In a delightful article called “Character in Birds,” Mr. Torrey gives
many instances of bird traits that show distinct differences of nature
in various species, and which lead one to recall others that have fallen
under observation. Mr. Torrey does not mention, for instance, a
peculiarity of the redeyed vireo, which is as marked as its persistent
and rather tiresome note; that is, its almost intolerable curiosity and
fussiness, qualities which it carries to such an extreme that they
become absolutely comic. I think I have never seated myself to watch the
nest of any bird, that a redeyed vireo has not appeared on the scene and
scolded me; and the moment a bird utters a cry of alarm a redeyed vireo
is sure to appear with his fretful air of “Oh, dear, what is the matter
now?” ready and willing to take a hand in any rows that may be going and
quite sure to make more fuss than the really aggrieved party; and oddly
enough seeming, in one instance at least, even to resent the noise that
the troubled bird was making, for one day when an indigo bird, that I
had tormented by watching its nest, had chippered and chattered until he
had brought every bird in the neighborhood to see what was the matter, a
redeyed vireo, after prancing around for a time, flew at the distracted
indigo bird with a very cross squawk, which said as plainly as words,
“Do be quiet, can’t you?”
The vireo’s action in this case was in marked contrast to that of a
thistle bird which came up warbling and gave me a careless glance, and
then flew away still singing, but as the noise continued he came back
presently and perching on a twig above me, bent his bright head to look
at me, saying, “swee-et” in a long-drawn, inquiring way, with a little
break in his voice which was singularly endearing, as are all the ways
of these charming creatures; after inspecting me again he disappeared,
but at a renewed outcry from the indigo birds he came warbling back once
more. This time he paid little attention to me, having apparently
satisfied his curiosity on that point on his former visit; but seeming
to divine that there must be some reason why the indigo bird should make
so much fuss, he began to examine the tree which held the nest. Suddenly
he discovered the nest, and after a start which expressed surprise and
interest, he flew up and hovered over it for an instant and then flitted
away, warbling. Redeyed vireos seem to be always restless and irritable,
and perfectly sure that you mean to do them or their nests some harm,
and it is sometimes quite distracting to go into a certain piece of
woods where they are very plentiful; the moment you enter it they begin
their distressful “please, please,” uttered half pleadingly and half
crossly. One is sure they must be near a vireo’s nest, yet may pass
beneath it day after day, and though looking for it fail to find it, if
there are no young ones, so skillful are they in concealing their
beautiful nests. These are among the most fascinating of bird cradles,
particularly in this piece of woods where there are many birch trees,
from which the vireo obtains fine, silky shreds of the beautifully
tinted bark and weaves into the nest with the most exquisite effect,
giving unusual delicacy of color and texture. The redeye has also the
most remarkable habit of arranging the nest so that it shall be quite
hidden by the leaves, often with one leaf which serves as a roof and
protects the young or eggs from sun and rain; and if they would only
keep quiet they would usually be quite safe, but instead, the moment any
one appears they make so much noise that attention is attracted to them
at once, and you begin naturally to look for the cause. Even then it may
be some time before the nest is discovered, as there are usually only
one or two points from which a view of it can be obtained and a single
leaf will sometimes quite conceal it. Possibly there are circumstances
in the life of a redeyed vireo which, if known, would account for his
irritability and egotistical belief that all eyes are upon him with evil
intent; but our eyes are dull, and one could wish at times that his
trials, whatever they may be, might sweeten his temper. I do know, at
least, that redeyed vireos are much tormented by that plague of bird
life, the cowbunting, which delights in laying her eggs in the redeye’s
nest; and nowhere could they be placed where they would cause more
discomfort, for the vireo’s nest is a delicate structure and none too
large for its own nestlings. I think the cowbird often injures the nest
when she lays her egg, as she probably gets in and out of it with more
or less haste, being hurried by the aggrieved owners, for not only do
the young vireos fall out of the nest, but even the interloping cowbird
sometimes falls out before he is able to fly and meets his death by a
tumble before he is prepared to leave the nest.
