seem, try their very best to see how oddly they can build their homes.
The little Acadian Flycatcher, so common in Eastern Pennsylvania during
the breeding-season, sometimes appears to be controlled by cranky ideas
with regard to building. Dry blossoms of the hickory are the materials
it ordinarily uses, and they can always be obtained whenever needed,
but in a nest discovered by the writer in 1882, not a blossom was to
be found, but in place of them there were long, stringy fibres of the
inner bark of some species of herbaceous plant, which the birds had
modelled into a compactly-built, shallow, saucer-like cavity, and from
which they had caused to depend a gradually tapering train of the same
for nearly nine inches.
[Illustration: ACADIAN FLYCATCHERS.
Nest Curious on Account of Its Train.]
The King Bird, a distant relative of the Flycatcher, often displays as
much eccentricity. Once upon a time a pair of King Birds took a fancy
to an old apple-tree that stood within a few yards of my Germantown
home. It was certainly not a place of quiet and retirement, for scores
of noisy, dirty children daily resorted to its leafy shelter for
coolness and pastime. But the birds were not the least disquieted.
They had fixed their minds upon the spot, and build they did. The
nest was posed between a forked branch, just out of the reach of the
urchins. It was a crazy affair. Black, slender roots, wrinkled and
knotted and tendrilled, made up the body of the fabric. As it was
nearing completion, the opportune discovery of a bunch of carpet rags
was hailed with delight. They were instantly appropriated, and promptly
adjusted to the outside, but in such a manner that long ends, some
fourteen inches in length, were made to project from the sides and
bottom. Whether all this was for ornament or protection, or for both,
I could not say, but I am inclined to think that safety was uppermost
in the minds of the builders, for, looking from below at the nest it
seemed but a mass of rags that had been thrown into a tree-crotch,
which, the birds perceiving, and its close resemblance to an entangled
bunch, had utilized.
[Illustration: Copyright 1900 by A. R. DUGMORE.
LONG BILLED MARSH WREN’S NEST.]
Certainly no more beautiful nests in shape exist than the spherical
in form. The Long-billed Marsh Wren builds a nest of this type. Upon
its arrival in the spring it seeks the inland swamps, or the brackish
marshes of the sea-shore, where, amid the splatterdocks of the former
and reeds of the latter, it finds suitable shelter and protection.
There, day in and day out, during its entire summer stay, it pursues
the even tenor of its life, happy and contented, never caring, like
many of its remoter kin, for the charmed circle of man. Active,
energetic and buoyant with hope, it skips about the tall rank herbage,
in every direction, in quest of insects, making its presence known
and felt by the lively chattering song, which resembles more nearly
the sounds of an insect than those of a bird, which emanates from
its grassy haunts. As these birds reach their breeding-grounds early
in May, nest-building is soon begun, but so secret and mysterious
are their movements at first, that we hardly know anything of their
presence, except when they are colonized for the summer. The labor of
building is entered into with considerable alacrity, and is mainly the
result of the combined labor of both birds. Their nests are usually
placed in low bushes, a few feet above the ground, or woven into the
tops of sedges out of the reach of ordinary tides; but in very rare
instances upon the ground in the midst of a clump of grasses. Ground
nests are loosely-constructed affairs, which is not the case with
those that are elevated to the tops of tussocks, or to the branches of
shrubs and trees, which require more compactness and a better finish.
The most beautiful, as well as artistic, nest which I have ever seen
is the one shown in the cut. This nest was discovered in the vicinity
of Philadelphia in the summer of 1878. A willow-branch, some fifteen
feet above the ground, which was bifurcated, was made to do service.
No ordinary skill was that which surmounted the seemingly insuperable
difficulty of building a nest, not pensile in character, to such a
swaying branch. That the birds accomplished the feat the nest itself
was the evidence. In form this nest was nearly globular, four and a
half and five inches in the two diameters. It was woven of the broad
leaves of a species of scirpus, closely and evenly, and had its
interstices well seamed with brownish cottony down. A thin delicate
curtain of gauze, of the same material, hung around the opening, and
this was continued within, forming a thick bedding of the softest,
fluffiest nature, of which the most voluptuous sybarite might envy its
fortunate possessor.
