*The larger part of this chapter was first published in "The Christian
Endeavor World," Boston; the rest of it in "Our Animal Friends," New
York. I reprint it here by permission of both these journals.
Even at the risk of causing a feeling of dejection on the reader's
part, I am going to put one "trouble" chapter into this volume. There
are trials in the birds' domain, and perhaps you and I will feel more
sympathy with them, and will be led to protect them all the more
carefully, if we know something about the "deep waters of affliction"
through which they are sometimes compelled to pass. Our native
American birds, at least some of them, suffer a good deal at the hands,
so to speak, of the pestiferous English sparrows, which were introduced
into this country by some egregious blunder.
There can be no doubt that the English sparrows are regular bullies.
They do not fight other birds so much as they hector them, making life
intolerable by their ribaldry, coarse jests, and prying manners. Some
birds, especially many of our beautiful native species, are sensitively
organized, and cannot endure such boorish society as the badly bred
foreigners furnish. That as much as anything has driven our genteel
bluebirds away from our homes into the woods and other out-of-the-way
places. How would you feel, my friend, if, as you were going along the
street, a lot of hoodlums should take to gibing and hooting at you?
Were there ever such pesky, ill-mannered citizens as the English
sparrows? Here comes a downy woodpecker, or a cardinal, or a
rose-breasted grosbeak to town, flitting about the trees of my yard,
gathering goodies among the leaves and twigs, and perhaps piping a
little aria at intervals, congratulating himself on having found a
pleasant, quiet place, when, lo! a gang of English sparrows crowd
around him, peering at him now with one eye, now with the other,
canting their heads in their impertinent way, bowing and scraping and
blinking, and for all the world seeming to make such derisive remarks
as, "Oh, what a fine fellow! Quite stuck-up, ain't he? Isn't that a
stylish topknot, though? He! he! he! Look! he wears a rose on his
shirt bosom! Isn't he a dandy? Ge! ge! gah! gah!" By and by the
visitor can stand the racket and the mockery no longer; and so he
steals away, resolved never again to go to that place to be insulted.
I have repeatedly been witness of just such occurrences.
Early in the spring a robin began to build her nest in the middle story
of one of my maple trees. The whole process was narrowly watched by
the noisy, hectoring sparrows. They gathered about her, prying and
bobbing and jostling and chirping, staring at her like a lot of
bumpkins when she leaped into the half-finished cup and molded her
building material with her ruddy bosom. They seemed to be saying
jeeringly: "Isn't that a funny way for a bird to build a house? Hay!
hay! hay!" The robin forsook her nest; and the sparrows borrowed her
timbers for their own nest, and forgot to bring them back again.
Just a moment ago a couple of young red-headed woodpeckers and their
parents visited the trees of my yard, making a lively din, for the
youngsters were calling for their supper. Then the sparrows crowded
about them, called and jested, followed them from tree to tree, never
stopping their persecutions until the red-headed family flew off in
disgust.
In a Kansas town one March day, as I was returning to the house in
which I was lodging, my attention was attracted to a black-capped
chickadee, which was flitting about and calling in an agitated way in
one of the trees. Two English sparrows, a cock and his mate, were
responsible for the little bird's perturbation. What were they doing?
Something rude, as usual. Perched on a couple of twigs, they were
bending over, stretching out their necks and peering into a small hole
in one of the larger branches. The male was especially offensive,
standing there and staring into the cavity, and making insolent remarks.
A good-sized club, hurled by myself, sent the sparrows to other parts.
Then I hurried into the house and sat by the curtained window to watch.
With much ado, the little black-cap flew over to the limb with the
cavity. He flitted about a few moments, then darted to the opening and
looked in, chirping in a reassuring tone, as much as to say, "The
ruffians are gone now; you can come out."
And out of the doorway flew his pretty wife, while he slipped in to see
that all was safe. You see, the ill-bred sparrows had been glaring at
the little madam as she sat on her nest, which was a piece of
impertinence that no self-respecting bird could endure with equanimity.
The English sparrows are not the only birds that disturb the harmony of
the bird realm. Offenders must needs come there as well as in the
human sphere. A friend who is entirely trustworthy tells me the
following story. He and his wife were driving along a country road,
when their attention was directed to a kingbird in hot pursuit of a
red-headed woodpecker, which had evidently been poaching on the
first-named bird's preserves. Being an expert flyer, the kingbird had
almost overtaken the fugitive, when suddenly the red-head wheeled to
one side, flung himself somehow or other over a telegraph wire, turning
at the same time and catching with his claws at the wire, where he
clung, his body bent in an arc, holding his enemy at bay with his long,
pointed beak and spiny tail. Of course, the martin could not attack
him in that position, as he could not afford to run the risk of being
impaled on the red-head's spear.
Nor was that all. The martin sailed a short distance away, and the
woodpecker thought it safe to take to wing again. The kingbird again
started in swift pursuit, filling the air with his loud chirping, sure
of his game this time; but he was balked, as before, by the red-head's
sudden dash to the telegraph wire. This little comedy was repeated
several times while my friends watched with surprise and amusement.
