[Illustration: GOLDFINCH (page 125)]

 BIRD STORIES FROM BURROUGHS

 SKETCHES OF BIRD LIFE TAKEN FROM THE WORKS OF

 JOHN BURROUGHS

 _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOUIS AGASSIZ FUERTES_

 [Device]

 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge

COPYRIGHT, 1871, 1875, 1876, 1877, 1879, 1881, 1886, 1894, 1899, 1903, 1904, 1905, 1906, 1907, 1908, 1909, BY JOHN BURROUGHS

COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

Transcriber's Note:

 Hyphenation has been standardised. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. 

PUBLISHERS' NOTE

John Burroughs's first book, "Wake-Robin, " contained a chapter entitled"The Invitation. " It was an invitation to the study of birds. He hasreiterated it, implicitly if not explicitly, in most of the books he haspublished since then, and many of his readers have joyfully accepted it. Indeed, such an invitation from Mr. Burroughs is the best possibleintroduction to the birds of our Northeastern States, and it is likewisean introduction to some very good reading. To convey this invitation toa wider circle of young readers the most interesting bird stories in Mr. Burroughs's books have been gathered into a single volume. A chapter isgiven to each species of bird, and the chapters are arranged in a sortof chronological order, according to the time of the bird's arrival inthe spring, the nesting time, or the season when for some other reasonthe species is particularly conspicuous. In taking the stories out oftheir original setting a few slight verbal alterations have beennecessary here and there, but these have been made either by Mr. Burroughs himself or with his approval. 

CONTENTS

 THE BLUEBIRD 1

 THE BLUEBIRD (_poem_) 13

 THE ROBIN 15

 THE FLICKER 21

 THE PHŒBE 28

 THE COMING OF PHŒBE (_poem_) 31

 THE COWBIRD 33

 THE CHIPPING SPARROW 36

 THE CHEWINK 39

 THE BROWN THRASHER 42

 THE HOUSE WREN 47

 THE SONG SPARROW 53

 THE CHIMNEY SWIFT 61

 THE OVEN-BIRD 69

 THE CATBIRD 72

 THE BOBOLINK 77

 THE BOBOLINK (_poem_) 82

 THE WOOD THRUSH 83

 THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE 91

 THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 95

 THE BLACK-THROATED BLUE WARBLER: A SEARCH FOR A RARE NEST 100

 THE MARSH HAWK: A MARSH HAWK'S NEST, A YOUNG HAWK, AND A VISIT TO A QUAIL ON HER NEST 106

 THE WINTER WREN 119

 THE CEDAR-BIRD 122

 THE GOLDFINCH 125

 THE HEN-HAWK 130

 THE RUFFED GROUSE, OR PARTRIDGE 133

 THE PARTRIDGE (_poem_) 137

 THE CROW 138

 THE CROW (_poem_) 144

 THE NORTHERN SHRIKE 147

 THE SCREECH OWL 151

 THE CHICKADEE 157

 THE DOWNY WOODPECKER 161

 THE DOWNY WOODPECKER (_poem_) 169

 INDEX 173

ILLUSTRATIONS

 GOLDFINCH (_in color_). (page 125) _Frontispiece_

 A PAIR OF BLUEBIRDS 8

 FLICKER (_in color_) 22

 CHEWINK, MALE AND FEMALE (_in color_) 40

 WOOD THRUSH 84

 BALTIMORE ORIOLE, MALE AND FEMALE 92

 WHIP-POOR-WILL 96

 DOWNY WOODPECKER (_in color_) 162

BIRD STORIES FROM BURROUGHS

THE BLUEBIRD

It is sure to be a bright March morning when you first hear thebluebird's note; and it is as if the milder influences up above hadfound a voice and let a word fall upon your ear, so tender is it and soprophetic, a hope tinged with a regret. 

There never was a happier or more devoted husband than the malebluebird. He is the gay champion and escort of the female at all times, and while she is sitting he feeds her regularly. It is very pretty towatch them building their nest. The male is very active in hunting out aplace and exploring the boxes and cavities, but seems to have no choicein the matter and is anxious only to please and encourage his mate, whohas the practical turn and knows what will do and what will not. Aftershe has suited herself he applauds her immensely, and away the two go inquest of material for the nest, the male acting as guard and flyingabove and in advance of the female. She brings all the material anddoes all the work of building, he looking on and encouraging her withgesture and song. He acts also as inspector of her work, but I fear is avery partial one. She enters the nest with her bit of dry grass orstraw, and, having adjusted it to her notion, withdraws and waits nearby while he goes in and looks it over. On coming out he exclaims veryplainly, "Excellent! excellent!" and away the two go again for morematerial. 

I was much amused one summer day in seeing a bluebird feeding her youngone in the shaded street of a large town. She had captured a cicada orharvest-fly, and, after bruising it awhile on the ground, flew with itto a tree and placed it in the beak of the young bird. It was a largemorsel, and the mother seemed to have doubts of her chick's ability todispose of it, for she stood near and watched its efforts with greatsolicitude. The young bird struggled valiantly with the cicada, but madeno headway in swallowing it, when the mother took it from him and flewto the sidewalk, and proceeded to break and bruise it more thoroughly. Then she again placed it in his beak, and seemed to say, "There, try itnow, " and sympathized so thoroughly with his efforts that she repeatedmany of his motions and contortions. But the great fly was unyielding, and, indeed, seemed ridiculously disproportioned to the beak that heldit. The young bird fluttered and fluttered, and screamed, "I'm stuck, I'm stuck!" till the anxious parent again seized the morsel and carriedit to an iron railing, where she came down upon it for the space of aminute with all the force and momentum her beak could command. Then sheoffered it to her young a third time, but with the same result asbefore, except that this time the bird dropped it; but she reached theground as soon as the cicada did, and taking it in her beak flew alittle distance to a high board fence, where she sat motionless for somemoments. While pondering the problem how that fly should be broken, themale bluebird approached her, and said very plainly, and I thoughtrather curtly, "Give me that bug, " but she quickly resented hisinterference and flew farther away, where she sat apparently quitediscouraged when I last saw her. 

 * * * * *

One day in early May, Ted and I made an expedition to the Shattega, astill, dark, deep stream that loiters silently through the woods not farfrom my cabin. As we paddled along, we were on the alert for any bit ofwild life of bird or beast that might turn up. 

There were so many abandoned woodpecker chambers in the small deadtrees as we went along that I determined to secure the section of a treecontaining a good one to take home and put up for the bluebirds. "Whydon't the bluebirds occupy them here?" inquired Ted. "Oh, " I replied, "bluebirds do not come so far into the woods as this. They prefernesting-places in the open, and near human habitations. " After carefullyscrutinizing several of the trees, we at last saw one that seemed tofill the bill. It was a small dead tree-trunk seven or eight inches indiameter, that leaned out over the water, and from which the top hadbeen broken. The hole, round and firm, was ten or twelve feet above us. After considerable effort I succeeded in breaking the stub off near theground, and brought it down into the boat. "Just the thing, " I said;"surely the bluebirds will prefer this to an artificial box. " But, loand behold, it already had bluebirds in it! We had not heard a sound orseen a feather till the trunk was in our hands, when, on peering intothe cavity, we discovered two young bluebirds about half grown. This wasa predicament indeed!

Well, the only thing we could do was to stand the tree-trunk up again aswell as we could, and as near as we could to where it had stood before. This was no easy thing. But after a time we had it fairly wellreplaced, one end standing in the mud of the shallow water and the otherresting against a tree. This left the hole to the nest about ten feetbelow and to one side of its former position. Just then we heard thevoice of one of the parent birds, and we quickly paddled to the otherside of the stream, fifty feet away, to watch her proceedings, saying toeach other, "Too bad! too bad!" The mother bird had a large beetle inher beak. She alighted upon a limb a few feet above the former site ofher nest, looked down upon us, uttered a note or two, and then droppeddown confidently to the point in the vacant air where the entrance toher nest had been but a few moments before. Here she hovered on the winga second or two, looking for something that was not there, and thenreturned to the perch she had just left, apparently not a littledisturbed. She hammered the beetle rather excitedly upon the limb a fewtimes, as if it were in some way at fault, then dropped down to try forher nest again. Only vacant air there! She hovers and hovers, her bluewings flickering in the checkered light; surely that precious hole_must_ be there; but no, again she is baffled, and again she returns toher perch, and mauls the poor beetle till it must be reduced to a pulp. Then she makes a third attempt, then a fourth, and a fifth, and asixth, till she becomes very much excited. "What could have happened? amI dreaming? has that beetle hoodooed me?" she seems to say, and in herdismay she lets the bug drop, and looks bewilderedly about her. Then sheflies away through the woods, calling. "Going for her mate, " I said toTed. "She is in deep trouble, and she wants sympathy and help. "

In a few minutes we heard her mate answer, and presently the two birdscame hurrying to the spot, both with loaded beaks. They perched upon thefamiliar limb above the site of the nest, and the mate seemed to say, "My dear, what has happened to you? I can find that nest. " And he diveddown, and brought up in the empty air just as the mother had done. Howhe winnowed it with his eager wings! how he seemed to bear on to thatblank space! His mate sat regarding him intently, confident, I think, that he would find the clew. But he did not. Baffled and excited, hereturned to the perch beside her. Then she tried again, then he rusheddown once more, then they both assaulted the place, but it would notgive up its secret. They talked, they encouraged each other, and theykept up the search, now one, now the other, now both together. Sometimesthey dropped down to within a few feet of the entrance to the nest, andwe thought they would surely find it. No, their minds and eyes wereintent only upon that square foot of space where the nest had been. Soonthey withdrew to a large limb many feet higher up, and seemed to say tothemselves, "Well, it is not there, but it must be here somewhere; letus look about. " A few minutes elapsed, when we saw the mother birdspring from her perch and go straight as an arrow to the nest. Hermaternal eye had proved the quicker. She had found her young. Somethinglike reason and common sense had come to her rescue; she had taken timeto look about, and behold! there was that precious doorway. She thrusther head into it, then sent back a call to her mate, then went fartherin, then withdrew. "Yes, it is true, they are here, they are here!" Thenshe went in again, gave them the food in her beak, and then gave placeto her mate, who, after similar demonstrations of joy, also gave themhis morsel. 

Ted and I breathed freer. A burden had been taken from our minds andhearts, and we went cheerfully on our way. We had learned something, too; we had learned that when in the deep woods you think of bluebirds, bluebirds may be nearer you than you think. 

 * * * * *

One mid-April morning two pairs of bluebirds were in very active and attimes violent courtship about my grounds. I could not quite understandthe meaning of all the fuss and flutter. Both birds of each pair werevery demonstrative, but the female in each case the more so. Shefollowed the male everywhere, lifting and twinkling her wings, andapparently seeking to win him by both word and gesture. If she was nottelling him by that cheery, animated, confiding, softly endearing speechof hers, which she poured out incessantly, how much she loved him, whatwas she saying? She was constantly filled with a desire to perch uponthe precise spot where he was sitting, and if he had not moved away Ithink she would have alighted upon his back. Now and then, when sheflitted away from him, he followed her with like gestures and tones anddemonstrations of affection, but never with quite the same ardor. Thetwo pairs kept near each other, about the house, the bird-boxes, thetrees, the posts and vines in the vineyard, filling the ear with theirsoft, insistent warbles, and the eye with their twinkling azure wings. 

 [Illustration: BLUEBIRD Upper, male; lower, female]

Was it this constant presence of rivals on both sides that so stimulatedthem and kept them up to such a pitch of courtship? Finally, after I hadwatched them over an hour, the birds began to come into collision. Asthey met in the vineyard, the two males clinched and fell to theground, lying there for a moment with wings sprawled out, like birdsbrought down by a gun. Then they separated, and each returned to hismate, warbling and twinkling his wings. Very soon the females clinchedand fell to the ground and fought savagely, rolling over and over eachother, clawing and tweaking and locking beaks and hanging on like bullterriers. They did this repeatedly; once one of the males dashed in andseparated them, by giving one of the females a sharp tweak and blow. Then the males were at it again, their blue plumage mixing with thegreen grass and ruffled by the ruddy soil. What a soft, feathery, ineffectual battle it seemed in both cases!--no sound, no blood, noflying feathers, just a sudden mixing up and general disarray of bluewings and tails and ruddy breasts, there on the ground; assault but novisible wounds; thrust of beak and grip of claw, but no feather loosenedand but little ruffling; long holding of one down by the other, but nocry of pain or fury. It was the kind of battle that one likes towitness. The birds usually locked beaks, and held their grip half aminute at a time. One of the females would always alight by thestruggling males and lift her wings and utter her soft notes, but whatshe said--whether she was encouraging one of the blue coats or beratingthe other, or imploring them both to desist, or egging them on--I couldnot tell. So far as I could understand her speech, it was the same thatshe had been uttering to her mate all the time. 

When my bluebirds dashed at each other with beak and claw, theirpreliminary utterances had to my ears anything but a hostile sound. Indeed, for the bluebird to make a harsh, discordant sound seems out ofthe question. Once, when the two males lay upon the ground withoutspread wings and locked beaks, a robin flew down by them and for amoment gazed intently at the blue splash upon the grass, and then wenthis way. 

As the birds drifted about the grounds, first the males, then thefemales rolling on the grass or in the dust in fierce combat, andbetween times the members of each pair assuring each other of undyinginterest and attachment, I followed them, apparently quite unnoticed bythem. Sometimes they would lie more than a minute upon the ground, eachtrying to keep his own or to break the other's hold. They seemed sooblivious of everything about them that I wondered if they might not atsuch times fall an easy prey to cats and hawks. Let me put theirwatchfulness to the test, I said. So, as the two males clinched againand fell to the ground, I cautiously approached them, hat in hand. Whenten feet away and unregarded, I made a sudden dash and covered them withmy hat. The struggle continued for a few seconds under there, then allwas still. Sudden darkness had fallen upon the field of battle. What didthey think had happened? Presently their heads and wings began to brushthe inside of my hat. Then all was still again. Then I spoke to them, called to them, exulted over them, but they betrayed no excitement oralarm. Occasionally a head or a body came in gentle contact with the topor the sides of my hat. 

But the two females were evidently agitated by the sudden disappearanceof their contending lovers, and began uttering their mournfulalarm-note. After a minute or two I lifted one side of my hat and outdarted one of the birds; then I lifted the hat from the other. One ofthe females then rushed, apparently with notes of joy andcongratulation, to one of the males, who gave her a spiteful tweak andblow. Then the other came and he served her the same. He was evidently alittle bewildered, and not certain what had happened or who wasresponsible for it. Did he think the two females were in some way toblame? But he was soon reconciled to one of them again, as was theother male with the other, yet the two couples did not separate till themales had come into collision once more. Presently, however, theydrifted apart, and each pair was soon holding an animated conversationpunctuated by those pretty wing gestures, about the two bird-boxes. 

These scenes of love and rivalry had lasted nearly all the forenoon, andmatters between the birds apparently remained as they were before--themembers of each pair quite satisfied with each other. One pair occupiedone of the bird-boxes in the vineyard and reared two broods there duringthe season, but the other pair drifted away and took up their abodesomewhere else. 

THE BLUEBIRD

 A wistful note from out the sky, "Pure, pure, pure, " in plaintive tone, As if the wand'rer were alone, And hardly knew to sing or cry. 

 But now a flash of eager wing, Flitting, twinkling by the wall, And pleadings sweet and am'rous call, -- Ah, now I know his heart doth sing!

 O bluebird, welcome back again, Thy azure coat and ruddy vest Are hues that April loveth best, -- Warm skies above the furrowed plain. 

 The farm boy hears thy tender voice, And visions come of crystal days, With sugar-camps in maple ways, And scenes that make his heart rejoice. 

 The lucid smoke drifts on the breeze, The steaming pans are mantling white, And thy blue wing's a joyous sight, Among the brown and leafless trees. 

 Now loosened currents glance and run, And buckets shine on sturdy boles, The forest folk peep from their holes, And work is play from sun to sun. 

 The downy beats his sounding limb, The nuthatch pipes his nasal call, And Robin perched on tree-top tall Heavenward lifts his evening hymn. 

 Now go and bring thy homesick bride, Persuade her here is just the place To build a home and found a race In Downy's cell, my lodge beside. 

THE ROBIN

Not long after the bluebird comes the robin. In large numbers they scourthe fields and groves. You hear their piping in the meadow, in thepasture, on the hillside. Walk in the woods, and the dry leaves rustlewith the whir of their wings, the air is vocal with their cheery call. In excess of joy and vivacity, they run, leap, scream, chase each otherthrough the air, diving and sweeping among the trees with perilousrapidity. 

In that free, fascinating, half-work-and-half-playpursuit, --sugar-making, --a pursuit which still lingers in many parts ofNew York, as in New England, --the robin is one's constant companion. When the day is sunny and the ground bare, you meet him at all pointsand hear him at all hours. At sunset, on the tops of the tall maples, with look heavenward, and in a spirit of utter abandonment, he carolshis simple strain. And sitting thus amid the stark, silent trees, abovethe wet, cold earth, with the chill of winter still in the air, there isno fitter or sweeter songster in the whole round year. It is in keepingwith the scene and the occasion. How round and genuine the notes are, and how eagerly our ears drink them in! The first utterance, and thespell of winter is thoroughly broken, and the remembrance of it afaroff. 

One of the most graceful of warriors is the robin. I know few prettiersights than two males challenging and curveting about each other uponthe grass in early spring. Their attentions to each other are socourteous and restrained. In alternate curves and graceful sallies, theypursue and circumvent each other. First one hops a few feet, then theother, each one standing erect in true military style while his fellowpasses him and describes the segment of an ellipse about him, bothuttering the while a fine complacent warble in a high but suppressedkey. Are they lovers or enemies? the beholder wonders, until they make aspring and are beak to beak in the twinkling of an eye, and perhapsmount a few feet into the air, but rarely actually deliver blows uponeach other. Every thrust is parried, every movement met. They followeach other with dignified composure about the fields or lawn, into treesand upon the ground, with plumage slightly spread, breasts glowing, their lisping, shrill war-song just audible. It forms on the whole themost civil and high-bred tilt to be witnessed during the season. 

In the latter half of April, we pass through what I call the "robinracket, "--trains of three or four birds rushing pell-mell over the lawnand fetching up in a tree or bush, or occasionally upon the ground, allpiping and screaming at the top of their voices, but whether in mirth oranger it is hard to tell. The nucleus of the train is a female. Onecannot see that the males in pursuit of her are rivals; it seems ratheras if they had united to hustle her out of the place. But somehow thematches are no doubt made and sealed during these mad rushes. Maybe thefemale shouts out to her suitors, "Who touches me first wins, " and awayshe scurries like an arrow. The males shout out, "Agreed!" and away theygo in pursuit, each trying to outdo the other. The game is a brief one. Before one can get the clew to it, the party has dispersed. 

 * * * * *

The first year of my cabin life a pair of robins attempted to build anest upon the round timber that forms the plate under my porch roof. Butit was a poor place to build in. It took nearly a week's time and causedthe birds a great waste of labor to find this out. The coarse materialthey brought for the foundation would not bed well upon the roundedsurface of the timber, and every vagrant breeze that came along swept itoff. My porch was kept littered with twigs and weed-stalks for days, till finally the birds abandoned the undertaking. The next season awiser or more experienced pair made the attempt again, and succeeded. They placed the nest against the rafter where it joins the plate; theyused mud from the start to level up with and to hold the first twigs andstraws, and had soon completed a firm, shapely structure. When the youngwere about ready to fly, it was interesting to note that there wasapparently an older and a younger, as in most families. One bird wasmore advanced than any of the others. Had the parent birds intentionallystimulated it with extra quantities of food, so as to be able to launchtheir offspring into the world one at a time? At any rate, one of thebirds was ready to leave the nest a day and a half before any of theothers. I happened to be looking at it when the first impulse to getoutside the nest seemed to seize it. Its parents were encouraging itwith calls and assurances from some rocks a few yards away. It answeredtheir calls in vigorous, strident tones. Then it climbed over the edgeof the nest upon the plate, took a few steps forward, then a few more, till it was a yard from the nest and near the end of the timber, andcould look off into free space. Its parents apparently shouted, "Comeon!" But its courage was not quite equal to the leap; it looked around, and, seeing how far it was from home, scampered back to the nest, andclimbed into it like a frightened child. It had made its first journeyinto the world, but the home tie had brought it quickly back. A fewhours afterward it journeyed to the end of the plate again, and thenturned and rushed back. The third time its heart was braver, its wingsstronger, and, leaping into the air with a shout, it flew easily to somerocks a dozen or more yards away. Each of the young in succession, atintervals of nearly a day, left the nest in this manner. There would bethe first journey of a few feet along the plate, the first sudden panicat being so far from home, the rush back, a second and perhaps a thirdattempt, and then the irrevocable leap into the air, and a clamorousflight to a near-by bush or rock. Young birds never go back when theyhave once taken flight. The first free flap of the wings severs foreverthe ties that bind them to home. 

