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IN BIRD LAND

IN BIRD LAND

BY

LEANDER S. KEYSER

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk?
RatpH Watpo Emerson: Forbearance

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
Percy B. SHELLEY: Zo a Skylark

FOURTH EDITION

CHICAGO

A. C. MCCLURG AND COMPANY

1897
La bee

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QhLeE Tb
K425

CopyriGuT
By A. C. McCiurc anp Co.
A.D. 1894

Cy VB 30

NOTE,

Tue articles comprising this volume having
been previously published in various periodi-
cals of the country, I would desire to tender
my grateful acknowledgments to the several
publishers and editors for their uniform cour-
tesy in permitting me to reprint the papers.
My observations on birds have been -made,
except when otherwise indicated, in various
haunts in and about Springfield, Ohio, —a
region well adapted for ornithological research

or pastime.
L. 8. K.

AuGustT, 1894.

This way would I also sing,
My dear little hillside neighbor!
A tender carol of peace to bring
To the sunburnt fields of labor
Is better than making a loud ado;
Trill on, amid clover and yarrow!
There’s a heart-beat echoing for you,
And blessing you, blithe little sparrow!
Lucy Larcom.

IN BIRD LAND.

I.
WAYSIDE RAMBLES.

OOKING out of my study window one fair
spring morning, I noticed a friend — a pro-
fessional man — walking along the street, evidently
taking his “constitutional.” Having reached the end
of the brick pavement, he paused, glanced around
a moment undecidedly, and then, instead of walk-
ing out into the beckoning fields and woods, turned
down another street which led into a thickly popu-
lated part of the city. Surely, I mused, we are not
all cast in the same mould. While he carefully
avoided going beyond the suburbs and the beaten
paths, as if afraid he might soil his polished shoes,
I should have plunged boldly into the country,
“across lots,’”’ to find some sequestered nook or
grass-grown by-way, “far from human neighbor-
hood,” to hold undisturbed converse with Nature.
My friend’s conduct, however, did not put me in
a critical mood, but rather stirred some grateful
reflections on the wise adaptation of all things in

10 IN BIRD LAND.

the world of being. How fortunate that men are
so variously constituted! If some did not naturally
choose the bustle and stir and excitement of the
city, where would be our philanthropists, our How-
ards and Peabodys and Dodges? On the other
hand, if others did not voluntarily seek quiet and
solitude in Nature’s unfrequented haunts, the world
would never have been blessed with a Wordsworth,
an Emerson, or a Lowell ; and in that case, for some
of us at least, life would have been bare and arid.

It is true, we cannot accept Pope’s dictum, “ What-
ever is, is right.” We know that many things that
are, are wrong; but doubtless more things in this
paradoxical old world are right than moralists some-
times suppose. To the genuine lover of Nature, and
especially to the lover of her unbeaten pathways,
the ringing lines of Emerson come home with
thrilling power: —

“Tf I could put my woods in song
And tell what ’s there enjoyed,
All men would to my gardens throng,
And leave the cities void.”

Yet I doubt if any spot in Nature’s domain could
be made so attractive as to overcome most persons’
natural love of human association. Mayhap even
if this could be done, it would not be desirable.
Should all men hie to the woods and leave the
cities void, it would spoil both the woods and the
cities. The charm of the woods is their quiet,
their solitude; the enchantment of the city, its

WAYSIDE RAMBLES, It

thronging life and activity. While I may be lone-
some in a crowd, my neighbor is almost sure to feel
lonesome in the marsh or the deep ravine. If all
men loved Nature with a passion that could not be
controlled, much work would be left undone that is
indispensable to human life and happiness. I am
glad, therefore, that there are many birds of many
kinds ; glad, too, that there are many men of many
minds. The apostle does well to remind his breth-
ren in the church that there are “ diversities of gifts”
and “ diversities of operations,” even if all do spring
from “the same Spirit.”
Albeit, as for me, give me

“ A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned.”

Emerson voices my own feeling when he sings: —

“ A woodland walk,
A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush,
A wild rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds ; ”

for,
“What friend to friend cannot convey,
Shall the dumb bird instructed say.”

And it is true that a wayside ramble will often do,
by way of self-revelation and conviction, what no
human voice of chastisement can accomplish. Mr.
Howells says, in one of his most trenchant analytical
novels : “If you ’re not in first-rate spiritual condition,
you ’re apt to get floored if you undertake to com-
mune with Nature.”’ There are times when the very

12 IN BIRD LAND.

immaculateness of the sky, or the purity of a wood-
land flower, rebukes one, gives one a keen sense of
one’s sins, and makes one long for absolution; or
when the pensive moaning of the wind through the
gray, branchless trees on a winter’s day forces on
the mind a prevision of a judgment about to be
visited upon one’s misdoings. Yet this is seldom
my own experience while idling in out-of-the-way
places. Usually I feel soothed and comforted, or,
at most, a sort of glad melancholy steals over me,
which is as enchanting as a magician’s spell; while
I often win exhilaration from the whispering breezes,
as if they carried a tonic on their pulsing wings.

On the spring morning on which my friend so
studiously avoided Nature’s by-paths, my stint of
labor for the day was soon despatched, and then,
flinging my lunch-bag over my shoulders, I hurried
across the fields, anxious to put a comfortable dis-
tance between myself and bothering human tene-
ments. By noon I had reached a green hollow at
the border of a woodland, where Nature, to a large
extent at least, has had her own sweet way. Here,
on the grassy bank of a rivulet, I sat down to eat my
luncheon. The spring near by filled my cup with
ale that sparkles, but never burns; that quenches
thirst, but never creates it. Not a human habita-
tion was in sight; nothing but the tinkling brook,
the sloping hills, the quiet woods, and the overarch-
ing sky. The haunt was not without music. The
far-away cadences of the bush-sparrows on the hill-
side filled the place like melodious sunshine. A

WAYSIDE RAMBLES, 13

short distance down the hollow a song-sparrow
thrummed his harp, while a cooing dove lent her
dreamy threnody to the wayside trio. Although
engaged in the prosaic act of eating my luncheon,
I breathed in an atmosphere of poetry and romance,
and half expected a company of water-witches and
dryads to leap upon the greensward before me
and dance to the music of bird and brook. A
pagan I am not, —at least, such is my hope; but
moods subjunctive sometimes seize me when I do
not blame the Greeks — aye, rather, when I praise
them — for peopling the woods with Pan and his
retinue; for I feel the influence of a strange,
mystical, and more than impersonal presence.
Yes, one’s dreams sometimes take on a specula-
tive cast, even on a day that seems to be “the bridal
of the earth and sky.” In this unfrequented spot
the birds sing their sweetest carols, be there a human
ear to hear or not. Do they sing merely for their
own delectation, these little creatures of a day?
Is there not far too much sweetness wasted on the
desert air? Would there not be more purpose in
Nature could these dulcet strains be treasured in
some way, so that they might be poured into man’s
appreciative ear? Why has Nature made no pho-
nographs?’ Wherefore all this waste of ointment?
Does Nature encourage the habits of the spend-
thrift? I recall a summer day when I strolled
along a deep, lonely ravine. It was at least a mile
to the nearest human dwelling. Suddenly a clear,
melodious trill from a song-sparrow’s lusty throat

14 IN BIRD LAND.

rippled through the stillness, making my pulses
flutter. Here, doubtless, the little Arion had sung
his roundels all summer long, and perhaps I had
been the only person who had heard him, and then
I had caught only a few tantalizing strains — simply
enough to give a taste for more. Why was the
peerless triller apparently burying his talents in this
solitary haunt?

It may be true of bird song, as of the recluse
flower, that “beauty is its own excuse for being ;”
but I am not ashamed to record my confession of
faith, my creed, on this matter; not my dreamy
cogitations with 7/s and mayhaps. There is a divine
ear which catches every strain of wayside melody,
and appreciates it at its true value. Thus, no beauty
or sweetness is ever lost, no bird or flower is really
an anchorite. A bird may flit away in alarm at the
approach of a human intruder, and may not lisp a
note until he is well out of the haunt; but the same
songster will unconsciously pour his dithyrambs all
summer long into the ear of God. Nature was not
made for man alone; it was also made for its Cre-
ator. Never has the brown thrasher sung with such
enchanting vigor and abandon as he did the other
day at the corner of the woods when he thought no
human auditor within ear-shot. He was singing for
God, albeit unconsciously.

Tt is high time to get back to my waysiding, if I
may coin a word. You must go to an out-of-the-
way resort, far from the din of loom and factory, to
feel the quaint, delicate fancy of Sidney Lanier’s
lines, —

WAYSIDE, RAMBLES, 15

“ Robins and mocking-birds that all day long
Athwart straight sunshine weave cross-threads of song,
Shuttles of music.”

The wayside rambler often is witness of delight-
ful bird-pranks that must escape other eyes. On a
bright day in February I strolled to the hollow to
which I have already referred. The sun was melt-
ing the ice-mantle from the brook, and causing the
snow to pour in runlets down the banks. In a
broad, shallow curve of the stream the tree-sparrows
and song-sparrows were taking a bath. I watched
them for a long time. Some of them would remain
in the ice-cold water for from three to five minutes,
fluttering their wings and tails in perfect glee, and
sending the pearl-drops and spray glimmering into
the air. Their ablutions done, they would fly up to
the saplings near by, and carefully preen and dry
their moistened robes.

It was in the depth of the woods that my saucy
black-cap, the titmouse, clambered straight up the
vertical bole of an oak sapling, as if he had learned
the trick from the brown creeper or the white-
breasted nuthatch. No less interesting was the
conduct of the downy woodpecker, that little drum-
major of the woods. He is the tilter par excellence
of the woodpecker family. He flings himself in the
most reckless manner from trunk to branch, and
from branch to twig, often alighting back-downward
on the slenderest stems. Shall 1 describe one of
his odd tricks? I had often seen him clinging to
the slender withes of the willows at the border of

16 IN BIRD LAND.

the swamp, and had wondered how he could hold
himself with his claws to so meagre a support. It
was a problem. How much I longed to solve it!
However, for a long time the bird so completely
baffled me that I felt like another Tantalus. One
winter day, however, he happened to be quite near
the ground as I stood beneath the willows, so that
I could see just how he accomplished the mysteri-
ous feat. Imagine my surprise! He did not cling
to the withes with his c/aws at all, as he clings to a
tree-trunk or a large bough, but grasped the slender
perches with his eet, precisely as if they were hands,
flinging his long toes, like fingers, clear around the
stems, one foot above the other. In ascending, he
would go foot over foot; in descending, he would
simply loosen his hold slightly and slip down. Sir
Isaac Newton may have made more important dis-
coveries, but he did not feel prouder or happier
when he solved the binomial theorem than did I
when my little avian problem was solved, I am not
aware that any one else has ever described this
performance, and am strongly tempted to announce
it as an original discovery. Yet a certain writer
once declared, patronizingly, that there are some
writers — himself excepted, of course — on natural
history themes who proclaim as original discoveries
many facts that are perfectly familiar to every tyro
in science. Spite of the scornful reflection, however,
it is my modest opinion that there are very few
observers who have seen a woodpecker ascending a
willow-withe foot over foot.

WAYSIDE RAMBLES. 17

Many, many a cunning bird prank would have
been missed had I kept, like the majority of pedes-
trians, to the beaten track. There, for example,
is that odd little genius in mottled robes, the brown
creeper, who has performed a sufficient number of
quaint gambols to repay me for all the time and
effort expended in pursuing my wayside rambles.
He is always sud generis, apparently priding himself
on his eccentricities, like some people you may
know. A genuine arboreal creeper, he almost in-
variably coasts up hill. Unlike his congeners, the
nuthatch and the creeping warbler, he never goes
head-downward. Dear me, no! Whether it is
because it makes him light-headed, or he regards
it as bad form, I am unable to say. He does not
even hitch down backward after the manner of the
woodpeckers, but marches up, up, up, until he
thinks it time to descend, which he does by taking
to wing, bounding around in an arc as if he were
an animated rubber ball. You may almost imagine
him saying: “Pah! such vulgar sport as creeping
head-downward may be well enough for mere
plebeians like the nuthatches and the striped
creepers, but it is quite beneath the caste of a
patrician like myself! Zseem/ tseem/” At rare
intervals he will slip down sidewise for a short
distance, in a slightly oblique direction, especially
when he comes to a fork of the branches.

However, he does not think it beneath his dignity
to take a promenade on the under side of a hori-

zontal bough. One day as I watched him doing
2

18 IN BIRD LAND.

this, he reached a point where the limb made an
obtuse angle by bending obliquely downward. Now
what would he do? Would he really hitch down
that branch head-foremost, only for once? By no
means. Catch him committing such a breach of
creeper decorum! He suddenly spread his wings
and hurled himself to the lower end of that oblique
section of the branch, and then ambled up to the
angle in regular orthodox fashion. You will never
find him doing anything to give employment to the
heresy hunters ! 1

Have any of my fellow-observers ever seen this
merry-andrew convert himself into a whirligig? I
once witnessed this droll performance, which seemed
almost like a vagary. A creeper was clinging to a
large oak-tree near the base, when he took it into
his crazy little pate, for what earthly —or unearthly —
reason I know not, to wheel around like a top several

1 Some months after the foregoing had appeared in the
columns of a popular journal I had occasion to modify one
assertion. For many years I had been studying the creeper,
and had never seen him descend a tree or bough head-first
until one autumn day while loitering in the woods. A creeper
was hitching up the stem of a sapling in his characteristic
manner; as I drew near, he seemed to catch a glimpse of a
tidbit in his rear, near the sapling’s root. In his extreme
haste to secure it before I drove him away, he wheeled
around, scuttled down over the bark head-foremost a distance
of perhaps two feet, picked up his morsel, and then dashed
out of sight, as if ashamed of his breach of creeper etiquette,
probably to eat humble pie at his leisure. That was in the
autumn of 1892. Since then no creeper, to my knowledge,
has been guilty of a similar offence against the convenances,

WAYSIDE RAMBLES. 19

times in quick succession. He rested a moment,
and then repeated the comedy.

On another occasion a creeper was preening his
tuffled feathers, having evidently just taken a bath;
and how do you suppose he went about it? In quite a
characteristic fashion, you may rest assured. Instead
of sitting crosswise on a perch, as most birds would
have done, he clung to the vertical bole of a large
oak-tree, holding himself firmly against the shaggy
bark, and daintily straightening out every feather
from his breast to his flexible tail. Growing tired
of this position— apparently so, at least — he
shuffled up to a fork made by the trunk and a large
limb, where he found a more comfortable slanting
perch on which to complete his toilet. Once, after-
ward, I saw a creeper arranging his plumes in the
same way.

But the quaintest exploit of this bird still remains
to be described. One autumn day, while rambling
along the foot of arange of steep cliffs, I caught sight
of one of these birds darting from a tree toward the
perpendicular wall of rock. For a few moments I
lost him, but followed post-haste, muttering to my-
self, “ What if I should find the little clown climbing
up the face of the cliff! That would be a perform-
ance worth describing to my bird-loving friends,
wouldn’t it?” (Surely a monomaniac may talk
aloud to himself.) I could scarcely believe my
eyes, for the next moment my happy presenti-
ment was realized; there was the creeper scaling
the vertical face of the cliff, with as much ease and

20 IN BIRD LAND.

aplomb, apparently, as a fly creeping up the smooth
surface of a window-pane! Then he flew ahead a
short distance, and began mounting the cliff where
its face was quite smooth and hard. Presently he
encountered a bulging protuberance, and tried to
creep along the oblique under side of it; but
that feat proved to be beyond his skill, agile as he
was, and so he abandoned the attempt, and swung
away to another part of the vertical wall. I have
never seen, in any of the manuals which I have con-
sulted, a description of a similar performance ; and
if any of my readers have ever witnessed such a
“coruscation ” of creeper genius, I should be glad
to hear from them.

In one’s out-of-the-way saunterings, one dashes
up against many a faunal problem that defies, even
while it challenges, solution. On a cold day of
early winter I was strolling along the bare, wind-
swept banks of a river, keeping my eyes alert, as
usual, for bird curios. In the small bushes that
fringed the bank were some cunningly placed nests.
In the bottom of one of them lay many seeds of
dogwood berries, with the kernels bored out, — the
work, no doubt, of the crested tits. But there were
no dogwood-trees within twenty-five rods of the
place! Why had the birds carried the shells to this
nest, and dropped them into it? This is all the
more curious because it was not a tit’s nest, but
very likely a cat-bird’s. One can only surmise that
the tits had gathered these seeds in the fall, and
stowed them away in the nest for winter use, and

WAYSIDE RAMBLES. 21

then had eaten out the kernels when hunger drove
them to it. That would be in perfect keeping with
the habits of these thrifty little providers for the
morrow.

During the winter of 1892-1893 a red-bellied
woodpecker, often called the zebra-bird, took up
his residence in my woodland. (I call it mine by
a sort of usufruct, because I ramble through its
pleasant archways or sit in its quiet boudoirs at all
hours and in all seasons.) With the exception of
several brief absences, for which I could not account,
the woodpecker remained until the following spring,
giving me some delightful surprises. It was the
first winter he had shown the good grace to keep
me company. Perhaps he was lazy; or he may
have been a clumsy flier; or perchance he got
separated from his fellows by accident, and so was
left behind in the autumn when the southward pil-
grimage began.

He was, by all odds, the handsomest woodpecker
I had ever seen. His entire crown and hind-neck
were brilliant crimson, which fairly shimmered like
a flambeau when the sun peeped through a rift in
the clouds and shone upon it; and then his back
was beautifully mottled and striped with black and
white, while his tail was bordered with a broad band
of deep black. What a splendid picture he made,
too, whenever he spread his wings and bolted from
one tree to another! I wish an artist could have
caught him on the wing, and transferred him to
canvas. He performed a trick that was new to

22 IN BIRD LAND.

me, and did it several times. He would dash to
some twigs, balance before them a moment on the
wing, pick a nit or a worm from a dead leaf-clump,
and then swing back to his upright perch. Once
he found a grain of corn in a pocket of the bark,
placed there, perhaps, by a nuthatch; but he did
not seem to care for johnny-cake, and so he dropped
it back into the pocket. How cunningly he canted
his head and peered into the crannies of the bark
for grubs, calling, Chack/ chack /

During the entire winter he uttered only this
harsh, stirring note, half jocose, half spiteful; but,
greatly to my surprise, when spring arrived, espe-
cially if the weather happened to be pleasant, he
began to call, K-+7-7/ k-tr-r/ precisely like a
red-headed woodpecker; indeed, at first I laid
siege to every tree, looking in vain for a red-head
come prematurely northward, until I discovered the
trick of my winter intimate, the red-bellied wood-
chopper. Why it should have been so I cannot
explain ; but whenever a cold wave struck this lati-
tude during the spring, he would invariably revert
to his harsh Chack/ chack/ and then when the
breezes grew balmy again, he would resume his
other reveille, making the woods echo. I also dis-
covered — it was a discovery to myself, at least —
that the red-bellied is a drummer, like most of his
relatives; but not once did he thrum his merry
ra-ta-ta before spring arrived,— another avian
conundrum for the naturalist to beat his brains
against.

WAYSIDE RAMBLES. 23

But hold! I might go rambling on in this way
forever, like Tennyson’s brook, — or, possibly, like
Ixion revolving on his wheel, — describing the odd
pranks witnessed in my wayside rambles. It is
high time, however, to call a halt; yet, after a brief
breathing-space, these miscellanies will be resumed
in the next chapter, which may, with some degree
of propriety, be entitled “ Bird Curios.”

24 IN BIRD LAND.

II.
BIRD CURIOS.

VERY observer of birds and animals has
doubtless amassed many facts of intense
interest — at all events, of intense interest to him-
self — which he has not been able to adjust to any
systematic arrangement he may have made of his
material. That is true of the incidents described in
this chapter. It will, therefore, necessarily partake
of the nature of bric-a-brac. If it were not so self-
complimentary, I should dub it bird mosaic, and
have done. The reader will perhaps be more dis-
posed to trace a resemblance to an eccentric old
woman’s “ crazy quilt ;’’ andif he prefers the home-
lier and less poetical title, I shall not complain.

But even a bit of patchwork must be begun
somewhere, and so I shall plunge at once zm medias
res.

The day was one of the fairest of early spring.
How shall I describe it? No sky could have been
bluer, no fields greener. The earth smiled under
the favoritism of the radiant heavens in happy
recognition. My steps were bent along the green
banks of a winding creek in northern Indiana.
Suddenly a loud, varied bird song fell on my ear

BIRD CURIOS, 25

and brought me to a full stop. It swept down lilt-
ingly from a high, bushy bank some rods back from
the stream, and at once proclaimed itself as the
rhapsody of the cat-bird. Anxious to watch the
brilliant vocalist in his singing attitudes, I ap-
proached the acclivity, and soon espied him in the
midst of the dense copse, which was not yet covered
with foliage. He redoubled his efforts when he saw
an appreciative auditor standing near. Presently a
quaint impulse seized his throbbing, music-filled
bosom. He swung gracefully to the ground, picked
up a fragment of newspaper, leaped up to his perch
again, and then, holding the paper harp in his beak,
resumed his song with more vigor than before. All
the while his beady eyes sparkled with good-natured
raillery, as if he expected me to laugh at his unique
performance ; and, of course, I was able to accom-
modate him without half an effort. An errant gust
of wind suddenly wrenched the bit of paper from
his bill and bore it to the ground. The minstrel
darted after, and straightway recovered his elusive
prize, flew up to his perch, and again roused the
echoes of woodland and vale with his rollicking
song, the paper harp imparting a peculiar resonance
to his tones; while his air of banter seemed to
challenge me to a musical contest. I laughingly
declined in the interest of my own reputation.
He was one of the choicest minstrels of bird land
I have ever heard, — barring the sex, a Jenny Lind
or an Adelina Patti, —his voice being of excellent
timbre, his tones pure and liquid, and his technical

26 IN BIRD LAND.

execution almost perfect. Ever since that day I
have been the avowed friend of the catbird, —in
truth, his champion, ready at any moment, in
season and out, to take up the glove in his defence
against every assailant. Some very self-conscious
human performers — people who themselves live in
glass houses — have accused him of singing to be
heard, making him out vain and ambitious. Well,
what if he does? Why do his human compeers
sing or speak or write? Certainly not purely for
their own delectation, but also, in part at least, to
catch the appreciative ear and eye of the public, and
win a bit of applause. ‘Let him that is without sin
among you first cast a stone.” He who scoffs at
my plumbeous-hued choralist makes me his enemy,
—not the choralist’s, but the scoffer’s. So let the
latter beware !

I leave the cat-bird, however, to his own resources
— he is well able to take care of himself —to tell
what the birds were doing during a recent spring,
which fought in a very desultory manner its battle
with the north winds. Special attention is called to
the laggard character of the season because a tardy
spring is a sore ordeal to the student of bird life,
postponing many of his most longed-for investiga-
tions. The spring to which I refer (1892) was pro-
vokingly slow in its approach, and yet it developed
some traits of bird character that were interesting.
For instance, the first week in April was a seducer,
being quite bland, starting the buds on many trees,
and putting the migrating fever into the veins of a

BIRD CURIOS. 27

number of species of birds. But the snow-storms
and fierce northern blasts that came later were very
hard on both birds and buds. Many a chorus was
sung during the pleasant weather, but on more than
one day afterward the cheerful voices of the feathered
choir were hushed, while the songsters themselves
sought refuge from the storm in every available
nook, where they sat shivering. One cannot always
repress the interrogatory why Nature so frequently
stirs hopes only to blast them; but it is not the
business of the empirical observer to question her
motives or her manners,—rather to study her as
she is, without asking why.

Cold as April was, some birds were hardy enough
to go to nest-building. Among these were the robins,
whose blushing bosoms could be seen everywhere in
grove and field. On the seventh of the month a
robin was carrying grass fibres to a half-finished nest
in the woodland near my house. A week later she
was sitting on the nest, hugging her eggs close
beneath her warm bosom, while the tempests howled
mercilessly about her rooflesshomestead. It seemed
to me, one cold morning after a snow-storm, that her
body shivered as she sat there, and I feared more
than once that she would freeze to death; but no
such fatality befell her, and she resolutely kept her
seat in her adobe cottage.

And this reminds me of a bird tragedy described
to me by a professor in the college located in my
town. He said that a number of years ago a robin
built a nest in a tree not far from the site on which

28 IN BIRD LAND.

some workmen were erecting a new college building.
In May a very fierce snow-storm came. One day
the workmen noticed a half-dozen robins darting
about the nest on which the hatching bird sat, flying
at her with sharp cries, striking her with their wings,
and making use of various other devices to dislodge
her from the nest. They seemed to realize that she
was in peril of her life through long inactivity and
exposure to the cold. But their efforts were unsuc-
cessful: she would not leave her nest; her eggs or
young must have her care at whatever cost. How-
ever, the poor bird’ paid dearly for her devotion.
The next morning — the night had been very cold
—the workmen found her dead upon the nest.
My informant vouches for the truthfulness of the
story, and says that he himself saw the faithful
mother on the nest after she had been frozen stiff.
On the twentieth of April I saw another robin
sitting close on her nest, which was built on a
horizontal branch of a willow-tree, not more than
eight feet from the ground. The raw east wind
lifted the feathers on her back, as if determined to
creep through her thick clothing to the sensitive
skin. A few days earlier a blue jay was seen carry-
ing lumber to her partly erected nursery in the
crotch of an oak-tree. A pair of bluebirds, sigh-
ing out their sorrows and joys, began building in
one of my bird-boxes during the pleasant early April
weather ; but when the cold spell came, they wisely
suspended operations until the storms were overpast
and they could proceed with safety. A killdeer

BIRD CURIOS. 29

plover’s nest was found by my farmer neighbor on
the ninth of April. It was on the ground in an
open field, with not so much as a spear of grass for
protection.

That year the crow blackbirds arrived from the
south in February, all bedecked in holiday attire,
the rich purple of their necks scintillating in the
sunshine. You have perhaps observed the droll an-
tics of these birds as they sing their guttural O-g/-ee.
It is amusing to see them fluff up their feathers,
spread out their wings and tails, bend their heads
forward and downward with a spasmodic movement,
and then emit that queer, gurgling, half-musical
note. It would seem that the little they sing re-
quires a superhuman — more precisely, perhaps, a
super-avian — effort, coming aqueously, one might
almost say, from some deep fountain in their wind-
pipes. These contortions do not invariably accom-
pany their vocal performances, but certainly occur
quite frequently. ‘The red-wings also often behave
in alike manner; and both species always spread
out their tails like a fan when they sing, whether
they fluff up their plumes and twist their necks or
not.

Another bit of bird behavior gave me not a little
surprise during the same spring. It started this
query in my mind: Is the white-breasted nuthatch
asap-sucker? It has been proved by Mr. Burroughs
and Mr. Frank Bolles, I think, that the yellow-
bellied woodpecker is. But how about the frisky
nuthatch, so versatile in ways and means? Here is

30 IN BIRD LAND.

an incident. One day I saw a nuthatch thrusting
his slender bill into a hole in the bark of a young
hickory-tree. Nuthatches often hunt for grubs in
that way, but something about this fellow’s conduct
prompted me to watch him closely for some minutes.
He bent over the hole with a lingering movement,
as if sipping something. Presently I slowly ap-
proached the tree, keeping my eye intent on the
bird.

Of course, he flew away on my approach, but
my eye was never taken from the spot to which he
had been clinging. Being forced to climb the trunk
of the tree a few feet, what discovery do you sup-
pose awaited me? There was a small hole pierced
through the bark from which the sap was flowing
down the crannies, and into that fount the little was-
sailer had been thrusting his bill, with a sort of lin-
gering motion, precisely as if he had been sipping
the sweet liquor. The evidence was sufficient to
convince me that he had been doing this very un-
orthodox thing. The real sap-suckers, no doubt,
had dug the well, for there were a number of them
in the woods, and the nuthatch had been stealing
the nectar. Perhaps, however, I wrong him; he
may have asked permission of the owner to drink
from the saccharine fountain.

The next autumn I took occasion to pry into the
affairs of my beloved intimates of the woods, and had
more than one surprise. Some species of birds, like
some other animals, lay by a supply of food for
winter, proving that they do take some thought for

BIRD CURIOS. 31

the morrow. So far as my observation goes, this pro-
vident care is displayed only by those birds that are
winter residents in our more northern latitudes. I
have never seen any of the vast company of migrants
making such provision for the proverbial rainy day ;
and, indeed, it would be unnecessary. To them suf-
ficient unto the day is the care as well as the evil
thereof, and so they take their “daily bread” as
they happen to find it.

Our winter residents, however, are more thrifty,
as I have observed again and again. Here is an
instance which once came under my eye. While
sauntering along the border of the woods one day in
September, I noticed several nuthatches and black-
capped titmice busily gathering seeds from a clump
of sunflower stalks, and flying with them to the trees
near by. I found a seat and watched them for a
long while. A nuthatch would dart over to a sun-
flower stalk, cry, Yak/ yak / in his familiar way, as if
talking affectionately to himself, deftly pick out a seed
from its encasement, fly with it to the trunk of an
oak-tree, and then thrust it into a crevice of the
bark with his long slender beak. He would then
hurry back for another seed, which he would treat
in the same way.

The behavior of one of these little toilers was
especially interesting. By mistake he pushed a
seed into a cranny which seemed to be too deep for
his purpose, and so he proceeded in his vigorous
way to pry and chisel it out. He seemed to say to
himself: “That would be too hard to dig out ona

32 JN BIRD LAND,

cold winter day; I think I’d better get it out now.”
When he had secured it, he put it into another
crevice, which also proved too deep; and so his
dainty had to be recovered once more. The third
attempt, however, proved a charm, for that time he
found a little pocket just to his liking. To make
very sure he did not eat the seed, I did not take my
eye from him for a single moment. The fact is,
during the entire time spent in watching the birds, I
did not see them eat a single seed. The titmice flew
farther into the woods with their winter “ goodies,”
where the foliage was so dense, while the birds were
so quick in movement, that it was impossible to see
just where they hid their store; but they returned
too soon for a new supply to allow time for eating
the seeds.

One autumn I spent a week in a part of Ken-
tucky where beechnuts were very plentiful, and saw
the hairy and red-headed woodpeckers putting
away their hoard of “mast” for the winter, indus-
trious husbandmen that they were. A farmer said
that he had often seen the woodpeckers carrying
these nuts to a hole in a tree and dropping them
into it. He once found such a winter store that
must have contained fully a quart of beechnuts. In
my own neighborhood the hairy woodpecker often
hides tidbits in gullies of the bark, after the man-
ner of the nuthatch. The crested tit also stows
corn and various kinds of seeds in some safe niche
for a time of exigency. Several times in the winter,
when the ground was covered with snow, I have

BIRD CURIOS. 33

surprised this bird eating a corn grain in the very
depth of the woods, a considerable distance from
the neighboring cornfields.

One winter day a nuthatch picked three grains of
corn in succession from the fissures of an oak, and
greedily devoured them. On another occasion one
of these nuthatches was seen diving into a hole on
the under side of a limb. Presently he emerged
with a nut of some kind in his bill, and flew away,
remaining just about long enough to eat it, when he
returned for another. ‘This he repeated until his
dinner was finished.

No doubt, when cold and stormy weather comes,
these birds have many a luscious mouthful because
of their forehandedness, and no doubt they enjoy
their well-kept stores as much as the farmer and his
family relish their dish of mellow apples around the
glowing hearth on a winter evening. It is no fancy
flight, but a literal truth, that many a niche and
cleft is made to do duty as larder for the feathered
and furred tenants of the woods.

With the birds that migrate, autumn is the season
for gathering in large convocations, holding “ windy
congresses in trees,’ as Lowell aptly puts it. The
aerial movements of some of these feathered armies
are often worthy of observation. Memory lingers
fondly about a day in autumn when two friends and
myself were clambering up the side of a steep hill
or ridge that bounded a green hollow on the south.
We had gone half-way to the top when we turned
to admire the panorama spread out picturesquely

3

34 IN BIRD LAND.

before us. Our exclamations of pleasure at the
scene were soon interrupted by a shadow hurtling
across the hollow, and on looking up, we saw a vast
army of crow blackbirds sweeping overhead, moving
about fifty abreast. How long the column was I
cannot say, but it extended over the hollow from
hilltop to hilltop and some distance beyond in both
directions. The odd feature about the ebon army’s
evolutions was this: The vanguard had gone on far
beyond the ravine, and was pushing over the oppo-
site ridge, when there was a peculiar swaying move-
ment near the centre directly above the hollow;
then that part of the column dropped gracefully
downward toward the trees below them; at the
same moment those in the van swung lightly around
to the right and returned, while the rear part of
the column advanced rapidly, and then all swept
grandly down into the tops of the tall trees in the
ravine. It was a splendid military pageant, and
might well start several queries in the interrogative
mind. Where was the commander-in-chief of that
sable army? Was he near the centre of the
column? If so, why should he station himself
there instead of at the head? Again, how could
the message to return be sent so speedily to the
vanguard? Do birds employ some occult method
of telegraphy? But these are questions more easily
asked than answered ; for no one, so far as I know,
has yet given special attention to the military tactics
of the armies in feathers.

It may be a somewhat abrupt transition from a

BIRD CURIOS. 35

crowd to an individual, but the reader must bear
in mind that a close logical unity cannot be pre-
served in a chapter composed of bric-a-brac; and,
besides, is not every crowd made up of individuals?
How great was my surprise, one summer day, to
see a purple grackle stalking about in his regal
manner on the flat rocks of a shallow woodland
stream, and then suddenly wheel about, pull a crab
out of the water, and fly off with it to a log, where
he beat it to pieces and devoured it! I doubt if
many persons are aware that this bird dines on
crab. On the same day another grackle, striding
pompously about in the shallow water, suddenly
sprang up into the air, some six or eight feet, and
caught an insect on the wing. This was a perform-
ance on the part of a crow blackbird never before
witnessed by me.

One day in the woods my saucy little madcap,
the crested titmouse, was tilting about on the twigs
of a sapling like a trapeze performer in a circus.
Sometimes he hung lightly to the under side of a
spray, and pecked nits and other dainties from the
lower surface of a leaf. While doing so, he hap-
pened to catch sight of an insect buzzing by; he
flung himself at it like a feathered arrow; but for
some reason he missed his mark, and the insect, in
its efforts to escape, let itself drop toward the
ground. An interesting scuffle followed; the tit-
mouse whirled around and around, dashing this way
and that like zigzag lightning, in hot pursuit, flutter-
ing his wings very rapidly until he alighted on the

36 IN BIRD LAND.

ground on the dry leaves, where he at last succeeded
in capturing his prize. He gulped it down with a
sly wink, as much as to say: ‘“ Was n’t that a clever
trick, sir? Beat it if youcan!” Then he picked
up a seed and flew with it to a twig in a dogwood
sapling, where he placed it under his claws, holding
it firmly as he nibbled it with his stout little beak.
His meal finished, he suddenly pretended to be
greatly alarmed at something, called loudly, CAzch,
chick-a-da! chick-a-da-da/ and darted away like
an Indian’s arrow.

On the same day a golden-crowned kinglet — my
Lilliputian of the woods —surprised me by drop-
ping from a twig above me to the ground, right at
my feet, passing within two or three inches of my
face. Quick as a flash he leaped to a sapling before
me, and I saw that he held a worm in his tiny bill.
Of course, that was the prize for which he had
dashed in such a headlong way to the ground.

Few birds have charmed me more than the jolly
red-headed woodpecker, and many a quaint antic
has he performed with all the nonchalance of a sage
orastoic. He has a queer way of taking his meals.
The first time it came to my notice I was walking
home, on a hot summer day, along a railway, when
a red-head bounded across the track before me,
holding a ripe, blood-red cherry in his beak. He
made a handsome picture with his pure white and
velvety black coat and vest, his crimson cap and
collar, and his— here my tropes fail, and I am
forced to become literal — long, black beak, tipped

BIRD CURIOS. 37

with the scarlet berry. Swinging gracefully across
the railway, he presently alighted on a stake of the
meadow fence, where he seemed to place the cherry
in a sort of crevice, and then sip from it in a
somewhat dainty, half-caressing way, as if it were
rarely billsome. My curiosity being excited, I eyed
him awhile, and then, determined to reconnoitre,
climbed the wire fence over into the meadow, and
drove him away from his menu. There, in a small
pocket of the fence-stake, apparently hollowed out,
at least partially, by the bird himself, lay the cherry,
its rind punctured in several places, where the
diner-out had thrust in his bill to sip the juicy pulp
underneath, —a sort of woodpecker’s table a’héze.
The crevice had a rank odor of cherries dried in
the sun,—a proof that it had been used for a
dining-table for some time. ‘The legs and wings
of several kinds of insects were also strewn about.
Since that day I have found many of these pockets
in fence-stakes, posts, dead tree-boles, and old
stumps, where woodpeckers have placed their
dainties to be eaten at their convenience.

You have doubtless seen these red-heads catching
insects on the wing. This they do with as much
agility as the wood-pewee, sometimes performing
evolutions that are little short of marvellous. From
my study window I once watched one of these
aeronauts as he sprang from the top of a tall oak-
tree in the grove near by, and mounted up, up, up
in graceful terraces of flight, until he had climbed
at least twice the height of the tree, when he sud-

38 IN BIRD LAND,

denly stopped, poised a moment airily, wheeled
about, and plunged downward headlong with a
swiftness that made my head swim, closing the de-
scent with a series of bounds, as if he were going
down an aerial stairway. Whether he performed
this feat in pursuit of an insect, or to display his
skill, or only to give vent to his exuberance of
feeling, I am unable to say.

The red-head has an odd way of taking a bath
during a light shower, which he does by clinging
lengthwise to an upright or oblique branch, fluffing
up his plumes as much as possible, and then flapping
nls wings slowly back and forth, thus allowing the
refreshing drops thoroughly to percolate and rinse
his handsome feathers. And, by the way, the subject
of bird baths is one of no small degree of interest
to the ogler of the feathered creation. It has been
my good fortune to see a brilliant company of
warblers of various species — lyrics in color, one
might call them — performing their ablutions at a
small pond in the woods. How their iridescent
hues flashed and danced in the sunshine, as they
dipped their dainty bosoms into the water, twinkled
their wings, and fluttered their tails, sending the
spray like pearl-mist into the air! One sylvan pic-
ture like that is worth many a mile’s tramping.

I once saw several myrtle warblers taking a dew-
bath. Do you wonder how they did it? They
leaped from a twig in the trees upon the dew-covered
leaves, —it was early morning, — and fluttered about
until their plumes were thoroughly drenched, then

BIRD CURIOS. 39

flitted to a perch to dry their bedraggled feathers
and carefully arrange their dainty toilets.1

Besides, it has been my chance to witness my
little confidant, Bewick’s wren, taking a dust-bath,
which he did in this manner: he would squat flat
on his belly on the ground in the lane, completely
hiding his feet, and then glide about rapidly and
smoothly over the little undulations, stirring the dust
in volatile cloudlets. Never have I seen any per-
formance, even in the bird realm so varied and
versatile, more absolutely charming; so charming,
indeed, that I believe my brief description of it
will fittingly bring this rambling chapter on “ Bird
Curios’ to a close.

1 Long after this statement had appeared in print, Mr.
Bradford Torrey described, in the “ Atlantic Monthly,” a
similar performance which he witnessed in Florida; and,
rather oddly, myrtle warblers were also the actors in this
instance.

40 IN BIRD LAND.

Ill.
WINTER FROLICS.

