The influence exerted by the camera in creating new values for the bird
student is perhaps nowhere more evident than in the immediate vicinity
of one’s home. Even the view from our windows possesses fresh
significance as we speculate on the probability of securing a desirable
picture from this or that point of vantage, while birds to which long
familiarity has partially dimmed our vision now become possible subjects
for our camera, and we find ourselves observing their movements with an
alertness before unknown.
In my own case, I have learned almost to tolerate the House Sparrows,
with which I have been at war as long as memory serves me, for the
pleasure found in attempting to outwit these shrewd, independent,
impudent rats among birds; and, on closer acquaintance, they prove such
interesting subjects for study that, if their vocal ability equaled
their intelligence, they might be as generally liked as they are hated.
So much for the magic of a sweet voice. As it is, they possess a greater
variety of notes than they are generally credited with, and their
conversational powers undoubtedly exceed those of many accomplished
singers. In addition to the insistent, reiterated _chissick, chissick_,
which constitutes the song of the male, one soon learns to recognize
calls of warning, alarm, flight, battle, and the soft whistle which the
bird utters when it approaches its nest—the only musical note in its
vocabulary.
[Illustration: 20. House Sparrows and Junco.]
Quick to notice the slightest deviation from normal conditions, House
Sparrows are difficult birds to photograph. They seem to be constantly
on the watch for some sign of danger, and an unusual arrangement of
blind or shade at once arouses their suspicions. After a heavy fall of
snow, however, hunger dulls the edge of their fears, and by scattering
food near a suitable window the birds may be decoyed within
photographing distance.^{20} It will be found necessary, even then, to
conceal the camera, which they evidently distinguish from familiar
pieces of furniture and regard with alarm.
This, too, is the best time to secure pictures of Juncos,^{21}
Chickadees, Nuthatches, Downy Woodpeckers, Blue Jays, and less common
winter birds. The four last named are rarely or never seen about my home
in winter. Doubtless the abundant and surrounding woodlands afford them
a more congenial haunt, from which they are not to be enticed by suet,
bones, or grain; or, more likely still, the custom of putting out food
for birds is so unusual in the region about New York city that they have
not yet learned to expect it. It is a most pleasing surprise to the
resident of this section to observe the numbers and familiarity of
winter birds in the environs of Boston, where a feast seems spread for
them in nearly every dooryard.
[Illustration: 21. Junco. × 3.]
[Illustration: 22. Female House Sparrow and nest. × 3.]
To return to the Sparrow. The bird’s nest also provides a focal point
for the camera, but, as elsewhere, the greatest precautions must be
taken, and I have succeeded in securing a picture only when some
advantageously situated window afforded a natural blind. One of the
pictures thus obtained shows a nest in the ornamental part of a gutter,
with the female looking from an adjoining opening.^{22} This gutter
seems especially designed to furnish lodgings for Sparrows, and no
argument that I have thus far advanced has convinced them that it was
not erected for their use. During the early part of their occupancy, a
rap on their roof promptly brought them out to perch in the branches of
the neighboring trees, where their chattering protest was soon
interrupted by a gunshot; but the survivors quickly learned the meaning
of the roof tap, and now, without a moment’s pause, they dive downward
from their doorway and fly out of range at topmost speed.
[Illustration: 23. Screech Owl. × 3.]
More welcome tenants than the House Sparrows are a pair of Screech Owls,
who for years have reared their broods in a dovecotelike gable, where
they are beyond the reach of nest robbers of all kinds. During the
winter they apparently are absent, nor indeed are they seen until June,
when, each evening at sundown, one of the pair, probably the male, takes
his post at the entrance to its home and gives utterance to the crooning
refrain which sometimes follows the so-called tremulous “screech.” But
the latter I never hear at this season. In spite of the poor light
prevailing at this hour, the bird’s stillness has tempted repeated
trials to secure its picture, and the most successful, made with a
fourteen-inch lens and an exposure of fifteen seconds, is here
shown.^{23} Telephotos have thus far been underexposed.
