Birds Illustrated by Color Photography Vol 3. No 4.

Marshall Saunders tells us that in Scotland seven thousand children were carefully trained in kindness to each other and to dumb animals.

It is claimed that not one of these in after years was ever tried for any criminal offense in any court. How does that argue for humane education? Is not this heart training of our boys and girls one which ought to claim the deepest sympathy and most ready support from us when we think of what it means to our future civilization? "A brutalized child," says this great-hearted woman, "is a lost child." And surely in permitting any act of cruelty on the part of our children, we brutalize them, and as teachers and parents are responsible for the result of our neglect in failing to teach them the golden rule of kindness to all of God's creatures. It is said that out of two thousand criminals examined recently in American prisons, only twelve admitted that they had been kind to animals during youth. What strength does that fact contain as an argument for humane education?

THE NIGHTINGALE

You have heard so much about the Nightingale that I am sure you will be glad to see my picture. I am not an American bird; I live in England, and am considered the greatest of all bird vocalists.

At midnight, when the woods are still and everybody ought to be asleep, I sing my best. Some people keep awake on purpose to hear me. One gentleman, a poet, wept because my voice sounded so melancholy. He thought I leaned my breast up against a thorn and poured forth my melody in anguish. Another wondered what music must be provided for the angels in heaven, when such music as mine was given to men on earth.

All that sounds very pretty, but between you and me, I'd sing another tune if a thorn should pierce my breast.

Indeed, I am such a little bird that a big thorn would be the death of me. No, indeed, I am always very happy when I sing. My mate wouldn't notice me at all if I didn't pour out my feelings in song, both day and night. That is the only way I have to tell her that I love her, and to ask her if she loves me. When she says "yes," then we go to housekeeping, build a nest and bring up a family of little Nightingales. As soon as the birdies come out of their shell I literally change my tune.

In place of the lovely music which everybody admires, I utter only a croak, expressive of my alarm and anxiety. Nobody knows the trouble of bringing up a family better than I do. Sometimes my nest, which is placed on or near the ground, is destroyed with all the little Nightingales in it; then I recover my voice and go to singing again, the same old song: "I love you, I love you. Do you love me?"

Toward the end of summer we leave England and return to our winter home, way off in the interior of Africa. About the middle of April we get back to England again, the gentlemen Nightingales arriving several days before the lady-birds.

THE NIGHTINGALE

NO doubt those who never hear the song of the Nightingale are denied a special privilege. Keats' exquisite verses give some notion of it, and William Drummond, another English poet, has sung sweetly of the bird best known to fame. "Singer of the night" is the literal translation of its scientific name, although during some weeks after its return from its winter quarters in the interior of Africa it exercises its remarkable vocal powers at all hours of the day and night. According to Newton, it is justly celebrated beyond all others by European writers for the power of song. The song itself is indiscribable, though numerous attempts, from the time of Aristophanes to the present, have been made to express in syllables the sound of its many notes; and its effects on those who hear it is described as being almost as varied as are its tones. To some they suggest melancholy; and many poets, referring to the bird in the feminine gender, which cannot sing at all, have described it as "leaning its breast against a thorn and pouring forth its melody in anguish." Only the male bird sings. The poetical adoption of the female as the singer, however, is accepted as impregnable, as is the position of Jenny Lind as the "Swedish Nightingale." Newton says there is no reason to suppose that the cause and intent of the Nightingales' song, unsurpassed though it be, differ in any respect from those of other birds' songs; that sadness is the least impelling sentiment that can be properly assigned for his apparently melancholy music. It may in fact be an expression of joy such as we fancy we interpret in the songs of many other birds. The poem, however, which we print on another page, written by an old English poet, best represents our own idea of the Nightingale's matchless improvisation, as some call it. It may be that it is always the same song, yet those who have often listened to it assert that it is never precisely the same, that additional notes are introduced and the song at times extended.

The Nightingale is usually regarded as an English bird, and it is abundant in many parts of the midland, eastern, and western counties of England, and the woods, coppices, and gardens ring with its thrilling song. It is also found, however, in large numbers in Spain and Portugal and occurs in Austria, upper Hungary, Persia, Arabia, and Africa, where it is supposed to spend its winters.

