enjoyed behind my blind. There were two mud cottages in the
neighborhood, and two pairs of birds to occupy them, and no phoebe of
spirit will tolerate in silence another of his kind near him. Sparrows
of all sorts might come about; juncos and chickadees, thrushes and
warblers, might alight on his chosen tree,--rarely a word would he say;
but let a phoebe appear, and there began at once a war of words. It
might be mere friendly talk, but it sounded very much like vituperation
and "calling names," and I noticed that it ended in a chase and the
disappearance of one of them.
Again, whenever a phoebe alighted on the fence he made a low but
distinct remark that sounded marvelously like "cheese-it," and several
times the mysterious bird treated me to a very singular performance. He
hovered like a humming-bird close before a nest, looking into it and
uttering a loud strange cry, like the last note of "phoebe" repeated
rapidly, as "be-be-be." Was it derision, complaint, or a mere neighborly
call? This was not for the benefit of his own family, for he did it
before the robin's nest. I thought at first he meant mischief to the
young robins, but although he approached very near he did not actually
touch them.
The loudest note this bird uttered was, of course, his well-known
"phoebe," which he delivered from the peak of the barn (never from the
dead tree) with an emphasis that proclaimed to all whom it might
concern that he had something on his mind. It was plain that he was a
person of cares; indeed, his whole bearing was that of one with no
nonsense about him, with serious duties to perform. I wonder if these
birds are ever playful! Even the babies are dignified and
self-contained. Phoebes in a frolic would be a rare sight. Of the two
nests whose owners I had to study, one was on a low beam in the
cow-barn, where a person might look in; the other under the eaves of a
farm-building close by.
The special policeman of the group and its environs was a robin, who
lived in a two-story nest under the eaves of the hay-barn. This bird,
after the manner of his family, constituted himself regulator and
dictator. He lived in peace with the ordinary residents, but took it
upon himself to see that no stranger showed his head near the spot. He
chased the crow blackbird who happened to fly over on business of his
own, and by calls for help brought the whole robin population about the
ears of the intruder. He also headed the mob of redbreasts that
descended one morning upon a meek-looking half-grown kitten, who chanced
to cast its innocent eyes upon a robin baby under the trees on another
side of the house. The youngster could fly with ease, but he preferred
to stay on the ground, for he quickly returned there when I put him on
a low branch; and when a robin makes up his mind, arguments are useless.
The same robin bullied the red-headed woodpecker, and flew at the
kingbird when he brought his young family up to taste the raspberries.
One visitor there was, however, to the fence and the locusts whom Master
Robin did not molest. When a prolonged, incisive "pu-eep" in the martial
and inspiring tone of the great-crested fly-catcher broke the silence, I
observed that the robin always had plenty of his own business to attend
to. I admire this beautiful bird, perhaps because he is the inveterate
enemy of the house sparrow, and almost the only one who actually keeps
that little bully in his proper place. There is to me something pleasing
in the bearing of the great-crest, who, though of few inches, carries
himself in a manner worthy of an eagle. Even the play of a pair of them
on the tops of the tallest dead trees in the woods, though merry enough
with loud joyful cries, has a certain dignity and circumspection about
it uncommon in so small a bird.
A pair of great-crests were frequent visitors to the fence, where they
were usually very quiet. But one day as the male flew over from the
woods, his call was answered by a loud-voiced canary, whose cage hung
all summer outside the kitchen door. The stranger alighted on a tree,
apparently astonished to be challenged, but he replied at once. The
canary, who was out of sight on the other side of the cottage, answered,
and the droll conversation was kept up for some time; the woods bird
turning his head this way and that, eager to see his social neighbor,
but unable, of course, to do so.
A little later in the season, when baby birds began to fly about, the
locust group became even more attractive. Its nearness to the woods, as
already mentioned, made it convenient for forest birds, and its
seclusion and supply of food were charms they could not resist. First of
the fledglings to appear were a family of crow blackbirds, four of them
with their parents. These are the least interesting feathered young
people I know, but the parents are among the most devoted. They keep
their little flock together, and work hard to fill their mouths. The low
cry is husky, but insistent, and they flutter their wings with great
energy, holding them out level with the back.
