Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 4 [April 1902]

Major Bendire believes that when these Owls are once mated they are paired for life. He also likens their love-note, which is heard about sundown, to the call of the English cuckoo. He says that it is “a mellow, sonorous and far-reaching ‘coo-c-oo,’ the last syllables somewhat drawn out, and this concert is kept up for an hour or more. These notes are only uttered when the bird is at rest, sitting on the little hillock surrounding the burrow. While flying about a chattering sort of note is used and when alarmed a short shrill ‘tzip-tzip.’ When wounded and enraged it utters a shrill scream and snaps its mandibles rapidly together, making a sort of rattling noise, throws itself on its back, ruffles its feathers and strikes out vigorously with its talons, and with which it can inflict quite a severe wound.”

LONGING

I long for the wild woods and fields in the spring,For the hills and the streamlets once more.I long for a sight of all nature, to-day,When the drear, frozen winter is o’er,And Spring comes apace, and all nature in lifeIs now quickened to action more free,And the flowers are springing in valley and dell,And green grows the shrub and the tree.I long for a sight of the squirrels so gay,As they spring up the trees on the hill,I long for a sight of the waters that flowAnd that sing as they turn the old mill.I long for the songs of the birds in the grove,As they sing, at the sweet early dawn,And to feel the great heart-throbs of nature in glee —It is Spring now, and Winter is gone.– Frank Monroe Beverly.

THE WESTERN PINE SQUIRREL

Many peculiar things have been written about the red squirrel, or what is called out west, the Pine Squirrel. These frisky little animals are found in great numbers throughout eastern Washington. The northern part of eastern Washington abounds in pine forests, and those regions are a favorite abode for the squirrel.

Next to the large silver fox squirrel and the diminutive chipmunk, the Pine Squirrel is the most handsome, graceful and interesting member of that numerous family found in the Northwest. He is a bright, sprightly little fellow. During the long, bright, sunny days of spring, summer and autumn, the Pine Squirrel makes his home out of doors. His life seems to be one of perpetual sunshine and pleasure.

From early dawn to dusk the Pine Squirrel is on the move. He is never still for an instant. You see him scampering up and down the great trunk of a pine, fir or tamarack. Next, he is out on the tip end of a long, swaying branch. Then he is on the ground. The next instant he is running along the body of some prostrate tree.

He is full of curiosity. If you stand and watch him, he will return the compliment with interest. If you are perfectly still, the little chap will venture close and eye you very sharply. He is as quick as a flash, and if you chance to move, away he darts, uttering his peculiar, sharp, chattering call.

Rarely will you see him without something in his mouth. He is very dainty, however, as to what he eats. For all that he lives in the trees and on the ground, yet the Pine Squirrel has a permanent home. When chilling frosts visit the earth and the snow softly descends, the little fellow whisks away to his hole. However, he does not hibernate, like the bear. Not he. Often during the winter the squirrel will come out and take a view of the upper world. But this he does only when the weather is fine. He never shows himself when it is bitter cold and when storms prevail.

The Pine Squirrel leads no butterfly existence. He has the prudent forethought of the ant. He enjoys life and sports in the sunshine, but all the while he is carefully storing away a good supply of food to tide him over the winter. His home is generally well selected and his bed is soft and warm. He knows what comfort means. However, this Squirrel has some queer ways. In some parts of northeastern Washington there are a great many mushrooms and toadstools. The Pine Squirrel will spend days in gathering these peculiar growths and carrying them away, but not to his hole. He will carry some of them high up into trees and place them in the forks of branches, where the wind cannot shake them out.

Hundreds and thousands of these fungi will be placed in the forks of tall saplings, bushes, shrubs and even weeds. Some of the toadstools are larger than the squirrel himself, but, like the ant, he will keep tugging away, and finally the little fellow will land them where he wishes to have them placed.

So far as known, the Squirrel never eats the fungi. He does not take any to his hole, and after placing the toadstools in the brush he does not disturb them again. The fungi dries away and may be seen for several years. What instinct prompts the little creature to do this, is a mystery. I have never yet found any naturalist, trapper, hunter or frontiersman who could give a satisfactory explanation of the matter.

