indeed must be the ear that thrills not on hearing it," says Audubon,
and its effect upon him is worth telling. He was traveling through a
swamp, where he had reason to suspect the presence of venomous snakes
and other reptiles. While moving with great circumspection, looking out
for these unwelcome neighbors, the captivating little aria burst upon
his ear. Instantly snakes were forgotten, his absorbing passion took
full possession, and he crashed recklessly through the briers and
laurels in pursuit. It is pleasant to know, further, that he found not
only the singer, but his nest, which was the first he had ever seen, and
gave him a delight known only to enthusiastic bird-lovers.
[Sidenote: _FOREST SOUNDS._]
The morning after the absurd incident of a mouse-hunt, by the dog who in
his character of protector was our daily companion, we started out
afresh, with ears for nothing but wren songs. Making a wide detour to
avoid the scene of yesterday's excitement, we were soon comfortably
seated near the spot the wren seemed to haunt, and silence fell between
us. That is to say, _we_ were quiet, though nothing is farther from the
truth than our common expression "silent woods." The forest is never
silent. Hushed it may be of man's clamor, and empty as well of his
presence, but it is filled with sounds from its own abundant life; not
so loud, perhaps, and aggressive to the ear as the rumble of Broadway,
but fully as continuous; and if the human wanderer in its delightsome
shades will but bring his own noisy progress to a halt, he will enjoy a
new sensation. There is the breeze that sets all the leaves to
whispering, not to speak of rougher winds that fill the dim aisles with
a roar like Niagara. There are the falling of dead twigs, the rustle of
leaves under the footsteps of some small shy creature in fur, the
dropping of nuts, and the tapping of woodpeckers. There are the voices
of the wood-dwellers,--not songs alone, but calls and utterances of many
kinds from birds; cries and scolding of squirrels, who have a
_repertoire_ astonishing to those who do not know them; squawks and
squeals of little animals more often heard than seen; and, not least,
the battle-cries of the winged hosts "who come with songs to greet you"
wherever and whenever you may appear.
Moreover, the moment one of the human race is quiet,--such is our
reputation for unrest,--the birds grow suspicious, and take pains to
announce to all whom it may concern that here is an interloper in
nature. Even if there be present no robin,--vociferous guardian of the
peace,--a meek and gentle flicker mounts the highest tree and cries
"pe-auk! pe-auk!" as loud as he can shout, a squirrel on one side
shrieks at the top of his voice, veeries call anxiously here and there,
while a vireo warbles continuously overhead, and a redstart "trills his
twittering horn."
When the wren song began, quite near this time, everything else was
forgotten, and after a few moments' eager suspense we saw our bird. He
was little and inconspicuous in shades of brown, with tail stuck pertly
up, wren fashion, foraging among the dead leaves and on old logs,
entirely unconscious that he was one of the three distinguished singers
of the wood; none but the hermit thrush and the veery being comparable
to him. Whenever, in the serious business of getting his breakfast, he
reached a particularly inviting twig, or a more than usually nice rest
on a log, he threw up his little head and poured out the marvelous
strain that had taken us captive, then half hopped, half flew down, with
such energy that he "whirred" as he went. We watched his "tricks and
manners," and, what was more, we steeped our souls in his music as long
as we chose, that morning.
[Sidenote: _FASCINATED BY A WREN._]
The lovely long June days were never more fascinating. Every morning we
went into our beloved woods to watch its bird population; to find out
who was building, who had already set up housekeeping; to penetrate
their secrets, and discover their wonderfully hidden nests. Each day we
heard the witching song that never lost its charm for us. One
morning--it was the fifteenth of the month--we were sauntering up one of
the most inviting paths. The dog was ahead, carrying on his strong and
willing neck his mistress's stool, she following closely, steadying the
same with her hand, while I, as was my custom, brought up the rear.
Suddenly, as we approached a pile of dead limbs from a fallen tree, my
friend stopped motionless, and as usual the caravan came to instant
halt. Without taking her eyes from the brush heap, she silently pulled
the stool from the dog's neck and sat down upon it. I seated myself
beside her, and the dog stretched himself at our feet.
