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XI HAPS IN THE FIELD WHEN I desired a change
from the bird-life allowed to me by my autocratic neighbor chebec, I betook
myself to an old pasture overgrown with bushes and scattering trees, and found
a comfortable seat under a tree. This place was always
attractive, but was especially beautiful at the time the evergreens balsam
firs and spruces were putting on their new foliage, every branch and twig decorated
with light new tips, looking as if covered with blossoms; thus showing, as Emerson
says,
Even the juniper was frosted over with
freshness, and the bayberry looked sweet enough to eat. I tried Thoreau's plan
of "browsing," but I did not like it. In the pasture I found many
birds. The most delightful was the goldfinch, "in amber plumage freaked
with jet." No bird more fully than this small fellow creature expresses the
joy of living. His flight, as he goes bounding through the air uttering a
gleesome note with every wing-beat, is pure ecstasy. Often, when he has
apparently no desire to get anywhere, he will fling himself upon the air with
vehemence, make a wide circle, and return to his perch, or bound straight up
ten feet or more, and then drop back, pouring out his delicious notes,
evidently because he is so brimful of bliss,
The wooing of this dainty
little creature is comically like human society manners on similar occasions.
There is a whirl of excitement, everybody puts on his best airs, sings, if he
can sing, talks, if he can only talk. They indulge in dances and plays, take
excursions together, and fill the air with noise and song, α la young man and maiden. His wooing-song is rapture itself. The goldfinch has a
wonderful variety of songs and calls, and with his mate an apparently endless
number of conversational notes, all in the same sweet voice. He is one of the most
voluble of birds, and I am constantly hearing new utterances of various kinds
from him. The domestic life of the
pair is bewitching, the little matron so timid and clinging, with such an
appealing call, and the small spouse so tender and devoted, sobered from his
usual jolly mood, and fully impressed with his responsibility as head of the
family. They always remind me of a boy-and-girl play-marriage, a sort of Dora
and David Copperfield affair. When he approaches the nest and gives his coaxing
call, she is generally unable to resist it, but leaving nest or eggs, or
whatever engages her, flies out to join him, and away they go, bounding through
the air, shining like atoms of sunshine against the sombre spruces, and in a
moment returning to the point they started from. I have elsewhere told the
story of a young goldfinch having been cared for by a canary. Well-authenticated
cases of similar kindness to others are not uncommon among birds. The subject
has been treated from a scientific standpoint, it is said, by a French writer, who
asserts boldly that the animal is superior to man in altruism. "Animal
Societies," he says, "are less polished, but, all things being equal,
are more humane than ours." This doubtless sounds absurd to most people, but
one who has closely studied living birds, free, and under natural conditions,
finds much in their lives which makes him at least consider. An incident bearing on this
point occurred not long ago in a Western city. It caused surprise and aroused
great interest in those who saw it, and it is fully vouched for by unimpeachable
witnesses. This is the story: A nestling of the red-headed woodpecker species
was found on the ground, injured so that he could not fly, nor even hold on to
a branch when placed there by a sympathetic friend; and by the way, I once had
personal experience with a bird of the same species afflicted in the same way. The little unfortunate
remained on the ground, hopping about in disconsolate fashion, assiduously
attended by his distracted parents. Other woodpeckers came around and added
their assistance, but none of them could restore him to safety on a tree. While in this unhappy
position, he attracted the attention of a robin. Now this bird is not very
hospitable to strangers; indeed, he is conspicuously otherwise, but no bird
that I ever watched is unfriendly to the young. A baby seems to make the same
demand upon the tenderness of its elders in the bird-world that it does in the
human. The robin recognized the needs of the youngster, and bustled about till
he secured a lively earthworm, which he stuffed into the throat of the sufferer.