The wood rat and magpie will steal every imaginable article about a house, carry it away and secrete it. Most of these articles can not be eaten and are of no possible use to the rat or bird. Perhaps the Pine Squirrel is prompted by a similar instinct.

The Western Pine Squirrel is a perfectly harmless and peaceable animal. He is not known to attack any other animal except the weasel, and then only in self-defense.

J. Mayne Baltimore.

THE AUDUBON’S WARBLER

(Dendroica auduboni.)

Audubon’s Warbler bears the same relation to the Western United States that the myrtle warbler bears to the Eastern States. It inhabits the forests and thickets of the West from British Columbia southward as far as Guatemala in winter. And, as Dr. Coues has stated, it has rarely been known to pass to the eastward beyond the line of arboreal vegetation, which marks the easternmost foothills and outlying elevations of the Rocky Mountains.

During its migrations it is often associated with the titmouse and the ruby-crowned kinglet. It may be seen skipping about in the tree tops, actively engaged in searching for insects, which it will at times pursue in the air. It may be readily distinguished from the myrtle warbler, which it so closely resembles both in habits and actions, by its yellow instead of white throat, which is characteristic of the myrtle warbler.

Its nest is usually built in cone-bearing trees at a variable altitude of from three to thirty feet. These homes are neatly woven and usually constructed of fine strips of bark, pine needles and twigs. They are lined with fine roots, bark fibers, hair and feathers. In Colorado it is known to breed on the mountain sides at an altitude of nine or ten thousand feet.

The habits of this little warbler are well portrayed by Mrs. Whitman:

The little bird upon the hillside lonely,Flits noiselessly along from spray to spray.

THE SING-AWAY BIRD

Have you ever heard of the sing-away bird,That sings where the run-away riverRuns down with its rills from the bald-headed hillsThat stand in the sunshine and shiver?Oh, sing, sing away, sing away!How the pines and the birches are stirredBy the trill of the sing-away bird!And beneath the glad sun, every glad-hearted oneSets the world to the tune of its gladness;The swift rivers sing it, the wild breezes wing it,Till earth loses thought of her sadness.Oh, sing, sing away, sing away!Oh, sing, happy soul, to joy’s giver —Sing on, by Time’s run-away river.– Lucy Larcom.

SPRING NOTES FROM FEATHERED THROATS

IN NEW JERSEY

That individual unaffected by the first fluttering wings of returning spring migrants is an anomaly indeed. He must ever have been secluded beyond reach of trill or glint of the feathery kingdom, or else is pitifully invulnerable to one of nature’s chiefest charms. For who, having listened to the enraptured love-notes and witnessed the extravagant devotion, intermingled with drollest buffoonery, during the progress of some field or forest courtship, is beyond feeling interest and pleasure in these half-human and wholly unique performances? Or who has not felt a thrill of admiration, to be followed by one of commiseration, when one of the hunters of the air made his terrific plunge, hurtling down like an animated catapult, to strike his quarry ere it found cover in wood or thicket? To all those having formed some degree of bird companionship and who live where winter robs them of those friends of the fields and woods – to such returning spring would be incomplete without their coming. The earliest break in winter’s shackles tensions their ears to listen for the first returning migrant’s note. Of these the last to leave and first to brave the still vigorous, retreating winter gales is Sir Crow. Painted by popular disfavor even blacker than he merits, his departing caw, mingled with the wild goose’s “haunks,” as they winged southward, barely escaping the first cold wave. His caw has mellowed with his sunny vacation. In place of the discordant medley echoing from the final grove convention will come his spring notes, cawing a domestic cadence half musical, suggesting a chuckle of delight. By twos and threes these black-coated scouts struggle back to former frequentings. In early February, perhaps, when the ambitious sugar-maker is trying for his first “run,” he there catches his first glimpse of blue-black sheen as the northward flyer toilsomely sweeps through the naked trees. At this inhospitable season all of his proverbial cunning stands him in good stead, and truly he is a veritable solon of bird wisdom. Nature seemingly compensated for his gloomy dress and awkward flight by bestowing almost incredible sagacity behind his unattractive exterior.

