had come up, on wheels; but I will not say in ignoble fashion, for the
driver--the hotel proprietor himself--was in haste, the carriage had no
brake, and the speed with which we rattled down the steep pitches and
round the sharp curves, with the certainty that if anything should
break, the horse would run and our days would be ended,--these things,
and especially the latter consideration, of which I thought and the
other man spoke, made the descent one of pleasurable excitement. We
reached the base in safety and I was left at the nearest farmhouse,
where by dint of some persuasion the housewife was induced to give me a
lodging for the night, so that on the morrow I might make a long day in
Smugglers' Notch, a famous botanical resort between Mount Mansfield and
Mount Sterling, which I had for years been desirous of visiting.
I would gladly have stayed longer on the heights, but it was pleasant
also to be once more in the lowlands; to walk out after supper and look
up instead of down, while the chimney swifts darted hither and thither
with their merry, breathless cacklings. How welcome, too, were the
hearty music of the robin and the carol of the grass finch! After all, I
thought, home is in the valley; but the whistle of the white-throat
reminded me that I was not yet back in Massachusetts.
A WIDOW AND TWINS.
"The fatherless and the widow ... shall eat and be
satisfied."--DEUTERONOMY xiv. 29.
On the 1st of June, 1890, I formally broke away from ornithological
pursuits. For two months, more or less,--till the autumnal migration
should set in,--I was determined to have my thoughts upon other matters.
There is no more desirable plaything than an outdoor hobby, but a man
ought not to be forever in the saddle. Such, at all events, had always
been my opinion, so that I long ago promised myself never to become,
what some of my acquaintances, perhaps with too much reason, were now
beginning to consider me, a naturalist, and nothing else. That would be
letting the hobby-horse run away with its owner. For the time being,
then, birds should pass unnoticed, or be looked at only when they came
in my way. A sensible resolve. But the maker of it was neither Mede nor
Persian, as the reader, if he have patience enough, may presently
discover for himself.
As I sat upon the piazza, in the heat of the day, busy or half busy with
a book, a sound of humming-bird's wings now and then fell on my ear,
and, as I looked toward the honeysuckle vine, I began after a while to
remark that the visitor was invariably a female. I watched her probe the
scarlet tubes and dart away, and then returned to my page. She might
have a nest somewhere near; but if she had there was small likelihood of
my finding it, and, besides, I was just now not concerned with such
trifles. On the 24th of June, however, a passing neighbor dropped into
the yard. Was I interested in humming-birds? he inquired. If so, he
could show me a nest. I put down my book, and went with him at once.
The beautiful structure, a model of artistic workmanship, was near the
end of one of the lower branches of an apple-tree, eight or ten feet
from the ground, saddled upon the drooping limb at a point where two
offshoots made a good holding-place, while an upright twig spread over
it a leafy canopy against rain and sun. Had the builders sought my
advice as to a location, I could hardly have suggested one better suited
to my own convenience. The tree was within a stone's toss of my window,
and, better still, the nest was overlooked to excellent advantage from
an old bank wall which divided my premises from those of my next-door
neighbor. How could I doubt that Providence itself had set me a summer
lesson?
At our first visit the discoverer of the nest--from that moment an
ornithologist--brought out a step-ladder, and we looked in upon the two
tiny white eggs, considerately improving a temporary absence of the
owner for that purpose. It was a picture to please not only the eye, but
the imagination; and before I could withdraw my gaze the mother bird was
back again, whisking about my head so fearlessly that for a moment I
stood still, half expecting her to drop into the nest within reach of my
hand.
This, as I have said, was on the 24th of June. Six days later, on the
afternoon of the 30th, the eggs were found to be hatched, and two
lifeless-looking things lay in the bottom of the nest, their heads
tucked out of sight, and their bodies almost or quite naked, except for
a line of grayish down along the middle of the back.
Meanwhile, I had been returning with interest the visits of the bird to
our honeysuckle, and by this time had fairly worn a path to a certain
point in the wall, where, comfortably seated in the shade of the
hummer's own tree, and armed with opera-glass and notebook, I spent some
hours daily in playing the spy upon her motherly doings.
