scenery and its Indian history, I first saw the water-ousel. I had been
inspecting Rainbow Falls, and was duly impressed with its
attractiveness. Thinking I had lingered long enough, I turned away and
clambered up the rocky wall below the falls towards the road above. As I
did so, a loud, bell-like song rang above the roar of the water. On
looking down into the ravine, I saw a mouse-colored bird, a little
smaller than the robin, his tail perked up almost vertically, scuttling
about on the rocks below and dipping his body in an expressive way like
the "tip-up" sandpiper. Having read about this bird, I at once
recognized it as the water-ousel. My interest in everything else
vanished. This was one of the birds I had made my pilgrimage to the
Rockies to study. It required only a few minutes to scramble down into
the ravine again.
Breathlessly I watched the little bird. Its queer teetering is like that
of some of the wrens, accentors, and water-thrushes. Now it ran to the
top of a rock and stood dipping and eying me narrowly, flirting its
bobby tail; now it flew to one of the steep, almost vertical walls of
rock and scrambled up to a protuberance; then down again to the water;
then, to my intense delight, it plunged into the limpid stream, and came
up the next moment with a slug or water-beetle in its bill. Presently it
flew over to the opposite wall, its feet slipping on the wet rocks, and
darted into a small crevice just below the foot of the falls, gave a
quick poke with its beak and flitted away--minus the tidbit it had held
in its bill.
_RAINBOW FALLS_
_When the sun strikes the spray and mist at the proper angle, a
beautiful rainbow is painted on the face of the falls. At the time of
the author's visit to this idyllic spot a pair of water-ousels had
chosen it for a summer residence. They flew from the rocks below to the
top of the falls, hugging close to the rushing torrent. In returning,
they darted in one swift plunge from the top to the bottom, alighting on
the rocks below. With the utmost abandon they dived into the seething
waters at the foot of the falls, usually emerging with a slug or beetle
in their bills for the nestlings. Shod with tall rubber boots, the
writer waded close up to the foot of the falls in search of the dipper's
nest, which was set in a cleft of the rocks a few inches above the
water, in the little shadowed cavern at the left of the stream. The
pointed rock wrapped in mist, almost in the line of the plunging tide,
was a favorite perch for the dippers._
[Illustration]
Ah! my propitious stars shone on me that day with special favor. I had
found not only the water-ousel itself, but also its nest. Suddenly
water-ousel number two, the mate of number one, appeared on the scene,
dipped, scanned me closely, flew to the slippery wall, darted to the
cranny, and deposited its morsel, as its spouse had done. This time I
heard the chirping of the youngsters. Before examining the nest I
decided to watch the performances of the parent birds, which soon cast
off all the restraint caused for a moment by my presence, taking me, no
doubt, for the ordinary sightseer who overlooks them altogether.
Again and again the birds plunged into the churning flood at the foot of
the falls, sometimes remaining under water what seemed a long while, and
always coming to the surface with a delicacy for the nestlings. They
were able to dip into the swift, white currents and wrestle with them
without being washed away. Of course, the water would sometimes carry
them down stream, but never more than a few inches, and never to a point
where they could be injured. They were perfect masters of the situation.
They simply slipped in and out like living chunks of cork. Their coats
were waterproof, all they needed to do being to shake off the crystal
drops now and then.
Their flight up the almost perpendicular face of the falls was one of
graceful celerity. Up, up, they would mount only a few inches from the
dashing current, and disappear upstream in search of food. In returning,
they would sweep down over the precipitous falls with the swiftness of
arrows, stopping themselves lightly with their outspread wings before
reaching the rocks below. From a human point of view it was a frightful
plunge; from the ousel point of view it was an every-day affair.
[Illustration: _Water-Ousel_
"_Up, up, only a few inches from the dashing current_"]
After watching the tussle between ousel and water for a long time, I
decided to take a peep at their nursery. In order to do this I was
compelled to wade into the stream a little below the falls, through mist
and spray; yet such humid quarters were the natural habitat and
playground of these interesting cinclids. And there the nest was, set in
a cleft about a foot and a half above the water, its outer walls kept
moist by the spray which constantly dashed against them from the falls.
