of the red-tailed hawk,--a large mass of twigs and dry sticks. The
young had flown, but still lingered in the vicinity, and, as I
approached, the mother bird flew about over me, squealing in a very
angry, savage manner. Tufts of the hair and other indigestible
material of the common meadow mouse lay around on the ground beneath
the nest.
[Illustration: NEST OF RED-EYED VIREO.]
As I was about leaving the woods, my hat almost brushed the nest of
the red-eyed vireo, which hung basket-like on the end of a low,
drooping branch of the beech. I should never have seen it had the bird
kept her place. It contained three eggs of the bird's own, and one of
the cow-bunting. The strange egg was only just perceptibly larger than
the others, yet three days after, when I looked into the nest again
and found all but one egg hatched, the young interloper was at least
four times as large as either of the others, and with such a
superabundance of bowels as to almost smother his bedfellows beneath
them. That the intruder should fare the same as the rightful
occupants, and thrive with them, was more than ordinary potluck; but
that it alone should thrive, devouring, as it were, all the rest, is
one of those freaks of Nature in which she would seem to discourage
the homely virtues of prudence and honesty. Weeds and parasites have
the odds greatly against them, yet they wage a very successful war
nevertheless.
The woods hold not such another gem as the nest of the humming-bird.
The finding of one is an event to date from. It is the next best thing
to finding an eagle's nest. I have met with but two, both by chance.
One was placed on the horizontal branch of a chestnut-tree, with a
solitary green leaf, forming a complete canopy, about an inch and a
half above it. The repeated spiteful dartings of the bird past my
ears, as I stood under the tree, caused me to suspect that I was
intruding upon some one's privacy; and following it with my eye, I
soon saw the nest, which was in process of construction. Adopting my
usual tactics of secreting myself near by, I had the satisfaction of
seeing the tiny artist at work. It was the female, unassisted by her
mate. At intervals of two or three minutes she would appear with a
small tuft of some cottony substance in her beak, dart a few times
through and around the tree, and alighting quickly in the nest arrange
the material she had brought, using her breast as a model.
The other nest I discovered in a dense forest on the side of a
mountain. The sitting bird was disturbed as I passed beneath her. The
whirring of her wings arrested my attention, when, after a short
pause, I had the good luck to see, through an opening in the leaves,
the bird return to her nest, which appeared like a mere wart or
excrescence on a small branch. The humming-bird, unlike all others,
does not alight upon the nest, but flies into it. She enters it as
quick as a flash, but as light as any feather. Two eggs are the
complement. They are perfectly white, and so frail that only a woman's
fingers may touch them. Incubation lasts about ten days. In a week the
young have flown.
The only nest like the humming-bird's, and comparable to it in
neatness and symmetry, is that of the blue-gray gnat-catcher. This is
often saddled upon the limb in the same manner, though it is generally
more or less pendent; it is deep and soft, composed mostly of some
vegetable down, covered all over with delicate tree-lichens, and,
except that it is much larger, appears almost identical with the nest
of the humming-bird.
But the nest of nests, the ideal nest, after we have left the deep
woods, is unquestionably that of the Baltimore oriole. It is the only
perfectly pensile nest we have. The nest of the orchard oriole is
indeed mainly so, but this bird generally builds lower and shallower,
more after the manner of the vireos.
The Baltimore oriole loves to attach its nest to the swaying branches
of the tallest elms, making no attempt at concealment, but satisfied
if the position be high and the branch pendent. This nest would seem
to cost more time and skill than any other bird structure. A peculiar
flax-like substance seems to be always sought after, and always
found. The nest when completed assumes the form of a large, suspended
gourd. The walls are thin but firm, and proof against the most driving
rain. The mouth is hemmed or over-handed with horse-hair, and the
sides are usually sewed through and through with the same.
Not particular as to the matter of secrecy, the bird is not particular
as to material, so that it be of the nature of strings or threads. A
lady friend once told me that while working by an open window, one of
these birds approached during her momentary absence, and, seizing a
skein of some kind of thread or yarn, made off with it to its
half-finished nest. But the perverse yarn caught fast in the branches,
and, in the bird's efforts to extricate it, got hopelessly tangled.
