approached a little pond beside the road, up started the unknown from a
brush heap on the edge. He flew across the road to a tree near the
track, and I was about to follow him when my eye fell upon another on
the fence beyond, and on walking slowly toward him I discovered a
second, and then a third. Three of the beauties on a fence a little
way apart--there was then a family! I stood and gazed.
The backs and heads of the birds, as I could then plainly see, were a
little darker shade of the delicate blue-gray, with the same soft,
fluffy look I had noticed on the breast. The wings were black and
somewhat elaborately marked with white. The beak, that tell-tale feature
which reveals the secret of a bird's life, was not long, but thick, and
black as jet, and the dark eye was set in a heavy, black band across the
side of the head. The combination of black and gray was very effective,
and closer acquaintance did not modify my first opinion of the little
stranger; he was a bonny bird with clear, open gaze, graceful in every
movement, and innocent and sweet in life I was sure, and am still, in
spite of--
But let me tell my story: While I was noting these things I heard the
cries of a bird-baby behind me. The voice was strange to me, and of a
curiously human quality. I turned hastily, and there on the telegraph
pole was the baby in gray, receiving his supper from one of his parents,
and crying over it, as do many feathered little folk--one more of the
mysterious family.
There were thus five in sight at once, and at least three of them were
infants lately out of the nest, hardly taught to feed themselves; yet
the most sedate head of the household was no more dignified and grown-up
in manner than was the youngest of them, for when he had cried over his
repast and descended to the fence I could not tell him from Mamma
herself.
I soon discovered that this was no junketing party; all were on business
bent. They might look at me and they did, although I was not near enough
to disturb them; but each and every one kept at least one eye on the
ground, where were growing beans or some plant about three inches high,
and I'm sure no small creature could stir in that part of the world that
one of those sharp eyes did not light upon it. They were ten or fifteen
feet apart, so that each had his own share of territory to overlook, and
every few moments one flew to the ground, seized something, and returned
at once to his place, ready for another. It was a wire fence, and they
always selected the wires instead of the posts to perch upon. Sitting
and never standing, their attitude expressed the most charming serenity.
[Sidenote: _AN UNWELCOME SURPRISE._]
While I stood watching, two of the youngsters happened to pounce upon
the same object,--a worm it looked like,--and there was for a moment a
spirited tug of war. Each held on to his end, and resisted with cries
the attempts of his brother to deprive him of it. Doubtless the prey,
whatever it was, suffered in this affair, for in a moment they separated
amicably, and each returned to his station on the fence. These three
were babies; their actions betrayed them; for a little later, when one
of the elders flew from the field to a low peach-tree, instantly there
arose the baby-cry "ya-a-a-a!" and those three sedate looking personages
on the wire arose as one bird, and flew to the tree, alighting almost on
the mother, so eager were they to be fed. In a moment she flew to the
fence, where all three followed her. When she escaped from their
importunities she came much nearer to me, doubtless to see if I needed
watching, and I had a closer look than I had succeeded in getting
before, and satisfied myself on a point or two of marking.
Up to this time my searching into the name and identity of my little
strangers in gray had been in vain. But a direful suspicion was growing
within me. That heavy black line from the eye! The strongly marked
wings! I turned with dread to a family I had not thought of trying--the
shrikes. There were the markings, too true! But that delicate blue-gray
was not "slate color." Still, people see colors differently, and in
every other way the description was perfect. They must be--my beautiful,
graceful, attractive strangers must be--butcher-birds!
Dreadful discovery! I must at once know all about them; whether they
deserve the name and the reputation. I flew to my books.
"The character of the butcher-bird," says Wilson, "is entitled to no
common degree of respect. His courage and intrepidity are beyond every
other bird of his size, and in affection for his young he is surpassed
by no other. He attacks the largest hawk or eagle in their defense with
a resolution truly astonishing, so that all of them respect him;" and,
further, "He is valued in Carolina and Georgia for the destruction of
mice. He sits on the fence and watches the stacks of rice, and darts
upon them, also destroying grasshoppers and crickets."
So said Wilson, but subsequent writers have said terrible things about
him: that he catches small birds and impales them on thorns; that he
delights in killing more than he can eat. Could these things be true?
