years—_Tinamus_ for more than one hundred and thirty,
and _Crypturus_ for a hundred and six years, and during
all this time ornithologists have accepted this character
without thought or question.”
I may say that the roosting habits of Tinamous are well known to
hunters in Surinam, and according to Mr. Beebe himself they were not
unknown to his Akawai hunter, Nupee, in whose statements, however,
Mr. Beebe seemed disposed to place less confidence than in his own
experiment, notwithstanding the fact that in either case conclusive
evidence could only be sought in actual observation in the field.
Nearly one hundred years ago Charles Waterton (Wanderings in South
America, 1825, p. 286) called attention to these habits and suggested
that the state of the tarsus might have some bearing upon them. These
are his words:
“There is something remarkable in the great Tinamou, which
I suspect has hitherto escaped notice. It invariably
roosts in trees; but the feet are so very small in
proportion to the body of this bulky bird, that they can
be of no use to it in grasping the branch; and, moreover,
the hind toe is so short, that it does not touch the
ground when the bird is walking. The back part of the leg,
just below the knee, is quite flat, and somewhat concave.
On it are strong pointed scales, which are very rough, and
catch your finger as you move it along from the knee to
the toe. Now, by means of these scales, and the particular
flatness of that part of the leg, the bird is enabled to
sleep in safety upon the branch of a tree.”
In regard to the “small Tinamou,” Waterton (_Ibid._, p. 287) says, “The
foot of this bird is very small in proportion, but the back part of the
leg bears no resemblance to that of the larger Tinamou; hence one might
conclude that it sleeps on the ground.”
Here then, we have at least one naturalist to whom “the casual, nominal
affair between Hermann and Illiger versus _Tinamus_ and _Crypturus_”
was not all.
But Waterton was not the only writer who has mentioned these
things. Schomburgk, (_l. c._, p. 749) under the name _Trachypelmus
subcristatus_ [= _Tinamus major_ (Gmel.)], speaks of the relation of
the rough tarsus to the bird’s habit of roosting in trees, but under
_Crypturus variegatus_ (Wagler) (_Ibid._, p. 748) says that he does
not know whether that species also passes the night in trees. More
recently F. P. and A. P. Penard, under the names _Tinamus subcristatus_
(_l. c._ 1908, i, p. 318) and _Crypturus variegatus_ (_Ibid._, p. 322)
definitely state the bearing of the construction of the tarsi in these
two genera upon the dissimilarity in roosting habits.
Mr. Beebe’s discoveries in regard to the homes of Toucans, also, are
extremely interesting, although the state of affairs regarding our
knowledge of the life history of Toucans was really not so scanty as
conveyed by the few words of Levaillant which the author quotes. It may
be of interest to call attention here to a Toucan egg said to be of
_Ramphastos ariel_ Vigors, collected by Krone at Iguape, and recorded
by Ihering (Rev. Mus. Paulista, 1900, iv, p. 262). It is described as
oval, measuring 37 × 28 mm., white, with deep pits on the surface.
Schomburgk, Burmeister, and others from time to time, have mentioned
Toucan eggs, but beyond saying that the eggs were white, two in number,
laid in holes in trees, they did not give much information.
In concluding I wish to emphasize that I appreciate fully Mr. Beebe’s
good work at the research station in British Guiana, and my remarks
should not be construed as having been made with the purpose of
depreciating the excellent publication, of which I have discussed,
after all, only some very unimportant details.
PROBLEMS SUGGESTED BY NESTS OF WARBLERS OF THE GENUS _DENDROICA_.
BY JOHN TREADWELL NICHOLS.
The genus _Dendroica_ with center of abundance in eastern North
America, containing numerous closely related birds, inhabiting in a
general way the same region and boldly contrasted the one from the
other in plumage, constitutes a striking natural phenomenon calling for
explanation.[18]
First what advantage to the race can there be in the evolution of so
many species of similar habits? Probably though in the main not unlike,
a careful comparative study of the species will show that sufficient
difference of habit accompanies each to make it fit a slightly
different niche in the environment. I mention a single phase, the
construction of the nest. For my data on warbler nests I am indebted to
Mr. P. B. Philipp of New York, who possesses a very complete personally
collected series of these. In his collection we have together verified
interesting points that he has learned, and also worked out other
matters.
