disappointment, because many birds are adepts at concealment, while
others build in places where you would not think of looking. However, I
have had but little difficulty in finding the nests of the brown
thrasher, which erects an inartistic platform of sticks, bound together
by a few grass fibres, and thus is easily descried in the bushes, where
it is usually placed. Early in the spring I found the nest of a pair of
these birds in a thick clump of bushes near the edge of a woodland, and
resolved to keep watch over it until the young family had left their
home. The parent birds in this case were very solicitous for the safety
of their young. Every time I called they set up a pitiful to-do, which
invariably made me hurry away, after a timid peep into the cradle. There
is as much difference in the temperaments of birds of the same species
as there is among persons belonging to the same family. While the
thrashers in question seemed to be terrified at my presence, others
driven from their nests displayed little or no fear, but sat quietly on
a perch near by and allowed me to examine their domicile without so much
as a chirp.
The brown thrasher has surprised me by the variety of places he selects
for building his log house. Wilson Flagg in his book, “A Year with the
Birds,” says that this bird usually builds on the ground; and Mr.
Eldridge E. Fish, who writes pleasantly about the birds of western New
York, bears similar testimony. Perhaps thrasher-fashion in New England
and New York differs from thrasher-fashion in Ohio (in which locality
the birds display the best taste I will not say); for during the spring
of 1890 I found but two nests on the ground, and was surprised to find
even them, while at least fifteen were discovered in other places. Most
of them were on low thorn-bushes, but not all. One was built in a
brush-heap, one on a pile of “cord-wood,” another on a small stump
screened by some bushes, and two on a rail fence. Of the last two, one
was partly supported by poison-ivy vines and partly by a rail; the other
was built entirely on a rail in a projecting corner of the fence.
The thrasher, as has been said, builds an artless platform of sticks
that in some cases barely holds together long enough to answer the
purpose for which it was intended. In this respect its habits differ
from those of the wood-thrush, a bird that is very abundant and musical
in my neighborhood. I have found many of the wood-thrush’s nests, which
are built in the crotches of small saplings in the thickest part of the
woods, and are made almost as substantial as the adobe dwellings of the
robin. The thrush does not use as much mortar as his red-breasted
relative; otherwise there is a close resemblance between the nests of
the two birds.
It was amusing to find pieces of newspaper bedizening the houses of the
wood-thrushes so frequently, though it cannot be said that they showed
the highest literary taste in their selections; for one or two of the
fragments contained accounts of political caucuses. However, it would be
too much to assume that the birds had read them, as many of us “humans”
find such literature too deep for our comprehension. I shall neither
eulogize nor stigmatize this favorite minstrel by calling him a
politician, although if one were to regard his nesting-habits alone, he
deserves that sobriquet quite as well as the white-eyed vireo.
That parasite among American birds, the female cow-bunting, audaciously
spirits her eggs into the wood-thrush’s nest, to be hatched with those
that properly belong there, while she and her mate sit in the trees near
by and whistle their taunting airs, and watch to see whether their dupe
attends faithfully to the additional household cares imposed upon her.
When the birds are hatched, the victim of this piece of imposture
innocently feeds her foster children with the best tidbits she can find,
spite of the fact that they may soon crowd her own offspring out of the
nest-home. The wonder is that she does not discover the trick at once;
for her eggs are deep blue, while the cow-bird’s are white, speckled
with ashy brown. Can the wood-thrush be color-blind?
About two miles from town, along the banks of a small creek, was the
nest of that interesting little bird, the summer warbler,—a dainty
structure, composed of downy material, and deftly lodged among the twigs
of a sapling at the foot of a cliff. A cold spring gurgled from the
rocks near by; the willows and buttonwood trees bent to the balmy
breezes, and the tinkling of the brook mingled with the songs of many
birds. A place for day-dreams truly, and the summer warblers were the
dryads and nymphs flitting through the realms of fancy. If all birds
were as astute as the summer warbler, the race of cow-buntings would
soon become extinct, or would soon have to change their methods of
propagation, and go to rearing their own families. Our little
strategist, when she comes home and finds a cowbird’s egg dropped into
her nest, begins forthwith to add another story, and thus leaves the
interloper in the cellar, with a floor between it and her warm breast.
