indeed, he drove away, but meadow larks sang and "sputtered" at their
pleasure, not only beside him on the fence, but on his own small tree;
goldfinches flew over, singing and calling, and no notice was taken of
them; sparrows hopped about among the branches of the thorn at their
discretion; a chickadee one day made searching examination of nearly
every twig and leaf, going close to and over the nest, where the sitting
bird must have seen him, yet not a peep arose. Sometimes, when madam
left her nest for refreshment, she would sweep by a bird who happened to
be on the tree, thus making him fly, but she never followed or showed
any special interest in him. Whatever other shrikes may be or do, at
least this pair, and the three or four others who visited them, were
amiable with their neighbors, small as well as great.
If bravery is a virtue,--and why is it not, in feathers as well as in
broadcloth?--the shrike should stand high in our estimation, for he does
not hesitate to attack and make his prey animals which few birds of his
size dare touch; not only mice, but creatures as well armed as gophers
and others.
I was particularly desirous to hear the song of the shrike. He is not
classed with singing birds, and is not, I think, usually credited with
being musical. But Thoreau speaks of his song, and others mention it.
John Burroughs tells of a shrike singing in his vicinity in winter, "a
crude broken warble,"--"saluting the sun as a robin might have done."
Winter, indeed, seems to be his chosen time for singing, and an
ornithologist in St. Albans says that in that season he sings by the
hour in the streets of the town.
[Sidenote: _THE SHRIKE'S SONG._]
Therefore did I sit unobtrusively on the near side of the thorn-tree,
leaving the birds their screen, to encourage them to sing; and at last I
had my reward. One very hot day I did not reach my place under the maple
till after nine o'clock, and I found the shrike, as I frequently did, on
the fence, on guard. In a few moments, when I had become quiet, he went
to the nest, and sitting there on the edge, hidden from my distinct
view, he condescended to sing, a low, sweet song, truly musical, though
simple in construction, being merely a single clear note followed by a
trill several tones higher. After delivering this attractive little aria
a dozen or more times, he flew out of the tree and over my head, and
sang no more.
My curiosity about his song being thus gratified, I decided to seek a
better post of observation; for I hoped every day to find that sitting
was over, and the young had appeared. I therefore walked farther up the
road, quite past the tree, and took my seat beside the fence, where I
could see the whole nest perfectly. The birds at once recognized that
all hope of concealment was over, and became much more wary. The singer
came less frequently, and was received in silence. Also he took me under
strict surveillance, perching on a dead branch of the maple-tree, and
sitting there half an hour at a time, motionless but wide awake; ready,
no doubt, to defend the nest if I made hostile demonstrations toward it.
For a long time I had my lonely road to myself, almost the sole
passer-by being a boy who drove the village cows back and forth, and
whom I had taken pains to interest in the safety of the little family.
But such a state of things could not last. One morning, as I sat in my
usual place, I noticed a party of girls starting out with baskets and
pails after berries. They scattered over the meadow, and while I
trembled for meadow lark and bobolink babies, I hoped they would not see
me; but one of them came directly to the thorn-tree. As she approached,
I turned away, as if I had no particular interest in the tree, but,
unfortunately, just as she was passing, the bird flew off the nest. The
girl looked up, and instantly shouted to me, "Oh, here's a bird's-nest!"
"Yes," I replied, knowing that my best policy was to claim it, "that's
the nest I am watching." After a sharp look at the tree she went on; but
I was much disturbed, for I regard a nest discovered almost the same as
a nest robbed. Would she tell? Should I some day find the nest broken up
or destroyed? Every morning, after that, I took my long, lonely walk
with misgivings, and did not feel easy till I had seen the birds.
[Sidenote: _SEARCHING THE THORNS._]
One very notorious habit of the shrike I had been especially desirous of
investigating--that of impaling his prey. Judging from what has been
written about him, it must be a common performance, his daily business,
and I confidently expected to see his thorn-tree adorned, from roots to
topmost twig, with grasshoppers and beetles, not to mention small birds
and animals. Early in my visits to him, I looked the tree over
carefully, and, not content with my own eyes, called in the aid of a
friend. Moreover, we together made diligent search in the only other
thorn-tree in the vicinity, one spoken of above. Not a sign could we
discover in either tree of any such use of a thorn, though thorns were
there in abundance.
