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BIRDS OF THE ROCKIES
by
LEANDER S. KEYSER
Author of "In Bird Land," Etc.
With Eight Full-page Plates (four in color)
by LOUIS AGASSIZ FUERTES; Many Illustrations
in the Text by BRUCE HORSFALL, and
Eight Views of Localities from Photographs
With a Complete Check-List
of Colorado Birds
[Illustration: PLATE I
WILLIAMSON'S SAPSUCKER _Sphyrapicus thyroideus_
(Figure on left, male; on right, female)]
[Illustration]
Chicago . A. C. McClurg and Co.
Nineteen Hundred and Two
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1902
Published September 27, 1902
TO
KATHERINE
AND
THE BOYS
IN MEMORY OF MANY HAPPY DAYS
BOTH INDOORS AND OUT
CONTENTS
PAGE
UP AND DOWN THE HEIGHTS 19
INTRODUCTION TO SOME SPECIES 31
BALD PEAKS AND GREEN VALES 47
BIRDS OF THE ARID PLAIN 83
A PRETTY HUMMER 103
OVER THE DIVIDE AND BACK 117
A ROCKY MOUNTAIN LAKE 139
A BIRD MISCELLANY 149
PLAINS AND FOOTHILLS 177
RAMBLES ABOUT GEORGETOWN 197
HO! FOR GRAY'S PEAK! 223
PLEASANT OUTINGS 259
A NOTABLE QUARTETTE 285
CHECK-LIST OF COLORADO BIRDS 307
INDEX 349
ILLUSTRATIONS
FULL-PAGE PLATES
PLATE FACING PAGE
I. WILLIAMSON'S SAPSUCKER--_Sphyrapicus
thyroideus_ _Frontispiece_
II. GREEN-TAILED TOWHEE--_Pipilo chlorurus_;
SPURRED TOWHEE--_Pipilo megalonyx_ 47
III. LAZULI BUNTING--_Cyanospiza amoena_ 83
IV. LARK BUNTING--_Calamospiza melanocorys_ 139
V. LOUISIANA TANAGER--_Pyranga ludoviciana_ 177
VI. TOWNSEND'S SOLITAIRE--_Myiadestes townsendii_ 223
VII. RUDDY DUCK--_Erismatura rubida_ 259
VIII. BROWN-CAPPED LEUCOSTICTE--_Leucosticte australis_ 303
SCENIC AND TEXT ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
WHITE-CROWNED SPARROWS ("Their grass-lined nests
by the babbling mountain brook") 21
TURTLE DOVES ("Darting across the turbulent stream") 44
PIPITS ("Te-cheer! te-cheer!") 50
PIPITS ("Up over the Bottomless Pit") 51
WHITE-CROWNED SPARROW ("Dear Whittier") 55
RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET ("The singer elevated his crest
feathers") 65
DESERT HORNED LARKS ("They were plentiful in this parched
region") 84
HORNED LARK ("It was a dear little thing") 88
COYOTE ("Looking back to see whether he were being pursued") 100
ONE OF THE SEVEN LAKES 105
SUMMIT OF PIKE'S PEAK 111
"PIKE'S PEAK IN CLOUDLAND" 114
CLIFF-SWALLOWS ("On the rugged face of a cliff") 118
ROYAL GORGE 123
PINE SISKINS 128
WILLOW THRUSH 136
BREWER'S BLACKBIRDS ("An interesting place for bird study") 139
YELLOW-HEADED BLACKBIRDS ("There the youngsters
perched") 142
"FROM THEIR PLACE AMONG THE REEDS" 146
THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN JAY ("Seeking a covert in the
dense pineries when a storm sweeps down from the mountains") 152
RAINBOW FALLS 165
WATER-OUSEL ("Up, up, only a few inches from the dashing
current") 167
WATER-OUSEL ("Three hungry mouths which were opened wide to
receive the food") 171
"NO SNOWSTORM CAN DISCOURAGE HIM" 174
"THE DARK DOORWAY" 179
SONG SPARROW ("His songs are bubbling over still with melody
and glee") 194
CLEAR CREEK VALLEY 201
WESTERN ROBIN ("Out-pouring joy") 207
RED-NAPED SAPSUCKERS ("Chiselling grubs out of the bark") 211
PIGEON HAWK ("Watching for quarry") 214
"SOLO SINGING IN THE THRUSH REALM" 218
GRAY'S AND TORREY'S PEAKS 245
PANORAMA FROM GRAY'S PEAK--NORTHWEST 249
THISTLE BUTTERFLY 252
WESTERN WHITE 252
JUNCO ("Under a roof of green grass") 255
SOUTH PARK FROM KENOSHA HILL 265
MAGPIE AND WESTERN ROBINS ("They were hot on his trail") 271
VIOLET-GREEN SWALLOW ("Squatted on the dusty road and took a
sun-bath") 279
"'What bird is that? Its song is good,'
And eager eyes
Go peering through the dusky wood
In glad surprise;
Then late at night when by his fire
The traveller sits,
Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,
The sweet song flits
By snatches through his weary brain
To help him rest."
HELEN HUNT JACKSON: _The Way to Sing_.
