No doubt every one knows the Lichens, the greenish gray growths,
sometimes like rosettes or clusters of leaves or of fruit, on tree
trunks or the gray rocks by the water, and even on the ground and old
wood. Their forms are various and often graceful, and mingled with their
greenish gray are many brighter colors, giving a rich tone to the rough
surfaces they cover and adorn. But I dare say that most of us have
thought of a Lichen as a single plant. It is not so, though it looks so
exactly like one in its close union. It is a partnership, indeed;
generally what looks like a single Lichen is a colony of partners
keeping house together, or a manufacturing firm, if you like that
expression of their business better. The partners are also kindred, or
were so, in the past.
For there was a time long ago when there was only one big family of
plants, the Algae; the brown Algae or seaweeds known as kelps often form
the “wrack” or tangle of weeds like long leaves or branching stems, with
berry or fruit-like bladders, thrown on the coast in great masses by a
storm; and the red Algae, or the beautiful fern-like and coral-like
seaweeds that grow far down in the deep sea. There are also the green
Algae, found in fresh water, or even on damp tree trunks and rocks. They
have many odd forms. One kind, called a pond scum, is a frothy, slippery
mass of spirally wound bands, floating in ponds or still water; another,
called “green felt,” is found in water also, and has egg-like things
from which spores or seed-like bodies escape to form new plants. They
have filaments at the bottom, like roots, that are called “holdfasts.”
Lastly, there are blue-green Algae, jelly-like masses found on trees,
rocks, damp earth or floating as green slimes in fresh water. Most water
plants are active and independent. They are on the upward road, for
though they have not distinct stems, roots, leaves or fruit, their
different parts, as I have already said, show a decided likeness to
these, especially their “holdfasts” to roots and their air-bladders to
fruit. The exquisite red seaweeds are as graceful in form and vivid in
color as many flowers.
There is a remarkable foreshadowing of the moral law even among these
early growths. Some have shirked their work, which was to absorb waste
substances, and manufacture these into organized plant food. They tried
to live on other growths, to the injury of the latter, and even sank to
feeding on dead substances. They lost the green chlorophyll, which is
necessary for manufacturing, though the red and brown Algae do not show
its presence because their other coloring is more vivid. But it is
present all the same with every busy, self-respecting plant. The lazy,
pauper growths deteriorated more and more and at last were no longer
Algae at all, but Fungi. They could not live by themselves; their only
chance was to get active or well-stocked partners. As the Alga developed
more and more into a likeness of a perfect plant, so the Fungus grew
less like one. The white furry “mould” on bread or preserved fruit, the
“mildew” on grapes and lilac leaves, the “black knot” of cherry and
plum, the “ergot” of rye, the “rust” of wheat, do not look like plants
unless you study them through a magnifying glass. Nor do the “slime
moulds” or the mushrooms, toadstools, puff-balls and truffles bear much
resemblance to flowers. Some of these, however, are both pretty and
useful.
In the case of a Lichen the partners really seem to be of use to each
other. The Fungus is not a mere pauper living on his more active
kinsman. If you examine a Lichen you will find a large number of
transparent threads, and in their meshes lie the green Algae, giving the
whole a greenish tint. The little cups or discs of the Fungus that
appear on the surface are lined with vivid colors, and have delicate
little bags or sacs, with seed-like spores inside. The Fungus supplies a
shelter from extreme cold, and also holds water in which the Algae finds
raw material. It is like a man and wife housekeeping, the man providing
the house and the raw stuff—flour, eggs, sugar, etc.—and the wife makes
these materials into food. Plants, by aid of their green stuff, work
over the carbon and other materials they get from air and water and make
sugar and starch, or organized food. This is their manufacture and they
must have an abundance of light to do it well, so when the sea Algae
grow to be immense kelps or seaweed, hundreds of feet long, they are
kept afloat by their air bladders. Now, it is true the Fungus in our
Lichen could not live at all without its busy Algae, which it holds in
its transparent filaments, but it is not a useless partner, so we will
not call it evil names. I think you will be surprised to hear, after all
the warning given by these dependent and generally worthless idlers in
the plant world, some of the beautiful and blooming flowers have fallen
into their bad habits and are regular underground thieves.
For the Gerardia or false foxglove has established no partnership; it is
plain stealing. It still works, so it has not lost its green of the
leaf, or the purple and gold of its flower, but it steals the materials
for its work. When it becomes utterly idle and useless it will lose all
its color and be like the ghostly white Indian pipes that grow in the
shadowy pine woods.
