fragment of newspaper or other paper. Except in remote woods, I think it
nearly always puts a piece of paper in the foundation of its nest. Last
spring I chanced to be sitting near a tree in which a wood thrush had
concluded to build. She came with a piece of paper nearly as large as my
hand, placed it upon the branch, stood upon it a moment, and then flew
down to the ground. A little puff of wind caused the paper to leave the
branch a moment afterward. The thrush watched it eddy slowly down to the
ground, when she seized it and carried it back. She placed it in
position as before, stood upon it again for a moment, and then flew
away. Again the paper left the branch, and sailed away slowly to the
ground. The bird seized it again, jerking it about rather spitefully, I
thought; she turned it round two or three times, then labored back to
the branch with it, upon which she shifted it about as if to hit upon
some position in which it would lie more securely. This time she sat
down upon it for a moment, and then went away, doubtless with the
thought in her head that she would bring something to hold it down. The
perverse paper followed her in a few seconds. She seized it again, and
hustled it about more than before. As she rose with it toward the nest,
it in some way impeded her flight, and she was compelled to return to
the ground with it. But she kept her temper remarkably well. She turned
the paper over and took it up in her beak several times before she was
satisfied with her hold, and then carried it back to the branch, where,
however, it would not stay. I saw her make six trials of it, when I was
called away. I think she finally abandoned the restless fragment,
probably a scrap that held some "breezy" piece of writing, for later in
the season I examined the nest and found no paper in it.
How completely the life of a bird revolves about its nest, its home! In
the case of the wood thrush, its life and joy seem to mount higher and
higher as the nest prospers. The male becomes a fountain of melody; his
happiness waxes day by day; he makes little triumphal tours about the
neighborhood, and pours out his pride and gladness in the ears of all.
How sweet, how well-bred, is his demonstration! But let any accident
befall that precious nest, and what a sudden silence falls upon him!
Last summer a pair of wood thrushes built their nest within a few rods
of my house, and when the enterprise was fairly launched and the mother
bird was sitting upon her four blue eggs, the male was in the height of
his song. How he poured forth his rich melody, never in the immediate
vicinity of the nest, but always within easy hearing distance! Every
morning, as promptly as the morning came, between five and six, he would
sing for half an hour from the top of a locust-tree that shaded my
roof. I came to expect him as much as I expected my breakfast, and I was
not disappointed till one morning I seemed to miss something. What was
it? Oh, the thrush had not sung this morning. Something is the matter;
and, recollecting that yesterday I had seen a red squirrel in the trees
not far from the nest, I at once inferred that the nest had been
harried. Going to the spot, I found my fears were well grounded; every
egg was gone. The joy of the thrush was laid low. No more songs from the
tree-top, and no more songs from any point, till nearly a week had
elapsed, when I heard him again under the hill, where the pair had
started a new nest, cautiously tuning up, and apparently with his recent
bitter experience still weighing upon him.
There is no nest-builder that suffers more from crows and squirrels and
other enemies than the wood thrush. It builds as openly and
unsuspiciously as if it thought all the world as honest as itself. Its
favorite place is the fork of a sapling, eight or ten feet from the
ground, where it falls an easy prey to every nest-robber that comes
prowling through the woods and groves. It is not a bird that skulks and
hides, like the catbird, the brown thrasher, the chat, or the chewink,
and its nest is not concealed with the same art as theirs. Our thrushes
are all frank, open-mannered birds; but the veery and the hermit build
on the ground, where they may at least escape the crows, owls, and jays,
and stand a good chance of being overlooked by the red squirrel and
weasel also; while the robin seeks the protection of dwellings and
outbuildings. For years I have not known the nest of a wood thrush to
succeed. During the season referred to I observed but two, both
apparently a second attempt, as the season was well advanced, and both
failures. In one case, the nest was placed in a branch that an
apple-tree, standing near a dwelling, held out over the highway. The
structure was barely ten feet above the middle of the road, and would
just escape a passing load of hay. It was made conspicuous by the use of
a large fragment of newspaper in its foundation,--an unsafe material to
build upon in most cases. Whatever else the press may guard, this
particular newspaper did not guard this nest from harm. It saw the egg
and probably the chick, but not the fledgeling. A murderous deed was
committed above the public highway, but whether in the open day or under
cover of darkness I have no means of knowing. The frisky red squirrel
was doubtless the culprit. The other nest was in a maple sapling, within
a few yards of the little rustic summer-house already referred to. The
first attempt of the season, I suspect, had failed in a more secluded
place under the hill; so the pair had come up nearer the house for
protection. The male sang in the trees near by for several days before I
chanced to see the nest. The very morning, I think, it was finished, I
saw a red squirrel exploring a tree but a few yards away; he probably
knew what the singing meant as well as I did. I did not see the inside
of the nest, for it was almost instantly deserted, the female having
probably laid a single egg, which the squirrel had devoured.
