Sunday, with my brothers, gathering black birch, wintergreens, etc.,
when, as we reclined upon the ground, gazing vaguely up into the
trees, I caught sight of a bird, that paused a moment on a branch
above me, the like of which I had never before seen or heard of. It
was probably the blue yellow-backed warbler, as I have since found
this to be a common bird in those woods; but to my young fancy it
seemed like some fairy bird, so curiously marked was it, and so new
and unexpected. I saw it a moment as the flickering leaves parted,
noted the white spot on its wing, and it was gone. How the thought of
it clung to me afterward! It was a revelation. It was the first
intimation I had had that the woods we knew so well held birds that we
knew not at all. Were our eyes and ears so dull, then? There was the
robin, the blue jay, the bluebird, the yellow-bird, the cherry-bird,
the cat-bird, the chipping-bird, the woodpecker, the high-hole, an
occasional redbird, and a few others, in the woods, or along their
borders, but who ever dreamed that there were still others that not
even the hunters saw, and whose names no one had ever heard?
When, one summer-day, later in life, I took my gun, and went to the
woods again, in a different, though, perhaps, a less simple spirit, I
found my youthful vision more than realized. There were, indeed, other
birds, plenty of them, singing, nesting, breeding, among the familiar
trees, which I had before passed by unheard and unseen.
It is a surprise that awaits every student of ornithology, and the
thrill of delight that accompanies it, and the feeling of fresh, eager
inquiry that follows, can hardly be awakened by any other pursuit.
Take the first step in ornithology, procure one new specimen, and you
are ticketed for the whole voyage. There is a fascination about it
quite overpowering. It fits so well with other things--with fishing,
hunting, farming, walking, camping-out--with all that takes one to the
fields and woods. One may go a blackberrying and make some rare
discovery; or while driving his cow to pasture, hear a new song, or
make a new observation. Secrets lurk on all sides. There is news in
every bush. Expectation is ever on tiptoe. What no man ever saw before
may the next moment be revealed to you. What a new interest the woods
have! How you long to explore every nook and corner of them! You would
even find consolation in being lost in them. You could then hear the
night birds and the owls, and, in your wanderings, might stumble upon
some unknown specimen.
In all excursions to the woods or to the shore, the student of
ornithology has an advantage over his companions. He has one more
resource, one more avenue of delight. He, indeed, kills two birds with
one stone, and sometimes three. If others wander, he can never go out
of his way. His game is everywhere. The cawing of a crow makes him
feel at home, while a new note or a new song drowns all care. Audubon,
on the desolate coast of Labrador, is happier than any king ever was;
and on shipboard is nearly cured of his sea-sickness when a new gull
appears in sight.
One must taste it to understand or appreciate its fascination. The
looker-on sees nothing to inspire such enthusiasm. Only a little
feathers and a half-musical note or two; why all this ado? "Who would
give a hundred and twenty dollars to know about the birds?" said an
eastern governor, half contemptuously, to Wilson, as the latter
solicited a subscription to his great work. Sure enough. Bought
knowledge is dear at any price. The most precious things have no
commercial value. It is not, your Excellency, mere technical knowledge
of the birds that you are asked to purchase, but a new interest in
the fields and woods, a new moral and intellectual tonic, a new key to
the treasure-house of nature. Think of the many other things your
Excellency would get; the air, the sunshine, the healing fragrance and
coolness, and the many respites from the knavery and turmoil of
political life.
Yesterday was an October day of rare brightness and warmth. I spent
the most of it in a wild, wooded gorge of Rock Creek. A persimmon-tree
which stood upon the bank had dropped some of its fruit in the water.
As I stood there, half-leg deep, picking them up, a wood-duck came
flying down the creek and passed over my head. Presently it returned,
flying up; then it came back again, and, sweeping low around a bend,
prepared to alight in a still, dark reach in the creek which was
hidden from my view. As I passed that way about half an hour
afterward, the duck started up, uttering its wild alarm note. In the
stillness I could hear the whistle of its wings and the splash of the
water when it took flight. Near by I saw where a raccoon had come down
to the water for fresh clams, leaving his long, sharp track in the mud
and sand. Before I had passed this hidden stretch of water, a pair of
those mysterious thrushes, the gray-cheeked, flew up from the ground
and perched on a low branch.
