from morning till night. Blackbirds and cuckoos flew over; orioles,
both orchard and Baltimore, sang and foraged among the trees;
song-sparrows and chippies trilled from the fence at one side: bluebird
and thrasher searched the ground, and paid in music for the privilege;
pewees and kingbirds made war upon insects; and from afar came the notes
of redwing and meadow-lark. Others there were, casual visitors, and of
course it did not escape the squawks and squabbles of the English
sparrow,--
"Irritant, iterant, maddening bird."
The robins, who one sometimes wishes, with Lanier's owl, "had more to
think and less to say," were not so self-assertive as they usually are;
in fact, they were quite subdued. They came and went freely, but they
never questioned my actions, as they are sure to do where they lead
society. Now and then one perched on the fence and regarded me, with
flick of wing and tail that meant a good deal, but he expressed no
opinion. With kingbirds on one side, pewees on the other, and the great
crested fly-catcher a daily caller, this was eminently a fly-catcher
grove, and the robin plainly felt that he was not responsible for its
good order. Indeed, after fly-catcher households were set up, he had his
hands full to maintain his right to be there at all.
Whatever went on, the woodpeckers took no part in it. Back and forth
they passed, almost stealthily, caring not who ruled the grove so that
their precious secret was not discovered. Neither of them stayed to
watch the nest, nor did they come and go together. The birds in the
neighborhood might be inquisitive,--there was no one to resent it;
blackbirds scrambled over the oak, robins perched on the screening
branch, and no one about the silent entrance disputed their right.
In the first flush of dismay at finding themselves watched, the
golden-wings, as I said, redoubled their cautiousness. They tried to
keep the position of the nest secret by coming from the back, gliding
around on the trunk, and stealing in at the door, or by alighting
quietly high up in the body of the tree, and coming down backward,--that
is, tail first. But by remaining absolutely without motion or sound
while they were present, I gradually won their toleration, and had my
reward. The birds ceased to regard me as an enemy, and, though they
always looked at me, no longer tried to keep out of sight, or to hide
the object of their visits. During the first day of watching I had the
good fortune to see a second empty shell brought out of the nest, and
dropped a little farther off than the first had been; and I feel safe in
assuming that these two were the birthdays of the babes in the wood.
Thirteen days were devoted to the study of the manners and customs of
the parents before the hidden subjects of their solicitude gave any
signs of life visible from below. Though visits were about half an hour
apart, and flicker babies have very good appetites, they did not go
hungry, for on every occasion they had a hearty meal instead of the
single mouthful that many young birds receive. This fact was guessed at
on the thirteenth day, when the concealed little ones came out of the
darkness up to the door, and the parents' movements in feeding could be
seen; but the whole curious process was plain two days later, when a
young golden-wing appeared at the opening and met his supplies half-way.
The food-bearer clung to the bark beside the entrance, leaned over,
turned his head on one side, and thrust his beak within the slightly
opened beak of his offspring. In this position he gave eight or ten
quick little jerks of his head, which doubtless represented so many
mouthfuls; then, drawing back his head, he made a motion of the throat,
as though swallowing, which was, presumably, raising instead, for he
leaned over again and repeated the operation in the waiting mouth. This
performance was gone through with as many as three or four times in
succession before one flicker baby was satisfied. After the nestlings
came up to the door, the parents went no more inside, as a rule, and
housekeeping took care of itself.
On the fifteenth day of his life, as said above, the eldest scion of the
golden-wing family made his appearance at the portal of his home. The
sight and the sound of him came together, for he burst out at once with
a cry. It was not very loud, but it meant something, and the practice of
a day or two gave it all the strength that was desirable. In fact, it
became clamorous to a degree that made further attempts at concealment
useless, and no one was quicker to recognize it than the parents. The
baby cry was the utterance familiar from the grown-up birds as "wick-a!
wick-a! wick-a!" From this day, when one of the elders drew near the
tree, it was met at the opening by an eager little face and a begging
call; but it was several days before the recluse showed interest in
anything except the food supply. Meals were now nearly an hour apart,
and the moment one was over the well-fed youngster in the tree fell back
out of sight, probably to sleep, after the fashion of babies the world
over. But all this soon came to an end. The young flicker began to
linger a few minutes after he had been fed, and to thrust his beak out
in a tentative way, as if wondering what the big out-of-doors was like,
any way.
