Madam, no doubt fully aware of the prying ways of the human family,
sometimes hesitated to return to her little ones in the bushes. She flew
around uneasily, alighting here and there, anxious and worried, but
plainly afraid of exposing her precious secret. Then her "lord and
master" took her in hand, flying at her, and following wherever she fled
before him, till he almost overtook her, when she dropped into the
marsh, and with a low, satisfied chuckle he took a wide circle around
and returned to his tree. Scolding all the time, she remained some
minutes in the deep grass, then flew up high, and floated down to the
alder clump where the nest was placed. Upon this, her observant lord,
whose sharp eyes nothing escaped, instantly flew down again, dashed
impetuously through the alders, and without pausing returned to his
post. Now how should one interpret that little family interlude?
Later, when the young were out of the nest and quite expert on wing, the
redwing's relations with them puzzled me also. I often saw the two who
appeared to compose the family flying about with their mother, and I
knew they were his because he frequently joined the party. But their
conduct seemed unnatural, and a doubt stole over me whether this
bird--this individual, I mean--could be a domestic tyrant. I knew from
previous studies that the love-making manners of the redwing are a
little on the "knock-down-and-drag-out" order of some savage tribes of
our own species. To chase the beloved until she drops with fatigue seems
to be the blackbird idea of a tender attention, and possibly the pursuit
of his spouse already spoken of may have been of this sort, merely a
loverly demonstration. But with the babies it was a different thing.
Heretofore I had seen blackbird fathers devoted attendants on their
young, working as hard as the mothers in seeking supplies, and following
up the wandering brood to administer them. But this bird, I observed,
was avoided by the little folk. When he showed inclination to join the
family party on one of its excursions, they shied away from him, and if
he came too near they uttered a sort of husky "huff," like the familiar
protest of a cat. With the same sound they greeted him and moved away
when he approached a bush where they sat. Perhaps this crustiness of
demeanor was the natural result of his long weeks of anxiety and trouble
as protector during their helpless infancy; perhaps he was tired out and
exhausted, and it was not irritability, but nervous prostration, that
made him appear so unamiable. Indeed, I do not see how it could be
otherwise, after his exciting life. And may that not explain the fact
that when the young are grown, the singer shakes off all family ties and
joins a flock of his comrades, while mother and young remain together?
Since he insists on taking his family responsibilities so hard, he
cannot be blamed for desiring a rest for part of the year.
[Sidenote: _A PANIC ON THE MARSH._]
Now that the nest was deserted and the young were always going about
with their mother, I wondered that the head of the family did not relax
his vigilance over the meadow and abandon his two watch-towers; but save
that his enticing song came up to me oftener than his cries of distress,
his habits were not materially altered. One day, when I thought his
summer troubles ought surely to be over, a fresh anxiety came to him.
Several women and girls, with a dog, appeared on the marsh, which at low
tide was in some parts explorable. The human members of the party amused
themselves with bathing and wading in the now shallow stream; but the
dog acted like one gone mad, dashing about on those peaceful flats where
so many birds were enjoying themselves quietly, rushing full gallop from
one group to another, wading or swimming the winding stream every time
he came to it, and barking at the top of his voice every instant. Birds
rose before him in flocks, sandpipers took to their wings in panic,
swallows swooped down over him in anxious clouds, sharp-tailed sparrows
and all other winged creatures fled wildly before this "agitator," who
seemed to have no aim except to disturb, and reminded me irresistibly of
his human prototype. Somewhere in that "league upon league of marsh
grass," I suppose, were the blackbird's little folk; for the watcher on
the bank was in deepest tribulation, and his outcries quickly brought me
down to see what had happened.
The Young Americans of the redwing family are as vivacious and uneasy as
might be expected of the scions of that house. No sooner do they get the
use of their sturdy legs than they scramble out of the nest and start
upon their bustling pilgrimage through life, first climbing over the
bushes in their neighborhood, and as they learn the use of their wings
becoming more venturesome, till at last, every time a hard-working
mother brings a morsel of food, she has to hunt up her straggling
offspring before she can dispose of it. Though eager for food as most
youngsters, they are altogether too busy investigating this new and
interesting world to stay two minutes in one place. So far from waiting,
like Mr. Micawber, for something to turn up, they proceed, the moment
they can use their limbs, to attack the problem of delay for
themselves; to wait is not a blackbird possibility. It is needless to
say that such preternaturally sharp and wide-awake Young Americans very
soon graduate from the nursery.
