not the courage to brave. This day, for the first
time, I heard the song of the Canada sparrow, a soft,
sweet note, almost running into a warble. • Saw a
small, black, velvety butterfly with a yellow border to
its wings. Under a warm bank found two flowers of
the houstonia in bloom. Saw frogs' spawn near Piny
Branch, and heard the hyla."

Among the first birds that make their appearance in
Washington is the crow-blackbird. He may come any
time after the 1st of March. The birds congregate in
large flocks, and frequent groves and parks, alternately
swarming in the tree-tops and filling the air with their
sharp jangle, and alighting on the ground in quest of
food, their polished coats glistening in the sun from
very blackness, as they walk about. There is evi-
dently some music in the soul of this bird at this sea-
son, though he makes a sad failure in getting it out.
His voice always sounds as if he were laboring under
a severe attack of influenza, though a large flock of

150 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

them, heard at a distance on a bright afternoon of
early spring, produce an effect not unpleasing. The
air is filled with crackling, splintering, spurting, semi-
musical sounds, — which are like pepper and salt to
the ear.

All parks and public grounds about the city are full
of blackbirds. They are especially plentiful in the
trees about the White House, breeding there and wag-
ing war on all other birds. The occupants of one of
the offices in the west wing of the Treasury one day
had their attention attracted by some object striking
violently against one of the window-panes. Looking
up, they beheld a crow-blackbird pausing in mid-
air, a few feet from the window. On the broad stone
window-sill lay the quivering form of a purple finch.
The little tragedy was easily read. The blackbird
had pursued the finch with such murderous violence,
that the latter, in its desperate efforts to escape, had
sought refuge in the Treasury. The force of the con-
cussion against the heavy plate-glass of the window
had killed the poor thing instantly. The pursuer, no
doubt astonished at the sudden and novel termination
of the career of its victim, hovered a moment, as if to
be sure of what had happened, and made off.

(It is not unusual for birds, when thus threatened
with destruction by their natural enemy, to become so
terrified as to seek safety in the presence of man. I
was once startled, while living in a country village, to
behold, on entering my room, at noon, one October

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. IS1

day, a quail sitting upon my bed. The affrighted and
bewildered bird instantly started for the open window,
into which it had no doubt been driven by a hawk.)

The crow-blackbird has all the natural cunning of
his prototype, the crow. In one of the inner courts of
the Treasury building there is a fountain with several
trees growing near. By midsummer, the blackbirds
become so bold as to venture within this court. Vari-
ous fragments of food, tossed from the surrounding
windows, reward their temerity. When a crust of dry
bread defies their beaks, they have been seen to drop
it into the water, and when it had become soaked
sufficiently, to take it out again.

They build a nest of coarse sticks and mud, the
whole burden of the enterprise seeming to devolve
upon the female. For several successive mornings just
after sunrise, I used to notice a pair of them flying to
and fro in the air above me, as I hoed in the garden,
directing their course, on the one hand, to a marshy
piece of ground about half a mile distant, and disap-
pearing, on their return, among the trees about the
Capitol. Returning, the female always had her beak
loaded with building material, while the male, carrying
nothing, seemed to act as her escort, flying a little
above and in advance of her, and uttering now and
then his husky, discordant note. As I tossed a lump
of earth up at them the frightened mother-bird dropped
her .mortar, and the pair skurried away, much put
out. Later, they avenged themselves by pilfering my
cherries.

152 SPAING AT THE. CAPITAL.

The most mischievous enemies of the cherries, how-
ever, here, as at the North, are the cedar wax-wings, or
" cherry-birds." How quickly they spy out the tree !
Long before the cherry begins to turn, they are around,
alert and cautious. In small flocks they circle about,
high in air, uttering their fine note, or plunge quickly
into the tops of remote trees. Day by day they ap-
proach nearer and nearer, reconnoitring the premises,
and watching the growing fruit. Hardly have the
green lobes turned a red cheek to the sun, before
their beaks have scarred it. At first they approach
the tree stealthily, on the side turned from the house,
diving quickly into the branches in ones and twos,
while the main flock is ambushed in some shade-tree
not far off. They are most apt to commit their depre-
dations very early in the morning and on cloudy, rainy
days. As the cherries grow sweeter the birds grow
bolder, till, from throwing tufts of grass, one has to
throw stones in good earnest, or lose all his fruit. In
June they disappear, following the cherries to the North,
where, by July, they are nesting in the orchards and
cedar groves.

Among the permanent summer residents here (one
might say city residents, as they seem more abundant
in town than out), the yellow warbler or summer yel-
low-bird is conspicuous. He comes about the middle
of April, and seems particularly attached to the silver
poplars. In ever}' street, and all day long, one may
hear his thin, sharp warble. When nesting, the female

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 153

comes about the yard, pecking at the clothes-line, and
gathering up bits of thread to weave into her nest.

Swallows appear in Washington from the first to the
middle of April. They come twittering along in the
way so familiar to every New England boy. The barn-
swallow is heard first, followed in a day or two by the
squeaking of the cliff-swallow. The chimney-swallows,
or swifts, are not far behind, and remain here, in large
numbers, the whole season. The purple martins ap-
pear in April, as they pass north, and again in July and
August on their return, accompanied by their young.

The national capital is situated in such a vast spread
of wild, wooded, or semi-cultivated country, and is in
itself so open and spacious, with its parks and large
government reservations, that an unusual numher of
birds find their way into it in the course of the season.
Rare warblers, as the black-poll, the yellow red-poll,
and the bay-breasted, pausing in May on their north-
ward journey, pursue their- insect game in the very
heart of the town.

I have heard the veery thrush in the trees near the
White House ; and one rainy April morning, about six
o'clock, he came and blew his soft, mellow flute in a
pear-tree in my garden. The tones had all the sweet-
ness and wildness they have when heard in June in
our deep Northern forests. A day or two afterward,
in the same tree, I heard for the first time the song of
the golden-crowned wren, or kinglet, — the same liquid
bubble and cadence which characterize the wren-songs

154 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

generally, but much finer and more delicate than the
song of any other variety known to me ; beginning in
a fine, round, needle-like note, and rising into a full,
sustained warble ; — a strain, on the whole, remarkably
exquisite and pleasing, the singer being all the while
as busy as a bee, .catching some kind of insects. If
the ruby-crowned sings as well (and no doubt it does),
Audubon's enthusiasm concerning its song, as he
heard it in the wilds of Labrador, is not a bit extrav-
agant. The song of the kinglet is the only character-
istic that allies it to the wrens.

The Capitol grounds, with their fine large trees of
many varieties draw many kinds of birds. In the rear
of the building the extensive grounds are peculiarly
attractive, being a gentle slope, warm and protected,
and quite thickly wooded. Here in early- spring I go
to hear the robins, cat-birds, black-birds, wrens, etc.
In March the white-throated and white-crowned spar-
rows may be seen, hopping about on the flower-beds or
peering slyly from the evergreens. The robin hops
about freely upon the grass, notwithstanding the keep-
er's large-lettered warning, and at intervals, and espe-
cially at sunset, carols from the tree-tops his loud,
hearty strain.

The kingbird and orchard starling remain the whole
season, and breed in the tree-tops. The rich, copious
song of the starling may be heard there all the fore-
noon. The song of some birds is like scarlet, — strong,
intense, emphatic. This is the character of the orchard

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 155

starlings ; also of the tanagers and the various gross-
beaks. On the other hand, the songs of other birds,
as of certain of the thrushes, suggests the serene blue
of the upper sky.

In February, one may hear, in the Smithsonian
grounds, the song of the fox-sparrow. It is a strong,
richly modulated whistle, — the finest sparrow note I
have ever heard.

A curious and charming sound may be heard here in
May. You are walking forth in the soft morning air,
when suddenly there comes a burst of bobolink melody
from some mysterious source. A score of throats
pour out one brief, hilarious, tuneful jubilee, and are
suddenly silent. There is a strange remoteness, and
fascination about it. Presently you discover its source
skyward, and a quick eye will detect the gay band
pushing northward. They seem to scent the fragrant
meadows afar off, and shout forth snatches of their
songs in anticipation.

The bobolink does not breed in the District, but
usually pauses in his journey and feeds during the day
in the grass-lands north of the city. When the season
is backward, they tarry a week or ten days, singing
freely and appearing quite at home. In large flocks
they search over every inch of ground, and at intervals,
hover on the wing or alight in the tree-tops, all pour-
ing forth their gladness at once, and filling the air with
a multitudinous musical clamor.

They continue to pass, travelling by night and feed-

156 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

ing by day, till after the middle of May, when they
cease. In September, with numbers greatly increased,
they are on their way back. I am first advised of
their return by hearing their calls at night as they fly
over the city. On certain nights the sound becomes
quite noticeable. I have awakened in the middle of
the night, and, through the open window, as I lay in
bed, heard their faint notes. The warblers begin to
return about the same time, and are clearly distin-
guished by their timid yeaps. On dark cloudy nights
the birds seem confused by the lights of the city, and
apparently wander about above it.

In the spring the same curious incident is repeated,
though but few voices can be identified. I make out
the snow-bird, the bobolink, the warblers, and on two
nights during the early part of May I heard very clearly
the call of the sandpipers.

Instead of the bobolink, one encounters here, in
the June meadows, the black-throated bunting, a bird
closely related to the sparrows, and a very persistent,
if not a very musical songster. He perches upon the
fences and upon the trees by the roadside, and, spread-
ing his tail, gives forth his harsh strain, which may be
roughly worded thus : fscp fscp, fee fee fee. Like all
sounds associated with early summer, it soon has a
charm to the ear quite independent of its intrinsic
merits.

~IOutside of the city limits, the great point of interest
to the rambler and lover of nature is the Rock Creek

SPUING AT THE CAPITAL. 157

region. Rock Creek is a large, rough, rapid stream,
which has its source in the interior of Maryland, and
flows into the Potomac between Washington and
Georgetown. Its course, for five or six miles out of
Washington, is marked by great diversity of scenery.
Flowing in a deep valley, which now and then becomes
a wild gorge with overhanging rocks and high pre-
cipitous headlands, for the most part wooded ; here
reposing in long, dark reaches, there sweeping and
hurrying around a sudden bend or over a rocky bed ;
receiving at short intervals small runs and spring
rivulets, which open up vistas and outlooks to the right
and left, of the most charming description, — Rock
Creek has an abundance of all the elements that make
up not only pleasing, but wild and rugged scenery.
There is, perhaps, not another city in the Union that
has on its very threshold so much natural beauty and
grandeur, such as men seek for in remote forests and
mountains. A few touches of art would convert this
whole region, extending from Georgetown to what is
known as Crystal Springs, not more than two miles
from the present State Department, into a park une-
qualed by anything in the world. There are passages
between these two points as wild and savage, and ap-
parently as remote from civilization, as anything one
meets with in the mountain sources of the Hudson or
the Delaware.

One of the tributaries to Rock Creek within this
limit is called Piny Branch. It is a small, noisy brook,

153 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

flowing through a valley of great natural beauty and
picturesqueness, shaded nearly all the way by woods
of oak, chestnut, and beech, and abounding in dark
recesses and hidden retreats.

I must not forget to mention the many springs with
which this whole region is supplied, each the centre of
some wild nook, perhaps the head of a little valley one
or two hundred yards long, through which one catches
a glimpse, or hears the voice of the main creek rushing
along below.

My walks tend in this direction more frequently
than in any other. Here the boys go too, troops of
them, of a Sunday, to bathe and prowl around, and
indulge the semi-barbarous instincts that still lurk
within them. Life, in all its forms, is most abundant
near water. The rank vegetation nurtures the insects,
and the insects draw the birds. The first week in
March, on some southern slope where the sunshine
lies warm and long, I usually find the hepatica in
bloom, though with scarcely an inch of stalk. In the
spring runs, the skunk cabbage pushes its pike up
through the mould, the flower appearing first, as if
Nature had made a mistake.