Matters were going on thus prosperously, when a party of English
sparrows, newly fledged, came to haunt the wood in a small flock of
eighteen or twenty; to meddle, in sparrow style, with everybody's
business; and to profane the sweet stillness of the place with harsh
squawks. The mistress of the little home in the oak, who had conducted
her domestic affairs so discreetly, one day found herself the centre of
a mob; for these birds early learn the power of combination. She came to
her nest followed by the impertinent sparrows, who flew as close as
possible, none of them more than a foot from her. They alighted as near
as they could find perches, crowded nearer, stretched up, flew over, and
tried in every way, with an air of the deepest interest, to see what she
_could_ be doing in that hole. When she left,--which she did soon, for
she was annoyed,--the crowd did not go with her; they were bound to
explore the mystery of that opening. They flew past it; they hovered
before it; they craned their necks to peer in; they perched on a bare
twig that grew over it, as many as could get footing, and leaned far
over to see within. The young flicker retired before his inquisitive
visitors, and was seen no more till the mother came again; and then she
had to go in out of sight to find him.
As the days went on, the babe in the wood became more used to the
sunlight and the bird-sounds about him. Evidently, he was of a
meditative turn, for he did not scramble out, and rudely rush upon his
fate; he deliberated; he studied, with the air of a philosopher; he
weighed the attractions of a cool and breezy world against the comforts
and delightful obscurity of home. Perhaps, also, there entered into his
calculations the annoyance of a reporter meeting him on the threshold of
life, tearing the veil away from his private affairs. What would one
give to know the thoughts in that little brown head, on its first look
at life! Whatever the reason, he plainly concluded not to take the risk
that day, for he disappeared again behind a door that no reporter,
however glib or plausible, could pass. Sometimes he vanished with a
suddenness that was not natural. Did his heart fail him, or, perchance,
his footing give way? For whether he clung to the walls, or made
stepping-stones of his brothers and sisters (as do many of his betters,
or at least his biggers), who can tell? Often beside this eldest-born,
after the first day, appeared a second little head, spying eagerly, if a
little less bravely, on the world, and as days passed he frequently
contested the position of vantage with his brother, but he was always
second.
Mother Nature is kind to woodpeckers. She fits them out for life before
they leave the seclusion of the nursery. There is no callow, immature
period in the face of the world, no "green" age for the gibes or
superior airs of elders. A woodpecker out of the nest is a woodpecker in
the dress and with the bearing of his fathers,--dignified, serene, and
grown up.
As the sweet June days advanced, the young bird in the oak-tree grew
bolder. He no longer darted in when a saucy sparrow came near, and when
the parent arrived with food the cries became so loud that all the world
could know that here were young woodpeckers at dinner. Now, too, he
began to spend much time in dressing his plumage, in preparation for the
grand debut. Usually, when a young bird begins to dally with the
temptation to fly, so rapid is growth among birds, he may be expected
out in a few hours. In this deliberate family it is different; indeed,
taking flight must be a greater step for a woodpecker than for a bird
from an open nest.
Three days the youngster had been debating whether it were "to be or not
to be," and more and more he lingered in the doorway, sitting far enough
out to show his black necklace. His was no longer the wondering gaze of
infancy, to which all things are equally strange; it was a
discriminating look,--the head turned quickly, and passing objects drew
his attention. On the third day, too, he uttered his first genuine
woodpecker cry of "pe-auk!" He had not the least embarrassment before
me. I think he regarded me as a part of the landscape,--the eccentric
development of a tree trunk, perhaps; for while he never looked at me
nor put the smallest restraint upon his infant passions, let another
person come into the wood, and he was at once silent and on his guard.
