after his bath. Allowing himself often but a moment's hasty shake of
plumage, he darted furiously across the room, startling every bird, and
alighting no one could guess where. Then, after more jerks and rapid
shakings, he flung himself as unexpectedly in another direction, while
at every fresh turn birds scattered wildly, everywhere, anywhere, out of
his way, bringing up in the most unaccustomed places; as, for instance,
a dignified bird, who never went to the floor, coming to rest under the
bed, or a ground-lover flattened against the side of a cage. All this
disturbance seemed to please the thrasher, for he had a spice of
mischief in his composition. A never failing diversion was teasing a
goldfinch. He began his pranks by entering the cage and hammering on the
tray, or digging into the seed in a savage way that sent it flying out
in a shower, which result so entertained him that I was forced to close
the door when the owner was out. This the thrush resented, and he next
took to jumping against the side of the cage, clinging a moment, then
bouncing off with so much force that the cage rocked violently. Then he
placed himself on the perch by the door, and pounded, and pulled, and
jerked, and shook the door, till, if the owner were home, he was nearly
wild. Having exhausted that amusement, he jumped on the top and in some
way jarred the cage roughly. To protect it I made a cover of paper, but,
contrary to my intentions, this afforded the rogue a new pleasure, for
he soon found that by tramping over it he could make a great noise, and
he quickly learned the trick of tearing the paper into pieces, and
uncovering the little fellow, who, by the way, was not in the least
afraid, but simply enraged and insulted, and when outside stood and
faced his tormentor, blustering and scolding him well.
Tearing paper was always amusing to the brown thrush. I have seen him
take his stand near the wall, peck at the paper till he found a weak
spot where it would yield and break, then take the torn edge in his bill
and deliberately tear it a little. It was "snatching a fearful joy,"
however, for the noise always startled him. First came a little tear,
then a leap one side, another small rent, another panic; and so he went
on till he had torn off a large piece which dropped to the floor, while
I sat too much interested in the performance to think of saving the
paper. (The room and its contents are always secondary to the birds'
comfort and pleasure, in my thoughts.) A newspaper on the floor
furnished him amusement for hours, picking it to pieces, tearing
pictures, from which he always first pecked the faces, dragging the
whole about the floor to hear it rattle and to scare himself with. A
pile of magazines on a table made a regular playground for him, his plan
being to push and pull at the back of one till he got it loose from the
rest, and then work at it till it fell to the floor. He never failed to
reduce the pile to a disreputable-looking muss.
The bird was as fond of hammering as any woodpecker, on the bottom of
his cage, on perches, on the floor, even on his food; and his leaps or
bounds without the apparent help of his wings were extraordinary. Not
infrequently I have seen him spring into the air just high enough to
see me over my desk,--three feet at least,--probably to satisfy himself
as to my whereabouts, and drop instantly back to his work or play.
This amusing bird was also intelligent. He understood perfectly well
what I wanted when I spoke to him; that is, he had a guilty conscience
when in mischief that translated my tone to him. Also he recognized
instantly a bird out of place, as, for instance, one on the floor which
usually frequented the perches and higher parts of the room; and having
taken upon himself the office of regulator, he always went after the
bird thus out of his accustomed beat. When I talked to the thrasher, he
answered me not only with a rough-breathing sound, a sort of prolonged
"ha-a-a," but with his wings as well. Of course this is not uncommon in
birds, but none that I have seen use these members so significantly as
he did. His way was to lift the wing nearest me, sometimes very
slightly, sometimes to a perpendicular position, but only one wing, and
only after I made a remark. This exhibition was curious and interesting,
and I often prolonged my talk to see the variety he could give to this
simple motion. His wings were always expressive, in alighting in a new
place, or where he suspected there might be danger or a surprise; the
moment his feet touched he lifted one or both wings quite high, dropping
them at once.
