My experience with the Least Bittern leaves the eerie little creature a
half-solved mystery, and I think of it less as a bird than as a survivor
of a former geological period, when birds still showed traits of their
not distant reptilian ancestors.
The Bittern’s home is in fresh-water, cat-tail marshes, and he wanders
at will through the thickly set forest of reeds without of necessity
putting foot to the water below or flapping wing in the air above. His
peculiar mode of progression constitutes one of his chief
characteristics. The reeds in which he lives generally grow in several
feet of water, far too deep, therefore, to permit of his wading; while
his secretive disposition makes him averse to appearing in the open,
except after nightfall. It is impossible to fly through the cat-tails,
and so the bird walks and even runs through them, stepping from stem to
stem with surprising agility. I had heard of this habit, but the
description conveyed as little idea of the bird’s appearance as it is
feared this one will, and when for the first time a Least Bittern was
seen striding off through the reeds about three feet above the water,
the performance was so entirely unlike anything I had ever seen a bird
do before, I marveled that his acrobatic powers had not made him famous.
The feathered gymnast’s slender body—or perhaps one should say neck, for
the bird is chiefly neck and head—seemed to be mounted on long stilts,
with the aid of which he waded rapidly through the water, his head
shooting in and out at each stride.
The Least Bittern’s notes appear to be less known than his habits.
Nuttall, that exceptionally keen-eared bird student, was familiar with
them, but most writers have restricted themselves to the statement that,
when flushed, the bird utters a low _qua_, while some have even said he
was voiceless.
I should not be in the least surprised to learn that this uncanny
inhabitant of the reeds had a call fully as remarkable as the vocal
performance of his large relative, the American Bittern, but thus far in
my slight acquaintance with him he has been heard to utter only four
notes: A soft, low _coo_, slowly repeated five or six times, and which
is probably the love song of the male; an explosive alarm note, _quoh_;
a hissing _hah_, with which the bird threatens a disturber of its nest;
and a low _tut-tut-tut_, apparently a protest against the same kind of
intrusion.
[Illustration: 31. Least Bittern’s nesting site, showing reeds bent over
nest. One of four eggs can be seen.]
It was the markedly dovelike _coo_ which first introduced me to this
species. With William Brewster I was at the Fresh Pond marshes,
listening for the repetition of some strange calls which had excited the
curiosity of Cambridge ornithologists, and which proved to belong to a
Florida Gallinule,[B] when we heard the soft notes of a Least Bittern,
who soon rose from the marsh near by. A few days later the Bittern was
found in full song—if the _coo_ be its song—in the marshes of Presque
Isle in Erie Bay; but it must be confessed that a desire to secure
specimens of this, to me, strange bird left no opportunity to study its
habits, and the species was not again observed until June, 1898, in the
northern part of Cayuga County, New York. Here, under the guidance of an
observing local ornithologist, Mr. E. G. Tabor, an encounter was had
with a Least Bittern which made a unique page in my experience as a bird
student.
Footnote B:
See Brewster, Auk, vol. viii, 1891, p. 1.
It was on the border of Otter Lake, where the Least Bitterns nest in
small numbers in low bushes, or a mass of drift, or more often in the
fringe of cat-tails. The trail of a boat through the reeds and empty
nests, which before had held from three to five eggs, marked the
ill-directed work of the boy oölogists whose misspent zeal has resulted
in such a vast accumulation of eggshells and such an absence of
information about the birds that laid them. A visit to a more distant
part of the lake, where even thus early in the year the cat-tails were
five feet above water of over half that depth, saved the day, as far as
Least Bitterns were concerned. Paddling close to the reeds, a practiced
eye could distinguish the site of a Bittern’s nest, when the nest itself
was invisible, by the bowed tips of the reeds which the bird invariably
bends over it.^{31} The object of this habit is perhaps to aid in
concealing the eggs from an enemy passing overhead—a Crow, for
example—an attack by boat evidently not being taken into consideration.
