engage in vigorous wrangles before they are able to settle the troubles
that arise from match-making. The bluebird, of the siren voice and
cerulean hue, is a case in point. Mr. Burroughs describes, in his
inimitable way, the vigorous campaign of two pairs of bluebirds, which
could not decide the subject of matrimony among themselves without
resort to arms. Both the males and females engaged in more than one
set-to. Once the hotheaded lovers closed with each other in the air,
fell to the ploughed ground, and remained there, tugging and pecking and
tweaking for nearly two minutes. Yet, when they separated, neither
seemed to be any the worse for the _mêlée_.
The tiny hummers are extremely belligerent birds. A writer describes the
contests of certain hummingbirds in the island of Jamaica when moved by
jealousy. When two males have become rivals, they will level their long,
pointed bills at each other, and then dash together with the swiftness
of an arrow; they meet, separate, meet again, with shrill chirping, dart
upward, then downward, and circle around and around, until the eye grows
weary of watching them, and can no longer follow their rapid transits.
At length one falls, exhausted, to the ground, while the other rests,
panting and trembling, on a leafy spray, or perhaps tumbles, mortally
wounded, to the earth. There are some diminutive hummers, called Mexican
stars, which become perfect furies when their jealousy is aroused. Their
throats swell; their crests, wings, and tails expand; and they clinch
and spear each other in the air like the veriest disciples of Bellona.
Thus a giant passion may dwell in a pygmy form.
It will be pleasant to turn to more gentle ways of pressing a love-suit.
The manners of some males are very courtly while trying to win a spouse.
They strut about most gracefully, and display their plumes to the best
advantage, as if they would charm the coy damsel of their choice. The
dainty kinglets erect and expand their crest feathers so that the golden
or ruby spot spreads over the entire crown, making them look handsome
indeed.
It has never been my good fortune to witness the wooing of the ruffed
grouse, miscalled the partridge in New England and the pheasant in the
Middle States; but Mr. Langille has seen the performance, and with good
reason goes into raptures over it. He describes it in this way: “Behold
the male strutting before the female in time of courtship! The first
time I saw him in this act I was utterly at a loss to identify him. The
ruff about the neck is perfectly erect, so that the head is almost
disguised; the wings are partially opened and drooped gracefully; the
feathers are generally elevated; the tail, with its rich, black band, is
spread to the utmost and thrown forward. Thus he stands, nearly
motionless, a genuine object of beauty.”
One of the most brilliant exhibitions of this kind must be that of the
great emerald birds of Paradise, as they disport themselves before the
object of their affection. They gather in flocks of from twelve to
twenty on certain trees. Mr. A. R. Wallace, in his “Malay Archipelago,”
gives an interesting description of these “dancing-parties,” as they are
called by the natives. The wings of the male birds, he says, “are raised
vertically over the back; the head is bent down and stretched out; and
the long plumes”—those that spring like spray from the sides or
shoulders—“are raised and expanded till they form two magnificent golden
fans, striped with deep red at the base, and fading off into the pale
brown tint of the finely divided and softly waving points; the whole
bird is then overshadowed by them, the crouching body, yellow head, and
emerald-green throat forming but a foundation and setting to the golden
glory which waves above them.”
No wonder the maiden’s reserve all melts away, and she soon yields
willing consent to her lover’s importunings! There is only one flaw in
this beautiful picture, and that is made by man himself,—man, the
meddler in avian happiness. While the birds are absorbed in their
courtship, the natives, for love of pelf, steal near and shoot them with
blunt arrows. Sometimes all the males are thus murdered, ruthlessly,
heartlessly, before the danger is discovered. Of course the mercenary
butchers sell the plumes for decorative purposes. Gold is the only thing
that glitters in the eyes of a sordid world. Some people spell “God”
with an “l.”