Where, then, was the larder of this family? Such a curious and wonderful
place I must see. I resolved to devote myself to discovering the secrets
of this innocent looking family in gray.
[Sidenote: _A THORNY MONSTER._]
The nest where they had first seen the light was in a low spruce-tree
beside a constantly used gate, not more than eight feet from the ground,
and across the road was a tree they much frequented. Next to that, and
overshadowed by it, was, as I now discovered, a thorny tree, "honey
locust" it is called. Ominous proximity! I resolved to investigate.
Perhaps I should find the birds' place of storage. I crossed the track
and went to the tree. What a structure it was! A mere framework for
thorns, and a finer array of them it would be hard to find, from the
tiny affair an inch in length, suitable to hold a small grasshopper, to
foot-long spikes, big enough to impale a crow. Not only was every branch
and every twig bristling with them, but so charged was the whole tree
with the "feeling" of thorns, that it actually sent out great clumps of
them from the bare trunk, where there was not a shadow of excuse for
being. They grew in a confused mass, so that at first I thought there
had been a hole which some person had stopped by crowding it full of
those vegetable needles, at all angles, and of all sizes up to the
largest. On one side alone of the trunk, not more than five feet high,
were eight of these eruptions of thorns. Could the most bloodthirsty
shrike desire a more commodious larder?
I looked carefully, dreading to see evidence of their use in the
traditional way. Outside there, on the telegraph wire, sat one of the
birds, very much at home; it was the height of the season, and the
country was swarming with young birds. Now, if ever, they should lay up
for the future, and prove their right to the name, or kill to amuse
themselves, if that were their object. But the closest scrutiny failed
to reveal one thorn that was, or, so far as I could see, ever had been,
used for any purpose whatever. There was not another spiny tree in the
vicinity, and I came away relieved.
One more interview I was happy enough to have with my little gray
friends. Coming leisurely along on my way home from the glen one noon, I
saw two of them sitting on the wire of a fence beside the road. I had
never been so near them, and stopped instantly to have a close look, and
perhaps settle the question whether the black band on the side of the
head ended at the beak, or crossed over the forehead and met its fellow.
I found, at this short range, that the light part of the plumage was
covered with fine but decided wavy bars, which gave it an exquisite
look, and proved the bird to be the great northern, rather than the
loggerhead shrike (I couldn't bear to have my bright beauty called a
loggerhead).
Very gradually I drew nearer, till I was not more than six feet from
them, and could see them clearly, while they remained perfectly
self-possessed for ten or fifteen minutes that I stood there. So near
was I that I could see the white eyelids, and the tiny feet, which
seemed hardly strong enough to hold them on their perch, and explained
their preference for wires to rest on.
[Sidenote: _FEATHERS OR FUR?_]
One of the little fellows had his back to me, showing the beautiful
white markings on his wings as they lie closed and folded together. Near
the end of them were white lines making on the black feathers a figure
resembling what is known in needlework as a "crow's-foot," perhaps an
inch in width, and, a little above this, two dainty waved bars met like
a pair of eye-brows. The marking was elegant in the extreme.
While I looked, the bird nearest me suddenly lost what little interest
he had in my doings, turned his eyes downward, and in a moment dropped
upon a big grasshopper, which he carried in his beak to a wire near the
ground to dispose of. Evidently, however, he was not quite ready to eat,
for he deliberately lifted one foot, took the grasshopper in his claw,
and instantly ejected upon the ground a dark-colored bolus, I should
judge half an inch in diameter, and more than twice as long. Then he
returned to his grasshopper and made short work of it.
This seemed only to sharpen his appetite, for in a moment he dragged out
from the grass something which startled me. Was it feathers or fur or a
bit of old rag?
