"After the second memorable inaguration of President Lincoln, took my
first trip of the season. The afternoon was very clear and warm,--real
vernal sunshine at last, though the wind roared like a lion over the
woods. It seemed novel enough to find within two miles of the White
House a simple woodsman chopping away as if no President was being
inaugurated! Some puppies, snugly nestled in the cavity of an old
hollow tree, he said, belonged to a wild dog. I imagine I saw the
'wild dog,' on the other side of Rock Creek, in a great state of grief
and trepidation, running up and down, crying and yelping, and looking
wistfully over the swollen flood, which the poor thing had not the
courage to brave. This day, for the first time, I heard the song of
the Canada sparrow, a soft, sweet note, almost running into a warble.
Saw a small, black velvety butterfly with a yellow border to its
wings. Under a warm bank found two flowers of the houstonia in bloom.
Saw frogs' spawn near Piny Branch, and heard the hyla."
Among the first birds that make their appearance in Washington is the
crow blackbird. He may come any time after the 1st of March. The birds
congregate in large flocks, and frequent groves and parks, alternately
swarming in the treetops and filling the air with their sharp jangle,
and alighting on the ground in quest of food, their polished coats
glistening in the sun from very blackness as they walk about. There is
evidently some music in the soul of this bird at this season, though
he makes a sad failure in getting it out. His voice always sounds as
if he were laboring under a severe attack of influenza, though a large
flock of them, heard at a distance on a bright afternoon of early
spring, produce an effect not unpleasing. The air is filled with
crackling, splintering, spurting, semi-musical sounds, which are like
pepper and salt to the ear.
All parks and public grounds about the city are full of blackbirds.
They are especially plentiful in the trees about the White House,
breeding there and waging war on all other birds. The occupants of one
of the offices in the west wing of the Treasury one day had their
attention attracted by some object striking violently against one of
the window-panes. Looking up, they beheld a crow blackbird pausing in
midair, a few feet from the window. On the broad stone window-sill lay
the quivering form of a purple finch. The little tragedy was easily
read. The blackbird had pursued the finch with such murderous violence
that the latter, in its desperate efforts to escape, had sought refuge
in the Treasury. The force of the concussion against the heavy
plateglass of the window had killed the poor thing instantly. The
pursuer, no doubt astonished at the sudden and novel termination of
the career of its victim, hovered for a moment, as if to be sure of
what had happened, and made off.
(It is not unusual for birds, when thus threatened with destruction by
their natural enemy, to become so terrified as to seek safety in the
presence of man. I was once startled, while living in a country
village, to behold, on entering my room at noon, one October day, a
quail sitting upon my bed. The affrighted and bewildered bird
instantly started for the open window, into which it had no doubt been
driven by a hawk.)
The crow blackbird has all the natural cunning of his prototype, the
crow. In one of the inner courts of the Treasury building there is a
fountain with several trees growing near. By midsummer the blackbirds
became so bold as to venture within this court. Various fragments of
food, tossed from the surrounding windows, reward their temerity. When
a crust of dry bread defies their beaks, they have been seen to drop
it into the water, and, when it has become soaked sufficiently, to
take it out again.
They build a nest of coarse sticks and mud, the whole burden of the
enterprise seeming to devolve upon the female. For several successive
mornings, just after sunrise, I used to notice a pair of them flying
to and fro in the air above me as I hoed in the garden, directing
their course about half a mile distant, and disappearing, on their
return, among the trees about the Capitol. Returning, the female
always had her beak loaded with building material, while the male,
carrying nothing, seemed to act as her escort, flying a little above
and in advance of her, and uttering now and then his husky, discordant
note. As I tossed a lump of earth up at them, the frightened mother
bird dropped her mortar, and the pair scurried away, much put out.
Later they avenged themselves by pilfering my cherries.