 * * * * *

I recently observed a robin boring for grubs in a country dooryard. Itis a common enough sight to witness one seize an angle-worm and drag itfrom its burrow in the turf, but I am not sure that I ever before sawone drill for grubs and bring the big white morsel to the surface. Therobin I am speaking of had a nest of young in a maple near by, and sheworked the neighborhood very industriously for food. She would runalong over the short grass after the manner of robins, stopping everyfew feet, her form stiff and erect. Now and then she would suddenly bendher head toward the ground and bring eye or ear for a moment to bearintently upon it. Then she would spring to boring the turf vigorouslywith her bill, changing her attitude at each stroke, alert and watchful, throwing up the grass roots and little jets of soil, stabbing deeper anddeeper, growing every moment more and more excited, till finally a fatgrub was seized and brought forth. Time after time, during several days, I saw her mine for grubs in this way and drag them forth. How did sheknow where to drill? The insect was in every case an inch below thesurface. Did she hear it gnawing the roots of the grasses, or did shesee a movement in the turf beneath which the grub was at work? I knownot. I only know that she struck her game unerringly each time. Onlytwice did I see her make a few thrusts and then desist, as if she hadbeen for the moment deceived. 

THE FLICKER

Another April comer, who arrives shortly after Robin Redbreast, withwhom he associates both at this season and in the autumn, is thegolden-winged woodpecker, _alias_ "high-hole, " _alias_ "flicker, "_alias_ "yarup, " _alias_ "yellow-hammer. " He is an old favorite of myboyhood, and his note to me means very much. He announces his arrival bya long, loud call, repeated from the dry branch of some tree, or a stakein the fence, --a thoroughly melodious April sound. I think how Solomonfinished that beautiful description of spring, "and the voice of theturtle is heard in our land, " and see that a description of spring inthis farming country, to be equally characteristic, should culminate inlike manner, --"and the call of the high-hole comes up from the wood. " Itis a loud, strong, sonorous call, and does not seem to imply an answer, but rather to subserve some purpose of love or music. It is "Yarup's"proclamation of peace and good-will to all. 

I recall an ancient maple standing sentry to a large sugar-bush, that, year after year, afforded protection to a brood of yellow-hammers in itsdecayed heart. A week or two before the nesting seemed actually to havebegun, three or four of these birds might be seen, on almost any brightmorning, gamboling and courting amid its decayed branches. Sometimes youwould hear only a gentle persuasive cooing, or a quiet confidentialchattering; then that long, loud call, taken up by first one, thenanother, as they sat about upon the naked limbs; anon, a sort of wild, rollicking laughter, intermingled with various cries, yelps, andsqueals, as if some incident had excited their mirth and ridicule. Whether this social hilarity and boisterousness is in celebration of thepairing or mating ceremony, or whether it is only a sort of annual"house-warming" common among high-holes on resuming their summerquarters, is a question upon which I reserve my judgment. 

[Illustration: FLICKER]

Unlike most of his kinsmen, the golden-wing prefers the fields and theborders of the forest to the deeper seclusion of the woods, and hence, contrary to the habit of his tribe, obtains most of his subsistence fromthe ground, probing it for ants and crickets. He is not quite satisfiedwith being a woodpecker. He courts the society of the robin and thefinches, abandons the trees for the meadow, and feeds eagerly uponberries and grain. What may be the final upshot of this course of livingis a question worthy the attention of Darwin. Will his taking to theground and his pedestrian feats result in lengthening his legs, hisfeeding upon berries and grains subdue his tints and soften his voice, and his associating with Robin put a song into his heart?

 * * * * *

In the cavity of an apple-tree, much nearer the house than they usuallybuild, a pair of high-holes took up their abode. A knot-hole which ledto the decayed interior was enlarged, the live wood being cut away asclean as a squirrel would have done it. The inside preparations I couldnot witness, but day after day, as I passed near, I heard the birdhammering away, evidently beating down obstructions and shaping andenlarging the cavity. The chips were not brought out, but were usedrather to floor the interior. The woodpeckers are not nest-builders, butrather nest-carvers. 

The time seemed very short before the voices of the young were heard inthe heart of the old tree, --at first feebly, but waxing stronger day byday until they could be heard many rods distant. When I put my hand uponthe trunk of the tree, they would set up an eager, expectant chattering;but if I climbed up it toward the opening, they soon detected theunusual sound and would hush quickly, only now and then uttering awarning note. Long before they were fully fledged they clambered up tothe orifice to receive their food. As but one could stand in the openingat a time, there was a good deal of elbowing and struggling for thisposition. It was a very desirable one aside from the advantages it hadwhen food was served; it looked out upon the great, shining world, intowhich the young birds seemed never tired of gazing. The fresh air musthave been a consideration also, for the interior of a high-hole'sdwelling is not sweet. When the parent birds came with food, the youngone in the opening did not get it all, but after he had received aportion, either on his own motion or on a hint from the old one, hewould give place to the one behind him. Still, one bird evidentlyoutstripped his fellows, and in the race of life was two or three daysin advance of them. His voice was loudest and his head oftenest at thewindow. But I noticed that, when he had kept the position too long, theothers evidently made it uncomfortable in his rear, and, after"fidgeting" about awhile, he would be compelled to "back down. " Butretaliation was then easy, and I fear his mates spent few easy momentsat that lookout. They would close their eyes and slide back into thecavity as if the world had suddenly lost all its charms for them. 

This bird was, of course, the first to leave the nest. For two daysbefore that event he kept his position in the opening most of the timeand sent forth his strong voice incessantly. The old ones abstained fromfeeding him almost entirely, no doubt to encourage his exit. As I stoodlooking at him one afternoon and noting his progress, he suddenlyreached a resolution, --seconded, I have no doubt, from the rear, --andlaunched forth upon his untried wings. They served him well, and carriedhim about fifty yards up-hill the first heat. The second day after, thenext in size and spirit left in the same manner; then another, till onlyone remained. The parent birds ceased their visits to him, and for oneday he called and called till our ears were tired of the sound. His wasthe faintest heart of all. Then he had none to encourage him frombehind. He left the nest and clung to the outer bole of the tree, andyelped and piped for an hour longer; then he committed himself to hiswings and went his way like the rest. 

The matchmaking of the high-holes, which often comes under myobservation, is in marked contrast to that of the robins and thebluebirds. There does not appear to be any anger or any blows. The maleor two males will alight on a limb in front of the female, and gothrough with a series of bowings and scrapings that are truly comical. He spreads his tail, he puffs out his breast, he throws back his headand then bends his body to the right and to the left, uttering all thewhile a curious musical hiccough. The female confronts him unmoved, butwhether her attitude is critical or defensive, I cannot tell. Presentlyshe flies away, followed by her suitor or suitors, and the little comedyis enacted on another stump or tree. Among all the woodpeckers the drumplays an important part in the matchmaking. The male takes up his standon a dry, resonant limb, or on the ridgeboard of a building, and beatsthe loudest call he is capable of. A favorite drum of the high-holesabout me is a hollow wooden tube, a section of a pump, which stands as abird-box upon my summer-house. It is a good instrument; its tone issharp and clear. A high-hole alights upon it, and sends forth a rattlethat can be heard a long way off. Then he lifts up his head and uttersthat long April call, _Wick, wick, wick, wick_. Then he drums again. Ifthe female does not find him, it is not because he does not make noiseenough. But his sounds are all welcome to the ear. They are simple andprimitive, and voice well a certain sentiment of the April days. As Iwrite these lines I hear through the half-open door his call come upfrom a distant field. Then I hear the steady hammering of one that hasbeen for three days trying to penetrate the weather boarding of the bigicehouse by the river, and to reach the sawdust filling for anesting-place. 

THE PHŒBE

Another April bird whose memory I fondly cherish is the phœbe-bird, thepioneer of the flycatchers. In the inland farming districts, I used tonotice him, on some bright morning about Easter Day, proclaiming hisarrival, with much variety of motion and attitude, from the peak of thebarn or hay-shed. As yet, you may have heard only the plaintive, homesick note of the bluebird, or the faint trill of the song sparrow;and the phœbe's clear, vivacious assurance of his veritable bodilypresence among us again is welcomed by all ears. At agreeable intervalsin his lay he describes a circle or an ellipse in the air, ostensiblyprospecting for insects, but really, I suspect, as an artistic flourish, thrown in to make up in some way for the deficiency of his musicalperformance. If plainness of dress indicates powers of song, as itusually does, the phœbe ought to be unrivaled in musical ability, forsurely that ashen-gray suit is the superlative of plainness; and thatform, likewise, would hardly pass for a "perfect figure" of a bird. Theseasonableness of his coming, however, and his civil, neighborly ways, shall make up for all deficiencies in song and plumage. 

The phœbe-bird is a wise architect and perhaps enjoys as great animmunity from danger, both in its person and its nest, as any otherbird. Its modest ashen-gray suit is the color of the rocks where itbuilds, and the moss of which it makes such free use gives to its nestthe look of a natural growth or accretion. But when it comes into thebarn or under the shed to build, as it so frequently does, the moss israther out of place. Doubtless in time the bird will take the hint, andwhen she builds in such places will leave the moss out. I noted but twonests the summer I am speaking of: one in a barn failed of issue, onaccount of the rats, I suspect, though the little owl may have been thedepredator; the other, in the woods, sent forth three young. This latternest was most charmingly and ingeniously placed. I discovered it whilein quest of pond-lilies, in a long, deep, level stretch of water in thewoods. A large tree had blown over at the edge of the water, and itsdense mass of upturned roots, with the black, peaty soil filling theinterstices, was like the fragment of a wall several feet high, risingfrom the edge of the languid current. In a niche in this earthy wall, and visible and accessible only from the water, a phœbe had built hernest and reared her brood. I paddled my boat up and came alongsideprepared to take the family aboard. The young, nearly ready to fly, were quite undisturbed by my presence, having probably been assured thatno danger need be apprehended from that side. It was not a likely placefor minks, or they would not have been so secure. 

THE COMING OF PHŒBE

 When buckets shine 'gainst maple trees And drop by drop the sap doth flow, When days are warm, but still nights freeze, And deep in woods lie drifts of snow, When cattle low and fret in stall, Then morning brings the phœbe's call, "Phœbe, Phœbe, phœbe, " a cheery note, While cackling hens make such a rout. 

 When snowbanks run, and hills are bare, And early bees hum round the hive, When woodchucks creep from out their lair Right glad to find themselves alive, When sheep go nibbling through the fields, Then Phœbe oft her name reveals, "Phœbe, Phœbe, phœbe, " a plaintive cry, While jack-snipes call in morning sky. 

 When wild ducks quack in creek and pond And bluebirds perch on mullein-stalks, When spring has burst her icy bond And in brown fields the sleek crow walks, When chipmunks court in roadside walls, Then Phœbe from the ridgeboard calls, "Phœbe, Phœbe, phœbe, " and lifts her cap, While smoking Dick doth boil the sap. 

THE COWBIRD

The cow blackbird is a noticeable songster in April, though it takes aback seat a little later. It utters a peculiarly liquid April sound. Indeed, one would think its crop was full of water, its notes so bubbleup and regurgitate, and are delivered with such an apparent stomachiccontraction. This bird is the only feathered polygamist we have. Thefemales are greatly in excess of the males, and the latter are usuallyattended by three or four of the former. As soon as the other birdsbegin to build, they are on the _qui vive_, prowling about like gypsies, not to steal the young of others, but to steal their eggs into otherbirds' nests, and so shirk the labor and responsibility of hatching andrearing their own young. 

The cowbird's tactics are probably to watch the movements of the parentbird. She may often be seen searching anxiously through the trees orbushes for a suitable nest, yet she may still oftener be seen perchedupon some good point of observation watching the birds as they come andgo about her. There is no doubt that, in many cases, the cowbird makesroom for her own illegitimate egg in the nest by removing one of thebird's own. I found a sparrow's nest with two sparrow's eggs and onecowbird's egg, and another egg lying a foot or so below it on theground. I replaced the ejected egg, and the next day found it againremoved, and another cowbird's egg in its place. I put it back thesecond time, when it was again ejected, or destroyed, for I failed tofind it anywhere. Very alert and sensitive birds, like the warblers, often bury the strange egg beneath a second nest built on top of theold. A lady living in the suburbs of an Eastern city heard cries ofdistress one morning from a pair of house wrens that had a nest in ahoneysuckle on her front porch. On looking out of the window, she beheldthis little comedy, --comedy from her point of view, but no doubt grimtragedy from the point of view of the wrens: a cowbird with a wren's eggin its beak running rapidly along the walk, with the outraged wrensforming a procession behind it, screaming, scolding, and gesticulatingas only these voluble little birds can. The cowbird had probably beensurprised in the act of violating the nest, and the wrens were givingher a piece of their minds. 

Every cowbird is reared at the expense of two or more song-birds. Forevery one of these dusky little pedestrians there amid the grazingcattle there are two or more sparrows, or vireos, or warblers, the less. It is a big price to pay, --two larks for a bunting, --two sovereigns fora shilling; but Nature does not hesitate occasionally to contradictherself in just this way. The young of the cowbird is disproportionatelylarge and aggressive, one might say hoggish. When disturbed, it willclasp the nest and scream and snap its beak threateningly. One washatched out in a song sparrow's nest which was under my observation, andwould soon have overridden and overborne the young sparrow which cameout of the shell a few hours later, had I not interfered from time totime and lent the young sparrow a helping hand. Every day I would visitthe nest and take the sparrow out from under the potbellied interloper, and place it on top, so that presently it was able to hold its ownagainst its enemy. Both birds became fledged and left the nest about thesame time. Whether the race was an even one after that, I know not. 

THE CHIPPING SPARROW

When the true flycatcher catches a fly, it is quick business. There isno strife, no pursuit, --one fell swoop, and the matter is ended. Nownote that yonder little sparrow is less skilled. It is the chippy, andhe finds his subsistence properly in various seeds and the larvæ ofinsects, though he occasionally has higher aspirations, and seeks toemulate the pewee, commencing and ending his career as a flycatcher byan awkward chase after a beetle or "miller. " He is hunting around in thegrass now, I suspect, with the desire to indulge this favorite whim. There!--the opportunity is afforded him. Away goes a littlecream-colored meadow-moth in the most tortuous course he is capable of, and away goes Chippy in pursuit. The contest is quite comical, though Idare say it is serious enough to the moth. The chase continues for a fewyards, when there is a sudden rushing to cover in the grass, --then ataking to wing again, when the search has become too close, and the mothhas recovered his wind. Chippy chirps angrily, and is determined not tobe beaten. Keeping, with the slightest effort, upon the heels of thefugitive, he is ever on the point of halting to snap him up, but neverquite does it; and so, between disappointment and expectation, is soondisgusted, and returns to pursue his more legitimate means ofsubsistence. 

 * * * * *

Last summer I made this record in my notebook: "A nest of young robinsin the maple in front of the house being fed by a chipping sparrow. Thelittle sparrow is very attentive; seems decidedly fond of her adoptedbabies. The old robins resent her services, and hustle her out of thetree whenever they find her near the nest. (It was this hurrieddeparture of Chippy from the tree that first attracted my attention. )She watches her chances, and comes with food in their absence. The youngbirds are about ready to fly, and when the chippy feeds them her headfairly disappears in their capacious mouths. She jerks it back as if shewere afraid of being swallowed. Then she lingers near them on the edgeof the nest, and seems to admire them. When she sees the old robincoming, she spreads her wings in an attitude of defense, and then fliesaway. I wonder if she has had the experience of rearing a cow-bunting?"(A day later. ) "The robins are out of the nest, and the little sparrowcontinues to feed them. She approaches them rather timidly andhesitatingly, as if she feared they might swallow her, then thrusts hertitbit quickly into the distended mouth and jerks back. "

Whether the chippy had lost her own brood, whether she was an unmatedbird, or whether the case was simply the overflowing of the maternalinstinct, it would be interesting to know. 

THE CHEWINK

The chewink is a shy bird, but not stealthy. It is very inquisitive, andsets up a great scratching among the leaves, apparently to attract yourattention. The male is perhaps the most conspicuously marked of all theground-birds except the bobolink, being black above, bay on the sides, and white beneath. The bay is in compliment to the leaves he is foreverscratching among, --they have rustled against his breast and sides solong that these parts have taken their color; but whence come the whiteand the black? The bird seems to be aware that his color betrays him, for there are few birds in the woods so careful about keeping themselvesscreened from view. When in song, its favorite perch is the top of somehigh bush near to cover. On being disturbed at such times, it pitchesdown into the brush and is instantly lost to view. 

 [Illustration: CHEWINK Upper, male; lower, female]

This is the bird that Thomas Jefferson wrote to Wilson about, greatlyexciting the latter's curiosity. Wilson was just then upon the thresholdof his career as an ornithologist, and had made a drawing of the Canadajay which he sent to the President. It was a new bird, and in replyJefferson called his attention to a "curious bird" which was everywhereto be heard, but scarcely ever to be seen. He had for twenty yearsinterested the young sportsmen of his neighborhood to shoot one for him, but without success. "It is in all the forests, from spring to fall, " hesays in his letter, "and never but on the tops of the tallest trees, from which it perpetually serenades us with some of the sweetest notes, and as clear as those of the nightingale. I have followed it for miles, without ever but once getting a good view of it. It is of the size andmake of the mockingbird, lightly thrush-colored on the back, and agrayish-white on the breast and belly. Mr. Randolph, my son-in-law, wasin possession of one which had been shot by a neighbor, " etc. Randolphpronounced it a flycatcher, which was a good way wide of the mark. Jefferson must have seen only the female, after all his tramp, from hisdescription of the color; but he was doubtless following his own greatthoughts more than the bird, else he would have had an earlier view. Thebird was not a new one, but was well known then as the ground-robin. ThePresident put Wilson on the wrong scent by his erroneous description, and it was a long time before the latter got at the truth of the case. But Jefferson's letter is a good sample of those which specialistsoften receive from intelligent persons who have seen or heard somethingin their line very curious or entirely new, and who set the man ofscience agog by a description of the supposed novelty, --a descriptionthat generally fits the facts of the case about as well as your coatfits the chair-back. Strange and curious things in the air, and in thewater, and in the earth beneath, are seen every day except by those whoare looking for them, namely, the naturalists. When Wilson or Audubongets his eye on the unknown bird, the illusion vanishes, and yourphenomenon turns out to be one of the commonplaces of the fields orwoods. 

THE BROWN THRASHER

Our long-tailed thrush, or thrasher, delights in a high branch of somesolitary tree, whence it will pour out its rich and intricate warble foran hour together. This bird is the great American chipper. There is noother bird that I know of that can chip with such emphasis and militarydecision as this yellow-eyed songster. It is like the click of a giantgunlock. Why is the thrasher so stealthy? It always seems to be goingabout on tip-toe. I never knew it to steal anything, and yet it skulksand hides like a fugitive from justice. One never sees it flying aloftin the air and traversing the world openly, like most birds, but itdarts along fences and through bushes as if pursued by a guiltyconscience. Only when the musical fit is upon it does it come up intofull view, and invite the world to hear and behold. 

