affection for the old road has not lessened, but rather increased. In
itself the place is nowise remarkable, a common country back road (its
very name is Back Street); but all the same I "take pleasure in its
stones, and favor the dust thereof." There are none of us so
matter-of-fact and unsentimental, I hope, as never to have experienced
the force of old associations in gilding the most ordinary objects. For
my own part, I protest, I would give more for a single stunted cluster
of orange-red berries from a certain small vine of Roxbury wax-work,
near the entrance to Millstone Pasture aforesaid, than for a bushel of
larger and handsomer specimens from some alien source. This old vine
still holds on, I am happy to see, though it appears to have made no
growth in twenty years. Long may it be spared! It was within a few rods
of it, beside the path that runs into the pasture, that I shot my first
bird. Newly armed with a shotgun, and on murder bent, I turned in here;
and as luck would have it, there sat the innocent creature in a birch.
The temptation was too great. There followed a moment of excitement, a
nervous aim, a bang, and a catbird's song was hushed forever. A mean
and cruel act, which I confess with shame, and have done my best to
atone for by speaking here and there a good word for this poorly
appreciated member of our native choir. I should be glad to believe that
the schoolboys of the present day are more tender-hearted than those
with whom I mixed; but I am not without my doubts. As Darwin showed, all
animals in the embryonic stage tend to reproduce ancestral
characteristics; and our Anglo-Saxon ancestors (how easy it seems to
believe it!) were barbarians.
This same Millstone Pasture, by the bye, was a place of special resort
at Christmas time. Here grew plenty of the trailing plant which we knew
simply as "evergreen," but which now, in my superior wisdom, I call
_Lycopodium complanatum_. This, indeed, was common in various
directions, but the holly was much less easily found, and grew here more
freely than anywhere else. The unhappy trees had a hard shift to live,
so broken down were they with each recurring December; and the more
berries they produced, the worse for them. Their anticipations of
Christmas must have been strangely different from those of us
toy-loving, candy-eating children. But who thinks of sympathizing with a
tree?
As for the wayside flowers, they are, as becomes the place, of the very
commonest and most old-fashioned sorts, more welcome to my eye than the
choicest of rarities: golden-rods and asters in great variety and
profusion, hardhack and meadow-sweet, St. John's wort and loosestrife,
violets and anemones, self-heal and cranes-bill, and especially the
lovely but little-known purple gerardia. These, with their natural
companions and allies, make to me a garden of delights, whereunto my
feet, as far as they find opportunity, do continually resort. What
flowers ought a New Englander to love, if not such as are characteristic
of New England?
And yet, proudly and affectionately as I talk of it, Back Street is not
what it once was. I have already mentioned the straightening, as also
the widening, both of them sorry improvements. Furthermore, there was
formerly a huge (as I remember it) and beautifully proportioned
hemlock-tree, at which I used to gaze admiringly in the first years of
my wandering hither. What millions of tiny cones hung from its pendulous
branches! The magnificent creation should have been protected by
legislative enactment, if necessary; but no, almost as long ago as I can
remember, long before I attained to grammar-school dignities, the owner
of the land (so he thought himself, no doubt) turned the tree into
firewood. And worse yet, the stately pine grove that flourished across
the way, with mossy bowlders underneath and a most delightsome density
of shade,--this, too, like the patriarchal hemlock, has been cut off in
the midst of its usefulness.
"Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth cheer!"
Now there is nothing on the whole hillside but a thicket of young
hard-wood trees (I would say deciduous, but in New England, alas, all
trees are deciduous), through which my dog loves to prowl, but which
warns me to keep the road. Such devastations are not to be prevented, I
suppose, but at least there is no law against my bewailing them.
Even in its present decadence, however, my road, as I said to begin
with, is a kind of saunterer's paradise. When we come to particulars,
indeed, it is nothing to boast of; but waiving particulars, and taking
it for all in all, there is no highway upon the planet where I better
enjoy an idle hour. There is a boy of perhaps ten years whose
companionship is out of all reason dear to me; and nowhere am I surer to
find him at my side, hand in hand, than in this same lonely road,
although I know very well that those who meet or pass me here see only
one person, and that a man of several times ten years. But thank Heaven,
we are not always alone when we seem to be.