As a means of making the exposure as soon as possible after the Owl
appeared, I have on a number of occasions placed my camera in position,
focused and otherwise made ready some minutes before he was expected,
and I recall with amusement the incredulity of a friend whose surprise
at seeing me point my camera skyward without ostensible purpose was in
no way lessened when I told him that I had an appointment with an Owl,
who was to take his stand shortly in the hole toward which the camera
was directed; and fortunately the bird was on time!
From the perch, some forty feet aloft, the grave little creature surveys
the scene below with an expression of combined wisdom and thoughtfulness
which makes a laugh seem wanton foolishness. At the border of dusk and
dark he flies out to feed, often descending to the ground and remaining
there for some moments while catching insects. Occasionally he takes his
prey from the tree trunks, perhaps a cicada struggling from its shell,
and on several occasions I have thought he captured food on the wing.
Sometimes the supper hunt leads him to the edge of the croquet lawn,
where from the earth or the back of a garden bench he becomes an
interested spectator of the last game. When the young appear, later in
the month, the evergreens seem alive with Owls, who flit about and utter
querulous little calls difficult of description. Toward the end of July,
doubtless after the molt is completed, presumably the adults—for never
more than two are heard—begin to sing; and this habit of post-nuptial
singing seems not to be confined to the Screech Owl, for about this time
the deep-toned, resounding notes of the Barred Owl come up from the
woods. Throughout August and September the wailing whistle, which is
ever welcome for its spirit of wildness, is heard nightly, and as the
plaintive notes tremble on the hushed air we invariably say, “Hark,
there’s the Owl!”
My experience as bird photographer about home, I must admit, has
consisted chiefly in a series of encouraging failures which have borne
no tangible results. Let us hope, however, that the few pictures here
presented will prove as suggestive to the reader as they are to their
maker, who, although he offers such inadequate proof in support of his
belief, is far too well convinced of the possibilities of home
photography to go afield without saying at least a word in its behalf.
THE CHICKADEE
_A Study in Black and White_
Very early in my experience as a hunter I became acquainted with a small
black-and-white bird, who not only announced himself with unmistakable
distinctness, but did so at such close range that one could form a very
clear idea of his appearance; and thus because of his notes and
trustfulness I learned to know the Chickadee by name years before I was
aware that the woods were tenanted by dozens of other more common but
less fearless birds.
With regret for the universality of the instinct, I found that to see
was to desire. I had felt exactly the same longing in regard to other
birds, and had thrown many a stone in a fruitless effort to get
possession of the half-mysterious wild creatures which always eluded me;
but the Chickadee came within range of my bean-shooter and soon paid the
penalty of misplaced confidence. The little ball of flesh and fluffy
feathers was perfectly useless, so after a day or two, the length of
time depending on the temperature, it was thrown away.
My curiosity concerning the Chickadee being satisfied, and the bird’s
tameness making it too easy a mark even for a bean-shooter, I entered on
a new phase of Chickadee relations. Strangely enough, the killing of the
bird seemed, from my point of view, to constitute an introduction to a
creature which before I had known only imperfectly, and my acquaintance
with the Chickadee may be said to have begun when I picked up the first
bird that fell before my aim. However the Chickadee may have regarded my
somewhat questionable manner of gaining his friendship, he has since
given unmistakable evidences of his approval of my treatment of his
kind. He always replies to my greeting, often coming many yards in
answer to my call, and on a number of occasions he has honored me above
most men by alighting on my hand.
When, in more recent years, the gun which succeeded the bean-shooter was
in turn replaced by a camera, I found that the Chickadee’s tameness made
him a mark for my later as he had been for my earlier efforts in bird
hunting. Now, however, I believe I may speak for him as well as for
myself, and say that the results obtained are more satisfactory to us
both. It was in Central Park, New York city, in February, 1899, that I
went on one of my first Chickadee hunts with a camera. Incidentally the
locality gave emphasis to the advantages of the camera over any other
weapon. Imagine the surprise of the park police had I ventured on their
precincts with a gun on my shoulder! But with a camera I could snap away
at pleasure without any one’s being the wiser—many of my “snaps,” I
confess being attended by exactly this result. At this time, through the
efforts of an enthusiastic and patient bird lover, who had improved on
the bird-catching legend by using nuts instead of “salt” and by
substituting bill for “tail,” three Chickadees in the Ramble had become
so remarkably tame that they would often flutter before one’s face and
plainly give expression to their desire for food, which they took from
one’s hand without the slightest evidence of fear. Sometimes they even
remained to pick the nut from a shell while perched on one’s finger,
anon casting questioning glances at their host; but more often they
preferred a perch where they could give their entire attention to the
nut which was held between their feet, and pecked at after the manner of
Blue Jays.
