Have you ever heard of the sing-away bird,
That sings where the run-away river
Runs down with its rills from the bald-headed hills
That stand in the sunshine and shiver?
Oh, sing, sing away, sing away!
How the pines and the birches are stirred
By the trill of the sing-away bird!
And beneath the glad sun, every glad-hearted one
Sets the world to the tune of its gladness;
The swift rivers sing it, the wild breezes wing it,
Till earth loses thought of her sadness.
Oh, sing, sing away, sing away!
Oh, sing, happy soul, to joy’s giver—
Sing on, by Time’s run-away river.
—Lucy Larcom.
[Illustration: AUDUBON’S WARBLER.
(Dendroica auduboni.)
⅗ Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
SPRING NOTES FROM FEATHERED THROATS.
IN NEW JERSEY.
That individual unaffected by the first fluttering wings of returning
spring migrants is an anomaly indeed. He must ever have been secluded
beyond reach of trill or glint of the feathery kingdom, or else is
pitifully invulnerable to one of nature’s chiefest charms. For who,
having listened to the enraptured love-notes and witnessed the
extravagant devotion, intermingled with drollest buffoonery, during the
progress of some field or forest courtship, is beyond feeling interest
and pleasure in these half-human and wholly unique performances? Or who
has not felt a thrill of admiration, to be followed by one of
commiseration, when one of the hunters of the air made his terrific
plunge, hurtling down like an animated catapult, to strike his quarry
ere it found cover in wood or thicket? To all those having formed some
degree of bird companionship and who live where winter robs them of
those friends of the fields and woods—to such returning spring would be
incomplete without their coming. The earliest break in winter’s shackles
tensions their ears to listen for the first returning migrant’s note. Of
these the last to leave and first to brave the still vigorous,
retreating winter gales is Sir Crow. Painted by popular disfavor even
blacker than he merits, his departing caw, mingled with the wild goose’s
“haunks,” as they winged southward, barely escaping the first cold wave.
His caw has mellowed with his sunny vacation. In place of the discordant
medley echoing from the final grove convention will come his spring
notes, cawing a domestic cadence half musical, suggesting a chuckle of
delight. By twos and threes these black-coated scouts struggle back to
former frequentings. In early February, perhaps, when the ambitious
sugar-maker is trying for his first “run,” he there catches his first
glimpse of blue-black sheen as the northward flyer toilsomely sweeps
through the naked trees. At this inhospitable season all of his
proverbial cunning stands him in good stead, and truly he is a veritable
solon of bird wisdom. Nature seemingly compensated for his gloomy dress
and awkward flight by bestowing almost incredible sagacity behind his
unattractive exterior.
We need not yet listen for other sweeter-voiced arrivals, but while
waiting may give ear to some stay-at-home all-winter residents, the
chickadee and his crested relative, the tufted titmouse, cheery chirpers
and whistlers both, unconquered by the fiercest boreal blasts; the
quiet-voiced and colored junco, the industrious creeper and nuthatch,
not forgetting that hide-and-go-seek climber the downy woodpecker and
his warmer colored, hairy relative. The woodpeckers, with their cheerful
taps, trills and chatter, have done much to dispel the gloom of drear
and frosty winter days.
But one is forgotten who in nature absolutely refuses to remain
unnoticed—Sir Blue Jay—though an acknowledged cannibal and highwayman,
he is withal so jaunty and attractive in everything but his voice and
his habits as to convince his beholders that he is not half bad. With
February’s closing days we may listen for the hardier representatives of
the sparrow family, those twin aristocrats, the white-crowned and
white-throated beauties, the more timid and ruddier fox, and the
well-known song sparrow. Being unobtrusive in both song and garb, their
first greeting may be missed, but the trained ear will soon catch the
cheerful notes from hedge or brush pile, elicited by a chasing gleam of
sunshine. These sweet-toned singers will prove a welcome contrast to the
tiresome, incessant, complaining notes of their English cousins, who
have spent the winter at the granary door or skirmishing in the garbage
on the city streets. The sparrows are the beginner’s despair in
ornithology, but are as interesting in habits, song and appearance as
they are numerous and confusing. The observer who can readily
distinguish them at all, from the familiar household “chippy” to the
siskins, linnets and longspurs who frequent our latitudes only as
erratic winter visitors, is truly to be envied. With March comes that
steadfast commoner the robin and his warmer breasted thrush cousin, the
bluebird. The former, with his matter-of-fact twitter of greeting, soon
supplements it with a bar of his hearty if somewhat unpolished song. But
the less intrepid bluebird will wait for a south wind’s caress ere his
gurgle of delight will float earward as airily as his hovering flight.
