IN THE SPRINGTIME
As soon as the first harbingers of spring arrive we take to the forest.
Life is just awakening in the northern woods. The winter has been long
and severe. Following the course of the creek we see large cakes of ice
thrown topsy-turvy all over the meadow, where they have been carried by
the spring freshet. In the gorge block after block is piled; they are
lying in every conceivable position. The spring sun is busy undoing what
the hard winter has accomplished. The cakes of crystal ice are fast
losing their deep blue color, becoming "rotten" and breaking off in huge
chunks with a report that fairly startles one. The newly-exposed
ice-prisms glisten in the sun like so many jewels. To add to the
attractions of the landscape, the creek is lined with stately
sycamores,--here and there a lonely buttonball clings by a slender stem
to the parent tree, as though loath to break away. Or perhaps it is
hopeful that by some imaginary elixir of life it may renew its youth and
live the spring and summer over again, forgetful that on the verge of
inaugurating a new cycle of existence,--the birth of another
generation,--it has before it the great consummation of all life. Where
the hills furnish a dark background the old tree stands out, weird and
majestic, its limbs white and naked after shedding their cinnamon-like
bark. It glistens in the sunlight almost as much as the ice-prisms. The
high water is busy undermining the bank of the stream and an occasional
cave-in appears, as though some muskrat surprised in his foraging were
making a hasty departure for his tunnelled home.
[Illustration: Home of the Cardinal]
The woods are ringing with the song of the cardinals (_Cardinalis
cardinalis cardinalis_), and just as soon as you enter their "beat" they
seem to take notice and are ready to fight any intruder. It is a
noteworthy fact that the "sphere of influence" of a particular cock is
limited to a portion of a tract of woodland as well defined as though
surrounded by a fence. If you can conceal yourself in his zone and
imitate his call, the bird will approach very near. In my younger days
many were the cardinals I trapped in the following manner: In the
mating season we would take a caged bird into the woods, the cage
covered from the time we left home until we reached the woods. Selecting
a likely place, we set our net, and attached a rope which led to a blind
constructed of boughs put together as naturally as possible. Then when
all was ready we lifted the cover of the cage. The sudden emergence from
darkness to light seemed to fill the very soul of the caged bird with
gladness, and even before we could conceal ourselves behind the blind it
would break forth into the sweetest melodies, filling the woods with its
songs, as though once again free in its erstwhile haunts. Ere the first
notes die away in the distance, like an echo comes the answer from the
proprietary lord of that particular section of woodland, as though he
seemed to say: "Some miscreant has entered my shady bowers to entice my
fair one away, so I'll teach him a lesson and drive him out of my
domain." Again the voice of the caged bird peals forth in a loud, clear
whistling call, but I have no doubt the notes are not so sweet to the
suspicious wild bird, for he is answering in an angry tone. In the
meantime the wild bird is cautiously advancing, flitting from limb to
limb. If he comes from the direction of the blind, he may be so near
that you can distinctly see the bristled rictus and black mask on his
face, the crested top, and glowing red body. Presently he sees the
captive bird, makes a dive for it, and hangs onto the wires, trying to
get hold of the intruder, picking and striking through the narrow
openings so excitedly that he does not notice the net being pulled over
him. What loyalty to his mate we see in this little bird! Thus many
cardinals are caught. If the other bird does not encroach on their beat
they will not answer to the call, but by shifting the cage even fifty
feet or less, it may enter the domain of another and then he will show
fight even to the death.
The piping of the cardinal is shrill at times, again soft, mellow, and
soothing to the ear. He is a perfect vocalist and is known as one of the
best whistlers among the feathery tribes; indeed, by some he is called
the American nightingale. At times when he ends up his song with
"Pretty, pretty, pretty," I repeat the words, agreeing absolutely with
him.
[Illustration: Cardinal's Nest and Eggs]
He shows some strange antics occasionally. Once we found a nest built in
a crab tree about three feet from the ground. When we first found it
there were four light blue eggs blotched with liver-colored spots, laid
in a loosely-built nest of rootlets, grass, and grapevine bark. About a
week later when we visited it the nest was empty. Looking toward the
ground by chance, I saw a little bird "in the down" apparently without
life. Lifting it up in my hand, by close observation I noticed that it
still breathed. We put the bird into the nest, went away, and returned
in about thirty minutes, when to our surprise we found the nestling was
gone again! Query, did the mother bird carry away its offspring to some
place of safety where it would not be disturbed?
