Cambridge ornithologists had found a robin roost in that city,--a wood
in which great numbers of birds congregated every night. This led me to
keep a sharper eye upon my own robins, whom I had already noticed
repeating their previous year's manoeuvres. Every evening, shortly
before and after sunset, they were to be seen flying, now singly, now by
twos and threes, or even by the half dozen, evidently on their way to
some rendezvous. I was suspicious of a rather distant hill-top covered
with pine-trees; but before I could make it convenient to visit the
place at the proper hour, I discovered, quite unexpectedly, that the
roost was close by the very road up and down which I had been walking;
an isolated piece of swampy wood, a few acres in extent, mostly a dense
growth of gray birches and swamp white oaks, but with a sprinkling of
maples and other deciduous trees. It is bounded on the further side by a
wet meadow, and at the eastern end by a little ice-pond, with a
dwelling-house and other buildings beside it, all within a stone's throw
of the wood.
This discovery was made on the evening of July 25th, and I at once
crossed a narrow field between the wood and the highway, and pushed in
after the birds. It was too dark for me to see what was going on, but as
I brushed against the close branches the robins set up a lively
cackling, and presently commenced flying from tree to tree before me as
I advanced, though plainly with no intention of deserting their
quarters. The place was full of them, but I could form no estimate of
their number.
On the following evening I took my stand upon a little knoll commanding
the western end of the wood. According to my notes, the birds began to
arrive about sunset,--but this was pretty certainly an error,--and
though I did not undertake an exact count until the flight was mainly
over, it seemed likely that at least three hundred passed in at that
point. This would have made the total number twelve hundred, or
thereabout, on the assumption that my outlook had covered a quarter of
the circuit. After the flight ceased I went into the wood, and from the
commotion overhead it was impossible not to believe that such a
calculation must be well within the truth.
The next day was rainy, but on the evening of the 28th I stood by the
shore of the pond, on the eastern side of the wood, and made as accurate
a count as possible of the arrivals at that point. Unfortunately I was
too late; the robins were already coming. But in fifty minutes, between
6.40 and 7.30, I counted 1072 birds. They appeared singly and in small
flocks, and it was out of the question for me to make sure of them all;
while I was busy with a flock on the right, there was no telling how
many might be passing in on the left. If my observations comprehended a
quarter of the circle, and if the influx was equally great on the other
sides (an assumption afterward disproved), then it was safe to set the
whole number of birds at five thousand or more. Of the 1072 actually
seen, 797 came before the sunset gun was fired,--a proportion somewhat
larger than it would have been had the sky been clear.
On the afternoon of the 29th I again counted the arrivals at the eastern
end; but though I set out, as I thought, in good season, I found myself
once more behind time. At 6.30 robins were already dropping in,
notwithstanding the sky was cloudless. In the first five minutes
eighteen birds appeared; at sunset 818 had been counted; and at 7.30,
when I came away, the figures stood at 1267. "The robins came more
rapidly than last night," I wrote in my notebook, "and for much of the
time I could keep watch of the southeastern corner only. My vision then
covered much less than a quarter of the circuit; so that if the birds
came as freely from other directions, at least five thousand must have
entered the wood between 6.30 and 7.30. As long as it was light they
avoided passing directly by me, going generally to the left, and
slipping into the roost behind some low outlying trees; though,
fortunately, in doing this they were compelled to cross a narrow patch
of the illuminated western sky. I suspect that the number increases from
night to night. Between 6.40 and 7.30, 1235 birds came, as compared
with 1072 last evening."
Two days afterward (July 31st) I went to the western end of the wood,
and found the influx there much smaller than on the opposite side; but I
arrived late, and made a partial count only. After sunset 186 birds were
seen, whereas there had been 455 entries at the eastern end, two nights
before, during the same time.
Thus far I had always been too late to witness the beginning of the
flight. On the evening of August 1st I resolved to be in season. I
reached the border of the pond at 5.15, and at that very moment a single
robin flew into the wood. No others were seen for eighteen minutes, when
three arrived together. From this time stragglers continued to appear,
and at 6.30 I had counted 176. In the next ten minutes 180 arrived; in
the next five minutes, 138. Between 6.45 and 7, I counted 549; then, in
six minutes, 217 appeared. At 7.25, when I concluded, the figures stood
at 1533 birds. For about twenty minutes, as will be noticed, the
arrivals were at the rate of thirty-six a minute. Throughout the
thickest of the flight I could keep a lookout upon only one side of me,
and, moreover, the gathering darkness was by that time making it more
and more difficult to see any birds except such as passed above the dark
tree line; and from what went on just about me, it was evident that the
number of arrivals was increasing rather than diminishing as my count
fell off. There seemed to be no good reason for doubting that at least
two thousand robins entered the wood at the eastern end.