[Illustration: LONG-BILLED MARSH WRENS.
Nest Placed Out of the Reach of Tides.]
But the little Golden-crowned Kinglet, a mere mite of flesh and
feathers, but with a great deal of spirit, builds a much handsomer
nest. It is the perfection of symmetry. Man could not make with all
the appliances at his command any thing more nearly globular. But its
beauty! It looks like a ball of green moss, the delicate patches of
moss being so artfully arranged as to completely hide the dry stems of
grasses that constitute the walls. No moss ever spread itself over the
ground, or over a stump or tree-trunk, more evenly. When it is known
that this Kinglet builds its nest among the slender feathered branches
of the hemlock spruce, there is manifestly a reason for the fern-like
tracery upon the exterior, so necessary for the preservation of its
home. Such a handsome and imposing structure would be far from complete
were the inside not in keeping with the outside. But the birds have
left nothing to be desired in this particular. The softest and purest
of down lines the little bed-chamber, and even swells in its lightness
till ready to overflow the neat circular door-way.
[Illustration: GOLDEN-CROWNED KINGLETS.
Nest the Perfection of Beauty and Symmetry.]
Perhaps the most graceful thing you may ever expect to find when on the
quest, fitted to be considered the work of the fairies, is the pretty
lace hammock of the Parula Warbler. You must search for it early in
June, in remote but thin woods, but never far from running water. Often
you will see it upon a branch overhanging a stream. The slender twig
of a birch is sometimes chosen for its suspension, the terminal spray
of a hemlock spruce, or a horizontal branch of a white oak. Like a
watch-pocket, with the opening in the side, it is lightly suspended.
It is made of a delicate lace-work, the grayish-green usnea moss, that
grows on old trees. The whole fabric is the work of two little birds
with slate-blue backs and yellow breasts. No other bird of our fauna
builds a nest akin to its swinging, eery nest. It is true much of the
material is found in position when the builders commence their labor,
but the exquisite outline and finish, as well as the cozy interior,
are due to the skill of the birds themselves. Even when the structure
is just so far completed that occupancy by the female is possible, the
male never wearies of its adornment by additional filaments of usnea
brought from a distance. He is the happiest of fellows, for his little
beak always finds something to do while his patient wife is busy with
the duties that lead to maternity.
[Illustration: LACE HAMMOCK OF PARULA WARBLER.
Female Entering Nest and Male Adding to Its Adornments.]
Coming like whirling leaves, half autumn yellow, half green of spring,
their colors blending like the outer petals of grass-green daffodils,
no more sociable and confiding little creatures are to be found in our
midst than the Yellow Warblers. They are as much at home in the trees
by the house as in the fields and woods. Wherever they wander, the
glints of sunshine that flash from their backs should make the most
miserable complainer feel the summer’s charm. But in spite of their
seeming preference for man, they are prone to build in lonely fields
and by-ways. In such places it becomes one of the especial victims
which the Cow Bird selects to foster its random eggs. But the Warbler
puts its intelligence effectively to work, and builds a second story
to its nest, thus flooring over the unwelcome eggs. This expedient
is repeated as long as the Cow Bird continues her mischief, until
sometimes a three-story nest is achieved. The outside of the nest,
composed of glistening milkweed flax, is pressed into a felt-like case,
the fibres serving at the same time to lash the nest to its support.
Within, to the depth of an inch, is a soft sponge-like material, which
the birds have made from the wool they have gathered from the stems
of young ferns. A few horse-hairs, to give shape and stability to the
nest, are to be found in the inside of the felt-like lining.
[Illustration: THREE-STORY NEST OF YELLOW WARBLER.
Showing the Builder’s Manner of Out-witting the Cow Bird.]
Hundreds of nests, quite as novel as any that have been described,
might be instanced, showing varieties from so-called normal forms, but
I shall content myself with only another example. Everyone is familiar
with the Ruby-throated Humming Bird, so common in the eastern half of
the United States. It is the smallest of all our birds. But its nest,
which is by no means scarce, is a rare sight to the average man and
woman. No nest can be compared with it. It is a thing of beauty and a
joy forever. A mass of cotton, with a hole in the top, and thatched all
round with blue-gray lichens, and just as big as a walnut, conveys a
good idea of its appearance. But all nests are not made of cotton. The
yellow wool that forms the dress of the undeveloped fern-frond, or the
red shoddy that is wind-swept into heaps outside some woollen factory,
is often made to take the place of the down of the seed of the poplar.