BRIEF FOREWORD
With sincere pleasure the author would acknowledge the uniform courtesy
of editors and publishers in permitting him to reprint many of the
articles comprised in this volume, from the various periodicals in which
they first appeared.
He also desires to express his special indebtedness to Mr. Charles E.
Aiken, of Colorado Springs, Colorado, whose contributions to the
ornithology of the West have been of great scientific value, and to
whose large and varied collection of bird-skins the author had frequent
access for the purpose of settling difficult points in bird
identification. This obliging gentleman also spent many hours in
conversation with the writer, answering his numerous questions with the
intelligence of the scientifically trained observer. Lastly, he kindly
corrected some errors into which the author had inadvertently fallen.
While the area covered by the writer's personal observations may be
somewhat restricted, yet the scientific bird-list at the close of the
volume widens the field so as to include the entire avi-fauna of
Colorado so far as known to systematic students. Besides, constant
comparison has been made between the birds of the West and the allied
species and genera of our Central and Eastern States. For this reason
the range of the volume really extends from the Atlantic seaboard to the
parks, valleys, and plateaus beyond the Continental Divide.
L. S. K.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;--
He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON: _Each and All_.
Not from his fellows only man may learn
Rights to compare and duties to discern;
All creatures and all objects, in degree,
Are friends and patrons of humanity.
There are to whom the garden, grove, and field
Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield;
Who would not lightly violate the grace
The lowliest flower possesses in its place;
Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive,
Which nothing less than infinite Power could give.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH: _Humanity_.
Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere--
The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,
Their sweet liquidity diluted some
By dewy orchard spaces they have come.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY: _A Child World_.
Even in the city, I
Am ever conscious of the sky;
A portion of its frame no less
Than in the open wilderness.
The stars are in my heart by night,
I sing beneath the opening light,
As envious of the bird; I live
Upon the payment, yet I give
My soul to every growing tree
That in the narrow ways I see.
My heart is in the blade of grass
Within the courtyard where I pass;
And the small, half-discovered cloud
Compels me till I cry aloud.
I am the wind that beats the walls
And wander trembling till it falls;
The snow, the summer rain am I,
In close communion with the sky.
PHILIP HENRY SAVAGE.
BIRDS OF THE ROCKIES
UP AND DOWN THE HEIGHTS
To study the birds from the level plains to the crests of the peaks
swimming in cloudland; to note the species that are peculiar to the
various altitudes, as well as those that range from the lower areas to
the alpine heights; to observe the behavior of all the birds encountered
in the West, and compare their habits, songs, and general deportment
with those of correlated species and genera in the East; to learn as
much as possible about the migratory movements up and down the mountains
as the seasons wax and wane,--surely that would be an inspiring prospect
to any student of the feathered fraternity. For many years one of the
writer's most cherished desires has been to investigate the bird life of
the Rocky Mountains. In the spring of 1899, and again in 1901, fortune
smiled upon him in the most genial way, and--in a mental state akin to
rapture, it must be confessed--he found himself rambling over the plains
and mesas and through the deep canyons, and clambering up the dizzy
heights, in search of winged rarities.
In this chapter attention will be called to a few general facts relative
to bird life in the Rockies, leaving the details for subsequent recital.
As might be expected, the towering elevations influence the movements of
the feathered tenants of the district. There is here what might be
called a vertical migration, aside from the usual pilgrimages north and
south which are known to the more level portions of North America. The
migratory journeys up and down the mountains occur with a regularity
that amounts to a system; yet so far as regards these movements each
species must be studied for itself, each having manners that are all its
own.
In regions of a comparatively low altitude many birds, as is well known,
hie to the far North to find the proper climatic conditions in which to
rear their broods and spend their summer vacation, some of them going to
the subarctic provinces and others beyond. How different among the
sublime heights of the Rockies! Here they are required to make a journey
of only a few miles, say from five to one hundred or slightly more,
according to the locality selected, up the defiles and canyons or over
the ridges, to find the conditions as to temperature, food, nesting
sites, etc., that are precisely to their taste. The wind blowing down to
their haunts from the snowy summits carries on its wings the same
keenness and invigoration that they would find if they went to British
America, where the breezes would descend from the regions of snow and
ice beyond the Arctic Circle.
[Illustration: _White-Crowned Sparrows_]
It will add a little spice of detail if we take a concrete case. There
is the handsome and lyrical white-crowned sparrow; in my native State,
Ohio, this bird is only a migrant, passing for the summer far up into
Canada to court his mate and rear his family. Now remember that Colorado
is in the same latitude as Ohio; but the Buckeye State, famous as it is
for furnishing presidents, has no lofty elevations, and therefore no
white-crowns as summer residents. However, Colorado may claim this
distinction, as well as that of producing gold and silver, and
furnishing some of the sublimest scenery on the earth; for on the side
of Pike's Peak, in a green, well-watered valley just below timber-line,
I was almost thrown into transports at finding the white-crowns,
listening to their rhythmic choruses, and discovering their grass-lined
nests by the side of the babbling mountain brook. Altitude accomplishes
for these birds what latitude does for their brothers and sisters of
eastern North America.
There is almost endless variety in the avi-faunal life of the Rockies.
