moved to sing while others were doing so, he first reduced them to
silence by a peculiar mystical call, which had a marked effect not only
upon every bird in the room, but upon the human listeners as well. This
call cut into the ripple of sweet sounds about him like a knife, loud,
sharp, and incisive, instantly silencing every bird. It consisted of two
notes exactly one octave apart,--the lower one first,--uttered so nearly
together that they produced the effect of one double note. After a pause
of a few seconds it was repeated, as clear and distinct as before, with
mouth open wide. It was delivered with the deliberation of a thrush; the
bird standing motionless except the tail, which hung straight down, and
emphasized every note with a slight jerk. This loud call, having been
given perhaps twenty times, began to diminish in volume, with longer
intervals between, till it became so faint it could scarcely be
heard,--a mere murmur with closed bill, yet so remarkable and so
effective that for some time not a bird peeped. Occasionally, while the
room was quiet, he began to sing; but again it appeared that it was his
purpose merely to hush the babble of music, for, having secured his
beloved stillness, the beautiful bird remained a long time at rest,
sitting closely on his perch, plainly in deep content and happiness.
Sometimes, when out in the room, he delivered the call with
extraordinary excitement, turning from side to side, posturing, flirting
one wing or both, lifting them quite high and bringing them down
sharply; but when in the cage at dusk--his favorite time--he stood, as I
said, motionless and without agitation.
In another way my bird differed from nearly all the feathered folk, and
proved his right to belong to the thrush family; he was not in any
degree fussy; he never hopped about aimlessly, or to pass away time. He
had not only a beautiful repose of manner, but there was an air of
reticence in everything he did. Even in so trivial a matter as eating,
he was peculiar. During the season he was always supplied with
huckleberries, of which he was exceedingly fond. Any other bird would
take his stand beside the dish, and eat till he was satisfied; but
quite otherwise did the clarin. He went deliberately to the floor where
they were, took one berry daintily in the tip of his beak, returned with
it to the upper perch, fixed his eyes upon me, and suddenly, without a
movement, let it slip down his throat, his eyes still upon me, with the
most comically solemn expression of "Who says I swallowed a berry?" Then
he stood with an air of defiant innocence, as if it were a crime to eat
berries, not wiping his bill nor moving a feather till he wanted another
berry, when he ate it in exactly the same way.
[Sidenote: _AT THE MIRROR._]
The clarin defended himself against imposition, but, except to his own
reflection in the glass, he never showed warlike inclinations. Upon his
first sight of himself he was much excited. His feathers rose,
especially on the back, where they looked like a hump; his beak pointed
toward the offensive stranger, he uttered a peculiar new war-cry and
then flung himself violently upon the enemy. Of course he brought up
against the glass, and dropped panting to the bureau. In a moment he
rallied, poured out a few unfamiliar notes in a loud strange voice, with
wings quivering, body swaying from side to side, and tail wide spread.
Then lifting both wings high above his back, he repeated the attack.
Finding himself a second time baffled, he remained where he had dropped,
silent, a picture of despair.
I hastened to end his trouble by covering the glass. He flew several
times around the room, then alighted, reduced the inmates to meek
silence by his mysterious calls, then flew to his own cage, retired to
the upper perch, and remained quiet and motionless for an hour or more;
apparently meditating upon the strange occurrence, and wondering how the
elusive stranger had disappeared. During his trouble before the glass,
all the birds in the room were excited; they always were close observers
of everything he did, and never seemed to regard him as one of
themselves.
In the spring, when the room was emptied of all its tenants excepting
two or three who could not be set free, the clarin was a very happy
bird. He flew freely and joyously about, delighting especially in
sweeping just over my head as if he intended to alight, and he sang
hours at a time. The only disturbance he had then--the crumpled roseleaf
in his lot--was the presence of a saucy blue jay, a new-comer whom he
could neither impress by his manner nor silence by his potent calls. So
far from that, the jay plainly determined to outshriek him; and when no
one was present to impose restraint on the naughty blue-coat (who, as a
stranger, was for a time quite modest), he overpowered every effort of
his beautiful _vis-a-vis_ by whistles and squawks and cat-calls of the
loudest and most plebeian sort. At the first sound of this vulgar tirade
the imperial bird was silent, scorning to use his exquisite voice in so
low company; while the jay, in no whit abashed, filled the room with the
uproar till some one entered, when he instantly ceased.