On another occasion we found a nest in the top of a grapevine. We drew
down the vine, photographed the nest, and restored the nest to its
original position. Calling the following week I found the mother bird
had incubated the brood as though nothing had happened, but the young
were taken from the nest as soon as they could be moved and some days
before they would ordinarily have been allowed to leave home. Although
the cardinal is naturally shy and retiring, at times he will permit one
to get very close. I am glad to think that in many of the States this
beautiful bird is increasing under the protection of the law.
While sitting on a moss-covered log enjoying the balmy breezes of
spring, the "dee, dee, dee" notes of the tufted titmouse (_Parus
bicolor_) came to my ear. What hardy little birds they are! The coldest
winter of the north does not affect them. They are fearless of man at
times, and if you keep quiet they will flit about from place to place,
alternately disclosing to you now their ashy blue backs, now their dull
white, russet-flanked under-parts, as they swing from twig to twig,
scanning each little crevice for a choice morsel of insect life.
[Illustration: Winter in the North]
When the first warm rays hatch the winged insects, the tragedy of the
woods begins. A little cream-colored butterfly just out of its winter
garb is on the wing, floating gracefully in the air among the leafless
trees. The titmouse, with his bright eye ever on the alert, spies the
insect, makes a sprightly dart, and seldom misses his mark. Then he
perches on a limb with the fly and, like a bird of prey, takes hold with
bill and feet and tears his victim apart, and as the remnants of the
little wings float slowly to the ground, he feeds on the body.
The indigo bunting (_Passerina cyanea_) with its exquisite lay makes its
abode very attractive to bird fanciers. In the mating season he can be
seen perched on the topmost twig of one of the graceful drooping limbs
of the elm bush, a little blue ball of feathers, throat expanded,
pouring forth sweet music. If an instrument could be invented to record
and reproduce the melody as he delivers it in the stillness of the
morning when the little songster is at his best, it would become a very
popular air. The indigo is frequently kept in captivity, but loses all
the sweetness of song and the little male soon drops his beautiful
livery and dons a distasteful shabby color, lacking even the somber
luster of the female. During the period of mating, the cock-bird can be
trapped very easily by using a trap cage with a bird in the lower
compartment. As a boy, I have placed a trap cage on my head, walked
under the tree where the wild bird was singing, with my mouth made a few
kissing sounds, whereupon the bird would fly down into the cage and try
to get through the wires to the captive. If some wheat grains were
placed on the "paddle," the wild bird would invariably light on it
first, and picking up the grains would spring the trap and be caught
while the cage was on my head.
[Illustration: Indigo Bunting's Nest with Cowbird's Egg]
[Illustration: The Young Interloper (He sits on one and crowds the other
out.)]
In constructing their nest they usually select a dense thicket and
frequently build near the ground, where they deposit four or five
bluish-white eggs not much bigger than a large pea. The cowbird
(_Molothrus ater_), which is a sort of parasite, does not build a nest
of its own, but lays its eggs in the nest of some other bird. In this
respect it shows its wonderful instinct by selecting a smaller bird as
foster-mother for its offspring. By experience they have been taught
that the larger birds invariably dispose of the eggs by removing them
from the nest. It frequently selects the bunting's nest in which to
deposit its brown spotted eggs, which are much larger. The cowbird,
being of a larger species, grows much faster, and before long the
foundling fills the little nest, forcing the rightful owners out of home
and board. On one occasion I visited a nest and found it almost upset,
with the "big cow" filling the whole nest. On the upper edge perched one
little bunting, almost featherless, shivering in the cold. From
underneath the "parasite" could be seen the head of the other, panting
for breath and nearly stifled. We removed the cowbird, straightened up
the nest, replaced the rightful owners of the house, and perched the
cowbird nearby on a bush. We then went off a short distance and watched
developments, and to our surprise the little male bunting fed the
cowbird first. It was strange to see the youngster, as large as his
foster parent, open his mouth so wide you could imagine he was getting
ready to swallow the old bird,--indeed he looked as though he could,
rapacious pirate offspring that he was. On telling the story to a
friend, he remarked, "Well, how do you account for the foolish old man
neglecting his own offspring and feeding the cowbird first?" I cannot
answer that, unless the old fellow was proud of his big son.
[Illustration: A Well-Constructed Home (Note the Cowbird's egg in
nest.)]
[Illustration: Madam Vireo at Home]
The red-eyed vireo (_Vireosylva olivacea_) loves solitude. During the
nesting season it seeks some dense thicket, selects a fork on a drooping
limb, and constructs its wonderful basket-shaped, pensile nest.
