with enthusiasm; the summer air rang with sweetest song, and the
graceful wave-like flight charmed us from morning till night. The
courtship of the bird of July is a beautiful sight. He is at all times
peculiarly joyous, but at this season his little body seems hardly able
to contain him; so great is his rapture, indeed, that it infects and
inspires the most matter-of-fact student. Our bird-loving poet Celia
Thaxter must have seen him in loverly mood when she thus addressed
him:--
"Where do you hide such a store of delight,
O delicate creature, tiny and slender,
Like a mellow morning sunbeam bright,
Overflowing with music tender?"
At all hours of these enchanted days, whether fair or foul, the winsome
little fellows were flying hither and thither, singing and calling in
ecstatic tones, bounding through the air, and hardly pausing long enough
to eat. July was fast slipping away when the excitement deepened and
matters grew more serious. Then the observer, if he were wary, might
catch occasional glimpses of puzzling scenes, mysteries of bird life
that could not be unraveled because he did not see the whole.
At one time the student came upon a scene like this: Two or three of the
little dames in olive and gold hopping about on an evergreen tree,
ostensibly eating, calling, in their enticing voices, "sw-e-e-t!" and
to all appearance unconscious of the presence of two of their bright
young wooers, sitting in perfect silence on an upper branch. Suddenly
from this happy party one of the damsels flew, when instantly one of the
black-winged suitors flashed out in pursuit. On she went, flying madly,
encircled one tree, dashed to another, and around that, passed up and
down, here and there, this way and that, but everywhere with her
follower close after her, singing at the top of his voice, till they
disappeared in the distance.
Can the goldfinch wooing be a sort of Comanche affair? Is the little
bride won by force? Or is she, perchance, like some of her sisters of
larger growth, who require a "scene" of some sort to make them "name the
day"?
Again, attracted by loud eager singing, the student found a pair who
were apparently fighting,--the peaceful goldfinch! They flew up close
together, they almost clinched, then flew away to a group of trees,
under, over, around, between, through, and beyond they went, never six
inches apart, and he singing furiously all the time. At last, just as
the looker-on expected to see them grapple, they calmly alighted on a
tree eight or ten feet from each other. Nothing but a frolic, obviously!
Another curious performance of this July wooing was several times
noted. Hearing a strange and unfamiliar cry, in a tone of distress, I
drew cautiously near, and found, on a low branch, one of the goldfinch
maidens, uttering the plaintive notes, which, by the way, were
afterwards very common about the nests. She held in her beak something
which might be a tiny green worm, or a bit of nesting material, and she
called constantly, looking about this way and that, as if seeking some
one. After a while a male goldfinch appeared on the next tree, but he
did not act in the least as if invited by her call. He seemed merely to
be interested as any bird would be by her evident excitement. He watched
her calmly, but did not offer to follow when at last she flew.
Time, true to his reputation, was hurrying away even these sweet summer
days, and still the love affairs of our little beauties seemed no nearer
settlement than at first. In the opinion of impatient observers, their
wooing was as long drawn out as that of Augustus and Araminta in an
old-fashioned three-volume novel. Their manners, too, ludicrously
suggested the behavior of the bigger pair; first he would follow her
about, sing to her, parade himself, and show off; then she coquetted,
and charmed him with her bewitching and altogether indescribable call,
"sw-e-e-t." Then they were off in a whirl of excitement together,
flitting hither and thither, singing and dancing through the air, life
showing its rosiest hue.
All things come to an end--in time. By the middle of the month the
ecstasies of goldfinch youth were toned down, and the presence of dainty
nests here and there proved that madam at least had settled to work,
making preparation for her long, patient brooding.
The tall grass in the meadow in front of the house was about this time
laid low; nodding daisies,--white and yellow,--plumy meadow-grass and
plain timothy, devil's paintbrush and soft purple grass flowers, alike
lay in long rows dying on the ground. Delighted at last to possess the
places so long tabooed to us by the heavy crop, my comrade and I went
out the next morning on discoveries bent. The nook in which we rested
after our walk--she on the fresh sweet hay in the broad sunshine, and I
in the shade close by--offered a rare combination of seclusion with
perfect security. It was within call from the veranda, yet completely
hidden from it by a dense clump of evergreens.