It is not till about the ist of April that many wild-
flowers may be looked for. By this time the hepatica,
anemone, saxifrage, arbutus, houstonia, and bloodroot
may be counted on. A week later, the claytonia, or
spring beauty, water-cress, violets, a low buttercup,
vetch, corydalis, and potentilla appear. These comprise

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 159

most of the April flowers, and may be found in great
profusion in the Rock Creek and Piny Branch region.

In each little valley or spring run some one species
predominates. I know invariably where to look for
the first liverwort, and where the largest and finest
may be found. On a dry, gravelly, half-wooded hill-
slope the birds-foot violet grows in great abundance,
and is sparse in neighboring districts. This flower,
which I never saw in the North, is the most beautiful
and showy of all the violets, and calls forth rapturous
applause from all persons who visit the woods. It
grows in little groups and clusters, and bears a close
resemblance to the pansies of the gardens. Its two
purple, velvety petals seem to fall over tiny shoulders
like a rich cape.

On the same slope, and on no other, I go about the
1st of May for lupine, or sun-dial, which makes the
ground look blue from a little distance \ on the other,
or northern side of the slope, the arbutus, during the
first half of April, perfumes the wild-wood air. A few
paces farther on, in the bottom of a little spring run,
the mandrake shades the ground with its miniature
umbrellas. It begins to push its green finger-points
up through the ground by the 1st of April, but is not
in bloom till the 1st of May. It has a single white,
wax-like flower, with a sweet, sickish odor, growing
immediately beneath its broad leafy top. By the same
run grow water-cresses and two kinds of anemones,
— the Pennsylvania and the grove anemone. The

160 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

bloodroot is very common at the foot of almost every
warm slope in the Rock Creek woods, and, where the
wind has tucked it up well with the coverlid of dry
leaves, makes its appearance almost as soon as the
liverwort. It is singular how little warmth is neces-
sary to encourage these earlier flowers to put forth !
It would seem as if some influence must come on in
advance underground and get things ready, so that
when the outside temperature is propitious, they at
once venture out. I have found the bloodroot when it
was still freezing two or three nights in the week ; and
have known at least three varieties of early flowers to
be buried in eight inches of snow.

Another abundant flower in the Rock Creek region
is the spring beauty. Like most others it grows in
streaks. A few paces from where your attention is
monopolized by violets or arbutus, it is arrested by the
claytonia, growing in such profusion that it is impos-
sible to set the foot down without crushing the flowers.
Only the forenoon walker sees them in all their
beauty, as later in the day their eyes are closed, and
their pretty heads drooped in slumber. In only one
locality do I find the ladies'-slipper, — a yellow va-
riety. The flowers that overleap all bounds in this sec-
tion are the houstonias. By the ist of April they are
very noticeable in warm, damp places along the borders
of the woods and in half-cleared fields, but by May
these localities are clouded with them. They become
visible from the highway across wide fields, and look
like little puffs of smoke clinging close to the ground.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 161

On the ist of May I go to the Rock Creek or
Piny Branch region to hear the wood-thrush. I always
find him by ,this date leisurely chanting his lofty
strain ; other thrushes are seen now also, or even
earlier, as Wilson's, the olive-backed, the hermit, —
the two latter silent, but the former musical.

Occasionally in the earlier part of May I find the
woods literally swarming with warblers, exploring
every branch and leaf, from the tallest tulip to the
lowest spice-bush, so urgent is the demand for food
during their long Northern journeys. At night they
are up and away. Some varieties, as the blue yellow-
back, the chestnut-sided, and the Blackburnian, during
their brief stay, sing nearly as freely as in their breed-
ing haunts. For two or three years I have chanced to
meet little companies of the bay-breasted warbler,
searching for food in an oak wood, on an elevated
piece of ground. They kept well up among the
branches, were rather slow in their movements, and
evidently disposed to tarry but a short time.

The summer residents here, belonging to this class
of birds, are few. I have observed the black and
white creeping warbler, the Kentucky warbler, the
worm-eating warbler, the redstart, and the gnat-
catcher, breeding near Rock Creek.

Of these the Kentucky warbler is by far the most

interesting, though quite rare. I meet with him in

low, damp places in the woods, usually on the steep

sides of some little run. I hear at intervals a clear,

ii

162 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

strong, bell-like whistle or warble, and presently catch
a glimpse of the bird as he jumps up from the ground
to take an insect or worm from the under side of a leaf.
This is his characteristic movement. He belongs to
the class of ground warblers, and his range is very
low, indeed lower than that of any other species with
which I am acquainted. He is on the ground nearly
all the time, moving rapidly along, taking spiders and
bugs, overturning leaves, peeping under sticks and
into crevices, and every now and then leaping up
eight or ten inches, to take his game from beneath some
overhanging leaf or branch. Thus each species has
its range more or less marked. Draw a line three
feet from the ground, and you mark the usual limit
of the Kentucky warbler's quest for food. Six or
eight feet higher bounds the usual range of such
birds as the worm-eating warbler, the morning ground
warbler, the Maryland yellow-throat. The lower
branches of the higher growths and the higher
branches of the lower growths are plainly preferred
by the black-throated blue-backed warbler, in those
localities where he is found. The thrushes feed
mostly on and near the ground, while some of the
vireos and the true fly-catchers explore the highest
branches. But the Sylviadee, as a rule, are all partial
to thick, rank undergrowths.

The Kentucky warbler is a large bird for the genus,
and quite notable in appearance. His back is clear
olive-green ; his throat and breast bright yellow. A

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 163

still more prominent feature is a black streak on the
side of the face, extending down the neck.

Another familiar bird here, which I never met with
in the North, is the gnat-catcher, called by Audubon
the blue gray fly-catching warbler. In form and
manner it seems almost a duplicate of the cat-bird, on
a small scale. It mews like a young kitten, erects its
tail, flirts, droops its wings, goes through a variety of
motions when disturbed by your presence, and in many
ways recalls its dusky prototype. Its color above is a
light, gray blue, gradually fading till it becomes white
on the breast and belly. It is a very small bird, and
has a long, facile, slender tail. Its song is a lisping,
chattering, incoherent warble, now faintly reminding
one of the goldfinch, now of a miniature cat-bird, then
of a tiny yellow-hammer, having much variety, but no
unity, and little cadence.

Another bird which has interested me here is the
Louisiana water-thrush, called also large-billed water-
thrush, and water-wagtail. It is one of a trio of birds
which has confused the ornithologists much. The
other two species are the well-known golden-crowned
thrush (Sciurus aurocapillus) or wood-wagtail, and the
Northern, or small, water-thrush {Sciurus noveboracen-
sis).

The present species, though not abundant, is fre-
quently met with along Rock Creek. It is a very
quick, vivacious bird, and belongs to the class of ec-
static singers. I have seen a pair of these thrushes,

1 64 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

on a bright May day, flying to and fro between two
spring runs, alighting at intermediate points, the male
breaking out into one of the most exuberant, unpre-
meditated strains I ever heard. Its song is a sudden
burst, beginning with three or four clear round notes
much resembling certain tones of the clarionet, and
terminating in a rapid, intricate warble.

This bird resembles a thrush only in its color, which
is olive-brown above, and grayish-white beneath, with
speckled throat and breast. Its habits, manners, and
voice suggest those of the lark.

I seldom go the Rock Creek route without being
amused and sometimes annoyed by the yellow-breasted
chat. This bird also has something of the manners
and build of the cat-bird, yet he is truly an original.
The cat-bird is mild .and feminine compared with this
rollicking polyglot. His voice is very loud and strong
and quite uncanny. No sooner have you penetrated
his retreat, which is usually a thick undergrowth in
low, wet localities, near the woods or in old fields,
than he begins his serenade, which for the variety,
grotesqueness, and uncouthness of the notes, is not un-
like a country skimmerton. If one passes directly
along, the bird may scarcely break the silence. But
pause awhile or loiter quietly about, and your presence
stimulates him to do his best. He peeps quizzically at
you from beneath the branches, and gives a sharp fe-
line mew. In a moment more he says very distinctly,
who, 7vho. Then in rapid succession follow notes the

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 165

most discordant that ever broke the sylvan silence.
Now he barks like a puppy, then quacks like a duck,
then rattles like a kingfisher, then squalls like a fox,
then caws like a crow, then mews like a cat. Now, he
calls as if to be heard a long way off, then changes
his key, as if addressing the spectator. Though very
shy, and carefully keeping himself screened when you
show any disposition to get a better view, he will pres-
ently, if you remain quiet, ascend a twig, or hop out on
a branch in plain sight, lop his tail, droop his wings,
cock his head, and become very melodramatic. In
less than half a minute he darts into the bushes again,
and again tunes up, no Frenchman rolling his /-'s so
fluently. C-r-r-r-r-r, — whrr, — thafs it, — chee, —
quack, cluck, — yit-yit-yit, — nozu hit it, — tr-r-r-r, —
when, — caw, caw, — cut, cut, — tea-boy, — who, who,
— mew, view, — and so on till you are tired of
listening. Observing one very closely one day, I dis-
covered that he was limited to six notes or changes,
which he went through in regular order, scarcely
varying a note in a dozen repetitions. Sometimes,
when a considerable distance off, he will fly clown to
have a nearer view of you. And such a curious, ex-
pressive flight, — legs extended, head lowered, wings
rapidly vibrating, the whole action piquant and droll !

The chat is an elegant bird both in form and color.
Its plumage is remarkably firm and compact. Color
above, light olive-green; beneath, bright yellow; beak,
black and strong.

1 66 SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

The cardinal grossbeak, or Virginia red-bird, is quite
common in the same localities, though more inclined
to seek the woods. It is much sought after by bird-
fanciers, and by boy gunners, and consequently is very
shy. This bird suggests a British red-coat ; his heavy,
pointed beak, his high cockade, the black stripe down
his face, the expression of weight and massiveness
about his head and neck, and his erect attitude, give
him a decided soldierlike appearance ; and there is
something of the tone of the fife in his song or whistle,
while his ordinary note, when disturbed, is like the
clink of a sabre. Yesterday, as I sat indolently swing-
ing in the loop of a grape-vine, beneath a thick canopy
of green branches, in a secluded nook by a spring run,
one of these birds came pursuing some kind of insect,
but a. few feet above me. He hopped about, now and
then uttering his sharp note, till, some moth or beetle
trying to escape, he broke down through the cover
almost where I sat. The effect was like a firebrand
coming down through the branches. Instantly catch-
ing sight of me, he darted away much alarmed. The
female is tinged with brown, and shows but little red
except when she takes flight.

By far the most abundant species of woodpecker
about Washington is the red-headed. It is more com-
mon than the robin. Not in the deep woods, but
among the scattered dilapidated oaks and groves, on
the hills and in the fields, I hear, almost every day,
his uncanny note, ktr-rr, kir-r-r, like that of some lar-

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 167

ger tree-toad, proceeding from an oak grove just be-
yond the boundary. He is a strong scented fellow,
and very tough. Yet how beautiful, as he flits about
the open woods, connecting the trees by a gentle arc
of crimson and white ! This is another bird with a
military look. His deliberate, dignified ways, and his
bright uniform of red, white, and steel-blue, bespeak
him an officer of rank.

Another favorite beat of mine is northeast of the
city. Looking from the Capitol in this direction,
scarcely more than a mile distant, you see a broad
green hill-slope, falling very gently, and spreading into
a large expanse of meadow-land. The summit, if so
gentle a swell of greensward may be said to have a
summit, is covered with a grove of large oaks ; and,
sweeping back out of sight like a mantle, the front line
of a thick forest bounds the sides. This emerald land-
scape is seen from a number of points in the city.
Looking along New York Avenue from Northern Lib-
erty Market, the eye glances, as it were, from the red
clay of the street, and alights upon this fresh scene in
the distance. It is a standing invitation to the citizen
to come forth and be refreshed. As I turn from some
hot, hard street, how inviting it looks ! I bathe my
eyes in it as in a fountain. Sometimes troops of cattle
are seen grazing upon it. In June the gathering of
the hay may be witnessed. When the ground is cov-
ered with snow, numerous stacks, or clusters of stacks,
are still left for the eye to contemplate.

