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By Olive Thorne Miller.
BIRD-WAYS. 16mo, $1.25.
IN NESTING TIME. 16mo, $1.25.
LITTLE BROTHERS OF THE AIR. $1.25.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
LITTLE BROTHERS OF
THE AIR
BY
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1893
Copyright, 1892,
BY H.M. MILLER.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H.O. Houghton & Company.
INTRODUCTORY.
Some of the chapters of this little book were written in 1888, on the
shore of the Great South Bay, Long Island; others in the northern part
of New York State, known to its residents as the "Black River Country,"
a year or two later. Part of them have been published in The Atlantic
Monthly, Harper's Bazaar, The Independent and other papers.
The nomenclature in the Table of Contents is that adopted by the
American Ornithological Society.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
CONTENTS.
ON THE GREAT SOUTH BAY.
PAGE
I. THE KINGBIRD'S NEST 1
Kingbird. _Tyrannus tyrannus._
II. A CHRONICLE OF THREE LITTLE KINGS 19
Kingbird. _Tyrannus tyrannus._
III. THE BABES IN THE WOOD 34
Flicker. _Colaptes auratus._
IV. HOME LIFE OF THE REDSTART 48
American Redstart. _Setophaga ruticilla._
V. WHEN NESTING IS OVER 61
Thrasher. _Harporhynchus rufus._
White-bellied Swallow. _Tachycineta bicolor._
Wood Pewee. _Contopus virens._
Bluebird. _Sialia sialis._
VI. IN SEARCH OF THE BLUEJAY 76
Bluejay. _Cyanocitta cristata._
VII. IN THE WOOD LOT 83
Bluejay. _Cyanocitta cristata._
VIII. THE BLUEJAY BABY 89
Bluejay. _Cyanocitta cristata._
IN THE BLACK RIVER COUNTRY.
IX. THAT WITCHING SONG 99
Wilson's Thrush. _Turdus fuscescens._
X. THE VEERY MOTHER 107
Wilson's Thrush. _Turdus fuscescens._
XI. THE TAWNY THRUSH'S BROOD 114
Wilson's Thrush. _Turdus fuscescens._
XII. A MEADOW NEST 123
Wilson's Thrush. _Turdus fuscescens._
XIII. A JUNE ROUND OF CALLS 130
Wood Pewee. _Contopus virens._
Junco. _Junco hyemalis._
Flicker. _Colaptes auratus._
Redstart. _Setophaga ruticilla._
Sapsucker. _Sphyrapicus varius._
XIV. A BOBOLINK RHAPSODY 138
Bobolink. _Dolichonyx oryzivorus._
XV. THE BOBOLINK'S NEST 146
Bobolink. _Dolichonyx oryzivorus._
XVI. THE TANAGER'S NEST 155
Scarlet Tanager. _Piranga erythromelas._
XVII. THE WILES OF A WARBLER 163
Black-throated Blue. _Dendroica coerulescens._
XVIII. A RAINY-DAY TRAMP 173
Oven-bird. _Seiurus aurocapillus._
XIX. THE VAGARIES OF A WARBLER 180
Redstart. _Setophaga ruticilla._
Chestnut-sided W. _Dendroica pensylvanica._
XX. A CLEVER CUCKOO 190
Black-billed C. _Coccyzus erythrophthalmus._
XXI. TWO LITTLE DRUMMERS 201
Sapsucker. _Sphyrapicus varius._
Red-headed Woodpecker. _Melanerpes erythrocephalus._
XXII. FROM MY WINDOW 221
Phoebe. _Sayornis phoebe._
Robin. _Merula migratoria._
Great-crested Fly-catcher. _Myiarchus crinitus._
Purple Grackle. _Quiscalus quiscula._
Downy Woodpecker. _Dryobates pubescens._
Chestnut-sided Warbler. _Dendroica pensylvanica._
Kingbird. _Tyrannus tyrannus._
XXIII. THE COMICAL CROW BABY 236
Common Crow. _Corvus americanus._
XXIV. A MIDSUMMER WOOING 244
American Goldfinch. _Spinus tristis._
XXV. A PLUM-TREE ROMANCE 252
American Goldfinch. _Spinus tristis._
XXVI. SOLITARY THE THRUSH 259
Hermit Thrush. _Turdus aonalaschkoe pallasii._
INDEX 269
ON THE GREAT SOUTH BAY.
Precious qualities of silence haunt
Round these vast margins ministrant.
'T is here, 't is here, thou canst unhand thy heart
And breathe it free, and breathe it free
By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty.
SIDNEY LANIER.
LITTLE BROTHERS OF THE AIR.
I.
THE KINGBIRD'S NEST.
To study a nest is to make an acquaintance. However familiar the bird,
unless the student has watched its ways during the only domestic period
of its life,--nesting time,--he has still something to learn. In fact,
he has almost everything to learn, for into those few weeks is crowded a
whole lifetime of emotions and experiences which fully bring out the
individuality of the bird. Family life is a test of character, no less
in the nest than in the house. Moreover, to a devotee of the science
that some one has aptly called Ornithography, nothing is so attractive.
