so near the color of the soil that I would have passed it by, but the
boy discovered it. The creature lay so still he thought it was dead; but
as we stood looking, it puffed itself up with a big breath, darted out
its tongue, and began to move off. I watched to see how it made the
straight track we so often saw in the dust of the roads. It bent its
neck into a scallop for a purchase, while its tapering tail made an S,
to furnish slack; and then it pulled the main length of its body along
straight. It crawled noiselessly right to the foot of the woodpecker
tree, but was only hunting for a hole to hide in. It got part way down
one hole, found that it was too small, and had to come backing out
again. It followed the sand bed, taking my regular beat, from tree to
tree! To be sure, gopher snakes are harmless, but they are suggestive,
and you would rather their ways were not your ways.
Although the little prisoners welcomed us as rescuers should be
welcomed, they did it by mistake. They thought we were their parents. At
the first blow of the axe their voices hushed, and not a sound came from
them again. It seemed as if we never should get the birds out.
It looked easy enough, but it wasn't. The nest was about twelve feet
above the ground. The sycamore was so big the boy could not reach around
it, and so smooth and slippery he could not get up it, though he had
always been a good climber. He clambered up a drooping branch on the
back of the tree,--the nest was in front,--but could not swing himself
around when he got up. Then he tried the hollow burned at the foot of
the tree. The charred wood crumbled beneath his feet, but at last, by
stretching up and clinging to a knothole, he managed to reach the nest.
As his fingers went down the hole, the young birds grabbed them,
probably mistaking them for their parents' bills. "Their throats seem
hot," the boy exclaimed; "poor hungry little things!" His fingers would
go through the nest hole, but not his knuckles, and the knothole where
he steadied himself was too slippery to stand on while he enlarged the
hole. It was getting late, and as he had his chores to do before dark I
suggested that we feed the birds and leave them in the tree till
morning; but the rescuer exclaimed resolutely, "We'll get them out
to-night!" and hurried off to the ranch-house for a step-ladder and axe.
The ladder did not reach up to the first knothole, four or five feet
below the nest; but the boy cut a notch in the top of the knot and stood
in it, practically on one foot, and held on to a small branch with his
right hand--the first limb he trusted to broke off as he caught
it--while with the left hand he hacked away at the nest hole. It was a
ticklish position and genuine work, for the wood was hard and the
hatchet dull.
I stood below holding the carving-knife,--we hadn't many tools on the
ranch,--and as the boy worked he entertained me with an account of an
accident that happened years before, when his brother had chopped off a
branch and the axe head had glanced off, striking the head of the boy
who was watching below. I stood from under as he finished his story, and
inquired with interest if he were sure his axe head was tight! Before
the lad had made much impression on the hard sycamore, he got so tired
and looked so white around the mouth that I insisted on his getting down
to rest, and tried to divert him by calling his attention to the sunset
and the voices of the quail calling from the vineyard. When he went up
again I handed him the carving-knife to slice off the thinner wood on
the edge of the nest hole, warning him not to cut off the heads of the
young birds.
At last the hole was big enough, and, sticking the hatchet and knife
into the bark, the lad threw one arm around the trunk to hold on while
he thrust his hand down into the nest. "My, what a deep hole!" he
exclaimed. "I don't know as I can reach them now. They've gone to the
bottom, they're so afraid." Nearly a foot down he had to squeeze, but at
last got hold of one bird and brought it out. "Drop him down," I cried,
"I'll catch him," and held up my hands. The little bird came fluttering
through the air. The second bird clung frightened to the boy's coat,
but he loosened its claws and dropped it down to me. What would the
poor old mother woodpecker have thought had she seen these first flights
of her nestlings!
I hurried the little scared brothers under my jacket, my best substitute
for a hollow tree, and called _chuck'-ah_ to them in the most
woodpecker-like tones I could muster. Then the boy shouldered the
ladder, and I took the carving-knife, and we trudged home triumphant; we
had rescued the little prisoners from the tower!
When we had taken them into the house the woodpeckers called out, and
the cats looked up so savagely that I asked the boy to take the birds
home to his sister to keep till they were able to care for themselves.