AD Mr. Lowell never written anything but

“A Good Word for Winter,” he would still

have deserved a place in the front rank of American
writers. What a genuine appreciation of Nature,
even in her sterner and more unfriendly moods,
breathes in every line of his manfully written mono-
graph! Blessed be the man whose love for Nature
is so leal and deeply rooted that he can say, “ Even
though she slay me, yet will I trust in her!”? When
the storm howls dismally, and the icy gusts strike
you rudely in the face; when the cold rain or sleet
pelts you spitefully ; when, in short, Nature seems
to frown and scold and bluster, — the loyal lover
of her feels no waning of affection, but knows that
beneath all her bluster and apparent harshness she
carries a tender, maternal heart in her bosom that
responds to his wooing. No, Thomson is in error
when he says that winter is the “inverted year.’
Winter, as well as summer, is the year right end up,
standing squarely on its feet; or, if it does some-
times turn a somersault, it quickly wheels about
again into an upright position. Nor is Cotton’s
dictum correct that winter is ‘‘our mortal enemy.”

WINTER FROLICS. 41

It has been much misunderstood, and _ therefore
much abused, for there are persons who will ever
and anon malign that which is above their com-
prehension.

It is just possible that the weather may sometimes
become too cold in the winter for open-air exercise ;
but the winter of 1890-1891, with its occasional
snow-storms, its alternating days of rain and clear
sunshine, was an almost ideal one for the rambler.
There were times when the woods were clad in
robes more beautiful than the green of spring or
the brown of autumn; when I was compelled to
exclaim with a Scottish poet, —

“Now is the time
To visit Nature in her grand attire.”

I mean those days when every twig and branch
was “ridged inch-deep with pearl,” making the
woodland a perfect network of marble shafts and
columns.

As to the feathered tenants of the woods, they
were almost as light-hearted and gay as in the
season of sunshine and flowers, save that they were
not so prolific of song. Quite a number of interest-
ing species were the constant companions of my
winter loiterings, and several of them occasionally
regaled me with snatches of melody. Among our
winter songsters is the hardy Carolina wren. On
December and January days when the weather was
quite cold, his vigorous bugle echoed through the
woods, Chit-le-lu, chil-le-lu, or, Che-wish-year, che-

42 IN BIRD LAND.

wish-year, giving one the feeling that at least one
brave little heart was not discouraged on account
of the dismal moaning of the wintry storm. He
is every inch a hero, and I wonder Emerson did
not celebrate his praise as well as that of the black-
capped chickadee, in verse. ‘The wren is somewhat
more of a recluse than most of my winter intimates.
He has not been quite as sociable as I should have
liked. Whether it was modesty or selfishness that
made him a sort of eremite could not be deter-
mined. Most of his contemporaries, such as the
chickadees, kinglets, nuthatches, and woodpeckers,
prefer to go in straggling flocks; so that, as soon
as I see one bird or hear his call, I feel sure that he
is simply the sentinel of a bevy of feathered tilters
and coasters at my elbow. No, they do not believe
in monasteries or nunneries; they do not believe
that it is good for a bird to be alone, whatever may
be said of man or woman. Listen to that kinglet,
the malapert, hanging head-downward on a spray
and making his disclaimer: “No, sir, we birds
are sociable beings, as men are, and like to hold
commerce with one another. What good would it
do to sing so sweetly or tilt so gracefully were
there no auditors or spectators to admire our per-
formances?” And all his plumed comrades cry,
“Aye! aye!” by way of emphatic endorsement.
The division of these tenants of the woods into
communities or colonies is a matter of unique
interest to the ornithologist. For instance, there
seemed to be at least two of these groups, one

WINTER FROLICS. 43

dwelling chiefly in the eastern part of the woodland
not far from a farm-house, and the other occupying
the western part. Sometimes, too, another com-
munity was found in the partly cleared section at
the northern extremity of one arm of the timber
belt. These several groups reminded one of the
nomadic tribes of Oriental countries, who rove
from one locality to another within certain loosely
defined boundaries. True, it is merely a matter
of speculation; but I have often wondered if feuds
and jealousies ever arise among these various
feathered tribes, as is so conspicuously the case in
the human world. I doubt it very much, for my
woodland birds dwell together in comparative
harmony, and are not half so quarrelsome and
envious as many communities of men and women.
Bird nature is evidently not so depraved as human
nature. Perhaps, as the birds had no direct hand
in the first transgression, the curse did not fall so
blightingly upon them.

My western bird colony were somewhat erratic
in their movements. During December and the
first week in January I found them almost invari-
ably in a secluded part of the woods about half-way
between the northern and southern extremities ;
but when, about the middle or possibly the twen-
tieth of January, I visited the haunt, not a bird of
any description could be found. Had all of them
gone to other climes? I felt a pang as the thought
came. But there was no occasion for solicitude.
Near the southern terminus of the woods, although

44 IN BIRD LAND.

still in a dense portion of them, the colony had
taken up a temporary abode. Here they remained
for over a week, and then, on the twenty-ninth of the
month, which was a rainy day, they shifted back to
their old tryst, while scarcely a bird was to be found
in the locality they had just left. Thus by caprice,
or on account of the exigencies of food, they oscil-
lated from place to place.

There were some birds here all winter that were
not found during the previous winter —that of
1889-1890. The golden-crowned kinglet was one.
Every day, rain or shine, warm or cold, he flitted
about so cheerfully and with so innocent an air
that I often spoke to him as if he were a real
person; and he appreciated my words of praise,
too, without doubt, for he would come scurrying
near, disporting his head so that I could catch the
gleam of his amber coronal, with its golden patch
for a centre-piece. Then there was that quaint
little genius, the brown creeper, hugging the trunks
of the trees and saplings, and tracing the gullies of
the bark as he sought for such food as he relished.
See him turn his cunning head from side to side to
peer under a loose scale !

Among my most pleasant winter companions were
the black-capped chickadees or tomtits. Not for
anything would I cast a reflection upon these en-
gaging birds, but candor compels me to say that
they seem to be somewhat fickle; that is, I cannot
always tell where to find them, or if they will let
themselves be found at all. Early in the spring of

WINTER FROLICS, 45

last year they made their appearance in these woods,
remaining a week or more, and then were not seen
until about the middle of August. Again they dis-
appeared, returning in October, and then hied away
once more and did not come back until January.
Besides, at one time they associated with the eastern
colony of birds and at another with the western.
Like some “ featherless bipeds, ” — Lowell’s expres-
sion,— they seemed to be of a roving disposition.
A winter ago they occasionally stirred the elves and
brownies of the woodland into transports by their
sweet, sad minor whistle, but this winter they were
provokingly chary of their musical performances.
For ever-presentness, however, both summer and
winter, the crested titmice and white-breasted nut-
hatches bear off the palm. Many droll tricks they
perform. One day in January a titmouse scurried
from the ground into a sapling; he held a large
grain of corn between his mandibles, and, after
flitting about a few moments, hopped to a dead
branch that lay across the twigs, and deftly pushed
the grain into the end of the bough. I stepped
closer, when he tried to secure the hidden morsel ;
but my presence frightened him away, and I climbed
the sapling, drew the broken branch toward me,
and peered into the splintered end; yes, there was
the grain of corn wedged firmly into a crevice. The
provident little fellow! He had secreted the morsel
for a stormy day when it would be impossible to
procure food on the ground. If Solomon had
watched these thrifty, industrious birds, as they

46 IN BIRD LAND.

pursue their untiring quest for food, he doubtless
would have written in his Proverbs: “Go to the
titmouse, thou sluggard; consider his ways, and be
wise.”

Associated with the titmice, kinglets, and nut-
hatches were the downy woodpeckers, which belong
to the artisan family of the bird community, being
hammerers, drillers, and chisellers all combined.
They pursue their chosen calling most sedulously.
“What ’s the use of having a vocation if you don’t
follow itP’’? you may almost hear them say as they
cant their heads to one side and peep under the
bark for a tidbit, or hammer vigorously at a crevice
in which a worm is embedded. The hairy wood-
peckers, which are somewhat larger, are more erratic
in their movements, none having been seen from
the autumn until the latter part of January. At
this date I heard their loud, nervous Chz-7-2-r-7, as
they dashed from tree to tree apparently in great
excitement.

I cannot forbear contrasting this winter with the
previous one. In the winter of 1889-1890 the song-
sparrows never left us at all, but sang on almost
every pleasant day when I went to the woods or
marsh ; but this winter, which was somewhat colder,
they went to other climes, and left the fringes of the
pools and the thickets in the swamp tenantless,
songless, and desolate. In 1889-1890 the cardinal
grossbeaks whistled every month, making the woods
ring even in January; this winter not a single note
was heard from their resonant throats. I had just

WINTER FROLICS. 47

begun to fear that the pair which had greeted
me so frequently the previous winter had been
slaughtered by some caterer to the shameful fashions
of the day, when, on the twenty-eighth of January,
I was gladdened by the sight of them in company
with several of their relatives or acquaintances and
a bevy of tree-sparrows. Where had the grossbeaks
been since November? And if they had gone south,
why did they return from their visit so early in the
season? Or perhaps a still more pertinent inquiry
would be, Why had they gone away at all? It is
difficult, however, to explain grossbeak caprice or
ratiocination.

What do the birds do when it rains? No doubt,
when the rain pours in torrents, they find plenty
of coverts in the thick bushes or in the cavities
of trees; but when the rain falls gently, and I make
my way to their haunts, as I often do, they flit
about as industriously as ever in their quest for
food, only stopping now and then to shake the
pearly drops from their water-proof cloaks. In
such humid weather the wood-choppers in the forest
— the human ones— stop their work and seek
shelter. Not so these feathered workers, who gayly
continue their playful toil, and exclaim exultingly,
“Isn't this a jolly rain?”

In another chapter mention has been made of
the provident habits of certain birds, especially the
titmice and nuthatches, in laying by a winter store.
As if to confirm what has been said, one winter day
a nuthatch went scudding up and down the trunk of

48 IN BIRD LAND.

a large oak-tree at the border of the woods. Pres-
ently he cried, Yank/ yank/ as if to announce a
discovery. Then he pecked and pried with all his
might, until at length he drew a grain of corn out
of a crevice of the bark, placed it in a shallow pocket
on the other side of the tree, and began to pick it
to pieces, swallowing the fragments as he broke them
off. When this grain had been disposed of, he
found another, and then another, until his hunger
seemed to be appeased, when he darted off into
the woods.

Other pedestrians and observers may differ from
‘me both in temperament and habits, but to my
mind nothing could be more delightful than a
ramble in a snow-storm. Let the wind blow a gale
from the west, driving the cold pellets blindingly
into your face, and trying to rob you of your over-
coat and cap; yet, if you have the spirit of the
genuine rambler, your blood will tingle with delight,
as well as with a sense of masterly overcoming, as
you plod along; while you feel that every fierce gust
that strikes you is only one of Nature’s love-taps, —
a little rough, it is true, but for that very reason all
the more expressive of affection. Stalking forth
into the teeth of a winter storm develops the hardy
traits of character, and puts the ingredients from
which heroes are made into the pulsing veins.
Many atime, as I have pushed my way triumphantly
through the pelting wind, I have answered with a
shout of joy limerson’s vigorous challenge, —

WINTER FROLICS. 49

“Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Carves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.”

My winter saunterings have never been solitary,
although often taken in haunts “far from human
neighborhood.” The birds have afforded me all
the companionship I have really craved. One -is
never lonely when one can see the flutter of a wing
or hear the calls of the blithe commoners of the
wildwood. When your soul is fretted by the daily
round of strifes and jealousies in the human world,
you can hie to the woods, and learn a lesson of con-
ciliation from the example of the loving fellowship
that exists in the bird community. I have often
been shamed by this constant display of amity
among many feathered folk, when I thought of the
childish bickerings of men in church and state.

But moralizing aside, I must describe the behavior
of my little winter friends, the tree-sparrows. They
are the hardiest birds that spend the winter in my
neighborhood, disdaining to seek shelter in the
thick woods during the most violent snow-storm.
Even the snowbirds, whose very name is a synonym
for toughness, are glad to seek a covert in some
secluded forest nook; but the tree-sparrows choose
the clearing at the border of the woodland, where
the wind howls loudest and blows the snow in wild
eddies. Here they revel in the storm, flitting from
twig to twig, hopping on the snow-covered ground

4

50 IN BIRD LAND.

as if it were a carpet of down, and picking seeds
from grass-stems and weed-stalks. All the while
they keep up a cheerful chirping, as if to express
their appreciation of the pleasant winter weather.

Strangest of all is their wading about in the snow.
It makes me shiver to see their little bare feet sink-
ing into the icy crystals, and I feel disposed to offer
them my warm rubber boots; only I know they
would decline the proposal with scorn. ‘I am no
tenderfoot !”’ one of them seems to say, with cunning
literalness. Their dainty tracks in the snow are
suggestive, and give to the thoughtful observer more
than one clew to bird cerebration. Let us follow
one of these winding pathways. Here a bird
alighted, his feet sinking deep into the cold down;
then he hopped along to this tuft of grass, where he
picked a few mouthfuls of seeds, standing up to his
body in the snow; then an impulse seized him to
seek another feeding-place; so he went plunging
through the drifts, leaving, at regular intervals, the
prints of his two tiny feet side by side, while his
toes traced a slender connecting line on the white
surface between the deeper indentations. But here
is another path. What impulse seized this bird to
turn back like a rabbit on his track? For it is
evident that this is sometimes done. Then here
are only two or three footprints, showing that the
bird alighted suddenly, and as suddenly yielded to
an impulse to fly up again. What thought struck
him just at that moment that made him so quickly
change his mind ?

WINTER FROLICS. 51

At one point I traced a path which bore evidence
of having been used a number of times for a long
distance, as it wound here and there in an ex-
tremely sinuous course among the bushes and briers.
Probably it was a sparrow-trail, if not a thoroughfare,
and had been used by many birds. In more than
one place were small hollows in the snow, just large
enough for a bird’s body to wallow in. Usually
they were at the terminus of one of these thorough-
fares. Might the birds have tarried there to take a
snow-bath? I have seen birds taking pool-baths,
shower-baths, dew-baths, and dust-baths. Who will
say they never take a snow-bath?

Next to the tree-sparrows, the juncos delight to
hold carnival in the snow; but their behavior in this
element is somewhat different: they are not so fond
of hopping about in it, and do not plait such a net-
work of tracks among the bushes. They will fly
from a perch directly to the ground near a weed-
stalk or other cluster of dainties, and stand quietly
in the snow up to their little bodies while they take
their luncheon. Sometimes their white breasts rest
on the surface of the snow, or in a slight depression
of it, when they look as if they were sitting in a nest
of crystals.

The eighth of January was a cold day; in a little
opening in the midst of the woods was a covey of
snowbirds, and, incredible as it may seem, several
of them stood in the selfsame tracks in the snow, so
long that my own feet actually got frost-bitten while
I watched them, although I wore three pairs of

52 IN BIRD LAND.

socks —this is an honest confession — and a pair
of warm rubber boots. More than that, they thrust
their beaks into the snow and ate of it quite greedily.
What wonderful reserves of caloric must be wrapped
up in their small bodies to enable them to keep
themselves comfortable in winter with never a
mouthful of warm victuals or drink! That the birds
should thrive and be happy in the spring and
summer is no matter of surprise ; but it remains for
the lover of out-door life in the winter to prove that
many of them are just as cheerful and content when
the mercury has taken a jaunt to some point far
below zero.

The student of Nature cannot always be in the
same mood. Indeed, Nature herself is, at times, as
whimsical, apparently, as the human heart. There
are times when she seems quite stolid, keeping her
precious secrets all to herself, as if her lips had
been hermetically sealed. With all your coaxing and
hoaxing and flattery, you cannot win from her a re-
sponse. Emerson, in one of his poems, speaks about
the forms of Nature dulling the edge of the mind
with their monotony; and this sometimes seems to
be the case. Yet I must protest at once that it is
not generally true. There are days when Nature
fairly bubbles over with good cheer, and grows talk-
ative and even confidential, responding to every
touch of the rambler as a well-strung harp responds
to the touch of a skilful player. It is difficult to
account for her changeable moods, but obviously
they are not always to be traced only to the mind
of the observer.

WINTER FROLICS. *3

During the winter of 1891-1892 many a tramp
was taken to the homes of the birds; and let me
whisper that there were days when even they seemed
to be dull and commonplace. That is a frank con-
cession for a bird-lover to make, but it is the truth.
Sometimes these feathered actors have behaved in
the most ordinary way, failing to perform a single
trick that I had not seen a score of times before, and
I have actually gone home without making a single
entry in my note-book. But it has not always been
so. There, for example, was the twenty-second of
January ; what an eventful day it was! The morn-
ing of the twenty-first had been very cold, the mer-
cury having sunk, probably in a fit of despair, to
fourteen degrees below zero. During the day, how-
ever, the weather grew considerably warmer; and
when the twenty-second came, bright and clear,
though still cold, one could take a jaunt with some
comfort. The sun shone from a cloudless sky,
and having put on my warm rubber boots, I waded
out through the deep snow to the woods. The se-
vere weather had not discouraged the jolly juncos
and tree-sparrows, or driven them to a warmer
climate. They delight in cold weather; it seems to
make them all the merrier. They were flitting about
in the bushes and trees, chirping gayly, or, like my-
self, were wading in the snow, although they had no
woollen stockings for their little feet, much less warm
rubber boots. What hardy creatures they are! For
long distances I could trace their dainty tracks in
the snow, winding in and out among the bushes and

54 IN BIRD LAND.

weeds, and making many a graceful curve, loop, angle,
and labyrinth. By following these little paths, as has
been said before, you may trace the thoughts of a
bird, —that is, you may for the time become a bird
miind-reader, interpreting every impulse that seized
the throbbing little brain and breast.

While watching these birds in the woods, I ob-
served a new freak of bird deportment. The juncos
would fly up into the dogwood-trees, pick off a berry,
nibble it greedily a moment with their little white
mandibles, and then fling it to the ground. My eye
was especially fixed on one little epicure. Presently
he found a berry that was juicy and quite to his
taste, and what did he do but seize it in his beak
and dash down into the snow, where he stood leg-
deep in the icy crystals until he had eaten his blood-
red tidbit! He was in no hurry, but slowly picked
the berry to pieces, flinging it again and again into
the snow, devouring the soft red pulp and throw-
ing the rind and seed away. He must have stood
for fully five minutes in the same tracks ; at all events,
it seemed a long while to me, standing stock-still in
the snow, watching him eat his cold luncheon, while
my feet were becoming chilled. I should have pitied
his little feet had he not seemed so utterly indifferent
to the cold. Afterward I saw a number of juncos,
as well as tree-sparrows, taking their dinner in a simi-
lar way, — that is, on the snow, which seemed to serve
them for a table-cloth. Having eaten the pulp of
the berries, they left the pits and scarlet rinds lying
on top of the snow. Crumbs they were, scattered

WINTER FROLICS. 55

about by these precious children of the woods! In
this respect the snowbirds and tree-sparrows differ
from the crested titmice, which reject the pulp of
the dogwood berries entirely, but bore out the ker-
nel of the pit and eat it with a relish. And as to
the gluttonous robins, bluebirds, woodpeckers, and
waxwings, they swallow these berries whole. Every
citizen of Birdville to his own taste, so I say.

In the corn-field adjoining the woods I witnessed
another little scene that filled me with delight. At
some distance I perceived a snowbird eating seeds
from the raceme of a tall weed, which bent over ina
graceful arc beneath its dainty burden. Apparently
he was enjoying his repast allto himself. I climbed
the fence, and cautiously went nearer to get a better
view of the little diner-out. What kind of discovery
do you suppose I made? I could scarcely believe
my eyes. There, beneath the weed, hopping about
on the snow, were a tree-sparrow and a junco, pick-
ing up the seeds that their little companion above
was shaking down. It was such a pretty little
comedy that I laughed aloud for pure delight. It
seemed for all the world like a boy in an apple-tree
shaking down the mellow fruit for his playmates,
who were gathering it from the ground as it fell. It
was a pity to disturb the birds at their festivities,
and I felt like a bully for doing so; but in the inter-
est of science, you see, I had to drive them away to
see what kind of table they had spread. Beneath
the weed the snow was etched with dainty bird-
tracks, and thickly strewn with black seeds from the
raceme of the weed-stalk.

56 IN BIRD LAND.

Farther on in the woods, another cunning little
junco proved himself no lay figure. It seemed, in
fact, to be a junco day. When I first espied him, he
was standing in the snow beneath a slender weed-
stem eating seeds from his white table-cloth. But the
curious feature about his behavior was that, whenever
his supply of seeds on the snow had been picked
up, he would dart up to the weed-stem (which was
too slender to afford hima comfortable perch), give
it a vigorous shake, which would bring down a
quantity of seeds, and then he would flit below and
resume his meal. This he did several times. I
should not have believed a junco gifted with so much
sense had not my own eyes witnessed this cunning
performance. Had some other observer told the
story, I should have laughed at it a little slyly and
more than half unbelievingly ; but, of course, one
cannot gainsay the evidence of one’s own eyesight.

Nothing in all my winter rambles has surprised
me more than the evident delight some species of
birds take in the snow. It is a sort of luxury to
them, wading-ground and feasting-ground all in one.
How they keep their little bare feet from becoming
chilblained is a mystery. The evening of the twen-
tieth of January was bitterly cold, the wind blowing
in fierce, howling gusts from the northwest. Yet
when, at about five o’clock, I stalked out to the
pond in the rear of my house, the tree-sparrows and
song-sparrows were fairly revelling, not to say wal-
lowing, in the snow among the weeds. The wind
was so biting that I soon hurried back to the house,
and left them to their midwinter carousal.

WINTER FROLICS. 57

Quite a respectable colony of flickers found a
home during the winter in my favorite woodland.
Unlike the other birds mentioned, they do not wade
about in the snow. No; to their minds, a bare
tree-wall is the desideratum for a tramping-ground ;
and if they need more exercise than promenading
affords them, they can take to wing and go bounding
from one part of the woods to another. A flicker is
a staid bird when he does n’t happen to be in a play-
ful mood. You would have laughed at one in De-
cember which was clinging to a branch high up ina
tree with his head right in front of a woodpecker
hole, over which he seemed to be standing guard.
There he clung, as if that hollow contained the most
precious treasure, and would not desert his post,
although I leaped about on the ground, shouted
loudly, and even flung my cap in the air like a wild
man, to frighten him away. Howcomical he looked
in his réle of sentinel! He never smiled or even
winked, but left such trifling to the human scatter-
brain below, who was so ill-mannered as to laugh
at a well-behaved woodpecker. Perhaps he had a
winter store of food stowed away in that cavity, and
thought he had to guard it well, now that a real
brigand had come prowling about the premises.

58 IN BIRD LAND.

IV.
FEBRUARY OUTINGS.

F I were not afraid of the ridicule of the cynic,
I should begin this February chronicle with an
exclamation of delight; but in these days, when so
many of the so-called cultured class have taken for
their motto, V7 admirari, one must try to repress
one’s enthusiasm, or be scoffed at, or at least pat-
ronized, as young and inexperienced. Yet it would
be out of the question for the genuine rambler to
keep the valve constantly upon his buoyant feelings.
If he did so, he would be wholly out of tune with
the jubilant mood of bird and bloom and wave
around him.

Almost every day of February, 1891, was a gala-
day for me, on account of the large number of birds
in song at that time. The weather was not always
pleasant, but the month came in blandly, bringing
on its gentle winds many birds from their southern
winter-quarters ; and as they had come, they made
up their minds to stay. My notes begin with the
eleventh of the month, and my narrative will begin
with that date. In the evening I strolled out to my
favorite swamp. On my arrival all was quiet; but
soon the song-sparrows, seeing that a human auditor

FEBRUARY OUTINGS. 59

had come, broke into a jingling chorus. Early in
the season as it was, they seemed to be almost in
perfect voice, only a little of the hesitancy and
twitter of their fall songs being distinguishable ;
nor did they seem to care for the raw evening
wind blowing across the meadows, or the gray
clouds scurrying athwart the sky, but kept up their
canticles until the dusk fell.

Two days later, while sauntering through a wood-
land, I had the greatest surprise of the winter. For
several years I had been studying the tree-sparrows,
hoping to hear them sing, but only two or three
times had my anxious quest been rewarded with
even a wisp of melody from their lyrical throats.
On this day, however, I came upon a whole colony
of them in full tune, giving a concert that would
have thrilled the most prosaic soul with poetry and
romance. It was the first time I had ever really
seen these birds while singing; but now, so kind
was fortune, I could watch the movement of their
mandibles, the swelling of their throats, and the
heaving of their bosoms while they trilled their
roundelays. My notes, taken on the spot, run as
follows: “The song is somewhat crude and labored
in technique; but the tones are very sweet indeed,
not soft and low, as one author says, but quite loud
and clear, so that they might be heard at some dis-
tance. The minstrelsy is more like that of the fox-
sparrow than of any other sparrow, though the tones
are finer and not so full and resonant. Quite often
the song opens with one or two long syllables, and

60 IN BIRD LAND.

ends with a merry little trill having a delightfully
human intonation. There is, indeed, something
innocent and even childlike about the voices of
these sparrows. Had they the song-sparrow’s skill
in execution, they would rival that triller’s vocal
performances. How many of them are taking
part in the concert! They seem to be holding a
song carnival to-day, and there is real witchery in
their music. Frequently their songs are superim-
posed, as it were, upon the semi-musical chattering
in which these birds so often indulge.”

But, strange to say, although the conditions were
apparently in every respect favorable, I did not hear
the song of a single tree-sparrow after that epochal
day for more than a year. Evidently these birds
are erratic songsters, at least in this latitude. On
the same day the meadow-larks flung their flute-like
songs athwart the fields, and the bold bugle of the
Carolina wren echoed through the woods.

February 14. “Inthe swamp the song-sparrows
are holding an opera festival,” my notes run. “One
of them trills softly in a clump of wild-rose bushes,
as if asking permission to sing ; and then, his request
being gladly granted, he leaps up boldly to a twig
of a sapling, and breaks into a torrent of melody.
Another, in precisely the same tune, answers him
farther down the stream, the two executing a sort
of fugue. A third leaps about on the dry grass
that fringes a ditch, twitters merrily for a while,
then flies to a small oak-tree near by, and — well,
such a loud, rollicking, tempestuous song I have

FEBRUARY OUTINGS. 61

never before heard from a song-sparrow’s throat.
Some of his tones are full and exultant, while others
in the same run are low and tender, like the strains
of a love-lorn harp. The tones produced by exha-
lation can be distinguished from those produced
by inhalation. Sometimes his voice sounds a little
hoarse, as if he had strained one of the strings of
his lyre, but I find, on focusing my ear upon them,
that these are some of his most melodious notes.
Presently, in a fit of ecstasy, he hurls forth sch a
torrent of song, in allegro furioso, that one almost
fancies the naiads and water-witches of the marsh
are crying out for admiration.

“Here is something worthy of note — when the
song-sparrow begins a trill, he usually sings it over a
number of times, and then, as if wearied with one
tune, turns to another; and yet with all his varia-
tions — and I know not how many he is capable of
singing — there is always something distinctive about
his minstrelsy that differentiates it from that of all
other birds.”

February 17. “Again in the swamp. It seems
to me I have never before heard the song-sparrows
sing so gleefully. Every concert goes ahead of its
predecessor. Here is a sparrow hopping about on
the green grass among the bushes like a brown
mouse; now he chirps sharply as if to attract my
attention, and then bursts into a melody that almost
makes me turn a somersault for very joy; and now,
having sung his intermittent trills for a few minutes,
he begins to warble a sweet, continuous lay, with an
andante movement, as if he could not stop.

62 IN BIRD LAND,

“A little farther on, another songster, with a
voice of excellent “mdére, is descanting on a small
oak sapling. Note, he runs over several trills, rising
higher at every effort, until at last he strikes a note
far up in the scale, holds it firmly a moment, and
then drops to a lower note. Then he repeats the
process, the summit of his ambition being attained
whenever he reaches that high note, which is
bewitchingly sweet. How clear and true his voice
rings !

“Sometimes a silence falls upon the marsh; not
a note is to be heard for a minute or two; and
then, as if by a preconcerted signal, a dozen spar-
rows throw the air into musical tumult, their com-
bined rush of notes seeming almost like a salvo.
Often, too, when I approach the marsh, no music is
heard, but no sooner have I climbed the fence into
the enclosure than the choral begins; so that I
believe I am justified in saying that the song-spar-
row appreciates a human auditor. This is not said
by way of disparagement, —by no means; for
almost all musicians, whether human or avian, sing
to be heard.”

On the same day I saw a song-sparrow whose
central tail-feather was pure white from quill to tip,
and the bird remained in the marsh until the twenty-
fourth of the month, his odd adornment visible from
afar. I was also surprised to find two male che-
winks in the bushes. A cardinal grossbeak was also
seen, and a robin’s song and the loud call of a
flicker were heard.

PEBRUARY OUTINGS. 63

My next outing occurred on the nineteenth,
when the weather had turned colder, and snow was
falling, mingled with sleet; yet several song-
sparrows trilled softly in the marsh. On the twenty-
third crow blackbirds were seen, and on the twenty-
fourth a turtle-dove was cooing meditatively, and
the song-sparrows were holding another opera festi-
val. The last days of February became cold again,
and March brought several severe storms ; but I think
none of the hardy, adventurous birds named, retreated
to a warmer clime, even if they did regret having left
their winter quarters a little prematurely.

64 IN BIRD LAND.

V.
ARRIVAL OF THE BIRDS.

AVE any of my readers kept a record of the
arrival of the birds during the spring? The
northward procession of the battalions in feathers is
an interesting study. Why do some birds begin
their pilgrimage from the south so much earlier than
others? What is there in their physical and mental
make-up that gives them the northward impulse even
before fair weather has come? Do they become
homesick for their summer haunts sooner than their
fellows? These are questions that are much more
easily asked than answered. The size of the bird
furnishes no clew to the solution, for some small
birds are better able to resist the cold than many
larger ones. There is the little black-capped tit-
mouse —a mere mite of a bird — which generally
remains in my neighborhood all winter, cheerfully
braving the stormiest weather; while the brown
thrasher, fully five times as large, is carefully warm-
ing his shins in the sunny south, and will not ven-
ture north until the spring has come to stay. Here,
too, is Bewick’s wren on the first day of April, —
with no thought of making an April fool of any
one, — while the Baltimore orioles, rose-breasted

ARRIVAL OF THE BIRDS. 65

grossbeaks, and scarlet tanagers, all larger than he,
are tarrying in Georgia and Alabama. There is
nothing in the size or color or form of the birds that
makes this difference ; it is doubtless in the blood.

I have kept a careful memorandum of the arrival
of these feathered voyagers (this was during the
spring of 1892), and know almost to a certainty
the day, and sometimes the hour, when they cast
anchor in this port. The winter had been unusually
severe, and yet the migration began as early as the
twenty-second of February, when the first meadow-
larks put in appearance, and sent their wavering
shafts of song across the frost-bound fields. They
had left only on the last day of December, but had
apparently remained away as long as they could.
On the same day the killdeer plovers also arrived,
making their presence known by their wailing cry.
On the twenty-third I heard the Q-g-o-0-ka-/-e-e-e of
the red-winged blackbirds, and on the morning of
the twenty-fourth the first robins dropped from the
sky after a “flying trip” in the night from some
more southern stopping-place; but the weather
was too cold for them to sing. Yet the song-spar-
rows and meadow-larks defied the cold with their
cheerful melody. While the robin is a very gay
and lavish songster, he wants favorable weather for
his vocal rehearsals, and a “cold snap” will easily
discourage him. He is evidently somewhat of a fair-
weather minstrel. It was on February twenty-
eighth, a pleasant day. that I caught the first strain
of robin melody.

5

66 IN BIRD LAND.

The towhee buntings dropped anchor on the
seventh of March, filling the woods with their fine,
explosive trills. It was a pleasant day, a sort of
oasis in the midst of the stormy weather, and it did
not seem inapt to speculate a little as to the thoughts
of these birds on their arrival at their old summer
haunts, after an absence of four or five months.
Was the old brush-heap, where they had built their
nest the previous spring, still there? Had the
winter storms spared the twig on the sapling where
Cock Bunting had sung erstwhile his sweetest trills
to his dusky mate? “What if the woodman has
cleared away our pleasant corner of the woods?”
whispers Mrs. Towhee to her lord as they approach
the sequestered spot. How their hearts must bound
with joy when they find sapling and brush-heap and
winding woodway all as they had left them in the
autumn! No wonder they are so tuneful! Even
the snow-storms that moan and howl through the
woods a few days later cannot wholly repress their
exuberant feelings.

On the same date a whole colony of young song-
sparrows stopped at this station on their journey
northward, although you must remember that quite
a number of their elders remained here through the
winter. What a twittering these year-old sparrows
made in the bushes fringing the woods! I actually
laughed aloud at their crude, tuneless, quasi-musical
efforts. They were not in good voice, and, besides,
had not yet fully learned the tunes that are sung in
sparrowdom, and could not control their vocal

ARRIVAL OF THE BIRDS, 67

chords. They made many sorry and amusing at-
tempts to chant and trill, but their voices would
break and catch in the most remarkable ways, now
sliding up too high in the scale, now sliding down
too low, and now veering too much to one side, so
to speak. One tyro, I observed, sang the first part
of a run very well, almost as well, in fact, as an adult
musician could have sung it; but when he tried to
finish, his voice seemed to fly all to flinders. He
made the attempt again and again, but to no pur-
pose. It was a day for which I have cut a notch
in the tally-stick of memory. Leaving the company
of young vocalists at their rehearsals at the border
of the woods, I made my way to a swamp not far
off, where a pleasant surprise lay in ambush. Here
were no longer found young song-sparrows, but
adults, and you should have heard them sing. What
a contrast between the crude songs of the young
birds and the loud, clear, splendidly intoned and
executed trills of these trained musicians !

But I must return to the subject of migration.
The fifteenth of March was a raw, blustering day,
as its predecessors had been ; but in the woods sev-
eral fox-sparrows were singing, not their best, of
course, but fairly well for such weather. They must
have come during the night. But why had they
come when the weather was so cold? Most birds
wait until there is a bland air-current from the south
on which they can ride triumphantly. Had this
small band of fox-sparrows followed the example
of a well-known American humorist, and gone to

68 IN BIRD LAND.

“roughing it’’? Strange to say, I saw no more fox-
sparrows until the twenty-eighth, when the weather
had grown warm. ‘That was also the day on which
I saw the first winter wren scudding about in the
brush-heaps and wood-piles and perking up his tail
in the most approved bantam fashion. It may be
a poor joke, but the thought came of its own accord,
that if brevity is the soul of wit, this little wren
must have a very witty tail; and it really is an
amusing appendage, held up at an acute angle with
the bird’s sloping back.

As I strolled along the edge of the woods on the
same day, the fine rhythmic trill of the bush-spar-
row reached my ear. He was celebrating his return
to this sylvan resort, and his voice was in excellent
trim ; the fact is, I never heard him acquit himself
quite so well, not even in May. Miss Lucy Larcom,
of tender and sacred memory, has happily charac-
terized this triller’s song in melodious verse : —

“One syllable, clear and soft
As a raindrop’s silvery patter,
Or a tinkling fairy-bell, heard aloft,
In the midst of the merry chatter
Of robin and linnet and wren and jay, —
One syllable oft repeated ;
He has but a word to say,
And of that he will not be cheated.”

But why was not the grass-finch, his relative of
the fields, in just as good voice when he arrived on
the thirty-first? The last two springs this bird had
to be on his singing-grounds several days before he

ARRIVAL OF THE BiRDS. 69

recovered his full powers of voice. On the twenty-
ninth the phoebe came with his burden of sweet song,
and the first of April brought Bewick’s wren — sweet-
voiced Arion of the suburbs—and the chipping
sparrow, whose slender peal of song rang through
my study window. Here my record stops for the
present year; but by reference to my last year’s
notes (1891) it appears that Bewick’s wren did not
then arrive until April tenth, and chippy not until
April twelfth. The difference in the seasons is
doubtless the primary cause of this divergence in
the time of arrival. April brings many other winged
pilgrims, — the white-throated and white-crowned
sparrows, the thrushes, the orioles, the tanagers,
the cat-birds, the swallows and swifts, and some of
the hardier warblers, while the great army of war-
blers delay their coming till the first and second
weeks in May. And all the while we are having bird
concerts, cantatas, oratorios, and opera festivals,
mingled with some tragedy and a great deal of
comedy, and there are love songs and cradle songs,
matins and vespers, and twitterings expressive of
every shade and variety of feeling.

I yield to the temptation to add a brief article
entitled ‘ Watching the Parade,” which was pub-
lished in a New England journal in the summer of
1893, and contains a record of some observations
made during the previous spring. By comparison
with the preceding part of this chapter, it will indi-
cate the versatile character of bird study in the

70 IN BIRD LAND.

same season of different years. I shall give it
almost verbatim as first published, hoping the
rather “free and easy” style will be generously
overlooked by critical readers.

Every spring and autumn for many years I have
been watching the parade ; not a parade of soldiers,
or of civic orders, or even of a menagerie ; but one
of far more interest to the naturalist,—the pro-
cession of the army in feathers. A wonderful cor-
tége it is, this army in bright array; and every time
you witness it, you add something new to your
knowledge of bird life. The last spring has been no
exception, although, when the pageant began, I
wondered if I should see any new birds or hear any
new songs, and even felt a little doubtful about it.

But quite early a new bird was added to my list.
It was the blue-winged warbler, which carries about
a scientific name big enough to break its dainty
back. Just think of calling a tiny bird edmintho-
phila pinus/ But happily it does not know its own
name, and, like some of my readers, would not be
able to pronounce it if it did, and therefore no
serious harm is done. This bird may be known by
the bright olive-green of its back, the pale blue of
its wings, the pure yellow of its under parts, and the
narrow black line running back through its eye. It
seemed to be quite wary, yet I got near enough to
see it catch insects on the wing like a wood-pewee,
as well as pick them from the leaves of the trees.

The bird student must sometimes let problems go

ARRIVAL OF THE BIRDS. 71

unsolved. For nearly, perhaps quite a week, three
or four large, heavy-beaked birds flitted about in
several tall tree-tops of the woods, but were so far
up that, try as I would, I could not identify them
even with my opera-glass. In my small collection
of mounted birds there is a female evening gross-
beak ; and the tree-top flitters looked more like it
than any other bird of my acquaintance. If they
were evening grossbeaks, it was a rare find; for
these birds are almost unknown in this part of the
country, only a few having ever been discovered in
this State. Their usual Zoca/e is thought to be west
of Lake Superior. I was sorely tempted to use a
gun, but decided that it was just as well not to know
some things as to massacre an innocent bird.

However, other finds were more satisfactory.
Strolling through the woods one day, I caught the
notes of a bird song that did not sound familiar.
Surely it was a vireo’s quaint, continuous lay; but
which of the vireos could it be? It was different
from any vireo minstrelsy I had ever heard. Peer-
ing about in the bushes for the author of those
elusive notes, I at length espied a little bird form,
and the next moment my glass revealed the blue-
headed or solitary vireo. It was the first time I had
ever heard this little vocalist sing in the spring,
although we have met— he and I—on familiar
terms every season for many years. Here is a
query: Why was blue-head silent other years, and
so tuneful that spring? For he was often heard
after that day.

72 IN BIRD LAND.

The song was varied and lively, sometimes run.
ning high in the scale, and had not that absent-
minded air which marks the roundelay of the
warbling vireo. It is much more intense and
expressive, and some notes are quite like certain
runs of the brown thrasher’s song. The bird did
two other things that were a surprise: he chattered
and scolded much like the ruby-crowned kinglet.
Then he caught a miller, and, as it was too large to
be swallowed whole, placed it under his claws pre-
cisely like a chickadee or blue jay, and pulled it to
pieces. This was a new trick to me, nor have I
ever read, in any of the bird manuals, of his taking
his dinner in this way.