A more lithe body than that of the brown thrush I have never seen in
feathers; he could assume as many attitudes as he had emotions. He often
stood on a perch and postured for a long time, as if greatly excited and
meditating some mad deed, and I must confess he usually carried out the
intention. Not only was he able to put his body into all possible
shapes, but he had extraordinary command of his feathers. He could erect
them on any one part alone, on the top of the head, the shoulders, the
back, or the chin. He often raised the feathers just above the tail,
letting that member hang straight down, giving him the appearance of
being chopped square off.
The song of this bird is well known and quite celebrated; indeed, in the
Southern States he is called the French mocking-bird, as only second to
the mocking-bird proper. My bird never sang above a whisper, one may
say; that is, he never opened his mouth to let out the sound, though he
was extremely fond of singing, indulging in it by the hour. He hardly
paused for eating, or flying, or hopping around on the floor, but
dropped sweet notes in between the mouthfuls, and kept up the warble
through all movements.
As dusk came on the brown thrush began a wonderful series of postures,
more peculiar and varied than one would suppose possible to so large and
apparently clumsy a bird. Sometimes he stretched up very tall, then
instantly crouched as if about to spring; one moment he turned his head
downward as though to dive off, then wheeled and faced the other way;
now he drew his body out long to a point, head and tail exactly on a
level, then head and tail thrust up, making his back the shape of a bow;
at one time he threw his head back as though about to turn a back
somersault, then scraped his bill, shook himself out, and made the harsh
breathing I have spoken off; in another moment he spread his tail like a
fan, and instantly closed it again; then turned his head on one side
very far, while his tail hung out the other side, and in this odd
position jerked himself along by short jumps the whole length of his
perch. Between the postures and on every occasion he scraped his bill
violently. Next began movements: first he ran down his three perches,
across the floor, and hopped to the upper one from the outside, touching
his feet to the wires as he went, so rapidly that my eyes could not
follow him; then he alighted on the perch with a graceful flop of one
wing, sometimes also bowing his head several times, and uttering the
breathing sound each time. Again he jumped from the upper perch to one
directly under it, and returned the same way by a very peculiar motion:
standing on the lower perch, he turned his head over his shoulder, and
sprang back and up at the same time, landing in exactly the same
position on the perch above, with perfect ease and grace.
Nothing pleased the thrasher more than watching other birds; he observed
them closely, especially liking to stand on top of a cage and see the
life below,--an agitated life it was apt to be when he was there. Thus
he sometimes stood on the goldfinch's cage and noticed every motion with
great interest, yet with an indescribably ironical air, as if he said,
"My dear sir, is _that_ the way you eat?" He showed particular interest
in seed-eating birds, apparently not understanding how they could enjoy
such food. Though full of bluster and pretense, he was as gentle as any
bird in the room, never presumed on his size as the biggest, and, though
liking to tease and worry, never really touching one. The smallest only
needed to stand and face him to see that it was all bluster and fun.
All this until spring began to stir his blood and tempt him
occasionally, after long posturing and many feints, to deliver a gentle
dig at a neighbor's ribs. Now, too, he began to show interest in
out-of-doors, standing on the window sash and looking out, which is a
familiar sign that a bird's time to depart has come. In his case I did
not consider it necessary to carry him to the park to liberate him, for
I was sure he could take care of the sparrows and protect himself--and
so it proved. When he found himself suddenly on a tall tree in the
street, and before he recovered from his surprise, those disreputable
birds gathered around him to see what he was like. They soon found out;
he quickly recovered himself, made a wild dash that scattered them like
leaves before the wind, and then planted himself on a branch to await
another attempt. But sparrows, though saucy, are knowing, and not one
came near him again. They had quite satisfied their curiosity, and after
a few moments' waiting the brown thrush went on his way rejoicing.
"O WONDROUS SINGERS."
In the swamp in secluded recesses
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
* * * * *
Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!
Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour
Your chant from the bushes;
O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul!
O wondrous singer!
WALT WHITMAN.
IX.
"O WONDROUS SINGERS."