One evening, while seated upon my porch, I had convincing proof that
musical or song contests do take place among the birds. Two wood
thrushes who had nests near by sat on the top of a dead tree and pitted
themselves against each other in song for over half an hour, contending
like champions in a game, and certainly affording the rarest treat in
wood-thrush melody I had ever had. They sang and sang with unwearied
spirit and persistence, now and then changing position or facing in
another direction, but keeping within a few feet of each other. The
rivalry became so obvious and was so interesting that I finally made it
a point not to take my eyes from the singers. The twilight deepened till
their forms began to grow dim; then one of the birds could stand the
strain no longer, the limit of fair competition had been reached, and
seeming to say, "I will silence you, anyhow," it made a spiteful dive at
its rival, and in hot pursuit the two disappeared in the bushes beneath
the tree.
THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE
The nest of nests, the ideal nest, is unquestionably that of the
Baltimore oriole. It is the only perfectly pensile nest we have. The
nest of the orchard oriole is indeed mainly so, but this bird generally
builds lower and shallower, more after the manner of the vireos.
The Baltimore oriole loves to attach its nest to the swaying branches of
the tallest elms, making no attempt at concealment, but satisfied if the
position be high and the branch pendent. This nest would seem to cost
more time and skill than any other bird structure. A peculiar flax-like
material seems to be always sought after and always found. The nest when
completed assumes the form of a large, suspended gourd. The walls are
thin but firm, and proof against the most driving rain. The mouth is
hemmed or over-handed with strings or horsehair, and the sides are
usually sewed through and through with the same.
Not particular as to the matter of secrecy, the bird is not particular
as to material, so that it be of the nature of strings or threads. A
lady friend once told me that, while she was working by an open window,
one of these birds approached while her back was turned, and, seizing a
skein of some kind of thread or yarn, made off with it to its
half-finished nest. But the perverse yarn caught fast in the branches,
and, in the bird's efforts to extricate it, got hopelessly tangled. She
tugged away at it all day, but was finally obliged to content herself
with a few detached portions. The fluttering strings were an eyesore to
her ever after, and, passing and repassing, she would give them a
spiteful jerk, as much as to say, "There is that confounded yarn that
gave me so much trouble."
[Illustration: BALTIMORE ORIOLE
Upper, male; lower, female]
One day in Kentucky I saw an oriole weave into her nest unusual
material. As we sat upon the lawn in front of the cottage, we had
noticed the bird just beginning her structure, suspending it from a
long, low branch of the Kentucky coffee-tree that grew but a few feet
away. I suggested to my host that if he would take some brilliant yarn
and scatter it about upon the shrubbery, the fence, and the walks, the
bird would probably avail herself of it, and weave a novel nest. I had
heard of its being done, but had never tried it myself. The suggestion
was at once acted upon, and in a few moments a handful of zephyr yarn,
crimson, orange, green, yellow, and blue, was distributed about the
grounds. As we sat at dinner a few moments later, I saw the eager bird
flying up toward her nest with one of these brilliant yarns streaming
behind her. They had caught her eye at once, and she fell to work upon
them with a will; not a bit daunted by their brilliant color, she soon
had a crimson spot there amid the green leaves. She afforded us rare
amusement all the afternoon and the next morning. How she seemed to
congratulate herself over her rare find! How vigorously she knotted
those strings to her branch and gathered the ends in and sewed them
through and through the structure, jerking them spitefully like a
housewife burdened with many cares! How savagely she would fly at her
neighbor, an oriole that had a nest just over the fence a few yards
away, when she invaded her territory! The male looked on approvingly,
but did not offer to lend a hand. There is something in the manner of
the female on such occasions, something so decisive and emphatic, that
one entirely approves of the course of the male in not meddling or
offering any suggestions. It is the wife's enterprise, and she evidently
knows her own mind so well that the husband keeps aloof, or plays the
part of an approving spectator.
