habits, and like them are peculiar to the western continent. We have no
birds that are more unsparing of their music (prodigality is one of the
American virtues, we are told): they sing from morning till night,
and--some of them, at least--continue thus till the very end of the
season. It is worth mentioning, however, that the red-eye makes a short
day; becoming silent just at the time when the generality of birds grow
most noisy. Probably the same is true of the rest of the family, but on
that point I am not prepared to speak with positiveness. Of the five New
England species (I omit the brotherly-love greenlet, never having been
fortunate enough to know him) the white-eye is decidedly the most
ambitious, the warbling and the solitary are the most pleasing, while
the red-eye and the yellow-throat are very much alike, and both of them
rather too monotonous and persistent. It is hard, sometimes, not to get
out of patience with the red-eye's ceaseless and noisy iteration of his
trite theme; especially if you are doing your utmost to catch the notes
of some rarer and more refined songster. In my note-book I find an entry
describing my vain attempts to enjoy the music of a rose-breasted
grosbeak,--who at that time had never been a common bird with me,--while
"a pesky Wagnerian red-eye kept up an incessant racket."
The warbling vireo is admirably named; there is no one of our birds that
can more properly be said to warble. He keeps further from the ground
than the others, and shows a strong preference for the elms of village
streets, out of which his delicious music drops upon the ears of all
passers underneath. How many of them hear it and thank the singer is
unhappily another question.
The solitary vireo may once in a while be heard in a roadside tree,
chanting as familiarly as any red-eye; but he is much less abundant than
the latter, and, as a rule, more retiring. His ordinary song is like the
red-eye's and the yellow-throat's, except that it is pitched somewhat
higher and has a peculiar inflection or cadence, which on sufficient
acquaintance becomes quite unmistakable. This, however, is only the
smallest part of his musical gift. One morning in May, while strolling
through a piece of thick woods, I came upon a bird of this species, who,
all alone like myself, was hopping from one low branch to another, and
every now and then breaking out into a kind of soliloquizing song,--a
musical chatter, shifting suddenly to an intricate, low-voiced warble.
Later in the same day I found another in a chestnut grove. This last was
in a state of quite unwonted fervor, and sang almost continuously; now
in the usual disconnected vireo manner, and now with a chatter and
warble like what I had heard in the morning, but louder and longer. His
best efforts ended abruptly with the ordinary vireo call, and the
instantaneous change of voice gave to the whole a very strange effect.
The chatter and warble appeared to be related to each other precisely as
are those of the ruby-crowned kinglet; while the warble had a certain
tender, affectionate, some would say plaintive quality, which at once
put me in mind of the goldfinch.
I have seldom been more charmed with the song of any bird than I was on
the 7th of last October with that of this same _Vireo solitarius_. The
morning was bright and warm, but the birds had nearly all taken their
departure, and the few that remained were silent. Suddenly the stillness
was broken by a vireo note, and I said to myself with surprise, A
red-eye? Listening again, however, I detected the solitary's inflection;
and after a few moments the bird, in the most obliging manner, came
directly towards me, and began to warble in the fashion already
described. He sang and sang,--as if his song could have no ending,--and
meanwhile was flitting from tree to tree, intent upon his breakfast. As
far as I could discover, he was without company; and his music, too,
seemed to be nothing more than an unpremeditated, half-unconscious
talking to himself. Wonderfully sweet it was, and full of the happiest
content. "I listened till I had my fill," and returned the favor, as
best I could, by hoping that the little wayfarer's lightsome mood would
not fail him, all the way to Guatemala and back again.
Exactly a month before this, and not far from the same spot, I had stood
for some minutes to enjoy the "recital" of the solitary's saucy cousin,
the white-eye. Even at that time, although the woods were swarming with
birds,--many of them travelers from the North,--this white-eye was
nearly the only one still in song. He, however, was fairly brimming over
with music; changing his tune again and again, and introducing (for the
first time in Weymouth, as concert programmes say) a notably fine shake.
