THE WARBLERS
Yellow Warbler
Black and White Creeping Warbler
Oven-bird
Maryland Yellow-throat
Yellow-breasted Chat
Redstart
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YELLOW WARBLER
_Called also: Summer Yellowbird; Wild Canary._
Rather than live where the skies are gray and the air is cold, this
adventurous little warbler will travel two thousand miles or more to
follow the sun. A trip from Panama to Canada and back again within
five months does not appall him. By living in perpetual sunshine his
feathers seemed to have absorbed some of it, so that he looks like a
stray sunbeam playing among the shrubbery on the lawn, the trees in
the orchard, the bushes in the roadside thicket, the willows and
alders beside the stream. He is shorter than the English sparrow by an
inch. Although you may not get close enough to see that his yellow
breast is finely streaked with reddish brown, you may know by these
marks that he is not what you at first suspected he was--somebody's
pet canary escaped from a cage. It is not he but the goldfinch--the
yellow bird with the black wings--who sings like a canary. Happily he
is so neighbourly that every child may easily become acquainted with
this most common member of the large warbler family.
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I don't believe there is anybody living who could name at sight every
one of the seventy warblers that visit the United States. Some are
very gaily coloured and exquisitely marked, as birds coming to us from
the tropics have a right to be. Some are quietly clad; some, like the
redstart, are dressed quite differently from their mates and young;
others, like the yellow warbler, are so nearly alike that you could
see no difference between the male and female from the distance of a
few feet. Some live in the tops of evergreens and other tall trees;
others, like the Maryland yellow-throat, which seems to prefer low
trees and shrubbery, are rarely seen over twelve feet from the ground.
A few, like the oven-bird, haunt the undergrowth in the woods or live
most of the time on the earth. With three or four exceptions all the
warblers dwell in woodlands, and it is only during the spring and
autumn migrations that we have an opportunity to become acquainted
with them; when they come about the orchard and shrubbery for a few
days' rest and refreshment during their travels. Fortunately the
cheerful little yellow warbler stays around our homes all summer long.
Did you ever know a family so puzzling and contradictory as the
Warblers?
The great majority of these fascinating and exasperating relatives are
nervous, restless little sprites, constantly flitting from branch to
{55} branch and from twig to twig in a never-ending search for small
insects. As well try to catch a weasel asleep as a warbler at rest.
People who live in the tropics, even for a little while, soon become
lazy. Not so the warblers, whose energy, like a steam engine's, seems
to be increased by heat. Of course they do not undertake long journeys
merely for pleasure, as wealthy human tourists do. They must migrate
to find food; and as insects are most plentiful in warm weather, you
see why these atoms of animation keep in perpetual motion. They are
among the last migrants to come north in the spring and among the
first to leave in the autumn because insects don't hatch out in cool
weather, and the birds must always be sure of plenty to eat.
Travelling as they do, chiefly by night, they are killed in numbers
against the lighthouses and electric light towers which especially
fascinate these poor little victims.
Who first misled us by calling these birds warblers? The truth is
there is not one really fine singer, like a thrush, in the whole
family. The yellow-breasted chat has remarkable vocal ability, but he
is not a real musician like the mockingbird, who also likes to have
fun with his voice. The warblers, as a rule, have weak, squeaky, or
wiry songs and lisping _tseep_ call notes, neither of which ought to
be called a warble. The yellow warbler sings as acceptably {56} as
most of his kin. Seven times he rapidly repeats
_"Sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweeter--sweeter"_ to his
sweetheart, but this happy little lovemaker's incessant song is apt to
become almost tiresome to everybody except his mate.
What a clever little creature she is! More than any other bird she
suffers from the persecutions of that dusky rascal, the cowbird. In
May, with much help from her mate, she builds an exquisite little
cradle of silvery plant fibre, usually shreds of milkweed stalk,
grass, leaves, and caterpillars' silk, neatly lined with hair,
feathers, and the downy felt of fern fronds. The cradle is sometimes
placed in the crotch of an elder bush, sometimes in a willow tree;
preferably near water where insects are abundant, but often in a
terminal branch of some orchard tree.