It is interesting to know how it steals. In the dark basement chambers
underground the root servants of the plant move slowly in a certain
circle that corresponds to the circle of light that the branches
describe overhead. Within this space they gather chemicals from the soil
and store up moisture, sending these by the sap up their elevators to
the well-lighted leaves, where the manufacturing of starch and sugar
goes busily on. Now, the Gerardia, being too trifling to collect its own
stuff, sends suckers into the roots of other plants and greedily absorbs
their contents. That is the reason it is so hard to transplant the
Gerardia—its roots are enmeshed and entangled so in other roots below
ground. A very odd thing sometimes happens to it. In the dark the roots
occasionally blunder and tap other roots of the same Gerardia, just as
if a pickpocket in the dark were by mistake to put his hand slyly into
his own pocket and steal his own purse.
Ella F. Mosby.
O violets tender,
Your shy tribute render!
Tie round your wet faces your soft hoods of blue;
And carry your sweetness,
Your dainty completeness,
To some tired hand that is longing for you.
—May Riley Smith.
THE GREAT NORTHERN SHRIKE.
(_Lanius borealis._)
Of the great family Laniidae, the shrikes, of the order Passeres, we
have in America only two species, the Great Northern Shrike, Lanius
borealis, and the loggerhead shrike, which has been dealt with in a
previous article. The name of the Great Northern Shrike is much more
than a mouthful, and is all out of proportion to the size and importance
of the bird, though when I intimate it lacks in importance I by no means
wish to say that it lacks in interest.
There are two hundred species of shrikes altogether, nearly all of them
being confined to the Old World. When one comes to know fully the
characteristics of the creatures he feels that the birds would not have
been out of place if they had been classed in the order Raptores,
because they possess the distinguishing traits of the bird of prey. The
shrikes, however, do not have talons, and they are singers of no mean
order, facts which perhaps disqualify them for association with their
larger rapacious brethren.
The Great Northern Shrike, more commonly perhaps called Butcher Bird,
comes from northern British-American territory to the latitude of
Chicago in the fall and stays through the winter, when it leaves for the
vicinity of Fort Anderson in the crown territories, to build its nest.
This is placed in a low tree or bush and is composed of twigs and
grasses. The eggs number four or five. During the winter the shrike’s
food consists almost entirely of small birds, with an occasional mouse
to add variety. In the summer its diet is made up chiefly of the larger
insects, though at times a small snake is caught and eaten with apparent
relish.
The Great Northern Shrike has the habit of impaling the bodies of its
victims upon thorns or of hanging them by the neck in the crotch of two
small limbs. The bird has a peculiar flight, hard to describe, but
which, when seen a few times, impresses itself so upon the memory vision
that it can never afterward be mistaken, even though seen at a long
distance. The Great Northern’s favorite perch is the very tiptop of a
tree, from which it can survey the surrounding country and mark out its
victims with its keen eye. In taking its perch the shrike flies until
one gets the impression that it is to light in the very heart of the
tree. Then it suddenly changes direction and shoots upward almost
perpendicularly to its favorite watch tower.
The Great Northern Shrike is larger and darker than its brother, the
loggerhead. It is also a much better singer, its notes being varied and
almost entirely musical, though occasionally it perpetrates a sort of a
harsh half croak that ruins the performance. In general appearance at
some little distance the shrike is not unlike a mocking bird. The
description here given for the adult answers for both male and female:
Upper parts gray; wings and tail black; primaries white at the base,
secondaries tipped with white or grayish; outer, sometimes all the tail
feathers, tipped with white, the outer feathers mostly white; forehead
whitish; lores grayish black; ear coverts black; under parts white,
generally finely barred with black; bill hooked and hawk-like. Immature
bird similar, but entire plumage more or less heavily barred or washed
with grayish brown.
One has to have something of the savage in him to enjoy thoroughly the
study of the shrike. As a matter of fact, the close daily observance of
the bird involves some little sacrifice for the person whose nature is
tempered with mercy. The shrike is essentially cruel. It is a butcher
pure and simple and a butcher that knows no merciful methods in plying
its trade. More than this, the shrike is the most arrant hypocrite in
the whole bird calendar. Its appearance as it sits apparently sunning
itself, but in reality keeping sharp lookout for prey, is the perfect
counterfeit of innocence. The Great Northern Shrike is no mean vocalist.
Its notes are alluringly gentle, and, to paraphrase a somewhat famous
quotation, “It sings and sings and is a villain still.”
[Illustration: GREAT NORTHERN SHRIKE.
(Lanius borealis).
