he alighted on the roof, looked over at me, and bubbled out a few notes,
as much as to say, "You must excuse me now; I am very busy;" but all the
time I hoped that while sitting was going on I should have him back. I
reckoned ignorantly; I did not know my bird. No sooner was he the
possessor of a house and family than he suddenly became very wary. No
more solos on the roof; no more confidential remarks; no more
familiarities of any sort. Now he must beware of human beings, and even
when on the grass he held himself very erect, wings straight down,
every instant on guard. His happiness demanded expression in song,
certainly, but instead of confining himself to the roof he circled the
lawn, which was between two and three hundred feet wide. If he began in
a group of cedars on the right, he sang awhile there, then flew to the
fence next the road without a pause in the music, and in a few minutes
passed to the group of pines at the left, perched on a dead branch, and
finished his song there. It was most tantalizing, though I could but
admit it a proof of intelligence.
Another change appeared in the bird with the advent of family cares: he
was more belligerent; he drove the bluebird off the lawn, he worried the
tufted titmouse when it chanced to alight on his tree, and in the most
offensive way claimed ownership of pine-trees, lawn, and all the fence
bordering the same. Neighboring mocking-birds disputed his claim, and
many a furious chase took place among the trees. (So universal is their
habit of insisting upon exclusive right to certain grounds that two
mocking-birds are never found nesting very near each other, in that part
of the country. This I was assured, and found it true of those I
observed.) These little episodes in his life kept the pine-tree bird
from dullness, while his mate was engaged in the top of the tall pine,
where, by the way, he went now and then to see how she was getting on.
Sometimes his spouse received him amiably, but occasionally, I regret to
say, I heard a "huff" from the nest that said plainly, "Don't you touch
those eggs!" And what was amusing, he acknowledged her right to dictate
in the matter, and meekly took his departure. Whenever she came down for
a lunch, he saw her instantly, and was ready for a frolic. He dropped to
the grass near her, and they usually indulged in a lively romp, chasing
each other over and through the trees, across the yard, around the
garden, and back to the lawn, where she went on with her eating, and he
resumed his singing.
While I was watching the pine-tree household, the other nest, in the top
of a low, flat-topped cedar, perhaps twenty-five feet high, and
profusely fringed with Spanish moss, became of even more interest. I
could not see into the nest, for there was no building high enough to
overlook it, but I could see the bird when he stood upon the edge.
Sitting, in a warm climate, is not particularly close work. Although the
weather was cool, yet when the sun was out the sitter left her nest from
six to eight minutes at a time, and as often as once in twenty minutes.
Of course in rain she had not so much liberty, and on some days left
only when her mate was ready to take her place, which he frequently did.
On the ninth day of my watching (I had not seen the beginning of the
sitting), the 3d of May, I found work was over and the youngsters were
out. There was much excitement in the cedar-tree, but in a quiet way; in
fact, the birds became so silent and so wary in approaching the nest
that it required the closest watching to see them go or come, and only
occasionally could I detect any food in the beak. I discovered very soon
that mocking-bird babies are brought up on hygienic principles, and have
their meals with great regularity. For some time both parents were
exceedingly busy, going and coming almost constantly; then there came a
rest of a half hour or more, during which no food was brought. Each bird
had its own way of coming to the tree. Madam came over the roof of the
cottage where I sat, and was exposed to view for only a few feet, over
which she passed so quickly and silently that I had to be constantly on
the alert to see her at all. The singer had another way, and by rising
behind a hickory-tree beyond the cedar managed to keep a screen of
branches between him and myself nearly every foot of the way. I could
see them both almost every time, but I could not always tell whether
they carried food. Now the bluebird, honest soul, always stops in plain
sight to rest, with his mouth full of dainties for his young brood, and
a robin will stand staring at one for two minutes with three or four
wriggling worms in his beak. It is quite a different affair in the
mocking-bird family, as is certainly natural, after the persecution it
has endured. No special fear of me was the cause,--it is a marked
peculiarity of the bird; and I think, with a little study, one could
learn to know exactly the moment the eggs hatch by the sudden silence
and wariness of both birds. Poor little creatures! a sympathetic friend
hates to add to the anxiety they suffer, and he cannot help a feeling of
reproach when the brave little head of the family alights on the fence,
and looks him straight in the eye, as if to demand why he is subjected
to all this annoyance. I had to console myself by thinking that I was
undoubtedly a providence to him; for I am certain that nothing but my
watching him so conspicuously that every negro within a mile saw me,
saved his family to him, so low and easy of access was the nest.