She tugged away at it all day, but was finally obliged to content
herself with a few detached portions. The fluttering strings were an
eye-sore to her ever after, and passing and repassing, she would give
them a spiteful jerk, as much as to say, "There is that confounded
yarn that gave me so much trouble."
From Pennsylvania, Vincent Barnard (to whom I am indebted for other
curious facts) sent me this interesting story of an oriole. He says a
friend of his, curious in such things, on observing the bird beginning
to build, hung out near the prospective nest skeins of many-colored
zephyr-yarn, which the eager artist readily appropriated. He managed
it so that the bird used nearly equal quantities of various high,
bright colors. The nest was made unusually deep and capacious, and it
may be questioned if such a thing of beauty was ever before woven by
the cunning of a bird.
Nuttall, by far the most genial of American ornithologists, relates
the following:--
"A female (oriole), which I observed attentively, carried off to her
nest a piece of lamp-wick ten or twelve feet long. This long string
and many other shorter ones were left hanging out for about a week
before both the ends were wattled into the sides of the nest. Some
other little birds making use of similar materials, at times twitched
these flowing ends, and generally brought out the busy Baltimore from
her occupation in great anger.
"I may perhaps claim indulgence for adding a little more of the
biography of this particular bird, as a representative, also, of
the instincts of her race. She completed the nest in about a week's
time, without any aid from her mate, who, indeed, appeared but seldom
in her company, and was now become nearly silent. For fibrous
materials she broke, hackled, and gathered the flax of the _asclepias_
and _hibiscus_ stalks, tearing off long strings and flying with them
to the scene of her labors. She appeared very eager and hasty in her
pursuits, and collected her materials without fear or restraint, while
three men were working in the neighboring walks, and many persons
visiting the garden. Her courage and perseverance were indeed truly
admirable. If watched too narrowly, she saluted with her usual
scolding, _tshrr, tshrr, tshrr_, seeing no reason, probably, why she
should be interrupted in her indispensable occupation.
"Though the males were now comparatively silent on the arrival of
their busy mates, I could not help observing this female and a second,
continually vociferating apparently in strife. At last she was
observed to attack this second female very fiercely, who slyly
intruded herself at times into the same tree where she was building.
These contests were angry and often repeated. To account for this
animosity, I now recollected that two fine males had been killed in
our vicinity; and I therefore concluded the intruder to be left
without a mate; yet she had gained the affections of the consort of
the busy female, and thus the cause of their jealous quarrel became
apparent. Having obtained the confidence of her faithless paramour,
the second female began preparing to weave a nest in an adjoining elm,
by tying together certain pendent twigs as a foundation. The male now
associated chiefly with the intruder, whom he even assisted in her
labor, yet did not wholly forget his first partner, who called on him
one evening in a low, affectionate tone, which was answered in the
same strain. While they were thus engaged in friendly whispers,
suddenly appeared the rival, and a violent _rencontre_ ensued, so that
one of the females appeared to be greatly agitated, and fluttered with
spreading wings as if considerably hurt. The male, though prudently
neutral in the contest, showed his culpable partiality by flying off
with his paramour, and for the rest of the evening left the tree to
his pugnacious consort. Cares of another kind, more imperious and
tender, at length reconciled, or at least terminated, these disputes
with the jealous females; and by the aid of the neighboring bachelors,
who are never wanting among these and other birds, peace was at length
completely restored, by the restitution of the quiet and happy
condition of monogamy."
Let me not forget to mention the nest under the mountain ledge, the
nest of the common pewee, a modest mossy structure, with four
pearl-white eggs, looking out upon some wild scene and overhung by
beetling crags. After all has been said about the elaborate, high-hung
structures, few nests, perhaps, awaken more pleasant emotions in the
mind of the beholder than this of the pewee,--the gray, silent rocks,
with caverns and dens where the fox and the wolf lurk, and just out of
their reach, in a little niche, as if it grew there, the mossy
tenement!
