half of the month. A pair of white-breasted swallows flew over my head
while I was attending to the winter wren on the 11th, and on the 14th
appeared the first pine-creeping warblers,--welcome for their own sakes,
and doubly so as the forerunners of a numerous and splendid company; but
aside from these two, I saw no evidence that a single new species
arrived at my station for the entire fortnight.
Robins sang sparingly from the beginning, and became perceptibly more
musical on the 8th, with signs of mating and jealousy; but the real
robin carnival did not open till the morning of the 14th. Then the
change was wonderful. Some of the birds were flying this way and that,
high in air, two or three together; others chased each other about
nearer the ground; some were screaming, some hissing, and more singing.
So sudden was the outbreak and so great the commotion that I was
persuaded there must have been an arrival of females in the night.
I have heard it objected against these thrushes, whose extreme
commonness renders them less highly esteemed than they would otherwise
be, that they find their voices too early in the morning. But I am not
myself prepared to second the criticism. They are not often at their
matins, I think, until the eastern sky begins to flush, and it is not
quite certain to my mind that they are wrong in assuming that daylight
makes daytime. I have questioned before now whether our own custom of
sitting up for five or six hours after sunset, and then lying abed two
or three hours after sunrise, may not have come down to us from times
when there were still people in the world who loved darkness rather than
light, because their deeds were evil; and whether, after all, in this as
in some other respects, we might not wisely take pattern of the fowls of
the air.
Individually, the phoebes were almost as noisy as the robins, but of
course their numbers were far less. They are models of perseverance.
Were their voice equal to the nightingale's they could hardly be more
assiduous and enthusiastic in its use. As a general thing they are
content to repeat the simple _Phoebe, Phoebe_ (there are moods in
the experience of all of us, I hope, when the repetition of a name is by
itself music sufficient), but it is not uncommon for this to be
heightened to _Phoebe, O Phoebe_; and now and then you will hear
some fellow calling excitedly, _Phoebe, Phoebe-be-be-be-be_,--a
comical sort of stuttering, in which the difficulty is not in getting
hold of the first syllable, but in letting go the last one. On the 15th
I witnessed a certain other performance of theirs,--one that I had seen
two or three times the season previous, and for which I had been on the
lookout from the first day of the month. I heard a series of _chips_,
which might have been the cries of a chicken, but which, it appeared,
did proceed from a phoebe, who, as I looked up, was just in the act of
quitting his perch on the ridge-pole of a barn. He rose for perhaps
thirty feet, not spirally, but in a zigzag course,--like a horse
climbing a hill with a heavy load,--all the time calling, _chip, chip,
chip_. Then he went round and round in a small circle, with a kind of
hovering action of the wings, vociferating hurriedly, _Phoebe,
Phoebe, Phoebe_; after which he shot down into the top of a tree,
and with a lively flirt of his tail took up again the same eloquent
theme. During the next few weeks I several times found birds of this
species similarly engaged. And it is worthy of remark that, of the four
flycatchers which regularly pass the summer with us, three may be said
to be, in the _habit_ of singing in the air, while the fourth (the wood
pewee) does the same thing, only with less frequency. It is curious,
also, on the other hand, that not one of our eight common New England
thrushes, as far as I have ever seen or heard, shows the least tendency
toward any such state of lyrical exaltation. Yet the thrushes are song
birds _par excellence_, while the phoebe, the least flycatcher, and
the kingbird are not supposed to be able to sing at all. The latter have
the soul of music in them, at any rate; and why should it not be true of
birds, as it is of human poets and would-be poets, that sensibility and
faculty are not always found together? Perhaps those who have nothing
but the sensibility have, after all, the better half of the blessing.
