satisfy my curiosity, for no females had been seen and no nests
discovered. About ten days later, more attention was given them. In a
meadow not far from the hamlet of Arvada, between Denver and the
mountains, I found a colony of buntings one morning, swinging in the air
and furnishing their full quota of the matutinal concert, in which many
other birds had a leading part, among them being western meadow-larks,
western robins, Bullock's orioles, American and Arkansas goldfinches,
mountain song-sparrows, lazuli finches, spurred towhees, black-headed
grosbeaks, summer warblers, western Maryland yellow-throats, and
Townsend's solitaires. It has seldom been my fortune to listen to a
finer _pot-pourri_ of avian music.
At first only male buntings were seen. Surely, I thought, there must be
females in the neighborhood, for when male birds are singing so lustily
about a place, their spouses are usually sitting quietly on nests
somewhere in bush or tree or grass. I hunted long for a nest, trudging
about over the meadow, examining many a grass-tuft and weed-clump,
hoping to flush a female and discover her secret; but my quest was vain.
It is strange how difficult it is to find nests in Colorado, either on
the plains or in the mountains. The birds seem to be adepts in the fine
arts of concealment and secret-keeping. Presently several females were
seen flying off over the fields and returning, obviously to feed their
young. There was now some colorable prospect of finding a nest. A mother
bird appeared with a worm in her bill, and you may rely upon it I did
not permit her to slip from my sight until I saw her drop to the ground,
hop about stealthily for a few moments, then disappear, and presently
fly up minus the worm. Scarcely daring to breathe, I followed a direct
course to the weed-clump from which she had risen. And there was a nest,
sure enough--my first lark bunting's--set in a shallow pit of the
ground, prettily concealed and partly roofed over by the flat and
spreading weed-stalk. Four half-fledged youngsters lay panting in the
little cradle, the day being very warm. I lifted one of them from the
nest, and held it in my hand for a minute or two, and even touched it
with my lips, my first view of lark-bunting babies being something of an
event--I had almost said an epoch--in my experience. Replacing the
youngster in its crib, I stepped back a short distance and watched the
mother bird returning with another mouthful of "goodies," and feeding
her bantlings four. She was not very shy, and simply uttered a fine
chirp when I went too close to her nestlings, while her gallant consort
did not even chirp, but tried to divert my attention by repeatedly
curveting in the air and singing his choicest measures. This was the
only bunting's nest I found, although I made long and diligent search
for others, as you may well believe when I state that a half day was
spent in gathering the facts recorded in the last two paragraphs.
In the afternoon I watched a female in another field for a long time,
but she was too wary to betray her secret. In this case the male,
instead of beguiling me with song, flitted about and mingled his fine
chirps with those of his anxious mate. On my way across the plains,
some two weeks later, I discovered that the lark buntings do not dwell
only in well-watered meadows, but also in the most arid localities.
Still, I am inclined to think they do not build their nests far from
refreshing streams. When the breeding season is over, they range far and
wide over the plains in search of insects that are to their taste. From
the car window many of them were observed all along the way to a
distance of over sixty miles east of Denver. At that time the males,
females, and young were moving from place to place, mostly in scattering
flocks, the breeding season being past. A problem that puzzled me a
little was where they obtain water for drinking and bathing purposes,
but no doubt such blithe and active birds are able to "look out for
number one."
The second member of our lyrical quartette is the elegant green-tailed
towhee, known scientifically as _Pipilo chlorurus_. The pretty
green-tails are quite wary about divulging their domestic secrets, and
for a time I was almost in despair of finding even one of their nests.
In vain I explored with exhausting toil many a steep mountain side,
examining every bush and beating every copse within a radius of many
rods.
My purpose was to flush the female from her nest, a plan that succeeds
with many birds; but in this instance I was disappointed. It is possible
that, when an intruder appears in their nesting haunts, the males,
which are ever on the lookout, call their spouses from the nests, and
then "snap their fingers," so to speak, at the puzzled searcher.