No doubt vocal display also plays a large part in the courtship of
birds. Nothing else in the early spring can wholly account for the
wonderful musical tournaments that one hears lilting so lavishly on the
air. Many a damsel, doubtless, listens to the numerous vocalists of her
neighborhood, and then chooses the suitor whose voice possesses the
finest qualities, or whose madrigals have the truest ring. How many
things may combine to determine the choice of the parties, it would be
difficult to say. Perhaps some birds are handsomer than others in the
eyes of those that are looking for mates; perhaps some have more courtly
and agreeable manners; perhaps some put more fervor into their wooing or
more passion into their songs; perhaps some are better tempered; others
may be more industrious or frugal or tidy, and thus will make better
husbands or housewives. Many a lass doubtless is sorely puzzled as to
whom she shall choose for a mate. One may even fancy her crooning
Addison’s quaint, paradoxical lines to a whimsical lover concerning
whose eligibility she harbors some doubt,—
“In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow,
Thou’rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,
Hast so much wit and mirth and spleen about thee,
That there’s no living with thee or without thee.”
One question—not a profound one, I confess—must bring this chapter to a
close: Do the plumed ladies ever propose? One might imagine a lovelorn
female bird throwing aside her maidenly reserve in a fit of desperation,
and singing the lines of Mrs. Browning,—
“But I love you, sir;
And when a woman says she loves a man,
The man must hear her, though he love her not.”
II.
BIRD NURSERIES.
A bird’s nest is a bedroom, dining-room, sitting-room, parlor, and
nursery all in one; for there the young birds sleep, eat, rest,
entertain their guests (if they ever have any), and receive their
earliest training. Yet there is no doubt that in treating the nest as a
nursery we make use of the aptest simile that could be chosen. Those who
have not given the matter special attention would scarcely suspect how
many and varied are the interests that cluster around these dwellings of
our little brothers and sisters of field and woodland. The growth of the
bantling family, their mental development, their deportment in the nest,
their chirpings and chatterings, their way of beguiling the time, the
length of their stay in their childhood home,—all these, and many other
problems of equally absorbing interest, can be solved only by the
closest surveillance. But it is no light task to watch a nest at close
enough range to study the natural, unrestrained ways of the young birds.
The fact is, in many, perhaps most, cases it cannot be done.
But before describing the inmates of the nursery it would be well to
give some attention to the nursery itself, its site and structure. By
going to the books I might tell you of many quaint nests, of the nests
of the tailor-bird, the water-ouzel, the parula warbler, the burrowing
owl, and many others; but—begging pardon for my conceit—I prefer not to
get my material second-hand. One would rather describe one’s own
observations, even though one may not be able to present so rare a list
of curios. The nest of the common wood-thrush, right here in my own
neighborhood, is of far more personal interest than the remarkable nest
of the fairy martin of Australia, which I have small hope of ever
seeing.
Having mentioned the nest of the wood-thrush, I might as well begin with
it. It is not a remarkable structure from an architectural point of
view. It might be called a semi-adobe dwelling, thatched with various
kinds of grasses and leaves, and lined with vegetable fibres. It is much
like the nest of the robin, only Madam Thrush does not go quite so
extensively into the plastering business. It has been interesting to
study the ingenuity of these sylvan architects in choosing sites for
their nests. They seem to know just where a nest may be built with the
least labor in order to make it sit firmly in its place. In the woods
that I most frequently haunt there is a sort of bushy sapling whose
branches, at a certain point on the main stem, often grow out almost
horizontally for a few inches, and then form an elbow by shooting up
almost vertically, thus making an arbor, as it were, which says plainly
to the thrush, “This is just the site for a nest.” In these crotches the
wood-thrush rears her dwelling, its walls being firmly supported all
around by the perpendicular branches. Do these saplings grow for the
special benefit of the wood-thrush, or does the feathered artificer
accommodate herself to the circumstances, or is there mutual adaptation
between bird and bush? That is a problem for the evolutionist.
But the thrush often selects other sites for her nursery. One day I
found a nest deftly placed on the point of intersection of two almost
horizontal limbs. From the lower one several small branches grew up in
an oblique direction, to give the walls of the mud cottage firm support.