CONFESSIONS OF A BIRD'S-NEST HUNTER.
I am bold to show myself a forward guest.
SHAKESPEARE.
Let it be said at the outset that the seeker after bird's-nests is never
without plenty of company, of one sort and another. For instance, I was
out early one cloudy morning last spring, when I caught sight of a
handsome black and white animal nosing his way through the bushes on one
side of the path. He had come forth on the same errand as myself; and I
thought at once of the veery's nest, for which I had been looking in
vain, but which could not be far from the very spot where my black and
white rival was just at this moment standing. I wondered whether he had
already found it; but I did not stay to ask him. In spite of his beauty,
and in spite of our evident community of interest, I felt no drawings
toward a more intimate acquaintance. I knew him by name and
reputation,--_Mephitis mephitica_ the scientific folk call him, with
felicitous reverberative emphasis,--and that sufficed. At another time,
a few weeks later than this, I overheard an unusual commotion among the
birds in our apple orchard. "Some rascally cat!" I thought; and, picking
up a stone, I hastened to put a stop to his depredations. But there was
no cat in sight; and it was not till I stood immediately under the tree
that I discovered the marauder to be a snake, just then slowly making
toward the ground, with a young bird in his jaws. Watching my
opportunity, while he was engaged in the delicate operation of lowering
himself from one branch to another, I shook the trunk vigorously, and
down he tumbled at my feet. Once and again I set my heel upon him; but
the tall grass was in his favor, and he succeeded in getting off,
leaving his dead victim behind him.[71:1]
It is noble society in which we find ourselves, is it not? In the front
rank are what we may call the _professional_ oölogists,--such as follow
the business for a livelihood: snakes, skunks, weasels, squirrels, cats,
crows, jays, cuckoos, and the like. Then come the not inconsiderable
number of persons who, for a more or less strictly scientific purpose,
take here and there a nest with its contents; while these are followed
by hordes of school-boys, whom the prevalent mania for "collecting"
drives to scrape together miscellaneous lots of eggs,--half-named,
misnamed, and nameless,--to put with previous accumulations of
postage-stamps, autographs, business cards, and other like precious
rubbish.
Alas, the poor birds! These "perils of robbers" and "perils among false
brethren" are bad enough, but they have many others to encounter;
"journeyings often" and "perils of waters" being among the worst. Gentle
and innocent as they seem, it speaks well for their cunning and
endurance that they escape utter extermination.
This phase of the subject is especially forced upon the attention of
observers like myself, who search for nests, not mischievously, nor even
with the laudable design of the scientific investigator, but solely as a
means of promoting friendly acquaintance. We may not often witness the
catastrophe itself; but as we go our daily rounds, now peeping under the
bank or into the bush, and now climbing the tree, to see how some timid
friend of ours is faring, we are only too certain to come upon first one
home and then another which has been rifled and deserted since our last
visit; till we begin to wonder why the defenseless and persecuted
creatures do not turn pessimists outright, and relinquish forever their
attempt to "be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth."
Thinking of these things anew, now that I am reviewing my last spring's
experiences, it is doubly gratifying to recall that I robbed only one
nest during the entire season, and that not of malice, but by accident.
It happened on this wise. A couple of solitary vireos had taken up
their abode on a wooded hillside, where they, or others like them, had
passed the previous summer, and one day I proposed to a friend that we
make it our business to search out the nest. It proved to be not very
difficult of discovery, though, when we put our eyes upon it, it
appeared that we had walked directly by it several times, all in sight
as it was, suspended from near the end of an oak-tree branch, perhaps
nine feet from the ground. It contained five eggs, including one of the
cow-bird; but just as my companion was about to let go the branch, which
he had been holding down for my convenience, the end snapped, up went
the nest, and out jumped four of the eggs. We were sorry, of course, but
consoled ourselves with the destruction of the parasite, which otherwise
would very likely have been the death of the vireos' own offspring.
