on both sides of the Divide is much the same. Indeed, with one
exception--to be noted more at length hereafter--I found no birds on
the western side that I had not previously seen on the eastern side,
although a longer and minuter examination would undoubtedly have
resulted in the discovery of a few species that are peculiar to the
regions beyond the range. In the extreme western and southwestern
portions of Colorado there are quite a number of species that are seldom
or never seen in the eastern part of the State. However, keeping to the
mountainous districts, and given the same altitude and other conditions,
you will be likely to find the same kinds of feathered folk on both
sides of the range. A few concrete cases will make this statement clear.
The elevation of Glenwood is five thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight
feet; that of Colorado Springs, five thousand nine hundred and
ninety-two feet; and the climatic conditions otherwise are practically
the same. Hence at both places the following species were found: Lazuli
buntings, Arkansas goldfinches, American goldfinches, western
wood-pewees, Arkansas kingbirds, Bullock's orioles, grassfinches, and
catbirds. At the same time there were a number of species in both
localities that have a more extensive vertical range, as, for example,
the western robins, which were seen in many places from the bases of the
mountains up to the timber-line, over eleven thousand five hundred feet
above sea-level.
_ROYAL GORGE_
_In the Grand Canyon of the Arkansas River. In canyons like this, their
walls rising almost vertically from one thousand to fifteen hundred
feet, few birds are to be seen. Occasionally a dove will fly from one
side of the gorge to the other before the scurrying train. From below a
magpie or a Clark's crow may sometimes be seen flying overhead across
the fearful chasm from one wall to the other, turning its head at
intervals as if to inspect and question the spectator over a thousand
feet below._
[Illustration]
The presence of practically the same avian fauna on both sides of the
great range suggests some speculations as to their movements in the
migrating season. Do those on the western side of the mountains travel
over the towering summits from the eastern plains? Or do they come up
from their southern winter homes by way of the valleys and plains west
of the range? Undoubtedly the latter is the correct surmise, for there
were birds at Glenwood that are never known to ascend far into the
mountains, and should they attempt to cross the Divide in the early
spring, they would surely perish in the intense cold of those elevated
regions, where snow often falls even in June, July, and August. One can
easily imagine some of the eastern and western residents meeting in the
autumn on the plains at the southern extremity of the mountain range,
dwelling together in some southern locality throughout the winter, and
then, when spring approaches, taking their separate routes, part going
east and part west of the range, for their breeding haunts in the North.
More than likely they do not meet again until the following autumn.
There are individuals, doubtless, that never catch a glimpse of the
western side of the great American watershed, while others are deprived
of the privilege of looking upon the majestic panoramas of the eastern
side.
What has just been said applies, of course, only to those species that
prefer to dwell in the lower altitudes. There are other species that
find habitats to their taste in the most elevated localities, ranging
at will in the summer time over the bald summits in the regions of
perpetual snow. Among these may be mentioned the brown-capped
leucostictes, the American pipits, the ravens, and Brewer's blackbirds.
These species will often have the privilege of looking upon the scenery
on both sides of the range, and you and I can scarcely repress a feeling
of envy when we think of their happy freedom, and their frequent
opportunities to go sightseeing.
While taking an early morning stroll along one of the streets of
Glenwood, I caught sight of a new member of the phoebe family, its
reddish breast and sides differentiating it from the familiar phoebe
of the East. Afterwards I identified it as Say's phoebe, a distinctly
western species. Its habits are like those of its eastern relative. A
pair of Say's phoebes had placed their nest on a beam of a veranda,
near the roof, where they could be seen carrying food to their young. My
notes say nothing of their singing a tune or even uttering a chirp. This
was my first observation of Say's phoebe, although, as will be seen, I
subsequently saw one under somewhat peculiar circumstances.
Having spent all the time I could spare at Glenwood, one morning I
boarded the eastward-bound train, and was soon whirling up through the
sublime canyons of Grand and Eagle Rivers, keeping on the alert for such
birds as I could see from the car-window. Few birds, as has been said,
can be seen in the dark gorges of the mountains, the species that are
most frequently descried being the turtle doves, with now and then a
small flock of blackbirds. The open, sunlit valleys of the upper
mountains, watered by the brawling streams, are much more to the liking
of many birds, especially the mountain song-sparrows, the white-crowned
sparrows, the green-tailed towhees, and Audubon's and Wilson's warblers.