Who can tell how much this duck, this foot-print in the sand, and
these strange thrushes from the far North, enhanced the interest and
charm of the autumn woods?
Ornithology cannot be satisfactorily learned from the books. The
satisfaction is in learning it from nature. One must have an original
experience with the birds. The books are only the guide, the
invitation. Though there remain not another new species to describe,
any young person with health and enthusiasm has open to him or her the
whole field anew, and is eligible to experience all the thrill and
delight of original discoverers.
But let me say, in the same breath, that the books can by no manner of
means be dispensed with. A copy of Wilson or Audubon, for reference
and to compare notes with, is invaluable. In lieu of these, access to
some large museum or collection would be a great help. In the
beginning, one finds it very difficult to identify a bird from any
verbal description. Reference to a colored plate, or to a stuffed
specimen, at once settles the matter. This is the chief value of the
books; they are charts to sail by; the route is mapped out, and much
time and labor saved. First, find your bird; observe its ways, its
song, its calls, its flight, its haunts; then shoot it (not ogle it
with a glass), and compare with Audubon. In this way the feathered
kingdom may soon be conquered.
The ornithologists divide and subdivide the birds into a great many
families, orders, genera, species, etc., which, at first sight, are
apt to confuse and discourage the reader. But any interested person
can acquaint himself with most of our song-birds, by keeping in mind a
few general divisions, and observing the characteristics of each. By
far the greater number of our land-birds are either warblers, vireos,
fly-catchers, thrushes, or finches.
The warblers are, perhaps, the most puzzling. These are the true
Sylvia, the real wood-birds. They are small, very active, but feeble
songsters, and, to be seen, must be sought for. In passing through the
woods, most persons have a vague consciousness of slight chirping,
semi-musical sounds in the trees overhead. In most cases these sounds
proceed from the warblers. Throughout the Middle and Eastern States,
half a dozen species or so may be found in almost every locality, as
the redstart,[3] the Maryland yellow-throat, the yellow warbler (not
the common goldfinch, with black cap, and black wings and tail), the
hooded warbler, the black and white creeping warbler; or others,
according to the locality and the character of the woods. In pine or
hemlock woods, one species may predominate; in maple or oak woods, or
in mountainous districts, another. The subdivision of ground warblers,
the most common members of which are the Maryland yellow-throat, the
Kentucky warbler, and the mourning ground warbler, are usually found
in low, wet, bushy, or half-open woods, often on, and always near the
ground.
The summer yellow-bird, or yellow warbler, is not now a wood-bird at
all, being found in orchards and parks, and along streams and in the
trees of villages and cities.
As we go north the number of warblers increases, till, in the northern
part of New England, and in the Canadas, as many as ten or twelve
varieties may be found breeding in June. Audubon found the black-poll
warbler breeding in Labrador, and congratulates himself on being the
first white man who had ever seen its nest. When these warblers pass
north in May, they seem to go singly or in pairs, and their black caps
and striped coats show conspicuously. When they return in September
they are in troops or loose flocks, are of a uniform dull drab or
brindlish color, and are very fat. They scour the tree-tops for a few
days, almost eluding the eye by their quick movements, and are gone.
According to my own observation, the number of species of warblers
which one living in the middle districts sees, on their return in the
fall, is very small compared with the number he may observe migrating
North in the spring.
The yellow-rumped warblers are the most noticeable of all in the
autumn. They come about the streets and garden, and seem especially
drawn to dry, leafless trees. They dart spitefully about, uttering a
sharp chirp. In Washington I have seen them in the outskirts all
winter.
Audubon figures and describes over forty different warblers. More
recent writers have divided and subdivided the group very much,
giving new names to new classifications. But this part is of interest
and value only to the professional ornithologist.
The finest songster among the Sylvia, according to my notions, is the
black-throated green-back. Its song is sweet and clear, but brief.