However, by watching the mother birds carrying worms in their bills I
succeeded in finding two nests. The first was at Breckenridge, and,
curiously enough, in a vacant lot at the border of the town, not on a
steep slope, but on a level spot near the bank of Blue River. The mother
bird had slyly crept to her nest while I watched, and remained firmly
seated until I bent directly over her, when she fluttered away, trailing
a few feet to draw my attention to herself. It was a cosey nest site--in
a low, thick bush, beneath a rusty but well-preserved piece of
sheet-iron which made a slant roof over the cradle. It contained three
callow bantlings, which innocently opened their carmine-lined mouths
when I stirred the leaves above them. It seemed to be an odd location
for the nest of a bird that had always appeared so wild and shy. The
altitude of the place is nine thousand five hundred and twenty feet.
My second green-tail's nest was in South Platte Canyon, near a station
called Chaseville, its elevation being about eight thousand five hundred
feet. I was walking along the dusty wagon road winding about the base of
the mountain, when a little bird with a worm in her bill flitted up the
steep bank a short distance and disappeared among the bushes. The tidbit
in her bill gave me a clew to the situation; so I scrambled up the steep
place, and presently espied a nest in a bush, about a foot and a half
from the ground. As had been anticipated, it turned out to be a
green-tailed towhee's domicile, as was proved by the presence and uneasy
chirping of a pair of those birds. While the nest at Breckenridge was
set on the ground, this one was placed on the twigs of thick bushes,
showing that these birds, like their eastern relatives, are fond of
diversity in selecting nesting places.
This nest contained four bantlings, already well fledged. My notes say
that their mouths were yellow-lined, and that the fleshy growths at the
corners of their bills were yellow. Does the lining of the juvenile
green-tail's mouth change from red to yellow as he advances in age? My
notes certainly declare that the nestlings at Breckenridge had
carmine-lined mouths. For the present I cannot settle the question
either affirmatively or negatively.
Here I perpetrated a trick which I have ever since regretted. The
temptation to hold a baby green-tail in my hand and examine it closely
was so strong that, as carefully as I could, I drew one from its grassy
crib and held it in my palm, noting the green tinting already beginning
to show on its wings and back. Its tail was still too stubby to display
the ornamentation that gives the species its popular name. So much was
learned, but at the expense of the little family's peace of mind. As I
held the bantling in my hand, the frightened mamma uttered a series of
pitiful calls that were new to my ears, consisting of two notes in a
low, complaining tone; it was more of an entreaty than a protest.
Afterwards I heard the green-tails also give voice to a fine chirp
almost like that of a chipping sparrow.
The mother's call seemed to strike terror to the hearts of her infant
brood, for, as I attempted to put the baby back into its crib, all four
youngsters set up a loud to-do, and sprang, panic stricken, over the
rim, tumbling, fluttering, and falling through the network of twigs to
the ground, a couple of them rolling a few feet down the dusty bank.
Again and again I caught them and put them back into the nest, but they
would not remain there, so I was compelled to leave them scrambling
about among the bushes and rocks. I felt like a buccaneer, a veritable
Captain Kidd. My sincere hope is that none of the birdkins came to grief
on account of their premature flight from the nest. The next morning old
and young were chirping about the place as I passed, and I hurried away,
feeling sad that science and sentiment must sometimes come into
conflict.
One day in the latter part of June, as I was climbing the steep side of
a mesa in the neighborhood of Golden, my ear was greeted by a new style
of bird music, which came lilting sweetly down to me from the height. It
had a kind of wild, challenging ring about it, as if the singer were
daring me to venture upon his demesne at my peril. A hard climb brought
me at length within range of the little performer, who was blowing his
Huon's horn from the pointed top of a large stone on the mesa's side. My
field-glass was soon fixed upon him, revealing a little bird with a long
beak, decurved at the end, a grayish-brown coat quite thickly barred and
mottled on the wings and tail, and a vest of warm white finely sprinkled
with a dusky gray. A queer, shy, timid little thing he was. Afterwards I
met him often, but never succeeded in gaining his confidence or winning
a single concession from him. He was the rock wren (_Salpinctes
obsoletus_)--a species that is unknown east of the Great Plains, one
well deserving a place in literature.
I was especially impressed with his peculiar style of minstrelsy, so
different from anything I had ever heard in the bird realm. While the
song was characterized by much variety, it usually opened with two or
three loud, clear syllables, somewhat prolonged, sounding, as has been
said, like a challenge, followed by a peculiar bubbling trill that
seemed fairly to roll from the piper's tongue. Early one morning a few
days later I heard a brilliant vocalist descanting from the top of a
pump in a wide field among the foothills. How wildly his tones rang out
on the crisp morning air! I seemed to be suddenly transported to another
part of the world, his style of music was so new, so foreign to my ear.