The day those nestlings were one week old they uttered their first cry.
It was not at all a "peep," but a cry, continued a few seconds; at
first only when food was offered to them, but as they increased in age
and strength more frequently. It was much like a high-pitched
"[=e]-[=e]-[=e]," and on the first day there was but one voice, which
grew rapidly stronger as the hours went by. The next day another and a
weaker cry joined the first, now grown assured and strong. But the music
of the father was hushed the moment the youngsters began; from that time
until they had left the nest, he sang not a note in my hearing. Perhaps
he was too busy, though he never seemed to work so hard as the robin or
oriole; but I think it was cautiousness, for the trouble of those
parents was painful to witness. They introduced a new sound among their
musical notes, a harsh squawk; neither dog nor negro could cross the
yard without being saluted with it. As for me, though I was meekness
itself, taking the most obscure position I could find, and remaining as
absolutely motionless as possible, they eyed me with suspicion; from the
first they "huffed" at me, and at this point began to squawk the moment
I entered the gate. On one occasion I discovered that by changing my
seat I could actually see the nest, which I much desired; so I removed
while the birds were absent. Madam was the first to return, with a
beakful of food; she saw me instantly, and was too much excited to
dispose of her load. She came to my side of her tree, squawked loudly,
flapping her wings and jerking herself about. I remained motionless and
did not look at her, pretending to be absorbed in my book; but she
refused to be mollified. It evidently did not please her to have me see
so plainly; she desired to retain the friendly screen of leaves which
had secured her a small measure of privacy. I could not blame her; I
felt myself intrusive; and at last I respected her wishes and returned
to my old place, when she immediately calmed down and administered the
food she had held till then. Poor mother! those were trying times. Her
solicitude overpowered her discretion, and her manner proclaimed to
every one within hearing that the nestlings were out. Then, too, on the
eighth day the little ones added their voices, and soon called loudly
enough to attract the dullest of nest-robbers. I was so fearful lest
that nest should be disturbed that I scarcely dared to sleep o' nights;
the birds themselves were hardly more anxious than I was.
The eleventh day of the birdlings' life was exceedingly warm, without a
breath of air stirring, suffocating to humanity, but preeminently
inspiring to mocking-birds, and every singer within a mile of me, I am
sure, was singing madly, excepting the newly made parent. Upon reaching
my usual seat I knew at once, by the louder cry, that a young bird was
out of the nest, and after some searching through the tree I found
him,--a yellowish-drab little fellow, with very decided wing-markings, a
tail perhaps an inch in length, and soft slate-colored spots, so long as
almost to be streaks, on the breast. He was scrambling about the
branches, always trying to get a higher place, calling and perking his
insignificant tail in true mocking-bird fashion. I think the parents
disapproved this early ambition, for they did not feed him for a long
time, though they passed him to go to the nest. So far from being
lightened, their cares were greatly increased by the precociousness of
the youngster, and from this moment their trouble and worry were
grievous to see. So much self-reliance has the mocking-bird, even in the
nest, that he cannot be kept there until his legs are strong enough to
bear his weight, or his wings ready to fly. The full-grown spirit of the
race blossoms out in the young one at eleven days, and for several more
he is exposed to so many dangers that I wonder there is one left in the
State.
The parents, one after the other, came down on to a bush near my seat to
remonstrate with me; and I must admit that so great was my sympathy, and
so uncomfortable did I feel at adding in the least to their anxiety,
that I should never have seen that young family fledged, only that I
knew perfectly well what they did not, that I was a protection to them.
