suddenly upon a brood of screech owls, full grown, sitting together
upon a dry, moss-draped limb, but a few feet from the ground. I
pause within four or five yards of them and am looking about me,
when my eye lights upon these gray, motionless figures. They sit
perfectly upright, some with their backs and some with their breasts
toward me, but every head turned squarely in my direction. Their
eyes are closed to a mere black line; through this crack they are
watching me, evidently thinking themselves unobserved. The spectacle
is weird and grotesque, and suggests something impish and uncanny.
It is a new effect, the night side of the woods by daylight. After
observing them a moment I take a single step toward them, when,
quick as thought, their eyes fly wide open, their attitude is
changed, they bend, some this way, some that, and, instinct with
life and motion, stare wildly around them. Another step, and they
all take flight but one, which stoops low on the branch, and with
the look of a frightened cat regards me for a few seconds over its
shoulder. They fly swiftly and softly, and disperse through the
trees. I shoot one, which is of a tawny red tint, like that figured
by Wilson. It is a singular fact that the plumage of these owls
presents two totally distinct phases, which "have no relation to
sex, age, or season," one being an ashen gray, the other a bright
rufous.
Coming to a drier and less mossy place in the woods, I am amused
with the golden-crowned thrush,--which, however, is no thrush at
all, but a warbler. He walks on the ground ahead of me with such an
easy, gliding motion, and with such an unconscious, preoccupied air,
jerking his head like a hen or a partridge, now hurrying, now
slackening his pace, that I pause to observe him. I sit down, he
pauses to observe me, and extends his pretty ramblings on all sides,
apparently very much engrossed with his own affairs, but never
losing sight of me. But few of the birds are walkers, most being
hoppers, like the robin.
Satisfied that I have no hostile intentions, the pretty pedestrian
mounts a limb a few feet from the ground, and gives me the benefit
of one of his musical performances, a sort of accelerating chant.
Commencing in a very low key, which makes him seem at a very
uncertain distance, he grows louder and louder till his body quakes
and his chant runs into a shriek, ringing in my ear with a peculiar
sharpness. This lay may be represented thus: "Teacher, _teacher_,
TEACHER, *TEACHER*, _*TEACHER!*_"--the accent on the first
syllable and each word uttered with increased force and shrillness.
No writer with whom I am acquainted gives him credit for more
musical ability than is displayed in this strain. Yet in this the
half is not told. He has a far rarer song, which he reserves for
some nymph whom he meets in the air. Mounting by easy flights to the
top of the tallest tree, he launches into the air with a sort of
suspended, hovering flight, like certain of the finches, and bursts
into a perfect ecstasy of song,--clear, ringing, copious, rivaling
the goldfinch's in vivacity, and the linnet's in melody. This strain
is one of the rarest bits of bird melody to be heard, and is
oftenest indulged in late in the afternoon or after sundown. Over
the woods, hid from view, the ecstatic singer warbles his finest
strain. In this song you instantly detect his relationship to the
water-wagtail,--erroneously called water-thrush,--whose song is
likewise a sudden burst, full and ringing, and with a tone of
youthful joyousness in it, as if the bird had just had some
unexpected good fortune. For nearly two years this strain of the
pretty walker was little more than a disembodied voice to me, and I
was puzzled by it as Thoreau by his mysterious night-warbler, which,
by the way, I suspect was no new bird at all, but one he was
otherwise familiar with. The little bird himself seems disposed to
keep the matter a secret, and improves every opportunity to repeat
before you his shrill, accelerating lay, as if this were quite
enough and all he laid claim to. Still, I trust I am betraying no
confidence in making the matter public here. I think this is
preeminently his love-song, as I hear it oftenest about the mating
season. I have caught half-suppressed bursts of it from two males
chasing each other with fearful speed through the forest.
Turning to the left from the old road, I wander over soft logs and
gray yielding debris, across the little trout brook, until I emerge
in the overgrown Barkpeeling,--pausing now and then on the way to
admire a small, solitary white flower which rises above the moss,
with radical, heart-shaped leaves, and a blossom precisely like the
liverwort except in color, but which is not put down in my
botany,--or to observe the ferns, of which I count six varieties,
some gigantic ones nearly shoulder-high.