The markings of the male and female are so nearly the same as to render the sexes almost indistinguishable.

They cannot endure captivity, nine-tenths of those caught dying within a month. Occasionally a pair have lived, where they were brought up by hand, and have seemed contented, singing the song of sadness or of joy.

The nest of the Nightingale is of a rather uncommon kind, being placed on or near the ground, the outworks consisting of a great number of dead leaves ingeniously put together. It has a deep, cup-like hollow, neatly lined with fibrous roots, but the whole is so loosely constructed that a very slight touch disturbs its beautiful arrangement. There are laid from four to six eggs of a deep olive color.

Towards the end of summer the Nightingale disappears from England, and as but little has been observed of its habits in its winter retreats, which are assumed to be in the interior of Africa, little is known concerning them.

It must be a wonderful song indeed that could inspire the muse of great poets as has that of the Nightingale.

THE BIRDS OF PARADISE

THE far-distant islands of the Malayan Archipelago, situated in the South Pacific Ocean, the country of the bird-winged butterflies, princes of their tribe, the "Orang Utan," or great man-like ape, and peopled by Papuans and Malays – islands whose shores are bathed perpetually by a warm sea, and whose surfaces are covered with a most luxuriant tropical vegetation – these are the home of a group of birds that rank as the radiant gems of the feathered race. None can excel the nuptial dress of the males, either in the vividness of their changeable and rich plumage or the many strangely modified and developed ornaments of feather which adorn them.

The history of these birds is very interesting. Before the year 1598 the Malay traders called them "Manuk dewata," or God's birds, while the Portuguese, finding they had no wings or feet, called them Passaros de sol, or birds of the sun.

When the earliest European voyagers reached the Moluccas in search of cloves and nutmegs, which were then rare and precious spices, they were presented with dried skins of Birds so strange and beautiful as to excite the admiration even of these wealth-seeking rovers. John Van Linschoten in 1598 calls them "Avis Paradiseus, or Paradise birds," which name has been applied to them down to the present day. Van Linschoten tells us "that no one has seen these birds alive, for they live in the air, always turning towards the sun, and never alighting on the earth till they die." More than a hundred years later, Funnel, who accompanied Dampier and wrote of the voyage, saw specimens at Amboyna, and was told that they came to Banda to eat nutmegs, which intoxicated them and made them fall down senseless, when they were killed by ants.

In 1760 Linnaeus named the largest species Paradisea apoda (the footless Paradise bird). At that time no perfect specimen had been seen in Europe, and it was many years afterward when it was discovered that the feet had been cut off and buried at the foot of the tree from which they were killed by the superstitious natives as a propitiation to the gods. Wallace, who was the first scientific observer, writer, and collector of these birds, and who spent eight years on the islands studying their natural history, speaks of the males of the great Birds of Paradise assembling together to dance on huge trees in the forest, which have wide-spreading branches and large but scattered leaves, giving a clear space for the birds to play and exhibit their plumes. From twelve to twenty individuals make up one of these parties. They raise up their wings, stretch out their necks and elevate their exquisite plumes, keeping them in a continual vibration. Between whiles they fly across from branch to branch in great excitement, so that the whole tree is filled with waving plumes in every variety of attitude and motion. The natives take advantage of this habit and climb up and build a blind or hiding place in a tree that has been frequented by the birds for dancing. In the top of this blind is a small opening, and before day-light, a native with his bow and arrow, conceals himself, and when the birds assemble he deftly shoots them with his blunt-pointed arrows.

The great demand for the plumage of Birds of Paradise for decorative purposes is causing their destruction at a rapid rate, and this caprice of a passing fashion will soon place one of the most beautiful denizens of our earth in the same category as the great Auk and Dodo. —Cincinnati Commercial-Gazette.

TO A NIGHTINGALE

As it fell upon a day,In the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shade,Which a grove of myrtles made;Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,Trees did grow, and plants did spring;Everything did banish moan,Save the nightingale alone.She, poor bird, as all forlorn,Leaned her breast up – till a thorn;And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,That to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Teru, teru, by and by;That, to hear her so complain,Scarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs, so lively shewn,Made me think upon mine own.Ah! – thought I – thou mourn'st in vain;None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee;King Pandion, he is dead;All thy friends are lapped in lead;All thy fellow-birds do sing,Careless of thy sorrowing!– Richard Barnfield.Old English Poet.

