in the top of a pine-tree that hangs over the cabin dooryard. Some
wretch shot this nest to pieces when I was absent. I returned to find
empty shells in the dooryard, and fragments of the nest hanging to the
tree. Tiny made another nest in a near-by pine, and lives in it at
this time. The past two winters Tiny made his nest in my summer house.
Why he did not occupy the house this winter is a mystery. Perhaps he
heard me say that I should take down this house and put it into a new
log-cabin that I had in contemplation.
[Illustration: Bismark and Tiny]
Tiny is a widower, and childless. His wife and children were shot to
death by the gunners that swarm through the magnolia woods.
I think Bismarck is dead. In cold weather he made it a practice to sly
up to the cabin, just at dusk, for a doughnut or a bit of bread. For
some time I have missed him. I went to his nest, to find it shot to
pieces. Still farther away I found Mrs. Bismarck's nest in ruins, and
silence reigned in that part of the woods.
Tiny is now an orphan, a widower, and is also childless. He occupies in
squirrel life the same relative position that the hermit occupies in
human life. Tiny's misfortune has brought the man and squirrel a little
nearer together.
With few exceptions, writers on outdoor life make it a point to
denounce the red squirrel. They claim that he is a nest-robber of the
worst kind. The most of this abuse bears the earmarks of the library.
One author copies after another, without knowledge of the real life of
one of the most interesting wild things of the woods.
Reliable observers have related isolated cases of nest-robbing, by
the squirrel, which we have no reason to doubt. I believe the thing
is most unusual, and happens only when the food supply is cut off.
If a squirrel in the spring is face to face with a famine, he might
be tempted to kill and eat young birds. I have no record against the
red squirrel, after eighteen years' observation here on the Cape. In
Maine for fifteen years I saw squirrels plentiful enough on my farm. A
small fruit orchard, near the farm buildings, usually harbored several
squirrels. Birds nested in the trees and reared their young unless a
coon cat got them before they could fly. I never knew a squirrel to
molest a birds' nest, and the farmers of that town never complained
of them, so far as I know. When we farmers compared notes on bird
destroyers we invariably agreed upon crows, snakes, and weasels.
[Illustration]
I have before me a book on nature, which contains an account of the
red squirrel. The author tells in a delightful way about the wild
things, but some of his statements are based on imagination instead of
observation. He bitterly assails the red squirrel as a nest-robber, but
some things in his story lead me to think he has culled the library
for his statements. This story may fit a chipmunk: "that the squirrel
brought six chest-nuts to his store, which he emptied from his '_cheek
pockets_.'" I venture to say, that no man living ever saw a red
squirrel carry six nuts at one mouthful. This squirrel has no cheek
pouches like the chipmunk, and usually carries one nut, seldom two at
a time. The author has his very bad squirrel come to a bad end. He was
killed by five or six robins while he was carrying off one of their
fledgelings. It is an excellent representation of swift retribution,
but to any one who knows the fighting ability of the little red
whirlwind it can be taken with a grain of salt. It would be impossible
for robins enough to gather around a red squirrel to kill him. In my
cabin dooryard, while I have been writing this article, a desperate
fight has taken place. Ten crows, made bold by hunger, attacked Tiny
and tried to take possession of a loaf of bread. The squirrel never
flinched, but stood over the bread, and whenever a crow got over the
dead-line, filled the dooryard with feathers. I did not interfere, but
saw the fight from the cabin window. The black rogues were obliged to
retreat when Tiny got downright mad. When the fight began Tiny did not
try to hurt the crows. He would run at one and allow him to hop into
the air and take wing. It appeared to me that Tiny was just scaring the
crows away. When he found that they were in earnest, he got mad and
made the feathers fly, and the crows had to leave to save their lives.
[Illustration]
I am writing natural history just as I find it, from observation of
the wild things. To some of these wild things I am caterer, protector,
and friend. They do not object to my presence when engaged in domestic
affairs, so my ability to pry into their secrets is increased in
ratio to the confidence accorded me. The red squirrel is one of the
wild things which I have thoroughly studied because I have had the
opportunity to do so. When a writer asserts that the red squirrel is a
poor provider, and without family ties, I know that his observations
have been haphazard, and that he does not understand the life history
of the little animal of which he writes.