Scarcely is it finished before the skulking cowbird watches her chance
to lay an egg in it that she may not be bothered with the care of her
own baby. She knows that the yellow warbler is a gentle, amiable,
devoted mother, who will probably work herself to death, if necessary,
rather than let the big baby cowbird starve. But she sometimes makes a
great mistake in her individual. Not all yellow warblers will permit
the outrage. They prefer to weave a new bottom to their nest, over the
{57} cowbird's egg, although they may seal up their own speckled
treasures with it. Suppose the wicked cowbird comes back and lays
still another egg in the two-storied nest: what then? The little
Spartan yellow bird has been known to weave still another layer of
covering rather than hatch out an unwelcome, greedy interloper to
crowd and starve her own precious babies. Two and even three-storied
nests are to be found by bright-eyed boys and girls.
BLACK AND WHITE CREEPING WARBLER
You may possibly mistake this little warbler for a downy woodpecker
when first you see him creeping rapidly over the bark of trees, or
hanging from the under side of the branches. But when he flits
restlessly from twig to twig and from tree to tree without taking time
to examine spots thoroughly; especially when he calls a few thin wiry
notes--_zee-zee-zee-zee_--you may know he is no woodpecker, but a
warbler. Woodpeckers have thick set, high shouldered bodies which they
flatten against the tree trunks; the males wear red in their caps, and
all have larger, stouter bills than the warbler's. Moreover, no
woodpecker is so small as this streaked and speckled little creature
who is usually too intent {58} on feeding to utter a single _zee_. You
could not possibly confuse him with the diligent, placid brown creeper
or with the slate-blue nuthatch which also creeps along the branches
on the under or upper side. Some children I know call this black and
white warbler the little zebra bird. Would that all warblers were so
easily identified!
OVEN-BIRD
_Called also: The Teacher; Golden-crowned Thrush; The Accentor._
"Teacher--_Teacher_--TEACHER--TEACHER--_TEACHER!_" resounds a
penetrating, accented voice from the woods. Who calls? Not an
impatient scholar, as you might suppose, but a shy little thrush-like
warbler who has no use whatever for any human being, especially at the
nesting season in May and June, when he calls most loudly and
frequently. Beginning quite softly, he gradually increases the
intensity of each pair of notes in a crescendo that seems to come from
a point much nearer than it really does. Once heard it is never
forgotten, and you can always be sure of naming at least one bird by
his voice alone. However, his really exquisite love song--a clear,
ringing, vivacious melody, uttered while the singer is fluttering,
hovering, high among the tree-tops--is rarely heard, or if heard is
not recognised as the teacher's aerial serenade. He is a warbler, let
it be recorded, who really can sing, and beautifully, however rarely.
[Illustration]
The ovenbird who calls
"Teacher, _Teacher_, TEACHER, TEACHER, _TEACHER!_"
[Illustration]
Ovenbird in her cleverly hidden nest. Some of the leaves and sticks
have been pulled away from the front to secure her picture.
[Illustration]
Young ovenbirds on day of leaving nest.
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Why is he called the oven-bird? A little girl I know was offered five
dollars by her father if she could find the bird's nest in the high
dry woods near her home. ''Teacher!'' was the commonest sound that
came from them. It rang in her ears all day, so of course she thought
it would be "too easy" to earn the money. Every afternoon, when school
was out, she tramped through the woods hour after hour, poking about
among the dead leaves, the snapping twigs, the velvety moss, the
fallen logs, the young spring growth of the little plants and
creepers, always keeping her eyes on the ground where she knew the
nest would be found. Day after day she continued the search. Every
time she saw a little hump of dead leaves or twigs and grasses her
heart bounded with hope, but on closer examination she found no nest
at all. Finally, one day when she was becoming discouraged, she spied
in the path a little brownish olive bird, about the size of an English
sparrow, but with a speckled, thrush-like breast and a dull orange
V-shaped patch, bordered by black lines, on the top of his head. He
was walking about on the ground, nodding his head as if {60} marking
time, not hopping, sparrow-fashion; and he took very dainty, pretty
steps that suggested a French dancing master. Occasionally he would
scratch the path for insects, like a tiny chicken. Although she had
never seen the teacher, and had expected that the loud voice came from
a much larger bird, she felt sure that this must be he, so she sat
down on a log and watched and waited. Presently she saw him tug at a
fine black hair-like root that lay across the path, and, snapping it
off, quickly fly away, away--oh, where did he go with it? She ran
stumbling after him through the undergrowth to a little clearing.
