Years ago, when quite a youth, I was rambling in the woods one Sunday,
with my brothers, gathering black birch, wintergreens, etc., when, as
we reclined upon the ground, gazing vaguely up into the trees, I
caught sight of a bird, that paused a moment on a branch above me, the
like of which I had never before seen or heard of. It was probably the
blue yellow-backed warbler, as I have since found this to be a common
bird in those woods; but to my young fancy it seemed like some fairy
bird, so unexpected. I saw it a moment as the flickering leaves
parted, noted the white spot on its wing, and it was gone. How the
thought of it clung to me afterward! It was a revelation. It was the
first intimation I had had that the woods we knew so well held birds
that we knew not at all. Were our eyes and ears so dull, then? There
was the robin, the blue jay, the bluebird, the yellow-bird, the
cherry-bird, the catbird, the chipping-bird, the woodpecker, the
high-hole, an occasional redbird, and a few others, in the woods or
along their borders, but who ever dreamed that there were still others
that not even the hunters saw, and whose names no one had ever heard?
When, one summer day, later in life, I took my gun and went to the
woods again, in a different though perhaps a less simple spirit I
found my youthful vision more than realized. There were, indeed, other
birds, plenty of them, singing, nesting, breeding, among the familiar
trees, which I had before passed by unheard and unseen.
It is a surprise that awaits every student of ornithology, and the
thrill of delight that accompanies it, and the feeling of fresh, eager
inquiry that follows, can hardly be awakened by any other pursuit.
Take the first step in ornithology, procure one new specimen, and you
are ticketed for the whole voyage. There is a fascination about it
quite overpowering. It fits so well with other things,--with fishing,
hunting, farming, walking, camping-out,--with all that takes one to
the fields and woods. One may go a-blackberrying and make some rare
discovery; or, while driving his cow to pasture, hear a new song, or
make a new observation. Secrets lurk on all sides. There is news in
every bush. Expectation is ever on tiptoe. What no man ever saw before
may the next moment be revealed to you. What a new interest the woods
have! How you long to explore every nook and corner of them! You would
even find consolation in being lost in them. You could then hear the
night birds and the owls, and, in your wanderings, might stumble upon
some unknown specimen.
In all excursions to the woods or to the shore, the student of
ornithology has an advantage over his companions. He has one more
resource, one more avenue of delight. He, indeed, kills two birds with
one stone and sometimes three. If others wander, he can never go out
of his way. His game is everywhere. The cawing of a crow makes him
feel at home, while a new note or a new song drowns all care. Audubon,
on the desolate coast of Labrador, is happier than any king ever was;
and on shipboard is nearly cured of his seasickness when a new gull
appears in sight.
One must taste it to understand or appreciate its fascination. The
looker-on sees nothing to inspire such enthusiasm. Only a few feathers
and a half-musical note or two; why all this ado? "Who would give a
hundred and twenty dollars to know about the birds?" said an Eastern
governor, half contemptuously, to Wilson, as the latter solicited a
subscription to his great work. Sure enough. Bought knowledge is dear
at any price. The most precious things have no commercial value. It is
not, your Excellency, mere technical knowledge of the birds that you
are asked to purchase, but a new interest in the fields and the woods,
a new moral and intellectual tonic, a new key to the treasure-house of
Nature. Think of the many other things your Excellency would get,--the
air, the sunshine, the healing fragrance and coolness, and the many
respites from the knavery and turmoil of political life.
Yesterday was an October day of rare brightness and warmth. I spent
the most of it in a wild, wooded gorge of Rock Creek. A persimmon-tree
which stood upon the bank had dropped some of its fruit in the water.
As I stood there, half-leg deep, picking them up, a wood duck came
flying down the creek and passed over my head. Presently it returned,
flying up; then it came back again, and, sweeping low around a bend,
prepared to alight in a still, dark reach in the creek which was
hidden from my view. As I passed that way about half an hour
afterward, the duck started up, uttering its wild alarm note. In the
stillness I could hear the whistle of its wings and the splash of the
water when it took flight. Near by I saw where a raccoon had come down
to the water for fresh clams, leaving his long, sharp track in the mud
and sand. Before I had passed this hidden stretch of water, a pair of
those mysterious thrushes, the gray-cheeked, flew up from the ground
and perched on a low branch.