The male squirrel assists his mate to fill a storehouse for family
use and then hides stores for himself on territory which he owns.
Most observers see the squirrel hiding nuts here and there, and jump
to the conclusion that he is improvident. When there are nuts the red
squirrel lays up a store for his family and for himself, so that he and
his family are well fed through the winter. There are no emaciated red
squirrels in the spring, which tells the story of careful provision.
The young squirrels do not provide for themselves, as soon as big
enough, as stated by some writers. The young born in April remain with
the female through the winter. The male has a nest of his own, but if
the weather is very cold he stays in the home nest with his family. The
nest is intelligently constructed and the materials used are selected
from supplies near at hand. Tiny's nest is made largely from moss that
I use for packing. The nest is thatched with oak leaves so no rain
can enter. Sometimes it happens that wood-choppers cut a tree that
contains a squirrel's nest. J have examined such nests. The inside is
lined with milk-weed silk and fine shreds of yellow birch bark. There
is always a surplus of this soft material, which is used to stuff into
the entrance to the nest. The squirrels shut the outside door to keep
out the cold. I once investigated a nest in the top of a pine-tree,
when the thermometer registered zero, and found the entrance packed
with soft material. The squirrels knew all about cold weather, and had
made arrangements to keep the nest warm, by laying one side material to
close the entrance when necessary.
[Illustration]
When I see an unfinished dwelling-house and know that the family
therein must suffer in cold weather, I think of the cozy dwelling that
the red squirrel provides for his little ones, and I ask myself if the
human being is the only intelligent animal in nature's catalogue?
XV.
THE CHESTNUT-SIDED WARBLER
Thursday morning, May 27, 1886, a small bird hopped out of the bushes
into my dooryard. The bird was a female chestnut-sided warbler. She was
collecting dry grass blades for a nest.
May 27, 1897, the same little bird was in my dooryard engaged as
before, collecting nesting material.
Eleven years had been credited to the past for man and bird. The man
had not escaped the weight of the added years. Deeper wrinkles and
gray hair told the story, but the little bird, strange to tell, was
apparently as blithe and young as on that Thursday morning eleven years
before.
[Illustration]
I provide an abundance of nesting material for all birds that frequent
my cabin dooryard. The chestnut-sided warbler seemed to appreciate my
motive and gave me her confidence in return. After the first year I
could sit by her nest from the hour the first straw was laid to the day
when the young were large enough to take wing, and she would go on with
her domestic affairs without fear.
[Illustration: CHESTNUT-SIDED WARBLER.]
During eleven years the bird has constructed thirteen nests. Two nests
were robbed by snakes and were replaced. No two of these nests were
alike. All were loosely built, and with the exception of the last were
saddled on the forks of small bushes. The nest of 1897 was suspended
between two shoots of a currant bush, about twenty inches from the
ground. This was a new departure, and led me to have a picture made
of the nest. There was a bunch of currants in the way and the bird
fastened it to the side of the nest with spiders-web. The currants show
in the picture.
The book informs us that the nest of this warbler is never pensile,
but if the nest in my currant bush was not pensile, what may we call
it? It was fastened at the brim to two upright currant stems without
support at the bottom. The brim was fashioned first. It was composed of
straws, shreds of cedar bark, and dry grass blades. The same material
was fastened to the brim and arranged to cross, thus forming the bottom
and sides. The tying material used was spiders-web and silken threads
from some cocoon unknown to me. The nest was lined with fine straw
and horsehair. All the nests previously made by this bird contained a
liberal amount of plant down on the outside. This last nest was nearly
wanting in plant down, although a good supply was in the dooryard.
[Illustration]
Several years ago the bird saddled into the fork of a bayberry bush a
bunch of cotton nearly as large as a baseball, and on this foundation
erected a nest.
