is a matter of unique interest to the ornithologist. For instance, there
seemed to be at least two of these groups, one dwelling chiefly in the
eastern part of the woodland not far from a farm-house, and the other
occupying the western part. Sometimes, too, another community was found
in the partly cleared section at the northern extremity of one arm of
the timber belt. These several groups reminded one of the nomadic tribes
of Oriental countries, who rove from one locality to another within
certain loosely defined boundaries. True, it is merely a matter of
speculation; but I have often wondered if feuds and jealousies ever
arise among these various feathered tribes, as is so conspicuously the
case in the human world. I doubt it very much, for my woodland birds
dwell together in comparative harmony, and are not half so quarrelsome
and envious as many communities of men and women. Bird nature is
evidently not so depraved as human nature. Perhaps, as the birds had no
direct hand in the first transgression, the curse did not fall so
blightingly upon them.
My western bird colony were somewhat erratic in their movements. During
December and the first week in January I found them almost invariably in
a secluded part of the woods about half-way between the northern and
southern extremities; but when, about the middle or possibly the
twentieth of January, I visited the haunt, not a bird of any description
could be found. Had all of them gone to other climes? I felt a pang as
the thought came. But there was no occasion for solicitude. Near the
southern terminus of the woods, although still in a dense portion of
them, the colony had taken up a temporary abode. Here they remained for
over a week, and then, on the twenty-ninth of the month, which was a
rainy day, they shifted back to their old tryst, while scarcely a bird
was to be found in the locality they had just left. Thus by caprice, or
on account of the exigencies of food, they oscillated from place to
place.
There were some birds here all winter that were not found during the
previous winter—that of 1889-1890. The golden-crowned kinglet was one.
Every day, rain or shine, warm or cold, he flitted about so cheerfully
and with so innocent an air that I often spoke to him as if he were a
real person; and he appreciated my words of praise, too, without doubt,
for he would come scurrying near, disporting his head so that I could
catch the gleam of his amber coronal, with its golden patch for a
centre-piece. Then there was that quaint little genius, the brown
creeper, hugging the trunks of the trees and saplings, and tracing the
gullies of the bark as he sought for such food as he relished. See him
turn his cunning head from side to side to peer under a loose scale!
Among my most pleasant winter companions were the black-capped
chickadees or tomtits. Not for anything would I cast a reflection upon
these engaging birds, but candor compels me to say that they seem to be
somewhat fickle; that is, I cannot always tell where to find them, or if
they will let themselves be found at all. Early in the spring of last
year they made their appearance in these woods, remaining a week or
more, and then were not seen until about the middle of August. Again
they disappeared, returning in October, and then hied away once more and
did not come back until January. Besides, at one time they associated
with the eastern colony of birds and at another with the western. Like
some “featherless bipeds,”—Lowell’s expression,—they seemed to be of a
roving disposition. A winter ago they occasionally stirred the elves and
brownies of the woodland into transports by their sweet, sad minor
whistle, but this winter they were provokingly chary of their musical
performances.
For ever-presentness, however, both summer and winter, the crested
titmice and white-breasted nuthatches bear off the palm. Many droll
tricks they perform. One day in January a titmouse scurried from the
ground into a sapling; he held a large grain of corn between his
mandibles, and, after flitting about a few moments, hopped to a dead
branch that lay across the twigs, and deftly pushed the grain into the
end of the bough. I stepped closer, when he tried to secure the hidden
morsel; but my presence frightened him away, and I climbed the sapling,
drew the broken branch toward me, and peered into the splintered end;
yes, there was the grain of corn wedged firmly into a crevice. The
provident little fellow! He had secreted the morsel for a stormy day
when it would be impossible to procure food on the ground. If Solomon
had watched these thrifty, industrious birds, as they pursue their
untiring quest for food, he doubtless would have written in his
Proverbs: “Go to the titmouse, thou sluggard; consider his ways, and be
wise.”
