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continued from Part 1
Coming to a drier and less mossy place in the woods, I am amused with
the golden-crowned thrush, which, however, is no thrush at all, but a
warbler. He walks on the ground ahead of me with such an easy,
gliding motion, and with such an unconscious, preoccupied air,
jerking his head like a hen or a partridge, now hurrying, now
slackening his pace, that I pause observe him. I sit down, he pauses
to observe me, and extends his pretty ramblings on all sides,
apparently very much engrossed with his own affairs, but never losing
sight of me. But few of the birds are walkers, most being hoppers,
like the robin.
Satisfied that I have no hostile intentions, the pretty pedestrian
mounts a limb a few feet from the ground, and gives me the benefit of
one of his musical performances, a sort of accelerating chant.
Commencing in a very low key, which makes him seem at a very
uncertain distance, he grows louder and louder till his body quakes
and his chant runs into a shriek, ringing in my ear with a peculiar
sharpness. This lay may be represented thus: "Teacher, teacher,
teacher, TEACHER , TEACHER! "-the accent on the first syllable
and each word uttered with increased force and shrillness. No writer
with whom I am acquainted give him credit for more musical ability
than is displayed in this strain. Yet in this the half is not told.
He has a far rarer song, which he reserves for some nymph whom he
meets in the air. Mounting by easy flights to the top of the tallest
tree, he launches into the air with a sort of suspended, hovering
flight, like certain of the finches, and burst into a perfect ecstasy
of song,-clear, ringing, copious, rivaling the goldfinch's in
vivacity, and the linnet's in melody. This strain is one of the
rarest bits of bird melody to be heard, and is oftenest indulged in
late in the afternoon or after sundown. Over the woods, hid from
view, the ecstatic singer warbles his finest strain. In this song you
instantly detect his relationship to the water-wagtail,-erroneously
called water-thrush,-whose song is likewise a sudden burst, full and
ringing, and with a tone of youthful joyousness in it, as if the bird
had just had some unexpected good fortune. For early two years this
strain of the pretty walker was little more than a disembodied voice
to me, and I was puzzled by it as Thoreau by his mysterious
night-warbler, which, by the way, I suspect was no new bird at all,
but one he was otherwise familiar with. The little bird himself seems
disposed to keep the matter a secret, and improves every opportunity
to repeat before you his shrill, accelerating lay, as if this were
quite enough and all he laid claim to. Still, I trust I am betraying
no confidence in making the matter public here. I think this is
preeminently his lovesong, as I hear it oftenest about the mating
season. I have caught half-suppressed bursts of it from two males
chasing each other with fearful speed through the forest.
Turning to the left from the old road, I wander over soft logs and
gray yielding debris, across the little trout brook, until I emerge
in the overgrown Barkpeeling,-pausing now and then on the way to
admire a small, solitary white flower which rises above the moss,
with radical, heart-shaped leaves, and a blossom precisely like the
liverwort except in color, but which is not put down in my botany,-or
to observe the ferns, of which I count six varieties, some gigantic
ones nearly shoulder-high. |
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My attention is soon arrested by a pair of hummingbirds, the
ruby-throated, disporting themselves in a low bush a few yards from
me. The female takes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks
exultingly as the male, circling above, dives down as if to dislodge
her. Seeing me, he drops like a feather on a slender twig, and in a
moment both are gone. Then, as if by a preconcerted signal, the
throats are all attune. I lie on my back with eyes half closed, and
analyze the chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches, and flycatchers;
while, soaring above all, a little withdrawn and alone rises the
divine contralto of the hermit. That richly modulated warble
proceeding from the top of yonder birch, and which unpracticed ears
would mistake for the voice of the scarlet tanager, comes from that
rare visitant, the rose-breasted grosbeak. It is a strong, vivacious
strain, a bright noonday song, full of health and assurance,
indicating fine talents in the performer, but not genius. As I come
up under the tree he casts his eye down at me, but continues his
song. This bird is said to be quite common in the Northwest, but he
is rare in the Eastern districts. His beak is disproportionately
large and heavy, like a huge nose, which slightly mars his good
looks; but Nature has made it up to him in a blush rose upon his
breast, and the most delicate of pink linings to the under side of
his wings. His back is variegated black and white, and when flying
low the white shows conspicuously. If he passed over your head, you
would note the delicate flush under his wings.