What hopes it holds out! Who can guess what mysteries shall be
disclosed, what interesting episodes of life shall be seen about that
charmed spot?
To find a newly built nest is the first June work of the bird-student,
and this year on the Great South Bay a particularly inviting one
presented itself, on the top branch of a tall oak-tree near my "inn of
rest." It was in plain sight from the veranda. The builder evidently
cared nothing for concealment, and relied, with reason, upon its
inaccessible position for safety. To be sure, as days went by and oak
leaves grew, a fair screen for the little dwelling was not lacking; but
summer breezes were kind, and often blew them aside, and, better still,
from other points of view the nest was never hidden.
To whom, then, did the nest belong? I hoped to the kingbird, who at that
moment sat demurely upon the picket fence below, apparently interested
only in passing insects; and while I looked the question was answered by
Madame Tyrannis herself, who came with the confidence of ownership,
carrying a beakful of building material, and arranging it with great
pains inside the structure. This was satisfactory, for I did not know
the kingbird in domestic life.
For several days it seemed uncertain whether the kingbirds would ever
really occupy the nest, so spasmodic was the work upon it. Now one of
the pair came with a bit of something, placed it, tried its effect this
way and that, and then disappeared; while for hours every day both might
be seen about the place, hunting insects and taking their ease on the
fence as if no thought of nesting ever stirred their wise little heads.
The last addition to the domicile was curious: a soft white feather from
the poultry yard, which was fastened up on the edge, and stood there
floating in the breeze; a white banner of peace flung out to the world
from her castle walls.
Peace from a kingbird? Direful tales are told of this bird: "he is
pugnacious," says one writer; "he fights everybody," adds another; "he
is a coward," remarks a third. Science has dubbed him tyrant
(_Tyrannis_), and his character is supposed to be settled. But may there
not be two sides to the story? We shall see. One kingbird, at least,
shall be studied sympathetically; we shall try to enter his life, to
judge him fairly, and shall above all
"bring not
The fancies found in books,
Leave author's eyes, and fetch our own."
Nearly two months that small dwelling on the oak was watched, day after
day, early and late, in storm and in sunshine; now I know at least one
family of kingbirds, and what I know I shall honestly tell, "nothing
extenuating."
The house was built, the season was passing, yet housekeeping did not
begin. The birds, indeed, appeared to have abandoned the tree, and days
went by in which I could not see that either visited it. But the nest
was not deserted, for all that; the curiosity and impertinence of the
neighbors were simply amazing. (Perhaps the kingbird has some reason to
be pugnacious!) No sooner was that tenement finished than, as promptly
as if they had received cards to a house-warming, visitors began to
come. First to show himself was an orchard oriole, who was in the habit
of passing over the yard every day and stopping an hour or more in the
neighborhood, while he scrambled over the trees, varying his lunches
with a rich and graceful song. Arrived this morning in the kingbird
tree, he began his usual hunt over the top branch, when suddenly his eye
fell upon the kingbird cradle. He paused, cast a wary glance about, then
dropped to a lower perch, his singing ended, his manner guilty. Nearer
and nearer he drew, looking cautiously about and moving in perfect
silence. Still the owner did not come, and at last the stranger stood
upon the edge. What joy! He looked that mansion over from foundation to
banner fluttering in the wind; he examined closely its construction;
with head turned over one side, he criticised its general effect, and
apparently did not think much of it; he gratified to the full his
curiosity, and after about one minute's study flew to the next tree, and
resumed his singing.
The next arrival was a pewee, whose own nest was nearly built, in a
wild-cherry tree not far off. The fence under the oak was his usual
perch, and it was plain that he made his first call with "malice
aforethought;" for, disdaining the smallest pretense of interest in it,
he flew directly to the nest, hovered beneath it, and pulled out some
part of the building material that pleased his fancy,--nothing less than
pure thievery.
Among the occasional visitors to the yard were two American goldfinches,
or thistle-birds, in bright yellow and black plumage, both males. They
also went to the new homestead in the oak, inspected it, chatted over it
in their sweet tones, and then passed on. It began to look as though the
nest were in the market for any one to choose, and the string of company
was not yet ended.
Soon after the goldfinches had passed by, there alighted a gay Baltimore
oriole, who, not content with looking at the new castle in the air, must
needs try it. He actually stepped into the nest and settled down as if
sitting. Who knows but he was experimenting to see if this simple,
wide-open cradle wouldn't do as well for oriole babies as for kingbirds?
Certainly it was a curious performance. It made an impression on him
too, for the next day he came again; and this time he picked at it, and
seemed to be changing its interior arrangement, but he carried nothing
away when he flew. Even after sitting began, this oriole paid two more
visits to the nest which so interested him. On the first occasion, the
owner was at home, and gave him instant notice that the place was no
longer on view. He retired, but, being no coward, and not choosing to
submit to dictation, he came again. This time, a fly-up together, a
clinch in the air, with loud and offensive remarks, cured him of further
desire to call.
