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Books by Florence A. Merriam.
BIRDS THROUGH AN OPERA-GLASS. In Riverside Library
for Young People. Illustrated. 16mo, 75 cents.
MY SUMMER IN A MORMON VILLAGE. 16mo, $1.00.
A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.25.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN BILLY UNDER THE GNATCATCHER'S OAK]
A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO
BY FLORENCE A. MERRIAM
I do invite you ... to my house ...
after, we'll a-birding together.
SHAKESPEARE.
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration: The Riverside Press.]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1896
Copyright, 1896,
By FLORENCE A. MERRIAM.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
PREFATORY NOTE.
THE notes contained in this book were taken from March to May, 1889, and
from March to July, 1894, at Twin Oaks in southern California. Twin Oaks
is the post-office for the scattered ranch-houses in a small valley at
the foot of one of the Coast Ranges, thirty-four miles north of San
Diego, and twelve miles from the Pacific.
As no collecting was done, there is doubt about the identity of a few
species; and their names are left blank or questioned in the list of
birds referred to in the text. In cases where the plumage of the two
sexes is practically identical, and only slight mention is made of the
species, the sexes have sometimes been arbitrarily distinguished in the
text.
Several of the articles have appeared before, in somewhat different
form, in 'The Auk,' 'The Observer,' and 'Our Animal Friends;' all the
others are published here for the first time.
The illustrations are from drawings of birds and nests by Louis Agassiz
Fuertes, and from photographs taken in the valley; together with some
of eucalyptus-trees from Los Angeles, for the use of which I am indebted
to the courtesy of Dr. B. E. Fernow, Chief of the Division of Forestry
of the U. S. Department of Agriculture.
In the preparation of the book I have been kindly assisted by Miss
Isabel Eaton, and have received from my brother, Dr. C. Hart Merriam,
untiring criticism and advice.
FLORENCE A. MERRIAM.
LOCUST GROVE, N. Y.,
July 15, 1896.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. OUR VALLEY 1
II. THE LITTLE LOVER 20
III. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 38
IV. WAS IT A SEQUEL? 48
V. LITTLE PRISONERS IN THE TOWER 65
VI. HINTS BY THE WAY 81
VII. AROUND OUR RANCH-HOUSE 86
VIII. POCKET MAKERS 103
IX. THE BIG SYCAMORE 112
X. AMONG MY TENANTS 123
XI. AN UNNAMED BIRD 140
XII. HUMMERS 147
XIII. IN THE SHADE OF THE OAKS 159
XIV. A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY 171
XV. HOW I HELPED BUILD A NEST 175
XVI. IN OUR NEIGHBOR'S DOOR-YARD 184
XVII. WHICH WAS THE MOTHER BIRD? 189
XVIII. A RARE BIRD 194
XIX. MY BLUE GUM GROVE 211
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Mountain Billy under the Gnatcatcher's Oak. _Frontispiece_
Our Valley 4
Head of Black-headed Grosbeak 8
Head of Rose-breasted Grosbeak 8
In Hot Pursuit (Brewer's Blackbird and Bee-birds) 13
The Little Lover (Western House Wren) 20
A Trying Moment (Western House Wren) 32
Nest of Western Gnatcatcher 39
Head of California Woodpecker 66
Head of Red-headed Woodpecker (Eastern) 66
Jacob and Bairdi visiting the Old Nest Tree 78
Head of Arizona Hooded Oriole 89
Head of Baltimore Oriole (Eastern) 89
Head of California Chewink 93
Head of Eastern Chewink 93
Valley Quail and Road-runner 99
Nest of the Bush-tit 104
Pocket Nest in an Oak 108
The Big Sycamore 114
Along the Line of Sycamores 124
Head of Black Ph[oe]be 129
Head of Eastern Ph[oe]be 129
The Little Hummer on her Bow-knot Nest 148
The Swing Nest of the Hummer 157
A Shady Bower 160
Head of Green-tailed Chewink 163
The Nosebag Nest (Vigors's Wren) 173
The Plain Titmouse in her Doorway 176
Which was the Mother Bird? (Wren-tit and Lazuli Buntings) 189
The Phainopeplas on the Pepper-tree 194
The Phainopepla's Nest in the Oak Brush Island 198
Eucalyptus Avenue, showing Pollarded Trees on the Right 212
Eucalyptus Wood stored for Market in a Eucalyptus Grove 214
Mountain Billy Deserted 220
BIRDS REFERRED TO IN THE TEXT.[1]
White Egret. _Ardea egretta._
Green Heron. _Ardea virescens anthonyi._
Spotted Sandpiper. _Actitis macularia._
Valley Quail. _Callipepla californica vallicola._
Mourning Dove. _Zenaidura macroura._
Turkey Vulture. _Cathartes aura._
Hawk. _Buteo ----._
Sparrow Hawk. _Falco sparverius deserticolus._
American Barn Owl. _Strix pratincola._
Western Horned Owl. _Bubo virginianus subarcticus._
Burrowing Owl. _Speotyta cunicularia hypogæa._
Road-runner. _Geococcyx californianus._
California Woodpecker. _Melanerpes formicivorus bairdi._
Red shafted Flicker. _Colaptes cafer._
Dusky Poor-will. _Phalænoptilus nuttalli californicus._
Black-chinned Hummingbird. _Trochilus alexandri._
Rufous Hummingbird. _Selasphorus rufus._
Arkansas Kingbird. _Tyrannus verticalis._
Cassin's Kingbird. _Tyrannus vociferans._
Black Ph[oe]be. _Sayornis nigrescens._
Western Wood Pewee. _Contopus richardsonii._
Flycatcher. _Empidonax ----._
Horned Lark. _Otocoris alpestris chrysolæma._
California Jay. _Aphelocoma californica._
American Crow. _Corvus americanus._
Yellow-headed Blackbird. _Xanthocephalus xanthocephalus._
