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IN NESTING TIME
BY
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1893
Copyright, 1888,
BY H. M. MILLER.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
_"Very few people have the least idea what wild creatures are like.
Their notion generally is to shoot them, and then pick them up for
examination; which is the same thing as if some being of superior race,
seeing children at play, were to shoot a few at long range, and then
turn them over and describe them and consider himself learned in their
structure, habits, and appearance."_--JEAN INGELOW.
INTRODUCTORY.
The sketches of bird manners and customs in this little collection are
the record of careful observation, and scrupulously true in every
particular. The facts may not all be new to Science, but since they are
genuine studies from life, and each bird whose acquaintance I make is as
truly a discovery to me as if he were totally unknown to the world, I
venture to hope that lovers of birds may find in these pages real, live,
individuals in feathers, honestly "brothers of ours."
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. BABY BIRDS 1
Purple Crow Blackbird. _Quiscalus quiscula._
Redwing Blackbird. _Ageloeus phoeniceus._
Yellow-Throated Warbler. _Dendroica dominica._
Baltimore Oriole. _Icterus galbula._
White-Bellied Nuthatch. _Sitta carolinensis._
American Robin. _Merula migratoria._
Phoebe. _Sayornis phoebe._
II. BIRD-STUDY IN A SOUTHERN STATE 19
Great White Heron. _Ardea occidentalis._
Bald Eagle. _Haliaeetus leucocephalus._
Wilson's Tern. _Sterna hirundo._
Ring Plover. _AEgialitis hiaticula._
III. THE MOCKING-BIRD'S NEST 33
Mocking-Bird. _Mimus polyglottos._
IV. A TRICKSY SPIRIT 65
Mocking-Bird. _Mimus polyglottos._
V. THE "WISE BLUEBIRD" 95
Bluebird. _Sialia sialis._
VI. THE GOLDEN-WING 113
Golden-Wing Woodpecker. _Colaptes auratus._
VII. A STORMY WOOING 129
Orchard Oriole. _Icterus spurius._
VIII. FLUTTERBUDGET 145
Brown Thrush, or Thrasher. _Harporhynchus rufus._
IX. "O WONDROUS SINGERS" 159
Wilson's Thrush. _Turdus fuscescens._
Gray-Cheeked Thrush. _Turdus aliciae._
X. A BIRD OF AFFAIRS 173
Blue-Jay. _Cyanocitta cristata._
XI. THE BLUE-JAY AGAIN 189
XII. VIRGINIA'S WOOING 205
Virginia Cardinal. _Cardinalis cardinalis._
XIII. FRIENDSHIP IN FEATHERS 221
Scarlet Tanager. _Piranga erythromelas._
English Goldfinch. _Fringilla carduelis._
XIV. THE ROSY SHIELD 237
Rose-Breasted Grosbeak. _Habia ludoviciana._
XV. THE BIRD OF MYSTERY 251
Birds of Paradise. _Paradisaea._
BABY BIRDS.
And oft an unintruding guest,
I watched her secret toils from day to day;
How true she warped the moss to form the nest,
And modeled it within with wood and clay.
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue:
And there I witnessed in the summer hours
A brood of Nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
JOHN CLARE.
I.
BABY BIRDS.
"Ears have they, but they hear not," may be said of all the world.
Tragedies and comedies go on continually before us which we neither see
nor hear; cries of distress and prattle of infants, songs of love and
screams of war, alike fall upon deaf ears, while we calmly discuss the
last book or the news from Borriboo-lah-Gha, as completely oblivious as
if all this stirring life did not exist.
To be sure these things take place in the "upper stories," as Thoreau
says, but they are none the less audible, and one is tempted to believe
that bird voices are on a scale to which the untrained ear is not
attuned. Once learn to hear, and nature is full of life and interest.
The home affairs of our little neighbors whose modest cottage swings on
a branch of the elm beside the door are more attractive than those of
our fellow creatures in the house across the way partly because they are
so open in their lives that our attentions do not seem intrusive, but
more because their ways are not so familiar. We can guess how men and
women pass their time, but we cannot guess why the cat-bird always sings
from the middle of one particular shrub, nor where he has hidden his
dusky spouse and nest full of babies; and after we know him we are eager
to discover.
Upon reaching the charming home of a friend in Massachusetts last June,
almost the first thing I saw was a pair of purple crow blackbirds in
trouble. First arose a medley of queer husky tones, clamorous baby
cries, and excited oriole voices, with violent agitation of the leaves
of a tall elm, ending with the sudden exit of a blackbird, closely
followed by a pair of Baltimore orioles. The pursued flew leisurely
across the lawn, plainly in no haste, and not at all with the air of the
thief and nest robber he is popularly supposed to be. Clearly the elm
belonged by bird custom to the orioles, for their pretty swinging
hammock could be seen partly hidden by leaves, about halfway up the
tree, and what business other than that of marauder had the sombre-hued
enemy upon it?