We had hardly settled ourselves when we noticed three lively goldfinches
frolicking about the top of a tall maple-tree not far off. While we idly
speculated about them, wondering if they had no mates, and if the
goldfinches were not going to build this year, the eyes of my friend,
who was lying on the ground, fell upon the nest. It was near the end of
a lower branch of the maple, ten or twelve feet from the ground, and the
little dame was at that moment working upon it. She was so deeply
absorbed in her occupation that she did not even notice us, and we
studied her movements with interest, till the haymakers came with wagon
and oxen, and much talking and shouting, to gather up their fragrant
loads, which on that side of the field stood in small stack's all ready.
Once again, in spite of long experience, I was amazed to see how deaf
and blind are people to what goes on about them. "We see only that which
concerns us," says some one, and since the farmer, with whole mind bent
upon making a firm and symmetrical load, did not concern himself with
bird affairs, goldfinch work went on without hindrance. The half-loaded
wagon paused under the chosen branch, where the man could have laid his
hand upon the nest, but the small builder went in and out, calling and
fluttering around as freely as if he were not there. As a matter of fact
he was not, for though his body was near, he was down in the hay, and he
never heard or saw the bird.
We kept watch of the fateful branch, ready to protect it if necessary,
till the train moved off, and then we went home congratulating ourselves
on possessing the goldfinch's precious secret, planning to spend a part
of every morning in studying her ways.
"Man proposes," but many things "dispose." The next morning revealed
another tragedy. The dainty nest, so laboriously built, was found a
wreck, the whole of one side pulled out and hanging over the branch,
while the soft cushion of silky white thistle-down, an inch thick, lay
on the grass below. The culprit we could not discover, for he had left
no trace. It might be a squirrel; it certainly looked like the work of
his strong claws; but, on the other hand, it might be the sparrow-hawk
who had made the meadow his daily hunting-ground since the mysterious
disaster to the kingbird's nest had deprived us of the police services
of that vigilant bird. Probably a squirrel was the culprit, for the hawk
appeared only after the grass was cut, and grasshoppers and other
insects were left without shelter, and he seemed to give his entire
attention to the grass at the foot of the flagpole on which he always
perched.
Whoever was guilty of the cruel deed, it added one more to the list of
ravaged nests, and of all that we watched that summer exactly half had
been broken up or destroyed.
I am happy to say that the little pair were not utterly discouraged,
for a day or two later we found the provident mistress carefully drawing
out of the ruin some of the material she had woven into it, and carrying
it away, doubtless to add to a fresh nest. But she had this time chosen
a more secluded site, that we were unable to discover. I hope she did
not credit us with her disaster.
XXV.
A PLUM-TREE ROMANCE.
It was just after the catastrophe of the last chapter when a pair of
goldfinches, whose pretty pastoral I hoped to watch, had been robbed and
driven from their home in a maple-tree that the plum-tree romance began.
Grieving for their sorrow as well as for my loss, I turned my steps
toward the farmhouse, intending to devote part of the day to the baby
crows, who were enlivening the pasture with their droll cries and
droller actions. But the crow family had the pasture to themselves that
morning, for in passing through the orchard, looking, as always, for
indications of feathered life, I suddenly saw a new nest in the top of a
plum-tree, and my spirits rose instantly when I noticed that the busy
little architect, at that moment working upon it, was a goldfinch.
What an unfortunate place she had chosen, was my first thought. A young
tree, a mere sapling, not more than eight feet high, close beside the
regular farm road, where men, and worse, two nest-robbing boys, passed
forty times a day. Would the trim little matron, now so happy in her
plans, have any chance of bringing up a brood there in plain sight,
where, if the roving eyes of those youngsters happened to fall upon her
nest, peace would take its departure even if calamity did not overtake
her?
