grew dizzy watching him, and my eyes became blinded by the sun and the
glittering sky. How long he kept up his aerial evolutions, singing all
the while, I am unprepared to announce, for I was too much engrossed in
watching him to consult my timepiece; but the performance lasted so long
that I was finally obliged to throw myself on my back on the ground to
relieve the strain upon me, so that I might continue to follow his
movements. I venture the conjecture that the show lasted from fifteen to
twenty minutes; at least, it seemed that long to me in my tense state of
body and mind. Finally he shot down like an arrow, making my head fairly
whirl, and landed lightly on the ground, where he skipped about and
resumed his roundelay as if he had not performed an extraordinary feat.
This was certainly skylarking in a most literal sense. With the
exception of a similar exhibition by Townsend's solitaire--to be
described in the closing chapter--up in the neighborhood of Gray's Peak,
it was the most wonderful avian aeronautic exploit, accompanied with
song, of which I have ever been witness. It is odd, too, that a bird
which is so much of a groundling--I use the term in a good sense, of
course--should also be so expert a sky-scraper. I had listened to the
sky song of the desert horned lark out on the plain, but there he did
not hover long in the air.
The killdeer plovers are as noisy in the park as they are in an eastern
pasture-field, and almost as plentiful. In the evening near the village
a pair of western robins and a thieving magpie had a hard tussle along
the fence of the road. The freebooter was carrying something in his beak
which looked sadly like a callow nestling. He tried to hide in the
fence-corners, to give himself a chance to eat his morsel, but they were
hot on his trail, and at length he flew off toward the distant ridge.
Where did the robins build their nests? I saw no trees in the
neighborhood, but no doubt they built their adobe huts on a fence-rail
or in a nook about an old building. Not a Say's phoebe had we thus far
seen on this jaunt to the mountains, but here was a family near the
village, and, sure enough, they were whistling their likely tunes, the
first time I had ever heard them. While I had met with these birds at
Glenwood and in the valley below Leadville, they had not vouchsafed a
song. What is the tune they whistle? Why, to be sure, it is, "Phe-be-e!
phe-be-e! phe-e-e-bie!" Their voices are stronger and more mellifluent
than the eastern phoebe's, but the manner of delivery is not so
sprightly and gladsome. Indeed, if I mistake not, there is a pensive
strain in the lay of the western bird.
A few cowbirds, red-winged blackbirds, and spotted sandpipers were seen
in the park, but they are too familiar to merit more than casual
mention. However, let us return to Brewer's blackbirds. Closely as they
resemble the bronzed grackles of the East, there are some marked
differences between the eastern and western birds; the westerners are
not so large, and their manners and nesting habits are more like those
of the red-wings than the grackles. Brewer's blackbirds hover overhead
as you come into the neighborhood of their nests or young, and the males
utter their caveats in short squeals or screeches and the females in
harsh "chacks."
[Illustration: _Magpie and Western Robins_
"_They were hot on his trail_"]
The nests are set in low bushes and even on the ground, while those of
the grackles are built in trees and sometimes in cavities. To be exact
and scientific, Brewer's blackbirds belong to the genus _Icolecophagus_,
and the grackles to the genus _Quiscalus_. In the breeding season the
western birds remain in the park. That critical period over, in August
and September large flocks of them, including young and old, ascend to
favorite feeding haunts far above the timber-line, ranging over the
slopes of the snowy mountains engirdling their summer home. Then they
are in the heyday of blackbird life. Silverspot himself, made famous by
Ernest Thompson Seton, did not lead a more romantic and adventurous
life, and I hope some day Brewer's blackbird will be honored by a no
less effective biography.
What a to-do they make when you approach their outdoor hatchery! Yet
they are sly and diplomatic. One day I tried my best to find a nest with
eggs or bantlings in it, but failed, although, as a slight compensation,
I succeeded in discovering three nests from which the young had flown.
