Birds and All Nature, Vol. VI, No. 5, December 1899

No pictures have inspired so many young people with a desire to copy as have the color photographs. Their perfection of detail has not discouraged such attempts. The more easily copied lithograph has no such fascination. This shows that the nearer we approach nature in any presentation the more strongly we appeal to human nature and draw out its latent powers.

THE PILEATED WOODPECKER

BELLE P. DRURY

THIS noble bird may be found in wooded districts of Illinois, but I made its acquaintance in the Indian Territory, where it is quite common.

In size and beauty of color it is second only to the ivory-billed.

The Choctaw Indians told me it was the "Good God" bird. I asked what they meant by that designation. The reply was "Only listen and you will know."

For days I spent much time watching several pairs as they flew about among the trees on the Shawnee Hills, but the only sound I heard was the hammering of their strong stone-colored bills on the sides of the trees, a noise that might easily be heard a quarter of a mile away. They did not descend to fallen logs for their prey but made the chips and bark fly from the upright trees.

Naturalists say the pileated will occasionally leave the insect-laden trees in search of fruit and grain, a thing the ivory-billed never does.

My beautiful, noisy companions eyed me and my opera glass suspiciously, trying always to keep on the other side of the tree from me, and, for a time, gave me no hint of the reason for their Indian name.

But at last a hunter appeared upon the scene when the frightened birds bounded away through the air uttering a cry which did indeed resemble the words "Good God," spoken in gutteral tones. The marksman brought down a fine specimen, which he gave to me. With magnificent red top-knot and wide-spread wings it looks as if it might be longing to fly back to its home among the Shawnee Hills.

THE LYRE-BIRD

(Menura superba.)LYNDS JONES

IF AUSTRALIA were noted for no other thing than the ancient and strange animal forms which are to be found nowhere else on the earth, it would still be a wonderful continent. Not the least remarkable of these forms is the lyre-bird, the subject of the present sketch. Since its discovery on January 24, 1798, by one Wilson, it has been handed about among the different orders of birds by different systematists until its anatomy seemed to give it a more or less permanent place among the birds of passerine form, in spite of its fowl-like build and strong legs and large feet.

The appearance of the bird, except the superb tail, is not remarkable; but paradoxical as it may be, the tail is the bird's crowning glory, at once giving it a name and fame. Like many other cumbersome things, the lyre-bird's tail is used for ornament during a part of the year only, being donned at the mating season and doffed at the close of the nesting period. It assumes the lyre-shape only when voluntarily spread, appearing simply as a long, greatly developed tail at other times. The bird throws up a mound of earth, dome-shaped, which serves as a raised platform or stage well suited to tail spreading and other courting antics. Strutting and wing-dragging are accompaniments of the tail-spreading, and strongly suggest gallinaceous affinities, especially since the bird is the size of the ordinary barn-yard fowl.

In habits the lyre-bird is lowly, preferring the ground to bushes or trees, and running from danger rather than flying, the strong legs and feet permitting a swift retreat. Rarely the bird may mount a tree, ascending branch by branch instead of flying up at once. They are said to use the wings to aid them in running, and in hopping upward in the trees. They are so wary and timid that it is difficult to secure specimens except by resorting to deception or the use of dogs. The barking of the dogs drives them into the trees, allowing the hunter a fair mark. They are inhabitants of the dense brush from which it is next to impossible to dislodge them.

Authorities agree that the lyre-bird's powers of song are remarkable. It seems to have the power of mocking almost every other bird, as well as the barking of the dingo, besides possessing a sweet song of its own. One author states that for the first two hours of the morning it repeats over again its own song, then gradually changes it to imitate other birds, ending its four-hour song period with imitations of all the other birds within hearing, then remaining silent for the rest of the day.

The nest is a dome-shaped affair with the opening in one side, made of "small sticks, interwoven with moss and fibers of roots." "The single egg laid is of a very dark color, appearing as if it had been blotched over with ink." The young emerges from the egg a downy white ball, perfectly helpless, and remains in the nest for several weeks. The food seems to consist of insects, myriapods, and snails, of which large quantities must be destroyed to satisfy a bird of this size.

This is another of the world forms which are doomed to complete extinction. It is to be earnestly hoped that the time of its disappearance will await a more careful study of its habits than has been accomplished thus far. A study of these curious forms can hardly fail to throw much light upon the development of the bird fauna of the world.