The most mischievous enemies of the cherries, however, here as at the
North, are the cedar waxwings, or "cherry-birds." How quickly they spy
out the tree! Long before the cherry begins to turn, they are around,
alert and cautious. In small flocks they circle about, high in the
air, uttering their fine note, or plunge quickly into the tops of
remote trees. Day by day they approach nearer and nearer,
reconnoitring the premises, and watching the growing fruit. Hardly
have the green lobes turned a red cheek to the sun, before their beaks
have scarred it. At first they approach the tree stealthily, on the
side turned from the house, diving quickly into the branches in ones
and twos, while the main flock is ambushed in some shade tree not far
off. They are most apt to commit their depredations very early in the
morning and on cloudy, rainy days. As the cherries grow sweeter the
birds grow bolder, till, from throwing tufts of grass, one has to
throw stones in good earnest, or lose all his fruit. In June they
disappear, following the cherries to the north, where by July they are
nesting in the orchards and cedar groves.
Among the permanent summer residents here (one might say city
residents, as they seem more abundant in town than out), the yellow
warbler or summer yellowbird is conspicuous. He comes about the middle
of April, and seems particularly attached to the silver poplars. In
every street, and all day long, one may hear his thin, sharp warble.
When nesting, the female comes about the yard, pecking at the
clothes-line, and gathering up bits of thread to weave into her nest.
Swallows appear in Washington form the first to the middle of April.
They come twittering along in the way so familiar to every New England
boy. The barn swallow is heard first, followed in a day or two by the
squeaking of the cliff swallow. The chimney swallows, or swifts, are
not far behind, and remain here in large numbers, the whole season.
The purple martins appear in April, as they pass north, and again in
July and August on their return, accompanied by their young.
The national capital is situated in such a vast spread of wild,
wooded, or semi-cultivated country and is in itself so open and
spacious, with its parks and large government reservations, that an
unusual number of birds find their way into it in the course of the
season. Rare warblers, as the black-poll, the yellow-poll, and the
bay-breasted, pausing in May on their northward journey, pursue their
insect game in the very heart of the town.
I have heard the veery thrush in the trees near the White House; and
one rainy April morning, about six o'clock, he came and blew his soft,
mellow flute in a pear-tree in my garden. The tones had all the
sweetness and wildness they have when heard in June in our deep
northern forests. A day or two afterward, in the same tree, I heard
for the first time the song of the ruby-crowned wren, or kinglet,--the
same liquid bubble and cadence which characterize the wren-songs
generally, but much finer and more delicate than the song of any other
variety known to me; beginning in a fine, round, needle-like note, and
rising into a full, sustained warble, [SYMBOL DELETED] a strain, on
whole, remarkably exquisite and pleasing, the singer being all the
while as busy as a bee, catching some kind of insects. It is certainly
on of our most beautiful bird-songs, and Audubon's enthusiasm
concerning its song, as he heard it in the wilds of Labrador, is not a
bit extravagant. The song of the kinglet is the only characteristic
that allies it to the wrens.
The Capitol grounds, with their fine large trees of many varieties,
draw many kinds of birds. In the rear of the building the extensive
grounds are peculiarly attractive, being a gentle slope, warm and
protected, and quite thickly wooded. Here in early spring I go to hear
the robins, catbirds, blackbirds, wrens, etc. In March the
white-throated and white-crowned sparrows may be seen, hopping about
on the flower-beds or peering slyly from the evergreens. The robin
hops about freely upon the grass, notwithstanding the keepers
large-lettered warning, and at intervals, and especially at sunset,
carols from the treetops his loud, hearty strain.
The kingbird and orchard starling remain the whole season, and breed
in the treetops. The rich, copious song of the starling may be heard
there all the forenoon. The song of some birds is like
scarlet,--strong, intense, emphatic. This is the character of the
orchard starlings, also the tanagers and the various grosbeaks. On the
other hand, the songs of other birds, as of certain of the thrushes,
suggest the serene blue of the upper sky.
In February one may hear, in the Smithsonian grounds, the song of the
fox sparrow. It is a strong, richly modulated whistle,--the finest
sparrow note I have ever heard.
A curious and charming sound may be heard here in May. You are
walking forth in the soft morning air, when suddenly there comes a
burst of bobolink melody form some mysterious source. A score of
throats pour out one brief, hilarious, tuneful jubilee and are
suddenly silent. There is a strange remoteness and fascination about
it. Presently you will discover its source skyward, and a quick eye
will detect the gay band pushing northward. They seem to scent the
fragrant meadows afar off, and shout forth snatches of their songs in
anticipation.
