winter-quarters in the same manner, flying south in the morning and
returning again at night, sometimes hugging the hills so close during
a strong wind, as to expose themselves to the clubs and stones of
school-boys ambushed behind trees and fences. The belated ones, that
come laboring along just at dusk, are often so overcome by the long
journey and the strong current, that they seem almost on the point of
sinking down whenever the wind or a rise in the ground calls upon them
for an extra effort.
The turkey-buzzards are noticeable about Washington as soon as the
season begins to open, sailing leisurely along two or three hundred
feet over head, or sweeping low over some common or open space, where,
perchance, a dead puppy or pig or fowl has been thrown. Half a dozen
will sometimes alight about some such object out on the commons, and
with their broad dusky wings lifted up to their full extent, threaten
and chase each other, while perhaps one or two are feeding. Their
wings are very large and flexible, and the slightest motion of them,
while the bird stands upon the ground, suffices to lift its feet
clear. Their movements when in air are very majestic and beautiful to
the eye, being in every respect identical with those of our common hen
or red-tailed hawk. They sail along in the same calm, effortless,
interminable manner, and sweep around in the same ample spirals. The
shape of their wings and tail, indeed their entire effect against the
sky, except in size and color, is very nearly the same as that of the
hawk mentioned. A dozen at a time may often be seen high in air,
amusing themselves by sailing serenely round and round in the same
circle.
They are less active and vigilant than the hawk; never poise themselves
on the wing, never dive and gambol in the air, and never swoop down upon
their prey; unlike the hawks also, they appear to have no enemies. The
crow fights the hawk, and the king-bird and crow-blackbird fight the
crow; but neither takes any notice of the buzzard. He excites the enmity
of none, for the reason that he molests none. The crow has an old grudge
against the hawk, because the hawk robs the crow's nest, and carries off
his young; the king-bird's quarrel with the crow is upon the same
grounds. But the buzzard never attacks live game, or feeds upon new
flesh when old can be had.
In May, like the crows, they nearly all disappear very suddenly,
probably to their breeding haunts near the sea-shore. Do the males
separate from the females at this time, and go by themselves? At any
rate, in July I discovered that a large number of buzzards roosted in
some woods near Rock Creek, about a mile from the city limits; and, as
they do not nest anywhere in this vicinity, I thought they might be
males. I happened to be detained late in the woods, watching the nest
of a flying squirrel, when the buzzards, just after sundown, began to
come by ones and twos and alight in the trees near me. Presently they
came in greater numbers, but from the same direction flapping low over
the woods, and taking up their position in the middle branches. On
alighting, each one would blow very audibly through his nose, just as
a cow does when she lies down; this is the only sound I have ever
heard the buzzard make. They would then stretch themselves after the
manner of turkeys, and walk along the limbs. Sometimes a decayed
branch would break under the weight of two or three, when, with a
great flapping, they would take up new positions. They continued to
come till it was quite dark, and all the trees about me were full. I
began to feel a little nervous, but kept my place. After it was
entirely dark and all was still, I gathered a large pile of dry leaves
and kindled it with a match, to see what they would think of a fire.
Not a sound was heard till the pile of leaves was in full blaze, when
instantaneously every buzzard started. I thought the tree-tops were
coming down upon me, so great was the uproar. But the woods were soon
cleared, and the loathsome pack disappeared in the night.
About the first of June I saw numbers of buzzards sailing around over
the great Falls of the Potomac.
A glimpse of the birds usually found here in the latter part of winter
may be had in the following extract, which I take from my diary under
date of February 4th:--
"Made a long excursion through the woods and over the hills.
Went directly north from the Capitol for about three miles. The
ground bare and the day cold and sharp. In the suburbs, among
the scattered Irish and negro shanties, came suddenly upon a
flock of birds, feeding about like our Northern snow-buntings.
Every now and then they uttered a piping disconsolate note, as
if they had a very sorry time of it. They proved to be
shore-larks, the first I had ever seen. They had the walk
characteristic of all larks; were a little larger than the
sparrow; had a black spot on the breast, with much white on the
under parts of their bodies. As I approached them the nearer
ones paused, and, half squatting, eyed me suspiciously.