ROBERT AND PEEPSY – THE TWINS

NELLY HART WOODWORTH

IN THE latter part of May a pair of Baltimore orioles built a nest in my maples, from which, eventually, a brood of noisy fledglings were launched upon the world. A quantity of Hamburg embroidery was woven into the nest and festooned gracefully from the outside.

This was obtained from my neighbor's washing as it lay bleaching upon the grass, a task demanding more time and strength than seemed necessary for useless ornamentation.

To all appearance the esthetic taste of the builders was more pronounced than was their family discipline.

The children were a clamoring, rollicking group, pushing each other about and insisting, forcibly, upon a high point of view that constantly threatened their frail lives. I was in constant fear lest they come tumbling down and it was not long before my worst fears were realized.

They fell, with a shower, upon the morning of the 23rd of June, tumbling pell-mell into the strawberry bed, the biggest baby picking himself up in a hurry, and climbing upon one of the fence wires.

The other nestlings were marched off by the head of the family to other fields of observation, the first little bird hopping from the fence to a wild rosebush that grew beside the kitchen door.

There he was fed by his father during the day; as his mother did not appear I inferred that she had her hands full with the other children.

Neither parent appearing the next morning, the first baby was put into a grape basket upon the window-sill.

Before noon the old birds came; the wire netting was removed from the window, both parents coming at short intervals into the kitchen with food.

To my surprise they did not return the following morning, when I fully intended to speed the parting guest, though the little one was placed in a cage outside the door. The helpless infant was left in an orphaned condition to my care; he could not feed himself, nor did he understand, under my tutelage, how to open his beak when food was brought. It was necessary to pry it open, the lunches coming so often that nearly all my time was spent in attending to his meals. That very evening the chore-boy brought a lank, long-legged bobolink which was given into my keeping only because it was threatened with starvation.

Like the oriole he was too young to feed himself and had been for twelve hours without food.

A more uninviting specimen of babyhood could not be imagined, forlorn, ragged, with unfeathered spaces upon his homely little body; but, though he had none of the oriole's commanding beauty, he was sure to perish unless regularly adopted and his infant wants supplied.

He was placed in the cage while the oriole was taking a nap, the introduction prefaced by being stuffed till his bare little crop was as round and full as an egg. Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller, who was with me at the time, assisted at the christening of the pair.

As the oriole was always peeping we called him "Peepsy;" the bobolink was named "Robert" with due respect to the Robert-o-Lincoln family.

They were oftenest called "the twins," and troublesome twins they were, waking me at three o'clock each morning and crying loudly for their breakfast, which was prepared the previous evening.

Peepsy was first taken in my hand and given a few mouthfuls, then Robert's turn came, after which Peepsy was thoroughly fed and when Robert's demands were appeased, both birds were returned to the cage for another nap.

After sleeping innocently for another hour they awoke, insisting with emphatic protest upon an immediate supply of rations.

There were times when they jerked their heads from side to side and not a morsel was safely lodged or appropriated, persisting in the clamor until, after patient effort, both little creatures were satisfied at last.

As may be surmised this was no enviable task, though the twins went promptly to bed at dusk leaving me free for the evening.

Peepsy was far the brighter bird. He took the lead at first, helping himself to his meals at times, twinkling the soft brown wings at my approach with most flattering evidences of favor.

Robert was a different bird; he scratched and bit, flopped about and hissed out his disapprobation.

The last was not without compensations. Whenever his beak was opened wide in disapproving hisses the opportunity was seized to fill it with food.

Sometimes his tactics changed; he would throw back his head and refuse to swallow. In a short time he took on prettier ways, now and then coaxing a little while receiving his meals with dainty baby eagerness.

From first to last their tastes diverged; Peepsy was high-born, Robert was of low degree. These low-born instincts preferring the cage floor he was given a sod to stand upon, the oriole's decided preference for higher stations culminating in the swing, his both by right of preference and forcible possession. In ten days Peepsy began to believe himself a full-grown bird. Then began an investigation of the cage and its appointments, diving into every corner, thrusting himself into the drinking cup as far as its size would allow, playing with the food, and throwing the earthworms given him to the top of the cage before attempting to swallow them. He would thrust his beak into Robert's feathers or catch hold of his legs, while the bobolink with ruffled plumage drew back with becoming indignation. He certainly was a homely baby which did not excuse the other twin for putting on airs, regarding him with lofty condescension, or stepping on his big, sprawling feet when they came too near. This unseemly behavior may have accounted for Robert's despondent hours from which he emerged to sing low and tentatively with the tinkling music of falling raindrops. Then they tried to stand upon one foot, balancing with great difficulty meanwhile, crowding into the swing and tumbling out upon the floor together.