Not to be mentioned in the same breath with these, is the nest I am now
about to describe. It was saddled upon the horizontal bough of a small
white oak-tree that grew on the side of a thicket, and was peculiar
from the nature of the material that composed its inner fabric. This
substance resembled burnt umber in color, and was as soft as the finest
wool, or the fluffiest down, and proved, upon examination, to be the
mycelium of a fungus which the builders had gathered from decaying
stumps or mildewing tree-branch.
STRANGE FRIENDSHIP.
Somewhat widely distributed throughout temperate North America, but
nowhere very abundant, is the little Acadian Owl, or Saw-whet Owl, as
he is popularly designated. In Eastern Pennsylvania he seems notably
scarce, but this may be attributed to his pre-eminently nocturnal
and secluded habits. Being a denizen of dense pine forests, and only
venturing abroad in quest of food at the close of the day, his presence
and numbers remain to many a mystery. Hollow trees, and the dark
caverns of rocks, are his natural retreats, and as these are to be met
with largely in densely-timbered regions and sequestered localities, he
is seldom, if ever, seen in close proximity to human habitations. He
seemingly shuns rather than courts the society of man. When routed from
his burrow in the broad glare of day he becomes very much bewildered,
and is scarcely able to escape the approach of danger.
The common appellation of Saw-whet Owl, which is applied to the
species, owes its origin to the close resemblance which the notes of
the bird bear to the noise produced by the filing of a saw. These
notes are so deceptive, that persons unacquainted with their source
have fancied themselves in the vicinity of a saw-mill, or in near
presence to a woodman occupied in whetting a saw. Audubon, hearing
these notes in a thicket for the first time, was thus deceived. The
same distinguished writer gives, on the authority of Mr. McCullock, an
interesting description not only of the notes of this Owl, but also
of his remarkable powers of ventriloquism. On a certain occasion his
informant was aroused by what appeared to be the feeble tones of a
distant bell. But in nearing the spot whence the sounds emanated, they
apparently shifted from point to point, being heard at one time close
by, and at the next moment in the distance, now on the left, then on
the right, and as often in the rear as in the front. Finally the author
of these sounds was discovered at the entrance of his burrow in a
birch-tree. Stationing himself at the base of the tree in full view of
the bird who was calling to his partner, Mr. McCullock had a splendid
opportunity of observing an exhibition of his singular and exceptional
ventriloquial powers.
Smooth, gliding and noiseless is the flight of this Owl, and but
slightly elevated and protracted. When seeking for food he may be seen
sailing over low meadows in the neighborhood of his accustomed haunts,
or, perched upon a stump or fence-rail adjoining thereto, quietly
gazing in every direction for whatever of life may chance to manifest
itself, which he seizes with remarkable adroitness, even sometimes
venturing to assail prey larger than himself. The smaller birds,
awakened from their perch by his cries, fall ready victims to his
rapacity.
Hollow trees, or the deserted nests of other species, are selected
for breeding-quarters. The eggs, varying from four to six in number,
are pure white, sub-spherical, of crystalline clearness, and measure
one and one-eighth by one and seven-eighths inches. The food of this
interesting little Owl, which is not so large as a robin, though
appearing bulkier, consists of small quadrupeds and birds, but chiefly
of various species of insects.
When taken quite young, and held in confinement, this Owl becomes quite
tame, permitting strangers as well as his keeper to handle him with
the utmost freedom, without so much as resenting such familiarity. But
a greater attachment is manifested towards the master whom he is able
to recognize by the sound of his voice, and in whose presence he is
peculiarly fascinating and agreeable.