1 68 SPUING AT THE CAPITAL.

The woods which clothe the east side of this hill,
and sweep away to the east, are among the most
charming to be found in the District. The main
growth is oak and chestnut, with a thin sprinkling of
laurel, azelia, and dogwood. It is the only locality in
which I have found the dog-tooth violet in bloom, and
the best place I know of to gather arbutus. On one
slope the ground is covered with moss, through which
the arbutus trails its glories.

Emerging from these woods toward the city, one
sees the white dome of the Capitol soaring over the
green swell of earth immediately in front, and lifting
its four thousand tons of iron gracefully and lightly
into the air. Of all the sights in Washington, that
which will survive longest in my memory, is the vision
of the great dome thus rising cloud like above the hills.

BIRCH BROWSINGS.

BIRCH BROWSINGS.

THE region of which I am about to speak lies
in the southern part of the State of New York,
and comprises parts of three counties, — Ulster, Sulli-
van, and Delaware. It is drained by tributaries of
both the Hudson and Delaware, and, next to the Adi-
rondac section, contains more wild land than any
other tract in the State. The mountains which traverse
it, and impart to it its severe northern climate, belong
properly to the Catskill range. On some maps of the
State they are called the Pine Mountains, though with
obvious local impropriety, as pine, so far as I have
observed, is nowhere found upon them. " Birch Moun-
tains " would be a more characteristic name, as on
their summits birch is the prevailing tree. They are
the natural home of the black and yellow birch, which
grow here to unusual size. On their sides beech and
maple abound ; while mantling their lower slopes, and
darkening the valleys, hemlock formerly enticed the
lumberman and tanner. Except in remote or inacces-
sible localities, the latter tree is now almost never
found. In Shandaken and along the Esopus, it is
about the only product the country yielded, or is
likely to yield. Tanneries by the score have arisen

172 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

and flourished upon the bark, and some of them still
remain. Passing through that region the present
season, I saw that the few patches of hemlock that
still lingered high up on the sides of the mountains
were being felled and peeled, the fresh white bowls of
the trees, just stripped of their bark, being visible a
long distance.

Among these mountains there are no sharp peaks,
or abrupt declivities, as in a volcanic region, but
long, uniform ranges, heavily timbered to their summits,
and delighting the eye with vast, undulating horizon
lines. Looking south from the heights about the head
of the Delaware, one sees, twenty miles away, a con-
tinual succession of blue ranges, one behind the other.
If a few large trees are missing on the sky line, one
can see the break a long distance off.

Approaching this region from the Hudson River
side, you cross a rough, rolling stretch of country,
skirting the base of the Catskills, which from a point
near Saugerties sweep inland ; after a drive of a few
hours you are within the shadow of a high, bold
mountain, which forms a sort of but-end to this part
•of the range, and which is simply called High Point.
To the east and southeast it slopes down rapidly to
the plain, and looks defiance toward the Hudson,
twenty miles distant ; in the rear of it, and radiating
from it west and northwest, are numerous smaller
ranges, backing up, as it were, this haughty chief.

From this point through to Pennsylvania, a distance

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 173

of nearly one hundred miles, stretches the tract of
which I speak. It is a belt of country from twenty
to thirty miles wide, bleak and wild, and but sparsely
settled. The traveller on the New York and Erie
Railroad gets a glimpse of it.

Many cold, rapid trout streams, which flow to all
points of the compass, have their source in the small
lakes and copious mountain springs of this region.
The names of some of them are Mill Brook, Dry
Brook, Willewemack, Beaver Kill, Elk Bush Kill,
Panther Kill, Neversink, Big Ingin, and Collikoon.
Beaver Kill is the main outlet on the west. It joins
the Delaware in the wilds of Hancock. The Never-
sink lays open the region to the south, and also joins
the Delaware. To the east, various Kills unite with
the Big Ingin to form the Esopus, which flows into
the Hudson. Dry Brook and Mill Brook, both famous
trout streams, from twelve to fifteen miles long, find
their way into the Delaware.

The east or Pepacton branch of the Delaware itself
takes its rise near here, in a deep pass between the
mountains. I have many times drunk at a copious
spring by the roadside, where the infant river first sees
the light. A few yards beyond, the water flows the
other way, directing its course through the Bear Kill
and Schoharie Kill into the Mohawk.

Such game and wild animals as still linger in the
State, are found in this region. Bears occasionally
make havoc among the sheep. The clearings at the

174 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

head of a valley are oftenest the scene of their depre-
dations,

Wild pigeons, in immense numbers, used to breed
regularly in the valley of the Big Ingin and about the
head of the Neversink. The tree-tops for miles were
full of their nests, while the going and coming of the
old birds kept up a constant din. But the gunners
soon got wind of it, and from far and near were wont
to pour in during the spring, and to slaughter both old
and young. This practice soon had the effect of
driving the pigeons all away, and now only a few pairs
breed in these woods.

Deer are still met with, though they are becoming
scarcer ever year. Last winter near seventy head were
killed on the Beaver Kill alone. I heard of one
wretch, who, finding the deer snowbound, walked up
to them on his snowshoes, and one morning before
breakfast slaughtered six, leaving their carcasses
where they fell. There are traditions of persons
having been smitten blind or senseless when about to
commit some heinous offense, but the fact that this
villain escaped without some such visitation throws
discredit on all such stories.

The great attraction, however, of this region, is the
brook trout, with which the streams and lakes abound.
The water is of excessive coldness, the thermometer
indicating 44° and 450 in the springs, and 470 or 480
in the smaller streams. The trout are generally small,
but in the more remote branches their number is

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 175

very great. In such localities the fish are quite black,
but in the lakes they are of a lustre and brilliancy im-
possible to describe.

These waters have been much visited of late years
by fishing parties, and the name of Beaver Kill is now
a potent word among New York sportsmen.

One lake, in the wilds of Collikoon, abounds in a
peculiar species of white sucker, which is of excellent
quality. It is taken only in spring, during the spawn-
ing season, at the time "when the leaves are as big
as a chipmunk's ears." The fish run up the small
streams and inlets, beginning at nightfall, and con-
tinuing till the channel is literally packed with them,
and every inch of space is occupied. The fishermen
pounce upon them at such times, and scoop them up
by the bushel, usually wading right into the living
mass and landing the fish with their hands. A small
party will often secure in this manner a wagon load
of fish. Certain conditions of the weather, as a warm
south or southwest wind, are considered most favor-
able for the fish to run.

Though familiar all my life with the outskirts of
this region, I have only twice dipped into its wilder
portions. Once in i860, a friend and myself, traced
the Beaver Kill to its source, and encamped by Balsam
Lake. A cold and protracted rain-storm coming on,
we were obliged to leave the woods before we were
ready. Neither of us will soon forget that tramp by
an unknown route over the mountains, encumbered as

ijO BIRCH BROWSINGS.

we were with a hundred and one superfluities which
we had foolishly brought along to solace ourselves
with in the woods ; nor that halt on the summit, where
we cooked and ate our fish in a drizzling rain ; nor,
again, that rude log-house, with its sweet hospitality,
which we reached just at nightfall on Mill Brook.

In 1868, a party of three of us set out for a brief
trouting excursion, to a body of water called Thomas's
Lake, situated in the same chain of mountains. On
this excursion, more particularly than on any other I
have ever undertaken, I was taught how poor an Indian
I should make, and what a ridiculous figure a party
of men may cut in the woods when the way is uncer-
tain and the mountains high.

We left our team at a farm-house near the head of
the Mill Brook, one June afternoon, and with knap-
sacks on our shoulders struck into the woods at the
base of the mountain, hoping to cross the range that
intervened between us and the lake by sunset. We
engaged a good-natured, but rather indolent young
man, who happened to be stopping at the house, and
who had carried a knapsack in the Union armies, to
pilot us a couple of miles into the woods so as to guard
against any mistakes at the outset. It seemed the
easiest thing in the world to find the lake. The lay
of the land was so simple, according to accounts, that
I felt sure I could go to it in the dark. " Go up this
little brook to its source on the side of the mountain,"
they said. " The valley that contains the lake heads

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 177

directly on the other side." What could be easier !
But on a little further inquiry, they said we should
" bear well to the left " when we reached the top of
the mountain. This opened the doors again ; " bearing
well to the left " was an uncertain performance in
strange woods. We might bear so well to the left that
it would bring us ill. But why bear to the left at all,
if the lake was directly opposite ? Well, not quite op-
posite • a little to the left. There were two or three
other valleys that headed in near there. We could
easily find the right one. But to make assurance
doubly sure, we engaged a guide, as stated, to give us a
good start, and go with us beyond the bearing-to-the-
left point. He had been to the lake the winter be-
fore, and knew the way. Our course, the first half-
hour, was along an obscure wood-road which had been
used for drawing ash logs off the mountain in winter.
There was some hemlock, but more maple and birch.
The woods were dense and free from underbrush, the
ascent gradual. Most of the way we kept the voice of
the creek in our ear on the right. I approached it
once, and found it swarming with trout. The water
was as cold as one ever need wish. After a while the
ascent grew steeper, the creek became a mere rill that
issued from beneath loose, moss-covered rocks and
stones, and with much labor and puffing we drew
ourselves up the rugged declivity. Every mountain
has its steepest point, which is usually near the sum-
mit, in keeping, I suppose, with the providence that
12

178 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

makes the darkest hour just before day. It is steep,
steeper, steepest, till you emerge on the smooth, level
or gently rounded space at the top, which the old ice-
gods polished off so long ago.

We found this mountain had a hollow in its back
where the ground was soft and swampy. Some gi-
gantic ferns, which we passed through, came nearly
to our shoulders. We passed also several patches of
swamp honeysuckles, red with blossoms.

Our guide at length paused on a big rock where the
land began to dip down the other way, and concluded
that he had gone far enough, and that we would now
have no difficulty in finding the lake. " It must lie
right down there," he said, pointing with his hand.
But it was plain that he was not quite sure in his
own mind. He had several times wavered in his
course, and had shown considerable embarrassment
when bearing to the left across the summit. Still
we thought little of it. We were full of confidence,
and, bidding him adieu, plunged down the mountain-
side, following a spring run that we had no doubt led
to the lake.

In these woods, which had a southeastern exposure,
I first began to notice the wood-thrush. In coming
up the other side I had not seen a feather of any
kind, or heard a note. Now the golden trillide-de of
the wood-thrush sounded through the silent woods.
While looking for a fish-pole about half-way down
the mountain, I saw a thrush's nest in a little sapling
about ten feet from the ground.

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 179

After continuing our descent till our only guide, the
spring run, became quite a trout brook, and its tiny
murmur a loud brawl, we began to peer anxiously
through the trees for a glimpse of the lake, or for some
conformation of the land that would indicate its prox-
imity. An object which we vaguely discerned in look-
ing under the near trees and over the more distant
ones, proved, on further inspection, to be a patch of
ploughed ground. Presently we made out a burnt
fallow near it. This was a wet blanket to our enthu-
siasm. No lake, no sport, no trout for supper that
night. The rather indolent young man had either
played us a trick, or, as seemed more likely, had
missed the way. We were particularly anxious to be
at the lake betweeen sundown and dark, as at that
time the trout jump most freely.

