are apparently upon the wing all day. They outride the storms. I have in
my mind a cheering picture of three of them I saw facing a heavy
thunder-shower one afternoon. The wind was blowing a gale, the clouds
were rolling in black, portentous billows out of the west, the peals of
thunder were shaking the heavens, and the big drops were just beginning
to come down, when, on looking up, I saw three swifts high in air,
working their way slowly, straight into the teeth of the storm. They
were not hurried or disturbed; they held themselves firmly and steadily;
indeed, they were fairly at anchor in the air till the rage of the
elements should have subsided. I do not know that any other of our land
birds outride the storms in this way.
In the choice of nesting-material the swift shows no change of habit.
She still snips off the small dry twigs from the tree-tops and glues
them together, and to the side of the chimney, with her own glue. The
soot is a new obstacle in her way, that she does not yet seem to have
learned to overcome, as the rains often loosen it and cause her nest to
fall to the bottom. She has a pretty way of trying to frighten you off
when your head suddenly darkens the opening above her. At such times she
leaves the nest and clings to the side of the chimney near it. Then,
slowly raising her wings, she suddenly springs out from the wall and
back again, making as loud a drumming with them in the passage as she is
capable of. If this does not frighten you away, she repeats it three or
four times. If your face still hovers above her, she remains quiet and
watches you.
What a creature of the air this bird is, never touching the ground, so
far as I know, and never tasting earthly food! The swallow does perch
now and then and descend to the ground for nesting-material, but not so
the swift. The twigs for her nest she gathers on the wing, sweeping
along like children on a "merry-go-round" who try to seize a ring, or to
do some other feat, as they pass a given point. If the swift misses the
twig, or it fails to yield to her the first time, she tries again and
again, each time making a wider circuit, as if to tame and train her
steed a little and bring him up more squarely to the mark next time.
Though the swift is a stiff flyer and apparently without joints in her
wings, yet the air of frolic and of superabundance of wing-power is
more marked with her than with any other of our birds. Her feeding and
twig-gathering seem like asides in a life of endless play. Several times
both in spring and fall I have seen swifts gather in immense numbers
toward nightfall, to take refuge in large unused chimney-stacks. On such
occasions they seem to be coming together for some aerial festival or
grand celebration; and, as if bent upon a final effort to work off a
part of their superabundant wing-power before settling down for the
night, they circle and circle high above the chimney-top, a great cloud
of them, drifting this way and that, all in high spirits and chippering
as they fly. Their numbers constantly increase as other members of the
clan come dashing in from all points of the compass. Swifts seem to
materialize out of empty air on all sides of the chippering, whirling
ring, as an hour or more this assembling of the clan and this flight
festival go on. The birds must gather in from whole counties, or from
half a State. They have been on the wing all day, and yet now they seem
as tireless as the wind, and as if unable to curb their powers.
One fall they gathered in this way and took refuge for the night in a
large chimney-stack in a city near me, and kept this course up for more
than a month and a half. Several times I went to town to witness the
spectacle, and a spectacle it was: ten thousand swifts, I should think,
filling the air above a whole square like a whirling swarm of huge black
bees, but saluting the ear with a multitudinous chippering, instead of a
humming. People gathered upon the sidewalks to see them. It was a rare
circus performance, free to all. After a great many feints and playful
approaches, the whirling ring of birds would suddenly grow denser above
the chimney; then a stream of them, as if drawn down by some power of
suction, would pour into the opening. For only a few seconds would this
downward rush continue; then, as if the spirit of frolic had again got
the upper hand of them, the ring would rise, and the chippering and
circling go on. In a minute or two the same man[oe]uvre would be
repeated, the chimney, as it were, taking its swallows at intervals to
prevent choking. It usually took a half-hour or more for the birds all
to disappear down its capacious throat. There was always an air of
timidity and irresolution about their approach to the chimney, just as
there always is about their approach to the dead tree-top from which
they procure their twigs for nest-building. Often did I see birds
hesitate above the opening and then pass on, apparently as though they
had not struck it at just the right angle. On one occasion a solitary
bird was left flying, and it took three or four trials either to make up
its mind or to catch the trick of the descent. On dark or threatening or
stormy days the birds would begin to assemble by mid-afternoon, and by
four or five o'clock were all in their lodgings.