That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hemlock, glowing like a
live coal against the dark background, seeming almost too brilliant
for the severe northern climate, is his relative, the scarlet
tanager. I occasionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and know no
stronger contrast in nature. I almost fear he will kindle the dry
limb on which he alights. He is quite a solitary bird, and in this
section seems to prefer the high, remote woods, even going quite to
the mountain's top. Indeed, the event of my last visit to the
mountain was meeting one of these brilliant creatures near the
summit, in full song. The breeze carried the notes far and wide. He
seemed to enjoy the elevation, and I imagined his song had more scope
and freedom than usual. When he had flown far down the mountain-side,
the breeze still brought me his finest notes. In plumage he is the
most brilliant bird we have. The bluebird is not entirely blue; nor
will the indigobird bear a close inspection, nor the goldfinch, nor
the summer redbird. But the tanager loses nothing by a near view; the
deep scarlet of his body and the black of his wings and tail are
quite perfect.
This is his holiday suit; in the fall he becomes a dull yellowish
green,-the color of the female the whole season.
One of the leading songsters in this choir of the old Barkpeeling is
the purple finch or linnet. He sits somewhat apart, usually on a dead
hemlock, and warbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finest
songsters, and stands at the head of the finches, as the hermit at
the head of the thrushes. His song approaches an ecstasy, and, with
the exception of the winter wren's, is the most rapid and copious
strain to be heard in these woods. It is quite destitute of the
trills and the liquid, silvery, bubbling notes that characterize the
wren's; but there runs through it a round, richly modulated whistle,
very sweet and very pleasing. The call of the robin is brought in at
a certain point with marked effect, and, throughout, the variety is
so great and the strain so rapid that the impression is as of two or
three birds singing at the same time. He is not common here, and I
only find him in these or similar woods. His color is peculiar, and
looks as if it might have been imparted by dipping a brown bird in
diluted pokeberry juice. Two or three more dippings would have made
the purple complete. The female is the color of the song sparrow, a
little larger, with heavier beak, and tail much more forked.
In a little opening quite free from brush and trees, I step down to
bathe my hands in the brook, when a small, light slate-colored bird
flutters out of the bank, not three feet from my head, as I stoop
down, and, as if severely lamed or injured, flutters through the
grass and into the nearest bush. As I do not follow, but remain near
the nest, she chips sharply, which brings the male, and I see it is
the speckled Canada warbler. I find no authority in the books for
this bird to build upon the ground, yet here is the nest, made
chiefly of dry grass, set in a slight excavation in the bank not two
feet from the water, and looking a little perilous to anything but
ducklings or sandpipers. There are two young birds and one little
speckled egg just pipped. But how is this? what mystery is here? one
nestling is much larger than the other, monopolized most of the nest,
and lifts its pen mouth far above that of its companion, though
obviously both are of the same age, not more than a day old. Ah! I
see; the old trick of the bunting, with a stinging human
significance. Taking the interloper by the nape of the neck, I
deliberately drop it into the water, but not without a pang, as I see
its naked form, convulsed with chills, float downstream. Cruel? So is
Nature cruel. I take one life to save two. In less than two days this
pot-bellied intruder would have caused the death of the two rightful
occupants of the nest; so I step in and turn things into their proper
channel again.
It is a singular freak of nature, this instinct which prompts one
birds to lay it eggs in the nests of others, and thus shirk the
responsibility of rearing its own young. The cow bunting always
resort to this cunning trick; and when one reflects upon their
numbers, it is evident that these little tragedies are quite
frequent. In Europe the parallels case is that of the cuckoo, and
occasionally our own cuckoo imposes upon a robin or a thrush in the
same manner. The cow bunting seems to have no conscience about the
matter, and, so far as I have observed, invariably selects the nest
of a bird smaller than itself. Its egg is usually the first to hatch;
its young overreaches all the rest when food is brought; it grows
with great rapidity, spreads and fills the nest, and the starved and
crowded occupants soon perish, when the parent bird removes their
dead bodies, giving its whole energy and care to the foster-child.
The warblers and smaller flycatchers are generally the sufferers,
though I sometimes see the slate-colored snowbird unconsciously duped
in like manner; and the other day, in a tall tree in the woods. I
discovered the black-throated green-backed warbler devoting itself to
this dusky, overgrown foundling. An old farmer to whom I pointed out
the fact was much surprised that such things should happen in his
woods without his knowledge.
These birds may be seen prowling through all parts of the woods at
this season, watching for an opportunity to steal their egg into some
nest. One day while sitting on a log I saw one moving by short fights
through the trees and gradually nearing the ground. Its movements
were hurried and stealthy. About fifty yards from me it disappeared
behind some low brush, and had evidently alighted upon the ground.
After waiting a few moments I cautiously walked in the direction.
When about halfway I accidentally made a slight noise, when the bird
flew up, and seeing me, hurried off out of the woods. Arrived at the
place, I found a simple nest of dry grass and leaves partially
concealed under a prostrate branch. I tool it to be the nest of a
sparrow. There were three eggs in the nest, and one lying about a
foot below it as if it had been rolled out, as of course it had. It
suggested the thought that perhaps, when the cowbird finds the full
complement of eggs in a nest, it throws out one and deposits its own
instead. I revisited the nest a few days afterward and found an egg
again cast out, but none had been put in its place. The nest had been
abandoned by its owner and the eggs were stale.