I could soon tell, for he was not in the least ashamed or secretive
about it. He pulled it to where a fallen wire lay very near the ground,
threw it partly over the wire, plainly as a hold to pull against, and
then jerked off a mouthful, which he ate. Again and again did he fling
it over the wire, for it soon slipped off, and it was perfectly plain
that the object was to give him purchase to pull against. Then I could
see small legs on the fragment, and a tail like a mouse's. While I stood
watching this feast in progress, a call came from across the road. It
was not loud, and it was of a quality hard to express, not exactly
harsh, nor yet musical. It was instantly answered by the two on the
fence, and the one I was watching dropped his fresh meat and joined his
parent. Then I examined the remains of his meat, and found that it had
reddish brown fur, a tail not so long but resembling that of a mouse. It
was on the borders of a recently cut field of wheat, and it was
doubtless some species of ground mouse, a common field mouse, I have
reason to believe.
And that was the last I saw of the pretty gray birds that year.
III.
A THORN-TREE NEST.
June was drawing to a close; hermit thrushes and veeries had turned
their energies to seeking food for hungry young mouths; rose-breasted
grosbeaks and golden orioles, as well as their more humbly clad
fellow-creatures, were passing their days near the ground, in the same
absorbing work; tree-tops were deserted, and singing was nearly over.
It was well, then, that I should leave my beloved woods, and betake
myself to a barren country road, where, in a lonely thorn-tree, a bird
of another sort than these had set up late housekeeping, a shrike.
The reputation of this bird of solitary tastes is not attractive. He is
quarrelsome and unfriendly with his kind, and aggressive and malicious
toward others, says the Oracle. His pleasure is to torture and destroy;
no sweet or tender sentiment may cling about his life; in fact, he is
altogether unlovely. So declare the books, and so, with additions and
exaggerations, says nearly every one who takes birds for his theme. He
is branded everywhere as the "butcher-bird," and it seems to be the aim
of each writer to discover in his conduct something a little more
sanguinary, a shade more depraved, than any predecessor has done.
Now, if the truth is what we are seeking, is it not desirable to see for
ourselves, or, as Emerson puts it, "leave others' eyes, and bring your
own"? If one can give to the task patient observation, with a loving
spirit, a desire to interpret faithfully and to see the best instead of
the worst, may he not perchance find that the bird is not the monster he
is pictured? And though the story be not so sensational, is it not
better to clear up than to blacken the reputation of a fellow-creature,
even a very small one in feathers?
This thing it had long been in my heart to do,--to see with my own eyes
what enormities the beautiful butcher-bird is guilty of. I left hermits
and veeries, I said adieu to sandpipers and grosbeaks, and went to the
village to abide with the shrike family. No more delightful mornings in
the blessed woods; no more long, dreamy twilights filled with the music
of thrushes and the singing brook; no more charming views of the near
Green Mountains, gray in the morning light, glorious rosy purple under
the setting sun; no more solitary communion with helpful and healing
nature. My household gods must now be set up among people, with their
cares and troubles, where the immense tragedy of human life is
constantly forced into notice; and in no place in the wide world is
there more tragedy in every-day life than in peaceful and pious New
England.
[Sidenote: _THE ROLE OF REPORTER._]
Change of residence was not so simple an affair with me as it is with
the birds; would that it were! I had to spend half a day packing, and
another half undoing the work. I had to secure another temporary home,
where certain conveniences to which we human beings are slaves should
not be lacking, and with a family one could endure under the same roof.
All this must needs be settled before I could call on my new neighbors.
Time and patience accomplished everything, although the mercury was
soaring aloft among the nineties all the time; and at last came the
morning when I seated myself before the household I proposed to
interview for the benefit of the readers of our day, who demand (say the
newspaper authorities) facts and details of daily lives that were of old
considered private matters.
On these lines, therefore, I proceeded to study my shrikes. What I
discovered by watching early and late, by peeping at them before
breakfast and spying upon them after supper,--what they eat and
drink, how they behave to one another and their neighbors, what they
have to say or to sing, in fact, their whole story so far as it was
revealed to me,--I shall set down, nothing extenuating. Other observers
may have seen very different things, but that only proves what I am
constantly asserting: that birds are individuals; that because one
shrike does a certain thing is no sign that another will do the same; it
is not safe to judge the species _en masse_. This, therefore, is the
true chronicle of what I saw of one pair of loggerhead shrikes (_Lanius
ludovicianus_), in the northern extremity of Vermont, about the first of
July, 1894.