Meanwhile, the birds themselves took matters coolly. One of them fell to
singing as soon as we withdrew, while the other flew to the nest, looked
in, and without a word resumed her seat. After all, the accident might
turn out to be nothing worse than a blessing in disguise, we said to
each other. But before many days it became evident that the pair had
given up the nest, and I carried it to a friend whom I knew to be in
want of such a specimen for his cabinet.
It is worth noticing how widely birds of the same species differ among
themselves in their behavior under trial. Their minds are no more run in
one mould than human minds are. In their case, as in ours, innumerable
causes have worked together to produce the unique individual result.
Much is due to inheritance, no doubt, but much likewise to accident. One
mother has never had her nest invaded, and is therefore careless of our
presence. Another has so frequently been robbed of her all that she has
grown hardened to disaster, and she also makes no very great ado when we
intrude upon her. A third is still in a middle state,--alive to the
danger, but not yet able to face it philosophically,--and she will
become hysterical at the first symptom of trouble.
At the very time of the mishap just described I was keeping watch over
the household arrangements of another and much less stoical pair of
solitary vireos. These, as soon as I discovered their secret (which was
not till after several attempts), became extremely jealous of my
proximity, no matter how indirect and innocent my approaches. Even when
I seated myself at what I deemed a very respectful distance the sitting
bird would at once quit her place, and begin to complain in her own
delightfully characteristic manner,--chattering, scolding, and warbling
by turns,--refusing to be pacified in the least until I took myself off.
Once I remained for some time close under the nest, on purpose to see
how many of the neighbors would be attracted to the spot. With the
exception of the wood wagtails, I should say that nearly all the small
birds in the immediate vicinity must have turned out: black-and-white
creepers, redstarts, chestnut-sided warblers, black-throated greens, a
blue golden-wing, red-eyed vireos, and a third solitary vireo. If they
were moved with pity for the pair whose lamentations had drawn them
together, they did not manifest it, as far as I could see. Perhaps they
found small occasion for so loud a disturbance. Possibly, moreover, as
spectators who had honored me with their presence (and that in the very
midst of their busy season), they felt themselves cheated, and, so to
speak, outraged, by my failure to finish the tragedy artistically, by
shooting the parent birds and pulling down the nest. Creatures who can
neither read novels nor attend upon dramatic performances may be
presumed to suffer at times for lack of a pleasurable excitement of the
sensibilities. At all events, these visitors contented themselves with
staring at me for a few minutes, and then one by one turned away, as if
it were not much of a show after all. To the interested couple, however,
it was a matter of life and death. The female especially (or the sitter,
for the sexes are indistinguishable) hopped close about my head,
sometimes uttering a strangely sweet, pleading note, which might have
melted a heart much harder than mine. Her associate kept at a more
cautious remove, but made amends by continuing to scold after the danger
was all over. By the bye, I noticed that in the midst of the commotion,
as soon as the first agony was past, the one who had been sitting was
not so entirely overcome as not to be able to relish an occasional
insect, which she snatched here and there between her vituperative
exclamations. Faithful and hungry little mother! her heart was not
broken, let us hope, when within a week or so some miscreant, to me
unknown, ravaged her house and left it desolate.
Not many rods from the vireos' cedar-tree was a brown thrasher's nest in
a barberry bush. It had an exceedingly dilapidated, year-old appearance,
and I went by it several times without thinking it worth looking at,
till I accidentally observed the bird upon it. She did not budge till I
was within a few feet of her, when she tumbled to the ground, and limped
away with loud cries. Perceiving that this worn-out ruse did not avail,
she turned upon me, and actually seemed about to make an attack. How she
did rave! I thought that I had never seen a bird so beside herself with
anger.
Shortly after my encounter with this irate thrush I nearly stepped upon
one of her sisters, brooding upon a ground nest; and it illustrates
what has been said about variety of temperament that the second bird
received me in a very quiet, self-contained manner; giving me to
understand, to be sure, that my visit was ill-timed and unwelcome, but
not acting at all as if I were some ogre, the very sight of which must
perforce drive a body crazy.