Again, one day I saw the bird very busy about the barbed-wire fence, and
remembering to have seen the statement that shrikes in the West, where
thorn-trees are absent, impale their grasshoppers on the barbs, I
thought, "Now I have surely caught you at it!" I did not disturb him,
and he worked at that spot some time. But when he had gone I hastened
over to see what beetle or bird he had laid up, when behold, the barbs
were as empty as the thorns. In fact, I was never able to find the
smallest evidence that the bird ever does impale anything, and the St.
Albans ornithologist spoken of adds as his testimony that he has often
examined the haunts of this bird, but has never found anything impaled.
And a correspondent in Vermont writes me that he watched the shrike for
twenty years, on purpose to see this performance, and in all that time
saw but three instances, one being a field mouse, and the other two
English sparrows.
All this, of course, does not prove that the shrike never impales his
prey, but it does prove that he does not spend all his time at the work;
and while I have no doubt he has the habit, I believe the accounts of it
are very much exaggerated.
On the morning of the Fourth of July, a cool, and in that remote part of
the world a delightfully quiet day, I felt an unaccountable
disinclination to make my usual visit to the shrikes. Refusing, however,
to yield to that feeling, I forced myself to take the long walk, and
seat myself in my usual place. But I could not feel much surprise when,
after more than an hour's close watching, the birds failed to appear,
and I became convinced that they were gone. Whether shot by man or boy,
robbed by beast or bird or human, it was plain I had seen the last of
the thorn-tree family; for I knew positively that in that hour no one
had gone to or come from the nest, and I was sure, from my knowledge of
her, that the sitting bird would not remain an hour without eating, even
if her mate had stayed away so long. Of course, I concluded, that girl
had told her discovery, and some boy had heard, and broken up the home.
I looked carefully on every side. The nest seemed undisturbed, but not a
sign of life appeared about it, and sadly enough I folded my chair and
went back to the village.
[Sidenote: _"PAUPERIZING" A BIRD._]
Six days passed, in which I avoided going up the lonely road, the scene
of my disappointment, but I turned my attention to bird affairs in the
town. One case which interested me greatly was of "pauperizing" a bird.
It was a least flycatcher, and her undoing was her acceptance of nesting
material, which her human friend, the oft-mentioned local bird-lover,
supplied. To secure a unique nest for herself, when the flycatcher
babies should have abandoned it, this wily personage, who was the
accepted providence of half the birds in the vicinity, and on terms of
great familiarity with some of them, threw out narrow strips of cloth of
various colors, to tempt the small nest-builder. At first the wise
little madam refused to use the gayer pieces, but being beguiled by the
device of sewing a bright one between two of duller hue, her scruples
were overcome; and after that her fall into total dependence was easy
and complete. She accepted the most brilliant pieces that were offered,
and built her nest therewith.
But alas, from the moment of yielding to her vanity or her love for
ease, troubles began in the flycatcher family. The robin nesting in an
adjoining tree reproved her by tugging at the gay strings that hung out;
the English sparrow across the way set herself up as a conservator of
morals, and, to teach Madam Chebek modesty becoming her size, tried to
pull the whole to pieces. Then when Chebek, who is no coward, had
succeeded in putting an end to neighborly interference, the nest began
to show a deplorable disinclination to "stay put." Whether the material
could not be properly fastened, or whether the bird was so demoralized
as to shirk ordinary precautions, the fact is, that every breeze shook
the little structure, and four completed nests of this unnatural sort
fell, one after another, in ruins to the ground. Then motherly instinct
came to the rescue: she refused further aid, removed herself to a
distance, built a new nest, after the accredited flycatcher fashion, and
it is supposed brought out her brood safely, if rather late. So hard it
is in the bird-world, as in the human, to help, and not hurt.
[Sidenote: _STRANGE CRIES UP THE ROAD._]
More interesting, even, than this flycatcher episode was an adventure
one evening when I walked far out on a road, one side of which was deep
woods, while the other was bordered by pasture and meadows. My object in
going was to hear a white-throated sparrow, who often sang in that
vicinity.