The woolen yarn was ill-suited to the Kentucky climate. This fact the
bird seemed to appreciate, for she used it only in the upper part of
her nest, in attaching it to the branch and in binding and compacting
the rim, making the sides and bottom of hemp, leaving it thin and airy,
much more so than are the same nests with us. No other bird would,
perhaps, have used such brilliant material; their instincts of
concealment would have revolted, but the oriole aims more to make its
nest inaccessible than to hide it. Its position and depth insure its
safety.
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL
One day in May, walking in the woods, I came upon the nest of a
whip-poor-will, or rather its eggs, for it builds no nest,--two
elliptical whitish spotted eggs lying upon the dry leaves. My foot was
within a yard of the mother bird before she flew. I wondered what a
sharp eye would detect curious or characteristic in the ways of the
bird, so I came to the place many times and had a look. It was always a
task to separate the bird from her surroundings, though I stood within a
few feet of her, and knew exactly where to look. One had to bear on with
his eye, as it were, and refuse to be baffled. The sticks and leaves,
and bits of black or dark-brown bark, were all exactly copied in the
bird's plumage. And then she did sit so close, and simulate so well a
shapeless, decaying piece of wood or bark! Twice I brought a companion,
and, guiding his eye to the spot, noted how difficult it was for him to
make out there, in full view upon the dry leaves, any semblance to a
bird. When the bird returned after being disturbed, she would alight
within a few inches of her eggs, and then, after a moment's pause,
hobble awkwardly upon them.
[Illustration: WHIP-POOR-WILL]
After the young had appeared, all the wit of the bird came into play. I
was on hand the next day, I think. The mother bird sprang up when I was
within a pace of her, and in doing so fanned the leaves with her wings
till they sprang up, too; as the leaves started the young started, and
as they were of the same color, to tell which was the leaf and which the
bird was a trying task to any eye. I came the next day, when the same
tactics were repeated. Once a leaf fell upon one of the young birds and
nearly hid it. The young are covered with a reddish down, like a young
partridge, and soon follow their mother about. When disturbed, they gave
but one leap, then settled down, perfectly motionless and stupid, with
eyes closed. The parent bird, on these occasions, made frantic efforts
to decoy me away from her young. She would fly a few paces and fall upon
her breast, and a spasm, like that of death, would run through her
tremulous outstretched wings and prostrate body. She kept a sharp eye
out the mean while to see if the ruse took, and, if it did not, she was
quickly cured, and, moving about to some other point, tried to draw my
attention as before. When followed she always alighted upon the ground,
dropping down in a sudden, peculiar way. The second or third day both
old and young had disappeared.
The whip-poor-will walks as awkwardly as a swallow, which is as awkward
as a man in a bag, and yet she manages to lead her young about the
woods. The latter, I think, move by leaps and sudden spurts, their
protective coloring shielding them most effectively.
* * * * *
As the shadows deepen and the stars begin to come out, the
whip-poor-will suddenly strikes up. What a rude intrusion upon the
serenity and harmony of the hour! A cry without music, insistent,
reiterated, loud, penetrating, and yet the ear welcomes it; the night
and the solitude are so vast that they can stand it; and when, an hour
later, as the night enters into full possession, the bird comes and
serenades me under my window or upon my doorstep, my heart warms toward
it. Its cry is a love-call, and there is something of the ardor and
persistence of love in it, and when the female responds, and comes and
hovers near, there is an interchange of subdued, caressing tones between
the two birds that it is a delight to hear. During my first summer in my
cabin one bird used to strike up every night from a high ledge of rocks
in front of my door. At just such a moment in the twilight he would
begin, the first to break the stillness. Then the others would follow,
till the solitude was vocal with their calls. They are rarely heard
later than ten o'clock. Then at daybreak they take up the tale again,
whipping poor Will till one pities him. One April morning between three
and four o'clock, hearing one strike up near my window, I began counting
its calls. My neighbor had told me he had heard one call over two
hundred times without a break, which seemed to me a big story. But I
have a much bigger one to tell. This bird actually laid upon the back of
poor Will one thousand and eighty-eight blows, with only a barely
perceptible pause here and there, as if to catch its breath. Then it
stopped about half a minute and began again, uttering this time three
hundred and ninety calls, when it paused, flew a little farther away,
took up the tale once more, and continued till I fell asleep.
