know, are quite so versatile as these three. Several of the warblers,
for example, have attained to more than one set song, notwithstanding
the deservedly small reputation of this misnamed family. I have myself
heard the golden-crowned thrush, the black-throated green warbler, the
black-throated blue, the yellow-rumped, and the chestnut-sided, sing
two melodies each, while the blue golden-winged has at least three; and
this, of course, without making anything of slight variations such as
all birds are more or less accustomed to indulge in. The best of the
three songs of the blue golden-wing I have never heard except on one
occasion, but then it was repeated for half an hour under my very eyes.
It bore no resemblance to the common _dsee_, _dsee_, _dsee_, of the
species, and would appear to be seldom used; for not only have I never
heard it since, but none of the writers seem ever to have heard it at
all. However, I still keep a careful description of it, which I took
down on the spot, and which I expect some future golden-wing to verify.
But the most celebrated of the warblers in this regard is the
golden-crowned thrush, otherwise called the oven-bird and the wood
wagtail. His ordinary effort is one of the noisiest, least melodious,
and most incessant sounds to be heard in our woods. His _song_ is
another matter. For that he takes to the air (usually starting from a
tree-top, although I have seen him rise from the ground), whence, after
a preliminary _chip_, _chip_, he lets fall a hurried flood of notes, in
the midst of which can usually be distinguished his familiar _weechee_,
_weechee_, _weechee_. It is nothing wonderful that he should sing on
the wing,--many other birds do the same, and very much better than he;
but he is singular in that he strictly reserves his aerial music for
late in the afternoon. I have heard it as early as three o'clock, but
never before that, and it is most common about sunset. Writers speak of
it as limited to the season of courtship; but I have heard it almost
daily till near the end of July, and once, for my special benefit,
perhaps, it was given in full--and repeated--on the first day of
September. But who taught the little creature to do this,--to sing one
song in the forenoon, perched upon a twig, and to keep another for
afternoon, singing that invariably on the wing? and what difference is
there between the two in the mind of the singer?[5]
It is an indiscretion ever to say of a bird that he has only such and
such notes. You may have been his friend for years, but the next time
you go into the woods he will likely enough put you to shame by singing
something not so much as hinted at in your description. I thought I knew
the song of the yellow-rumped warbler, having listened to it many
times,--a slight and rather characterless thing, nowise remarkable. But
coming down Mount Willard one day in June, I heard a warbler's song
which brought me to a sudden halt. It was new and beautiful,--more
beautiful, it seemed at the moment, than any warbler's song I had ever
heard. What could it be? A little patient waiting (while the black-flies
and mosquitoes "came upon me to eat up my flesh"), and the wonderful
stranger appeared in full view,--my old acquaintance, the yellow-rumped
warbler.
With all this strong tendency on the part of birds to vary their music,
how is it that there is still such a degree of uniformity, so that, as
we have said, every species may be recognized by its notes? Why does
every red-eyed vireo sing in one way, and every white-eyed vireo in
another? Who teaches the young chipper to trill, and the young linnet to
warble? In short, how do birds come by their music? Is it all a matter
of instinct, inherited habit, or do they learn it? The answer appears to
be that birds sing as children talk, by simple imitation. Nobody
imagines that the infant is born with a language printed upon his brain.
The father and mother may never have known a word of any tongue except
the English, but if the child is brought up to hear only Chinese, he
will infallibly speak that, and nothing else. And careful experiments
have shown the same to be true of birds.[6] Taken from the nest just
after they leave the shell, they invariably sing, not their own
so-called natural song, but the song of their foster-parents; provided,
of course, that this is not anything beyond their physical capacity. The
notorious house sparrow (our "English" sparrow), in his wild or
semi-domesticated state, never makes a musical sound; but if he is taken
in hand early enough, he may be taught to sing, so it is said, nearly as
well as the canary. Bechstein relates that a Paris clergyman had two of
these sparrows whom he had trained to speak, and, among other things, to
recite several of the shorter commandments; and the narrative goes on to
say that it was sometimes very comical, when the pair were disputing
over their food, to hear one gravely admonish the other, "Thou shalt not
steal!" It would be interesting to know why creatures thus gifted do not
sing of their own motion. With their amiability and sweet peaceableness
they ought to be caroling the whole year round.