Who can tell how much this duck, this footprint in the sand, and these
strange thrushes from the far north, enhanced the interest and charm
of the autumn woods?
Ornithology cannot be satisfactorily learned from the books. The
satisfaction is in learning it from nature. One must have an original
experience with the birds. The books are only the guide, the
invitation. Though there remain not another new species to describe,
any young person with health and enthusiasm has open to him or her the
whole field anew, and is eligible to experience all the thrill and
delight of the original discoverers.
But let me say, in the same breath, that the books can by no manner of
means be dispensed with. A copy of Wilson or Audubon, for reference
and to compare notes with, is invaluable. In lieu of these, access to
some large museum or collection would be a great help. In the
beginning, one finds it very difficult to identify a bird from any
verbal description. Reference to a colored plate, or to a stuffed
specimen, at once settles the matter. This is the chief value of
books; they are the charts to sail by; the route is mapped out, and
much time and labor are thereby saved. First find your bird; observe
its ways, its song, its calls, its flight, its haunts; then shoot it
(not ogle it with a glass), and compare it with Audubon. [footnote: My
later experiences have led me to prefer a small field-glass to a gun.]
In this way the feathered kingdom may soon be conquered.
The ornithologists divide and subdivide the birds into a great many
orders, families, genera, species etc., which, at first sight, are apt
to confuse and discourage the reader. But any interested person can
acquaint himself with most of our song-birds by keeping in mind a few
general divisions, and observing the characteristics of each. By far
the greater number of our land-birds are either warblers, vireos,
flycatchers, thrushes, or finches.
The warblers are, perhaps, the most puzzling. These are the true
Sylvia, the real wood-birds. They are small, very active, but feeble
songsters, and, to be seen, must be sought for. In passing through the
woods, most persons have a vague consciousness of slight chirping,
semi-musical sounds in the trees overhead. In most cases these sounds
proceed from the warblers. Throughout the Middle and Eastern States,
half a dozen species or so may be found in almost every locality, as
the redstart, the Maryland yellow-throat, the yellow warbler (not the
common goldfinch, with black cap, and black wings and tail), the
hooded warbler, the black and white creeping warbler; or others,
according to the locality and the character of the woods. In pine or
hemlock woods, one species may predominate; in maple or oak woods, or
in mountainous districts, another. The subdivisions of ground
warblers, the most common members of which are the Maryland
yellow-throat, the Kentucky warbler, and the mourning ground warbler,
are usually found in low, wet, bushy, or half-open woods, often on and
always near the ground. The summer yellowbird, or yellow warbler, is
not now a wood-bird at all, being found in orchards and parks, and
along streams and in the trees of villages and cities.
As we go north the number of warblers increases, till, in the northern
part of New England, and in the Canadas, as many as ten or twelve
varieties may be found breeding in June. Audubon found the black-poll
warbler breeding in Labrador, and congratulates himself on being the
first white man who had ever seen its nest. When these warblers pass
north in May, they seem to go singly or in pairs, and their black caps
and striped coats show conspicuously. When they return in September
they are in troops or loose flocks, are of a uniform dull drab or
brindlish color, and are very fat. They scour the treetops for a few
days, almost eluding the eye by their quick movements, and are gone.
According to my own observation, the number of species of warblers
which one living in the middle districts sees, on their return in the
fall, is very small compared with the number he may observe migrating
north in the spring.
The yellow-rumped warblers are the most noticeable of all in Autumn.
They come about the streets and garden, and seem especially drawn to
dry, leafless trees. They dart spitefully about, uttering a sharp
chirp. In Washington I have seen them in the outskirts all winter.
Audubon figures and describes over forty different warblers. More
recent writers have divided and subdivided the group very much, giving
new names to new classifications. But this part is of interest and
value only to the professional ornithologist.
The finest songster among the Sylvia, according to my notions, is the
black-throated greenback. Its song is sweet and clear, but brief.
The rarest of the species are Swainson's warbler, said to be
disappearing; the cerulean warbler, said to be abundant about Niagara;
and the mourning ground warbler, which I have found breeding about the
head-waters of the Delaware, in New York.
The vireos, or greenlets, are a sort of connecting link between the
warblers and the true flycatchers, and partake of the characteristics
of both.
The red-eyed vireo, whose sweet soliloquy is one of the most constant
and cheerful sounds in our woods and groves, is perhaps the most
noticeable and abundant species. The vireos are a little larger than
the warblers, and are far less brilliant and variegated in color.