There is tragedy as well as comedy in the world of feathers. Ernest
Thompson Seton's graphic animal stories would leave a pleasanter taste
in the mouth if they ended less tragically, but they would not be so
true to life as it is in the faunal realm. It must be true that the
lives of most birds and animals end in tragedy, so numerous, alert, and
persistent are their foes. As soon as a bird begins to grow old and
infirm, losing its keenness of vision and its swiftness of movement, it
cannot help falling a prey to its rapacious enemies. For this reason
you seldom find a feeble animal or bird in the open, or one that has
lain down and died a natural death.
However, strange as it may seem, I have found the corpses of several
birds in the wild outdoors. At an abandoned limestone quarry one
spring I discovered the nest of a pair of phoebes. I called at the
pretty domicile a number of times in my rambles. It was set on a shelf
of one stratum of rock, and roofed over by another. One day I noticed
the little dame sitting quietly in her cup, and decided to go near;
just why, I cannot tell. She did not move as I approached; she did not
even turn her head to look at me. It was strange. I went right up to
the nest, and yet she did not fly. Stretching out my hand, I found
that she was dead, her unhatched eggs still under her cold and
pulseless bosom.
I could have wept for my little friends. There was nothing to indicate
the cause of the tragedy, no disturbance of the nest, no marks of
violence on her body. Possibly she had eaten or drunk poison; perhaps
she had received a fatal blow from an enemy, and had just had strength
enough left to come home to die. Her mate was gone. He was doubtless
unable to bear the ghastly sight of his dead companion on her nest.
A little field sparrow came to a tragical end in a different way. I
found his body dangling among the bushes on a bank. Two small but
tough grapevine twigs growing out horizontally and close together
formed a very acute angle, and this was the trap in which the innocent
bird was caught. In some way one of his legs had slipped between the
branches, the angle of which became more acute, of course, toward the
apex. Thus the more he struggled the more tightly his tarsus became
wedged in the trap, the foot preventing it from slipping through. To
think of pushing his leg backward, and so releasing himself, was beyond
the poor bird's cerebral power; so he fluttered until exhausted, then
dangled there to die of starvation. The place being very secluded, no
predatory beast or fowl had found the little corpse.
If there were only some way of protecting the nests of our beautiful
and useful birds of the wildwood, what a boon it would be to men and
fowls! So many nests come to grief that one wonders sometimes that any
brood is ever reared. During a recent spring, with exhausting toil and
patience, I found the nests of several shy woodland birds--the
Kentucky, the hooded, and the creeping warblers--all of them real
discoveries for me. I promised myself a rare treat in watching the
development of the nurslings from babyhood to youth. Alas! all the
nests were robbed, those of the Kentucky and hooded warblers of their
young, and that of the creeping warbler of its eggs. I trust I am not
naturally vindictive; but had I the brigands in my power who despoiled
those nests, I certainly should wring their necks.
Our small birds must ever be on the _qui vive_. Danger is always
lurking near, as a few concrete cases will show. Brush was thrown into
a certain hollow well known to the writer, and one of the steep
hillsides was covered with timber of a medium-sized growth. One day I
was listening to a concert given by a company of towhees and cardinals,
which were sitting in the trees at the lower border of the woodland. A
flock of cedar waxwings were also "tseeming" in the top of a tree,
darting out at intervals into the air for insects. Suddenly every song
ceased, and the whole company dashed down, pellmell, hurry-skurry, into
the thick brush heaps of the hollow. At the same moment, or perhaps a
moment later--it all occurred so quickly I could not be exact--a covey
of juncos hurled themselves with reckless swiftness into the brush
pile, followed by a sparrow hawk, which uttered a queer, uncanny call
that meant death to any little bird that should be overtaken.
He flung himself through a network of branches and twigs and lightly
struck the ground below, his wings partly opening as he lit, to break
the force of the concussion. He had dashed directly over my head.
Before I could collect my wits he gathered himself together, wormed his
way out through the branches in some way, and darted off up the
opposite slope. He had failed to secure his prize, but it was
wonderful how so large a bird could slip through the network of
branches and extricate himself without striking a quill against a twig.
The extreme watchfulness of the small birds cannot fail to excite
wonder in the mind of the observer. In the case just referred to not
one of the birds was taken unaware, although some of them were singing
gaily, and others were busy feeding. Never for a moment do the birds
become so absorbed in their eating or work or play as to forget that a
foe may be lurking near. One cannot help wondering how they can be
happy. Suppose we were compelled to be incessantly on the lookout for
danger, should we ever have a moment of peace or joy?
A red-breasted woodpecker was chiseling out a nursery in a tall
sycamore at the border of a woodland. At some distance, far enough
away not to alarm her, I watched the dame at her work. This was her
method of procedure, hour by hour: She would plunge head first into the
hole, only her barred tail being visible, give three or four vigorous
dabs with her bill, then emerge and look around in every direction for
danger; seeing none, into the cavity her crimson-crowned head would
again disappear, only to emerge again a second later. Not for a moment
did she dare to relax her vigilance. Had she done so, in that fatal
moment a hawk might have swooped upon her and crushed her in his
merciless talons.