THE OVEN-BIRD
Every loiterer about the woods knows this pretty, speckled-breasted,
olive-backed little bird, which walks along over the dry leaves a few
yards from him, moving its head as it walks, like a miniature domestic
fowl. Most birds are very stiff-necked, like the robin, and as they run
or hop upon the ground, carry the head as if it were riveted to the
body. Not so the oven-bird, or the other birds that walk, as the
cow-bunting, or the quail, or the crow. They move the head forward with
the movement of the feet. The sharp, reiterated, almost screeching song
of the oven-bird, as it perches on a limb a few feet from the ground,
like the words "preacher, preacher, preacher," or "teacher, teacher,
teacher," uttered louder and louder, and repeated six or seven times, is
also familiar to most ears; but its wild, ringing, rapturous burst of
song in the air high above the tree-tops is not so well known. From a
very prosy, tiresome, unmelodious singer, it is suddenly transformed for
a brief moment into a lyric poet of great power. It is a great surprise.
The bird undergoes a complete transformation. Ordinarily it is a very
quiet, demure sort of bird. It walks about over the leaves, moving its
head like a little hen; then perches on a limb a few feet from the
ground and sends forth its shrill, rather prosy, unmusical chant. Surely
it is an ordinary, commonplace bird. But wait till the inspiration of
its flight-song is upon it. What a change! Up it goes through the
branches of the trees, leaping from limb to limb, faster and faster,
till it shoots from the tree-tops fifty or more feet into the air above
them, and bursts into an ecstasy of song, rapid, ringing, lyrical; no
more like its habitual performance than a match is like a rocket; brief
but thrilling; emphatic but musical. Having reached its climax of flight
and song, the bird closes its wings and drops nearly perpendicularly
downward like the skylark. If its song were more prolonged, it would
rival the song of that famous bird. The bird does this many times a day
during early June, but oftenest at twilight.
About the first of June there is a nest in the woods, upon the ground,
with four creamy-white eggs in it, spotted with brown or lilac, chiefly
about the larger ends, that always gives the walker who is so lucky as
to find it a thrill of pleasure. It is like a ground sparrow's nest with
a roof or canopy to it. The little brown or olive backed bird starts
away from your feet and runs swiftly and almost silently over the dry
leaves, and then turns her speckled breast to see if you are following.
She walks very prettily, by far the prettiest pedestrian in the woods.
But if she thinks you have discovered her secret, she feigns lameness
and disability of both leg and wing, to decoy you into the pursuit of
her. This is the oven-bird. The last nest of this bird I found was while
in quest of the pink cypripedium. We suddenly spied a couple of the
flowers a few steps from the path along which we were walking, and had
stooped to admire them, when out sprang the bird from beside them,
doubtless thinking she was the subject of observation instead of the
rose-purple flowers that swung but a foot or two above her. But we never
should have seen her had she kept her place. She had found a rent in the
matted carpet of dry leaves and pine needles that covered the ground,
and into this had insinuated her nest, the leaves and needles forming a
canopy above it, sloping to the south and west, the source of the more
frequent summer rains.
THE CATBIRD
It requires an effort for me to speak of the singing catbird as he; all
the ways and tones of the bird seem so distinctly feminine. But it is,
of course, only the male that sings. At times I hardly know whether I am
more pleased or annoyed with him. Perhaps he is a little too common, and
his part in the general chorus a little too conspicuous. If you are
listening for the note of another bird, he is sure to be prompted to the
most loud and protracted singing, drowning all other sounds; if you sit
quietly down to observe a favorite or study a new-comer, his curiosity
knows no bounds, and you are scanned and ridiculed from every point of
observation. Yet I would not miss him; I would only subordinate him a
little, make him less conspicuous.