"A wren," she whispered briefly, and in a moment I saw it. A mother, no
doubt, for her mouth was full of food, and she was fidgeting about on a
branch, undecided as yet what she should do, with that formidable array
in front of her very door, as it afterward turned out. A wren is a
quick-witted little creature, and she was not long in making up her
mind. She flitted around us, turned our right flank (so to speak), and
vanished behind us.
We took the hint, changed our front, and, after the moment's confusion,
subsided again, gently waving our maple boughs to terrorize the foe that
was always with us, and keeping sharp watch while we held whispered
consultation as to whether that was the winter wren, and the mate of our
singer.
"Oh, if she has a nest!" said my comrade, to whose home belonged these
woods. "The winter wren is not known to nest here. We must find it."
[Sidenote: _THE EXCITEMENT OF DISCOVERY._]
Silence again, while a tanager called his agitated "chip-chur!" in the
tops of the tall beech-trees, a downy woodpecker knocked vigorously at
the door of some ill-fated grub in a maple trunk, and the wren burst
into his maddest melody afar off. We were not to be lured this morning.
We were enjoying the excitement of discoverers. Where a bird is carrying
food must be a nest with birdlings, and nothing could draw us from that.
We waited. In a few minutes the bird appeared again with her mate. Was
he the singer? Breathless hush on our part, with eyes fixed on the two
restless parents, who were anxious to pass us. In a moment one of them
became aggressive. He--or she--flew to a twig eight or ten feet from us,
jerked himself up in a terrifying way, as though about to annihilate us,
and then bowed violently; not intending a polite salutation, as might be
supposed, but defiance, threat, or insult. We held our ground, refusing
to be frightened away, and at last parental love conquered fear; both of
them flew past us at the same instant, went to one spot under the
upturned roots of a fallen tree, and in a moment departed together.
My fellow-student hurried eagerly to the place, dropped upon her knees
on the wet ground, amid rank ferns and weeds, leaned far under the
overhanging roots with their load of black earth, thrust careful fingers
into something, and then rose, flushed and triumphant.
"Come here," she commanded. "A nest full of babies! Oh, what luck!"
There it was, sure enough, away back under the heavy roof of earth and
roots, a snug round structure of green moss, little bigger than a
croquet ball. The hole occupied by the roots when the tree stood erect
was now filled with water, and before it waved a small forest of ferns.
It was an ideal situation for a nest; pleasant to look at, and safe--if
anything could be safe--from the small fur-clad gentry who claimed the
wood and all it contained for their own.
"The hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness"
than had this pair of wise little wrens.
From the blissful moment of our discovery, whatever interesting
excursion was planned, whatever choice nest to be sought, or charming
family of nestlings to be called upon, our steps first turned of
themselves up the wren path. Every day we saw the birds go in and out,
on household cares intent, and we soon began to look for the exit of the
younglings.
[Sidenote: _I WAS STARTLED._]
During this time of close watching, it happened that for a day or two I
was obliged to make my visit alone. Why is it that solitude in the
depths of the forest has so mysterious an effect on the imagination? One
dreads to make a noise, and though having nothing to fear, he
instinctively steals about as if every tree concealed a foe. The first
morning I sauntered along the lonely paths in silence, admiring for the
hundredth time the trunks of the trees, with their varied decorations of
lichen and their stately moss-grown insteps, and pausing a moment before
the butternut which had divided itself in early youth, and now supported
upon one root three tall and far-spreading trees. I had not heard the
wren; and indeed the birds seemed unusually silent, the squirrels
appeared to be asleep in their nests, and not a leaf was stirring.
Wordsworth's admonition came into my mind:--
"Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods."
Suddenly something sprang out from under a tree, as I passed, jerked at
my gown, and ran after with noisy footsteps. I started, and quickly
turned to face my assailant, expecting to see a bear at least. I found
instead--a dead branch which had caught in my dress and was dragging
behind me. I loosened the branch from its hold, and went on. But though
I laughed at the absurdity, I found my nerves a little shaken. Just as I
reached the wren corner a shriek arose, as if I had stepped on a whole
family of birdlings. Again I started, when a saucy squirrel ran out on
the branch of a tree, scolding me in good round terms.
