Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska, yet, as you travel eastward, the western
larks gradually diminish in number until at length they entirely
disappear; whereas, if you journey westward, the precise opposite
occurs. I have never heard _neglecta_ east of the Missouri River,[4] nor
_magna_ on the plains of Colorado. Therefore the conclusion is almost
forced upon the observer that there are structural and organic
differences between the two forms.
[4] He sometimes ventures, though sparingly, as far east as Illinois
and Wisconsin; still my statement is true--I have never heard the
western lark even in the bottoms and meadows of the broad valley
east of the Missouri River, while, one spring morning, I did hear
one of these birds fluting in the top of a cottonwood tree in my
yard on the high western bluff of that stream.
After the foregoing deductions had been reached, the writer bethought
him of consulting Ridgway's Manual on the subject, and was gratified to
find his views corroborated by a footnote answering to an asterisk
affixed to the name of the western lark:
"Without much doubt a distinct species. The occurrence of both _S.
neglecta_ and _S. magna_ together in many portions of the
Mississippi Valley, each in its typical style (the ranges of the two
overlapping, in fact, for a distance of several hundred miles),
taken together with the excessive rarity of intermediate specimens
and the universally attested radical difference in their notes, are
facts wholly incompatible with the theory of their being merely
geographical races of the same species."
This has been a long _excursus_, and we must get back to our jaunt on
the plain. While I was engaged in watching the birds already named, my
ear was greeted by a loud, clear, bell-like call; and, on looking in the
direction from which it came, I observed a bird hovering over a ploughed
field not far away, and then descending with graceful, poising flight to
the ground. It proved to be the Arkansas flycatcher, a large, elegant
bird that is restricted to the West. I had never seen this species.
Nothing like him is known in the East, the crested flycatcher being most
nearly a copy of him, although the manners of the two birds are quite
unlike. The body of the western bird is as large as that of the robin,
and he must be considerably longer from tip of beak to tip of tail. He
is a fine-looking fellow, presenting a handsome picture as he stands on
a weed-stalk or a fence-post, his yellow jacket gleaming in the sun. He
is the possessor of a clear, musical voice, and if he had the vocal
organs of some of the oscines, he certainly would be one of the best
feathered lyrists of America. Unfortunately he is able to do nothing but
chirp and chatter, although he puts not a little music into his simple
vocal exercises.
It was surprising to note on how slender a weed-stalk so large a bird
was able to perch. There being few trees and fences in this region, he
has doubtless gained expertness through practice in the art of securing
a foot-hold on the tops of the weed-stems. Some of the weeds on which he
stood with perfect ease and grace were extremely lithe and flexible and
almost devoid of branches.
But what was the cause of this particular bird's intense solicitude? It
was obvious there was a nest in the neighborhood. As I sought in the
grass and weed-clumps, he uttered his piercing calls of protest and
circled and hovered overhead like a red-winged blackbird. Suddenly the
thought occurred to me that the flycatchers of my acquaintance do not
nest on the ground, but on trees. I looked around, and, sure enough, in
the shallow hollow below me stood a solitary willow tree not more than
fifteen or twenty feet high, the only tree to be seen within a mile. And
that lone tree on the plain was occupied by the flycatcher and his mate
for a nesting place. In a crotch the gray cottage was set, containing
three callow babies and one beautifully mottled egg.
In another fork of the same small tree a pair of kingbirds--the same
species as our well-known eastern bee-martins--had built their nest, in
the downy cup of which lay four eggs similarly decorated with brown
spots. The birds now all circled overhead and joined in an earnest plea
with me not to destroy their homes and little ones, and I hurriedly
climbed down from the tree to relieve their agitation, stopping only a
moment to examine the twine plaited into the felted nests of the
kingbirds. The willow sapling contained also the nest of a turtle dove.
