indulge in some unexpected stroke of originality. Few are more artless
and regular in their musical efforts than the pine warblers; yet I have
seen one of these sitting at the tip of a tree, and repeating a trill
which toward the close invariably declined by an interval of perhaps
three tones. Even the chipping sparrow, whose lay is yet more monotonous
and formal than the pine warbler's, is not absolutely confined to his
score. I once heard him when his trill was divided into two portions,
the concluding half being much higher than the other--unless my ear was
at fault, exactly an octave higher. This singular refrain was given out
six or eight times without the slightest alteration. Such freaks as
these, however, are different from the linnet's _Mary Ware_, inasmuch as
they are certainly the idiosyncrasies of single birds, not a part of the
artistic proficiency of the species as a whole.
During this month I was lucky enough to close a little question which I
had been holding open for a number of years concerning our very common
and familiar black-throated green warbler. This species, as is well
known, has two perfectly well-defined tunes of about equal length,
entirely distinct from each other. My uncertainty had been as to whether
the two are ever used by the same individual. I had listened a good many
times, first and last, in hopes to settle the point, but hitherto
without success. Now, however, a bird, while under my eye, delivered
both songs, and then went on to give further proof of his versatility by
repeating one of them _minus_ the final note. This abbreviation, by the
way, is not very infrequent with _Dendroeca virens_; and he has still
another variation, which I hear once in a while every season, consisting
of a grace note introduced in the middle of the measure, in such a
connection as to form what in musical language is denominated a turn. At
my first hearing of this I looked upon it as the private property of the
bird to whom I was listening,--an improvement which he had accidentally
hit upon. But it is clearly more than that; for besides hearing it in
different seasons, I have noticed it in places a good distance apart.
Perhaps, after the lapse of ten thousand years, more or less, the whole
tribe of black-throated greens will have adopted it; and then, when some
ornithologist chances to fall in with an old-fashioned specimen who
still clings to the plain song as we now commonly hear it, he will fancy
_that_ to be the very latest modern improvement, and proceed forthwith
to enlighten the scientific world with a description of the novelty.
Hardly any incident of the month interested me more than a discovery (I
must call it such, although I am almost ashamed to allude to it at all)
which I made about the black-capped titmouse. For several mornings in
succession I was greeted on waking by the trisyllabic minor whistle of a
chickadee, who piped again and again not far from my window. There could
be little doubt about its being the bird that I knew to be excavating a
building site in one of our apple-trees; but I was usually not
out-of-doors until about five o'clock, by which time the music always
came to an end. So one day I rose half an hour earlier than common on
purpose to have a look at my little matutinal serenader. My conjecture
proved correct. There sat the tit, within a few feet of his apple-branch
door, throwing back his head in the truest lyrical fashion, and calling
_Hear, hear me_, with only a breathing space between the repetitions of
the phrase. He was as plainly _singing_, and as completely absorbed in
his work, as any thrasher or hermit thrush could have been. Heretofore
I had not realized that these whistled notes were so strictly a song,
and as such set apart from all the rest of the chickadee's repertory of
sweet sounds; and I was delighted to find my tiny pet recognizing thus
unmistakably the difference between prose and poetry.
