impressed by their behavior, though I had previously seen some curious
performances that looked very much as if leaves have minds of their own.
Three inches from the little homestead grew a twig bearing a clump of
leaves, perhaps five or six. When I began watching, the largest one hung
closely over the nest, on the side toward my window, so that part of the
time the whole affair was hidden from sight. In the interest of Science
(in whose name, as well as in the name of Liberty, many crimes are
committed), I thought it necessary quietly to remove that leaf. Then,
although the remainder of the bunch still hung over the nest, two or
three inches above, my view was perfect, for I could look under them.
Strange to say, however, in a day or two I noticed that another leaf had
begun to droop over the tiny homestead. In the morning and again in the
afternoon, it held itself well up out of my way, but when the sun was
hot in the middle of the day, it fell lower and lower, till it was
almost as good a screen as its elder brother had been. Nor was that the
end of its vagaries. When a strong wind came up from the south, that
leaf drew closer, and actually hugged the nest, so that I could not see
it at all. I longed to remove it, but I had not the heart to deprive the
nestlings of their shelter. Strangest of all leaf eccentricities,
however, was the conduct of another one of the same clump, which during
a northwest gale came down at the back, and somehow wedged itself
between the nest and branch, so that it formed a perfect shield on that
side, so snug indeed that the mother could hardly get under it to feed
her little ones. And so it remained all day, during a wind that
threatened to blow the whole tree down. I am aware that this will be
hard to credit. But I examined it carefully; I know the mother did not
arrange it, and I do not exaggerate in the slightest degree.
[Sidenote: _GROWING UP._]
Let me picture the apple-tree babies at one week old, or seven and eight
days respectively--to be exact. On taking my regular morning observation
I noticed white spine-like processes, the beginning of feathers, among
the hairs on their bodies. The heads looked as if covered with, in the
language of commerce, a "fine mix," minutest possible white specks on a
black ground, which, as days went by, increased in size and length till
they developed into feathers. Beaks, too, were changing. The broad, flat
surface showed inclination to draw into a point at the tip, which would
go on stretching up day by day, till by the time the birdlings could fly
they would be nearly as well equipped for hummingbird life as the mother
herself. On that seventh day, also, I discovered the first voluntary
movement; one of the pair lifted his head above the edge of the nest,
and changed his position on the bed of cotton.
Now began the restlessness characteristic of our smallest bird. From the
age of one week they were rarely for a moment still, excepting when
asleep. One moment they would lie side by side, two tiny beaks sticking
up close together, and the next, one would struggle and twist about till
his beak showed on the opposite side. Occasionally one made himself
comfortable by lying across his fellow, but very soon the lower one
squirmed out from under. At nine days they filled the nest so full that
their bodies showed above the edge, and gave it the appearance from my
window of being filled with hairy and very restless caterpillars.
The eighth and the ninth day of their little lives opened their eyes on
the beautiful green world about them, and backs began to look ragged, as
if feathers were at hand. Character was developing also. When mamma
touched a closed beak in invitation to lunch, it would sometimes respond
with a quick little jerk, as who should say, "Let me alone!" or "Don't
bother me!" and on this day began also the attempt to dress the feathers
yet to appear, and the running out of the bristle-like tongue.
A great surprise awaited me on the fifth day of my enchanting study, the
tenth of their life. When I paid my morning visit to the bewitching
pair, lying, as always now, close up to the edge of their frail cup,
they looked at me with clear, calm black eyes, and saluted me in low,
plaintive voices. I should hardly have been more startled if they had
spoken to me.
[Sidenote: _LIKE BUNDLES OF RAGS._]
They assumed a new attitude also toward mamma, refusing to allow her to
crush them down into the nest and sit upon them, as if they were babies
still. They would keep their heads up, and sometimes she really had a
struggle in taking her old place on the nest. Apparently it is with
humming as with some human mothers, hard to realize that their offspring
are no longer infants. On one occasion it looked as if the two united in
their rebellion and pushed her away, for she actually lost her balance
and plunged forward off the nest. She recovered herself almost
instantly, but it was a real tumble for the moment. At eleven days began
the flutter of wings that should hardly rest in life. Shadowy little
things they were, lifted above the nest and waved rapidly a few seconds
at a time.