THE ROSEATE SPOONBILL

SPECIMENS of this bird when seen for the first time always excite wonder and admiration. The beautiful plumage, the strange figure, and the curiously shaped bill at once attract attention. Formerly this Spoonbill was found as far west as Illinois and specimens were occasionally met with about ponds in the Mississippi Bottoms, below St. Louis. Its habitat is the whole of tropical and subtropical America, north regularly to the Gulf coast of the United States.

Audubon observed that the Roseate Spoonbill is to be met with along the marshy or muddy borders of estuaries, the mouths of rivers, on sea islands, or keys partially overgrown with bushes, and still more abundantly along the shores of the salt-water bayous, so common within a mile or two of the shore. There it can reside and breed, with almost complete security, in the midst of an abundance of food. It is said to be gregarious at all seasons, and that seldom less than half a dozen may be seen together, unless they have been dispersed by a tempest. At the approach of the breeding season these small flocks come together, forming immense collections, and resort to their former nesting places, to which they almost invariably return. The birds moult late in May, and during this time the young of the previous year conceal themselves among the mangroves, there spending the day, returning at night to their feeding grounds, but keeping apart from the old birds, which last have passed through their spring moult early in March. The Spoonbill is said occasionally to rise suddenly on the wing, and ascend gradually in a spiral manner, to a great height. It flies with its neck stretched forward to its full length, its legs and feet extended behind. It moves with easy flappings, until just as it is about to alight, when it sails over the spot with expanded wing and comes gradually to the ground.

Usually the Spoonbill is found in the company of Herons, whose vigilance apprises it of any danger. Like those birds, it is nocturnal, its principal feeding time being from near sunset until daylight. In procuring its food it wades into the water, immerses its immense bill in the soft mud, with the head, and even the whole neck, beneath the surface, moving its partially opened mouth to and fro, munching the small fry – insects or shell-fish – before it swallows them. Where many are together, one usually acts as a sentinel. The Spoonbill can alight on a tree and walk on the large branches with much facility.

The nests of these birds are platforms of sticks, built close to the trunks of trees, from eight to eighteen feet from the ground. Three or four eggs are usually laid. The young, when able to fly, are grayish white. In their second year they are unadorned with the curling feathers on the breast, but in the third spring they are perfect.

Formerly very abandant, these attractive creatures have greatly diminished by the constant persecution of the plume hunters.

THE ROSEATE SPOONBILL

If my nose and legs were not so long, and my mouth such a queer shape, I would be handsome, wouldn't I? But my feathers are fine, everybody admits that – especially the ladies.

"How lovely," they all exclaim, when they see one of us Spoonbills. "Such a delicate, delicate pink!" and off they go to the milliners and order a hat trimmed with our pretty plumes.

That is the reason so few of us spoonbills are to be found in certain localities now-a-days, Florida especially. Fashion has put most of us to death. Shame, isn't it, when there are silk, and ribbon, and flowers in the world? Talk to your mothers and sisters, boys, and plead with them to let the birds alone.

We inhabit the warmer parts of the world; South and Central America, Mexico, and the Gulf regions of the United States. We frequent the shores, both on the sea coast and in the interior; marshy, muddy ground is our delight.

When I feel like eating something nice, out I wade into the water, run my long bill, head and neck, too, sometimes, into the soft mud, move my bill to and fro, and such a lot of small fry as I do gather – insects and shell fish – which I munch and munch before I swallow.

I am called a "wader" for doing this. My legs are not any too long, you observe, for such work. I am very thankful at such times that I don't wear stockings or knickerbockers.

We are friendly with Herons and like to have one or two of them accompany us. They are very vigilant fellows, we find, and make good sentinels, warning us when danger approaches.

Fly? Oh, yes, of course we do. With our neck stretched forward and our legs and feet extended behind, up we go gradually in a spiral manner to a great height.