On examining them I understood what the difference in their voices had
meant. One of them poked his head out of the opening in my jacket where
he was riding, while the other kept hidden away in the dark; and when
they were put into my cap for the boy to carry home, the one with the
weak voice disclosed a whitish bill--a bad sign with a bird--and its
feeble head bent under it so weakly that I was afraid it would die.
Three days later, when I went up to the lad's house, it was to be
greeted by loud cries from the little birds. Though they were in a box
with a towel over it, they heard all that was going on. Their voices
were as sharp as their ears, and they screamed at me so imperatively
that I hurried out to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards
till I found some food for them. They opened their bills and gulped it
down as if starving, although their guardian told me afterwards that she
had fed them two or three hours before.
When held up where the air could blow on them, they grew excited; and
one of them flew down to the floor and hid away in a dark closet,
sitting there as contentedly as if it reminded him of his tree trunk
home.
I took the two brothers out into the sitting-room and kept them on my
lap for some time, watching their interesting ways. The weak one I
dubbed Jacob, which is the name the people of the valley had given the
woodpeckers from the sound of their cries; the stronger bird I called
Bairdi, as 'short' for _Melanerpes formicivorus bairdi_--the name the
ornithologists had given them.
Jacob and Bairdi each had ways of his own. When offered a palm, Bairdi,
who was quite like 'folks,' was content to sit in it; but Jacob hung
with his claws clasping a little finger as a true woodpecker should; he
took the same pose when he sat for his picture. Bairdi often perched in
my hand, with his bill pointing to the ceiling, probably from his old
habit of looking up at the door of his nest. Sometimes when Bairdi sat
in my hand, Jacob would swing himself up from my little finger, coming
bill to bill with his brother, when the small bird would open his mouth
as he used to for his mother to feed him. Poor little orphans, they
could not get used to their changed conditions!
They did other droll things just as their fathers had done before them.
They used to screw their heads around owl fashion, a very convenient
thing for wild birds who cling to tree trunks and yet need to know what
is going on behind their backs. Once, on hearing a sudden noise, one of
them ducked low and drew his head in between his shoulders in such a
comical way we all laughed at him.
I often went up to the ranch to visit them. We would take them out under
a big spreading oak beside the house, where the little girl's mother sat
with her sewing, and then watch the birds as we talked. When we put them
on the tree trunk, at first they did not know what to do, but soon they
scrambled up on the branches so fast their guardian had to climb up
after them for fear they would get away. Poor little Jacob climbed as if
afraid of falling off, taking short hops up the side of the tree,
bending his stiff tail at a sharp angle under him to brace himself
against the bark. Bairdi, his strong brother, was less nervous, and
found courage to catch ants on the bark. Jacob did a pretty thing one
day. When put on the oak, he crept into a crack of the bark and lay
there fluffed up against its sides with the sun slanting across,
lighting up his pretty red cap. He looked so contented and happy it was
a pleasure to watch him. Another time he started to climb up on top of
my head and, I dare say, was surprised and disappointed when what he had
taken for a tree trunk came to an untimely end. When we put the brothers
on the grass, one of them went over the ground with long hops, while the
other hid under the rocking-chair. One bird seemed possessed to sit on
the white apron worn by the little girl's mother, flying over to it from
my lap, again and again.
The woodpeckers had brought from the nest a liking for dark, protected
places. Bairdi twice clambered up my hair and hung close under the brim
of my black straw hat. Another time he climbed up my dress to my black
tie and, fastening his claws in the silk, clung with his head in the
dark folds as if he liked the shade. I covered the pretty pet with my
hand and he seemed to enjoy it. When I first looked down at him his eyes
were open, though he kept very still; but soon his head dropped on my
breast and he went fast asleep, and would have had a good nap if Jacob
had not called and waked him up.
Jacob improved so much after the first few days--and some doses of red
pepper--that we had to look twice to tell him from his sturdy brother.