I have records of four nests, including the last--the one in the
currant bush. This 1897 nest was three and one half inches in diameter
by two inches in depth inside, and three and one half inches outside.
The foundation was laid May 27th, and the nest was completed June 3d.
It was then deserted for three days. The first egg was deposited June
6th, and thereafter one each day until the 9th, when four eggs made up
the set. The fourth egg was pure white; the other three were white with
a ring of reddish-brown blotches around the larger end.
After the fourth egg was laid the bird remained on the nest nights, but
during the daytime for three days spent the most of the time gadding
about. June 20th, I found one bird out of the shell and the next day
all were out. The young birds are not fed until they are one day old.
They are not great feeders like young robins, and the mother bird has
an easy task to provide food. The birds grow rapidly. At first the
mother can cover her brood while half hid below the brim of the nest,
but before the young birds leave the nest she must stand with a foot on
each side of the brim.
July 2d the young birds were induced to leave the nest. On that day
the mother bird did not feed the young birds, and I think they must
have been downright hungry. Later she tempted them with a plump insect,
while the male fluttered about with cries of encouragement. Soon one
hopped out of the nest on to a twig and was quickly fed. The others
took the hint, and all were soon out of the nest. Most birds pursue the
same method, and it reminds one of teaching baby how to walk.
[Illustration]
My little friend has had two mates since we became acquainted. She
was made a widow by a prowling cat during the summer of 1896. The next
spring she returned with a second husband. This newcomer resented any
familiarity on my part. He seemed to think that I was too inquisitive,
and made a great fuss every time he found me near the nest. Frequently
my little friend would fly at him and drive him away. She tried to make
him understand that I was a welcome guest, but he never took kindly to
my presence. In return I thought him most ungrateful, for I had killed
one cat and two snakes to protect his family.
[Illustration]
My little friend holds my dooryard and immediate vicinity against all
other chestnut-sided warblers. If some other bird of the same species
starts a nest, the little squatter tyrant drives the interloper away.
She claims sway over a circle about 200 feet in diameter, with my
cabin for a centre. Catbirds, towhee-buntings and oven-birds and two
ruffed grouse have nested on this claim, but for eleven years no
chestnut-sided warbler has succeeded in preempting the claim.
[Illustration]
The chestnut-sided warbler is so conspicuously marked that a mere tyro
in bird study cannot mistake it for any other member of the warbler
family. The bright yellow crown, pure white under parts, and chestnut
sides of the old birds are marks not to be mistaken. The young birds
are yellowish green above and silky white below.
An amusing thing happened here some years ago over a bird of this
species. A lady caller, a summer resident, asked me for the name of
a bird which often visited a tree over her sitting-room window. She
claimed that the bird was pure white with red wings. I could not make
her understand that there was no such bird in New England. "Seeing is
believing," she exclaimed, and I was invited to investigate for myself.
While looking from the sitting-room window I saw the bird above my head
on a twig. Sure enough, he was a white bird with red wings. It was a
chestnut-sided warbler. From a distance the effect was enough like a
white bird with red wings to deceive any one not well acquainted with
bird life. Looking up to the bird the chestnut sides resembled red
wings.
I sent the lady into an upper room, where she could look down on her
white bird, and she soon returned, and laughingly said, "I always knew
that there were two sides to a story, and now I have just learned that
there are two sides to a bird."
[Illustration]
May 27, 1902, five years after the foregoing history was published,
the same little bird hopped to my feet for nesting material. I gave
her some cotton twine, cut to eight-inch lengths, and she carried
away two pieces. She flew to a small hollow about twenty feet south
of my spring. I followed, and seated on a small boulder, watched the
nest building for the next two hours. I could reach out and touch the
bush that contained the nesting material, but the little mother paid
no attention to my presence, only to turn a bright eye on me, after
she had coiled a piece of string or blade of grass in the bottom of
the nest. I think she wanted me to criticise her work. I usually told
her that it was well done, and so it was. The bush was a sweet pepper
bush, and the nest was saddled between the main stem and two twigs.