Nearly every high projecting rock in my range has one of these nests.
Following a trout stream up a wild mountain gorge, not long since, I
counted five in the distance of a mile, all within easy reach, but
safe from the minks and the skunks, and well housed from the storms.
In my native town I know a pine and oak clad hill, round-topped, with
a bold, precipitous front extending half-way around it. Near the top,
and along this front or side, there crops out a ledge of rocks
unusually high and cavernous. One immense layer projects many feet,
allowing a person or many persons, standing upright, to move freely
beneath it. There is a delicious spring of water there, and plenty of
wild, cool air. The floor is of loose stone, now trod by sheep and
foxes, once by the Indian and the wolf. How I have delighted from
boyhood to spend a summer-day in this retreat or take refuge there
from a sudden shower! Always the freshness and coolness, and always
the delicate mossy nest of the phoebe-bird! The bird keeps her place
till you are within a few feet of her, when she flits to a near
branch, and, with many oscillations of her tail, observes you
anxiously. Since the country has become settled, this pewee has fallen
into the strange practice of occasionally placing its nest under a
bridge, hay-shed, or other artificial structure, where it is subject
to all kinds of interruptions and annoyances. When placed thus, the
nest is larger and coarser. I know a hayloft beneath which a pair has
regularly placed its nest for several successive seasons. Arranged
along on a single pole, which sags down a few inches from the flooring
it was intended to help support, are three of these structures,
marking the number of years the birds have nested there. The
foundation is of mud with a superstructure of moss, elaborately lined
with hair and feathers. Nothing can be more perfect and exquisite than
the interior of one of these nests, yet a new one is built every
season. Three broods, however, are frequently reared in it.
[Illustration: NEST OF PHOEBE.]
The pewees, as a class, are the best architects we have. The king-bird
builds a nest altogether admirable, using various soft cotton and
woollen substances, and sparing neither time nor material to make it
substantial and warm. The green-crested pewee builds its nest in many
instances wholly of the blossoms of the white-oak. The wood pewee
builds a neat, compact socket-shaped nest of moss and lichens on a
horizontal branch. There is never a loose end or shred about it. The
sitting bird is largely visible above the rim. She moves her head
freely about, and seems entirely at her ease,--a circumstance which I
have never observed in any other species. The nest of the
great-crested flycatcher is seldom free from snake skins, three or
four being sometimes woven into it.
About the thinnest, shallowest nest, for its situation, that can be
found is that of the turtle-dove. A few sticks and straws are
carelessly thrown together, hardly sufficient to prevent the eggs from
falling through or rolling off. The nest of the passenger pigeon is
equally hasty and insufficient, and the squabs often fall to the
ground and perish. The other extreme among our common birds is
furnished by the ferruginous thrush, which collects together a mass of
material that would fill a half-bushel measure; or by the fish-hawk,
which adds to and repairs its nest year after year, till the whole
would make a cart-load.
The rarest of all nests is that of the eagle, because the eagle is the
rarest of all birds. Indeed, so seldom is the eagle seen, that its
presence always seems accidental. It appears as if merely pausing on
the way, while bound for some distant unknown region. One September,
while a youth, I saw the ring-tailed eagle, an immense, dusky bird,
the sight of which filled me with awe. It lingered about the hills for
two days. Some young cattle, a two year-old colt, and half a dozen
sheep were at pasture on a high ridge that led up to the mountain,
and in plain view of the house. On the second day, this dusky monarch
was seen flying about above them. Presently he began to hover over
them, after the manner of a hawk watching for mice. He then with
extended legs let himself slowly down upon them, actually grappling
the backs of the young cattle, and frightening the creatures so that
they rushed about the field in great consternation; and finally, as he
grew bolder and more frequent in his descents, the whole herd broke
over the fence, and came tearing down to the house "like mad." It did
not seem to be an assault with intent to kill, but was, perhaps, a
stratagem resorted to in order to separate the herd and expose the
lambs, which hugged the cattle very closely. When he occasionally
alighted upon the oaks that stood near, the branch _could_ be seen to
sway and bend beneath him. Finally, as a rifleman started out in
pursuit of him, he launched into the air, set his wings, and sailed
away southward. A few years afterward, in January, another eagle
passed through the same locality, alighting in a field near some dead
animal, but tarried briefly.
