in company, do not apparently manifest a disposition to assume conjugal
relationship. The desire for food seems to outweigh every other
consideration. The inclemency of the weather, and the coldness of the
earth, may have much to do with holding the amatory forces in check.
But when the opportune period arrives, which it does in the course
of events, the sexes desist in a measure from their riotous living
and give the nobler instincts of their being a chance to assert their
power. The males are the first to feel the changes which are being
wrought in their natures. For more than a week from the incipiency
of this feeling, in the early morning and evening hours, they may
be seen exercising themselves by means of “curious spiral gyrations”
in mid-air, and uttering, as earthwards they descend, a note which
has been likened to the word _kwank_. This note may be a call to the
female in the spring, but as it is often uttered in the fall after the
breeding-season is past, it may also be a summons for the gathering
together of the members of the same household. The production of these
sounds seems a labor of very great effort. But the movements of the
males at these times must be seen to be appreciated. The head and bill
are bent forward until the latter comes into contact with the ground,
and, just as the sound is being emitted, the body is urged violently
forward. These spasmodic exertions having ceased, the actor in this
drama twitches his abbreviated, half-spread tail, assumes an erect
attitude of listening, and, if no response is elicited, repeats his
characteristic cry with all its accompanying movements. If the call
awakes an answering note, the happy lover flies to the presence of
the one he seeks and lavishes upon her the most endearing caresses.
Sometimes, as Audubon affirms, the male awaits the arrival of the dear
one, and does not fly to meet her. The summons, according to the same
eminent authority, seem sometimes to be replied to by one of the same
sex, which is always the prelude to a fierce encounter between the
two, for, on such occasions, when the feelings are in a high state of
tension, the most intense enmity exists between the males. But these
contentions are ordinarily short-lived, and cease with the assumption
of matrimonial relations.
The happiness of the male is now complete. With his homely but
prepossessing bride by his side, he soon journeys off in search of a
home. This is a matter of great consequence, and tasks the patience to
the utmost. But their labors are eventually crowned with success. The
most secluded resorts are visited, and in some low, dense and swampy
woods or brake, difficult of access, and one that none but the cruel
collector would be likely to find, they hide away their nest. The
structure is generally placed on the ground, at the foot of a bush or
tussock, in the midst of small birches or alders, or on a decayed stump
or prostrate log. In certain localities, it is snugly nestled in the
midst of a meadow. It is by no means an elaborate affair, but merely
consists of a few dried leaves or grasses which are scratched together
by the female, and the work of a few brief hours at the most.
[Illustration: Copyright 1900 by A. R. DUGMORE.
WOODCOCK ON NEST (Showing protective coloring)]
Being ready for occupancy, the female soon commences to deposit her
eggs. These, to the number of three or four, are laid one at a time on
consecutive days. Oviposition, in the Southern States, commences in
February or March, while in the northern limits of the bird’s range
from the tenth to the fifteenth of April, seldom later. Both birds
perform the labor of incubation, and so attentive are they to the
business that it is an unusual occurrence to find both absent from
the nest at the same time. When the female is sitting the male busies
himself in attending to the demands of hunger; and when her turn has
come the care of the nest is resigned to her noble, conscientious lord.
So faithfully do they keep to the nest that nothing short of the most
menacing danger will compel them to leave. The approach of a team or
a pedestrian, even when within a few feet of its location, has not
been known to startle them. But when the danger is quite imminent the
sitting bird slips out of the nest and makes her way into the tall
grasses, where, hidden from view, she becomes a silent and sorrowful
witness of any disaster that may befall her home. Should no destruction
be perpetrated, and the intruder has gone his way, she cautiously comes
out of her place of concealment and resumes her labors. But she has
learned a very impressive lesson, for on a second visit to the nest no
bird is to be seen. Apprised of the coming of danger, she has slipped
out in time to escape detection. Thus, patiently, persistently and
unweariedly these faithful creatures apply themselves by turns to the
task of sitting until success has crowned their willing labors. The
time spent in hatching is, under the most favorable conditions, from
seventeen to eighteen days.
[Illustration: AMERICAN WOODCOCK.
Mother Flying Away With Young Between Her Feet.]