It is impossible to discourage or tire out a squirrel; his business is
never pressing, and if it were he considers it an important part of his
duties to see that no one interferes with the nests he depends on for
fresh eggs. He is sure to keep up a chatter which puts all the birds of
the neighborhood on their guard; and as I was particularly desirous not
to reveal to him the position of the wrens' nest, I stayed only long
enough to assure myself that the little birds had not flown, and the
parents were attending strictly to domestic affairs.
The next day I succeeded in reaching the wren quarter without arousing
the ire of the squirrels, and I placed my seat very near the nest to see
if the bird had learned not to fear me. Fixing my eyes on the place she
must enter, I waited, motionless. Some time passed, and though I heard
many bird notes about me, and the wren song itself afar off, there was
no flit of wing nor faintest wren note near me. But suddenly a shadowy
form passed in directly from the front, stayed an instant, and left in
the same way. It was perfectly silent, not the slightest rustle of a
feather, and it was so near the ground I could not tell whether it flew
or ran; it appeared to glide. Brave little creature! I was heartily
ashamed of annoying her. I moved my seat to a more respectful distance,
and she went in and out as usual.
[Sidenote: _A BRAVE LITTLE MOTHER._]
It was much more satisfactory watching the little mother about her daily
cares than trying to keep track of her mate. He was one of the most
baffling birds I ever tried to spy upon. Often I heard his delightful
song so near that I was sure in a moment I should see him. Then I peered
through the low bushes, without moving so much as an eyelash, expecting
every instant that my eyes would fall upon him, and certain that not a
leaf had rustled nor a twig sprung back, when all at once I heard him on
the other side. He had flitted through the underbrush, not flying much,
but hopping on or very near the ground, without a breath to betray him.
The wren mother could not hide herself so completely from me, there
being one spot on earth she could not desert,--the charming nook that
held her babies; and yet, be as motionless as I might, I could not
deceive her. She never could be convinced that I was a queer-shaped
bush, not even when I held a maple bough before my face, and my
garments harmonized perfectly with my surroundings. She always came near
and bowed to me, jerked herself up, and flirted her wings and tail, as
if to say, "I know you. You needn't try to hide." When I went too near,
as on the occasion spoken of, while she was much more wary she was not
afraid, and I had no compunctions about studying her quaint ways.
We were exceedingly desirous of seeing that family start out in life,
and we did, in a way that startled us as much as it must have surprised
them. "I wonder if they're gone," was our anxious thought every morning
as we approached; and one day, not seeing either parent, we feared they
had made their debut without our assistance, in the magical morning
hours when so many things take place in the bird-world.
"I mean to see if they are still there," said my comrade, creeping up to
the mass of roots, leaning far under, and carefully thrusting one finger
into the nest.
A dynamite bomb could not have been more effective, nor more shocking to
us, for lo! in sudden panic five baby wrens took flight in five
different directions. The cause of the disturbance rose, with a look of
discomfiture on her face, as if she had been caught robbing a nest. She
seemed so dismayed that I laughed, while those wrenlings made the air
fairly hum about her head.
[Sidenote: _"ASSISTED" OUT OF THE NEST._]
That they were ready to fly, and only waiting for "the Discourager of
Hesitancy" to start them, was plain, for every one used his little wings
manfully,--perhaps I should say wren-fully,--and flew from fifteen to
twenty feet before he came down. In less than a minute the air was
filled with wren-baby chirps, and we seated ourselves to await the
mother's return and witness the next act in the wren drama. The mother
took it philosophically, recognizing the chirps, and locating them with
an ease and precision that aroused envy in us bird-lovers, to whom
young-bird calls seem to come from every direction at once. She
immediately began to feed, and to collect them into a little flock. With
her help we also found them, and watched them a long time: their pretty
baby ways, their eager interest in the big world, their drawing together
as they heard one another's voices, and their cozy cuddling up together
on a log.