"If there are three nests in this small tree, there may be a large
number in the cluster of trees beyond the swell about a mile away," I
mused, and forthwith made haste to go to the place indicated. I was not
disappointed. Had the effort been made, I am sure two score of nests
might have been found in these trees, for they were liberally decorated
with bird cots and hammocks. Most of these were kingbirds' and Arkansas
flycatchers' nests, but there were others as well. On one small limb
there were four of the dangling nests of Bullock's orioles, one of them
fresh, the rest more or less weather beaten, proving that this bird had
been rearing broods here for a number of seasons.
Whose song was this ringing from one of the larger trees a little
farther down the glade? I could scarcely believe the testimony of my
ears and eyes, yet there could be no mistake--it was the vivacious
mimicry of the mocking-bird, which had travelled far across the plain to
this solitary clump of trees to find singing perches and a site for his
nests. He piped his musical miscellany with as much good-cheer as if he
were dwelling in the neighborhood of some embowered cottage in
Dixie-land. In suitable localities on the plains of Colorado the mockers
were found to be quite plentiful, but none were seen among the
mountains.
A network of twigs and vines in one of the small willows afforded a
support and partial covert for the nest of a pair of white-rumped
shrikes. It contained six thickly speckled eggs, and was the first nest
of this species I had ever found. The same hollow,--if so shallow a dip
in the plain can be called a hollow,--was selected as the home of
several pairs of red-winged and Brewer's blackbirds, which built their
grassy cots in the low bushes of a slightly boggy spot, where a feeble
spring oozed from the ground. It was a special pleasure to find a
green-tailed towhee in the copse of the draw, for I had supposed that he
always hugged close to the steep mountain sides.
A walk before breakfast the next morning added several more avian
species to my roll. To my surprise, a pair of mountain bluebirds had
chosen the village for their summer residence, and were building a nest
in the coupler of a freight car standing on a side track. The domicile
was almost completed, and I could not help feeling sorry for the pretty,
innocent couple, at the thought that the car would soon be rolling
hundreds of miles away, and all their loving toil would go for naught.
Bluebirds had previously been seen at the timber-line among the
mountains, and here was a pair forty miles out on the plain--quite a
range for this species, both longitudinally and vertically.
During the forenoon the following birds were observed: A family of
juvenile Arkansas flycatchers, which were being fed by their parents; a
half-dozen or more western grassfinches, trilling the same pensive tunes
as their eastern half-brothers; a small, long-tailed sparrow, which I
could not identify at the time, but which I now feel certain was
Lincoln's sparrow; these, with a large marsh-harrier and a colony of
cliff-swallows, completed my bird catalogue at this place. It may not be
amiss to add that several jack-rabbits went skipping over the swells;
that many families of prairie dogs were visited, and that a coyotte
galloped lightly across the plain, stopping and looking back
occasionally to see whether he were being pursued.
It was no difficult task to study the birds on the plain. Having few
hiding-places in a locality almost destitute of trees and bushes, where
even the grass was too short to afford a covert, they naturally felt
little fear of man, and hence were easily approached. Their cousins
residing in the mountains were, as a rule, provokingly wary. The number
of birds that had pre-empted homesteads on the treeless wastes was
indeed a gratifying surprise, and I went back to the mountains refreshed
by the pleasant change my brief excursion upon the plains had afforded
me.
[Illustration: _Coyotte_
"_Looking back to see whether he were being pursued_"]
A PRETTY HUMMER
[Illustration]
Where do you suppose I got my first glimpse of the mite in feathers
called the broad-tailed humming-bird? It was in a green bower in the
Rocky Mountains in plain sight of the towering summit of Pike's Peak,
which seemed almost to be standing guard over the place. Two brawling
mountain brooks met here, and, joining their forces, went with increased
speed and gurgle down the glades and gorges. As they sped through this
ravine, they slightly overflowed their banks, making a boggy area of
about an acre as green as green could be; and here amid the grass and
bushes a number of birds found a pleasant summer home, among them the
dainty hummer.
