to trace him to a wild corner in the woods given up to a tangle of
fallen trees, saplings, and other growth. She went home happy, sure she
was on the trail. The next day we turned our steps to that quarter and
penetrated the jungle till we reached a moderately clear spot facing an
impenetrable mass of low saplings. There we took our places, to wait
with what patience we might for the blue.
Our lucky star was in the ascendant that day, for we had not been there
three minutes before a small, inconspicuous bird dropped into the bushes
a few feet from us. My friend's eye followed her, and in a second fell
upon the nest the little creature was lining, in a low maple about two
feet from the ground.
But who was she? For it is one of the difficulties about nests, that the
brightly-colored male, whom one knows so well, is very sure not to show
himself in the neighborhood, and his spouse is certain to look just like
everybody else. However, there is always some mark by which we may know,
and as soon as the watcher secured a good look she announced in an
excited whisper, "We have it! a female blue, building."
So it proved to be, and we planted our seats against trees for backs,
and arranged ourselves to stay. The dog seeing this preparation, and
recognizing it as somewhat permanent, with a heavy sigh laid himself out
full length, and composed himself to sleep.
The work over that nest was one of the prettiest bits of bird-life I
ever watched. Never was a scrap of a warbler, a mere pinch of feathers,
so perfectly delighted with anything as she with that dear little
homestead of hers. It was pretty; it looked outside like the dainty
hanging cradle of a vireo, but instead of being suspended from a
horizontal forked twig, it was held in an upright fork made by four
twigs of the sapling.
The little creature's body seemed too small to hold her joy; she simply
could not bring her mind to leave it. She rushed off a short distance
and brought some infinitesimal atom of something not visible to our
coarse sight, but very important in hers. This she arranged carefully,
then slipped into the nest and moulded it into place by pressing her
breast against it and turning around.
Thus she worked for some time, and then seemed to feel that her task was
over, at least for the moment. Yet she could not tear herself away. She
flew six inches away, then instantly came back and got into the nest,
trying it this way and that. Then she ran up a stem, and in a moment
down again, trying that nest in a new way, from a fresh point of view.
This performance went on a long time, and we found it as impossible to
leave as she did; we were as completely charmed with her ingenuous and
bewitching manners as she was with her new home.
Well indeed was it that we stayed that morning and enriched ourselves
with the beautiful picture of bird ways, for like many another fair
promise of the summer it came to naught.
We had not startled her, she had not observed us at all, nor been in the
least degree hindered in her work by our silent presence, twenty feet
away and half hidden by her leafy screen. But the next day she was not
there. After we had waited half an hour, my friend could no longer
resist a siren voice that had lured us for days (and was never traced
home, by the way). I offered to wait for the little blue while she
sought her charmer.
We were near the edge of the woods, and she was obliged to pass through
part of a pasture where sheep were kept. Her one terror about her big
dog was that he should take to making himself disagreeable among sheep,
when she knew his days would be numbered, so she told him to stay with
me. He had risen when she started, and he looked a little dubious, but
sat down again, and she went away.
He watched her so long as she could be seen and then turned to me for
comfort. He came close and laid his big head on my lap to be petted. I
patted his head and praised him a while, and then wished to be relieved.
But flattery was sweet to his ears, and the touch of a hand to his
brow,--he declined to be put away; on the contrary he demanded constant
repetition of the agreeable sensations. If I stopped, he laid his heavy
head across my arm, in a way most uncomfortable to one not accustomed to
dogs. These methods not availing, he sat up close beside me, when he
came nearly to my shoulder and leaned heavily against me, his head
resting against my arm in a most sentimental attitude.
At last finding that I would not be coaxed or forced into devoting
myself wholly to his entertainment, he rose with dignity, and walked off
in the direction his mistress had gone, paying no more attention to my
commands or my coaxings than if I did not exist. If I would not do what
he wished, and pay the price of his society, he would not do what I
asked. I was, therefore, left alone.
