It is this period that marks the return of the birds,—one or two of the more hardy3 or half-domesticated species, like the song sparrow and the bluebird, usually arriving in March, while the rarer and more brilliant wood-birds bring up the procession in June. But each stage of the advancing season gives prominence4 to the certain species, as to certain flowers. The dandelion tells me when to look for the swallow, the dogtooth violet when to expect the wood-thrush, and when I have found the wake-robin5 in bloom I know the season is fairly inaugurated. With me this flower is associated, not merely with the awakening7 of Robin, for he has been awake for some weeks, but with the universal awakening and rehabilitation8 of nature.
Yet the coming and going of the birds is more or less a mystery and a surprise. We go out in the morning, and no thrush or vireo is to be heard; we go out again, and every tree and grove9 is musical; yet again, and all is silent. Who saw them come? Who saw them depart?
This pert little winter wren10, for instance, darting11 in and out the fence, diving under the rubbish here and coming up yards away,—how does he manage with those little circular wings to compass degrees and zones, and arrive always in the nick of time? Last August I saw him in the remotest wilds of the Adirondacks, impatient and inquisitive12 as usual; a few weeks later, on the Potomac, I was greeted by the same hardy little busybody. Does he travel by easy stages from bush to bush and from wood to wood? or has that compact little body force and courage to brave the night and the upper air, and so achieve leagues at one pull?
And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge13 on his breast and the sky tinge on his back,—did he come down out of the heaven on that bright March morning when he told us so softly and plaintively14 that, if we pleased, spring had come? Indeed, there is nothing in the return of the birds more curious and suggestive than in the first appearance, or rumors16 of the appearance, of this little blue-coat. The bird at first seems a mere6 wandering voice in the air: one hears its call or carol on some bright March morning, but is uncertain of its source or direction; it falls like a drop of rain when no cloud is visible; one looks and listens, but to no purpose. The weather changes, perhaps a cold snap with snow comes on, and it may be a week before I hear the not again, and this time or the next perchance see this bird sitting on a stake in the fence lifting his wing as he calls cheerily to his mate. 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 hovering19 with a saucy20, inquiring air about barns and out-buildings, peeping into dove-cotes and stable windows, inspecting knotholes and pump-trees, intent only on a place to nest. They wage war against robins21 and wrens22, pick quarrels with swallows, and seem to deliberate for days over the policy of taking forcible possession of one of the mud-houses of the latter. But as the season advances they drift more into the background. Schemes of conquest which they at first seemed bent24 upon are abandoned, and the settle down very quietly in their old quarters in remote stumpy fields.
Not long after the bluebird comes the robin, sometimes in March, but in most of the Northern States April is the month of the robin. In large numbers they scour25 the fields and groves26. You hear their piping in the meadow, in the pasture, on the hillside. Walk in the woods, and the dry leaves rustle27 with the whir of their wings the air is vocal28 with their cheery call. In excess of joy and vivacity29, they run, leap, scream, chase each other through the air, diving and sweeping30 among the trees with perilous31 rapidity.
In that free, fascinating, half-work and half-play pursuit,—sugar-making,—a pursuit which still lingers in many parts of New York, as in New England,—the robin is one's constant companion. When the day is sunny and the ground bare, you meet him at all points and hear him at all hours. At sunset, on the tops of the tall maples33, with look heavenward, and in a spirit of utter abandonment, he carols his simple strain. And sitting thus amid the stark34, silent trees, above the wet, cold earth, with the chill of winter still in the air, there is no fitter or sweeter songster in the whole round year. It is in keeping with the scene and the occasion. How round and genuine the notes are, and how eagerly our ears drink them in! The first utterance35, and the spell of winter is thoroughly36 broken, and the remembrance of it afar off.
Robin is one of the most native and democratic of our birds; He is one of the family, and seems much nearer to us than those rare, exotic visitants, as the orchard37 starling or rose-breasted grosbeak, with their distant, high-bred ways. Hardy, noisy, frolicsome39, neighborly, and domestic in his habits, strong of wing and bold in spirit, he is the pioneer of the thrush family, and well worthy40 of the finer artists whose coming he heralds41 and in a measure prepares us for.
