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[Illustration: ROBINS IN THE MEADOW]
WAKE-ROBIN
BY
JOHN BURROUGHS
_Second Edition, corrected, enlarged, and illustrated_
NEW YORK
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON
_Cambridge: The Riverside Press_
1877
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
JOHN BURROUGHS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Copyright, 1876,
By JOHN BURROUGHS.
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge_:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
PUBLISHERS' NOTE TO SECOND EDITION.
In issuing a second and revised edition of Wake-Robin, the author has
added a chapter on The Bluebird, and otherwise enlarged and corrected
the text here and there. The illustrations are kindly furnished by
Prof. Baird, and are taken from the "History of North American Birds,"
by himself, Dr. Brewer, and Mr. Ridgeway, and published by Little,
Brown, & Co.,--the most complete work on our birds that has yet
appeared. The hermit-thrush represented is the Western hermit (_Turdus
ustulatis_), and we have been obliged to substitute the black
fly-catcher (_Saponis nigricans_) for the pewee, and the house finch
(_Corpodacus frontalis_) for the purple finch; but the difference is
hardly appreciable in an uncolored engraving.
_November, 1876._
PREFACE.
This is mainly a book about the Birds, or more properly an invitation
to the study of Ornithology, and the purpose of the author will be
carried out in proportion as it awakens and stimulates the interest of
the reader in this branch of Natural History.
Though written less in the spirit of exact science than with the
freedom of love and old acquaintance, yet I have in no instance taken
liberties with facts, or allowed my imagination to influence me to the
extent of giving a false impression or a wrong coloring. I have reaped
my harvest more in the woods than in the study; what I offer, in fact,
is a careful and conscientious record of actual observations and
experiences, and is true as it stands written, every word of it. But
what has interested me most in Ornithology, is the pursuit, the chase,
the discovery; that part of it which is akin to hunting, fishing, and
wild sports, and which I could carry with me in my eye and ear,
wherever I went.
I cannot answer with much confidence the poet's inquiry,
"Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?"
but I have done what I could to bring home the "earth and the sky"
with the sparrow I heard "singing at dawn on the alder bough." In
other words, I have tried to present a live bird,--a bird in the woods
or the fields,--with the atmosphere and associations of the place, and
not merely a stuffed and labeled specimen.
A more specific title for the volume would have suited me better, but
not being able to satisfy myself in this direction, I cast about for a
word thoroughly in the atmosphere and spirit of the book, which I hope
I have found in "Wake-Robin"--the common name of the white Trillium,
which blooms in all our woods, and which marks the arrival of all the
birds.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS 9
II. IN THE HEMLOCKS 47
III. ADIRONDAC 83
IV. BIRDS'-NESTS 109
V. SPRING AT THE CAPITAL 145
VI. BIRCH BROWSINGS 177
VII. THE BLUEBIRD 211
VIII. THE INVITATION 225
[Illustration: Hermit-Thrush.]
THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.
Spring in our northern climate may fairly be said to extend from the
middle of March to the middle of June. At least, the vernal tide
continues to rise until the latter date, and it is not till after the
summer solstice that the shoots and twigs begin to harden and turn to
wood, or the grass to lose any of its freshness and succulency.
It is this period that marks the return of the birds,--one or two of
the more hardy or half-domesticated species, like the song-sparrow and
the bluebird, usually arriving in March, while the rarer and more
brilliant wood-birds bring up the procession in June. But each stage
of the advancing season gives prominence to certain species, as to
certain flowers. The dandelion tells me when to look for the swallow,
the dog-toothed violet when to expect the wood-thrush, and when I have
found the wake-robin in bloom I know the season is fairly inaugurated.
With me this flower is associated, not merely with the awakening of
Robin, for he has been awake some weeks, but with the universal
awakening and rehabilitation of nature.
Yet the coming and going of the birds is more or less a mystery and a
surprise. We go out in the morning, and no thrush or vireo is to be
heard; we go out again, and every tree and grove is musical; yet
again, and all is silent. Who saw them come? Who saw them depart?
This pert little winter-wren, for instance, darting in and out the
fence, diving under the rubbish here and coming up yards away,--how
does he manage with those little circular wings to compass degrees and
zones, and arrive always in the nick of time? Last August I saw him in
the remotest wilds of the Adirondacs, impatient and inquisitive as
usual; a few weeks later, on the Potomac, I was greeted by the same
hardy little busybody. Does he travel by easy stages from bush to bush
and from wood to wood? or has that compact little body force and
courage to brave the night and the upper air, and so achieve leagues
at one pull?