There another bird, just like him, whom she instantly guessed was his
mate, flew straight toward her, dropped to the ground, ran about
distractedly, dragging one wing as if it were broken, and uttering
sharp, piteous notes of alarm. The little girl didn't like to distress
the birds, of course, but how could she resist the temptation to find
their nest? So on she tramped around and around in an ever widening
circle, the excited birds still hovering near and sharply scolding
her. You may be sure she was quite as excited as they.
At last, a little dome-shaped mound of grasses, half hidden among the
dry brown oak leaves and wild geranium, gladdened her eyes. Running
around to the opposite side she knelt down on the grass, peeped under
the arched roof {61} and into the nest, which was shaped like an
old-fashioned Dutch oven. Was ever a sight so welcome? She almost
screamed with joy. Through the opening on one side, that was about
three inches high, she could see the lining of fine black rootlets,
just like the one she had watched the bird snap off and carry away.
Then she flew home, as if she too had wings, and, calling breathlessly
"Oh Father! Father! I've found it!" burst into the house. A week
before even one white speckled egg had been laid in the oven-bird's
nest, there was a golden half eagle in a happy little girl's palm. A
fortnight later a man with a camera took a picture of the patient
mother-bird, whose pretty striped head you see peeping out from under
the dome.
MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT
_Called also: Black-masked Ground Warbler_
This gay little warbler looks as if he were dressed for a masquerade
ball with a gray-edged black mask over his face and the sides of his
throat, a brownish green coat and a bright yellow vest. He is smaller
than a sparrow. How sharply the inquisitive fellow peers at you
through his mask whenever you pass the damp thicket, bordering the
marshy land, where he {62} likes best to live! And how quickly he hops
from twig to twig and flies from one clump of bushes to another clump,
in restless, warbler fashion, as he leads you a dance in pursuit! Not
for a second does he stop watching you.
If you come too close, a sharp _pit-pit_ or _chock_ is snapped out by
the excited bird, whose familiar, oft-repeated, sprightly, waltzing
triplet has been too freely translated, he thinks, into, _Fol-low-me,
fol-low-me, fol-low-me_. Pursuit is the last thing he really desires,
and of course he issues no such invitation. What he actually says
almost always sounds to me like _Witchee-tee, witch-ee-tee,
witch-ee-tee_. You will surely hear him if you listen in his marshy
retreats. He sings almost all summer. Except when nesting he comes
into the garden, picks minute insects out of the blossoming shrubbery,
hops about on the ground, visits the raspberry tangle, and hides among
the bushes along the roadside. Only the yellow warbler, of all his
numerous tribe, is disposed to be more neighbourly. In spite of his
local name, he is to be found in winter from Georgia to Labrador and
Manitoba westward to the Plains. You see he is something of a
traveller.
The little bird who bewitches him, and to whom he sings the witch's
song, wears no black mask, so it is not easy to name her if her mate
is not about. Her plumage is duller than his and {63} the sides of her
plump little body, which are yellowish brown, shade into grayish white
underneath. Sometimes you may catch her carrying weeds, strips of
bark, broad grasses, tendrils, reeds, and leaves for the outside of
her deep cradle, and finer grasses for its lining, to a spot on the
ground where plants and low bushes help conceal it. She does not build
so beautiful a nest as the yellow warbler, but like her she, too, poor
thing, sometimes suffers from the sneaking visits of the cowbird.
Unhappily, she is not so clever as her cousin, for she meekly consents
to hatch out the cowbird's egg and let the big, greedy interloper
crowd and worry and starve her own brood. Why does the cowardly
cowbird always choose a victim smaller than herself?