I tried to reassure the mother by addressing her in her own language (as
it were), and she turned quickly, looked, listened, and returned to her
tree, quieted. This sound is a low whistling through the teeth, which
readily soothes cage birds. It interests and calms them, though I have
no notion what it means to them, for I am speaking an unknown tongue.
The baby on the tree was not quiet, climbing about the branches every
moment that he was not engaged in dressing his feathers, the first and
most important business of the newly emancipated nestling. After an hour
or more of watching there was a sudden stir in the family, and the
youngster made his appearance on the ground. He was not under the side
of the tree on which he had been resting, so, although I did not see the
passage, I knew he had not fallen, as he is popularly said to do, but
flown as well as he was able. I started slowly down the yard to examine
the little stranger, but was absolutely startled by a cry from the
mother, that sounded exactly like "Go 'way!" as I have often heard a
negro girl say it. Later it was very familiar, a yearning, anxious
heart-aching sound to hear.
The youth was very lively, starting off at once on his travels, never
for an instant doubting his own powers. I saw his first movement, which
was a hop, and, what surprised and delighted me, accompanied by a
peculiar lifting of the wings, of which I shall have more to say. He
quickly hopped through the thin grass till he reached a fence, passed
down beside it till a break in the pickets left an open place on the
bottom board, sprang without hesitation upon that, and after a moment's
survey of the country beyond dropped down on the farther side. Now that
was a lane much frequented by negroes, and, being alarmed for his
safety, I sent a boy after him, and in a moment had him in my hand. He
was a beautiful little creature, having a head covered with downy dark
feathers, and soft black eyes, which regarded me with interest, but not
at all with fear. All this time, of course, the parents were scolding
and crying, and I held him only long enough to look carefully at him,
when I replaced him on the grass. Off he started at once, directly
west,--like the "march of empire,"--went through the same fence again,
but further down, and, as I could tell by the conduct of the parents, in
a few moments was safely through a second fence into a comparatively
retired old garden beyond, where I hoped he would be unmolested. Thus
departed number one, with energy and curiosity, to investigate a
brand-new world, fearless in his ignorance and self-confidence, although
his entrance into the world had not been the triumphant fly we might
look for, but an ignominious "flop," and was irresistibly and
ludicrously suggestive of the manner of exit from the home nest of
sundry individuals of our own race, which we consider of much greater
importance.
The young traveler set out at exactly ten o'clock. As soon as he was out
of sight, though not out of hearing,--for the youngster as well as the
parents kept the whole world of boys and cats well informed of his
whereabouts for three days,--I returned and gave my attention to number
two, who was now out upon the native tree. This one was much more quiet
than his predecessor. He did not cry, but occasionally uttered a
mocking-bird squawk, though spending most of his time dressing his
plumage, in preparation for the grand _entree_. At twelve o'clock he
made the plunge and came to the ground in a heap. This was plainly a
bird of different disposition from number one; his first journey
evidently tired him. He found the world hard and disappointing, so he
simply stayed where he dropped in the middle of the path, and refused to
move, though I touched him as a gentle reminder of the duty he owed to
his parents and his family. He sat crouched upon the gravel and looked
at me with calm black eye, showing no fear and certainly no intention of
moving, even indulging in a nap while I waited.
Now appeared upon the scene several persons, both white and black, each
of whom wanted a young mocking-bird for a cage; but I stood over him
like a god-parent and refused to let any one touch him. I began to fear
that I should have him on my hands at last, for even the parents seemed
to appreciate his characteristics and to know that he could not be
hurried, and both were still busy following the vagaries of number one.