I had been resting on my camp-stool very quietly for half an hour, and
was just thinking it time to return home, when a strange sort of
clacking cry startled me. At first I thought it was made by a frog with
a bad cold; but it grew louder, and changed in quality, till it became a
whining sound that might be made either by a baby or by some small
animal. I looked very carefully up the road whence the sound seemed to
come, but saw nothing excepting a robin, who, perched on the highest
post of a fence, was looking and listening with great apparent interest,
but without making a sound himself,--a very unusual proceeding on the
part of this bird, who always has a great deal to say about everything.
The cries increased in volume and frequency, and I started slowly up the
road, uncertain whether I should come upon a young fox or other wild
beast, but determined to solve the mystery. As I drew near, I began to
be conscious of a knocking sound in the woods beside the road. It was
like a light tapping on hollow wood, and it regularly followed each cry.
I was at once reassured. It must be a woodpecker, I thought,--they make
some strange noises, and there was a large one, the pileated, said to
inhabit these woods, though I had never been able to see him. I went on
more confidently then, for I must see what woodpecker baby could utter
such cries. As I continued to advance, though I could still see nothing,
I noticed that the tapping grew louder every moment.
Suddenly there was a movement at the edge of a thick clump of ferns, and
my eyes fell upon what I thought was, after all, a big toad or frog. It
hopped like one of these reptiles, and as it was growing dusky, feathers
and fur and bare skin looked much alike. But being anxious to know
positively, I went on, and when I reached it I saw that it was a young
bird, nearly as big as a robin just out of the nest. Then I dropped all
impedimenta, and gave myself unreservedly to the catching of that bird.
He fled under the ferns, which were like a thick mat, and I stooped and
parted them, he flying ever ahead till he reached the end and came out
in sight. Then I pounced upon him, and had him in my hands.
[Sidenote: _A VOCIFEROUS BABY._]
Such a shriek as he gave! while he struggled and bit, and proved himself
very savage indeed. More startling, however, than his protest was a cry
of anguish that answered it from the woods, a heart-rending, terrible
cry, the wail of a mother about to be bereaved. I looked up, and lo! in
plain sight, in her agony forgetting her danger, and begging by every
art in her power, a cuckoo. Her distress went to my heart; I could not
resist her pleading. One instant I held that vociferous cuckoo baby, to
have a good look at him, speaking soothingly to the mother the while,
and then opened my hand, when he half flew, half scrambled, to the other
side of the road, and set up another cry, more like that of his mother.
Seeing her infant at liberty, she slipped back into the woods and
resumed the calls, which sounded so remarkably like tapping, while he
started up the road, answering; and thus I left them.
Several times after that, I heard from the woods--for
"The cuckoo delights in the cool leafy shadows
Where the nest and its treasures are rocked by the breeze"--
the same strange calling of a cuckoo mother, a weird, unearthly,
knocking sound, not in the least like the ordinary "kuk! kuk!" of the
bird. I should never have suspected that it was anything but the tap of
an unusually cautious woodpecker, if I had not caught her at it that
night.
On the sixth evening after I had thought myself bereaved of the shrikes,
I went out for a walk with my friend, and we turned our steps into the
lonely road. As we approached the thorn, what was my surprise to see the
shrike in his old place on the fence, and, after waiting a few minutes,
to see his mate go to the ground for her lunch, as if nothing had
happened!
Then they had not deserted! But how and why all life about the nest had
been suspended for one hour on the Fourth of July is a puzzle to this
day. However it may have happened, I was delighted to find the birds
safe, and at once resumed my study; going out the next morning as usual,
staying some hours, and again toward night for another visit.
Now I was sure it must be time for the young to be out, for I knew
positively that the bird had been sitting fourteen days, and twenty-one
days had passed since she was frightened off her nest twice in one day.
