one tree to the other almost constantly. It appeared to lookers-on that
he visited the traps on one and secured whatever was caught or lingered
there, then went to the other for the same purpose; thus allowing
insects a chance to settle on each while he was absent. At almost any
hour of the day he could be found vigorously carrying on his insect hunt
in this singular fashion.
It was too late in the season to see the sapsucker in his most
frolicsome humor, although occasionally we met in the woods two of them
in a lively mood, eagerly discussing in garrulous tones their own
private affairs, or chasing each other with droll, taunting cries, some
of which resembled the boy's yell, "oy-ee," but others defied
description. During courtship, observes Dr. Merriam, they are
inexpressibly comical, with queer rollicking ways and eccentric pranks,
making the woods ring with their extraordinary voices. At this time,
early in June, the season of woodpecker wooing was past. Each little
couple had built a castle in the air, and set up a household of its own,
somewhere in the woods surrounding the house.
The two storehouses on the lawn seemed to belong to one family, whose
labor alone had prepared them; certainly they were the property of the
sapsuckers. But the bird world, like the human, has its spoilers. A
frequent visitor to the elm, on poaching bent, was a humming-bird, who
treated the beguiling cups like so many flowers, hovering lightly before
them, and testing one after another in regular order. The owner
naturally objected, and if present flew at the dainty robber; but the
elusive birdling simply moved to another place, not in the least awed by
his comparatively clumsy assailant. Large flies, perhaps bees also,
buzzed around the tempting bait, and doubtless many paid with their
lives for their folly.
The most unexpected plunderer of the sapsucker stores was a gray
squirrel, who lay spread out flat against the trunk as though glued
there, body, arms, legs, and even tail, with head down and closely
pressed against the bark. I cannot positively affirm that he was sucking
the sap or feeding upon the insects attracted to it, but it is a fact
that his mouth rested exactly over one of the rings of holes; and his
position seemed very satisfactory, for some reason, for he hung there
motionless so long that I began to fear he was dead. All these petty
pilferers may possibly have regarded the treasure as nature's own
provision, like the flowers, but one visitor to his neighbor's magazine
certainly knew better. This was the brilliant cousin of the sapsucker,
the red-headed woodpecker, whose vagaries I shall speak of a little
later.
Nothing about the tri-colored family is more interesting than its habit
of drumming,--
"The ceaseless rap
Of the yellow-hammer's tap,
Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap-tip.
'Tis the merry pitter-patter
Of the yellow-hammer's tap."
Whether or not it is mere play is perhaps yet an open question. The
drumming of the sapsucker, one of the most common sounds of the woods
and lawn, seemed sometimes simply for amusement, but again it appeared
exceedingly like a signal. A bird frequently settled himself in plain
sight of us, on one of the trespass notices in the woods, and spent
several minutes in that occupation, changing his place now and then, and
thus producing different sounds, whether with that intention or not. Now
he would tap on top of the board, again down one side, and then on a
corner, but always on the edge. Nor was it a regular and monotonous
rapping; it was curiously varied. One performance that I carefully noted
down at the moment reminded me of the click of a telegraph instrument.
It was "rat-tat-tat-t-t-t-t-rat-tat,"--the first three notes rather
quick and sharp, the next four very rapid, and the last two quite slow.
After tapping, the bird always seemed to listen. Often while I was
watching one at his hammering, a signal of the same sort would come from
a distance. Sometimes my bird replied; sometimes he instantly flew in
the direction from which it came. Around the house the woodpeckers
selected particular spots to use as drums, generally a bit of tin on a
roof, or an eave-gutter of the same metal. A favorite place was the
hindquarters of a gorgeous gilded deer that swung with the wind on the
roof of the barn.
So closely were they watched that the sapsuckers themselves were like
old acquaintances before the babes in the woods began to make
themselves heard. No sooner had these little folk found their voices
than they made the woods fairly echo. Cry-babies in feathers I thought I
knew before, but the young woodpecker outdoes anything in my experience.