The red-eyed vireo also chanted a little roundel
that spring, as he pursued his journey northward, his
song being slower in movement and less expressive
and varied than that of his cousin just referred to.

Indeed, the procession seemed to be especially
musical during that spring. One day, in the last
week in April, a new style of music rang out at the
border of the woods, and 1 fairly trembled lest the
jolly soloist should scud away before I could iden-
tify him; but he had no intention of making his
escape, and giving the credit of his vocal efforts to
somebody else in the bird world. At length I got
my glass upon him. He proved to be the purple
finch, — rosy little Mozart that he was! For years
he has passed through these woods with the vernal
procession, but this was the first time he had ever
been obliging enough to sing in my hearing. And

ARRIVAL OF THE BIRDS. 73

what a rolling, rollicking little song it was, just as
full of good cheer as bird song could be! He
continued his vocal rehearsal for many minutes on
that day, but afterward he and his fellows were as
moute as the inmates of adeaf and dumb asylum. A
purple finch once sang here in the fall; but the
music was quite harsh and squeaking, very different
from his springtime melody.

One of the most beautiful birds that have a part
in the vernal parade is the rose-breasted grossbeak,
—a bird that you will recognize at once by his
white-and-black coat and the rosy shield he so
bravely bears on his bosom. In his summer home,
farther north, I have often heard his vivacious
music (this was in northern Indiana) ; but until
the past spring he has always been silent as he
passed through this neighborhood, save that he
would sometimes utter his sharp, metallic Chip.
However, on the fourteenth of May two of these
grossbeaks sang a most vigorous duet in the grove
near my house ; and I wish you could have heard it,
for it would have made you almost leap for joy, it
was so jolly and rollicksome. At first you may be
disposed to think the grossbeak’s song much like
the robin’s, but you will soon find that it is finer in
several respects, the tones being clearer and fuller,
the utterance more rapid and varied, and the whole
song much more spirited; and that is saying a
good deal, considering Cock Robin’s cheery carols.
No one should fail to hear this rosy-breasted min-
strel, whatever else he may miss. It will make him

74 IN BIRD LAND.

fecl that life is worth living ; that if God made this
bird so happy, he must intend that his rational
creatures, who are of more value than a bird, should
also be cheerful.

Never were the birds so gentle and confiding as
they were during that spring. A female redstart
took up her residence in my yard for fully a week,
flitting about in the trees and grape-arbor, seeking
for nits and worms; and you are to remember that
I live in town (though in the outskirts), with many
houses and people about, and an electric car whirl-
ing along the street every few minutes. A dainty
bay-breasted warbler — little witch ! — kept the red-
start company, letting me stand beneath the trees
on whose lower branches she tilted, and watch her
agile movements ; yet one of my bird books declares
that the bay-breasted warblers remain in the highest
tree-tops of the woods! Both these birds occasion-
ally uttered a trill.

The goldfinches, too, were very familiar. They
came with the procession as far north as my neigh-
borhood, but stopped here for the summer, instead
of continuing their pilgrimage. Some of their
brothers and sisters remained with me all winter.
Within a few feet of my rear door stands a small
apple-tree, in whose branches these feathered gold-
flakes flashed about, and sang their childlike ditties,
and one little madam fluttered in the leafy crotches
of the twigs, fitting her body into them as if trying
to see if they would make good nesting-sites; the
while Sir Goldfinch sang and sang at the top of his

ARRIVAL OF THE BIRDS. 45

voice. Several white-crowned sparrows also came
to eat seeds thrown out into the back yard. These
handsome sparrows were not shy, but perched on
the fence or the trees, and trilled their sweet
refrains.

76 IN BIRD LAND.

VI.
WINGED VOYAGERS.

HE subject of bird migration is one of absorb-
ing interest, presenting many a perplexing
problem to the student who cares to go into the
philosophy of things. Why do the birds make these
wonderful semi-annual pilgrimages, and whence came
the original impulse, are questions often asked. With
my limited opportunities for observation I cannot
hope to shed much, if any, new light on the sub-
ject; yet it seems to me that some persons are dis-
posed to invest it with more of an air of mystery than
is really necessary. There are several patent, if not
wholly satisfactory, reasons that may be assigned
for the migrating impulse.

As this is not a scientific treatise, the writer will
not be over-methodical in presenting these reasons,
but will mention them in the order in which they
occur to him. If we keep in mind the invariable
succession of the seasons, and that this annual rota-
tion has continued for ages, and if we also remem-
ber that all animals are dowered by their Creator
with as much intelligence as is necessary for their
well-being, much of the difficulty attaching to this
subject will at once disappear. Birds, like their.

WINGED VOYAGERS. "7

human kinsmen, learn by experience and tutelage,
and are also gifted with a sure instinct that amounts
in many cases almost to reason. Take, for instance,
this one fact. As the sun creeps northward in the
spring, it pours a more and more intense heat upon
the northern portions of the tropical and sub-tropical
regions. The heat would soon become intolerable
to certain birds, which have doubtless tried the
experiment of spending the summer in equatorial
countries; or if individuals now living have not
tried it, perhaps some of their more or less remote
ancestors have. That birds do make experiments
is proved by the fact that several pets of mine
will carefully “sample” a new kind of food offered
them, and if they do not find it to their taste,
will let it severely alone; nor is it any the less
evident that young birds receive instruction from
their elders. Thus the necessity of leaving the
torrid regions as summer approaches may have
been impressed on the migrating species from time
immemorial.

Again, as spring advances, insect and vegetable
life is revived in regions farther north, and this
certainly must act as a magnet upon the birds,
drawing them from point to point as the supply of
food becomes scarce in the more southern localities.
Then, let us suppose for a moment that all the birds
did remain in the south through the summer ; there
would sooner or later be a bird famine in the land,
for the supply of seeds and insects would soon be
exhausted. Our feathered folk are simply obliged,

78 IN BIRD LAND.

on account of the exigencies of food, to scatter
themselves over a larger extent of country. They
solve the problem of food supply and demand by
these annual pilgrimages to the boreal lands of
plenty.

To go a little more to the root of the matter, we
may easily imagine how the migrating spirit got its
first impulse and gradually became evolved into a
habit of something like scientific precision. If the
first birds lived in tropical climates, as was probably
the case, some of them, as the food supply became
exhausted, would be crowded northward, or would
go of their own accord, and wherever they went
they would find well-filled natural larders. Having
once discovered that spring replenished the north
with food, they would soon learn the desirability of
making periodical journeys to that part of the globe.
With this constant quest for food must also be
coupled the instinctive desire of most birds for
seclusion during the season of reproduction, — an
instinct that would naturally drive them northward
into the less thickly tenanted districts. But it may be
objected that many species make long aerial voyages,
passing over vast tracts of country to reach their
chosen summer habitats in various parts of the
north ; and it is well known that the same individ-
uals will return again and again, on the recurrence
of spring, to the same locality. How are these facts
to be accounted for?

If we accept the glacial theory — a hypothesis
pretty well established now among scientific men-

WINGED VOYAGERS. 79

we may readily conceive that, as the sun melted the
ice at a greater distance in both directions from the
equator, the habitable area of the earth’s surface
would gradually become enlarged. For the sake of
vividness let us fancy ourselves living at that period
of the world’s history. Let us select a point north
of the equator where a given pair of birds can live
in summer. They find plenty of food there, and
are comparatively undisturbed by other birds, and
they therefore become attached to the place, most
feathered folk having a strong “homing instinct.”
When winter comes, they and their progeny are
forced to retire to the south; but they do not for-
get their pleasant summer haunt, their Mecca in
the north, and therefore, at the approach of the
following spring, they obey the home impulse and
hie by easy stages to the beloved spot. Some of
their number doubtless find it possible from time to
time to push farther northward, and thus other
breeding-haunts are selected. As the glacial ac-
cumulations melt away, the whole temperate region
and a large part of the frigid zone become habitable.
All this takes place by a very gradual process, re-
quiring thousands of years, thus giving ample time
for heredity to infuse the migratory habit into the
nature of the birds. Every new generation would
learn the route and other needful details from
their predecessors, and thus the process would go
on in an unending circuit year by year.

After the foregoing was written, my attention was
called to the following quotation from Dr. J. A.

80 IN BIRD LAND.

Allen’s valuable paper on the “ Origin of the In.
stinct of Migration in Birds.” The extract is taken
from an article by Frank M. Chapman, published in
“The Auk” for January, 1894 : “‘ Nothing is doubtless
more thoroughly established than that a warm tem-
perate or sub-tropical climate prevailed down to the
close of the Tertiary epoch, nearly to the Northern
Pole, and that climate was previously everywhere so
far equable that the necessity for migration can
hardly be supposed to have existed. With the later
refrigeration of the northern regions, bird life must
have been crowded thence toward the tropics, and
the struggle for life thereby greatly intensified. The
less yielding forms may have become extinct; those
less sensitive to climatic change would seek to extend
the boundaries of their range by a slight removal
northward during the milder intervals of summer,
only, however, to be forced back again by the recur-
rence of winter. Such migration must have been at
first ‘incipient and gradual,’ extending and strength-
ening as the cold wave receded, and opened up a
wider area within which existence in summer became
possible. What was at first a forced migration
would become habitual, and through the heredity
of habit give rise to that wonderful faculty which
we term the instinct of migration.” The reader’s
attention is also directed to Mr. Chapman’s own
article in the number of “ The Auk” indicated.

It may be asked why some species remain in
torrid and temperate climates, while others wing
their way to the far north, even beyond the boun-

WINGED VOYAGERS. 81

dary of the Arctic Circle. My answer is, There is
some Power that has wisely arranged all these mat-
ters, either by gradual development or by an original
creative fiat. Every species is made to fit with nice
precision into its peculiar niche in the creation.
Perhaps Bryant suggests the true explanation in his
poem entitled “To a Waterfowl” : —
“ There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,
The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.”

This may seem like begging the question ; yet, to
my mind, it is impossible to develop a philosophy
of the universe without assuming an original crea-
tive Intelligence. True, the laws of evolution will
account for many of the details, and birds, like men,
are empowered in a large measure to work out their
own destiny ; but somewhere there must be a Power
that has infused into Nature all these wonderful po-
tentialities of development. Involution must pre-
cede evolution.

But this is speculation. Account for them as we
may, the facts are evident. Within the circle of my
own observation there is abundant proof of this varied
but wise adaptation in Nature. There, for example,
is the tiny golden-crested kinglet, which remains here
all winter, no matter how severe the weather, and
seems to be the embodiment of good cheer ; whereas
the brown thrasher, a bird many times as large,
would be likely to perish in the first snow-squall.
Then, when spring arrives, Master Kinglet hies to

6

82 IN BIRD LAND.

the north for the breeding-season, while Monsieur
Thrasher comes up from the south and becomes
my all-summer intimate.

Another matter of intense interest concerning bird
migration is that the migrants which winter farthest
north are, as a rule, the first to arrive in the spring
at their summer homes or vernal feeding-grounds.
For instance, in the latter part of March or the
beginning of April, while the thrashers, cat-birds,
and others which winter in our Southern States, are
arriving in New England, New York, Pennsylvania,
and Ohio, the warbler army, which spends the winter
in the West Indies, Yucatan, and Central America,
is just crossing over from those countries to the
southern borders of the United States.

When autumn comes, experience has taught the
migrants that their only safety lies in making their
way to the south before cold weather sets in; for
many of them certainly do start on this voyage
long before winter drives them from their northern
haunts. In my opinion, they are gifted with suf-
ficient reason — call it instinct, if you like—to do
this, and I do not think they are moved by an
uncontrollable impulse which acts upon them as
if they were mere automata.

Portions of the migrating army often overlap.
For example, the juncos and tree-sparrows are
winter residents in my neighborhood, but very
frequently they remain here a month or more after
the earliest arrivals from the south. Presently,
however, they grow nervous, flit about uneasily,

WINGED VOYAGERS. 83

trill little snatches of song, inure themselves to
flight by longer or shorter excursions about the
country, and then join the northward procession
en route for their breeding-haunts in British Amer-
ica. With regret I bid them adieu, but find com-
pensation in the knowledge that their places will
be supplied by a brilliant company of summer
residents.

One of the strangest features of migration is the
fact that a bird will sometimes make the voyage
from north to south, and wice versa —or a part of
the voyage — alone, at least as far as companionship
with individuals of its own kind is concerned.
Whether this is done advertently or inadvertently I
am unable to say, but the fact cannot be disputed.
In the spring of 1892, as noted in another chapter,
a hooded warbler was flitting about a gravel bank in
a wooded hollow, and although I scoured the coun-
try for miles around day after day, I never met
another bird of this species. The little Apollo in
feathers was so gentle and familiar that surely his
mates would not have escaped my notice had there
been any in the neighborhood. Why he preferred
to travel alone, or in company with other species
rather than his own kin, might be an interesting
problem in avian psychology. A little farther down
the glen a single mourning warbler was also seen at
almost the same date. His companions had prob-
ably wished him Jon voyage, and left him to strike
out in an independent course through the trackless
ocean of air.

84 IN BIRD LAND.

That the army of migrants travel mostly by night
is a well-known fact that can be verified by any one
who will stand out-of-doors and listen to their chirp-
ing overhead. They seem to move in loose flocks,
for there are intervals of complete silence, followed
by a promiscuous chirping from many throats. Nor
are these nocturnal calls all uttered by a single
species, but usually a number of species seem to be
travelling in company. One might say, therefore,
that the feathered army moves in squads. As they
travel in the dark, very little can be said about their
flight ; but every student has found species of birds
in an early morning ramble which he could not find
anywhere on the previous day, proving that they must
have arrived in the night. Here is a single excerpt
—many might be given — from my note-book : “ On
the third of March, 1894, I took a long stroll into the
country, remaining in the fields until dusk; not a
single meadow-lark was to be seen or heard. At
daybreak next morning, however, the shrill whistle
of I know not how many larks rose like musical
incense from the fields and commons in the rear of
my house. Depend upon it, had these lavish min-
strels been in the neighborhood during the previous
afternoon, they would not have escaped my atten-
tion, for they could not have kept their music in
their larynxes, not they! There is a cog in Nature’s
machinery lost if the meadow-larks are silent for
a half day in the spring.”

In 1885 Mr. William Brewster, the well-known
ornithologist, made some intensely interesting dis-

WINGED VOYAGERS. 85

coveries on the nocturnal flight of migrants, at Point
Lepreaux Lighthouse, New Brunswick. The prin-
cipal lantern, which was in the top of the tower,
cast a light that could be seen fifteen miles away in
clear weather. Even on dark and foggy nights this
lantern would throw out a strong light to such a dis-
tance that a bird coming into the lighted area could
readily be seen. On stormy nights the lighthouse
seemed to possess a fatal attraction for the lost and
rain-beaten birds, which would fly toward it and
often dash against the glass, the roof, and other
portions of the tower with such force that they
fell dead or disabled. Mr. Brewster could see
them approaching in the prism of light, some dash-
ing themselves with fatal effect against the tower,
but more, fortunately, turning aside or gliding
upward over the roof, and then pressing on toward
the west with incessant chirping. During rainy
weather a larger proportion would strike the brilliant
obstruction.

It is interesting to notice that different species
composed the companies that passed the lighthouse.
For instance, on the night of September first, seven
different species of warblers and one red-eyed vireo
were killed or disabled, and one Traill’s flycatcher
entered the mouth of the ventilator, and came down
through it into the lantern. A few evenings later,
about forty per cent of the specimens identified were
Maryland yellow-throats, forty per cent more red-
eyed vireos, and the remaining twenty per cent
were made up of two kinds of thrushes and six kinds

86 IN BIRD LAND.

of warblers. These figures are given to show the
heterogeneous composition of the migrant army.

Mr. Brewster also found that no birds came about
the lantern except on densely cloudy or foggy
nights, and that they came in the greatest numbers
when the first hour or two of the evening had been
clear and was succeeded by fog or storm. These data
would seem to prove that the birds began their noc-
turnal journey with the expectation of having pleas-
ant weather, and when the fog or storm rose later in
the evening, they flew lower and got bewildered by
the glare of the lighthouse.

Many theories of bird migration have been pro-
posed and argued at length, but, on the whole, I
incline to Mr. Brewster’s theory that the old birds,
having learned the advantage of these semi-annual
expeditions, and having also determined the route by
means of certain landmarks, act as aerial pilots to
the army of young birds to whom the way is still
unknown. Mountain ranges, river valleys, coast
lines, and sheets of landlocked water doubtless serve
the purpose of guide-posts to these airy travellers.
Much as has been written on the subject, however,
there still remains a large field for original research.

PLUMAGE OF YOUNG BIRDS. 87

VI.
PLUMAGE OF YOUNG BIRDS.

T is surprising what odd and variegated costumes
are sometimes worn by the juvenile members
of the bird community. Frequently their attire is
so different from that of their elders that even the
expert ornithologist may be sorely puzzled to deter-
mine the category to which they belong; yet there
are usually some characteristic markings, however
obscure, by which their places in the avian system
may be fixed. As a rule, the plumage of young
birds is more striped and mottled than that of mature
specimens, Nature playing some odd pranks of color-
mixing in tiding a bird over from callow infancy to
full-fledged life. Fashion plates in the world of
bantlings would be of little account, as no fixed
patterns are followed.

Some parts of the growing bird’s plumage change
to the normal color sooner than others. I remem-
ber a young male indigo bird that I saw in October,
whose garb, just after fledging, must have been a
warm brown almost like that of the adult female ;
but now he had cast off a part of his infantile robes,
and put on in their stead the cerulean of his male
parent ; his tail, rump, and the base of his wings

88 IN BIRD LAND.

were blue, while the rest of his plumage was brown.
He made a unique and pretty picture as he sat
atilt on a blackberry stem, asking me with loud
Tsips to admire his quaint toilet. arly in the
spring I have seen indigo birds in whose plumage
the tints were quite differently blended and arranged.

What a party-colored suit the young bluebird
wears! His breast, instead of being plain brick-red
as in the case of the adult bird, is profusely striped
with dark brown on a background of soiled white ;
and his upper parts, in lieu of the warm azure of
riper years, are a lustrous brown curiously mottled
with tear-shaped blocks of white; while his wings
and tail have already assumed the normal blue of
this species. In the days of his youth the chipping-
sparrow also dons a striped vest, so that, if it were
not for his smaller size, it would be difficult to dis-
tinguish him from his relative, the grass-finch.

My admiration was especially stirred, one mid-
summer day, by the dainty appearance of a small
coterie of bush-sparrows flitting about on a railroad
which I was pursuing on foot; a large patch on
their wings was of a dark, glossy brown tint,
extremely pretty, and looking precisely as if it had
been painted by the deft hand of an artist. Their
under parts were variously streaked with white and
dusk. At first I scarcely recognized my familiar
little sylvan friends ; but their intimacy with several
adult specimens, as well as several well-known diag-
nostic markings, settled the question of their identity
beyond a doubt.

PLUMAGE OF YOUNG BIRDS. 89

Not every person is aware that the common red-
headed woodpecker is no red-head at all during the
first summer of his buoyant young life, but a black-
head instead, or, rather, his head and neck are very
dark gray. However, one day in September I was
delighted and amused to find an adolescent wood-
pecker whose head and neck were beginning to
turn quite reddish, flecked everywhere with white,
giving him a decidedly picturesque appearance as
he scuddled up an oblique fence-stake. Of course
the red-head is always suc generis, but in this case
he seemed to be more so than usual. Nearly all
the woodpeckers — the downy, the hairy, and the
golden-winged — are devoid of the red spots on
their heads, while young, to prevent them, I suppose,
from becoming vain.

Sometimes an entirely foreign tint is introduced
into the plumage of the young bird during his tran-
sition state. One day I was surprised to observe
a decidedly bluish cast on the striped breast of a
young towhee bunting, which was all the more
curious because there is no blue whatever in the
plumage of either the adult male or female. But
the most curious freak of Nature’s dyeing I have
ever seen in the bird world was in the case of a
young scarlet tanager, whose body, including the
wings, was completely girded with a band of white,
the border of which was quite irregular. As every
observer knows, the only colors visible in the adult
male’s plumage are black and scarlet; still, when
the scarlet feathers are pushed aside, they show

(ele) IN BIRD LAND.

white underneath, and that may account for the
albino quality of this specimen.

When he is first fledged, the pattern of the young
cardinal grossbeak’s plumage very much resembles
that of his mother; but soon the bright red of his
full dress begins to peep here and there through the
grayish-olive of his kilts and trousers, so to speak,
making him look as if he had been meddling with a
keg of red paint and had splashed himself liberally
with it. By and by there is a very odd blending of
tints in his suit. Scarcely less curious is the garb
of the young white-crowned sparrow; his whole
head is black or blackish-brown, except a tiny speck
of white in the centre of the crown, gleaming like
a diamond in its dark setting. In the adult bird
the whole crown is a glistening white, bordered on
each side by a black band, which circles about on
the forehead and separates the crown-piece from
the white superciliary line.

Some of the warblers are scarcely recognizable in
their juvenile attire. For example, the young black-
poll, bay-breasted, and chestnut-sided warblers bear
little, if any, resemblance to their parents, whose
diversified nuptial robes make our woodlands radiant
in the spring. The young are quite tame in their
soiled olive plumes, and look so much alike that
the ornithologist is often at his wits’ end to tell
them apart. Were it not for the yellow rumps of the
magnolia and myrtle warblers when young, one
would scarcely know them from a dozen other
species as they pursue their journey southward in

PLUMAGE OF YOUNG BIRDS. gl

the autumn. The Maryland yellow-throat does not
deign to wear his black mask until he is about eight
months old, and the boy redstart contents himself
with his mamma’s style of dress until he returns in
the spring from his sojourn in the south, and does
not seem to be ashamed to be tied to her apron-
string. And there is that natty little dandy, the
ruby-crowned kinglet — it is said, on good authority,
that he must be two years old before he is entitled
to wear the ruby gem in his forehead; which must
be a sore deprivation for this little aristocrat in
feathers. Perhaps in kingletdom a bird does not
become of age until he is two years old.

Thus it will be seen that the study of ornithology
is made more difficult, and at the same time more
interesting, by this change of toilet among the birds,—
more difficult, because the observer must learn to
identify the birds in their youthful as well as in their
adult plumage; and more interesting, because of
the greater variety thus given to this branch of
scientific inquiry.

gs IN BIRD LAND.

VO.
NEST-HUNTING.

OTHING in Nature is more pregnant with
suggestion than the nest of a bird. The

story of one of these deftly woven dwellings in the
woods, if fully written, might prove almost as weird
and romantic as the history of a castle on the Rhine.
What madrigals, what peeans, have been sung, and
what victories celebrated, from the time the first
fibres were braided until the chirping nestlings were
able to shift for themselves! And, alas, how many
fond hopes have perished as well! No doubt the
ruses and subterfuges employed to elude cunning
foes or ward off their murderous attacks, would fill
a volume of valuable information on military tactics.
One might write comedies or tragedies about the
nest-life of the birds that would be no less inter-
esting than realistic. More than that, the study of
these wonderful fabrics would virtually be a study
of the psychology of the feathered artisans, each
nest being an index of a special type of mind and
a measure of the bird’s mental resources. As
William Hamilton Gibson has well said: “To know
the nidification and nest-life of a bird is to get the

NEST-HUNTING. 93

cream of its history ;”” than which nothing could be
truer or more aptly expressed.

No wonder the poets have so often been thrown
into lyrical moods over the homesteads of the birds !
Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster’s poem on “ The Build-
ing of the Nest” is perhaps not unfamiliar to most
readers ; but one stanza is so graceful and rhythmi-
cal that it begs for quotation at this point : —

“They ’ll come again to the apple-tree —
Robin and all the rest —
When the orchard branches are fair to see
In the snow of blossoms dressed,
And the prettiest thing in the world will be
The building of the nest.”

In one of my rambles I found an abandoned
towhee bunting’s nest containing three eggs, and
could not help speculating as to the cause of its
desertion. Might there have been a quarrel
between husband and wife, making a separation
necessary? JI am loath to believe it, although, if
certain acute observers are correct, divorce is not
wholly unknown in the bird community. But in
this case I am inclined to think that some enemy
had destroyed the female, for a male flitted about
in the bushes, calling a good deal and singing at
intervals, and there seemed to be a plaintive note
in his song, as if he might be chanting an elegy.
At all events, the pair that built the nest had had
their tragedy.

Every bird-student must admit that his quest for
nests often ends in disappointment, because many

94 IN BIRD LAND.

birds are adepts at concealment, while others build
in places where you would not think of looking.
However, I have had but little difficulty in finding
the nests of the brown thrasher, which erects an
inartistic platform of sticks, bound together by a few
grass fibres, and thus is easily descried in the bushes,
where it is usually placed. Early in the spring I
found the nest of a pair of these birds in a thick
clump of bushes near the edge of a woodland, and
resolved to keep watch over it until the young
family had left their home. The parent birds in
this case were very solicitous for the safety of their
young. Every time I called they set up a pitiful
to-do, which invariably made me hurry away, after
a timid peep into the cradle. There is as much
difference in the temperaments of birds of the same
species as there is among persons belonging to the
same family. While the thrashers in question
seemed to be terrified at my presence, others
driven from their nests displayed little or no fear,
but sat quietly on a perch near by and allowed me
to examine their domicile without so much as a
chirp.

The brown thrasher has surprised me by the
variety of places he selects for building his log
house. Wilson Flagg in his book, “A Year with
the Birds,” says that this bird usually builds on the
ground; and Mr. Eldridge E. Fish, who writes
pleasantly about the birds of western New York,
bears similar testimony. Perhaps thrasher-fashion
in New England and New York differs from

NEST-HUNTING. 95

thrasher-fashion in Ohio (in which locality the
birds display the best taste I will not say); for
during the spring of 1890 I found but two nests
on the ground, and was surprised to find even them,
while at least fifteen were discovered in other places.
Most of them were on low thorn-bushes, but not all.
One was built in a brush-heap, one on a pile of
“ cord-wood,” another on a small stump screened
by some bushes, and two on a rail fence. Of the
last two, one was partly supported by poison-ivy
vines and partly by a rail; the other was built
entirely on a rail in a projecting corner of the
fence.

The thrasher, as has been said, builds an artless
platform of sticks that in some cases barely holds
together long enough to answer the purpose for
which it was intended. In this respect its habits
differ from those of the wood-thrush, a bird that
is very abundant and musical in my neighborhood.
I have found many of the wood-thrush’s nests,
which are built in the crotches of small saplings in
the thickest part of the woods, and are made almost
as substantial as the adobe dwellings of the robin.
The thrush does not use as much mortar as his red-
breasted relative ; otherwise there is a close resem-
blance between the nests of the two birds.

It was amusing to find pieces of newspaper
bedizening the houses of the wood-thrushes so
frequently, though it cannot be said that they
showed the highest literary taste in their selec-
tions; for one or two of the fragments contained

96 IN BIRD LAND.

accounts of political caucuses. However, it would
be too much to assume that the birds had read
them, as many of us “humans” find such literature
too deep for our comprehension. I shall neither
eulogize nor stigmatize this favorite minstrel by
calling him a politician, although if one were to
regard his nesting-habits alone, he deserves that
sobriquet quite as well as the white-eyed vireo.
That parasite among American birds, the female
cow-bunting, audaciously spirits her eggs into the
wood-thrush’s nest, to be hatched with those that
properly belong there, while she and her mate sit in
the trees near by and whistle their taunting airs, and
watch to see whether their dupe attends faithfully to
the additional household cares imposed upon her.
When the birds are hatched, the victim of this piece
of imposture innocently feeds her foster children
with the best tidbits she can find, spite of the fact
that they may soon crowd her own offspring out of
the nest-home. The wonder is that she does not
discover the trick at once; for her eggs are deep
blue, while the cow-bird’s are white, speckled with
ashy brown. Can the wood-thrush be color-blind ?
About two miles from town, along the banks of a
small creek, was the nest of that interesting little
bird, the summer warbler, —a dainty structure, com-
posed of downy material, and deftly lodged among
the twigs of a sapling at the foot ofa cliff. A cold
spring gurgled from the rocks near by; the willows
and buttonwood trees bent to the balmy breezes,
and the tinkling of the brook mingled with the songs

NEST-HUNTING. . 97

of many birds. A place for day-dreams truly, and
the summer warblers were the dryads and nymphs
flitting through the realms of fancy. If all birds were
as astute as the summer warbler, the race of cow-
buntings would soon become extinct, or would soon
have to change their methods of propagation, and go
to rearing their own families. Our little strategist,
when she comes home and finds a cowbird’s egg
dropped into her nest, begins forthwith to add another
story, and thus leaves the interloper in the cellar,
with a floor between it and her warm breast. It
is a genuine case of “being left out in the cold.”
I have found several of these exquisite towers that
were three stories high, on the top of which the
little bird sat perched like a goddess on the summit
of Olympus. (My simile may seem a trifle far-
fetched, but I shall let it stand.) But why, you
dear little sprite, do you not merely pitch the offen-
sive egg out of the nest, instead of going to all the
trouble of building a loft? No answer, save an
untranslatable trill, comes from the throat of the
dainty minstrel.

Some years ago I witnessec| a curious bit of bird-
behavior that I have never seen described in any of
the numerous books on ornithology which I have

1 Mr. Eldridge E. Fish, to whom reference has already
been made, after reading this article, which first appeared
in a weekly paper, suggested in a letter that the little warbler
could not well remove the intruded egg. without breaking it,
which would spoil her nest altogether. Hence she simply
adds another story to her dwelling. This is doubtless the

true explanation.
7

98 IN BIRD LAND.

consulted. I make reference to it here for the first
time. I was strolling along the banks of a broad
river in northern Indiana on the first of June, when
a warm, steady rain set in. How the birds contrive
to keep their eggs and nestlings dry during a shower
had long been an enigma to me, and now was my
time to find out. Knowing where a summer warbler
had built her nest in some bushes, I cautiously ap-
proached, and then stood looking down on the bird
before me, which showed no disposition to leave her
progeny to the mercy of the elements. It was a
picture indeed! The darling little mother — how
can one help using an endearing term !—sat with
her wings and tail spread out gracefully over the rim
of the nest all the way round, thus making a perfect
umbrella of her lithe, dainty body.

Nothing could differ more from the airy out-door
nest of the summer warbler than the dark subter-
ranean caverns of the swallows in the bank of the
creek. One day, while sauntering along a stream, I
noticed a hole in the opposite bank. I passed on,
but on second thought turned to look at the excava-
tion a little more closely, when a swallow darted like
an arrow into it, and in a few moments made as
quick an exit. Wading across the creek, I thrust
my walking-stick, which was almost four feet long,
into the orifice over its entire length without reach-
ing the end! Why a bird, so neat in attire and so
agile on the wing, should build her nest in a dark
Erebus like that, is a Sphinx’s riddle that must be
left to wiser heads to solve.

NEST-HUNTING. 99

What a contrast is the open-air hammock of the
Baltimore oriole, swinging from the flexible branches
of a buttonwood tree a little farther up the stream !
How softly the chirping brood within is rocked by
the breezes that sweep down from the slopes, laden
with the odor of clover blossoms! Somewhere near
there must be a warbling vireo’s nest, for one of
these birds is singing in the trees; but my eyes are
not sharp enough to descry its pensile domicile.

On my way home, on the top of a hill, I step
casually up to a small thorn-bush, whose branches
and leaves are thickly matted together, and, as I
push the foliage aside, there is a flutter of wings,
followed by a rapid chirping, and a little bird flits
away, pretending to be seriously wounded. It is a
bush-sparrow. Cosily placed beneath the leafy roof
among the thick boughs is the procreant cradle.
What could be more dainty! A little nest, woven
of fine grass-fibres, deftly lined with hair, and con-
taining four speckled eggs, real gems. How “beau-
tiful for situation” is this tiny cottage on the hill!
Here the feathered poets may sit on their leafy
verandas, look down into the green valleys, and
compose verses on the pastoral attractions of Nature.
One is almost tempted to spin a romance about the
happy couple.

On returning, one day, from an ornithological
jaunt, I met my friend, the young farmer, who
knows something about my furor for the birds.
There was a knowing smile on his sunburned face.
“TI know where there’s a killdeer’s nest,” he said ;

100 IN BIRD LAND.

“would you like to see it?” Tired out as I was
with my long walk, I exclaimed: “Yes, sir! I'll
follow you to the end of the world to see a plover’s
nest.” The sentence was added merely by way of
mild (not wild) hyperbole. A shallow pit in the
open corn-field, lined with a few chips and pebbles,
constituted the nest of the plover, not having so
much as a spear of grass to protect it from rain and
storm. It contained one egg and acallow youngster,
the egg being quite large at one end and pointed at
the other, which gave it a very uncouth shape. My
young friend informed me that there had been five
eggs when he found the nest, all lying with their
acute ends toward the centre; the next time he
went to look there were only four, then three, and
finally only two. Evidently the parent birds were
having a serious time guarding their homestead from
marauders. On going to the place some days later,
I found both the egg and the baby plover gone, and
I could only hope that no mischance had befallen
them.

Strange as it may seem, the winter is a favorable
season for nest-hunting. True, the birds are not
then at home, to speak with a good deal of license,
or engaged in rearing families; but the deserted
structures may be more readily found after the
leaves have fallen from the trees and bushes. As I
stroll through the woods or the marsh on a winter
day, scores of nests that escaped my eye during the
summer are to be seen. Especially is this the case
after a snowfall, for the nests catch the descending

NEST-HUNTING. Ios

flakes which are piled up in them in downy mounds,
and thus attract the attention of the observer. I
have often felt inclined to heap upon myself the
most caustic epithets for having passed again and
again, during the breeding-season, so near the nest
of an interesting bird without knowing of its exist-
ence until winter’s frosts had stripped the coppice
of its leaves, end have resolved as often that the
next season shall not find me napping.

In the marsh which is one of my favorite trudging-
grounds, I made a quaint discovery some winters
ago, which has raised more than one query in my
mind. One day, after a snowfall, I found many
deserted nests in the thickets. Brushing the snow
out of them revealed, in the bottom of each basket,
a small pile of the seeds and broken shells of wild-
rose and thorn berries. Why had the birds put
them there—if it was the birds? Perhaps the
winter birds, when they arrived in the autumn,
found these old nests good storehouses in which to
lay by their winter supplies. I have never seen the
birds feeding on them, but, as spring approached,
the berry seeds had nearly all disappeared.

Come with me, for I know a pleasant, half-clois-
tered field of clover which is the habitat of a number
of charming little birds. Just where it is shall
remain one of my semi-sylvan secrets, for one must
not betray all the confidences of one’s feathered
intimates. The field cutsa right angle in a wood-
land, by which it is, therefore, bounded on the east
and north, while toward the west and south the

ro2 IN BIRD LAND.

undulating country stretches away like a billowy sea
of green. The woods themselves, on the sides
adjacent to the field, are hemmed and fringed with
a thick growth of saplings, bushes, and brambles,
where the feathered husbands sit and hymn their
joy by the hour to their little mates hugging their
nests in the clover and the copse. It is a quiet spot,
— one of Nature’s nunneries. Human dwellings may
be seen in the distance; but it is seldom that any
one, save a mooning rambler like myself, goes there
to disturb the peace of the feathered tenants.

Here, one summer a few years ago, a pair of
those wary birds the yellow-breasted chats built a
nest, which they placed snugly in the blackberry
bushes that bordered and partly hid the rail-fence.
I kept close reconnoissance on this little home-
stead until the nascent inmates were about half-
fledged, when, to my dismay, every one of them
was kidnapped by some despicable nest-robber.
My own sorrow was equalled only by the inexpres-
sible anguish of the bereaved parents. To add to
my troubles, a nestful of young indigo-birds came
to grief in the same way. There must be, it seems,
a system of brigandage in every realm, be it human
or faunal.

A pair of bush-sparrows, however, were more for-
tunate in their brood-rearing. One day, while
standing near the fence, I noticed a bush-sparrow,
bearing an insect in her bill, dart down into the
clover, a short distance over in the field. I walked
to the spot, when she flew up with an uneasy chirp,

NEST-HUNTING. 103

proclaiming a secret that she could not keep.
There on the grass, sure enough, was her nestful of
little ones. Some accident must have befallen the
fibrous cot, for the weeds and clover were broken
down and trampled flat all around it, so that it sat
loosely on the ground, without even a blade of grass
to shelter it. Fearing that buccaneers in the shape
of jays or hawks might rob the nest, I broke off a
number of weeds and made a sort of thatched roof
over it; that would also protect the panting infants
from the sun, which was beating down like a furnace.
Then I took my stand a few rods away, to see what
the old birds would do. Erelong both the papa
and mamma came with billsome morsels in their
mouths, and, after fluttering about uneasily for a
few. minutes, darted down to the nest and fed their
young. Of course, they first had to peep, and peer,
and cant their dainty heads this way and that, to
examine the roof I had improvised for the nest,
wondering, no doubt, what kind of a bungling archi-
tect had been at work there; but finally they
seemed to think all was well. Perhaps in their
hearts they thanked me for my thoughtful care.

A day or two later I called again, even at the risk
of coming de trop. The weeds arched over the
bird crib at my former visit having withered, I made
them another green roof, sheltering them as cosily
as I could and leaving a small opening at the side
for an entrance. After an absence of a few minutes
I crept surreptitiously back to the enchanted spot, —
for it drew me like a loadstone, —and there sat the

104 IN BIRD LAND.

trim little mother on her cradle, covering her chil-
dren to keep them warm, her reddish-brown tail
daintily reaching out through the doorway. She did
not fly up as I bent lovingly over her, and presently
I stole away, desirous not to disturb her.

The bush-sparrow is a captivating little bird,
graceful of form and sweet of voice, singing his
cheerful trills from early spring until far past mid-
summer. The song makes me think of a silver
thread running through a woof of golden sunshine,
carried forward by a swinging shuttle of pearl. I
think the figure is not far-fetched. He is quite
partial to a dense little thorn-bush for a nesting-
place, often concealing his grassy cottage so cun-
ningly that you must look sharply for it among the
leaves and twigs, or it will escape your eye.

One of the neatest and prettiest denizens of my
clover-field was the goldfinch. Wings of black and
coat of bright yellow, he went bounding through
the ether, rising and falling in graceful festoons of
flight, in such a lightsome way he seemed to be
rocking himself on the breeze. How jauntily he
wore his tiny black cap, little exquisite of the field
that he is, to whom IJ always go hat in hand! He
deserves a monograph all to himself, but at this time
I can spare him only a few paragraphs.

As a rule, the goldfinches prefer to build their
nests in small trees, often selecting the maples along
the suburban streets of the city. I was greatly
surprised, therefore, to find a nest in my clover-
field, where there were no trees at all. Noticing a

NEST-HUNTING. 105

bird fly into a clump of blackberry bushes one day,
I took it for a female indigo-bird. A nest was soon
found woven very neatly and compactly, and having
not only grass-fibres wrought into its structure, but
also wool and thistle-down. A queer indigo-bird’s
nest, I mused. The wool in the cup was ruffled
and loose, and taking it for a deserted homestead, I
carelessly thrust my hand intoit. The next moment
I was sorry for the thoughtless act, for the material
looked so fresh that I decided it must be an unfin-
ished bird-cradle. I resolved to discover the own-
ers, if possible. ‘Two days later it was in the same
condition. Had I driven away the little builders
by laying defiling hands on the nest? I felt like a
culprit, and waited a week before again venturing to
visit the place, when, as I approached, a female gold-
finch flew from the nest, uncovering five dainty
white eggs, set like pearls in the bottom of the cup.
‘A goldfinch’s nest in a blackberry bush! That was
a climax of surprises, in very truth.