This question of the transmission of songs from one generation to
another is, of course, a part of the general subject of animal
intelligence, a subject much discussed in these days on account of its
bearing upon the modern doctrine concerning the relation of man to the
inferior orders.
We have nothing to do with such a theme, but it may not be out of place
to suggest to preachers and moralists that here is a striking and
unhackneyed illustration of the force of early training. Birds sing by
imitation, it is true, but as a rule they imitate only the notes which
they hear during the first few weeks after they are hatched. One of Mr.
Barrington's linnets, for example, after being educated under a titlark,
was put into a room with two birds of his own species, where he heard
them sing freely every day for three months. He made no attempt to learn
anything from them, however, but kept on practicing what the titlark had
taught him, quite unconscious of anything singular or unpatriotic in
such a course. This law, that impressions received during the immaturity
of the powers become the unalterable habit of the after life, is perhaps
the most momentous of all the laws in whose power we find ourselves.
Sometimes we are tempted to call it cruel. But if it were annulled, this
would be a strange world. What a hurly-hurly we should have among the
birds! There would be no more telling them by their notes. Thrushes and
jays, wrens and chickadees, finches and warblers, all would be singing
one grand medley.
Between these two opposing tendencies, one urging to variation, the
other to permanence (for Nature herself is half radical, half
conservative), the language of birds has grown from rude beginnings to
its present beautiful diversity; and whoever lives a century of
millenniums hence will listen to music such as we in this day can only
dream of. Inappreciably but ceaselessly the work goes on. Here and there
is born a master-singer, a feathered genius, and every generation makes
its own addition to the glorious inheritance.
It may be doubted whether there is any real connection between moral
character and the possession of wings. Nevertheless there has long been
a popular feeling that some such congruity does exist; and certainly it
seems unreasonable to suppose that creatures who are able to soar at
will into the heavens should be without other equally angelic
attributes. But, be that as it may, our friends, the birds, do
undeniably set us a good example in several respects. To mention only
one, how becoming is their observance of morning and evening song! In
spite of their industrious spirit (and few of us labor more hours
daily), neither their first nor their last thoughts are given to the
question, What shall we eat, and what shall we drink? Possibly their
habit of saluting the rising and setting sun may be thought to favor the
theory that the worship of the god of day was the original religion. I
know nothing about that. But it would be a sad change if the birds,
declining from their present beautiful custom, were to sleep and work,
work and sleep, with no holy hour between, as is too much the case with
the being who, according to his own pharisaic notion, is the only
religious animal.
In the season, however, the woods are by no means silent, even at
noonday. Many species (such as the vireos and warblers, who get their
living amid the foliage of trees) sing as they work; while the thrushes
and others, who keep business and pleasure more distinct, are often too
happy to go many hours together without a hymn. I have even seen robins
singing without quitting the turf; but that is rather unusual, for
somehow birds have come to feel that they must get away from the ground
when the lyrical mood is upon them. This may be a thing of sentiment
(for is not language full of uncomplimentary allusions to earth and
earthliness?), but more likely it is prudential. The gift of song is no
doubt a dangerous blessing to creatures who have so many enemies, and we
can readily believe that they have found it safer to be up where they
can look about them while thus publishing their whereabouts.
A very interesting exception to this rule is the savanna sparrow, who
sings habitually from the ground. But even he shares the common feeling,
and stretches himself to his full height with an earnestness which is
almost laughable, in view of the result; for his notes are hardly louder
than a cricket's chirp. Probably he has fallen into this lowly habit
from living in meadows and salt marshes, where bushes and trees are not
readily to be come at; and it is worth noticing that, in the case of the
skylark and the white-winged blackbird, the same conditions have led to
a result precisely opposite. The sparrow, we may presume, was originally
of a humble disposition, and when nothing better offered itself for a
singing-perch easily grew accustomed to standing upon a stone or a
little lump of earth; and this practice, long persisted in, naturally
had the effect to lessen the loudness of his voice. The skylark, on the
other hand, when he did not readily find a tree-top, said to himself,
"Never mind! I have a pair of wings." And so the lark is famous, while
the sparrow remains unheard-of, and is even mistaken for a
grasshopper.