More persistent than any yet mentioned was a robin. Heretofore, strange
to say, the guests had all been males, but this caller was the mother of
a young brood in the next yard. She came in her usual way, alighted on a
low branch, ran out upon it, hopped to the next higher, and so proceeded
till she reached the nest. The kingbird happened to be near it himself,
and drove her away in an indifferent manner, as if this interloper were
of small account. The robin went, of course, but returned, and, perching
close to the object of interest, leaned over and looked at it as long as
she chose, while the owner stood calmly by on a twig and did not
interfere. I know he was not afraid of the robin, as later events
proved; and it really looked as if the pair deliberately delayed sitting
to give the neighborhood a chance to satisfy its curiosity; as if they
thus proclaimed to whom it might concern that there was to be a kingbird
household, that they might view it at their leisure before it was
occupied, but after that no guests were desired. Whatever the cause, the
fact is, that once completed, the nest was almost entirely abandoned by
the builders for several days, during which this neighborhood inspection
went on. They even deserted their usual hunting-ground, and might
generally be seen at the back of the house, awaiting their prey in the
most unconcerned manner.
However, time was passing, and one day Madame Tyrannis herself began to
call, but fitfully. Sometimes she stayed about the nest one minute,
sometimes five minutes, but was restless; picking at the walls,
twitching the leaves that hung too near, rearranging the lining, trying
it this way and that, as if to see how it fitted her figure, and how she
should like it when she was settled. First she tried sitting with face
looking toward the bay; then she jerked herself around, without rising,
and looked awhile toward the house. She had as much trouble to get
matters adjusted to her mind as if she had a houseful of furniture to
place, with carpets to lay, curtains to hang, and the thousand and one
"things" with which we bigger housekeepers cumber ourselves and make
life a burden. This spasmodic visitation went on for days, and finally
it was plain that sitting had begun. Still the birds of the vicinity
were interested callers, and I began to think that one kingbird would
not even protect his nest, far less justify his reputation by
tyrannizing over the feathered world. But when his mate had seriously
established herself, it was time for the head of the household to assume
her defense, and he did.
As usual, the kingbird united the characters of brave defender and
tender lover. To his spouse his manners were charming. When he came to
relieve her of her care, to give her exercise or a chance for luncheon,
he greeted her with a few low notes, and alighted on a small leafless
twig that curved up about a foot above the nest, and made a perfect
watch-tower. She slipped off her seat and disappeared for about six
minutes. During her absence he stayed at his post, sometimes changing
his perch to one or other of half a dozen leafless branchlets in that
part of the tree, and there sitting, silent and watchful, ready to
interview any stranger who appeared. Upon her return he again saluted
her with a few words, adding to them a lifting of wings and spreading of
his beautiful tail that most comically suggested the bowing and
hat-lifting of bigger gentlemen. In all their life together, even when
the demands of three infants kept them busy from morning till night, he
never forgot this little civility to his helpmate. If she alighted
beside him on the fence, he rose a few inches above his perch, and flew
around in a small circle while greeting her; and sometimes, on her
return to the nest, he described a larger circle, talking (as I must
call it) all the time. Occasionally, when she approached, he flew out to
meet and come back with her, as if to escort her. Could this bird, to
his mate so thoughtful and polite, be to the rest of the world the bully
he is pictured? Did he, who for ten months of the year shows less
curiosity about others, and attends more perfectly to his own business
than any bird I have noticed, suddenly, at this crisis in his life,
become aggressive, and during these two months of love and paternity and
hard work, make war upon a peaceful neighborhood?
I watched closely. There was not an hour of the day, often from four
A.M. to eight P.M., that I had not the kingbird and his nest directly in
sight, and hardly a movement of his life escaped me. There he stood, on
the fence under his tree, on a dead bush at the edge of the bay, or on
the lowest limb of a small pear-tree in the yard. Sometimes he dashed
into the air for his prey; sometimes he dropped to the ground to secure
it; but oftenest, especially when baby throats grew clamorous, he
hovered over the rank grass on the low land of the shore, wings beating,
tail wide spread, diving now and then for an instant to snatch a morsel;
and every thirty minutes, as punctually as if he carried a watch in his
trim white vest, he took a direct line for the home where his mate sat
waiting.
A few days after the little dame took possession of the nest, the
kingbird had succeeded, without much trouble, in making most of his
fellow-creatures understand that he laid claim to the upper branches of
the oak, and was prepared to defend them against all comers, and they
simply gave the tree a wide berth in passing.
Apparently deceived by his former indifference, however, the robin above
mentioned presumed to call somewhat later. This time she was received in
a manner that plainly showed she was no longer welcome. She retired, but
she expressed her mind freely for some time, sitting on the fence below.
With true robin persistence she did not give it up, and she selected for
her next call the dusk of evening, just before going to bed.
This time both kingbirds flung themselves after her, and she left,
"laughing" as she went. The kingbirds did not follow beyond their own
borders, and the robin soon returned to the nearest tree, where she
kept up the taunting "he! he! he!" a long time, seemingly with
deliberate intention to insult or enrage her pursuers, but without
success; for unless she came to their tree, the kingbirds paid her not
the slightest attention.
The last time the robin tried to be on friendly terms with her neighbor,
I noticed her standing near him on the picket fence under his tree.
