ourselves to the work. We placed our seats against neighboring saplings,
for backs, and we first critically examined that nest. It was surely a
redstart's, though at an unusual height, perhaps twenty-five feet, as we
had observed the day before when we had both noted in our books that we
saw the male feeding the young. Even had the nest not been so plainly a
redstart's, the air of that mother was unmistakable. She owned that nest
and that baby, there could not be a doubt, and the dapper little
personage with chestnut sides was an interloper.
Nearly two hours we watched every movement of the small actors in this
strange drama, and in seeking food they often came within six feet of us
on our own level, so that we could not mistake their identity.
The poor little mamma was in deep distress. Although her mate was
absent, she resented her neighbor's efforts to help in her work, and
dashed at him furiously every time she saw him come. Yet she could not
stay on guard, for upon her alone devolved the duty of feeding that
nestling! So she rushed frantically hither and thither in mad redstart
fashion, brought her morsel and administered it, and then darted angrily
after the enemy, who appeared as often as she did, every time with a
tidbit for that pampered youngster.
This double duty seemed almost too much for the redstart. Her feathers
were ruffled, her tail opened and shut nervously, and at every interval
that she could spare from her breathless exertions she uttered in low
tones the redstart song, as though calling on that missing lord of hers.
And where was that much needed personage? Had he been killed in these
carefully protected and fenced woods, where no guns or collectors were
allowed, and trespass notices were as plentiful as blackberries? Not by
shooting we were sure; we should have heard a gun at the house. Had,
then, an owl paid a twilight visit, and could a redstart be surprised?
Or could, perchance, a squirrel have stolen upon him unaware? We shall
never know. There's no morning paper to chronicle the tragedies in the
bird world; and it would be too pitiful reading if there were.
The most curious thing about the whole performance was the behavior of
the chestnut-sided. His manner was as unruffled as Madam's was excited.
The most just and honorable cause in the world could not give more
absolute self-possession, more dignified persistence, than was shown by
this wonderful atom of a bird. He acknowledged her right to reprove him,
for he vanished before her outraged motherhood every time; but the
moment the chase ended he fell to collecting food, and by the time his
assailant had given her bantling a morsel, he was ready with another.
What could be his motive? Was he a charity-mad personage, such as we
sometimes see among bigger folk, determined to benefit his kind, whether
they would or no? Had he, perchance, been bereaved of his own
younglings, and felt moved to bestow his parental care upon somebody?
Did he wish to experiment with some theory of his own on another's baby?
Was it his aim to coax that young redstart to desert his family and
follow after the traditions of the chestnut-sided?
Alas! how easy to ask; how hard to answer!
By this time I had become as absorbed in the drama as my companion. We
forgot, or postponed, the blue, and gave the day to study of this case
of domestic infelicity. Five long hours we sat there (morning and
afternoon) before the stage on which the interesting but agitating play
went on; and after tea, just before dark, we came out again. All this
time the war between the two still raged, with no abatement of spirit.
Breakfast was not loitered over on the following morning, and we hurried
out to our post. The situation was changed a little. The youngster had
made up his mind to go out into the world. He had moved as far as the
branch, a few inches from the nest, and was still fed on both sides by
his zealous providers. Mamma, however, though every time repelling her
unwelcome assistant, was not so nervous. Perhaps she realized that a few
hours more would end the trouble. She fed, she encouraged, and pretty
soon, while we looked, the infant flew to the nearest tree.
Now the chestnut-sided began to have difficulty in following up his
self-imposed charge. He took to coming close upon the mother's heels to
see where she went. But this course was attended with the difficulty
that the instant she had fed she was ready to turn upon him, which she
never failed to do.
After several short flights about the tree, the young bird, grown
bolder, perhaps by over-feeding, for surely never nestling was stuffed
as that one was, attempted a more ambitious flight, failed, and came
fluttering to the ground, much to the dismay of his mamma, who followed
him closely all the way.
This was our opportunity, the moment we had waited for; we must see that
disputed baby!