Pushing on, we soon emerged into a stumpy field,
at the head of a steep valley, which swept around
toward the west. About two hundred rods below
us was a rude log-house, with smoke issuing from
the chimney. A boy came out and moved toward the
spring with a pail in his hand. We shouted to him,
when he turned and ran back into the house without
pausing to reply. In a moment the whole family
hastily rushed into the yard, and turned their faces
toward us. If we had come down their chimney, they
could not have seemed more astonished. Not making
out what they said, I went down to the house, and
learned to my chagrin that we were still on the Mill

180 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

Brook side, having crossed only a spur of the moun-
tain. We had not borne sufficiently to the left, so that
the main range, which, at the point of crossing, sud-
denly breaks off to the southeast, still intervened
between us and the lake. We were about five miles,
as the water runs, from the point of starting, and over
two from the lake. We must go directly back to the
top of the range where the guide had left us, and then,
by keeping well to the left, we would soon come to a
line of marked trees, which would lead us to the lake.
So turning upon our trail, we doggedly began the
work of undoing what we had just done, — in all cases
a disagreeable task, in this case a very laborious one
also. It was after sunset when we turned back, and
before we had got half-way up the mountain it began
to be quite dark. We were often obliged to rest our
packs against trees and take breath, which made our
progress slow. Finally a halt was called, beside an
immense flat rock which had paused in its slide down
the mountain, and we prepared to encamp for the
night A fire was built, the rock cleared off, a small
ration of bread served out, our accoutrements hung up
out of the way of the hedgehogs that were supposed to
infest the locality, and then we disposed ourselves for
sleep. If the owls or porcupines (and I think I heard
one of the latter in the middle of the night) reconnoi-
tred our camp, they saw a buffalo robe spread upon a
rock, with three old felt hats arranged on one side,
and three pairs of sorry-looking cowhide boots pro-
truding from the other.

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 181

When we lay down, there was apparently not a mos-
quito in the woods ; but the " no-see-ems," as Tho-
reau's Indian aptly named the midges, soon found us
out, and after the fire had gone down annoyed us
much. My hands and wrists suddenly began to smart
and itch in a most unaccountable manner. My first
thought was that they had been poisoned in some way.
Then the smarting extended to my neck and face, even
to my scalp, when I began to suspect what was the
matter. So wrapping myself up more thoroughly, and
stowing my hands away as best I could, I tried to
sleep, being some time behind my companions, who
appeared not to mind the " no-see-ems." I was fur-
ther annoyed by some little irregularity on my side of
the couch. The chambermaid had not beaten it up
well. One huge lump refused to be mollified, and
each attempt to adapt it to some natural hollow in my
own body brought only a moment's relief. But at last
I got the better of this also and slept. Late in the
night I woke up, just in time to hear a golden-crowned
thrush sing in a tree near by. It sang as loud and
cheerily as at midday, and I thought myself, after all,
quite in luck. Birds occasionally sing at night, just
as the cock crows. I have heard the hair-bird, and
the note of the king-bird ; and the ruffed grouse fre-
quently drums at night.

At the first faint signs of day, a wood-thrush sang
a few rods below us. Then after a little delay, as the
gray light began to grow around, thrushes broke out

1 82 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

in full song in .ill parts of the woods. I thought I
had never before heard them sing so sweetly. Such a
leisurely, golden chant! — it consoled us for all we
had undergone. It was the first thing in order, —
the worms were safe till after this morning chorus. I
judged that the birds roosted but a few feet from the
ground. In fact, a bird in all cases roosts where it
builds, and the wood-thrush occupies, as it were, the
first story of the woods.

There is something singular about the distribution
of the wood-thrushes. At an earlier stage of my
observations I should have been much surprised at
finding it in these woods. Indeed, I had stated in
print on two occasions that the wood-thrush was not
found in the higher lands of the Catskills, but that the
hermit-thrush and the veery, or Wilson's thrush, were
common. It turns out that this statement is only half
true. The wood-thrush is found also, but is much
more rare and secluded in its habits than either of the
others, being seen only during the breeding season on
remote mountains, and then only on their eastern and
southern slopes. I have never yet in this region found
the bird spending the season in the near and familiar
woods, which is directly contrary to observations I
have made in other parts of the State. So different
are the habits of birds in different localities.

As soon as it was fairly light we were up and ready
to resume our march. A small bit of bread-and-butter
and a swallow or two of whiskey was all we had for

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 183

breakfast that morning. Our supply of each was very
limited, and we were anxious to save a little of both,
to relieve the diet of trout to which we looked forward.

At an early hour we reached the rock where we had
parted with the guide, and looked around us into the
dense, trackless woods with many misgivings. To
strike out now on our own hook, where the way was so
blind and after the experience we had just had, was a
step not to be carelessly taken. The tops of these
mountains are so broad, and a short distance in the
woods seems so far, that one is by no means master of
the situation after reaching the summit. And then
there are so many spurs and offshoots and changes
of direction, added to the impossibility of making any
generalization by the aid of the eye, that before one
is aware of it he is very wide of his mark.

I remembered now that a young farmer of my
acquaintance had told me how he had made a long
day's march through the heart of this region, without
path or guide of any kind, and had hit his mark
squarely. He had been bark-peeling in Collikoon, —
a famous country for bark, — and, having got enough
of it, he desired to reach his home on Dry Brook with-
out making the usual circuitous journey between the
two places. To do this necessitated a march of ten or
twelve miles across several ranges of mountains and
through an unbroken forest, — a hazardous under-
taking in which no one would join him. Even the old
hunters who were familiar with the ground dissuaded

1 84 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

him and predicted the failure of his enterprise. But
having made up' his mind, he possessed himself thor-
oughly of the topography of the country from the afore-
said hunters, shouldered his axe, and set out, holding
a straight course through the woods, and turning aside
for neither swamps, streams, nor mountains. When
he paused to rest he would mark some object ahead of
him with his eye, in order that on getting up again he
might not deviate from his course. His directors had
told him of a hunter's cabin about midway on his
route, which if he struck he might be sure he was
right. About noon this cabin was reached, and at sun-
set he emerged at the head of Dry Brook.

After looking in vain for the line of marked trees,
we moved off to the left in a doubtful, hesitating man-
ner, keeping on the highest ground and blazing the
trees as we went. We were afraid to go down hill, lest
we should descend too soon ; our vantage-ground was
high ground. A thick fog coming on, we were more
bewildered than ever. Still we pressed forward, climb-
ing up ledges and wading through ferns for about two
hours, when we paused by a spring that issued from
beneath an immense wall of rock that belted the high-
est part of the mountain. There was quite a broad
plateau here, and the birch wood was very dense, and
the trees of unusual size.

After resting and exchanging opinions, we all con-
cluded that it was best not to continue our search en-
cumbered as we were ; but we were not willing to

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 185

abandon it altogether, and I proposed to my compan-
ions to leave them beside the spring with our traps,
while I made one thorough and final effort to find the
lake. If I succeeded and desired them to come for-
ward, I was to fire my gun three times ; if I failed and
wished to return, I would fire it twice, they, of course,
responding.

So filling my canteen from the spring, I set out
again, taking the spring run for my guide. Before I
had followed it two hundred yards it sank into the
ground at my feet. I had half a mind to be supersti-
tious and to believe that Ave were under a spell, since
our guides played us such tricks.. However, I deter-
mined to put the matter to a further test, and struck
out boldly to the left. This seemed to be the key-
word,— to the left, to the left. The fog had now
lifted, so that I could form a better idea of the lay of
the land. Twice I looked down the steep sides of the
mountain, sorely tempted to risk a plunge. Still I
hesitated and kept along on the brink. As I stood on
a rock deliberating, I heard a crackling of the brush,
like the tread of some large game, on a plateau below
me. Suspecting the truth of the case, I moved stealth-
ily down, and found a herd of young cattle leisurely
browsing. We had several times crossed their trail,
and had seen that morning a level, grassy place on the
top of the mountain, where they had passed the night.
Instead of being frightened, as I had expected, they
seemed greatly delighted, and gathered around me as

1 86 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

if to inquire the tidings from the outer world, — per-
haps the quotations of the cattle market. They came
up to me, and eagerly licked my hand, clothes, and gun.
Salt was what they were after, and they were ready to
swallow anything that contained the smallest percent-
age of it. They were mostly yearlings and as sleek as
moles. They had a very gamy look. We were after-
wards told that, in the spring, the farmers round about
turn into these woods their young cattle, which do not
come out again till fall. They are then in good con-
dition, — not fat, like grass-fed cattle, but trim and
supple, like deer. Once a month the owner hunts
them up and salts them. They have their beats, and
seldom wander beyond well-defined limits. It was in-
teresting to see them feed. They browsed on the low
limbs and bushes, and on the various plants, munching
at everything without any apparent discrimination.

They attempted to follow me, but I escaped them
by clambering down some steep rocks. I now found
myself gradually edging down the side of the moun-
tain, keeping around it in a spiral manner, and scan-
ning the woods and the shape of the ground for some
encouraging hint or sign. Finally the woods became
more open, and the descent less rapid. The trees
were remarkably straight and uniform in size. Black
birches, the first I had seen, were very numerous. I
felt encouraged. Listening attentively, I caught, from
a breeze just lifting the drooping leaves, a sound that
I willingly believed was made by a bullfrog. On this

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 187

hint, I tore down through the woods at my highest
speed. Then I paused and listened again. This time
there was no mistaking it ; it was the sound of frogs.
Much elated, I rushed on. By and by I could hear
them as I ran. Pthrung, pthrung, croaked the old
ones ; pug, pug, shrilly joined in the smaller fry.

Then I caught, through the lower trees,- a gleam of
blue, which I first thought was distant sky. A second
look and I knew it to be water, and in a moment more
I stepped from the woods and stood upon the shore
of the lake. I exulted silently. There it was at last,
sparkling in the morning sun, and as beautiful as a
dream. It was so good to come upon such open space
and such bright hues, after wandering in the dim, dense
woods ! The eye is as delighted as an escaped bird,
and darts gleefully from point to point.

The lake was a long oval, scarcely more than a mile
in circumference, with evenly wooded shores, which
rose gradually on all sides. After contemplating the
scene for a moment, I stepped back into the woods
and loading my gun as heavily as I dared, discharged
it three times. The reports seemed to fill all the
mountains with sound. The frogs quickly hushed,
and I listened for the response. But no response
came. Then I tried again, and again, but without
evoking an answer. One of my companions, however,
who had climbed to the top of the high rocks in the
rear of the spring, thought he heard faintly one re-
port. It seemed an immense distance below him, and

1 88 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

far around under the mountain. I knew I had come
a long way, and hardly expected to be able to commu-
nicate with my companions in the manner agreed
upon. I therefore started back, choosing my course
without any reference to the circuitous route by which
I had come, and loading heavily and firing at intervals.
I must have aroused many long-dormant echoes from
a Rip Van Winkle sleep. As my powder got low, I
fired and halloed alternately, till I came near splitting
both my throat and gun. Finally, after I had begun to
have a very ugly feeling of alarm and disappointment,
and to cast about vaguely for some course to pursue in
the emergency that seemed near at hand, — namely,
the loss of my companions now I had found the lake,
— a favoring breeze brought me the last echo of a re-
sponse. I rejoined with spirit, and hastened with all
speed in the direction whence the sound had come,
but after repeated trials, failed to elicit another an-
swering sound. This filled me tvith apprehension
again. I feared that my friends had been misled by
the reverberations, and I pictured them to myself has-
tening in the opposite direction. Paying little atten-
tion to my course, but paying clearly for my careless-
ness afterward, I rushed forward to undeceive them.
But they had not been deceived, and in a few moments
an answering shout revealed them near at hand. I
heard their tramp, the bushes parted, and we three
met again.

In answer to their eager inquiries, I assured them

BIRCH BROWSINGS. i89

that I had seen the lake, that it was at the foot of the
mountain, and that we could not miss it if we kept
straight down from where we then were.

My clothes were soaked with perspiration, but I
shouldered my knapsack with alacrity, and we began
the descent. I noticed that the woods were much
thicker, and had quite a different look from those I
had passed through, but thought nothing of it, as I
expected to strike the lake near its head, whereas I
had before come out at its foot. We had not gone far
when we crossed a line of marked trees, which my
companions were disposed to follow. It intersected
our course nearly at right angles, and kept along and
up the side of the mountain. My impression was that
it led up from the lake, and that by keeping our own
course we should reach the lake sooner than if we fol-
lowed this line.

About half-way down the mountain, we could see
through the interstices the opposite slope. I encour-
aged my comrades by telling them that the lake was
between us and that, and not more than half a mile
distant. We soon reached the bottom, where we found
a small stream and quite an extensive alder-swamp,
evidently the ancient bed of a lake. I explained to
my half-vexed and half-incredulous companions that
we were probably above the lake, and that this stream
must lead to it. " Follow it," they said : " we will
wait here till we hear from you."