Two nights later I stationed myself in the meadow southwest of the
roost. Here I counted but 935 entries. The movement appeared to be fully
as steady as on the opposite side, but as darkness came on I found
myself at a great disadvantage; a hill occupied the background, giving
me no illuminated sky to bring the birds into relief, so that I could
see only such as passed close at hand. Of the 935 birds, 761 came before
seven o'clock, but it was reasonably certain that the flight afterward
was nearly or quite as great, only that I wanted light wherewith to see
it.
On the evening of August 4th I went back to the eastern end, and as the
sky was perfectly clear I hoped to make a gain upon all my previous
figures. But the fair weather was perhaps a hindrance rather than a
help; for the robins came later than before, and more in a body, and
continued to arrive long after it was impossible to see them. I counted
1480,--53 less than on the 1st.
I attempted no further enumeration until the 18th. Then, in an hour and
ten minutes, 1203 birds were seen to enter the roost at the eastern end.
But they arrived more than ever in flocks, and so late that for much of
the time I missed all except the comparatively small number that passed
in my immediate vicinity. Many were flying at a great height,--having
come from a long distance, as I inferred,--and sometimes I knew nothing
of their approach till they dropped out of the sky directly over the
wood. On this occasion, as well as on many others,--but chiefly during
the latter part of the season,--it was noticeable that some of the
robins appeared to be ignorant of the precise whereabouts of the roost;
they flew past it at first, and then, after more or less circling about,
with loud cackling, dived hurriedly into the wood. I took special note
of one fellow, who came from the south at a great altitude, and went
directly over the wood. When he was well past it he suddenly pulled
himself up, as if fancying he had caught a signal. After a moment of
hesitation he proceeded on his northerly course, but had not gone far
before he met half a dozen birds flying south. Perhaps he asked them the
way. At all events, he wheeled about and joined them, and in half a
minute was safe in port. He had heard of the roost, apparently (how and
where?), but had not before visited it.
This count of August 18th was the last for nearly a month, but I find a
minute of August 27th stating that, while walking along the highway on
the westerly side of the roost,--the side that had always been the least
populous,--I saw within less than two minutes (as I calculated the time)
more than eighty robins flying toward the wood. Up to this date, then,
there could not have been any considerable falling off in the size of
the gathering. Indeed, from my friend's observations upon the Belmont
roost, to be mentioned later, it seems well-nigh certain that it was
still upon the increase.
Toward the close of August I became interested in the late singing of
several whippoorwills, and so was taken away from the robins' haunt at
the hour of sunset. Then, from the 5th to the 13th of September, I was
absent from home. On the night of my return I went to the shore of the
pond, where, on the 1st of August, I had counted 1533 entries. The
weather was favorable, and I arrived in good season and remained till
the stars came out, but I counted only 137 robins! It was plain that the
great majority of the congregation had departed.
As I have said, there was little to be learned by going into the wood
after the robins were assembled. Nevertheless I used frequently to
intrude upon them, especially as friends or neighbors, who had heard of
my "discovery," were desirous to see the show. The prodigious cackling
and rustling overhead seemed to make a deep impression upon all such
visitors, while, for myself, I should have had no difficulty in
crediting the statement had I been told that _ten thousand_ robins were
in the treetops. One night I took two friends to the place after it was
really dark. All was silent as we felt our way among the trees, till,
suddenly, one of the trio struck a match and kindled a blaze of dry
twigs. The smoke and flame speedily waked the sleepers; but even then
they manifested no disposition to be driven out.
For curiosity's sake, I paid one early morning visit to the roost, on
the 30th of July. It would be worth while, I thought, to see how much
music so large a chorus would make, as well as to note the manner of its
dispersion. To tell the truth, I hoped for something spectacular,--a
grand burst of melody, and then a pouring forth of a dense, uncountable
army of robins. I arrived about 3.40 (it was still hardly light enough
to show the face of the watch), and found everything quiet. Pretty soon
the robins commenced cackling. At 3.45 a song sparrow sang, and at the
same moment I saw a robin fly out of the wood. Five minutes later a
robin sang; at 3.55 another one flew past me; at four o'clock a few of
the birds were in song, but the effect was not in any way
peculiar,--very much as if two or three had been singing in the ordinary
manner. They dispersed precisely as I had seen them gather: now a
single bird, now two or three, now six, or even ten. A casual passer
along the road would have remarked nothing out of the common course.
They flew low,--not as if they were starting upon any prolonged
flight,--and a goodly number alighted for a little in the field where I
was standing. Shortly before sunrise I went into the wood and found it
deserted. The robin is one of our noisiest birds. Who would have
believed that an assembly of thousands could break up so quietly? Their
behavior in this regard may possibly have been influenced by prudential
considerations. I have said that many of them seemingly took pains to
approach the roost indirectly and under cover. On the westerly side, for
example, they almost invariably followed a line of bushes and trees
which runs toward the roost along the edge of the meadow, even though
they were obliged sharply to alter their course in so doing.
