How songs are made
Is a mystery,
Which studied for years
Still baffles me.
--R. H. STODDARD.
"Some birds are poets and sing all summer," says Thoreau. "They are the
true singers. Any man can write verses in the love season. We are most
interested in those birds that sing for the love of music, and not of
their mates; who meditate their strains and amuse themselves with
singing; the birds whose strains are of deeper sentiment."
Thoreau does not mention by name any of the poet-birds to which he
alludes, but we think our selections for the present month include some
of them. The most beautiful specimen of all, which is as rich in color
and "sun-sparkle" as the most polished gem to which he owes his name,
the Ruby-throated Humming Bird, cannot sing at all, uttering only a
shrill mouse-like squeak. The humming sound made by his wings is far
more agreeable than his voice, for "when the mild gold stars flower out"
it announces his presence. Then
"A dim shape quivers about
Some sweet rich heart of a rose."
He hovers over all the flowers that possess the peculiar sweetness that
he loves--the blossoms of the honeysuckle, the red, the white, and the
yellow roses, and the morning glory. The red clover is as sweet to him
as to the honey bee, and a pair of them may often be seen hovering over
the blossoms for a moment, and then disappearing with the quickness of
a flash of light, soon to return to the same spot and repeat the
performance. _Squeak, squeak!_ is probably their call note.
Something of the poet is the Yellow Warbler, though his song is not
quite as long as an epic. He repeats it a little too often, perhaps, but
there is such a pervading cheerfulness about it that we will not quarrel
with the author. _Sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-sweeter-sweeter!_ is his
frequent contribution to the volume of nature, and all the while he is
darting about the trees, "carrying sun-glints on his back wherever he
goes." His song is appropriate to every season, but it is in the spring,
when we hear it first, that it is doubly welcome to the ear. The
grateful heart asks with Bourdillon:
"What tidings hath the Warbler heard
That bids him leave the lands of summer
For woods and fields where April yields
Bleak welcome to the blithe newcomer?"
The Mourning Dove may be called the poet of melancholy, for its song
is, to us, without one element of cheerfulness. Hopeless despair is in
every note, and, as the bird undoubtedly does have cheerful moods, as
indicated by its actions, its song must be appreciated only by its
mate. _Coo-o, coo-o!_ suddenly thrown upon the air and resounding near
and far is something hardly to be extolled, we should think, and yet the
beautiful and graceful Dove possesses so many pretty ways that every one
is attracted to it, and the tender affection of the mated pair is so
manifest, and their constancy so conspicuous, that the name has become
a symbol of domestic concord.
The Cuckoo must utter his note in order to be recognized, for few
that are learned in bird lore can discriminate him save from his
notes. He proclaims himself by calling forth his own name, so that it
is impossible to make a mistake about him. Well, his note is an agreeable
one and has made him famous. As he loses his song in the summer months,
he is inclined to make good use of it when he finds it again. English
boys are so skillful in imitating the Cuckoo's song, which they do to an
exasperating extent, that the bird himself may often wish for that of
the Nightingale, which is inimitable.
But the Cuckoo's song, monotonous as it is, is decidedly to be preferred
to that of the female House Wren, with its _Chit-chit-chit-chit_, when
suspicious or in anger. The male, however, is a real poet, let us
say--and sings a merry roulade, sudden, abruptly ended, and frequently
repeated. He sings, apparently, for the love of music, and is as merry
and gay when his mate is absent as when she is at his side, proving that
his singing is not solely for her benefit.
So good an authority as Dr. Coues vouches for the exquisite vocalization
of the Ruby-crowned Kinglet. Have you ever heard a wire vibrating? Such
is the call note of the Ruby, thin and metallic. But his song has a
fullness, a variety, and a melody, which, being often heard in the
spring migration, make this feathered beauty additionally attractive.
Many of the fine songsters are not brilliantly attired, but this fellow
has a combination of attractions to commend him as worthy of the bird
student's careful attention.
Of the Hermit Thrush, whose song is celebrated, we will say only, "Read
everything you can find about him." He will not be discovered easily,
for even Olive Thorne Miller, who is presumed to know all about birds,
tells of her pursuit of the Hermit in northern New York, where it was
said to be abundant, and finding, when she looked for him, that he had
always "been there" and was gone. But one day in August she saw the bird
and heard the song and exclaimed: "This only was lacking--this crowns my
summer."
The Song Sparrow can sing too, and the Phoebe, beloved of man, and the
White-breasted Nuthatch, a little. They do not require the long-seeking
of the Hermit Thrush, whose very name implies that he prefers to flock
by himself, but can be seen in our parks throughout the season. But the
Sparrow loves the companionship of man, and has often been a solace to
him. It is stated by the biographer of Kant, the great metaphysician,
that at the age of eighty he had become indifferent to much that was
passing around him in which he had formerly taken great interest. The
flowers showed their beautious hues to him in vain; his weary vision
gave little heed to their loveliness; their perfume came unheeded to
the sense which before had inhaled it with eagerness. The coming on of
spring, which he had been accustomed to hail with delight, now gave him
no joy save that it brought back a little Sparrow, which came annually
and made its home in a tree that stood by his window. Year after year,
as one generation went the way of all the earth, another would return to
its birth-place to reward the tender care of their benefactor by singing
to him their pleasant songs. And he longed for their return in the
spring with "an eagerness and intensity of expectation."
How many provisions nature has for keeping us simple-hearted and
child-like! The Song Sparrow is one of them.
--C. C. MARBLE.
[Illustration: From col. F. M. Woodruff.
SUMMER YELLOW-BIRD.
Copyrighted by Nature Study Pub. Co., 1897, Chicago.]