Some species breed far above timber-line in the thickets that invade the
open valleys, or clamber far up the steep mountain sides. Others ascend
still higher, building their nests on the bald summits of the loftiest
peaks at an altitude of fourteen thousand feet and more, living all
summer long in an atmosphere that is as rare as it is refreshing and
pure. Among these alpine dwellers may be mentioned the brown-capped
leucostictes, which shall be accorded the attention they deserve in
another chapter. Then, there are species which have representatives both
on the plains and far up in the mountain parks and valleys, such as the
western robin, the western meadow-lark, and the mountain bluebird.
In this wonderful country there is to be observed every style of
migratory habit. A twofold migrating current must be noticed. While
there is a movement up and down the mountain heights, there is at the
same time a movement north and south, making the migratory system a
perfect network of lines of travel. Some species summer in the
mountains and winter on the plains; others summer in the mountains pass
down to the plains in the autumn, then wing their way farther south into
New Mexico, Mexico, Central America, and even South America, where they
spend the winter, reversing this order on their return to the north in
the spring; others simply pass through this region in their vernal and
autumnal pilgrimages, stopping for a short time, but spending neither
the summer nor the winter in this latitude; still others come down from
the remote north on the approach of autumn, and winter in this State,
either on the plains or in the sheltering ravines and forests of the
mountains, and then return to the north in the spring; and, lastly,
there are species that remain here all the year round, some of them in
the mountains, others on the plains, and others again in both
localities. A number of hardy birds--genuine feathered Norsemen--brave
the arctic winters of the upper mountain regions, fairly revelling in
the swirling snow-storms, and it must be a terrific gale indeed that
will drive them down from their favorite habitats toward the plains.
Does the avi-fauna of the Rocky Mountain district differ widely from
that of the Eastern States? The reply must be made in the affirmative.
Therefore the first work of the bird-student from the East will be that
of a tyro--the identification of species. For this purpose he must have
frequent recourse to the useful manuals of Coues and Ridgway, and to the
invaluable brochure of Professor Wells W. Cooke on the "Birds of
Colorado." In passing, it may be said that the last-named gentleman
might almost be called the Colorado Audubon or Wilson.
In studying the birds of the West, one should note that there are
western subspecies and varieties, which differ in some respects, though
not materially, from their eastern cousins; for instance, the western
robin, the western chipping sparrow, the western lark sparrow, and the
western nighthawk. Besides, intermediate forms are to be met with and
classified, the eastern types shading off in a very interesting process
into the western. It would be impossible for any one but a systematist
with the birds in hand to determine where the intermediate forms become
either typical easterners or typical westerners.
Most interesting of all to the rambler on avian lore intent is the fact
that there are many species and genera that are peculiar to the West,
and therefore new to him, keeping him constantly on the _qui vive_. In
Colorado you will look in vain for the common blue jay, so abundant in
all parts of the East; but you will be more than compensated by the
presence of seven other species of the jay household. The woodpeckers of
the West (with one exception) are different from those of the East, and
so are the flycatchers, the grosbeaks, the orioles, the tanagers, the
humming-birds, and many of the sparrows. Instead of the purple and
bronzed grackles (the latter are sometimes seen on the plains of
Colorado, but are not common), the Rockies boast of Brewer's blackbird,
whose habits are not as prosaic as his name would indicate. "Jim Crow"
shuns the mountains for reasons satisfactory to himself; not so the
magpie, the raven, and that mischief-maker, Clark's nutcracker. All of
which keeps the bird-lover from the East in an ecstasy of surprises
until he has become accustomed to his changed environment.
One cannot help falling into the speculative mood in view of the sharp
contrasts between the birds of the East and those of the West. Why does
the hardy and almost ubiquitous blue jay studiously avoid the western
plains and mountains? Why do not the magpie and the long-crested jay
come east? What is there that prevents the indigo-bird from taking up
residence in Colorado, where his pretty western cousin, the lazuli
finch, finds himself so much at home? Why is the yellow-shafted flicker
of the East replaced in the West by the red-shafted flicker? These
questions are more easily asked than answered. From the writer's present
home in eastern Kansas it is only six hundred miles to the foot of the
Rockies; yet the avi-fauna of eastern Kansas is much more like that of
the Eastern and New England States than that of the Colorado region.
Perhaps the reason is largely, if not chiefly, physiological. Evidently
there are birds that flourish best in a rare, dry atmosphere, while
others naturally thrive in an atmosphere that is denser and more humid.
The same is true of people. Many persons find the climate of Colorado
especially adapted to their needs; indeed, to certain classes of
invalids it is a veritable sanitarium. Others soon learn that it is
detrimental to their health. Mayhap the same laws obtain in the bird
realm.
The altitude of my home is eight hundred and eighty feet above
sea-level; that of Denver, Colorado, six thousand one hundred and sixty,
making a difference of over five thousand feet, which may account for
the absence of many eastern avian forms in the more elevated districts.
Some day the dissector of birds may find a real difference in the
physiological structure of the eastern and western meadow-larks. If so,
it is to be hoped he will at once publish his discoveries for the
satisfaction of all lovers of birds.