The bobolink does not breed in the District, but usually pauses in his
journey and feeds during the day in the grass-lands north of the city.
When the season is backward, they tarry a week or ten days, singing
freely and appearing quite at home. In large flocks they search over
every inch of ground, and at intervals hover on the wing or alight in
the treetops, all pouring forth their gladness at once, and filling
the air with a multitudinous musical clamor.
They continue to pass, traveling by night and feeding by day, till
after the middle of May, when they cease. In September, with numbers
greatly increased, they are on their way back. I am first advised of
their return by hearing their calls at night as they fly over the
city. On certain nights the sound becomes quite noticeable. I have
awakened in the middle of the night, and, through the open window, as
I lay in bed, heard their faint notes. The warblers begin to return
about the same time, and are clearly distinguished by their timid
yeaps. On dark, cloudy nights the birds seem confused by the lights of
the city, and apparently wander about above it.
In the spring the same curious incident is repeated, though but few
voices can be identified. I make out the snowbird, the bobolink, the
warblers, and on two nights during the early part of May I heard very
clearly the call of the sandpipers.
Instead of the bobolink, one encounters here, in the June meadows, the
black-throated bunting, a bird very closely related to the sparrows
and a very persistent if not a very musical songster. He perches upon
the fences and upon the trees by the roadside, and, spreading his
tail, gives forth his harsh strain, which may be roughly worded thus:
fscp fscp, fee fee fee. Like all sounds associated with early summer,
it soon has a charm to the ear quite independent of its intrinsic
merits.
Outside of the city limits, the great point of interest to the rambler
and lover of nature is the Rock Creek region. Rock Creek is a large,
rough, rapid stream, which has its source in the interior of Maryland,
and flows in to the Potomac between Washington and Georgetown. Its
course, for five or six miles out of Washington, is marked by great
diversity of scenery. Flowing in a deep valley, which now and then
becomes a wild gorge with overhanging rocks and high precipitous
headlands, for the most part wooded; here reposing in long, dark
reaches, there sweeping and hurrying around a sudden bend or over a
rocky bed; receiving at short intervals small runs and spring
rivulets, which open up vistas and outlooks to the right and left, of
the most charming description,--Rock Creek has an abundance of all the
elements that make up not only pleasing but wild and rugged scenery.
There is perhaps, not another city in the Union that has on its very
threshold so much natural beauty and grandeur, such as men seek for in
remote forests and mountains. A few touches of art would convert this
whole region, extending from Georgetown to what is known as Crystal
Springs, not more than two miles from the present State Department,
into a park unequaled by anything in the world. There are passages
between these two points as wild and savage, and apparently as remote
from civilization, as anything one meets with in the mountain sources
of the Hudson or the Delaware.
One of the tributaries to Rock Creek within this limit is called Piny
Branch. It is a small, noisy brook, flowing through a valley of great
natural beauty and picturesqueness, shaded nearly all the way by woods
of oak, chestnut, and beech, and abounding in dark recesses and hidden
retreats.
I must not forget to mention the many springs with which this whole
region is supplied, each the centre of some wild nook, perhaps the
head of a little valley one or two hundred yards long, through which
one catches a glimpse, or hears the voice, of the main creek rushing
along below.
My walks tend in this direction more frequently than in any other.
Here the boys go, too, troops of them, of a Sunday, to bathe and prowl
around, and indulge the semi-barbarous instincts that still lurk
within them. Life, in all its forms, is most abundant near water. The
rank vegetation nurtures the insects, and the insects draw the birds.
The first week in March, on some southern slope where the sunshine
lies warm and long, I usually find the hepatica in bloom, though with
scarcely an inch of stalk. In the spring runs, the skunk cabbage
pushes its pike up through the mould, the flower appearing first, as
if Nature had made a mistake.
It is not till about the 1st of April that many wild flowers may be
looked for. By this time the hepatica, anemone saxifrage, arbutus,
houstonia, and bloodroot may be counted on. A week later, the
claytonia or spring beauty, water-cress, violets, a low buttercup,
vetch, corydalis, and potentilla appear. These comprise most of the
April flowers, and may be found in great profusion in the Rock Creek
and Piny Branch region.
