Bird Portraits

No bird has livelier, more cheerful ways than our Goldfinch, and none becomes a greater favorite. People are often at considerable pains to remove the dandelion plants from their lawns; if the gay flowers themselves do not repay one for their presence, many would certainly allow them to remain in order to have the pleasant spectacle, in summer, of a flock of yellow Goldfinches scattered about the grass and feeding on the seeds.

THE BLUE JAY

Most people are surprised when they first learn that the Blue Jay is a near relative of the Crow. The difference in color is certainly marked, but in other ways the resemblance is striking. Neither bird can utter its most characteristic note without gesticulation. Watch a Crow from a car window when the caw is inaudible, and the bowing and opening of the wings are all the more noticeable. The motions which the Jay makes when screaming are not so well known, as the sound generally comes from a screen of leaves. Both birds are thieves and seem to relish their thieving life; both can live on almost any food; both are heartily hated by their neighbors in bird world. The Jay is more bitterly detested by the other birds than the Crow. He is himself suspicious, and at the approach of a hawk, owl, or man, warns the woods by his cries. Besides the ordinary djay, djay, the loud scream so familiar in the autumn woods, the Jay has other cries; a note like a wheelbarrow turning on an ungreased axle, a high scream exactly like the Red-shouldered Hawk's, and such a variety of lesser notes that one never is surprised to find that any unusual sound heard in the woods is produced by the Blue Jay.

Though one of the noisiest of birds when pursuing an intruder, the Jay has learned to slip through the trees without a sound, and conceals its bright blue and white in a remarkable way. A pair of Jays may be nesting in some evergreen in our very garden, and unless we happen to see the female slip into the tree, we may remain entirely unaware of their presence. The nest is roughly constructed of twigs and roots, and is placed in a tree from six to twenty feet from the ground. On a lining of finer roots are laid four or five brownish or greenish eggs, spotted with yellowish brown. The young are hatched by the middle or end of June.

The Jay in spring is undoubtedly a reprobate. He cannot resist the temptation to sneak through the trees and bushes, and when he finds a nest of eggs temporarily left by its owner, to thrust his sharp bill through the shells; even young birds are devoured. In the autumn, however, the Jay is a hearty, open fellow, noisy and intent on acorns and chestnuts. The woods ring with his loud screams, as he travels through them with his companions. It is amusing at this season to observe them obtaining chestnuts, a favorite food. They drive their powerful bills into a nut and wrench it out of the burr, then fly off with it to a convenient limb and hammer it open. Many Jays spend the entire winter in the northern woods, subsisting on nuts, but the large numbers observed in the fall are evidence that many others are moving southward, where food is more plenty.

Jays and squirrels are curiously associated; both live in the autumn and winter, innocently enough, on nuts and acorns; both, in spring, poach on the eggs and young of birds. One becomes fond of each of these rascals in spite of his undoubted villanies, and is glad that though neither Squirrel nor Jay is protected by law, and in some states both are constantly persecuted, neither seems to be diminishing in numbers.

In Europe, the Crow and the Jay have several relatives, many of whom, such as the Magpie, Rook, and Jackdaw, share the family characteristics. They are all thieves, clowns, and impudent fellows, and yet win, if not affection, yet a certain degree of good-humored toleration.

THE BROWN CREEPER

In the bands of little birds which in winter visit the trees about the houses, there are often three different species, all of which find their food on the trunks or large limbs of trees, but by such different methods that a study of their habits is not only interesting but also extremely instructive. The little Downy Woodpecker, like all its tribe, hitches up the trunk or along the upper side of the limb, using its stiff tail feathers as a support, and holding on to the bark by its two pairs of sharp claws. The Nuthatch, with a short weak tail, and toes arranged as in all song birds, three in front and one behind, has the toes, however, spread so wide that it can climb head downward, over, under, or around the limb. Least known of the three is the Brown Creeper. It, too, has three toes in front and one behind, but although not related to the Woodpeckers, it has developed stiff and pointed tail feathers. It therefore clings to the bark in an upright position, and it commonly begins at the bottom of the tree and works steadily upward, often in a spiral.