[Sidenote: _WRAPPED IN FUSS._]
The regularity of the clarin's bath has been mentioned; he dried
himself, if possible, in the sunshine. Even in this he had his own way,
which was to raise every feather on end; the delicate tips rose on his
crown, the neck plumage stood out like a ruff, the tail spread, and the
wings hung away from the body. In this attitude, he looked as if wrapped
in exquisite furs from his small beak to his slender black legs. He
shared with all thrushes a strange restlessness on the approach of
evening. First he moved back and forth on one perch with a gliding
motion, his body crouched till the breast almost touched the perch, tail
standing up, and wings quivering. Then he became quiet, and uttered his
call for some time, and soon after settled for the night, sleeping well
and even dreaming, as was evident from the muffled scraps of song and
whispered calls that came from his cage.
This bird has all the sensitiveness of an artistic temperament, and one
can readily believe that in freedom he would choose a life so secluded
as to merit the popular name, "the invisible bird," inhabiting the
wildest and most inaccessible spots on the rough mountain-side, as Mr.
Frederic A. Ober found some of his near relations in the West Indies.
If, in spite of his reserved manners, any bird was impertinent enough to
chase or annoy him, he acted as if his feelings were hurt, went to his
cage, and refused to leave it for some time. Yet it was not cowardice,
for he could and did defend his cage against intruders, flying at them
with cries of rage. Also, if his wishes chanced to interfere with the
notions of another bird,--as they did on one or two occasions that I
noticed,--he showed no lack of spirit in carrying them out. Once that I
remember, he chose to perch on the top of a certain cage next a window,
where he had not before cared to go. The particular spot that he
occupied was the regular stand of another bird, one also accustomed to
having his own way, and quite willing to fight for it,--a Brazilian
cardinal. The cardinal, of course, disputed the point with the clarin,
but the latter retained his position as long as he desired, running at
the enemy with a cry if he ventured to alight near. In general, his
tastes were so different from others that he seldom came into collision
with them.
[Sidenote: _NOT DARING TO LAUGH._]
When, on the approach of spring, some of his room-mates grew
belligerent, and there arose occasional jarring between them, my bird
showed his dislike of contention and coarse ways by declining to come
out of his cage at all. Although the door stood open all day, and he was
kept busy driving away visitors, he insisted on remaining a hermit till
the restless birds were liberated, when he instantly resumed his usual
habits, and came out as before. His sensitiveness was exhibited in
another way,--mortification if an accident befell him. For example,
when, by loss of feathers in moulting, he was unable to fly well, and
fell to the floor instead of reaching the perch he aimed at, he stood as
if stunned, motionless where he happened to drop, as if life were no
longer worth living. Once he fell in this way upon a table beside a
newspaper. As he landed, his feet slid on the polished surface, and he
slipped partly under the loose paper, so that only his head appeared
above it. There he stood for five minutes looking at me, and bearing a
droll resemblance to a bird's head on a newspaper. He was not more than
four feet from me, and was obviously deeply chagrined, and in doubt
whether he would better ever try to recover himself; and I positively
did not dare to laugh, lest I hurt him more.
The first time the clarin fell to the floor, I ventured to offer him the
end of a perch which I held. Not in the least startled, he looked at it,
then at me, then accepted the civility by stepping upon it, and holding
there while I lifted and carried him to the door of the cage. This soon
came to be the regular thing, and all through the trying season of
moulting he waited for me to bring a perch and restore him to the upper
regions where he belonged. He would have been easily tamed. Even with no
efforts toward it, he came on my desk freely, talked to me, with
quivering wings, and readily ate from my finger. The only show of
excitement, as he made these successive advancements, was the rising of
some part of his plumage. At one time he lifted the feathers around the
base of his head, so that he appeared to have on a cap a little too big,
with a fringe on the edge; and on his first alighting on the arm of the
chair where I sat, the feathers over his ears stood out like ear-muffs.