All this time I had been in correspondence with my friend before
referred to, who was studying a similar roost,[15]--in Belmont,--which
proved to be more populous than mine, as was to be expected, perhaps,
the surrounding country being less generally wooded. It was a mile or
more from his house, which was so situated that he could sit upon his
piazza in the evening and watch the birds streaming past. On the 11th of
August he counted here 556 robins, of which 336 passed within five
minutes. On the 28th he counted 1180, of which 456 passed within five
minutes,--ninety-one a minute! On the 2d of September, from a knoll
nearer the roost, he counted 1883 entries.
[15] This roost was discovered by Mr. William Brewster, in August, 1884,
as already mentioned.
This gathering, like the one in Melrose, was greatly depleted by the
middle of September. "Only 109 robins flew over the place to-night," my
correspondent wrote on the 25th, "against 538 September 4th, 838 August
30th, and 1180 August 28th." Two evenings later (September 27th) he went
to the neighborhood of the roost, and counted 251 birds,--instead of
1883 on the 2d. Even so late as October 9th, however, the wood was not
entirely deserted. During the last month or so of its occupancy, the
number of the birds was apparently subject to sudden and wide
fluctuations, and it seemed not unlikely that travelers from the north
were making a temporary use of the well-known resort. It would not be
surprising if the same were found to be true in the spring. In April,
1890, I saw some things which pointed, as I thought, in this direction,
but I was then too closely occupied to follow the matter.
How early in the season does this nightly flocking begin? This question
often presented itself. It was only the middle of July when the
Cambridge roost was found in full operation, though at that time many
robins must still have had family duties, and some were probably
building new nests. Next summer, we said, we would try to mark the
beginnings of the congregation.
My own plans to this end came near being thwarted. In December I was
dismayed to see the owner of the wood cutting it down. Happily some kind
power stayed his hand when not more than a third of the mischief was
done, and on the 29th of June, 1890, while strolling homeward along the
highway, listening to the distant song of a veery, I noticed within five
or ten minutes seventeen robins making toward the old rendezvous. On
the following evening I stood beside the ice-pond and saw one hundred
and ninety-two robins enter the wood. The flight had begun before my
arrival, and was not entirely over when I came away. Evidently several
hundreds of the birds were already passing their nights in company. In
my ignorance, I was surprised at the early date; but when I communicated
my discovery to the Belmont observer, he replied at once that he had
noticed a movement of the same kind on the 11th of June. The birds,
about a dozen, were seen passing his house.
Thinking over the matter, I began to ask myself--though I hesitate about
making such a confession--whether it might not be the adult males who
thus unseasonably went off to bed in a crowd, leaving their mates to
care for eggs and little ones. At this very moment, as it happened, I
was watching with lively sympathy the incessant activities of a female
humming-bird, who appeared to be bringing up a family (two very hungry
nestlings), with no husband to lift a finger for her assistance; and the
sight, as I fear, put me into a cynical mood. Male robins were probably
like males in general,--lovers of clubs and shirkers of home duties.
Indeed, a friend who went into the roost with me, one evening, remarked
upon the continual cackling in the treetops as "a very social sound;"
and upon my saying something about a sewing circle, he answered, quite
seriously, "No, it is rather like a gentleman's club." But it would have
been unscientific, as well as unchristian, to entertain an hypothesis
like this without putting its soundness to some kind of test. I adopted
the only plan that occurred to me,--short of rising at half past two
o'clock in the morning to see the birds disperse. I entered the wood
just before the assemblage was due (this was on the 9th of July), and
took a sheltered position on the eastern edge, where, as the robins flew
by me, or alighted temporarily in the trees just across the brook, they
would have the sunlight upon their breasts. Here, as often as one came
sufficiently near and in a sufficiently favorable light, I noted whether
it was an adult, or a streaked, spotted bird of the present season. As a
matter of course, the number concerning which this point could be
positively determined under such conditions was very small,--only
fifty-seven altogether. Of these, forty-nine were surely birds of the
present summer, and only eight unmistakable adult males. If any adult
females came in, they passed among the unidentified and uncounted.[16] I
was glad I had made the test. As a kind-hearted cynic (I confess to
being nothing worse than this), I was relieved to find my misanthropic,
or, to speak more exactly, my misornithic, notions ill founded. As for
the sprinkling of adult males, they may have been, as a "friend and
fellow woodlander" suggests, birds which, for one reason or another, had
taken up with the detestable opinion that "marriage is a failure."
