“Birds of ocean and of air
Hither in a troop repair.”
—Aristophanes’ “The Birds.”
Passing out of the golden sunrise into a world of blue sky and the blue
waters of Lake Huron, we regretfully assured ourselves that save for the
shadowy gray and white gulls that followed in the wake of our steamer in
search of a breakfast, there would be for us no bird reviews so dear to
the heart of the ornithologist in a strange country, or not at least
until we should have reached the far distant islands in the picturesque
River Sault Ste. Mary, so with the inertia of the blank waters about us
we prepared to be content, but in this instance, as in many others, we
were to learn that conclusions are by no means conclusive, and it was
with joy that we could exclaim with Aristophanes:
“But hark! the rushing sound of rushing wings
Approaches us,”
when before our delighted and surprised eyes alighted a bronze grackle,
most majestic of blackbirds, who stepped off across the deck with all of
the pride of a lately promoted major, doubtless glad enough to find
himself on solid footing after the heavy gale of the past night, which
has blown him into unknown seas. His rich metallic plumage gleamed in
the sunlight as he eyed us inquisitively, the while walking calmly about
us picking up the insects of which we seemed to have an abundant supply
aboard. But where is the little wife to whom he was so devoted, and
whose labors of incubation he so materially assisted, taking his “turn”
on the nest with clock-like regularity? But also he shared with her
their rich song notes which so delight us during the courting season.
But our grackle is by no means the only stowaway we were to carry north
with us, for all at once the air was resonant with excited “chips” and
“zeeps” as the different winged passengers arrived. At least half a
dozen pine warblers contentedly flitted onto the deck, filling the air
with their sweet calls, and dancing about like little balls of yellow
feathers. And to delight beyond anything the heart of a bird enthusiast,
far more indeed than can any result of gun, camera or opera glass, was
the fact that exhaustion and hunger had entirely obliterated from these
birds every trace of their dread of the human kind, and they associated
with us as fearlessly as tho’ to the manor born. Particularly was this
true of the pine warblers who hopped about us on the hatchways like
chickens, one venturesome little fellow even becoming so familiar as to
alight on the toe of my slipper, and quietly inspect its steel
embroidery with silent curiosity, occasionally glancing up at me out of
his round, bright eyes as confidentially as though he was a connoisseur
in footwear. Another warbler lit on the corner of a book that one of the
passengers was holding in her hand. This rare friendliness made us feel
that we had not only the bird in the hand, but also the two in the bush,
with still a balance in our favor, for we could study their movements as
intimately as we desired, but I could hardly keep from rubbing my eyes
in amazement, fearing “’twas but a dream,” or that my brain has been
turned, as topsy turvy this morning as was my stomach the night before.
But the experience was certainly uniquely delightful to say the least.
After all of these years of careful peeking and prying to secure a
moment’s observation of some of these birds, to have them now flitting
about me, at my very feet as it were, in this familiar and friendly
fashion was indeed a rare treat. It is Darwin who has said that he had
come to the conclusion that the wildness of birds with regard to man is
a particular instinct directed against him, and not dependent on any
general degree of caution arising from other sources of danger. Birds in
general, however, have had reason to become timid from their experience
of the human biped, and hold with Eben Holden that “Men are the most
terrible of all critters, an’ the meanest. They’re the only critters
that kill fer fun,” and it has become instinctive for them to act
accordingly.
However, we had not yet arrived at the end of our experience with the
sociable bird world, for it seemed that we were to carry a full cargo of
stowaways, for the next arrivals were six or seven juncos savoring of
frost and wintry weather, notwithstanding the heat of the autumnal sun.