After berries began to ripen, the woodpeckers came to call on us. In my
walk in the woods in the morning, I frequently brought home a branch of
elder with two or three clusters of berries, which I hung in the small
dead tree. In that way I drew some of the woods birds about. The downy
woodpecker was one of my first callers. He came with a sharp
"chit-it-it," hung upon the clusters, occasionally head down, and picked
and ate as long as he liked. The vigilant robin would sometimes fly at
him, and he would leave; but in a moment back he came, and went on with
his repast. When the care of an infant fell to him, he brought his
charge to the source of supplies. A farm wagon happened to stand near
the dead tree, and on this the young woodpecker alighted, and stood
humped up and quiet while his parent went to the berries, picked several
for himself, and then proceeded to feed him. This young person was very
circumspect in his behavior. He did not flutter nor cry, in the usual
bird-baby manner, but received his food with perfect composure. Berries,
however, seemed to be new to him, and he did not appear to relish them,
for after tasting two or three he flew away. In spite of this he came
again the next day, and then he flew over to a cluster himself, and
hung, back down, while he ate. He was charming with his sweet low
chatter, and very lovely in plumage, white as snow, with dark markings
clear and soft.
One of the prettiest of our guests was a young chestnut-sided warbler.
He looked much bigger than his papa, as warbler babies often do; but
that is probably because the young bird is not accustomed to his suit of
feathers, and does not know how to manage them. Some of them appear like
a child in his grandfather's coat. The chestnut-sided warbler was
himself an attractive little fellow, with a generous desire to help in
the world's work pleasant to see in bird or man. After becoming greatly
interested in one we had seen in the woods, who insisted on helping a
widowed redstart feed her youngster, and had almost to fight the little
dame to do so, we found another chestnut-sided warbler engaged in
helping his fellows. Whether it were the same bird we could not tell; we
certainly discovered him in the same corner of the woods. This little
fellow was absorbed in the care of an infant more than twice as big as
himself. "A cowbird baby!" will exclaim every one who knows the habit,
shameful from our point of view, of the cowbird, to impose her infants
on her neighbors to hatch and bring up. But this baby, unfortunately for
the "wisdom of the wise," did not resemble the cowbird family.
We saw the strange pair several times in the woods, and then one day, as
I sat at my window trying to write, I heard a new cry, and saw a strange
bird fly to the fence. He was very restless, ran along the top board,
then flew to another fence, scrambled along a few feet, raising and
lowering his tail, and all the time uttering a husky two-note baby-cry.
While I was struggling to keep him in the field of my glass long enough
to note his points, he went to the dead tree, when the philosophical
phoebe sitting there took his case in hand, and made a dash for him.
The stranger flew straight over the house, with his assailant in close
chase. But in a moment I heard the baby-cry in a maple beside the
cottage, while the phoebe calmly returned to his post and gave his
mind again to his fly-catching. The young bird was not in range from the
window, but when, a few seconds later, I heard the feeding-cry, I could
no longer resist the desire to see him.
I forgot my caution, and rushed out of the house, for I suspected that
this uneasy visitor was the chestnut-sided's adopted charge. So I found
it. There stood the infant, big and clumsy by comparison, calling,
calling, forever calling; and stretching up on tiptoe, as it were, to
reach him was the poor little warbler, trying to stop his mouth by
stuffing him. The foster-parent lingered as if he were weary, and his
plumage looked as if he had not dressed it for a week. But the insatiate
beggar gave him no peace; with the swallowing of the last morsel began
his cry for more. Again, standing within ten feet of him, I noticed the
young bird's points, and again I was convinced that he was not a
cowbird baby.
The curious antics of a solemn kingbird, who did not suspect his hidden
observer, were droll to look upon. He seemed to be alone on the fence,
though some silent spectator may have been hidden behind the leaves. He
mounted suddenly straight up in the air, with cries, twenty feet or
more, then soared down with a beautiful display of his plumage. This he
did many times in succession, with an indescribably conscious air, and
at last he dropped behind some tall grass in the pasture. It looked
exceedingly like "showing off," and who could imagine a kingbird in that
role!
