disappeared, excepting two red-eyed vireos. The vireos continued to
scold vigorously. The owl had intruded on their nesting-ground. Not
twenty feet away a vireo's nest swung lightly from the horizontal limb
of a red beech. It seemed to me that the owl suspected the presence
of the nest, for he thrust out his head and swung it from side to
side as if searching for something. After awhile he discovered the
nest, and flew to the beech limb. When he had commenced to approach
the nest by short hitches along the limb, the vireos changed their
scolding to cries of alarm. Immediately all the birds returned. Again
the owl was told that he was a robber and a great rascal by every bird
in the grove. As he continued to approach the nest, I thought it time
to interfere. "Hold, there!" I shouted, and the effect on the owl was
instantaneous. He stopped short, crouched on the limb, then twisted his
impish face directly into the back of his neck, and glared at me with
a frightened look in his wide-open eyes. After a brief inspection he
tumbled forward off the limb, caught himself on his wings, and floated
as noiseless as a feather into the dark shadows of Magnolia Swamp. I
examined the vireo-nest and found it empty--in fact, it was not yet
completed.
It was evident, from what took place, that birds of different species
can communicate with each other.
First, the chickadees call other birds to the spot by cries that
certainly are understood to mean danger.
[Illustration]
Afterward, the vireos did the same thing. While the latter were
scolding the owl, other birds paid no attention, but responded at once
to their cries for help.
After the owl had disappeared, the birds scattered as before. The blue
jays and two thrushes stopped back to interview me, and find out if my
intentions were friendly.
When all the birds had disappeared except the vireos, I went in search
of a new sap orchard. I soon found a clump of red maples containing two
trees that had been tapped by woodpeckers. The belt of punctures on
both trees was nearly a foot in width, but the woodpeckers did not show
up during my three hours' tarry.
This woodpecker, the yellow-bellied (_Sphyropicus varius_), does not
nest on the Cape, so had doubtless departed in migration, but three
humming-birds were fighting for the sap-buckets, and a red squirrel
settled matters by driving the hummers from one tree to the other.
[Illustration: YELLOW-BELLIED WOODPECKER.]
The red squirrel was a new feature in a woodpecker's sap orchard. He
did not cling to one spot, as squirrels do when tapping for themselves,
but instead moved rapidly around the tree, thrusting his tongue
into the drills for the sweet sap. I suppose the squirrel owned the
territory where the maple-trees grew, and was more than willing that
the woodpeckers should tap the trees for his benefit.
The drills made by the woodpecker extended through the outside bark and
into the cambium layer. From my observation with a good glass, during
several seasons, I found that the woodpeckers were after the elaborated
sap that descends from the leaves, through the inner bark, and did not
extend the drills into the wood where they would reach the crude sap
flowing up from the roots. The wisdom of this procedure was evident.
The elaborated sap is far richer in nutriment than the crude sap, and
the woodpeckers knew more about the growth of trees than many human
beings, so worked understandingly.
Each drill is made deep enough to hold about two drops of sap. The
upper drills are the only ones to afford sap, which proves that it is
certainly the elaborated sap flowing down from the leaves that the
birds get.
I had read in works on ornithology that the woodpeckers tapped trees so
that the sap would attract insects upon which they could feed. Also
that the birds were after the soft bark, or cambium layer, for food.
While the woodpeckers do catch a fly now and then, it is evident, even
to a careless observer, that it is the sap that is sought. I have seen
them eat small pieces of the cambium layer, but I think they did so
because the soft bark was soaked with sweet sap.
The three humming-birds made that little sunny glade in the forest as
lively as a Mexican fandango. The two males were jealous of each other,
and both birds seemed desperately in love with the demure maid. She
attended strictly to business by drinking from the sap-buckets left
unguarded by the red squirrel. The male hummers spent most of the time
dancing in the air. They took turns in madly pursuing each other; the
pursued never turned tail, but flew backward with a swiftness that was
marvellous. The buzzing of their wings and their shrill cries furnished
the music for the wild dance.
The humming-birds drink from the drills while poised in the air, but
often alight and cling to the bark while drinking, the wings closed
and silent.
[Illustration]
Flies and hornets were in evidence, crawling on the bark of the maples,
or flying around the drills. A hornet stung the squirrel on the ear.