We need not yet listen for other sweeter-voiced arrivals, but while waiting may give ear to some stay-at-home all-winter residents, the chickadee and his crested relative, the tufted titmouse, cheery chirpers and whistlers both, unconquered by the fiercest boreal blasts; the quiet-voiced and colored junco, the industrious creeper and nuthatch, not forgetting that hide-and-go-seek climber the downy woodpecker and his warmer colored, hairy relative. The woodpeckers, with their cheerful taps, trills and chatter, have done much to dispel the gloom of drear and frosty winter days.

But one is forgotten who in nature absolutely refuses to remain unnoticed – Sir Blue Jay – though an acknowledged cannibal and highwayman, he is withal so jaunty and attractive in everything but his voice and his habits as to convince his beholders that he is not half bad. With February’s closing days we may listen for the hardier representatives of the sparrow family, those twin aristocrats, the white-crowned and white-throated beauties, the more timid and ruddier fox, and the well-known song sparrow. Being unobtrusive in both song and garb, their first greeting may be missed, but the trained ear will soon catch the cheerful notes from hedge or brush pile, elicited by a chasing gleam of sunshine. These sweet-toned singers will prove a welcome contrast to the tiresome, incessant, complaining notes of their English cousins, who have spent the winter at the granary door or skirmishing in the garbage on the city streets. The sparrows are the beginner’s despair in ornithology, but are as interesting in habits, song and appearance as they are numerous and confusing. The observer who can readily distinguish them at all, from the familiar household “chippy” to the siskins, linnets and longspurs who frequent our latitudes only as erratic winter visitors, is truly to be envied. With March comes that steadfast commoner the robin and his warmer breasted thrush cousin, the bluebird. The former, with his matter-of-fact twitter of greeting, soon supplements it with a bar of his hearty if somewhat unpolished song. But the less intrepid bluebird will wait for a south wind’s caress ere his gurgle of delight will float earward as airily as his hovering flight.

Now come two black-coated cousins, the purple grackle and shoulder-strapped redwing of the blackbird family. Field hunters like the robin, but unlike the thrushes, when on the ground they are staid walkers instead of hoppers. These dusky beauties no sooner announce their arrival with songless cackling notes than they hurry away to inspect their last year’s nesting haunts, where scrambling clamor ensues for the most desirable locations. Like the crow they lose but little time in awaiting fine weather before preparing for housekeeping. Even before April’s soft showers commence falling, their bristling stick nests are in readiness, as are the crows’, jays’ and hawks’, while the owls’ wide-eyed nestlings are even then becoming fluffy balls of feathers in their better sheltered hollow-tree nests. But we must pass with but a word of greeting to the arrivals, would we keep pace with their increasing numbers. Now listen to the purple finch as he perches on highest twig, proclaiming his arrival with no uncertain sound. A very torrent of bubbling melody is he, though his breakfast may still be snow-enshrouded below. While he rests may be heard the meadowlark’s tremulous, plaintive diminuendo, as he alights from his halting, uncertain flight. Soon will follow the phœbe’s name-calling, tail-wagging cry and the barn swallow’s mumbling, metallic squeaking. His cliff or eaves-nesting cousin will a little later add his rasping notes as he repairs his plastered nest. In contrast to the swallow’s rhythmic chatter comes the oriole’s bugle call and flute-like whistle, which at evening was silent, but morning finds vocal. With increasing numbers, as the Mayflowers appear, come the crow-chasing kingbird and his twin-named fish-catcher. The first, with happy tinkling notes, the second with bill-chattering rattle. Again, morning hears the bobolink’s ecstatic songburst of tumultuous melody. Like ships he “passes in the night” and heralds his coming as no other can. Now the whippoorwill proclaims his apt naming, as evening closes in, while his nighthawk cousin booms an accompaniment as he wheels through the air above. The wood pigeon’s lament comes throbbing through the warm morning air, confirming his right to his other and better known “mourning dove” title. To drown the pigeon’s dirge-like plaint may now be heard the rollicking song of the goldfinch, his song and flight dipping in unison as he goes his careless way. With still another contrast comes the clucking cuckoo’s grumble as if in excuse for his tardy arrival. Now listen, for the chorus is complete! Though but few have been named, they are best known and with the unnamed larger half compose nature’s magnificent if sometimes inharmonious symphony. Among those unnamed are to be found many fully the equals of those so imperfectly represented in the preceding pen pictures. In fact, the wood thrushes and warblers unmentioned are as finished vocal performers as any of those heard in the open. Also in beauty and brilliancy of coloring some of the shyer and more silent wood residents eclipse their brethren of the fields. But birds are not learned in a day. Later on the student’s eye and ear will begin to recognize such flashy men of color as Messrs. Tanager, Towhee, Redstart, Waxwings, Redpoll and scores of others making up the lengthy list of warblers, thrushes, wrens, flycatchers and others less well known, especially by voice, which is often discordant in proportion to attractiveness of plumage. These fragmentary glimpses and sound pictures of our flitting friends have been attempted with the intention of introducing them to the ear rather than to the eye. Too much importance is often attached to the appearance to the neglect of aural attractions. Nothing can exceed the pleasure afforded the enthusiast in ornithology when able to readily distinguish his feathered friends by songs, notes, trills, and twitters making up their repertoires. As their voices greet him when awakening, no calendar is needed to trace the advancing seasons. The new voices added to the morning chorus and its diminishing volume as summer departs gives audible record to the ear familiar with bird-voice harmony. Again, when abroad in pursuit of duty or pleasure, a single note is sufficient to introduce to his ear a new or old-time friend. He well knows the first glimpse will disclose a dull or bright-hued coat, whose owner’s eyes are even then scanning him from some well concealed cover. If the learner would fully appreciate the charms of his bird acquaintances he should study each individual until known not only by appearance while at rest, but in every light, shade, attitude and movement, and he should study his voice until it is recognizable whether in full-throated song or modulated call or whistle. An occasional hour or vacation may accomplish much, and that often at our very doors; but to know these breezy, beautiful habitants aright city walls must be left behind.