He is the parodist of the woods, and there is ever a mischievous,
bantering, half-ironical undertone in his lay, as if he were conscious
of mimicking and disconcerting some envied songster. Ambitious of song,
practicing and rehearsing in private, he yet seems the least sincere and
genuine of the sylvan minstrels, as if he had taken up music only to be
in the fashion, or not to be outdone by the robins and thrushes. In
other words, he seems to sing from some outward motive, and not from
inward joyousness. He is a good versifier, but not a great poet.
Vigorous, rapid, copious, not without fine touches, but destitute of any
high, serene melody, his performance, like that of Thoreau's squirrel,
always implies a spectator.
There is a certain air and polish about his strain, however, like that
in the vivacious conversation of a well-bred lady of the world, that
commands respect. His parental instinct, also, is very strong, and that
simple structure of dead twigs and dry grass is the centre of much
anxious solicitude. Not long since, while strolling through the woods,
my attention was attracted to a small densely-grown swamp, hedged in
with eglantine, brambles, and the everlasting smilax, from which
proceeded loud cries of distress and alarm, indicating that some
terrible calamity was threatening my sombre-colored minstrel. On
effecting an entrance, which, however, was not accomplished till I had
doffed coat and hat, so as to diminish the surface exposed to the thorns
and brambles, and, looking around me from a square yard of terra firma,
I found myself the spectator of a loathsome yet fascinating scene. Three
or four yards from me was the nest, beneath which, in long festoons,
rested a huge black snake; a bird two-thirds grown was slowly
disappearing between his expanded jaws. As he seemed unconscious of my
presence, I quietly observed the proceedings. By slow degrees he
compassed the bird about with his elastic mouth; his head flattened, his
neck writhed and swelled, and two or three undulatory movements of his
glistening body finished the work. Then he cautiously raised himself up,
his tongue flaming from his mouth the while, curved over the nest, and,
with wavy, subtle motions, explored the interior. I can conceive of
nothing more overpoweringly terrible to an unsuspecting family of birds
than the sudden appearance above their domicile of the head and neck of
this arch-enemy. It is enough to petrify the blood in their veins. Not
finding the object of his search, he came streaming down from the nest
to a lower limb, and commenced extending his researches in other
directions, sliding stealthily through the branches, bent on capturing
one of the parent birds. That a legless, wingless creature should move
with such ease and rapidity where only birds and squirrels are
considered at home, lifting himself up, letting himself down, running
out on the yielding boughs, and traversing with marvelous celerity the
whole length and breadth of the thicket, was truly surprising. One
thinks of the great myth of the Tempter and the "cause of all our woe,"
and wonders if the Arch Enemy is not now playing off some of his pranks
before him. Whether we call it snake or devil matters little. I could
but admire his terrible beauty, however; his black, shining folds, his
easy, gliding movement, head erect, eyes glistening, tongue playing like
subtle flame, and the invisible means of his almost winged locomotion.
The parent birds, in the mean while, kept up the most agonizing cry, at
times fluttering furiously about their pursuer, and actually laying hold
of his tail with their beaks and claws. On being thus attacked, the
snake would suddenly double upon himself and follow his own body back,
thus executing a strategic movement that at first seemed almost to
paralyze his victim and place her within his grasp. Not quite, however.
Before his jaws could close upon the coveted prize the bird would tear
herself away, and, apparently faint and sobbing, retire to a higher
branch. His reputed powers of fascination availed him little, though it
is possible that a frailer and less combative bird might have been held
by the fatal spell. Presently, as he came gliding down the slender body
of a leaning alder, his attention was attracted by a slight movement of
my arm; eyeing me an instant, with that crouching, utterly motionless
gaze which I believe only snakes and devils can assume, he turned
quickly--a feat which necessitated something like crawling over his own
body--and glided off through the branches, evidently recognizing in me a
representative of the ancient parties he once so cunningly ruined. A few
moments later, as he lay carelessly disposed in the top of a rank alder,
trying to look as much like a crooked branch as his supple, shining form
would admit, the old vengeance overtook him. I exercised my prerogative,
and a well-directed missile, in the shape of a stone, brought him
looping and writhing to the ground. After I had completed his downfall
and quiet had been partly restored, a half-fledged member of the
bereaved household came out from his hiding-place, and, jumping upon a
decayed branch, chirped vigorously, no doubt in celebration of the
victory.
