There is much to be learned about the habits of birds, even in a casual
observation of them as we meet them from time to time.
It is well known that the English sparrow is not friendly toward other
birds, often driving them from their nests and even going so far as to
destroy both these and their young.
Upon one occasion a sparrow took possession of the partially completed
nest of a pair of martins, in process of construction, beneath the eaves
of a farmhouse. When the martins returned with their load of mud for its
walls, the sparrow, intrenched within, drove them away with scolding
cries and fluttering wings, resisting all their attempts at dislodging
him. Time after time the attack was renewed, all to no avail. There he
was and there he proposed to remain.
But the plucky martins were not so easily vanquished. They retired for a
season, only to renew the attack with increased vigor, waging a battle
long and fierce. Finally, however, they seemed to understand that their
enemy had the better of them, and bent their energies toward vengeance.
Carrying mud in their beaks, they built a wall about the sparrow as he
sat in possession of their home, surrounding him so completely that he
was made a prisoner in the very place where he had taken forcible
possession. And there they left him to his fate.
A pair of robins selected a nesting place in the fork of a maple,
standing quite near a house, the chamber windows of which looked down
directly into it. No sooner had they begun to carry sticks for the
foundation, than a pair of crow black birds, with malicious intent,
pounced upon it and scattered the sticks in every direction, taking
advantage of the absence of the owners of the nest to carry out their
mischief. Time after time did the robins repair the damage and begin
afresh their work of construction. No sooner were they out of sight than
the black birds tore the material out of the tree, seemingly working in
great haste to complete their depredation before the robins’ return.
Stormy encounters, amounting to pitched battles sometimes, ensued when
the marauders were caught by the irate home makers in the very act of
tearing to fragments the work they were toiling so painfully to
complete. Not one day only, but several elapsed, and still the battle
continued, the interested spectators though sympathetic were powerless
to help the rightful owners of the home. The black birds seemingly did
not want the nest for themselves. They merely objected to the robins
building there. At last, to the great relief of the red-breasts, their
enemies gave up the fight and allowed them to build the nest. This they
did, laying their eggs and rearing their young without further
annoyance.
Many a fat angle worm does the robin get in the spring of the year,
pulling them out of the ground where the bright eyes spy them close to
the surface, or partly protruding therefrom. A full-grown robin has been
seen to thus capture and swallow a round dozen of earth worms inside of
ten minutes.
One day a fledgling was hopping across the lawn, the mother bird alert
and watchful, not far away. She had been feeding it, but evidently its
hunger had not yet been appeased, for it hopped to her side and began to
make the coaxing noise heard when in the nest as the parent approaches
with food. The mother bird paused a moment, looked about her, then
hopping to one side a short distance, she planted her feet squarely upon
the ground, caught one end of a worm in her beak and commenced to pull.
The worm, which was a large one, was not easily dislodged and tug as
hard as she could, she could not complete her capture. Evidently the
worm was too long. She fairly tipped over backward in her effort, yet
without avail. All at once, and as quick as a flash, so as to give it no
chance to get away, she let go her hold and seizing the worm farther
down, drew it triumphantly forth and gave it to her expectant offspring.
E. E. Rockwood.
[Illustration: CHUCK-WILL’S-WIDOW.
(Antrostomus carolinensis).
⅗ Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
THE CHUCK-WILL’S-WIDOW.
(_Antrostomus carolinensis._)
In the wooded ravines and timbered swamps of the southern states, the
Chuck-will’s-widow tells of its presence by frequently calling its own
name. It, with the whip-poor-will and the night hawk, belongs to the
family of goatsuckers and is closely related to the swifts. The family
includes about eighty-five species of these peculiar birds, nearly all
being natives of the tropics, though nearly every part of the world has
representatives. The range of the Chuck-will’s-widow is quite limited.
It includes the states from Virginia and southern Illinois southward to
the Gulf of Mexico, and through Mexico into Central America. It is also
found in Cuba.