Years pass without my finding a brown thrasher's nest; it is not a nestyou are likely to stumble upon in your walk; it is hidden as a miserhides his gold, and watched as jealously. The male pours out his richand triumphant song from the tallest tree he can find, and fairlychallenges you to come and look for his treasures in his vicinity. Butyou will not find them if you go. The nest is somewhere on the outercircle of his song; he is never so imprudent as to take up his standvery near it. The artists who draw those cozy little pictures of abrooding mother bird, with the male perched but a yard away in fullsong, do not copy from nature. The thrasher's nest I found was thirty orforty rods from the point where the male was wont to indulge in hisbrilliant recitative. It was in an open field under a lowground-juniper. My dog disturbed the sitting bird as I was passing near. The nest could be seen only by lifting up and parting away the branches. All the arts of concealment had been carefully studied. It was the lastplace you would think of looking in, and, if you did look, nothing wasvisible but the dense green circle of the low-spreading juniper. Whenyou approached, the bird would keep her place till you had begun to stirthe branches, when she would start out, and, just skimming the ground, make a bright brown line to the near fence and bushes. I confidentlyexpected that this nest would escape molestation, but it did not. Itsdiscovery by myself and dog probably opened the door for ill luck, asone day, not long afterward, when I peeped in upon it, it was empty. Theproud song of the male had ceased from his accustomed tree, and thepair were seen no more in that vicinity. 

After a pair of nesting birds have been broken up once or twice duringthe season, they become almost desperate, and will make great efforts tooutwit their enemies. A pair of brown thrashers built their nest in apasture-field under a low, scrubby apple-tree which the cattle hadbrowsed down till it spread a thick, wide mass of thorny twigs only afew inches above the ground. Some blackberry briers had also grownthere, so that the screen was perfect. My dog first started the bird, asI was passing near. By stooping low and peering intently, I could makeout the nest and eggs. Two or three times a week, as I passed by, Iwould pause to see how the nest was prospering. The mother bird wouldkeep her place, her yellow eyes never blinking. One morning, as I lookedinto her tent, I found the nest empty. Some night-prowler, probably askunk or a fox, or maybe a black snake or a red squirrel by day, hadplundered it. It would seem as if it was too well screened; it was insuch a spot as any depredator would be apt to explore. "Surely, " hewould say, "this is a likely place for a nest. " The birds then movedover the hill a hundred rods or more, much nearer the house, and in somerather open bushes tried again. But again they came to grief. Then, after some delay, the mother bird made a bold stroke. She seemed toreason with herself thus: "Since I have fared so disastrously in seekingseclusion for my nest, I will now adopt the opposite tactics, and comeout fairly in the open. What hides me hides my enemies: let us trygreater publicity. " So she came out and built her nest by a few smallshoots that grew beside the path that divides the two vineyards, andwhere we passed to and fro many times daily. I discovered her by chanceearly in the morning as I proceeded to my work. She started up at myfeet and flitted quickly along above the ploughed ground, almost as redas the soil. I admired her audacity. Surely no prowler by night or daywould suspect a nest in this open and exposed place. There was no coverby which they could approach, and no concealment anywhere. The nest wasa hasty affair, as if the birds' patience at nest-building had beenabout exhausted. Presently an egg appeared, and then the next dayanother, and on the fourth day a third. No doubt the bird would havesucceeded this time had not man interfered. In cultivating the vineyardsthe horse and cultivator had to pass over this very spot. Upon this thebird had not calculated. I determined to assist her. I called my man, and told him there was one spot in that vineyard, no bigger than hishand, where the horse's foot must not be allowed to fall, nor tooth ofcultivator to touch. Then I showed him the nest, and charged him toavoid it. Probably if I had kept the secret to myself, and let the birdrun her own risk, the nest would have escaped. But the result was thatthe man, in elaborately trying to avoid the nest, overdid the matter;the horse plunged, and set his foot squarely upon it. Such a littlespot, the chances were few that the horse's foot would fall exactlythere; and yet it did, and the birds' hopes were again dashed. The pairthen disappeared from my vicinity, and I saw them no more. 

THE HOUSE WREN

A few years ago I put up a little bird-house in the back end of mygarden for the accommodation of the wrens, and every season a pair havetaken up their abode there. One spring a pair of bluebirds looked intothe tenement and lingered about several days, leading me to hope thatthey would conclude to occupy it. But they finally went away, and laterin the season the wrens appeared, and, after a little coquetting, wereregularly installed in their old quarters, and were as happy as onlywrens can be. 

One of our younger poets, Myron Benton, saw a little bird

 "Ruffled with whirlwind of his ecstasies, "

which must have been the wren, as I know of no other bird that so throbsand palpitates with music as this little vagabond. And the pair I speakof seemed exceptionally happy, and the male had a small tornado of songin his crop that kept him "ruffled" every moment in the day. But beforetheir honeymoon was over the bluebirds returned. I knew something waswrong before I was up in the morning. Instead of that voluble andgushing song outside the window, I heard the wrens scolding and cryingat a fearful rate, and on going out saw the bluebirds in possession ofthe box. The poor wrens were in despair; they wrung their hands and toretheir hair, after the wren fashion, but chiefly did they rattle outtheir disgust and wrath at the intruders. I have no doubt that, if itcould have been interpreted, it would have been proven the rankest andmost voluble billingsgate ever uttered. For the wren is saucy, and hehas a tongue in his head that can outwag any other tongue known to me. 

The bluebirds said nothing, but the male kept an eye on Mr. Wren, and, when he came too near, gave chase, driving him to cover under the fence, or under a rubbish-heap or other object, where the wren would scold andrattle away, while his pursuer sat on the fence or the pea-brush waitingfor him to reappear. 

Days passed, and the usurpers prospered and the outcasts were wretched;but the latter lingered about, watching and abusing their enemies, andhoping, no doubt, that things would take a turn, as they presently did. The outraged wrens were fully avenged. The mother bluebird had laid herfull complement of eggs and was beginning to set, when one day, as hermate was perched above her on the barn, along came a boy with one ofthose wicked elastic slings and cut him down with a pebble. There helay like a bit of sky fallen upon the grass. The widowed bird seemed tounderstand what had happened, and without much ado disappeared next dayin quest of another mate. 

In the mean time the wrens were beside themselves with delight; theyfairly screamed with joy. If the male was before "ruffled with whirlwindof his ecstasies, " he was now in danger of being rent asunder. Heinflated his throat and caroled as wren never caroled before. And thefemale, too, how she cackled and darted about! How busy they both were!Rushing into the nest, they hustled those eggs out in less than aminute, wren time. They carried in new material, and by the third daywere fairly installed again in their old quarters; but on the third day, so rapidly are these little dramas played, the female bluebirdreappeared with another mate. Ah! how the wren stock went down then!What dismay and despair filled again those little breasts! It waspitiful. They did not scold as before, but after a day or two withdrewfrom the garden, dumb with grief, and gave up the struggle. 

 * * * * *

The chatter of a second brood of nearly fledged wrens is heard now(August 20) in an oriole's nest suspended from the branch of anapple-tree near where I write. Earlier in the season the parent birdsmade long and determined attempts to establish themselves in a cavitythat had been occupied by a pair of bluebirds. The original proprietorof the place was the downy woodpecker. He had excavated it the autumnbefore, and had passed the winter there, often to my certain knowledgelying abed till nine o'clock in the morning. In the spring he wentelsewhere, probably with a female, to begin the season in new quarters. The bluebirds early took possession, and in June their first brood hadflown. The wrens had been hanging around, evidently with an eye on theplace (such little comedies may be witnessed anywhere), and now verynaturally thought it was their turn. A day or two after the youngbluebirds had flown, I noticed some fine, dry grass clinging to theentrance to the cavity; a circumstance which I understood a few momentslater, when the wren rushed by me into the cover of a small Norwayspruce, hotly pursued by the male bluebird. It was a brown streak and ablue streak pretty close together. The wrens had gone to housecleaning, and the bluebird had returned to find his bed and bedding being pitchedout of doors, and had thereupon given the wrens to understand in themost emphatic manner that he had no intention of vacating the premisesso early in the season. Day after day, for more than two weeks, the malebluebird had to clear his premises of these intruders. It occupied muchof his time and not a little of mine, as I sat with a book in asummer-house near by, laughing at his pretty fury and spiteful onset. Ontwo occasions the wren rushed under the chair in which I sat, and astreak of blue lightning almost flashed in my very face. One day, justas I had passed the tree in which the cavity was located, I heard thewren scream desperately; turning, I saw the little vagabond fall intothe grass with the wrathful bluebird fairly upon him; the latter hadreturned just in time to catch him, and was evidently bent on punishinghim well. But in the squabble in the grass the wren escaped and tookrefuge in the friendly evergreen. The bluebird paused for a moment withoutstretched wings looking for the fugitive, then flew away. A score oftimes during the month of June did I see the wren taxing every energy toget away from the bluebird. He would dart into the stone wall, under thefloor of the summer-house, into the weeds, --anywhere to hide hisdiminished head. The bluebird, with his bright coat, looked like anofficer in uniform in pursuit of some wicked, rusty little street gamin. Generally the favorite house of refuge of the wrens was the littlespruce, into which their pursuer made no attempt to follow them. Thefemale would sit concealed amid the branches, chattering in a scolding, fretful way, while the male with his eye upon his tormentor would perchon the topmost shoot and sing. Why he sang at such times, whether intriumph and derision, or to keep his courage up and reassure his mate, Icould not make out. When his song was suddenly cut short, and I glancedto see him dart down into the spruce, my eye usually caught a twinkle ofblue wings hovering near. The wrens finally gave up the fight, and theirenemies reared their second brood in peace. 

THE SONG SPARROW

The first song sparrow's nest I observed in the spring of 1881 was in afield under a fragment of a board, the board being raised from theground a couple of inches by two poles. It had its full complement ofeggs, and probably sent forth a brood of young birds, though as to thisI cannot speak positively, as I neglected to observe it further. It waswell sheltered and concealed, and was not easily come at by any of itsnatural enemies, save snakes and weasels. But concealment often availslittle. In May, a song sparrow, which had evidently met with disasterearlier in the season, built its nest in a thick mass of woodbineagainst the side of my house, about fifteen feet from the ground. Perhaps it took the hint from its cousin the English sparrow. The nestwas admirably placed, protected from the storms by the overhanging eavesand from all eyes by the thick screen of leaves. Only by patientlywatching the suspicious bird, as she lingered near with food in herbeak, did I discover its whereabouts. That brood is safe, I thought, beyond doubt. But it was not: the nest was pillaged one night, either byan owl, or else by a rat that had climbed into the vine, seeking anentrance to the house. The mother bird, after reflecting upon her illluck about a week, seemed to resolve to try a different system oftactics, and to throw all appearances of concealment aside. She built anest a few yards from the house, beside the drive, upon a smooth pieceof greensward. There was not a weed or a shrub or anything whatever toconceal it or mark its site. The structure was completed, and incubationhad begun, before I discovered what was going on. "Well, well, " I said, looking down upon the bird almost at my feet, "this is going to theother extreme indeed; now the cats will have you. " The desperate littlebird sat there day after day, looking like a brown leaf pressed down inthe short green grass. As the weather grew hot, her position became verytrying. It was no longer a question of keeping the eggs warm, but ofkeeping them from roasting. The sun had no mercy on her, and she fairlypanted in the middle of the day. In such an emergency the male robin hasbeen known to perch above the sitting female and shade her with hisoutstretched wings. But in this case there was no perch for the malebird, had he been disposed to make a sunshade of himself. I thought tolend a hand in this direction myself, and so stuck a leafy twig besidethe nest. This was probably an unwise interference: it guided disasterto the spot; the nest was broken up, and the mother bird was probablycaught, as I never saw her afterward. 

One day a tragedy was enacted a few yards from where I was sitting witha book: two song sparrows were trying to defend their nest against ablack snake. The curious, interrogating note of a chicken who hadsuddenly come upon the scene in his walk first caused me to look up frommy reading. There were the sparrows, with wings raised in a waypeculiarly expressive of horror and dismay, rushing about a low clump ofgrass and bushes. Then, looking more closely, I saw the glistening formof the black snake, and the quick movement of his head as he tried toseize the birds. The sparrows darted about and through the grass andweeds, trying to beat the snake off. Their tails and wings were spread, and, panting with the heat and the desperate struggle, they presented amost singular spectacle. They uttered no cry, not a sound escaped them;they were plainly speechless with horror and dismay. Not once did theydrop their wings, and the peculiar expression of those uplifted palms, as it were, I shall never forget. It occurred to me that perhaps herewas a case of attempted bird-charming on the part of the snake, so Ilooked on from behind the fence. The birds charged the snake andharassed him from every side, but were evidently under no spell savethat of courage in defending their nest. Every moment or two I could seethe head and neck of the serpent make a sweep at the birds, when the onestruck at would fall back, and the other would renew the assault fromthe rear. There appeared to be little danger that the snake could strikeand hold one of the birds, though I trembled for them, they were so boldand approached so near to the snake's head. Time and again he sprang atthem, but without success. How the poor things panted, and held up theirwings appealingly! Then the snake glided off to the near fence, barelyescaping the stone which I hurled at him. I found the nest rifled andderanged; whether it had contained eggs or young, I know not. The malesparrow had cheered me many a day with his song, and I blamed myself fornot having rushed at once to the rescue, when the arch enemy was uponhim. There is probably little truth in the popular notion that snakescharm birds. The black snake is the most subtle, alert, and devilish ofour snakes, and I have never seen him have any but young, helpless birdsin his mouth. 

 * * * * *

If one has always built one's nest upon the ground, and if one comes ofa race of ground-builders, it is a risky experiment to build in a tree. The conditions are vastly different. One of my near neighbors, a littlesong sparrow, learned this lesson the past season. She grew ambitious;she departed from the traditions of her race, and placed her nest in atree. Such a pretty spot she chose, too, --the pendent cradle formed bythe interlaced sprays of two parallel branches of a Norway spruce. Thesebranches shoot out almost horizontally; indeed, the lower ones becomequite so in spring, and the side shoots with which they are clotheddroop down, forming the slopes of miniature ridges; where the slopes oftwo branches join, a little valley is formed, which often looks morestable than it really is. My sparrow selected one of these littlevalleys about six feet from the ground, and quite near the walls of thehouse. "Here, " she thought, "I will build my nest, and pass the heat ofJune in a miniature Norway. This tree is the fir-clad mountain, and thislittle vale on its side I select for my own. " She carried up a greatquantity of coarse grass and straws for the foundation, just as shewould have done upon the ground. On the top of this mass there graduallycame into shape the delicate structure of her nest, compacting andrefining till its delicate carpet of hairs and threads was reached. Sosly as the little bird was about it, too, --every moment on her guardlest you discover her secret! Five eggs were laid, and incubation wasfar advanced, when the storms and winds came. The cradle indeed didrock. The boughs did not break, but they swayed and separated as youwould part your two interlocked hands. The ground of the little valleyfairly gave way, the nest tilted over till its contents fell into thechasm. It was like an earthquake that destroys a hamlet. 

No born tree-builder would have placed its nest in such a situation. Birds that build at the end of the branch, like the oriole, tie the nestfast; others, like the robin, build against the main trunk; still othersbuild securely in the fork. The sparrow, in her ignorance, rested herhouse upon the spray of two branches, and when the tempest came, thebranches parted company and the nest was engulfed. 

A little bob-tailed song sparrow built her nest in a pile of dry brushvery near the kitchen door of a farmhouse on the skirts of the northernCatskills, where I was passing the summer. It was late in July, and shehad doubtless reared one brood in the earlier season. Her toilet wasdecidedly the worse for wear. I noted her day after day, very busy aboutthe fence and quince bushes between the house and milk house, with herbeak full of coarse straw and hay. To a casual observer, she seemedflitting about aimlessly, carrying straws from place to place just toamuse herself. When I came to watch her closely to learn the place ofher nest, she seemed to suspect my intention, and made many littlefeints and movements calculated to put me off my track. But I would notbe misled, and presently had her secret. The male did not assist her atall, but sang much of the time in an apple-tree or upon the fence, onthe other side of the house. 

The song sparrow nearly always builds upon the ground, but my littleneighbor laid the foundations of her domicile a foot or more above thesoil. And what a mass of straws and twigs she did collect together! Howcoarse and careless and aimless at first, --a mere lot of rubbish droppedupon the tangle of dry limbs; but presently how it began to refine andcome into shape in the centre! till there was the most exquisitehair-lined cup set about by a chaos of coarse straws and branches. Whata process of evolution! The completed nest was foreshadowed by the firststiff straw; but how far off is yet that dainty casket with itscomplement of speckled eggs! The nest was so placed that it had forcanopy a large, broad, drooping leaf of yellow dock. This formed aperfect shield against both sun and rain, while it served to conceal itfrom any curious eyes from above, --from the cat, for instance, prowlingalong the top of the wall. Before the eggs had hatched, the docken leafwilted and dried and fell down upon the nest. But the mother birdmanaged to insinuate herself beneath it, and went on with her broodingall the same. 

Then I arranged an artificial cover of leaves and branches, whichshielded her charge till they had flown away. A mere trifle was thislittle bob-tailed bird with her arts and her secrets, and the male withhis song, and yet the pair gave a touch of something to those days andto that place which I would not willingly have missed. 

THE CHIMNEY SWIFT

One day a swarm of honey-bees went into my chimney, and I mounted thestack to see into which flue they had gone. As I craned my neck abovethe sooty vent, with the bees humming about my ears, the first thing myeye rested upon in the black interior was a pair of long white pearlsupon a little shelf of twigs, the nest of the chimney swallow, orswift, --honey, soot, and birds' eggs closely associated. The bees, though in an unused flue, soon found the gas of anthracite that hoveredabout the top of the chimney too much for them, and they left. But theswifts are not repelled by smoke. They seem to have entirely abandonedtheir former nesting-places in hollow trees and stumps, and to frequentonly chimneys. A tireless bird, never perching, all day upon the wing, and probably capable of flying one thousand miles in twenty-four hours, they do not even stop to gather materials for their nests, but snap offthe small dry twigs from the tree-tops as they fly by. Confine one ofthese swifts to a room and it does not perch, but after flying till itbecomes bewildered and exhausted, it clings to the side of the wall tillit dies. Once, on returning to my room after several days' absence, Ifound one in which life seemed nearly extinct; its feet grasped myfinger as I removed it from the wall, but its eyes closed, and it seemedabout on the point of joining its companion, which lay dead upon thefloor. Tossing it into the air, however, seemed to awaken its wonderfulpowers of flight, and away it went straight toward the clouds. On thewing the chimney swift looks like an athlete stripped for the race. There is the least appearance of quill and plumage of any of our birds, and, with all its speed and marvelous evolutions, the effect of itsflight is stiff and wiry. There appears to be but one joint in the wing, and that next the body. This peculiar inflexible motion of the wings, asif they were little sickles of sheet iron, seems to be owing to thelength and development of the primary quills and the smallness of thesecondary. The wing appears to hinge only at the wrist. The barn swallowlines its rude masonry with feathers, but the swift begins life on baretwigs, glued together by a glue of home manufacture as adhesive asSpaulding's. 

The big chimney of my cabin "Slabsides" of course attracted the chimneyswifts, and as it was not used in summer, two pairs built their nests init, and we had the muffled thunder of their wings at all hours of theday and night. One night, when one of the broods was nearly fledged, thenest that held them fell down into the fireplace. Such a din ofscreeching and chattering as they instantly set up! Neither my dog nor Icould sleep. They yelled in chorus, stopping at the end of everyhalf-minute as if upon signal. Now they were all screeching at the topof their voices, then a sudden, dead silence ensued. Then the din beganagain, to terminate at the instant as before. If they had been longpracticing together, they could not have succeeded better. I neverbefore heard the cry of birds so accurately timed. After a while I gotup and put them back up the chimney, and stopped up the throat of theflue with newspapers. The next day one of the parent birds, in bringingfood to them, came down the chimney with such force that it passedthrough the papers and brought up in the fireplace. On capturing it Isaw that its throat was distended with food as a chipmunk's cheek withcorn, or a boy's pocket with chestnuts. I opened its mandibles, when itejected a wad of insects as large as a bean. Most of them were muchmacerated, but there were two house-flies yet alive and but little theworse for their close confinement. They stretched themselves and walkedabout upon my hand, enjoying a breath of fresh air once more. It wasnearly two hours before the swift again ventured into the chimney withfood. 

These birds do not perch, nor alight upon buildings or the ground. Theyare apparently upon the wing all day. They outride the storms. I have inmy mind a cheering picture of three of them I saw facing a heavythunder-shower one afternoon. The wind was blowing a gale, the cloudswere rolling in black, portentous billows out of the west, the peals ofthunder were shaking the heavens, and the big drops were just beginningto come down, when, on looking up, I saw three swifts high in air, working their way slowly, straight into the teeth of the storm. Theywere not hurried or disturbed; they held themselves firmly and steadily;indeed, they were fairly at anchor in the air till the rage of theelements should have subsided. I do not know that any other of our landbirds outride the storms in this way. 