Presently, at a movement of my arm, away they went, flying
exactly like the snow-bunting, and showing nearly as much
white." (I have since discovered that the shore-lark is a
regular visitant here in February and March, when large
quantities of them are shot or trapped, and exposed for sale in
the market. During a heavy snow I have seen numbers of them
feeding upon the seeds of various weedy growths in a large
market-garden well into town.) "Pressing on, the walk became
exhilarating. Followed a little brook, the eastern branch of the
Tiber, lined with bushes and a rank growth of green brier.
Sparrows started out here and there and flew across the little
bends and points. Among some pines just beyond the boundary, saw
a number of American goldfinches, in their gray winter dress,
pecking the pine-cones. A golden-crowned kinglet was there also,
a little tuft of gray feathers, hopping about as restless as a
spirit. Had the old pine-trees food delicate enough for him
also? Farther on, in some low open woods, saw many
sparrows,--the fox, white-throated, white-crowned, the Canada,
the song, the swamp,--all herding together along the warm and
sheltered borders. To my surprise saw a cheewink also, and the
yellow-rumped warbler. The purple finch was there likewise, and
the Carolina wren and brown creeper. In the higher, colder woods
not a bird was to be seen. Returning, near sunset, across the
eastern slope of a hill which overlooked the city, was delighted
to see a number of grass-finches or vesper sparrows (_Fringilla
graminea_),--birds which will be forever associated in my mind
with my father's sheep pastures. They ran before me, now
flitting a pace or two, now skulking in the low stubble, just as
I had observed them when a boy."
A month later, March 4th, is this note:--
"After the second memorable inauguration of President Lincoln,
took my first trip of the season. The afternoon was very clear
and warm,--real vernal sunshine at last, though the wind roared
like a lion over the woods. It seemed novel enough to find
within two miles of the White House a simple woodsman chopping
away as if no President was being inaugurated! Some puppies,
snugly nestled in the cavity of an old hollow tree, he said,
belonged to a wild dog. I imagine I saw the 'wild dog,' on the
other side of Rock Creek, in a great state of grief and
trepidation, running up and down, crying and yelping, and
looking wistfully over the swollen flood, which the poor thing
had not the courage to brave. This day, for the first time, I
heard the song of the Canada sparrow, a soft, sweet note, almost
running into a warble. Saw a small, black, velvety butterfly
with a yellow border to its wings. Under a warm bank found two
flowers of the houstonia in bloom. Saw frogs' spawn near Piny
Branch, and heard the hyla."
Among the first birds that make their appearance in Washington, is the
crow-blackbird. He may come any time after the 1st of March. The birds
congregate in large flocks, and frequent groves and parks, alternately
swarming in the tree-tops and filling the air with their sharp jangle,
and alighting on the ground in quest of food, their polished coats
glistening in the sun from very blackness, as they walk about. There
is evidently some music in the soul of this bird at this season,
though he makes a sad failure in getting it out. His voice always
sounds as if he were laboring under a severe attack of influenza,
though a large flock of them heard at a distance on a bright afternoon
of early spring, produce an effect not unpleasing. The air is filled
with crackling, splintering, spurting, semi-musical sounds,--which are
like pepper and salt to the ear.
All parks and public grounds about the city are full of blackbirds.
They are especially plentiful in the trees about the White House,
breeding there and waging war on all other birds. The occupants of one
of the offices in the west wing of the Treasury one day had their
attention attracted by some object striking violently against one of
the window-panes. Looking up, they beheld a crow-blackbird pausing in
mid-air, a few feet from the window. On the broad stone window-sill
lay the quivering form of a purple finch. The little tragedy was
easily read. The blackbird had pursued the finch with such murderous
violence, that the latter, in its desperate efforts to escape, had
sought refuge in the Treasury. The force of the concussion against the
heavy plate-glass of the window had killed the poor thing instantly.