The intersecting boughs belonged to two different saplings. Another nest
that did not have very strong external support was set down upon the
short stub of a limb, which ran up into the mud floor and held the
structure firmly in place.
One day I stumbled upon a very tall thrush nest, looking almost like a
tower in its crotch. As the nestlings had left, I lifted it from its
place and tore it apart, thinking the thrush might have fallen upon the
summer warbler’s ruse to outwit the cow-bunting by adding another story
to her hut, thus leaving the bunting’s intruded egg in the cellar. But
such was not the case; she had simply done the unorthodox thing of using
an old nest, still in good condition, for a foundation upon which to
rear the new structure. Will the theologians of thrushdom bring charges
of heresy against her? Was it really a case of “_higher_ criticism”? It
may have been, especially when you remember that these thrushes often
weave into their nests fragments of newspapers, some of which may
contain theological discussions.
One peculiarity in the nest-building of most of the birds of my
neighborhood may as well be mentioned now as later; they seldom build in
the densest and most secluded parts of the woods, but usually choose
some bush or sapling near the border, or close to a woodland path or
winding road, where people sometimes pass. Perhaps they do this because
the natural enemies of birds, such as squirrels, minks, and hawks, fight
shy of these pathways traversed by human feet. Perhaps, too, the birds
do not like the gloom and loneliness of the more sequestered portions of
the woods. They like to be semi-sociable, at least, and are not disposed
to make monks and nuns of themselves.
A far more artless nest is that of the turtle-dove. This bird should
attend an industrial college for a term or two, to learn the art of
building; but it would do no good: the meek little thing would cling
obstinately to her inherited ideas, and never become a connoisseur in
nest construction. Sometimes, when you stand beneath her cottage, you
can see her white eggs gleaming through the interstices of the loosely
matted floor. As a rule, she builds on a branch; but something possessed
one little mother, in the spring of 1891, to build her nursery on a
large stump about six feet high, standing right in the midst of the
woods. I fear she was not a well trained bird; but I watched her
closely, and must concede that, whether her conduct was in “good form”
or not, she reared her brood in the most approved manner. I could come
within two feet of her, and almost touch her with my cane, before she
would fly from the nest. How her little round eyes stared at me without
so much as a blink! But she was greatly agitated; for her bosom
palpitated with the violent throbbing of her heart.
“I’ve found a turtle-dove’s nest on the ground,” said my friend, the
young farmer across the fields, one spring day. (No matter about the
year of grace, for every year is a year of grace in bird study.) My head
was shaken skeptically, and I smiled in a patronizing way, for a
turtle-dove’s nest on the ground was an unknown quantity in all my study
of birds; but my friend declared, “Honest Injun!” and I left him to his
obstinate opinions. But, hold! who, after all, proved to be the donkey?
A few days later I myself stumbled upon a turtle-dove’s nest in a
clover-field, flat on the ground. Bird students, be careful how you
dispute the word of these sharp-eyed tillers of the soil!
But for birds that invariably choose old mother earth for the foundation
of their houses, commend me to the American meadow-larks. In this
respect they are certainly groundlings, though not in a bad sense. All
their nests are constructed on the same general plan, it is true; but
the details are quite diverse, proving that architectural designs in the
lark guild of builders are almost as numerous as the builders
themselves. My young farmer friend found a nest early in the spring,
with not a blade of grass near it for protection, while the structure
itself was arched over only a very little in the rear. Another nest was
situated in a pasture, and was almost as devoid of roofing as was the
first nest. But rather late in the spring a nest was found, hidden most
deftly in the clover and plantain leaves, which were woven together in
the most intricate manner so as to form a canopy over the cosey cot. At
one side there was a tunnel, some two feet long, forming the only
entrance to the apartment. The nest proper was arched over from the rear
for fully one half its width. Not ten feet away was another lark’s nest
that was almost wholly exposed to the light and air. In the lark world
there is evidently a good deal of room for originality. There seem to be
many larks of many minds.
