spent in hunting, or "lining bees," as we call the sport in Maine, I
can speak with no uncertain knowledge. The power to circle in search of
landmarks is limited. If a bee is carried too far from its hive, beyond
its power to circle and find landmarks, it is lost and never returns
to the hive. I have proved this time after time. The carrier-pigeon's
power to circle is a most remarkable feature, but nevertheless it has
its limit. Pigeons that are used for long-distance flight are trained
over the whole distance in short flights, so the bird may become
familiar with landmarks.
Our dogs and cats that return to us when carried sightless to a
distance, may return through the sense of smell. Cape Ann fishermen
tell me that dogs scent the land fifty miles at sea. If we grant to
animals the power of observation which we possess, and then take into
consideration their keen sense of smell, we can account for many things
that seem mysterious. However, dogs and cats are lost every day in the
week.
Nest building is said to be instinctive, but I shall have to take
exceptions to the statement. I do not deny that the art is hereditary,
and that a young bird confined might essay to build something for a
nest, but I do deny that the selection of straws is under the influence
of instinct. I believe young birds examine the nest in which they are
reared intelligently, and are educated by their parents in part in
the selection of material. I once saw an old catbird give her young
daughter a lesson in nest building. The young catbird had carried a
large quantity of rootlets from my garden to a patch of catbrier. She
had placed it so loosely that a good breeze would have upset the whole
affair. While I was looking on wondering what the bird would do if the
wind should rise, the old catbird, the young bird's mother, happened
along to inspect the work.
[Illustration]
The moment she saw the shaky structure she tumbled it on to the ground.
Then she laid a foundation that no breeze could dislodge. Her selection
of rootlets long enough to bridge the spaces was something wonderful.
I did not see her make a mistake. If she picked up a rootlet a hair's
breadth short, she dropped it for another of the right length. After
she had laid a secure foundation, she left the young bird to her own
skill and judgment. When the bird had completed the nest, it was as
large as a four-quart measure. It was made up of varied materials.
Newspaper and cloth afforded the larger amount. A departure was the
skin of a garter snake woven into the brim. A few years ago I found a
catbird's nest ornamented with a snake-skin, and the two instances are
the only ones of all my observations.
[Illustration: WOOD THRUSH.]
[Illustration]
To read some of our books on ornithology, would lead one to suppose
that birds of the same species constructed nests exactly alike, but
the fact is, that no two nests are alike. A bird will improve in nest
building, usually, with age. I have a little friend, a chestnut-sided
warbler, that has constructed twenty-three nests since I made her
acquaintance. As I remember them the last nest is the neatest and most
substantial. Some have been made almost wholly of rags. Chickadees have
adopted cotton-batting, and call for it if I neglect to keep it in the
dooryard. It often happens that birds select new material, if handy,
instead of hunting the usual nest building material. If birds were
guided by instinct and did not exercise reason, they would select the
same nesting material year after year. The habit would be so securely
fixed that the bird would not be tempted to use new material, no
matter how plentiful or handy it might be. The fact that birds readily
accommodate themselves to new surroundings, is proof positive that
they possess the power to reason. I found a nest, last season, of the
wood-thrush, which was a complete departure from the usual nest. The
bulk of the nest was composed of moss, sphagnum. It was placed on some
bushes of the black-alder which the snow had bent down. Instead of mud
the bird had used a black soil, and the nest was lined with horsehair.
The horsehair, moss, and black mold were all near the nest. If I had
found the nest after the young had left it, it would have proved a
puzzle for me. As it was, the old bird was on the nest when I found it
and so gave me the clue.
[Illustration]
Young birds are taught to sing by the old males. This is true of the
birds that have come under my observation. Even the grouse teaches the
young to drum. This is done soon after dark in the fall of the year.
From my hammock I often hear these lessons. The old grouse makes the
woods ring with his drumming. Then he rests while the young grouse try
a hand. Their efforts are not a success, and the old bird again shows
them how to do it. Some nights this will go on for two hours.
There is a test that any one can try, to prove that song is
educational and not instinctive.