He certainly ate enough to make him grow. The birds liked best to be
fed with a spoon; probably it seemed more like a bill. After a little,
they learned to peck at their food, a sign I hailed eagerly as
indicative of future self-support; for with appetites of day laborers
and no one to supply their wants, they would have suffered sorely, poor
little orphans! Sometimes, when they had satisfied their first hunger,
they would shake the bread from their bills as if they didn't like it
and wanted food they were used to.
[Illustration: JACOB AND BAIRDI VISITING THE OLD NEST TREE]
When one got hungry he would call out, and then his brother would begin
to shout. The little tots gave a crooning gentle note when caressed, and
a soft cry when they snuggled down in our hands or cuddled up to us as
they had done under their mother's wing. Their call for food was a
sibilant chirr, and they gave it much oftener than any of the grown-up
woodpecker notes. But they also said _chuck'-ah_ and rattled like the
old birds.
I was glad there were two of them so they would not be so lonely. If
separated they showed their interest in each other. If Bairdi called,
Jacob would keep still and listen attentively, raising his topknot till
every microscopic red feather stood up like a bristle, when he would
answer Bairdi in a loud manly voice.
It was amusing to see the small birds try to plume themselves. Sometimes
they would take a sudden start to make their toilettes, and both work
away vigorously upon their plumes. It was comical to see them try to
find their oil glands. Had the old birds taught them how to oil their
feathers while they were still in the nest? They were thickly feathered,
but when they reached back to their tails the pink skin showed between
their spines and shoulders, giving a good idea of the way birds'
feathers grow only in tracts.
When the little princes were about a month old, I arranged with a
neighboring photographer to have them sit for their picture. He drove
over to the sycamore, and the lad who had rescued the prisoners took
them down to keep their appointment. One of them tried to tuck its head
up the boy's sleeve, being attracted by dark holes. While we were
waiting for the photographer, the boy put Jacob in a hollow of the tree,
where he began pecking as if he liked it. He worked away till he
squeezed himself into a small pocket, and then, with his feathers
ruffled up, sat there, the picture of content. Indeed, the little fellow
looked more at home than I had ever seen him anywhere. The rescuer was
itching to put the little princes back in their hole, to see what they
would do, but I wouldn't listen to it, being thankful to have gotten
them out once.
When Bairdi was on the bark and Jacob was put below him, he turned his
head, raised his red cap, and looked down at his brother in a very
winning way.
Soon the photographer came, and asked, "Are these the little chaps that
try to swallow your fingers?" We were afraid they would not sit still
enough to get good likenesses, but we had taken the precaution to give
them a hearty breakfast just before starting, and they were too sleepy
to move much. In the picture, Jacob is clinging to the boy's hand in his
favorite way, and Bairdi is on the tree trunk.
Mountain Billy pricked up his ears when he discovered the woodpeckers
down at the sycamore, but he often saw them up at the ranch and took me
to make a farewell call on them before I left for the East. We found the
birds perched on the tobacco-tree in front of the ranch-house, with a
tall step-ladder beside it so the little girl could take them in at
night. Their cup of bread and milk stood on the ladder, and when I
called them they came over to be fed. They were both so strong and well
that they would soon be able to care for themselves, as their fathers
had done before them. And when they were ready to fly, they might have
help; for an old woodpecker of their family--possibly an unknown
uncle--had been seen watching them from the top of a neighboring oak,
and may have been just waiting to adopt the little orphans. In any case,
however they were to start out in the world, it was a great satisfaction
to have rescued them from their prison tower.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] The difference in the dress of the woodpeckers is so slight that the
sexes were not distinguished at this nest.
VI.
HINTS BY THE WAY.
ON our way back and forth along the line of oaks and sycamores belonging
to the little prisoners, the little lover, and the gnatcatchers,
Mountain Billy and I got a good many hints, he of places to graze, and I
of new nests to watch.
While waiting for the woodpeckers one day I saw a small brownish bird
flying busily back and forth to some green weeds. She was joined by her
mate, a handsome blue lazuli bunting, even more beautiful than our
lovely indigo bunting, and he flew beside her full of life and joy. He
lit on the side of a cockle stem, and on the instant caught sight of me.
