nest; we should naturally have watched for wings, and none might come or
go, while she was using her feet instead. She returned in the same way;
flying to the top, or part way up her sapling, she ran down to her nest
as glibly as she had run up. The walnut-trunk was the ladder which led
to the outside world. This pretty little scene was many times repeated,
in the days that we spent before the castle of our Carolinians; the male
announcing himself afar with songs, and approaching gradually, while his
mate listened to the notes that had wooed her, and now again coaxed her
away from her sitting, for a short outing with him. Sometimes, though
rarely, she came out without this inducement, but during her sitting
days she usually went only upon his invitation.
Before many days we had fully identified the pair. The song had puzzled
me at first, for though extraordinary in volume for a bird of his size,
and possessing that indefinable wren quality, that abandon and
unexpectedness, as if it were that instant inspired, it had yet few
notes, and I missed the exquisite tremolo that makes the song of the
winter-wren so bewitching. But I "studied him up," and learned that his
finest and most characteristic song is uttered in the spring only. After
nesting has begun, he gives merely these musical calls, which, though
delightful, do not compare--say the books--with his ante-nuptial
performance. I was too late for that, but I was glad and thankful for
these.
Moreover, the wren varied his songs as the days went on. There were from
two to five notes in a clause, never more, and commonly but three. This
clause he repeated again and again during the whole of one visit; but
the next time he came he had a new one, which likewise he kept to while
he stayed. Again, when, some days later, he took part in feeding, he
frequently changed the song as he left the nest. Struck by the variety
he gave to his few notes, after some days I began to take them down in
syllables as they expressed themselves to my ear, for they were sharp
and distinct. Of course, these syllables resemble his sound about as a
dried flower resembles the living blossom, but they serve the same
purpose, to reproduce them in memory. In that way I recorded in three
days eighteen different arrangements of his notes. Doubtless there were
many more; indeed, he seemed to delight in inventing new combinations,
and his taste evidently agreed with mine, for when he succeeded in
evolving a particularly charming one, he did not easily change it. One
that specially pleased me I put down as "Shame-ber-ee!" and this was his
favorite, too, for after the day he began it, he sang it oftener than
any other. It had a peculiarly joyous ring, the second note being a
third below the first, and the third fully an octave higher than the
second. I believe he had just then struck upon it, his enjoyment of it
was so plain to see.
The Wren's Court was a distracting spot to study one pair of small
birds. So many others came about, and always, it seemed, in some crisis
in wren affairs, when I dared not take my eyes from my glass, lest I
lose the sequence of events. There appeared sometimes to be a thousand
whispering, squealing, and smacking titmice in the trees over my head,
and a whole regiment of great-crested flycatchers and others on one
side. I was glad I was familiar with all the flicker noises, or I should
have been driven wild at these moments, so many, so various, and so
peculiar were their utterances; likewise thankful that I knew the row
made by the jay on the bank above was not a sign of dire distress, but
simply the tragic manner of the family.
Again, when the wind blew, it was impossible to see the little folk
that chattered and whispered and "dee-dee'd" overhead, and though we
were absolutely certain a party of tufted tits and chickadees and black
and white creepers, who always seemed to travel in company, were
frolicking about, we could not distinguish them from the dancing and
fluttering leaves.
When the day was favorable, and the wren had gone his way, foraging in
silence over the low ground at our back, and an old stump that stood
there, and the sitter had settled herself in her nest for another half
hour, we could look about at whoever happened to be there. Thus I made
further acquaintance with the great-crested flycatcher. Hitherto I had
known these birds only as they travel through a neighborhood not their
own, appearing on the tops of trees, and crying out in martial tones for
the inhabitants to bring on their fighters, a challenge to all whom it
may concern. It was a revelation, then, to see them quietly at home like
other birds, setting up claims to a tree, driving strangers away from
it, and spending their time about its foot, seeking food near the
ground, and indulging in frolics or fights, whichever they might be,
with squealing cries and a rushing flight around their tree. In the
latter part of our study, the great-crest babies were out, noisy little
fellows, who insisted on being fed as peremptorily as their elders
demand their rights and privileges.