My quest for cuckoos’ nests during the summer of 1892 was well rewarded,
but I shall stop to describe only one of these finds. The young birds
having left, I lifted the nest from the swaying branch on which it hung,
and examined it. The foundation was composed of twigs and sticks
intertwined and plaited together with some degree of skill, but it was
the lining that stirred my interest. First, it consisted of a number of
dead forest leaves from which the cellular texture had been completely
stripped, leaving only the petiole, midrib, and veins; underneath this
was a more compact carpet of the same kind of leaves, of which the
blade, instead of being stripped off, was perforated with innumerable
small holes, making them look like extremely fine sieves. In some cases
the blades seemed to be split, leaving the veins and veinlets exposed,
so that one could trace their intricate net-work. Another cuckoo nest
had both the stripped and perforated leaves, but fewer of each kind.
Whether the birds themselves did the artistic work on these leaves or
not,—that is a question. The stripping of the upper layer of their
blades would allow the dust and scaly substance shed by the young birds,
to sift through to the second layer, where it would not come in direct
contact with the nurslings. The two carpets were laid, no doubt, in the
interests of health and cleanliness.
But it is time to turn our attention to the children of the nursery. The
life of young birds in the nest,—what a field for study! One thing they
learn very early, probably almost as soon as they emerge from the shell;
that is, to open their mouths for food. No tutor or professor needed for
that! Most young birds soon become quite clamorous for their rations.
Lowell must have looked into more than one bird nursery, or he scarcely
would have thought of writing the lines,—
“Blind nestlings, unafraid,
Stretch up, wide-mouthed, to every shade
By which their downy dream is stirred,
Taking it for the mother-bird.”
A nestful of half-callow younglings, standing on tiptoe, craning up
their necks, wabbling from side to side, opening their mouths to the
widest extent of their “gapes,” knocking heads and beaks together, and
chirping at the top of their voices,—I confess it makes a picture more
grotesque than attractive. By and by, as the pin-feathers begin to grow,
the infant brood seem to feel an itching sensation, which causes them to
pick the various parts of their bodies to remove the scaly substance
that gathers on the skin and at the bases of the sprouting feathers. But
how awkwardly they go about this exercise! Their heads seem to be too
heavy for their long, slender necks, and go waggling and rolling from
side to side, often missing the mark aimed at. However, the muscles of
the nurslings are developing all the while. Soon they lift themselves to
their full height, stretch themselves, jerk their tails higher than
their heads in a most amusing way (you smile, but they don’t), and then
squat down upon the floor of the nest again. A day or so later the most
advanced youngster feels the flying impulse stirring in his veins, and
so, after stretching himself as previously described, he extends his
wings to their utmost reach, and flaps them in a joyous way over his
cuddling companions, sometimes rapping them smartly on the head. Soon
there comes a day when he hops to the edge of the nest, looks out upon
the wide, beckoning world like a young satrap, and flaps his wings with
a semi-conscious feeling of strength. Ere long, encouraged by his
parents, he spreads his wings, and takes a header for the nearest twig.
Why, his wings will bear him up on the buoyant air! He has graduated
from the nursery and the grammar grade into the high school.
Every year has its eccentricities, so to speak; that is, the character
of the weather and other modifying causes afford the faunal life an
occasion for a development that is peculiar. Thus the observations made
by the naturalist one year are not necessarily mere repetitions of those
made other years. Nature is not often guilty of tautology. I yield
therefore to the temptation to add a few chronicles made during the
spring of 1893, which, I hope, will not destroy the unity of this
article on bird nurseries. One day in June, while strolling through the
woods, I heard the song of a red-eyed vireo. It was a kind of talking
song, or recitative, as if the bird were discoursing on some favorite
theme, and improvising his music as he went. His voice was so loud and
clear that I could hear it far away, drifting through the green,
embowered aisles of the woods. This vigorous chanson was a surprise, for
I have never before known this vireo to remain in my neighborhood during
the summer. He mostly hies farther north. But a still greater surprise
lay in ambush for me a few days later, in one of my rambles through the
woods. Suddenly there was a light flutter of wings near my head, and
there hung a tiny nest on the low, swaying branches of a sapling.
