had entertained me in the field below, while I had waited hour after
hour, for his calm-eyed mate to point out her nest. He sang there from
the top of a tall tree, and she busied herself in the low bushes, but up
to that time they had kept their secret well. He was a beautiful bird,
in black and orange-brown and gold,--the black-headed grosbeak; and his
song, besides being very pleasing, was interesting because it seemed
hard to get out. It was as if he had conceived a brilliant and beautiful
strain, and found himself unable to execute it. But if he felt the
incompleteness of his performance as I did, he did not let it put an end
to his endeavor. I sat there listening, and he came nearer, even to a
low tree over my head; and as I had a glimpse or two of his mate in a
tangle of willow and roses far out in the wet land, I concluded he was
singing to her, and not to me. Now that he was so near, I heard more
than I had before, certain low, sweet notes, plainly not intended for
the public ear. This undertone song ended always in "sweet! sweet!
sweet!" usually followed by a trill, and was far more effective than
his state performances. Sometimes, after the "sweet" repeated half a
dozen times, each note lower than the preceding one, he ended with a
sort of purr of contentment.
I became so absorbed in listening that I had almost forgotten the object
of my search, but I was suddenly recalled by a loud voice at one side,
and the lively genius of the place was on hand in his usual role.
Indeed, he rather surpassed himself in mocking and taunting cries that
morning, either because he wished, as my host, to entertain me, or, what
was more probable, to reproach me for disturbing the serenity of his
life. Whatever might have been his motive, he delighted me, as always,
by the spirit and vigor with which he poured out his chacks and whistles
and rattles and calls. Then I tried to locate him by following up the
sound, picking my way through the bushes, and among the straggling arms
of the irrigating stream. After some experiments, I discovered that he
was most concerned when I came near an impenetrable tangle that skirted
the lower end of the lot. I say "near:" it was near "as the crow flies,"
but for one without wings it may have been half a mile; for between me
and that spot was a great gulf fixed, the rallying point of the most
erratic of wandering streamlets, and so given over to its vagaries that
no bird-gazer, however enthusiastic, and indifferent to wet feet and
draggled garments, dared attempt to pass. There I was forced to pause,
while the bird flung out his notes as if in defiance, wilder, louder,
and more vehement than ever.
In that thicket, I said to myself, as I took my way home, behind that
tangle, if I can manage to reach it, I shall find the home of the chat.
The situation was discouraging, but I was not to be discouraged; to
reach that stronghold I was resolved, if I had to dam up the irrigator,
build a bridge, or fill up the quagmire.
No such heroic treatment of the difficulty was demanded; my problem was
very simply solved. As I entered the gate the next morning, my eyes fell
upon an obscure footpath leading away from the house and the watery way
beyond it, down through overhanging wild roses, and under the great
tangle in which the chat had hidden. It looked mysterious, not to say
forbidding, and, from the low drooping of the foliage above, it was
plainly a horse path, not a human way. But it was undoubtedly the key to
the secrets of the tangle, and I turned into it without hesitation.
Stooping under the branches hanging low with their fragrant burden, and
stopping every moment to loosen the hold of some hindering thorn, I
followed in the footsteps of my four-footed pioneers till I reached the
lower end of the marsh that had kept me from entering on the upper side.
On its edge I placed my chair and seated myself.
It was an ideal retreat; within call if help were needed, yet a solitude
it was plain no human being, in that land where (according to the
Prophet) every man, woman, and child is a working bee, ever invaded;
"A leafy nook
Where wind never entered, nor branch ever shook,"
known only to my equine friends and to me. I exulted in it! No
discoverer of a new land, no stumbler upon a gold mine, was ever more
exhilarated over his find than I over my solitary wild rose path.
The tangle was composed of a varied growth. There seemed to have been
originally a straggling row of low trees, chokecherry, peach, and
willow, which had been surrounded, overwhelmed, and almost buried by a
rich growth of shoots from their own roots, bound and cemented together
by the luxuriant wild rose of the West, which grows profusely everywhere
it can get a foothold, stealing up around and between the branches, till
it overtops and fairly smothers in blossoms a fair-sized oak or other
tree. Besides these were great ferns, or brakes, three or four feet
high, which filled up the edges of the thicket, making it absolutely
impervious to the eye, as well as to the foot of any straggler. Except
in the obscure passages the horses kept open, no person could penetrate
my jungle.