Looking all about, to make sure that no one was in sight, I seated
myself to make the acquaintance of my new neighbor. My whole study of
the life in and around the plum-tree, carried on for the next two weeks,
was of a spasmodic order, for I had always to take care that no spies
were about before I dared even look toward the orchard. One glimpse of
me in the neighborhood would have disclosed their secret to the sharp
boys who knew my ways.
The little dame was bewitching in her manner, and her handsome young
spouse the most devoted consort I ever saw in feathers, or out of them,
I may say. Although she alone built the nest, he was her constant
attendant, and they always made their appearance together. He dropped
into a taller tree--an apple near by--while she, with her beak full of
materials, alighted on the lowest branch of the plum, and hopped gayly
from twig to twig, as though they were steps, up to the sky parlor where
she had established her homestead. Then she went busily to work to
adjust the new matter, while he waited patiently during the ten or
fifteen minutes she thus occupied. Sometimes he seemed to wonder what
she could be about all this time, for he came and alighted beside her,
staying only an instant, and then flying with the evident expectation
that she would follow. Usually, however, he remained quietly on guard
till she left the nest with her joyful call, when he joined her, and
away they went together, crying, "te-o-tum, te! te!" till out of sight
and hearing. There was a joyousness of manner in this pair that gave a
festive air to even so prosaic a performance as going for food. The
source of supplies, as I soon discovered, was a bit of neglected ground
between a buckwheat patch and a barn, where grass and weeds of several
sorts flourished. Here each bird pulled down by its weight a stalk of
meadow or other grass, and spent some time feasting upon its seeds.
But madam was a timid little soul; she reminded me constantly of some
bigger folk I have known. She wanted her gay cavalier always within
call, and he responded to her demands nobly, becoming more domestic than
one would imagine possible for such a restless, light-hearted sprite.
After the young house-mistress settled herself to her sitting, she often
lifted her head above the edge of her nest, and uttered a strangely
thrilling and appealing cry, which I think is only heard in the
nesting-time. He always replied instantly, in tenderest tones, and came
at once, sometimes from the other side of the orchard, singing as he
flew, and perched in the apple-tree. If she wanted his escort to lunch,
she joined him there, and after exchanging a few low remarks, they
departed together. Occasionally, however, she seemed to be merely
nervous, perhaps about some other bird who she fancied might be
troublesome, though, in general, neither of the pair paid the slightest
attention to birds who came about, even upon their own little tree.
Often when the goldfinch came in answer to this call of his love, he
flew around, at some height above the tree, in a circle of thirty or
forty feet diameter, apparently to search out any enemy who might be
annoying her. If he saw a bird, he drove him off, though in a
perfunctory manner, as if it were done merely in deference to his lady's
wishes, and not from any suspicion or jealousy. On these occasions, too,
he came quite near me, stood fearless and calm, and studied me most
sharply, doubtless to see if my intentions were innocent. Of course I
looked as amiable and harmless as possible, and in a moment he decided
that I was not dangerous, made some quiet remark to his fussy little
partner, and flew away.
Sometimes this conduct did not reassure the uneasy bird, and she called
again. Then he brought some tidbit in his beak, went to the edge of the
nest, and fed her. Then she was pacified; but do not mistake her, it was
not hunger that prompted her actions; when she was hungry, she openly
left her nest and went for food. It was, as I am convinced, the longing
desire to know that he was near her, that he was still anxious to serve
her, that he had not forgotten her in her long absence from his side.
This may sound a little fanciful to one who has not studied birds
closely, but she was so "human" in all her actions that I feel justified
in judging of her motives exactly as I should judge had she measured
five feet instead of five inches, and worn silk instead of feathers.
The goldfinch need not have worried about her mate, for he spent most of
his time within a few feet of her, and more absolutely loyal one could
not be. His most common perch was a neighboring tree, though in a heavy
beating rain he frequently crouched on the lowest branch of the plum
itself. Now and then he rested on a pile of boards beside the farm road
already spoken of, and again he took his post on a very tall ash, with
only a few limbs at the top, where his body looked like a dot against
the blue, and he could oversee the whole country around. Wherever he
might be, he sat all puffed out, silent and motionless, evidently just
waiting. Sometimes he took occasion to plume himself very carefully,
oftener he did nothing, but held himself in readiness to answer any call
from the plum-tree, and to accompany the sitter out to dinner.