During the winter months, the Brown Creeper probably visits every village street and every city park in the Northern States, but as it is just the color of the weathered bark and moves close to it, it escapes the notice of nearly every one. If one learns to distinguish the fine wiry note, and watches the tree from which it proceeds, one sees the bird flutter to the base of a neighboring tree and begin again its steady ascent. When two birds are together, they sometimes indulge in a very pretty flight, and tumble in the air like pigeons. As a rule, however, the Creeper is solitary, and, in this respect, offers a marked contrast to its companions and relatives, the sociable Chickadees and Kinglets.

The eyes of a Creeper are so near the bark which it is inspecting, that it is not strange that it finds food where we should look in vain. It has, besides, a very long curved bill which will reach into crevices in the bark, and before the end of the winter, it has undoubtedly stripped the trees of a large proportion of the dormant insects and their eggs, especially as, like the other winter birds, it seems to have a very regular beat, visiting the same groups or rows of trees every day. Few birds are so strictly arboreal as the Creepers. The writer has only once seen one alight on the ground, when the bird flew to a little stream to bathe. In the ice storms which occasionally clothe every trunk and limb with a glassy covering, the Creeper has to confine itself to the leeward side of the trees. Occasionally the Creeper, on account of its practice of beginning at the bottom of the trunk, flies to a spot on the tree below the band of tarred paper, which protects the shade trees from the visits of the canker-worm moth. On reaching the band, the bird makes a circuit of the trunk, in a vain attempt to find a passage. It is better provided, however, than the wingless moths, and when the circuit has been made, a short flight carries it over.

In April, the Creeper leaves its winter quarters for the North, and joins many other species in the great spruce forests of northern New England and Canada. Occasionally, on warm mornings before its departure, the male indulges in a little song, of the thinnest quality imaginable. When the pair reach their northern home, they hunt for a crevice under some great flake of loose bark, and there construct their nest. The bark of trees, therefore, furnishes the Creeper with a cradle at birth and a home for the rest of its life.

THE BUTCHER BIRD

Every one who observes the habits of birds soon notices with astonishment the regularity with which they return each summer to the same spots to breed. This is perhaps not so strange in the case of breeding birds; they may be so fastidious in their selection of food or of a nesting site that only a few places suit them, or the spot where they bred one year may appeal to their affection and so be selected again. It is no less evident and more remarkable that birds that spend only the winter in our neighborhood often have as well defined a home as those that spend the summer. Every autumn, about the first of November, if one looks carefully at the topmost twigs of the small trees that are scattered about the edges of some marsh, the eye may finally catch, perched on the very top, the figure of a plump gray bird, with black wings and tail, about the size of a Robin. Its tail often moves as if the bird were balancing itself. A nearer view would show that its bill was stout and slightly hooked, like a hawk's. Among song birds, it is our largest regular winter visitor, and will remain near the same spot till the end of March, when it retires northward to breed. The same trees serve year after year as look-out posts; no doubt the bird remembers where to find the fattest mice and grasshoppers.

The Butcher Bird, or Shrike, is one of the few birds that seem to have developed a sense of humor. I have seen it attack and drive off birds far larger than itself, apparently out of simple mischief. It often indulges in a succession of strange noises, some of which resemble the song of the Catbird, but the whole performance is interspersed with chuckles, squeaks, and harsh sounds, or interrupted by a grating cry, so that it can make no pretense to be called melodious. It seems sometimes as if the bird were simply amusing itself.

For a while you will regard the Butcher Bird as a good-natured, good-looking fellow; it is not till you find, near its post of observation, mice or birds jammed into the crotches of twigs, or discover a thornbush decorated with grasshoppers and caterpillars, that you recall certain unpleasant reports about its character. When you finally see it dash into a flock of sparrows and hear their screech of terror, or see it tear out its victim's brains with that hooked bill, you will understand its hawk-like habit of sitting where it can survey its whole domain. The Hawks clutch their prey in their curved talons, and then tear it with their beak. The Shrike's claws are neither curved nor powerful, so that it is evident that it wedges its victims into forked twigs or impales them on thorns, so that it can then tear off portions to devour. But why it so often leaves them uneaten (the practice of thus displaying its wares has earned the bird its name) has never been satisfactorily explained. Perhaps the bird means to return to them in times of scarcity, but they are so often left uneaten that it seems probable that it has formed the habit of hunting and hanging up its game, often with no thought of eating it.

