water from the hydrant in front of the Inn, the Jays frequently
stopping on the way back from their cañon storehouse. Sometimes three
Jays would suddenly appear overhead, drop noiselessly to the pool under
the hydrant, and squatting close together fill their bills and then
raise their heads to swallow. Though the Jays usually went to the pool
for water, they would sometimes light on the hydrant and, leaning over,
drink from the faucet, which Mrs. Langille always left dripping for
their benefit. The Clark's Crows, so far as I noticed, always drank
right from the faucet.
[Illustration: CLARK'S CROW
Photographed from nature by Walter K. Fisher]
It was hard to get photographs of the birds at the hydrant, as they
stopped only in passing, but as it was impossible to take them under
the cliff on account of the poor light, I determined to bait them.
Finding a number of the Nutcrackers in front of the kitchen window,
I asked the Chinaman for some meat for them, holding up my Kodak to
explain that I wanted to take the birds' pictures. To my surprise, the
man promptly and decidedly shook his head! I didn't know what to make
of such apparent rudeness at first, but it finally dawned on me that he
could not understand English and, not being an ornithologist, from past
experience with tourist cameras concluded that I wanted _his_ picture!
Accordingly, nothing daunted, I appealed to Mrs. Langille, and when she
gave me a plate of suet, returned to take the Crows. They flew at my
approach, but quickly settled back and fairly fell on the meat I put
in the road for them. I got a snap of one with a big mouthful. After
taking all the Nutcrackers I wanted, I went back to the hydrant to
wait for the Jays, but the Crows followed and one fellow fairly gorged
himself on the fat. He gulped it down so fast I had to drive him off in
order to have either meat or films left for the Jays. It was hard to
persuade him that I wanted him to leave. He had had no experience of
such inhospitality. Mild shooing did no good. I actually had to throw
small stones at him before he would take the hint! When he finally
started to go, I got his picture as he turned and looked regretfully
over his shoulder at the Jay he was leaving in possession of the field.
The Jays were even more fearless than the Crows. Several of them would
often be on the ground at once, but they ate so fast and flew back
and forth so rapidly that it was hard to focus on them quickly enough
to get their most interesting poses. I put a brown paper behind or
under the pan for a lighter background, and at first the birds hopped
nervously when it moved, but they soon got used to it, and ate on it
and on the pan, as it happened. And how they did stuff! They were
so absorbed that, although I sat within four feet of the pan, they
sometimes came too near for me to focus. They paid so little heed to
my presence I have no doubt they would have eaten from my hand had I
not been engaged in keeping them at a proper distance. When the raw
meat was gone Mrs. Langille gave me a supply of cooked fat, and it was
astonishing to see how much of the greasy stuff they could swallow. I
caught one just as he was about to fly off with a billful of it. The
fat seemed to make them thirsty; they had to go to the hydrant to wash
it down with cold water.
Meat Hawk, the name the mountaineers have for them, is certainly
appropriate. They are on the lookout for meat wherever it is to be
found, be it kitchen door or forest. Their appetite for game is truly
remarkable. Mr. Langille told me he might go through the woods all day
without seeing a single Jay, but if he killed a deer and the smell
of blood filled the air, in a few moments the birds would be about,
calling and whistling; and, emboldened by the prospect of a feast, they
would fly down and perch upon the carcass within reach of his hand,
sometimes before the deer was entirely skinned.
[Illustration: CLARK'S CROW
Photographed from nature by Walter K. Fisher]
On Mount Shasta, although the Nutcrackers came about camp, they showed
no desire for camp food, and on Hood Mr. Langille informed me that the
Crows tamed this year were the first they had ever succeeded in coaxing
about. After I left the mountain they became still more familiar, and,
I am told, would gather in the trees at daybreak and call until the
family went out to feed them.
[Illustration]
The Masquerading Chickadee[E]
BY EDITH M. THOMAS
[Footnote E: "March 1, 1856.--I hear several times the fine drawn
_Phe-be_ note of the Chickadee, which I heard only once during the
winter."--"Early Spring in Massachusetts."--Thoreau.]
I came to the woods in the dead of the year,
I saw the wing'd sprite thro' the green-brier peeping:
"Darling of Winter, you've nothing to fear,
Though the branches are bare and the cold earth is sleeping!"