In utter indifference to his own toilet Peepsy insisted upon preening Robert's plumage, calling his attention to the matter by vigorous pulls at his tail, or jerking some truant feather that beauty or tidiness required to be smoothed into place.

This unappreciated service was resented with many hisses, darting at the persecutor with wide-open beak and dire threatenings of vengeance, after which they cuddled up lovingly together for a nap.

For several days this self imposed helpfulness was so officious that the twins were separated lest Robert's temper, not over-good at the best, be permanently spoiled.

On this account Peepsy had the liberty of the house and went oftenest abroad. What with a better disposition and more enticing manners there was no resisting, whether it was coaxing to sit upon my finger or happy as bird could be when admired and caressed.

He would fly to my shoulder, pull a stray lock of hair lying against my throat, dodge skillfully when the hand was raised in protest, only to reappear and bite my lips as they moved in cautioning words.

He followed me to my chamber morning by morning, hopping up the stairs one at a time till we reached the top, when he flew to my shoulder and entered the room master of ceremonies.

As the clothes were replaced upon the bed he darted down upon sheets and blankets on purpose, seemingly, to be "shooed" away. Too much notice was spoiling the child, though his reign, poor baby, was short!

He was quite independent as to feeding himself when Robert first began to pick up cracker crumbs. What was stranger still, when the bobolink was well-versed in such matters, his memory was so unreliable that he forgot how to eat over night and had to be taught all over again for several mornings, nor would he swallow till the egg or cracker was thrust clear down his throat.

After the first month, in which the oriole took the lead, the order was reversed. Robert was first thereafter, coming to the front and taking entire charge of the establishment, chaperon, servant, adviser, nor was he above making sarcastic remarks at the expense of the faithful companion who followed closely at his heels.

He pecked at the little blue kid shoes on the perch above, pulled the tiny toes, tweaked the feathers and tried to pull them out, and behaved generally, I regret to say, most impolitely. With this increased assurance there was a marked gain in song.

He sang while we breakfasted or dined, the same ideally happy bobolink medley, a new discovery of the joy of living, lifting his voice in rainy days in rhythm with the shower, Peepsy joining with sundry encouraging notes but no real song.

After the first month both birds were fond of the bath; water in bowl, pitcher, or tumbler, was a challenge seldom ignored.

Robert's short memory and inexperience were liable to mistake the dish of cracker and milk for a bath tub, crowding into and flirting the contents over chairs and floor. He was specially fond of my mother, planting his feet in her soft, wavy hair and jerking her locks in utter disregard of all threatening.

The door to the next room, left ajar, was a ceaseless fascination. When the cage door was opened they started promptly, Robert leading, Peepsy following meekly, till they reached the crack in the door, stretching out their necks and peering with curious eyes into the room beyond; then, as if confronted with some terrible ogre they turned quickly about and hopped back to the cage.

The hidden possibilities were too great. In a moment back they came, repeating the search over and over, till the door was thrown open and they were at liberty to explore the terrors and resources of the room beyond. After one of these excursions Peepsy was found fast asleep in the narrow space between the door and the wall!

Both birds were very curious over the sweeping, Robert superintending, keeping just in front of the broom, hopping straight into the dust-pan, bristling his feathers when reproved, or flying, in frigid terror, if pursued. They helped also in preparing the meals, following from kitchen to pantry, from pantry to kitchen, till a too generous attendance was checked for the time by compulsory return to the cage.

Ignorant of all fear they became my constant companions from room to room, from house to garden and orchard, when wild birds looked down in wonder, coming from the higher branches to peer and question, Peepsy answering politely, fluttering the brown velvet wings in unavailing winningness, while Robert silently ignored their inquisitive ways. During the intense heat of midsummer I saw less of the twins than usual, the house being darkened as much as possible to exclude the heat. Opening my door I heard the patter of little feet as they crossed the hall; Peepsy stood upon the threshold and, with a welcoming chirp, flew towards me, coaxing and nestling against my cheek with many evidences of gladness.

