"Another beautiful day of sunshine and shimmering leaves and
bird-notes and human love."
--Katharine Coman: _Letter_.
The summer resort in question is only one of the numberless lakelets
that dot the hill country of Wisconsin; a mere dimple in the sunny
landscape, filled with limpid water. The banks are overhung by
beautiful lindens and mammoth oaks and by hoar cedars of a thousand
years' growth.
So sloping are the shores that reeds and rushes run far out into the
lake, carrying the green life of the earth into the blue heaven of the
water. Creeks and bayous stretch in turn far back into the land, and
the reeds and rushes follow after. Knee-deep in the swamps stand the
tamarack trees. Their cool shades cherish the mystery of the primeval
forest that held undisputed sway in this region only fifty years ago.
Back on the hills lie rich grain fields and comfortable farmhouses,
each defined against the sky by its windmill and cluster of barns and
haystacks.
This is an ideal summer residence for birds who have a mind for
domestic joys. Nothing, for example, could be better adapted for
nesting purposes than these cedar trees; not so much the centuried
veterans, as the young things of ten or twenty years' growth. Their
dense and prickly foliage promises security from invasion, while the
close-set branches offer most attractive building-sites. Here the
robins place their substantial structures; a masonry of sticks and mud,
hollowed out within into a chamber as round and smooth as if molded on
a croquet ball, and lined with fine, soft grasses. The catbirds build
more loosely, weaving strips of cedar bark into a rough basket. The
interior is softened for the tender bodies of the anticipated nestlings
by coils of horse hair. The mourning dove lays her eggs on a frail
scaffolding of cedar twigs, with the merest suggestion of padding. How
the eggs are kept in place on windy days is a mystery to the
uninitiated. As for brooding the young, the mother bird soon gives over
the attempt to do more than sit alongside her twin fledglings. The
cedar birds, despite their name, are oftenest found in the linden
trees. Rowing along the water side one may see the slender bodies
tilting on the top-most branches, flitting to and fro among the pendant
yellow bracts, peering shyly this way and that, whispering to each
other sage words of caution as to the queerness of all the world "save
thee and me, Dorothy." Gentle little Quakers they seem in the daintiest
of dove-color plumage. They are connoisseurs in the matter of foods, as
well as of dress. Nothing pleases their palate so well as the wild
cherries that ripen by the roadside. The sweet kernels of the linden
fruit are not bad eating, however, if one may judge by the quantities
of split shells to be found beneath the trees. The lake is sought out
by birds as well as humans for the pleasure of bathing in the cool,
fresh water. Sit quietly by some pebbly bank for a half hour or so, and
you cannot fail to see robin or bluejay or turtledove come down to take
his daily plunge.
The reedy marshes are beloved by the redwings. The thick-set tufts of
the cat-o'-nine-tails afford ideal sites for summer cottages, with
building material close at hand. Here, too, the marsh wrens weave their
oven-shaped nests and hang them among the banners of the iris. The
water-lily pools are alive with summer folk. Quaint, unwieldy bitterns
flap their slow way to nests well hidden in the reeds. Coots steal in
and out _en route_ to their lake dwellings. The broad green pads offer
the Virginia rail a secluded perch, where he may consider which quarter
of the shining mud flats will prove the best feeding ground for the
day. A trim little figure in gray and tan, he gathers no soil from the
black ooze through which he wades. Another dainty person who haunts
these same shallows is the spotted sandpiper, the much loved
"teeter-tail." He runs tipping along the water's edge, with an
occasional short flight, as much at home among these placid ripples as
by the booming sea. The kill-deer plover vibrates between the grassy
meadow and the beach, but he, as well as the sandpiper, prefers to
stake his domestic happiness on dry ground. Among the birds of the
shore, the kingfisher is most in evidence. Conspicuous in blue coat,
gray waistcoat and broad, white collar, he flies along the beach
seeking for the dead branches of oak or cedar that shall serve him as a
lookout station from which to spy upon the finny folk swimming in the
water beneath. A flash in the air, a splash in the water, and the
"expert angler" dashes triumphantly home, his watchman's rattle
announcing victory and fresh supplies to the awkward squad of baby
kingfishers deep in the clay bank awaiting his arrival.