Like _Scops asio_--the Red Owl--he leads a solitary existence, save on
the approach of warm weather, when the sexes are discovered together,
or are heard calling one to the other. Mating commences early in April,
and about the middle of the month the birds have located their nests
in the hollow of a tree, about twenty feet from the ground, where the
female lays her complement of eggs. The entrance to the hole is very
small, scarcely two inches in diameter. Upon the female devolves the
whole work of incubation, although the male takes a hand in raising the
young. The latter leave the nest about the first week of May, and when
disturbed make a noise that sounds like a dog sniffling the air, which,
when heard, especially at night in heavy timber, is quite certain to
startle one and make him fancy a bear or some such animal up a tree
near by.
Some years ago there lived in the hollow of an oak tree, not far from
Germantown, a common Chickaree Squirrel--_Sciurus Hudsonius_--with
this little Owl as his sole companion. This association reminded me
of the connection of the burrowing owl of the West with the singular
settlements of the prairie dog, the life-relations of the two creatures
being really intimate in very many localities, although the owls are
simply attracted to the villages of the prairie-dogs as the most
suitable places for shelter and nidification, where they find eligible
ready-made burrows and are saved the trouble of digging for themselves.
Community of interest makes them gregarious to an extent unusual among
rapacious birds, while the exigencies of life on the plains cast their
lot with the rodents. That the owls live at ease in the settlements,
and on familiar terms with their four-footed neighbors, is an undoubted
fact, but that they have any intimate domestic relations is open to
question. That the quadruped and the birds are often seen to scuttle
at each other’s heels into the same hole when alarmed is no proof that
they live together, for in such a case the two merely seek the nearest
shelter, independently of each other. In the larger settlements there
are thousands upon thousands of burrows, many of them occupied by the
dogs, but more, perhaps, vacant. These latter are the homes of the
owls. It is possible that the respective retreats of a dog and an owl
may have one common vestibule, but this does not imply that they nest
together. There are fewest owls in the towns most densely populated by
the dogs and the greatest number in the deserted villages, and this
is strong evidence in point. But the owls are by no means confined to
the dog-towns, nor even to the similar communities of other gregarious
spermophiles. They sometimes occupy the underground dens of wolves,
foxes and badgers. When the subject has been carefully investigated,
the owls never appear to enter the same hole or burrow with a squirrel,
and a squirrel is never seen to enter a burrow that was occupied by
owls, however strongly he may be tempted by fear to enter the first
hole he should come to. The spermophile never likes to enter any burrow
but his own, and has been known to run past any number of inviting
entrances in order that he may hide himself in his own domicile.
[Illustration: SAW-WHET OWL AND CHICKAREE SQUIRREL.
Living Together in Perfect Harmony and Mutual Good-will.]
In the case of the Chickaree Squirrel and the Saw-whet Owl, they
occupied the same hole together in perfect harmony and mutual
good-will. It was not an accidental occurrence, the Squirrel merely
seeking the cavity to escape a danger that impended, for the bird and
the Squirrel had been repeatedly observed to enter the hole together,
and in the most amicable manner possible, as though they had always
shared the apartment. Ordinarily the Chickaree is a very pugnacious
creature, attacking with the greatest fierceness the gray and black
squirrel whenever they had the temerity to cross his path. He seems to
be ever bent upon blood. Though strictly by nature a rodent, subsisting
principally upon nuts and the bark of trees, which his powerful
incisors enable him to manipulate effectively, yet he has not always
remained true to his instincts, for he has been frequently detected
in eating the eggs of birds, and also in the seizure of the feathered
denizens of our lawns and woods, which he will capture with all the
skill of the blood-thirsty weasel. His method of operation is peculiar.
He will lie in wait, concealed from view by the dense foliage of the
trees which he is wont to affect when in quest of game, and when some
unsuspecting bird hovers near pounces upon it with unerring precision,
and effecting its capture proceeds to suck, sitting up in true squirrel
fashion, the life-sustaining fluid through a wound inflicted in the
side of the neck. Having satiated his thirst, which may have been the
prime object of the capture, the dead body of the bird is dropped, and
the little monster, upon erect haunches, poses, the embodiment of
perfect contentment.
But in the case of the Owl it was otherwise. Perhaps it was too large
for the monster to attack, or, knowing from rumor of gossiping friends
the reputation of the former for cruelty and murder, a conciliatory
spirit was thought the best to adopt. No one knows the bitter character
of the first interview, or whether a liking for each other sprang up
from the beginning. Be this as it may, there can be no denying the
fact that a friendship was cemented between the two animals, widely
divergent in structural peculiarities as they are known to be, that
gave hope of becoming long and enduring.