So I went on, more than ever disposed to believe

190 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

that we were under a spell, and that the lake had
slipped from my grasp after all. Seeing no favorable
sign as I went forward, I laid down my accoutrements,
and climbed a decayed beech that leaned out over the
swamp and promised a good view from the top. As I
stretched myself up to look around from the highest
attainable branch, there was suddenly a loud crack
at the root. With a celerity that would at least have
done credit to a bear, I regained the ground, having
caught but a momentary glimpse of the country, but
enough to convince me no lake was near. Leaving all
encumbrances here but my gun, I still pressed on, loath
to be thus baffled. After floundering through another
alder-swamp for nearly half a mile, I flattered myself
that I was close on to the lake. I caught sight of a
low spur of the mountain sweeping around like a half-
extended arm, and I fondly imagined that within its
clasp was the object of my search. But I found only
more alder-swamp. After this region was cleared, the
creek began to descend the mountain very rapidly. Its
banks became high and narrow, and it went whirling
away with a sound that seemed to my ears like a burst
of ironical laughter. I turned back with a feeling of
mingled disgust, shame, and vexation. In fact I was
almost sick, and when I reached my companions, after
an absence of nearly two hours, hungry, fatigued, and
disheartened, I would have sold my interest in Thomas's
Lake at a very low figure. For the first time, I heart-
ily wished myself well out of the woods. Thomas might

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 19 I

keep his lake, and the enchanters guard his possession !
I doubted if he had ever found it the second time, or
if any one else ever had.

My companions, who were quite fresh, and who had
not felt the strain of baffled purpose as I had, assumed
a more encouraging tone. After I had rested a while,
and partaken sparingly of the bread and whiskey, which
in such an emergency is a great improvement on bread
and water, I agreed to their proposition that we should
make another attempt. As if to reassure us, a robin
sounded his cheery call near by, and the winter-wren,
the first I had heard in these woods, set his music-box
going, which fairly ran over with fine, gushing, lyrical
sounds. There can be no doubt but this bird is one
of our finest songsters. If it would only thrive and
sing well when caged, like the canary, how far it would
surpass that bird ! It has all the vivacity and versa-
tility of the canary, without any of its shrillness. Its
song is indeed a little cascade of melody.

We again retraced our steps, rolling the stone, as it
were, back up the mountain, determined to commit our-
selves to the line of marked trees. These we finally
reached, and, after exploring the country to the right,
saw that bearing to the left was still the order. The
trail led up over a gentle rise of ground, and in less
than twenty minutes we were in the woods I had passed
through when I found the lake. The error I had made
was then plain ; we had come off the mountain a few-
paces too far to the right, and so had passed down on

192 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

the wrong side of the ridge, into what we afterwards
learned was the valley of Alder Creek.

We now made good time, and before many minutes
I again saw the mimic sky glance through the trees.
As we approached the lake a solitary woodchuck, the
first wild animal we had seen since entering the woods,
sat crouched upon the root of a tree a few feet from the
water, apparently completely nonplussed by the unex-
pected appearance of danger on the land side. All
retreat was cut off, and he looked his fate in the face
without flinching. I slaughtered him just as a savage
would have done, and from the same motive, — I
wanted his carcass to eat.

The mid-afternoon sun was now shining upon the
lake, and a low, steady breeze drove the little waves
rocking to the shore. A herd of cattle were browsing
on the other side, and the bell of the leader sounded
across the water. In these solitudes its clang was wild
and musical.

To try the trout was the first thing in order. On a
rude raft of logs which we found moored at the shore,
and which with two aboard shipped about a foot of
water, we floated out and wet our first fly in Thomas's
Lake ; but the trout refused to jump, and, to be frank,
not more than a dozen and a half were caught during
our stay. Only a week previous, a party of three had
taken in a few hours all the fish they could carry out
of the woods, and had nearly surfeited their neighbors
with trout. But from some cause they now refused to

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 193

rise, or to touch any kind of bait ; so we fell to catch-
ing the sun-fish which were small but very abundant.
Their nests were all along shore. A space about the
size of a breakfast-plate was cleared of sediment and
decayed vegetable matter, revealing the pebbly bottom,
fresh and bright, with one or two fish suspended over
the centre of it, keeping watch and ward. If an in-
truder approached, they would dart at him spitefully.
These fish have the air of bantam cocks, and with
their sharp, prickly fins and spines, and scaly sides,
must be ugly customers in a hand to hand encounter
with other finny warriors. To a hungry man they look
about as unpromising as hemlock slivers, so thorny and
thin are they ; yet there is sweet meat in them, as we
found that day.

. Much refreshed, I set out with the sun low in the
west to explore the outlet of the lake and try for trout
there, while my companions made further trials in the
lake itself. The outlet, as is usual in bodies of water
of this kind, was very gentle and private. The stream
six or eight feet wide, flowed silently and evenly
along for a distance of three or four rods, when it sud-
denly, as if conscious of its freedom, took a leap down
some rocks. Thence, as far as I followed it, its descent
was very rapid, through a continuous succession of
brief falls like so many steps down the mountain. Its
appearance promised more trout than I found, though
I returned to camp with a very respectable string.
Toward sunset I went round to explore the inlet,
13

194 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

and found that as usual the stream wound leisurely
through marshy ground. The water being much colder
than in the outlet, the trout were more plentiful. As
I was picking my way over the miry ground and
through the rank growths, a ruffed grouse hopped up
on a fallen branch a few paces before me, and, jerking
his tail, threatened to take flight. ' But as I was at that
moment gunless and remained stationary, he presently
jumped down and walked away.

A seeker of birds, and ever on the alert for some
new acquaintance, my attention was arrested, on first
entering the swamp, by a bright, lively song, or warble,
that issued from the branches overhead, and that was
entirely new to me, though there was something in the
tone of it that told me the bird was related to the wood-
wagtail and to the water-wagtail or thrush. The strain
was emphatic and quite loud, like the canary's, but very
brief. The bird kept itself well secreted in the upper
branches of the trees and for a long time eluded my
eye. I passed to and fro several times, and it seemed
to break out afresh as I approached a certain little bend
in the creek, and to cease after I had got beyond it ;
no doubt its nest was somewhere in the vicinity. After
some delay the bird was sighted and brought down. It
proved to be the small, or northern, water-thrush (called
also the New York water-thrush) — a new bird to me.
In size it was noticeably smaller than the large, or Lou-
isiana, water-thrush, as described by Audubon, but in
other respects its general appearance was the same. It
was a great treat to me, and again I felt myself in luck.

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 195

This bird was unknown to the older ornithologists,
and is but poorly described by the new. It builds a
mossy nest on the ground, or under the edge of a de-
cayed log. A correspondent writes me that he has
found it breeding on the mountains in Pennsylvania.
The large-billed water-thrush is much the superior
songster, but the present species has a very bright and
cheerful strain. The specimen I saw, contrary to the
habits of the family, kept in the tree-tops like a war-
bler, and seemed to be engaged in catching insects.

The birds were unusually plentiful and noisy about
the head, of this lake ; robins, blue-jays, and wood-
peckers greeted me with their familiar notes. The
blue-jays found an owl or some wild animal a short
distance above me, and, as is their custom on such
occasions, proclaimed it at the top of their voices,
and kept on till the darkness began to gather in the
woods.

I also heard here, as I had at two or three other
points in the course of the day, the peculiar, resonant
hammering of some species of woodpecker upon the
hard, dry limbs. It was unlike any sound of the kind
I had ever before heard, and, repeated at intervals
through the silent woods, was a very marked and char-
acteristic feature. Its peculiarity was the ordered
succession of the raps, which gave it the character
of a premeditated performance. There were first
three strokes following each other rapidly, then two
much louder ones with longer intervals between them.

196 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

I heard the drumming here, and the next day at sun-
set at Furlow Lake, the source of Dry Brook, and in
no instance was the order varied. There was melody
in it, such as a woodpecker knows how to evoke from
a smooth, dry branch. It suggested something quite
as pleasing as the liveliest bird-song, and was if any-
thing more woodsy and wild. As the yellow-bellied
woodpecker was the most abundant species in these
woods I attributed it to him. It is the one sound
that still links itself with those scenes in my mind.

At sunset the grouse began to drum in all parts of >
the woods about the lake. I could hear five at one
time, thump, thump, thump, thump, thr-r-r-r-r-r-rr. It
was a homely, welcome sound. As I returned to
camp at twilight, along the shore of the lake, the frogs
also were in full chorus. The older ones ripped out
their responses to each other with terrific force and
volume. I know of no other animal capable of giving
forth so much sound, in proportion to its size, as a
frog. Some of these seemed to bellow as loud as a
two-year-old bull. They were of immense size, and
very abundant. No frog-eater had ever been there.
Near the shore we felled a tree which reached far
out in the lake. Upon the trunk and branches the
frogs had soon collected in large numbers, and gam-
boled and splashed about the half-submerged top, like
a parcel of school-boys, making nearly as much noise.

After dark, as I was frying the fish, a panful of
the largest trout was accidentally capsized in the

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 197

fire. With rueful countenances we contemplated the
irreparable loss our commissariat had sustained by
this mishap ; but remembering there was virtue in
. ashes, we poked the half-consumed fish from the bed
of coals and ate them, and they were good.

We lodged that night on a brush-heap and slept
soundly. The green, yielding beech-twigs, covered
with a buffalo robe, were equal to a hair mattress.
The heat and smoke from a large fire kindled in the
afternoon had banished every " no-see-em " from the
locality, and in the morning the sun was above the
mountain before we awoke.

I immediately started again for the inlet, and went
far up the stream toward its source. A fair string of
trout for breakfast was my reward. The cattle with
the bell were at the head of the valley, where they
had passed the night. Most of them were two-year-
old steers. They came up to me and begged for salt,
and scared the fish by their importunities.

We finished our bread that morning, and ate every
fish we could catch, and about ten o'clock prepared
to leave the lake. The weather had been admirable,
and the lake was a gem, and I would gladly have
spent a week in the neighborhood ; but the question
of supplies was a serious one, and would brook no
delay.

When we reached, on our return, the point where we
had crossed the line of marked trees the day before,
the question arose whether we should still trust our-

198 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

m

selves to this line, or follow our own trail back to the
spring and the battlement of rocks on the top of the
mountain, and thence to the rock where the guide
had left us. We decided in favor of the former course.
After a march of three quarters of an hour the blazed
trees ceased, and we concluded we were near the point
at which we had parted with the guide. So we built
a fire, laid down our loads, and cast about on all
sides for some clew as to our exact locality. Nearly
an hour was consumed in this manner and without
any result. I came upon a brood of young grouse,
which diverted me for a moment. The old one blus-
tered about at a furious rate, trying to draw all attention
to herself, while the young ones, which were unable to
fly, hid themselves. She whined like a dog in great
distress, and dragged herself along apparently with
the greatest difficulty. As I pursued her, she ran very
nimbly, and presently flew a few yards. Then, as I
went on, she flew farther and farther each time, till at
last she got up, and went humming through the woods
as if she had no interest in them. I went back and
caught one of the young, which had simply squatted
close to the leaves. I took it up and set it on the
palm of my hand, which it hugged as closely as if still
upon the ground. I then put it in my coatsleeve, when
it ran and nestled in my armpit.