But all flourishes were over when, somewhat later, he brought his lovely
little family of three to the fence to be treated to berries. It was
interesting to see a fly-catcher take his fruit "on the wing," as it
were; that is, fly at it, seize it, and jerk it off without alighting.
The phoebe picked berries in the same way, when he occasionally
condescended to investigate the attraction that brought so many
strangers into his quiet corner.
The young kingbirds were sweet and chatty among themselves, and they
decidedly approved the berries; but they never lost sight of each other,
and kept close together, the little company of three, as I have seen
other kingbirds do. One day they came in the rain, feathers all in
locks, showing the dark color next the skin, and looking like beggars in
"rags and tags," but they were as cheerful and as clannish as ever.
To the locust group, too, came the red-headed woodpeckers; at first the
parents, who talked to each other in whispered "kr-r-r-r's," and carried
off many a sweet morsel to their family in the woods; later, one
youngster, who took possession of the fence with the calm assurance of
his race, and when I left the place had apparently established himself
there for the season.
Many others alighted on the fence; the junco, with his pretty brown
bantling and his charming little trilling song; the crow baby, with its
funny ways and queer cry of "ma-a-a;" the redstart, who
"Folds and unfolds his twinkling tail in sport;"
the flicker mamma, with her "merry pitter-patter" and her baby as big as
herself. Even the sapsucker from the lawn had somehow heard the news
that a feast was spread near the locusts, and came over to see.
Birds were not the only frequenters of the fence and the berry bushes.
There were squirrels, gray and red, and chipmunks, who sat up pertly on
a post, with two little paws laid upon their heart in theatrical
attitude, as who should say, "Be still, my heart," while they looked
the country over to see if any lurking member of the human family were
about. The red squirrels were the most amusing, for they were very
frolicsome, indulging in mad chases over and under the fence, through
the trees, around the trunks, so rapidly that they resembled a red
streak more than little beasts.
One squirrel adopted the fence as his regular highway, and the high post
of the farm gate as his watch-tower. He often sunned himself, lying on
his face, with his legs and his tail spread out as flat as if he had
been smashed. His presence scared the birds from the neighborhood, and I
undertook to discourage him. I went out one day when I saw him near the
fence. The squirrel made up his mind to pass over the gate and get into
the locust, but I posted myself quite near, and he did not like to pass
me. Giving up his plan is no part of a squirrel's intention, however,
and every moment he would scramble up a few feet one side of me, with
the design of running past me. As soon as his sharp black eyes showed
above the top board I cried "Shoo!" He understood my motion, and
doubtless would if I had said "Scat!" or "Get out!" (What should one say
to a squirrel?)
He dashed behind his barricade and disappeared. But he did not "stay
put;" in two seconds he tried it again, and again his discouraging
reception drove him back. He grew wary, however, and pretty soon I began
to notice that every time he made his dash to the top he was a few
inches nearer the gate, which stretched like a bridge from the fence to
the locust-tree, and of course so much nearer me. At last, advancing
thus inch by inch, he came up close to the gate, so near I could have
put my hand on him,--that is, I could have put my hand on the place he
occupied, for he did not stay to be caressed; he flew across the gate,
sprang three or four feet into the tree, and was out of sight before I
could lift a finger. This passage having been successfully made, he felt
that he was safe, and could afford to be saucy. He began the usual
scold. Then I tossed a little stick up toward him, as a reminder that
human power is not limited by the length of an arm, and he subsided.
Once when he came up to the fence top, before his grand dash, I laughed
at him. Strange to say, this made him furious. He reviled me vehemently.
No doubt, if I had understood his language, I should have been covered
with confusion, for I confess that he could make a very good point
against me. What business had I, an interloper in his dominion, to
interfere with his rights, or to say whether he should dine off birds or
berries?
XXIII.
THE COMICAL CROW BABY.
Nothing in the world of feathers is so comical as a crow baby, with its
awkward bows and ungainly hops, its tottering steps on the fence and its
mincing, tight-boot sort of gait on the ground, its eager fluttering
when it has hopes of food, and its loud and unintermitting demand for
the same.