[Sidenote: _A YELLOW-HEADED MONSTER._]
The last trial that came to the blackbird, and the one, perhaps, that
induced him finally to abandon his watch-towers and join his friends on
the bank farther down, was the appearance one day in the meadow of a new
importation from the city, a boy marked out for notice by a striking
yellow-and-black cap. The instant he entered the inclosure afar off, the
redwing uttered a shriek of hopeless despair, as who should say, "What
horrible yellow-headed monster have we here?" and as long as he remained
the bird cried and bewailed his fate and that of his family, as if
murder and sudden death were the sure fate of them all. It was the last
act in the blackbird drama on the meadow.
Between my morning in the pasture and my afternoon down the meadow, were
two or three hours of rest beside my window, and there, too, the drama
of life went on. On one side was an orchard--an orchard, alas! without
bluebirds, for it was the summer following the dreadful tragedy in
Florida, where thousands perished of hunger, and not one of the
blue-coated darlings was to be seen where had always been many.
Perhaps, too, even more destructive than the death by hunger that year
is the death which I am assured is common in all years about Washington,
and doubtless other places; death at the hands of man--for the table.
Who could eat a bluebird! It is bad enough to doom the bobolink to the
pot after he has changed his coat and become a reedbird, and given some
reason for his fate by his unfortunate fondness for rice. But what
excuse can there be for bringing the "Darling of the Spring" to this
woeful end?
To the deserted orchard came but one bird, a ph[oe]be, and I believe his
object was to retire from the world, for he was the most modest bird of
his family that I ever saw. He dwelt in an obscure corner, and never so
much as tried the peak of the barn, which was temptingly near. When he
called it was almost in a whisper. I saw no indications that he had a
nest or a family, and I am inclined to think that he was a misanthrope
and a hermit.
[Sidenote: _A BIRD BABY SHOW._]
Under my window on the other side came a vesper sparrow family. Three
youngsters in bright new coats, quite unlike the worn and faded hues of
their parents' dress. On the stone wall, or perched on a telegraph pole,
close to the solitary insulator on the summit, the singer poured out his
sweet little song, ending--in his best moods--in an exquisite trill
that resembled the silver bell of the chewink. The family spent their
time in the road or the meadow, the mother working hard to supply the
hungry little mouths, which gave vent to queer whining cries. One day
when it was raining the mother and one infant were out on the usual
business, when suddenly they became aware of a chipmunk about eighteen
inches from them, and at the same instant he saw them. He sat up very
erect to look over the grass, and, holding his funny little hands over
his heart, stared at the pair as if he had never seen birds. The baby
sparrow flew a foot or two, but the elder ran toward him most valiantly,
upon which the brave chipmunk took to his heels, scrambled up the stone
wall, and disappeared.
Before the window, too, were always the swallows, for the telegraph wire
was a favorite perch. And after the young were out, there was every day
a baby show, the eave and tree swallows having adopted the wires as
their out-of-door nursery. Nearly all the time might be seen half a
dozen or more waiting patiently for a morsel from some of their elders
circling about over their heads, and such a chatter as they kept up!
They whispered softly among themselves when their parents were away, and
called in squeaky little voices with fluttering wings as one of the
elders approached. Whether the young in these social nurseries know
their particular parents has always been an interesting question with
me, and I studied their ways for some clew to the truth. I noticed when
one of the parents swooped over them or came near, to alight, not more
than one or two of the waiting babies on the wire would flutter and ask
for food, and I saw also, on such occasions, that they were usually fed.
When somewhat later another parent came near, a different little one
would ask and be fed. They did not all, or even any great number, ask
every time an old bird came about, which certainly looked as if the
little ones knew their own parents.
After a while the swallows came out in great numbers. There were
hundreds at a time on the telegraph wires, all, both old and young,
talking at once--as it appeared. They had flight exercises, when the
whole flock rose at once, filling the air with wings. This gathering
continued for three or four days, while all other birds seemed to have
disappeared, and then one morning they were gone to the marsh, where we
often saw them afterward, and the other birds returned to their usual
haunts.