The nests of different species of _Dendroica_, even when found in the
same country, are remarkably distinct and can usually be recognized
at a glance. In Northumberland County, New Brunswick, a locality
with which Mr. Philipp is particularly familiar, Cape May, Yellow,
Black-throated Blue, Myrtle, Magnolia, Baybreasted, Blackpoll,
Blackburnian, Black-throated Green, and Yellow Palm Warblers all breed,
and he has found the nests of all but the Blackburnian placed in
spruces at different heights. The nest of the Blackburnian has not been
found here, but doubtless is placed high up in the spruces, as he has
found it in such situations in Pennsylvania. The Yellow Palm Warbler
usually nests on the ground in moss or dead ferns, but one nest was
placed a few inches from the ground in a small spruce. Though a single
nest of the Yellow Warbler was found in a spruce, that species may
nest more commonly in the willows. Cape May, Myrtle, and Blackburnian
Warblers nest high, the other species low.
The nest of the Black-throated Blue has a characteristically pale
exterior, weed stems, pale bark, and rotten wood-chips being favorite
materials for the bird to use in its construction. It is lined with
black, hair-like, slightly crinkly substance, much used for that
purpose by Warblers, the stem of a woodland ground-moss (the Cape
May has been seen gathering this material). Occasionally horse-hair
is substituted for it. In the Black-throated Green, spruce twigs and
birch-bark whorls are characteristic of the exterior; hair and an
occasional feather, of the interior. The Myrtle and Blackpoll both line
the nest heavily with feathers; but the exterior is very different in
the two,—in the Myrtle compact, of spruce twigs and fine dry grass, in
the Blackpoll loose and bulky, rotten wood-chips, mosses, and a few
twigs being used. The Magnolia lines its nest with horse-hair if it can
get it, this material being present in Pennsylvania nests taken where
it was obtainable, but will use other hair or “moss-stems.” One half or
more of Mr. Phillipp’s nests are lined with horse-hair. The Magnolia’s
nest is composed outside entirely or almost entirely of spruce twigs or
grass and is a ragged looking nest. The Baybreast builds a ragged nest
that looks like that of the Magnolia but is much larger; for lining it
uses fine roots or “moss-stems.” The Cape May’s nest is thick-walled,
rather flat, with fine sticks, a little grass and characteristic dried
green moss on the outside, feathers and usually light colored hairs
neatly molded down inside. A few “moss-stems” are used in construction,
and outside, here and there are specks of very adhesive down. Mr.
Phillipp has seen a Cape May gathering fur from a dead rabbit, and also
apparently picking hair out of a brush-pile.
As regards other species, the Blackburnian builds a nest resembling the
Magnolia’s but more compact and placed higher. The nest of the Yellow
Warbler is smooth, very pale, of plant-down without, and fern-down
within. The Yellow Palm Warbler’s nest, usually placed on the ground in
moss at the foot of a small spruce, is bulky, fairly thick-walled, of
grass lined with fine rootlets often combined with some porcupine and
at times other hair, and with usually only a few feathers.
There is some variation in the typical location of the nests by
species, and in general the nest is very inconspicuous in its location.
The dried moss on the Cape May’s nest may be especially adapted
to conceal it (from below) in the spruce tops from its enemy, the
Red-Squirrel. The Baybreasts’ ragged nest, well out on a low limb, is
almost transparent. The pale Black-throated Blue nest in New Brunswick
spruces is placed close to the trunk where it is well concealed;
nesting in the rhododendrons in Pennsylvania, the Black-throated Blue
nest is well concealed by the glint of light on the rhododendron leaves.
The nest of a bird is one of the most notable products of its
instinct. Obviously much precision is necessary in selecting the
appropriate materials and fitting them together, for the attainment of
a successful product. That to obtain the right materials is a problem
to the individual bird is evidenced by the adoption of horse-hair by
the Magnolia Warbler to supplant the very similar “moss-stems” which
doubtless were its original material. The Chipping Sparrow must have
substituted horse-hair for some pre-civilization material, and its
habits are such that horse-hair is almost always obtainable by it and
now almost the invariable nest-lining for the species. It is clear that
to be successful the nest-building instinct of a given species must be
pretty well fixed, that a bird must know what material it will use,
also were all the _Dendroicas_ dependent on,—let us say, feathers,
horse-hair, or rabbit fur, there would be less of it for each, and
specific differentiation is thus an advantage to the Dendroicine
population as a whole.