[Illustration: EAGLE.]
So much by way of identification. The bird is common to the northern
parts of both hemispheres, and places its eyrie on high, precipitous
rocks. A pair built on an inaccessible shelf of rock along the Hudson
for eight successive years. A squad of Revolutionary soldiers also
found a nest along this river, and had an adventure with the bird that
came near costing one of their number his life. His comrades let him
down by a rope to secure the eggs or young, when he was attacked by
the female eagle with such fury that he was obliged to defend himself
with his knife. In doing so, by a mis-stroke, he nearly severed the
rope that held him, and was drawn up by a single strand from his
perilous position. Audubon, from whom this anecdote is taken, figures
and describes this bird as the golden eagle, though I have little
doubt that Wilson was right, and that the golden eagle is a distinct
species.
The sea-eagle also builds on high rocks, according to Audubon, though
Wilson describes the nest of one which he saw near Great Egg Harbor,
in the top of a large yellow pine. It was a vast pile of sticks, sods,
sedge, grass, reeds, etc., five or six feet high by four broad, and
with little or no concavity. It had been used for many years, and he
was told that the eagles made it a sort of home or lodging-place in
all seasons. This agrees with the description which Audubon gives of
the nest of the bald eagle. There is evidently a little confusion on
both sides.
The eagle in all cases uses one nest, with more or less repair, for
several years. Many of our common birds do the same. The birds may be
divided, with respect to this and kindred points, into five general
classes. First, those that repair and appropriate the last year's
nest, as the wren, swallow, blue-bird, great-crested flycatcher, owls,
eagles, fish-hawk, and a few others. Secondly, those that build anew
each season, though frequently rearing more than one brood in the same
nest. Of these, the phoebe-bird is a well-known example. Thirdly, those
that build a new nest for each brood, which includes by far the
greatest number of species. Fourthly, a limited number that make no
nest of their own, but appropriate the abandoned nests of other birds.
Finally, those who use no nest at all, but deposit their eggs in the
sand, which is the case with a large number of aquatic fowls. Thus the
common gull breeds in vast numbers on the sand bars or sand islands
off the south coast of Long Island. A little dent is made in the sand,
the eggs are dropped, and the old birds go their way. In due time the
eggs are hatched by the warmth of the sun, and the little creatures
shift for themselves. In July countless numbers of them, of different
ages and sizes, swarm upon these sandy wastes. As the waves roll out,
they rush down the beach, picking up a kind of sea gluten, and then
hasten back to avoid the next breaker.
[Illustration]
BIRDS IN THEIR RELATION TO AGRICULTURE
(FROM THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE NEBRASKA ORNITHOLOGISTS' UNION JANUARY,
1901.)[4]
BY LAURENCE BRUNER.
[4] By permission.
[Illustration]
When civilized man takes possession of new regions and begins
cultivating the soil and establishes his sovereignty there, the
equilibrium as it existed upon his arrival is very quickly disturbed.
One or more of the many forms of life--plant and animal--that were
previously held within certain limits gain ascendency. The
introduction of new crops that furnish an abundance of the proper food
for some insect, enables this form to increase out of all proportions
and harm soon results. The killing off of certain other forms of life
that naturally keep still others in check also assists in disturbing
the equilibrium further. The cutting down and clearing away of forests
removes the shelter and homes of others, as does also the turning
under of prairie grasses. Then, too, many of the natural residents of
primeval forests and virgin prairies shun the sight of man, hence they
gradually withdraw from the region, and their influence for good or
evil goes with them. Since the majority of such forms are timid and
inoffensive creatures, their withdrawal only adds that much more to
the already overbalanced conditions. Year by year the gap which at
first was scarcely noticeable becomes widened, so that frequent
inroads are made and harm results. Instead of trying to ascertain the
true cause for all this trouble perhaps exactly the wrong thing is
done by the settlers. This of course only has the effect of further
widening the gap between safety and danger. Since an insect or other
animal becomes noticeably harmful only when present in alarming
numbers, it stands to reason that anything which favors such an
abnormal increase is a factor in disturbing nature and should be
quickly rectified where possible. In order that these disturbances
should be looked after the all-wise God of the universe created birds
and gave them the power of flight that they might the more readily
move about rapidly from place to place, where their services might be
needed in balancing affairs. Hence birds have naturally and rightfully
been called the "balancers" in nature. This being true, let us see
just what their relations are to agriculture.