~ On the same day, not far distant, another bush-
sparrow’s nest was found in some bushes, placed
about three feet from the ground. In a few weeks
there were babies five in the goldfinch’s nest, and
four in that of the bush-sparrow. Pray keep both
nests in mind, remembering that the youngsters of
both families were hatched on the same day. One
evening at twilight I again stepped out to the clover-
field. The mother goldfinch was sitting close on her
nest, and did not stir as I came near. Then I
touched her lightly with my cane. Still she remained

106 IN BIRD LAND.

on her nest as if glued fast, only glaring at me with
her wild, beady eyes. At length I softly laid my
finger on her back, when she uttered a queer, half-
scolding cry, and leaped up to the nest’s rim, but
did not fly. There she stood, turning her head and
eying me keenly until I stole away, unwilling to for-
feit her confidence and good-will. But when, on
my way home, I paused a moment to look at the
bush-sparrow’s nest, the mother flitted away with a
frightened chirp before I came within reach. She
was not as confiding as her little neighbor, the
goldfinch.

Now mark! On the fifteenth of August the young
bush-sparrows had become so large and well devel-
oped that when, meaning no harm, I touched them
gently with my finger, they flipped out of the nest
like flashes of lightning. The infant goldfinches
were not yet more than half fledged, and merely
snuggled close to the bottom of the nest when I
caressed them. The idea of flying was still remote
from their little pates. These observations prove
that young bush-sparrows develop much more rap-
idly than young goldfinches; yet, strange as it may
seem, the goldfinch, when grown, flies much higher,
if not more swiftly, than his little neighbor, and
continues longer on the wing.

On the same day I sat down in the clover, a few
rods from the goldfinch’s nest, and kept close watch
on both the old birds and their offspring for an hour
and a half. The sun attacked me savagely with
his red-hot arrows, and the sweat broke from every

NEST-HUNTING. 107

pore, but I felt amply repaid for my vigil. During
the first half-hour the parent birds ventured slyly to
feed their bantlings twice. Then I crept closer,
and waited an hour; but the parent birds were too
shy to bring theirhungry nestlings a single mouth-
ful of food, choosing, it would seem, to let them suf-
fer hunger rather than take risk themselves. The
little things were almost famished, and behaved very
quaintly. Every rustle of the leaves in the wind
caused them to start up, crane out their necks, pry
open their mouths as wide as they could, waddle
awkwardly from side to side, and chirp for some-
thing to eat. How famished they were! They
even seized one another’s heads and tried to gulp
one another down. The spectacle was just a little
uncanny.

But, dear me! they were not as ignorant of the
ways of the world as you might suppose. When I
lightly tapped the stems of the bushes with my cane,
instead of leaping up and opening their mouths as
they were expected to do, they shrank down into
the bottom of the nest, discerning at once the dif-
ference between those strokes on the bush and their
parents’ quiet approach or loving call. Something
must have put them on their guard, and instilled
feelings of fear into their palpitating bosoms. Per-
haps it was that shy personage, the mother herself ;
for she would call admonishingly at intervals from
the woods, Ba-die/ ba-bie/ putting a pathetic
accent on the second syllable. It was droll to see

108 IN BIRD LAND.

the youngsters try to preen their feathers, they went
about the performance so awkwardly.

On the seventeenth of the month one of the nest-
lings was missing, and no amount of looking for it
in the thicket revealed any clew to its whereabouts.
None of the remaining birds were ready to fly.
Two days later they were still in the nest, although
they had grown considerably since my last visit, so
that one of them was almost crowded out of the
circular trundle-bed. I could not resist the temp-
tation to lift it in my hand, just to see how pretty
it was and how it would act. It uttered a sharp
cry of alarm, and sprang from my hand; but its
wings were still so weak that it merely fluttered in
an oblique direction to the ground. The third time
I caught it, it sat contentedly on my palm, and
allowed me to stroke its back, looking up at its
captor with mingled wonder and trustfulness.

On the heads of all the nestlings a fine down pro-
truded up through and above the feathers. The
birds looked very knowingly out of their small coal-
black eyes, but the cunning little things obstinately
refused to open their mouths for me, entice them
as I would; however, when I moved away some
distance, and their mamma came with a tempting
morsel, they sprang up instantly and gulped it down.
Not so very unsophisticated, after all, for mere bant-
lings! On the morning of the twenty-sixth all the
young finches had left the nest, and were perched in
the bushes near by. I contrived to catch one of them

NEST-HUNTING. 109g

and hold him in my hand a few moments, to admire
his dainty toilet and pretty dark eyes. Thus my
brief study in comparative ornithology proved that
the young goldfinches left the nest seven days after

the young bush-sparrows, hatched at the same time,
had taken wing.

Ilo IN BIRD LAND.

IX.

MIDSUMMER MELODIES.

EVERAL times has the statement been made
in print that it is scarcely worth one’s while
to attempt to study the birds during the midsummer
months, the reason alleged being that at that time
they are silent and inactive, and their behavior
devoid of special interest. Now, nothing ministers
so gratefully to the pride of the original investigator
as to prove untrue the theories that have been
advanced in books and that are current among
scientific men. During the summer of 1891 I re-
solved to discover for myself what the birds were
doing, and so, spite of drought, heat, and mosqui-
toes, I visited the haunts of my winged companions
at least every other day. The result was a surprise
to myself, proving that the unwisest thing a natu-
ralist can do is to lay down absolute canons of
conduct for feathered folk.

It is just possible that physical stupor, induced
by the extreme heat of summer, has caused some
ornithologists to observe carelessly and_listlessly,
and for that reason they have supposed that the
birds were as languid as themselves ; but the wide-
awake student, who can brave heat and cold alike,
will never find the feathered creation failing to

MIDSUMMER MELODIES. IIl

repay the closest attention. Some birds are almost
as active when the mercury is wrestling with the
nineties as on the fairest day of May, and those
are the ones to be studied in midsummer.

My special investigations began about the middle
of July. It is true that at that time what are usually
regarded as the songsters of the first class — the
brown thrashers, wood-thrushes, cat-birds, and bobo-
links — had gone into a conspiracy of silence, not
a musical note coming from their throats, although
some of them always remain in this latitude until
far into September. But when the first-class min-
strels are mute, one appreciates the minor vocalists
all the more. Yet I must not omit to say that on
the thirtieth of July I caught.a fragment of a wood-
thrush’s song, the last I heard for the season.

Let me recall one day in particular. It was the
tenth of August, and the weather was broiling, — hot
enough to drive the thermometer into hysterics,
just the day to see how the heat would affect the
feathered tenants of the groves ; and so, overcoming
my physical inertia as best I could, I stalked to
the woods in the afternoon in quest of bird lore.
With the perspiration running from every pore, I
trudged about for some time without seeing or hear-
ing a single bird. Were the books correct, after all?
Was I to be deprived of the pleasure of proving
them in error? It began to appear as if such
might be the case. Presently, however, as I pushed
out into a gap at one side of the woods, an uneasy
chirping in the clumps of bushes and brambles near

112 IN BIRD LAND.

by sent a thrill of gladness through my veins. I felt
intuitively that there were birds in abundance in the
neighborhood, and my presentiment proved correct ;
for before my brief search was completed, I was
permitted to record the songs of the indigo-bird,
the cardinal grossbeak, the towhee bunting, the
wood-pewee, the Baltimore oriole, and the black-
capped chickadee ; while, no sooner had I stepped
out of the woods into the adjoining swamp, than
the song-sparrow chimed merrily, ‘“ Oh, certainly,
certainly, you must n’t forget me-me-me! No-sirree,
no-sirree !”

One of the most blithesome trillers of midsurnmer
was the grass-finch, which sang his canticles until
about the twelfth of August, when he suddenly took
leave for parts unknown. It seemed to me he sang
more vigorously in July than in May, for several
times he prolonged his trill with such splendid
musical effect as to make me rush out to the adjoin-
ing field to find a lark-sparrow. The black-throated
bunting remained here almost as long, rasping his
harsh notes until he also took his flight. I was
somewhat disappointed in the meadow-larks, having
heard but one note from their tuneful throats during
August ; but when September came, they resumed
their shrill choruses, which lasted until November,
increasing in vigor as the autumn advanced.

The robins were chary of their music, only two
songs having been heard during August, one of
them on the fourteenth. But the little bush-sparrow
made ample compensation, chanting his pensive

MIDSUMMER MELODIES. 113

voluntaries almost every day at the border of the
woods until about the twentieth of August. Still
more lavish of his melody was the indigo-bird, which
on several occasions was the only songster, besides
the wood-pewee, heard during a long stroll through
the woods. An irrepressible minstrel, he is the most
cheery member of the midsummer chorus. My
notes say that the Maryland yellow-throat was sing-
ing in splendid voice on the first of August, but I
am positive I heard him later in the month, as he
is one of our most rollicksome midsummer choralists.
The goldfinch sang cheerily on the first, eighteenth,
and nineteenth of August, and I cannot say how
often in July and August I heard the loud refrain
of the Carolina wren.

On the tenth, twelfth, fourteenth, eighteenth,
and nineteenth of August, the Baltimore oriole piped
cheerily, though he had partly doffed his splendid
vernal robes, and was beginning to don his modest
autumnal garb. The cardinal bird fluted frequently
during July and August, and, besides, regaled me
with a vocal performance on the third of September.
The last record I have of the towhee bunting’s
trill is the tenth of August; but before that date
he was quite lavish of his music. On many of
my tramps to the woods the sad minor whistle of
the black-capped chickadee pierced the solitudes,
making one dream of one’s boyhood days, —

“ When birds and flowers and I were happy peers,”

as Lowell would phrase it.
8

114 IN BIRD LAND.

One of my surprises was a warbler’s trill on the
twelfth of August. The little tantalizer kept itself
so far up in the trees as to baffle all attempts at
identification, but I am disposed to think it was a
cerulean warbler. On the nineteenth of August two
warbler trills, one of them, I feel almost sure, from
the throat of the chestnut-sided warbler, were heard,
which is all the more novel because these birds are
not residents, but only migrants in this latitude. I
should have felt amply repaid for all my efforts, had
I proved nothing more than that warblers will some-
times regale one with an aftermath of song in the
dog days.

The most persistent minstrel of the midsummer
orchestra was the wood-pewee, — the only bird
whose song I heard on every excursion to the woods
during July and August ; and even when September
came, there seemed to be little abatement in his
musical industry. All the year round, the song-
sparrow is the most prolific lyrist of my acquain-
tance, but in midsummer he is distanced by his
sylvan neighbor, the wood-pewee. During my walks
on the twenty-ninth and thirty-first of August
the pewee’s was the only song heard.

Then, he does not confine himself wholly to
his ordinary song, Phe-e-w-e-e or Phe-e-e-0-7-e-e-e,
for one day in July he twittered a quaint med-
ley in a low, caressing tone, as if singing a lullaby
to his nestlings. At first I could not tell what
bird was the author of the new style of melody, but
presently the song glided sweetly into the well-known

MIDSUMMER MELODIES. I15

e-e-w-e-e. On another occasion I was charmed by
the vocal rehearsals of a young pewee. His youth
was evident from the fact that he twinkled his wings
and coaxed for food from the mother bird, who re-
warded his vocal efforts by feeding him. The song
was extremely beautiful, spite of the crudeness of its
execution ; a clear continuous strain, repeated quite
loudly, with here and there a partially successful at-
tempt to emit the ordinary pewee notes. Occasion-
ally the parent bird would respond, as if setting the
ambitious novice a musical copy, and then he would
make a heroic effort to pipe the notes he had just
heard, and several times he succeeded admirably.
He had a voice of excellent quality, but did not
have it under perfect control; still, the immature
song was so innocent, so maive and striking, that it
was a temptation to wish he would never learn to
sing otherwise.

Permit me to add, in conclusion, that, while the
birds are not equally musical or plentiful all the year
round, yet there is never a time when their behavior
is not worth careful attention. Moreover, midsum-
mer is the most favorable time for the study of the
quaint behavior and varied plumage of young birds,
—a theme connected with our avian fauna that
merits more consideration than it has yet received.

116 IN BIRD LAND

X.
WHERE BIRDS ROOST.

NE winter evening found me tramping through
a swamp not far from my home, listening
to the dulcet trills of the song-sparrows, which had
recently returned from a brief visit to a more south-
ern latitude. There was no snow on the ground,
and the day had been pleasant; but, as evening
approached, the west wind blew raw across the
fields. For some reason which I cannot now re-
call, an impulse seized me to clamber over the
fence into the adjacent meadow, where I stalked
about somewhat aimlessly for a minute or two, little
thinking that I was on the eve of a discovery, — one
that was destined to lead me into a delightful field
of investigation.

The ground was rather soggy, but a pair of tall
rubber boots make one indifferent to mire and
mud. The dusk was now gathering rapidly, and
it was time for most birds to go to bed. I soon
found, too, that they were going to bed, and, more-
over, were taking lodgings in the most unexpected
quarters. Imagine my surprise when, as I trudged
about, the little tree-sparrows, which are winter

WHERE BIRDS ROOST. 117

residents in my neighborhood, flew up here and
there out of the deep grass. They seemed to be
hidden somewhere until I came near, and then they
would suddenly dart up as if they had emerged from
a hole in the ground. :

This unexpected behavior led me to investigate ;
and I soon found that in many places there were
cosey apartments hollowed out under the long, thick
tufts of marsh grass, with neat entrances at one side
like the door of an Eskimo hut. These hollows
gave ample evidence of having been occupied by
the birds, so that there could be no doubt about
their being bird bedrooms. Very frequently they
were burrowed in the sides of the mounds of sod
raised by the winter frosts, and were thus lifted
above the intervening hollows, which contained ice-
cold water. In every case the overhanging grass
made a thatched roof to carry off the rain.

I do not mean to say that these little dugouts
were made by the birds themselves. Perhaps they
were, but it is more probable that they had been
scooped out the previous summer by field-mice, and
had only been appropriated for sleeping-apartments
by the sparrows. However that may be, they were
exceedingly cunning and cosey ; and soft must have
been the slumbers of the feathered occupants while
the wintry blasts howled unharming above them.

Prior to that discovery I had supposed, with most
people, that all birds roost in trees and bushes.
Later researches have proved how wide of ‘the truth
one’s unverified hypotheses may be. A week or so

118 IN BIRD LAND.

afterward, while strolling one evening at dusk
through a favorite timber-belt, I noticed the snow-
birds, or juncos, darting up from the leaves and
bushes and small brush-heaps, beneath which they
had found dainty little coverts from the storm. In
many places crooked twigs and branches, covered
with leaves, lay on the ground, leaving underneath
small spaces overarched and sheltered, and into
these cosey nooks the juncos had crept for the
night. No enemies, at least in winter, would find
them there, and their hiding-places were snug and
warm. Long after dark I lingered in the woods,
and everywhere startled the snow-birds from their
leafy couches. At one place a whole colony of
them had taken lodgings. When my passing fright-
ened them away, they flew through the darkness
into the neighboring trees. After waiting at some
distance for several minutes, I returned to the spot,
and found that some of the birds had gone back
to their bedrooms on the ground.

In my nocturnal prowlings through the fields and
lowlands, I have frequently frightened the meadow-
larks from the grass, and that long before nest-build-
ing or incubation had begun. Of course, they were
recognized by their nervous alarm-calls, as well as by
the peculiar sound of their fluttering wings. What
surprises me beyond measure is that they so often
select low, boggy places for their roosts, instead of
the dry pleasant upland slopes. But there is no
accounting for tastes in the bird world. The grass-
finches and lark-sparrows, like their relatives just

WHERE BIRDS ROOST. IIg

mentioned, seek little hollows in the ground for
bed-chambers, usually sheltered by grass tufts.
Long before day, one April morning, I made my
way to the marsh so frequently mentioned in this
volume. The moon was shining brightly in the
southern sky. Early as it was—for as yet there
was no sign of daybreak —the silvery trills of the
song-sparrows rose from the bushes like a votive
offering to the Queen of Night. From one part of
the swamp a sweet song would ring out on the
moonlit air, and would at once be taken up by an-
other songster not far away. Then another would
chime in, and another, until the whole enclosure
was filled with the antiphonal melody. A silence
would then fall upon the marsh like a dream-spirit,
to be broken soon by another outburst of min-
strelsy ; and thus the nocturne continued until day
broke, and it merged into the glad matin service.
But my object is to tell about bird roosts rather
than about bird music. When I reached the
farther end of the marsh, several sparrow songs
came up from the ground. I walked with a ten-
tative purpose toward a spot whence a song came,
when the little triller sprang up affrighted. The
same experiment with a number of other songsters
brought a like result in each case, proving beyond
doubt, I think, that at least some of the song-
sparrows roost on the ground, and begin their
matins before they rise from their couches, so
anxious are they to put in a full day of song.
On the same morning — it was still before day-

120 IN BIRD LAND.

break — a bevy of red-winged blackbirds, which
had been roosting in the long grass, flew up with
vociferous cries and protests at the rude ‘awakening
I had given them, just when they were enjoying
their morning nap. Blame them who will for
making loud ado, for there are many people who
would do the same under similar provocation.
Thus it will be seen that many birds sleep on the
ground. My investigations lead me to this con-
clusion: As a rule, those birds which nest on or
near the ground, and spend a considerable portion
of their time in the grass, like the meadow-larks
and song-sparrows, roost on the ground, while
others find bushes and trees more to their taste.
Still, there are exceptions to this rule ; for on several
occasions, while bent on my nocturnal prowlings,
I have driven the turtle-dove from the ground,
although this bird usually roosts in the thorn-trees
and willows."

The robins choose thick trees and even wild rose-
bushes for roosts. In the apple-trees and pines of
a neighbor’s yard across the fields these birds find
sleeping-apartments early in the spring, before
nest-building is begun, for a perfect deluge of
robin music often pours from that locality, both
morning and evening.

The white-throats, wood-sparrows, and brown
thrashers make use of the thick thorn-trees of the
marsh for lodgings. They flutter about in sore

1 This is, after all, no exception, for I have since found a
number of turtle-doves’ nests on the ground.

WHERE BIRDS ROOST. 121

dismay as I approach, until I start back, lest they
should impale themselves on the sharp thorns.
Sometimes the thrasher ensconces himself for the
night in the brush-heaps which the wood-choppers
have made on the slopes, making his presence
known by his peculiar way of scolding at my offi-
cious intrusion.

One cannot help admiring the wise forethought
displayed by many birds in creeping into the thick
thorn-bushes at night, where they may sleep without
fear of attack from their nocturnal foe, the owl.
Full well they seem to know he cannot force his
bulky form through the thick network of branch
and thorn. How he must gnash his teeth with
rage —if owls ever do that— when he espies his
coveted prey sleeping peacefully just beyond the
reach of his talons! Still, it sometimes happens
that even a small bird ventures into too close
quarters in these terrible prickly bushes; for I once
found a dead sparrow completely wedged in among
the fierce thorns, where it had evidently been
caught in such a way as to prevent its escape.

Something over a year after the preceding facts
were published, I was seized with a whim to re-
sume my investigations on bird roosts. One of my
nocturnal rambles seems to be deserving of some-
what minute description. It was a delightful
evening of early spring, with a warm westerly
breeze stirring the bursting leaves. The sun had
set, and the dusk was falling over fields and woods.
The bright moon, a little more than half full,

122 IN BIRD LAND.

lengthened out the gloaming and added many
precious minutes to the singing hours of the birds.
Such a woodland chorus as I was permitted to
listen to that evening! It was a rare privilege.
How the wood-thrushes vied with the towhee
buntings! Which would sing the latest? That
seemed to be the question. At length there were
several moments of silence, and I supposed all the
birds had gone to sleep, when a white-throated
sparrow and a wood-pewee struck in with their
sweet strains; and so the chorus continued until
it was really night. The wood-thrushes, I think,
got in the last note of the twilight serenade.

Before it had become quite dark, I espied a
wood-thrush sitting in the fork of a dogwood-tree,
looking at me in a startled way; but she did not
fly. I walked off some distance, remained awhile,
and then returned, to find her still in her place.
Then I strolled about until night had fully come;
the moon shone brightly, so that it was not dark.
When I went back to the dogwood-tree, the
speckled breast of the thrush was still visible in
the fork which she had chosen for her bed-chamber,
and I wished her pleasant dreams.

While stalking about, I startled another wood-
thrush, which had selected a loose brush-heap on
the ground instead of a sapling or tree for a roost.
The indigo-birds and bush-sparrows flew up from
the blackberry bushes as I pushed my way through
them. Several times the towhee buntings leaped
scolding out of bed, having selected brush-heaps,

WHERE BIRDS ROOST. 123

or dead branches lying on the ground, for roost-
ing-places.

A discovery was also made in regard to the
sleeping-apartments of the red-headed woodpecker.
As the dusk was gathering, a red-head dashed in front
of me into the border of the woods, alighting on
a sapling stem, and then began to shuffle upward
toward a hole plainly visible from where I sat; but
just as he reached the hole, another red-head
appeared with a challenging air on the inside of
the cavity, and red-head number one darted away
with a cry of alarm. Now was my time to discover,
if possible, where red-head number two would roost.
So I kept a close watch on the cavity, waiting about,
as previously said, until nightfall, and then, keeping
my eye on the hole, so that the bird could not fly
out without being seen, I made my way to the sap-
ling. Intently watching the hole with my glass, I
tapped the stem of the tree with my heel, when, in
the moonlight, a red head and long, black beak
were protruded from the opening above. The wood-
pecker was within, that much was proved; and when
I had beaten against the tree, he had sprung up to
the orifice to see who was thus impolitely disturbing
his evening slumbers. He turned his head sidewise,
and looked down at me with his keen beady eyes ;
but although I tapped against the tree again and
again, he would not leave the cavity. There can be
no doubt that it was his bedroom, — that cosey apart-
ment in the sapling,—for it was still too early in
the season for the bird to begin nesting, as he had

124 IN BIRD LAND,

arrived only two or three days before from his winter
residence in the south. Very likely most wood-
peckers roost in the cavities which they hew in trees,
for I do not see why the one into whose private
affairs I pried that evening should have been an
exception. He most probably was only following
the customs of his tribe from time immemorial.?

A number of experiments made with young birds
purloined from the nest —I must beg the feathered
parents’ forgiveness— have added several interesting
facts to the subject in hand. One spring I became
guardian, purveyor, and man-of-all-work to a pair of
young flickers, taken from a cavity in an old apple-
tree. They were kept in a large cage, in which I
placed sapling boughs of considerable size. They
had not become my protégés many days before they
insisted on converting these upright branches into
sleeping-couches, clinging to the vertical boles witn
their stout claws, and pillowing their heads in the
feathers of their backs. In this position they slej-t
as comfortably as the thrushes and orioles confined
in other cages slept on their horizontal perches, cr,
for that matter, as I slept in my own bed. They

1 The reader will see, from the facts given in the remainder
of the chapter, that I reckoned without my host in supposing
that woodpeckers usually sleep in cavities of trees. That they
sometimes select such places for roosts cannot be doubled;
but that such is always or even generally their habit the ex-
periments described farther on conclusively disprove. It is
only fair to say that the rest of the chapter was added long
after the foregoing had been written, and proves how unsafe
it is for the naturalist to make generalizations.

WHERE BIRDS ROOST. 125

even slept on the under side of an oblique branch.
One of them passed one night on a horizontal perch,
although apparently his slumbers were not quite so
sound and refreshing as they would have been had
he roosted in the wonted upright position. Queerest
of all, these woodpeckers sometimes selected the
side of the cage itself for a roosting-place, thrusting
their claws into the crevice between the door and
its frame. Wherever they roosted, their tails were
made to do duty as braces, by being pressed tightly
against the wall to which they clung. A pair of
young red-headed woodpeckers behaved in much
the same way, always preferring to sleep on an
upright perch.

During the spring of 1893 I placed in a cage the
following birds, all taken while in a half-callow state,
from the nest: Two cat-birds, one red-winged black-
bird, one cow-bunting, and two meadow-larks. In
a few days all of them proclaimed their species, as
well as the inexorable law of heredity, by selecting
such roosts as were best adapted to them, and that
without any instruction whatever from adult birds.
The meadow-larks almost invariably squatted on the
grass with which the floor of the cage was lined,
usually scratching and waddling from side to side
until they had made cosey hollows to fit their bodies ;
while the remaining inmates flew up to the perches
when bed-time came.

It was quite interesting to look in upon my group
of sleeping pets of an evening, part of them roosting
in the lower story of the cage and the rest in the

126 IN BIRD LAND.

upper story. Several times, however, one of the larks
slept on a perch, and the red-wing, after the cat-birds
and bunting had been removed from the cage, occa-
sionally seemed to think the upstairs a little lonely,
and so he cuddled down on the grass below, edging
up close to the larks. The strangely assorted bed-
fellows slept together in this way like happy
children.

THE WOOD-PEWEE. 127

XI.

THE WOOD-PEWEE.
A MONOGRAPH.

LMOST every person living in the country or
the suburbs of a town is familiar with the
house-pewee, or phoebe-bird. It is usually looked
upon as the sure harbinger of spring. In my boy-
hood days my parents aud grandparents were wont
to say, “Spring is here; the phcebe is singing.”
And if blithesomeness of tone and good cheer have
anything to do with the advent of the season of
song and bursting blossoms, the pewit, as he is
often called, must be a true herald and prophet.
He seems to carry the “subtle essence of spring ”’
in his tuneful larynx, and in the graceful sweep of
his flight as he pounces upon an insect. It is quite
easy to make the transition from his familiar song of
Phe-e-by to the exclamation, Spring’s here! by a
little stretch of the fancy.

But the phoebe has a woodland relative, a first
cousin, with which most persons are not so well
acquainted, because he is more retiring in his habits,
and seeks out-of the-way places for his habitat. I
tefer to the wood-pewee. If your eyes and ears are
not so sharp as they should be, you may get these

128 IN BIRD LAND.

two birds confounded; yet there is no need of
making such a blunder. The woodland bird is
smaller, slenderer, and of a darker cast than his
relative ; and, besides, there is a marked difference
in the musical performances of these birds. The
song of the phcebe is sprightly and cheerful, and
the syllables are uttered rather quickly, while the
whistle of the wood-pewee is softer and more plain-
tive, and is repeated with less emphasis and more
deliberation. ‘There is, indeed, something inex-
pressibly sad and dreamy about the strain of the
wood-pewee, especially if heard at a distance in the
“emerald twilight” of the ‘ woodland privacies.”
Mr. Lowell seldom erred in his attempts to charac-
terize the songs and habits of the birds, but in his
exquisite poem entitled “Phoebe” he certainly
must have referred to the wood-pewee and not to
the phcebe-bird, as his description applies to the
former but not to the latter. He calls this bird
“the loneliest of its kind,’’ while the pewit is a
familiar species about many a country home. Tak-
ing it for granted that he meant the wood-pewee,
how happy is his description!
“It is a wee sad-colored thing,
As shy and secret as a maid,

That ere in choir the robins ring,
Pipes its own name like one afraid.

“Tt seems pain-prompted to repeat
The story of some ancient ill,

But Phebe! Phebe! sadly sweet,
Is all it says, and then is still.

THE WOOD-PEWEE. 129

“ Phabe! it calls and calls again ;
And Ovid, could he but have heard,
Had hung a legendary pain
About the memory of the bird.

“ Phebe! is all it has to say
In plaintive cadence o’er and o’er,
Like children who have lost their way,
And know their names, but nothing more.”

This poetical tribute is certainly very graceful,
and would be true to life if the phonetic represen-
tation were a little more accurate. Instead of
Phebe, imagine the song to be Pe-e-w-e-e-e or Phe-
e-w-e-e-€, and you will gain a clear idea of the min-
strelsy of this songster of the wildwood. However,
he frequently varies his tune,—to prevent its
becoming monotonous, I opine. He sometimes
closes his refrain with the falling inflection or cir-
cumflex, and sometimes with the rising, as the mood
prompts him. In the former case the first syllable
receives the greater emphasis and is the more pro-
longed, and in the latter this order is precisely
reversed. When the last syllable is uttered with the
rising circumflex, it is usually, if not always, cut off
somewhat abruptly. Moreover, this minstrel often
runs the two syllables of his song together, — a pecu-
liarity that I have represented in my notes, taken
while listening to the song, in this way: Phe-e-e-o-
o-w-e-e-e/ There is a characteristic swing about
the melody that refuses to be caught in the mesh
of letters and syllables.

In some of the pewee’s vocal efforts he does not

9

130 IN BIRD LAND.

get farther than the end of the first syllable. The
song seems to be cut off short, as if the notes had
stuck fast in the singer’s throat, or as if something
had occurred to divert his mind from the song.
Perhaps this hiatus is caused by the sudden appear-
ance of an insect glancing by, which attracts the
musician’s attention. This bird usually chooses a
dead twig or limb in the woods as a perch, on which
he sits and sings, turning his head from side to side,
so that no flitting moth may escape him.

And what a persistent singer he is! He sings
not only in the spring when other vocalists are in
full tune, but also all summer long, never growing
disheartened, even when the mercury rises far up
into the nineties. What a pleasant companion he
has been in my midsummer strolls as I have wearily
patrolled the woods! On the sultriest August days,
when all other birds were glad to keep mute, sitting
on their shady perches with open mandibles and
drooping wings, the dreamful, far-away strain of
the wood-pewee has drifted, a welcome sound, to
my ears through the dim aisles. He seems to be a
friend in need. How often, when the heat has
almost overcome me, as I pursued my daily beat,
that song has put new vigor into my veins! When
Mr. Lowell wrote that

“The phcebe scarce whistles
Once an hour to his fellow,”

he must have been listening to a far lazier specimen
than those with which I am acquainted.

THE WOOD-PEWEE. 131

Most birds fall occasionally into a kind of ecstasy
of song, and the wood-pewee is no exception. One
evening, after it had grown almost dark, a pewee
flew out into the air directly above my head from
a tree by the wayside, and began to sing in a per-
fect transport as he wheeled about; then he swung
back into the tree, keeping up his song in a con-
tinuous strain, and in sweet, half-caressing tones,
until finally it died away, as if the bird had fallen
into a doze during his vocal recital. I lingered
about for some time, but he did not sing again.
Why should he repeat his good-night song?

I have frequently heard young pewees in mid-
summer singing in a continuous way, instead of
whistling the intermittent song.of their elders. It
sounds very droll, giving you the impression that
the little neophyte has begun to turn the crank of
his music-box and can’t stop. His voice is quite
sweet, but his execution is very crude. Wait,
however, until he is eight or nine months older,
and he will show you what a winged Orpheus can
do. My notes say that on the thirtieth of July,
1891, I heard a “ pewee’s quaint, prolonged whistle,
interlarded with his ordinary notes.” ‘Thus it will
be seen that he is a somewhat versatile songster,
proving the poet’s lines half true and half untrue : —

“ The birds but repeat without ending
‘The same old traditional notes,
Which some, by more happily blending,
Seem to make over new in their throats.”

132 IN BIRD LAND,

Younger readers may, perhaps, need to be in-
formed that the wood-pewee belongs to the family
of flycatchers, as do also the king-bird or bee-
martin, the phcebe-bird, the great-crested fly-
catcher, and a number of other interesting species,
all of which have a peculiar way of taking their
prey. The pewee will sit almost motionless on a
twig, lisping his plaintive tune at intervals, until a
luckless insect comes buzzing near, all unconscious
of its peril, when the bird will make a quick dash
at it, seize it dexterously between his mandibles,
and then circle around gracefully to the same or
another perch, having made a splendid “catch on
the fly.” If the quarry he has taken is small, it
slips at once down his throat; but should it be
too large to be disposed of in that summary way,
he will beat it into an edible form upon a limb
before gulping it down. Agile as he is, he some-
times misses his aim, being compelled to make a
second, and occasionally even a third attempt to
secure his prize. I have witnessed more than one
comedy which turned out to be a tragedy for the
ill-starred insect. Sometimes the insect will resort
to the ruse of dropping toward the ground when it
sees the bird darting toward it, and then a scuffle
ensues that is really laughable, the pursuer whirl-
ing, tumbling, almost turning somersault in his
desperate efforts to capture his prize. Once an
insect flew between me and a pewee perched on a
twig, when the bird darted down toward me with
a directness of aim that made me think for a

THE WOOD-PEWEE. 133

moment he would fly right into my face; but he
made a dexterous turn in time, caught his quarry,
and swung to a bough near by. If one were dis-
posed to be speculative, one might well raise
Sidney Lanier’s pregnant inquiry at this point,
the reference being to the southern mocking-bird,
and not to our pewee, —

“ Flow may the death of that dull insect be
The life of yon trim Shakspeare, on the tree?”

It has been my good fortune to find one, but
only one, nest of this bird. It was placed on a
horizontal branch about fifteen feet above the
ground, and was a neat, compact structure, deco-
rated on the outside with grayish lichens and moss,
giving it the appearance of an excrescence on the
limb.1 It is said by those who have closely exam-
ined the nests, that they are handsomely built and
ornamented, and are equalled only by the dainty
houses of the humming-bird and the blue-gray
gnat-catcher. The eggs, usually four in number,
are of a creamy white hue, beautifully embellished
with a wreath of lavender and _ purplish-brown
around the larger end or near the centre.

Though our bird prefers solitary places for his
home, he is far from shy, if you call on him in his
haunt in the wildwood. He will sit fearless on
his perch, even if you come quite near, looking at

1 Since this was written, I have found several more nests,
and have even watched the skilful architects at their house-
building.

134 IN BIRD LAND.

you in his staid, philosophical way, as if you were
scarcely worth noticing. Nor will he hush his song
at your approach, although he does not seem to
care whether you listen to him or not. It is
seldom that he can be betrayed into doing an
undignified act; and even if he does almost turn a
somersault in pursuing a refractory miller, he re-
covers his poise the next moment, and settles upon
his perch with as much sang frotd as if nothing
unusual had occurred. Altogether, the wood-pewee
is what Bradford Torrey would call a “character in
feathers.”

A PAIR OF NIGHT-HAWKS. 135

XII.

A PAIR OF NIGHT-HAWKS.

HE night-hawk and the whippoorwill are often
confounded by persons of inaccurate habits of
observation. It is true, both birds are members of
the goatsucker family; but they belong to entirely
different genera, and are therefore of much more
distant kin than many people suppose. The whip-
poorwill is a forest bird, while the night-hawk pre-
fers the open country. Besides, the whippoorwill
is decidedly nocturnal in his habits, making the
woods ring at night, as every one knows, with his
weird, flutelike melody ; whereas the night-hawk is
a bird of the day and evening. Then, a peculiar
mark of the night-hawk is the round white spot on
his wings, visible on the under surface as he per-
forms his wonderful feats overhead, —a mark that
does not distinguish his woodland relative.

As a tule, the gloaming is the favorite time for the
night-hawk’s wing-exercises; then he may be seen
whirling, curveting, mounting, and plunging, often at
a dizzy height, gathering his supper of insects as he
flies; but his petulant call is often heard at other
hours of the day, perhaps at noon when the sun is
shining with fierce warmth. Even during a shower

136 IN BIRD-LAND.

he seems to be fond of haunting the cloudy canopy,
toying with the wind.

His call, as he tilts overhead, is difficult to repre-
sent phonetically, both the vowels and consonants
being provokingly elusive and hard to catch. To
me he seems usually to say Sfe-ah. Sometimes the S
appears to be omitted, or is enunciated very slightly,
while at other times his call seems to have a de-
cidedly sibilant beginning. On several occasions he
seemed to pronounce the syllable Scape.

I had often watched the marvellous flight of these
birds, as they passed like living silhouettes across
the sky; but they had always seemed so shy and
unapproachable that, prior to the summer of 1891,
I had despaired of ever finding a night-hawk’s nest.
However, one evening in June, while stalking about
in the marsh, I suddenly became aware of a large
bird fluttering uneasily about me in the gathering
darkness. Presently it was joined by its mate, and
then the two birds circled and hovered about,
often coming into uncomfortable proximity with my
head, and muttering under their breath, Chuckle !
chuckle! Several times one of them alighted for a
few moments on the rail-fence near by, and then
resumed its circular flight. Even in the darkness I
recognized that my uncanny companions were night-
hawks, and felt convinced that there must be a nest
in the neighborhood, or they would not display so
much anxiety. It was too late to discover their
secret that evening, and, besides, I really felt a slight
chill creeping up my back, with those dark, ghostly

A PAIR OF NIGHT-HAWRS. 137

forms wheeling about my head, and so I went
reluctantly home.

Two days later I found time to visit the marsh.
On reaching the spot where the two birds had
been seen, presto! a dark feathered form started
up before me from the ground. It was the female
night-hawk ; and there on the damp earth, without
the least trace of a nest or a covering of any kind,
lay two eggs. At last I had found a night-hawk’s
nest! The ground-color of the eggs, which were
quite large, was of a dirty bluish-gray cast, mottled
and clouded with darker gray and brown,

The behavior of the mother bird was curious.
She had fluttered away a few rods, pretending to
be hurt, and then dropped into the grass. On my
driving her from her hiding-place, she rose in the air
and began to hover about above my head, and then,
to my utter surprise, she swooped down toward me
savagely, as if she really had a mind to attack me.
As I walked away, she seemed to grow angrier and
bolder, making a swift dash at me every few minutes,
and actually coming so near my head as to cause
me involuntarily to raise my cane in self-defence.
A quaver of uneasiness went through me. I really
believe she would have struck me had I given her
sufficient provocation. There was a brisk shower
falling at the time, and so, fearing the eggs might
become addled, I hurried to the remote end of the
marsh. Suddenly my feathered pursuer disappeared.
Wondering if she had resumed her place on the
nest, I sauntered back to settle the doubt, but pres

138 IN BIRD LAND.

ently espied her sitting lengthwise on a top rail of
the fence, while her eggs lay unprotected in the rain.
Her dark, mottled form and sleepy, half-closed eyes
made a quaint picture. I slowly withdrew, and as
long as I could see her with my glass, she kept her
perch on the rail without moving a pinion.

On the twenty-third of June another call was made
on the night-hawk family, when I found two odd-
looking bairns in the nest, if nest it could be called.
They were covered with soft down, the black and
white of which presented a wavy appearance. Their
short, thick bills were covered with a speckled fuzz;
except the tips. I stooped down and smoothed
their downy backs with my hand, but there was no
expression of fear in their sluggish eyes.

Both parents were present on the twenty-sixth of
June. For awhile the male bird pursued his mate
savagely through the air, as if venting on her his
anger at my intrusion, and then, mounting far up
toward the sky and poising a moment, he plunged
toward the earth with a velocity that made my head
dizzy, checking himself, as is his wont, with a loud
resounding Bo-o-m-m. The female again pursued
her unwelcome visitor, swooping so near my head
two or three times that I could have reached her
with my cane. The cock bird, curiously enough,
never displayed so much courage, but kept at a
safe distance.

On the twenty-ninth the young birds had been
moved about a half rod from the original site of the
nest, and hopped off awkwardly into the grass when

A PAIR OF NIGHT-HAWKS. 139

I tried to clasp them with my hand. The benedict
was absent this time, and was never seen on any of
my subsequent visits while the young birds were
fledging. By the first of July the bantlings hopped
about in a lively manner at my approach to their
domicile, and wheezed in a frightened way, spread-
ing out their mottled pinions. On the seventh of
July neither of the parents was to be seen, and the
youngsters sat so cosily side by side on the ground
that I had not the heart to disturb their slumbers.
Approaching cautiously on the tenth, I almost
stepped on the mother bird before she flew up. At
the same moment both young birds started from the
ground, and fluttered away in different directions on
their untried wings, their flight being awkward and
labored. A few weeks later four night-hawks were
circling about above the marsh, — no doubt the
family that had been affording me such an interesting
study. What was my surprise when one of them
resented my presence by swooping down toward me,
as the female had done a few weeks before !
Reference has already been made incidentally to
the night-hawk’s curious habit of “ booming,” as it is
called. This sound is always produced as he plunges
in an almost perpendicular course from a dizzy height,
—or, more correctly, at the end of that headlong
plunge, just as he sweeps around in a graceful
curve. There is something almost sepulchral about
the reverberating sound. How it is produced is a
problem over which there has been no small amount
of discussion in ornithological circles. But after

140 IN BIRD LAND.

considerable study of this queer performance, I am
persuaded that it is a vocal outburst, produced
either for its musical effect (though it is far from
musical), or else to give vent to the bird’s exuber-
ance of feeling as he makes his swift descent.