Miss Merriam has quaintly styled these busy little birds: “Gray robed
monks and nuns,” though their character does not cleverly carry out that
conception, for they are a pugnacious lot of feathers and blood, and
there were pitch battles going on at every hatch corner, the juncos
playing the part of the aggressor every time, turning and conspicuously
flaunting their stylish white tail markings in the face of their
opponents. The next advent was that of a tiny house wren, who seemed to
have had a good deal of his natural belligerency blown out of him, and
was content to make a peaceful breakfast on the Canada soldiers that
were swarming about. Wrens are noticeable for the interest that they
take in human belongings, and love to make their home among them. At
Marquette I was shown a nest built in an overshoe inadvertently left in
the crotch of an apple tree, and which, I am glad to report, the owner
left undisturbed when she learned by whom it was pre-empted. I thought
of our little stowaway when I saw the nest and wondered how much he
could have told me of its construction. Some one has mentioned a nest
built in an old coat sleeve, and Audubon tells us of a pair that nested
in his parlor, paying him rent in song music. The wren has also received
much “honorable mention” in history, Aristotle being the first, I
believe, to call him the King of Birds, possibly because of the legend
that tells us that to gain his sovereignty in a trial of flight he
concealed himself on the back of an eagle who was one of the
contestants, and after that bird of mighty wing power had reached his
limit the wren, arising from his seat among the eagle’s feathers, easily
flew much higher, thus gaining the race and title. Perhaps not the first
time that high places have been arrived at through duplicity. But, in
justice to his species, mention should be made of the myth that asserts
that in ye golden time the wren was the only bird brave enough to enter
heaven and bring down fire to earth for the benefit of the mortals. In
this philanthropical work he scorched off his feathers, so the other
birds made a donation party and each contributed some spare feathers to
the singed benefactor (but we notice that their generosity, like that of
some others, was confined to donating their plainest apparel), all but
the owl, who refused to part with a single quill, but who for his
stinginess was at once ostracised from good society, and forced to make
his appearance only after nightfall, when the “best people” were not in
evidence.
Of the two other members of the warbler family, who traveled north with
us singly and alone, one was a Blackburnian warbler, silent and dull of
plumage as befitted the season, and the other a dainty black-throated
blue warbler, one of the most dressy and gentlemanly appearing birds of
the warbler species. In his steely blue coat, black stock and evening
vest and wide expanse of white shirt front, he looks as though fully
attired for a swell reception. His two white wing patches closely
resemble handkerchiefs peeping from side pockets, completing the
illusion. He was rather more reserved in his movements than the gang of
noisy associates, and picked daintily at the flies as befits well-bred
superiority. But he, like the rest, showed no apparent distrust of us,
neither did some newly arrived white-throated sparrows, who joined in
the general scramble for insects. But not now do we hear their cheerful
“I-have-got-plenty-to-eat-but-no-che-eze,” as Dr. Brewer interprets
their song. I am sure that they could have had cheese or anything else
they desired on board the Castalia, for on hospitable thoughts intent I
secured some crumbs from the table, but my feathered fellow travelers
would have none of me, passing my humble offerings by in disdain. There
was but one death on the passage, and that was a white-eyed vireo, who
either succumbed to exhaustion or struck the rigging too violently in
boarding the steamer.
But birds were not the only winged creatures who took passage with us.
For several hours a continuous stream of honey bees and yellow-jackets
flew exhausted upon the deck, only to become food for the bee-eating
passengers. The few who escaped and revived sufficiently to crawl up
onto the cabin were so fatigued that one could stroke them gently
without provoking any antagonism. Wafted across the blue waters by
adverse winds came also myriads of common yellow butterflies, tossing in
the gentle breeze like handfuls of shining buttercups, and great troops
of beautiful milkweed butterflies (Anosia plexippus), their brilliant
colors gleaming in the sunlight in all the richness of ebony and
crimson. They hovered about the steamer like gorgeous blossoms cut from
the parent stalk and left poised in mid air at the mercy of treacherous
gales. Funny little atoms of vanity and brightness, whose homes are
among the gardens of peace and sunshine, what business had they here in
this region of seething waters and tempestuous winds?