Associated with the titmice, kinglets, and nuthatches were the downy
woodpeckers, which belong to the artisan family of the bird community,
being hammerers, drillers, and chisellers all combined. They pursue
their chosen calling most sedulously. “What’s the use of having a
vocation if you don’t follow it?” you may almost hear them say as they
cant their heads to one side and peep under the bark for a tidbit, or
hammer vigorously at a crevice in which a worm is embedded. The hairy
woodpeckers, which are somewhat larger, are more erratic in their
movements, none having been seen from the autumn until the latter part
of January. At this date I heard their loud, nervous _Chi-i-i-r-r_, as
they dashed from tree to tree apparently in great excitement.
I cannot forbear contrasting this winter with the previous one. In the
winter of 1889-1890 the song-sparrows never left us at all, but sang on
almost every pleasant day when I went to the woods or marsh; but this
winter, which was somewhat colder, they went to other climes, and left
the fringes of the pools and the thickets in the swamp tenantless,
songless, and desolate. In 1889-1890 the cardinal grossbeaks whistled
every month, making the woods ring even in January; this winter not a
single note was heard from their resonant throats. I had just begun to
fear that the pair which had greeted me so frequently the previous
winter had been slaughtered by some caterer to the shameful fashions of
the day, when, on the twenty-eighth of January, I was gladdened by the
sight of them in company with several of their relatives or
acquaintances and a bevy of tree-sparrows. Where had the grossbeaks been
since November? And if they had gone south, why did they return from
their visit so early in the season? Or perhaps a still more pertinent
inquiry would be, Why had they gone away at all? It is difficult,
however, to explain grossbeak caprice or ratiocination.
What do the birds do when it rains? No doubt, when the rain pours in
torrents, they find plenty of coverts in the thick bushes or in the
cavities of trees; but when the rain falls gently, and I make my way to
their haunts, as I often do, they flit about as industriously as ever in
their quest for food, only stopping now and then to shake the pearly
drops from their water-proof cloaks. In such humid weather the
wood-choppers in the forest—the human ones—stop their work and seek
shelter. Not so these feathered workers, who gayly continue their
playful toil, and exclaim exultingly, “Isn’t this a jolly rain?”
In another chapter mention has been made of the provident habits of
certain birds, especially the titmice and nuthatches, in laying by a
winter store. As if to confirm what has been said, one winter day a
nuthatch went scudding up and down the trunk of a large oak-tree at the
border of the woods. Presently he cried, _Yank! yank!_ as if to announce
a discovery. Then he pecked and pried with all his might, until at
length he drew a grain of corn out of a crevice of the bark, placed it
in a shallow pocket on the other side of the tree, and began to pick it
to pieces, swallowing the fragments as he broke them off. When this
grain had been disposed of, he found another, and then another, until
his hunger seemed to be appeased, when he darted off into the woods.
Other pedestrians and observers may differ from me both in temperament
and habits, but to my mind nothing could be more delightful than a
ramble in a snow-storm. Let the wind blow a gale from the west, driving
the cold pellets blindingly into your face, and trying to rob you of
your overcoat and cap; yet, if you have the spirit of the genuine
rambler, your blood will tingle with delight, as well as with a sense of
masterly overcoming, as you plod along; while you feel that every fierce
gust that strikes you is only one of Nature’s love-taps,—a little rough,
it is true, but for that very reason all the more expressive of
affection. Stalking forth into the teeth of a winter storm develops the
hardy traits of character, and puts the ingredients from which heroes
are made into the pulsing veins. Many a time, as I have pushed my way
triumphantly through the pelting wind, I have answered with a shout of
joy Emerson’s vigorous challenge,—
“Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Carves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.”
My winter saunterings have never been solitary, although often taken in
haunts “far from human neighborhood.” The birds have afforded me all the
companionship I have really craved. One is never lonely when one can see
the flutter of a wing or hear the calls of the blithe commoners of the
wildwood. When your soul is fretted by the daily round of strifes and
jealousies in the human world, you can hie to the woods, and learn a
lesson of conciliation from the example of the loving fellowship that
exists in the bird community. I have often been shamed by this constant
display of amity among many feathered folk, when I thought of the
childish bickerings of men in church and state.