The rarest of the species are Swainson's warbler, said to be
disappearing; the cerulean warbler, said to be abundant about Niagara;
and the mourning ground warbler, which I have found breeding about the
head-waters of the Delaware, in New York.
The vireos, or greenlets, are a sort of connecting link between the
warblers and the true fly-catchers, and partake of the characteristics
of both.
The red-eyed vireo, whose sweet soliloquy is one of the most constant
and cheerful sounds in our woods and groves, is, perhaps, the most
noticeable and abundant species. The vireos are a little larger than
the warblers, and are far less brilliant and variegated in color.
There are four species found in most of our woods, namely, the red-eyed
vireo, the white-eyed vireo, the warbling vireo, and the solitary
vireo,--the red-eyed and warbling being most abundant, and the
white-eyed being the most lively and animated songster. I meet the
latter bird only in the thick, bushy growths of low, swampy localities,
where, eluding the observer, it pours forth its song with a sharpness
and a rapidity of articulation that are truly astonishing. This strain
is very marked, and, though inlaid with the notes of several other
birds, is entirely unique. The iris of this bird is white, as that of
the red-eyed is red, though in neither case can this mark be
distinguished at more than two or three yards. In most cases the iris of
birds is a dark hazel, which passes for black.
The basket-like nest, pendent to the low branches in the woods, which
the falling leaves of autumn reveal to all passers, is, in most cases,
the nest of the red-eyed, though the solitary constructs a similar
tenement, but in much more remote and secluded localities.
The general color of this group of birds is very light ash beneath,
becoming darker above, with a tinge of green. The red-eyed has a crown
of a bluish tinge.
Most birds exhibit great alarm and distress, usually with a strong
dash of anger, when you approach their nests; but the demeanor of the
red-eyed, on such an occasion, is an exception to this rule. The
parent birds move about softly amid the branches above, eying the
intruder with a curious, innocent look, uttering, now and then, a
subdued note or plaint, solicitous and watchful, but making no
demonstration of anger or distress.
The birds, no more than the animals, like to be caught napping; but I
remember, one autumn day, of coming upon a red-eyed vireo that was
clearly oblivious to all that was passing around it. It was a young
bird, though full grown, and it was taking its _siesta_ on a low
branch in a remote heathery field. Its head was snugly stowed away
under its wing, and it would have fallen an easy prey to the first
hawk that came along. I approached noiselessly, and when within a few
feet of it paused to note its breathings, so much more rapid and full
than our own. A bird has greater lung capacity than any other living
thing, hence more animal heat, and life at a higher pressure. When I
reached out my hand and carefully closed it around the winged sleeper,
its sudden terror and consternation almost paralyzed it. Then it
struggled and cried piteously, and when released, hastened and hid
itself in some near bushes. I never expected to surprise it thus a
second time.
The fly-catchers are a larger group than the vireos, with stronger-marked
characteristics. They are not properly songsters, but are classed by some
writers as screechers. Their pugnacious dispositions are well known, and
they not only fight among themselves but are incessantly quarreling with
their neighbors. The king-bird, or tyrant fly-catcher, might serve as the
type of the order.
The common pewee excites the most pleasant emotions, both on account
of its plaintive note and its exquisite mossy nest.
The phoebe-bird is the pioneer of the fly-catchers, and comes in april,
sometimes in march. It comes familiarly about the house and out-buildings
and usually builds beneath hay-sheds or under bridges.
The fly-catchers always take their insect prey on the wing, by a
sudden darting or swooping movement; often a very audible snap of the
beak may be heard.
These birds are the least elegant, both in form and color, of any of
our feathered neighbors. They have short legs, a short neck, large
heads, and broad, flat beaks, with bristles at the base. They often
fly with a peculiar quivering movement of the wings, and when at rest
oscillate their tails at short intervals.
There are found in the United States nineteen species. In the Middle
and Eastern districts, one may observe in summer, without any special
search, about five of them, namely, the king-bird, the phoebe-bird, the
wood-pewee, the great-crested fly-catcher (distinguished from all
others by the bright ferruginous color of its tail), and the small
green-crested fly-catcher.
The thrushes are the birds of real melody, and will afford one more
delight perhaps than any other class. The robin is the most familiar
example. Their manners, flight, and form are the same in each species.