One summer I was watching a hawk’s nest and was always greeted by the
angry cries of the redeyed vireos, who never ceased to scold at me and
the hawk, and so upset a nervous, but well meaning at least, flycatcher
that it, too, joined in the abuse. Sometimes when the hawk flew away the
vireos would follow him for quite a distance through the trees, scolding
in the most dismal manner and showing little fear of the great, fierce
creature, who they seemed to know could not catch them among the thick
branches of the trees. But one day I was amazed to see a redeyed vireo
actually on the lower part of the hawk’s nest. To be sure the hawk was
absent, but he had a swift and silent way of returning that made it seem
a rather dangerous bit of bravado. The redeye often has a most
uncomfortable habit not only of quarreling with any neighbor that will
quarrel but also of squabbling with each other even during the time that
they are engaged in caring for the young. One summer a pair of them,
having a nest in a tree near the house, were so quarrelsome and kept up
such a persistent clatter that they became really tiresome. It must be
admitted, however, that in this particular case they had cause for being
irritable, for they were trying to bring up a cowbunting besides their
own family, and perhaps each thought the other was to blame for the
misfortune. Indeed it took little imagination to think that their
perpetual squabbles were caused by mutual recriminations in regard to
their voracious foster nestling. Poor vireos! They fought with each
other and everyone else, but particularly with a phœbe which had a nest
near by, and was also tired and fretful from overwork and perhaps fond
of a row himself, for he had an aggravating habit of coming into a
little tree just below the vireos’ nest and twitching his tail in the
rather inane manner peculiar to phœbes, and that was all that was needed
to throw the vireos into a perfect fume, and they responded instantly,
flying at him wrathfully and were promptly met by a kindred spirit. It
was a most unreasonable business, as neither wanted anything that the
other had, and seemed to prove that all they needed was an excuse to
show their ill temper. These same vireos had a very real cause for rage
and fear in the presence of the red squirrels, and they never failed to
pursue and scold one the moment it appeared. Their whole life seemed so
uncomfortable and their perpetual fussing was so wearisome that it was
difficult to feel proper sympathy for them when their affairs ended
tragically. But they were most devoted parents, and as such must have
credit, though their domestic arrangements seemed squalidly inharmonious
and were so pronounced that no one living in the vicinity could help
knowing all about them.
Thistle birds, like the vireos, are very apt to appear in response to
any call of alarm or annoyance from their neighbors, but their interest
seems to have a sweet and kindly spirit, very different to the
acidulated attitude of the redeyed vireo. In truth the most marked
characteristic of these little beauties is a peculiar loveableness and
their gentle cheeriness makes them ideal companions. They have a
delightful habit of appearing in June in flocks and congregating on the
white sandy beach of the lake, reminding one of the clouds of yellow
butterflies that come to the same place at certain times of the year. At
this time the male thistle bird sings in a perfect ecstacy of joy and
love; but of all their attractive qualities none is so endearing as a
habit they have late in the fall of singing as they fly high up, mere
specks, their exquisite ethereal notes drifting down sometimes with the
first snowflakes as they go joyfully to meet the storm and the night.
Scarlet tanagers are often hardly more agreeable in their marital
relations than the redeyed vireos, and though no doubt they vary greatly
in this respect, those that I have noticed showed a decided coldness,
occasionally varied by marked crossness. And the wooing of a scarlet
tanager is sometimes most amusing, for the female is, or pretends to be,
amazingly indifferent and it must take a courageous lover to persist in
spite of her severe manner, but male tanagers are gifted with
persistence and do not seem to go unmated, and they make most devoted
parents, though it would hardly have been expected of them after their
seeming indifference during the incubating. One pair of tanagers that
had a nest close to the house, and so could be constantly watched, were
never on really friendly terms with each other, sometimes quarreling
outright, and only seeking each other’s society when some danger seemed
to threaten their young ones. Then the female seemed glad of the
presence of her mate. Young scarlet tanagers are very confiding and
gentle in their ways, and do not seem to have much fear of man here.