I had hardly placed myself, and I had not noted half of these details,
when it became evident that my presence disturbed somebody. A chat cried
out excitedly, "chack! chack! whe-e-w!" whereupon there followed an
angry squawk, so loud and so near that it startled me. I turned quickly,
and saw madam herself, all ruffled as if from the nest. She was plainly
as much startled as I was, but she scorned to flee. She perked up her
tail till she looked like an exaggerated wren; she humped her shoulders;
she turned this way and that, showing in every movement her anger at my
intrusion; above all, she repeated at short intervals that squawk, like
an enraged hen. Hearing a rustle of wings on the other side, I turned my
eyes an instant, and when I looked again she had gone! She would not run
while I looked at her, but she had the true chat instinct of keeping out
of sight.
She did not desert her grove, however. The canopy over my head, the roof
to my retreat, was of green leaves, translucent, almost transparent. The
sun was the sun of Utah; it cast strong shadows, and not a bird could
move without my seeing it. I could see that she remained on guard,
hopping and flying silently from one point of view to another, no doubt
keeping close watch of me all the time.
Meanwhile the chat himself had not for a moment ceased calling. For some
time his voice would sound quite near; then it would draw off, growing
more and more distant, as if he were tired of watching one who did
absolutely nothing. But he never got far away before madam recalled him,
sometimes by the squawk alone, sometimes preceding it by a single clear
whistle, exactly in his own tone. At once, as if this were a
signal,--which doubtless it was,--his cries redoubled in energy, and
seemed to come nearer again.
Above the restless demonstrations of the chats I could hear the clear,
sweet song of the Western meadow-lark in the next field. Well indeed
might his song be serene; the minstrel of the meadow knew perfectly well
that his nest and nestlings were as safely hidden in the middle of the
growing lucern as if in another planet; while the chat, on the contrary,
was plainly conscious of the ease with which his homestead might be
discovered. A ruthless destroyer, a nest-robbing boy, would have had the
whole thing in his pocket days ago. Even I, if I had not preferred to
have the owners show it to me: if I had not made excuses to myself, of
the marsh, of bushes too low to go under; if I had not hated to take it
by force, to frighten the little folk I wished to make friends
with,--even I might have seen the nest long before that morning. Thus I
meditated as, after waiting an hour or two, I started for home.
Outside the gate I met my fellow-student, and we went on together. Our
way lay beside an old orchard that we had often noticed in our walks.
The trees were not far apart, and so overgrown that they formed a deep
shade, like a heavy forest, which was most attractive when everything
outside was baking in the June sun. It was nearly noon when we reached
the gate, and looking into a place
"So curtained with trunks and boughs
That in hours when the ringdove coos to his spouse
The sun to its heart scarce a way could win,"
we could not resist its inviting coolness; we went in.
As soon as we were quiet, we noticed that there were more robins than we
had heretofore seen in one neighborhood in that part of the world; for
our familiar bird is by no means plentiful in the Rocky Mountain
countries, where grassy lawns are rare, and his chosen food is not
forthcoming. The old apple-trees seemed to be a favorite nesting-place,
and before we had been there five minutes we saw that there were at
least two nests within fifty feet of us, and a grosbeak singing his
love song, so near that we had hopes of finding his home, also, in this
secluded nook.
The alighting of a bird low down on the trunk of a tree, perhaps twenty
feet away, called the attention of my friend to a neighbor we had not
counted upon, a large snake, with, as we noted with horror, the color
and markings of the dreaded rattler. He had, as it seemed, started to
climb one of the leaning trunks, and when he had reached a point where
the trunk divided into two parts, his head about two feet up, and the
lower part of his body still on the ground, had stopped, and now rested
thus, motionless as the tree itself. It may be that it was the sudden
presence of his hereditary enemy that held him apparently spellbound, or
it is possible that this position served his own purposes better than
any other. Our first impulse was to leave his lordship in undisputed
possession of his shady retreat; but the second thought, which held us,
was to see what sort of reception the robins would give him. There was a
nest full of young on a neighboring tree, and it was the mother who had
come down to interview the foe. Would she call her mate? Would the
neighbors come to the rescue? Should we see a fight, such as we had read
of? We decided to wait for the result.