For a widow with a house and family upon her hands, she took life
easily; at frequent intervals she absented herself altogether, and even
when at home she spent no small share of the time in flitting about
among the branches of the tree. On such occasions, I often saw her hover
against the bole or a patch of leaves, or before a piece of caterpillar
or spider web, making quick thrusts with her bill, evidently after bits
of something to eat. On quitting the nest, she commonly perched upon one
or another of a certain set of dead twigs in different parts of the
tree, and at once shook out her feathers and spread her tail, displaying
its handsome white markings, indicative of her sex. This was the
beginning of a leisurely toilet operation, in the course of which she
scratched herself with her feet and dressed her feathers with her bill,
all the while darting out her long tongue with lightning-like rapidity,
as if to moisten her beak, which at other times she cleansed by rubbing
it down with her claws or by wiping it upon a twig. In general she paid
little attention to me, though she sometimes hovered directly in front
of my face, as if trying to stare me out of countenance. One of the most
pleasing features of the show was her method of flying into the nest.
She approached it, without exception, from the same quarter, and, after
an almost imperceptible hovering motion, shut her wings and dropped upon
the eggs.
When the young were hatched I redoubled my attentions. Now I should see
her feed them. On the first afternoon I waited a long time for this
purpose, the mother conducting herself in her customary manner: now
here, now there, preening her plumage, driving away a meddlesome
sparrow, probing the florets of a convenient clover-head (an unusual
resource, I think), or snatching a morsel from some leaf or twig.
Suddenly she flew at me, and held herself at a distance of perhaps four
feet from my nose. Then she wheeled, and, as I thought, darted out of
the orchard. In a few seconds I turned my head, and there she sat in the
nest! I owned myself beaten. While I had been gazing toward the meadow,
she had probably done exactly what I had wasted the better part of the
afternoon in attempting to see.
Twenty-four hours later I was more successful, though the same ruse was
again tried upon me. The mother left the nest at my approach, but in
three minutes (by the watch) flew in again. She brooded for nine
minutes. Then, quite of her own motion, she disappeared for six minutes.
On her return she spent four minutes in dressing her feathers, after
which she alighted on the edge of the nest, fed the little ones, and
took her place upon them. This time she brooded for ten minutes. Then
she was away for six minutes, dallied about the tree for two minutes
longer, and again flew into the nest. While sitting, she pecked several
times in quick succession at a twig within reach, and I could plainly
see her mandibles in motion, as if she were swallowing. She brooded for
thirteen minutes, absented herself for three minutes, and spent six
minutes in her usual cautionary manoeuvres before resuming her seat.
For the long interval of twenty-two minutes she sat still. Then she
vanished for four minutes, and on her return gave the young another
luncheon, after a fast of one hour and six minutes.
The feeding process, which I had been so desirous to see, was of a sort
to make the spectator shiver. The mother, standing on the edge of the
nest, with her tail braced against its side, like a woodpecker or a
creeper, took a rigidly erect position, and craned her neck until her
bill was in a perpendicular line above the short, wide-open, upraised
beak of the little one, who, it must be remembered, was at this time
hardly bigger than a humble-bee. Then she thrust her bill for its full
length down into his throat, a frightful-looking act, followed by a
series of murderous gesticulations, which fairly made one observer's
blood run cold.
On the day after this (on the 2d of July, that is to say) I climbed into
the tree, in the old bird's absence, and stationed myself where my eyes
were perhaps fifteen feet from the nest, and a foot or two above its
level. At the end of about twenty minutes, the mother, who meantime had
made two visits to the tree, flew into place, and brooded for seventeen
minutes. Then she disappeared again, and on her return, after numberless
pretty feints and sidelong approaches, alighted on the wall of the nest,
and fed both little ones. The operation, though still sufficiently
reckless, looked less like infanticide than before,--a fact due, as I
suppose, to my more elevated position, from which the nestlings' throats
were better seen. After this she brooded for another seventeen minutes.
