mud. When do these creatures travel here? I have never yet chanced to
meet one. Here a partridge has set its foot; there, a woodcock; here,
a squirrel or mink: there, a skunk; there, a fox. What a clear,
nervous track reynard makes! how easy to distinguish it from that of a
little dog,--it is so sharply cut and defined! A dog's track is coarse
and clumsy beside it. There is as much wildness in the track of an
animal as in its voice. Is a deer's track like a sheep's or a goat's?
What winged-footed fleetness and agility may be inferred from the
sharp, braided track of the gray squirrel upon the new snow! Ah! in
nature is the best discipline. How wood-life sharpens the senses,
giving a new power to the eye, the ear, the nose! And are not the
rarest and most exquisite songsters wood-birds?
Everywhere in these solitudes I am greeted with the pensive, almost
pathetic note of the wood-pewee. The pewees are the true fly-catchers,
and are easily identified. They are very characteristic birds, have
strong family traits, and pugnacious dispositions. They are the least
attractive or elegant birds of our fields or forest. Sharp-shouldered,
big-headed, short-legged, of no particular color, of little elegance
in flight or movement, with a disagreeable flirt of the tail, always
quarreling with their neighbors and with one another, no birds are so
little calculated to excite pleasurable emotions in the beholder, or
to become objects of human interest and affection. The king-bird is
the best dressed member of the family, but he is a braggart; and,
though always snubbing his neighbors, is an arrant coward, and shows
the white feather at the slightest display of pluck in his antagonist.
I have seen him turn tail to a swallow, and have known the little
pewee in question to whip him beautifully. From the great-crested to
the little green fly-catcher, their ways and general habits are the
same. Slow in flying from point to point, they yet have a wonderful
quickness, and snap up the fleetest insects with little apparent
effort. There is a constant play of quick, nervous movements
underneath their outer show of calmness and stolidity. They do not
scour the limbs and trees like the warblers, but, perched upon the
middle branches, wait, like true hunters, for the game to come along.
There is often a very audible snap of the beak as they seize their
prey.
The wood-pewee, the prevailing species in this locality, arrests your
attention by his sweet, pathetic cry. There is room for it also in the
deep woods, as well as for the more prolonged and elevated strains.
Its relative, the phoebe-bird, builds an exquisite nest of moss on the
side of some shelving cliff or overhanging rock. The other day,
passing by a ledge near the top of a mountain in a singularly desolate
locality, my eye rested upon one of these structures, looking
precisely as if it grew there, so in keeping was it with the mossy
character of the rock, and I have had a growing affection for the bird
ever since. The rock seemed to love the nest and to claim it as its
own. I said, what a lesson in architecture is here! Here is a house
that was built, but with such loving care and such beautiful
adaptation of the means to the end, that it looks like a product of
nature. The same wise economy is noticeable in the nests of all birds.
No bird would paint its house white or red, or add aught for show.
At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the woods, I come
suddenly upon a brood of screech-owls, full grown, sitting together
upon a dry, moss-draped limb, but a few feet from the ground. I pause
within four or five yards of them and am looking about me, when my eye
alights upon these gray, motionless figures. They sit perfectly
upright, some with their backs and some with their breasts toward me,
but every head turned squarely in my direction. Their eyes are closed
to a mere black line; through this crack they are watching me,
evidently thinking themselves unobserved. The spectacle is weird and
grotesque, and suggests something impish and uncanny. It is a new
effect, the night side of the woods by daylight. After observing them
a moment I take a single step toward them, when, quick as thought,
their eyes fly wide open, their attitude is changed, they bend, some
this way, some that, and, instinct with life and motion, stare wildly
around them. Another step, and they all take flight but one, which
stoops low on the branch, and with the look of a frightened cat
regards me for a few seconds over its shoulder. They fly swiftly and
softly, and disperse through the trees. I shoot one, which is of a
tawny red tint, like that figured by Wilson, who mistook a young bird
for an old one. The old birds are a beautiful ashen-gray mottled with
black. In the present instance, they were sitting on the branch with
the young.