In each little valley or spring run, some one species predominates. I
know invariably where to look for the first liverwort, and where the
largest and finest may be found. On a dry, gravelly, half-wooded
hill-slope the bird's-foot violet grows in great abundance, and is
sparse in neighboring districts. This flower, which I never saw in the
North, is the most beautiful and showy of all the violets, and calls
forth rapturous applause from all persons who visit the woods. It
grows in little groups and clusters, and bears a close resemblance to
the pansies of the gardens. Its two purple, velvety petals seem to
fall over tiny shoulders like a rich cape.
On the same slope, and on no other, I go about the 1st of May for
lupine, or sun-dial, which makes the ground look blue from a little
distance; on the other or northern side of the slope, the arbutus,
during the first half of April, perfumes the wildwood air. A few paces
farther on, in the bottom of a little spring run, the mandrake shades
the ground with its miniature umbrellas. It begins to push its green
finger-points up through the ground by the 1st of April, but is not in
bloom till the 1st of May. It has a single white, wax-like flower,
with a sweet, sickish odor, growing immediately beneath its broad
leafy top. By the same run grow watercresses and two kinds of
anemones,--the Pennsylvania and the grove anemone. The bloodroot is
very common at the foot of almost every warm slope in the Rock Creek
woods, and, where the wind has tucked it up well with the coverlid of
dry leaves, makes its appearance almost as soon as the liverwort. It
is singular how little warmth is necessary to encourage these earlier
flowers to put forth. It would seem as if some influence must come on
in advance underground and get things ready, so that, when the outside
temperature is propitious, they at once venture out. I have found the
bloodroot when it was still freezing two or three nights in the week,
and have known at least three varieties of early flowers to be buried
in eight inches of snow.
Another abundant flower in the Rock Creek region is the spring beauty.
Like most others, it grows in streaks. A few paces from where your
attention is monopolized by violets or arbutus, it is arrested by the
claytonia, growing in such profusion that it is impossible to set the
foot down without crushing the flowers. Only the forenoon walker sees
them in all their beauty, as later in the day their eyes are closed,
and their pretty heads drooped in slumber. In only one locality do I
find the lady's-slipper,--a yellow variety. The flowers that overleap
all bounds in this section are the houstonias. By the 1st of April
they are very noticeable in warm, damp places along the borders of the
woods and in half-cleared fields, but by May these localities are
clouded with them. They become visible from the highway across wide
fields, and look like little puffs of smoke clinging close to the
ground.
On the 1st of May I go to the Rock Creek or Piny Branch region to hear
the wood thrush. I always find him by this date leisurely chanting his
lofty strain; other thrushes are seen now also, or even earlier, as
Wilson's, the olive-backed, the hermit,--the two latter silent, but
the former musical.
Occasionally in the earlier part of May I find the woods literally
swarming with warblers, exploring every branch and leaf, from the
tallest tulip to the lowest spice-bush, so urgent is the demand for
food during their long northern journeys. At night they are up and
away. Some varieties, as the blue yellow-back, the chestnut-sided, and
the Blackburnian, during their brief stay, sing nearly as freely as in
their breeding-haunts. For two or three years I have chanced to meet
little companies of the bay-breasted warbler, searching for food in an
oak wood on an elevated piece of ground. They kept well up among the
branches, were rather slow in their movements, and evidently disposed
to tarry but a short time.
The summer residents here, belonging to this class of birds, are few.
I have observed the black and white creeping warbler, the Kentucky
warbler, the worm-eating warbler, the redstart, and the gnat-catcher,
breeding near Rock Creek.