No wonder the woodpecker mamma sets up her nursery out of the reach of
prowlers of all sorts; so loud and so persistent are the demands of her
nestlings that they would not be safe an hour, if they could be got at.
The tone, too, must always arrest attention, for it is of the nasal
quality I have mentioned. The first baby whisper, hardly heard at the
foot of the tree, has a squeaky twang, which strengthens with the
infant's strength, and the grown-up murmurs of love and screams of war
are of the same order.
It was during the nest-feeding days that we discovered most of the
sapsucker homesteads; for, having many nests nearer our own level to
study, we never sought them, and noticed them only when the baby voices
attracted our attention. The home that apparently belonged to our bird
of the lawn was beautifully placed in a beech-tree heavy with foliage.
At first we thought the owner an eccentric personage, who had violated
all sapsucker traditions by building in a living tree; but, on looking
closely, it was evident that the top of the tree had been blown off,
and from that break the trunk was dead two or three feet down. In that
part was the opening, and the foliage that nearly hid it grew on the
large branches below. Most of the nests, however, were in the customary
dead trunks, on which we could gently rap, and bring out whoever was at
home to answer our call.
Young woodpeckers are somewhat precocious; or, to speak more correctly,
they stay in the nest till almost mature. We see in this family no
half-fledged youngster wandering aimlessly about, unable to fly or to
help itself, a sight very common among the feathered folk whose homes
are nearer the ground. One morning, a young bird, not yet familiar with
the mysteries of the world about him, flew into the open window of a
room in the house, and for an hour we had a fine opportunity to study
him near at hand. The moment he entered he went to the cornice, and
although he flew around freely, he did not descend so low as the top of
the window, wide open for his benefit. He was not in the least afraid or
embarrassed by his staring audience, nor did he beat himself against the
wall and the furniture, as would many birds in his position; in fact, he
showed unusual self-possession and self-reliance. He was exceedingly
curious about his surroundings: tapped the wall, tested the top of
picture frames, drummed on the curtain cornice, and closely examined
the ceiling. He was beautifully dressed in soft gray all mottled and
spotted and barred with white, but he had not as yet put on the red cap
of his fathers. While we watched him, he heard outside a sapsucker cry,
to which he listened eagerly; then he drummed quite vigorously on the
cornice, as if in reply. It was not till he must have been very hungry
that he blundered out of the window, as he had doubtless blundered in.
The beauty of the drumming family, at least in that part of the country,
is the red-headed woodpecker, which it happened I did not know. The
first time I saw one, he was out for an airing with his mate, one lovely
evening in June. The pair were scrambling about, as if in play, on the
trunk of a tall maple-tree across the lane. They did not welcome our
visit, nor our perhaps rather rude way of gazing at them; for one flew
away, and the other perched on the topmost dead branch of a tree a
little farther off, and proceeded to express his mind by a scolding
"kr-r-r," accompanied by violent bows toward us. Finding his
demonstration unavailing, he soon followed his mate, and weeks passed
before we saw him again, although we often walked down the lane with the
hope of doing so.
One beautiful morning, after the hay had been cut from the meadow, and
all the hidden nests we had looked at and longed for while grass was
growing, were opened to us, I had taken my comfortable folding-chair to
a specially delightful nook between a clump of evergreens, which
screened it from the house, and a row of maples, elms, and other trees,
much frequented by birds. Close before me was a beautiful hawthorn-tree,
in which a pair of kingbirds had long ago built their nest. On one side
I could look over to an impenetrable, somewhat swampy thicket, where
song sparrows and indigo birds nested; on the other, past the
picturesque old-fashioned arbor, half buried under vines and untrimmed
trees, far down the pretty carriage-drive between young elms and
flowering shrubs, where the bobolink had raised her brood, and the
meadow lark had chanted his vesper hymn for us all through June. Many
winged strangers came to feast on the treasures uncovered by the
hay-cutter, and then the shy red-head showed himself on our grounds. To
my surprise, he was searching the freshly cut stubble not at all like a
woodpecker, but hobbling about most awkwardly, half flying, half
hopping, seeking some delectable morsel, which, when found, he carried
to the side of a tree-trunk, thrust into a crack, and ate at his
leisure. The object I saw him treat in this way was as large as a bee,
and he was some time in disposing of it, even after it was anchored in
the crack. Then, observing that, although a long way off, I was
interested in his doings, he slipped around behind the trunk, and peered
at me first from one side, then in an instant from the other.