On the present occasion, as well as on many others, it was noticeable
that, while sitting upon the young, she kept up an almost incessant
motion, as if seeking to warm them, or perhaps to develop their muscles
by a kind of massage treatment. A measure of such hitchings and
fidgetings might have meant nothing more than an attempt to secure for
herself a comfortable seat; but when they were persisted in for fifteen
minutes together, it was difficult not to believe that she had some
different end in view. Possibly, as human infants get exercise by
dandling on the mother's knee, the baby humming-bird gets his by this
parental kneading process. Whether brooding or feeding, it must be said
that the hummer treated her tiny charges with no particular carefulness,
so far as an outsider could judge.
The next day I climbed again into the tree. The mother bird made off at
once, and did not resume her seat for almost an hour, though she would
undoubtedly have done so earlier but for my presence. Again and again
she perched near me, her bill leveled straight at my face. Finally she
alighted on the nest, and, after considerable further delay, as if to
assure herself that everything was quite safe, fed the two chicks from
her throat, as before. "She thrust her bill into their mouths so far" (I
quote my notes) "that the tips of their short little beaks were up
against the root of her mandibles!"
Only once more, on the 4th of July, I ventured into the apple-tree. For
more than an hour and a half I waited. Times without number the mother
came buzzing into the tree, made the circuit of her favorite perches,
dressed her plumage, darted away again, and again returned, till I was
almost driven to get down, for her relief. At last she fed the
nestlings, who by this time must have been all but starved, as indeed
they seemed to be. "The tips of their bills _do_ come clean up to the
base of the mother's mandibles." So I wrote in my journal; for it is the
first duty of a naturalist to verify his own observations.
On the 10th we again brought out the ladder. Though at least eleven days
old, the tiny birds--the "widow's mites," as my facetious neighbor
called them--were still far from filling the cup. While I stood over it,
one of them uttered some pathetic little cries that really went to my
heart. His bill, perceptibly longer than on the 5th, was sticking just
above the border of the nest. I touched it at the tip, but he did not
stir. Craning my neck, I could see his open eye. Poor, helpless things!
Yet within three months they would be flying to Central America, or some
more distant clime. How little they knew what was before them! As little
as I know what is before me.
The violence of the feeding act was now at its height, I think, but it
would be impossible to do justice to it by any description. My neighbor,
who one day stood beside me looking on, was moved to loud laughter. When
the two beaks were tightly joined, and while the old bird's was being
gradually withdrawn, they were shaken convulsively,--by the mother's
attempts to disgorge, and perhaps by the young fellow's efforts to
hasten the operation. It was plain that he let go with reluctance, as a
boy sucks the very tip of the spoon to get the last drop of jam; but, as
will be mentioned in the course of the narrative, his behavior improved
greatly in this respect as he grew older.
On the 12th, just after the little ones had been fed, one of them got
his wings for the first time above the wall of the nest, and fluttered
them with much spirit. He had spent almost a fortnight in the cradle,
and was beginning to think he had been a baby long enough.
From the first I had kept in mind the question whether the feeding of
the young by regurgitation, as described briefly by Audubon, and more in
detail by Mr. William Brewster,[9] would be continued after the
nestlings were fully grown. On the 14th I wrote in my journal: "The
method of feeding remains unchanged, and, as it seems, is likely to
remain so to the end. It must save the mother much labor in going and
coming, and perhaps renders the cooperation of the male parent
unnecessary." This prediction was fulfilled, but with a qualification to
be hereafter specified.
[9] _The Auk_, vol. vii. p. 206.
Every morning, now, I went to the apple-tree uncertain whether the nest
would not be found empty. According to Audubon, Nuttall, Mr. Burroughs,
and Mrs. Treat, young humming-birds stay in the nest only seven days.
Mr. Brewster, in his notes already cited, says that the birds on which
his observations were made--in the garden of Mr. E. S. Hoar, in
Concord--were hatched on the 4th of July,[10] and forsook the nest on
the 18th. My birds were already fifteen days old, at least, and, unless
they were to prove uncommonly backward specimens, ought to be on the
wing forthwith. Nevertheless they were in no haste. Day after day
passed. The youngsters looked more and more like old birds, and the
mother grew constantly more and more nervous.