His thick, curved bill seems admirably adapted
to produce this sound, as do also his arched throat
and neck. It has seemed to me, too, that his
mandibles fly open at the moment the boom is
heard, although I cannot be sure such is the case.
Besides, the peculiar chuckle, previously referred to,
had about it a quality of sound suggestive of kin-
ship with the bird’s resounding boom. The hollow,
wheezy alarm-call of the young birds, heard on
several of my visits to the nest in the marsh, cor-
roborates this theory. But there is still further proof
that this hypothesis is correct. The night-hawk
often makes his headlong plunge without booming at
all, but merely utters his ordinary rasping, aerial call,
which has been translated by the syllable Spe-ah.
Then he sometimes combines the two calls, and on
such occasions both of the sounds are uttered with
a diminished loudness, as one would expect if both
are vocal performances, but as one would of expect
if the booming were made by the concussion of the
bird’s wings with the resisting air, as some orni-
thologists suppose. The female sometimes booms,
but her voice obviously lacks the strong, resounding
quality that characterizes the voice of her liege lord.

A BIRDS’ GALA-DAY. 141

XIII.

A BIRDS’ GALA-DAY.

N Mr. Emerson’s poem entitled “May Morning”
this stanza occurs : —

“When the purple flame shoots up,
And Love ascends the throne,

I cannot hear your songs, O birds,
For the witchery of my own.”

It would seem, therefore, that to be a poet does
not always give one the coign of vantage in observ-
ing Nature, but may, on the contrary, prove a
positive disadvantage. Should the rambler go about
“crooning rhymes’? and making an_over-sweet
melody to himself, instead of keeping his ear alert
to the music around him, he would be likely to miss
many a wild, sweet song fully as enchanting as his
own measured lines. No music of my own, how-
ever, diverted my mind from Nature’s blithe min-
strels as, on the twenty-ninth of April, 1892, I
pursued my avian studies in some of my favorite
resorts.

It was nine o’clock when I reached the quiet
woodland lying beyond a couple of fields. The
first fact noted was the return of a number of
interesting migrants which had not been present

142 IN BIRD LAND.

on the preceding day. They had, as is their wont,
come by night from some more southern rendezvous,
Among them was the oven-bird or accentor, an-
nouncing his presence with his startling song, which
at first seemed to come from a distance, but
gradually drew nearer, like a voice walking toward
me as it grew louder and more accelerated. On
account of this quaint ventriloquial quality of voice,
the little vocalist is often very difficult to find, and
you are sure to look in a dozen places before you
at last descry him. What a sedate genius he is,
as he sits atilt on a twig, or walks in his leisurely
fashion on the leaf-carpeted ground, looking up at
you at intervals out of his sage, beady eyes.

I have hinted that the oven-bird was first seen
and then heard. In this respect the habits of
different species of birds differ widely. The ac-
centors, meadow-larks, orioles, bobolinks, Bewick’s
wrens, summer warblers, white-crowned sparrows,
and some other species usually begin at once to
celebrate with pzans their return to their old haunts ;
whereas the wood-thrushes, brown thrashers, and
white-throated sparrows seem to wait several days
after their arrival before they tune their harps, —a
diversity of behavior difficult to explain. Scarcely
less inexplicable is the fact that some species arrive
in scattered flocks, others in battalions and armies,
and others still, one by one. My notes made on
this day contain this statement: ‘“ Yesterday I heard
a single call of the red-headed woodpecker ; to-day
the woods are full of these birds.’’

A BIRDS GALA-DAY. 143

On the first day of April the first Bewick’s wren of
the spring appeared, but, strange to say, not another
wren was seen until near the end of the month. A
single bird often goes ahead of the main body of
migrants like a scout or outrider; while not infre-
quently a small company precedes the approach-
ing army in the capacity, perhaps, of an advance
guard.

Threading my way through the “dim vistas,
sprinkled o’er with sun-flecked green,” to an open
space near the border of the woods, I had the
opportunity of listening to an improvised cat-bird
concert, without a cent of charge for admission.
Here some mental notes were made on the vocal
qualities of this bird in comparison with those of
the celebrated brown thrasher, and with some
hesitancy I give my conclusions. Each songster
has his special points of excellence. .The thrasher
has more voice volume than his rival, his technique
is better, he glides more smoothly from one part
of his song to another, and executes several runs
that for pure melody and skill in rendering go
beyond the cat-bird’s ability; but, on the other
hand, it must be said that the latter minstrel’s song
contains fewer harsh, coarse, unmusical notes; his
voice, on the whole, is of a finer quality, is pitched
toa higher key, and his vocal performances are char-
acterized by greater artlessness or xaiveté. Though
professing to be no connoisseur, I have never felt so
deeply stirred by the thrasher’s as by the cat-bird’s
minstrelsy. There does not seem to be so much

144 IN BIRD LAND.

fervor and real passion in the vocal efforts of the
tawny musician.

A little farther on, I again turned my steps into
a dense section of the woods. Suddenly there was
a twinkle of wings, a flash of olive-green, a sharp
Chip, and then there before me, a few rods away,
a little bird went hopping about on the ground,
picking up dainties from the brown leaves. What
could it be? Was I about to find a species that
was new to me? It really seemed so. My opera-
glass, when levelled upon the bird, revealed olive-
green upper parts, yellow or buff under parts, and
four black stripes on the head, two on the pileum
and one through each eye. It was the rare worm-
eating warbler (e/mitherus vermivorus) at last, —a
bird that had for many years eluded me. The little
charmer was quite wary, chirping nervously while I
ogled him, — for it was a male, — and then hopped up
into a sapling, and finally scurried away out of sight.

A few steps farther on in the woods an extremely
fine cat-like call swung down, like thread of sound,
from the tree-tops. Of course, it was my tiny
acquaintance the blue-gray gnat-catcher, and_ his
pretty spouse, who had arrived, perhaps from Cuba
or Guatemala, a few days before. What an immense
distance for their frail little wings to traverse,
“through tracts and provinces of sky”! You
seldom see anything more dainty and dream-like
than the fluttering of these birds from one tree-top
to another, reminding you of an animated cloudlet
hovering and darting about in mid-air. Not a more

A BIRDS’ GALA-DAY. 145

fay-like bird visits my woodland than the blue-gray
gnat-catcher. Even the ruby-throated humming-
bird, though still smaller, seems rather roly-poly
in comparison ; and no warbler, not even the grace-
ful redstart, can flit about so airily. One of the
gnat-catchers in the tree-top presently darted out
after a miller, which tried to escape by letting itself
fall toward the ground. A vigorous drama followed.
The bird plunged nimbly after, whirling round and
round in a spiral course until it had secured its
wriggling prize.

The gnat-catcher lisps a little song, —a gossamer
melody, it might be called. His slender voice
has quite a “resonant tang.” On that day I did
not take notes on his music, but the next day I
had a good opportunity to do so; and I give the
result, especially as no minute description of this
bird’s song has been recorded, so far as I know.
I had often heard it before, but had neglected to
listen to it intently enough to analyze its peculiar
quality. Bending my ear upon it, I distinctly
and unmistakably detected, besides the bird’s own
notes, the notes of three other birds, — those of the
cat-bird’s alarm-call, of the phcebe’s song, and of the
goldfinch’s song and call. The imitation in each
case was perfect, save that the gnat-catcher’s tones
were slenderer than those of the birds whose music
he had (if I may so speak) plagiarized. Is this
tiny minstrel a mocker? Perhaps my description
may be a surprise to many students of bird min-
strelsy, but I can only say that, having listened to

10

146 IN BIRD LAND.

the song for fully an hour, I could not well have
been mistaken. Several times the reproduction of
the goldfinch’s song was so perfect that I looked
the tree all over again and again with my glass for
that bird, but goldfinches there were none about.
Moreover, the gnat-catcher was in plain sight,
dropping quite low in the tree part of the time ; and
there can be no doubt that every strain proceeded
from his lyrical little throat.

The forenoon and part of the afternoon slipped
away all too rapidly, bringing many valuable additions
to my stock of bird lore; but I must pass others
by to describe the most important “find” (to me)
of this red-letter day in my experience. At about
half-past four o’clock I reached an old bush-covered
gravel-bank where many birds of various species
have been encountered. As I stepped near a pool
at the foot of the bank, a little bird flashed into
view, setting my pulses all a-flutter. It was the
hooded warbler, the first of the species I had ever
seen. He was recognizable at once by the bright
yellow hood he wore, bordered all around with deep
black. A bright, flitting blossom of the bird world !

For fully an hour I lingered in that “‘ embowered
solitude,” watching the bird’s quaint behavior, which
deserves more than a mere passing notice. He was
not in the least shy or nervous, but seemed rather
to court my presence. Almost every moment was
spent in capturing insects on the wing or in sitting
on a perch watching for them to flash into view.
Like a genuine flycatcher, as soon as a buzzing insect

A BIRDS’ GALA-DAY. 147

hove in sight, he would dart out after it, and never
once failed to secure his prize. Sometimes he would
plunge swiftly downward after a gnat or a miller, and
once, having caught a miller that was large and in-
clined to be refractory, he flew to the ground, beat
it awhile on the clods, and then swallowed it with a
consequential air which seemed to say, “ That is
my way of disposing of such cases!’’ Several times
he mounted almost straight up from his perch, and
twice he almost turned a somersault in pursuit of an
insect. Once he clung like a titmouse to the bole
of a sapling. I could often hear the snapping of
his mandibles as he nabbed his prey. When an in-
sect came between him and myself, he would fear-
lessly dash directly toward me, as if he meant to fly
in my face or alight on my head, often coming within
a few feet of me. He seemed to be as confiding
as a child. When I stepped to the other end of the
gravel-bank, going even a little beyond it, curiously
enough, the bird parsued me; then, as an experi-
ment, I walked back to my first post of observation,
and, to my surprise, he followed me again. Was he
really desirous of my company? Or did he know
that I intended to ring his praises in type? At
length I stole away a short distance among the trees,
but presently a loud chirping in my rear arrested
my attention. I turned back, and found it to be
my new-made friend, the hooded warbler, who,
strange to say, seemed to be calling me back to his
haunt. Then I climbed to the top of the gravel-
bank ; he selected perches higher up in the saplings

148 IN BIRD LAND.

than before, so as to be nearer me, -—at least, so it
appeared. The affectionate little darling! The only
other sound he uttered during the entire time of
our hobnobbing — his and mine — was the slenderest
hint of a song, which was really more of a twitter
than a tune.

But at last I bade the little sorcerer a reluctant
adieu. In a hollow of the woods I lay down on the
green grass, and listened for half an hour to the
lyrical medley of a brown thrasher perched on a
treetop. It was indeed a wonderful performance,
and the longer I listened the more its witchery grew
upon me. My special purpose in bending my whole
attention upon this performance was to see if the
thrasher mimicked the songs of other birds. Many
persons think him a genuine imitator; indeed, in
some places he is called the northern mocking-bird.
Iam forced to say, however, that, as far as my obser-
vation goes, he does not mimic, but sings his own com-
positions, like the original genius he is. In all that
song, and others since listened to, not a single strain
did he utter that I could positively identify as be-
longing to the musical repertoire of another bird.
It is true, he sometimes, in the midst of his song,
uttered the alarm call of the robin; but as both birds
belong to the same family, this was not to be
wondered at, and affords no evidence of the gift of
imitation. If the thrasher does mimic his fellow-
minstrels, as many persons contend, the borrowed
notes are so brief and so intermingled and blent
with his own music as to be unrecognizable.

A BIRDS’ GALA-DAY. T49

On the other hand, this tawny vocalist utters musi-
cal strains that are entirely unlike anything else in
the whole realm of bird minstrelsy, proving his song
to be characteristic. The brown thrasher is not a
musical pirate, but an original composer, — a sort of
Mozart or Beethoven in the bird world. And how
wonderful are some of his slurred runs! Nothing
in the domain of music could be finer, and the harsh
notes he frequently interpolates only serve to ac-
centuate and enhance the melody of those that are
truly lyrical.

In his engaging book entitled “ Birds in the Bush,”
Bradford Torrey, who is second to none in the school
of popular writers on feathered folk, characterizes this
tawny vocalist in a most admirable manner. How-
ever, in regard to the matter of mimicry, his obser-
vations differ slightly from my own; yet I gladly
quote what he says rather incidentally on the subject.
One day he was listening to three thrashers singing
simultaneously. ‘In the midst of the hurly-burly,”
he writes, ‘one of the trio suddenly sounded the
whippoorwill’s call twice, — an absolutely perfect re-
production.” Then he adds, somewhat jocosely, in
a foot-note: “The ‘authorities’ long since forbade
Harporhynchus rufus to play the mimic. Probably in
the excitement of the moment this fellow forgot him-
self.” Of course, one cannot gainsay the testimony
of so careful an observer and so conscientious a re-
porter as Mr. Torrey; yet it is possible that this
whippoorwill call was only a slip of the thrasher’s
voice and not an intended imitation ; at all events,

150 IN BIRD LAND.

in my opinion, such vocal coincidences, whether
accidental or designed, are of rare occurrence.

Since the foregoing observations were made and
first published, I have often sought to prove them
untrue, but have failed. No thrasher has ever, in
my hearing, unmistakably plagiarized a single strain
from his fellow-musicians. Fearing my ear for music
might be defective, rendering me incapable of distin-
guishing correctly the various songs of birds, I put
myself to the test in this way: On one of the streets
of my native town there is a brilliant mocking-bird,
whose cage is often hung out ona veranda. Again
and again I have stopped to listen to his ringing
medley, and have never failed to hear him distinctly
mimic the songs and calls of other birds, such as
the robin, blue jay, cardinal grossbeak, and red-
headed woodpecker. Why should I be able in-
stantly to detect the notes of other birds in the
mocker’s song and never once be able to detect
them in the song of the thrasher?

But it is fully time to return to my ramble. The
gifted songster in the tree-top would sometimes pipe
a strain of such exquisite sweetness that it seemed
to surprise himself; he would pause a moment, as if
to reflect upon it and fix it in mind for future use ;
and erelong he would repeat it, reminding his ad-
miring auditor of Browning’s lines on the Wise
Thrush, —

“He sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture.”

A BIRDS’ GALA-DAY. 151

New strains were continually introduced. So loud
and full were some of his notes that “the blue air
trembled with his song,” and the woods fairly woke
into echoes. It is really doubtful if the disparaging
term “ hurly-burly ” should be applied to such peer-
less vocalization. It was bird opera music of the
highest style, improvised for the occasion, and formed
a fitting conclusion to this rare birds’ gala-day.

152 IN BIRD: LAND.

xr fe

echa
RIFE ae a

fs.

j
A JAUNT TO A NEW FIELD.

FOUR days’ outing along the Ohio River one
A spring brought me some “finds” that may be
of interest to bird lovers. Everywhere there were
the twinkle of wings, the twitter of voices, and the
charm of song; indeed, so plentiful were the
feathered folk that the title of this article is far
less poetical than realistic and descriptive. It was
the latter part of May, the time in that latitude
when the birds were in full song, at least those
which were not too busy with their family cares.
Sixty-four species were seen during a stay of four
days in the neighborhood.

Mine host was a farmer whose premises afforded a
habitat for numerous birds, there being many trees
and bushes in the yard and a large orchard near
by. In one of the silver maples a pair of war-
bling vireos had built a tiny pendent cradle, as is
their wont, set in a bower of shining twigs and
green leaves. There it swayed in the zephyrs, rock-
ing the birdlings to sleep and filling their dreams
with rhythm; and the lullabies that the happy

RIFE WITH BIRDS. 153

parents sang were cheerful and engaging, in spite of
the fact that some critic has pronounced the min-
strelsy of the warbling vireo tiresome. Tiresome,
forsooth! ‘Truth to tell, the more closely you listen
to it the sweeter it grows. All day long, from peep
of dawn to evening twilight, those quaint, continuous
lays could be heard, now subdued and desultory,
now almost as vigorous as a robin’s carol.

It sometimes seemed as if the vireos and orchard
orioles were rival vocalists. If so, a prize should be
awarded to both, —to the vireos for persistency, for
never letting up; to the orioles for richness and
melody of tone. Many a rollicking two-part con-
cert they gave.

But there were other voices frequently heard in
the chorus, though not so continuously as those of
the birds just mentioned. A song-sparrow, which
had built a dainty cot in a bush not two rods from
the veranda, sometimes trilled an interlude of en-
trancing sweetness, taking the bays for real tunefui-
ness from every rival. Then, to my surprise, a
Maryland yellow-throat, shy little fellow in other
places, would frequently sing his heart out in the
small trees and silver maples of the front yard. He
did not fly off or discontinue his song when an
auditor stood right beneath his perch, but would
throw back his masked head, distend his golden
throat, and deliver his trill to his own and every-
body else’s satisfaction. Very often, too, the indigo-
bird, just returned from a bath in the cerulean
depths, would enrich the harmony with the most

154 IN BIRD LAND.

rollicksome, if not the most tuneful lay of the
chorus. As a sort of accompaniment, the chipping-
sparrow often trilled his silvery monotone ; and once
a robin added his Cheerily, here, here /

So much for the birds about the house, though
there were many others that have not been men-
tioned ; in fact, there were some twenty species in
all. There were also birds a-plenty in other places.
A half day was spent in some fields bordering the
broad river. On a green slope was a bush-sparrow’s
nest, daintily bowered in the grass by the side of a
blackberry bush, and in a thicket hard by two
yellow-breasted chats had placed their grassy cradles,
proclaiming their secret to all the world by their
loud cries of warning to keep away. It is odd that
these birds, shy and nervous as they are, should go
so far out of their way to tell you that they have a
nest somewhere in the copse that you mustn’t
touch, mustn’t even look for. While you are yet a
quarter of a mile away, they will utter their loud
cries of warning ; and if you go to the thicket where
they are, you will be almost sure to find their nest,
so poorly have they learned the lesson of discretion.

In a little hollow of the copse a dying crow lay
prone upon the ground. At intervals he would
struggle and gasp in a spasmodic way. When I
gently moved him with my cane, he grasped it with
his claws and held it quite firmly. I put the stick
to his large black beak. He took hold of it feebly,
ready to defend himself even with his last gasp, for
that it proved to be; he lay over and died the next

RIFE WITH BIRDS. 155

instant. I could not give the pathology of the
case, as no wounds could be found on his body.

One of the most interesting finds of the day was
the nest of a green heron, often called “ fly-up-the-
creek.” The nest, only a loosely constructed plat-
form of sticks, was placed on the branches of a
leaning clump of small trees, and was about twenty
feet from the ground. The startled bird flew back
and forth in the row of trees, and even went back
to the nest while I watched her at a distance, but
was too shy to remain there when I went near. In
spite of the offensive nicknames foisted upon this
heron, it is a handsome bird. As this one flew back
and forth she made quite an elegant picture, with
her long, glossy-brown neck and tail, white throat-
line, ash-blue back, dappled under parts, and the
long, slender feathers draping her hind-neck. But
why was she called the green heron? Look as
sharply as I would, I could descry no green in her
plumage. A few days later, however, I examined
a mounted specimen, and then the puzzle was
solved ; for an iridescent green patch on the wing
was so marked a feature of its coloration as to ac-
count for the bird’s common name.

Memory will always linger fondly about a certain
afternoon and evening spent on the steep hills
mounting up toward the sky a quarter of a mile or
more back from the river. To a pedestrian like
myself, used to rambling over a comparatively level
scope of country, these high hills afforded a wonder-
ful prospect, and almost made my head dizzy, as I

156 IN BIRD LAND.

clambered far up their steep sides. Perhaps the
mountain-climber would think them tame. It made
my head swim that evening to see a towhee bunting
dart from a copse near by and hurl himself with reck-
less abandon down the declivity, as if there were not
the slightest danger of breaking his neck or dashing
himself to pieces. He stopped just in time to
plunge into another thicket for which he had taken
aim.

As the sun sank, I seated myself on the grass far
up the steep, and looked down on the beautiful
valley belowme. ‘There was the broad Ohio, wend-
ing its way between the sentinel hills, the green
clover fields and meadows smiling good-night to the
sinking sun, and the brown ploughed fields with their
green corn-rows. A wood-thrush mounted to a dead
twig at the very top of a tall oak some distance
below me, and poured forth his sac vesper hymn,
so bewitchingly sweet and far-away ; the while Ken-

_tucky warblers and cardinal grossbeaks piped their
lullabies or madrigals, as they chose, from the dark-
ling woods; and, altogether, it was a never-to-be-
forgotten evening.

An early morning hour found me climbing the ac-
clivity and mounting to the top of the hill. In a
clover-field the gossamer Zse-e-e of the grasshopper
sparrow, a birdlet among birds, pierced my ear.
Presently a pair of these sparrows were seen on the
fence-stakes, and, yes, one of them had a worm in
its bill, indicating that there were little ones in the
neighborhood. If I could find a grasshopper spar-

RIFE WITH BIRDS. 157

row’s nest! Often had I sought for one, but with-
out success. For a long while my eyes followed the
bird with the worm in her bill. Every now and then
she would dart over into the grass as if to feed her
bantlings, and I would mark the spot where she
alighted ; but when I went to it no nest or bird-
lings were to be found. Again and again I fairly
trembled, thinking myself on the verge of a dis-
covery, only to be balked completely in the end.
But one victory was won; I got close enough to the
bird to see distinctly with my glass the yellow mark-
ings on the edge of the wings, —a characteristic I
had never before been able to make out. Curiously
enough, one wing of this bird was quite profusely
tinged with yellow, while the yellow of the other
could just be distinguished.

Why should not a bird-student frankly chronicle
his failures as well as his successes? During the
day I encountered three birds that I was unable to
identify, try as I would. One was singing lustily in
some tall trees, and when at length I got my glass
upon him he looked like a Carolina wren; but that
bird has been a familiar acquaintance for many years,
— comparatively speaking, — and I have so often
heard his varied roundels that they certainly are all
known to me. Moreover, the quality of this mys-
terious singer’s voice and the manner of his execu-
tion were wholly different from those of the Carolina
or any other wren of my acquaintance. The fol-
lowing is a transcription of the song as near as it
could be represented by letters: Che ha-p-e-e-r-7-r/

158 IN BIRD LAND.

che-ha-p-e-e-r-r-r / repeated at brief intervals loudly
and vigorously, but without variation. The bird had
a white superciliary line, brownish-barred wings, and
whitish under parts. A consultation of all the man-
uals in my possession fails to solve the problem.

In a deep gorge, cut through the country by a
small creek — small now, at least —on its way to
the river, two curious bird calls were heard ; but one
bird kept himself hidden in a dense thicket, and the
other bolted into the dark woods that covered a
steep acclivity. The first bird sang rather than
called, and the words he said sounded quite dis-
tinct : Che-o-wade'll-wade l-chip /—a sentiment that
he repeated again and again.

In spite of these disappointments my jaunt through
this ravine was exceedingly pleasant,— so delightfully
quiet and solitary; not a human sound to disturb
the sacredness of the place; nothing but the songs
and calls of wild birds.

“°T was one of those charmed days
When the genius of Gud doth flow;
The wind may alter twenty ways,
A tempest cannot blow:
It may blow north, it still is warm ;
Or south, it still is clear;

Or east, it smells like a clover-farm ;
Or west, no thunder fear.”

In one of the loneliest parts of the ravine there
appeared on the scene my first Louisiana water-
thrush, often called the large-billed wagtail. There
it stood “ teetering ”’ on a spray or a rock, or skim-
ming through the shallow water, its speckled breast

RIFE WITH BIRDS. 159

and olive back harmonizing —I had almost said
thyming — with the gray of the creek’s bed, the
crystal of the water, and the green of the thicket-
fringed banks. It was part and parcel of the scene,
—a lone bird in a lone place. But, hold! not
lone, after all. Presently a young wagtail, the
image of its mamma, emerged from somewhere or
nowhere, and ran toward the old bird with open
mouth, twinkling wings, and a pretty, coaxing call.
She thrust something into its mouth; but still the
bantling coaxed for more, when she dashed away a
few feet, picked up another tidbit from the water,
ran back to her little charge, and fed it again. But
now, when it still pursued her, she seemed to lose
her patience, for she rushed threateningly toward it,
causing it to scamper away, and then she flew off.
Yet after that she fed either the same or another
youngster a number of times. Once a water-thrush
went swinging down the gorge, the very poetry of
graceful poise and movement, looking more like a
naiad than a real flesh-and-blood birdlet.

On a horizontal branch extending out over the
rippling stream, a wood-thrush sat on her mud
cottage ; but whether she appreciated the romantic
character of the situation or not, she did not say.
There were many other interesting feathered folk in
the gorge and on its wooded steeps, each “a
brother of the dancing leaves; but to describe
them all would take too long, and merely to name
them would be too much like reciting a dry
catalogue.

160 IN BIRD LAND.

XV.

VARIOUS PHASES OF BIRD LIFE.
I

BIRD COURTSHIP.

O one who has studied the birds can deny that
there is genuine sexual love among them.
Many species act on the principle that “a pure life
for two”’ is the only kind of life to live, and there-
fore a match once made is a match that lasts until
death does them part. There may be fickleness,
divorce, and downright unfaithfulness among birds
sometimes, and there certainly is polygamy among
some species ; but such examples of irregularity are
rather the exception than the rule. Monogamy
largely prevails, and I have no doubt that any
departure from the regular connubial relation creates
a scandal in bird circles.

As in the human world, so in the bird world a
period of courtship precedes the celebration of the
nuptials. But the mode differs in different kingdoms
of creation. Many lovers in feathers conduct their

1 This series of papers, as well as some others in this vol-
ume, was written at the suggestion of Mr. Amos R. Wells,
of “The Golden Rule,” Boston, and was first published in
that journal.

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 161

wooing in a somewhat rudely persistent and obtru-
sive fashion. Society would soon ostracize the
human suitor having such manners, and might even
consider him amenable to the civil courts, and put
him in jail as a character unfit to be abroad. How-
ever, if hot pursuit, brazen manners, and _ half-coer-
cive measures are considered “good form” in
bird land, we of the human genus are the last who
have a right to find fault, for are we not the most
conventional beings on the face of the earth? You
might almost as well be in limbo or inferno as out
of style. Was there not a time when even the
flaming sunflower was regarded as the highest
emblem of the beautiful, merely because it was the
“ fad,” and not because anybody really felt that it
possessed special esthetic qualities? ‘People who
live in glass houses ought not to throw stones,” is
the saucy challenge of the merry chickadee to his
human critic, as he dashes, like an animated “ nigger-
chaser,’”’ after the little Dulcinea whom he has
marked for his bride. Then he stops, and, balancing
on a spray, whistles his sweetest minor tune, Fv-e-
w-e-e, pe-e-e-w-e-e , which, being interpreted, prob-
ably means, —
“Does not all the blood within me
Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee,
As the spring to meet the sunshine?”

No doubt many a feathered swain is smitten, and
smitten very deeply too, with Cupid’s arrow, flung
by some charming capturer of hearts. A little boy’s

love-letter to a lassie who had taken his throb-
II

162 IN BIRD LAND.

bing heart by storm, ran thus: “I love you very
dearly. You are so nice that I don’t blame any-
body for falling in love with you. I don’t see why
everybody doesn’t fall in love with you.” If one
may judge from the impetuosity with which most
feathered lovers press their suits, there must be
many instances of such captivation in bird land.
Have you ever been witness of the wooing of that
half-knightly, half-boorish bird, the yellow-hammer?
In the grove near my house several pairs of these
birds had a great time one spring settling their
hymeneal affairs. For hours a lover would pursue
the object of his affections around and around, never
giving her a moment’s respite. No sooner had she
gone bounding to another tree than he would dash
after, often flinging himself recklessly right upon the
spot where she had alighted, compelling her to hitch
away, to avoid being struck by her impetuous lover.
His policy seemed to be to take her heart by storm,
to wear her out, to give her no time to think matters
over, to compel her, zo/ens volens, to consent to his
proposed marital alliance. No doubt she finally
said yes, merely to get rid of him, and then failed
of her purpose. After the courtship has passed its
first stage, and the wooed one has grown less shy,
the bowings and scrapings of the yellow-hammers
are truly ludicrous. The female will flit away only
a short distance, and will sometimes turn toward her
mottled suitor, when they will wag their heads at
each other, now to this side, now to that, in the
most serio-comical manner imaginable. It is the

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 163

way these lords and ladies of woodpeckerdom make
their royal obeisances.

On a pleasant day in February two downy wood-
peckers were “ scraping acquaintance.” The male
pursued his sweetheart about in the trees after the
manner of his kind; but occasionally she would
stand at bay and apparently challenge him to come
nearer if he dared. Then both of them would lift
their striped forms to an almost perpendicular posi-
tion, their heads and beaks pointing straight toward
the sky, and their bodies swaying grotesquely from
side to side. This little comedy over, the finical
miss bolted to another tree, with her cavalier in hot
pursuit.

Coy as the feathered ladies usually seem, many of
them apparently are genuine flirts, and would feel
greatly disappointed should their lovers give over the
chase. ‘They evidently want to be won, but not too
easily. (Perhaps it might be said, en passanzé, there
are belles in other than the bird community who resort
to similar maive and winsome ruses.) In a shady
nook of the woods I once saw a gallant towhee
bunting employing all the arts at his command to
win a damsel who seemed very demure. He was an
extremely handsomely formed and finely clad bird, —
a real édition de luxe. He flew down to the ground,
picked up a brown leaf in his bill, and flourished it
at her, as much as to say, “It is time for nest-build-
ing, dear.” Then he spread his wings and hand-
some tail, and strutted almost like a peacock about
on the leafy ground. But, no, she would not, and

164 IN BIRD LAND.

she would not, and there was no use in talking; she
flitted, half contemptuously, to a more distant bush.
That proud cockney need not think she cared for
him! She wasn’t going to lose her heart to every
lovelorn swain who came along. But, mark you,
when I tried to separate them, by driving one to
one side of the path and the other to the opposite
side, the little hypocrite contrived every time, with
admirable finesse, to flit over toward her knightly
suitor. Three times the experiment brought the
same result. Her maidenly reserve had a good deal
of calculation in it, after all, innocent as she appeared.
Perhaps she had conned Longfellow’s wise quatrain :

“ How can I tell the signals and the signs
By which one heart another heart divines ?
How can I tell the many thousand ways
By which it keeps the secret it betrays?”

That the course of true love does not always run
smooth in the bird world as elsewhere, goes without
saying. There are feuds and jealousies. Sometimes
two beaux admire the same belle, and then there
may be war to the death. I have seen two rival
song-sparrows clutch in the air, peck and claw at
each other viciously, and come down to the ground
with a thud that must have knocked the breath out
of them for a few moments. Incredible as it may
seem, an acute observer of bird life declares that the
females are most likely to quarrel and fight over
their lovers. At such times the male stands by,
looks on approvingly, and lets them fight it out, no

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 165

doubt pluming himself on the fact that he is of suffi-
cient importance to be the cause of a duel or a
sparring-match among the ladies.

Even those birds that seem to be the impersona-
tion of kindliness often engage in vigorous wrangles
before they are able to settle the troubles that arise
from match-making. The bluebird, of the siren
voice and cerulean hue, is a case in point. Mr. Bur-
roughs describes, in his inimitable way, the vigorous
campaign of two pairs of bluebirds, which could not
decide the subject of matrimony among themselves
without resort to arms. Both the males and females
engaged in more than one set-to. Once the hot-
headed lovers closed with each other in the air, fell
to the ploughed ground, and remained there, tugging
and pecking and tweaking for nearly two minutes.
Yet, when they separated, neither seemed to be any
the worse for the mdé“e.

The tiny hummers are extremely belligerent birds.
A writer describes the contests of certain humming-
birds in the island of Jamaica when moved by
jealousy. When two males have become rivals, they
will level their long, pointed bills at each other, and
then dash together with the swiftness of an arrow;
they meet, separate, meet again, with shrill chirping,
dart upward, then downward, and circle around and
around, until the eye grows weary of watching them,
and can no longer follow their rapid transits. At
length one falls, exhausted, to the ground, while the
other rests, panting and trembling, on a leafy spray,
or perhaps tumbles, mortally wounded, to the earth.

166 IN BIRD LAND.

There are some diminutive hummers, called Mexi-
can stars, which become perfect furies when their
jealousy is aroused. Their throats swell ; their crests,
wings, and tails expand; and they clinch and spear
each other in the air like the veriest disciples of
Bellona. Thus a giant passion may dwell in a
pygmy form.

It will be pleasant to turn to more gentle ways of
pressing a love-suit. The manners of some males
are very courtly while trying to win a spouse. They
strut about most gracefully, and display their plumes
to the best advantage, as if they would charm the
coy damsel of their choice. The dainty kinglets
erect and expand their crest feathers so that the
golden or ruby spot spreads over the entire crown,
making them look handsome indeed.

It has never been my good fortune to witness the
wooing of the ruffed grouse, miscalled the partridge
in New England and the pheasant in the Middle
States; but Mr. Langille has seen the performance,
and with good reason goes into raptures over it.
He describes it in this way: “Behold the male
strutting before the female in time of courtship!
The first time I saw him in this act I was utterly
at a loss to identify him. The ruff about the neck
is perfectly erect, so that the head is almost dis-
guised ; the wings are partially opened and drooped
gracefully ; the feathers are generally elevated; the
tail, with its rich, black band, is spread to the ut-
most and thrown forward. ‘Thus he stands, nearly
motionless, a genuine object of beauty.”

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE, 167

One of the most brilliant exhibitions of this-kind
must be that of the great emerald birds of Paradise,
as they disport themselves before the object of their
affection. They gather in flocks of from twelve to
twenty on certain trees. Mr. A. R. Wallace, in his
“Malay Archipelago,” gives an interesting descrip-
tion of these ‘“ dancing-parties,”’ as they are called
by the natives. The wings of the male birds, he
says, “are raised vertically over the back; the head
is bent down and stretched out; and the long
plumes ’’— those that spring like spray from the
sides or shoulders — “ are raised and expanded till
they form two magnificent golden fans, striped with
deep red at the base, and fading off into the pale
brown tint of the finely divided and softly waving
points; the whole bird is then overshadowed by
them, the crouching body, yellow head, and emerald-
green throat forming but a foundation and setting
to the golden glory which waves above them.”

No wonder the maiden’s reserve all melts away,
and she soon yields willing consent to her lover’s
importunings! ‘There is only one flaw in this beau-
tiful picture, and that is made by man himself, —
man, the meddler in avian happiness. While the
birds are absorbed in their courtship, the natives,
for love of pelf, steal near and shoot them with
blunt arrows. Sometimes all the males are thus
murdered, ruthlessly, heartlessly, before the danger is
discovered. Of course the mercenary butchers sell
the plumes for decorative purposes. Gold is the
only thing that glitters in the eyes of a sordid world.
Some people spell “God” with an “1.”

168 IN BIRD LAND.

No doubt vocal display also plays a large part in
the courtship of birds. Nothing else in the early
spring can wholly account for the wonderful musical
tournaments that one hears lilting so lavishly on the
air. Many a damsel, doubtless, listens to the numer-
ous vocalists of her neighborhood, and then chooses
the suitor whose voice possesses the finest qualities,
or whose madrigals have the truest ring. How many
things may combine to determine the choice of the
parties, it would be difficult to say. Perhaps some
birds are handsomer than others in the eyes of
those that are looking for mates; perhaps some
have more courtly and agreeable manners; perhaps
some put more fervor into their wooing or more
passion into their songs; perhaps some are better
tempered ; others may be more industrious or frugal
or tidy, and thus will make better husbands or house-
wives. Many a lass doubtless is sorely puzzled as
to whom she shall choose for a mate. One may
even fancy her crooning Addison’s quaint, paradox-
ical lines to a whimsical lover concerning whose
eligibility she harbors some doubt, —

“In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow,
Thou ’rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,
Hast so much wit and mirth and spleen about thee,
That there’s no living with thee or without thee.”

One question — not a profound one, I confess ——
must bring this chapter to a close: Do the plumed
ladies ever propose? One might imagine a love-
lorn female bird throwing aside her maidenly reserve

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE, 169

in a fit of desperation, and singing the lines of Mrs.
Browning, —
“But I love you, sir;

And when a woman says she loves a man,
The man must hear her, though he love her not.”

Il.
BIRD NURSERIES.

A BIRD’s nest is a bedroom, dining-room, sitting-
room, parlor, and nursery all in one; for there
the young birds sleep, eat, rest, entertain their
guests (if they ever have any), and receive their
earliest training. Yet there is no doubt that in
treating the nest as a nursery we make use of the
aptest simile that could be chosen. Those who
have not given the matter special attention would
scarcely suspect how many and varied are the in-
terests that cluster around these dwellings of our little
brothers and sisters of field and woodland. The
growth of the bantling family, their mental develop-
ment, their deportment in the nest, their chirpings
and chatterings, their way of beguiling the time, the
length of their stay in their childhood home, — all
these, and many other problems of equally absorbing
interest, can be solved only by the closest surveil-
lance. But it is no light task to watch a nest at
close enough range to study the natural, unrestrained
ways of the young birds. The fact is, in many,
perhaps most, cases it cannot be done.

170 IN BIRD LAND.

But before describing the inmates of the nursery
it would be well to give some attention to the nursery
itself, its site and structure. By going to the books
I might tell you of many quaint nests, of the nests of
the tailor-bird, the water-ouzel, the parula warbler,
the burrowing owl, and many others ; but — begging
pardon for my conceit—TI prefer not to get my
material second-hand. One would rather describe
one’s own observations, even though one may not be
able to present so rare a list of curios. The nest of
the common wood-thrush, right here in my own
neighborhood, is of far more personal interest than
the remarkable nest of the fairy martin of Australia,
which I have small hope of ever seeing.

Having mentioned the nest of the wood-thrush,
I might as well begin with it. It is not a remarkable
structure from an architectural point of view. It might
be called a semi-adobe dwelling, thatched with vari-
ous kinds of grasses and leaves, and lined with vege-
table fibres. It is much like the nest of the robin,
only Madam Thrush does not go quite so extensively
into the plastering business. It has been interesting
to study the ingenuity of these sylvan architects in
choosing sites for their nests. They seem to know
just where a nest may be built with the least labor in
order to make it sit firmly in its place. In the woods
that I most frequently haunt there is a sort of bushy
sapling whose branches, at a certain point on the
main stem, often grow out almost horizontally for a
few inches, and then form an elbow by shooting up
almost vertically, thus making an arbor, as it were,

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 171

which says plainly to the thrush, “This is just the
site for a nest.” In these crotches the wood-thrush
rears her dwelling, its walls being firmly supported all
around by the perpendicular branches. Do these
saplings grow for the special benefit of the wood-
thrush, or does the feathered artificer accommodate
herself to the circumstances, or is there mutual
adaptation between bird and bush? That is a
problem for the evolutionist.

But the thrush often selects other sites for her
nursery. One day I found a nest deftly placed on
the point of intersection of two almost horizontal
limbs. From the lower one several small branches
grew up in an oblique direction, to give the walls of
the mud cottage firm support. The intersecting
boughs belonged to two different saplings. Another
nest that did not have very strong external support
was set down upon the short stub of a limb, which
ran up into the mud floor and held the structure
firmly in place.