Red-winged Blackbird. _Agelaius ph[oe]nicius ----._
Arizona Hooded Oriole. _Icterus cucullatus nelsoni._
Bullock's Oriole. _Icterus bullocki._
Brewer's Blackbird. _Scholocophagus cyanocephalus._
Western House Finch. _Carpodacus mexicanus frontalis._
Goldfinch. _Spinus ----._
White-crowned Sparrow. _Zonotrichia leucophrys gambeli (?)._
Golden-crowned Sparrow. _Zonotrichia coronata._
Heerman's Song Sparrow. _Melospiza fasciata heermanni (?)._
Spurred Towhee or Chewink. _Pipilo maculatus megalonyx._
Green-tailed Towhee. _Pipilo chlorurus._
California Towhee. _Pipilo fuscus crissalis._
Black-headed Grosbeak. _Habia melanocephala._
Western Blue Grosbeak. _Guiraca cærulea eurhyncha._
Lazuli Bunting. _Passerina am[oe]na._
Louisiana Tanager. _Piranga ludoviciana._
Cliff Swallow. _Petrochelidon lunifrons._
Phainopepla. _Phainopepla nitens._
White-rumped Shrike. _Lanius ludovicianus excubitorides._
Warbling Vireo. _Vireo gilvus (?)._
Hutton's Vireo. _Vireo huttoni (?)._
Least Vireo. _Vireo bellii pusillus (?)._
Long-tailed Chat. _Icteria virens longicauda._
American Pipit. _Anthus pensilvanicus._
California Thrasher. _Harporhynchus redivivus._
Vigors's Wren. _Thryothorus bewickii spilurus._
Western House Wren. _Troglodytes ædon aztecus._
Plain Titmouse. _Parus inornatus._
Wren-tit. _Chamæa fasciata._
California Bush-tit. _Psaltriparus minimus californicus._
Western Gnatcatcher. _Polioptila cærulea obscura._
Varied Thrush or Oregon Robin. _Hesperocichla nævia._
Western Bluebird. _Sialia mexicana occidentalis._
FOOTNOTE:
[1] In classification and nomenclature this list conforms to the
American Ornithologists' Union 'Check-List of North American Birds,'
Second Edition, 1895. L. S. Foster, New York.
A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO.
I.
OUR VALLEY.
"CLIMB the mountain back of the house and you can see the Pacific," the
ranchman told me with a gleam in his eye; and later, when I had done
that, from the top of a peak at the foot of the valley he pointed out
the distant blue mountains of Mexico. Then he gave me his daughter's
saddle horse to use as long as I was his guest, that I might explore the
valley and study its birds to the best advantage. Before coming to
California, I had known only the birds of New York and Massachusetts,
and so was filled with eager enthusiasm at thought of spending the
migration and nesting season in a new bird world.
I had no gun, but was armed with opera-glass and note-book, and had
Ridgway's Manual to turn to in all my perplexities. Every morning, right
after breakfast, my horse was brought to the door and I set out to make
the rounds of the valley. I rode till dinner time, getting acquainted
with the migrants as they came from the south, and calling at the more
distant nests on the way. After dinner I would take my camp-stool and
stroll, through the oaks at the head of the valley, for a quiet study of
the nearer nests. Then once more my horse would be brought up for me to
take a run before sunset; and at night I would identify my new birds and
write up the notes of the day. What more could observer crave? The world
was mine. I never spent a happier spring. The freedom and novelty of
ranch life and the exhilaration of days spent in the saddle gave added
zest to the delights of a new fauna. In my small valley circuit of a
mile and a half, I made the acquaintance of about seventy-five birds,
and without resort to the gun was able to name fifty-six of them.
My saddle horse, a white bronco who went by the musical name of Canello,
had been broken by a Mexican whose cruelty had tamed the wild blood in
his veins and left him with a fear of all swarthy skins. Now he could be
ridden bareback by the little girls, with only a rope noose around his
nose, and was warranted to stand still before a flock of birds so long
as there was grass to eat. He was to be relied on as a horse of ripe,
experience and mature judgment in matters of local danger. No power of
bit or spur could induce him to set foot upon a piece of 'boggy land,'
and to give me confidence one of the ranchman's sons said, "Wherever
I've killed a rattlesnake from him he'll shy for years;" and went on to
cite localities where a sudden, violent lurch had nearly sent him over
Canello's head! What greater recommendation could I wish?
If the old horse had had any wayward impulses left, his Mexican bit
would have subdued them. It would be impossible to use such an iron in
the mouth of an eastern horse. They say the Mexicans sometimes break
horses' jaws with it. From the middle of the bit, a flat bar of iron,
three quarters of an inch wide, extended back four inches, lying on the
horse's tongue or sticking into the roof of his mouth, according to the
use of the curb--there was no other rein. The bit alone weighed sixteen
ounces. The bridle, which came from Enseñada in Lower California, then
the seat of a great gold excitement, was made of braided raw-hide. It
was all hand work; there was not a buckle about it. The leather quirt at
the end of the reins was the only whip necessary. When I left the ranch
the bridle was presented to me, and it now hangs behind my study door, a
proud trophy of my western life, and one that is looked upon with
mingled admiration and horror by eastern horsemen.