Alas! he seemed suddenly turned to stone. He held onto that stalk as if
his little legs had been bars of iron and I a devouring monster. When he
had collected his wits enough to fly off, instead of the careless gay
flight with which he had come out through the open air, he timidly kept
low within the cockle field, making a circuitous way through the high
stalks.
He could be afraid of me if he liked, I thought,--for after a certain
amount of suspicion an innocent person gets resentful; at any rate, I
was going to see that nest. Creeping up cautiously when the mother bird
was away, so as not to scare her, and carefully parting the mallows, I
looked in. Yes, there it was, a beautiful little sage-green nest of old
grass laid in a coil. I felt as pleased as if having a right to share
the family happiness.
After that I watched the small worker gather material with new interest,
knowing where she was going to put it. She worked fast, but did not take
the first thing she found, by any means. With a flit of the wing she
went in nervous haste from cockle to cockle, looking eagerly about her.
Jumping down to the ground, she picked up a bit of grass, threw it down
dissatisfied, and turned away like a person looking for something. At
last she lit on the side of a thistle, and tweaking out a fibre flew
with it to the nest.
When the house was done, one morning in passing I leaned down from the
saddle, and through the weeds saw her brown wings as she sat on the
nest. A month after the first encounter with the father lazuli, I found
him looking at me around the corner of a cockle stalk, and in passing
back again caught him singing full tilt, though his bill was full of
insects! After we had turned our backs, I looked over my shoulder and
had the satisfaction of seeing him take his beakful to the nest. You
couldn't help admiring him, for though not a warrior who would snap his
bill over the head of an enemy of his home, he had a gallant holiday air
with his blue coat and merry song, and you felt sure his little brown
mate would get cheer and courage enough from his presence to make family
dangers appear less frightful. Even this casual acquaintance with the
little pair gave me a new and tender interest in all of their name I
might know in future.
While watching the lazulis from the sycamores, on looking up on a level
with Billy's ears, I discovered a snug canopied nest held by a jointed
branch of the twisted tree, as in the palm of your hand. It was as if
the old sycamore were protecting the little brood, holding it secure
from all dangers. Looking at the nest, I spied a brown tail resting
against the limb, and then a small brown head was raised to look at me
from between the leaves. It was the little bird whose sweet home-like
song had so cheered my heart in this far-away land, the home song
sparrow, dearer than all the birds of California. It was such a pleasure
to find her that I sat in the saddle and talked to the pretty bird while
she brooded her eggs under the green leaves.
The next time we went down to the sycamore the bird was away, and it
seemed as if the tree had been deserted. It was empty and uninteresting.
Again I came, and this time the father song sparrow sang blithely in
the old tree, while his gentle mate went about looking for food for her
brood. Her little birds had come! How happy and full of business she
seemed! She ran nimbly over the ground, weaving in and out between the
stalks of the oats and the yellow mustard, as if there were paths in her
forest. When she had to run across the sand bed, out in open sight, she
put up her tail, held her wings tight at her sides, and scudded across.
Then with the sunlight through the leaves dappling her back, she ran
around the foot of the sycamore. She had something in her bill, and with
a happy chirp was off to her brood.
There was another family abroad on our beat. When riding past the little
lover's, I heard voices of young birds beyond, and rode out to the oak
in the middle of the field from which they came, to see who it was. It
was a surprise to find a family of full-fledged blue jays--a surprise,
because the jays had been terrorizing the small birds of the
neighborhood till it seemed strange to think they had any family life
themselves. I had come to feel that they were great hobgoblins going
about seeking whom they could devour; but such harsh judgments are
usually false, whether of birds or beasts, and I was convinced against
my will on hearing the tender tone in which the old jays called to their
young.