When I first saw the nest it was but just begun. The bottom was a
small wad of some gray material, which I found afterward was shreds of
wool from an old gray coat that I had discarded. I placed grass and
string on my knee and the bird's keen sight discovered it at once. She
fearlessly hopped from a twig to my knee and examined the material.
She was satisfied with the inspection and took three blades of grass
to the nest. When she had coiled them, one stiff blade insisted on
standing out straight. She put this in place three times, but it would
straighten out each time. She flew away and returned immediately with
some spider-web with which she fastened the blade of grass to one
of the twigs. The male warbler swung from a twig over the nest and
inspected the work. Once he pulled out a piece of string and his wife
caught him in the act, and flew at him in a great rage. I put my hand
on the nest and she pecked my finger and scolded me roundly. After two
hours' hard work, she was coaxed away by her mate and I returned to my
writing. Day by day I watched the nest building until it was finished,
seven days after it was begun. It was lined with horsehair. The little
bird spent most of the seventh day in shaping the nest. She would turn
about, pressing the sides of the nest with her breast, until the whole
nest was made firm and as round as an apple. The nest was deserted for
three days before the first egg was laid. Four eggs, the usual number,
were laid, and then I found the mother bird on the nest toward sunset.
For the next three days she did what all chestnut-sided warblers do,
sit on the nest nights and roam about through the day. After this I
always found her on the nest until the little ones were out.
[Illustration]
I made up my mind to tame these young birds so they would come at my
call. I bred some meal worms and began to feed them to the baby birds.
The mother objected at first, but after awhile she appeared to know
that I would not harm them, and she would look on while I was passing
the worms to the birds. After the young birds were out of the nest, and
flying around in the shrubbery, I would hunt them up. One bird would
come to my finger to eat, but the others were shy and as they grew
older they would not remain for the proffered worm. They all drifted
away to the huckleberry fields and I lost them until nearly time for
migration. Then they came to the water in the dooryard to bathe. My
tame bird would take flies and green worms from my hand as of old, but
the three others preferred to feed themselves. When the birds returned
in migration the next spring, I hunted high and low for my tame warbler
but did not find him. The warblers that nest along the old road are
quite tame for wild birds. They will come within four feet of an
observer. They have attracted the attention of visitors by this trait.
I think many of these tame birds are the descendants of my little bird
friend that for sixteen years has consecrated my cabin dooryard.
[Illustration: BLUE JAYS.]
XVI.
INSTINCT
Instinct is the overworked and much abused word of many writers. As
applied to the wild things, we often stumble on to the terms, instinct
of direction, instinct of migration, instinct of song, instinct of
nest building, and so on. Webster gives several definitions as to the
meaning of instinct. The following covers the ground:
"An instinct is an agent which performs blindly and ignorantly a work
of intelligence and knowledge."
[Illustration]
To gather acorns in the balmy days of October and store them for
the cold of winter, is a work of intelligence and knowledge. Can we
believe that the blue jays and squirrels perform this work blindly and
ignorantly? If they do, then the storing of a single nut would be a
miracle. Watch a red squirrel while gathering acorns and note carefully
his intelligent acts. If there is a clear spot beneath the oak he drops
the acorns on to it, even if he has to carry each nut from one side
to the other of the tree. Note how carefully he selects the fruit: no
wormy nuts are wanted. In fact, he exercises the same thoughtful care
that a human being would exercise under like conditions. Does he do the
work blindly?
[Illustration]
Instinct, as applied to the lives of wild animals, is such an elusive
and meaningless term, that it is a pity it should be used so often
by writers on natural history. The word "instinct" savors of the
supernatural, and was invented in ancient times to separate man from
the brute, when the lower animals were supposed to lack reason. The
word "heredity" is a far better word, for it renders intelligible all
of fact that the word "instinct" implies, without resort to imagination
and the supernatural.