Strange to say, however, this little mother did not call for help. Not
one of the loud, disturbed cries with which robins greet an innocent
bird-student or a passing sparrow hawk was heard from her; though her
kinsfolk sprinkled the orchard, she uttered not a sound. For a moment
she seemed dazed; she stood motionless, staring at the invader as if
uncertain whether he were alive. Then she appeared to be interested; she
came a little nearer, still gazing into the face of her enemy, whose
erect head and glittering eyes were turned toward her. We could not see
that he made the slightest movement, while she hopped nearer and nearer;
sometimes on one division of the trunk, and sometimes on the other, but
always, with every hop, coming a little nearer. She did not act
frightened nor at all anxious; she simply seemed interested, and
inclined to close investigation. Was she fascinated? Were the old
stories of snake power over birds true? Our interest was most intense;
we did not take our eyes from her; nothing could have dragged us away
then.
Suddenly the bird flew to the ground, and, so quickly that we did not
see the movement, the head of the snake was turned over toward her,
proving that it was the bird, and not us, he was watching. Still she
kept drawing nearer till she was not more than a foot from him, when our
sympathy with the unfortunate creature, who apparently was unable to
tear herself away, overcame our scientific curiosity. "Poor thing,
she'll be killed! Let us drive her away!" we cried. We picked up small
stones which we threw toward her; we threatened her with sticks; we
"shooed" at her with demonstrations that would have quickly driven away
a robin in possession of its senses. Not a step farther off did she
move; she hopped one side to avoid our missiles, but instantly fluttered
back to her doom. Meanwhile her mate appeared upon the scene, hovering
anxiously about in the trees overhead, but not coming near the snake.
By this time we had lost all interest in the question whether a snake
can charm a bird to its destruction; we thought only of saving the
little life in such danger. We looked around for help; my friend ran
across the street to a house, hurriedly secured the help of a man with a
heavy stick, and in two minutes the snake lay dead on the ground.
The bird, at once relieved, flew hastily to her nest, showing no signs
of mental aberration, or any other effect of the strain she had been
under. The snake was what the man called a "bull snake," and so closely
resembled the rattler in color and markings that, although its
exterminator had killed many of the more famous reptiles, he could not
tell, until it was stretched out in death, which of the two it was. This
tragedy spoiled the old orchard for me, and never again did I enter its
gates.
Down the wild rose path I took my way the next morning. Silently and
quickly I gained my seat of yesterday, hoping to surprise the chat
family. No doubt my hope was vain; noiseless, indeed, and deft of
movement must be the human being who could come upon this alert bird
unawares. He greeted me with a new note, a single clear call, like "ho!"
Then he proceeded to study me, coming cautiously nearer and nearer, as I
could see out of the corner of my eye, while pretending to be closely
occupied with my notebook. His loud notes had ceased, but it is not in
chat nature to be utterly silent; many low sounds dropped from his beak
as he approached. Sometimes it was a squawk, a gentle imitation of that
which rang through the air from the mouth of his spouse; again it was a
hoarse sort of mewing, followed by various indescribable sounds in the
same undertone; and then he would suddenly take himself in hand, and be
perfectly silent for half a minute.
After a little, madam took up the matter, uttering her angry squawk, and
breaking upon my silence almost like a pistol shot. At once I forgot her
mate, and though he retired to a little distance and resumed his
brilliant musical performance, I did not turn my head at his
beguilements. She was the business partner of the firm whose movements I
wished to follow. She must, sooner or later, go to her nest, while he
might deceive me for days. Indeed, I strongly suspected him of that very
thing, and whenever he became bolder in approaching, or louder and more
vociferous of tongue, I was convinced that it was to cover her
operations. I redoubled my vigilance in watching for her, keeping my
eyes open for any slight stirring of a twig, tremble of a leaf, or quick
shadow near the ground that should point her out as she skulked to her
nest. I had already observed that whenever she uttered her squawks he
instantly burst into energetic shouts and calls. I believed it a
concerted action, with the intent of drawing my attention from her
movements.