At the foot of a rough, scraggy yellow birch, on a bank of
club-moss, so richly inlaid with partridge-berry and curious
shining leaves--with here and there in the bordering a spire of the
false wintergreen strung with faint pink flowers and exhaling the
breath of a May orchard--that it looks too costly a couch for such
an idler, I recline to note what transpires. The sun is just past
the meridian, and the afternoon chorus is not yet in full tune. Most
birds sing with the greatest spirit and vivacity in the forenoon,
though there are occasional bursts later in the day in which nearly
all voices join; while it is not till the twilight that the full
power and solemnity of the thrush's hymn is felt.
My attention is soon arrested by a pair of hummingbirds, the
ruby-throated, disporting themselves in a low bush a few yards from
me. The female takes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks
exultingly as the male, circling above, dives down as if to dislodge
her. Seeing me, he drops like a feather on a slender twig, and in a
moment both are gone. Then, as if by a preconcerted signal, the
throats are all atune. I lie on my back with eyes half closed, and
analyze the chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches, and flycatchers;
while, soaring above all, a little withdrawn and alone rises the
divine contralto of the hermit. That richly modulated warble
proceeding from the top of yonder birch, and which unpracticed ears
would mistake for the voice of the scarlet tanager, comes from that
rare visitant, the rose-breasted grosbeak. It is a strong, vivacious
strain, a bright noonday song, full of health and assurance,
indicating fine talents in the performer, but not genius. As I come
up under the tree he casts his eye down at me, but continues his
song. This bird is said to be quite common in the Northwest, but he
is rare in the Eastern districts. His beak is disproportionately
large and heavy, like a huge nose, which slightly mars his good
looks; but Nature has made it up to him in a blush rose upon his
breast, and the most delicate of pink linings to the under side of
his wings. His back is variegated black and white, and when flying
low the white shows conspicuously. If he passed over your head, you
would note the delicate flush under his wings.
That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hemlock, glowing like a
live coal against the dark background, seeming almost too brilliant
for the severe northern climate, is his relative, the scarlet
tanager. I occasionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and know no
stronger contrast in nature. I almost fear he will kindle the dry
limb on which he alights. He is quite a solitary bird, and in this
section seems to prefer the high, remote woods, even going quite to
the mountain's top. Indeed, the event of my last visit to the
mountain was meeting one of these brilliant creatures near the
summit, in full song. The breeze carried the notes far and wide. He
seemed to enjoy the elevation, and I imagined his song had more
scope and freedom than usual. When he had flown far down the
mountain-side, the breeze still brought me his finest notes. In
plumage he is the most brilliant bird we have. The bluebird is not
entirely blue; nor will the indigo-bird bear a close inspection,
nor the goldfinch, nor the summer redbird. But the tanager loses
nothing by a near view; the deep scarlet of his body and the black
of his wings and tail are quite perfect. This is his holiday suit;
in the fall he becomes a dull yellowish green,--the color of the
female the whole season.
One of the leading songsters in this choir of the old Barkpeeling is
the purple finch or linnet. He sits somewhat apart, usually on a
dead hemlock, and warbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finest
songsters, and stands at the head of the finches, as the hermit at
the head of the thrushes. His song approaches an ecstasy, and, with
the exception of the winter wren's, is the most rapid and copious
strain to be heard in these woods. It is quite destitute of the
trills and the liquid, silvery, bubbling notes that characterize the
wren's; but there runs through it a round, richly modulated whistle,
very sweet and very pleasing. The call of the robin is brought in at
a certain point with marked effect, and, throughout, the variety is
so great and the strain so rapid that the impression is as of two or
three birds singing at the same time. He is not common here, and I
only find him in these or similar woods. His color is peculiar, and
looks as if it might have been imparted by dipping a brown bird in
diluted pokeberry juice. Two or three more dippings would have made
the purple complete. The female is the color of the song sparrow, a
little larger, with heavier beak, and tail much more forked.