Up, up, for many miles the double-headed train crept, tooting and
puffing hard, until at length it reached the highest point on the route,
which is Tennessee Pass, through the tunnel of which it swept with a
sullen roar, issuing into daylight on the eastern side, where the waters
of the streams flow eastward instead of westward. The elevation of this
tunnel is ten thousand four hundred and eighteen feet, which is still
about a thousand feet below the timber-line. A minute after emerging
from the tunnel's mouth I caught sight of a red-shafted flicker which
went bolting across the narrow valley. The train swept down the valley
for some miles, stopped long enough to have another engine coupled to
the one that had brought us down from the tunnel, then wheeled to the
left and began the ascent to the city of Leadville. This city is
situated on a sloping plain on the mountain side, in full view of many
bald mountain peaks whose gorges are filled with deep snow-drifts
throughout the summer. For some purposes Leadville may be an exceedingly
desirable city, but it has few attractions for the ornithologist. I took
a long walk through a part of the city, and, whether you will believe it
or not, I did not see a single bird outside of a cage, not even a
house-finch or an English sparrow, nor did I see one tree in my entire
stroll along the busy streets. The caged birds seen were a canary and a
cardinal, and, oddly enough, both of them were singing, mayhap for very
homesickness.
Why should a bird student tarry here? What was there to keep him in a
birdless place like this? I decided to leave at once, and so, checking
my baggage through to Buena Vista, I started afoot down the mountain
side, determined to walk to Malta, a station five miles below, observing
the birds along the way. Not a feathered lilter was seen until I had
gone about a mile from Leadville, when a disconsolate robin appeared
among some scraggy pine bushes, not uttering so much as a chirp by way
of greeting.
A few minutes later I heard a vigorous and musical chirping in the pine
bushes, and, turning aside, found a flock of small, finch-like birds.
They flitted about so rapidly that it was impossible to get a good view
of them with my glasses; but such glimpses as I obtained revealed a
prevailing grayish, streaked with some darker color, while a glint of
yellow in their wings and tails was displayed as the birds flew from
bush to bush. When the wings were spread, a narrow bar of yellow or
whitish-yellow seemed to stretch across them lengthwise, giving them a
gauzy appearance. The birds remained together in a more or less compact
flock. They uttered a loud, clear chirp that was almost musical, and
also piped a quaint trill that was almost as low and harsh as that of
the little clay-colored sparrow, although occasionally one would lift
his voice to a much higher pitch. What were these tenants of the dry and
piney mountain side? They were pine siskins, which I had ample
opportunity to study in my rambles among the mountains in 1901.
[Illustration: _Pine Siskins_]
A mile farther down, a lone mountain bluebird appeared in sight, perched
on a gray stump on the gray hillside, and keeping as silent as if it
were a crime in bluebird-land to utter a sound. This bird's breeding
range extends from the plains to the timber-line; and he dwells on both
sides of the mountains, for I met with him at Glenwood. About a half
mile above Malta a western nighthawk was seen, hurtling in his
eccentric, zigzag flight overhead, uttering his strident call, and
"hawking for flies," as White of Selborne would phrase it. A western
grassfinch flew over to some bushes with a morsel in its bill, but I
could not discover its nest or young, search as I would. Afterwards it
perched on a telegraph wire and poured out its evening voluntary, which
was the precise duplicate of the trills of the grassfinches of eastern
North America. There seems to be only a slight difference between the
eastern and western forms of these birds, so slight, indeed, that they
can be distinguished only by having the birds in hand.
Turtle doves were also plentiful in the valley above Malta, as they were
in most suitable localities. Here were also several western robins, one
of which saluted me with a cheerful carol, whose tone and syllabling
were exactly like those of the merry redbreast of our Eastern States. I
was delighted to find the sweet-voiced white-crowned sparrows tenants of
this valley, although they were not so abundant here as they had been a
little over a week before in the hollows below the summit of Pike's
Peak. But what was the bird which was singing so blithely a short
distance up the slope? He remained hidden until I drew near, when he
ran off on the ground like a frightened doe, and was soon ensconced in a
sage bush. Note his chestnut crest and greenish back. This is the
green-tailed towhee. He is one of the finest vocalists of the Rocky
Mountains, his tones being strong and well modulated, his execution
almost perfect as to technique, and his entire song characterized by a
quality that might be defined as human expressiveness.