There are always several of these pretty creatures flitting about in the
evergreens near the house at the season when they are old enough to
begin to take care of themselves, and they often alight on the hammock
ropes or sit on the branches quite near me, looking on with bright,
interested eyes. They have little playful ways that are rather unusual
in a young bird and remind one of kittens. Sometimes when a shred of the
arbor vitæ bark hangs down above them they will play with it, using
their beak as a kitten does its paws, and their voices have an almost
plaintive sweetness that adds greatly to their attractions.
Next perhaps in fussiness to a redeyed vireo may be counted the phœbe;
and there does not appear to be quite so much reason for the phœbe’s
unhappy frame of mind, for on the whole their nests seem rather safer
than those of most birds, built as they so often are in sheltered places
about the houses and barns. But though the nests escape the young phœbes
are very liable to come to grief, and their elders nearly wear
themselves out when the young first leave the nest, which they often
choose to do on a very stormy day. Phœbes are pugnacious, too, and carry
on feuds among themselves year after year, those on the east side of the
house always quarreling with those on the west side, and when they first
come back in the spring there are frequent conflicts, noisily carried on
in midair, which continue at intervals until both parties are too busy
with their nests and young to attend to other things, though even then,
if an idle moment occurs, they promptly take advantage of it to have a
brush with each other. There never seems to be any particular advantage
gained on either side; so dismal as they seem about it all they no doubt
rather enjoy the excitement afforded by these little interludes.
Young phœbes show none of these aggressive qualities, and have the most
gentle and attractive manners and a peculiar air of innocence that is
most captivating. If the parent phœbe brings up an insect all the
nestlings, who may be sitting in a row on a branch, wave their soft
wings and squeak. The parent inspects them for a moment and then feeds
one. The instant the old bird has decided which shall be fed the rest
subside and wait quietly until her return. There is no pushing and
crowding or following the parent.
The slate colored junco is another of the essentially cheerful spirits,
yet has a remarkable sedateness and self-possession, such as one is
sometimes surprised to find in people of particularly quiet and gentle
dispositions. And he has one habit that has made him very dear, for he
always appears in the fall and remains until quite late in the season.
During this time he haunts the evergreen trees in front of the house,
coming back there every evening to sleep or to seek shelter from a
storm, announcing his arrival with low twitterings and restless games of
play. If one goes under the evergreens after dark and gently shakes a
branch there will be a slight fluttering of wings and disturbed sleepy
notes from the juncos. They love to feed in the drive which runs in
front of the house and in the thickets of rose bushes that creep up to
the windows, coming close to the veranda and eating any crumbs that are
thrown out for them, and even on the wettest day looking trim and
contented and bringing with them a sense of companionship which can be
only appreciated by those who have lived much alone, when the different
creatures come to be better known than they can be where there are
people constantly distracting the attention.
The Kentucky cardinal, though I have known it but slightly, made a very
vivid impression because of its gentle pensiveness. I once spent a few
months in a little village in Florida and flocks of these exquisite
creatures appeared from time to time in our garden and in different
places that we visited. They were always rather tame, coming near us and
feeding on the ground, uttering plaintive notes that reminded me of the
cedar bird and which suggested a much smaller bird. The cardinal’s
manner had something so sensitive and touching about it that it appealed
to me at once and made the lovely strangers as dear as though they had
been known a lifetime. They were never hurried or excited and I never
heard a cross note or saw the slightest indication of any friction among
them; but their whole manner was colored with sadness—a quiet,
unobtrusive sadness. Even their song was tinged with it and it was
curious how these brilliant creatures left on the mind a sense of “going
quietly” and being subdued, which made them the greatest contrast to the
absurd redwinged black birds with whom they often shared the umbrella
tree.