And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky
tinge on his back,--did he come down out of heaven on that bright
March morning when he told us so softly and plaintively that if we
pleased, spring had come? Indeed, there is nothing in the return of
the birds more curious and suggestive than in the first appearance, or
rumors of the appearance, of this little blue-coat. The bird at first
seems a mere wandering voice in the air; one hears its call or carol
on some bright March morning, but is uncertain of its source or
direction; it falls like a drop of rain when no cloud is visible; one
looks and listens, but to no purpose. The weather changes, perhaps a
cold snap with snow comes on, and it may be a week before I hear the
note again, and this time or the next perchance see the bird sitting
on a stake in the fence lifting his wing as he calls cheerily to his
mate. Its notes now become daily more frequent; the birds multiply,
and, flitting from point to point, call and warble more confidently
and gleefully. Their boldness increases till one sees them hovering
with a saucy, inquiring air about barns and out-buildings, peeping
into dove-cotes, and stable windows, inspecting knot-holes and
pump-trees, intent only on a place to nest. They wage war against
robins and wrens, pick quarrels with swallows, and seem to deliberate
for days over the policy of taking forcible possession of one of the
mud-houses of the latter. But as the season advances they drift more
into the background. Schemes of conquest which they at first seemed
bent upon are abandoned, and they settle down very quietly in their
old quarters in remote stumpy fields.
Not long after the bluebird comes the robin, sometimes in March, but
in most of the Northern States April is the month of the robin. In
large numbers they scour the fields and groves. You hear their piping
in the meadow, in the pasture, on the hill-side. Walk in the woods,
and the dry leaves rustle with the whir of their wings, the air is
vocal with their cheery call. In excess of joy and vivacity, they run,
leap, scream, chase each other through the air, diving and sweeping
among the trees with perilous rapidity.
In that free, fascinating, half-work and half-play
pursuit,--sugar-making,--a pursuit which still lingers in many parts of
New York, as in New England, the robin is one's constant companion. When
the day is sunny and the ground bare, you meet him at all points and
hear him at all hours. At sunset, on the tops of the tall maples, with
look heavenward, and in a spirit of utter abandonment, he carols his
simple strain. And sitting thus amid the stark, silent trees, above the
wet, cold earth, with the chill of winter still in the air, there is no
fitter or sweeter songster in the whole round year. It is in keeping
with the scene and the occasion. How round and genuine the notes are,
and how eagerly our ears drink them in! The first utterance, and the
spell of winter is thoroughly broken, and the remembrance of it afar
off.
Robin is one of the most native and democratic of our birds; he is one
of the family, and seems much nearer to us than those rare, exotic
visitants, as the orchard starling or rose-breasted grossbeak, with
their distant, high-bred ways. Hardy, noisy, frolicsome, neighborly
and domestic in his habits, strong of wing and bold in spirit, he is
the pioneer of the thrush family, and well worthy of the finer artists
whose coming he heralds and in a measure prepares us for.
I could wish Robin less native and plebeian in one respect,--the building
of his nest. Its coarse material and rough masonry are creditable neither
to his skill as a workman nor to his taste as an artist. I am the more
forcibly reminded of his deficiency in this respect from observing yonder
humming-bird's nest, which is a marvel of fitness and adaptation, a proper
setting for this winged gem,--the body of it composed of a white,
felt-like substance, probably the down of some plant or the wool of some
worm, and toned down in keeping with the branch on which it sits by minute
tree-lichens, woven together by threads as fine and frail as gossamer.
From Robin's good looks and musical turn we might reasonably predict a
domicile of equal fitness and elegance. At least I demand of him as clean
and handsome a nest as the king-bird's, whose harsh jingle, compared with
Robin's evening melody, is as the clatter of pots and kettles beside the
tone of a flute. I love his note and ways better even than those of the
orchard starling or the Baltimore oriole; yet his nest, compared with
theirs, is a half-subterranean hut contrasted with a Roman villa. There is
something courtly and poetical in a pensile nest. Next to a castle in the
air is a dwelling suspended to the slender branch of a tall tree, swayed
and rocked forever by the wind. Why need wings be afraid of falling? Why
build only where boys can climb? After all, we must set it down to the
account of Robin's democratic turn; he is no aristocrat, but one of the
people; and therefore we should expect stability in his workmanship,
rather than elegance.
Another April bird, which makes her appearance sometimes earlier and
sometimes later than Robin, and whose memory I fondly cherish, is the
Phoebe-bird (_Muscicapa nunciola_), the pioneer of the fly-catchers. In
the inland farming districts, I used to notice her, on some bright
morning about Easter-day, proclaiming her arrival with much variety of
motion and attitude, from the peak of the barn or hay-shed. As yet,
you may have heard only the plaintive, homesick note of the bluebird,
or the faint trill of the song-sparrow; and Phoebe's clear, vivacious
assurance of her veritable bodily presence among us again is welcomed
by all ears. At agreeable intervals in her lay she describes a circle
or an ellipse in the air, ostensibly prospecting for insects, but
really, I suspect, as an artistic flourish, thrown in to make up in
some way for the deficiency of her musical performance. If plainness
of dress indicates powers of song, as it usually does, then Phoebe
ought to be unrivaled in musical ability, for surely that ashen-gray
suit is the superlative of plainness; and that form, likewise, would
hardly pass for a "perfect figure" of a bird. The reasonableness of
her coming, however, and her civil, neighborly ways, shall make up for
all deficiencies in song and plumage. After a few weeks Phoebe is
seldom seen, except as she darts from her moss-covered nest beneath
some bridge or shelving cliff.
