nearly all withdrawn from the stage and become silent, their broods
reared and flown. August is his month, his festive season. It is his
turn now. The thistles are ripening their seeds, and his nest is
undisturbed by jay-bird or crow. He is the first bird I hear in the
morning, circling and swinging through the air in that peculiar
undulating flight, and calling out on the downward curve of each stroke,
"Here we go, here we go!" Every hour in the day he indulges in his
circling, billowy flight. It is a part of his musical performance. His
course at such times is a deeply undulating line, like the long, gentle
roll of the summer sea, the distance from crest to crest or from valley
to valley being probably thirty feet; this distance is made with but one
brief beating of the wings on the downward curve. As he quickly opens
them, they give him a strong upward impulse, and he describes the long
arc with them closely folded. Thus, falling and recovering, rising and
sinking like dolphins in the sea, he courses through the summer air. In
marked contrast to this feat is his manner of flying when he indulges in
a brief outburst of song on the wing. Now he flies level, with broad
expanded wings nearly as round and as concave as two shells, which beat
the air slowly. The song is the chief matter now, and the wings are used
only to keep him afloat while delivering it. In the other case, the
flight is the main concern, and the voice merely punctuates it.
* * * * *
Among our familiar birds the matchmaking of none other is quite so
pretty as that of the goldfinch. The goldfinches stay with us in loose
flocks and clad in a dull-olive suit throughout the winter. In May the
males begin to put on their bright summer plumage. This is the result of
a kind of superficial moulting. Their feathers are not shed, but their
dusky covering or overalls are cast off. When the process is only partly
completed, the bird has a smutty, unpresentable appearance. But we
seldom see them at such times. They seem to retire from society. When
the change is complete, and the males have got their bright uniforms of
yellow and black, the courting begins. All the goldfinches of a
neighborhood collect together and hold a sort of musical festival. To
the number of many dozens they may be seen in some large tree, all
singing and calling in the most joyous and vivacious manner. The males
sing, and the females chirp and call. Whether there is actual
competition on a trial of musical abilities of the males before the
females or not, I do not know. The best of feeling seems to pervade the
company; there is no sign of quarreling or fighting; "all goes merry as
a marriage bell," and the matches seem actually to be made during these
musical picnics. Before May is passed the birds are seen in couples, and
in June housekeeping usually begins. This I call the ideal of
love-making among birds, and is in striking contrast to the squabbles
and jealousies of most of our songsters.
I have known the goldfinches to keep up this musical and love-making
festival through three consecutive days of a cold northeast rainstorm.
Bedraggled, but ardent and happy, the birds were not to be dispersed by
wind or weather.
THE HEN-HAWK[1]
August is the month of the high-sailing hawks. The hen-hawk is the most
noticeable. He likes the haze and calm of these long, warm days. He is a
bird of leisure, and seems always at his ease. How beautiful and
majestic are his movements! So self-poised and easy, such an entire
absence of haste, such a magnificent amplitude of circles and spirals,
such a haughty, imperial grace, and, occasionally, such daring aerial
evolutions!
With slow, leisurely movement, rarely vibrating his pinions, he mounts
and mounts in an ascending spiral till he appears a mere speck against
the summer sky; then, if the mood seizes him, with wings half closed,
like a bent bow, he will cleave the air almost perpendicularly, as if
intent on dashing himself to pieces against the earth; but on nearing
the ground he suddenly mounts again on broad, expanded wing, as if
rebounding upon the air, and sails leisurely away. It is the sublimest
feat of the season. One holds his breath till he sees him rise again.
If inclined to a more gradual and less precipitous descent, he fixes
his eye on some distant point in the earth beneath him, and thither
bends his course. He is still almost meteoric in his speed and boldness.
You see his path down the heavens, straight as a line; if near, you hear
the rush of his wings; his shadow hurtles across the fields, and in an
instant you see him quietly perched upon some low tree or decayed stub
in a swamp or meadow, with reminiscences of frogs and mice stirring in
his maw.
When the south wind blows, it is a study to see three or four of these
air-kings at the head of the valley far up toward the mountain,
balancing and oscillating upon the strong current; now quite stationary,
except for a slight tremulous motion like the poise of a rope-dancer,
then rising and falling in long undulations, and seeming to resign
themselves passively to the wind; or, again, sailing high and level far
above the mountain's peak, no bluster and haste, but, as stated,
occasionally a terrible earnestness and speed. Fire at one as he sails
overhead, and, unless wounded badly, he will not change his course or
gait.