The conduct of the robin
was surprising to people not well acquainted with the ways of birds, but still
more strange was the effect of the baby's appeal on the family cat. This cat was
a great hunter, and when he saw a bird on the ground he started for it with the
obvious intention of eating it. On reaching it and seeing its helpless
condition, he seemed to appreciate the case, and instead of seizing what was to
him a tempting morsel, he began to play with the bird, as a cat plays with a
kitten. Several times this little drama was enacted, to the amazement of the
observers, who, let me say, were intelligent, trustworthy people. The
cedar-bird, or cedar-waxwing, was another tenant of the old field, and I saw
him that season for the first time in the position of head of a family. Through
apple-blossom time the year before I had watched a small party of cedar-birds
who spent much time in the orchard. They appeared to be very busy among the
blossoms, and I brought my strongest field-glass to see what they were doing. I
found that they were pulling off the white petals, dropping a part, but, to my
surprise, eating a part of them. I could see them very distinctly take a petal
in the beak and draw it in, crumpling as it disappeared. No doubt they were
primarily seeking insects among the blossoms, but they certainly added an
occasional petal to their bill of fare. That they did no harm to the fruit
became evident when apples appeared, which I noted carefully, as I remained
there till October. I never saw apple-trees so loaded. Branches were borne to
the ground, and even broken by their burden, while only one tree in the whole
orchard showed any signs of insects. The cedar-bird as every
one knows is a pattern of propriety, a feathered "Turvey-drop,"
without the faults of that apostle of "deportment." In every-day life
his plumage is never ruffled. He shows no excitement, has no restless, fidgety
ways, and his voice is never raised above the low tones of good breeding. He
will sit an hour at a time motionless, with an elegant repose of manner unequaled
by any bird of my acquaintance. One can almost believe that as some one says
a cedar-bird will die of nervous
shock if his plumage is soiled. Though he so much dislikes disorder, however,
he does not mind wet, no rain
disturbs his beautiful equanimity. He will sit during a heavy shower with perfect
composure, only laying his crest back flat upon his head, and occasionally
shaking out his plumage. Even through the agitations
of courtship, that time that tries man's (and bird's) soul, he abates not a
jot of his reserve and dignity. There is, however, one
period in the life of this interesting fellow creature when he no longer sits
by the hour silent and motionless on a twig as if glued to the perch, but is
all life and animation, arriving in a bustle, with feathers awry, and immaculate
plumage in slight disorder; when he forgets to be dignified, taking no stiff
attitude, but bending over, jerking about, and staying but a second in a place;
when he resents the appearance of the bird-student, and even swoops down towards
her in threatening manner; when one would think he must long for a voice to shriek
out his anxiety and distress. That time is during his parental cares, while he
is feeding and training his little family, especially after they have left the
nest and begin to show the reckless independence characteristic of the young bird
as well as human. Nothing can be more lovely
than the young cedar-bird in his soft, fluffy, gray-spotted coat and
yellow-tipped tail, looking straight into one's eyes with innocent, babyish
expression, and confiding ways that win the heart, or sitting beside his
brothers of the nest, hour after hour, with the composure of his race. One summer a young
cedar-bird alighted on the shoulder of a man passing down a rather wide
intervale, doubtless tired with the long flight across. He was brought in and
remained in the house a day, giving opportunity for a close examination of his plumage.
I was surprised to see the "sealing-wax" tips to his wing-feathers
already assumed, being like very fine threads, not more than one sixteenth of
an inch long, though of the regular sealing-wax color. The little fellow showed
no fear or dread of the human species, painfully reminding us that it is only in
ignorant infancy that a bird dares to trust us. Finding that the waif could fly
well, he was set free in a place frequented by the little group to which it was
supposed he belonged. On another occasion I have
seen a young bird of this species come onto a piazza where people were sitting,
fly about among them, and almost alight on one. They seem to be unusually
confiding youngsters. That summer also I had
another experience with the cedar-waxwing, as intimated above I saw him in
his domestic rτle. I first noticed one trying to secure a bit of string which
was tangled in an apple-tree. This, of course, aroused my suspicions, for when
a bird becomes interested in strings it is time to watch him. After tugging a
long time in vain, he went away, and in a moment returned with another,
presumably his mate, and both worked at the obdurate string. Several times
during the day the pair returned and struggled with that much-desired string. I watched, and saw the
birds go to a maple a little way off, where I soon found the nest, and a great
deal of soft chattering going on about it. I was pleased to see that the
cedarbird can be talkative in his subdued way. As head of the family this
bird was most devoted. He brought food constantly to the sitting bird, who left
the nest to receive it, fluttering her wings like a nestling, and chatting
volubly. The cedar-bird is under a
ban as a cherry-eater. No doubt he is fond of that fruit and eats some, though
not so much as is supposed. But I want to protest against the common fashion of
speaking of a bird taking fruit as "stealing." To the bird, with no
knowledge of human decrees, it is perfectly right to "take my own wherever
I find it," and the act has no moral significance whatever, while that
epithet, constantly applied, creates a prejudice against a most useful bird. It has been proved many times
over that the cedar-bird prefers to fruit canker-worms and other insects, of
which he eats enormous numbers, and even of fruit he chooses the wild instead
of the cultivated, when both are at hand. I have seen them, when low-bush blueberries
were ripe, bring their young family and spend nearly all day "blueber'n,"
as the natives say. In the fateful summer of
which I write, I saw what I had never seen before a flock of purple
finches. There were fifteen or twenty of them, and the singing was simply
ecstatic. One purple finch song is a delight, but when it is reinforced by
eight or ten other voices as bewitching as itself, the effect is bewildering.