If one had time and opportunity, some intensely interesting experiments
might be tried. Suppose an eastern blue jay should be carried to the top
of Pike's Peak, or Gray's, and then set free, how would he fare? Would
the muscles and tendons of his wings have sufficient strength to bear
him up in the rarefied atmosphere? One may easily imagine that he would
go wabbling helplessly over the granite boulders, unable to lift himself
more than a few feet in the air, while the pipit and the leucosticte,
inured to the heights, would mount up to the sky and shout "Ha! ha!" in
good-natured raillery at the blue tenderfoot. And would the feathered
visitor feel a constriction in his chest and be compelled to gasp for
breath, as the human tourists invariably do? It is even doubtful whether
any eastern bird would be able to survive the changed meteorological
conditions, Nature having designed him for a different environment.
INTRODUCTION TO SOME SPECIES
It was night when I found lodgings in the picturesque village of
Manitou, nestling at the foot of the lower mountains that form the
portico to Pike's Peak. Early the next morning I was out for a stroll
along the bush-fringed mountain brook which had babbled me a serenade
all night. To my delight, the place was rife with birds, the first to
greet me being robins, catbirds, summer warblers, and warbling vireos,
all of which, being well known in the East, need no description, but are
mentioned here only to show the reader that some avian species are
common to both the East and the West.
But let me pause to pay a little tribute to the brave robin redbreast.
Of course, here he is called the "western robin." His distribution is an
interesting scientific fact. I found him everywhere--on the arid plains
and mesas, in the solemn pines of the deep gulches and passes, and among
the scraggy trees bordering on timber-line, over ten thousand feet above
sea-level. In Colorado the robins are designated as "western," forms by
the system-makers, but, even though called by a modified title, they
deport themselves, build their nests, and sing their "cheerily,
cheerily, cheer up," just as do their brothers and sisters of the land
toward the rising sun. If there is any difference, their songs are not
so loud and ringing, and their breasts not quite so ruddy as are those
of the eastern types. Perhaps the incessant sunshine of Colorado
bleaches out the tints somewhat.
But in my ante-breakfast stroll at Manitou I soon stumbled upon
feathered strangers. What was this little square-shouldered bird that
kept uttering a shrill scream, which he seemed to mistake for a song? It
was the western wood-pewee. Instead of piping the sweet, pensive
"Pe-e-e-o-we-e-e-e" of the woodland bird of the Eastern States, this
western swain persists in ringing the changes hour by hour upon that
piercing scream, which sounds more like a cry of anguish than a song. At
Buena Vista, where these birds are superabundant, their morning concerts
were positively painful. One thing must be said, however, in defence of
the western wood-pewee--he means well.
Another acquaintance of my morning saunter was the debonair Arkansas
goldfinch, which has received its bunglesome name, not from the State of
Arkansas, but from the Arkansas River, dashing down from the mountains
and flowing eastwardly through the southern part of Colorado. Most
nattily this little bird wears his black cap, his olive-green frock,
and his bright yellow vest. You will see at once that he dresses
differently from the American goldfinch, so well known in the East, and,
for that matter, just as well known on the plains of Colorado, where
both species dwell in harmony. There are some white markings on the
wings of _Spinus psaltria_ that give them a gauze-like appearance when
they are rapidly fluttered.
His song and some of his calls bear a close resemblance to those of the
common goldfinch, but he is by no means a mere duplicate of that bird;
he has an individuality of his own. While his flight is undulatory, the
waviness is not so deeply and distinctly marked; nor does he sing a
cheery cradle-song while swinging through the ether, although he often
utters a series of unmusical chirps. One of the most pleasingly pensive
sounds heard in my western rambles was the little coaxing call of this
bird, whistled mostly by the female, I think. No doubt it is the tender
love talk of a young wife or mother, which may account for its
surpassing sweetness.
Every lover of feathered kind is interested in what may be called
comparative ornithology, and therefore I wish to speak of another
western form and its eastern prototype--Bullock's oriole, which in
Colorado takes the place of the Baltimore oriole known east of the
plains all the way to the Atlantic coast. However, Bullock's is not
merely a variety or subspecies, but a well-defined species of the oriole
family, his scientific title being _Icterus bullocki_.
Like our familiar Lord Baltimore, he bravely bears black and orange; but
in _bullocki_ the latter color invades the sides of the neck, head, and
forehead, leaving only a small black bow for the throat and a narrow
black stripe running back over the crown and down the back of the neck;
whereas in _Icterus galbula_ the entire head and neck are black.
Brilliant as Bullock's oriole is, he does not seem to be anxious to
display his fineries, for he usually makes it a point to keep himself
ensconced behind a clump of foliage, so that, while you may hear a
desultory piping in the trees, apparently inviting your confidence, it
will be a long time before you can get more than a provoking glimpse of
the jolly piper himself. "My gorgeous apparel was not made for parade,"
seems to be his modest disclaimer.
He is quite a vocalist. Here is a quotation from my lead-pencil, dashes
and all: "Bullock's oriole--fine singer--voice stronger than orchard
oriole's--song not quite so well articulated or so elaborate, but louder
and more resonant--better singer than the Baltimore." It might be added
that Bullock's, like the orchard, but unlike the Baltimore, pipes a real
tune, with something of a theme running through its intermittent
outbursts. The plumage of the young bird undergoes some curious
changes, and what I took to be the year-old males seemed to be the most
spirited musicians.