Chuck-will’s-widow is a bird of the twilight and night hours. Silent
during the daylight hours, its penetrating voice, which is remarkably
strong, may be continuously heard in the regions that it inhabits during
the evening hours and for a time preceding the returning light of day.
It is said that on a still evening its call may be heard for more than
one mile. In its large eyes and head, its loose and somber colored
plumage, its quiet flight and nocturnal habits it resembles the owls.
Its short bill and the shape of the wings, permitting rapid flight, give
it a close relationship to the swifts. Its mouth is peculiarly fitted
for the capture of insects. The gape is enormous, and when the mouth is
fully open, will measure nearly two inches from side to side. It is also
aided in ensnaring insects by the long, bristle-like whiskers at the
base of the mouth. It will catch and swallow the largest of the
night-flying moths, and though it seems almost incredible small birds
not infrequently form a part of its diet. An observer found in the
stomach of one “among an indistinguishable mass of brownish matter, a
small bone, about half an inch long.” In another stomach he found the
remains of a hummingbird only partially digested and well enough
preserved for him to identify the species. Dr. F. W. Langdon states that
he examined the stomach of a female Chuck-will’s-widow that “contained
the partially digested body, entire, of a swamp sparrow, intermingled
with the feathers of which were numerous remains of insects, chiefly
small beetles.”
While hunting for food the Chuck-will’s-widow flies low, often but a few
feet above the surface of the ground. In this habit it differs from the
night-hawk, which, like the swifts, seeks its food high in the air. Now
and then it rests, perching on old logs or fences, from which it will
launch forth in pursuit of prey which its keen eyes have sighted. During
the day it roosts in hollow trees or upon a large limb in some densely
shaded spot.
It does not attempt to build a nest. The two dull white eggs are laid
upon the ground or upon leaves in some secluded place in woods or
thickets. It is said that this bird, when disturbed at its nest, will
remove either its eggs or the young, as the case may be, to a place of
safety by carrying them in its mouth.
Mr. Audubon relates the following incident which came under his
observation: “When the Chuck-will’s-widow, either male or female (for
each sits alternately), has discovered that the eggs have been touched,
it ruffles its feathers and appears extremely dejected for a minute or
two, after which it emits a low, murmuring cry, scarcely audible to me
as I lay concealed at a distance not more than eighteen or twenty yards.
At this time I had seen the other parent reach the spot, flying so low
over the ground that I thought its little feet must have touched it as
it skimmed along, and after a few low notes and some gesticulations, all
indicative of great distress, take an egg in its large mouth, the other
bird doing the same, when they would fly off together, skimming closely
over the ground, until they disappeared among the branches and trees.”
Because of its night-flying habit, its somber colors and its peculiar
penetrating notes the Chuck-will’s-widow, as well as the whip-poor-will,
was considered by the Indians a bird of ill omen.
AN AMATEUR CIRCUS.
A True Story.
We were not like ordinary children—in fact as I look back on our younger
days it comes to me ever more strongly how very unlike we were. There
was Harvey, my older brother, who never did anything that other children
did and was always perpetrating some most extraordinary thing which
certainly no one else ever would have thought of. However, in spite of
this trait, or possibly in consequence of it, he afterwards became
famous. But that is neither here nor there—we were all what the
neighbors termed “unexpected,” if they were kindly disposed, otherwise
it was some word to the same effect though less mild.
It was always a great blessing to us and one which we received with
thankful hearts, that our father was a man of science, and his line of
work made him the recipient of a varied assortment of animals which he
would bring home alive and keep until he was ready to work upon them. It
was only natural that we children should become fond of these creatures
and beg that they might be spared the eternal sleep and left to us to
play with. This was often granted.
So it happened at one time that we were the proud possessors of
twenty-five different kinds of birds, animals and reptiles and the envy
of all the children for blocks around.
It is so long now since the time of which I write that I may not be able
to recall them all, but I give them as I remember them and by their
rank—for they had rank as well as names, the highest in intelligence
always going first—as they did at our funerals; for when any one of the
little colony died we would give it a burial in accordance with its
station in life.
