lends me his support after his kind, is a little red owl, whose retreat
is in the heart of an old apple-tree just over the fence. Where he keeps
himself in spring and summer, I do not know, but late every fall, and at
intervals all winter, his hiding-place is discovered by the jays and
nuthatches, and proclaimed from the tree-tops for the space of half an
hour or so, with all the powers of voice they can command. Four times
during one winter they called me out to behold this little ogre feigning
sleep in his den, sometimes in one apple-tree, sometimes in another.
Whenever I heard their cries, I knew my neighbor was being berated. The
birds would take turns at looking in upon him, and uttering their
alarm-notes. Every jay within hearing would come to the spot, and at
once approach the hole in the trunk or limb, and with a kind of
breathless eagerness and excitement take a peep at the owl, and then
join the outcry. When I approached they would hastily take a final look,
and then withdraw and regard my movements intently. After accustoming my
eye to the faint light of the cavity for a few moments, I could usually
make out the owl at the bottom feigning sleep. Feigning, I say, because
this is what he really did, as I first discovered one day when I cut
into his retreat with the axe. The loud blows and the falling chips did
not disturb him at all. When I reached in a stick and pulled him over on
his side, leaving one of his wings spread out, he made no attempt to
recover himself, but lay among the chips and fragments of decayed wood,
like a part of themselves. Indeed, it took a sharp eye to distinguish
him. Not till I had pulled him forth by one wing, rather rudely, did he
abandon his trick of simulated sleep or death. Then, like a detected
pickpocket, he was suddenly transformed into another creature. His eyes
flew wide open, his talons clutched my finger, his ears were depressed,
and every motion and look said, "Hands off, at your peril." Finding this
game did not work, he soon began to "play possum" again. I put a cover
over my study wood-box and kept him captive for a week. Look in upon him
at any time, night or day, and he was apparently wrapped in the
profoundest slumber; but the live mice which I put into his box from
time to time found his sleep was easily broken; there would be a sudden
rustle in the box, a faint squeak, and then silence. After a week of
captivity I gave him his freedom in the full sunshine; no trouble for
him to see which way and where to go.
Just at dusk in the winter nights, I often hear his soft _bur-r-r-r_,
very pleasing and bell-like. What a furtive, woody sound it is in the
winter stillness, so unlike the harsh scream of the hawk! But all the
ways of the owl are ways of softness and duskiness. His wings are shod
with silence, his plumage is edged with down.
Another owl neighbor of mine, with whom I pass the time of day more
frequently than with the last, lives farther away. I pass his castle
every night on my way to the post-office, and in winter, if the hour is
late enough, am pretty sure to see him standing in his doorway,
surveying the passers-by and the landscape through narrow slits in his
eyes. For four successive winters now have I observed him. As the
twilight begins to deepen, he rises up out of his cavity in the
apple-tree, scarcely faster than the moon rises from behind the hill,
and sits in the opening, completely framed by its outlines of gray bark
and dead wood, and by his protective coloring virtually invisible to
every eye that does not know he is there. Probably my own is the only
eye that has ever penetrated his secret, and mine never would have done
so had I not chanced on one occasion to see him leave his retreat and
make a raid upon a shrike that was impaling a shrew-mouse upon a thorn
in a neighboring tree, and which I was watching. I was first advised of
the owl's presence by seeing him approaching swiftly on silent, level
wing. The shrike did not see him till the owl was almost within the
branches. He then dropped his game, and darted back into the thick
cover, uttering a loud, discordant squawk, as one would say, "Scat!
scat! scat!" The owl alighted, and was, perhaps, looking about him for
the shrike's impaled game, when I drew near. On seeing me, he reversed
his movement precipitately, flew straight back to the old tree, and
alighted in the entrance to the cavity. As I approached, he did not so
much seem to move as to diminish in size, like an object dwindling in
the distance; he depressed his plumage, and, with his eye fixed upon me,
began slowly to back and sidle into his retreat till he faded from my
sight. The shrike wiped his beak upon the branches, cast an eye down at
me and at his lost mouse, and then flew away.