The old birds of both sexes circled overhead, called and pleaded and
scolded, and sometimes swooped down quite close to my scalp, always
veering off in time to avoid actual collision. A pair of them held
choice morsels--choice for Brewer's blackbirds--in their bills, and I
sat down on a tuft of sod and watched them for a couple of hours, hoping
they would feed their young in plain sight and divulge their secret to
me; but the sable strategists flitted here and there, hovered in the
air, dropped to the ground, visiting every bush and grass-tuft but the
right one, and finally the worms held in their bills disappeared,
whether into their own gullets or those of their fledgelings, I could
not tell. If the latter, the rascals were unconscionably wary, for my
eyes were bent on them every moment--at least, I thought so. Again and
again they flew off some distance, never more than a stone's throw,
strutted about for a few minutes among the tufts of grass and sod, then
came back with loud objurgations to the place where I sat. They seemed
to be aware of my inspection the moment my field-glass was turned upon
them, for they would at once cease their pretended search for insects in
the grass and fly toward me with a clamorous berating giving me a big
piece of their mind. At length my patience was worn out; I began to hunt
for nests, and found the three empty abodes to which allusion has been
made.
For the most part the female cried, "Chack! chack!" but occasionally she
tried to screech like her ebon consort, her voice breaking ludicrously
in the unfeminine effort. The evening before, I had flushed a youngster
about which a great hubbub was being made, but on the day of my long
vigil in the meadow, I could not, by the most careful search, find a
single bantling, either in or out of a nest. It is odd how effectually
the young are able to conceal themselves in the short grass and
straggling bushes.
Not a little attention was given to the western savanna sparrows, whose
songs have already been described. Abundant proof was furnished that the
breeding season for these little birds was at its height, and I
determined to find a nest, if within the range of possibility. An entire
forenoon was spent in discovering three nests. As you approach their
domiciles, the cocks, which are always on the alert, evidently give the
alarm to their sitting mates, which thereupon slip surreptitiously from
the nest; and in that case how are you going to ferret out their
domestic secrets?
A female--I could distinguish her from her consort by her conduct--was
sitting on the post of a wire fence, preening her feathers, which was
sufficient evidence that she had just come from brooding her eggs. To
watch her until she went back to her nest, then make a bee-line for
it--that was the plan I resolved to pursue. It is an expedient that
succeeds with many birds, if the observer is very quiet and tactful. For
a long time I stood in the blazing sun with my eyes bent on the little
impostor. Back and forth, hither and yon, she flew, now descending to
the ground and creeping slyly about in the grass, manifestly to induce
me to examine the spot; then back to the fence again, chirping
excitedly; then down at another place, employing every artifice to make
me think the nest was where it was not; but I steadfastly refused to
budge from my tracks as long as she came up in a few moments after
descending, for in that case I knew that she was simply resorting to a
ruse to lead me astray. Finally she went down at a point which she had
previously avoided, and, as it was evident she was becoming exceedingly
anxious to go back upon her eggs, I watched her like a tiger intent on
his prey. Slyly she crept about in the grass, presently her chirping
ceased, and she disappeared.
Several minutes passed, and she did not come up, so I felt sure she had
gone down for good this time, and was sitting on her nest. Her husband
exerted himself to his utmost to beguile my attention with his choicest
arias, but no amount of finesse would now turn me from my purpose. I
made a bee-line for the spot where I had last seen the madame, stopping
not, nor veering aside for water, mud, bushes, or any other obstacle. A
search of a couple of minutes brought no find, for she had employed all
the strategy of which she was mistress in going to the nest, having
moused along in the grass for some distance after I had last seen her. I
made my search in an ever-widening circle, and at length espied some dry
grass spears in a tuft right at my feet; then the little prospective
mother flitted from her nest and went trailing on the ground, feigning
to be fatally wounded.
Acquainted with such tactics, I did not follow her, not even with my
eye, but looked down at my feet. Ah! the water sprites had been kind,
for there was the dainty crib, set on a high tuft of sod raised by the
winter's frosts, a little island castle in the wet marsh, cosey and dry.
It was my first savanna sparrow's nest, whether eastern or western. The
miniature cottage was placed under a fragment of dried cattle excrement,
which made a slant roof over it, protecting it from the hot rays of the
sun. Sunken slightly into the ground, the nest's rim was flush with the
short grass, while the longer stems rose about it in a green, filmy wall
or stockade. The holdings of the pretty cup were four pearls of eggs,
the ground color white, the smaller end and middle peppered finely with
brown, the larger almost solidly washed with pigment of the same tint.