On this day the disturbed little mother herself interviewed me. First
she came silently under the green canopy, in plain sight, stood a moment
before me, jerking up her beautiful long tail and letting it drop slowly
back, and posing her mobile body in different positions; then suddenly
flying close past me, she alighted on one side, and stared at me for
half a dozen seconds. Then, evidently, she resolved to take me in hand.
She assumed the role of deceiver, with all the wariness of her family;
her object being, as I suppose, carefully to point out where her nest
was _not_. She circled about me, taking no pains to avoid my gaze. Now
she squawked on the right; then she acted "the anxious mother" on the
left; this time it was from the clump of rosebushes in front that she
rose hurriedly, as if that was her home; again it was from over my head,
in the chokecherry-tree, that she bustled off, as if she had been
"caught in the act." It was a brilliant, a wonderful performance, a
thousand times more effective than trailing or any of the similar
devices by which an uneasy bird mother draws attention from her brood.
It was so well done that at each separate manoeuvre I could hardly be
convinced by my own eyes that the particular spot indicated did not
conceal the little homestead I was seeking. Several times I rose
triumphant, feeling sure that "now indeed I _do_ know where it is," and
proceeded at once to the bush she had pointed out with so much simulated
reluctance, parted the branches, and looked in, only to find myself
deceived again. Her acting was marvelous. With just the properly
anxious, uneasy manner, she would steal behind a clump of leaves into
some retired spot admirably adapted for a chat's nest, and after a
moment sneak out at the other side, and fly away near the ground,
exactly as all bird-students have seen bird mothers do a thousand
times.
After this performance a silence fell upon the tangle and the solitary
nook in which I sat,--and I meditated. It was the last day of my stay.
Should I set up a search for that nest which I was sure was within
reach? I could go over the whole in half an hour, examine every shrub
and low tree and inch of ground in it, and doubtless I should find it.
No; I do not care for a nest thus forced. The distress of parents, the
panic of nestlings, give me no pleasure. I know how a chat's nest looks.
I have seen one with its pinky-pearl eggs; why should I care to see
another? I know how young birds look; I have seen dozens of them this
very summer. Far better that I never lay eyes upon the nest than to do
it at such cost.
As I reached this conclusion, into the midst of my silence came the
steady tramp of a horse. I knew the wild rose path was a favorite
retreat from the sun, and it was very hot. The path was narrow; if a
horse came in upon me, he could not turn round and retreat, nor was
there room for him to pass me. Realizing all this in an instant, I
snatched up my belongings, and hurried to get out before he should get
in.
When I emerged, the chat set up his loudest and most triumphant shouts.
"Again we have fooled you," he seemed to say; "again we have thrown
your poor human acuteness off the scent! We shall manage to bring up our
babies in safety, in spite of you!"
So indeed they might, even if I had seen them; but this, alas, I could
not make him understand. So he treated me--his best friend--exactly as
he treated the nest-robber and the bird-shooter.
I shall never know whether that nest contained eggs or young birds; or
whether perchance there was no nest at all, and I had been deceived from
the first by the most artful and beguiling of birds. And through all
this I had never once squarely seen the chat I had been following.
"Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but, an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery."
XX.
ON THE LAWN.
The first thing that strikes an Eastern bird-student in the Rocky
Mountain region, as I have already said, is the absence of the birds he
is familiar with. Instead of the chipping sparrow everywhere, one sees
the lazuli-painted finch, or the Rocky Mountain bluebird; in place of
the American robin's song, most common of sounds in country
neighborhoods on the Atlantic side of the continent, is heard the silver
bell of the towhee bunting, sometimes called marsh robin, or the harsh
"chack" of Brewer's blackbird; the music that opens sleepy eyes at
daybreak is not a chorus of robins and song-sparrows, but the ringing
notes of the chewink, the clear-cut song of the Western meadow-lark, or
the labored utterance of the black-headed grosbeak; it is not by the
melancholy refrain of the whippoorwill or the heavenly hymns of thrushes
that the approach of night is heralded, but by the cheery trill of the
house wren or the dismal wail of the Western wood-pewee.
