The ornithologist is always interested in noting how the conduct of
birds of the same species differs and agrees in different localities.
In a previous chapter some of the differences between the avifauna of
Ohio and Kansas have been described, but a good deal still remains to
be said, teaching more than one lesson in comparative ornithology.
At the beginning of my studies in the Sunflower state the song sparrows
proposed an enigma for my solution, whether wittingly or unwittingly, I
know not. In Ohio they were the most lavish singers in the outdoor
chorus, chanting their sweet lays every month in the year, summer or
winter; indeed, their most vigorous recitals were often given in
February and March, when there was dearth of other bird music.
But what about the song sparrows of Kansas? The first winter and
spring passed, and yet my numerous rambles in their haunts did not
bring to my waiting ear one first-class song sparrow concert. A few
feeble, half-hearted wisps of melody on days that were especially mild
were the only vocal performances they vouchsafed. To put it bluntly
and truthfully, I never, during my residence of five and a half years
in Kansas, heard a first-rate song sparrow trill. Nor is that all. In
the Buckeye state these birds were disposed to be sociable, often
selecting their dwellings near our suburban homes, visiting our
dooryards, singing their blithe roundels on the ridge of the barn roof
or a post of the garden fence. Not only so, but their songs were often
heard in some of the principal streets of towns where trees were
abundant.
[Illustration: Song Sparrow]
Quite otherwise was the conduct of their western cousins, which seldom
came to town or even near a human residence in the country, but kept
themselves ensconced in the matted copses in the banks of the Missouri
River or in the deep hollows running back from the broad valley. In
these sequestered haunts they were quite wary, usually scuttling out of
sight at my approach. True, in Ohio many individuals also chose
out-of-the-way places for habitats, but even then they were not timid,
for often they would mount to the top of a bush or a sapling in plain
sight and trill sweetly by the hour, with never a quaver of fear. At
rare intervals a Kansas sparrow would visit the thicket on the vacant
lot near my house, but, my! how shy he was! And as for singing, he
would only squeak a little score.
Wondering at the reticence of the Kansas sparrows, I wrote to a friend
living in Springfield, Ohio, my former home, and inquired what the song
sparrows were doing in that locality. His reply was that, as usual,
they had been singing with splendid effect on almost every day after
the middle of February. What is the reason of this difference between
the eastern and western birds? They are, according to the
systematists, the same type, and yet they behave so differently. The
solution of the problem is, after all, quite simple. In Kansas the
song sparrows are winter residents exclusively, passing farther north
when the breeding season approaches; only at rare intervals does a pair
decide to remain in the state throughout the summer; whereas in the
Buckeye state these birds are permanent residents, remaining throughout
the year, and therefore they feel sufficiently at home to tune their
lyres at all seasons. On the other hand, being only winter visitors in
Kansas, they do not seem to be able to overcome their shyness; either
that, or their wind harps are out of tune. As a matter of fact,
migrating birds seldom sing a great deal in their winter homes, their
best lyrical efforts being husbanded for their breeding haunts. I once
spent part of the month of June in Minnesota, almost directly north of
my Kansas field of research, and there found these charming minstrels
as tuneful and affable as the most exacting bird lover could wish.
Perhaps some of the very sparrows that spend the winter in silence in
northeastern Kansas trill their finest arias in their summer homes on
the shores of Lake Minnetonka or in the boggy hollows in the
neighborhood of Duluth.
When I first began to plan for moving back to Ohio, I was foolish
enough to fear that the song sparrows of that state might have changed
their habits during the years of my absence, and that I should be
disappointed in them: but no need of borrowing trouble on their
account, for they were the same blithe and familiar birds, trilling
their sweetest chansons in the trees in the residence portion of the
town in which I lived. And sing! Were there ever birds with more
dulcet tones, with finer voice register, or with a greater variety of
tunes in their repertoire?
Going back to Kansas in winter, we note that the song sparrows, instead
of remaining at one place, shifted about a good deal more than I had
ever known them to do in the East. In December a pair found a dwelling
in the weed clumps and brush heaps of a hollow a short distance from
the Missouri River; but they soon deserted this spot, well sheltered as
it was, none being seen there until the twenty-third of February. It
surprised me to find another pair, and sometimes two pairs, in a
thicket right on the bank of the wide river, where they were exposed to
many of the winter blasts, especially those that swept down from the
frozen north. Up in the deep, winding ravine they might have had
excellent shelter and, so far as I could see, just as good feeding.
However, I have long ago learned that there is no accounting for tastes
in the bird realm any more than in the human realm.