My window overlooked a long stretch of cattle pastures and meadows still
uncut, bounded on one side by woods, and in the middle of this valley
unvisited by man, the crows of the neighborhood established a training
school for their youngsters. A good glass let me in as unsuspected
audience, and I had views of many interesting family scenes, supposed by
the wary parents to be visible only to the cows stolidly feeding on the
hillside. In this way I had all the fun and none of the trouble of the
training business.
It is astonishing how completely the manner of the adult crow is lacking
in his young offspring, whose only external difference is the want of a
tail. Must we then conclude that the dignity of a bird depends upon the
length of his tail? We are accustomed to regard the crow as a grave and
solemn personage with a serious role in life; and indeed life is such a
constant warfare to him that I cannot see how he finds any enjoyment in
it. Lowell says of him at one period:--
"The crow is very comical as a lover, and to hear him try to soften
his croak to the proper Saint Preux standard has something the
effect of a Mississippi boatman quoting Tennyson."
If he is droll as a lover, he is much more entertaining as an infant.
The first I knew of the new use of the pasture, I heard one morning a
strange cry. It was loud and persistent, and sounded marvelously like
"Ma-a! Ma-a!" Mingled with it I heard the vigorous cries of crows.
I looked over into the pasture, and there I first saw the crow baby,
nearly as big and black as his mamma, but with no tail to speak of. He
sat--not stood--on the rail fence, bawling at the top of his hoarse
baby-voice, "Ma! Ma! Ma!" and as he grew impatient he uttered it faster
and faster and louder and louder, drawing in his breath between the
cries, and making it more like "Wah! Wah!" Whenever mamma flew over he
followed her movement with his eyes, turning his head, and showing an
eager, almost painful interest, till some one took pity on him and fed
him. As he saw food approaching his voice ran up several tones higher,
in laughable imitation of a human baby cry. This note is of course the
promise of a "caw," but the _a_ is flattened to the sound of _a_ in bar,
which makes it a ludicrous caricature of our own first utterances.
But sometimes mamma did not heed the cries, and sailed calmly by,
alighting a few rails beyond her hungry infant, though he held out his
fluttering wings in the bird-baby's begging way, exactly as does a young
warbler who wouldn't be a mouthful for him. Then the little fellow would
start up on unsteady legs, to walk the rail to reach her, balancing
himself with outspread wings, and when he got beside her, put his beak
to hers in a coaxing way that I don't see how any mother could resist.
But this wise dame had evidently hardened her heart. She probably wanted
him to learn to help himself, for she dropped to the ground, and went
wading about in the wet grass and mud, and at length flew off without
giving him a morsel. Then the disappointed youngster cuddled up to a
brother crow baby, and both lifted up their voices and lamented the
emptiness of the cold, cold world.
Perhaps the most comical performance of this clumsy baby was his way of
alighting on a fence when he had been flying. He seized the board with
his claws, which clung for dear life, while his body went on as it was
going, with the result almost of a somersault. He tried to learn,
however. He made great efforts to master the vagaries of fences, the
irregularities of the ground, the peculiarities of branches. He
persistently walked the rail fence, though he had to spread both wings
to keep his balance. Then he climbed to the top of the rail which stood
up at the corners, and maintained his position with great effort, but
never gave up the attempt.
These interesting young folks dote on fences, after they get used to
them, and not having learned to recognize them as devices of the enemy,
capable of concealing a trap of some sort, they will come quite near a
house when they see no one about. So I, behind my blind, had excellent
chance to watch their ways. For I try to keep my window view good by
contenting myself with what I can see from it, and never going out to
give the birds a notion that they must look out for visitors.
One day when the grass had been cut from the meadow before the house,
and I had encamped under the shade of a big maple to see how the
kingbirds were coming on in nesting, I noticed a young crow walking in
the hot stubble, trying to find something to eat. He wandered about
looking in vain to see something attractive. A robin who was also
engaged in a food-hunt came and "took his measure," looking sharply at
him as if to decide whether it was his duty to go for him. He plainly
recognized the youthfulness of the intruder, for after a moment's study
he passed on, attending to his own business, while the young crow stared
at him in open-mouthed curiosity. At last the crow baby picked up an
object--I could not tell what--which hung from his beak while he
balanced the probabilities of its being good, aiding his deliberations
by a gentle lift of the wings which looked like a shrug of the
shoulders. He decided to risk it, and swallowed, but instantly choked it
up, and for some time shook his head as if to get rid of even the memory
of it. When, a few minutes after this disastrous experience, he heard
another baby utter the cries that indicate being fed, it seemed to
suggest to him an easier way of getting satisfaction out of life. He
spread his wings, flew to a tree and began to call.