How true it is that the very things which dishearten one nature and
break it down, only help another to find out what it was made for! If
you would foretell the development, either of a bird or of a man, it is
not enough to know his environment, you must know also what there is in
him.
We have possibly made too much of the savanna sparrow's innocent
eccentricity. He fills his place, and fills it well; and who knows but
that he may yet outshine the skylark? There is a promise, I believe, for
those who humble themselves. But what shall be said of species which do
not even try to sing, and that, notwithstanding they have all the
structural peculiarities of singing birds, and must, almost certainly,
have come from ancestors who were singers? We have already mentioned the
house sparrow, whose defect is the more mysterious on account of his
belonging to so highly musical a family. But _he_ was never accused of
not being noisy enough, while we have one bird who, though he is classed
with the oscines, passes his life in almost unbroken silence. Of course
I refer to the waxwing, or cedar-bird, whose faint, sibilant whisper can
scarcely be thought to contradict the foregoing description. By what
strange freak he has lapsed into this ghostly habit, nobody knows. I
make no account of the insinuation that he gave up music because it
hindered his success in cherry-stealing. He likes cherries, it is true;
and who can blame him? But he would need to work hard to steal more than
does that indefatigable songster, the robin. I feel sure he has some
better reason than this for his Quakerish conduct. But, however he came
by his stillness, it is likely that by this time he plumes himself upon
it. Silence is golden, he thinks, the supreme result of the highest
æsthetic culture. Those loud creatures, the thrushes and finches! What a
vulgar set they are, to be sure, the more's the pity! Certainly if he
does not reason in some such way, bird nature is not so human as we have
given it credit for being. Besides, the waxwing has an uncommon
appreciation of the decorous; at least, we must think so if we are able
to credit a story of Nuttall's. He declares that a Boston gentleman,
whose name he gives, saw one of a company of these birds capture an
insect, and offer it to his neighbor; he, however, delicately declined
the dainty bit, and it was offered to the next, who, in turn, was
equally polite; and the morsel actually passed back and forth along the
line, till, finally, one of the flock was persuaded to eat it. I have
never seen anything equal to this; but one day, happening to stop under
a low cedar, I discovered right over my head a waxwing's nest with the
mother-bird sitting upon it, while her mate was perched beside her on
the branch. He was barely out of my reach, but he did not move a muscle;
and although he uttered no sound, his behavior said as plainly as
possible, "What do you expect to do _here_? Don't you see _I_ am
standing guard over this nest?" I should be ashamed not to be able to
add that I respected his dignity and courage, and left him and his
castle unmolested.
Observations so discursive as these can hardly be finished; they must
break off abruptly, or else go on forever. Let us make an end,
therefore, with expressing our hope that the cedar-bird, already so
handsome and chivalrous, will yet take to himself a song; one sweet and
original, worthy to go with his soft satin coat, his ornaments of
sealing-wax, and his magnificent top-knot. Let him do that, and he shall
always be made welcome; yes, even though he come in force and in
cherry-time.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] There is no Historic-Genealogical Society among the birds, and the
robin is not aware that his own remote ancestors were reptiles. If he
were, he would hardly speak so disrespectfully of these batrachians.
[4] Mr. C. N. Allen, in _Bulletin of the Nuttall Ornithological Club_,
July, 1881.
[5] Since this paper was written I have three times heard the wood
wagtail's true song in the morning,--but in neither case was the bird in
the air. See p. 284.
[6] See the paper of Daines Barrington in _Philosophical Transactions_
for 1773; also, Darwin's _Descent of Man_, and Wallace's _Natural
Selection_.
CHARACTER IN FEATHERS.