There were not more than three pickets between them, and she was
expostulating earnestly, with flirting tail and jerking wings, and with
loud "tut! tut's," and "he! he's!" she managed to be very eloquent. Had
he driven her from his nest? and was she complaining? I could only
guess. The kingbird did not reply to her, but when she flew he followed,
and she did not cease telling him what she thought of him as she flew,
till out of sight.
Strangest of all was the fact that, during the whole of this scene, her
mate stood on the fence within a dozen feet, and looked on! Did he think
her capable of managing her own affairs? Did he prefer to be on good
terms with his peppery neighbor? or was it because with her it would be
a war of words, while if he entered the arena it must be a fight? as we
sometimes see, when a man goes home fighting drunk, every man of the
neighborhood keeps out of sight, while all the women go out and help
his wife to get him home. The most troublesome meddler was, as might be
expected, an English sparrow. From the time when the first stick was
laid till the babies were grown and had left the tree, that bird never
ceased to intrude and annoy. He visited the nest when empty; he managed
to have frequent peeps at the young; and notwithstanding he was driven
off every time, he still hung around, with prying ways so exasperating
that he well deserved a thrashing, and I wonder he did not get it. He
was driven away repeatedly, and he was "picked off" from below, and
pounced upon from above, but he never failed to return.
Another visitor of whom the kingbird seemed suspicious was a purple crow
blackbird, who every day passed over. This bird and the common crow were
the only ones he drove away without waiting for them to alight; and if
half that is told of them be true, he had reason to do so.
With none of these intruders had the kingbird any quarrel when away from
his nest. The blackbird, to whom he showed the most violence, hunted
peacefully beside him on the grass all day; the robin alighted near him
on the fence, as usual; the orioles scrambled over the neighboring
trees, singing, and eating, as was their custom; even the English
sparrow carried on his vulgar squabbles on his own branch of the oak all
day; but to none of them did the kingbird pay the slightest attention.
He simply and solely defended his own household.
In the beginning the little dame took sitting very easy, fidgeting about
in the nest, standing up to dress her feathers, stretching her neck to
see what went on in the yard below, and stepping out upon a neighboring
twig to rest herself. After a few days she settled more seriously to
work, and became very quiet and patient. Her mate never brought food to
her, nor did he once take her place in the nest; not even during a
furious northeast gale that turned June into November, and lasted
thirty-six hours, most of the time with heavy rain, when the top branch
bent and tossed, and threatened every moment a catastrophe. In the
house, fires were built and books and work brought out; but the
bird-student, wrapped in heavy shawls, kept close watch from an open
window, and noted well the bad-weather manners of Tyrannis. Madame sat
very close, head to the northeast, and tail, narrowed to the width of
one feather, pressed against a twig that grew up behind the nest. All
through the storm, I think the head of the family remained in a
sheltered part of the tree, but he did not come to the usual twigs which
were so exposed. I know he was near, for I heard him, and occasionally
saw him standing with body horizontal instead of upright, as usual, the
better to maintain his position against the wind. At about the ordinary
intervals the sitter left her nest, without so much as a leaf to cover
it, and was absent perhaps half as long as common, but not once did her
mate assume her post.
How were this pair distinguished from each other, since there is no
difference in their dress? First, by a fortunate peculiarity of marking;
the male had one short tail feather, that, when he was resting, showed
its white tip above the others, and made a perfectly distinct and (with
a glass) plainly visible mark. Later, when I had become familiar with
the very different manners of the pair, I did not need this mark to
distinguish the male, though it remained _en evidence_ all through the
two months I had them under observation.
During the period of sitting, life went on with great regularity. The
protector of the nest perched every night in a poplar-tree across the
yard, and promptly at half past four o'clock every morning began his
matins. Surprised and interested by an unfamiliar song, I rose one day
at that unnatural hour to trace it home. It was in that enchanting time
when men are still asleep in their nests, and even "My Lord Sun" has
not arisen from his; when the air is sweet and fresh, and as free from
the dust of man's coming and going as if his tumults did not exist. It
was so still that the flit of a wing was almost startling. The water
lapped softly against the shore; but who can
"Write in a hook the morning's prime,
Or match with words that tender sky"?
The song that had called me up was a sweet though simple strain, and it
was repeated every morning while his mate was separated from him by her
nest duties. I can find no mention of it in books, but I had many
opportunities to study it, and thus it was. It began with a low kingbird
"Kr-r-r" (or rolling sound impossible to express by letters), without
which I should not have identified it at first, and it ended with a very
sweet call of two notes, five tones apart, the lower first, after a
manner suggestive of the phoebe--something like this:
"Kr-r-r-r-r-ree-be! Kr-r-r-r-r-ree-be!" In the outset, and I think I
heard the very first attempt, it resembled the initial efforts of
cage-birds, when spring tunes their throats. The notes seemed hard to
get out; they were weak, uncertain, fluttering, as if the singer were
practicing something quite new. But as the days went by they grew strong
and assured, and at last were a joyous and loud morning greeting. I
don't know why I should be so surprised to hear a kingbird sing; for I
believe that one of the things we shall discover, when we begin to study
birds alive instead of dead, is that every one has a song, at least in
spring, when, in the words of an enthusiastic bird-lover, "the smallest
become poets, often sublime songsters." I have already heard several
sing that are set down as lacking in that mode of expression.