Hundreds of other instances of bird character crowd into the mind, as
one writes, and the air seems again full of airy creatures each with his
or her small personality standing out from all the rest in bright
contrast, some grave, some gay, some cross, and others kind, but all
beautiful and full of interest.
Louise Claude.
Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him
Sore, that the song of the robin restrained him
Wrongly of slumber, rudely of rest.
“From the north, from the east, from the south and the west,
Woodland, wheat-field, corn-field, clover,
Over and over and over and over,
Five o’clock, ten o’clock, twelve or seven,
Nothing but robin-songs heard under heaven:
How can we sleep?”
—Sidney Lanier, “Owl Against Robin.”
[Illustration: LOUISIANA WATER-THRUSH.
(Seiurus motacilla).
Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
THE LOUISIANA WATER-THRUSH.
(_Seiurus motacilla._)
The Louisiana Water-thrush is a woodland bird with quite an extended
range, which includes all of the eastern United States west to the
plains and north to Massachusetts, Michigan and Minnesota. It winters in
the region of the Gulf of Mexico and southward into South America. This
bird seems to be burdened with long names, for it is also called the
Large-billed Water-thrush and Large-billed Wagtail Warbler. The last
name is quite appropriate for it, as well as the other water-thrushes,
are warblers rather than thrushes. The name Wagtail well describes one
of its most striking characteristics. It is a dignified bird, and as it
moves with stately steps along the limb of a tree, or a log upon the
ground, the tail moves up and down in rhythm with its step. It is a shy
bird and its “never-ceasing alertness suggests the watchfulness of the
savage.” When discovered and that will not be until it already knows of
the intruder’s presence, it sounds an alarm and quickly flies to some
distant perch where it watches every movement of the invader, its body
constantly teetering as if with suppressed excitement.
When seeking a nesting site the Water-thrush shows a partiality for wild
and favorable localities near a stream of water, especially “where
dashing brooks leap down wooded hillsides.” At times, however, it will
select a retired spot on the wooded banks of a lowland stream or of a
lake. The nest is built in some secure retreat among the roots of an
overturned tree, in the cavity of an old log or stump, or in the moss
under a bank. An impenetrable thicket with a rank growth of ferns and
moss, is the usual desideratum when seeking a place to locate its home.
The nests are bulky and constructed with dead leaves, often partly
decayed, which are obtained from the muddy banks and with the mud still
adhering to them. These, with twigs and rootlets, are laid together and
when the mud dries all are cemented into a compact mass which forms the
wall of the nest. This is lined with fine grasses, small roots, bark
fibers and feathers or hair. The nest is so similar in color to that of
its environment that it is not easily detected.
The Louisiana Water-thrush seldom utters its interesting song when on
the ground, but from some higher perch or when flying. Audubon thought
its song was equal to that of the European nightingale; that its notes
were as powerful and mellow and not infrequently as varied. Dr. Ridgway
says, “This may be true of the ecstatic love-song, heard on rare
occasions, and uttered as the singer floats in perfect abandon of joy,
with spread tail and fluttering wings, but it can hardly be true of the
ordinary song, which, although rich, sweet and penetrating, and almost
startling in the first impression it creates, is soon finished and the
pleasing effect is somewhat transient. It cannot be denied, however,
that its song is one of the richest to be heard in our forests.”
Another Writer speaks of its song as “a beautiful, wild, wayward
effort,” and Mr. Chapman says, “As a songster the Water-thrush is
without a rival. His song is not to be compared with the clear-voiced
carol of the rose-breasted grosbeak, the plaintive chant of the field
sparrow, or the hymnlike melody of the true thrushes; it is of a
different kind. It is the untamable spirit of the bird rendered in
music. There is an almost fierce wildness in its ringing notes. On rare
occasions he is inspired to voice his passion in a flight-song, which so
far exceeds his usual performance that even the memory of it is
thrilling.”