The mother now and then returned to look after him and was greatly
disturbed by his unnatural conduct--and so was I. He appeared stupid, as
if he had come out too soon, and did not even know how to hop. It was
twenty minutes by the watch before he moved. His mother's calls at last
aroused him; he raised himself upon his shaky little legs, cried out,
and started off exactly as number one had done,--westward, hopping, and
lifting his wings at every step. Then I saw by the enormous amount of
white on his wings that he was a singer. He went as far as the fence,
and there he paused again. In vain did the mother come and scold; in
vain did I try to push him along. He simply knew his own will, and meant
to have it; the world might be strange, but he was not in the least
interested. He rested in that spot fifteen or twenty minutes more, while
I stood guard as before, and preserved him from cages of both negroes
and whites. At last he did manage to squeeze through the fence, and,
much relieved, I left him to the old birds, one of whom was down in the
lot beyond the garden, no doubt following up his ambitious first-born.
Whoever, meanwhile, was left in the nest had a poor chance of food, and
one was already crying. It was not until six o'clock that the birds
seemed to remember the nestling; then it was well fed, and left again.
Nothing would be easier than to follow the wandering youngsters, see how
they got on and how soon they were able to fly, but this so disturbed
the parents I had not the heart to do it; and besides I feared they
would starve the infants, for one was never fed while I was near.
Doubtless their experience of the human race forbade their confiding in
the kindly intentions of any one. It was well that only two of the young
appeared in one day, for keeping track of them was so serious a matter
that two parents could scarcely manage it.
Number three differed from both of his elders; he was a cry-baby. He
was not bright and lively like number one, and he did not squawk like
number two, but he cried constantly, and at six P. M. I left him calling
and crying at the top of his voice. Very early the next morning I
hastened to the scene of yesterday's excitement. Number three was out on
the tree. I could hear number two still crying and squawking in the
garden, and from the position and labors of the male I concluded that
number one was in the next lot. It was a dismal, damp morning, every
grass-blade loaded with water, and a heavy fog driving in from the sea.
I hoped number three would know enough to stay at home, but his fate was
upon him, and no rain was ever wet enough to overcome destiny. At about
eight o'clock he stretched his little wings and flew to the ground,--a
very good flight for his family, nearly thirty feet, twice as far as
either of his predecessors had gone; silently, too,--no fuss about it.
He began at once the baby mocker's hop with lifted wings, headed for the
west fence, jumped upon the lower board, squeezed through and was off
down the garden before the usual crowd of spectators had collected to
strive for his head. I was delighted. The parents, who were not near
when he flew, came back soon and found him at once. I left him to them
and returned to my place.
But silence seemed to have fallen upon the cedar, late so full of life.
In vain I listened for another cry; in vain I watched for another visit
from the parents. All were busy in the garden and lot, and if any baby
were in that nest it must surely starve. Occasionally a bird came back,
hunted a little over the old ground in the yard, perched a moment on the
fence, and saluted me with a low squawk, but their interest in the place
was plainly over.
After two hours I concluded the nest was empty; and a curious
performance of the head of the late family convinced me it was so. He
came quite near to me, perched on a bush in the yard, fixed his eyes on
me, and then, with great deliberation, first huffed, then squawked, then
sang a little, then flew. I do not know what the bird meant to say, but
this is what it expressed to me: "You've worried us all through this
trying time, but you didn't get one of our babies! Hurrah!"
In the afternoon I had the nest brought down to me. For foundation it
had a mass of small twigs from six to eight inches long, crooked and
forked and straight, which were so slightly held together that they
could only be handled by lifting with both hands, and placing at once in
a cloth, where they were carefully tied in. Within this mass of twigs
was the nest proper, thick and roughly constructed, three and a half
inches in inside diameter, made of string, rags, newspaper, cotton
wadding, bark, Spanish moss, and feathers, lined with fine root fibre, I
think. The feathers were not inside for lining, but outside on the upper
edge. It was, like the foundation, so frail that, though carefully
managed, it could only be kept in shape by a string around it, even
after the mass of twigs had been removed. I have a last year's nest,
made of exactly the same materials, but in a much more substantial
manner; so perhaps the cedar-tree birds were not so skillful builders as
some of their family.