As the interesting nestlings approached the end of their second week, I
began to be concerned about the frail walls of their cradle. They had
become so lively in movements that it rocked and swayed in its place,
and on one side the cotton protruded through its lichen cover. I dreaded
to see a little foot thrust out at this point, and wondered if my clumsy
fingers could perform the delicate task of replacing it.
On the morning they were two weeks old a strong wind set in from the
northwest, and I drew down the branch with dread of finding it empty.
The younglings were wide awake, though settled down into the nest. They
looked at me and uttered their soft cries. They now resembled bundles of
rags, for feathers were breaking out all over them in the well-defined
pattern or design I had observed for several days. Tiny tail feathers
with white tips showed distinctly, and it was evident that they were
fast growing up. The mother plainly accepted the fact, for she made no
further effort to sit upon them.
As the day wore on the wind increased to a gale, and my anxiety kept
pace with its violence. Surely no August babies could be prepared for
such November weather. Would a fall kill the delicate birdlings? Should
I have to rescue them? Hardly five minutes at a time did I take my eyes
off the nest, tossed on its long swaying branch like a ship in the
maddest sea. Even the mother was blown off the edge, and I rejoiced that
she had chosen the south side of the tree, for the north side branches
were thrown upward and over with a violence that would have shaken off
the nest itself.
But the two sturdy youngsters sat all day with heads up, and tails just
showing above the edge, looking out on the raging sea of leaves and
riding the storm like veterans. Only once did I see one try to change
his position, and then for a second I thought he was lost; but he
recovered himself and made no more rash attempts.
[Sidenote: _SHE ALIGHTED ON THEIR BACKS._]
From this day the twins no longer stayed in the nest, but took their
position across the top, resting on the edges. By the sixteenth day
tails had attained respectable dimensions, and they were clad in the
complete dress of feathers, though, having not as yet learned to manage
their garments, individual feathers stood out all over and were blown by
every breeze into tiny green ripples. In their new position across the
top they of course entirely covered the edge, so that the mother was
puzzled to find a place for her feet when she came to feed, until she
took to alighting on the backs of her monopolizing offspring.
All through these delightful days I had kept a sharp lookout for the
father of this charming family, for, as is well known, there is a charge
against the ruby-throat, that he takes no part in the home life, that he
never visits the nest. Whether it be that he is too gay a rover to
attend to his duties, whether--as is said of the turkey and some other
birds--he is possessed of a rage for destroying his own young, whether
he keeps out of sight as a measure of prudence for the safety of the
nest, or whether that fearless and industrious little mate of his feels
capable of managing her own affairs and so drives him away, no one has
as yet been rash enough to say. That remains for future observers to
find out. The points most interesting to discover at present are, if it
is a fact that he never shows himself; if he remains in the
neighborhood, and joins his family later, as has been asserted; or if he
resumes his care-free bachelor life, and sees them no more.
Only three times was my close watch for visiting hummingbirds rewarded,
and those were not at all conclusive. One morning, attracted by the
shimmering floor of jewel which Lake Champlain presented under the
morning sun, I sat looking out over my neighbor's cornfield, where
goldfinch babies were filling the air with their quaint little two-note
cries, absorbed in the lovely view, when suddenly I heard a whir of
wings and looked up to see a hummer flying about near the nest where
madam was sitting. It made two or three jerks, approaching within six
inches, and then darted away. Instantly she followed, but not as if in
pursuit. There were no cries. It seemed to me a friendly move, an
invitation and a response. Alert as she was, she must have seen the
stranger, as he--or she--hovered about, yet she did not resent it. In a
few minutes she returned and settled herself on her nest.
[Sidenote: _GREETING ME WITH CRIES._]
Soon I heard the familiar sound again, and a bird dashed past the
window, not going near the nest. My little dame in the apple-tree paid
no attention. An hour later a hummingbird appeared, perhaps the same
one, without flying near the apple-tree. Madam left her nest and they
had a chase, both passing out of sight. In neither case was there any
show of anger, cries, loud hum, or savage rushes, as I have seen when
hummingbirds are on the war-path. In neither case, also, could I see the
visiting bird plainly enough to determine the sex. It may have been the
missing spouse, but then, also, it may not have been.
