The finding of one is an event to date from. It is the next best thing
to finding an eagle's nest. I have met with but two, both by chance.
One was placed on the horizontal branch of a chestnut-tree, with a
solitary green leaf, forming a complete canopy, about an inch and a
half above it. The repeated spiteful dartings of the bird past my
ears, as I stood under the tree, caused me to suspect that I was
intruding upon some one's privacy; and following it with my eye, I
soon saw the nest, which was in process of construction. Adopting my
usual tactics of secreting myself near by, I had the satisfaction of
seeing the tiny artist at work. It was the female unassisted by her
mate. At intervals of two or three minutes she would appear with a
small tuft of some cottony substance in her beak, dart a few times
through and around the tree, and alighting quickly in the nest
arrange the material she had brought, using her breast as a model.
The other nest I discovered in a dense forest on the side of a
mountain. The sitting bird was disturbed as I passed beneath her. The
whirring of her wings arrested my attention, when, after a short
pause, I had the good luck to see, through an opening in the leaves,
the bird return to her nest, which appeared like a mere wart or
excrescence on a small branch. The humming-bird, unlike all others,
does not alight upon the nest, but flies into it. She enters it as
quick as a flash but as light as any feather. Two eggs are the
complement. They are perfectly white, and so frail that only a woman's
fingers may touch them. Incubation lasts about ten days. In a week the
young have flown.
The only nest like the humming-bird's, and comparable to it in
neatness and symmetry, is that of the blue-gray gnatcatcher. This is
often saddled upon the limb in the same manner, though it is generally
more or less pendent; it is deep and soft, composed mostly of some
vegetable down covered all over with delicate tree-lichens, and,
except that it is much larger, appears almost identical with the nest
of the humming-bird.
But the nest of nests, the ideal nest, after we have left the deep
woods, is unquestionably that of the Baltimore oriole. It is the only
perfectly pensile nest we have. The nest of the orchard oriole is
indeed mainly so, but this bird generally builds lower and shallower,
more after the manner of the vireos.
The Baltimore oriole loves to attach its nest to the swaying branches
of the tallest elms, making no attempt at concealment, but satisfied
if the position be high and the branch pendent. This nest would seem
to cost more time and skill than any other bird structure. A peculiar
flax-like substance seems to be always sought after and always found.
The nest when completed assumes the form of a large, suspended, gourd.
The walls are thin but firm, and proof against the most driving rain.
The mouth is hemmed or overhanded with horse-hair, and the sides are
usually sewed through and through with the same.
Not particular as to the matter of secrecy, the bird is not particular
as to material, so that it be of the nature of strings or threads. A
lady friend once told me that while working by an open window, one of
these birds approached during her momentary absence, and, seizing a
skein of some kind of thread or yarn, made off with it to its
half-finished nest. But the perverse yarn caught fast in the branches,
and, in the bird's efforts to extricate it, got hopelessly tangled.
She tugged away at it all day, but was finally obliged to content
herself with a few detached portions. The fluttering strings were an
eye-sore to her ever after, and passing and repassing, she would give
them a spiteful jerk, as much as to say, "There is that confounded
yarn that gave me so much trouble."
From Pennsylvania, Vincent Barnard (to whom I am indebted for other
curious facts) sent me this interesting story of an oriole. He says a
friend of his, curious in such things, on observing the bird
beginning to build, hung out near the prospective nest skeins of
many-colored zephyr yarn, which the eager artist readily appropriated.
He managed it so that the bird used nearly equal quantities of various
high, bright colors. The nest was made unusually deep and capacious,
and it may be questioned if such a thing of beauty was ever before
woven by the cunning of a bird.
Nuttall, by far the most genial of American ornithologists, relates
the following:--
"A female (oriole), which I observed attentively, carried off to
her nest a piece of lamp-wick ten or twelve feet long. This long
string and many other shorter ones were left hanging out for
about a week before both the ends were wattled into the sides of
the nest. Some other little birds making use of similar
materials, at times twitched these flowing ends, and generally
brought out the busy Baltimore from her occupation in great
anger.
