In the annual war of the seasons, March is the time of the most bitterly
contested battles. But we--and very likely the birds--can look ahead and
realise what the final outcome will invariably be, and, our sympathies
being on the winning side, every advance of spring's outposts gladdens our
hearts. But winter is a stubborn foe, and sometimes his snow and icicle
battalions will not give way a foot. Though by day the sun's fierce attack
may drench the earth with the watery blood of the ice legions, yet at
night, silently and grimly, new reserves of cold repair the damage.
Our winter visitors are still in force. Amid the stinging cold the wee
brown form of a winter wren will dodge round a brush pile--a tiny bundle
of energy which defies all chill winds and which resolves bug chrysalides
and frozen insects into a marvellous activity. Other little birds, as
small as the wren, call to us from the pines and cedars--golden-crowned
kinglets, olive-green of body, while on their heads burns a crest of
orange and gold.
When a good-sized brown bird flies up before you, showing a flash of white
on his rump, you may know him for the flicker, the most unwoodpecker-like
of his family. He is more or less deserting the tree-climbing method for
ground feeding, and if you watch him you will see many habits which his
new mode of life is teaching him.
Even in the most wintry of Marches some warm, thawing days are sure to be
thrown in between storms, and nothing, not even pussy willows and the
skunk cabbage, yield more quickly to the mellowing influence than do the
birds--sympathetic brethren of ours that they are. Hardly has the sunniest
icicle begun to drop tears, when a song sparrow flits to the top of a
bush, clears his throat with sharp chirps and shouts as loud as he can:
"Hip! Hip! Hip! Hurrah--!" Even more boreal visitors feel the new
influence, and tree and fox sparrows warble sweetly. But the bluebird's
note will always be spring's dearest herald. When this soft, mellow sound
floats from the nearest fence post, it seems to thaw something out of our
ears; from this instant winter seems on the defensive; the crisis has come
and gone in an instant, in a single vibration of the air.
Bright colours are still scarce among our birds, but another blue form may
occasionally pass us, for blue jays are more noticeable now than at any
other time of the year. Although not by any means a rare bird, with us
jays are shy and wary. In Florida their southern cousins are as familiar
as robins, without a trace of fear of mankind. What curious notes our blue
jays have--a creaking, wheedling, rasping medley of sounds coming through
the leafless branches. At this time of year they love acorns and nuts, but
in the spring "their fancy turns to thoughts of" eggs and young nestlings,
and they are accordingly hated by the small birds. Nevertheless no bird is
quicker to shout and scream "Thief! Robber!" at some harmless little owl
than are these blue and white rascals.
You may seek in vain to discover the first sign of nesting among the
birds. Scarcely has winter set in in earnest, you will think, when the
tiger-eyed one of the woods--the great horned owl--will have drifted up to
some old hawk's nest, and laid her white spheres fairly in the snow. When
you discover her "horns" above the nest lining of dried leaves, you may
find that her fuzzy young owls are already hatched. But these owls are an
exception, and no other bird in our latitude cares to risk the dangers of
late February or early March.
March is sometimes a woodpecker month, and almost any day one is very
likely to see, besides the flicker, the hairy or downy woodpecker. The
latter two are almost counterparts of each other, although the downy is
the more common. They hammer cheerfully upon the sounding boards which
Nature has provided for them, striking slow or fast, soft or loud, as
their humour dictates.
Near New York, a day in March--I have found it varying from March 8 to
March 12--is "crow day." Now the winter roosts apparently break up, and
all day flocks of crows, sometimes thousands upon thousands of them, pass
to the northward. If the day is quiet and spring-like, they fly very high,
black motes silhouetted against the blue,--but if the day is a "March
day," with whistling, howling winds, then the black fellows fly close to
earth, rising just enough to clear bushes and trees, and taking leeward
advantage of every protection. For days after, many crows pass, but never
so many as on the first day, when crow law, or crow instinct, passes the
word, we know not how, which is obeyed by all.
For miles around not a drop of water may be found; it seems as if every
pool and lake were solid to the bottom, and yet, when we see a large bird,
with goose-like body, long neck and long, pointed beak, flying like a
bullet of steel through the sky, we may be sure that there is open water
to the northward, for a loon never makes a mistake. When the first pioneer
of these hardy birds passes, he knows that somewhere beyond us fish can be
caught. If we wonder where he has spent the long winter months, we should
take a steamer to Florida. Out on the ocean, sometimes a hundred miles or
more from land, many of these birds make their winter home. When the bow
of the steamer bears down upon one, the bird half spreads its wings, then
closes them quickly, and sinks out of sight in the green depths, not to
reappear until the steamer has passed, when he looks after us and utters
his mocking laugh. Here he will float until the time comes for him to go
north. We love the brave fellow, remembering him in his home among the
lakes of Canada; but we tremble for him when we think of the terrible
storm waves which he must outride, and the sneering sharks which must
sometimes spy him. What a story he could tell of his life among the
phalaropes and jelly-fishes!
Meadow larks are in flocks in March, and as their yellow breasts, with the
central crescent of black, rise from the snow-bent grass, their long,
clear, vocal "arrow" comes to us, piercing the air like a veritable icicle
of sound. When on the ground they are walkers like the crow.
As the kingfisher and loon appear to know long ahead when the first bit of
clear water will appear, so the first insect on the wing seems to be
anticipated by a feathered flycatcher. Early some morning, when the
wondrous Northern Lights are still playing across the heavens, a small
voice may make all the surroundings seem incongruous. Frosty air, rimmed
tree-trunks, naked branches, aurora--all seem as unreal as stage
properties, when _phoe-be!_ comes to our ears. Yes, there is the little
dark-feathered, tail-wagging fellow, hungry no doubt, but sure that when
the sun warms up, Mother Nature will strew his aerial breakfast-table with
tiny gnats,--precocious, but none the less toothsome for all that.
Hark 'tis the bluebird's venturous strain
High on the old fringed elm at the gate--
Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough,
Alert, elate,
Dodging the fitful spits of snow,
New England's poet-laureate
Telling us Spring has come again!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.