Maurice Thompson's tribute to the Baltimore oriole will apply to that
bird's western kinsman. He calls him:--
"Athlete of the air--
Of fire and song a glowing core;"
and then adds, with tropical fervor:
"A hot flambeau on either wing
Rimples as you pass me by;
'T is seeing flame to hear you sing,
'T is hearing song to see you fly.
* * * * *
"When flowery hints foresay the berry,
On spray of haw and tuft of brier,
Then, wandering incendiary,
You set the maple swamps afire!"
Many nests of Bullock's oriole rewarded my slight search. They are
larger and less compactly woven than the Baltimore's, and have a woolly
appearance exteriorly, as if the down of the Cottonwood trees had been
wrought into the fabric. Out on the plains I counted four dangling
nests, old and new, on one small limb; but that, of course, was unusual,
there being only one small clump of trees within a radius of many
miles.
In the vicinity of Manitou many trips were taken by the zealous
pedestrian. Some of the dry, steep sides of the first range of mountains
were hard climbing, but it was necessary to make the effort in order to
discover their avian resources. One of the first birds met with on these
unpromising acclivities was the spurred towhee of the Rockies. In his
attire he closely resembles the towhee, or "chewink," of the East, but
has as an extra ornament a beautiful sprinkling of white on his back and
wings, which makes him look as if he had thrown a gauzy mantle of silver
over his shoulders.
But his song is different from our eastern towhee's. My notes say that
it is "a cross between the song of the chewink and that of dickcissel,"
and I shall stand by that assertion until I find good reason to disown
it--should that time ever come. The opening syllabication is like
dickcissel's; then follows a trill of no specially definable character.
There are times when he sings with more than his wonted force, and it is
then that his tune bears the strongest likeness to the eastern towhee's.
But his alarm-call! It is no "chewink" at all, but almost as close a
reproduction of a cat's mew as is the catbird's well-known call. Such
crosses and anomalies does this country produce!
On the arid mountain sides among the stunted bushes, cactus plants,
sand, and rocks, this quaint bird makes his home, coming down into the
valleys to drink at the tinkling brooks and trill his roundelays. Many,
many times, as I was following a deep fissure in the mountains, his
ditty came dripping down to me from some spot far up the steep mountain
side--a little cascade of song mingling with the cascades of the brooks.
The nests are usually placed under a bush on the sides of the mesas and
mountains.
And would you believe it? Colorado furnishes another towhee, though why
he should have been put into the Pipilo group by the ornithologists is
more than I can tell at this moment. He has no analogue in the East.
True, he is a bird of the bushes, running sometimes like a little deer
from one clump to another; but if you should see him mount a boulder or
a bush, and hear him sing his rich, theme-like, finely modulated song,
you would aver that he is closer kin to the thrushes or thrashers than
to the towhees. There is not the remotest suggestion of the towhee
minstrelsy in his prolonged and well-articulated melody. It would be
difficult to find a finer lyrist among the mountains.
But, hold! I have neglected to introduce this pretty Mozart of the West.
He is known by an offensive and inapt title--the green-tailed towhee.
Much more appropriately might he be called the chestnut-crowned towhee,
for his cope is rich chestnut, and the crest is often held erect, making
him look quite cavalier-like. It is the most conspicuous part of his
toilet. His upper parts are grayish-green, becoming slightly deeper
green on the tail, from which fact he derives his common name. His white
throat and chin are a further diagnostic mark. The bright yellow of the
edge of the wings, under coverts and axillaries is seldom seen, on
account of the extreme wariness of the bird.
In most of the dry and bushy places I found him at my elbow--or, rather,
some distance away, but in evidence by his mellifluous song. Let me
enumerate the localities in which I found my little favorite: Forty
miles out on the plain among some bushes of a shallow dip; among the
foothills about Colorado Springs and Manitou; on many of the open bushy
slopes along the cog-road leading to Pike's Peak, but never in the dark
ravines or thick timber; among the bushes just below timber-line on the
southern acclivity of the peak; everywhere around the village of Buena
Vista; about four miles below Leadville; and, lastly, beyond the range
at Red Cliff and Glenwood.[1]
[1] This list was greatly enlarged in my second trip to Colorado in
1901.
The song, besides its melodious quality, is full of expression. In this
respect it excels the liquid chansons of the mountain hermit thrush,
which is justly celebrated as a minstrel, but which does not rehearse a
well-defined theme. The towhee's song is sprightly and cheerful, wild
and free, has the swing of all outdoors, and is not pitched to a minor
key. It gives you the impression that a bird which sings so blithesome a
strain must surely be happy in his domestic relations.
Among the Rockies the black-headed grosbeak is much in evidence, and so
is his cheerful, good-tempered song, which is an exact counterpart of
the song of the rose-breasted grosbeak, his eastern kinsman. Neither the
rose-breast nor the cardinal is to be found in Colorado, but they are
replaced by the black-headed and blue grosbeaks, the former dwelling
among the lower mountains, the latter occurring along the streams of the
plains. Master black-head and his mate are partial to the scrub oaks for
nesting sites. I found one nest with four callow bantlings in it, but,
much to my grief and anger, at my next call it had been robbed of its
precious treasures. A few days later, not far from the same place, a
female was building a nest, and I am disposed to believe that she was
the mother whose children had been kidnapped.
