* Parts of this and several other chapters of this book were first
published in The New York Times, whose courtesy in permitting him to
reprint, the author hereby acknowledges.
Nothing affords the bird student more pleasure than settling the identity
of species, albeit sometimes it is hard and patience-trying work. And of
all the birds, none are so provokingly and charmingly elusive as some of
the wood warblers. What a time I had for several years in making sure of
some of these little nymph-like creatures which were flitting about in
the foliage of the trees, concealing themselves by a leafy barrier! Many
a weary chase did they lead me through the woods, and more than once I
almost unjointed my neck by long-continued looking up.
For identifying the tree-top flitters an opera glass is scarcely powerful
enough. A field glass or a Bausch & Lomb binocular is really a
necessity. It draws the bird right down to you, while at the same time
the elusive creature remains at what it regards a safe distance. Its
conduct will therefore not be constrained, and the observer can study it
in its natural poses.
What an enigma the Tennessee warbler for a long time remained to me!
Never still for a moment, yet so indistinctly marked that at a distance
it looks like a dozen other birds one might name--a veritable feathered
rebus. But finally I fixed its place in the avian schedule with the help
of my field glass--white under parts, slightly tinged with yellow, back
and rump olive green, top and sides of head delicate bluish-ash; no
eye-ring, no wing-bars. There is no other warbler marked quite like
that. And yet its song is its most conspicuous mark, so to speak, for it
is a loud, shrill, and very rapidly repeated run, which might be spelled
out in this way: "Chippy, chippy, chippy, chippity-chippity-chippity."
The whole song is emitted at a galloping pace, giving you the impression
that the bird is in a desperate hurry. Important business on hand, no
doubt! Yes, there is a worm or a nit on the under side of that leaf, and
he must nab it now or never! With such pressing business matters on
hand, he has no time for regaling you with "linked sweetness long drawn
out."
Still, he sometimes does prolong his ditty, giving it a saucy,
challenging air. No other warbler sings so loudly. His voice is as
shrill and penetrating as that of the indigo bird, though the song is
quite different in technique.
[Illustration: Yellow Warbler]
Another feathered conundrum was the Nashville warbler, whose back and
head are colored like those of the Tennessee, but whose under parts are
bright yellow, instead of white or white only slightly washed with
yellow; and, besides, sharp peering through your glass will reveal a
distinct white ring encircling the eye. The bird in the hand would also
show a dainty chestnut patch on the crown, but this mark is seldom seen
while it is flitting about in the leafy trees. The songs of the
Nashville and the Tennessee are somewhat similar, but not the same, the
Tennessee's being louder, shriller, and more sharply accentuated, while
his cousin's is more liquid and musical and far less sibilant. My notes
represent the Nashville's song phonetically as follows: "Swee, swee,
swee, ah-wit-ah-wit-ah-wit," delivered rapidly in a high key and with not
a little energy and emphasis. When my notes were made the little lyrist
was putting his best foot forward, and was not high in the trees, so that
I heard him distinctly. The Tennessee warblers were also singing near at
hand, giving me a good opportunity to compare the arias of the two
species.
Belonging to the same subfamily is the orange-crowned warbler. It has
not so marked a preference for trees as its little relatives just
mentioned, but likes, so far as my observation goes, to flit about in
thickets, where it remains in hiding until driven from its covert or
drawn forth by curiosity. Only for a moment does it appear in sight,
then plunges into another covert. You will note that its eye-ring is
yellow, and that its under parts are neither bright yellow, like the
Nashville's, nor white, like the Tennessee's, but greenish yellow
obscurely streaked on the chest. I have never heard the song of the
orange-crown.
There are a number of shy warblers that are especially partial to wild,
unfrequented parts of the woods, where they are seldom disturbed by human
intruders. In Kansas I found them in the deep, densely wooded ravines
running back from the Missouri River and its tributary valleys. Although
these feathered recluses are rarely molested by man, they seem to know
enough about his character to look upon him with a suspicious eye when he
ventures into their sylvan domain. Hence they are hard to study, and it
is not often that their deftly hidden nests can be found.
