«rP, '^^c^Os ? FOR THE PEOPLE FOR EDVCATION FOR SCIENCE LIBRARY OF THE AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY BIRDS AND NATURE IN NATURAL COLORS ^y A NEW EDITION PAGE PLATES OF FORTY -EIGHT COMMON BIRDS BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY A GUIDE IN THE STUDY OF BIRDS AND THEIR HABITS VOLUME I COMPLETE IN FIVE VOLUMES WITH 240 PAGE PLATES IN COLORS. BEING A SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR TREATISE ON FOUR HUNDRED BIRDS OF THE UNITED STATES AND CANADA. CHICAGO A. W. MUMFORD. Publisher 536 S. CLARK ST. COPYRIGHT, 191 3, BY A. W. MUMFORD. PREFACE The first of the 82 parts of the original edition of Birds and Nature was published January, 1897, and at once took first place among the works on Nature Study. Volume I reached a sale of more than fifty thousand copies. In December, 1904, 16 volumes with 648 color plates had appeared and twenty-five thousand complete sets sold. The text plates were destroyed and the work has been out of print for several years. So this is not a revised edition, but a new edition, by writers of authority on birds, their foods, habits, their economic value; also the little good and much harm the very few birds do. The color plates are the best that can be made; they were awarded the Grand Prize at the Paris Exposition in 1900 and the Gold Medal at the World's Fair, St. Louis, 1904. The 240 plates in Birds and Nature, together with 408 others of birds, animals, plants and flowers, insects, shells, minerals, fish, etc., cost over sixty thousand dollars ($60,000), and they are likely to remain for at least another 17 years the largest and best collection of color plates of Natural History in the world. The color plates are so natural as to enable one to identify birds at a glance. No effort of expense or pains has been spared to achieve the highest possible excellence in this work. It is the fruit of twenty years of labor. While 648 plates were used in the first edition of 16 volumes, the pub- lisher believes that five volumes with the best 240 plates of the 240 most common birds of the United States and Canada will meet with more favor, and it is not very likely that 240 such exquisite color plates will appear in a similar work for a good many years to come. Many features commend this edition ; the type, print and paper are good, right size of page and the volumes of 192 pages of text and 48 pages of color plates to each volume make books that are easy to handle and a joy to possess. Not since Audubon's Birds of America, published in 1830-39, eighty-three years ago, has there been published a work on Ornithology to at all compare with Birds and Nature, which has stood and remains a monument to the study of Birds and the debt we owe them. Audubon's Birds of America have sold as high as $3,000. He used the gun and drawing material. Birds and Nature used the color-photograph process — photographing each color — made plates of each color and printed each color separately so as to blend and make all colors true to life. The color plates are not reproduced from paintings, but from the real birds in nature — hence the exact colors. In addition to the 240 birds illustrated in colors. 160 others are described, making 400 of the best known and most important birds of the Ignited States and Canada. Chicago, May 26, 1913. A. W. Mumford. LIST OF COLORED PLATES 7x9 inches Two hundred and forty of the most common of these appear in Vols. I, II, III, IV and V of Birds and Nature. •67 Anhinga — Snake Bird. 64 Avocet. 130 Baldpate. 193 Bird of Paradise, King bird of 7 Bird of Paradise, Red. 649 Bird Group (15 kinds). <)50 Group (14 kinds). 321 Bittern. 129 Least. 19 Blackbird, Red Winged. 411 Rusty. 299 Yellow-headed. 21 Bluebird. Ill Mountain. 25 Bobolink. 124 Bob-white. 594 Brant, Black. 362 Buffle-head. 47 Bunting, Indigo. 110 Lazuli. 98 Snow. 569 Bush-Tit. 284 Canary, Wild. 65 Canvas-back. 20 Cardinal. 644 Cassowary. 50 Catbird. 120 Chat, Yellow-breasted. 45 Chickadee. 499 Carolina. 530 Chuck-wills Widow. 127 Cockatoo, Rose. 6 Cock of the Rock. 140 Coot. 420 Cormorant, Brandt's. 602 Cormorant, Double-crested. 294 Cowbird. 224 Crane, Sandhill. 163 Creeper, Brown. 35 Crossbill. 377 White-winged. 26 Crow. £87 Cuckoo, Black-billed. 84 Yellow-billed. " •401 Curassow, Crested. 538 Curlew, Eskimo. .506 Long-billed. 150 Dickcissel. '604 Dipper, American. 89 Dove, Mourning. 332 Ring-necked. 404 Dovekie. 386 Dowitcher, Short-billed. 137 Duck, Black. 371 Fulvous Tree. 402 Harlequin. 626 Lesser Scaup. 3 Mandarin. 324 Ring-billed. 316 Ruddy. 66 Wood. 61 Eagle, Bald. €18 Golden. 70 Egret, Snowy. «25 Finch, House. 131 Purple. 27 Flicker. 116 Flamingo. 617 Flycatcher, Ash-throated. 615 Green-crested. 434 Olive-sided. 44 Scissor-tailed. 603 Traill's. 109 Vermilion. 433 Yellow-billed. 560 Fowls, Domestic. 276 Rooster and Hen. 34 554 Gadwall. 180 578 Gallinule, Florida. 18 33 Purple. 293 139 Gnatcatcher, Blue-gray. 329 410 Godwit, Marbled. 63 215 Golden-eye. 331 92 Goldfinch. 29 523 Arkansas. 236 537 European. 74 102 Goose, White-front. 62 162 Canada. 14 628 Goshawk. 161 118 Crackle, Bronzed. 396 387 Great-tailed. 48 363 Grebe, Eared. 148 37 Pied-billed. 1 570 Grosbeak, Black-headed. 580 78 Evening. 459 441 Pine. 330 31 Rose-breasted. 90 327 Western-blue. 165 115 Grouse, Black. 409 403 Canada. 56 151 Dusky. 417 201 Prairie-sharp-tailed. 10 59 Ruffed. 529 252 Gull, Bonaparte's. 42 185 Herring. 71 54 Ring-billed. 145 385 Hawk, Rough-legged. 242 142 Sparrow. 482 468 Broad-winged. 514 548 Ferruginous-Rough-leg. 30 43 Marsh. 380 188 Red-shouldered. 133 291 Red-tailed. 41 460 Sharp-shinned. 126 564 Western Red-tail. 57 53 Heron, Black-crowned Night. 369 159 Great Blue. 5 489 Green. 285 556 Little Blue. 394 212 Humming Birds. 157 113 Hummingbird, Allen's. 15 425 Anna's. 393 481 Black-shinned. 80 467 Broad-tailed. 323 450 Rivoli. 128 85 Ruby-throated. 144 426 Rufous. 313 166 Ibis, White-faced Glossy. 395 322 Scarlet. 138 228 White. 97 40 Jay, Arizona. 475 11 Blue. 77 32 Canada. 4 370 Long-crested. 572 315 Stellar's. 24 545 Junco, Pink-sided. 119 99 Slate-colored. 143 305 Killdeer. 87 100 Kingbird. 121 167 Arkansas. 344 17 Kingfisher, Belted. 125 108 European. 156 457 Kinglet, Golden-crowned. 204 88 Ruby-crowned. 104 507 Kite, Everglade. 524 497 Swallow-tailed. 62 627 Kittiwake. 135 379 Knot, Robin Snipe. 147 94 Lark, Horned. 172 531 Leucosticte, Gray-crowned. 136 619 Longspur, Lapland. 196 Smith's. Loon. Lory, Blue-mountain. Lyre Bird. Magpie. Mallard. Martin, Purple. Meadowlark. Merganser, Hooded. Red-breasted. Mockingbird. Mot Mot, Mexican. Murre, Brunnich's. Murrelet, Marbled. Nighthawk. Nightingale Nonpareil. Nutcracker, Clarke's. Nuthatch, Brown-headed. Red-breasted. White-breasted. Old-squaw. Oriole, Audubon's. Baltimore. Bullock's. Golden. Hooded. Orchard. Osprey. Oven-bird. Owl, Barn._ Burrowing. Great Gray. Great Horned. Hawk. Saw-whet. Screech. Short-eared. Snowy. Western Horned. Parakeet, Australian. Paroquet, Carolina. Parrot, Gray. Double Yellow-headed. King. Owl. Partridge, Gambel's. Massena. Mountain. Scaled. Peacock. Pelican, White. Petrel, Wilson's. Pewee. Wood. Phalarope, Northern. Wilson's. Pheasant, Golden. Impeyan. Japanese. Ring-necked. Silver. Phoebe. Pigeon, Crowned. Homing. Passenger. Pintail. Plover, Golden. Piping. Black-bellied. Ringed. Snowy. Upland. Prairie Chicken. Lesser. Puffin, Tufted. 586 Ptarmigan, White-iailefl. 314 Willow. 307 Rail, Clapper. 458 King. 297 Virginia. 636 Yellow. 336 Raven. 199 Redhead. 547 Redpoll. 357 Redstart. 153 Rhea, So. American. 553 Redbreast. 16 Robin. 610 Road-runner. 12 Roller, Indian. 418 Sanderling. 183 Sandpiper, Least. 192 Pectoral. 484 Red-backed. 562 Spotted. 372 Sapsucker, Red-breasted. 95 Yellow-bellied. 412 Scoter, Surf, 69 White-winged. 546 Shoveller. 419 Shrike, Northern. 55 Loggerhead. 601 Siskin, Pine. 76 Skylark. 169 Snipe, Wilson's. 72 Sora. 452 Sparrow, Chipping. 112 English. 442 Field. 123 Fox. 641 Golden-crowned. 608 Grasshopper. 655 Harris. 686 Lark. 474 Leconte's. 639 Savannah. 83 Song. 677 Swamp. 436 Tree. 349 Vesper. 532 White-crowned. 427 White-throated. 149 Spoonbill, Roseate. 522 Starling. 155 Stilt, Black-necked. 513 Sunbird, Philippine. 22 Swallow, Barn. 609 Tree. 500 Northern Violet-green. 270 Swans and Water Lilies. 134 Swan, Black. 93 Swift, Chimney. 364 Tanager. Louisiana. 9 Red-rumped. 58 Scarlet. 101 Summer. 306 Teal, Cinnamon. 298 Blue-winged. 114 Green-winged. 28 Tern. Black. 207 Caspian. 177 Common. 620 Forster's. 23 Thrasher. Brown. 466 California. 498 Thrush, Gray-cheeked. 679 European Song. 82 Hermit. 571 Olive-backed. 490 X'aricd. 49 Wood. 588 Titmouse, Crested (Europe). SS3 Tufted. 8 Toucan, Yellow-throated. 283 Towhee. 563 Arctic. 635 California. 595 White. 2 Trogan, Resplendent. 107 Tropic Bird, Yellow-billed. 105 Turkey, Wild. 103 Turnstone. 117 Verdin. 337 Veery. 465 \'ireo. Blue-headed. 122 Red-eyed. 96 Warbling. 449 White-eyed. 51 Yellow-throated. 634 Vulture, Black. 214 California. 79 Turkey. 483 Warbler, Audubon's. 154 Bay-breasted. 91 Blackburnian. 444 Black-poll. 60 Black and White. 264 Black-throated Blue. 436 Black-throated Green. 260 Blue-winged Yellow. 633 Canadian. 231 Cape May. 106 Cerulean. 263 Chestnut-sided. 261 Golden-winged. 73 Kentucky. 388 Hooded. 158 Magnolia. 262 Mourning. 259 Myrtle. 245 Nashville. 611 Orange-crowned. 505 Palm. 428 Parula. 492 Prairie. 46 Prothonotary. 643 Swainson's. 693 Tennessee. 378 Townsend's. 451 Worm-eating. 81 Yellow. 254 Water Thrush, Grinnell's. 516 Louisiana. 38 Waxwing, Bohemian. 249 Cedar. 612 Wheatear. 222 Whip-poor-will. 361 Willet, Western. 68 Woodcock. 146 Woodpecker, Three-toed. 36 California. 164 Downy. 696 Green. 476 Hairy. 141 Ivory-billed. 540 Nuttall's. 521 Pileated. 132 Red-bellied. 13 Red-headed. 661 Wren, Bewick's. 443 Carolina. 86 House. 39 Long-billed Marsh. 491 Short-billed Marsh. 473 Winter. 642 Yellow-legs. 75 Greater. 293 Yellow-throat, Maryland. 258 Western. Price. 2 rents each; $1.80 per 100; any 240 for $4.00; or the 379 for $5.00. Order number If all are not wanted. A. W. MUMFORD. Publisher. 536 S. Clark St., Chicago, 111. by American Goldfinch {Astragaiinus tnsHs) By I. N. Mitchell Length about five inches; sexes unhke; nest a thick walled, compact, well made cup, outside of fine grasses, fibres of bark, wool and moss, inside thickly lined with thistle-down, wool and cotton ; eggs three to six. Range : United States ; breeds from middle regions north, and winters mainly within the United States. This is the yellow bird that so many people call the wild canary. The resemblance between our wild finch and the cultivated immigrant from the Canary Islands is so striking, sometimes, both in color and voice, that the name seems almost justified. Let us be patriotic, however, and claim our own bird as the American goldfinch. How well the name suggests his clear, beauti- ful, yellow body color. This, with his black crown, wings and tail make the male bird an easy one to know. The female, though dressed in the same general colors, is much harder to identify. The yellow is darkened to a brownish olive, and the black of the wings and tail is a dusky, brownish black. The crown patch is wanting. She may be known by the company she keeps better, perhaps, than by the colors of her coat.- In the fall the male changes color and then looks like the female. The goldfinch is one of the birds that is easy to recognize by the man- ner of flight. He adopted the coaster-brake style of locomotion ages before the days of the bicycle. He pumps vigorously for a few strokes and sends himself forward on an upward, wave-like curve, then takes it easy for a bit and falls through another graceful curve. He seems to enjoy the coasting slide and sings "Now, here we go" as he falls. The wavy line of flight and the song "per-chic-o-ree" as so many know it, are in a peculiar adulatory manner. The voice of the goldfinch is peculiarly soft and clear. His call is a short "sweet" and "dearie" that arouses in his human hearer feelings of tenderness and affection caused by no other wild bird and rivaled only by those sug- gested by the sweetest notes of the canary. In the mating season the song is prolonged and canary like. To hear a flock of them singing in chorus is an event of a season. Being a seed eater, the goldfinch finds it possible to remain in the northern states throughout the winter. They are so much less noticeable in their winter plumage that many people do not recognize them. They rove through the fields in large flocks feeding on the seeds of the weeds that stick above the snow. They are most abundant during the last week of April and the first week of May. This may be because many of them have returned from farther south. 92 l-l'MN, 11. (bpinus tristi^). h Life-size. BT A. W. MUMPOHD CHICAGO or they may only seem commoner because the male has again put on his summer coat and because they go in flocks. The goldfinches are a happy, jolly, care-free lot of rovers. They seem to be strongly attached to each other and prolong the life in the flock well into the summer ; then they go oi¥ in pairs to begin their house making and house keeping duties in the crotch of some bush or tree. From the viewpoint of the farmer and gardener the goldfinch is a most desirable neighbor. He takes no liberties with anything that man in his selfishness has tried to appropriate to his own exclusive use. He is not only negatively good, he is very positively good. He is one of the unpaid but very efficient assistants of the weed commissioner, and never hesitates to invade a thistle patch for fear of hurting the feelings of the owner of the land, nor for fear of injuring his own chances of re-election. He helps with the dandelions and plantain, with the ragweed and dock. He is fond of sun- flower seeds but gets hardly a taste of them if English sparrows are about. These beautiful birds are more than weed-seed destroyers. Like their relatives, the finches and sparrows, they feed their young on insects and thus help to hold in check the beetles and grasshoppers and the rest of that pestilential army. Brown Thrasher Habits and economic status : The brown thrasher is more retiring than either the mocking bird or catbird, but like them is a splendid singer. Not infrequently, indeed, its song is taken for that of its more famed cousin, the mocking bird. It is partial to thickets and gets much of its food from the ground. Its search for this is usually accompanied by much scratching and scattering of leaves; whence its common name. Its call note is a sharp sound like the smacking of lips, which is useful in identifying this long- tailed, thicket-haunting bird, which does not much relish close scrutiny. The brown thrasher is not so fond of fruit as the catbird and mocker, but devours a much larger percentage of animal food. Beetles form one-half of the animal food, grasshoppers and crickets one-fifth, caterpillars, including cut-worms, somewhat less than one-fifth, and bugs, spiders, and millipeds com- prise most of the remainder. The l)rown thrasher feeds on such coleopterous pests as wire-worms. May beetles, rice weevils, rose beetles, and figeaters. By its destruction of these and other insects, which constitute more than 60 per cent of its food, the thrasher much more than compensates for that portion (about one-tenth) of its diet derived from cultivated crops. Brown Thrasher (Toxostoma rujum) By W. Leon Dawson Length — About 11 inches. Range — Eastern United States west to the Rocky Mountains ; north to Maine, Ontario and Manitoba. Breeds from Gulf States to southern Canada and west to Colorado, Wyoming and Montana; winters in the southern half of eastern United States. The last of this splendid trio of mocking singers is even more secretive than all the others in its ordinary habits, and bolder yet in song. Early in the spring the Thrashers steal northward up the river valleys, skulking along fence-rows or hiding in brush-heaps and tangles, and rarely discovering themselves to human eyes until the breeding ground is reached. Here, too, if the weather is unpropitious, they will mope and lurk silently; but as soon as the south wind repeats the promise of spring the Thrasher mounts a tree- top and clears his throat for action. Choosing usually a spot a little way removed from the road, the singer sends his voice careering over field and meadow, lane and wood-lot, till all may hear him for a hundred rods around. What a magnificent aria he sings ! Precise, no doubt, and conscious, but it is full-voiced and powerful. Now and then he lapses into mimicry, but for the most part his notes are his own — piquant, incisive, peremptory, stirring. There is in them the gladness of the open air, the jubilant boasting of a soul untamed. Each phrase is repeated twice. "That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, Lest you