Intertwining about the fork a silky material for the basis of the
structure, they put together with grasses, lichens, and plant fibres a
wonderful little home for their progeny. When working away at building
they are very cheerful, almost continually singing a sweet, pleasant
warble, as though haranguing the dwellers of the silent places, hence
their pseudonym, "preacher." Very frequently in the dense foliage nearby
skulks another member of the feathery tribe, watching every movement of
the industrious pair, and now she gloats over them when, their work of
art complete, they flit from limb to limb, closely observing the
masterpiece and softly twittering their satisfaction, as though to say,
"Well done." Tired and hungry after their labors they wander away in
search of food, singing cheerily as they twitch their heads now this
way, now that, seeking a worm or insect. When they have gone, the
somber-gowned, parasitic mate of a polygamist makes a bee-line for the
nest, hastily drops a large speckled egg in the neat little basket, then
quits the thicket and returns afield to the flock from which she came,
leaving her ignominious progeny to be hatched and reared by the foster
parents. When the vireos return, imagine the little red eyes looking
with surprise at the egg that almost fills the cradle. They have not the
strength, even if it occurred to them, to tumble the egg overboard, and
unlike the yellow warblers, who sometimes build another nest on top of
the egg, they resignedly proceed with the family duties.
[Illustration: The Usurper]
The cowbird is a parasite of the worst kind; it lays its egg, not on the
doorstep, like some foundlings, but in the bedchamber. The period of
incubation being shorter than with most other birds, the egg is hatched
sooner, the bird grows more rapidly, and consequently young _molothrus_
frequently stifles the rightful owners of the home. One by one the vireo
fledglings die and are carried from the nest by the mourning parents,
and so the survivor flourishes and grows fat, rocked in the cradle by
the gentle breezes and under the care and protection of the little
red-eyed vireos. The vireos are noted as good providers and protectors.
During incubation they are fearless and loath to leave their eggs,--at
times indeed, will permit you to approach the nest within two feet and
photograph. We made several attempts to get the picture on page 260 but
without success, until with a hand-mirror as a reflector we threw the
rays of the sun on the bird. The light seemed to bewilder her and had
the same effect as a "flash-light" has on a moose or deer in the
stillness of a dark night. Thus we were able to take a photograph by
time-exposure.
It is very seldom that a mixed family is raised. Usually the children of
the home perish, and then how the young cowbird does continually call to
the foster parents, "hungry, hungry, I'm hungry," and how the little
birds must work to satisfy the fast-growing changeling. At last one day
the parents find their darling has disappeared; their summer's work is
finished; four cunning little vireo nestlings have met an untimely fate,
and one arrogant young cowbird is well started upon his infamous career.
Despite his careful rearing his blood will tell just as surely as if he
were human.
Over yonder, a stone's throw from my sleeping-porch, stands the stump of
a hardwood tree, now soft from years of exposure to the elements. First
the slender twigs decaying dropped one by one, then limb after limb,
until all that remained of the noble tree, the growth of years, was this
stump, where one bright morning in March I heard from my bed the
familiar tapping sound characteristic of the woodpecker family. It was
a flicker (_Colaptes auratus luteus_). The mating season was due, the
ardent lovers were busy making holes here and there, as is customary,
until finally they accomplished one to their liking and began their
domestic duties in earnest. Some weeks later, in answer to my tapping on
the stump, a head appeared at the door looking from side to side for the
cause of the noise. It was the father of the family who reconnoitered
the situation. The characteristic broad streaks of black throat
feathers, commonly referred to as his "dark mustache," served to
identify him. For some time we had suspected the young were soon to
leave their home. Tom climbed the tree in search of "data," for the
accumulation of which he is quite eager, but before he got half way up,
shouted, "There goes one of the kids,--there goes another." While their
intentions were good, through lack of training "the kids" soon came to
the ground. It is said of the flicker family that the parents coax and
coax the young birds to leave the hole, but the latter are very
reluctant to do so, and at times the parents are constrained to resort
to starving or practically kicking them out. In the hole three were
left. Tom brought them out and took them to a slanting tree. It was
interesting to watch them. Like all climbers, they have two toes in
front and two behind and in climbing are assisted by their rigid tail
feathers. Tom was kept busy trying to arrange them within focus of the
camera. For some time it was impossible to make them stay "posed"; they
insisted on climbing the tree. After a while they got tired and then
posed nicely for their picture. During the whole time they called in
plaintive tone and the parent birds answered as they hovered around.
After being photographed the birds were returned to their home, where
they seemed well satisfied to remain.