About ¾ Life size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
There is one compensation beyond the general interest of the thing for
the student who has to endure the sight of the sufferings of the
shrike’s victims in order to get an adequate idea of its conduct of
life. The redeeming thing is found in the fact that in the winter time
the great majority of the shrike’s victims are the pestilential English
sparrows, whom every bird lover would be willing to see sacrificed to
make a shrike’s supper, though he might regret the attending pain pangs.
My own observations of the shrike have been limited to the city of
Chicago and to the fields immediately beyond its walls. For those
unfamiliar with the subject it may be best to say that in the winter
season the shrike is abundant in the parks of the great smoky city by
the lake, and not infrequently it invades the pulsing business heart of
the town. No one ever saw the placidity of the shrike disturbed in the
least. It will perch on the top of a small tree and never move so much
as a feather, barring its tail, which is in well nigh constant motion,
when the clanging electric cars rush by or when the passing wagons shake
its perch to the foundation.
The Great Northern Shrike reaches the city from its habitat beyond the
Canada line about the first of November. For four years in succession I
saw my first Northern Shrike of the season on November first, a day set
down in the Church Calendar for the commemoration of “All Saints.” It is
eminently in keeping with the hypocritical character of Mr. Shrike,
sinner that he is, to put in an appearance on so holy a day. From the
time of his coming until late March and sometimes well into April, the
shrike remains an urban resident and harries the sparrow tribe to its
heart’s content.
As far as my own observation goes the Great Northern Shrike in winter
does not put very much food in cold storage. I have never seen many
victims of the bird’s rapacity impaled upon thorns. Perhaps I should
qualify this statement a bit by saying that I have never seen many
victims hanging up in one place. I have watched carefully something like
a score of the birds, and while every one occasionally hung up one of
its victims, there was nothing approaching the “general storehouse” of
food, so often described. It is my belief that this habit of impaling
its prey upon thorns or of hanging it by the neck in a crotch is one
that is confined largely to the summer season, and especially to the
nesting period.
The Great Northern Shrike has been said by some writers to be a bully as
well as a butcher. I have never seen any evidence of this trait in his
character. He does not seem to care for what some small human souls
consider the delight of cowing weaker vessels. When the shrike gives
chase to its feathered quarry it gives chase for the sole purpose of
obtaining food. While the bird is not a bully in the sense in which I
have written, it displays at times the cruelty of a fiend. It has
apparently something of the cat in its nature. It delights to play with
its prey after it has been seized, and by one swift stroke reduce it to
a state of helplessness.
Every morning during the month of February, 1898, a shrike came to a
tree directly in front of my window on Pearson street, in Chicago. The
locality abounded in sparrows and it was for that reason the shrike was
such a constant visitor. The bird paid no attention to the faces at the
window, and made its excursions for victims in plain view. The shrike is
not the most skilled hunter in the world. About three out of four of his
quests are bootless, but as he makes many of them he never lacks for a
meal. The Pearson street shrike one day rounded the corner of the
building on its way to its favorite perch, and encountering a sparrow
midway struck it down in full flight. The shrike carried its struggling
victim to the usual tree. There it drilled a hole in the sparrow’s skull
and then allowed the suffering, quivering creature to fall toward the
ground. The butcher followed with a swoop much like that of a hawk and,
catching its prey once more, bore it aloft and then dropped it again as
it seemed for the very enjoyment of witnessing suffering. Finally when
the sparrow had fallen for the third time it reached the ground before
the shrike could reseize it. The victim had strength enough to flutter
into a small hole in a snow bank, where it was hidden from sight. The
shrike made no attempt to recapture the sparrow. It seemingly was a pure
case of “out of sight, out of mind.” In a few moments it flew away in
search of another victim. The sparrow was picked up from the snow bank
and put out of its misery, for it was still living. There was a hole in
its skull as round as though it had been punched with a conductor’s
ticket clip.
