observe the talk between them, which has great interest for me. This
pair were exceedingly talkative at first, uttering not only the usual
musical three-syllable warble or call, which Lanier aptly calls the
"heavenly word," but often soft twittering prattle, of varying
inflection and irregular length, which was certainly the most
interesting bird-talk I ever heard. When they could not see me they
indulged in it more freely, with changing tones at different times, and
after they became accustomed to the room and its inhabitants it was
neither so frequent nor so earnest. Often at night, when one--perhaps in
a dream--fell off the perch, I heard much low, tender talk, almost in a
whisper, before all was quiet again; and when another bird flew wildly
around the room, there was always a remark or two in an interested tone.
The male did most of the talking, carrying on, often for a long time, a
constant flow of what sounded marvelously like comments and criticisms,
while his mate replied occasionally with the usual call. Certain notes
plainly had a specific meaning, even to the others in the room. One in
particular was peculiar and low, but upon its utterance every bird
became instantly silent and looked at the cage, while the bluebirds
themselves were so absorbed, gazing apparently into blank space, that I
could easily put my hands on them before they observed me. For several
minutes this low note would be repeated, and all the birds stare at
nothing, till I began to feel almost uncomfortable, as I have done at
similar staring at nothing on the part of animals. One can hardly resist
the feeling that these creatures can see something invisible to our
eyes. On one occasion, when the male uttered this note, the female was
just about to eat; she stood as if petrified, with head halfway down to
the food, for two or three minutes.
What I have called talk was a very low twitter in a conversational tone,
on one note, not at all in a singing tone, like the usual warble or
call. I have also heard it from wild bluebirds, when I could get near
enough. From the first, as said above, the male did most of the talking,
and the habit grew upon him, till he became a regular babbler, standing
on the top perch, and keeping it up persistently all day long. I think
it arose from the fact that the greater number of birds in the room were
thrushes, who sang very softly, without opening the mouth. With this
gentle ripple of song the bluebird's voice harmonized perfectly, and he
almost entirely discontinued his lovely song, while indulging himself in
talk by the hour. Strange to say, I soon noticed that his mate did not
approve of it, and would not stand on the perch beside him while he
continued it. At first she turned sharply towards him, and he showed
that he understood her wishes by ceasing for a while; but as the habit
grew, and he was not so easily silenced, she more and more deserted his
side, and after two or three weeks I heard occasionally a gentle
remonstrance from her. I do not believe a really harsh tone can come
from a bluebird throat. One day they were taking their usual midday nap
on the same perch, when a thrush across the window began his low song.
That started the bluebird, and he added his chatter, which awakened his
mate. She endured it for about five seconds, and then she suddenly
stretched the wing nearest him so far that he was obliged to move away,
when she instantly hopped down herself.
The two bluebirds differed in intelligence. The female was quicker to
take an idea, but the male sooner conquered his fear. The first time I
offered meal-worms to them she was so lively as to secure more than her
share; but he learned in a day or two that worms were to be had outside,
especially on my desk, when he at once flew over to me and demanded
them, in the funniest little defiant way, looking at me most
significantly, and wiping his bill ostentatiously, then jerking himself
with great show of impatience. Words could not be plainer. Neither of
them had difficulty in telling me their food-dish was empty; they stood
on the edge and looked at me, then scraped the bill several times,
making much noise about it, then looked at me again. I knew in a moment,
the first time, what they wanted. When the male found out that another
bird alighted on a stick I held out to him, and was carried off upon it,
he seemed to be seized with curiosity, and the next time I offered it he
jumped upon it beside the other, and allowed himself to be lifted to the
desk. At one time, in flying around, he caught his feet in the coarse
net curtains I hung before the windows to keep strange birds from trying
to fly out. I went at once to him and took him off. He scolded,
fluttered, and pecked, and, when I had released him, flew directly
against another curtain and caught again. I went over to him, and this
time he understood that I was helping him; he neither struggled nor
pecked, and flew quietly when I set him free.