But we linger unduly with these lesser lights of song. After the music
of the Alice and the Swainson thrushes, the chief distinction of May,
1884, as far as my Melrose woods were concerned, was the entirely
unexpected advent of a colony of rose-breasted grosbeaks. For five
seasons I had called these hunting-grounds my own, and during that time
had seen perhaps about the same number of specimens of this royal
species, always in the course of the vernal migration. The present year
the first comer was observed on the 15th--solitary and, except for an
occasional monosyllable, silent. Only one more straggler, I assumed. But
on the following morning I saw four others, all of them males in full
plumage, and two of them in song. To one of these I attended for some
time. According to my notes "he sang beautifully, although not with any
excitement, nor as if he were doing his best. The tone was purer and
smoother than the robin's, more mellow and sympathetic, and the strain
was especially characterized by a dropping to a fine contralto note at
the end." The next day I saw nothing of my new friends till toward
night. Then, after tea, I strolled into the chestnut grove, and walking
along the path, noticed a robin singing freely, remarking the fact
because this noisy bird had been rather quiet of late. Just as I passed
under him, however, it flashed upon me that the voice and song were not
exactly the robin's. They must be the rose-breast's then; and stepping
back to look up, I beheld him in gorgeous attire, perched in the top of
an oak. He sang and sang, while I stood quietly listening. Pretty soon
he repeated the strain once or twice in a softer voice, and I glanced up
instinctively to see if a female were with him; but instead, there were
two males sitting within a yard of each other. They flew off after a
little, and I resumed my saunter. A party of chimney swifts were
shooting hither and thither over the trees, a single wood thrush was
chanting not far away, and in another direction a tanager was rehearsing
his _chip-cherr_ with characteristic assiduity. Presently I began to be
puzzled by a note which came now from this side, now from that, and
sounded like the squeak of a pair of rusty shears. My first conjecture
about the origin of this _hic_ it would hardly serve my reputation to
make public; but I was not long in finding out that it was the
grosbeaks' own, and that, instead of three, there were at least twice
that number of these brilliant strangers in the grove. Altogether, the
half hour was one of very enjoyable excitement; and when, later in the
evening, I sat down to my note-book, I started off abruptly in a
hortatory vein,--"Always take another walk!"
In the morning, naturally enough, I again turned my steps toward the
chestnut grove. The rose-breasts were still there, and one of them
earned my thanks by singing on the wing, flying slowly--half-hovering,
as it were--and singing the ordinary song, but more continuously than
usual. That afternoon one of them was in tune at the same time with a
robin, affording me the desired opportunity for a direct comparison. "It
is really wonderful," my record says, "how nearly alike the two songs
are; but the robin's tone is plainly inferior,--less mellow and full. In
general, too, his strain is pitched higher; and, what perhaps is the
most striking point of difference, it frequently ends with an attempt at
a note which is a little out of reach, so that the voice breaks." (This
last defect, by the bye, the robin shares with his cousin the wood
thrush, as already remarked.) A few days afterwards, to confirm my own
impression about the likeness of the two songs, I called the attention
of a friend with whom I was walking, to a grosbeak's notes, and asked
him what bird's they were. He, having a good ear for matters of this
kind, looked somewhat dazed at such an inquiry, but answered promptly,
"Why, a robin's, of course." As one day after another passed, however,
and I listened to both species in full voice on every hand, I came to
feel that I had overestimated the resemblance. With increasing
familiarity I discerned more and more clearly the respects in which the
songs differed, and each came to have to my ear an individuality
strictly its own. They were alike, doubtless,--as the red-eyed vireo's
and the blue-head's are,--and yet they were not alike. Of one thing I
grew, better and better assured: the grosbeak is out of all comparison
the finer musician of the two. To judge from my last-year's friends,
however, his concert season is very short--the more's the pity.
I begin to perceive (indeed it has been dawning upon me for some time)
that our essay is not to fulfill the promise of its caption. Instead of
the glorious fullness and variety of the month's music (for May, in this
latitude, is the musical month of months) the reader has been put off
with a few of the more exceptional features of the carnival. He will
overlook it, I trust; and as for the great body of the chorus, who have
not been honored with so much as a mention, they, I am assured, are far
too amiable to take offense at any such unintentional slight. Let me
conclude, then, with transcribing from my note-book an evening entry or
two. Music is never so sweet as at the twilight hour; and the extracts
may serve at least as a convenient and quasi-artistic ending for a paper
which, so to speak, has run away with its writer. The first is under
date of the 19th:--
"Walked, after dinner, in the Old Road, as I have done often of
late, and sat for a while at the entrance to Pyrola Grove. A wood
thrush was singing not far off, and in the midst a Swainson thrush
vouchsafed a few measures. I wished the latter would continue, but
was thankful for the little. A tanager called excitedly,
_Chip-cherr_, moving from tree to tree meanwhile, once to a birch in
full sight, and then into the pine over my head. As it grew dark the
crowd of warblers were still to be seen feeding busily, making the
most of the lingering daylight. A small-billed water thrush was
teetering along a willow-branch, while his congeners, the
oven-birds, were practicing their aerial hymn. One of these went
past me as I stood by the roadside, rising very gradually into the
air and repeating all the way, _Chip, chip, chip, chip_, till at
last he broke into the warble, which was a full half longer than
usual. He was evidently doing his prettiest. No vireos sang after
sunset. A Maryland yellow-throat piped once or twice (he is
habitually an evening musician), and the black-throated greens were
in tune, but the rest of the warblers were otherwise engaged.