Canello and I soon became the best of friends. I found in him a valuable
second--for, as I had anticipated, the birds were used to grazing
horses, and were much less suspicious of an equestrian than a foot
passenger--and he found in me a movable stake, constantly leading him
to new grazing ground; for when there was a nest to watch I simply hung
the bridle over the pommel and let him eat, so getting free hands for
opera-glass and note-book. To be sure, there were slight causes of
difference between us. He liked to watch birds in the high alfalfa under
the sycamores, but when it came to standing still where the hot sun beat
down through the brush and there was nothing to eat, his interest in
ornithology flagged perceptibly. Then he sometimes carried the rôle of
grazing horse too far, marching off to a fresh clump of grass out of
sight of my nest at the most interesting moment; or when I was intently
gazing through my glass at a rare bird, he would sometimes give a sudden
kick at a horsefly, bobbing the glass out of range just as I was making
out the character of the wing-bars.
[Illustration: OUR VALLEY]
From the ranch-house, encircled by live-oaks, the valley widened out,
and was covered with orchards and vineyards, inclosed by the low
brush-grown ridges of the Coast Mountains. It was a veritable paradise
for the indolent field student. With so much insect-producing verdure,
birds were everywhere at all times. There were no long hours to sit
waiting on a camp-stool, and only here and there a treetop to 'sky' the
wandering birds. The only difficulty was to choose your intimates.
Canello and I had our regular beat, down past the blooming quince and
apricot orchard, along the brush-covered side of the valley where the
migrants flocked, around the circle through a great vineyard in the
middle of the valley, past a pond where the feathered settlers gathered
to bathe, and so back home to the oaks again.
I liked to start out in the freshness of the morning, when the fog was
breaking up into buff clouds over the mountains and drawing off in veils
over the peaks. The brush we passed through was full of glistening
spiders' webs, and in the open the grass was overlaid with disks of
cobweb, flashing rainbow colors in the sun.
As we loped gayly along down the curving road, a startled quail would
call out, "Who-are-you'-ah? who-are-you'-ah?" and another would cry
"quit" in sharp warning tones; while a pair would scud across the road
like little hens, ahead of the horse; or perhaps a covey would start up
and whirr over the hillside. The sound of Canello's flying hoofs would
often rouse a long-eared jack-rabbit, who with long leaps would go
bounding over the flowers, to disappear in the brush.
The narrow road wound through the dense bushy undergrowth known as
'chaparral,' and as Canello galloped round the sharp curves I had to
bend low under the sweeping branches, keeping alert for birds and
animals, as well as Mexicans and Indians that we might meet.
This corner of the valley was the mouth of Twin Oaks Canyon, and was a
forest of brush, alive with birds, and visited only by the children
whose small schoolhouse stood beside the giant twin oak from which the
valley post-office was named. Flocks of migrating warblers were always
to be found here; flycatchers shot out at passing insects; chewinks
scratched among the dead leaves and flew up to sing on the branches;
insistent vireos cried _tu-whip' tu-whip' tu-whip' tu-wee'-ah_, coming
out in sight for a moment only to go hunting back into the impenetrable
chaparral; lazuli buntings sang their musical round; blue jays--blue
squawkers, as they are here called--went screaming harshly through the
thicket; and the clear ringing voice of the wren-tit ran down the scale,
now in the brush, now echoing from the bowlder-strewn hills above. But
the king of the chaparral was the great brown thrasher. His loud
rollicking song and careless independent ways, so suggestive of his
cousin, the mockingbird, made him always a marked figure.
There was one dense corner of the thicket where a thrasher lived, and I
used to urge Canello through the tangle almost every morning for the
pleasure of sharing his good spirits. He was not hard to find, big brown
bird that he was, standing on the top of a bush as he shouted out
boisterously, _kick'-it-now, kick'-it-now, shut'-up shut'-up, dor'-a-thy
dor'-a-thy_; or, calling a halt in his mad rhapsody, slowly drawled out,
_whoa'-now, whoa'-now_. After listening to such a tirade as this, it
was pleasant to come to an opening in the brush and find a band of
gentle yellow-birds leaning over the blossoms of the white
forget-me-nots.
There were a great many hummingbirds in the chaparral, and at a certain
point on the road I was several times attacked by one of the pugnacious
little warriors. I suppose we were treading too near his nest, though I
was not keen-eyed enough to find it. From high in the air, he would come
with a whirr, swooping down so close over our heads that Canello started
uneasily and wanted to get out of the way. Down over our heads, and then
high up in the air, he would swing back and forth in an arc. One day he
must have shot at us half a dozen times, and another day, over a spot in
the brush near us,--probably, where the nest was,--he did the same thing
a dozen times in quick succession.
In the midst of the brush corner were a number of pretty round oaks, in
one of which the warblers gathered. My favorite tree was in blossom and
alive with buzzing insects, which may have accounted for the presence of
the warblers. While I sat in the saddle watching the dainty birds decked
out in black and gold, Canello rested his nose in the cleft of the tree,
quite unmindful of the busy warblers that flitted about the branches,
darting up for insects or chasing down by his nose after falling
millers.