With a _dee, dee, dee!_ the sprite seemed to say,
"I'm friends with the Maytime as well as December,
And I'll meet you here on a fair-weather day;
Here, in the green-brier thicket,--remember!"
* * * * *
I came to the woods in the spring of the year,
And I followed a voice that was most entreating:
_Phebe! Phebe!_ (and yet more near),
_Phebe! Phebe!_ it kept repeating!
I gave up the search, when, not far away,
I saw the wing'd sprite thro' the green-brier peeping,
With a _Phebe! Phebe!_ that seemed to say,
"I told you so! and my promise I'm keeping."
"You'll know me again, when you meet me here,
Whether you come in December or Maytime:
I've a _dee, dee, dee!_ for the Winter's ear,
And a _Phebe! Phebe!_ for Spring and Playtime!"
Matins
BY ROSA MEYERS MUMMA
As sable night fades into soft rose tint,
Through leafy aisles slow filters daylight's glint;
From green tree arch is faintly heard the call
Which summons quickly feathered choir all
To Nature's vast cathedral, where in song
Unite the worshippers, a feathered throng.
What harmonies pour forth from each bird throat!
A morning prayer ascends with each clear note.
Home-Life in a Chimney
BY MARY F. DAY
[Illustration]
Near Boonton, N. J., it was my good fortune last summer to have the
exceptional opportunity of watching closely the rearing of a family
of Chimney Swifts. The nest was built opposite and slightly above an
opening in the chimney designed for the insertion of a stovepipe. The
opening was about two feet from the floor of a second-story room in the
house where I spent the summer.
When discovered, the nest was only partially completed, so it was
necessary to exercise care, lest the birds become alarmed and choose a
more secluded spot. To guard against disturbance to them, a black cloth
was hung over the opening in such a way that it could be carefully and
noiselessly lifted during periods of observation. Although the room was
used as a bedchamber throughout the summer, the Swifts never seemed to
be annoyed by the close proximity of their human neighbors. They were
of a trustful disposition, and soon became accustomed to being watched.
Occasionally, when I looked in upon them at the beginning of our
acquaintance, they would spread their long, beautifully formed wings
and lift them gracefully above the back, as if intending to fly, but
usually, upon second consideration, would conclude it was unnecessary.
It was the 21st of May when I first peeped in upon the little bracket
against the chimney wall that became the stage for the enactment of
scenes filled with absorbing interest to me in the weeks that followed.
It was not placed in an angle, but against the north side of the flue,
beneath a slight projection formed by an accumulation of soot.
In a week one egg was apparent, but there may have been others, for the
little builders had been adding one twig after another to the front
edge of the nest, so that it had become impossible to see the bottom.
Two more days passed, after which it could be seen that there were at
least two eggs, and yet the structure continued to be enlarged.
June 5 marked the beginning of incubation. In mid-afternoon of this
day I saw the sitting bird had flown, and, going out-of-doors to study
birds, my attention was attracted to a Swift flying among the branches
of the locust trees near by. This was an unusual sight to me, and,
recalling that I had read that Swifts never alight in trees, I watched
eagerly to see what it might mean. Soon I saw that the bird was
snatching at little dry twigs. She flew round and round, and presently
was gone. Suspecting that it was my little friend, I ran quickly
upstairs, and sure enough, there sat my bird upon the nest, with a twig
in her mouth, panting as if tired by extra exertion. Resting a moment,
she proceeded to apply the salivary glue and adjust the twig, and then
settled again to the task of sitting.
After a few days there came a cold storm, and it was believed that the
little brooder proved unfaithful to her duties, for late one evening
and early the following morning she was seen huddled with others of her
kind beneath the nest. Great were my fears that no birds would ever
come from these chilled eggs, but time made it clear that the tiny
creature knew what she was doing. This was the sole act of parental
neglect that was apparent during all the weeks required to rear the
family. Under date of June 17, I noted that the eggs were constantly
protected. At whatever time of day I looked I saw a sitting bird.