[Illustration: 24. Chickadee on ground.]
In spite of the ease with which one could approach these Chickadees,
they made difficult marks for the camera. I was armed with a “Henry
Clay” 5 × 7 and a twin-lens camera of the same size, but so active were
the little creatures that not one of many exposures proved to be
perfectly focused. Finally I tried decoying the birds to a bone or bit
of bread in the bushes, but somehow they did not succeed in discovering
these baits until they were placed on the ground.^{24, 25} Then they
responded so quickly that often the bread had disappeared while my head
was concealed by the dark-cloth, and frequently, while focusing, the
birds would alight on the tripod of the camera. I was forced, therefore,
to focus on a stone, and, when ready to make the exposure, lay a bit of
bread on or near the focal point, the two pictures given being thus
obtained.
[Illustration: 25. Chickadee taking piece of bread.]
Various experiences with these unusually tame birds finally led to what
at first thought would have been considered the wholly unreasonable
ambition of photographing one of them in my hand. The camera was
therefore erected at a suitable point and focused on the trunk of a
tree, the shutter set, and slide drawn.
[Illustration: 26. A bird in the hand.]
Now to get the bird. None was in the immediate vicinity, but a whistle
soon brought a response from some neighboring tree tops, and going
beneath them I shortly had called the bird down to a nut in my palm, and
with him on my finger started to walk the eighty or more feet to the
camera. This, however, was asking too much, and the bird abandoned his
moving perch for a bordering row of evergreens, from which one or two
more trials brought him within a short distance of the desired spot, and
resting my arm against the tree trunk and with the other hand on the
trigger of the shutter I called again the two plaintive notes. The
bird’s faith was still strong. Almost immediately he took the desired
position, when a _click_ announced the realization of a bird
photographer’s wildest dream.
Fortunate is the bird photographer who discovers an advantageously
situated Chickadee’s nest. Dr. Robert’s charming description in
Bird-Lore of his experience with a family of Chickadees stimulated my
desire to make a camera study of this species. The first nest found,
however, was claimed by a band of roving boys, who in pure wantonness
pushed down the stub from which a few days later the young would have
issued.
A second time I was more fortunate. It was on the morning of May 29,
1899, at Englewood, N. J., that in going through a young second growth I
chanced to see a Chickadee, who in arranging her much-worn plumage gave
unmistakable evidence of having recently left her nest. At once I looked
about for a partly decayed white birch, a tree especially suited to the
Chickadee’s powers and needs. The bark remains tough and leathery long
after the interior is crumbling, and having penetrated the outer shell
the Chickadee finds no difficulty in excavating a chamber within.
A few moments’ search revealed a stub so typical as to match exactly the
image I held in my mind’s eye, with an opening about four feet from the
ground. The interior was too gloomy to enable one to determine its
contents, but, returning in half an hour, I tapped the stub lightly,
when, as though I had released the spring of a Jack-in-a-box, a
Chickadee popped out of the opening and into a neighboring tree. I
wished her good morning, assured her that my intentions were of the
best, and promised to return and secure her portrait at the first
opportunity.
Four days later I set up my camera before the door to the Chickadee’s
dwelling, and, without attempting to conceal it, attached thread to the
shutter and retreated in the undergrowth to a distance of about
twenty-five feet.
After having had most discouraging experiences with several birds, who
had evidently regarded the camera as a monster of destruction, and had
refused to return to their nests as long as the evil eye of the lens was
on them, it was consoling to find a bird who had some degree of
confidence in human nature as represented by photographic apparatus.
