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POPULAR WOODPECKERS THERE are
two birds
in Newton, the present summer, that have perhaps attracted more
attention than
any pair of Massachusetts birds ever attracted before; more, by a good
deal, I
imagine, than was paid to a pair of crows that, for some inexplicable
reason,
built a nest and reared a brood of young a year ago in a back yard on
Beacon
Hill, in Boston. I refer to a pair of redheaded woodpeckers that have
a nest
(at this moment containing young birds nearly ready to fly) in a tall
dead
stump standing on the very edge of the sidewalk, like a lamp-post. The
road, it
should be said, is technically unfinished; one of those “private
ways,” not
yet “accepted” by the city and therefore legally “dangerous,” though in
excellent
condition and freely traveled. If the birds had intended to hold public
receptions daily, — as they have done without intending it, — they
could hardly
have chosen a more convenient spot. The stump, which is about
twenty-five feet
in height, stands quite by itself in the middle of a small open space,
with a
wooded amphitheatrical knoll at its back, while on the other side it
is
overlooked by the windows of several houses, the nearest almost within
stone's
throw. So conspicuous is it, indeed, that whenever I go there, as I do
once in
two or three days, to see how matters are coming on, I am almost sure
to see
the birds far in advance of my arrival. They are
always
there. I heard of them through the kindness of a stranger, on the 26th
of June.
His letter reached me (in Boston) at two o'clock in the afternoon, and
at half
past three I was admiring the birds. It cannot be said that they
welcomed my attentions.
From that day to this they have treated me as an intruder. “You have
stayed
long enough.” “We are not at home to-day.” “Come now, old inquisitive,
go about
your business.” Things like these they repeat to me by the half hour.
Then, in
audible asides, they confide to each other what they think of me.
“Watch him,”
says one at last. “I must be off now after a few grubs.” And away she
goes,
while her mate continues to inform me that I am a busybody, a meddler
in other
birds' matters, a common nuisance, a duffer, and everything else that
is
disreputable. All this is unpleasant. I feel as I imagine a baseball
umpire
feels when the players call him a “gump” and the crowd yells “robber;”
but like
the umpire, I bear it meekly and hold my ground. A good conscience is a
strong
support. In sober
truth I
have been scrupulously careful of the birds' feelings; or, if not of
their
feelings, at least of their safety. I began, indeed, by being almost
ludicrously careful. The nest was a precious secret, I thought. I must
guard it
as a miser guards his treasure. So, whenever a foot-passenger happened
along
the highway at my back, I made pretense of being concerned with
anything in
the world rather than with that lamp-post of a stump. What was Hecuba
to me, or
I to Hecuba? I pretty soon learned, however, that such precautions were
unnecessary. The whole town, or at least the whole neighborhood, was
aware of
the birds' presence. Every school-teacher in the city, one man told me,
had
been there with his or her pupils to see them. So popular is
ornithology in
these modern days. He had seen thirty or forty persons about the place
at once,
he said, all on the same errand. “Look at the bank there,” he added.
“They have
worn it smooth by sitting on it.” I have not
been
fortunate enough to assist at any such interesting “function,” but I
have had
plenty of evidence to prove the truth of what I said just now — that
the birds
and their nest have become matters of common knowledge. On my third
visit, just
as I was ready to come away, a boy turned the corner on a bicycle,
holding his
younger sister in front of him. “Are they
here?” he
inquired as he dismounted. “Who?”
said I. “The
red-headed
woodpeckers,” he answered. He had
known about
the nest for some weeks. Oh, yes, everybody knew it. So-and-so found it
(I
forget the name), and pretty soon it was all over Newtonville. A
certain boy,
whose wretched name also I have forgotten, had talked about shooting
one of the
birds; he could get a dollar and a half for it, he professed; but
policeman
Blank had said that a dollar and a half wouldn’t do a boy much good if
he got
hold of him. He — my informant, a bright-faced, manly fellow of eleven
or
twelve — had brought his younger sister down to see the birds. He
thought they
were very handsome. “There!” said he, as one of them perched on a dead
tree
near by, “look!” and he knelt behind the little girl and pointed over
her
shoulder till she got the direction. After all, I thought, a boy is
almost as
pretty as a woodpecker. His father and mother were Canadians, and had
told him
that birds of this kind were common where they used to live. Then he
lifted his
sister upon the wheel, jumped up behind her, and away they trundled. At another
time an
older boy came along, also on a bicycle, and stopped for a minute's
chat. He,
too, was in the secret, and had been for a good while. “Pretty nice
birds,” his
verdict was. And at a later visit a man with his dog suddenly appeared.
“Handsome,
aren’t they?” he began, by way of good-morning. He had seen one of them
as long
ago as when snow was on the ground, but he didn’t discover the nest. He
was
looking in the wrong place. Since then he had spent hours in watching
the
birds, and believed that he could tell the female's voice from the
male's.
“There!” said he; “that’s the mother's call.” He was acquainted with
all the
birds, and could name them all, he said, simply by their notes; and he
told me
many things about them. There were grosbeaks here. Did I know them?
And tanagers,
also. Did I know them? And another bird that he was especially fond of;
a
beautiful singer, though it never sang after the early part of the
season; the
indigo-bird, its name was. Did I know that? As will
readily be
imagined, we had a good session (one doesn’t fall in with so congenial
a spirit
every day in the week), though it ran a little too exclusively to
questions and
answers, perhaps; for I, too, am a Yankee. He was the man who told me
about the
throngs of sightseers that came here. The very publicity of the thing
had been
the birds' salvation, he was inclined to believe. The entire community
had
taken them under its protection, and with so many windows overlooking
the
place, and the police on the alert (I had noticed a placard near by,
signed by
the chief, laying down the law and calling upon all good citizens to
help him
enforce it), it would have been hard for anybody to meddle with the
nest
without coming to grief. At all events, the birds had so far escaped
molestation, and the young, as I have said, would soon be on the wing.
One of
them was thrusting its full-grown, wide-awake, eager-looking,
mouse-colored
head out of the aperture as we talked. “But why so much excitement over a family of woodpeckers?” some reader may be asking. Rarity, my friend; rarity and brilliant feathers. So far as appears from the latest catalogue of Massachusetts birds, this Newton nest is one of a very small number ever found in the State, and the very first one ever recorded from the eastern half of it.1 Put that fact with the further one that the birds are among the showiest in North America, real marvels of beauty, — splendid colors, splendidly laid on, — and it is plain to see why a city full of nature lovers should have welcomed this pair with open arms and watched over their welfare as one watches over the most honored of guests. For my part, I should not think it inappropriate if the mayor were to order the firing of a salute and the ringing of bells on the happy morning when the young birds take wing. Tons of gunpowder have been burnt, before now, with less reason.
___________________________
1 The formal record will be found in the Auk, vol. xviii. p. 394. |