The temptation is great, if we love flowers, to pass over the seed time,
when stalks are dried and leaves are shrivelled, no matter how beautiful
may be the adaptation for scattering or preserving the seed or how
wonderful the protective coats guarding against cold or wet. Or if insects
attract us by their many varied interests, we are more enthusiastic over
the glories of the full-winged image than the less conspicuous, though no
less interesting, eggs and chrysalides hidden away in crevices throughout
the long winter.
Thus there seems always a time when we hesitate to talk or write of our
favourite theme, especially if this be some class of life on the earth,
because, perchance, it is not at its best.
Even birds have their gray days, when in the autumn the glory of their
plumage and song has diminished. At this time few of their human admirers
intrude upon them and the birds themselves are only too glad to escape
observation. Collectors of skins disdain to ply their trade, as the
ragged, pin-feathery coats of the birds now make sorry-looking specimens.
But we can find something of interest in birddom, even in this interim.
Nesting is over, say you, when you start out on your tramps in late summer
or early autumn; but do not be too sure. The gray purse of the oriole has
begun to ravel at the edges and the haircloth cup of the chipping sparrow
is already wind-distorted, but we shall find some housekeeping just
begun.
The goldfinch is one of these late nesters. Long after his northern
cousins, the pine siskins and snowflakes, have laid their eggs and reared
their young, the goldfinch begins to focus the aerial loops of his flight
about some selected spot and to collect beakfuls of thistledown. And here,
perhaps, we have his fastidious reason for delaying. Thistles seed with
the goldenrod, and not until this fleecy substance is gray and floating
does he consider that a suitable nesting material is available.
When the young birds are fully fledged one would think the goldfinch a
polygamist, as we see him in shining yellow and black, leading his family
quintet, all sombre hued, his patient wife being to our eyes
indistinguishable from the youngsters.
But in the case of most of the birds the cares of nesting are past, and
the woods abound with full-sized but awkward young birds, blundering
through their first month of insect-hunting and fly-catching, tumbling
into the pools from which they try to drink, and shrieking with the very
joy of life, when it would be far safer for that very life if they
remained quiet.
It is a delightful period this, a transition as interesting as evanescent.
This is the time when instinct begins to be aided by intelligence, when
every hour accumulates fact upon fact, all helping to co-ordinate action
and desire on the part of the young birds.
No hint of migration has yet passed over the land, and the quiet of summer
still reigns; but even as we say this a confused chuckling is heard; this
rises into a clatter of harsh voices, and a small flock of blackbirds--two
or three families--pass overhead. The die is cast! No matter how hot may
be the sunshine during succeeding days, or how contented and thoughtless
of the future the birds may appear, there is a something which has gone,
and which can never return until another cycle of seasons has passed.
During this transition time some of our friends are hardly recognisable;
we may surprise the scarlet tanager in a plumage which seems more
befitting a nonpareil bunting,--a regular "Joseph's coat." The red of his
head is half replaced with a ring of green, and perhaps a splash of the
latter decorates the middle of his back. When he flies the light shows
through his wings in two long narrow slits, where a pair of primaries are
lacking. It is a wise provision of Nature which regulates the moulting
sequence of his flight feathers, so that only a pair shall fall out at one
time, and the adjoining pair not before the new feathers are large and
strong. A sparrow or oriole hopping along the ground with angular,
half-naked wings would be indeed a pitiful sight, except to marauding
weasels and cats, who would find meals in abundance on every hand.
Let us take our way to some pond or lake, thick with duckweed and beloved
of wild fowl, and we shall find a different state of affairs. We surprise
a group of mallard ducks, which rush out from the overhanging bank and
dive for safety among the sheltering green arrowheads. But their outspread
wings are a mockery, the flight feathers showing as a mere fringe of quill
sticks, which beat the water helplessly.
Another thing we notice. Where are the resplendent drakes? Have they flown
elsewhere and left their mates to endure the dangers of moulting alone?
Let us come here a week later and see what a transformation is taking
place. When most birds moult it is for a period of several months, but
these ducks have a partial fall moult which is of the greatest importance
to them. When the wing feathers begin to loosen in their sockets an
unfailing instinct leads these birds to seek out some secluded pond, where
they patiently await the moult. The sprouting, blood-filled quills force
out the old feathers, and the bird becomes a thing of the water, to swim
and to dive, with no more power of flight than its pond companions, the
turtles.
If, however, the drake should retain his iridescent head and snowy collar,
some sharp-eyed danger would spy out his helplessness and death would
swoop upon him. So for a time his bright feathers fall out and a quick
makeshift disguise closes over him--the reed-hued browns and grays of his
mate--and for a time the pair are hardly distinguishable. With the return
of his power of flight comes renewed brightness, and the wild drake
emerges from his seclusion on strong-feathered, whistling wings. All this
we should miss, did we not seek him out at this season; otherwise the few
weeks would pass and we should notice no change from summer to winter
plumage, and attribute his temporary absence to a whim of wandering on
distant feeding grounds.
Another glance at our goldfinch shows a curious sight. Mottled with spots
and streaks, yellow alternating with greenish, he is an anomaly indeed,
and in fact all of our birds which undergo a radical colour change will
show remarkable combinations during the actual process.
It is during the gray days that the secret to a great problem may be
looked for--the why of migration.
A young duck of the year, whose wings are at last strong and fit, waves
them in ecstasy, vibrating from side to side and end to end of his natal
pond. Then one day we follow his upward glances to where a thin, black
arrow is throbbing southward, so high in the blue sky that the individual
ducks are merged into a single long thread. The young bird, calling again
and again, spurns the water with feet and wings, finally rising in a
slowly ascending arc. Somewhere, miles to the southward, another segment
approaches--touches--merges.
But what of our smaller birds? When the gray days begin to chill we may
watch them hopping among the branches all day in their search for
insects--a keener search now that so many of the more delicate flies and
bugs have fallen chilled to the earth. Toward night the birds become more
restless, feed less, wander aimlessly about, but, as we can tell by their
chirps, remain near us until night has settled down. Then the irresistible
maelstrom of migration instinct draws them upward,--upward,--climbing on
fluttering wings, a mile or even higher into the thin air, and in company
with thousands and tens of thousands they drift southward, sending vague
notes down, but themselves invisible to us, save when now and then a tiny
black mote floats across the face of the moon--an army of feathered mites,
passing from tundra and spruce to bayou and palm.
In the morning, instead of the half-hearted warble of an insect eater,
there sounds in our ears, like the ring of skates on ice, the metallic,
whip-like chirp of a snowbird, confident of his winter's seed feast.