The pursuer, no doubt astonished at the sudden and novel termination
of the career of its victim, hovered a moment, as if to be sure of
what had happened, and made off.
(It is not unusual for birds, when thus threatened with destruction
by their natural enemy, to become so terrified as to seek safety in
the presence of man. I was once startled, while living in a country
village, to behold, on entering my room at noon, one October day, a
quail sitting upon my bed. The affrighted and bewildered bird
instantly started for the open window, into which it had no doubt been
driven by a hawk.)
The crow-blackbird has all the natural cunning of his prototype, the
crow. In one of the inner courts of the Treasury building there is a
fountain with several trees growing near. By midsummer, the blackbirds
become so bold as to venture within this court. Various fragments of
food, tossed from the surrounding windows, reward their temerity. When
a crust of dry bread defies their beaks, they have been seen to drop
it into the water, and when it had become soaked sufficiently, to take
it out again.
They build a nest of coarse sticks and mud, the whole burden of the
enterprise seeming to devolve upon the female. For several successive
mornings just after sunrise, I used to notice a pair of them flying to
and fro in the air above me, as I hoed in the garden, directing their
course, on the one hand, to a marshy piece of ground about half a mile
distant, and disappearing on their return, among the trees about the
Capitol. Returning, the female always had her beak loaded with
building material, while the male, carrying nothing, seemed to act as
her escort, flying a little above and in advance of her, and uttering
now and then his husky, discordant note. As I tossed a lump of earth
up at them the frightened mother-bird dropped her mortar, and the pair
skurried away, much put out. Later, they avenged themselves by
pilfering my cherries.
The most mischievous enemies of the cherries, however, here, as at the
North, are the cedar waxwings, or "cherry-birds." How quickly they spy
out the tree! Long before the cherry begins to turn, they are around,
alert and cautious. In small flocks they circle about, high in air,
uttering their fine note, or plunge quickly into the tops of remote
trees. Day by day they approach nearer and nearer, reconnoitring the
premises, and watching the growing fruit. Hardly have the green lobes
turned a red cheek to the sun, before their beaks have scarred it. At
first they approach the tree stealthily, on the side turned from the
house, diving quickly into the branches in ones and twos, while the
main flock is ambushed in some shade tree not far off. They are most
apt to commit their depredations very early in the morning and on
cloudy, rainy days. As the cherries grow sweeter the birds grow
bolder, till, from throwing tufts of grass, one has to throw stones in
good earnest, or lose all his fruit. In June they disappear, following
the cherries to the north, where by July, they are nesting in the
orchards and cedar groves.
Among the permanent summer residents here (one might say city
residents, as they seem more abundant in town than out), the yellow
warbler or summer yellow-bird is conspicuous. He comes about the
middle of April, and seems particularly attached to the silver
poplars. In every street, and all day long, one may hear his thin,
sharp warble. When nesting, the female comes about the yard, pecking
at the clothes-line, and gathering up bits of thread to weave into her
nest.
Swallows appear in Washington from the first to the middle of April.
They come twittering along in the way so familiar to every New England
boy. The barn swallow is heard first, followed in a day or two by the
squeaking of the cliff-swallow. The chimney-swallows, or swifts, are
not far behind, and remain here, in large numbers, the whole season.
The purple martins appear in April, as they pass north, and again in
July and August on their return, accompanied by their young.
The national capital is situated in such a vast spread of wild,
wooded, or semi-cultivated country, and is in itself so open and
spacious, with its parks and large government reservations, that an
unusual number of birds find their way into it in the course of the
season. Rare warblers, as the black-poll, the yellow red-poll, and the
bay-breasted, pausing in May on their northward journey, pursue their
insect game in the very heart of the town.