think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture." He opens his bill wide, his body vibrates with emotion, and each note is graced by a compensating movement of the drooping tail. Altho the Brown Thrasher does not make such hopeless confusion of jest and earnest as does the Catbird, there is still something of the buflfoon about him, and his ways in the bush are not altogether above criticism. Possibly with the best motives, but still in a very annoying fashion, the bird sneaks about through the brush and insists upon knowing your business. From time to time it utters a sharp, repulsive (tsook), and occasionally a suggestive (you-uh), which makes one feel conspicuous and uncomfortable. The bird's eye. too, with its orange iris, while it must be admitted to har- monize perfectly with the warm russet of the plumage, has a sinister cast which might prejudice the unthinking. In defense of its home the Thrasher is almost fearless, often placing itself within reach of the observer's hand, and calling down upon him all the 8 while the most dreadful woes. The female is a close sitter, and portraits (in nido) are not difficult to obtain. Nesting sites are various, but the bird shows a decided preference for those which are naturally defended by thorns Nearly every full sized Crategus (thorn apple) has at one time harbored a nest. Hedges of osage-orange are well patronized almost exclusively so in the prairie states further west — and the honey-locust tree is not forgotten. Next after these come wild plum thickets, grape-vine tangles, brush heaps, fence corners, and last of all, the ground. From "Birds of Ohio" by Permission. Birds in Winter Fields By Edward B. Clark A crow was calling from the Skokie,* while from the oak at the door- step a bluejay, in a voice more grating than usual, answered the salutation with the epithet "thief," twice repeated. It may seem strange that the sum- mons of two harsh bird-voices should be potent enough to draw one to the outdoor world from the front of a pile of genially crackling birch-logs, when the thermometer is dangerously near zero. There are some people, however, to whom a jay and his jargon, and the call of a bird as common as a crow, are preferred to the warmth of a hearth, though the fire be of birch. The same persons who tell you that since the English sparrow was imported every other winged thing except the mosquito and the house-fly has disap- peared, will tell you also, even if they admit the presence of a few songsters in summer, that there are no more birds in winter than there are in last year's nests. There are winter birds, however, and interesting winter birds at that. Those who will take the trouble and who will learn how to look, will find them lurking in the shrul)bery just beyond the snow which banks the doorstep, or it may be, calling with voices as blithe as of the summer from the bare apple-boughs of the orchard. When the crow called me that cold January morning. I struck out for a tramp through the Skokie swamp, and all the country that lay between it and the hill on the east. It was a bitter morning, and cvon the owl, hidden in the hole in the oak, "for all his feathers was a-cold." I halted at the foot of the dooryard steps, and cast an anxious look upward to see if the jay which I had heard from the fireside had deserted. I am superstitious enough to think that it augurs well for the success of a bird-hunting trip to see some feathered character at the start. This bit of superstition is. I believe, common to all bird-students. The jay was still there. It is perhaps the commonest bird of this locality, both in winter and summer. You can •Few miles north of Chicago. always count upon the jay's doing something new. This doorstep jay did something decidedly new — he dropped from his beak to the ground at my feet a round, flat, smooth stone of the diameter of an inch. It was one of the kind of which thousands may be found along the lake shore. I should judge, from a long and somewhat intimate acquaintance with jays, that they have not the regular habit of making stone-boats of their beaks. I picked the stone up, and asked the bird what he had intended to do. with it. He cocked his head on one side, looked down on me, and screamed "Thief" at the top of his lungs. I agree with Bradford Torrey that this bird says "thief" much more plainly than he says "jay." Thus he characterizes him- self as well as if he spoke English more fluently. The jay is essentially a thief, and seems to take delight in proclaiming the fact to the world. On the outskirts of Highland Park, 111., there is a patch of dense under- growth. Before the heavier timber was cut down, the place was known as Hamilton's Woods. Some years ago these acres of underbrush were divided into town lots, and a new city was to spring up. One house and an ambitious cement sidewalk with plank extensions are all that remain as monuments to the purpose and hope of the projectors. This town-site is on the very summit of the ridge which slopes down westward to the Skokie. Far off beyond the stretches of coarse swamp-grass one sees, blue in the distance, the woods that skirt the river. From this spot it is that sunsets may be seen having in them something of the higher glories of color that are associated with the close of day in the hill countries far removed from the level plains of Illinois. The undergrowth is not uninhabited. There, summer and win- ter, live the rabbits, a squirrel or two, the red-headed and downy wood- peckers, the jay and the chickadee, and the not infrequent quail. In summer this spot is the haunt of the scarlet tanager, the catbird, the brown thrasher, and the oriole. When I reached Hamilton's Woods on that winter's day, I stopped to examine some bits of bird architecture ; for though man failed to build here, there are enough bird homes in the patch to give evidence of its excellence as a dwelling place. In a hazel-bush, not more than twenty feet from the highroad, I found the deserted nest of a catbird. The July previous I had watched the outgoing of the fledgeling family from this little home. I had reached a point within five feet of the nest when I was struck by the fact that it was moving. There was a rustling of the dry oak leaves which formed its base, and the twigs above were swaying in a way which pre- cluded the possibility of the movement being the work of the wind. Then through my mind flashed the thought of Dr. Abbott's tales of winter cat- birds in New Jersey, and of the story I had heard of one of the birds which for a whole winter did not go nearer the equator than South Chicago. Was it possible that one of these gray, scolding, querulous creatures was revisit- ing its summer home, and marking the exception which proved the Spanish 10 proverb, "There are no birds in last year's nest?" I made a cautious step or two, and the mystery was explained. A piercing little black eye, with a world of fright in its narrow compass, was peering at me from above the edge of the nest. Then there was more rustling, and I caught a glimpse of something as it flashed down the stem of the hazel-bush. Then there was disappearance and quiet. It was a mouse, of course. He had taken posses- sion of the catbird's summer home for a winter residence. There was too strong a temptation to resist to pry into the housekeeping of Master Mouse. He had "bulged up" the inner bark lining of the structure a little, and beneath this he placed his store of provender, which consisted of corn and hazelnuts. There was no corn-field within fifty rods, and this diminutive four-footed "beastie" must have made many a weary journey for his corn supply. The hazelnuts were close at hand and in abundance. It is hard work to get away from a jay. Even though he be at a dis- tance, his voice is a constant reminder that he is on earth. I have said that the jay is essentially a thief — now for proof positive. A pair of these steel- blue coated creatures had been watching my operations on the catbird's nest with apparent interest, though I had given them little attention, because of the greater matter in hand. I had walked away from the thorn bush to a distance of about fifty yards, when a jay call that had something of jubila- tion in it caused me to turn. The two birds were engaged in rifling the mouse's larder. I was conscience-stricken at being the cause of the loss of food, so I drove the birds away. I found that they had secured already a large share of the supply, and I have little doubt that they returned later to complete the robbery. A little log hut, built after the fashion of fifty years ago, stands at a corner of Hamilton's Woods, upon what was intended for a town lot. The path leads away from the highway at this point and strikes down straight toward the Skokie. A pair of downy woodpeckers flew over the path, and began playing hide-and-seek around the bole of an oak. The downy wood- pecker is everlastingly cheerful. Whenever there is a lireak in the interest of a winter morning's walk, he is certain to appear and do what he can to enliven the occasion. This morning he did more. One of the pair went to the top of a tree, and wiiilc my eye was following his course along the branch there came within the range of vision ten great birds far up in the sky and flying westward. They were wild geese. There was the gander leader, and trailing along forming the V-shaped wedge were the followers. I blesscfl the downy for calling my attention to the geese. It was the mid- dle of January; the thermometer was close to zero, and yet here was a flock of geese in northern Illinois. Thr birds wore heading for the swamp. Wiiat two months before had been a stream in the center of the marsh was now a long, glistening ice ribbon, with here and there, as it were, a white knot tied, where the rushes parted a little to the right and left. The ten geese 11 settled slowly toward the swamp, and then rose again at the direction of their leader, who doubtless said, "No rest nor forage here, but I know of a corn-field beyond." I put these ten birds down as geese indeed, for forgetting the warmth and food plenty in the South, and for trusting for a living to the poor pick- ings of a frozen, storm-swept country. In a few moments I found there were other geese. A second V-shaped flock of thirteen individuals passed over in the wake of the leading ten. Apparently there was some trouble in the second group, for the birds kept changing sides ; the two immediately behind the leader moved one in the place of the other, and then the maneuver was repeated at the middle of the gathering, and then at the extreme rear. This continued for some time, and there came into my mind the irresistible c(3n- clusion that the old gray gander leader was telling his followers that five birds on one side and seven on the other of the V was an uncouth flying order, and that in trying to get one bird to change over, his orders were so misunderstood that a general mix-up resulted. Finally, however, before the flock was lost to sight, the old fellow succeeded in getting things straight- ened out. A man in a brickyard near the swamp said that the geese were coming from the lake because a storm was brewing. There was no storm for a week, however. The same man said that he had seen a thousand geese "a few days before." Pinned down, however, he admitted that the "few days before" was in November. The bluffs against which the waves of Lake Michigan beat just north of Chicago are cut by deep ravines. In the summer these ravines are thickly tenanted by birds. All through June they ring with the notes of the rose- breasted grosbeak, the wood thrush and the brown thrasher. I determined one winter morning, in the same month as that of my Skokie trip, though in another year, to find out what one of these great gullies held in winter that was of interest to a bird lover. The weather conditions of the night before and of the early morning were unusual for midwinter. At midnight the air was warm and heavy ; at five o'clock in the morning there was a thunder- storm raging which would not have been out of place in late April. The ther- mometer marked seventy degrees, and the lightning played through a heavy downfall of rain. At seven o'clock there were signs of clearing. The sun peeped out through a break in a cloud bank that hung low over Michigan. An hour later as I stood on the lake shore ready to begin the threading of the ravine, there was no longer any rain, and the air was beginning to take on a crispness. The first glimpse of bird life came just before I turned inland. The ad- vance guard of what became a great army of gulls crossed the horizon. They were herring gulls, and in color were in keeping with the gray day. A flock of ducks flew rapidly along below the gulls and parallel to the shore line. 12 They were moving like thought, and soon left the gulls far behind. I recog- nized them as old squaws, wanderers from the far off Arctic. In the middle of winter the old squaw is not an uncommon bird at the southern end of Lake Michigan. When the lake is well filled with ice these northern ducks search for the stretches of open water, and there they seek rest and food. A gunner who took station at the end of the government pier in Chicago one winter's day killed a hundred old squaws in a few hours' time. When the killing was complete, he found out that the birds were unfit for food, and the bodies of the beautiful creatures were thrown away. I left the lake and went into the ravine. On the bank of the little brook at the bottom the air was warm and still. The stream was ice-bound only in places. The locality was like one of the constant succession of scenes that are found in a ramble in New England. Sadly enough, however, June sees this ravine brook dried up, and the July sun withers the flowers at its edge and the foliage on its banks. The ravine's beauty largely will pass, while in New England the mountain-fed streams will keep the summer blossoms bright and the leaves green. I started a junco from his feeding place on the brook's bank. He was all alone. I think that was the only time in my field experience that I have found a junco separated from his fellows. While the books put this little snowbird down as a common winter resident in this latitude, I have found it in the heart of winter only on three occasions, and then in limited numbers. A few yards beyond the junco's foraging place I found the empty tenement of a red-eyed vireo. The vireo had used a piece of newspaper as a part of his building material. The print was still clear, and I found the date line of a dispatch at the heading of a short article. The date was July 3, of the year before. This was proof beyond question that the vireo had begun house- keeping rather later in the season than is usual with his tribe. Judging from other empty nests that I found close at hand the vireo had pleasant neighbors, the redstarts and the yellow war1)lers. The birds must have found this ravine an ideal summer resort, plenty of shade, good water, lake breezes, and a larder well supplied with all the insect delicacies of the season. The pathway of the stream was lined in places with snow which the thaw had spared. I found that I was not the first traveler of the morning. A rab- bit had preceded me, and apparently he had gone a long way from home, for the marks of his footsteps led on until the ravine was at an end. A jay re- sented my intrusion into the ravine. The jay finds his perfect setting in a winter day. His coloring makes the bird seem like a bit broken from the blue sky and from the edge of a cold gray cloud, ^^^hen I finally reached the plain above the ravine, I found that a blizzard was raging. In the sheltered depths I had not known of the change in the weather. Within an hour the worst storm of the year was sweeping over the lake. It was on that day, which had opened with a spring-like mildness, that the steamship Chicora. plying Lake Michigan, went down to destruction. The air was filled with particles of 13 snow that cut like sleet. I reached a field finally where the storm had full sweep, and was compelled to brace myself to resist its force. I edged into it as best I could, and before I had made many yards I found that even in the tempest I had bird companions. A flock of snow buntings were whirling over a depression in the prairie. The wind tossed them about almost at will, but in some way they managed to hold their place over the same low spot in the field. They went to the ground finally, but as I passed them they rose in a body and went hurtling down the wind. What I saw was but little more than some streaks in the snow-laden air. A blizzard is of but little more moment to a snow bunting than a zephyr. How the wind did hurl them ! They were not more than four feet above the ground, and were being borne straight at a close board fence. I