The bluebird never showed any curiosity about the room or the world
outside the windows, but sat on his door perch for hours, with a sharp
eye to the worm supply. The appearance of the cup that held them was a
signal for him to come down and beg for them, but his little mate never
dared trust herself on the desk, though when I threw a worm on the floor
she invariably secured it. So fond was she of this delicacy that she
once played a saucy trick upon a scarlet tanager. Having received a
worm, he went into the first open door he saw,--which happened to be the
bluebird's,--to find a place to manipulate the morsel, which he never
swallowed whole. Madam stood on the perch just above the entrance, and
as he came in she leaned over and snatched it out of his mouth,
swallowed it, wiped her bill, and turned to him, ready for another. His
stare of blank amazement was amusing to see, but he quickly made up his
mind that it was not a safe place to eat, and when I gave him another he
went to the roof of the same cage. She instantly mounted the top perch,
put up her bill and seized the worm; but he held on, dragged it away,
and then retired to his own cage with it. She positively could not
resist this temptation, and even from her own cherished spouse she would
sometimes snatch the desired tidbit.
The bluebirds' method of bathing differed from any I have noticed. They
put the head under water, and held it there, while spattering vigorously
with wings and tail. On leaving the bath the female fanned herself dry,
holding tightly to the perch and beating her wings with violence, while
dancing back and forth the whole length of the perch, in a bewitching
manner. Her mate fanned himself also, adding a very pretty lateral shake
of the wings, and raising the feathers on the crown and throat till he
looked twice as big as usual. But he was very fond of sunning himself
dry, in the attitude already spoken of. That position, by the way, was a
not unusual one with him; he often hopped the length of three feet
before a blind which stood against the wall, his legs bent, head nearly
touching the floor, and tail thrust almost straight up. A droll figure
he made. After hopping to the end of the blind, he would dash around
behind it, as if he expected or hoped to find something.
After moulting, the birds feathered out beautifully, and their spirits
rose in proportion. They delighted in flight, making long, sweeping
circles around the room, again and again, without stopping. A few weeks
later, as spring approached, they grew somewhat belligerent towards the
other inhabitants of the place; driving every bird away from their cage,
even following them to their chosen resting-places, insisting on their
right to every perch in the room. Then, too, began signs of courtship
between the lovely pair. The first thing I noticed was at worm-feeding
time. One day I had given each of them their portion. The female
swallowed hers instantly, and I turned to another cage, when I heard a
low, coaxing cry many times repeated. I looked around. The male stood on
the upper perch, still holding his worm, which he usually dispatched as
quickly as his mate did hers; and she was on a lower perch, looking up
at him, mouth open, wings fluttering, asking for it. While I looked, he
hopped down beside her, she opened her mouth wide, and he fed her as if
she were a nestling. He was more amiable than a wild bluebird I once
saw, who had brought up a long earthworm, and was beating it on top of
a post preparatory to swallowing it, when his little spouse--who was
sitting at the time--came to the fence rail below him, and asked in the
same way for a bit. So far from sharing it with her, this greedy bird
simply took a fresh hold of his prize, flew to a tree, and gobbled it
down with difficulty himself. Not so my generous captive. The next day
he complied with her request again, and after that it was he who did the
tender coaxing, begging her to accept the slight offering of his love.
Soon, too, she grew coquettish in manner, often turned a cold shoulder
to him, opened her mouth at him, and scolded in the sweetest and softest
voice; and one night, after they had settled on their perch, I heard
gentle talk, and saw a little peck or two on her part. He did the
talking, and she delivered the playful peck or push as reply. Now, too,
in his desire to manifest his affection, he could not always wait for
worms, but picked dainty bits from the food-dish, and tendered them in
the same pretty way. She always accepted, though often she went at once
to the food-dish and ate for herself; for with all this sentiment and
love-making her appetite did not fail. Once she was outside and he
inside the cage, when he began to call and offer her something out of
his mouth. She did not wish to go in, so she flew to a perch that ran
through the cage, and stood close to the wires, while he went to the
same perch inside, and fed her through the wires.