THE YELLOW-BREASTED CHAT
"Now he barks like a puppy, then quacks like a duck, then rattles like
a kingfisher, then squalls like a fox, then caws like a crow, then
mews like a cat--_C-r-r-r-r-r-whrr_--that's it--_Chee-quack, cluck,
yit-yit-yit-now_--hit it--_tr-r-r-r-wheu-caw-caw-cut,
cut-tea-boy-who, who-mew, mew_," writes John Burroughs of this
rollicking polyglot, the chat; but not even that close student of
nature could set down on {64} paper all the multitude of queer sounds
with which the bird amuses himself. He might be mistaken for a dozen
different birds and animals in as many minutes.
Such a secretive roysterer is he that you may rarely see him, however
often you may hear his voice when he is hidden beyond sight in partial
clearings or the bushy, briery, thickety openings in the woods. As he
seems to delight in keeping pursuers off by a natural fence of barbed
wire, the cat brier, wild blackberry, raspberry, and rose bushes are
among his favourite plants. But if you will sit down quietly near his
home, your patience will probably be rewarded by the sight of this
largest of the warblers, with olive green upper parts, a conspicuous
white line running from his bill around his eye and another along his
throat, and a bright yellow breast shading to grayish white
underneath. He is over an inch longer than the English sparrow. His
wife looks just like him.
The zany at the circus can go through no more clownish tricks than the
chat. See him, a mere bunch of feathers, dance and balance in the air,
now fluttering, now falling as if he had been shot, or turning aerial
somersaults, now rising and trailing his legs behind him like a stork,
now dropping out of sight in the thickest part of the thicket. The
instant he spies you, _Chut-Chut_, he scolds from the briars. Shy,
{65} eccentric, absurd, but inspired with a "fine frenzy," which is a
passionate love for his mate and their nest, all his queer notes and
equally queer stunts centre about his home. On moonlight nights,
Punchinello entertains himself and Columbine with a series of
inimitable performances which have earned him the title of yellow
mockingbird. He can throw his voice so that it seems to come from
quite a different direction, as you may sometime have heard a
human ventriloquist do.
THE REDSTART
When this exquisite little warbler flashes his brilliant salmon flame
and black feathers among the trees, darting hither and thither,
fluttering, spinning about in the air after insects caught chiefly on
the wing, you will surely agree that he is the most beautiful as well
as the most lively bird in the woods. The colour scheme of his clothes
suggests the Baltimore oriole's, only the flaming feathers on the
sides of his body, wings, and tail are a pinker shade of flame, and
the black ones which cover his back, throat, and upper breast, are
more glossy, with bluish reflections. Underneath he is white, tinged
with salmon. But you could not possibly mistake this lovely little
sprite for the oriole, he is so much smaller--about an inch {66}
shorter than the sparrow. His cousin, the Blackburnian warbler, a much
rarer bird, with a colour scheme of black, white, and beautiful rich
orange, not salmon flame, can be named instantly by the large amount
of white in his tail feathers. There are so few brilliantly coloured
birds that find their way to us from the tropics, that it should not
take any boy or girl longer to learn them than it does to learn the
first multiplication table. In Cuba the redstart is known as "El
Candelita"--the little candle flame that flashes in the deep, dark,
tropical forest.
Who would believe that this small firebrand, half glowing, half
charred, whirling about through the trees, as if blown by the wind, is
a cousin of the sombre oven-bird that walks so daintily and leisurely
over the ground? The redstart keeps perpetually in motion that he may
seize gnats and other gauzy winged mouthfuls in mid-air--not as the
flycatchers do, by waiting on a fence rail or limb of a tree for a
dinner to fly past, then dashing out and seizing it, but by flitting
about constantly in search of insect prey. The bristles at the base of
his bill prevent many an insect from getting past it. He rests on the
trees only long enough to snatch a morsel, then away he goes again. No
wonder the Spaniards call all the gaily coloured, tropical wood
warblers "Mariposas"--butterflies.
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