The young are very timid creatures and keep close to their parents.
Considerable solicitude is shown by the latter for their well-being.
Their helpless infancy, so to speak, is watched over with all the
care that a human mother bestows upon her offspring, and when their
lives are endangered recourse is had to many a _ruse_ to deceive their
enemies and bring them into places of security. When severely pressed
by foes, the mother, by a peculiar alarm, warns them of the state of
things, and while they are scattering in different directions seeks
to attract attention to herself in many a well-feigned artifice. In
her anxiety for their safety, she has even been observed to seize
between her two feet a youngling and fly with it away--a behavior
whose purpose seemed to be the diversion of the enemy from the rest
of the brood, thus giving them a chance to flee from impending peril
to places of security in the surrounding verdure. After all danger
has disappeared, she summons them together again by a familiar call,
and doubtless relates to them the story of her adventures and the
dangers from which they were saved. Worms, animalcula, ants and other
soft-bodied insects, which the parents assist them in procuring from
the soft earth, and from beneath the grass and dead leaves that abound
in the places they frequent, constitute their food. Later on they are
able to obtain their subsistence, with all the address of older birds,
by thrusting their bills into the soil and in such other places as
would be likely to contain the objects desired. Their tongues, covered
with a viscid saliva, adhere to the food, and when drawn into the mouth
carry it with them without danger of being lost. All who have made
these birds a study have often discerned holes made in the soft mud
by their bills. The presence of these “borings,” as they are called,
is always an indication that game is not far distant, which a careful
exploration of the locality soon verifies. The young, when matured,
continue to occupy the same haunts with their parents, and, unless
brought to an untimely death by the merciless gun of the hunter, repair
to the warm, sunny, smiling South with the return of frost. In the
Middle States--and the same is doubtless true of other sections of our
great country--there is never more than a single brood raised, although
the early breeding of the species would certainly afford time for a
second hatching before the close of the season. Less pyriform are the
eggs of the Woodcock than waders’ mostly are, being, in some instances,
almost ovoidal. Their ground-color varies from a light clay to one
of buffy-brown, and the markings occur in the form of fine spots and
blotches of chocolate-brown, interspersed with others of obscure lilac,
more or less thickly scattered over the surface of the egg, their size
and intensity of color bearing, in general, a direct correspondence
with the depth of the background. Remarkable variations of size exist
throughout the species’ range, some being short and broad, while others
are long and narrow. A set of three from Pennsylvania, which the writer
carefully measured, showed an average measurement of 1.54 by 1.21
inches.
So familiar a bird as the Woodcock, which is sometimes termed the
Bog-sucker or Wood-snipe, hardly needs description. He has a thick,
heavily-set body, short and thick neck, and large head, bill and
eyes, and ears beneath the visual organs. His wings are short and
rounded, the first three primaries being very narrow and shorter than
the fourth, and the fourth and fifth the largest. The tarsi are about
one and one-fourth inches long and rather stout, the tibiæ feathered
to the joints, and the toes long and slender, and without marginal
membranes or basal webs. More than two and a half inches in length is
the bill, straight, tapering, and stout at base, with ridge at base of
maxilla high, and the upper mandible a little larger than the lower,
and knobbed at the end. Three long grooves, one on ridge above, and the
others on each side of maxilla, complete the structural details of the
bill. The sexes are alike, the female being larger than the male. Adult
specimens vary from ten to twelve inches in length, and have an expanse
of wings of from fifteen to eighteen inches, and a weight ranging from
four to nine ounces. The eyes are brown, legs and bill of the dried
skin pale-brownish, upper parts black, gray, russet and brown, chin
whitish, and rest of under parts different shades of brownish-red.
So exquisitely sensible is the extremity of the bill, as in the
snipe, that these birds are enabled to collect their food by the mere
touch, without using their eyes, which are set at such a distance
and elevation in the back part of the head as to give them an aspect
of stupidity. The eyes being situated high up and far back is a wise
provision of nature, as, by this peculiarity, they escape many of
their enemies, their field of vision being greatly augmented by such an
arrangement. Obtaining their sustenance, as they largely do, by probing
with their bills, so amply endowed with nerves, they have comparatively
little use for their eyes, unless to keep watch for their numerous foes.