The golden-winged woodpeckers shouted comparatively little before the
middle of the month, and I heard nothing of their tender _wick-a-wick_
until the 22d. After that they were noisy enough. With all their power
of lungs, however, they not only are not singers; they do not aspire to
be. They belong to the tribe of Jubal. Hearing somebody drumming on tin,
I peeped over the wall, and saw one of these pigeon woodpeckers
hammering an old tin pan lying in the middle of the pasture. Rather
small sport, I thought, for so large a bird. But that was a matter of
opinion, merely, and evidently the performer himself had no such
scruples. He may even have considered that his ability to play on this
instrument of the tinsmith's went far to put him on an equality with
some who boast themselves the only tool-using animals. True, the pan was
battered and rusty; but it was resonant, for all that, and day after day
he pleased himself with beating _reveille_ upon it. One morning I found
him sitting in a tree, screaming lustily in response to another bird in
an adjacent field. After a while, waxing ardent, he dropped to the
ground, and, stationing himself before his drum, proceeded to answer
each cry of his rival with a vigorous rubadub, varying the programme
with an occasional halloo. How long this would have lasted there is no
telling, but he caught sight of me, skulking behind a tree-trunk, and
flew back to his lofty perch, where he was still shouting when I came
away. It was observable that, even in his greatest excitement, he paused
once in a while to dress his feathers. At first I was inclined to take
this as betraying a want of earnestness; but further reflection led me
to a different conclusion. For I imagine that the human lover, no matter
how consuming his passion, is seldom carried so far beyond himself as
not to be able to spare now and then a thought to the parting of his
hair and the tie of his cravat.
Seeing the great delight which this woodpecker took in his precious tin
pan, it seemed to me not at all improbable that he had selected his
summer residence with a view to being near it, just as I had chosen mine
for its convenience of access to the woods on the one hand, and to the
city on the other. I shall watch with interest to see whether he returns
to the same pasture another year.
A few field sparrows and chippers showed themselves punctually on the
15th; but they were only scouts, and the great body of their followers
were more than a week behind them. I saw no bay-winged buntings until
the 22d, although it is likely enough they had been here for some days
before that. By a lucky chance, my very first bird was a peculiarly
accomplished musician: he altered his tune at nearly every repetition of
it, sang it sometimes loudly and then softly, and once in a while added
cadenza-like phrases. It lost nothing by being heard on a bright, frosty
morning, when the edges of the pools were filmed with ice.
Only three species of warblers appeared during the month: the
pine-creeping warblers, already spoken of, who were trilling on the
14th; the yellow-rumped, who came on the 23d; and the yellow red-polls,
who followed the next morning. The black-throated greens were
mysteriously tardy, and the black-and-white creepers waited for May-day.
A single brown thrush was leading the chorus on the 29th. "A great
singer," my note-book says: "not so altogether faultless as some, but
with a large voice and style, adapted to a great part;" and then is
added, "I thought this morning of Titiens, as I listened to him!"--a bit
of impromptu musical criticism, which, under cover of the saving
quotation marks may stand for what it is worth.
Not long after leaving him I ran upon two hermit thrushes (one had been
seen on the 25th), flitting about the woods like ghosts. I whistled
softly to the first, and he condescended to answer with a low _chuck_,
after which I could get nothing more out of him. This demure taciturnity
is very curious and characteristic, and to me very engaging. The fellow
will neither skulk nor run, but hops upon some low branch, and looks at
you,--behaving not a little as if you were the specimen and he the
student! And in such a case, as far as I can see, the bird equally with
the man has a right to his own point of view.
