quite a little distance through the misty air. Now is the time when the
Swallows begin of their own accord to leave their perch down in the
depths of the spartina and fly with heavy wing through the cool and
foggy layer below into the clearer atmosphere above, where the sun's
first rays will soon dispel the chilly dampness of their plumage.
While we are still absorbed in the astounding spectacle, daylight is
stealing quietly into the novel scene, and discloses the presence of
greater and greater numbers of Swallows as far as the eye can reach.
Many have gained enormous heights, and are soaring majestically in the
sun-kissed zenith. Not so voiceless as the Swallows do the Bobolinks
leave the roost. Their _pink_ is continually in the air, and numerous
parties are seen passing over, drifting into all directions of the
compass. Some alight again, all in their yellow traveling suits, with
the exception of one who has a little song for us and wears a somewhat
mottled garb with whitish rump. Long-stretched flocks of Redwings pass
in one direction, troops of Frackles in another; but, on the whole they
do not present anything like the grand spectacle they will later in
the year, when migration sends millions of them to this marsh.
The sun is up now, and a little wind is stirring and dispels the clammy
dampness of the air. Short-bills sing on all sides, and a few Marylands
and Henslows are also heard to sing. Great Blue Herons are on the move,
and the Marsh Hawk is at work. A Bittern wings its way across the
marsh, attended by a committee of inquisitive young Eaves. There is
a peculiar movement now among the Swallows. They seem to concentrate
their forces. Let us follow them, and be treated to an unexpected sight.
Fifty thousand Eave Swallows are seated on the protruding tops of
sunflowers, which grow here among the spartina in restricted areas,
covering a few acres in the middle of the marsh! They sit, several on
one plant, as close together as the branches and their weight allow.
We draw nearer, until we are within twenty yards of the assembly. The
birds must see us, but do not mind, and we have excellent opportunity
to watch them. Their numbers are still swelling. The long, narrow,
ridge-like stretch of sunflowers is filling up more and more. From the
north comes a steady flow of Eaves, all bound for the convention.
It is now 6 A. M.; the influx of arrivals from the north has ceased,
and all seem ready for the opening of the session; but they do not look
as if they were going to transact important business. Some fly up from
time to time, draw a few circles and sit down again. Most of them look
tired, as if they had already performed a most fatiguing task. The
majority are young fellows, all Eaves, in pale attire, some so small as
if not fully grown; but there are also many adults in high dress among
them. All are enjoying their rest, some are preening their feathers,
others half close their eyes and puff up their plumage, as if going
to sleep. There are still some high up in the ether enjoying their
enviable wing power; others are hunting low over the marsh, in company
with Whitebreasts.
Although the two species hunt, fly and roost together, they do not
hold their meetings together. The Whitebreasts' assemblages are held
over water. They betake themselves to a pond or lake, and find a perch
on the pods, stalks and projecting leaves of the lotus (_Nelumbo
lutea_), with which some of these shallow waters of the marsh are
literally covered. There is a small pond only a quarter of a mile from
the sunflower patch, and this is now just full of Whitebreasts. Now
and then a little cloud of them rises from the pond, and after a few
evolutions settles down again. There are only a few hundred; the height
of their autumnal wandering is several weeks behind that of the Eaves.
These are most numerous in late August and early September; but, as
their number decreases, that of the Whitebreasts increases, reaching
the height at the time the Eaves depart.
In summer the roost belongs almost entirely to the Eaves, who flock
here from the surrounding country. So do the Roughwings, a few hundred
only, and some Barn Swallows and Whitebreasts, which two species are
not numerous breeders in this region.
[Illustration: TREE OR WHITE-BREASTED SWALLOWS
Immature birds on the ground gathering nesting material, which they
drop after carrying a short distance, thus apparently giving a
premature exhibition of the nest-building instinct
Photographed from nature by Frank M. Chapman, Leonia, N. J., August,
1897]
As soon as migration begins, about the middle of August, the Eaves
are greatly reinforced, and for the next four weeks enormous numbers
are present, but it is probable that they are not always the same
individuals, as their numbers vary from day to day. It seems they
perform their migrations by stages, from roost to roost, employing
mainly the first hour of the morning for their flights, spending the
day resting and feeding in the region surrounding the roost. The
substitution of arriving Whitebreasts for departing Eaves is in the
beginning almost imperceptible, but at last we see that the one has
taken the place of the other entirely. The Roughwings become more
numerous in early September, and many remain, with a few Barn Swallows,
into October, but the latter are never conspicuous at this roost.