The calmness and dignity of this hawk, when attacked by crows or the
kingbird, are well worthy of him. He seldom deigns to notice his noisy
and furious antagonists, but deliberately wheels about in that aerial
spiral, and mounts and mounts till his pursuers grow dizzy and return to
earth again. It is quite original, this mode of getting rid of an
unworthy opponent,--rising to heights where the braggart is dazed and
bewildered and loses his reckoning! I am not sure but it is worthy of
imitation.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The red-tailed and red-shouldered hawks are both called hen-hawks.
THE RUFFED GROUSE, OR PARTRIDGE
Whir! whir! whir! and a brood of half-grown partridges start up like an
explosion, a few paces from me, and, scattering, disappear into the
bushes on all sides. Let me sit down here behind the screen of ferns and
briers, and hear this wild hen of the woods call together her brood. At
what an early age the partridge flies! Nature seems to concentrate her
energies on the wing, making the safety of the bird a point to be looked
after first; and while the body is covered with down, and no signs of
feathers are visible there, the wing-quills sprout and unfold, and in an
incredibly short time the young make fair headway in flying.
Hark! there arises over there in the brush a soft, persuasive cooing, a
sound so subtle and wild and unobtrusive that it requires the most alert
and watchful ear to hear it. How gentle and solicitous and full of
yearning love! It is the voice of the mother hen. Presently a faint
timid "Yeap!" which almost eludes the ear, is heard in various
directions,--the young responding. As no danger seems near, the cooing
of the parent bird is soon a very audible clucking call, and the young
move cautiously in that direction. Let me step never so carefully from
my hiding-place, and all sounds instantly cease, and I search in vain
for either parent or young.
The partridge is one of our native and most characteristic birds. The
woods seem good to be in where I find him. He gives a habitable air to
the forest, and one feels as if the rightful occupant were really at
home. The woods where I do not find him seem to want something, as if
suffering from some neglect of Nature. And then he is such a splendid
success, so hardy and vigorous. I think he enjoys the cold and the snow.
His wings seem to rustle with more fervency in midwinter. If the snow
falls very fast, and promises a heavy storm, he will complacently sit
down and allow himself to be snowed under. When you approach him at such
times, he suddenly bursts out of the snow at your feet, scattering the
flakes in all directions, and goes humming away through the woods like a
bomb-shell,--a picture of native spirit and success.
His drum is one of the most welcome and beautiful sounds of spring.
Scarcely have the trees expanded their buds, when, in the still April
mornings, or toward nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted wings. He
selects, not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log, but a
decayed and crumbling one, seeming to give the preference to old
oak-logs that are partly blended with the soil. If a log to his taste
cannot be found, he sets up his altar on a rock, which becomes resonant
beneath his fervent blows. Who has seen the partridge drum? It is the
next thing to catching a weasel asleep, though by much caution and tact
it may be done. He does not hug the log, but stands very erect, expands
his ruff, gives two introductory blows, pauses half a second, and then
resumes, striking faster and faster till the sound becomes a continuous,
unbroken whir, the whole lasting less than half a minute. The tips of
his wings barely brush the log, so that the sound is produced rather by
the force of the blows upon the air and upon his own body as in flying.
One log will be used for many years, though not by the same drummer. It
seems to be a sort of temple and held in great respect. The bird always
approaches on foot, and leaves it in the same quiet manner, unless
rudely disturbed. He is very cunning, though his wit is not profound. It
is difficult to approach him by stealth; you will try many times before
succeeding; but seem to pass by him in a great hurry, making all the
noise possible, and with plumage furled he stands as immovable as a
knot, allowing you a good view.
The sharp-rayed track of the partridge adds another figure to the
fantastic embroidery upon the winter snow. Her course is a clear, strong
line, sometimes quite wayward, but generally very direct, steering for
the densest, most impenetrable places,--leading you over logs and
through brush, alert and expectant, till, suddenly, she bursts up a few
yards from you, and goes humming through the trees,--the complete
triumph of endurance and vigor. Hardy native bird, may your tracks never
be fewer, or your visits to the birch-tree less frequent!