There are five species found in most of our woods, namely the red-eyed
vireo, the white-eyed vireo, the warbling vireo, the yellow-throated
vireo, and the solitary vireo,--the red-eyed and warbling being most
abundant, and the white-eyed being the most lively and animated
songster. I meet the latter bird only in the thick, bush growths of
low, swampy localities, where, eluding the observer, it pours forth
its song with a sharpness and a rapidity of articulation that are
truly astonishing. This strain is very marked, and, though inlaid with
the notes of several other birds, is entirely unique. The iris of this
bird is white, as that of the red-eyed is red, though in neither case
can this mark be distinguished at more than two or three yards. In
most cases the iris of birds is a dark hazel, which passes for black.
The basket-like nest, pendent to the low branches in the woods, which
the falling leaves of autumn reveal to all passers, is, in most cases,
the nest of the red-eyed, though the solitary constructs a similar
tenement, but in much more remote and secluded localities.
Most birds exhibit great alarm and distress, usually with a strong
dash of anger, when you approach their nests; but the demeanor of the
red-eyed, on such an occasion, is an exception to this rule. The
parent birds move about softly amid the branches above, eying the
intruder with a curious, innocent look, uttering, now and then, a
subdued note or plaint, solicitous and watchful, but making no
demonstration of anger or distress.
The birds, no more than the animals, like to be caught napping; but I
remember, one autumn day, coming upon a red-eyed vireo that was
clearly oblivious to all that was passing around it. It was a young
bird, though full grown, and it was taking its siesta on a low branch
in a remote heathery field. Its head was snugly stowed away under its
wing, and it would have fallen easy prey to the first hawk that came
along. I approached noiselessly, and when within a few feet of it
paused to note its breathings, so much more rapid and full than our
own. A bird has greater lung capacity than any other living thing,
hence more animal heat, and life at a higher pressure. When I reached
out my hand and carefully closed it around the winged sleeper, its
sudden terror and consternation almost paralyzed it. Then it struggled
and cried piteously, and when released hastened and hid itself in some
near bushes. I never expected to surprise it thus a second time.
The flycatchers are a larger group than the vireos, with
stronger-marked characteristics. They are not properly songsters, but
are classed by some writers as screechers. Their pugnacious
dispositions are well known, and they not only fight among themselves,
but are incessantly quarreling with their neighbors. The kingbird, or
tyrant flycatcher might serve as the type of the order.
The common or wood pewee excites the most pleasant emotions, both on
account of its plaintive note and its exquisite mossy nest.
The phoebe-bird is the pioneer of the flycatchers, and comes in April,
sometimes in March. Its comes familiarly about the house and
outbuildings, and usually builds beneath hay-sheds or under bridges.
The flycatchers always take their insect prey on the wing, by a sudden
darting or swooping movement; often a very audible snap of the beak
may be heard.
These birds are the least elegant, both in form and color, of any of
our feathered neighbors. They have short legs, a short neck, large
heads, and broad, flat beaks, with bristles at the base. They often
fly with a peculiar quivering movement of the wings, and when at rest
some of the species oscillate their tails at short intervals.
There are found in the United States nineteen species. In the Middle
and Eastern districts, one may observe in summer, without any special
search, about five of them, namely, the kingbird, the phoebe-bird, the
wood pewee, the great crested flycatcher (distinguished from all
others by the bright ferruginous color of its tail), and the small
green-crested flycatcher.
The thrushes are the birds of real melody, and will afford one more
delight perhaps than any other class. The robin is the most familiar
example. Their manners, flight, and form are the same in each species.
See the robin hop along upon the ground, strike an attitude, scratch
for a worm, fix his eye upon something before him or upon the
beholder, flip his wings suspiciously, fly straight to his perch, or
sit at sundown on some high branch caroling his sweet and honest
strain, and you have seen what is characteristic of all the thrushes.
Their carriage is preëminently marked by grace, and their songs by
melody.
Beside the robin, which is in no sense a woodbird, we have in New York
the wood thrush, the hermit thrush, the veery, or Wilson's thrush, the
olive-backed thrush, and, transiently, one or two other species not so
clearly defined.
The wood thrush and the hermit stand at the head as songsters, no two
persons, perhaps, agreeing as to which is the superior.