All this time he had become more and more fascinated with the view
without his door; one could fairly see the love of the world grow upon
him. He picked at the bark about him; he began to get ideas about ants,
and ran out a long tongue and helped himself to many a tidbit.
When the young golden-wing had passed four days in this manner, he grew
impatient. The hour-long intervals between meals were not to his mind,
and he began to express himself fluently. He leaned far out, and
delivered the adult cry with great vigor and new pathos; he then bowed
violently many times, moved his mouth as if eating, and struggled
farther and still farther out, until it seemed that he could not keep
within another minute. When one of the parents came he forgot his
grown-up manner, and returned to the baby cry, loud and urgent, as if he
were starved.
He was fed, and again left; and now he scrambled up with his feet on
the edge. He was silent; he was considering an important move, a plunge
into the world. He wanted to come,--he longed to fly. Outside were
sunshine, sweet air, trees, food,--inside only darkness. The smallest
coaxing would bring him out; but coaxing he was not to have. He must
decide for himself; the impulse must be from within.
The next morning opened with a severe northeast gale.
"It rained, and the wind was never weary."
The birds felt the depressing influence of the day. The robins perched
on the fence, wings hanging, each feather like a bare stick, and not a
sound escaping the throat; and when robins are discouraged, it is dismal
weather indeed. The bluebirds came about, draggled almost beyond
recognition. Even the swallows sailed over silently, their merry chatter
hushed.
But life must go on, whatever the weather; and fearing the young
woodpecker might select this day to make his entry into the big world,
his faithful watcher donned rainy-day costume, and went out to assist in
the operation. The storm did not beat upon his side of the tree, and the
youngster still hung out of his hole in the trunk, calling and crying,
apparently without the least intention of exposing his brand-new
feathers to the rain.
Very early the following morning, before the human world was astir, loud
golden-wing cries, and calls, and "laughs" were heard about the wood.
This abandonment of restraint proclaimed that something had happened;
and so, indeed, I discovered; for in hastening to my post I found an
ominous silence about the oak-tree. The young wise-head, whose struggles
and temptations I had watched so closely, had chosen to go in the
magical morning hours, when the world belongs entirely to birds and
beasts. The home in the wood looked deserted.
I sat down in silence and waited, for I knew the young flicker could not
long be still. Sure enough, I soon heard his cry, but how far off! I
followed it to an oak-tree on the farther edge of the grove. I searched
the tree, and there I saw him, quiet now as I approached, and plainly
full of joy in his freedom and his wings.
I returned to my place, hoping that all had not gone. There must be more
than one, for two had been up to the door, I was sure. I waited. Some
hours later, the parents came to their home in the wood, one after the
other. Back one alighted beside the door, glanced in, in a casual way,
but did not put the head in, and then flew to a neighboring tree,
uttering what sounded marvelously like a chuckling laugh, and in a
moment left the grove. Did, then, the daughters of the house meekly fly,
without preliminary study of the world from the door? Were there,
perchance, no daughters? Indeed, had more than one infant reached
maturity? All these questions I asked myself, but not one shall I ever
be able to answer.
I waited several hours. Many birds sang and called among the trees, but
no sound came from the oak-tree household, and to me the wood was
deserted.
IV.
HOME LIFE OF THE REDSTART.
The redstart himself told me where his treasures were "hid in a leafy
hollow." Not that he intended to be so confiding; on the contrary he was
somewhat disconcerted when he saw what he had done, and tried his best
to undo it by appearing not to have the smallest interest in that
particular tree. I happened that morning to be wandering slowly along
the edge of a tree-lined ravine, looking for the nest of a greatly
disturbed pair of cat-birds. As I drew near an old moss-covered
apple-tree, I heard a low though energetic "phit! phit!" and a chipping
sparrow emerged from the tree with much haste, quickly followed by a
redstart, with the unmistakable air of proprietor. The sight of me made
a diversion. The pursued dropped into the grass, while the pursuer
turned his attention to the bigger game, presented so unexpectedly that
he had not time to bethink himself of his usual custom of not showing
his gorgeous black and gold about home. He scolded me well for an
instant, till his wits returned, when he disappeared like a flash. It
was too late to deceive me, however, and I marked that tree as I passed,
intent at the moment upon cat-birds.