To be sure, they were imperative in their commands. As I rode, around
the tree, one of them looked at me sharply and proceeded to take
measures to protect his brood. When one of the children told me where he
was, his parent promptly flew over and shouted in his ear, "Be quiet!"
with such a ring of command that an unbroken hush followed. Moreover,
when one child, probably a greedy one, teased for food, its parent ran
down the branch to drive it off; and in some way best known to
themselves the old birds hushed up the boisterous young ones and
spirited them out of my sight. But all these things were in line with
good family government and the best interests of the children, and were
more than atoned for by the soft gentle notes the old birds used when
they were leading around their cherished brood out of harm's way.
VII.
AROUND OUR RANCH-HOUSE.
CLOSE up under the hills, the old vine-covered ranch-house stood within
a circle of great spreading live oaks. The trees were full of noisy,
active blackbirds--Brewer's blackbirds, relatives of the rusty that we
know in New York. The ranchman told me that they always came up the
valley from the vineyard to begin gathering straws for their nests on
his brother's birthday, the twenty-fifth of March. After that time it
was well for passers below to beware. If an unwary cat, or even a hen or
turkey gobbler, chanced under the blackbirds' tree, half a dozen birds
would dive down at it, screaming and scolding till the intruders beat an
humble retreat. But the blackbirds were not always the aggressors. I
heard a great outcry from them one day, and ran out to find them
collecting at the tree in front of the house. A moment later a hawk flew
off with a young nestling, and was followed by an angry black mob.
One pair of the blackbirds nested in the oak by the side of the house,
over the hammock. Though making themselves so perfectly at home on the
premises, driving off the ranchman's cats and gobblers, and drinking
from his watering-trough, if they were taken at close quarters, with
young in their nests, the noisy birds were astonishingly timid. One
could hardly understand it in them.
One afternoon I sat down under the tree to watch them. Mountain Billy
rested his bridle on my knee, and the ranchman's dog came out to join
us; but the mother blackbird, though she came with food in her bill and
started to walk down the branch over our heads, stopped short of the
nest when her eye fell on us. She shook her tail and called _chack_, and
her mate, who sat near, opened wide his bill and whistled _chee_. The
small birds were hungry and grew impatient, seeing no cause for delay,
so raised their three fuzzy heads above the edge of the nest and sent
imperative calls out of their three empty throats. As the parents did
not answer the summons, the young dozed off again, but when the old ones
did get courage to light near the nest there was such a rousing chorus
that they flew off alarmed for the safety of their clamorous brood.
After that outbreak, it seemed as if the mother bird would never go back
to her children; but finally she came to the tree and, after edging
along falteringly, lit on a branch above them. The instant she touched
foot, however, she was seized with nervous qualms and turned round and
round, spreading her tail fan-fashion, as if distracted.
To my surprise, it was the father bird who first went to the nest,
though he had the wit to go to it from the outside of the tree, where he
was less exposed to my dangerous glance. I wondered whether it was
mother love that kept her from the nest when he ventured, or merely a
case of masculine common-sense versus nerves. How birds could imagine
more harm would be done by going to the nest than by making such a fuss
five feet away from it was a poser to me. Perhaps they attribute the
same intelligence to us that some of us do to them!
While the blackbirds were making such a time over our heads, I watched
the hummingbirds buzzing around the petunias and pink roses under the
ranch-house windows, and darting off to flutter about the tubular
flowers of the tobacco-tree by the well. One day the small boy of the
family climbed up to the hummingbird's nest in the oak "to see if there
were eggs yet," and the frightened brood popped out before his eyes. His
sister caught one of them and brought it into the house. When she held
it up by the open door the tiny creature spread its little wings and
flew out into the vines over the window. The child was so afraid its
mother would not find it she carried it back to its oak and watched till
the mother came with food. The hummers were about the flowers in front
of the windows so much that when the front door was left open they often
came into the room.
In an oak behind the barn I found a hummingbird's nest, and, yielding to
temptation, took out the eggs to look at them. In putting them back one
slipped and dropped on the hard ground, cracking the delicate pink shell
as it fell. The egg was nearly ready to hatch, and I felt as guilty as
if having killed a hummingbird.
[Illustration: Arizona Hooded Oriole.
(One half natural size.)]
[Illustration: Baltimore Oriole--Eastern.
(One half natural size.)]