But moralizing aside, I must describe the behavior of my little winter
friends, the tree-sparrows. They are the hardiest birds that spend the
winter in my neighborhood, disdaining to seek shelter in the thick woods
during the most violent snow-storm. Even the snowbirds, whose very name
is a synonym for toughness, are glad to seek a covert in some secluded
forest nook; but the tree-sparrows choose the clearing at the border of
the woodland, where the wind howls loudest and blows the snow in wild
eddies. Here they revel in the storm, flitting from twig to twig,
hopping on the snow-covered ground as if it were a carpet of down, and
picking seeds from grass-stems and weed-stalks. All the while they keep
up a cheerful chirping, as if to express their appreciation of the
pleasant winter weather.
Strangest of all is their wading about in the snow. It makes me shiver
to see their little bare feet sinking into the icy crystals, and I feel
disposed to offer them my warm rubber boots; only I know they would
decline the proposal with scorn. “I am no tenderfoot!” one of them seems
to say, with cunning literalness. Their dainty tracks in the snow are
suggestive, and give to the thoughtful observer more than one clew to
bird cerebration. Let us follow one of these winding pathways. Here a
bird alighted, his feet sinking deep into the cold down; then he hopped
along to this tuft of grass, where he picked a few mouthfuls of seeds,
standing up to his body in the snow; then an impulse seized him to seek
another feeding-place; so he went plunging through the drifts, leaving,
at regular intervals, the prints of his two tiny feet side by side,
while his toes traced a slender connecting line on the white surface
between the deeper indentations. But here is another path. What impulse
seized this bird to turn back like a rabbit on his track? For it is
evident that this is sometimes done. Then here are only two or three
footprints, showing that the bird alighted suddenly, and as suddenly
yielded to an impulse to fly up again. What thought struck him just at
that moment that made him so quickly change his mind?
At one point I traced a path which bore evidence of having been used a
number of times for a long distance, as it wound here and there in an
extremely sinuous course among the bushes and briers. Probably it was a
sparrow-trail, if not a thoroughfare, and had been used by many birds.
In more than one place were small hollows in the snow, just large enough
for a bird’s body to wallow in. Usually they were at the terminus of one
of these thoroughfares. Might the birds have tarried there to take a
snow-bath? I have seen birds taking pool-baths, shower-baths, dew-baths,
and dust-baths. Who will say they never take a snow-bath?
Next to the tree-sparrows, the juncos delight to hold carnival in the
snow; but their behavior in this element is somewhat different: they are
not so fond of hopping about in it, and do not plait such a network of
tracks among the bushes. They will fly from a perch directly to the
ground near a weed-stalk or other cluster of dainties, and stand quietly
in the snow up to their little bodies while they take their luncheon.
Sometimes their white breasts rest on the surface of the snow, or in a
slight depression of it, when they look as if they were sitting in a
nest of crystals.
The eighth of January was a cold day; in a little opening in the midst
of the woods was a covey of snowbirds, and, incredible as it may seem,
several of them stood in the selfsame tracks in the snow, so long that
my own feet actually got frost-bitten while I watched them, although I
wore three pairs of socks—this is an honest confession—and a pair of
warm rubber boots. More than that, they thrust their beaks into the snow
and ate of it quite greedily. What wonderful reserves of caloric must be
wrapped up in their small bodies to enable them to keep themselves
comfortable in winter with never a mouthful of warm victuals or drink!
That the birds should thrive and be happy in the spring and summer is no
matter of surprise; but it remains for the lover of out-door life in the
winter to prove that many of them are just as cheerful and content when
the mercury has taken a jaunt to some point far below zero.
The student of Nature cannot always be in the same mood. Indeed, Nature
herself is, at times, as whimsical, apparently, as the human heart.
There are times when she seems quite stolid, keeping her precious
secrets all to herself, as if her lips had been hermetically sealed.