X.
IN A COLORADO NOOK.
The loveliest nook I know is one of nature's wild gardens, on the banks
of the "Shining Water," at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. It is
forever fresh and green in my memory. Let me picture it for you, dear
reader, as I saw it last.
It is June, and we are sitting under a low tree buried up to our
shoulders in a luxuriant growth of weeds. Before us towers beautiful
Cheyenne, its wonderful red rocks gorgeous in the morning sun; above us
stretches the violet-blue sky, while all about us, filling our lungs,
and bracing and invigorating our whole being, is the glorious mountain
air of Colorado. Outside our shady nook the sunshine glows and burns,
but we are cool and comfortable.
The little field between our seat and the mountain is all given up to
weeds, with here and there a small oak-tree, and shut in by a hedge of
oak saplings and low willows. I say weeds, but think not of an eastern
weed-grown spot; imagine neither pigweed, smartweed, burdock, nor
sorrel. Rather, picture in your mind a flower-bed, more rich and gay
than ever met your admiring eyes. Yellow daisies by thousands turning
their shining faces up to the sun; royal purple clusters of a blossoming
mint glowing in the brilliant light; larkspurs four feet high, thrusting
themselves above the rest like blue banners here and there; while lower
down peep out white, and blue, and lavender, and other modest posies,
and everywhere our familiar woods flower the wild geranium, whose office
it seems to be in Colorado to fill all vacancies, much larger and more
luxurious than ours, though quite as dainty and as impatient of
handling. Almost within reach of our hand we easily count a dozen
varieties of blossoms, while at the back of the little field are masses
of a tall plant gone to seed. This departed bloom must have resembled
our elder in shape and size, and now it makes a wonderful display of
seeds in all shades of green, yellow, and golden brown, according to the
various degrees of ripeness. It is very effective, almost more beautiful
than blossoms, certainly more harmonious.
Over all this growing glory butterflies flutter, and bees go hither and
thither, and still higher zigzag dozens of dragonflies. Behind us, a few
steps away, is the brook Minnelowan, whose musical murmur is in our
ears, but we will not turn around just yet. Truly it is good to be
here; to rest from the world of conventionality; to get into harmony
with nature; to steep our souls in the wildness, the freshness, and the
eternal youth of the growing world about us.
[Sidenote: _CURIOUS BABIES._]
But we are seeking birds; we must control our enthusiasm and listen. Now
we become aware of low, sharp, insect-like cries about us. They seem to
come from all sides at once; we find it impossible to locate them, till
a sudden chorus of loud and excited "smacks" directs our attention to
the tree over our heads, and our eyes fall upon a pair of frantic little
fellow-creatures in golden yellow, hopping about on the branches,
posturing and gesticulating with vehemence, and addressing their remarks
most pointedly to us.
We have doubtlessly invaded what they consider their domain. Those
insect-like chirps are the voices of their little folk, probably just
out of the nest, brand-new, ignorant, and curious babies, who know no
better than to stare at us, and make their comments within reach of our
hands. They are not yet trained to know and avoid their greatest enemy,
which you may not know, dear reader, that you are, not because you are
bloodthirsty, but because you belong to a bloodthirsty race.
Now one of the babies comes in sight, in soft olive, with golden
suggestions on tail and body; but mamma, horrified that he has exposed
himself to our gaze, hurries him away, and soon the chorus of peeps and
smacks--the yellow-bird baby talk--grows more distant, and the whole
family of golden warblers is gone. It is remarkable how much these
little folk know about our ways. If we walk through their territory
talking and laughing, the birds will continue their own affairs, singing
and calling, and carrying on their domestic concerns as though we were
blind and deaf, as indeed most of us are to the abundant life about us.
But when they see us quiet, looking at them, showing interest in their
ways, they recognize us at once as a suspicious variety of the _genus
homo_, who must be watched. At once they are on guard; they turn shy and
try to slip out behind a bush, or--if hampered by an untrained family of
little ones--attempt to expostulate with us, or to drive us away.