Instead of the scarlet and summer tanagers, the Rocky Mountain region is
honored with that beautiful feathered gentleman, the Louisiana tanager,
most of whose plumage is rich, glossy yellow, relieved by black on the
wings, back, and tail; while his most conspicuous decoration is the
scarlet or crimson tinting of his head and throat, shading off into the
yellow of the breast. These colors form a picturesque combination,
especially if set against a background of green. The crimson staining
gives him the appearance of having washed his face in some bright-red
pigment, and like an awkward child, blotched his bosom with it in the
absence of a napkin.
So far as I could analyze it, there is no appreciable difference between
his lyrical performances and those of the scarlet tanager, both being a
kind of lazy, drawling song, that is slightly better than no bird music
at all. One nest was found without difficulty. It was placed on one of
the lower branches of a pine tree by the roadside at the entrance to
Engleman's Canyon. As a rule, the males are not excessively shy, as so
many of the Rocky Mountain birds are. The tanagers were seen far up in
the mountains, as well as among the foothills, and also at Red Cliff and
Glenwood on the western side of the Divide.
A unique character in feathers, one that is peculiar to the West, is the
magpie, who would attract notice wherever he should deign to live, being
a sort of grand sachem of the outdoor aviary. In some respects the
magpies are striking birds. In flight they present a peculiar
appearance; in fact, they closely resemble boys' kites with their long,
slender tails trailing in the breeze. I could not avoid the impression
that their tails were superfluous appendages, but no doubt they serve
the birds a useful purpose as rudders and balancing-poles. The magpie
presents a handsome picture as he swings through the air, the iridescent
black gleaming in the sun, beautifully set off with snowy-white
trimmings on both the upper and lower surfaces of the wings. On the
perch or on the wing he is an ornament to any landscape. As to his
voice--well, he is a genuine squawker. There is not, so far as I have
observed, a musical cord in his larynx,[2] and I am sure he does not
profess to be a musical genius, so that my criticism will do him no
injury. All the use he has for his voice seems to be to call his fellows
to a new-found banquet, or give warning of the approach of an interloper
upon his chosen preserves. His cry, if you climb up to his nest, is
quite pitiful, proving that he has real love for his offspring. Perhaps
the magpies have won their chief distinction as architects. Their nests
are really remarkable structures, sometimes as large as fair-sized
tubs, the framework composed of good-sized sticks, skilfully plaited
together, and the cup lined with grass and other soft material, making a
cosey nursery for the infantile magpies. Then the nest proper is roofed
over, and has an entrance to the apartment on either side. When you
examine the structure closely, you find that it fairly bristles with dry
twigs and sticks, and it is surprising how large some of the branches
are that are braided into the domicile. All but one of the many nests I
found were deserted, for my visit was made in June, and the birds, as a
rule, breed earlier than that month. Some were placed in bushes, some in
willow and cottonwood trees, and others in pines; and the birds
themselves were almost ubiquitous, being found on the plains, among the
foothills, and up in the mountains as far as the timber-line, not only
close to human neighborhoods, but also in the most inaccessible
solitudes.
[2] In this volume the author has made use of the terminology
usually employed in describing bird music. Hence such words as
"song," "chant," "vocal cords," etc., are of frequent occurrence. In
reality the writer's personal view is that the birds are whistlers,
pipers, fluters, and not vocalists, none of the sounds they produce
being real voice tones. The reader who may desire to go into this
matter somewhat technically is referred to Maurice Thompson's
chapter entitled "The Anatomy of Bird-Song" in his "Sylvan Secrets,"
and the author's article, "Are Birds Singers or Whistlers?" in "Our
Animal Friends" for June, 1901.
In one of my excursions along a stream below Colorado Springs, one nest
was found that was still occupied by the brooding bird. It was a bulky
affair, perhaps half as large as a bushel basket, placed in the crotch
of a tree about thirty feet from the ground. Within this commodious
structure was a globular apartment which constituted the nest proper.
Thus it was roofed over, and had an entrance at each side, so that the
bird could go into his house at one doorway and out at the other, the
room being too small to permit of his turning around in it. Thinking the
nest might be occupied, in a tentative way I tossed a small club up
among the branches, when to my surprise a magpie sprang out of the nest,
and, making no outcry, swung around among the trees, appearing quite
nervous and shy. When she saw me climbing the tree, she set up such a
heart-broken series of cries that I permitted sentiment to get the
better of me, and clambered down as fast as I could, rather than prolong
her distress. Since then I have greatly regretted my failure to climb up
to the nest and examine its contents, which might have been done without
the least injury to the owner's valuable treasures. A nestful of
magpie's eggs or bairns would have been a gratifying sight to my
bird-hungry eyes.