This little flock were in the wildest spirits. They sang, and sang, and sang,
as if they were drunk with music, or had fairly gone mad. Even some of the demure
sparrow-garbed females (as I suppose) sang. Now and then I heard one alone on a
tree apparently singing to herself. It was a distinctly purple finch voice, but
it differed in arrangement, and was softer than any of the family I had heard.
I judged therefore that it was a female and not the young of the previous year,
although their plumage is so similar. The variety in dress of the
same species, as seen in this flock, was remarkable. Not only was the crimson
of the various individuals of different intensity and depth of coloring, but it
differed in extent. The breast, too, in some was of a muddy white or grayish
hue, while the finer specimens sported a breast of snowy white. The little
party were charmingly social. Sometimes they would fly out from a tall elm, all
chattering like a party of school-girls. From my seat I could see
the dead branch watch-tower the kingbird is so fond of having over his nest. I
soon found his nest in the top of an apple-tree, and saw that in this case he
had two dead branch outlooks on the world. The lower one curved up about a foot
above the nest, and was the one usually occupied by the mother, while the other
reached up fully two feet above the foliage, giving him a wide view over the
neighborhood. This person of the royal
name I found just as courteous to his mate as I have always found his species.
He greeted her with a few notes and slight lifting, of wings when she came, and
when he brought food after the young were out he alighted near and announced
himself, upon which she scrambled out of the nest and he administered the provision
to the nestlings, then retired to his watch-tower to guard them, while the
mother went off to feed. There was much low talk
between the kingbird pair, and some especially interesting over the youngsters
when one parent was alone. Both of the pair talked this baby-talk, which was
very low. I could scarcely hear it, although I was within six feet of the nest,
and perfectly silent. As usual, I found the young
kingbirds exceedingly interesting. When their heads began to show above the
edge of the nest they looked exactly like little old men with gray fur caps on,
and they began to show individuality as soon as they were out of the cradle. The
day they appeared on the branches of the apple-tree there came up a sudden
shower. Three of the four newly emancipated began to shake and plume
themselves, one of them indeed so frantically that he nearly lost his hold of
the branch time and again. Two worked with vigor, but less violence; but the
fourth sat there like a veteran without stirring a feather. This one always sat
a little apart from the other three, who crowded together as I have seen young kingbirds
before. At another time, in another
place, I was much interested in an exhibition of kingbird character. It was
during a severe northeast storm which lasted six days. There were two days of
strong, damp wind with heavy clouds, followed by three days' steady cold rain,
and another of wind. I noticed the kingbirds on the first day of the rain.
There was a little party of them nine or ten and they had possession of a
chestnut-tree and a willow beside it, both trees much larger than any other in
the vicinity. On these two trees they spent the day, often without moving for
an hour at a time, sitting upright as usual, making not the slightest effort to
get food. They did not fly out after insects; indeed, no insect could be abroad
in the steady rain. They did not attempt to take anything from the tree, and
they never went to the ground. I sat on the piazza for
several consecutive hours every day, and watched them constantly, for there was
nothing else to watch. Not only did they seek no food, they also appeared to
scorn to protect themselves from the rain. They took the most exposed
positions, outside dead twigs which these birds always like to perch on, and
sat there like philosophers, without moving a muscle, so far as could be seen.