I was perfectly quiet. My dress was a dull woods tint, carefully
selected to be inconspicuous, and I was motionless. No little dame
appeared, but I soon became aware of the pleasing sound of the blue
himself. It drew nearer, and suddenly ceased. Cautiously, without
moving, I looked up. My eyes fell upon the little beauty peering down
upon me. I scarcely breathed while he came nearer, at last directly over
my head, silent, and plainly studying me. I shall always think his
conclusion was unfavorable, that he decided I was dangerous; and I, who
never lay a finger on an egg or a nest in use, had to suffer for the
depredations of the race to which I belong. The pretty nest so doted
upon by its little builder was never occupied, and the winsome song of
the warbler came from another part of the wood.
We found him, indeed, so often near this particular place, a worse
tangle, if possible, than the other, that we suspected they had set up
their household gods here. Many times did my friend and her dog work
their way through it, while I waited outside, and considered the
admirable tactics of the wary warbler. The search was without result.
Weeks passed, but though other birds interested us, and filled our days
with pleasure, my comrade never ceased longing to find the elusive nest
of that blue warbler, and our revenge came at last. Nests may be
deserted, little brown spouses may be hidden under green leaves,
homesteads may be so cunningly placed that one cannot find them, but
baby birds cannot be concealed. They will speak for themselves; they
will get out of the nest before they can fly; they will scramble about,
careless of being seen; and such is the devotion of parents that they
must and will follow all these vagaries, and thus give their precious
secret to whoever has eyes to see.
One day I came alone into the woods, and as I reached a certain place,
sauntering along in perfect silence, I evidently surprised somebody, for
I was saluted by low "smacks" and I caught glimpses of two birds who
dived into the jewel-weed and disappeared. A moment later I saw the
blue take flight a little farther off, and soon his song burst out, calm
and sweet as though he had never been surprised in his life.
I walked slowly on up the road, for this was one of the most enchanting
spots in the woods, to birds as well as to bird-lovers. Here the cuckoo
hid her brood till they could fly. In this retired corner the tawny
thrush built her nest, and the hermit filled its aisles with music,
while on the trespass notices hung here, the yellow-bellied woodpecker
drummed and signaled. It was filled with interest and with pleasant
memories, and I lingered here for some time.
Then as the road led me still farther away, I turned back. Coming
quietly, again I surprised the blue family and was greeted in the same
manner as before. They had slipped back in silence during my absence,
and the young blues were, doubtless, at that moment running about under
the weeds.
Thus we found our warbler, the head of a family, hard at work as any
sparrow, feeding a beloved, but somewhat scraggy looking, youngster, the
feeble likeness of himself. There, too, we found the little brown mamma,
the same, as we suppose, whose nest-building we had watched with so much
interest. She also had a youngster under her charge. But how was this!
a brown baby clad like herself! Could it be that the sons and daughters
of this warbler family outrage all precedent by wearing their grown-up
dress in the cradle? We consulted the authorities and found our
conclusion was correct.
Henceforth we watched with greater interest than before. Every day that
we came into the woods we saw the little party of four, always near
together, scrambling about under the saplings or among the jewel-weed,
or running over the tangled branches of a fallen tree, the two younger
calling in sharp little voices for food, and the elders bustling about
on low trees to find it.
We soon noticed that there was favoritism in the family. Papa fed only
the little man, while mamma fed the little maid, though she too
sometimes stuffed a morsel into the mouth of her son. Let us hope that
by this arrangement both babies are equally fed, and not, as is often
the case, the most greedy secures the greatest amount.
We had now reached the last of July, and the woods were full of new
voices, not alone the peeps or chirps of birdlings impatient for food.
There were baffling rustles of leaves in the tree-tops, rebounds of
twigs as some small form left them, flits of strange-colored
wings,--migration had begun. Now, if the bird-student wishes not to go
mad with problems she cannot solve, she will be wise to fold her
camp-stool and return to the haunts of the squawking English sparrow and
the tireless canary, the loud-voiced parrot, and the sleep-destroying
mockingbird. I did.
XVIII.
A RAINY-DAY TRAMP.
Before I opened my eyes in the morning I knew something had happened,
for I missed the usual charm of dawn. A robin, to be sure, made an
effort to lead, as was his custom, and sang out bravely once or twice; a
song sparrow, too, flitted into the evergreen beside my window, and
uttered his sweet and cheery little greeting to whom it might concern.