thought they were about to be dashed head- long against it, but the buntings had ridden on the breast of a storm before. When within a few feet of the fence they rose and went scuttling over the top, showing white against the treetops beyond. Slate-Colored JunCO {Junco hyemalis) By W. Leon Dawson Length: Six and one-fourth inches. Range: North America, chiefly east of the Rockies, breeding in the hilly portions of the Northern States. South in winter to the Gulf States. Common in spring and fall, a few remain through the winter; sexes similar, female duller; nest usually on the ground in a clump of low bushes, of grass, and moss lined with fine grass and hair ; eggs four or five ; song a modest trill. A summer in Laurentia is certainly good for the health, for when Junco returns in the fall he is chockfull of animal spirits and good cheer. He is a very energetic body at any time of year, but his high spirits are especially grateful to the beholder when the numbing cold of winter has silenced all feathered kind but the invincible Tree Sparrows and Snow-birds. The plumage of the Junco exactly matches his winter surroundings — "Leaden skies above; snow below," Mr. Parkhurst says — and he proceeds to make himself thoroughly at home. Not content to mope about within the limits of a single brush-patch, like Tree Sparrows, large companies of Snow-birds rove restlessly through tree-tops and weedy dingles as well, and cover con- siderable areas in a day. On such occasions, and commonly, they employ a peculiar twitter of mingled greeting and alarm,— a double note which escapes them whenever any movement of wing is made or contemplated. I have called this the 14 w SLATF. C DI.UKKK Jl Ni u (I unco hvemali') 1 ■!,. .,.,. CtM-tRiGMT »«0C, eV ■' "banner" note, partly because it is uttered when the bird, in rising from the ground or fluttering from twig to twig, displays the black and white banner of its tail and partly because it sounds like the double clank-clank of a rail- road switch when the heavy trucks pass over it. The connection between a banner and a railroad switch may not be perfectly obvious at first, but any- one who is not color-blind is hereby respectfully challenged to forget if pos- sible the lurid colors which decorate the average assemblage of militant switch-posts. Junco, while a reckless fellow to appearance, is not indifferent to the com- fort of well-appointed lodgings. His nights are spent in the thickest cover of cedar hedges, under logs or sheltered banks, along streams, or else buried in the recesses of corn-shocks. One crisp November evening a year or two ago, with my ornithological chum, Mr. Lynds Jones, I watched a com- pany of Juncoes to bed. The birds would steal along from shock to shock with twitter of inquiry until they found an empty bed or one to their taste, and then would settle down into the top, not without considerable rustling of dry leaves. When the company was quiet, we started out, boy-like to undo the work. We saluted the shocks in turn with distantly flung clods -which shivered to powder as they struck the stalks and made a noise like the Day of Judgment. Out dashed Juncoes by twos and threes from every shock thus rudely assaulted, and many were the pertinent remarks made in most emphatic Junkese when the mischief-makers were discovered. Oh, well, they really wer'n't scared quite out of their wits, and they had plenty of time to get back into bed again after we were gone. Besides, variety is the spice of life — even of a Snow-bird's. But the boys! Say, Jones, how old are you, anyway? When the first warm days of March bring up the Bluebirds and the Robins, the Juncoes get the spring fever. But they do not rush oflf to fill premature graves in the still snowy north. The company musters instead in the tree-tops on the quiet side of the woods, and indulges in a grand eisteddfod. I am sure that the birds are a little Welch and that this term is strictly correct. All sing at once a sweet little tinkling trill, not very pre- tentious, but tender and winsome. Interspersed with this is a variety of sipping and suckling notes whose uses are hard to discern. Now and then also a kissing note, of repulsion instead of attraction, is heard, such as is employed during the breeding season to frighten enemies. During the progress of the concert some dashing young fellow, unable fully to express his emotion in song, runs amuck and goes charging about through the woodsy mazes in n fine frenzy, without, however, quite spilling his brains. Others catch the infection, and I have seen a scare at once in a mad whirl of this harmless excitement. Juncoes linger surprisinglv late sometimes, well on into April or even May. Perhaps this is because they are so near the southern limit of their 15 breeding ranges that they cannot be sure they care to move. The birds are said to breed still in the wilder portions in the northeastern part of the states, but of this I have no certain knowledge. From "Birds of Ohio" by Permission. Scarlet Xanager {Pira?iga erythromelas) By Herman C. DeGroat Male — Scarlet with black wing and tail. Female and young, olive green above and beneath ; wings dusky. Length seven inches. Nest, in the woods, sometimes in an orchard, placed on a limb ten to twenty feet from the ground, loosely made of twigs and pieces of bark and lined with leaves of evergreens. Eggs, usually four, dusky white marked with brown, .80x.65 inch. This is one of the most brilliant birds seen in the United States. Coming out of Central and South America, where it winters, this species spreads over the Northern States and Canada early in May. Arriving in the North about the time the trees put out their leaves and confining itself quite closely to the thick woods, it would be difficult to find this bird were it not for its bright colors and its cheerful song, which is much like that of the Robin. The male precedes the female by ten days during which time his call note of chip chur-r-r is constantly heard. Upon the arrival of a possible mate which he soon wins by his graceful actions and cheery song, he retires to the deep woods, where, a horizontal limb being chosen as a site for a nest, the real business of bird life begins. Sometimes the three or four eggs of the Tanagers may be increased by two or three from the Cowbird, that sly, shirk of family cares. Both parents join in feeding their young and show great attachment to them. The male, shy and timid at all other times, will now expose himself to any danger in the protection of his family. The olive-green dress of the female and the young birds is in striking contrast to the bright scarlet of the male. This wise provision of nature renders the mother quite unnoticeable on her nest aad tends to preserve the species from extermination. The food of the Tanagers is insects with a little fruit now and then for variety. In August the male moults and takes on the colors of the female which he wears until the following spring when he again dons his scarlet suit. Early in September the family depart together for the South, traveling leisurely to the land of constant summer. Copyright 1911 by Herman C. DeGroat. 16 'T. 'X ^^ CO 0 Ti. — o • p •-M ^^ ■^ w --^ •~, 5^ 0 >. — ^_ 1 0 •c/3 'rt •^ is ^" — <-t-i t/i ^-^-^ 0 y _-, •7^ X i> ^ _o 0 -x; 5 -if ^^ p 3i '^^ ■r. •r, — '/) _;^ 5 o 5 '> 'v: ^ ^ rr ■J. — • -- c/; 10 I II I^T -f "^ -III J s 1^ "^ ^ M-i 1; O 2- l> 0^ 'x a> •— rt Y! 3 <-t-i 0 3 0 OJ u ""* ^ ^ ^ ^ C '-' V. ^ ■f. ti: > -^ 0 N .. •-' CG r/. ' — ^- 0 Ti c <,> ZJ >. 5 0 'Z: ^ , tr. ■5 ""* £ a; 5 ■^ 0 X (A "-f-4 C ^ re ^*- ;v .t; .— ' ''•-* V 3 f"* V" 1-^ -2 ^ >^ iT. >> 0 > _£: 0 0 "^ ■/. -^ -^ c "^ ■Z'y- T-. 5 ■SI n :^ >, , ^ 'SL 3 c z:. Z z The Barn-Swallow {Hirundo erythwgaster) By Alexander Wilson Length, seven inches, deeply forked tail. Range: Breeds throughout United States (except the South Atlantic States and Gulf States) and most of Canada; winters in South America. In the United States there are but few persons who are not acquainted with this gay, innocent and active little bird. Indeed the whole tribe are so distinguished from the rest of small birds by their sweeping rapidity of flight, their peculiar aerial evolutions of wing over our fields and rivers and through our very streets from morning to night, that the light of Heaven itself, the sky, the trees, or any other common objects of nature are not better known than the Swallows. We welcome their first appearance with delight, as the faithful harbingers and companions of flowery spring and ruddy summer; and when after a long, frost-bound and boisterous winter, we hear it announced that "the swallows are come," what a train of ideas are associated with the simple tidings ! The wonderful activity displayed by these birds forms a striking con- trast to the slow habits of most other animals. It may fairly be questioned whether among the whole feathered tribes which Heaven has formed to adorn this part of creation, there be any that, in the same space of time, pass over an equal extent of surface with the Swallow. Let a person take his stand on a fine summer evening by a new-mown field, meadow or river shore for a short time, and, among the numerous individuals of this tribe that flit before him, fix his eye on a particular one, and follow for a while all its circuitous laby- rinths, its extensive sweeps, its sudden rapidly-reiterated zigzag excursions, little inferior to the lightning itself, and then attempt by the powers of mathematics to calculate the length of the various lines it describes. Alas"! even his omnipotent fluxions would avail him little here, and he would soon abandon the task in despair. Yet, that some definite conception may be formed of this extent, let us suppose that this little bird flies in his usual way at the rate of one mile in a minute, which, from the many experiments I have made, I believe to be within the truth, and that he is so engaged for ten hours in every day, and further that this active life is extended to ten years (many of our small birds being known to live much longer even in a state of domestication). The amount of all these, allowing three hundred and sixty-five days to a year, would give us two million, one hundred and ninety thousand miles, upward of eighty- seven times the circumference of the globe. The Barn-swallow arrives in parts of Pennsylvania from the south on the last week in March or the first week in April, and passes on to the north 17 as far at least as the river St. Lawrence. On the east side of the great range of the Allegheny, they are dispersed very generally over the country, where- ever there are habitations, even to the summit of high mountains, but on account of the greater coldness of such situations they are usually a week or two later in making their appearance there. On the 16th of May, being on a shooting expedition on the top of Pocono Mountain, Northampton, where the ice on that and on several successive mornings was more than a quarter of an inch thick, I observed with surprise a pair of these Swallows which had taken up their abode on a miserable cabin there. It was then about sunrise, the ground white with hoar frost, and the male was twittering on the roof by the side of his mate with great sprightliness. The man of the house told me that a single pair came regularly there every season and built their nest on a projecting beam under the eaves, about six or seven feet from the ground. At the bottom of the mountain, in a large barn belonging to the tavern there, I counted upward of twenty nests, all seemingly occupied. In the woods they are never met with ; as you approach a farm they soon catch the eye, cutting their gambols in the air. Scarcely a barn to which these birds can find access is without them, and as the public feeling is universally in their favor they are seldom or never disturbed. The proprietor of the barn just mentioned, a German, assured me that if a man permitted the Swallows to be shot, his cows would give bloody milk, and also that no barn where Swallows frequented would ever be struck by lightning, and I nodded assent. When the turrets of superstition "lean to the side of humanity" one can readily respect them. Early in May they begin to build. From the size and structure of the nest it is nearly a week before it is completely finished. One of these nests, taken on the 21st of June from the rafter to which it was attached, is now lying before me. It is in the form of an inverted cone with a perpendicular section cut ofif on that side by which it adhered to the wood. At the top it has an extension of the edge, or ofifset, for the male or female to sit on occasion- ally; the upper diameter is about six inches by five, the height externally seven inches. This shell is formed of mud, mixed with fine hay as plasterers do their mortar with hair to make it adhere the better; the mud seems to have been placed in regular strata, or layers, from side to side ; the hollow of this cone (the shell of which is about an inch in thickness) is filled with fine hay, well stufTed in ; above that is laid a handful of very large downy goose feathers. The eggs are five, white, speckled and spotted all over with reddish- brown. Owing to the semi-transparency of the shell the eggs have a slight tinge of flesh color. The whole weighs about two pounds. There are generally two broods in the season. The first makes its ap- pearance about the second week in June, and the last brood leaves the nest about the 10th of August. Though it is not uncommon for twenty or even 18 thirty pairs to build in the same barn, yet everything seems to be conducted with great order and affection; all seems harmonious among them, as if the interest of each was that of all. Several nests are often within a few inches of each other, yet no appearance of discord or quarreling takes place in this peaceful and affectionate community. When the young are fit to leave the nest the old ones entice them out by fluttering backward and forward, twittering and calling to them every time they pass, and the young exercise themselves for several days in short essays of this kind within doors before they first venture abroad. As soon as they leave the barn they are conducted by their parents to the trees, or bushes, by the pond, creek or river shore, or other suitable situation, where their proper food is most abundant, and where they can be fed with the greatest convenience to both parties. Now and then they take a short excursion them- selves, and are also frequently fed while on wing by an almost instantaneous motion of both parties rising perpendicularly in air and meeting each other. About the middle of August they seem to begin to prepare for their de- parture. They assemble on the roof in great numbers, dressing and arrang- ing their plumage and making occasional essays, twittering with grfeat cheer- fulness. Their song is a kind of sprightly warble, sometimes continued for a considerable time. From this period to the 8th of September they are seen near the Schuylkill and Delaware every afternoon for two or three hours be- fore sunset, passing along to the south in great numbers, feeding as they skim along. I have counted several hundreds pass within sight in less than a quar- ter of an hour, all directing their course toward the south. The reeds are now their roosting places, and about the middle of September there is scarcely an individual of them to be seen. How far south they continue their route is uncertain ; none of them re- main in the United States. Mr. Bartram informs me that during his residence in Florida he often saw vast flocks of this and our other Swallows passing from the peninsula toward the south in September and October, and also on their return to the north about the middle of March. It is highly probable that, were the countries to the south of the Gulf of Mexico visited and ex- plored by a competent naturalist, these regions would be found to be the winter rendezvous of the very birds now before us, and most of our other migratory tribes. 