I could wish Robin less native and plebeian42 in one respect,—the building of his nest. Its coarse material and rough masonry43 are creditable neither to his skill as a workman nor to his taste as an artist. I am the more forcibly reminded of his deficiency in this respect from observing yonder hummingbird's nest, which is a marvel44 of fitness and adaptation, a proper setting for this winged gem,—the body of it composed of a white, felt-like substance, probably the down of some plant or the wool of some worm, and toned down in keeping with the branch on which it sits by minute tree-lichens, woven together by threads as fine and grail as gossamer45. From Robin's good looks and musical turn, we might reasonably predict a domicile of him as clean and handsome a nest as the king-bird's, whose harsh jingle46, compared with Robin's evening melody, is as the clatter47 of pots and kettles beside the tone of a flute48. I love his note and ways better even than those of the orchard starling or the Baltimore oriole; yet his nest, compared with theirs, is a half-subterranean hut contrasted with a Roman villa49. There is something courtly and poetical50 in a pensile nest. Next to a castle in the air is a dwelling51 suspended to the slender branch of a tall tree, swayed and rocked forever by the wind. Why need wings be afraid of falling? Why build only where boys can climb? After all, we must set it down to the account of Robin's democratic turn: he is no aristocrat52, but one of the people; and therefore we should expect stability in his workmanship, rather than elegance53.
Another April bird, which makes her appearance sometimes earlier and sometimes later than Robin, and whose memory I fondly cherish, is the phoebe-bird, the pioneer of the flycatchers. In the inland farming districts, I used to notice her, on some bright morning about Easter Day, proclaiming her arrival, with much variety of motion and attitude, from the peak of the barn or hay-shed. As yet, you may have heard only the plaintive15, homesick note of the bluebird, or the faint trill of the song sparrow; and Phoebe's clear, vivacious54 assurance of her veritable bodily presence among us again is welcomed by all ears. At agreeable intervals55 in her lay she describes a circle or an ellipse in the air, ostensibly prospecting56 for insects, but really, I suspect, as an artistic57 flourish, thrown in to make up in some way for the deficiency of her musical performance. If plainness of dress indicates powers of song as it usually does, then Phoebe ought to be unrivaled in musical ability, for surely that ashen-gray suit is the superlative of plainness; and that form, likewise, would hardly pass for a "perfect figure" of a bird. The seasonableness of her coming, however, and her civil, neighborly ways, shall make up for all deficiencies in song and plumage. After a few weeks phoebe is seldom seen, except as she darts58 from her moss-covered nest beneath some bridge or shelving cliff.
Another April comer, who arrives shortly after Robin-redbreast, with whom he associates both at this season and in the autumn, is the gold-winged woodpecker, alias59 "high-hole," alias "flicker," alias "yarup." He is an old favorite of my boyhood, and his note to me means very much. He announces his arrival by a long, loud call, repeated from the dry branch of some tree, or a stake in the fence,—a thoroughly melodious60 April sound. I think how Solomon 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 farming country, to be equally characteristic, should culminate61 in like manner,—"And the call of the high-hole comes up from the wood."
It is a loud, strong, sonorous62 call, and does not seem to imply an answer, but rather to subserve some purpose of love or music. It is "Yarup's" proclamation of peace and good-will to all. On looking at the matter closely, I perceive that most birds, not denominated songsters, have, in the spring, some note or sound or call that hints of a song, and answers imperfectly the end of beauty and art. As a "livelier iris63 changes on the burnished64 dove," and the fancy of the young man turns lightly to thoughts of his pretty cousin, so the same renewing spirit touches the "silent singers," and they are no longer dumb; faintly they lisp the first syllables65 of the marvelous tale. Witness the clear sweet whistle of the gray-crested titmouse,—the soft, nasal piping of the nuthatch,—the amorous66, vivacious warble of the bluebird,—the long, rich note of the meadowlark,—the whistle of the quail68,—the drumming of the partridge,—the animation69 and loquacity70 of the swallows, and the like. Even the hen has a homely71, contented72 carol; and I credit the owls73 with a desire to fill the night with music. Al birds are incipient74 or would be songsters in the spring. I find corroborative75 evidence of this even in the crowing of the cock. The flowering of the maple32 is not so obvious as that of the magnolia; nevertheless, there is actual inflorescence.
