A marvelous choral is the rare ecstasy song of the ovenbird (see Vol.
III, 126-7). It was first recorded, at a comparatively recent date, by
that versatile writer--poet, essayist, naturalist--Mr. John Burroughs.
After speaking of the bird's easy, gliding walk, it being one of the
few birds that are _walkers_, not _hoppers_, he says its other lark
trait, namely, singing in the air, seems not to have been observed
by any naturalist. Yet it is a well-established characteristic, and
may be verified by any person who will spend a half-hour in the woods
where this bird abounds on some June afternoon or evening. I hear
it frequently after sundown when the ecstatic singer can hardly be
distinguished against the sky. Mounting by easy flights to the top of
the tallest tree, he launches into the air, with a sort of suspended,
hovering flight, and bursts into a perfect ecstasy of song--clear,
ringing, copious, rivaling the goldfinch's in vivacity and the linnet's
in melody. Its descent after the song is finished is rapid, and
precisely like that of the titlark when it sweeps down from its course
to alight on the ground.
The same writer speaks of waking up in the night, just in time to hear
a golden-crowned thrush, the ovenbird, sing in a tree near by. It sang
as loud and cheerily as at midday. My first acquaintance with this rare
overture was at the close of a hot day in July, as I was walking with
a naturalist. A splendor floated in the air like a musical cloud as
strange notes of gladness rang through the twilight with the clearness
of a silver bugle. It came again, a clear, sweet, outpouring song,
which I recklessly attributed to several goldfinches singing, as they
often do, in concert. The trained ear of the naturalist was not so
easily deceived, and when my attention was called to the more gushing
character of the melody I wondered that it could have escaped notice.
It was a very irrigation of song, the bursting of some cloud overhead
that scattered melodious fragments all about, a mating-choral unheard,
probably, after the nesting season is over.
Entering the woods in early summer this bird is sure to shake out its
ordinary, rattling chorus--"Teacher, _Teacher_, TEACHER," the notes
delivered with tremendous force and distinctness and the emphasis
increasing--a vibrant, crescendo chant as unlike the brilliant ecstasy
song as can be imagined.
The ovenbird is also called the golden-crowned thrush, for no
conceivable reason unless it is that the bird is _not_ a thrush, but
classed with the warblers. Or is it that its white breast, thickly
spotted with dusky, resembles the thrush's? There is a peculiar
delicacy in the texture of its olive-green robes, as fine as if woven
in kings' houses, while, set deep in hues of the raven's wing, it wears
that regal appurtenance--a crown of gold.
While watching from a rocky height a pair of hermit thrushes that
were housekeeping in a hemlock beneath, an ovenbird flew from a maple
bough to a high clump of ferns near by. In its beak was a quantity of
dry grass, bulky material that interfered sadly with both walking and
flight. The small burden-bearer managed, however, to progress slowly,
moving its head from side to side to disentangle the grasses and
lifting its little feet in the daintiest manner, until it disappeared
where the ferns were thickest. Pretty soon it came in sight again,
sauntered about with diverting nonchalance, and was off, alighting
upon the same bough to drop down into the same corner of the thicket.
This behavior was not without an inference; it was an advertisement of
future hopes too plainly written to escape notice; I might have been
stone blind and seen straight into the future! The nest must have
been within a circle of a few feet, but with rank greenery above and
underfoot the accumulated leafage of the ages, soft and penetrative
as if placed layer by layer for the bird's special accommodation,
any square foot might have held the treasure and kept the secret of
possession.
Soon after a farmer told me of a strange nest, a curiously covered
house with a low door, within which the sitting bird could be seen.
The bird's flight as it left the nest first attracted his attention,
just in time to prevent his foot from crushing through the roof. He had
never heard of ovenbirds or of roofed-over nests, and was so interested
in this new page of natural history that "once a day when he went for
the cows he went round that way to see how things were getting on
there."
"Every time I went," he said, "I expected to find that the cattle had
spoiled it!"
After describing his interesting tenants he offered to share the
pleasure of their acquaintance, saying most kindly, "I wouldn't mind
leaving the hay field any time to take you there! I've done my share
of haying, I guess; the boys don't want me to work so hard; come up
to-morrow and I'll go with you!"
I was there with to-morrow and was, if possible, more amazed at the
adaptation of the "oven" to its surroundings than with the structure
itself.
The bird was sitting and not at all disposed to leave on our account;
she merely drew in her pretty head, cuddled closer to the ground, and
waited. Both house and tenant were so thoroughly blended in color with
the environing leafage that, when pointed out, it was difficult for
the eye to locate them. Possibly the brave little housekeeper divined
the situation; or did she presume upon a previous acquaintance with
the friendly farmer? The proprietor of the establishment, a little
man-milliner with a bow of orange ribbon in his bonnet, sang through
the fragrant morning as if glad of an opportunity of speaking to a
gracious audience, interlarding his song with rushing over to his
family--_vault_, I was going to say, for being sunken a bit in the
ground and dark within, it suggested a mausoleum. A tiny ledge of
slate, tilted vertically, made a strong wall upon one side of the small
estate; young beeches, kept down by browsing cattle, grew where the
rear-gates should have been, and a maple twig partially screened the
entrance. Evergreen ferns crowded between the "oven" and the wall,
their leaves interlaced, above the roof, with others opposite, the
tips of two being caught down and interwoven with the roofing. The
nest was made of dry leaves, lapped and overlapped, padded and felted
in one compact arch--a veritable arch of triumph! Upon July 15th six
creamy-white eggs, dotted with brown and lilac, lay safe within, these
being duly replaced by a round half-dozen "little ovens," whose mouths
were always open. Indeed, more food was shoved into those open-mouthed
storehouses than would have supplied a village bakeshop, and still
there was room for more. Warm rains soon gave the nest an unyielding
texture; so matted and felted that the full weight of the hand left no
impression, and I questioned whether the foot, set plumply down, would
have crushed it out of shape entirely.
When the young birds had flown I brought home the nest as a unique
souvenir of summer. Removed from the picturesque setting it was no
longer interesting; its charm was that of environment; its beauty the
marvel of adaptation.
So surely does Nature equip each bird with an individuality that
distinguishes it from all others! Not only have they common rules
followed in obedience to the law of instinct, but each species has
special gifts developed according to the law of its nature, a law of
harmony so delicately enforced that the law itself is not perceptible.