To make the place still more maddening for study, the birds seemed to
sweep through the woods in waves. For a long time not a peep would be
heard, not a feather would stir; then all at once
"The air would throb with wings,"
and birds would pour in from all sides, half a dozen at a time, making
us want to look six ways at once, and rendering it impossible to confine
ourselves to one. Then, after half an hour of this superabundance, one
by one would slip out, and by the time we began to realize it, we were
alone again.
We had watched the wren for nine days when there came an interruption.
It happened thus: A little farther up the glen we had another study, a
wood-thrush nest in a low tree, and every day, either coming or going,
we were accustomed to spend an hour watching that. Our place of
observation was a hidden nook in a pile of rocks, where we were entirely
concealed by thick trees, through which, by a judicious thinning out of
twigs and leaves, we had made peepholes, for the thrush mamma would not
tolerate us in her sight. To reach our seats and not alarm the
suspicious little dame, we always entered from the back, slowly and
cautiously climbed the rocks by a rude path which already existed, and
slipped in under cover of our leafy screen.
On the morning of the tenth day we entered the ravine from the upper
end, and made our first call upon the thrush. We had been seated in
silence for ten or fifteen minutes, and I was beginning to get uneasy
because no bird came to the nest, when a diversion occurred that drove
thrush affairs out of our minds. We heard footsteps! It must be
remembered that we were alone in this solitary place, far from a house,
and naturally we listened eagerly. The steps drew nearer, and then we
heard loud breathing. We exchanged glances of relief--it was a cow! But
while we were congratulating ourselves began a crashing of branches, a
fiercer breathing, a rush, and a low bellow!
This was no meek cow! we turned pale,--at any rate we felt pale,--but we
tried to encourage each other by suggesting in hurried whispers that he
surely would not see us. Alas! the next instant he broke through the
bushes, and to our horror started at once up our path to the rocks; in a
moment he would be upon us! We rose hastily, prepared to sell our lives
dearly, when, as suddenly as he had come, he turned and rushed back.
Whether the sight of us was too much for his philosophy, or whether he
had gone for reinforcements, we did not inquire. We instantly lost our
interest in birds and birds' nests; we gathered up our belongings and
fled, not stopping to breathe till we had put the barbiest of barbed
wire fences between us and the foe.
Once outside, however, we paused to consider: To give up our study was
not to be thought of; to go every day in fear and dread was equally
intolerable. I wrote to the authorities of whom I had purchased the
right to enter the place. They promptly denied the existence of any such
animal on the premises. I replied to the effect that "seeing is
believing," but they reaffirmed their former statement, assuring me that
there were none but harmless cows in the glen. I did not want to waste
time in an unprofitable correspondence, and I did want to see the wrens,
and at last a bright thought came,--I would hire an escort, a country
boy used to cattle, and warranted not afraid of them. I inquired into
the question of day's wages, I looked about among the college students
who were working their way to an education, and I found an ideal
protector,--an intelligent and very agreeable young man, brought up on a
farm, and just graduated, who was studying up mathematics preparatory to
school-teaching in the fall. The bargain was soon made, and the next
morning we started again for the glen, our guardian armed with his
geometry and a big club. Three days, however, had been occupied in
perfecting this arrangement, and I approached the spot with anxiety;
indeed, I am always concerned till I see the whole family I am watching,
after only a night's interval, and know they have survived the many
perils which constantly threaten bird-life, both night and day.
XV.
THE WRENLINGS APPEAR.
The moment we entered the court I saw there was news. My eyes being
attracted by a little commotion on a dogwood-tree, I saw a saucy tufted
titmouse chasing with cries one of the wrens who had food in its beak.