I redoubled my vigilance, but I saw no change in the manners of the pair
till the morning of July 12th. All night there had been a heavy
downpour, and the morning broke dismally, with strong wind and a
drizzling rain. I knew the lonely road would be most unattractive, but
no vagaries of wind or weather could keep me away at this crisis. I
found it all that I had anticipated--and more. The clay soil was cut up
from fence to fence by cows' feet, and whether it presented an unbroken
puddle or a succession of small ones made by the hoof-prints, it was
everywhere so slippery that retaining one's footing was no slight task,
and of course there was no pretense of a sidewalk. Add to this the
difficulty of holding an umbrella against the fierce gusts, and it may
be imagined that my pathway that morning was not "strewn with roses."
[Sidenote: _STUDY UNDER DIFFICULTIES._]
In some fashion, however, I did at last reach the thorn-tree, planted my
chair in the least wet spot I could find, and, tucking my garments up
from the ground, sat down. At first I discarded my unmanageable
umbrella, till the raindrops obscuring my opera-glass forced me to open
it again. And all these preliminaries had to be settled before I could
so much as look at the nest.
Something had happened, as I saw at once; the manners of the birds were
very different from what they had been all these days I had been
studying them. Both of them were at the nest when I looked, but in a
moment one flew, and the other slipped into her old seat, though not so
entirely into it as usual. Heretofore she had been able to hide herself
so completely that it was impossible to tell whether she were there or
not. Even the tail, which in most birds is the unconcealable banner
that proclaims to the bird-student that the sitter is at home, even this
unruly member she had been able to hide in some way, but this morning it
remained visible.
In a minute the shrike returned and fed somebody,--I suppose his mate,
since she did not move aside; and again in another minute he repeated
the operation. So he went on bringing food perhaps a dozen times in
close succession. Then he rested a few minutes, when she who through the
long days of sitting had been so calm and quiet seemed all at once as
restless as any warbler. She rose on the edge of the nest, and uttered
the low, yearning cry I had heard from him, then flew to the ground,
returned, perched on the edge, leaned over, and gave three pokes as if
feeding. Then she flew to another part of the tree, thence to a fence
post, then back again to the edge of the nest. In a moment the uneasy
bird slipped into her old place, but, apparently too restless to stay,
was out again in a few seconds, when she stood up in the nest and began
calling,--a loud but musical two-note call, the second tone a third
higher than the first, and different from anything I had heard from her
before. If it were a call to her mate, he did not at once appear, and
she relieved her feelings by flying to the maple and perching a few
minutes, though so great was the attraction at home that she could stay
away but a short time.
[Sidenote: _LOVELY, INNOCENT YOUNGLINGS._]
Of course I concluded from all this that the young shrikes were out, and
I longed with all my heart to stay and watch the charming process of
changing from the ungainly creatures they were at that moment to the
full-grown and feathered beauties they would be when they appeared on
the tree; to see them getting their education, learning to follow their
parents about, and finally seeking their own food, still keeping
together in a family party, as I had seen them once before,
elsewhere,--lovely, innocent younglings whom surely no one could find it
in his heart to call "butchers" or "assassins." Then, too, I wanted to
see the head of the family, who in the character of spouse had shown
himself so devoted, so above reproach, in the new role of father and
teacher, in which I had no doubt he would be equally admirable.
But dearly as I love birds, there are other ties still dearer, and just
then there came a call that made me leave the pair with their new joy,
pack my trunks, and speed, night and day, half way across the continent,
beyond the Great Divide, to a certain cozy valley in the heart of the
Rocky Mountains.
Before I left, however, I committed the little family in the thorn-tree
to the care of my friend the bird-lover; and a few weeks later there
came over the mountains to me this conclusion to the story, written by
Mrs. Nelly Hart Woodworth, of St. Albans:--
"I was at the shrikes' nest Thursday last. I sat down on the knoll
beyond the nest, and waited quietly for fifteen minutes. No signs of
life in nest or neighborhood, save the yearning cry of the lark, as it
alighted on the top of the thorn-tree. After I was convinced that, in
some unaccountable manner, the shrikes had been spirited away before
they were half big enough, I changed my place to the other side of the
tree, out of sight from the nest. When I had been there for a long time,
I heard distinctly a low whispering in the nest, and lo! the butcher
babies had become sentient beings, and were talking very softly and
sweetly among themselves. They had evidently miscalculated about my
departure. Then two or three little heads stuck out above the edge, and
the soft stirring of baby wings was apparent. They cuddled and nestled
and turned themselves, and one little butcher hoisted himself upon the
upper side of the nest, stood upright briefly and beat his wings, then
sank into the nest, which was full of life and movement. So much for
that day.