They might have been wooden birds, for all the life they exhibited. On the
third day of constant rain the kingbirds did not appear. The kingbird is constantly
called belligerent, and I have always watched closely to see his treatment of
other birds. I never saw a kingbird object to any one except a robin
alighting on his nest-tree, the spot above all others a bird regards as
private property, and protects almost with his life. I have often seen
flycatchers, warblers, swallows, and even that shy fellow, the cuckoo, alight
on the kingbird's nest-tree when the so-called belligerent bird was on guard,
but he took not the slightest notice of any one of them. At the farther end of this
delightful half-wild pasture a rose-breasted grosbeak had set up her home. I
had not been able to find the nest, though I was sure it was there, for the
bird was so madly afraid of her human neighbors that I had n't the heart to
annoy her. I saw the head of the family very often, making himself useful in a
potato-field close by, and I waited with what patience I might for the advent
of the youngsters, whom I was sure no mother, however wary, could keep out of
sight. One afternoon I heard the
peculiar baby-cry of the grosbeak, and set out to find it. At the edge of the
thicket I was met by mamma, whose anxious salute assured me I was on the right
track. I paid no attention to her, but sat down quietly and waited. After
circling around me on all sides, repeating her sharp, metallic "klink,"
she was irresistibly moved as I hoped she would be to look upon her little
folks, to see how they fared; and thus she pointed them out to me. There they stood, two of
them, on the top branch of a tall maple, like silhouettes against the sky. They
were not much to look at, with beaks almost as big as their heads, and dressed
in brown and white, like the mother, but I was glad to see them. Hardly had I
taken a good look, however, when the mother discovered that my glass was
leveled at her young family, and instantly proceeded to remove her darlings in a
way I have seen other mothers do. She dashed past them, just over their heads,
almost but not quite touching them. This acted on the young grosbeaks with
the power of magic; they followed at once, as though unable to resist. (The
first time I saw this done, I thought the mother had knocked her baby off.) All
three disappeared in the trees beyond. One of my favorite seats
was in a bit of woods just beyond the pasture, beside a brook. There were
others who liked this particular nook as well. Among the rest a small party,
perhaps half a dozen, young cattle, "yearlings," as they were called.
They had a wide expanse of woods and clearings over which to roam, but their
invariable choice was an open spot across the brook from my seat. Here they
would sometimes lie, staring at me and chewing gum with the enthusiasm of a
backwoods school-girl, and sometimes stand about in a waiting attitude, doing
nothing in particular. If I moved, their ears pricked up, and when I rose, they
turned as one beast and fled in a panic, burying themselves in the deepest woods.
This would be funny if it were not somewhat mortifying to find oneself a
bugaboo to creatures so domesticated as barnyard cattle. The movement that had so
alarmed the beasts was to see who was stirring the ferns across the brook. As I
approached, a pair of juncoes flew up with easy, loitering flight. Surely, I
thought, their nest must be there, and I sought carefully among the ferns which
grew up around an old log, but no nest was there. I returned to my seat,
hoping the birds would themselves point it out, for they had not gone far, but
were hopping and flying about in the tree over my head, uttering their low
"tick," which became a sharp "smack" as they grew bolder.
At last one, and then the other, went to the ground at the foot of a tree
across the brook. Each went in behind a projecting root, stayed a few seconds,
and then flew to a branch and was quiet. Surely the nest must be
there, I said. Shall I go over and find it? But perhaps it is not there; then
why with rash fingers destroy my own hopes? Let me please myself with the fancy
that junco has chosen that snug spot for a nursery. Again, if it is there, why
should I draw the veil from his secret? By and by, when the babies are of age
to be presented, junco himself will bring them forward in their charming
speckled coats, and I shall see their innocent baby eyes and their
unconventional manners much more agreeably than by thrusting myself rudely upon
them in their nursery, while they are only scrawny, featherless youngsters, and
letting the poor little parents know they are discovered and their sweet
privacy is liable to invasion at any moment. No! I am not preparing a
"Scientific Report." I will assume for my own pleasure that the
junco family live across the brook under that convenient root. This assumption
gave me the pleasure of fancying the spot peopled with an interesting pair of neighbors,
and I enjoyed it, though, to whisper the truth, I never saw the birds go there again.
One resident of that
pleasant nook was not so welcome. Indeed, I have found him everywhere a serious
trial. It is a personage small in size, but great in his own opinion the
common chipmunk. Wherever one goes, however secluded the spot, or however
difficult of access, the chipmunk is sure to be there first, perfectly at home.