[10] But Mr. Hoar, from whom Mr. Brewster had his dates, informs me that
the time of hatching was not certainly known; and from Mr. Brewster's
statement about the size of the nestlings, I cannot doubt that they had
been out of the shell some days longer than Mr. Hoar then supposed.
On the 18th I found her in a state of unprecedented excitement,
squeaking almost incessantly. At first I attributed this to concern at
my presence, but after a while it transpired that a young oriole--a
blundering, tailless fellow--was the cause of the disturbance. By some
accident he had dropped into the leafy treetop, as guiltless of any evil
design as one of her own nestlings. How she did buzz about him! In and
out among the branches she went, now on this side of him, now on that,
and now just over his back; all the time squeaking fiercely, and
carrying her tail spread to its utmost. The scene lasted for some
minutes. Through it all the two young birds kept perfectly quiet, never
once putting up their heads, even when the mother, buzzing and calling,
zigzagged directly about the nest. I had seen many birds in the tree,
first and last, but none that created anything like such a stir. The
mother was literally in a frenzy. She went the round of her perches, but
could stay nowhere. Once she dashed out of the tree for an instant, and
drove a sparrow away from the tomato patch. Ordinarily his presence
there would not have annoyed her in the least, but in her present state
of mind she was ready to pounce upon anybody. All of which shows once
more how "human-like" birds are. The bewilderment of the oriole was
comical. "What on earth can this crazy thing be shooting about my ears
in this style for?" I imagined him saying to himself. In fact, as he
glanced my way, now and then, with his innocent baby face, I could
almost believe that he was appealing to me with some such inquiry.
The next morning ("at 7.32," as my diary is careful to note) one of the
twins took his flight. I was standing on the wall, with my glass leveled
upon the nest, when I saw him exercising his wings. The action was
little more pronounced than had been noticed at intervals during the
last three or four days, except that he was more decidedly on his feet.
Suddenly, without making use of the rim of the nest, as I should have
expected him to do, he was in the air, hovering in the prettiest
fashion, and in a moment more had alighted on a leafless twig slightly
above the level of the nest, and perhaps a yard from it. Within a minute
the mother appeared, buzzing and calling, with answering calls from the
youthful adventurer. At once--after a hasty reconnaissance of the man on
the wall--she perched beside him, and plunged her bill into his throat.
Then she went to the nest, served the other one in the same way, and
made off. She had no time to waste at this juncture of affairs.
When she had gone, I stepped up to the trunk of the tree to watch the
little fellow more closely. He held his perch, and occupied himself with
dressing his plumage, though, as the breeze freshened, he was compelled
once in a while to keep his wings in motion to prevent the wind from
carrying him away. When the old bird returned,--in just half an
hour,--she resented my intrusion (what an oppressor of the widow and the
fatherless she must by this time have thought me!) in the most
unmistakable manner, coming more than once quite within reach. However,
she soon gave over these attempts at intimidation, perched beside the
percher, and again put something into his maw. This time she did not
feed the nestling. As she took her departure, she told the
come-outer--or so I fancied--that there was a man under the tree, a
pestilent fellow, and it would be well to get a little out of his reach.
At all events, she had scarcely disappeared before the youngster was
again on the wing. It was wonderful how much at home he
seemed,--poising, backing, soaring, and alighting with all the ease and
grace of an old hand. One only piece of awkwardness I saw him commit: he
dropped upon a branch much too large for his tiny feet, and was
manifestly uncomfortable. But he did not stay long, and at his next
alighting was well up in the tree, where it was noticeable that he
remained ever after.
With so much going on outside, it was hard to remain indoors, and
finally I took a chair to the orchard, and gave myself up to watching
the drama. The feeding process, though still always by regurgitation,
was by this time somewhat different from what it had been when the
bills of the young were less fully developed. In my notes of this date I
find the following description of it: "Number Two is still in the nest,
but uneasy. At 10.25 the mother appeared and fed him.[11] Her beak was
thrust into his mouth at right angles,--the change being necessitated,
probably, by the greater length of his bill,--and he seemed to be
jerking strenuously at it. Then he opened his beak and remained
motionless, while the black mandibles of the mother could be seen
running down out of sight into his throat."