Of these the Kentucky warbler is by far the most interesting, though
quite rare. I meet with him in low, damp places in the woods, usually
on the steep sides of some little run. I hear at intervals a clear,
strong, bell-like whistle or warble, and presently catch a glimpse of
the bird as he jumps up from the ground to take an insect or worm from
the under side of a leaf. This is his characteristic movement. He
belongs to the class of ground warblers, and his range is very low,
indeed lower than that of any other species with which I am
acquainted. He is on the ground nearly all the time, moving rapidly
along, taking spiders and bugs, overturning leaves, peeping under
sticks and into crevices, and every now and then leaping up eight or
ten inches to take his game from beneath some overhanging leaf or
branch. Thus each species has its range more or less marked. Draw a
line three feet from the ground, and you mark the usual limit of the
Kentucky warbler's quest for food. Six or eight feet higher bounds the
usual range of such birds as the worm-eating warbler, the mourning
ground warbler, the Maryland yellow-throat. The lower branches of the
higher growths and the higher branches of the lower growths are
plainly preferred by the black-throated blue-backed warbler in those
localities where he is found. The thrushes feed mostly on and near the
ground, while some of the vireos and the true flycatchers explore the
highest branches. But the warblers, as a rule, are all partial to
thick, rank undergrowths.
The Kentucky warbler is a large bird for the genus and quite notable
in appearance. His back is clear olive-green, his throat and breast
bright yellow. A still more prominent feature is a black streak on the
side of the face, extending down the neck.
Another familiar bird here, which I never met with in the North, is
the gnatcatcher, called by Audubon the blue-gray flycatching warbler.
In form and manner it seems almost a duplicate of the catbird on a
small scale. It mews like a young kitten, erects its tail, flirts,
droops its wings, goes through a variety of motions when disturbed by
your presence, and in many ways recalls its dusky prototype. Its color
above is a light gray-blue, gradually fading till it becomes white on
the breast and belly. It is a very small bird, and has a long, facile,
slender tail. Its song is a lisping, chattering, incoherent warble,
now faintly reminding one of the goldfinch, now of a miniature
catbird, then of a tiny yellow-hammer, having much variety, but no
unity and little cadence.
Another bird which has interested me here is the Louisiana water
thrush, called also large-billed water-thrush, and water-wagtail. It
is one of a trio of birds which has confused the ornithologists much.
The other two species are the well-known golden-crowned thrush or
wood-wagtail, and the northern, or small, water-thrush.
The present species, though not abundant, is frequently met with along
Rock Creek. It is a very quick, vivacious bird, and belongs to the
class of ecstatic singers. I have seen a pair of these thrushes, on a
bright May day, flying to and fro between two spring runs, alighting
at intermediate points, the male breaking out into one of the most
exuberant, unpremeditated strains I ever heard. Its song is a sudden
burst, beginning with three or four clear round notes much resembling
certain tones of the clarinet, and terminating in a rapid, intricate
warble.
This bird resembles a thrush only in its color, which is olive-brown
above and grayish white beneath, with speckled throat and breast. Its
habits, manners, and voice suggest those of a lark.
I seldom go the Rock Creek route without being amused and sometimes
annoyed by the yellow-breasted chat. This bird also has something of
the manners and build of the catbird, yet he is truly an original. The
catbird is mild and feminine compared with this rollicking polyglot.
His voice is very loud and strong and quite uncanny. No sooner have
you penetrated his retreat, which is usually a thick undergrowth in
low, wet localities, near the woods or in old fields, than he begins
his serenade, which for the variety, grotesqueness, and uncouthness of
the notes is not unlike a country skimmerton. If one passes directly
along, the bird may scarcely break the silence. But pause a while, or
loiter quietly about, and your presence stimulates him to do his best.
He peeps quizzically at you from beneath the branches, and gives a
sharp feline mew. In a moment more he says very distinctly, who, who.
Then in rapid succession follow notes the most discordant that ever
broke the sylvan silence. Now he barks like a puppy, then quacks like
a duck, then rattles like a kingfisher, then squalls like a fox, then
caws like a crow, then mews like a cat. Now he calls as if to be heard
a long way off, then changes his key, as if addressing the spectator.
Though very shy, and carefully keeping himself screened when you show
any disposition to get a better view, he will presently, if you remain
quiet, ascend a twig, or hop out on a branch in plain sight, lop his
tail, droop his wings, cock his head, and become very melodramatic. In
less than half a minute he darts into the bushes again, and again
tunes up, no Frenchman rolling his r's so fluently.