Two more savannas' nests were found not long afterwards, one of them by
watching the female until she settled, the other by accidentally
flushing her as I walked across the marshy pasture; but neither of them
was placed under a roof as the first one had been, the blue dome being
their only shelter. These birdlets seem to be especially fond of soggy
places in pastures, setting their nests on the little sod towers that
rise above the surrounding water.
All the birds seen in the park have now been mentioned. It was an
idyllic spot, and I have often regretted that I did not spend a week in
rambling over it and making excursions to the engirdling ridges and
peaks. A few suggestive questions arise relative to the migratory habits
of the feathered tenants of a mountain park like this, for most of those
that have been named are only summer residents. How do they reach this
immured Eden at the time of the spring migration? One may conjecture and
speculate, but one cannot be absolutely sure of the precise course of
their annual pilgrimage to their summer Mecca. Of course, they come up
from the plains, where the spring arrives much earlier than it does in
the higher altitudes. Our nomads may ascend by easy stages along the few
canyons and valleys leading up from the plains to this mountain-girt
plateau; or else, rising high in air at eventide--for most birds perform
their migrations at night--they may fly over the passes and mountain
tops, and at dawn descend to the park.
Neither of these hypotheses is free from objection, for, on the one
hand, it is not likely that birds, which cannot see in the dark, would
take the risk of dashing their brains out against the cliffs and crags
of the canyons by following them at night; yet they may depart from their
usual habit of nocturnal migration, and make the journey up the gorges
and vales by day. On the other hand, the nights are so cold in the
elevated regions that the little travellers' lives might be jeopardized
by nocturnal flight over the passes and peaks. There is one thing
certain about the whole question, perplexing as it may be--the feathered
pilgrims reach their summer quarters in some way, and seem to be very
happy while they remain.
We stopped at a number of places in our run down South Platte Canyon,
adding no new birds to our list, but making some interesting
observations. At Cassel's a house-wren had built a nest on the veranda
of the hotel where people were sitting or passing most of the time, and
was feeding her tiny brood. In the copse of the hollow below the resort,
the mountain song-sparrows were trilling sweetly--the only ones we had
encountered in our wanderings since leaving Arvada on the plains. These
musicians seem to be rather finical in their choice of summer resorts.
Chaseville is about a mile below Cassel's, and was made memorable to us
by the discovery of our second green-tailed towhee's nest, a description
of which I have decided to reserve for the last chapter of this volume.
Lincoln's sparrows descanted in rich tones at various places in the
bushy vales, but were always as wild as deer, scuttling into the
thickets before a fair view of them could be obtained.
The veranda of a boarding-house at Shawnee was the site of another
house-wren's nest. While I stood quite close watching the little mother,
she fed her bantlings twice without a quaver of fear, the youngsters
chirping loudly for more of "that good dinner." At this place barn
swallows were describing graceful circles and loops in the air, and a
sheeny violet-green swallow squatted on the dusty road and took a
sun-bath, which she did by fluffing up all her plumes and spreading out
her wings and tail, so that the rays could reach every feather with
their grateful warmth and light. It was a pretty performance.
[Illustration: _Violet-green Swallow_
"_Squatted on the dusty road and took a sun-bath_"]
A stop-over at Bailey's proved satisfactory for several reasons, among
which was the finding of the Louisiana tanagers, which were the first we
had seen on this trip, although many of them had been observed in the
latitude of Colorado Springs. Afterwards we found them abundant in the
neighborhood of Boulder. The only pigmy nuthatches of this visit were
seen in a ravine above Bailey's. In the same wooded hollow I took
occasion to make some special notes on the quaint calls of the
long-crested jays, a task that I had thus far deferred from time to
time. There was an entire family of jays in the ravine, the elders
feeding their strapping youngsters in the customary manner. These birds
frequently give voice to a strident call that is hard to distinguish
from the cries of their kinsmen, the mountain jays. When I pursued the
couple that were attending to the gastronomical wants of their children,
one of the adults played a yodel on his trombone sounding like this:
"Ka-ka-ka, k-wilt, k-wilt, k-wilt", the first three short syllables
enunciated rapidly, and the "k-wilts" in a more measured way, with a
peculiar guttural intonation, giving the full sound to the _k_ and _w_.