"Friday one stood upon the edge of the nest, and others looked out, but
no feeding bird came.
[Sidenote: _SHAKEN OUT OF THE NEST._]
"Saturday I was in fortune, as I met in the vicinity the boy who drives
the village cows. Two heads only were visible over the edge. But the
boy, with a boy's genius for investigation, brought a fence rail, put it
under the branch, and shook them up a little. They only huddled closer.
At my suggestion he gave a more vigorous shake, and a baby climbed from
the nest, a foot or two above, then flew as well as anybody clear lip
into the top of the tree. Such a pretty baby! breast white as snow,
lovely black crescent through the eyes, and the dearest little tail
imaginable, half an inch long, and flirted up and down continually.
"The other bird--for there were but two--ran up the twigs for two feet,
but quickly returned to the nest, and would not leave it again, though
we could see its wondering eyes look out and peer at us. Both were gone
the next day (twelve days old). And thus endeth the butcher episode."
Now also must end--for a time--my study of this interesting bird. But I
shall not forget it, and I shall seek occasion to study it again and
again, till I have proved, if I find it true, that the shrike deserves
better of us than the character we have given him; that he is not nearly
"so black as he is painted."
IV.
THE WITCHING WREN.
"There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine."
The song of the winter wren is something that must be heard to be
appreciated; words can no more describe it than they can paint the sky
at evening, or translate the babble of the mountain brook.
"Canst thou copy in verse one chime
Of the wood bird's peal and cry?"
This witching carol, one of nature's most alluring bits of music, fell
upon my ear for the first time one memorable morning in June. It was a
true siren-strain. We forgot, my comrade and I, what we were seeking in
the woods. The junco family, in their snug cave among the roots, so
interesting to us but now, might all fly away; the oven-bird, in the
little hollow beside the path, might finish her lace-lined domicile, and
the shy tanager conclude to occupy the nest on the living arch from
which we had frightened her,--all without our being there to see. For
the moment we cared for but one thing,--to follow that "wandering
voice," to see that singer.
[Sidenote: _THE DOG BECOMES INTERESTED._]
Silently we arose, folded our camp-stools, and started. We wished to
move without sound; but the woods were dry, and every dead stick snapped
with a crack; every fallen leaf rustled with a startling sound; every
squirrel under whose tree we chanced to pass first shrieked, and then
subsided into a sobbing cry or a scolding bark, according as his fur was
gray or red. A procession of elephants could hardly make more noise, or
create more consternation among the residents of the forest, than we
three (counting the dog), when we wished to be silent as shadows. But
the wren sang on. Evidently, he was accustomed to squirrel vagaries, and
snapping twigs did not disturb him. Nearer and nearer sounded the song,
and more and more enraptured we became. We were settling ourselves to
listen and to look for our charmer, when the third member of our party
created a diversion. Wrens had no attraction for him, but he came upon
the scent of something he was interested in, and instantly fell to
pawing the ground and tearing up the obstructing roots with his teeth,
as though he had gone suddenly mad.
The door through which had doubtless vanished some delectable mouse or
mole was, when discovered, of a proper size for his small body, but in
less than a minute it was big enough to admit the enormous head of the
dog, who varied his eager tearing up of the soil with burying his head
and shoulders in the hole he had made; smelling and listening a few
seconds, then jerking it out with a great snort, and devoting himself
with fresh vigor to digging. It was a curious contrast to the
indifference with which he usually accompanied us, but it proved that he
had his enthusiasms, if he did not share ours. We could not but be
amused, notwithstanding the delicious trilling notes that drew us grew
fainter and fainter, and we despaired of seeing our songster till the
important affairs of that mouse should be settled. Arguments were of no
avail with the four-footed sportsman, a rival attraction failed to
attract, and commands were thrown away on him in his excited state. We
were forced to go home without the sight we desired.