In the choice of nesting-material the swift shows no change of habit. She still snips off the small dry twigs from the tree-tops and gluesthem together, and to the side of the chimney, with her own glue. Thesoot is a new obstacle in her way, that she does not yet seem to havelearned to overcome, as the rains often loosen it and cause her nest tofall to the bottom. She has a pretty way of trying to frighten you offwhen your head suddenly darkens the opening above her. At such times sheleaves the nest and clings to the side of the chimney near it. Then, slowly raising her wings, she suddenly springs out from the wall andback again, making as loud a drumming with them in the passage as she iscapable of. If this does not frighten you away, she repeats it three orfour times. If your face still hovers above her, she remains quiet andwatches you. 

What a creature of the air this bird is, never touching the ground, sofar as I know, and never tasting earthly food! The swallow does perchnow and then and descend to the ground for nesting-material, but not sothe swift. The twigs for her nest she gathers on the wing, sweepingalong like children on a "merry-go-round" who try to seize a ring, or todo some other feat, as they pass a given point. If the swift misses thetwig, or it fails to yield to her the first time, she tries again andagain, each time making a wider circuit, as if to tame and train hersteed a little and bring him up more squarely to the mark next time. 

Though the swift is a stiff flyer and apparently without joints in herwings, yet the air of frolic and of superabundance of wing-power ismore marked with her than with any other of our birds. Her feeding andtwig-gathering seem like asides in a life of endless play. Several timesboth in spring and fall I have seen swifts gather in immense numberstoward nightfall, to take refuge in large unused chimney-stacks. On suchoccasions they seem to be coming together for some aerial festival orgrand celebration; and, as if bent upon a final effort to work off apart of their superabundant wing-power before settling down for thenight, they circle and circle high above the chimney-top, a great cloudof them, drifting this way and that, all in high spirits and chipperingas they fly. Their numbers constantly increase as other members of theclan come dashing in from all points of the compass. Swifts seem tomaterialize out of empty air on all sides of the chippering, whirlingring, as an hour or more this assembling of the clan and this flightfestival go on. The birds must gather in from whole counties, or fromhalf a State. They have been on the wing all day, and yet now they seemas tireless as the wind, and as if unable to curb their powers. 

One fall they gathered in this way and took refuge for the night in alarge chimney-stack in a city near me, and kept this course up for morethan a month and a half. Several times I went to town to witness thespectacle, and a spectacle it was: ten thousand swifts, I should think, filling the air above a whole square like a whirling swarm of huge blackbees, but saluting the ear with a multitudinous chippering, instead of ahumming. People gathered upon the sidewalks to see them. It was a rarecircus performance, free to all. After a great many feints and playfulapproaches, the whirling ring of birds would suddenly grow denser abovethe chimney; then a stream of them, as if drawn down by some power ofsuction, would pour into the opening. For only a few seconds would thisdownward rush continue; then, as if the spirit of frolic had again gotthe upper hand of them, the ring would rise, and the chippering andcircling go on. In a minute or two the same manœuvre would be repeated, the chimney, as it were, taking its swallows at intervals to preventchoking. It usually took a half-hour or more for the birds all todisappear down its capacious throat. There was always an air of timidityand irresolution about their approach to the chimney, just as therealways is about their approach to the dead tree-top from which theyprocure their twigs for nest-building. Often did I see birds hesitateabove the opening and then pass on, apparently as though they had notstruck it at just the right angle. On one occasion a solitary bird wasleft flying, and it took three or four trials either to make up its mindor to catch the trick of the descent. On dark or threatening or stormydays the birds would begin to assemble by mid-afternoon, and by four orfive o'clock were all in their lodgings. 

THE OVEN-BIRD

Every loiterer about the woods knows this pretty, speckled-breasted, olive-backed little bird, which walks along over the dry leaves a fewyards from him, moving its head as it walks, like a miniature domesticfowl. Most birds are very stiff-necked, like the robin, and as they runor hop upon the ground, carry the head as if it were riveted to thebody. Not so the oven-bird, or the other birds that walk, as thecow-bunting, or the quail, or the crow. They move the head forward withthe movement of the feet. The sharp, reiterated, almost screeching songof the oven-bird, as it perches on a limb a few feet from the ground, like the words "preacher, preacher, preacher, " or "teacher, teacher, teacher, " uttered louder and louder, and repeated six or seven times, isalso familiar to most ears; but its wild, ringing, rapturous burst ofsong in the air high above the tree-tops is not so well known. From avery prosy, tiresome, unmelodious singer, it is suddenly transformed fora brief moment into a lyric poet of great power. It is a great surprise. The bird undergoes a complete transformation. Ordinarily it is a veryquiet, demure sort of bird. It walks about over the leaves, moving itshead like a little hen; then perches on a limb a few feet from theground and sends forth its shrill, rather prosy, unmusical chant. Surelyit is an ordinary, commonplace bird. But wait till the inspiration ofits flight-song is upon it. What a change! Up it goes through thebranches of the trees, leaping from limb to limb, faster and faster, till it shoots from the tree-tops fifty or more feet into the air abovethem, and bursts into an ecstasy of song, rapid, ringing, lyrical; nomore like its habitual performance than a match is like a rocket; briefbut thrilling; emphatic but musical. Having reached its climax of flightand song, the bird closes its wings and drops nearly perpendicularlydownward like the skylark. If its song were more prolonged, it wouldrival the song of that famous bird. The bird does this many times a dayduring early June, but oftenest at twilight. 

About the first of June there is a nest in the woods, upon the ground, with four creamy-white eggs in it, spotted with brown or lilac, chieflyabout the larger ends, that always gives the walker who is so lucky asto find it a thrill of pleasure. It is like a ground sparrow's nest witha roof or canopy to it. The little brown or olive backed bird startsaway from your feet and runs swiftly and almost silently over the dryleaves, and then turns her speckled breast to see if you are following. She walks very prettily, by far the prettiest pedestrian in the woods. But if she thinks you have discovered her secret, she feigns lamenessand disability of both leg and wing, to decoy you into the pursuit ofher. This is the oven-bird. The last nest of this bird I found was whilein quest of the pink cypripedium. We suddenly spied a couple of theflowers a few steps from the path along which we were walking, and hadstooped to admire them, when out sprang the bird from beside them, doubtless thinking she was the subject of observation instead of therose-purple flowers that swung but a foot or two above her. But we nevershould have seen her had she kept her place. She had found a rent in thematted carpet of dry leaves and pine needles that covered the ground, and into this had insinuated her nest, the leaves and needles forming acanopy above it, sloping to the south and west, the source of the morefrequent summer rains. 

THE CATBIRD

It requires an effort for me to speak of the singing catbird as he; allthe ways and tones of the bird seem so distinctly feminine. But it is, of course, only the male that sings. At times I hardly know whether I ammore pleased or annoyed with him. Perhaps he is a little too common, andhis part in the general chorus a little too conspicuous. If you arelistening for the note of another bird, he is sure to be prompted to themost loud and protracted singing, drowning all other sounds; if you sitquietly down to observe a favorite or study a new-comer, his curiosityknows no bounds, and you are scanned and ridiculed from every point ofobservation. Yet I would not miss him; I would only subordinate him alittle, make him less conspicuous. 

He is the parodist of the woods, and there is ever a mischievous, bantering, half-ironical undertone in his lay, as if he were consciousof mimicking and disconcerting some envied songster. Ambitious of song, practicing and rehearsing in private, he yet seems the least sincere andgenuine of the sylvan minstrels, as if he had taken up music only to bein the fashion, or not to be outdone by the robins and thrushes. Inother words, he seems to sing from some outward motive, and not frominward joyousness. He is a good versifier, but not a great poet. Vigorous, rapid, copious, not without fine touches, but destitute of anyhigh, serene melody, his performance, like that of Thoreau's squirrel, always implies a spectator. 

There is a certain air and polish about his strain, however, like thatin the vivacious conversation of a well-bred lady of the world, thatcommands respect. His parental instinct, also, is very strong, and thatsimple structure of dead twigs and dry grass is the centre of muchanxious solicitude. Not long since, while strolling through the woods, my attention was attracted to a small densely-grown swamp, hedged inwith eglantine, brambles, and the everlasting smilax, from whichproceeded loud cries of distress and alarm, indicating that someterrible calamity was threatening my sombre-colored minstrel. Oneffecting an entrance, which, however, was not accomplished till I haddoffed coat and hat, so as to diminish the surface exposed to the thornsand brambles, and, looking around me from a square yard of terra firma, I found myself the spectator of a loathsome yet fascinating scene. Threeor four yards from me was the nest, beneath which, in long festoons, rested a huge black snake; a bird two-thirds grown was slowlydisappearing between his expanded jaws. As he seemed unconscious of mypresence, I quietly observed the proceedings. By slow degrees hecompassed the bird about with his elastic mouth; his head flattened, hisneck writhed and swelled, and two or three undulatory movements of hisglistening body finished the work. Then he cautiously raised himself up, his tongue flaming from his mouth the while, curved over the nest, and, with wavy, subtle motions, explored the interior. I can conceive ofnothing more overpoweringly terrible to an unsuspecting family of birdsthan the sudden appearance above their domicile of the head and neck ofthis arch-enemy. It is enough to petrify the blood in their veins. Notfinding the object of his search, he came streaming down from the nestto a lower limb, and commenced extending his researches in otherdirections, sliding stealthily through the branches, bent on capturingone of the parent birds. That a legless, wingless creature should movewith such ease and rapidity where only birds and squirrels areconsidered at home, lifting himself up, letting himself down, runningout on the yielding boughs, and traversing with marvelous celerity thewhole length and breadth of the thicket, was truly surprising. Onethinks of the great myth of the Tempter and the "cause of all our woe, "and wonders if the Arch Enemy is not now playing off some of his pranksbefore him. Whether we call it snake or devil matters little. I couldbut admire his terrible beauty, however; his black, shining folds, hiseasy, gliding movement, head erect, eyes glistening, tongue playing likesubtle flame, and the invisible means of his almost winged locomotion. 

The parent birds, in the mean while, kept up the most agonizing cry, attimes fluttering furiously about their pursuer, and actually laying holdof his tail with their beaks and claws. On being thus attacked, thesnake would suddenly double upon himself and follow his own body back, thus executing a strategic movement that at first seemed almost toparalyze his victim and place her within his grasp. Not quite, however. Before his jaws could close upon the coveted prize the bird would tearherself away, and, apparently faint and sobbing, retire to a higherbranch. His reputed powers of fascination availed him little, though itis possible that a frailer and less combative bird might have been heldby the fatal spell. Presently, as he came gliding down the slender bodyof a leaning alder, his attention was attracted by a slight movement ofmy arm; eyeing me an instant, with that crouching, utterly motionlessgaze which I believe only snakes and devils can assume, he turnedquickly--a feat which necessitated something like crawling over his ownbody--and glided off through the branches, evidently recognizing in me arepresentative of the ancient parties he once so cunningly ruined. A fewmoments later, as he lay carelessly disposed in the top of a rank alder, trying to look as much like a crooked branch as his supple, shining formwould admit, the old vengeance overtook him. I exercised my prerogative, and a well-directed missile, in the shape of a stone, brought himlooping and writhing to the ground. After I had completed his downfalland quiet had been partly restored, a half-fledged member of thebereaved household came out from his hiding-place, and, jumping upon adecayed branch, chirped vigorously, no doubt in celebration of thevictory. 

THE BOBOLINK

The bobolink has a secure place in literature, having been laureated byno less a poet than Bryant, and invested with a lasting human charm inthe sunny page of Irving, and is the only one of our songsters, Ibelieve, that the mockingbird cannot parody or imitate. He affords themost marked example of exuberant pride, and a glad, rollicking, holidayspirit, that can be seen among our birds. Every note expressescomplacency and glee. He is a beau of the first pattern, and, unlike anyother bird of my acquaintance, pushes his gallantry to the point ofwheeling gayly into the train of every female that comes along, evenafter the season of courtship is over and the matches are all settled;and when she leads him on too wild a chase, he turns lightly about andbreaks out with a song that is precisely analogous to a burst of gay andself-satisfied laughter, as much as to say, "_Ha! ha! ha! I must have myfun, Miss Silverthimble, thimble, thimble, if I break every heart in themeadow, see, see, see!_"

At the approach of the breeding-season the bobolink undergoes a completechange; his form changes, his color changes, his flight changes. Frommottled brown or brindle he becomes black and white, earning, in somelocalities, the shocking name of "skunk bird"; his small, compact formbecomes broad and conspicuous, and his ordinary flight is laid aside fora mincing, affected gait, in which he seems to use only the very tips ofhis wings. It is very noticeable what a contrast he presents to his mateat this season, not only in color but in manners, she being as shy andretiring as he is forward and hilarious. Indeed, she seems disagreeablyserious and indisposed to any fun or jollity, scurrying away at hisapproach, and apparently annoyed at every endearing word and look. It issurprising that all this parade of plumage and tinkling of cymbalsshould be gone through with and persisted in to please a creature socoldly indifferent as she really seems to be. 

I know of no other song-bird that expresses so much self-consciousnessand vanity, and comes so near being an ornithological coxcomb. Theredbird, the yellowbird, the indigo-bird, the oriole, the cardinalgrosbeak, and others, all birds of brilliant plumage and musicalability, seem quite unconscious of self, and neither by tone nor actchallenge the admiration of the beholder. 

If I were a bird, in building my nest I should follow the example of thebobolink, placing it in the midst of a broad meadow, where there was nospear of grass, or flower, or growth unlike another to mark its site. Ijudge that the bobolink escapes the dangers to which nesting birds areliable as few or no other birds do. Unless the mowers come along at anearlier date than she has anticipated, that is, before July 1, or askunk goes nosing through the grass, which is unusual, she is as safe asbird well can be in the great open of nature. She selects the mostmonotonous and uniform place she can find amid the daisies or thetimothy and clover, and places her simple structure upon the ground inthe midst of it. There is no concealment, except as the great concealsthe little, as the desert conceals the pebble, as the myriad concealsthe unit. You may find the nest once, if your course chances to lead youacross it, and your eye is quick enough to note the silent brown bird asshe darts swiftly away; but step three paces in the wrong direction, andyour search will probably be fruitless. My friend and I found a nest byaccident one day, and then lost it again one minute afterward. I movedaway a few yards to be sure of the mother bird, charging my friend notto stir from his tracks. When I returned, he had moved two paces, hesaid (he had really moved four), and we spent a half-hour stooping overthe daisies and the buttercups, looking for the lost clew. We grewdesperate, and fairly felt the ground over with our hands, but withoutavail. I marked the spot with a bush, and came the next day, and, withthe bush as a centre, moved about it in slowly increasing circles, covering, I thought, nearly every inch of ground with my feet, andlaying hold of it with all the visual power I could command, till mypatience was exhausted, and I gave up, baffled. I began to doubt theability of the parent birds themselves to find it, and so secretedmyself and watched. After much delay, the male bird appeared with foodin his beak, and, satisfying himself that the coast was clear, droppedinto the grass which I had trodden down in my search. Fastening my eyeupon a particular meadow-lily, I walked straight to the spot, bent down, and gazed long and intently into the grass. Finally my eye separated thenest and its young from its surroundings. My foot had barely missed themin my search, but by how much they had escaped my eye I could not tell. Probably not by distance at all, but simply by unrecognition. They werevirtually invisible. The dark gray and yellowish-brown dry grass andstubble of the meadow-bottom were exactly copied in the color of thehalf-fledged young. More than that, they hugged the nest so closely andformed such a compact mass, that though there were five of them, theypreserved the unit of expression, --no single head or form was defined;they were one, and that one was without shape or color, and notseparable, except by closest scrutiny, from the one of themeadow-bottom. That nest prospered, as bobolinks' nests doubtlessgenerally do; for, notwithstanding the enormous slaughter of the birdsby Southern sportsmen during their fall migrations, the bobolink appearsto hold its own, and its music does not diminish in our Northernmeadows. 

THE BOBOLINK

 Daisies, clover, buttercup, Redtop, trefoil, meadowsweet, Ecstatic pinions, soaring up, Then gliding down to grassy seat. 

 Sunshine, laughter, mad desires, May day, June day, lucid skies, All reckless moods that love inspires-- The gladdest bird that sings and flies. 

 Meadows, orchards, bending sprays, Rushes, lilies, billowy wheat, Song and frolic fill his days, A feathered rondeau all complete. 

 Pink bloom, gold bloom, fleabane white, Dewdrop, raindrop, cooling shade, Bubbling throat and hovering flight, And jocund heart as e'er was made. 

THE WOOD THRUSH

The wood thrush is the handsomest species of the thrush family. In graceand elegance of manner he has no equal. Such a gentle, high-bred air, and such inimitable ease and composure in his flight and movement! He isa poet in very word and deed. His carriage is music to the eye. Hisperformance of the commonest act, as catching a beetle, or picking aworm from the mud, pleases like a stroke of wit or eloquence. Was he aprince in the olden time, and do the regal grace and mien still adhereto him in his transformation? What a finely proportioned form! Howplain, yet rich, his color, --the bright russet of his back, the clearwhite of his breast, with the distinct heart-shaped spots! It may beobjected to Robin that he is noisy and demonstrative; he hurries away orrises to a branch with an angry note, and flirts his wings in ill-bredsuspicion. The thrasher, or red thrush, sneaks and skulks like aculprit, hiding in the densest alders; the catbird is a coquette and aflirt, as well as a sort of female Paul Pry; and the chewink shows hisinhospitality by espying your movements like a detective. The woodthrush has none of these underbred traits. He regards meunsuspiciously, or avoids me with a noble reserve--or, if I am quiet andincurious, graciously hops toward me, as if to pay his respects, or tomake my acquaintance. I have passed under his nest within a few feet ofhis mate and brood, when he sat near by on a branch eying me sharply, but without opening his beak; but the moment I raised my hand toward hisdefenseless household his anger and indignation were beautiful tobehold. 

What a noble pride he has! Late one October, after his mates andcompanions had long since gone South, I noticed one for severalsuccessive days in the dense part of this next-door wood, flittingnoiselessly about, very grave and silent, as if doing penance for someviolation of the code of honor. By many gentle, indirect approaches, Iperceived that part of his tail-feathers were undeveloped. The sylvanprince could not think of returning to court in this plight, and so, amid the falling leaves and cold rains of autumn, was patiently bidinghis time. 

[Illustration: WOOD THRUSH]

It is a curious habit the wood thrush has of starting its nest with afragment of newspaper or other paper. Except in remote woods, I think itnearly always puts a piece of paper in the foundation of its nest. Lastspring I chanced to be sitting near a tree in which a wood thrush hadconcluded to build. She came with a piece of paper nearly as large as myhand, placed it upon the branch, stood upon it a moment, and then flewdown to the ground. A little puff of wind caused the paper to leave thebranch a moment afterward. The thrush watched it eddy slowly down to theground, when she seized it and carried it back. She placed it inposition as before, stood upon it again for a moment, and then flewaway. Again the paper left the branch, and sailed away slowly to theground. The bird seized it again, jerking it about rather spitefully, Ithought; she turned it round two or three times, then labored back tothe branch with it, upon which she shifted it about as if to hit uponsome position in which it would lie more securely. This time she satdown upon it for a moment, and then went away, doubtless with thethought in her head that she would bring something to hold it down. Theperverse paper followed her in a few seconds. She seized it again, andhustled it about more than before. As she rose with it toward the nest, it in some way impeded her flight, and she was compelled to return tothe ground with it. But she kept her temper remarkably well. She turnedthe paper over and took it up in her beak several times before she wassatisfied with her hold, and then carried it back to the branch, where, however, it would not stay. I saw her make six trials of it, when I wascalled away. I think she finally abandoned the restless fragment, probably a scrap that held some "breezy" piece of writing, for later inthe season I examined the nest and found no paper in it. 