[Illustration: Young Flickers]
This member of the woodpecker family has some individuality. While the
other woodpeckers stay in the trees, he spends a great deal of his time
on the ground, some of it in feeding, and some of it certainly in
amusement. He finds the latter on tree and ground alike. I have seen
them going through various contortions and maneuvers, some of which
closely resembled the figures in a minuet. On one occasion I witnessed a
fight between two males on the ground. How they parried, juked, and
dodged to avoid the sally of the adversary, until finally one got the
better of the other and the vanquished took to flight. Every spring for
several years a flicker takes up his abode near the home of a friend of
mine, who relates with a great deal of interest how the bird attracts
attention by visiting at frequent intervals a tin box on top of an
arc-light pole, where he takes much delight in spending considerable
time drumming away, as though the musician of the regiment were
practicing his favorite tattoo.
[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Tanager]
Of all the birds of Pennsylvania the male scarlet tanager (_Piranga
erythromelas_) is the most beautifully and attractively colored. Seldom
seen by the occasional visitor to the woods, like a "Will o' the wisp"
he flits through the thick foliage, uttering his peculiar "chirp churr."
I remember well finding my first nest of the tanager after several years
of search. On a horizontal limb of an elm tree about ten feet from the
ground I noticed a few twigs and roots placed on the limb. So frail was
the structure that even the sunlight shone through. Although I saw the
female fluttering around considerably disturbed, I did not give it much
thought, but left the location, only to return again to investigate.
Imagine my agreeable surprise when, on climbing the tree, I saw four
handsome bluish-green speckled eggs in the frail structure of twigs and
rootlets. I have no doubt the scanty nest is a protection, for it
requires a close observer to distinguish it as the living habitation of
a bird.
[Illustration: Little Green Heron's Nest]
[Illustration: Little Green Heron's Nest (Note frog legs to left of
young bird.)]
[Illustration: Leaving the Nest]
The green heron (_Butorides virescens_) dwells in colonies at times, and
frequently in solitary pairs along creeks and ponds. They build their
nests on small trees and bushes. The same birds will build in one
locality for years if unmolested, and even if disturbed will probably
find a site nearby the following year. I remember finding a nest built
on a small black-haw bush about ten feet from the ground. We visited the
nest frequently until five bluish-green eggs were laid in the
frail-looking platform of twigs. Its fragile appearance is deceptive,
however, for the nest is realty strongly constructed amongst the limbs
upon which it rests. An egg collector found the nest and removed two of
the eggs, but the mother bird continued to incubate. We cut the limb off
and removed the nest to the ground to photograph, then returned it,
made it fast as before, and the bird hatched out a brood successfully
from the three remaining eggs. One day upon visiting the nest I found
one of the occupants in the act of swallowing a frog. All that remained
of the frog was a leg sticking out of the nestling's mouth. It was not
long before the bird disgorged the legs, or all that was undigested of
them. About a week later I visited the nest, and looking up saw three
long necks and three heads sticking up over the edge. Before long they
started one by one to leave the nest, stepping rather ceremoniously
along the limbs towards the foliage at the top. Occasionally one would
miss his foothold and partially lose his balance, but by the use of
wings and beak would right himself. Often when in distress and hastening
to get away, the young herons will use their heads and necks as a parrot
does its beak, "chinning" themselves upon a limb and drawing up the body
by main strength. These birds when frightened disgorge partially
digested food; and because of their predilection to the generous
distribution of ornithological whitewash at frequent intervals as they
fly, they well deserve the name of "chalk-line." While climbing the
trees on several occasions when visiting the homes of these birds, I
found to my sorrow that "discretion is the better part of valor."
Although they seem to be extremely shy, they will return from time to
time to the neighborhood of their nests. They do not often approach
closely, however, while a visitor is near, and on such occasions remain
at some distance craning their necks curiously in every direction. They
seldom utter a sound unless startled, when with a hoarse "quawk" and a
shrilly harsh cry, they hastily fly away.
[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Grosbeak]
[Illustration: Nestlings]
The rose-breasted grosbeak (_Zamelodia ludoviciana_) is one of the
handsomest of the finch family, and also one of the most useful to the
farmer. The grosbeak's chief diet is bugs and other insects, the potato
bug being a favorite morsel in their menu. They usually build their nest
on a bush and are very devoted to their home, so much so that when eggs
are removed they continue to lay and incubate the remaining eggs. On one
occasion in photographing a nest containing two eggs it was necessary to
pull the slendor bush over and tie it within range of the camera. The
cord snapped, releasing the sapling and the eggs were thrown out and
destroyed, much to our annoyance. On the following week when we returned
we found the mother bird had laid two more eggs in the nest. The birds
raised their small brood as though nothing had happened. I have visited
many grosbeaks' nests, and excepting on one or two occasions I have not
seen the female incubating. This duty seems to be performed more often
by the male.