My pencilled notes say of this particular minstrel: "Very musical--great
variety of notes--clear, loud, ringing--several runs slightly like
Carolina's--others suggest Bewick's--but most of them _sui generis_."
Let us return to the first rock wren I saw. He was exceedingly shy,
scurrying off to a more distant perch--another stone--as I approached.
Sometimes he would run down among the bushes and rocks like a mouse,
then glide to the top of another stone, and fling his pert little aria
at the intruder. It was interesting to note that he most frequently
selected for a singing perch the top of a high, pointed rock where he
could command a view of his surroundings and pipe a note of warning to
his mate at the approach of a supposed enemy. Almost every conspicuous
rock on the acclivity bore evidence of having been used as a lookout by
the little sentinel.
This wren is well named, for his home is among the rocks, in the
crannies and niches of which his mate hides her nest so effectually that
you must look long for it, and even after the most painstaking search
you may not be able to find it. The little husband helps to lead you
astray. He will leap upon a rock and send forth his bell-like peal, as
if he were saying, "Right here, right here, here is our nest!" but when
you go to the spot, he flits off to another rock and sounds the same
challenge. And so you can form no idea of the nest site. My nearest
approach to finding a nest was among the rocks and cliffs on the summit
of a mountain a few miles from Golden, where an adult bird was seen to
feed a youngster that had already flown from the nursery. It was
interesting to know that the rock wrens breed at so high an altitude.
However, they are not an alpine species, none having been seen by the
writer over eight thousand feet above sea-level, although they have been
known to ascend to an altitude of twelve thousand feet.
The fourth member of our feathered quartette was the oddest of all. On
the thirtieth of June my companion and I were riding slowly down the
mountain side a few miles below Gray's Peak, which we had scaled two
days before. My ear was struck by a flicker's call above us, so I
dismounted from my burro, and began to clamber up the hillside.
Presently I heard a song that seemed one moment to be near at hand, the
next far away, now to the right, now to the left, and anon directly
above me. To my ear it was a new kind of bird minstrelsy. I climbed
higher and higher, and yet the song seemed to be no nearer. It had a
grosbeak-like quality, I fancied, and I hoped to find either the pine
or the evening grosbeak, for both of which I had been making anxious
search. The shifting of the song from point to point struck me as odd,
and it was very mystifying.
Higher and higher I climbed, the mountain side being so steep that my
breath came in gasps, and I was often compelled to throw myself on the
ground to recover strength. At length a bird darted out from the pines
several hundred feet above me, rose high into the air, circled and swung
this way and that for a long time, breaking at intervals into a song
which sifted down to me faintly through the blue distance. How long it
remained on the wing I do not know, but it was too long for my eyes to
endure the strain of watching it. Through my glass a large part of the
wings showed white or yellowish-white, and seemed to be almost
translucent in the blaze of the sunlight. What could this wonderful
haunter of the sky be? It was scarcely possible that so roly-poly a bird
as a grosbeak could perform so marvellous an exploit on the wing.
I never worked harder to earn my salary than I did to climb that steep
and rugged mountain side; but at last I reached and penetrated the zone
of pines, and finally, in an area covered with dead timber, standing and
fallen, two feathered strangers sprang in sight, now flitting among the
lower branches and now sweeping to the ground. They were not grosbeaks,
that was sure; their bills were quite slender, their bodies lithe and
graceful, and their tails of well-proportioned length. Save in color,
they presented a decidedly thrush-like appearance, and their manners
were also thrush-like.
Indeed, the colors and markings puzzled me not a little. The upper parts
were brownish-gray of various shades, the wings and tail for the most
part dusky, the wing-coverts, tertials, and some of the quills bordered
and tipped with white, also the tail. The white of both wings and tail
became quite conspicuous when they were spread. This was the feathered
conundrum that flitted about before me. The birds were about the size of
the hermit thrushes, but lither and suppler. They ambled about
gracefully, and did not seem to be very shy, and presently one of them
broke into a song--the song that I had previously heard, only it was
loud and ringing and well articulated, now that I was near the singer.