Now come two black-coated cousins, the purple grackle and
shoulder-strapped redwing of the blackbird family. Field hunters like
the robin, but unlike the thrushes, when on the ground they are staid
walkers instead of hoppers. These dusky beauties no sooner announce
their arrival with songless cackling notes than they hurry away to
inspect their last year’s nesting haunts, where scrambling clamor ensues
for the most desirable locations. Like the crow they lose but little
time in awaiting fine weather before preparing for housekeeping. Even
before April’s soft showers commence falling, their bristling stick
nests are in readiness, as are the crows’, jays’ and hawks’, while the
owls’ wide-eyed nestlings are even then becoming fluffy balls of
feathers in their better sheltered hollow-tree nests. But we must pass
with but a word of greeting to the arrivals, would we keep pace with
their increasing numbers. Now listen to the purple finch as he perches
on highest twig, proclaiming his arrival with no uncertain sound. A very
torrent of bubbling melody is he, though his breakfast may still be
snow-enshrouded below. While he rests may be heard the meadowlark’s
tremulous, plaintive diminuendo, as he alights from his halting,
uncertain flight. Soon will follow the phœbe’s name-calling,
tail-wagging cry and the barn swallow’s mumbling, metallic squeaking.
His cliff or eaves-nesting cousin will a little later add his rasping
notes as he repairs his plastered nest. In contrast to the swallow’s
rhythmic chatter comes the oriole’s bugle call and flute-like whistle,
which at evening was silent, but morning finds vocal. With increasing
numbers, as the Mayflowers appear, come the crow-chasing kingbird and
his twin-named fish-catcher. The first, with happy tinkling notes, the
second with bill-chattering rattle. Again, morning hears the bobolink’s
ecstatic songburst of tumultuous melody. Like ships he “passes in the
night” and heralds his coming as no other can. Now the whippoorwill
proclaims his apt naming, as evening closes in, while his nighthawk
cousin booms an accompaniment as he wheels through the air above. The
wood pigeon’s lament comes throbbing through the warm morning air,
confirming his right to his other and better known “mourning dove”
title. To drown the pigeon’s dirge-like plaint may now be heard the
rollicking song of the goldfinch, his song and flight dipping in unison
as he goes his careless way. With still another contrast comes the
clucking cuckoo’s grumble as if in excuse for his tardy arrival. Now
listen, for the chorus is complete! Though but few have been named, they
are best known and with the unnamed larger half compose nature’s
magnificent if sometimes inharmonious symphony. Among those unnamed are
to be found many fully the equals of those so imperfectly represented in
the preceding pen pictures. In fact, the wood thrushes and warblers
unmentioned are as finished vocal performers as any of those heard in
the open. Also in beauty and brilliancy of coloring some of the shyer
and more silent wood residents eclipse their brethren of the fields. But
birds are not learned in a day. Later on the student’s eye and ear will
begin to recognize such flashy men of color as Messrs. Tanager, Towhee,
Redstart, Waxwings, Redpoll and scores of others making up the lengthy
list of warblers, thrushes, wrens, flycatchers and others less well
known, especially by voice, which is often discordant in proportion to
attractiveness of plumage. These fragmentary glimpses and sound pictures
of our flitting friends have been attempted with the intention of
introducing them to the ear rather than to the eye. Too much importance
is often attached to the appearance to the neglect of aural attractions.
Nothing can exceed the pleasure afforded the enthusiast in ornithology
when able to readily distinguish his feathered friends by songs, notes,
trills, and twitters making up their repertoires. As their voices greet
him when awakening, no calendar is needed to trace the advancing
seasons. The new voices added to the morning chorus and its diminishing
volume as summer departs gives audible record to the ear familiar with
bird-voice harmony. Again, when abroad in pursuit of duty or pleasure, a
single note is sufficient to introduce to his ear a new or old-time
friend. He well knows the first glimpse will disclose a dull or
bright-hued coat, whose owner’s eyes are even then scanning him from
some well concealed cover. If the learner would fully appreciate the
charms of his bird acquaintances he should study each individual until
known not only by appearance while at rest, but in every light, shade,
attitude and movement, and he should study his voice until it is
recognizable whether in full-throated song or modulated call or whistle.
An occasional hour or vacation may accomplish much, and that often at
our very doors; but to know these breezy, beautiful habitants aright
city walls must be left behind.
Museum specimens, except for reference, must be shunned as inert,
lifeless and voiceless. The bird only known by appearance is but half
known. When known and understood their observers become their champions
whose arms and voices will ever be raised to prevent their wanton
destruction.
B. F. W. Thorpe.