The hermits were not yet in tune; and without forgetting the fox-colored
sparrows and the linnets, the song sparrows and the bay-wings, the
winter wrens and the brown thrush, I am almost ready to declare that the
best music of the month came from the smallest of all the month's birds,
the ruby-crowned kinglets. Their spring season is always short with us,
and unhappily it was this year shorter even than usual, my dates being
April 23d and May 5th. But we must be thankful for a little, when the
little is of such a quality. Once I descried two of them in the topmost
branches of a clump of tall maples. For a long time they fed in silence;
then they began to chase each other about through the trees, in graceful
evolutions (I can imagine nothing more graceful), and soon one, and
then the other, broke out into song. "'Infinite riches in a little
room,'" my note-book says, again; and truly the song is marvelous,--a
prolonged and varied warble, introduced and often broken into, with
delightful effect, by a wrennish chatter. For fluency, smoothness, and
ease, and especially for purity and sweetness of tone, I have never
heard any bird-song that seemed to me more nearly perfect. If the dainty
creature would bear confinement,--on which point I know nothing,--he
would make an ideal parlor songster; for his voice, while round and
full,--in contrast with the goldfinch's, for example,--is yet, even at
its loudest, of a wonderful softness and delicacy. Nevertheless, I trust
that nobody will ever cage him. Better far go out-of-doors, and drink in
the exquisite sounds as they drop from the thick of some tall pine,
while you catch now and then a glimpse of the tiny author, flitting
busily from branch to branch, warbling at his work; or, as you may
oftener do, look and listen to your heart's content, while he explores
some low cedar or a cluster of roadside birches, too innocent and happy
to heed your presence. So you will carry home not the song only, but
"the river and sky."
But if the kinglets were individually the best singers, I must still
confess that the goldfinches gave the best concert. It was on a sunny
afternoon,--the 27th,--and in a small grove of tall pitch-pines. How
many birds there were I could form little estimate, but when fifteen
flew away for a minute or two the chorus was not perceptibly diminished.
All were singing, twittering, and calling together; some of them
directly over my head, the rest scattered throughout the wood. No one
voice predominated in the least; all sang softly, and with an
indescribable tenderness and beauty. Any who do not know how sweet the
goldfinch's note is may get some conception of the effect of such a
concert if they will imagine fifty canaries thus engaged out-of-doors. I
declared then that I had never heard anything so enchanting, and I am
not certain even now that I was over-enthusiastic.
A pine-creeping warbler, I remember, broke in upon the choir two or
three times with his loud, precise trill. Foolish bird! His is a pretty
song by itself, but set in contrast with music so full of imagination
and poetry, it sounded painfully abrupt and prosaic.
I discovered the first signs of nest-building on the 13th, while
investigating the question of a bird's ambi-dexterity. It happened that
I had just been watching a chickadee, as he picked chip after chip from
a dead branch, and held them fast with one claw, while he broke them in
pieces with his beak; and walking away, it occurred to me to ask whether
or not he could probably use both feet equally well for such a purpose.
Accordingly, seeing another go into an apple-tree, I drew near to take
his testimony on that point. But when I came to look for him he was
nowhere in sight, and pretty soon it appeared that he was at work in the
end of an upright stub, which he had evidently but just begun to hollow
out, as the tip of his tail still protruded over the edge. A
bird-lover's curiosity can always adapt itself to circumstances, and in
this case it was no hardship to postpone the settlement of my newly
raised inquiry, while I observed the pretty labors of my little
architect. These proved to be by no means inconsiderable, lasting nearly
or quite three weeks. The birds were still bringing away chips on the
30th, when their cavity was about eleven inches deep; but it is to be
said that, as far as I could find out, they never worked in the
afternoon or on rainy days.
Their demeanor toward each other all this time was beautiful to see; no
effusive display of affection, but every appearance of a perfect mutual
understanding and contentment. And their treatment of me was no less
appropriate and delightful,--a happy combination of freedom and
dignified reserve. I took it for an extremely neat compliment to
myself, as well as incontestable evidence of unusual powers of
discrimination on their part.
On my second visit the female sounded a call as I approached the tree,
and I looked to see her mate take some notice of it; but he kept
straight on with what he was doing. Not long after she spoke again,
however; and now it was amusing to see the fellow all at once stand
still on the top of the stub, looking up and around, as much as to say,
"What is it, my dear? I see nothing." Apparently it _was_ nothing, and
he went head first into the hole again. Pretty soon, while he was
inside, I stepped up against the trunk. His mate continued silent, and
after what seemed a long time he came out, flew to an adjacent twig,
dropped his load, and returned. This he did over and over (the end of
the stub was perhaps ten feet above my head), and once he let fall a
beakful of chips plump in my face. They were light, and I did not resent
the liberty.