Museum specimens, except for reference, must be shunned as inert, lifeless and voiceless. The bird only known by appearance is but half known. When known and understood their observers become their champions whose arms and voices will ever be raised to prevent their wanton destruction.

B. F. W. Thorpe.

THE SPIRIT OF SPRING

It came to me this morning, in my room, and filled my whole being with a subtle feeling of delight and mysterious glad expectancy. When I went downstairs they told me that it was colder than yesterday; that the thermometer registered 14 degrees above zero. But what care I for the thermometer? What does it know about spring?

Spring is a spirit which takes possession of the air, be it hot or cold, and makes one’s heart sing for joy.

The crows kept telling me the glad news, “Spring has come!” all the time I was dressing, and it was echoed in the tufted tit’s questioning note when he flew round the house to his breakfast on the window sill. When I started out for my morning walk the very air seemed filled with tiny voices proclaiming the good tidings.

I had not gone far before I heard a cardinal singing gloriously, his song answering the one in my own heart; and the theme was ever, “Spring has come!”

But the crowning surprise and joy of all came when I had reached the brook pasture. I stopped, listened and caught my breath; could it be on the 27th of February? Yes, a song sparrow! No one who is unacquainted with the purity and simple charm of this bird’s song, which breathes of all that is fair and good, can understand or appreciate the rapture I felt upon hearing it again this morning. Going on a little farther I heard another song sparrow; the two were singing by turns, answering each other in sweetest melody. One could scarcely wait until the other had finished his strain, so eager were they to pour out the good news.

Oh, if you who are tired or dull indoors will only go out these mornings and fill your lungs with the pure air of heaven and your hearts with the rapture of spring, how many of your cares will drop away! Nature’s myriad voices will talk to you if you will listen; the birds will sing to you the sweetest music in the world – God’s love in melody.

This joy in the beauties of Nature may be yours if you will; do not allow such a precious gift to escape you. It is beyond price, yet free to all. Each year adds to the wonder and value of Nature’s treasures; they are ever new, ever more and more welcome with each returning season. Happy are they who know and love them well.

Anne Wakely Jackson.

FROM AN ORNITHOLOGIST’S YEAR BOOK.