A few nights afterward, as I passed that way, I saw the little owl again
sitting in his doorway, waiting for the twilight to deepen, and
undisturbed by the passers-by; but when I paused to observe him, he saw
that he was discovered, and he slunk back into his den as on the former
occasion. Ever since, while going that way, I have been on the lookout
for him. Dozens of teams and foot-passengers pass him late in the day,
but he regards them not, nor they him. When I come along and pause to
salute him, he opens his eyes a little wider, and, appearing to
recognize me, quickly shrinks and fades into the background of his door
in a very weird and curious manner. When he is not at his outlook, or
when he is, it requires the best powers of the eye to decide the point,
as the empty cavity itself is almost an exact image of him. If the whole
thing had been carefully studied, it could not have answered its purpose
better. The owl stands quite perpendicular, presenting a front of light
mottled gray; the eyes are closed to a mere slit, the ear-feathers
depressed, the beak buried in the plumage, and the whole attitude is one
of silent, motionless waiting and observation. If a mouse should be seen
crossing the highway, or scudding over any exposed part of the snowy
surface in the twilight, the owl would doubtless swoop down upon it. I
think the owl has learned to distinguish me from the rest of the
passers-by; at least, when I stop before him, and he sees himself
observed, he backs down into his den, as I have said, in a very amusing
manner.
THE CHICKADEE
The chickadees we have always with us. They are like the evergreens
among trees and plants. Winter has no terrors for them. They are
properly wood-birds, but the groves and orchards know them also. Did
they come near my cabin for better protection, or did they chance to
find a little cavity in a tree there that suited them? Branch-builders
and ground-builders are easily accommodated, but the chickadee must find
a cavity, and a small one at that. The woodpeckers make a cavity when a
suitable trunk or branch is found, but the chickadee, with its small,
sharp beak, rarely does so; it usually smooths and deepens one already
formed. This a pair did a few yards from my cabin. The opening was into
the heart of a little sassafras, about four feet from the ground. Day
after day the birds took turns in deepening and enlarging the cavity: a
soft, gentle hammering for a few moments in the heart of the little
tree, and then the appearance of the worker at the opening, with the
chips in his, or her, beak. They changed off every little while, one
working while the other gathered food. Absolute equality of the sexes,
both in plumage and in duties, seems to prevail among these birds, as
among a few other species. During the preparations for housekeeping the
birds were hourly seen and heard, but as soon as the first egg was laid,
all this was changed. They suddenly became very shy and quiet. Had it
not been for the new egg that was added each day, one would have
concluded that they had abandoned the place. There was a precious secret
now that must be well kept. After incubation began, it was only by
watching that I could get a glimpse of one of the birds as it came
quickly to feed or to relieve the other.
One day a lot of Vassar girls came to visit me, and I led them out to
the little sassafras to see the chickadee's nest. The sitting bird kept
her place as head after head, with its nodding plumes and millinery,
appeared above the opening to her chamber, and a pair of inquisitive
eyes peered down upon her. But I saw that she was getting ready to play
her little trick to frighten them away. Presently I heard a faint
explosion at the bottom of the cavity, when the peeping girl jerked her
head quickly back, with the exclamation, "Why, it spit at me!" The trick
of the bird on such occasions is apparently to draw in its breath till
its form perceptibly swells, and then give forth a quick, explosive
sound like an escaping jet of steam. One involuntarily closes his eyes
and jerks back his head. The girls, to their great amusement, provoked
the bird into this pretty outburst of her impatience two or three times.
But as the ruse failed of its effect, the bird did not keep it up, but
let the laughing faces gaze till they were satisfied.
I was much interested in seeing a brood of chickadees, reared on my
premises, venture upon their first flight. Their heads had been seen at
the door of their dwelling--a cavity in the limb of a pear-tree--at
intervals for two or three days. Evidently they liked the looks of the
great outside world; and one evening, just before sundown, one of them
came forth. His first flight was of several yards, to a locust, where he
alighted upon an inner branch, and after some chirping and calling
proceeded to arrange his plumage and compose himself for the night. I
watched him till it was nearly dark. He did not appear at all afraid
there alone in the tree, but put his head under his wing and settled
down for the night as if it were just what he had always been doing.
There was a heavy shower a few hours later, but in the morning he was
there upon his perch in good spirits.
I happened to be passing in the morning when another one came out. He
hopped out upon a limb, shook himself, and chirped and called loudly.
After some moments an idea seemed to strike him. His attitude changed,
his form straightened up, and a thrill of excitement seemed to run
through him. I knew what it all meant; something had whispered to the
bird, "Fly!" With a spring and a cry he was in the air, and made good
headway to a near hemlock. Others left in a similar manner during that
day and the next, till all were out.
THE DOWNY WOODPECKER
The bird that seems to consider he has the best right to my hospitality
is the downy woodpecker, my favorite neighbor among the winter birds.