Another April comer, who arrives shortly after Robin-redbreast, with
whom he associates both at this season and in the autumn, is the
gold-winged woodpecker, _alias_ "high-hole," _alias_ "flicker,"
_alias_ "yarup." He is an old favorite of my boyhood, and his note to
me means very much. He announces his arrival by a long, loud call,
repeated from the dry branch of some tree, or a stake in the fence--a
thoroughly melodious April sound. I think how Solomon finished that
beautiful description of spring, "And the voice of the turtle is heard
in the land," and see that a description of spring in this farming
country, to be equally characteristic, should culminate in like
manner,--"And the call of the high-hole comes up from the wood."
It is a loud, strong, sonorous call, and does not seem to imply an
answer, but rather to subserve some purpose of love or music. It is
"Yarup's" proclamation of peace and good-will to all. On looking at
the matter closely, I perceive that most birds, not denominated
songsters, have, in the spring, some note or sound or call that hints
of a song, and answers imperfectly the end of beauty and art. As a
"livelier iris changes on the burnished dove," and the fancy of the
young man turns lightly to thoughts of his pretty cousin, so the same
renewing spirit touches the "silent singers," and they are no longer
dumb; faintly they lisp the first syllables of the marvelous tale.
Witness the clear, sweet whistle of the gray-crested titmouse,--the
soft, nasal piping of the nuthatch,--the amorous, vivacious warble of
the bluebird,--the long, rich note of the meadow-lark,--the whistle of
the quail,--the drumming of the partridge,--the animation and
loquacity of the swallows, and the like. Even the hen has a homely,
contented carol; and I credit the owls with a desire to fill the night
with music. All birds are incipient or would-be songsters in the
spring. I find corroborative evidence of this even in the crowing of
the cock. The flowering of the maple is not so obvious as that of the
magnolia; nevertheless, there is actual inflorescence.
Few writers award any song to that familiar little sparrow, the
_Socialis_; yet who that has observed him sitting by the way-side, and
repeating, with devout attitude, that fine sliding chant, does not
recognize the neglect? Who has heard the snow-bird sing? Yet he has a
lisping warble very savory to the ear. I have heard him indulge in it
even in February.
Even the cow-bunting feels the musical tendency, and aspires to its
expression, with the rest. Perched upon the topmost branch beside his
mate or mates,--for he is quite a polygamist, and usually has two or
three demure little ladies in faded black beside him,--generally in
the early part of the day, he seems literally to vomit up his notes.
Apparently with much labor and effort, they gargle and blubber up out
of him, falling on the ear with a peculiar subtile ring, as of turning
water from a glass bottle, and not without a certain pleasing cadence.
Neither is the common woodpecker entirely insensible to the wooing of
the spring, and, like the partridge, testifies his appreciation of
melody after quite a primitive fashion. Passing through the woods, on
some clear, still morning in March, while the metallic ring and
tension of winter are still in the earth and air, the silence is
suddenly broken by long, resonant hammering upon a dry limb or stub.
It is Downy beating a reveille to spring. In the utter stillness and
amid the rigid forms we listen with pleasure; and as it comes to my
ear oftener at this season than at any other, I freely exonerate the
author of it from the imputation of any gastronomic motives, and
credit him with a genuine musical performance.
It is to be expected, therefore, that "Yellow-hammer" will respond to
the general tendency, and contribute his part to the spring chorus.
His April call is his finest touch, his most musical expression.
I recall an ancient maple standing sentry to a large sugar-bush, that,
year after year, afforded protection to a brood of yellow-hammers in
its decayed heart. A week or two before the nesting seemed actually to
have begun, three or four of these birds might be seen, on almost any
bright morning, gamboling and courting amid its decayed branches.
Sometimes you would hear only a gentle, persuasive cooing, or a quiet,
confidential chattering,--then that long, loud call, taken up by first
one, then another, as they sat about upon the naked limbs,--anon, a
sort of wild, rollicking laughter, intermingled with various cries,
yelps, and squeals, as if some incident had excited their mirth and
ridicule. Whether this social hilarity and boisterousness is in
celebration of the pairing or mating ceremony, or whether it is only a
sort of annual "house-warming" common among high-holes on resuming
their summer quarters, is a question upon which I reserve my judgment.
Unlike most of his kinsmen, the golden-wing prefers the fields and the
borders of the forest to the deeper seclusion of the woods, and hence,
contrary to the habit of his tribe, obtains most of his subsistence
from the ground, probing it for ants and crickets. He is not quite
satisfied with being a woodpecker. He courts the society of the robin
and the finches, abandons the trees for the meadow, and feeds eagerly
upon berries and grain. What may be the final upshot of this course of
living is a question worthy the attention of Darwin. Will his taking
to the ground and his pedestrian feats result in lengthening his legs,
his feeding upon berries and grains subdue his tints and soften his
voice, and his associating with Robin put a song into his heart?