In all cases where I have found this egg, I have observed both male
and female of the cowbird lingering near, the former uttering his
peculiar liquid, glassy note from the tops of the trees.
In July, the young which have been reared in the same neighborhood,
and which are now of a dull fawn color, begin to collect in small
flocks, which grow to be quite large in autumn.
The speckled Canada is a very superior warbler, having a lively,
animated strain, reminding you of certain parts of the canary's
though quite broken and incomplete; the bird, the while, hopping amid
the branches with increase liveliness, and indulging in fine sibilant
chirps, too happy to keep silent.
His manners are quite marked. He has a habit of curtsying when the
discovers you which is very pretty. In form he is an elegant bird,
somewhat slender, his back of a bluish head-color becoming nearly
black on his crown: the underpart of his body, from his throat down,
is of a light, delicate yellow, with a belt of black dots across his
breast. He has a fine eye, surrounded by a light yellow ring.
The parent birds are much disturbed by my presence, and keep up a
loud emphatic chirping, which attracts the attention of their
sympathetic neighbors, and one after another they come to see what
has happened. The chestnut-sided and the Black-burnian come in
company. The black and yellow warbler pause a moment and hastens
away; the Maryland yellow-throat peeps shyly from the lower bushes
and utters his :Fip! fip! in sympathy; the wood pewee comes straight
to the tree overhead, and the red-eyed vireo lingers and lingers,
eying me with a curious, innocent look, evidently much puzzled. But
all disappear again, one by one, apparently without a word of
condolence or encouragement to the distressed pair. I have often
noticed among birds this show of sympathy,-if indeed it be sympathy,
and not merely curiosity, or desire to be forewarned of the approach
of a common danger.
An hour afterward I approach the place, find all still, and the
mother bird upon the nest. As I draw near she seems to sit closer,
her eyes growing large with an inexpressibly wild, beautiful look.
She keeps her place till I am within two paces of her, when she
flutters away as at first. In the brief interval the remaining egg
has hatched, and the two little nestlings lift their heads without
being jostled or overreached by any strange bedfellow. A week
afterward and they were flown away,-so brief is the infancy of birds.
And the wonder is that they escape, even for this short time, the
skunks and minks and muskrats that abound here, and that have a
decided partiality for such tidbits.
I pass on through the old Barkpeeling, now threading an obscure
cow-path or an overgrown wood-road; now clambering over soft and
decayed logs, or forcing my way through a network of briers and
hazels; now entering a perfect bower of wild cherry, beech, and soft
maple; now emerging into a little grassy lane, golden with buttercups
or white with daisies, or wading waist-deep in the red raspberry-bushes.
Whir! whir! whir! and a brood of half-grown partridges start up like
an explosion, a few paces from me, and, scattering, disappear in the
bushes on all sides. Let me sit down here behind the screen of ferns
and briers, and hear this wild hen of the woods call together her
brood. At what an early age the partridge flies! Nature seems to
concentrate her energies on the wing, making the safety of the bird a
point to be looked after first; and while the body is covered with
down, and no signs of feathers are visible, the wing-quills sprout
and unfold, and in an incredibly short time the young make fair
headway in flying.
The same rapid development of wing may be observed in chickens and
turkeys, but not in waterfowls, nor in birds that are safely housed
in the nest till full-fledged. The other day, by a brook, I came
suddenly upon a young sandpiper, a most beautiful creature, enveloped
in a soft gray down, swift and nimble and apparently a week or two
old, but with no signs of plumage either of body or wing. And it
needed none, for it escaped me by taking to the water as readily as
if it had flown with wings.
Hark! there arises over there in the brush a soft, persuasive cooing,
a sound so subtle and wild and unobtrusive that it requires the most
alert and watchful ear to hear it. How gentle and solicitous and full
of yearning love! It is the voice of the mother hen. Presently a
faint timid "Yeap!" which almost eludes the ear, is heard
in various directions,-the young responding. As no danger seems near,
the cooing of the parent bird is soon a very audible clucking call,
and the young move cautiously in the direction. Let me step never so
carefully from my hiding-place, and all sounds instantly cease and I
search in vain for either parent or young.
The partridge is one of our native and characteristic birds. The
woods seem good to be in where I find him. He gives a habitable air
to the forest, and one feels as if the rightful occupant was really
at home. The woods where I do not find him seem to want something, as
if suffering from some neglect of Nature. And then he is such a
splendid success, so hardy and vigorous. I think he enjoys the cold
and the snow. His wings seem to rustle with more fervency in
midwinter. If the snow falls very fast, and promises a heavy storm,
he will complacently sit down and allow himself to be snowed under.