19 The Chickadee {Penthestes atricapUlus) By Thomas Nuttall Length, about 5% inches. Range: Resident in the United States (except the southern half east of the plains), Canada, and Alaska. Habits and economic status : Because of its delightful notes, its confiding ways, and its fearlessness, the chickadee is one of our best-known birds. It responds to encouragement, and by hanging within its reach a constant supply of suet the chickadee can be made a regular visitor to the garden and orchard. Though insignificant in size, titmice are far from being so from the economic standpoint, owing to their numbers and activity. While one locality is being scrutinized for food by a larger bird, 10 are being searched by the smaller species. The chickadee's food is made up of insects and vegetable matter in the proportion of 7 of the former to 3 of the latter. Moths and caterpillars are favorites and form about one-third of the whole. Beetles, ants, wasps, bugs, flies, grasshoppers, and spiders make up the rest. The vegetable food is com- posed of seeds, largely those of pines, with a few of the poison ivy and some weeds. There are few more useful birds than the chickadees. This familiar, hardy and restless little bird chiefly inhabits the northern and middle states, as well as Canada. In the latter country it is found even in winter around Hudson's Bay. During autumn and winter families of these birds are seen chattering and roving through the woods, busily engaged in gleaning food. Along with the Creepers and Nuthatches they form a busy, active and noisy group, whose manners, habits and food bring them together in a common pursuit. Their diet varies with the season; for besides insects and their eggs, of which they are particularly fond, in September they leave the woods and assemble fa- miliarly in our orchards and gardens. Sometimes they even enter cities in quest of food. Large seeds of many kinds, particularly those which are oily, are now sought after. Fat of various kinds is also greedily eaten, and the Chickadees regularly watch the retreat of the hog-killers in the country to glean up the fragments of meat which adhere to the places where the carcasses have been suspended. At times they feed upon the wax of the candleberry myrtle. They likewise pick up crumbs near the houses, and search the weather-boards, and even the window-sills for insect prey. They are particu- larly fond of spiders and the eggs of destructive moths, especially those of the canker worm, which they greedily devour In all stages of its existence. In winter, when hunger is satisfied, they will descend to the snow and quench their thirst by swallowing small bits. In this way their various and frugal meal is always easily supplied ; and hardy and warmly clad in light and 20 45 ( II K K \l Ml-. About Life-size. very downy feathers, they suffer little inconvenience from the inclemency of the seasons. Their roost is in the hollows of decayed trees, where they also breed, making a soft nest of moss, hair and feathers, and laying from six to twelve eggs, which are white, with specks of brown-red. They begin to lay about the middle or close of April, and though they commonly make use of natural or deserted holes of the woodpecker, yet they frequently excavate a cavity for themselves with much labor. The first brood takes wing about the 7th or 10th of June, and there is sometimes a second brood toward the end of July. The young, as soon as fledged, have all the external marks of the adult, the head is equally black, and they chatter and skip about with all the agility and self-possession of their parents, who appear nevertheless very solicitous for their safety. From this time on the whole family continue to associate together through the autumn and winter. They seem to move in concert from tree to tree, keeping up a continued 'tshe-de-de-de-de and 'tshe-dc-de-de-dait, pre- ceded by a shrill whistle, all the while busily engaged picking around the buds and branches, hanging from their extremities and proceeding often in reversed posture, head downward, like so many tumblers, prying into every crevice of the bark and searching round the roots and in every possible retreat of their insect prey or its larvae. If the object chance to fall, they industri- ously descend to the ground and glean it up with the utmost economy. Almost the only note of this bird which may be called a song, is one which is frequently heard at intervals in the depth of the forest, or from the orchard trees. Although more frequently uttered in spring, it is now and then whistled on warm days even in winter; it may be heard, in fact, in every month of the year. It consists of two, or, less frequently, three clearly- whistled and rather melancholy notes, like the syllables phee-bee, not drawled like the song of the wood Pewee, and sweeter and more even than the cry of the Phoebe. The Chickadee is found in summer in dry, shady and secluded woods, but when the weather becomes cold, and as early as October, roving families, pressed by necessity and failure of their ordinary insect fare, now begin to frequent orchards and garden, appearing extremely familiar, hungry, indigent, but industrious, prying with restless anxiety into every cranny of the bark or holes in decayed trees after dormant insects, spiders and larvae. The Chickadee adds by its presence, indomitable action antl chatter, an air of cheerfulness to the silent and dreary winters of the coldest parts of North America. 21 Bobolink {DoUchonyx orizivorus) By Elizabeth and Joseph Grinnell "The Happiest Bird of Our Spring." Length, about 7 inches. Range : Breeds from Ohio northeast to Nova Scotia, north to Manitoba, and northwest to British Columbia, winters in South America. Habits and economic status: When American writers awoke to the beauty and attractiveness of our native birds, among the first to be enshrined in song and story was the bobolink. Few species show such striking con- trasts in the color of the sexes, and few have songs more unique and whim- sical. In its northern home the bird is loved for its beauty and its rich melody; in the South it earns deserved hatred by its destructiveness. Bobo- links reach the southeastern coast of the United States the last half of April just as rice is sprouting and at once begin to pull up and devour the sprout- ing kernels. Soon they move on to their northern breeding grounds, where they feed upon insects, weed seeds, and a little grain. When the young are well on the wing, they gather in flocks with the parent birds and gradually move southward, being then generally known as reed birds. They reach the rice fields of the Carolinas about August 20, when the rice is in the milk. Then until the birds depart for South America planters and birds fight for the crop, and in spite of constant watchfulness and innumerable devices for scaring the birds a loss of 10 per cent of the rice is the usual result. Common summer resident, sexes, unlike ; nest, made on the ground, of grasses ; eggs, four to seven. He was just a bird to start with, half blackbird and the other half spar- row, with some of the meadow-lark's ways of getting along. As to the naming of him, everybody settled that matter at random, until one day he grew tired of being called nicknames and named himself. Think of having "skunk-blackbird" called after a fellow when he de- serves the title no more than half a dozen of his feathered friends! He could never imagine what gave him the disagreeable epithet, unless it be his own individual hatred for the animal whose name clung to him like mud. To be sure, the coat of the bird was striped, something like that of the detestable beastie ; but so were the coats of many other birds, and he could never tell why he should be called a blackbird, either. True, he loved the marshes for personal reasons ; but who has seen a blackbird twist its toes around a reed stalk and sing like mad? So, as we said, he named himself, constituting himself a town crier on behalf of his own concerns. "Bobolink ! bobolink !" As often as the black- bird attempted to talk of himself, bobolink chimed in and drowned every 22 other note. And he kept it up for two or three months, until everybody understood that he had given himself a proper name. And each year he re- turns to remind the skunk and blackbird that he is no other than himself, and to assure people that he is deserving of an original name, whatever else may be said of him. The bobolink has a hard time! But still he named himself out of the glee of his heart, and he sings a fourth part of the year as only a bobolink can sing. You can make almost anything you please of the song. Children sit on the fence-rails and mimic him, and "guess" what he says, and cry, "Spink, spank, Spink," "meadow wink, meadow wink," "just think, just think," "don't you wink, don't you wink," "want a drink, want a drink?" Coming back to his real name, "bobolink, bobolink," as if, after all, that were the nearest right. Shy, suspecting little birds, sharp of eye, fresh from a winter tour in the West Indies, they come exactly when they are expected. Bobolink makes no April fool of himself or anybody else, unless it be Master Skunk in his hollow tree, who rubs his eyes at the first word from Robert o'Lincoln. But the male birds have come in advance of their women folk, and roost high and dry out of reach of four-footed marauders. It is as if the mother bobo- links would be quite sure the spring storms are over before they put them- selves in the way of housework. The bobolinks nest would seldom be found if the foolish birds would keep a close mouth about the matter. It does seem as if they would learn after a while, but they don't. As soon as a stranger with two legs or four comes within sight of the spot, the birds set up what they intend for a warn- ing cry, but which is in reality an "information call." Under its spell one can walk straight to the nest, which even yet, on account of its color and surroundings, may be taken for an innocent bunch of grass, provided one has as good eyes as the skunk has nose. Now, taking all things into account, the bobolinks are the most sensible of people. Persons who ought to know better by experience and observation hurry on a journey, take no time to enjoy the scenery and the people that live along the route. At the journey's end they are depleted, tired, worn to skin and bone, and out of sorts with travel. Not so the bobolinks! They have no bones at the journey's end. They have fattened themselves into butter. They have put on flesh as the bare spring trees put on leaves, and the but- ternut takes in oil. All the way they eat and drink, and make as merry as they can with so much fat on them. The yesterday's bird of mad music is to-day the bird of mad appetite. True, they may call out "chink" in passing, but "chink" means "chock-full," and people who delight in bobolink tal)lc-farc recognize the true meaning of the note. 23 Bobolink has forgotten to call his own name, so he answers to any nick- name the epicurean lovers of him please to call him by — "rice-bird," "reed- bird," "Boblincoln." Do Birds Have Sense ? By John Burroughs I was much amused lately by a half-dozen or more letters that came to me from some California school children who wrote to ask if I would please tell them whether or not birds have sense. One little girl said: "I would be pleased if you would write and tell me if birds have sense. I wanted to see if I couldn't be the first one to know." I felt obliged to reply to the children that we ourselves do not have sense enough to know just how much sense the birds do have, and that they do appear to have some, though their actions are probably the result of what we call instinct, or natural prompting like that of the bean-stalk when it climbs the pole. How much or how little sense or judgment our wild neighbors have is hard to determine. The crows and other birds that carry shell-fish high in the air and then let them drop upon the rocks to break the shell show something very like reason, or a knowledge of the relation of cause and effect. Froude tells of some species of bird that he saw in South Africa flying amid the swarm of migrating locusts and clipping off the wings of the insects so that they would drop to the earth, where the birds could devour them at their leisure. The birds probably think without knowing that they think; that is they have not self-consciousness. Probably in a state of wild nature birds never make mistakes, but where they come in contact with our civilization and are confronted by new condi- tions, they very naturally make mistakes. For instance, their cunning in nest building sometimes deserts them. The art of the bird is to conceal its nest both as to position and as to material, and now and then it is betrayed into weaving into its structure showy and bizarre bits of this or that, which give its secret away and which seem to violate all the traditions of its kind. I have the picture of a robin's nest before me, upon the outside of which are stuck a small muslin flower, a leaf from a small calendar, and a photograph of a local celebrity. A more incongruous use of material in bird architecture it would be hard to find. I have been told of another robin's nest upon the outside of which the bird had fastened a wooden label from a near-by flower bed, marked "Wake Robin." Still another nest I have seen built upon a large, showy foundation of the paper-like flowers of Antennaria, or everlasting. The 24 wood thrush frequently weaves a fragment of newspaper or a white rag into the foundation of its nest. "Evil communications corrupt good manners." The newspaper and the rag-bag unsettle the wits of the birds. The phoebe- bird is capable of this kind of mistake or indiscretion. All the past genera- tions of her tribe have built upon natural and, therefore, neutral sites, usually under shelving and overhanging rocks, and the art of adapting the nest to its surroundings, blending it with them, has been highly developed. But phoebe now frequently builds under our sheds and porches, where, so far as conceal- ment is concerned, a change of material, say from moss to dry grass or shreds of bark, would be an advantage to her; but she departs not a bit from the family traditions; she uses the same woodsy mosses, which in some cases, especially when the nest is placed upon unevenly sawed timber, makes her secret an open one to all eyes. It does indeed often look as if the birds had very little sense. Think of a bluebird, or an oriole, or a robin, or a jay, fighting for hours at a time its own image as reflected in a pane of glass; quite exhausting itself in its fury to de- molish its supposed rival ! Yet I have often witnessed this little comedy. It is another instance of how the arts of our civilization corrupt and confuse the birds. It may be that in the course of many generations the knowledge of glass will get into their blood, and they will cease to be fooled by it, as they may also in time learn what a poor foundation the newspaper is to build upon. The ant or the bee could not be fooled by the glass in that way for a moment. Have the birds sense, as distinguished from instinct? Is a change of habits to meet new conditions, or the taking advantage of accidental circum- stances, an evidence of sense? How many birds have taken advantage of the protection afforded by man in building their nests! How many of them build near paths and along roadsides, to say nothing of those that come to our dwellings! Even the quail seems to prefer the. borders of the highway to the open fields. I have chanced upon only three quails' nests, and tiiese were all by the roadside. One season a scarlet tanager, that had failed with her first nest in the woods, came to try again in a little cherry tree that stood in the open, a few feet from my cabin, where I could almost touch the nest with my hand as I passed. But in my absence again she came to grief, some marauder, probably a red squirrel, tak- ing her eggs. It was clearly an act of judgment that caused this departure in the habits of a wood bird. Will her failure in this case cause her to lose faith in the protective influence of the shadow of a human dwelling? I hope not. I have known the turtledove to make a similar move, occupying an old robin's nest near my neighbor's cottage. It would be interesting to know how long our chimney-swifts saw the open chimney stacks of the early settlers beneath them before they aban- doned the hollow trees in the woods and entered them for nesting and ro(ist- JD ing purposes. Was the act an act of judgment, or simply an unreasoning im- pulse, like so much else in the lives of the wild creatures? In the choice of nesting material the swift shows no change of habit. She still snips the small dry twigs from the tree tops and glues them together, and to the side of the chimney, with her own glue. The soot is a new obstacle in her way, and she does not yet seem to have learned to overcome it, as the rains often loosen it and cause her nest to fall to the bottom. She has a pretty way of trying to frighten you oflf when your head suddenly darkens the opening above her. At such times she leaves the nest and clings to the side of the chimney near it. Then, slowly raising her wings, she suddenly springs out from the wall and back again, making as loud a drumming with her wings in the passage as she is capable of. If this does not frighten you away, she repeats it three or four times. If your face still hovers above her, she remains quiet and watches you. What a creature of the air this bird is, never touching the ground, so far as I know, and never tasting earthly food ! The swallow does peich now and then and descend to the ground for nesting material ; but the swift, I have rea- son to believe, even outrides the summer storms, facing them on steady wing, high in air. The twigs for her nest she gathers on the wing, sweeping along like children at a "merry-go-round" who try to seize a ring, or to do some other feat, as they pass a given point. If the swift misses the twig, or it fails to yield to her the first time, she tries again and again, each time making a wide circuit, as if to tame and train her steed a little and bring him up more squarely to the mark next time. The swift is a stifif flyer; there appear to be no joints in her wings; she suggests something made of wires or of steel; yet the air of frolic and of superabundance of wing power is more marked with her than with any other of our birds. Her feeding and the twig-gathering seem like asides in a life of endless play. Several times both spring and fall I have seen swifts gather m immense numbers toward nightfall, to take refuge in large unused chim- ney stacks. At such times they seem to be coming together for some aerial festival or grand celebration ; and, as if bent upon a final effort to work off some of their superabundant wing power before settling down for the night, they circle and circle high above the chimney top, a great cloud of them, drifting this way and that, all in high spirits and chippering as they fly. Their numbers constantly increase as other members of the clan come dashing in from all points of the compass. They seem to materialize out of empty air on all sides of the chippering, whirling ring. For an hour or more this assem- bling of the clan and this flight festival go on. The birds must gather in from whole counties, or from half a State. They have been on the wing all day, and yet now they seem as tireless as the wind, and as if unable to curb their powers. Last fall they gathered in this way and took refuge for the night in a 26 large chimney stack in a city near me, for more than a month and a half. Sev- eral times I went to town to witness the spectacle, and a spectacle it was; ten thousand of them, I should think, filling the air above a whole square like a whirling swarm of huge black bees, but saluting the ear with a multitudinous chippering, instead of a humming. People gathered upon the sidewalks to see them. It was a rare circus performance, free to all. After a great many feints and playful approaches, the whirling ring of birds would suddenly grow denser above the chimney ; then a stream of them, as if drawn down by some power of suction, would pour into the opening. Only a few seconds would this downward rush continue; as if the spirit of frolic had again got the up- per hand of them, the ring would rise, and the chippering and circling go on. In a minute or two the same manoeuver would be repeated, the chimney, as it were, taking its swallows at intervals to prevent choking. It usually took a half hour or more for the birds all to disappear down its capacious throat. There was always an air of timidity and irresolution about their approach to the chimney, just as there always is about their approach to the dead tree top from which they procure their twigs for nest-building. Many times did I see birds hesitate above the opening and then pass on. Apparently they had not struck it at just the right angle. On one occasion a solitary bird was left flying, and it took three or four trials either to make up its mind or to catch the trick of the descent. On dark or threatening or stormy days the birds would begin to assemble by mid-afternoon, and by four or five o'clock were all in their lodgings. The chimney is a capacious one, forty or fifty feet high by nearly three feet square, yet it did not seem adequate to afiford breathing space for so many birds. I was curious to know how they disposed themselves inside there. At the bottom was a small opening. Holding my ear to it. I could hear a continuous chippering and humming, as if the birds were still all in motion, like an agitated beehive. At nine o'clock this multitudinous sound of wings and voices was still going on, and doubtless it was kept up all night. What was the meaning of it? Was the press of birds so great that tliey needed to keep their wings moving to ventilate the shaft, as do certain of the bees in a crowded hive? Or were these restless spirits unal)le to fold their wings even in sleep ? I was very curious to get a peep inside that chimney when the swifts were in it. So one afternoon this opportunity was afforded me by the removal of the large smoke-pipe of the oil steam lioiler. This left an opening into which I could thrust my head and shoulders. The sound of wings and voices filled the hollow shaft. On looking up I saw the sides of the chimney for about half its length paved with the restless birds: they sat so closely together that their bodies touched. But a large number of them were constantly on the wing, showing against the .sky light as if they were leaving the chimney. But they did not leave it. They rose up a few feet and tiien resumed their positions upon the sides. It was this movement that caused 27 the humming sound. All the while the droppings of the birds came down like a summer shower. At the bottom of the shaft was a mine of Peruvian guano three or four feet deep, with a dead swift here and there upon it. Probably one or more birds out of such a multitude died every night. I had fancied there would be many more. It was a long time before it dawned upon me what this uninterrupted flight within the chimney meant. Finally I saw that it was a sanitary measure; only thus could the birds keep from soiling each other with their droppings. Birds digest very rapidly, and had they all continued to cling to the sides of the wall, they would have been in a sad predicament before morning. Like other acts of cleanliness on the part of birds, this was doubtless the prompting of instinct and not of judg- ment. It was nature looking out for her own. In view, then, of the doubtful sense or intelligence of the wild creatures, what shall we say of the new school of nature writers or natural history ro- mancers that has lately arisen, and that reads into the birds and animals al- most the entire human psychology? This, surely: so far as these writers awaken an interest in the wild denizens of the field and wood, and foster a genuine love of them in the hearts of the young people, so far is their influ- ence good ; but so far as they pervert natural history and give false impres- sions of the intelligence of our animals, catering to a taste that prefers the fan- ciful to the true and the real, is their influence bad. Of course, the great army of readers prefers this sugar-coated natural history to the real thing, but the danger always is that an indulgence of this taste will take away a liking for the real thing, or pervert its development. The knowing ones, those who can take these pretty tales with the pinch of salt of real knowledge, are not many; the great majority are simply entertained while they are being hum- bugged. There may be no very serious objection to the popular love of sweets being catered to in this field by serving up the life history of our ani- mals in a story, all the missing links supplied, and all their motives and acts humanized, provided it is not done covertly and under the guise of a real his- tory. I am reminded of a mystery connected with a snake-skin, and a bird. Why does our great crested fly-catcher weave a snake-skin into its nest, or, in lieu of that, something that suggests a snake-skin, such as an onion-skin, or fish-scales, or a bit of oiled paper? It is thought by some persons that it uses the snake-skin as a kind of scarecrow, to frighten away its natural enemies. But think what this purpose in the use of it would imply. It would imply that the bird knew that there were among its enemies crea- tures that were afraid of snakes — so afraid of them that one of their faded and cast-off skins would keep them away. How could the bird obtain this knowl- edge? It is not afraid of the skin; why should it infer that squirrels, for in- stance, are? I am convinced there is nothing in this notion. In all the nests 28 that have come under my observation, the snake-skin was in faded fragments woven into the texture of the nest, and one would not be aware of its presence unless he pulled the nest to pieces. True, Mr. Frank Bolles reports finding a nest of this bird with a whole snake-skin coiled around a single egg; but it was the skin of a small garter-snake, six or seven inches long, and could not therefore have inspired much terror in the heart of the bird's natural enemies. Dallas Lore Sharp, author of that delightful book, "Wild Life Near Home," tells me he has seen a whole skin dangling nearly its entire length from the hole that contained the nest, just as he has seen strings hanging from the nest of the king-bird. The bird was too hurried or too careless to pull in the skin. Mr. Sharp adds that he cannot "give the bird credit for appreciat- ing the attitude of the rest of the world toward snakes and making use of the fear." Then, a cast-off snake-skin looks very little like a snake. It is thin, shrunken, faded, papery, and there is no terror in it. Then, too, it is dark in the cavity of the nest, consequently the skin could not serve as a scarecrow in any case. Hence, whatever its purpose may be, it surely is not that. It looks like a mere fancy or whim of the bird. There is that in its voice and ways that suggests something a little uncanny. Its call is more like that of the toad than that of a bird. If the toad did not always swallow its own cast-ofif skin, the bird would probably seize upon that. At the best we can only guess at the motives of the birds. As I have elsewhere said, they nearly all have reference in some way to the self-preser- vation of these creatures. But how the bits of an old snake-skin in a bird's nest can contribute specially to this end, I cannot see. Nature is not always consistent ; she does not always choose the best means to a given end. For instance, all the wrens seem to use about the best material at hand for their nests except our house-wren. What can be more unsuitable, untractable, for a nest in a hole or cavity than the twigs the house- wren uses? Dry grasses or bits of soft bark would bend and adapt themselves easily to the exigencies of the case, but stift, unyielding twigs! What a con-" trast to the suitableness of the material the humming-bird uses — the down of some plant, which seems to have a poetic fitness! Beside my path in the woods a downy woodpecker, late one fall, drilled a hole in the top of a small dead black birch for his winter quarters. My attention was first called to his doings by his white chips upon the ground. Every day as I passed I would rap upon his tree, and if he was in he would appear at his door and ask plainly enough what I wanted now. One day when I rapped, something else appeared at the door — I could not make out what. I continued my rapping, when out came two flying-squirrels. On the tree being given a vigorous shake, it broke off at the hole, and the squirrels went sliding down the air to the foot of a hemlock, up which they disappeared. They had dispossessed Downy of his house, had carried in some grass and 29 leaves for a nest, and were as snug as a bug in a rug. Downy drilled another cell in a dead oak farther up the hill, and, I hope, passed the winter there unmolested. Such little incidents, comic or tragic, as we happen to look at them, are happening all about us, if we have eyes to see them. The next season, near sundown of a late November day, I saw Downy trying to get possession of a hole not his own. I chanced to be passing under a maple when white chips upon the ground again caused me to scrutinize the branches overhead. Just then I saw Downy come to the tree, and, hopping around on the under side of a large dry limb, begin to make passes at some- thing with his beak. Presently I made out a round hole there, with some- thing in it returning Downy's thrusts. The sparring continued some moments. Downy would hop away a few feet, then return to the attack, each time to be met by the occupant of the hole. I suspected an English sparrow had taken possession of Downy's cell in his absence during the day, but I was wrong. Downy flew to another branch, and I tossed up a stone against the one that held the hole, when, with a sharp, steely note, out came a hairy woodpecker and alighted on a near-by branch. Downy then had the "cheek" to try to turn his large rival out of doors ; and it was Hairy's cell, too : one could see that by the size of the entrance. Thus loosely does the rule of meum and tuum obtain in the woods. There is no moral code in nature. Might reads right. Man in communities has evolved ethical standards of con- duct, but nations, in their dealings with one another, are still largely in a state of savage nature, and seek to establish the right, as dogs do, by the appeal to battle. One season a wood-duck laid her eggs in a cavity in the top of a tall yellow birch near the spring that supplies my cabin with water. A bold climber "shinned" up the fifty or sixty feet of rough tree-trunk and looked in upon the eleven eggs. They were beyond the reach of his arm, in a well-like cavity over three feet deep. How would she get her young up out of that well and down to the ground? We watched, hoping to see her in the act. But we did not. She may have done it at night or very early in the morning. All we know is that when Amasa one morning passed that way, there sat eleven little tufts of black-and-yellow down in the spring, with the mother duck near by. Our moral code must m some way have been evolved from our rude animal instincts. It came from within ; its possibilities were all in nature. If not, where were they? I have seen disinterested acts among the birds, or what looked like such, as when one bird will feed the young of another species when it hears it crying for food. But that a bird would feed a grown bird of another species, or even of its own, to keep it from starving, I have my doubts. — Atlantic Monthly. 30 ^i\ ■^^^^n^ 94 HORNED LARK. t Life-size. COPYRIGHT The Horned Lark {Otocons alpestns praticola) By Henry W. Henshavv Length, about seven and three-quarter inches. The black mark across the breast and the small, pointed tufts of dark feathers above and behind the eyes distinguish the bird. Range: Breeds throughout the United States (except the South Atlantic and Gulf States) and Canada ; winters in all the United States except Florida. Habits and economic status: Horned larks frequent the open country, especially the plains and deserts. They associate in large flocks, are hardy, apparently delighting in exposed situations in winter, and often nest before snow disappears. The flight is irregular and hesitating, but in the breeding season the males ascend high in air, singing as they go, and pitch to the ground in one thrilling dive. The preference of horned larks is for vegetable food, and about one-sixth of this is grain, chiefly waste. Some sprouting grain is pulled, but drilled grain is safe from injury. California horned larks take much more grain than the eastern birds, specializing on oats, but this is accounted for by the fact that oats grow wild over much of the State. Weed seeds are the largest single element of food. The insect food, about 20 per cent of the whole, includes such pests as May beetles and their larvae (white grubs), leaf beetles, clover-leaf and clover-root weevils, the potato- stalk borer, nut weevils, billbugs, and the chinch bug. Grasshoppers are a favorite food, and cutworms are freely eaten. The horned larks, on the whole, may be considered useful birds. The horned lark is a bird of the open fields, common not only during the summer but still more abundant during the cold winter months, even when the ground is covered with snow. This lark is about the size of an English sparrow, but is very differently marked. The general color is a pinkish brown, the throat is yellow, there is a large black mark on the breast, and just above and behind the eyes are small tufts of black feathers which, when erect, have the appearance of horns, a feature from which the bird derives its name. In the country one may often see companies of horned larks running along the roadsides, in plowed fields and closely grazed pastures, or, when the ground is covered with snow, in barnyards, feeding on the waste grain left by stock. When encountered on a road or n foot path, they often run before the observer for long distances, but if sud- denly startled they take wing with a series of sharp whistling notes, flying with hesitating movement to some adjoining field, or making a considerable circuit