See the robin hop along upon the ground, strike an attitude, scratch
for a worm, fix his eye upon something before him or upon the
beholder, flip his wings suspiciously, fly straight to his perch, or
sit at sundown on some high branch caroling his sweet and honest
strain, and you have seen what is characteristic of all the thrushes.
Their carriage is preëminently marked by grace, and their songs by
melody.
Beside the robin, which is in no sense a wood-bird, we have, in New
York, the wood-thrush, the hermit-thrush, the veery, or Wilson's
thrush, the olive-backed thrush, and, transiently, one or two other
species not so clearly defined.
The wood-thrush and the hermit stand at the head as songsters, no two
persons, perhaps, agreeing as to which is the superior.
Under the general head of finches, Audubon describes over sixty
different birds, ranging from the sparrows to the grossbeaks, and
including the buntings, the linnets, the snow-birds, the cross-bills,
and the red-birds.
We have nearly or quite a dozen varieties of the sparrow in the
Atlantic States, but perhaps no more than half that number would be
discriminated by the unprofessional observer. The song-sparrow, which
every child knows, comes first; at least, his voice is first heard.
And can there be anything more fresh and pleasing than this first
simple strain heard from the garden fence or a near hedge, on some
bright, still March morning?
The field or vesper-sparrow, called also grass-finch, and bay-winged
sparrow, a bird slightly larger than the song-sparrow and of a lighter
gray color, is abundant in all our upland fields and pastures, and is
a very sweet songster. It builds upon the ground, without the
slightest cover or protection, and also roosts there. Walking through
the fields at dusk I frequently start them up almost beneath my feet.
When disturbed by day they fly with a quick, sharp movement, showing
two white quills in the tail. The traveler along the country roads
disturbs them earthing their wings in the soft dry earth, or sees them
skulking and flitting along the fences in front of him. They run in
the furrow in advance of the team, or perch upon the stones a few
roads off. They sing much after sundown, hence the aptness of the name
vesper-sparrow, which a recent writer, Wilson Flagg, has bestowed upon
them.
In the meadows and low wet lands the Savannah sparrow is met with, and
may be known by its fine, insect-like song. In the swamp, the
swamp-sparrow.
The fox-sparrow, the largest and handsomest species of this family,
comes to us in the fall, from the North, where it breeds. Likewise the
tree or Canada sparrow, and the white-crowned and white-throated
sparrows.
The social-sparrow, _alias_ "hair-bird," _alias_ "red-headed
chipping-bird," is the smallest of the sparrows, and, I believe, the
only one that builds in trees.
The finches, as a class, all have short conical bills, with tails more
or less forked. The purple finch heads the list in varied musical
ability.
Beside the groups of our more familiar birds which I have thus hastily
outlined, there are numerous other groups, more limited in specimens but
comprising some of our best known songsters. The bobolink, for instance,
has properly no congener. The famous mocking-bird of the Southern States
belongs to a genus which has but two other representatives in the
Atlantic States, namely, the cat-bird and the long-tailed or ferruginous
thrush.
The wrens are a large and interesting family, and as songsters are
noted for vivacity and volubility. The more common species are the
house-wren, the wood-wren, the marsh-wren, the great Carolina wren,
and the winter-wren, the latter perhaps deriving its name from the
fact that it breeds in the North. It is an exquisite songster, and
pours forth its notes so rapidly and with such sylvan sweetness and
cadence, that it seems to _go off_ like a musical alarm.
Wilson called the kinglets wrens, but they have little to justify the
name, except their song, which is of the same continuous, gushing,
lyrical character as that referred to above. Dr. Brewer was entranced
with the song of one of these tiny minstrels in the woods of New
Brunswick, and thought he had found the author of the strain in the
black-poll warbler. He seems loath to believe that a bird so small as
either of the kinglets could possess such vocal powers. It may indeed
have been the winter-wren, but from my own observation I believe the
golden-crowned kinglet quite capable of such a performance.