A pair of western chipping sparrows were feeding their young in one of
the sage bushes. I hoped to find a nest, but my quest simply proved that
the bantlings had already left their nurseries. It was some
satisfaction, however, to establish the fact at first hand that the
western chipping sparrows breed at an elevation of nine thousand five
hundred and eighty feet above sea-level.
While strolling about a short distance above the town, I discovered an
underground passage leading to some of the factories, or perhaps the
smelting works, a few miles farther up the valley. The over-arching
ground and timbers forming the roof were broken through at various
places, making convenient openings for the unwary pedestrian to tumble
through should he venture to stroll about here by night. Suddenly a
little broad-shouldered bird appeared from some mysterious quarter, and
flitted silently about from bush to bush or from one tussock of grass to
another. To my surprise, he presently dropped into one of the openings
of the subterranean passage, disappeared for a few moments, and then
emerged from another opening a little farther away. The bird--let me say
at once--was Say's phoebe, with which, as previously told, I made
acquaintance at Glenwood. He may be recognized by the reddish or
cinnamon-brown cast of his abdomen and sides. Again and again he darted
into the passage, perhaps to make sure that his bairns had not been
kidnapped, and then came up to keep a vigilant eye on his visitor, whom
he was not wholly disposed to trust. I am not sure that there was a nest
in the subterranean passage, as my time was too short to look for it.
Others may not regard it as an important ornithological discovery, and I
do not pretend that it was epoch-making, but to me it was at least
interesting to find this species, which was new to me, dwelling at an
elevation of five thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight feet on the
western side of the range, and on the eastern side at an elevation of
nine thousand five hundred and eighty feet. Nowhere else in my
peregrinations among the Rockies did I so much as catch a glimpse of
Say's phoebe.[6]
[6] In 1901 this bird was seen by me in South Park, and its quaint
whistle was heard,--it says _Phe-by_, but its tone and expression
are different from those of its eastern relative. See the chapter
entitled "Pleasant Outings."
With the exception of some swallows circling about in the air, I saw no
other birds during my brief stay at Malta. I was sorely disappointed in
not being able to find accommodation at this place, for it had been my
intention to remain here for the night, and walk the next day to a
station called Granite, some seventeen miles farther down the valley,
making observations on bird life in the region by the way. To this day I
regret that my calculations went "agley"; but I was told that
accommodation was not to be secured at Malta "for love or money," and so
I shook the dust from my feet, and boarded an evening train for my next
stopping-place, which was Buena Vista.
The elevation of this beautiful mountain town is seven thousand nine
hundred and sixty-seven feet. It nestles amid cottonwood trees and green
meadows in a wide valley or park, and is flanked on the east by the
rolling and roaring Arkansas River, while to the west the plain slopes
up gradually to the foothills of the three towering college
peaks,--Harvard, Yale, and Princeton,--crowned all the year with snow.
And here were birds in plenty. Before daybreak the avian concert began
with the shrieking of the western wood-pewees--a vocal performance that
they, in their innocence, seriously mistake for melody--and continued
until night had again settled on the vale. In this place I spent three
or four days, giving myself up to my favorite study and pastime, and a
list of all the birds that I saw in the neighborhood would surprise the
reader. However, a mere catalogue would be of slight interest, I
apprehend, and therefore mention will be made only of those species
which I had not seen elsewhere, passing by such familiar feathered folk
as the Arkansas goldfinches, catbirds, western meadow-larks, Brewer's
blackbirds, house-finches, green-tailed towhees, magpies, long-crested
jays, summer warblers, and many others, begging their pardon, of course,
for paying them such scant courtesy.