It is true that the female—and throughout this description I assume that
the bird with much-worn plumage was of this sex—promptly left the stub
at my approach; but when I retired to the undergrowth there was no
tiresome wait of hours while the bird, flitting from bush to bush,
chirped suspiciously, but almost immediately she returned to her
home.^{27} The camera was examined, but clearly not considered
dangerous, its tripod sometimes serving as a step to the nest entrance.
The click of the shutter, however, when an exposure was made as the bird
was about to enter its dwelling, caused some alarm, and she flew back to
a neighboring tree, and for some time hopped restlessly from limb to
limb.
The male, who had previously kept in the background, now approached,
and, as if to soothe his troubled mate, thoughtfully gave her a
caterpillar. She welcomed him with a gentle, tremulous fluttering of the
wings—a motion similar to that made by young birds when begging for
food. He, however, made what appeared to be precisely the same movements
when she perched beside him.
[Illustration: 27. Chickadee at nest hole.]
It was not long before the female became so accustomed to the snap of
the shutter that in order to prevent her from entering the nest I was
forced to rush out from my hiding place; but at last, apparently
becoming desperate, she succeeded in returning to her eggs in spite of
my best efforts to prevent her.
There now ensued a very interesting change in the bird’s action. It will
be remembered that at first she had left the nest on hearing me
approach, while a light tap brought her through the opening with
startling promptness. But now, evidently realizing that a return to her
duties of incubation could be made only at great risk, she determined
under no conditions to leave her eggs. In vain I rapped at her door and
shook her dwelling to its foundations; no bird appeared, and not
believing it possible that under the circumstances she would remain
within the stub, I felt that she must have left without my knowledge,
and therefore retired to await her reappearance.
[Illustration: 28. Chickadee at nest hole.]
At the end of several minutes the male, with food in his bill, advanced
cautiously, and clinging to the rim of the nest opening, hung there a
moment and departed minus the food. This was surprising. Could there be
young in the nest? or was the bird, in imitation of the Hornbill,
feeding his imprisoned mate? I rapped again, and this time, perhaps
taken unawares, the female answered my question by appearing.
On June 3d a family arrived in the Chickadee villa, and both birds were
found actively engaged in administering to its wants.
As a return for the inconvenience to which they had been subjected, a
perch was erected by way of a step at their door. The female was
appreciative and at once availed herself of this means of entering her
home.^{28} The male, however, as before, was more wary. He had braved
the camera to bring food to his mate, but his offspring had apparently
not so strong a claim upon him. He would fly off in search of food and
shortly return with a caterpillar, then perch quietly for several
minutes a few yards from the nest, when, repelled by the camera and
attracted by the food in his bill, he yielded to temptation, devoured
the caterpillar, vigorously wiped his bill, at once started to forage
for more food, and returned with it only to repeat his previous
performance.
Occasionally he uttered a low whistle, addressed presumably to the
female, and at times a _chickadee-dee-dee_, which I interpreted as a
protest to me, and both notes were also uttered by the female.
The latter took so kindly to the doorstep that it was determined to give
her a door, and to this end a leaf was pinned over the entrance to her
home in such a manner that it swung to and fro, like the latch to a
keyhole. This clearly did not meet with her approval, and at first she
seemed puzzled to account for the apparent disappearance of the nest
opening. But in less than a minute she solved the mystery, pushed the
leaf to one side, and disappeared within.
Returning to the nest on June 12th, nothing was to be seen of either
parent, and I feared that they or their offspring had fallen victims to
the countless dangers which beset nesting birds and their young. Looking
about for some clew to their fate, I found on the ground, near the nest
stub, the worn tail-feathers of the female bird. The molting season had
not yet arrived, nor would she have shed all these feathers at the same
moment. There could therefore be only one interpretation of their
presence. Some foe—probably a Sharp-shinned or Cooper’s Hawk, since the
predaceous mammals for the most part hunt at night, when the Chickadee
would be snugly sleeping in her nest—had made a dash and grasped her by
the tail, which she had sacrificed in escaping. A moment later the
theory was supported by the appearance of a subdued-looking Chickadee,
_sans_ tail, and I congratulated her on her fortunate exchange of life
for a member which of late had not been very decorative, and of which,
in any event, Nature would have soon deprived her.