The heat of the day was waning; the sun had withdrawn from the valley; the heights were radiant still, the peaks of the mountain range dazzlingly lit with golden light. I carried the bird out-of-doors and across the way where children were playing, the tiny guest enjoying the call thoroughly, lunching upon raspberries, exploring the rooms, "trying on" each nook and corner, and regarding with astonished interest a huge feather duster that lay upon the carpet.

Advancing and retreating before the huge monster, ruffling his feathers in rage, he hopped around it several times before his courage was equal to an attack. Then, with wide-spread wings he charged upon the savage enemy, striking it with his beak, trampling upon and biting the feathers.

When we returned Robert's indignation knew no bounds; he was furious.

He might have been jealous that Peepsy went abroad while he stayed at home; anyway, he pounced upon his brother in angry passion, caught his foot and jerked him off the perch, pulled out his feathers and tumbled him over upon the floor, when I interfered promptly.

As it was past their bedtime I saw them safely asleep, both little heads laid snugly against their wings, and thought by morning the quarrel would be forgotten. When I saw them next poor little Peepsy lay dead upon the cage floor. I strongly suspect that Robert rose early to help him out of the world; at least there was no appearance of suicide!

The remaining twin sang freely for a few hours; he had vanquished an imaginary foe and was singing the song of him who overcometh.

After that he seemed preyed upon by remorse, nor was he ever himself again, refusing food and pining away gradually through the few remaining weeks of his short life, when, in spite of all his faults, he died, as the storybooks say, much loved and lamented.

THE COWBIRD

(Molothrus ater.)C. C. M

"BUFFALO-BIRD" was formerly one of the names applied to this bird of strange habits, and Major Bendire, who was long an observer of all that took place on the plains, states that one will rarely see a bunch of cattle without an attending flock of cowbirds, who perch on their backs searching for parasites, or sit with "lazy ease," their familiarity with the cattle suggesting their name of cowbird. They also follow the freshly plowed furrows and pick up worms and larvæ. Mr. P. M. Silloway, who has made a very extended and careful study of the cowbird, says that its strange behavior and stealthy movements at certain seasons have prevented the acquisition of full data concerning many features of its life, and a few unfounded speculations about its habits have become current. It occupies a parallel place with the European cuckoo. It never builds a nest, but deposits its eggs in the homes of other birds, usually those of the smaller species. It is, therefore, a homeless creature, and its young are all orphans or adopted children. "It is, indeed, a peculiar bird, having no attractiveness of color, no beauty of voice, and no home. No wonder that, when in the haunts of other species, it hides and skulks as it seeks a suitable and convenient habitation to house its unborn orphan." Major Bendire gives a list of ninety-one birds in whose nests she has been known to leave her eggs. This includes woodpeckers, flycatchers, orioles, thrushes, sparrows, vireos, wrens, and warblers, but the most frequently imposed upon are so small that the cowbird's big nestling is almost certain to be the one to survive, the smaller birds being crowded out, and left to perish. It is said that as many as seven cowbird eggs have been found in a single nest, but there is generally only one. It is believed that a brood of insectivorous and useful birds is almost invariably sacrificed for every cowbird raised. Mr. Ridgway, in his fascinating book on the birds of Illinois, gives the following vivid picture of the female searching for a nest in which to deposit her egg: "She hunts stealthily through the woods, usually among the undergrowth, and when a nest is discovered, patiently awaits from a convenient hiding-place the temporary absence of the parent, when the nest is stealthily and hastily inspected, and if found suitable, she takes possession and deposits her egg, when she departs as quietly as she came." "In the village of Farmington, Conn.," says Florence A. Merriam, "we once saw a song sparrow on a lawn feeding a cowbird bigger than she. When she handed it a worm, one of my field class exclaimed in astonishment, 'I thought the big bird was the mother!'"