One of the most delightful of these hermits is the Kentucky warbler. A
brilliant little bird he is, with his golden under parts and superciliary
line, his black patch on the cheek just below the eye, his black cap, and
his coat of iridescent olive green. You will not mistake him for the
Maryland yellow-throat, which also wears a black patch on the side of his
head; but this patch lies over the eye and includes it, and its upper
border is white, while this bird lacks the yellow and curved superciliary
band. Besides, the yellow-throat is not a woodland but a marsh bird.
The Kentucky warbler is attractive in many ways. An industrious
minstrel, his voice is strong and full for so small a bird, and until you
learn to know his tune well, you may mistake it for that of the cardinal.
But, as a piper, he lacks the versatility of the cardinal, who carries a
number of music sheets in his repertory, while the little Kentuckian
confines his lyrical efforts principally to one strain. Sometimes he
delivers his intermittent aria from a low bush or even from the ground,
but his favorite song-perches are the branches of saplings and trees just
below the zone of foliage. Here, in the shadows, you may be compelled to
look for him for some time before you espy his trig little form, and even
then you are likely to see him because he flits to another perch rather
than because you first catch the glint of his colors. Whether he means
it or not, he is something of a ventriloquist, for which reason you will
often look for him in many places before seeing him.
As I have noted, he is an untiring singer. It never occurred to me to
time him, but Dr. Frank M. Chapman has had the patience to do so. "On
one occasion," says this observer, "at Englewood, New Jersey, I watched a
male for three hours. During this period, with the exception of five
interruptions of less than forty-five seconds each, he sang with the
greatest regularity once every twelve seconds. Thus, allowing for the
brief intervals of silence, he sang about 875 times, or some 5,250 notes.
I found him singing, and when I departed he showed no signs of ceasing."
It is such painstaking observations that add something new and fresh to
our knowledge of birds.
The Kentucky warbler is fond of walking about on the ground in the woods,
seeking for his favorite insects. As you slowly follow, you will now and
then catch a glimpse of him through the apertures of the leaves; then he
will again disappear beneath his canvas of green. Thus he pursues his
quest hour after hour, and you may hear the rustle of his tiny feet upon
the carpet of dead leaves. Is it only a notion of mine, or am I correct,
in thinking that his promenades on the ground are mostly taken early in
the spring before there is danger from snakes?
I like the pretty Kentuckians, but must grant you that in some respects
they are quite exasperating, never inclined to be as confiding as some
other birds. And then most birds will sooner or later betray the
presence of their nests, but the Kentucky warblers seldom do so, knowing
too well how to keep their procreant secrets. They have evidently
learned the use of strategy, as you will see: One day a pair began to
chirp vigorously as I approached their demesne in a lonely hollow, and I
felt a thrill of joy at the prospect of finding a nest. One of them even
flitted about with a worm in its bill--a sure sign of nestlings in the
neighborhood. For nearly four hours I watched the chirping couple, and
peered, as I thought, into every nook and cranny of the place, but all in
vain; neither nest nor bantlings could I find. Yet in some way that
seemed almost mysterious enough to be uncanny, the mother bird got rid of
the tidbit which she held in her bill. She probably decided to eat it
herself rather than betray the whereabouts of her younglings. I have
seen more than one parent bird do that.
A few days later, in the same hollow, a Kentucky warbler was singing
contentedly, showing no signs of uneasiness. The female was not to be
seen or heard. I stalked about a long time, hoping to flush her from her
nest, but all my efforts were as futile that day as they had been on my
previous visit. In another hollow, on the same day, I watched a Kentucky
warbler flitting about with a worm in her bill. Again and again she
disappeared somewhere in the tanglewood, and came back with an empty bill
to chirp her disapproval of my spying; but look as I would in the very
places where she went down, I could discover no nest. In Warbledom it is
evidently no violation of ethical principles to act a lie in order to
protect a nestful of bantlings.