Indeed, what would be more interesting than the history of our birds
for the last two or three centuries? There can be no doubt that the
presence of man has exerted a very marked and friendly influence upon
them, since they so multiply in his society. The birds of California,
it is said, were mostly silent till after its settlement, and I doubt
if the Indians heard the wood-thrush as we hear him. Where did the
bobolink disport himself before there were meadows in the North and
rice fields in the South? Was he the same blithe, merry-hearted beau
then as now? And the sparrow, the lark, and the goldfinch, birds that
seem so indigenous to the open fields and so averse to the woods,--we
cannot conceive of their existence in a vast wilderness and without
man.
But to return. The song-sparrow, that universal favorite and firstling
of the spring, comes before April, and its simple strain gladdens all
hearts.
May is the month of the swallows and the orioles. There are many other
distinguished arrivals, indeed nine tenths of the birds are here by
the last week in May, yet the swallows and orioles are the most
conspicuous. The bright plumage of the latter seems really like an
arrival from the tropics. I see them flash through the blossoming
trees, and all the forenoon hear their incessant warbling and wooing.
The swallows dive and chatter about the barn, or squeak and build
beneath the eaves; the partridge drums in the fresh sprouting woods;
the long, tender note of the meadow-lark comes up from the meadow; and
at sunset, from every marsh and pond come the ten thousand voices of
the hylas. May is the transition month, and exists to connect April
and June, the root with the flower.
With June the cup is full, our hearts are satisfied, there is no more
to be desired. The perfection of the season, among other things, has
brought the perfection of the song and plumage of the birds. The
master artists are all here; and the expectations excited by the robin
and the song-sparrow are fully justified. The thrushes have all come;
and I sit down upon the first rock, with hands full of the pink
azalea, to listen. With me, the cuckoo does not arrive till June; and
often the goldfinch, the king-bird, the scarlet tanager delay their
coming till then. In the meadows the bobolink is in all his glory; in
the high pastures the field-sparrow sings his breezy vesper-hymn; and
the woods are unfolding to the music of the thrushes.
The cuckoo is one of the most solitary birds of our forests, and is
strangely tame and quiet, appearing equally untouched by joy or grief,
fear or anger. Something remote seems ever weighing upon his mind. His
note or call is as of one lost or wandering, and to the farmer is
prophetic of rain. Amid the general joy and the sweet assurance of
things, I love to listen to the strange clairvoyant call. Heard a
quarter of a mile away, from out the depths of the forest, there is
something peculiarly weird and monkish about it. Wordsworth's lines
upon the European species apply equally well to ours:--
"O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird?
Or but a wandering voice?
"While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear!
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near!
. . . . . . .
"Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery."
The black-billed is the only species found in my locality, the
yellow-billed abounds farther south. Their note or call is nearly the
same. The former sometimes suggests the voice of a turkey. The call of
the latter may be suggested thus: _k-k-k-k-k-kow, kow, kow-ow,
kow-ow_.
The yellow-billed will take up his stand in a tree, and explore its
branches till he has caught every worm. He sits on a twig, and with a
peculiar swaying movement of his head examines the surrounding
foliage. When he discovers his prey, he leaps upon it in a fluttering
manner.
In June the black-billed makes a tour through the orchard and garden,
regaling himself upon the canker-worms. At this time he is one of the
tamest of birds, and will allow you to approach within a few yards of
him. I have even come within a few feet of one without seeming to
excite his fear or suspicion. He is quite unsophisticated, or else
royally indifferent.
The plumage of the cuckoo is a rich glossy brown, and is unrivaled in
beauty by any other neutral tint with which I am acquainted. It is
also remarkable for its firmness and fineness.
Notwithstanding the disparity in size and color, the black-billed
species has certain peculiarities that remind one of the passenger-pigeon.
His eye, with its red circle, the shape of his head, and his motions on
alighting and taking flight, quickly suggest the resemblance; though in
grace and speed, when on the wing, he is far inferior. His tail seems
disproportionately long, like that of the red-thrush, and his flight
among the trees is very still, contrasting strongly with the honest
clatter of the robin or pigeon.
Have you heard the song of the field-sparrow? If you have lived in a
pastoral country with broad upland pastures, you could hardly have
missed him. Wilson, I believe, calls him the grass-finch, and was
evidently unacquainted with his powers of song. The two white lateral
quills in his tail, and his habit of running and skulking a few yards
in advance of you as you walk through the fields, are sufficient to
identify him. Not in meadows or orchards, but in high, breezy
pasture-grounds, will you look for him. His song is most noticeable
after sundown, when other birds are silent; for which reason he has
been aptly called the vesper-sparrow. The farmer following his team
from the field at dusk catches his sweetest strain. His song is not so
brisk and varied as that of the song-sparrow, being softer and
wilder, sweeter and more plaintive. Add the best parts of the lay of
the latter to the sweet vibrating chant of the wood-sparrow, and you
have the evening hymn of the vesper-bird,--the poet of the plain,
unadorned pastures. Go to those broad, smooth, uplying fields where
the cattle and sheep are grazing, and sit down in the twilight on one
of those warm, clean stones, and listen to this song. On every side,
near and remote, from out the short grass which the herds are
cropping, the strain rises. Two or three long, silver notes of peace
and rest, ending in some subdued trills and quavers, constitute each
separate song. Often you will catch only one or two of the bars, the
breeze having blown the minor part away. Such unambitious, quiet,
unconscious melody! It is one of the most characteristic sounds in
Nature. The grass, the stones, the stubble, the furrow, the quiet
herds, and the warm twilight among the hills, are all subtilely
expressed in this song; this is what they are at last capable of.