The next performance with which this bird entertained me was poaching
upon his cousin's preserves. Sitting one evening on the veranda, looking
over the meadow, I heard his low "kr-r-r," and saw him alight upon the
sapsucker's elm. Whether he stumbled upon the feast or went with malice
aforethought, he was not slow to appreciate the charms of his position.
It may have been the nectar from the tree, or the minute victims of its
attractions, I could not tell which, but something pleased him, for he
devoted himself to the task of exploring the tiny cups his industrious
relative had carved, driving away one of the younger members of the
family already in possession. The young bird could not refuse to go
before the big beak and determined manner of the stranger, but he did
refuse to stay away; and every time he was ousted he returned to the
tree, though he settled on a different place. Before the red-head had
shown any signs of exhausting his find, the sapsucker himself appeared,
and at once fell upon his bigger cousin with savage cries. Disturbed so
rudely from his pleasing occupation, the intruder retired before the
attack, though he protested vigorously; and so great was the fascination
of the spot, that he returned again and again, every time to go through
the same process of being driven away.
The raspberry hedge before my windows was the decoy that gave me my best
chance to study the red-headed woodpecker. Day after day, as the berries
ripened, I watched the dwellers of wood and meadow drawn to the rich
feast, and at last, one morning, to my great joy, I saw the interesting
drummer alight on a post overlooking the loaded vines. He plainly felt
himself a stranger, and not certain of his reception by the residents of
the neighborhood, for he crouched close to the fence, and looked warily
about on every side. He had been there but a few moments when a robin,
self-constituted dictator of that particular corner of the premises,
came down a few feet from him, as if to inquire his business. The
woodpecker acknowledged the courtesy by drawing himself up very straight
and bowing. The bow impressed, not to say awed, the native bird. He
stood staring blankly, till the new-comer proclaimed his errand by
dropping into the bushes, helping himself to a berry, and returning to
the fence to dispose of his plunder. This was too much; the outraged
redbreast dashed suddenly over the head of the impertinent visitor,
almost touching it as he passed. The woodpecker kept his ground in spite
of this demonstration, and I learned how a bird accustomed to rest, and
even to work, hanging to the trunk of a tree, would manage to pluck and
eat fruit from a bush. He first sidled along the top of the board fence,
looking down, till he had selected his berry. Then he half dropped, half
flew, into the bushes, and sometimes seized the ripe morsel instantly,
without alighting, but generally hung, back down, on a stalk which bent
and swayed with his weight, while he deliberately gathered the fruit. He
then returned to the fence, laid his prize down, and pecked it apart,
making three or four bites of it. After some practice he learned to
swallow a berry whole, though it often required three or four attempts,
and seemed almost more than he could manage. When he had accomplished
this feat, he sat with his head drawn down into his shoulders, as though
he found himself uncomfortably stuffed. Having eaten two or three
raspberries, our distinguished visitor always picked another, with which
he flew away,--doubtless for the babies growing up in some dead tree
across the lane.
The little difficulty with the robin was easily settled by the stranger.
Somewhat later in that first day, he took his revenge for the insulting
dash over him by turning the tables and sweeping over the lofty head of
the astonished robin, who ducked ingloriously, in his surprise, and
called out, "Tut! tut!" as who should say, "Can such things be?" After
that Master Robin undertook a closer surveillance of that highway the
fence, and might be seen at all hours perched on the tall gatepost,
looking out for callers in brilliant array, or running along its whole
length to see that no wily woodpecker was hiding in the bushes. He could
not be on guard every moment, for his nursery up under the eaves of the
barn was full of clamorous babies, and he was obliged to give some
attention to them; but the red-head was not afraid of him, and, finding
the fruit to his taste, he soon became a daily guest.