To return to my kingbird, struggling with his early song. After
practicing perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, he left his perch, flew
across the yard, and circled around the top bough, with his usual
good-morning to his partner, who at once slipped off and went for her
breakfast, while he stayed to watch the nest.
This magic dawn could not last. It grew lighter; the sun was bestirring
himself. I heard oars on the bay; and now that the sounds of men began,
the robin mounted the fence and sang his waking song. The rogue!--he had
been "laughing" and shouting for an hour. "Awake! awake!" he seemed to
say; and on our dreamy beds we hear him, and think it the first sound of
the new day. Then, too, came the jubilee of the English sparrow,
welcoming the appearance of mankind, whose waste and improvidence supply
so easily his larder. Why should he spend his time hunting insects? The
kitchen will open, the dining-room follows, and crumbs are sure to
result. He will wait, and meanwhile do his best to waken his purveyor.
I found this to be the almost invariable programme of kingbird life at
this period: after matins, the singer flew to the nest tree, and his
spouse went to her breakfast; in a few seconds he dropped to the edge of
the nest, looked long and earnestly at the contents, then flew to one of
his usual perching-places near by, and remained in silence till he saw
the little mother coming. During the day he relieved her at the
intervals mentioned, and at night, when she had settled to rest, he
stayed at his post on the fence till almost too dark to be seen, and
then took his way, with a good-night greeting, to his sleeping-place on
the poplar.
Thus matters went through June till the 29th, when, at about four
o'clock in the afternoon, there was an unusual stir about the kingbird
castle. I saw that something had happened, and this must open a new
chapter. But before beginning the chronicle of the kingbird babies, I
should like to give my testimony about _one_ member of the family. As a
courteous and tender spouse, as a devoted father and a brave defender of
his household, I know no one who outranks him. In attending to his own
business and never meddling with others, he is unexcelled. In regard to
his fighting, he has driven many away from his tree, as do all birds,
but he never sought a quarrel; and the only cases of anything like a
personal encounter were with the two birds who insisted on annoying him.
He is chivalrous to young birds not his own, as will appear in the story
of his family. He is, indeed, usually silent, perhaps even solemn, but
he may well be so; he has an important duty to perform in the world, and
one that should bring him thanks and protection instead of scorn and a
bad name. It is to reduce the number of man's worst enemies, the vast
army of insects. What we owe to the fly-catchers, indeed, we can never
guess, although, if we go on destroying them, we may have our eyes
opened most thoroughly. Even if the most serious charge against the
kingbird is true, that he eats bees, it were better that every bee on
the face of the earth should perish than that his efficient work among
other insects should be stopped.
II.
A CHRONICLE OF THREE LITTLE KINGS.
There was
"Riot of roses and babel of birds,
All the world in a whirl of delight,"
when the three baby kingbirds opened their eyes to the June sunlight.
Three weeks I had watched, if I had not assisted at, the rocking of
their cradle, followed day by day the patient brooding, and carefully
noted the manners and customs of the owners thereof. At last my long
vigil was rewarded. It was near the end of a lovely June day, when June
days were nearly over, that there appeared a gentle excitement in the
kingbird family. The faithful sitter arose, with a peculiar cry that
brought her mate at once to her side, and both looked eagerly together
into the nest that held their hopes. Once or twice the little dame
leaned over and made some arrangements within, and then suddenly she
slipped back into her place, and her spouse flew away. But something had
happened, it was plain to see; for from that moment she did not sit so
closely, her mate showed unusual interest in the nest, and both of them
often stood upon the edge at the same time. That day was doubtless the
birthday of the first little king.
To be sure, the careful mother still sat on the nest part of every day,
but that she continued to do, with ever-lengthening intervals, till
every infant had grown up and left the homestead forever.
All through the sitting the work of the head of the family had been
confined to encouraging his partner with an early morning song and his
cheerful presence during the day, and to guarding the nest while she
sought her food; but now that her most fatiguing labor was over, his
began. At first he took entire charge of the provision supply, while she
kept her nurslings warm and quiet, which every mother, little or big,
knows is of great importance. When the young father arrived with food,
which he did frequently, his spouse stepped to the nearest twig and
looked on with interest, while he leaned over and filled one little
mouth, or at any rate administered one significant poke which must be
thus interpreted. He did not stay long; indeed, he had not time, for
this way of supplying the needs of a family is slow business; and
although there were but three mouths to fill, three excursions and three
hunts were required to fill them. In the early morning he seemed to
have more leisure; at that time, the happy young couple stood one each
side of the nest, and the silent listener would hear the gentle murmurs
of what Victor Hugo calls "the airy dialogues of the nest." Ah, that our
dull ears could understand!
For some days the homestead was never left alone, and the summer breezes
"Softly rocked the babies three,
Nestled under the mother's wing,"
almost as closely as before they came out of the egg. But much of the
time she sat on the edge, while her partner came and went, always
lingering a moment to look in. It was pretty to see him making up his
mind where to put the morsel, so small that it did not show in the beak.
He turned his head one side and then the other, considered, decided, and
at last thrust it in the selected mouth.