The Butcher Bird has often been persecuted for the destruction of smaller birds; it seems far wiser to protect it, not only in order to preserve so interesting a bird, but because birds form so small a per cent of its food. In the spring and fall, it lives very largely on insects, and throughout the winter, mice form a large part of its diet. There is always danger of blundering when man interferes in the concerns of nature, and if he once exterminates any creature, it is beyond his power to re-create it.

THE GOLDEN-CROWNED KINGLET

The Golden-crowned Kinglet is, next to the Humming-bird, almost our smallest bird, and it frequents thick evergreens so continually that it is rarely seen. There is little in its voice and habits to attract attention, and its activity and restlessness are so constant that we rarely catch sight of the bit of color which it possesses, – the crown which the little king carries. But if we train our ear so that it catches every fine natural sound, no matter how trifling, we become aware some crisp winter day of a thin see, see, see, often repeated from some hedge, or group of orchard trees. If we watch, our eye will catch sight of one or two tiny creatures, flitting restlessly among the twigs, keeping their wings in almost constant motion, even when not actually flying. The general color of the bird is a shade known in the books as olivaceous, but the effect outdoors and at a distance is a dark gray; across the wings there are little whitish bars, and over the head dark lines enclose the little crown, – yellow in the female, orange in the male.

If we succeed in attracting the Chickadees to our trees, by tying up bones, the Kinglets often come in their company, but their little bills are too weak to pick at the frozen gristle, and they merely glean from the twigs and buds. The little scale insects, the eggs of moths and spiders, all manner of minute objects, are detected by their sharp eyes and seized by their skillful little bills and tongues. At night, the band retires to some thick evergreen hedge or grove, ready the next morning to resume their busy rounds. In April, the male is moved to utter a simple little song, and by the end of the month the whole company move to the spruce forests of the North, not to return to us until the next September.

In the Northern States, the Golden-crowned Kinglet is the only species that remains all winter, but from Virginia southward its cousin, the Ruby-crowned Kinglet, is associated with it; in summer, strange to say, the more Southern winter species goes farther North than the Golden-crowned, breeding from northern Maine to the frigid zone. A few years ago, no eggs or nest of either Kinglet had been described, but when they were at last discovered, they proved as dainty as the little builders themselves. The nest is globular, with an entrance in the upper part; it is placed in a thick mass of spruce twigs and composed of hanging moss, ornamented with bits of dead leaves, and lined chiefly with feathers. In such a nest, as many as nine eggs are often laid; imagine the little Golden-crown brooding in this bower.

Like some of the Warbler family, the Kinglet does not let an insect escape, though it should take wing before it could be seized. The bird, too, has wings, and darts out after its prey. In winter, it often hovers under the piazza roofs, or the lintels of the barn door, and while in the air, picks off the eggs or chrysalids that have been hidden in the crevices. Occasionally one of the birds, in its eagerness to seize some attractive morsel, flies sharply against a windowpane. No doubt it is the part of a thrifty householder to sweep out the insects from his piazza roof, but there are some, like Lowell, wise enough to leave a few decayed limbs on their apple trees for the Woodpeckers, a patch or so of weeds for the Snowbirds, and a chrysalis or two for the hungry Kinglets in winter.

THE HERRING GULL

All winter, a traveler along the seashore sees the great gray gulls wheeling gracefully through the air with outstretched wings, floating lightly on the water, or sitting in long lines or compact masses on the bars or flats which are exposed at low tide. The harbors of all the northern seacoast cities are visited in winter by numbers of these birds, constantly on the watch for any bits of refuse which may be thrown from the wharfs or vessels, or brought down by the tides or currents. Their long and powerful wings make the flight of even so heavy a bird a sight beautiful to watch, and the water looks deserted when the motion and color which the gulls furnish is absent. But it is not to the eye alone that the birds appeal.

The ceaseless activity of the gulls in pursuit of floating refuse and their inordinate appetite make them invaluable scavengers; without them, the refuse dumped into the water would return at each tide to pollute the shore. No idea can be formed of the value of the service performed by the gulls, till one sees the countless throngs which hover over the dumping grounds in the lower New York Bay, awaiting the arrival of the scows with the refuse from that city. As the buzzards and vultures are protected in all warm countries for their services in devouring carrion, so ought these scavengers of the northern seas to be guarded from persecution.