With all your coaxing and hoaxing and flattery, you cannot win from her
a response. Emerson, in one of his poems, speaks about the forms of
Nature dulling the edge of the mind with their monotony; and this
sometimes seems to be the case. Yet I must protest at once that it is
not generally true. There are days when Nature fairly bubbles over with
good cheer, and grows talkative and even confidential, responding to
every touch of the rambler as a well-strung harp responds to the touch
of a skilful player. It is difficult to account for her changeable
moods, but obviously they are not always to be traced only to the mind
of the observer.
During the winter of 1891-1892 many a tramp was taken to the homes of
the birds; and let me whisper that there were days when even they seemed
to be dull and commonplace. That is a frank concession for a bird-lover
to make, but it is the truth. Sometimes these feathered actors have
behaved in the most ordinary way, failing to perform a single trick that
I had not seen a score of times before, and I have actually gone home
without making a single entry in my note-book. But it has not always
been so. There, for example, was the twenty-second of January; what an
eventful day it was! The morning of the twenty-first had been very cold,
the mercury having sunk, probably in a fit of despair, to fourteen
degrees below zero. During the day, however, the weather grew
considerably warmer; and when the twenty-second came, bright and clear,
though still cold, one could take a jaunt with some comfort. The sun
shone from a cloudless sky, and having put on my warm rubber boots, I
waded out through the deep snow to the woods. The severe weather had not
discouraged the jolly juncos and tree-sparrows, or driven them to a
warmer climate. They delight in cold weather; it seems to make them all
the merrier. They were flitting about in the bushes and trees, chirping
gayly, or, like myself, were wading in the snow, although they had no
woollen stockings for their little feet, much less warm rubber boots.
What hardy creatures they are! For long distances I could trace their
dainty tracks in the snow, winding in and out among the bushes and
weeds, and making many a graceful curve, loop, angle, and labyrinth. By
following these little paths, as has been said before, you may trace the
thoughts of a bird,—that is, you may for the time become a bird
mind-reader, interpreting every impulse that seized the throbbing little
brain and breast.
While watching these birds in the woods, I observed a new freak of bird
deportment. The juncos would fly up into the dogwood-trees, pick off a
berry, nibble it greedily a moment with their little white mandibles,
and then fling it to the ground. My eye was especially fixed on one
little epicure. Presently he found a berry that was juicy and quite to
his taste, and what did he do but seize it in his beak and dash down
into the snow, where he stood leg-deep in the icy crystals until he had
eaten his blood-red tidbit! He was in no hurry, but slowly picked the
berry to pieces, flinging it again and again into the snow, devouring
the soft red pulp and throwing the rind and seed away. He must have
stood for fully five minutes in the same tracks; at all events, it
seemed a long while to me, standing stock-still in the snow, watching
him eat his cold luncheon, while my feet were becoming chilled. I should
have pitied his little feet had he not seemed so utterly indifferent to
the cold. Afterward I saw a number of juncos, as well as tree-sparrows,
taking their dinner in a similar way,—that is, on the snow, which seemed
to serve them for a table-cloth. Having eaten the pulp of the berries,
they left the pits and scarlet rinds lying on top of the snow. Crumbs
they were, scattered about by these precious children of the woods! In
this respect the snowbirds and tree-sparrows differ from the crested
titmice, which reject the pulp of the dogwood berries entirely, but bore
out the kernel of the pit and eat it with a relish. And as to the
gluttonous robins, bluebirds, woodpeckers, and waxwings, they swallow
these berries whole. Every citizen of Birdville to his own taste, so I
say.
In the corn-field adjoining the woods I witnessed another little scene
that filled me with delight. At some distance I perceived a snowbird
eating seeds from the raceme of a tall weed, which bent over in a
graceful arc beneath its dainty burden. Apparently he was enjoying his
repast all to himself. I climbed the fence, and cautiously went nearer
to get a better view of the little diner-out. What kind of discovery do
you suppose I made? I could scarcely believe my eyes. There, beneath the
weed, hopping about on the snow, were a tree-sparrow and a junco,
picking up the seeds that their little companion above was shaking down.