From the snow-drifts, still to be seen in the sheltered gorges of Pike's
Peak, the breezes would frequently blow down into the nook with a
freshness that stimulated like wine with no danger of intoxicating; and
it was no wonder that the white-crowned sparrows, Lincoln's sparrows,
the robins and wrens, and several other species, found in this spot a
pleasant place to live. One of the narrow valleys led directly up to the
base of the massive cone of the Peak, its stream fed by the snow-fields
shining in the sun. Going around by the valley of Seven Lakes, I had
walked down from the summit, but nowhere had I seen the tiny hummer
until I reached the green nook just described. Still, he sometimes
ascends to an elevation of eleven thousand feet above the level of the
sea.
_ONE OF THE SEVEN LAKES_
_PIKE'S PEAK shows dimly in the background, more plainly in the
reflection. Viewed from the peak, the lakes sparkle like opaline gems in
the sun. The waters are so clear that an inverted world is seen in their
transparent depths. The valley is an elysium for many kinds of birds,
most of them described in the text. The white-crowned sparrows love the
shores of these beautiful lakes, which mirror the blithe forms of the
birds. The pine forests of the mountain sides are vocal with the
refrains of the hermit thrushes._
[Illustration]
Our feathered dot is gorgeous with his metallic green upper parts,
bordered on the tail with purplish black, his white or grayish under
parts, and his gorget of purple which gleams in bright, varying tints in
the sun. He closely resembles our common ruby-throated humming-bird,
whose gorget is intense crimson instead of purple, and who does not
venture into the Rocky Mountain region, but dwells exclusively in the
eastern part of North America. It is a little strange that the eastern
part of our country attracts only one species of the large hummer
family, while the western portion, including the Rocky Mountain region,
can boast of at least seventeen different kinds as summer residents or
visitors.
My attention was first directed to the broad-tailed hummer by seeing him
darting about in the air with the swiftness of an arrow, sipping honey
from the flower cups, and then flying to the twigs of a dead tree that
stood in the marsh. There he sat, turning his head this way and that,
and watching me with his keen little eyes. It was plain he did not trust
me, and therefore resented my presence. Though an unwelcome guest, I
prolonged my call for several hours, during which I made many heroic but
vain attempts to find his nest.
But what was the meaning of a sharp, insect-like buzzing that fell at
intervals on my ear? Presently I succeeded in tracing the sound to the
hummer, which utters it whenever he darts from his perch and back again,
especially if there is a spectator or a rival near at hand, for whom he
seems in this way to express his contempt. It is a vocal sound, or, at
least, it comes from his throat, and is much louder and sharper than the
_susurrus_ produced by the rapid movement of his wings. This I ascertain
by hearing both the sounds at the same time.
But the oddest prank which this hummer performs is to dart up in the
air, and then down, almost striking a bush or a clump of grass at each
descent, repeating this feat a number of times with a swiftness that the
eye can scarcely follow. Having done this, he will swing up into the air
so far that you can scarcely see him with the naked eye; the next moment
he will drop into view, poise in mid-air seventy-five or a hundred feet
above your head, supporting himself by a swift motion of the wings, and
simply hitching to right and left in short arcs, as if he were fixed on
a pivot, sometimes meanwhile whirling clear around. There he hangs on
his invisible axis until you grow tired watching him, and then he darts
to his favorite perch on the dead tree.
No doubt John Vance Cheney had in mind another species when he composed
the following metrical description, but it aptly characterized the
volatile broad-tail as well:
"Voyager on golden air,
Type of all that's fleet and fair,
Incarnate gem,
Live diadem,
Bird-beam of the summer day,--
Whither on your sunny way?
* * * * *
Stay, forget lost Paradise,
Star-bird fallen from happy skies."
After that first meeting the broad-tailed hummers were frequently seen
in my rambles among the Rockies. In some places there were small
colonies of them. They did not always dwell together in harmony, but
often pursued one another like tiny furies, with a loud z-z-z-zip that
meant defiance and war. The swiftness of their movements often excited
my wonder, and it was difficult to see how they kept from impaling
themselves on thorns or snags, so reckless were their lightning-like
passages through the bushes and trees. When four or five of them were
found in one place, they would fairly thread the air with green and
purple as they described their circles and loops and festoons with a
rapidity that fairly made my head whirl. At one place several of them
grew very bold, dashing at me or wheeling around my head, coming so
close that I could hear the _susurrus_ of their wings as well as the
sharp, challenging buzz from their throats.
