I shall make no appeal for the protection of our birds, for that is
not necessary to those who know them; but I wish we could all know
them better, and when we knew we would surely love and give them our
protection. We would then realize their great use as insect and weed
destroyers; they would fascinate us with their cunning habits, and
charm us with their beauty and grace.
Most of our birds are migrators, passing their breeding season in
summer with us and then leaving for warmer climes. In addition to the
climatic reasons for this migration, the question of food supply is
doubtless an important factor, for while they might stand the severity
of our winters the insectivorous birds could not get any food when our
ground was covered with snow and ice, and, in proof of this, as a rule
the omnivorous migratory birds are the first to come in the spring and
the last to leave in the fall.
In 1877 I began making notes of the arrival of the robin, bluebird, and
swallow; these notes have been made every spring, mostly by myself, but
during my absence by some member of my family, and were all taken at
Au Sable Forks. The earliest date for the robin is March 10th; for the
bluebird, March 7th; and for the swallow, April 4th. The latest date
for the robin is April 7th; for the bluebird, April 7th; and for the
swallow, April 25th. The average date is for the robin, March 28th;
bluebird, March 26th; and the swallow, April 15th.
In every year the first robins that came were males, and this was
true with the bluebird excepting two years when I saw both male and
female birds on the same day. The sex of the swallow is not as easily
determined, and I am not sure about them, but my general observation
has been that the males come first, and are followed in a few days
by the females, and that the courtship and mating are all arranged
after their arrival. My observations have been quite careful, and I
think they are full enough to go far toward establishing this fact. Of
course, there will be exceptions and our observations are necessarily
imperfect, for it is not probable that we happen to see the very first
bird that comes.
No bird is more generally known or more universally liked than our
common robin. Every year he sings for us our praises to the coming
spring from the tallest limb of the elm, and he hops across our lawn
with a cuteness that forces a hearty welcome, and, differing from most
birds, he seems to be more numerous each year. In a few days his mate
joins him, and a search for a site for their first nest begins. The
robin lays four eggs, and frequently raises three broods of young in a
season, never, so far as I know, using the same site or the same nest
twice in one season, or more certainly never using the same nest or
site for two consecutive broods. Year after year the same corner in the
porch or the same crotch in the apple tree will be used as a nesting
place by the robin, and we have all wondered if the same robins came
back every year, or if the young birds returned and used the nest in
which they were hatched. The birds look and act wonderfully familiar
when the old site is occupied, and many people are sure they remember
the birds from the year preceding. I have never seen a statement from
any ornithologist throwing light on this interesting question, and I
twice made an attempt, without success, to obtain the information for
myself.
All thrushes except the robin are mottled on the breast, and the breast
of the young robin is mottled for the first season, so the young can
be readily told from the old birds. The robin is a great lover of
angleworms. The young follow the mother while she gathers worms to feed
them, and about the time for weaning the young birds I have frequently
seen the mother bird pick up straws and sticks and offer them to
her young instead of food. This may be done to discourage them from
following her any longer, but I think it is more probably caused by a
return of the nest-building instinct to the mother.
Some years ago I put a small bird box on a post in our yard, which was
soon occupied by a pair of summer wrens, and all went nicely with them
until a pair of English sparrows concluded to drive the wrens away and
take the house for themselves, and for three or four days the wrens and
sparrows were constantly fighting, but the wrens finally won and held
possession of the house, although at a great sacrifice, for after the
fight was over I raised the lid of the box and found the young birds
dead, the fight evidently taking so much of the time and attention of
the old birds that they allowed their young to starve. I removed the
dead birds, and in a short time the wrens rebuilt the nest, and this
time they closed the hole for entrance until it was scarcely large
enough to admit my thumb.
The box was occupied by wrens for several years, but the entrance
was never closed afterward, and I kept the sparrows from any further
interference. In this connection I would say that, at least so far as
the English sparrow is concerned, the male selects the site for the
nest. When I shot the female the male soon returned with another mate,
but when I shot the male the female did not return. The wren builds a
very coarse nest, and fills the box nearly half full of sticks three
or four inches long. As these sticks are carried in the birds’ bills by
the middle, they would naturally strike the hole crosswise and could
not enter, so when the birds get near the box they turn sideways and
poke the sticks in end first, following in and arranging them afterward.