The resting-time of the newly made matron was short; for when those
youngsters were four days old--so fast do birdlings grow--the labor of
both parents was required to keep them fed. Every ten minutes of the day
one of the pair came to the nest: the father invariably alighted,
deliberated, fed, and then flew; while the mother administered her
mouthful, and then either slipped into the nest, covering her bantlings
completely, or rested upon the edge for several minutes. There was
always a marked difference in the conduct of the pair.
Six days the kingbird babies were unseen from below; but on the seventh
day of their life two downy gray caps were lifted above the edge of the
dwelling, accompanied by two small yellow beaks, half open for what
goods the gods might provide. After that event, whenever the tender
mother sat on her nest, two--and later three--little heads showed
plainly against her satiny white breast, as if they were resting there,
making a lovely picture of motherhood.
Not for many days lasted the open-mouth baby stage in these rapidly
developing youngsters. Very soon they were pert and wide awake, looking
upon the green world about them with calm eyes, and opening mouths only
when food was to be expected. Mouthfuls, too, were no longer of the
minute order; they were large enough for the parents themselves, and of
course plain to be seen. Sometimes, indeed, as in the case of a big
dragon-fly, the father was obliged to hold on, while the young hopeful
pulled off piece after piece, until it was small enough for him to
manage; occasionally, too, when the morsel was particularly hard, the
little king passed it back to the giver, who stood waiting, and received
it again when it had been apparently crushed or otherwise prepared, so
that he could swallow it.
Midsummer was at hand. The voices of young birds were heard on every
side. The young thrasher and the robin chirped in the grove; sweet
bluebird and pewee baby cries came from the shrubbery; the golden-wing
leaned far out of his oaken walls, and called from morning to night.
Hard-working parents rushed hither and thither, snatching, digging, or
dragging their prey from every imaginable hiding-place. It was woful
times in the insect world, so many new hungry mouths to be filled. All
this life seemed to stir the young kings: they grew restless; they were
late. Their three little heads, growing darker every day, bobbed this
way and that; they changed places in the nest; they thrust out small
wings; above all and through all, they violently preened themselves. In
fact, this elaborate dressing of feathers was their constant business
for so long a time that I thought it no wonder the grown-up kingbird
pays little attention to his dress; he does enough pluming in the
nursery to last a lifetime.
On the twelfth day of their life, the young birds added their voices to
the grand world-chorus in a faint, low "che-up," delivered with a
kingbird accent; then, also, they began to sit up calmly, and look over
the edge of the nest at what went on below, quite in the manner of
their fathers. Two days later, the first little king mounted the walls
of his castle, fluttered his wings, and apparently meditated the grand
plunge into the world outside of home. So absorbed was he in his new
emotions that he did not see the arrival of something to eat, and put in
a claim for his share, as usual. I thought he was about to bid farewell
to his birthplace. But I did not know him. Not till the youngest of the
family was ready to go did he step out of the nest,--the three were
inseparable. While I waited, expecting every moment to see him fly,
there was a sudden change in the air, and very shortly a furious storm
of wind and rain broke over us. Instantly every young bird subsided into
the nest, out of sight; and in a few minutes their mother came, and gave
them the protection of her presence.
Several days were spent by the oak-tree household in shaking out the
wings, taking observations of the world, dressing the feathers, and
partaking of luncheon every few minutes. Such a nestful of restlessness
I never saw; the constant wonder was that they managed not to fall out.
Often the three sat up side by side on the edge, white breasts shining
in the sun, and heads turning every way with evident interest. The dress
was now almost exactly like the parents'. No speckled bib, like the
bluebird or robin infant's, defaces the snowy breast; no ugly gray coat,
like the redwing baby's, obscures the beauty of the little kingbird's
attire. He enters society in full dress.
But each day, now, the trio grew in size, in repose of manner, and in
strength of voice; and before long they sat up hours at a time, patient,
silent, and ludicrously resembling the
"Three wise men of Gotham
Who went to sea in a bowl."
In spite of their grown-up looks and manners, they did not lose their
appetite; and from breakfast, at the unnatural hour of half past four in
the morning, till a late supper, when so dark that I could see only the
movement of feeding like a silhouette against the white clouds, all
through the day, food came to the nest every two minutes or less. Think
of the work of those two birds! Every mouthful brought during those
fifteen and a half hours required a separate hunt. They usually flew out
to a strip of low land, where the grass was thick and high. Over this
they hovered with beautiful motion, and occasionally dropped an instant
into the grass. The capture made, they started at once for the nest,
resting scarcely a moment. There were thus between three and four
hundred trips a day, and of course that number of insects were
destroyed. Even after the salt bath, which one bird took always about
eleven in the morning, and the other about four in the afternoon, they
did not stop to dry their plumage; but simply passed the wing feathers
through the beak, paying no attention to the breast feathers, which
often hung in locks, showing the dark part next the body, and so
disguising the birds that I scarcely knew them when they came to the
nest.
The bath was interesting. The river, so called, was in fact an arm of
the Great South Bay, and of course salt. To get a bath, the bird flew
directly into the water, as if after a fish; then came to the fence to
shake himself. Sometimes the dip was repeated once or twice, but more
often bathing ended with a single plunge.