Under the general head of finches, Audubon describes over sixty
different birds, ranging from the sparrows to the grosbeaks, and
including the buntings, the linnets, the snowbirds, the crossbills,
and the redbirds.
We have nearly or quite a dozen varieties of the sparrow in the
Atlantic States, but perhaps no more than half that number would be
discriminated by the unprofessional observer. The song sparrow, which
every child knows, comes first; at least, his voice is first heard.
And can there be anything more fresh and pleasing than this first
simple strain heard from the garden fence or a near hedge, on some
bright, still March morning?
The field or vesper sparrow, called also grass finch 8 and
bay-winged sparrow, a bird slightly larger than the song sparrow and
of a lighter gray color, is abundant in all our upland fields and
pastures, and is a very sweet songster. It builds upon the ground,
without the slightest cover or protection, and also roosts there.
Walking through the fields at dusk, I frequently start them up almost
beneath my feet. When disturbed by day, they fly with a quick, sharp
movement, showing two white quills in the tail. The traveler along the
country roads disturbs them earthing their wings in the soft dry
earth, or sees them skulking and flitting along the fences in front of
him. They run in the furrow in advance of the team, or perch upon the
stones a few rods off. They sing much after sundown, hence the aptness
of the name vesper sparrow, which a recent writer, Wilson Flagg, has
bestowed upon them.
In the meadows and low, wet lands the savanna sparrow is met with, and
may be known by its fine, insect-like song; in the swamp, the swamp
sparrow.
The fox sparrow, the largest and handsomest species of this family,
comes to us in the fall, from the North, where it breeds. Likewise the
tree or Canada sparrow, and the white-crowned and white-throated
sparrow.
The social sparrow, alias "hairbird," alias "red-headed
chipping-bird," is the smallest of the sparrows, and I believe, the
only one that builds in trees.
The finches, as a class, all have short conical bills, with tails more
or less forked. The purple finch heads the list in varied musical
abilities.
Besides the groups of our more familiar birds which I have thus
hastily outlined, there are numerous other groups, more limited in
specimens but comprising some of our best-known songsters. The
bobolink, for instance, has properly no congener. The famous
mockingbird of the Southern States belongs to a genus which has but
two other representatives in the Atlantic States, namely, the catbird
and the long-tailed or ferruginous thrush.
The wrens are a large and interesting family, and as songsters are
noted for vivacity and volubility. The more common species are the
house wren, the marsh wren, the great Carolina wren, and the winter
wren, the latter perhaps deriving its name from the fact that it breed
in the North. It is an exquisite songster, and pours forth its notes
so rapidly, and with such sylvan sweetness and cadence, that it seems
to go off like a musical alarm.
Wilson called the kinglets wrens, but they have little to justify the
name, except that the ruby-crown's song is of the same gushing,
lyrical character as that referred to above. Dr. Brewer was entranced
with the song of one of these tiny minstrels in the woods of New
Brunswick, and thought he had found the author of the strain in the
black-poll warbler. He seems loath to believe that a bird so small as
either of the kinglets could possess such vocal powers. It may indeed
have been the winter wren, but from my own observation I believe the
ruby-crowned kinglet quite capable of such a performance.
But I must leave this part of the subject and hasten on. As to works
on ornithology, Audubon's, though its expense puts it beyond the reach
of the mass of readers, is by far the most full and accurate. His
drawings surpass all others in accuracy and spirit, while his
enthusiasm and devotion to the work he had undertaken have but few
parallels in the history of science. His chapter on the wild goose is
as good as a poem. One readily overlooks his style, which is often
verbose and affected, in consideration of enthusiasm so genuine and
purpose so single.
There has never been a keener eye than Audubon's, though there have
been more discriminative ears. Nuttall, for instance is far more happy
in his descriptions of the songs and notes of birds, and more to be
relied upon. Audubon thinks the song of the Louisiana water-thrush
equal to that of the European nightingale, and, as he had heard both
birds, one would think was prepared to judge. Yet he has, no doubt,
overrated the one and underrated the other. The song of the
water-thrush is very brief, compared with the philomel's, and its
quality is brightness and vivacity, while that of the latter bird, if
the books are to be credited, is melody and harmony. Again, he says
the song of the blue grosbeak resembles the bobolink's, which it does
about as much as the two birds resemble each other in color; one is
black and white and the other is blue. The song of the wood-wagtail,
he says, consists of a "short succession of simple notes beginning
with emphasis and gradually falling." The truth is, they run up the
scale instead of down, beginning low and ending in a shriek.