It is a genuine case of “being left out in the cold.” I have found
several of these exquisite towers that were three stories high, on the
top of which the little bird sat perched like a goddess on the summit of
Olympus. (My simile may seem a trifle farfetched, but I shall let it
stand.) But why, you dear little sprite, do you not merely pitch the
offensive egg out of the nest, instead of going to all the trouble of
building a loft? No answer, save an untranslatable trill, comes from the
throat of the dainty minstrel.[3]
Some years ago I witnessed a curious bit of bird-behavior that I have
never seen described in any of the numerous books on ornithology which I
have consulted. I make reference to it here for the first time. I was
strolling along the banks of a broad river in northern Indiana on the
first of June, when a warm, steady rain set in. How the birds contrive
to keep their eggs and nestlings dry during a shower had long been an
enigma to me, and now was my time to find out. Knowing where a summer
warbler had built her nest in some bushes, I cautiously approached, and
then stood looking down on the bird before me, which showed no
disposition to leave her progeny to the mercy of the elements. It was a
picture indeed! The darling little mother—how can one help using an
endearing term!—sat with her wings and tail spread out gracefully over
the rim of the nest all the way round, thus making a perfect umbrella of
her lithe, dainty body.
Nothing could differ more from the airy out-door nest of the summer
warbler than the dark subterranean caverns of the swallows in the bank
of the creek. One day, while sauntering along a stream, I noticed a hole
in the opposite bank. I passed on, but on second thought turned to look
at the excavation a little more closely, when a swallow darted like an
arrow into it, and in a few moments made as quick an exit. Wading across
the creek, I thrust my walking-stick, which was almost four feet long,
into the orifice over its entire length without reaching the end! Why a
bird, so neat in attire and so agile on the wing, should build her nest
in a dark Erebus like that, is a Sphinx’s riddle that must be left to
wiser heads to solve.
What a contrast is the open-air hammock of the Baltimore oriole,
swinging from the flexible branches of a buttonwood tree a little
farther up the stream! How softly the chirping brood within is rocked by
the breezes that sweep down from the slopes, laden with the odor of
clover blossoms! Somewhere near there must be a warbling vireo’s nest,
for one of these birds is singing in the trees; but my eyes are not
sharp enough to descry its pensile domicile.
On my way home, on the top of a hill, I step casually up to a small
thorn-bush, whose branches and leaves are thickly matted together, and,
as I push the foliage aside, there is a flutter of wings, followed by a
rapid chirping, and a little bird flits away, pretending to be seriously
wounded. It is a bush-sparrow. Cosily placed beneath the leafy roof
among the thick boughs is the procreant cradle. What could be more
dainty! A little nest, woven of fine grass-fibres, deftly lined with
hair, and containing four speckled eggs, real gems. How “beautiful for
situation” is this tiny cottage on the hill! Here the feathered poets
may sit on their leafy verandas, look down into the green valleys, and
compose verses on the pastoral attractions of Nature. One is almost
tempted to spin a romance about the happy couple.
On returning, one day, from an ornithological jaunt, I met my friend,
the young farmer, who knows something about my furor for the birds.
There was a knowing smile on his sunburned face. “I know where there’s a
killdeer’s nest,” he said; “would you like to see it?” Tired out as I
was with my long walk, I exclaimed: “Yes, sir! I’ll follow you to the
end of the world to see a plover’s nest.” The sentence was added merely
by way of mild (not wild) hyperbole. A shallow pit in the open
corn-field, lined with a few chips and pebbles, constituted the nest of
the plover, not having so much as a spear of grass to protect it from
rain and storm. It contained one egg and a callow youngster, the egg
being quite large at one end and pointed at the other, which gave it a
very uncouth shape. My young friend informed me that there had been five
eggs when he found the nest, all lying with their acute ends toward the
centre; the next time he went to look there were only four, then three,
and finally only two. Evidently the parent birds were having a serious
time guarding their homestead from marauders. On going to the place some
days later, I found both the egg and the baby plover gone, and I could
only hope that no mischance had befallen them.