When I left, the latter was shaking his head and telling the hornets
what he thought of them.
When I returned to the cabin, I found a pair of catbirds in trouble.
They nested in a dense mass of shrubbery about eighty feet from the
dooryard. The male catbird met me some distance from the nest, and by
his excited cries I knew that some bird enemy was near at hand. When I
came in sight of the nest I discovered the trouble. A black snake was
making his way through the bushes toward the nest, and the mother-bird
was waging a fierce but fruitless battle.
I killed the snake, which was over five feet in length. The nest
contained four eggs. For the time being they were safe.
In due time the nest contained four baby catbirds. One moonlight night,
about ten o'clock, there was a great outcry from the old catbirds.
I had gone to bed, in my hammock, in the open air, with but a roof
over me to keep off the rain, so I could hear the birds and knew that
they were fighting to save their little ones. Before I could go to the
rescue, one of the catbirds flew to the bushes within three feet of my
head, and frantically called to me for help. When I came in sight of
the nest I saw a snake drop to the ground. One of the young catbirds
was missing. A hurried search beneath the bushes in the dim light was
unsuccessful. The snake had silently and swiftly disappeared with his
victim.
The old catbirds were pets of mine of several years' standing, and the
tragic fate of the baby-bird caused me to try to save the other three.
I removed the nest and placed it in a covered box in the cabin. The
catbirds followed me to the cabin door, but made no protest. The next
morning before sunrise the birds awoke me by their cries. When I was
dressing they spent the time flying to and fro, from cabin to hammock,
calling to me to hurry up and bring out their babies. Both birds had
insects in their bills. I did not take the nest to the old spot, but
instead placed it in a clump of bushes near the cabin. When I had
secured the nest, the old birds gave the three babies their breakfast.
This programme was followed day after day, until the young birds were
old enough to fly.
About two hundred visitors one Sunday inspected the nest, and the old
birds did not make a protest or show fear. They knew that I would
protect their little ones. A clear case of bird intelligence.
[Illustration]
Returning from the city, while the catbirds were rearing their young,
I heard a great outcry from a number of birds in the cabin dooryard.
At first I thought some bird enemy had destroyed the young catbirds,
but I found them all right. Just over the wall in the bushes was a nest
of the veery. This nest was in ruins. That morning it had contained
four newly hatched birds. While I was examining the nest, one of the
catbirds flew to a bush near me, and raised an outcry to attract my
attention. I spoke to the bird, and immediately it flew to the old
wall on the opposite side of the road. I went over, and saw the tail
of a black snake hanging from the Hunting wall. I firmly grasped the
tail, but could not pull the snake from between the rocks. I thought
of a plan to get the reptile out. I pushed the tail into the wall, and
when the snake had loosened his hold, by a strong pull I could gain
a few inches. Twenty minutes' hard work brought the snake out so I
could grasp him by the neck. He coiled around my arm with such power
as to stop the circulation. It reminded me of a wire rope tightened by
machinery. I unwound the coils and took my captive to a large dry-goods
box. I made a cage out of another box by putting wire netting over the
top. I placed the box on its side on some stakes, and introduced the
snake. He tried every inch of that box and netting for means of escape.
Two hours later he settled down for a good long sleep, and when he
awoke he appeared contented. I offered him food, but he would not eat.
For a month he did not eat or drink. I noticed that his skin was loose
in patches.
[Illustration: "HE COILED AROUND MY ARM."]
It was a month before the regular time for the black snake to shed its
skin, but it was evident that this interesting event was about to take
place. I put some rough rocks in the cage, and the snake pulled himself
between them in such a way as to pull off the old skin. Before this,
the snake was totally blind. He shed the skin over his eyes, and his
sight was restored. Shortly after he had shed his skin he glided to
the front of the cage and opened his mouth. I took this to mean food,
and gave him a frog, which he swallowed. After this, whenever he was
hungry, he would look at me with his mouth open. This snake was six
feet and two inches in length, and large accordingly. His muscular
power I had tested, and had found it to correspond to his size.
It is singular how many persons there are that think a snake's tongue
is a stinger. My snake would run his tongue through the wire mesh, and
sometimes I would touch it with a finger. At such times, the most of
the visitors present would cry: "Look out, he'll sting you!"