In a little opening quite free from brush and trees, I step down to
bathe my hands in the brook, when a small, light slate-colored bird
flutters out of the bank, not three feet from my head, as I stoop
down, and, as if severely lamed or injured, flutters through the
grass and into the nearest bush. As I do not follow, but remain near
the nest, she _chips_ sharply, which brings the male, and I see it
is the speckled Canada warbler. I find no authority in the books for
this bird to build upon the ground, yet here is the nest, made
chiefly of dry grass, set in a slight excavation in the bank not two
feet from the water, and looking a little perilous to anything but
ducklings or sandpipers. There are two young birds and one little
speckled egg just pipped. But how is this? what mystery is here? One
nestling is much larger than the other, monopolizes most of the
nest, and lifts its open mouth far above that of its companion,
though obviously both are of the same age, not more than a day old.
Ah! I see; the old trick of the cow bunting, with a stinging human
significance. Taking the interloper by the nape of the neck, I
deliberately drop it into the water, but not without a pang, as I
see its naked form, convulsed with chills, float downstream. Cruel?
So is Nature cruel. I take one life to save two. In less than two
days this pot-bellied intruder would have caused the death of the
two rightful occupants of the nest; so I step in and turn things
into their proper channel again.
It is a singular freak of nature, this instinct which prompts one
bird to lay its eggs in the nests of others, and thus shirk the
responsibility of rearing its own young. The cow buntings always
resort to this cunning trick; and when one reflects upon their
numbers, it is evident that these little tragedies are quite
frequent. In Europe the parallel case is that of the cuckoo, and
occasionally our own cuckoo imposes upon a robin or a thrush in the
same manner. The cow bunting seems to have no conscience about the
matter, and, so far as I have observed, invariably selects the nest
of a bird smaller than itself. Its egg is usually the first to
hatch; its young overreaches all the rest when food is brought; it
grows with great rapidity, spreads and fills the nest, and the
starved and crowded occupants soon perish, when the parent bird
removes their dead bodies, giving its whole energy and care to the
foster-child.
The warblers and smaller flycatchers are generally the sufferers,
though I sometimes see the slate-colored snowbird unconsciously
duped in like manner; and the other day, in a tall tree in the
woods, I discovered the black-throated green-backed warbler devoting
itself to this dusky, overgrown foundling. An old farmer to whom I
pointed out the fact was much surprised that such things should
happen in his woods without his knowledge.
These birds may be seen prowling through all parts of the woods at
this season, watching for an opportunity to steal their egg into
some nest. One day while sitting on a log I saw one moving by short
flights through the trees and gradually nearing the ground. Its
movements were hurried and stealthy. About fifty yards from me it
disappeared behind some low brush, and had evidently alighted upon
the ground.
After waiting a few moments I cautiously walked in the direction.
When about halfway I accidentally made a slight noise, when the bird
flew up, and seeing me, hurried off out of the woods. Arrived at the
place, I found a simple nest of dry grass and leaves partially
concealed under a prostrate branch. I took it to be the nest of a
sparrow. There were three eggs in the nest, and one lying about a
foot below it as if it had been rolled out, as of course it had. It
suggested the thought that perhaps, when the cowbird finds the full
complement of eggs in a nest, it throws out one and deposits its own
instead. I revisited the nest a few days afterward and found an egg
again cast out, but none had been put in its place. The nest had
been abandoned by its owner and the eggs were stale.
In all cases where I have found this egg, I have observed both male
and female of the cowbird lingering near, the former uttering his
peculiar liquid, glassy note from the tops of the trees.
In July, the young which have been reared in the same neighborhood,
and which are now of a dull fawn color, begin to collect in small
flocks, which grow to be quite large in autumn.
The speckled Canada is a very superior warbler, having a lively,
animated strain, reminding you of certain parts of the canary's,
though quite broken and incomplete; the bird, the while, hopping
amid the branches with increased liveliness, and indulging in fine
sibilant chirps, too happy to keep silent.
His manners are quite marked. He has a habit of courtesying when he
discovers you which is very pretty. In form he is an elegant bird,
somewhat slender, his back of a bluish lead-color becoming nearly
black on his crown: the under part of his body, from his throat
down, is of a light, delicate yellow, with a belt of black dots
across his breast. He has a fine eye, surrounded by a light yellow
ring.