To be a crow mamma is no sinecure. My heart went out to the poor souls
who must be torn between anxiety for their dear "cantankerous"
offspring, and fear of their deadly enemy, man. I watched with deep
interest their method of training. One day I saw a baby get an object
lesson in his proper attitude toward mankind, in this way. An old and a
young crow were nearer the house than usual, and I walked down toward
the fence to see why. The instant my head appeared, the elder flew with
terrific outcry, for which of course I did not blame the poor creature,
since mankind has proved itself her bitterest foe. The infant was nearly
frightened to death, and followed as quickly as his awkward wings would
carry him. I do not like to figure as "Rawhead and bloody-bones" in the
nursery of even a crow baby, so I tried several times to redeem the bad
name of my race. But to no avail; that subtle mamma had acquired her
wisdom by experience, and she knew me as one of a species quite capable
of murdering an innocent crow baby.
I was interested to see the young family in the pasture taking lessons
in following, or flying in a flock. There was great excitement and
calling, and all flew, excepting one, who stood quietly on a big stone
by himself. They simply circled around and alighted again, so it plainly
was only an exercise. But the baby who did not learn the lesson and
follow, was punished by one of the grown-ups, who flew directly against
him on the return, and knocked him off his perch; the hint was taken,
and the next time they flew no one stayed behind.
Day by day the excitement in the crow world grew, and new families
appeared in the pasture as fast as old ones got out. The rails of the
fence were always occupied by young ones--though never more than five or
six at a time--crying and shrieking and calling for "Ma-a!" and old ones
all the time flying about half distracted, cawing and trying, I suppose,
to enforce some order and discipline among the unruly rogues. Order,
however, was quite a secondary consideration; the pressing duty of the
hour was feeding. A crow parent on a foraging expedition is a most
unwelcome visitor to the farmer with young chickens, or the bird-lover
interested in the fate of nestlings. Yet when I saw the persecuted
creature in the character of provider for four hungry and ever clamorous
mouths, to whose wants she is as alive as we are to the wants of our
babies, I took a new view of crow depredations, and could not see why
her children should not have a chicken or a bird for breakfast, as well
as ours. Poor hunted crow, against whom every man's hand is raised! She
feels, with reason, that every human being is a deadly enemy thirsting
for her life, that every cylinder pointed upward is loaded with death,
that every string is a cruel snare to entangle and maim her,--yet whose
offspring, dear as ours to us, clamor for food. How should she know that
it is wrong to eat chickens; or that robin babies were made to live and
grow up, and crow babies to die of starvation? The farmer ignores the
millions of insects she destroys, and shoots her for the one chicken she
takes, though she has been amply proved to be one of his most valuable
servants. The kingbird and the oriole worry her life out of her because
her babies like eggs--as who does not!
In fact, there are, emphatically, two sides to the crow question, and I
take the side of the crow.
XXIV.
A MIDSUMMER WOOING.
The "sweet June days" had passed, and bird nesting was nearly at an end.
Woods and fields were bubbling over with young bird notes, and the
pretty cradles on tree and shrub were empty and deserted. A few motherly
souls, it is true, were still occupied with their second broods, but, in
general, feathered families were complete, and the parents were busy
training their little folk for life.
One bird, however, the charming, sweet-voiced goldfinch,
"All black and gold, a flame of fire,"
still held aloof, as is his custom. He does not follow the fashion of
his fellows; he resists the allurements of the nesting month; he waits.
Whether it be for a late-coming insect necessary to the welfare of his
nestlings, or for the thistle silk which alone makes fit cushion for his
delicate spouse and her "wee babies," opinions differ.