Two weeks had passed over their heads, and the three little kings had
for several days dallied with temptation on the brink before one set
foot outside the nest. Even then, on the fifteenth day, he merely
reached the door-step, as it were, the branch on which it rested.
However, that was a great advance. He shook himself thoroughly, as if
glad to have room to do so. This venturesome infant hopped about four
inches from the walls of the cottage, looked upon the universe from that
remote point, then hurried back to his brothers, evidently frightened at
his own boldness.
On the day of this first adventure began a mysterious performance, the
meaning of which I did not understand till later, when it became very
familiar. It opened with a peculiar call, and its object was to rouse
the young to follow. So remarkable was the effect upon them that I have
no doubt a mob of kingbirds could be brought together by its means. It
began, as I said, with a call, a low, prolonged cry, sounding, as nearly
as letters can express it, like "Kr-r-r-r! Kr-r-r-r!" At the same
moment, both parents flew in circles around the tree, a little above the
nest, now and then almost touching it, and all the time uttering the
strange cry. At the first sound, the three young kings mounted the edge,
wildly excited, dressing their plumage in the most frantic manner, as if
their lives depended on being off in an instant. It lasted but a few
moments: the parents flew away; the youngsters calmed down.
In a short time all the nestlings were accustomed to going out upon the
branch, where they clustered together in a little row, and called and
plumed alternately; but one after another slipped back into the dear old
home, which they apparently found it very hard to leave. Often, upon
coming out of the house, after the imperative demands of luncheon or
dinner had dragged me for a time away from my absorbing study, not a
kingbird, old or young, could be seen. The oak was deserted, the nest
perfectly silent.
"They have flown!" I thought.
But no: in a few minutes small heads began show above the battlements;
and in ten seconds after the three little kings were all in sight,
chirping and arranging their dress with fresh vigor, after their nap.
Not one of the young family tried his wings till he was seventeen days
old. The first one flew perhaps fifteen feet, to another branch of the
native tree, caught at a cluster of leaves, held on a few seconds, then
scrambled to a twig and stood up. The first flight accomplished! After
resting some minutes, he flew back home, alighting more easily this
time, and no doubt considered himself a hero. Whatever his feelings, it
was evident that he could fly, and he was so pleased with his success
that he tried it again and again, always keeping within ten or fifteen
feet of home. Soon his nest-fellows began to follow his example; and
then it was interesting to see them, now scattered about the broad old
tree, and then, in a little time, all back in the nest, as if they had
never left it. After each excursion came a long rest, and every time
they went out they flew with more freedom. Never were young birds so
loath to leave the nursery, and never were little folk so clannish. It
looked as if they had resolved to make that homestead on the top branch
their headquarters for life, and, above all, never to separate. That
night, however, came the first break, and they slept in a droll little
row, so close that they looked as if welded into one, and about six feet
from home. For some time after they had settled themselves the mother
sat by them, as if she intended to stay; but when it had grown quite
dark, her mate sailed out over the tree calling; and she,--well, the
babies were grown up enough to be out in the world,--she went with her
spouse to the poplar-tree.
Progress was somewhat more rapid after this experience, and in a day or
two the little kings were flying freely, by short flights, all about the
grove, which came quite up to the fence. Now I saw the working of the
strange migrating call above mentioned. Whenever the old birds began the
cries and the circling flight, the young were thrown into a fever of
excitement. One after another flew out, calling and moving in circles as
long as he could keep it up. For five minutes the air was full of
kingbird cries, both old and young, and then fell a sudden silence. Each
young bird dropped to a perch, and the elders betook themselves to their
hunting-ground as calmly as if they had not been stirring up a rout in
the family. Usually, at the end of the affair, the youngsters found
themselves widely apart; for they had not yet learned to fly together,
and to be apart was, above all things, repugnant to the three. They
began calling; and the sound was potent to reunite them. From this side
and that, by easy stages, came a little kingbird, each flight bringing
them nearer each other; and before two minutes had passed they were
nestled side by side, as close as ever. There they sat an hour or two
and uttered their cries, and there they were hunted up and fed by the
parents. There, I almost believe, they would have stayed till doomsday,
but for the periodical stirring up by the mysterious call. No matter how
far they wandered,--and each day it was farther and farther,--seven
o'clock always found them moving; and all three came back to the native
tree for the night, though never to the nest again.
No characteristic of the young kingbirds was more winning than their
confiding and unsuspicious reception of strangers, for so soon as they
began to frequent other trees than the one the paternal vigilance had
made comparatively sacred to them, they were the subjects of attention.
The English sparrow was first, as usual, to inquire into their right to
be out of their own tree. He came near them, alighted, and began to hop
still closer. Not in the least startled by his threatening manner, the
nearest youngster looked at him, and began to flutter his wings, to
call, and to move toward him, as if expecting to be fed. This was too
much even for a sparrow; he departed.