Two mornings later I found him at his task again, toiling in good
earnest. In and out he went, taking care to bring away the shavings at
every trip, as before, and generally sounding a note or two (keeping the
tally, perhaps) before he dropped them. For the fifteen minutes or so
that I remained, his mate was perched in another branch of the same
tree, not once shifting her position, and doing nothing whatever except
to preen her feathers a little. She paid no attention to her husband,
nor did he to her. It was a revelation to me that a chickadee could
possibly sit still so long.
Eight days after this they were both at work, spelling each other, and
then going off in company for a brief turn at feeding.
So far they had never manifested the least annoyance at my espionage;
but the next morning, as I stood against the tree, one of them seemed
slightly disturbed, and flew from twig to twig about my head, looking at
me from all directions with his shining black eyes. The reconnoissance
was satisfactory, however; everything went on as before, and several
times the chips rattled down upon my stiff Derby hat. The hole was
getting deep, it was plain; I could hear the little carpenter hammering
at the bottom, and then scrambling up the walls on his way out. One of
the pair brought a black tidbit from a pine near by, and offered it to
the other as he emerged into daylight. He took it from her bill, said
_chit_,--chickadese for _thank you_,--and hastened back into the mine.
Finally, on the 27th, after watching their operations a while from the
ground, I swung myself into the tree, and took a seat with them. To my
delight, the work proceeded without interruption. Neither bird made any
outcry, although one of them hopped round me, just out of reach, with
evident curiosity. He must have thought me a queer specimen. When I drew
my overcoat up after me and put it on, they flew away; but within a
minute or two they were both back again, working as merrily as ever, and
taking no pains not to litter me with their rubbish. Once the female (I
took it to be she from her smaller size, not from this piece of
shiftlessness) dropped her load without quitting the stub, a thing I had
not seen either of them do before. Twice one brought the other something
to eat. At last the male took another turn at investigating my
character, and it began to look as if he would end with alighting on my
hat. This time, too, I am proud to say, the verdict was favorable.
Their confidence was not misplaced, and unless all signs failed they
reared a full brood of tits. May their tribe increase! Of birds so
innocent and unobtrusive, so graceful, so merry-hearted, and so musical,
the world can never have too many.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] In the titmouse's cosmological system trees occupy a highly
important place, we may be sure; while the purpose of their tall,
upright method of growth no doubt receives a very simple and logical
(and correspondingly lucid) explanation.
[23] While this book is passing through the press (April 30th, 1885) I
am privileged with another sight and sound of the woodcock's vespertine
performance, and under peculiarly favorable conditions. In the account
given above, sufficient distinction is not made between the clicking
noise, heard while the bird is soaring, and the sounds which signalize
his descent. The former is probably produced by the wings, although I
have heretofore thought otherwise, while the latter are certainly vocal,
and no doubt intended as a song. But they are little if at all louder
than the _click, click_ of the wings, and as far as I have ever been
able to make out are nothing more than a series of quick, breathless
whistles, with no attempt at either melody or rhythm.
In the present instance I could see only the start and the "finish,"
when the bird several times passed directly by and over me, as I stood
in a cluster of low birches, within two or three rods of his point of
departure. His angle of flight was small; quite as if he had been going
and coming from one field to another, in the ordinary course. Once I
timed him, and found that he was on the wing for a few seconds more than
a minute.
[24] Still further to corroborate my "pet theory," I may say here in a
foot-note, what I have said elsewhere with more detail, that before the
end of the following month the hermit thrushes, the olive-backed
thrushes, and the gray-cheeked thrushes all sang for me in my Melrose
woods.
Let me explain, also, that when I call the brown creeper a silent
migrant I am not unaware that others beside myself, and more than
myself, have heard him sing while traveling. Mr. William Brewster, as
quoted by Dr. Brewer in the _History of North American Birds_, has been
exceptionally fortunate in this regard. But my expression is correct as
far as the rule is concerned; and the latest word upon the subject which
has come under my eye is this from Mr. E. P. Bicknell's "Study of the
Singing of our Birds," in _The Auk_ for April, 1884: "Some feeble notes,
suggestive of those of _Regulus satrapa_, are this bird's usual
utterance during its visit. Its song I have never heard."