Martins and Bank Swallows are only accidental visitors to this roost.
The Whitebreasts remain numerous to the middle of October, and small
detachments linger even a week longer.
Most of the Eaves that have been gathering on the sunflowers before
6 A. M. are still there at 8 A. M., and the Whitebreasts are also
on the lotus yet; but an hour later, when the sun has heated the
marsh and started the winged insects on their aërial mission, the
time for activity has arrived, and the meetings are adjourned, the
birds dispersed. We, too, will adjourn, with the promise to be back
for another meeting in the evening. When migration is well under
way, the collecting of the Eaves and Whitebreasts begins early in
the evening; in fact, large droves are met at all hours of the day,
playfully gyrating in the blue heavens above, or describing endless
curves upon the glittering marsh beneath. The Roughwings are seldom
seen in the marsh in daytime. As soon as they leave the roost at early
dawn, they hurry away to their accustomed haunts along the water
courses in the timber, where they collect on the branches of a dead
tree on the bank, if possible over water. There they sit, soon after
daybreak, fifty to one hundred together, silent and lost in meditation,
patiently awaiting the dissipation of the vapory dimness, the signal
for activity. They are greatly attached to these meeting-places, and
resort to them often in daytime as well as in the evening. Indeed,
these gatherings of Roughwings on certain dead trees along our woodland
lakes and streams are quite a feature of the landscape from July till
October. Often their ranks are considerably swelled by an admixture
of other Swallows--oftenest the Bank Swallows, who join them on their
entomologizing excursions, and find it congenial to spend some time on
the same perch with their gentle cousins.
In fall migration, the different kinds of Swallows like to mix,
hunt and rest together, and it is nothing rare to find four or five
species sitting side by side. To be sure of a full view of the whole
performance, we are in the marsh as early as 5 P. M., and take a stand
west of the roost to have a good light, and also to be in a position
where we can overlook part of Maple Lake, over which a large number
of Swallows take their way. Indeed, we find them already plentiful,
and watch their actions. A few dozens are sitting on the plant stalks
projecting from the water, mostly Whitebreasts. From the west comes
a pretty steady stream of Eaves. When they reach the spot where the
Whitebreasts are gathering now, they pause a moment, and, hovering,
take a drink, several at once, after which they continue their course.
Is it not strange that they seem to think that this is the only place
for Eaves to drink, though the lake is half a mile long?
[Illustration: 'BIRD NOTES'--TREE SWALLOWS
Photographed from nature by Frank M. Chapman]
Bobolinks also arrive in the marsh; small parties pass over, and their
_pink_ is often in the air. It is now 5.30 P. M. More Eaves come,
drink, and move on. We move, too, following them through the high
spartina until we see in the distance an oasis of black dots in the
yellow sea of grasses. While we are still advancing, a Pigeon Hawk
darts over our heads, going straight for the oasis. In less than no
time the black dots take wing and up goes the whole congregation of
Eaves, up, up, scattering to all winds, and disappearing for several
minutes. But the disturber is gone, and the frightened birds find
courage to return and sit down again on their favorite weeds, from
which they can overlook the marsh for miles around.
The Bobolinks, for whose special benefit the Hawk's visit was this time
meant, are still hovering in the air, but new troops arrive, and after
some aimless drifting all settle down to roost amongst the grasses.
The sun is down now, and perfect streams of Swallows are flowing from
all sides toward the oasis in the center. This is the moment when the
Whitebreasts, who for the last hour have been congregating on the lotus
of the neighboring lakes, mingle with the passing Eaves and accompany
them to the common roost. The Roughwings, too, have left their haunts
and are appearing in the marsh.
The light of day is waning fast, and the smoky air gets dim and misty.
The assembled Eaves are now seen to rise in clouds from their oasis,
mix their forces with the invading army, and the grandest spectacle
ensues. At first it looks as if confusion reigned, but soon the hosts
of fleet-winged birds no longer whirl aimlessly through space. All mass
and muster, and perform strange evolutions with amazing swiftness and
precision. Now we see them scattering and spreading over the whole area
on which they intend to roost, apparently to make sure that no danger
lurks beneath the grasses. Here they come, skimming, almost touching,
the spartina, pass by, and speed onward until lost to sight for a few
moments, when all at once a great cloud of moving specks is visible in
the distant sky. The specks are Swallows, and the cloud has life; it
moves, it rolls, it swells, it comes, it breaks and, like a torrent of
wing-borne arrows, darts upon us, scattering and spreading out, as it
descends for another wild dash low over the spartina.