The water was also dripping from the rock that over-hung the nest and
formed its roof. A damp, uncanny place for a bird's domicile, you would
naturally suppose, but the little lovers of cascades knew what they were
about. Only the exterior of the thick, moss-covered walls were moist.
Within, the nest was dry and cosey. It was an oval structure, set in its
rocky cleft like a small oven, with an opening at the front. And there
in the doorway cuddled the two fledglings, looking out at the dripping
walls and the watery tumult, but kept warm and comfortable. I could not
resist touching them and caressing their little heads, considering it
quite an ornithological triumph for one day to find a pair of
water-ousels, discover a nest, and place my finger upon the crowns of
the nestlings.
Scores of tourists visited the famous falls every day, some of them
lingering long in the beautiful place, and yet the little ousels had
gone on with their nest-building and brood-rearing, undisturbed by human
spectators. I wondered whether many of the visitors noticed the birds,
and whether any one but myself had discovered their nest. Indeed, their
little ones were safe enough from human meddling, for one could not see
the nest without wading up the stream into the sphere of the flying
mists.
The natural home of _Cinclus mexicanus_ is the Rocky Mountains, to which
he is restricted, not being known anywhere else on this continent. He is
the only member of the dipper family in North America. There is one
species in South America, and another in Europe. He loves the mountain
stream, with its dashing rapids and cascades. Indeed, he will erect his
oven-like cottage nowhere else, and it must be a fall and not a mere
ripple or rapid. Then from this point as a centre--or, rather, the
middle point of a wavering line--he forages up and down the babbling,
meandering brook, feeding chiefly, if not wholly, on water insects.
Strange to say, he never leaves the streams, never makes excursions to
the country roundabout, never flies over a mountain ridge or divide to
reach another valley, but simply pursues the winding streams with a
fidelity that deserves praise for its very singleness of purpose. No
"landlubber" he. It is said by one writer that the dipper has never been
known to alight on a tree, preferring a rock or a piece of driftwood
beside the babbling stream; yet he has the digits and claws of the
passeres, among which he is placed systematically. He is indeed an
anomaly, though a very engaging one. Should he wish to go to another
canyon, he will simply follow the devious stream he is on to its junction
with the stream of the other valley; then up the second defile. His
flight is exceedingly swift. His song is a loud, clear, cheerful strain,
the very quintessence of gladness as it mingles with the roar of the
cataracts.
Farther up Ute Pass I found another nest, which was placed right back
of a cascade, so that the birds had to dash through a curtain of spray
to reach their cot. They also were feeding their young, and I could see
them standing on a rock beneath the shelf, tilting their bodies and
scanning me narrowly before diving into the cleft where the nest was
hidden. This nest, being placed back of the falls, could not be reached.
In Bear Creek canyon I discovered another inaccessible nest, which was
placed in a fissure at the very foot of the falls and only an inch or
two above the agitated waters. There must have been a cavity running
back into the rock, else the nest would have been kept in a soggy
condition all the time.
Perhaps the most interesting dipper's nest I found was one at the
celebrated Seven Falls in the south Cheyenne Canyon. On the face of the
cliff by the side of the lowest fall there was a cleft, in which the
nest was placed, looking like a large bunch of moss and grass. My glass
brought the structure so near that I could plainly see three little
heads protruding from the doorway. There were a dozen or more people
about the falls at the time, who made no attempt at being quiet, and yet
the parent birds flew fearlessly up to the nest with tidbits in their
bills, and were greeted with loud, impatient cries from three hungry
mouths, which were opened wide to receive the food. The total plunge of
the stream over the Seven Falls is hundreds of feet, and yet the adult
birds would toss themselves over the abyss with reckless abandon, stop
themselves without apparent effort in front of their cleft, and thrust
the gathered morsels into the little yellow-lined mouths. It was an
aerial feat that made our heads dizzy. This pair of birds did not fly up
the face of the falls in ascending to the top, as did those at Rainbow
Falls, but clambered up the wall of the cliff close to the side of the
roaring cataract, aiding themselves with both claws and wings. When
gathering food below the falls, they would usually, in going or
returning, fly in a graceful curve over the heads of their human
visitors.