How completely the life of a bird revolves about its nest, its home! Inthe case of the wood thrush, its life and joy seem to mount higher andhigher as the nest prospers. The male becomes a fountain of melody; hishappiness waxes day by day; he makes little triumphal tours about theneighborhood, and pours out his pride and gladness in the ears of all. How sweet, how well-bred, is his demonstration! But let any accidentbefall that precious nest, and what a sudden silence falls upon him!Last summer a pair of wood thrushes built their nest within a few rodsof my house, and when the enterprise was fairly launched and the motherbird was sitting upon her four blue eggs, the male was in the height ofhis song. How he poured forth his rich melody, never in the immediatevicinity of the nest, but always within easy hearing distance! Everymorning, as promptly as the morning came, between five and six, he wouldsing for half an hour from the top of a locust-tree that shaded myroof. I came to expect him as much as I expected my breakfast, and I wasnot disappointed till one morning I seemed to miss something. What wasit? Oh, the thrush had not sung this morning. Something is the matter;and, recollecting that yesterday I had seen a red squirrel in the treesnot far from the nest, I at once inferred that the nest had beenharried. Going to the spot, I found my fears were well grounded; everyegg was gone. The joy of the thrush was laid low. No more songs from thetree-top, and no more songs from any point, till nearly a week hadelapsed, when I heard him again under the hill, where the pair hadstarted a new nest, cautiously tuning up, and apparently with his recentbitter experience still weighing upon him. 

There is no nest-builder that suffers more from crows and squirrels andother enemies than the wood thrush. It builds as openly andunsuspiciously as if it thought all the world as honest as itself. Itsfavorite place is the fork of a sapling, eight or ten feet from theground, where it falls an easy prey to every nest-robber that comesprowling through the woods and groves. It is not a bird that skulks andhides, like the catbird, the brown thrasher, the chat, or the chewink, and its nest is not concealed with the same art as theirs. Our thrushesare all frank, open-mannered birds; but the veery and the hermit buildon the ground, where they may at least escape the crows, owls, and jays, and stand a good chance of being overlooked by the red squirrel andweasel also; while the robin seeks the protection of dwellings andoutbuildings. For years I have not known the nest of a wood thrush tosucceed. During the season referred to I observed but two, bothapparently a second attempt, as the season was well advanced, and bothfailures. In one case, the nest was placed in a branch that anapple-tree, standing near a dwelling, held out over the highway. Thestructure was barely ten feet above the middle of the road, and wouldjust escape a passing load of hay. It was made conspicuous by the use ofa large fragment of newspaper in its foundation, --an unsafe material tobuild upon in most cases. Whatever else the press may guard, thisparticular newspaper did not guard this nest from harm. It saw the eggand probably the chick, but not the fledgeling. A murderous deed wascommitted above the public highway, but whether in the open day or undercover of darkness I have no means of knowing. The frisky red squirrelwas doubtless the culprit. The other nest was in a maple sapling, withina few yards of the little rustic summer-house already referred to. Thefirst attempt of the season, I suspect, had failed in a more secludedplace under the hill; so the pair had come up nearer the house forprotection. The male sang in the trees near by for several days before Ichanced to see the nest. The very morning, I think, it was finished, Isaw a red squirrel exploring a tree but a few yards away; he probablyknew what the singing meant as well as I did. I did not see the insideof the nest, for it was almost instantly deserted, the female havingprobably laid a single egg, which the squirrel had devoured. 

One evening, while seated upon my porch, I had convincing proof thatmusical or song contests do take place among the birds. Two woodthrushes who had nests near by sat on the top of a dead tree and pittedthemselves against each other in song for over half an hour, contendinglike champions in a game, and certainly affording the rarest treat inwood-thrush melody I had ever had. They sang and sang with unweariedspirit and persistence, now and then changing position or facing inanother direction, but keeping within a few feet of each other. Therivalry became so obvious and was so interesting that I finally made ita point not to take my eyes from the singers. The twilight deepened tilltheir forms began to grow dim; then one of the birds could stand thestrain no longer, the limit of fair competition had been reached, andseeming to say, "I will silence you, anyhow, " it made a spiteful dive atits rival, and in hot pursuit the two disappeared in the bushes beneaththe tree. 

THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE

The nest of nests, the ideal nest, is unquestionably that of theBaltimore oriole. It is the only perfectly pensile nest we have. Thenest of the orchard oriole is indeed mainly so, but this bird generallybuilds lower and shallower, more after the manner of the vireos. 

The Baltimore oriole loves to attach its nest to the swaying branches ofthe tallest elms, making no attempt at concealment, but satisfied if theposition be high and the branch pendent. This nest would seem to costmore time and skill than any other bird structure. A peculiar flax-likematerial seems to be always sought after and always found. The nest whencompleted assumes the form of a large, suspended gourd. The walls arethin but firm, and proof against the most driving rain. The mouth ishemmed or over-handed with strings or horsehair, and the sides areusually sewed through and through with the same. 

Not particular as to the matter of secrecy, the bird is not particularas to material, so that it be of the nature of strings or threads. Alady friend once told me that, while she was working by an open window, one of these birds approached while her back was turned, and, seizing askein of some kind of thread or yarn, made off with it to itshalf-finished nest. But the perverse yarn caught fast in the branches, and, in the bird's efforts to extricate it, got hopelessly tangled. Shetugged away at it all day, but was finally obliged to content herselfwith a few detached portions. The fluttering strings were an eyesore toher ever after, and, passing and repassing, she would give them aspiteful jerk, as much as to say, "There is that confounded yarn thatgave me so much trouble. "

 [Illustration: BALTIMORE ORIOLE Upper, male; lower, female]

One day in Kentucky I saw an oriole weave into her nest unusualmaterial. As we sat upon the lawn in front of the cottage, we hadnoticed the bird just beginning her structure, suspending it from along, low branch of the Kentucky coffee-tree that grew but a few feetaway. I suggested to my host that if he would take some brilliant yarnand scatter it about upon the shrubbery, the fence, and the walks, thebird would probably avail herself of it, and weave a novel nest. I hadheard of its being done, but had never tried it myself. The suggestionwas at once acted upon, and in a few moments a handful of zephyr yarn, crimson, orange, green, yellow, and blue, was distributed about thegrounds. As we sat at dinner a few moments later, I saw the eager birdflying up toward her nest with one of these brilliant yarns streamingbehind her. They had caught her eye at once, and she fell to work uponthem with a will; not a bit daunted by their brilliant color, she soonhad a crimson spot there amid the green leaves. She afforded us rareamusement all the afternoon and the next morning. How she seemed tocongratulate herself over her rare find! How vigorously she knottedthose strings to her branch and gathered the ends in and sewed themthrough and through the structure, jerking them spitefully like ahousewife burdened with many cares! How savagely she would fly at herneighbor, an oriole that had a nest just over the fence a few yardsaway, when she invaded her territory! The male looked on approvingly, but did not offer to lend a hand. There is something in the manner ofthe female on such occasions, something so decisive and emphatic, thatone entirely approves of the course of the male in not meddling oroffering any suggestions. It is the wife's enterprise, and she evidentlyknows her own mind so well that the husband keeps aloof, or plays thepart of an approving spectator. 

The woolen yarn was ill-suited to the Kentucky climate. This fact thebird seemed to appreciate, for she used it only in the upper part ofher nest, in attaching it to the branch and in binding and compactingthe rim, making the sides and bottom of hemp, leaving it thin and airy, much more so than are the same nests with us. No other bird would, perhaps, have used such brilliant material; their instincts ofconcealment would have revolted, but the oriole aims more to make itsnest inaccessible than to hide it. Its position and depth insure itssafety. 

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

One day in May, walking in the woods, I came upon the nest of awhip-poor-will, or rather its eggs, for it builds no nest, --twoelliptical whitish spotted eggs lying upon the dry leaves. My foot waswithin a yard of the mother bird before she flew. I wondered what asharp eye would detect curious or characteristic in the ways of thebird, so I came to the place many times and had a look. It was always atask to separate the bird from her surroundings, though I stood within afew feet of her, and knew exactly where to look. One had to bear on withhis eye, as it were, and refuse to be baffled. The sticks and leaves, and bits of black or dark-brown bark, were all exactly copied in thebird's plumage. And then she did sit so close, and simulate so well ashapeless, decaying piece of wood or bark! Twice I brought a companion, and, guiding his eye to the spot, noted how difficult it was for him tomake out there, in full view upon the dry leaves, any semblance to abird. When the bird returned after being disturbed, she would alightwithin a few inches of her eggs, and then, after a moment's pause, hobble awkwardly upon them. 

[Illustration: WHIP-POOR-WILL]

After the young had appeared, all the wit of the bird came into play. Iwas on hand the next day, I think. The mother bird sprang up when I waswithin a pace of her, and in doing so fanned the leaves with her wingstill they sprang up, too; as the leaves started the young started, andas they were of the same color, to tell which was the leaf and which thebird was a trying task to any eye. I came the next day, when the sametactics were repeated. Once a leaf fell upon one of the young birds andnearly hid it. The young are covered with a reddish down, like a youngpartridge, and soon follow their mother about. When disturbed, they gavebut one leap, then settled down, perfectly motionless and stupid, witheyes closed. The parent bird, on these occasions, made frantic effortsto decoy me away from her young. She would fly a few paces and fall uponher breast, and a spasm, like that of death, would run through hertremulous outstretched wings and prostrate body. She kept a sharp eyeout the mean while to see if the ruse took, and, if it did not, she wasquickly cured, and, moving about to some other point, tried to draw myattention as before. When followed she always alighted upon the ground, dropping down in a sudden, peculiar way. The second or third day bothold and young had disappeared. 

The whip-poor-will walks as awkwardly as a swallow, which is as awkwardas a man in a bag, and yet she manages to lead her young about thewoods. The latter, I think, move by leaps and sudden spurts, theirprotective coloring shielding them most effectively. 

 * * * * *

As the shadows deepen and the stars begin to come out, thewhip-poor-will suddenly strikes up. What a rude intrusion upon theserenity and harmony of the hour! A cry without music, insistent, reiterated, loud, penetrating, and yet the ear welcomes it; the nightand the solitude are so vast that they can stand it; and when, an hourlater, as the night enters into full possession, the bird comes andserenades me under my window or upon my doorstep, my heart warms towardit. Its cry is a love-call, and there is something of the ardor andpersistence of love in it, and when the female responds, and comes andhovers near, there is an interchange of subdued, caressing tones betweenthe two birds that it is a delight to hear. During my first summer in mycabin one bird used to strike up every night from a high ledge of rocksin front of my door. At just such a moment in the twilight he wouldbegin, the first to break the stillness. Then the others would follow, till the solitude was vocal with their calls. They are rarely heardlater than ten o'clock. Then at daybreak they take up the tale again, whipping poor Will till one pities him. One April morning between threeand four o'clock, hearing one strike up near my window, I began countingits calls. My neighbor had told me he had heard one call over twohundred times without a break, which seemed to me a big story. But Ihave a much bigger one to tell. This bird actually laid upon the back ofpoor Will one thousand and eighty-eight blows, with only a barelyperceptible pause here and there, as if to catch its breath. Then itstopped about half a minute and began again, uttering this time threehundred and ninety calls, when it paused, flew a little farther away, took up the tale once more, and continued till I fell asleep. 

By day the whip-poor-will apparently sits motionless upon the ground. Afew times in my walks through the woods I have started one up fromalmost under my feet. On such occasions the bird's movements suggestthose of a bat; its wings make no noise, and it wavers about in anuncertain manner, and quickly drops to the ground again. One June day weflushed an old one with her two young, but there was no indecision orhesitation in the manner of the mother bird this time. The young weremore than half fledged, and they scampered away a few yards andsuddenly squatted upon the ground, where their assimilative coloringrendered them almost invisible. Then the anxious parent put forth allher arts to absorb our attention and lure us away from her offspring. She flitted before us from side to side, with spread wings and tail, nowfalling upon the ground, where she would remain a moment as if quitedisabled, then perching upon an old stump or low branch with drooping, quivering wings, and imploring us by every gesture to take her and spareher young. My companion had his camera with him, but the bird would notremain long enough in one position for him to get her picture. 

THE BLACK-THROATED BLUE WARBLER

A SEARCH FOR A RARE NEST

I had set out in hopes of finding a rare nest, --the nest of theblack-throated blue-backed warbler, which, it seemed, with one or twoothers, was still wanting to make the history of our warblers complete. The woods were extensive, and full of deep, dark tangles, and lookingfor any particular nest seemed about as hopeless a task as searching fora needle in a haystack, as the old saying is. Where to begin, and how?But the principle is the same as in looking for a hen's nest, --firstfind your bird, then watch its movements. 

The bird is in these woods, for I have seen him scores of times, butwhether he builds high or low, on the ground or in the trees, is allunknown to me. That is his song now, --"twe-twea-twe-e-e-a, " with apeculiar summer languor and plaintiveness, and issuing from the lowerbranches and growths. Presently we--for I have been joined by acompanion--discover the bird, a male, insecting in the top of a newlyfallen hemlock. The black, white, and blue of his uniform are seen at aglance. His movements are quite slow compared with some of the warblers. If he will only betray the locality of that little domicile where hisplainly clad mate is evidently sitting, it is all we will ask of him. But this he seems in no wise disposed to do. Here and there, and up anddown, we follow him, often losing him, and as often refinding him by hissong; but the clew to his nest, how shall we get it? Does he never gohome to see how things are getting on, or to see if his presence is notneeded, or to take madam a morsel of food? No doubt he keeps withinearshot, and a cry of distress or alarm from the mother bird would bringhim to the spot in an instant. Would that some evil fate would make hercry, then! Presently he encounters a rival. His feeding-ground infringesupon that of another, and the two birds regard each other threateningly. This is a good sign, for their nests are evidently near. 

Their battle-cry is a low, peculiar chirp, not very fierce, butbantering and confident. They quickly come to blows, but it is a veryfantastic battle, and, as it would seem, indulged in more to satisfytheir sense of honor than to hurt each other, for neither party gets thebetter of the other, and they separate a few paces and sing, and squeak, and challenge each other in a very happy frame of mind. The gauntlet isno sooner thrown down than it is again taken up by one or the other, andin the course of fifteen or twenty minutes they have three or fourencounters, separating a little, then provoked to return again like twococks, till finally they withdraw beyond hearing of each other, --both, no doubt, claiming the victory. But the secret of the nest is stillkept. Once I think I have it. I catch a glimpse of a bird which lookslike the female, and near by, in a small hemlock about eight feet fromthe ground, my eye detects a nest. But as I come up under it, I can seedaylight through it, and that it is empty, --evidently only partlyfinished, not lined or padded yet. Now if the bird will only return andclaim it, the point will be gained. But we wait and watch in vain. Thearchitect has knocked off to-day, and we must come again, or continueour search. 

Despairing of finding either of the nests of the two males, we pushed onthrough the woods to try our luck elsewhere. Before long, just as wewere about to plunge down a hill into a dense, swampy part of the woods, we discovered a pair of the birds we were in quest of. They had food intheir beaks, and, as we paused, showed great signs of alarm, indicatingthat the nest was in the immediate vicinity. This was enough. We wouldpause here and find this nest, anyhow. To make a sure thing of it, wedetermined to watch the parent birds till we had wrung from them theirsecret. So we doggedly crouched down and watched them, and they watchedus. It was diamond cut diamond. But as we felt constrained in ourmovements, desiring, if possible, to keep so quiet that the birds would, after a while, see in us only two harmless stumps or prostrate logs, wehad much the worst of it. The mosquitoes were quite taken with ourquiet, and knew us from logs and stumps in a moment. Neither were thebirds deceived, not even when we tried the Indian's tactics, and plumedourselves with green branches. Ah, the suspicious creatures, how theywatched us with the food in their beaks, abstaining for one whole hourfrom ministering to that precious charge which otherwise would have beenvisited every few moments! Quite near us they would come at times, between us and the nest, eying us so sharply. Then they would move off, and apparently try to forget our presence. Was it to deceive us, or topersuade himself and his mate that there was no serious cause for alarm, that the male would now and then strike up in full song and move off tosome distance through the trees? But the mother bird did not allowherself to lose sight of us at all, and both birds, after carrying thefood in their beaks a long time, would swallow it themselves. Then theywould obtain another morsel and apparently approach very near the nest, when their caution or prudence would come to their aid, and they wouldswallow the food and hasten away. I thought the young birds would cryout, but not a syllable from them. Yet this was, no doubt, what kept theparent birds away from the nest. The clamor the young would have set upon the approach of the old with food would have exposed everything. 

After a time I felt sure I knew within a few feet where the nest wasconcealed. Indeed, I thought I knew the identical bush. Then the birdsapproached each other again and grew very confidential about anotherlocality some rods below. This puzzled us, and, seeing the wholeafternoon might be spent in this manner and the mystery unsolved, wedetermined to change our tactics and institute a thorough search of thelocality. This procedure soon brought things to a crisis, for, as mycompanion clambered over a log by a little hemlock, a few yards fromwhere we had been sitting, with a cry of alarm out sprang the youngbirds from their nest in the hemlock, and, scampering and flutteringover the leaves, disappeared in different directions. Instantly theparent birds were on the scene in an agony of alarm. Their distress waspitiful. They threw themselves on the ground at our very feet, andfluttered, and cried, and trailed themselves before us, to draw us awayfrom the place, or distract our attention from the helpless young. Ishall not forget the male bird, how bright he looked, how sharp thecontrast as he trailed his painted plumage there on the dry leaves. Apparently he was seriously disabled. He would start up as if exertingevery muscle to fly away, but no use; down he would come, with ahelpless, fluttering motion, before he had gone two yards, andapparently you had only to go and pick him up. But before you could pickhim up, he had recovered somewhat and flown a little farther; and thus, if you were tempted to follow him, you would soon find yourself somedistance from the scene of the nest, and both old and young well out ofyour reach. The female bird was not less solicitous, and practiced thesame arts upon us to decoy us away, but her dull plumage rendered herless noticeable. The male was clad in holiday attire, but his mate in anevery-day working-garb. 

The nest was built in the fork of a little hemlock, about fifteen inchesfrom the ground, and was a thick, firm structure, composed of the finermaterial of the woods, with a lining of very delicate roots or rootlets. There were four young birds and one addled egg. 

THE MARSH HAWK

A MARSH HAWK'S NEST, A YOUNG HAWK, AND A VISIT TO A QUAIL ON HER NEST

Most country boys, I fancy, know the marsh hawk. It is he you see flyinglow over the fields, beating about bushes and marshes and dipping overthe fences, with his attention directed to the ground beneath him. He isa cat on wings. He keeps so low that the birds and mice do not see himtill he is fairly upon them. The hen-hawk swoops down upon themeadow-mouse from his position high in air, or from the top of a deadtree; but the marsh hawk stalks him and comes suddenly upon him fromover the fence, or from behind a low bush or tuft of grass. He is nearlyas large as the hen-hawk, but has a much longer tail. When I was a boy Iused to call him the long-tailed hawk. The male is of a bluishslate-color; the female reddish-brown, like the hen-hawk, with a whiterump. 

Unlike the other hawks, they nest on the ground in low, thick marshyplaces. For several seasons a pair have nested in a bushy marsh a fewmiles back of me, near the house of a farmer friend of mine, who has akeen eye for the wild life about him. Two years ago he found the nest, but when I got over to see it the next week, it had been robbed, probably by some boys in the neighborhood. The past season, in April orMay, by watching the mother bird, he found the nest again. It was in amarshy place, several acres in extent, in the bottom of a valley, andthickly grown with hardback, prickly ash, smilax, and other low thornybushes. My friend took me to the brink of a low hill, and pointed out tome in the marsh below us, as nearly as he could, just where the nest waslocated. Then we crossed the pasture, entered upon the marsh, and madeour way cautiously toward it. The wild, thorny growths, waist-high, hadto be carefully dealt with. As we neared the spot, I used my eyes thebest I could, but I did not see the hawk till she sprang into the airnot ten yards away from us. She went screaming upward, and was soonsailing in a circle far above us. There, on a coarse matting of twigsand weeds, lay five snow-white eggs, a little more than half as large ashens' eggs. My companion said the male hawk would probably soon appearand join the female, but he did not. She kept drifting away to the east, and was soon gone from our sight. 

We presently withdrew and secreted ourselves behind the stone wall, inhopes of seeing the mother hawk return. She appeared in the distance, but seemed to know she was being watched, and kept away. 