But my story is not to have a disappointing ending, after all, for in the
spring and summer of 1902 my stars became auspicious, and I found three
Kentucky warblers' nests that were tenanted and several more that were
already deserted. Perhaps the turning of my luck was due not so much to
accident as to the fact that I had "caught on," and knew more about their
ruses. One of the nests discovered is worth describing.
It was on a hilltop in Kansas, blown by the freshest breezes that sweep
over the limitless prairies. An ideal spot, indeed, for the nesting of
birds that love lone places. In one of my rambles I found this pleasant
elevation, and was attracted by the possibilities it offered for bird
study. Presently a male Kentucky warbler appeared with a couple of large
worms in his beak, and I made up my mind to find his nest if perseverance
could accomplish that object. So I sat down in the shade of a tree and
watched the bird closely. Now note his admirable finesse. After
flitting about among the bushes for a minute or two, chirping his protest
at my presence, he descended into the copse below and disappeared. Of
course, any student of birds would have supposed that he had gone down
near the nest to feed his bairns, and that he only needed to go and
examine the place to discover the little avian secret. My pulses
thrilled more than a little as I began my search for the nest right where
the bird had descended into the thicket. But do you know that my most
strenuous efforts--and they _were_ strenuous on a hot day like
that--resulted only in disappointment? The nest was not to be found
within a radius of a rod from the point where the little diplomat went
down. A few days later I made my way to the hilltop, and do you know
that the shrewd bird played me the same trick? He scuttled down into the
bushes at almost the same point as before, and no nest rewarded my
search. I went home just about ready to give up my search for Kentucky
warblers' nests, for I had been hunting them for a number of years
without success.
However, in a few days I found my way again to the breezy hilltop. The
chats, vireos, and indigo birds gave due warning of my approach, and I
felt sure that Master Kentucky and his mate would be on their guard. To
my delight, in a few minutes the female presented herself in one of the
trees, her bill holding a bunch of worms. Luckily she was not so wary or
diplomatic as her husband, and, in addition, she extremely anxious to
feed her hungry babies. Instead of going over to the copse where the
male bird had played me such a clever trick, she flew down the path about
four rods to a small scrub oak, from which she soon dropped into the
weeds below. Then I said to myself; "Aha!" and smiled in a knowing way.
I walked down the path to the tree, but no Kentucky warblers were to be
seen--not right away. So I sat down in the path and waited to see what
would happen. It was only a short time till the female appeared, with a
telltale bunch of worms in her beak. A moment later her mate also
arrived, carrying a small worm in the usual way. The situation was
growing interesting. The two birdlets chirped and flitted about in the
tree for a long time, afraid to go down to the nest. I moved slowly and
cautiously farther up the path to give them a better chance to divulge
their secret. Presently the pretty madame summoned courage to drop to a
lower perch in the tree, then to a still lower one, then to the top of
one of the bushes below, and at last into the weed clump and out of sight.
I wasted no time. In a minute I was pressing the weeds apart and looking
down admiringly into the little cot with its four half-fledged
occupants--the first Kentucky warbler's nest I had ever seen. Set upon
the ground, its bulky foundation of dry leaves supported the cup proper,
which was lined with fine grass. Easy enough to find when you knew
precisely where to look for it.
Think now of the little game the male bird had played me on my previous
visits to the haunt! He had descended into the copse about four rods
distant from the nest instead of going down near its site; then he had
doubtless followed a secret pathway through the weeds and bushes to the
nest, fed his children, and hurried away without letting himself be seen.