[Illustration: Fledglings]
[Illustration: Tom at the Nest]
The blue-gray gnat-catchers (_Polioptila cærulea_) are among the birds
who build their nests early. When building is on, the nests are very
easy to find, but ere the young are hatched out the foliage affords
effective concealment. Their squeaky voices attract your attention, and
looking towards the very top of the tree you can see them flitting from
limb to limb. Before long, one or the other draws nearer and nearer the
nest; then a quick flight, and there it is in the partly constructed
home. Watching with the field-glass you can see them constructing the
most beautiful nest in all bird architecture, save possibly that of the
ruby-throated hummingbird, which builds a similar home. They usually
select an elm tree, and at a height of thirty to fifty feet saddle the
nest on the under or horizontal branch of a fork. Thus the branching
system of the elm is peculiarly adapted to their style of architecture.
It furnishes a shelter from storm and hawk overhead, and prowling boy or
bird of prey in the brush underneath. The nest in the illustration
accompanying the text was taken upon an oak, which my experience leads
me to believe is an unusual site. How interesting to watch both male and
female building their nest in the crotch! After several days' work the
structure begins to take shape and the master touches are being put to
the little cup of lichens, moss, and grass. Alighting in it the builders
crane their necks and with their long bills tuck in the moss and lichens
all around, much as a mother tucks the clothing around her sleeping babe
in the cradle. When all is complete the five little speckled eggs are
deposited and incubation begins. The parent is quite plucky and resents
any intrusion upon the sanctity of her home. On one occasion I saw a
downy woodpecker come too close to a gnat-catcher's nest. Like a streak
of light she shot out, a mix-up followed, and the downy made haste to
get away. Another time a redstart was taught the lesson that it did not
pay to "hang around" this little bird's home.
[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of the Blue-gray Gnat-catcher]
[Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Nest and Young of Goldfinch]
[Illustration: Red-spotted Purple Butterfly on Queen Anne's Lace]
In the early spring we hear a concert of sweet voices coming from a
flock of songsters in the summit of the elm, their favorite tree. Their
period of love-making is long, as all their brothers and sisters of the
same order have with very few exceptions finished their family duties
before the American goldfinch (_Astragalinus tristis_) looks about and
selects for his nest the fork of a bush or tree handy to some thistly
field. Here the family of three to six young is reared. From his
fondness for thistle seeds he gets his common name, "thistle-bird." As
the thistles ripen he can be seen picking away as he clings to the burr
in every conceivable position, releasing the "witches" that float
gracefully off with the gentle breezes over the field; regardless is he
of the bees that tend the rose-purple flower-heads scattered here and
there among the ripe thistle-tops. Over yonder a colony of the delicate
blossoms of the "Queen Anne's lace" is quite conspicuous. Hovering
around are many flies and bees. A red-spotted purple butterfly lights
gracefully on the plant, folding and unfolding its beautifully colored
wings. He is safe from any molestation on the part of the goldfinch, who
is essentially a seed-eater. Thus it is that these two highly-decorated
creatures may often be seen gathering food side by side in the meadow.
There are some advantages in late building, and especially to the
thistle-birds. They get rid of the parasite cowbird, whose season for
propagation must needs be earlier in order to afford sufficient time for
development; for the young cowbird is more phlegmatic in temperament and
slower in growth, nor does he stay with us so late as the young
goldfinch. Again, the thistle-birds, being seed-eaters, find a more
bountiful supply of food as the July days approach.
[Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Young Goldfinch]
In the air they are readily distinguished by their undulatory flight.
Frequently repeating their bubbling, laughter-like call, they pass
overhead, describing circle after circle as though compelled thus to
work off some of the buoyancy of their nature. The essence of
cleanliness, they love to bathe in the purling waters of the brook where
the pebbles lend their smoothness to the ever-rippling streamlet; there
in some secluded spot during the sweltering weather of July and August
the little birds delight to splash the crystal waters over their
lemon-colored plumage. In my earlier days I have often caught them in
the following manner: We would thrust a branch into the ground at one of
the bathing places, and on the side of the stream from which by prior
observation it was ascertained that the birds usually approached. They
would alight on this branch as they came to the water, and after a while
would become accustomed to linger on it before descending to the bath.
In a few days we would cut pliant tips of the willow, smear them with
bird-lime, and by means of slits cut in the branch would arrange the
besmeared twigs high enough that when the bird alighted the limed twigs
stuck to his breast feathers and swung around underneath, sticking the
wing fast to his side so that the bird could not move. Invariably it
would fall to the ground, unable in the case of the smaller birds either
to walk or fly, and thus became an easy prey. Of course this was a
boyhood prank, and my love to have the songster with me at home led me
to place him in captivity. My ideas have changed and to-day I love the
birds best in their natural haunts among the environments in which they
sing the sweetest, their plumage is the finest, and where liberty of
flight adds to their grace and charm.