Again and again they lifted their rich voices in song. When they
wandered a little distance from each other, they called in affectionate
tones, giving their "All's well."
Then one of them, no doubt the male, darted from a pine branch obliquely
into the air, and mounted up and up and up, in a series of graceful
leaps, until he was a mere speck against the blue dome, gyrating to and
fro in zigzag lines, or wheeling in graceful circles, his song dribbling
faintly down to me at frequent intervals. A thing of buoyancy and grace,
more angel than bird, that wonderful winged creature floated about in
the cerulean sky; how long I do not know, whether five minutes, or ten,
or twenty, but so long that at last I flung myself upon my back and
watched him until my eyes ached. He kept his wings in constant motion,
the white portions making them appear filmy as the sun shone upon them.
Suddenly he bent his head, partly folded his wings, and swept down
almost vertically like an arrow, alighting safe somewhere among the
pines. I have seen other birds performing aerial evolutions accompanied
with song, but have never known one to continue so long on the wing.
What was this wonderful bird? It was Townsend's solitaire (_Myadestes
townsendii_)--a bird which is peculiar to the West, especially to the
Rocky Mountains, and which belongs to the same family as the thrushes
and bluebirds. No literature in my possession contains any reference to
this bird's astonishing aerial flight and song, and I cannot help
wondering whether other bird-students have witnessed the interesting
exploit.
Subsequently I found a pair of solitaires on the plains near Arvada. The
male was a powerful singer. Many of his outbursts were worthy of the
mocking-bird, to some of whose runs they bore a close resemblance. He
sang almost incessantly during the half day I spent in the neighborhood,
my presence seeming to inspire him to the most prodigious lyrical
efforts of which he was master. Sometimes he would sit on the top of a
bush or a fence-post, but his favorite perches were several ridges of
sand and gravel. His flight was the picture of grace, and he had a habit
of lifting his wings, now one, now the other, and often both, after the
manner of the mocking-bird on a chimney-top. He and his mate did not
utter a chirp, but made a great to-do by singing, and finally I
discovered that all the fuss was not about a nest, but about a hulking
youngster that had outgrown his kilts and looked very like a brown
thrasher. Neither of this second pair of solitaires performed any
evolutions in the upper air; nor did another pair that I found far up a
snow-clad mountain near Breckenridge, on the other side of the
Continental Divide.
The scientific status of this unique bird is interesting. He is a
species of the genus _Myadestes_, which belongs to the family _Turdidae_,
including the thrushes, stone-chats, and bluebirds, as well as the
solitaires. He is therefore not a thrush, but is closely related to the
genus _Turdus_, occupying the same relative position in the avi-faunal
system. According to Doctor Coues the genus includes about twenty
species, only one of which--the one just described--is native to the
United States, the rest being found in the West Indies and Central and
South America. Formerly the solitaires comprised a subfamily among the
chatterers, but a later and more scientific classification places
them in a genus under the head of _Turdidae_.
[Illustration: PLATE VIII
BROWN-CAPPED LEUCOSTICTE--_Leucosticte australis_
(Lower figure, male; upper, female)]
The range of Townsend's solitaire is from the plains of Colorado to the
Pacific coast and north to British Columbia. According to Robert
Ridgway, he has even been met with "casually" in Illinois. In Colorado
many of the solitaires are permanent residents in the mountains,
remaining there throughout the winter. Some of them, however, visit the
plains during the fall, winter, and spring. In the winter they may be
found from the lower valleys to an elevation of ten thousand feet, while
they are known to breed as high as twelve thousand feet. The nests are
placed on the ground among rocks, fallen branches and logs, and are
loosely constructed of sticks and grass. From three to six eggs compose
a set, the ground color being white, speckled with reddish brown. Doctor
Coues says the birds feed on insects and berries, and are "capable of
musical expression in an exalted degree." With this verdict the writer
is in full accord.
CHECK-LIST OF COLORADO BIRDS
The following list includes all the species and varieties, so far as
known to naturalists, occurring in the State of Colorado. Of course,
these birds as families are not restricted to that State, and therefore
the catalogue comprehends many of the species to be found in adjacent
and even more remote parts of the country. Aside from the author's own
observations, he is indebted for a large part of the matter comprised in
this list to Professor Wells W. Cooke's pamphlet, entitled, "The Birds
of Colorado," with the several appendixes, and to the invaluable manuals
of Mr. Ridgway and Dr. Coues.