Another curious visitor was a red-eyed vireo, who, being received in the
same innocent and childlike way, also took his leave. But this bird
appeared to feel insulted, and in a few minutes stole back, and took
revenge in a most peculiar way; he hovered under the twig on which the
three were sitting, their dumpy tails hanging down in a row, and
actually twitched the feathers of those tails! Even that did not
frighten the little ones; they leaned far over and stared at their
assailant, but nothing more. I looked carefully to see if the vireo had
a nest on that tree, so strange a thing it seemed for a bird to do. The
tree was quite tall, with few branches, an oak grown in a close grove,
and I am sure there was no vireo nest on it; so that it was an
absolutely gratuitous insult.
In addition to supplying the constantly growing appetites of the family,
the male kingbird did not forget to keep a sharp lookout for intruders;
for, until the youngsters could take care of themselves, he was bound to
protect them. One day a young robin alighted nearer to the little group
than he considered altogether proper, and he started, full tilt, toward
him. As he drew near, the alarmed robin uttered his baby cry, when
instantly the kingbird wheeled and left; nor did he notice the stranger
again, although he stayed there a long time. But when an old robin came
to attend to his wants, that was a different matter; the kingbird went
at once for the grown-up bird, thus proving that he spared the first one
because of his babyhood.
It was not till they were three weeks old that the little kings began to
fly any lower than about the level of their nest. Then one came to the
fence, and the others to the top of a grape-trellis. I hoped to see some
indication of looking for food, and I did; but it was all looking up and
calling on the parents; not an eye was turned earthward. Now the young
ones began to fly more nearly together, and one could see that a few
days' more practice would enable them to fly in a compact little flock.
Shortly before this they had ceased to come to the native tree at night,
and by day extended their wanderings so far that sometimes they were not
heard for hours. Regularly, however, as night drew near, the migrating
cry sounded in the grove, and upon going out I always found them
together,--three
"Silver brown little birds,
Sitting close in the branches."
These interesting bantlings were twenty-four days old when it became
necessary for me to leave them, as they had already left me. It was a
warm morning, near the end of July, and about half an hour before I must
go I went out to take my last look at them. Their calls were still loud
and frequent, and I had no difficulty in tracing them to a dead twig
near the top of a pine-tree, where they sat close together, as usual,
with faces to the west; lacking only in length of tail of being as big
as their parents, yet still calling for food, and still, to all
appearances, without the smallest notion that they could ever help
themselves.
Thus I left them.
III.
THE BABES IN THE WOOD.
The little home in the wood was well hidden. About its door were no
signs of life, no chips from its building, no birds lingering near, no
external indication whatever. In silence the tenants came and went;
neither calls, songs, nor indiscreet tapping gave hint of the presence
of woodpeckers in the neighborhood, and food was sought out of sight and
hearing of the carefully secluded spot. No one would have suspected what
treasures were concealed within the rough trunk of that old oak but for
an accident.
Madam herself was the culprit. In carrying out an eggshell, broken at
one end and of no further use, she dropped it near the foot of the tree.
To her this was doubtless a disaster, but to me it was a treasure-trove,
for it told her well-kept secret. The hint was taken, the home soon
found in the heart of an oak, with entrance twenty feet from the ground,
and close watching from a distance revealed the owner, a golden-winged
woodpecker.
The tree selected by the shy young pair for their nursery stood in a
pleasant bit of woods, left wild, on the shore of the Great South Bay,
"where precious qualities of silence haunt," and the delicious breath of
the sea mingled with the fragrance of pines. One must be an enthusiast
to spy out the secrets of a bird's life, and this pair of golden-wings
made more than common demand on the patience of the student, so silent,
so wary, so wisely chosen, their sanctum. Before the door hung a
friendly oak branch, heavy with leaves, that swayed and swung with every
breeze. Now it hid the entrance from the east, now from the west, and
with every change of the vagrant wind the observer must choose a new
point of view.
Then the birds! Was ever a pair so quiet? Without a sound they came, on
level path, to the nest, dropped softly to the trunk, slipped quickly
in, and, after staying about one minute inside, departed as noiselessly
as they came. Their color, too! One would think a bird of that size, of
golden-brown mottled with black, with yellow feather-shafts and a
brilliant scarlet head-band, must be conspicuous. But so perfectly did
the soft colors harmonize with the rough, sun-touched bark, so
misleading were the shadows of the leaves moving in the breeze, and so
motionless was the bird flattened against the trunk, that one might look
directly at it and not see it.
For a few days the woodpeckers were so timid that I was unable to
secure a good look at them. The marked difference of manner, however,
convinced me that both parents were engaged in attending upon the young
family; and as they grew less vigilant and I learned to distinguish
them, I discovered that it was so. The only dissimilarity in dress
between the lord and lady of the golden-wing family is a small black
patch descending from the beak of the male, answering very well to the
mustache of bigger "lords of creation." In coming to the nest, one of
the pair flew swiftly, just touched for an instant the threshold, and
disappeared within; this I found to be the head of the household. The
other, the mother, as it proved, being more cautious, alighted at the
door, paused, thrust her head in, withdrew it, as if undecided whether
to venture in the presence of a stranger, and, after two or three such
movements, darted in. Always in one minute the bird reappeared, flew at
once out of the wood, at about the height of the nest, and did not come
down till it reached, on one side, an old garden run to waste, or, on
the other, far over the water, a cultivated field. At that tender age,
the young flickers received their rations about twice in an hour.