One morning the ranchman's little girl rode over to school behind me on
Canello, pillion fashion. As we pushed through the brush and into the
opening by the schoolhouse, scattered over the grass sat a flock of
handsome black-headed grosbeaks, the western representative of the
eastern rose-breast, looking, in the sun, almost as red as robins. They
had probably come from the south the night before. As we watched, they
dispersed and sang sweetly in the oaks and brush.
[Illustration: Black-headed Grosbeak.
(One half natural size.)]
[Illustration: Rose-breasted Grosbeak.
(One half natural size.)]
In the giant twin oak under whose shadow the the little schoolhouse
stood was an owl's nest. When I stopped under it, nothing was to be seen
but the tips of the ears of the brooding bird. But when I tried to hoot
after the manner of owls, the angry old crone rose up on her feet above
the nest till I could see her round yellow eyes and the full length of
her long ears. She snapped her bill fiercely, bristled up, puffing out
her feathers and shaking them at us threateningly. Poor old bird! I was
amused at her performances, but one of her little birds lay dead at the
foot of the tree, and I trembled for the others, for the school-children
were near neighbors. Surely the old bird needed all her devices to
protect her young. One day I saw on one side of the nest, below the big
ears of the mother, the round head of a nestling.
It was pleasant to leave the road to ride out under the oaks along the
way. There was always the delightful feeling that one might see a new
bird or find some little friend just gone to housekeeping. One morning I
discovered a bit of a wren under an oak with building material in her
bill. She flew down to a box that lay under the tree and I dismounted to
investigate. A tin can lay on its side in the box, and a few twigs and
yellowish brown oak leaves were scattered about in a casual way, but the
rusted lid of the can was half turned back, and well out of sight in the
inside was a pretty round nest with one egg in it. I was
delighted,--such an appropriate place for a wren's nest,--and sat down
for her to come back. She was startled to find me there, and stopped on
the edge of the board when just ready to jump down. She would have made
a pretty picture as she stood hesitating, with her tail over her back,
for the sun lit up her gray breast till it almost glistened and warmed
her pretty brown head as she looked wistfully down at the box. After
twisting and turning she went off to think the matter over, and,
encouraged perhaps by my whistle, came back and hopped down into the
little nest.
Two weeks later I was much grieved to find that the nest had been broken
up. A horse had been staked under the tree, but he could not have done
the mischief; for while the eggs were there, the nest itself was all
jumbled up in the mouth of the can. I could not get it out of my mind
for days. You become so much interested in the families you are watching
that you feel as if their troubles were yours, and are haunted by the
fear that they will think you have something to do with their accidents.
They had taken me on probation at first, and at last had come to trust
me--and then to imagine that I could deceive them and do the harm
myself!
When Canello and I left the brushy side of the canyon and started across
the valley, the pretty little horned larks, whose reddish backs matched
the color of the road, would run on ahead of us, or let the horses come
within a few feet of them, squatting down ready to start, but not taking
wing till it seemed as if they would get stepped on. Sometimes one sat
on a stone by the roadside, so busy singing its thin chattering song
that it only flitted on to the next stone as we came up; for it never
seemed to occur to the trustful birds that passers-by might harm them.
One of our most interesting birds nested in holes in the open
uncultivated fields down the valley,--the burrowing owl, known
popularly, though falsely, as the bird who shares its nest with prairie
dogs and rattlesnakes. Though they do not share their quarters with
their neighbors, they have large families of their own. We once passed a
burrow around which nine owls were sitting. The children of the ranchman
called the birds the 'how-do-you-do owls,' from the way they bow their
heads as people pass. The owls believe in facing the enemy, and the
Mexicans say they will twist their heads off if you go round them times
enough.
One of our neighbors milked his cows out in a field where the burrowing
owls had a nest, and he told me that his collie had nightly battles with
the birds. I rode down one evening to see the droll performance, and
getting there ahead of the milkers found the bare knoll of the pasture
peopled with ground squirrels and owls. The squirrels sat with heads
sticking out of their holes, or else stood up outside on their hind
legs, with the sun on their light breasts, looking, as Mr. Roosevelt
says, like 'picket pins.' The little old yellowish owls who matched the
color of the pasture sat on the fence posts, while the darker colored
young ones sat close by their holes, matching the color of the earth
they lived in. As I watched, one of the old birds flew down to feed its
young. A comical little fellow ran up to meet his parent and then
scudded back to the nest hole, keeping low to the ground as if afraid of
being seen, or of disobeying his mother's commands. When the ranchman
came with his cows the small owls ducked down into their burrows out of
sight.
Romulus, the collie, went up to the burrows and the old owls came
swooping over his back screaming shrilly--the milkers told me that they
often struck him so violently they nipped more than his hair! When the
owls flew at him, Romulus would jump up into the air at them, and when
they had settled back on the fence posts he would run up and start them
off again. The performance had been repeated every night through the
nesting season, and was getting to be rather an old story now, at least
to Romulus. The ranchman had to urge him on for my benefit, and the owls
acted as if they rather enjoyed the sport, though with them there was
always the possibility that a reckless nestling might pop up its head
from the ground at the wrong moment and come to grief. It would be
interesting to know if the owls were really disturbed enough to move
their nest another year.