According to the latest information accessible to the writer, 389
species and varieties occur in Colorado, of which 243 are known to
breed. This is a superb record, and is excelled by only two other States
in the Union, namely, Texas and California. Colorado's splendid list is
to be explained on the ground of its wonderful variety of climate,
altitude, soil, and topographical features, such as its plains,
foothills, lower mountains, and towering peaks and ranges, bringing
within its boundaries many eastern, boreal, middle western, and far
western forms.
The author's preference would have been to begin the roll with the most
interesting birds, those to which he gave the largest share of his
attention, namely, the oscines, but he has decided to follow the order
and nomenclature of the Check-List of North American birds as arranged
by the American Ornithologists' Union. In deference to the general
reader, however, he has placed the English name of each bird first, then
the scientific designation. The numbers correspond to the American
Check-List. By noting those omitted, the reader will readily discover
what species have not been found in Colorado.
1. =Western grebe.= AECHMOPHORUS OCCIDENTALIS. Rare migrant; western
species, chiefly interior regions of North America.
2. =Holboell's grebe.= COLYMBUS HOLBOELLII. Rare migrant; breeds far
north; range, all of North America.
3. =Horned grebe.= COLYMBUS AURITUS. Rare migrant; range, almost the
same as the last.
4. =American eared grebe.= COLYMBUS NIGRICOLLIS CALIFORNICUS. Summer
resident; rare in eastern, common in western Colorado; breeds from
plains to 8,000 feet; partial to alkali lakes; western species.
6. =Pied-billed grebe.= PODILYMBUS PODICEPS. Summer resident, rare;
common in migration; breeds in northern part of State; sometimes winters
in southern part.
7. =Loon.= GAVIA IMBER. Migrant; occasionally winter resident; not known
to breed in State.
8. =Yellow-billed loon.= GAVIA ADAMSII. Migrant; rare or accidental.
9. =Black-throated loon.= GAVIA ARCTICA. Rare fall and winter visitant.
37. =Parasitic jaeger.= STERCORARIUS PARASITICUS. Fall and winter
resident; rare.
40. =Kittiwake.= RISSA TRIDACTYLA. Rare or accidental in winter.
49. =Western gull.= LARUS OCCIDENTALIS. Pacific Coast bird; accidental
in Colorado; only one record.
51a. =American herring gull.= LARUS ARGENTATUS SMITHSONIANUS. Rare
migrant; range, the whole of North America.
53. =California gull.= LARUS CALIFORNICUS. Western species; breeds
abundantly in Utah; only three records for Colorado.
54. =Ring-billed gull.= LARUS DELAWARENSIS. Not uncommon summer
resident; common in migration; breeds as high as 7,500 feet; range,
whole of North America.
58. =Laughing gull.= LARUS ATRICILLA. Bird of South Atlantic and Gulf
States; once accidental in Colorado.
59. =Franklin's gull.= LARUS FRANKLINII. Rare migrant; range, interior
of North America.
60. =Bonaparte's gull.= LARUS PHILADELPHIA. Rare migrant; not uncommon
in a few localities; range, whole of North America.
62. =Sabine's gull.= XEMA SABINII. Rare winter visitant; breeds in the
arctic regions.
69. =Forster's tern.= STERNA FORSTERI. Rare summer resident; common
migrant; habitat, temperate North America.
71. =Arctic tern.= STERNA PARADISAEA. Very rare migrant; but two records;
breeding habitat, circumpolar regions.
77. =Black tern.= HYDROCHELIDON NIGRA SURINAMENSIS. Common summer
resident; both sides of range; habitat, temperate North America; in
winter south as far as Brazil and Chili.
120. =Double-crested cormorant.= PHALACROCORAX DILOPHUS. Perhaps breeds
in Colorado, as it breeds abundantly in Utah; all present records from
eastern foothills.
125. =American white pelican.= PELECANUS ERYTHRORHYNCHOS. Once a common
migrant; a few remained to breed; now rare; still noted on both sides of
the range.
129. =American merganser.= MERGANSER AMERICANUS. Resident; common
migrant and winter sojourner; a few breed in mountains and parks;
generally distributed in North America.