About ten days later we made another visit to the nest. An adventurousyoung Chicago lady also wanted to see a hawk's nest, and so accompaniedus. This time three of the eggs were hatched, and as the mother hawksprang up, either by accident or intentionally she threw two of theyoung hawks some feet from the nest. She rose up and screamed angrily. Then, turning toward us, she came like an arrow straight at the younglady, a bright plume in whose hat probably drew her fire. The damselgathered up her skirts about her and beat a hasty retreat. Hawks werenot so pretty as she thought they were. A large hawk launched at one'sface from high in the air is calculated to make one a little nervous. Itis such a fearful incline down which the bird comes, and she is aimingexactly toward your eye. When within about thirty feet of you, she turnsupward with a rushing sound, and, mounting higher, falls toward youagain. She is only firing blank cartridges, as it were; but it usuallyhas the desired effect, and beats the enemy off. 

After we had inspected the young hawks, a neighbor of my friend offeredto conduct us to a quail's nest. Anything in the shape of a nest isalways welcome, it is such a mystery, such a centre of interest andaffection, and, if upon the ground, is usually something so dainty andexquisite amid the natural wreckage and confusion. A ground nest seemsso exposed, too, that it always gives a little thrill of pleasurablesurprise to see the group of frail eggs resting there behind so slight abarrier. I will walk a long distance any day just to see a songsparrow's nest amid the stubble or under a tuft of grass. It is a jewelin a rosette of jewels, with a frill of weeds or turf. A quail's nest Ihad never seen, and to be shown one within the hunting-ground of thismurderous hawk would be a double pleasure. Such a quiet, secluded, grass-grown highway as we moved along was itself a rare treat. Sequestered was the word that the little valley suggested, and peace thefeeling the road evoked. The farmer, whose fields lay about us, halfgrown with weeds and bushes, evidently did not make stir or noise enoughto disturb anything. Beside this rustic highway, bounded by old mossystone walls, and within a stone's throw of the farmer's barn, the quailhad made her nest. It was just under the edge of a prostrate thorn-bush. 

"The nest is right there, " said the farmer, pausing within ten feet ofit, and pointing to the spot with his stick. 

In a moment or two we could make out the mottled brown plumage of thesitting bird. Then we approached her cautiously till we bent above her. 

She never moved a feather. 

Then I put my cane down in the brush behind her. We wanted to see theeggs, yet did not want rudely to disturb the sitting hen. 

She would not move. 

Then I put down my hand within a few inches of her; still she kept herplace. Should we have to lift her off bodily?

Then the young lady put down her hand, probably the prettiest and thewhitest hand the quail had ever seen. At least it started her, and offshe sprang, uncovering such a crowded nest of eggs as I had never beforebeheld. Twenty-one of them! a ring or disk of white like a chinatea-saucer. You could not help saying, How pretty! How cunning! likebaby hens' eggs, as if the bird were playing at sitting, as childrenplay at housekeeping. 

If I had known how crowded her nest was, I should not have dared disturbher, for fear she would break some of them. But not an egg suffered harmby her sudden flight. And no harm came to the nest afterward. Every egghatched, I was told, and the little chicks, hardly bigger thanbumblebees, were led away by the mother into the fields. 

In about a week I paid another visit to the hawk's nest. The eggs wereall hatched, and the mother bird was hovering near. I shall never forgetthe curious expression of those young hawks sitting there on the ground. The expression was not one of youth, but of extreme age. Such anancient, infirm look as they had, --the sharp, dark, and shrunken lookabout the face and eyes, and their feeble, tottering motions! They satupon their elbows and the hind part of their bodies, and their pale, withered legs and feet extended before them in the most helplessfashion. Their angular bodies were covered with a pale yellowish down, like that of a chicken; their heads had a plucked, seedy appearance; andtheir long, strong, naked wings hung down by their sides till theytouched the ground: power and ferocity in the first rude draught, shornof everything but its sinister ugliness. Another curious thing was thegradation of the young in size; they tapered down regularly from thefirst to the fifth, as if there had been, as probably there was, aninterval of a day or two between the hatchings. 

The two older ones showed some signs of fear on our approach, and one ofthem threw himself upon his back, and put up his impotent legs, andglared at us with open beak. The two smaller ones regarded us not atall. Neither of the parent birds appeared during our stay. 

When I visited the nest again, eight or ten days later, the birds weremuch grown, but of as marked a difference in size as before, and withthe same look of extreme old age, --old age in men of the aquiline type, nose and chin coming together, and eyes large and sunken. They nowglared upon us with a wild, savage look, and opened their beaksthreateningly. 

The next week, when my friend visited the nest, the larger of the hawksfought him savagely. But one of the brood, probably the last to hatch, had made but little growth. It appeared to be on the point ofstarvation. The mother hawk (for the male seemed to have disappeared)had perhaps found her family too large for her, and was deliberatelyallowing one of the number to perish; or did the larger and strongeryoung devour all the food before the weaker member could obtain any?Probably this was the case. 

Arthur brought the feeble nestling away, and the same day my little boygot it and brought it home, wrapped in a woolen rag. It was clearly astarved bantling. It cried feebly but would not lift up its head. 

We first poured some warm milk down its throat, which soon revived it, so that it would swallow small bits of flesh. In a day or two we had iteating ravenously, and its growth became noticeable. Its voice had thesharp whistling character of that of its parents, and was stilled onlywhen the bird was asleep. We made a pen for it, about a yard square, inone end of the study, covering the floor with several thicknesses ofnewspapers; and here, upon a bit of brown woolen blanket for a nest, thehawk waxed strong day by day. An uglier-looking pet, tested by all therules we usually apply to such things, would have been hard to find. There he would sit upon his elbows, his helpless feet out in front ofhim, his great featherless wings touching the floor, and shrilly cry formore food. For a time we gave him water daily from a stylograph-penfiller, but the water he evidently did not need or relish. Fresh meat, and plenty of it, was his demand. And we soon discovered that he likedgame, such as mice, squirrels, birds, much better than butcher's meat. 

Then began a lively campaign on the part of my little boy against allthe vermin and small game in the neighborhood, to keep the hawksupplied. He trapped and he hunted, he enlisted his mates in hisservice, he even robbed the cats to feed the hawk. His usefulness as aboy of all work was seriously impaired. "Where is J----?" "Gone after asquirrel for his hawk. " And often the day would be half gone before hishunt was successful. The premises were very soon cleared of mice, andthe vicinity of chipmunks and squirrels. Farther and farther he wascompelled to hunt the surrounding farms and woods to keep up with thedemands of the hawk. By the time the hawk was ready to fly, it hadconsumed twenty-one chipmunks, fourteen red squirrels, sixteen mice, andtwelve English sparrows, besides a great deal of butcher's meat. 

His plumage very soon began to show itself, crowding off tufts of thedown. The quills on his great wings sprouted and grew apace. What aragged, uncanny appearance he presented! but his look of extreme agegradually became modified. What a lover of the sunlight he was! We wouldput him out upon the grass in the full blaze of the morning sun, and hewould spread his wings and bask in it with the most intense enjoyment. In the nest the young must be exposed to the full power of the middaysun during our first heated terms in June and July, the thermometeroften going up to ninety-three or ninety-five degrees, so that sunshineseemed to be a need of his nature. He liked the rain equally well, andwhen put out in a shower would sit down and take it as if every drop didhim good. 

His legs developed nearly as slowly as his wings. He could not standsteadily upon them till about ten days before he was ready to fly. Thetalons were limp and feeble. When we came with food, he would hobblealong toward us like the worst kind of a cripple, drooping and movinghis wings, and treading upon his legs from the foot back to the elbow, the foot remaining closed and useless. Like a baby learning to stand, hemade many trials before he succeeded. He would rise up on his tremblinglegs only to fall back again. 

One day, in the summer-house, I saw him for the first time stand for amoment squarely upon his legs with the feet fully spread beneath them. He looked about him as if the world suddenly wore a new aspect. 

His plumage now grew quite rapidly. One red squirrel a day, chopped finewith an axe, was his ration. He began to hold his game with his footwhile he tore it. The study was full of his shed down. His dark-brownmottled plumage began to grow beautiful. The wings drooped a little, butgradually he got control of them, and held them in place. 

It was now the 20th of July, and the hawk was about five weeks old. In aday or two he was walking or jumping about the grounds. He chose aposition under the edge of a Norway spruce, where he would sit for hoursdozing, or looking out upon the landscape. When we brought him game, hewould advance to meet us with wings slightly lifted, and uttering ashrill cry. Toss him a mouse or sparrow, and he would seize it with onefoot and hop off to his cover, where he would bend above it, spread hisplumage, look this way and that, uttering all the time the most exultantand satisfied chuckle. 

About this time he began to practice striking with his talons, as anIndian boy might begin practicing with his bow and arrow. He wouldstrike at a dry leaf in the grass, or at a fallen apple, or at someimaginary object. He was learning the use of his weapons. His wingsalso, --he seemed to feel them sprouting from his shoulders. He wouldlift them straight up and hold them expanded, and they would seem toquiver with excitement. Every hour in the day he would do this. Thepressure was beginning to centre there. Then he would strike playfullyat a leaf or a bit of wood, and keep his wings lifted. 

The next step was to spring into the air and beat his wings. He seemednow to be thinking entirely of his wings. They itched to be put to use. 

A day or two later he would leap and fly several feet. A pile of brushten or twelve feet below the bank was easily reached. Here he wouldperch in true hawk fashion, to the bewilderment and scandal of all therobins and catbirds in the vicinity. Here he would dart his eye in alldirections, turning his head over and glancing up into the sky. 

He was now a lovely creature, fully fledged, and as tame as a kitten. But he was not a bit like a kitten in one respect, --he could not bear tohave you stroke or even touch his plumage. He had a horror of your hand, as if it would hopelessly defile him. But he would perch upon it, andallow you to carry him about. If a dog or cat appeared, he was ready togive battle instantly. He rushed up to a little dog one day, and struckhim with his foot savagely. He was afraid of strangers, and of anyunusual object. 

The last week in July he began to fly quite freely, and it was necessaryto clip one of his wings. As the clipping embraced only the ends of hisprimaries, he soon overcame the difficulty, and, by carrying his broad, long tail more on that side, flew with considerable ease. He madelonger and longer excursions into the surrounding fields and vineyards, and did not always return. On such occasions we would go to find him andfetch him back. 

Late one rainy afternoon he flew away into the vineyard, and when, anhour later, I went after him, he could not be found, and we never sawhim again. We hoped hunger would soon drive him back, but we have had noclew to him from that day to this. 

THE WINTER WREN

An old hemlock wood at the head waters of the Delaware is a chosen hauntof the winter wren. His voice fills these dim aisles, as if aided bysome marvelous sounding-board. Indeed, his song is very strong for sosmall a bird, and unites in a remarkable degree brilliancy andplaintiveness. I think of a tremulous, vibrating tongue of silver. Youmay know it is the song of a wren from its gushing, lyrical character;but you must needs look sharp to see the little minstrel, especiallywhile in the act of singing. He is nearly the color of the ground andthe leaves; he never ascends the tall trees, but keeps low, flittingfrom stump to stump and from root to root, dodging in and out of hishiding-places, and watching all intruders with a suspicious eye. He hasa very pert, almost comical look. His tail stands more thanperpendicular: it points straight toward his head. He is the leastostentatious singer I know of. He does not strike an attitude, and liftup his head in preparation, and, as it were, clear his throat; but sitsthere on a log and pours out his music, looking straight before him, oreven down at the ground. As a songster, he has but few superiors. I donot hear him after the first week in July. 

The winter wren is so called because he sometimes braves our northernwinters, but it is rarely that one sees him at this season. I think Ihave seen him only two or three times in winter in my life. The event ofone long walk, recently, in February, was seeing one of these birds. AsI followed a byroad, beside a little creek in the edge of a wood, my eyecaught a glimpse of a small brown bird darting under a stone bridge. Ithought to myself no bird but a wren would take refuge under so small abridge as that. I stepped down upon it and expected to see the bird dartout at the upper end. As it did not appear, I scrutinized the bank ofthe little run, covered with logs and brush, a few rods farther up. 

Presently I saw the wren curtsying and gesticulating beneath an old log. As I approached he disappeared beneath some loose stones in the bank, then came out again and took another peep at me, then fidgeted about fora moment and disappeared again, running in and out of the holes andrecesses and beneath the rubbish like a mouse or a chipmunk. The winterwren may always be known by these squatting, bobbing-out-and-in habits. 

As I sought a still closer view of him, he flitted stealthily a fewyards up the run and disappeared beneath a small plank bridge near ahouse. 

I wondered what he could feed upon at such a time. There was a lightskim of snow upon the ground, and the weather was cold. The wren, so faras I know, is entirely an insect-feeder, and where can he find insectsin midwinter in our climate? Probably by searching under bridges, underbrush-heaps, in holes and cavities in banks where the sun falls warm. Insuch places he may find dormant spiders and flies and other hibernatinginsects or their larvæ. We have a tiny, mosquito-like creature thatcomes forth in March or in midwinter, as soon as the temperature is alittle above freezing. One may see them performing their fantasticair-dances when the air is so chilly that one buttons his overcoat abouthim in his walk. They are darker than the mosquito, --a sort of darkwater-color, --and are very frail to the touch. Maybe the wren knows thehiding-place of these insects. 

THE CEDAR-BIRD

How alert and vigilant the birds are, even when absorbed in buildingtheir nests! In an open space in the woods I see a pair of cedar-birdscollecting moss from the top of a dead tree. Following the direction inwhich they fly, I soon discover the nest placed in the fork of a smallsoft maple, which stands amid a thick growth of wild cherry-trees andyoung beeches. Carefully concealing myself beneath it, without any fearthat the workmen will hit me with a chip or let fall a tool, I await thereturn of the busy pair. Presently I hear the well-known note, and thefemale sweeps down and settles unsuspectingly into the half-finishedstructure. Hardly have her wings rested before her eye has penetrated myscreen, and with a hurried movement of alarm she darts away. In a momentthe male, with a tuft of wool in his beak (for there is a sheep pasturenear), joins her, and the two reconnoitre the premises from thesurrounding bushes. With their beaks still loaded, they flit round witha frightened look, and refuse to approach the nest till I have moved offand lain down behind a log. Then one of them ventures to alight uponthe nest, but, still suspecting all is not right, quickly darts awayagain. Then they both together come, and after much peeping and spyingabout, and apparently much anxious consultation, cautiously proceed towork. In less than half an hour it would seem that wool enough has beenbrought to supply the whole family, real and prospective, with socks, ifneedles and fingers could be found fine enough to knit it up. In lessthan a week the female has begun to deposit her eggs, --four of them inas many days, --white tinged with purple, with black spots on the largerend. After two weeks of incubation the young are out. 

Excepting the American goldfinch, this bird builds later in the seasonthan any other, its nest, in our northern climate, seldom beingundertaken till July. As with the goldfinch, the reason is, probably, that suitable food for the young cannot be had at an earlier period. 

I knew a pair of cedar-birds, one season, to build in an apple-tree, thebranches of which rubbed against the house. For a day or two before thefirst straw was laid, I noticed the pair carefully exploring everybranch of the tree, the female taking the lead, the male following herwith an anxious note and look. It was evident that the wife was to haveher choice this time; and, like one who thoroughly knew her mind, shewas proceeding to take it. Finally the site was chosen upon a highbranch, extending over one low wing of the house. Mutual congratulationsand caresses followed, when both birds flew away in quest ofbuilding-material. That most freely used is a sort of cotton-bearingplant which grows in old worn-out fields. The nest is large for the sizeof the bird, and very soft. It is in every respect a first-classdomicile. 

The cedar-bird is the most silent bird we have. Our neutral-tintedbirds, like him, as a rule are our finest songsters; but he has no songor call, uttering only a fine bead-like note on taking flight. This noteis the cedar-berry rendered back in sound. When the ox-heart cherries, which he has only recently become acquainted with, have had time toenlarge his pipe and warm his heart, I shall expect more music from him. But in lieu of music, what a pretty compensation are those minute, almost artificial-like, plumes of orange and vermilion that tip the endsof his wing quills! Nature could not give him these and a song too. 

THE GOLDFINCH

About the most noticeable bird of August in New York and New England isthe yellowbird, or goldfinch. This is one of the last birds to nest, seldom hatching its eggs till late in July. It seems as if a particularkind of food were required to rear its brood, which cannot be had at anearlier date. The seed of the common thistle is apparently its mainstay. There is no prettier sight at this season than a troop of younggoldfinches, led by their parents, going from thistle to thistle alongthe roadside and pulling the ripe heads to pieces for the seed. Theplaintive call of the young is one of the characteristic August sounds. Their nests are frequently destroyed, or the eggs thrown from them, bythe terrific July thunder-showers. Last season a pair had a nest on theslender branch of a maple in front of the door of the house where I wasstaying. The eggs were being deposited, and the happy pair had a lovingconversation about them many times each day, when one afternoon a veryviolent storm arose which made the branches of the trees stream out likewildly disheveled hair, quite turning over those on the windward side, and emptying the pretty nest of its eggs. In such cases the birds buildanew, --a delay that may bring the incubation into August. 

It is a deep, snug, compact nest, with no loose ends hanging, placed inthe fork of a small limb of an apple-tree, a peach-tree, or anornamental shade-tree. The eggs are faint bluish-white. 

While the female is sitting, the male feeds her regularly. She calls tohim on his approach, or when she hears his voice passing by, in the mostaffectionate, feminine, childlike tones, the only case I know where thesitting bird makes any sound while in the act of incubation. When arival male invades the tree, or approaches too near, the male whose nestit holds pursues and reasons or expostulates with him in the samebright, amicable, confiding tones. Indeed, most birds make use of theirsweetest notes in war. The song of love is the song of battle too. Themale yellowbirds flit about from point to point, apparently assuringeach other of the highest sentiments of esteem and consideration, at thesame time that one intimates to the other that he is carrying his joke alittle too far. It has the effect of saying with mild and good-humoredsurprise, "Why, my dear sir, this is my territory; you surely do notmean to trespass; permit me to salute you, and to escort you over theline. " Yet the intruder does not always take the hint. Occasionally thecouple have a brief sparring-match in the air, and mount up and up, beakto beak, to a considerable height, but rarely do they actually come toblows. 

The yellowbird becomes active and conspicuous after the other birds havenearly all withdrawn from the stage and become silent, their broodsreared and flown. August is his month, his festive season. It is histurn now. The thistles are ripening their seeds, and his nest isundisturbed by jay-bird or crow. He is the first bird I hear in themorning, circling and swinging through the air in that peculiarundulating flight, and calling out on the downward curve of each stroke, "Here we go, here we go!" Every hour in the day he indulges in hiscircling, billowy flight. It is a part of his musical performance. Hiscourse at such times is a deeply undulating line, like the long, gentleroll of the summer sea, the distance from crest to crest or from valleyto valley being probably thirty feet; this distance is made with but onebrief beating of the wings on the downward curve. As he quickly opensthem, they give him a strong upward impulse, and he describes the longarc with them closely folded. Thus, falling and recovering, rising andsinking like dolphins in the sea, he courses through the summer air. Inmarked contrast to this feat is his manner of flying when he indulges ina brief outburst of song on the wing. Now he flies level, with broadexpanded wings nearly as round and as concave as two shells, which beatthe air slowly. The song is the chief matter now, and the wings are usedonly to keep him afloat while delivering it. In the other case, theflight is the main concern, and the voice merely punctuates it. 

 * * * * *

Among our familiar birds the matchmaking of none other is quite sopretty as that of the goldfinch. The goldfinches stay with us in looseflocks and clad in a dull-olive suit throughout the winter. In May themales begin to put on their bright summer plumage. This is the result ofa kind of superficial moulting. Their feathers are not shed, but theirdusky covering or overalls are cast off. When the process is only partlycompleted, the bird has a smutty, unpresentable appearance. But weseldom see them at such times. They seem to retire from society. Whenthe change is complete, and the males have got their bright uniforms ofyellow and black, the courting begins. All the goldfinches of aneighborhood collect together and hold a sort of musical festival. Tothe number of many dozens they may be seen in some large tree, allsinging and calling in the most joyous and vivacious manner. The malessing, and the females chirp and call. Whether there is actualcompetition on a trial of musical abilities of the males before thefemales or not, I do not know. The best of feeling seems to pervade thecompany; there is no sign of quarreling or fighting; "all goes merry asa marriage bell, " and the matches seem actually to be made during thesemusical picnics. Before May is passed the birds are seen in couples, andin June housekeeping usually begins. This I call the ideal oflove-making among birds, and is in striking contrast to the squabblesand jealousies of most of our songsters. 