Coming to a drier and less mossy place in the woods, I am amused with
the golden-crowned thrush,--which, however, is no thrush at all, but a
warbler, the _Sciurus aurocapillus_. He walks on the ground ahead of
me with such an easy gliding motion, and with such an unconscious,
preoccupied air, jerking his head like a hen or a partridge, now
hurrying, now slackening his pace, that I pause to observe him. If I
sit down, he pauses to observe me, and extends his pretty rumblings on
all sides, apparently very much engrossed with his own affairs, but
never losing sight of me. But few of the birds are walkers, most being
hoppers, like the robin.
Satisfied that I have no hostile intentions, the pretty pedestrian
mounts a limb a few feet from the ground, and gives me the benefit of
one of his musical performances, a sort of accelerating chant.
Commencing in a very low key, which makes him seem at a very uncertain
distance, he grows louder and louder, till his body quakes and his chant
runs into a shriek, ringing in my ear with a peculiar sharpness. This
lay may be represented thus: "Teacher _teacher_, TEACHER, TEACHER,
_TEACHER_!"--the accent on the first syllable and each word uttered with
increased force and shrillness. No writer with whom I am acquainted
gives him credit for more musical ability than is displayed in this
strain. Yet in this the half is not told. He has a far rarer song, which
he reserves for some nymph whom he meets in the air. Mounting by easy
flights to the top of the tallest tree, he launches into the air with a
sort of suspended, hovering flight, like certain of the finches, and
bursts into a perfect ecstasy of song,--clear, ringing, copious,
rivaling the goldfinch's in vivacity, and the linnet's in melody. This
strain is one of the rarest bits of bird-melody to be heard, and is
oftenest indulged in late in the afternoon or after sundown. Over the
woods, hid from view, the ecstatic singer warbles his finest strain. In
this song you instantly detect his relationship to the water-wagtail
(_Sciurus noveboracensis_)--erroneously called water-thrush,--whose song
is likewise a sudden burst, full and ringing, and with a tone of
youthful joyousness in it, as if the bird had just had some unexpected
good fortune. For nearly two years this strain of the pretty walker was
little more than a disembodied voice to me, and I was puzzled by it as
Thoreau by his mysterious night-warbler, which, by the way, I suspect
was no new bird at all, but one he was otherwise familiar with. The
little bird himself seems disposed to keep the matter a secret, and
improves every opportunity to repeat before you his shrill, accelerating
lay, as if this were quite enough and all he laid claim to. Still, I
trust I am betraying no confidence in making the matter public here. I
think this is preëminently his love-song, as I hear it oftenest about
the mating season. I have caught half-suppressed bursts of it from two
males chasing each other with fearful speed through the forest.
Turning to the left from the old road, I wander over soft logs and
gray yielding _débris_, across the little trout brook, until I emerge
in the overgrown "Barkpeeling,"--pausing now and then on the way to
admire a small, solitary white flower which rises above the moss, with
radical, heart-shaped leaves, and a blossom precisely like the
liverwort except in color, but which is not put down in my botany,--or
to observe the ferns, of which I count six varieties, some gigantic
ones nearly shoulder-high.
At the foot of a rough, scraggy yellow birch, on a bank of club-moss, so
richly inlaid with partridge-berry and curious shining leaves,--with
here and there in the bordering a spire of the false wintergreen
(_Pyrola rotundifolia_) strung with faint pink flowers and exhaling the
breath of a May orchard,--that it looks too costly a couch for such an
idler, I recline to note what transpires. The sun is just past the
meridian, and the afternoon chorus is not yet in full tune. Most birds
sing with the greatest spirit and vivacity in the forenoon, though there
are occasional bursts later in the day, in which nearly all voices join;
while it is not till the twilight that the full power and solemnity of
the thrush's hymn is felt.