With most birds this proclaims the arrival of the young family as
plainly as if a banner had been hung on the castle walls. Whether the
tit was after the food, or trying to drive the wren off his own ground,
we could not tell, nor did we much care; the important fact was that
babies were out in the walnut-tree cottage. The food bearer went to the
nest, and in a moment came up the ladder, so joyous and full of song
that he could not wait to get off his own tree, but burst into a
triumphant ringing "Whit-e-ar!" that must have told his news to all the
world--who had ears to hear.
The mother did not at once give up her brooding, nor did I wonder when I
peeped into the nest while she was off with her spouse, and saw what
appeared to be five big mouths with a small bag of skin attached to
each. Nothing else could be seen. She sat an hour at a time, and then
her mate would come and call her off for a rest and a change, while he
skipped down the ladder and fed the bairns. His way in this matter, as
in everything else, was characteristic. He never went to the nest till
he had called her off by his song. It was not till several days later,
when she had given up brooding, that I ever saw the pair meet at the
nest, and then it seemed to be accidental, and one of them always left
immediately.
During the first few days the young parents came and went as of old, by
way of the ladder, and I learned to know them apart by their way of
mounting that airy flight of steps. He was more pert in manner, held his
head and tail more jauntily, though he rarely pointed his tail to the
sky, as do some of the wren family. He went lightly up in a dancing
style which she entirely lacked, sometimes jumping to a small shoot that
grew up quite near the walnut, and running up that as easily as he did
the tree. Her ascent was of a business character; she was on duty, head
and tail level with her body, no airs whatever. He was so full of
happiness in these early days that frequently he could not take time to
go to the top, but, having reached a height of two or three feet, he
flew, and at once burst into rapturous song, even sang while flying
over to the next tree. From this time they almost abandoned the ladder
they had been so fond of, and flew directly to the nest from the ground,
where they got all their food. This change was not because they were
hard worked; I never saw birds who took family cares more easily. At the
expiration of three days the mother brooded no more, and indeed it would
have troubled her to find a place for herself, the nest was so full.
Every morning on entering the court I called at the nest, and always
found five yellow beaks turned to the front. On the third day the heads
were covered with slate-colored down; on the fourth, wing-feathers began
to show among the heads, but the body was still perfectly bare; on the
fifth, the eyes opened on the green world about them,--they were then
certainly five days old, and may have been seven; owing to our
unfortunate absence at the critical time I cannot be sure. On the
seventh day the red-brown of the back began to show, and the white of
the breast made itself visible, while the heads began to look feathery
instead of fuzzy. Even then, however, they took no notice when I put my
finger on them.
Long before this time the manner of the parents had changed. In the
first place, they were more busy; foraging industriously on the ground,
coming within ten or fifteen feet of us, without appearing to see us at
all. In fact they had, after the first day, paid no attention to us, for
we never had disturbed them, never went to the nest till sure that both
were away, and kept still and quiet in our somewhat distant seat.
About this time they began to show more anxiety in their manner. The
first exhibition was on the fourth day since we knew the young were
hatched (and let me say that I _believe_ they were just out of the shell
the morning that we found the father feeding). On this fourth day the
singer perched near the nest-tree, three or four feet from the ground,
and began a very loud wren "dear-r-r-r! dear-r-r-r! dear-r-r-r!"
constantly repeated. He jerked himself about with great apparent
excitement, looking always on the ground as if he saw an enemy there. We
thought it might be a cat we had seen prowling about, but on examination
no cat was there. Gradually his tone grew lower and lower, and he calmed
down so far as a wren can calm, though he did not cease his cries. I did
not know he could be still so long, but I learned more about wren
possibilities in that line somewhat later.
During this performance his mate came with food in her beak, and
evidently saw nothing alarming, for she went to the nest with it. Still
he stood gazing on the ground. Sometimes he flew down and returned at
once, then began moving off, a little at a time, still crying, exactly
as though he were following some one who went slowly. The call, when
low, was very sweet and tender; very mournful too, and we got much
wrought up over it, wishing--as bird students so often do--that we could
do something to help. He was roused at last by the intrusion of a bird
into his domain, and his discomfiture of this foe seemed to dispel his
unhappy state of mind, for he at once broke out in joyous song, to our
great relief. That was not the last exhibition of the wren's
idiosyncrasy; he repeated it day after day, and finally he went so far
as to interpolate low "dear-r-r's" into his sweetest songs. Perhaps that
was his conception of his duty as protector to the family; if so, he was
certainly faithful in doing it. It was ludicrously like the attitude of
some people under similar circumstances.