The discovery of the nest in the thorn-tree was not my own. A friend and
fellow bird-lover, driving one evening up this road, startled a bird
from the nest, and, checking her horse, looked on in amazement while,
one after another, six full-grown shrikes emerged from the tree and flew
away. Pondering this strange circumstance she drove on, and when
returning looked sharply out for the thorn-tree. This time one bird flew
from the nest, which seemed to settle the question of ownership. The
next day and the next this experience was repeated, and then the news
was brought to me in the woods.
[Sidenote: _A LONELY ROAD._]
It was a lonely road, leading to nothing except a pasture and a distant
farm or two, and the presence of a member of the human race was almost
as rare as it was in the forest itself. On one side stretched a pasture
with high rail fence; on the other, a meadow guarded by barbed wire. A
traveler over this uninviting way soon left the last house in the
village behind, and then the only human dwellings in sight were some
deserted farm buildings on a hill a mile or more away. Not a tree
offered grateful shade, and not a bush relieved the bare monotony of
this No Thoroughfare.
But it had its full share of feathered residents. Just beyond the last
house, a wren, bubbling over with joy, always poured out his enchanting
little song as I passed. Under the deep grass of the meadow dwelt
bobolinks and meadow larks; from the pasture rose the silver threadlike
song of the savanna sparrow and the martial note of the kingbird.
Occasionally I had a call from a family of flickers, or golden-wings,
from the woods beyond the pasture; the four young ones naive and
imperative in their manners, bowing vehemently, with emphatic "peauk"
that seemed to demand the reason of my presence in their world; while
the more experienced elders uttered their low "ka-ka-ka," whether of
warning to the young or of pride in their spirit one could only guess. A
hard-working oriole papa, with a peremptory youngster in tow, now and
then appeared in the pasture; and swallows, both barn and eave, came in
merry, chattering flocks from their homes at the edge of the village.
About the middle of the long stretch of road was a solitary maple-tree,
and about thirty feet from it, and just within the pasture fence, the
thorn, and the nest of my hopes. Approaching quietly on that first
morning, I unfolded my camp-chair and sat down in the shade of the
maple. The thorn-tree before me was perhaps fifteen feet high. It
divided near the ground into two branches, which drew apart, bent over,
and became nearly horizontal at their extremities. On one of these main
stems, near the end, where it was not more than an inch and a half in
diameter, with neither cross-branch nor twig to make it secure, was
placed the nest. It was a large structure, at least twice the size of a
robin's nest, made apparently of coarse twigs and roots, with what
looked like bits of turf or moss showing through the sides, and why it
did not fall off in the first strong wind was a mystery. Parallel with
the limb on which it rested, and only a few inches above it, was another
branch, that must, one would think, be seriously in the way of the
coming and going, the feeding and care-taking, inseparable from life in
the nest.
[Sidenote: _THE NEST IN VIEW._]
From my post of observation, the thorn-tree was silhouetted against the
sky, for it stood on the edge of a slight descent. Every twig and leaf
was distinctly visible, while the openings in the foliage were so
numerous that not a wing could flit by without my seeing it. The nest
itself was partially veiled by a bunch of leaves. What the view might be
from the other side I did not investigate that morning; I preferred to
leave the birds the slight screen afforded by the foliage, for since
there could be no pretense of hiding myself from them, my desire was to
let them fancy themselves hidden from me, and so feel free from
constraint and be natural in their actions. I hoped, by approaching
quietly and unobtrusively, by being careful never to frighten or disturb
them in any way, to convince them that I was harmless, and to induce
them to forget, or at least ignore, my silent presence. And it seemed
possible that I might be gratified, for I had been seated but a few
minutes when a shrike flew up from the ground and entered the nest, and,
I was pleased to see, with no apparent concern about me.