My attention is soon arrested by a pair of humming-birds, the
ruby-throated, disporting themselves in a low bush a few yards from
me. The female takes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks exultingly
as the male, circling above, dives down as if to dislodge her. Seeing
me, he drops like a feather on a slender twig, and in a moment both
are gone. Then, as if by a preconcerted signal, the throats are all
atune. I lie on my back with eyes half-closed, and analyze the chorus
of warblers, thrushes, finches, and fly-catchers; while, soaring above
all, a little withdrawn and alone, rises the divine soprano of the
hermit. That richly modulated warble proceeding from the top of yonder
birch, and which unpracticed ears would mistake for the voice of the
scarlet tanager, comes from that rare visitant, the rose-breasted
grossbeak. It is a strong, vivacious strain, a bright noon-day song,
full of health and assurance, indicating fine talents in the
performer, but not genius. As I come up under the tree he casts his
eye down at me, but continues his song. This bird is said to be quite
common in the Northwest, but he is rare in the Eastern districts. His
beak is disproportionately large and heavy, like a huge nose, which
slightly mars his good looks; but Nature has made it up to him in a
blush rose upon his breast, and the most delicate of pink linings to
the under side of his wings. His back is variegated black and white,
and when flying low the white shows conspicuously. If he passed over
your head, you would note the delicate flush under his wings.
That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hemlock, glowing like a live
coal against the dark background, seeming almost too brilliant for the
severe northern climate, is his relative, the scarlet tanager. I
occasionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and know no stronger
contrast in nature. I almost fear he will kindle the dry limb on which
he alights. He is quite a solitary bird, and in this section seems to
prefer the high, remote woods, even going quite to the mountain's top.
Indeed, the event of my last visit to the mountain was meeting one of
these brilliant creatures near the summit, in full song. The breeze
carried the notes far and wide. He seemed to enjoy the elevation, and
I imagined his song had more scope and freedom than usual. When he had
flown far down the mountain-side, the breeze still brought me his
finest notes. In plumage he is the most brilliant bird we have. The
bluebird is not entirely blue; nor will the indigo-bird bear a close
inspection, nor the goldfinch, nor the summer redbird. But the tanager
loses nothing by a near view; the deep scarlet of his body and the
black of his wings and tail are quite perfect. This is his holiday
suit; in the fall he becomes a dull yellowish-green,--the color of the
female the whole season.
One of the leading songsters in this choir of the old Barkpeeling is
the purple finch or linnet. He sits somewhat apart, usually on a dead
hemlock, and warbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finest
songsters, and stands at the head of the finches, as the hermit at the
head of the thrushes. His song approaches an ecstasy, and, with the
exception of the winter-wren's, is the most rapid and copious strain
to be heard in these woods. It is quite destitute of the trills and
the liquid, silvery, bubbling notes that characterize the wren's; but
there runs through it a round, richly modulated whistle, very sweet
and very pleasing. The call of the robin is brought in at a certain
point with marked effect, and, throughout, the variety is so great and
the strain so rapid that the impression is as of two or three birds
singing at the same time. He is not common here, and I only find him
in these or similar woods. His color is peculiar, and looks as if it
might have been imparted by dipping a brown bird in diluted pokeberry
juice. Two or three more dippings would have made the purple
complete. The female is the color of the song-sparrow, a little
larger, with heavier beak, and tail much more forked.
In a little opening quite free from brush and trees, I step down to
bathe my hands in the brook, when a small, light slate-colored bird
flutters out of the bank, not three feet from my head, as I stoop
down, and, as if severely lamed or injured, flutters through the grass
and into the nearest bush. As I do not follow, but remain near the
nest, she _chips_ sharply, which brings the male, and I see it is the
speckled Canada warbler. I find no authority in the books for this
bird to build upon the ground, yet here is the nest, made chiefly of
dry grass, set in a slight excavation in the bank, not two feet from
the water, and looking a little perilous to anything but ducklings or
sandpipers. There are two young birds and one little speckled egg,
just pipped. But how is this? what mystery is here? One nestling is
much larger than the other, monopolizes most of the nest, and lifts
its open mouth far above that of its companion, though obviously both
are of the same age, not more than a day old. Ah! I see; the old trick
of the cow-bunting, with a stinging human significance. Taking the
interloper by the nape of the neck, I deliberately drop it into the
water, but not without a pang, as I see its naked form, convulsed with
chills, float down stream. Cruel? So is Nature cruel. I take one life
to save two. In less than two days this pot-bellied intruder would
have caused the death of the two rightful occupants of the nest; so I
step in and turn things into their proper channel again.