In some countries, they say, our beaks are scraped very thin, polished, and used as a spoon, sometimes set in silver. I wonder if that is the reason we are called Spoonbills?

The Spoonbills are sociable birds; five or six of us generally go about in company, and when it comes time for us to raise families of little Spoonbills, we start for our nesting place in great flocks; the same place where our nests were built the year before.

DICKCISSEL

MR. P. M. SILLOWAY, in his charming sketches, "Some Common Birds," writes: "The Cardinal frequently whistles the most gaily while seated in the summit of the bush which shelters his mate on her nest. It is thus with Dickcissel, for though his ditties are not always eloquent to us, he is brave in proclaiming his happiness near the fountain of his inspiration. While his gentle mistress patiently attends to her household in some low bush or tussock near the hedge, Dick flutters from perch to perch in the immediate vicinity and voices his love and devotion. Once I flushed a female from a nest in the top of an elm bush along a railroad while Dick was proclaiming his name from the top of a hedge within twenty feet of the site. Even while she was chirping anxiously about the spot, apprehending that her home might be harried by ruthless visitors, he was brave and hopeful, and tried to sustain her anxious mind by ringing forth his cheerful exclamations."

Dick has a variety of names, the Black-throated Bunting, Little Field Lark, and "Judas-bird." In general appearance it looks like the European House Sparrow, averaging a trifle larger.

The favorite resorts of this Bunting are pastures with a sparse growth of stunted bushes and clover fields. In these places, its unmusical, monotonous song may be heard thoughout the day during the breeding season. Its song is uttered from a tall weed, stump, or fence-stake, and is a very pleasing ditty, says Davie, when its sound is heard coming far over grain fields and meadows, in the blaze of the noon-day sun, when all is hushed and most other birds have retired to shadier places.

As a rule, the Dickcissels do not begin to prepare for housekeeping before the first of June, but in advanced seasons the nests are made and the eggs deposited before the end of May. The nest is built on the ground, in trees and in bushes, in tall grass, or in clover fields. The materials are leaves, grasses, rootlets, corn husks, and weed stems; the lining is of fine grasses, and often horse hair. It is a compact structure. Second nests are sometimes built in July or August. The eggs number four or five, almost exactly like those of the Bluebird.

The summer home of Dickcissel is eastern United States, extending northward to southern New England and Ontario, and the states bordering the great lakes. He ranges westward to the edge of the great plains, frequently to southeastern United States on the migration. His winter home is in tropical regions, extending as far south as northern South America. He is commonly regarded as a Lark, but is really a Finch.

In the transactions of the Illinois Horticultural Society, Prof. S. A. Forbes reports that his investigations show that sixty-eight per cent. of the food of the Dickcissels renders them beneficial to horticulture, seven per cent. injurious, and twenty-five per cent. neutral, thus leaving a large balance in their favor.

THOUGHTS

Who knows the joy a flower knowsWhen it blows sweetly?Who knows the joy a bird knowsWhen it goes fleetly?Bird's wing and flower stem —Break them, who would?Bird's wing and flower stem —Make them, who could?– Harper's Weekly.

THE DICKCISSEL

You little folks, I'm afraid, who live or visit in the country every summer, will not recognize me when I am introduced to you by the above name. You called me the Little Field Lark, or Little Meadow Lark, while all the time, perched somewhere on a fence-stake, or tall weed-stump, I was telling you as plain as I could what my name really is.

"See, see," I said, "Dick, Dick – Cissel, Cissel."

To tell you the truth I don't belong to the Lark family at all. Simply because I wear a yellow vest and a black bow at my throat as they do doesn't make me a Lark. You can't judge birds, anymore than people, by their clothes. No, I belong to the Finch, or Bunting family, and they who call me the Black-throated Bunting are not far from right.

I am one of the birds that go south in winter. About the first of April I get back from the tropics and really I find some relief in seeing the hedges bare, and the trees just putting on their summer dress. In truth I don't care much for buds and blossoms, as I only frequent the trees that border the meadows and cornfields. Clover fields have a great attraction for me, as well as the unbroken prairie.

