Birds Illustrated by Color Photography, Vol 3. No 6, June 1898

Various

Birds Illustrated by Color Photography, Vol 3. No 6, June 1898

JUNE

"What is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come prefect days."

YES, Lowell, in a few words, describes the month of June, or, at least, he indicates something of it. But, still, what are perfect days? We look for them in April, when the birds, many of them, certainly the most attractive of them, return from the south, and we find ourselves, when we visit the woods and parks, disappointed that the sun does not shine, that the air is not soft and balmy, and that the grass and leaves and buds do not show themselves in spring attire, for, on the contrary, we find winter lingering distressingly near, that the merry Warblers are silent, and that the "greenery of young Nature" is very slow to indicate her presence or even her early coming. We pull our wrappings about us and go home. April past, we then fancy that her older sister, May, beautiful in literary imagery – for do we not recall descriptive visions of May days of long ago, when the human blossoms danced about the May pole, lolled luxuriantly in the soft, tender grass, hid themselves in the deep-leaved trees, and at last gratified our imaginations with the belief that she is altogether perfect? Unfortunately a chill takes possession of us and we return home disconsolate. May also has disappointed us. We have had an experience which we shall not forget. We have seen and recognized many birds, but they have not sung for us. They have been, as they almost always are, influenced by the elements. And why should they not be? They have but one suit of clothes. Have you observed the Robin in the early spring? He is worth watching. We watched a fine specimen in south Washington Park in March last. It was a comparatively mild day for the windy month. He perched on a lateral limb of a leafless tree a few yards from Sixtieth street. Whether he saw us or not we could not be sure, as he took little notice beyond saying Toot-tut, toot-tut! He ruffled his suit and seemed as fat as feathers could make him. They seemed as important to him as were buffalo robes to the sleighing parties of a few days before. Still he was observant and seemed to be looking for stray food that would warm him up. We had some fresh crackers in our pocket, which we broke into fine fragments, and scattered, withdrawing several yards away. To our surprise, not only the Robin but several Nuthatches, some Brown Creepers, a number of English Sparrows, three or four Bluejays, and a gray Squirrel, (from whence he came I could not conceive, there being no large tree near in which he might have had a winter home) came with great promptitude to feed on the unexpected offering. Others, no doubt, have had this experience. Does it not suggest that the birds which remain with us the whole year round – finding, of course, during the spring, summer, and fall, sufficient for their wants, – should be looked after a little bit, if only that they may be permitted to escape from the sometime unusually severe storms of winter? Nature has provided them with ample feathery protection from her ordinary moods, but when she breaks out in icy blasts and snow that covers the very face of her they suffer and they perish.

But April, with its weather uncertainties – although it has long been said and believed that its showers bring May flowers – with its disappointments to all those who wish that the balm of mild breezes would come – longed for by the invalid and the convalescent, the lover of nature who would go forth to visit her and to court her, April seems a sort of humbug. And is May much better? How many days, "so calm, so sweet, so bright, the bridal of the earth and sky," come in May? A few do come, and we remember them. But, as Lowell says, perfect days are rare, even in June, when, if ever, come "perfect days." We think that Lowell nevertheless lived a little too far north to entitle him to state, even poetically, that perfect days are only to be enjoyed in June. Had he, with the writer, lived in southern Ohio, on the Little Miami river, and gone fishing in the month of May, he would, we think, have changed his mind. Or had he read the little less than perfect poem of W. H. Venable, which, it may be, however, was written later than the verses of our, many think, greatest poet, "June on the Miami," he might have put aside his books and his criticisms and his philosophy, and sought out the beautiful river of western history – then the sweetest stream that flowed in America, and even now, notwithstanding the giant sycamores have largely disappeared and the waters of the river have greatly diminished in volume, leaving only holes and ripples, – and modified his views of days perfect only in June. There were perfect days in May on the Miami. There were perfect days on all the streams that made it. The birds were multitudinous; they sang in chorus; they were, indeed, almost infinite in number – for the naturalist and the collector were unknown – the birds were natural residents, without fear of man, building their nests close to his habitations. A year or two ago we stopped off the cars in May in order to recall, if possible, in the shadow of a few remaining trees at a familiar place on the vanishing river, in the expected voices of the well known native birds, the delightful far-gone years. Verily we had our reward, but it was not satisfactory. It seems to us we should do our best, through legislation and personal influence to protect and multiply the birds.