When Canello and I faced home on our daily circuit of the valley, we
often found the vineyard well peopled. In April, when it was being
cultivated, there was a busy scene. All the blackbirds of the
neighborhood--both Brewer's and redwings--assembled to pick up grubs
from the soft earth. A squad of them followed close at the plowman's
heels, others flew up before his horse, while those that lagged behind
in their hunt were constantly flying ahead to catch up, and those that
had eaten all they could sat around on the neighboring grape-vines. The
ranchman's son told me that when he was plowing and the blackbirds were
following him, two or three 'bee-birds,' as they call the Arkansas and
Cassin's flycatchers, would take up positions on stakes overlooking the
flock; and when one of the blackbirds got a worm, would fly down and
chase after him till they got it away, regularly making their living
from the blackbirds, as the eagles do from the fish hawks.
[Illustration: In Hot Pursuit.
(Brewer's Blackbird and Bee-birds.)]
One day in riding by the vineyard, to my surprise and delight I saw one
of the handsome yellow-headed blackbirds sitting with dignity on a
grape-vine. Although his fellows often flock with redwings, this bird
did not deign to follow the cultivator with the others, but flew off and
away while I was watching, showing his striking white shoulder patches
as he went. The distinguished birds were sometimes seen assembled
farther down the valley; and I once had a rare pleasure in seeing a
company of them perched high on the blooming mustard.
The son of the ranchman told me an interesting thing about the ordinary
blackbirds. He said he had seen a flock of perhaps five hundred fly down
toward a band of grazing sheep, and all but a few of the birds light on
the backs of sheep. The animals did not seem to mind, and the birds flew
from one to another and roosted and rode to their heart's content. They
would drop to the ground, but if anything startled them, fly back to
their sheep again. Sometimes he had seen a few of the blackbirds picking
out wool for their nests by bracing themselves on the backs of the
sheep, and pulling where the wool was loose. He had also seen the birds
ride hogs, cattle, and horses; but he said the horses usually switched
them off with their tails.
On our way home we passed a small pond made by the spring rains. Since
it was the only body of water for miles around, it was especially
refreshing to us, and was the rendezvous of all our feathered
neighbors--how they must have wished it would last all through the hot
summer months! As I rode through the long grass on the edge of the pond,
dark water snakes often wriggled away from under Canello's feet; but he
evidently knew they were harmless, for he paid no attention to them,
though he was mortally afraid of rattlers. I did not like the feeling
that any snake, however innocent, was under my feet, so would pull him
up out of the grass onto a flat rock overlooking the pond.
In the fresh part of the morning, before the fog had entirely melted
away, the round pool at our feet mirrored the blue sky and the small
white clouds. If a breath of wind ruffled the water into lines, in a
moment more it was sparkling. Along the margin of the water was a border
of wild flowers, pink, purple, and gold; on one side stood a group of
sycamores, their twisted trunks white in the morning sun and their
branches full of singing birds; while away to the south a line of dark
blue undulating hills was crowned by the peak from which we had looked
off on the mountains of Mexico. The air was ringing with songs, the
sycamores were noisy with the chatter of blackbirds and bee-birds, and
the bushes were full of sparrows.
There was an elder on the edge of the pond, and the bathers flew to this
and then flitted down to the water; and when they flew up afterwards,
lighted there to whip the water out of their feathers and sun themselves
before flying off. I never tired watching the little bathers on the
beach. One morning a pipit came tipping and tilting along the sand,
peeping in its wild, sad way. Another time a rosy-breasted linnet
stepped to the edge of the pond and dipped down daintily where the water
glistened in the sunshine, sending a delicate circle rippling off from
its own shadow. Then the handsome white and golden-crowned sparrows came
and bathed in adjoining pools. When one set of birds had flown off to
dry their feathers, others took their places. A pair of blackbirds
walked down the sand beach, but acted absurdly, as if they did not know
what to do in water--it was a wonder any of the birds did in dry
California! Two pieces of wood lay in the shallows, and the blackbirds
flew to them and began to promenade. The female tilted her tail as if
the sight of herself in the pond made her dizzy, but the male finally
edged down gingerly and took a dip or two with his bill, after which
both flew off.
On the mud flats on one side of the pond, bee-birds were busy
flycatching, perching on sticks near the ground and making short sallies
over the flat. Turtle doves flew swiftly past, and high over head hawks
and buzzards circled and let themselves be borne by the wind.
Swallows came to the pond to get mud for their nests. A long line of
them would light on the edge of the water, and then, as if afraid of
wetting their feet, would hold themselves up by fluttering their long
pointed wings. They would get a little mud, take a turn in the air, and
come back for more, to make enough to pay them for their long journeys
from their nests. Sometimes they would skim over the pond without
touching the surface at all, or merely dip in lightly for a drink in
passing; at others they would take a flying plunge with an audible
splash. Now and then great flocks of them could be seen circling around
high up against a background of clouds and blue sky.
One day I had a genuine excitement in seeing a snow-white egret perched
on a bush by the water. I rode home full of the beautiful sight, but
alas, my story was the signal for the ranchman's son to seize his gun
and rush after the bird. Fortunately he did not find him, although he
did shoot a green heron; but it was probably a short reprieve for the
poor hunted creature.