It is a singular freak of Nature, this instinct which prompts one bird to
lay its eggs in the nests of others, and thus shirk the responsibility of
rearing its own young. The cow-buntings always resort to this cunning
trick; and when one reflects upon their numbers it is evident that these
little tragedies are quite frequent. In Europe the parallel case is that
of the cuckoo, and occasionally our own cuckoo imposes upon a robin or a
thrush in the same manner. The cow-bunting seems to have no conscience
about the matter, and, so far as I have observed, invariably selects the
nest of a bird smaller than itself. Its egg is usually the first to hatch;
its young overreaches all the rest when food is brought; it grows with
great rapidity, spreads and fills the nest, and the starved and crowded
occupants soon perish, when the parent bird removes their dead bodies,
giving its whole energy and care to the foster-child.
The warblers and smaller fly-catchers are generally the sufferers,
though I sometimes see the slate-colored snow-bird unconsciously duped
in like manner; and the other day, in a tall tree in the woods, I
discovered the black-throated green-backed warbler devoting itself to
this dusky, overgrown foundling. An old farmer to whom I pointed out
the fact was much surprised that such things should happen in his
woods without his knowledge.
These birds may be seen prowling through all parts of the woods at
this season, watching for an opportunity to steal their egg into some
nest. One day while sitting on a log I saw one moving by short flights
through the trees and gradually nearing the ground. Its movements were
hurried and stealthy. About fifty yards from me it disappeared behind
some low brush and had evidently alighted upon the ground.
After waiting a few moments I cautiously walked in the direction. When
about half-way I accidentally made a slight noise, when the bird flew
up, and seeing me hurried off out of the woods. Arrived at the place,
I found a simple nest of dry grass and leaves partially concealed
under a prostrate branch. I took it to be the nest of a sparrow. There
were three eggs in the nest and one lying about a foot below it as if
it had been rolled out, as of course it had. It suggested the thought
that perhaps when the cow-bird finds the full complement of eggs in a
nest, it throws out one and deposits its own instead. I re-visited the
nest a few days afterward and found an egg again cast out, but none
had been put in its place. The nest had been abandoned by its owner
and the eggs were stale.
In all cases where I have found this egg, I have observed both male
and female of the cow-bird lingering near, the former uttering his
peculiar liquid, glassy note from the tops of the trees.
In July the young, which have been reared in the same neighborhood,
and which are now of a dull fawn color, begin to collect in small
flocks, which grow to be quite large in autumn.
The speckled Canada is a very superior warbler, having a lively,
animated strain, reminding you of certain parts of the canary's though
quite broken and incomplete; the bird, the while hopping amid the
branches with increased liveliness, and indulging in fine sibilant
chirps, too happy to keep silent.
His manners are quite marked. He has a habit of courtesying when he
discovers you, which is very pretty. In form he is an elegant bird,
somewhat slender, his back of a bluish lead-color becoming nearly
black on his crown; the under part of his body, from his throat down,
is of a light, delicate yellow, with a belt of black dots across his
breast. He has a fine eye, surrounded by a light-yellow ring.
The parent birds are much disturbed by my presence, and keep up a loud
emphatic chirping, which attracts the attention of their sympathetic
neighbors, and one after another they come to see what has happened.
The chestnut-sided and the Blackburnian come in company. The black and
yellow warbler pauses a moment and hastens away; the Maryland
yellow-throat peeps shyly from the lower bushes and utters his "Fip!
fip!" in sympathy; the wood-pewee comes straight to the tree overhead,
and the red-eyed vireo lingers and lingers, eying me with a curious,
innocent look, evidently much puzzled. But all disappear again, one by
one, apparently without a word of condolence or encouragement to the
distressed pair. I have often noticed among birds this show of
sympathy,--if indeed it be sympathy, and not merely curiosity, or
desire to be forewarned of the approach of a common danger.
An hour afterward I approach the place, find all still, and the
mother-bird upon the nest. As I draw near she seems to sit closer, her
eyes growing large with an inexpressibly wild, beautiful look. She
keeps her place till I am within two paces of her, when she flutters
away as at first. In the brief interval the remaining egg has hatched,
and the two little nestlings lift their heads without being jostled or
overreached by any strange bedfellow. A week afterward and they were
flown away,--so brief is the infancy of birds. And the wonder is that
they escape, even for this short time, the skunks and minks and
muskrats that abound here, and that have a decided partiality for such
tidbits.