I have known the goldfinches to keep up this musical and love-makingfestival through three consecutive days of a cold northeast rainstorm. Bedraggled, but ardent and happy, the birds were not to be dispersed bywind or weather. 

THE HEN-HAWK[1]

August is the month of the high-sailing hawks. The hen-hawk is the mostnoticeable. He likes the haze and calm of these long, warm days. He is abird of leisure, and seems always at his ease. How beautiful andmajestic are his movements! So self-poised and easy, such an entireabsence of haste, such a magnificent amplitude of circles and spirals, such a haughty, imperial grace, and, occasionally, such daring aerialevolutions!

With slow, leisurely movement, rarely vibrating his pinions, he mountsand mounts in an ascending spiral till he appears a mere speck againstthe summer sky; then, if the mood seizes him, with wings half closed, like a bent bow, he will cleave the air almost perpendicularly, as ifintent on dashing himself to pieces against the earth; but on nearingthe ground he suddenly mounts again on broad, expanded wing, as ifrebounding upon the air, and sails leisurely away. It is the sublimestfeat of the season. One holds his breath till he sees him rise again. 

If inclined to a more gradual and less precipitous descent, he fixeshis eye on some distant point in the earth beneath him, and thitherbends his course. He is still almost meteoric in his speed and boldness. You see his path down the heavens, straight as a line; if near, you hearthe rush of his wings; his shadow hurtles across the fields, and in aninstant you see him quietly perched upon some low tree or decayed stubin a swamp or meadow, with reminiscences of frogs and mice stirring inhis maw. 

When the south wind blows, it is a study to see three or four of theseair-kings at the head of the valley far up toward the mountain, balancing and oscillating upon the strong current; now quite stationary, except for a slight tremulous motion like the poise of a rope-dancer, then rising and falling in long undulations, and seeming to resignthemselves passively to the wind; or, again, sailing high and level farabove the mountain's peak, no bluster and haste, but, as stated, occasionally a terrible earnestness and speed. Fire at one as he sailsoverhead, and, unless wounded badly, he will not change his course orgait. 

The calmness and dignity of this hawk, when attacked by crows or thekingbird, are well worthy of him. He seldom deigns to notice his noisyand furious antagonists, but deliberately wheels about in that aerialspiral, and mounts and mounts till his pursuers grow dizzy and return toearth again. It is quite original, this mode of getting rid of anunworthy opponent, --rising to heights where the braggart is dazed andbewildered and loses his reckoning! I am not sure but it is worthy ofimitation. 

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The red-tailed and red-shouldered hawks are both called hen-hawks. 

THE RUFFED GROUSE, OR PARTRIDGE

Whir! whir! whir! and a brood of half-grown partridges start up like anexplosion, a few paces from me, and, scattering, disappear into thebushes on all sides. Let me sit down here behind the screen of ferns andbriers, and hear this wild hen of the woods call together her brood. Atwhat an early age the partridge flies! Nature seems to concentrate herenergies on the wing, making the safety of the bird a point to be lookedafter first; and while the body is covered with down, and no signs offeathers are visible there, the wing-quills sprout and unfold, and in anincredibly short time the young make fair headway in flying. 

Hark! there arises over there in the brush a soft, persuasive cooing, asound so subtle and wild and unobtrusive that it requires the most alertand watchful ear to hear it. How gentle and solicitous and full ofyearning love! It is the voice of the mother hen. Presently a fainttimid "Yeap!" which almost eludes the ear, is heard in variousdirections, --the young responding. As no danger seems near, the cooingof the parent bird is soon a very audible clucking call, and the youngmove cautiously in that direction. Let me step never so carefully frommy hiding-place, and all sounds instantly cease, and I search in vainfor either parent or young. 

The partridge is one of our native and most characteristic birds. Thewoods seem good to be in where I find him. He gives a habitable air tothe forest, and one feels as if the rightful occupant were really athome. The woods where I do not find him seem to want something, as ifsuffering from some neglect of Nature. And then he is such a splendidsuccess, so hardy and vigorous. I think he enjoys the cold and the snow. His wings seem to rustle with more fervency in midwinter. If the snowfalls very fast, and promises a heavy storm, he will complacently sitdown and allow himself to be snowed under. When you approach him at suchtimes, he suddenly bursts out of the snow at your feet, scattering theflakes in all directions, and goes humming away through the woods like abomb-shell, --a picture of native spirit and success. 

His drum is one of the most welcome and beautiful sounds of spring. Scarcely have the trees expanded their buds, when, in the still Aprilmornings, or toward nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted wings. Heselects, not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log, but adecayed and crumbling one, seeming to give the preference to oldoak-logs that are partly blended with the soil. If a log to his tastecannot be found, he sets up his altar on a rock, which becomes resonantbeneath his fervent blows. Who has seen the partridge drum? It is thenext thing to catching a weasel asleep, though by much caution and tactit may be done. He does not hug the log, but stands very erect, expandshis ruff, gives two introductory blows, pauses half a second, and thenresumes, striking faster and faster till the sound becomes a continuous, unbroken whir, the whole lasting less than half a minute. The tips ofhis wings barely brush the log, so that the sound is produced rather bythe force of the blows upon the air and upon his own body as in flying. One log will be used for many years, though not by the same drummer. Itseems to be a sort of temple and held in great respect. The bird alwaysapproaches on foot, and leaves it in the same quiet manner, unlessrudely disturbed. He is very cunning, though his wit is not profound. Itis difficult to approach him by stealth; you will try many times beforesucceeding; but seem to pass by him in a great hurry, making all thenoise possible, and with plumage furled he stands as immovable as aknot, allowing you a good view. 

The sharp-rayed track of the partridge adds another figure to thefantastic embroidery upon the winter snow. Her course is a clear, strongline, sometimes quite wayward, but generally very direct, steering forthe densest, most impenetrable places, --leading you over logs andthrough brush, alert and expectant, till, suddenly, she bursts up a fewyards from you, and goes humming through the trees, --the completetriumph of endurance and vigor. Hardy native bird, may your tracks neverbe fewer, or your visits to the birch-tree less frequent!

THE PARTRIDGE

 List the booming from afar, Soft as hum of roving bee, Vague as when on distant bar Fall the cataracts of the sea. 

 Yet again, a sound astray, Was it the humming of the mill? Was it cannon leagues away? Or dynamite beyond the hill?

 'T is the grouse with kindled soul, Wistful of his mate and nest, Sounding forth his vernal roll On his love-enkindled breast. 

 List his fervid morning drum, List his summons soft and deep, Calling Spice-bush till she come, Waking Bloodroot from her sleep. 

 Ah! ruffled drummer, let thy wing Beat a march the days will heed, Wake and spur the tardy spring, Till minstrel voices jocund ring, And spring is spring in very deed. 

THE CROW

The crow may not have the sweet voice which the fox in his flatteryattributed to him, but he has a good, strong, native speechnevertheless. How much character there is in it! How much thrift andindependence! Of course his plumage is firm, his color decided, his witquick. He understands you at once and tells you so; so does the hawk byhis scornful, defiant _whir-r-r-r-r_. Hardy, happy outlaws, the crows, how I love them! Alert, social, republican, always able to look out forhimself, not afraid of the cold and the snow, fishing when flesh isscarce, and stealing when other resources fail, the crow is a characterI would not willingly miss from the landscape. I love to see his trackin the snow or the mud, and his graceful pedestrianism about the brownfields. 

He is no interloper, but has the air and manner of being thoroughly athome, and in rightful possession of the land. He is no sentimentalistlike some of the plaining, disconsolate song-birds, but apparently isalways in good health and good spirits. No matter who is sick, ordejected, or unsatisfied, or what the weather is, or what the price ofcorn, the crow is well and finds life sweet. He is the dusky embodimentof worldly wisdom and prudence. Then he is one of Nature'sself-appointed constables and greatly magnifies his office. He wouldfain arrest every hawk or owl or grimalkin that ventures abroad. I haveknown a posse of them to beset the fox and cry "Thief!" till Reynard hidhimself for shame. Do I say the fox flattered the crow when he told himhe had a sweet voice? Yet one of the most musical sounds in natureproceeds from the crow. All the crow tribe, from the blue jay up, arecapable of certain low ventriloquial notes that have peculiar cadenceand charm. I often hear the crow indulging in his in winter, and amreminded of the sound of the dulcimer. The bird stretches up and exertshimself like a cock in the act of crowing, and gives forth a peculiarlyclear, vitreous sound that is sure to arrest and reward your attention. This is, no doubt, the song the fox begged to be favored with, as indelivering it the crow must inevitably let drop the piece of meat. 

The crow has fine manners. He always has the walk and air of a lord ofthe soil. One morning I put out some fresh meat upon the snow near mystudy window. Presently a crow came and carried it off, and alightedwith it upon the ground in the vineyard. While he was eating it, another crow came, and, alighting a few yards away, slowly walked up towithin a few feet of this fellow and stopped. I expected to see astruggle over the food, as would have been the case with domestic fowlsor animals. Nothing of the kind. The feeding crow stopped eating, regarded the other for a moment, made a gesture or two, and flew away. Then the second crow went up to the food, and proceeded to take hisshare. Presently the first crow came back, when each seized a portion ofthe food and flew away with it. Their mutual respect and good-willseemed perfect. Whether it really was so in our human sense, or whetherit was simply an illustration of the instinct of mutual support whichseems to prevail among gregarious birds, I know not. Birds that aresolitary in their habits, like hawks or woodpeckers, behave quitedifferently toward each other in the presence of their food. 

The crow will quickly discover anything that looks like a trap or snareset to catch him, but it takes him a long time to see through thesimplest contrivance. As I have above stated, I sometimes place meat onthe snow in front of my study window to attract him. On one occasion, after a couple of crows had come to expect something there daily, Isuspended a piece of meat by a string from a branch of the tree justover the spot where I usually placed the food. A crow soon discoveredit, and came into the tree to see what it meant. His suspicions werearoused. There was some design in that suspended meat, evidently. It wasa trap to catch him. He surveyed it from every near branch. He peekedand pried, and was bent on penetrating the mystery. He flew to theground, and walked about and surveyed it from all sides. Then he took along walk down about the vineyard as if in hope of hitting upon someclew. Then he came to the tree again, and tried first one eye, then theother, upon it; then to the ground beneath; then he went away and cameback; then his fellow came, and they both squinted and investigated, andthen disappeared. Chickadees and woodpeckers would alight upon the meatand peck it swinging in the wind, but the crows were fearful. Does thisshow reflection? Perhaps it does, but I look upon it rather as thatinstinct of fear and cunning so characteristic of the crow. Two dayspassed thus: every morning the crows came and surveyed the suspendedmeat from all points in the tree, and then went away. The third day Iplaced a large bone on the snow beneath the suspended morsel. Presentlyone of the crows appeared in the tree, and bent his eye upon thetempting bone. "The mystery deepens, " he seemed to say to himself. Butafter half an hour's investigation, and after approaching several timeswithin a few feet of the food upon the ground, he seemed to concludethere was no connection between it and the piece hanging by the string. So he finally walked up to it and fell to pecking it, flickering hiswings all the time, as a sign of his watchfulness. He also turned up hiseye, momentarily, to the piece in the air above, as if it might be somedisguised sword of Damocles ready to fall upon him. Soon his mate cameand alighted on a low branch of the tree. The feeding crow regarded hima moment, and then flew up to his side, as if to give him a turn at themeat. But he refused to run the risk. He evidently looked upon the wholething as a delusion and a snare, and presently went away, and his matefollowed him. Then I placed the bone in one of the main forks of thetree, but the crows kept at a safe distance from it. Then I put it backto the ground, but they grew more and more suspicious; some evil intentin it all, they thought. Finally a dog carried off the bone, and thecrows ceased to visit the tree. 

 * * * * *

From my boyhood I have seen the yearly meeting of the crows in Septemberor October, on a high grassy hill or a wooded ridge. Apparently, allthe crows from a large area assemble at these times; you may see themcoming, singly or in loose bands, from all directions to the rendezvous, till there are hundreds of them together. They make black an acre or twoof ground. At intervals they all rise in the air, and wheel about, allcawing at once. Then to the ground again, or to the tree-tops, as thecase may be; then, rising again, they send forth the voice of themultitude. What does it all mean? I notice that this rally is alwayspreliminary to their going into winter quarters. It would be interestingto know just the nature of the communication that takes place betweenthem. 

THE CROW

I

 My friend and neighbor through the year, Self-appointed overseer

 Of my crops of fruit and grain, Of my woods and furrowed plain, Claim thy tithings right and left, I shall never call it theft. 

 Nature wisely made the law, And I fail to find a flaw

 In thy title to the earth, And all it holds of any worth. 

 I like thy self-complacent air, I like thy ways so free from care, Thy landlord stroll about my fields, Quickly noting what each yields;

 Thy courtly mien and bearing bold, As if thy claim were bought with gold;

 Thy floating shape against the sky, When days are calm and clouds are high;

 Thy thrifty flight ere rise of sun, Thy homing clans when day is done. 

 Hues protective are not thine, So sleek thy coat each quill doth shine. 

 Diamond black to end of toe, Thy counterpoint the crystal snow. 

II

 Never plaintive nor appealing, Quite at home when thou art stealing, Always groomed to tip of feather, Calm and trim in every weather, Morn till night my woods policing, Every sound thy watch increasing. 

 Hawk and owl in tree-top hiding Feel the shame of thy deriding. 

 Naught escapes thy observation, None but dread thy accusation. 

III

 Hunters, prowlers, woodland lovers Vainly seek the leafy covers. 

 Noisy, scheming, and predacious, With demeanor almost gracious, Dowered with leisure, void of hurry, Void of fuss and void of worry, Friendly bandit, Robin Hood, Judge and jury of the wood, Or Captain Kidd of sable quill, Hiding treasures in the hill, Nature made thee for each season, Gave thee wit for ample reason, Good crow wit that's always burnished Like the coat her care has furnished. 

 May thy numbers ne'er diminish! I'll befriend thee till life's finish. 

 May I never cease to meet thee! May I never have to eat thee!

 And mayest thou never have to fare so That thou playest the part of scarecrow!

THE NORTHERN SHRIKE

Usually the character of a bird of prey is well defined; there is nomistaking him. His claws, his beak, his head, his wings, in fact hiswhole build, point to the fact that he subsists upon live creatures; heis armed to catch them and to slay them. Every bird knows a hawk andknows him from the start, and is on the lookout for him. The hawk takeslife, but he does it to maintain his own, and it is a public anduniversally known fact. Nature has sent him abroad in that character, and has advised all creatures of it. Not so with the shrike; here shehas concealed the character of a murderer under a form as innocent asthat of the robin. Feet, wings, tail, color, head, and general form andsize are all those of a song-bird, --very much like that master songster, the mockingbird, --yet this bird is a regular Bluebeard among its kind. Its only characteristic feature is its beak, the upper mandible havingtwo sharp processes and a sharp hooked point. It usually impales itsvictim upon a thorn, or thrusts it in the fork of a limb. For the mostpart, however, its food seems to consist of insects, --spiders, grasshoppers, beetles, etc. It is the assassin of the small birds, whomit often destroys in pure wantonness, or merely to sup on their brains, as the Gaucho slaughters a wild cow or bull for its tongue. It is a wolfin sheep's clothing. Apparently its victims are unacquainted with itstrue character and allow it to approach them, when the fatal blow isgiven. I saw an illustration of this the other day. A large number ofgoldfinches in their fall plumage, together with snowbirds and sparrows, were feeding and chattering in some low bushes back of the barn. I hadpaused by the fence and was peeping through at them, hoping to get aglimpse of that rare sparrow, the white-crowned. Presently I heard arustling among the dry leaves as if some larger bird were also amongthem. Then I heard one of the goldfinches cry out as if in distress, when the whole flock of them started up in alarm, and, circling around, settled in the tops of the larger trees. I continued my scrutiny of thebushes, when I saw a large bird, with some object in its beak, hoppingalong on a low branch near the ground. It disappeared from my sight fora few moments, then came up through the undergrowth into the top of ayoung maple where some of the finches had alighted, and I beheld theshrike. The little birds avoided him and flew about the tree, theirpursuer following them with the motions of his head and body as if hewould fain arrest them by his murderous gaze. The birds did not utterthe cry or make the demonstration of alarm they usually do on theappearance of a hawk, but chirruped and called and flew about in a halfwondering, half bewildered manner. As they flew farther along the lineof trees the shrike followed them as if bent on further captures. I thenmade my way around to see what the shrike had caught, and what he haddone with his prey. As I approached the bushes I saw the shrikehastening back. I read his intentions at once. Seeing my movements, hehad returned for his game. But I was too quick for him, and he got upout of the brush and flew away from the locality. On some twigs in thethickest part of the bushes I found his victim, --a goldfinch. It was notimpaled upon a thorn, but was carefully disposed upon some horizontaltwigs, --laid upon the shelf, so to speak. It was as warm as in life, andits plumage was unruffled. On examining it I found a large bruise orbreak in the skin on the back of the neck, at the base of the skull. Here the bandit had no doubt gripped the bird with his strong beak. Theshrike's bloodthirstiness was seen in the fact that he did not stop todevour his prey, but went in quest of more, as if opening a market ofgoldfinches. The thicket was his shambles, and if not interrupted, hemight have had a fine display of titbits in a short time. 

The shrike is called a butcher from his habit of sticking his meat uponhooks and points; further than that, he is a butcher because he devoursbut a trifle of what he slays. 

THE SCREECH OWL

At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the woods, I comesuddenly upon a brood of screech owls, full grown, sitting together upona dry, moss-draped limb, but a few feet from the ground. I pause withinfour or five yards of them and am looking about me, when my eye lightsupon these gray, motionless figures. They sit perfectly upright, somewith their backs and some with their breasts toward me, but every headturned squarely in my direction. Their eyes are closed to a mere blackline; through this crack they are watching me, evidently thinkingthemselves unobserved. The spectacle is weird and grotesque, andsuggests something impish and uncanny. It is a new effect, the nightside of the woods by daylight. After observing them a moment I take asingle step toward them, when, quick as thought, their eyes fly wideopen, their attitude is changed, they bend, some this way, some that, and, instinct with life and motion, stare wildly around them. Anotherstep, and they all take flight but one, which stoops low on the branch, and with the look of a frightened cat regards me for a few seconds overits shoulder. They fly swiftly and softly, and disperse through thetrees. 

 * * * * *

A winter neighbor of mine, in whom I am interested, and who perhapslends me his support after his kind, is a little red owl, whose retreatis in the heart of an old apple-tree just over the fence. Where he keepshimself in spring and summer, I do not know, but late every fall, and atintervals all winter, his hiding-place is discovered by the jays andnuthatches, and proclaimed from the tree-tops for the space of half anhour or so, with all the powers of voice they can command. Four timesduring one winter they called me out to behold this little ogre feigningsleep in his den, sometimes in one apple-tree, sometimes in another. Whenever I heard their cries, I knew my neighbor was being berated. Thebirds would take turns at looking in upon him, and uttering theiralarm-notes. Every jay within hearing would come to the spot, and atonce approach the hole in the trunk or limb, and with a kind ofbreathless eagerness and excitement take a peep at the owl, and thenjoin the outcry. When I approached they would hastily take a final look, and then withdraw and regard my movements intently. After accustoming myeye to the faint light of the cavity for a few moments, I could usuallymake out the owl at the bottom feigning sleep. Feigning, I say, becausethis is what he really did, as I first discovered one day when I cutinto his retreat with the axe. The loud blows and the falling chips didnot disturb him at all. When I reached in a stick and pulled him over onhis side, leaving one of his wings spread out, he made no attempt torecover himself, but lay among the chips and fragments of decayed wood, like a part of themselves. Indeed, it took a sharp eye to distinguishhim. Not till I had pulled him forth by one wing, rather rudely, did heabandon his trick of simulated sleep or death. Then, like a detectedpickpocket, he was suddenly transformed into another creature. His eyesflew wide open, his talons clutched my finger, his ears were depressed, and every motion and look said, "Hands off, at your peril. " Finding thisgame did not work, he soon began to "play possum" again. I put a coverover my study wood-box and kept him captive for a week. Look in upon himat any time, night or day, and he was apparently wrapped in theprofoundest slumber; but the live mice which I put into his box fromtime to time found his sleep was easily broken; there would be a suddenrustle in the box, a faint squeak, and then silence. After a week ofcaptivity I gave him his freedom in the full sunshine; no trouble forhim to see which way and where to go. 