[Sidenote: _A RAPTUROUS SONG._]
All this time you have perhaps been conscious of a delicate little song,
like the ringing of a silver bell, over at the edge of our wild garden.
Now listen; you will hear a rustle as of dead leaves, a low utterance
like a hoarse "mew," then an instant's pause, and the bell song again.
Turn your glass toward the thick shrubbery, at a point where you can see
the ground at the foot of the bushes. In a moment you catch a glimpse
of the mysterious bell-ringer, nearly as big as a robin, modestly
dressed in black and white and chestnut, going about very busily on the
ground; now giving a little jump that throws a light shower of dirt and
leaves into the air, then looking earnestly in the spot thus uncovered,
perhaps picking something up, then hopping to the lowest twig of the
bush, and flinging out upon the air his joyous song. We are fortunate to
see him so soon; he might tantalize us all day with his song, and never
give us a glimpse of himself, for he delights in these quiet places,
under the thickest shrubs. He is the towhee bunting or chewink,
sometimes called ground robin, and in that corner of Colorado he takes
the place the robin fills with us, the most common bird about the house.
Keep very still, and we may perhaps hear his most ecstatic song, for
remember it is June, the wooing and nesting time of our feathered
friends, when their songs and their plumes are in perfection. The
love-song of this particular chewink is simply his usual silver-bell
peal, with the addition of two rich notes in tremolo; first a note lower
in the scale than the bell, then a note higher, each a soft, delicious,
rapturous utterance impossible to describe, but enchanting to hear.
The nest is doubtless close by, but it will be lost time to hunt for it
in a wilderness of bushes like this, for it is a mere cup in the
ground, hidden under the thickest shrubs that the brown-clad spouse of
the towhee can find. If we did uncover it we might not recognize it, so
perfectly do the colors of the birds, old and young, and even of the
eggs, harmonize with the earth in which it is placed.
I once found, in another place a nest full of chewink babies. It was
where a patch of sage bushes stretched down the mountain, bordered by a
thick clump of oak brush seven or eight feet high. My attention was
called to it by the owner himself, who alighted on the oaks with a beak
full of food, and at once began to utter his cry of distress, or warning
to his mate. The moment he began I heard a rustle of wings behind me,
and turning quickly had a glimpse of the shy dame, skulking around a
sage bush. A little search revealed the nest, carefully hidden under the
largest branch of the shrub. It was a deep cup, sunk into the ground to
the brim, and three young birds opened their months to be fed when I
parted the leaves above them.
Studying a nest among the sage bushes is not so easy as one might
imagine. This was so closely covered by the low-growing branches that I
could see it only by holding them one side. Moreover the sage is what is
called in the books a social plant; where there is one there may be a
thousand, as like each other as so, many peas. The particular bush that
hid my chewink babies had to be marked, as one would mark the special
tuft of grass that hides a bobolink's nest.
[Sidenote: _AMONG THE SAGE BUSHES._]
However, I spent an hour or two every day in the sage patch, watching
the wind sweep over it in silvery waves, and getting acquainted with the
nesting-birds. All sorts of man[oe]uvres the father of the family tried
on me, such as going about carrying food conspicuously in the mouth,
then pretending to visit a far-off spot and returning without it; but he
always ended by mounting the oak brush, ruffling up his neck feathers
till they stood out like a ruff, and uttering his cry; it can hardly be
called of distress, it became so evidently perfunctory. His mate never
tried deception, but relied upon skulking to and fro, unseen among the
bushes.
In seven or eight days, as soon, in fact, as they could stand, the
nestlings deserted the little home and I saw them no more, but I learned
one fact new to me about the singing of the chewink. After the nest was
abandoned I sat down in the usual place, hoping to hear the silver
tremolo I am so fond of. In a moment my bird began. Securely hidden, as
he thought, by the impenetrable oak brush, in the dim seclusion he
loves, he poured out his simple yet effective song for some time. Then,
to my amazement, with hardly a pause, he began a second song, quite
different, and unlike any chewink song I have heard. I had thought this
bird more closely confined to one role than most others, for none who
have studied birds will agree with the poet that
"Each sings its word or its phrase, and then
It has nothing further to sing or to say;"
but I learned on this day, and confirmed it somewhat later, that the
chewink can vary his song considerably.