My snake proved to be fond of music. Evenings I would play on the
flute, while he would come to the front of his cage and listen. Some
tunes would excite him so he would glide about the cage. The Swiss
Waltz would always set him a-going. Shrill, discordant notes would send
him to the darkest spot in his cage, where he would coil and remain so
quiet as to appear lifeless. On the approach of cold weather the snake
became torpid, and he was killed.
Some years, snakes, of all kinds indigenous to this climate, are
numerous enough to destroy the nests of the small birds. Therefore
I kill the snakes that are bird-hunters, because I prefer birds to
snakes. I have found that some snakes, that come to my dooryard for my
pets, are so crafty as to make it nearly impossible to kill them. A
big black snake often came down the hill to the cabin, and when he had
reached a boulder he would look around to see if I was there writing.
This snake had a saucy, independent way of looking at me, as much as
to say, "Are you the hermit?" A movement on my part toward a club sent
the snake into the bushes. Throughout one season I tried my best to
kill that black snake without success. The next year he did not appear.
Very few snakes came out of winter quarters that spring.
[Illustration]
Another black snake had determined to swallow a pet toad. The toad
was a monster, and had escaped several times, but his hind legs were
badly scarred. The toad would come to me for protection. Usually he
would hop on to my feet when pursued. The snake was too crafty, to come
near enough for me to use my snake-club. I was telling some visitors
from the city about the toad and snake, when one young lady expressed
a strong desire to see a live snake. While we were talking, I heard
the toad cry out, and I knew that the snake was after him. I told my
visitors to keep quiet and they would see the toad come to me for
protection. The young lady that wanted to see a live snake gathered
up her skirts and fled down the old highway. The toad came in sight,
dragging the snake, which was clinging to a hind leg. When the snake
saw us, he dropped his hold but did not retreat. The toad hopped on
to my feet, nearly exhausted. The snake must have been made bold by
hunger, for he made a rush for the toad. My snake-club was near at
hand, and he was soon killed. The young lady that fled would not return
until fully convinced that the snake was dead. She did not see the
snake when he was alive, for she fled when I said one was coming.
A garter-snake made a home beneath my cabin. He was too small to
injure birds, so I did not disturb him. He became very tame during the
summer. His hole was under the door of my cabin. I could sit in the
doorway, and when he was passing in or out, he would stop for me to
rub his head. The second year he had increased in size. There was a
chestnut-sided warbler's nest near the cabin, containing young birds. I
heard cries of distress from the old birds, and when I investigated,
found the garter-snake trying to get at the nest. I struck him with a
small stick, and he hid in the weeds. That blow severed his friendship
for me. If he returned to the cabin and saw me in the doorway, he would
retreat until the coast was clear. Twice more I caught him at the
birds' nest. He escaped each time. He must have come to the conclusion
that I was protecting the birds for my own eating, for he left them
after that. The next year he ate a pet frog and robbed several bird's
nests. He had moved to an old stone wall, and did most of his hunting
by night. He tried to loot a catbird's nest, but the birds gave the
alarm, and the moon helped me to find the marauder. One blow and it was
all over. It would have been pleasant to study this snake, but I could
not allow my pet birds to be so cruelly persecuted.
XII.
THE INSTINCT OF THE COWBIRD
The books on ornithology tell us that the cowbird (_Molothrus ater_) is
a common summer resident of New England, without regard to locality.
However true this may be as to other parts, it is a fact that the bird
was unknown to me in Penobscot County, Maine.
Cowbirds are summer residents of Cape Ann, and I have studied their
habits for years. I commenced by requiring answers to the following
questions:
Why do birds, when victimized, rear the young cowbird?
Why does the young cowbird desert its foster parents to associate with
its own kind?
Why do young cowbirds lay eggs in other birds' nests, instead of
building nests for themselves?
How did the cowbird acquire this unnatural habit?
Writers on the subject usually answer the first question by the term
"stupidity," and the other three by the word "instinct."
In all my life I have never found the birds stupid. They are as
intelligent as to the requirements of bird life as man is as to the
requirements of human life.
The theory of instinct is only a dream of the uninitiated. Nature's
children are never troubled by such nightmares.