In the course of the season I found three nests of the rose-breasted
grosbeak. The first, to my surprise, was in the topmost branches of a
tall sweet-birch, perhaps forty feet above the ground. I noticed the
female flying into the grove with a load of building materials, and a
little later (as soon as my engagement with an interesting company of
gray-cheeked thrushes would permit) I followed, and almost at once saw
the pair at their work. And a very pretty exhibition it was,--so pretty
that I returned the next morning to see more of it. It must be admitted
that the labor seemed rather unequally divided: the female not only
fetched all the sticks, but took upon herself the entire business of
construction, her partner's contribution to the enterprise being
limited strictly to the performance of escort duty. When she had fitted
the new twigs into their place to her satisfaction (which often took
considerable time) she uttered a signal, and the pair flew out of the
wood together, talking sweetly as they went. The male was aware of my
presence from the beginning, I think, but he appeared to regard it as of
no consequence. Probably he believed the nest well out of my reach, as
in fact it was. He usually sang a few snatches while waiting for his
wife, and, as he sat within a few feet of her and made no attempt at
concealment, it could hardly be supposed that he refrained from offering
to assist her for fear his brighter colors should betray their secret.
Some different motive from this must be assigned for his seeming want of
gallantry. To all appearance, however, the parties themselves took the
whole proceeding as a simple matter of course. They were but minding the
most approved grosbeak precedents; and after all, who is so likely to be
in the right as he who follows the fashion? Shall one bird presume to be
wiser than all the millions of his race? Nay; as the Preacher long ago
said, "The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be." Nothing
could have been more complacent and affectionate than the lady's voice
and demeanor as often as she gave the finishing touches to a twig, and
called to her companion, "Come, now, let's go for another." Naturally,
the female is the one most concerned about the stability and comfortable
shape of the nest, and possibly she does not count it prudent to entrust
her spouse with any share in so delicate and important an undertaking;
but, if so, she must know him for an arrant bungler, since the structure
which she herself puts together is a most shabby-looking affair,
scarcely better than the cuckoo's.
Such happiness as that of these married lovers was perhaps too perfect
to last. At any rate, it was only a week before their idyl all at once
turned to tragedy. A sharp _click, click!_ attracted my attention, as I
passed under their birch (on my way to call upon a pair of chickadees,
who were keeping house in a low stump close by), and, glancing up, I saw
the bushy tail of a red squirrel hanging over the edge of the nest. The
male grosbeak was dashing wildly about the invader, while a wood
thrush, a towhee bunting (who looked strange at such a height), a
red-eyed vireo, and a blue golden-winged warbler were surveying the
scene from the adjacent branches,--though the thrush withdrew in the
midst of the tumult, and fell to singing (as one may see happy young
couples going merrily homeward after witnessing the murder of Duncan or
Desdemona). Meanwhile, the squirrel, having finished his work, descended
leisurely toward the ground, snickering and chuckling, as if he felt
immensely pleased with his achievement. Probably his emotions did not
differ essentially from those of a human sportsman, but it was lucky for
him, nevertheless, that I had no means of putting an end to his mirth. I
could have blown his head off without compunction. When he had gone, and
the visiting birds with him, the grosbeak returned to his nest, and in
the most piteous manner hovered about the spot,--getting into the nest
and out again,--as if completely dazed by the sudden disaster.
Throughout the excitement the female did not show herself, and I
wondered whether she could have submitted to be killed rather than
desert her charge. To the honor of her kind be it said that the
supposition is far from incredible.