His retreat is but a few paces from my own, in the decayed limb of an
apple-tree, which he excavated several autumns ago. I say "he" because
the red plume on the top of his head proclaims the sex. It seems not to
be generally known to our writers upon ornithology that certain of our
woodpeckers--probably all the winter residents--each fall excavate a
limb or the trunk of a tree in which to pass the winter, and that the
cavity is abandoned in the spring, probably for a new one in which
nidification takes place.
The particular woodpecker to which I refer drilled his first hole in my
apple-tree one fall four or five years ago. This he occupied till the
following spring, when he abandoned it. The next fall he began a hole in
an adjoining limb, later than before, and when it was about half
completed a female took possession of his old quarters. I am sorry to
say that this seemed to enrage the male very much, and he persecuted the
poor bird whenever she appeared upon the scene. He would fly at her
spitefully and drive her off. One chilly November morning, as I passed
under the tree, I heard the hammer of the little architect in his
cavity, and at the same time saw the persecuted female sitting at the
entrance of the other hole as if she would fain come out. She was
actually shivering, probably from both fear and cold. I understood the
situation at a glance; the bird was afraid to come forth and brave the
anger of the male. Not till I had rapped smartly upon the limb with my
stick did she come out and attempt to escape; but she had not gone ten
feet from the tree before the male was in hot pursuit, and in a few
moments had driven her back to the same tree, where she tried to avoid
him among the branches. There is probably no gallantry among the birds
except at the mating season. I have frequently seen the male woodpecker
drive the female away from the bone upon the tree. When she hopped
around to the other end and timidly nibbled it, he would presently dart
spitefully at her. She would then take up her position in his rear and
wait till he had finished his meal. The position of the female among the
birds is very much the same as that of women among savage tribes. Most
of the drudgery of life falls upon her, and the leavings of the males
are often her lot.
[Illustration: DOWNY WOODPECKER]
My bird is a genuine little savage, doubtless, but I value him as a
neighbor. It is a satisfaction during the cold or stormy winter nights
to know he is warm and cozy there in his retreat. When the day is bad
and unfit to be abroad in, he is there too. When I wish to know if he is
at home, I go and rap upon his tree, and, if he is not too lazy or
indifferent, after some delay he shows his head in his round doorway
about ten feet above, and looks down inquiringly upon me--sometimes
latterly I think half resentfully, as much as to say, "I would thank you
not to disturb me so often." After sundown, he will not put his head out
any more when I call, but as I step away I can get a glimpse of him
inside looking cold and reserved. He is a late riser, especially if it
is a cold or disagreeable morning, in this respect being like the barn
fowls; it is sometimes near nine o'clock before I see him leave his
tree. On the other hand, he comes home early, being in, if the day is
unpleasant, by four P.M. He lives all alone; in this respect I do not
commend his example. Where his mate is, I should like to know.
I have discovered several other woodpeckers in adjoining orchards, each
of which has a like home, and leads a like solitary life. One of them
has excavated a dry limb within easy reach of my hand, doing the work
also in September. But the choice of tree was not a good one; the limb
was too much decayed, and the workman had made the cavity too large; a
chip had come out, making a hole in the outer wall. Then he went a few
inches down the limb and began again, and excavated a large, commodious
chamber, but had again come too near the surface; scarcely more than the
bark protected him in one place, and the limb was very much weakened.
Then he made another attempt still farther down the limb, and drilled in
an inch or two, but seemed to change his mind; the work stopped, and I
concluded the bird had wisely abandoned the tree. Passing there one
cold, rainy November day, I thrust in my two fingers and was surprised
to feel something soft and warm: as I drew away my hand the bird came
out, apparently no more surprised than I was. It had decided, then, to
make its home in the old limb; a decision it had occasion to regret, for
not long after, on a stormy night, the branch gave way and fell to the
ground:--
"When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby and cradle and all."
Another trait our woodpeckers have that endears them to me is their
habit of drumming in the spring. They are songless birds, and yet all
are musicians; they make the dry limbs eloquent of the coming change.
Did you think that loud, sonorous hammering which proceeded from the
orchard or from the near woods on that still March or April morning was
only some bird getting its breakfast? It is Downy, but he is not rapping
at the door of a grub; he is rapping at the door of spring, and the dry
limb thrills beneath the ardor of his blows.