The hardiest of the _Mniotiltidae_ tribe are the myrtle warblers, which
dapple the whitened edges of winter, both autumn and spring, with their
golden rumps and amber brooches. Evidently these birds are shyer of
the rigorous Ohio winters than of the more mild-mannered Kansas
weather. In the former state I never saw a myrtle warbler after the
first or second week in November, while in Kansas I came upon a flock
of them in a wooded hollow by the river on the eighth of December,
1897, and then after a severe snowstorm had swept over the region from
the western prairies. It seemed odd to find these dainty featherland
blossoms when the whole country was covered with an ermine of snow.
Then they disappeared, and I did not expect to see them again until the
next spring; but on the fourteenth of February, which was a warm,
vernal day thrust into the midst of winter, a flock of perhaps a dozen
were flitting and chirping among the trees in the suburbs of the city,
their hoarse little _chep_, always giving one the impression that the
birds have taken a cold which has affected their vocal cords, sounding
as familiar as of old. However, that very evening at dusk a black
cloud, charged with electricity and bellowing with anger, came up out
of the west like a young Lochinvar, and hurled a fierce storm across
the hills and valleys, and the next day not a myrtle warbler was to be
seen in all the countryside, though I tramped weary miles in search of
them. The tempest had doubtless frightened them away to the suaver
southland, from which they did not return until the following spring.
One of my most pleasing observations was made on December 19, 1902.
There had been a number of days of severe weather, accompanied by hard
storms. Six inches of snow lay on the ground. Now the storm had spent
its force, the sun was shining genially, and the snow was melting.
Warm as it was, I was greatly surprised to find a flock of myrtle
warblers in the woods so late in the season. They had braved the
storms of the preceding week, and were as chipper and active as myrtle
warblers could be. But their employment was a still greater surprise.
They were darting about in the air among the treetops, as well as amid
the bushes in the deep ravine, catching insects on the wing. That
insects should be flying after the wintry weather of the previous week
was still more surprising than that the warblers should be here to dine
upon them. Soon after that day, however, the little yellow-rumps must
have taken the wing route to a more genial climate, for they were seen
no more that winter.
Of a more permanent character was the residence of the jolly juncos,
which dwelt all winter in northeastern Kansas, let the weather be never
so lowering. Always active and alert, flitting from bush to weed, and
from the snow-carpeted ground to the gnarled oak saplings, now
pilfering a dinner of wild berries and now a luncheon of weed seeds,
they seemed to generate enough warmth in their trig little bodies to
defy old Boreas to do his best. Water flowing from melting snow must
be ice-cold, yet the juncos plunged into the crystal pools and rinsed
their plumes with as much apparent relish as if their lavatory were
tepid instead of icy, and as if balmy instead of nipping winds were
blowing.
One day I watched a member of this family taking his dinner of wild
grapes. Finding a dark red cluster, he would pick off the juiciest
berry he could reach, press it daintily between his white mandibles for
a few moments, swallow a part of the pulp, and drop the rest to the
ground. What part of the grape did he eat? That is the precise
problem I could not solve with certainty, for on examining the rejected
portions that had been flung to the ground I found that one seed still
remained, together with part of the pulp and all of the broken rind. I
half suspect, though, that Master Junco likes to tipple a little--never
enough, however, be it remembered, to make him reel or lose his senses.
No! no! a toper Master Junco is not; he is too sane a bird for that!
Would that all the citizens of our republic would display as much sound
judgment and self-control.
Where all the birds sleep on biting winter nights it would be difficult
to say, but the acute little juncos lease the farmer's corn shocks hard
by the woods. At dusk you may startle a dozen of them from a single
shock. They dart pellmell from their hiding places, chippering their
protest, and when you examine the shock you find cozy nooks and ingles
among the leaves and stalks, where they find couches and at the same
time coverts from the sharp winds. As you stand at the border of the
woods in the gloaming you can hear the rustling of the fodder as the
juncos move about in their tepees, trying to find the choicest and
snuggest berths. Usually they select the tops of the standing shocks,
perhaps for safety; yet some may be found also in the shocks that have
partly fallen to the ground.
In the latter part of February the juncos began to rehearse their
spring songs, which were a welcome sound in the almost unbroken silence
of the winter. The nearer the spring approached, the higher they
mounted in the trees, and the more prolonged was their flight, as if
they were practicing their wing exercises to inure their muscles to the
strain that would be put upon them when they undertook their long
journey to their northern summer homes; for, of course, the juncos do
not breed in our central latitudes, but hie to the northern part of the
United States and the Dominion of Canada.