It is claimed by some writers that the sense of direction is an
instinct which guides birds in migration. As one writer states it:
"They may be frightened and become confused, as by being frequently
shot at, but once beyond the danger-line, their instinct regains
control, and they will resume their journey in a direct line for their
ultimate destination, and that, too, without stopping to think which
way is the right way."
If this were true, if birds could launch themselves into the air and
go South without thought, and, if turned aside, miraculously regain
their course without a thought as to the right way, then indeed would
I be forced to admit the supernatural, to acknowledge that the days of
miracles were not past, but it would upset all my preconceived ideas of
Dame Nature and her laws.
Really, before we resort to miracles to explain migration, would it not
be well to turn to natural laws--laws that are explained by intelligent
thought after careful observation?
[Illustration]
I have ever found the birds as intelligent in relation to the needs of
their lives as we are to our lives. Migration is not an exception to
the rule.
If man migrates he does so intelligently. Why not grant to birds the
same faculty?
For the sake of illustration we will take the swallows, birds known to
all, and describe their method of migration. Remember, that the old
birds have been South, that they know the way and do not doubt their
ability to pilot the young birds to the new home. They also know, from
experience, the perils and hardships of a long flight while battling
with wind and weather. Full well they know that young birds, just out
of the nest, would not last a day's flight if raw and untrained. So
they intelligently proceed to train the young birds into a suitable
condition. Early in the morning, after the young are fed, they are
marshalled along the wires and fences and drilled in the art of flying.
At first they fly in small squads, just a family group, but later they
gather into companies and practise until the companies are massed in
one grand army corps. When the young birds are thoroughly drilled, that
is, are hard of muscle and capable of keeping their place in the ranks,
to touch elbows, as it were, the old birds are ready to lead the way
South. To avoid straggling the departure is made in the night.
Up to this point we see no indications of instinct. The acts of the
swallows are as intelligent as would be the acts of human beings under
like circumstances. If a general had raw recruits to deal with he would
drill them just as the swallows drill their raw recruits.
Perhaps the manœuvres of swallows gave mankind the idea of military
tactics.
When we consider the journey of these birds South, why should we claim
that their acts are guided by a supernatural power? Why not allow
intelligence in flight as well as in preparing for flight?
[Illustration]
We can readily understand how the old birds, that have made several
journeys and must be familiar with all the landmarks, may make the
journey without the aid of a supernatural power.
We must remember that the sense of sight in birds is developed to a
degree unknown to mankind. It often happens that I startle a ruffed
grouse from its perch in the night. In such case it hurls itself
through the shrubbery with amazing speed. When I think of the keenness
of sight that enables this bird to avoid twigs and limbs, I know that
my sight is nothing but blindness in comparison.
Some birds fly high, and the earth is like a map beneath them, with a
well-defined line between land and water. Birds that are familiar with
the route ought to experience no difficulty in finding the way. Even
the limited sight of man would serve unless handicapped by a dark,
stormy night.
Young birds left to themselves will not go South. Young robins often
get left in this vicinity. They are birds of the last brood usually;
the parent birds are killed before the young learn to associate with
the flocks in the neighborhood. They stay through the winter because
they have no knowledge of the South and no guide to lead the way.
Ducks hatched under hens from wild eggs will not go South. I once
lived near a farmer that hatched out six black ducks. The farmer did
not feed them, and they lived through the summer on a trout brook. In
winter they huddled into a fence corner under some shrubbery. They had
no instinct to send them South, although their flight feathers were
perfect; but they possessed intelligence enough to seek the cattle
tie-up for warmth whenever they found the door open.
[Illustration]
It is assumed that the bee, the pigeon, and some variety of ducks, rise
and circle in the air to leave landmarks "out of sight," so that this
remarkable instinct may work more freely. Would it not be well to apply
natural laws to these cases? Suppose we infer that these animals rise
and circle to find familiar landmarks, just as a human being would act
if he had the power of flight and had lost his way. Human beings climb
trees, when lost, to look for landmarks. Why should we deny to bees and
birds the very methods we make use of whenever the occasion requires?
[Illustration]