Early on a bright morning I was following one of the streets of the
village, when, on reaching the suburbs, I was greeted by a blithe,
dulcet trill which could come from no other vocalist than the
song-sparrow. His tones and vocalization were precisely like those of
_Melospiza fasciata_, to which I have so often listened in my native
State of Ohio. It was a dulcet strain, and stirred memories half sad,
half glad, of many a charming ramble about my eastern home when the
song-sparrows were the chief choralists in the outdoor opera festival.
Peering into the bushes that fringed the gurgling mountain brook, I soon
caught sight of the little triller, and found that, so far as I could
distinguish them with my field-glass, his markings were just like those
of his eastern relative--the same mottled breast, with the large dusky
blotch in the centre.
Delighted as I was with the bird's aria, I could not decide whether this
was the common song-sparrow or the mountain song-sparrow. Something
over a week earlier I had seen what I took to be the mountain
song-sparrow in a green nook below the summit of Pike's Peak, and had
noted his trill as a rather shabby performance in comparison with the
tinkling chansons of the song-sparrow of the East. Had I mistaken some
other bird for the mountain song-sparrow? Or was the Buena Vista bird
the common song-sparrow which had gone entirely beyond its Colorado
range? Consulting Professor W. W. Cooke's list of Colorado birds, I
found that _Melospiza fasciata_ is marked "migratory, rare," and has
been known thus far only in the extreme eastern part of the State;
whereas _Melospiza fasciata montana_ is a summer resident, "common
throughout the State in migration, and not uncommon as a breeder from
the plains to eight thousand feet."
But Professor Cooke fails to give a clue to the song of either variety,
and therefore my little problem remains unsolved, as I could not think
of taking the life of a dulcet-voiced bird merely to discover whether it
should have "_montana_" affixed to its scientific name or not. All I can
say is, if this soloist was a mountain song-sparrow, he reproduced
exactly the trills of his half-brothers of the East.[7] On the morning
of my departure from Buena Vista another song-sparrow sang his matins,
in loud, clear tones among the bushes of a stream that flowed through
the town, ringing quite a number of changes in his tune, all of them
familiar to my ear from long acquaintance with the eastern forms of the
_Melospiza_ subfamily.
[7] The problem has since been solved, through the aid of Mr. Aiken.
The Buena Vista bird was _montana_, while the bird in the Pike's
Peak hollow was Lincoln's sparrow.
How well I recall a rainy afternoon during my stay at Buena Vista! The
rain was not so much of a downpour as to drive me indoors, although it
made rambling in the bushes somewhat unpleasant. What was this haunting
song that rose from a thick copse fringing one of the babbling mountain
brooks? It mingled sweetly with the patter of the rain upon the leaves.
Surely it was the song of the veery thrush! The same rich, melodious
strain, sounding as if it were blown through a wind-harp, setting all
the strings a-tune at the same time. Too long and closely had I studied
the veery's minstrelsy in his summer haunts in northern Minnesota to be
deceived now--unless, indeed, this fertile avian region produced another
thrush which whistled precisely the same tune. The bird's alarm-call was
also like that of the veery. The few glimpses he permitted of his
flitting, shadowy form convinced me that he must be a veery, and so I
entered him in my note-book.
But on looking up the matter--for the bird student must aim at
accuracy--what was my surprise to find that the Colorado ornithologists
have decided that the veery thrush is not a resident of the State, nor
even an occasional visitor! Of course I could not set up my judgment
against that of those scientific gentlemen. But what could this minstrel
be? I wrote to my friend, Mr. Charles E. Aiken, of Colorado Springs, who
replied that the bird was undoubtedly the willow thrush, which is the
western representative of the veery. I am willing to abide by this
decision, especially as Ridgway indicates in his Manual that there is
very little difference in the coloration of the two varieties. One more
mile-post had been passed in my never-ending ornithological journey--I
had learned for myself and others that the willow thrush of the Rockies
and the veery of our Eastern and Middle States have practically the same
musical repertory, and nowhere in the East or the West is sweeter and
more haunting avian minstrelsy to be heard, if only it did not give one
that sad feeling which Heine calls _Heimweh_!
[Illustration: _Willow Thrush_]
A ROCKY MOUNTAIN LAKE
[Illustration: PLATE IV
LARK BUNTING--_Calamospiza melanocorys_
(Upper figure, male; lower, female)]
"You will find a small lake just about a mile from town. Follow the road
leading out this way"--indicating the direction--"until you come to a
red gate. The lake is private property, but you can go right in, as you
don't shoot. No one will drive you out. I think you will find it an
interesting place for bird study."