A few seasons ago, a downy woodpecker, probably the individual one who
is now my winter neighbor, began to drum early in March in a partly
decayed apple-tree that stands in the edge of a narrow strip of woodland
near me. When the morning was still and mild I would often hear him
through my window before I was up, or by half-past six o'clock, and he
would keep it up pretty briskly till nine or ten o'clock, in this
respect resembling the grouse, which do most of their drumming in the
forenoon. His drum was the stub of a dry limb about the size of one's
wrist. The heart was decayed and gone, but the outer shell was hard and
resonant. The bird would keep his position there for an hour at a time.
Between his drummings he would preen his plumage and listen as if for
the response of the female, or for the drum of some rival. How swiftly
his head would go when he was delivering his blows upon the limb! His
beak wore the surface perceptibly. When he wished to change the key,
which was quite often, he would shift his position an inch or two to a
knot which gave out a higher, shriller note. When I climbed up to
examine his drum, he was much disturbed. I did not know he was in the
vicinity, but it seems he saw me from a near tree, and came in haste to
the neighboring branches, and with spread plumage and a sharp note
demanded plainly enough what my business was with his drum. I was
invading his privacy, desecrating his shrine, and the bird was much put
out. After some weeks the female appeared; he had literally drummed up a
mate; his urgent and oft-repeated advertisement was answered. Still the
drumming did not cease, but was quite as fervent as before. If a mate
could be won by drumming, she could be kept and entertained by more
drumming; courtship should not end with marriage. If the bird felt
musical before, of course he felt much more so now. Besides that, the
gentle deities needed propitiating in behalf of the nest and young as
well as in behalf of the mate. After a time a second female came, when
there was war between the two. I did not see them come to blows, but I
saw one female pursuing the other about the place, and giving her no
rest for several days. She was evidently trying to run her out of the
neighborhood. Now and then, she, too, would drum briefly, as if sending
a triumphant message to her mate.
The woodpeckers do not each have a particular dry limb to which they
resort at all times to drum, like the one I have described. The woods
are full of suitable branches, and they drum more or less here and there
as they are in quest of food; yet I am convinced each one has its
favorite spot, like the grouse, to which it resorts especially in the
morning. The sugar-maker in the maple woods may notice that this sound
proceeds from the same tree or trees about his camp with great
regularity. A woodpecker in my vicinity has drummed for two seasons on a
telegraph-pole, and he makes the wires and glass insulators ring.
Another drums on a thin board on the end of a long grape-arbor, and on
still mornings can be heard a long distance.
* * * * *
I watch these woodpeckers daily to see if I can solve the mystery as to
how they hop up and down the trunks and branches without falling away
from them when they let go their hold. They come down a limb or trunk
backward by a series of little hops, moving both feet together. If the
limb is at an angle to the tree and they are on the under side of it,
they do not fall away from it to get a new hold an inch or half-inch
farther down. They are held to it as steel to a magnet. Both tail and
head are involved in the feat. At the instant of making the hop the head
is thrown in and the tail thrown out, but the exact mechanics of it I
cannot penetrate. Philosophers do not yet know how a backward-falling
cat turns in the air, but turn she does. It may be that the woodpecker
never quite relaxes his hold, though to my eye he appears to do so.
THE DOWNY WOODPECKER
Downy came and dwelt with me,
Taught me hermit lore;
Drilled his cell in oaken tree
Near my cabin door.
Architect of his own home
In the forest dim,
Carving its inverted dome
In a dozy limb.
Carved it deep and shaped it true
With his little bill;
Took no thought about the view,
Whether dale or hill.
Shook the chips upon the ground,
Careless who might see.
Hark! his hatchet's muffled sound
Hewing in the tree.
Round his door as compass-mark,
True and smooth his wall;
Just a shadow on the bark
Points you to his hall.
Downy leads a hermit life
All the winter through;
Free his days from jar and strife,
And his cares are few.
Waking up the frozen woods,
Shaking down the snows;
Many trees of many moods
Echo to his blows.
When the storms of winter rage,
Be it night or day,
Then I know my little page
Sleeps the time away.
Downy's stores are in the trees,
Egg and ant and grub;
Juicy tidbits, rich as cheese,
Hid in stump and stub.
Rat-tat-tat his chisel goes,
Cutting out his prey;
Every boring insect knows
When he comes its way.
Always rapping at their doors,
Never welcome he;
All his kind, they vote, are bores,
Whom they dread to see.
Why does Downy live alone
In his snug retreat?
Has he found that near the bone
Is the sweetest meat?
Birdie craved another fate
When the spring had come;
Advertised him for a mate
On his dry-limb drum.