Go into the woods inhabited by the wood-thrush, and sit down and
listen. It will soon be evident that you have invited yourself to a
bird's singing school.
[Illustration]
In a party of summer residents from Magnolia, there was one lady who
told me she had no patience with my views on song. That a bird would
sing, anyway, because it had a throat adapted to song. She said that
when I heard birds sing out of season, I would claim that they were
teaching their young, when in fact they were only exercising their
voices without a thought of teaching. When they were ready to return
to Magnolia, I offered to show them a path through the woods, a new
way to them. When I had reached a spot where I knew there was a family
of wood-thrushes, I ordered a rest. When we had become quiet the old
thrush tuned up and gave us the song. It is a short song, but loud,
clear, and flute-like. There was no wind, and the song appeared to be
sweeter and louder than usual. When the old thrush had ceased, one
young bird after another took up the strain. Some would give one note,
others two or three notes. Some notes would be hoarse, others would be
shrill. After awhile the birds would forget the lesson and drop out one
after the other. When all were silent, the old thrush would again give
them the right pitch and tone, and again the young thrushes tried to
imitate the singer. For two hours we sat there and listened. The lady
had to admit that the old bird was giving the young birds a lesson. Yet
she claimed that the thrush was an exception. I was glad that she was
ready to admit that one bird of a species was intelligent. I told her
that when she had devoted two hours to all the other birds she would be
converted to my faith.
[Illustration: THE HERMIT THRUSH.]
[Illustration]
Of all the thrushes the Hermit is my favorite. Not because he is
a namesake, but for the reason that his is one of the beautiful
bird-songs woven into the memory of my boyhood days. I see him here
only in migration. The last of March or first of April, I see the bird,
and hear the sweet "Tu-le, tu-li-le." A beautiful strain, but only the
prelude to the true song, which is seldom heard away from their summer
home. Years ago I wrote the following description of the song of the
hermit-thrush :
"To me the song of the hermit-thrush is the sweetest sound in nature.
It is not a plaintive, pensive, or tender strain, but satisfies the
senses and clings to the memory like the recollection of some great joy.
"I shall never forget a song I once heard in the woods of northern
Maine. I was in a bark-peeling camp at the time. A rainy day had sent
the crew to their homes in the settlement until the next morning; and I
was left alone.
"The rain poured down in torrents. The wind howled and roared through
the tree-tops, flinging great sheets of water on to the bark roof of
the camp. My spirits were depressed and gloomy. Financial troubles, the
loss of a cherished home, had disheartened me, and life seemed hardly
worth living.
[Illustration]
"Just before night the rain suddenly ceased. The sun burst through
the clouds, and the wind completely died out. Save for the sound of
dropping water, the forest was silent and solemn. A glowing sunset,
painting all the clouds of the western sky, aroused me from my
miserable thoughts. Just then the song of the hermit-thrush floated up
from a neighboring swamp. Clear and pure the flute-like notes slowly
echoed through the silent woods. The moist and hollow atmosphere
magnified the slightest sound, and I could distinguish the fine trills
which form a part of this famous song. '_O, phee-re-al, phee-re-al!_'
represents the strain as near as I can give it in words.
"I would that I were able to express in fitting language the
feelings with which I am inspired when I listen to the song of the
hermit-thrush. It satisfies my sense of the beautiful as no other
song can. And yet I am never quite satisfied. There is something I do
not understand. Something beyond me, a shadowy mystery. After I have
listened to the strain, and while its memory still lingers, I find
myself longing to know the whole secret of its charm. However, years
ago I settled the matter in my mind and note-book, as the following
entry will show: 'The song of the hermit-thrush is the Spirit of Nature
chanting the mystery of life. When the mystery is solved we shall
understand the song.'
[Illustration]
"Day faded into twilight, and twilight into night, and still that
exalted anthem solemnly pealed through the forest. It was after ten
o'clock when the strain died out in a few broken notes.
"Thanks to the hermit-thrush, my thoughts were turned into a new
and healthy channel. I fell asleep that night on my fragrant bed of
fir-boughs, at peace with the whole world."