My comrade dropped everything and ran to the spot. A moment's scrambling
about on the ground, a few careful "grabs" among the dead leaves, and
she held the exhausted little fellow in her hand. He was not frightened;
but his mother was greatly disturbed at first. We were too interested in
this case to heed her, and indeed after a moment's demonstration she
flew away and left him in our hands.
We examined him minutely, and I noted his markings on the spot. There
was no doubt about his being a redstart baby, as I had been convinced
from the first. When we had settled this, the little one was placed on a
branch, where he remained quite calmly, and we left him to his two
attendants.
The next morning we found the mother still hard at work in the same part
of the woods (we knew her by some feathers she had lost from her
breast), but the gallant little warbler was nowhere to be seen.
XX.
A CLEVER CUCKOO.
"Hark, the cuckoo, weatherwise,
Still hiding, farther onward woos you."
The mysterious bird, around whose name cluster some strange facts as
well as absurd fancies; shy and intolerant of the human race, yet bold
in protecting his treasures; devoted and tender in his family relations,
yet often known in the neighborhood where he passes his days as a mere
"wandering voice,"--
"No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery,"--
this bird, the cuckoo, was a stranger to me till one happy day last
June, when I came upon him where he could not escape, beside his own
nest.
In returning from our daily visit to the woods that morning, my
fellow-student turned down a narrow footway connecting the woods with
the home-fields, and I followed. She had passed through half its length,
her dog close behind her, when our eyes, ever searching the trees and
bushes, fell almost at the same instant upon a nest, with the sitting
bird at home. It was so near me that I could have touched it, being not
more than two feet from the ground, and hardly farther from the path.
Fearing to startle the little mother, whose frightened eyes were fixed
upon us, we announced our mutual discovery by a single movement of the
hand, and walked quietly past without pausing. Not until we reached the
open fields at the end did my comrade whisper, "a cuckoo," and our
hearts, if not our lips, sang with Wordsworth, "Thrice welcome, darling
of the spring," for the nest of this shy bird we hardly dared hope to
see.
After the morning of our happy discovery the cuckoo path became part of
our regular route home from the woods. Our first care was to dispel the
fears of the bird, and accustom her to seeing us, so for several days we
passed her without pausing, though we looked at her and spoke to her in
low tones as we went by.
Three times she flew at sight of us, but on the fourth morning she
remained, though with tail straight up and ready for instant flight. But
finding that we did not disturb her, she calmed down, and became so
fearless that she did not move nor appear agitated when at last we did
stop before her door, spoke to her, and identified her as the
black-billed cuckoo.
On the eighth day of our visits it happened that I went to the woods
alone. I found the bird at home, as usual, and armed with an
opera-glass, I placed myself at some distance to watch her. Half an hour
passed before she stirred a feather, but I was not lonely. A
mourning-warbler came about, eating and singing alternately, after the
manner of his kind, and the pretty trill of the black-throated green
warbler came out of the woods. Then a crow mamma created a diversion by
helping herself to an egg for her baby's breakfast, when a robin and a
vireo--curious pair!--took after her with loud cries of indignation and
reproach.
When this excitement was over, the trio had disappeared in the woods,
and silence had fallen upon us again, I heard the cuckoo call at a
little distance, and in a moment the bird himself alighted on a twig
three feet above the nest. He was a beauty, but he appeared greatly
excited. He threw up his tail till it pointed to the sky over his head,
then let it slowly drop to the horizontal position. This he did three
times, while he looked down upon his household, so absorbed that he did
not see me at all.
Then the patient sitter vacated her post, and he flew down to the nest.
The top was hidden by leaves, so that I cannot positively affirm that he
sat on the eggs, but it is certain that he remained perfectly silent
and motionless there for forty-five minutes. Then I caught sight of
Madam returning. She came in from the woods, behind and at the level of
the nest; there was a moment's flutter of wings, and I saw that her mate
was gone, and she in her usual place.