June 24 dawned fair and warm. As was my custom, I called to say "good
morning" into the chimney before going down to breakfast, when I found
that there was excitement in the little home. A faint peep reached my
ear, which caused the mother anxious restlessness each time it was
repeated. From half-past eight until ten o'clock that morning I sat
at my post of observation, during which time it appeared that two or
three more young were hatched, for there was much peeping on the part
of the little ones and much fidgeting about by the adults. Two shells,
or parts of shells, were tossed from the nest. Occasionally the parents
exchanged places, one brooding the infants while the other went out
into the air. Even at the tender age that must be reckoned by minutes,
these young birds were fed, seemingly, by regurgitation.
During the progress of my study I found that one of the pair, which
from manners and appearance I judged to be the female, had lost a tail
feather, and this one I affectionately dubbed "Swiftie." She appeared
worn out with anxiety added to the confinement of a long period of
incubation, and embraced every opportunity to rest, but seasons of
sleep were of short duration, for it seemed that the body of the
brooding bird was lifted each time a movement was felt beneath. The
mate, with his sleek coat, bright eyes and calm demeanor, formed a
decided contrast to the ragged, unkempt appearance of the female.
Even four days showed perceptible growth in the swiftlings. They were
not allowed to remain uncovered, a wise precaution, for their bodies
were perfectly naked. At this age the instinct of cleanliness began
to assert itself. The weak, awkward little creatures would struggle
backward from beneath the brooder, up to the edge of the nest and
deposit over it that which, remaining within, would have made their
home uninhabitable.
From this time forth a third Swift was seen to enter into the care of
the nestlings, taking its turn at brooding and feeding. Was this a
nurse-maid employed to relieve the overburdened mother, or a kind and
helpful friend or neighbor, or the younger and less care-taking of two
wives? Who can tell?
It was not until the sixth day after hatching that I knew to a
certainty how many young birds there were. Then, to my surprise, I
found there were five. They had grown to be very clamorous for food.
Two, at most three (later but one), were served at one feeding, and the
process was after this manner: "Swiftie" would drop into the chimney
and alight below the nest, her throat bulging with the fullness of
captured insects. The little ones that were hungry were alert, for
all had learned that a rumbling noise in the chimney, followed by a
sound of "chitter, chitter, chitter," meant something to eat. After
resting a moment, the mother would scramble up over the nest, and,
with closed eyes, feel about until she came in contact with an open
mouth, whereupon she would place her beak far down the throat, deposit
a portion of food, then seek another yawning cavity. No system appeared
to be observed in the matter of feeding. The hungriest youngsters made
the greatest effort to reach the source of supply.
July 1 feathers began to appear. They grew rapidly, especially those
of wings and tail, and in a week the bodies were about covered. With
feathers came employment, for they must often be dressed, though from a
habit of yawning frequently, common to the family, one might be led to
believe that time hung heavily on their claws.
The nestlings were two weeks old before the eyes began to open, and
nearly three before they were much used. But when they were fully open,
and the feathers had grown out and were fast becoming sooty instead of
black, how winning these young birds appeared!
The time had now come to take up exercises preparatory to flying. The
young aspirants would stand in the nest and for a time vibrate the
wings rapidly, so rapidly that the identity of wing was lost. Two first
ventured from home when nineteen days old, clinging to the wall for a
short time a few inches from the nest.
One afternoon about this time there came a severe and prolonged shower.
The rain beat into the chimney, reaching down to the nest. What, now
did I see? Besides the five grown-up swiftlings, the three adults,
packed in and upon the nest, the rain dripping from those which were
exposed. I mention this incident to give an idea of the adhesiveness of
the glue used in the construction of Swifts' nests.
July 20 I made the following note: "Swiftlings no longer make use of
the nest, but dispose themselves in various parts of the chimney,
sometimes in a cluster, sometimes in twos or threes, and sometimes
separately. They take flying exercises up and down the chimney, but
I believe have not yet left it." The next morning I was forced to
conclude that three had taken flight into the great outside world,
for upon looking the chimney over thoroughly with the aid of a small
mirror, I could find but two birds.
The chimney was much used by this interesting family until the 24th
of August. Early in the morning of that day a large number of Swifts
were seen gathering in a flock at a short distance from the house. Ten
o'clock that night I searched the chimney with a lighted candle, but
found no sign of life, and I believe that the Swifts did not again
enter within its walls.
Three Cobb's Island Pictures
BY WILLIAM L. BAILY
[Illustration: BLACK SKIMMER]
Right out on the sandy beach, just above high tide, the Black
Skimmer risks her set of eggs, and, while apparently unprotected,
they are so much the color of the sand and the surrounding shells and
seaweed that they would not be noticed unless you were especially
looking for them.