Nor did it trouble me that I could not solve the mystery. Very early in
my study of birds I learned to be content to let many things remain
unknown, hoping that some future day would reveal them, and to enjoy
what Nature offers me to-day without mourning over things she _this
time_ withholds.
August was drawing to an end, and claims from the outer world grew
clamorous. It wrung my heart to abandon those babies before they could
fly, but relentlessly the days went by. The last one arrived, and I went
out for a farewell look at the little ones, now eighteen and nineteen
days old. They sat as usual side by side across the nest, and greeted me
with their sweet little cries. They were completely feathered, though
here and there one of the infantile hairs still stuck up between the
plumage, the backs a golden green, and the throat and breast snowy
white. They returned my gaze with wide, calm eyes, and did not shrink
from the finger which gently stroked their backs. The home which had
held them was almost a complete wreck, hardly more than a flattened
platform, but they clung to it still, and I knew that I should miss the
sight I longed for, the first flight. I stayed all day, putting off the
parting till the last possible moment, watching and hoping; but when I
started for the night train, I left the pair still sitting on the ruins
of their nest. And thus ended the only glimpse into fairyland I shall
ever enjoy.
A few days later came to me, several hundred miles away, the word that
the elder bird (who was a Sunday baby) had taken flight the day he was
three weeks old, and had stayed about his native apple-tree all day,
while the younger clung to the wreck for two days more, and no one
chanced to see him fly.
VIII.
YOUNG AMERICA IN FEATHERS.
"How like are birds and men!" said Emerson, and if he had known nature's
loveliest creatures as well as he did his own race, he might have
affirmed it more emphatically; for to know birds well is to be
astonished at the "human nature" they display.
In our latitude July is distinctly the babies' month. When wild roses
give place to sun-kissed meadow lilies, when daisies drop their petals
and meadow-sweet whitens the pastures, when blueberries peep out from
their glossy coverts and raspberries begin to redden on the hill, then
from every side come the baby cries of younglings just out of the nest,
and everywhere are anxious parents hurrying about, seeking food to stuff
hungry little mouths, or trying to keep too venturesome young folk out
of danger. For Young Americans in feathers are wonderfully like Young
Americans in lawn in self-confidence and recklessness.
One evening in a certain July, up on the coast of Maine, I watched the
frantic efforts of a pair of Maryland yellow-throats--tiny creatures in
brown and gold--to coax their self-willed offspring to a more retired
position than he chose to occupy. With genuine "Young America" spirit he
scorned the conservatism of his elders. Though both parents hovered
about him, coaxing, warning, perhaps threatening, not a feather stirred;
stolid and wide-eyed he stood, while the father flitted about the bush
in great excitement, jerking his body this way and that, flirting his
wings, now perking his tail up like that of a wren, again opening and
closing it like a fan in the hands of an embarrassed girl, and the
mother added her entreaties to his, darting hither and thither, calling
most anxiously,--both, in their distress, rashly exposing themselves to
what might, for all they knew, be one of the death-dealing machines we
so often turn against them.
Nothing had the slightest effect upon the yellow-throated youngster
until his own sensations interested him, and his parents suddenly
acquired new importance in his horizon. When hunger assailed him, and,
looking about for supplies, he spied his provider on the next bush with
a beak full of tempting (and wriggling) dainties, and when he found his
wily parent deaf to his cries, and understood that not until he flew
behind the leafy screen could he receive the food he craved, then he
yielded, and joined his relieved relatives out of my sight.
[Sidenote: _VAGARIES OF A BABY._]
Many times after that morning did the vagaries of that young
yellow-throat give me opportunity to study the ways of his family.
Having newly escaped from the nursery, in a thorny bush behind
thick-growing alders, his strongest desire apparently was to see the
world, and those outlying dead twigs, convenient for the grasp of baby
feet, were particularly attractive to him. Every day for nearly a week,
as I passed into the quiet old pasture, I stopped to interview the
youngster, and always found him inquisitive, and evidently, in his own
estimation, far wiser than his elders, who were nearly wild over his
conduct.