Yet considering the extent of Audubon's work, the wonder is the errors
are so few. I can at this moment recall but one observation of his,
the contrary of which I have proved to be true. In his account of the
bobolink he makes a point of the fact that, in returning south in the
fall, they do not travel by night as they do when moving north in the
spring. In Washington I have heard their calls as they flew over at
night for four successive autumns. As he devoted the whole of a long
life to the subject, and figured and described over four hundred
species, one feels a real triumph on finding in our common woods a
bird not described in his work. I have seen but two. Walking in the
woods one day in early fall, in the vicinity of West Point, I started
up a thrush that was sitting on the ground. It alighted on a branch a
few yards off, and looked new to me. I thought I had never before seen
so long-legged a thrush. I shot it, and saw that it was a new
acquaintance. Its peculiarities were its broad, square tail; the
length of its legs, which were three and three quarters inches from
the end of the middle toe to the hip-joint; and the deep uniform
olive-brown of the upper parts, and the gray of the lower. It proved
to be the gray-cheeked thrush, named and first described by Professor
Baird. But little seems to be known concerning it, except that it
breeds in the far north, even on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. I
would go a good way to hear its song.
The present season I met with a pair of them near Washington, as
mentioned above. In size this bird approaches the wood thrush, being
larger than either the hermit or the veery; unlike all other species,
no part of its plumage has a tawny or yellowish tinge. The other
specimen was the northern or small water-thrush, cousin-german to the
oven-bird and the half-brother to the Louisiana water-thrush or
wagtail. I found it at the head of the Delaware, where it evidently
had a nest. It usually breeds much further north. It has a strong,
clear warble, which at once suggests the song of its congener. I have
not been able to find any account of this particular species in the
books, though it seems to be well known.
More recent writers and explorers have added to Audubon's list over
three hundred new species, the greater number of which belong to the
northern and western parts of the continent. Audubon's observations
were confined mainly to the Atlantic and Gulf States and the adjacent
islands; hence the Western or Pacific birds were but little known to
him, and are only briefly mentioned in his works.
It is, by the way, a little remarkable how many of the Western birds
seem merely duplicates of the Eastern. Thus, the varied thrush of the
West is our robin, a little differently marked; and the red-shafted
woodpecker is our golden-wing, or high-hole, colored red instead of
yellow. There is also a Western chickadee, a Western chewink, a
Western blue jay, a Western bluebird, a Western song sparrow, Western
grouse, quail, hen-hawk, etc.
One of the most remarkable birds of the West seems to be a species of
skylark, met with on the plains of Dakota, which mounts to the height
of three or four hundred feet, and showers down its ecstatic notes. It
is evidently akin to several of our Eastern species.
A correspondent, writing to me from the country one September, said:
"I have observed recently a new species of bird here. They alight upon
the buildings and fences as well as upon the ground. They are
walkers." In a few days he obtained one and sent me the skin. It
proved to be what I had anticipated, namely the American pipit, or
titlark, a slender brown bird, about the size of the sparrow, which
passes through the States in the fall and spring, to and from its
breeding haunts in the far north. They generally appear by twos and
threes, or in small loose flocks, searching for food on banks and
plowed ground. As they fly up, they show two or three white quills in
the tail, like the vesper sparrow. Flying over, they utter a single
chirp or cry every few rods. They breed in the bleak, moss-covered
rocks of Labrador. It is reported that their eggs have also been found
in Vermont, and I feel quite certain that I saw this bird in the
Adirondack Mountains in the month of August. The male launches into
the air, and gives forth a brief but melodious song, after the manner
of all larks. They are walkers. This is a characteristic of but few of
our land-birds. By far the greater number are hoppers. Note the track
of the common snowbird; the feet are not placed one in front of the
other, as in the track of the crow or partridge, but side and side.
The sparrows, thrushes, warblers, woodpeckers, buntings, etc., are all
hoppers. On the other hand, all aquatic or semi-aquatic birds are
walkers. The plovers and sandpipers and snips run rapidly. Among the
land-birds, the grouse, pigeons, quails, larks and various blackbirds
walk. The swallows walk, also, whenever they use their feet at all,
but very awkwardly. The larks walk with ease and grace. Note the
meadowlarks strutting about all day in the meadows.
