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ROBINS IN THE MEADOW

Wake-Robin

BY

JOHN BURROUGHS

Second Edition, corrected, enlarged, and illustrated

NEW YORK
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON

Cambridge: The Riverside Press
1877

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE TO SECOND EDITION.

In issuing a second and revised edition of Wake-Robin,the author has added a chapter on The Bluebird,and otherwise enlarged and corrected the texthere and there. The illustrations are kindly furnishedby Prof. Baird, and are taken from the “Historyof North American Birds,” by himself, Dr.Brewer, and Mr. Ridgeway, and published by Little,Brown, & Co.,—the most complete work on ourbirds that has yet appeared. The hermit-thrush representedis the Western hermit (Turdus ustulatis),and we have been obliged to substitute the black fly-catcher(Saponis nigricans) for the pewee, and thehouse finch (Corpodacus frontalis) for the purplefinch; but the difference is hardly appreciable in anuncolored engraving.

November, 1876.

[v]

PREFACE.

This is mainly a book about the Birds, or moreproperly an invitation to the study of Ornithology,and the purpose of the author will be carried out inproportion as it awakens and stimulates the interestof the reader in this branch of Natural History.

Though written less in the spirit of exact sciencethan with the freedom of love and old acquaintance,yet I have in no instance taken liberties with facts, orallowed my imagination to influence me to the extentof giving a false impression or a wrong coloring. Ihave reaped my harvest more in the woods than inthe study; what I offer, in fact, is a careful and conscientiousrecord of actual observations and experiences,and is true as it stands written, every word ofit. But what has interested me most in Ornithology,is the pursuit, the chase, the discovery; that part ofit which is akin to hunting, fishing, and wild sports,and which I could carry with me in my eye and ear,wherever I went.[vi]

I cannot answer with much confidence the poet’sinquiry,

but I have done what I could to bring home the“earth and the sky” with the sparrow I heard “singingat dawn on the alder bough.” In other words,I have tried to present a live bird,—a bird in thewoods or the fields,—with the atmosphere and associationsof the place, and not merely a stuffed andlabeled specimen.

A more specific title for the volume would havesuited me better, but not being able to satisfy myselfin this direction, I cast about for a word thoroughlyin the atmosphere and spirit of the book, which Ihope I have found in “Wake-Robin”—the commonname of the white Trillium, which blooms in all ourwoods, and which marks the arrival of all the birds.

CONTENTS.

[11]

Hermit-Thrush.

THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS.

Spring in our northern climate may fairly be saidto extend from the middle of March to the middle ofJune. At least, the vernal tide continues to riseuntil the latter date, and it is not till after the summersolstice that the shoots and twigs begin to hardenand turn to wood, or the grass to lose any of its freshnessand succulency.

It is this period that marks the return of the birds,—oneor two of the more hardy or half-domesticatedspecies, like the song-sparrow and the bluebird, usuallyarriving in March, while the rarer and morebrilliant wood-birds bring up the procession in June.But each stage of the advancing season gives prominenceto certain species, as to certain flowers. The[12]dandelion tells me when to look for the swallow, thedog-toothed violet when to expect the wood-thrush,and when I have found the wake-robin in bloom Iknow the season is fairly inaugurated. With me thisflower is associated, not merely with the awakeningof Robin, for he has been awake some weeks, butwith the universal awakening and rehabilitation ofnature.

Yet the coming and going of the birds is more orless a mystery and a surprise. We go out in themorning, and no thrush or vireo is to be heard; wego out again, and every tree and grove is musical;yet again, and all is silent. Who saw them come?Who saw them depart?

This pert little winter-wren, for instance, dartingin and out the fence, diving under the rubbish hereand coming up yards away,—how does he managewith those little circular wings to compass degreesand zones, and arrive always in the nick of time?Last August I saw him in the remotest wilds of theAdirondacs, impatient and inquisitive as usual; a fewweeks later, on the Potomac, I was greeted by thesame hardy little busybody. Does he travel by easystages from bush to bush and from wood to wood?or has that compact little body force and courage tobrave the night and the upper air, and so achieveleagues at one pull?

And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge on hisbreast and the sky tinge on his back,—did he comedown out of heaven on that bright March morning[13]when he told us so softly and plaintively that if wepleased, spring had come? Indeed, there is nothingin the return of the birds more curious and suggestivethan in the first appearance, or rumors of the appearance,of this little blue-coat. The bird at first seemsa mere wandering voice in the air; one hears its callor carol on some bright March morning, but is uncertainof its source or direction; it falls like a dropof rain when no cloud is visible; one looks and listens,but to no purpose. The weather changes, perhapsa cold snap with snow comes on, and it may bea week before I hear the note again, and this time orthe next perchance see the bird sitting on a stake inthe fence lifting his wing as he calls cheerily to hismate. Its notes now become daily more frequent;the birds multiply, and, flitting from point to point,call and warble more confidently and gleefully.Their boldness increases till one sees them hoveringwith a saucy, inquiring air about barns and out-buildings,peeping into dove-cotes, and stable windows,inspecting knot-holes and pump-trees, intentonly on a place to nest. They wage war againstrobins and wrens, pick quarrels with swallows, andseem to deliberate for days over the policy of takingforcible possession of one of the mud-houses of thelatter. But as the season advances they drift moreinto the background. Schemes of conquest whichthey at first seemed bent upon are abandoned, andthey settle down very quietly in their old quarters inremote stumpy fields.[14]

Not long after the bluebird comes the robin, sometimesin March, but in most of the Northern StatesApril is the month of the robin. In large numbersthey scour the fields and groves. You hear theirpiping in the meadow, in the pasture, on the hill-side.Walk in the woods, and the dry leaves rustle withthe whir of their wings, the air is vocal with theircheery call. In excess of joy and vivacity, they run,leap, scream, chase each other through the air, divingand sweeping among the trees with perilous rapidity.

In that free, fascinating, half-work and half-playpursuit,—sugar-making,—a pursuit which still lingersin many parts of New York, as in New England,the robin is one’s constant companion. When theday is sunny and the ground bare, you meet him atall points and hear him at all hours. At sunset, onthe tops of the tall maples, with look heavenward,and in a spirit of utter abandonment, he carols hissimple strain. And sitting thus amid the stark, silenttrees, above the wet, cold earth, with the chill ofwinter still in the air, there is no fitter or sweetersongster in the whole round year. It is in keepingwith the scene and the occasion. How round andgenuine the notes are, and how eagerly our earsdrink them in! The first utterance, and the spell ofwinter is thoroughly broken, and the remembranceof it afar off.

Robin is one of the most native and democratic ofour birds; he is one of the family, and seems muchnearer to us than those rare, exotic visitants, as the[15]orchard starling or rose-breasted grossbeak, withtheir distant, high-bred ways. Hardy, noisy, frolicsome,neighborly and domestic in his habits, strongof wing and bold in spirit, he is the pioneer of thethrush family, and well worthy of the finer artistswhose coming he heralds and in a measure preparesus for.

I could wish Robin less native and plebeian in onerespect,—the building of his nest. Its coarse materialand rough masonry are creditable neither to hisskill as a workman nor to his taste as an artist. Iam the more forcibly reminded of his deficiency inthis respect from observing yonder humming-bird’snest, which is a marvel of fitness and adaptation, aproper setting for this winged gem,—the body of itcomposed of a white, felt-like substance, probably thedown of some plant or the wool of some worm, andtoned down in keeping with the branch on which itsits by minute tree-lichens, woven together by threadsas fine and frail as gossamer. From Robin’s goodlooks and musical turn we might reasonably predicta domicile of equal fitness and elegance. At least Idemand of him as clean and handsome a nest as theking-bird’s, whose harsh jingle, compared with Robin’sevening melody, is as the clatter of pots and kettlesbeside the tone of a flute. I love his note andways better even than those of the orchard starlingor the Baltimore oriole; yet his nest, compared withtheirs, is a half-subterranean hut contrasted with aRoman villa. There is something courtly and poet[16]icalin a pensile nest. Next to a castle in the air is adwelling suspended to the slender branch of a talltree, swayed and rocked forever by the wind. Whyneed wings be afraid of falling? Why build onlywhere boys can climb? After all, we must set itdown to the account of Robin’s democratic turn; heis no aristocrat, but one of the people; and thereforewe should expect stability in his workmanship, ratherthan elegance.

Another April bird, which makes her appearancesometimes earlier and sometimes later than Robin,and whose memory I fondly cherish, is the Phœbe-bird(Muscicapa nunciola), the pioneer of the fly-catchers.In the inland farming districts, I used tonotice her, on some bright morning about Easter-day,proclaiming her arrival with much variety ofmotion and attitude, from the peak of the barn orhay-shed. As yet, you may have heard only theplaintive, homesick note of the bluebird, or the fainttrill of the song-sparrow; and Phœbe’s clear, vivaciousassurance of her veritable bodily presenceamong us again is welcomed by all ears. At agreeableintervals in her lay she describes a circle or anellipse in the air, ostensibly prospecting for insects,but really, I suspect, as an artistic flourish, thrownin to make up in some way for the deficiency of hermusical performance. If plainness of dress indicatespowers of song, as it usually does, then Phœbe oughtto be unrivaled in musical ability, for surely thatashen-gray suit is the superlative of plainness; and[17]that form, likewise, would hardly pass for a “perfectfigure” of a bird. The reasonableness of her coming,however, and her civil, neighborly ways, shallmake up for all deficiencies in song and plumage.After a few weeks Phœbe is seldom seen, except asshe darts from her moss-covered nest beneath somebridge or shelving cliff.

Another April comer, who arrives shortly afterRobin-redbreast, with whom he associates both at thisseason and in the autumn, is the gold-winged woodpecker,alias “high-hole,”alias “flicker,”alias“yarup.” He is an old favorite of my boyhood, andhis note to me means very much. He announces hisarrival by a long, loud call, repeated from the drybranch of some tree, or a stake in the fence—athoroughly melodious April sound. I think howSolomon finished that beautiful description of spring,“And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land,”and see that a description of spring in this farmingcountry, to be equally characteristic, should culminatein like manner,—“And the call of the high-holecomes up from the wood.”

It is a loud, strong, sonorous call, and does notseem to imply an answer, but rather to subserve somepurpose of love or music. It is “Yarup’s” proclamationof peace and good-will to all. On looking at thematter closely, I perceive that most birds, not denominatedsongsters, have, in the spring, some note orsound or call that hints of a song, and answers imperfectlythe end of beauty and art. As a[18] “livelier irischanges on the burnished dove,” and the fancy of theyoung man turns lightly to thoughts of his prettycousin, so the same renewing spirit touches the “silentsingers,” and they are no longer dumb; faintlythey lisp the first syllables of the marvelous tale.Witness the clear, sweet whistle of the gray-crestedtitmouse,—the soft, nasal piping of the nuthatch,—theamorous, vivacious warble of the bluebird,—thelong, rich note of the meadow-lark,—the whistle ofthe quail,—the drumming of the partridge,—theanimation and loquacity of the swallows, and the like.Even the hen has a homely, contented carol; and Icredit the owls with a desire to fill the night withmusic. All birds are incipient or would-be songstersin the spring. I find corroborative evidence of thiseven in the crowing of the cock. The flowering ofthe maple is not so obvious as that of the magnolia;nevertheless, there is actual inflorescence.

Few writers award any song to that familiar littlesparrow, theSocialis; yet who that has observed himsitting by the way-side, and repeating, with devout attitude,that fine sliding chant, does not recognize theneglect? Who has heard the snow-bird sing? Yethe has a lisping warble very savory to the ear. Ihave heard him indulge in it even in February.

Even the cow-bunting feels the musical tendency,and aspires to its expression, with the rest. Perchedupon the topmost branch beside his mate or mates,—forhe is quite a polygamist, and usually has two orthree demure little ladies in faded black beside him,[19]—generallyin the early part of the day, he seemsliterally to vomit up his notes. Apparently withmuch labor and effort, they gargle and blubber upout of him, falling on the ear with a peculiar subtilering, as of turning water from a glass bottle, and notwithout a certain pleasing cadence.

Neither is the common woodpecker entirely insensibleto the wooing of the spring, and, like the partridge,testifies his appreciation of melody after quitea primitive fashion. Passing through the woods, onsome clear, still morning in March, while the metallicring and tension of winter are still in the earth andair, the silence is suddenly broken by long, resonanthammering upon a dry limb or stub. It is Downybeating a reveille to spring. In the utter stillnessand amid the rigid forms we listen with pleasure; andas it comes to my ear oftener at this season than atany other, I freely exonerate the author of it fromthe imputation of any gastronomic motives, and credithim with a genuine musical performance.

It is to be expected, therefore, that “Yellow-hammer”will respond to the general tendency, and contributehis part to the spring chorus. His April callis his finest touch, his most musical expression.

I recall an ancient maple standing sentry to a largesugar-bush, that, year after year, afforded protectionto a brood of yellow-hammers in its decayed heart.A week or two before the nesting seemed actually tohave begun, three or four of these birds might beseen, on almost any bright morning, gamboling and[20]courting amid its decayed branches. Sometimes youwould hear only a gentle, persuasive cooing, or aquiet, confidential chattering,—then that long, loudcall, taken up by first one, then another, as they satabout upon the naked limbs,—anon, a sort of wild,rollicking laughter, intermingled with various cries,yelps, and squeals, as if some incident had excitedtheir mirth and ridicule. Whether this social hilarityand boisterousness is in celebration of the pairing ormating ceremony, or whether it is only a sort of annual“house-warming” common among high-holeson resuming their summer quarters, is a questionupon which I reserve my judgment.

Unlike most of his kinsmen, the golden-wing prefersthe fields and the borders of the forest to thedeeper seclusion of the woods, and hence, contrary tothe habit of his tribe, obtains most of his subsistencefrom the ground, probing it for ants and crickets.He is not quite satisfied with being a woodpecker.He courts the society of the robin and the finches,abandons the trees for the meadow, and feeds eagerlyupon berries and grain. What may be the final upshotof this course of living is a question worthy theattention of Darwin. Will his taking to the groundand his pedestrian feats result in lengthening his legs,his feeding upon berries and grains subdue his tintsand soften his voice, and his associating with Robinput a song into his heart?

Indeed, what would be more interesting than thehistory of our birds for the last two or three centuries?[21]There can be no doubt that the presence of man hasexerted a very marked and friendly influence uponthem, since they so multiply in his society. The birdsof California, it is said, were mostly silent till after itssettlement, and I doubt if the Indians heard the wood-thrushas we hear him. Where did the bobolinkdisport himself before there were meadows in theNorth and rice fields in the South? Was he the sameblithe, merry-hearted beau then as now? And thesparrow, the lark, and the goldfinch, birds that seemso indigenous to the open fields and so averse to thewoods,—we cannot conceive of their existence in avast wilderness and without man.

But to return. The song-sparrow, that universalfavorite and firstling of the spring, comes beforeApril, and its simple strain gladdens all hearts.

May is the month of the swallows and the orioles.There are many other distinguished arrivals, indeednine tenths of the birds are here by the last week inMay, yet the swallows and orioles are the most conspicuous.The bright plumage of the latter seemsreally like an arrival from the tropics. I see themflash through the blossoming trees, and all the forenoonhear their incessant warbling and wooing. Theswallows dive and chatter about the barn, or squeakand build beneath the eaves; the partridge drums inthe fresh sprouting woods; the long, tender note ofthe meadow-lark comes up from the meadow; and atsunset, from every marsh and pond come the tenthousand voices of the hylas. May is the transition[22]month, and exists to connect April and June, theroot with the flower.

With June the cup is full, our hearts are satisfied,there is no more to be desired. The perfection ofthe season, among other things, has brought the perfectionof the song and plumage of the birds. Themaster artists are all here; and the expectationsexcited by the robin and the song-sparrow are fullyjustified. The thrushes have all come; and I sitdown upon the first rock, with hands full of the pinkazalea, to listen. With me, the cuckoo does not arrivetill June; and often the goldfinch, the king-bird,the scarlet tanager delay their coming till then. Inthe meadows the bobolink is in all his glory; in thehigh pastures the field-sparrow sings his breezy vesper-hymn;and the woods are unfolding to the musicof the thrushes.

The cuckoo is one of the most solitary birds of ourforests, and is strangely tame and quiet, appearingequally untouched by joy or grief, fear or anger.Something remote seems ever weighing upon hismind. His note or call is as of one lost or wandering,and to the farmer is prophetic of rain. Amidthe general joy and the sweet assurance of things, Ilove to listen to the strange clairvoyant call. Hearda quarter of a mile away, from out the depths of theforest, there is something peculiarly weird and monkishabout it. Wordsworth’s lines upon the Europeanspecies apply equally well to ours:—

The black-billed is the only species found in mylocality, the yellow-billed abounds farther south.Their note or call is nearly the same. The formersometimes suggests the voice of a turkey. The callof the latter may be suggested thus:k-k-k-k-k-kow,kow, kow-ow, kow-ow.

The yellow-billed will take up his stand in a tree,and explore its branches till he has caught everyworm. He sits on a twig, and with a peculiar swayingmovement of his head examines the surroundingfoliage. When he discovers his prey, he leaps uponit in a fluttering manner.

In June the black-billed makes a tour through theorchard and garden, regaling himself upon thecanker-worms. At this time he is one of the tamestof birds, and will allow you to approach within afew yards of him. I have even come within a fewfeet of one without seeming to excite his fear or suspicion.He is quite unsophisticated, or else royallyindifferent.[24]

The plumage of the cuckoo is a rich glossy brown,and is unrivaled in beauty by any other neutral tintwith which I am acquainted. It is also remarkablefor its firmness and fineness.

Notwithstanding the disparity in size and color,the black-billed species has certain peculiarities thatremind one of the passenger-pigeon. His eye, withits red circle, the shape of his head, and his motionson alighting and taking flight, quickly suggest theresemblance; though in grace and speed, when onthe wing, he is far inferior. His tail seems disproportionatelylong, like that of the red-thrush, andhis flight among the trees is very still, contrastingstrongly with the honest clatter of the robin orpigeon.

Have you heard the song of the field-sparrow?If you have lived in a pastoral country with broadupland pastures, you could hardly have missed him.Wilson, I believe, calls him the grass-finch, and wasevidently unacquainted with his powers of song.The two white lateral quills in his tail, and his habitof running and skulking a few yards in advance ofyou as you walk through the fields, are sufficient toidentify him. Not in meadows or orchards, but inhigh, breezy pasture-grounds, will you look for him.His song is most noticeable after sundown, whenother birds are silent; for which reason he has beenaptly called the vesper-sparrow. The farmer followinghis team from the field at dusk catches his sweeteststrain. His song is not so brisk and varied as[25]that of the song-sparrow, being softer and wilder,sweeter and more plaintive. Add the best parts ofthe lay of the latter to the sweet vibrating chant ofthe wood-sparrow, and you have the evening hymnof the vesper-bird,—the poet of the plain, unadornedpastures. Go to those broad, smooth, uplyingfields where the cattle and sheep are grazing,and sit down in the twilight on one of those warm,clean stones, and listen to this song. On every side,near and remote, from out the short grass which theherds are cropping, the strain rises. Two or threelong, silver notes of peace and rest, ending in somesubdued trills and quavers, constitute each separatesong. Often you will catch only one or two of thebars, the breeze having blown the minor part away.Such unambitious, quiet, unconscious melody! It isone of the most characteristic sounds in Nature.The grass, the stones, the stubble, the furrow, thequiet herds, and the warm twilight among the hills,are all subtilely expressed in this song; this is whatthey are at last capable of.

The female builds a plain nest in the open field,without so much as a bush or thistle or tuft of grassto protect it or mark its site; you may step upon itor the cattle may tread it into the ground. But thedanger from this source, I presume, the bird considersless than that from another. Skunks and foxeshave a very impertinent curiosity, as Finchie wellknows,—and a bank or hedge, or a rank growth ofgrass or thistles, that might promise protection and[26]cover to mouse or bird, these cunning rogues wouldbe apt to explore most thoroughly. The partridge isundoubtedly acquainted with the same process of reasoning;for, like the vesper-bird, she, too, nests inopen, unprotected places, avoiding all show of concealment,—comingfrom the tangled and almost impenetrableparts of the forest, to the clean, openwoods, where she can command all the approachesand fly with equal ease in any direction.

Another favorite sparrow, but little noticed, is thewood or bush sparrow, usually called by the ornithologistsSpizella pusilla. Its size and form is that ofthesocialis, but is less distinctly marked, being of aduller redder tinge. He prefers remote bushyheathery fields, where his song is one of the sweetestto be heard. It is sometimes very noticeable, especiallyearly in spring. I remember sitting onebright day in the still leafless April woods, when oneof these birds struck up a few rods from me, repeatingits lay at short intervals for nearly an hour. Itwas a perfect piece of wood-music, and was of courseall the more noticeable for being projected upon sucha broad unoccupied page of silence. Its song is likethe words,fe-o, fe-o, fe-o, few, few, few, fee fee fee,uttered at first high and leisurely, but running veryrapidly toward the close, which is low and soft.

Still keeping among the unrecognized, the white-eyedvireo, or fly-catcher, deserves particular mention.The song of this bird is not particularly sweetand soft; on the contrary, it is a little hard and shrill,[27]like that of the indigo-bird or oriole; but for brightness,volubility, execution, and power of imitation,he is unsurpassed by any of our northern birds. Hisordinary note is forcible and emphatic, but, as stated,not especially musical:Chick-a-re’r-chick, he seemsto say, hiding himself in the low, dense undergrowth,and eluding your most vigilant search, as if playingsome part in a game. But in July or August, if youare on good terms with the sylvan deities, you maylisten to a far more rare and artistic performance.Your first impression will be that that cluster ofazalea, or that clump of swamp-huckleberry, concealsthree or four different songsters, each vying with theothers to lead the chorus. Such a medley of notes,snatched from half the songsters of the field and forest,and uttered with the utmost clearness and rapidity,I am sure you cannot hear short of the hauntsof the genuine mocking-bird. If not fully and accuratelyrepeated, there are at least suggested the notesof the robin, wren, cat-bird, high-hole, goldfinch, andsong-sparrow. Thepip, pip, of the last is producedso accurately that I verily believe it would deceivethe bird herself;—and the whole uttered in suchrapid succession that it seems as if the movementthat gives the concluding note of one strain mustform the first note of the next. The effect is veryrich, and, to my ear, entirely unique. The performeris very careful not to reveal himself in the meantime; yet there is a conscious air about the strainthat impresses me with the idea that my presence is[28]understood and my attention courted. A tone ofpride and glee, and, occasionally, of bantering jocoseness,is discernible. I believe it is only rarely, andwhen he is sure of his audience, that he displayshis parts in this manner. You are to look for him,not in tall trees or deep forests, but in low, denseshrubbery about wet places, where there are plentyof gnats and mosquitoes.

The winter-wren is another marvelous songster, inspeaking of whom it is difficult to avoid superlatives.He is not so conscious of his powers and so ambitiousof effect as the white-eyed fly-catcher, yet you will notbe less astonished and delighted on hearing him. Hepossesses the fluency and copiousness for which thewrens are noted, and besides these qualities, andwhat is rarely found conjoined with them, a wild,sweet, rhythmical cadence that holds you entranced.I shall not soon forget that perfect June day, when,loitering in a low, ancient hemlock wood, in whosecathedral aisles the coolness and freshness seems perennial,the silence was suddenly broken by a strainso rapid and gushing, and touched with such a wild,sylvan plaintiveness, that I listened in amazement.And so shy and coy was the little minstrel, that Icame twice to the woods before I was sure to whomI was listening. In summer he is one of those birdsof the deep northern forests, that, like the speckledCanada warbler and the hermit-thrush, only the privilegedones hear.

The distribution of plants in a given locality is not[29]more marked and defined than that of the birds. Showa botanist a landscape, and he will tell you where tolook for the lady’s-slipper, the columbine, or theharebell. On the same principles the ornithologistwill direct you where to look for the greenlets, thewood-sparrow, or the chewink. In adjoining counties,in the same latitude, and equally inland, butpossessing a different geological formation and differentforest-timber, you will observe quite a differentclass of birds. In a land of the beech and sugar-mapleI do not find the same songsters that I knowwhere thrive the oak, chestnut, and laurel. In goingfrom a district of the Old Red Sandstone to where Iwalk upon the old Plutonic Rock, not fifty miles distant,I miss in the woods the veery, the hermit-thrush,the chestnut-sided warbler, the blue-backedwarbler, the green-backed warbler, the black and yellowwarbler, and many others, and find in their steadthe wood-thrush, the chewink, the redstart, the yellow-throat,the yellow-breasted fly-catcher, the white-eyedfly-catcher, the quail, and the turtle-dove.

In my neighborhood here in the Highlands thedistribution is very marked. South of the village Iinvariably find one species of birds, north of it another.In only one locality, full of azalea and swamp-huckleberry,I am always sure of finding the hoodedwarbler. In a dense undergrowth of spice-bush,witch-hazel, and alder, I meet the worm-eating warbler.In a remote clearing, covered with heath andfern, with here and there a chestnut and an oak, I go[30]to hear in July the wood-sparrow, and returning bya stumpy, shallow pond, I am sure to find the water-thrush.

Only one locality within my range seems to possessattractions for all comers. Here one may studyalmost the entire ornithology of the State. It is arocky piece of ground, long ago cleared, but now fastrelapsing into the wildness and freedom of nature,and marked by those half-cultivated, half-wild featureswhich birds and boys love. It is bounded ontwo sides by the village and highway, crossed at variouspoints by carriage-roads, and threaded in all directionsby paths and by-ways, along which soldiers,laborers, and truant school-boys are passing at allhours of the day. It is so far escaping from the axeand the bush-hook as to have opened communicationwith the forest and mountain beyond by stragglinglines of cedar, laurel, and blackberry. The groundis mainly occupied with cedar and chestnut, with anundergrowth, in many places, of heath and bramble.The chief feature, however, is a dense growth in thecentre, consisting of dogwood, water-beech, swamp-ash,alder, spice-bush, hazel, etc., with a net-work ofsmilax and frost-grape. A little zigzag stream, thedraining of a swamp beyond, which passes throughthis tangle-wood, accounts for many of its featuresand productions, if not for its entire existence. Birdsthat are not attracted by the heath or the cedar andchestnut, are sure to find some excuse for visiting thismiscellaneous growth in the centre. Most of the[31]common birds literally throng this idle-wild; and Ihave met here many of the rarer species, such as thegreat-crested fly-catcher, the solitary warbler, theblue-winged swamp-warbler, the worm-eating warbler,the fox-sparrow, etc. The absence of all birds ofprey, and the great number of flies and insects, boththe result of proximity to the village, are considerationswhich no hawk-fearing, peace-loving minstrelpasses over lightly; hence the popularity of the resort.

But the crowning glory of all these robins, fly-catchers,and warblers is the wood-thrush. Moreabundant than all other birds, except the robin andcat-bird, he greets you from every rock and shrub.Shy and reserved when he first makes his appearancein May, before the end of June he is tame and familiar,and sings on the tree over your head, or on therock a few paces in advance. A pair even built theirnest and reared their brood within ten or twelve feetof the piazza of a large summer-house in the vicinity.But when the guests commenced to arrive and thepiazza to be thronged with gay crowds, I noticedsomething like dread and foreboding in the mannerof the mother-bird; and from her still, quiet ways,and habit of sitting long and silently within a fewfeet of the precious charge, it seemed as if the dearcreature had resolved, if possible, to avoid all observation.

If we take the quality of melody as the test, thewood-thrush, hermit-thrush, and the veery-thrush,stand at the head of our list of songsters.[32]

The mocking-bird undoubtedly possesses the greatestrange of mere talent, the most varied executiveability, and never fails to surprise and delight oneanew at each hearing; but being mostly an imitator,he never approaches the serene beauty and sublimityof the hermit-thrush. The word that best expressesmy feelings, on hearing the mocking-bird, is admiration,though the first emotion is one of surprise andincredulity. That so many and such various notesshould proceed from one throat is a marvel, and weregard the performance with feelings akin to thosewe experience on witnessing the astounding feats ofthe athlete or gymnast,—and this, notwithstandingmany of the notes imitated have all the freshnessand sweetness of the originals. The emotions excitedby the songs of these thrushes belong to a higherorder, springing as they do from our deepest sense ofthe beauty and harmony of the world.

The wood-thrush is worthy of all, and more thanall, the praises he has received; and considering thenumber of his appreciative listeners, it is not a littlesurprising that his relative and equal, the hermit-thrush,should have received so little notice. Boththe great ornithologists, Wilson and Audubon, arelavish in their praises of the former, but have little ornothing to say of the song of the latter. Audubonsays it is sometimes agreeable, but evidently has neverheard it. Nuttall, I am glad to find, is more discriminating,and does the bird fuller justice.

It is quite a rare bird, of very shy and secluded[33]habits, being found in the Middle and Eastern States,during the period of song, only in the deepest andmost remote forests, usually in damp and swampylocalities. On this account the people in the Adirondacregion call it the “Swamp Angel.” Its beingso much of a recluse accounts for the comparative ignorancethat prevails in regard to it.

The cast of its song is very much like that of thewood-thrush, and a good observer might easily confoundthe two. But hear them together and the differenceis quite marked: the song of the hermit is ina higher key, and is more wild and ethereal. Hisinstrument is a silver horn which he winds in themost solitary places. The song of the wood-thrushis more golden and leisurely. Its tone comes near tothat of some rare stringed instrument. One feelsthat perhaps the wood-thrush has more compass andpower, if he would only let himself out, but on thewhole he comes a little short of the pure, serene,hymn-like strain of the hermit.

Yet those who have heard only the wood-thrushmay well place him first on the list. He is truly aroyal minstrel, and considering his liberal distributionthroughout our Atlantic seaboard, perhaps contributesmore than any other bird to our sylvan melody.One may object that he spends a little toomuch time in tuning his instrument, yet his carelessand uncertain touches reveal its rare compass andpower.

He is the only songster of my acquaintance, ex[34]ceptingthe canary, that displays different degrees ofproficiency in the exercise of his musical gifts. Notlong since, while walking one Sunday in the edge ofan orchard adjoining a wood, I heard one that so obviouslyand unmistakably surpassed all his rivals,that my companion, though slow to notice suchthings, remarked it wonderingly; and with one accordwe paused to listen to so rare a performer. Itwas not different in quality so much as in quantity.Such a flood of it! Such copiousness! Such long,trilling, accelerating preludes! Such sudden, ecstaticovertures, would have intoxicated the dullest ear.He was really without a compeer—a master-artist.Twice afterward I was conscious of having heard thesame bird.

The wood-thrush is the handsomest species of thisfamily. In grace and elegance of manner he has noequal. Such a gentle, high-bred air, and such inimitableease and composure in his flight and movement!He is a poet in very word and deed. Hiscarriage is music to the eye. His performance ofthe commonest act, as catching a beetle, or pickinga worm from the mud, pleases like a stroke of wit oreloquence. Was he a prince in the olden time, anddo the regal grace and mien still adhere to him in histransformation? What a finely proportioned form!How plain, yet rich his color,—the bright russet ofhis back, the clear white of his breast, with the distinctheart-shaped spots! It may be objected toRobin that he is noisy and demonstrative; he hurries[35]away or rises to a branch with an angry note, andflirts his wings in ill-bred suspicion. The mavis, orred-thrush, sneaks and skulks like a culprit, hiding inthe densest alders; the cat-bird is a coquette and aflirt, as well as a sort of female Paul Pry; and thechewink shows his inhospitality by espying yourmovements like a Japanese. The wood-thrush hasnone of these under-bred traits. He regards meunsuspiciously, or avoids me with a noble reserve,—or,if I am quiet and incurious, graciously hops towardme, as if to pay his respects, or to make my acquaintance.I have passed under his nest within afew feet of his mate and brood, when he sat near byon a branch eying me sharply, but without openinghis beak; but the moment I raised my hand towardhis defenseless household his anger and indignationwere beautiful to behold.

What a noble pride he has! Late one October,after his mates and companions had long since gonesouth, I noticed one for several successive days in thedense part of this next-door wood, flitting noiselesslyabout, very grave and silent, as if doing penance forsome violation of the code of honor. By many gentle,indirect approaches, I perceived that part of histail-feathers were undeveloped. The sylvan princecould not think of returning to court in this plight,and so, amid the falling leaves and cold rains ofautumn, was patiently biding his time.

The soft, mellow flute of the veery fills a place inthe chorus of the woods that the song of the vesper-[36]sparrowfills in the chorus of the fields. It has thenightingale’s habit of singing in the twilight, asindeed have all our thrushes. Walk out toward theforest in the warm twilight of a June day, and whenfifty rods distant you will hear their soft, reverberatingnotes, rising from a dozen different throats.