About this time, too, the bluebird talk nearly ceased, and instead of it
the lovely song of three notes was heard all day, and a little change
they made in it--throwing in a "grace note" between the second and
third--greatly added to its charm. Now, too, spring had really come, and
I waited only for warm days to let them go and set up their homestead in
freedom. The first mild day in May the window was opened for them. The
female flew first to a tree in front of the house, where she was greeted
in the rudest manner by the bird-tramps which infest our streets,--the
house-sparrows. They began to assemble around her, no doubt prepared for
attack, when she gave a loud cry of distress, and out flew her valiant
knight to her aid. After a moment's pause by her side, they both flew,
and we saw the gentle pair no more.
This true chronicle began with a quotation from Lanier; it shall end
with one from Harriet Prescott Spofford:--
"A bit of heaven itself, he flew,
When earth seemed heaven with bees and bloom,
South wind, and sunshine, and perfume;
And morning were not morn without him.
Winging, springing, always flinging,
Flinging music all about him."
THE GOLDEN-WING.
The high-hole flashing his golden wings.
WALT WHITMAN.
VI.
THE GOLDEN-WING.
One of the special objects of my search during a certain June among the
hills of northern New York was a nest of the golden-winged woodpecker;
not that it is rare or hard to find, but because I had never seen one
and had read attractive stories of the bird's domestic relations, the
large number of young in the nest, and his devotion and pride. Moreover,
I had become greatly interested in the whole family, through my
attachment to an individual member of it in my own house.
I soon discovered that the orchard at the back of the house was visited
every day by a pair of the birds I was seeking. One was seen running up
and down a trunk of a large poplar-tree, and the next morning two
alighted on a dead branch at the top of an apple-tree, perching like
other birds on twigs, which seemed too light to bear their weight. But
they were apparently satisfied with them; for they stayed some time,
pluming themselves and evidently looking with interest and astonishment
at human intruders into what had no doubt been a favorite haunt of their
own. I watched them for several minutes, till a sudden noise startled
the shy creatures and they were off in an instant.
After that I saw them often at the bottom of the orchard. They always
flew over the place with rather a heavy business-like flight, alighted
on a low branch of the farthest apple-tree, and in a moment dropped to
the ground where the long grass hid them. There they remained five
minutes or more before returning to the tree. Unfortunately it was a
little farther than I could readily see with my glass, and the most
cautious approach alarmed them. I heard them call nearly every day in
loud, strong voice, "Pe-auk! pe-auk!"
Being thus baffled in my plan of following them home, I resolved upon a
regular search in the small piece of woods where they always
disappeared, and every morning I spent two or three hours in that lovely
spot looking for any birds, but especially for the Golden-wing. In all
my search, however, I found but one nest, which may have been his, where
apparently a tragedy had occurred; for from the edge of the opening the
bark was torn off down the trunk, and in two or three places holes were
picked as though to reach the nest which had been within.
Whatever the drama enacted in that mysterious home, I was too late to
see, and I have not been able as yet to make close acquaintance with the
free Golden-wing.
The bird that had so interested me in his whole family I found in a bird
store in New York in the month of November. He was a most
disconsolate-looking object, and so painfully wild I could scarcely bear
to look at him--poor, shy, frightened soul, set up in a cage to be
stared at. I rescued him at once with the intention of giving him a more
retired home, and freedom the moment spring opened. The change did not
at first reassure him, and he was so frantic that his cage was covered
to shut out the sights till he was accustomed to the sounds of a
household. Gradually, an inch or two at a time, the cover that hid the
world from him was reduced, till at the end of three weeks he could
endure the removal of the last corner without going absolutely mad.
On the first day an opening a few inches wide was left in his screen, so
that he might look out if he chose, and I took my seat as far as
possible from him, with my back to him, and a hand-glass so arranged
that I could see him. As soon as the room was quiet he went to the
opening and cautiously thrust his long bill and his head as far as the
eye beyond the edge so that he could see me. I kept perfectly still,
while he watched me several minutes with evident interest, and I was
glad to see that it was simply fright and not idiocy that caused his
panics.