Strange as it may seem, the winter is a favorable season for
nest-hunting. True, the birds are not then at home, to speak with a good
deal of license, or engaged in rearing families; but the deserted
structures may be more readily found after the leaves have fallen from
the trees and bushes. As I stroll through the woods or the marsh on a
winter day, scores of nests that escaped my eye during the summer are to
be seen. Especially is this the case after a snowfall, for the nests
catch the descending flakes which are piled up in them in downy mounds,
and thus attract the attention of the observer. I have often felt
inclined to heap upon myself the most caustic epithets for having passed
again and again, during the breeding-season, so near the nest of an
interesting bird without knowing of its existence until winter’s frosts
had stripped the coppice of its leaves, and have resolved as often that
the next season shall not find me napping.
In the marsh which is one of my favorite trudging-grounds, I made a
quaint discovery some winters ago, which has raised more than one query
in my mind. One day, after a snowfall, I found many deserted nests in
the thickets. Brushing the snow out of them revealed, in the bottom of
each basket, a small pile of the seeds and broken shells of wild-rose
and thorn berries. Why had the birds put them there—if it was the birds?
Perhaps the winter birds, when they arrived in the autumn, found these
old nests good storehouses in which to lay by their winter supplies. I
have never seen the birds feeding on them, but, as spring approached,
the berry seeds had nearly all disappeared.
Come with me, for I know a pleasant, half-cloistered field of clover
which is the habitat of a number of charming little birds. Just where it
is shall remain one of my semi-sylvan secrets, for one must not betray
all the confidences of one’s feathered intimates. The field cuts a right
angle in a woodland, by which it is, therefore, bounded on the east and
north, while toward the west and south the undulating country stretches
away like a billowy sea of green. The woods themselves, on the sides
adjacent to the field, are hemmed and fringed with a thick growth of
saplings, bushes, and brambles, where the feathered husbands sit and
hymn their joy by the hour to their little mates hugging their nests in
the clover and the copse. It is a quiet spot,—one of Nature’s nunneries.
Human dwellings may be seen in the distance; but it is seldom that any
one, save a mooning rambler like myself, goes there to disturb the peace
of the feathered tenants.
Here, one summer a few years ago, a pair of those wary birds the
yellow-breasted chats built a nest, which they placed snugly in the
blackberry bushes that bordered and partly hid the rail fence. I kept
close reconnoissance on this little homestead until the nascent inmates
were about half-fledged, when, to my dismay, every one of them was
kidnapped by some despicable nest-robber. My own sorrow was equalled
only by the inexpressible anguish of the bereaved parents. To add to my
troubles, a nestful of young indigo-birds came to grief in the same way.
There must be, it seems, a system of brigandage in every realm, be it
human or faunal.
A pair of bush-sparrows, however, were more fortunate in their
brood-rearing. One day, while standing near the fence, I noticed a
bush-sparrow, bearing an insect in her bill, dart down into the clover,
a short distance over in the field. I walked to the spot, when she flew
up with an uneasy chirp, proclaiming a secret that she could not keep.
There on the grass, sure enough, was her nestful of little ones. Some
accident must have befallen the fibrous cot, for the weeds and clover
were broken down and trampled flat all around it, so that it sat
loosely, on the ground, without even a blade of grass to shelter it.
Fearing that buccaneers in the shape of jays or hawks might rob the
nest, I broke off a number of weeds and made a sort of thatched roof
over it; that would also protect the panting infants from the sun, which
was beating down like a furnace. Then I took my stand a few rods away,
to see what the old birds would do. Erelong both the papa and mamma came
with billsome morsels in their mouths, and, after fluttering about
uneasily for a few minutes, darted down to the nest and fed their young.
Of course, they first had to peep, and peer, and cant their dainty heads
this way and that, to examine the roof I had improvised for the nest,
wondering, no doubt, what kind of a bungling architect had been at work
there; but finally they seemed to think all was well. Perhaps in their
hearts they thanked me for my thoughtful care.
A day or two later I called again, even at the risk of coming _de trop_.