Back in the meadows where thistles and wild lettuce are going to seed,
the hard-bills spend their holidays. Goldfinches cling to the thistle
tops, merry little clowns in yellow and black, antic tumblers no less
agile and versatile than the chickadee. Dickcissels search the purple
ironweeds for provender, and song sparrows flit along the blossoming
fence rows. Kingbirds perch at a point of vantage and watch their
chance for a dash at a grasshopper. Fine fighters these fellows, fully
equal to defending their well-feathered nests against all comers, and
therefore disdaining concealment. Bluebirds carol high in the air their
song of peace on earth and goodwill to man. Humming birds hover over
the milkweeds, bent on extracting not honey only, but toothsome insects
from the rosy blooms.
The tall oaks are sought out by the orioles, tanagers and grosbeaks,--a
brilliant and tuneful company. Here, too, the vireos, warbling,
red-eyed, white-eyed and yellow-throated, spy out invisible insects
under the growing leaves. Warblers throng the woods in May and June,
reveling in the bursting buds; but most of them have pushed on to
Canada for the summer season. Only the black and white creeper remains
to nest in Wisconsin. The resounding tattoo of the high-hole rings from
the hole of a blasted tree. The wood looks as if riddled with bullets.
The red-headed woodpecker follows close on his yellow-winged cousin.
Both find an abundant supply of ants in the decaying forest. High in a
fork of the branches the red-tailed hawk pitches his tent, a ragged,
black wigwam, rivaling that of the crow for size and inaccessibility.
The haunts of men are not wholly eschewed by our little brothers of the
air. The peewee loves to place his nest under the eaves of a sheltering
porch, and the phoebe is no less sociable. The presence of human
beings does not at all disconcert their housekeeping arrangements. I
have seen a young brood fed and fondled, and finally piloted forth for
their first journey in the world, within ten feet of a hammock full of
children.
To see the water birds at home one should take a boat in the early
morning or toward nightfall, and float silently on the open bosom of
the lake. Then you may watch the black terns wheeling and turning in
the blue sky, like beautiful great swallows. They are easily
distinguished even at a considerable height by their white wing bars. A
loon paddles slowly across the bay with tantalizing unconcern. It is of
no use to follow him, however, even with muffled oars. He knows a trick
worth any two of yours. Huge fellow as he is, he dives beneath the
surface, leaving not a ripple behind him. After five minutes of puzzled
waiting you may see him--or is it his double?--pop up from the water
many rods away, as serene and still as if he had not just executed a
submarine maneuver hardly to be excelled by the latest torpedo boat.
Quite as expert a performer is the pied-billed grebe, who swims long
distances with body submerged and only the tip of the bill out of the
water. Unobserving gunners conclude that he has gone to the bottom of
the lake, and call him the hell-diver. The grebe spends half of his
life in or on the water. His nest is a raft buoyed upon a clump of
decaying vegetation, and looks like a floating island moored to a reed.
Birds of the lake, too, seem the swallows--tree swallows, rough-winged
and barn swallows. They skim the water hither and yon in mad pursuit of
prey. No degree of familiarity with their mud nests avails to deprive
these winged atoms of their halo of spring and romance.
Birds of high degree occasionally visit our humble lakelet. A bald
eagle has been seen on the lightning-scarred branch of its tallest oak.
Blue herons flap their majestic way from shore to shore. If you were
born with a silver spoon in your mouth you may even be so lucky as to
see a snowy heron passing through to some heronry in the wilds of
Canada. The night herons come every spring to their ancient rookery in
a swamp hard by. As the shadows fall the birds may be heard calling,
"squawk, squawk," while they make their way down the creek to their
fishing grounds in the lake.
For the better part of our bird neighbors the summer sojourn is no
_dolce far niente_. They come north that their babies may have
wholesome air and suitable food. A gay young husband, like the
ruby-throated humming bird, shirks domestic responsibilities, but he
expects only two wee nestlings. A brood of five or six requires the
assiduous attention of both parents. Baby blue jays, for example, seem
to have an unlimited appetite. Their scolding, snarling cries begin
with the early dawn and only cease with nightfall. Even after the
rascals are flown one may find an anxious mother vainly striving to
satisfy her clamoring darlings, as she hurries from one to another with
some choice tidbit. A great hulking fellow, as big as his parents and
as gayly feathered, will stand crying like an infant, with wings
a-tremble and mouth a-gape, waiting for the food to be thrust down his
throat. Young robins are hardly less rapacious but far more tractable.
