Contributing little to the material wealth of the nation, the Hackensack
marshes of northern New Jersey are usually regarded as “waste land.” By
the farmer they are termed “salt medders,” and their waving grasses are
of value to him only as “bedding” for cattle. In winter the muskrat
hunter reaps a harvest of pelts there. The down of the “cat-tails” is
gathered for cushion stuffing, and the bladed leaves for chair bottoms.
To the gunner they are the resort of Ducks, Snipe, Rail, and Reedbirds,
which each year visit them in decreasing numbers; while to the thousands
who daily pass them on the encircling railroads they are barren and
uninteresting. But if beauty is a sufficient cause for being, then these
marshes may claim a right to existence.
In preglacial times this region was probably forested, but now the
forest is buried beneath the drift of the glacier which deposited
fragments of Palisade and Orange Mountain trap rock on Staten Island.
During the depression of the land which occurred as the ice gradually
receded, the waters of the sea doubtless passed up here and the meadow
was a larger “Newark Bay.” Then commenced their slow filling up by the
silt brought down by the Hackensack River. The river has preserved a
right of way, but the bay has given place to a sea of reeds and grasses.
[Illustration: 45. Hackensack marshes in August.]
On a bright August morning I mount a spur of trap rock which reaches out
from the western base of the Palisades, and from this elevation have an
uninterrupted view over the meadows. The cool, invigorating air
foretells the approach of autumn; it is brilliantly clear. The Orange
hills stand out with the distinctness of Western mountains. The sun is
at my back, and the light shows the meadows to the best advantage. At
this distance I get the effect of only the masses of color; tracts of
yellowish green meadow grass tinged with copper, and in places thickly
sprinkled with the white flowers of the water hemlock and water parsnip;
streaks of light green wild rice, and sharply defined areas of dark
green cat-tail flags. The grass grows on the drier land, the wild rice
in the small sloughs and creeks which are bordered by the flags. In the
spring the wind blows the pollen from the cat-tail blossoms, and a
shifting greenish vapor floats over the marsh; in the autumn a heavy
westerly wind raises the seed-bearing down high in the air, carries it
over the Palisades, across the Hudson, and it descends like a fall of
fleecy snow on wondering New York.
The marsh is a vast arena inclosed by the Palisades and Passaic hills;
it is a great plain, with blue stretches of the winding river appearing
here and there, and the haystacks are the huts of aborigines. I half
close my eyes, and it is a copper-yellow sea. The grasses roll in
undulating waves, capped by a white crest of parsnip and hemlock
blossoms; the dark irregular patches of flags are the shadows of clouds,
the light streaks of wild rice are shoals, a hovering Marsh Hawk is a
Gull. A stately white-winged schooner^{45} comes up the river; her hull
is hidden by the meadow grasses; she is sailing through the sea of my
fancy.
This is an impressionist’s view of the meadows. Now let us leave our
rocky lookout and examine them more in detail. The meadow we are leaving
is a meadow of all summer; the one we are approaching is a meadow clad
in all the glory of its August flowers. One might think Nature was
holding a flower show here, so gorgeous is the display. The railway
track at the edge of the marsh is apparently an endless aisle bordered
by a rich exhibit of flowers. Clusters of thoroughwort and purple
loose-strife grow so abundantly they give color to the foreground,
through which wild sunflowers make streaks of gold. There are solid beds
of purple asters on the drier land, and delicate snow-white saggitarias
in the sloughs. Jewel flowers sparkle through the flags, and convolvulus
hangs from the reeds, its own foliage scarce showing, or, growing with
the fragrant climbing hempweed, it forms banks of dense vegetation. The
scarlet lobelia darts upward like a tongue of flame, startling in its
intense brilliancy. There are burnet, vervain, gerardia, and running
groundnut. But it is the marsh^{46} mallow which, more than any other
flower, gives beauty to the meadow. It grows here with wasteful
luxuriance, and the dark masses of flags serve as a frame for this
floral picture. Out in the marsh it grows in equal profusion; the meadow
is hung with small pink lanterns, as if for a _fête_. A single flower of
the marsh mallow commands the attention of the most unobservant, and
when growing in abundance it excites enthusiastic admiration.
[Illustration: 46. Marsh mallows.]
Nor is the animal life of the marsh less interesting than its flora.
Meadow mice nest beneath the haycocks. Were it not for the minks and
Hawks which prey on them, they might become a scourge throughout the
surrounding country. Muskrats are living in peaceful security in their
snug summer homes, hollowed from the banks of the streams. They are the
true villagers here, and pass the winter in icy huts, like Eskimos. Out
in the grasses Short-eared Owls are hiding. Their day begins when the
sun disappears behind the Orange hills; then one may hear the “quawk” of
the Night Heron. Red-winged Blackbirds nest here, and in the autumn they
gather in great flocks and feed on the wild rice.
[Illustration: 47. Wild rice.]