Perhaps it would interest you to know where the rambler found these tiny
hummers. They were never in the dark canyons and gorges, nor in the
ravines that were heavily wooded with pine, but in the open, sunshiny
glades and valleys, where there were green grass and bright flowers. In
the upper part of both North and South Cheyenne Canyons they were
plentiful, although they avoided the most scenic parts of these
wonderful mountain gorges. Another place where they found a pleasant
summer home was in a green pocket of the mountain above Red Cliff, a
village on the western side of the great range. On descending the
mountains to the town of Glenwood, I did not find them, and therefore am
disposed to think that in the breeding season they do not choose to
dwell in too low or too high an altitude, but seek suitable places at an
elevation of from seven thousand to nine thousand feet.
_SUMMIT OF PIKE'S PEAK_
_Only a small portion of the peak is shown in the view. The
comparatively level area referred to in the text lies back of the signal
station on the crest. At a garbage heap near the building a flock of
leucostictes were seen, and the writer was told that they came there
regularly to feed. From this sublime height the American pipits rise on
resilient wings hundreds of feet into the air until they disappear in
the cerulean depths of the sky, singing all the while at "heaven's
gate."_
[Illustration]
One day, while staying at Buena Vista, Colorado, I hired a saddle-horse
and rode to Cottonwood Lake, twelve miles away, among the rugged
mountains. The valley is wide enough here to admit of a good deal of
sunshine, and therefore flowers studded the ground in places. It was
here I saw the only female broad-tailed hummer that was met with in my
rambles in the Rockies. She was flitting among the flowers, and did not
make the buzzing sound that the males produce wherever found. She was
not clad so elegantly as were her masculine relatives, for the
throat-patch was white instead of purple, and the green on her back did
not gleam so brightly. But, oddly enough, her sides and under
tail-coverts were stained with a rufous tint--a color that does not
appear at all in the costume of the male.
A curious habit of these hummers is worth describing. The males remain
in the breeding haunts until the young are out of the nest and are
beginning to be able to shift for themselves. Then the papas begin to
disappear, and in about ten days all have gone, leaving the mothers and
the youngsters to tarry about the summer home until the latter are
strong enough to make the journey to some resort lower in the mountains
or farther south. The reason the males do this is perhaps evident
enough, for at a certain date the flowers upon whose sweets the birds
largely subsist begin to grow scant, and so if they remained there
would not be enough for all.
In the San Francisco Mountains of Arizona, Doctor Merriam found the
broad-tails very abundant in the balsam timber and the upper part of the
pine belt, where they breed in the latter part of July; after which they
remain in that region until the middle of September, even though the
weather often becomes quite frosty at night. At break of day, in spite
of the cold, they will gather in large flocks at some spring to drink
and bathe. Doctor Merriam says about them at such times:
"They were like swarms of bees, buzzing about one's head and darting
to and fro in every direction. The air was full of them. They would
drop down to the water, dip their feet and bellies, and rise and
shoot away as if propelled by an unseen power. They would often dart
at the face of an intruder as if bent on piercing the eye with their
needle-like bills, and then poise for a moment almost within reach
before turning, when they were again lost in the busy throng.
Whether this act was prompted by curiosity or resentment I was not
able to ascertain."
As has already been said, there is not always unruffled peace in the
hummer family. Among the Rocky Mountains, and especially on the western
side of the range, there dwells another little hummer called the rufous
humming-bird, because the prevailing color of his plumage is reddish,
and between this family and the broad-tails there exists a bitter feud.
When, in the migrating season, a large number of both species gather
together in a locality where there is a cluster of wild-flowers, the
picture they make as they dart to and fro and bicker and fight for some
choice blossom, their metallic colors flashing in the sun, is so
brilliant as never to be forgotten by the spectator who is fortunate
enough to witness it.