I pass on through the old Barkpeeling, now threading an obscure
cow-path or an overgrown wood-road; now clambering over soft and
decayed logs, or forcing my way through a net-work of briers and
hazels; now entering a perfect bower of wild cherry, beech, and
soft-maple; now emerging into a little grassy lane, golden with
buttercups or white with daisies, or wading waist-deep in the red
raspberry-bushes.
Whir! whir! whir! and a brood of half-grown partridges start up like
an explosion, a few paces from me, and, scattering, disappear in the
bushes on all sides. Let me sit down here behind the screen of ferns
and briers, and hear this wild-hen of the woods call together her
brood. At what an early age the partridge flies! Nature seems to
concentrate her energies on the wing, making the safety of the bird a
point to be looked after first; and while the body is covered with
down, and no signs of feathers are visible, the wing-quills sprout and
unfold, and in an incredibly short time the young make fair headway in
flying.
The same rapid development of wing may be observed in chickens and
turkeys, but not in water-fowls, nor in birds that are safely housed
in the nest till full-fledged. The other day, by a brook, I came
suddenly upon a young sandpiper, a most beautiful creature, enveloped
in a soft gray down, swift and nimble and apparently a week or two
old, but with no signs of plumage either of body or wing. And it
needed none, for it escaped me by taking to the water as readily as if
it had flown with wings.
Hark! there arises over there in the brush a soft, persuasive cooing,
a sound so subtle and wild and unobtrusive that it requires the most
alert and watchful ear to hear it. How gentle and solicitous and full
of yearning love! It is the voice of the mother hen. Presently a faint
timid "Yeap!" which almost eludes the ear, is heard in various
directions,--the young responding. As no danger seems near, the cooing
of the parent bird is soon a very audible clucking call, and the
young move cautiously in the direction. Let me step never so carefully
from my hiding-place, and all sounds instantly cease, and I search in
vain for either parent or young.
The partridge (_Bonasa umbellus_) is one of our most native and
characteristic birds. The woods seem good to be in where I find him.
He gives a habitable air to the forest, and one feels as if the
rightful occupant was really at home. The woods where I do not find
him seem to want something, as if suffering from some neglect of
Nature. And then he is such a splendid success, so hardy and vigorous.
I think he enjoys the cold and the snow. His wings seem to rustle with
more fervency in midwinter. If the snow falls very fast, and promises
a heavy storm, he will complacently sit down and allow himself to be
snowed under. Approaching him at such times, he suddenly bursts out of
the snow at your feet, scattering the flakes in all directions, and
goes humming away through the woods like a bomb-shell,--a picture of
native spirit and success.
His drum is one of the most welcome and beautiful sounds of spring.
Scarcely have the trees expanded their buds, when, in the still April
mornings, or toward nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted wings.
He selects not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log, but a
decayed and crumbling one, seeming to give the preference to old
oak-logs that are partially blended with the soil. If a log to his
taste cannot be found he sets up his altar on a rock, which becomes
resonant beneath his fervent blows. Who has seen the partridge drum?
It is the next thing to catching a weasel asleep, though by much
caution and tact it may be done. He does not hug the log, but stands
very erect, expands his ruff, gives two introductory blows, pauses
half a second, and then resumes, striking faster and faster till the
sound becomes a continuous, unbroken whir, the whole lasting less than
half a minute. The tips of his wings barely brush the log, so that the
sound is produced rather by the force of the blows upon the air and
upon his own body as in flying. One log will be used for many years,
though not by the same drummer. It seems to be a sort of temple and
held in great respect. The bird always approaches on foot, and leaves
it in the same quiet manner, unless rudely disturbed. He is very
cunning, though his wit is not profound. It is difficult to approach
him by stealth; you will try many times before succeeding; but seem to
pass by him in a great hurry, making all the noise possible, and with
plumage furled he stands as immovable as a knot, allowing you a good
view and a good shot, if you are a sportsman.