In Ohio the brown creepers and the golden-crowned kinglets were
constant winter companions in the woods; but, although Kansas is
considerably farther south, they do not seem to be winter residents
there--at least, not in the northeastern part of the state--the only
exception being that in January, 1903, several creepers were observed
in my yard. One may well wonder why these birds are winter residents
in Ohio and only migrants in a latitude that is two degrees farther
south.
There was some scant compensation in the presence of the winter wren
one winter in the Sunflower state. The fourteenth of December brought
one of these brown Lilliputians to a deep hollow in town, where he
chattered petulantly and scampered along an old paling fence. No more
winter wrens were seen until January seventh, when one darted out of
some bushes on the bank of a stream about two miles south of town. My
next jaunt to this hollow took place on the twenty-seventh, when, to my
surprise, a hermit thrush was seen in a clump of bushes and saplings--a
bird that I supposed had been sunning himself for at least a month in
the genial South. While tramping about trying to get another view of
the unconventional thrush, I frightened a winter wren from a cluster of
weeds and bushes. My! how alarmed he was! Uttering a loud chirp, he
darted down to the center of the stream and slipped into a little cave
formed by ice and snow frozen over a clump of low bushes. There he hid
himself like an Eskimo in his snow hut. My trudging near by frightened
the bird out of the farther doorway, and he dashed away pellmell,
hurling a saucy gird of protestation at me, and was seen by me no more.
I examined the little snow house. It was very cunning indeed, and
might well have made a cozy shelter for the little wren in stormy
weather. My next meeting with a winter wren occurred on the fifteenth
of February, in the same hollow, but about an eighth of a mile nearer
the river. A query arises here: Did I see four different winter wrens
during the winter, or only one in four different localities? Who can
tell?
That is not all about the winter wrens. My first winter in Kansas was
the severest I experienced in that state; yet it was the only winter of
the five I spent in Kansas that brought me the winter wren. If it
would do any good, one might ask again the question why. Although the
winter wren is a migrant in Ohio, as he is for the most part in
northeastern Kansas, yet I never heard his song in the former state,
while in the latter I was fortunate enough to listen to his tinkling
melody three times the first spring I spent there. After that I never
heard him, and indeed saw him only a few times. But the sweet, silvery
roulade--could there be anything more charming in the world of outdoor
music?
My winter rambles--and winter is almost as good a time for bird study
as summer--enabled me to note some variety of temperament in the avian
realm. One thing we soon learn in our winter outings: Few birds are
recluses. No, they are sociable creatures, living in what might be
called nomadic communities. In the spring-time, during the mating
season, they pair off and become more or less exclusive and secretive,
keeping close to the precincts they have selected; but in winter they
grow more neighborly, and move about in the woods or over the fields in
flocks of various sizes.
The woodland flocks usually consist of a number of species all of which
seem to be on the most cordial terms, having, no doubt, a community
of interest. As we quietly pursue our way in this wooded vale,
we see no birds for some distance. Presently a fine, protesting
"chick-a-dee-dee! chick-a-dee-dee!" breaks the silence. It is the
warning call of the tomtit or chickadee, which we soon espy tilting
about on his trapeze of twigs in the trees or bushes. But you may
depend upon it he is not alone; he is only a part of the rim of a
feathered colony dwelling near at hand, and consisting, very likely, of
tufted titmice, white-breasted nuthatches, juncos, tree sparrows, blue
jays, one or two downy woodpeckers, a pair of cardinals, a flicker or
two, and a cackling red-breasted woodpecker. There may be even a song
sparrow in the company and a couple of brown creepers, and possibly a
flock of purple finches, chirping cheerily in the tops of the trees.
While, in the spring and summer, birds are to be found in nearly every
part of the woods, never many at one place, the opposite condition
prevails in the winter. Sometimes you may walk almost a half mile
without seeing or hearing a single bird; then you suddenly come upon a
good-sized company of them, somewhat scattered, it is true, but within
easy hailing distance. Nor do they always remain in the same
localities, but move about, now here, now there, like nomads looking
for the best foraging places. For instance, on the first of January,
after leaving the city, I saw not a bird until I reached a pleasant
sylvan hollow at least a half mile away. Here a merry crowd greeted
the pedestrian. It was composed of all the birds I have just named,
with flocks of bluebirds and goldfinches thrown in for good measure.
On the fourteenth of January a company--either the same or another--was
found in a small copsy hollow only a quarter of a mile from the city,
while the spot previously occupied was deserted. It is pleasant to
think of these feathered troopers roaming about the country in search
of Nature's choicest storehouses. The code that obtains in these
movable birdvilles is this, as near as I am able to analyze it: Each
one for himself, and yet all for one another.