[Illustration: _Brewer's Blackbirds_
"_An interesting place for bird study_"]
The foregoing is what my landlord told me one morning at Buena Vista.
Nor did I waste time in finding the way to the lake, a small sheet of
water, as clear as crystal, embowered in the lovely park lying between
towering, snow-clad mountains. One might almost call the spot a bird's
Arcadia. In no place, in all my tramping among the Rockies, did I find
so many birds in an equal area.
In the green, irrigated meadow bordering one side of the sheet of water,
I was pleased to find a number of Brewer's blackbirds busily gathering
food in the wet grass for their young. And who or what are Brewer's
blackbirds? In the East, the purple and bronzed grackles, or crow
blackbirds, are found in great abundance; but in Colorado these birds
are replaced by Brewer's blackbirds, which closely resemble their
eastern kinsfolk, although not quite so large. The iridescence of the
plumage is somewhat different in the two species, but in both the golden
eye-balls show white at a distance. When I first saw a couple of
Brewer's blackbirds stalking featly about on a lawn at Manitou, digging
worms and grubs out of the sod, I simply put them down in my note-book
as bronzed or purple grackles--an error that had to be corrected
afterwards, on more careful examination. The mistake shows how close is
the resemblance between the two species.
The Brewer division of the family breed on the plains and in the
mountains, to an altitude of ten thousand feet, always selecting marshy
places for their early summer home; then in August and September, the
breeding season over, large flocks of old and young ascend to the
regions above the timber-line, about thirteen thousand feet above
sea-level, where they swarm over the grassy but treeless mountain sides
in search of food. In October they retire to the plains, in advance of
the austere weather of the great altitudes, and soon the majority of
them hie to a blander climate than Colorado affords in winter.
Still more interesting to me was the large colony of yellow-headed
blackbirds that had taken up their residence in the rushes and flags of
the upper end of the lake. These birds are not such exclusive westerners
as their ebon-hued cousins just described; for I found them breeding at
Lake Minnetonka, near Minneapolis, Minnesota, a few years ago, and they
sometimes straggle, I believe, as far east as Ohio. A most beautiful
bird is this member of the _Icteridae_ family, a kind of Beau Brummel
among his fellows, with his glossy black coat and rich yellow--and even
orange, in highest feather--mantle covering the whole head, neck, and
breast, and a large white, decorative spot on the wings, showing plainly
in flight. He is the handsomest blackbird with which I am acquainted.
At the time of my visit to the lake, the latter part of June, the
yellow-heads were busy feeding their young, many of which had already
left the nest. From the shore, I could see dozens of them clinging to
the reeds, several of which they would grasp with the claws of each
foot, their little legs straddled far apart, the flexile rushes
spreading out beneath their weight. There the youngsters perched,
without seeming to feel any discomfort from their strained position. And
what a racket they made when the parent birds returned from an excursion
to distant meadows and lawns, with bill-some tidbits! They were
certainly a hungry lot of bairns. When I waded out into the shallow
water toward their rushy home, the old birds became quite uneasy,
circling about above me like the red-wings, and uttering a harsh
blackbird "chack," varied at intervals by a loud, and not unmusical,
chirp.
[Illustration: _Yellow-Headed Blackbirds_
"_There the youngsters perched_"]
You should see the nest of the yellow-head. It is really a fine
structure, showing no small amount of artistic skill--a plaited cup,
looking almost as if it had been woven by human hands, the rushes of the
rim and sides folding the supporting reeds in their loops. Thus the nest
and its reedy pillars are firmly bound together. I waded out to a clump
of rushes and found one nest with three eggs in its softly felted
cup--the promise, no doubt, of a belated, or possibly a second, brood.
This mountain lake was also the abode of a number of species of ducks,
not all of which could be identified, on account of the distance they
constantly put between themselves and the observer. Flocks of them
floated like light, feathered craft upon the silvery bosom of the lake,
now pursuing one another, now drifting lazily, now diving, and anon
playing many attractive gambols.