NATURE’S LITTLE STORE-KEEPER.
One of the most familiar of North American quadrupeds is the Hackee, or
Chipping Squirrel, as he is sometimes termed, from the strange, quaint
utterances which he emits while rollicking with his fellows or in quest
of something to eat. He is a beautiful little creature, notable alike
for the dainty elegance of his form and for the pleasing tints with
which his dress is arrayed. His general color is brownish-gray upon the
back, warming into orange-brown upon the forehead and hinder quarters.
Five longitudinal black stripes and two streaks of yellowish-white
adorn the dorsum and sides, which render him a most conspicuous being
and one readily distinguishable from any other animal. His abdomen
and throat are white. He is slightly variable in color according to
locality, and has been known to be so capricious of hue as to become
a pure white or a jetty black. But for the commonness of the species,
which is found in great numbers in almost every place, his fur, from
its extreme beauty, would long since have taken nearly as high rank as
sable or ermine.
No quadruped is so brisk or so lively. His quick, rapid movements have
not inaptly compared him to the wren. As he whisks about the branches
of the brushwood and small timber among which he is chiefly met, or
shoots through their interstices with his peculiar jerking movements,
and his odd clicking cry, like the chip-chipping of newly-hatched
chickens, the analogy between himself and the bird is strikingly
apparent. Occurring in great plenty, and being a bold little creature,
he is much persecuted by small boys, who, with long sticks, and
well-directed blows, manage to fell to the earth many a luckless fellow
as he endeavors to escape his pursuers by running along the rail fences.
Hackees delight in sequestered localities. There they tunnel their
homes, preferring some old tree, or a spot of earth sheltered by a
wall or a bank. Their burrows are rather complicated affairs, running
often to great lengths, so that the task of digging the animal out
of his retreat becomes one of no easy accomplishment. Sandy patches
of ground, on the outskirts of a woods, are not unusually chosen for
burrows. A hole, almost perpendicular, is drilled into the earth to a
depth of three feet, and is thence continued with one or more windings,
rising a little nearer the surface until it has advanced some nine or
ten feet, when it is made to terminate in a large circular nest, made
of oak leaves and dried grasses. Small lateral galleries branch off
from the main burrow, in which these provident little creatures lay up
their winter’s provisions. Wheat, Indian corn, buckwheat, hazel-nuts,
acorns and the seeds of grasses have been found in their underground
receptacles, a proof, were further evidence lacking, that they do not
pass the cold famine months in a sluggish and benumbed condition.
Several layers of leaves, aggregating nine inches in thickness, are
often found over the entrance, as a protection from frosts, which are
further prevented from intrusion by the sealing up of the mouth from
within.
Everything is done by the Hackee in a business-like manner. In
gathering his food, lest the sharp beak of the nut may injure his
cheeks when he places the fruit in his pouch, he nips off the point,
and then by the aid of his fore-paws deliberately pushes the nut
into one of his pouches. Another and another are similarly treated,
and taking a fourth between his teeth, he dives into his burrow,
and, having packed them methodically away, returns to the surface
for a fresh cargo. Four nuts are his load at each journey. With his
check-pouches distended to their fullest capacity, and laboring most
truly under an embarrassment of riches, the little fellow presents a
most ludicrous appearance.
[Illustration: Copyright 1900 by A. R. DUGMORE.
CHIPPING SQUIRRELS FEEDING.]
When menaced by foes, by which so defenceless and conspicuous an animal
is sure to be surrounded in great numbers, the Hackee makes at once for
his burrow, and is there secure from the attacks of nearly all enemies.
One foe there is, however, that cares naught for the burrow, but
follows the poor Hackee through all of its windings, and never fails
to attain his sanguinary object. This remorseless foe is the stoat, or
ermine, whose only _penchant_ is the blood, and not the flesh, of his
victim.
[Illustration: HACKEE, OR CHIPPING SQUIRREL.
Laying up Food for the Famine of Winter.]