[Illustration: _Water-Ousel_
"_Three hungry mouths, which were opened wide to receive the food_"]
Although the dipper is not a web-footed bird, and is not classed by the
naturalists among the aquatic fowl, but is, indeed, a genuine passerine,
yet he can swim quite dexterously on the surface of the water. However,
his greatest strength and skill are shown in swimming under water, where
he propels himself with his wings, often to a considerable distance,
either with or against the current. Sometimes he will allow the current
to carry him a short distance down the stream, but he is always able to
stop himself at a chosen point. "Ever and anon," says Mr. John Muir, in
his attractive book on "The Mountains of California," "while searching
for food in the rushing stream, he sidles out to where the too powerful
current carries him off his feet; then he dexterously rises on the wing
and goes gleaning again in shallower places." So it seems that our
little acrobat is equal to every emergency that may arise in his
adventurous life.
In winter, when the rushing mountain streams are flowing with the sludge
of the half-melted snow, so that he cannot see the bottom, where most of
his delicacies lie, he betakes himself to the quieter stretches of the
rivers, or to the mill ponds or mountain lakes, where he finds clearer
and smoother water, although a little deeper than he usually selects.
Such weather does not find him at the end of his resources; no, indeed!
Having betaken himself to a lake, he does not at once plunge into its
depths after the manner of a duck, but finding a perch on a snag or a
fallen pine, he sits there a moment, and then, flying out thirty or
forty yards, "he alights with a dainty glint on the surface, swims
about, looks down, finally makes up his mind, and disappears with a
sharp stroke of his wings." So says Mr. John Muir, who continues: "After
feeding for two or three minutes he suddenly reappears, showers the
water from his wings with one vigorous shake, and rises abruptly into
the air as if pushed up from beneath, comes back to his perch, sings a
few minutes, and goes out to dive again; thus coming and going, singing
and diving, at the same place for hours."
The depths to which the cinclid dives for the food on the bottom is
often from fifteen to twenty feet. When he selects a river instead of a
lake for his winter bathing, its waters, like those of the shallower
streams, may also contain a large quantity of sludge, thus rendering
them opaque even to the sharp little eyes of the dipper. Then what does
he do? He has a very natural and cunning way of solving this problem; he
simply seeks a deep portion of the river and dives through the turbid
water to the clear water beneath, where he can plainly see the "goodies"
on the bottom.
It must not be thought that this little bird is mute amid all the watery
tumult of his mountain home, for he is a rare vocalist, his song
mingling with the ripple and gurgle and roar of the streams that he
haunts. Nor does he sing only in the springtime, but all the year round,
on stormy days as well as fair. During Indian summer, when the streams
are small, and silence broods over many a mountain solitude, the song of
the ousel falls to its lowest ebb; but when winter comes and the streams
are converted into rolling torrents, he resumes his vocal efforts, which
reach their height in early summer. Thus it would seem that the bird's
mood is the gayest when his favorite stream is dashing at its noisiest
and most rapid pace down the steep mountain defiles. The clamor of the
stream often drowns the song of the bird, the movement of his mandibles
being seen when not a sound from his music-box can be heard. There must
be a feeling of fellowship between the bird and the stream he loves so
well.
[Illustration: "_No snowstorm can discourage him_"]
You will not be surprised to learn that the dipper is an extremely hardy
bird. No snowstorm, however violent, can discourage him, but in the
midst of it all he sings his most cheerful lays, as if defying all the
gods of the winds. While other birds, even the hardy nuthatches, often
succumb to discouragement in cold weather, and move about with
fluffed-up feathers, the very picture of dejection--not so the little
dipper, who always preserves his cheerful temper, and is ready to say,
in acts, if not in words: "Isn't this the jolliest weather you ever
saw?" Away up in Alaska, where the glaciers hold perpetual sway, this
bird has been seen in the month of November as glad and blithesome as
were his comrades in the summery gorges of New Mexico.