By day the whip-poor-will apparently sits motionless upon the ground. A
few times in my walks through the woods I have started one up from
almost under my feet. On such occasions the bird's movements suggest
those of a bat; its wings make no noise, and it wavers about in an
uncertain manner, and quickly drops to the ground again. One June day we
flushed an old one with her two young, but there was no indecision or
hesitation in the manner of the mother bird this time. The young were
more than half fledged, and they scampered away a few yards and
suddenly squatted upon the ground, where their assimilative coloring
rendered them almost invisible. Then the anxious parent put forth all
her arts to absorb our attention and lure us away from her offspring.
She flitted before us from side to side, with spread wings and tail, now
falling upon the ground, where she would remain a moment as if quite
disabled, then perching upon an old stump or low branch with drooping,
quivering wings, and imploring us by every gesture to take her and spare
her young. My companion had his camera with him, but the bird would not
remain long enough in one position for him to get her picture.
THE BLACK-THROATED BLUE WARBLER
A SEARCH FOR A RARE NEST
I had set out in hopes of finding a rare nest,--the nest of the
black-throated blue-backed warbler, which, it seemed, with one or two
others, was still wanting to make the history of our warblers complete.
The woods were extensive, and full of deep, dark tangles, and looking
for any particular nest seemed about as hopeless a task as searching for
a needle in a haystack, as the old saying is. Where to begin, and how?
But the principle is the same as in looking for a hen's nest,--first
find your bird, then watch its movements.
The bird is in these woods, for I have seen him scores of times, but
whether he builds high or low, on the ground or in the trees, is all
unknown to me. That is his song now,--"twe-twea-twe-e-e-a," with a
peculiar summer languor and plaintiveness, and issuing from the lower
branches and growths. Presently we--for I have been joined by a
companion--discover the bird, a male, insecting in the top of a newly
fallen hemlock. The black, white, and blue of his uniform are seen at a
glance. His movements are quite slow compared with some of the warblers.
If he will only betray the locality of that little domicile where his
plainly clad mate is evidently sitting, it is all we will ask of him.
But this he seems in no wise disposed to do. Here and there, and up and
down, we follow him, often losing him, and as often refinding him by his
song; but the clew to his nest, how shall we get it? Does he never go
home to see how things are getting on, or to see if his presence is not
needed, or to take madam a morsel of food? No doubt he keeps within
earshot, and a cry of distress or alarm from the mother bird would bring
him to the spot in an instant. Would that some evil fate would make her
cry, then! Presently he encounters a rival. His feeding-ground infringes
upon that of another, and the two birds regard each other threateningly.
This is a good sign, for their nests are evidently near.
Their battle-cry is a low, peculiar chirp, not very fierce, but
bantering and confident. They quickly come to blows, but it is a very
fantastic battle, and, as it would seem, indulged in more to satisfy
their sense of honor than to hurt each other, for neither party gets the
better of the other, and they separate a few paces and sing, and squeak,
and challenge each other in a very happy frame of mind. The gauntlet is
no sooner thrown down than it is again taken up by one or the other, and
in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes they have three or four
encounters, separating a little, then provoked to return again like two
cocks, till finally they withdraw beyond hearing of each other,--both,
no doubt, claiming the victory. But the secret of the nest is still
kept. Once I think I have it. I catch a glimpse of a bird which looks
like the female, and near by, in a small hemlock about eight feet from
the ground, my eye detects a nest. But as I come up under it, I can see
daylight through it, and that it is empty,--evidently only partly
finished, not lined or padded yet. Now if the bird will only return and
claim it, the point will be gained. But we wait and watch in vain. The
architect has knocked off to-day, and we must come again, or continue
our search.