But those were the only ones out of the fourteen voices we were
accustomed to hear in the morning.
When I came out on the veranda not a note was to be heard and not a bird
to be seen excepting a woodpecker, who bounded gayly up the trunk of a
maple, as if sunshine were not essential to happiness, and a
chipping-sparrow, who went about through the dripping grass with perfect
indifference to weather, squabbling with his fellow-chippies, and
picking up his breakfast as usual.
I seated myself in the big rocker, and turned toward the woods, a few
rods away. The rain, which had fallen heavily for hours, light and fine
now, drew a shimmering veil before the trees,--a veil like a Japanese
bead-hanging, which hides nothing, only the rain veil was more
diaphanous than anything fashioned by human hands. It did not conceal,
but enhanced the charm of everything behind it, lending a glamour that
turned the woods into enchanted land.
Before the house how the prospect was changed! The hills and Adirondack
woods in the distance were cut sharply off, and our little world stood
alone, closed in by heavy walls of mist.
My glass transported me to the edge of the side lawn, where I looked far
under the trees, and rejoiced in the joy of the woods in rain. The trees
were still, as if in ecstasy "too deep for smiling;" the ferns gently
waved and nodded. Every tiny leaf that had thrust its head up through
the mould, ambitious to be an ash or a maple or a fern, straightened
itself with fullness of fresh life. The woods were never so fascinating,
nor showed so plainly
"The immortal gladness of inanimate things."
A summer shower the birds, and we, have reason to expect, and even to
enjoy, but a downpour of several hours, a storm that lays the deep grass
flat, beats down branches, and turns every hollow into a lake, was more
than they had provided for, I fear. My heart went out to the dozens of
bobolink and song-sparrow babies buried under the matted grass, the
little tawny thrushes wandering around cold and comfortless on the
soaked ground in the woods, the warbler infants,--redstart and
chestnut-sided--that I knew were sitting humped up and miserable in some
watery place under the berry bushes, the young tanager only just out of
the nest, and the two cuckoo babies, thrust out of their home at the
untimely age of seven days, to shiver around on their weak blue legs.
My only comfort was in thinking of woodpecker little folk, the
yellow-bellied family whose loud and insistent baby cries we had
listened to for days, the downy and hairy, and the golden-wing. They
were all warm and snug, if they could only be persuaded to stay at home.
But from what I have seen of young birds, when their hour strikes they
go, be it fair or foul. To take the bitter with the sweet is their fate,
and no rain, however driving, no wind, however rough, can detain them an
hour when they feel the call of the inner voice which bids them go. I
have seen many birdlings start out in weather that from our point of
view should make the feathered folk, old or young, hug the nest or any
shelter they can find.
In the afternoon the rain had ceased, and we went out. How beautiful we
found the woods! More than ever I despair of
"Putting my woods in song."
Every fresh condition of light brings out new features. They are not the
same in the morning and the afternoon; sunshine makes them very
different from a gray sky; and heavy rain, which hangs still in drops
from every leaf and twig, changes them still more.
This time the tree-trunks were the most noticeable feature. Thoreau
speaks of rain waking the lichens into life, and we saw this as never
before. Not only does it bring out the colors and give a brightness and
richness they show at no other time, but it raises the leaves--if one
may so call them--makes them stand out fresh. The beeches were marvelous
with many shades of green, and of pink, from a delicate blush over the
whole tree, to bright vermilion in small patches. The birches, "most shy
and ladylike of trees," were intensely yellow; some lovely with dabs of
green, while others looked like rugged old heroes of many battles, with
great patches of black, and ragged ends of loosened bark fringing them
like an Indian's war dress, up to the branches. Every hollow under the
trees had become a clear pond to reflect these beauties, and lively
little brooks rippled across the path, adding to the woods the only
thing they lacked,--running water.
Instinctively our feet turned up the path to the oven-bird's nest, so
narrow that we brushed a shower from every bush. There he was, singing
at that moment. "Teacher! teacher! teacher!" he called, with head thrown
up and wings drooped. And then while we looked he left his perch, and
passed up between the branches out of our sight, his sweet ecstatic
love-song floating down to delight our souls.