The Skimmers are gull-like in form, with long, slender body and long
wings, spreading almost three feet. They have a glossy black back,
white breast, orange feet, and a most curiously shaped orange bill,
which is almost as thin as a knife, the thin edges closing vertically
together. This peculiarity has given the bird the name of 'Razor Bill.'
Their graceful and regular flight can hardly be mistaken for that
of any other bird. They skim just over the surface of the water,
following the contour of the waves, while the lower mandible of their
bill, which is longer than the upper, projects below the surface of
the water, and when it comes in contact with a small fish, the latter
simply slide up the narrow, inclined plane into the Skimmer's mouth.
[Illustration: NEST AND EGGS OF BLACK SKIMMER]
Formerly they bred in great numbers along the eastern coast of our
Middle and Southern Atlantic states, and only a few years ago were
abundant on the New Jersey coast. They have been crowded out, however,
by encroaching civilization, and hunted down by the milliners' agents
and the egg-collectors. In June, 1898, I found them on Cobb's Island,
Virginia, to the number of about two hundred pairs, where, not long
ago, they bred in thousands.
As the eggs are entirely exposed, the parents are relieved to some
extent from the duty of incubation by the heat of the sun, and as soon
as the young hatch they run about like chickens.
[Illustration: GULL-BILLED TERN]
After getting two good pictures of the Skimmer and her eggs, I turned
my attention to a Gull-billed Tern, and while standing over her nest,
which contained two eggs and one fuzzy young, just hatched, I obtained
a rather remarkable picture of the parent bird flying straight at the
camera, nicely illustrating what a small sectional area a bird occupies
while flying.
The Cardinal at the Hub
BY ELLA GILBERT IVES
With Photographs from nature by Blanche Kendall
[Illustration]
His range being southern, Cardinal Grosbeak seldom travels through New
England; and, to my knowledge, has never established a home and reared
a family north of Connecticut until in the instance here recorded.
Kentuckians claim him, and with some show of right, since James Lane
Allen built his monument in imperishable prose. But, soon or late,
all notables come to Boston, and among them may now be registered the
"Kentucky Cardinal."
Shy by nature, conspicuous in plumage, he shuns publicity; and,
avoiding the main lines of travel, he put up at a quiet country house
in a Boston suburb--Brookline.
Here, one October day in 1897, among the migrants stopping at this
half-way house, appeared a distinguished guest, clad in red, with a
black mask, a light red bill, and a striking crest; with him a bird
so like him that they might have been called the two Dromios. After a
few days, the double passed on and left our hero the only red-coat in
the field. A White-throated Sparrow now arrived from the mountains,
and a Damon and Pythias friendship sprang up between the birds. Having
decided to winter at the North, they took lodgings in a spruce tree,
and came regularly to the table d'hote on the porch. My lord Cardinal,
being the more distinguished guest, met with particular favor, and soon
became welcome at the homes of the neighborhood. With truly catholic
taste, he refused creature comforts from none, but showed preference
for his first abode.
It was March 5, 1898, when we kept our first appointment with the
Cardinal. A light snow had fallen during the night, and the air was
keen, without premonition of spring. It was a day for home-keeping
birds, the earth larder being closed. The most delicate tact was
required in presenting strangers. A loud, clear summons,--the
Cardinal's own whistle echoed by human lips--soon brought a response.
Into the syringa bush near the porch flew, with a whir and a sharp
_tsip_, a bird. How gorgeous he looked in the snow-laden shrub! For an
instant the syringa blossoms loaded the air with fragrance as a dream
of summer floated by. Then a call to the porch was met by several
sallies and quick retreats, while the wary bird studied the newcomers.
Reassuring tones from his gentle hostess, accompanied by the rattle
of nuts and seeds, at last prevailed, and the Cardinal flew to the
railing and looked us over with keen, inquiring eye. Convinced that no
hostilities were intended, he gave a long, trustful look into the face
of his benefactress and flew to her feet.
A gray squirrel frisking by stopped at the lunch-counter and seized an
'Educator' cracker.