"I may perhaps claim indulgence for adding a little more of the
biography of this particular bird, as a representative also of
the instincts of her race. She completed the nest in about a
week's time, without any aid from her mate; who indeed appeared
but seldom in her company and was now become nearly silent. For
fibrous materials she broke, hackled, and gathered the flax of
the _asclepias_ and _hibiscus_ stalks, tearing off long strings
and flying with them to the scene of her labors. She appeared
very eager and hasty in her pursuits, and collected her
materials without fear or restraint, while three men were
working in the neighboring walks and many persons visiting the
garden. Her courage and perseverance were indeed truly
admirable. If watched too narrowly, she saluted with her usual
scolding, _tshrr, tshrr, tshrr_, seeing no reason, probably, why
she should be interrupted in her indispensable occupation.
"Though the males were now comparatively silent on the arrival
of their busy mates, I could not help observing this female and
a second, continually vociferating, apparently in strife. At
last she was observed to attack this _second_ female very
fiercely, who slyly intruded herself at times into the same tree
where she was building. These contests were angry and often
repeated. To account for this animosity, I now recollected that
_two_ fine males had been killed in our vicinity; and I
therefore concluded the intruder to be left without a mate; yet
she had gained the affections of the consort of the busy female,
and thus the cause of their jealous quarrel became apparent.
Having obtained the confidence of her faithless paramour, the
_second_ female began preparing to weave a nest in an adjoining
elm, by tying together certain pendent twigs as a foundation.
The male now associated chiefly with the intruder, whom he even
assisted in her labor, yet did not wholly forget his first
partner who called on him one evening in a low affectionate
tone, which was answered in the same strain. While they were
thus engaged in friendly whispers, suddenly appeared the rival,
and a violent _rencontre_ ensued, so that one of the females
appeared to be greatly agitated, and fluttered with spreading
wings as if considerably hurt. The male though prudently neutral
in the contest, showed his culpable partiality by flying off
with his paramour, and for the rest of the evening left the tree
to his pugnacious consort. Cares of another kind more imperious
and tender, at length reconciled, or at least terminated these
disputes with the jealous females; and by the aid of the
neighboring bachelors, who are never wanting among these and
other birds, peace was at length completely restored, by the
restitution of the quiet and happy condition of monogamy."
Let me not forget to mention the nest under the mountain ledge, the
nest of the common pewee,--a modest mossy structure, with four pearl
white eggs,--looking out upon some wild scene and overhung by beetling
crags. After all has been said about the elaborate, high-hung
structures, few nests perhaps awaken more pleasant emotions in the
mind of the beholder than this of the pewee,--the gray, silent rocks,
with caverns and dens where the fox and the wolf lurk, and just out of
their reach, in a little niche, as if it grew there, the mossy
tenement!
Nearly every high projecting rock in my range has one of these nests.
Following a trout stream up a wild mountain gorge, not long since, I
counted five in the distance of a mile, all within easy reach, but
safe from the minks and the skunks, and well housed from the storms.
In my native town I know a pine and oak clad hill, round-topped, with
a bold, precipitous front extending half-way around it. Near the top,
and along this front or side, there crops out a ledge of rocks
unusually high and cavernous. One immense layer projects many feet,
allowing a person or many persons, standing upright, to move freely
beneath it. There is a delicious spring of water there, and plenty of
wild, cool air. The floor is of loose stone, now trod by sheep and
foxes, once by the Indian and the wolf. How I have delighted from
boyhood to spend a summer-day in this retreat or take refuge there
from a sudden shower! Always the freshness and coolness, and always
the delicate mossy nest of the phoebe-bird! The bird keeps her place
till you are within a few feet of her, when she flits to a near
branch, and, with many oscillations of her tail, observes you
anxiously. Since the country has become settled this pewee has fallen
into the strange practice of occasionally placing its nest under a
bridge, hay-shed, or other artificial structure, where it is subject
to all kinds of interruptions and annoyances. When placed thus, the
nest is larger and coarser. I know a hay-loft beneath which a pair has
regularly placed its nest for several successive seasons. Arranged
along on a single pole, which sags down a few inches from the flooring
it was intended to help support, are three of these structures,
marking the number of years the birds have nested there. The
foundation is of mud with a superstructure of moss, elaborately lined
with hair and feathers. Nothing can be more perfect and exquisite than
the interior of one of these nests, yet a new one is built every
season. Three broods, however, are frequently reared in it.