PLAINS AND FOOTHILLS
[Illustration: PLATE V
LOUISIANA TANAGER--_Pyranga ludoviciana_
(Upper figure, male; lower, female)]
The foregoing chapters contain a recital of observations made in the
neighborhood of Colorado Springs and in trips on the plains and among
the mountains in that latitude. Two years later--that is, in 1901--the
rambler's good angel again smiled upon him and made possible another
tour among the Colorado mountains. This time he made Denver, instead of
Colorado Springs, the centre of operations; nor did he go alone, his
companion being an active boy of fourteen who has a penchant for
Butterflies, while that of the writer, as need scarcely be said, is for
the Birds--in our estimation, the two cardinal B's of the English
language. Imagine two inveterate ramblers, then, with two such
enchanting hobbies, set loose on the Colorado plains and in the
mountains, with the prospect of a month of uninterrupted indulgence in
their manias!
In the account of my first visit, most of the species met with were
described in detail both as to their habits and personal appearance. In
the present record no such minutiae will be necessary so far as the same
species were observed, and therefore the chief objects of the following
chapters will be, first, to note the diversities in the avian fauna of
the two regions; second, to give special attention to such birds as
either were not seen in my first visit or were for some cause partly
overlooked; and, third, to trace the peculiar transitions in bird life
in passing from the plains about Denver to the crest of Gray's Peak,
including jaunts to several other localities.
In my rambles in the neighborhood of Denver only a few species not
previously described were observed, and yet there were some noteworthy
points of difference in the avi-fauna of the two latitudes, which are
only about seventy-five miles apart. It will perhaps be remembered that,
in the vicinity of Colorado Springs and Manitou, the pretty lazuli
buntings were quite rare and exceedingly shy, only two or three
individuals having been seen. The reverse was the case in the suburbs of
Denver and on the irrigated plains between that city and the mountains,
and also in the neighborhood of Boulder, where in all suitable haunts
the lazulis were constantly at my elbow, lavish enough of their pert
little melodies to satisfy the most exacting, and almost as familiar and
approachable as the indigo-birds of the East. It is possible that, for
the most part, the blue-coated beauties prefer a more northern latitude
than Colorado Springs for the breeding season.
At the latter place I failed to find the burrowing owl, although there
can be little doubt of his presence there, especially out on the
plains. Not far from Denver one of these uncanny, sepulchral birds was
seen, having been frightened from her tunnel as I came stalking near it.
She flew over the brow of the hill in her smooth, silent way, and
uttered no syllable of protest as I examined her domicile--or, rather,
the outside of it. Scattered about the dark doorway were a number of
bones, feathers, and the skin of a frog, telling the story of the _table
d'hote_ set by this underground dweller before her nestlings. She might
have put up the crossbones and skull as a sign at the entrance to her
burrow, or even placed there the well-known Dantean legend, "All hope
abandon, ye who enter here," neither of which would have been more
suggestive than the telltale litter piled up before her door. When I
chased her from her hiding-place, she flew down the hill and alighted on
a fence-post in the neighborhood of her nest, uttering several screechy
notes as I came near her again, as if she meant to say that I was
carrying the joke a little too far in pursuing her about. Presently she
circled away on oily wings, and I saw her no more.
[Illustration: "_The dark doorway_"]
So little enthusiasm does such a bird stir within me that I felt too
lazy to follow her about on the arid plain. It may be interesting as a
matter of scientific information to know that the burrowing owl breeds
in a hole in the ground, and keeps company with the prairie dog and the
rattlesnake, but a bird that lives in a gloomy, malodorous cave, whose
manners are far from attractive, and whose voice sounds as strident as a
buzz-saw--surely such a bird can cast no spell upon the observer who is
interested in the aesthetic side of bird nature. A recent writer, in
describing "A Buzzards' Banquet," asks a couple of pregnant questions:
"Is there anything ugly out of doors? Can the ardent, sympathetic lover
of nature ever find her unlovely?" To the present writer these questions
present no Chinese puzzle. He simply brushes all speculation and
theorizing aside by responding "Yes," to both interrogatories, on the
principle that it is sometimes just as well to cut the Gordian knot as
to waste precious time trying to untie it. The burrowing owl makes me
think of a denizen of the other side of the river Styx, and why should
one try to love that which nature has made unattractive, especially when
one cannot help one's feeling?