First beside the grave would stand Rex, my beautiful dog, whose
knowledge was so great it seemed almost human; then would come “Daisy,”
Harvey’s little Mexican pony; then “Lorita,” the parrot, whose
intelligence was really remarkable; after her came “Jackie,” the monkey,
and so on down. The cat, the crow, with his one white tail feather; then
the smaller birds; two love-birds, a brown thrush, a blue jay and the
canary. Three baby foxes followed the birds and then came the squirrels,
gray, red, and flying squirrels; next to these stood the rabbits, a
dozen or more of all kinds and colors: Belgian hares, pure yellows,
angoras, whites and blacks, they came, a motley crew. The weasel and
muskrat were next, and now the reptiles were beginning; the turtles, a
hellbender and the snakes; black snakes, garter snakes, green snakes, a
puffing adder and last of all came two boa constrictors.
I have reserved a special place for my own dear, stupid, little hedge
hog, Billy. It used to grieve me to always see poor Billy straggling off
at the end of the animals—ahead of the reptiles, to be sure—a pathetic
little figure of stupidity, but Harvey insisted he deserved no better
place. Possibly it was because he seemed so lonely and despised by the
others, but at any rate, Billy was an especial pet of mine, and in order
to disprove Harvey’s statement that, “it was impossible to teach it
anything,” I spent much time and pains on Billy, and at last succeeded
in teaching him to utter a little grunt when I would scratch his back
and ask, “Want your supper, Billy?” But the thing that made me the
proudest was when he at last could go up stairs. It was nearly three
years before Billy could accomplish the entire flight, and even then it
was a long and weary pilgrimage; but the patience I had expended upon
him had not been in vain. It was comical to watch his efforts—the little
short forelegs trying to reach up to the next stair, where he knew a
lump of sugar would be his reward.
But I am digressing. One day father and mother having gone out of town
to a funeral, we children were left to ourselves. It was an opportunity
not to be neglected, and our brains were at work trying to plan some new
game, when Harvey arrived in our midst triumphantly waving a huge sheet
of paper—a “bill-poster” he called it—upon which, in large letters, were
the headlines, “Grand Circus,” and then followed an account of the
animals that would take part and the tricks they would perform. Harvey
assigned us our posts—he himself being ring-master, by right of his
seniority and having thought of the game. Alice was the “fat lady,”
while I, Paul, being the youngest, was nothing but a “feeder of animals”
and tent shifter.
Under the direction of the Circus Master we assembled the menagerie in
cages, or loose as the case might be, up in Mother’s bed-room. It took a
good deal of time to get them all together. Polly was of a roving
disposition and had to be coaxed down from the top of a tall tree, where
she had perched, a square or so away; the crow was up on the roof; the
rabbits and hares were scampering all over the garden—in fact, nothing
but the caged animals seemed to be at hand. But the task was finally
accomplished and all were ranged around the room waiting for Harvey, who
had disappeared mysteriously some little time before.
Suddenly there was a most terrific clatter and noise, coming ever nearer
and nearer. We looked at each other open-mouthed with surprise, when,
with a flourish of lariat and a wild Indian war-whoop, that rose above
the deafening noise, in dashed Harvey upon “Daisy,” a triumphant
figure—having accomplished the difficult feat of making the pony carry
him up stairs. He dismounted with a jump. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he
began, “the first act on the programme will be by this wonderful
horse—Daisy, down on your haunches!” The lariat swept the air in true
ring-master fashion, and Daisy obediently sat back on her haunches.
“Shake hands, Daisy.”
The hoof came up—but here Rex interfered. He realized the pony had no
business there and felt the responsibility which rested upon him. Good
dog that he was, he started toward her, barking sharply, as though to
say, “Go away—you know you have no business here.”
Then, as if his bark had been a signal, all the other animals lifted up
their voices, and for a while it was pandemonium let loose—screeches
from Polly, calls of “Mamma” from the crow (which it could say as
plainly as any parrot, though its tongue had never been slit), grunts
and squeals mingled in utter confusion. In the midst of it all who
should walk in but Uncle Charles.