I have heard the veery-thrush in the trees near the White House; and one
rainy April morning, about six o'clock, he came and blew his soft,
mellow flute in a pear-tree in my garden. The tones had all the
sweetness and wildness they have when heard in June in our deep Northern
forests. A day or two afterward, in the same tree, I heard for the first
time the song of the golden-crowned wren, or kinglet,--the same liquid
bubble and cadence which characterize the wren-songs generally, but much
finer and more delicate than the song of any other variety known to me;
beginning in a fine, round, needle-like note, and rising into a full,
sustained warble;--a strain, on the whole, remarkably exquisite and
pleasing, the singer being all the while as busy as a bee, catching some
kind of insects. If the ruby-crowned sings as well (and no doubt it
does), Audubon's enthusiasm concerning its song, as he heard it in the
wilds of Labrador, is not a bit extravagant. The song of the kinglet is
the only characteristic that allies it to the wrens.
The Capitol grounds, with their fine large trees of many varieties draw
many kinds of birds. In the rear of the building the extensive grounds
are peculiarly attractive, being a gentle slope, warm and protected, and
quite thickly wooded. Here in early spring I go to hear the robins,
cat-birds, blackbirds, wrens, etc. In March the white-throated and
white-crowned sparrows may be seen, hopping about on the flower-beds or
peering slyly from the evergreens. The robin hops about freely upon the
grass, notwithstanding the keeper's large-lettered warning, and at
intervals, and especially at sunset, carols from the tree-tops his loud
hearty strain.
The king-bird and orchard starling remain the whole season, and breed
in the tree-tops. The rich, copious song of the starling may be heard
there all the forenoon. The song of some birds is like scarlet,--strong,
intense, emphatic. This is the character of the orchard starlings; also
of the tanagers and the various grossbeaks. On the other hand, the songs
of other birds, as of certain of the thrushes, suggests the serene blue
of the upper sky.
In February, one may hear, in the Smithsonian grounds, the song of the
fox-sparrow. It is a strong, richly modulated whistle,--the finest
sparrow note I have ever heard.
A curious and charming sound may be heard here in May. You are walking
forth in the soft morning air, when suddenly there comes a burst of
bobolink melody from some mysterious source. A score of throats pour
out one brief, hilarious, tuneful jubilee, and are suddenly silent.
There is a strange remoteness, and fascination about it. Presently you
discover its source skyward, and a quick eye will detect the gay band
pushing northward. They seem to scent the fragrant meadows afar off,
and shout forth snatches of their songs in anticipation.
The bobolink does not breed in the District, but usually pauses in his
journey and feeds during the day in the grass-lands north of the city.
When the season is backward, they tarry a week or ten days, singing
freely and appearing quite at home. In large flocks they search over
every inch of ground, and at intervals hover on the wing or alight in
the tree-tops, all pouring forth their gladness at once, and filling
the air with a multitudinous musical clamor.
They continue to pass, traveling by night, and feeding by day, till
after the middle of May, when they cease. In September, with numbers
greatly increased, they are on their way back. I am first advised of
their return by hearing their calls at night as they fly over the
city. On certain nights the sound becomes quite noticeable. I have
awakened in the middle of the night, and, through the open window, as
I lay in bed, heard their faint notes. The warblers begin to return
about the same time, and are clearly distinguished by their timid
_yeaps_. On dark cloudy nights the birds seem confused by the lights
of the city, and apparently wander about above it.
In the spring the same curious incident is repeated, though but few
voices can be identified. I make out the snow-bird, the bobolink, the
warblers, and on two nights during the early part of May I heard very
clearly the call of the sandpipers.
Instead of the bobolink, one encounters here, in the June meadows, the
black-throated bunting, a bird closely related to the sparrows, and a
very persistent, if not a very musical songster. He perches upon the
fences and upon the trees by the roadside, and, spreading his tail,
gives forth his harsh strain, which may be roughly worded thus: _fscp
fscp_, _fee fee fee_. Like all sounds associated with early summer, it
soon has a charm to the ear quite independent of its intrinsic
merits.