But I must leave this part of the subject and hasten on. As to works
on ornithology. Audubon's, though its expense puts it beyond the reach
of the mass of readers, is, by far, the most full and accurate. His
drawings surpass all others in accuracy and spirit, while his
enthusiasm and devotion to the work he had undertaken, have but few
parallels in the history of science. His chapter on the wild goose is
as good as a poem. One readily overlooks his style, which is often
verbose and affected, in consideration of enthusiasm so genuine and
purpose so single.
There has never been a keener eye than Audubon's, though there have been
more discriminative ears. Nuttall, for instance, is far more happy in
his descriptions of the songs and notes of birds, and more to be relied
upon. Audubon thinks the song of the Louisiana water-thrush equal to
that of the European nightingale, and, as he had heard both birds, one
would think was prepared to judge. Yet he has, no doubt, overrated the
one and underrated the other. The song of the water-thrush is very
brief, compared with the philomel's, and its quality is brightness and
vivacity, while that of the latter bird, if the books are to be
credited, is melody and harmony. Again, he says the song of the blue
grossbeak resembles the bobolink's, which it does about as much as the
color of the two birds resembles each other; one is black and white and
the other is blue. The song of the wood-wagtail, he says, consists of a
"short succession of simple notes beginning with emphasis and gradually
falling." The truth is they run up the scale instead of down; beginning
low and ending in a shriek.
Yet considering the extent of Audubon's work, the wonder is the errors
are so few. I can, at this moment, recall but one observation of his,
the contrary of which I have proved to be true. In his account of the
bobolink he makes a point of the fact that in returning South in the
fall they do not travel by night as they do when moving North in the
spring. In Washington I have heard their calls as they flew over at
night for four successive autumns. As he devoted the whole of a long
life to the subject, and figured and described over four hundred
species, one feels a real triumph on finding in our common woods a
bird not described in his work. I have seen but two. Walking in the
woods one day in early fall, in the vicinity of West Point, I started
up a thrush that was sitting on the ground. It alighted on a branch a
few yards off, and looked new to me. I thought I had never before seen
so long-legged a thrush. I shot it, and saw that it was a new
acquaintance. Its peculiarities were its broad, square tail; the
length of its legs, which were three and three quarters inches from
the end of the middle toe to the hip-joint; and the deep uniform
olive-brown of the upper parts, and the gray of the lower. It proved
to be the gray-cheeked thrush (_Turdus aliciæ_), named and first
described by Professor Baird. But little seems to be known concerning
it, except that it breeds in the far North, even on the shores of the
Arctic Ocean. I would go a good way to hear its song.
The present season I met with a pair of them near Washington, as
mentioned above. In size this bird approaches the wood-thrush, being
larger than either the hermit or the veery; unlike all other species,
no part of its plumage has a tawny or yellowish tinge. The other
specimen was the Northern or small water-thrush, cousin-german to the
oven-bird and half-brother to the Louisiana water-thrush or wagtail. I
found it at the head of a remote mountain lake among the sources of
the Delaware, where it evidently had a nest. It usually breeds much
farther North. It has a strong, clear warble, which at once suggests
the song of its congener. I have not been able to find any account of
this particular species in the books, though it seems to be well
known.
More recent writers and explorers have added to Audubon's list over
three hundred new species, the greater number of which belong to the
Northern and Western parts of the Continent. Audubon's observations
were confined mainly to the Atlantic and Gulf States and the adjacent
islands; hence the Western or Pacific birds were but little known to
him, and are only briefly mentioned in his works.
It is, by the way, a little remarkable how many of the Western birds
seem merely duplicates of the Eastern. Thus, the varied-thrush of the
West is our robin, a little differently marked; and the red-shafted
woodpecker is our golden-wing, or high-hole, colored red instead of
yellow. There is also a Western chickadee, a Western chewink, a
Western blue jay, a Western meadow-lark, a Western snow-bird, a
Western bluebird, a Western song-sparrow, Western grouse, quail,
hen-hawk, etc., etc.
One of the most remarkable birds of the West seems to be a species of
skylark, met with on the plains of Dakota, which mounts to the height
of three or four hundred feet, and showers down its ecstatic notes. It
is evidently akin to several of our Eastern species.