THE PARTRIDGE
List the booming from afar,
Soft as hum of roving bee,
Vague as when on distant bar
Fall the cataracts of the sea.
Yet again, a sound astray,
Was it the humming of the mill?
Was it cannon leagues away?
Or dynamite beyond the hill?
'T is the grouse with kindled soul,
Wistful of his mate and nest,
Sounding forth his vernal roll
On his love-enkindled breast.
List his fervid morning drum,
List his summons soft and deep,
Calling Spice-bush till she come,
Waking Bloodroot from her sleep.
Ah! ruffled drummer, let thy wing
Beat a march the days will heed,
Wake and spur the tardy spring,
Till minstrel voices jocund ring,
And spring is spring in very deed.
THE CROW
The crow may not have the sweet voice which the fox in his flattery
attributed to him, but he has a good, strong, native speech
nevertheless. How much character there is in it! How much thrift and
independence! Of course his plumage is firm, his color decided, his wit
quick. He understands you at once and tells you so; so does the hawk by
his scornful, defiant _whir-r-r-r-r_. Hardy, happy outlaws, the crows,
how I love them! Alert, social, republican, always able to look out for
himself, not afraid of the cold and the snow, fishing when flesh is
scarce, and stealing when other resources fail, the crow is a character
I would not willingly miss from the landscape. I love to see his track
in the snow or the mud, and his graceful pedestrianism about the brown
fields.
He is no interloper, but has the air and manner of being thoroughly at
home, and in rightful possession of the land. He is no sentimentalist
like some of the plaining, disconsolate song-birds, but apparently is
always in good health and good spirits. No matter who is sick, or
dejected, or unsatisfied, or what the weather is, or what the price of
corn, the crow is well and finds life sweet. He is the dusky embodiment
of worldly wisdom and prudence. Then he is one of Nature's
self-appointed constables and greatly magnifies his office. He would
fain arrest every hawk or owl or grimalkin that ventures abroad. I have
known a posse of them to beset the fox and cry "Thief!" till Reynard hid
himself for shame. Do I say the fox flattered the crow when he told him
he had a sweet voice? Yet one of the most musical sounds in nature
proceeds from the crow. All the crow tribe, from the blue jay up, are
capable of certain low ventriloquial notes that have peculiar cadence
and charm. I often hear the crow indulging in his in winter, and am
reminded of the sound of the dulcimer. The bird stretches up and exerts
himself like a cock in the act of crowing, and gives forth a peculiarly
clear, vitreous sound that is sure to arrest and reward your attention.
This is, no doubt, the song the fox begged to be favored with, as in
delivering it the crow must inevitably let drop the piece of meat.
The crow has fine manners. He always has the walk and air of a lord of
the soil. One morning I put out some fresh meat upon the snow near my
study window. Presently a crow came and carried it off, and alighted
with it upon the ground in the vineyard. While he was eating it,
another crow came, and, alighting a few yards away, slowly walked up to
within a few feet of this fellow and stopped. I expected to see a
struggle over the food, as would have been the case with domestic fowls
or animals. Nothing of the kind. The feeding crow stopped eating,
regarded the other for a moment, made a gesture or two, and flew away.
Then the second crow went up to the food, and proceeded to take his
share. Presently the first crow came back, when each seized a portion of
the food and flew away with it. Their mutual respect and good-will
seemed perfect. Whether it really was so in our human sense, or whether
it was simply an illustration of the instinct of mutual support which
seems to prevail among gregarious birds, I know not. Birds that are
solitary in their habits, like hawks or woodpeckers, behave quite
differently toward each other in the presence of their food.
