One of the best places to study birds is from behind the blinds of a
conveniently-placed window, where one can see without being seen.
My window one July looked into the tops of tall spruce trees, relieved
here and there by a pine, a birch, or a maple. This was the home of
the most fascinating and the most bewildering of feathered tribes, the
warblers, and a rugged old spruce tree was a favorite "Inn of Rest" for
every bird in the vicinity.
In all the years that I have known birds I have carefully avoided
becoming interested in warblers, so tiny, so restless, so addicted
to the upper branches, so every way tantalizing to study. But here,
without intention on my part, fate had opened my windows into their
native haunts, even into the very tree-tops where they dwell. "He
strives in vain who strives with fate." After one protest I succumbed
to their charms.
My principal visitor was a beauty, like most of his distinguished
family, having a bright yellow head, set off by a broad black band
beginning at the throat and running far down the sides, and he bore the
awkward name "black-throated green warbler."
A bewitching and famous singer is this atom in black and gold. And not
only is his song the sweetest and most winning, but the most unique,
and--what is not generally known--the most varied.
The song that has been oftenest noticed, and is considered
characteristic of the species, is sometimes syllabled as "trees, trees,
beautiful trees," sometimes as "hear me Saint Theresa." But in my
intimate acquaintance with some of the family that July I noted down
from my window alone eight distinctly different melodies. My special
little neighbor, who spent hours every day in the old spruce, sang
the regulation carol of his tribe, but he also indulged in at least
one other totally unlike that. Those two I have heard and seen him
sing, one directly after the other, but he may have had half a dozen
arrangements of his sweet notes.
Sometimes the mate of my spruce-tree neighbor appeared on the tree,
going over the branches in a businesslike way, and uttering a loud,
sharp "chip."
One morning there suddenly broke out in the old spruce a great clatter
of "tick-et! tick-et!" in the voice of a nestling. I snatched my glass
and turned it at once upon a much-excited warbler, my black-throated
green. He was hopping about in a way unusual even with him, and from
every side came the thread-like cries, while the swaying of twigs
pointed out a whole family of little folk, scrambling about in warbler
fashion and calling like bigger bird babies for food. They were plainly
just out of the nest, and then I studied my spruce-tree bird in a new
role, the father of a family.
He was charming in that as in every other, and he was evidently a "good
provider," for I often saw him after that day going about in great
anxiety, looking here and there and everywhere, while a small green
worm in the beak told plainly enough that he was seeking his wandering
offspring.
During the remainder of the month I frequently saw, and more frequently
heard, the little family as they followed their busy parents around on
the neighboring trees.
One day I noted the singer flitting about the top of the spruce,
singing most joyously, and almost as constantly as before the advent of
the nestlings, while the mother was hurrying over the lower branches
of the same tree, collecting food for one youngster. Suddenly the song
ceased, and the tiny papa joined the family party below, and addressed
himself with his usual energy to the business of filling that greedy
mouth.
Over and under and around and through the branches he rushed, every few
seconds returning to stuff a morsel into the always hungry mouth, till
he actually reduced that infant to silence, and then he slipped away,
returned to his tree top, and resumed his lovely "tee-tee-tweetum!"
Somewhat later I heard the baby black-throats at their practice, droll,
quavering attempts to imitate the musical song of their father. They
soon mastered the notes, but the spirit was as yet far beyond them.
This happy life went on before my window till, almost at the end of
July, a heavy fog swept in one evening from the ocean, and when, the
next day, a cool north wind blew it back whence it came, it seemed
to take the whole tribe of warblers with it. August was now upon the
threshold, and in the bird world at least
"Summer like a bird had flown."