The same wonderful maneuvers repeat themselves as long as the evening
twilight lasts, and, though with each descent the cloud does shrink
in size, it does not cease to rise again until black night has fully
settled down, and even after dark small droves of bewildered birds
rush madly by our side. Being well within the range of the now settled
birds, we cannot go away without disturbing some in their repose;
although they are dispersed over a large area, every now and then one
will be seen to scamper out and vanish in the darkness.
[Illustration: YOUNG EUROPEAN MARTINS AND NEST
Photographed from nature by "C. R."]
Watching the Bittern 'Pump'
BY BRADFORD TORREY
[Illustration]
Since I printed, in 'The Auk' (Vol. vi, p. 1), a description of the
Bittern's vocal performances, I have witnessed a repetition of them on
three occasions; and the story of my successes, such as they are, may
be encouraging to the younger readers of Bird-Lore.
The remarkable sounds, sometimes likened to those of an old-fashioned
wooden pump, sometimes to those made by a man driving a stake in wet
soil (and the likeness is unmistakable, not to say perfect, in both
cases), must have attracted attention, we may suppose, ever since the
settlement of the country. The dullest person could not hear them,
it would seem, without wondering how and by what they were produced.
But up to the time of my 'Auk' article, there was only one authentic
record, so far as I am aware, that the bird had ever been seen in the
act of uttering them. For my own part, having never lived near a meadow
adapted to the Bittern's purposes, I had never so much as heard his
famous 'boom,' though references to it here and there, in the writings
of Thoreau especially, had given me a lively desire to do so. It was
a strange accident, surely, that the first Bittern I had ever heard
should show himself so openly and for so long a time. Beginners' luck,
we may call it, and be thankful that such providential encouragements
are not so very uncommon. As the Scripture says, "The last shall be
first."
On the 2d of May, 1889, a year after the observations recorded in
'The Auk' article, I was lying upon a cliff on the edge of a cat-tail
swamp, listening for Rail notes or a Least Bittern's _coo_, when a
Bittern, very much to my surprise, pumped almost at my feet. By good
luck a small wooded peninsula jutted into the swamp just at that point
(the swamp, I regret to say, has since been converted into a town
reservoir), and, keeping in the shelter of rocks and trees, I stole out
to its very tip unobserved. Two or three times the notes were repeated,
but I could get no sight of the performer. Then, all in a flash, he
stood before me--as no doubt he had been doing all the while--in full
view, just across a narrow space of open water against a patch of
cat-tails. He had taken no alarm, and pumped six or eight times while
I stood, opera-glass in hand, watching his slightest motion. Then he
stalked away into the reeds, pumped twice,--behind the scenes, as it
were,--and fell silent.
Two days later I went to the Wayland meadows, where I had seen my bird
of the year previous, and there, seated upon the railroad embankment,
as before, I watched a Bittern pump at short intervals for more than
an hour. Most of the time he was more or less hidden by the low grass,
through which he was slowly traveling down the meadow; but once, coming
near the remains of a last year's haycock, he went a little out of his
way, mounted it, and boomed in full sight. The Bittern is a wader and
a recluse, but once in a while, it appears, he has no objection to a
clear platform and dry feet.
I felt myself highly favored. Twice within three days I had been
admitted to "assist" at mysteries of which Thoreau, who spent his life
in the best of Bittern country, had never obtained so much as a glimpse.
Exactly a year afterward (May 4, 1890) I was strolling along a road
near home, when from a meadow beside it came the now familiar pumping
notes. I made toward the spot, and by the help of a clump of alder
bushes approached within a very short distance of the bird, who stood
in short grass, quite unconcealed. A migratory visitor only, he must
have been, for I am certain that no Bittern ever summered in that place
during my years of residence near it. I watched him at his work till I
was tired. Then, bethinking myself of a friend and neighbor who knew
nothing about birds, but had once expressed to me a curiosity about
the 'Stake-driver,' I walked to the village, rang his doorbell, and
invited him to go back with me to see the show. The showman was still
rehearsing, and we stole upon him without difficulty, and saw as much
as we wished of his doings. Though it was Sunday morning, and the bird
was as serious as any parson, we took the liberty of laughing a little
at his absurd contortions.