The crow will quickly discover anything that looks like a trap or snare
set to catch him, but it takes him a long time to see through the
simplest contrivance. As I have above stated, I sometimes place meat on
the snow in front of my study window to attract him. On one occasion,
after a couple of crows had come to expect something there daily, I
suspended a piece of meat by a string from a branch of the tree just
over the spot where I usually placed the food. A crow soon discovered
it, and came into the tree to see what it meant. His suspicions were
aroused. There was some design in that suspended meat, evidently. It was
a trap to catch him. He surveyed it from every near branch. He peeked
and pried, and was bent on penetrating the mystery. He flew to the
ground, and walked about and surveyed it from all sides. Then he took a
long walk down about the vineyard as if in hope of hitting upon some
clew. Then he came to the tree again, and tried first one eye, then the
other, upon it; then to the ground beneath; then he went away and came
back; then his fellow came, and they both squinted and investigated, and
then disappeared. Chickadees and woodpeckers would alight upon the meat
and peck it swinging in the wind, but the crows were fearful. Does this
show reflection? Perhaps it does, but I look upon it rather as that
instinct of fear and cunning so characteristic of the crow. Two days
passed thus: every morning the crows came and surveyed the suspended
meat from all points in the tree, and then went away. The third day I
placed a large bone on the snow beneath the suspended morsel. Presently
one of the crows appeared in the tree, and bent his eye upon the
tempting bone. "The mystery deepens," he seemed to say to himself. But
after half an hour's investigation, and after approaching several times
within a few feet of the food upon the ground, he seemed to conclude
there was no connection between it and the piece hanging by the string.
So he finally walked up to it and fell to pecking it, flickering his
wings all the time, as a sign of his watchfulness. He also turned up his
eye, momentarily, to the piece in the air above, as if it might be some
disguised sword of Damocles ready to fall upon him. Soon his mate came
and alighted on a low branch of the tree. The feeding crow regarded him
a moment, and then flew up to his side, as if to give him a turn at the
meat. But he refused to run the risk. He evidently looked upon the whole
thing as a delusion and a snare, and presently went away, and his mate
followed him. Then I placed the bone in one of the main forks of the
tree, but the crows kept at a safe distance from it. Then I put it back
to the ground, but they grew more and more suspicious; some evil intent
in it all, they thought. Finally a dog carried off the bone, and the
crows ceased to visit the tree.
* * * * *
From my boyhood I have seen the yearly meeting of the crows in September
or October, on a high grassy hill or a wooded ridge. Apparently, all
the crows from a large area assemble at these times; you may see them
coming, singly or in loose bands, from all directions to the rendezvous,
till there are hundreds of them together. They make black an acre or two
of ground. At intervals they all rise in the air, and wheel about, all
cawing at once. Then to the ground again, or to the tree-tops, as the
case may be; then, rising again, they send forth the voice of the
multitude. What does it all mean? I notice that this rally is always
preliminary to their going into winter quarters. It would be interesting
to know just the nature of the communication that takes place between
them.
THE CROW
I
My friend and neighbor through the year,
Self-appointed overseer
Of my crops of fruit and grain,
Of my woods and furrowed plain,
Claim thy tithings right and left,
I shall never call it theft.
Nature wisely made the law,
And I fail to find a flaw
In thy title to the earth,
And all it holds of any worth.
I like thy self-complacent air,
I like thy ways so free from care,
Thy landlord stroll about my fields,
Quickly noting what each yields;
Thy courtly mien and bearing bold,
As if thy claim were bought with gold;
Thy floating shape against the sky,
When days are calm and clouds are high;
Thy thrifty flight ere rise of sun,
Thy homing clans when day is done.
Hues protective are not thine,
So sleek thy coat each quill doth shine.
Diamond black to end of toe,
Thy counterpoint the crystal snow.
II
Never plaintive nor appealing,
Quite at home when thou art stealing,
Always groomed to tip of feather,
Calm and trim in every weather,
Morn till night my woods policing,
Every sound thy watch increasing.
Hawk and owl in tree-top hiding
Feel the shame of thy deriding.
Naught escapes thy observation,
None but dread thy accusation.
III
Hunters, prowlers, woodland lovers
Vainly seek the leafy covers.
Noisy, scheming, and predacious,
With demeanor almost gracious,
Dowered with leisure, void of hurry,
Void of fuss and void of worry,
Friendly bandit, Robin Hood,
Judge and jury of the wood,
Or Captain Kidd of sable quill,
Hiding treasures in the hill,
Nature made thee for each season,
Gave thee wit for ample reason,
Good crow wit that's always burnished
Like the coat her care has furnished.
May thy numbers ne'er diminish!
I'll befriend thee till life's finish.
May I never cease to meet thee!
May I never have to eat thee!
And mayest thou never have to fare so
That thou playest the part of scarecrow!