Outside of the city limits, the great point of interest to the rambler
and lover of nature is the Rock Creek region. Rock Creek is a large,
rough, rapid stream, which has its source in the interior of Maryland,
and flows into the Potomac between Washington and Georgetown. Its
course, for five or six miles out of Washington, is marked by great
diversity of scenery. Flowing in a deep valley, which now and then
becomes a wild gorge with overhanging rocks and high precipitous
headlands, for the most part wooded; here reposing in long, dark
reaches, there sweeping and hurrying around a sudden bend or over a
rocky bed; receiving at short intervals small runs and spring
rivulets, which open up vistas and outlooks to the right and left, of
the most charming description,--Rock Creek has an abundance of all the
elements that make up not only pleasing, but wild and rugged scenery.
There is, perhaps, not another city in the Union that has on its very
threshold so much natural beauty and grandeur, such as men seek for in
remote forests and mountains. A few touches of art would convert this
whole region, extending from Georgetown to what is known as Crystal
Springs, not more than two miles from the present State Department,
into a park unequaled by anything in the world. There are passages
between these two points as wild and savage, and apparently as remote
from civilization, as anything one meets with in the mountain sources
of the Hudson or the Delaware.
One of the tributaries to Rock Creek within this limit is called Piny
Branch. It is a small, noisy brook, flowing through a valley of great
natural beauty and picturesqueness, shaded nearly all the way by woods
of oak, chestnut, and beech, and abounding in dark recesses and hidden
retreats.
I must not forget to mention the many springs with which this whole
region is supplied, each the centre of some wild nook, perhaps the
head of a little valley one or two hundred yards long, through which
one catches a glimpse, or hears the voice of the main creek rushing
along below.
My walks tend in this direction more frequently than in any other.
Here the boys go too, troops of them, of a Sunday, to bathe and prowl
around, and indulge the semi-barbarous instincts that still lurk
within them. Life, in all its forms, is most abundant near water. The
rank vegetation nurtures the insects, and the insects draw the birds.
The first week in March, on some southern slope where the sunshine
lies warm and long, I usually find the hepatica in bloom, though with
scarcely an inch of stalk. In the spring runs the skunk cabbage pushes
its pike up through the mould, the flower appearing first, as if
Nature had made a mistake.
It is not till about the 1st of April that many wild-flowers may be
looked for. By this time the hepatica, anemone, saxifrage, arbutus,
houstonia, and bloodroot may be counted on. A week later, the
claytonia, or spring beauty, water-cress, violets, a low buttercup,
vetch, corydalis, and potentilla appear. These comprise most of the
April flowers, and may be found in great profusion in the Rock Creek
and Piny Branch region.
In each little valley or spring run some one species predominates. I
know invariably where to look for the first liverwort, and where the
largest and finest may be found. On a dry, gravelly, half-wooded
hill-slope the birds-foot violet grows in great abundance, and is
sparse in neighboring districts. This flower, which I never saw in the
North, is the most beautiful and showy of all the violets, and calls
forth rapturous applause from all persons who visit the woods. It
grows in little groups and clusters, and bears a close resemblance to
the pansies of the gardens. Its two purple, velvety petals seem to
fall over tiny shoulders like a rich cape.
On the same slope, and on no other, I go about the 1st of May for
lupine, or sun-dial, which makes the ground look blue from a little
distance; on the other, or northern side of the slope, the arbutus,
during the first half of April, perfumes the wild-wood air. A few
paces farther on, in the bottom of a little spring run, the mandrake
shades the ground with its miniature umbrellas. It begins to push its
green finger-points up through the ground by the 1st of April, but is
not in bloom till the 1st of May. It has a single white, wax-like
flower, with a sweet, sickish odor, growing immediately beneath its
broad leafy top. By the same run grow water-cresses and two kinds of
anemones,--the Pennsylvania and the grove anemone. The bloodroot is
very common at the foot of almost every warm slope in the Rock Creek
woods, and, where the wind has tucked it up well with the coverlid of
dry leaves, makes its appearance almost as soon as the liverwort. It
is singular how little warmth is necessary to encourage these earlier
flowers to put forth! It would seem as if some influence must come on
in advance underground and get things ready, so that when the outside
temperature is propitious, they at once venture out. I have found the
bloodroot when it was still freezing two or three nights in the week;
and have known at least three varieties of early flowers to be buried
in eight inches of snow.