[Illustration: STUDYING THE BLUE JAY--SOLITAIRE AND BLUE JAY]
[Sidenote: _IMITATING THE JAY._]
When at last the clarin and the blue jay were left nearly alone in the
room, I noticed that the clarin began watching with interest the
movements of the jay. They had never come in collision, except of the
voice above mentioned, because the jay preferred the floor, chairs, and
desk, and seldom touched the perches, while the clarin nearly lived
upon them. But after some study the latter clearly made up his mind to
try the places his larger room-mate liked so well. He had already
learned to go upon the desk and ask for currants, which in the absence
of fresh berries I kept soaking in a little covered dish. If, after
asking as plainly as eloquent looks and significant movements of wings
could, I did not take the hint and give him some, he flew over my head,
just touching it as he passed. But now, having resolved to imitate the
jay, he went to the floor, and tried all of his chosen retreats: the
lower rounds of the chair, my rockers, my knee, and the back of a chair
sacred to the jay. During these excursions into unknown regions he
discovered that warm air came out of the register, and apparently
thinking he had discovered summer, he perched on the water-cup that hung
before it, spread his feathers, and seemed as happy as if he had really
found that genial season.
Who can describe the song of a bird? Poets and prose writers alike have
lavished epithets on nightingale and mockingbird, wood thrush and veery,
yet who, till he heard one, could imagine what its song was like? Yet I
must speak of it.
Singing was always a serious matter with my bird; that is, he never sang
while eating or flying about, interpolating his exquisite notes between
two mouthfuls, or dropping them from the air. He always placed himself
deliberately, and waited for the room to be still,--or made it so, as
already related. During the first few months of his residence with me he
gave one song of perhaps twenty notes, ending in a lovely tremolo. This
had great variety of arrangement, but all bore unmistakable resemblance
to the original theme. It was in quality totally unlike any bird note I
ever heard, and thrilling in an extraordinary degree, though it was
uttered with the beak nearly closed. I can readily believe what Mr. Ober
and others assert, that it must have a startling effect when poured out
freely in his native woods.
This song alone placed the clarin at the head of all songsters that I
have heard or heard of, and I have heard all of our own best songsters,
and the nightingale and wood lark of Europe. But after nearly a year of
this he came out one memorable day with an entirely new melody, much
more intricate and more beautiful, which for some time he reserved for
very special and particular occasions, still giving the former one
ordinarily. Some months later, to my amazement, he added a third chant,
part of which so resembled that of the wood thrush that if he had been
near one I should have thought it a remarkable mimicry. He delivered
this with the exquisite feeling of the native bird, even the delicious
quivering tone at the end, which indeed my bird often repeated in a low
tone by itself. Sometimes, when the room was very still and he sitting
on his perch, feathers puffed out, perfectly happy, he breathed out this
most bewitching tremulous sound without opening his beak,--a performance
enchanting beyond words to express.
[Sidenote: _AN ENCHANTING SINGER._]
These themes the clarin constantly varied, and in the three years of his
life with me I often noted down, in a sort of phonetic way, his songs,
as he delivered them, and I have six or seven that are perfectly
distinct and different. He never mixed them together or united them; he
rarely sang two on the same day. All through, too, there seemed so much
reserve power that one could not resist the conviction that he could go
on and on, and break one's heart with his voice if he chose. The bird's
own deep feeling was shown by his conduct; the least movement in the
room would shut him up instantly. One could heartily say with another
bird-lover across the sea, "If he has not a soul, who will answer to me
for the human soul?"
It was reserved for the last weeks of his life for my bird to give me
the most genuine surprise. One day I sat quietly at my desk. The bird
stood on a perch very near my head,--so near I could not turn to look at
him, when, without a moment's hesitation, without an instant's
preliminary practice, he burst out into a glorious, heavenly, perfect
song that struck me dumb and breathless. Not daring to move hand or
foot, yet wanting some record of the wonderful aria, I jotted down, in
the page I was writing, a few of the opening notes; I could re-write my
page, but I could not bear to lose the music. Three times, at intervals
of perhaps one minute, he uttered the same marvelous song, and then I
never heard it again. After all, I had not a record of it, for though it
was deliberate and distinct, at every repetition I was spellbound, and
could not separate it into tones.