Finally, just as a distant whippoorwill began to call, a towhee sang
once from the woods; and a moment later the stillness was broken by
the sudden outburst of a thrasher. 'Now then,' he seemed to say, 'if
the rest of you are quite done, I will see what _I_ can do.' He kept
on for two or three minutes in his best manner, and at the same time
a pair of cat-birds were whispering love together in the thicket.
Then an ill-timed carriage came rattling along the road, and when it
had passed, every bird's voice was hushed. The hyla's tremulous cry
was the only musical sound to be heard. As I started away, one of
these tree-frogs hopped out of my path, and I picked him up at the
second or third attempt. What did he think, I wonder, when I turned
him on his back to look at the disks at his finger-tips? Probably he
supposed that his hour was come; but I had no evil designs upon
him,--he was not to be drowned in alcohol at present. Walking
homeward I heard the robin's scream now and again; but the
thrasher's was the last _song_, as it deserved to be."
Two days later I find the following:--
"Into the woods by the Old Road. As I approached them, a little
after sundown, a chipper was trilling, and song sparrows and golden
warblers were singing,--as were the black-throated greens also, and
the Maryland yellow-throats. A wood thrush called brusquely, but
offered no further salute to the god of day at his departure.
Oven-birds were taking to wing on the right and left. Then, as it
grew dark, it grew silent,--except for the hylas,--till suddenly a
field sparrow gave out his sweet strain once. After that all was
quiet for another interval, till a thrasher from the hillside began
to sing. He ceased, and once more there was stillness. All at once
the tanager broke forth in a strangely excited way, blurting out his
phrase two or three times and subsiding as abruptly as he had
commenced. Some crisis in his love-making, I imagined. Now the last
oven-bird launched into the air and let fall a little shower of
melody, and a whippoorwill took up his chant afar off. This should
have been the end; but a robin across the meadow thought otherwise,
and set at work as if determined to make a night of it. Mr.
Early-and-late, the robin's name ought to be. As I left the wood the
whippoorwill followed; coming nearer and nearer, till finally he
overpassed me and sang with all his might (while I tried in vain to
see him) from a tree or the wall, near the big buttonwood. He too is
an early riser, only he rises before nightfall instead of before
daylight."
INDEX
Blackbird, crow, 17;
red-winged, 183;
rusty, 216.
Bluebird, 14, 72, 160, 184, 214, 217.
Blue-gray gnatcatcher, 152.
Bobolink, 16, 78.
Bunting, bay-winged, 27, 174, 234;
snow, 190, 195;
towhee, 25, 39, 62, 178.
Butcher-bird, 5, 11, 66, 208.
Cat-bird, 3, 72, 114.
Cedar-bird, 26, 50, 126, 269.
Chat, yellow-breasted, 69, 152, 153.
Chewink, 25, 39, 62, 178.
Chickadee, 27, 58, 158, 202, 215, 237, 291.
Chimney swift, 23, 96, 272.
Cowbird, 183.
Creeper, brown, 20, 161, 205, 227, 262;
black-and-white, 21, 266, 279.
Crow, common, 26, 78, 209;
fish, 154, 209.
Cuckoo, black-billed, 18.
Finch, grass, 27, 174, 234;
purple, 27, 119, 173, 199, 217, 287;
pine, 206.
Flicker, 25, 121, 232.
Flycatcher, great-crested, 152;
least, 26, 36, 231;
phoebe, 26, 215, 230, 269;
wood pewee, 36, 231, 257;
yellow-bellied, 91.
Goldfinch, 16, 19, 60, 173, 188, 190, 193, 236.
Grosbeak, cardinal, 27, 37, 152, 173;
pine, 197;
rose-breasted, 173, 292.
Humming-bird, ruby-throated, 21.