and returning to the spot whence tiiey were startled. The horned lark begins its nesting operations very early, raising two or three broods in a year, and the first of its nests is often built before the snow has wholly disappeared. Commonly placed in a slight dcjiression in the 31 ground in meadows or cultivated fields, it is well and carefully made of corn husks, grasses and horse hair, but as the weather warms less care is used in construction. The eggs, from three to five in number, are olive, buff streaked and spotted with drab and lavender, A most interesting habit of the horned lark is its notable preference for bare ground. Twenty-nine per cent of all the birds seen in plowed fields dur- ing our year's statistical work on Illinois birds consisted of this one species. Its next decided preference was for pastures and fields of stubble. As would naturally be supposed, the food of this bird differs with the changing seasons. From an almost entirely vegetable diet in winter it gradually changes to a midsummer diet about equally divided between insects and seeds. Taking the year together, something more than a fifth of the food has been found to con- sist of insects, about an eighth of it of grain, and the remainder of seeds of weeds. Practically all the corn and oats eaten was waste, as the bird feeds only on the ground. There can be no doubt that this lark is, on the whole, much more helpful to the farmer than injurious — a fact of some importance since it remains with us throughout the year and is among the more abundant of our farm birds. Mr. Audubon says : "The male soars into the air, sings with cheerfulness over the resort of his mate, and roosts beside her and his nest on the ground, having at this season a very remarkable appearance in the development of the black and horn-like egrets." Mr. Langille gives an interesting account of the male's song habits. "Hearing its song, now quite familiar to me, I strolled warily through the open field, hoping to find its nest. But whence came the song? It was as puzzling as the voice of a ventriloquist. Now it seemed on the right, and now on the left, and now in some other direction. Presently I caught the way of the sound, and lo ! its author was soaring high in the air, moving in short curves up, up, singing for a few moments as it sailed with ex- panded wings before each flitting curve upward, till it became a mere speck in the zenith, and finally I could scarcely tell whether I saw it or not. But I still heard the song, one that never can be mistaken, so unlike is it to that of any other bird." Finally the bird started to descend and Mr. Langille says: "Down, down it comes, meteor-like, with wings almost closed, until one fears it will dash out its life on the earth. But no, it alights in safety, and steps along with all its wonted stateliness." 32 Our Bird Neighbors By cTheodore Roosevelt Sagamore Hill takes its name from the old Sagamore Mohannis, who, as chief of his little tribe, signed away his rights to the land two centuries and a half ago. The house stands right on the top of the hill, separated by fields and belts of woodland from all other houses, and looks out over the bay and the Sound. We see the sun go down beyond long reaches of land of water. Many birds dwell in the trees round the house or in the pastures and the woods near by, and of course in winter gulls, loons, and wild fowl frequent the waters of the bay and the Sound. Most of the birds in our neighborhood are the ordinary home friends of the house and the barn, the wood lot and the pasture ; but now and then the species make queer shifts. The cheery quail, alas ! are rarely found near us now ; and we no longer hear the whippoorwills at night. But some birds visit us now which formerly did not. When I was a toy neither the black-throated green warbler nor the purple finch nested around us. nor were bobolinks found in our fields. The black-throated green w^arbler is now one of our commonest summer warblers ; there are plenty of purple finches ; and, best of all, the bobolinks are far from, infrequent. I had written about these new visitors to John Burroughs, and once when he came out to see me I was able to show them to him. Around our West Virginia home many of the birds were different from our Long Island friends. There were mocking birds, the most attractive of all birds, and blue grosbeaks, and cardinals and summer redbirds instead of scarlet tanagers, and those wonderful singers, the Bewick's wrens, and Carolina wrens. Like most Americans interested in birds and books, I know a good deal about English birds as they appear in books. I know the lark of Shakespeare and Shelley and the Ettrick Shepherd ; I know the nightingale of Milton and Keats ; I know Wordsworth's cuckoo ; I know mavis and merle singing in the merry green wood of the old ballads ; I know Jenny Wren and Cock Robin of the nursery books. Therefore, I had always much desired to hear the birds in real life; and the opportunity offered in June, 1910, when I spent two or three weeks in England. As I could snatch but a few hours from a very exacting round of pleasures and duties, it was necessary for me to be with some com- panion who could identify both song and singer. In Sir Edward Grey, a keen lover of outdoor life in all its phases, and a delightful companion, who knows the songs and ways of English l)irils as very few do know them. I found the best possible guide. We left London on the morning of June 9, twenty-four hours before I sailed from Southampton. Getting oft' the train at Basingstoke, we drove to the prcttv. smiling valley of the Ttchen. Here we tramped for three or four hours, then again drove, this time t(i the edge of the New Forest, where wc first 33 took tea at an inn and then tramped through the forest to an inn on its other side, at Brockenhnrst. At the conclusion of our walk my companion made a list of the birds we had seen, putting an asterisk ("*') opposite those which we had heard. sing. There were forty-one of the former and twenty-three of the latter, as follows : *Thrush, ^blackbird, *lark, '''yellowhammer, '■•'robin, 'Hvren, *golden-crested wren, ^''goldfinch, =^chafifincl\, ^greenfinch, pied wagtail, sparrow, 'Munnock (hedge accentor), missel thrush, starling, rook, jackdaw, *blackcap, *garden warbler, *willow warbler, ''xhifiFchaff, *wood warbler, treecreeper, *reed bunt- ing, *sedge warbler, coot, water hen, little grebe (dabchick), tufted duck, wood pigeon, stock dove, *turtle dove, peewit, tit (? coal tit), *cuckoo, *nightjar, *swallow, martin, swift, pheasant, partridge. Birds were plentiful ; I know few places in America where one would see such an abundance of individuals, and I was struck by seeing such large birds as coots, water hens, grebes, tufted ducks, pigeons, and peewits. In places in America as thickly settled as the valley of tlie Itchen I should not expect to see any like number of birds of this size. The bird that most impressed me on my walk was the blackbird. I had already heard nightingales in abundance near Lake Como, and had also listened to larks, but I had never heard either the blackbird, the song thrush, or ;the blackcap warbler ; and while I knew that all three were good singers, I did not know what really beautiful singers they were. Blackbirds were very abundant, and they played a prominent part in the chorus which we heard throughout the day on every hand, though perhaps loudest the following morning at dawn. In its habits and manners the blackbird strikingly resembles our American robin, and indeed looks exactly like a robin with a yellow bill and coal-black plumage. It hops everywhere over the lawns, just as our robin does, and it lives and nests in the gardens in the same fashion. Its song has a general resemblance to that of our robin, but many of the notes tare far more musical, more like those. of our wood thrush. Indeed, there were individuals among those we heard certain of whose notes seemed to me almost to equal in point of melody the chimes of the wood thrush ; and the highest possible praise for any song-bird is to liken its song to that of the wood thrush or hermit thrush. I certainly do not think that the blackbird has received full justice in the books. I knew that he was a singer, but I really had no idea how fine a singer he was. I suppose one of his troubles has been his name, just as with our own catbird. When he appears in the ballads as the merle, bracketed with his cousin the mavis, the song thrush, it is far easier to recognize him as the master singer that he is. It is a firte thing for England to have such an asset of the countryside, a bird so common, so much in evidence, so fearless, and such a really beautiful singer. The thrush is a fine singer too, a better singer than our American robin, but to my mind not at the best quite as good as the blackbird at his best ; although 34 often I found difficulty in telling the song of one from the song of the other, especially if I heard only two or three notes. The larks were, of course, exceedingly attractive. It was fascinating to see them spring from the grass, circle upwards, steadily singing and soaring for several minutes, and then return to the point whence they had started. As my companion pointed out, they exactly fulfilled Wordsworth's description ; they soared but did not roam. It is quite impossible wholly to differentiate a bird's voice from its habits and surroundings. Although in the lark's song there are occasional musical notes, the song as a whole is not very musical, but it is so joyous, buoyant, and unbroken, and uttered under such conditions, as fully to entitle the bird to the place he occupies with both poet and prose writer. The most musical singer we heard was the blackcap warbler. To my ear its song seemed more musical than that of the nightingale. It was astonishingly powerful for so small a bird ; in volume and continuity it does not come up to the songs of the thrushes and of certain other birds, but in quality, as an isolated bit of melody, it can hardly be surpassed. Among the minor singers the robin was noticeable. We all know this pretty little bird from the books, and I was prepared to find him as 'friendly and attrac- tive as he proved to be, but I had not realized how well he sang. It is not a loud song, but very musical and attractive, and the bird is said to sing practically all through the year. The song of the w^ren interested me much, because it was not in the least like that of our house wren, but, on the contrary, like that of our winter wren. The theme is the same as the winter wren's, but the song did not seem to me to be as brilliantly musical as that of the tiny singer of the North Woods. The sedge warbler sang in the thick reeds a mocking ventriloquial lay, which reminded me at times of the less pronounced parts of our yellow-breasted chat's song. The cuckoo's cry was singularly attractive and musical, far more so than the rolling, many times repeated note of our rain-crow. We did not reach the inn at Brockenhurst until about nine o'clock, just at nightfall, and a few minutes before that we heard a night-jar. It did not sound in the least like either our whippoorwill or our night-hawk, uttering a long-con- tinued call of one or two syllables, repeated over and over. The chaffinch was very much in evidence, continually chaunting its unimportant little ditty. I was pleased to see the bold, masterful missel thrush, the stormcock as it is often called; but this bird breeds and sings in the early spring, when the weather is still tem- pestuous, and had long been silent when we saw it. The starlings, rooks, and jackdaws did not sing, and their calls were attractive merely as the calls of our grackles are attractive; and the other birds that we heard sing, though they played their part in the general chorus, were performers of no especial note, like our tree-creepers, pine warblers, and chi])ping-sparr(iws. The great spring chorus hnd already begun to subside, but the woods and licjils were still vocal with beautiful bird music, the c^>untry wa^^ very lovely, the inn as c(imfortahle as 3.^ possible, and the bath and supper very enjoyable after our tramp ; and altogether I passed no pleasanter twenty-four hours during my entire European trip. Ten days later, at Sagamore Hill, I was among my own birds, and was much interested as I listened to and looked at them in remembering the notes and actions of the birds I had seen in England. On the evening of the first day I sat in my rocking chair on the broad veranda, looking across the Sound towards the glory of the sunset. The thickly grassed hillside sloped down in front of me to a belt of forest fnoni which rose the golden, leisurely chiming of the wood thrushes, chanting their vespers ; through the still air came the warble of vireo and tanager; and after nightfall we heard the flight song of an oven-bird from the same belt of timber. Overhead an oriole sang in the weeping elm, now and then breaking his song to scold like an overgrown wren. Song-sparrows and cat- birds sang in the shrubbery ; one robin had built its nest over the front and one over the back door, and there was a chippy's nest in the wistaria vine by the stoop. During the next twenty-four hours I saw and heard, either right around the house or while walking down to bathe, through the woods, the following forty-two birds : Little green heron, night heron, red-tailed hawk, yellow-billed cuckoo, king- fisher, flicker, humming-bird, swift, meadow-lark, red-winged blackbird, sharp- tailed finch, song-sparrow, chipping-sparrow, bush-sparrow, purple finch, Balti- more oriole, cowbunting, robin, wood thrush, thrasher, catbird, scarlet tanager, red-eyed vireo, yellow warbler, black-throated green warbler, kingbird, wood peewee, crow, blue jay, cedar-bird, Maryland yellowthroat, chickadee, black and white creeper, barn swallow, white-breasted swallow, ovenbird, thistle-finch, vesper-finch, indigo bunting, towhee, grasshopper-sparrow, and screech owl. The birds were still in full song, for on Long Island there is little abatement in the chorus until about the second w^eek of July, when the blossoming of the chestnut trees patches the woodland v;ith frothy greenish yellow. Our most beautiful singers are the wood thrushes ; they sing not only in the early morning, but throughout the long, hot June afternoons. Sometimes they sing in the trees immediately around the house, and if the air is still we can always hear them from among the tall trees at the foot of the hill. The thrashers sing in the hedgerows beyond the garden, the catbirds everywhere. The catbirds have such an attractive song that it is extremely irritating to know that at any moment they may interrupt it to mew and squeal. The bold, cheery music of the robins always seems typical of the bold, cheery birds themselves. The Baltimore orioles nest in the young elms around the house, and the orchard orioles in the apple trees near the garden and outbuildings. Among the earliest sounds of spring is the cheerful, simple, homely song of the song-sparrow ; and in March we also hear the piercing cadence of the meadow-lark — to us one of the most attractive of all bird calls. Of late years now and then we hear the rollicking, bubbling melody of the Ixibolink in the pastures back of the barn ; and when the full chorus of these and of many other of the singers of spring is dying" down, 36 'X 11 .\.\ii:kic.\n HLl kj.