It is one of the simplest strains to be heard,—assimple as the curve in form, delighting from the pureelement of harmony and beauty it contains, and notfrom any novel or fantastic modulation of it,—thuscontrasting strongly with such rollicking, hilarioussongsters as the bobolink, in whom we are chieflypleased with the tintinnabulation, the verbal and labialexcellence, and the evident conceit and delight ofthe performer.

I hardly know whether I am more pleased or annoyedwith the cat-bird. Perhaps she is a little toocommon, and her part in the general chorus a littletoo conspicuous. If you are listening for the note ofanother bird, she is sure to be prompted to the mostloud and protracted singing, drowning all othersounds; if you sit quietly down to observe a favoriteor study a new-comer, her curiosity knows nobounds, and you are scanned and ridiculed fromevery point of observation. Yet I would not missher; I would only subordinate her a little, make herless conspicuous.

She is the parodist of the woods, and there is evera mischievous, bantering, half-ironical undertone inher lay, as if she were conscious of mimicking and[37]disconcerting some envied songster. Ambitious ofsong, practicing and rehearsing in private, she yetseems the least sincere and genuine of the sylvanminstrels, as if she had taken up music only to be inthe fashion, or not to be outdone by the robins andthrushes. In other words, she seems to sing fromsome outward motive, and not from inward joyousness.She is a good versifier, but not a great poet.Vigorous, rapid, copious, not without fine touches,but destitute of any high, serene melody, her performance,like that of Thoreau’s squirrel, always impliesa spectator.

There is a certain air and polish about her strain,however, like that in the vivacious conversation of awell-bred lady of the world, that commands respect.Her maternal instinct, also, is very strong, and thatsimple structure of dead twigs and dry grass is thecentre of much anxious solicitude. Not long since,while strolling through the woods, my attention wasattracted to a small densely grown swamp, hedged inwith eglantine, brambles, and the everlasting smilax,from which proceeded loud cries of distress and alarm,indicating that some terrible calamity was threateningmy sombre-colored minstrel. On effecting an entrance,which, however, was not accomplished till Ihad doffed coat and hat, so as to diminish the surfaceexposed to the thorns and brambles, and lookingaround me from a square yard of terra firma, I foundmyself the spectator of a loathsome, yet fascinatingscene. Three or four yards from me was the nest,[38]beneath which, in long festoons, rested a huge blacksnake; a bird two thirds grown, was slowly disappearingbetween his expanded jaws. As he seemedunconscious of my presence, I quietly observed theproceedings. By slow degrees he compassed the birdabout with his elastic mouth; his head flattened, hisneck writhed and swelled, and two or three undulatorymovements of his glistening body finished thework. Then, he cautiously raised himself up, histongue flaming from his mouth the while, curved overthe nest, and, with wavy, subtle motions, exploredthe interior. I can conceive of nothing more overpoweringlyterrible to an unsuspecting family ofbirds than the sudden appearance above their domicileof the head and neck of this arch-enemy. It isenough to petrify the blood in their veins. Not findingthe object of his search, he came streaming downfrom the nest to a lower limb, and commenced extendinghis researches in other directions, slidingstealthily through the branches, bent on capturingone of the parent birds. That a legless, winglesscreature should move with such ease and rapiditywhere only birds and squirrels are considered athome, lifting himself up, letting himself down, runningout on the yielding boughs, and traversing withmarvelous celerity the whole length and breadth ofthe thicket, was truly surprising. One thinks of thegreat myth, of the Tempter and the “cause of all ourwoe,” and wonders if the Arch One is not now playingoff some of his pranks before him. Whether we[39]call it snake or devil matters little. I could but admirehis terrible beauty, however; his black, shiningfolds, his easy, gliding movement, head erect, eyesglistening, tongue playing like subtle flame, and theinvisible means of his almost winged locomotion.

The parent birds, in the mean while, kept up themost agonizing cry,—at times fluttering furiouslyabout their pursuer, and actually laying hold of histail with their beaks and claws. On being thus attacked,the snake would suddenly double upon himselfand follow his own body back, thus executing astrategic movement that at first seemed almost toparalyze his victim and place her within his grasp.Not quite, however. Before his jaws could closeupon the coveted prize the bird would tear herselfaway, and, apparently faint and sobbing, retire to ahigher branch. His reputed powers of fascinationavailed him little, though it is possible that a frailerand less combative bird might have been held by thefatal spell. Presently, as he came gliding down theslender body of a leaning alder, his attention was attractedby a slight movement of my arm; eying mean instant, with that crouching, utter, motionless gazewhich I believe only snakes and devils can assume,he turned quickly,—a feat which necessitated somethinglike crawling over his own body,—and glidedoff through the branches, evidently recognizing in mea representative of the ancient parties he once so cunninglyruined. A few moments after, as he lay carelesslydisposed in the top of a rank alder, trying to[40]look as much like a crooked branch as his supple,shining form would admit, the old vengeance overtookhim. I exercised my prerogative, and a well-directedmissile, in the shape of a stone, brought himlooping and writhing to the ground. After I hadcompleted his downfall and quiet had been partiallyrestored, a half-fledged member of the bereavedhousehold came out from his hiding-place, and, jumpingupon a decayed branch, chirped vigorously, nodoubt in celebration of the victory.

Till the middle of July there is a general equilibrium;the tide stands poised; the holiday-spirit isunabated. But as the harvest ripens beneath thelong, hot days, the melody gradually ceases. Theyoung are out of the nest and must be cared for, andthe moulting season is at hand. After the crickethas commenced to drone his monotonous refrain beneathyour window, you will not, till another season,hear the wood-thrush in all his matchless eloquence.The bobolink has become careworn and fretful, andblurts out snatches of his song between his scoldingand upbraiding, as you approach the vicinity of hisnest, oscillating between anxiety for his brood andsolicitude for his musical reputation. Some of thesparrows still sing, and occasionally across the hotfields, from a tall tree in the edge of the forest, comesthe rich note of the scarlet tanager. This tropical-coloredbird loves the hottest weather, and I hear himeven in dog-days.

The remainder of the summer is the carnival of[41]the swallows and fly-catchers. Flies and insects, toany amount, are to be had for the catching; and theopportunity is well improved. See that sombre,ashen-colored pewee on yonder branch. A truesportsman he, who never takes his game at rest, butalways on the wing. You vagrant fly, you purblindmoth, beware how you come within his range! Observehis attitude, the curious movement of his head,his “eye in a fine frenzy rolling, glancing from heavento earth, from earth to heaven.”

His sight is microscopic and his aim sure. Quickas thought he has seized his victim and is back to hisperch. There is no strife, no pursuit,—one fellswoop and the matter is ended. That little sparrow,as you will observe, is less skilled. It is theSocialis,and he finds his subsistence properly in various seedsand the larvæ of insects, though he occasionally hashigher aspirations, and seeks to emulate the pewee,commencing and ending his career as a fly-catcher byan awkward chase after a beetle or “miller.” He ishunting around in the grass now, I suspect, with thedesire to indulge this favorite whim. There!—theopportunity is afforded him. Away goes a littlecream-colored meadow-moth in the most tortuouscourse he is capable of, and away goesSocialis inpursuit. The contest is quite comical, though I daresay it is serious enough to the moth. The chase continuesfor a few yards, when there is a sudden rushingto cover in the grass,—then a taking to wing again,when the search has become too close, and the moth[42]has recovered his wind.Socialis chirps angrily, andis determined not to be beaten. Keeping, with theslightest effort, upon the heels of the fugitive, he isever on the point of halting to snap him up, but neverquite does it,—and so, between disappointment andexpectation, is soon disgusted, and returns to pursuehis more legitimate means of subsistence.

In striking contrast to this serio-comic strife of thesparrow and the moth, is the pigeon-hawk’s pursuitof the sparrow or the goldfinch. It is a race of surprisingspeed and agility. It is a test of wing andwind. Every muscle is taxed, and every nervestrained. Such cries of terror and consternation onthe part of the bird, tacking to the right and left, andmaking the most desperate efforts to escape, and suchsilent determination on the part of the hawk, pressingthe bird so closely, flashing and turning and timinghis movements with those of the pursued as accuratelyand as inexorably as if the two constituted one body,excite feelings of the deepest concern. You mountthe fence or rush out of your way to see the issue.The only salvation for the bird is to adopt the tacticsof the moth, seeking instantly the cover of some tree,bush, or hedge, where its smaller size enables it tomove about more rapidly. These pirates are awareof this, and therefore prefer to take their prey by onefell swoop. You may see one of them prowlingthrough an orchard, with the yellow-birds hoveringabout him, crying,Pi-ty, pi-ty, in the most despondingtone; yet he seems not to regard them, knowing,[43]as do they, that in the close branches they are as safeas if in a wall of adamant.

August is the month of the high sailing hawks.The hen-hawk is the most noticeable. He likes thehaze and calm of these long, warm days. He is abird of leisure, and seems always at his ease. Howbeautiful and majestic are his movements! So self-poisedand easy, such an entire absence of haste, sucha magnificent amplitude of circles and spirals, such ahaughty, imperial grace, and, occasionally, such daringaërial evolutions!

With slow, leisurely movement, rarely vibratinghis pinions, he mounts and mounts in an ascendingspiral till he appears a mere speck against the summersky; then, if the mood seizes him, with wingshalf-closed, like a bent bow, he will cleave the airalmost perpendicularly, as if intent on dashing himselfto pieces against the earth; but on nearing theground, he suddenly mounts again on broad, expandedwing, as if rebounding upon the air, and sailsleisurely away. It is the sublimest feat of the season.One holds his breath till he sees him riseagain.

If inclined to a more gradual and less precipitousdescent, he fixes his eye on some distant point in theearth beneath him, and thither bends his course. Heis still almost meteoric in his speed and boldness.You see his path down the heavens, straight as aline; if near, you hear the rush of his wings; hisshadow hurtles across the fields, and in an instant[44]you see him quietly perched upon some low tree ordecayed stub in a swamp or meadow, with reminiscencesof frogs and mice stirring in his maw.

When the south wind blows, it is a study to seethree or four of these air-kings at the head of thevalley far up toward the mountain, balancing and oscillatingupon the strong current: now quite stationary,except a slight tremulous motion like the poiseof a rope-dancer, then rising and falling in long undulations,and seeming to resign themselves passivelyto the wind; or, again, sailing high and level farabove the mountain’s peak, no bluster and haste, but,as stated, occasionally a terrible earnestness andspeed. Fire at one as he sails overhead, and, unlesswounded badly he will not change his course or gait.

His flight is a perfect picture of repose in motion.It strikes the eye as more surprising than the flightof the pigeon and swallow even, in that the effort putforth is so uniform and delicate as to escape observation,giving to the movement an air of buoyancy andperpetuity, the effluence of power rather than the consciousapplication of it.

The calmness and dignity of this hawk, when attackedby crows or the king-bird, are well worthy ofhim. He seldom deigns to notice his noisy and furiousantagonists, but deliberately wheels about inthat aërial spiral, and mounts and mounts till hispursuers grow dizzy and return to earth again. It isquite original, this mode of getting rid of an unworthyopponent, rising to heights where the braggart is[45]dazed and bewildered and loses his reckoning! I amnot sure but it is worthy of imitation.

But summer wanes, and autumn approaches. Thesongsters of the seed-time are silent at the reaping ofthe harvest. Other minstrels take up the strain. Itis the heyday of insect life. The day is canopiedwith musical sound. All the songs of the spring andsummer appear to be floating, softened and refined,in the upper air. The birds in a new, but less holidaysuit, turn their faces southward. The swallowsflock and go; the bobolinks flock and go; silentlyand unobserved, the thrushes go. Autumn arrives,bringing finches, warblers, sparrows and kinglets fromthe North. Silently the procession passes. Yonderhawk, sailing peacefully away till he is lost in thehorizon, is a symbol of the closing season and the departingbirds.

Yellow-billed Cuckoo.

[49]

Cat-bird.

IN THE HEMLOCKS.

Most people receive with incredulity a statementof the number of birds that annually visit our climate.Very few even are aware of half the numberthat spend the summer in their own immediate vicinity.We little suspect, when we walk in the woods,whose privacy we are intruding upon,—what rareand elegant visitants from Mexico, from Central andSouth America, and from the islands of the sea, areholding their reunions in the branches over ourheads, or pursuing their pleasure on the ground beforeus.

I recall the altogether admirable and shining familywhich Thoreau dreamed he saw in the upperchambers of Spaulding’s woods, which Spaulding didnot know lived there, and which were not put out[50]when Spaulding, whistling, drove his team throughtheir lower halls. They did not go into society inthe village; they were quite well; they had sons anddaughters; they neither wove nor spun; there was asound as of suppressed hilarity.

I take it for granted that the forester was onlysaying a pretty thing of the birds, though I have observedthat it does sometimes annoy them whenSpaulding’s cart rumbles through their house. Generally,however, they are as unconscious of Spauldingas Spaulding is of them.

Walking the other day in an old hemlock wood, Icounted over forty varieties of these summer visitants,many of them common to other woods in thevicinity, but quite a number peculiar to these ancientsolitudes, and not a few that are rare in any locality.It is quite unusual to find so large a number abidingin one forest,—and that not a large one,—most ofthem nesting and spending the summer there. Manyof those I observed commonly pass this season muchfarther north. But the geographical distribution ofbirds is rather a climatical one. The same temperature,though under different parallels, usually attractsthe same birds; difference in altitude being equivalentto the difference in latitude. A given heightabove the sea level under the parallel of thirty degreesmay have the same climate as places underthat of thirty-five degrees, and similar Flora andFauna. At the head-waters of the Delaware, whereI write, the latitude is that of Boston, but the region[51]has a much greater elevation, and hence a climatethat compares better with the northern part of theState and of New England. Half a day’s drive tothe southeast brings me down into quite a differenttemperature, with an older geological formation, differentforest-timber, and different birds;—even withdifferent mammals. Neither the little gray rabbitnor the little gray fox is found in my locality, but thegreat northern hare and the red fox. In the lastcentury a colony of beavers dwelt here, though theoldest inhabitant cannot now point to even the traditionalsite of their dams. The ancient hemlocks,whither I propose to take the reader, are rich inmany things beside birds. Indeed, their wealth inthis respect is owing mainly, no doubt, to their rankvegetable growths, their fruitful swamps, and theirdark, sheltered retreats.

Their history is of an heroic cast. Ravished andtorn by the tanner in his thirst for bark, preyed uponby the lumberman, assaulted and beaten back by thesettler, still their spirit has never been broken, theirenergies never paralyzed. Not many years ago apublic highway passed through them, but it was atno time a tolerable road; trees fell across it, mudand limbs choked it up, till finally travelers took thehint and went around; and now, walking along itsdeserted course, I see only the foot-prints of coons,foxes, and squirrels.

Nature loves such woods, and places her own sealupon them. Here she shows me what can be done[52]with ferns and mosses and lichens. The soil is marrowyand full of innumerable forests. Standing inthese fragrant aisles, I feel the strength of the vegetablekingdom and am awed by the deep and inscrutableprocesses of life going on so silently aboutme.

No hostile forms with axe or spud now visit thesesolitudes. The cows have half-hidden ways throughthem, and know where the best browsing is to behad. In spring the farmer repairs to their borderingof maples to make sugar; in July and August womenand boys from all the country about penetrate theold Bark-peelings for raspberries and blackberries;and I know a youth who wonderingly follows theirlanguid stream casting for trout.

In like spirit, alert and buoyant, on this brightJune morning go I also to reap my harvest,—pursuinga sweet more delectable than sugar, fruit moresavory than berries, and game for another palate thanthat tickled by trout.

June, of all the months, the student of ornithologycan least afford to lose. Most birds are nestingthen, and in full song and plumage. And what is abird without its song? Do we not wait for thestranger to speak? It seems to me that I do notknow a bird till I have heard its voice; then I comenearer it at once, and it possesses a human interestto me. I have met the gray-cheeked thrush (Turdusaliciæ) in the woods, and held him in my hand;still I do not know him. The silence of the cedar-[53]birdthrows a mystery about him which neither hisgood looks nor his petty larcenies in cherry time candispel. A bird’s song contains a clew to its life, andestablishes a sympathy, an understanding, betweenitself and the listener.

I descend a steep hill, and approach the hemlocksthrough a large sugar-bush. When twenty rods distant,I hear all along the line of the forest the incessantwarble of the red-eyed fly-catcher (Vireosylviaolivacea), cheerful and happy as the merry whistle ofa school-boy. He is one of our most common andwidely distributed birds. Approach any forest atany hour of the day, in any kind of weather, fromMay to August, in any of the Middle or Eastern districts,and the chances are that the first note you hearwill be his. Rain or shine, before noon or after, inthe deep forest or in the village grove,—when it istoo hot for the thrushes or too cold and windy forthe warblers,—it is never out of time or place forthis little minstrel to indulge his cheerful strain. Inthe deep wilds of the Adirondac, where few birdsare seen and fewer heard, his note was almost constantlyin my ear. Always busy, making it a pointnever to suspend for one moment his occupation to indulgehis musical taste, his lay is that of industry andcontentment. There is nothing plaintive or especiallymusical in his performance, but the sentiment expressedis eminently that of cheerfulness. Indeed,the songs of most birds have some human significance,which, I think, is the source of the delight we[54]take in them. The song of the bobolink to me expresseshilarity; the song-sparrow’s, faith; the bluebird’s,love; the cat-bird’s, pride; the white-eyed fly-catcher’s,self-consciousness; that of the hermit-thrush,spiritual-serenity; while there is something militaryin the call of the robin.

The vireosylvia is classed among the fly-catchersby some writers, but is much more of a worm-eater,and has few of the traits or habits of theMuscicapaor the trueSylvia. He resembles somewhat thewarbling vireo (Vireo gilvus), and the two birds areoften confounded by careless observers. Both warblein the same cheerful strain, but the latter morecontinuously and rapidly. The red-eye is a larger,slimmer bird, with a faint bluish crown, and a lightline over the eye. His movements are peculiar.You may see him hopping among the limbs, exploringthe under side of the leaves, peering to the rightand left, now flitting a few feet, now hopping asmany, and warbling incessantly, occasionally in asubdued tone, which sounds from a very indefinitedistance. When he has found a worm to his liking,he turns lengthwise of the limb, and bruises its headwith his beak before devouring it.

As I enter the woods the slate-colored snow-bird(Fringilla Hudsonia) starts up before me and chirpssharply. His protest when thus disturbed is almostmetallic in its sharpness. He breeds here, and is notesteemed a snow-bird at all, as he disappears at thenear approach of winter, and returns again in spring,[55]like the song-sparrow, and is not in any way associatedwith the cold and the snow. So different arethe habits of birds in different localities. Even thecrow does not winter here, and is seldom seen afterDecember or before March.

The snow-bird, or “black chipping-bird,” as it isknown among the farmers, is the finest architect ofany of the ground-builders known to me. The siteof its nest is usually some low bank by the roadsidenear a wood. In a slight excavation, with a partiallyconcealed entrance, the exquisite structure is placed.Horse and cow hair are plentifully used, imparting tothe interior of the nest great symmetry and firmnessas well as softness.

Passing down through the maple arches, barelypausing to observe the antics of a trio of squirrels,—twogray ones and a black one,—I cross an ancientbrush fence and am fairly within the old hemlocks,and in one of the most primitive, undisturbednooks. In the deep moss I tread as with muffledfeet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate in the dim, almostreligious light. The irreverent red squirrels,however, run and snicker at my approach, or mockthe solitude with their ridiculous chattering and frisking.

This nook is the chosen haunt of the winter-wren.This is the only place and these the only woods inwhich I find him in this vicinity. His voice fillsthese dim aisles, as if aided by some marveloussounding-board. Indeed, his song is very strong for[56]so small a bird and unites in a remarkable degreebrilliancy and plaintiveness. I think of a tremulousvibrating tongue of silver. You may know it is thesong of a wren, from its gushing lyrical character:but you must needs look sharp to see the little minstrel,especially while in the act of singing. He isnearly the color of the ground and the leaves; henever ascends the tall trees, but keeps low, flittingfrom stump to stump and from root to root, dodgingin and out of his hiding-places, and watching all intruderswith a suspicious eye. He has a very pert,almost comical look. His tail stands more than perpendicular:it points straight toward his head. Heis the least ostentatious singer I know of. He doesnot strike an attitude, and lift up his head in preparation,and, as it were, clear his throat; but sits thereon a log and pours out his music, looking straight beforehim, or even down at the ground. As a songster,he has but few superiors. I do not hear himafter the first week in July.

While sitting on this soft-cushioned log, tastingthe pungent acidulous wood-sorrel (Oxalis acetellosa),the blossoms of which, large and pink-veined, riseeverywhere above the moss, a rufous-colored birdflies quickly past, and, alighting on a low limb a fewrods off, salutes me with “Whew! Whew!” or“Whoit! Whoit!” almost as you would whistle foryour dog. I see by his impulsive, graceful movements,and his dimly speckled breast, that it is athrush. Presently he utters a few soft, mellow, flute-[57]likenotes, one of the most simple expressions of melodyto be heard, and scuds away, and I see it is theveery, or Wilson’s thrush. He is the least of thethrushes in size, being about that of the commonbluebird, and he may be distinguished from his relativesby the dimness of the spots upon his breast.The wood-thrush has very clear, distinct oval spotson a white ground; in the hermit, the spots run moreinto lines, on a ground of a faint bluish-white; inveery, the marks are almost obsolete, and a few rodsoff his breast presents only a dull yellowish appearance.To get a good view of him you have only tosit down in his haunts, as in such cases he seemsequally anxious to get a good view of you.

From those tall hemlocks proceeds a very fineinsect-like warble, and occasionally I see a spraytremble, or catch the flit of a wing. I watch andwatch till my head grows dizzy and my neck is indanger of permanent displacement, and still do notget a good view. Presently the bird darts, or, as itseems, falls down a few feet in pursuit of a fly or amoth, and I see the whole of it, but in the dim lightam undecided. It is for such emergencies that I havebrought my gun. A bird in the hand is worth halfa dozen in the bush, even for ornithological purposes;and no sure and rapid progress can be made in thestudy without taking life, without procuring specimens.This bird is a warbler, plainly enough, fromhis habits and manner; but what kind of warbler?Look on him and name him: a deep orange or flame-[58]coloredthroat and breast; the same color showingalso in a line over the eye and in his crown; backvariegated black and white. The female is lessmarked and brilliant. The orange-throated warblerwould seem to be his right name, his characteristiccognomen; but no, he is doomed to wear the nameof some discoverer, perhaps the first who robbed hisnest or rifled him of his mate,—Blackburn; hence,Blackburnian warbler. Theburn seems appropriateenough, for in these dark evergreens his throat andbreast show like flame. He has a very fine warble,suggesting that of the redstart, but not especiallymusical. I find him in no other woods in this vicinity.

I am attracted by another warble in the samelocality, and experience a like difficulty in getting agood view of the author of it. It is quite a noticeablestrain, sharp and sibilant, and sounds well amid theold trees. In the upland woods of beech and mapleit is a more familiar sound than in these solitudes.On taking the bird in hand, one cannot help exclaiming,“How beautiful!” So tiny and elegant, thesmallest of the warblers; a delicate blue-back, witha slight bronze-colored triangular spot between theshoulders; upper mandible black; lower mandibleyellow as gold; throat yellow, becoming a darkbronze on the breast. Blue yellow-back he is called,though the yellow is much nearer a bronze. He isremarkably delicate and beautiful,—the handsomestas he is the smallest of the warblers known to me.[59]It is never without surprise that I find amid theserugged, savage aspects of Nature creatures so fairyand delicate. But such is the law. Go to the seaor climb the mountain, and with the ruggedest andthe savagest you will find likewise the fairest and themost delicate. The greatness and the minuteness ofNature pass all understanding.

Ever since I entered the woods, even while listeningto the lesser songsters, or contemplating the silentforms about me, a strain has reached my ears fromout the depths of the forest that to me is the finestsound in nature,—the song of the hermit-thrush. Ioften hear him thus a long way off, sometimes over aquarter of a mile away, when only the stronger andmore perfect parts of his music reach me; andthrough the general chorus of wrens and warblersI detect this sound rising pure and serene, as if aspirit from some remote height were slowly chantinga divine accompaniment. This song appeals to thesentiment of the beautiful in me, and suggests a serenereligious beatitude as no other sound in naturedoes. It is perhaps more of an evening than a morninghymn, though I hear it at all hours of the day.It is very simple, and I can hardly tell the secret ofits charm. “O spheral, spheral!” he seems to say;“O holy, holy! O clear away, clear away! O clearup, clear up!” interspersed with the finest trills andthe most delicate preludes. It is not a proud, gorgeousstrain, like the tanager’s or the grossbeak’s;[60]suggests no passion or emotion,—nothing personal,—butseems to be the voice of that calm sweet solemnityone attains to in his best moments. It realizesa peace and a deep solemn joy that only thefinest souls may know. A few nights ago I ascendeda mountain to see the world by moonlight; and whennear the summit the hermit commenced his eveninghymn a few rods from me. Listening to this strain onthe lone mountain, with the full moon just roundedfrom the horizon, the pomp of your cities and thepride of your civilization seemed trivial and cheap.

I have seldom known two of these birds to be singingat the same time in the same locality, rivalingeach other, like the wood-thrush or the veery. Shootingone from a tree, I have observed another take upthe strain from almost the identical perch in less thanten minutes afterward. Later in the day when Ihad penetrated the heart of the old “Barkpeeling,” Icame suddenly upon one singing from a low stump,and for a wonder he did not seem alarmed, but liftedup his divine voice as if his privacy was undisturbed.I open his beak and find the inside yellow as gold.I was prepared to find it inlaid with pearls and diamonds,or to see an angel issue from it.

He is not much in the books. Indeed, I am acquaintedwith scarcely any writer on ornithologywhose head is not muddled on the subject of ourthree prevailing song-thrushes, confounding eithertheir figures or their songs. A writer in the “Atlantic”[1]gravely tells us the wood-thrush is some[61]timescalled the hermit, and then, after describingthe song of the hermit with great beauty and correctness,coolly ascribes it to the veery! The newCyclopædia, fresh from the study of Audubon, saysthe hermit’s song consists of a single plaintive note,and that the veery’s resembles that of the wood-thrush!These observations deserve to be preservedwith that of the author of “Out-door Papers,” whotells us the trill of the hair-bird (Fringillia socialis)is produced by the bird fluttering its wings upon itssides! The hermit-thrush may be easily identifiedby his color; his back being a clear olive-brown becomingrufous on his rump and tail. A quill from hiswing placed beside one from his tail on a dark groundpresents quite a marked contrast.

I walk along the old road, and note the tracks inthe thin layer of mud. When do these creaturestravel here? I have never yet chanced to meet one.Here a partridge has set its foot; there, a woodcock;here, a squirrel or mink: there, a skunk; there, afox. What a clear, nervous track reynard makes!how easy to distinguish it from that of a little dog,—itis so sharply cut and defined! A dog’s track iscoarse and clumsy beside it. There is as much wildnessin the track of an animal as in its voice. Is adeer’s track like a sheep’s or a goat’s? What winged-footedfleetness and agility may be inferred from thesharp, braided track of the gray squirrel upon thenew snow! Ah! in nature is the best discipline.How wood-life sharpens the senses, giving a new[62]power to the eye, the ear, the nose! And are notthe rarest and most exquisite songsters wood-birds?

Everywhere in these solitudes I am greeted withthe pensive, almost pathetic note of the wood-pewee.The pewees are the true fly-catchers, and are easilyidentified. They are very characteristic birds, havestrong family traits, and pugnacious dispositions.They are the least attractive or elegant birds of ourfields or forest. Sharp-shouldered, big-headed, short-legged,of no particular color, of little elegance inflight or movement, with a disagreeable flirt of thetail, always quarreling with their neighbors and withone another, no birds are so little calculated to excitepleasurable emotions in the beholder, or to becomeobjects of human interest and affection. The king-birdis the best dressed member of the family, but heis a braggart; and, though always snubbing hisneighbors, is an arrant coward, and shows the whitefeather at the slightest display of pluck in his antagonist.I have seen him turn tail to a swallow, andhave known the little pewee in question to whip himbeautifully. From the great-crested to the littlegreen fly-catcher, their ways and general habits arethe same. Slow in flying from point to point, theyyet have a wonderful quickness, and snap up thefleetest insects with little apparent effort. There is aconstant play of quick, nervous movements underneaththeir outer show of calmness and stolidity.They do not scour the limbs and trees like the warblers,but, perched upon the middle branches, wait,[63]like true hunters, for the game to come along.There is often a very audible snap of the beak asthey seize their prey.

The wood-pewee, the prevailing species in this locality,arrests your attention by his sweet, patheticcry. There is room for it also in the deep woods, aswell as for the more prolonged and elevated strains.

Its relative, the phœbe-bird, builds an exquisitenest of moss on the side of some shelving cliff oroverhanging rock. The other day, passing by aledge near the top of a mountain in a singularly desolatelocality, my eye rested upon one of these structures,looking precisely as if it grew there, so inkeeping was it with the mossy character of the rock,and I have had a growing affection for the bird eversince. The rock seemed to love the nest and toclaim it as its own. I said, what a lesson in architectureis here! Here is a house that was built, butwith such loving care and such beautiful adaptationof the means to the end, that it looks like a productof nature. The same wise economy is noticeable inthe nests of all birds. No bird would paint itshouse white or red, or add aught for show.

At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part ofthe woods, I come suddenly upon a brood of screech-owls,full grown, sitting together upon a dry, moss-drapedlimb, but a few feet from the ground. Ipause within four or five yards of them and am lookingabout me, when my eye alights upon these gray,motionless figures. They sit perfectly upright, some[64]with their backs and some with their breasts towardme, but every head turned squarely in my direction.Their eyes are closed to a mere black line; throughthis crack they are watching me, evidently thinkingthemselves unobserved. The spectacle is weird andgrotesque, and suggests something impish and uncanny.It is a new effect, the night side of thewoods by daylight. After observing them a momentI take a single step toward them, when, quick asthought, their eyes fly wide open, their attitude ischanged, they bend, some this way, some that, and,instinct with life and motion, stare wildly aroundthem. Another step, and they all take flight butone, which stoops low on the branch, and with thelook of a frightened cat regards me for a few secondsover its shoulder. They fly swiftly and softly, anddisperse through the trees. I shoot one, which is ofa tawny red tint, like that figured by Wilson, whomistook a young bird for an old one. The old birdsare a beautiful ashen-gray mottled with black. Inthe present instance, they were sitting on the branchwith the young.

Coming to a drier and less mossy place in thewoods, I am amused with the golden-crowned thrush,—which,however, is no thrush at all, but a warbler,theSciurus aurocapillus. He walks on the groundahead of me with such an easy gliding motion, andwith such an unconscious, preoccupied air, jerking hishead like a hen or a partridge, now hurrying, nowslackening his pace, that I pause to observe him. If[65]I sit down, he pauses to observe me, and extends hispretty rumblings on all sides, apparently very muchengrossed with his own affairs, but never losing sightof me. But few of the birds are walkers, most beinghoppers, like the robin.

Satisfied that I have no hostile intentions, thepretty pedestrian mounts a limb a few feet from theground, and gives me the benefit of one of his musicalperformances, a sort of accelerating chant. Commencingin a very low key, which makes him seemat a very uncertain distance, he grows louder andlouder, till his body quakes and his chant runs into ashriek, ringing in my ear with a peculiar sharpness.This lay may be represented thus: “Teacherteacher,TEACHER,TEACHER,TEACHER!”—the accenton the first syllable and each word uttered withincreased force and shrillness. No writer with whomI am acquainted gives him credit for more musicalability than is displayed in this strain. Yet in thisthe half is not told. He has a far rarer song, whichhe reserves for some nymph whom he meets in theair. Mounting by easy flights to the top of the tallesttree, he launches into the air with a sort of suspended,hovering flight, like certain of the finches,and bursts into a perfect ecstasy of song,—clear,ringing, copious, rivaling the goldfinch’s in vivacity,and the linnet’s in melody. This strain is one of therarest bits of bird-melody to be heard, and is oftenestindulged in late in the afternoon or after sundown.Over the woods, hid from view, the ecstatic singer[66]warbles his finest strain. In this song you instantlydetect his relationship to the water-wagtail (Sciurusnoveboracensis)—erroneously called water-thrush,—whosesong is likewise a sudden burst, full and ringing,and with a tone of youthful joyousness in it, asif the bird had just had some unexpected good fortune.For nearly two years this strain of the prettywalker was little more than a disembodied voice tome, and I was puzzled by it as Thoreau by his mysteriousnight-warbler, which, by the way, I suspectwas no new bird at all, but one he was otherwisefamiliar with. The little bird himself seems disposedto keep the matter a secret, and improves every opportunityto repeat before you his shrill, acceleratinglay, as if this were quite enough and all he laidclaim to. Still, I trust I am betraying no confidencein making the matter public here. I think this ispreëminently his love-song, as I hear it oftenestabout the mating season. I have caught half-suppressedbursts of it from two males chasing eachother with fearful speed through the forest.