The female builds a plain nest in the open field, without so much as a
bush or thistle or tuft of grass to protect it or mark its site; you
may step upon it or the cattle may tread it into the ground. But the
danger from this source, I presume, the bird considers less than that
from another. Skunks and foxes have a very impertinent curiosity, as
Finchie well knows,--and a bank or hedge, or a rank growth of grass or
thistles, that might promise protection and cover to mouse or bird,
these cunning rogues would be apt to explore most thoroughly. The
partridge is undoubtedly acquainted with the same process of
reasoning; for, like the vesper-bird, she, too, nests in open,
unprotected places, avoiding all show of concealment,--coming from the
tangled and almost impenetrable parts of the forest, to the clean,
open woods, where she can command all the approaches and fly with
equal ease in any direction.
Another favorite sparrow, but little noticed, is the wood or bush
sparrow, usually called by the ornithologists _Spizella pusilla_. Its
size and form is that of the _socialis_, but is less distinctly
marked, being of a duller redder tinge. He prefers remote bushy
heathery fields, where his song is one of the sweetest to be heard. It
is sometimes very noticeable, especially early in spring. I remember
sitting one bright day in the still leafless April woods, when one of
these birds struck up a few rods from me, repeating its lay at short
intervals for nearly an hour. It was a perfect piece of wood-music,
and was of course all the more noticeable for being projected upon
such a broad unoccupied page of silence. Its song is like the words,
_fe-o, fe-o, fe-o, few, few, few, fee fee fee_, uttered at first high
and leisurely, but running very rapidly toward the close, which is low
and soft.
Still keeping among the unrecognized, the white-eyed vireo, or
fly-catcher, deserves particular mention. The song of this bird is not
particularly sweet and soft; on the contrary, it is a little hard and
shrill, like that of the indigo-bird or oriole; but for brightness,
volubility, execution, and power of imitation, he is unsurpassed by
any of our northern birds. His ordinary note is forcible and emphatic,
but, as stated, not especially musical: _Chick-a-re'r-chick_, he seems
to say, hiding himself in the low, dense undergrowth, and eluding your
most vigilant search, as if playing some part in a game. But in July
or August, if you are on good terms with the sylvan deities, you may
listen to a far more rare and artistic performance. Your first
impression will be that that cluster of azalea, or that clump of
swamp-huckleberry, conceals three or four different songsters, each
vying with the others to lead the chorus. Such a medley of notes,
snatched from half the songsters of the field and forest, and uttered
with the utmost clearness and rapidity, I am sure you cannot hear
short of the haunts of the genuine mocking-bird. If not fully and
accurately repeated, there are at least suggested the notes of the
robin, wren, cat-bird, high-hole, goldfinch, and song-sparrow. The
_pip, pip_, of the last is produced so accurately that I verily
believe it would deceive the bird herself;--and the whole uttered in
such rapid succession that it seems as if the movement that gives the
concluding note of one strain must form the first note of the next.
The effect is very rich, and, to my ear, entirely unique. The
performer is very careful not to reveal himself in the mean time; yet
there is a conscious air about the strain that impresses me with the
idea that my presence is understood and my attention courted. A tone
of pride and glee, and, occasionally, of bantering jocoseness, is
discernible. I believe it is only rarely, and when he is sure of his
audience, that he displays his parts in this manner. You are to look
for him, not in tall trees or deep forests, but in low, dense
shrubbery about wet places, where there are plenty of gnats and
mosquitoes.
The winter-wren is another marvelous songster, in speaking of whom it is
difficult to avoid superlatives. He is not so conscious of his powers
and so ambitious of effect as the white-eyed fly-catcher, yet you will
not be less astonished and delighted on hearing him. He possesses the
fluency and copiousness for which the wrens are noted, and besides these
qualities, and what is rarely found conjoined with them, a wild, sweet,
rhythmical cadence that holds you entranced. I shall not soon forget
that perfect June day, when, loitering in a low, ancient hemlock wood,
in whose cathedral aisles the coolness and freshness seems perennial,
the silence was suddenly broken by a strain so rapid and gushing, and
touched with such a wild, sylvan plaintiveness, that I listened in
amazement. And so shy and coy was the little minstrel, that I came twice
to the woods before I was sure to whom I was listening. In summer he is
one of those birds of the deep northern forests, that, like the speckled
Canada warbler and the hermit-thrush, only the privileged ones hear.