Like the solitary, he was all the while busily feeding (birds in
general, and vireos in particular, hold with Mrs. Browning that we may
"prove our work the better for the sweetness of our song"), and one
while was exploring a poison-dogwood bush, plainly without the slightest
fear of any ill-result. It occurred to me that possibly it is our
fault, and not that of _Rhus venenata_, when we suffer from the touch of
that graceful shrub.
The white-eyed greenlet is a vocalist of such extraordinary versatility
and power that one feels almost guilty in speaking of him under the
title which stands at the head of this paper. How he would scold,
out-carlyling Carlyle, if he knew what were going on! Nevertheless I
cannot rank him with the great singers, exceptionally clever and
original as, beyond all dispute, he is; and for that matter, I look upon
the solitary as very much his superior, in spite of--or, shall I say,
because of?--the latter's greater simplicity and reserve.
But if we hesitate thus about these two inconspicuous vireos, whom half
of those who do them the honor to read what is here said about them will
have never seen, how are we to deal with the scarlet tanager? Our
handsomest bird, and with musical aspirations as well, shall we put him
into the second class? It must be so, I fear: yet such justice is a
trial to the flesh; for what critic could ever quite leave out of
account the beauty of a _prima donna_ in passing judgment on her work?
Does not her angelic face sing to his eye, as Emerson says?
Formerly I gave the tanager credit for only one song,--the one which
suggests a robin laboring under an attack of hoarseness; but I have
discovered that he himself regards his _chip-cherr_ as of equal value.
At least, I have found him perched at the tip of a tall pine, and
repeating this inconsiderable and not very melodious trochee with all
earnestness and perseverance. Sometimes he rehearses it thus at
nightfall; but even so I cannot call it highly artistic. I am glad to
believe, however, that he does not care in the least for my opinion. Why
should he? He is too true a gallant to mind what anybody else thinks, so
long as _one_ is pleased; and she, no doubt, tells him every day that he
is the best singer in the grove. Beside his divine _chip-cherr_ the
rhapsody of the wood thrush is a mere nothing, if she is to be the
judge. Strange, indeed, that so shabbily dressed a creature as this
thrush should have the presumption to attempt to sing at all! "But
then," she charitably adds, "perhaps he is not to blame; such things
come by nature; and there are some birds, you know, who cannot tell the
difference between noise and music."
We trust that the tanager will improve as time goes on; but in any case
we are largely in his debt. How we should miss him if he were gone, or
even were become as rare as the summer red-bird and the cardinal are in
our latitude! As it is, he lights up our Northern woods with a truly
tropical splendor, the like of which no other of our birds can furnish.
Let us hold him in hearty esteem, and pray that he may never be
exterminated; no, not even to beautify the head-gear of our ladies, who,
if they only knew it, are already sufficiently bewitching.
What shall we say now about the lesser lights of that most musical
family, the finches? Of course the cardinal and rose-breasted grosbeaks
are not to be included in any such category. Nor will _I_ put there the
goldfinch, the linnet, the fox-colored sparrow, and the song sparrow.
These, if no more, shall stand among the immortals; so far, at any rate,
as my suffrage counts. But who ever dreamed of calling the chipping
sparrow a fine singer? And yet, who that knows it does not love his
earnest, long-drawn trill, dry and tuneless as it is? I can speak for
one, at all events; and he always has an ear open for it by the middle
of April. It is the voice of a friend,--a friend so true and gentle and
confiding that we do not care to ask whether his voice be smooth and his
speech eloquent.
The chipper's congener, the field sparrow, is less neighborly than he,
but a much better musician. His song is simplicity itself; yet, even at
its lowest estate, it never fails of being truly melodious, while by
one means and another its wise little author contrives to impart to it a
very considerable variety, albeit within pretty narrow limits. Last
spring the field sparrows were singing constantly from the middle of
April till about the 10th of May, when they became entirely dumb. Then,
after a week in which I heard not a note, they again grew musical. I
pondered not a little over their silence, but concluded that they were
just then very much occupied with preparations for housekeeping.