AN OWL'S HEAD HOLIDAY.
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
MILTON.
AN OWL'S HEAD HOLIDAY.
My trip to Lake Memphremagog was by the way, and was not expected to
detain me for more than twenty-four hours; but when I went ashore at the
Owl's Head Mountain-House, and saw what a lodge in the wilderness it
was, I said to myself, Go to, this is the place; Mount Mansfield will
stand for another year at least, and I will waste no more of my precious
fortnight amid dust and cinders. Here were to be enjoyed many of the
comforts of civilization, with something of the wildness and freedom of
a camp. Out of one of the windows of my large, well-furnished room I
could throw a stone into the trackless forest, where, any time I chose,
I could make the most of a laborious half-hour in traveling half a mile.
The other two opened upon a piazza; whence the lake was to be seen
stretching away northward for ten or fifteen miles, with Mount Orford
and his supporting hills in the near background; while I had only to
walk the length of the piazza to look round the corner of the house at
Owl's Head itself, at whose base we were. The hotel had less than a
dozen guests and no piano, and there was neither carriage-road nor
railway within sight or hearing. Yes, this was the place where I would
spend the eight days which yet remained to me of idle time.
Of the eight days five were what are called unpleasant; but the
unseasonable cold, which drove the stayers in the house to huddle about
the fire, struck the mosquitoes with a torpor which made strolling in
the woods a double luxury; while the rain was chiefly of the showery
sort, such as a rubber coat and old clothes render comparatively
harmless. Not that I failed to take a hand with my associates in
grumbling about the weather. Table-talk would speedily come to an end in
such circumstances if people were forbidden to criticise the order of
nature; and it is not for me to boast any peculiar sanctity in this
respect. But when all was over, it had to be acknowledged that I, for
one, had been kept in-doors very little. In fact, if the whole truth
were told, it would probably appear that my fellow boarders, seeing my
persistency in disregarding the inclemency of the elements, soon came to
look upon me as decidedly odd, though perhaps not absolutely demented.
At any rate, I was rather glad than otherwise to think so. In those
long days there must often have been a dearth of topics for profitable
conversation, no matter how outrageous the weather, and it was a
pleasure to believe that this little idiosyncracy of mine might answer
to fill here and there a gap. For what generous person does not rejoice
to feel that even in his absence he may be doing something for the
comfort and well-being of his brothers and sisters? As Seneca said, "Man
is born for mutual assistance."
According to Osgood's "New England," the summit of Owl's Head is 2,743
feet above the level of the lake, and the path to it is a mile and a
half and thirty rods in length. It may seem niggardly not to throw off
the last petty fraction; and indeed we might well enough let it pass if
it were at the beginning of the route,--if the path, that is, were
thirty rods and a mile and a half long. But this, it will be observed,
is not the case; and it is a fact perfectly well attested, though
perhaps not yet scientifically accounted for (many things are known to
be true which for the present cannot be mathematically demonstrated),
that near the top of a mountain thirty rods are equivalent to a good
deal more than four hundred and ninety-five feet. Let the guide-book's
specification stand, therefore, in all its surveyor-like exactness.
After making the climb four times in the course of eight days, I am not
disposed to abate so much as a jot from the official figures. Rather
than do that I would pin my faith to an unprofessional-looking
sign-board in the rear of the hotel, on which the legend runs, "Summit
of Owl's Head 2-1/4 miles." For aught I know, indeed (in such a world as
this, uncertainty is a principal mark of intelligence),--for aught I
know, both measurements may be correct; which fact, if once it were
established, would easily and naturally explain how it came to pass that
I myself found the distance so much greater on some days than on others;
although, for that matter, which of the two would be actually longer, a
path which should rise 2,743 feet in a mile and a half, or one that
should cover two miles and a quarter in reaching the same elevation, is
a question to which different pedestrians would likely enough return
contradictory answers.[25]