Most of all does the bird-lover miss the thrushes from the feathered
orchestra. Some of them may dwell in that part of the world,--the books
affirm it, and I cannot deny it,--but this I know: one whose eye is
untiring, and whose ear is open night and day to bird-notes, may spend
May, June, July, yes, and even August, in the haunts of Rocky Mountain
birds, and not once see or hear either of our choice singing thrushes.
However the student may miss the birds he knows at home, he must rejoice
in the absence of one,--the English sparrow. When one sees the charming
purple finch and summer yellow-bird, nesting and singing in the streets
of Denver, and the bewitching Arkansas goldfinch and the beautiful
Western bluebird perfectly at home in Colorado Springs, he is reminded
of what might be in the Eastern cities, if only the human race had not
interfered with Nature's distribution of her feathered families. In
Utah, indeed, we meet again the foreigner, for in that unfortunate
Territory the man, wise in his own conceit, was found to introduce him,
and Salt Lake, the city of their pride and glory, is as completely
infested by the feathered tramp as New York itself. Happy is Colorado
that great deserts form her borders, and that chains of mountains
separate her from her neighbors; for, since the sparrow is as fond of
the city as Dr. Johnson, it may be hoped that neither he, nor his
children, nor his grandchildren, will ever cross the barriers.
In Utah, as everywhere, the English sparrows are sharp-witted rogues,
and they have discovered and taken possession of the most comfortable
place for bird quarters to be found, for protection from the terrible
heat of summer, and the wind and snow of winter; it is between the roof
and the stone or adobe walls of the houses. Wherever the inequalities of
the stones or the shrinkage of the wood has left an opening, and made
penetration possible, there an English sparrow has established a
permanent abode.
The first bird I noticed in the quiet Mormon village where I settled
myself to study was a little beauty in blue. I knew him instantly, for I
had met him before in Colorado. He was dining luxuriously on the
feathery seeds of a dandelion when I discovered him, and at no great
distance was his olive-clad mate, similarly engaged. They were
conversing cheerfully in low tones, and in a few minutes I suppose he
called her attention to the superior quality of his dandelion; for she
came to his side, and he at once flew to a neighboring bush and burst
into song. It was a pretty little ditty, or rather a musical rattle on
one note, resembling the song of the indigo bird, his near relative.
The lazuli-painted finch should be called the blue-headed finch, for the
exquisite blueness of his whole head, including throat, breast, and
shoulders, as if he had been dipped so far into blue dye, is his
distinguishing feature. The bluebird wears heaven's color; so does the
jay, and likewise the indigo bird; but not one can boast the lovely and
indescribable shade, with its silvery reflections, that adorns the
lazuli. Across the breast, under the blue, is a broad band of chestnut,
like the breast color of our bluebird, and back of that is white, while
the wings and tail are dark. Altogether, he is charming to look upon.
Who would not prefer him about the yard to the squawking house sparrow,
or even the squabbling chippy?
My catching the pair at dinner was not an accident; I soon found out
that they lived there, and had settled upon a row of tall raspberry
bushes that separated the garden from the lawn for their summer home.
Madam was already at work collecting her building materials, and very
soon the fragile walls of her pretty nest were formed in an upright
crotch of the raspberries, about a foot below the top.
Naturally, I was greatly interested in the fairy house building, and
often inspected the work while the little dame was out of sight. One
day, however, as I was about to part the branches to look in, I heard
an anxious "phit," and glanced up to see the owner alight on the lowest
limb of a peach-tree near by. Of course I turned away at once,
pretending that I was just passing, and had no suspicion of her precious
secret in the raspberries, and hoping that she would not mind. But she
did mind, very seriously; she continued to stand on that branch with an
aggrieved air, as if life were no longer worth living, now that her home
was perhaps discovered. Without uttering a sound or moving a muscle, so
far as I could see, she remained for half an hour before she accepted my
taking a distant seat and turning my attention to dragonflies as an
apology, and ventured to visit her nest again. After that I made very
sure that she was engaged elsewhere before I paid my daily call.