The adult Herring Gull in full plumage has pure white underparts, head and tail, but a gray mantle, as it is termed, is spread over the wings. Young birds, however, show many shades of brown, and attain the white only after a year or two. The small, elegantly built birds, known along the seacoast as Mackerel Gulls, are not strictly gulls, but terns. They may be known by their forked tails and by their black caps. It is they that hover screaming over the water, constantly darting down to strike at fish.

Gulls breed commonly along the coast of Maine and far northward. Great colonies occupy a small area, and a visit to their breeding places is a marvelous experience. At the approach of an intruder, the parents rise from their nests and circle about overhead, uttering hoarse cries, till the air is full of their wheeling forms. The downy young squat in the grass or bushes till the danger is past.

Both gulls and terns have long been persecuted for their soft white and gray plumage, which is coveted for the adornment of women's hats. As the destruction of the birds on the islands where they are breeding would soon destroy the whole race, efforts are being made by the lovers of birds to protect the birds on all the sandy points or rocky islands where they rear their young.

Gulls have wonderful powers of flight, and some species often follow ocean steamers for days, flying constantly about the vessel's stern, watching for bits of food which may be thrown overboard. When an object is spied the whole flock dart upon it, and it soon disappears among the crowd of struggling birds.

In the Eastern States gulls are always associated with the sea, but in the Mississippi valley certain species are found on the prairies, where they follow the plough to seize the upturned insects.

THE CHICKADEE

Throughout the winter, bands of small birds visit the orchards and ornamental trees of every village and farm, gleaning dormant insects and their eggs from the twigs and boughs. The best known member and the leader, apparently, of the company is the Chickadee. There are generally about half a dozen of these birds together, possibly the parents and young of the preceding summer. The whole company are rarely in sight at any one time; some are in one tree, some are flying to the next, one perhaps is on the ground. There is a constant interchange of lisping call-notes, which break into excited gurgles, and the familiar tee, dee, dee, dee, when something excites their alarm or curiosity. It is not hard to disturb their composure; they come more easily than almost any other bird to the squeaking sound that bird students make to attract the attention of birds. One fluffy head after another pitches into the tree nearest the performer; then, by short stages, the boldest comes nearer to the strange sight and sound, often within arm's length. When their curiosity is appeased, they return to their examination of the twigs and branches, or, if startled by a sudden movement, they dive into the nearest cover.

Their positions when feeding on slender twigs are extremely graceful, and their agility surprising. When gathering sunflower seeds, of which they are extremely fond, they cling to the under surface of the drooping head and pick till they loosen the seed. Then they fly with it to a branch and hammer it open. A favorite winter food is the berry of the poison ivy. By tying a bone or a piece of suet to the branches of trees near the house, not only Chickadees but other birds as well will be attracted to the spot, and will become regular winter visitors. They are by no means confined, however, to villages and farms. Often as we push through the deep snows of the winter forests, the only sound will be the distant lisp of this hardy bird.

Besides the notes heard so commonly in winter, the Chickadee has a pensive and extremely gentle whistle, which it utters while sitting motionless, and oftener in spring than at other seasons, though it may be heard in every month of the year. It consists of two notes, an exact interval apart, and each accented. It is often mistaken, especially in early spring, for the song of the Phœbe, but it may be distinguished by its purity and sweetness. It is easily imitated by whistling, and the bird will often answer, or even fly toward the person whistling, and survey him with astonishment.

It is generally believed by people who see the bird only in winter that the Chickadees retire northward in spring; it is true that they then no longer frequent the yards and gardens, but in the woods and retired orchards many a pair have excavated some decaying birch or apple stump, and after lining it warmly with moss and feathers, provided amply for the continuance of their race; sometimes as many as nine eggs are laid. In winter, the birds spend the night in holes, not necessarily the same in which they were bred.

Several writers have mentioned instances of the extreme boldness of this bird; Mr. Chapman has had a Chickadee perch on his hand. One can easily imagine it, but we do not need such a mark of confidence to feel strong affection for this companionable and winter-loving bird.