The distribution of plants in a given locality is not more marked and
defined than that of the birds. Show a botanist a landscape, and he will
tell you where to look for the lady's-slipper, the columbine, or the
harebell. On the same principles the ornithologist will direct you where
to look for the greenlets, the wood-sparrow, or the chewink. In
adjoining counties, in the same latitude, and equally inland, but
possessing a different geological formation and different forest-timber,
you will observe quite a different class of birds. In a land of the
beech and sugar-maple I do not find the same songsters that I know where
thrive the oak, chestnut, and laurel. In going from a district of the
Old Red Sandstone to where I walk upon the old Plutonic Rock, not fifty
miles distant, I miss in the woods the veery, the hermit-thrush, the
chestnut-sided warbler, the blue-backed warbler, the green-backed
warbler, the black and yellow warbler, and many others, and find in
their stead the wood-thrush, the chewink, the redstart, the yellow-throat,
the yellow-breasted fly-catcher, the white-eyed fly-catcher, the quail,
and the turtle-dove.
In my neighborhood here in the Highlands the distribution is very
marked. South of the village I invariably find one species of birds,
north of it another. In only one locality, full of azalea and
swamp-huckleberry, I am always sure of finding the hooded warbler. In
a dense undergrowth of spice-bush, witch-hazel, and alder, I meet the
worm-eating warbler. In a remote clearing, covered with heath and
fern, with here and there a chestnut and an oak, I go to hear in July
the wood-sparrow, and returning by a stumpy, shallow pond, I am sure
to find the water-thrush.
Only one locality within my range seems to possess attractions for all
comers. Here one may study almost the entire ornithology of the State.
It is a rocky piece of ground, long ago cleared, but now fast
relapsing into the wildness and freedom of nature, and marked by those
half-cultivated, half-wild features which birds and boys love. It is
bounded on two sides by the village and highway, crossed at various
points by carriage-roads, and threaded in all directions by paths and
by-ways, along which soldiers, laborers, and truant school-boys are
passing at all hours of the day. It is so far escaping from the axe
and the bush-hook as to have opened communication with the forest and
mountain beyond by straggling lines of cedar, laurel, and blackberry.
The ground is mainly occupied with cedar and chestnut, with an
undergrowth, in many places, of heath and bramble. The chief feature,
however, is a dense growth in the centre, consisting of dogwood,
water-beech, swamp-ash, alder, spice-bush, hazel, etc., with a net-work
of smilax and frost-grape. A little zigzag stream, the draining of a
swamp beyond, which passes through this tangle-wood, accounts for many
of its features and productions, if not for its entire existence. Birds
that are not attracted by the heath or the cedar and chestnut, are sure
to find some excuse for visiting this miscellaneous growth in the
centre. Most of the common birds literally throng this idle-wild; and I
have met here many of the rarer species, such as the great-crested
fly-catcher, the solitary warbler, the blue-winged swamp-warbler, the
worm-eating warbler, the fox-sparrow, etc. The absence of all birds of
prey, and the great number of flies and insects, both the result of
proximity to the village, are considerations which no hawk-fearing,
peace-loving minstrel passes over lightly; hence the popularity of the
resort.
But the crowning glory of all these robins, fly-catchers, and warblers
is the wood-thrush. More abundant than all other birds, except the
robin and cat-bird, he greets you from every rock and shrub. Shy and
reserved when he first makes his appearance in May, before the end of
June he is tame and familiar, and sings on the tree over your head, or
on the rock a few paces in advance. A pair even built their nest and
reared their brood within ten or twelve feet of the piazza of a large
summer-house in the vicinity. But when the guests commenced to arrive
and the piazza to be thronged with gay crowds, I noticed something
like dread and foreboding in the manner of the mother-bird; and from
her still, quiet ways, and habit of sitting long and silently within a
few feet of the precious charge, it seemed as if the dear creature had
resolved, if possible, to avoid all observation.
If we take the quality of melody as the test, the wood-thrush,
hermit-thrush, and the veery-thrush, stand at the head of our list of
songsters.
The mocking-bird undoubtedly possesses the greatest range of mere
talent, the most varied executive ability, and never fails to surprise
and delight one anew at each hearing; but being mostly an imitator, he
never approaches the serene beauty and sublimity of the hermit-thrush.
The word that best expresses my feelings, on hearing the mocking-bird,
is admiration, though the first emotion is one of surprise and
incredulity. That so many and such various notes should proceed from
one throat is a marvel, and we regard the performance with feelings
akin to those we experience on witnessing the astounding feats of the
athlete or gymnast,--and this, notwithstanding many of the notes
imitated have all the freshness and sweetness of the originals. The
emotions excited by the songs of these thrushes belong to a higher
order, springing as they do from our deepest sense of the beauty and
harmony of the world.
The wood-thrush is worthy of all, and more than all, the praises he
has received; and considering the number of his appreciative
listeners, it is not a little surprising that his relative and equal,
the hermit-thrush, should have received so little notice. Both the
great ornithologists, Wilson and Audubon, are lavish in their praises
of the former, but have little or nothing to say of the song of the
latter. Audubon says it is sometimes agreeable, but evidently has
never heard it. Nuttall, I am glad to find, is more discriminating,
and does the bird fuller justice.
It is quite a rare bird, of very shy and secluded habits, being found
in the Middle and Eastern States, during the period of song, only in
the deepest and most remote forests, usually in damp and swampy
localities. On this account the people in the Adirondac region call it
the "Swamp Angel." Its being so much of a recluse accounts for the
comparative ignorance that prevails in regard to it.