The pewees, as a class, are the best architects we have. The king-bird
builds a nest altogether admirable, using various soft cotton and woolen
substances, and sparing neither time nor material to make it substantial
and warm. The green-crested pewee builds its nest in many instances
wholly of the blossoms of the white-oak. The wood-pewee builds a neat,
compact, socket-shaped nest of moss and lichens on a horizontal branch.
There is never a loose end or shred about it. The sitting bird is
largely visible above the rim. She moves her head freely about and seems
entirely at her ease,--a circumstance which I have never observed in any
other species. The nest of the great-crested fly-catcher is seldom free
from snake skins, three or four being sometimes woven into it.
About the thinnest, shallowest nest, for its situation, that can be
found is that of the turtle-dove. A few sticks and straws are
carelessly thrown together, hardly sufficient to prevent the eggs from
falling through or rolling off. The nest of the passenger-pigeon is
equally hasty and insufficient, and the squabs often fall to the
ground and perish. The other extreme among our common birds is
furnished by the ferruginous thrush, which collects together a mass
of material that would fill a half-bushel measure; or by the
fish-hawk, which adds to and repairs its nest year after year, till
the whole would make a cart-load.
The rarest of all nests is that of the eagle, because the eagle is the
rarest of all birds. Indeed so seldom is the eagle seen that its
presence always seems accidental. It appears as if merely pausing on
the way, while bound for some distant unknown region. One September,
while a youth, I saw the ring-tailed eagle, an immense, dusky bird,
the sight of which filled me with awe. It lingered about the hills for
two days. Some young cattle, a two-year-old colt, and half a dozen
sheep were at pasture on a high ridge that led up to the mountain, and
in plain view of the house. On the second day this dusky monarch was
seen flying about above them. Presently he began to hover over them,
after the manner of a hawk watching for mice. He then with extended
legs let himself slowly down upon them, actually grappling the backs
of the young cattle, and frightening the creatures so that they rushed
about the field in great consternation; and finally, as he grew bolder
and more frequent in his descents, the whole herd broke over the fence
and came tearing down to the house "like mad." It did not seem to be
an assault with intent to kill, but was perhaps a stratagem resorted
to in order to separate the herd and expose the lambs, which hugged
the cattle very closely. When he occasionally alighted upon the oaks
that stood near, the branch could be seen to sway and bend beneath
him. Finally, as a rifleman started out in pursuit of him, he launched
into the air, set his wings, and sailed away southward. A few years
afterward, in January, another eagle passed through the same locality,
alighting in a field near some dead animal, but tarried briefly.
So much by way of identification. The bird is common to the northern
parts of both hemispheres, and places its eyrie on high precipitous
rocks. A pair built on an inaccessible shelf of rock along the Hudson
for eight successive years. A squad of Revolutionary soldiers, also,
found a nest along this river, and had an adventure with the bird that
came near costing one of their number his life. His comrades let him
down by a rope to secure the eggs or young, when he was attacked by
the female eagle with such fury that he was obliged to defend himself
with his knife. In doing so, by a misstroke, he nearly severed the
rope that held him, and was drawn up by a single strand from his
perilous position. Audubon, from whom this anecdote is taken, figures
and describes this bird as the golden eagle, though I have little
doubt that Wilson was right, and that the golden eagle is a distinct
species.
The sea-eagle, also, builds on high rocks, according to Audubon,
though Wilson describes the nest of one which he saw near Great Egg
Harbor, in the top of a large yellow pine. It was a vast pile of
sticks, sods, sedge, grass, reeds, etc., etc., five or six feet high
by four broad, and with little or no concavity. It had been used for
many years, and he was told that the eagles made it a sort of home or
lodging-place in all seasons. This agrees with the description which
Audubon gives of the nest of the bald eagle. There is evidently a
little confusion on both sides.