I sing most of the time because I am so happy. To be sure it is about the same tune, "See, see, – Dick, Dick – Cissel, Cissel," but as it is about myself I sing I never grow tired of it. Some people do, however, and wish I would stop some time during the day. Even in the hottest noonday you will see me perched on a fence-stake or a tall weed-stalk singing my little song, while my mate is attending to her nest tucked away somewhere in a clump of weeds, or bush, very near the ground.

There, I am sorry I told you that. You may be a bad boy, or a young collector, and will search this summer for my nest, and carry it and all the pretty eggs away. Think how sorrowful my mate would be, and I, no longer happy, would cease to sing, "See, See, – Dick, Dick, Cissel, Cissel."

THE DUSKY GROUSE

UNDER various names, as Blue Grouse, Grey Grouse, Mountain Grouse, Pine Grouse, and Fool-hen, this species, which is one of the finest birds of its family, is geographically distributed chiefly throughout the wooded and especially the evergreen regions of the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific and northward into British America. In the mountains of Colorado Grouse is found on the border of timber line, according to Davie, throughout the year, going above in the fall for its principal food – grasshoppers. In summer its flesh is said to be excellent, but when frost has cut short its diet of insects and berries it feeds on spruce needles and its flesh acquires a strong flavor. Its food and habits are similar to those of the Ruffed Grouse. Its food consists of insects and the berries and seeds of the pine cone, the leaves of the pines, and the buds of trees. It has also the same habits of budding in the trees during deep snows. In the Blue Grouse, however, this habit of remaining and feeding in the trees is more decided and constant, and in winter they will fly from tree to tree, and often are plenty in the pines, when not a track can be found in the snow. It takes keen and practiced eyes to find them in the thick branches of the pines. They do not squat and lie closely on a limb like a quail, but stand up, perfectly still, and would readily be taken for a knot or a broken limb. If they move at all it is to take flight, and with a sudden whir they are away, and must be looked for in in another tree top.

Hallock says that in common with the Ruffed Grouse (see Birds, Vol. I, p. 220), the packs have a habit of scattering in winter, two or three, or even a single bird, being often found with no others in the vicinity, their habit of feeding in the trees tending to separate them.

The size of the Dusky Grouse is nearly twice that of the Ruffed Grouse, a full-grown bird weighing from three to four pounds. The feathers are very thick, and it seems fitly dressed to endure the vigor of its habitat, which is in the Rocky Mountains and Sierra Nevada country only, and in the pine forests from five to ten thousand feet above the level of the sea. The latter height is generally about the snow line in these regions. Although the weather in the mountains is often mild and pleasant in winter, and especially healthy and agreeable from the dryness and purity of the atmosphere, yet the cold is sometimes intense.

Some years ago Mr. Hallock advised that the acclimation of this beautiful bird be tested in the pine forests of the east. Though too wild and shy, he said, to be domesticated, there is no reason why it might not live and thrive in any pine lands where the Ruffed Grouse is found. Since the mountain passes are becoming threaded with railroads, and miners, herders, and other settlers are scattering through the country, it will be far easier than it has been to secure and transport live birds or their eggs, and it is to be hoped the experiment will be tried.

This Grouse nests on the ground, often under shelter, of a hollow log or projecting rock, with merely a few pine needles scratched together. From eight to fifteen eggs are laid, of buff or cream color, marked all over with round spots of umber-brown.

APPLE BLOSSOM TIME

The time of apple blooms has come again,And drowsy winds are laden with perfume;In village street, in grove and sheltered glenThe happy warblers set the air atune.Each swaying motion of the bud-sweet treesScatters pale, fragrant petals everywhere;Reveals the tempting nectar cups to beesThat gild their thighs with pollen. Here and thereThe cunning spoilers roam, and dream and sipThe honey-dew from chalices of gold;The brimming cups are drained from lip to lipTill, cloyed with sweets, the tiny gauze wings fold.Above the vine-wreathed porch the old trees bend,Shaking their beauty down like drifted snow:And as we gaze, the lovely blossoms sendFair visions of the days of long ago.Yes, apple blossom time has come again,But still the breezes waft the perfumes old,And everywhere in wood, and field, and glenThe same old life appears in lovelier mold.– Nora A. Piper.