One day I stumbled upon a very tall thrush nest,
looking almost like a tower in its crotch. As the
nestlings had left, I lifted it from its place and tore
it apart, thinking the thrush might have fallen upon
the summer warbler’s ruse to outwit the cow-bunting
by adding another story to her hut, thus leaving the
bunting’s intruded egg in the cellar. But such was
not the case; she had simply done the unorthodox
thing of using an old nest, still in good condition,
for a foundation upon which to rear the new structure.
Will the theologians of thrushdom bring charges of

172 IN BIRD LAND.

heresy against her? Was it really a case of “ higher
criticism ’’? It may have been, especially when you
remember that these thrushes often weave into their
nests fragments of newspapers, some of which may
contain theological discussions.

One peculiarity in the nest-building of most of the
birds of my neighborhood may as well be mentioned
now as later; they seldom build in the densest and
most secluded parts of the woods, but usually choose
some bush or sapling near the border, or close to a
woodland path or winding road, where people some-
times pass. Perhaps they do this because the
natural enemies of birds, such as squirrels, minks,
and hawks, fight shy of these pathways traversed by
human feet. Perhaps, too, the birds do not like the
gloom and loneliness of the more sequestered por-
tions of the woods. They like to be semi-sociable,
at least, and are not disposed to make monks and
nuns of themselves.

A far more artless nest is that of the turtle-dove.
This bird should attend an industrial college for a
term or two, to learn the art of building; but it
would do no good: the meek little thing would cling
obstinately to her inherited ideas, and never become
a connoisseur in nest construction. Sometimes,
when you stand beneath her cottage, you can see
her white eggs gleaming through the interstices of
the loosely matted floor. Asa rule, she builds on a
branch ; but something possessed one little mother,
in the spring of 1891, to build her nursery on a large
stump about six feet high, standing right in the

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 173

midst of the woods. I fear she was not a well-trained
bird ; but I watched her closely, and must concede
that, whether her conduct was in “good form” or
not, she reared her brood in the most approved
manner. I could come within two feet of her, and
almost touch her with my cane, before she would fly
from the nest. How her little round eyes stared at
me without so much asa blink! But she was greatly
agitated, for her bosom palpitated with the violent
throbbing of her heart.

“T’ve found a turtle-dove’s nest on the ground,”
said my friend, the young farmer across the fields,
one spring day. (No matter about the year of grace,
for every year is a year of grace in bird study.) My
head was shaken skeptically, and I smiled in a
patronizing way, for a turtle-dove’s nest on the
ground was an unknown quantity in all my study of
birds; but my friend declared, “ Honest Injun!”
and I left him to his obstinate opinions. But, hold!
who, after all, proved to be the donkey? A few
days later I myself stumbled upon a turtle-dove’s
nest in a clover-field, flat on the ground. Bird
students, be careful how you dispute the word of
these sharp-eyed tillers of the soil!

But for birds that invariably choose old mother
earth for the foundation of their houses, commend
me to the American meadow-larks. In this respect
they are certainly groundlings, though not in a bad
sense. All their nests are constructed on the same
general plan, it is true; but the details are quite
diverse, proving that architectural designs in the lark

174 IN BIRD LAND.

guild of builders are almost as numerous as the
builders themselves. My young farmer friend found
a nest early in the spring, with not a blade of grass
near it for protection, while the structure itself was
arched over only a very little in the rear. Another
nest was situated in a pasture, and was almost as
devoid of roofing as was the first nest. But rather
late in the spring a nest was found, hidden most
deftly in the clover and plantain leaves, which were
woven together in the most intricate manner so as
to form a canopy over the cosey cot. At one side
there was a tunnel, some two feet long, forming the
only entrance to the apartment. The nest proper
was arched over from the rear for fully one half its
width. Not ten feet away was another lark’s nest
that was almost wholly exposed to the light and air.
In the lark world there is evidently a good deal of
room for originality. There seem to be many larks
of many minds.

My quest for cuckoos’ nests during the summer
of 1892 was well rewarded, but I shall stop to
describe only one of these finds. The young birds
having left, I lifted the nest from the swaying branch
on which it hung, and examined it. The founda-
tion was composed of twigs and sticks intertwined
and plaited together with some degree of skill, but
it was the lining that stirred my interest. First, it
consisted of a number of dead forest leaves from
which the cellular texture had been completely
stripped, leaving only the petiole, midrib, and veins ;
underneath this was a more compact carpet of the

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 175

same kind of leaves, of which the blade, instead of
being stripped off, was perforated with innumerable
small holes, making them look like extremely fine
sieves. In some cases the blades seemed to be
split, leaving the veins and veinlets exposed, so that
one could trace their intricate net-work. Another
cuckoo nest had both the stripped and perforated
leaves, but fewer of each kind. Whether the birds
themselves did the artistic work on these leaves or
not, —that is a question. The stripping of the
upper layer of their blades would allow the dust and
scaly substance shed by the young birds, to sift
through to the second layer, where it would not
come in direct contact with the nurslings. The
two carpets were laid, no doubt, in the interests of
health and cleanliness.

But it is time to turn our attention to the children
of the nursery. The life of young birds in the nest,
—what a field for study! One thing they learn
very early, probably almost as soon as they emerge
from the shell; that is, to open their mouths for
food. No tutor or professor needed for that! Most
young birds soon become quite clamorous for their
rations. Lowell must have looked into more than
one bird nursery, or he scarcely would have thought
of writing the lines, —

“Blind nestlings, unafraid,
Stretch up, wide-mouthed, to every shade

By which their downy dream is stirred,
Taking it for the mother-bird.”

A nestful of half-callow younglings, standing on

176 IN BIRD LAND.

tiptoe, craning up their necks, wabbling from side
to side, opening their mouths to the widest extent
of their “gapes,’ knocking heads and beaks to-
gether, and chirping at the top of their voices, —I
confess it makes a picture more grotesque than
attractive. By and by, as the pin-feathers begin to
grow, the infant brood seem to feel an itching sen-
sation, which causes them to pick the various parts
of their bodies to remove the scaly substance that
gathers on the skin and at the bases of the sprout-
ing feathers. But how awkwardly they go about
this exercise! Their heads seem to be too heavy
for their long, slender necks, and go waggling and
rolling from side to side, often missing the mark
aimed at. However, the muscles of the nurslings
are developing all the while. Soon they lift them-
selves to their full height, stretch themselves, jerk
their tails higher than their heads in a most amusing
way (you smile, but they don’t), and then squat
down upon the floor of the nest again. A day or so
later the most advanced youngster feels the flying
impulse stirring in his veins, and so, after stretching
himself as previously described, he extends his wings
to their utmost reach, and flaps them in a joyous
way over his cuddling companions, sometimes rap-
ping them smartly on the head. Soon there comes
a day when he hops to the edge of the nest, looks
out upon the wide, beckoning world like a young
satrap, and flaps his wings with a semi-conscious
feeling of strength. Ere long, encouraged by his
parents, he spreads his wings, and takes a header

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 177

for the nearest twig. Why, his wings will bear him
up on the buoyant air! He has graduated from
the nursery and the grammar grade into the high
school.

Every year has its eccentricities, so to speak;
that is, the character of the weather and other
modifying causes afford the faunal life an occasion
for a development that is peculiar, Thus the
observations made by the naturalist one year are not
necessarily mere repetitions of those made other
years. Nature is not often guilty of tautology. I
yield therefore to the temptation to add a few
chronicles made during the spring of 1893, which,
I hope, will not destroy the unity of this article on
bird nurseries. One day in June, while strolling
through the woods, I heard the song of a red-eyed
vireo. It was a kind of talking song, or recitative,
as if the bird were discoursing on some favorite
theme, and improvising his music as he went. His
voice was so loud and clear that I could hear it far
away, drifting through the green, embowered aisles
of the woods. This vigorous chanson was a surprise,
for I have never before known this vireo to remain
in my neighborhood during the summer. He mostly
hies farther north. But a still greater surprise lay
in ambush for me a few days later, in one of my
rambles through the woods. Suddenly there was a
light flutter of wings near my head, and there hung
a tiny nest on the low, swaying branches of a
sapling.

That it was a vireo’s nest was evident, for it was

Tz

178 IN BIRD LAND.

fastened to the twigs by the rim, without any support
below, swinging there like a dainty basket. Pres-
ently I got my glass on the bird herself, and found her
to be ared-eyed vireo. That was my first nest of this
species, and proud enough I was of the discovery.
The outside of the little cot was prettily ornamented
with tufts of spider-webs. As usual with this bird, a
piece of white paper was wrought into the lower
part of the nest. Three vireo’s eggs and one cow-
bunting’s lay in the bottom of the cup.

Every few days I called on the bird, going close
enough only to see her plainly, without driving her
off the nest. She made a pretty picture sitting
there, one fit for an artist’s brush, with her head
and tail pointing almost straight up, her body grace-
fully curved to fit the deep little basket, and her
eyes growing large and wild at her visitor’s approach.
At length, one day, I felt sure there must be little
ones in the nest, and so I went very close to her;
yet she did not fly. Then I moved my hand toward
her, and finally touched her back before she flitted
away. A featherless cow-bunting Jay in the ham-
mock, but the vireo’s eggs were not yet hatched.
A few days later the nest was robbed. Some heart-
less villain, probably a blue jay, had destroyed all
the childgen. I could have wept, so keen was my
sense of bereavement.

The cow-buntings imposed a great deal on other
kind-hearted bird parents that spring. Almost every
nest contained one or two of this interloper’s eggs,
and, as if Nature abetted the designs of the parasite,

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 179

these eggs were almost always hatched first. One
wood-thrush’s nest contained two bunting and three
thrush eggs. As soon as the bantlings had broken
from the shell, the buntings could be readily dis-
tinguished from the thrushes, for the former feath-
ered much more rapidly than the latter. When the
youngsters were about half grown, they crowded one
another considerably in their adobe apartment, but,
to all intents and purposes, they lived together in
beautiful domestic harmony. At all events, no un-
seemly family wrangles came under my eye. By
and by, on one of my visits, I found that the bunt-
ings had left the maternal roof (to speak with a
good deal of poetic license), while the thrush trio
still sat contentedly on the nest, and did not display
any fear when I caressingly stroked their brown
backs, but looked up at me in a zaive, confiding
way that was very gratifying. Quite different was
the conduct of the inmates of a bush-sparrow’s nest,
hidden in the grass at the woodland’s border. The
baby sparrows rushed pell-mell from their pretty
homestead when I came near, leaving a bunting,
which had been hatched and reared with them,
alone in the nest. He was not nearly so far
developed as his brothers and sisters, and had no
intention of being driven from home.

But here is an instance more like that of the
bunting-wood-thrush episode just described. A pretty
basket, woven of fine fibrous material, swung from
the lower branches of an apple-tree in the orchard
of one of my farmer friends, and contained three

180 IN BIRD LAND.

young orchard orioles and one cow-bunting. One
day I procured a step-ladder and climbed up to the
nest, when the bunting sprang out with a wild cry
and toppled to the ground, while the young orioles,
not yet half-fledged, merely pried open their mouths
for food. Yet these birds, when grown, are fully as
dexterous on the wing as their foster relatives, the
buntings.

During the same spring some observations on
youthful blackbirds were made. They may be of
sufficient interest to register in this place. Did you
know that a part of the heads of infant blackbirds
remains bare a week or two after the other por-
tions of their bodies are well feathered? This is
true of the three species of my acquaintance, —
the purple grackles, the red-winged blackbirds, and
the cow-buntings. The bald portion includes the
forehead, part of the crown, the chin, and throat,
and extends behind and below the ears, which are
covered with a tiny tuft of fuzz. Had this unfeathered
portion been red instead of black, the youngsters
would have looked quite like diminutive turkey-
buzzards. One may be pardoned for being some-
what puzzled over the childish conundrum, Why
young blackbirds, of all the birds in the circle of
one’s acquaintance, must go bareheaded during the
first few weeks of their life. By and by, however,
the feathers grow out on this space as thickly as on
the remainder of their bodies.

Strange that I have found so few black-capped
titmice’s nests, familiar and abundant as they are

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 181

in my neighborhood, both summer and winter ; but
my quest was rewarded in two instances during the
spring of 1893, —the first nest being in the top of
a truncated sassafras-tree. The snag was perhaps
twenty feet high. On one of my visits the birds
were hollowing out their little apartment. They
would dart into the narrow opening, and presently
emerge, carrying small fragments of partly decayed
wood in their beaks and dropping them to the
ground. Some weeks later, I climbed the tree (with
much fear and trembling, be it said), but the birds
had made the cavity so deep that I could not see
the bottom, and break open their sylvan nursery I
would not. The second titmouse nest was in a
very slender branch of a sassafras-tree, —so slender,
indeed, that it was a wonder the birds were able to
make a hollow in it. At first it looked precisely
like a black patch burned on the bough’s surface.
When one of the feathered atoms stood in the tiny
doorway and looked out, she made a pretty picture,
—one that would have put a throb of joy into an
artist’s bosom.

Yet there is another picture that I should prefer
to have painted, not on account of its attractiveness,
but on account of its quaintness; it was the nest,
eggs, and young of a pair of green herons in an
orchard. The nest was built high, in an apple-tree,
and was only a loose platform of sticks. Although
anything but an expert climber, I contrived to scale
that tree three times to satisfy my curiosity. The
first time there were four eggs of a greenish-blue

182 IN BIRD LAND,

cast —not jewels by any means— in the nest. On
my second visit four of the oddest birdlings I ever
looked upon greeted me with wide-open eyes and
mouths. ‘They were covered with light yellowish
down, and the space about the eyes was of a
greenish hue, — one of the characteristic markings
of the adult birds. When they opened their mouths,
expecting to be fed, their throats puffed out some-
what like the throats of croaking frogs, making a
good-sized pocket inside to receive chunks of food.
The thought struck me that perhaps the pocket was
designed as a sort of temporary storage place for
victuals until the nestling was ready to swallow them.
The birds made a low, quaint noise that cannot be
represented phonetically. Indeed, the picture they
made was slightly uncanny, so I did not linger about
it overlong.

A week later my third and last call on the heron
household was made. What an odd spectacle it
presented! The young birds had grown wonder-
fully, though still covered with down, with very little
sign of feathers. As my head appeared above the
rim of the nest, they slowly craned up their India-
rubber necks, then rose on their stilt-like legs, and
looked at me with wondering, wide-open eyes that
gleamed almost like gold. The spectacle made me
think of ghouls, incongruous as the simile may seem.
When I touched one of the birds, it huddled,
half-alarmed, down to the bottom of the nest. An-
other slyly stalked off to the edge of the platform,
upon a thick clump of twigs and leaves, eying me

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 183

keenly as he moved away. JI hurriedly clinibed
down, lest he should topple to the ground and dash
himself to death ; and thus, while I was on the brink
of causing a tragedy, yet, as a sort of emollient to
my conscience, I] consoled myself with the thought
that I had really prevented one.

Another interesting discovery of the same spring
was a killdeer plover’s nest, which my farmer friend
across-lots found in a clover-field. There had been
a heavy rainfall, making the ploughed ground as soft
as mush; but my tall rubber boots were mud-proof,
and so I went to pay the plovers my respects. This
was after six o’clock in the evening. I found one
little bird in the shallow, pebble-lined nest, and
three eggs, one of them slightly broken at the larger
end. The plover nestling was an odd baby, with
its large head, fluffy, square-shouldered body, and
slender beak sticking straight out. A small piece of
the egg-shell still clung to its back. On taking the
tiny thing into my hand, what was this I saw? It
had only three toes on each foot, instead of four, as
most birds have ; and those three were all fore toes,
while the bird had no hind toe at all. Why the
plover should have no hind toe is an enigma; but
then, the ostrich has none, either, and only two in
front, — “every species after its kind.”

Early the next morning two more youngsters had
broken shell, and come forth to keep their more
precocious brother company. The eldest was marked
quite distinctly about the head and neck like its
parents, having the characteristic white and black

184 IN BIRD LAND.

bands, thus early proclaiming the persistence of its
type. When I set it down — for I had lifted it in
my hand—it started to run over the soft ground,
enhancing its speed by flapping its tiny wings. The
picture was indescribably cunning. The bird was so
small that it looked like a downy dot scudding over
the undulations of the ground. Think of a baby
only about fifteen hours old running away from
home in that manner! I caught the infantile scape-
grace and placed it back in its cradle, where it
remained. During the night there had been a very
heavy fall of rain, and yet these youngsters, small as
they were, had not been drowned, having doubtless
been covered by their parents. At six o’clock in
the evening they had all left the nest, and, search as
I would, I could find no clew to their whereabouts,
though the parent birds were flying and scuttling
about with loud cries of warning to me to keep my
distance. Thus it would seem that young plovers,
like young partridges, grouse, and ducks, leave the
nest at a very tender age.

Before closing, I must mention something odd
that befell a kingfisher’s nest. A year prior I had
found a nest in a high bank in a sloping field, where
the water had washed out a deep gully. In passing
the bank one day I noticed that it had been partly
broken down ; there had been a landslide on a small
scale, caused by the washing of the heavy spring
rains. Half way to the top, on a narrow shelf, lay a
clutch of kingfisher’s eggs, some of them broken by
the caving of the bank. The landslide had occurred

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 185

after the cavity had been made and the eggs de-
posited, thus blasting the hopes of the kingfishers.
However, they had not become despondent, for,
later in the season, they burrowed a hole for an
underground nursery in another part of the bank.

Il.
BIRD HIGH SCHOOLS.

Ir is not to be supposed that there is a regularly
graded system of instruction in the school-life of
the birds. There may be method in their learning,
but it would be difficult to state positively just where
the primary, grammar, high-school, and college grades,
merge into one another, or when diplomas of effi-
ciency are granted, if granted at all. But that there
is something of a system of pedagogy among birds,
and that the juniors do receive instruction from their
seniors, no observer of feathered life can doubt for
a moment. In the systems of human instruction
the child-life of the young learner usually ends with
his high-school course ; he then stands at the thresh-
old of young manhood, ready to do a good deal of
wrestling with his problems on his own account.
Taking that fact as our cue, we should say that the
high-school instruction of the youthful bird begins
when he leaves the nest, and ends when he is able
to fly with dexterity, and provide for his own sup-
port, at least in the main. It is not probable that
the lecture system prevails in the bird community,

186 IN BIRD LAND.

or the method of class instruction now in vogue, or
that books and charts and blackboards are used ;
but the instruction is chiefly individual, and is carried
on mostly by example, coercion, and urgent appeal.
There is not an inexhaustible number of branches
to be pursued by the little undergraduates in plumes ;
but their efforts at obtaining an education consist
chiefly in mastering three grand accomplishments,
— flying, feeding, and singing.

If ever you have seen a bevy of young red-headed
woodpeckers, led by several of their elders, taking
their wing-exercises, choosing a certain tree in the
woods for a point of departure, and then sailing
around and around with loud cries of delight, you
must have concluded that it was a veritable class in
calisthenics. One seldom has an opportunity to
see young birds taking their first lessons in flight,
but it is worth one’s time and patience to be present
at such a recitation. The parents set the example
by flying from the nest to a perch near by, and then
coax and scold their children to follow their ex-
ample. If the little learners hesitate, as they usually
do, their impatient teachers exclaim : “‘ Why, just try it
once. You never will learn to fly any younger. If
you will only spread your wings, let go of the rim
of the nest, and venture out on the air, you will find
that it will bear you up. Don’t be afraid.’ But
perhaps the pupils complain that it makes their
heads dizzy to look down from their awful height.
Then the teachers pooh-pooh at their fears, and cry
condescendingly, “The idea of being afraid! Why,

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 187

just see here!’ and they mount up into the air,
poise, careen, and perform other extraordinary feats,
while the youngsters gaze at them in wide-eyed
wonder. At last, after much persuasion and many
half-attempts, one of the youngsters spreads his
pinions and flutters laboriously until he scrambles
upon the nearest twig, with bated breath and throb-
bing pulses. He is frightened half to death, but he
has found that the friendly air will support him if he
makes proper use of his wings, and so he will soon
make another effort, and another, until he begins
really to enjoy the exercise. However, several days
may elapse before the youngest and weakest member
of the class can muster sufficient courage to take his
first aerial journey.

Some species of birds graduate from the nest
much sooner than others. In one case I observed
that a family of goldfinches remained in the nest
just seven days after a family of bush-sparrows,
hatched on the same day, had taken their flight.?
The yellow-billed cuckoo has given me no little
surprise in this respect. When he first creeps out
of his shell apartment, he is a callow, ungainly in-
fant, black as coal, with a sparse covering of stiff
bristles ; but almost before a week has passed, he
has hopped from his washed-out cradle to try the
realities of the great world around him. Why the
agile little goldfinch should remain in the crib so
much longer than his less dexterous fellow-pupil,

1 This episode is referred to in the chapter on ‘“‘ Nest
Hunting.”

188 IN BIRD LAND.

the cuckoo, is a problem of bird school-life that
I must leave for solution to wiser heads.

Having gone from the nest, the young bird has
not yet learned all about the art of flying; no,
indeed! He must become perfect by practice.
Many a blunder will he make. At first he can-
not always nicely calculate the distance to the twig
that he has in view, and so he fails to give himself
the proper propulsive force; he misses his footing
by going too far, or not far enough, and then where
he will alight is a question of what he happens to
strike first. Probably a wild, desperate scramble will
ensue, which ends only when the youthful novice has
fallen plump upon the ground. He may be very
much alarmed; but as soon as he recovers his
breath, his courage rises, and he tries again.

Although the young birds have the whole world
for their larder, with victuals just to their taste
constantly at their elbow, they must learn even the
art of eating, and, until they do so, they demand that
their parents be their caterers. For several weeks
after they have passed the first term of school-life,
they will still sit on a limb, open their mouths,
twinkle their wings, and allow their patient victual-
lers to thrust morsel after morsel down their
throats. My opinion is that the patience of their
parents wears out after a time, and they leave
the overgrown youngster to paddle for himself.
How proud he must be of the exploit when he
catches his first insect and successfully stows it away
in his maw! In a deep, quiet glen I watched a

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 189

family of young phcebes and their parents catching
insects on the wing. It was amusing. The old
birds evidently felt that it was about time for their
pupils to learn to provide their own victuals, but
the youngsters stoutly demanded that their lunch-
eons be brought them in the accustomed manner.
They must have noticed that the old birds would
occasionally catch an insect and dispose of it them-
selves. Once when the parent bird darted out for
a small cabbage butterfly, a young fellow swooped
down at her with such force that she let the insect
squirm out of her bill and flutter to the ground,
and thus make good its escape before she could re-
cover it. Both birds lost their dinner through the
greed and rashness of the little gourmand. Another
time an old bird caught a yellow butterfly, dashed
to a limb, and quickly gulped it down, wings and all,
before any of the presumptuous high-schoolers could
reach him. The bearing of the bird was most
laughable. Finally, several of the young birds darted
out into the air for passing insects, proving that they
were taking lessons in that fine art; but their gym-
nastics were far from perfect, and they hit the mark
scarcely half the time.

With most young birds music is a part of their
high-school curriculum. Perhaps you have thought
that they learn their lessons in vocal music without
special instruction, but this is not always the case.
Observation proves that the old birds have them
under tutelage, setting them lyrical copies, which
they are expected to learn by frequent rehearsal.

190 IN BIRD LAND.

I have myself observed such a performance in the
case of the wood-pewee, as described in the chapter
on “Midsummer Melodies.’ First attempts are
crude and awkward, although the tones may be very
fine. It requires frequent drill to bring the vocal
organs under perfect control, just as is the case with
human singers. If you have listened to the squeak-
ing, chattering, twittering medley of young song-
sparrows, you have realized how much _ practice
is necessary before the would-be vocalists will be
able to execute the wonderful trills of which they
are master when they graduate from the musical
conservatory.

I must tell you of a little bird high-school class
over which I once assumed charge. It consisted
of three wood-thrushes, two bluebirds, and a
brown thrasher, all of which were taken from the
nest before they were ready to fly, and confined in
a large wire cage. Very soon they learned to take
food from my hand. But in many things that are
essential to bird life and bird weal they had no
tutors and no drill-masters, and therefore had to
learn them as best they could. Yet it’ was surpris-
ing how soon they gained proficiency. Without a
single copy from adult birds, all of them were able
to fly about from perch to perch in a few days. It
was not more than a week before they began to pick
in an awkward way, but after more than five weeks
they would still open their mouths and take food
from the hand. The mechanical act of eating was
something they had to learn by slow degrees. While

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. IgI

they could readily pick up a tidbit, it seemed to
be a difficult task to get it back far enough into the
mouth to swallow it. This was especially true of
the thrasher, whose bill was long. How he would
toss a morsel about, pinch it, fling it away, catch it
up again, and pound it against a perch, before he
could work it back into his capacious throat !
They were amusing pets, those feathered pupils
of mine. From them I have gained an insight into
bird character which could have been gained in no
other way. ‘The difficulty in observing birds in the
wild state is, you cannot study them at close range,
and hence cannot watch their development from
day to day. None the less interesting were my
little pupils because they had to depend on their
own wits and learn their lessons without a pedagogue.
How did they learn to bathe without being shown
how! They learned it, that is sure; and they went
through the exercise precisely as birds do in the wild-
wood. They would leap into the bath-dish, duck
their heads into the water, flutter their wings and
tails until thoroughly rinsed, and then fly up to a
perch to preen their bedrenched plumage. But they
made some mirth-provoking blunders. One day a
wood-thrush got astride of the rim of his bath-tub, one
leg outside and the other inside, and in that interest-
ing position tried to take his ablution. He looked
exceedingly droll, and seemingly could not under-
stand why he did not succeed better. Another time
the thrasher remained outside of the bath-dish, and
thrust his head over the rim into the water, squat-

Ig2 IN BIRD LAND.

ting on the sand and twinkling his pinions. But the

_time came when all the birds discovered of their
own accord that the proper way was to leap right
into the lavatory.

How early in life do juvenile birds begin to sing?
That is a question, I venture to say, that very few
students of bird life would be able to answer. It
may be difficult to believe —if my own ears had
not heard, I should be very skeptical of the accuracy
of the assertion — but my wood-thrushes had not
been in my care more than three or four weeks
before one of them began to twitter a little song.
He could not have been much more than five weeks
old. This is all the more remarkable when it is
remembered that there were no adult thrushes within
a half-mile of the house. He seemed to discover
that he had a voice, and thought he might as well
use it.

Ah, yes, and sad to relate, my high-school pupils
soon learned to quarrel, and that without the
example of their elders. When I threw a billsome
morsel on the floor of the cage, several of them
would make a dive for it, and soon get into a
wrangle. “It’s mine! it’s mine!” each would
proclaim by his greedy behavior. ‘Then perhaps
two would seize it, and tug at it like boys fighting for
an apple. Or if one contrived to get it first, the rest
would try to wrench it from his beak, and thus
they would pursue one another about in a wild chase.
The thrasher, being younger than his fellows, was
for a time cheated out of every choice morsel he

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 193

secured ; but he finally learned to help himself and
swallow his victuals instanter. Two of the thrushes,
probably males, seemed to have a mutual grudge.
They would pursue each other until the fugitive
would turn and stand at bay, snapping his mandi-
bles in a savage manner, as if they were worked by
steel springs. I regret being compelled to publish
these pugnacious tendencies in my beloved pets ; but
I prefer giving a realistic rather than a fictitious or
roseate sketch of the school-days of these pupils in
plumes.

IV.
BIRD WORK.

“Lire is real, life is earnest,” might be just as
truly said of “our little brothers of the air” as of
us, their big brothers of the soil. If you think that
their whole career consists of nothing but play and
song and bounding joy, you have seen very little
of the bird life around you. For the mother bird, at
least, the whole period of nesting, sometimes extend-
ing over several months, is a time of drudgery,
anxiety, and, far too often, of disappointed hopes.
I have heard a bird mother’s wail that went like
iron into my soul, and told me all too plainly that
it had come from a bereft and broken heart. When
we remember how many tragedies occur in the
feathered community, we scarcely care about sing-
ing, “I wish I were a little bird’ Had you
witnessed the unutterable agony of a pair of yellow-

13

194 IN BIRD LAND.

breasted chats one spring, when their four pretty
bairns were stolen by some heartless buccaneer, you
would have thanked the Pleiades, Ursa Major, Ursa
Minor, and all your other lucky stars, that you were
a man or woman and not a bird.

“Oh! it would be so pleasant to fly and tilt in
the air, to dash from twig to twig, to make long
aerial voyages to foreign countries!”” Do I hear
you say that? Wait a moment. Have you ever
thought that even the long, bounding flight of the
swallows and swifts, accomplished apparently with-
out effort, may sometimes become a weariness to
the flesh, especially when insects are scarce and
their maws empty? Then, those long nocturnal
journeys that birds make during the migrating season
may often tax their strength to the utmost. Indeed,
if you will listen to their feeble chirping, as they
sweep overhead through the darkness, you will often
detect a note of fatigue running through it, as much
as to say, “Ah, I wish we were at our journey’s
end!” No, bird life is not all roseate. It has its
humdrum and drudgery, its wear and tear, its prose
as well as its poetry, its hard realism as well as its
romance.

One of the tasks of bird life is the building of
nests. It is true, the birds always do this work with
a zest that makes it seem half play ; but, after spend-
ing a day in gathering material and weaving it into
the nest, scarcely taking time to stop for meals, I
have no doubt the little toilers are ready to retire
when bedtime comes. Have you ever watched these

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 195

little artists constructing their nests? They first lay
the foundation, which is usually made of rather
coarse material, and is more or less loosely woven ;
and then they proceed to build the superstructure.
Some birds, like the robin and the bluebird, will have
their mouths full of material every time they come
to the nest ; while others, such as the dainty warblers,
will return with a single fibre. Usually the bird
leaps into the cup of the nest, and deftly weaves in
the new material with its bill; and then shifts around
with a quivering motion of body and wings, to give
the structure proper shape and size. The nest must
be made to fit the body of the bird like a glove, so
that she may rest easily in it during the long period
of incubation. The robin and the wood-thrush bring
mud and clay; this they mix, no doubt, with their
own saliva, which gives it its viscid character. The
dainty, blue-gray gnat-catcher collects lichens of
various kinds, with which she decorates the high
walls of her compact little cottage. Does this tiny
artist sometimes build nests just for fun or esthetic
effect? I watched the building of two nests one spring
that were never used. With what a graceful touch
the feathered dots laid the lichen bricks in the walls !

The hatching of the eggs must be a severe tax on
the patience of the mother bird, for the principal
part of this work devolves upon her. Sitting hour
by hour upon the nest, looking out upon the wide
spaces of air waiting to be conquered by her active
wings; with nothing except hope to feed her mind;
with not even a book or a newspaper to read, —

196 IN BIRD LAND.

well, here is a chance to let patience have her per-
fect work. Then think of her uneasiness at the
approach of every foe. It is work; it is not mere
idleness. As for her lord, it may seem only like
holiday sport to sit in the tree-top and sing all the
livelong day, to beguile the weary hours of his sit-
ting mate. But perhaps it often takes on the hue
of work, too, when singing becomes a duty. Small
wonder, if the choralist’s vocal chords often become
jaded and sore, while there may be danger of bring-
ing on throat or lung trouble. Besides, he must
often carry a dainty morsel to his spouse when he
would much prefer to eat it himself. Then, he
must take his turn on the nest while his partner
goes off for a “constitutional” to get the stiffness
out of her joints, or gathers a relay of food and
preens her ruffled plumes.

One of the most unpleasant tasks of the time of
incubation and brood rearing is the warding off of
enemies. And they are numerous. No feathered
parents can feel sure that they shall be able to tide
their little family safely over this perilous period.
Have you ever seen the plucky wood-pewee engag-
ing in a contest with ‘that highwayman in feathers,
the blue jay? How he dashes at the bloodthirsty
villain, snapping his mandibles viciously at every
onset, and sometimes pecking a feather from his
enemy’s back! Nor will he give up the battle until
the jay steals off with a hangdog expression on his
face. The little warbling vireo is no less game when
the jay comes too near his precincts.

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 197

One day in spring I was witness to a curious inci-
dent. A red-headed woodpecker had been flying
several times in and out of a hole in a tree where
he (or she) had a nest. At length, when he re-
mained within the cavity for some minutes, I stepped
to the tree and rapped on the trunk with my cane.
The bird bolted like a small cannon-ball from the
orifice, wheeled around the tree with a swiftness
that the eye could scarcely follow, and then dashed
up the lane to an orchard a short distance away.
But he had only leaped out of the frying-pan into
the fire. In the orchard he had unconsciously got
too near a king-bird’s nest. The king-bird swooped
toward him, and alighted on his back. The next
moment the two birds, the king-bird on the wood-
pecker’s back, went racing across the meadow like
a streak of zigzag lightning, making a clatter that
frightened every echo from its hiding-place. That
gamy flycatcher actually clung to the woodpecker’s
back until he reached the other end of the meadow.
I cannot be sure, but he seemed to be holding to
the woodpecker’s dorsal feathers with his bill.
Then, bantam fellow that he was, he dashed back
to the orchard with a loud chippering of exultation.
“ Ah, ha!’ he flung across to the blushing wood-
pecker; “stay away the next time, if you don’t
fancy being converted into a beast of burden!”

A large part of a bird’s toil, after there are chil-
dren in the nest, consists in providing victuals for
them. For this purpose the whole country around
must be scoured, and sometimes long journeys must

198 IN BIRD LAND.

be made. I have watched a kingfisher flying again
and again from a winding creek in the valley to her
nest on a hillside nearly a half-mile distant, with a
minnow in her bill, while the sun was pouring a
sweltering deluge upon the fields. It kept her busy
every moment to supply the imperious demands of
her hungry brood in the bank. A common field-
bird, which I watched one day for a long while,
would often return to her nest every minute with an
insect. Many, many times have I obeyed Lowell’s
injunction, —
“Come up and feel what health there is
In the frank Dawn’s delighted eyes,
As. bending with a pitying kiss,
The night-shed tears of Earth she dries.”

But even at that early hour the feathered toilers
have always been ahead of the human wage-workers
in beginning the labors of the day. The nestlings
must have a twilight breakfast; and then, in the
evening, as long as the gloaming lasts, they noisily
demand just one more mouthful for supper.

Young birds are ravenous feeders. ‘They seem
to live to eat, and have no thought of eating to live.
For an hour and a half, one August day, I kept
watch of a nestful of bantlings, and during that
time the parent birds were so shy that they fed
their infants only twice. At last the little things
became fairly desperate for food, springing up in
the nest and opening their mouths with pitiful cries
every time the breeze stirred the bushes about them.

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 199

They were so famished that I hurried away lest they
should go to preying on one another, for they would
sometimes greedily seize one another by the bills or
heads, and try to gobble one another down. Inci-
dents like this prove that the old birds must be on
the jump every moment to procure a sufficient sup-
ply of food for their young. Even after they have
left the nest, the juvenile members of the family
must be fed for several weeks. As long as mamma
and papa will get their luncheons for them, they will
make little effort to help themselves. I have seen
the dainty little accentor feeding a great, overgrown
mossback of a cow-bunting, which had to “juke”
down to her like a giant to a dwarf to receive the
morsel she offered him. What a drudgery it must
have been to collect victuals enough to fill his
capacious maw! Think of a toil-worn, care-fretted
little mother feeding a strapping boy that will not
work !

Moreover, adult birds often are kept busy for
hours supplying their own craving for food. One
April day a hooded warbler, natty little beau, near
an old gravel-bank in the woods, was watched by
me for an hour anda half. During that time he
must have caught an insect almost every minute,
and sometimes no sooner had he gulped down one
than he made a swift dash for another. Had he
not been so very, very handsome, I should have
dubbed him a gourmand.

At certain seasons of the year what an active life
the red-headed woodpeckers are compelled to lead,

200 IN BIRD LAND.

in order to satisfy the demands of their stomachs !
With intervals of scarcely more than a few seconds,
they bound out from a perch, seize an insect on
the wing, and wheel back again. For hours this
half work, half frolic is kept up. By the way, al-
most all birds sometimes engage in this flycatcher
game of taking their prey on the wing. The Balti-
more orioles, the bluebirds, the yellow-bellied wood-
peckers, the crested tits, the chippies, the indigo-
birds, and even the white-breasted nuthatches and
English sparrows, to say nothing of many species of
warblers, catch insects in this way.

Many birds have to “scratch for a living,” and
that in a literal sense. There is the towhee bunt-
ing, for example. Instead of getting down on his
breast, however, like the hen or the partridge, he
stretches himself up on his legs as if they were stilts,
and then bobs up and down in an amusing fashion,
while he scatters leaves and dirt to side and rear.
I do not know whether the robins scratch or not,
but they often jerk the leaves from the ground with
their bills, and hurl them away with a half-disdain-
ful air. Several young wood-thrushes kept in a
cage removed obstructions in the same way.

Even the merry bobolink, the Beau Brummel of
our meadows and clover-fields, cannot spend every
day

“ Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony ;”
for the time comes when he must do the work of a
staid husband and father, and help to take care of

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 201

the growing brood. With all his pirouetting in the
air, he carries in his bosom an anxious heart, as you
will quickly see if you go too near his snuggery in
the grass. The wild scramble in which birds of all
kinds often have to engage, in order to secure a
refractory insect, proves that there is ample room
for the play of their best energies. Thus we see
that the birds have plenty to do besides rollicking,
singing, enjoying gala-days, and taking excursions
to gay watering-places. Like their human brothers
and sisters, they must toil patiently on “through
the every-dayness of this work-day world.” They,
too, may have their literature — unwritten, however
—on the “dignity of labor.”

V.
BIRD PLAY.

How strange it is that animals never laugh! If
you watch a group of monkeys playing their antics,
you will find their faces as sedate as a judge’s, save,
perhaps, a merry twinkle of the eye. Comical as
their gambols are, one would think they would break
into convulsions of merriment. True, animals have
various ways of giving vent to their exuberant feel-
ings, but this is done very slightly by means of facial
expression. ‘Their risibles must be meagrely devel-
oped. What has been said in regard to animals in
general is also true of birds, whose eyes often
twinkle and are intensely expressive, but whose

202 IN BIRD LAND,

countenances proper reveal very little of the emo-
tion swelling in their breasts.

Yet by the movements of their bodies you can
easily read their feelings. You can tell at a glance
by the conduct of a bird whether or not it is alarmed
at your presence, or whether it is engaged in a frolic
or in watching a wily foe. How different is the
behavior of most birds in the breeding-season, with
a nest near at hand, from their demeanor at other
times! Look at that brown thrasher perched in a
tree-top on a spring morning, singing his pzan to
the surrounding woodland, and notice how fearless
he appears. Contrast his manners two months
later when he goes skulking through the tanglewood,
afraid to be seen. Conceal their secret as they
may, an expert student of birds can almost always
tell if there is a nest in the neighborhood.

It is, therefore, by their conduct rather than by
their facial expression that birds reveal their love of
play. That they do have their frolics, no one can
doubt. Much of their time is occupied in labor,
and that often of the most serious, if not arduous,
kind, and they frequently combine toil and play ;
but there are times when they seem to give them-
selves up to unmixed sportiveness. There is not
much system in their games, so far as I have ob-
served. They mostly engage in frolics of a rough-
and-tumble kind, for the pure love of the fun, and
perhaps with no thought of winning a prize.

It is possible, however, that the company of red-
headed woodpeckers I watched one day in the

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE, 203

woods were having a genuine flying-race. One tree
was selected as a point of departure, from which
they would start and fly around in a wide circle, —
perhaps their race-track, — always returning to the
same tree with loud chattering, which sounded like
shouts of applause. ‘This exercise they kept up for
hours, always starting from the same tree and de-
scribing nearly the same circle. If it was not’a
contest of speed, I am at a loss to know what it
was.