Indigo-bird, 177.
Jay, blue, 26, 65, 208, 264;
Canada, 257.
Kingbird, 26, 78, 231.
Kingfisher, 26, 154.
Kinglet, golden-crested, 21, 203;
ruby-crowned, 21, 235.
Lark, western meadow, 40, 41;
shore, 206.
Linnet, 27, 119, 173, 199, 217, 287;
red-poll, 27, 190, 192.
Maryland yellow-throat, 9, 21, 85, 166, 266, 296.
Mocking-bird, 27.
Night-hawk, 27, 183.
Nuthatch, red-bellied, 25;
white-bellied, 24.
Oriole, Baltimore, 16, 181;
orchard, 154.
Oven-bird, 21, 42, 86, 124, 136, 256, 283, 296.
Pewee, wood 36, 231, 257.
Phoebe, 26, 215, 230, 269.
Red-poll linnet, 27, 190, 192.
Redstart, 21, 86, 135.
Robin, 15, 16, 35, 38, 111, 131, 160, 202, 229, 294, 298.
Sandpiper, spotted, 123.
Scarlet tanager, 125, 153, 171, 257, 296, 298.
Shrike, 5, 11, 66, 208.
Small-billed water thrush, 21, 86, 266.
Snow-bird, 90, 176, 208, 214, 221, 269.
Snow bunting, 190, 195.
Sparrow, chipping, 10, 16, 126, 173, 233, 289;
field, 27, 40, 173, 233;
fox-colored, 17, 173, 176, 215, 217, 218;
house (or "English"), 14, 17, 20, 22, 45, 110;
savanna, 27, 49, 78;
song, 15, 40, 173, 174, 200, 214, 217, 219;
swamp, 27;
tree, 27, 215;
white-throated, 16, 80, 207, 271.
Swallow, barn, 23;
white-bellied, 23, 228.
Swift, chimney, 23, 96, 272.
Tanager, scarlet, 125, 153, 171, 257, 296, 298.
Thrush, brown, 16, 61, 117, 158, 184, 234, 297;
gray-cheeked (or Alice's), 17, 140, 141, 281;
golden-crowned, 21, 42, 86, 124, 136, 256, 283, 296;
hermit, 20, 71, 86, 140, 234, 258, 279;
olive-backed (or Swainson's), 20, 86, 88, 140, 281;
small-billed water, 21, 86, 266;
Wilson's (or veery), 25, 71, 138;
wood, 38, 112, 140, 258, 279.
Titmouse, black-capped, 27, 58, 158, 202, 215, 237, 291;
tufted, 151.
Towhee bunting, 25, 39, 62, 178.
Veery, 25, 71, 138.
Vireo, (or greenlet), blue-headed, 167, 168;
red-eyed, 16, 167, 268;
solitary, 167, 168;
yellow-throated, 27, 167;
warbling, 16, 167, 168;
white-eyed, 40, 41, 69, 148, 167, 170, 286.
Warbler, bay-breasted, 85, 166;
Blackburnian, 86, 165, 265;
black-and-yellow, 85;
black-poll, 21, 85, 165;
black-throated blue, 21, 41, 86, 164, 267;
black-throated green, 21, 41, 86, 137, 164, 267, 290;
blue golden-winged, 42, 145, 164;
blue yellow-backed, 21, 86, 164, 268;
Canada, 21, 85, 266;
chestnut-sided, 42, 266, 271;
golden, 21, 164;
golden-crowned wagtail, 21, 42, 86, 124, 136;
mourning, 85;
Nashville, 98, 266;
pine-creeping, 166, 228, 237, 289;
prairie, 165;
summer yellow-bird, 21, 164;
worm-eating, 152;
yellow red-poll, 234;
yellow-rumped, 21, 42, 43, 86, 269.
Waxwing, 26, 50, 126, 269.
Whippoorwill, 183, 298.
Woodcock, 27, 222.
Woodpecker, downy, 25;
golden-winged, 25, 121, 232;
red-bellied, 152;
red-headed, 150, 205;
yellow-bellied, 8, 26, 271.
Wren, great Carolina, 152;
winter, 88, 146, 225, 256, 272.
* * * * *
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