The bird who is called indiscriminately the grass finch, the bay-winged
bunting, the bay-winged sparrow, the vesper sparrow, and I know not what
else (the ornithologists have nicknamed him _Pooecetes gramineus_), is
a singer of good parts, but is especially to be commended for his
refinement. In form his music is strikingly like the song sparrow's; but
the voice is not so loud and ringing, and the two or three opening notes
are less sharply emphasized. In general the difference between the two
songs may perhaps be well expressed by saying that the one is more
declamatory, the other more _cantabile_; a difference exactly such as we
might have expected, considering the nervous, impetuous disposition of
the song sparrow and the placidity of the bay-wing.
As one of his titles indicates, the bay-wing is famous for singing in
the evening, when, of course, his efforts are doubly acceptable; and I
can readily believe that Mr. Minot is correct in his "impression" that
he has once or twice heard the song in the night. For while spending a
few days at a New Hampshire hotel, which was surrounded with fine lawns
such as the grass finch delights in, I happened to be awake in the
morning, long before sunrise,--when, in fact, it seemed like the dead of
night,--and one or two of these sparrows were piping freely. The sweet
and gentle strain had the whole mountain valley to itself. How beautiful
it was, set in such a broad "margin of silence," I must leave to be
imagined. I noticed, moreover, that the birds sang almost incessantly
the whole day through. Much of the time there were two singing
antiphonally. Manifestly, the lines had fallen to them in pleasant
places: at home for the summer in those luxuriant Sugar-Hill fields, in
continual sight of yonder magnificent mountain panorama, with Lafayette
himself looming grandly in the foreground; while they, innocent souls,
had never so much as heard of hotel-keepers and their bills. "Happy
commoners," indeed! Their "songs in the night" seemed nowise surprising.
I fancied that I could be happy myself in such a case.
Our familiar and ever-welcome snow-bird, known in some quarters as the
black chipping-bird, and often called the black snow-bird, has a long
trill, not altogether unlike the common chipper's, but in a much higher
key. It is a modest lay, yet doubtless full of meaning; for the singer
takes to the very tip of a tree, and throws his head back in the most
approved style. He does his best, at any rate, and so far ranks with the
angels; while, if my testimony can be of any service to him, I am glad
to say ('t is too bad the praise is so equivocal) that I have heard many
human singers who gave me less pleasure; and further, that he took an
indispensable though subordinate part in what was one of the most
memorable concerts at which I was ever happy enough to be a listener.
This was given some years ago in an old apple-orchard by a flock of
fox-colored sparrows, who, perhaps for that occasion only, had the
"valuable assistance" of a large choir of snow-birds. The latter were
twittering in every tree, while to this goodly accompaniment the
sparrows were singing their loud, clear, thrush-like song. The
combination was felicitous in the extreme. I would go a long way to hear
the like again.
If distinction cannot be attained by one means, who knows but that it
may be by another? It is denied us to be great? Very well, we can at
least try the effect of a little originality. Something like this seems
to be the philosophy of the indigo-bird; and he carries it out both in
dress and in song. As we have said already, it is usual for birds to
reserve the loudest and most taking parts of their music for the close,
though it may be doubted whether they have any intelligent purpose in so
doing. Indeed, the apprehension of a great general truth such as lies at
the basis of this well-nigh universal habit,--the truth, namely, that
everything depends upon the impression finally left on the hearer's
mind; that to end with some grand burst, or with some surprisingly lofty
note, is the only, or to speak cautiously, the principal, requisite to a
really great musical performance,--the intelligent grasp of such a truth
as this, I say, seems to me to lie beyond the measure of a bird's
capacity in the present stage of his development. Be this as it may,
however, it is noteworthy that the indigo-bird exactly reverses the
common plan. He begins at his loudest and sprightliest, and then runs
off into a _diminuendo_, which fades into silence almost imperceptibly.