On returning, I stopped on the bank to look the tree over at my leisure,
and there I soon saw, two feet from the top of the tallest upright
branch and tightly clinging to it, a small cradle, gently rocking in the
warm breeze. No one was at home, and I sat down to wait. This movement
did not meet the approval of a certain small tenant of a neighboring
tree, for I was saluted by a sharp, low, incessant cry; now it came from
the right side, now from the left. I turned quickly, caught a glimpse of
yellow, the flit of a wing, and then--nothing. In a moment the sound
began again, and thus it tantalized me till my neck became tired, and I
laid my head back among the ferns, to wait till the small fire-brand
calmed down a little. To my surprise and delight, the bird seemed to
regard this as a surrender, for down a broad branch that sloped toward
me came a most animated bundle of feathers, wings and tail wide spread,
making hostile demonstrations, and scolding as fiercely as such an atom
could. It had all the airs of ownership, and its colors were olive and
yellow; had, then, the roguish redstart deceived me, after all? Thus
pondering, I suddenly remembered that I had never seen his spouse, and
that monsieur and madame do not dress alike in the bird world any more
than in the human. I marked the points; I consulted the books; there
could be no doubt this was the little dame herself, and her mate had
been too clever to come to her aid.
The structure on the apple bough was the redstart homestead. Watch it
every day I must, yet not to disturb the fiery little owners it was
necessary to move further from them. I sought and found a delightful
nook, the other side of the ravine. On its steep sides the native forest
still flourished, and seated at the foot of a tall maple, tented in by a
heavy low growth at my back, I could look across the narrow chasm
through a gap in the trees, and see the redstart nest in the pasture
beyond. The restless pair did not notice me behind my veil of greenery,
and my glass was of the best; so I secured a good view of the small
mansion and the life that went on about it, without in the least
annoying the builders thereof. I found the head of the family very
interesting in his role of husband and father.
Perhaps not every one knows a redstart, and his name is misleading, for
he has not a red feather on his body. He is a bird of very few inches,
clothed in brilliant array of orange and black and white, which always
suggests the Baltimore oriole. His mate is more soberly clad in
olive-brown and golden-yellow; neither of them is still for an instant,
diving and flitting about on a tree like specks of animated sunlight.
At my pleasant post of observation I spent hours of every day, stealing
in soon after breakfast, quietly, so as not to arouse the suspicions of
a robin who lived in the neighborhood; for unfortunate is the student
whose ways are not acceptable to one of this noisy family. I found,
however, when my patience gave out, that the robin will take a hint. On
throwing a pebble through the branches near him, as a suggestion that
his attentions were not welcome, he flew to a tree a little farther off,
and resumed his offensive remarks; another pebble convinced him that the
distance might be profitably increased, and thus I drove him away; at
about the fourth pebble he took a final departure.
Here, then, I saw the small housekeeping go on. I always found the
little dame in possession, and generally the lord and master gleaning
food in redstart fashion; flitting around a branch, darting behind a
leaf, over and under a twig, tail spread to keep his balance during
these jerky movements, his bright oriole colors flashing as he dashed
through a patch of sunlight,--a beautiful object, but a perfectly silent
one. When his happiness demanded expression he flew to a maple-tree,
and poured out his soul in the quaint though not very musical ditty of
his race. Sometimes he stood still on a branch, like a bird who has
something to say; but more often he rushed around after insects on this
tree, and threw in the notes between the firm snaps of his beak.