Few writers award any song to that familiar little sparrow, the Socialis; yet who that has observed him sitting by the wayside, and repeating, with devout76 attitude, that fine sliding chant, does not recognize the neglect? Who has heard the snowbird sing? Yet he has a lisping warble very savory77 to the ear. I have heard him indulge in it even in February.
Even the cow bunting feels the musical tendency, and aspires78 to its expression, with the rest. Perched upon the topmost branch beside his mate or mates,—for he is quite a polygamist, and usually has two or three demure79 little ladies in faded black beside him,—generally in the early part of the day, he seems literally80 to vomit81 up his notes. Apparently82 with much labor83 and effort, they gurgle and blubber up out of him, falling on the ear with a peculiar84 subtile ring, as of turning water from a glass bottle, and not without a certain pleasing cadence85.
Neither is the common woodpecker entirely86 insensible to the wooing of the spring, and, like the partridge, testifies his appreciation87 of melody after quite a primitive88 fashion. Passing through the woods on some clear, still morning in March, while the metallic89 ring and tension of winter are still in the earth and air, the silence is suddenly broken by long, resonant90 hammering upon a dry limb or stub. It is Downy beating a reveille to spring. In the utter stillness and amid the rigid91 forms we listen with pleasure; and, as it comes to my ear oftener at this season than at any other, I freely exonerate92 the author of it from the imputation93 of any gastronomic94 motives96, and credit him with a genuine musical performance.
It is to be expected, therefore, that "yellow-hammer" will respond to the general tendency, and contribute his part to the spring chorus. His April call is his finest touch, his most musical expression.
I recall an ancient maple standing97 sentry98 to a large sugar-bush, that, year after year, afforded protection to a brood of yellow-hammers in its decayed heart. A week or two before nesting seemed actually to have begun, three or four of these birds might be seen, on almost any bright morning, gamboling and courting amid its decayed branches. Sometimes you would hear only a gentle persuasive99 cooing, or a quiet confidential100 chattering,—then that long, loud call, taken up by first one, then another, as they sat about upon the naked limbs,—anon, a sort of wild, rollicking laughter, intermingled with various cries, yelps102, and squeals103, as if some incident had excited their mirth and ridicule104. Whether this social hilarity105 and boisterousness106 is in celebration of the pairing or mating ceremony, or whether it is only a sort of annual "house-warming" common among high-holes on resuming their summer quarters, is a question upon which I reserve my judgment107.
Unlike most of his kinsmen108, the golden-wing prefers the fields and the borders of the forest to the deeper seclusion109 of the woods, and hence, contrary to the habit of his tribe, obtains most of his subsistence from 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 eagerly upon berries and grain. What may be the final upshot of this course of living is a question worth the attention of Darwin. Will his taking to the ground and his pedestrian feats112 result in lengthening113 his legs, his feeding upon berries and grains subdue114 his tints116 and soften117 his voice, and his associating with Robin put a song into his heart?
Indeed, what would be more interesting than the history of our birds for the last two or three centuries. There can be no doubt that the presence of man has exerted a very marked and friendly influence upon them, since they so multiply in his society. The birds of California, it is said, were mostly silent till after its settlement, and I doubt if the Indians heard the wood thrush as we hear him. Where did the bobolink disport118 himself before there were meadows in the North and rice fields in the South? Was he the same lithe119, merry-hearted beau then as now? And the sparrow, the lark67, and the goldfinch, birds that seem so indigenous120 to the open fields and so adverse121 to the woods,—we cannot conceive of their existence in a vast wilderness122 and without man.
But to return. The song sparrow, that universal favorite and firstling of the spring, comes before April, and its simple strain gladdens all hearts.