Now the blackbird has no secrets in his life; the whole world is welcome
to know his affairs, and in fact he proclaims them loudly himself. It
was easy to see that he had anxiety enough of his own just then,
without thinking of disturbing his neighbors, for he was engaged in the
task of introducing his young family to the world, and every bird
watcher knows that is attended with almost as many difficulties as is
the same operation in what we call "society."
If the youngster escape the dangers peculiar to the nest, the devouring
jaws of squirrel or owl, the hands of the egg thief, being shaken out by
the wind, smothered by an intrusive cow-bunting, or orphaned by the gun
of a "collector;" if, neither stolen, eaten, thrown out, nor starved, he
arrives at the age that his wings begin to stir and force him out of the
leafy green tent of his birth, a new set of dangers meet him at the
door. He may entangle himself in a hair of the nest-lining, and hang
himself at the very threshold of life--a not uncommon occurrence; or he
may safely reach the nearest twig and from there fall and break his
neck--not a rare accident; he may be attacked by a bird who questions
his right to be on the tree; he may fly, and, not reaching his goal,
come to the ground, an easy prey to any prowler.
In this blackbird family one of the little ones had taken his first
ambitious flight to the oriole's tree, where he must and should be fed
and comforted, in spite of the hostile reception of its gayly dressed
proprietor. The father took upon himself this duty, and many times
during the day the above-mentioned scene was reenacted, loud blackbird
calls, husky baby notes, the musical war-cry of the oriole, and a chase.
A second infant had wisely confined his wandering to his own tree, one
of a group of tall pines that towered above the roofs of the village.
This one could be easily watched as he stood on one branch for an hour
at a time, sometimes in the nest attitude, head sunk in shoulders and
beak pointed toward the sky, again looking eagerly around on his new
world, turning his head from side to side, changing position to see the
other way, and showing himself wide awake although the yellowish
baby-down was still on his head, and his tail was not an inch long. Now
and then the mother was heard calling in the distance, and as she
approached he became all excitement, fluttering his wings, and answering
in the husky tones of the family. A moment later, after a quick glance
around, but without alighting and reconnoitring the whole neighborhood,
as the robin does, she came down beside the eager youngling,
administered to the wide open mouth what looked like two or three savage
pecks, but doubtless were nothing worse than mouthfuls of food, and
instantly flew again, while the refreshed infant stretched his wings
and legs, changed his place a little, and settled into comfortable quiet
after his lunch.
The urchin in the enemy's tree was not the most unfortunate of the
nestlings. One already lay dead on the ground under the nest where it
had fallen, and another came down during the day, though happily without
injury. This one was not very bright, or perhaps his baby wits were
dazed by his sudden descent. He made no objection to staying in my hand
as long as I liked to look at him, and when I placed him on a low
branch, as a hint that it was safer there, he declined to accept my
advice, but flew off and came to the ground again. He was a scraggy
looking, rusty black little fellow, the most unattractive young bird I
ever saw. Shortly after this he clambered up on a pile of brush about a
foot high, without so much as a leaf to screen him, and there he stayed
all day, motionless, being fed at long intervals; and there I left him
at night, never expecting to see him again. But in the morning he
appeared on a low shrub on the lawn, and about nine o'clock he took
courage to launch himself on wing. He flew very low across the street,
and dropped into the tall grass at the foot of a lilac bush. Why the
parents considered that less safe than the open lawn I could not see,
but they evidently did, for one of them perched upon the lilac, and
filled the air with anxious "chucks," announcing to all whom it might
concern--after the fashion of some birds--that here was a stray infant
to be had for the picking up. Perhaps, however, the hue-and-cry kept off
the quiet-loving cat; at any rate nothing happened to him, I think, for
in a day or two the three young birds became so expert on wing that the
whole family left us, and I hope found a place where they were more
welcome than in that colony of house and orchard birds.
Not so quiet in their ways are the babies of another blackbird
family--the redwings; restless and uneasy, the clumsy little creatures
climb all about the bushes and trees, and keep both parents busy, not
only in filling their gaping mouths, but in finding them when the food
is brought. They are always seeking a new place, and from the moment of
leaving the nest show in a marked way the unrest, the impatience of the
redwing family.
Quite as erratic is a much smaller bird, the yellow throated warbler,
whose baby ways I have seen at the South. One of these bantlings no
bigger than the end of a thumb will easily keep its parent frantically
busy rushing about after food, and hunting up the capricious wanderer on
its return.
The wood thrush, on the contrary, is patience itself. A youngster of
this lovely family sits a half hour at a time motionless and silent on a
branch, head drawn down upon his shoulders, apparently in the deepest
meditation. When he sees food coming he is gently agitated, rises upon
his weak legs, softly flutters his wings and opens his mouth, but
never--never cries. Should one put a hand down to take him, as seemingly
could be done easily, he will slip out from under it, drop to the
ground, and disappear, in perfect silence.