[Illustration: CARDINAL AND GRAY SQUIRREL]
The novel sensation of an uncaged bird within touch, where one might
note the lovely shading of his plumage as one notes a flower, was
memorable; but a sweeter surprise was in store. As we left the house,
having made obeisance to his eminence the Cardinal, the bird flew
into a spruce tree and saluted us with a melodious "Mizpah." Then, as
if reading the longing of our hearts, he opened his bright bill, and
a song came forth such as never before enraptured the air of a New
England March,--a song so copious, so free, so full of heavenly hope,
that it seemed as if forever obliterated were the "tragic memories of
his race."
As March advanced, several changes in the Cardinal were noted by his
ever-watchful friends. He made longer trips abroad, returning tired
and hungry. The restlessness of the unsatisfied heart was plainly his.
His long, sweet, interpolating whistle, variously rendering "Peace
... peace ... peace!" "Three cheers, three cheers," etc., to these
sympathetic northern ears became "Louise, Louise, Louise!" Thenceforth
he was Louis, the Cardinal, calling for his mate.
On March 26, a kind friend took pity on the lonely bachelor, and a
caged bird, "Louise," was introduced to him. In the lovely dove-colored
bird, with faint washings of red and the family mask and crest, the
Cardinal at once recognized his kind. His joy was unbounded; and the
acquaintance progressed rapidly, a mutual understanding being plainly
reached during the seventeen days of cage courtship. Louis brought food
to Louise, and they had all things in common except liberty.
[Illustration: CARDINAL AND HOUSE SPARROWS]
April 12, in the early morning, the cage was taken out-of-doors and
Louise was set free. She was quick to embrace her chance, and flew into
the neighboring shrubbery. For six days she reveled in her new-found
freedom; Louis, meanwhile, coming and going as of old, and often
carrying away seeds from the house to share with his mate.
April 16, he lured her into the house, and after that they came often
for food, flying fearlessly in at the window, and delighting their
friends with their songs and charming ways. Louis invariably gave the
choicest morsels to his mate, and the course of true love seemed to
cross the adage; but alas! Death was already adjusting an arrow for
that shining mark.
April 25, Louise stayed in the house all day, going out at nightfall.
Again the following day she remained indoors, Louis feeding her; but
her excellent appetite disarmed suspicion, and it was thought that she
had taken refuge from the cold and rain, especially as she spent the
night within. The third morning, April 27, she died. An examination of
her body revealed three dreadful wounds.
Louis came twittering to the window, but was not let in until a day or
two after, when a new bird, "Louisa," had been put in the cage. When
he saw the familiar form, he evidently thought his lost love restored,
for he burst into glorious song; but, soon discovering his mistake, he
stopped short in his hallelujahs, and walked around the cage inspecting
the occupant.
[Illustration: CARDINAL]
Louisa's admiration for the Cardinal was marked; but for some days he
took little notice of her, and his friends began to fear that their
second attempt at matchmaking would prove a failure. April 30, however,
some responsive interest was shown, and the next day Louis brought
to the cage a brown bug half an inch long, and gave Louisa his first
meat-offering.
The second wooing progressed rapidly, and May 7, when Louisa was set
free, the pair flew away together with unrestrained delight. After
three days of liberty, Louisa flew back to the house with her mate, and
thenceforth was a frequent visitor.
May 21, Louisa was seen carrying straws, and on June 6 her nest was
discovered low down in a dense evergreen thorn (_Cratægus pyracantha_).
Four speckled eggs lay in the nest. These were hatched June 9, the
parent birds, meantime and afterward, going regularly to market and
keeping up social relations with their friends.
In nine days after their exit from the shell, the little Cardinals
left the nest and faced life's sterner realities. A black cat was
their worst foe, and more than once during their youth Louis flew
to his devoted commissary and made known his anxiety. Each time, on
following him to the nest, she found the black prowler, or one of his
kind, watching for prey. On June 28, the black cat outwitted the allied
forces, Señor Cardinal and his friends, and a little one was slain. The
other three grew up and enjoyed all the privileges of their parents,
flying in at the window and frequenting the bountiful porch.
July 25, Louisa disappeared from the scene, presumably on a southern
trip, leaving the Cardinal sole protector, provider and peace-maker for
their lively and quarrelsome triplet. A fight is apparently as needful
for the development of a young Cardinal as of an English schoolboy,
possibly due in both cases to a meat diet.