May is the month of the swallows and the orioles. There are many other distinguished123 arrivals, indeed nine tenths of the birds are here by the last week in May, yet the swallows and the orioles are the most conspicuous124. The bright plumage of the latter seems really like an arrival from the tropics. I see them dash through the blossoming trees, and all the forenoon hear their incessant125 warbling and wooing. The swallows dive and chatter101 about the barn, or squeak126 and build beneath the eaves; the partridge drums in the fresh sprouting127 woods; the long, tender note of the meadowlark comes up from the meadow; and at sunset, from every marsh128 and pond come the ten thousand voices of the hylas. May is the transition month, and exists to connect April and June, the root with the flower.
With June the cup is full, our hearts are satisfied, there is no more to be desired. The perfection of the season, among other things, has brought the perfection of the song and the plumage of the birds. The master artists are all here; and the expectations excited by the robin and the song sparrow are fully18 justified129. The thrushes have all come; and I sit down upon the first rock, with hands full of the pink azalea, to listen. With me the cuckoo does not arrive till June; and often the goldfinch, the kingbird, the scarlet130 tanager delay their coming till then. In the meadows the bobolink is in all his glory; in the high pastures the field sparrow sings his breezy vesper-hymn131; and the woods are unfolding to the music of the thrushes.
The cuckoo is one of the most solitary132 birds of our forests, and is strangely tame and quiet, appearing equally untouched by joy or grief, fear or anger. Something remote seems ever weighing upon his mind. His note or call is as of one lost or wandering, and to the farmer is prophetic of rain. Amid the general joy and the sweet assurance of things, I love to listen to the strange clairvoyant133 call. Heard a quarter of a mile away, from out the depths of the forest, there is something peculiarly weird134 and monkish135 about it. Wordsworth's lines upon the European species apply equally well to ours:—"O blithe136 new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice: O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird? Or but a wandering voice?
"While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites137 my ear!
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near!
"Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery."
The black-billed is the only species found in my locality, the yellow-billed abounds138 farther south. Their note or call is nearly the same. The former sometimes suggests the voice of a turkey. The call of 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 every worm. He sits on a twig1, and with a peculiar swaying movement of his head examines the surrounding foliage139. When he discovers his prey140, he leaps upon it in a fluttering manner.
In June the black-billed makes a tour through the orchard and garden, regaling himself upon the canker-worms. At this time he is one of the tamest of birds, and will allow you to approach within a few yards of him. I have even come within a few feet of one without seeming to excite his fear or suspicion. He is quite unsophisticated, or else royally indifferent.
The plumage of the cuckoo is a rich glossy141 brown, and is unrivaled in beauty by any other neutral tint115 with which I am acquainted. It is also remarkable142 for its firmness and fineness.
Notwithstanding the disparity in size and color, the black-billed species has certain peculiarities143 that remind one of the passenger pigeon. His eye, with its red circle, the shape of his head, and his motions on alighting and taking flight, quickly suggest the resemblance; though in grace and speed, when on the wing, he is far inferior. His tail seems disproportionately long, like that of the red thrush, and his flight among the trees is very still, contrasting strongly with the honest clatter of the robin or pigeon.
Have you heard the song of the field sparrow? If you have lived in a pastoral country with broad upland pastures, you could hardly have missed him. Wilson, I believe, calls him the grass finch110, and was evidently unacquainted with his powers of song. The two white lateral144 quills145 in his tail, and his habit of running and skulking146 a few yards in advance of you as you walk through the fields, are sufficient to identify him. Not in meadows or orchards147, but in high, breezy pasture-grounds, will you look for him. His song is most noticeable after sundown, when other birds are silent; for which reason he has been aptly called the vesper sparrow. The farmer following his team from the field at dusk catches his sweetest strain. His song is not so brisk and varied148 as that of the song sparrow, being softer and wilder, sweeter and more plaintive. Add the best parts of the lay of the latter to the sweet vibrating chant of the wood sparrow, and you have the evening hymn of the vesper-bird,—the poet of the plain, unadorned pastures. Go to those broad, smooth, uplying fields where the cattle and sheep are grazing, and sit down in the twilight149 on one of those warm, clean stones, and listen to this song. On every side, near and remote, from out the short grass which the herds150 are cropping, the strain rises. Two or three long, silver notes of peace and rest, ending in some subdued151 trills and quavers, constitute each separate song. Often, you will catch only one or two of the bars, the breeze having blown the minor152 part away. Such unambitious, quiet, unconscious melody! It is one of the most characteristic sounds in nature. The grass, the stones, the stubble, the furrow153, the quiet herds, and the warm twilight among the hills, are all subtly expressed in this song; this is what they 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 grass to protect it or mark its site; you may step upon it, or the cattle may tread it into the ground. But the danger from this source, I presume, the bird considers less than that from another. Skunks154 and foxes have a very impertinent curiosity, as Finchie well knows; and a bank or hedge, or a rank growth of grass or thistles, that might promise protection and cover to mouse or bird, these cunning rogues155 would be apt to explore most thoroughly. The partridge is undoubtedly156 acquainted with the same process of reasoning; for, like the vesper-bird, she, too, nests in open, unprotected places, avoiding all show of concealment,—coming from the tangled157 and almost impenetrable parts of the forest to the clean, open woods, where she can command all the approaches and fly with equal ease in any direction.