– C. C. Marble.

OUR NEIGHBOR

We've a charming new neighbor moved in the next door;He is hardly new either, he's lived there before;I should think he had come here two summers or more;His winters he spends far away.He is handsome and stylish, most fine to behold,In his glossy black coat and his vest of bright gold;He is "proud of his feathers," so I have been told,And I half believe what people say.His wife is a beauty, he's fond of her, too;He calls her his "Judy;" I like it, don't you?And he sings every day all the long summer through,Yet he is not a bit of a bore.For he's a musician of wonderful power;I could list to his beautiful voice by the hour,As he sings to his wife in their green, shady bowerIn the elm tree that shadows my door.He's a sociable neighbor, we like him full well,Although we've not called yet, and cannot quite tellAll he says, tho' his voice is as clear as a bell,And as sweet as the notes of a psalm.Do you ask what his name is? Our dear little SueWas anxious to know it, and asked him it, too,And this was his answer, I'll tell it to you —"My name is Sir Oriole, ma'am."– L. A. P., in Our Dumb Animals.

BIRDS' NESTS

THE nest of the mourning dove. – The nest of the Carolina or Mourning Dove, which authorities place on the horizontal limb of a tree, is not always found in this situation, as I can testify. Last year, while wandering in early May through a piece of low woodland in Amherst, Mass., my eye was caught by a pair of well-grown youngsters covered with bluish pin feathers. The nest containing them – a loose affair of small sticks and leaves – was placed on the ground, or rather on the decayed base of a stump, surrounded by a ring of second-growth birches. Immediately suspecting their identity, I merged myself in the landscape after the manner of bird-lovers, and was soon rewarded by a sight of the parent Doves, who came sweeping down from a neighboring tree, uttering their pensive call-note. The pair had been frequent visitors about the lawn and drive-way for a few weeks previous.

I have heard of another similar instance of ground-nesting on the part of Wild Doves.

– Dora Read Goodale.

Wrens – That clumsy little bunch of animated feathers, the Wren, is undoubtedly the most contented of dwellers on the face of the earth. In country or city he is never homeless. Anything hollow, with an aperture large enough to admit his jaunty little self is sufficient, and so long as it remains undisturbed he is a happy tenant. The variety of sites selected by this agile little creature, is greater than that of any other bird.

It has been said that "a Wren will build in anything from a bootleg to a bomb-shell." And this seems to be so. Many an urchin can testify to having found the neat nest of the Wren in his cast-off shoe or a tin can, and nests filled with Wren eggs are frequent finds in odd places around the battle fields of the South.

The home of a Wren, a few miles from Petersburg, Va., furnishes the strangest case in the matter of queer habitations yet discovered. This country is the site of one of the most dramatic epochs of the civil war, and frequently the bones of unburied soldiers are picked up. Recently a rusty old skull was found in which one of these Wrens chose a shelter. The skull, when found, was hidden in a patch of shrubbery. The interior of the one-time pate was carefully cleaned out, and nestled in the basin of the bony structure was the birth-place of many a baby Wren. The skull made a perfect domicile. A bullet hole in the rear formed a window. An eyeless socket was the exit and entrance to the grim home. It is easy to imagine that many a family feud had its origin in the desire of others to possess so secure a home.

"I have myself," says A. W. Anthony, of San Diego, Cal., "watched Cactus Wrens in New Mexico carrying grass and thickening the walls of their old nests in October, for winter use, and have found them hidden in their nests during a snowstorm in November. But there is another trait in bird nature that I have seen very little of in print – that of building nests before or after the proper season, seemingly for the sole purpose of practice or pastime, the out-cropping of an instinct that prompts ambitious birds to build out of season even though they know that their work will be lost."