Long-billed Marsh Wrens—small, nervous, excitable bits of feathered
life—are abundant in the flags, and to them they attach their large
woven nests. Except for a harsh, scolding note they are silent now, but
earlier in the year the marsh is musical with their rippling songs. The
fervor of the love season overcomes their fondness for the dark recesses
of the flags, and, singing, they rise into the air as if driven upward
by the mine of melody which explodes within them.
Swamp Sparrows are common, and their clear trill is one of the few
August songs. Bobolinks, traveling in disguise and under the assumed
name of “Reedbird,” pause here to feed on the ripening wild rice.^{47}
Some of them have not yet completed their change of costume and appear
in a spotted suit of black and yellow. Occasionally one hears a
suppressed burst of the “mad music” of June, but their common note is a
metallic _chink_. At night this note is heard from high in the air, as
the birds continue their journey to the cultivated rice fields of South
Carolina and Georgia, there to remain until September or October, when
they leave for their winter home south of the Amazon.
The Sora Rails, beloved of sportsmen and epicures, are also attracted to
the marshes by the wild rice. On their arrival in early August they are
indeed “as thin as a rail,” but an abundance of food soon rounds their
bodies into comparative plumpness. The 1st of September is a black day
in their calendar. Then they are outlawed, a price is set on their
bodies, and at high tide each day during this sad month one sees
numerous puffs of smoke arise from the tall grasses and dull reports
come booming over the marsh with fateful frequency.
But the characteristic birds of the marshes at this season are Swallows.
They outnumber many times all the rest of the marsh birds together—in
fact, are present in such myriads that their gatherings are one of the
most interesting and impressive phenomena of the bird life of this
region.
Five species are represented. Named in the order of their abundance they
are the Tree, Bank, Barn, Eave, and Rough-winged Swallows. The last are
comparatively rare, while the Tree Swallows are so in excess of all the
species named that the following remarks relate largely to them alone.
Although Tree or White-breasted Swallows nest locally throughout North
America, from the tableland of Mexico to Labrador and Alaska, there are
but few instances of their breeding in the lower Hudson River valley,
where they appear only as migrants or transient visitants. They arrive
from the south early in April, and their northward migration is not
concluded until about June 1st. During June they are rarely seen, but
between the 1st and the 5th of July they begin their journey to their
winter homes—a movement which inaugurates the fall migration.
This stage of their journey takes them only to certain marshes, which
become stations on their line of travel where countless numbers of their
kind, impelled by the flocking impulse, gather to roost in the reeds.
Their numbers increase steadily through July and August, the maximum of
abundance being reached about September 1st; then they gradually become
less numerous, and by October 10th comparatively few remain, though if
the weather be favorable, they may be observed daily until late in the
month.
Throughout this period—from July to October—the marsh is used only as a
dormitory, the reeds evidently offering suitable perches to these
weak-footed birds, who in the morning radiate throughout the surrounding
country and in the evening return to the marsh to sleep. In the evening
they fly low, and the altitude and time of their flight make them
conspicuous. In the morning they fly high, as though bound to some
distant feeding ground, and at so early an hour that they usually escape
observation. The evening flight, therefore, is generally considered as
truly migratory, when, in fact, the same birds doubtless pass over a
given locality night after night, perhaps for weeks, in returning to
their roosts in the marshes.
[Illustration: 48. “Bird notes”—Tree Swallows.]
These evening flights begin about two hours and a half before sunset,
when the birds, after resting during the late forenoon and early
afternoon, usually on some telegraph wire,^{48} begin to wheel and
circle over the fields in pursuit of their evening meal, when one might
imagine they were resident birds, but observation will show that the
general trend of their movement is toward the roost.
This continues for an hour to an hour and a half, a cloudy evening
hastening their actions, when their flight becomes more direct. Few
birds pause to feed, but hurry on to the roosting places, and as the
light fades the last birds rush through the gloom with arrowy speed and
directness. The birds pass in straggling flocks, and periods of
abundance are succeeded by intervals of scarcity, as though the
individuals which had been associated during the day were journeying
home together.
Thus the Swallow’s evening flight may be observed throughout the region
surrounding the marshes; even in New York city they may be seen feeding
above the houses, and after sunset flocks of swift-flying birds are
often confused by the telegraph wires, which, however, their dexterity
of wing permits them to pass without serious harm.
In the marshes the first birds are seen about two hours before sunset.
Many follow the course of the river, and if one be at its border splash
after splash is heard as the birds dip lightly into the water, followed
by soft fluffs as arising from the stream they shake their plumage. Soon
the air is filled with Swallows, all streaming toward the roost with
increasing swiftness.
Many birds, however, as though waiting for some tardy comrades, rest by
the way, perching on telegraph wires should they cross the marsh, or
when these are wanting, on the tips of the reeds. They invariably face
the wind, and when it is from the west the last rays of the sun striking
their white breasts make them appear like snowy flowers crowning the
reeds. Suddenly, with a rush, they whirl onward to the roost.
Thus far the exact location of this roost has defied my search. I have,
however, roughly defined the bounds of that section of the marsh in
which it is placed by observation stands at which the Swallows flew
north and south respectively, and somewhere between the two I still hope
to discover the Swallows’ sleeping haunts.