THE NORTHERN SHRIKE
Usually the character of a bird of prey is well defined; there is no
mistaking him. His claws, his beak, his head, his wings, in fact his
whole build, point to the fact that he subsists upon live creatures; he
is armed to catch them and to slay them. Every bird knows a hawk and
knows him from the start, and is on the lookout for him. The hawk takes
life, but he does it to maintain his own, and it is a public and
universally known fact. Nature has sent him abroad in that character,
and has advised all creatures of it. Not so with the shrike; here she
has concealed the character of a murderer under a form as innocent as
that of the robin. Feet, wings, tail, color, head, and general form and
size are all those of a song-bird,--very much like that master songster,
the mockingbird,--yet this bird is a regular Bluebeard among its kind.
Its only characteristic feature is its beak, the upper mandible having
two sharp processes and a sharp hooked point. It usually impales its
victim upon a thorn, or thrusts it in the fork of a limb. For the most
part, however, its food seems to consist of insects,--spiders,
grasshoppers, beetles, etc. It is the assassin of the small birds, whom
it often destroys in pure wantonness, or merely to sup on their brains,
as the Gaucho slaughters a wild cow or bull for its tongue. It is a wolf
in sheep's clothing. Apparently its victims are unacquainted with its
true character and allow it to approach them, when the fatal blow is
given. I saw an illustration of this the other day. A large number of
goldfinches in their fall plumage, together with snowbirds and sparrows,
were feeding and chattering in some low bushes back of the barn. I had
paused by the fence and was peeping through at them, hoping to get a
glimpse of that rare sparrow, the white-crowned. Presently I heard a
rustling among the dry leaves as if some larger bird were also among
them. Then I heard one of the goldfinches cry out as if in distress,
when the whole flock of them started up in alarm, and, circling around,
settled in the tops of the larger trees. I continued my scrutiny of the
bushes, when I saw a large bird, with some object in its beak, hopping
along on a low branch near the ground. It disappeared from my sight for
a few moments, then came up through the undergrowth into the top of a
young maple where some of the finches had alighted, and I beheld the
shrike. The little birds avoided him and flew about the tree, their
pursuer following them with the motions of his head and body as if he
would fain arrest them by his murderous gaze. The birds did not utter
the cry or make the demonstration of alarm they usually do on the
appearance of a hawk, but chirruped and called and flew about in a half
wondering, half bewildered manner. As they flew farther along the line
of trees the shrike followed them as if bent on further captures. I then
made my way around to see what the shrike had caught, and what he had
done with his prey. As I approached the bushes I saw the shrike
hastening back. I read his intentions at once. Seeing my movements, he
had returned for his game. But I was too quick for him, and he got up
out of the brush and flew away from the locality. On some twigs in the
thickest part of the bushes I found his victim,--a goldfinch. It was not
impaled upon a thorn, but was carefully disposed upon some horizontal
twigs,--laid upon the shelf, so to speak. It was as warm as in life, and
its plumage was unruffled. On examining it I found a large bruise or
break in the skin on the back of the neck, at the base of the skull.
Here the bandit had no doubt gripped the bird with his strong beak. The
shrike's bloodthirstiness was seen in the fact that he did not stop to
devour his prey, but went in quest of more, as if opening a market of
goldfinches. The thicket was his shambles, and if not interrupted, he
might have had a fine display of titbits in a short time.
The shrike is called a butcher from his habit of sticking his meat upon
hooks and points; further than that, he is a butcher because he devours
but a trifle of what he slays.
THE SCREECH OWL
At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the woods, I come
suddenly upon a brood of screech owls, full grown, sitting together upon
a dry, moss-draped limb, but a few feet from the ground. I pause within
four or five yards of them and am looking about me, when my eye lights
upon these gray, motionless figures. They sit perfectly upright, some
with their backs and some with their breasts toward me, but every head
turned squarely in my direction. Their eyes are closed to a mere black
line; through this crack they are watching me, evidently thinking
themselves unobserved. The spectacle is weird and grotesque, and
suggests something impish and uncanny. It is a new effect, the night
side of the woods by daylight. After observing them a moment I take a
single step toward them, when, quick as thought, their eyes fly wide
open, their attitude is changed, they bend, some this way, some that,
and, instinct with life and motion, stare wildly around them. Another
step, and they all take flight but one, which stoops low on the branch,
and with the look of a frightened cat regards me for a few seconds over
its shoulder. They fly swiftly and softly, and disperse through the
trees.
* * * * *