The eagle in all cases uses one nest, with more or less repair, for
several years. Many of our common birds do the same. The birds may be
divided, with respect to this and kindred points, into five general
classes. First, those that repair or appropriate the last year's nest,
as the wren, swallow, bluebird, great-crested fly-catcher, owls,
eagles, fish-hawk, and a few others. Secondly, those that build anew
each season, though frequently rearing more than one brood in the same
nest. Of these the phoebe-bird is a well-known example. Thirdly, those
that build a new nest for each brood, which includes by far the
greatest number of species. Fourthly, a limited number that make no
nest of their own, but appropriate the abandoned nests of other birds.
Finally, those who use no nest at all, but deposit their eggs in the
sand, which is the case with a large number of aquatic fowls. Thus,
the common gull breeds in vast numbers on the sand bars or sand
islands off the south coast of Long Island. A little dent is made in
the sand, the eggs are dropped, and the old birds go their way. In due
time the eggs are hatched by the warmth of the sun, and the little
creatures shift for themselves. In July countless numbers of them, of
different ages and sizes, swarm upon these sandy wastes. As the waves
roll out they rush down the beach, picking up a kind of sea gluten,
and then hasten back to avoid the next breaker.
[Illustration: Phoebe-bird.]
FOOTNOTES:
[2] A recent English writer upon this subject presents an array of
facts and considerations that do not support this view. He says that,
with very few exceptions, it is the rule that, when both sexes are of
strikingly gay and conspicuous colors, the nest is such as to conceal
the sitting bird; while, whenever there is a striking contrast of
colors, the male being gay and conspicuous, the female dull and
obscure, the nest is open and the sitting bird exposed to view. The
exceptions to this rule among European birds appear to be very few.
Among our own birds, the cuckoos and blue jays build open nests,
without presenting any noticeable difference in the coloring of the
two sexes. The same is true of the pewees, the king-bird, and the
sparrows, while the common bluebird, the oriole, and orchard starling
afford examples the other way.
[Illustration: Purple Finch.]
SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.
WITH AN EYE TO THE BIRDS.
I came to Washington to live in the fall of 1863, and, with the
exception of a month each summer spent in the interior of New York,
have lived here ever since.
I saw my first novelty in Natural History the day after my arrival. As
I was walking near some woods north of the city, a grasshopper of
prodigious size flew up from the ground and alighted in a tree. As I
pursued him, he proved to be nearly as wild and as fleet of wing as a
bird. I thought I had reached the capital of grasshopperdom, and that
this was perhaps one of the chiefs or leaders, or perhaps the great
High Cock O'lorum himself, taking an airing in the fields. I have
never yet been able to settle the question, as every fall I start up a
few of these gigantic specimens, which perch on the trees. They are
about three inches long, of a gray striped or spotted color, and have
quite a reptile look.
The greatest novelty I found, however, was the superb autumn weather,
the bright, strong, electric days, lasting well into November, and the
general mildness of the entire winter. Though the mercury occasionally
sinks to zero, yet the earth is never so seared and blighted by the
cold, but that in some sheltered nook or corner signs of vegetable
life still remain, which on a little encouragement even asserts
itself. I have found wild flowers here every month in the year;
violets in December, a single houstonia in January (the little lump of
earth upon which it stood was frozen hard), and a tiny, weed-like
plant, with a flower almost microscopic in its smallness, growing
along graveled walks, and in old plowed fields in February. The
liverwort sometimes comes out as early as the first week in March, and
the little frogs begin to pipe doubtfully about the same time.
Apricot-trees are usually in bloom on All-Fool's-day, and the
apple-trees on May-day. By August, mother hen will lead forth her
third brood, and I had a March pullet that came off with a family of
her own in September. Our calendar is made for this climate. March is
a spring month. One is quite sure to see some marked and striking
change during the first eight or ten days. This season (1868) is a
backward one, and the memorable change did not come till the 10th.