The cry-baby of the bird world is the Baltimore oriole. As soon as this
fluffy young person appears outside of his nursery, sometimes even
before, he begins to utter a strange almost constant "chrr-r-r." He is
not particularly active of movement, but he cannot keep silent. One
little oriole mother whom I watched in Massachusetts had no help in
raising her brood, her mate spending his time on the upper branches of
the tree. He could not be blamed, however; he was, so far as I could
see, perfectly willing to aid in the support of the family, but Madam
actually would not allow him even to visit the homestead. When the young
were out he assumed his share of the labor. The first yellow-haired
bairn mounted the edge of the nest one morning, and after a little
stretching and pluming, tried to fly. But alas he was held! Two or
three times he renewed the attempt, his struggles always ending in
failure, and I feared I should see a tragedy. Half an hour later the
mother returned, and whether she pushed him down, or merely advised him
to go back and try again, I cannot say. The fact is that he did
disappear in the nest, where he remained for two or three hours, for it
is probably safe to assume that the urchin who came up later was the
same. This time, without delay upon the brink, he climbed upon a twig,
hopped about a little, and before long flew several feet, alighting on a
small branch of the same tree. Hardly had he established himself safely
and resumed his ordinary call, when down upon him from above came a
robin, who, strange to say, had a nest in one of the upper branches of
the same tall maple. This robin had always recognized the right of the
oriole parents to their share of the tree, but the young one was a
stranger, and he fell upon him accordingly. He knocked him off his
perch; the unfortunate little fellow fell a few feet, then gathered
himself, fluttered and caught at the outside of a clump of leaves on the
end of a twig, where after frantic struggling he managed to secure a
hold. Perhaps the robin saw his mistake, for he paid no more attention
to the new-comer, who did not stay long on the tree after this second
disaster.
The next morning came up out of the nest quite an unnatural oriole
baby--he did not cry. Silently, he stepped out upon a twig, and looked
about in the new world around him. He carefully dressed his feathers,
and often rose to his full height and stretched his legs, as if it were
legs and not wings he needed in his new life. The third scion of the
household had also a marked character of his own. Having planted himself
on the threshold, and found it a convenient place to intercept all food
on its way to the younger ones still unseen, he remained. Every time the
mother came with a mouthful, he fluttered and coaxed, and usually got
it. It was too good a situation to leave and he seemed to have settled
for life; but his wings overpowered his inertia or greed, about four
o'clock in the afternoon.
So long had the third young oriole occupied his position, that the
fourth made his appearance almost immediately, as though he had been
waiting. There does appear to be some regulation of this sort among the
orioles, for in all that I have noticed, no two ever came out together
(excepting once, when both went back almost instantly, and one returned
alone). This late comer had not the whole long sunny day to loiter
away, and he flew in an hour. The fifth and last came up early the next
morning evidently in haste to join the scattered family, for he bade
farewell to the native tree in a short time. No more orioles appeared
upon the maple from this day, but for two weeks I saw the little party
about; the father, whom I had missed after the flight of the first
infant, working like a drudge, with two or three hungry urchins wherever
he went, excepting when he sought food in the new-cut grass on the
ground. He gave us no more songs, but his sweet, low call sounded all
day on the place.
Another family of little folk came upon the maple after the orioles were
gone, a nuthatch tribe. There were three or four of them exactly like
the mother excepting a shorter tail, and they followed her like a flock
of sheep, over and under branches, around the trunk, up or down or any
way, never pausing more than an instant, not even when she plumped a
morsel into a waiting mouth. She led her little procession by her
querulous-sounding "quank," while they replied with a low "chir-up" in
the same tone. It was a very funny sight. They could fly nicely, but
never seemed to think of looking for food, and it was plain that the
busy little mother had no time to teach them. It was interesting to see
her deal with a moth which she found napping on a fence. She ran at
once to a crack or some convenient hole in the rough rail, thrust it in
and hammered it down. When it was quiet she snipped off the wings,
dragged it out, and beat it on the fence till it was fit for food, the
family meanwhile gathered around her, clinging closely to the fence, and
gently fluttering. These nuthatches were remarkably silent, but some
that I once saw living near the top of two or three tall pines were
quite noisy, and I spent much time trying to see what they were forever
complaining about. There always seemed to be some catastrophe impending
up in that sky parlor, but it never appeared to reach a climax.
Charming to watch is the bluebird nestling; cheery and gentle like the
parents, he seems to escape the period of helplessness that many birds
suffer from, perhaps because he is patient enough to stay in the nest
till his wings are ready to use. The mocking-bird baby has a far
different time. Victim of a devouring ambition that will not let him
rest till either legs or wings will bear him, he scrambles out upon his
native tree, stretches, plumes a little in a jerky, hurried way, and
then boldly launches out in the air--alas!--to come flop to the ground,
where he is an easy prey to boys and cats, both of whom are particularly
fond of young mocking-birds. These parents are wiser than the crow
blackbirds, for not a sound betrays the accident in the family, unless,
indeed, the little one is disturbed, when they make noise enough. They
keep out of sight, no doubt closely watching the straggler until he gets
away from people, for although he has proved that he cannot fly, the
young mocker is by no means discouraged; he trusts to his legs, and
usually at once starts off on a run "anywhere, anywhere, out (in) the
world." When far enough away for them to feel safe in doing so, the
parents come down and feed and comfort the wanderer, and it is a day or
two before his wings are of much use to him.