Secondly, what advantage to the species is there in their contrasted
plumages—in the writer’s opinion the colors of each act as a uniform,
facilitating the recognition by a bird of its own kind just as they
facilitate its recognition by a bird student.[19]
A varicolored group of animals such as _Dendroica_, where many related
species occupy the same locality,—other such groups come to the
writer’s mind, notably among tropical reef fishes,—should be considered
in formulating or accepting theories on species formation. In many
cases isolation and reinvasion are doubtless the succeeding steps in
speciation, a process clearly indicated by work recently done by Taylor
on the mammals of California.[20] There is no inherent impossibility of
the many _Dendroicas_ of eastern North America having been similarly
evolved, but with them it would seem to have been a difficult and
complicated process instead of a simple and easy one, as with sedentary
mammals in a broken country, and may not the forms have arisen for
biological advantage without these steps?
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Nichols, J. T., American Naturalist. September, 1916; pp. 565-574.
[19] Nichols, J. T., Auk. Jan. 1912; pp. 44-48.
[20] Taylor, Walter P. Univ. of Cal. pub. Zoölogy, Vol. 12, no. 15,
March, 1916.
ON THE POPULAR NAMES OF BIRDS.
BY ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.
Everyone who has studied the subject knows the enormous projectile
power of the exact right name when one wishes to secure popular
acceptation of any idea. The amount of effort and ability, devoted
by men in commerce to securing the right name is evidence of the
experienced view in dealing with the problem. Thousands of dollars in
prizes are offered for a good name to be given to some new article,
picture, idea, hotel or town. Because these experts know that the
happy name makes all the difference between failure and nation-wide
acceptation.
We have precisely the same problem offered us in dealing with our
birds. The scientific names must, of course, be left to the scientific
experts, who, we must admit, take them very seriously; but the popular
names have been treated in a most casual or contemptuous way, in many
cases ignored altogether.
The attitude of the scientists recalls that of the pedantic classical
scholars of the early Queen Anne period. They had imbibed such a
contempt for the English language of the day that they set about
seriously to rewrite the King James Bible “in dignified English.”
The first phrase of the Prodigal Son, for example, in the authorized
version is as follows: “A certain man had two sons and the younger
of them said to his father,” etc. Such simple language, they said,
“savored of the nursery and stank of the gutter,” so they rewrote
it, in their “dignified English” as follows:—“In remote antiquity,
antedating the meticulous epoch of precise chronology, there was an
opulent and distinguished gentleman who resided in the agricultural
district of the Orient, and was the progenitor of two adult descendants
of the masculine gender. Having attained to majority and, presumably,
the years of discretion, the junior scion addressed his immediate
ancestral paternal relative and thus expressed the result of a
prolonged, solitary and introspective cogitation.”
This attitude of the Johnsonian school exactly parallels that of our
book ornithologists toward bird names evolved by the common people. And
when I remind you that the so-called classical product is remorselessly
scrapped now, and, further, that Skeat, the greatest modern authority
on English, has warned us that, rules or no rules, grammar or no
grammar, classics or no classics, the street language of London today
will inevitably become the university language of England tomorrow;
and the street language of modern New York, the university language
of America, just as surely as the street language of Elizabeth’s time
devoured alike the Norman French, and the Anglo-Saxon as well as the
bastard classic of the pedants, and became at last the language of
Oxford and Cambridge.
Now to apply this to our bird names.
If it is the aim of ornithology to spread a nation-wide knowledge of
birds, then the popular names are at least as important as the Latin
names.
In 1885, I wrote to ‘The Auk’ on the same subject, (Vol. 2, p. 316) and
have no reason to change the views therein expressed.
The scientist, as such, has no more to do with the popular names of the
birds than he has with the conjugation of the verb “to be,” for these
are a growing part of the living language. And yet, the scientists have
arrogated the sole right to dictate the popular names, even while they
frankly and openly despise them; sometimes ignoring them altogether;
sometimes condescendingly translating the scientific name into alleged
English, saying that it was good enough. How far all this is wrong and
harmful to bird study, I hope you will allow me to point out.
The popular name of a bird must always be produced by the genius
of the language, speaking usually through some personal genius who
makes a happy hit. The name must be simple, easily said, descriptive,
short, and is much stronger if in some way it ties up the bird’s
characteristics with familiar ideas.