Some of the foster parents abandon their nests, or build a second nest over the eggs, but usually the little bird works faithfully to bring up the foundling. Sometimes the egg is recognized by the mother and quickly thrown out. Frequently, also, the cowbird will eject one or more eggs of the owner to make room for her egg, or to deceive the owner and leave the same number of eggs as were in the nest before her visit. Sometimes an egg of the owner is found on the ground near a nest containing an egg of the cowbird, and it is no unusual occurrence to find an egg of the cowbird lying near a nest of a species regularly imposed upon by the parasite. Silloway says that the wood thrush, towhee, field and chipping sparrows, yellow-breasted chat, and the Maryland yellow-throat are oftenest selected to bear the burden of rearing the young of the cowbird.

In their courtship the males are very gallant. They arrive from the south several days in advance of the females. At this season – about the middle of March – they generally associate in groups of six or eight, and the males are easily distinguished by the gloss of their black plumage in contrast to the dull brown of the female. They do not pair, the females meeting the advances of the males indiscriminately. Dr. Gibbs, however, thinks that the birds may pair frequently for the summer, and suggests this as reasonable, referring to an incident coming under his notice when he saw a blue jay, on the point of despoiling the nest of a vireo, driven away by a pair of cowbirds in a most valiant manner. In going to the nest he found a large over-grown cowbird occupying the largest share of the structure, "while a poor little red-eyed vireo occupied a small space at the bottom, and beneath his big foster brother."

The eggs of the cowbird hatch in eleven or twelve days. They average .88 by .65 of an inch, the length varying from .95 to .67 of an inch, and the width varying from .72 to .58 of an inch. The ground is a dingy white or gray, and the markings vary through all the shades of brown, sometimes evenly distributed over the surface, and at other times predominating around the larger end. There is so much diversity in the appearance of different specimens, that frequently the investigator is puzzled in distinguishing the true eggs of the towhee, cardinal, and other species from those of the cowbird.

In the breeding season the male grackles, red-winged blackbirds, and the cowbirds of both sexes, nightly congregate to roost together. Early after the breeding season they form into flocks of from fifty to sixty. The birds have then finished moulting, and the glossy black of the males has been changed into the duller colors of the females and the young. They assemble with the blackbirds of various species where food is most abundant and easy to be procured.

Late investigations of the food habits of the cowbird indicate that the species is largely beneficial. Prof. Beal showed the food of the cowbird to consist of animal and vegetable matter in the proportion of about twenty-eight per cent. of the latter. Spiders and harmful insects compose almost exclusively the animal food, while weed seeds, waste grain, and a few miscellaneous articles make up the vegetable food. Mr. Silloway thinks "it is not improbable that the so-called insectivorous birds displaced by the cowbird are thus kept in check by this natural agent, and their mission performed by the usurper in directions as helpful as the special functions of the sufferers. We may later come to understand that one cowbird is worth two bobolinks after all."

THE LEGEND OF SAINT SILVERUS

There runs an old, old legend,A tale of Christmas time,Low breathed round the firesideIn distant Northern clime;It tells how once an angelLooked down in mercy sweet,And bade the people listenTo hear the Master's feet:"Behold the Christ-child cometh!The King of love is near!Oh! bring your gifts of NoelUnto the Lord most dear."With golden grain of plentyFair shone each raptured home;The corn crown'd every dwellingWhereto the Christ should come.And one, a blue-eyed stripling,In longing all unknown,With heart aflame had laboredFor gift that God might own:"Behold the Christ-child cometh!"Up rose the music blest,And Silverus stood waitingWith sheaf the richest, blest.A tiny bird, nigh fainting,A little trembling thing,Through chilling airs of ChristmasDrew near on drooping wing;The people raised a clamor,They chased it from the corn,They drove it from the garlandsThat gleamed for Christmas morn:"Behold the Christ-child cometh!"His praise they fain would win;How could they bring to JesusAn offering marred and thin?On drooping, dying pinionThat vainly sought relief,The shivering bird down lightedWhere shone the proudest sheaf;And Silverus moved softly,Though dews all wistful stirred,Close, close within his bosomHe fed the fainting bird:"Behold the Christ-child neareth!"He spake in faltering tone,"The golden ears are broken,Yet broken for His own."And while the sheaf of beautyGrew marred and spent and bare,The sweet bird flew to heaven;The King of love stood there:"Oh! tender heart and Christlike,Whose yearnings soared on high,Yet could not see, uncaring,My weakest creature die!Lo, I am with thee always,My Christmas light is thine;The dearest gift of NoelIs pity poured for mine!"