Approaching him at such times, he suddenly bursts out of the snow at
your feet, scattering the flakes in all directions, and goes humming
away through the woods like a bombshell,-a picture of native spirit
and success.
His drum is one of the most welcome and beautiful sounds of spring.
Scarcely have the trees expanded their buds, when, in the still April
mornings, or toward nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted wings.
He selects not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log, but a
decayed and crumbling one, seeming to give the preference to old
oak-logs that are partly blended with the soil. If a log to his taste
cannot be found, he sets up his altar on a rock, which becomes
resonant beneath his fervent blows. Who has seen the partridge drum?
It is the next thing to catching a weasel asleep, though by much
caution and tact it may be done. He does not hug the log, but stands
very erect, expands his ruff, gives two introductory blows, pauses
half a second, and then resumes, striking faster and faster till the
sound becomes a continuous, unbroken whir, the whole lasting less
than half a minute. The tips of his wings barely brush the log, so
that the sound is produced rather by the force of the blows upon the
air and upon his own body as in flying. One log will be used for many
years, though not by the same drummer. It seems to be a sort of
temple and held in great respect. The bird always approaches on foot,
and leaves it in the same quiet manner, unless rudely disturbed. He
is very cunning, though his wit is not profound. It is difficult to
approach him by stealth; you will try many times before succeeding;
but seem to pass by him in a great hurry, making all the noise
possible, and with plumage furled he stands as immovable as a knot,
allowing you a good view, and a good shot if you are a sportsman.
Passing along one of the old Barkpeelers roads which wander aimlessly
about, I am attracted by a singularly brilliant and emphatic warble,
proceeding from the low bushes, and quickly suggesting the voice of
the Maryland yellow-throat. Presently the singer hops up on a dry
twig, and gives me a good view: lead-colored head and neck, becoming
nearly black on the breast; clear olive-green back, and yellow belly.
From his habit of keeping near the ground, even hopping upon it
occasionally, I know him to be a ground warbler; from his dark breast
the ornithologist has added the expletive mourning, hence the
mourning ground warbler.
Of this bird both Wilson and Audubon confessed their comparative
ignorance, neither ever having seen its nest or become acquainted
with its haunts and general habits. Its song is quite striking and
novel, though its voice at once suggests the class of warblers to
which it belongs. It is very shy and wary, flying but a few feet at a
time, and studiously concealing itself from your view. I discover but
one pair here. The female has food in her beak, but carefully avoids
betraying the locality of her nest. The ground warblers all have one
notable feature,-very beautiful legs, as white and delicate as if
they had always worn silk stockings and satin slippers. High tree
warblers have dark brown or black legs and more brilliant plumage,
but less musical ability.
The chestnut-sided belongs to the latter class. He is quite common in
these woods, as in all the woods about. He is one of the rarest and
handsomest of the warblers; his white breast and throat,, chestnut
sides, and yellow crown show conspicuously. Last year I found the
nest of one in an up-lying beech wood, in a low bush near the
roadside, where cows passed and browsed daily. Things went on
smoothly till the cow bunting stole her egg into it, when other
mishaps followed, and the nest was soon empty. A characteristic
attitude of the male during this season is a slight drooping of the
wings, and tail a little elevated, which gives him a very smart,
bantam-like appearance. His song is fine and hurried, and not much of
itself, but has its place in the general chorus.
A far sweeter strain, falling on the ear with the true sylvan
cadence, is that of the black-throated green-backed warbler, whom I
meet at various points. He has no superiors among the true Sylvia .
His song is very plain and simple, but remarkably pure and tender,
and might be indicated by straight lines, thus, ------ ------ v------
; the first two marks representing two sweet, silvery notes, in the
same pitch of voice, and quite unaccented; the latter marks, the
concluding notes, wherein the tone and inflection are changed. The
throat and breast of the male are a rich black like velvet, his face
yellow, and his back a yellowish green.
Beyond the Barkpeeling, where the woods are mingled hemlock, beech,
and birch, the languid midsummer note of the black-throated blue-back
falls on my ear. "Twea, twea, twea-e-e!" in the upward
slide, and with the peculiar z-ing of summer insects, but not
destitute of a certain plaintive cadence. It is one of the most
languid, unhurried sounds in all the woods. I feel like reclining
upon the dry leaves at once. Audubon says he has never heard his
love-song; but this is all the lovesong he has, and he is evidently a
very plain hero with his little brown mistress. He assumes few
attitudes, and is not a bold and striking gymnast, like many of his
kindred. He has a preference for dense woods of beech and maple,
moves slowly amid the lower branches and smaller growths, keeping
from eight to ten feet from the ground, and repeating now and then
his listless, indolent strain. His back and crown are dark blue; his
throat and breast, black; his belly, pure white; and he has a white
spot on each wing. |