The strain will never be renowned for its beauty; but it is unique, and,
further, is continued well into August. Moreover,--and this adds grace
to the most ordinary song,--it is often let fall while the bird is on
the wing.
This eccentric genius has taken possession of a certain hillside
pasture, which, in another way, belongs to me also. Year after year he
comes back and settles down upon it about the middle of May; and I have
often been amused to see his mate--who is not permitted to wear a single
blue feather--drop out of her nest in a barberry bush and go fluttering
off, both wings dragging helplessly through the grass. I should pity her
profoundly but that I am in no doubt her injuries will rapidly heal when
once I am out of sight. Besides, I like to imagine her beatitude, as,
five minutes afterward, she sits again upon the nest, with her heart's
treasures all safe underneath her. Many a time was a boy of my
acquaintance comforted in some ache or pain with the words, "Never mind!
't will feel better when it gets well;" and so, sure enough, it always
did. But what a wicked world this is, where nature teaches even a bird
to play the deceiver!
On the same hillside is always to be found the chewink,--a creature
whose dress and song are so unlike those of the rest of his tribe that
the irreverent amateur is tempted to believe that, for once, the men of
science have made a mistake. What has any finch to do with a call like
_cherawink_, or with such a three-colored harlequin suit? But it is
unsafe to judge according to the outward appearance, in ornithology as
in other matters; and I have heard that it is only those who are foolish
as well as ignorant who indulge in off-hand criticisms of wiser men's
conclusions. So let us call the towhee a finch, and say no more about
it.
But whatever his lineage, it is plain that the chewink is not a bird to
be governed very strictly by the traditions of the fathers. His usual
song is characteristic and pretty, yet he is so far from being satisfied
with it that he varies it continually and in many ways, some of them
sadly puzzling to the student who is set upon telling all the birds by
their voices. I remember well enough the morning I was inveigled through
the wet grass of two pastures--and that just as I was shod for the
city--by a wonderfully foreign note, which filled me with lively
anticipations of a new bird, but which turned out to be the work of a
most innocent-looking towhee. It was perhaps this same bird, or his
brother, whom I one day heard throwing in between his customary
_cherawinks_ a profusion of _staccato_ notes of widely varying pitch,
together with little volleys of tinkling sounds such as his every-day
song concludes with. This medley was not laughable, like the chat's,
which it suggested, but it had the same abrupt, fragmentary, and
promiscuous character. All in all, it was what I never should have
expected from this paragon of self-possession.
For self-control, as I have elsewhere said, is Pipilo's strong point.
One afternoon last summer a young friend and I found ourselves, as we
suspected, near a chewink's nest, and at once set out to see which of us
should have the honor of the discovery. We searched diligently, but
without avail, while the father-bird sat quietly in a tree, calling with
all sweetness and with never a trace of anger or trepidation,
_cherawink, cherawink_. Finally we gave over the hunt, and I began to
console my companion and myself for our disappointment by shaking in the
face of the bird a small tree which very conveniently leaned toward the
one in which he was perched. By rather vigorous efforts I could make
this pass back and forth within a few inches of his bill; but he utterly
disdained to notice it, and kept on calling as before. While we were
laughing at his impudence (_his_ impudence!) the mother suddenly
appeared, with an insect in her beak, and joined her voice to her
husband's. I was just declaring how cruel as well as useless it was for
us to stay, when she ungratefully gave a ludicrous turn to what was
intended for a very sage and considerate remark, by dropping almost at
my feet, stepping upon the edge of her nest, and offering the morsel to
one of her young. We watched the little tableau admiringly (I had never
seen a prettier show of nonchalance), and thanked our stars that we had
been saved from an involuntary slaughter of the innocents while
trampling all about the spot. The nest, which we had tried so hard to
find, was in plain sight, concealed only by the perfect agreement of its
color with that of the dead pine-branches in the midst of which it was
placed. The shrewd birds had somehow learned--by experience, perhaps,
like ourselves--that those who would escape disagreeable and perilous
conspicuity must conform as closely as possible to the world around
them.