When we met at the sign of the smoke, opinions
differed as to the most feasible course. There was no
doubt but that we could get out of the woods ; but we

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 1 99

wished to get out speedily and as near as possible to
the point where we had entered. Half ashamed of
our timidity and indecision, we finally tramped away
back to where we had crossed the line of blazed trees,
followed our old trail to the spring on the top of the
range, and, after much searching and scouring to the
right and left found ourselves at the very place we
had left two hours before. Another deliberation and
a divided council. But something must be done. It
was then mid-afternoon, and the prospect of spending
another night on the mountains, without food or drink,
was not pleasant. So we moved down the ridge.
Here another line of marked trees was found, the
course of which formed an obtuse angle with the one
we had followed. It kept on the top of the ridge for
perhaps a mile, when it entirely disappeared, and we
were as much adrift as ever. Then one of the party
swore an oath, and said he was going out of those
woods, hit or miss, and, wheeling to the right, instantly
plunged over the brink of the mountain. The rest
followed, but would fain have paused and ciphered
away at their own uncertainties, to see if a certainty
could not be arrived at as to where we would come
out. But our bold leader was solving the problem in
the right way. Down and down and still down we went,
as if we were to bring up in the bowels of the earth.
It was by far the steepest descent we had made, and
we felt a grim satisfaction in knowing that we could
not retrace our steps this time, be the issue what it

200 BIRCH BROWSINGS.

might. As we paused on the hrink of a ledge of rocks,
we chanced to see through the trees distant cleared
land. A house or barn also was dimly descried. This
was encouraging ; but we could not make out whether
it was on Beaver Kill or Mill Brook or Dry Brook, and
did not long stop to consider where it was. We at
last brought up at the bottom of a deep gorge, through
which flowed a rapid creek that literally swarmed with
trout. But we were in no mood to catch them, and
pushed on along the channel of the stream, sometimes
leaping from rock to rock, and sometimes splashing
heedlessly through the water, and speculating the while
as to where we would probably come out. On the
Beaver Kill, my companions thought ; but, from the
position of the sun, I said, on the Mill Brook, about
six miles below our team ; for I remembered having
seen, in coming up this stream, a deep, wild valley that
led up into the mountains, like this one. Soon the
banks of the stream became lower, and we moved into
the woods. Here we entered upon an obscure wood-
road, which presently conducted us into the midst of a
vast hemlock forest. The land had a gentle slope, and
we wondered why the lumbermen and barkmen who
prowl through these woods had left this fine tract
untouched. Beyond this the forest was mostly birch
and maple.

We were now close to the settlement, and began to
hear human sounds. One rod more, and we were out
of the woods. It took us a moment to comprehend

BIRCH BROWSINGS. 201

the scene. Things looked very strange at first ; but
quickly they began to change and to put on familiar
features. Some magic scene-shifting seemed to take
place before my eyes, till instead of the unknown set-
tlement which I at first seemed to look upon there
stood the farm-house at which we had stopped two
days before, and at the same moment we- heard the
stamping of our team in the barn. We sat down
and laughed heartily over our good luck. Our des-
perate venture had resulted better than we had dared
to hope, and had shamed our wisest plans. At the
house our arrival had been anticipated about this time,
and dinner was being put upon the. table.

It was then five o'clock, so that we had been in the
woods just forty-eight hours; but if time is only phe-
nomenal, as the philosophers say, and life only in feel-
ing, as the poets aver, we were some months, if not
years, older at that moment than we had been two
days before. Yet younger too, — though this be a
paradox, — for the birches had infused into us some
of their own suppleness and strength.

THE INVITATION.

THE INVITATION.

YEARS ago, when quite a youth, I was rambling
in the woods, one Sunday, with my brothers, gath-
ering black birch, wintergreens, etc., when, as we re-
clined upon the ground, gazing vaguely up into the
trees, I caught sight of a bird, that paused a moment
on a branch above me, the like of which I had never
before seen or heard of. It was probably the blue
yellow-backed warbler, as I have since found this to
be a common bird in those woods ; but to my young
fancy it seemed like some fairy bird, so curiously
marked was it, and so new and unexpected. I saw
it a moment as the flickering leaves parted, noted
the white spot on its wing, and it was gone. How
the thought of it clung to me afterward ! It was a
revelation. It was the first intimation I had had
that the woods we knew so well held birds that
we knew not at all. Were our eyes and ears so
dull, then ? There was the robin, the blue-jay, the
bluebird, the yellow-bird, the cherry-bird, the cat-bird,
the chipping-bird, the woodpecker, the high-hole, an
occasional redbird, and a few others, in the woods, or
along their borders, but who ever dreamed that there
were still others that not even the hunters saw, and
whose names no one had ever heard ?

206 THE INVITATION.

When, one summer day, later in life, I took my gun,
and went to the woods again, in a different, though, per-
haps, a less simple spirit, I found my youthful vision
more than realized. There were, indeed, other birds,
plenty of them, singing, nesting, breeding, among the
familiar trees, which I had before passed by unheard and
unseen.

It is a surprise that awaits every student of ornithol-
ogy, and the thrill of delight that accompanies it, and
the feeling of fresh, eager inquiry that follows, can
hardly be awakened by any other pursuit. Take the
first step in ornithology, procure one new specimen,
and you are ticketed for the whole voyage. There is
a fascination about it quite overpowering. It fits so
well with other things — with fishing, hunting, farming,
walking, camping-out — with all that takes one to the
fields and woods. One may go a blackberrying and
make some rare discovery ; or, while driving his cow
to pasture, hear a new song, or make a new observa-
tion. Secrets lurk on all sides. There is news in
every bush. Expectation is ever on tiptoe. What no
man ever saw before may the next moment be revealed
to you. What a new interest the woods have ! How
you long to explore every nook and corner of them !
You would even find consolation in being lost in them.
You could then hear the night birds and the owls,
and, in your wanderings, might stumble upon some un-
known specimen.

In all excursions to the woods or to the shore, the
student of ornithology has an advantage over his com-

THE INVITATION. 207

panions. He has one more resource, one more ave-
nue of delight. He, indeed, kills two birds with one
stone, and sometimes three. If others wander, he can
never go out of his way. His game is everywhere.
The cawing of a crow makes him feel at home, while
a new note or a new song drowns all care. Audubon,
on the desolate coast of Labrador, is happier than any
king ever was ; and on shipboard is nearly cured of
his sea-sickness when a new gull appears in sight.

One must taste it to understand or appreciate its
fascination. The looker-on sees nothing to inspire
such enthusiasm. Only a little feathers and a half-
musical note or two ; why all this ado ? " Who would
give a hundred and twenty dollars to know about the
birds ? " said an eastern Governor, half contempt-
uously, to Wilson, as the latter solicited a subscription
to his great work. Sure enough. Bought knowledge
is dear at any price. The most precious things have
no commercial value. It is not, your Excellency, mere
technical knowledge of the birds that you are asked to
purchase, but a new interest in the fields and woods,
a new moral and intellectual tonic, a new key to the
treasure-house of nature. Think of the many other
things your Excellency would get ; the air, the sunshine,
the h,ealing fragrance and coolness, and the many re-
spites from the knavery and turmoil of political life.

Yesterday was an Octbber day of rare brightness
and warmth. I spent the most of it in a wild, wooded
gorge of Rock Creek. A persimmon-tree which stood

2o8 THE INVITATION.

upon the bank had dropped some of its fruit in the
water. As I stood there, half-leg deep, picking them
up, a wood-duck came flying down the creek and
passed over my head. Presently it returned, flying
up ; then it came back again, and, sweeping low around
a bend, prepared to alight in a still, dark reach in the
creek which was hidden from my view. As I passed
that way about half an hour afterward, the duck start-
ed up, uttering its wild alarm note. In the stillness I
could hear the whistle of its wings and the splash of
the water when it took flight. Near by I saw where a
raccoon had come down to the water for fresh clams,
leaving , his long, sharp track in the mud and sand.
Before I had passed this hidden stretch of water, a
pair of those mysteVious thrushes, the gray-cheeked,
flew up from the ground and perched on a low branch.

Who can tell how much this duck, this foot-print in
the sand, and these strange thrushes, from the far
North, enhanced the interest and charm of the autumn
woods ?

Ofnithology cannot be satisfactorily learned from
the books. The satisfaction is in learning it from
nature. One must have an original experience with the
birds. The books are only the guide, the invitation.
Though there remain not another new species to de-
scribe, any young person with health and enthusiasm
has open to him or her the whole field anew, and is
eligible to experience all the thrill and delight of the
original discoverers.

THE INVITATION. 209

But let me say, in the same breath, that the books
can by no manner of means be dispensed with. A
copy of Wilson or Audubon, for reference and to
compare notes with, is invaluable. In lieu of these,
access to some large museum or collection would be
a great help. In the beginning, one finds it very diffi-
cult to identify a bird from any verbal description.
Reference to a colored plate, or to a stuffed specimen,
at once settles the matter. This is the chief value of
the books j they are charts to sail by ; the route is
mapped out, and much time and labor thereby saved.
First, find your bird ; observe its ways, its song, its
calls, its flight, its haunts ; then shoot it (not ogle it
with a glass), and compare with Audubon. In this
way the feathered kingdom may soon be conquered.

The ornithologists divide and subdivide the birds
into a great many families, orders, genera, species,
etc., which, at first sight, are apt to confuse and dis-
courage the reader. But any interested person can
acquaint himself with most of our song-birds, by keep-
ing in mind a few general divisions, and observing the
characteristics of each. By far the greater number of
our land-birds are either warblers, vireos, fly-catchers,
thrushes or finches.

The warblers are, perhaps, the most puzzling.
These are the true Sylvia, the real wood-birds. They
are small, very active, but feeble songsters, and, to be
seen, must be sought for. In passing through the
woods, most persons have a vague consciousness of

210 THE INVITATION.

slight chirping, semi-musical sounds in the trees over-
head. In most cases these sounds proceed from the
warblers. Throughout the Middle and Eastern States,
half a dozen species or so may be found in almost every
locality, as the redstart,1 the Maryland yellow-throat,
the yellow warbler (not the common goldfinch, with
black cap, and black wings and tail), the hooded war-
bler, the black and white creeping warbler ; or others,
according to the locality and the character of the woods.
In pine or hemlock woods, one species may predominate;
in maple or oak woods, or in mountainous districts,
another. The subdivision of ground warblers, the most
common members of which are the Maryland yellow-
throat, the Kentucky warbler, and the mourning ground
warbler, are usually found in low, wet, bushy, or half-
open woods, often on, and always near the ground.

The summer yellow-bird, or yellow warbler, is not
now a wood-bird at all, being found in orchards and
parks, and along streams and in the trees of villages
and cities.

As we go North, the number of warblers increases,
till, in the northern part of New England, and in the
Canadas, as many as ten or twelve varieties may be
found breeding in June. Audubon found the black-

1 I am aware that the redstart is generally classed among the
fly-catchers, but its song, its form, and its habits are in every re-
spect those of a warbler. Its main fly-catcher mark is its beak,
but to the muscicapa proper it presents little or no resemblance
to the general observer.

THE INVITATION. 211

poll warbler breeding in Labrador, and congratulates
himself on being the first white man who had ever
seen its nest. When these warblers pass north in
May, they seem to go singly or in pairs, and their
black caps and striped coats show conspicuously.
When they return in September they are in troops or
loose flocks, are of a uniform dull drab or brindlish
color, and are very fat. They scour the tree -tops for
a few days, almost eluding the eye by their quick move-
ments, and are gone.

According to my own observation, the number of
species of warblers which one living, in the middle
districts sees, on their return in the fall, is very small
compared with the number he may observe migrating
North in the spring.

The yellow-rumped warblers are the most notice-
able of all in the autumn. They come about the
streets and garden, and seem especially drawn to dry,
leafless trees. They dart spitefully about, uttering a
sharp chirp. In Washington I have seen them in the
outskirts all winter.

Audubon figures and describes over forty different
warblers. More recent writers have divided and
subdivided the group very much, giving new names
to new classifications. But this part is of interest and
value only to the professional ornithologist.

The finest songster among the Sylvia, according to
my notions, is the black-throated greenback. Its song
is sweet and clear, but brief.

212 THE INVITATION.

The rarest of the species are Swainson's warbler,
said to be disappearing ; the cerulean warbler, said
to be abundant about Niagara j and the mourning-
ground warbler, which I have found breeding about
the head-waters of the Delaware, in New York.

The vireos, or greenlets, are a sort of connecting
link between the warblers and the true fly-catchers,
and partake of the characteristics of both.

The red-eyed vireo, whose sweet soliloquy is one of
the most constant and cheerful sounds in our woods
and groves, is, perhaps, the most noticeable and abun-
dant species. The vireos are a little larger than the
warblers, and are far less brilliant and variegated in
color.