The woodpeckers, especially the youngsters, have
another game that has a decidedly human flavor ; it
is the game of bo-peep among the trunks and
branches of trees. A red-head will shy off from his
companions, conceal himself somewhere behind a
tree-trunk, and then peep from his hiding-place in
an exquisitely comical way, until he is espied by
some sharp-eyed fellow-frolicker. A vigorous chase
will follow, as pursuer and pursued dash wildly away
among the trees. Sometimes, when the fugitive is
too hotly pursued, he will stop and keep his com-
panion at bay by presenting his long, spearlike bill
as a sort of bayonet.

Another tree-climber, is the brown creeper. I
have described many of his pranks in the first
chapter of this volume. One November day I wit-
nessed a performance that beats the record. Two
creepers were hitching up the trunks of the trees in
their characteristic manner, when one of them sud-
denly dropped straight down about fifteen feet,
scarcely more than an inch from the trunk of the

204 IN BIRD LAND.

tree; then, instead of alighting, he darted straight
up again the same distance, fluttered a moment
uncertainly on the wing, and then dropped again to
the foot of the tree, where he alighted, and resumed
his upward march. But that was not all. Presently
his companion, not to be outdone, began to whirl
around and around the tree, descending in a spiral
course until he reached the foot. There he tarried
a moment to take breath, and then, much to my
surprise, whirled himself up in the same way, a dis-
tance of perhaps twenty feet, accomplishing it in
four or five revolutions. But, as if to distance all
creepers’ pranks ever witnessed before, he descended
again in the same spiral course. These perform-
ances can be interpreted only as ways in which to
give vent to the spirit of frolic in the creeper
nature.

On the same day my dancing dot in feathers, the
golden-crowned kinglet, performed one of his favor-
ite tricks, which is not often described in the books.
You will remember that in the centre of the yellow
crown-patch of the males, there is a gleaming golden
speck, visible only when you look at him closely.
But when the little beau is in a particularly rollick-
some mood, or wants to display his gem to his mate
or kindred, he elevates and spreads out the feathers
of his crest, and lo! a transformation. The whole
crown becomes golden! That gleaming speck ex-
pands until it completely hides the yellow and black
of the crown. It has been my good fortune on
several occasions to see the ruby-crowned kinglet

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 205

transfigure himself in the same way, except that his
entire crown became ruby. Probably the little
Chesterfield that can exhibit the most brilliant coro-
nal wins the sweetest damsel in the kinglet commu-
nity for a wifie.

Perhaps, as a rule, our winter birds find the
season rather cold for play; yet they often frolic in
the snow like children, even when they do not stalk
through it in quest of food. This is especially true
of the snow-birds and tree-sparrows. Birds are
especially fond of splashing in water. Even in the
winter-time, when it flows ice-cold into the stream
or pond from the melting snow on the banks, certain
birds will plunge into it, and enjoy their bath for
many minutes. They do not seem to be satisfied
with merely wetting their plumes, but remain in the
water, twinkling their wings and tails, much longer
than is actually necessary. Several times in the
autumn I have seen a large company of warblers of
different species taking a bath in a woodland pond.
How they enjoyed their ablutions! Again and
again they would return to the water, as if loath to
quit it.

To my mind, the flicker is one of our most playful
birds, spite of his staid looks. I have seen a half-
dozen of these birds on a single tree, scudding
about after one another and calling, Zwick-ah /
swick-ah/ in their affectionate way. Not infre-
quently two of them will face each other, and begin
bowing in a vigorous style, turning their heads dex-
terously from side to side to avoid collision, This

206 IN BIRD LAND.

is sometimes kept up for several minutes. It is very
comical, the only drawback being that the birds
themselves do not laugh. Why they should engage
in so ridiculous a performance with so serious an air,
is a problem that still belongs to the unknown.

A cut-throat finch, a pet, was, as a rule, a very
sedate little body, but one day he had to come
down from his pedestal to get rid of his surplus of
feeling. This he did by dancing a sort of jig to his
own music, swaying his body to and fro in a most
laughable way. On another day an English sparrow
flew upon his cage, which was hanging on the veranda,
when “ Pompey ”’ turned his head toward his visitor,
burst into song, and bobbed his head from side to
side. No doubt the sparrow felt that he was receiv-
ing an ovation.

A most laughable incident occurred one day in
my large cage of birds. “Flip,” a fine young wood-
thrush, was rehearsing his song. A young thrasher
leaped up beside him on the perch. The two birds
turned their heads to each other, and looked into each
other’s eyes a moment ; then Flip opened his mouth
at his visitor, and broke into song, the tones coming
right out of his gold-lined throat. All the while he
jerked his head from side to side or up and down in
perfect time with his music, his eye gleaming intelli-
gently, as if he enjoyed the fun. Even my loud out-
burst of laughter did not put a stop to the little farce.
Flip was a bright bird. He afterward had a cage
all to himself, and regaled his hosts with many a
cheerful song, such as only the wood-thrush is master

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE, 207

of. Occasionally he would leap to the end of his
cage, open his mouth wide at “Brownie,” whose
cage stood next to his, and sing a comic song; at
least, it seemed comic.

These incidents, although they do not prove that
birds have elaborate games, do prove that they pos-
sess the play spirit, and no doubt their pastimes and
amusements are relished fully as much by them as
ours are by us; perhaps more so.

VI.
BIRD DEATHS.

Ir only some master dramatist could write the
tragedies of bird land! They would be highly
exciting, and would afford ample room for the play
of genius; for there are adventures and disasters
without number. Perhaps it is on account of the
many reverses that there is so often a pensive strain
in the songs of the birds, —a minor chord running
like a shimmering silver line through the weft of
the woodland music. Robert Burns, in his “ Address
to a Woodlark,” touched the very marrow of bird
sadness, and pleaded with the little singer to cease
its song, or he himself would go distracted, —

“ Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind ?
Oh! nocht but love and sorrow joined
Sic notes o’ wae could wauken.

208 IN BIRD LAND.

“Thou tells o’ never-ending care,
O’ speechless grief and dark despair ;
For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken.”

If Coleridge had studied the birds more care-
fully, and acquainted himself with their griefs, he
never would have written, in mockery of Milton’s
“ L’Allegro,”” —

“A melancholy bird! O, idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy !”

I have seen a pair of birds whose little brood had
just been cruelly slaughtered, and my heart bled for
them when I saw that their anguish was too great
for expression. Perhaps birds that have been be-
reaved soon forget their sorrow, and yet I doubt it;
for if you listen to the minor treble of the black-
capped chickadee, you cannot help feeling that he is
singing a dirge for some long-lost love, or, if not
that, may be recounting, by some occult law of
heredity, the story of the many sorrows of his ances-
tors from the beginning down to his own generation.
What ravishing sadness there is in the songs of the
white-throated and white-crowned sparrows! The
bluebird is always sighing as he shifts from post to
post, and nothing could be more melancholy than
the call of the jay in autumn. The crow at a dis-
tance complains of his disappointment, while the
wood-thrush, in his evening and morning voluntaries,
rehearses the sad memories of his life. Keats speaks
of the “plaintive anthem” of the nightingale, and

.

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 209

Thomson declares that even the merry linnets “lit
on the dead tree, a dull, despondent flock.”

It would be difficult to arrange a “table of mor-
tality’ for the birds. However, as they know noth-
ing about life insurance, there is no call for such a
compilation ; but even if the statistician could state
the number of deaths, there is no arithmetic that
could compute the heartaches and heartbreaks expe-
rienced by “our little brothers of the air.” “In
the midst of life we are in death,” might well be put
into the litany of the birds. If they had burial-
grounds, there would be plenty of employment for
the sexton and some grave “ Old Mortality.”

The elements themselves sometimes play sad havoc
with the birds. Mr. Eldridge E. Fish, of Buffalo,
N. Y., tells of an October storm in which many
golden-crowned kinglets were dashed to the ground,
while others flew against windows of houses in which
lights were left burning. The storm was so severe
that the little voyagers, travelling southward by night,
were compelled to alight, and thus many of them
were destroyed. The same writer speaks of a cold
rain which froze as it fell, coating everything with
ice, and thus cutting off the birds’ supply of food, so
that many bluebirds perished. ‘To my certain know-
ledge, robins, which breed very early in the spring,
sometimes are frozen to death while hugging their
nests, when a cold wave swoops from the north.
The same calamity sometimes. overtakes the cross-
bill during the winter in the forests of Canada.
Apparently even Nature herself is not always a tender

14

210 IN BIRD LAND.

mother to her offspring. Do not ask me why, for I
am not writing a philosophical thesis.

Birds have many natural enemies. I can still hear
the cries of a young bird that a sparrow-hawk had
seized in his talons and was bearing overhead,
What a savage cannibal he seemed to be! Not for
anything would I cast undeserved odium on the re-
putation of any bird, but I fear very much that the
blue jay is both a robber and a murderer. In the
season when eggs and young birds are in the nest,
he has a sly, hang-dog air, which, to my mind, pro-
claims not only a guilty conscience, but also a sinis-
ter purpose. At other seasons he seems to have an
open, frank manner. It is true, I myself have never
seen him in the very act of robbing a fellow-bird’s
nest, but I have often seen pewees, vireos, sparrows,
and goldfinches charge upon him with desperate fury
when he came in the vicinity of their homesteads.
Indeed, all the smaller birds seem to have a mortal
terror of him, which can be accounted for only on
the ground that he is known to be a highwayman.

A farmer friend, who loves the birds, and has none
of the unreasoning prejudice against them sometimes
displayed by country folk, told me that he once saw
a blue jay pounce upon a chippie’s nest, snatch up a
callow bantling in his bill, and fly off with: it across
the field to his nest. In a few moments he returned,
and bore away another nestling. By this time the
farmer’s ire was aroused, and he got his gun and put
an end to the feathered brigand’s life on his return
for the third mouthful. This is more than circum-

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE. 211

stantial evidence. Yet in defence of the handsome
rascal it may be said that he does good in other
directions, for he rids the earth of many pestiferous
insects. Gladly would I acquit him of all blame if
that were possible.

Mr. Burroughs thinks that birds which have suf-
fered at the blue jay’s hands— or, rather, beak —
often retaliate by destroying the jay’s eggs. He
found a jay’s nest with five eggs, every one of which
was punctured, apparently by the sharp bill of some
bird, with the sole purpose of destroying them, for
no part of their contents had been removed. He
suggests that in the bird world the Mosaic law may
be, “An egg for an egg,” instead of “An eye for an
eye.”

The life of young birds hangs on a very brittle
thread. A kind of Damocles’ sword seems to be
dangling over them. What a “slaughter of inno-
cents” inasingle season! I think that of the many
nests I found during the spring of 1892 fully half
were raided. How often, on finding a nest, I have
resolved to watch it until the young birds were ready
to leave; but on going back a few days later, the
cradle was rifled of its treasures. These frequent
“tragedies of the nests’? make the bird-lover sick at
heart. It is no paradox to say that many birds are
killed before they are born.

Birds often meet with fatal accidents. They
sometimes impale themselves on a thorn, or creep
into places in thorn-trees from which they cannot
extricate themselves. Arobin hung itself one spring

212 IN BIRD LAND.

by a kite-string that swung in a loop from the roof
of my house, —a case of involuntary suicide. A
nuthatch that I saw one day in the woods had its
leg broken, and I could not help thinking of its
lingering agony before it would starve to death. A
pet nonpareil, a dear, bright-hued little fellow, was
well and happy one evening; but the next morn-
ing he lay dead on the bottom of the cage, perhaps
the victim of a convulsion. Another pet nonpareil
was not in good health ; so J thought a bath in tepid
water might be good for him; but alas! the ablu-
tion proved too much for the little invalid, which, in
spite of our utmost efforts to save his life, succumbed
to the inevitable. A like fate befell a young turtle-
dove which a neighbor found in the woods and
brought me for a gift.

But the cause of a great deal of mortality among
birds is man’s inhumanity to them. The thirst for
blood seems to be inherent in many coarse natures,
and as killing a fellow-man is illegal and almost sure
to be summarily punished, many men gratify their
greed for gore by slaying innocent birds and
animals.

“ Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals!

How sweet a plant have you untimely cropped!

You have no children, butchers! if you had,
The thought of them would have stirred up remorse.”

The small boy with a sling or a spring-gun or an
air-rifle is a source of much grief to the birds. He
even kills the tiny kinglets that flit to and fro in the
trees bordering our streets, and seems to think it

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE, 213

sport. More senseless and wicked still was the fash-
ion in vogue a few years ago, perhaps not yet quite
obsolete, which compelled the massacre of thousands
of bright-hued birds for feminine —I should say
unfeminine — adornment. To say nothing of the
“‘loudness’’ and bad taste of such a fashion, it is
extremely unwise to put birds to death, for no one
can compute the number of injurious insects they
annually devour. A bird on the bonnet means so
much less bread on the table. A bird in the orchard
is a sort of scavenger and pomologist combined, and
does his share in giving you a dish of fruit for dinner.
The scarlet tanager looks like a living ruby in a
green tree; but —I speak bluntly — it looks like a
chunk of gore on a woman’s bonnet. In behalf of
good taste and the birds, I enter my protest against
this barbaric custom.

True, birds have elements of the Adamic nature
in them. Many of them do relish forbidden fruit,
and must be driven off, lest they rifle your cherry-
tree; but it is seldom necessary to kill them, even
then, especially those that live wholly on insects and
fruit.

A correspondent once sent me a number of
queries. How do birds come to their “last end” ?
Do none of them die natural deaths? If they do,
why do we never, or at least very rarely, find dead
or dying birds in the fields and woods? My re-
sponse to these questions is: Very few birds die
natural deaths, — that is, merely of sickness or old
age, —though a few of them may. When a bird

214 IN BIRD LAND.

becomes feeble or is crippled, it falls an easy prey
to a prowling hawk, owl, shrike, eagle, or cat.
Should a bird escape all these enemies, and finally
lie down and die in a natural way, it would doubt-
less scon be found and devoured by a carrion-eating
fowl or quadruped, and thus its corpse would never
be seen by human eyes. Sad indeed it is to think
of the numberless ways in which birds meet “ the
last enemy.”

Be it far from me to use caustic speech against
any man or set of men; but it makes me both in-
dignant and sick at heart to read the bloody chroni-
cles of most of the so-called “collectors.’’ How
many embryo birds they slay merely to gratify their
morbid craze for gathering “clutches,” as they
suggestively call a set of eggs! Not long ago a col-
lector narrated, in an ornithological journal, the
harrowing story of his having rifled the nest of a
hairy woodpecker five or six times in a single season,
the poor bird laying a new deposit after each bur-
glary, until at last she grew suspicious and sought a
safer site for her nest. The writer described his
part of the performance with apparent gusto, as if
he had made a splendid contribution to science !
If he must have a collection of hairy woodpecker’s
eggs, why not take a single “clutch,” and then leave
the bird to make her second deposit and rear her
brood in peace?

To my mind, many “ professionals” shoot a score
of birds where they ought to shoot but one. The
long record of slaughtered birds is sickening. The

PHASES OF BIRD LIFE, 215

Newgate Calendar scarcely furnishes a parallel.
Even our most scientific journals print many of
these bloody annals. It is true, a reasonable num-
ber of specimens must be collected for scientific pur-
poses, but surely no adequate excuse can be given
for shooting hundreds of individuals of the same
species merely to have the honor of saying that an
astounding number of specimens were “taken.” If
the cause of natural history cannot be promoted
without destroying the humane instincts of the natu-
ralist himself, the price is too great; it were better
left unpaid. A bird in the bush is worth forty in
the hand, especially if the forty are dead; worth
more, too, I venture to add, to the cause of science
itself.

216 IN BIRD LAND.

XVI.
THE SECRET OF APPRECIATION.

T is an open secret, and perhaps not a very pro-
found one. I need not prolong the reader’s
suspense, if mayhap he should feel any, by assum-
ing a mysterious air, but may as well frankly divulge
the secret at once. There are times when melo-
drama is sadly out of place — if, indeed, it is ever in
place. What, then, is the secret of appreciation?
It is simply being ez rapport with the object or
truth to be appreciated. No more patent fact was
ever declared than that which Saint Paul wrote:
“ Spiritual things are spiritually discerned.” There
must be mental kinship, or there cannot be true
valuation. Bring a depressed or distracted mind to
the most exhilarating service, and you will miss its
pith and point, and go away unrewarded.

The same truth obtains in our commerce with
Nature, which, it would seem, will not brook arival in
our hearts if we would win from her all her treasured
sweets. “Give me your whole mind, your whole
attention,” she says, “or I will-close up every foun-
tain of refreshment.” What benefit will that man
whose mind is absorbed in the affairs of the market
derive from a woodland stroll? What secret will

THE SECRET OF APPRECIATION. 217

the rustling leaves speak to him, or the opening
flowers, or the chirping birds? He sees no transit
of swift wings, and the sunshine dapples the leaf-
carpeted ground in vain for eyes that see only the
ledger and day-book in the sylvan haunt.

My own experience confirms the foregoing state-
ments. For several months one summer I felt
depressed and abstracted on account of several
untoward circumstances which need not be described,
for “every heart knoweth its own bitterness.’ In
this mood I sometimes sauntered out to my wood-
land haunts; but I saw very little, and what I did
see bore the stamp of triteness, and seemed as dull
and languid as myself. My heart was otherwhere.
A secret, gnawing grief draws the thoughts inward,
and breaks the spell of the outer world, charm she
never so sweetly. The soul hopelessly hungering
for the unattainable comes almost to despise the
blessings within its grasp. A-lack-a-day, that any-
thing should ever come between the heart and its
gentle mistress, Nature! And so it was that even
the birds, my precious intimates, became a weari-
ness both to the flesh and the spirit.

Master Chickadee was nothing but a lump of flesh
covered with mezzo-tinted feathers, all prose, no
poetry ; a creature that I had once invested with a
rare charm (in my own mind), but now only a lout of
a bird, a buffoon, whose noisy chatter broke harshly
into my gloomy meditations. Once I had fairly
revelled in the army of kaleidoscopic warblers, and
had called them to their faces all kinds of endearing

218 IN BIRD LAND.

names, like a lover wooing a bride; but now, in my
dejected frame of mind, they were prosaic enough,
and provokingly shy, and I felt too indifferent even
to ogle them with my glass as they tilted in the tree-
tops. What a humdrum life was the life of the
birds, anyway, and how indescribably humdrum my
semi-frequent beat in the woods was becoming !

But by and by, in the autumn, an event occurred
that transformed my inner world, dispelling the
darkness, dissipating the clouds, bathing all in sun-
shine. Then I hied to the fields and woods, and,
behold, a metamorphosis! The inner miracle had
wrought an outer wonder. Never was there “such
mutual recognition vaguely sweet’ between the
autumn woods and my appreciative heart. The
ground, flecked with sunshine, filtering through the
browning leaves, became a work of mosaic fit for a
king to tread on, and the westerly breeze sang a
pean through the branches. And how many birds
there were! A flock of robins were chirping in the
“grove, now and then breaking into song, as if they
had forgotten that spring was past and that it was
unconventional for robin redbreast to sing in the
autumn; but they seemed to be willing to make a
breach of the convenances to give me delight.

Numerous warblers chirped in the tree-tops, or
swung out on the upbuoying air to catch some ill-
fated insect on the wing; and although I could not
identify many of them, I felt no annoyance, as I had
at other times, for I could truly * rejoice with those
that do rejoice,” because I had no sorrow of my

THE SECRET OF APPRECIATION. 219

own to distract my mind. I could have forgiven
almost any trick a bird had seen fit to play me.
The brown creeper, just from his haunt in some
primeval forest of British America, went hitching up
a tree-bole in his own quaint way without even the
courtesy of a friendly how-d’-you-do; but I forgave
the slight, and told him he was a poet, — there was
rhythm in every movement, and his feathers rhymed
each with its fellow.

Across the breezy hills to the river valley I made
my way in lightsome mood, finding birds a-plenty
wherever I went. More than once the song-spar-
rows broke into their autumnal twitter, aftermath of
their springtime choruses when they were in full
tone ;-and occasionally the Carolina wren uttered
his stirring reveille, which, though perhaps not tune-
ful in itself, seemed tuneful to me that day, because
there was music in my own mind. When you are
in the right mood, even the distant caw of the crow
or the plaintive cry of the blue jay sets the harp of
your soul to melody; while the riotous piping of the
cardinal grossbeak makes you feel as if you were
“married to immortal verse.”

But, alas! when “loathed melancholy, of Cer-
berus and blackest midnight born,” is your unbidden
companion, every overture of Nature is a burden, an
intrusion into the privacy of your grief, and —

“Vainly morning spreads her lure
Of a sky serene and pure.”

In a leaf-strewn arcade beneath the overarching
bushes hard by the river, were the merry juncos, my

220 IN BIRD LAND.

companions of the winter, which had come back
from their summer vacation in the north. How
glad I was to salute them and welcome them home!
Their trig little forms, sprightly motions, confident
air of comradery, and merry trills were a joy to me.
And then I could not help wondering if any of them
might be the same birds I had met during the early
summer on one of the green mountains of Canada,
where I had spent a day of rapturous delight. In
the same sequestered angle, autumn though it was,
the phoebe bird brought back reminiscences of
spring, with his cheery whistle; while farther down
the valley his shy relative, the wood-pewee, com-
plained dulcetly that winter was coming to drive
him from his pleasant summer haunts. Every
sound, whether joyful or sad, struck a responding
chord in my heart, because Nature had my undi-
vided thought.

When the mind is distracted by sorrows it can-
not shake off, it boots little that the chirp of the
chestnut-sided and cerulean warblers is sharp and
penetrating; that the call of the black-throated
green, black-throated blue and myrtle warblers is
somewhat harsh; that the Maryland yellow-throat
expresses his alarm or disapproval in a note still
lower in the scale and quite rasping ; that the Black-
burnian and parula warblers tilt about far up in the
tree-tops, as if they scorned the ground; that the
black-throats and creepers dance airily about in the
bushes or lower branches of the trees, come con-
fidingly near you, a tiny interrogation point dangling

THE SECRET OF APPRECIATION. 221

from ‘every eyelash, ask you what you are about,
what you do when you are at home, whether you
have just come from the hospital that you look so
pale, and, having decided that you are a harmless
monomaniac, to say the worst, go about their play-
ful toil of capturing insects, apparently unmindful
of your presence. But when your heart is jolly and
full of nature love, all these simple facts, proving the
large diversity of temperament in bird-land’s deni-
zens, are a source of joy to you; you note them, are
glad on account of them, though you scarcely know
why.

In a quiet retreat just beyond a steep-graded rail-
way-track the black-throated green warblers were
very abundant and unusually rollicksome. It was
strange how they could dash about in the thorn-trees
without impaling themselves on the terrible spears.
One little fellow swung out of a tree after a miller,
which dropped upon a fence-post near by. Why
did the natty bird act so queerly? He danced about
on the top of the post, tried to pick up something,
but was baffled in all his efforts; then he scudded
around the post a few inches below the top like a
nuthatch, uttering his harsh little chirp. At length
I stepped up, determined to solve the enigma.
There was the solution; the miller had wriggled into
a deep hole in the post, so that the bird could not
reach it. With a slender stick I drew it out of its
hiding-place, and placed it on the top of the post ;
but whether the bird ever went back and profited by
my well-meant helpfulness I do not know. Begging

222 IN BIRD LAND.

the poor miller’s pardon, I felt happy in befriending
the charming fairy of a bird. With gladness throb-
bing in every corpuscle, it was not in my place to
question Nature’s economy in making the sacrifice
of one life necessary to the sustenance of another.

Tramping on, I presently found myself in a marsh
stretching back from the river-bank. As I stood in
the tangle of tall grass and weeds, listening to the
songs and twitters of various birds, the sentiment,
if not the precise lines, of Lowell, came to mind like
a draught of invigorating air, —

“Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sight

Who cannot in their various incomes share,

From every season drawn, of shade and light,
Who sees in them but levels brown and bare.

Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free
On them its largess of variety,

For Nature with cheap means still works her wonders

rare.”

But what was that sharp chirp? It instantly drew
my thoughts from the marsh itself and the poet’s
tribute. Opera-glass in hand, I softly stole near the
bushy clump from which the sound came. Ah!
there the bird was, tilting uneasily on a slender twig.
The swamp-sparrow! It was the first time I had
positively identified this bird in my own neighbor-
hood, — not, I suppose, because it had not been pres-
ent often and again, but because I had been too
dull of sight to see it. Then came a glad memory.
I recalled the peculiar circumstances under which I
had seen my first swamp-sparrow, hundreds of miles

THE SECRET OF APPRECIATION. 223

away. During a visit to Boston and vicinity, a
year prior, I spent a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon
with Bradford Torrey, who needs no introduction
to intelligent readers. We walked out to some of
his favorite haunts. It was an ideal October day,
and the charming New England landscape threw a
spell over me that gave me a kind of other-worldly
feeling. My companion was all I had expected him to
be, and more, — a good talker and an appreciative
listener, — and even now, when I recall my saunter
with this quiet, gentle bird-lover, it seems more like
a dream than a reality.

The afternoon had slipped well by when we came
to a bush-fringed brook and Mr. Torrey told me that
there were swamp-sparrows in the thickets. “How
much I should like to see one!” Icried. “The
swamp-sparrow is a stranger to me.” “ You shall
have your wish gratified,” he replied ; and forthwith
he climbed the fence, stalked to the other side of
the stream, and slowly, gently drove the chirping
sparrows toward me, so that I could see their mark-
ings plainly with my glass. How lovingly I ogled
them! I could not get my fill of the birds shown
me by one whom I had loved so long at a distance.
It was an epoch in my poor life, an epoch in a
double sense. Who will censure my feeling of grati-
fied pride? In the evening, after our stroll, as we
walked to and fro on the platform at the tfailway-
station waiting for the train to start, I remarked:
“ Mr. Torrey, I shall never forget my first meeting
with the swamp-sparrow.”

224 IN BIRD LAND.

“No,” he responded innocently, as if my humble
remembrance would confer an honor upon him;
“ whenever you see that bird hereafter, you will
think of me, won’t you?” I told himI should; and
that evening in the marsh, a year later, I kept my
tryst with memory, while tears, half sad, half glad,
dimmed my eyes.

But hark! A little farther on, from the sparse
bushes of a grassy bank, came the swinging treble
of a white-throated sparrow, like a votive offering.
What enchantment possessed the birds that evening?
Had Orpheus with his miracle-working harp come
back to earth? Iwas half tempted to believe for
the nonce in the transmigration of souls, for the’
notes drifted so sadly sweet on the still air, as if
the fabled minstrel had indeed returned to mundane
realms. Among the thick clusters of weeds and
bushes that fringed a railway, which I pursued in my
homeward walk, many birds were going to roost, —
sparrows, warblers, red-winged blackbirds, and car-
dinal grossbeaks. My passing along alarmed them,
and sent them dashing from their leafy couches.

Thus the afternoon passed. I had not, perhaps,
learned as many new things about my kinsmen in
plumes as on many other rambles, but I had dis-
covered the secret of appreciation; that the mind
must be unharassed by carking care or depressing
sorrow to win the best from Nature. Give me a
lightsome heart, and I will trudge with any pedestrian.
Give me a heavy heart, and the weight clings to the
soles of my feet like barnacles to a ship’s bottom.

THE SECRET OF APPRECIATION. 225

Given the proper mood, the lines of an American
poet—no need to mention his name —have the
ring of gospel truth, —

“ Nature, the supplement of man,
His hidden sense interpret can;
What friend to friend cannot convey
Shall the dumb bird instructed say.”

£5

to
be
n

IN BIRD LANL.

XVII.
BROWSINGS IN OTHER FIELDS.

“~ VEN the most home-loving body may sometimes
gain refreshment, and at the same time have
his mental vision broadened, by a jaunt to another
neighborhood; and if he has a hobby, he may
beguile the days in riding it, and thus evade, for a
time at least, that most harrowing of all maladies,
homesickness. Well, to make a long story short,
and a dull one a little brighter, let me say at once
that I have, more or less recently, made several
visits to various points of interest, and everywhere
have found delightful comradeship with the birds.
First, I shall speak of a trip to Montreal, that gem
city on the St. Lawrence, beautiful for situation as
well as for other attractive features.

South of the city a mountain rears its green,
symmetrical mass. ‘True, it is not very lofty as
mountains go ; but standing there alone in the midst
of a far stretching plain, it seems really majestic,
especially to one unused to great altitudes. It is a
favorite pleasure-resort for residents and visitors,
having been converted into a beautiful park, with
winding paths and driveways, many shady nooks,
with comfortable benches to lounge on, and a tower

BROWSINGS IN OTHER FIELDS. 227

on the summit, from which you can look down upon
a scene that is really enchanting. Nestling at the
foot of the mountain is the city, with its towers,
steeples, well-laid streets, and palatial residences ;
curving and gleaming far to the northeast and south-
west is the mighty St. Lawrence, its green banks
holding it in loving embrace far as the eye can reach ;
in another direction you trace the Ottawa River
meandering far to the northwest like a ribbon of
silver, and dividing into two branches a few miles
away, thus forming the island of Montreal; beyond
the St. Lawrence is the Lake of Two Mountains, and
far away in the misty distance toward the south
and southwest, are the blue outlines of the Green
and Adirondack ranges; in other directions the
plain stretches level until it melts in the hazy
distance, and is dotted with farm-houses, villages,
well-cultivated fields, and green woodlands.

One afternoon a few unoccupied hours were at
my disposal. I determined to spend them on
Mount Royal, as the eminence is called. A car
wheels you up an inclined plane, almost perpen-
dicular near the top, at least two-thirds of the way
to the summit. Having filled myself with the scene
from the tower, I was starting off to make a tour of
the park, when my footsteps were arrested by a
quaint new song coming from a clump of trees
farther down the declivity. Interest in everything
else vanished in a moment. A good deal of time
was spent before I could get a sight of the minstrel.
Much to my surprise, he turned out to be a thrush;

228 IN BIRD LAND.

the species, however, could not be determined at
the time for lack of my opera-glass, as the bird was
perched rather high in a tree. In the brief time at
my disposal just then, I saw a number of other
birds, and resolved to spend a day on the mountain
studying them, as soon as other duties would permit.

That day came in good time. An early morning
hour found me skirting the steep sides of the moun-
tain, alert for feathered dwellers. It was the tenth
of July, too late for the best songs and for finding
birds in the nest, and yet I felt fairly well satisfied
with the results of the day’s excursion. Presently
the song of the thrush, whose identity I had come
to settle, was heard in the copse. A look at him
with my glass proved him to be the veery, or Wilson’s
thrush, only a migrant in my State, and one that
pursues his pilgrimage both to the north and south
in patience-trying silence.

To my ear the song was sweet, almost hauntingly
so. Some notes were quite like certain strains of
the wood-thrush’s rich song, but others seemed more
ringing and bell-like, and the whole tune was more
skilfully and smoothly rendered, — that is, with less
labored effort. Still, I am loath to say that the
general effect of this bird’s song is more pleasing
than that of the wood-thrush, for there is something
far-away and dreamy about the minstrelsy of the
latter that one does not hear in the song of any
other species.

The veeries evidently had nests or younglings
among the bushes, for they called in harsh, alarmed

BROWSINGS [IN OTHER FIELDS. 229

tones as I entered their secluded haunts, but I had
not the good fortune to find a nest. Indeed, it
was too late to discover any nests at all, except such
as had been deserted. But, to my great delight, I
found that the jolly juncos breed on the mountain,
for there they were carrying food to their little ones,
which had left the nursery and were ensconced in
the thick foliage. These birds are winter residents
in my own neighborhood, but in the spring they hie
to this and other localities of the same and higher
latitudes to spend the summer. It was refreshing
to meet my little winter intimates. They were quite
lyrical, but their little trills did not seem any more
tuneful here in their breeding-haunts than in their
winter residences, especially when Spring pours her
subtle essence into their veins.

Nothing surprised me more than to find song-
sparrows on the top of the mountain, whereas they
are usually the tenants of the swamps and other low-
lands in my neighborhood. Here they were rearing
families on the mountain’s crest as well as along the
streams that laved the mountain’s base. They also
sang their tinkling roundels in both places, some-
times ringing them out so loudly that they could be
distinctly heard above the clatter of the street cars.

At one place, in a cluster of half-dead trees and
saplings, a colony of warblers were tilting about ;
all of them only migrants about my home in Ohio,
but breeding here. There were old and young
creeping warblers, the elders singing their trills in
lively fashion, and the young ones twittering coax-

230 IN BIRD LAND.

ingly for food. Here were also a number of redstarts,
— sonnets in black and gold, — the young beseech-
ing their parents constantly for more luncheon. A
beautiful chestnut-sided warbler wheeled into sight
and reeled off his jolly little trill, and then gave his
half-grown baby a tidbit from his beak. On another
part of the mountain the song of a black-throated
green warbler fell pensively on the ear, coming from
the thick branches of a tall tree, like a requiem from
a broken heart. Presently he flitted down into plain
view, his curiosity drawing him toward his auditor
sitting beneath on the grass. No doubt his mate
was crouched on her nest far up in one of the trees.

In a thicket on the acclivity of the mountain, I
heard a loud, appealing call, which was new to me;
and yet it evidently came from the throat of a young
bird pleading for its dinner. By dint of a good deal
of peering about and patient waiting, I at length
found it to be a juvenile chestnut-sided warbler.
Lying on the ground beneath the green canopy
of the bushes, I watched it a long time, hoping to
see the old bird feed it; but she was too shy to
come near, aithough the youngster grew almost des-
perate in its entreaties. An old nest in the crotch
of a sapling near at hand announced where the
little fellow had, no doubt, been hatched. It was
a beautiful nest, as compactly built as the cottage
of a goldfinch, and was decorated, like a red-eyed
vireo’s nest, with tiny balls of spider-web and strips
of paper.

Not far away from this charmed spot a red-eyed

BROWSINGS IN OTHER FIELDS, 231

vireo had hung her basket to the horizontal fork of
a small swaying branch. It was still fresh, and in
such good condition as to convince me that it had
just been completed by the little basket-maker,
which had not yet deposited her dainty eggs in the
cup. No other bird on the mountain sang as much
as this vireo, with the sharp red eyes and golden
breast. On the whole, I doubt not that Mount
Royal would be an almost ideal place for bird study,
if one could spend the month of June on its wooded
summit, slopes, and acclivities.

The next visit to be described was made to the
somewhat celebrated Zodlogical Garden at Cincin-
nati, Ohio, which contains a really magnificent collec-
tion of animals and birds. However, a description
of the latter must suffice, although the animals inter-
ested me almost as deeply. There are many cages
and aviaries containing rare species of feathered
folk, the only difficulty being that they are not so
thoroughly labelled as they might be for the con-
venience of visitors, many of whom are sufficiently
interested to want to know at least the common
names of the birds. All curators and superin-
tendents of such institutions should recognize the
importance of complete and systematic labelling of
the specimens in their care.

The first aviary at which I stopped consisted of
a collection of bright-hued and sweet-toned birds,
most of them foreigners. Here one could revel
in variety; for there were crimson-eared waxbills
from West Africa, black-headed finches from India,

232 IN BIRD LAND.

cut-throat finches and other dainty folk from across
the sea, with indigo-birds, nonpareils, goldfinches,
and song-sparrows from our own land. Of these,
the nonpareils, or painted finches, were the most
gifted singers, having loud, clear voices that rang
far above the voices of their fellow-prisoners. No
birds make daintier pets than these pretty creatures,
with their delicate blue and red costumes. The
next best singer in this collection was the American
goldfinch, which was not far behind the nonpareil,
and really excelled him in one respect, — that is, his
song was more prolonged and varied.

The next collection was certainly a parti-hued
one, containing cardinal grossbeaks, Brazilian car-
dinals, crow blackbirds, towhee buntings, brown
thrashers, and English blackbirds. I had the pleas-
ure of hearing the song of the Brazilian cardinal.
It was quite fine, but scarcely comparable with the
rich, full-toned, and varied whistle of our cardinal-
bird, being much less vigorous, slower in move-
ment, and feebler in tone. It was gratifying to be
able to give the palm to our North American
songster.

But of all the clatter of bird music and bird noise
combined that I have ever heard in my life, the
song of the English starling bore off the bays.
Never before had I listened to such divers sounds
from a bird’s throat, nor had I even fancied that
they were possible. Small wonder a well-trained
starling costs from twenty to forty dollars at the
bird stores! No description can do justice to the

BROWSINGS IN OTHER FIELDS. 233

starling’s song. He begins in a low, subdued tone,
and seems at first to be quite calm ; but gradually he
grows excited, his body quivers and sways from side
to side, his neck is craned out, his throat expands and
contracts convulsively, and, oh! oh! oh !— pardon
the exclamations — the hurly-burly that gurgles and
ripples and bubbles and pours from his windpipe!
At one point a double sound is produced, or two
sounds nearly at the same moment, — one low and
guttural, the other on a higher key,— presently a
half-dozen notes rush forth pell-mell, accompanied
by a quick snapping of the mandibles; then a suc-
cession of loud, musical, explosive notes fall on the
ear; and finally the bird, as if in a spasm of ecstasy,
opens his mouth wide and utters a clear, rapturous
trill as a sort of musical peroration. It is simply
wonderful. At first the bird seems to control the
song, but erelong the song seems to master the bird
completely. To my mind, it seemed that the song-
ster in the intervals of silence had wound up his
music-box, and then, having got started, was unable
to stop until the spring had run down. Some of
the notes of the strain were quite melodious, while
others were rather grating.

But what was that silvery song, rising above all
the other clangor of music? It was the trill of my
peerless little friend, the white-throated sparrow,
which I have met so often in my own woodland
trysts. Were I to award the prize to any bird in
the whole Zoo for sweetness of tone, it would cer-
tainly be given to this matchless minstrel. No other

234 IN BIRD LAND.

bird’s voice had such a purely musical quality; and
he sang just as loudly and sweetly as he does in his
native copse, bringing back the memory of many a
pleasant woodland ramble.

A beautiful family group next claimed attention.
It comprised two adult silver pheasants, a male and
female, and two little chicks recently from the shell,
which had been hatched in the Zoo. They looked
like downy chickens, and were about as large. There
was no hint of the long, gorgeous plumes that their
papa bore so proudly ; nothing but brownish, slightly
checkered down made up their suits. When their
mamma pecked at something on the ground, they
would scamper to her for it, as you have seen small
chickens do. Unlike most young birds, they picked
up their food themselves, and did not pry open
their mouths to be fed.

Had you seen the birds I next stopped to ogle,
you would have joined in my merriment ; for they
were the great kingfishers of Australia. What heavy
bills they carried, looking like good-sized clubs!
One of them pounded his beak against his perch
until it fairly rattled with the concussion. When I
tapped lightly against the wires, they stretched out
their necks, and hissed at me out of their huge
mouths.

Nothing was more pleasing than a large wired
house containing a dozen or more blue jays. Rain
was falling gently at the time, and the refreshing
drops filtered upon the birds through the wire roof.
How they enjoyed their bath as they flitted from

BROWSINGS IN OTHER FIELDS, 235

perch to perch! But the rain did not descend
rapidly enough for several of them ; and so, in order
to drench their plumage more thoroughly, they
plunged into the leafy bushes growing in their apart-
ment, and crept about over and through the sprinkled
foliage until their feathers were well rinsed.

An interesting bird was the yellow-headed black-
bird, which is a resident of some of our Western
States, but which does not deign even to visit my
neighborhood. His whole head and neck are
brilliant yellow, as if he had plunged up to his
shoulders in a keg of yellow paint, while the rest of
his attire is shiny black. He utters a loud, shrill
whistle, quite unlike any sound produced by his
kinsmen, the crow blackbird and the red-wing. He
seemed to feel quite at home in his cage with several
other species of birds.