Surely, we thought, all must be well in the cabin among the dead leaves,
or he could not sing so. Yet life had not been all rose-colored to the
little dame whom we had surprised several days before, bringing great
pieces of what appeared to be lace, to line the nest she had made so
wonderfully. We had watched her, breathless, for a long time, while she
went back and forth carrying in old leaves, softened, bleached, and
turned to lace by long exposure, arranged each one carefully and moulded
it to place by pressing her breast against it, and turning round and
round in the nest. Curious enough she looked as she alighted at some
distance, and walked--not hopped--to her little "oven," holding the
almost skeletonized leaf before her like an apron, so busy that she did
not observe that she had visitors.
Then came a day when, on reaching our usual place, we found that an
accident had happened. The dainty roof was crushed in, and the poor
little egg, for which such loving preparations had been made, lay
pathetically on the ground outside the door. My comrade crept carefully
up, raised the tiny roof to place, and with deft fingers put a twig
under as a prop to hold it, then gently laid the pretty egg in the
lace-lined nest.
The next day we hurried out to see if the bird had resented our clumsy
human help. But no; like the wise little creature she was, she had
accepted the goods the gods had provided, and laid a second pearl beside
the first. On our next visit, therefore--especially when we heard the
gleeful song of her (supposed) mate--we came up with confidence to see
our little oven-bird homestead. But, alas! somebody not so loving as we
had been there; the two pretty eggs were gone, not a sign of them to be
seen, and the nest was deserted. Yet we could not give up a hope that
she would return, and day after day our steps turned of themselves to
the oven-bird's nook. This rainy day, as a dozen times before, we found
the little house still empty, and as before we turned sadly away, when
suddenly a new sound broke the stillness. "Wuk! wuk! wuk! wa-a-a-ah!
wa-a-a-ah!" it cried. It was the exact tone of a young baby, a naive
and innocent cry. What could it be? Was some tramp mother hidden behind
the bushes? Was it a new bird with this unbird-like cry? I was startled.
But my friend was smiling at my dismay. She pointed to the crotch of a
tree, and there a saucy gray squirrel lay sprawled out flat, uttering
his sentiments in this abominable parody on the human baby cry. I
believe the first squirrel learned it from some deserted infant, and
handed it down as a choice joke upon us all. At any rate this performer
was not suffering as his tones would indicate; for seeing that he had an
audience more interested than he desired, he pulled himself together,
whisked his bushy tail in our faces, and disappeared behind the trunk,
from whence, in one instant, his head was thrust on one side and his
tail on the other. And so he remained as long as we were in sight.
This absurd episode changed our mood, and soon we tramped gayly back
over the soft leaf-covered paths, fording the newly formed brooks,
shaking showers upon ourselves from the saplings, and arriving at last,
dripping but happy, on the veranda, where, after donning drier costumes,
we spent the rest of the day watching the birds that came to the trees
on the lawn.
XIX.
THE VAGARIES OF A WARBLER.
The bird lover who carries a glass but never a gun, who observes but
never shoots, sees many queer things not set down in the books; freaks
and notions and curious fancies on the part of the feathered folk, which
reveal an individuality of character as marked in a three-inch warbler
as in a six-foot man. Some of the idiosyncrasies of our "little
brothers" may be understood and explained from the human standpoint,
others are as baffling as "the lady, or the tiger?"
One lovely and lazy day last July--the fourth it was--a perfect day with
not a cannon nor even a cracker to disturb its peace, my comrade and I
turned our steps toward the woods, as we had for the thirty-and-three
mornings preceding that one.
This morning, however, was distinguished by the fact that we had a
special object. In general, our passage through the woods was an
open-eyed (and open-minded) loitering walk, alternated with periods of
rest on our camp-stools, wherever we found anything of interest to
detain us.
On this Fourth of July we were in search of a warbler,--one of the most
tantalizing, maddening pursuits a sensible human being can engage in.