Though well known to the sportsman, yet by the casual observer this
bird is frequently confounded with the Wilson’s snipe. But the error
can readily be avoided, if it is borne in mind that the Woodcock has
the entire lower parts, including the lining of wings, a reddish-brown
color, while the snipe has the abdomen white, the throat and upper
parts of the breast speckled, and the lining of the wings barred with
white and black.
PIPING PLOVER.
Have you ever been to the sea-shore? Then, of course, you have met the
Piping Plover, but, perhaps, not to know him. He is of the size of
the robin, not quite so robust, but stands much taller, being mounted
on rather long, stilt-like legs, which admirably fit him for the life
which he is designed to fill in the world. He belongs to the family
of wading birds, and seeks the principal part of his food in or by
the water, which could not possibly be were his walking appendages
curtailed the least bit of their fair proportions. But to be more
precise in my word-picture, let me describe him to you as of a pale
ashy-brown color, fading into grayish upon the under parts, and as
having his head set off with some narrow black bands, that on the neck
rarely, if ever, forming a perfect ring. His bill will be found to be
short and stout and blunt, and there will be an appreciable lack of
webbing between the middle and inner front toes.
Now that it is plain what the bird looks like, you are certainly
prepared, more than ever, to take some interest in him in his brief
stay by the sea. So strongly is he attached to the scenes rendered dear
by past associations and memories that, from his winter home in the
sunny South, and even from over the waters beyond our southern borders,
he hails with delight the return of the vernal equinox, for he knows
full well that it brings with it the summer’s heat and all its varied,
priceless wealth of insect life.
So with the first spring signs of open weather he quits his brumal
retreat, winds his way up along the trend of the Atlantic seaboard,
and at last reaches in the nights of early April the sandy beaches of
our Jersey coast. In flocks of a dozen individuals they run about the
sand in a most lively manner, and utter all the while a variety of
notes more or less pleasing, blending as they do with the deep-toned
bass of the ocean. When this sound, welling up from a dozen throats, is
heard in the dark it is particularly striking, as wild and weird as the
whistling of a wind at sea through the rigging of a ship.
But these flocks soon disperse into pairs to breed. Slight depressions
in the dry sand, and always in the midst of groups of broken colored
shells, but out of the reach of the maddened waves, rather than in
muddy, marshy places back of the beach-line, serve them for nests.
This nesting among clustered shells seemingly points to a love for
the beautiful. But may it not be that the shells but mark the various
nest-positions in the unbroken waste of sand? We incline to this
opinion. There is so much diversity manifested in the size of the
groups and in the arrangement and coloration of the individual shells
that comprise them, that no very great difficulty should be experienced
by the several pairs nesting in the same locality in knowing each
other’s nest.
While the birds are concerned with the cares of brood-raising, which
is usually towards the close of May or the beginning of June, they
confine their feeding to the damp, wet sand. Between it and the dry a
clear line of separation is plainly noticeable. It is only when they
are ready for the home duties that they are seen to resort to aerial
navigation. Even when on the very boundary-line of the two stretches
of sand, the wet and the dry, and with the nest almost in sight, they
are known to assume wing, taking due care, however, to alight before
they have fairly reached the spot. In flight an advantage, that of a
more commanding view, is acquired, which walking does not give. But in
leaving the nest for food, or for any other purpose, they, as before,
walk some distance away before they venture to fly. There is a seeming
purpose in so doing, the object to be gained being the deceiving of man
and other enemies as to the real location of the nest.
[Illustration: FEMALE PIPING PLOVER.
Nest in Midst of Broken Shells.]
All these precautions are undertaken for the sake of the eggs, although
in color and markings these so closely resemble the dry sand and
intermingled bits of foreign substances, that such actions seem all
unnecessary. When birds have been flushed from the nest, and its exact
position has been noted with the greatest care, I have failed, after
several minutes of the closest searching, to detect the eggs, so true
has been the color-harmony between them and the surrounding sand. This
resemblance in coloration must be seen to be fully appreciated. In
ground the eggs are the palest possible creamy-brown, but marked all
over, quite sparingly, with small blackish-brown dots and specks, the
largest hardly exceeding a pin’s head. Four is the usual number, and
these, from their peculiar pear-shaped form, are placed with their
points together in the centre of the nest. They are objects of more
than ordinary solicitude, the little Plovers making most violent
demonstrations and pleading piteously when they are approached.