THE BOBOLINK
The bobolink has a secure place in literature, having been laureated by
no less a poet than Bryant, and invested with a lasting human charm in
the sunny page of Irving, and is the only one of our songsters, I
believe, that the mockingbird cannot parody or imitate. He affords the
most marked example of exuberant pride, and a glad, rollicking, holiday
spirit, that can be seen among our birds. Every note expresses
complacency and glee. He is a beau of the first pattern, and, unlike any
other bird of my acquaintance, pushes his gallantry to the point of
wheeling gayly into the train of every female that comes along, even
after the season of courtship is over and the matches are all settled;
and when she leads him on too wild a chase, he turns lightly about and
breaks out with a song that is precisely analogous to a burst of gay and
self-satisfied laughter, as much as to say, "_Ha! ha! ha! I must have my
fun, Miss Silverthimble, thimble, thimble, if I break every heart in the
meadow, see, see, see!_"
At the approach of the breeding-season the bobolink undergoes a complete
change; his form changes, his color changes, his flight changes. From
mottled brown or brindle he becomes black and white, earning, in some
localities, the shocking name of "skunk bird"; his small, compact form
becomes broad and conspicuous, and his ordinary flight is laid aside for
a mincing, affected gait, in which he seems to use only the very tips of
his wings. It is very noticeable what a contrast he presents to his mate
at this season, not only in color but in manners, she being as shy and
retiring as he is forward and hilarious. Indeed, she seems disagreeably
serious and indisposed to any fun or jollity, scurrying away at his
approach, and apparently annoyed at every endearing word and look. It is
surprising that all this parade of plumage and tinkling of cymbals
should be gone through with and persisted in to please a creature so
coldly indifferent as she really seems to be.
I know of no other song-bird that expresses so much self-consciousness
and vanity, and comes so near being an ornithological coxcomb. The
redbird, the yellowbird, the indigo-bird, the oriole, the cardinal
grosbeak, and others, all birds of brilliant plumage and musical
ability, seem quite unconscious of self, and neither by tone nor act
challenge the admiration of the beholder.
If I were a bird, in building my nest I should follow the example of the
bobolink, placing it in the midst of a broad meadow, where there was no
spear of grass, or flower, or growth unlike another to mark its site. I
judge that the bobolink escapes the dangers to which nesting birds are
liable as few or no other birds do. Unless the mowers come along at an
earlier date than she has anticipated, that is, before July 1, or a
skunk goes nosing through the grass, which is unusual, she is as safe as
bird well can be in the great open of nature. She selects the most
monotonous and uniform place she can find amid the daisies or the
timothy and clover, and places her simple structure upon the ground in
the midst of it. There is no concealment, except as the great conceals
the little, as the desert conceals the pebble, as the myriad conceals
the unit. You may find the nest once, if your course chances to lead you
across it, and your eye is quick enough to note the silent brown bird as
she darts swiftly away; but step three paces in the wrong direction, and
your search will probably be fruitless. My friend and I found a nest by
accident one day, and then lost it again one minute afterward. I moved
away a few yards to be sure of the mother bird, charging my friend not
to stir from his tracks. When I returned, he had moved two paces, he
said (he had really moved four), and we spent a half-hour stooping over
the daisies and the buttercups, looking for the lost clew. We grew
desperate, and fairly felt the ground over with our hands, but without
avail. I marked the spot with a bush, and came the next day, and, with
the bush as a centre, moved about it in slowly increasing circles,
covering, I thought, nearly every inch of ground with my feet, and
laying hold of it with all the visual power I could command, till my
patience was exhausted, and I gave up, baffled. I began to doubt the
ability of the parent birds themselves to find it, and so secreted
myself and watched. After much delay, the male bird appeared with food
in his beak, and, satisfying himself that the coast was clear, dropped
into the grass which I had trodden down in my search. Fastening my eye
upon a particular meadow-lily, I walked straight to the spot, bent down,
and gazed long and intently into the grass. Finally my eye separated the
nest and its young from its surroundings. My foot had barely missed them
in my search, but by how much they had escaped my eye I could not tell.