I feel considerable reluctance in approaching the subject of my small
thrushes. None but a poet should speak of them--so beautiful, so
enchanting in song. Yet I cannot bear to let their lovely lives pass in
silence; therefore if they must needs remain unsung, they shall at least
be chronicled.
There were two: one the gray-cheeked thrush, the other the veery or
Wilson's, and they passed a year in my house, filling it with a
marvelous rippling music like the sweet babble of a brook over stones;
like the gentle sighing of the wind in pine-trees; like other of
nature's enchanting sounds, which I really must borrow a poet's words to
characterize:
"O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul!
O wondrous singer."
The gray-cheeked, most charming in every look and motion, uttered his
notes in a free sweep or crescendo, which began low, gathered force as
he went on, and then gradually died out; all in one long slur, without a
defined or staccato note, making a wonderful resemblance to wind sounds,
as Emerson expresses it:
"His music was the Southwind's sigh."
The song of the veery was quite different, low, rapid, interspersed with
a louder, wild-sounding cry, or, as aptly described by a listener, like
the gurgling sounds made by blowing through a tube into soft water, with
occasional little explosions. The soft, whispered warble of a brown
thrush added a certain under-tone which combined and harmonized both
these, forming with them a rhapsody of a rippling, bubbling character
impossible to describe, but constantly reminding one of running streams,
and gentle water-falls, and coming nearer to "put my woods in song" than
any other bird-notes whatever. Neither of the performers opened his
mouth, so that the trio was very low, a true whisper-song.
It was somewhat curious that with one exception all the birds in the
room through these months sang whisper-songs also, without opening the
bill. There were six of them, and every one delighted in singing; the
three thrushes, a bluebird, a female orchard oriole, and a Mexican
clarin. To the thrushes, music seemed necessary to life; hour after
hour they stood on their respective perches across the room, puffed out
into balls, "pouring out their souls," and entrancing us not only with
their suggestive melody, but with graceful and poetical movements, and a
beauty of look and bearing that moved one deeply. During the aria both
birds stood motionless, one with wings drooping, and accenting every
note, the other with tail slightly jerking for the same purpose.
In character no less than in song the birds differed; bright, active and
high-spirited, the gray-cheeked delighted in the freedom of the room,
feared nothing, came upon the desk freely, and calmly met one's eyes
with his own, brave free soul that he was, while his _vis-a-vis_ was
timid and shy, could not be induced to leave the shelter of his home
though the door stood open all day. He never resented the intrusion of a
neighbor, nor disputed the possession of his own dish.
Almost as interesting as his song was a bewitching dance with which the
gray-cheeked charmed every one fortunate enough to see him. His chosen
hour was the approach of evening, when, with body very erect and head
thrown up in ecstasy, he lifted his wings high above his back,
fluttering them rapidly with a sound like soft patter of summer rain,
while he moved back and forth on his perch with the daintiest of little
steps and hops: now up, now down, now across the cage, with gentle noise
of feet and wings. No music accompanied it, and none was needed--it was
music itself. Not only did he dance away the long hours of twilight,
till so dark he could not be seen, but he greeted the dawn in the same
way; long before any other bird stirred, before the hideous morning call
of the first sparrow in the street, the soft flutter of his wings, the
light patter of his feet was heard. In the night also, if gas was
lighted, however dimly, dancing began and was continued in the darkness,
long after the light was out and every other feather at rest. A sudden
light stopped the motion, but revealed the dancer agitated, stirred,
with soft dark eyes fixed upon the observer. This dance was not an
attempt or indication of a desire to escape, as I am sure for several
reasons. I can tell the instant that longing for freedom sets in. It was
a fresh sign of the strange, mysterious emotion with which all thrushes
greet the rising and setting of the sun.
The singular use of the feet by this bird was very peculiar, and not
confined to his dancing hours. While standing on the edge of the
bathing-dish, longing, yet dreading to enter the water, on alighting
upon an unaccustomed perch, or venturing on to the desk, many times a
day he took the little steps, lifting first one, then the other foot
very slightly, and bringing it down with a sound without changing his
position. It seemed to be an evidence of excitement, as another bird
might exhibit by a quivering of the wings. The veery was also a dancer,
but in a different way. He fanned his wings violently and moved back and
forth across the top of a cage, but always in daylight, and then only on
the rare occasions when, by placing his food outside, he was coaxed from
his cage.