The most imperious young bird I know is the robin. He is perfectly sure
he has a right to attention, and he intends to have it. If he is
neglected too long and gets hungry, he calls loudly and impatiently,
jerking himself up with a ludicrous air of stamping his feet. Even when
he does condescend to go to the lawn with mamma, it is not to seek his
food--far from it! It is to follow her around, and call every moment or
two for something to eat. The idea that his individual exertions have
anything to do with the food supply seems never to occur to him. He
expects the fat morsels to fall into his mouth as they always have, and
why should they not? He will soon be taught, for even baby-birds have to
be educated.
We have assumed in our easy-going way that birds "toil not" because they
"do not spin," because they have not surrounded themselves with a
thousand artificial wants, as we have. But the truth is that nobody can
work harder than a pair of robins, for example, with four or five hungry
mouths to fill, and every mouthful to be hunted up as it is wanted. No
one would guess what an ever-yawning cavern a baby robin's mouth is,
till he has tried to bring up a nestling himself. I once kept two small
boys busy several days at high wages, digging worms for one young bird,
and then I believe he starved to death.
The training of our winged neighbors is most interesting, but so
cautiously carried on that we rarely see it, though we may often hear
the robin, oriole, whip-poor-will, and many others receive instruction
in singing. I have once or twice surprised young birds at their lessons,
as for instance, a pewee family learning to hover over the daisies, a
beautiful operation of their parents which I never tired of watching. I
was behind a blind when they came, a little flock of five or six. They
were very playful, and kept near together, flying low over the grass,
alighting in a row on the edge of a pail, coming up on the
clothes-line, banging awkwardly against the house, and in every way
showing ignorance and youth. I studied one for a long time as he
balanced himself on the clothes-line and looked off at the antics of his
brothers trying to learn the hovering. One of the parents flew out over
the tall flowers, poising himself gracefully, his body held perfectly
erect, legs half drawn up, turning his head this way and that, hanging
thus in the air several seconds in one spot, then suddenly darting off
to another like a humming-bird. The little ones in a row close together
on a low branch of a shrub, looked on, and in a moment two or three
sallied out and tried the same movement. They could fly well enough, but
when they tried to pause on wing the failure was disastrous. Some
tumbled out of sight into the daisies, others recovered themselves with
violent efforts and returned hastily to the perch, complaining loudly.
Then the parents brought food, and this went on for some time, while all
the time the air was full of gentle twitters and calls, much baby-talk,
and a little parental instruction no doubt.
A delightful field of work awaits the young naturalist of to-day. Our
predecessors have devoted their energies to classifying and arranging.
They have dissected and weighed and measured every part of the little
bodies; they know to a fraction the length of wings and tails; they have
pulled to pieces the nests, "clutched" the eggs, and blown and mounted
and labeled and set up in cases the whole external of the little
creatures. All that can be learned by violence, all the characteristics
evolved by fear and distress are duly set down in the books. You shall
find a catalogue of the robin's possessions in the shape of feathers and
bones, pictures of his internal anatomy, illustrations of his work in
nest building, and specimens in all stages, but in the whole world of
these books you shall not find the robin. The soul of the robin has
escaped them, it is not to be taken by force.
I do not find fault; it needed to be done, but happily--let us hope--it
is done, and a more enticing field is now open, namely: to make personal
acquaintance with the birds, find out how they live, their manners and
customs, and their individual characters. This is one of the most
charming studies in the world, but much more is required than a gun and
a little or much scientific knowledge. There is infinite patience,
perseverance, untiring devotion, and more,--a quick eye and ear, and a
sympathetic heart. If you do not love the birds you cannot understand
them.
This is the pleasant path opening now, and in some ways it is
particularly suited to woman with her great patience and quiet manners.
Once interested in the lives in the "upper stories," you will find them
most absorbing; novels will pall upon you, fancy work seem frivolous,
society duties a bore, and talk--loud enough to interfere with
listening--an impertinence.
BIRD-STUDY IN A SOUTHERN STATE.
He loved the ever deepening brown
Of summer twilights on the enchanted hills;
Where he might listen to the starts and thrills
Of birds that sang and rustled in the trees,
Or watch the footsteps of the wandering breeze,
And the bird's shadows as they fluttered by,
Or slowly wheeled across the unclouded sky.
RICHARD WATSON GILDER.
II.
BIRD-STUDY IN A SOUTHERN STATE.
The most interesting experience in several years of bird-study was a
trip to a Southern State for the purpose of making acquaintance with the
mocking-bird.
Adventures began before the lights of New York sank below the horizon;
adventures more strange than agreeable, for the journey was by steamer.
Hardly had we passed out of the bay when there began a gentle roll which
speedily sent passengers to bed. When we passed Long Branch the motion
was a steady rock from side to side, that made one feel like a baby in a
cradle, and before bedtime it was a violent swing that flung one about
like a toy, and tossed the furniture around like doll-house belongings.