[16] A week later, my correspondent reported a similar state of things
at the Belmont roost. "A very large proportion of the birds are
spotted-breasted young of the year, but occasionally I have detected an
adult male." He examined the birds at near range, and at rest, after
they had come into the roost in the earlier part of the evening.
During the month of July, 1890, I made frequent counts of the entries at
the eastern end of the roost, thinking thus to ascertain in a general
way the rate at which its population increased. On the whole, the growth
proved to be fairly steady, in spite of some mysterious fluctuations, as
will be seen by the following table:--
July 3 247
" 5 383
" 6 356
" 10 765
" 12 970
" 14 1120
" 16 1064
" 17 1333
" 19 1584
" 22 1520
" 23 1453
" 27 2314
After July 6th all the enumerations were made with the help of another
man, though we stood side by side, and covered no more ground than I had
hitherto attempted to compass alone. The figures of the 27th were far in
excess of any obtained in 1889, and for a day I was disposed to take
seriously the suggestion of a friend that some other roost must have
been broken up and its members turned into the Melrose gathering. But on
the evening of the 28th I tried a count by myself, and made only 1517
birds! The conditions were favorable, and the robins came, as they had
come the night before, in flocks, almost in continuous streams. The
figures had fallen off, not because there were fewer birds, but because
I was unable to count them. They were literally too many for me. The
difficulties of the work, it should be explained, are greatly enhanced
by the fact that at the very corner where the influx is largest none of
the low-flying birds can be seen except for a second or two, as they
dart across a bit of sky between the roost and an outlying wood. To
secure anything like a complete census, this point must be watched
continuously; and meantime birds are streaming in at the other corner
and shooting over the distracted enumerator's head, and perhaps dropping
out of the sky. I conclude, therefore, not that the roost had increased
in population, but that my last year's reckoning was even more
inadequate than I then supposed. Even with two pairs of eyes, it is
inevitable that multitudes of birds should pass in unnoticed, especially
during the latter half of the flight. I have never had an assistant or a
looker-on to whom this was not perfectly apparent.
As I stood night after night watching the robins stream into this little
wood,--no better, surely, than many they had passed on their way,--I
asked myself again and again what could be the motive that drew them
together. The flocking of birds for a long journey, or in the winter
season, is less mysterious. In times of danger and distress there is no
doubt a feeling of safety in a crowd. But robins cannot be afraid of the
dark. Why, then, should not each sleep upon its own feeding grounds,
alone, or with a few neighbors for company, instead of flying two or
three miles, more or less, twice a day, simply for the sake of passing
the night in a general roost?
Such questions we must perhaps be content to ask without expecting an
answer. By nature the robin is strongly gregarious, and though his
present mode of existence does not permit him to live during the summer
in close communities,--as marsh wrens do, for example, and some of our
swallows,--his ancestral passion for society still asserts itself at
nightfall. Ten or twelve years ago, when I was bird-gazing in Boston,
there were sometimes a hundred robins at once about the Common and
Garden, in the time of the vernal migration. By day they were scattered
over the lawns; but at sunset they gathered habitually in two or three
contiguous trees, not far from the Frog Pond and the Beacon Street Mall
(I wonder whether the same trees are still in use for the same purpose),
where, after much noise and some singing, they retired to rest,--if
going to sleep in a leafless treetop can be called retiring.
Whatever the origin and reason of this roosting habit, I have no doubt
that it is universal. Middlesex County birds cannot be in any respect
peculiar. Whoever will keep a close eye upon the robins in his
neighborhood, in July and August, will find them at sunset flocking to
some general sleeping-place.
It would be interesting to know how far they travel at such times. The
fact that so many hundreds were to be seen at a point more than a mile
away from the Belmont roost is significant; but I am not aware that any
one has yet made a study of this part of the subject. My own birds
seemed to come, as a rule, by easy stages. In the long narrow valley
east of the roost, where I oftenest watched their approach, they
followed habitually--not invariably--a zigzag route, crossing the meadow
diagonally, and for the most part alighting for a little upon a certain
wooded hill, whence they took a final flight to their nightly haven,
perhaps a quarter of a mile beyond. Farther down the valley, a mile or
more from the roost, birds were to be seen flying toward it, but I found
no place at which a general movement could be observed and large numbers
counted.
As to the size of these nightly gatherings, it seems wisest not to
guess; though, treating the subject in this narrative manner, I have not
scrupled to mention, simply as a part of the story, some of my temporary
surmises. What I am told of the Belmont wood is true also of the one in
Melrose: its shape and situation are such as to make an accurate census
impossible, no matter how many "enumerators" might be employed. It could
be surrounded easily enough, but it would be out of the question to
divide the space among the different men so that no two of them should
count the same birds. At present it can only be said that the robins are
numbered by thousands; in some cases, perhaps, by tens of thousands.
THE PASSING OF THE BIRDS.
"The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing."
OMAR KHAYYAM.