Bathing was--next to singing--the dear delight of the gray-cheeked's
life, yet no bird ever had more misgivings about taking the fatal
plunge. His first movement on leaving the cage was to go to the bath,
around which he hovered, now this side, now that, one moment on the
perch above, the next on the edge of the dish, plainly longing to be in,
yet the mere approach of the smallest bird in the room drove him away.
Not that he was afraid, he was not in the least a coward; he met
everybody and everything with the dignity and bravery of a true thrush.
Neither was it that he was disabled when wet, which makes some birds
hesitate; he was never at all disordered by his bath, and however long
he soaked, or thoroughly he spattered, his plumage remained in place and
he was perfectly able to fly at once. It appeared simply that he could
not make up his mind to go in. Then too, it soon became apparent that he
noticed his reflection in the water. He often stood on the edge after
bathing, as well as before, looking intently upon the image. Before the
glass he did the same, looking earnestly and in a low tone "uttering his
thoughts to the ideal bird which he fancied he saw before him." Indeed,
I think this ideal thrush was a great comfort to him.
Once having decided to go into the bath he enjoyed it exceedingly,
though in an unusual way, fluttering and splashing vigorously for a
moment, then standing motionless up to his body in the water, not
shaking or pluming himself, not alarmed, but quietly enjoying the
soaking. After several fits of splashing alternated with soaking, he
went to a perch and shook and plumed himself nearly dry, and just when
one would think he had entirely finished, he returned to the dish, and
began again--hesitating on the brink, coquetting with the "ideal thrush"
in the water, and in fact doing the whole thing over again.
My bird had a genuine thrush's love of quiet and dislike of a crowd,
preferred unfrequented places to alight on, and was quite ingenious in
finding them. The ornamental top of a gas-fixture a few inches below the
ceiling, which was cup-shaped and nearly hid him, was a favorite place.
So was also the loose edge of a hanging cardboard map which, having been
long rolled, hung out from the wall like a half-open scroll. This he
liked best, for no other bird ever approached it, and here he passed
much time swinging, as if he enjoyed the motion which he plainly made
efforts to keep up. His plan was to fly across the room and alight
suddenly upon it, when, of course it swayed up and down with his weight.
The moment it came to a rest, he flew around the room in a wide circle
and came down again heavily, holding on with all his might, and keeping
his balance with wings and tail. He enjoyed it so well that he often
swung for a long time.
Later he found another snug retreat where no bird ever intruded. He
discovered it in this way: one day, on being suddenly startled by an
erratic dash around the room of the brown thrush, which scattered the
smaller birds like leaves before the wind, he brought up under the bed
on the floor. The larger bird had evidently marked the place of his
retreat, for he followed him, and in his mad way rushed under when the
gray-cheeked disappeared. The bedstead was a light iron one, high from
the floor, so that all this was plainly seen. No one being in sight, the
brown thrush came out and turned to his regular business of stirring up
the household while the little thrush was not to be seen, and perfect
silence seemed to indicate that he was not there at all. After some
search, aided by an indiscreet movement on his part, he was found
perched on the framework, between the mattress and the wall. This narrow
retreat, apparently discovered by accident, soon became a favorite
retiring place when he did not care for society.
This interesting bird, with all his dignity, had a playful disposition.
Nothing pleased him better than rattling and tearing to bits a newspaper
or the paper strips over a row of books, although he had to stand on the
latter while he worked at it; and notwithstanding it not only rustled,
but disturbed his footing as well, he was never discouraged. A more
violent jerk than usual sometimes startled him so that he bounded six or
eight inches into the air in his surprise, but he instantly returned to
the play and never rested till he had picked holes, torn pieces out, and
reduced it to a complete wreck.