It has been my experience that the Great Northern Shrike hunts most
successfully when he, so to speak, flies down his prey. If he gets a
small bird well started out into the open and with cover at a long
distance ahead, the shrike generally manages to overtake and overpower
his victim. If the quarry, however, is sought in the underbrush or in
the close twined branches of the treetop, it generally succeeds in
eluding the butcher. One of the most interesting incidents of all my
bird observations was that of the attempted capture by a Great Northern
Shrike of a small brown creeper. The scene of the action was near the
south end of the Lincoln Park lagoon in Chicago. The creeper was nimbly
climbing a tree hole, industriously picking out insects, as is his
custom, when a shrike dropped down after him from its high perch on a
tree which stood close and overshadowed the one from whose bark the
creeper was gleaning its breakfast. The shrike was seen coming. The
creeper, for the fraction of a second, flattened itself and clung
convulsively to the tree trunk. Then, recovering, it darted to the other
side of the hole, while the shrike brought up abruptly and clumsily just
at the spot where the creeper had been. The discomfited bird went back
to its perch. The creeper rounded the tree once more and down went the
shrike. The tactics of a moment before were repeated, the shrike going
back to its perch chagrined and empty clawed. Five times it made the
attempt to capture the creeper, and every time the little bird eluded
its enemy by a quick retreat. It was a veritable game of hide and seek,
amusing and interesting for the spectator, but to the birds a game of
life and death. Life won. I ever have believed thoroughly that the
creeper thought out the problem of escape for itself. The last time the
shrike went back to its perch the creeper did not show round the trunk
again, but instead flew away, keeping the hole of the tree between
itself and its foe. It reached a place of safety unseen. The shrike
watched for the quarry to reappear. In a few moments it grew impatient
and flew down and completely circled the tree. Then, seemingly knowing
that it had been fooled, it left the place in disgust.
Of the boldness of the Great Northern Shrike there can be no question.
It allows man to approach within a few feet and looks him in the eye
with a certain haughty defiance, showing no trace of nervousness, save
the flirting of his tail, which is a characteristic of the bird and in
no way attributable to fear or uneasiness. One morning early in March,
when the migration had just started, I saw two shrikes on the grass in
the very center of the ball ground at the south end of Lincoln Park.
They were engaged in a pitched battle, and went for each other much
after the manner of game cocks. The feathers literally flew. I looked at
them through a powerful field glass and saw a small dark object on the
grass at the very point of their fighting. Then I knew that the battle
was being waged for the possession of an unfortunate bird victim. The
birds kept up the fight for fully two minutes. Then, being anxious to
find out just what the dead bird was which had given rise to the row, I
walked rapidly toward the combatants. They paid no heed to me until I
was within twenty feet of the scene of their encounter. Then they flew
away. I kept my eyes on the much ruffled body of the little victim lying
on the grass and, walking toward it, I stooped over to pick it up. At
that instant, as quick as the passing of light, one of the shrikes
darted under my hand, seized the quarry and made off with it. It was an
exhibition of boldness that did not fail to win admiration. I did not
have the chance to learn what bird it was that had fallen a victim to
the shrikes’ rapacity and had been the cause of that battle royal.
The Great Northern Shrike when it is attempting to capture a mouse, or a
small bird that has taken refuge in a bush, hovers over the quarry
almost precisely after the manner of the sparrow hawk. There are few
more fascinating sights in nature than that of the bird with its body
absolutely motionless, but with its wings moving with the rapidity of
the blades of an electric fan. Sharply outlined against the sky, it
fixes the attention and rouses an interest that leaves little room for
sympathy with the intended victim that one knows is cowering below. A
mouse in the open has little chance for escape from the clutches of the
hovering shrike. Birds, however, which have wisdom enough to stay in the
bush and trust to its shelter rather than to launch out into open
flight, are more than apt to escape with their lives. In February last I
saw two shrike-pursued English sparrows take to the cover of a
vine-covered lilac shrub. They sought a place well near the roots. While
flying they had shown every symptom of fear and were making a better
pace than I had ever seen one of their tribe make before. The shrike
brought itself up sharply in midair directly over the lilac, and there
it hovered on light wing and looked longingly downward through the
interlacing stems at the sparrows. It paid no heed to its human
observer, who was standing within a few feet and who, to his amazement,
saw an utter absence of any appearance of fear on the part of the
sparrows. They apparently knew that; the shrike could not strike them
down because of the intervening branches. They must have known also that
owing to the comparative clumsiness of their pursuer when making its way
on foot through and along twigs and limbs, that they could easily elude
him if he made an attempt at capture after that manner. Finally the
shrike forsook the tip of the lilac bush and began working its way
downward along the outer edge of the shrub. When it had approached to a
point as near as the sparrows thought was comfortable, they shifted
their position in the bush. The shrike saw that the quest was useless
unless he could start them to flight. He tried it, but they were too
cunning for him, and he at last gave up the chase, the progress of which
actually seemed to humiliate him. He flew afar off, where, perhaps, the
prospects of dinner were better.
I once saw a goldfinch in winter plumage escape a Great Northern Shrike
by taking a flight directly at the zenith. The shrike followed the
dainty little tidbit far up, until the larger bird was only a speck and
the little one had disappeared entirely. The shrike apparently could
neither stand the pace nor the altitude, and the watchers, with whom the
goldfinch was the favorite in the race, rejoiced with the winner.
Edward Brayton Clark.