[Illustration]
The most of our bird books have the earmarks of the library. An author
may be familiar with a few birds studied afield, but the greater number
are studied in the library. Take the cowbird as an example. One author
after another rings in the same old chestnut about the disreputable
bird that lays its eggs in other birds' nests and deserts its
offspring. These authors wind up by calling attention to the wonderful
instinct that causes the young cowbird to desert its foster-parents
to associate with its kind. I will say now, that long before I had
the opportunity to study the bird, I did not believe it possible for
a young bird, by its own knowledge, to hunt up and associate with
birds of its kind. That would be a miracle, and the days of miracles
are passed. In my study of birds I have found that old birds educate
the young, and I knew that the young cowbird was piloted by its
mother, or the foster-parents turned it over to its kind to be rid of
incumbrances. Few writers have studied the cowbird through the nesting
season. Mr. John Burroughs writes that he found small eggs in the path
that had two pricks in the shell. Afterward he detected the cowbird
removing an egg from a bird's nest. Mr. Burroughs intimates that the
cowbird did this to deceive the owners of the nest. They, finding the
proper number of eggs, would not detect the fraud. I was sincerely
grieved that a delightful writer on natural history should make such
a break. His interpretation would endow the cowbird with a keen
reasoning power, and would make chumps of the others; too senseless
to know their own eggs. In my observations, when the victimized birds
return and find the alien egg, they exhibit great distress.
[Illustration: BLUE-WINGED YELLOW WARBLER.]
My first study of the cowbird happened in an unexpected manner. I was
watching the nest of a pair of yellow warblers (_Dendroica æstiva_)
that contained two eggs. While the owners were absent I saw a cowbird
flutter on to the nest and add her parasite egg to its contents. When
the yellowbirds returned they at once discovered what had taken place,
and acted as if wild with alarm and distress. For a half-hour the birds
flew wildly about, uttering plaintive cries, after which they settled
down on a twig, where they could overlook the nest. They now seemed
less excited, and were evidently holding a consultation. After awhile
they seemed to agree on a course of action, for the female went on
to the nest and the male bird tried to sing away the trouble, but I
thought his song less earnest than usual.
No more eggs were laid, which was somewhat remarkable, as the
yellowbird's number is usually four.
[Illustration]
I found the young cowbird hatched out just twelve days after the egg
was laid. The next morning I found the two yellowbirds out of the
shell. When the cowbird was two days old he crowded both the little
birds out of the nest. When I found them, one was dead and the other
gasping as if fatally hurt. While I was watching the latter, the
mother-bird appeared with an insect. She offered the food to the dying
bird, and appeared greatly troubled when it was not received. After
awhile she seemed to comprehend that the little one could not eat, and
she fed the insect to the cowbird. Before flying away, she returned to
the gasping bird, and looked at it by turning her head from side to
side, while she uttered a succession of low, plaintive notes.
After this, both yellowbirds had all they could do to supply the black
giant with food. When he was old enough to fly, or, at least, was
completely feathered, his foster-parents coaxed him out of the nest
after the manner of all bird-kind. Birds know when their young are old
enough to leave the nest, and withhold food until the little ones are
downright hungry, and then tempt them out with a dainty morsel. While
tempting the young cowbird from the nest, the yellowbirds made as much
effort and appeared as joyous when successful as if the labor had been
performed for their own bright-eyed, pretty birdlings.
[Illustration]
The young cowbird, when once out, did not return to the nest for
shelter. His growing appetite taxed the strength of both birds to the
utmost. Every moment of daylight was occupied in catering to his wants.
One day I missed the female yellowbird, and, after a long search, found
her engaged in building a new nest. She had forsaken her former charge.
Heretofore I have neglected to state that I often saw the mother
cowbird. I think she visited the nest several times a day after the
egg was laid. Her frequent visits had accustomed the young bird to her
presence, thus making possible what followed.
After discovering the new nest, I looked up the young cowbird, and
found the male yellowbird feeding him as usual, but not alone. The
old cowbird was acting as assistant, as if just aroused to the
responsibility of maternal duties. For several days both birds fed the
young cowbird, after which the yellowbird spent much of his time with
his mate, gradually deserting his charge, to return no more when the
second brood was out.
Thus my observations had answered two questions; my first and second.