Promptly every half hour the little sprite took his way to that precious
apple branch, and dropped, light as a snow-flake, on a certain twig on
the nearest side of his homestead. A flash from the nest announced the
departure of madame, and he popped into her place. Not to settle down to
business, as she did,--far from it! It is a wonder to me how even a
female redstart can sit still. On taking his place, he first examined
the treasures it held, leaning over the edge with a solicitude charming
to see; and when he did at last cover them from sight, his black velvet
cap still bobbed up and down, this way and that, as though he were
taking advantage of his enforced quiet to plume himself. Precisely three
minutes he allowed his modest spouse for her repast. At the expiration
of that time he deserted, darted away, and began to call from the next
tree, when she instantly returned. Sometimes she was at hand, and
alighted on a twig on the farther side of the nest, when he bounded off
and out of sight. She carefully inspected the nest to see that all was
right, then slipped in, settled herself with a gentle flutter of wings,
and I knew she was safe for another half hour. It was the closest
watching I ever tried, so quick were the motions, so silent the going
and coming.
Now and then the redstart chose to stay longer at home. The usual time
having expired, the little sitter appeared, but if her mate did not
vacate, she availed herself of the additional liberty in flitting about
the tree, adding a dessert to her dinner. On one occasion he let her
return twice before he left, occupying her place for eight minutes,--an
enormous length of time for a redstart. More often he grew impatient in
less than three minutes, and once he forgot himself so far as to call
while in the nest.
During the sitting there came two days of steady, pouring rain and high
wind. I feared the hopes of that family, as well as others all about,
would perish, but the brave little mother bore the depressing season
well. The eggs were never left uncovered, nor did that gay rover, her
spouse, forget to take her place as usual.
On the morning of my fourth day of watching, I saw there was news;
sitting was over, and though they could not be seen, it was easy to
picture the featherless, wide-mouthed objects, evidently so lovely to
the young parents. Close work as it had been to observe the movements
of the pair, it was much harder after that, they became at once so wary.
I am sure they never regarded me in any way as a spy, for I was not in
their highway; moreover, they would certainly have expressed their mind
if they had. Yet they came and went entirely from the other side, and so
exactly opposite the nest that often I could not see even the flit of a
wing. Not until one stood on the threshold could I see it, and the most
untiring vigilance was necessary. Even before this madame was cautious
in her going and coming; she first dropped about two feet to a branch,
paused a moment, then went to a second one, still lower, thus left the
tree near the ground, and in returning she began at the lowest branch
and retraced her steps to the nest.
That day the father of the new family seemed very joyous, and treated us
to a great deal of singing, though it was not a singing-day, being very
cold, with a steady rain. The pretty little mother took thoughtful care
of her brood. For a half hour or more she worked very busily, her mate
helping, and fed them well; then she deliberately sat down upon those
youngsters, exactly as though they were still eggs. There she stayed as
long as she thought best, and then she went to her work again.
The morning they were six days old I had the pleasure of seeing a
movement in the nest. When the sun reached a certain height above the
tree, it shone into that small mansion in such a way as to reveal its
contents; thus I could see the redstart babies moving restlessly,
evidently in haste already to come out into the world. This day the
father took rather more than half the charge of the provision supply,
and with considerable regularity. During four hours that the nest was
closely watched, its tenants were fed at about five-minute intervals for
half an hour; and then mamma promptly smothered their ambition, as above
mentioned, for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when, if they did not take
naps like "good little birdies," they at least were forced to keep
still.
This young matron reminded me of some mothers of a larger growth, she
was so fussy, so careful that her charges did not go too fast for their
strength, while her spouse made it his business to see that she did not
keep them tender by over-coddling. He allowed her to brood them for
fifteen minutes; longer than that he would not tolerate, but came like a
fiery meteor to see that she moved. She plainly understood his
intention, for the instant he appeared she darted off, although he did
not touch the nest. All day the weight of responsibility kept this rover
at home; he might generally be seen on the lower branches of his tree,
darting about in perfect silence; but once or twice I saw him actually
loitering, a pleasant pastime of which I never suspected a redstart.