The merganser is a fish duck nearly as large as our common domestic
duck, and is known under the names of sheldrake and sawbill duck. The
male is considerably larger than the female; he has a jet-black head,
and the black extends down the neck for about two inches, where the
color changes to a pure white, the line being as regular and distinct
as the painting on the smokestack of a steamship. The body is generally
white, with black markings on the wings and some black on the body;
the breast is a beautiful salmon color when the bird is killed, but if
mounted soon fades to a pure white. The male merganser in full plumage
is one of our most beautiful birds.
The female, besides being smaller, is of a grayish color, and the
plumage and general appearance are entirely unlike the male, so that
the sex can be easily determined even at a long distance.
This bird is common on the Champlain and waters of the Adirondacks.
Like all fish ducks, it has a long, sharp bill, which is serrated with
sawtooth-shaped notches strongly suggesting teeth, a fact which has
given this bird much interest to our evolutionary scientists.
I have noticed a habit of this bird that I believe is entirely
unique, and one I am surprised that our authorities on birds have not
mentioned--that is, that the males are entirely migratory and the
females are not. After the lakes and still waters freeze the mergansers
go to the rivers which are open in some places on the rapids all
winter. For more than twenty years I have seen female mergansers on
the Au Sable River all winter, and I have frequently seen them on the
other Adirondack rivers; but I have never seen a male merganser in the
winter, and in the late fall the males and females gather in separate
flocks, and when the male mergansers appear in the spring they are
always in flocks by themselves.
I think the merganser lives entirely on fish, and it is surprising
to one who has made no observations on the subject to know what an
enormous number of young fish a flock of these ducks will destroy in
a season. I quote the following from my notebook: “October 13, 1882,
killed fish duck (female merganser) in Slush Pond, and found in her
throat and stomach one pickerel, four black bass, and eleven sun perch.
Bob (my brother) present. October 18, 1882, killed same kind of duck on
Lake Champlain, and took out of her sixty small perch. James R. Graves
present.”
Our most valuable game bird is the ruffed grouse or partridge. He
stays with us all the time. He is a strong, swift flier, and taxes the
nerve and skill of the sportsman to a high degree, and to bring down a
partridge under full wing in the evergreens in November sends a thrill
of delight through one’s veins.
The partridge is a gallinaceous bird, and the young leave the nest as
soon as hatched, running around with the mother like chickens. Upon the
approach of danger the young hide themselves under the leaves in an
incredibly short time, and the mother flutters off with an apparently
broken wing, keeping just out of reach to lure you away from the hiding
place of her young. This ruse is employed by many birds, but in none,
so far as I know, to as large an extent as the partridge. Naturally a
very timid bird, the partridge will put up quite a bluff for a fight in
defense of her young, and on two occasions I knew a partridge to show
fight without any young. Experience has satisfied me that a partridge
knows enough to try and get a tree between himself and the huntsman,
and to keep it there until he is out of range.
Partridges are less numerous around my home than they were twenty years
ago, and their habits have undergone a very decided change. Then they
usually took to a tree when flushed; now they seldom light on a tree,
and take much longer flights. When hunting in Canada last fall I found
that the partridges were very tame, and simply ran away from me, or if
pressed flew into trees near by and waited for their heads to be taken
off with rifle balls.
I notice considerable difference in the shade coloring of the
partridge, some being much darker than others, but all have the same
markings. The partridge is omnivorous, and, like man and the pig,
he eats almost everything. In the winter he lives upon the buds of
trees, and many a bird has lost his life while filling his crop from
this source, as he is then an easy mark for the hunter, and I have
seen the marks of his bill on the carcasses of animals. He is fond of
blackberries, and sportsmen often visit blackberry patches when looking
for him in the early fall, but I have been surprised to find that
when feeding in a blackberry patch he apparently shows no preference
for the ripe berries, filling his crop with all kinds. A fact about
the partridge which I find is not generally known is, while in summer
its toes are plain, like the toes of a chicken, in the winter they
are bordered with a stiff hairy fringe that gives it support on the
snow, having the same effect as the meshes of our snowshoes. This is
a fact of considerable interest, for it seems to have a bearing upon
the theory that there is a tendency in animals to develop conditions
favorable to their environment. Under this theory one might hope to
find a development of a substitute for a snowshoe on a non-migratory
bird whose habits keep it largely upon the ground, while no such
development would be expected on a bird that leaves us in the winter
for warmer climes.