Turning to the left from the old road, I wanderover soft logs and gray yieldingdébris, across thelittle trout brook, until I emerge in the overgrown“Barkpeeling,”—pausing now and then on the wayto admire a small, solitary white flower which risesabove the moss, with radical, heart-shaped leaves, anda blossom precisely like the liverwort except in color,but which is not put down in my botany,—or to observethe ferns, of which I count six varieties, somegigantic ones nearly shoulder-high.[67]

At the foot of a rough, scraggy yellow birch, on abank of club-moss, so richly inlaid with partridge-berryand curious shining leaves,—with here andthere in the bordering a spire of the false wintergreen(Pyrola rotundifolia) strung with faint pink flowersand exhaling the breath of a May orchard,—that itlooks too costly a couch for such an idler, I recline tonote what transpires. The sun is just past the meridian,and the afternoon chorus is not yet in fulltune. Most birds sing with the greatest spirit andvivacity in the forenoon, though there are occasionalbursts later in the day, in which nearly all voicesjoin; while it is not till the twilight that the fullpower and solemnity of the thrush’s hymn is felt.

My attention is soon arrested by a pair of humming-birds,the ruby-throated, disporting themselvesin a low bush a few yards from me. The femaletakes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks exultinglyas the male, circling above, dives down as if todislodge her. Seeing me, he drops like a feather ona slender twig, and in a moment both are gone.Then, as if by a preconcerted signal, the throats areall atune. I lie on my back with eyes half-closed,and analyze the chorus of warblers, thrushes, finches,and fly-catchers; while, soaring above all, a littlewithdrawn and alone, rises the divine soprano of thehermit. That richly modulated warble proceedingfrom the top of yonder birch, and which unpracticedears would mistake for the voice of the scarlet tanager,comes from that rare visitant, the rose-breasted gross[68]beak.It is a strong, vivacious strain, a bright noon-daysong, full of health and assurance, indicating finetalents in the performer, but not genius. As I comeup under the tree he casts his eye down at me, butcontinues his song. This bird is said to be quite commonin the Northwest, but he is rare in the Easterndistricts. His beak is disproportionately large andheavy, like a huge nose, which slightly mars his goodlooks; but Nature has made it up to him in a blushrose upon his breast, and the most delicate of pinklinings to the under side of his wings. His back isvariegated black and white, and when flying low thewhite shows conspicuously. If he passed over yourhead, you would note the delicate flush under hiswings.

That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hemlock,glowing like a live coal against the dark background,seeming almost too brilliant for the severe northernclimate, is his relative, the scarlet tanager. I occasionallymeet him in the deep hemlocks, and knowno stronger contrast in nature. I almost fear he willkindle the dry limb on which he alights. He is quitea solitary bird, and in this section seems to prefer thehigh, remote woods, even going quite to the mountain’stop. Indeed, the event of my last visit to themountain was meeting one of these brilliant creaturesnear the summit, in full song. The breeze carriedthe notes far and wide. He seemed to enjoy the elevation,and I imagined his song had more scope andfreedom than usual. When he had flown far down[69]the mountain-side, the breeze still brought me hisfinest notes. In plumage he is the most brilliant birdwe have. The bluebird is not entirely blue; nor willthe indigo-bird bear a close inspection, nor the goldfinch,nor the summer redbird. But the tanager losesnothing by a near view; the deep scarlet of his bodyand the black of his wings and tail are quite perfect.This is his holiday suit; in the fall he becomes a dullyellowish-green,—the color of the female the wholeseason.

One of the leading songsters in this choir of theold Barkpeeling is the purple finch or linnet. Hesits somewhat apart, usually on a dead hemlock, andwarbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finestsongsters, and stands at the head of the finches, asthe hermit at the head of the thrushes. His songapproaches an ecstasy, and, with the exception of thewinter-wren’s, is the most rapid and copious strain tobe heard in these woods. It is quite destitute of thetrills and the liquid, silvery, bubbling notes that characterizethe wren’s; but there runs through it around, richly modulated whistle, very sweet and verypleasing. The call of the robin is brought in at acertain point with marked effect, and, throughout,the variety is so great and the strain so rapid thatthe impression is as of two or three birds singing atthe same time. He is not common here, and I onlyfind him in these or similar woods. His color is peculiar,and looks as if it might have been impartedby dipping a brown bird in diluted pokeberry juice.[70]Two or three more dippings would have made thepurple complete. The female is the color of thesong-sparrow, a little larger, with heavier beak, andtail much more forked.

In a little opening quite free from brush and trees,I step down to bathe my hands in the brook, when asmall, light slate-colored bird flutters out of the bank,not three feet from my head, as I stoop down, and,as if severely lamed or injured, flutters through thegrass and into the nearest bush. As I do not follow,but remain near the nest, shechips sharply, whichbrings the male, and I see it is the speckled Canadawarbler. I find no authority in the books for thisbird to build upon the ground, yet here is the nest,made chiefly of dry grass, set in a slight excavationin the bank, not two feet from the water, and lookinga little perilous to anything but ducklings or sandpipers.There are two young birds and one littlespeckled egg, just pipped. But how is this? whatmystery is here? One nestling is much larger thanthe other, monopolizes most of the nest, and lifts itsopen mouth far above that of its companion, thoughobviously both are of the same age, not more than aday old. Ah! I see; the old trick of the cow-bunting,with a stinging human significance. Taking theinterloper by the nape of the neck, I deliberatelydrop it into the water, but not without a pang, as Isee its naked form, convulsed with chills, float downstream. Cruel? So is Nature cruel. I take onelife to save two. In less than two days this pot-[71]belliedintruder would have caused the death of thetwo rightful occupants of the nest; so I step in andturn things into their proper channel again.

It is a singular freak of Nature, this instinct whichprompts one bird to lay its eggs in the nests of others,and thus shirk the responsibility of rearing its ownyoung. The cow-buntings always resort to this cunningtrick; and when one reflects upon their numbersit is evident that these little tragedies are quite frequent.In Europe the parallel case is that of thecuckoo, and occasionally our own cuckoo imposesupon a robin or a thrush in the same manner. Thecow-bunting seems to have no conscience about thematter, and, so far as I have observed, invariablyselects the nest of a bird smaller than itself. Its eggis usually the first to hatch; its young overreaches allthe rest when food is brought; it grows with greatrapidity, spreads and fills the nest, and the starvedand crowded occupants soon perish, when the parentbird removes their dead bodies, giving its wholeenergy and care to the foster-child.

The warblers and smaller fly-catchers are generallythe sufferers, though I sometimes see the slate-coloredsnow-bird unconsciously duped in like manner;and the other day, in a tall tree in the woods, Idiscovered the black-throated green-backed warblerdevoting itself to this dusky, overgrown foundling.An old farmer to whom I pointed out the fact wasmuch surprised that such things should happen in hiswoods without his knowledge.[72]

These birds may be seen prowling through allparts of the woods at this season, watching for anopportunity to steal their egg into some nest. Oneday while sitting on a log I saw one moving byshort flights through the trees and gradually nearingthe ground. Its movements were hurried andstealthy. About fifty yards from me it disappearedbehind some low brush and had evidently alightedupon the ground.

After waiting a few moments I cautiously walkedin the direction. When about half-way I accidentallymade a slight noise, when the bird flew up, and seeingme hurried off out of the woods. Arrived at theplace, I found a simple nest of dry grass and leavespartially concealed under a prostrate branch. I tookit to be the nest of a sparrow. There were threeeggs in the nest and one lying about a foot below itas if it had been rolled out, as of course it had. Itsuggested the thought that perhaps when the cow-birdfinds the full complement of eggs in a nest, itthrows out one and deposits its own instead. I re-visitedthe nest a few days afterward and found anegg again cast out, but none had been put in its place.The nest had been abandoned by its owner and theeggs were stale.

In all cases where I have found this egg, I haveobserved both male and female of the cow-bird lingeringnear, the former uttering his peculiar liquid, glassynote from the tops of the trees.

In July the young, which have been reared in the[73]same neighborhood, and which are now of a dull fawncolor, begin to collect in small flocks, which grow tobe quite large in autumn.

The speckled Canada is a very superior warbler,having a lively, animated strain, reminding you ofcertain parts of the canary’s though quite broken andincomplete; the bird, the while hopping amid thebranches with increased liveliness, and indulging infine sibilant chirps, too happy to keep silent.

His manners are quite marked. He has a habit ofcourtesying when he discovers you, which is verypretty. In form he is an elegant bird, somewhatslender, his back of a bluish lead-color becomingnearly black on his crown; the under part of hisbody, from his throat down, is of a light, delicate yellow,with a belt of black dots across his breast. Hehas a fine eye, surrounded by a light-yellow ring.

The parent birds are much disturbed by my presence,and keep up a loud emphatic chirping, whichattracts the attention of their sympathetic neighbors,and one after another they come to see what has happened.The chestnut-sided and the Blackburniancome in company. The black and yellow warblerpauses a moment and hastens away; the Marylandyellow-throat peeps shyly from the lower bushes andutters his “Fip! fip!” in sympathy; the wood-peweecomes straight to the tree overhead, and thered-eyed vireo lingers and lingers, eying me with acurious, innocent look, evidently much puzzled. Butall disappear again, one by one, apparently without a[74]word of condolence or encouragement to the distressedpair. I have often noticed among birds thisshow of sympathy,—if indeed it be sympathy, andnot merely curiosity, or desire to be forewarned ofthe approach of a common danger.

An hour afterward I approach the place, find allstill, and the mother-bird upon the nest. As I drawnear she seems to sit closer, her eyes growing largewith an inexpressibly wild, beautiful look. Shekeeps her place till I am within two paces of her,when she flutters away as at first. In the brief intervalthe remaining egg has hatched, and the twolittle nestlings lift their heads without being jostledor overreached by any strange bedfellow. A weekafterward and they were flown away,—so brief isthe infancy of birds. And the wonder is that theyescape, even for this short time, the skunks andminks and muskrats that abound here, and that havea decided partiality for such tidbits.

I pass on through the old Barkpeeling, nowthreading an obscure cow-path or an overgrownwood-road; now clambering over soft and decayedlogs, or forcing my way through a net-work of briersand hazels; now entering a perfect bower of wild cherry,beech, and soft-maple; now emerging into alittle grassy lane, golden with buttercups or whitewith daisies, or wading waist-deep in the red raspberry-bushes.

Whir! whir! whir! and a brood of half-grownpartridges start up like an explosion, a few paces[75]from me, and, scattering, disappear in the bushes onall sides. Let me sit down here behind the screenof ferns and briers, and hear this wild-hen of thewoods call together her brood. At what an earlyage the partridge flies! Nature seems to concentrateher energies on the wing, making the safety ofthe bird a point to be looked after first; and whilethe body is covered with down, and no signs of feathersare visible, the wing-quills sprout and unfold, andin an incredibly short time the young make fair headwayin flying.

The same rapid development of wing may be observedin chickens and turkeys, but not in water-fowls,nor in birds that are safely housed in the nesttill full-fledged. The other day, by a brook, I camesuddenly upon a young sandpiper, a most beautifulcreature, enveloped in a soft gray down, swift andnimble and apparently a week or two old, but withno signs of plumage either of body or wing. Andit needed none, for it escaped me by taking to thewater as readily as if it had flown with wings.

Hark! there arises over there in the brush a soft,persuasive cooing, a sound so subtle and wild and unobtrusivethat it requires the most alert and watchfulear to hear it. How gentle and solicitous and full ofyearning love! It is the voice of the mother hen.Presently a faint timid “Yeap!” which almosteludes the ear, is heard in various directions,—theyoung responding. As no danger seems near, thecooing of the parent bird is soon a very audible[76]clucking call, and the young move cautiously in thedirection. Let me step never so carefully from myhiding-place, and all sounds instantly cease, and Isearch in vain for either parent or young.

The partridge (Bonasa umbellus) is one of ourmost native and characteristic birds. The woodsseem good to be in where I find him. He gives ahabitable air to the forest, and one feels as if therightful occupant was really at home. The woodswhere I do not find him seem to want something, asif suffering from some neglect of Nature. And thenhe is such a splendid success, so hardy and vigorous.I think he enjoys the cold and the snow. His wingsseem to rustle with more fervency in midwinter. Ifthe snow falls very fast, and promises a heavy storm,he will complacently sit down and allow himself tobe snowed under. Approaching him at such times,he suddenly bursts out of the snow at your feet, scatteringthe flakes in all directions, and goes hummingaway through the woods like a bomb-shell,—a pictureof native spirit and success.

His drum is one of the most welcome and beautifulsounds of spring. Scarcely have the trees expandedtheir buds, when, in the still April mornings,or toward nightfall, you hear the hum of hisdevoted wings. He selects not, as you would predict,a dry and resinous log, but a decayed andcrumbling one, seeming to give the preference to oldoak-logs that are partially blended with the soil. Ifa log to his taste cannot be found he sets up his altar[77]on a rock, which becomes resonant beneath his ferventblows. Who has seen the partridge drum? Itis the next thing to catching a weasel asleep, thoughby much caution and tact it may be done. He doesnot hug the log, but stands very erect, expands hisruff, gives two introductory blows, pauses half a second,and then resumes, striking faster and faster tillthe sound becomes a continuous, unbroken whir, thewhole lasting less than half a minute. The tips ofhis wings barely brush the log, so that the sound isproduced rather by the force of the blows upon theair and upon his own body as in flying. One logwill be used for many years, though not by the samedrummer. It seems to be a sort of temple and heldin great respect. The bird always approaches onfoot, and leaves it in the same quiet manner, unlessrudely disturbed. He is very cunning, though hiswit is not profound. It is difficult to approach himby stealth; you will try many times before succeeding;but seem to pass by him in a great hurry, makingall the noise possible, and with plumage furledhe stands as immovable as a knot, allowing you agood view and a good shot, if you are a sportsman.

Passing along one of the old Barkpeelers’ roadswhich wander aimlessly about, I am attracted by asingularly brilliant and emphatic warble, proceedingfrom the low bushes, and quickly suggesting the voiceof the Maryland yellow-throat. Presently the singerhops up on a dry twig, and gives me a good view.Lead-colored head and neck, becoming nearly blackon the breast; clear olive-green back, and yellow[78]belly. From his habit of keeping near the ground,even hopping upon it occasionally, I know him to bea ground warbler; from his dark breast the ornithologisthas added the expletive mourning, hence themourning ground warbler.

Of this bird both Wilson and Audubon confessedtheir comparative ignorance, neither ever having seenits nest or become acquainted with its haunts andgeneral habits. Its song is quite striking and novel,though its voice at once suggests the class of warblersto which it belongs. It is very shy and wary, flyingbut a few feet at a time, and studiously concealingitself from your view. I discover but one pair here.The female has food in her beak, but carefully avoidsbetraying the locality of her nest. The ground warblersall have one notable feature,—very beautifullegs, as white and delicate as if they had always wornsilk stockings and satin slippers. High tree warblershave dark-brown or black legs and more brilliantplumage, but less musical ability.

The chestnut-sided belongs to the latter class. Heis quite common in these woods, as in all the woodsabout. He is one of the rarest and handsomest of thewarblers; his white breast and throat, chestnut sides,and yellow crown show conspicuously. But little isknown of his habits or haunts. Last year I foundthe nest of one in an uplying beech-wood, in a lowbush near the roadside, where cows passed andbrowsed daily. Things went on smoothly till thecow-bunting stole her egg into it, when other mishapsfollowed, and the nest was soon empty. A character[79]isticattitude of the male during this season is a slightdrooping of the wings, and tail a little elevated, whichgives him a very smart, bantam-like appearance. Hissong is fine and hurried, and not much of itself, buthas its place in the general chorus.

A far sweeter strain, falling on the ear with thetrue sylvan cadence, is that of the black-throatedgreen-backed warbler, whom I meet at various points.He has no superiors among the trueSylvia. Hissong is very plain and simple, but remarkably pureand tender, and might be indicated by straight lines,thus,—— ——V¯¯¯¯; the first two marks representingtwo sweet, silvery notes, in the same pitch ofvoice, and quite unaccented; the latter marks, theconcluding notes, wherein the tone and inflection arechanged. The throat and breast of the male are arich black like velvet, his face yellow, and his back ayellowish-green.

Beyond the Barkpeeling, where the woods aremingled hemlock, beech, and birch, the languid midsummernote of the black-throated blue-back falls onmy ear. “Twea, twea, twea-e-e!” in the upwardslide, and with the peculiarz-ing of summer insects,but not destitute of a certain plaintive cadence. Itis one of the most languid, unhurried sounds in allthe woods. I feel like reclining upon the dry leavesat once. Audubon says he has never heard his love-song;but this is all the love-song he has, and he isevidently a very plain hero with his little brown mistress.He assumes few attitudes, and is not a boldand striking gymnast, like many of his kindred. He[80]has a preference for dense woods of beech and maple,moves slowly amid the lower branches and smallergrowths, keeping from eight to ten feet from theground, and repeating now and then his listless, indolentstrain. His back and crown are dark blue; histhroat and breast, black; his belly, pure white; andhe has a white spot on each wing.

Here and there I meet the black and white creeping warbler,whose fine strain reminds me of hair-wire.It is unquestionably the finest bird-song to beheard. Few insect strains will compare with it inthis respect; while it has none of the harsh, brassycharacter of the latter, being very delicate and tender.

That sharp, uninterrupted, but still continued warble,which, before one has learned to discriminateclosely, he is apt to confound with the red-eyed vireo’s,is that of the solitary warbling vireo,—a bird slightlylarger, much rarer, and with a louder, less cheerfuland happy strain. I see him hopping along lengthwiseof the limbs, and note the orange tinge of hisbreast and sides and the white circle around his eye.

But the declining sun and the deepening shadowsadmonish me that this ramble must be brought to aclose, even though only the leading characters in thischorus of forty songsters have been described, andonly a small portion of the venerable old woods explored.In a secluded swampy corner of the oldBarkpeeling, where I find the great purple orchis inbloom, and where the foot of man or beast seemsnever to have trod, I linger long, contemplating thewonderful display of lichens and mosses that overrun[81]both the smaller and the larger growths. Everybush and branch and sprig is dressed up in the mostrich and fantastic of liveries; and, crowning all, thelong bearded moss festoons the branches or swaysgracefully from the limbs. Every twig looks a centuryold, though green leaves tip the end of it. Ayoung yellow birch has a venerable, patriarchal look,and seems ill at ease under such premature honors.A decayed hemlock is draped as if by hands for somesolemn festival.

Mounting toward the upland again, I pause reverentlyas the hush and stillness of twilight come uponthe woods. It is the sweetest, ripest hour of the day.And as the hermit’s evening hymn goes up from thedeep solitude below me, I experience that serene exaltationof sentiment of which music, literature, andreligion are but the faint types and symbols.

Maryland Yellow-throat.

[85]

Golden-crowned Thrush.

ADIRONDAC.

When I went to the Adirondacs, which was inthe summer of 1863, I was in the first flush of myornithological studies, and was curious, above all else,to know what birds I should find in these solitudes—whatnew ones, and what ones already known tome.

In visiting vast, primitive, far-off woods one naturallyexpects to find something rare and precious, orsomething entirely new, but it commonly happensthat one is disappointed. Thoreau made three excursionsinto the Maine woods, and though he startedthe moose and caribou, had nothing more novel toreport by way of bird notes, than the songs of thewood-thrush and the pewee. This was about myown experience in the Adirondacs. The birds forthe most part prefer the vicinity of settlements and[86]clearings, and it was at such places that I saw thegreatest number and variety.

At the clearing of an old hunter and pioneer bythe name of Hewett, where we paused a couple ofdays on first entering the woods, I saw many oldfriends and made some new acquaintances. Thesnow-bird was very abundant here, as it had been atvarious points along the route, after leaving LakeGeorge. As I went out to the spring in the morningto wash myself a purple finch flew up before me,having already performed its ablutions. I had firstobserved this bird the winter before in the Highlandsof the Hudson, where, during several clear but coldFebruary mornings, a troop of them sang most charminglyin a tree in front of my house. The meetingwith the bird here in its breeding haunts was a pleasantsurprise. During the day I observed severalpine finches—a dark-brown or brindlish bird, alliedto the common yellow-bird, which it much resemblesin its manner and habits. They lingered familiarlyabout the house, sometimes alighting in a small treewithin a few feet of it. In one of the stumpy fields Isaw an old favorite in the grass-finch or vesper-sparrow.It was sitting on a tall charred stub with foodin its beak. But all along the borders of the woodsand in the bushy parts of the fields there was a newsong that I was puzzled in tracing to the author. Itwas most noticeable in the morning and at twilight,but was at all times singularly secret and elusive.I at last discovered that it was the white-throated[87]sparrow, a common bird all through this region. Itssong is very delicate and plaintive—a thin, wavering,tremulous whistle, which disappoints one, however,as it ends when it seems only to have begun.If the bird could give us the finishing strain of whichthis seems only the prelude, it would stand first amongfeathered songsters.

By a little trout brook in a low part of the woodsadjoining the clearing, I had a good time pursuingand identifying a number of warblers—the speckledCanada, the black-throated blue, the yellow-rumped,and Audubon’s warbler. The latter, which was leadingits troop of young through a thick undergrowthon the banks of the creek where insects were plenty,was new to me.

It being August, the birds were all moulting andsang only fitfully and by brief snatches. I rememberhearing but one robin during the whole trip. Thiswas by the Boreas River in the deep forest. It waslike the voice of an old friend speaking my name.

From Hewett’s, after engaging his youngest son,—the“Bub” of the family,—a young man abouttwenty and a thorough woodsman, as guide, we tookto the woods in good earnest, our destination beingthe Stillwater of the Boreas—a long deep darkreach in one of the remote branches of the Hudson,about six miles distant. Here we paused a couple ofdays, putting up in a dilapidated lumberman’s shanty,and cooking our fish over an old stove which had[88]been left there. The most noteworthy incident ofour stay at this point was the taking by myself ofhalf a dozen splendid trout out of the Stillwater, afterthe guide had exhausted his art and his patience withvery insignificant results. The place had a verytrouty look, but as the season was late and the riverwarm, I know the fish lay in deep water from whichthey could not be attracted. In deep water accordingly,and near the head of the hole, I determined tolook for them. Securing a chub I cut it into piecesabout an inch long and with these for bait sank myhook into the head of the Stillwater and just to oneside of the main current. In less than twenty minutesI had landed six noble fellows, three of themover one foot long each. The guide and my incredulouscompanions, who were watching me from theopposite shore, seeing my luck, whipped out theirtackle in great haste and began casting first at a respectabledistance from me, then all about me, butwithout a single catch. My own efforts suddenlybecame fruitless also, but I had conquered the guideand thenceforth he treated me with the tone and freedomof a comrade and equal.

One afternoon we visited a cave some two milesdown the stream which had recently been discovered.We squeezed and wriggled through a big crack orcleft in the side of the mountain, for about one hundredfeet, when we emerged into a large dome-shapedpassage, the abode, during certain seasons of the year,of innumerable bats, and at all times of primevaldarkness. There were various other crannies and[89]pit-holes opening into it, some of which we explored.The voice of running water was everywhere heard,betraying the proximity of the little stream by whoseceaseless corroding the cave and its entrance had beenworn. This streamlet flowed out of the mouth of thecave and came from a lake on the top of the mountain;this accounted for its warmth to the hand whichsurprised us all.

Birds of any kind were rare in these woods. Apigeon-hawk came prowling by our camp, and thefaint piping call of the nut-hatches, leading theiryoung through the high trees was often heard.

On the third day our guide proposed to conduct usto a lake in the mountains where we could float fordeer.

Our journey commenced in a steep and rugged ascent,which brought us after an hour’s heavy climbing,to an elevated region of pine forest, years beforeravished by lumbermen, and presenting all mannerof obstacles to our awkward and encumbered pedestrianism.The woods were largely pine, thoughyellow birch, beech, and maple were common. Thesatisfaction of having a gun, should any game showitself, was the chief compensation to those of us whowere thus burdened. A partridge would occasionallywhir up before us, or a red squirrel snicker and hastento his den; else the woods appeared quite tenantless.The most noted object was a mammoth pine, apparentlythe last of a great race, which presided over acluster of yellow birches, on the side of the mountain.[90]

About noon we came out upon a long shallow sheetof water which the guide called Bloody-Moose Pond,from the tradition that a moose had been slaughteredthere many years before. Looking out over the silentand lonely scene, his eye was the first to detectan object apparently feeding upon lily-pads, whichour willing fancies readily shaped into a deer. As wewere eagerly waiting some movement to confirm thisimpression, it lifted up its head, and lo! a great blueheron. Seeing us approach, it spread its long wingsand flew solemnly across to a dead tree on the otherside of the lake, enhancing, rather than relieving theloneliness and desolation that brooded over the scene.As we proceeded it flew from tree to tree in advanceof us, apparently loath to be disturbed in itsancient and solitary domain. In the margin of thepond we found the pitcher-plant growing, and hereand there in the sand the closed gentian lifted up itsblue head.

In traversing the shores of this wild, desolate lake,I was conscious of a slight thrill of expectation, as ifsome secret of Nature might here be revealed, orsome rare and unheard-of game disturbed. There isever a lurking suspicion that the beginning of thingsis in some way associated with water, and one maynotice that in his private walks he is led by a curiousattraction to fetch all the springs and ponds in hisroute, as if by them was the place for wonders andmiracles to happen. Once, while in advance of mycompanions, I saw, from a high rock, a commotion in[91]the water near the shore, but on reaching the pointfound only the marks of a musquash.

Pressing on through the forest, after many adventureswith the pine-knots, we reached, about the middleof the afternoon, our destination, Nate’s Pond,—apretty sheet of water, lying like a silver mirror inthe lap of the mountain, about a mile long and half amile wide, surrounded by dark forests of balsam,hemlock, and pine, and, like the one we had justpassed, a very picture of unbroken solitude.

It is not in the woods alone to give one this impressionof utter loneliness. In the woods aresounds and voices, and a dumb kind of companionship;one is little more than a walking tree himself;but come upon one of these mountain-lakes, and thewildness stands relieved and meets you face to face.Water is thus facile and adaptive, that it makes the wildmore wild, while it enhances more culture and art.

The end of the pond which we approached wasquite shoal, the stones rising above the surface as in asummer-brook, and everywhere showing marks of thenoble game we were in quest of—foot-prints, dung,and cropped and uprooted lily-pads. After restingfor a half-hour, and replenishing our game-pouchesat the expense of the most respectable frogs of thelocality, we filed on through the soft, resinous pine-woods,intending to camp near the other end of thelake, where, the guide assured us, we should find ahunter’s cabin ready built. A half-hour’s marchbrought us to the locality, and a most delightful one[92]it was,—so hospitable and inviting that all thekindly and beneficent influences of the woods musthave abided there. In a slight depression in thewoods, about one hundred yards from the lake, thoughhidden from it for a hunter’s reasons, surrounded bya heavy growth of birch, hemlock, and pine, with alining of balsam and fir, the rude cabin welcomed us.It was of the approved style, three sides inclosed,with a roof of bark and a bed of boughs, and a rockin front that afforded a permanent back-log to allfires. A faint voice of running water was heardnear by, and, following the sound, a delicious spring-rivuletwas disclosed, hidden by the moss anddébrisas by a new fall of snow, but here and there risingin little well-like openings, as if for our special convenience.On smooth places on the logs I noticedfemale names inscribed in a female hand; and theguide told us of an English lady, an artist, who hadtraversed this region with a single guide, makingsketches.

Our packs unslung and the kettle over, our firstmove was to ascertain in what state of preservation acertain dug-out might be, which, the guide averred,he had left moored in the vicinity the summer before,—forupon this hypothetical dug-out our hopes ofvenison rested. After a little searching it was foundunder the top of a fallen hemlock, but in a sorry condition.A large piece had been split out of one end,and a fearful chink was visible nearly to the water-line.Freed from the tree top, however, and calked[93]with a little moss, it floated with two aboard, whichwas quite enough for our purpose. A jack and anoar were necessary to complete the arrangement, andbefore the sun had set our professor of wood-crafthad both in readiness. From a young yellow birch,an oar took shape with marvelous rapidity—trimmedand smoothed with a neatness almost fastidious,—nomake-shift, but an instrument fitted for the delicatework it was to perform.

A jack was made with equal skill and speed. Astout staff about three feet long was placed uprightin the bow of the boat, and held to its place by ahorizontal bar, through a hole in which it turnedeasily: a half wheel eight or ten inches in diameter,cut from a large chip, was placed at the top, aroundwhich was bent a new section of birch bark, thusforming a rude semicircular reflector. Three candlesplaced within the circle completed the jack. Withmoss and boughs seats were arranged—one in thebow for the marksman, and one in the stern for theoarsman. A meal of frogs and squirrels was a goodpreparation, and when darkness came, all were keenlyalive to the opportunity it brought. Though by nomeans an expert in the use of the gun,—adding thesuperlative degree of enthusiasm to only the positivedegree of skill,—yet it seemed tacitly agreed that Ishould act as marksman, and kill the deer, if suchwas to be our luck.

After it was thoroughly dark we went down tomake a short trial-trip. Everything working to sat[94]isfaction,about ten o’clock we pushed out in earnest.For the twentieth time I felt in the pocket that containedthe matches, ran over the part I was to perform,and pressed my gun firmly, to be sure therewas no mistake. My position was that of kneelingdirectly under the jack, which I was to light at theword. The night was clear, moonless, and still.Nearing the middle of the lake, a breeze from thewest was barely perceptible, and noiselessly we glidedbefore it. The guide handled his oar with great dexterity;without lifting it from the water or breakingthe surface, he imparted the steady, uniform motiondesired. How silent it was! The ear seemed theonly sense, and to hold dominion over lake and forest.Occasionally a lily-pad would brush along thebottom, and stooping low I could hear a faint murmuringof the water under the bow: else all wasstill. Then, almost as by magic, we were encompassedby a huge black ring. The surface of thelake, when we had reached the centre, was slightlyluminous from the starlight, and the dark, even forest-linethat surrounded us, doubled by reflection inthe water, presenting a broad, unbroken belt of utterblackness. The effect was quite startling, like somehuge conjuror’s trick. It seemed as if we had crossedthe boundary-line between the real and the imaginary,and this was indeed the land of shadows and ofspectres. What magic oar was that the guide wieldedthat it could transport me to such a realm! Indeed,had I not committed some fatal mistake and left that[95]trusty servant behind, and had not some wizard ofthe night stepped into his place? A slight splashingin-shore broke the spell and caused me to turn nervouslyto the oarsman: “Musquash,” said he, and keptstraight on.

Nearing the extreme end of the pond, the boatgently headed around, and silently we glided backinto the clasp of that strange orbit. Slight soundswere heard as before, but nothing that indicated thepresence of the game we were waiting for; and wereached the point of departure as innocent of venisonas we had set out.

After an hour’s delay, and near midnight, wepushed out again. My vigilance and susceptibilitywere rather sharpened than dulled by the waiting;and the features of the night had also deepened andintensified. Night was at its meridian. The skyhad that soft luminousness which may often be observednear midnight at this season, and the “largefew stars” beamed mildly down. We floated outinto that spectral shadow-land and moved slowly onas before. The silence was most impressive. Nowand then the faintyeap of some traveling bird wouldcome from the air overhead, or the wings of a batwhisp quickly by, or an owl hoot off in the mountains,giving to the silence and loneliness a tongue.At short intervals some noise in-shore would startleme, and cause me to turn inquiringly to the silentfigure in the stern.

The end of the lake was reached, and we turned[96]back. The novelty and the excitement began toflag; tired nature began to assert her claims; themovement was soothing, and the gunner slumberedfitfully at his post. Presently something arousedme. “There’s a deer,” whispered the guide. Thegun heard, and fairly jumped in my hand. Listening,there came the cracking of a limb, followed by asound as of something walking in shallow water. Itproceeded from the other end of the lake, overagainst our camp. On we sped, noiselessly as ever,but with increased velocity. Presently, with a thrillof new intensity, I saw the boat was gradually headingin that direction. Now, to a sportsman who getsexcited over a gray squirrel, and forgets that he hasa gun on the sudden appearance of a fox, this was asevere trial. I felt suddenly cramped for room, andtrimming the boat was out of the question. Itseemed that I must make some noise in spite of myself.“Light the jack,” said a soft whisper behindme. I fumbled nervously for a match, and droppedthe first one. Another was drawn briskly across myknee, and broke. A third lighted, but went out prematurely,in my haste to get it up to the jack. Whatwould I not have given to see those wicks blaze!We were fast nearing the shore,—already the lily-padsbegan to brush along the bottom. Another attempt,and the light took. The gentle motion fannedthe blaze, and in a moment a broad glare of light fellupon the water in front of us, while the boat remainedin utter darkness.[97]

By this time I had got beyond the nervous point,and had come round to perfect coolness and composureagain, but preternaturally vigilant and keen.I was ready for any disclosures; not a sound washeard. In a few moments the trees along-shore werefaintly visible. Every object put on the shape of agigantic deer. A large rock looked just ready tobound away. The dry limbs of a prostrate tree weresurely his antlers.