The next day there was a change in the programme. It happened that I
arrived when the mother was away, and the head of the household in
charge. No sooner did I appear on the path than he flew off the nest
with great hustle, thus betraying himself at once; but he did not desert
his post of protector. He perched on a branch somewhat higher than my
head, and five or six feet away, and began calling, a low "coo-oo." With
every cry he opened his mouth very wide, as though to shriek at the top
of his voice, and the low cry that came out was so ludicrously
inadequate to his apparent effort that it was very droll. In this
performance he made fine display of the inside of his mouth and throat,
which looked, from where I stood, like black satin.
The calls he made while I watched him sounded so far off that if I had
not been within six feet of him, and seen him make them, I should never
have suspected him:--
"A cry
Which made me look a thousand ways,
In bush and tree and sky."
Finding that his voice did not drive me away, the bird resorted to
another method; he tried intimidation. First he threw himself into a
most curious attitude, humping his shoulders and opening his tail like a
fan, then spreading his wings and resting the upper end of them on his
tail, which made at the back a sort of scoop effect. Every time he
uttered the cry he lifted wings and tail together, and let them fall
slowly back to their natural position. It was the queerest bird
performance I ever saw.
During all this excitement there sounded from a little distance a low
single "coo," which, I suppose, was the voice of his mate. Not wishing
to make a serious disturbance in the family, and seeing that he was not
to be conciliated, I walked slowly on, looking in the nest as I passed.
It contained one egg that looked like a robin's, and beside it a small
bundle of what resembled black flesh stuck full of white pins. This,
then, was the cuckoo baby; surely an odd one!
On the third day after this experience we were fortunate enough again to
find the nest uncovered. A second youngster lay beside the first, and
the two entirely filled the nest. They were perhaps two and a half
inches long, and resembled, as said above, mere lumps of flesh. After
looking at the young family, we seated ourselves a little way off to
wait for some one to come home.
The place the cuckoo had chosen to nest was one of the most attractive
spots on the grounds, an opening in the woods in which, after the loss
of the trees, had grown up a thicket of wild berries. The bushes were
nearly as high as one's head, and so luxuriant that they made an
impenetrable tangle, through which paths were cut in all directions, and
kept open by much work each year.
In the middle of the opening was a clump of larger saplings, around the
foot of two or three very tall old basswood-trees, part of the original
forest. It was the paradise of small fruits. Early in the season
elderberries ripened, and offered food to whoever would come. Before
they were gone the bushes were red with the raspberry, and blackberries
were ready to follow; choke-cherries completed the list, and lasted till
into the fall. The insect enemies of fruit were there in armies.
Its constant supply of food, its shelter from the winds on every side,
and its admirable hiding-places for nests, made this warm, sunny corner
the chosen home of many birds. Warblers were there from early spring,
heard, though not always seen. Veeries nested on its borders,
woodpeckers haunted the dead trees at the edge, and all the birds of the
neighborhood paid visits to it.
We had not waited long when the head of the cuckoo family appeared. He
saw us instantly, and, I regret to say, was no more reconciled to our
presence than he had been on the previous occasion; but he showed his
displeasure in a different way. He rushed about in the trees, crying,
"cuck-a-ruck, cuck-a-ruck," running out even to the tip of slender
branches that seemed too slight to bear his weight. When his feelings
entirely overcame him he flew away, and though we remained fifteen
minutes, no one came to the nest.
The day after this display of unkindly feeling toward us we passed down
the cuckoo path, saw Madam on the nest, and at once determined to wait
and see what new demonstration her mate would invent to express his
emotions. My comrade threw herself down full length on the dead leaves
beside the path, where she could bask in the sunlight, while I sat in
the shade close by.
After some time we saw the cuckoo stealing in by a roundabout back way
through the low growth in the edge of the wood. He was coming with
supplies, for a worm dangled from his beak. He had nearly reached the
nest--in fact was not two feet away--when his eyes fell upon us. He
stopped as if paralyzed. We remained motionless, almost breathless, but
he did not take his eyes off us, nor attempt to relieve himself of that
worm. Still we did not move; arms began to ache, feet tingled with
"going to sleep," every joint stiffened, and I began to be afraid I
should find myself turned to stone. Still that bird never moved an
eyelid, so far as we could see.