In this connection I would say that while few of our native birds
change the color of their plumage as an adaptation to the seasons, our
pretty thistle bird, or American goldfinch, undergoes a radical change.
In summer he has a bright yellow body with black markings and a black
head, while in winter his plumage is all pale brown or sparrow-color,
and we often fail to recognize in our somber winter resident the
brilliant goldfinch of our summer. These little birds are gregarious
in the winter, and as they fly in small flocks into the trees by the
roadside they are frequently mistaken for sparrows, and in fact are
usually called tree sparrows.
There are few things connected with the study of natural history more
interesting than the tendency in animals to develop conditions suitable
to their environment, and it is surprising to see for how long a time
an acquired habit will sometimes survive after its usefulness has
ceased.
The common chimney swallows always build their nests in chimneys that
are unused during their breeding season. They make a semicircular nest
of sticks, which they glue to the inside wall of the chimney with a
secretion from their mouths. It is interesting to see the swallows
gather the sticks for their nests, for they do not alight on the
ground, but, while flying, break off dead twigs from trees without
stopping in their flight.
This habit of building in chimneys must have been acquired in a
comparatively short time, for there were no chimneys in this country
before the arrival of the white man, and for a long time afterward the
settler had but one chimney in his house, which must have been used,
at least for cooking purposes, in the summer. So perfect is this habit
that the swallow looks and acts as though he were made for the chimney;
his color is a sooty black, so that he does not tarnish his coat by
rubbing against the chimney walls; the feathers of his tail end in hard
spikes, that he can use them to prop himself against the wall. I have
been interested on a summer evening watching these swallows in hundreds
circling around a church chimney in Plattsburg, until finally the birds
in the center began to enter the chimney, the circle growing smaller
and smaller as they apparently poured down in the vortex of a whirlpool
of swallows. Many birds have acquired a habit of associating with man,
and we rarely find them, except during the season of their flight, far
away from houses.
The barn swallows always place their nests under the eaves or cornices
of some building, usually a barn. These nests are built of mud gathered
by the birds from wet places on the ground, and carried in their mouths
to the sites chosen by them. Many of our farmers have an unkind feeling
for the barn swallows, as they think the mud-daubed nests on the new
red paint are not an artistic addition; but if our cattle could give
an intelligent opinion they would welcome the birds, for all swallows
are entirely insectivorous, and they must eat many flies and mosquitoes
that otherwise would be left to torment our animals.
Birds that build in inaccessible places seem to rely upon that for
security, and apparently make little effort to conceal their nests,
while those building on or near the ground are generally careful
to hide them, and they display considerable cunning in preventing
discovery. Robins, for instance, after the young are hatched, never
drop the eggshells over the side of the nests to the ground, where they
would attract attention and cause one to look directly overhead and
thus find the nest, but take the broken shells in their bills and carry
them off, dropping them while flying. Frequently birds are very shy
and easily frightened away from their nests, but after they are well
established they sometimes show a good deal of tenacity in staying by
them until the young are ready to leave.
Some years ago we opened an old ore mine, where a pair of phœbe birds
had placed their nest on a shelf a few feet overhead, a projecting rock
protecting it from the flying stones of the blasts that were fired
several times a day, and the men were working so near that they could
almost touch it with their hands. These birds did not desert their
nests until the young were old enough to leave. The site was not used
the following year, as is usually the case with the phœbe bird.
No bird has insinuated himself into our affections more deeply than
the bluebird. He charms us as he flits through the air like a painted
arrow, reflecting the sunlight from the metallic luster of his wings,
while he pours out his inspired song “in notes as sweet as angels’
greetings when they meet.” He comes to us before the unfolding of the
first bud of spring, sings to us until our hills and mountains are
covered with the richness of their summer verdure, and stays with us
until this verdure is changed to all the beauty of its autumnal glory.
I am very sorry, but I believe our bluebirds are gradually though
steadily decreasing in numbers. Some years ago two pairs nested in our
yard, one pair in a hole in an old apple tree and one pair in a box,
but for several years these nesting places have been unoccupied, and I
know of a number of other former nesting places that have been vacant
for years.
Twenty years ago the wild pigeons were quite plentiful in the fall
of the year in this part of our State, but each fall they came in
decreasing numbers, and for the last four or five years I have not seen
a single bird.
