Early April sees the last contest which winter wages for supremacy, and
often it is a half-hearted attempt; but after the army of the North has
retreated, with its icicles and snowdrifts, spring seems dazed for a
while. Victory has been dearly bought, and April is the season when, for a
time, the trees and insects hang fire--paralysed--while the chill is
thawing from their marrow. Our northern visitors of the bird world slip
quietly away. There is no great gathering of clans like that of the tree
swallows in the fall, but silently, one by one, they depart, following the
last moan of the north wind, covering winter's disordered retreat with
warbles and songs.
One evening we notice the juncos and tree sparrows in the tangled,
frost-burned stubble, and the next day, although our eye catches glints of
white from sparrow tails, it is from vesper finches, not from juncos, and
the weed spray which a few hours before bent beneath a white-throat's
weight, now vibrates with the energy which a field sparrow puts into his
song. Field and chipping sparrows, which now come in numbers, are somewhat
alike, but by their beaks and songs you may know them. The mandibles of
the former are flesh-coloured, those of the latter black. The sharp
_chip!_ _chip!_ is characteristic of the "chippy," but the sweet, dripping
song of the field sparrow is charming. No elaborate performance this, but
a succession of sweet, high notes, accelerating toward the end, like a
coin of silver settling to rest on a marble table--a simple, chaste
vespers which rises to the setting sun and endears the little brown singer
to us.
We may learn much by studying these homely little frequenters of our
orchards and pastures; each has a hundred secrets which await patient and
careful watching by their human lovers. In the chipping sparrow we may
notice a hint of the spring change of dress which warblers and tanagers
carry to such an extreme. When he left us in the fall he wore a
dull-streaked cap, but now he comes from the South attired in a smart
head-covering of bright chestnut. Poor little fellow, this is the very
best he can do in the way of especial ornament to bewitch his lady love,
but it suffices. Can the peacock's train do more?
This is the time to watch for the lines of ducks crossing the sky, and be
ready to find black ducks in the oddest places--even in insignificant rain
pools deep in the woods. In the early spring the great flocks of grackles
and redwings return, among the first to arrive as they were the last to
leave for the South.
Before the last fox sparrow goes, the hermit thrush comes, and these
birds, alike in certain superficialities, but so actually unrelated, for a
time seek their food in the same grove.
The hardier of the warblers pass us in April, stopping a few days before
continuing to the northward. We should make haste to identify them and to
learn all we can of their notes and habits, not only because of the short
stay which most of them make, but on account of the vast assemblage of
warbler species already on the move in the Southern States, which soon, in
panoply of rainbow hues, will crowd our groves and wear thin the warbler
pages of our bird books.
These April days we are sure to see flocks of myrtle, or yellow-rumped
warblers, and yellow palm warblers in their olive-green coats and chestnut
caps. The black-and-white creeper will always show himself true to his
name--a creeping bundle of black and white streaks. When we hear of the
parula warbler or of the Cape May warbler we get no idea of the appearance
of the bird, but when we know that the black-throated green warblers begin
to appear in April, the first good view of one of this species will
proclaim him as such.
We have marked the fox sparrow as being a great scratcher among dead
leaves. His habit is continued in the spring by the towhee, or chewink,
who uses the same methods, throwing both feet backward simultaneously. The
ordinary call note of this bird is a good example of how difficult it is
to translate bird songs into human words. Listen to the quick, double note
coming from the underbrush. Now he says "_towhee'!_" the next time
"_chewink'!_" You may change about at will, and the notes will always
correspond. Whatever is in our mind at the instant, that will seem to be
what the bird says. This should warn us of the danger of reading our
thoughts and theories too much into the minds and actions of birds. Their
mental processes, in many ways, correspond to ours. When a bird expresses
fear, hate, bravery, pain or pleasure, we can sympathise thoroughly with
it, but in studying their more complex actions we should endeavour to
exclude the thousand and one human attributes with which we are prone to
colour the bird's mental environment.
John Burroughs has rendered the song of the black-throated green warbler
in an inimitable way, as follows: "---- ----V----!" When we have once
heard the bird we will instantly recognise the aptness of these symbolic
lines. The least flycatcher, called _minimus_ by the scientists, well
deserves his name, for of all those members of his family which make their
home with us, he is the smallest. These miniature flycatchers have a way
of hunting which is all their own. They sit perched on some exposed twig
or branch, motionless until some small insect flies in sight. Then they
will launch out into the air, and, catching the insect with a snap of
their beaks, fly back to the same perch. They are garbed in subdued grays,
olives, and yellows. The least flycatcher has another name which at once
distinguishes him--chebec'. As he sits on a limb, his whole body trembles
when he jerks out these syllables, and his tail snaps as if it played some
important part in the mechanism of his vocal effort.
When you are picking cowslips and hepaticas early in the month, keep a
lookout for the first barn swallow. Nothing gives us such an impression of
the independence and individuality of birds as when a solitary member of
some species arrives days before others of his kind. One fork-tailed
beauty of last year's nest above the haymow may hawk about for insects day
after day alone, before he is joined by other swallows. Did he spend the
winter by himself, or did the _heimweh_ smite his heart more sorely and
bring him irresistibly to the loved nest in the rafters? This love of
home, which is so striking an attribute of birds, is a wonderfully
beautiful thing. It brings the oriole back to the branch where still
swings her exquisite purse-shaped home of last summer; it leads each pair
of fishhawks to their particular cartload of sticks, to which a few more
must be added each year; it hastens the wing beats of the sea-swallows
northward to the beach which, ten months ago, was flecked with their
eggs--the shifting grains of sand their only nest.
This love of home, of birthplace, bridges over a thousand physical
differences between these feathered creatures and ourselves. We forget
their expressionless masks of horn, their feathered fingers, their scaly
toes, and looking deep into their clear, bright eyes, we know and feel a
kinship, a sympathy of spirit, which binds us all together, and we are
glad.
Yet these sweet sounds of the early season,
And these fair sights of its sunny days,
Are only sweet when we fondly listen,
And only fair when we fondly gaze.
There is no glory in star or blossom
Till looked upon by a loving eye;
There is no fragrance in April breezes
Till breathed with joy as they wander by.
William Cullen Bryant.