The familiar adage, "Birds of a feather flock together," is not always
true, for in winter birds of many a feather often flock together. It
may be asked, Why? No doubt largely for social ends. Nothing is more
evident to the observer than that most birds love company, and a good
deal of it. Their genial conversation among themselves as they pursue
their work and play fully proves that. Another object is undoubtedly
protection. Birds have enemies, many of them, and when the woods are
bare there is little chance for hiding, and so they must be especially
on the alert. Let a hawk come gliding silently and slyly down the
vale, and before he gets too near some keen little eye espies him, the
alarm is sounded, and the whole company scurries into the thickets or
trees for safety. The chickadees and titmice seem to be a sort of
sentry for the company.
A large part of the time in birdland is spent in solving the
"bread-and-butter" problem. And how do our feathered citizens solve
this important problem in the cold weather? Nature has spread many a
banquet for her avian children, although they must usually rustle for
their food just as we must in the human world. The nuthatches,
titmice, woodpeckers, and brown creepers find larvae, grubs, borers,
and insects' eggs in the crannies of the bark and other nooks and
niches; the goldfinches find something to their taste in the buds of
the trees and also make many a meal of thistle and sunflower seeds; the
juncos and tree sparrows, forming a joint stock company in winter,
rifle all kinds of weeds of their seedy treasures; the blue jays lunch
on acorns and berries when they cannot find enough juicy grubs to
satisfy their appetites, and so on through the whole list.
By playing the spy on the birds we may learn much about their dietary
habits. It is the first of January, and we are in a wooded hollow.
There is a tufted titmouse; now he flits to the ground, picks up a
tidbit, darts up to a twig, places his morsel under his claws, and
proceeds to peck it to pieces. Our binocular shows that it is
something yellow, but we cannot make out what it is. As we draw near,
the bird seizes the fragment with his bill--perhaps he fears we will
filch it from him--and flits about among the bushes on the steep bank,
looking for a place to stow his "goody." Presently he pushes it into a
crevice of the bark, hammers it tightly into place, and darts away with
a merry chirp. We go to the spot and find that his hidden treasure is
a grain of corn which he has purloined from the farmer's field on the
slope. A few minutes later another tit--or the same one--slyly thrusts
a morsel in among some leaves and twigs on the bank, even pulling the
leaves down over it for a screen. It turns out to be a small acorn.
That is one of Master Tit's ways--storing away provisions for a time of
need. With his stout, conical beak he is able to break the shell of an
acorn, peck a corn grain into swallowable bits, and tear open the
toughest casing of a cocoon. He will even break the hard pits of the
dogwood berry to secure the kernel within, the ground below often being
strewn with the shell fragments. No danger of _Parus bicolor_ coming
to want or going to the poorhouse.
Another day the juncos are feeding on the seeds of the foxtail or
pigeon grass, in an old orchard hard by the border of the woods.
Sometimes they will make a dinner of berries--the kinds too that are
regarded as poisonous to man--eating the juicy pulp in their dainty
way, and dropping the seeds and rind to the ground. In the ravine
furrowed out by a stream--this is down in one of the hollows--there is
a perfect network of bird tracks in the snow beneath a clump of weed
stalks. How dainty they are, like tiny chains, twisted and coiled
about on the white surface! They were made by the juncos and tree
sparrows, and on examining the seed pods and clusters above the bank we
note that they are torn and ragged. The feathered banqueters have been
here, and while they were industriously culling the pods, some of the
seeds fell to the white carpet below, and these have been carefully
picked up by the birds, as we see, so that nothing should be wasted.
It is not often you catch a bird in the singing mood in the winter; yet
on December 19, a purple finch was piping quite a vivacious tune in the
woods. Of course, he was not in his best voice, but his performance
was good enough to entitle it to the name of bird music. The finches,
by the way, are strong flyers. At your approach, instead of flitting
off a little way, perhaps to the next tree or bush, after the manner of
the tits and nuthatches and many other birds, the finches tarry in the
tree-tops as long as they deem it safe, then take to wing and fly to a
distant part of the woods, and you may not see them again that day.
However, they may come back to you after a while, as if they relished
your company. The goldfinches are also long-distance flyers, not
flitters. Usually they give some signal of their presence, either by
their vivacious "pe-chick-o-pe" or their childlike and semi-musical
calls; but there are times when a good-sized flock of them will
suddenly appear in the tree-tops above you, and you cannot tell when
they arrived, for you did not see them there at all a few minutes
before.