There are four species found in most of our woods,
namely, the red-eyed vireo, the white-eyed vireo, the
warbling-vireo, and the solitary-vireo, — the red-eyed
and warbling being most abundant, and the white-eyed
being the most lively and animated songster. I meet
the latter bird only in the thick, bushy growths of low,
swampy localities, where, eluding the observer, it
pours forth its song with a sharpness and a rapidity
of articulation that are truly astonishing. This strain
is very marked, and, though inlaid with the notes of
several other birds, is entirely unique. The iris of
this bird is white, as that of the red-eyed is red,
though in neither case can this mark be distinguished
at more than two or three yards. In most cases, the
iris of birds is a dark hazel, which passes for black.

THE INVITATION. 213

The basket-like nest, pendent to the low branches in
the woods, which the falling leaves of autumn reveal
to all passers, is, in most cases, the nest of the red-eyed,
though the solitary constructs a similar tenement, but
in much more remote and secluded localities.

The general color of this group of birds is very light
ash beneath, becoming darker above, with a tinge of
green. The red-eyed has a crown of a bluish tinge.

Most birds exhibit great alarm and distress, usually
with a strong dash of anger, when you approach their
nests ; but the demeanor of the red-eyed, on such an
occasion, is an exception to this rule. The parent
birds move about softly amid the branches above, ey-
ing the intruder with a curious, innocent look, uttering,
now and then, a subdued note or plaint, solicitous and
watchful, but making no demonstration of anger or
distress.

The birds, no more than the animals, like to be
caught napping ; but I remember, one autumn day, of
coming upon a red-eyed vireo that was clearly oblivious
to all that was passing around it. It was a young bird,
though full grown, and it was taking its siesta on a low
branch in a remote heathery field. Its head was snugly
stowed away under its wing, and it would have fallen
an easy prey to the first hawk that came along. I ap-
proached noiselessly, and when within a few feet of it
paused to note its breathings, so much more rapid and
full than our own. A bird has greater lung capacity
than any other living thing, hence more animal heat,

214 THE INVITATION.

and life at a higher pressure. When I reached out my
hand and carefully closed it around the winged sieeper,
its sudden terror and consternation almost paralyzed it.
Then it struggled and cried piteously, and when re-
leased, hastened and hid itself in some near bushes. I
never expected to surprise it thus a second time.

The fly-catchers are a larger group than the vireos,
with stronger-marked characteristics. They are not
properly songsters, but are classed by some writers
as screechers. Their pugnacious dispositions are well
known, and they not only fight among themselves but
are incessantly quarreling with their neighbors. The
king-bird, or tyrant fly-catcher, might serve as the type
of the order.

The common pewee excites the most pleasant emo-
tions, both on account of its plaintive note, and its
exquisite mossy nest.

The phoebe-bird is the pioneer of the fly-catchers, and
comes in April, sometimes in March. It comes famil-
iarly about the house and out-buildings and usually
builds beneath hay-sheds or under bridges.

The fly-catchers always take their insect prey on the
wing, by a sudden darting or swooping movement ;
often a very audible snap of the beak may be heard.

These birds are the least elegant, both in form and
color, of any of our feathered neighbors. They have
short legs, a short neck, large heads, and broad, flat
beaks, with bristles at the base. They often fly with a
peculiar quivering movement of the wings, and when
at rest oscillate their tails at short intervals.

THE INVITATION. 215

There are found in the United States nineteen spe-
cies. In the Middle and Eastern districts, one may
observe in summer, without any special search, about
five of them, namely, the king-bird, the phcebe-bird, the
wood-pewee, the great-crested fly-catcher (distinguished
from all others by the bright ferruginous color of its
tail), and the small green-crested fly-catcher.

The thrushes are the birds of real melody, and will
afford one more delight perhaps than any other class.
The robin is the most familiar example. Their man-
ners, flight, and form are the same in each species.
See the robin hop along upon the ground, strike an
attitude, scratch for a worm, fix his eye upon some-
thing before him or upon the beholder, flip his wings
suspiciously, fly straight to his perch, or sit at sundown
on some high branch caroling his sweet and honest
strain, and you have seen what is characteristic of all
the thrushes. Their carriage is preeminently marked
by grace, and their songs by melody.

Beside the robin, which is in no sense a wood-bird,
we have, in New York, the wood-thrush, the hermit-
thrush, the veery, or Wilson's thrush, the olive-backed
thrush, and, transiently, one or two other species not so
clearly defined.

The wood-thrush and the hermit stand at the head
as songsters, no two persons, perhaps, agreeing as to
which is the superior.

Under the general head of finches, Audubon describes
over sixty different birds, ranging from the sparrows to

216 THE INVITATION.

the grossbeaks, and including the buntings, the linnets,
the snow-birds, the cross-bills, and the redbirds.

We have nearly or quite a dozen varieties of the
sparrow in the Atlantic States, but perhaps no more
than half that number would be discriminated by the
unprofessional observer. The song-sparrow, which
every child knows, comes first, at least his voice is first
heard. And can there be anything more fresh and
pleasing than this first simple strain heard from the
garden fence or a near hedge, on some bright, still
March morning ?

The field or vesper-sparrow, called also grass-finch,
and bay-winged sparrow, a bird slightly larger than the
song-sparrow and of a lighter gray color, is abundant
in all our upland fields and pastures, and is a very
sweet songster. It builds upon the ground, without
the slightest cover or protection, and also roosts there.
Walking through the fields at dusk I frequently start
them up almost beneath my feet. When disturbed by
day they fly with a quick, sharp movement, showing
two white quills in the tail. The traveller along the
country roads disturbs them earthing their wings in the
soft dry earth, or sees them skulking and flitting along
the fences in front of him. They run in the furrow in
advance of the team, or perch upon the stones a few
rods off. They sing much after sundown, hence the
aptness of the name vesper-sparrow, which a recent
writer, Wilson Flagg, has bestowed upon them.

In the meadows and low wet lands the Savannah

THE INVITATION. 217

sparrow is met with, and may be known by its fine,
insect-like song. In the swamp, the swamp-sparrow.

The fox-sparrow, the largest and handsomest species
of this family, comes to us in the fall, from the North,
where it breeds. Likewise the tree or Canada sparrow,
and the white-crowned and white-throated sparrows.

The social-sparrow, alias " hair-bird," alias " red-
headed chipping-bird," is the smallest of the sparrows,
and, I believe, the only one that builds in trees.

The finches, as a class, all have short conical bills,
with tails more or less forked. The purple-finch heads
the list in varied musical ability.

Beside the groups of our more familiar birds which
I have thus hastily outlined, there are numerous other
groups, more limited in specimens but comprising some
of our best known songsters. The bobolink, for in-
stance, has properly no congener. The famous mock-
ing-bird of the Southern States belongs to a genus
which has but two other representatives in the Atlan-
tic States, namely, the cat-bird and the long-tailed or
ferruginous thrush.

The wrens are a large and interesting family, and as
songsters are noted for vivacity and volubility. The
more common species are the house-wren, the wood-
wren, the marsh-wren, the great Carolina wren, and the
winter-wren, the latter perhaps deriving its name from
the fact that it breeds in the North. It is an exquisite
songster, and pours forth its notes so rapidly and with
such sylvan sweetness and cadence, that it seems to go
off like a musical alarm.

218 THE INVITATION.

Wilson called the kinglets wrens, but they have little
to justify the name, except their song, which is of the
same continuous, gushing, lyrical character as that re-
ferred to above. Dr. Brewer was entranced with the
song of one of these tiny minstrels in the woods of New
Brunswick, and thought he had found the author of the
strain in the black-poll warbler. He seems loth to be-
lieve that a bird so small as either of the kinglets could
possess such vocal powers. It may indeed have been
the winter-wren, but from my own observation I believe
the golden-crowned kinglet quite capable of such a
performance.

But I must leave this part of the subject and hasten
on. As to works on ornithology, Audubon's, though
its expense puts it beyond the reach of the mass of
readers, is, by far, the most full and accurate. His
drawings surpass all others in accuracy and spirit,
while his enthusiasm and devotion to the work he had
undertaken, have but few parallels in the history of
science. .His chapter on the wild goose is as good as
a poem. One readily overlooks his style, which is
often verbose and affected, in consideration of enthu-
siasm so genuine and purpose so single.

There has never been a keener eye than Audubon's,
though there have been more discriminative ears. Nut-
tall, for instance, is far more happy in his descriptions
of the songs and notes of birds, and more to be relied
upon. Audubon thinks the song of the Louisiana water-
thrush equal to that of the European nightingale, and,

THE INVITATION. 219

as he had heard both birds, one would think was pre-
pared to judge. Yet he has, no doubt, overrated the
one and underrated the other. The song of the water-
thrush is very brief, compared with the philomel's, and
its quality is brightness and vivacity, while that of the
latter bird, if the books are to be credited, is melody
and harmony. Again, he says the song of the blue
grossbeak resembles the bobolink's, which it does
about as much as the color of the two birds resembles
each other : one is black and white and the other is
blue. The song of the wood-wagtail, he says, consists
of a " short succession of simple notes beginning with
emphasis and gradually falling." The truth is they run
up the scale instead of down ; beginning low and end-
ing in a shriek.

Yet considering the extent of Audubon's work, the
wonder is the errors are so few. I can, at this moment,
recall but one observation of his, the contrary of which
I have proved to be true. In his account of the bobo-
link he makes a point of the fact that in returning
South in the fall they do not travel by night as they do
when moving North in the spring. In Washington I
have heard their calls as they flew over at night for
four successive autumns. As he devoted the whole of
a long life to the subject, and figured and described over
four hundred species, one feels a real triumph on find-
ing in our common woods a bird not described in his
work. I have seen but two. Walking in the woods
one clay in early fall, in the vicinity of West Point, I

220 THE INVITATION.

*

started up a thrush that was sitting on the ground. It
alighted on a branch a few yards off, and looked new to
me. I thought I had never before seen so long-legged
a thrush. I shot it, and saw that it was a new acquaint-
ance. Its peculiarities were its broad, square tail ; the
length of its legs, which were three and three quarters
inches from the end of the middle toe to the hip-joint ;
and the deep uniform olive-brown of the upper parts,
and the gray of the lower. It proved to be the gray-
cheeked thrush (Turdus alicia), named and first de-
scribed by Professor Baird. But little seems to be
known concerning it, except that it breeds in the far
North, even on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. I
would go a good way to hear its song.

The present season I met with a pair of them near
Washington, as mentioned above. In size this bird
approaches the wood-thrush, being larger than either
the hermit or the veery ; unlike all other species, no
part of its plumage has a tawny or yellowish tinge.
The other specimen was the Northern or small
water-thrush, cousin-germ an to the oven-bird and half-
brother to the Louisiana water-thrush or wagtail. I
found it at the head of a remote mountain lake among
the sources of the Delaware, where it evidently had
a nest. It usually breeds much farther North. It has
a strong, clear warble, which at once suggests the
song of its congener. I have not been able to find any
account of this particular species in the books, though
it seems to be well known.

THE INVITATION. 221

More recent writers and explorers have added to
Audubon's list over three hundred new species, the
greater number of which belong to the Northern and
Western parts of the Continent. Audubon's obser-
vations were confined mainly to the Atlantic and Gulf
States and the adjacent islands ; hence the Western
or Pacific birds were but little known to him, and are
only briefly mentioned in his works.

It is, by the way, a little remarkable how many of
the Western birds seem merely duplicates of the East-
ern. Thus, the varied-thrush of the West is our robin,
a little differently marked ; and the red-shafted wood-
pecker is our golden-wing, or high-hole, colored red
instead of yellow. There is also a Western chickadee,
a Western chewink, a Western blue-jay, a Western
meadow-lark, a Western snow-bird, a Western blue-
bird, a Western song-sparrow, Western grouse, quail,
hen-hawk, etc., etc.