This pasture of about forty acres, lying behind my temporary home, was
the joy of my heart, being delightfully neglected and fast relapsing
into the enchanting wildness of nature. In a deep bed fringed with a
charming confusion of trees and bushes ran a tiny stream, which in the
spring justified its right to the title of river. Scattering clumps of
alders and young trees of many kinds made it a birds' paradise, while
wild cherries and berries of all sorts, with abundant insect life,
offered a spread table the whole summer long.
Of flowers it was the chosen home. From the first anemone to the last
goldenrod standing above the snow, there was a bewildering confusion;
fragrant with roses in June, gorgeous with meadow lilies in July, and
rank upon rank of budded goldenrod promising glory enough for August,
with all the floral hosts that accompany them. Great patches of sweet
bayberry, yielding perfume if only one's garments swept it, and rich
"cushions of juniper" frosted over with new tips, were everywhere, and
acres were carpeted with lovely, soft, gray-colored moss, into which
one's foot sank as into the richest product of the loom. Here and there
was a close grove of young pines, whose cool, dim depths were most
alluring on hot days; and indeed in every spot in Maine not fully
occupied nature is sure to set a pine-tree.
Every morning, on entering this garden of delights, I hastened across an
open space by the gate, and plunged into a thicket of alders sprinkled
with young trees,--birch, elm, and wild cherry. Through this ran a path,
and in a sheltered nook under a low pine I found a seat, where for many
days I spent the forenoon, making acquaintance with the pretty little
yellow-throats.
[Sidenote: _BEWITCHING WAYS._]
From the first the head of the family adopted me as his particular
charge, and I am positive he never lost sight of me for one minute. His
was a charming surveillance. He did not, like the robin on similar duty,
stand on some conspicuous perch like a statue of horror or dismay,
uttering his loudest "peep! peep!" in warning to the whole feathered
world; nor did he, after the fashion of the song sparrow, fill the air
with distressed "pips" that seemed to hint of mischief dire; neither did
he, as does the red squirrel, resent an intrusion into preserves that he
considered his own, with a maddening series of choking cries, coughs,
and "snickers," till one was almost ready to turn a gun upon him; still
less did he, in veery style, utter wails so despairing that one felt
herself a monster for remaining. The yellow-throat's guardianship was a
pleasure. He remained in sight, not fifteen feet away from me, and did
not flinch from the terrible field-glass. Sometimes he stood quite
still, uttering his soft and inoffensive "chic;" again he scrambled
about in the bushes, collected a mouthful, and disappeared for a
moment,--a constant baby call from the bushes reminding him of his duty
as provider. Evidently he had succeeded in impressing upon that
obstinate offspring of his that he must keep out of sight. I wonder what
sort of a bugaboo he made me out to be?
Much of the time the tiny custodian passed away in calling and singing,
throwing his head up or holding it still according as he sang loud or
low. To all varieties of his pretty little melody he treated me. Never
once did he utter the notes given in the books as the family song. From
his beak I never heard either "wichita," "witches here," "o-wee-chee,"
or "I beseech you," all of which, excepting the last, I have heard at
different times from other members of the family; which, by the way,
confirms my oft-repeated assertion that no two birds of a species sing
alike. His ordinary notes resembled "pe-o-we," delivered in lively
manner, with strong accent on the first syllable. Sometimes he gave them
the regulation three times; again, he added a fourth repetition, and
changed this by ending on the first syllable of the fifth utterance. On
one occasion he surprised and delighted me by turning from the third
"pe-o-we" into a continuous little carol, varied and bewitching. Later
in the season, after I had finished my studies in the alder bushes, I
heard several times from a yellow-throat in the pasture a similar
continuous song, usually delivered on the wing.