XVII.
THE CHICKADEES
The chickadees are with me the year through. In winter they collect
into a flock and remain near the cabin, but when the snow departs, they
drift away in pairs, in search of a good nesting site. From this time,
until the young birds are large enough to fly, the chickadees come to
my cabin in pairs. The domestic life of the chickadee overflows with
love, joy, and devotion. These little birds when once mated are mated
for life. There is no divorce in the bird family, from eagles down to
humming-birds. It is a rare treat to watch a pair of chickadees in the
nesting season. I was walking along the old highway last season, when
I heard one of my chickadees calling to me. This bird had a way of
calling "Dee, dee, dee" whenever she met me in the woods. I usually
carry food along, and she would come to my hand and help herself. After
she had satisfied her appetite, she flew down the side-hill to Magnolia
Swamp. I followed her, and found her mate excavating a nest in a small
dead paper-birch. I expect that his wife told him that I was coming,
but he did not quit work for five minutes. When I had approached, he
bobbed his head out of the entrance, but instantly returned to his
work. When he did come out, he appeared hungry, and attacked a doughnut
with vigor, winding up with hemp-seed. From the way the birds attacked
food, it was evident that they would have had to seek the cabin soon,
if I had not happened along.
[Illustration]
I talk to the chickadees as I would to human beings, so when I had
seated myself on a boulder, within four feet of the nest, I told my
friends that I was making them a friendly call, and begged them to keep
right on with their work. The chickadees said something to me in reply,
and may have understood what I said to them, for they returned at
once to enlarging the hole in the birch. The hole in the paper-birch,
which formed the entrance, was one inch and one eighth in diameter, and
round as it could well be. The depth was six inches, and the birds were
at work in the bottom making the hole deeper. While the husband was
eating his breakfast, the little wife was down in the hole, and I could
hear the blows of her sharp bill. After breakfast, the husband flew to
the entrance and called to his wife. She bobbed out and he bobbed in.
Instead of resting, she occupied the time with eating hemp-seed. At
the end of three minutes, the mate appeared with a piece of dead wood
in his bill. He flung the wood one side, and disappeared calling his
mate. She flew to the entrance, and, clinging to the edge of the hole,
she reached down inside and brought up a bill-full of chippings, which
she dropped outside. This was followed up until the chippings were
exhausted. Then the male hammered away, while the female ate some more
hemp-seed. Three minutes later he came out for a rest, and the female
took his place. The birds appeared to work under a regular system, for
the little wife came to the mouth of the hole and called her husband;
he clung to the edge and reached inside for chippings, just as his wife
did. The bird inside must have passed the chippings up to the bird
outside. Quite a scheme to save labor.
[Illustration]
From time to time I visited this nest to inspect the work. When the
hole was about nine inches in depth, the birds put in the nesting
material. If these birds had not become partly domesticated, the
foundation of the nest would have been moss (_Sphagnum_), with a lining
of fur or grouse feathers. My chickadees have changed the nesting
habit, using nothing but cotton-batting for foundation and lining.
Eight eggs were laid in this nest, and every one hatched.
The flock of chickadees that have gathered at my cabin this winter for
food will number about fifty. They are so tame that they enter the
cabin and eat from the table. One bird has demonstrated to me that she
possesses a keen memory and an intelligence that is phenomenal. For
four winters she has made it a practice to rap on the window when she
is hungry, or desires to come in the cabin. Her method, followed each
day, is peculiar. She raps if I am inside, and not otherwise. If I am
sitting outside, she never approaches the window. It is evident that
she raps to attract my attention. After rapping, she goes to the door
and waits for me. If I do not respond, she returns to the window and
raps again, louder than before. She waits at the door a short time,
and if I do not come, she returns to the window and stays right there,
and raps vigorously all the time. Not only is it peculiar that she is
intelligent enough to know that she can attract my attention, but it is
also peculiar that she can remember from one winter to another how to
go through the intelligent act.