For example, “Kingbird” is a success; is short, is of familiar
elements, and describes the bird’s character. Every farm boy in its
region knows the Kingbird, and by that name, except in a few localities
where the rival name ‘Bee-martin’ still fogs the issue.
If we pretend that the name of that species is “Tyrant Flycatcher,” as
our scientists once insisted, our popular knowledge of the bird would
disappear and with that all popular interest in it.
Another example, “Bronzed Grackle.” For a hundred years, the scientists
have been trying to force the people into believing that Bronzed
Grackle was the English name of the bird, and have met with the
unanswerable response of dumb silence; readers of the scientific bird
books use the name, but the public do not. Everywhere to the farm boys
the “Bronzed Grackle” is simply a “Big Blackbird.” This is descriptive
but far from satisfactory. Scores of times I have handed out this name
“Bronzed Grackle” to inquiring boys, to find that it never reached
their consciousness as a name; it had no appeal to ear or memory; it
was hard to say; it was not backed by the genius of the language.
I doubt if the word “Bronzed” ever could be; its really acceptable
English representative is “Copper”; but the bird doesn’t look coppery
to ordinary view; and the word “Grackle” is impossible, hard to say,
meaningless, not striking any familiar chord in the memory.
“Blackbird” is the popular name. But a local genius in the northwest,
a boy with instincts and eyes to see, described it and named it as
a “Fantail Blackbird.” Here was a real English name, descriptive,
acceptable; and instantly it was a success. Everyone who heard it once
remembered the name and remembered the bird.
Perhaps the best illustration of all is the name of the common American
Robin. The scientists scolded the colonists fiercely for calling it
a “Robin.” It was not a “Robin,” they maintained, it was a Thrush of
the Merula section of the family; and they refused to use, print or
sanction any English name for the bird except “Migratory Thrush.” After
a century of irascible attack, which was received in silent, ponderous
apathy, the scientists were beaten. The cause of English triumphed and
today actually even the scientific lists give the bird as the “American
Robin,” by which name it is known to every child in America, and loved
because it is known.
For a hundred years, scientists had been trying to make us believe that
Rice Troupial, Yellow-bellied Woodpecker, Carolina Nightjar, Virginia
Goatsucker, Black-throated Bunting, Vociferous Plover, Golden-winged
Woodpecker, Virginia Quail, Polyglot Thrush, Ferrugineous Thrush and
Black-capped Titmouse, were the English names of certain American
birds; but the genius of the language was unconquerable, and at last
it is admitted by the defeated scientists that the _trivial_ names
(as they called them) of these birds are really Bobolink, Sapsucker,
Whippoorwill, Nighthawk, Dickcissel, Killdeer, Flicker, Bobwhite,
Mockingbird, Thrasher and Chickadee; and with that admission public
interest in these particular birds takes on a great and enduring growth.
A similar struggle is now going on between the Black-billed Cuckoo vs.
Rain Crow, Snowflake vs. Snow Bird, Passenger Pigeon vs. Wild Pigeon,
Goldfinch vs. Wild Canary, Junco vs. Slaty Snowbird or Tip, Cardinal
vs. Redbird, Sand Martin vs. Bank Swallow, Spotted Sandpiper vs. Tip-up
or Peetweet, Barred Owl vs. Hoot Owl, Virginia Horned Owl vs. Cat Owl,
Acadian Owl vs. Saw-whet, Carolina Rail vs. Sora, Phalarope vs. Sea
Goose, Vulture vs. Turkey-Buzzard, Pectoral Sandpiper vs. Jack Snipe,
Gallinule vs. Mud Hen, Osprey vs. Fish Hawk, Peregrine Falcon vs. Duck
Hawk, American Kestrel vs. Sparrowhawk.
A few names such as Bluebird, Crossbill, Chat, Wagtail, Sandpiper,
etc., have long been such a success that one knows instinctively that
they did not originate with the scientists.
Such clumsy names as White-throated Sparrow, Black-and-White Warbler,
Red-shouldered Hawk, are, of course, not names at all, but cumbrous
descriptions and doomed to failure, while absurd pedantries like
Pileolated Warbler, Protonotary Warbler, Plumbeous Gnatcatcher, are
worthy of the afore-mentioned pedants of the Jacobean classical epoch.