The mother employs all the well-known artifices, such as lameness,
inability to fly, to draw the intruder away from the nest. The young
run as soon as they leave the egg, and are great adepts at hiding,
squatting, and remaining motionless. Their downy plumage so assimilates
them to the sand that unless they reveal themselves by moving, it
requires a very keen eye to distinguish them from the numberless tufts
that are scattered about the higher reaches of the beach.
Although so essentially a bird of the sea-shore, yet in August many
scores of these birds come up the Delaware River as far as tide-water
extends, feeding upon the mud-flats and gravel-bars, and occasionally
wending their way up along the courses of the creeks until they find
themselves well into the country. It is interesting to watch them as
they run in and out among the little hills and hollows of the mud in
quest of their prey. They are happy, light-hearted fellows, who do not
begrudge, when some racy tidbit has rewarded their hunting, to pipe a
few notes of thanks to Him who watches as tenderly over them as over
the mighty lords of the earth.
BOB WHITE.
Somewhat related to the grouse is the Quail, as he is called in
the Northern States, or “Bob White,” his universally recognized
appellation. His scientific name is _Ortyx Virginianus_. Differing
from the Old World partridges, he has been assigned a place in the
sub-family Odontophorinæ, of which five genera are said to exist, most
of them being restricted to the extreme south-west of our country. His
habits and history are full of interest to everybody.
Quails are restless, uneasy birds, attached to one place while
rearing their family, but immediately upon the brood becoming able to
travel, commencing their wanderings. There is no accounting for these
movements, which sometimes deprive a whole district of their presence
for a time, to populate a neighboring region previously without them.
When such journeys are undertaken, a large number of birds participate,
travelling on foot, and passing steadily through districts where food
is plentiful, and seemingly without any definite destination in mind,
so loath are they to use their wings, that in attempting to cross wide
rivers and inlets immense numbers are said to perish. A limited and
partial migration, it is highly probable, takes place annually from
the more northern to warmer latitudes, influenced in its extent by the
comparative severity of the seasons, being more distinctly migrating
west than east of the Delaware River.
About the middle of March the winter flocks break up, and the mating
begins. Although not indulging in the noisy and seemingly meaningless
antics of the grouse to call attention to his personal attractiveness,
Bob White, it would appear, becomes suddenly conscious of his comely
looks and excellent voice. In a dignified manner, with head erect, he
walks proudly about, inviting the opposite sex to view him at his best.
From the orchard gate he calls a saucy good morning to the farmer,
knowing that the law holds its _ægis_ over him at this time, but he
keeps an eye to hawks, cats and other predatory animals that respect
neither time, place nor season. He is polygamous, willing to assume any
amount of family responsibility, and will help to rear two, or even
three, broods a year, a successful pair often turning out twenty-five
young in a season. It is not an uncommon occurrence to find a covey of
little cheepers, scarcely able to fly, as late as November.
Although paired so early, the Quails do not proceed to the business of
nidification in the central part of their range until about the middle
of May. The leeward side of some dense tussock of grass, a mouldering
stump in a wild, matted meadow, the woody margin of a clover field
or orchard, or an old pasture overgrown with bramble thickets, are
situations commonly chosen, the female, as is her undoubted right,
taking the lead in fixing upon the site. An artificial bed of grasses
and vegetable trash, filling a shallow depression, is the nest.
Sometimes it is placed so as to be concealed by overarching grasses,
through which a regular tunnel, several feet in length, conducts to the
sanctum; and, at other times, is only covered with leaves and straw,
which the birds themselves have rudely adjusted. The nest, which is
constructed solely by the females of the family, varies in dimensions
according to the number of this sex that anticipate using it, the male
in the meantime going about in quest of food, or sitting upon a low
twig close by, cheering his wives by his trisyllabic note, and very
faithfully warning them of the imminence of danger.