Now, we all knew that Uncle was not disposed to pass over lightly even
the least of our offenses, and what he would say, and what was more, do
now, we dared not think. But Harvey was equal to the occasion. He knew
Uncle’s weak point, and went towards him nonchalantly swinging the
snakes who stuck out their heads as they swayed back and forth.
Now, to us children the snakes were just as nice and pretty as any of
the animals, but they were quite the opposite to Uncle Charles. The
great, writhing things, swaying to and fro as they twisted in Harvey’s
hands and stuck out their heads, in which the eyes dully gleamed, filled
him with loathing and disgust, not unmixed with terror.
All that Uncle Charles had meant to say vanished from his mind as he saw
Harvey advancing upon him with the boa-constrictors, and he began to
retreat more and more rapidly, but with ever decreasing dignity. Harvey
still pursued.
“Why, Uncle,” we heard him say, “what’s the matter?” There was no
response—Uncle Charles had gone home. But the circus was broken up.
I think it is better to draw a veil over the consequences of our circus.
No circus is complete without a side-show—and ours was no exception. We
never had another one—at least not in mother’s room.
Paul Brenton Eliot.
THE GRAY-CROWNED LEUCOSTICTE.
(_Leucosticte tephrocotis._)
The Gray-crowned Leucosticte or Gray-crowned Rosy Finch, as it is often
called, is a resident of the interior of British America during the
warmer months. In the winter it passes southward, frequenting the Rocky
Mountain region of the United States, where it is quite common on the
eastern slopes. So far as known, within the border of the United States,
it only nests in the Sierra Nevada in California. While on the slopes of
the mountains this Finch is usually seen in flocks. During the most
severe weather it will frequent settled districts, becoming quite tame,
and it has been known to seek the sheltering cover of the nests of cliff
swallows under the eaves of buildings. When in the fields it is a
restless bird and quite shy.
Dr. R. W. Shufeldt, while stationed at Fort Fetterman, Wyoming, had an
excellent opportunity to study the habits of this handsome bird. He
captured eight, including both males and females, which he placed in a
cage especially prepared for them. “In a few days they not only became
accustomed to their quarters, but apparently thoroughly satisfied and
happy. Flocks of their companions passing over were certain to be called
down, to alight on the fences, the ground, and in fact, everything in
the neighborhood of the cage, to even the cage itself.” The birds were
given canary and flax seeds, cracked wheat and finally lettuce and other
tender leaves, all of which they seemed to relish. Dr. Shufeldt also
says:
“Every morning, as I approached the cage, a general and impatient
chattering commenced for their breakfast and bath, and they immediately
availed themselves of both in my presence. Often I deluged the entire
cage, birds and all, with a large watering pot, and they enjoyed the
sprinkling immensely. Later in the spring this part of the programme was
followed by their pluming themselves in the sun, chattering among
themselves and the males giving utterance to a low, subdued and
plaintive sort of song, being different from the shrill whistle they
gave to attract the attention of their passing fellows outside.” By the
middle of May all the birds of this species had left the vicinity for
their breeding grounds further north. Dr. Shufeldt’s captives did not
even pair and early in July he released them. Their plumage seemed to be
at its best in the early part of May.
Another authority, speaking of this bird’s habits in the mountain
regions, says, “During summer and autumn the Gray-crowned Finch is
common above timber line, where it breeds, ranging higher than the
titlark and being usually found in the vicinity of snow fields and the
frozen lakes near the summit of the range. It is rather shy in such
localities, though exceedingly tame in winter. Its flight is in
undulating lines, like the crossbills. The only note I have heard it
utter is a kind of churr, like the call of the scarlet tanager. They
stay above timber-line till the close of October or the middle of
November. They are perpetually roving from place to place feeding upon
the seeds of weeds and grasses and are never at rest for a moment at a
time, constantly whirling about in close, dense masses, like so many
longspurs.”
[Illustration: GRAY-CROWNED LEUCOSTICTE.
(Leucosticte tephrocotis).
Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]