The finger of God hath left an inscription upon all his works, not
graphical or composed of letters, but of their several forms,
constitutions, parts, and operations, which, aptly joined together,
do make one word that doth express their natures. By these letters
God calls the stars by their names; and by this alphabet Adam
assigned to every creature a name peculiar to its nature.
SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
CHARACTER IN FEATHERS.
In this economically governed world the same thing serves many uses. Who
will take upon himself to enumerate the offices of sunlight, or water,
or indeed of any object whatever? Because we know it to be good for this
or that, it by no means follows that we have discovered what it was made
for. What we have found out is perhaps only something by the way; as if
a man should think the sun were created for his own private convenience.
In some moods it seems doubtful whether we are yet acquainted with the
real value of anything. But, be that as it may, we need not scruple to
admire so much as our ignorance permits us to see of the workings of
this divine frugality. The piece of woodland, for instance, which skirts
the village,--how various are its ministries to the inhabitants, each of
whom, without forethought or question, takes the benefit proper to
himself! The poet saunters there as in a true Holy Land, to have his
heart cooled and stilled. Mr. A. and Mr. B., who hold the deeds of the
"property," walk through it to look at the timber, with an eye to
dollars and cents. The botanist has his errand there, the zoölogist his,
and the child his. Oftenest of all, perhaps (for barbarism dies hard,
and even yet the ministers of Christ find it a capital sport to murder
small fishes),--oftenest of all comes the man, poor soul, who thinks of
the forest as of a place to which he may go when he wishes to amuse
himself by killing something. Meanwhile, the rabbits and the squirrels,
the hawks and the owls, look upon all such persons as no better than
intruders (do not the woods belong to those who live in them?); while
nobody remembers the meteorologist, who nevertheless smiles in his
sleeve at all these one-sided notions, and says to himself that he knows
the truth of the matter.
So is it with everything; and with all the rest, so is it with the
birds. The interest they excite is of all grades, from that which looks
upon them as items of millinery, up to that of the makers of
ornithological systems, who ransack the world for specimens, and who
have no doubt that the chief end of a bird is to be named and
catalogued,--the more synonyms the better. Somewhere between these two
extremes comes the person whose interest in birds is friendly rather
than scientific; who has little taste for shooting, and an aversion
from dissecting; who delights in the living creatures themselves, and
counts a bird in the bush worth two in the hand. Such a person, if he is
intelligent, makes good use of the best works on ornithology; he would
not know how to get along without them; but he studies most the birds
themselves, and after a while he begins to associate them on a plan of
his own. Not that he distrusts the approximate correctness of the
received classification, or ceases to find it of daily service; but
though it were as accurate as the multiplication table, it is based (and
rightly, no doubt) on anatomical structure alone; it rates birds as
bodies, and nothing else: while to the person of whom we are speaking
birds are, first of all, souls; his interest in them is, as we say,
personal; and we are none of us in the habit of grouping our friends
according to height, or complexion, or any other physical peculiarity.
But it is not proposed in this paper to attempt a new classification of
any sort, even the most unscientific and fanciful. All I am to do is to
set down at random a few studies in such a method as I have indicated;
in short, a few studies in the temperaments of birds. Nor, in making
this attempt, am I unmindful how elusive of analysis traits of character
are, and how diverse is the impression which the same personality
produces upon different observers. In matters of this kind every
judgment is largely a question of emphasis and proportion; and,
moreover, what we find in our friends depends in great part on what we
have in ourselves. This I do not forget; and therefore I foresee that
others will discover in the birds of whom I write many things that I
miss, and perhaps will miss some things which I have treated as patent
or even conspicuous. It remains only for each to testify what he has
seen, and at the end to confess that a soul, even the soul of a bird, is
after all a mystery.
Let our first example, then, be the common black-capped titmouse, or
chickadee. He is, _par excellence_, the bird of the merry heart. There
is a notion current, to be sure, that all birds are merry; but that is
one of those second-hand opinions which a man who begins to observe for
himself soon finds it necessary to give up. With many birds life is a
hard struggle. Enemies are numerous, and the food supply is too often
scanty. Of some species it is probable that very few die in their beds.