Many a time I have thought I heard a tumult of
bird song in the fields or woods, but at the Zoo I
was greeted with a perfect din from the throats of
more than two dozen indigo-birds, all singing simul-
taneously. They simply drowned out every other
sound in the neighborhood when they chimed in
the chorus. Even the goldfinch, doing his level
best, could not be heard until there was a lull in
the shriller music. In the same enclosure were the
bluebirds and robins. My pity went out to one of
the robins, which was trying to build a nest, but
could not find a proper site nor the right kind of
material. She would pick up a bunch of fibres and
strings from the ground, fling them on the window-

236 IN BIRD LAND.

sill, and then squat down upon them to press them
into the desired concave with her red bosom; but
it was all to no purpose, for she had no mortar with
which to rear the walls of a cottage.

Leaving the robin to her fruitless labors, I turned
to a collection of weaver-birds of various species
and divers markings. There was one, especially,
with a black head and neck and yellow body, that
attracted notice. He was rather handsome; his
song, however, was a perfect squall, especially the
closing notes. These birds did not sing all the
time, but intermittently, one of them beginning with
a few ringing notes as a prelude, and then the others
joining, all screaming louder and louder as the
chorus went on, until they ended in a supreme
racket. Then there were a few moments of quiet,
followed by the united chorus as before, making
such a tumult that one voice could scarcely be dis-
tinguished from another. A dainty little sparrow,
unnamed, seemed to fill in the intervals with his chirp-
ings, forming a sort of semi-musical interlude.

The enclosure which contained the yellow-headed
blackbird was divided into a number of apartments.
Here were parrots of various species, among them a
number of white-throated Amazons. You have
doubtless heard a dozen or more parrots screaming
simultaneously. On my visit these birds created
a terrible hubbub. They cried and laughed and
sighed and groaned and shrieked until my ears were
almost deafened. But in the midst of it all, when
there was a slight lull, could be heard the silvery

BROWSINGS IN OTHER FIELDS. 237

trill of a white-throated sparrow, sounding like the
music of an angel amid a tumult of imps.

Near the centre of the garden there is a long
pond enclosed by wire fencing, and on and about
this pond is to be found an interesting group of
water-fowls. There was a large bluish-colored crane
with a ruff of feathers about his head. A workman
came along and snapped his fingers at the bird,
which hopped and leaped about and almost turned
a somersault. A great blue heron had made a nest
of sticks and twigs on the bare bank of the pond,
and was sitting on two eggs. While I was watching
her, she rose slowly on her long stilts, stretched out
her stiffened wings, rearranged the sticks with her
bill, and then sat down on her eggs again, turning
them under her breast. What an opportunity for a
bird student if day by day he could have watched
her build her nest and rear her young!

Swimming about on the pond like a couple of
feathered craft were two great white pelicans with
long bills and elevated wings. A tuft of feathers or
bristles grew on the top of their upper mandibles.
They seemed to be guying each other, or probably
were engaged ina real naval battle; for they pur-
sued each other around and around, engaged in
various martial movements and counter-movements,
and every now and then clashed together their great
beaks like two men fencing with swords. But they
avoided close contact. How lightly and smoothly
they glided about on the water !

Standing ona platform on the other side of the

238 IN BIRD LAND.

pond, were two more large, almost gigantic pelicans,
not of the same species as the two just mentioned,
having no tufts on their beaks, but a large feather-
less spot on the side of their heads encircling the
eye. There they stood, silently preening their
plumes, dexterously drawing each snowy feather
between their mandibles. How long they had been
making their toilet I cannot say. Presently the first
two pelicans came sailing over to the platform, and
climbed awkwardly upon it. Would there be a
pitched battle between them and the other two
birds? One of the latter stretched forth his neck,
and, to my great surprise, puffed out a large mem-
branous bag or pouch at his throat like that of a
frog, and uttered a warning cry. But soon the
quartette of feathered Goliaths settled down into
quiet, and adjusted their plumes without the least
interference with one another’s comfort.

Following a winding pathway, I presently reached
an apartment which contained sixteen great horned
owls, sitting in a row and looking as wise as Greek
sages. It was amusing to see them expand their
eyes and stare through the blinding light, then
blink, close one eye and dilate the other, and then
shut both so nearly that only narrow chinks were
visible between the lids. Several of them opened
their small, human-like mouths, and hissed at me
softly whenever I stirred. In another part of the
ground there was a collection of barn owls, with
faces that looked very intelligent; but the birds
seemed to be quite wild, glaring with their black

BROWSINGS IN OTHER FIELDS. 239

eyes and swaying their heads from side to side in
a nervous, irritable way.

I felt many times repaid for my saunter through
the Zoo, and would advise all who have an oppor-
tunity of visiting a good zodlogical garden not to
let it go by unimproved. A great deal of informa-
tion as well as pleasure may be thus gained.

Wherever one is, one must get people to talking
about one’s mania. How else could it be said that
there is method in one’s madness, or in what re-
spects it differs from mere lunacy? While visiting
with a delightful family living in a city some dis-
tance from my hore, our conversation drifted —
perhaps with a good deal of calculation on my part
—to the birds, with the result that I was put in
possession of several facts worth noting, chiefly be-
cause they prove how helpful some birds are to one
another in their domestic relations. No birds are
more ingenious in planning for one another’s com-
fort and safety than our ‘ foreign brethren,” the
English sparrows. The mistress of this intelligent
family, a woman who has keen eyes and ears for
the birds, declared that she always heard one spar-
row in the trees about the house waking up its
sleeping mates at break of day, like the father of a
family rousing his drowsing children. It called in
shrill tones as if it were saying, “ Wake up! wake
up! Dayis coming! Time to goto work!” As
it continued its clamor, it seemed to be flying
about from one point to another, visiting every bed-
room, until at length a faint peep was heard here

‘
4

]

i

240 - IN BIRD LAND.

and there in response from various members of the
sparrow household, and erelong the entire com-
pany was awake. When my friend told me this
story, I was considerably surprised, not to say a
little skeptical. But, remaining in their home over
night, I had an opportunity to confirm the story,
for I was myself awakened in the morning by the
loud, impatient calls of a sparrow rousing his fam-
ily; and the process took place just as my inform-
ants had described it, leaving no longer any room
for doubt.

The same kind friends described another cun-
ning freak of bird behavior. A lady’s bedroom
window opened near some bushy trees, in which a
pair of birds— perhaps robins—had built a nest.
At night the lady would often hear the male singing.
But sometimes he would grow drowsy, and would
become silent, —he had evidently got to napping,
—when there would be a coaxing, complaining
LPe-e-e-p! pe-e-e-p/ from the little wife on the nest,
evidently asking him to “sing some more.’’ Then
he would tune his pipe again until his throat got
tired and his eyelids heavy. In this way the ex-
acting wife kept her spouse serenading her for a
large part of the night. Perhaps, like children,
she could not sleep unless some one was singing to
her. At all events, it was very bright of her to de-
mand a lullaby or love-song from her husband to
put her to sleep.

The conduct of many kinds of birds in the
autumn while preparing for their Hegira to the

BROWSING IN OTHER FIELDS. Z4I

south is extremely interesting. They assemble in
flocks, sometimes large enough to suggest an ecu-
menical council, and fall to cackling, twittering,
discussing, and in many other ways making prepa-
ration for their aerial voyage to another clime.
They really seem to regret being compelled to
leave their pleasant summer haunts, if one may
judge from the length and fervor of their good-
byes. Perhaps they are like human beings who
have a strong attachment for home, and must visit
every nook and tryst to say az revoir before they
take their departure. One can easily imagine how
dear to their hearts are the scenes of their child-
hood, and of their nest-building and brood-rearing.

No birds make a greater to-do over their leave-
taking in the autumn than the house martins. I
once visited for a few days with some friends who
live in the country and have had a bevy of mar-
tins in their boxes for many years. They described
the behavior of these birds when fall comes. Ata
certain date in September they will gather in a
compact flock, sing and whistle and chatter at the
top of their voices, circle about the premises, alight-
ing on the trees, fences, and buildings, and then will
rise in the air and sail away through the blue ether.
Strange to say, they may return in a day or two,
and repeat their evolutions; and this may be
done several times before they say adieu and begin
their southward pilgrimage in real earnest. Why
do they do this? One might well rack one’s brain

in vain conjectures. Do they lose their way the
16

242 IN BIRD LAND.

first time? Or do they get a bad start, and then
come back to try again? Or do they get home-
sick after they have gone some distance, and return
once more to look upon the familiar scenes? It
would be difficult to sift all the processes of bird
cerebration.

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 243

XVII
A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL.?

N making a study of Lowell’s poetry for a special
purpose, one cannot help admiring the genius
with which he transmutes every theme he touches
into gold. His Muse is exceedingly versatile, ranging
at her own sweet will over a wide and varied field.
There may be times when you are not in the mood
for smiling at his humor or weeping at his pathos ;
but his delineations of Nature are always so true,
so musical, so picturesque, that they seldom fail to
strike a responsive chord in the breasts of those
readers who are not

“ Aliens among the birds and brooks,
Dull to interpret or conceive
What gospels lost the woods retrieve.”

No other American poet seems to get quite so
near to Nature’s throbbing heart. Dream though
he sometimes may, he seldom loses his hold on the
world of reality. Nature in her own garb is beauti-

1 This article, under the title of “ Lowell and the Birds,”
was first published in the ‘‘New England Magazine,” for
November, 1891, shortly after the poet’s death. Copyright
credit is here given to the publisher of that magazine.

244 IN BIRD LAND.

ful enough for him, and does not need the garnish-
ing and drapery of an over-fanciful interpretation.
It is not my purpose, however, to eulogize Lowell’s
poetry, even his poetry of Nature, in a general way,
or attempt an analysis of it, but simply to call atten-
tion to his metrical descriptions of the feathered
creation. Among all our American poets, he is the
limner par excellence of bird ways. It is true that
Emerson is somewhat rich in allusions to our feath-
ered denizens, and especially felicitous in his char-
acterizations; but his references are briefer, more
casual, and far less frequent than those of Lowell,
who takes toll of them, one might almost say,
without stint; for he says of himself, —

“My heart, I cannot still it,
Nest that has song-birds in it.”

Lowell never speaks of the birds in a stereotyped
way, as many poets do, but mentions them by name,
and often describes their behavior with a deftness
and accuracy of touch that fairly enchant the
specialist in bird lore. Having given no little at-
tention to the study of birds, I feel prepared to say
that Lowell’s hand is almost always sure when he
undertakes to depict the manners of the “ feathered
republic of the groves.” I have found, I think,
only one technical inaccuracy in all his numerous
allusions ;* and I believe I may say, without boasting,

1 The one noted in the chapter on “The Wood-Pewee.”
As the poem on this bird is quoted in that article, it has been
purposely omitted from this collection of passages.

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 245

that I am familiar with every bird whose charms he
has chanted. Indeed, he himself boasts modestly,
as poets may, of his familiarity with the birds in his
beautiful tribute to George William Curtis, saying, —

“T learned all weather-signs of day and night;
No bird but I could name him by his flight.”

In the first place, let me point out the remarkable
felicity of his more general references to birds and
their ways. ‘The music of the minstrels of the air
often fills his bosom with pleasing but half-regretful
reminders of other and happier days, as, for
example, when he penned those exquisite lines,
“To Perdita, Singing,’ —

“She sits and sings,
With folded wings
And white arms crost,
‘Weep not for bygone things,
They are not lost.’”

Then follow some lines of rare sweetness, the
concluding ones of which are these, —
“ Every look and every word
Which thou givest forth to-day,

Tells of the singing of the bird
Whose music stilled thy boyish play.”

A similar pensive reference is found in our poet’s
ode, “To the Dandelion,” which is as deserving
of admiration as many of the more famous odes
of English poesy. He thus apostrophizes “the
common flower’’ that fringes “the dusty road with
harmless gold,’”’ —

246 IN BIRD LAND.

“My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee;
The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song,
Who, from the dark old tree
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long;
And I, secure in childish piety,
Listened as if I heard an angel sing
With news from heaven, which he could bring
Fresh every day to my untainted ears,
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.”

A bird often affords our poet a metaphor or a
simile by which to represent some sad reminiscence
of his life. Listen to this sweet minor strain, —

“ As a twig trembles, which a bird
Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,

So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; —
I only know she came and went.”

With what a plaintive melody the last line lingers
in one’s mind, like some far-off melancholy strain,
singing itself over again and again with a persistency
that will not be hushed, — “I only know she came
and went.” There are times, too, when our bard
falls into a slightly despondent mood, and even
then the birds serve to give a turn to his pensive
reflections, —

“ But each day brings less summer cheer,
Crimps more our ineffectual spring,
And something earlier every year
Our singing birds take wing.”

To my mind, he is less attractive when his verse
takes on this cheerless hue, and I therefore turn
gladly to his more jubilant lays, in which he seems
to have caught the joy of the full-toned bird

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 247

orchestra, as he does at more than one place in
“The Vision of Sir Launfal,”” —

“ The little birds sang as if it were
The one day of summer in all the year,
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees.”

What bird lover has not often been caught in
such a mesh of bird song, on a bright day of the
early springtime? Even good-natured Hosea Big-
low cannot always repress his enthusiasm for the
birds, although he is quite too chary of his allusions
to them, — that is, too chary for the man who has
birds on the brain. His unsophisticated sincerity
cannot brook a perfunctory treatment of Nature’s
blithe minstrels, for he breaks out scornfully in
denouncing those book-read poets who get “wut
they ’ve airly read’? so “worked into their heart
an’ head” that they

“.. . can’t seem to write but jest on sheers
With furrin countries or played-out ideers.

This makes ’em talk o’ daisies, larks, an’ things,
Ez though we’d nothin’ here that blows an’ sings.
Why, I’d give more for one live bobolink

Than a square mile o’ larks in printer’s ink!”

Hosea, in spite of the meagreness of his allusions
to bird life, still proves beyond a doubt that he is
conversant with the migratory habits of the birds,
and that he has been watching a little impatiently
for their vernal appearance in his native fields and
woods, as every bird student who reads the following
lines will testify, —

248 IN BIRD LAND.

“ The birds are here, for all the season ’s late ;
They take the sun’s height, an’ don’ never wait;
Soon ’z he officially declares it’s spring,

Their light hearts lift’em on a north’ard wing,
An’ th’ ain’t an acre, fur ez you can hear,
Can’t by the music tell the time o’ year.”

Sometimes a single line or phrase proclaims our
poet’s loving familiarity with the feathered world,
and gives his verse an outdoor flavor that positively
puts a tonic into the appreciative reader’s veins,
almost driving him out beneath the shining vault of
the sky; as when the poet refers to “the cock’s
shrill trump that tells of scattered corn;” or to
“the thin-winged swallow skating on the air;” or
laments because “snowflakes fledge the summer’s
nest ;’’ or remarks incidentally that the “ cat-bird
croons in the lilac-bush ;” or that “the robin sings,
as of old, from the limb;”’ or that “the single crow
a single caw lets fall;’’ or asks, “Is a thrush
gurgling from the brake?” How vivid and full of
woodsy suggestion are the following lines from that
captivating poem, “ Al Fresco”? : —

“The only hammer that I hear
Is wielded by the woodpecker,
The single noisy calling his
In all our leaf-hid Sybaris.”

Nothing could be more characteristic of wood-
peckerdom than that quatrain. Still more rhyth-
mical are the first six lines—a metrical sextette
that sing themselves — of the poem entitled “The
Fountain of Youth,’ —

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 249

“?’T is a woodland enchanted !
By no sadder spirit
Than blackbirds and thrushes,
That whistle to cheer it
All day in the bushes,
This woodland is haunted.”
And what a picture for the fancy is limned in the
following lines : —
“ Like rainbow-feathered birds that bloom
A moment on some autumn bough,
That, with the spurn of their farewell,
Sheds its last leaves!”
A flashlight view that, of one of the rarest scenes
in Nature. The poet must have bent over more
than one callow brood of nestlings, or he never
could have written so knowingly about them, —
“Blind nestlings, unafraid,
Stretch up wide-mouthed to every shade

By which their downy dream is stirred,
Taking it for the mother bird;”

for such is the unsuspicious habit of most bantlings
in the nest. It would be difficult to find a defter
touch than that with which Lowell describes a
resplendent morning, “omnipotent with sunshine,”
whose “ quick charm . . . wiled the bluebird to his

whiff of song,’’
“ While aloof
An oriole clattered and a robin shrilled,
Denouncing me an alien and a thief; ”

particularly if it is borne in mind that the allusion is
to the chattering alarm-call of the oriole and the
robin. Exquisite indeed is the description of —

250 IN BIRD LAND.

“The bluebird shifting his light load of song
From post to post along the cheerless fence ;

while it would puzzle one to find anywhere a more
poetical and at the same time realistic portrayal
than this, —
“Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee
Close at my side,” —

especially if the reference be to the little black-
capped titmouse’s minor whistle, which has a
strange, sad remoteness when heard in the sylvan
depth, reminding one of the myth of Orpheus
mourning for his lost love. No less vivid are the

lines, —
“The phoebe scarce whistles
Once an hour to his fellow ;”

or these, —

“O’erhead the balanced hen-hawk slides,

Twinned in the river’s heaven below ;”
~

or this description of a winter scene, —

“T stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds
Like brown leaves whirling by.”

Hark ! —
“ All pleasant winds from south and west
With lullabies thine ears beguiled,

Rocking thee in thine oriole’s nest,
Till Nature looked at thee and smiled.”

Listen again | —

“The sobered robin, hunger-silent now,
Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer.”

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 251

If one were only there to see : —

“ High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow,
The silvered flats gleam frostily below;
Suddenly drops the gull, and breaks the glassy tide.”

Of course even the casual observer has often
been aware of the fact that “ the robin is plastering
his house hard by;” and many of us may have
looked upon a winter scene like the following, but
I am sure we never thought of painting it in just
such tropical colors, —

“ The river was numb, and could not speak,
For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;
A single crow on the tree-top bleak
From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun.”

Hosea Biglow seems to think he knows where
to find

‘“Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind,
An’ seem to match the doubting bluebird’s notes,”

liverworts and bloodroots being among those talis-
manic plants. ‘There is a world of serenity in the
following metrical etching, which makes one almost
long to die and be forever at rest : —

“ Happy their end
Who vanish down life’s evening stream
Placid as swans that drift in dream
Round the next river-bend.”

Our poet had the charming habit of making some
characteristic bird-way do deft metaphorical duty in

252 IN BIRD LAND.

his verse, like the skilful weaver who runs a line of
exquisite tint through his weft. Hereis an instance,
found in the poem called “ Threnodia,’”’ —

“T loved to see the infant soul

Peep timidly from out its nest,

His lips, the while,

Fluttering with half-fledged words,

Or hushing to a smile

That more than words expressed,

When his glad mother on him stole

And snatched him to her breast!

O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes,
That would have soared like strong-winged birds
Far, far into the skies,

Gladding the earth with song

And gushing harmonies.”

Here is another fine simile, —

“ As if a lark should suddenly drop dead
While the blue air yet trembled with its song,
So snapped at once that music’s golden thread.”

In the following stanzas on “The Falcon” —
used as a metaphor for Truth — there is a captivat-
ing multiplicity of figures, —

“T know a falcon swift and peerless
As e’er was cradled in the pine;
No bird had ever eye so fearless,
Or wing so strong as this of mine.

“The winds not better love to pilot
A cloud with molten gold o’errun,
Than him, a little burning islet,
A star above the coming sun.

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 253

“ For with a lark’s heart he doth tower,
By a glorious upward instinct drawn ;
No bee nestles deeper in the flower
Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.”

It almost throws one into “a midsummer night’s
dream ”’ to read this picturesque line, —

“ The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere.”

That must have been an expressive face indeed
whose features were

“ As full of motion as a nest
That palpitates with unfledged birds,”

albeit one may be permitted to hope, without irrev-
erence, that it made a more attractive picture than
did the callow youngsters gaping and wabbling in
their nursery. But here is a delineation of bird
life so graphically and richly colored that one longs
for the brush of the artist to transfer it to canvas.
Listen! listen! There is an exhilarant in the
atmosphere.
“ The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o’errun
With the deluge of summer it receives ;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, —
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ?”

The last two lines, by the way, are in perfect keep-
ing with Mr. Lowell’s generous instincts, which were
always on the side of the lowly and unappreciated.

254 IN BIRD LAND.

Seductive as the figure is, there seems to be some-
thing slightly forced in the poet’s conceit that the
thrushes sing because they have been “ pierced
through with June’s delicious sting,” unless it might
be justified on the principle that pain and trial often
enhance moral values.

There is a beautiful stanza in the poem, “On
Planting a Tree at Inverara,” —

“ Hither the busy birds shall flutter,
With the light timber for their nests,

And, pausing from their labor, utter
The morning sunshine in their breasts.”

With all his poet’s soul Lowell loved the serene,
as when he congratulates himself on having left the
grating noise and stifling smoke of London, and
found in some sequestered haunt

* Air and quiet too ;
Air filtered through the beech and oak;
Quiet by nothing harsher broke
Than wood-dove’s meditative coo.”

The word “meditative” is extremely felicitous,
but no more so than the hop-skip-and-spring of
the following lines from a Commencement dinner
poem : —

“T ve a notion, I think, of a good dinner speech,
Tripping light as a sandpiper over the beach,
Swerving this way and that, as the wave of the moment
Washes out its slight trace with a dash of whim’s foam on ’t,
And leaving on memory’s rim just a sense
Something graceful had gone by, a live present tense ;
Not poetry, —no, not quite that, but as good,
A kind of winged prose that could fly if it would.”

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 255

Like all discriminating lovers of “ Nature’s blithe
commoners,” Lowell had his favorites, whose
praises he frequently rung with a sincerity that
cannot be doubted for a moment. He was espe-
cially partial to the bobolink. He must have often
peeped into the

“‘Tussocks that house blithe Bob o’ Lincoln,”

or his Muse would not have been so adept and
faithful in her hymning descriptions. We will lend
a listening ear while she sings her chansons on the
virtues of the bird our poet loved so truly. First,
I will call attention to the following portraiture of
that cavalier of the meadow, the male bobolink, at
the season when there are bantlings in the grass-
domed nest which demand his paternal care, as
well as that of his faithful spouse, —

“ Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink,
Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops

Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture’s tremulous brink,
And ’twixt the windrows most demurely drops,

A decorous bird of business, who provides

For his brown mate and fledgelings six besides,
And looks from right to left, a farmer ’mid his crops.”

One can almost see the poet leaning against the
rail fence of the clover field, with pencil in hand,
drawing the portrait of the bird which is posing
unconsciously before him, so true is his delineation
of bobolink life. But to find Lowell at his best you
must read his description of Robert o’ Lincoln at
his best. Hark !—

256 IN BIRD LAND.

“ A week ago the sparrow was divine ;
The bluebird, shifting his light load of song
From post to post along the cheerless fence,
Was as a rhymer ere the poet come;
But now, oh, rapture ! sunshine winged and voiced,
Pipe blown through by the warm, wild breath of the West,
Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud,
Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one,
The bobolink has come, and, like the soul
Of the sweet season, vocal in a bird,
Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what,
Save June! Dear June! Now God be praised for June.”

The only fault to be found with this exquisite
tribute is that it is rather too much involved to
glide melodiously from the lips, or be quite clear
to the mind until after a second or third reading.
Not so picturesque, but more simple and musical,
is this bit, —

“ From blossom-clouded orchards, far away
The bobolink tinkled. ”

The provincial tongue of Hosea Biglow presents
us with the following rare bit of portraiture, which
has all the strength and freshness of a painting from
Nature : —

“June’s bridesman, poet o’ the year,
Gladness on wings, the bobolink is here ;
Half-hid in tip-top apple-bloom he sings,

Or climbs against the breeze with quiverin’ wings,
Or, givin’ way to ’t in mock despair,
Runs down, a brook o’ laughter, thro’ the air,” —

a rhythmical tribute that is both an honor to the
poet and a compliment to the bobolink.

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 257

The Baltimore oriole also claims Mr. Lowell’s
admiration. There is one descriptive passage rela-
tive to this bird that, in my opinion, goes ahead
of even the famous bobolink eulogy just quoted :

“Hush! ’Tis he!
My oriole, my glance of summer fire,
Is come at last, and, ever on the watch,
Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound
About the bough to help his housekeeping, —
Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck,
Yet fearing me who laid it in his way,
Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs,
Divines the providence that hides and helps.
FHeave, ho! Heave, ho! he whistles as the-twine
Slackens its hold; ovce more, now ! and a flash
Lightens across the sunlight to the elm
Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt.
Nor all his booty is the thread; he trails
My loosened thought with it along the air,
And I must follow, would I ever find
The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life.”

The last sentence is a deft turn at weaving, oriole-
like, a thread of moral reflection into a fine piece of
description. Even in his later years Lowell could
not throw off the spell that this summer flake of
gold had thrown over him; for in his volume called
“ Heartsease and Rue” he has inserted a little
poem entitled “The Nest ” that for rhythmical flow
and beauty has not been excelled by any of his
earlier productions. He first describes the nest in
May as follows : —

“Then from the honeysuckle gray
The oriole with experienced quest
17

258 IN BIRD LAND.

Twitches the fibrous bark away,
The cordage of his hammock nest,

Cheering his labor with a note

Rich as the orange of his throat.

“ High o’er the loud and dusty road
The soft gray cup in safety swings,
To brim ere August with its load
Of downy breasts and throbbing wings,
O’er which the friendly elm-tree heaves
An emerald roof with sculptured leaves.

Thy duty, wingéd flame of Spring,
Is but to love and fly and sing.”

Then he chants a pathetic “ palinode,” as he
calls it, in December, when

“. . homeless winds complain along
The columned choir once thrilled with song.

“ And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise
The thankful oriole used to pour,
Swing’st empty while the north winds chase
Their snowy swarms from Labrador.
But, loyal to the happy past,
I love thee still for what thou wast.”

Besides the bobolink and the oriole, the black-
bird is often made to do charming duty in Lowell’s
verse. Every student of the birds has often seen
the picture described by the line, —

“ Alders the creaking red-wings sink on; ”

or heard
“|. , the blackbirds clatt’rin’ in tall trees
An’ settlin’ things in windy Congresses, —
Queer politicians, though, for 171] be skinned
Ef all on ’em don’t head against the wind.”

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 259

A number of quotations in which the robin figures
conspicuously have already been given. One more
occurs to me, —that in which Hosea Biglow
exclaims, —

“ Thet ’s robin-redbreast’s almanick ; he knows
That arter this ther’ ’s only blossom-snows ;

So, choosin’ out a handy crotch an’ spouse,
He goes to plast’rin’ his adobé house.”

But hold! here is still another : —

“The Maple puts her corals on in May,
While loitering frosts about the lowlands cling,
To be in tune with what the robins sing,
Plastering new log-huts ’mid her branches gray.”

It cau scarcely be hoped to make this anthology
from Lowell exhaustive, for almost every time I
turn the leaves of his poetical works I stumble upon
some reference to the birds before unnoted; but
this article would be incomplete should one of his
choicest bits of metrical description, which must
bring both anthology and book to a close, be
omitted. It is found in the poem entitled “The
Nightingale in the Study,” the whole of which must
be read to catch the drift of its moral teaching.
The poet doubtless attributes more magnanimity to
the cat-bird than that carolist is entitled to, — but
no matter; the Muses cannot be over-precise.
Here is a charmer: —

“© Come forth!’ my cat-bird calls to me,
‘ And hear me sing a cavatina
That, in this old familiar tree,
Shall hang a garden of Alcina.

260 IN BIRD LAND.

“Or, if to me you will not hark,
By Beaver Brook a thrush is ringing
Till all the alder-coverts dark
Seem sunshine-dappled with his singing.

“Come out beneath the unmastered sky,
With its emancipating spaces,
And learn to sing as well as I,
Without premeditated graces.

“©Come out! with me the oriole cries,
Escape the demon that pursues you !
And hark ! the cuckoo weatherwise,
Still hiding, farther onward wooss you.’ ”

But this time, for a wonder, the poet declines the
invitation to go out of doors, because, as he says,
“a bird is singing in my brain;” and yet he
does so with evident regret, for he exclaims, in

response to the cat-bird’s plea, —

“Alas, dear friend, that, all my days,
Has poured from that syringa thicket
The quaintly discontinuous lays
To which I hold a season ticket, —

“A season ticket cheaply bought
With a dessert of pilfered berries,
And who so oft my love has caught
With morn and evening voluntaries,

“*Deem me not faithless, if all day
Among my dusty books I linger,
No pipe, like thee, for June to play
With fancy-led, half-conscious finger.

A BIRD ANTHOLOGY FROM LOWELL. 261

“© & bird is singing in my brain,
And bubbling o’er with mingled fancies,
Gay, tragic, rapt, right heart of Spain
Fed with the sap of old romances ;’”

and so for once the poet of the birds cannot be lured
from his study, where he has been caught in the weft
of old Moorish and Castilian legends, and he con-
cludes his apology with the only slighting allusion
in all his verses, so far as I have discovered, to his
beloved winged minstrels : —

“*¢ Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale
To his, my singer of all weathers,
My Calderon, my nightingale,
My Arab soul in Spanish feathers.

“¢ Ah, friend, these singers dead so long,
And still, God knows, in purgatory,
Give its best sweetness to all song,
To Nature’s self her better glory.’”

Thus the Lowell anthology has swollen to a veri-
table anthem, and gives to this modest volume a
peroration that it can never hope to deserve.

APPENDIX.

MY BIRD LIST.

ii following is an alphabetical list of the birds
which I have seen in my neighborhood, Springfield,

Clark County, Ohio.

It is given for the convenience of

bird students, who are always interested in the /ocale of

the feathered tribe.

The small figure (rt) indicates

residents all the year round; (2), summer residents;
(3), winter residents ; (4), migrants.

Bittern, American.?

Blackbird, red-winged.?

Bluebird 2 (occasionally win-
ter resident).

Bobolink.?

Bob-white.t

Bunting, _ black - throated ;
Dickcissel.?

Butcher-bird.t

Buzzard, turkey.”

Cat-bird.?

Cedar-bird.t

Chat, yellow-breasted.?

Chickadee, black-capped.!

Cow-bird.2

Creeper, brown.3

Crow.!

Cuckoo, black-billed.?
yellow-billed.2

Dickcissel.?
Dove, turtle or mourning.!
Duck, wood.?

Finch, purple.*
Flicker.1
Flycatcher, Acadian.*
crested.?
least.4
Traill’s.t
yellow-)ellied.*

Gnatcatcher, blue-gray.*
Goldfinch, American.
Grass-finch.?
Grossbeak, cardinal.}
rose-beasted.*
Grouse, ruffed.1

Hawk, red-shouldered.3
sharp-shinned.?

264

Hawk, sparrow.
Heron, great blue.”
green.?
Humming-bird, ruby-
throated.?

Indigo-bird.2

Jay, blue.?
Junco; snowbird.?

Killdeer.?

Kingbird.?

Kingfisher, belted.?

Kinglet, golden-crownea.?
ruby-crowned.4

Lark, horned or shore.3
meadow.2

Martin, purple.?

Night-hawk.?
Nuthatch, white-breasted.1
red-breasted.*

Oriole, Baltimore.?
orchard.?

Oven bird.2

Owl, screech.t

Pewee, wood.?
Phebe ; house pewee.?
Pipit, American.®

Redstart.4
Robin? (sometimes in win-
ter).

Sandpiper, spotted.?
Sapsucker, yellow-bellied.*

MY BIRD LIST.

Shrike, loggerhead.*
Sparrow, chipping.?
English.!
field.?
fox.4
grasshopper.”
lark.
Savanna.4
song.!
swamp.
tree3
white-crowned.!
white-throated.*
Swallow, bank.?
barn.?
cliff or cave.
white-bellied or
tree?
Swift, chimney.?

Tanager, scarlet.?

Titmouse, tufted.t

Thrasher, brown.2

Thrush, hermit.4
Wilson’s or veery.*
wood.?

Towhee; chewink.?

Vireo, blue-headed.*
red-eyed.?
warbling.?
white-eyed.#
yellow-throated.*

Warbler, bay-breasted.*
black and white.4
Blackburnian #
black-poll.*
black-throated blue.4
black-throated green.4
blue-winged.$

MY BIRD LIST. 265

Warbler, Canadian.*
cerulean.?
chestnut-sided.*
Connecticut.
golden-winged.*
hooded.*
Kirtland’s.4
magnolia.
Maryland yellow-

throat.2
mourning.
myrtle.t
Nashville.?
palm or red-poll.t
Tennessee.*
Wilson’s; green

black-capped.*

Warbler, worm-eating.4
yellow or summer.?
Water-thrush.*

Louisiana.
Whippoorwill.2
Woodpecker, downy.!

golden-winged ; flicker.

hairy.1

red-bellied ; zebra-bird.3

red-headed.?

yellow-bellied.*
Wren, Bewick’s.?

Carolina.!

house.?

short-billed marsh.*

winter.*

INDEX.

ACCENTOR, 199.
Addison, quoted, 168.
Allen, J. A., quoted, 79-80.

Birp baths, 15, 38, 39, 51, 205.
Bird colonies, 42-44.
Bird migration, 64, 76-86.
Bird plumage, 87-91.
Bird roosts, 116-126.
Bird sadness, 207, 208.
Bird song, my creed regarding,
13, 14.
Birds of Paradise, 167.
Blackbirds, 180, 249, 258.
Crow, 29, 34, 35, 63-
red-winged, 29, 65, 120, 125.
yellow-headed, 235.
Bluebirds, 28, 88, 165, 190, 209,
249, 250-
Bobolink, 200, 247, 255, 256.
Bolles, Frank, 29.
Brewster, William, 84-86.
Browning, Robert, quoted, 150.
Browning, Mrs. E. B., quoted,
169.
Bryant, W. C., quoted, 81.
Bunting, black-throated, 112.
cow, 96, 97, 125, 178, 180,

199.
towhee, 66, 89, 93, 113, 156,
163, 200,
Burns, Robert, quoted, 207.
Burroughs, John, 29, 165, 211.

CAT-BIRD, 24-26, 82, 125, 143,
259-261.
Chapman, Frank M., So.

Chat, yellow-breasted, 102, 154,
193-4.

Chewink, 62.

Chickadee, 42, 44, 217, 250.

Coleridge, quoted, 208.

Collectors, 214.

Creeper, brown, 15, 17-20, 44,
203, 219.

Cross-bil], 209.

Crow, 154, 251.

Cuckoo, yellow-billed, 174, 187.

Dove, turtle, 13, 63, 120, 172,
173.

EMERSON, 42, 52, 244.
quoted, 10, 11, 49, 141, 158,
225.

FALCON, 252.
Finch, cut-throat, 2c6.
purple, 72.
Fish, Eldridge E., 94, 97, 209.
Flicker, yellow-hammer, 57, 124,
162, 205.
Flycatcher, Traill’s, 85.

GiBson, W. H., quoted, 92.
Gnat-catcher, blue-gray, 144-146,

195.

Goldfinch, 74, 104-109, 113, 187,
232, 235.

Grackle, purple (see Crow black-
bird), 35.

Grass-finch, 68, 88, 112, 118.

Grossbeak, Brazilian, 232.

cardinal, 46, 62, 90, 113,
156, 232.

268

Grossbeak, evening, 71.
rose-breasted, 64, 73+
Grouse, ruffed, 166.

Hawk, hen, 250.
sparrow, 210.

Heron, great blue, 237.
green, 155, 181-183.
Howells, W. D., quoted, 11.

Hummers, 165.

INDIGO-BIRD, 87, 102, 153, 235.

Jay, blue, 28, 196, 210, 234.
Juncos (see Snow-birds), 51, 53-
56, 82, 118, 219, 229.

KILLDEER, 28, 65, 99, 183.
King-bird ; bee-martin, 197.
Kingfisher, Australian, 234.
belted, 184.
Kinglets, 42, 166.
golden-crowned, 36, 44, 81,
204, 209.
ruby-crowned, 91, 204.

LANGILLE, J. H., quoted, 166.
Lanier, Sidney, quoted, 14-15,
133.
Larcom, Lucy, quoted, 68.
Lark, 247, 252, 253.
meadow, 65, 84, 112, 118,
125, 173.
Longfellow, quoted, 164.
Lowell, 40, 45.
quoted, 113, 128-9, 130, 131,
175, 198, 222, 243-261.

Martin, house or purple, 241.
Mexican stars, 166.

Milton, quoted, 200.

Montreal, 226.

Mount Royal, Canada, 227-231.

INDEX.

NESTS, 20, 92-109, 169-185.

Night-hawk, 135-140.

Nonpareil, 212, 232.

Nuthatch, white-breasted, 15, 29,
311 35) 42) 455 47) 212.

ORIOLE, Baltimore, 64, 99, 113,
249, 257, 260.
orchard, 153, 180.
Oven-bird, 142.
Owls, 121, 238.

PARROTS, 236.

Pelicans, 237.

Pewee, wood, 114, 115, 127-134,
190, 196, 220, 244.

Pheasant, silver, 234.

Pheebe, 69, 126, 189, 220, 250.

REDSTART, 74, 91, 230.

Robin, 27, 65, 73, 112, 120, 200,
211, 233, 246, 249, 250, 251,
259-

SANDPIPER, 254.
Sangster, Margaret E., quoted,

93+
Shakespeare, quoted, 212.
Snow-bird (see Junco), 49, 51,

250.

Sparrow, bush, 12, 68, 88, 99,
302-104, 105, 106, 109,
112, 120.

chipping, 69, 88, 210.

English, 239.

fox, 67.

grasshopper, 156.

lark, 112, 118.

song, 13, 15, 46, 56, 58, 60-
62, 63, 65, 66, 114, 119,
153, 164, 229.

swamp, 222.

tree, 15, 49-51, 53, 55, 56,
59-60, 116.

INDEX.

Sparrow, white-crowned, go.
white-throated, 120, 224, 233,
237.
Starling, English, 232.
Swallow, bank, 98.
Swan, 251, 253.

TANAGER, scarlet, 65, 89, 213.
Thrasher, brown, 14, 64, 81, 82,
94, 120, 121, 143, 148-151,
190, 202, 206.
Titmouse, black-capped, 15, 31,
32, 64, 113, 180.
crested, 20, 32, 35, 45-
Thrush, Wilson’s, 227, 228.
wood, 95, 122, 156, 159, 170—
172, 179, 190, 206, 259.
Torrey, Bradford, 39, 134, 149,
223.

ViREO, blue-headed, 71-72.
red-eyed, 72, 85,177, 230.
warbling, 99, 152, 196.

WALLACE, A. R., quoted, 167.
Warblers, 38, 82, 85, 86, 90, 217.
bay-breasted, 74.
Blackburnian, 220.
black-throated blue, 220.
black-throated green, 220,
221, 230.

269

Warblers, blue-winged, 70.
cerulean, 114, 220.
chestnut-sided, 114, 220, 230.
creeping, 220, 229.
hooded, 83, 146-148, 199.
Kentucky, 156.

Maryland yellow-throat, 85,
91, 113, 153.

mourning, 83.

myrtle, 38, 39, 220.

parula, 220.

summer, 96-98.

worm-eating, 144.

Water-thrush, Louisiana, 158.

Waxbills, 231.

Weaver-birds, 236.

Whippoorwill, 135, 149.

Wood-dove, 254.

Woodpeckers, 17, 42, 124, 248.
downy, 15, 46, 163.
hairy, 32, 46.
red-bellied ; zebra-bird, 21.
red-headed, 32, 36-38, 89,

123, 125, 142, 186, 197,
199, 202.
yellow-hellied ;

29, 30.

Wren, Bewick’s, 39, 64, 69, 143.

Carolina, 41, 113, 157-

sap-sucker,

ZOGLOGICAL GARDEN, a visit
to, 231-239.

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