Certainly our appearance was in the nature of a surprise to a pair of
birds who had just completed their platformlike nest and were apparently
discussing future steps in their domestic affairs.
[Illustration: 32. Least Bittern’s nest; reeds parted to show eggs.]
As we approached, the female, who even before the eggs are laid seems to
have the home love more strongly developed than the male, bravely stuck
to her post, while the male marched off through the reeds in the manner
which has been described as so remarkable. When he paused, with either
foot grasping reeds several inches apart or clung to a single stalk with
both feet, he resembled a gigantic, tailless Marsh Wren.
[Illustration: 33. Least Bittern on nest mimicking its surroundings.]
The actions of the female were interesting in the extreme. Her first
move was an attempt at concealment through protective mimicry—a rare
device among birds. Stretching her neck to the utmost, she pointed her
bill to the zenith, the brownish marks on the feathers of the throat
became lines which, separated by the white spaces between them, might
easily have passed for dried reeds, and the bird’s statuelike pose, when
almost within reach, evinced her belief in her own invisibility.^{33,
34}
The pose recalled Hudson’s experience with a wounded Least Bittern
(_Ardetta involucris_, a near relative of our bird) in the marshes of La
Plata, where a bird at his feet, in the same position as the one before
me, was discovered only after careful search, and which, to the
naturalist’s amazement, slowly revolved as he walked around it, with the
presumable object of keeping its protectively colored breast turned
toward him.
[Illustration: 34. Least Bittern on nest mimicking its surroundings.]
My bird, however, was among fresh reeds, and while one can not doubt the
effectiveness of its attitude and color, when seen among dead reeds or
grasses, neither were of value among its green surroundings.
With the light on the wrong side and the reeds swaying violently in the
wind, we essayed to picture the bird, and the best of several attempts
made under these adverse conditions are here given.
Covering my hand with my cap I held it toward her, when, convinced that
her little trick had failed, she adopted new tactics, and struck at me
with force and rapidity, which made me thankful that my hand was
protected. Her bright yellow eyes glared with the intensity of a
snake’s, and her reptilelike appearance was increased by the length and
slenderness of her head and neck. Her courage was admirable; she not
only displayed no fear, but was actually aggressive, and with a hissing
_hah_ struck viciously at my hand each time it was placed near the nest.
As I quickly retreated on each occasion, and at length made no further
move toward her, she decided to withdraw, perhaps to join her cautious
mate, who from the reeds had been uttering a warning _tut-tut-tut_ at
intervals. Very slowly and watchfully she left the nest, and when she
had advanced a few feet through the reeds I again ventured to touch her
platform home, putting my hand, however, under it; but the motion
instantly attracted her attention, and, darting back to her post, she
was on guard in a moment. Then I left her, retiring from the field
fairly vanquished in my first hand-to-bill encounter with a wild bird. I
hope she laid a full complement of five eggs and from them reared five
birds worthy representatives of their mother.
A desire to renew my acquaintance with—or perhaps I should say advances
toward—this unbirdlike feathered biped, and to meet it under conditions
more favorable for the camera hunter, brought me the following year
(June 17, 1899), to the Montezuma marshes at the head of Cayuga Lake.
Here are endless forests of cat-tails in which dwell not only Bitterns,
Long-billed Marsh Wrens, and Red-winged Blackbirds, but also numbers of
Pied-billed Grebes and Florida Gallinules.
There is a mystery about a marsh akin to that which impresses one in a
primeval forest. The possibilities of both seem limitless. One hears so
much and sees so little. Birds calling from a distance of only a few
yards may remain long unidentified. A rustling in the reeds arouses
vague expectations.
The notes of marsh-inhabiting birds are in keeping with the character of
their haunts. They are distinctly wild and strange, and often thrilling.
The Rails, for example, all have singular, loud, startling calls. The
American Bittern is a famous marsh songster, but although several of his
common names are based on his calls, it is only recently that he has
actually been seen uttering them. The Gallinule resembles the hen in the
character, volume, and variety of its notes, and to it and not the
Clapper Rail should be given the name “Marsh Hen.” Indeed, its European
relative, from which it can scarcely be distinguished, is known as the
Moor Hen or Water Hen.