Holding on to the side of the berth with both hands, I passed the night
listening to the labored strokes of the engine and the crashing of the
loosened freight in the hold, and entertained by the eccentric conduct
of the loose articles in my state-room, a trunk, chair, life-preserver,
plate, saucer, and teaspoon, which with one accord, and in spite of all
I could do by most ingenious wedging, joined in a peculiar dance between
the outer wall and the inner partition of my room. At one moment they
rested quietly in their several ways, against the wall; the steamer
lurched, and all started madly across the floor, the heavy things first,
and the lighter bringing up the rear, each banging violently against the
partition, with thump, rattle, or jingle according to its nature, then
in a moment dashing back so furiously that I feared to see the thin
planks yield and my trunk go out to sea by itself. Not that I cared for
my trunk--my life was the subject that interested me at the time.
Outside, too, the doors and blinds rattled, the tiller-chain chattered
and wailed and sobbed like a woman in distress, and above all other
sounds rose the dismal fog horn, for a pall of mist had settled over us.
Day differed from night only in being light, for the sole prospect from
the guards was one moment the fog above, where the sky should be, the
next the depths of the sea yawning as if to receive the ship into its
bosom. In this manner, during two days and three nights, we rolled on to
our destination, and for days after my feet touched blessed Mother Earth
I reeled and staggered like a drunken man.
After the storm, the calm. There followed upon this rough voyage weeks
of quiet, delightful bird-study, whose long sunny-days were passed in
the fragrant depths of pine groves, under arching forest of sweet-gum
trees, or on the shore of the salt marsh; but wherever, or however,
always following and spying out the ways of the feathered world.
The bird of the South--the mocking-bird, was the first object of study.
By day he was watched and noted, during the long twilight he was
listened to, and at midnight sleep was often banished by his wonderful
and enchanting voice. Gray and inconspicuous in coloring, we all know
him in the cage; but how different in freedom! how wild and bewitching
his song! how wise and knowing his ways! how well worth weeks of study
is this one bird!
Here were dozens of other birds also. What keen delight to one fresh
from the town, to look over the marsh where
"Leagues and leagues of marsh grass, waist high, broad in the blade,
Green and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade,
Stretch leisurely off in a pleasant plain
To the terminal blue of the main;"
to watch the great snowy heron sweeping over with broad white wing,
tripping gracefully about on the edges of the channels, and toward
night betaking itself to a line of trees in the distance, that looked as
if full of snowy blossoms that moved and changed about and at last
settled for the night; to see the bald eagle catch a big fish and call
his mate to help him eat it; to watch the lesser tern hover with yellow
bill pointed downward and sharp eye fixed on the water, and at length
stiffen his wings and dive head first into it, bringing out his prey,
and filling the air with cries in a complaining, squealing tone that
always reminds one of a young pig; to gaze fascinated at the bewitching
flight of the ring-plover, sweeping low over the water in a small flock,
now almost invisible as the sombre-colored backs turn toward you, now
suddenly flashing bright as silver when the breasts come into sight,
moving in perfect unison as if impelled by one will. More, many more
birds of the marsh attract and draw one, but inland is the mocking-bird,
and after a walk along the shore, always my feet turned to the groves
and the fields where the matchless bird lives his life.
To see, as well as hear a wild mocking-bird sing, is worth a journey,
even over the rolling deep. I passed hours in a pleasant grove beyond
the gardens and fields, watching and listening to one bird whose concert
hall it was. The grove was the audience room where one might be in the
shade and not too conspicuous in watching him. His chosen place was in
the sunshine, for this bird is a sun-worshiper. I always found him
singing when I reached the spot. Perhaps on the top spike of a young
pine-tree, balanced on one, or sometimes on two adjoining top
twigs--which of course stand straight up--stood the singer, madly
shouting his most peculiar medley. He looked at me as I passed near his
perch, but did not pause in his song. After I had taken my seat he
flew--singing as he went--alighted nearer, on the upper sprig of a
cedar, turned his eyes upon me, and treated me to another performance,
while I looked and listened enchanted.
Nor was I the only listener. Ever and anon while absorbed in the
entertainment, or waiting, breathless, for a new note, I was startled by
a rustle, and a low "Good evenin' Missis," and glanced up to see a negro
stealing along in a stealthy way. It might be a woman with a big bundle
or basket on her head, possibly a slouching young man or "boy" with an
air of interest in my eccentric proceedings, or a group of youngsters
with nothing particular to do, but one and all perfectly silent in
movement. No wonder they know all about the birds, and lay violent hands
on eggs, nests, or nestlings as they choose, creeping around as they do
without a sound. It is only surprising that a bird is left in the State,
so persistently do they rob the nests. Naturally the mocking-bird, for
which they can always find purchasers, is the most desirable, and white
as well as black persecute that bird unceasingly.
"You can't keep them from the negroes," said a young white man. "I've
often been watching a nest to get the young ones myself, but some nig
was sure to take it before me."