Though I should live to be a thousand years old, and visit every country
under heaven, I am sure I should never hear such a rapturous burst of
song again,--
"Low and soft as the soothing fall
Of the fountains of Eden; sweet as the call
Of angels over the jasper wall
That welcomes a soul to heaven."
After the foregoing study was written, Mr. Frederic A. Ober kindly
placed at my disposal his unpublished notes upon another solitaire, the
_siffleur montagne_, or mountain whistler. He had the bird in
confinement for some time, while in the Antilles on a collecting tour
for the United States National Museum; and the bird's character, as
shown in captivity, so closely resembled the one I have tried to depict,
that I give it as evidence that others have similarly interpreted the
manners of the family.
[Sidenote: _LOVE OF SOLITUDE._]
To begin with his love of solitude, one of the strongest characteristics
of the _Myadestes_ wherever found. It is that more than anything else
which, in connection with his wonderful song, has wrapped the bird in
mystery, and aroused the superstitions of the natives of the countries
in which he lives. Mr. Ober says, and every one of the few observers who
have succeeded in seeing the bird confirms the statement, that he is
found only in the most solitary places, inaccessible mountains, wild,
gloomy ravines, and dark, impenetrable gorges. Here the graceful bird
delights to dwell, calling and singing from his post on a branch
overhanging the perpendicular cliffs, hundreds of feet above the level
earth. One of them, indeed, secures his beloved solitude by inhabiting
the craters of extinct volcanoes.
In sprightliness of manner this bird of solitude reminds one of the
catbird, whom he also greatly resembles in looks. He has the
quick-darting movements of the flycatchers, and at the same time a
strange, preoccupied air, that seems to make him oblivious of people,
although they may be within a few feet of him.
Passing one of these peculiarly lonely places one day in his wanderings,
Mr. Ober heard the note of the siffleur close at hand. He crept
cautiously through the trees until he saw the bird, who had ceased
singing, and was eating berries from a tall shrub, clinging to its
hanging branches.
He soon finished his repast, flew to a dead branch, plumed his feathers,
and after a few moments resumed his singing. He uttered a few trills of
a rare musical quality that held his listener spellbound, then lightly
flew to another branch overhanging the little ravine, at the bottom of
which a babbling brook made music,--"not so liquid as siffleurs,"--says
the historian. Here a few more strains fell from him, then he flitted to
a swinging vine, repeated his bewitching note, and in a moment
disappeared. The tones, says Mr. Ober, "are thrilling with solemn music
and indescribably impressive." They have also a ventriloquial quality,
and many tunes had he vainly searched for the singer, until a note of
another sort betrayed his position, which was sometimes almost over the
observer's head.
One morning a captive siffleur was dragged out of the trousers pocket of
one of his "ragged brigade" and presented to the chronicler. These
boys, whose help was indispensable to the collector, were a study in
themselves. They were familiar with the habits, songs, and food of every
bird in the woods, as well as expert in imitating the note of each one,
and by this means drawing him to the fatal limed twigs. The interesting
birds of the mountains, the siffleur, the trembleur, and others, they
attracted by a peculiar hissing noise.
[Sidenote: _THE BIRD INSULTED._]
The bird brought to Mr. Ober had been caught by bird-lime and was
unhurt, but greatly mortified and insulted by his treatment. He seemed
at first dazed, and utterly silent. But after a while he gave utterance
to a cry of distress, which he repeated at intervals on that first
morning, particularly when people came too near him. Before night he
evidently realized the uselessness of protests, and became silent. He
never for a moment displayed the wild terror and panic seen in most
birds when first caught.
The next morning he ate berries and drank fresh water calmly and without
fear; but for several days he did not utter a sound. One of the
peculiarities of these birds is their fearlessness in the presence of
man, or perhaps more correctly their intelligence, which prevents them,
as it does our native thrushes, from being frightened unless there is
something really alarming.
This is the natural and charming attitude of bird and beast toward man,
until taught by deadly experience what they have to dread, as has been
proved many times.
It is not, therefore, in the case of the solitaires, fear of man which
drives them to their secluded dwelling-places. It is a certain reserve
of character, a strong dislike to a crowd, a genuine love of solitude,
and who shall say there is not also an appreciation of the attractions
of scenery!