[11] For convenience, I use the masculine pronoun in speaking of both
the young birds; but I knew nothing as to the sex of either of them,
though I came finally to believe that one was a male and the other a
female.
The other youngster, Number One, as I now called him, stayed in the
tree, or at most ventured only into the next one, and was fed at varying
intervals,--as often, apparently, as the busy mother could find anything
to give him. Would he go back to his cradle for the night? It seemed not
improbable, notwithstanding he had shown no sign of such an intention so
long as daylight lasted. At 3.50 the next morning, therefore, I stole
out to see. No: Number Two was there alone.
At seven o'clock, when I made my second visit, the mother was in the
midst of another day's hard work. Twice within five minutes she brought
food to the nestling. Once the little fellow--not so very little
now--happened to be facing east, while the old bird alighted, as she had
invariably done, on the western side. The youngster, instead of facing
about, threw back his head and opened his beak. "Look out, there!"
exclaimed my fellow-observer; "you'll break his neck if you feed him in
that way." But she did not mind. Young birds' necks are not so easily
broken. Within ten minutes of this time she fed Number One, giving him
three doses. They were probably small, however (and small wonder), for
he begged hard for more, opening his bill with an appealing air. The
action in this case was particularly well seen, and the vehement
jerking, while the beaks were glued together, seemed almost enough to
pull the young fellow's head off. Within another ten minutes the mother
was again ministering to Number Two! Poor little widow! Between her
incessant labors of this kind and her overwhelming anxiety whenever any
strange bird came near, I began to be seriously alarmed for her. As a
member of a strictly American family, she was in a fair way, I thought,
to be overtaken by the "most American of diseases,"--nervous
prostration. It tired me to watch her.
With us, and perhaps with her likewise, it was a question whether Number
Two would remain in the nest for the day. He grew more and more
restless; as my companion--a learned man--expressed it, he began to
"ramp round." Once he actually mounted the rim of the nest, a thing
which his more precocious brother had never been seen to do, and
stretched forward to pick at a neighboring stem. Late that afternoon the
mother fed him five times within an hour, instead of once an hour, or
thereabouts, as had been her habit three weeks before. She meant to have
him in good condition for the coming event; and he, on his part, was
active to the same end,--standing upon the wall of the nest again and
again, and exercising his wings till they made a cloud about him. A
dread of launching away still kept him back, however, and shortly after
seven o'clock I found him comfortably disposed for the night. "He is now
on his twenty-first day (at least) in the nest. To-morrow will see him
go." So end my day's notes.
At 5.45 the next morning he was still there. At 6.20 I absented myself
for a few minutes, and on returning was hailed by my neighbor with the
news that the nest was empty. Number Two had flown between 6.25 and
6.30, but, unhappily, neither of us was at hand to give him a cheer. I
trust that he and his mother were not hurt in their feelings by the
oversight. The whole family (minus the father) was still in the
apple-tree; the mother full, and more than full, of business, feeding
one youngster after the other, as they sat here and there in the upper
branches.
Twenty-four hours later, as I stood in the orchard, I heard a hum of
wings, and found the mother over my head. Presently she flew into the
top of the tree, and the next instant was sitting beside one of the
young ones. His hungry mouth was already wide open, but before feeding
him she started up from the twig, and circled about him so closely as
almost or quite to touch him with her wings. On completing the circle
she dropped upon the perch at his side, but immediately rose again, and
again flew round him. It was a beautiful act,--beautiful beyond the
power of any words of mine to set forth; an expression of maternal
ecstasy, I could not doubt, answering to the rapturous caresses and
endearments in which mothers of human infants are so frequently seen
indulging. Three days afterward, to my delight, I saw it repeated in
every particular, as if to confirm my opinion of its significance. The
sight repaid all my watchings thrice over, and even now I feel my heart
growing warm at the recollection of it. Strange thoughtlessness, is it
not, which allows mothers capable of such passionate devotion, tiny,
defenseless things, to be slaughtered by the million for the enhancement
of woman's charms!