BRÜNNICH'S MURRE

THIS species, which inhabits the coasts and islands of the north Atlantic and eastern Arctic ocean, and the Atlantic coast south to New Jersey, has the same general habits as the common Murre, which, like all the Auks, Murres and, Puffins, is eminently gregarious, especially in the breeding season. Davie says that tens of thousands of these birds congregate to make their nests on the rocky islands, laying single eggs near one another on the shelves of the cliffs. The birds sit side by side, and although crowded together never make the least attempt to quarrel. Clouds of birds may be seen circling in the air over some huge, rugged bastion, "forming a picture which would seem to belong to the imaginary rather than the realistic." They utter a syllable which sounds exactly like murre. The eggs are so numerous as to have commercial value, and they are noted for their great variation in markings and ground color. On the Farallones islands, where the eggs were until recently collected for market purposes, the Murres nest chiefly in colonies, the largest rookery covering a hillside and surrounding cliffs at West End, and being known as the Great Rookery. To observe the egg-gatherers, says an eye-witness, is most interesting. "As an egger climbs his familiar trail toward the birds a commotion becomes apparent among the Murres. They jostle their neighbors about the uneven rocks and now and then with open bills utter a vain protest and crowd as far as possible from the intruder without deserting their eggs. But they do not stay his progress and soon a pair, then a group, and finally, as the fright spreads, the whole vast rookery take wing toward the ocean. In the distance, perhaps, we see, suspended over a cliff by a slender rope, an egger gathering the eggs from along the narrow shelves of rock, seeming indifferent to the danger of the work." All this is now changed, the authorities having intervened to prevent the wholesale destruction of the eggs. The Western Gull, however, is another enemy of the Murre (the California species;) it carries off and devours both eggs and young. Mr. Bryant says the Gull picks up a Murre's egg bodily and carries it away in his capacious mouth, but does not stick his bill into it to get hold, as is stated by some writers, whose observations must have referred to the eggs already broken by the Gulls or eggers.

The eggs of Brunnich's Murre cannot be distinguished from those of the common species. They show a wonderful diversity of color, varying from white to bluish or dark emerald-green. Occasionally unmarked specimens are found, but they are usually handsomely spotted, blotched, and lined in patterns of lilac, brown, and black over the surface.

THE CANADA GOOSE

Just a common Wild Goose of North America. In the spring and fall you will see great flocks of us flying overhead, an old Gander in the lead, crying honk, honk as loud as he can. Our nests are only simple hollows in the sand, on the shores of lakes and rivers, around which are placed a few sticks and twigs, the five eggs laid on a layer of gray down.

"You're a Goose."

That's a polite way some people have of calling another stupid, but there are Geese and Geese as well as men and men. I am going to tell you about one Goose that dearly loved her master, and considering the way he treated her you may conclude she was a stupid Goose after all.

Well, this particular Goose took such a fancy to her owner that she would follow him about like a dog, even to the village, where she would wait outside the barber's or other shop which he might enter.

People noticed this, and instead of calling the farmer by his proper name began to speak of him as "Mr. Goosey." This angered the man and he ordered the poor loving Goose to be locked up in the poultry-yard. Shortly after he went to an adjoining town to attend a meeting; in the midst of the business he felt something warm and soft rubbing against his legs; he looked down and there stood his Goose, with protruding neck and quivering wings, gazing up at him with pleasure and fondness unutterable.

The people about shouted with laughter, which so enraged her master, that seizing his whip, he twisted the thong of it about the poor bird's neck, swung her round and round, and supposing her dead, angrily threw her body out of the window.

A few days after Mr. Goosey was seized with a severe illness, which brought him to the verge of the grave. He recovered, however, and was able at length to sit beside the open window. There on the grass sat the Goose gazing up at him with the same old look of affection in her eyes.

"Am I never to be rid of that stupid thing?" he cried, but when he was told that through all his illness the faithful bird had sat there opposite his window, scarcely touching food, his hard heart melted, and from thenceforth Mr. Goosey treated his feathered friend with the greatest kindness.

THE CANADA GOOSE

"Steering north, with raucous cry,Through tracts and provinces of sky,Every night alighting downIn new landscapes of romance,Where darkling feed the clamorous clansBy lonely lakes to men unknown."