This bird was an enchanting singer. During courtship, and while his mate
was sitting, he often poured out a song that was nothing less than an
ecstasy. It was delivered on the wing, and not in his usual wave-like
manner of flight, but sailing slowly around and around, very much as a
bobolink does, singing rapturously, without pause or break. The quality
of the music, too, was strikingly like bobolink notes, and the whole
performance was exquisite.
The little sitter soon became accustomed to my presence. When out of her
nest, she sometimes came to the tree over my head, and answered when I
spoke to her. In this way we carried on quite a long conversation, I
imitating, so far as I was able, her own charming "sweet," and she
replying in varied utterances, which, alas! were Greek to me.
I longed to watch the lovely and loving pair through their nesting; to
see their rapture over their nestlings, their tender care and training,
and the first flight of the goldfinch babies. But the inexorable
task-master of us all, who proverbially "waits for no man," hurried off
these last precious days of July with painful eagerness, and thrust
before me the first of August, with the hot and dusty journey set down
for that day, long before I was ready for it.
So I did not see the end of their love and labor myself, but the bird's
wisdom in the selection of a site for her nursery was proved to be
greater than mine, who had ventured to criticise her, by the fact that
the nest, as I have been assured, escaped the young eyes of the
neighborhood, and turned out its full complement of birdlings to add to
next summer's beauty and song.
XXVI.
SOLITARY THE THRUSH.
"Solitary the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself,
Sings by himself a song."
Thus says the poet, with no less truth than beauty. No description could
better express the spirit of the bird, the retiring habit and the love
of quiet for which not alone the hermit, but the three famous singers of
the thrush family are remarkable. We should indeed be shocked were it
otherwise, for there is an indefinable quality in the tones of this
trio, the hermit, wood, and tawny, that stirs the soul to its depths,
and one can hardly conceive of them as mingling their notes with other
singers, or becoming in any way familiar. In this peculiar power no
bird-voice in our part of the world can compare with theirs. The brown
thrush ranks high as a musician, the mockingbird leads the world, in the
opinion of its lovers, and the winter wren thrills one to the heart. Yet
no bird song so moves the spirit, no other--it seems to me--so
intoxicates its hearer with rapture, as the solemn chant of "the hermit
withdrawn to himself."
"Whenever a man hears it," says our devoted lover of Nature, Thoreau,
"he is young, and Nature is in her spring; wherever he hears it there is
a new world, and the gates of heaven are not shut against him."
One might quote pages of rhapsody from poets and prose writers, yet to
him who has not drunk of the enchantment, they would be but words; they
would touch no chord that had not already been thrilled by the marvelous
strain itself.
My first acquaintance in the beautiful family was the wood-thrush, and
the study of his charms of voice and character filled me with love for
the whole bird tribe. He frequented the places I also preferred, the
quiet nooks and out of the way corners of a large city park. At that
time I thought no bird note on earth could equal his; but a year or two
later, on the shore of Lake George, I fell under the magical sway of
another voice, whose few notes were exceedingly simple in arrangement,
but full of the strangely thrilling power characteristic of the thrush
family.
Four years passed, at first in search of the owner of the "wandering
voice" that had bewitched me, and when I had found it to be the tawny
thrush or veery, in study of the attractive singer himself, which made
me an enthusiastic lover of him also. But the "shy and hidden" bird,
the hermit, enthroned by those who know him far above the others, I had
rarely seen and never clearly heard. Far-off snatches I had gathered, a
few of the louder notes had reached me from distant woods, or from far
up the mountain side; but I had never been satisfied.
There appeared almost a fatality about my hearing this bird. No matter
how common his song in the neighborhood, no sooner did I go there than
he retired to the secluded recesses of his choice. He always had "just
been singing," but had mysteriously stopped. My search was much longer
than, and quite as disappointing as Mr. Burroughs's search through
English lanes for a singing nightingale.