Canello was so afraid of miring in the soft ground that it was hard to
get him across some places that seemed quite innocent. He would test the
suspicious ground as carefully as a woman, one foot at a time; and if he
judged it dangerous, would take the bits, turn around and march off in
the opposite direction. I tried to force him over at first, but had an
experience one day that made me quite ready to take all suggestions in
such matters. This time he was deceived himself. We were on our homeward
beat, off in the brush beyond the vineyard. I was watching for chewinks.
We came to what looked like an old road grown up with soft green grass,
and it was so fresh and tender I let Canello graze along at will; while
keeping my eyes on the brush for chewinks. Suddenly Canello pricked up
his ears and raised his head with a look of terror. Rattlesnakes or
miring--it was surely one or the other! When I felt myself sinking, I
knew which. I gave the horse a cut with the quirt to make him spring off
the boggy ground, and looked off over his side to see how far down he
was likely to go, but found myself going down backwards so fast I had to
cling to the pommel. I lashed Canello to urge him out, and he struggled
desperately, but it was no use. We were sinking in deeper and deeper,
and I had to get off to relieve him of my weight. By this time his long
legs had sunk in up to his body. On touching the ground I had a horrible
moment thinking it might not hold me; but it bore well. Seizing the
bridle with one hand and swinging the quirt with the other, I shouted
encouragement to Canello, and, straining and struggling, he finally
wrenched himself out and stepped on _terra firma_--I never appreciated
the force of that expression before! The poor horse was trembling and
exhausted when I led him up to high ground to remount, and neither of
us had any desire to explore boggy lands after that.
On our morning round, Canello and I attended strictly to business,--he
to grazing, I to observing; but on our afternoon rides I, at least, felt
that we might pay a little more heed to the beauties of the valley and
the joys of horsebacking. Sometimes we would be overtaken by the night
fog. One moment the mustard would be all aglow with sunshine; at the
next, a sullen bank of gray fog would have risen over the mountain,
obscuring the sun which had warmed us and lighted the mustard; and in a
few moments it would be so cold and damp that I would urge Canello into
a lope to warm our blood as we hurried home.
II.
THE LITTLE LOVER.
[Illustration: The Little Lover.
(Western House Wren.)]
ON my second visit to California, I spent the winter in the Santa Clara
valley, riding among the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains, where
flocks of Oregon robins were resting from the labors of the summer and
passing the time until they could fly home again; but when the first
spring wild flowers bloomed on the hills I shipped my little roan
mustang by steamer from San Francisco to San Diego, and hurried south to
meet him and spend the nesting season in the little valley of the Coast
Mountains which, five years before, had proved such an ideal place to
study birds.
I went down early in March, to be sure to be in time for the nesting
season; but spring was so late that by the last of April hardly a nest
had been built, and it seemed as if the birds were never coming back.
The weather was gloomy and the prospect for the spring's work looked
discouraging, when one morning I rode over to the line of oaks and
sycamores at the mouth of Ughland canyon I had not visited before. In
this dry, treeless region of southern California only a little water is
needed to cover the bare valley bottoms with verdure. The rushing
streams that flow down the canyons after the winter rains fill their
mouths with rich groves of brush, oaks and sycamores; while lines of
trees border the streams as far as they extend down the valleys. Before
the streams go far, the thirsty soil drinks them up, leaving only dry
beds of sand bordered by trees, until the rains of the following winter.
In April, the water in this particular canyon mouth had already
disappeared, and the wide sand bed under the trees alone remained to
tell of the short-lived stream. But the resulting verdure was enough to
attract the birds. Apparently a party of travelers had just arrived. The
brush and trees were full of song--yellowbirds, linnets, chewinks,
doves, wrens, and, best of all, a song sparrow,--bless his
heart!--singing as if he were on a bush in New York state. It was more
cheering than anything I had heard in California.
When able to listen to something besides song sparrows, I realized that
from the trees in front of me was coming the rippling merry song of a
wren. Wrens are always interesting,--droll, individual little
scraps,--and having found their nests in sycamore holes before, I let my
horse, Mountain Billy, graze nearer to the tree from which the sound
came. Before long the small brown pair flew away together across the oat
field that spread out from the mouth of the canyon. While they were
gone, I took the opportunity to inspect the tree, and found a large hole
with twigs sticking out suggestively. Presently, back flew one of the
wrens with more building material. But this line of sycamores was off
from the highway, and the bird was not used to prying equestrians; so
when she found Mountain Billy and me planted in front of her door, she
doubted the wisdom of showing us that it was her door. Chattering
nervously, she would back and fill, flying all but to the door and then
flitting off again. She could not make up her mind to go inside. But
soon her mate came and--unmindful of visitors, ardent little lover that
he was--sang to her so gayly that it put her in heart; and before I knew
it she had slipped into the tree.
Here was a nest, at last, right over my eye. To encourage myself while
waiting for something to happen, I began a list with the heading NESTS,
when something caught my eye overhead, and glancing up, behold, a
goldfinch walked down a branch and seated herself in a round cup! A few
moments later--buzz--whirr--a hummingbird flew to a nest among the brown
leaves of one of the low-hanging oak sprays not ten feet away! I simply
stared with delight and astonishment. No need of a list for
encouragement now. From Billy's back I could look down into the little
cup, which seemed the tiniest in the world. Forgetting the little lover
and his mate, I sat still and watched this small household.
The young were out of the eggs, though not much more, and their mother
sat on the edge of the nest feeding them. She curved her neck over till
her long bill stood up perpendicularly, when she put it gently into the
gaping bills of her young; the smallest of bills, not more than an
eighth of an inch long, I should judge. I never saw hummingbirds fed so
gently. Probably the small bills and throats were so delicate the mother
was afraid they would not bear the usual jabbing and pumping.
When the little ones were fed, the old bird got down in the nest,
fluffing her feathers about her in a pretty motherly way and settling
herself comfortably to rest, apparently ignoring the fact that Billy was
grazing close beside her. She may have had her qualms, but no mother
bird would leave her tender young uncovered on such a cold morning.
While she was on the nest, there was an approaching whirr, followed by a
retreating buzz--had the father bird started to come to the nest and
fled at sight of me? Remembering the evidence Bradford Torrey collected
to prove that the male bird is rarely seen at the nest, I wondered if
his absence might be explained by his usually noisy flight, for it would
attract the notice of man or beast.
Two days later I carefully touched the tip of my finger to the back of
one of the tiny hummingbirds,--it was very skinny, I regret to
state,--and at my touch the little thing opened its wee bill for food.
That day the mother fed the birds in the regulation way, when we were
only four feet distant. I was near enough to see all the horrors of the
performance. She thrust her bill down their throats till I felt like
crying out, "For mercy's sake, forbear!" She plunged it in up to the
very hilt; it seemed as if she must puncture their alimentary canals.
While waiting for the wrens, I buckled Billy's bridle around the
sycamore and threw myself down on the warm sand under the beautiful
tree. The little horse stood near, outlined against the blue sky, with
the sunlight dappling his back, while I looked up into the light green
foliage of the white sycamore overhead. There seemed to be a great deal
of light stored in these delicate trees. The undersides of the big,
soft, white leaves looked like white Canton flannel; the sunlight
mottled the whitish bark of the trunks and branches; and a great limb
arched above me, making a high vaulted chamber whose skylights showed
the deep blue above.
But there were the little lover and his mate, and I must turn my glass
on them. She came first, with long streamers hanging from her bill, and
at sight of me got so flustered that one of her straws slipped out and
went sailing down to the ground. When the pair had gone again, two
linnets came along. The female saw the wren's doorway, and being in
search of apartments flew up to look at the house. When she came out she
and her mate talked it over and, apparently, she told him something that
aroused his curiosity--perhaps about the wren's twigs she found
inside--for he flew into the dark hole and looked around as she had
done. Then both birds went off to inspect other holes in the tree. The
master of the wren cottage came back in time to see them on their
rounds, and taking up his position in front of his door sang out loudly,
with wings hanging and a general air of, "This is _my_ house, I'd have
you understand!"
When the lord of the manor had flown away, his lady came. I thought
perhaps he had told her of the visitors and she had come to see if they
had disturbed any of her sticks, for she brought no material. She was
afraid to go to the nest in my presence, but flew to a branch near by
and leaned down so far it was a wonder she didn't tip over as she stared
anxiously at the hole--a bad way to keep a secret, my little lady! I
thought. When her merry minstrel came, his song again gave her courage
and she flew inside, turning in the doorway, however, to look out at me.
But what with horses grazing under her windows and linnets making free
with her nest, the poor wren was unsettled in her mind. Possibly it
would be wiser to take out her sticks and build elsewhere. She went
about looking at vacant rooms and examined one opening in the side of
the trunk where I could see only her profile as she hung out of the
hole.
For some time the timid bird would not accept Mountain Billy and me as
part of her immediate landscape, and I watched the premises a number of
days, getting nothing but my labor for my pains, as far as wrens were
concerned.
One day when she did not come, I thought it was a good chance to get a
study of the hummingbird's nest; but alas!--the delicate little
structure hung torn and dangling from the twig, with nothing to tell
what had become of the poor little hummers. I moralized sadly upon the
mutability of human affairs as I took the tattered nest and tied it up
in a corner of my handkerchief; for it was all that was left of the
little home built with such exquisite care and brooded over so
tenderly.
The yellowbird's nest came to an untimely end, too, although its start
was such a bright one. It was a disappointment, for the goldfinches are
such trustful birds and so affectionate and tender in their family
relations that they always win one's warm interest. At first, when this
mother bird went to the nest, her mate stationed himself on the nest
tree, leaning over and looking down anxiously at Billy and me; but
before their home was broken up the watchful guardian fed his pretty
mate at her brooding when we were below.
We had a great many visitors while waiting for the wrens: neighbors came
to sit in our green shade, young housekeepers came looking for rooms to
rent, and old birds who were leading around their noisy families came to
dine with us. Once a pair of flickers started to light in the tree, but
they gave a glance over the shoulder at me and fled. Later I found their
secret--down inside an old charred stump up the canyon. Occasionally I
got sight of gay liveries in the green sycamore tops. A Louisiana
tanager in his coat of many colors stopped one day, and another time,
when looking up for dull green vireos, my eye was startled by a flaming
golden oriole. The color was a keen pleasure. Lazuli buntings, relatives
of our eastern indigo-bird, sang so much within hearing that I felt sure
they were nesting in the weeds outside the line of sycamores--I did find
a pair building in the malvas beyond; a pair of bush-tits, cousins of
the chickadees, came with one of their big families; California towhees
often appeared sitting quietly on the branches; linnets were always
stopping to discuss something in their emphatic way; clamorous blue jays
rushed in and set the small birds in a panic, but seeing me quickly took
themselves off; and a pair of wary woodpeckers hunted over the sycamore
trunks and worked so cautiously that they had finished excavating a nest
only just out of my sight on the other side of the wren tree trunk
before I seriously suspected them of domestic intentions.