One of the most remarkable birds of the West
seems to be a species of skylark, met with on the
plains of Dakota, which mounts to the height of three
or four hundred feet, and showers down its ecstatic
notes. It is evidently akin to several of our Eastern
species. A correspondent, writing to me from the
country one September, says, " I have observed re-
cently a new species of bird here. They alight upon
the buildings and fences as well as upon the ground.
They are walkers." In a few days he obtained one, and
sent me the skin. It proved to be what I had antici-

22 2 THE INVITATION.

pated, namely, the American pipit, or titlark, a slender
brown bird, about the size of the sparrow, which passes
through the States in the fall and spring, to and from
its breeding haunts in the far North. They generally
appear by twos and threes, or in small loose flocks,
searching for food on banks and ploughed ground. As
they fly up, they show two or three white quills in the
tail like the vesper-sparrow. Flying over, they utter
a single chirp or cry every few rods. They breed in the
bleak, moss-covered rocks of Labrador. Their eggs
have also been found in Vermont, and I feel quite
certain that I saw this bird in the Adirondac Moun-
tains in the month of August. The male launches
into the air, and gives forth a brief but melodious
song, after the manner of all larks. They are walkers.
This is a characteristic of but few of our land-birds.
By far the greater number are hoppers. Note the track
of the common snow-bird ; the feet are not placed one
in front of the other, as in the track of the crow or
partridge, but side and side. The sparrows, thrushes,
warblers, woodpeckers, buntings, etc., are all hoppers.
On the other hand, all aquatic or semi-aquatic birds
are walkers. The plovers and sandpipers and snipes
run rapidly. Among the land-birds, the grouse, pig-
eons, quails, larks, and various blackbirds, walk. The
swallows walk, also, whenever they use their feet at all,
but very awkwardly. The larks walk with ease and
grace. Note the meadow-lark strutting about all day
in the meadows.

THE INVITATION. 223

Beside being walkers, the larks, or birds allied to
the larks, all sing upon the wing, usually poised or
circling in the air, with a hovering, tremulous flight.
The meadow-lark occasionally does this in the early
part of the season. At such times its long-drawn note
or whistle becomes a rich, amorous warble.

The bobolink, also, has both characteristics, and,
notwithstanding the difference of form and build, etc.,
is very suggestive of the English skylark, as it figures
in the books, and is, no doubt, fully its equal as a
songster.

Of our small wood-birds we have three varieties,
east of the Mississippi, closely related to each other,
which I have already spoken of, and which walk and
sing, more or less, on the wing, namely, the two species
of water-thrush or wagtails, and the oven-bird, or wood-
wagtail. The latter is the most common, and few
observers of the birds can have failed to notice its
easy, gliding walk. Its other lark trait, namely, sing-
ing in the air, seems not to have been observed by
any naturalist. Yet, it is a well established char-
acteristic, and may be verified by any person who
will spend a half hour in the woods where this bird
abounds on some June afternoon or evening. I hear
it very frequently after sundown, when the ecstatic
singer can hardly be distinguished against the sky. I
know of a high, bald-top mountain where I have sat
late in the afternoon and heard them as often as one
every minute. Sometimes the bird would be far below

224 THE INVITATION.

me ; sometimes near at hand, and very frequently the
singer would be hovering a hundred feet above the
summit. He would start from the trees on one side
of the open space, reach his climax in the air, and
plunge down on the other side. Its descent after the
song is finished is very rapid, and precisely like that
of the titlark when it sweeps down from its course to
alight on the ground.

I first verified this observation some years ago. I
had long been familiar with the song, but had only
strongly suspected the author of it, when, as I was
walking in the woods one evening, just as the leaves
were putting out, I saw one of these birds but a few
rods from me. I was saying to myself, half audibly,
" Come, now, show off, if it is you ; I have come to
the woods expressly to settle this point," when it be-
gan to ascend, by short hops and flights, through the
branches, uttering a sharp, preliminary chirp. I fol-
lowed it with my eye ; saw it mount into the air and
circle over the woods, and saw it sweep down again
and dive through the trees, almost to the very perch
from which it had started.

As the paramount question in the life of a bird is the
question of food, perhaps the most serious troubles our
feathered neighbors encounter are early in the spring,
after the supply of fat with which nature stores every
corner and by-place of the system, thereby anticipat-
ing the scarcity of food, has been exhausted, and the
sudden and severe changes in the weather which occur

* THE INVITATION. 225

at this season make unusual demands upon their vital-
ity. No doubt many of the earlier birds die from
starvation and exposure at this season. Among a troop
of Canada sparrows, which I came upon one March
day, all of them evidently much reduced, one was so
feeble that I caught it in my hand.

During the present season, a very severe cold spell,
the first week in March, drove the bluebirds to seek
shelter about the houses and out-buildings. As night
approached, and the winds and the cold increased, they
seemed filled with apprehension and alarm, and in the
outskirts of the city came about the windows and doors,
crept behind the blinds, clung to the gutters and be-
neath the cornice, flitted from porch to porch, and from
house to house, seeking in vain for some safe retreat
from the cold. The street pump, which had a small
opening, just over the handle, was an attraction which
they could not resist And yet, they seemed aware of
the insecurity of the position ; for, no sooner would
they stow themselves away into the interior of the
pump, to the number of six or eight, than they would
rush out again, as if apprehensive of some approach-
ing danger. Time after time the cavity was filled and
refilled, with blue and brown intermingled, and as often
emptied. Presently they tarried longer than usual,
when I made a sudden sally and captured three, that
found a warmer and safer lodging for the night in the
cellar.

In the fall, birds and fowls of all kinds become very
15

226 THE INVITATION.

fat. The squirrels and mice lay by a supply of food
in their dens and retreats, but the birds, to a consider-
able extent, especially our winter residents, carry an
equivalent in their own systems, in the form of adipose
tissue. I killed a red-shouldered hawk, one December,
and on removing the skin found the body completely
encased in a coating of fat one quarter of an inch in
thickness. Not a particle of muscle was visible. This
coating not only serves as a protection against the
cold, but supplies the waste of the system, when food
is scarce, or fails altogether.

The crows at this season are in the same condition.
It is estimated that a crow needs at least half a
pound of meat per day, but it is evident that for weeks
and months during the winter and spring, they must
subsist on a mere fraction of this amount. I have no
doubt a crow or hawk, when in their fall condition,
would live two weeks without a morsel of food passing
their beaks ; a domestic fowl will do as much. One
January, I unwittingly shut a hen under the floor of an
out-building, where not a particle of food could be
obtained, and where she was entirely unprotected from
the severe cold. When the luckless Dominick was dis-
covered, about eighteen days afterward, she was brisk
and lively, but fearfully pinched up, and as light as
a bunch of feathers. The slightest wind carried her
before it. But by judicious feeding she was soon
restored.

The circumstance of the bluebirds being embold-

THE INVITATION. 227

ened by the cold, suggests the fact that the fear of
man, which now seems like an instinct in the birds, is
evidently an acquired trait, and foreign to them in
a state of primitive nature. Every gunner has ob-
served, to his chagrin, how wild the pigeons become
after a few days of firing among them ; and, to his de-
light, how easy it is to approach near his game in new
or unfrequented woods. Professor Baird tells me that a
correspondent of theirs visited a small island in the
Pacific Ocean, situated about two hundred miles off
Cape St. Lucas, to procure specimens. The island
was but a few miles in extent, and had probably never
been visited half a dozen times by human beings. The
naturalist found the birds and water-fowls so tame that
it was but a waste of ammunition to shoot them. Fixing
a noose on the end of a long stick, he captured them by
putting it over their necks and hauling them to him.
In some cases not even this contrivance was needed.
A species of mocking-bird, in particular, larger than
ours, and a splendid songster, made itself so familiar
as to be almost a nuisance, hopping on the tabic where
the collector was writing, and scattering the pens and
paper. Eighteen species were found, twelve of them
peculiar to the island.

Thoreau relates that in the woods of Maine, the
Canada jay will sometimes make its meal with the
lumbermen, taking the food out of their hands.

Yet, notwithstanding the birds have come to look
upon man as their natural enemy, there can be little
doubt that civilization is on the whole favorable to

228 THE INVITATION.

their increase and perpetuity, especially to the smaller
species. With man, come flies and moths, and insects
of all kinds in greater abundance ; new plants and
weeds are introduced, and, with the clearing up of the
country, are sowed broadcast over the land.

The larks and snow-buntings that come to us from
the North, subsist almost entirely upon the seeds of
grasses and plants ; and how many of our more com-
mon and abundant species are field-birds, and entire
strangers to deep forests?

In Europe some birds have become almost domes-
ticated, like the house-sparrow, and in our own country
the cliff-swallow seems to have entirely abandoned
ledges and shelving rocks, as a place to nest, for the
eaves and projections of farms and other out-build-
ings.

The European house-sparrow, by the way, has been
introduced with entire success in this country, and in
New York and the adjacent cities is already quite nu-
merous, and is rapidly increasing. Before I was aware
of this fact I was much puzzled, a couple of years ago,
by a bird I saw in the streets of Jersey City. I had oc-
casion one June morning, at a very early hour, to walk
from the depot out into the suburbs, toward Bergen
Hill ; and all along the streets, picking up food about
the feet of the horses, alighting on the curb-stones and
on the houses, quite unmindful of the passers-by, feed-
ing their young with much chattering, and quarreling
with the martins, with loud squeaking, my attention

THE INVITATION. 229

was attracted by these strange birds, evidently sparrows.
The figures of some of the rarer species of buntings,
like Henslows and the black-throated, kept recurring
dimly to my mind, but only to make the puzzle more
puzzling, as both these species are shy field-birds.
The matter remained a mystery till I heard of the
introduction of this house-sparrow. These birds are
said to be performing a rare service in the parks of
New York, and for the fruit growers round about, by
utterly exterminating the canker-worm, and other pests
of this kind. I hear they have been introduced in the
Island of Cuba, with like beneficial results. An im-
porter in Havana, indignant at the duties imposed
upon his feathered freight, liberated the birds in the
faces of the custom-house officials, when they showed
themselves masters of the situation, and at once made
themselves at home. Attempts to introduce the Eng-
lish skylark into this country have been less successful,
owing largely to the extent to which the birds suffer on
the passage over.

After one has made the acquaintance of most of the
land-birds, there remain the sea-shore and its treas-
ures. How little one knows of the aquatic fowls, even
after reading carefully the best authorities, was re-
cently forced home to my mind by the following cir-
cumstance : I was spending a vacation in the interior
of New York, when one day a stranger alighted be-
fore the house, and with a cigar box in his hand ap-
proached me as I sat in the doorway. I was about

2 3° THE INVITATION.

to say that he would waste his time in recommending
his cigars to me, as I never smoked, when he said
that, hearing I knew something about birds, he had
brought me one which had been picked up a few hours
before in a hay field near the village, and which was
a stranger to all who had seen it. As he began to
undo the box I expected to see some of our own rarer
birds, perhaps the rose-breasted grossbeak or Bohemian
chatterer. Imagine, then, how I was taken aback,
when I beheld instead, a swallow-shaped bird, quite
as large as a pigeon, with forked tail, glossy-black above
and snow-white beneath. Its parti-webbed feet, and its
long graceful wings, at a glance told that it was a sea-
bird ; but as to its name or habitat I must defer my
answer till I could get a peep into Audubon, or some
large collection.

The bird had fallen down exhausted in a meadow,
and was picked up just as the life was leaving its body.
The place must have been one hundred and fifty
miles from the sea, as the bird flies. As it was the
sooty-tern, which inhabits the Florida Keys, its ap-
pearance so far North and so far inland, may be consid-
ered somewhat remarkable. On removing the skin I
found it terribly emaciated. It had no doubt starved
to death, ruined by too much wing. Another Icarus.
Its great power of flight had made it bold and ven-
turesome, and had carried it so far out of its range that
it starved before it could return.

THE INVITATION. 231

The sooty-tern is sometimes called the sea-swallow,
on account of its form and power of flight. It will
fly nearly all day at sea, picking up food from the
surface of the water. There are several species, some
of them strikingly beautiful.

THE END.

676

Bur is, John

";ke -robin

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

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