There is no sweeter songster than the shy hermit thrush, and I am much
pleased in believing that his numbers are increasing. In former years
they were not often heard; now, as our spring afternoons decline into
twilight, his charming notes come to us from almost every suitable
point.
For the first eight or ten years of my residence in Au Sable Forks I
did not see a turtle dove, and now I see them nearly every summer.
Our American eagle is occasionally seen in the Adirondacks, and some
years ago a large female golden eagle was caught in a steel trap near
my home and came into my possession, where she occupied a slatted
hencoop, and whenever curiosity led a hen to poke her bill through the
slats her head was taken off very quickly. I was afraid that if I kept
the eagle I would turn vivisectionist or become too cruel for a hunter,
so I presented her to the Zoölogical Gardens in Central Park.
In birds of prey the female is the larger and finer bird, while the
reverse is true with other birds; but there is a striking exception
in the noble woodcock. No bird is held in higher appreciation by the
sportsman, and a female woodcock in full plumage is as rich in coloring
and as beautiful in marking as any bird I know. He lies well for the
dog, is rare sport for the gunner, and has no equal for the palate.
He nests in our alder thickets or on wet marshy ground, and around my
home it is the work of a man to get him. He is nocturnal in his habits,
feeding at night and pushing his long, slender bill into the soft
ground, leaving holes that to the casual eye look like worm holes, but
which are easily recognized by one familiar with his habits.
Cow blackbirds are common to this locality during the summers, and they
are found in our pastures with the cattle. I have never found their
eggs in the nests of other birds, but they are Mormonistic in their
habits, one often having as many as a dozen wives, and I have known the
crow blackbird to have more than one mate.
Some years ago an article went the rounds of the newspapers telling of
a man catching a flock of crows by soaking corn in alcohol and leaving
it for the crows to eat, and when they became drunk he caught them. I
tried bread crumbs soaked in whisky on English sparrows, but they would
not eat them, and I finally got a crow, and though I kept him until he
was very hungry I could not get him to eat corn soaked in whisky, and
he found no difficulty in picking up every unsoaked kernel and leaving
the others. You may draw your own moral, but I am satisfied that
the crow will not eat food saturated with alcohol. He is either too
uncivilized or too intelligent.
Orioles and other birds sometimes give us much annoyance by eating
the green peas from our gardens, and, except in the case of English
sparrows, we do not like to shoot them. I once killed a hawk and
roughly stuffed it with straw, putting it on a pole near my pea vine,
where the birds collected in numbers to scold and peck at it, but they
were afraid to touch the peas, and finally left mine for those of my
neighbors across the street.
The Acadian owl is a pretty, cunning-looking little bird, not much
larger than a robin. He is the smallest of our owls and quite tame, and
is not often seen around my home. Some two years ago, while hunting
with my brother we saw one of these little birds on the limb of a tree
not far from the ground, and we concluded to try and snare him. We cut
a long pole and made a slip noose with a shoe string, and while my
brother kept the owl’s attention by standing in front of him I slipped
the noose over his head from behind. When we had the owl we wanted to
tie him, and since we could not spare the shoe string for that purpose,
my brother decided to tie him with his watch chain. He snapped the
catch around one leg, and while trying to fasten the other leg the owl
made a flutter and got loose, and the last we saw of him he was sailing
over the tops of the trees with the watch chain hanging to his leg.
I have always taken an interest in birds because I have loved them, but
it does not follow that I know much about them. Some one said that the
more we know men the less we love them, but that man was an old cynic
and doubtless told an untruth. Certain it is that the more we know our
native birds the more we love them, and it is one of the encouraging
signs of the day that it has become fashionable for young people to
take an increasing interest in the birds and wild flowers of their own
country, and a young person would hardly be considered accomplished
to-day who is entirely ignorant of at least the common names of the
flowers that bloom in our fields and woods and the birds that pour out
their ecstatic music from our trees and hedges.
* * * * *
HERBERT SPENCER’S work on Education has been translated into
Sanskrit by Mr. H. Soobba Row, who gives as his reason for
publishing a version in an “unspoken” language that the pundits,
for whom the version is primarily intended, “can more easily
appreciate the ideas conveyed in Sanskrit than perhaps in any other
vernacular.”