Many emotions of the bird were most comically expressed by hammering. In
embarrassment or alarm, when not so great as to drive him wild, he
resorted to that diversion, and the more disturbed, the louder and
faster his blows. If in utter despair, as when I set his house in order
for the day, he dropped to the floor on the farthest side, put his head
in the corner, and pounded the tray with great violence. Every wire in
the cage in turn he tested with taps of his beak, thus amusing himself
hours at a time, sitting, as was his custom, crouched upon the perch or
on the floor. In this way, too, he tried the quality of the plastered
wall behind his cage, and was evidently pleased to find it yielding, for
he bored many holes and tore off much paper, before he was discovered
and provided with a background of wood to exercise upon.
The unhappy bird had a serious time learning to eat mocking-bird food
with his long, curved beak; he never became very expert at it, but was
as awkward as a child learning to feed itself. He first thrust it like a
dagger its whole length into his dish, took out a mouthful, then turned
his head sidewise, shook it and snapped his bill one side and the other,
making a noise as if choking. When this performance was over, he scraped
his beak against the wires and picked off the fragments daintily with
the tip. When he had eaten he left a straight, smooth hole in the food,
like a stab, two inches deep and perhaps half an inch in diameter. In
drinking he made the same movements, filling his mouth, throwing back
his head, and swallowing with great efforts.
All of the Golden-wing's attitudes were peculiar; as, for instance, he
never liked to face one, but always turned his back upon spectators and
looked at them over his shoulder. In sleeping he changed his position
often, and was as restless as a nervous old man. Sometimes he slept on
the perch, puffed out into a ball like other birds, head buried in his
feathers, tail broad-spread and curled under the perch, as though it
needed something to rest against. If he began his night's rest (or
unrest) in this position, in a few hours he would drop heavily to the
floor, scramble about a little, and then climb to one of the supports
that kept the wires in place, ten inches from the bottom of the cage.
There he settled himself comfortably, head buried again, tail pressed
against the wires, and looking more like a spot on the wall than a bird.
He often took naps in the daytime on the floor with his head in the
corner, like a bad boy in punishment, his head drawn down into his
shoulders and his bill thrust up into the air at an angle of forty-five
degrees. If this tired him, he simply turned his bill down at about the
same angle, and tried it that way awhile.
He was an exceedingly early bird, always settled to sleep long before
any other in the room, and he slept very soundly, being not easily
wakened and breathing in long, steady respirations like a person in
sleep. Indeed he startled me very much the first time I noticed him. The
breathing was regular and strong, equal in duration to my own as I
listened, and I was sure some one was in the room. I hastened to light
the gas to look for the burglar, and it was not until I had made
thorough search that I discovered who was the guilty one. He dreamed
also, if one may judge by the sounds that came from his cage at night,
complaining, whining, almost barking like the "yaps" of a young puppy,
and many sorts of indescribable noises.
The Golden-wing was extremely fond of hanging against the side of his
cage on the support spoken of above. Not only did he sleep in that
position, but dress his plumage, turning his head back over his body and
sides, and even arranging the feathers of his breast, each one by
itself, with scrupulous care. Like many others this bird objected to
having his cage used as a perch by his neighbors. He expressed his
sentiments by quick jerks, first of the shoulders and then of the whole
body, and if the intruder did not take the hint, he opened his enormous
bill and took hold of a stray toe, which usually drove away the most
impertinent.
The door of the cage was opened to my captive as soon as he became quiet
and happy within it. After his first surprise and dismay at finding
himself in the big world again, he enjoyed it very much. Being unable to
fly through the loss of some wing feathers, his cage was placed on the
floor, and he ran in and out at pleasure. He was more than usually
intelligent about it, too; for although the door was small, and he had
to lower his head to pass through, he was never at a loss for an
instant.
One thing that shows a bird's characteristics and that I have never seen
any two do in exactly the same way, is to explore a room when first
released from a cage. This bird, like his predecessors, had his own
peculiar notion, which was to go behind everything. He squeezed himself
between a trunk, or a heavy piece of furniture, and the wall, where it
did not seem possible that one of his size could pass, and showed so
great an inclination to go through a hole in the open-work fire-board
that I hastily covered it up. After a while he tested the matting and
carefully investigated, by light taps of his bill, each separate nail.
His step was heavy, and he did not hop, but ran around with a droll
little patter of the feet, like a child's footsteps.