Names like Blackburnian Warbler, Nashville Warbler, Clay-colored
Sparrow, Townsend’s Solitaire, are utterly impossible. They are clumsy,
meaningless, un-English and detrimental. I was showing the first of
these birds to a group of lively children and said it was called
Blackburnian Warbler. A bright boy, speaking wiser than he knew, said,
“If it was ‘Flaming Warbler’ I’d remember it.” ‘Nashville Warbler’ is,
of course, utterly misleading. We are told that the “Nashville” is
a mere fortuitous word added for distinction. Then I say drop it as
soon as possible, since it is no more a Nashville Warbler than it is a
Virginia or Minnesota Warbler; while the word “Warbler” itself is open
to grave suspicion. I wonder the clumsiness of “Clay-colored Sparrow”
has not put it out long ago. I suppose the reason is it never was in.
Take the name “Western Grebe.” Of course, it isn’t a Western Grebe any
more than several others; and, viewed from some standpoints, it is
an Eastern Grebe, a Southern Grebe, a Northern Grebe, a Northeastern
Grebe, a South-southwestern Grebe, or any other compass point you like
to give it. But what popular ear, tongue, or imagination is ready to
seize on such a name?
It has no point, power or appeal. How much better, for the present, the
descriptive “Swan-Grebe,” that does, in a small measure, do justice to
the superb creature in question.
I suppose, if we are to be candid, the word “Grebe” has never taken
root in America. I do not know why. It is, indeed, of French origin;
but it has been thoroughly Englished in form. It is short, angular and
individual. But the fact is that in the popular mind all “Grebes” are
“Hell-divers,” and we may as well admit it; although I do not see the
word at all in the scientific list of popular names.
I can imagine some hearer objecting here that his ten-year-old boy or
girl has all the names at his tongue’s end—far better than grown-ups.
Yes; I know you can teach a child to talk Latin if you do it at the
language learning age and make it interesting; but you cannot thereby
make it the language of the nation.
To sum up—I take it that the business of ornithology is, first, to
accumulate correct information about birds and then to diffuse it among
the people.
If the ornithologists had set out definitely to build an eternal
barrier to popular interest in birds, they could not have done it
better than by establishing such impossible names as are cited above.
They never were, and never could be, English names.
* * * * *
The puzzle has been set forth; now what is the answer? I admit
that scientists, describing a new bird, may suggest a name in
pseudo-English. That seems necessary. But let them receive fair
warning, that it is a temporary makeshift; tolerated, but barely
respectable.
How are we to discover the acceptable name? Only by looking out for
it, as a precious thing to be found, tested when found and accepted
when proven. I shall never forget the little thrill that I got when I
learned that, in some good and old writings, a Woodpecker was called a
“Wood-wale.” How gloriously that name would fit the so-called Pileated
Woodpecker (whatever ‘pileated’ means; I don’t know). How rhythmic—how
simple! How beautifully descriptive. Doesn’t it make you hear that
long, eerie wail in the woods?
Doctor Elliott Coues, with his usual far-sight, insight and literary
appreciation, sensed this question, I think; and, in the last edition
of the Key, made a move toward the solution by offering every name
he could find or invent for each of our birds. Take Woodthrush for
instance; he calls it Woodthrush, Wood Robin, Bell bird and Geraldine.
Why “Geraldine”? I do not know, unless it is an imitation of its nore,
which is, of course, good. But all of these names seem to me of good
origin and sound structure. At a guess, I would venture to say that,
given equal publicity, “Bell bird” would win over all the others, even
granting the already considerable success of the word “Woodthrush”;
because it is so descriptive, so alliterative, so easy to say, so easy
to remember and so rhythmic; in other words, it is good English.
At once, I hear the objection that that name belongs by priority to a
wholly different bird in South America; and I reply that the genius of
language does not know of the existence of South America or concern
itself with priority, or with anything but getting the idea into the
mind and the memory. As to priority, if that spectre be allowed to
walk, it will surely eliminate every popular name on every list that
ever was given to the public.
I would encourage all who meet them, to collect and send in the names
that appear locally under pressure of the growing popular interest.
I would ask bird men of literary instinct to gather, make up, or invent
good names to be submitted to the great test.
Last, for suggestions, I would ransack the pages of those outdoor
poets and writers who have the two-fold gift—love of the birds and
language-sense.