It was fully twenty-five minutes that we three stared at each other, all
struck dumb. But Nature asserted herself in us before it did in him. The
sun was hot, and the mosquitoes far from dumb. We yielded as gracefully
as we could under the circumstances, and left him there as motionless as
a "mounted specimen" in a glass case.
The next morning we started out rather earlier than usual, half
expecting to find Master Cuckoo grown to that perch. It appeared,
however, that he had torn himself away, for he was not to be seen. The
little mother, who was on the nest, had readily learned that we intended
no harm, but her peppery little spouse learned nothing; he was just as
unreconciled to us the last day as the first.
This time he tried to keep out of sight. First we heard his call far
off, then a low "cuck-a-ruck" quite near, to which she replied with a
gentle "coo-oo" hardly above her breath.
It was soothing, but it did not altogether soothe. He came up from
behind us with another dangling worm in his mouth, slipped silently
through the bushes to the nest, and in a moment departed by the back way
without a word. Then we went nearer, looked once more upon the shy but
brave little mother, and went our way.
We did not suspect it, but that was our last sight of the cuckoo family
at home; the next day the place was empty and deserted.
I was smitten with remorse. Were we the cause of the calamity? Had the
poor birds carried off the babies? Or had, perchance, another nest
tragedy occurred? We looked carefully; there were no signs of a
struggle. They had apparently flown in peace. Yet six days before one
was still in the egg and the other newly hatched. Only two days ago the
pair looked like tiny black cushions covered with white pins, and not a
quarter the size of the parents. Moreover, they had been sat upon every
day.
In this painful uncertainty we were obliged to leave the matter; but
although we saw no more of them, they did not pass out of our minds.
Every day we looked in the woods and listened for cuckoo voices, but
every day we were disappointed, until about eleven days later.
We were walking slowly down what we called the veery road in the woods,
far over the other side from the cuckoo's nest, when we heard a very
low but strange baby cry in some thick bushes. It was a constant
repetition of one note, a gentle "tut, tut, tut."
We were naturally eager to see the youngster, and we carefully
approached the spot. As we came near, a cuckoo flew up, scrambled
through a tree, and disappeared. Could it be a cuckoo baby we had heard?
In an instant the fugitive seemed to think better of her intention to
fly. Perhaps she was conscience-smitten for deserting the little one,
for she returned in plain sight, though at some distance. She began at
once calling and posturing, clearly for our benefit. We, of course,
understood her tactics. She wished to draw us away from the neighborhood
of her infant, and as it was impossible to penetrate the thicket, and we
did not enjoy torturing an anxious mother, we decided to yield to her
wishes, and see what she would do.
She cried every moment, "tut, tut, tut," in a low tone, and ten or
twelve times repeated. At the same time she lifted her long tail, and
slowly let it fall, with a beautiful and graceful motion. She crouched
on the branch, and put her head down to it, then suddenly rose and threw
up her head and tail, making herself as conspicuous and as remarkable as
she could. We moved a little toward her. That encouraged her to go on;
and easily, in a sort of careless, inconsequent way, she hopped to the
next branch farther. So we let ourselves be drawn away, she keeping up
all the time the low call, while the infant, which we are sure was
there, had become utterly silent.
She was a beautiful creature, a picture of grace; and when she had
beguiled us some distance away from where we heard the baby-cry, she
suddenly slipped behind a branch and was gone; and we felt repaid for
missing the young one by the beautiful exhibition she had made of
herself. We never saw her again.
XXI.
TWO LITTLE DRUMMERS.
Last summer I made the acquaintance of an outlaw; an unfortunate
fellow-creature under the ban of condemnation, burdened with an
opprobrious name, and by general consent given over to the tender
mercies of any vagabond who chooses to torture him or take his life. One
would naturally sympathize with the "under dog," but when, instead of
one of his peers as opponent, a poor little fellow, eight inches long,
has arrayed against him the whole human race, with all its devices for
catching and killing, his chances for life and the pursuit of happiness
are so small that any lover of justice must be roused to his defense, if
defense be possible.