Feeling that we had made disturbance enough for one day, we finally went
home; but the next day, and several days thereafter, we hunted up the
little family as it wandered here and there in the woods, noting the
putting on of pert wren ways, and the growth of confidence and
helpfulness. We identified them fully as the family of our beautiful
singer, for we saw him feed them, then mount a projecting root and sing
his perfect rhapsody, not fifteen feet from us.
I must explain the name I have used, "the Discourager of Hesitancy." It
is the invention of Mr. Frank Stockton, as every one knows, but I
applied it to my fellow-student because of her conduct in the case of
the wrens; and a day or two later she proved her right to it by her
treatment of a chipping-sparrow family near the house. She took hold of
the tip end of a branch and drew it down to look at the nest full of
young chippies. "They're about ready to fly," she remarked calmly; and
at that instant the branch was released, sprang up, and four young birds
were suddenly tossed out upon the world. They sailed through the air,
too much surprised to use their wings, and dropped back into the tree,
which fortunately was a thick evergreen. The "Discourager's" face
displayed a mixture of horror and shame that was very droll. She _said_
the twig broke, but in the light of her behavior to the wrens, and her
avowed pleasure in stirring birds up to see what they would do, I must
say I have my suspicions, especially when I remember that that was the
second family whose minds she had made up for them that week.
[Illustration: CUDDLED UP TOGETHER ON A LOG--THE WINTER WREN]
[Sidenote: _THE WOODS EMPTY._]
After about ten days of watching the wren family, we lost their lively
chirpings, the witching song ceased, the place seemed empty of wren
life, and our charming acquaintance with them a thing to be remembered
only. At least so we sadly thought, till nearly the end of July, when,
on sauntering through the old paths for almost the last time (for me),
we heard once more the familiar music, as full, as fresh, as bewitching,
as in the spring. We sought the singer, eager to see as well as hear.
After a tramp over underbrush and through a swamp, we saw him,--the same
delightful bird, so far as we could tell; certainly he had sung the
exact song that charmed us in early June. He had probably trained and
started out in life his five babies, and now had time as well as
inclination to sing again.
During the three days that were left of my stay I heard the enchanting
voice every time I went into the woods,
"Chaunting his low impassioned vesper-hymn,
Clear as the silver treble of a stream."
V.
WHIMSICAL WAYS IN BIRD-LAND.
"O irritant, iterant, maddening bird!"
One lovely evening in May, I was walking down a quiet road, looking, as
usual, for birds, when all at once there burst upon the sweet silence a
loud alarm. "Chack! chack! chack! too! too! t-t-t! quawk! quawk!" at the
top of somebody's loud resonant voice, as if the whole bird-world had
suddenly gone mad. I looked about, expecting to see a general rush to
the spot; but, to my surprise, no one seemed to notice it. A catbird on
the fence went on with his bewitching song, and a wood thrush in the
shrubbery dropped not a note of his heavenly melody.
"They have heard it before; it must be a chat," I said; and lo! on the
top twig of a tall tree, brilliant in the setting sun, stood the singer.
Never before had I seen one of the family show himself freely; and while
I gazed he proceeded to exhibit another phase of chat manners, new to
me,--wing antics, of which I had read. He flew out toward another
tree-top, going very slowly, with his legs hanging awkwardly straight
down. At every beat of the wings he threw them up over his back till
they seemed to meet, jerked his expressive tail downward, and uttered a
harsh "chack," almost pausing as he did so. "Not only a chat, but a
character," was my verdict, as I turned back from my stroll.
[Sidenote: _AN ECCENTRIC BIRD._]
For several years I had been trying to know the most eccentric bird in
North America,--the yellow-breasted chat. Two or three times I had been
able to study him a little, but never with satisfaction, and I was
charmed to discover one of his kind so near the pleasant old family
mansion in which I had established myself for the summer. This house,
which had been grand in its day, but, like the whole place, was now
tottering with age, was an ideal spot for a bird-lover, being
delightfully neglected and gone to seed. Berry patches run wild offered
fascinating sites for nests; moss-covered apple-trees supplied dead
branches for perching; great elms and chestnuts, pines and poplars,
scattered over the grounds, untrimmed and untrained, presented something
to suit all tastes; and above all, there existed no nice care-taker to
disturb the paradise into which Mother Nature had turned it for her
darlings.