One of my bird-loving friends, the late "Frank Bolles," for many years
the secretary of Harvard College, was telling me of the intelligence of
the chickadees around Chocorua. I told him that my chickadees could
count four. Mr. Bolles laughed, and said: "I am quite a bird crank, but
I think I will have to draw the line at counting. What have you for
proof?" I called his attention to the method employed by the chickadees
when eating hemp-seed. Not having the stout cone bill of the finch
family, a chickadee was obliged to hold a seed between its toes and
beat off the hull, to get at the meat. A chickadee would fly into the
dooryard after a hemp-seed, then fly to a small twig, and, holding the
seed between its toes, hammer away until the meat was threshed out.
Some of the old birds would carry away as many as four seeds. These
birds let their brains save their wings. When a bird carried away four
seeds, three were usually placed in the rough bark of a limb until
wanted. I fed the chickadees, and a dozen or more were soon busy taking
seed from the dooryard. A pet bird, of long standing, was pointed out
to Mr. Bolles as one that could count four. The bird picked up four
seeds, and flew to a limb over my head. Near the bole of the tree she
deposited three seeds, and took the fourth one to a small twig, about
eight feet away. Before she got through with the first seed, I pushed
one of the three off the limb. Mr. Bolles scouted the idea that the
bird would miss the seed on the ground. After the bird had disposed
of three seeds, it hunted in the bark of the limb at first, and then
dropped to the ground and found the missing seed. If two seeds were
pushed off, the chickadee would hunt for both. Mr. Bolles admitted that
the bird could count four, and possibly more than that number if it was
necessary.
[Illustration]
Mr. Bolles was the author of several books on outdoor life. He
possessed a delightful style, reminding one of John Burroughs. I will
quote from his book, "From Blomidon to Smoky," a record of a visit to
my cabin:
"I have a friend who lives alone, summer and winter, in a tiny hut amid
the woods. The doctors told him he must die, so he escaped from them
to Nature, made his peace with her, and regained his health. To the
wild creatures of the pasture, the oak woods, and the swamps he is no
longer a man, but a faun; he is one of their own kind,--shy, alert,
silent. They, having learned to trust him, have come a little nearer to
men. I once went to his hut when he was absent, and stretched myself in
the sunlight by his tiny doorstep. Presently, two chickadees came to a
box of bird-seed, swinging from the pine-limb overhead, and fed there,
cracking the seeds one by one with their bills. Then from the swamp,
a pair of catbirds appeared, and fed upon crumbs scattered over the
ground just at my feet. A chipmunk ran back and forth past them, coming
almost within reach of my hand; soon after a song-sparrow (Wabbles)
drove away the catbirds, and then sung a little _sotto voce_ song to me
before helping itself to the crumbs. When my friend returned, he told
me the story of this song-sparrow; how he saved its life, and had been
rewarded by three years of gratitude, confidence, and affection on the
part of the brave little bird. He seemed fearful lest I should think
him overimaginative in recital, so he gave me details about the sparrow
and its ways which would have convinced a jury of the bird's identity
and strong individuality. The secret of my friend's friendship with
these birds was that, by living together, each had, by degrees, learned
to know the other."
[Illustration]
The chickadees are great bird-wags. In various ways they play tricks
on other birds. When there is hemp-seed in the box, the chickadees are
like a lot of children turned out of school. If a tree-sparrow happens
along, he takes possession by driving the other birds away. A saucy
chickadee will give the danger-call, which sounds to me like "_butcher
bird, butcher bird_." The tree-sparrow darts into the bushes and the
chickadees pile onto the seed-box. The sparrow finding that there is no
enemy about soon returns to the seed-box. Inside of three minutes the
same, or another chickadee, gives the alarm and away goes the sparrow
into the bushes. This time he knows that he has been fooled, so when
he comes back he chases the chickadee through the trees around the
dooryard. The chickadee is too quick for the sparrow; he darts this
way and that, laughing and shouting at the top of his voice. The other
chickadees do a lot of laughing and shouting too, at the same time they
attend to the seed-box. The sparrow always flies away when he hears the
danger-call. I suppose he thinks it better to be safe than to be sorry.