The weeds arched over the bird crib at my former visit having withered,
I made them another green roof, sheltering them as cosily as I could and
leaving a small opening at the side for an entrance. After an absence of
a few minutes I crept surreptitiously back to the enchanted spot,—for it
drew me like a loadstone,—and there sat the trim little mother on her
cradle, covering her children to keep them warm, her reddish-brown tail
daintily reaching out through the doorway. She did not fly up as I bent
lovingly over her, and presently I stole away, desirous not to disturb
her.
The bush-sparrow is a captivating little bird, graceful of form and
sweet of voice, singing his cheerful trills from early spring until far
past midsummer. The song makes me think of a silver thread running
through a woof of golden sunshine, carried forward by a swinging shuttle
of pearl. I think the figure is not far-fetched. He is quite partial to
a dense little thorn-bush for a nesting-place, often concealing his
grassy cottage so cunningly that you must look sharply for it among the
leaves and twigs, or it will escape your eye.
One of the neatest and prettiest denizens of my clover-field was the
goldfinch. Wings of black and coat of bright yellow, he went bounding
through the ether, rising and falling in graceful festoons of flight, in
such a lightsome way he seemed to be rocking himself on the breeze. How
jauntily he wore his tiny black cap, little exquisite of the field that
he is, to whom I always go hat in hand! He deserves a monograph all to
himself, but at this time I can spare him only a few paragraphs.
As a rule, the goldfinches prefer to build their nests in small trees,
often selecting the maples along the suburban streets of the city. I was
greatly surprised, therefore, to find a nest in my clover-field, where
there were no trees at all. Noticing a bird fly into a clump of
blackberry bushes one day, I took it for a female indigo-bird. A nest
was soon found woven very neatly and compactly, and having not only
grass-fibres wrought into its structure, but also wool and thistle-down.
A queer indigo-bird’s nest, I mused. The wool in the cup was ruffled and
loose, and taking it for a deserted homestead, I carelessly thrust my
hand into it. The next moment I was sorry for the thoughtless act, for
the material looked so fresh that I decided it must be an unfinished
bird-cradle. I resolved to discover the owners, if possible. Two days
later it was in the same condition. Had I driven away the little
builders by laying defiling hands on the nest? I felt like a culprit,
and waited a week before again venturing to visit the place, when, as I
approached, a female goldfinch flew from the nest, uncovering five
dainty white eggs, set like pearls in the bottom of the cup. A
goldfinch’s nest in a blackberry bush! That was a climax of surprises,
in very truth.
On the same day, not far distant, another bush-sparrow’s nest was found
in some bushes, placed about three feet from the ground. In a few weeks
there were babies five in the goldfinch’s nest, and four in that of the
bush-sparrow. Pray keep both nests in mind, remembering that the
youngsters of both families were hatched on the same day. One evening at
twilight I again stepped out to the clover-field. The mother goldfinch
was sitting close on her nest, and did not stir as I came near. Then I
touched her lightly with my cane. Still she remained on her nest as if
glued fast, only glaring at me with her wild, beady eyes. At length I
softly laid my finger on her back, when she uttered a queer,
half-scolding cry, and leaped up to the nest’s rim, but did not fly.
There she stood, turning her head and eying me keenly until I stole
away, unwilling to forfeit her confidence and good-will. But when, on my
way home, I paused a moment to look at the bush-sparrow’s nest, the
mother flitted away with a frightened chirp before I came within reach.
She was not as confiding as her little neighbor, the goldfinch.
Now mark! On the fifteenth of August the young bush-sparrows had become
so large and well developed that when, meaning no harm, I touched them
gently with my finger, they flipped out of the nest like flashes of
lightning. The infant goldfinches were not yet more than half fledged,
and merely snuggled close to the bottom of the nest when I caressed
them. The idea of flying was still remote from their little pates. These
observations prove that young bush-sparrows develop much more rapidly
than young goldfinches; yet, strange as it may seem, the goldfinch, when
grown, flies much higher, if not more swiftly, than his little neighbor,
and continues longer on the wing.