One day, when watching at the tree, a great brown and black lizard that
the children of the valley call the 'Jerusalem overtaker' came worming
down the side of an oak that I often leaned against. The rough bark
seemed such a help to it that I imagined the wrens had done wisely in
choosing a smooth sycamore to build in. I looked narrowly at their nest
hole with the thought in mind and saw that the birds had another point
of vantage in the way the trunk bulged at the hole--it did not seem as
if a large lizard could work itself up the smooth slippery rounding
surface, however much given to eggs for breakfast. But in the West
Indies lizards walk freely up and down the marble slabs, so it is
dangerous to say what they cannot do.
Billy had a surprise one day greater than mine over the lizard. He was
grazing quietly near where I sat under the wren tree, when he suddenly
threw up his head. His ears pointed forward, his eyes grew excited, and
as he gazed his head rose higher and higher. I jumped from the ground
and put my hand on the pommel ready to spring into the saddle. As I did
so, across the field I caught a glimpse of a great fawn-colored animal
with a white tip to its tail, bounding through the brush--a deer! Then I
heard voices through the trees and saw the red shawl of a woman in a
wagon rumbling up the road the deer must have crossed.
When Mountain Billy and I pulled ourselves together and started after
the deer, the poor horse was so unstrung he made snakes of all the
sticks he saw and shied at all imaginable bugaboos along the way. We
were too late to see the deer again, but found the marks of its hoofs
where it had jumped a ditch and sunk so deep in the fine sand on the
other side that it had to take a great leap to recover itself.
The sight of the deer made Billy as nervous as a witch for days. Every
time we went to visit the wrens he would stand with eyes glued to the
spot where it had appeared, and when a jack-rabbit came out of the brush
with his long ears up, Billy started as if he thought it would devour
him. I was perplexed by his nervousness at first, but after much
pondering reasoned it out, to my own satisfaction at least. His name
was Mountain Billy, and in the days when he had been a wayward bucking
mustang he lived in the Sierra. Now, even in the hills surrounding our
valley, colts were killed by mountain lions. How much more in the
Sierra. Mountain lions are large fawn-colored animals: that was it:
Mountain Billy was suffering from an acute attack of association of
ideas. The sight of the deer had awakened memories of the nightmare of
his colthood days.
We made frequent visits to the wren tree, and both my nervous little
horse and I had a start one morning, for as we rode in, a covey of quail
flew up with a whirr from under the tree in front of us.
When the wren had become reconciled to us she worked rapidly, flying
back and forth with material, followed by her mate, who sang while she
was on the nest and chased away with her afterwards. Often when she
appeared in the doorway ready to go, his song, which had been just a
merry round before, at sight of her would suddenly change to a most
ecstatic love song. He would sit with drooping tail, his wings sometimes
shaking at his sides, at others raised till they almost met over his
back, trembling with the excitement of his joy. This peculiar tremulous
motion of the wings was marked in both wrens; their emotions seemed too
large for their small bodies.
I found the wrens building, the last of April. The third week in May
the little lover was singing as hard as ever. I wrote in my
note-book--"Wrens do not take life with proper seriousness, their duties
certainly do not tie them down." When the eggs were in the nest, if her
mate sang at her door, the mother bird would fly out to him and away
they would go together; for it never seemed to occur to the care-free
lover that he might brood the eggs in her absence.
When the young hatched, however, affairs took a more serious turn.
Mother wren at least was kept busy looking for spiders, and later, when
both were working together, if not hunting among the green treetops, the
pretty little brown birds often flew to the ground and ran about under
the weeds to search for insects. Once when the mother bird had flown up
with her bill full, she suddenly stopped at the twig in front of the
nest, looking down, her tail over her back wren fashion, the sun on her
brown sides, and her bill bristling with spiders' legs.
[Illustration: A Trying Moment.]
On June 7 I noticed a remarkable thing. For more than five weeks, all
through the building and brooding, the little lover had been acting as
if on his honeymoon--as if the nest were a joke and there were nothing
for him to do in the world but sing and make love to his pretty mate--as
if life were all 'a-courtin'.' On this day he first came to the tree
with food, sang out for his spouse, gave her the morsel, and flew off.
Later in the morning he brought food and his mate carried it to the
young. But afterwards, when she started to take a morsel from him,
behold! he--the gay, frivolous little beau, the minstrel lover--actually
acted as if he didn't want to give it up, as if he wanted to feed his
own little birds himself. With wings trembling at his sides he turned
his back on his mate and started to walk down the branch away from her!
But he was too fond of her to even seem to refuse her anything, and so,
coming back, gave her the morsel. She probably divined his thought, and,
let us hope, was glad to have him show an interest in his children at
last; at all events, when he came again with food and clung to the tip
of a drooping twig waiting although she first lit above him and came
down toward him with bill wide open and wings fluttering in the pretty,
helpless, coquettish way female birds often tease to be fed; suddenly,
as if remembering, she flew off, and--he went in to the nest himself! It
was a conquest; the little lover was not altogether lacking in the
paternal instinct after all! I looked at him with new respect.