The individual of whom I speak is, properly, the yellow-bellied
woodpecker, though he is more commonly known as the sapsucker, in some
places the squealing sapsucker; and I hailed with joy his presence in a
certain protected bit of woods, a little paradise for birds and bird
lovers, where, if anywhere, he could be studied. There is some propriety
in applying to him the strange epithet "squealing," I must allow, for
the bird has a peculiar voice, nasal enough for the conventional Brother
Jonathan; but "sapsucker" is, in the opinion of many who have studied
his ways, undeserved. Dr. Merriam, even while admitting that the birds
do taste the sap, says positively, "It is my firm belief that their
chief object in making these holes is to secure the insects which gather
about them."
My introduction to the subject of my study took place just after sundown
on a beautiful June evening. We were riding up from the railway station,
three miles away. The horses had climbed to the top of the last hill,
and trotted gayly through a belt of fragrant woods which reached like an
arm around from the forest behind, as if lovingly inclosing the
attractive scene,--a pleasant, old-fashioned homestead, with ample lawn
sloping down toward the valley we had left, and looking away over low
hills to the apparently unbroken forests of the Adirondacks.
At this moment there arose a loud, strange cry, of distress it seemed,
and I turned hastily to see a black and white bird, with bright red
crown and throat, bounding straight up the trunk of an elm-tree,
throwing back his head at every jerk with a comical suggestion of
Jack's "Hitchety! hatchety! up I go!" as he joyously mounted his
beanstalk, in the old nursery story. There was surely nothing amiss with
this little fellow, and, knowing almost nothing of the
"Greys, whites, and reds,
Of pranked woodpeckers that ne'er gossip out,
But always tap at doors and gad about,"
I eagerly demanded his name, and was delighted to hear in answer, "The
sapsucker." I was delighted because I hoped to see for myself whether
the bird merited the offensive name bestowed upon him, or was the victim
of hasty generalization from careless observation or insufficient data,
like others of his race. The close investigations of scientific men have
reversed many popular decisions. They have proved the crow to be the
farmer's friend, most of the hawks and owls to be laborers in his
interest, the kingbird to fare almost entirely upon destructive insects
rather than bees, and other birds to be more sinned against than
sinning.
The first thing noted was the sapsucker's peculiar food-seeking habit.
One bird made the lawn a daily haunt, and we, living chiefly on the
veranda, saw him before us at all hours, from dawn to dusk, and thus had
the best possible chance to catch him in mischief, if to mischief he
inclined. He generally made his appearance flying in bounding, wave-like
fashion, uttering his loud mournful cry, which, though an apparent
wail, was evidently not inspired by sadness. Alighting near the foot of
a tree-trunk, with many repetitions of his complaining note, he gayly
bobbed his way up the bark highway as if it were a ladder. When he
reached the branches, he flew to another tree. This bird's custom of
delivering his striking call as he approached and mounted a tree not far
from his "food tree" may be a newly acquired habit; for Dr. Merriam, who
observed this species ten years ago on the same place, says that he
"never heard a note of any description from them, either while in the
neighborhood of these trees, or in flying to and fro between them and
the forests." On his own trees the sapsucker was not in such haste, but
lingered about the prepared rings, evidently taking his pick of the
insects attracted there.
The array of traps prepared for the woodpecker's use was most curious,
and readily explained how he came by his name. The clever little workman
had selected for his purpose two trees. One was a large elm, and around
its trunk, about fifteen feet from the ground, he had laboriously cut
with his sharp beak several rings of cups. These receptacles were
somewhat less than half an inch in diameter, and nearly their own width
apart, and the rings encircled the trunk as regularly as though laid
out with mechanical instruments. His second depot of supplies was one of
a close group of mountain ashes, which seemed to spring from one root,
and were thickly shaded by leaves to the ground. The elm would naturally
attract the high-flying insects, and the ash those which stay nearer the
earth, though I do not presume to say that was the bird's intention in
so arranging them. The mountain-ash trunk was perforated in a different
way from the elm, the holes being in lines up and down, and the whole
trunk covered five or six feet above the root. These places were not at
all moist or sticky on the several occasions when I examined them, and
both trees were in a flourishing condition.