On the same day I sat down in the clover, a few rods from the
goldfinch’s nest, and kept close watch on both the old birds and their
offspring for an hour and a half. The sun attacked me savagely with his
red-hot arrows, and the sweat broke from every pore, but I felt amply
repaid for my vigil. During the first half-hour the parent birds
ventured slyly to feed their bantlings twice. Then I crept closer, and
waited an hour; but the parent birds were too shy to bring their hungry
nestlings a single mouthful of food, choosing, it would seem, to let
them suffer hunger rather than take risk themselves. The little things
were almost famished, and behaved very quaintly. Every rustle of the
leaves in the wind caused them to start up, crane out their necks, pry
open their mouths as wide as they could, waddle awkwardly from side to
side, and chirp for something to eat. How famished they were! They even
seized one another’s heads and tried to gulp one another down. The
spectacle was just a little uncanny.
But, dear me! they were not as ignorant of the ways of the world as you
might suppose. When I lightly tapped the stems of the bushes with my
cane, instead of leaping up and opening their mouths as they were
expected to do, they shrank down into the bottom of the nest, discerning
at once the difference between those strokes on the bush and their
parents’ quiet approach or loving call. Something must have put them on
their guard, and instilled feelings of fear into their palpitating
bosoms. Perhaps it was that shy personage, the mother herself; for she
would call admonishingly at intervals from the woods, _Ba-bie! ba-bie!_
putting a pathetic accent on the second syllable. It was droll to see
the youngsters try to preen their feathers, they went about the
performance so awkwardly.
On the seventeenth of the month one of the nestlings was missing, and no
amount of looking for it in the thicket revealed any clew to its
whereabouts. None of the remaining birds were ready to fly. Two days
later they were still in the nest, although they had grown considerably
since my last visit, so that one of them was almost crowded out of the
circular trundle-bed. I could not resist the temptation to lift it in my
hand, just to see how pretty it was and how it would act. It uttered a
sharp cry of alarm, and sprang from my hand; but its wings were still so
weak that it merely fluttered in an oblique direction to the ground. The
third time I caught it, it sat contentedly on my palm, and allowed me to
stroke its back, looking up at its captor with mingled wonder and
trustfulness.
On the heads of all the nestlings a fine down protruded up through and
above the feathers. The birds looked very knowingly out of their small
coal-black eyes, but the cunning little things obstinately refused to
open their mouths for me, entice them as I would; however, when I moved
away some distance, and their mamma came with a tempting morsel, they
sprang up instantly and gulped it down. Not so very unsophisticated,
after all, for mere bantlings! On the morning of the twenty-sixth all
the young finches had left the nest, and were perched in the bushes near
by. I contrived to catch one of them and hold him in my hand a few
moments, to admire his dainty toilet and pretty dark eyes. Thus my brief
study in comparative ornithology proved that the young goldfinches left
the nest seven days after the young bush-sparrows, hatched at the same
time, had taken wing.
IX.
MIDSUMMER MELODIES.
Several times has the statement been made in print that it is scarcely
worth one’s while to attempt to study the birds during the midsummer
months, the reason alleged being that at that time they are silent and
inactive, and their behavior devoid of special interest. Now, nothing
ministers so gratefully to the pride of the original investigator as to
prove untrue the theories that have been advanced in books and that are
current among scientific men. During the summer of 1891 I resolved to
discover for myself what the birds were doing, and so, spite of drought,
heat, and mosquitoes, I visited the haunts of my winged companions at
least every other day. The result was a surprise to myself, proving that
the unwisest thing a naturalist can do is to lay down absolute canons of
conduct for feathered folk.
It is just possible that physical stupor, induced by the extreme heat of
summer, has caused some ornithologists to observe carelessly and
listlessly, and for that reason they have supposed that the birds were
as languid as themselves; but the wide-awake student, who can brave heat
and cold alike, will never find the feathered creation failing to repay
the closest attention. Some birds are almost as active when the mercury
is wrestling with the nineties as on the fairest day of May, and those
are the ones to be studied in midsummer.
My special investigations began about the middle of July. It is true
that at that time what are usually regarded as the songsters of the
first class—the brown thrashers, wood-thrushes, cat-birds, and
bobolinks—had gone into a conspiracy of silence, not a musical note
coming from their throats, although some of them always remain in this
latitude until far into September. But when the first-class minstrels
are mute, one appreciates the minor vocalists all the more. Yet I must
not omit to say that on the thirtieth of July I caught a fragment of a
wood-thrush’s song, the last I heard for the season.