Despairing of finding either of the nests of the two males, we pushed on
through the woods to try our luck elsewhere. Before long, just as we
were about to plunge down a hill into a dense, swampy part of the woods,
we discovered a pair of the birds we were in quest of. They had food in
their beaks, and, as we paused, showed great signs of alarm, indicating
that the nest was in the immediate vicinity. This was enough. We would
pause here and find this nest, anyhow. To make a sure thing of it, we
determined to watch the parent birds till we had wrung from them their
secret. So we doggedly crouched down and watched them, and they watched
us. It was diamond cut diamond. But as we felt constrained in our
movements, desiring, if possible, to keep so quiet that the birds would,
after a while, see in us only two harmless stumps or prostrate logs, we
had much the worst of it. The mosquitoes were quite taken with our
quiet, and knew us from logs and stumps in a moment. Neither were the
birds deceived, not even when we tried the Indian's tactics, and plumed
ourselves with green branches. Ah, the suspicious creatures, how they
watched us with the food in their beaks, abstaining for one whole hour
from ministering to that precious charge which otherwise would have been
visited every few moments! Quite near us they would come at times,
between us and the nest, eying us so sharply. Then they would move off,
and apparently try to forget our presence. Was it to deceive us, or to
persuade himself and his mate that there was no serious cause for alarm,
that the male would now and then strike up in full song and move off to
some distance through the trees? But the mother bird did not allow
herself to lose sight of us at all, and both birds, after carrying the
food in their beaks a long time, would swallow it themselves. Then they
would obtain another morsel and apparently approach very near the nest,
when their caution or prudence would come to their aid, and they would
swallow the food and hasten away. I thought the young birds would cry
out, but not a syllable from them. Yet this was, no doubt, what kept the
parent birds away from the nest. The clamor the young would have set up
on the approach of the old with food would have exposed everything.
After a time I felt sure I knew within a few feet where the nest was
concealed. Indeed, I thought I knew the identical bush. Then the birds
approached each other again and grew very confidential about another
locality some rods below. This puzzled us, and, seeing the whole
afternoon might be spent in this manner and the mystery unsolved, we
determined to change our tactics and institute a thorough search of the
locality. This procedure soon brought things to a crisis, for, as my
companion clambered over a log by a little hemlock, a few yards from
where we had been sitting, with a cry of alarm out sprang the young
birds from their nest in the hemlock, and, scampering and fluttering
over the leaves, disappeared in different directions. Instantly the
parent birds were on the scene in an agony of alarm. Their distress was
pitiful. They threw themselves on the ground at our very feet, and
fluttered, and cried, and trailed themselves before us, to draw us away
from the place, or distract our attention from the helpless young. I
shall not forget the male bird, how bright he looked, how sharp the
contrast as he trailed his painted plumage there on the dry leaves.
Apparently he was seriously disabled. He would start up as if exerting
every muscle to fly away, but no use; down he would come, with a
helpless, fluttering motion, before he had gone two yards, and
apparently you had only to go and pick him up. But before you could pick
him up, he had recovered somewhat and flown a little farther; and thus,
if you were tempted to follow him, you would soon find yourself some
distance from the scene of the nest, and both old and young well out of
your reach. The female bird was not less solicitous, and practiced the
same arts upon us to decoy us away, but her dull plumage rendered her
less noticeable. The male was clad in holiday attire, but his mate in an
every-day working-garb.
The nest was built in the fork of a little hemlock, about fifteen inches
from the ground, and was a thick, firm structure, composed of the finer
material of the woods, with a lining of very delicate roots or rootlets.
There were four young birds and one addled egg.
THE MARSH HAWK
A MARSH HAWK'S NEST, A YOUNG HAWK, AND A VISIT TO A QUAIL ON HER NEST
Most country boys, I fancy, know the marsh hawk. It is he you see flying
low over the fields, beating about bushes and marshes and dipping over
the fences, with his attention directed to the ground beneath him. He is
a cat on wings. He keeps so low that the birds and mice do not see him
till he is fairly upon them. The hen-hawk swoops down upon the
meadow-mouse from his position high in air, or from the top of a dead
tree; but the marsh hawk stalks him and comes suddenly upon him from
over the fence, or from behind a low bush or tuft of grass. He is nearly
as large as the hen-hawk, but has a much longer tail. When I was a boy I
used to call him the long-tailed hawk. The male is of a bluish
slate-color; the female reddish-brown, like the hen-hawk, with a white
rump.