Drummed her up and drew her near,
In the April morn,
Till she owned him for her dear
In his state forlorn.
Now he shirks all family cares,
This I must confess;
Quite absorbed in self affairs
In the season's stress.
We are neighbors well agreed
Of a common lot;
Peace and love our only creed
In this charmèd spot.
INDEX
Blackbird, cow. See Cowbird.
Bluebird, arrival in spring, 1;
nest-building, 1, 2;
young and cicada, 2, 3;
a bewildered pair, 3-7;
love and rivalry, 7-12;
war with house wrens, 47-52.
_Bluebird, The_, poem, 13.
Bobolink, courtship, 77, 78;
concealment of nest, 78-81.
_Bobolink, The_, poem, 82.
Bob-white. See Quail.
Butcher-bird. See Shrike, northern.
Catbird, song of, 72, 73;
and black snake, 73-76;
a coquette, 83.
Cedar-bird, nest-building, 122, 123;
notes of, 124.
Chewink, markings of, 39;
Thomas Jefferson writes to Alexander Wilson about, 39-41;
inhospitality of, 83.
Chickadee, nesting of, 157-160.
Chippy. See Sparrow, chipping.
_Coming of Ph[oe]be, The_, poem, 31.
Cowbird, notes of, 33;
parasitic habits of, 33-35.
Crow, character of, 138, 139;
manners of, 139, 140;
wariness of, 140-142;
yearly meeting, 142, 143.
_Crow, The_, poem, 144.
_Downy Woodpecker, The_, poem, 169.
Flicker, call of, 21;
courtship, 22, 25, 26;
not satisfied with being a woodpecker, 22, 23;
excavating a nest, 23;
young, 23-25;
drumming, 26, 27.
Goldfinch, nesting, 125, 126;
notes of, 126-128;
flight of, 127, 128;
musical festivals, 128, 129.
Grouse, ruffed, 133-136.
Hawk, marsh, habits of, 106;
nest of, 106-108;
young, 111, 112;
a pet young one, 112-117.
Hawk, red-shouldered. See Hen-hawk.
Hawk, red-tailed. See Hen-hawk.
Hen-hawk, flight of, 130-132.
High-hole. See Flicker.
Jefferson, Thomas, 39, 40.
Oriole, Baltimore, nests of, 91-94.
Oven-bird, walk of, 69;
the two songs of, 69, 70;
nest of, 70, 71.
Owl, screech, a brood, 151, 152;
two owl neighbors, 152-156;
a captive, 153;
note of, 154;
disappearing in his hole, 154-156.
Partridge, 133-136.
_Partridge, The_, poem, 137.
Ph[oe]be, arrival in spring, 28;
nests of, 29, 30.
_Ph[oe]be, The Coming of_, poem, 31.
Quail, on nest, 109-111.
Robin, arrival in spring, 15;
a graceful warrior, 16;
the "robin racket," 16, 17;
nest and young, 18, 19;
boring for grubs, 19, 20.
Shrike, northern, 147-150;
raided by a screech owl, 155.
Snake, black, and song sparrows, 55, 56;
and catbirds, 73-76.
Sparrow, chipping, trying to catch a miller, 36;
feeding young robins, 37, 38.
Sparrow, song, unsuccessful nestings, 53, 54;
and a black snake, 55, 56;
a risky experiment, 56-58;
a bob-tailed song sparrow's nest, 58-60.
Swallow, chimney. See Swift, chimney.
Swift, chimney, nest of, 61, 62;
flight of, 61, 62;
young, 63, 64;
outriding the storms, 64;
habits of, 64-66;
great gatherings and aerial evolutions of, 66-68.
Thrasher, brown, stealthiness of, 42;
nests of, 42-46;
skulking, 83.
Thrush, wood, grace and elegance of, 83, 84;
newspaper in nests, 84-86;
the song and the nests, 86, 87;
unsuccessful nestings, 87-89;
song contests, 89, 90.
Towhee. See Chewink.
Warbler, black-throated blue, a successful search for the nest
of, 100-105.
Whip-poor-will, eggs of, 95;
assimilative coloration of, 95, 97, 99;
young, 96;
gait of, 97;
song of, 97, 98;
an old bird with her young, 98, 99.
Wilson, Alexander, 39-41.
Woodpecker, downy, a winter neighbor, 161-164;
drumming, 164-167;
the mystery of his hopping up and down the trunks and
branches, 167, 168.
_Woodpecker, The Downy_, poem, 169.