My first question, "Why the victimized birds rear the parasite?" was
answered to my belief in this way: I believe that the yellowbirds had
had experience with cowbirds before, and intelligently understood that
they must sacrifice their first brood in order to raise a second brood
unmolested. The actions of the birds when they discovered the parasite
egg, their great distress, their consultation and prompt action, their
neglect to lay the usual number of eggs can be construed in no other
light. It is far beyond the province of instinct.
My second question, "Why the young cowbird deserts its foster-parents?"
is already intelligently answered. It is no desertion. The foster
parents turn over the parasite to its own mother, in a matter-of-fact
way, and then go about their own affairs in peace.
My third question, "Why do young cowbirds lay eggs in other birds'
nests instead of building nests for themselves?"
[Illustration]
When the cowbird was out of the shell, it was big and black. It was my
first young cowbird, and I thought it was a male. I made it a male in
my note-book. While the bird was in the nest I fastened a bit of copper
wire to its leg, and the next spring, when it returned, I found that
the bird was a female. I saw her with another female, I think it was
the mother, visiting birds' nests. So the young cowbird was educated to
lay its eggs in other birds' nests. Nest-building is educational and
not instinctive.
[Illustration]
My fourth question could not be answered by observation.
How did the cowbird acquire this unnatural habit?
The answer to this question is not within the province of proof. It
is fair to assume that the cowbird, in the distant past, reared its
young in a nest of its own. It may have happened that some tragedy had
deprived a family of young cowbirds of their parents. Other birds may
have reared the young ones until they were capable of providing for
themselves. In migration all would remain together, but when nesting
begun the young cowbirds would not be tolerated near a nest. Not
educated in nest building, the female would fly to other nests to drop
her eggs. Other cowbirds may have adopted the same method, finding it
pleasant to have the care of their babies shouldered on to servants,
like some human mothers.
However, the whole thing is mere speculation, and it is not worth while
to follow it further.
[Illustration]
A few years ago a cowbird laid an egg in a chewink's nest. The chewink
visited my dooryard. I did not remove the egg, but watched for the
cowbird. Before the egg was hatched I shot the mother. I wanted to see
if a young cowbird, reared without his own mother, would go out to
the cow-pasture where there was a flock of old cowbirds. The chewinks
reared the cowbird and three of their own babies. This was the first
brood. When the mother chewink made a new nest, the father took care of
the four little ones. Before his mate hatched the second brood, he took
his charge to a bird resort near a pond. This was near the cow-pasture,
and the flock of cowbirds resorted to the pond for water. It gave the
young cowbird a good chance to go with its kind. Several times I saw
cowbirds approach the youngster, but he always fled as if he thought
that his life was in danger. He acted just as young tame crows do when
they see other crows near them. That fall all the chewinks, that is,
the old ones and the first brood, with the cowbird, remained about the
dooryard until migration. The second brood of chewinks was destroyed
by a snake, after which the first family was brought back. The next
spring the cowbird did not return with the chewinks. As a matter of
fact, only two of the five chewinks returned. I suppose the others were
killed in the rice-fields. I had wired the cowbird with copper wire, so
looked for him in the different flocks in my locality. He was not to be
found, and was probably shot because he was with the chewinks in the
rice-fields.
[Illustration]
Two years ago I found a cowbird's egg in the nest of a Maryland
yellowthroat. This nest was under a tussock of cut grass, just over a
stone wall that enclosed the cow-pasture. As usual, it was the first
nest of the Maryland yellowthroats. The young birds, three besides
the cowbird, were crowded out of the nest, but as luck would have it
they fell into a cavity on one side of the nest, and 'were fed by the
parents. I saw the mother cowbird feed her baby before he was out
of the nest, and when he could hop about, his mother led him to the
cow-pasture. Afterward I saw her carry flies from the cows to her
baby, which was in the bushes near the wall. I think the Maryland
yellowthroats covered their own little ones from the night air. Perhaps
one of them protected the cowbird. I did not see the foster-parents
feed the young cowbird after he was able to leave the nest. I watched
one morning for two hours, and saw the birds make many trips with
insects, which they fed to their own birds. The cowbird was near at
hand, over the wall, but the birds did not go near him.
From my observations I am convinced that the cowbird does not desert
its offspring, but; instead, keeps an eye to its welfare, and ends by
assuming the whole care of its food, and leads it to associate with its
kind after it is large, or old enough to fly.
[Illustration]