Having exhausted the novelty of the floor, he turned his eyes upward,
perhaps noticing that the other birds were higher in the room, where
they had taken refuge when he made his sudden and somewhat alarming
appearance among them. He did not try to fly, but he was not without
resources; he could jump, and no one could outdo him in climbing, or in
holding on. After a moment's apparent consideration of the means at his
command, he ran to the corner and mounted a trunk by springing up
halfway, holding on a moment in some mysterious manner, and then by a
second jump landing on top. From that point it was easy to reach the
bird's table, and there was a ladder placed for the benefit of another
that could not fly. This ladder he at once pounced upon, and used as if
he had practiced on one all his life.
I shut the cage-door at the upper end to keep him out of his neighbor's
house, while the owner, an American wood-thrush, stood upon the roof,
looking ruefully at this appropriation of his private property. Upon
reaching the closed door the traveler jumped across to another cage
nearly a foot away. This was a small affair occupied by an English
goldfinch, who was then at home and not pleased by the call, as he at
once made known. Golden-wing, however, perhaps with the idea of
returning past insults from the saucy little finch, jerked himself all
around the cage, inserting his long bill as though trying to reach
something inside.
Having wearied of annoying the enemy, he sprang back to the ladder,
descended by the table and trunk to the floor as he had gone up, without
a moment's hesitation as to the way, which proved him to possess unusual
intelligence. He did not take the trouble to climb down, but put his two
feet together and jumped heavily like a child, a very odd movement for a
bird. It was his constant habit in the cage to jump from the perch to
the floor, and from one that was two inches above the tray he often
stepped down backwards, which I never before saw a bird do.
When after three hours of exploration he returned to his home, the door
was closed and the cage hung up. He was satisfied with his first outing,
and refreshed himself with a nap at once. But the first thing the next
morning he came down to his door and pecked the wires, looking over at
me most intelligently, plainly asking to have it opened. He never
mistook the position of the door, and if knocking had not the desired
effect, he took hold of a wire and shook and rattled it till he was
attended to.
It was interesting to see how familiar he suddenly became, when no
effort had been made to induce him to be so. I never had so much trouble
to win the confidence of a bird, but when won, the surrender was
complete. He came up to me freely and allowed me to catch him in my hand
without resistance, which is very uncommon. (Perhaps I ought to say that
I do not try to tame my birds.) He displayed a child-like, confiding
disposition, both in his unreasoning terror at first, and his
unquestioning faith at last.
These investigations were conducted without a sound, for the bird was
entirely silent while awake. But there came a day when he made a curious
exhibition of his ability. It was the ninth of February, and the
goldfinch was calling, as he often did. The woodpecker sat on his perch
with wings held tightly against his sides, "humped" up as though he were
high-shouldered. The plumage of his breast was puffed out so broadly
that it came over the wings, and in a front view completely hid them,
while the feathers of his shoulders were erected till he resembled a
lady with a fur shoulder cape. Withal, his head was drawn down to his
body, and his beak pointed upward at an angle of forty-five degrees. In
this peculiar and absurd position he began a strange little song,
ludicrously weak and low for a bird of his size. The tones were
delivered in a sharp staccato style, like "picking" the strings of a
violin very softly, several notes uttered with queer sidewise jerks of
the head, and eyes apparently fixed on the goldfinch. After a phrase or
two he scraped his bill violently and then began again.
This performance he varied by bowing his head many times, swaying his
whole body from side to side, flirting his tail and shaking his wings.
It was an extraordinary display, but whether his manner of making
himself agreeable, or of expressing contempt, I could only guess. The
goldfinch looked on with interest, though I think he understood it no
better than I did; he seemed surprised, but rather pleased, for he
repeated his calls, and the Golden-wing kept up the strange exhibition
for some time.
I became greatly attached to my beautiful bird, which appeared, in the
presence of his wise and wary room-mates, cat-birds and thrushes, like a
big, clumsy, but affectionate baby. It was solely on his account and
principally, I must confess, to try and surprise a wild bird at the
above described entertainment so as to determine its character, that I
wished to make acquaintance with its free relations, study their ways
when at liberty in their own haunts, and have a glimpse if possible of
the Golden-wing babies.