[Sidenote: _A QUEER SUN-BATH._]
After some days my little watcher became so accustomed to my silent
presence under the pine that he did not mind me in the least, though he
never forgot me, and if I stirred he was on the alert in an instant. So
long as I was motionless he ignored me entirely, and conducted himself
as if he were alone; often taking a sunning by crouching on the top twig
of a bush, spreading wings and tail and fluffing out his plumage till he
looked like a ragged bunch of feathers. It was very droll to see him,
while in this attitude, suddenly pull himself together, stand upright,
utter his song, and instantly relapse into the spread-eagle position to
go on with his sunbath. To my surprise, I found that this warbler,
whose song and movements always seem to indicate a constant flitting and
scrambling about in warbler fashion, is capable of repose. He frequently
stood perfectly still, the black patch which covers his eyes like an
old-fashioned face-mask turned toward me, singing his little aria with
as much composure as ever thrush sang his.
My pleasing acquaintance with the yellow-throat ended as soon as the
young became expert on the wing and could leave their native alder
patch. After that the nook was deserted, and unless I heard the song I
could not distinguish my little friend among the dozens of his species
who lived in the neighborhood.
Toward the north end of my delectable hunting-ground was a second
favorite spot, especially attractive on warm, sunny mornings. When I
turned my steps that way, I came first upon the feeding-ground of
another party of Young Americans,--thrashers. They were a family group,
a pair with their two full-grown but still babyish young. Approaching
cautiously, I usually found the parents on the ground busily hunting
insects, and the youngsters following closely, ready to receive every
morsel discovered. They were, however, very well bred, with none of the
vulgar manners of those who scream and shout and demand their rations.
Later in the day I often found the thrasher singing, a little beyond the
alders, on the breezy heights of Raspberry Hill. His chosen place was an
almost leafless birch-tree, a favorite perch with all the birds of the
pasture, and there he sang for hours.
"'Twas a song that rippled and reveled and ran
Ever back to the note whence it began,
Rising and falling, and never did stay,
Like a fountain that feeds on itself all day."
Sometimes the singing was interrupted, for those canny Young Americans
knew their father's song, and though he had doubtless stolen away and
left them foraging on the grass by the path, they heard his voice and
came after. While he was pouring out his soul in ecstasy, and I was
listening with equal joy, those youngsters came by easy stages nearer
and nearer, till one after the other alighted on the lower part of the
birch, and, hopping upward from branch to branch, suddenly presented
themselves before him, begging in pretty baby fashion for something to
eat. The singer, embarrassed by their demands, would sometimes dive into
the nearest bushes, followed instantly by the persistent beggars, and in
a moment fly off, the infants still in his wake. But he always managed
in some way to elude them. Perhaps he fed them or conducted them back to
their mother, for in a few minutes he appeared again on the birch and
resumed his music.
[Sidenote: _OUT ALONE._]
On one occasion I met one of these spruce young thrushes, evidently out
on his travels alone for the first time. He was in a state of great
excitement,--jerked himself about, "huffed" at me, then flew with some
difficulty into a tree, where he stood and watched me in a charmingly
naive and childlike manner, utterly forgetting that part of his
education which bade him beware of a human being.
After passing the home of the thrashers, on my usual morning walk toward
the north, my next temptation to linger came from a fern-lined path to
the spring, abode of other Young Americans. The path itself was
extremely seductive, narrow, zigzagging through a small forest of the
greenest and freshest of ferns, so luxuriant that they were brushed
aside in passing, and closed behind as if to conceal one's footsteps.
Shrubs and trees met overhead; here and there a blooming dogbane or an
elder, "foamed o'er with blossoms white as snow," and tall wild roses
wherever they could find space to grow.
Nearly down to the spring, I seated myself under the bushes and waited.
At first, until the bustle of my coming was hushed, all was silent; but
soon bird notes began,--soft little "pips" and "chur-r-r's," and other
sounds I could not trace to their authors, but plainly expressing
disapproval of a spy among them. Catbirds complained with a soft liquid
"chuck" or their more decided "mew;" kingbirds peeped out to see what
was the excitement, and then settled in the bushes in plain sight, at
leisure now since their decorous little folk were educated and taking
care of themselves; and other birds came whispering about behind my
back, while I dared not turn to see, lest I send everybody off in a
panic. An oriole,
"Like an orange tulip flaked with black,"