After Mr. Ober's bird had become used to his captivity, the collecting
boys brought in another prisoner, a trembleur, so named because of his
curious and restless manners, the jerks and quivers, the spasmodic
movements of head and wings and tail, and the bows and postures with
which he does everything.
The unfortunate trembleur indulged in no amusing antics on this
occasion, however. He was overwhelmed by the extent of the disaster that
had befallen him,--captivity in the hands of his worst foe. He crouched
in one corner of his box, looking with wonder at his surroundings.
Now appeared a new trait in the character of siffleur. His deep love of
solitude was even aggressive; he would not tolerate the intrusion of
another bird upon his domain. He greeted his fellow-sufferer first with
hisses and then with threats and feints of war. Trembleur did not
respond, but he presented his formidable bill in readiness to repel
attack.
[Sidenote: _ANNOYED BY HUMMINGBIRDS._]
One of his own family, another siffleur, being added to the imprisoned
party, the first-comer was most unfriendly, flying at him, and trying to
keep him from food and water.
Another indication of the bird's love of quiet was his annoyance at the
hummingbirds, whose ways Mr. Ober was studying, and who flitted about
the room all the time. From the first he regarded them with disfavor.
Their frivolous manners and their constant humming were not pleasing to
him; but when they became so impertinent as to alight on his back, this
trifling with his dignity was past endurance; he hissed, and snapped his
beak at the elusive little creatures, and finally worked himself into
such a rage that he was found completely exhausted, and almost in a
dying condition. These continued excitements, indeed, so wore upon his
sensitive nature that he did not long survive his extreme passion.
This was the more to be regretted because of the readiness with which he
accepted his fate. He became tame in a week after capture, and readily
took food from the fingers. From the first he never made the least
effort to escape, but seemed perfectly contented, so long as he was
alone. It was the presence of intruders--as he regarded them--that he
resented so fatally.
One of this most interesting family, Townsend's fly-catching thrush
(_Myadestes Townsendii_) is resident in the mountains of Colorado, and
it is pleasing to see how the most scientific and the least emotional of
chroniclers fall into rapture over his song. "Never have I heard a more
delightful chorus of bird music," says one. "The song can be compared to
nothing uttered by any other bird I have heard," says another. "A most
exquisite song in which the notes of purple finch, wood thrush, and
winter wren are blended into a silvery cascade of melody that ripples
and dances down the mountain-side as clear and sparkling as the mountain
brook," says a third.
Charles Dudley Warner, who found the clarin a favorite cage bird in
Mexico, says of his song (in "Mexican Notes"): "Its long, liquid,
full-throated note is more sweet and thrilling than any other bird note
I have ever heard; it is hardly a song, but a flood of melody,
elevating, inspiring as the skylark, but with a touch of the tender
melancholy of the nightingale in the night."
XIII.
INCOMPATIBILITY IN THE ORIOLE FAMILY.
One whole year I entertained in my bird-room an individual of strongly
marked character, an orchard oriole. Wishing to study his habits, I put
a pair of this species into a big cage, hoping they would live happily,
as did other couples in the room at the same time. The pretty little
yellow and olive dame was amiable enough,--she could live in peace with
any bird in the room; but her comrade rebelled against the decrees of
man. He was an autocrat; he intended to have his house to himself, and,
more, he purposed to appropriate any other residence he chose to select,
whoever might claim it. Hostilities began the moment the door was shut
upon them; he drove her away from the food-cup, he fought her over the
bathing-dish, he answered her sweet call with a harsh "chack" or an
insulting "huff," he twitched her feathers if she came near him, and
gave her a peck if she seemed to be having too easy a time. Withal, such
was his villainous temper that he desired a victim to abuse, and never
let her out of his sight for two minutes, lest she should enjoy
something he could deprive her of. She was of a happy temperament; she
contented herself with what was given her. If she could not have pear,
she cheerfully ate bread and milk; while if my lord could not have pear,
he would starve. She had large dark eyes, and soft, delicate colors,
with legs and feet the tint of light blue kid; but her liege lord was in
the immature plumage of the second year, with black mask covering his
small eyes.
[Sidenote: _IN THE LOOKING-GLASS._]