But what are those two luminous spots? Needthe reader to be told what they were? In a momentthe head of a real deer became outlined; then hisneck and foreshoulders; then his whole body. Therehe stood, up to his knees in the water, gazing fixedlyat us, apparently arrested in the movement of puttinghis head down for a lily-pad, and evidently thinkingit was some new-fangled moon sporting about there.“Let him have it,” said my prompter,—and thecrash came. There was a scuffle in the water, and aplunge in the woods. “He’s gone,” said I. “Waita moment,” said the guide, “and I will show you.”Rapidly running the canoe ashore, we sprang out,and holding the jack aloft, explored the vicinity byits light. There, over the logs and brush, I caughtthe glimmer of those luminous spots again. But,poor thing! There was little need of the second shot,which was the unkindest cut of all, for the deer hadalready fallen to the ground, and was fast expiring.The success was but a very indifferent one, after all,as the victim turned out to be only an old doe, upon[98]whom maternal cares had evidently worn heavilyduring the summer.

This mode of taking deer is very novel and strange.The animal is evidently fascinated or bewildered. Itdoes not appear to be frightened, but as if overwhelmedwith amazement, or under the influence ofsome spell. It is not sufficiently master of the situationto be sensible to fear, or to think of escape byflight; and the experiment, to be successful, must bedone quickly, before the first feeling of bewildermentpasses.

Witnessing the spectacle from the shore, I can conceiveof nothing more sudden or astounding. Yousee no movement and hear no noise, but the lightgrows upon you, and stares and stares like a hugeeye from the infernal regions.

According to the guide, when a deer has beenplayed upon in this manner and escaped, he is not tobe fooled a second time. Mounting the shore, hegives a long signal snort, which alarms every animalwithin hearing, and dashes away.

The sequel to the deer-shooting was a little sharppractice with a revolver upon a rabbit, or properly ahare, which was so taken with the spectacle of thecamp-fire, and the sleeping figures lying about, that itventured quite up in our midst; but while testing thequality of some condensed milk that sat uncovered atthe foot of a large tree, poor Lepus had his spine injuredby a bullet.[99]

Those who lodge with Nature find early risingquite in order. It is our voluptuous beds, and isolationfrom the earth and the air, that prevents us fromemulating the birds and beasts in this respect. Withthe citizen in his chamber, it is not morning, butbreakfast-time. The camper-out, however, feels morningin the air, he smells it, sees it, hears it, and springsup with the general awakening. None were tardy atthe row of white chips arranged on the trunk of aprostrate tree, when breakfast was halloed; for wewere all anxious to try the venison. Few of us, however,took a second piece. It was black and strong.

The day was warm and calm, and we loafed at leisure.The woods were Nature’s own. It was a luxuryto ramble through them,—rank, and shaggy, andvenerable, but with an aspect singularly ripe and mellow.No fire had consumed and no lumberman plundered.Every trunk and limb and leaf lay whereit had fallen. At every step the foot sank into themoss, which, like a soft green snow, covered everything,making every stone a cushion and every rocka bed,—a grand old Norse parlor; adorned beyondart and upholstered beyond skill.

Indulging in a brief nap on a rug of club-moss carelesslydropped at the foot of a pine-tree, I woke up tofind myself the subject of a discussion of a troop ofchickadees. Presently three or four shy wood-warblerscame to look upon this strange creature that hadwandered into their haunts; else I passed quite unnoticed.[100]

By the lake, I met that orchard-beauty, the cedarwax-wing, spending his vacation in the assumed characterof a fly-catcher, whose part he performed withgreat accuracy and deliberation. Only a month beforeI had seen him regaling himself upon cherries inthe garden and orchard, but as the dog-days approached,he set out for the streams and lakes, to diverthimself with the more exciting pursuits of thechase. From the tops of the dead trees along theborder of the lake, he would sally out in all directions,sweeping through long curves, alternately mountingand descending, now reaching up for a fly high in air,now sinking low for one near the surface, and returningto his perch in a few moments for a fresh start.

The pine finch was also here, though, as usual,never appearing at home, but with a waiting, expectantair. Here also I met my beautiful singer, thehermit-thrush, but with no song in his throat now. Aweek or two later and he was on his journey southward.This was the only species of thrush I saw inthe Adirondac. Near Lake Sandford, where werelarge tracts of raspberry and wild cherry, I saw numbersof them. A boy whom we met, driving homesome stray cows, said it was the “partridge-bird,” nodoubt from the resemblance of its note, when disturbed,to the cluck of the partridge.

Nate’s Pond contained perch and sun-fish but notrout. Its water was not pure enough for trout. Wasthere ever any other fish so fastidious as this, requiringsuch sweet harmony and perfection of the ele[101]mentsfor its production and sustenance? On higherground about a mile distant was a trout pond, theshores of which were steep and rocky.

Our next move was a tramp of about twelve milesthrough the wilderness, most of the way in a drenchingrain, to a place called the Lower Iron Works,situated on the road leading in to Long Lake, whichis about a day’s drive farther on. We found a comfortablehotel here, and were glad enough to availourselves of the shelter and warmth which it offered.There was a little settlement and some quite goodfarms. The place commands a fine view to thenorth of Indian Pass, Mount Marcy, and the adjacentmountains. On the afternoon of our arrival and alsothe next morning the view was completely shut offby the fog. But about the middle of the forenoonthe wind changed, the fog lifted and revealed to usthe grandest mountain scenery we had beheld on ourjourney. There they sat about fifteen miles distant,a group of them; Mount Marcy, Mount McIntyre,and Mount Golden, the real Adirondac monarchs.It was an impressive sight, rendered doubly so by thesudden manner in which it was revealed to us by thatscene shifter the Wind.

I saw blackbirds at this place, and sparrows, andthe solitary sandpiper, and the Canada woodpecker,and a large number of humming-birds. Indeed I sawmore of the latter here than I ever before saw in anyone locality. Their squeaking and whirring werealmost incessant.[102]

The Adirondac Iron Works belong to the past.Over thirty years ago a company in Jersey City purchasedsome sixty thousand acres of land lying alongthe Adirondac River and abounding in magnetic ironore. The land was cleared, roads, dams, and forgesconstructed, and the work of manufacturing iron begun.

At this point a dam was built across the Hudson,the waters of which flowed back into Lake Sandford,about five miles above. The lake itself being somesix miles long, tolerable navigation was thus establishedfor a distance of eleven miles, to the UpperWorks, which seem to have been the only works inoperation. At the Lower Works, besides the remainsof the dam, the only vestige I saw was a long lowmound, overgrown with grass and weeds, that suggesteda rude earth-work. We were told that it wasonce a pile of wood containing hundreds of cords, cutin regular lengths and corded up here for use in thefurnaces.

At the Upper Works, some twelve miles distant,quite a village had been built, which was now entirelyabandoned, with the exception of a single family.

A march to this place was our next undertaking.The road for two or three miles kept up from theriver and led us by three or four rough, stumpy farms.It then approached the lake and kept along its shores.It was here a dilapidated corduroy structure thatcompelled the traveler to keep an eye on his feet.Blue jays, two or three small hawks, a solitary wild[103]pigeon, and ruffed grouse were seen along the route.Now and then the lake gleamed through the trees, orwe crossed on a shaky bridge some of its arms or inlets.After a while we began to pass dilapidatedhouses by the roadside. One little frame house Iremember particularly; the door was off the hingesand leaned against the jambs, the windows had but afew panes left which glared vacantly. The yard andlittle garden spot were overrun with a heavy growthof timothy, and the fences had all long since gone todecay. At the head of the lake a large stone buildingprojected from the steep bank and extended overthe road. A little beyond the valley opened to theeast, and looking ahead about one mile we saw smokegoing up from a single chimney. Pressing on, justas the sun was setting we entered the deserted village.The barking of the dog brought the wholefamily into the street, and they stood till we came up.Strangers in that country were a novelty, and wewere greeted like familiar acquaintances.

Hunter, the head, proved to be a first-rate type ofan Americanized Irishman. His wife was a Scotchwoman. They had a family of five or six children,two of them grown-up daughters—modest, comelyyoung women as you would find anywhere. Theelder of the two had spent a winter in New Yorkwith her aunt, which perhaps made her a little moreself-conscious when in the presence of the strangeyoung men. Hunter was hired by the company at adollar a day to live here and see that things were not[104]wantonly destroyed but allowed to go to decay properlyand decently. He had a substantial roomyframe house and any amount of grass and woodland.He had good barns and kept considerable stock, andraised various farm products, but only for his ownuse, as the difficulties of transportation to marketsome seventy miles distant made it no object. Heusually went to Ticonderoga on Lake Champlainonce a year for his groceries, etc. His post-officewas twelve miles below at the Lower Works, wherethe mail passed twice a week. There was not a doctor,or lawyer, or preacher within twenty-five miles.In winter, months elapse without their seeing anybodyfrom the outside world. In summer, parties occasionallypass through here on their way to IndianPass and Mount Marcy. Hundreds of tons of goodtimothy hay annually rot down upon the clearedland.

After nightfall we went out and walked up anddown the grass-grown streets. It was a curious andmelancholy spectacle. The remoteness and surroundingwildness rendered the scene doubly impressive.And the next day and the next the place was an objectof wonder. There were about thirty buildingsin all, most of them small frame houses with a doorand two windows opening into a small yard in frontand a garden in the rear, such as are usually occupiedby the laborers in a country manufacturing district.There was one large two-story boarding-house, aschool-house with a cupola and a bell in it, and nu[105]meroussheds and forges, and a saw-mill. In frontof the saw-mill, and ready to be rolled to their placeon the carriage, lay a large pile of pine logs, so decayedthat one could run his walking-stick throughthem. Near by, a building filled with charcoal wasbursting open and the coal going to waste on theground. The smelting works were also much crumbledby time. The school-house was still used.Every day one of the daughters assembles hersmaller brothers and sisters there and school keeps.The district library contained nearly one hundredreadable books, which were well thumbed.

The absence of society, etc., had made the familyall good readers. We brought them an illustratednewspaper which was awaiting them in the post-officeat the Lower Works. It was read and rereadwith great eagerness by every member of the household.

The iron ore cropped out on every hand. Therewas apparently mountains of it; one could see it inthe stones along the road. But the difficulties metwith in separating the iron from its alloys, togetherwith the expense of transportation and the failure ofcertain railroad schemes, caused the works to beabandoned. No doubt the time is not distant whenthese obstacles will be overcome and this region reopened.

At present it is an admirable place to go to. Thereis fishing and hunting and boating and mountainclimbing within easy reach, and a good roof over[106]your head at night, which is no small matter. One isoften disqualified for enjoying the woods after he getsthere by the loss of sleep and of proper food taken atseasonable times. This point attended to, and one isin the humor for any enterprise.

About half a mile northeast of the village is LakeHenderson, a very irregular and picturesque sheet ofwater, surrounded by dark evergreen forests, andabutted by two or three bold promontories with mottledwhite and gray rocks. Its greatest extent inany one direction is perhaps less than a mile. Itswaters are perfectly clear and abound in lake trout.A considerable stream flows into it which comesdown from Indian Pass.

A mile south of the village is Lake Sandford.This is a more open and exposed sheet of water andmuch larger. From some parts of it Mount Marcyand the gorge of the Indian Pass are seen to excellentadvantage. The Indian Pass shows as a hugecleft in the mountain, the gray walls rising on oneside perpendicularly for many hundred feet. Thislake abounds in white and yellow perch and in pickerel;of the latter single specimens are often caughtwhich weigh fifteen pounds. There were a few wildducks on both lakes. A brood of the goosander orred merganser, the young not yet able to fly, werethe occasion of some spirited rowing. But with twopairs of oars in a trim light skiff, it was impossible tocome up with them. Yet we could not resist thetemptation to give them a chase every day when we[107]first came on the lake. It needed a good long pullto sober us down so we could fish.

The land on the east side of the lake had beenburnt over, and was now mostly grown up with wildcherry and red raspberry-bushes. Ruffed grousewere found here in great numbers. The Canadagrouse was also common. I shot eight of the latterin less than an hour on one occasion; the eighth one,which was an old male, was killed with smooth pebblestones, my shot having run short. The woundedbird ran under a pile of brush, like a frightened hen.Thrusting a forked stick down through the intersticesI soon stopped his breathing. Wild pigeons werequite numerous also. These latter recall a singularfreak of the sharp shinned hawk. A flock of pigeonsalighted on the top of a dead hemlock standingin the edge of a swamp. I got over the fence andmoved toward them across an open space. I had nottaken many steps, when on looking up I saw thewhole flock again in motion flying very rapidlyaround the butt of a hill. Just then this hawkalighted on the same tree. I stepped back into theroad and paused a moment in doubt which course togo. At that instant the little hawk launched intothe air and came as straight as an arrow toward me.I looked in amazement, but in less than half a minutehe was within fifty feet of my face, coming full tiltas if he had sighted my nose. Almost in self-defenseI let fly one barrel of my gun, and the mangledform of the audacious marauder fell literally betweenmy feet.[108]

Of wild animals, such as bears, panthers, wolves,wild cats, etc., we neither saw nor heard any in theAdirondacs. “A howling wilderness,” Thoreau says,“seldom ever howls. The howling is chiefly doneby the imagination of the traveler.” Hunter said heoften saw bear tracks in the snow, but had never yetmet Bruin. Deer are more or less abundant everywhere,and one old sportsman declares there is yet asingle moose in these mountains. On our return,a pioneer settler, at whose house we stayed over-night, told us a long adventure he had had with apanther. He related how it screamed, how it followedhim in the brush, how he took to his boat,how its eyes gleamed from the shore, and how he firedhis rifle at them with fatal effect. His wife in the meantime took something from a drawer, and as her husbandfinished his recital, she produced a toe-nail of theidentical animal with marked dramatic effect.

But better than fish or game or grand scenery orany adventure by night or day, is the wordless intercoursewith rude Nature one has on these expeditions.It is something to press the pulse of our oldmother by mountain lakes and streams, and knowwhat health and vigor are in her veins, and how regardlessof observation she deports herself.

[111]

Crow-Blackbird.

BIRDS’-NESTS.

How alert and vigilant the birds are, even whenabsorbed in building their nests! In an open spacein the woods I see a pair of cedar-birds collectingmoss from the top of a dead tree. Following the directionin which they fly, I soon discover the nestplaced in the fork of a small soft-maple, which standsamid a thick growth of wild cherry-trees and youngbeeches. Carefully concealing myself beneath itwithout any fear that the workmen will hit me witha chip or let fall a tool, I await the return of the busypair. Presently I hear the well-known note, and thefemale sweeps down and settles unsuspectingly intothe half-finished structure. Hardly have her wingsrested before her eye has penetrated my screen, andwith a hurried movement of alarm she darts away.In a moment the male, with a tuft of wool in his[112]beak (for there is a sheep-pasture near), joins her,and the two reconnoitre the premises from the surroundingbushes. With their beaks still loaded, theymove around with a frightened look, and refuse toapproach the nest till I have moved off and lain downbehind a log. Then one of them ventures to alightupon the nest, but, still suspecting all is not right,quickly darts away again. Then they both togethercome, and after much peeping and spying about, andapparently much anxious consultation, cautiously proceedto work. In less than half an hour it wouldseem that wool enough has been brought to supplythe whole family, real and prospective, with socks, ifneedles and fingers could be found fine enough toknit it up. In less than a week the female has begunto deposit her eggs,—four of them in as many days,—whitetinged with purple, with black spots on thelarger end. After two weeks of incubation, the youngare out.

Excepting the American goldfinch, this bird buildslater in the spring than any other—its nest, in ournorthern climate, seldom being undertaken till July.As with the goldfinch, the reason is, probably, thatsuitable food for the young cannot be had at an earlierperiod.

Like most of our common species, as the robin,sparrow, bluebird, pewee, wren, etc., this bird sometimesseeks wild, remote localities in which to rear itsyoung; at others, takes up its abode near that of man.I knew a pair of cedar-birds, one season, to build in[113]an apple-tree, the branches of which rubbed againstthe house. For a day or two before the first strawwas laid, I noticed the pair carefully exploring everybranch of the tree, the female taking the lead, themale following her with an anxious note and look.It was evident that the wife was to have her choicethis time; and, like one who thoroughly knew hermind, she was proceeding to take it. Finally thesite was chosen upon a high branch, extending overone low wing of the house. Mutual congratulationsand caresses followed, when both birds flew away inquest of building material. That most freely used isa sort of cotton-bearing plant, which grows in oldworn-out fields. The nest is large for the size of thebird, and very soft. It is in every respect a first-classdomicile.

On another occasion, while walking or rather saunteringin the woods (for I have discovered that onecannot run and read the book of nature), my attentionwas arrested by a dull hammering, evidently buta few rods off. I said to myself, “Some one is buildinga house.” From what I had previously seen, Isuspected the builder to be a red-headed woodpeckerin the top of a dead oak stub near by. Moving cautiouslyin that direction, I perceived a round hole,about the size of that made by an inch and a halfauger, near the top of the decayed trunk, and thewhite chips of the workman strewing the ground beneath.When but a few paces from the tree, my footpressed upon a dry twig, which gave forth a very[114]slight snap. Instantly the hammering ceased, and ascarlet head appeared at the door. Though I remainedperfectly motionless, forbearing even to winktill my eyes smarted, the bird refused to go on withhis work, but flew quietly off to a neighboring tree.What surprised me was, that amid his busy occupationdown in the heart of the old tree, he should havebeen so alert and watchful as to catch the slightestsound from without.

The woodpeckers all build in about the same manner,excavating the trunk or branch of a decayed treeand depositing the eggs on the fine fragments of woodat the bottom of the cavity. Though the nest is notespecially an artistic work,—requiring strengthrather than skill,—yet the eggs and the young offew other birds are so completely housed from theelements, or protected from their natural enemies—thejays, crows, hawks, and owls. A tree with anatural cavity is never selected, but one which hasbeen dead just long enough to have become soft andbrittle throughout. The bird goes in horizontally fora few inches, making a hole perfectly round andsmooth and adapted to his size, then turns downward,gradually enlarging the hole, as he proceeds, to thedepth of ten, fifteen, twenty inches, according to thesoftness of the tree and the urgency of the mother-birdto deposit her eggs. While excavating, maleand female work alternately. After one has beenengaged fifteen or twenty minutes, drilling and carryingout chips, it ascends to an upper limb, utters a loud[115]call or two, when its mate soon appears, and, alightingnear it on the branch, the pair chatter and caressa moment, then the fresh one enters the cavity andthe other flies away.

A few days since I climbed up to the nest of thedowny woodpecker, in the decayed top of a sugar-maple.For better protection against driving rains,the hole, which was rather more than an inch in diameter,was made immediately beneath a branch whichstretched out almost horizontally from the main stem.It appeared merely a deeper shadow upon the darkand mottled surface of the bark with which thebranches were covered, and could not be detected bythe eye until one was within a few feet of it. Theyoung chirped vociferously as I approached the nest,thinking it was the old one with food; but the clamorsuddenly ceased as I put my hand on that part of thetrunk in which they were concealed, the unusual jarringand rustling alarming them into silence. Thecavity, which was about fifteen inches deep, was gourd-shaped,and was wrought out with great skill andregularity. The walls were quite smooth and cleanand new.

I shall never forget the circumstance of observinga pair of yellow-bellied woodpeckers—the most rareand secluded, and, next to the red-headed, the mostbeautiful species found in our woods,—breeding inan old, truncated beech in the Beaverkill Mountains,an offshoot of the Catskills. We had been traveling,three of us, all day in search of a trout lake, which[116]lay far in among the mountains, had twice lost ourcourse in the trackless forest, and, weary and hungry,had sat down to rest upon a decayed log. The chatteringof the young, and the passing to and fro of theparent birds, soon arrested my attention. The entranceto the nest was on the east side of the tree,about twenty-five feet from the ground. At intervalsof scarcely a minute, the old birds, one after another,would alight upon the edge of the hole with a grubor worm in their beaks; then each in turn wouldmake a bow or two, cast an eye quickly around, andby a single movement place itself in the neck of thepassage. Here it would pause a moment, as if to determinein which expectant mouth to place the morsel,and then disappear within. In about half a minute,during which time the chattering of the younggradually subsided, the bird would again emerge, butthis time bearing in its beak the ordure of one of thehelpless family. Flying away very slowly with headlowered and extended, as if anxious to hold the offensiveobject as far from its plumage as possible, thebird dropped the unsavory morsel in the course of afew yards, and alighting on a tree, wiped its bill onthe bark and moss. This seems to be the order allday,—carrying in and carrying out. I watched thebirds for an hour, while my companions were takingtheir turn in exploring the lay of the land around us,and noted no variation in the programme. It wouldbe curious to know if the young are fed and waitedupon in regular order, and how, amid the darkness[117]and the crowded state of the apartment, the matter isso neatly managed. But ornithologists are all silentupon the subject.

This practice of the birds is not so uncommon as itmight at first seem. It is indeed almost an invariablerule among all land-birds. With woodpeckers andkindred species, and with birds that burrow in theground, as bank swallows, kingfishers, etc., it is a necessity.The accumulation of the excrement in thenest would prove most fatal to the young.

But even among birds that neither bore nor mine,but which build a shallow nest on the branch of atree or upon the ground, as the robin, the finches, thebuntings, etc., the ordure of the young is removed toa distance by the parent bird. When the robin isseen going away from its brood with a slow heavyflight, entirely different from its manner a momentbefore on approaching the nest with a cherry orworm, it is certain to be engaged in this office. Onemay observe the social-sparrow, when feeding itsyoung, pause a moment after the worm has beengiven and hop around on the brink of the nest observingthe movements within.

The instinct of cleanliness no doubt prompts theaction in all cases, though the disposition to secrecyor concealment may not be unmixed with it.

The swallows form an exception to the rule, theexcrement being voided by the young over the brinkof the nest. They form an exception, also, to the ruleof secrecy, aiming not so much to conceal the nest asto render it inaccessible.[118]

Other exceptions are the pigeons, hawks, andwater-fowls.

But to return. Having a good chance to note thecolor and markings of the woodpeckers as they passedin and out at the opening of the nest, I saw that Audubonhad made a mistake in figuring or describingthe female of this species with the red spot upon thehead. I have seen a number of pairs of them, and inno instance have I seen the mother-bird marked withred.

The male was in full plumage, and I reluctantlyshot him for a specimen. Passing by the place againnext day I paused a moment to note how mattersstood. I confess it was not without some compunctionsthat I heard the cries of the young birds, andsaw the widowed mother, her cares now doubled,hastening to and fro in the solitary woods. Shewould occasionally pause expectantly on the trunk ofa tree, and utter a loud call.

It usually happens when the male of any species iskilled during the breeding season, that the femalesoon procures another mate. There are, most likely,always a few unmated birds of both sexes, within agiven range, and through these the broken links maybe restored. Audubon or Wilson, I forget which,tells of a pair of fish-hawks, or ospreys, that builttheir nest in an ancient oak. The male was so zealousin the defense of the young that it actually attackedwith beak and claw a person who attemptedto climb into his nest, putting his face and eyes in[119]great jeopardy. Arming himself with a heavy club,the climber felled the gallant bird to the ground andkilled him. In the course of a few days the femalehad procured another mate. But naturally enoughthe step-father showed none of the spirit and pluckin defense of the brood that had been displayed bythe original parent. When danger was nigh he wasseen afar off, sailing around in placid unconcern.

It is generally known that when either the wildturkey or domestic turkey begins to lay, and afterwardsto sit and rear the brood, she secludes herselffrom the male, who then, very sensibly, herds withothers of his sex, and betakes himself to haunts ofhis own till male and female, old and young, meetagain on common ground, late in the fall. But robthe sitting bird of her eggs, or destroy her tenderyoung, and she immediately sets out in quest of amale, who is no laggard when he hears her call.The same is true of ducks and other aquatic fowls.The propagating instinct is strong, and surmounts allordinary difficulties. No doubt the widowhood I hadcaused in the case of the woodpeckers was of shortduration, and chance brought, or the widow drummedup, some forlorn male, who was not dismayed by theprospect of having a large family of half-grown birdson his hands at the outset.

I have seen a fine cock robin paying assiduous addressesto a female bird, as late as the middle ofJuly; and I have no doubt that his intentions werehonorable. I watched the pair for half an hour.[120]The hen, I took it, was in the market for the secondtime that season; but the cock, from his bright, unfadedplumage, looked like a new arrival. The henresented every advance of the male. In vain hestrutted around her and displayed his fine feathers;every now and then she would make at him in amost spiteful manner. He followed her to theground, poured into her ear a fine, half-suppressedwarble, offered her a worm, flew back to the treeagain with a great spread of plumage, hopped aroundher on the branches, chirruped, chattered, flew gallantlyat an intruder, and was back in an instantat her side. No use,—she cut him short at everyturn.

Thedénouement I cannot relate, as the artful bird,followed by her ardent suitor, soon flew away beyondmy sight. It may not be rash to conclude, however,that she held out no longer than was prudent.

On the whole, there seems to be a system ofWomen’s Rights prevailing among the birds, which,contemplated from the stand-point of the male, isquite admirable. In almost all cases of joint interest,the female bird is the most active. She determinesthe site of the nest, and is usually the mostabsorbed in its construction. Generally, she is morevigilant in caring for the young, and manifests themost concern when danger threatens. Hour afterhour I have seen the mother of a brood of bluegrossbeaks pass from the nearest meadow to the treethat held her nest, with a cricket or grasshopper in[121]her bill, while her better-dressed half was singingserenely on a distant tree or pursuing his pleasureamid the brunches.

Yet among the majority of our song-birds the maleis most conspicuous both by his color and mannersand by his song, and is to that extent a shield to thefemale. It is thought that the female is humblerclad for her better concealment during incubation.But this is not satisfactory, as in some cases she isrelieved from time to time by the male. In the caseof the domestic dove, for instance, promptly at middaythe cock is found upon the nest. I should saythat the dull or neutral tints of the female were aprovision of nature for her greater safety at all times,as her life is far more precious to the species than thatof the male. The indispensable office of the malereduces itself to little more than a moment of time,while that of his mate extends over days and weeks,if not months.[2]

[122]

In migrating northward, the males precede the femalesby eight or ten days; returning in the fall, thefemales and young precede the males by about thesame time.

After the woodpeckers have abandoned their nests,or rather chambers, which they do after the first season,their cousins, the nut-hatches, chickadees, andbrown creepers, fall heir to them. These birds, especiallythe creepers and nut-hatches, have many ofthe habits of thepicidæ, but lack their powers ofbill, and so are unable to excavate a nest for themselves.Their habitation, therefore, is always secondhand.But each species carries in some soft materialof various kinds, or, in other words, furnishes thetenement to its liking. The chickadee arranges inthe bottom of the cavity a little mat of a light felt-likesubstance, which looks as if it came from the hatter’s,but which is probably the work of numerous wormsor caterpillars. On this soft lining the female depositssix white eggs.

I recently discovered one of these nests in a mostinteresting situation. The tree containing it, a varietyof the wild cherry, stood upon the brink of thebald summit of a high mountain. Gray, time-wornrocks lay piled loosely about, or overtoppled the justvisible by-ways of the red fox. The trees had a half-scaredlook, and that indescribable wildness whichlurks about the tops of all remote mountains possessedthe place. Standing there I looked down uponthe back of the red-tailed hawk as he flew out over[123]the earth beneath me. Following him, my eye alsotook in farms and settlements and villages and othermountain ranges that grew blue in the distance.

The parent birds attracted my attention by appearingwith food in their beaks, and by seeming muchput out. Yet so wary were they of revealing thelocality of their brood, or even of the precise treethat held them, that I lurked around over an hourwithout gaining a point on them. Finally a brightand curious boy who accompanied me secreted himselfunder a low, projecting rock close to the treein which we supposed the nest to be, while I movedoff around the mountain-side. It was not long beforethe youth had their secret. The tree, whichwas low and wide branching, and overrun with lichens,appeared at a cursory glance to contain not onedry or decayed limb. Yet there was one a few feetlong, in which, when my eyes were piloted thither, Idetected a small round orifice.

As my weight began to shake the branches, theconsternation of both old and young was great. Thestump of a limb that held the nest was about threeinches thick, and at the bottom of the tunnel was excavatedquite to the bark. With my thumb I brokein the thin wall, and the young, which were full-fledged,looked out upon the world for the first time.Presently one of them, which a significant chirp, asmuch as to say, “It is time we were out of this,” beganto climb up toward the proper entrance. Placinghimself in the hole, he looked around without mani[124]festingany surprise at the grand scene that lay spreadout before him. He was taking his bearings and determininghow far he could trust the power of his untriedwings to take him out of harm’s way. After amoment’s pause, with a loud chirrup, he launched outand made tolerable headway. The others rapidly followed.Each one, as it started upward, from a suddenimpulse, contemptuously saluted the abandonednest with its excrement.

Though generally regular in their habits and instincts,yet the birds sometimes seem as whimsical andcapricious as superior beings. One is not safe, forinstance, in making any absolute assertion as to theirplace or mode of building. Ground-builders oftenget up into a bush, and tree-builders sometimes getupon the ground or into a tussock of grass. Thesong-sparrow, which is a ground builder, has beenknown to build in the knot-hole of a fence rail, and achimney swallow once got tired of soot and smoke,and fastened its nest on a rafter in a hay barn. Afriend tells me of a pair of barn swallows which, takinga fanciful turn, saddled their nest in the loop of arope that was pendent from a peg in the peak, andliked it so well that they repeated the experimentnext year. I have known the social-sparrow, or “hair-bird,”to build under a shed, in a tuft of hay that hungdown, through the loose flooring, from the mow above.It usually contents itself with half a dozen stalksof dry grass and a few long hairs from a cow’s tailloosely arranged on the branch of an apple-tree. The[125]rough-winged swallow builds in the wall and in oldstone heaps, and I have seen the robin build in similarlocalities. Others have found its nest in old, abandonedwells. The house-wren will build in anythingthat has an accessible cavity, from an old boot to abomb-shell. A pair of them once persisted in buildingtheir nest in the top of a certain pump-tree, gettingin through the opening above the handle. Thepump being in daily use, the nest was destroyed morethan a score of times. This jealous little wretch hasthe wise forethought, when the box in which hebuilds contains two compartments, to fill up one ofthem, so as to avoid the risk of troublesome neighbors.

The less skillful builders sometimes depart fromtheir usual habit, and take up with the abandonednest of some other species. The blue jay now andthen lays in an old crow’s-nest or cuckoo’s-nest. Thecrow-blackbird, seized with a fit of indolence, dropsits eggs in the cavity of a decayed branch. I heardof a cuckoo that dispossessed a robin of its nest; ofanother that set a blue jay adrift. Large, loosestructures, like the nests of the osprey and certainof the herons, have been found with half a dozennests of the blackbird set in the outer edges, like somany parasites, or, as Audubon says, like the retainersabout the rude court of a feudal baron.

The same birds breeding in a southern climateconstruct far less elaborate nests than when breedingin a northern climate. Certain species of water-fowl[126]that abandon their eggs to the sand and the sun inthe warmer zones, build a nest and sit in the usualway in Labrador. In Georgia, the Baltimore orioleplaces its nest upon the north side of the tree; inthe Middle and Eastern States, it fixes it upon thesouth or east side, and makes it much thicker andwarmer. I have seen one from the South that hadsome kind of coarse reed or sedge woven into it, givingit an open work appearance, like a basket.

Very few species use the same material uniformly.I have seen the nest of the robin quite destitute ofmud. In one instance, it was composed mainly oflong black horse-hairs, arranged in a circular manner,with a lining of fine yellow grass; the whole presentingquite a novel appearance. In another case,the nest was chiefly constructed of a species of rockmoss.

The nest for the second brood during the sameseason is often a mere make-shift. The haste of thefemale to deposit her eggs as the season advancesseems very great, and the structure is apt to be prematurelyfinished. I was recently reminded of thisfact by happening, about the last of July, to meetwith several nests of the wood or bush sparrow in aremote blackberry field. The nests with eggs werefar less elaborate and compact than the earlier nests,from which the young had flown.