It was such a pretty little comedy that I laughed aloud for pure
delight. It seemed for all the world like a boy in an apple-tree shaking
down the mellow fruit for his playmates, who were gathering it from the
ground as it fell. It was a pity to disturb the birds at their
festivities, and I felt like a bully for doing so; but in the interest
of science, you see, I had to drive them away to see what kind of table
they had spread. Beneath the weed the snow was etched with dainty
bird-tracks, and thickly strewn with black seeds from the raceme of the
weed-stalk.
Farther on in the woods, another cunning little junco proved himself no
lay figure. It seemed, in fact, to be a junco day. When I first espied
him, he was standing in the snow beneath a slender weed-stem eating
seeds from his white table-cloth. But the curious feature about his
behavior was that, whenever his supply of seeds on the snow had been
picked up, he would dart up to the weed-stem (which was too slender to
afford him a comfortable perch), give it a vigorous shake, which would
bring down a quantity of seeds, and then he would flit below and resume
his meal. This he did several times. I should not have believed a junco
gifted with so much sense had not my own eyes witnessed this cunning
performance. Had some other observer told the story, I should have
laughed at it a little slyly and more than half unbelievingly; but, of
course, one cannot gainsay the evidence of one’s own eyesight.
Nothing in all my winter rambles has surprised me more than the evident
delight some species of birds take in the snow. It is a sort of luxury
to them, wading-ground and feasting-ground all in one. How they keep
their little bare feet from becoming chilblained is a mystery. The
evening of the twentieth of January was bitterly cold, the wind blowing
in fierce, howling gusts from the northwest. Yet when, at about five
o’clock, I stalked out to the pond in the rear of my house, the
tree-sparrows and song-sparrows were fairly revelling, not to say
wallowing, in the snow among the weeds. The wind was so biting that I
soon hurried back to the house, and left them to their midwinter
carousal.
Quite a respectable colony of flickers found a home during the winter in
my favorite woodland. Unlike the other birds mentioned, they do not wade
about in the snow. No; to their minds, a bare tree-wall is the
desideratum for a tramping-ground; and if they need more exercise than
promenading affords them, they can take to wing and go bounding from one
part of the woods to another. A flicker is a staid bird when he doesn’t
happen to be in a playful mood. You would have laughed at one in
December which was clinging to a branch high up in a tree with his head
right in front of a woodpecker hole, over which he seemed to be standing
guard. There he clung, as if that hollow contained the most precious
treasure, and would not desert his post, although I leaped about on the
ground, shouted loudly, and even flung my cap in the air like a wild
man, to frighten him away. How comical he looked in his rôle of
sentinel! He never smiled or even winked, but left such trifling to the
human scatter-brain below, who was so ill-mannered as to laugh at a
well-behaved woodpecker. Perhaps he had a winter store of food stowed
away in that cavity, and thought he had to guard it well, now that a
real brigand had come prowling about the premises.
IV.
FEBRUARY OUTINGS.
If I were not afraid of the ridicule of the cynic, I should begin this
February chronicle with an exclamation of delight; but in these days,
when so many of the so-called cultured class have taken for their motto,
_Nil admirari_, one must try to repress one’s enthusiasm, or be scoffed
at, or at least patronized, as young and inexperienced. Yet it would be
out of the question for the genuine rambler to keep the valve constantly
upon his buoyant feelings. If he did so, he would be wholly out of tune
with the jubilant mood of bird and bloom and wave around him.
Almost every day of February, 1891, was a gala-day for me, on account of
the large number of birds in song at that time. The weather was not
always pleasant, but the month came in blandly, bringing on its gentle
winds many birds from their southern winter-quarters; and as they had
come, they made up their minds to stay. My notes begin with the eleventh
of the month, and my narrative will begin with that date. In the evening
I strolled out to my favorite swamp. On my arrival all was quiet; but
soon the song-sparrows, seeing that a human auditor had come, broke into
a jingling chorus. Early in the season as it was, they seemed to be
almost in perfect voice, only a little of the hesitancy and twitter of
their fall songs being distinguishable; nor did they seem to care for
the raw evening wind blowing across the meadows, or the gray clouds
scurrying athwart the sky, but kept up their canticles until the dusk
fell.