That it was a vireo’s nest was evident, for it was fastened to the twigs
by the rim, without any support below, swinging there like a dainty
basket. Presently I got my glass on the bird herself, and found her to
be a red-eyed vireo. That was my first nest of this species, and proud
enough I was of the discovery. The outside of the little cot was
prettily ornamented with tufts of spider-webs. As usual with this bird,
a piece of white paper was wrought into the lower part of the nest.
Three vireo’s eggs and one cow-bunting’s lay in the bottom of the cup.
Every few days I called on the bird, going close enough only to see her
plainly, without driving her off the nest. She made a pretty picture
sitting there, one fit for an artist’s brush, with her head and tail
pointing almost straight up, her body gracefully curved to fit the deep
little basket, and her eyes growing large and wild at her visitor’s
approach. At length, one day, I felt sure there must be little ones in
the nest, and so I went very close to her; yet she did not fly. Then I
moved my hand toward her, and finally touched her back before she
flitted away. A featherless cow-bunting lay in the hammock, but the
vireo’s eggs were not yet hatched. A few days later the nest was robbed.
Some heartless villain, probably a blue jay, had destroyed all the
children. I could have wept, so keen was my sense of bereavement.
The cow-buntings imposed a great deal on other kind-hearted bird parents
that spring. Almost every nest contained one or two of this interloper’s
eggs, and, as if Nature abetted the designs of the parasite, these eggs
were almost always hatched first. One wood-thrush’s nest contained two
bunting and three thrush eggs. As soon as the bantlings had broken from
the shell, the buntings could be readily distinguished from the
thrushes, for the former feathered much more rapidly than the latter.
When the youngsters were about half grown, they crowded one another
considerably in their adobe apartment, but, to all intents and purposes,
they lived together in beautiful domestic harmony. At all events, no
unseemly family wrangles came under my eye. By and by, on one of my
visits, I found that the buntings had left the maternal roof (to speak
with a good deal of poetic license), while the thrush trio still sat
contentedly on the nest, and did not display any fear when I caressingly
stroked their brown backs, but looked up at me in a _naïve_, confiding
way that was very gratifying. Quite different was the conduct of the
inmates of a bush-sparrow’s nest, hidden in the grass at the woodland’s
border. The baby sparrows rushed pell-mell from their pretty homestead
when I came near, leaving a bunting, which had been hatched and reared
with them, alone in the nest. He was not nearly so far developed as his
brothers and sisters, and had no intention of being driven from home.
But here is an instance more like that of the bunting-wood-thrush
episode just described. A pretty basket, woven of fine fibrous material,
swung from the lower branches of an apple-tree in the orchard of one of
my farmer friends, and contained three young orchard orioles and one
cow-bunting. One day I procured a step-ladder and climbed up to the
nest, when the bunting sprang out with a wild cry and toppled to the
ground, while the young orioles, not yet half-fledged, merely pried open
their mouths for food. Yet these birds, when grown, are fully as
dexterous on the wing as their foster relatives, the buntings.
During the same spring some observations on youthful blackbirds were
made. They may be of sufficient interest to register in this place. Did
you know that a part of the heads of infant blackbirds remains bare a
week or two after the other portions of their bodies are well feathered?
This is true of the three species of my acquaintance,—the purple
grackles, the red-winged blackbirds, and the cow-buntings. The bald
portion includes the forehead, part of the crown, the chin, and throat,
and extends behind and below the ears, which are covered with a tiny
tuft of fuzz. Had this unfeathered portion been red instead of black,
the youngsters would have looked quite like diminutive turkey-buzzards.
One may be pardoned for being somewhat puzzled over the childish
conundrum, Why young blackbirds, of all the birds in the circle of one’s
acquaintance, must go bareheaded during the first few weeks of their
life. By and by, however, the feathers grow out on this space as thickly
as on the remainder of their bodies.