Day after day, as I go to a certain piece of woods,I observe a male indigo-bird sitting on precisely thesame part of a high branch, and singing in his most[127]vivacious style. As I approach he ceases to sing, and,flirting his tail right and left with marked emphasis,chirps sharply. In a low bush near by, I come uponthe object of his solicitude—a thick, compact nestcomposed largely of dry leaves and fine grass, inwhich a plain brown bird is sitting upon four paleblue eggs.

The wonder is, that a bird will leave the apparentsecurity of the tree-tops, to place its nest in the wayof the many dangers that walk and crawl upon theground. There, far up out of reach, sings the bird;here, not three feet from the ground, are its eggs orhelpless young. The truth is, birds are the greatestenemies of birds, and it is with reference to this factthat many of the smaller species build.

Perhaps the greatest proportion of birds breedalong highways. I have known the ruffed grouse tocome out of a dense wood and make its nest at theroot of a tree within ten paces of the road, where, nodoubt, hawks and crows, as well as skunks and foxes,would be less liable to find it out. Traversing remotemountain-roads through dense woods, I have repeatedlyseen the veery, or Wilson’s thrush, sitting uponher nest, so near me that I could almost take her fromit by stretching out my hand. Birds of prey shownone of this confidence in man, and, when locatingtheir nests, avoid rather than seek his haunts.

In a certain locality in the interior of New York, Iknow, every season, where I am sure to find a nest ortwo of the slate-colored snow-bird. It is under the[128]brink of a low, mossy bank, so near the highway thatit could be reached from a passing vehicle with a whip.Every horse or wagon or foot passenger disturbs thesitting bird. She awaits the near approach of thesound of feet or wheels, and then darts quickly acrossthe road, barely clearing the ground, and disappearsamid the bushes on the opposite side.

In the trees that line one of the main streets andfashionable drives leading out of Washington city,and less than half a mile from the boundary, I havecounted the nests of five different species at one time,and that without any very close scrutiny of the foliage,while in many acres of woodland, half a mile off, Isearched in vain for a single nest. Among the five,the nest that interested me most was that of the bluegrossbeak. Here this bird, which, according to Audubon’sobservations in Louisiana, is shy and recluse,affecting remote marshes and the borders of largeponds of stagnant water, had placed its nest in thelowest twig of the lowest branch of a large sycamore,immediately over a great thoroughfare, and so nearthe ground that a person standing in a cart or sittingon a horse could have reached it with his hand. Thenest was composed mainly of fragments of newspaperand stalks of grass, and though so low, was remarkablywell concealed by one of the peculiar clusters oftwigs and leaves which characterize this tree. Thenest contained young when I discovered it, andthough the parent birds were much annoyed by myloitering about beneath the tree, they paid little atten[129]tionto the stream of vehicles that was constantly passing.It was a wonder to me when the birds couldhave built it, for they are much shyer when buildingthan at other times. No doubt they worked mostlyin the morning, having the early hours all to themselves.

Another pair of blue grossbeaks built in a graveyardwithin the city limits. The nest was placed ina low bush, and the male continued to sing at intervalstill the young were ready to fly. The song ofthis bird is a rapid, intricate warble, like that of theindigo-bird, though stronger and louder. Indeed,these two birds so much resemble each other in color,form, manner, voice, and general habits that, were itnot for the difference in size,—the grossbeak beingnearly as large again as the indigo-bird,—it wouldbe a hard matter to tell them apart. The females ofboth species are clad in the same reddish-brown suits.So are the young the first season.

Of course in the deep, primitive woods also arenests; but how rarely we find them! The simple artof the bird consists in choosing common, neutral-tintedmaterial, as moss, dry leaves, twigs, and various oddsand ends, and placing the structure on a convenientbranch, where it blends in color with its surroundings;but how consummate is this art, and how skillfullyis the nest concealed! We occasionally lightupon it, but who, unaided by the movements of thebird, could find it out? During the present season Iwent to the woods nearly every day for a fortnight,[130]without making any discoveries of this kind; till oneday, paying them a farewell visit, I chanced to comeupon several nests. A black and white creeping warblersuddenly became much alarmed as I approacheda crumbling old stump in a dense part of the forest.He alighted upon it, chirped sharply, ran up anddown its sides, and finally left it with much reluctance.The nest, which contained three young birdsnearly fledged, was placed upon the ground, at thefoot of the stump, and in such a position that the colorof the young harmonized perfectly with the bits ofbark, sticks, etc., lying about. My eye rested uponthem for the second time before I made them out.They hugged the nest very closely, but as I put downmy hand they all scampered off with loud cries forhelp, which caused the parent birds to place themselvesalmost within my reach. The nest was merelya little dry grass arranged in a thick bed of dry leaves.

This was amid a thick undergrowth. Moving oninto a passage of large stately hemlocks, with onlyhere and there a small beech or maple rising up intothe perennial twilight, I paused to make out a notewhich was entirely new to me. It is still in my ear.Though unmistakably a bird note, it yet suggestedthe bleating of a tiny lambkin. Presently the birdsappeared,—a pair of the solitary vireo. They cameflitting from point to point, alighting only for a momentat a time, the male silent, but the female utteringthis strange, tender note. It was a rendering intosome new sylvan dialect of the human sentiment of[131]maidenly love. It was really pathetic in its sweetnessand childlike confidence and joy. I soon discoveredthat the pair were building a nest upon a low brancha few yards from me. The male flew cautiously tothe spot, and adjusted something, and the twain movedon, the female calling to her mate at intervals,love-e,love-e, with a cadence and tenderness in the tone thatrang in the ear long afterward. The nest was suspendedto the fork of a small branch, as is usual withthe vireos, plentifully lined with lichens, and boundand rebound with masses of coarse spider-webs.There was no attempt at concealment except in theneutral tints, which made it look like a natural growthof the dim, gray woods.

Continuing my random walk, I next paused in alow part of the woods, where the larger trees beganto give place to a thick second-growth that coveredan old Barkpeeling. I was standing by a large maple,when a small bird darted quickly away from it,as if it might have come out of a hole near its base.As the bird paused a few yards from me, and beganto chirp uneasily, my curiosity was at once excited.When I saw it was the female mourning groundwarbler, and remembered that the nest of this birdhad not yet been seen by any naturalist,—that noteven Dr. Brewer had ever seen the eggs,—I feltthat here was something worth looking for. So Icarefully began the search, exploring inch by inch theground, the base and roots of the tree, and the variousshrubby growths about it, till, finding nothing,[132]and fearing I might really put my foot in it, I bethoughtme to withdraw to a distance and after somedelay return again, and, thus forewarned, note theexact point from which the bird flew. This I did,and, returning, had little difficulty in discovering thenest. It was placed but a few feet from the maple-tree,in a bunch of ferns, and about six inches fromthe ground. It was quite a massive nest, composedentirely of the stalks and leaves of dry grass, with aninner lining of fine, dark-brown roots. The eggs,three in number, were of light flesh color, uniformlyspecked with fine brown specks. The cavity of thenest was so deep that the back of the sitting bird sankbelow the edge.

In the top of a tall tree, a short distance fartheron, I saw the nest of the red-tailed hawk,—a largemass of twigs and dry sticks. The young had flown,but still lingered in the vicinity, and, as I approached,the mother-bird flew about over me, squealing in avery angry, savage manner. Tufts of the hair andother indigestible material of the common meadowmouse lay around on the ground beneath the nest.

As I was about leaving the woods my hat almostbrushed the nest of the red-eyed vireo, which hungbasket-like on the end of a low, drooping branch ofthe beech. I should never have seen it had the birdkept her place. It contained three eggs of the bird’sown, and one of the cow-bunting. The strange eggwas only just perceptibly larger than the others, yetthree days after, when I looked into the nest again[133]and found all but one egg hatched, the young interloperwas at least four times as large as either of theothers, and with such a superabundance of bowels asto almost smother his bedfellows beneath them. Thatthe intruder should fare the same as the rightful occupants,and thrive with them, was more than ordinarypotluck; but that it alone should thrive, devouring,as it were, all the rest, is one of those freaks ofNature in which she would seem to discourage thehomely virtues of prudence and honesty. Weeds andparasites have the odds greatly against them, yet theywage a very successful war nevertheless.

The woods hold not such another gem as the nestof the humming-bird. The finding of one is an eventto date from. It is the next best thing to finding aneagle’s nest. I have met with but two, both by chance.One was placed on the horizontal branch of a chestnut-tree,with a solitary green leaf, forming a completecanopy, about an inch and a half above it. Therepeated spiteful dartings of the bird past my ears, asI stood under the tree, caused me to suspect that Iwas intruding upon some one’s privacy; and followingit with my eye, I soon saw the nest, which was inprocess of construction. Adopting my usual tacticsof secreting myself near by, I had the satisfaction ofseeing the tiny artist at work. It was the female unassistedby her mate. At intervals of two or threeminutes she would appear with a small tuft of somecottony substance in her beak, dart a few times throughand around the tree, and alighting quickly in the nest[134]arrange the material she had brought, using her breastas a model.

The other nest I discovered in a dense forest onthe side of a mountain. The sitting bird was disturbedas I passed beneath her. The whirring of herwings arrested my attention, when, after a short pause,I had the good luck to see, through an opening inthe leaves, the bird return to her nest, which appearedlike a mere wart or excrescence on a smallbranch. The humming-bird, unlike all others, doesnot alight upon the nest, but flies into it. She entersit as quick as a flash but as light as any feather. Twoeggs are the complement. They are perfectly white,and so frail that only a woman’s fingers may touchthem. Incubation lasts about ten days. In a weekthe young have flown.

The only nest like the humming-bird’s, and comparableto it in neatness and symmetry, is that of theblue-gray gnatcatcher. This is often saddled upon thelimb in the same manner, though it is generally moreor less pendent; it is deep and soft, composed mostlyof some vegetable down covered all over with delicatetree-lichens, and, except that it is much larger, appearsalmost identical with the nest of the humming-bird.

But the nest of nests, the ideal nest, after we haveleft the deep woods, is unquestionably that of the Baltimoreoriole. It is the only perfectly pensile nestwe have. The nest of the orchard oriole is indeedmainly so, but this bird generally builds lower andshallower, more after the manner of the vireos.[135]

The Baltimore oriole loves to attach its nest to theswaying branches of the tallest elms, making no attemptat concealment, but satisfied if the position behigh and the branch pendent. This nest would seemto cost more time and skill than any other bird structure.A peculiar flax-like substance seems to be alwayssought after and always found. The nest whencompleted assumes the form of a large, suspended,gourd. The walls are thin but firm, and proof againstthe most driving rain. The mouth is hemmed oroverhanded with horse-hair, and the sides are usuallysewed through and through with the same.

Not particular as to the matter of secrecy, the birdis not particular as to material, so that it be of thenature of strings or threads. A lady friend once toldme that while working by an open window, one ofthese birds approached during her momentary absence,and, seizing a skein of some kind of thread oryarn, made off with it to its half-finished nest. Butthe perverse yarn caught fast in the branches, and, inthe bird’s efforts to extricate it, got hopelessly tangled.She tugged away at it all day, but was finally obligedto content herself with a few detached portions. Thefluttering strings were an eye-sore to her ever after,and passing and repassing, she would give them aspiteful jerk, as much as to say, “There is that confoundedyarn that gave me so much trouble.”

From Pennsylvania, Vincent Barnard (to whom Iam indebted for other curious facts) sent me this interestingstory of an oriole. He says a friend of his,[136]curious in such things, on observing the bird beginningto build, hung out near the prospective nestskeins of many-colored zephyr yarn, which the eagerartist readily appropriated. He managed it so thatthe bird used nearly equal quantities of various high,bright colors. The nest was made unusually deepand capacious, and it may be questioned if such athing of beauty was ever before woven by the cunningof a bird.

Nuttall, by far the most genial of American ornithologists,relates the following:—

Let me not forget to mention the nest under themountain ledge, the nest of the common pewee,—amodest mossy structure, with four pearl white eggs,—lookingout upon some wild scene and overhungby beetling crags. After all has been said about theelaborate, high-hung structures, few nests perhapsawaken more pleasant emotions in the mind of thebeholder than this of the pewee,—the gray, silentrocks, with caverns and dens where the fox and thewolf lurk, and just out of their reach, in a little niche,as if it grew there, the mossy tenement!

Nearly every high projecting rock in my range hasone of these nests. Following a trout stream up awild mountain gorge, not long since, I counted fivein the distance of a mile, all within easy reach, but[139]safe from the minks and the skunks, and well housedfrom the storms. In my native town I know a pineand oak clad hill, round-topped, with a bold, precipitousfront extending half-way around it. Near thetop, and along this front or side, there crops out aledge of rocks unusually high and cavernous. Oneimmense layer projects many feet, allowing a personor many persons, standing upright, to move freely beneathit. There is a delicious spring of water there,and plenty of wild, cool air. The floor is of loosestone, now trod by sheep and foxes, once by the Indianand the wolf. How I have delighted from boyhoodto spend a summer-day in this retreat or take refugethere from a sudden shower! Always the freshnessand coolness, and always the delicate mossy nest ofthe phœbe-bird! The bird keeps her place till youare within a few feet of her, when she flits to a nearbranch, and, with many oscillations of her tail, observesyou anxiously. Since the country has becomesettled this pewee has fallen into the strange practiceof occasionally placing its nest under a bridge, hay-shed,or other artificial structure, where it is subjectto all kinds of interruptions and annoyances. Whenplaced thus, the nest is larger and coarser. I know ahay-loft beneath which a pair has regularly placed itsnest for several successive seasons. Arranged alongon a single pole, which sags down a few inches fromthe flooring it was intended to help support, are threeof these structures, marking the number of years thebirds have nested there. The foundation is of mud[140]with a superstructure of moss, elaborately lined withhair and feathers. Nothing can be more perfect andexquisite than the interior of one of these nests, yet anew one is built every season. Three broods, however,are frequently reared in it.

The pewees, as a class, are the best architects wehave. The king-bird builds a nest altogether admirable,using various soft cotton and woolen substances,and sparing neither time nor material to make it substantialand warm. The green-crested pewee buildsits nest in many instances wholly of the blossoms ofthe white-oak. The wood-pewee builds a neat, compact,socket-shaped nest of moss and lichens on ahorizontal branch. There is never a loose end orshred about it. The sitting bird is largely visibleabove the rim. She moves her head freely aboutand seems entirely at her ease,—a circumstancewhich I have never observed in any other species.The nest of the great-crested fly-catcher is seldomfree from snake skins, three or four being sometimeswoven into it.

About the thinnest, shallowest nest, for its situation,that can be found is that of the turtle-dove. Afew sticks and straws are carelessly thrown together,hardly sufficient to prevent the eggs from fallingthrough or rolling off. The nest of the passenger-pigeonis equally hasty and insufficient, and the squabsoften fall to the ground and perish. The other extremeamong our common birds is furnished by theferruginous thrush, which collects together a mass[141]of material that would fill a half-bushel measure; orby the fish-hawk, which adds to and repairs its nestyear after year, till the whole would make a cart-load.

The rarest of all nests is that of the eagle, becausethe eagle is the rarest of all birds. Indeed so seldomis the eagle seen that its presence always seems accidental.It appears as if merely pausing on the way,while bound for some distant unknown region. OneSeptember, while a youth, I saw the ring-tailedeagle, an immense, dusky bird, the sight of whichfilled me with awe. It lingered about the hills fortwo days. Some young cattle, a two-year-old colt,and half a dozen sheep were at pasture on a highridge that led up to the mountain, and in plain viewof the house. On the second day this dusky monarchwas seen flying about above them. Presentlyhe began to hover over them, after the manner of ahawk watching for mice. He then with extendedlegs let himself slowly down upon them, actuallygrappling the backs of the young cattle, and frighteningthe creatures so that they rushed about thefield in great consternation; and finally, as he grewbolder and more frequent in his descents, the wholeherd broke over the fence and came tearing downto the house “like mad.” It did not seem to bean assault with intent to kill, but was perhaps astratagem resorted to in order to separate the herdand expose the lambs, which hugged the cattle veryclosely. When he occasionally alighted upon theoaks that stood near, the branch could be seen to[142]sway and bend beneath him. Finally, as a riflemanstarted out in pursuit of him, he launched into theair, set his wings, and sailed away southward. Afew years afterward, in January, another eagle passedthrough the same locality, alighting in a field nearsome dead animal, but tarried briefly.

So much by way of identification. The bird is commonto the northern parts of both hemispheres, andplaces its eyrie on high precipitous rocks. A pairbuilt on an inaccessible shelf of rock along the Hudsonfor eight successive years. A squad of Revolutionarysoldiers, also, found a nest along this river, andhad an adventure with the bird that came near costingone of their number his life. His comrades lethim down by a rope to secure the eggs or young,when he was attacked by the female eagle with suchfury that he was obliged to defend himself with hisknife. In doing so, by a misstroke, he nearly severedthe rope that held him, and was drawn up by asingle strand from his perilous position. Audubon,from whom this anecdote is taken, figures and describesthis bird as the golden eagle, though I havelittle doubt that Wilson was right, and that thegolden eagle is a distinct species.

The sea-eagle, also, builds on high rocks, accordingto Audubon, though Wilson describes the nest of onewhich he saw near Great Egg Harbor, in the top ofa large yellow pine. It was a vast pile of sticks,sods, sedge, grass, reeds, etc., etc., five or six feethigh by four broad, and with little or no concavity.[143]It had been used for many years, and he was toldthat the eagles made it a sort of home or lodging-placein all seasons. This agrees with the descriptionwhich Audubon gives of the nest of the baldeagle. There is evidently a little confusion on bothsides.

The eagle in all cases uses one nest, with more orless repair, for several years. Many of our commonbirds do the same. The birds may be divided, withrespect to this and kindred points, into five generalclasses. First, those that repair or appropriate thelast year’s nest, as the wren, swallow, bluebird, great-crestedfly-catcher, owls, eagles, fish-hawk, and a fewothers. Secondly, those that build anew each season,though frequently rearing more than one brood in thesame nest. Of these the phœbe-bird is a well-knownexample. Thirdly, those that build a new nest foreach brood, which includes by far the greatest numberof species. Fourthly, a limited number thatmake no nest of their own, but appropriate the abandonednests of other birds. Finally, those who useno nest at all, but deposit their eggs in the sand, whichis the case with a large number of aquatic fowls.Thus, the common gull breeds in vast numbers on thesand bars or sand islands off the south coast of LongIsland. A little dent is made in the sand, the eggsare dropped, and the old birds go their way. In duetime the eggs are hatched by the warmth of the sun,and the little creatures shift for themselves. In July[144]countless numbers of them, of different ages and sizes,swarm upon these sandy wastes. As the waves rollout they rush down the beach, picking up a kind ofsea gluten, and then hasten back to avoid the nextbreaker.

Phœbe-bird.

[147]

Purple Finch.

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

WITH AN EYE TO THE BIRDS.

I came to Washington to live in the fall of 1863,and, with the exception of a month each summerspent in the interior of New York, have lived hereever since.

I saw my first novelty in Natural History the dayafter my arrival. As I was walking near some woodsnorth of the city, a grasshopper of prodigious sizeflew up from the ground and alighted in a tree. AsI pursued him, he proved to be nearly as wild and asfleet of wing as a bird. I thought I had reached thecapital of grasshopperdom, and that this was perhapsone of the chiefs or leaders, or perhaps the great HighCock O’lorum himself, taking an airing in the fields.[148]I have never yet been able to settle the question, asevery fall I start up a few of these gigantic specimens,which perch on the trees. They are about threeinches long, of a gray striped or spotted color, andhave quite a reptile look.

The greatest novelty I found, however, was thesuperb autumn weather, the bright, strong, electricdays, lasting well into November, and the generalmildness of the entire winter. Though the mercuryoccasionally sinks to zero, yet the earth is never soseared and blighted by the cold, but that in somesheltered nook or corner signs of vegetable life stillremain, which on a little encouragement even assertsitself. I have found wild flowers here every monthin the year; violets in December, a single houstoniain January (the little lump of earth upon which itstood was frozen hard), and a tiny, weed-like plant,with a flower almost microscopic in its smallness,growing along graveled walks, and in old plowedfields in February. The liverwort sometimes comesout as early as the first week in March, and the littlefrogs begin to pipe doubtfully about the same time.Apricot-trees are usually in bloom on All-Fool’s-day,and the apple-trees on May-day. By August, motherhen will lead forth her third brood, and I had a Marchpullet that came off with a family of her own inSeptember. Our calendar is made for this climate.March is a spring month. One is quite sure to seesome marked and striking change during the firsteight or ten days. This season (1868) is a backward[149]one, and the memorable change did not come till the10th.

Then the sun rose up from a bed of vapors, andseemed fairly to dissolve with tenderness and warmth.For an hour or two the air was perfectly motionless,and full of low, humming, awakening sounds. Thenaked trees had a rapt, expectant look. From someunreclaimed common near by came the first strain ofthe song-sparrow; so homely, because so old andfamiliar, yet so inexpressibly pleasing. Presently afull chorus of voices arose; tender, musical, half-suppressed,but full of genuine hilarity and joy. Thebluebird warbled, the robin called, the snow-birdchattered, the meadow-lark uttered her strong, buttender note. Over a deserted field a turkey-buzzardhovered low, and alighted on a stake in the fence,standing a moment with outstretched, vibrating wings,till he was sure of his hold. A soft, warm, broodingday. Roads becoming dry in many places, and lookingso good after the mud and the snow. I walk upbeyond the boundary and over Meridian Hill. Tomove along the drying road and feel the deliciouswarmth is enough. The cattle low long and loud,and look wistfully into the distance. I sympathizewith them. Never a spring comes, but I have analmost irresistible desire to depart. Some nomadicor migrating instinct or reminiscence stirs within me.I ache to be off.

As I pass along, the high-hole calls in the distanceprecisely as I have heard him in the North. After a[150]pause he repeats his summons. What can be morewelcome to the ear than these early first sounds!They have such a margin of silence!

One need but pass the boundary of Washingtoncity to be fairly in the country, and ten minutes’walk in the country brings one to real primitivewoods. The town has not yet overflowed its limitslike the great Northern commercial capitals, andNature, wild and unkempt, comes up to its verythreshold, and even in many places crosses it.

The woods, which I soon reach, are stark and still.The signs of returning life are so faint as to be almostimperceptible, but there is a fresh, earthy smellin the air, as if something had stirred here under theleaves. The crows caw above the wood, or walk aboutthe brown fields. I look at the gray, silent treeslong and long, but they show no sign. The catkinsof some alders by a little pool have just swelled perceptibly;and brushing away the dry leaves anddébrison a sunny slope, I discover the liverwort justpushing up a fuzzy, tender sprout. But the watershave brought forth. The little frogs are musical.From every marsh and pool goes up their shrill, butpleasing chorus. Peering into one of their haunts, alittle body of semi-stagnant water, I discover massesof frogs’ spawn covering the bottom. I take up greatchunks of the cold, quivering jelly in my hands. Insome places there are gallons of it. A youth whoaccompanies me wonders if it would not be goodcooked, or if it could not be used as a substitute for[151]eggs. It is a perfect jelly, of a slightly milky tinge,thickly imbedded with black spots about the size ofa small bird’s eye. When just deposited, it is perfectlytransparent. These hatch in eight or ten days,gradually absorb their gelatinous surroundings, andthe tiny tadpoles issue forth.

In the city, even before the shop-windows havecaught the inspiration, spring is heralded by the silverpoplars, which line all the streets and avenues. Aftera few mild, sunshiny March days, you suddenly perceivea change has come over the trees. Their topshave a less naked look. If the weather continueswarm, a single day will work wonders. Presentlythe tree will be one vast plume of gray, downy tassels,while not the least speck of green foliage is visible.The first week in April these long mimic caterpillarslie all about the streets and fill the gutters.

The approach of spring is also indicated by thecrows and buzzards, which rapidly multiply in the environsof the city, and grow bold and demonstrative.The crows are abundant here all winter, but are notvery noticeable except as they pass high in air to andfrom their winter-quarters in the Virginia woods.Early in the morning, as soon as it is light enough todiscern them, there they are, streaming eastwardacross the sky, now in loose, scattered flocks, now inthick, dense masses, then singly and in pairs or triplets,but all setting in one direction, probably to thewaters of Eastern Maryland. Toward night they beginto return, flying in the same manner, and direct[152]ingtheir course to the wooded heights on the Potomac,west of the city. In spring these diurnal massmovements cease; the clan breaks up, the rookery isabandoned, and the birds scatter broadcast over theland. This seems to be the course everywhere pursued.One would think that, when food was scarcest,the policy of separating into small bands or pairs, anddispersing over a wide country, would prevail, as afew might subsist where a larger number would starve.The truth is, however, that in winter, food can be hadonly in certain clearly defined districts and tracts, asalong rivers and the shores of bays and lakes.

A few miles north of Newburg, on the Hudson, thecrows go into winter-quarters in the same manner,flying south in the morning and returning again atnight, sometimes hugging the hills so close during astrong wind, as to expose themselves to the clubs andstones of school-boys ambushed behind trees andfences. The belated ones, that come laboring alongjust at dusk, are often so overcome by the long journeyand the strong current, that they seem almost onthe point of sinking down whenever the wind or arise in the ground calls upon them for an extra effort.

The turkey-buzzards are noticeable about Washingtonas soon as the season begins to open, sailingleisurely along two or three hundred feet over head,or sweeping low over some common or open space,where, perchance, a dead puppy or pig or fowl hasbeen thrown. Half a dozen will sometimes alightabout some such object out on the commons, and with[153]their broad dusky wings lifted up to their full extent,threaten and chase each other, while perhaps one ortwo are feeding. Their wings are very large andflexible, and the slightest motion of them, while thebird stands upon the ground, suffices to lift its feetclear. Their movements when in air are very majesticand beautiful to the eye, being in every respectidentical with those of our common hen or red-tailedhawk. They sail along in the same calm, effortless,interminable manner, and sweep around in the sameample spirals. The shape of their wings and tail, indeedtheir entire effect against the sky, except in sizeand color, is very nearly the same as that of the hawkmentioned. A dozen at a time may often be seenhigh in air, amusing themselves by sailing serenelyround and round in the same circle.

They are less active and vigilant than the hawk;never poise themselves on the wing, never dive andgambol in the air, and never swoop down upon theirprey; unlike the hawks also, they appear to have noenemies. The crow fights the hawk, and the king-birdand crow-blackbird fight the crow; but neithertakes any notice of the buzzard. He excites theenmity of none, for the reason that he molests none.The crow has an old grudge against the hawk, becausethe hawk robs the crow’s nest, and carries offhis young; the king-bird’s quarrel with the crow isupon the same grounds. But the buzzard never attackslive game, or feeds upon new flesh when oldcan be had.[154]

In May, like the crows, they nearly all disappearvery suddenly, probably to their breeding haunts nearthe sea-shore. Do the males separate from the femalesat this time, and go by themselves? At anyrate, in July I discovered that a large number ofbuzzards roosted in some woods near Rock Creek,about a mile from the city limits; and, as they donot nest anywhere in this vicinity, I thought theymight be males. I happened to be detained late inthe woods, watching the nest of a flying squirrel, whenthe buzzards, just after sundown, began to come byones and twos and alight in the trees near me. Presentlythey came in greater numbers, but from thesame direction flapping low over the woods, and takingup their position in the middle branches. Onalighting, each one would blow very audibly throughhis nose, just as a cow does when she lies down; thisis the only sound I have ever heard the buzzardmake. They would then stretch themselves after themanner of turkeys, and walk along the limbs. Sometimesa decayed branch would break under the weightof two or three, when, with a great flapping, theywould take up new positions. They continued tocome till it was quite dark, and all the trees aboutme were full. I began to feel a little nervous, butkept my place. After it was entirely dark and allwas still, I gathered a large pile of dry leaves andkindled it with a match, to see what they would thinkof a fire. Not a sound was heard till the pile ofleaves was in full blaze, when instantaneously every[155]buzzard started. I thought the tree-tops were comingdown upon me, so great was the uproar. Butthe woods were soon cleared, and the loathsome packdisappeared in the night.

About the first of June I saw numbers of buzzardssailing around over the great Falls of the Potomac.

A glimpse of the birds usually found here in thelatter part of winter may be had in the following extract,which I take from my diary under date of February4th:—

A month later, March 4th, is this note:—

Among the first birds that make their appearancein Washington, is the crow-blackbird. He may comeany time after the 1st of March. The birds congregatein large flocks, and frequent groves and parks,alternately swarming in the tree-tops and filling theair with their sharp jangle, and alighting on theground in quest of food, their polished coats glisteningin the sun from very blackness, as they walk[158]about. There is evidently some music in the soulof this bird at this season, though he makes a sadfailure in getting it out. His voice always sounds asif he were laboring under a severe attack of influenza,though a large flock of them heard at a distanceon a bright afternoon of early spring, producean effect not unpleasing. The air is filled withcrackling, splintering, spurting, semi-musical sounds,—whichare like pepper and salt to the ear.

All parks and public grounds about the city arefull of blackbirds. They are especially plentiful inthe trees about the White House, breeding there andwaging war on all other birds. The occupants ofone of the offices in the west wing of the Treasuryone day had their attention attracted by some objectstriking violently against one of the window-panes.Looking up, they beheld a crow-blackbird pausing inmid-air, a few feet from the window. On the broadstone window-sill lay the quivering form of a purplefinch. The little tragedy was easily read. Theblackbird had pursued the finch with such murderousviolence, that the latter, in its desperate efforts to escape,had sought refuge in the Treasury. The forceof the concussion against the heavy plate-glass of thewindow had killed the poor thing instantly. Thepursuer, no doubt astonished at the sudden and noveltermination of the career of its victim, hovered amoment, as if to be sure of what had happened, andmade off.

(It is not unusual for birds, when thus threatened[159]with destruction by their natural enemy, to becomeso terrified as to seek safety in the presence of man.I was once startled, while living in a country village,to behold, on entering my room at noon, oneOctober day, a quail sitting upon my bed. The affrightedand bewildered bird instantly started for theopen window, into which it had no doubt been drivenby a hawk.)

The crow-blackbird has all the natural cunning ofhis prototype, the crow. In one of the inner courtsof the Treasury building there is a fountain with severaltrees growing near. By midsummer, the blackbirdsbecome so bold as to venture within this court.Various fragments of food, tossed from the surroundingwindows, reward their temerity. When a crustof dry bread defies their beaks, they have been seento drop it into the water, and when it had becomesoaked sufficiently, to take it out again.

They build a nest of coarse sticks and mud, thewhole burden of the enterprise seeming to devolveupon the female. For several successive morningsjust after sunrise, I used to notice a pair of them flyingto and fro in the air above me, as I hoed in thegarden, directing their course, on the one hand, to amarshy piece of ground about half a mile distant,and disappearing on their return, among the treesabout the Capitol. Returning, the female always hadher beak loaded with building material, while themale, carrying nothing, seemed to act as her escort,flying a little above and in advance of her, and utter[160]ingnow and then his husky, discordant note. As Itossed a lump of earth up at them the frightenedmother-bird dropped her mortar, and the pair skurriedaway, much put out. Later, they avenged themselvesby pilfering my cherries.

The most mischievous enemies of the cherries,however, here, as at the North, are the cedar waxwings,or “cherry-birds.” How quickly they spy outthe tree! Long before the cherry begins to turn,they are around, alert and cautious. In small flocksthey circle about, high in air, uttering their fine note,or plunge quickly into the tops of remote trees.Day by day they approach nearer and nearer, reconnoitringthe premises, and watching the growing fruit.Hardly have the green lobes turned a red cheek tothe sun, before their beaks have scarred it. At firstthey approach the tree stealthily, on the side turnedfrom the house, diving quickly into the branches inones and twos, while the main flock is ambushed insome shade tree not far off. They are most apt tocommit their depredations very early in the morningand on cloudy, rainy days. As the cherries growsweeter the birds grow bolder, till, from throwingtufts of grass, one has to throw stones in good earnest,or lose all his fruit. In June they disappear,following the cherries to the north, where by July,they are nesting in the orchards and cedar groves.

Among the permanent summer residents here (onemight say city residents, as they seem more abundantin town than out), the yellow warbler or sum[161]meryellow-bird is conspicuous. He comes about themiddle of April, and seems particularly attached tothe silver poplars. In every street, and all day long,one may hear his thin, sharp warble. When nesting,the female comes about the yard, pecking at theclothes-line, and gathering up bits of thread to weaveinto her nest.

Swallows appear in Washington from the first tothe middle of April. They come twittering along inthe way so familiar to every New England boy.The barn swallow is heard first, followed in a day ortwo by the squeaking of the cliff-swallow. Thechimney-swallows, or swifts, are not far behind, andremain here, in large numbers, the whole season.The purple martins appear in April, as they passnorth, and again in July and August on their return,accompanied by their young.