The cast of its song is very much like that of the wood-thrush, and a
good observer might easily confound the two. But hear them together
and the difference is quite marked: the song of the hermit is in a
higher key, and is more wild and ethereal. His instrument is a silver
horn which he winds in the most solitary places. The song of the
wood-thrush is more golden and leisurely. Its tone comes near to that
of some rare stringed instrument. One feels that perhaps the
wood-thrush has more compass and power, if he would only let himself
out, but on the whole he comes a little short of the pure, serene,
hymn-like strain of the hermit.
Yet those who have heard only the wood-thrush may well place him first
on the list. He is truly a royal minstrel, and considering his liberal
distribution throughout our Atlantic seaboard, perhaps contributes
more than any other bird to our sylvan melody. One may object that he
spends a little too much time in tuning his instrument, yet his
careless and uncertain touches reveal its rare compass and power.
He is the only songster of my acquaintance, excepting the canary,
that displays different degrees of proficiency in the exercise of his
musical gifts. Not long since, while walking one Sunday in the edge of
an orchard adjoining a wood, I heard one that so obviously and
unmistakably surpassed all his rivals, that my companion, though slow
to notice such things, remarked it wonderingly; and with one accord we
paused to listen to so rare a performer. It was not different in
quality so much as in quantity. Such a flood of it! Such copiousness!
Such long, trilling, accelerating preludes! Such sudden, ecstatic
overtures, would have intoxicated the dullest ear. He was really
without a compeer--a master-artist. Twice afterward I was conscious of
having heard the same bird.
The wood-thrush is the handsomest species of this family. In grace and
elegance of manner he has no equal. Such a gentle, high-bred air, and
such inimitable ease and composure in his flight and movement! He is a
poet in very word and deed. His carriage is music to the eye. His
performance of the commonest act, as catching a beetle, or picking a
worm from the mud, pleases like a stroke of wit or eloquence. Was he a
prince in the olden time, and do the regal grace and mien still adhere
to him in his transformation? What a finely proportioned form! How
plain, yet rich his color,--the bright russet of his back, the clear
white of his breast, with the distinct heart-shaped spots! It may be
objected to Robin that he is noisy and demonstrative; he hurries away
or rises to a branch with an angry note, and flirts his wings in
ill-bred suspicion. The mavis, or red-thrush, sneaks and skulks like a
culprit, hiding in the densest alders; the cat-bird is a coquette and
a flirt, as well as a sort of female Paul Pry; and the chewink shows
his inhospitality by espying your movements like a Japanese. The
wood-thrush has none of these under-bred traits. He regards me
unsuspiciously, or avoids me with a noble reserve,--or, if I am quiet
and incurious, graciously hops toward me, as if to pay his respects,
or to make my acquaintance. I have passed under his nest within a few
feet of his mate and brood, when he sat near by on a branch eying me
sharply, but without opening his beak; but the moment I raised my hand
toward his defenseless household his anger and indignation were
beautiful to behold.
What a noble pride he has! Late one October, after his mates and
companions had long since gone south, I noticed one for several
successive days in the dense part of this next-door wood, flitting
noiselessly about, very grave and silent, as if doing penance for some
violation of the code of honor. By many gentle, indirect approaches, I
perceived that part of his tail-feathers were undeveloped. The sylvan
prince could not think of returning to court in this plight, and so,
amid the falling leaves and cold rains of autumn, was patiently biding
his time.
The soft, mellow flute of the veery fills a place in the chorus of the
woods that the song of the vesper-sparrow fills in the chorus of the
fields. It has the nightingale's habit of singing in the twilight,
as indeed have all our thrushes. Walk out toward the forest in the
warm twilight of a June day, and when fifty rods distant you will hear
their soft, reverberating notes, rising from a dozen different
throats.
It is one of the simplest strains to be heard,--as simple as the curve
in form, delighting from the pure element of harmony and beauty it
contains, and not from any novel or fantastic modulation of it,--thus
contrasting strongly with such rollicking, hilarious songsters as the
bobolink, in whom we are chiefly pleased with the tintinnabulation,
the verbal and labial excellence, and the evident conceit and delight
of the performer.
I hardly know whether I am more pleased or annoyed with the cat-bird.
Perhaps she is a little too common, and her part in the general chorus
a little too conspicuous. If you are listening for the note of another
bird, she is sure to be prompted to the most loud and protracted
singing, drowning all other sounds; if you sit quietly down to observe
a favorite or study a new-comer, her curiosity knows no bounds, and
you are scanned and ridiculed from every point of observation. Yet I
would not miss her; I would only subordinate her a little, make her
less conspicuous.
She is the parodist of the woods, and there is ever a mischievous,
bantering, half-ironical undertone in her lay, as if she were conscious
of mimicking and disconcerting some envied songster. Ambitious of song,
practicing and rehearsing in private, she yet seems the least sincere
and genuine of the sylvan minstrels, as if she had taken up music only
to be in the fashion, or not to be outdone by the robins and thrushes.
In other words, she seems to sing from some outward motive, and not from
inward joyousness. She is a good versifier, but not a great poet.