[Illustration: Nest of Red-wing Blackbird]
In selecting the place to trap the birds where they go to bathe, one
must bear in mind that some birds will frequent one place, some birds
another. We would set out a line of traps some distance apart. In going
from place to place we gave the birds time to visit in our absence. If
perchance a bird disturbed the twigs, we always knew it, for we kept the
number of the smeared twigs set on each branch. If a twig were missing
and no bird in sight, on looking around we were sure to find the bird,
if small, somewhere near the branch, or in case of larger birds, some
distance away, for while the smaller birds were hopelessly entangled,
the larger ones could walk but could not fly, and frequently got away by
going through the grass and working rid of the small willow twig.
[Illustration: Young Red-wing Blackbirds]
Among the first harbingers of spring the red-wing blackbirds (_Agelaius
phoeniceus_) are conspicuous among the swamps and meadows, where they
gather in flocks. The birds build their nests among the cat-tails,
willows, and small bushes along the margin of swamps and meadows. As
you approach they warn you of their disapproval in anxious tones. In a
short time, however, they cease their noise and fly from point to point,
lighting on the slender top of cat-tail, limb or weed, gracefully
swaying backward and forward with the gentle breezes. It is thus they
show their beautiful wings to the best advantage. Among the cat-tails
they love to build their nest from one to three feet above the water. A
coarse grass is used to bind the nest to the stock and within this is
constructed a bulky basket of weeds and grass, in which they deposit
four or five whitish, bluish, or greenish eggs, fantastically marked
with dots, scrawls, and blotches, resembling some of the illegible
hieroglyphics of the past ages.
[Illustration: Homes of the Cliff Swallows]
My opportunity to study the ways of the cliff swallow (_Petrochelidon
lunifrons_) has been very limited. My young friend Tom wrote me the
birds were at work, a colony being busy building their odd-shaped nests
on the rafters of a cow barn. When I visited the place I found the nests
were built quite close to each other. How the birds did scold when we
approached, darting around and around at first, but, gradually quieting
down, they disappeared! In the meantime we were trying to get a
snap-shot of a bird entering the neck of the nest. The nests were
constructed of small pellets of mud, and were gourd-shaped, lined with
grass and feathers. There they laid their four or five white speckled
eggs. I understood this was the second year in succession they had built
in this barn, but the following year they selected a barn some distance
away. How conspicuous the rufous rump appeared when they entered the
nest! They never remained long, but were off again, always on the wing.
They entered the frail structures like fairies, touching the opening
lightly, entering easily, then reappearing, to be off again on the wing.
Sometimes they stopped for a moment at the mouth, clogging the entrance
entirely with the body. As some writer has said, the bird is known by
its "crescent-shaped frontlet shining like a moon," hence its specific
Latin name "lunifrons,"--moon-brow. One need not draw far on his
imagination to think that the moon on her brow dispenses light for the
mother bird to see the little mouths as she feeds her young in the
"darksome cave."
[Illustration: Nest of the Song Sparrow]
The song sparrow (_Melospiza melodia_) is among the first to return to
its summer home. What a cheerful, fascinating little fellow he is as he
perches on the fence post, or "any old place," pouring forth his
lightsome, varied songs! Clothed in his somber brown suit, he is
instantly recognized by the dark throat patch. There is no regularity in
what they do, or how, where, or when they do it. They build nests on the
ground and in bushes, bulky or sparse, lined with horse hairs or
otherwise, and lay eggs irregularly speckled. They begin to build their
nests about the time the trillium is peeping through the ground, and the
brood are ready to leave their home when the trillium is in full
blossom. How delighted the children are when, if perchance out gathering
flowers, they see the hasty flight of the mother bird as she quits her
carefully concealed nest, and parting the leaves, there they find a
family of fledglings, mouths wide open, waiting for the return of the
mother with food to satisfy their wants! One day I found a song
sparrow's nest in a small catalpa tree. On closer examination I noticed
a young bird hanging by the neck, dead. I have no doubt that when the
bird was ready to leave the nest it became entangled in the horse hair,
for a loop was found around its neck, and when the little youngster, in
its endeavors to release itself, tumbled overboard, it was strangled to
death.
[Illustration: A Tragedy in Nature]
A large percentage of the nests of the wood thrush (_Hylocichla
mustelina_) are destroyed or abandoned from various causes. When
incubation is begun the mother bird is very loath to leave the nest and
will permit you to come very near. The accompanying photograph was
obtained after many failures. Day by day we approached nearer and nearer
until finally the bird allowed us to set the kodak within two feet of
the nest, and the click of the shutter did not disturb her, although she
seemed to quiver as if in great fear.