He is what our Western brothers call a "sooner," only his way is more
simple than that of the human individual so named. He does not stake out a
claim. He claims the whole, and is prepared to defend his right against all
trespassers, which he does effectually by protesting so vehemently that all
birds are driven out of the vicinity. What should the student do, if he were as
big in body as he is in spirit? On one occasion after an
hour of vain attempt to tire out a chipmunk, and thus see some of the other residents,
I resolved to seek another spot, if possible beyond the range of my noisy
neighbor. The place I found somewhat farther into the woods was delightful, but
hard to reach, being part way up the end of a rocky ledge which rose abruptly
from the ground. The way which apparently no one had trodden before me was
exceedingly steep, and slippery from its thick covering of dead leaves. By the
help of an alpenstock, and digging out footholds, as mountain-climbers cut them
in rocks, I reached the first ledge, and there I sat down to observe, and
consider whether I would attempt the next elevation. This place was most
attractive. One side was perpendicular rock partly covered with moss and clumps
of ferns, and in some places with big bark-covered roots of trees which had
strayed over the rock from above, seeking a more secure foothold. The other
side of my shelf looked into thick woods. The floor was in great waves as if
the earth's ribs came to the surface. Surely, I thought, I shall
have this place to myself. Alas, while the thought passed through my mind,
behold chipmunk himself who came after! Not laboriously hauling himself up, and
slipping back at every step, but lightly, easily skipping over every obstacle, with
only his four clasping feet to help him. O what discoveries in bird-ways might
one make were he but a chipmunk! It is a lesson in nest-finding to watch this
knowing little fellow. He goes into every hole, through every tuft of grass or
fern, thrusts his sharp nose into every crevice big enough for an egg, peeps
into every bush, runs out on every branch, all in perfect silence, and almost
as well as if he had wings. What bird indeed could hope to hide the nest from
him if he should happen to be fond of eggs! When his eyes fell upon me,
after the first moment of breathless surprise, when he sat upright with his two
hands upon his breast as if to still the beating of his heart, he turned and
fled, scampering over a fallen branch as if it were a highway, and from that giving
a great leap to a stump, where, safely beyond my reach, he sat up in virtuous
indignation, and uttered a voluble remonstrance against my presence in his
grounds. His shrieks and calls I
knew were as intelligible to the woods-dwellers as to me, and in order to see
any of them I must first silence him. I was obliged, therefore, to end his
attempts at intimidation, and break the heavenly stillness of the woods, by a
stick sent crashing through the branches near him. A hint of this sort is
usually enough for Chip. He recognizes the superiority of the human race when
it comes to a trial of force, and when one thus indicates that he is ready to
take a hand in the fray he generally retires to some safe retreat; while, if
the bird-student is meek and uncomplaining, the small autocrat will revile him
for half an hour, apparently without once pausing for breath. For a long time after I had
intimated to the chipmunk that his presence was not agreeable to me, there was
nothing to break what we call the silence of the deep woods, though it is
anything but that, being filled with its own mysterious sounds. The indefinable
awe which always steals over one when alone in the solemn woods had taken full
possession of me. I could not bear to move or make a sound, and had reached a
state of tense expectancy as if anything might happen. Suddenly on the top of the
ledge above my head there began a great crashing among the dry leaves, as if
some large beast were rising from his lair. I rose hurriedly, remembering in a
flash how far I was from the bars, how hard it would be to descend safely from
the rock, and hastily considering what I should do if the unknown monster started
down what now looked like a path toward me. The crashing continued: should I
flee? could I outrun any malicious beast? Should I spring open my umbrella at
him? Should I get out my "pocket-pistol," provided for a last resort,
and loaded, neither with powder nor liquor, but with something to give any
biped or quadruped wishing to force an acquaintance upon me, something else to
think of for the moment? While I hesitated lo, a
shriek that I knew; the saucy chipmunk emerged "full of fight," and I
suddenly remembered that one of these small creatures can make as much noise
scurrying about among the dry leaves as an elephant crashing through them. I was relieved but the
woods-spirit had departed. This ridiculous anti-climax broke the spell of
solitude, and put to flight all my reveries. I gathered up my belongings and prepared
to pick my perilous way down the rocks, musing upon my small tormentor. Why did
Nature make such a little beast, and endow him with such a big capacity for noise
and confusion? and above all, why did she place him in the heart of her most beautiful
creation the woods? |