[Illustration]
Several years ago I placed a box in the top of an oak-tree, thinking
that bluebirds might be induced to nest therein. While I was nailing
the box to a limb, a pair of chickadees had overlooked the work.
These chickadees were old friends, and naturally thought that I was
making a nest for their benefit. The next day when I had returned from
the city, I found the birds engaged in carrying cotton batting into
the box. These chickadees were old and had made four nests, so the
selection of a box and cotton batting was a marked departure from the
regular nesting habit. While the little lady was sitting I made it a
practice every day to climb the tree and offer her food. When I had
turned the cover back the bird would flutter her wings as young birds
do when begging food. But the little wife would take no food from me
if her husband was present. She would call to him "_chip, chip_," and
he would hop to me for food. When he got it, he would feed his wife,
while she fluttered her wings and acted like a young bird. When eight
little chicks thrust up their open bills for food, the parents appeared
brimful of joy and happiness. They rushed around in search of food,
calling to each other all the time. I climbed the tree one day at
noontime. The young birds were full grown. I took one in my hand and
the mother said something to me in her language. I thought that she
asked me if the bird was old enough to leave the nest. I told her it
was, and the sooner they got out the better, for the nest was too small
and was hot besides. That noon I went over to Cedar Swamp, and did not
return until after sunset. When I had reached the cabin the chickadees
hopped to my shoulder and in heartrending bird language tried to tell
me that something had happened to their babies. I climbed the tree and
found the nest empty. On a boulder I had placed a pair of rubber boots
to dry One of the boots was missing. Two boys had robbed the chickadees
and had carried away the young birds in the rubber boot. The bereaved
birds remained near the cabin all night, and I did not sleep, because
they talked to me in the most pitiful language I had ever heard from a
bird. The next day I traced the wretched thieves, but the little birds
were dead.
[Illustration]
Before leaving the chickadees, I wish to mention something that has
impressed itself upon my mind, during the last eighteen years. That is,
that the chackadees would make desirable park-birds. Compare these busy
little birds with the English sparrow, and one can but feel sorry that
we imported the alien, when we already possessed the native.
A flock of my chickadees, if removed to Boston Common, would thrive
and increase rapidly, and from a small beginning all the parks of
the country could be stocked. The chickadees rear two broods in a
season, usually eight in a brood. These birds hunt the trees for insect
life, while the undesirable alien hunts the streets for indigested
food. Contrast the quarrelsome "_chirps_" of the one, with the cheery
"_chickadee, chickadee_" of the other. Then the mating-song. How it
would fit into the glorious spring mornings. This song is called the
"phœbe note of the chickadee" by many writers. The only reason that
explains why this name clings to the chickadee's song, is that some
early writer adopted it, and later writers followed suit without taking
pains to investigate. There is as great difference between the two as
there is between black and white. The song of the phœbe-bird is in
two notes, delivered in a querulous, plaintive tone, while that of
the chickadee is in three notes, as loud and cheery as the whistle of
Whittier's "Barefoot boy." "_Tea's ready_," it seems to say, with the
accent on the first syllable.
XVIII.
TRIPLEFOOT
I opened up my cabin one winter morning, at daylight, to find the
dooryard covered with two inches of light snow. A mass of fox tracks
centred about a piece of meat, which was nailed to the trunk of a
pine-tree. When the fox left, about daylight, it went down the old
highway, and this is the trail it made:
ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo
[Illustration: Triplefoot]
Two tracks started from a cluster near the meat, followed by a space,
then three tracks followed by another space, and so on, in regular
order, three tracks and a space. I had no difficulty in solving the
mystery. The fox had been trapped sometime in the past, and had
regained its liberty by the loss of a foot. The space in the trail
represented the missing foot. This fox was no stranger to my dooryard,
and months before I had named her Triplefoot, because she travelled on
three feet. She had a charmed life, for the fox-hunters had failed in
their efforts to shoot her, so far, although for over a year she was
the only fox in this locality, and the hounds hazed her night and day.