It was a cold, rainy day toward the last of May. The apple trees were a
mass of pink and white, but the fast gathering petals on the green
carpet told the story; not for long would be wafted in through each
window a whiff of such perfume as only Dame Nature, May and Company can
distill. Unfortunately, I was in no mood to appreciate the beauties of a
spring rain, for it was a very evident fact that the bad weather would
prevent our anticipated bird walk. This fact I was bewailing, looking
forlornly from the window out into the dripping world, when lo, I found
that, contrary to expectations, the mountain does on occasion appear
unto Mahomet!
On the lawn north of our house are nearly a dozen apple trees, two of
which have branches overhanging the roof. I noticed that the foliage was
in livelier motion than is usually caused by an easy shower, and on
closer examination discovered that the trees were fairly alive with
flitting forms, birds—warblers in all their glory. This was long before
noon, and it was but the beginning of a state bordering on ecstasy for
me which ended only when darkness fell, as it gave me the opportunity
for making the acquaintance of a family, straggling members of which,
only, I had met since my interest in feathered friends awakened.
To my delight I immediately brought within range of my glass the little
fellow which I had seen the year before in the same tree, and had
described in my note-book as “wearing a sun burst of black on a yellow
vest.” On this occasion he was much in evidence, and the details of his
handsome coat could be plainly detected. He is mostly black, and you may
distinguish him by the broad white patch on his wings and the yellow
breast which is decorated by a black pendant necklace. He is the
magnolia warbler.
The chestnut-sided was well represented in the flock, and was an old
friend. With us here in New Hampshire, he stays through the summer, but
it is only at this season that we are apt to meet him. One recognizes
him by his clear greenish-yellow crown and by the clearly defined
chestnut streak on either side of his white vest.
Of course the Lord of the Manor is the Blackburnian warbler. To my great
delight, he brought his wonderful flaming breast within four feet of me
as I sat in one of the upper windows, watching him explore the branches.
Mark him well. His upper parts are black, while his crown, throat and
breast are flaming orange. He, too, wears a white vest, marked at the
sides with black. So beautiful is he that words fail to describe him,
while to see him flitting about among the apple blossoms was indeed “a
picture no artist could paint.”
The next on my list was a discovery, and one over which I was jubilant.
He was an elusive little fellow, and led me out into the rain and kept
me standing there with the drops trickling down my face as I searched
the branches for him. He was the daintiest sprite imaginable, whose
blue-gray coat was like satin and whose white breast shading from a
yellow throat could not make him conspicuous. It was only when I
discovered that his back was a beautiful shade of bronzy-greenish-yellow
that I knew he was the parula warbler, the blue yellow back. Then I went
to the authorities to learn more about my stranger. Then I read that he
wears another distinguishing mark, a brown streak across the throat.
Back to the garden I went. Eureka! he satisfied all conditions, and was
named! During this shower of warblers the parula was the most numerous
species, excepting, perhaps, the chestnut sided.
A redstart came in for its share of admiration, and his beauty deserved
it, but his evident appreciation of his own charms as he dashed here and
there, opening and closing his fan-like tail, rather detracted from his
character as he was viewed alongside his beautiful companions, who, to
say the least, are modestly unaware of their charms.
Later, another discovery was made, and one that puzzled us for some
time. At the first glimpse of him we said, “Chickadee, of course,” for
we saw his black cap and his general black and white aspect. Then as he
flew to a tree near the window, and we marked every point possible, we
found that his back was closely striped with black and white, that his
breast and belly were white, and that his wings were tinged with olive
and had two white bars. We could not name him, and to my amazement Miss
Wilcox did not have such a one in her “Common Land Birds of New
England.” so not until I went to “Birdcraft” did I learn that my visitor
was the black poll warbler. He was always intent upon his own affairs,
seemed rather superior to the common herd, and was the last one of the
visitation to leave me.
The Maryland yellow throat was here, too, away from his native alders,
but seemingly not one bit confused to find himself an orchard bird.
Perhaps he was only “going a piece” with his relatives and connections
as they journeyed north. He is a beauty, and you may hear him in any
alder swamp calling “witchy-titchy, witchy-titchy.”
I searched and searched for the black and white creeper whom we often
see, but evidently he did not like a mixed crowd, for I did not discover
him until several days later, when the main flock had passed on. The
rest, however, were on every side, and so tame and confiding were they
that a raised sash, or an ecstatic shout to a watcher at another window
did not appear to disturb them in the least.
They were voiceless, though, intent upon nothing but dinner, except the
redstart, who seemed to take settlement life as somewhat of a joke and,
as he careered about, occasionally called to “sweet, sweeter, sweet.”
So the day passed, a continual surprise party, and the next day came,
and still the flock lingered. But when the rain ceased, and the sun
reappeared, they lifted their wings and hastened to pastures new,
leaving only a straggler here and there. Will a spring rain this year
find them passing over my apple trees? So may it be.
Grace E. Harlow.