The birds became very shy when they thought themselves shadowed, not
understanding what my pursuit might imply, and they gave utterance to
harsh cries of warning that were different from any that had preceded.
It was presently followed by a soft and friendly chatter, as if the
birds were having an interview that was exclusively _inter se_. Then one
of them startled me by breaking out in a loud, high key, crying, "Quick!
quick! quick!" as fast as he could fling the syllables from his tongue.
This, being translated into our human vernacular, obviously meant,
"Hurry off! danger! danger!" A few minutes of silence followed the
outburst, while the birds ambled farther away, and then the echoes were
roused by a most raucous call, "Go-ware! go-ware! go-ware!" in a voice
that would have been enough to strike terror to the heart of one who was
not used to uncanny sounds in solitary places. After that outburst the
family flew off, and I could hear them talking the matter over among
themselves far up the mountain side, no doubt congratulating one another
on their hair-breadth escape. The youngsters looked quite stylish with
their quaint little blue caps and neatly fitting knickerbockers.
At Bailey's I found my first and only white-crowned sparrow's nest for
this trip, although two years before I was fortunate enough to discover
several nests in the valleys creeping from the foot of Pike's Peak. At
dusk one evening I was walking along the railway below the village,
listening to the sweetly pensive trills of the white-crowns in the
bushes bordering the creek, when there was a sharp chirp in the willows,
and a female white-crown darted over to my side of the stream and
slipped quietly into a thick bush on the bank. I stepped down to the
spot, and the pretty madame leaped away, uncovering a well-woven nest
containing four white eggs speckled with dark brown. All the while her
spouse was trilling with might and main on the other side of the creek,
to make believe that there was nothing serious happening, no nest that
any one cared anything about. His mate could not disguise her agitation
by assuming nonchalance, but flitted about in the willows and chirped
pitifully. I hurried away to relieve her distress. The cottages on the
slopes were gay with tourists enjoying their summer outing, and
beautiful Kiowa Lodge, perched on a shoulder of the mountain among
embowering pines, glowed with incandescent lights, while its
blithe-hearted guests pursued their chosen kinds of pastime; but none of
them, I venture to assert, were happier than the little white-crown in
her grassy lodge on the bank of the murmuring stream.
On the way down the canyon, as we were going to Denver, I was able to add
three belted kingfishers to my bird-roll of Colorado species, the only
ones I saw in the Rockies.
Our jaunt of 1901 included a trip to Boulder and a thrilling swing
around the far-famed "Switzerland Trail" to Ward, perched on the
mountain sides among the clouds hard by the timber-line. Almost
everywhere we met with feathered comrades; in some places, especially
about Boulder, many of them; but no new species were seen, and no habits
observed that have not been sufficiently delineated in other parts of
this book. If one could only observe all the birds all the time in all
places, what a happy life the bird-lover would live! It is with feelings
of mingled joy and sadness that one cons Longfellow's melodious lines:--
"Think every morning when the sun peeps through
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove,
How jubilant the happy birds renew
Their old, melodious madrigals of love!
And when you think of this, remember too
'Tis always morning somewhere, and above
The awakened continents, from shore to shore,
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore."
A NOTABLE QUARTETTE[12]
On the plains of Colorado there dwells a feathered choralist that
deserves a place in American bird literature, and the day will perhaps
come when his merits will have due recognition, and then he shall have
not only a monograph, but also an ode all to himself.
[12] The author is under special obligation to Mr. John P. Haines,
editor of "Our Animal Friends," and president of the American
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, for publishing the
contents of this chapter in his magazine in time to be included in
this volume. Also for copyright privileges in connection with this
and other chapters.