NORTH America at large is the range of this magnificent bird. Common Wild Goose and Grey Goose are its other names, and by which it is generally known. The Canada Goose is by far the most abundant and universally distributed of all North American Geese, and in one or other of its varieties is found in all the states and territories of our country except perhaps Florida and the Gulf States. In Texas, however, it is plentiful during the winter months. According to Hallock, although by far the greater portion of Wild Geese which pass the winter with us, go north to breed, still in suitable localities young are reared all over the United States from North Carolina to Canada. They nest in the wilder parts of Maine, and are especially numerous in Newfoundland near the secluded pools and streams so abundant throughout that island. There, remote from man, they breed undisturbed on the edges and islands of the ponds and lakes. The Geese moult soon after their arrival in the spring, and, says Hallock, owing to the loss of their pinion feathers are unable to fly during the summer or breeding seasons, but they can run faster than a man on the marshes, or if surprised at or near a pond, they will plunge in and remain under water with their bills only above the surface to permit breathing, until the enemy has passed by. They feed on berries and the seeds of grasses. Both the old and young become enabled to fly in September, and as soon after that as the frost affects the berries, and causes the seeds of the grasses on the marshes and savannas to fall to the earth, or otherwise when the snow falls and covers the ground, they collect in flocks and fly off to the southern shores of the island, and from thence to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, where they remain until December, and then assembled, take flight in immense flocks to the southern parts of America, to return in the spring.

The Canada Goose also breeds in great numbers on the Mississipi river, in which region it often places its nest in trees, choosing generally a cottonwood stub not more than thirty feet in height. The young are said to be carried from the nest to the water in the mother's bill, as are the young of the Wood Duck. (See Birds, vol. ii, p. 21).

The Wild Goose is often domesticated, and in many portions of the country they are bred in considerable numbers. When these birds return south at the commencement of winter they are generally very thin and poor, being quite worn out by their long journey. They soon recuperate, however, and in a short time become fat and are delicious eating. A full and excellent account of the method of capturing the Canada Goose may be found in Hallock's "Gazetteer."

THE BROWN CREEPER

I'm not a showy looking bird like my friend the Woodpecker, but my habits are something like his – and so is my tail. He uses his, you know, to aid him in climbing trees, and so do I. They call me the Creeper because I am always creeping over the timber in search of insects. If you ever see a brown-streaked little fellow, resembling a Wren, traveling up a tree in short stages, now stopping to pick out an insect lurking in the crevices of the bark, or returning head downwards to pounce on an unwary fly, that is your humble servant the Brown Creeper. Up again, you will then see me creep, just like a little mouse, uttering now and then a low plaintive note; clear to the top I go, exploring every nook and cranny, never using my wings once.

Last summer a little boy in the park wanted to get a good look at me, so he very slyly crept up to the tree which I was exploring, thinking, perhaps, that I was too busy to notice that he was there. But I did see him, for we little birds have to be always on the watch against our human, as well as feathered enemies, so I just stood still and peeked out at him from the other side of the tree. Very slily then he moved around to that side, and very slily did I move around to the other, keeping the tree trunk all the time between me and his bright blue eyes.

"He's playing hide and seek with me, Mama," he shouted, and so pleased was the little fellow that it was quite a while before I flew away.

Like the Woodpecker, I prefer a hole in a tree in which to build my nest, but instead of boring I look for a tree that has some of its bark loose enough for me to squeeze in. I line it with dry grass, moss, and feathers and see to it that the overhanging bark shelters me and my four, or six, white, red-speckled eggs.

THE BROWN CREEPER

A LITTLE mite of a bird is this pretty creature, which many observers claim is seldom seen, or, indeed, is known to few besides the special student of ornithology and the collector. We venture to assert that any one with fairly good eyes can see it almost any day creeping over the timber in search of its insect food. Besides seeing it in the deepest woods, we often notice it in the open places in parks, and in gardens and orchards it is quite common. It commences operations at the foot of a tree, and travels upwards in short stages, "now stopping to pick out an insect lurking in the crevices of the bark with its long, slender bill, or returning head downwards to pounce on an unwary fly. Up again it creeps, more like a mouse than a bird, occasionally uttering a low and plaintive note; right to the top of the tree it mounts, exploring every nook and cranny likely to reward its search as it goes. Now it creeps on the under side of a projecting limb, then again on the top, and although it will explore an entire tree, still it but rarely uses its wings to convey it from one part to another. You will also find that it, like the Woodpecker, endeavors to be on the opposite side to you, and carry on its explorations unseen." Curiosity, however, often seems to get the better of the Creeper, and you will see its light colored breast and sharp little head peep trustfully at you and again vanish from sight.