FLUTE OF ARCADY

In Ohio are many wide, grassy fields, covering the rounded hillslopes or filling open valleys. One day in March the world was white with snow, and I heard, as if in a dream, the soft cooing of the doves. Never before had I heard it except on sunny afternoons in pine woods, rich with warm, resinous odors. It is hardly a sound – rather silence perceptible, blending so perfectly with the sunshine, the hushed and brooding stillness of the air, the half-conscious sense of life, that I would often hear it a long while without knowing that I listened – the soft, tremulous cooing of the wood-doves, yet here the earth was white with snow and the air chill.

But the doves were right. Spring was near, and in a little while the feathery grass was nodding in the warm wind, gray and hazy, as the great white clouds swept overhead with wing-like shadows, or shining, each tiny blade like burnished steel, in the sunlight. The cooing of the doves had been only a low prelude; now the air was ringing with melody.

“N’er a leaf was dumb;Around us all the thickets rungTo many a flute of Arcady.”

The fresh, glad songs of the western meadow larks! Everywhere, everywhere, the air was vibrant with the poignant sweetness of their silvery voices; everywhere you might see the shining yellow of their breasts as they rose with strong wing; everywhere you might perhaps chance to stumble upon some nest of woven grasses. Often with arched covering, on the very ground, with the dear little brownish mother bending over four or six white eggs, freckled with cinnamon spots. It is the season of the larks, and earth and sky are more lovely for the magic of their singing. One hardly knows how to describe it in words. Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year! it seems to say to the listener, both in the east and west, but the song of the western meadow lark has a richer melody, a more piercing delight. It seems to talk of forgotten things; of youth and first hopes; first love; it has all the glamour of the far-away, and yet a sweetness of the near. It rises from the thick grass at your feet, yet it mounts towards the blue sky! It is a veritable Flute of Arcady blown with a breath of joy.

Ella F. Mosby.The dogwood blossoms white as snowTheir favors now to rambler show,And where the Winter’s latest driftThrough the dark moss did silent sift,All blossomed-starred, above the groundThe shy arbutus now is found.The cloud-capped mountains all appearWith verdant slopes and summits clear;The sun has lost its soulless glare —Earth, sea and sky are wondrous fair.– George Bancroft Griffith.

THE RED-BACKED SANDPIPER

(Tringa alpina pacifica.)

The sandpipers trip on the glassy beach,Ready to mount and fly;Whenever a ripple reaches their feetThey rise with a timorous cry.– Duncan Campbell Scott, “Sandpipers.”

Very early in the spring the Red-backed Sandpiper leaves its winter home in the States and countries bordering the Gulf of Mexico and starts on its long journey to the cooler region of the far north. It arrives in Alaska early in May, in full breeding plumage, and the males are soon engaged in prettily wooing the coy females. Mr. Nelson, who had unexcelled opportunities for studying the habits of these interesting sandpipers, well describes their courting habits. He says: “The males may be seen upon quivering wings flying after the female and uttering a musical, trilling note, which falls upon the ear like the mellow tinkle of large water-drops falling rapidly into a partly filled vessel. Imagine the sounds thus produced by the water run together into a steady and rapid trill some five or ten seconds in length, and the note of this Sandpiper is represented. It is not loud, but has a rich, full tone, difficult to describe, but pleasant to hear. As the lover’s suit approaches its end the handsome suitor becomes exalted, and in his moments of excitement he rises fifteen or twenty yards, and hovering on tremulous wings over the object of his passion, pours forth a perfect gush of music, until he glides back to earth exhausted, but ready to repeat the effort a few minutes later. The female coyly retreats before the advance of the male, but after various mishaps each bird finds its partner for the summer and they start off house-hunting in all the ardor of a rising honeymoon.”

The Red-backed Sandpiper is not a bird architect and it does not build even a simple home. A slight hollow on a dry knoll, which commands a clear view of some body of water, is the site usually selected. Here the eggs are laid, either upon the dry grass already in the hollow or upon a few bits of leaves, twigs and grass hastily gathered and placed without order. After the appearance of the eggs the male seems to realize the responsibility of family cares, for his merry song ceases and he devotes his share of time to sitting on the nest, protecting the eggs with his warm body. That this is the case is shown by the bare patches that appear on his breast at this season.

With such a home as is prepared for their reception, it is not surprising that the little red-backs leave the nest as soon as they are hatched and freely run about. When frightened they readily conceal themselves by sitting on the ground and remaining quiet.