According to my observation, the towhee is not much given to singing
after July; but he keeps up his call, which is little less musical than
his song, till his departure in late September. At that time of the year
the birds collect together in their favorite haunts; and I remember my
dog's running into the edge of a roadside pasture among some
cedar-trees, when there broke out such a chorus of _cherawinks_ that I
was instantly reminded of a swamp full of frogs in April.
After the tanager the Baltimore oriole (named for Lord Baltimore, whose
colors he wears) is probably the most gorgeous, as he is certainly one
of the best known, of New England birds. He has discovered that men,
bad as they are, are less to be dreaded than hawks and weasels, and so,
after making sure that his wife is not subject to sea-sickness, he
swings his nest boldly from a swaying shade-tree branch, in full view of
whoever may choose to look at it. Some morning in May--not far from the
10th--you will wake to hear him fifing in the elm before your window. He
has come in the night, and is already making himself at home. Once I saw
a pair who on the very first morning had begun to get together materials
for a nest. His whistle is one of the clearest and loudest, but he makes
little pretensions to music. I have been pleased and interested,
however, to see how tuneful he becomes in August, after most other birds
have ceased to sing, and after a long interval of silence on his own
part. Early and late he pipes and chatters, as if he imagined that the
spring were really coming back again forthwith. What the explanation of
this lyrical revival may be I have never been able to gather; but the
fact itself is very noticeable, so that it would not be amiss to call
the "golden robin" the bird of August.
The oriole's dusky relatives have the organs of song well developed; and
although most of the species have altogether lost the art of music,
there are none of them, even now, that do not betray more or less of the
musical impulse. The red-winged blackbird, indeed, has some really
praiseworthy notes; and to me--for personal reasons quite aside from any
question about its lyrical value--his rough _cucurree_ is one of the
very pleasantest of sounds. For that matter, however, there is no one of
our birds--be he, in technical language, "oscine" or "non-oscine"--whose
voice is not, in its own way, agreeable. Except a few uncommonly
superstitious people, who does not enjoy the whip-poor-will's
trisyllabic exhortation, and the _yak_ of the night-hawk? Bob White's
weather predictions, also, have a wild charm all their own, albeit his
persistent _No more wet_ is often sadly out of accord with the farmer's
hopes. We have no more untuneful bird, surely, than the cow bunting; yet
even the serenades of this shameless polygamist have one merit,--they
are at least amusing. With what infinite labor he brings forth his
forlorn, broken-winded whistle, while his tail twitches convulsively, as
if tail and larynx were worked by the same spring!
The judging, comparing spirit, the conscientious dread of being
ignorantly happy when a broader culture would enable us to be
intelligently miserable,--this has its place, unquestionably, in concert
halls; but if we are to make the best use of out-door minstrelsy, we
must learn to take things as we find them, throwing criticism to the
winds. Having said which, I am bound to go further still, and to
acknowledge that on looking back over the first part of this paper I
feel more than half ashamed of the strictures therein passed upon the
bluebird and the brown thrush. When I heard the former's salutation from
a Boston Common elm on the morning, of the 22d of February last, I said
to myself that no music, not even the nightingale's, could ever be
sweeter. Let him keep on, by all means, in his own artless way, paying
no heed to what I have foolishly written about his shortcomings. As for
the thrasher's smile-provoking gutturals, I recall that even in the
symphonies of the greatest of masters there are here and there quaint
bassoon phrases, which have, and doubtless were intended to have, a
somewhat whimsical effect; and remembering this, I am ready to own that
I was less wise than I thought myself when I found so much fault with
the thrush's performance. I have sins enough to answer for: may this
never be added to them, that I set up my taste against that of Beethoven
and _Harporhynchus rufus_.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Since this was written I have heard the creeper sing a tune very
different from the one described above. See p. 227.
WINTER BIRDS ABOUT BOSTON.
Not much to find, not much to see;
But the air was fresh, the path was free.
W. ALLINGHAM.
WINTER BIRDS ABOUT BOSTON.