It was a month later than this before I discovered where the chat and
his mate, the image of himself, had taken up their abode for the
season, and then I was drawn by his calls to another old tangle of
blackberry bramble at the upper edge of the orchard. "Quoik!" he began,
very low, and then quickly added, "Whe-up! ch'k! ch'k! toot! toot! too!
t-t-t-t-t!" concluding with a very good imitation of a watchman's
rattle. I hastened toward the spot, and was again treated to that most
absurd wing performance, followed by an exhibition of himself in plain
sight, and then a circling around my head, till, tired of pranks or
satisfied with his survey, he dropped out of sight in the bushes.
Here, I said to myself, is a chat of an unfamiliar sort; just as
eccentric as any of his race, and not at all averse to being seen; wary,
but not shy; and at once I was eager to know him, for the great and
undying charm of bird study lies in the individuality of these lovely
fellow-creatures, and the study of each one is the study of a unique
personality, with characteristics, habits, and a song belonging
exclusively to itself. Not even in externals are birds counter-parts of
one another. Close acquaintance with one differentiates him decidedly
from all his fellows; should his plumage resemble that of his
brethren,--which it rarely does,--his manners, expressions, attitudes,
and specific "ways" are peculiarly his own.
[Sidenote: _A BLACKBERRY TANGLE._]
The blackberry patch pointed out by the chat occupied the whole length
of a steep little slope between a meadow and the orchard, and at the
lower edge rested against a fence in the last stages of decrepitude.
During many years of neglect it had almost returned to a state of
wildness. Long, briery runners had bound the whole into an impenetrable
mass, forbidding alike to man and beast, and neighboring trees had
sprinkled it with a promising crop of seedlings; or, as Lowell pictures
it,--
"The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weaves
A prickly network of ensanguined leaves."
As if planned for the use of birds, at one end stood a delectable
watch-tower in the shape of a great elm, and at the other a cluster of
smaller trees,--apple, ash, and maple. These advantages had not escaped
the keen eyes of our clever little brothers, and it was a centre of busy
life during the nesting season.
The first time I attempted to find the chat's nest, the bird himself
accompanied me up and down the borders of this well-fortified blackberry
thicket, mocking at me, and uttering his characteristic call, a sort of
mew, different from that of the catbird or the cat, at the same time
carefully keeping his precious body entirely screened by the foliage.
Well he knew that no clumsy, garmented human creature however
inquisitive, could penetrate his thorny jungle, and doubtless the
remarks so glibly poured out were sarcastic or exultant over my failure;
for though I walked the whole length, and at every step peered into the
bushes, no nest could I discover.
Somewhat later I made the acquaintance of the domestic partner of the
chat family. She was less talkative than her spouse, as are most
feathered dames--a wise arrangement in the bird-world, for what would
become of the nest and nestlings, if the home-keepers had as much to say
as their mates? She sat calmly on the fence, as I passed, or dressed her
plumage on the branch of a tree, uttering no sound except, rarely, the
common mewing call. She was a wise little thing, too. When I caught her
carrying a locust, and at once concluded she had young to feed, as
quickly as if she had read my thoughts she let her prey drop, looking at
me, as who should say, "You see I am not carrying food." But though I
admired her quick wit and respected her motive, I did not believe the
little mother, and despite the attractiveness of the head of the
household I kept close watch upon her, hoping to track her home. I soon
observed that she always rose from the tangle at one spot near the elm;
but vainly did I creep through what once might have been a path between
the blackberries, though I did have the satisfaction of seeing the
singer uneasy, and of feeling sure that, as the children say, I was
"very warm."
[Sidenote: _A CUNNING DAME._]