The parent birds are much disturbed by my presence, and keep up a
loud emphatic chirping, which attracts the attention of their
sympathetic neighbors, and one after another they come to see what
has happened. The chestnut-sided and the Blackburnian come in
company. The black and yellow warbler pauses a moment and hastens
away; the Maryland yellow-throat peeps shyly from the lower bushes
and utters his "Fip! fip!" in sympathy; the wood pewee comes
straight to the tree overhead, and the red-eyed vireo lingers and
lingers, eying me with a curious, innocent look, evidently much
puzzled. But all disappear again, one by one, apparently without a
word of condolence or encouragement to the distressed pair. I have
often noticed among birds this show of sympathy,--if indeed it be
sympathy, and not merely curiosity, or desire to be forewarned of
the approach of a common danger.
An hour afterward I approach the place, find all still, and the
mother bird upon the nest. As I draw near she seems to sit closer,
her eyes growing large with an inexpressibly wild, beautiful look.
She keeps her place till I am within two paces of her, when she
flutters away as at first. In the brief interval the remaining egg
has hatched, and the two little nestlings lift their heads without
being jostled or overreached by any strange bedfellow. A week
afterward and they were flown away,--so brief is the infancy of
birds. And the wonder is that they escape, even for this short time,
the skunks and minks and muskrats that abound here, and that have a
decided partiality for such tidbits.
I pass on through the old Barkpeeling, now threading an obscure
cow-path or an overgrown wood-road; now clambering over soft and
decayed logs, or forcing my way through a network of briers and
hazels; now entering a perfect bower of wild cherry, beech, and soft
maple; now emerging into a little grassy lane, golden with
buttercups or white with daisies, or wading waist-deep in the red
raspberry-bushes.
Whir! whir! whir! and a brood of half-grown partridges start up like
an explosion, a few paces from me, and, scattering, disappear in the
bushes on all sides. Let me sit down here behind the screen of ferns
and briers, and hear this wild hen of the woods call together her
brood. At what an early age the partridge flies! Nature seems to
concentrate her energies on the wing, making the safety of the bird
a point to be looked after first; and while the body is covered with
down, and no signs of feathers are visible, the wing-quills sprout
and unfold, and in an incredibly short time the young make fair
headway in flying.
The same rapid development of wing may be observed in chickens and
turkeys, but not in water-fowls, nor in birds that are safely housed
in the nest till full-fledged. The other day, by a brook, I came
suddenly upon a young sandpiper, a most beautiful creature,
enveloped in a soft gray down, swift and nimble and apparently a
week or two old, but with no signs of plumage either of body or
wing. And it needed none, for it escaped me by taking to the water
as readily as if it had flown with wings.
Hark! there arises over there in the brush a soft, persuasive
cooing, a sound so subtle and wild and unobtrusive that it requires
the most alert and watchful ear to hear it. How gentle and
solicitous and full of yearning love! It is the voice of the mother
hen. Presently a faint timid "Yeap!" which almost eludes the ear, is
heard in various directions,--the young responding. As no danger
seems near, the cooing of the parent bird is soon a very audible
clucking call, and the young move cautiously in the direction. Let
me step never so carefully from my hiding-place, and all sounds
instantly cease, and I search in vain for either parent or young.
The partridge is one of our most native and characteristic birds.
The woods seem good to be in where I find him. He gives a habitable
air to the forest, and one feels as if the rightful occupant was
really at home. The woods where I do not find him seem to want
something, as if suffering from some neglect of Nature. And then he
is such a splendid success, so hardy and vigorous. I think he enjoys
the cold and the snow. His wings seem to rustle with more fervency
in midwinter. If the snow falls very fast, and promises a heavy
storm, he will complacently sit down and allow himself to be snowed
under. Approaching him at such times, he suddenly bursts out of the
snow at your feet, scattering the flakes in all directions, and goes
humming away through the woods like a bombshell,--a picture of
native spirit and success.
His drum is one of the most welcome and beautiful sounds of spring.
Scarcely have the trees expanded their buds, when, in the still
April mornings, or toward nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted
wings. He selects not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log,
but a decayed and crumbling one, seeming to give the preference to
old oak-logs that are partly blended with the soil. If a log to his
taste cannot be found, he sets up his altar on a rock, which becomes
resonant beneath his fervent blows. Who has seen the partridge drum?