The young proved to be nearly ready to fly, and, carefully removing the
front of their log cabin, a sight was disclosed such as mortal probably
never beheld before and Chickadee but rarely.
Six black-and-white heads were raised and six yellow-lined mouths opened
in expressive appeal for food. But this was not all; there was another
layer of Chickadees below—how many it was impossible to say without
disentangling a wad of birds so compact that the outlines of no one bird
could be distinguished. A piazza, as it were, was built at the
Chickadees’ threshold in the shape of a perch of proper size, and
beneath, as a life net, was spread a piece of mosquito bar. Then I
proceeded to individualize the ball of feathers; one, two, three, to
seven were counted without undue surprise, but when an eighth and ninth
were added, I marveled at the energy which had supplied so many mouths
with food, and at the same time wondered how many caterpillars had been
devoured by this one family of birds.
Not less remarkable than the number of young—and no book that I have
consulted records so large a brood—was their condition. Not only did
they all appear lusty, but they seemed to be about equally developed,
the slight difference in strength and size which existed being easily
attributable to a difference in age, some interval doubtless having
elapsed between the hatching of the first and last egg.
[Illustration: 29. A Chickadee family.]
This fact would have been of interest had the birds inhabited an open
nest, or a nest large enough for them all to have had an equal
opportunity to receive food; but where only two thirds of their number
could be seen from above at once, and where a very little neglect would
have resulted fatally, it seems remarkable that one or more, failing to
receive his share of food, had not been weakened in consequence and
crushed to death by more fortunate members of the brood. Nor was their
physical condition the only surprising thing about the members of this
Chickadee family: each individual was as clean as though he had been
reared in a nest alone, and an examination of the nest showed that it
would have been passed as perfect by the most scrupulous sanitary
inspector. It was composed of firmly padded rabbit’s fur, and, except
for the sheaths worn off the growing feathers of the young birds, was
absolutely clean. Later, I observed that the excreta of the young were
inclosed in membranous sacs, which enabled the parents to readily remove
them from the nest.
[Illustration: 30. A Chickadee family.]
The last bird having been placed in the net, I attempted to pose them in
a row on the perch before their door. The task reminded me of almost
forgotten efforts at building card houses, which, when nearly completed,
would be brought to ruin by an ill-placed card. How many times each
Chickadee tumbled or fluttered from his perch I can not say. The soft,
elastic net, spread beneath them, preserved them from injury, and bird
after bird was returned to his place so little worse for his fall that
he was quite ready to try it again. Finally, eight birds were induced to
take the positions assigned them; then, in assisting the ninth to his
allotted place, the balance of a bird on either side would be disturbed,
and down into the net they would go.
These difficulties, however, could be overcome, but not so the failure
of the light at the critical time, making it necessary to expose with a
wide open lens at the loss of a depth of focus.
The picture presented, therefore, does not do the subject justice. Nor
can it tell of the pleasure with which each fledgeling for the first
time stretched its wings and legs to their full extent, and preened its
plumage with before unknown freedom.
At the same time they uttered a satisfied little _dee-dee-dee_, in
quaint imitation of their elders. When I whistled their well-known
_phe-be_ note, they were at once on the alert, and evidently expected to
be fed.
The birds were within two or three days of leaving the nest, and, the
sitting over, the problem came of returning the flock to a cavity barely
two inches in diameter, the bottom of which was almost filled by one
bird.
I at once confess a failure to restore anything like the condition in
which they were found, and when the front of their dwelling was
replaced, Chickadees were overflowing at the door. If their
healthfulness had not belied the thought, I should have supposed it
impossible for them to exist in such close quarters.
A few days later their home was deserted, and, as no other Chickadees
were known to nest in the vicinity, I imagine them to compose a troop of
birds which is sometimes found in the neighborhood.