While the young father was manifesting his anxiety in this way, the
mother showed hers in another; she took to watching, hardly leaving the
place at all. When she had her babies well fed for the moment, she went
up the trunk a little, in a loitering way that I had never seen her
indulge in before,--and a loitering wren is a curiosity. It was plain
that she simply wished to pass away the time. She stepped from the
trunk upon a twig on one side, stayed a little while, then passed to one
on the other side, lingered a few moments, and so she went on. When she
arrived at the height of two feet she perched on a small dead twig, and
remained a long time--certainly twenty minutes--absolutely motionless.
It was hard to see her, and if I had not watched her progress from the
first, I should not have suspected her presence. A leaf would hide her,
even the crossing of two twigs was ample screen, and when she was still
it was hopeless to look for her. The only way we were able to keep track
of either of the pair was by their incessant motions.
The Great Carolinian had a peculiar custom which showed that his coming
with song was a ceremony he would not dispense with. He would often
start off singing, gradually withdraw till fifty or seventy-five feet
away, singing at every pause, and then, if one watched him closely, he
might see him stop, drop to the ground, and hunt about in silence. When
he was ready to come again, he would fly quietly a little way off, and
then begin his singing and approaching, as if he had been a mile away.
He never sang when on the ground after food, but so soon as he finished
eating, he flew to a perch at least two feet high, generally between six
and ten, and sometimes as high as twenty feet, and sang.
After a day or two of the wren's singular uneasiness, we discovered at
least one object of his concern. It was a chipmunk, whom we had often
noticed perched on the highest point of the little ledge of rocks near
the nest. He seemed to be attending strictly to his own affairs, but
after a good deal of "dear-r-r"-ing, the wren flew furiously at him,
almost, if not quite, hitting him, and doing it again and again. The
little beast did not relish this treatment and ran off, the bird
following and repeating the assault. This was undoubtedly the foe that
he had been troubled about all the time.
On the tenth or eleventh day of their lives (as I believe) I examined
the babies in the nest a little more closely than before. I even touched
them with my finger on head and beak. They looked sleepily at me, but
did not resent it. If the mother were somewhat bigger, I should suspect
her of giving them "soothing syrup," for they had exactly the appearance
of being drugged. They were not overfed; I never saw youngsters so much
let alone. The parents had nothing like the work of the robin, oriole,
or blue jay. They came two or three times, and then left for half an
hour or more, yet the younglings were never impatient for food.
The morning that the young wrens had reached the age of twelve days
(that we knew of) was the 22d of July, and the weather was intensely
warm. On the 21st we had watched all day to see them go, sure that they
were perfectly well able. Obviously it is the policy of this family to
prepare for a life of extraordinary activity by an infancy of unusual
stillness. Never were youngsters so perfectly indifferent to all the
world. In storm or sunshine, in daylight or darkness, they lay there
motionless, caring only for food, and even that showed itself only by
the fact that all mouths were toward the front. The under one of the
pile seemed entirely contented to be at the bottom, and the top ones not
to exult in their position; in fact, so far as any show of interest in
life was concerned, they might have been a nestful of wooden babies.
On this morning, as we dragged ourselves wearily over the hot road to
the ravine, we resolved that no handful of wrenlings should force us
over that road again. Go off this day they should, if--as my comrade
remarked--"we had to raise them by hand." My first call was at the nest,
indifferent whether parents were there or not, for I had become
desperate. There they lay, lazily blinking at me, and filling the nest
overfull. The singer came rushing down a branch, bristled up,
blustering, and calling "Dear-r-r-r!" at me, and I hoped he would be
induced to hurry up his very leisurely brood.