Vigorous, rapid, copious, not without fine touches, but destitute of any
high, serene melody, her performance, like that of Thoreau's squirrel,
always implies a spectator.
There is a certain air and polish about her strain, however, like that
in the vivacious conversation of a well-bred lady of the world, that
commands respect. Her maternal instinct, also, is very strong, and that
simple structure of dead twigs and dry grass is the centre of much
anxious solicitude. Not long since, while strolling through the woods,
my attention was attracted to a small densely grown swamp, hedged in
with eglantine, brambles, and the everlasting smilax, from which
proceeded loud cries of distress and alarm, indicating that some
terrible calamity was threatening my sombre-colored minstrel. On
effecting an entrance, which, however, was not accomplished till I had
doffed coat and hat, so as to diminish the surface exposed to the thorns
and brambles, and looking around me from a square yard of terra firma, I
found myself the spectator of a loathsome, yet fascinating scene. Three
or four yards from me was the nest, beneath which, in long festoons,
rested a huge black snake; a bird two thirds grown, was slowly
disappearing between his expanded jaws. As he seemed unconscious of my
presence, I quietly observed the proceedings. By slow degrees he
compassed the bird about with his elastic mouth; his head flattened, his
neck writhed and swelled, and two or three undulatory movements of his
glistening body finished the work. Then, he cautiously raised himself
up, his tongue flaming from his mouth the while, curved over the nest,
and, with wavy, subtle motions, explored the interior. I can conceive of
nothing more overpoweringly terrible to an unsuspecting family of birds
than the sudden appearance above their domicile of the head and neck of
this arch-enemy. It is enough to petrify the blood in their veins. Not
finding the object of his search, he came streaming down from the nest
to a lower limb, and commenced extending his researches in other
directions, sliding stealthily through the branches, bent on capturing
one of the parent birds. That a legless, wingless creature should move
with such ease and rapidity where only birds and squirrels are
considered at home, lifting himself up, letting himself down, running
out on the yielding boughs, and traversing with marvelous celerity the
whole length and breadth of the thicket, was truly surprising. One
thinks of the great myth, of the Tempter and the "cause of all our woe,"
and wonders if the Arch One is not now playing off some of his pranks
before him. Whether we call it snake or devil matters little. I could
but admire his terrible beauty, however; his black, shining folds, his
easy, gliding movement, head erect, eyes glistening, tongue playing like
subtle flame, and the invisible means of his almost winged locomotion.
The parent birds, in the mean while, kept up the most agonizing
cry,--at times fluttering furiously about their pursuer, and actually
laying hold of his tail with their beaks and claws. On being thus
attacked, the snake would suddenly double upon himself and follow his
own body back, thus executing a strategic movement that at first
seemed almost to paralyze his victim and place her within his grasp.
Not quite, however. Before his jaws could close upon the coveted prize
the bird would tear herself away, and, apparently faint and sobbing,
retire to a higher branch. His reputed powers of fascination availed
him little, though it is possible that a frailer and less combative
bird might have been held by the fatal spell. Presently, as he came
gliding down the slender body of a leaning alder, his attention was
attracted by a slight movement of my arm; eying me an instant, with
that crouching, utter, motionless gaze which I believe only snakes and
devils can assume, he turned quickly,--a feat which necessitated
something like crawling over his own body,--and glided off through the
branches, evidently recognizing in me a representative of the ancient
parties he once so cunningly ruined. A few moments after, as he lay
carelessly disposed in the top of a rank alder, trying to look as
much like a crooked branch as his supple, shining form would admit,
the old vengeance overtook him. I exercised my prerogative, and a
well-directed missile, in the shape of a stone, brought him looping
and writhing to the ground. After I had completed his downfall and
quiet had been partially restored, a half-fledged member of the
bereaved household came out from his hiding-place, and, jumping upon a
decayed branch, chirped vigorously, no doubt in celebration of the
victory.
Till the middle of July there is a general equilibrium; the tide
stands poised; the holiday-spirit is unabated. But as the harvest
ripens beneath the long, hot days, the melody gradually ceases. The
young are out of the nest and must be cared for, and the moulting
season is at hand. After the cricket has commenced to drone his
monotonous refrain beneath your window, you will not, till another
season, hear the wood-thrush in all his matchless eloquence. The
bobolink has become careworn and fretful, and blurts out snatches of
his song between his scolding and upbraiding, as you approach the
vicinity of his nest, oscillating between anxiety for his brood and
solicitude for his musical reputation. Some of the sparrows still
sing, and occasionally across the hot fields, from a tall tree in the
edge of the forest, comes the rich note of the scarlet tanager. This
tropical-colored bird loves the hottest weather, and I hear him even
in dog-days.
The remainder of the summer is the carnival of the swallows and
fly-catchers. Flies and insects, to any amount, are to be had for the
catching; and the opportunity is well improved. See that sombre,
ashen-colored pewee on yonder branch. A true sportsman he, who never
takes his game at rest, but always on the wing. You vagrant fly, you
purblind moth, beware how you come within his range! Observe his
attitude, the curious movement of his head, his "eye in a fine frenzy
rolling, glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven."