It was delightful to find the small father actually taking turns feeding
the young. I saw him feed his mate only once or twice, and noticed much
less of the quivering wings, though after leaving the nest he would
sometimes light on a branch and move them tremulously at his sides for a
moment. June 15 I wrote: "The birds are feeding rapidly to-day. I hear
very little song from the male; probably he has all he can attend to.
I'd like to know how many young ones there are in that hole." At all
events, the voices of the young were getting stronger and more
insistent, and it is no bagatelle to keep half a dozen gaping mouths
full of spiders, as any mother bird can tell. This particular mother
wren, however, seemed to enjoy her cares. She often called to the young
from a branch in front of the nest before going in, and stopped to call
back to them with a motherly-sounding _krup-up-up_ as she stood in the
entrance on leaving.
One day as one of the old birds stood in the doorway its mate flew into
the nest right over its head. The astonished doorkeeper was so startled
that it took to its wings.
Before this, in watching the wrens, I had looked off across a sunny
field of golden oats, against the background of blue hills. On June 14,
when I went to the nest, the mowers had been at work around the
sycamores and the oat-field was full of cocks. Just as the wren was most
anxious for peace and quietness, for a safe world into which to launch
her brood, up came this rout of haymakers with all their clattering
machines, laying low the meadows to her very door.
No wonder the little bird met me with nerves on edge. When the eggs had
first hatched, she had objected to me, but mildly. To be sure, once when
she found me staring she flew away over my head, scolding as much as to
say, "Stop looking at my little birds," and finding me there when she
came back, shook her wings at her sides and scolded hard, though her
bill was full; but still her disapproval did not trouble me; it was too
sociable. But now, for some time, affected by the shadow of coming
events, she had been growing more and more fidgety under my gaze,
darting inside, then whisking back to the door to look at me, in again
to her brood and out to me, over and over like a flash--or, like a poor
little troubled mother wren, distracted lest her unruly youngsters
should pop out of the hole in the tree trunk when I was below to catch
them.
On this day, when the wren came up from the dark nest pocket and found
me below, she called back to her little ones in such distress that I
felt reproached. By gazing fixedly through my glass into the dark hole I
could see the head of a sprightly nestling pop up and turn alertly from
side to side as if returning my inspection. The old wren's calls made me
think of a human mother who can no longer control her big wayward
offspring and has to entreat them to do as she bids. It was as if she
said, "Oh, _do_ be good children, _do_ keep still; _do_ put your heads
back; you _naughty_ children, you _must_ do as I tell you!"
On June 16, six weeks after I had found the birds building, I wrote in
my note-book: "I am astonished every morning when I come and find the
wrens still here, but perhaps it's easier feeding them in one spot than
it would be chasing around after them in half a dozen different places."
The young were chattering inside the nest. They all talked at once as
children will, but one small voice assumed the tones of the mother;
probably the oldest brother speaking with the air of authority
featherless children sometimes assume with the weaker members of the
family. When a parent came, I saw the big brother's head pop up from
behind the wall,--the nest was in a pocket below,--and by the time the
old bird got there with food the big throat blocked the way for the
little ones down behind. Sometimes I could see a flutter of small wings
and tails, when the birds were being fed.
As nothing happened, I went off to watch another nest, but in an hour
was back to make sure of seeing the small wrens when they left the nest.
A loud continuous scolding met me on approaching, and one of the old
wrens, with bill full of insects, flew--not up to the nest--but down in
among the weeds! In less than an hour that whole brood of wrens had
flown, and were three or four rods away in the high weeds--safe! I was
taken aback. They had stolen a march on me. Surely I had not been
treated as was fit and proper, being one of the family!
It was amusing to see the young ones fly. They whirled away on their
wings as if they had been flitting around in the big world always; but
their stubby tails sadly interfered with their progress, and they came
to earth before they meant.
Weak cries came from the young hidden in the weeds. They could fly, but
it was different from being safe inside a tree trunk! I hardly
recognized their weak appealing voices, after the stentorian tones that
had issued from the old nest.
The weeds were a most admirable cover, and the dead stalks sticking up
through them served as sentry posts, from which the old birds scolded me
when I followed too close on their heels. The youngsters sometimes
appeared on the stalks, and looked very pert on their long legs with
their short tails cocked over their backs.
In the afternoon I went again to see the little family to which I had
become so much attached and which were now slipping away from me. They
had been led farther up the canyon, where, at a turn in the dry bed of
the stream, the thick cover of weeds was still more protected by brush
and overhanging trees, and the whole thicket was warmed by the afternoon
sunshine. The old birds were busily flying back and forth feeding their
invisible young. They scolded me as they flew past, but kept right on
with their work.
There was little use trying to keep track of the brood after that, and I
thought I had given them up quite philosophically, reflecting that it
was pleasant to leave them in such a sunny protected place. Still, day
after day in riding along the line of sycamores on my way to other
nests, it gave me a pang of loneliness to pass the old deserted wren
tree where I had spent so many happy hours; and though the sycamores
were silent, I could always hear and see the little lover singing to his
pretty mate.
III.
LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.
WHEN watching the little lover and his brood, I heard familiar voices
farther down the line of oaks, voices of little friends I had made on my
first visit to California, and had always remembered with lively
interest as the jauntiest, most individual bits of humanity I had ever
known in feathers. So, when Mountain Billy and I could be spared by the
other bird families we were watching, we set out to hunt up the little
bluish gray western gnatcatchers.
The (sand) stream that widened under the wren's sycamores narrowed up
the canyon to a--dry ditch, I should say, if it were not disrespectful
to speak that way of a channel that once a year carries a torrent which
excavates canals in the meadows. Billy and I started up this sand ditch,
so narrow between its weed-grown banks that there was barely room for
us, and so arched over in places by chaparral that we could get through
only when Billy put down his ears and I bowed low on the saddle.
[Illustration: Nest of Western Gnatcatcher.
(From a photograph.)]
We had not gone far before we heard the gnatcatchers, bluish gray mites
with heads that are always cocked on one side or the other to look down
at something, and long tails that are always flipping about as their
owners flaunt gayly through the bushes: At sound of their voices I
pulled Billy up out of the ditch, and, slipping from his back, sat down
on the ground to wait for the birds. Eureka! there, in a slender young
oak on the edge of the stream not a rod away, one of the pair was
gliding off its nest, a beautiful lichen-covered, compact little
structure such as I had admired years before. I was jubilant. What a
relief! I had fully expected it to be inside the dense brush, where no
mortal could tell what was going on; and here it was out in the plain
light of day. What a delightful time I should have watching it! Before
leaving the spot, in imagination I had followed the brood out into the
world and filled a note-book with the quaint airs and graces of the
piquant pair.
When insinuating yourself into the secrets of the bird world, it is not
well to be too obtrusive at first: it is a mistake to spend the day when
you make your first call; so contenting myself with thinking of the
morrow, and fixing the small oak in my memory, I took myself off before
the blue-gray should tell on me to her mate. As I rose to go, a dove
flew out of the oak--she had been brooding right over my head. Another
nest, and a mourning dove's, one of the most gentle and winning of
birds! Surely my good star was in the ascendent!
The next day, forgetful of this second nest, I rode Billy right up under
the oak, and was startled to find the pretty dove sitting quietly over
our heads, looking down at us out of her gentle eyes. It was a pleasant
surprise. She let me talk to her, but when I had dismounted Billy
tramped around so uneasily that the saddle caught in the oak branches
and scared the poor bird away. I had hardly seated myself when the
jaunty little gnatcatcher came flying over and lit in an upper branch
of the tree. What a contrast she was to the quiet dove! With many flirts
of the tail she hopped down to the nest, jumping from branch to branch
as if tripping down a pair of stairs. When she dropped into her deep cup
her small head stuck up over one edge, her long tail pointed over the
other.[2]
I looked away a moment, and on glancing back found the nest empty.
On the instant, however, came the sound of my small friend's voice.
Such a talkative little person!--not one of your
creep-in-and-out-of-the-nest-without-anybody's-knowing-it kind of a
bird, not she! Her remarks sounded as if made over my head, and when
Billy stamped about the brush and rapped the saddle trying to switch off
flies, I imagined guiltily that they were addressed to me; but while I
wondered if she would keep away all the rest of the morning because she
had discovered me, back she came, talking to herself in complaining
tones and whipping her tail impatiently, even after she stood on the
edge of the nest, evidently absorbed in her own affairs, quite to the
exclusion of the person down in the brush who thought herself so
important!
My doves were attending to me, however, altogether too much. The
brooding bird was anxious to go to her nest. After flying out where she
could see me, she whizzed toward it; but, fearful, hesitated and talked
it over with her mate--both birds cooed with inflated breaths. After
that the branches rattled overhead, but even then, though my back was
turned, the timid bird dared not stay. She must make another inspection.
From an opposite oak she peered through the branches, moving her head
excitedly, and calling out her impressions to her mate. Meanwhile, he
had flown down the sand stream and called back quite calmly. I, also,
cooed reassuringly to her, and soon she quieted down and began to plume
her feathers on the sunny branch. As the gnatcatchers did not honor us
with their attention even when Billy stalked around in plain sight, I
moved a little closer to their nest to give the dove more freedom; and
soon the gentle bird slipped back to her brooding.
Before leaving I went to see the dove in the oak, and spoke caressingly
to her, admiring her soft dove-colored feathers and shining iridescent
neck. She was on her own ground there, and felt that she could safely be
friends, so she only winked in the sun, paying no heed to her mate when
he called warningly. It was especially pleasant to watch this reserved
lady-like bird, after the flippant tell-all-you-know little gnat.
On going away, Billy and I took a run up the canyon. Billy was in high
spirits, and went racing up the narrow road, winding and turning
through the chaparral, brushing me against the the stiff scrub oak and
loping under low branches so fast that the sharp leaves snapped back,
stinging my cheeks. We had a gay ride, with a spice of excitement thrown
in; for on our way home, in the thick dust across our path, besides the
pretty quail tracks that made wall-paper patterns on the road, were the
straight trails of gopher snakes, and the scalloped one of a rattlesnake
we had been just too late to meet.
At our next session with the blue-grays, when she was on the nest, her
mate came back to relieve her and cried in his quick cheerful way, "Here
I am, here I am!" Either she was taking a nap or didn't want to stir,
for she didn't budge till he called insistently, "_Here_ I am, _here_ I
am!" Then he hopped down in her place, and raising his head above the
nest, remarked again, as if commenting upon the new situation, "Here I
am!"
It was quite a different matter when she came back to work. She only
called "hello," not even hinting that he should make way for her, but he
hopped off at the first sound of her voice, flying away promptly to
another tree and calling back like a gleeful boy let out of school,
"Here I am!"
She was no more eager to go to the nest than he, however, and once when
she came flirting leisurely along from twig to twig, she stopped a long
time on the edge of the nest and leaned over, presumably to arrange the
eggs; perhaps she and her mate had different views as to their proper
positions. The next time I visited the gnats, she acted as if she really
could not make up her mind to settle down to brooding on such a
beautiful morning. The fog had cleared away and the air was fresh and
full of life; goldfinches and lazuli buntings were singing merrily, and
light-hearted vireos were shouting _chick-a-de-chick'-de-villet'_ from
the brush. How much pleasanter it would be for such an airy fairy to go
off for a race with her mate than to settle down demurely tucked into a
cup! "Tsang," she cried impatiently as she flew up to catch a fly. She
flirted about the branches, whipped up in front of the nest, couldn't
make up her mind to go in, and flounced off again. But the eggs would
get cold if she didn't cover them, so back she came, hopped up on the
edge of the nest, and stood twisting and turning, glancing this way and
that as though for a fly to chase, till she happened to look down at the
eggs; then she whipped her tail, dropped in and--jumped out again!
During the morning when she was away and her mate was waiting for her to
come back to 'spell' him, he too got impatient. He hopped out of the
nest crying, "Now here I am, quick, come quick!" and as he flew off,
sang out in his funny little soliloquizing way, "Well, here I go; here I
go!"
His restless spouse had only just settled down when a wren-tit--a
wren-like bird with a long tail--flew into a bush near her oak, and she
darted out of the nest to snap her bill over his head. I thought it
merely an excuse to leave her brooding. Calling out "tsang," she again
flew at the brown bird who was hopping around in the bush, so
innocently, as I thought. Conqueror for the moment, she flaunted back to
the nest, and after much ado finally settled down.
For a time all was quiet. Hearing the low cooing of doves, I went to
talk to the pretty bird in the oak, and she let me come near enough to
see her bluish bill and quiet eyes. As I returned to the gnatcatchers, a
chewink was hoeing in the sand stream. Again the wren-tit approached
stealthily. I watched with languid interest till he got to the gnat's
tree. The instant he touched foot upon her domain, she dashed down at
him, crying loudly and snapping her bill in his face. The brown bird
dodged her blows, held his footing in spite of her, and slowly made his
way up to the nest. I was astonished and frightened. He leaned over the
nest, and--what he actually did I could not see, for by that time the
blue-gray's cries had called her mate and they were both screaming and
diving down at him as if they would peck his eyes out; and it sounded as
if they hit him on the back good and hard.
A peaceful lazuli bunting, hearing the commotion, came to investigate,
but when she saw what was happening held back against the side of a twig
as though afraid of getting struck, and soon flew off, having no desire
to get mixed up in that affray.
When the wren-tit had at last been driven from his position, the
gnatcatchers flew up into a tree and, standing near together, talked the
matter over excitedly. Then one of them went back to the nest, reached
down into it and brought up something that it appeared to be eating. Its
mate went to the nest and did the same, after which one of them flew
away with a broken eggshell. When the little creatures turned away from
the plundered nest they broke out into cries of distress that were
pitiful to hear. I felt indignant at the wren-tit. How could a bird with
eggs of its own do such a cruel thing? But then, I reflected, we who
pretend to be better folks than wren-tits do not always spare our
neighbors because of our own troubles. When the poor birds had carried
away their broken eggshell, one of them came and tugged at the nest
lining till it pulled out a long horsehair and what looked like a
feather, apparently trying to take out everything that the egg had
soiled.
When the little housekeeper was working over her nest, a brown towhee
flew into the tree. On the instant there was a flash of wings--the gnat
was ready for war. But after a fair look at the big peaceful bird, she
flew to the next tree without a word--she evidently knew friends from
enemies. I never liked the towhee so well before. But though the
blue-gray had nothing to say against her neighbor sitting up in the tree
if he chose, her nerves were so unstrung that when she lit in the next
tree she cried out "tsang" in an overburdened tone. It sounded so unlike
the usual cry of the light-hearted bird, it quite made me sad.
Whether the poor little gnatcatchers did not recover from this attack
upon their home, and took their nest to pieces to put it up elsewhere,
as birds sometimes do; or whether the stealthy wren-tit again crept in
like a thief in the night to plunder his neighbor's house, I do not
know; but the next time I went to the oak the nest was demolished. It
was a sorry ending for what had promised to be such an interesting and
happy home.
My poor dove's nest had a tragic end, too. What happened I do not know,
but one day the body of a poor little pigeon lay on the ground under the
nest. My sympathies went out to both mothers, but especially to the
gentle dove, now a mourner, indeed.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] As this little pair dressed like twins, I could only infer which was
which from the song and the actions of the two, which were quite
distinct.
IV.
WAS IT A SEQUEL?