In the preceding chronicles no mention, I believe, has been made of one
little bird that deserves more than a mere _obiter dictum_. My first
meeting with the blithesome house-finch of the West occurred in the city
of Denver, in 1899. It could not properly be called a formal
presentment, but was none the less welcome on that account. I had
scarcely stepped out upon the busy street before my ear was accosted by
a kind of half twitter and half song that was new to me. "Surely that is
not the racket of the English sparrow; it is too musical," I remarked to
a friend walking by my side.
Peering among the trees and houses, I presently focussed my field-glass
upon a small, finch-like bird whose coat was striped with gray and
brown, and whose face, crown, breast, and rump were beautifully tinged
or washed with crimson, giving him quite a dressy appearance. What could
this chipper little city chap be, with his trig form and well-bred
manners, in such marked contrast with those of the swaggering English
sparrow? Afterwards he was identified as the house-finch, which rejoices
in the high-sounding Latin name of _Carpodacus mexicanus frontalis_. His
distribution is restricted to the Rocky Mountain district chiefly south
of the fortieth parallel of north latitude.
He is certainly an attractive species, and I wish we could offer
sufficient inducements to bring him east. A bird like him is a boon and
an ornament to the streets and parks of any city that he graces with
his presence and enlivens with his songs. No selfish recluse is he; no,
indeed! In no dark gulch or wilderness, far from human neighborhood,
does he sulkily take up his abode, but prefers the companionship of man
to the solitudes of nature, declaring in all his conduct that he likes
to be where there are "folks." In this respect he bears likeness to the
English sparrow; but let it be remembered that there the analogy stops.
Even his chirruping is musical as he flies overhead, or makes his
_caveat_ from a tree or a telegraph wire against your ill-bred
espionage. He and his plainly clad little spouse build a neat cottage
for their bairns about the houses, but do not clog the spouting and make
themselves a nuisance otherwise, as is the habit of their English
cousins.
This finch is a minstrel, not of the first class, still one that merits
a high place among the minor songsters; and, withal, he is generous with
his music. You might call him a kind of urban Arion, for there is real
melody in his little score. As he is an early riser, his matin
voluntaries often mingled with my half-waking dreams in the morning at
dawn's peeping, and I loved to hear it too well to be angry for being
aroused at an unseasonable hour. The song is quite a complicated
performance at its best, considerably prolonged and varied, running up
and down the chromatic scale with a swing and gallop, and delivered
with great rapidity, as if the lyrist were in a hurry to have done, so
that he could get at something else.
In my rambles he was found not only in the cities of the plains (Denver,
Colorado Springs, and Pueblo), but also in many of the mountain towns
and villages visited, Leadville, over ten thousand feet skyward, being,
I believe, one of the exceptions, while Silver Plume and Graymont were
others. He does not fancy altitudes, I take it, much over eight thousand
feet. In the villages of Red Cliff and Glenwood, both beyond the
continental divide, he was the same sprightly citizen, making himself
very much at home.
Much as this finch cherishes the society of man, he is quite wary and
suspicious, and does not fancy being watched. As long as you go on your
way without seeming to notice him, he also goes his way, coming into
plain sight and chirping and singing; but just stop to watch him with
your binocular, and see how quickly he will take alarm, dart away, and
ensconce himself behind a clump of foliage, uttering a protest which
seems to say, "Why doesn't that old fellow go about his own business?"
If in some way the American house-finch could be persuaded to come east,
and the English sparrow could be given papers of extradition, the
exchange would be a relief and a benefit to the whole country.