One bird which is familiar in the East as well as the West deserves
attention on account of its choice of haunts. I refer to the turtle
dove, which is much hardier than its mild and innocent looks would seem
to indicate. It may be remarked, in passing, that very few birds are
found in the deep canyons and gorges leading up to the higher localities;
but the doves seem to constitute the one exception to the rule; for I
saw them in some of the gloomiest defiles through which the train
scurried in crossing the mountains. For instance, in the canyon of the
Arkansas River many of them were seen from the car window, a pair just
beyond the Royal Gorge darting across the turbulent stream to the other
side. A number were also noticed in the darkest portions of the canyon of
the Grand River, where one would think not a living creature could coax
subsistence from the bare rocks and beetling cliffs. Turtle doves are so
plentiful in the West that their distribution over every available
feeding ground seems to be a matter of social and economic necessity.
[Illustration: "_Darting across the turbulent stream_"
_Turtle Doves_]
BALD PEAKS AND GREEN VALES
[Illustration: PLATE II
GREEN-TAILED TOWHEE--_Pipilo chlorurus_
(Male)
SPURRED TOWHEE--_Pipilo megalonyx_
(Male)]
One of my chief objects in visiting the Rockies was to ascend Pike's
Peak from Manitou, and make observations on the birds from the base to
the summit. A walk one afternoon up to the Halfway House and back--the
Halfway House is only about one-third of the way to the top--convinced
me that to climb the entire distance on foot would be a useless
expenditure of time and effort. An idea struck me: Why not ride up on
the cog-wheel train, and then walk down, going around by some of the
valleys and taking all the time needed for observations on the
avi-faunal tenantry? That was the plan pursued, and an excellent one it
proved.
When the puffing cog-wheel train landed me on the summit, I was fresh
and vigorous, and therefore in excellent condition physically and
mentally to enjoy the scenery and also to ride my hobby at will over the
realm of cloudland. The summit is a bald area of several acres, strewn
with immense fragments of granite, with not a spear of grass visible.
One of the signal-station men asked a friend who had just come up from
the plain, "Is there anything green down below? I'd give almost
anything to see a green patch of some kind." There was a yearning strain
in his tones that really struck me as pathetic. Here were visitors
revelling in the magnificence of the panorama, their pulses tingling and
their feelings in many cases too exalted for expression; but those whose
business or duty it was to remain on the summit day after day soon found
life growing monotonous, and longed to set their eyes on some patch of
verdure. To the visitors, however, who were in hale physical condition,
the panorama of snow-clad ranges and isolated peaks was almost
overwhelming. In the gorges and sheltered depressions of the old
mountain's sides large fields of snow still gleamed in the sun and
imparted to the air a frosty crispness.
When the crowd of tourists, after posing for their photographs, had
departed on the descending car, I walked out over the summit to see what
birds, if any, had selected an altitude of fourteen thousand one hundred
and forty-seven feet above sea-level for their summer home. Below me, to
the east, stretched the gray plains running off to the skyline, while
the foothills and lower mountains, which had previously appeared so high
and rugged and difficult of access, now seemed like ant-hills crouching
at the foot of the giant on whose crown I stood. Off to the southwest,
the west, and the northwest, the snowy ranges towered, iridescent in
the sunlight. In contemplating this vast, overawing scene, I almost
forgot my natural history, and wanted to feast my eyes for hours on its
ever-changing beauty; but presently I was brought back to a
consciousness of my special vocation by a sharp chirp. Was it a bird, or
only one of those playful little chipmunks that abound in the Rockies?
Directly there sounded out on the serene air another ringing chirp, this
time overhead, and, to my delight and surprise, a little bird swung over
the summit, then out over the edge of the cliff, and plunged down into
the fearsome abyss of the "Bottomless Pit." Other birds of the same
species soon followed his example, making it evident that this was not a
birdless region. Unable to identify the winged aeronauts, I clambered
about over the rocks of the summit for a while, then slowly made my way
down the southern declivity of the mountain for a short distance. Again
my ear was greeted with that loud, ringing chirp, and now the bird
uttering it obligingly alighted on a stone not too far away to be seen
distinctly through my binocular. Who was the little waif that had chosen
this sky-invading summit for its summer habitat? At first I mistook it
for a horned lark, and felt so sure my decision was correct that I did
not look at the bird as searchingly as I should have done, thereby
learning a valuable lesson in thoroughness. The error was corrected by
my friend, Mr. Charles E. Aiken, of Colorado Springs, who has been of
not a little service in determining and classifying the avian fauna of
Colorado. My new-found friend (the feathered one, I mean) was the
American pipit, which some years ago was known as the tit-lark.
[Illustration: _Pipits_
"_Te-cheer! Te-cheer!_"]
"Te-cheer! te-cheer! te-cheer!" (accent strong on the second syllable)
the birds exclaimed in half-petulant remonstrance at my intrusion as I
hobbled about over the rocks. Presently one of them darted up into the
air; up, up, up, he swung in a series of oblique leaps and circles, this
way and that, until he became a mere speck in the sky, and then
disappeared from sight in the cerulean depths beyond. All the while I
could hear his emphatic and rapidly repeated call, "Te-cheer! te-cheer!"
sifting down out of the blue canopy. How long he remained aloft in "his
watch-tower in the skies" I do not know, for one cannot well count
minutes in such exciting circumstances, but it seemed a long time. By
and by the call appeared to be coming nearer, and the little aeronaut
swept down with a swiftness that made my blood tingle, and alighted on a
rock as lightly as a snowflake. Afterwards a number of other pipits
performed the same aerial exploit. It was wonderful to see them rise
several hundred feet into the rarefied atmosphere over an abyss so deep
that it has been named the "Bottomless Pit."