AFTER the wren-tit stole in like a thief in the night and broke up the
pretty home of the gnatcatchers, I suspected that they took their house
down to put it up again in a safer place, and so was constantly on the
lookout to find where that safer place was. At last, one day, I heard
the welcome sound of their familiar voices, and following their calls
finally discovered them flying back and forth to a high branch on an old
oak-tree; both little birds working and talking together. Mind, I do not
stake my word on this being the same pair of gnats; but the nest
followed closely on the heels of the plundered one, which was a point in
its favor, and, being anxious to take up the lines with my small friends
again, I let myself think they were the birds of the sand ditch nest. It
was such a delight to find them that I deserted the nest I had been
watching, and went to spend the next morning with my old friends. The
tree they had chosen was a high oak in an open space in the brush, and
they were building fifteen or twenty feet above the ground--so high that
it was necessary to keep an opera-glass focused on the spot to see what
was going on at their small cup.
As the birds worked, I was filled with forebodings by seeing a pair of
wren-tits on the premises. They went about in the casual indifferent way
sad experience had shown might cover a multitude of evil intentions, and
which made me suspect and resent their presence. How had they found the
poor little gnats? It was not hard to tell. How could they help finding
such talkative fly-abouts? But if birds are in danger from all the
world, including those who should be their comrades and champions, why
should not builders keep as still at the nest as brooding birds, instead
of heedlessly giving information to observers that lurk about taking
notes for future misdeeds? But then, could gnatcatchers keep still
anywhere at any time? No, that was not to be hoped for. I could only
watch the little chatterers from hour to hour and be thankful for every
day that their home was unmolested.
It was interesting to see how the jaunty indifferent gnats would act
when settling down to plain matters of business. Strange to say, they
proved to be the most energetic, tireless, and skillful of builders.
Their floor had been laid--on the branch--before I arrived on the scene,
and they were at work on the walls. The plan seemed to be twofold, to
make the walls compact and strong by using only fine bits of material
and packing them tightly in together; while at the same time they gave
form to the nest and kept it trim and shipshape by moulding inside, and
smoothing the rim and outside with neck and bill. Sometimes the bird
would smooth the brim as a person sharpens a knife on a whetstone, a
stroke one way and then a stroke the other. When the sides were not much
above the floor, one bird came with a bit of material which it proceeded
to drill into the body of the wall. It leaned over and threw its whole
weight on it, almost going head first out of the nest, and had to
flutter its wings to recover itself. The birds usually got inside to
build, but there was a twig beside the nest that served for scaffolding,
and they sometimes stood on that to work at the outside.
At first they seemed to take turns at building, working rapidly and
changing places quite regularly; but one morning when seated under the
oak I saw that things were not as they had been. Perhaps a difference of
opinion had arisen on architectural points, and Mrs. Gnatcatcher had
taken matters into her own hands. At all events, this is what happened:
instead of rapid changes of place, when one of the gnats was at work its
mate flew up and started to go to the nest, hesitated, and backed away;
then unwilling to give up having a finger in the pie, advanced again.
This was kept up till the little bird put its pride in its pocket, and
gently gave over its cherished bit of material to its mate at the nest!
Now as these gnatcatchers had the bad taste to dress so nearly alike
that I could not tell them apart, I was left to my own surmises as to
which took the material. Still, who could it have been but Mrs. Gnat?
Would she give over the house to Mr. Gnat at this critical moment? She
doubtless wanted to decorate as she went along, and men aren't supposed
to know anything about such trivial matters! On the other hand, it might
easily be he, for, supposing he had come of a family of superior
builders, surely he would want to see to the laying of substantial
walls; and unquestionably a good wall was the important part of this
nest. Alas! it was a clear case of "The Lady or the Tiger." To
complicate matters, the birds worked so fast, so high over my head, and
so hidden by the leaves, that I had much ado to keep track of their
exchanges at all. If I could only catch them and tie a pink ribbon
around one of their necks!--then, at least, I would know which was doing
what, or if it was doing what it hadn't done before! It is inconsiderate
enough of birds to wear the same kind of clothes, but to talk alike too,
when hidden by the leaves--that, indeed, is a straw to break the camel's
back. If small gray gnatcatchers up in the treetops had only been big
black magpies low in the brush, my testimony regarding their
performances might be of more value; but then, the magpies of my
acquaintance were so shy they would have none of me; so although life
and field work are full of disappointments, they are also full of
compensations.