Besides being walkers, the larks, or birds allied to the larks, all
sing upon the wing, usually poised or circling in the air, with a
hovering, tremulous flight. The meadowlark occasionally does this in
the early part of the season. At such times its long-drawn note or
whistle becomes a rich, amorous warble.
The bobolink, also, has both characteristics, and, notwithstanding the
difference of form and build, etc., is very suggestive of the English
skylark, as it figures in the books, and is, no doubt, fully its equal
as a songster.
Of our small wood-birds we have three varieties east of the
Mississippi, closely related to each other, which I have already
spoken of, and which walk, and sing, more or less, on the wing, namely
the two species of water-thrush or wagtails, and the oven-bird or
wood-wagtail. The latter is the most common, and few observers of the
birds can have failed to notice its easy, gliding walk. Its other lark
trait, namely singing in the air, seems not to have been observed by
any other naturalist. Yet it is a well-established characteristic, and
may be verified by any person who will spend a half hour in the woods
where this bird abounds on some June afternoon or evening. I hear it
very frequently after sundown, when the ecstatic singer can hardly be
distinguished against the sky. I know of a high, bald-top mountain
where I have sat late in the afternoon and heard them as often as one
every minute. Sometimes the bird would be far below me, sometimes near
at hand; and very frequently the singer would be hovering a hundred
feet above the summit. He would start from the trees on one side of
the open space, reach his climax in the air, and plunge down on the
other side. His descent after the song is finished is very rapid, and
precisely like that of the titlark when it sweeps down from its course
to alight on the ground.
I first verified this observation some years ago. I had long been
familiar with the song, but had only strongly suspected the author of
it, when, as I was walking in the woods one evening, just as the
leaves were putting out, I saw one of these birds but a few rods from
me. I was saying to myself, half audibly, "Come, now, show off, if it
is in you; I have come to the woods expressly to settle this point,"
when it began to ascend, by short hops and flights, through the
branches, uttering a sharp, preliminary chirp. I followed it with my
eye; saw it mount into the air and circle over the woods; and saw it
sweep down again and dive through the trees, almost to the very perch
from which it had started.
As the paramount question in the life of a bird is the question of
food, perhaps the most serious troubles our feathered neighbors
encounter are early in the spring, after the supply of fat with which
Nature stores every corner and by-place of the system, thereby
anticipating the scarcity of food, has been exhausted, and the sudden
and severe changes in the weather which occur at this season make
unusual demands upon their vitality. No doubt many of the earlier
birds die from starvation and exposure at this season. Among a troop
of Canada sparrows which I came upon one March day, all of them
evidently much reduced, one was so feeble that I caught it in my hand.
During the present season, a very severe cold spell the first week in
March drove the bluebirds to seek shelter about the houses and
outbuildings. As night approached, and the winds and the cold
increased, they seemed filled with apprehension and alarm, and in the
outskirts of the city came about the windows and the doors, crept
beneath the blinds, clung to the gutters and beneath the cornice,
flitted from porch to porch, and from house to house, seeking in vain
from some safe retreat from the cold. The street pump, which had a
small opening just over the handle, was an attraction which they could
not resist. And yet they seemed aware of the insecurity of the
position; for no sooner would they stow themselves away into the
interior of the pump, to the number of six or eight, than they would
rush out again, as if apprehensive of some approaching danger. Time
after time the cavity was filled and refilled, with blue and brown
intermingled, and as often emptied. Presently they tarried longer than
usual, when I made a sudden sally and captured three, that found a
warmer and safer lodging for the night in the cellar.
In the fall, birds and fowls of all kinds become very fat. The
squirrels and mice lay by a supply of food in their dens and retreats,
but the birds, to a considerable extent, especially our winter
residents, carry an equivalent in their own systems, in the form of
adipose tissue. I killed a red-shouldered hawk one December, and on
removing the skin found the body completely encased in a coating of
fat one quarter of an inch in thickness. Not a particle of muscle was
visible. This coating not only serves as a protection against the
cold, but supplies the waste of the system when food is scarce or
fails altogether.