My second nest of this species was within twenty rods of the first, and
was in use at the same time; but it met with no better fate, though I
was not present to see it robbed. The third was more prosperous, and,
unless something befell the young at the last moment, they were safely
launched upon the wing. This nest was situated in a clump of witch-hazel
bushes, at a height of eight or nine feet. I remarked a grosbeak singing
near the spot, and, seeing him very unwilling to move away, concluded
that his home could not be far off. It was soon found,--a slight,
shapeless, frail-looking bundle of sticks, with the female upon it. I
took hold of the main stem, just below her, and drew her towards me; but
she would not rise, although I could see her moving uneasily. I had no
heart to annoy her; so I called her a good, brave bird, and left her in
peace. Her mate, all this while, kept on singing; and to judge from his
behavior, I might have been some honored guest, to be welcomed with
music. The simple-hearted--not to say simple-minded--fearlessness of
this bird is really astonishing; especially in view of the fact that his
showy plumage makes him a favorite mark for every amateur taxidermist.
He will even warble while brooding upon the eggs, a delicious piece of
absurdity, which I hope sooner or later to witness for myself.
While watching my first couple of grosbeaks I suddenly became aware of a
wood thrush passing back and forth between the edge of a brook and a
certain oak, against the hole of which she was making ready her summer
residence. She seemed to be quite unattended; but just as I was
beginning to contrast her case with that of the feminine grosbeak
overhead, her mate broke into song from a low branch directly behind me.
_She_ had all the while known where he was, I dare say, and would have
been greatly amused at my commiseration of her loneliness. The next
morning she was compelled to make longer flights for such stuff as she
needed; and now it was pleasant to observe that her lord did not fail to
accompany her to and fro, and to sing to her while she worked.
The wood thrush has the name of a recluse, and, as compared with the
omnipresent robin, he may deserve the title; but he is seldom very
difficult of approach, if one only knows how to go about it, while his
nest is peculiarly easy of detection. I remember one which was close by
an unfenced road, just outside the city of Washington; and two or three
years ago I found another in a barberry bush, not more than fifteen feet
from a horse-car track, and so near the fence as to be almost within
arm's-length of passers-by. This latter was in full view from the
street, and withal was so feebly supported that some kind-hearted
neighbor had taken pains to tie up the bush (which stood by itself) with
a piece of dangerously new-looking rope. And even as I write I recall
still a third, which also was close by the roadside, though at the very
exceptional elevation of twenty-five or thirty feet.
It is one of the capital advantages of the ornithologist's condition
that he is rarely called upon to spend his time and strength for naught.
If he fails of the particular object of his search, he is all but sure
to be rewarded with something else. For example, while I was
unsuccessfully playing the spy upon a pair of my solitary vireos, a
female tanager suddenly dropped into her half-built nest in a low
pine-branch, at the same time calling softly to her mate, who at once
came to sit beside her. Unfortunately, one of the pair very soon caught
sight of me, and they made off in haste. I lingered about, till finally
the lady appeared again, with her beak full of sticks, standing out at
all points of the compass. She was so jealous of my espionage, however,
that it looked as if she would never be rid of her load. No sooner did
she alight in the tree than she began to crane her neck, staring this
way and that, and _chipping_ nervously; then she shifted her perch; then
out of the tree she went altogether; then back again; then off once
more; then back within a yard of the nest; then away again, till at last
my patience gave out, and I left her mistress of the field. All this
while the male was in sight, flitting restlessly from tree to tree at a
safe distance. I have never witnessed a prettier display of connubial
felicity than this pair afforded me during the minute or two which
elapsed between my discovery of them and their discovery of me. I felt
almost guilty for intruding upon such a scene; but, if they could only
have believed it, I intended no harm, nor have I now any thought of
profaning their innocent mysteries by attempting to describe what I saw.
The male tanager, with his glory of jet black and flaming scarlet, is in
curious contrast with his mate, with whose personal appearance,
nevertheless, he seems to be abundantly satisfied. Possibly he looks
upon a dirty greenish-yellow as the loveliest of tints, and regards his
own dress as nothing better than commonplace, in comparison. Like the
rose-breasted grosbeak and the wood thrush, however, he is brought up
with the notion that it belongs to the female to be the carpenter of the
family; a belief in which, happily for his domestic peace, the female
herself fully concurs.
As a general thing, handsomely dressed people live in handsome houses
(emphasis should perhaps be laid on the word _dressed_), and it would
seem natural that a like congruity should hold in the case of birds.