The national capital is situated in such a vastspread of wild, wooded, or semi-cultivated country,and is in itself so open and spacious, with its parksand large government reservations, that an unusualnumber of birds find their way into it in the courseof the season. Rare warblers, as the black-poll, theyellow red-poll, and the bay-breasted, pausing in Mayon their northward journey, pursue their insect gamein the very heart of the town.

I have heard the veery-thrush in the trees nearthe White House; and one rainy April morning,about six o’clock, he came and blew his soft, mellowflute in a pear-tree in my garden. The tones had all[162]the sweetness and wildness they have when heard inJune in our deep Northern forests. A day or twoafterward, in the same tree, I heard for the first timethe song of the golden-crowned wren, or kinglet,—thesame liquid bubble and cadence which characterizethe wren-songs generally, but much finer and moredelicate than the song of any other variety known tome; beginning in a fine, round, needle-like note, andrising into a full, sustained warble;—a strain, on thewhole, remarkably exquisite and pleasing, the singerbeing all the while as busy as a bee, catching somekind of insects. If the ruby-crowned sings as well(and no doubt it does), Audubon’s enthusiasm concerningits song, as he heard it in the wilds of Labrador,is not a bit extravagant. The song of the kingletis the only characteristic that allies it to the wrens.

The Capitol grounds, with their fine large trees ofmany varieties draw many kinds of birds. In therear of the building the extensive grounds are peculiarlyattractive, being a gentle slope, warm and protected,and quite thickly wooded. Here in earlyspring I go to hear the robins, cat-birds, blackbirds,wrens, etc. In March the white-throated and white-crownedsparrows may be seen, hopping about onthe flower-beds or peering slyly from the evergreens.The robin hops about freely upon the grass, notwithstandingthe keeper’s large-lettered warning, and atintervals, and especially at sunset, carols from thetree-tops his loud hearty strain.

The king-bird and orchard starling remain the[163]whole season, and breed in the tree-tops. The rich,copious song of the starling may be heard there allthe forenoon. The song of some birds is like scarlet,—strong,intense, emphatic. This is the characterof the orchard starlings; also of the tanagers andthe various grossbeaks. On the other hand, thesongs of other birds, as of certain of the thrushes, suggeststhe serene blue of the upper sky.

In February, one may hear, in the Smithsoniangrounds, the song of the fox-sparrow. It is a strong,richly modulated whistle,—the finest sparrow note Ihave ever heard.

A curious and charming sound may be heard herein May. You are walking forth in the soft morningair, when suddenly there comes a burst of bobolinkmelody from some mysterious source. A score ofthroats pour out one brief, hilarious, tuneful jubilee,and are suddenly silent. There is a strange remoteness,and fascination about it. Presently you discoverits source skyward, and a quick eye will detectthe gay band pushing northward. They seem toscent the fragrant meadows afar off, and shout forthsnatches of their songs in anticipation.

The bobolink does not breed in the District, butusually pauses in his journey and feeds during theday in the grass-lands north of the city. When theseason is backward, they tarry a week or ten days,singing freely and appearing quite at home. Inlarge flocks they search over every inch of ground,and at intervals hover on the wing or alight in the[164]tree-tops, all pouring forth their gladness at once,and filling the air with a multitudinous musicalclamor.

They continue to pass, traveling by night, andfeeding by day, till after the middle of May, whenthey cease. In September, with numbers greatly increased,they are on their way back. I am first advisedof their return by hearing their calls at nightas they fly over the city. On certain nights thesound becomes quite noticeable. I have awakenedin the middle of the night, and, through the openwindow, as I lay in bed, heard their faint notes. Thewarblers begin to return about the same time, andare clearly distinguished by their timidyeaps. Ondark cloudy nights the birds seem confused by thelights of the city, and apparently wander aboutabove it.

In the spring the same curious incident is repeated,though but few voices can be identified. I make outthe snow-bird, the bobolink, the warblers, and on twonights during the early part of May I heard veryclearly the call of the sandpipers.

Instead of the bobolink, one encounters here, inthe June meadows, the black-throated bunting, a birdclosely related to the sparrows, and a very persistent,if not a very musical songster. He perches upon thefences and upon the trees by the roadside, and,spreading his tail, gives forth his harsh strain, whichmay be roughly worded thus:fscp fscp,fee fee fee.Like all sounds associated with early summer, it soon[165]has a charm to the ear quite independent of its intrinsicmerits.

Outside of the city limits, the great point of interestto the rambler and lover of nature is the RockCreek region. Rock Creek is a large, rough, rapidstream, which has its source in the interior of Maryland,and flows into the Potomac between Washingtonand Georgetown. Its course, for five or sixmiles out of Washington, is marked by great diversityof scenery. Flowing in a deep valley, whichnow and then becomes a wild gorge with overhangingrocks and high precipitous headlands, for themost part wooded; here reposing in long, darkreaches, there sweeping and hurrying around a suddenbend or over a rocky bed; receiving at short intervalssmall runs and spring rivulets, which open upvistas and outlooks to the right and left, of the mostcharming description,—Rock Creek has an abundanceof all the elements that make up not only pleasing,but wild and rugged scenery. There is, perhaps,not another city in the Union that has on its verythreshold so much natural beauty and grandeur, suchas men seek for in remote forests and mountains. Afew touches of art would convert this whole region,extending from Georgetown to what is known asCrystal Springs, not more than two miles from thepresent State Department, into a park unequaled byanything in the world. There are passages betweenthese two points as wild and savage, and apparentlyas remote from civilization, as anything one meets[166]with in the mountain sources of the Hudson or theDelaware.

One of the tributaries to Rock Creek within thislimit is called Piny Branch. It is a small, noisybrook, flowing through a valley of great naturalbeauty and picturesqueness, shaded nearly all the wayby woods of oak, chestnut, and beech, and aboundingin dark recesses and hidden retreats.

I must not forget to mention the many springs withwhich this whole region is supplied, each the centreof some wild nook, perhaps the head of a little valleyone or two hundred yards long, through which onecatches a glimpse, or hears the voice of the main creekrushing along below.

My walks tend in this direction more frequentlythan in any other. Here the boys go too, troops ofthem, of a Sunday, to bathe and prowl around, andindulge the semi-barbarous instincts that still lurkwithin them. Life, in all its forms, is most abundantnear water. The rank vegetation nurtures the insects,and the insects draw the birds. The first weekin March, on some southern slope where the sunshinelies warm and long, I usually find the hepatica inbloom, though with scarcely an inch of stalk. In thespring runs the skunk cabbage pushes its pike upthrough the mould, the flower appearing first, as ifNature had made a mistake.

It is not till about the 1st of April that many wild-flowersmay be looked for. By this time the hepatica,anemone, saxifrage, arbutus, houstonia, and blood[167]rootmay be counted on. A week later, the claytonia,or spring beauty, water-cress, violets, a low buttercup,vetch, corydalis, and potentilla appear. These comprisemost of the April flowers, and may be found ingreat profusion in the Rock Creek and Piny Branchregion.

In each little valley or spring run some one speciespredominates. I know invariably where to look forthe first liverwort, and where the largest and finestmay be found. On a dry, gravelly, half-wooded hill-slopethe birds-foot violet grows in great abundance,and is sparse in neighboring districts. This flower,which I never saw in the North, is the most beautifuland showy of all the violets, and calls forth rapturousapplause from all persons who visit the woods. Itgrows in little groups and clusters, and bears a closeresemblance to the pansies of the gardens. Its twopurple, velvety petals seem to fall over tiny shoulderslike a rich cape.

On the same slope, and on no other, I go about the1st of May for lupine, or sun-dial, which makes theground look blue from a little distance; on the other,or northern side of the slope, the arbutus, during thefirst half of April, perfumes the wild-wood air. Afew paces farther on, in the bottom of a little springrun, the mandrake shades the ground with its miniatureumbrellas. It begins to push its green finger-pointsup through the ground by the 1st of April, butis not in bloom till the 1st of May. It has a singlewhite, wax-like flower, with a sweet, sickish odor,[168]growing immediately beneath its broad leafy top. Bythe same run grow water-cresses and two kinds ofanemones,—the Pennsylvania and the grove anemone.The bloodroot is very common at the foot of almostevery warm slope in the Rock Creek woods, and,where the wind has tucked it up well with the coverlidof dry leaves, makes its appearance almost as soonas the liverwort. It is singular how little warmth isnecessary to encourage these earlier flowers to putforth! It would seem as if some influence must comeon in advance underground and get things ready, sothat when the outside temperature is propitious, theyat once venture out. I have found the bloodrootwhen it was still freezing two or three nights in theweek; and have known at least three varieties ofearly flowers to be buried in eight inches of snow.

Another abundant flower in the Rock Creek regionis the spring beauty. Like most others it grows instreaks. A few paces from where your attention ismonopolized by violets or arbutus, it is arrested bythe claytonia, growing in such profusion that it is impossibleto set the foot down without crushing theflowers. Only the forenoon walker sees them in alltheir beauty, as later in the day their eyes are closed,and their pretty heads drooped in slumber. In onlyone locality do I find the ladies’-slipper,—a yellowvariety. The flowers that overleap all bounds in thissection are the houstonias. By the 1st of April theyare very noticeable in warm, damp places along theborders of the woods and in half-cleared fields, but by[169]May these localities are clouded with them. Theybecome visible from the highway across wide fields,and look like little puffs of smoke clinging close tothe ground.

On the 1st of May I go to the Rock Creek or PinyBranch region to hear the wood-thrush. I alwaysfind him by this date leisurely chanting his loftystrain; other thrushes are seen now also, or evenearlier, as Wilson’s, the olive-backed, the hermit,—thetwo latter silent, but the former musical.

Occasionally in the earlier part of May I find thewoods literally swarming with warblers, exploringevery branch and leaf, from the tallest tulip to thelowest spice-bush, so urgent is the demand for foodduring their long Northern journeys. At night theyare up and away. Some varieties, as the blue yellow-back,the chestnut-sided, and the Blackburnian, duringtheir brief stay, sing nearly as freely as in their breedinghaunts. For two or three years I have chancedto meet little companies of the bay-breasted warbler,searching for food in an oak wood, on an elevatedpiece of ground. They kept well up among thebranches, were rather slow in their movements, andevidently disposed to tarry but a short time.

The summer residents here, belonging to this classof birds, are few. I have observed the black andwhite creeping warbler, the Kentucky warbler, theworm-eating warbler, the redstart, and the gnatcatcher,breeding near Rock Creek.

Of these the Kentucky warbler is by far the most[170]interesting, though quite rare. I meet with him inlow, damp places in the woods, usually on the steepsides of some little run. I hear at intervals a clear,strong, bell-like whistle or warble, and presently catcha glimpse of the bird as he jumps up from the groundto take an insect or worm from the under side of aleaf. This is his characteristic movement. He belongsto the class of ground warblers, and his rangeis very low, indeed lower than that of any otherspecies with which I am acquainted. He is on theground nearly all the time, moving rapidly along,taking spiders and bugs, overturning leaves, peepingunder sticks and into crevices, and every now andthen leaping up eight or ten inches, to take his gamefrom beneath some overhanging leaf or branch. Thuseach species has its range more or less marked. Drawa line three feet from the ground, and you mark theusual limit of the Kentucky warbler’s quest for food.Six or eight feet higher bounds the usual range ofsuch birds as the worm-eating warbler, the mourningground warbler, the Maryland yellow-throat. Thelower branches of the higher growths and the higherbranches of the lower growths are plainly preferredby the black-throated blue-backed warbler, in thoselocalities where he is found. The thrushes feed mostlyon and near the ground, while some of the vireos andthe true fly-catchers explore the highest branches.But the Sylviadæ, as a rule, are all partial to thick,rank undergrowths.

The Kentucky warbler is a large bird for the genus,[171]and quite notable in appearance. His back is clearolive-green; his throat and breast bright yellow. Astill more prominent feature is a black streak on theside of the face, extending down the neck.

Another familiar bird here, which I never met within the North, is the gnatcatcher, called by Audubonthe blue-gray fly-catching warbler. In form and mannerit seems almost a duplicate of the cat-bird, on asmall scale. It mews like a young kitten, erects itstail, flirts, droops its wings, goes through a variety ofmotions when disturbed by your presence, and inmany ways recalls its dusky prototype. Its colorabove is a light, gray blue, gradually fading till itbecomes white on the breast and belly. It is a verysmall bird, and has a long, facile, slender tail. Itssong is a lisping, chattering, incoherent warble, nowfaintly reminding one of the goldfinch, now of a miniaturecat-bird, then of a tiny yellow-hammer, havingmuch variety, but no unity, and little cadence.

Another bird which has interested me here is theLouisiana water-thrush, called also large-billed water-thrush,and water-wagtail. It is one of a trio of birdswhich has confused the ornithologists much. Theother two species are the well-known golden-crownedthrush (Sciurus aurocapillus) or wood-wagtail, andthe Northern, or small, water-thrush (Sciurus noveboracensis).

The present species, though not abundant, is frequentlymet with along Rock Creek. It is a veryquick, vivacious bird, and belongs to the class of ec[172]staticsingers. I have seen a pair of these thrushes,on a bright May day, flying to and fro between twospring runs, alighting at intermediate points, the malebreaking out into one of the most exuberant, unpremeditatedstrains I ever heard. Its song is a suddenburst, beginning with three or four clear round notesmuch resembling certain tones of the clarionet, andterminating in a rapid, intricate warble.

This bird resembles a thrush only in its color,which is olive-brown above, and grayish-white beneath,with speckled throat and breast. Its habits,manners, and voice suggest those of the lark.

I seldom go the Rock Creek route without beingamused and sometimes annoyed by the yellow-breastedchat. This bird also has something of the mannersand build of the cat-bird, yet he is truly an original.The cat-bird is mild and feminine compared with thisrollicking polyglot. His voice is very loud and strongand quite uncanny. No sooner have you penetratedhis retreat, which is usually a thick undergrowth inlow, wet localities, near the woods or in old fields,than he begins his serenade, which for the variety,grotesqueness, and uncouthness of the notes, is notunlike a countryskimmerton. If one passes directlyalong, the bird may scarcely break the silence. Butpause a while or loiter quietly about, and your presencestimulates him to do his best. He peeps quizzicallyat you from beneath the branches, and gives a sharpfeline mew. In a moment more he says very distinctly,who, who. Then in rapid succession follow[173]notes the most discordant that ever broke the sylvansilence. Now he barks like a puppy, then quackslike a duck, then rattles like a kingfisher, then squallslike a fox, then caws like a crow, then mews like acat. Now he calls as if to be heard a long way off,then changes his key, as if addressing the spectator.Though very shy, and carefully keeping himselfscreened when you show any disposition to get a betterview, he will presently, if you remain quiet, ascenda twig, or hop out on a branch in plain sight, lop histail, droop his wings, cock his head, and become verymelodramatic. In less than half a minute he dartsinto the bushes again, and again tunes up, no Frenchmanrolling his r’s so fluently.C-r-r-r-r-r,—whrr,—that’sit,—chee,—quack, cluck,—yit-yit-yit,—nowhit it,—tr-r-r-r,—when,—caw, caw,—cut,cut,—tea-boy,—who, who,—mew, mew,—and so ontill you are tired of listening. Observing one veryclosely one day, I discovered that he was limited tosix notes or changes, which he went through in regularorder, scarcely varying a note in a dozen repetitions.Sometimes, when a considerable distance off,he will fly down to have a nearer view of you. Andsuch a curious, expressive flight,—legs extended,head lowered, wings rapidly vibrating, the wholeaction piquant and droll!

The chat is an elegant bird both in form and color.Its plumage is remarkably firm and compact. Colorabove, light olive-green; beneath, bright yellow;beak, black and strong.[174]

The cardinal grossbeak, or Virginia redbird, isquite common in the same localities, though more inclinedto seek the woods. It is much sought afterby bird-fanciers, and by boy gunners, and consequentlyis very shy. This bird suggests a Britishred-coat; his heavy, pointed beak, his high cockade,the black stripe down his face, the expression ofweight and massiveness about his head and neck, andhis erect attitude, give him a decided soldierlike appearance;and there is something of the tone of thefife in his song or whistle, while his ordinary note,when disturbed, is like the clink of a sabre. Yesterday,as I sat indolently swinging in the loop of agrape-vine, beneath a thick canopy of green branches,in a secluded nook by a spring run, one of these birdscame pursuing some kind of insect, but a few feetabove me. He hopped about, now and then utteringhis sharp note, till, some moth or beetle trying toescape, he broke down through the cover almostwhere I sat. The effect was like a firebrand comingdown through the branches. Instantly catching sightof me, he darted away much alarmed. The female istinged with brown, and shows but little red exceptwhen she takes flight.

By far the most abundant species of woodpeckerabout Washington is the red-headed. It is morecommon than the robin. Not in the deep woods, butamong the scattered dilapidated oaks and groves, onthe hills and in the fields, I hear, almost every day,his uncanny note,ktr-rr, ktr-r-r, like that of some[175]larger tree-toad, proceeding from an oak grove justbeyond the boundary. He is a strong scented fellow,and very tough. Yet how beautiful, as he flits aboutthe open woods, connecting the trees by a gentle arcof crimson and white! This is another bird with amilitary look. His deliberate, dignified ways, and hisbright uniform of red, white, and steel-blue, bespeakhim an officer of rank.

Another favorite beat of mine is northeast of thecity. Looking from the Capitol in this direction,scarcely more than a mile distant, you see a broadgreen hill-slope, falling very gently, and spreadinginto a large expanse of meadow-land. The summit,if so gentle a swell of greensward may be said to havea summit, is covered with a grove of large oaks; and,sweeping back out of sight like a mantle, the frontline of a thick forest bounds the sides. This emeraldlandscape is seen from a number of points in the city.Looking along New York Avenue from NorthernLiberty Market, the eye glances, as it were, from thered clay of the street, and alights upon this freshscene in the distance. It is a standing invitation tothe citizen to come forth and be refreshed. As I turnfrom some hot, hard street, how inviting it looks! Ibathe my eyes in it as in a fountain. Sometimestroops of cattle are seen grazing upon it. In Junethe gathering of the hay may be witnessed. Whenthe ground is covered with snow, numerous stacks, orclusters of stacks, are still left for the eye to contemplate.[176]

The woods which clothe the east side of this hill,and sweep away to the east, are among the mostcharming to be found in the District. The maingrowth is oak and chestnut, with a thin sprinklingof laurel, azelia, and dogwood. It is the only localityin which I have found the dog-tooth violet in bloom,and the best place I know of to gather arbutus. Onone slope the ground is covered with moss, throughwhich the arbutus trails its glories.

Emerging from these woods toward the city, onesees the white dome of the Capitol soaring over thegreen swell of earth immediately in front, and liftingits four thousand tons of iron gracefully and lightlyinto the air. Of all the sights in Washington, thatwhich will survive longest in my memory is thevision of the great dome thus rising cloud-like abovethe hills.

Pewee

[179]

Cardinal Grossbeak.

BIRCH BROWSINGS.

The region of which I am about to speak lies inthe southern part of the State of New York, andcomprises parts of three counties,—Ulster, Sullivan,and Delaware. It is drained by tributaries of boththe Hudson and Delaware, and, next to the Adirondacsection, contains more wild land than any othertract in the State. The mountains which traverse it,and impart to it its severe northern climate, belongproperly to the Catskill range. On some maps ofthe State they are called the Pine Mountains, thoughwith obvious local impropriety, as pine, so far as I[180]have observed, is nowhere found upon them. “BirchMountains” would be a more characteristic name, ason their summits birch is the prevailing tree. Theyare the natural home of the black and yellow birch,which grow here to unusual size. On their sidesbeech and maple abound; while mantling their lowerslopes, and darkening the valleys, hemlock formerlyenticed the lumberman and tanner. Except in remoteor inaccessible localities, the latter tree is nowalmost never found. In Shandaken and along theEsopus, it is about the only product the countryyielded, or is likely to yield. Tanneries by the scorehave arisen and flourished upon the bark, and someof them still remain. Passing through that regionthe present season, I saw that the few patches ofhemlock that still lingered high up on the sides ofthe mountains were being felled and peeled, the freshwhite bowls of the trees, just stripped of their bark,being visible a long distance.

Among these mountains there are no sharp peaks,or abrupt declivities, as in a volcanic region, but long,uniform ranges, heavily timbered to their summits,and delighting the eye with vast, undulating horizonlines. Looking south from the heights about thehead of the Delaware, one sees, twenty miles away,a continual succession of blue ranges, one behind theother. If a few large trees are missing on the skyline, one can see the break a long distance off.

Approaching this region from the Hudson Riverside, you cross a rough, rolling stretch of country,[181]skirting the base of the Catskills, which from a pointnear Saugerties sweep inland; after a drive of a fewhours you are within the shadow of a high, boldmountain, which forms a sort of but-end to this partof the range, and which is simply called High Point.To the east and southeast it slopes down rapidly tothe plain, and looks defiance toward the Hudson,twenty miles distant; in the rear of it, and radiatingfrom it west and northwest, are numerous smallerranges, backing up, as it were, this haughty chief.

From this point through to Pennsylvania, a distanceof nearly one hundred miles, stretches the tractof which I speak. It is a belt of country from twentyto thirty miles wide, bleak and wild, and but sparselysettled. The traveler on the New York and ErieRailroad gets a glimpse of it.

Many cold, rapid trout streams, which flow to allpoints of the compass, have their source in the smalllakes and copious mountain springs of this region.The names of some of them are Mill Brook, DryBrook, Willewemack, Beaver Kill, Elk Bush Kill,Panther Kill, Neversink, Big Ingin, and Callikoon.Beaver Kill is the main outlet on the west. It joinsthe Delaware in the wilds of Hancock. The Neversinklays open the region to the south, and also joinsthe Delaware. To the east, various Kills unite withthe Big Ingin to form the Esopus, which flows intothe Hudson. Dry Brook and Mill Brook, both famoustrout streams, from twelve to fifteen miles long,find their way into the Delaware.[182]

The east or Pepacton branch of the Delaware itselftakes its rise near here, in a deep pass betweenthe mountains. I have many times drunk at a copiousspring by the roadside, where the infant river first seesthe light. A few yards beyond, the water flows theother way, directing its course through the Bear Killand Schoharie Kill into the Mohawk.

Such game and wild animals as still linger in theState, are found in this region. Bears occasionallymake havoc among the sheep. The clearings at thehead of a valley are oftenest the scene of their depredations.

Wild pigeons, in immense numbers, used to breedregularly in the valley of the Big Ingin and aboutthe head of the Neversink. The tree-tops for mileswere full of their nests, while the going and comingof the old birds kept up a constant din. But thegunners soon got wind of it, and from far and nearwere wont to pour in during the spring, and toslaughter both old and young. This practice soonhad the effect of driving the pigeons all away, andnow only a few pairs breed in these woods.

Deer are still met with, though they are becomingscarcer every year. Last winter near seventy headwere killed on the Beaver Kill alone. I heard ofone wretch, who, finding the deer snowbound, walkedup to them on his snowshoes, and one morning beforebreakfast slaughtered six, leaving their carcasseswhere they fell. There are traditions of personshaving been smitten blind or senseless when about to[183]commit some heinous offense, but the fact that thisvillain escaped without some such visitation throwsdiscredit on all such stories.

The great attraction, however, of this region, is thebrook trout, with which the streams and lakes abound.The water is of excessive coldness, the thermometerindicating 44° and 45° in the springs, and 47° or48° in the smaller streams. The trout are generallysmall, but in the more remote branches their numberis very great. In such localities the fish are quiteblack, but in the lakes they are of a lustre and brilliancyimpossible to describe.

These waters have been much visited of late yearsby fishing parties, and the name of Beaver Kill isnow a potent word among New York sportsmen.

One lake, in the wilds of Callikoon, abounds in apeculiar species of white sucker, which is of excellentquality. It is taken only in spring, during thespawning season, at the time “when the leaves areas big as a chipmunk’s ears.” The fish run up thesmall streams and inlets, beginning at nightfall, andcontinuing till the channel is literally packed withthem, and every inch of space is occupied. Thefishermen pounce upon them at such times, and scoopthem up by the bushel, usually wading right into theliving mass and landing the fish with their hands.A small party will often secure in this manner awagon load of fish. Certain conditions of theweather, as a warm south or southwest wind, areconsidered most favorable for the fish to run.[184]

Though familiar all my life with the outskirts ofthis region, I have only twice dipped into its wilderportions. Once in 1860 a friend and myself tracedthe Beaver Kill to its source, and encamped by BalsamLake. A cold and protracted rain-storm comingon, we were obliged to leave the woods before wewere ready. Neither of us will soon forget thattramp by an unknown route over the mountains, encumberedas we were with a hundred and one superfluitieswhich we had foolishly brought along to solaceourselves with in the woods; nor that halt on thesummit, where we cooked and ate our fish in a drizzlingrain; nor, again, that rude log-house, with itssweet hospitality, which we reached just at nightfallon Mill Brook.

In 1868 a party of three of us set out for a brieftrouting excursion, to a body of water called Thomas’sLake, situated in the same chain of mountains. Onthis excursion, more particularly than on any otherI have ever undertaken, I was taught how poor anIndian I should make, and what a ridiculous figure aparty of men may cut in the woods when the way isuncertain and the mountains high.

We left our team at a farm-house near the head ofthe Mill Brook, one June afternoon, and with knapsackson our shoulders struck into the woods at thebase of the mountain, hoping to cross the range thatintervened between us and the lake by sunset. Weengaged a good-natured, but rather indolent youngman, who happened to be stopping at the house, and[185]who had carried a knapsack in the Union armies, topilot us a couple of miles into the woods so as toguard against any mistakes at the outset. It seemedthe easiest thing in the world to find the lake. Thelay of the land was so simple, according to accounts,that I felt sure I could go to it in the dark. “Go upthis little brook to its source on the side of the mountain,”they said. “The valley that contains the lakeheads directly on the other side.” What could beeasier! But on a little further inquiry, they said weshould “bear well to the left” when we reached thetop of the mountain. This opened the doors again;“bearing well to the left” was an uncertain performancein strange woods. We might bear so well tothe left that it would bring us ill. But why bear tothe left at all, if the lake was directly opposite?Well, not quite opposite; a little to the left. Therewere two or three other valleys that headed in nearthere. We could easily find the right one. But tomake assurance doubly sure, we engaged a guide, asstated, to give us a good start, and go with us beyondthe bearing-to-the-left point. He had been to thelake the winter before and knew the way. Ourcourse, the first half-hour, was along an obscurewood-road which had been used for drawing ash logsoff the mountain in winter. There was some hemlock,but more maple and birch. The woods weredense and free from underbrush, the ascent gradual.Most of the way we kept the voice of the creek inour ear on the right. I approached it once, and[186]found it swarming with trout. The water was ascold as one ever need wish. After a while the ascentgrew steeper, the creek became a mere rill that issuedfrom beneath loose, moss-covered rocks and stones,and with much labor and puffing we drew ourselvesup the rugged declivity. Every mountain has itssteepest point, which is usually near the summit, inkeeping, I suppose, with the providence that makesthe darkest hour just before day. It is steep, steeper,steepest, till you emerge on the smooth, level orgently rounded space at the top, which the old ice-godspolished off so long ago.

We found this mountain had a hollow in its backwhere the ground was soft and swampy. Some giganticferns, which we passed through, came nearlyto our shoulders. We passed also several patches ofswamp honeysuckles, red with blossoms.

Our guide at length paused on a big rock wherethe land began to dip down the other way, and concludedthat he had gone far enough, and that wewould now have no difficulty in finding the lake. “Itmust lie right down there,” he said, pointing with hishand. But it was plain that he was not quite sure inhis own mind. He had several times wavered in hiscourse, and had shown considerable embarrassmentwhen bearing to the left across the summit. Stillwe thought little of it. We were full of confidence,and, bidding him adieu, plunged down the mountain-side,following a spring run that we had no doubt ledto the lake.[187]

In these woods, which had a southeastern exposure,I first began to notice the wood-thrush. Incoming up the other side I had not seen a featherof any kind, or heard a note. Now the goldentrillide-de of the wood-thrush sounded through thesilent woods. While looking for a fish-pole abouthalf-way down the mountain, I saw a thrush’s nest ina little sapling about ten feet from the ground.

After continuing our descent till our only guide,the spring run, became quite a trout brook, and itstiny murmur a loud brawl, we began to peer anxiouslythrough the trees for a glimpse of the lake, orfor some conformation of the land that would indicateits proximity. An object which we vaguely discernedin looking under the near trees and over the moredistant ones, proved, on further inspection, to be apatch of ploughed ground. Presently we made out aburnt fallow near it. This was a wet blanket to ourenthusiasm. No lake, no sport, no trout for supperthat night. The rather indolent young man hadeither played us a trick, or, as seemed more likely,had missed the way. We were particularly anxiousto be at the lake between sundown and dark, as atthat time the trout jump most freely.

Pushing on, we soon emerged into a stumpy field,at the head of a steep valley, which swept aroundtoward the west. About two hundred rods below uswas a rude log-house, with smoke issuing from thechimney. A boy came out and moved toward thespring with a pail in his hand. We shouted to him,[188]when he turned and ran back into the house withoutpausing to reply. In a moment the whole familyhastily rushed into the yard, and turned their facestoward us. If we had come down their chimney, theycould not have seemed more astonished. Not makingout what they said, I went down to the house, andlearned to my chagrin that we were still on the MillBrook side, having crossed only a spur of the mountain.We had not borne sufficiently to the left, sothat the main range, which, at the point of crossing,suddenly breaks off to the southeast, still intervenedbetween us and the lake. We were about five miles,as the water runs, from the point of starting, and overtwo from the lake. We must go directly back to thetop of the range where the guide had left us, andthen, by keeping well to the left, we would soon cometo a line of marked trees, which would lead us to thelake. So turning upon our trail, we doggedly beganthe work of undoing what we had just done,—in allcases a disagreeable task, in this case a very laboriousone also. It was after sunset when we turned back,and before we had got half-way up the mountain itbegan to be quite dark. We were often obliged torest our packs against trees and take breath, whichmade our progress slow. Finally a halt was called,beside an immense flat rock which had paused in itsslide down the mountain, and we prepared to encampfor the night. A fire was built, the rock cleared off,a small ration of bread served out, our accoutrementshung up out of the way of the hedgehogs that were[189]supposed to infest the locality, and then we disposedourselves for sleep. If the owls or porcupines (andI think I heard one of the latter in the middle of thenight) reconnoitred our camp, they saw a buffalorobe spread upon a rock, with three old felt hats arrangedon one side, and three pairs of sorry-lookingcowhide boots protruding from the other.

When we lay down, there was apparently not amosquito in the woods; but the “no-see-ems,” asThoreau’s Indian aptly named the midges, soon foundus out, and after the fire had gone down annoyed usmuch. My hands and wrists suddenly began to smartand itch in a most unaccountable manner. My firstthought was that they had been poisoned in some way.Then the smarting extended to my neck and face,even to my scalp, when I began to suspect what wasthe matter. So wrapping myself up more thoroughly,and stowing my hands away as best I could, I triedto sleep, being some time behind my companions, whoappeared not to mind the “no-see-ems.” I was furtherannoyed by some little irregularity on my sideof the couch. The chambermaid had not beaten itup well. One huge lump refused to be mollified, andeach attempt to adapt it to some natural hollow inmy own body brought only a moment’s relief. Butat last I got the better of this also and slept. Latein the night I woke up, just in time to hear a golden-crownedthrush sing in a tree near by. It sang asloud and cheerily as at midday, and I thought myself,after all, quite in luck. Birds occasionally sing at[190]night, just as the cock crows. I have heard the hair-bird,and the note of the king-bird; and the ruffedgrouse frequently drums at night.

At the first faint signs of day, a wood-thrush sanga few rods below us. Then after a little delay, asthe gray light began to grow around, thrushes brokeout in full song in all parts of the woods. I thoughtI had never before heard them sing so sweetly. Sucha leisurely, golden chant!—it consoled us for all wehad undergone. It was the first thing in order,—theworms were safe till after this morning chorus.I judged that the birds roosted but a few feet fromthe ground. In fact, a bird in all cases roosts whereit builds, and the wood-thrush occupies, as it were,the first story of the woods.

There is something singular about the distributionof the wood-thrushes. At an earlier stage of my observationsI should have been much surprised at findingit in these woods. Indeed, I had stated in printon two occasions that the wood-thrush was not foundin the higher lands of the Catskills, but that the hermit-thrushand the veery, or Wilson’s thrush, werecommon. It turns out that this statement is onlyhalf true. The wood-thrush is found also, but ismuch more rare and secluded in its habits than eitherof the others, being seen only during the breedingseason on remote mountains, and then only on theireastern and southern slopes. I have never yet inthis region found the bird spending the season in thenear and familiar woods, which is directly contrary[191]to observations I have made in other parts of theState. So different are the habits of birds in differentlocalities.