The parent birds did not like the idea of my finding and inspecting their
nest, for they chirped and darted about in a panic. To relieve their
anguish I retired up the slope a short distance, seated myself in the
pleasant shade of a scrub oak, and made an entry of my find in my
notebook. Alas! I had probably done harm to my little friends without
intending it, for their chirping attracted the attention of one of their
worst foes, and drew him to the spot. I loitered about for perhaps ten
minutes, and then decided to take one more peep at the pretty domicile
before leaving the hilltop. As I drew near, I observed that the parent
birds were chirping in a low, but heart-broken way, as if they were
almost stricken dumb with terror. Were they so badly frightened because
I was returning to their nest?
I stepped up cautiously and looked down at the nest. It was now my turn
to give vent to a cry of consternation, for what I saw was this: A large
blacksnake coiled about the nest, the fold of his neck wabbling to and
fro in a terrifying way, while with his mouth he was trying to seize one
of the bantlings. Fortunately I had a good-sized stick, almost a club,
in my hand, and I wasted no time in bringing it down with all the force I
could command upon the serpent, taking care to deliver the blow at the
side of the nest. The snake tried to uncoil, but another blow broke his
backbone, if indeed the first one had not done so, and he was in my
power. He had swallowed one of the nestlings, but three were left, and
seemed to be in good condition. On my return to the place a few days
later the nest was empty, and I fear that the remaining little ones had
also been destroyed, perhaps by the mate of the snake from which I had
rescued them.
On the shelf of a steep bluff covered with a riot of bushes and briars a
pair of hooded warblers found a dwelling place to their taste in the
spring of 1900. This handsome birdlet may be known by his dainty yellow
hood, bordered with black, and cannot be mistaken for any other member of
the great feathered fraternity. One cannot look at him without feeling
that Nature tried to see what she could do in the way of an unusual
arrangement of colors. Who can tell what impelled her to make a living
gem like this, as odd as it is beautiful?
On the side of the bluff referred to I was first attracted by the
vivacious song of the little male, which I had not heard for several
years--not since an excursion I had taken into Louisiana and Mississippi.
His voice was clear and ringing, and the tune he executed was by no means
a meager performance.
One day a loud, metallic chirping was heard, and presently two hooded
warblers appeared, each with the proverbial green worm in its beak. I
decided to remain in the nook and watch, for the nesting habits of these
rare warblers were new to me. In and out, up and down, here and there,
they flitted, making a checker-work of black and gold amid the foliage,
craning their necks, peering at me with anxious inquiry in their dark
little eyes, and filling the woodland with their uneasy chirping.
It was a long time to wait, but at length patience had its reward; one of
the birds flew down to the bushes on the steep slope above me and fed a
youngster in plain view. No time was lost in pushing through the bushy
tangle to the magic spot. Behold! it was a young cowbird that had been
fed by the devoted little mother! That was trying beyond expression--to
think that all the efforts of the pretty couple, all their intense
solicitude, was wasted on a great, hulking impostor like the cowbird. He
had just scrambled from the nest, from which he had doubtless previously
crowded the rightful heirs of the family to perish from starvation on the
ground. I found the nest only about a foot away from the perch of the
young bird--a deep, neat little basket, compactly felted with down and
plant fibers, set in the crotch of a slender bush of the thicket. It was
certainly too small to accommodate any tenants besides the strapping
young cowbird. In the spring of 1902 another hooded warbler's nest
rewarded my search. Its holdings were four callow bantlings, all of
which were carried off by some marauder before my next visit.
Another little charmer of the woodland, especially of thick second-growth
timber, is the blue-winged warbler, which glories in the high-sounding
Latin name of _Helminthophila pinus_. Wherever seen, he would attract
attention on account of the peculiar cut and color of his clothes. A
conspicuous black line reaching from the corner of the mouth back through
the eye is a diagnostic feature of his plumage, while his crown and
breast gleam in bright yellow, almost golden in the sunshine; his wings
and tail are blue-gray, with some white trimmings, and his back and rump
are bright olive There you have an array of colors that makes a picture
indeed. Madame Blue-wing wears the same pattern as her lord, but the
hues are less brilliant.