I was one day watching the debut of a family that lived in a
neighboring cedar tree. The mother bird was having an anxious time, for
each young one, as he spread his wings, made but a flap or two and fell
sprawling into the network of branches beneath the nest. One young
hopeful essayed a more ambitious flight and came down to the ground. He
had no thought of fear and, being of an inquiring turn of mind, came
hopping through the grass to see what I was like. Such a dear little
man, in polka dot pinafore and white ruffles! But "chuck, chuck,"
mother robin called a warning note, and like a flash he turned tail and
bolted into the bushes. I found him later perched on a branch within
easy grasp of my hand. He gazed at me for some minutes with eyes full
of baby wonder; then, remembering the maternal admonitions, he fled to
a higher branch. Of all feathered mothers the catbird is the noisiest.
She flits restlessly about, eying from every point of vantage the
intruder who dares to show an interest in her housekeeping. I
determined to sit it out one morning, pitting my patience against her
sympathy for the hungry young ones. After two hours of flutter and meow
the mother heart could no longer resist the appeal of the gaping yellow
mouths. With sudden resolution she dashed straight to Farmer Black's
gooseberry patch, seized a berry and returned in a flash. The luscious
morsel once divided among the small fry, however, she flew back to her
post of observation.
The turtledoves seem a sentimental lot. During the courting season an
enamored swain will sit for hours in silent contemplation of his own
graceful pose, or chanting softly, "I am alone--alone--alone." The nest
once built and the young ones hatched, he hovers about in tender
constancy, bringing food to the mother as well as to the babies, and
perching alongside of the nest as close as circumstances will allow.
The little people are carefully tended until they are well-nigh grown,
though they look most uninteresting objects. A young dove will sit
silent and motionless for hours at a stretch, the only sign of life the
glitter in his bright, bead-like eyes. Decide that he has gone daft,
however, and venture a step too near,--presto! With flutter and whirr
he takes to wings, and is off as if flying was as simple a feat as the
traditional "falling off a log." The jaunty kingfisher, too, makes a
devoted parent. One day we saw a fledgling fly straight out over the
lake. The mother bird followed close, uttering cries of alarm. But,
alas! she could not lend him wings. His young muscles were unequal to
his ambition, and the little body dropped into the water. Both parents
dashed madly back and forth over the still, shining surface, and then
wandered disconsolately from tree to tree along the shore, voicing
their grief in wild, rattling cries.
Bird families hold together long after the nest is abandoned. They may
be seen toward nightfall making their way by twos and threes to the
tamarack swamp across the lake. The close-set, symmetrical branches
provide the best of perches for inexperienced feet. "Birds of a feather
flock together" when it comes to a question of lodging houses. One
evening I counted one hundred and fifteen kingbirds roosting in the
tapering spires of the tamarack trees.
September days are heralded by the return of the birds who have
summered in Canada. Fox sparrows stop with us a week or so on their
southward journey. The evening grosbeaks have come down from far
Saskatchewan, and are thinking of spending the winter here. Wild geese
wake one o' nights, with their hoarse "honk, honk." They have stopped
for a taste of our tender frogs, but will soon re-form their triangular
caravans and push on to the South. Ducks, mallards and canvasbacks,
feed and fatten in the shallow water among the reeds. The gunners
arrive as soon as they, however, and will soon frighten them away.
Everybody is getting ready for the great migration. Troops of young
birds flutter through the trees, like autumn leaves blown by a gust of
wind. They are taking their first lessons in migration and in food
supply.
The natives look on at these preparations with cynical unconcern. Blue
jays chatter and scream with a daily extension of their marvelous
vocabulary. Crows come proudly out from the deep woods, leading black,
ungainly broods, and direct their flight to the ripening cornfields.
Nuthatches, the white-bellied and the Canadian, bustle about the tree
trunks, bent on making the most of their time while Jack Frost spares
the insect life. The chickadees, nature's acrobats, turn somersaults
among the branches in sheer defiance of the law of gravitation. The
cares of summer are over and done with. The woes of winter do not
terrify this morsel of india rubber and compressed air. The English
sparrow pursues his ubiquitous search for food with insular disdain of
everything he does not understand. He has penetrated our sylvan
retreats and secured a foothold here by the most impudent of squatter
claims. He lives and multiplies by dint of a systematic disregard of
everybody's rights. The manners and the morals of the great city cling
to him. He will have nothing in common with our country ways. He brings
with him the blight of civilization.