The Creeper is admirably adapted to its ways of life. Its bill is formed for obtaining its insect food, and its tail supports it while climbing.

The Brown Creeper nests in early summer, when insect life is most abundant, and, like the Woodpecker, prefers a hole for the purpose. This it lines with dry grass, moss and feathers, and makes a very warm and comfortable home. The eggs are from five to eight, white, spotted and speckled with red. The Creeper is not migratory, and we see it in the woods throughout the year. It is hardy and lives sumptuously the winter through. One who was very fond of the little creatures said: "If the Swallow were to visit us at this time, it would undoubtedly perish, for the air in winter is almost clear of insect life; but the little Creeper can live in ease when the sun is at Capricorn, just because he can climb so dexterously, for the bark of trees abounds with insects, and more particularly their eggs and larvae, which lie there torpid until called into life by the genial presence of the vernal sun."

THE DOWNY WOODPECKER

Another Woodpecker? Yes, there are such a tribe of us, you know; more than you can count on your fingers and toes, as my cousin the Red-Bellied Woodpecker said in the February number of Birds.

The word toes reminds me that I am not one of the three-toed fellows he was so anxious to tell about. I have four, as you see, two before and two behind. So have most of the Woodpeckers. Should you be looking out for me this summer you will recognize me by my four toes, the white band down my back, and the two white stripes on the side of my head.

My tongue you can't see, but it is small, flat, short, and horny, armed along the edges with hooks. When I catch an insect I do it by throwing my tongue forward, out of my mouth. I have an idea the insects consider my treatment of them rather rough. If I didn't eat them, the wood-boring ones, would destroy all the trees. My bill isn't strong enough to bore in the hard wood; I only injure the bark, no matter what some people may say. The wood-eating beetles, caterpillars, spiders, daddy longlegs, grass-hoppers, and flies, are all grist for my mill – or bill, rather. I like beechnuts, too, when I can find them.

I'm the smallest of all the Woodpecker family, quiet and unobtrusive they say, in my manners. I am sociable, however, and go about a great deal in the company of other birds. Mr. Nuthatch, Mr. Brown Creeper, Mr. Titmouse, and Mr. and Mrs. Wren are my especial friends.

Can I drum?

Indeed, yes. I wouldn't belong to the Woodpecker family if I couldn't. All I need is the stub of a dead limb whose center is hollow and whose shell is hard and resonant. I will drum on that with my bill for an hour at a time, stopping now and then to listen for a response from my mate or a rival.

Early in the spring we "Downies" pick a hole in a dead tree, or in a post or rail of a fence, in which we lay four, five, or six glossy white eggs. Sometimes it takes us a whole week to chisel out that hole, and we are so busy that a little boy or little girl can get very near without our minding it.

THE DOWNY WOODPECKER

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound,Save a Wood-drummer tapping on a hollow beech tree.

THIS little Woodpecker is the smallest of all those inhabiting the United States. In the shade trees about houses and parks, and especially in orchards, he may be frequently seen tapping or scratching on the limb of a tree within two or three yards' distance, where he has discovered a decayed spot inhabited by wood-boring larvae or a colony of ants, his food consisting of ants, beetles, bugs, flies, caterpillars, spiders, and grasshoppers. The late Dr. Glover of the Department of Agriculture, states that on one occasion a Downy Woodpecker was observed by him making a number of small, rough-edged perforations in the bark of a young ash tree, and upon examination of the tree when the bird had flown, it was found that wherever the bark had been injured, the young larvae of a wood-eating beetle had been snugly coiled underneath and had been destroyed by the bird. Beechnuts also constitute a considerable portion of the food of this bird. Dr. Merriam says that in northern New York they feed extensively on this nut, particularly in fall, winter, and early spring.