Another favorite sparrow, but little noticed, is the wood or bush sparrow, usually called by the ornithologists Spizella pusilla. Its size and form is that of the socialis, but is less distinctly marked, being of a duller redder tinge. He prefers remote bushy heathery fields, where his song is one of the sweetest to be heard. It is sometimes very noticeable, especially early in spring. I remember sitting one bright day in the still leafless April woods, when one of these birds struck up a few rods from me, repeating its lay at short intervals for nearly an hour. It was a perfect piece of wood-music, and was of course all the more noticeable for being projected upon such a broad unoccupied page of silence. Its song is like the words, fe-o, fe-o, fe-o, few, few, few, fee fee fee, uttered at first high and leisurely159, but running very rapidly toward the close, which is low and soft.
Still keeping among the unrecognized, the white-eyed vireo, or flycatcher, deserves particular mention. The song of this bird is not particularly sweet and soft; on the contrary, it is a little hard and shrill160, 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. His ordinary note is forcible and emphatic161, but, as stated, not especially musical; Chick-a-re'r-chick, he seems to say, hiding himself in the low, dense162 undergrowth, and eluding163 your most vigilant164 search, as if playing some part in a game. But in July of August, if you are on good terms with the sylvan165 deities166, you may listen to a far more rare and artistic performance. Your first impression will be that that cluster of azalea, or that clump167 of swamp-huckleberry, conceals168 three of four different songsters, each vying169 with the the others to lead the chorus. Such a medley170 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 haunts of the genuine mockingbird. If not fully and accurately171 repeated, there are at least suggested the notes of the robin, wren, catbird, high-hole, goldfinch, and song sparrow. The pip, pip, of the last is produced so accurately that I verily believe it would deceive the bird herself; and the whole uttered in such rapid succession that it seems as if the movement that gives the concluding note of one strain must form the first note of the next. The effect is very rich, and, to my ear, entirely unique. The performer is very careful not to reveal himself in the mean time; yet there is a conscious air about the strain that impresses me with the idea that my presence is understood and my attention courted. A tone of pride and glee, and, occasionally, of bantering172 jocoseness173, is discernible. I believe it is only rarely, and when he is sure of his audience, that he displays his parts in this manner. You are to look for him, not in tall trees or deep forests, but in low, dense shrubbery about wet places, where there are plenty of gnats175 and mosquitoes.
The winter wren is another marvelous songster, in speaking of whom it is difficult to avoid superlatives. He is not so conscious of is powers and so ambitious of effect as the white-eyed flycatcher, yet you will not be less astonished and delighted on hearing him. He possesses the fluency176 and copiousness177 for which the wrens are noted179, and besides these qualities, and what is rarely found conjoined with them, a wild, sweet, rhythmical180 cadence that holds you entranced. I shall not soon forget that perfect June day, when, loitering in a low, ancient hemlock181 wood, in whose cathedral aisles182 the coolness and freshness seems perennial183, the silence was suddenly broken by a strain so rapid and gushing184, and touched with such a wild, sylvan
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