As soon as it was fairly light we were up andready to resume our march. A small bit of bread-and-butterand a swallow or two of whiskey was allwe had for breakfast that morning. Our supply ofeach was very limited, and we were anxious to savea little of both, to relieve the diet of trout to whichwe looked forward.

At an early hour we reached the rock where wehad parted with the guide, and looked around us intothe dense, trackless woods with many misgivings.To strike out now on our own hook, where the waywas so blind and after the experience we had just hadwas a step not to be carelessly taken. The tops ofthese mountains are so broad, and a short distance inthe woods seems so far, that one is by no means masterof the situation after reaching the summit. Andthen there are so many spurs and offshoots andchanges of direction, added to the impossibility ofmaking any generalization by the aid of the eye, thatbefore one is aware of it he is very wide of his mark.

I remembered now that a young farmer of my acquaintancehad told me how he had made a long day’smarch through the heart of this region, without pathor guide of any kind, and had hit his mark squarely.He had been bark-peeling in Callikoon,—a famouscountry for bark,—and, having got enough of it, hedesired to reach his home on Dry Brook without[192]making the usual circuitous journey between the twoplaces. To do this necessitated a march of ten ortwelve miles across several ranges of mountains andthrough an unbroken forest,—a hazardous undertakingin which no one would join him. Even theold hunters who were familiar with the ground dissuadedhim and predicted the failure of his enterprise.But having made up his mind, he possessed himselfthoroughly of the topography of the country from theaforesaid hunters, shouldered his axe, and set out,holding a straight course through the woods, andturning aside for neither swamps, streams, nor mountains.When he paused to rest he would mark someobject ahead of him with his eye, in order that ongetting up again he might not deviate from hiscourse. His directors had told him of a hunter’scabin about midway on his route, which if he struckhe might be sure he was right. About noon thiscabin was reached, and at sunset he emerged at thehead of Dry Brook.

After looking in vain for the line of marked trees,we moved off to the left in a doubtful, hesitatingmanner, keeping on the highest ground and blazingthe trees as we went. We were afraid to go downhill, lest we should descend too soon; our vantage-groundwas high ground. A thick fog coming on,we were more bewildered than ever. Still we pressedforward, climbing up ledges and wading throughferns for about two hours, when we paused by aspring that issued from beneath an immense wall of[193]rock that belted the highest part of the mountain.There was quite a broad plateau here, and the birchwood was very dense, and the trees of unusual size.

After resting and exchanging opinions, we all concludedthat it was best not to continue our search encumberedas we were; but we were not willing toabandon it altogether, and I proposed to my companionsto leave them beside the spring with ourtraps, while I made one thorough and final effort tofind the lake. If I succeeded and desired them tocome forward, I was to fire my gun three times; if Ifailed and wished to return, I would fire it twice, they,of course responding.

So filling my canteen from the spring, I set outagain, taking the spring run for my guide. Before Ihad followed it two hundred yards it sank into theground at my feet. I had half a mind to be superstitiousand to believe that we were under a spell,since our guides played us such tricks. However, Idetermined to put the matter to a further test, andstruck out boldly to the left. This seemed to be thekeyword,—to the left, to the left. The fog had nowlifted, so that I could form a better idea of the lay ofthe land. Twice I looked down the steep sides ofthe mountain, sorely tempted to risk a plunge. StillI hesitated and kept along on the brink. As I stoodon a rock deliberating, I heard a crackling of thebrush, like the tread of some large game, on a plateaubelow me. Suspecting the truth of the case, I movedstealthily down, and found a herd of young cattle[194]leisurely browsing. We had several times crossedtheir trail, and had seen that morning a level, grassyplace on the top of the mountain, where they hadpassed the night. Instead of being frightened, as Ihad expected, they seemed greatly delighted, andgathered around me as if to inquire the tidings fromthe outer world,—perhaps the quotations of the cattlemarket. They came up to me, and eagerly lickedmy hand, clothes, and gun. Salt was what they wereafter, and they were ready to swallow anything thatcontained the smallest percentage of it. They weremostly yearlings and as sleek as moles. They had avery gamy look. We were afterwards told that, inthe spring, the farmers round about turn into thesewoods their young cattle, which do not come out againtill fall. They are then in good condition,—not fat,like grass-fed cattle, but trim and supple, like deer.Once a month the owner hunts them up and saltsthem. They have their beats, and seldom wanderbeyond well-defined limits. It was interesting to seethem feed. They browsed on the low limbs andbushes, and on the various plants, munching at everythingwithout any apparent discrimination.

They attempted to follow me, but I escaped themby clambering down some steep rocks. I now foundmyself gradually edging down the side of the mountain,keeping around it in a spiral manner, and scanningthe woods and the shape of the ground for someencouraging hint or sign. Finally the woods becamemore open, and the descent less rapid. The trees[195]were remarkably straight and uniform in size. Blackbirches, the first I had seen, were very numerous. Ifelt encouraged. Listening attentively, I caughtfrom a breeze just lifting the drooping leaves, asound that I willingly believed was made by a bull-frog.On this hint, I tore down through the woodsat my highest speed. Then I paused and listenedagain. This time there was no mistaking it; it wasthe sound of frogs. Much elated, I rushed on. Byand by I could hear them as I ran.Pthrung, pthrung,croaked the old ones;pug, pug, shrilly joined in thesmaller fry.

Then I caught, through the lower trees, a gleamof blue, which I first thought was distant sky. A secondlook and I knew it to be water, and in a momentmore I stepped from the woods and stood upon theshore of the lake. I exulted silently. There it wasat last, sparkling in the morning sun, and as beautifulas a dream. It was so good to come upon such openspace and such bright hues, after wandering in thedim, dense woods! The eye is as delighted as an escapedbird, and darts gleefully from point to point.

The lake was a long oval, scarcely more than amile in circumference, with evenly wooded shores,which rose gradually on all sides. After contemplatingthe scene for a moment, I stepped back intothe woods and loading my gun as heavily as I dared,discharged it three times. The reports seemed to fillall the mountains with sound. The frogs quicklyhushed, and I listened for the response. But no re[196]sponsecame. Then I tried again, and again, butwithout evoking an answer. One of my companions,however, who had climbed to the top of the highrocks in the rear of the spring thought he heardfaintly one report. It seemed an immense distancebelow him, and far around under the mountain. Iknew I had come a long way, and hardly expected tobe able to communicate with my companions in themanner agreed upon. I therefore started back, choosingmy course without any reference to the circuitousroute by which I had come, and loading heavily andfiring at intervals. I must have aroused many long-dormantechoes from a Rip Van Winkle sleep. Asmy powder got low, I fired and halloed alternately,till I came near splitting both my throat and gun.Finally, after I had begun to have a very ugly feelingof alarm and disappointment, and to cast aboutvaguely for some course to pursue in the emergencythat seemed near at hand,—namely, the loss of mycompanions now I had found the lake,—a favoringbreeze brought me the last echo of a response. I rejoinedwith spirit, and hastened with all speed in thedirection whence the sound had come, but after repeatedtrials, failed to elicit another answering sound.This filled me with apprehension again. I fearedthat my friends had been misled by the reverberations,and I pictured them to myself hastening in theopposite direction. Paying little attention to mycourse, but paying dearly for my carelessness afterward,I rushed forward to undeceive them. But they[197]had not been deceived, and in a few moments an answeringshout revealed them near at hand. I heardtheir tramp, the bushes parted, and we three metagain.

In answer to their eager inquiries, I assured themthat I had seen the lake, that it was at the foot of themountain, and that we could not miss it if we keptstraight down from where we then were.

My clothes were soaked with perspiration, but Ishouldered my knapsack with alacrity, and we beganthe descent. I noticed that the woods were muchthicker, and had quite a different look from those Ihad passed through, but thought nothing of it, as Iexpected to strike the lake near its head, whereas Ihad before come out at its foot. We had not gonefar when we crossed a line of marked trees, which mycompanions were disposed to follow. It intersectedour course nearly at right angles, and kept along andup the side of the mountain. My impression was thatit led up from the lake, and that by keeping our owncourse we should reach the lake sooner than if wefollowed this line.

About half-way down the mountain, we could seethrough the interstices the opposite slope. I encouragedmy comrades by telling them that the lake wasbetween us and that, and not more than half a miledistant. We soon reached the bottom, where wefound a small stream and quite an extensive alder-swamp,evidently the ancient bed of a lake. I explainedto my half-vexed and half-incredulous com[198]panionsthat we were probably above the lake, andthat this stream must lead to it. “Follow it,” theysaid; “we will wait here till we hear from you.”

So I went on, more than ever disposed to believethat we were under a spell, and that the lake hadslipped from my grasp after all. Seeing no favorablesign as I went forward, I laid down my accoutrements,and climbed a decayed beech that leaned outover the swamp and promised a good view from thetop. As I stretched myself up to look around fromthe highest attainable branch, there was suddenly aloud crack at the root. With a celerity that wouldat least have done credit to a bear, I regained theground, having caught but a momentary glimpse ofthe country, but enough to convince me no lake wasnear. Leaving all incumbrances here but my gun, Istill pressed on, loath to be thus baffled. Afterfloundering through another alder-swamp for nearlyhalf a mile, I flattered myself that I was close on tothe lake. I caught sight of a low spur of the mountainsweeping around like a half extended arm, and Ifondly imagined that within its clasp was the objectof my search. But I found only more alder-swamp.After this region was cleared, the creek began todescend the mountain very rapidly. Its banks becamehigh and narrow, and it went whirling awaywith a sound that seemed to my ears like a burst ofironical laughter. I turned back with a feeling ofmingled disgust, shame, and vexation. In fact I wasalmost sick, and when I reached my companions, after[199]an absence of nearly two hours, hungry, fatigued, anddisheartened, I would have sold my interest in Thomas’sLake at a very low figure. For the first time, Iheartily wished myself well out of the woods. Thomasmight keep his lake, and the enchanters guard hispossession! I doubted if he had ever found it the secondtime, or if any one else ever had.

My companions who were quite fresh, and whohad not felt the strain of baffled purpose as I had,assumed a more encouraging tone. After I hadrested a while, and partaken sparingly of the breadand whiskey, which in such an emergency is a greatimprovement on bread and water, I agreed to theirproposition that we should make another attempt.As if to reassure us, a robin sounded his cheery callnear by, and the winter-wren, the first I had heardin these woods, set his music-box going, which fairlyran over with fine, gushing, lyrical sounds. Therecan be no doubt but this bird is one of our finestsongsters. If it would only thrive and sing wellwhen caged, like the canary, how far it would surpassthat bird! It has all the vivacity and versatilityof the canary, without any of its shrillness. Itssong is indeed a little cascade of melody.

We again retraced our steps, rolling the stone, asit were, back up the mountain, determined to commitourselves to the line of marked trees. These wefinally reached, and, after exploring the country tothe right, saw that bearing to the left was still theorder. The trail led up over a gentle rise of ground,[200]and in less than twenty minutes we were in the woodsI had passed through when I found the lake. Theerror I had made was then plain; we had come offthe mountain a few paces too far to the right, and sohad passed down on the wrong side of the ridge, intowhat we afterwards learned was the valley of AlderCreek.

We now made good time, and before many minutesI again saw the mimic sky glance through the trees.As we approached the lake a solitary woodchuck, thefirst wild animal we had seen since entering thewoods, sat crouched upon the root of a tree a fewfeet from the water, apparently completed nonplussedby the unexpected appearance of danger on the landside. All retreat was cut off, and he looked his fatein the face without flinching. I slaughtered him justas a savage would have done, and from the same motive,—Iwanted his carcass to eat.

The mid-afternoon sun was now shining upon thelake, and a low, steady breeze drove the little wavesrocking to the shore. A herd of cattle were browsingon the other side, and the bell of the leadersounded across the water. In these solitudes itsclang was wild and musical.

To try the trout was the first thing in order. Ona rude raft of logs which we found moored at theshore, and which with two aboard shipped about afoot of water, we floated out and wet our first fly inThomas’s Lake; but the trout refused to jump, and,to be frank, not more than a dozen and a half were[201]caught during our stay. Only a week previous, aparty of three had taken in a few hours all the fishthey could carry out of the woods, and had nearlysurfeited their neighbors with trout. But from somecause they now refused to rise, or to touch any kindof bait: so we fell to catching the sun-fish which weresmall but very abundant. Their nests were all alongshore. A space about the size of a breakfast-platewas cleared of sediment and decayed vegetable matter,revealing the pebbly bottom, fresh and bright,with one or two fish suspended over the centre of it,keeping watch and ward. If an intruder approached,they would dart at him spitefully. These fish havethe air of bantam cocks, and with their sharp, pricklyfins and spines, and scaly sides, must be ugly customersin a hand to hand encounter with other finnywarriors. To a hungry man they look about as unpromisingas hemlock slivers, so thorny and thin arethey; yet there is sweet meat in them, as we foundthat day.

Much refreshed, I set out with the sun low in thewest to explore the outlet of the lake and try fortrout there, while my companions made further trialsin the lake itself. The outlet, as is usual in bodiesof water of this kind, was very gentle and private.The stream, six or eight feet wide, flowed silently andevenly along for a distance of three or four rods,when it suddenly, as if conscious of its freedom, tooka leap down some rocks. Thence, as far as I followedit, its descent was very rapid, through a con[202]tinuoussuccession of brief falls like so many stepsdown the mountain. Its appearance promised moretrout than I found, though I returned to camp with avery respectable string.

Toward sunset I went round to explore the inlet,and found that as usual the stream wound leisurelythrough marshy ground. The water being muchcolder than in the outlet, the trout were more plentiful.As I was picking my way over the miry groundand through the rank growths, a ruffed grouse hoppedup on a fallen branch a few paces before me, and,jerking his tail, threatened to take flight. But as Iwas at that moment gunless and remained stationary,he presently jumped down and walked away.

A seeker of birds, and ever on the alert for somenew acquaintance, my attention was arrested, on firstentering the swamp, by a bright, lively song, or warble,that issued from the branches overhead, and thatwas entirely new to me, though there was somethingin the tone of it that told me the bird was related tothe wood-wagtail and to the water-wagtail or thrush.The strain was emphatic and quite loud, like thecanary’s, but very brief. The bird kept itself wellsecreted in the upper branches of the trees and for along time eluded my eye. I passed to and fro severaltimes, and it seemed to break out afresh as I approacheda certain little bend in the creek, and tocease after I had got beyond it; no doubt its nestwas somewhere in the vicinity. After some delaythe bird was sighted and brought down. It proved[203]to be the small, or Northern, water-thrush (called alsothe New York water-thrush)—a new bird to me.In size it was noticeably smaller than the large, orLouisiana, water-thrush, as described by Audubon,but in other respects its general appearance was thesame. It was a great treat to me, and again I feltmyself in luck.

This bird was unknown to the older ornithologists,and is but poorly described by the new. It builds amossy nest on the ground, or under the edge of a decayedlog. A correspondent writes me that he hasfound it breeding on the mountains in Pennsylvania.The large-billed water-thrush is much the superiorsongster, but the present species has a very brightand cheerful strain. The specimen I saw, contraryto the habits of the family, kept in the tree-tops likea warbler, and seemed to be engaged in catching insects.

The birds were unusually plentiful and noisy aboutthe head of this lake; robins, blue jays, and woodpeckersgreeted me with their familiar notes. Theblue jays found an owl or some wild animal a shortdistance above me, and, as is their custom on suchoccasions, proclaimed it at the top of their voices,and kept on till the darkness began to gather in thewoods.

I also heard here, as I had at two or three otherpoints in the course of the day, the peculiar, resonanthammering of some species of woodpecker upon thehard, dry limbs. It was unlike any sound of the kind[204]I had ever before heard, and, repeated at intervalsthrough the silent woods, was a very marked andcharacteristic feature. Its peculiarity was the orderedsuccession of the raps, which gave it the character ofa premeditated performance. There were first threestrokes following each other rapidly, then two muchlouder ones with longer intervals between them. Iheard the drumming here, and the next day at sunsetat Furlow Lake, the source of Dry Brook, and in noinstance was the order varied. There was melody init, such as a woodpecker knows how to evoke from asmooth, dry branch. It suggested something quiteas pleasing as the liveliest bird-song, and was if anythingmore woodsy and wild. As the yellow-belliedwoodpecker was the most abundant species in thesewoods I attributed it to him. It is the one soundthat still links itself with those scenes in my mind.

At sunset the grouse began to drum in all parts ofthe woods about the lake. I could hear five at onetime,thump, thump, thump, thump, thr-r-r-r-r-r-rr.It was a homely, welcome sound. As I returned tocamp at twilight, along the shore of the lake, thefrogs also were in full chorus. The older ones rippedout their responses to each other with terrific forceand volume. I know of no other animal capable ofgiving forth so much sound, in proportion to its size,as a frog. Some of these seemed to bellow as loudas a two-year-old bull. They were of immense size,and very abundant. No frog-eater had ever beenthere. Near the shore we felled a tree which reached[205]far out in the lake. Upon the trunk and branchesthe frogs had soon collected in large numbers, andgamboled and splashed about the half-submerged top,like a parcel of school-boys, making nearly as muchnoise.

After dark, as I was frying the fish, a panful ofthe largest trout was accidentally capsized in the fire.With rueful countenances we contemplated the irreparableloss our commissariat had sustained by thismishap; but remembering there was virtue in ashes,we poked the half-consumed fish from the bed of coalsand ate them, and they were good.

We lodged that night on a brush-heap and sleptsoundly. The green, yielding beech-twigs, coveredwith a buffalo robe, were equal to a hair mattress.The heat and smoke from a large fire kindled in theafternoon had banished every “no-see-em” from thelocality, and in the morning the sun was above themountain before we awoke.

I immediately started again for the inlet, and wentfar up the stream toward its source. A fair string oftrout for breakfast was my reward. The cattle withthe bell were at the head of the valley, where theyhad passed the night. Most of them were two-year-oldsteers. They came up to me and begged for salt,and scared the fish by their importunities.

We finished our bread that morning, and ate everyfish we could catch, and about ten o’clock preparedto leave the lake. The weather had been admirable,and the lake was a gem, and I would gladly have[206]spent a week in the neighborhood; but the questionof supplies was a serious one, and would brook nodelay.

When we reached, on our return, the point wherewe had crossed the line of marked trees the day before,the question arose whether we should still trustourselves to this line, or follow our own trail back tothe spring and the battlement of rocks on the top ofthe mountain, and thence to the rock where theguide had left us. We decided in favor of the formercourse. After a march of three quarters of an hourthe blazed trees ceased, and we concluded we werenear the point at which we had parted with the guide.So we built a fire, laid down our loads, and cast abouton all sides for some clew as to our exact locality.Nearly an hour was consumed in this manner andwithout any result. I came upon a brood of younggrouse, which diverted me for a moment. The oldone blustered about at a furious rate, trying to drawall attention to herself, while the young ones, whichwere unable to fly, hid themselves. She whined likea dog in great distress, and dragged herself along apparentlywith the greatest difficulty. As I pursuedher, she ran very nimbly, and presently flew a fewyards. Then, as I went on, she flew farther andfarther each time, till at last she got up, and wenthumming through the woods as if she had no interestin them. I went back and caught one of the young,which had simply squatted close to the leaves. Itook it up and set it on the palm of my hand, which[207]it hugged as closely as if still upon the ground. Ithen put it in my coatsleeve, when it ran and nestledin my armpit.

When we met at the sign of the smoke, opinionsdiffered as to the most feasible course. There was nodoubt but that we could get out of the woods; butwe wished to get out speedily and as near as possibleto the point where we had entered. Halfashamed of our timidity and indecision, we finallytramped away back to where we had crossed theline of blazed trees, followed our old trail to thespring on the top of the range, and, after muchsearching and scouring to the right and left foundourselves at the very place we had left two hoursbefore. Another deliberation and a divided council.But something must be done. It was then mid-afternoon,and the prospect of spending another night onthe mountains, without food or drink, was not pleasant.So we moved down the ridge. Here anotherline of marked trees was found, the course of whichformed an obtuse angle with the one we had followed.It kept on the top of the ridge for perhaps a mile,when it entirely disappeared, and we were as muchadrift as ever. Then one of the party swore on oath,and said he was going out of those woods, hit or miss,and wheeling to the right, instantly plunged overthe brink of the mountain. The rest followed, butwould fain have paused and ciphered away at theirown uncertainties, to see if a certainty could not bearrived at as to where we would come out. But our[208]bold leader was solving the problem in the right way.Down and down and still down we went, as if wewere to bring up in the bowels of the earth. It wasby far the steepest descent we had made, and we felta grim satisfaction in knowing that we could not retraceour steps this time, be the issue what it might.As we paused on the brink of a ledge of rocks, wechanced to see through the trees distant cleared land.A house or barn also was dimly descried. This wasencouraging; but we could not make out whether itwas on Beaver Kill or Mill Brook or Dry Brook,and did not long stop to consider where it was. Weat last brought up at the bottom of a deep gorge,through which flowed a rapid creek that literallyswarmed with trout. But we were in no mood tocatch them, and pushed on along the channel of thestream, sometimes leaping from rock to rock, andsometimes splashing heedlessly through the water,and speculating the while as to where we wouldprobably come out. On the Beaver Kill, my companionsthought; but, from the position of the sun, Isaid, on the Mill Brook, about six miles below ourteam; for I remembered having seen, in coming upthis stream, a deep, wild valley that led up into themountains, like this one. Soon the banks of thestream became lower, and we moved into the woods.Here we entered upon an obscure wood-road, whichpresently conducted us into the midst of a vast hemlockforest. The land had a gentle slope, and wewondered why the lumbermen and barkmen who[209]prowl through these woods had left this fine tractuntouched. Beyond this the forest was mostly birchand maple.

We were now close to the settlement, and beganto hear human sounds. One rod more, and we wereout of the woods. It took us a moment to comprehendthe scene. Things looked very strange at first;but quickly they began to change and to put on familiarfeatures. Some magic scene-shifting seemedto take place before my eyes, till, instead of the unknownsettlement which I at first seemed to lookupon there stood the farm-house at which we hadstopped two days before, and at the same moment weheard the stamping of our team in the barn. Wesat down and laughed heartily over our good luck.Our desperate venture had resulted better than wehad dared to hope, and had shamed our wisest plans.At the house our arrival had been anticipated aboutthis time, and dinner was being put upon the table.

It was then five o’clock, so that we had been in thewoods just forty-eight hours; but if time is onlyphenomenal, as the philosophers say, and life only infeeling, as the poets aver, we were some months, ifnot years, older at that moment than we had beentwo days before. Yet younger too,—though this bea paradox,—for the birches had infused into us someof their own suppleness and strength.

[213]

Bluebird.

THE BLUEBIRD.

When Nature made the bluebird she wished topropitiate both the sky and the earth, so she gavehim the color of the one on his back and the hue ofthe other on his breast, and ordained that his appearancein spring should denote that the strife and warbetween these two elements was at an end. He isthe peace-harbinger; in him the celestial and terrestrialstrike hands and are fast friends. He meansthe furrow and he means the warmth; he means allthe soft, wooing influences of the spring on the onehand, and the retreating footsteps of winter on theother.

It is sure to be a bright March morning when youfirst hear his note; and it is as if the milder influencesup above had found a voice and let a wordfall upon your ear, so tender is it and so prophetic, ahope tinged with a regret.[214]

“Bermuda! Bermuda! Bermuda!” he seems tosay, as if both invoking and lamenting, and behold!Bermuda follows close, though the little pilgrim maybe only repeating the tradition of his race, himselfhaving come only from Florida, the Carolinas, oreven from Virginia, where he has found his Bermudaon some broad sunny hill-side thickly studded withcedars and persimmon trees.

In New York and in New England the sap startsup in the sugar-maple the very day the bluebirdarrives, and sugar-making begins forthwith. Thebird is generally a mere disembodied voice; a rumorin the air for two or three days before it takes visibleshape before you. The males are the pioneers, andcome several days in advance of the females. Bythe time both are here and the pair have begun toprospect for a place to nest, sugar-making is over,the last vestige of snow has disappeared, and theplow is brightening its mould-board in the new furrow.

The bluebird enjoys the preëminence of being thefirst bit of color that cheers our northern landscape.The other birds that arrive about the same time—thesparrow, the robin, the phœbe-bird—are clad inneutral tints, gray, brown, or russet; but the bluebirdbrings one of the primary hues and the divinestof them all.

This bird also has the distinction of answering verynearly to the robin-redbreast of English memory,and was by the early settlers of New Englandchristened the blue-robin.[215]

It is a size or two larger, and the ruddy hue of itsbreast does not verge so nearly on an orange, but themanners and habits of the two birds are very muchalike. Our bird has the softest voice, but the Englishredbreast is much the most skilled musician.He has indeed a fine, animated warble, heard nearlythe year through about English gardens and alongthe old hedge-rows, that is quite beyond the compassof our bird’s instrument. On the other hand, ourbird is associated with the spring as the British speciescannot be, being a winter resident also, whilethe brighter sun and sky of the New World has givenhim a coat that far surpasses that of his transatlanticcousin.

It is worthy of remark that among British birdsthere is noblue-bird. The cerulean tint seems muchrarer among the feathered tribes there than here.On this continent there are at least three species ofthe common bluebird, while in all our woods there isthe blue jay and the indigo-bird,—the latter so intenselyblue as to fully justify its name. There isalso the blue grossbeak, not much behind the indigo-birdin intensity of color; and among our warblersthe blue tint is very common.

It is interesting to know that the bluebird is notconfined to any one section of the country; and thatwhen one goes west he will still have this favoritewith him, though a little changed in voice and color,just enough to give variety without marring theidentity.[216]

The western bluebird is considered a distinct species,and is perhaps a little more brilliant and showythan its Eastern brother; and Nuttall thinks itssong is more varied, sweet, and tender. Its colorapproaches to ultramarine, while it has a sash ofchestnut-red across its shoulders,—all the effects, Iexpect, of that wonderful air and sky of California,and of those great western plains; or if one goes alittle higher up into the mountainous regions of theWest he finds the Arctic bluebird, the ruddy brownon the breast changed to greenish-blue, and the wingslonger and more pointed; in other respects not differingmuch from our species.

The bluebird usually builds its nest in a hole in astump or stub, or in an old cavity excavated by awoodpecker, when such can be had; but its first impulseseems to be to start in the world in much morestyle, and the happy pair make a great show of house-huntingabout the farm-buildings, now half persuadedto appropriate a dove-cot, then discussing in a livelymanner a last year’s swallow’s nest, or proclaimingwith much flourish and flutter that they have takenthe wren’s house, or the tenement of the purple martin;till finally nature becomes too urgent, when allthis pretty make-believe ceases, and most of themsettle back upon the old family stumps and knot-holesin remote fields, and go to work in earnest.

In such situations the female is easily captured byapproaching very stealthily and covering the entranceto the nest. The bird seldom makes any effort to[217]escape, seeing how hopeless the case is, and keepsher place on the nest till she feels your hand closingaround her. I have looked down into the cavity andseen the poor thing palpitating with fear and lookingup with distended eyes, but never moving till I hadwithdrawn a few paces; then she rushes out with acry that brings the male on the scene in a hurry.He warbles and lifts his wings beseechingly, butshows no anger or disposition to scold and complainlike most birds. Indeed, this bird seems incapable ofuttering a harsh note, or of doing a spiteful, ill-temperedthing.

The ground-builders all have some art or device todecoy one away from the nest, affecting lameness, acrippled wing, or a broken back, promising an easycapture if pursued. The tree-builders depend uponconcealing the nest or placing it beyond reach. Butthe bluebird has no art either way, and its nest iseasily found.

About the only enemies the sitting bird or the nestis in danger of, are snakes and squirrels. I knew ofa farm-boy who was in the habit of putting his handdown into a bluebird’s nest and taking out the oldbird whenever he came that way. One day he puthis hand in, and feeling something peculiar, withdrewit hastily, when it was instantly followed by the headand neck of an enormous black snake. The boy tookto his heels and the snake gave chase, pressing himclose till a plowman near by came to the rescuewith his ox-whip.[218]

There never was a happier or more devoted husbandthan the male bluebird is. But among nearlyall our familiar birds the serious cares of life seem todevolve almost entirely upon the female. The maleis hilarious and demonstrative, the female serious andanxious about her charge. The male is the attendantof the female, following her wherever she goes. Henever leads, never directs, but only seconds and applauds.If his life is all poetry and romance, hers isall business and prose. She has no pleasure but herduty, and no duty but to look after her nest andbrood. She shows no affection for the male, no pleasurein his society; she only tolerates him as a necessaryevil, and, if he is killed, goes in quest of anotherin the most business-like manner, as you would gofor the plumber or the glazier. In most cases themale is the ornamental partner in the firm, and contributeslittle of the working capital. There seemsto be more equality of the sexes among the woodpeckers,wrens, and swallows; while the contrast isgreatest, perhaps, in the bobolink family, where thecourting is done in the Arab fashion, the female fleeingwith all her speed and the male pursuing withequal precipitation; and were it not for the broods ofyoung birds that appear, it would be hard to believethat the intercourse ever ripened into anything moreintimate.

With the bluebirds the male is useful as well asornamental. He is the gay champion and escort ofthe female at all times, and while she is sitting he[219]feeds her regularly. It is very pretty to watch thembuilding their nest. The male is very active in huntingout a place and exploring the boxes and cavities,but seems to have no choice in the matter and isanxious only to please and encourage his mate, whohas the practical turn and knows what will do andwhat will not. After she has suited herself he applaudsher immensely, and away the two go in questof material for the nest, the male acting as guard andflying above and in advance of the female. She bringsall the material and all does the work of building,he looking on and encouraging her with gesture andsong. He acts also as inspector of her work, but Ifear is a very partial one. She enters the nestwith her bit of dry grass or straw, and having adjustedit to her notion, withdraws and waits nearby while he goes in and looks it over. On comingout he exclaims very plainly, “Excellent! excellent!”and away the two go again for more material.

The bluebirds, when they build about the farm-buildings,sometimes come in conflict with the swallows.The past season I knew a pair to take forciblepossession of the domicile of a pair of the latter—thecliff species that now stick their nests underthe eaves of the barn. The bluebirds had beenbroken up in a little bird-house near by, by the ratsor perhaps a weasel, and being no doubt in a badhumor, and the season being well advanced, theymade forcible entrance into the adobe tenement of[220]their neighbors, and held possession of it for somedays, but I believe finally withdrew, rather than liveamid such a squeaky, noisy colony. I have heardthat these swallows, when ejected from their homesin that way by the phœbe-bird, have been known tofall to and mason up the entrance to the nest whiletheir enemy was inside of it, thus having a revenge ascomplete and cruel as anything in human annals.

The bluebirds and the house-wrens more frequentlycome into collision. A few years ago I putup a little bird-house in the back end of my gardenfor the accommodation of the wrens, and every seasona pair have taken up their abode there. Onespring a pair of bluebirds looked into the tenementand lingered about several days, leading me to hopethat they would conclude to occupy it. But theyfinally went away, and later in the season the wrensappeared, and after a little coquetting, were regularlyinstalled in their old quarters and were as happy asonly wrens can be.

One of our younger poets, Myron Benton, saw alittle bird

which must have been the wren, as I know of noother bird that so throbs and palpitates with musicas this little vagabond. And the pair I speak ofseemed exceptionably happy, and the male had asmall tornado of song in his crop that kept him“ruffled” every moment in the day. But before[221]their honeymoon was over the bluebirds returned.I knew something was wrong before I was up in themorning. Instead of that voluble and gushing songoutside the window, I heard the wrens scolding andcrying at a fearful rate, and on going out saw thebluebirds in possession of the box. The poor wrenswere in despair; they wrung their hands and toretheir hair, after the wren fashion, but chiefly did theyrattle out their disgust and wrath at the intruders.I have no doubt that if it could have been interpretedit would have proven the rankest and most volubleBillingsgate ever uttered. For the wren is saucy,and he has a tongue in his head that can outwag anyother tongue known to me.

The bluebirds said nothing, but the male kept aneye on Mr. Wren; and when he came too near, gavechase, driving him to cover under the fence, or undera rubbish-heap or other object, where the wren wouldscold and rattle away, while his pursuer sat on thefence or the pea-brush waiting for him to reappear.