The mocking-bird's movements, excepting in flight, are the perfection of
grace; not even the cat-bird can rival him in airy lightness, in easy
elegance of motion. In alighting on a fence, he does not merely come
down upon it; his manner is fairly poetical. He flies a little too high,
drops like a feather, touches the perch lightly with his feet, balances
and tosses upward his tail, often quickly running over the tips of half
a dozen pickets before he rests. Passing across the yard, he turns not
to avoid a taller tree or shrub, nor does he go through it; he simply
bounds over, almost touching it, as if for pure sport. In the matter of
bounds the mocker is without a peer. The upward spring while singing is
an ecstatic action that must be seen to be appreciated; he rises into
the air as though too happy to remain on earth, and opening his wings,
floats down, singing all the while. It is indescribable, but enchanting
to see. In courtship, too, as related, he makes effective use of this
exquisite movement. In simple food-hunting on the ground,--a most
prosaic occupation, truly,--on approaching a hummock of grass he bounds
over it instead of going around. In alighting on a tree he does not
pounce upon the twig he has selected, but upon a lower one, and passes
quickly up through the branches, as lithe as a serpent. So fond is he of
this exercise that one which I watched amused himself half an hour at a
time in a pile of brush; starting from the ground, slipping easily
through up to the top, standing there a moment, then flying back and
repeating the performance. Should the goal of his journey be a fence
picket, he alights on the beam which supports it, and hops gracefully to
the top.
Like the robin, the mocking-bird seeks his food from the earth,
sometimes digging it, but oftener picking it up. His manner on the
ground is much like the robin's; he lowers the head, runs a few steps
rapidly, then erects himself very straight for a moment. But he adds to
this familiar performance a peculiar and beautiful movement, the object
of which I have been unable to discover. At the end of a run he lifts
his wings, opening them wide, displaying their whole breadth, which
makes him look like a gigantic butterfly, then instantly lowers his head
and runs again, generally picking up something as he stops. A
correspondent in South Carolina, familiar with the ways of the bird,
suggests that his object is to startle the grasshoppers, or, as he
expresses it, to "flush his game." I watched very closely and could not
fix upon any theory more plausible, though it seemed to be weakened by
the fact that the nestlings, as mentioned above, did the same thing
before they thought of looking for food. The custom is not invariable;
sometimes it is done, and sometimes not.
The mocking-bird cannot be said to possess a gentle disposition,
especially during the time of nesting. He does not seem malicious, but
rather mischievous, and his actions resemble the naughty though not
wicked pranks of an active child. At that time he does, it must be
admitted, lay claim to a rather large territory, considering his size,
and enforces his rights with many a hot chase and noisy dispute, as
remarked above. Any mocking-bird who dares to flirt a feather over the
border of the ground he chooses to consider his own has to battle with
him. A quarrel is a curious operation, usually a chase, and the war-cry
is so peculiar and apparently so incongruous that it is fairly
laughable. It is a rough breathing, like the "huff" of an angry cat, and
a serious dispute between the birds reminds one of nothing but a
disagreement in the feline family. If the stranger does not take the
hint, and retire at the first huff, he is chased, over and under trees
and through branches, so violently that leaves rustle and twigs are
thrust aside, as long as the patience or wind holds out. On one occasion
the defender of his homestead kept up a lively singing all through the
furious flight, which lasted six or eight minutes,--a remarkable thing.
To others than his own kind the mocker seems usually indifferent, with
the single exception of the crow. So long as this bird kept over the
salt marsh, or flew quite high, or even held his mouth shut, he was not
noticed; but let him fly low over the lawn, and above all let him "caw,"
and the hot-headed owner of the place was upon him. He did not seem to
have any special plan of attack, like the kingbird or the oriole; his
aim appeared to be merely to worry the enemy, and in this he was
untiring, flying madly and without pause around a perching crow until he
took flight, and then attempting to rise above him. In this he was not
always successful, not being particularly expert on the wing, though I
have two or three times seen the smaller bird actually rest on the back
of the foe for three or four seconds at a time.