The farmer sows in order that he may reap an increased measure of what
he has sown. In doing this he must first turn over the soil. This
destroys many existing plants as well as animals that depend upon them
for food. The plants thus turned down cannot regain their position
and must of necessity die. Not so with many of the animals, however,
which soon work their way to the surface. Some of these attack the
growing plants which have been made to occupy the place of those
destroyed by the plough. Others take wing and seek suitable food in
adjoining districts where they add to the numbers already drawing upon
the vegetation up to the point of possible continued supply. Here,
then, the scales begin to vibrate. In the field the new and tender
crop entices the ever-shifting individuals of myriads of forms that
have been crowded out elsewhere. The result here too is, or would be,
very disastrous were it not for the timely visit of flocks of birds
likewise in search of food.
It is during the period of first settlement of a country, when the
fields are small, few and widely separated, that injury may and
frequently does result from birds. It is then a problem that needs
careful consideration, not only for the time being, but also for the
future welfare of that country. If animal life is destroyed
indiscriminately and without intelligent forethought, calamities
unforeseen are sure to follow in the not distant future.
Birds can be useful to man in many ways. They can benefit him by
carrying the seeds of various plants from place to place so as to
assist him in establishing new groves in which to find shelter from
the cold in winter and refuge from the heat of the noonday sun in
summer. They plant various shrubs by the wayside that spring up and
later are laden with luscious fruit. They also carry the spawn of
fishes and small crustaceans among their feathers into new waters, and
feed upon the countless seeds of weeds that are scattered broadcast
over the face of the earth. Some kinds live almost exclusively upon
insects, while others hunt out the small rodents that would, if left
to themselves, destroy great quantities of grain and other vegetation.
Still other birds benefit mankind by acting as scavengers in the
removal of putrid and other offensive matter which would endanger our
health. In addition to all these varied direct benefits which are
brought about by the presence of birds, man is further indebted to
these creatures for the cheer which their gay music, bright plumage
and pleasant manners bring to him. The birds form a carefully
organized army of police which is engaged in keeping affairs balanced
in nature.
But we can go even further summing up the benefits that men may derive
from the birds. A great many kinds make excellent food, while others
furnish sport and pleasure to a large number of men and boys who seem
to require a certain kind of entertainment while accompanied with dog
and gun. Dead birds when embalmed as mummies and attached to the
head-gear worn by some girls and women are also claimed to cause much
happiness.
_Birds as Enemies._--It would be ridiculous for me to assert here that
no injury ever results from the presence of birds on the farm or in
the orchard. Quite a number of different species are continually
stepping over to the wrong side of the "ledger" as it were, and
committing depredations of various kinds which if considered alone
would render the perpetrators liable to severe punishment--in some
cases even unto death. Some of the crimes that can be charged to the
feathered tribe are cherry and berry-stealing, grape-puncturing,
apple-pecking, corn-pulling, grain-eating, the unintentional carrying
from place to place of some kinds of scale insects that happen to
crawl on their legs and feet, the possible spreading of hog cholera by
crows and buzzards, the robbing of the poultry yard, and lastly some
birds are accused of making noises that awaken us from our slumbers in
the morning.
Some of these crimes are genuine and are to be deplored, while others
are more imaginary than real. A few of them could be prevented in part
or altogether, while others might be diminished if we were inclined to
take the trouble to do it.