Then the sun rose up from a bed of vapors, and seemed fairly to
dissolve with tenderness and warmth. For an hour or two the air was
perfectly motionless, and full of low, humming, awakening sounds. The
naked trees had a rapt, expectant look. From some unreclaimed common
near by came the first strain of the song-sparrow; so homely, because
so old and familiar, yet so inexpressibly pleasing. Presently a full
chorus of voices arose; tender, musical, half-suppressed, but full of
genuine hilarity and joy. The bluebird warbled, the robin called, the
snow-bird chattered, the meadow-lark uttered her strong, but tender
note. Over a deserted field a turkey-buzzard hovered low, and alighted
on a stake in the fence, standing a moment with outstretched,
vibrating wings, till he was sure of his hold. A soft, warm, brooding
day. Roads becoming dry in many places, and looking so good after the
mud and the snow. I walk up beyond the boundary and over Meridian
Hill. To move along the drying road and feel the delicious warmth is
enough. The cattle low long and loud, and look wistfully into the
distance. I sympathize with them. Never a spring comes, but I have an
almost irresistible desire to depart. Some nomadic or migrating
instinct or reminiscence stirs within me. I ache to be off.
As I pass along, the high-hole calls in the distance precisely as I
have heard him in the North. After a pause he repeats his summons.
What can be more welcome to the ear than these early first sounds!
They have such a margin of silence!
One need but pass the boundary of Washington city to be fairly in the
country, and ten minutes' walk in the country brings one to real
primitive woods. The town has not yet overflowed its limits like the
great Northern commercial capitals, and Nature, wild and unkempt,
comes up to its very threshold, and even in many places crosses it.
The woods, which I soon reach, are stark and still. The signs of
returning life are so faint as to be almost imperceptible, but there is
a fresh, earthy smell in the air, as if something had stirred here under
the leaves. The crows caw above the wood, or walk about the brown
fields. I look at the gray, silent trees long and long, but they show no
sign. The catkins of some alders by a little pool have just swelled
perceptibly; and brushing away the dry leaves and _débris_ on a sunny
slope, I discover the liverwort just pushing up a fuzzy, tender sprout.
But the waters have brought forth. The little frogs are musical. From
every marsh and pool goes up their shrill, but pleasing chorus. Peering
into one of their haunts, a little body of semi-stagnant water, I
discover masses of frogs' spawn covering the bottom. I take up great
chunks of the cold, quivering jelly in my hands. In some places there
are gallons of it. A youth who accompanies me wonders if it would not be
good cooked, or if it could not be used as a substitute for eggs. It is
a perfect jelly, of a slightly milky tinge, thickly imbedded with black
spots about the size of a small bird's eye. When just deposited, it is
perfectly transparent. These hatch in eight or ten days, gradually
absorb their gelatinous surroundings, and the tiny tadpoles issue forth.
In the city, even before the shop-windows have caught the inspiration,
spring is heralded by the silver poplars, which line all the streets
and avenues. After a few mild, sunshiny March days, you suddenly
perceive a change has come over the trees. Their tops have a less
naked look. If the weather continues warm, a single day will work
wonders. Presently the tree will be one vast plume of gray, downy
tassels, while not the least speck of green foliage is visible. The
first week in April these long mimic caterpillars lie all about the
streets and fill the gutters.
The approach of spring is also indicated by the crows and buzzards,
which rapidly multiply in the environs of the city, and grow bold and
demonstrative. The crows are abundant here all winter, but are not
very noticeable except as they pass high in air to and from their
winter-quarters in the Virginia woods. Early in the morning, as soon
as it is light enough to discern them, there they are, streaming
eastward across the sky, now in loose, scattered flocks, now in thick,
dense masses, then singly and in pairs or triplets, but all setting in
one direction, probably to the waters of Eastern Maryland. Toward
night they begin to return, flying in the same manner, and directing
their course to the wooded heights on the Potomac, west of the city.
In spring these diurnal mass movements cease; the clan breaks up, the
rookery is abandoned, and the birds scatter broadcast over the land.
This seems to be the course everywhere pursued. One would think that,
when food was scarcest, the policy of separating into small bands or
pairs, and dispersing over a wide country, would prevail, as a few
might subsist where a larger number would starve. The truth is,
however, that in winter, food can be had only in certain clearly
defined districts and tracts, as along rivers and the shores of bays
and lakes.