Probably not by distance at all, but simply by unrecognition. They were
virtually invisible. The dark gray and yellowish-brown dry grass and
stubble of the meadow-bottom were exactly copied in the color of the
half-fledged young. More than that, they hugged the nest so closely and
formed such a compact mass, that though there were five of them, they
preserved the unit of expression,--no single head or form was defined;
they were one, and that one was without shape or color, and not
separable, except by closest scrutiny, from the one of the
meadow-bottom. That nest prospered, as bobolinks' nests doubtless
generally do; for, notwithstanding the enormous slaughter of the birds
by Southern sportsmen during their fall migrations, the bobolink appears
to hold its own, and its music does not diminish in our Northern
meadows.
THE BOBOLINK
Daisies, clover, buttercup,
Redtop, trefoil, meadowsweet,
Ecstatic pinions, soaring up,
Then gliding down to grassy seat.
Sunshine, laughter, mad desires,
May day, June day, lucid skies,
All reckless moods that love inspires--
The gladdest bird that sings and flies.
Meadows, orchards, bending sprays,
Rushes, lilies, billowy wheat,
Song and frolic fill his days,
A feathered rondeau all complete.
Pink bloom, gold bloom, fleabane white,
Dewdrop, raindrop, cooling shade,
Bubbling throat and hovering flight,
And jocund heart as e'er was made.
THE WOOD THRUSH
The wood thrush is the handsomest species of the thrush family. In grace
and elegance of manner he has no equal. Such a gentle, high-bred air,
and such inimitable ease and composure in his flight and movement! He is
a poet in very word and deed. His carriage is music to the eye. His
performance of the commonest act, as catching a beetle, or picking a
worm from the mud, pleases like a stroke of wit or eloquence. Was he a
prince in the olden time, and do the regal grace and mien still adhere
to him in his transformation? What a finely proportioned form! How
plain, yet rich, his color,--the bright russet of his back, the clear
white of his breast, with the distinct heart-shaped spots! It may be
objected to Robin that he is noisy and demonstrative; he hurries away or
rises to a branch with an angry note, and flirts his wings in ill-bred
suspicion. The thrasher, or red thrush, sneaks and skulks like a
culprit, hiding in the densest alders; the catbird is a coquette and a
flirt, as well as a sort of female Paul Pry; and the chewink shows his
inhospitality by espying your movements like a detective. The wood
thrush has none of these underbred traits. He regards me
unsuspiciously, or avoids me with a noble reserve--or, if I am quiet and
incurious, graciously hops toward me, as if to pay his respects, or to
make my acquaintance. I have passed under his nest within a few feet of
his mate and brood, when he sat near by on a branch eying me sharply,
but without opening his beak; but the moment I raised my hand toward his
defenseless household his anger and indignation were beautiful to
behold.
What a noble pride he has! Late one October, after his mates and
companions had long since gone South, I noticed one for several
successive days in the dense part of this next-door wood, flitting
noiselessly about, very grave and silent, as if doing penance for some
violation of the code of honor. By many gentle, indirect approaches, I
perceived that part of his tail-feathers were undeveloped. The sylvan
prince could not think of returning to court in this plight, and so,
amid the falling leaves and cold rains of autumn, was patiently biding
his time.
[Illustration: WOOD THRUSH]