\> i Life-size there are some true hot-weather songsters, such as the brightly hued indigo bunt- ings and thistle-finches. Among the finches one of the most musical and plaintive songs is that of the bush-sparrow — I do not know why the books call it field- sparrow, for it does not dwell in the open fields like the vesper-finch, the savannah- sparrow, and the grasshopper-sparrow, but among the cedars and bayberry bushes and young locusts in the same places where the prairie warbler is found. Nor is it only the true songs that delight us. We love to hear the flickers call, and we readily pardon any one of their number which, as occasionally happens, is bold enough to wake us in the early morning by drumming on the shingles of the roof. In our ears the red-winged blackbirds have a very attractive note. We love the screaming of the red-tailed hawks as they soar high overhead, and even the calls of the night herons that nest in the tall water maples by one of the wood ponds on our place, and the little green herons that nest beside the salt marsh. It is hard to tell just how much of the- attraction in any bird-note lies in the music itself and how much' in the associations. This is w^hat makes it so use- less to try to compare the bird songs of one country with those of another. A man who is worth anything can no more be entirely impartial in speaking of the bird songs with which from his earliest childhood he has been familiar than he can be entirely impartial in speaking of his own family. — The Outlook. Black-Headed Grosbeak {Zamelodia melanocephala) Length, about 8J4 inches. Range: Breeds from the Pacific coast to Nebraska and the Dakotas, and from southern Canada to southern Mexico ; winters in Mexico. Habits and economic status : The black-headed grosbeak takes the place in the West of the rosebreast in the East, and like it is a fine songster. Like it also, the blackhead readily resorts to orchards and gardens and is common in agri- tural districts. The bird has a very powerful bill and easily crushes or cuts into the firmest fruit. It feeds upon cherries, apricots and other fruits, and also does some damage to green peas and beans, but it is so active a foe of certain horti- cultural pests that we can afford to overlook its faults. Several kinds of scale insects are freely eaten, and one, the black olive scale, constitutes a fifth of the total food. In May many cankerworms and codling moths are consumed, and almost a sixth of the bird's seasonal food consists of flower beetles, which do incalculable damage to cultivated flowers and to ripe fruit. For each quart of fruit consumed by the black-headed grosbeak it destroys in actual bulk more than one and one-half quarts of black olive scales and one quart of flower beetles, besides a generous quantity of codling moth pupa^ and cankerworms. It is ol)vious that such work as this pays many times over for the fruit destroyed. 37 The Blue Jay {Cyanocitta crtstata,) By William Dutcher Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass. In them baseball clothes o' his, Sportin' 'round the orchard jes' Like lie owned the jireinises. — James Whitcomb Riley. Length, 11^ inches. The brilHant bhie of the wings and tail combined with the black crescent of the upper breast and the crested head distinguish this species. Range : Resident in the eastern United States and southern Canada, west to the Dakotas, Colorado and Texas. It certainly is a tyro in bird study who does not know this noisy braggart fellow with his inquisitive ways. Such characteristics usually repel, but in the case of the blue jay they rather attract, and no one can help admiring this con- spicuous member of the Corvine family. He has all the cunning of his somber- hued cousins the crows, but not their sedateness ; he is life and activity personified. Audubon, although he admired the beauty of the blue jay, did not give him a good reputation as the following pen, picture shows: "Reader, look at the plate on which are represented three individuals of this beautiful species — rogues though they be, and thieves, as I would call them, were it fit for me to pass judg- ment on their actions. See how each is enjoying the fruits of his knavery, suck- ing the tgg which he has pilfered from the nest of some innocent dove or harmless partridge. Who could imagine that a form so graceful, arrayed by nature in a garb so resplendent, should harbor so much mischief; — that selfishness, duplicity and malice should form the moral accompaniments of so much physical perfection ! Yet so it is, and how like beings of a much higher order, are these gay deceivers. Aye, I could write you a whole chapter on this subject, were not my task of a dif- ferent nature." Alexander Wilson esteemed the blue jay a frivolous fellow : "This elegant bird is distinguished as a kind of beau among the feathered tenants of our woods, by the brilliancy of his dress ; and, like most other coxcombs, makes himself still more conspicuous by his loquacity, and the oddness of his tones and gestures. In the charming season of spring, when ever}- thicket pours forth harmony, the part performed by the jay always catches the ear. He appears to be, among his fellow- musicians, what the trumpeter is in a band, some of his notes having no distant resemblance to the tones of that instrument. These he has the faculty of chang- ing through a great variety of modulations, according to the particular humor he happens to be in. When disposed for ridicule, there is scarce a bird whose pecu- liarities of song he cannot tune his notes to. When engaged in the blandishments of love they resemble the soft chatterings of a duck ; and, while he nestles among the thick branches of the cedar, are scarce heard at a few paces distance ; but no sooner does he discover your approach than he sets up a sudden and vehement outcry, flying off and screaming with all his might, as if he called the whole 38 feathered tribes of the neighborhood to witness some outrageous usage he had received. When he hops undisturbed among the high branches of the oak and hickory, they become soft and musical ; and his call of the female, a stranger would readily mistake for the repeated creakings of an ungreased wheelbarrow. All these he accompanies with various nods, jerks and other gesticulations, for which the whole tribe of jays is so remarkable, that, with some other peculiarities, thev might have very well justified the great Swedish naturalist in forming them into a separate genus by themselves.'" Of the more modern writers on tlie life-history of the blue jay, the late Major Bendire says : "Few of our native birds compare in beauty of plumage and general bearing with the blue jay, and, while one cannot help admiring him on account of amusing and interesting traits, still even his best friends cannot say much in his favor, and, though I have never caught one actually in mischief, so many close ol)servers have done so, that one cannot very well, even if so in- clined, disprove the principal charge brought against this handsome freebooter." It is an unfortunate fact that if a bad name is attached to a person or a bird it is hard work to live it down, even though the bearer has been condemned on hearsay evidence. The story of guilt may have been started on the most trivial evidence, but every time it is repeated it gains in strength and is soon magnified into huge proportions ; and what might have been easily explained at the outset, by a careful examination into the facts, casts a lifelong slur on the character of an innocent victim. Even so careful and exact a writer as the late Major Bendire is compelled to add from his strict sense of justice, that he had "never caught a blue jay in mischief." The writer's experience with this bird is exactly parallel with that of Major Bendire, and he is therefore loth to believe all the bad stories that have been printed about the noisy, handsome jay. Probably the most accurate brief respecting the blue jay's feeding habits that has ever been written is by Mr. F. E. L. Beal. After citing three cases of field observers who saw blue jays in the act of sucking eggs or taking young birds, Mr. Beal adds: "In view of such explicit testimony from observers whose accuracy cannot be impeached, special pains have been taken to ascertain how far the charges were sustained by a study of the bird's food. An examination was made of 292 stomachs collected in every month of the year from 22 states, the District of Columbia and Canada. The real food is composed of 24.3 per cent of animal matter and 75.7 per cent of vegetable matter. The animal food is chiefly made up of insects, with a few spiders, myriapods, snails and small verte- brates, such as fish, salamanders, tree-frogs, mice and birds. Everything was care- fully examined which might by any possibility indicate that birds or eggs had been eaten, but remains of birds were found only in two, and the shells of small birds' eggs in three of the 292 stomachs. One of these, taken on I'ebruary IC, contained the bones, claws, and a little skin of a bird's foot. Another, taken on June 24, contained remains of a young bird. The three stomachs with birds' eggs 39 were collected in June, August and October. The shell eaten in October be- longed to the egg of some larger bird like the ruffled grouse, and, considering the time of the year, was undoubtedly merely an empty shell from an old nest. Shells of eggs which were identified as those of domestic fowls, or some bird of equal size, were found in 11 stomachs collected at irregular times during the year. This evidence would seem to show that more eggs of domestic fowls than of wild birds are destroyed, but it is much more probable that t-hese shells were obtained from refuse heaps about farm houses. Insects are eaten in every month in the year. The great bulk consists of beetles, grasshoppers and caterpillars. The average for the year is 23 per cent, but in August it reaches 66 per cent. Three-fourths of the blue jay's food con- sists of vegetable matter, 42 per cent of which consists of "mast," under which are grouped large seeds of trees and shrubs, such as acorns, chestnuts, beechnuts, chinquapins, and some others. Blue jays prefer mast to corn, or indeed any other vegetable food, for they eat the greatest amount at a time when fruit, grain and other things are most abundant. The blue jay gathers its fruit from nature's orchard and vineyard, and not from man's ; corn is the only vegetable food for which the farmer sufifers any loss, and here the damage is small. In fact, the examination of nearly 300 stomachs shows that the blue jay certainly does far more good than harm. Their nesting places vary greatly as to kind of trees selected and position in the tree. Sites may be found in conifers and also in deciduous trees, and even in shrubbery. The nest is usually bulky, but compactly built of twigs, bark, moss, leaves and various other materials. A set of eggs varies from 4 to 6. As parents, blue jays are patterns. Whatever may be their reputation re- garding the young of other birds, there is no question regarding their extreme solicitude for their own offspring. The blue jay's popular screams are "Jay," "D Jay" and "Thief" — ^all of which he speaks plainly and these signals guard the field and forest from hawk, owl, crow, squirrel, etc. WE THANK THEE For flowers that bloom about our feet; For tender grass, so fresh, so sweet ; For song of a bird, and hum of bee ; For all things fair we hear or see. Father in heaven, we thank Thee! For blue of stream and blue of sky; For pleasant shade of branches high ; For fragrant air and cooling breeze ; For beauty of the blooming trees. Father in heaven, we thank Thee! — Ralph Waldo Emerson. 40 The Blue Jay By Henry W. Roby You saucy, cerulean jay, You chatter and clatter all day; From the dawn 'till the dark Round the lawn and the park, You keep up a fractious foray. You meddlesome master of spite, A conflict affords you delight; From the day of your birth, In your madness or mirth. You're always in search of a fight. But still you're a cowardly jay ; If a kingfisher ventures your way. You abandon your pride And you sneak ofif and hide And lurk in the bushes all dav. And such a malevolent thief. You bring all your kindred to grief, And make the Lord wish He iiad made you a fish Chained down to a submarine reef. You rol) all the squirrels and birds. You plunder the flocks and the herds, You filch from the hens And the pigs in their pens. And steal like the Kafiirs and Kurds. No wonder men call you a "Jay." And hate you from Nome to Cathay! But the reason is plain Why you're pomjious and vain, God wanted one wingster that way. 41 The Robin CPlaiiesticus migratorius). By T. Gilbert Pearson Length, 10 inches. Range: Breeds in the United States (except the Gulf States), Canada, Alaska, and Mexico ; winters in most of the United States and south to Guatemala. Habits and economic status : In the North and some parts of the West the robin is among the most cherished of our native birds. Should it ever become rare where now common, its joyous summer song and familiar presence will be sadly missed in many a homestead. The robin is an omnivorous feeder, and its food includes many orders of insects, with no very pronounced preference for any. It is verv fond of earthworms, but its real economic status is determined by the vegetable food, which amounts to about 58 per cent of all. The principal item is fruit, w-hich forms more than 51 per cent of the total food. The fact that in the examination of over 1,200 stomachs the percentage of wild fruit was found to be five times that of the cultivated varieties suggests that berry-bearing shrubs, if planjted near the orchard, will serve to protect more valuable fruits. In California in certain years it has bee^i possible to save the olive crop from hungry robins only by the most strenuous exertions and considerable expense. The bird's general usefulness is such, however, that all reasonable means of pro- tecting orchard fruit should be tried before killing the birds. No bird holds so prominent a place in the minds of the American people as the robin. It is distinctively a companion of man, and wherever his hand has cleared the wilderness the robin has followed. From Mexico to the Yukon the traveler meets it, and the residents will tell him of its coming and going. It has passed into the literature of the country, and one reads of it in the books of science and of romance. Poets weave its image into their witchery of rhyme, lovers fondly spy upon its wooing, and by the fireside of every household children lisp its name when stories are told in the twilight. Heedless indeed is the ear that does not harken when the robin sings. Loud and clear it calls at dawn, and sweet are the childhood memories it brings of fresh green fields swept by gentle winds and apple blossoms filled with dew. One spring, a pair built their nest on the limb of a balsam standing beside a much-used walk near my home. In gathering the material for the nest, the greatest care was exercised to worI CKl)>.>blLL>. i Li(.-si/e. »i «. w. HuiaroiiD, CMioaa in every unmethodical fashion, and occasionally come upon us in great hordes which even the park policemen notice. Then in spring, either because they dread to face renewed privations or be- cause they vary their plans, fare with the lotus buds of forgetfulness in the balmy southlands, some linger to nest and spend a careless summer. Especially is this the case in the Alleghenies and in the mountain regions of New York and New England. The nesting takes place according to no known law, eggs having been taken in mid-winter where the snow lay deep upon the ground, and again in July. And although conifers are the sites usually chosen, the birds are not particular in this matter either — a leafless maple will do as well. The crossbill owes particular mandibles to an age-long hankering for pine seeds — a desire fully satisfied according to the fashion of that Providence which works so variously through nature, and whose method we are pleased to call evolution. The bill of the bird was not meant for an organ of the finest precision, and Bufifon, the Deist, once won a cheap applause by railing at the Almighty for a supposed oversight; in this direction; but as a matter of fact its wonderful crossed mandibles enable the crossbill to do what no other bird can, viz., pry open the scales of a pine cone and extract the tiny seed with its tongue. Besides this the bird is not so awkward in the use of its bill as was formerly supposed, since it frequently alights on the ground and picks up the fallen seeds, together with other food. Apples, left hanging and mellowed by the frosts, are favorite winter tidbits, and the birds have been accused of doing trifling damages to the grain. Crossbills give out an intermittent rattling cry or excited titter, tew, tew, tew while feeding. The flight note is a short, clear whistle, and a flock composed of separately undulating individuals affords a pleasing sensation to both eye and ear as it rapidly passes. The male is said to have a sprighty whistling song of a most agreeable character, and he sometimes opens the season as early as February. Specimens kept in captivity exhibit some of the traits of parrots. Thus, they grasp the wires of the cage with their bill as well as with their feet and move about by its aid. They hang head downward with indift'erence and they convey food to the month by holding it in one foot. It is not surprising that the birds are easily domesticated even when full grown, since they are so unsuspicious as to admit of capture by the hand. T once caught an adult female in mid-air as a flock fluttered up confusedly from the ground, .\ccording to Dr. Brewer, a nest with eggs of this species was once secured in March by Mr. Charles S. Paine, in East Randolph, Vt. "The nest was Iniilt in an upper branch of an elm — which, of course, was leafless — the ground was covered with snow, and the weather severe. The birds were very tame and fearless, refusing to leave tlieir eggs, and had to be several times taken off by the hand. After its nest had been taken, and as Mr. Paine was descending with it in his hand, the female again resumed her place ujxin it. to protect her eggs from the biting frost." From "Birds of Oliio," liy pLTiuission. 