Speaking of negroes, I never saw so many idle men and grown boys. Not a
spot could be found so secluded that one or more did not soon make his
appearance. Selecting the quiet yard of a summer cottage, a
deserted-looking place not yet opened for the season, in which to study
the ways of the birds in peace, I was often disturbed by a negro passing
across the lawn, taking no heed of fences, for there's no sort of a
fence in that country that they will not pass over as if it were not
there. Of course this always put to flight the dramatis personae of my
study. One day an interesting (or interested) person of color appeared
on the scene equipped for white-washing, and proceeded to adorn tree
trunks, fences, buildings, etc., etc., relieving his labors by
questioning me about northern manners and customs. On another occasion
when I was looking anxiously to see a certain family of nestlings make
exit from the nest, a building that I supposed to be a shut-up
store-room was thrown open, a wash-tub appeared before the door, and I
found that a family of eight, including four children, had moved in, not
thirty feet from my chosen seat, and of course to the utter destruction
of any seclusion.
I could not select a single spot in the neighborhood, favorable to quiet
study, without having it made desolate or turned into a thoroughfare.
The loveliest place I found at all was a footpath passing for about
fifty feet through a fringe of low cedar, sweet gum trees, and shrubs
loaded with pink lily-of-the-valley shaped blossoms. Across the path ran
a brooklet, a mere thread of water, so shallow that small birds stood in
the middle to bathe, though it deepened into a pool below, where frogs
croaked and plunged. It was cool; it was quiet, far from the everywhere
present negro hut; there was no sound but the trickle of the streamlet
as it fell into the pool, and the softened roar of the ocean beyond the
wide salt marsh.
To this nook I went every day, always trying to surprise the birds at
their usual occupations, but never quite succeeding; for steal in
quietly as I might I always heard low remarks, a slight flutter of
wings, and usually saw a dark form or two departing near the ground
behind some shrub. Slowly and quietly, however, I took my seat on a bank
close under a thick bush,--while the silence around me was as profound
as if no wing had ever fluttered there,--and became as motionless as
circumstances would allow, for beside the birds there were other tenants
not half so shy.
After a few moments, when the ripple I caused had died away, sounds of
life began again; unknown water creatures made queer noises in the pool
below, low bird tones, unfamiliar scraps of song fell on the ear,
ordinary ways were resumed.
In this pleasant place I made acquaintance with the painted-finch, or
nonpareil, who was least frightened of the small birds, and stood
patiently on a cedar twig till I became quiet, then came down in plain
sight, waded up to the tops of his firm little legs in the water, and
deliberately took his bath before my very face. Here also I had a call
from Bob White, who cautiously lifted a striped cap and a very bright
eye above the grass tops to look at me. He did not introduce himself;
indeed, after a moment's steady gaze his head dropped and I saw him no
more, but I heard him rustle in the grass on the way to the
strawberries, of which he demands--and gets--his share.
Ruin fell upon this charming retreat in this wise. One day on my
approach I saw commotion in the shrubs and two negroes at work chopping
great branches out on each side of the path, letting in the sun to my
bank, and turning it into a hideous wreck. I protested.
"Why is this? What are you doing?"
"Oh, we're just cuttin' some pea-poles!" they replied calmly. They had
been too lazy or too indifferent to step ten feet on one side into the
thicker copse, and leave the pretty path in its beauty, and the mischief
was done, and after all it was not my business. I passed on.
Bird-study has other annoyances in that part of the world beside the
human beings of whom I have spoken. Next, perhaps, are the sufferings
which wring the heart all the while. John Burroughs has written the
tragedies of the nests; he could add a chapter more tragical than all,
should he visit the haunts of the mocking-bird. Nothing can be more
dreadful than the systematic and persistent war made upon this bird, of
which nevertheless every Southerner is proud.
Lastly, the hindrances which Dame Nature herself throws around her
mysteries. There are the prickly pears, sowed broadcast over the land so
thickly that one can hardly avoid stepping on them, with thorns sharp as
needles, and as long. One of an inch in length that I had the curiosity
to examine had forty-five thorns, equal to two papers of number six
sharps, that stuck out in every direction, and would pass through an
ordinary shoe with perfect ease. This interesting vegetable has no local
attachments whatever, and readily clings to any part of one's garment.
Then there are the mosquitoes with which the same careful mother peoples
the groves, even in April, industrious little creatures not in the least
enervated by the climate. But her grand dependence, judiciously settled
indeed, is on the sand flies. Wherever there is not a howling
gale--there are the flies in millions, most indefatigable and maddening
of pests. And finally, to take home with you, to remind you pleasantly
of her hospitalities when you have reached your own room, is the tick!
Ties from the outer world began at last to draw. The birdlings in the
nest were not ready to come out, and growing impatient I drew upon the
knowledge--or rather the ignorance--of the residents and heard some
surprising statements, which further observation, however, did not
confirm. That the mocking-bird baby lives for three weeks in the nest;
that part of that time the parents carry the nestlings about on their
backs; that when old enough the young are pushed out of their nest, and
always fall to the ground.