Days passed, and the usurpers prospered and theoutcasts were wretched; but the latter lingeredabout, watching and abusing their enemies, and hoping,no doubt, that things would take a turn, as theypresently did. The outraged wrens were fullyavenged. The mother bluebird had lain her fullcomplement of eggs and was beginning to set,when one day, as her mate was perched above heron the barn, along came a boy with one of thosewicked elastic slings and cut him down with a pebble.[222]There he lay like a bit of sky fallen upon the grass.The widowed bird seemed to understand what hadhappened, and without much ado disappeared nextday in quest of another mate. How she contrivedto make her wants known without trumpeting themabout I am unable to say. But I presume the birdshave a way of advertising that answers the purposewell. Maybe she trusted to luck to fall in with somestray bachelor or bereaved male, who would undertaketo console a widow of one day’s standing. Iwill say, in passing, that there are no bachelors fromchoice among the birds; they are all rejected suitors,while old maids are entirely unknown. There is aJack to every Gill; and some to boot.

The males being more exposed by their song andplumage, and by being the pioneers in migrating,seem to be slightly in excess lest the supply fallshort, and hence it sometimes happens that a few arebachelors perforce; there are not females enough togo around, but before the season is over there aresure to be some vacancies in the marital ranks, whichthey are called on to fill.

In the mean time the wrens were beside themselveswith delight; they fairly screamed with joy. If themale was before “ruffled with whirlwind of his ecstasies,”he was now in danger of being rent asunder.He inflated his throat and caroled as wren never caroledbefore. And the female, too, how she cackledand darted about! How busy they both were!Rushing into the nest, they hustled those eggs out in[223]less than a minute, wren time. They carried in newmaterial, and by the third day were fairly installedagain in their old quarters; but on the third day, sorapidly are these little dramas played, the femalebluebird reappeared with another mate. Ah! howthe wren stock went down then! What dismay anddespair filled again those little breasts! It was pitiful.They did not scold as before, but after a dayor two withdrew from the garden, dumb with grief,and gave up the struggle.

The bluebird, finding her eggs gone and her nestchanged, seemed suddenly seized with alarm andshunned the box; or else, finding she had less needfor another husband than she thought, repented herrashness and wanted to dissolve the compact. Butthe happy bridegroom would not take the hint, andexerted all his eloquence to comfort and reassure her.He was fresh and fond, and until this bereaved femalefound him I am sure his suit had not prosperedthat season. He thought the box just the thing, andthat there was no need of alarm, and spent days intrying to persuade the female back. Seeing he couldnot be a step-father to a family, he was quite willingto assume a nearer relation. He hovered about thebox, he went in and out, he called, he warbled, heentreated; the female would respond occasionallyand come and alight near, and even peep into thenest, but would not enter it, and quickly flew awayagain. Her mate would reluctantly follow, but hewas soon back, uttering the most confident and cheer[224]ingcalls. If she did not come he would perch abovethe nest and sound his loudest notes over and overagain, looking in the direction of his mate and beckoningwith every motion. But she responded lessand less frequently. Some days I would see himonly, but finally he gave it up; the pair disappeared,and the box remained deserted the rest of the summer.

[227]

Sprague’s Lark.

THE INVITATION.

Years ago, when quite a youth, I was rambling inthe woods, one Sunday, with my brothers, gatheringblack birch, wintergreens, etc., when, as we reclinedupon the ground, gazing vaguely up into the trees, Icaught sight of a bird, that paused a moment on abranch above me, the like of which I had never beforeseen or heard of. It was probably the blue yellow-backedwarbler, as I have since found this to be acommon bird in those woods; but to my young fancyit seemed like some fairy bird, so curiously markedwas it, and so new and unexpected. I saw it a momentas the flickering leaves parted, noted the whitespot on its wing, and it was gone. How the thoughtof it clung to me afterward! It was a revelation.It was the first intimation I had had that the woodswe knew so well held birds that we knew not at all.Were our eyes and ears so dull, then? There was[228]the robin, the blue jay, the bluebird, the yellow-bird,the cherry-bird, the cat-bird, the chipping-bird, thewoodpecker, the high-hole, an occasional redbird, anda few others, in the woods, or along their borders,but who ever dreamed that there were still othersthat not even the hunters saw, and whose names noone had ever heard?

When, one summer-day, later in life, I took mygun, and went to the woods again, in a different,though, perhaps, a less simple spirit, I found myyouthful vision more than realized. There were, indeed,other birds, plenty of them, singing, nesting,breeding, among the familiar trees, which I had beforepassed by unheard and unseen.

It is a surprise that awaits every student of ornithology,and the thrill of delight that accompaniesit, and the feeling of fresh, eager inquiry that follows,can hardly be awakened by any other pursuit. Takethe first step in ornithology, procure one new specimen,and you are ticketed for the whole voyage.There is a fascination about it quite overpowering.It fits so well with other things—with fishing, hunting,farming, walking, camping-out—with all thattakes one to the fields and woods. One may go ablackberrying and make some rare discovery; orwhile driving his cow to pasture, hear a new song, ormake a new observation. Secrets lurk on all sides.There is news in every bush. Expectation is everon tiptoe. What no man ever saw before may thenext moment be revealed to you. What a new in[229]terestthe woods have! How you long to exploreevery nook and corner of them! You would evenfind consolation in being lost in them. You couldthen hear the night birds and the owls, and, in yourwanderings, might stumble upon some unknownspecimen.

In all excursions to the woods or to the shore, thestudent of ornithology has an advantage over hiscompanions. He has one more resource, one moreavenue of delight. He, indeed, kills two birds withone stone, and sometimes three. If others wander,he can never go out of his way. His game is everywhere.The cawing of a crow makes him feel athome, while a new note or a new song drowns allcare. Audubon, on the desolate coast of Labrador,is happier than any king ever was; and on shipboardis nearly cured of his sea-sickness when a new gullappears in sight.

One must taste it to understand or appreciate itsfascination. The looker-on sees nothing to inspiresuch enthusiasm. Only a little feathers and a half-musicalnote or two; why all this ado? “Whowould give a hundred and twenty dollars to knowabout the birds?” said an eastern governor, halfcontemptuously, to Wilson, as the latter solicited asubscription to his great work. Sure enough. Boughtknowledge is dear at any price. The most preciousthings have no commercial value. It is not, yourExcellency, mere technical knowledge of the birdsthat you are asked to purchase, but a new interest in[230]the fields and woods, a new moral and intellectualtonic, a new key to the treasure-house of nature.Think of the many other things your Excellencywould get; the air, the sunshine, the healing fragranceand coolness, and the many respites from theknavery and turmoil of political life.

Yesterday was an October day of rare brightnessand warmth. I spent the most of it in a wild, woodedgorge of Rock Creek. A persimmon-tree whichstood upon the bank had dropped some of its fruit inthe water. As I stood there, half-leg deep, pickingthem up, a wood-duck came flying down the creekand passed over my head. Presently it returned,flying up; then it came back again, and, sweepinglow around a bend, prepared to alight in a still, darkreach in the creek which was hidden from my view.As I passed that way about half an hour afterward,the duck started up, uttering its wild alarm note. Inthe stillness I could hear the whistle of its wings andthe splash of the water when it took flight. Nearby I saw where a raccoon had come down to thewater for fresh clams, leaving his long, sharp trackin the mud and sand. Before I had passed this hiddenstretch of water, a pair of those mysteriousthrushes, the gray-cheeked, flew up from the groundand perched on a low branch.

Who can tell how much this duck, this foot-printin the sand, and these strange thrushes from the farNorth, enhanced the interest and charm of theautumn woods?[231]

Ornithology cannot be satisfactorily learned fromthe books. The satisfaction is in learning it fromnature. One must have an original experience withthe birds. The books are only the guide, the invitation.Though there remain not another new speciesto describe, any young person with health and enthusiasmhas open to him or her the whole fieldanew, and is eligible to experience all the thrill anddelight of original discoverers.

But let me say, in the same breath, that the bookscan by no manner of means be dispensed with. Acopy of Wilson or Audubon, for reference and tocompare notes with, is invaluable. In lieu of these,access to some large museum or collection would bea great help. In the beginning, one finds it verydifficult to identify a bird from any verbal description.Reference to a colored plate, or to a stuffed specimen,at once settles the matter. This is the chief value ofthe books; they are charts to sail by; the route ismapped out, and much time and labor saved.First, find your bird; observe its ways, its song, itscalls, its flight, its haunts; then shoot it (not ogle itwith a glass), and compare with Audubon. In thisway the feathered kingdom may soon be conquered.

The ornithologists divide and subdivide the birdsinto a great many families, orders, genera, species,etc., which, at first sight, are apt to confuse and discouragethe reader. But any interested person canacquaint himself with most of our song-birds, bykeeping in mind a few general divisions, and observ[232]ingthe characteristics of each. By far the greaternumber of our land-birds are either warblers, vireos,fly-catchers, thrushes, or finches.

The warblers are, perhaps, the most puzzling.These are the true Sylvia, the real wood-birds. Theyare small, very active, but feeble songsters, and, to beseen, must be sought for. In passing through thewoods, most persons have a vague consciousness ofslight chirping, semi-musical sounds in the trees overhead.In most cases these sounds proceed from thewarblers. Throughout the Middle and EasternStates, half a dozen species or so may be found in almostevery locality, as the redstart,[3] the Marylandyellow-throat, the yellow warbler (not the commongoldfinch, with black cap, and black wings and tail),the hooded warbler, the black and white creepingwarbler; or others, according to the locality and thecharacter of the woods. In pine or hemlock woods,one species may predominate; in maple or oak woods,or in mountainous districts, another. The subdivisionof ground warblers, the most common membersof which are the Maryland yellow-throat, the Kentuckywarbler, and the mourning ground warbler,are usually found in low, wet, bushy, or half-openwoods, often on, and always near the ground.

The summer yellow-bird, or yellow warbler, is not[233]now a wood-bird at all, being found in orchards andparks, and along streams and in the trees of villagesand cities.

As we go north the number of warblers increases,till, in the northern part of New England, and in theCanadas, as many as ten or twelve varieties may befound breeding in June. Audubon found the black-pollwarbler breeding in Labrador, and congratulateshimself on being the first white man who had everseen its nest. When these warblers pass north inMay, they seem to go singly or in pairs, and theirblack caps and striped coats show conspicuously.When they return in September they are in troopsor loose flocks, are of a uniform dull drab or brindlishcolor, and are very fat. They scour the tree-tops fora few days, almost eluding the eye by their quickmovements, and are gone.

According to my own observation, the number ofspecies of warblers which one living in the middledistricts sees, on their return in the fall, is very smallcompared with the number he may observe migratingNorth in the spring.

The yellow-rumped warblers are the most noticeableof all in the autumn. They come about thestreets and garden, and seem especially drawn to dry,leafless trees. They dart spitefully about, uttering asharp chirp. In Washington I have seen them inthe outskirts all winter.

Audubon figures and describes over forty differentwarblers. More recent writers have divided and sub[234]dividedthe group very much, giving new names tonew classifications. But this part is of interest andvalue only to the professional ornithologist.

The finest songster among the Sylvia, according tomy notions, is the black-throated green-back. Itssong is sweet and clear, but brief.

The rarest of the species are Swainson’s warbler,said to be disappearing; the cerulean warbler, saidto be abundant about Niagara; and the mourningground warbler, which I have found breeding aboutthe head-waters of the Delaware, in New York.

The vireos, or greenlets, are a sort of connectinglink between the warblers and the true fly-catchers,and partake of the characteristics of both.

The red-eyed vireo, whose sweet soliloquy is oneof the most constant and cheerful sounds in our woodsand groves, is, perhaps, the most noticeable and abundantspecies. The vireos are a little larger than thewarblers, and are far less brilliant and variegated incolor.

There are four species found in most of our woods,namely, the red-eyed vireo, the white-eyed vireo, thewarbling vireo, and the solitary vireo,—the red-eyedand warbling being most abundant, and the white-eyedbeing the most lively and animated songster. Imeet the latter bird only in the thick, bushy growthsof low, swampy localities, where, eluding the observer,it pours forth its song with a sharpness and arapidity of articulation that are truly astonishing.This strain is very marked, and, though inlaid with[235]the notes of several other birds, is entirely unique.The iris of this bird is white, as that of the red-eyedis red, though in neither case can this mark be distinguishedat more than two or three yards. In mostcases the iris of birds is a dark hazel, which passesfor black.

The basket-like nest, pendent to the low branchesin the woods, which the falling leaves of autumn revealto all passers, is, in most cases, the nest of thered-eyed, though the solitary constructs a similar tenement,but in much more remote and secluded localities.

The general color of this group of birds is verylight ash beneath, becoming darker above, with atinge of green. The red-eyed has a crown of a bluishtinge.

Most birds exhibit great alarm and distress, usuallywith a strong dash of anger, when you approach theirnests; but the demeanor of the red-eyed, on such anoccasion, is an exception to this rule. The parentbirds move about softly amid the branches above, eyingthe intruder with a curious, innocent look, uttering,now and then, a subdued note or plaint, solicitousand watchful, but making no demonstration of angeror distress.

The birds, no more than the animals, like to becaught napping; but I remember, one autumn day,of coming upon a red-eyed vireo that was clearly obliviousto all that was passing around it. It was ayoung bird, though full grown, and it was taking its[236]siesta on a low branch in a remote heathery field.Its head was snugly stowed away under its wing, andit would have fallen an easy prey to the first hawkthat came along. I approached noiselessly, and whenwithin a few feet of it paused to note its breathings,so much more rapid and full than our own. A birdhas greater lung capacity than any other living thing,hence more animal heat, and life at a higher pressure.When I reached out my hand and carefully closed itaround the winged sleeper, its sudden terror and consternationalmost paralyzed it. Then it struggledand cried piteously, and when released, hastened andhid itself in some near bushes. I never expected tosurprise it thus a second time.

The fly-catchers are a larger group than the vireos,with stronger-marked characteristics. They are notproperly songsters, but are classed by some writersas screechers. Their pugnacious dispositions are wellknown, and they not only fight among themselves butare incessantly quarreling with their neighbors. Theking-bird, or tyrant fly-catcher, might serve as thetype of the order.

The common pewee excites the most pleasant emotions,both on account of its plaintive note and itsexquisite mossy nest.

The phœbe-bird is the pioneer of the fly-catchers,and comes in April, sometimes in March. It comesfamiliarly about the house and out-buildings and usuallybuilds beneath hay-sheds or under bridges.

The fly-catchers always take their insect prey on[237]the wing, by a sudden darting or swooping movement;often a very audible snap of the beak may beheard.

These birds are the least elegant, both in form andcolor, of any of our feathered neighbors. They haveshort legs, a short neck, large heads, and broad, flatbeaks, with bristles at the base. They often fly witha peculiar quivering movement of the wings, andwhen at rest oscillate their tails at short intervals.

There are found in the United States nineteen species.In the Middle and Eastern districts, one mayobserve in summer, without any special search, aboutfive of them, namely, the king-bird, the phœbe-bird,the wood-pewee, the great-crested fly-catcher (distinguishedfrom all others by the bright ferruginouscolor of its tail), and the small green-crested fly-catcher.

The thrushes are the birds of real melody, and willafford one more delight perhaps than any other class.The robin is the most familiar example. Their manners,flight, and form are the same in each species.See the robin hop along upon the ground, strike anattitude, scratch for a worm, fix his eye upon somethingbefore him or upon the beholder, flip his wingssuspiciously, fly straight to his perch, or sit at sundownon some high branch caroling his sweet andhonest strain, and you have seen what is characteristicof all the thrushes. Their carriage is preëminentlymarked by grace, and their songs by melody.

Beside the robin, which is in no sense a wood-bird,[238]we have, in New York, the wood-thrush, the hermit-thrush,the veery, or Wilson’s thrush, the olive-backedthrush, and, transiently, one or two other species notso clearly defined.

The wood-thrush and the hermit stand at the headas songsters, no two persons, perhaps, agreeing as towhich is the superior.

Under the general head of finches, Audubon describesover sixty different birds, ranging from thesparrows to the grossbeaks, and including the buntings,the linnets, the snow-birds, the cross-bills, andthe red-birds.

We have nearly or quite a dozen varieties of thesparrow in the Atlantic States, but perhaps no morethan half that number would be discriminated by theunprofessional observer. The song-sparrow, whichevery child knows, comes first; at least, his voice isfirst heard. And can there be anything more freshand pleasing than this first simple strain heard fromthe garden fence or a near hedge, on some bright,still March morning?

The field or vesper-sparrow, called also grass-finch,and bay-winged sparrow, a bird slightly larger thanthe song-sparrow and of a lighter gray color, is abundantin all our upland fields and pastures, and is avery sweet songster. It builds upon the ground,without the slightest cover or protection, and alsoroosts there. Walking through the fields at duskI frequently start them up almost beneath my feet.When disturbed by day they fly with a quick, sharp[239]movement, showing two white quills in the tail. Thetraveler along the country roads disturbs them earthingtheir wings in the soft dry earth, or sees themskulking and flitting along the fences in front of him.They run in the furrow in advance of the team, orperch upon the stones a few roads off. They singmuch after sundown, hence the aptness of the namevesper-sparrow, which a recent writer, Wilson Flagg,has bestowed upon them.

In the meadows and low wet lands the Savannahsparrow is met with, and may be known by its fine,insect-like song. In the swamp, the swamp-sparrow.

The fox-sparrow, the largest and handsomest speciesof this family, comes to us in the fall, from theNorth, where it breeds. Likewise the tree or Canadasparrow, and the white-crowned and white-throatedsparrows.

The social-sparrow,alias “hair-bird,”alias “red-headedchipping-bird,” is the smallest of the sparrows,and, I believe, the only one that builds in trees.

The finches, as a class, all have short conical bills,with tails more or less forked. The purple finchheads the list in varied musical ability.

Beside the groups of our more familiar birds whichI have thus hastily outlined, there are numerous othergroups, more limited in specimens but comprisingsome of our best known songsters. The bobolink,for instance, has properly no congener. The famousmocking-bird of the Southern States belongs to agenus which has but two other representatives in the[240]Atlantic States, namely, the cat-bird and the long-tailedor ferruginous thrush.

The wrens are a large and interesting family, andas songsters are noted for vivacity and volubility.The more common species are the house-wren, thewood-wren, the marsh-wren, the great Carolina wren,and the winter-wren, the latter perhaps deriving itsname from the fact that it breeds in the North. It isan exquisite songster, and pours forth its notes sorapidly and with such sylvan sweetness and cadence,that it seems togo off like a musical alarm.

Wilson called the kinglets wrens, but they havelittle to justify the name, except their song, which isof the same continuous, gushing, lyrical character asthat referred to above. Dr. Brewer was entrancedwith the song of one of these tiny minstrels in thewoods of New Brunswick, and thought he had foundthe author of the strain in the black-poll warbler.He seems loath to believe that a bird so small as eitherof the kinglets could possess such vocal powers. Itmay indeed have been the winter-wren, but from myown observation I believe the golden-crowned kingletquite capable of such a performance.

But I must leave this part of the subject and hastenon. As to works on ornithology. Audubon’s, thoughits expense puts it beyond the reach of the mass ofreaders, is, by far, the most full and accurate. Hisdrawings surpass all others in accuracy and spirit,while his enthusiasm and devotion to the work he hadundertaken, have but few parallels in the history of[241]science. His chapter on the wild goose is as good asa poem. One readily overlooks his style, which isoften verbose and affected, in consideration of enthusiasmso genuine and purpose so single.

There has never been a keener eye than Audubon’s,though there have been more discriminativeears. Nuttall, for instance, is far more happy in hisdescriptions of the songs and notes of birds, and moreto be relied upon. Audubon thinks the song of theLouisiana water-thrush equal to that of the Europeannightingale, and, as he had heard both birds, onewould think was prepared to judge. Yet he has, nodoubt, overrated the one and underrated the other.The song of the water-thrush is very brief, comparedwith the philomel’s, and its quality is brightness andvivacity, while that of the latter bird, if the booksare to be credited, is melody and harmony. Again,he says the song of the blue grossbeak resembles thebobolink’s, which it does about as much as the colorof the two birds resembles each other; one is blackand white and the other is blue. The song of thewood-wagtail, he says, consists of a “short successionof simple notes beginning with emphasis andgradually falling.” The truth is they run up thescale instead of down; beginning low and ending ina shriek.

Yet considering the extent of Audubon’s work, thewonder is the errors are so few. I can, at this moment,recall but one observation of his, the contraryof which I have proved to be true. In his account[242]of the bobolink he makes a point of the fact that inreturning South in the fall they do not travel by nightas they do when moving North in the spring. InWashington I have heard their calls as they flew overat night for four successive autumns. As he devotedthe whole of a long life to the subject, and figuredand described over four hundred species, one feels areal triumph on finding in our common woods a birdnot described in his work. I have seen but two.Walking in the woods one day in early fall, in thevicinity of West Point, I started up a thrush that wassitting on the ground. It alighted on a branch a fewyards off, and looked new to me. I thought I hadnever before seen so long-legged a thrush. I shot it,and saw that it was a new acquaintance. Its peculiaritieswere its broad, square tail; the length of itslegs, which were three and three quarters inches fromthe end of the middle toe to the hip-joint; and thedeep uniform olive-brown of the upper parts, and thegray of the lower. It proved to be the gray-cheekedthrush (Turdus aliciæ), named and first described byProfessor Baird. But little seems to be known concerningit, except that it breeds in the far North, evenon the shores of the Arctic Ocean. I would go agood way to hear its song.

The present season I met with a pair of them nearWashington, as mentioned above. In size this birdapproaches the wood-thrush, being larger than eitherthe hermit or the veery; unlike all other species, nopart of its plumage has a tawny or yellowish tinge.[243]The other specimen was the Northern or small water-thrush,cousin-german to the oven-bird and half-brotherto the Louisiana water-thrush or wagtail. Ifound it at the head of a remote mountain lake amongthe sources of the Delaware, where it evidently hada nest. It usually breeds much farther North. Ithas a strong, clear warble, which at once suggeststhe song of its congener. I have not been able tofind any account of this particular species in thebooks, though it seems to be well known.

More recent writers and explorers have added toAudubon’s list over three hundred new species, thegreater number of which belong to the Northern andWestern parts of the Continent. Audubon’s observationswere confined mainly to the Atlantic and GulfStates and the adjacent islands; hence the Westernor Pacific birds were but little known to him, and areonly briefly mentioned in his works.

It is, by the way, a little remarkable how many ofthe Western birds seem merely duplicates of the Eastern.Thus, the varied-thrush of the West is ourrobin, a little differently marked; and the red-shaftedwoodpecker is our golden-wing, or high-hole, coloredred instead of yellow. There is also a Westernchickadee, a Western chewink, a Western blue jay,a Western meadow-lark, a Western snow-bird, aWestern bluebird, a Western song-sparrow, Westerngrouse, quail, hen-hawk, etc., etc.

One of the most remarkable birds of the Westseems to be a species of skylark, met with on the[244]plains of Dakota, which mounts to the height of threeor four hundred feet, and showers down its ecstaticnotes. It is evidently akin to several of our Easternspecies.

A correspondent, writing to me from the countryone September, says, “I have observed recently anew species of bird here. They alight upon thebuildings and fences as well as upon the ground.They arewalkers.” In a few days he obtained one,and sent me the skin. It proved to be what I hadanticipated, namely, the American pipit, or titlark, aslender brown bird, about the size of the sparrow,which passes through the States in the fall and spring,to and from its breeding haunts in the far North.They generally appear by twos and threes, or insmall loose flocks, searching for food on banks andplowed ground. As they fly up, they show two orthree white quills in the tail like the vesper-sparrow.Flying over, they utter a single chirp or cry everyfew rods. They breed in the bleak, moss-coveredrocks of Labrador. Their eggs have also been foundin Vermont, and I feel quite certain that I saw thisbird in the Adirondac Mountains in the month ofAugust. The male launches into the air, and givesforth a brief but melodious song, after the manner ofall larks. They arewalkers. This is a characteristicof but few of our land-birds. By far the greaternumber arehoppers. Note the track of the commonsnow-bird; the feet are not placed one in front of theother, as in the track of the crow or partridge, but[245]side and side. The sparrows, thrushes, warblers,woodpeckers, buntings, etc., are all hoppers. On theother hand, all aquatic or semi-aquatic birds arewalkers. The plovers and sandpipers and snipesrun rapidly. Among the land-birds, the grouse, pigeons,quails, larks, and various blackbirds, walk. Theswallows walk, also, whenever they use their feet atall, but very awkwardly. The larks walk with easeand grace. Note the meadow-lark strutting about allday in the meadows.

Besides being walkers, the larks, or birds allied tothe larks, all sing upon the wing, usually poised orcircling in the air, with a hovering, tremulous flight.The meadow-lark occasionally does this in the earlypart of the season. At such times its long-drawnnote or whistle becomes a rich, amorous warble.

The bobolink, also, has both characteristics, and,notwithstanding the difference of form and build, etc.,is very suggestive of the English skylark, as it figuresin the books, and is, no doubt, fully its equal as asongster.

Of our small wood-birds we have three varieties,east of the Mississippi, closely related to each other,which I have already spoken of, and which walk, andsing, more or less, on the wing, namely, the twospecies of water-thrush or wagtails, and the oven-birdor wood-wagtail. The latter is the most common,and few observers of the birds can have failed tonotice its easy, gliding walk. Its other lark trait,namely, singing in the air, seems not to have been ob[246]servedby any naturalist. Yet, it is a well establishedcharacteristic, and may be verified by any personwho will spend a half-hour in the woods wherethis bird abounds on some June afternoon or evening.I hear it very frequently after sundown, when theecstatic singer can hardly be distinguished against thesky. I know of a high, bald-top mountain where Ihave sat late in the afternoon and heard them asoften as one every minute. Sometimes the birdwould be far below me, sometimes near at hand; andvery frequently the singer would be hovering a hundredfeet above the summit. He would start fromthe trees on one side of the open space, reach hisclimax in the air, and plunge down on the other side.Its descent after the song is finished is very rapid,and precisely like that of the titlark when it sweepsdown from its course to alight on the ground.

I first verified this observation some years ago. Ihad long been familiar with the song, but had onlystrongly suspected the author of it, when, as I waswalking in the woods one evening, just as the leaveswere putting out, I saw one of these birds but a fewrods from me. I was saying to myself, half audibly,“Come, now, show off, if it is you; I have come tothe woods expressly to settle this point,” when it beganto ascend, by short hops and flights, through thebranches, uttering a sharp, preliminary chirp. I followedit with my eye; saw it mount into the air andcircle over the woods, and saw it sweep down againand dive through the trees, almost to the very perchfrom which it had started.[247]

As the paramount question in the life of a bird isthe question of food, perhaps the most serious troublesour feathered neighbors encounter are early in thespring, after the supply of fat with which naturestores every corner and by-place of the system, therebyanticipating the scarcity of food, has been exhausted,and the sudden and severe changes in theweather which occur at this season make unusual demandsupon their vitality. No doubt many of theearlier birds die from starvation and exposure at thisseason. Among a troop of Canada sparrows, whichI came upon one March day, all of them evidentlymuch reduced, one was so feeble that I caught it inmy hand.

During the present season, a very severe cold spell,the first week in March, drove the bluebirds to seekshelter about the houses and out-buildings. As nightapproached, and the winds and the cold increased, theyseemed filled with apprehension and alarm, and inthe outskirts of the city came about the windows anddoors, crept behind the blinds, clung to the guttersand beneath the cornice, flitted from porch to porch,and from house to house, seeking in vain for somesafe retreat from the cold. The street pump, whichhad a small opening, just over the handle, was an attractionwhich they could not resist. And yet theyseemed aware of the insecurity of the position; for,no sooner would they stow themselves away into theinterior of the pump, to the number of six or eight,than they would rush out again, as if apprehensive of[248]some approaching danger. Time after time the cavitywas filled and refilled, with blue and brown intermingled,and as often emptied. Presently they tarriedlonger than usual, when I made a sudden sallyand captured three, that found a warmer and saferlodging for the night in the cellar.

In the fall, birds and fowls of all kinds becomevery fat. The squirrels and mice lay by a supply offood in their dens and retreats, but the birds, to aconsiderable extent, especially our winter residents,carry an equivalent in their own systems, in the formof adipose tissue. I killed a red-shouldered hawk,one December, and on removing the skin found thebody completely encased in a coating of fat one quarterof an inch in thickness. Not a particle of musclewas visible. This coating not only serves as aprotection against the cold, but supplies the waste ofthe system, when food is scarce, or fails altogether.

The crows at this season are in the same condition.It is estimated that a crow needs at least half a poundof meat per day, but it is evident that for weeks andmonths during the winter and spring, they must subsiston a mere fraction of this amount. I have nodoubt a crow or hawk, when in their fall condition,would live two weeks without a morsel of food passingtheir beaks; a domestic fowl will do as much.One January, I unwittingly shut a hen under thefloor of an out-building, where not a particle of foodcould be obtained, and where she was entirely unprotectedfrom the severe cold. When the luckless[249]Dominick was discovered, about eighteen days afterward,she was brisk and lively, but fearfully pinchedup, and as light as a bunch of feathers. The slightestwind carried her before it. But by judiciousfeeding she was soon restored.

The circumstance of the bluebirds being emboldenedby the cold, suggests the fact that the fear ofman, which now seems like an instinct in the birds,is evidently an acquired trait, and foreign to them ina state of primitive nature. Every gunner has observed,to his chagrin, how wild the pigeons becomeafter a few days of firing among them; and, to hisdelight, how easy it is to approach near his game innew or unfrequented woods. Professor Baird tellsme that a correspondent of theirs visited a smallisland in the Pacific Ocean, situated about two hundredmiles off Cape St. Lucas, to procure specimens.The island was but a few miles in extent, and hadprobably never been visited half a dozen times byhuman beings. The naturalist found the birds andwater-fowls so tame that it was but a waste of ammunitionto shoot them. Fixing a noose on the endof a long stick, he captured them by putting it overtheir necks and hauling them to him. In some casesnot even this contrivance was needed. A species ofmocking-bird, in particular, larger than ours, and asplendid songster, made itself so familiar as to be almosta nuisance, hopping on the table where the collectorwas writing, and scattering the pens and paper.Eighteen species were found, twelve of them peculiarto the island.[250]

Thoreau relates that in the woods of Maine theCanada jay will sometimes make its meal with thelumbermen, taking the food out of their hands.

Yet, notwithstanding the birds have come to lookupon man as their natural enemy, there can be littledoubt that civilization is on the whole favorable totheir increase and perpetuity, especially to thesmaller species. With man come flies and moths,and insects of all kinds in greater abundance; newplants and weeds are introduced, and, with the clearingup of the country, are sowed broadcast over theland.

The larks and snow-buntings that come to us fromthe North, subsist almost entirely upon the seeds ofgrasses and plants; and how many of our more commonand abundant species are field-birds, and entirestrangers to deep forests?

In Europe some birds have become almost domesticated,like the house-sparrow, and in our own countrythe cliff-swallow seem to have entirely abandonedledges and shelving rocks, as a place to nest, for theeaves and projections of farms and other out-buildings.

After one has made the acquaintance of most ofthe land-birds, there remain the sea-shore and itstreasures. How little one knows of the aquaticfowls, even after reading carefully the best authorities,was recently forced home to my mind by thefollowing circumstance: I was spending a vacationin the interior of New York, when one day a[251]stranger alighted before the house, and with a cigarbox in his hand approached me as I sat in the doorway.I was about to say that he would waste histime in recommending his cigars to me, as I neversmoked, when he said that, hearing I knew somethingabout birds, he had brought me one which hadbeen picked up a few hours before in a hay-field nearthe village, and which was a stranger to all who hadseen it. As he began to undo the box I expected tosee some of our own rarer birds, perhaps the rose-breastedgrossbeak or Bohemian chatterer. Imagine,then, how I was taken aback, when I beheld instead,a swallow-shaped bird, quite as large as a pigeon,with forked tail, glossy-black above, and snow-whitebeneath. Its parti-webbed feet, and its long gracefulwings, at a glance told that it was a sea-bird; but asto its name or habitat I must defer my answer till Icould get a peep into Audubon, or some large collection.

The bird had fallen down exhausted in a meadow,and was picked up just as the life was leaving itsbody. The place must have been one hundred andfifty miles from the sea, as the bird flies. As it wasthe sooty-tern, which inhabits the Florida Keys, itsappearance so far north and so far inland may beconsidered somewhat remarkable. On removing theskin I found it terribly emaciated. It had no doubtstarved to death, ruined by too much wing. AnotherIcarus. Its great power of flight had made it boldand venturesome, and had carried it so far out of itsrange that it starved before it could return.[252]

The sooty-tern is sometimes called the sea-swallow,on account of its form and power of flight. It willfly nearly all day at sea, picking up food from thesurface of the water. There are several species,some of them strikingly beautiful.

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INDEX.