All through the long winter this charming thrush, with his two
neighbors, delighted the house with his peculiar and matchless music,
and endeared himself by his gentle and lovely disposition. No harsh
sound was ever heard from him, there was no intrusion upon the rights of
others, and no vulgar quarrels disturbed his serene soul. But as spring
began to stir his blood he changed a little; he grew somewhat
belligerent, refused to let any one alight in his chosen places, and
even drove others away from his side of the room. Now, too, he added to
his already melting song an indescribable trill, something so spiritual,
so charged with the wildness of the woods, that no words--even of a
poet--can do it justice. Now, too, he began to turn longing glances out
of the window, and evidently his heart was no longer with us. So, on the
first perfect day in May he was taken to a secluded nook in a park and
his door set open. His first flight was to a low tree, twenty feet from
the silent spectator, who waited, anxious to see if his year's captivity
had unfitted him for freedom.
Perching on the lowest branch, the thrush instantly crouched in an
attitude of surprise and readiness for anything, which was common with
him, his bill pointed up at an angle of forty-five degrees, head sunk in
the shoulders, and tail standing out stiffly, thus forming a perfectly
straight line from the point of his beak to the tip of his tail. There
he stood, perfectly motionless, apparently not moving so much as an
eyelid for twenty minutes, trying to realize what had happened to him
and in the patient, deliberate manner of a thrush to adjust himself to
his new conditions. In the nook were silence and delicious odors of the
woods; from a thick shrub on one side came the sweet erratic song of a
cat-bird, and at a little distance the rich organ-tones of the
wood-thrush. All these entered the soul of the emancipated bird; he
listened, he looked, and at last he spoke, a low, soft, "wee-o." That
broke the spell, he drew himself up, hopped about the tree, flew to a
shrub, all the time posturing and jerking wings and tail in extreme
excitement and no doubt happiness to the tips of his toes. At last he
dropped to the ground and fell to digging and reveling in the soft loose
earth with enthusiasm. The loving friend looking on was relieved; this
was what she had waited for, to be assured that he knew where to look
for supplies, and though she left his familiar dish full of food where
he could see it in case of accident, she came away feeling that he had
not been incapacitated for a free life by his months with her.
One more glimpse of him made it clear also that he could fly as well as
his wild neighbors, and removed the last anxiety about him. A
wood-thrush, after noticing the stranger for some minutes, finally
braved the human presence and made a rush for the little fellow about
half his size. Whether war or welcome moved him was not evident, for
away they flew across the nook, not more than a foot apart, now sweeping
low over the grass, then mounting higher to pass over the shrubs that
defined it. A hundred feet or more the chase continued, and then the
smaller bird dropped into a low bush, and the larger one passed on.
Then lonely, with empty cage and a happy heart-ache, his friend turned
away and left the beautiful bird to his fate, assured that he was well
able to supply his needs and to protect himself--in a word, to be
free.
A BIRD OF AFFAIRS.
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters,
And all the air is filled with pleasant sound of waters,
All things that love the sun are out of doors.
WORDSWORTH.
X.
A BIRD OF AFFAIRS.
One of the most interesting birds I have studied was a blue-jay; I may
say is, for he stands at this moment not six feet from me, his whole
mind intent upon the business of driving small corks through a hole
which they snugly fit. He takes the cork, as he does everything,
lengthwise, and turns it about till he gets the smaller end outside;
then pushes it into the hole and pounds it, delivering straight and
rapid strokes with his iron beak, till it is not only driven up to the
head, but, since he has found out that he can do so, till it drops out
on the other side, when, after an interested glance to see where it has
fallen, he instantly goes to the floor for another, and repeats the
performance. Hammering, indeed, is one of his chief pleasures, and no
woodpecker, whose special mission it is supposed to be, can excel him;
in excitement, in anger, when suffering from _ennui_ or from
embarrassment, he always resorts to that exercise to relieve his
feelings. I have thought sometimes he did it to hear the noise and to
amuse himself, in which case it might be called drumming.