The following description of their departure from the marshes in the
morning is abstracted from my journal, under date of August 15, 1886: “A
cool, clear morning, with a light northwesterly wind. I reached the
marshes shortly before five o’clock, when they appeared to be deserted,
not a Swallow being in sight. At two minutes of five the first birds
were observed, then flock after flock they came until at five the air
was filled with hurrying forms, flying at varying altitudes toward the
north.
“Suddenly, from the meadows near me there arose a vast cloud of
Swallows, doubtless birds which had come from farther south in the marsh
before my arrival. Steadily they mounted upward, until having attained a
height where with a strong glass they appeared faint dots against the
sky, they slowly winged their way northward.
“All the time the meadows were alive with birds feeding in every
direction; gradually they passed to the north, when another huge flock
arose from the marsh, and after gaining an immense height disappeared,
this time toward the east.
[Illustration: 49. Tree Swallows in tree.]
“As the sun rose over the Palisades few birds were on the wing, but
great flocks were perched in the reeds on the banks of the creek, and as
in my canoe I drifted slowly up to them, they seemed unmindful of my
presence, when, as though at a signal, they arose as one bird, and after
hovering lightly overhead returned to the reeds.
“The tide was low, and along the shore several Sora Rail were feeding,
and, as carried by the tide I floated noiselessly by, they paused in
their search for food, and with tails upraised regarded me with evident
astonishment. A mink approached the shores of a small inflowing stream,
hesitated, then plunged in, crossed, and disappeared in the tall grasses
on the opposite side. The air was vocal with the calls of Red-winged
Blackbirds, the _chink_ of Bobolinks, and the rattle of Swamp Sparrows.
“On a reed-grown point below was another great army of Swallows. With
surprising regularity a detachment left it every fifteen minutes; thus,
birds left at 6, 6.15, 6.30, and 6.45, when the reeds were deserted. The
departing birds did not arise alone, but the entire flock arose at once,
then divided into two flocks, one of which flew northward while the
other returned to the reeds. Many of the departing birds alighted on the
reeds farther up the creek; their numbers constantly received additions
from the ranks of passing birds, and thus new flocks were formed.
“At eight o’clock the last Swallows had left the reeds in my vicinity,
but birds were constantly passing toward the north, and this straggling
flight continued until nine o’clock, when again the marshes appeared
deserted.”
Subsequent observations have been made largely from a road crossing the
marsh, the telegraph and electric-light wires which border it being the
resting place of vast numbers of Swallows, both at night and in the
morning. Particularly do they throng the wires near the creek, which
flows north and south through the marsh, and which, it is interesting to
observe, forms a natural highway for the Swallows as they go to and from
their roosts.
On the sides of this road are several small maple trees, to which the
Swallows often resort in such numbers that their foliage trembles as
though in a strong breeze, it not being the birds’ object to perch in
the trees, but to flutter among the dew-laden leaves, and apparently
bathe in the moisture they contain, while between the baths they rest on
the smaller terminal twigs, when they are very difficult to
observe.^{49} This habit does not appear to have been previously
recorded, and I am by no means certain that the explanation offered is
the true one.
[Illustration: 50. Tree Swallows on wire and nest hunting about pile.]
Frequently one or more flocks, varying in size from eight or ten to
several hundred birds, may be seen in the road, where I at first
supposed they were “dusting,” but soon noticed that most of the birds
after alighting in the road were motionless. They did not move about as
though searching for food, but occasionally the actions of a pair
enabled one apparently to determine the sex of each individual, and more
often a bird would pick up a bit of dried grass and fly up into the air
with it. Sometimes it was carried fifty yards or more and then dropped;
at others, the birds would carry it to the telegraph wires above, and
drop it after perching a moment. Without exception, all the birds seen
to alight in the road were in the dull, immature plumage of birds of the
year, and in their actions, as Mr. William Brewster has remarked (The
Auk, 1898, p. 194), they evidently gave a premature exhibition of the
procreative and nest-building instincts.^{51}
Additional evidence of the possession of inherited knowledge was
apparently given by many Tree Swallows, who were frequently seen
hovering about a pile standing in the creek.^{50} At first it was
supposed that these birds were feeding on insects which had alighted on
the pile; but the number of birds—often a dozen or more—seen fluttering
about it, and the persistency with which they remained there, forced the
conclusion that in a wholly unreasoning way they were looking for a
nesting site.
Swallows are not known to migrate by night, and, so far as I am aware,
no single Swallow has ever been found among the thousands of
night-flying birds which have perished by striking lighthouses. The
Swallows, therefore, when migrating probably leave the marsh during the
day, but in what manner who can say?
[Illustration: 51. Immature Tree Swallows gathering nesting material.]
Several times when crossing the marshes on the cars I have observed
gatherings of Swallows which made the immense flocks observed daily in
August and September seem little more than a family of birds. They
appeared in the distance like a vast swarm of gnats; it was as though
all the Swallows in the marsh had collected in one great storm of birds.
The significance of this movement I have never had the fortune to
determine, but it seems highly probable that it is connected with the
inauguration of an actual migration toward the birds’ winter quarters.