[Illustration: _Pipits_
"_Up over the Bottomless Pit_"]
The pipits frequently flitted from rock to rock, teetering their slender
bodies like sandpipers, and chirping their disapproval of my presence.
They furnished some evidence of having begun the work of nest
construction, although no nests were found, as it was doubtless still
too early in the season. In some respects the pipits are extremely
interesting, for, while many of them breed in remote northern latitudes,
others select the loftiest summits of the Rockies for summer homes,
where they rear their broods and scour the alpine heights in search of
food. The following interesting facts relative to them in this alpine
country are gleaned from Professor Cooke's pamphlet on "The Birds of
Colorado":
In migration they are common throughout the State, but breed only on
the loftiest mountains. They arrive on the plains from the South
about the last of April, tarry for nearly a month, then hie to the
upper mountain parks, stopping there to spend the month of May. By
the first of June they have ascended above timber-line to their
summer home amid the treeless slopes and acclivities. Laying begins
early in July, as soon as the first grass is started. Most of the
nests are to be found at an elevation of twelve thousand to thirteen
thousand feet, the lowest known being one on Mount Audubon,
discovered on the third of July with fresh eggs. During the breeding
season these birds never descend below timber-line. The young birds
having left the nest, in August both old and young gather in flocks
and range over the bald mountain peaks in quest of such dainties as
are to the pipit taste. Some of them remain above timber-line until
October although most of them have by that time gone down into the
upper parks of the mountains. During this month they descend to the
plains, and in November return to their winter residence in the
South.
While watching the pipits, I had another surprise. On a small, grassy
area amid the rocks, about a hundred feet below the summit, a
white-crowned sparrow was hopping about on the ground, now leaping upon
a large stone, now creeping into an open space under the rocks, all the
while picking up some kind of seed or nut or insect. It was very
confiding, coming close to me, but vouchsafing neither song nor chirp.
Farther on I shall have more to say about these tuneful birds, but at
this point it is interesting to observe that they breed abundantly
among the mountains at a height of from eight thousand to eleven
thousand feet, while the highest nest known to explorers was twelve
thousand five hundred feet above the sea. One of Colorado's bird men has
noted the curious fact that they change their location between the first
and second broods--that is, in a certain park at an elevation of eight
thousand feet they breed abundantly in June, and then most of them leave
that region and become numerous among the stunted bushes above
timber-line, where they raise a second brood. It only remains to be
proved that the birds in both localities are the same individuals, which
is probable.
On a shoulder of the mountain below me, a flock of ravens alighted on
the ground, walked about awhile, uttered their hoarse croaks, and then
took their departure, apparently in sullen mood. I could not tell
whether they croaked "Nevermore!" or not.
Down the mountain side I clambered, occasionally picking a beautiful
blossom from the many brilliant-hued clusters and inhaling its
fragrance. Indeed, sometimes the breeze was laden with the aroma of
these flowers, and in places the slope looked like a cultivated garden.
The only birds seen that afternoon above timber-line were those already
mentioned. What do the birds find to eat in these treeless and shrubless
altitudes? There are many flies, some grasshoppers, bumble-bees,
beetles, and other insects, even in these arctic regions, dwelling among
the rocks and in the short grass below them watered by the melting
snows.
At about half-past four in the afternoon I reached the timber-line,
indicated by a few small, scattering pines and many thick clumps of
bushes. Suddenly a loud, melodious song brought me to a standstill. It
came from the bushes at the side of the trail. Although I turned aside
and sought diligently, I could not find the shy lyrist. Another song of
the same kind soon reached me from a distance. Farther down the path a
white-crowned sparrow appeared, courting his mate. With crown-feathers
and head and tail erect, he would glide to the top of a stone, then down
into the grass where his lady-love sat; up and down, up and down he
scuttled again and again. My approach put an end to the picturesque
little comedy. The lady scurried away into hiding, while the little
prince with the snow-white diadem mounted to the top of a bush and
whistled the very strain that had surprised me so a little while before,
farther up the slope. Yes, I had stumbled into the summer home of the
white-crowned sparrow, which on the Atlantic coast and the central
portions of the American continent breeds far in the North.
It was not long before I was regaled with a white-crown vesper concert.
From every part of the lonely valley the voices sounded. And what did
they say? "Oh, de-e-e-ar, de-e-ar, Whittier, Whittier," sometimes
adding, in low, caressing tones, "Dear Whittier"--one of the most
melodious tributes to the Quaker poet I have ever heard. Here I also saw
my first mountain bluebird, whose back and breast are wholly blue, there
being no rufous at all in his plumage. He was feeding a youngster
somewhere among the snags. A red-shafted flicker flew across the vale
and called, "Zwick-ah! zwick-ah!" and then pealed out his loud call just
like the eastern yellow-shafted high-holder. Why the Rocky Mountain
region changes the lining of the flicker's wings from gold to
crimson--who can tell? A robin--the western variety--sang his
"Cheerily," a short distance up the hollow, right at the boundary of the
timber-line.
[Illustration: "_Dear Whittier_"
_White-Crowned Sparrow_]