[Illustration: Wood-Thrush]
These birds love solitude, and how charming to listen to their sweet
melodies coming from the depths of the woodland! Often in building their
nest they select some limb or fork of a sapling near a path frequented
by lovers of the woods. The place, method, and material chosen by them
make it quite easy to find their home. It is built of coarse grass,
which usually streams down over the limb, while paper is frequently used
in the formation of the lower and outer part of the nest, rendering it
quite conspicuous. Various causes, such as hawks, owls, and snakes,
contribute to the destruction of a large proportion of these nests.
[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Wood-Thrush]
[Illustration: Up a Stump]
[Illustration: Wood-Thrush's Nest with Young]
One day we were walking through a strip of woods that lay along a
babbling brook, wending our way towards a wood thrush's nest which on
the occasion of our last visit contained several eggs. When we came to
the nest we found the eggs had been removed, and we left, wondering what
agency was responsible. A short distance from the nest we saw a large
black snake gliding through the grass toward a rotten stump about ten
feet high. I set after him and he climbed a big locust tree, on which he
paused for a moment at a height of some six feet from the ground. Then
when disturbed he slipped over to a hollow stump, which had grown
alongside from the same base, and to our surprise proceeded to enter a
knothole that seemed far too small for him. Not to be outdone, we pried
the stump from the main trunk and found the snake coiled like a watch
spring tightly against the inner walls of the hollow base. From this
position he had to be pried, inch by inch, while I pulled him out by the
tail and dragged him into an open field nearby, where he could be
photographed. We placed a limb in the ground at an angle, but although
we tried many times, the snake refused to crawl up. Finally we got the
original stump, placed it in the ground, started Mr. Snake toward it,
and he, immediately recognizing his former retreat, gracefully crawled
up the tree.
The wood thrush builds its nest anywhere from two to twelve feet from
the ground and on almost any kind of bush or tree. They are not
over-sensitive if one disturbs the nest. In order to get the
accompanying photograph it was necessary to remove the nest from its
lofty position some twelve feet above the ground to a limb about two
feet high. After taking the picture of the nest with the four eggs, we
returned it to its original place. The following week we called and
found three of the eggs hatched. We removed the nest and after
photographing returned it, and the birds remained until full-fledged, as
though nothing had happened to their childhood home.
[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of American Redstart]
How elegantly dressed the American redstart (_Setophaga ruticilla_)
appears on his arrival from his winter home! The costume of his wife is
not so flaming, but is nevertheless very attractive. How active they
seem, flitting from place to place, at times having all the
characteristics of the flycatcher and again all the marks of the sylvan
warblers they are! Proud as a peacock, he spreads his pretty tail as
much as to say to his woodland neighbors, "You can't match me for grace
and beauty." And well may he be proud of his graceful elegance and his
achievements in procuring his food, for he is one of the most charming
and energetic of the insectivorous birds. He is a creature of action,
always on the move, lively and alert, getting all that is coming to him
in quick succession. The nest is built in the fork of a tree or on some
horizontal limb, and is constructed of rootlets and twigs in a skillful
manner. Often plant-down and vegetable-silks are woven into the cup much
after the fashion of the vireo's idea. It is frequently adorned on the
outside with lichens and other substances tending toward obliterative
coloration. If approached, the birds flit from limb to limb in a nervous
manner, much excited, and at times appearing as though ready to strike
an intruder. When frightened from the nest they will return if one
stands off at some distance.
[Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Lady Redstart and Her Home]
[Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Blue-winged Warbler]
Down on the edge of a group of dead trees a pair of red-headed
woodpeckers (_Melanerpes erythrocephalus_) were working away at a height
of about twenty feet, getting ready for their anticipated brood. Tom, a
boy of fourteen years, came along and noticed the couple at work. They
were taking their turns methodically at intervals of twenty minutes or
thereabouts. Later the birds completed the excavated cavity and the
female had proceeded fairly well with her maternal duties. Tom climbed
the tree to see how she was getting along. He found two eggs in the
nest. Because of this intrusion or some other reason, the birds
abandoned the nest and eggs and selected another stump not far from the
first, where they proceeded along the same lines until they had
excavated another hole to their liking, and the mother bird laid three
pearly-white eggs which in due time she hatched.
[Illustration: Young Woodpeckers Foraging]
Now the birds were busy gathering insects to feed their progeny. A short
distance from their home was an abandoned tennis-court, grown up with
grass. This seemed to be the favorite feeding-ground of the male parent.