For the next three hours I took my eyes off the nest only to follow the
movements of the owners thereof; and I learned that sitting had begun,
and that the brooding bird was fed by her mate. He came, always from a
distance, directly to the nest, alighted on the edge, leaned over and
gave one poke downward, while low yearning or pleading cries reached my
ears. Without lingering an instant he flew to a perch a foot above,
stood there half a minute, and then went to the ground. Not more than
thirty seconds elapsed before he returned to his mate, the cries greeted
him, the mouthful was administered, and he took his leave in exactly the
same way as before. He was a personage of methodical habits. This little
performance of seeking food on the ground and carrying it to his partner
on the nest was repeated five or six times in close succession, and then
he rose higher than his tree and took flight for a distant hill,
looking, as he flew, like a fluttering bit of black-and-white patchwork.
On further acquaintance, I found this to be the regular habit of the
bird: to come to his nest and feed his mate thoroughly, and then to take
himself away for about half an hour, though later he fell to lingering
and watching me.
Left thus alone and well fed, madam was quiet for some time, perhaps ten
minutes, and then she went out for exercise or for lunch; flying
directly to the ground near the tree, and returning in a few minutes to
her place.
[Sidenote: _FEEDING HIS MATE._]
On one occasion I saw what sort of food the shrike collected. He had
alighted on the wire fence, apparently to inquire into my business,
when his eyes fell upon something desirable--from his point of view.
Instantly he dropped to the road, picked up a black object, worm or
beetle, an inch long, and took it at once to his mate. Sometimes he
carried his prey to a post, and beat it a while before presenting it to
her; and one evening, somewhat later than usual, he was found
industriously gleaning food from the hosts of the air, flying up in the
manner of a flycatcher, and to all appearance with perfect success.
The loggerhead shrike is one of our most beautiful birds, clear
blue-gray above, and snowy white below. His black wings are elegantly
marked with white, and his black tail, when spread like a fan, as he
wheels to alight, showing broad tips and outer feathers of white, is one
of his most striking marks. He is a little smaller than a robin, and his
mate is of the same size, and as finely dressed as he. The resemblance
he is said to bear to the mockingbird I have never been able to see. His
form, his size, his coloring, and his movements are, to my sight, in
every way different from those of the southern bird.
The manners of the shrike are as fine as one would expect from so
distinguished-looking a personage, dignified, reposeful, and unusually
silent. I have seen him, once or twice, flirt his half-opened tail and
jerk his wings, but he rarely showed even so much impatience or
restlessness. He sat on the fence and regarded me, or he drove away an
intrusive neighbor, with the same calm and serious air with which he did
everything. I have heard of pranks and fantastic performances, of
strange, uncouth, and absurd cries, and of course it is impossible to
say what vagaries he might have indulged in if he had thought himself
unobserved, but in many hours and days of close study of this bird I saw
nothing of the kind. The only utterance I heard from him, excepting his
song, of which I shall speak presently, was a rattling cry with which he
pursued an intruder, and a soft, coaxing "yeap" when he came to the nest
and found his mate absent.
One of the most prominent traits of this bird, as we find him depicted
in the books and the popular writings, is his quarrelsome and cruel
disposition; and "brigand," "assassin," "murderer," and "butcher" are
names commonly applied to him.
[Sidenote: _FRIENDLY RELATIONS._]
I watched the shrike several hours daily for weeks, and from the first I
was every moment on the alert for the slightest manifestation of these
characteristics; and what did I find out? First as to his quarrelsome
disposition, his unfriendliness with his own species. I have already
spoken of the amicable association, in the very nesting-tree, of half a
dozen of the birds, as reported by a trustworthy and experienced
observer. On one occasion, somewhat later, I saw an exhibition of a
similar friendliness among four adult shrikes. They were frolicking
about another thorn-tree in the same pasture, in the most peaceful
manner; and while I looked, one of them picked up a tidbit from the
ground and flew to the nest I was watching, thus proving that the
nesting-bird was one of the group. At least twice afterward, when
silently approaching the nest, I found two other shrikes hopping about
with the one I was studying, on the ground, almost under the tree. On my
appearance the strangers flew, and the nest-owner went up to his mate
with an offering. We do not think of calling the robin or bluebird
particularly quarrelsome, yet fancy one of these birds allowing another
of his species to come to his home-tree! Every close observer of
bird-ways knows that it is apparently the first article in the avian
creed to keep every other bird away from the nest.