*Part of the material used in this chapter has already appeared in the
author's work entitled "Birds of the Rockies," but it is here printed
in different form, that of a monograph, with a number of additional
facts. The writer feels that the readers of the present volume will
relish at least a taste of bird study among the alpine heights of the
Rocky Mountains. The article is reprinted from the "Denver Post,"
whose courtesy is hereby acknowledged.
The common name of the subject of this sketch is the brown-capped rosy
finch; in the scientific works on ornithology he is called the
brown-capped leucosticte. He is certainly a bird of peculiar habits
and out-of-the-way preferences. Should he send you his card from his
summer residence, it would read something like this: "At home in the
mountains of Colorado, from 10,000 feet above sea-level to the summits
of the highest peaks." There is only one other bird in Colorado that
has so high a summer range, and that is the white-tailed ptarmigan,
usually called, in hunter's parlance, the "mountain quail."
The rosy finch is slightly larger than the bluebird. His general color
is light brown, suffused with a beautiful pink or rosy tint, the dark
shaft lines and pale edges of the feathers of the back giving it a
striped appearance. The forepart of the top of the head is blackish,
and the cap is brown, from which he gets the qualifying adjective of
his name. In the best nuptial plumage the rosy coloring is heightened
to an intense crimson, especially on the wings, tail coverts, and the
under parts. The female's attire is paler and duller of tint, the pink
being sometimes almost obsolete. Oddly enough, in summer the bills of
these birds are deep black, while in winter they become yellow, only
the tip remaining black or blackish.
My introduction to the leucostictes occurred on the summit of Pikes
Peak, at an elevation of 14,147 feet above the level of the sea. With
exhausting toil I climbed the peak one night, and the next morning,
when I stepped out of the signal station, where I had secured lodging,
a flock of the brown-caps were flitting merrily about the garbage heap,
helping themselves to an early breakfast. Their blithe chirping
sounded very much like conversation all among themselves, and
proclaimed two pleasant traits of character--cheerfulness and good
temper. It was evident that they were happy and contented in their
alpine home, in the upper story of the world, the rare, cool,
exhilarating air, the majestic panoramas, and the unlimited freedom all
contributing to the blithesomeness of their spirits. The keepers of
the signal station told me that the birds came to the refuse pile every
day for their meals.
Two years later, on the twenty-eighth of June, a friend and I clambered
up Grays Peak, which is several hundred feet higher than Pikes Peak.
It was a long and toilsome climb, winding about the snowbeds of the
mountain side. Sometimes we scaled straight up the acclivity on "all
fours," throwing ourselves down on the rocks at frequent intervals to
rest our aching limbs and fill our lungs with the rarefied air; up and
up and up, until at last, with a long pull and a strong pull, we stood
on the sky-haunting ridge above all the surrounding elevations, looking
down upon the rest of the world, which seemed to be crouching at our
feet.
Long before we reached the summit we were saluted by a new bird
voice--one that had not been heard farther down the mountain. It was a
cordial chirp, which seemed to bid us welcome to the alpine region and
to assure us that there was no risk in climbing to these sky-aspiring
summits. A glance proved that our little salutarian was the
brown-capped rosy finch, which I had not seen since my ascent of Pikes
Peak. Down in the green, copsy valley at the base of the mountain we
had met with the white-crowned sparrows and Wilson and Audubon
warblers; then, as we began to climb the steep shoulder of the
mountain, the American pipits had become our comrades, accompanying us
about half way up the elevation; now all other birds had disappeared
and we entered the arctic precincts of the leucostictes, which, like a
gallant bodyguard, escorted us to the summit, cheering us on with their
friendly chirping. The bailiwicks of the pipits and the rosy finches
slightly overlapped, as did also those of the pipits and the
white-crowned sparrows near the great mountain's base. However, no
pipits ventured to the upper story of this elevated region--at least,
not at the time of our visit, although they may have ascended to the
summit later in the season.
How blithe and cheerful were the pretty leucostictes! Now they darted
fearlessly about in the air over the summit and the gorges; now they
alighted on the wall of the dilapidated old signal station, and anon
hopped and flitted about over the extensive snow beds, picking up
dainties that were evidently to their taste, all the while beguiling
the time with their companionable, half-musical chirping. So far as I
observed, they have no real song. If they have, it is strange that
they did not furnish a sample of their lyrical gifts on so calm and
sweet a summer day in the season of courtship.
What billsome morsels did they find on the snow? We examined their
white tablecloth and found a number of small beetles and other insects
creeping up through it or crawling around over its surface. Thus
Nature spreads her banquet everywhere for her feathered children.
One cannot help falling into the speculative mood as one reflects on
these little birds and their remarkable habits. Why do they, of all
birds, choose the highest mountain peaks for their summer homes? Might
the cause be physiological? Are their lungs, muscles, and nervous
systems so constructed as to be adapted to a dry, rare, crisp
atmosphere, which would prove injurious, perhaps fatal, to birds of a
different structural organization? Who can tell? At all events, they
live on these towering elevations all summer long, woo their
plainly-clad mates, build their nests, and rear their happy families.
Their nests are set amid the rocks, and are quite bulky, the walls
composed of grasses and the lining consisting of soft feathers. In
order to procure the grasses required, they must descend at least to
the belt of scant vegetation just below the region of bare rocks and
boulders. Where they get the downy feathers for the carpet of their
nurseries I have not been able to ascertain. No nest has yet been
discovered below an elevation of 12,000 feet. Our little bird may,
indeed, be called a "haunter of the sky." The height of the breeding
season is in the latter part of July. The broods having left the
nests, old and young gather in small flocks and range over the peaks
and ridges, feeding on the insects to be found on the fields of snow.
No less interesting are the habits of these birds in winter. In
October and November most of them descend only to the timber line,
where they remain throughout the winter, save as they are driven down
into the denser forests by the fierce tempests of this arctic region.
What feathered Vikings they are! They do not even make for themselves
snow huts for protection from the winter storms. However, a few
descend almost to the base of the foothills, while others--perhaps the
less hardy--seek a blander climate in the northern part of Mexico.
There are in North America four other species of the genus Leucosticte;
the Aleutian, whose habitat is the Aleutian and Prybilof islands and
east as far as the island of Kadiak; the gray-crowned, which breeds in
British America near the Rocky Mountains, comes to Colorado in winter,
and has been taken as far east as western Iowa; the Hepburn, dwelling
chiefly in the mountain ranges of the Pacific coast, breeding mostly in
the far North, and in winter coming as far south and east as Nevada and
Colorado; and, lastly, the black leucosticte, which winters in the
central latitudes in the Rocky Mountains and whose summer range and
breeding home is unknown to men of science.