The crows at this season are in the same condition. It is estimated
that a crow needs at least half a pound of meat per day, but it is
evident that for weeks and months during the winter and spring they
must subsist on a mere fraction of that amount. I have no doubt that a
crow or hawk, when in his fall condition, would live two weeks without
a morsel of food passing his beak; a domestic fowl will do as much.
One January I unwittingly shut a hen under the door of an outbuilding,
where not a particle of food could be obtained, and where she was
entirely unprotected from the severe cold. When the luckless Dominick
was discovered, about eighteen days afterward, she was brisk and
lively, but fearfully pinched up, and as light as a bunch of feathers.
The slightest wind carried her before it. But by judicious feeding she
was soon restored.
The circumstances of the bluebirds being emboldened by the cold
suggests the fact that the fear of man, which by now seems like an
instinct in the birds, is evidently an acquired trait, and foreign to
them in a state of primitive nature. Every gunner has observed, to his
chagrin, how wild the pigeons become after a few days of firing among
them; and, to his delight, how easy it is to approach near his game in
new or unfrequented woods. Professor Baird [footnote: Then at the head
of the Smithsonian Institution] tells me that a correspondent of
theirs visited a small island in the Pacific Ocean, situated about two
hundred miles off Cape St. Lucas, to procure specimens. The island was
but a few miles in extent, and had probably never been visited half a
dozen times by human beings. The naturalist found the birds and
water-fowls so tame that it was but a waste of ammunition to shoot
them. Fixing a noose on the end of a long stick, he captured them by
putting it over their necks and hauling them to him. In some cases not
even this contrivance was needed. A species of mockingbird in
particular, larger than ours and a splendid songster, made itself so
familiar as to be almost a nuisance, hopping on the table where the
collector was writing, and scattering the pens and paper. Eighteen
species were found, twelve of them peculiar to the island.
Thoreau relates that in the woods of Maine the Canada jay will
sometimes make its meal with the lumbermen, taking the food out of
their hands.
Yet notwithstanding the birds have come to look upon man as their
natural enemy, there can be little doubt that civilization is on the
whole favorable to their increase and perpetuity, especially to the
smaller species. With man comes flies and moths, and insects of all
kinds in greater abundance; new plants and weeds are introduced, and,
with the clearing up of the country, are sowed broadcast over the
land.
The larks and snow buntings that come to us from the north subsist
almost entirely upon the seeds of grasses and plants; and how many of
our more common and abundant species are field-birds, and entire
strangers to deep forests?
In Europe some birds have become almost domesticated, like the house
sparrow; and in our own country the cliff swallow seems to have
entirely abandoned ledges and shelving rocks, as a place to nest, for
the eaves and projections of farm and other outbuildings.
After one has made the acquaintance of most of the land-birds, there
remain the seashore and its treasures. How little one knows of the
aquatic fowls, even after reading carefully the best authorities, was
recently forced home to my mind by the following circumstance: I was
spending a vacation in the interior of New York, when one day a
stranger alighted before the house, and with a cigar box in his hand
approached me as I sat in the doorway. I was about to say that he
would waste his time in recommending his cigars to me, as I never
smoked, when he said that, hearing I knew something about birds, he
had brought me one which had been picked up a few hours before in a
hay-field near the village, and which was stranger to all who had seen
it. As he began to undo the box I expected to see some of our own
rarer birds, perhaps the rose-breasted grosbeak or Bohemian chatterer.
Imagine, then, how I was taken aback when I beheld instead a
swallow-shaped bird, quite as large as a pigeon, with a forked tail,
glossy black above and snow-white beneath. Its parti-webbed feet, and
its long graceful wings, at a glance told that it was a sea-bird; but
as to its name or habitat I must defer my answer till I could get a
peep into Audubon or some collection.
The bird had fallen down exhausted in a meadow, and was picked up just
as the life was leaving its body. The place must have been one hundred
and fifty miles from the sea as the bird flies. As it was the sooty
tern, which inhabits the Florida Keys, its appearance so far north and
so far inland may be considered somewhat remarkable. On removing the
skin I found it terribly emaciated. It had no doubt starved to death,
ruined by too much wing. Another Icarus. Its great power of flight had
made it bold and venturesome, and had carried it so far out of its
range that it starved to death before it could return.
The sooty tern is sometimes called the sea-swallow on account of its
form and the power of flight. It will fly nearly all day at sea,
picking up food from the surface of the water. There are several
species of terns, some of them strikingly beautiful.
1868.