Sometimes the spouse of the gay little fellow came also. She was always
greeted by a low-whispered "kr-r-r," and the husky-toned conversation
between the two was kept up so long as both were there. Now, too, as the
male began to feel at home, I saw more of his odd ways. His attitudes
were especially comical. Sometimes he clung to the edge of the top
board, his tail pressed against it, his wings drooped and spread a
little, exposing his whole back, and thus remained for perhaps ten
minutes. Again he flattened himself out on top of a post for a sun
bath. He sprawled and spread himself, every feather standing independent
of its neighbor, till he looked as if he had been smashed flat, and more
like some of the feather monstrosities with which milliners disfigure
their hats than a living bird.
Another curious habit of my versatile guest was his fly-catching. It is
already notorious that the golden-wing is giving up the profession of
woodpecker and becoming a ground bird; it is equally patent to one who
observes him that the red-head is learning the trade of fly-catching.
Frequently, during the weeks that I had him under observation, I saw him
fly up in the air and return to the fence, exactly like the kingbird.
All the time I had been making this pleasing acquaintance I had longed
in vain to find the red-head's nest. It was probably in the pasture in
which we had first met him, where the somewhat spirited cattle in
possession prevented my explorations. I hoped at least to see his young
family; but July days passed away, and though the bonny couple spent
much time among the raspberries, they always carried off the nestlings'
share.
In the very last hours of my stay, after trunks were packed, fate
relented, and I spent nearly the whole day studying the "tricks and
manners" of a red-headed baby. I had returned from my last morning's
walk in the woods, and was seated by my window, thinking half sadly that
my summer was ended, when I saw the woodpecker come to the raspberries,
gather one, and fly away with it. Instead, however, of heading, as
usual, for the woods across the pasture, he alighted on a fence near by.
A small dark head rose above the edge of a board, opened a bill, and
received the berry in it. Instantly I turned my glass upon that
meek-looking head. So soon as the old bird disappeared the young one
came up in sight, and in a few moments flew over to the nearer fence,
beside the bushes. Then one of the parents returned, fed him two or
three times, apparently to show him that berries grew on bushes, and not
in the beak, and then departed with an air that said, "There, my son,
are the berries; help yourself!"
Left now to his own devices, the little woodpecker was my study for
hours. He was like his parents, except that he was gray where they were
red, and the white on the wings was barred off with a dark color which
on theirs did not appear. Like young creatures the world over, he at
once began to amuse himself, working at a hole in the top of a post,
digging into it vehemently, and at last, after violent effort, bringing
out a stick nearly as long as himself. This he brandished about as a
child flourishes a whip, and presently laid it down, worried it, flung
it about, and had a rare frolic with it. Tiring of that, he closely
examined the fence, going over it inch by inch, and pecking every mark
and stain on it. When startled by a bird flying over or alighting near
him, he sprang back instantly, slipped over behind the fence or post,
and hung on by his claws, leaving only his head in sight. He was a true
woodpecker in his manners; bowing to strangers who appeared, driving
away one of his sapsucker cousins who came about, and keeping up a low
cry of "kr-r-r" almost exactly like his parents. He showed also great
interest in a party of goldfinches, who seemed to have gone mad that
morning.
Finally the thought of berries struck the young red-head. He began to
consider going for them. One could fairly see the idea grow in his mind.
He leaned over and peered into the bushes; he hitched along the fence, a
little nearer, bent over again, then came down on the side of the board,
and hung there, with body inclined toward the fruit. After many such
feints, he actually did drop to the second board, and a little later
secured a berry, which he took to the top of the post to eat. In spite
of the fact that he was amply able to help himself, as he proved, he
still demanded food when his parents came near, bowing and calling
eagerly, but not fluttering his wings, as do most young birds.
Nearly all day the little fellow entertained himself; working
industriously on the fence, hammering the posts as if to keep in
practice, as children play at their parents' life work, and varying
these occupations with occasional excursions into the bushes for
berries. The notion of flying away from where he had been left never
appeared to enter his head. He seemed to be an unusually well-balanced
young person, and intelligent beyond his years,--days, I should say.