45 The Myrtle Warbler [Dendrocia coronata) By Henry W. Henshaw Length, 5^ inches. The similarly colored Audubon's warbler has a yellow throat instead of a white one. • Range, breeds throughout most of the forested area of Canada and south to Minnesota, Michigan, New York and Massachusetts ; winters in the southern two-thirds of the United States and south to Panama. Habits and economic status: This member of our beautiful wood warbler family, a family peculiar to America, has the characteristic voice, coloration, and habits of its kind. Trim of form and graceful of motion, when seeking food it combines the methods of the wrens, creepers, and flycatchers. It breeds only in the northern parts of the eastern United States, but in migration it occurs in every patch of woodland and is so numerous that it is familiar to every observer. Its place is taken in the West by Audubon's warbler. More than three-fourths of the food of the myrtle warbler consists of insects, practically all of them harm- ful. It is made up of small beetles, including some weevils, with many ants and wasps. This bird is so small and nimble that it successfully attacks insects too minute to be prey for larger birds. Scales and plant lice form a very considerable part of its diet. Flies are the largest item of food ; in fact only a few flycatchers and swallows eat as many flies as this bird. The vegetable food (22 per cent) is made up of fruit and the seeds of poison oak or ivy also the seeds of pine and of the bayberry. When the vanguard of the warbler host arrives in later April, the bird man knows it is time to overhaul the daily schedule, to decline with thanks all evening engagements, and to hie him forth in the gray of the morning to welcome his winged friends. The wind is still asleep, the dew is full-bodied and lusty, and sounds of traffic have not yet begun to burden the air. It is at such a time the birds confess their inmost secrets of love and longing, and sing purest praises to the great All-Father. As the signals of dawn are hoisted the chorus swells and the rising sun is greeted with a burst of vocal splendor. Upon his appearance the winged voyageurs of the night descend and mingle their lispings and trillings with the full tide of song. The myrtles are usually the first of the warblers to arrive in the spring, as they are the last to depart in the fall. For a week they are abundant, and their sturdy chip becomes easily familiar of warbler notes. Other enterprising warblers not a few accept their promise of safe conduct, but one scrutinizes a dozen of the myrtles to find one of another species. During the first ten days of May the order of abundance is reversed, and the last dilatory matron has disappeared or every lazy black-poll comes. Myrtle is a handsome fellow, but he is too sensible to put on airs. Trees, bushes or fence rails are alike to him, and he is not above alighting on the ground to secure a fat grub. Now and then a pleasant song is heard, a dainty, 46 2^)9 MVKTLF, WARBLER. I.ife-si/f. CO^TRIOMT ttOO, IV A. W. WUMrORO, CHICAGO silvery warble, rather light, and, one suspects, since the singer is so far from home, not full-voiced yet. The autumnal movement is less hurried than that of spring. x\t this season the birds often gather in flocks of forty or more, and linger for weeks in sunny, half-wooded pastures, or about the orchards. Plere they spend much time in the tall weeds, after the fashion of goldfinches, hunting for insects, indeed, but in lieu of them often accepting seeds. Thus they will occasionally tarry late into No- vember and do not fear the exposure resulting from the falling leaves, since a yellow rump-spot is all that is left them of the garish beauties of spring. Yellow-rumped warblers are reported as wintering commonly in southern Indiana, but Rev. W. F. Henninger did not find them in the lower Scioto valley. Dr. Langdon of Cincinnati has records for March 4 and November 29, and it is not improbable that they winter sparingly in the more sheltered spots of the Ohio river counties. They are reported as abundant at that season in Florida, where they subsist on the berries of the myrtle (myrica cerifera) whence the name. Little Brother Chickadee By William Hale Little brother of the wood, Ermine-cloaked, with sable hood, Bravest of brave brothers, thou. Calling to me softly now From the icy hemlock tree, Cheery, chirping chickadee : "Never fear ! Spring is here. And the blithest of the year For thee and me Is yet to be. For man and ciiickadee." Fearless free-lance of the fields, Though scant fare the bleak earth yields, Thou art harbinger of spring. And each sweet and beautifying thing. So, wee herald, sing away ; Blessings on thy cheery lay : "Never fear! Love is here, And the blithest of the year For thoc and nie Is yet to be For man and chickadee." 47 The Bluebird {Si all a si alts). By I. N. Mitchell Length seven inches ; sexes much alike, female duller ; nest in hollow stumps, trees, jxjsts and in bird-boxes ; eggs, four to six ; note a short but very pleasing contralto warble. Range: Breeds in the United States (west to Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, and ^Montana), southern Canada, Mexico and Guatemala; winters in the southern half of the eastern United States and south to Guatemala. Habits and economic status: The bluel^ird is one of the most familiar tenants of the farm ^nd dooryard. Everywhere it is hailed as the harbinger of spring, and wherever it chooses to reside it is sure of a warm w'clcome. This bird, lihce the robin, phoebe, house wren, and some swallows, is very domestic in its habits. Its favorite nesting sites are crannies in the farm buildings or boxes made for its use or natural cavities in old apple trees. For rent the bird pays amply by destroying insects, and it takes no toll from the farm crop. The blue- bird's diet consists of 68 per cent of insects to 32 per cent of vegetable matter. The largest items of insect food are grasshoppers first and beetles next, while caterpillars stand third. All of these are harmful except a few of the beetles. The vegetable food consists chiefly of fruit pulp, only an insignificant portion of which is of cultivated varieties. Among wild fruits elderberries are the favorite. From the above it will be seen that the bluebird does no essential harm, but on the contrary eats many harmful and annoying insects. To think of the bluebird is to think of spring. The long weeks of winter have had their rugged pleasures. The bird lover may have taken snow-shoe tramps afield to search for traces of the quail and grouse, to share a meal with the friendly chickadee, to watch the w^oodpeckers or tree sparrows, or to dis- cover some occasional resident as the robin or red-winged blackbird, shrike or crossbill ; but in the main, the fields have been deserted and the wild life, like the woods, has seemed wrapped in a long, restful sleep. We begin to long for the ringing up of the white curtain and the lowering of the green one. How glad we are when the warble of the blue-bird, the cackle of the robin, and the joyous whistle of the meadow-lark give us warning that the change of curtains is about to be made. The bluebird ventures back about the first week in March. His back never looks so blue as when in contrast with the March and April snow. It is in har- mony with the sky from the first, but his breast must help to melt away the lingering snow before it can be in keeping with the rich, brown earth. Returning together, the bluebird and his mate soon set about looking over available nesting places. The English sparrow^ is, at this time, their only com- petitor, but a severe competitor he is. As cold weather approached in the fall, he appropriated for winter quarters every bird-box into which he could squeeze; 48 21 BLUEBIRD. Life-size. more than that, he began carrying in new nesting materials on any mild, sunny day in February. Now he feels that the box is his both by right of discovery and possession and possession is nine points of the law with birds as with higher animals. Unless some one comes to the aid of the bluebirds, they must leave their last year's home in the hands of the enem}- — "The little beast," as Mr. Van Dyke calls the English sparrow, and go off to the woods in search of a hollow tree or stump. This seizing of nesting places is the chief way in which the beast drives our native birds from the city into the country and from the country home to the woodsi and fences. If then, we w4sh to keep the bluebird, tree swallow and mar- tins about our homes in city and country we must work out some plan for beating the beast. To that end it is well to take down the bird boxes in November and to put them up again in the spring, for the bluebird, the fifth or sixth of March, for the tree-swallow, the fifth or sixth of April; for the purple martins, the first of May. There will be a fight for the boxes just the same, but the chances of war will be more evenly balanced. The native birds may be aided further if the door- way of the birdhouse is guarded by a little door so arranged that it may be pulled aside from the ground by a string. There never was a happier or more devoted husband than the male bluebird. He is the gay champion and escort of the female at all times, and while she is sitting he feeds her regularly. Tt is very pretty to watch them building their nest. The male is very active in hunting out a place and exploring the boxes and cavi- ties, but seems to have no choice in the matter and is anxious only to please and encourage his mate, who has the practical turn and knows what will do and what will not. After she has suited herself he applauds her immensely, and away the two go in quest of material for the nest, the male acting as guard and flying above and in advance of the female. She brings all the material and does all the work of building, he looking on and encouraging her with gesture and song. He acts also as inspector of her work, but I fear is a very partial one. She enters the nest with her bit of dry grass or straw, and. having adjusted it to her notion, withdraws and waits near by uiuil he goes in and looks it over. On coming out he exclaims, very plainl}-. ''Excellent ! excellent !" and iway the two go again for more material. Some Odd Bits of Bird Life By Edward B. Clark Somewhere in the woods west of Highland Park, Illinois, tlicrc lives a crow that bears on his back a pure white mark of the size and shape of a silver dollar. "Jim," for so I've named him. seems to know that he is distinguished alx)ve other birds and as a result he is much shyer than hi*; l>rother crows. I have satisfied myself that certain nf thr bird's characteristics are dircctl} traceable to the big 40 white spot on his back as the first cause. Jim has learned now that if he wishes any comfort in life he must flock by himself. There is no doubt in the minds of his fellow crows that white-spotted Jim is a freak. They keep him always at the distance of a big field's width, and any attempt on his part to approach nearer is met by assault. The first time that I saw my friend Jim he was rounding the edge of a belt of timber and making for a plowed field in ^^ hich four other crows were feeding. From their position they could by no chance have seen his back, and! yet they seemed to know that the approaching bird was branded and a pariah. The feed- ing crows rose as one bird, met Jim half-way, and chased and bufifeted him back into the woods. It was in this hurried retreat that Jim's white spot showed prominently and told better than words the story of his persecution. Is it not pos- sible that the crows felt that their brother's marked peculiarity would attract undue attention to them in case he were admitted to comradeship? I met Jim during two seasons when the other crows were paired and keeping house. He was unquestionably leading a bachelor existence. Twice I saw other crows go out oi their way to attack him, but despite his unhappy and lonely lot he clings tenaciously to life and only recently I have seen him foraging for food in the northern Illinois cornfields. There is no love in my heart for the English sparrow. I have seen his per- secution of our native birds until I cannot summon up a particle of sympathy for him, no matter into what straits he may come. I confess to a secret rejoicing every time a predatory shrike strikes a sparrow and trusses him for breakfast. The Britisher has a busy time all winter dodging the butcher-bird, and even after the enemy has gone to its northern home the sparrow trembles at passing shadows. I was idly watching a flock of sparrows one summer day feeding at the edge of the Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. Suddenly every individual in the flock crouched close to the ground, and then all rose like a feathered entity and made for shelter. No sparrow nor gathering of sparrows ever made a quicker move- ment that did that flock. The journey from the ground to the thickness of an evergreen tree standing in the grounds of a private residence, was made in arrow flight time. It is probable that no feathered gathering ever had a better apparent reason for adjourning than did that bunch of city sparrows. Coincident with the sight of their scurrying there fell upon my ear a dismal cry from above. It was a half croak, half file rasp, a sort of disaster- foreboding wail. Then a shadow swept over the ground, and a look upward showed me a big red and gray parrot making a lumbering flight in full and awful cry from the back piazza of a third- story flat. The sparrows probably have family traditions of all sorts of feathered horrors. It is doubtful, however, if a search of the archives of their remote ancestors would show anything descriptive of more terror of voice, beak, and plumage than that which had just broken on their sight and hearing. Small wonder is it that the sparrows took to the woods. The parrot lighted in a tree 50 which towered above that in which the sparrows had taken refuge. The bird's intention of perching in this tree was no sooner expressed by the direction of its flight than the sparrow horde left one hiding-place and fled to another. English sparrows, like all other birds, are inquisitive, and when they saw that this bird nightmare, which strangely had chosen a bright day to be abroad, showed no signs of hostility they gathered about it by the hundreds. They hurled all sorts of names at the parrot. Never before had I realized the extent of the sparrow vocabulary. The parrot made its awkward way from tree to tree, followed by all the sparrows resident in that section of the city. The feathered street gamins gave over eating and the delights of fighting for the pure pleasure of swearing at this interrupter of their breakfast. Poll contented herself with croaking at the assembled throng, and with occasionally asking an individual spar- row for a cracker. The sparrows were gaining courage, and apparently were contemplating an attack in force when a boy who knew how to climb trees cap- tured Poll and carried her back to her cage. Some birds have become accustomed to many of the appurtenances of civili- zation. Those that have been shot at once, or have seen their kind shot at, know a gun as far as they can see it. They will all but perch on the shoulder of an unarmed man, but will keep a ten-acre lot between them and a man with a breech- loader. Glass, however, is one of man's belongings which the most astute bird as yet fails thoroughly to understand. A window which has light back of it as well as in front of it is a perfect death trap for birds of many species. The oven-bird, sometimes called the golden-crowned thrush, is constantly dashing against window panes, always to its discomfiture and frequently to its death. One of these birds at noon one day brought up against a pane of glass in the window of a great department store on one of the busiest street corners df the city of Chicago. The bird recovered itself, but in its bewilderment it left the window only to fly into the crowded mart through an open door. The oven-bird was caught and caged. Then it promptly and properly died. All caged birds ought to die in self-defense. The .Audubon Society members say that death for the songsters is preferable to imprisonment. There are few bird lovers who will try to gainsay the society's dictum. Not long ago a kingfisher tried to fly into the Academy of Sciences through a pane of plate glass. The shock killed the bird. It now stands stuffed with cotton and plaster of paris looking out of the very window against which it hurled itself to death. T once found the body of a small hawk which had met death in a peculiar wa\-. I doubt if a stranger fate ever overtook any living creature. I found the hir