C-r-r-r-r-r-- Wrrr, --that's it, --chee, --quack, cluck, --yit-yit-yit,
--now hit it, --tr-r-r-r, --when, --caw, caw, --cut, cut, --tea-boy,
--who, who, --mew, mew, --and so on till you are tired of listening.
Observing one very closely one day, I discovered that he was limited
to six notes or changes, which he went through in regular order,
scarcely varying a note in a dozen repetitions. Sometimes, when a
considerable distance off, he will fly down to have a nearer view of
you. And such curious, expressive flight,--legs extended, head lowered,
wings rapidly vibrating, the whole action piquant and droll!
The chat is an elegant bird, both in form and color. Its plumage is
remarkably firm and compact. Color above, light olive-green; beneath,
bright yellow; beak, black and strong.
The cardinal grosbeak, or Virginia redbird, is quite common in the
same localities, though more inclined to seek the woods. It is much
sought after by bird fanciers, and by boy gunners, and consequently is
very shy. This bird suggests a British redcoat; his heavy, pointed
beak, his high cockade, the black stripe down his face, the expression
of weight and massiveness about his head and neck, and his erect
attitude, give him a decided soldier-like appearance; and there is
something of the tone of the fife in his song or whistle, while his
ordinary note, when disturbed, is like the clink of a sabre.
Yesterday, as I sat indolently swinging in the loop of a grapevine,
beneath a thick canopy of green branches, in a secluded nook by a
spring run, one of these birds came pursuing some kind of insect, but
a few feet above me. He hopped about, now and then uttering his sharp
note, till some moth or beetle trying to escape, he broke down through
the cover almost where I sat. The effect was like a firebrand coming
down through the branches. Instantly catching sight of me, he darted
away much alarmed. The female is tinged with brown, and shows but a
little red except when she takes flight.
By far the most abundant species of woodpecker about Washington is the
red-headed. It is more common than the robin. Not in the deep woods,
but among the scattered dilapidated oaks and groves, on the hills and
in the fields, I hear almost every day his uncanny note, ktr-r-r,
ktr-r-r, like that of some larger tree-toad, proceeding from an oak
grove just beyond the boundary. He is a strong-scented fellow, and
very tough. Yet how beautiful, as he flits about the open woods,
connecting the trees by a gentle arc of crimson and white! This is
another bird with a military look. His deliberate, dignified ways, and
his bright uniform of red, white, and steel-blue, bespeak him an
officer of rank.
Another favorite beat of mine is northeast of the city. Looking from
the Capitol in this direction, scarcely more than a mile distant, you
see a broad green hill-slope, falling very gently, and spreading into
a large expanse of meadow-land. The summit, if so gentle a swell of
greensward may be said to have a summit, is covered with a grove of
large oaks; and, sweeping black out of sight like a mantle, the front
line of a thick forest bounds the sides. This emerald landscape is
seen from a number of points in the city. Looking along New York
Avenue from Northern Liberty Market, the eye glances, as it were, from
the red clay of the street, and alights upon this fresh scene in the
distance. It is a standing invitation to the citizen to come forth and
be refreshed. As I turn from some hot, hard street, how inviting it
looks! I bathe my eyes in it as in a fountain. Sometimes troops of
cattle are seen grazing upon it. In June the gathering of the hay may
be witnessed. When the ground is covered with snow, numerous stacks,
or clusters of stacks, are still left for the eye to contemplate.
The woods which clothe the east side of this hill, and sweep away to
the east, are among the most charming to be found in the District. The
main growth is oak and chestnut, with a thin sprinkling of laurel,
azalea, and dogwood. It is the only locality in which I have found the
dogtooth violet in bloom, and the best place I know of to gather
arbutus. On one slope the ground is covered with moss, through which
the arbutus trails its glories.
Emerging from these woods toward the city, one sees the white dome of
the Capitol soaring over the green swell of earth immediately in
front, and lifting its four thousand tons of iron gracefully and
lightly into the air. Of all the sights in Washington, that which will
survive the longest in my memory is the vision of the great dome thus
rising cloud-like above the hills.
1868.