Yet some birds will take not a little risk, depending on their
quickness of eye and nimbleness of wing to escape their predatory foes.
In a tall sycamore tree standing alone at the fringe of a piece of
woodland, sparrow hawks, red-breasted woodpeckers, and nuthatches, a
pair of each, had set up their household gods. The tree was still bare
of foliage, for it had few branches, and the season was early spring.
It was evident, too, that the hawks were watching for an opportunity to
assault their neighbors, to whom they often gave chase. Yet the
woodpeckers had in some way contrived to hew out their arboreal
nursery, which was almost, if not quite, finished. It was a freshly
chiseled cavity, as could be seen plainly from below. The mother
nuthatch was feeding her young. She would fly to the tree with an
insect in her bill, calling "Yank, yank," or "Ha-ha, ha-ha," as if to
announce her arrival, then glide around the branch, scurry down its
sloping wall, swing to the underside where the nest hole was, and jab
the juicy morsel into the chirruping throat of one of the bantlings
within. The bloodthirsty hawk dashed at her several times, but she
deftly dodged around to the other side of the branch, and let him glide
harmlessly by, flinging after him a taunting "Ha-ha, ha-ha," as much as
to say, "Missed your aim again, didn't you!" However, it was a pretty
picture the nuthatch made, holding in her bill a large beetle with
silvery wings, sometimes holding it straight out from the bark as she
glanced around to see whether the coast was clear and at the same time
calling her nasal "yank," so full of woodsy suggestion.
A trying experience for many birds comes at bedtime. They grow quite
nervous as night begins to settle over the land, some of them chirping
loudly to express their solicitude. As the darkness deepens, their
sight becomes obscured, and they seem to realize that they are exposed
to dangers unseen. You have often, no doubt, noticed the to-do made by
the robins as the time for retiring draws near. What foes may be
lurking in the growing darkness they know not.
A favorite roosting place for the sparrows, towhees, juncos, and even
the robins, was in some thickets by the roadside. As I passed along, a
bird would occasionally leap from his perch to the ground and go
galloping away over the rustling leaves. At one place a half dozen
Harris sparrows were chirping loudly and flitting about a couple of
small trees, which were partly covered with a thick network of vines.
The cause of their uneasiness could not be determined, unless it was
their natural fear of the darkness. I waited until night had settled.
Presently the sparrows became quiet. Tramping about near the trees did
not disturb them, but when I flung a lighted stick against one of the
trees, they flew out of their matted bedroom with loud outcries. For a
few minutes they could be seen dashing about from tree to tree; then
they settled down for the night.
[Illustration: Bob-white, or Quail]
In view of the many trials that naturally come into the life of the
birds, we should be all the kinder to them. Why add to their sorrows?
Let me give you an example of humane treatment in one case--that of the
quail or bob-white. Not long ago I listened to a sensible lecturer on
natural history subjects.
He did not say we should never kill the quail. They have evidently
been created for man's use, or they would not have been given such
juicy and nutritious flesh; just as many other fowls and animals were
made to minister to the subsistence and pleasure of the human family.
Besides, there can be no doubt that, if the quail were all permitted to
live and multiply, they would soon become so abundant as to do much
harm in our grain fields. So some of them should be killed, but not in
a cruel manner.
One thing is certain, they should not be killed with shotguns! You ask
at once and in some surprise, Why not? Because that is cruel. Don't
you see how? Well, that is the way with most of us--we do many things
without thinking. It is not cruel to kill quail with a shotgun
providing they are killed outright. But have you never thought how
many of the fine shot must wound some of the birds that fly away? A
bird with several shots in its body may not be fatally hurt at first,
but will fly off and alight somewhere in the bushes where no hunter can
find it. In a few days the wounds grow sore, then gangrene sets in,
and the bird slowly dies in awful torture. No one to help it, no one
even to pity. Is not that cruel?
But how are these birds to be treated? They should be dealt with
kindly, fed in winter, so that they will become comparatively tame,
somewhat like the fowl of the barnyard. Then, in the proper season,
they should be caught with a net. This can be done by placing the nets
in such a way that the birds will run into them about the brush heaps,
in which they are fond of taking refuge. Skill and shrewdness are
needed to catch them in this way, and, perhaps, it cannot be done while
they are shot at so much and are made so shy; but the time will come
when the netting of quail will be regarded as rare sport in America, as
hawking or fox hunting is in England.
When the birds are caught their heads should be snipped off as you do
those of domestic fowls, or in some other way that is as painless as
possible. According to this plan not so many birds can be secured, it
is true, but it would be well to let the quail become more abundant in
our country, for in certain seasons of the year they destroy certain
kinds of insects that do much harm to the grain. Besides, they are
such sweet and innocent birds that all of us like to see them scuttling
along by the roadside, and listen to their musical calling in the
clover fields--"Bob white! bob white!" Then, too, if they were allowed
to become tame and plentiful, we might sometimes have the luxury of
quail's eggs on our tables.