[Illustration: "_Pike's Peak in cloudland_"]
OVER THE DIVIDE AND BACK
One June day a Denver & Rio Grande train bore the bird-lover from
Colorado Springs to Pueblo, thence westward to the mountains, up the
Grand Canyon of the Arkansas River, through the Royal Gorge, past the
smiling, sunshiny upper mountain valleys, over the Divide at Tennessee
Pass, and then down the western slopes to the next stopping-place, which
was Red Cliff, a village nestling in a deep mountain ravine at the
junction of Eagle River and Turkey Creek. The following day, a little
after "peep o' dawn," I was out on the street, and was impressed by a
song coming from the trees on the acclivity above the village. "Surely
that is a new song," I said to myself; "and yet it seems to have a
familiar air." A few minutes of hard climbing brought me near enough to
get my glass on the little lyrist, and then I found it was only the
house-wren! "How could you be led astray by so familiar a song?" you
inquire. Well, that is the humiliating part of the incident, for I have
been listening to the house-wren's gurgling sonata for some twenty
years--rather more than less--and should have recognized it at once;
only it must be remembered that I was in a strange place, and had my
ears and eyes set for avian rarities, and therefore blundered.[5]
[5] On this incident I quote a personal note from my friend, Mr.
Aiken: "The wren of the Rockies is the western house-wren, but is
the same form as that found in the Mississippi Valley. It is quite
possible that a difference in song may occur, but I have not noticed
any."
[Illustration: _Cliff-Swallows_
"_On the rugged face of a cliff_"]
To my surprise, I found many birds on those steep mountain sides, which
were quite well timbered. Above the village a colony of cliff-swallows
had a nesting place on the rugged face of a cliff, and were soaring
about catching insects and attending to the wants of their greedy young.
Besides the species named, I here found warbling vireos, broad-tailed
humming-birds, western nighthawks, ruby-crowned kinglets, magpies,
summer warblers, mountain chickadees, western wood-pewees, Louisiana
tanagers, long-crested jays, kingfishers, gray-headed juncos,
red-shafted flickers, pygmy nuthatches, house-finches, mountain jays,
and Clarke's nutcrackers. The only species noted here that had not
previously been seen east of the Divide was the pygmy nuthatch, a little
bird which scales the trunks and branches of trees like all his family,
but which is restricted to the Rocky Mountains. Like the white-breasted
nuthatch, he utters an alto call, "Yang! yang! yang!" only it is soft
and low--a miniature edition of the call of its eastern relative.
A mountain chickadee's nest was also found, and here I heard for the
first time one of these birds sing. Its performance was quite an
affecting little minor whistle, usually composed of four distinct notes,
though sometimes the vocalist contented himself with a song of two or
three syllables. The ordinary run might be represented phonetically in
this way, "Phee, ph-e-e-e, phe-phe," with the chief emphasis on the
second syllable, which is considerably prolonged. The song is quite
different from that of the black-capped chickadee both in the intoning
and the technical arrangement, while it does not run so high in the
scale, nor does it impress me as being quite so much of a minor strain,
if such a distinction can be made in music. Both birds' tunes, however,
have the character of being whistled.
Glenwood is a charming summer resort in Colorado on the western side of
the Rocky Mountain range, and can be reached by both the Denver & Rio
Grande and the Colorado Midland Railways. Beautifully situated in an
open mountain valley, it possesses many attractions in the way of
natural scenery, while the cool breezes blow down from the snow-mantled
ranges gleaming in the distance, and the medicinal springs draw many
tourists in search of health and recuperation.
My purpose, however, in visiting this idyllic spot--I went there from
Red Cliff--was not primarily to view the scenery, nor to make use of the
healing waters, but to gratify my thirst for bird-lore. Having spent
some weeks in observing the avi-fauna east of the range, I had a
curiosity to know something of bird life west of the great chain of
alpine heights, and therefore I selected Glenwood as a fertile field in
which to carry on some investigations. While my stay at this resort was
all too short, it was of sufficient length to put me in possession of a
number of facts that may prove to be of general interest.