And the authors of these fables were grown-up, and had passed their
lives among the mocking-birds. I curbed my impatience, stayed another
week, and saw all the nestlings out, and the nest deserted.
Another charge also fell to the ground on careful observation. The
farmers complain--as farmers are apt to complain of their best friends,
the birds--that the mocking-bird eats strawberries. I set myself to
watch a fine patch full of ripe and tempting berries, several times when
no one was near. Many birds came about, mocking-birds, crows, kingbirds,
orchard orioles, and others. The mocking-birds ran down between the rows
of vines catching grasshoppers, the crows did the same service, walking
with dignity. The kingbirds chased flies, the orioles searched the fruit
trees for insects. One and all were working in the interest of the
strawberry grower. And while I watched, an hour or more at a time, not
even for dessert after filling their stomachs with insects, did one take
a berry, which I am sure they might be considered to have earned.
I know one lady--would there were more like her--who owns a garden on
Long Island, and when her gardener comes in and says something _must_
be done to prevent the birds destroying fruit, calmly says: "Certainly,
set out another row of plants. Let us have enough for the birds by all
means, and for ourselves too."
THE MOCKING-BIRD'S NEST.
Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.
Then down he shot, bounced airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song
Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again.
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:
How may the death of that dull insect be
The life of yon trim Shakespeare, on the tree?
SIDNEY LANIER.
III.
THE MOCKING-BIRD'S NEST.
"Superb and sole upon a plumed spray
That o'er the general leafage boldly grew,"
as literally as though Lanier had sketched that particular bird, stood
the first free mocking-bird I ever heard. His perch was the topmost twig
of the tallest tree in the group. It was a cedar, perhaps fifteen feet
high, around which a jasmine vine had clambered, and that morning opened
a cluster of fragrant blossoms at his feet, as though an offering to the
most noted singer on our side of the globe. As I drew near he turned his
clear, bright eye upon me, and sang a welcome to North Carolina; and
several hours later, when the moon rose high over the waters of the
Sound, he completed his perfect performance with a serenade, the like of
which I fear I may never hear again. I chose to consider his attentions
personal, because, of all the household, I am sure I was the only one
who listened, and I had passed over many miles of rolling and tossing
ocean to make his acquaintance.
Nothing would have been easier, or more delightful, than to pitch one's
tent in a certain pine grove not far away, and pass days and weeks in
forgetting the world of cares, and reading favorite books, lulled at all
hours of day and night by the softened roar of the ocean and the
wonderful bird
"Singing the song of everything,
Consummate sweet, and calm."
But it was not merely as singer that I wished to know him; nor to watch
his dainty and graceful ways as he went about the daily duties of
food-hunting, singing, and driving off marauders, which occupied his
hours from dawn to late evening, and left him spirit enough for many a
midnight rhapsody. It was in his domestic relations that I desired to
see him,--the wooing of the bride and building the nest, the training of
mocking-bird babies and starting them in the world; and no loitering and
dreaming in the pine grove, however tempting, would tell me this. I must
follow him to his more secluded retreats, see where he had set up his
homestead.
Thoreau--or is it Emerson?--says one always finds what he looks for, and
of course I found my nests. One pair of birds I noticed through the
courtship, the selection of the site, the building and occupying of the
nest; another couple, already sitting when discovered, I watched
through the incubation and nursing of the little ones, and at last
assisted in giving them a fair chance for their lives and a start in the
world. It may be thought that my assistance was not particularly
valuable; the birds shared this opinion; none the less, but for my
presence not one of those birdlings would be free and happy to-day, as I
hope and believe they are. To the study of these two households I gave
nearly every hour of daylight, in all weathers, for a month, and of the
life that went on in and around them I can speak from personal
knowledge; beyond that, and at other times in his life, I do not profess
to know the mocking-bird.
The bird whose nest-making I witnessed was the one whose performance I
chose to consider a welcome, and his home was in the pine grove, a group
of about twenty trees, left from the original forest possibly, at any
rate nearly a hundred feet high, with all branches near the top, as
though they had grown in close woods. They were quite scattering now,
and lower trees and shrubs flourished in their shade, making a charming
spot, and a home worthy even of this superb songster. The bird himself
was remarkably friendly. Seeming to appreciate my attitude of admiring
listener, he often perched on the peak of a low roof (separated only by
a carriage drive from the upper "gallery" where I sat), and sang for
hours at a time, with occasional lunches; or, as Lanier, his most ardent
lover, has it,--
"Then down he shot, bounced airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song
Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again."
Whatever he did, his eyes were upon me; he came to the corner nearest me
to sing, and was so intelligent in look and bearing that I believe he
liked a quiet listener.