Since then I have heard the Bittern's music on sundry occasions, but
never have found it possible to come within sight of him in the act
of making it. Once, I remember, I was sitting upon a roadside fence,
reading, when a carriage stopped and an unrecognized feminine voice
said: "Do you see that Heron behind you, Mr. Torrey?" The "Heron" was
_Botaurus lentiginosus_, in a bit of low ground close by a house. I
shut my book and gave him my attention, which he presently rewarded by
catching and swallowing a snake. This was in autumn, when Bitterns,
like lesser birds, are liable to turn up in unexpected quarters. The
reader may take the incident, if he will, as a warning against the
reading of print out of doors. As a general thing, we may safely say,
Nature's page is better than a book.
One season a friend and myself became much interested in the question
as to the relative 'carrying power' of the three notes or syllables
of which the Bittern's music is composed. The discussion began by our
hearing a single far-away note, repeated at the proper intervals, at
a time when we could not well follow it up. Later investigation, to
our no small surprise, compelled us to settle down upon the conclusion
that the first note was the one last to be lost as we traveled away
from the bird. We were surprised, I say, for the second note is the one
which bears, or seems to bear, the accent. _Plum-pud-d'n_, the creature
appears to say, with an emphasis fairly to be called violent upon the
middle note. Why, then, should not the middle note be heard farthest?
What _is_ emphasis, anyhow, if not, as the dictionary says, a "special
force of voice." Could there be something peculiar, we asked ourselves,
in the _quality_ of the first syllable, which made it carry beyond the
others? We discussed the matter eagerly, trudging to and fro to make
certain of the fact itself, and agreed, if I remember rightly, upon a
plausible explanation. As I review the case, however, I am so much in
doubt as to the correctness of our theory that it seems quite as well
not to state it, but to leave the question to any Bird-Lore reader
who may some day have nothing better to do than to investigate it for
himself.
=For Teachers and Students=
Hints to Young Bird Students[F]
[Footnote F: From a leaflet prepared under the initiative of Mr.
Witmer Stone, Conservator Ornithological Section, Acad. Nat. Sci.,
Philadelphia. These "hints" are addressed to students who desire to
become scientific ornithologists and to whom specimens are a necessity.
They show, however, how few specimens are required, and how much more
there is to learn from living birds than from dead ones.]
It has always been our experience that young bird students who have
just crossed the threshold of ornithology are glad to turn for a word
of advice and assistance to their older brethren, who have already made
some progress in the science; and it has always been a pleasure for us
to give such aid. In view of these facts, we take this opportunity of
offering a few words of counsel for the benefit of those who are
beginning the study of birds.
Doubtless every beginner looks upon the formation of a collection as
necessarily the first step on the ornithological ladder; and probably a
collection of eggs is preferred to a collection of birds, because the
specimens can be prepared much more readily.
Soon you meet complaints from well meaning persons who object to
robbing birds' nests, and you reply that you are collecting for
scientific purposes. Very good; science has need of you all, but do you
know what scientific ornithology--real ornithology--is?
Are you not influenced, to some extent, at least, by "oölogical"
magazines and dealers' price-lists of eggs, from which you learn that
it is important to secure _series of sets_,--which means hundreds and
thousands of eggs,--and wherein you also learn the market price of this
or that egg, and value your specimens accordingly,--just as you do your
postage stamps? This is not science, and the men who advocate this sort
of collecting, and who have the largest collections of eggs, rarely
contribute anything to our knowledge of birds, and are not advancing
the science of ornithology.
If you must have a collection, a few sets of eggs (often a single set)
of each species of bird will answer all your purposes. There is nothing
to be gained by the collecting of a series, except the extermination of
the birds, which is surely not your object.
On the other hand, there is a vast amount of bird work that you can do
to help the science of ornithology and gain a reputation for yourself.
There are hundreds of facts regarding the distribution of birds, their
habits, etc., which are still unknown, and you should make it your aim
to become an authority on the birds of your region, and keep records of
all your observations as to migration, habits, abundance, etc. You will
find ample opportunity for work, as every year will bring to light new
facts, and the more you contribute to our knowledge of the birds the
more you will see what an insignificant matter the formation of an egg
collection is in comparison with real ornithology.