We took our usual seats and waited. Both parents remained near the
homestead, and little singing was indulged in; this morning there was
serious business on hand, as any one could see. We were desirous of
seeing the first sign of movement, so we resolved to cut away the last
few leaves that hid the entrance to the nest. We had not done it before,
partly not to annoy the birds, and partly not to have them too easily
discovered by prowlers.
Miss R---- went to the stump, and cut away half a dozen leaves and twigs
directly before their door. The young ones looked at her, but did not
move. Then, as I had asked her to do, she pointed a parasol directly at
the spot, so that I, in my distant seat, might locate the nest exactly.
This seemed to be the last straw that the birdlings could endure; two of
them flew off. One went five or six feet away, the other to the ground
close by. Then she came away, and we waited again. In a moment two more
ventured out and alighted on twigs near the nest. Then the mother came
home, and acted as surprised as though she had never expected to have
them depart. She went from a twig beside the tree to the nest, and back,
about a dozen times, as if she really could not believe her eyes.
Anxious to see everything that went on, we moved our seats nearer, but
this so disconcerted the pair that we did not stay long. It was long
enough to hear the wren baby-cry, a low insect-like noise, and to see
something that surprised and no less disgusted me, namely, every one of
those babies hurry back to the tree, climb the trunk, and scramble back
into the nest!--the whole exit to be begun again! It could not be their
dislike of the "cold, cold world," for a cold world would be a luxury
that morning.
Of any one who would go back into that crowded nest, with the
thermometer on the rampage as it was then, I had my opinion, and I began
to think I didn't care much about wrens anyway; we stayed, however, as a
matter of habit, and I suppose they all had a nap after their tremendous
exertion. But they manifestly got an idea into their heads at last, a
taste of life. After a proper amount of consideration, one of the
nestlings took courage to move again, and went so far as a twig that
grew beside the door, looked around on the world from that post for a
while, then hopped to another, and so on till he encircled the home
stump. But when he came again in sight of that delectable nest, he could
not resist it, and again he added himself to the pile of birds within.
This youth was apparently as well feathered as his parents, and, except
in length of tail, looked exactly like them; many a bird baby starts
bravely out in life not half so well prepared for it as this little
wren.
After nearly three hours of waiting, we made up our minds that these
young folk must be out some time during the day, unless they had decided
to take up permanent quarters in that hole in the stump, and what was
more to the point, that the weather was too warm to await their very
deliberate movements. So we left them, to get off the best way they
could without us, or to stay there all their lives, if they so desired.
The nest, which at first was exceedingly picturesque--and I had resolved
to bring it away, with the stump that held it--was now so demolished
that I no longer coveted it. The last and sweetest song of the wren,
"Shame-ber-ee!" rang out joyously as we turned our faces to the north,
and bade a long farewell to the Great Carolinians.
XVI.
THE APPLE-TREE NEST.
All day long in the elm, on their swaying perches swinging,
New-fledged orioles utter their restless, querulous notes.
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
The little folk let out the secret, as little folk often do, and after
they had called attention to it, I was surprised that I had not myself
seen the pretty hammock swinging high up in the apple boughs.
It was, however, in a part of the grounds I did not often visit, partly
because the trees close by, which formed a belt across the back of the
place, grew so near together that not a breath of air could penetrate,
and it was intolerable in the hot June days, and partly because my
appearance there always created a panic. So seldom did a human being
visit that neglected spot, that the birds did not look for guests, and a
general stampede followed the approach of one.
On the eventful day of my happy discovery I was returning from my daily
call upon a blue jay who had set up her home in an apple-tree in a
neighbor's yard. The moment I entered the grounds I noticed a great
outcry. It was loud; it was incessant; and it was of many voices.
Following the sound, I started across the unmown field,
"Through the bending grasses,
Tall and lushy green,
All alive with tiny things,
Stirring feet and whirring wings
Just an instant seen,"
and soon came in sight of the nest near the topmost twig of an old
apple-tree.