But the chickadee seems to be exempt from all forebodings. His coat is
thick, his heart is brave, and, whatever may happen, something will be
found to eat. "Take no thought for the morrow" is his creed, which he
accepts, not "for substance of doctrine," but literally. No matter how
bitter the wind or how deep the snow, you will never find the chickadee,
as the saying is, under the weather. It is this perennial good humor, I
suppose, which makes other birds so fond of his companionship; and their
example might well be heeded by persons who suffer from fits of
depression. Such unfortunates could hardly do better than to court the
society of the joyous tit. His whistles and chirps, his graceful feats
of climbing and hanging, and withal his engaging familiarity (for, of
course, such good-nature as his could not consist with suspiciousness)
would most likely send them home in a more Christian mood. The time will
come, we may hope, when doctors will prescribe bird-gazing instead of
blue-pill.
To illustrate the chickadee's trustfulness, I may mention that a friend
of mine captured one in a butterfly-net, and, carrying him into the
house, let him loose in the sitting-room. The little stranger was at
home immediately, and seeing the window full of plants, proceeded to go
over them carefully, picking off the lice with which such window-gardens
are always more or less infested. A little later he was taken into my
friend's lap, and soon he climbed up to his shoulder; where, after
hopping about for a few minutes on his coat-collar, he selected a
comfortable roosting place, tucked his head under his wing, and went to
sleep, and slept on undisturbed while carried from one room to another.
Probably the chickadee's nature is not of the deepest. I have never seen
him when his joy rose to ecstasy. Still his feelings are not shallow,
and the faithfulness of the pair to each other and to their offspring is
of the highest order. The female has sometimes to be taken off the nest,
and even to be held in the hand, before the eggs can be examined.
Our American goldfinch is one of the loveliest of birds. With his
elegant plumage, his rhythmical, undulatory flight, his beautiful song,
and his more beautiful soul, he ought to be one of the best beloved, if
not one of the most famous; but he has never yet had half his deserts.
He is like the chickadee, and yet different. He is not so extremely
confiding, nor should I call him merry. But he is always cheerful, in
spite of his so-called plaintive note, from which he gets one of his
names, and always amiable. So far as I know, he never utters a harsh
sound; even the young ones, asking for food, use only smooth, musical
tones. During the pairing season his delight often becomes rapturous. To
see him then, hovering and singing,--or, better still, to see the
devoted pair hovering together, billing and singing,--is enough to do
even a cynic good. The happy lovers! They have never read it in a book,
but it is written on their hearts,--
"The gentle law, that each should be
The other's heaven and harmony."
The goldfinch has the advantage of the titmouse in several respects, but
he lacks that sprightliness, that exceeding light-heartedness, which is
the chickadee's most endearing characteristic.
For the sake of a strong contrast, we may look next at the brown thrush,
known to farmers as the planting-bird and to ornithologists as
_Harporhynchus rufus_; a staid and solemn Puritan, whose creed is the
Preacher's,--"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." No frivolity and
merry-making for him! After his brief annual period of intensely
passionate song, he does penance for the remainder of the
year,--skulking about, on the ground or near it, silent and gloomy. He
seems ever on the watch against an enemy, and, unfortunately for his
comfort, he has nothing of the reckless, bandit spirit, such as the jay
possesses, which goes to make a moderate degree of danger almost a
pastime. Not that he is without courage; when his nest is in question he
will take great risks; but in general his manner is dispirited,
"sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." Evidently he feels
"The heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world;"
and it would not be surprising if he sometimes raised the question, "Is
life worth living?" It is the worst feature of his case that his
melancholy is not of the sort which softens and refines the nature.
There is no suggestion of saintliness about it. In fact, I am convinced
that this long-tailed thrush has a constitutional taint of vulgarity.
His stealthy, underhand manner is one mark of this, and the same thing
comes out again in his music. Full of passion as his singing is (and we
have hardly anything to compare with it in this regard), yet the
listener cannot help smiling now and then; the very finest passage is
followed so suddenly by some uncouth guttural note, or by some whimsical
drop from the top to the bottom of the scale.