In the case of birds, it is justifiable to shoot specimens which are
new to you for purposes of identification, but you should make the best
use of the bird _before_ you kill it, so that it will not be necessary
to shoot more of the same kind in order to tell what they are. Your aim
should be to learn to recognize birds at sight and by their notes, and
you will find you will learn more of value by a study of the living
bird than by collecting skins.
The exact knowledge that we now possess of the coloration, etc., of
North American birds, and the large collections available for study in
the museums, render it entirely unnecessary for _every_ bird student to
form a collection. Those who undertake any special line of study will
soon learn what specimens are required and collect accordingly, instead
of amassing a large number of specimens with no particular object in
view.
These suggestions are not made with a faultfinding or sentimental
feeling, but in a friendly spirit, for the purpose of counteracting
the effect of the advice of egg dealers and traders, who seem bent
upon developing our budding students into "egg hogs" instead of
ornithologists.
We have all killed birds and collected eggs, but not to a useless
excess, and have always, we believe, made real use of our collections
in adding to the knowledge of birds and advancing the science of
ornithology.
As active members of the American Ornithologists' Union, we are only
too glad to encourage the study of birds and aid the beginner, but
unless some steps be taken against this useless egg collecting, the
extermination of some at least of our birds will soon be effected.
We ask your earnest consideration of these points, and trust you will
aid us by your influence and example in advancing true ornithology, and
in discouraging the waste of bird-life occasioned by this "fad" of egg
collecting.
WITMER STONE,
Conservator Ornithological Section, Acad. Nat. Sci., Philadelphia.
J. A. ALLEN,
Curator Dept. Vertebrate Zool., Amer. Mus. Nat. Hist.,
New York City.
FRANK M. CHAPMAN,
Ass't Curator Dept. Vertebrate Zool., Amer. Mus. Nat. Hist.,
New York City.
ROBERT RIDGWAY,
President American Ornithologists' Union.
Curator Dept. of Birds, U. S. Nat. Mus., Washington, D. C.
CHARLES W. RICHMOND,
Ass't Curator Dept. of Birds, U. S. Nat. Mus., Washington, D. C.
C. HART MERRIAM,
Chief U. S. Biol. Survey, Dept. of Agriculture, Washington, D. C.
T. S. PALMER,
Ass't Biol. Survey, Dept. of Agriculture, Washington, D. C.
A. K. FISHER,
Ass't Biol. Survey, Dept. of Agriculture, Washington, D. C.
WILLIAM BREWSTER,
Curator Dept. of Birds, Museum Comp. Zool., Cambridge, Mass.
WILLIAM DUTCHER,
Treasurer American Ornithologists' Union, New York City.
JOHN H. SAGE,
Secretary American Ornithologists' Union, Portland, Conn.
Fall Migration at Portland, Conn.
BY JOHN H. SAGE
I. AVERAGE DATES OF DEPARTURE OF THE COMMONER SUMMER RESIDENT BIRDS
September 1 to 10
Least Bittern, Black-billed Cuckoo, Least Flycatcher, Baltimore Oriole,
Veery.
September 10 to 20
Kingbird, Cliff Swallow, Purple Martin, Warbling Vireo, White-eyed Vireo,
Prairie Warbler, Wood Thrush.
September 20 to 30
Spotted Sandpiper, Whip-poor-will, Hummingbird, Rose-breasted Grosbeak,
Bank Swallow, Yellow-throated Vireo, Nashville Warbler, Yellow Warbler,
Redstart, Ovenbird, House Wren.
October 1 to 10
Green Heron, Night-hawk, Chimney Swift, Wood Pewee, Scarlet Tanager,
Red-eyed Vireo, Black and White Warbler, Parula Warbler.
October 10 to 20
Virginia Rail, Black-crowned Night Heron, Cooper's Hawk, Yellow-billed
Cuckoo, Phoebe, Bobolink, Indigo Bunting, Barn Swallow, Catbird, Brown
Thrasher, Short-billed Marsh Wren.
October 20 to 31
American Bittern, Sharp-shinned Hawk, Red-winged Blackbird, Meadow Lark,
Field Sparrow, Vesper, Savanna and Chipping Sparrows, Towhee, Tree
Swallow, Black-throated Green Warbler, Maryland Yellow-throat,
Long-billed Marsh Wren.
November 1 to 30