But of all this marsh music none to my ear is more singular than the
call of the Pied-billed Grebe. It is mentioned in few books, and has won
the bird no such fame as the Loon’s maniacal laughter has brought him,
though as a vocalist the Grebe fairly rivals his large cousin. Like most
bird calls it is indescribable, but perhaps sufficient idea of its
character may be given to lead to its identification when heard. It is
very loud and sonorous, with a cuckoolike quality, and may be written
_cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-cow-uh, cow-uh, cow-uh, cow-uh_. These
notes vary in number, and are sometimes followed by prolonged wailing
_cows_ or _ohs_ almost human in their expressiveness of pain, fear, and
anguish.
This is the love song of the male, and when he has won a mate she joins
him in singing, uttering, as he calls, a rapid _cuk-cuk-cuk_, followed
by a slower _ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh_.
The Gallinules were cackling in the reeds, where a nest with three
hatching eggs was found, but not a bird was seen. Red-winged Blackbirds
were chattering with excitement as they guided the first wing strokes of
their young, who perched on the reeds begged eloquently for food rather
than for lessons in flying.^{35}
[Illustration: 35. Young Red-winged Blackbirds.]
In a small island of cat-tails a pair of Grebes was calling, and after
the most careful stalking my companion saw the female respond to the
voice of her mate.
It was in this island—if a patch of cat-tails growing in three feet of
water can be called an island—that we found the first two of numerous
Least Bitterns’ nests, and here our camera studies were made. These
nests were typical in form and site; one contained five and the other
four^{32} eggs, from which the birds had apparently departed as we
pushed our boat toward them.
Less than twenty minutes later we again passed these nests and found, to
our surprise, that in one all four, and in the other two eggs had been
punctured, as if by an awl. Here was a mystery which my companion, who
was examining the second nest while I was studying the first, quickly
solved by seeing a Long-billed Marsh Wren actually make an attack on the
remaining three eggs, and a little later a bird of the same
species—perhaps the same individual, since the Bitterns’ nests were not
more than twenty yards apart—visited the first nest to complete its work
on the five already ruined eggs.
Our attempt to photograph the energetic little marauder failed, nor did
we succeed in learning the real cause of its remarkable destructiveness.
However, the fact that in one nest alone it drove its needlelike bill
into all five eggs without pausing to feast on their contents, would
imply that it was not prompted by hunger, and, much against our will, we
were forced to attribute the bird’s actions to pure viciousness; though,
it is true, there may have been another side to the story, in which the
Bittern was the culprit.
The owners of the four eggs did not return while we were present, and
the following day we found their nest empty—a mute protest against fate.
[Illustration: 36. Least Bittern eating her eggs.]
The female of the second nest discovered, in which only two of the five
eggs had been injured, proved to be a bird of character.
[Illustration: 37. Least Bittern on nest.]
While we waited in our boats at a distance of fifteen feet, and with
cameras erected on tripods at a third of the distance, she came walking
through the reeds uttering occasionally an explosive _quoh!_ After
circling about us several times she climbed to her nest, and at once
proceeded to investigate the condition of its contents. Soon she gave
evidence of the possession of both a philosophic and economic
disposition, not to mention other housewifely qualities, notably
cleanliness. Philosophy she exhibited by making the best of things as
she found them; economy by carefully eating^{36} the two broken eggs,
which a more thoughtless bird would have deserted or quickly discarded;
and cleanliness by carefully dropping over the edge of the nest the
shells remaining from her peculiar feast, and following them by bits of
nest lining which had been soiled by portions of the egg. This task
accomplished to her satisfaction, she gave further evidence of the
possession of a well-ordered mind by descending to the water, washing
her bill, drinking, and then returning to her remaining three eggs, on
which she settled herself^{37} as complacently as though she had met
with no loss, and there we left her in well-deserved privacy.