Fancy the difficulty of dragging one's self, not to mention the flying
gown, camp-stool, opera-glass, note-book and other impedimenta through
brush and brier, over logs, under fallen trees, in the swamp and through
the tangle, to follow the eccentric movements of a scrap of a bird the
size of one's finger, who proceeds by wings and not by feet, who goes
over and not through all this growth.
The corner to which we had traced our "black-throated blue," and where
we suspected he had a nest, presented a little worse than the usual
snarl of saplings and fallen branches and other hindrances, and the
morning was warm. My heart failed me; and as my leader turned from the
path I deserted. "You go in, if you like," I said; "I'll wait for you
here."
I seated myself, and she went on. For a few minutes I heard the cracking
of twigs, the rustle of her movements against the bushes, the heavy
tread of her big dog, and then all was silent.
It was--did I say it was a fair morning?--not a breath of air was
stirring. My seat was in a rather open spot at the foot of a big
butternut tree; and I could look far up where its branches spread out
wide and held their graceful leafy stars against the blue.
In the woods I am never lonely; but I was not this morning alone. Near
by a vireo kept up his tireless song; a gray squirrel peeped curiously
at me from behind a trunk, his head showing on one side and his tail on
the other; an oven-bird stole up behind to see what manner of creature
this was, and far off I could hear the tanager singing.
I did not notice the time; but after a while I became conscious of a low
whistle which seemed to mingle with my reveries, and might have been
going on for some minutes. Suddenly it struck me that it was the call of
my fellow-student, and I started up the road wondering lazily if she had
found the nest, and, to tell the truth, not caring much whether she had
or not. For, to tell the whole truth, I had long ago steeled my heart
against the fascinations of those bewitching little sprites who never
stay two seconds in one spot, and sternly resolved never, _never_ to get
interested in a warbler.
My companion, however, was not so philosophical or so cool. She never
could withstand the flit of a warbler wing; she would follow for half a
day the absurd but enchanting little trill; and she regularly went mad
(so to speak) at every migration, over the hundred or two, more or
less, varieties that made this wood a resting-place on their way. Now, I
could resist the birds by never looking at them, but I could not resist
my friend's enthusiasm; so when she started on a warbler trail, I
generally followed, as a matter of course. And I admit that the blue, to
which we shortened his name, was a beauty and a charming singer.
I passed quietly up the road toward the continued low calls, and soon
saw the student, not far from the path, in a clearer spot than usual,
sitting against a maple sapling, with her four-footed protector at her
feet. When I came in sight she beckoned eagerly but silently, and I knew
she had found something; probably the nest, I thought. As quietly as
might be under the circumstances (namely, a passage through dead leaves,
brittle twigs, unexpected hollows, etc.), I crept to her side, planted
my camp-stool near hers, and sat down, in obedience to her imperious
gesture.
"Now look," she whispered, pointing to a nest in plain sight.
"Why that's the redstart nest we saw yesterday from the road," I
answered in the same tone, somewhat disappointed, it must be said, for
redstart nests were on about every third sapling in the woods.
"Yes; but see what's going on," she added, excitedly.
"I see," I replied; "there is a young bird on the edge of the nest and
its mother is feeding it;" and I was about to lower my glass and ask
what there was surprising about that, when she went on:--
"Keep looking! There! Who's that?"
"Why that's--why--that's a chestnut-sided warbler! and--what?--he feeds
the same baby!" I gasped, interested now as much as she.
"There!" she exclaimed, triumphantly, "I wanted you to see that with
your own eyes, since you scorn to look at the warblers. He has been
doing that ever since I left you. I couldn't bear to let him out of my
sight!"
At that moment the warbler appeared again, and the wise redstart baby,
who at least knew enough to take a good thing when it offered, opened
his ever-ready mouth for the bit of a worm he brought.
But lo! Madam, who had flown the moment before, returned in hot haste,
and flung herself upon that small philanthropist as if he had brought
poison; he vanished.
Here was indeed a queer complication! It was a redstart nest without
doubt, but who owned the baby? If he were a redstart, why did Mamma
refuse help in her hard work, and why did the chestnut-sided insist on
helping? If he were a chestnut-sided infant, how did he come in a
redstart nest, and what had the redstart to do with him?