We looked to have our feathered friends leave us upon the first
appearance of land, but, on the contrary, they remained with us all of
the afternoon, as we sailed in and out among the picturesque islands of
the “Soo” river, and it was not until toward their bed-time and the
setting of the sun that they gradually began to disappear; the last to
leave, and that was at dusk, was the black-throated blue warbler. Just
before reaching the lock a couple of juncos perched on the rail and
engaged in what seemed to us a very heated discussion, until finally one
of them, with a chip of command, flew to the shore, the other following
in a moment with a note of protest. The latter’s idea doubtless was to
remain with a good thing in hand rather than venture into pastures new
of unknown possibilities.
On our return trip, the weather being calm, no birds were:
“Buffeted and baffled, with the gusty gale,”
hence our only stowaways were a couple of yellow warblers, who spent
most of their time in one of the offices catching flies on the wall, and
we were obliged to resort to other resources for our entertainment, and
found at least artistic as well as botanical enjoyment in looking at the
great bunches of golden rod, yellow cone flowers and pale primroses, a
combination of yellows that formed an exquisite blend, and which covered
the embankment of the great willow dike on St. Clair Flats, that seems
fast running into a state of dilapidation and decay. But it is a
delightful sail down the willow-bordered lane of blue water, a stray bit
of Venice with Venice left out, as it were, and where no angry waters
toss the brave mariner and consequently seasick traveler across mighty
billows, a performance which is a by no means charming accessory to
one’s erstwhile home on the bounding deep.
Alberta A. Field.
[Illustration: HAIRY WOODPECKER.
(Dryobates villosus.)
⅔ Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
THE HAIRY WOODPECKER.
(_Dryobates villosus._)
The woodpeckers on trunk of gnarled trees
Tap their quick drum-beats with their horny beaks.
—Isaac McLellan, “Nature’s Invitation.”
The geographical and the breeding ranges of the Hairy Woodpecker are
practically the same. These include eastern North America from the
southern provinces of Canada southward to the States bordering the Gulf
of Mexico and those of the southeastern United States bordering the
Atlantic Ocean. In these States it is occasionally found during the
winter season. Westward its range extends to the Rocky Mountains. It is,
however, most abundant in the forest areas of the Northern and Middle
States, where, as it is a hardy bird and not greatly affected by extreme
cold, it is generally a constant resident. Though occasionally found in
old orchards, its choice feeding grounds are the timbered regions of
river banks and other bodies of water. Here and in the trees at the
outer borders of forests it seeks its food by itself, for it has an
unsocial disposition, and it is seldom that more than a pair are seen
together. “It does not live in harmony with smaller species of its own
kind, and drives them away when they encroach on its feeding grounds,
being exceedingly greedy in disposition and always hungry.” It also is
not adverse to a home in the deeper forests and may even frequent clumps
of trees in the open.
The Hairy Woodpecker is one of the most useful and valuable friends of
human interests. Not only does it feed upon the larvæ that burrow in the
wood and bark of our forest and orchard trees, but also upon beetles and
other insects. It is only in the winter season, when its natural food is
not readily obtained, that it gathers seeds and fruits. It never attacks
a sound tree for any purpose, and the loss caused by the amount of
useful grain destroyed is greatly overbalanced by the good that it does
in the destruction of noxious insects.
The value of this shy and retiring bird is well illustrated by Mr. V. A.
Alderson, who says in the “Oologist” (July, 1890): “Last summer potato
bugs covered every patch of potatoes in Marathon County, Wisconsin. One
of my friends here found his patch an exception, and, therefore, took
pains to find out the reason, and observed a Hairy Woodpecker making
frequent visits to the potato field and going from there to a large pine
stub a little distance away. After observing this for about six weeks,
he made a visit to the pine stub, and found, on inspection, a large hole
in its side, almost fifteen feet up. He took his ax and cut down the
stub, split it open, and found inside over two bushels of bugs. All had
their heads off and bodies intact. Now, why did the Woodpecker carry the
bugs whole to the tree and only bite off and eat the heads, which could
have been done in the open field?”