Last spring one of the strongest attractions that drew me to a lovely
spot in Northern New York was the assurance that the hermit was a
constant visitor. I went, and the same old story met me. Before this
year the hermit had always been with them. The song of the veery was my
morning and evening inspiration, but his shy brother had apparently
taken his departure for parts unknown.
"We will go to Sunset Hill," said my friend. "We always hear them there
at sunset."
That evening after an early tea, we started for the promised land. The
single-file procession through the charming wood paths consisted of our
host as protector on the return in the dark, the big dog--his mistress's
body-guard--his mistress, an enthusiastic bird-lover, and myself.
The road was all the way through the woods, then lovely with the glow of
the western sun, which reached far under the branches, gilded the trunks
of the trees, and made a fresh picture at every turn. At the further
side of the woods was a grass-covered hill which we ascended, eager to
treat our eyes to the sunset, and our ears to the hermit songs. The sun
went down serenely, without a cloud to reflect his glory, but the whole
pleasant country at our feet was illuminated by his parting rays.
And hark! a hermit began "air-o-ee!" Instantly everything else was
forgotten, although the bird was far away.
"He will come nearer," whispered my comrade, and we waited in silence.
Several singers were within hearing, but all at a tantalizing remoteness
that allowed us to hear the louder notes, and constantly to realize what
we were losing.
We lingered, loath to abandon hope, till the deepening shadows reminded
us of the woods to be passed through; but no bird came nearer than that
maddening distance. In despair we turned our faces homeward at last;
several times on the way we paused, lured by an ecstatic note, but
every one too far off to be completely heard.
In our quiet walk back through the dark woods I accepted my evident
fate, that I was not to be blessed with hermit music this season; but I
made a private resolve to find next year a "hermit neighborhood," where
birds should be warranted to sing, if I had to take a tent and camp out
in a swamp.
June passed away in delightful bird-study, and July followed quickly.
Nests and songs in plenty rewarded our search. Every day had been full.
Nothing had been wanting to fill our cup of content, except the
longed-for song of the hermit; and I had been so absorbed I had almost
ceased to regret it.
With the last days of July everything was changed about us. The world
was full of bird babies. Infant voices rang out from every tangle;
flutters of baby wings stirred every bush; the woods echoed to anxious
"pips," and "smacks," and "quits," of uneasy parents working for dear
life. We had been so occupied with our study of these charming
youngsters, that we bethought ourselves, only as one after another
strange warbler appeared upon the scene, that migrating time had
arrived, the wonderful procession to the summer-land had begun.
This, alas! I could not stay to see. And if one must go, it were better
to take leave before getting entangled in the toils of the warblers, to
be driven wild by the numberless shades of yellow and olive, to go
frantic over stripes and spots, and bars, and to wear out patience and
the Manual, trying to discover what particular combination of Latin
syllables scientists have bestowed upon this or that flitting atom in
feathers. Before the student is out of bed, a new warbler-note will
distract her; in the twilight some tiny bird will fly over her head with
an unfamiliar twitter; each and every one will rouse her to eager desire
to see it, to name it.
Why have we such a rage for labeling and cataloguing the beautiful
things of Nature? Why can I not delight in a bird or flower, knowing it
by what it is to me, without longing to know what it has been to some
other person? What pleasure can it afford to one not making a scientific
study of birds to see such names as "the blue and yellow-throated
warbler," "the chestnut-headed golden warbler," "the yellow-bellied,
red-poll warbler," attached to the smallest and daintiest beauties of
the woods?
Musing upon this and other mysteries, I followed my friend up the
familiar paths one day, looking for some young birds whose strange cries
we had noted. It was a gray morning, and all the tree trunks were grim
and dark, with no variety in coloring. The sounds we were following led
us through some unused roads entirely grown up with jewel-weed, part of
it five feet high, and thickly hung with the yellow flower from which it
takes its name.