His wooing, however, the bird did not intend me to see, though two or
three times I surprised him at it. The first part that I chanced upon
was curious and amusing. A female, probably the "beloved object," stood
demurely on one of the dead top branches of a large tree down in the
garden, while her admirer performed fantastic evolutions in the air
about her. No flycatcher ever made half the eccentric movements this
aerial acrobat indulged in. He flew straight up very high, executing
various extraordinary turns and gyrations, so rapidly they could not be
followed and described, and came back singing; in a moment he departed
in another direction, and repeated the grotesque performance. He was
plainly exerting himself to be agreeable and entertaining, in
mocking-bird style, and I noticed that every time he returned from an
excursion he perched a little nearer his audience of one, until, after
some time, he stood upon the same twig, a few inches from her. They were
facing and apparently trying to stare each other out of countenance; and
as I waited, breathless, to see what would happen next, the damsel
coquettishly flitted to another branch. Then the whole scene was
repeated; the most singular and graceful evolutions, the songs, and the
gradual approach. Sometimes, after alighting on a top twig, he dropped
down through the branches, singing, in a way to suggest the "dropping
song" so graphically described by Maurice Thompson, but never really
falling, and never touching the ground. Each performance ended in his
reaching the twig which she occupied and her flight to another, until at
last, by some apparently mutual agreement, both flew, and I saw no more.
A remarkable "dance" which I also saw, with the same bird as principal
actor, seems to me another phase of the wooing, though I must say it
resembled a war-dance as well; but love is so like war among the lower
orders, even of men, that it is hard to distinguish between them. I
shall not try to decide, only to relate, and, I beg to say, without the
smallest exaggeration. The dances I saw were strictly _pas-de-deux_,
and they always began by a flash of wings and two birds alighting on the
grass, about a foot apart. Both instantly drew themselves up perfectly
erect, tail elevated at an angle of forty-five degrees, and wings held
straight down at the sides. Then followed a most droll dance. Number one
stood like a statue, while number two pranced around, with short,
mincing steps and dainty little hops which did not advance him an inch;
first he passed down the right, then turned and went down the left, all
in the queer, unnatural manner of short hops and steps, and holding
himself rigidly erect, while number one always faced the dancer,
whichever way he turned. After a few moments of this movement, number
one decided to participate, and when his partner moved to the right he
did the same; to the left he still accompanied him, always facing, and
maintaining the exact distance from him. Then number two described a
circle around number one, who turned to face him with short hops where
he stood. Next followed a _chasse_ of both birds to the right; then a
separation, one dancing to the right and the other to the left, always
facing, and always slowly and with dignity. This stately minuet they
kept up for some time, and appeared so much like a pair of
old-fashioned human dancers that when, on one occasion, number two
varied the performance by a spring over the head of his partner, I was
startled, as if an old gentleman had suddenly hopped over the head of
the grand dame his _vis-a-vis_. When this strange new figure was
introduced, number one proved equal to the emergency, hopping backward,
and turning so dexterously that when his partner alighted they were
facing, and about a foot apart, as before. The object of all this was
very uncertain to a looker-on. It might be the approaches of love, and
quite as probably the wary beginnings of war, and the next feature of
the programme was not explanatory; they rose together in the air ten
feet or more, face to face, fluttering and snatching at each other,
apparently trying to clinch; succeeding in doing so, they fell to the
ground, separated just before they touched it, and flew away. O wings!
most maddening to a bird-student.
It was not very long after these performances, which seem to me to
belong to the courtship period, when I noticed that my bird had won his
bride, and they were busy house-hunting. The place they apparently
preferred, and at last fixed upon, was at an unusual height for
mocking-birds, near the top of one of the tall pines, and I was no less
surprised than pleased to see them lay the foundation of their home in
that spot. I congratulated myself that at least one brood in North
Carolina would have a chance to come to maturity and be free; and so
persistent is the warfare waged against this bird--unfortunately
marketable at any stage from the egg--that I almost doubt if another
will. The day after they began building a northwest storm set in, and
for three days we had high winds and cold weather. In spite of this, the
brave birds persevered, and finished their nest during those three days,
although much of the time they made infrequent trips. It was really most
touching to watch them at their unnatural task, and remember that
nothing but the cruelty of man forced them to it (one nest had been
destroyed). Their difficulty was to get up against the wind, and, having
little experience in flying upward, they made the natural mistake of
starting from the foot of their chosen tree. Sometimes, at first, they
flew with the body almost perpendicular; and afterwards, when they held
the body in proper position, they wished to go so directly up that they
turned the head back over the shoulder to see where they were going. The
wind, too, beat them far out of their course, and they were obliged to
alight and rest, occasionally being forced to cling to the trunk of a
tree to recover breath and strength to go on. They never attempted to
make the whole ascent at once, but always stopped four or five times,
perching on the ends of fallen branches, of which there were eight or
ten below the living part of the pine. Even when no wind disturbed them,
they made these pauses on the way, and it was always a hard task to
reach the top. They learned, after a few days, however, to begin their
ascent at a distance, and not approach the tree till at least half as
high as they wished to go, which simplified the matter very much. It was
beautiful to see them, upon reaching the lowest of the living branches,
bound gayly up, as though over a winding stair, to the particular spot
they had fixed upon.