It is the next thing to catching a weasel asleep, though by much
caution and tact it may be done. He does not hug the log, but stands
very erect, expands his ruff, gives two introductory blows, pauses
half a second, and then resumes, striking faster and faster till the
sound becomes a continuous, unbroken whir, the whole lasting less
than half a minute. The tips of his wings barely brush the log, so
that the sound is produced rather by the force of the blows upon the
air and upon his own body as in flying. One log will be used for
many years, though not by the same drummer. It seems to be a sort of
temple and held in great respect. The bird always approaches on
foot, and leaves it in the same quiet manner, unless rudely
disturbed. He is very cunning, though his wit is not profound. It is
difficult to approach him by stealth; you will try many times before
succeeding; but seem to pass by him in a great hurry, making all
the noise possible, and with plumage furled he stands as immovable
as a knot, allowing you a good view, and a good shot if you are a
sportsman.
Passing along one of the old Barkpeelers' roads which wander
aimlessly about, I am attracted by a singularly brilliant and
emphatic warble, proceeding from the low bushes, and quickly
suggesting the voice of the Maryland yellow-throat. Presently the
singer hops up on a dry twig, and gives me a good view: lead-colored
head and neck, becoming nearly black on the breast; clear
olive-green back, and yellow belly. From his habit of keeping near
the ground, even hopping upon it occasionally, I know him to be a
ground warbler; from his dark breast the ornithologist has added the
expletive mourning, hence the mourning ground warbler.
Of this bird both Wilson and Audubon confessed their comparative
ignorance, neither ever having seen its nest or become acquainted
with its haunts and general habits. Its song is quite striking and
novel, though its voice at once suggests the class of warblers to
which it belongs. It is very shy and wary, flying but a few feet at
a time, and studiously concealing itself from your view. I discover
but one pair here. The female has food in her beak, but carefully
avoids betraying the locality of her nest. The ground warblers all
have one notable feature,--very beautiful legs, as white and
delicate as if they had always worn silk stockings and satin
slippers. High tree warblers have dark brown or black legs and more
brilliant plumage, but less musical ability.
The chestnut-sided belongs to the latter class. He is quite common
in these woods, as in all the woods about. He is one of the rarest
and handsomest of the warblers; his white breast and throat,
chestnut sides, and yellow crown show conspicuously. Last year I
found the nest of one in an uplying beech wood, in a low bush near
the roadside, where cows passed and browsed daily. Things went on
smoothly till the cow bunting stole her egg into it, when other
mishaps followed, and the nest was soon empty. A characteristic
attitude of the male during this season is a slight drooping of the
wings, and tail a little elevated, which gives him a very smart,
bantam-like appearance. His song is fine and hurried, and not much
of itself, but has its place in the general chorus.
A far sweeter strain, falling on the ear with the true sylvan
cadence, is that of the black-throated green-backed warbler, whom I
meet at various points. He has no superiors among the true _Sylvia_.
His song is very plain and simple, but remarkably pure and tender,
and might be indicated by straight lines, thus, ---- ---- \/¯¯; the
first two marks representing two sweet, silvery notes, in the same
pitch of voice, and quite unaccented; the latter marks, the
concluding notes, wherein the tone and inflection are changed. The
throat and breast of the male are a rich black like velvet, his face
yellow, and his back a yellowish green.
Beyond the Barkpeeling, where the woods are mingled hemlock, beech,
and birch, the languid midsummer note of the black-throated
blue-back falls on my ear. "Twea, twea, twea-e-e!" in the upward
slide, and with the peculiar _z-ing_ of summer insects, but not
destitute of a certain plaintive cadence. It is one of the most
languid, unhurried sounds in all the woods. I feel like reclining
upon the dry leaves at once. Audubon says he has never heard his
love-song; but this is all the love-song he has, and he is evidently
a very plain hero with his little brown mistress. He assumes few
attitudes, and is not a bold and striking gymnast, like many of his
kindred. He has a preference for dense woods of beech and maple,
moves slowly amid the lower branches and smaller growths, keeping
from eight to ten feet from the ground, and repeating now and then
his listless, indolent strain. His back and crown are dark blue; his
throat and breast, black; his belly, pure white; and he has a white
spot on each wing.
Here and there I meet the black and white creeping warbler, whose
fine strain reminds me of hair-wire. It is unquestionably the finest
bird-song to be heard. Few insect strains will compare with it in
this respect; while it has none of the harsh, brassy character of
the latter, being very delicate and tender.