The manners of Sir Blue-wing--I call him so because of his distinguished
air--are interesting, for they differ, in one respect at least, from
those of most of the other warblers of my acquaintance. He flits about
among the branches in rather a leisurely way--for a warbler; but his main
characteristic is his unwarbler-like fashion of clinging back downward to
the under side of the twigs, after the manner of the chickadee, in order
to secure the nits and worms under the leaves. He acts decidedly like a
diminutive trapeze performer.
His song consists of an insect-like buzz, divided into stanzas of two
syllables each, with a pensive strain running through it, as if the heart
of the little singer were filled with sadness. While it sounds rather
faint at a distance, close at hand it has a strangely penetrating quality.
Although my numerous efforts to find a blue-wing's nest were unavailing,
I had the satisfaction of proving beyond doubt that these birds breed in
northeastern Kansas. A quaint, squeaking call attracted my attention one
day, and I found that it proceeded from the throat of a young blue-wing
perched in the bushes, for presently the mamma came and thrust a morsel
into the open mouth of the bantling. Some young birds sit quietly and
patiently, waiting for their rations, and utter only a faint twitter when
they are fed; but the youthful blue-wings are not of so contented and
silent a disposition. On the contrary, they are noisy little fellows,
making their presence known to friend and foe alike, although they are
very careful never to permit the human observer to come too close. They
are duly warned of danger by their ever-vigilant parents. Sometimes a
youngster will sit on the same perch for a long time, preening his
feathers and uttering a little call at intervals, just to keep in
practice, as it were; while at other times he will pursue his parents
about in the woods, loudly demanding his dinner. One season I succeeded
in finding at least five pairs of these warblers, in company with their
clamorous broods. The nest is set on the ground in the bushes and grass
of second-growth timber tracts. Lined with tendrils and fine strips of
bark, it is "firmly wrapped with numerous leaves, whose stems point
upward." Another haunter of the dusky depths of the woods is the
ovenbird. His song is one of the most peculiar in warblerdom. Beginning
in moderate tones, it grows louder and louder as it nears the end, and
really seems like a voice moving toward you. This bird also walks about
in the woods, and does not hop, as most of his relatives do. As he walks
about on his leafy carpet, his head erect, he has quite a consequential
air. He derives his name from the fact that his nest, set on the ground,
is globular in form, with the entrance at one side, giving it the
appearance of a small oven.
The gay redstarts, which seem to be so tame and confiding in the early
spring, turn into veritable eremites in the breeding season, seeking the
most secluded portions of the woods as their habitat. Their little nests
are harder to find than one would suppose; yet I have had the good
fortune to watch two females erecting the walls of their tiny cottages,
and a pretty sight it was.
The redstart has some interesting ways. One of them is his habit of
spreading out his wings and tail as he perches or flits about in the
trees, as if he were anxious to display the fiery trimmings that so
elegantly set off his little black suit. Blood will tell, for I have
seen the young redstarts imitating their parents by spreading out their
odd, croppy tails in a comical way.
[Illustration: Chickadee]
How early in life young birds are taught some of the lessons that are
needful for their own safety! One day I heard a young redstart chirping
for his dinner. I quietly thrust my head into the thicket, and soon
espied the birdkin perched on a twig only about a rod away. He either
did not see me, or else decided that I was not a bugaboo. A few minutes
later the mother darted into the enclosure and fed her baby. She was too
much absorbed in her duties to notice me until the repast was over; then
she suddenly caught sight of her unwelcome caller. She stood transfixed
with astonishment for one breathless moment, then uttered a piercing cry
of alarm that sent the little one dashing away like a streak of
lightning. Plainly the youngster understood his mamma's signal, for
until she uttered it he had sat perfectly quiet and unconcerned, perhaps
not even aware of my presence. Birds are taught the language of fear at
a tender age. Of course they learn it so readily because there is a
basis of timidity in their natures, implanted by heredity.