For hours we watched him coming and going, always alighting on the
net-post where he kept a lookout for insects. Every few minutes he would
take a rapid flight to the ground and again return to the post with
food, then by an easy course to the young. To follow him with the eye in
flight conveyed the idea of one continuous line of red, white, and blue.
One day while we were watching the tree stump a flicker alighted on it
near the hole. Like a flash came the parent bird from some place nearby,
made a dart at the flicker, and soon put him to rout.
[Illustration: Photo by E. W. Arthur. Nest and Eggs of the Thrasher]
The brown thrasher (_Harporhynchus rufus_) is an interesting member of
the feathery tribe who dwells in the solitude of some thicket, where he
is at home among the underbrush. In order to see the inhabitants of the
woods, one should avoid light or conspicuous clothing, dress as nearly
as may be in harmony with the surroundings, and step about as gently as
possible. You may go through a clump of woods talking with a companion
and rarely see much that is happening; but go alone, gently, with eyes
and ears open, and Nature begins to unfold some of her secrets. In the
early morn the thrashers delight in perching on a tree-top and filling
the surrounding glen with delightful melodies. In nesting-time they
become very seclusive, and an occasional glimpse is all that we can get
of this handsome bird as he flits from limb to limb, jerking and wagging
his tail. Sometimes they build their nest on the ground, but more
frequently on some bush or small tree. It is characteristic of the
female when incubating to let you get very close before she will leave
the nest. On one occasion while walking through an open woods I became
conscious of a bright eye fixed upon me. The gleam of an orange iris
accentuated its size, and in a second it dawned upon me that a thrasher
sitting on its nest in a brush heap was the owner of the eye. I
proceeded to arrange my tripod for a picture, but before I secured it
she left the nest with a graceful flight. She flew around and around,
making an angry noise, and continued her scolding for some time.
[Illustration: Photo by E. W. Arthur. On Night Turn (Note the protective
obliteration.)]
[Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Young Thrasher]
A friend of mine found a nest with eggs on the ground among some
mandrakes. Selecting a dark night he visited the nest and, by keeping
the bird bewildered under the rays of a pocket flash-light, was able to
set up his camera at a distance of perhaps ten feet, arrange a
reflector and touch off a flash powder, by the light of which he
succeeded in getting a flash-light of the bird while incubating. She
seemed to be unconcerned, and in fact did not leave the nest. The
intruder decamped and left the serenity of her domestic life
undisturbed.
The young of the thrasher are instantly recognized, for they have all
the family characteristics of the parent birds so well defined.
Frequently as late as the month of August, and long after most birds
have turned their attention to other matters, the thrasher devotes its
time to domestic duties. Indeed after the song season of many birds has
passed, I have found in the Ohio Valley region the nests of thrashers
and chewinks with eggs and young.
Measured by the birds and their customs, the springtime may extend, as
we have seen, far into the calendar summer. We begin paying our
devotions to the goddess while yet the snow is on the ground, and we are
still doing homage at the shrine when the mercury hovers about the
ninety-five-in-the-shade mark, but the change has come so gradually that
from one day to another we have hardly noticed it. If to our worship we
brought receptive hearts, stimulated by keen vision and hearing, we have
learned much of practical economic value.
Without ever having opened the craw of one of the feathered tribe,
observation with a good glass has taught us a multitude of things in
regard to the feeding of the different species and their economic worth
to the human race. From a commanding position by the nest of the
yellow-billed cuckoo (_Coccyzus americanus_), we have learned that this
bird is an invaluable ally in the war against the tent caterpillar. The
grosbeak is the arch enemy of the potato bug; young bobwhites devour
untold numbers of the eggs of the Hessian fly, that great ravager of the
western grainfields; the woodpeckers save many an orchard and lawn tree
from early death as a victim of one or another of the borers. Indeed,
the tons of destruction, if we may apply the term, devoured by our birds
in a single summer day, if it could be estimated, would make an
appalling figure.
But beyond all the mass of facts gathered, which go to make up the sum
total of the world's knowledge, is that oxygenation of spirit, that
freshness of vigor, bodily and mental, which we derive from having left
behind the busy world for these hours of devotion at the shrine. I have
always thought that there was a more spiritual quality in the religion
of the Druids than in that of most ancient heathen faiths, due probably
to the fact that their rites and ceremonies were performed in the woods
and forests, and that in their seeking after a Force beyond that which
they saw, they received some measure of the revelation which comes to
every one who loves the woods and fields. To us who have the light of
other revelation, the contact with Nature brings a closer touch and
keener sympathy with the great scheme of the Author of all creation. And
who can contemplate this without gaining dignity in the contemplation?