If we betake ourselves to the heart of the deepest forests which are still
left upon our northern hills, and compare the bird life which we find
there with that in the woods and fields near our homes, we shall at once
notice a great difference. Although the coming of mankind with his axe and
plough has driven many birds and animals far away or actually exterminated
them, there are many others which have so thrived under the new conditions
that they are far more numerous than when the tepees of the red men alone
broke the monotony of the forest.
We might walk all day in the primitive woods and never see or hear a
robin, while in an hour's stroll about a village we can count scores. Let
us observe how some of these quick-witted feathered beings have taken
advantage of the way in which man is altering the whole face of the land.
A pioneer comes to a spot in the virgin forest which pleases him and
proceeds at once to cut down the trees in order to make a clearing. The
hermit thrush soothes his labour with its wonderful song; the pileated
woodpecker pounds its disapproval upon a near-by hollow tree; the deer and
wolf take a last look out through the trees and flee from the spot
forever. A house and barn arise; fields become covered with waving grass
and grain; a neglected patch of burnt forest becomes a tangle of
blackberry and raspberry; an orchard is set out.
When the migrating birds return, they are attracted to this new scene. The
decaying wood of fallen trees is a paradise for ants, flies, and beetles;
offering to swallows, creepers, and flycatchers feasts of abundance never
dreamed of in the primitive forests. Straightway, what must have been a
cave swallow becomes a barn swallow; the haunter of rock ledges changes to
an eave swallow; the nest in the niche of the cliff is deserted and phoebe
becomes a bridgebird; cedarbirds are renamed cherrybirds, and catbirds and
other low-nesting species find the blackberry patch safer than the
sweetbrier vine in the deep woods. The swift leaves the lightning-struck
hollow tree where owl may harry or snake intrude, for the chimney
flue--sooty but impregnable.
When the great herds of ruminants disappear from the western prairies, the
buffalo birds without hesitation become cowbirds, and when the plough
turns up the never-ending store of grubs and worms the birds lose all fear
and follow at the very heels of the plough-boy: grackles, vesper sparrows,
and larks in the east, and flocks of gulls farther to the westward.
The crow surpasses all in the keen wit which it pits against human
invasion and enmity. The farmer declares war (all unjustly) against these
sable natives, but they jeer at his gun and traps and scarecrows, and
thrive on, killing the noxious insects, devouring the diseased
corn-sprouts,--doing great good to the farmer in spite of himself.
The story of these sudden adaptations to conditions which the birds could
never have foreseen is a story of great interest and it has been but half
told. Climb the nearest hill or mountain or even a tall tree and look out
upon the face of the country. Keep in mind you are a bird and not a
human,--you neither know nor understand anything of the reason for these
strange sights,--these bipeds who cover the earth with great square
structures, who scratch the ground for miles, who later gnaw the
vegetation with great shining teeth, and who are only too often on the
look out to bring sudden death if one but show a feather. What would you
do?