But let us return to our nook. We will now turn around, and the world is
totally changed for us. Let us seat ourselves under a tall old
pine-tree, whose delicious aroma the hot sun draws out, and the gentle
breeze wafts down to refresh and delight us here below.
Before us is the brook, faint-hearted in manner, and only a murmur where
last summer it was a roar. Alas! the beautiful stream has seen reverses
since first I lingered on its banks with joy and admiration. Far up
above, just after it leaves the rocky walls of Cheyenne Canon, it has
fallen into the greedy hands of men who have drawn off half of it for
their private service. So the sparkling waters which gathered themselves
together near the top of Cheyenne, leaped gayly down the seven steps of
the falls, and rushed and bounded over the rocks of the canon, now run
tamely down between rows of turnips and potatoes, water an alfalfa
field, bathe the roots of a row of tired-looking trees, or put a lawn
a-soak. The fragment that is left winds on its old way, not half filling
its bed, with a subdued babble, suited to its altered fortunes.
[Sidenote: _A BEWITCHING BEAUTY._]
Still there is enough to delight a brook-lover, and this spot is the
chosen home of the most bewitching little beauty in all Colorado, the
Arkansas goldfinch. Clumsy name enough for a tiny sprite of a birdling,
not so large as our charming little goldfinch in his black cap. He is
exquisite in olive green, with golden yellow breast, and the black cap
and wings of his family, and he is most winsome in manner, with every
tone in his varied utterances musical and delicious to hear. As he flies
over in bounding waves, calling "Swe-eet! swe-eet!" often ending with an
entrancing tremolo, your very soul is taken captive. What would you not
give to see the dainty cradle of his younglings! Not far away you may
see two thistle-blooms pulled to pieces; no doubt the down has gone to
make a bed for goldfinch babies, for nothing that grows, except
thistledown, is quite soft and delicate enough for the purpose.
We will not try to find the nest. He is the most shy, the most elusive
of birds, living in the tops of the tallest trees, and flitting from one
to another like a sunbeam, showing only a glint of a golden breast as he
goes. One is maddened by the medley of calls and scraps of song, the
trills and tremolos in the sweetest and most enticing tones, while not
able to catch so much as a glimpse of the bonny bird who utters them.
His love-song is utterly captivating, as rapturous as that of the
American goldfinch, with a touch of plaintiveness that makes it
wonderfully thrilling. It is mostly in tremolo, a sort of indescribable
vocal "shake" that is enchanting beyond the power of words to express.
When he is not singing, one may often hear his low, earnest chatter and
talk with his mate, in the same plaintive and winsome tones.
Ah, how little we can see of what goes on about us, though we are
closely watching, and every sense is alert! On one side is a flash of
wings, and somebody disappears before he is seen; from the other comes
an unfamiliar note, and a rustle of leaves, behind which the author is
hidden. Here two bird voices are heard in excited talk, but your hasty
glance falls only on the swaying twig that proclaims their flight; and
in the tops of tall trees is a whole world of life and action entirely
beyond your vision.
[Sidenote: _HOW TO BE HAPPY._]
Early in the study of bird-life one must learn to be content with
comparatively little, and not set his heart on solving every mystery of
sound or glimpse which comes to him. One must be content to let some
things remain unknown, and enjoy what he can understand, if he would be
happy with nature. And if at some future time--as often happens--the
mystery is solved, the joy is great enough to pay for waiting, and much
greater than if he had worried and tramped the country over in attempts
to settle it.
I have seen it recommended as the best way to know birds, to follow
every note heard, till the bird is found and identified. This method
requires great activity, and often an hour's search results in the
discovery of an unfamiliar note of a familiar bird,--the robin or
sparrow, perhaps. Meanwhile one has missed a dozen charming scenes in
bird-life, and a chance to make acquaintances worth more than the
gratification of that curiosity. The wiser course, it seems to me, is to
learn to be content with what comes to you, and not mourn over what
eludes you; to be happy with what nature offers you, nor make yourself
miserable over what she for the present withholds; to adopt for your
motto the grand words of a fellow bird-lover,--
"What is mine shall know my face."