The bird to which I refer is called the lark bunting in plain English,
or, in scientific terms, _Calamospiza melanocorys_. The male is a trig
and handsome fellow, giving you the impression of a well-dressed
gentleman in his Sunday suit of black, "with more or less of a slaty
cast," as Ridgway puts it, the middle and greater wing-coverts bearing a
conspicuous white patch which is both a diagnostic marking and a real
ornament. In flight this patch imparts to the wing a filmy, almost
semi-transparent, aspect. The bunting is about the size of the eastern
bobolink, and bears some resemblance to that bird; but bobolink he is
not, although sometimes mistaken for one, and even called by that name
in Colorado. The fact is, those wise men, the systematists, have decided
that the bobolink belongs to the family _Icteridae_, which includes,
among others, the blackbirds and orioles, while the lark bunting
occupies a genus all by himself in the family _Fringillidae_--that is,
the family of finches, sparrows, grosbeaks, and towhees. Therefore, the
two birds can scarcely be called second cousins. The bunting has no
white or buff on his upper parts.
Sitting on a sunny slope one June evening, I surrendered myself to the
spell of the bunting, and endeavored to make an analysis of his
minstrelsy. First, it must be said that he is as fond as the bobolink of
rehearsing his arias on the wing, and that is, perhaps, the chief reason
for his having been mistaken for that bird by careless observers.
Probably the major part of his solos are recited in flight, although he
can sit quietly on a weed-stalk or a fence-post and sing as sweetly, if
not as ecstatically, as if he were curveting in the air. During this
aerial performance he hovers gracefully, bending his wings downward,
after the bobolink's manner, as if he were caressing the earth beneath
him. However, a striking difference between his intermittent
song-flights and those of the bobolink is to be noted. The latter
usually rises in the air, soars around in a curve, and returns to the
perch from which he started, or to one near by, describing something of
an ellipse. The lark bunting generally rises obliquely to a certain
point, then descends at about the same angle to another perch opposite
the starting-point, describing what might be called the upper sides of
an isosceles triangle, the base being a line near the ground, connecting
the perch from which he rose and the one on which he alighted. I do not
mean to say that our bunting never circles, but simply that such is not
his ordinary habit, while sweeping in a circle or ellipse is the
favorite pastime of the eastern bobolink. The ascent of neither bird is
very high. They are far from deserving the name of skylarks.
We must give a detailed account of the bunting's song. Whatever others
may think of him, I have come under the spell of his lyrical genius.
True, his voice has not the loud, metallic ring, nor his chanson the
medley-like, happy-go-lucky execution, that marks the musical
performances of the bobolink; but his song is more mellow, rhythmic,
theme-like; for he has a distinct tune to sing, and sing it he will. In
fine, his song is of a different order from that of the bobolink, and,
therefore, the comparison need be carried no further.
As one of these minstrels sat on a flowering weed and gave himself up
to a lyrical transport, I made careful notes, and now give the substance
of my elaborate entries. The song, which is intermittent, opens with
three prolonged notes running high in the scale, and is succeeded by a
quaint, rattling trill of an indescribable character, not without
musical effect, which is followed by three double-toned long notes quite
different from the opening phrases; then the whole performance is closed
by an exceedingly high and fine run like an insect's hum--so fine,
indeed, that the auditor must be near at hand to notice it at all.
Sometimes the latter half of the score, including the second triad of
long notes, is repeated before the soloist stops to take breath. It will
be seen that the regular song consists of four distinct phrases, two
triads and two trills. About one-third of the songs are opened in a
little lower key than the rest, the remainder being correspondingly
mellowed. The opening syllables, and, indeed, some other parts of the
melody as well, are very like certain strains of the song-sparrow, both
in execution and in quality of tone; and thus even the experienced
ornithologist may sometimes be led astray. When the bunting sails into
the air, he rehearses the song just described, only he is very likely to
prolong it by repeating the various parts, though I think he seldom, if
ever, throws them together in a hodge-podge. He seems to follow a system
in his recitals, varied as many of them are. As to his voice, it is of
superb timbre.
Another characteristic noted was that the buntings do not throw back
their heads while singing, after the manner of the sparrows, but stretch
their necks forward, and at no time do they open their mouths widely. As
a rule, or at least very often, when flying, they do not begin their
songs until they have almost reached the apex of their triangle; then
the song begins, and it continues over the angle and down the incline
until another perch is settled upon. What Lowell says of "bobolinkum" is
just as true of bunting--"He runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the
air." As the sun went down behind the snow-clad mountains, a half dozen
or more of the buntings rolled up the full tide of song, and I left them
to their vespers and trudged back to the village, satisfied with the
acquirements of this red-letter day in my ornithological journey.