Just at dusk in the winter nights, I often hear his soft _bur-r-r-r_, very pleasing and bell-like. What a furtive, woody sound it is in thewinter stillness, so unlike the harsh scream of the hawk! But all theways of the owl are ways of softness and duskiness. His wings are shodwith silence, his plumage is edged with down. 

Another owl neighbor of mine, with whom I pass the time of day morefrequently than with the last, lives farther away. I pass his castleevery night on my way to the post-office, and in winter, if the hour islate enough, am pretty sure to see him standing in his doorway, surveying the passers-by and the landscape through narrow slits in hiseyes. For four successive winters now have I observed him. As thetwilight begins to deepen, he rises up out of his cavity in theapple-tree, scarcely faster than the moon rises from behind the hill, and sits in the opening, completely framed by its outlines of gray barkand dead wood, and by his protective coloring virtually invisible toevery eye that does not know he is there. Probably my own is the onlyeye that has ever penetrated his secret, and mine never would have doneso had I not chanced on one occasion to see him leave his retreat andmake a raid upon a shrike that was impaling a shrew-mouse upon a thornin a neighboring tree, and which I was watching. I was first advised ofthe owl's presence by seeing him approaching swiftly on silent, levelwing. The shrike did not see him till the owl was almost within thebranches. He then dropped his game, and darted back into the thickcover, uttering a loud, discordant squawk, as one would say, "Scat!scat! scat!" The owl alighted, and was, perhaps, looking about him forthe shrike's impaled game, when I drew near. On seeing me, he reversedhis movement precipitately, flew straight back to the old tree, andalighted in the entrance to the cavity. As I approached, he did not somuch seem to move as to diminish in size, like an object dwindling inthe distance; he depressed his plumage, and, with his eye fixed upon me, began slowly to back and sidle into his retreat till he faded from mysight. The shrike wiped his beak upon the branches, cast an eye down atme and at his lost mouse, and then flew away. 

A few nights afterward, as I passed that way, I saw the little owl againsitting in his doorway, waiting for the twilight to deepen, andundisturbed by the passers-by; but when I paused to observe him, he sawthat he was discovered, and he slunk back into his den as on the formeroccasion. Ever since, while going that way, I have been on the lookoutfor him. Dozens of teams and foot-passengers pass him late in the day, but he regards them not, nor they him. When I come along and pause tosalute him, he opens his eyes a little wider, and, appearing torecognize me, quickly shrinks and fades into the background of his doorin a very weird and curious manner. When he is not at his outlook, orwhen he is, it requires the best powers of the eye to decide the point, as the empty cavity itself is almost an exact image of him. If the wholething had been carefully studied, it could not have answered its purposebetter. The owl stands quite perpendicular, presenting a front of lightmottled gray; the eyes are closed to a mere slit, the ear-feathersdepressed, the beak buried in the plumage, and the whole attitude is oneof silent, motionless waiting and observation. If a mouse should be seencrossing the highway, or scudding over any exposed part of the snowysurface in the twilight, the owl would doubtless swoop down upon it. Ithink the owl has learned to distinguish me from the rest of thepassers-by; at least, when I stop before him, and he sees himselfobserved, he backs down into his den, as I have said, in a very amusingmanner. 

THE CHICKADEE

The chickadees we have always with us. They are like the evergreensamong trees and plants. Winter has no terrors for them. They areproperly wood-birds, but the groves and orchards know them also. Didthey come near my cabin for better protection, or did they chance tofind a little cavity in a tree there that suited them? Branch-buildersand ground-builders are easily accommodated, but the chickadee must finda cavity, and a small one at that. The woodpeckers make a cavity when asuitable trunk or branch is found, but the chickadee, with its small, sharp beak, rarely does so; it usually smooths and deepens one alreadyformed. This a pair did a few yards from my cabin. The opening was intothe heart of a little sassafras, about four feet from the ground. Dayafter day the birds took turns in deepening and enlarging the cavity: asoft, gentle hammering for a few moments in the heart of the littletree, and then the appearance of the worker at the opening, with thechips in his, or her, beak. They changed off every little while, oneworking while the other gathered food. Absolute equality of the sexes, both in plumage and in duties, seems to prevail among these birds, asamong a few other species. During the preparations for housekeeping thebirds were hourly seen and heard, but as soon as the first egg was laid, all this was changed. They suddenly became very shy and quiet. Had itnot been for the new egg that was added each day, one would haveconcluded that they had abandoned the place. There was a precious secretnow that must be well kept. After incubation began, it was only bywatching that I could get a glimpse of one of the birds as it camequickly to feed or to relieve the other. 

One day a lot of Vassar girls came to visit me, and I led them out tothe little sassafras to see the chickadee's nest. The sitting bird kepther place as head after head, with its nodding plumes and millinery, appeared above the opening to her chamber, and a pair of inquisitiveeyes peered down upon her. But I saw that she was getting ready to playher little trick to frighten them away. Presently I heard a faintexplosion at the bottom of the cavity, when the peeping girl jerked herhead quickly back, with the exclamation, "Why, it spit at me!" The trickof the bird on such occasions is apparently to draw in its breath tillits form perceptibly swells, and then give forth a quick, explosivesound like an escaping jet of steam. One involuntarily closes his eyesand jerks back his head. The girls, to their great amusement, provokedthe bird into this pretty outburst of her impatience two or three times. But as the ruse failed of its effect, the bird did not keep it up, butlet the laughing faces gaze till they were satisfied. 

I was much interested in seeing a brood of chickadees, reared on mypremises, venture upon their first flight. Their heads had been seen atthe door of their dwelling--a cavity in the limb of a pear-tree--atintervals for two or three days. Evidently they liked the looks of thegreat outside world; and one evening, just before sundown, one of themcame forth. His first flight was of several yards, to a locust, where healighted upon an inner branch, and after some chirping and callingproceeded to arrange his plumage and compose himself for the night. Iwatched him till it was nearly dark. He did not appear at all afraidthere alone in the tree, but put his head under his wing and settleddown for the night as if it were just what he had always been doing. There was a heavy shower a few hours later, but in the morning he wasthere upon his perch in good spirits. 

I happened to be passing in the morning when another one came out. Hehopped out upon a limb, shook himself, and chirped and called loudly. After some moments an idea seemed to strike him. His attitude changed, his form straightened up, and a thrill of excitement seemed to runthrough him. I knew what it all meant; something had whispered to thebird, "Fly!" With a spring and a cry he was in the air, and made goodheadway to a near hemlock. Others left in a similar manner during thatday and the next, till all were out. 

THE DOWNY WOODPECKER

The bird that seems to consider he has the best right to my hospitalityis the downy woodpecker, my favorite neighbor among the winter birds. His retreat is but a few paces from my own, in the decayed limb of anapple-tree, which he excavated several autumns ago. I say "he" becausethe red plume on the top of his head proclaims the sex. It seems not tobe generally known to our writers upon ornithology that certain of ourwoodpeckers--probably all the winter residents--each fall excavate alimb or the trunk of a tree in which to pass the winter, and that thecavity is abandoned in the spring, probably for a new one in whichnidification takes place. 

The particular woodpecker to which I refer drilled his first hole in myapple-tree one fall four or five years ago. This he occupied till thefollowing spring, when he abandoned it. The next fall he began a hole inan adjoining limb, later than before, and when it was about halfcompleted a female took possession of his old quarters. I am sorry tosay that this seemed to enrage the male very much, and he persecuted thepoor bird whenever she appeared upon the scene. He would fly at herspitefully and drive her off. One chilly November morning, as I passedunder the tree, I heard the hammer of the little architect in hiscavity, and at the same time saw the persecuted female sitting at theentrance of the other hole as if she would fain come out. She wasactually shivering, probably from both fear and cold. I understood thesituation at a glance; the bird was afraid to come forth and brave theanger of the male. Not till I had rapped smartly upon the limb with mystick did she come out and attempt to escape; but she had not gone tenfeet from the tree before the male was in hot pursuit, and in a fewmoments had driven her back to the same tree, where she tried to avoidhim among the branches. There is probably no gallantry among the birdsexcept at the mating season. I have frequently seen the male woodpeckerdrive the female away from the bone upon the tree. When she hoppedaround to the other end and timidly nibbled it, he would presently dartspitefully at her. She would then take up her position in his rear andwait till he had finished his meal. The position of the female among thebirds is very much the same as that of women among savage tribes. Mostof the drudgery of life falls upon her, and the leavings of the malesare often her lot. 

[Illustration: DOWNY WOODPECKER]

My bird is a genuine little savage, doubtless, but I value him as aneighbor. It is a satisfaction during the cold or stormy winter nightsto know he is warm and cozy there in his retreat. When the day is badand unfit to be abroad in, he is there too. When I wish to know if he isat home, I go and rap upon his tree, and, if he is not too lazy orindifferent, after some delay he shows his head in his round doorwayabout ten feet above, and looks down inquiringly upon me--sometimeslatterly I think half resentfully, as much as to say, "I would thank younot to disturb me so often. " After sundown, he will not put his head outany more when I call, but as I step away I can get a glimpse of himinside looking cold and reserved. He is a late riser, especially if itis a cold or disagreeable morning, in this respect being like the barnfowls; it is sometimes near nine o'clock before I see him leave histree. On the other hand, he comes home early, being in, if the day isunpleasant, by four P. M. He lives all alone; in this respect I do notcommend his example. Where his mate is, I should like to know. 

I have discovered several other woodpeckers in adjoining orchards, eachof which has a like home, and leads a like solitary life. One of themhas excavated a dry limb within easy reach of my hand, doing the workalso in September. But the choice of tree was not a good one; the limbwas too much decayed, and the workman had made the cavity too large; achip had come out, making a hole in the outer wall. Then he went a fewinches down the limb and began again, and excavated a large, commodiouschamber, but had again come too near the surface; scarcely more than thebark protected him in one place, and the limb was very much weakened. Then he made another attempt still farther down the limb, and drilled inan inch or two, but seemed to change his mind; the work stopped, and Iconcluded the bird had wisely abandoned the tree. Passing there onecold, rainy November day, I thrust in my two fingers and was surprisedto feel something soft and warm: as I drew away my hand the bird cameout, apparently no more surprised than I was. It had decided, then, tomake its home in the old limb; a decision it had occasion to regret, fornot long after, on a stormy night, the branch gave way and fell to theground:--

 "When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, And down will come baby and cradle and all. "

Another trait our woodpeckers have that endears them to me is theirhabit of drumming in the spring. They are songless birds, and yet allare musicians; they make the dry limbs eloquent of the coming change. Did you think that loud, sonorous hammering which proceeded from theorchard or from the near woods on that still March or April morning wasonly some bird getting its breakfast? It is Downy, but he is not rappingat the door of a grub; he is rapping at the door of spring, and the drylimb thrills beneath the ardor of his blows. 

A few seasons ago, a downy woodpecker, probably the individual one whois now my winter neighbor, began to drum early in March in a partlydecayed apple-tree that stands in the edge of a narrow strip of woodlandnear me. When the morning was still and mild I would often hear himthrough my window before I was up, or by half-past six o'clock, and hewould keep it up pretty briskly till nine or ten o'clock, in thisrespect resembling the grouse, which do most of their drumming in theforenoon. His drum was the stub of a dry limb about the size of one'swrist. The heart was decayed and gone, but the outer shell was hard andresonant. The bird would keep his position there for an hour at a time. Between his drummings he would preen his plumage and listen as if forthe response of the female, or for the drum of some rival. How swiftlyhis head would go when he was delivering his blows upon the limb! Hisbeak wore the surface perceptibly. When he wished to change the key, which was quite often, he would shift his position an inch or two to aknot which gave out a higher, shriller note. When I climbed up toexamine his drum, he was much disturbed. I did not know he was in thevicinity, but it seems he saw me from a near tree, and came in haste tothe neighboring branches, and with spread plumage and a sharp notedemanded plainly enough what my business was with his drum. I wasinvading his privacy, desecrating his shrine, and the bird was much putout. After some weeks the female appeared; he had literally drummed up amate; his urgent and oft-repeated advertisement was answered. Still thedrumming did not cease, but was quite as fervent as before. If a matecould be won by drumming, she could be kept and entertained by moredrumming; courtship should not end with marriage. If the bird feltmusical before, of course he felt much more so now. Besides that, thegentle deities needed propitiating in behalf of the nest and young aswell as in behalf of the mate. After a time a second female came, whenthere was war between the two. I did not see them come to blows, but Isaw one female pursuing the other about the place, and giving her norest for several days. She was evidently trying to run her out of theneighborhood. Now and then, she, too, would drum briefly, as if sendinga triumphant message to her mate. 

The woodpeckers do not each have a particular dry limb to which theyresort at all times to drum, like the one I have described. The woodsare full of suitable branches, and they drum more or less here and thereas they are in quest of food; yet I am convinced each one has itsfavorite spot, like the grouse, to which it resorts especially in themorning. The sugar-maker in the maple woods may notice that this soundproceeds from the same tree or trees about his camp with greatregularity. A woodpecker in my vicinity has drummed for two seasons on atelegraph-pole, and he makes the wires and glass insulators ring. Another drums on a thin board on the end of a long grape-arbor, and onstill mornings can be heard a long distance. 

 * * * * *

I watch these woodpeckers daily to see if I can solve the mystery as tohow they hop up and down the trunks and branches without falling awayfrom them when they let go their hold. They come down a limb or trunkbackward by a series of little hops, moving both feet together. If thelimb is at an angle to the tree and they are on the under side of it, they do not fall away from it to get a new hold an inch or half-inchfarther down. They are held to it as steel to a magnet. Both tail andhead are involved in the feat. At the instant of making the hop the headis thrown in and the tail thrown out, but the exact mechanics of it Icannot penetrate. Philosophers do not yet know how a backward-fallingcat turns in the air, but turn she does. It may be that the woodpeckernever quite relaxes his hold, though to my eye he appears to do so. 

THE DOWNY WOODPECKER

 Downy came and dwelt with me, Taught me hermit lore; Drilled his cell in oaken tree Near my cabin door. 

 Architect of his own home In the forest dim, Carving its inverted dome In a dozy limb. 

 Carved it deep and shaped it true With his little bill; Took no thought about the view, Whether dale or hill. 

 Shook the chips upon the ground, Careless who might see. Hark! his hatchet's muffled sound Hewing in the tree. 

 Round his door as compass-mark, True and smooth his wall; Just a shadow on the bark Points you to his hall. 

 Downy leads a hermit life All the winter through; Free his days from jar and strife, And his cares are few. 

 Waking up the frozen woods, Shaking down the snows; Many trees of many moods Echo to his blows. 

 When the storms of winter rage, Be it night or day, Then I know my little page Sleeps the time away. 

 Downy's stores are in the trees, Egg and ant and grub; Juicy tidbits, rich as cheese, Hid in stump and stub. 

 Rat-tat-tat his chisel goes, Cutting out his prey; Every boring insect knows When he comes its way. 

 Always rapping at their doors, Never welcome he; All his kind, they vote, are bores, Whom they dread to see. 

 Why does Downy live alone In his snug retreat? Has he found that near the bone Is the sweetest meat?

 Birdie craved another fate When the spring had come; Advertised him for a mate On his dry-limb drum. 

 Drummed her up and drew her near, In the April morn, Till she owned him for her dear In his state forlorn. 

 Now he shirks all family cares, This I must confess; Quite absorbed in self affairs In the season's stress. 

 We are neighbors well agreed Of a common lot; Peace and love our only creed In this charmèd spot. 

INDEX

 Blackbird, cow. See Cowbird. 

 Bluebird, arrival in spring, 1; nest-building, 1, 2; young and cicada, 2, 3; a bewildered pair, 3-7; love and rivalry, 7-12; war with house wrens, 47-52. 

 _Bluebird, The_, poem, 13. 

 Bobolink, courtship, 77, 78; concealment of nest, 78-81. 

 _Bobolink, The_, poem, 82. 

 Bob-white. See Quail. 

 Butcher-bird. See Shrike, northern. 

 Catbird, song of, 72, 73; and black snake, 73-76; a coquette, 83. 

 Cedar-bird, nest-building, 122, 123; notes of, 124. 

 Chewink, markings of, 39; Thomas Jefferson writes to Alexander Wilson about, 39-41; inhospitality of, 83. 

 Chickadee, nesting of, 157-160. 

 Chippy. See Sparrow, chipping. 

 _Coming of Phœbe, The_, poem, 31. 

 Cowbird, notes of, 33; parasitic habits of, 33-35. 

 Crow, character of, 138, 139; manners of, 139, 140; wariness of, 140-142; yearly meeting, 142, 143. 

 _Crow, The_, poem, 144. 

 _Downy Woodpecker, The_, poem, 169. 

 Flicker, call of, 21; courtship, 22, 25, 26; not satisfied with being a woodpecker, 22, 23; excavating a nest, 23; young, 23-25; drumming, 26, 27. 

 Goldfinch, nesting, 125, 126; notes of, 126-128; flight of, 127, 128; musical festivals, 128, 129. 

 Grouse, ruffed, 133-136. 

 Hawk, marsh, habits of, 106; nest of, 106-108; young, 111, 112; a pet young one, 112-117. 

 Hawk, red-shouldered. See Hen-hawk. 

 Hawk, red-tailed. See Hen-hawk. 

 Hen-hawk, flight of, 130-132. 

 High-hole. See Flicker. 

 Jefferson, Thomas, 39, 40. 

 Oriole, Baltimore, nests of, 91-94. 

 Oven-bird, walk of, 69; the two songs of, 69, 70; nest of, 70, 71. 

 Owl, screech, a brood, 151, 152; two owl neighbors, 152-156; a captive, 153; note of, 154; disappearing in his hole, 154-156. 

 Partridge, 133-136. 

 _Partridge, The_, poem, 137. 

 Phœbe, arrival in spring, 28; nests of, 29, 30. 

 _Phœbe, The Coming of_, poem, 31. 

 Quail, on nest, 109-111. 

 Robin, arrival in spring, 15; a graceful warrior, 16; the "robin racket, " 16, 17; nest and young, 18, 19; boring for grubs, 19, 20. 

 Shrike, northern, 147-150; raided by a screech owl, 155. 

 Snake, black, and song sparrows, 55, 56; and catbirds, 73-76. 

 Sparrow, chipping, trying to catch a miller, 36; feeding young robins, 37, 38. 

 Sparrow, song, unsuccessful nestings, 53, 54; and a black snake, 55, 56; a risky experiment, 56-58; a bob-tailed song sparrow's nest, 58-60. 

 Swallow, chimney. See Swift, chimney. 

 Swift, chimney, nest of, 61, 62; flight of, 61, 62; young, 63, 64; outriding the storms, 64; habits of, 64-66; great gatherings and aerial evolutions of, 66-68. 

 Thrasher, brown, stealthiness of, 42; nests of, 42-46; skulking, 83. 

 Thrush, wood, grace and elegance of, 83, 84; newspaper in nests, 84-86; the song and the nests, 86, 87; unsuccessful nestings, 87-89; song contests, 89, 90. 

 Towhee. See Chewink. 

 Warbler, black-throated blue, a successful search for the nest of, 100-105. 

 Whip-poor-will, eggs of, 95; assimilative coloration of, 95, 97, 99; young, 96; gait of, 97; song of, 97, 98; an old bird with her young, 98, 99. 

 Wilson, Alexander, 39-41. 

 Woodpecker, downy, a winter neighbor, 161-164; drumming, 164-167; the mystery of his hopping up and down the trunks and branches, 167, 168. 

 _Woodpecker, The Downy_, poem, 169. 

 Woodpecker, golden-winged. See Flicker. 

 Wren, house, song of, 47; war with bluebirds, 47-52. 

 Wren, winter, in his summer home, 119, 120; in winter, 120, 121. 

 Yarup. See Flicker. 

 Yellowbird. See Goldfinch.