The work is prosecuted with considerable zeal, three days at farthest
sufficing to make the nest ready for the first egg, which is
immediately laid, and which is followed by one on each consecutive day,
until seven or eight have been deposited. As many as thirty eggs are
sometimes found in a single nest, which is due to the polygamy of the
male. Two, and often three and four females, are taken by a male, and
two have been known to occupy simultaneously the same nest.
When a pair of birds has established itself in a locality from the
first, and has been successful in rearing a family of young during the
ensuing spring, if the females are in the majority the unprovided ones
still continue, as a general thing, to linger with the parents after
their more specially favored companions have mated and moved elsewhere.
This is particularly noticeable in a new locality where the covey
consists entirely of members of a single family. In cases where several
families congregate in the fall, the chances are greatly in favor of
monogamy. Small flocks are more decidedly polygamous than larger ones.
We have never observed the converse--that is, more than one male to a
female--but where several pairs are found in the same field, at slight
distances from each other, there is sometimes a noticeable tendency to
associate.
The eggs of the Quail are crystal white, sometimes slightly tinged with
yellow, and pyriform in shape. Eighteen days are required for their
hatching. Where the father is not fortunate enough to possess a harem,
a part of the work devolves upon him, while the mother seeks food and
recreation; but where there are several females, the work is divided
very amicably among them, each sitting about half a day at a stretch,
then calling her relief with a low note, if there be only two, the
male taking no part in the labor of incubation whatever. Should the
family be larger, two females will sit side by side on the eggs, there
being too many in number for one breast to cover. Meanwhile the husband
remains close by, chirping encouragement in a low tone, and betimes
making the field vocal with his loud, clear whistle. He is exceedingly
vigilant, and if a human being approaches the nest gives the alarm to
his partners, who secretly withdraw from the nest, while he, thoughtful
husband as he is, flings himself upon the ground in front of the
intruder, feigning lameness or injury, and seeking by every device
known to him to attract attention and pursuit, till having beguiled the
enemy far away from his home he seeks safety for himself in flight. The
experienced oölogist pays no regard to this deceit, seeing in it only a
sign of the nearness of the coveted prize, but patiently continues his
search until he has discovered its whereabouts.
[Illustration: HOME OF BOB WHITE.
Two Wives on Same Nest.]
Two broods are invariably raised and often a third, but the last
appearing late in the summer, and scarcely attaining their growth
before the coming of snow. If unmolested, it is evident, therefore,
that the species would increase with great rapidity, as shown by
the celerity with which regions, where the birds had been well nigh
exterminated, have been replenished when a period of quiet for a season
or two has been allowed them. The young run about in a very lively
manner as soon as they have left the shell, and in a few days are given
over to the care of the father, whom they follow and obey as readily as
they did the mother, possibly because they do not recognize the change
of guardians, while she returns to the cares of rearing another family.
During the spring and early summer both old and young find an
abundance of food for themselves in the larvæ of various insects, the
succulent shoots of growing plants and such seeds as abound. Later on,
strawberries, blueberries, huckleberries and other wild fruits supply
their demands. In August they grow fat upon grasshoppers, and as this
is the time when seeds ripen, acorns and beech-nuts fall, and the
stubble-fields are full of scattered wheat, rye, barley and maize, and
insects are plentiful upon the ground, they feast themselves to satiety
before the winter begins, until they have reached that delectable
plumpness so highly esteemed by _bon vivants_. Attaining their full
growth by the end of September, at least in the case of the earlier
broods, the season of play for the partridges and sport for the gunner
has come. Quail-shooting is regarded as a test of marksmanship in the
United States. So rare and wild have the birds become by reason of
incessant hunting, that it certainly requires skill and fine shooting
to make a bag. Bred in the open fields, and feeding early in the
morning and late in the evening, a man may beat a field all day, and
put up only one or two birds, when he is certain that twice as many
lay concealed, huddled up in little knots in out-of-the-way places,
which the best of dogs might easily pass without discovering. Their
inconspicuous colors, too, which are in keeping with the objects around
them, so conceal them from the vision of the hunter, that, trusting to
them, they will sit immovable until he has gone some distance beyond,
when they will spring up and away like so many arrows, requiring a
quick eye and a steady hand to turn and drop a brace.