XXII.
FROM MY WINDOW.
The best place I have found for spying upon the habits of birds is
behind a blind. If one can command a window with outside blinds, looking
upon a spot attractive to the feathered world, he will be sure, sooner
or later, to see every bird of the vicinity. If he will keep the blinds
closed and look only through the opened slats, he will witness more of
their unconstrained free ways than can possibly be seen by a person
within their sight, though he assume the attitude and the stolidity of a
wooden figure. Says our nature-poet, Emerson:--
"You often thread the woods in vain
To see what singer piped the strain.
Seek not, and the little eremite
Flies forth and gayly sings in sight."
And the bird student can testify to the truth of the verse.
Many times, after having spent the morning in wandering about in the
bird haunts of a neighborhood, I have returned to my room to write up my
note-book, and have seen more of birds and bird life in an hour from my
window than during the whole morning's stroll.
One of my windows, last summer, looked out upon an ideal bird corner: a
bit of grass, uncut till very late, with a group of trees and shrubs at
the lower boundary, and an old board fence, half buried in luxuriant
wild raspberry bushes, running along one side. It was a neglected spot,
the side yard of a farmhouse; and I was careful not to enter it myself
so often as to suggest to the birds that they were likely to see people.
It had the further advantage of being so near the woods surrounding the
house, that the shy forest birds were attracted to it.
No sooner would I seat myself, pen in hand, than chirps and twitters
would come from the trees, a bird alight on the fence, or a red squirrel
come out to sun himself. Of course the pen gave way to the opera-glass
in a moment, and often not a line of the note-book got itself written
till birds and squirrels had gone to bed with the sun.
The group of trees which bounded my view at the end of this outdoor
study I called the "locust group." It consisted of a locust or two,
surrounded by a small but close growth of lesser trees and shrubs that
made a heavy mass of foliage. There were a few young ashes, two or three
half-grown maples, a shadberry bush, and wild raspberry vines to carry
the varied foliage to the ground. Inside this beautiful tangle of
Nature's own arranging, was a perfect tent, so thickly grown near the
ground that a person could hardly penetrate it without an axe, but open
and roomy above, with branches and twigs enough to accommodate an army
of birds. Behind that waving green curtain of leaves took place many
dramas I longed to see; but I knew that my appearance there would be a
signal for the whole scene to vanish, and with flit of wings the
_dramatis personae_ to make their exit. So I tried to possess my soul in
patience, and to content myself with the flashes and glimpses I could
catch through an opening here and there in the leafy drapery.
At one corner of the group stood a small dead tree. This was the
phoebe's customary perch, and on those bare branches--first or
last--every visitor was sure to appear. On the lower branch the robin
paused, with worm in mouth, on the way to his two-story nest under the
eaves of the barn. On the top spire the warbler baby sat and stared at
the world about it, till its anxious parent could coax it to a more
secluded perch. From a side branch the veery poured his wonderful song,
and the cheery little song sparrow uttered his message of good will for
all to hear and heed. Here the red-headed woodpecker waited, with low
"k-r-r-r-r" and many bows to the universe in general, to see if the way
were clear for him to go to the fence. Nothing is so good to bring birds
into sight as an old fence or a dead tree. On the single leafless branch
at the top of an old apple-tree the student will generally see, at one
time or another, every bird in an orchard.
This dead tree of the locust group was the regular perch of "the
loneliest of its kind," the phoebe, whose big chuckle-head and high
shoulders gave him the look of an old man, bent with age. His outline
one could never mistake, even though he were but a silhouette against
the sky. One of these birds could nearly always be seen on the lowest
branch pursuing his business of fly-catcher, and I learned more of the
singularly reserved creature than I ever knew before. I found, contrary
to my expectation, that he had a great deal to say for himself, aside
from the professional performance at the peak of the barn roof which
gives him his name.
"Phoebe is all it has to say
In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er,"